Justice

by Ian Irvine

  He stroked down the horse’s long face. “Steady now,” he said softly. “It’s all right. The pain will be over in a minute.”

  It slowly quietened. Rix continued to stroke its nose and soothe it, feeling as though he was plotting the murder of a friend. Another friend, he thought grimly. He reached down, took his sword in his left hand and rotated on the rope. The job had to be done quickly, cleanly and as painlessly as possible, and that wasn’t going to be easy in this confined space.

  “Down, slowly!” he said to the rope men. “Two feet.”

  They dropped him four feet. Now he was well below the horse’s neck. The ground trembled and dirt and small stones showered down on him. The horse whinnied. One of the men trapped in the depths cried out in terror.

  “I’m sorry,” Rix said to the noble beast.

  With a quick, deep stroke, he cut its throat. Hot blood pumped out, gallons of it. He covered his face but there was nothing he could do to get out of the deluge; in seconds he was drenched. The horse thrashed its legs; its head rose and fell; it looked him in the eyes and he read betrayal there, then its head drooped.

  “Up!” he yelled.

  The soldiers raised him and he clambered out, dripping blood.

  “Don’t leave us!” cried one of the trapped men.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Rix called down. “I’ll get you out.” Or die in the attempt, more than likely.

  The horse took a long time to die.

  A dozen men came staggering up, bearing three heavy poles and the other gear.

  “Is anyone here a rigger?” said Rix.

  A stocky man with a red birthmark on his forehead stepped forward. “I am.”

  “Rig up a tripod and tie the block and tackle under the top. Then swing one leg of the tripod across until the block and tackle is above the horse.” Rix tossed him the other length of rope. “Run it down to me.”

  When it was ready Rix pulled the rope down from the block and tackle, and the soldiers lowered him down the blood-soaked crevasse. With some difficulty, he fastened the rope around the belly of the dead horse and, with a dozen men heaving, it was hauled out. He supposed the poor beast would end up on their dinner plates. An army could never get enough fresh meat.

  He swung across to the two injured men. Astonishingly, the soldier with the crushed chest was still alive. He was shuddering with the pain, and every breath gurgled in his lungs as though they were partly filled with blood, but somehow he clung to life.

  “End—it,” he gasped. “No hope now.”

  Putting him out of his agony would have been the decent thing to do, but Rix couldn’t do it. Not in front of a hostile army he had to win over.

  “What’s your name, fellow?”

  “G-Gam. Common soldier.”

  “I’ll soon have you up, Gam,” said Rix. “Then Holm will look after you. He’s the best surgeon I know.” Though Rix doubted if even Holm could save a man with such injuries.

  How to get him up? Rix couldn’t tie a rope around Gam’s crushed chest. He fashioned a harness around the soldier’s hips and Gam was lifted out, groaning piteously.

  The haul rope came back down in a shower of grit. Rix fixed it to his own rope and swung across to the soldier with the broken collarbone, a hard-faced bruiser with two front teeth missing. And the soldier surprised him.

  “Tonklin’s the name, sir. Sergeant Tonklin, and they’re my men at the bottom. I’ll be all right for a while. Go down for them before the crack closes. ”

  Rix’s scalp crawled. The ground was still quivering, and a larger quake could close it as easily as it had opened it. He looked down at the trapped men and his right arm developed a tremor. He wanted out of this deadly crack, right now.

  “The blokes up top can haul me out any time,” said Tonklin.

  “You’re a good man,” said Rix. His guts throbbed. He forced him self to ignore the pain. “Lower me until I say stop,” he called. “Steadily.”

  They lowered him in a series of tooth-snapping jerks until, forty-five feet down, he was level with the highest of the three trapped soldiers. Though tall, he was a beardless boy of fifteen or sixteen, and his deep blue eyes were flicking wildly back and forth. He was biting his knuckles, fighting panic and the urge to scream. Rix knew how he felt. The crevasse had a malevolent feeling, as if it ached to crush them into oblivion, and the air reeked of the horse’s blood. Rix reeked even worse.

  “What’s your name, lad?” he said.

  “Harin. And that’s Dessin.” Harin indicated the lowest man, ten feet below them. “He’s my father, and he’s hurt bad. Can you—?”

  “I’ll get to him in a minute,” said Rix. “You injured?” He untied the haul rope and began to fasten it around the chest of the boy.

  “Just scratches. Please, look after Father first.”

  The ground shook, raining dirt down on their heads. The earth groaned and the crevasse narrowed several inches.

  Dessin shrieked. “Pull me out! It’s crushing my legs!”

  “I’ll get to you shortly,” said Rix.

  “You’ve got to come now.”

  Sensing a shadow above him, Rix glanced up. The crevasse had been spanned with boards and Libbens was standing on them, staring down at Rix—no, at his lifeline. Grubs inched down Rix’s spine.

  “You can help the boy any time!” wept Dessin. “If you don’t get me out now, I’m a dead man.”

  Rix gave him a cold stare and continued.

  “Please help Father,” said the boy. “We need him bad.”

  “In a minute!” Rix snapped. “Sorry, soldier,” he added. “There’s only one way to do this, and that’s to be methodical.”

  He finished the harness and called for the lad to be raised. When the rope came slithering down again in a splattering rain of mud and horse blood, Rix swung across and down another six feet to the second man.

  “It’s my turn, you mongrel!” screamed Dessin.

  The second man was a small, black-haired fellow with a long, bloody graze up his right thigh and hip, and another on his shoulder. His teeth were gritted, his face bloodless. His hips were trapped in a narrow part of the crevasse and his legs hung oddly.

  “Where does it hurt, soldier?” said Rix.

  “Think my hip’s busted,” he said faintly. “Left leg, too.”

  Rix probed the red-raw area. It was worse than that—both his pelvis and his left thigh bone were broken and, judging by the swelling and his blanched appearance, he was bleeding internally. With all those broken bones, lifting him would cause him agony.

  Rix set to work, fashioning the best harness he could. It was so warm and humid down here that sweat was running down his face. It was stifling; he gasped at the dead air as if he could not get enough. What if he ended up trapped here? What if the crevasse closed and squeezed him to death? He’d been a fool to come down. A leader had to lead, but only an idiot risked his life, and the fate of his army and country, playing the hero.

  He fought an urge to abandon his men and flee hand over hand up the rope. The strong had a duty to help the weak. If no one else could do it, or would, he had to—leader or not.

  “There’s nothing I can do for you here,” said Rix. Probably nothing anyone could do, even Holm, but you never knew.

  “He’s going to die anyway,” sobbed Dessin. “And he’s a lazy, useless bastard, no loss to anyone.”

  “I’ll get to you in a minute, I said,” Rix snapped.

  Dessin twisted his upper body from side to side. “The crack’s gonna snap closed and squash me like a tomato, and I’ve got six kids to feed. Get—me—out!”

  Rix completed the harness and bawled for the injured man to be heaved up. He was moving down the four feet to Dessin when the ground shook violently and the crevasse narrowed by a couple of inches. The hair stood up on Rix’s head—the gap on either side of him was only a couple of inches now. If he’d been side-on, the contraction would have broken both his collarbones.

  Dessin h
owled, “It’s pinching my legs off. Do something, you stupid mongrel!”

  Rix edged his way down. The soldier’s thighs were caught between ledges of harder rock jutting into the crevasse from either side, and when it had narrowed, the ledges had been forced into his flesh almost to the bones. He must be in agony. Blood was running down his legs… and if the crevasse narrowed any further…

  Rix took hold of Dessin’s right thigh and tried to work it free.

  “You bastard! You’re tearing my leg off.”

  “What would you have me do?” Rix snapped.

  “If you’d come down fifteen minutes ago this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Rix was thinking the same thing. Could he have saved Dessin if he’d come straight down? Possibly, though Rix was a bigger man; he could have been caught the same way.

  “Get me out!”

  He contemplated knocking Dessin unconscious and dragging him out bodily. It would be quicker. But before he could move the ground shuddered violently, the crevasse contracted again and he heard an ominous snap. Dessin screamed.

  Blood gushed from the stump of his left thigh. The pincer action of the closing ledges had sheared his left leg off and cut deep into the right thigh, though it was still held immovably. They were now confined in a space only ten inches wide and there was nothing Rix could do to save him—he could not tie on a tourniquet with his dead hand, nor could he turn to use his good hand. And if the crevasse closed by another two inches, they would die together.

  Dessin took a deep, shuddering breath, then looked up at Rix and the anger was gone.

  “I’m a dead man, aren’t I?” He had dark blue eyes; extraordinarily blue. The same eyes as his son.

  “Yes,” said Rix, fighting his own panic. “You’re bleeding to death and I can’t stop it.”

  “Sorry for cursing you. The pain, it was unbearable. But it… it’s gone now.”

  “I’m glad.” Rix clasped the soldier by the shoulder.

  “You’re a brave man, Deadhand, risking your life coming down here for us. The bravest I’ve ever met—I truly… truly believe you can save Hightspall. Get out, while you still can.”

  “I’ll not leave you to die alone,” said Rix.

  Dessin looked up. “I’ll die happier knowing you’re leading the army—and my three boys… and not him. Beware of him.”

  A number of soldiers were on the planks now, looking down. He could not make out their faces, but even in silhouette he could see the rage emanating from the sacked general.

  “I will,” said Rix.

  He extended his hand and Dessin grasped it. There was no strength in his grip. Shortly his hand fell away and his head slumped.

  “Take care of my boys, won’t you?” he whispered. “They’ve got to support their little sisters now.”

  “I’ll do my very best,” said Rix. “Pull me up!” he yelled.

  No one moved. Were they going to leave him here? He looked down. The blood flow from the soldier’s severed thigh had slowed to a trickle and he was unconscious. Nothing could hurt him now.

  “Up!” Rix bellowed.

  The rope jerked him up, ten feet, twenty, thirty, forty and more, until he was next to Tonklin, who was still supporting his collarbone. The crack was wider here and Rix was able to turn sideways, though only just.

  “What are you doing here?” said Rix. “They could have pulled you out fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Then you’re a damn fool.”

  “I’m looking at a bigger one, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Rix had no reply to that. He fashioned a harness around Tonklin’s chest and he was heaved away.

  “All right,” called Rix. “Pull me up.”

  The rope remained slack. All the watchers were gone except Libbens. He stood there, quite still, then stepped off the boards and out of sight.

  The ground jerked up and down. Rix dropped sharply for fifteen feet, grazing his back painfully against the side of the crevasse, before stopping with a jerk that snapped his teeth together. What the hell was going on? Had the rope broken? No, it was still taut. Had they dropped him accidentally, or deliberately?

  “Pull me up!” he yelled.

  The rope did not move. Afraid to trust it now, he drew his knife, jammed it into the soil and levered himself upwards. After a couple of minutes of awkward, painful progress he had climbed a yard, but there were still six or seven to go.

  Again the ground shuddered then, with a roar, part of the crevasse to his right collapsed. Rix climbed faster, the breath burning in his throat. Cracks were forming in the wall to his right; it was going to collapse any minute. He moved to the left, jammed the knife in as far as it would go, heaved up with all his weight, and the blade snapped.

  The fall lost all the height he had gained, and more. He studied the rim of the crevasse above him, sweating. It had developed an ominous bulge. No way could he climb up there—he would bring the lot down on himself.

  Libbens appeared on the planks again and spat in Rix’s direction.

  “It’s too dangerous,” he said to the troops. “No man is worth risking the lives of a dozen.” He waved an arm. “Leave him.”

  He leapt off the plank, out of sight. Rix had no choice but to try and climb the rope, though he was at the end of his strength and climbing it one-handed was a mighty ask.

  By jamming his steel-gauntleted right fist against the side of the crevasse, digging his toes in and heaving himself up the rope with his left hand, he managed to gain another three yards. Four to go, and he was exhausted, bone-deep. Dirt rained down into his eyes. As he wiped them, a lump of earth the size of his head struck him on the top of the skull so hard that it dazed him; it was all he could do to hang on.

  A grinding sound issued up from the depths, then a hissing as of steam suddenly released. The whole crevasse was shuddering. If a geyser didn’t boil him alive, or tons of rock come down on his head, the crevasse would snap shut and squirt him out through the closing crack in a bloody fountain.

  He was climbing desperately when the rope came tumbling down. The end had been neatly severed.

  Libbens was making sure that he died here.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rannilt was too afraid to scream. In Cython, screaming had identified you as a victim. Prey!

  Waves broke across the land, hurling boulders into the air. Trees thundered to the ground behind her; cracks opened in the ground then closed again; the air was full of dust, leaves and bark, and powdered stone.

  Rannilt hunched over, whimpering, her whole body trembling. She clapped her hands over her ears but could not block out the roaring, grinding and crashing, as if the land was tearing itself to pieces. She sank onto her side, drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rocked back and forth, eyes screwed shut.

  Another tree fell, not far away. She let out a shriek—she couldn’t help herself. She had to get away. Rannilt scrambled up and bolted, having no idea where she was going. She ran until she could run no further but it did not stop. Was it the end of the world?

  The ground went soft and sank beneath her feet. Water spurted from a red, split rock and a gust blew it into her face—hot water. A ragged crack opened up before her but, as she leapt it, the ground on the other side was thrust upwards and she slammed into the freshly made scarp. She fell and lay by the open crack, aching all over. It reminded her of the beatings she had suffered as a bullied slave girl in Cython, before she had met Tali, when no one in the world had cared if she lived or died.

  Tali had saved Rannilt’s life; she had looked after Rannilt and taken her with her when she escaped. And through Tali, Rannilt had met Tobry, the kindest and gentlest man she had ever known. She ached for him, but he was gone, squashed beneath the tree.

  Rannilt got up, rubbing her throbbing knees. They were bleeding. She plodded on, desperate to escape the chaos and the nightmare of the coming battle. Why were all those men planning to kill one an
other on the Plain of Reffering? It didn’t make any sense.

  She was out in the grassland to the west, trudging along, when her scalp began to crawl. She whirled but there was nothing behind her. Rannilt went on, uneasily now, and soon felt the crawling sensation again. She knew not to ignore it; something dark, something foul was creeping through the long grass not far away.

  She dared not run; she was afraid of making a noise that would attract it. Rannilt spied an ant hill fifty yards away and headed for it, crouched down. She crept around the far side, lay flat on the slope of the ant hill and carefully raised her head.

  She saw him at once—an extremely tall, cadaverous man, dressed in black, about a hundred yards away. He was perfectly still, his head bent as if staring at the ground. He turned, scanning the grassland around him, and as his gaze swept across the ant hill Rannilt felt that crawling sensation again, as if the top of her head was covered in maggots. It took all her strength to keep still while he stared at her hiding place. Could he make her out through the tall grass from so far away? She hoped not.

  He went on, moving stiff-jointedly, studying the ground ahead. Rannilt had never seen him before but she knew who he was, for she had seen the light glinting off his opal eyes and his hideous black-opal teeth. He was Rufuss, one of the terrible Five Heroes. The most terrible of them all, she had heard: he was a broken man who preyed on people like her—the small, the weak and the defenceless. And he was searching for someone. No, hunting someone.

  Hunting her? Surely not. Why would one of the Five Heroes hunt her? Ants were swarming all over her now, biting her on the legs and arms, but Rannilt did not move. She watched Rufuss until he disappeared from sight in a dip in the ground, then rose silently, brushed the ants off and scurried the other way. If he wasn’t hunting her, who was he after?

  There was no way of knowing. She kept going in the opposite direction and, hours later, found herself at the ruins where she had camped last night with Rix, Glynnie, Tali and Holm. It was raining gently now, windy and very cold. She limped between the broken stone walls, hoping to find her friends, but the camp had been packed up. Nothing remained save the ash-filled fire pit and a broken chair Holm had fashioned from sticks bound together with wiry grass.