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

by Ian Irvine

  It speared into the fleshy part of Nish’s left thigh and struck the bone with an excruciating flare of pain. Nish swung the staff in reflex, slamming it into Vomix’s shoulder and driving him down several paces before he could stop himself. Blood pulsed from Nish’s thigh as he hobbled backwards up the ramp. If the spike had cut an artery he would collapse from loss of blood before he could get to the dome.

  His trousers were soaked and blood was flowing down the inside of his leg, though he did not think it was coming out fast enough for him to bleed to death. It was hideously painful though, and he was starting to feel faint from shock. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against the wound and kept going.

  Far below, two soldiers had dragged the old monk down to the square hole above the flame. Another pair of soldiers were rolling a barrel between them, directed by a robed scrier.

  The old monk was stripped, stretched over the square hole and held down, and the oily contents of the barrel poured in. Yellow flames gushed up and he began to writhe, but did not cry out.

  ‘Tell us where the white fire can be found,’ said the scrier, ‘and we may let you go.’

  ‘Liar,’ said the monk. ‘You’re going to burn me alive and it will do you no good, for I can tell you nothing.’

  Vomix chuckled. ‘Roast him some more.’

  Nish turned away, feeling sick, and limped up, wincing with every step. He could now see the edge of the air-sled through the circular hole in the dome, and his militia were scrambling up knotted ropes, watched by Flangers. M’lainte stood on the platform surrounding the altar, binding a splint around Persia’s broken arm, and she was staring down at Vomix as though she was about to throw up.

  Beyl and two other militiamen were not far above Nish, waiting.

  ‘Go up,’ he gasped. They could not help him, since the ramp was only wide enough for one, and they carried neither bows nor spears.

  Vomix leapt up and struck at Nish again, but he slammed his staff into the seneschal’s arm, below the spike, and Vomix reeled backwards, shaking his wrist.

  ‘Fall down and break your stinking neck,’ Nish cried, but Vomix recovered and struck with both spike and scimitar at once.

  Nish wove out of the way of the scimitar but could not avoid the spike, which speared into his thigh an ell or two above the first wound. Now, when he moved, his foot squelched, for his boot was filling up with blood.

  Nish’s leg would barely support him, but he dragged himself up another pace or two. His head was spinning and he felt like throwing up, but he fought the shock for his very life. He had to finish Vomix somehow; Nish knew he couldn’t get away unless he did.

  Vomix was watching the blood pulsing from the twin holes in Nish’s thigh, grinning viciously. He had his victim where he wanted him and was in no hurry to end the fun. Nish stood upright then swayed, pretending that he was near collapse, hoping to lure Vomix into coming too far forwards.

  Vomix bared his few remaining teeth. ‘You won’t get me that easily.’

  Nish backed up another pace, and another, widening the distance between them, then deliberately fell backwards onto the ramp, crying out in pain. It wasn’t feigned; his leg was giving him agony.

  Vomix came after him, raising the spike to stab for the belly. With his last reserve of strength, Nish flicked the heavy serpent’s head up into Vomix’s groin.

  It hurt him, though not as much as Nish had hoped, and unfortunately Vomix fell forwards, crushing him against the ramp. Knowing that he’d made a fatal miscalculation, Nish attacked with his knees and fists and, when the seneschal went for his throat, head-butted him on the bridge of his broken nose.

  The blow must have been excruciating but the brute seemed almost immune to pain. His eyes were red with rage, his breath so foul that Nish gagged, and snotty blood gushed from his nostrils. Vomix took hold of Nish’s head and began to bang it on the stone ramp. He tried to poke his finger in the seneschal’s eye but he pulled back sharply and, with the strength of desperation, Nish slammed the heel of his left hand up against the seneschal’s larynx.

  Vomix let go, his hands clutched at the air and he began to gasp and wheeze. Nish brought up his knees and forced Vomix off, hoping that he would choke. He slid a few spans down the ramp but after several laboured gasps he gained a breath.

  ‘Take him,’ Vomix gasped to the soldiers who were coming up behind.

  Nish turned and went up in a hopping stagger, trailing blood down the ramp and knowing that he’d never outrun the soldiers.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Nish scrambled up and up the curving ramp, his breath tearing at his throat and his thigh burning, knowing that he wasn’t going to make it. He reached a short landing and his blood-drenched leg collapsed under him; he could go no further.

  The enemy soldiers had climbed over Vomix and were coming on quickly. Flangers was running down from the platform but he could not haul Nish up and fight at the same time. They were going to take him, though he wasn’t going to give Vomix the satisfaction of winning.

  ‘Flangers!’ he gasped, struggling to his knees. ‘I’ve got the white fire. Catch!’

  Flangers stopped, and Nish tossed up the bundle of cloth with the censer inside, but his thigh twanged agonisingly and the throw went wide. For an awful moment he thought it was going to fall to the floor of the temple and burst open, revealing his meagre deception, but Flangers stretched out, caught the trailing end of cloth and reeled it in.

  He passed the bundle up to Persia, who handed it to Beyl, and he threw it up to M’lainte. She dropped a large two-handled amphora to him, which he threw to Flangers, who caught it one-handed, nearly overbalanced under its weight and said quietly, ‘Duck!’

  Nish did so, wondering what marvel of the mechanical Art M’lainte had constructed. The amphora soared over his head, smashed at the feet of the leading soldiers on the ramp and oil went everywhere. No marvel at all; it was full of oil.

  The leading soldier skidded backwards onto the upraised sword of the man behind him, arms wheeling. Blood gushed; he fell and slid down on the spreading oil, bringing the other two down with him. The lowest soldier clawed at the oil-covered stone but could not get a grip and went head-first over the edge of the ramp. The man above fell as well, and the injured man followed them.

  ‘Let’s get you away,’ said Flangers.

  Despite his bloody shoulder, he took Nish under the arms and dragged him up the ramp, which flared at the top, where it met the platform below the circular hole in the dome.

  As they reached it, reinforcements came running up, but stopped below the oily patch, which was too long to leap, and the first man began to edge his way up, clinging by his fingernails to the stone of the temple wall. It was slow work, yet he and the other soldiers would reach the platform before the short line of militiamen could be lifted to safety and Nish, Persia and Flangers could take their turn.

  Through the hole Nish could see his troops lined up along the side of the air-sled, peering down anxiously, while M’lainte sat with her plump legs dangling over the edge, calmly knotting ropes to make a net. Whatever the situation, she seemed unflappable.

  Persia eased past Flangers and Nish, holding her splinted arm at an angle, and went to the edge of the platform, facing the line of climbing soldiers. The leading man let out a snort of derision.

  ‘Seneschal,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Vomix limped up to the oiled stone, his red eyes flitted across the three on the platform, and his belly shook with silent laughter.

  ‘Wait until the world hears this,’ he said venomously. ‘The great Deliverer, the son of the God-Emperor and Hope of the World, slaughters a monastery full of peace-loving monks, then hides behind a pretty woman with a broken arm because he’s too gutless to face justice.’

  Was this whole raid a set-up, its aim to destroy Nish’s reputation in the eyes of the people? And if it was, was Yulla in on it? Well, Nish wasn’t giving up, and if he had to die here, he was going to die on his feet.
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  ‘They’ll believe me before they’ll believe scum like you,’ Nish said. ‘Vomix by name, and by nature.’

  ‘You won’t be talking to anyone, Nish,’ said Vomix. ‘You’ll be dead and dismembered, and your body parts nailed to the gates of the city.’

  ‘I’ll live to piss on your corpse.’ Never had a boast sounded so hollow.

  ‘Take him, lads. No need to be gentle, but save the woman for me. I never finished –’

  Persia choked back an involuntary cry and Vomix roared with laughter.

  ‘Go up, Persia,’ Nish said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I know what the bastard is like and –’

  ‘So do I,’ she whispered, and he turned to stare at her. He had not seen Persia lose control before, but now her face had frozen and there was something dark and hollow in her eyes, as if she had personal knowledge of the seneschal’s depravity. ‘I cannot break my word to Yulla.’

  And Nish could not leave her to defend him from Vomix; not like this. ‘Let me go, Flangers.’

  Flangers continued to hold him. ‘Surr, your wits are addled. You can’t fight.’

  ‘I’m your commanding officer,’ Nish hissed, ‘and I’ve given you an order.’

  Flangers let go and Nish tried to stand upright, but his thigh would not move. He would have fallen and made a fool of himself had the lieutenant not held him up by the back of his shirt. Nish looked over his shoulder; there were still three militiamen to be lifted to the air-sled.

  ‘We’ve got to hold the enemy off for another minute or two. Where’s my sword?’ He groped at his scabbard.

  Flangers pressed the hilt into his hand, though Nish struggled to raise the light blade. He took it in both hands, as he’d done during his lessons in swordplay as a sixteen-year-old boy, propped himself up with it, and felt a little stronger.

  ‘Come back to me,’ he said to Persia, since he could not move to join her.

  All the blood seemed to have withdrawn from beneath her brown skin, leaving her a sickly grey colour. ‘I have my orders.’

  ‘In warfare, mine take precedence. For the sake of the empire you may stand beside me, but not before me.’

  She moved backwards, taking her place to his left and sliding a long, slender sword from her sheath. It had an ornate hilt of metal basketwork that protected her hand, though the blade had no edges, just a pointed tip that could only be used for thrusting.

  ‘What’s that?’ he muttered.

  ‘It’s a rapier.’

  Nish had encountered many weapons in his career but he had never seen a sword like it. The point could kill if it found its target, though without an edged blade she would be at a tremendous disadvantage.

  The soldiers grinned and nudged one another, mocking the ridiculous, girly weapon.

  ‘Take them,’ yelled Vomix.

  The first two soldiers were scarred veterans, the third a young man with a shock of yellow hair and a shiny weapon that might never have been blooded. It soon would be. Nish raised his sword, now so weak that it shook in his hands, thinking himself a proud fool. And yet, the whole empire believed him to be their Deliverer, and expected him to fulfil his oath, so he could do no less.

  Another step and the soldiers would be within lunging distance. His pulse was pounding in his ears. His opponent tensed, about to strike. Nish lifted his sword and prepared to defend, knowing he would be too slow, and afraid that if he moved either foot his thigh would collapse under him.

  Beside him, Persia went into a crouch and her opponent’s eyes narrowed. He was lifting his blade when she lunged, the rapier flashing out too fast to see, then whipping back.

  What was she up to? It wasn’t until a red spot appeared in the centre of the soldier’s chest that anyone realised she had thrust the point through his heart.

  As he toppled backwards she lunged again, this time at Nish’s man, the rapier sliding between the ribs before he saw it move. The youth, dismayed to find himself alone, hacked at Flangers with the shiny sword but Flangers knocked it out of the way, cut him down and thrust his body onto the next three, sending two over the side and the third skidding down the ramp on his back. The soldiers below managed to avoid him but he knocked Vomix’s feet from under him.

  ‘Not laughing now, seneschal?’ sneered Nish.

  ‘Get them!’ roared the seneschal as he came painfully to his feet. ‘Cut them to shreds. A thousand pieces of gold for Nish’s balls.’

  He threw his coat down on the oily patch, crossed it and began to lurch up.

  ‘We’re done!’ yelled M’lainte, hurling her completed rope net down onto the other end of the platform. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Go!’ said Flangers. ‘I’ll hold the top of the ramp. Lend me your rapier, Persia.’

  She slapped it into his hand and he tossed her his weapon.

  Nish hobbled backwards, with her assistance, and fell into the net. Persia scrambled in, militiamen pulled on the ropes on its four corners and it lifted them as if they were in a basket. The next soldier came rushing up the ramp, swinging his broadsword in a roundhouse sweep at Flangers’s middle, a blow difficult to evade and impossible to parry with a rapier.

  Flangers did not try; he swayed backwards, the blow coming so close that the sword tip cut through his shirt, then lunged. The rapier was so light that no ordinary sword could match it for speed, and when perfectly aimed it slid into living flesh like butter.

  The soldier toppled down the ramp and Flangers turned to the net, but its base was already shoulder-high and rising fast, and there was no way to get into it. He sheathed the rapier, ran and threw his right arm through the meshes as the remaining soldiers rushed the platform.

  We left it too late, Nish thought. They’ll never lift us in time.

  ‘Go!’ bellowed M’lainte to Chissmoul.

  The air-sled shot up, jerking the net after it, with Flangers dangling underneath. The wound on his gashed left shoulder had broken open and was bleeding again. The leading soldier dodged by him and took a hack at the net, trying to spill Nish out. Flangers kicked him in the head, drew his legs up out of reach and then they were over the altar, the net swinging wildly, directly towards the underside of the dome. Nish held his breath, sure they were going to be pulped against it.

  As they were about to hit, Clech yanked sideways on his rope, centred the net and they shot up through the hole, but Nish and Persia were thrown to the bottom of the net and she screamed as she landed on her broken arm.

  In the impact, Flangers lost his grip and his hooked arm began to pull through the meshes. Nish caught his wrist and Persia groped for his other hand as he was sliding free.

  ‘Can you hang onto the net with your left hand?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Flangers. ‘Can barely raise it. My shoulder –’

  ‘Careful!’ Persia yelled at the air-sled. ‘One more jerk like that and we won’t be able to hold him.’

  Nish heard M’lainte speaking to Chissmoul, after which the air-sled steadied and moved slowly away from the temple, above the green lawn now littered with the bodies of the monks of the Celestial Flame.

  Nish strengthened his grip on Flangers’s right arm; Persia took his hand with her good hand. Her broken arm must have been excruciating, for there were tears in her dark eyes. Blood began to run from Flangers’s left shoulder down his arm and off his fingers.

  ‘Hang onto him,’ called M’lainte. ‘Not long now.’

  ‘It better not be,’ gasped Nish. ‘We can’t hold him much longer.’

  A troop of soldiers outside the temple saw them, then scrambled onto their mounts to follow the slowly moving air-sled. Several javelins whistled up, passing not far below Flangers. Vomix came lurching out of the entrance, saw them and roared a series of orders. Soldiers ran from everywhere.

  ‘Tell Chissmoul to go faster,’ Flangers said.

  ‘If she does, you’ll fall.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of dying.’

  Nish tightened his hold, but he was weak from loss of blood
and his grip was failing. ‘I’ll never win the war without my most trusted lieutenant – and dearest comrade-in-arms.’

  ‘Thank you, surr,’ said Flangers, deeply moved.

  ‘You’ll have to set down,’ yelled Persia.

  They began to pass over the great wheel of the monastery, heading in the direction of the rainforest and the mountains, but too low and too slowly.

  ‘There’s more soldiers outside,’ called Aimee. ‘We can’t set down.’

  ‘We can’t hold him!’ cried Persia.

  Their drifting flight continued, not far ahead of the enemy riders. Some carried bows and began to ready them, and once they came within range they would pick people off the air-sled with ease.

  ‘You must let me go, surr,’ said Flangers.

  ‘No!’ Nish ground out.

  ‘One man can’t jeopardise your chances of taking the empire.’

  Seized by the fear that Flangers would let go, to save them, Nish cried, ‘Hang on, Lieutenant, and that’s an order.’

  ‘Surr,’ said Flangers.

  The net could not be hauled over the side for fear that he would be shaken free. Nish didn’t know what to do. His consciousness was slowly fogging over and, once he lost his grip, he did not think Persia would be able to hold Flangers.

  ‘Stay with us, Nish,’ she said. ‘Just another minute.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ he said weakly. ‘We can’t set down or they’ll have us.’

  ‘Stay with us.’

  He clenched his teeth and held on, and then little Aimee was lowered down on a rope behind Flangers. She swiftly tied another line around his middle, he was hauled up and the net heaved aboard, and it was over.

  The air-sled shot away, the militia jeering at Vomix and casting aspersions, undoubtedly true, on his parentage. He bellowed out a volley of oaths, then his voice was lost in the whistle of air around the cabin as they accelerated away.

  Nish was laid on his back on the deck, biting down on his wadded-up sleeve as the healers cut his trouser leg off and began to clean the spike wounds. Now that he had nothing to distract him, the pain doubled and redoubled until he could scarcely think of anything else.