The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1)

by Ian Irvine

  Their archers fired a second volley. Arrows whizzed above him, tearing a bloody hole through the centre of his defensive line. Their spears were pointing in all directions, his troops able to think of nothing but their dead and dying friends. The first experience of bloody battle was always shocking, even for well-trained soldiers. Nish could see his troops’ morale wavering. They were staring at the approaching tide in horror and if he didn’t act now they would turn and run.

  ‘Defiance!’ he shouted, leaping to his feet. ‘Rise up for your Deliverer. Rise up and come at them.’

  The spearmen came to their feet in a sinuous wave and began a stumbling, shaky advance. The enemy were now churning through the dip, moving ever more slowly and wearily as the sticky clay clumped on their boots, making every step a labour. The front line now covered the slope and was jamming up as those behind continued to push forwards. Their archers could no longer see past them to shoot.

  ‘They’re bogging down,’ cried Nish, waiting for the spearmen to reach him. ‘They can hardly move.’ He raised his sword. ‘At them.’

  They split to go around him and he went with them, sword out, knowing that the enemy wouldn’t recognise him and he could die at any moment. His heart was pounding but he felt perfectly calm and clear-headed. He would wield his third-rate force as well as he possibly could and if he failed, if he died here, it would be the end of all his troubles. And maybe his death would inspire others to resist, as Irisis’s death had been his inspiration and driving force. Either way, he would go with a smile on his lips.

  He felt the ground soften beneath his boots. He was on the edge of the muddy patch. He took a step backwards onto firmer ground. ‘Here we stand! The Defiance!’

  ‘The Deliverer!’ roared his troops, thrusting out their spears, and for the first time he knew they were with him all the way.

  The grim-faced, staggering army came onto them and there was no more time for thought as they struggled and fought and slipped and died in the greasy clay that was soon sticky with spilled blood, brains and entrails.

  Nish hacked and slashed, cutting up at the tall soldiers, his sword going into a groin here, a ribcage there. He twisted to tear out the blade then jerked sideways as a giant of a man hacked down at him with a two-bladed war axe. It shaved threads off his shoulder seams then buried itself to the handle in the clay. The soldier wrenched furiously at it but the suction was so strong that it wouldn’t budge. He tried to step backwards to get a better heave but his boots had worked down into the clay and before he could pull them free a spear took him in the throat.

  The enemy’s whole front line had fallen now and, trapped in the sticky mud, those behind them made easy targets. Nish’s spearmen started to advance. He ordered them back. ‘Stay here, on solid ground. Let them come onto your spears.’

  The enemy, ordered to clear the rebels as quickly and brutally as possible, trampled over their dead and dying comrades and continued driving onto the spears, and dying before they could reach their enemy. Their officers were so far back that they hadn’t realised what the problem was.

  The soldiers couldn’t bypass the dip without crossing onto the steep sides of the neck above the marshes, which would put them at an even greater disadvantage. They had to scramble over their dead and dying comrades, and as they did they were cut down by the spearmen or the archers, now firing from the rises further back.

  The army’s archers still couldn’t fire for fear of hitting their own men, but gaps were opening in Nish’s front line as the relentless attack continued. Half his spearmen had fallen; the others had to be replaced with fresh troops or the battle would be lost. The enemy dead were now so many that they would soon form bridges over the bog, and if their superior troops were allowed to reach solid ground in any numbers they would sweep his amateurs away.

  ‘Spearmen, fall back! Swordsmen, to the attack.’

  His forces, fired up from seeing the enemy taking such terrible casualties, advanced in a rush. Nish stayed with them; having taken on the role of the Deliverer, he could do no less. He felt no fear; he didn’t care whether he lived or died. All that mattered was to drive the enemy troops back, and deliver a blow to his father’s pride that would inspire the suffering world.

  But first he had to keep the enemy in the mud. It was time to take the battle to them. ‘Advance!’

  He sprang forwards up onto the carpet of bodies, and his swordsmen followed him in a cheering, screaming wave that drove the exhausted enemy back down the dip into the churned ground where, trapped in the sticky mud and with the soldiers behind them pressing forwards and leaving them nowhere to go, they died by the thousand. The carnage was sickening. The memories would stay with him until he died, but there was no choice. It was kill or be killed.

  ‘Fall back and drop to ground,’ Nish ordered, sending two pigtailed runners, wide-eyed girls no older than twelve, scuttling low to tell the archers to fire at will.

  His swordsmen fell back, dropping into a crouch on solid ground above the mound of dead. Though his archers were not trained to fire volleys, many were skilled hunters, and in the growing light they exacted dreadful slaughter on the soldiers trapped in the mud.

  Peering over the wall of bodies, Nish tried to work out how the battle was going, but he couldn’t see well enough. He crawled up onto the death carpet, over corpses and live men twitching and moaning from ghastly wounds, and gazed down the slope.

  He estimated that the enemy had numbered about ten thousand, a force that on a level battlefield would have annihilated his six thousand ill-trained fighters. His father’s army had lost half their number, dead or dying, with perhaps another two thousand too badly wounded to fight. Few of those would survive the march back to their garrison. But that still left three thousand, more than enough to destroy his ragtag force if he lost control of it, or made one mistake.

  Nish didn’t think the enemy’s officers would allow the army to retreat, since they would be treated like deserters and executed. For Jal-Nish’s troops it was victory at all costs, or decimation. How could he capitalise on that?

  ‘They’re weakening,’ someone shouted from behind him. ‘At them!’

  Nish’s head whipped around. The speaker was a huge, burly peasant, a giant of a man. A natural soldier, he had slain at least a dozen of the enemy and now had the blood lust burning in him. He sprang forwards, swinging his sword above his head. ‘Charge!’

  ‘Charge them!’ The cry echoed through the ranks and the front line of swordsmen surged after him.

  ‘Stop!’ Nish cried, but they didn’t hear him above the roar of battle.

  The folly of one man could swing the tide to disaster, for once they climbed into full view on the mound of bodies the enemy archers would cut them down. Nish came to his feet and, as the peasant went charging past, swung the flat of his sword into the man’s belly, knocking the wind out of him.

  ‘Stop!’ he roared, advancing on the others, who were leaping up onto the pile, and flashing his sword at them. ‘That’s what they want you to do. It’s a trap!’

  One soldier ground to a halt, then the rest, and they turned and scuttled back to their line. As the burly peasant went to his hands and knees to follow, Nish smacked him across the backside with the flat of his sword, to reinforce the fellow’s shame.

  Nish was about to step down after them when something struck him sharply in the back, knocking him off his feet. He’d been hit by a long arrow, angling into his back muscle in the region of his lowest right rib, but he struggled up, not feeling any pain.

  He could feel blood running down his back though and, even if the injury wasn’t mortal, it would soon weaken him. His knees felt shaky and a mist passed before his eyes. Nish clung desperately to one thought – before he fell, he had to ensure victory, and victory was still far from certain.

  It was hard to think straight, but he must. He tried to concentrate and a desperate plan came to mind. The enemy had seen him fall and must know that, whoever he was, he’d led
the battle so far. If he could convince them that the rebels were totally demoralised by his ‘death’ …

  He staggered off the pile of bodies and fell down into shelter. It really hurt this time. Worse, his entire front line was staring at him, aghast, the soldiers’ weapons drooping in their hands.

  ‘Messengers and officers, to me,’ he croaked.

  They didn’t move. What was the matter with the fools? Nish’s eyes met the eyes of the huge peasant and he jerked his head at the fellow, as if to say, come here; make up for your folly.

  The huge peasant jumped up. An arrow shot over his head. He crouched down and ran forwards, picked Nish up as easily as if he were a child, and scuttled back with him.

  ‘Hold me up.’ Nish felt a chilly weakness creeping over him. The peasant tugged at the arrow, sending a spasm of agony through Nish’s back. ‘Leave it,’ he choked. ‘Get my officers and messengers.’

  They gathered around and he explained his plan. They looked shocked, disbelieving. ‘Just do it, in the name of the Deliverer,’ he said limply.

  The officers went to their troops, the messengers darted back and forth. ‘Ready,’ came the signal.

  Nish nodded. That hurt too. His archers laid down a covering fire. The huge peasant hefted Nish in his arms, taking care not to disturb the half span of arrow protruding from his back, then carried him towards the rear like an honoured dead.

  Nish’s soldiers retreated with him, then formed into a mass in the centre of the neck where it broadened just below the camp. The ones on the outside threw down their arms, and all began to mill about. A great wailing filled the air.

  Monkshart came running up to where the huge peasant stood, still holding Nish. The peasant had carried him to the archer’s rise on the right hand side of the neck, so he could keep the battlefield in view.

  Monkshart paled at the sight of the bloody wound, then rapped out, ‘Bring him back to my tent, soldier.’

  ‘No!’ Nish said urgently, feeling his focus fading. He willed himself back to full alertness. He had to hold out for long enough to enact the plan, and hopefully spring the trap. No one else could do it; certainly not Monkshart.

  It seemed to grow dark suddenly. Nish tried to speak, though it was hard to form the words. ‘Tell me what’s happening, soldier,’ he said in a gritty croak. ‘Every detail.’

  ‘They’re starting to advance,’ the huge peasant said in a deep burr. ‘Their archers have just fired a volley but it went overhead, into the tents.’

  ‘Tell our troops the Deliverer says to throw down their weapons and look panicky.’

  ‘Troops –’ roared the peasant.

  ‘Don’t tell the enemy as well, you bloody fool. Send runners.’

  They were sent. Nish’s sight returned for a few seconds, just long enough to see the enemy moving more quickly now, but faded once more. ‘What’s … happening?’

  ‘Our archers are firing again,’ said the peasant. ‘Half the enemy front line has gone down but they’re coming on. They’re halfway across the dip; going slowly now; bogging down.’ He paused for a good while. ‘They’re almost to the pile of bodies. They’re climbing the pile. The first of them are jumping down onto solid ground. Do I give the signal?’

  ‘Not – yet,’ said Nish, cursing his weakness. How could he fight a battle when he couldn’t even see? ‘How many are on solid ground?’

  ‘A few hundred. They’re coming slowly; they’re so weary they can barely walk.’

  ‘Good. How many have fallen to our arrows?’

  ‘About the same number.’

  ‘Not enough,’ Nish whispered. ‘Give the first signal, soldier.’

  He felt the soldier raise his arm. ‘Done, surr. Our men are still moving backwards.’

  ‘Excellent …’ Time passed. Nish had no idea how much. He felt so very weak and listless. He couldn’t care about anything.

  ‘More than half their army is on solid ground now. They’re about to attack, Deliverer.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Nish, though he was no longer sure of himself. The plan was slipping away with his consciousness. ‘Now!’

  He felt the soldier slash his arm down, there came a great roar and the ground shook as the enemy made a last effort.

  ‘Our troops are grabbing their fallen weapons, surr. They’re forming into a wedge in the centre of the neck. The enemy are coming at them. They’re attacking. They’re getting through!’ The peasant said no more for agonising moments. Nish could hear the man’s pounding heartbeat, but could not feel his own. ‘No, they’re splitting to go around and attack our boys from both sides. They’re going to –’

  ‘Third signal,’ Nish whispered.

  The soldier whipped his arm up again. ‘Our soldiers are attacking furiously, surr. The enemy are fighting back but they can barely hold up their swords. Now our women and children are coming at them from between the tents. The enemy are still fighting – they’re doing bloody slaughter on us, surr! I think …

  ‘No, our spearmen have moved out on either side, to cut them off. Our swordsmen are going at their flanks, driving them backwards, backwards … Oh, surr, surr!’ cried the burly peasant, shaking Nish in his arms, pain from the waggling arrow breaking through his lassitude.

  ‘We’re pushing their flank right back, over the edge. They’re breaking! They’re breaking, surr! They’re running down the steep slope towards the swamp. They’ll never get out of there. The left flank are breaking too. They’re over the edge. Our archers are moving into position. It’s over, Deliverer, surr. We’ve beaten the finest the God-Emperor’s Imperial Militia could send at us. Oh, surr!’

  The huge peasant was shaking, laughing, crying and dancing, and Nish felt the man’s tears falling on his cheeks as he slid into unconsciousness.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Maelys was so tired that she hadn’t realised the attack was happening until the tent was torn away in a maelstrom of snapping canvas and flying tent poles and pegs. A knotted rope whacked her so hard on the right cheekbone that she was bound to get a black eye out of it. All around her, people were screaming or crying out to each other. No one knew what had happened; everyone feared the worst.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Tulitine’s voice sounded nearby, and such was her authority that everyone fell silent. Unshuttering a lantern, she directed a narrow beam around her. She was clad in healer’s robes, like Maelys’s, though of a darker green with a black sash.

  ‘Stop whining!’ Tulitine said disgustedly to a group of women huddling around someone lying on the other side of the tent floor. ‘We always knew the God-Emperor was going to attack the Defiance, and now he has. Get your weapons and prepare to defend the camp.’

  ‘Vula is dying,’ sobbed a frizzy-haired woman about Maelys’s age. ‘It’s not fair. She never hurt anyone.’

  Tulitine crouched down by the tall girl who lay flat on her back with the splintered half of a tent pole embedded in her throat. Maelys came around the other side. The girl was choking but there was no point trying to remove the pole – it had torn through the arteries in her neck and a bucket of blood had pooled on the ground beneath her. As Maelys watched, the choking stopped.

  Tulitine closed the girl’s eyes with her fingers. The frizzy-haired woman began to wail. Tulitine whirled, slapping her across the face so hard that it knocked her head sideways.

  ‘This is war, girl. Ever since you left your village you’ve been boasting about how brave you are, so stop whining and get to your position. And if you have to die, which you probably will, do it with a dignity worthy of the Deliverer.’

  In short order, Tulitine organised the defence of the tents and sent teams to beat the fires out and shovel earth over the cinders. A healers’ tent was set up, cloth torn into rags and cauldrons of water put into the fires to boil. The attack had caused dozens of injuries, and arrows as many more. The dead were humped to the back of the camp and laid out next to the rocks. The living waited.

  Maelys stood at the opening of the healers’ tent, t
ension drawing the knots in her belly ever tighter. The fall of arrows had stopped and the enemy army was at the foot of the hill. Before she’d left home, reading about adventures such as this had been her lifeblood, but being in one wasn’t the least bit exciting. It was violent, brutal and, worst of all, random. She’d hadn’t taken that in before, but it could as easily have been her lying dead with a tent pole in her throat, or Tulitine, or Nish.

  He was leading his troops from the front, and as a hero of the lyrinx wars Nish was probably the best person to do so. She stood up on tiptoe but could only see the dark mass of ill-trained Defiance defenders waiting for the attack that would roll right over them. The God-Emperor’s troops had a fearsome reputation. They’d never been beaten in battle, and they’d had plenty of time to prepare, so how could this puny rabble hope to hold them back? Though Maelys was optimistic by nature, she couldn’t find any hope. The sides of the hill would run red with the blood of the Defiance and then the enemy would push through to the women and children.

  The children and old women would die, the young women only spared to be used the way soldiers used women in war, then slain or dragged off to the God-Emperor’s interrogation pits.

  She fought down an urge to abandon her post and run, but even if she had been minded to, it was already growing light and there was nowhere to hide on the grassy plains. No one would be allowed to survive to tell the story of the Deliverer and his Defiance. There would be no tales of courage in the face of impossible odds, or small heroes defying the all-powerful God-Emperor, only of Jal-Nish’s crushing might.

  Maelys was reminded of Nish’s words on the way to Tifferfyte. ‘It’s the common folk who suffer most in a revolution, and no one gives a damn, least of all the people who are making revolution in their name.’ She wondered if Nish were remembering those words now as he watched the peasants die.

  Another flight of arrows rattled around them and someone gasped. The woman who had been working beside her just a few minutes ago lay thrashing with a red-and-black-feathered arrow in her belly. Maelys knelt beside her, studying the wound, then cut off the arrowhead protruding from her back and began to pull the shaft out, but before she had drawn it all the way the woman was dead.