The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3)

by Ian Irvine

  ‘Blast and botheration!’ Flydd cried. ‘What’s the matter with the damn fuse?’

  ‘Probably damp,’ said Flangers.

  ‘You can’t go down again,’ Nish hissed. ‘The guards are too close.’

  Flydd ignored him, and was sliding down when the spark reappeared.

  ‘It’s still burning,’ Nish called. ‘Get up here, quick!’

  The air-sled lurched. Was Chissmoul losing control? Nish could not imagine how she had held the air-sled up this long. This is going to be a disaster, he thought. Even if we survive, we’ll be a laughing stock. I’ll be a laughing stock, and I’d sooner die. He meant it, too, for his reputation meant more to him than his life. And it’ll destroy any chance of bringing the God-Emperor down. No, we’ve got to succeed, no matter what it takes.

  More bolts shot past Flydd and one plucked at the fabric of his trousers, near the knee.

  ‘That was a bit too close,’ said Flangers. ‘He’s not climbing fast enough.’ He grabbed the rope and began heaving Flydd up. Nish went to him and took part of the load, counting the seconds and praying that the tar ball would not go off, yet.

  Flydd came over the side, gasping like a stranded carp. ‘If the bloody thing doesn’t –’

  There was a colossal boom, the air-sled lurched wildly and hundreds of lumps of burning tar splattered against its metal underside, while the rest formed a technicolour fountain spraying up into the air all around them.

  One of the guards began to scream and tear at his tunic, which was ablaze with tar in three places. Another man dragged him away.

  The lumps of fallen tar now formed a broad, blazing ring in the centre of the square, issuing clouds of black smoke. On the other side, the doors of the governor’s palace were flung wide and there was a roar of, ‘Guards! Guards!’

  Lights were being lit all around the square; people rushed out of front doors and peered through windows. A squad of guards came pounding up the side of the palace, but stopped at its closed front gates and stared.

  Nish could hear someone shouting at them. More roaring came from the rear of the seneschal’s mansion, presumably from the barracks. Time was rapidly running out.

  ‘Get to your post, Nish,’ cried Flydd, ‘and take aim. Pilot, get to the front of the mansion then bring her down into the light.’

  The air-sled wobbled towards the mansion.

  ‘You haven’t lit the damned fuses,’ Nish snapped as he scrambled up into the shooter’s seat and turned the aiming wheels. The air-sled lurched again. Chissmoul seemed to take an eternity to steady it, and Nish knew she could not last much longer.

  Flydd swore, ran for the leather bucket, held the fuses of the five tar balls together and lit them all at once. ‘Ten,’ he called.

  The bay window of the mansion was fixed in Nish’s sights when the vast double doors were flung wide and half a dozen people ran out onto the porch, then stopped, staring. The air-sled must have been a hellish sight, hanging in the air in front of the mansion with the huge javelard fixed on them at point-blank range, for its keel was peppered with chunks of blazing tar, their tongues of flame licking up above the four sides, and all was wreathed in choking black smoke.

  ‘Nine,’ said Flydd.

  ‘Guards!’ screeched the seneschal.

  His guards came boiling around the side of the mansion, then stopped.

  ‘Seven!’ said Flydd.

  Nish swung the javelard until it pointed at the doorway, and the people there scattered. The seneschal’s face collapsed as the sights fixed on him. Nish was happy to terrorise him but people weren’t his target, no matter how depraved.

  ‘Five,’ said Flydd.

  ‘Take them down!’ cried the seneschal.

  The air-sled lurched left, then right. Hold it, Chissmoul, Nish prayed, adjusting the sights, and it steadied.

  ‘Three!’

  The guards whipped their crossbows up to their shoulders and aimed at Nish, who was only partly shielded from that angle, but he did not flinch. He had a job to do.

  He aimed the javelard over the seneschal’s head and down the vast hall where, halfway along, he saw the base of a magnificent staircase. From this distance he could hit it with his eyes closed.

  ‘Fire!’

  No time to regret the architectural magnificence he was about to wantonly destroy – Nish fired.

  The chain-shot whirled out to its fullest extent and slammed into the front of the mansion, splintering the open doors and sending chips of stone in all directions. Several of the guards were knocked down and the rest were lost behind clouds of blinding dust and flying splinters.

  Recoil forced the javelard backwards until its ropes creaked – Nish had not thought of that. The prow of the air-sled shot up, the rear tilted down, and for an awful moment he thought it was going to overturn in the air and land on top of them, splattering everyone like cockroaches. As he sprang from his seat several crossbow bolts spanged off the metal prow. Had he succeeded? He could not tell; he’d lost sight of the target.

  He was scrambling up to the top of the javelard frame so he could see, when the stern of the air-sled slammed into the paving stones and the impact broke the force of the recoil. Nish’s teeth snapped together and he tasted blood from a bitten tongue.

  The right-hand chain had destroyed the bay windows on that side and disappeared inside. The left-hand chain had demolished the left bay window, and all the tar balls had broken free. The central tar ball had gone hurtling down the hall, to explode against the base of the staircase, flinging burning tar across the open central area of the mansion and setting fire to everything it touched.

  The tar balls that had gone through the demolished bays also went off, and in an instant the curtains were ablaze and black smoke began to gush out of the windows. Nothing could save the mansion now.

  The people at the front ran for their lives, the seneschal’s sagging belly flopping up and down. More people were swarming out of the servants’ quarters at the rear, though they were not in danger.

  However, everyone on the air-sled was in peril, for the impact with the paving had snapped several of the over-strained ropes holding the javelard, allowing it to slide to the right and unbalancing the air-sled.

  ‘Get to the left,’ Chissmoul screamed as she fought to keep the lurching, swaying craft aloft. There was no time to land and right the javelard, for the guards from the palace were running across the square, weapons at the ready.

  Nish’s militia surged to the left, tilting the craft in that direction, but now the front of the javelard swung that way, for more of its ropes had broken. Nish, still perched up top, wasn’t game to move in case he made things worse.

  ‘Hoy!’ cried Flangers. ‘You and you, over there. And you three, put your shoulders against the javelard, and your backs into it.’ He directed everyone like a conductor until the weight was balanced and the air-sled had steadied, as much as Chissmoul could manage it.

  ‘Take her up, Pilot,’ said Flydd. ‘Nish, what the blazes are you doing up there? Come down.’

  Nish slid down off the javelard, watching the running soldiers, who were within firing range.

  ‘Down, everyone,’ said Flangers, and they ducked.

  A flight of crossbow bolts thudded into the uprights of the javelard.

  ‘We’ve done what we came to do,’ said Nish. ‘Let’s get going before Chissmoul collapses.’

  ‘After our lap of honour,’ said Flydd. ‘You can manage that, can’t you, Pilot?’

  Chissmoul nodded, too exhausted to speak.

  ‘You’re out of your mind, Flydd!’ said Nish.

  ‘This is the icing on the cake of your credibility, Deliverer,’ said Flydd. ‘Pilot, take your craft all the way around the edge of the square. Militia, brace yourselves against the javelard and when it slips, ease it back into position.’

  ‘That’s not going to be easy to do,’ said Nish as they climbed, ‘the way it’s sliding around.’

  ‘Then bang some wedge
s under it!’ snapped Flydd. ‘Do I have to think of everything.’

  Nish wedged the javelard as best he could.

  ‘Make it quick, then. If they bring up another javelard, we’re carrion.’ He searched the rooftops and alleyways in case the enemy was already doing so, but outside the lighted square it was too dark to tell.

  Chissmoul lifted the shaking, quaking air-sled to a height of fifty spans, where there was little danger from a crossbow strike, and coaxed the faltering craft around the square. Despite the wedges, the javelard moved on the metal deck with every change of direction.

  ‘Put your backs to it,’ said Flangers, tapping the wedges in again.

  A dozen times Nish thought the javelard was going to slide all the way and scrape them off the deck, but each time the combined efforts of the militiamen and women held it – just. They could not do it much longer, though; everyone was close to collapse.

  The square was thronged with people now, thousands of them staring silently at the absurd sight of the air-sled wobbling through the sky bearing a javelard that seemed bigger than it was.

  ‘The governor and the seneschal won’t explain away this defeat so easily,’ Flydd crowed.

  ‘We haven’t got away yet,’ Nish said sourly, though inside he was exultant. Flydd was a bloody annoying old bastard, but he’d got more out of them than Nish could ever have imagined, and if they could succeed …

  ‘Half the city is witnessing their humiliation, and within days the furthest reaches of the empire will know about it. Just one more thing, Chissmoul, if you can manage it, and then we go. Fly over the mansion, if you please.’

  Smoke and flame were gushing from the windows of the ground floor, but as yet the upper floors were unscathed. Over the highest point of the mansion Flydd shouted, above the roar of the flames, ‘Now to dump the rubbish. Ready, Chissmoul?’

  ‘Ready,’ she said dully.

  ‘Everyone on the right, come around to the left and hang onto the safety ropes. Flangers, cut the safety ropes on the right, knock the wedges out from under the javelard and join us. Pilot, you’ll have to balance the weight –’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job!’ she snarled.

  The air-sled quivered as more weight came on the left, and canted that way. Chissmoul levelled it, though it took an effort. Her cheeks, in the fading light from the tar-splattered sides, were streaked with sooty sweat.

  Nish’s eyes were still roving around the square, and now he caught tell-tale movements in the distance. ‘Hurry up. They’re bringing a javelard down the street to the north … and I think I can see others further back.’

  Flydd looked at Chissmoul questioningly. She nodded. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Militiamen,’ said Flydd, ‘heave the javelard towards the side. The instant it starts to slide, grab your safety ropes and hang on tight.’

  They heaved, and Nish did too, until he thought his heart was going to burst, but the javelard would not budge. ‘It must be caught on something.’

  Surely the enemy javelard would be in a position to fire by now. Feeling a target centred on his back, he grabbed the fallen pennant pole, jammed it under the side and levered. The javelard lifted slightly, cleared a ragged edge of the hole he’d cut in the floor, and began to move.

  ‘It’s away!’ said Flydd. ‘Hang on tight.’

  The javelard kept sliding, faster and faster, and went over the edge. The air-sled tilted so sharply that Nish did not think Chissmoul could save it, but yet again she managed to bring it upright. The enemy javelard must have fired, for a metal spear shrieked off the tilted stern, but Nish did not have the energy to look around.

  The javelard plummeted onto the middle of the mansion roof, smashing the slates and snapping the timbers, and battered its way down through floor after floor until the crashing ceased and it came to rest, out of sight.

  Flydd peered through the shattered hole. ‘There’s no sign of fire here yet, but it can’t take long. Let’s go – no, wait.’ He studied the hole again and a mischievous light sparked in his dark eyes. ‘I can see the pantries. One final insult. Nish, you’ll want to be in on this.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ said Nish. ‘All I want is to lie down and sleep for a month.’

  ‘You’ll sleep a lot better after we come back in triumph. Flangers, tie a rope harness around Nish, and another around me. Fasten a net on the end of a third rope, then lower us down.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Nish. ‘We’ve done enough, Flydd. Why risk it all for nothing?’

  ‘This is going to be beautiful,’ chortled Flydd. ‘The seneschal’s humiliation will be complete – he’ll never recover from it.’

  ‘It’s insane; I’m not going down there. The roof could fall in at any moment.’ Besides, a dozen javelards could be aimed at them by now.

  ‘Of course you are. Come on.’

  Flydd could not be quelled; he seemed intoxicated by the drama and the danger, and shortly they were lowered over the side into the roof hole. As they went down, Nish looked up at the air-sled, which was shuddering worse than before, sure that this was the stupidest of the many stupid things he had done. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

  ‘To the seneschal’s private pantries.’

  ‘Pantries?’ Nish was too tired to think straight.

  ‘We’re going to rob him of the delicacies he keeps for the God-Emperor, in the unlikely event that he would deign to visit such a backwater as Taranta.’

  ‘I like a good feed as well as the next man,’ said Nish sourly, ‘but I don’t see why we’re risking our lives for it.’

  ‘Because this is the final, glorious insult, the one that will have the whole of Santhenar talking about us,’ said Flydd, ‘and, reckless though it may be, I can’t resist.’

  ‘But the mansion is on fire. There isn’t time.’

  Flydd looked down again. ‘There’s no sign of fire near the pantries.’

  ‘I’ve seen whole cities burn, and so have you. There can be no trace of fire one minute, and the next the place is an inferno.’

  Flydd did not bother to reply.

  ‘Keep low,’ Nish yelled up. ‘Watch out for javelards.’

  Flangers, who had a crossbow in hand, waved him away.

  The first pantry had been demolished by the javelard, but the next was unscathed. Nish was looking along the shelves when Flydd jabbed him in the ribs and gestured down. The hole, which continued through into a dark cellar full of stacked barrels, had a powerful aroma of freshly spilled wine.

  They went down. Flydd conjured light from the tips of his fingers and scampered – there was no other word for it – along to a barred and locked compound at the end of the cellar, which was marked with the sign of the God-Emperor. Pulling a small, stubby rod from his pocket, he pressed its end to the lock, which exploded in a spray of metal cinders, and wrenched the door open.

  ‘Heave that barrel over your shoulder,’ he said, pointing at the third one from the end.

  Nish did so. Flydd lifted a large flagon from a shelf and turned away. ‘That’ll do. Pity the rest has to burn.’

  They put several flagons and barrels in the man-sized net and scrambled up to the pantries, which were thick with smoke now. Nish could hear the roar of fire, and a series of crashes, followed by a louder roaring. ‘The front of the mansion must be coming down, Flydd. It’ll drive the fire towards us.’

  ‘Grab anything that takes your fancy, and make it snappy.’

  Nish tossed cheeses, hams, sausages, smoked fish and other delicacies into the net at random; Flydd came running down the shelves with an armload. His pockets were bulging, and each time he moved, they chimed.

  ‘What have you got in your pockets?’ said Nish.

  ‘The seneschal’s finest goblets.’

  ‘Now I know you’ve lost your wits.’

  ‘You can’t drink fine wine out of a metal cup.’

  ‘After the past week, I’d drink it from my military boots.’

  There
was another, louder crash, and burning air blasted in under the outer pantry door. ‘Time to go,’ said Flydd.

  Nish wasn’t about to argue. After making sure his harness was secure, he tugged three times on his rope, the agreed signal, and it was pulled up in a series of jerks. Below them, the door fell with a crash and fire coiled up, whoomph, reaching almost to their toes before it died away. Whoomph, whoomph; this time he had to beat out smouldering threads on the ragged ends of his pants.

  ‘It’s coming higher each time, as though it’s fed by a bellows.’

  ‘And every collapse feeds it.’

  The ropes were pulled up more quickly, but not before the third whoomph sent flames up to Nish’s waist, and he felt his nasal hairs singeing. The next blast would come up past them and set fire to the rope, if not themselves.

  Suddenly he was jerked up as though a giant had taken hold of the line, and out through the broken timbers. The fire roared and flames leapt up through the hole, higher than the roof, as they were dragged over the side onto the air-sled along with their precious cargo. Clech’s stretcher had been brought to the ropes and it was his mighty strength that had saved them.

  ‘One good turn must be repaid by another,’ he said. ‘And a drop of the wine in that barrel, if you can spare it.’

  ‘Is that all, Flydd?’ said Nish. ‘Can we go now, or have you got an even more reckless finale in mind?’

  ‘Only to take a bow to our audience,’ said Flydd, smiling. ‘And give them a present.’

  ‘The javelard –’ Nish began.

  ‘I brought down the operator,’ said Flangers, waving the crossbow. ‘And the other javelards aren’t quite in position yet.’

  ‘To the centre of the square,’ said Flydd, taking some of the wines and delicacies out of the net and stacking them on the deck.

  Chissmoul took them there, and everyone lined up along the side of the air-sled and bowed to the throngs gathered at the east, the south, the north and the western sides of the square.

  ‘The Deliverer sends compliments to the good people of Taranta,’ boomed Flydd, ‘and begs you to celebrate his victory with the finest food and drink the seneschal has to offer, from the private stores kept for the God-Emperor.’ The net was carefully lowered to the centre of the square, and its ropes cut. ‘And now the Deliverer takes his leave, for he must now seize control of the empire, and fight Stilkeen.’