by Ian Irvine
Curr shrugged. ‘No one has used it in hundreds of years.’
‘Father thinks of everything. He’ll make sure it’s guarded.’
‘Don’t matter to me. Just thought I’d mention it, seein’ as how yer desperate to get there first. Men I saw are just an advance guard. Move quick and you can take Blisterbone before the army arrives.’
‘How long will this path take?’ said Nish.
‘Leave at dawn, you can attack at dawn day after termorrer.’
Nish bent over the mud map, but it was too small to tell him anything.
‘It’s the only way. If you retreat, they’ll soon come after you, and you’ll die.’
Nish did not like it. From the mud map, they would have to make a forced march up an exposed ridge to cross at Liver-Leech Pass, and if they were seen they would be cruelly exposed, trapped between the advance guard and Jal-Nish’s army. But if they retreated now, their situation was nearly as bad. At least this way they had a tiny, desperate chance – assuming they were led by a military genius, rather than a man who’d had his arse whaled by a subordinate and hadn’t found the courage to do anything about it.
The next morning, Nish’s tiny hope was fading as he led the militia around the white-thorn mountain, walking in single file below the crest of the curving ridge so they would not be seen. Logic told him that the attack was doomed. If his little militia could have held Blisterbone Pass against an army of thousands, his father’s advance guard could hold it against the militia, and then the main army would attack them from the rear.
What if he divided the militia and attacked the pass from both sides at once? Unfortunately, there was no way to coordinate two forces separated by the width of a mountain.
He stopped for a breather, perching on a rock and studying the black sky. It had stopped raining a while back but the respite was only temporary. And what if Curr was wrong about Liver-Leech Pass?
‘Is something the matter, Nish?’ said Hoshi, coming up and laying an arm across his shoulder.
‘No,’ he lied. ‘Why?’
‘You seem very downcast today.’
‘And you keep tearing at your hair,’ said Gi, who had come with him. ‘Like you are now.’
Nish, who hadn’t realised he’d been doing it, lowered his hand onto the hilt of Vivimord’s sabre. ‘Curr said it was seven days’ march from Wily’s Clearing to Blisterbone Pass, and we’ve taken ten already. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s ever been across The Spine; and if it takes a lot longer to cross by the higher pass …’
Hoshi looked at Gi, she nodded, and he said, ‘There’s another explanation.’
‘What’s that?’ said Nish.
‘That Curr deliberately led us astray.’
‘He was sent by Barquine, and I trust him.’
‘How do you know Barquine sent him?’ said Gi.
Nish cursed inwardly. No one carried papers in Gendrigore, and there had been no way to check Curr’s word without sending a messenger all the way back to Barquine, which would have taken a week at least. There hadn’t been time. ‘I – I don’t suppose I do, though he did say he would send a guide.’
‘Maybe Curr killed the guide. And he’s always off on his own.’
‘Scouts usually are,’ said Nish. ‘I’m in unknown country, Gi; I’ve got to trust my guide. I don’t know this land, and neither do you.’
‘Boobelar does,’ said Hoshi. ‘I heard Huwld, the cook’s boy with the red hair, saying so.’
Worse and worse. Lately Boobelar had spent his nights drinking the hallucinogenic sap tapped from the scarlet-leaved nif trees, until he raved like a madman and had to be tied up for his own safety. Every night Nish hoped the soldier would fall over a cliff. He would be useless in a fight and was affecting everyone’s morale, save for the eighty he’d brought with him, whose greed for plunder outweighed reason.
Nish knew there was going to be a confrontation the moment he spoke to the fellow, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. Boobelar was bigger and stronger and, even in his cups, faster, and Nish was afraid of him. That wasn’t the real problem, though. Nish felt sure that he was the better swords-man; he’d certainly taken down bigger opponents in the past, but Boobelar’s humiliation of him lay in the back of Nish’s mind all the time, undermining him the way his father always had. Well, he would just have to overcome it; and if he could not, his troubles would soon be over.
‘How does Huwld know?’ said Nish.
‘Boobelar is his uncle,’ said Hoshi, ‘and he went over The Spine years ago, looking for gold.’
‘Did he find any?’
‘He came back months later with nothing, starving and in a fever.’
‘No wonder he’s so bitter. Well, I’d better talk to him. Fall out for ten minutes.’
The word was passed back and the exhausted troops dropped in their tracks. ‘Fall out, I said,’ Nish muttered. ‘Not down, or over the bloody cliff.’
Gi grinned, winked at Hoshi and they began to follow him down.
‘Have a break,’ Nish said, easing the sabre in its sheath. ‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘Of course not,’ said Gi. ‘But we’re coming anyway.’
He was glad to have their support when he reached Boobelar’s squad, which was lying down forty or fifty paces from the rest of the militia.
‘Wadder you wan’,’ slurred the captain, squatting bolt upright on a jutting rock like a man impaled on a spike. His eyes were like rivers of blood issuing from muddy ferret holes; his nose was running and his lips were red from nif sap.
He pushed himself up, staggered, and the wine skin swung around in a loop on the thong which held it to his wrist, striking him in the chest. He looked down at it stupidly, tried to take a swig, discovered it was empty, hurled it away and lurched towards Nish. To the left, one of Boobelar’s men had his pants down and was waggling his backside at Nish. Everyone roared with laughter. Nish flushed.
‘Whadder ya want, purple-arse?’ said Boobelar.
Nish’s bruises had faded to greeny-yellow, but he felt the insult nonetheless. ‘I heard you’ve been over The Spine before.’
‘So what?’ Boobelar grinned.
‘I thought you might know the way.’
‘Not as well as Curr –’ He broke off and the bleeding eyes fixed on Nish. ‘Whadder ya sayin’?’
His men were on their feet, staring at each other. Nish hadn’t wanted to arouse their fears, which could only make morale worse, but it might be too late for that.
‘I just like to check these things,’ he said hastily. ‘A prudent captain –’
Boobelar’s fist came out of nowhere, slamming into Nish’s nose so hard that he felt it break. He went down on his back, his head ringing and his eyes watering so badly that he couldn’t see. He rubbed the wetness away, momentarily unable to get up. His face was covered in blood and it was flooding from his nose.
Boobelar was standing over him, swaying like a sapling in a gale. He booted Nish in the ribs. ‘Curr’s gone, hasn’t he?’
Nish, spitting out blood, couldn’t answer. This was it; he had to take Boobelar now.
‘Curr’s led us into a trap, then run like the dog he is – Curr the Cur,’ bellowed Boobelar. He wiped his oozing nose on his sleeve, leaving a silvery trail there and a muddy smear across his face. ‘There’ll be no plunder for any of us, boys, and – it’s – all – his – fault!’
He raised his boot to smash Nish’s face in. Nish couldn’t roll out of the way in time, and was trying to get his hands up when Hoshi threw himself at Boobelar and shouldered him out of the way.
Gi heaved Nish up and put his hand on the hilt of his sabre. ‘Only you can stop this, Nish,’ she said in his ear.
Nish knew it. He’d put it off too long through self-doubt, but Boobelar had to be crushed, right away. He steadied himself and waited while the crazed drunk came at him, but did not draw his sabre. In wartime, attacking a senior officer was a capital offence, but capital punishment wasn�
��t the Gendrigorean way, and if Nish cut him down in cold blood the whole militia might walk.
Boobelar, despite the nif sap, or perhaps because of it, was incredibly fast. He was on Nish before he had time to weave away, fists going one-two into his belly, and when Nish doubled over, wheezing and breathless, a knee coming for his groin. Nish couldn’t pull back in time; he lurched forwards and the knee caught him in the belly instead.
Completely winded, all he could do was throw his arms around the bigger man and hang on like a punch-drunk boxer. He tried to knee Boobelar but he twisted sideways. Nish attempted to head-butt him under the chin, no more successfully. If he let go, Boobelar would knock him down; the captain’s fists were pummelling his sore ribs.
Now laughing like a drain, Boobelar caught hold of Nish, trying to turn him over and pull his pants down. Nish struggled furiously and broke free. He wasn’t going to suffer that humiliation again.
He swung hard and hit Boobelar in the mouth, breaking teeth and knocking him off his feet, but Boobelar didn’t let go and Nish went down with him. Boobelar landed on his back and Nish twisted free; Boobelar bounced to his feet.
Nish rolled out of the way, sprang up and punched Boobelar in the left eye. Boobelar reeled back, then raised his arms, knotted his clenched fists into a club and swung it down at Nish’s head with enough force to drive it halfway down his spine. Nish managed to get his head out of the way but the blow nearly broke his left collarbone and shoulder, and his arm began to go numb.
As the captain staggered, off-balance from the force of his swing, Nish back-pedalled away. His flooding nose had left a huge bloodstain on Boobelar’s front. His head was ringing; the captain separated into two then the images slowly rejoined, but began to separate again. Nish knew he could not stay on his feet much longer.
He groped for his sabre. His bloody fingers slipped on the hilt, he took a firm grip and dragged it out as Boobelar rushed him, fists flailing. Unfortunately the tip of the blade snagged on its sheath, for the sabre was considerably longer than any blade Nish was used to, and he hadn’t drawn it far enough.
Boobelar got in another blow to the jaw that knocked Nish sideways, rattling his teeth, then drew his knife. ‘This time I’m gonna have yer balls for earrings.’
Nish just managed to stay on his feet; he jerked the sabre all the way out and, when the two images became one again, with the deftest of little jabs he cut Boobelar’s belt on either side of his hips.
The captain did not realise his pants were falling down until they were halfway to his knees, and the grimy sight beneath was not one Nish wanted to remember. Boobelar caught his pants with his left hand and tried to heave them up, while hacking at Nish with his knife.
Nish wove backwards. Boobelar came after him, stumbled over his pants and fell to his knees. Nish swayed to the left and whacked him hard on his hairy backside with the flat of the sabre, counting the strokes aloud.
‘One, two, three, and one for luck!’
A massed cheer went up behind him but Nish couldn’t turn to see who it was, for Boobelar, incoherent with fury, had stepped out of his pants and caught the sword one of his men had tossed to him. He threw himself at Nish, knife in one hand, sword in the other.
Nish could have killed him then; he should have, but he wanted to bring him to trial the Gendrigorean way, to end it once and for all. He reversed the sabre and, the moment the captain came within reach of the long blade, swung the back of it at his head, just above the ear.
Boobelar crashed down and did not move. It was over.
Nish was seeing double again, and Boobelar’s men were rising, drawing their rusty swords and home-made spears. Behind him he heard people shouting, and feet pounding down towards him, but whoever they were, they would not be in time to interfere. If he hesitated now, he was dead.
Forcing himself up to his full, meagre height, he advanced on Boobelar’s men, the shiny sabre upright. They stopped but did not back away. The pain in his broken nose was ferocious, the double vision coming and going, but he had to fight it, and them, and everything. I will not be beaten, Nish kept telling himself. If I fail now, Gendrigore is lost and so is the war. I’ve got to impose my authority no matter the cost. I can’t afford the least hesitation; even a stagger could bring me down.
Forcing the pain away, and holding himself rigid, he advanced, carving an arc through the air with his sabre; it was a beautiful, elegant stroke that made his opponents look like farm labourers. He took another step, lunged with the sabre, twisted and drew back. Boobelar’s men swayed backwards away from the demonstration, for Nish’s stroke, had he been within reach, would have sliced open an opponent’s belly and hooked out his entrails.
The double vision was getting worse; he couldn’t last much longer. ‘Lay down your weapons!’ he said, struggling to put on the commanding voice that had once come naturally to him. ‘Swear to me, and me alone, or die by my hand.’
‘You and whose army,’ said a squat, burly man.
‘Nish’s army,’ came Gi’s high voice from behind, and another rousing cheer. ‘Us!’
It helped. Nish managed to force his double vision back into a single image and concentrated as hard as he could. Boobelar’s troops did not want to swear to him – they wanted to rush him and hack him to pieces, and if one among them dared, the rest would follow. Which would it be? Nish fixed his eye on the burly fellow, who was built like a blacksmith and carried a well-maintained broadsword.
‘Who wants to die first?’ Nish said.
‘You do,’ said the burly fellow, and came at him.
With his brawn, and that sword, he would be a formidable opponent, assuming he had any fighting skills. Nish had to take him first and hope the others didn’t attack at the same time, from behind.
He advanced on the smith, step by slow step, with every stride demonstrating another from his repertoire of strokes. The smith raised the broadsword like a man about to chop wood and Nish felt a trace of hope. The fellow evidently knew no sword play and would be an easy target, if his blow could be evaded. But if he hit, the heavy broadsword would have enough power behind it to cut him in two. Nish stopped.
The smith grinned, a trifle nervously, evidently thinking Nish was afraid. He was terrified but he could not afford to show any hesitation, any fear. The smith advanced a step and Nish matched it, hoping the man would crack and run, though it didn’t look as though he was going to.
‘Cut the little turd in two, Lenn,’ shouted a giant of a man carrying a woodsman’s axe.
‘Smack his skinny arse good,’ yelled another.
Now the smith was only three steps away, almost within reach. Nish, hoping he would not have to kill the fellow, went forwards a half step and practised the gutting stroke again. It would have been a beautiful blow, had he not trodden on a round stone which made his left knee twist painfully.
Instantly, and with phenomenal speed, the smith leapt and swung his broadsword down and across in a sweeping curve that was near impossible to avoid. Nish couldn’t block it, for it would have shattered his sabre. Nor could he weave out of the way or reverse direction in time. All that was left to him was to use his forward momentum, dive under the swing and hope to get his back and legs low enough.
He hit the ground on his belly, head and shoulders and chest between the smith’s legs, clinging desperately to the sabre; if it jarred out of his hands he was finished. He just held on to it. The smith tried to stop his swing but the weight of the broadsword carried it on.
Nish’s vision was blurring, bloody bubbles were shooting from each nostril, and he didn’t think he would be able to get up. Still flat on the ground, he blindly swung the sabre in both hands up over his head and back as far as it would go, praying that he could aim true. It went up through the smith’s lower back and came out the middle of his chest, and he was dead before he slammed into the rocks.
Nish forced himself to hands and knees, came to his feet, swaying, jerked the sabre out and held it up. ‘Anyone e
lse want to try me?’
A child with a toy sword could have cut him down, but Boobelar’s men had their mouths hanging open, cowed and awed by his sword play. Nish held the pose for a moment, then hastily swung the sabre tip to the ground and leaned on it to prevent himself from falling down.
‘I never knew you were a master swordsman,’ said Hoshi quietly.
Nish wasn’t; merely a well-trained and very experienced fighter who had been far luckier than he deserved, but he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. In the coming battle, his reputation was going to need all the help it could get.
‘Throw the body over the side,’ he said. ‘Get two of my most reliable men and bind Boobelar securely. Guard him day and night until he can be tried the Gendrigorean way. If he gives any more trouble, heave him over the side.’ His eyes met the eyes of Boobelar’s most loyal troops. ‘And anyone else who supports him.’
It was over, and even if Nish’s troops felt no differently about him, Nish did. It was his first real victory on the long road to overthrowing his father.
They resumed the march until dusk, only an hour away, dragging Boobelar on a litter, since they could hardly leave him behind. That evening the camp was tense and silent, for everyone knew what the fight had been about. And maybe Boobelar had been right. For the first time, Curr did not appear when dinner was served.
Hoshi woke Nish before dawn the next morning. ‘You should have killed Boobelar.’
‘What’s the matter now? What’s he done?’
‘Someone freed him and he’s fled in the night with forty of his men – and most of our supplies.’
FORTY-SEVEN
The Numinator wrenched Maelys to her feet and dragged her down the hall without another glance at Emberr, as though his death, the most shattering loss of Maelys’s life, no longer mattered. Maelys couldn’t wonder about that – she was numb with despair.
The Numinator had her hand on the latch of the outer door when it was gently pushed from the other side. She leapt backwards, landing as softly as a cat, and drew a small triangular blade. Her other hand went over Maelys’s mouth.