The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2)

by Ian Irvine

  ‘I’ve already tried. Curse this body. Why did I let Maelys talk me into taking renewal?’ Flydd scowled at her.

  ‘If I hadn’t, you’d probably be dead by now,’ she said quietly.

  ‘At times like this, I wish I was,’ Flydd muttered. ‘I feel as though my new body is fighting me all the way; after all this time, it still doesn’t fit.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get used to it,’ said Nish.

  ‘If I survive, you mean. And if I don’t, good riddance.’

  ‘Where are they?’ said Maelys, standing on tiptoes and scanning the forest all around. ‘Why are they taking so long?’

  ‘They know we’ve no way of escape,’ said Sergeant Flangers, cleaning his purloined Whelm jag-sword with a clump of grass. His friend, protector and constant shadow, Chissmoul, was at his side. ‘They’re taking their time to make us sweat.’

  ‘Still, it’s wonderful to have you here,’ said Nish.

  Flangers, apart from being an old friend, was their only other experienced soldier, and a master of battlefield tactics, but he’d lost weight in his seven years of captivity and Nish wasn’t sure he was ready for the rigours of warfare.

  ‘It’s good to have the old team back together, surr,’ said Flangers. ‘We showed the enemy a thing or two in the past, and we can do it again.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ Nish said unconvincingly. ‘Archers, get ready –’

  Maelys gasped, and all around, people were crying out and pointing.

  Feeling the radiance beating upon the back of his head, Nish whirled; his head spun sickeningly and the pain behind his temples grew worse. The caduceus was keening, the note rising and falling, and it had brightened to white-hot again. The iron serpent with the fangs appeared to be staring at Nish, while the other snake was looking at Flydd, and Nish imagined, for one mad moment, that he saw its tongue flicking in and out.

  ‘What’s it doing?’ Nish cried.

  Maelys caught at her taphloid. Yggur threw himself backwards away from the caduceus, tripped and fell, sending out a spray of muddy water. Fog wisped up around him but disappeared at once.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, scrambling out of the way, his frosty eyes wide. ‘But we meddle with it at our peril.’

  ‘At Santhenar’s peril,’ said Flydd. ‘Do you recall the volcanic ruin wrought upon the world of Aachan not so many years ago? Fifty thousand Aachim fled through a portal to Santhenar, and surely all those who remained behind on Aachan perished.’

  ‘What of it?’ said Yggur.

  ‘Chthonic fire caused Aachan’s ruin; the very fire Yalkara stole from Stilkeen in ancient times so her people could escape from the void. What dreadful forces might the caduceus contain?’

  ‘Then why did Stilkeen leave it here?’ said Yggur, scooping up handfuls of muddy water from a puddle and rubbing it all over his face, which was coming up in hundreds of little blisters. He winced, but turned back.

  ‘Stay away from it,’ said Tulitine. ‘I think it’s a trap.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, but with Klarm using Gatherer to block my powers, the one place I can use my Art is next to the caduceus.’

  In an open space, Nish noticed the three healers setting up their station. Closest was lanky Dulya, her chin marred by a large strawberry mark, and behind her, plump and palely pretty Scandey, one of the sisters of poor Tildy, the milkmaid who had been murdered by Vivimord in Gendrigore. After Scandey had seen Vivimord tried by ordeal above the Maelstrom of Justice and Retribution, and found guilty, she had been one of the first to join Nish’s militia.

  The third healer was Ghosh, a stocky youth with an exceptionally long body and short, thick legs. Unlike the other Gendrigoreans, he never smiled. He found his healer’s duties too overwhelming.

  Pulling his collar up to protect the back of his neck, Yggur backed towards the caduceus until his clothes began to steam, then stopped and raised his hands to try the spell again.

  Nish’s gut tightened. What if Tulitine was right? Was Yggur doing just what Stilkeen wanted?

  ‘They’re coming out,’ Gi shrilled.

  Nish ran out through the lines as the first of the Imperial troops appeared. Within minutes they had formed an oval ring around the edge of the clearing, surrounding the militia.

  ‘Archers, pick your targets,’ said Nish. ‘Lancers, get into line; don’t you remember anything you’ve been taught?’ He turned, his head throbbing worse than ever, and noticed Maelys beside him. ‘What the blazes are you doing out here – you’re unarmed. Get into the centre of the circle.’

  She ducked through a gap in the line, towards the little rise where the healers were getting ready to work on the brutal fruits of battle.

  Nish faced the enemy and tried to prepare himself for what was going to be a massacre.

  TWO

  Nish drew the black sabre which he’d taken from Vivimord’s tent after the zealot’s disappearance in the Maelstrom. The sabre was a magnificent weapon with an edge that never needed sharpening, though it was a trifle long for him. Whenever he held it, the pain in his left hand eased, which was curious.

  ‘I don’t like you using that weapon,’ Flydd said to Nish dyspeptically.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s an enchanted blade.’

  Nish nearly dropped the sabre. ‘Really? What kind of enchantment?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’d be very careful with it. Go behind the lines. If they take you, they can butcher us at their leisure.’

  The keening of the caduceus rose half a note, as if mimicking the song of the tears, and again the black eyes of the fanged serpent seemed to be on Nish. He rubbed his throbbing temples, then said coldly, ‘I’m not cowering behind my friends while they die for nothing.’

  ‘If the enemy takes you, their deaths will be for nothing.’

  ‘You’re talking like a manipulative scrutator, Flydd.’

  ‘You’ve got to start acting like one if you hope to bring down your father. You have to do whatever it takes.’

  It was a side of Flydd that had bothered Nish as far back as the time of the lyrinx war, but it had been more evident since his renewal. He seemed harder and more ruthless now and Nish rarely saw the kindly, warm-hearted side of him.

  ‘I tried that once,’ said Nish, ‘and look where it got me. I’m going to defeat my father my way, or die trying, in which case my troubles will be over.’

  ‘You have a higher duty –’

  ‘How dare you lecture me!’ Nish cried, for his headache was blinding now and there wasn’t time for this. ‘If you can’t help me, get out of my way.’

  Tightening his jaw, Flydd stalked back through the lines. Nish turned to face the top of the clearing and swished his sabre through the air. Though he was skilled with a blade, he was a small man and would be at a disadvantage fighting the tall Imperial troops. On the other hand, they could not afford to harm him.

  They did not wear armour, for no man could have endured it in the heat of the tropical lowlands, and neither had they carried their huge, cumbersome war shields up the precipitous mountain paths. It gave Nish’s archers the advantage, though they would only have ten arrows each to capitalise on it.

  The enemy were armed with short lances and long swords; they wore iron helms and carried small oval shields that only covered their torsos. They stood silently around the edge of the clearing, at least eight hundred of them, awaiting Klarm’s orders. The remainder held the ridges to either side, to cut down anyone trying to escape and, even if they lost hundreds to Nish’s archers, the end could be in no doubt.

  ‘Why don’t they attack?’ said Gi, trembling. She had never been in a battle before – hardly any of the militia had seen warfare.

  Nish put a steadying hand on her shoulder and she looked at him gratefully.

  ‘They’re trying to unnerve us,’ said Tulitine. ‘They’re succeeding,’ said Nish, though he was icily calm now, for during the war he’d been in dozens of battles. There were only two possible outco
mes for anyone – you lived, or you died – and, ultimately, anyone’s survival came down to chance.

  In Tulitine’s serene and beautiful face it was hard to see the old woman she’d been before. How long did she have before the failing Regression Spell took its savage toll? ‘I wish you’d go inside the circle,’ he said.

  ‘But you’re not game to order me about,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m standing with you, Nish, and if it comes to it I’ll fall with you. I’ve had a good life – for the most part – and a long one, and it would be a blessing to die while I still have my health and my looks.’

  ‘I never thought of you as vain,’ he said absently, waiting for the enemy to move.

  ‘I’m human. Who would be old and feeble when vigorous youth and beauty were on offer, even for a few days – ah, here he comes.’

  The air-sled came zooming down the ridge, then lifted and shot above the tops of the trees before curving in an elegant arc around the clearing. General Klarm stood mid-centre, legs spread and cloak flapping.

  ‘He appears to be enjoying the ride,’ said Nish.

  ‘Klarm has command of the marvel of flight. And with the tears, he has only to wish for something and he can have it. Who would not enjoy that?’

  The question sounded like a test, and Nish did not reply. The air-sled side-slipped towards the troops at the pointy end of the clearing and hovered soundlessly in the heavy air. Klarm raised his hand and the teeming rain stopped.

  ‘Can he even control the weather?’ said Gi breathlessly. Few Gendrigoreans knew anything about mancery and they were superstitious about it.

  ‘For a moment, evidently,’ said Tulitine, ‘though if he holds back the rain now, later it must fall all the harder. Weather is driven by forces beyond our understanding, and if one changes it there is always a consequence. And a cost.’

  ‘Come back into the line where we can defend you, Nish,’ called Hoshi, the apprentice potter. ‘Don’t make it easy for them.’

  His Gendrigorean troops never called him surr, only Nish. He’d been irritated by their lack of discipline at first, until he appreciated that it was just the way they were. He moved back through the archers and the wavering line of spears, eyeing the enemy. ‘They’re covering their bodies well with those oval shields. We’re not going to take many down.’

  ‘We could aim for their heads,’ said Gi, raising her bow.

  ‘Not at this range.’

  ‘The legs, then. It’s a tough man who can fight with an arrow through the leg.’

  ‘They’re tough,’ said Nish. ‘Archers, take aim.’

  His hundred and fifty archers drew back their bowstrings. The enemy army lifted their spears.

  ‘Advance,’ Klarm said softly, yet his amplified voice came clearly to every part of the clearing. ‘Cut Cryl-Nish Hlar and Maelys Nifferlin out. Leave no …’ His voice faltered; he had been a decent man, at heart, and clearly still had trouble with his orders, but Klarm had sworn to the God-Emperor and would follow orders to the letter. ‘Leave no one else standing.’

  A shaft of sunlight broke through the churning clouds, illuminating the caduceus and the mud-caked militia surrounding it, and the sodden ground steamed. Nish scratched his backside. He hadn’t washed since Boobelar’s treacherous attack several days ago, and he itched all over.

  The Imperial troops took a step, then another. No one spoke; the clearing was silent save for the keening of the caduceus. The hairs on the back of Nish’s neck lifted, then fell.

  ‘Nish!’ said Gi. ‘I’ve had an idea.’ She put her mouth to his ear.

  Nish studied the line of the enemy, then nodded. ‘Well done! Why didn’t I think of that?’ He lowered his voice, ‘Archers, turn halfway to your right and take aim at the body of the enemy you are then facing. Pass the word around.’

  The archers turned and, instead of aiming at the soldier directly opposite, each took a bead on a man forty-five degrees around the oval ring, for the soldiers’ small shields did not protect them from arrows slanting in from the side. It was a fundamental weakness of Klarm’s encircling position. He should have formed two lines and crushed the militia between them.

  ‘Fire!’

  The archers let loose a ragged volley, smoothly reached for their second arrows and nocked them as Nish counted five seconds. ‘Fire!’ He watched the arrows to their targets, counting under his breath, and a good number of the enemy fell, more than he had expected. But not near enough; not even all those who had been hit. He squinted at the soldiers, wondering if they were protected by sorcery.

  ‘Fire!’

  More soldiers fell. The survivors whipped their shields around to cover their left sides, exposing their chests to frontal fire, and charged.

  ‘Face forwards,’ roared Nish, ‘and now fire at the man directly ahead. Hold fast, lancers. They’re taking a lot of casualties and they’ll be exhausted when they get here. We can beat them.’

  Gi fired, drew another arrow, then gasped.

  ‘What is it? Are you hit?’ He hadn’t seen the enemy fire, but Klarm might have battle mancers among his troops, attacking with unknown Arts. ‘Fire!’

  ‘My arrow went right through its target,’ she said in a tight voice, struggling to control her terror, ‘and the soldier didn’t even check. He just kept on.’

  Her teeth were chattering, her eyes darting this way and that, but she forced herself to hold firm and he admired her all the more for it. That first, terrifying experience of battle – even without mancery – could break the strongest soldier.

  Klarm must be using the tears to undermine the morale of the superstitious Gendrigoreans. ‘Fire! I think some of the enemy are illusions.’

  The enemy were ploughing through the mud. ‘W-we’re going to die, Nish,’ said Gi.

  He thought so too, but he had to pretend otherwise. ‘Hold firm, Gi – illusions can’t fight. We can beat the enemy. We’ll come through this yet, you and I.’

  The lie sickened him, and especially telling it to sweet, gentle Gi. Why, why had he allowed her to come?

  ‘How can we tell which is which?’ said Gi, firing again.

  The leaders were less than a hundred paces away when Nish noticed that not all of the soldiers were struggling in the mud; some were moving easily through it with not a trace of muck splattering from their boots. ‘Fire!

  ‘Watch their feet – half the soldiers are phantoms, illusions,’ he roared, ‘and they can’t touch you. Klarm hasn’t got the numbers.’ Yet even with half their number, the enemy were a superior fighting force.

  The air-sled drifted his way, about twenty spans above the ground. Its metal frame was slightly bent from where it had crashed earlier, and a clump of grass dangled from a kink in one of its runners.

  ‘Should I bring the dwarf down, Nish?’ said a red-haired, balding man, one of Nish’s best archers.

  Nish hesitated, but only for a second; Klarm’s death could swing the odds their way, and it was kill or be killed now. ‘Have a go.’

  The archer swung, aimed and fired in one fluid movement. The arrow streaked towards Klarm’s throat, but the dwarf’s head whipped around, his hand reached for Reaper, and a moment before the arrow reached the target it burst into splinters.

  The caduceus shrilled; Nish’s head screamed and, momentarily a red mist obscured his vision. It cleared; in another flash of clearsight he saw the churning core of the caduceus again, then a vibration shot from Reaper towards the red-haired archer, a tube of vapour condensing in its wake, and struck.

  The archer’s bow shattered first, then his hand; the vibration propagated up his arm, tearing it to pieces in a stinging spray of blood, tissue fragments and shards of bone.

  The archer was splattered with the pulverised remains of his arm, as was everyone around him, and blood was pumping from his shoulder. He had not made a sound, but he was so pale that the freckles on his fair skin stood out like moles. His eyes were fixed on Nish as if to say, ‘Why did you tell me to shoot?’

 
Gi let out a moan that made Nish’s skin creep, and many others echoed it. The superstitious Gendrigoreans could face death in battle with fortitude, but the uncanny Arts terrified them, and if they panicked the battle was lost.

  Then, oddly, Klarm cried out in pain, the air-sled dipped sharply, recovered and shot away.

  Tulitine reached the bleached archer as he collapsed and pressed her fingers against his spurting arteries, but Nish knew the man could not be saved; not up here. The healers Dulya and Ghosh ran out, bearing the stretcher.

  Nish turned away; they had their job to do, and he his own, and one second’s inattention could prove fatal. ‘Hold, hold!’ he roared to the nearby rabble. ‘We’re beating them. Aim! Ready? Fire!’

  Fortunately, most of his militia were too far away to have seen what had happened. The archers fired, but Nish did not see many enemy fall. The real soldiers laboured across the boggy soil, churning it to mud.

  Nish caught his breath. Ten seconds until they struck. ‘Fire!’ He rubbed his eyes, for his vision kept going in and out of focus and the headache was worse.

  ‘Fire! Archers, fall back.’ They could do no more. Effectively, half his militia was now useless.

  The illusory soldiers disappeared; the real ones kept on and struck, driving through the lancers’ spears with ruthless efficiency, catching the spearheads on their shields and hacking through the shafts with their swords.

  Before his lancers could recover, the enemy were attacking the front line, smashing a lancer’s shield aside with one blow, taking him in the belly or throat with the next, then shouldering the sagging body out of the way to attack the next man, and the next.

  Even with only half their expected numbers it was terrible, bloody slaughter, as sickening as anything Nish had ever seen in war. In ten more minutes, the Imperial forces would butcher the lot of them, and it could not be borne. Neither could he do anything to stop it.

  Three soldiers were converging on Gi and Tulitine, grinning. Nish came out from behind them, sprang forwards and thrust his sabre through the ribcage of the nearest man, who died with an astonished look on his swarthy face.