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

by Ian Irvine

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ said Flydd.

  ‘With no food and the really wet season on the way there’s only one thing we can do,’ said Nish bitterly. ‘Rot standing up, then die in this festering hell-hole.’

  ‘I didn’t go through the agony of renewal only to give up,’ Flydd said coldly. ‘Come with me, Nish. Flangers, you too.’

  They followed Flydd and, when they were well away from the militia, he pulled Nish close and snarled, ‘What the blazes were you thinking, talking defeat in front of your troops? Their morale is already shaky and it won’t take much to shatter it. They look up to you, Nish, even though you led them into this nightmare. I’d go so far as to say that they love you,’ Flydd’s lips quirked at this astonishing thought, ‘and you can’t let them down.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Nish muttered, ashamed of his minor breakdown. ‘But it’s at least a week’s march down to the lowlands of Gendrigore and we’ll never get there without food, even if the wet holds off.’

  ‘There’s always hope, while there’s life and breath. The flood has given us a chance I never dared hope for, but only you can weld your militia into a fighting force to take advantage of it – to take one more step, then another, all the way to the God-Emperor’s palace at Morrelune.’

  Nish let out a mocking laugh. ‘Haven’t you forgotten one teensy little obstacle – Klarm’s colossal army, just over the range?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten nothing, and neither should you. The little country you came up here to protect is still in peril, for Klarm will follow his orders to the letter. And the father you swore to tear down could reappear at any moment. Nothing has changed, Nish, so pull your finger out and get on with it.’

  Flangers had stopped a pebble’s toss away and was looking everywhere but at them. Flydd beckoned him forwards. ‘Sergeant, Nish is planning to take Blisterbone Pass and turn the enemy back, and he would value your thoughts.’

  If Flangers was surprised at this statement, his lean face did not show it – but then, he’d known Flydd a long time. ‘I was a common soldier, surr, not an officer …’

  ‘You were a most uncommon soldier, and you’ve studied the art of war from the front line. You know fighting from the mud up.’

  ‘I do that,’ said Flangers, brightening, and for the first time Nish saw the handsome Flangers of old inside the gaunt and prematurely aged face. ‘We have to take a pass, you say?’

  ‘Blisterbone Pass, it’s called, around the corner from the white-thorn peak, there.’ Nish nodded in the direction of the mountain, which could not be seen for the trees. ‘Though … the Histories of Gendrigore say the pass has never been taken when defended. Unfortunately I haven’t seen its approaches, and neither have any of my troops. All I know about it is a mud map the guide, Curr, showed me.’

  ‘The guide who betrayed you?’ said Flydd.

  ‘Yes, so his map may not have been reliable.’

  ‘No one has seen the pass?’ mused Flydd. ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘Except for Boobelar,’ Nish recalled, ‘but he’s gone.’

  ‘Who’s Boobelar?’ said Flangers.

  Nish clenched his teeth at the memories. ‘The captain of the little troop sent by Rigore province. He’s an addled drunk who’s out of his head most of the time, and he only came for the loot he could get on the battlefield. He hates me like poison.’

  Boobelar had surprised Nish while he was bathing under a waterfall, knocked him face-down over a boulder and whaled his bare arse with the flat of his sword until Nish could barely walk. He still had the bruises, and he would never forget the humiliation.

  ‘Later I beat him in a fight and had him tied up, but his men freed him and decamped in the middle of the night with most of our food. They’ll be halfway back to the lowlands by now.’

  ‘He’s no help to us, then,’ Flydd said. ‘Show us Curr’s mud map.’

  The soil was just rotted leaves here, so Nish cut down a greenly luminous toadstool and carved its stem into the shape of the range and Blisterbone Pass, as he remembered it. ‘The white-thorn peak is here, and the pass here, but that’s all he showed of it. I’m told the approaches on either side of the pass are steep and dangerous; it’s difficult to cross even when undefended. Most of the armies that have tried to invade Gendrigore have failed trying to cross the Range of Ruin.’

  ‘And Blisterbone is the only pass?’ said Flangers, squatting down to study the toadstool map.

  ‘There’s a higher and even more dangerous crossing called Liver-Leech Pass, but it hasn’t been used in hundreds of years. That’s where we were headed.’ Nish carved it as well.

  ‘Why?’ said Flangers.

  ‘Curr said he’d seen an advance guard of the enemy at Blisterbone, so we couldn’t attack head-on. Our only hope was to try and take the pass from the other side of the range, after crossing via Liver-Leech. That’s why he led us into this valley. Though now I’ve seen the landscape, how could Curr have seen the enemy at Blisterbone?’

  ‘Clearly he was lying. And he betrayed you, so everything he said about Liver-Leech Pass may also be a lie,’ said Flydd. ‘We can’t risk it. We’ll have to attack up Blisterbone.’

  ‘Any idea how many men Klarm has there?’ said Flangers.

  ‘No, though Tulitine said a few hundred men could hold the pass against an army, so even a handful could hold it against us.’

  ‘Assuming they’re expecting an attack,’ said Flydd. ‘But why would they? Klarm thinks we’re dead.’

  ‘He may think that, but he’s a careful man, and since he hasn’t seen our bodies he’ll be wary.’

  ‘Then our attack on the pass must come as a total surprise.’

  ‘Are you talking about a night attack?’ cried Nish. ‘Up over the most dangerous country there is? You’re out of your mind.’

  Heads snapped up among the squatting militia. ‘Keep your voice down,’ growled Flydd. ‘It’s the only possibility. But first you’ve got to re-arm and resupply your troops, and there’s only one way that can be done.’

  ‘Rob the dead,’ said Flangers.

  EIGHT

  A couple of hundred enemy soldiers had died at the hands of Nish’s archers and most still lay where they had fallen. The archers replenished their quivers, the infantry abandoned their rustic weaponry for the fine spears and swords of the Imperial troops, and took their stout helms and shields, packs and boots. The packs contained dry clothing, carefully packed in oilskin, plus provisions for several days’ march, and when everything useful had been gathered, the militia withdrew into the forest for the first edible meal they’d had in three or four days.

  ‘I doubt that Klarm will be back today,’ said Flydd. ‘Having lost a small army already, he’ll want to make sure that his main force safely reaches the pass; but when he does return, he’ll see that we’ve robbed the bodies. Our only chance of surprising him lies in attacking the pass first; tonight.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Nish, who was sitting on a crumbling log, making a rope sling so he could carry the serpent staff on his back. ‘We had little sleep last night and we’ve been living on half-rotten food for days.’

  ‘There’s no choice. Tell everyone to turn in. We’ll go in three hours.’

  The militia rolled into their cloaks on the wet leaf litter and slept like the dead, but Nish dozed for a bare hour, all that his restless mind would allow him. How could he attack in the dark when he didn’t know the terrain? He mentally traced possible paths from here to the pass.

  ‘We’ll never get to Blisterbone in time,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘It’s too far. Liver-Leech Pass is a lot closer from here; at least, that’s what Curr said, but how can I trust his directions? Besides, the mayor in Gendrigore said that no army could cross Liver-Leech, and only the most desperate of climbers.’

  ‘How much closer is it?’ said Flydd, beside him.

  Nish had not realised that he was awake. ‘Liver-Leech Pass is five or six hours from here and, if we can cross it, it’d take another
six hours to circle around to the far side of Blisterbone Pass. If the weather is good.’

  ‘What about this side of Blisterbone?’

  ‘It’s more than a day from here.’

  ‘How can it be that far? I thought it would be closer.’

  ‘From here, the only direct route is straight up the valley, but only skilled climbers could get up the cliffs at the top. Or we could backtrack the way we came, assuming we can cross the river, and approach the pass via the track from Gendrigore. But that’s a long, meandering route, and Klarm would probably be back by then.’

  Nish heard Flydd fumbling in the gloom but did not look around, for he was trying to imagine what Klarm would be doing now. The dwarf had taken some heavy falls and a good few blows, plus he had that bad Reaper burn. Once he reached the main army Klarm would need to have his injuries attended to, consult his officers, eat and sleep. To thoroughly search both clearings and the river below the gorge would require far more men than he could carry on the air-sled, and there was no urgency now. Klarm wasn’t young and neither was he superhuman, so surely he would stay with the army until they reached the pass sometime tomorrow.

  Flydd was right – if they were to take the pass, and hoped to hold it, they had to attack by dawn tomorrow, so Liver-Leech was the only option.

  Nish’s wandering thoughts turned to his father. He had assumed that Stilkeen would have taken Jal-Nish to the void, since it had, clearly, been in pain, but how could he even guess what an ageless, immortal being might do?

  Ting! A faint silvery glow formed beside him; Flydd was batting a small, spiky ball of light, like a floating soap bubble, from one hand to another.

  ‘How did you do that?’ said Nish.

  ‘The mimemule has a little power back, now we’re well away from the caduceus.’

  And you couldn’t think of anything better to do with it? Nish thought sourly, but that was unfair. After being helpless during the battle, Flydd was entitled to be pleased that he could use his Art again, even in the smallest of ways, and they were going to need it.

  ‘What’s it for?’ said Nish.

  ‘I’ve mimicked a spyball; the scrutators used them back in the bad old days of the lyrinx war. Of course, they were powered by the field back then, so they could work for months. This one won’t last for more than an hour or two, the way I’m feeling.’

  Nish felt a twinge of unease. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Send it up to check the layout of Blisterbone: how many men are guarding it, how alert they are and so forth.’

  ‘How can you be sure that Gatherer won’t detect it?’

  Flydd looked irritated. ‘Klarm wouldn’t let Gatherer out of his sight, and he won’t be anywhere near the pass yet.’

  ‘How do you know? Besides, he could have scriers there, with wisp-watchers, and if they see it, they’ll alert Klarm at once.’

  ‘We’ve got to know what we’re facing, and it’s a small risk,’ Flydd snapped, giving Nish one of his famous How dare you challenge me – I used to be a scrutator glares.

  Nish put on an equally arrogant stare – And I’m the son and heir of the God-Emperor. ‘It’s a huge risk. If they know we’re coming, we’ll have no chance.’

  ‘You can’t attack without knowing the terrain – it’s the first rule of warfare.’

  ‘I thought the first rule was Know your enemy. Listen, Xervish, I’m the captain of this militia and I say we can’t use it, but –’

  ‘All right!’ Flydd snarled, making a pass over the ball with his fingers. It vanished and the mimemule, a little knobbly wooden ball, stood in its place. He pocketed it and stalked away.

  Nish looked after him, frowning. He did not remember the old Flydd, before renewal, acting in such a petulant way.

  ‘Nish,’ said Flangers quietly. ‘It’s not good for morale if you and Flydd fight.’

  Many of the nearby troops were awake and whispering to one another. Nish cursed himself for not being more diplomatic, and cursed his old ally as well. Flydd had never liked to be challenged, though in the olden days he’d always put the greater good first. Since renewal, Nish had seldom seen the kindly Flydd, but plenty of the hard, ruthless scrutator of old. And after he’d arrived on the Range of Ruin, Flydd’s eyes had often taken on a lustful gleam when he’d looked upon the tears. Nish wasn’t entirely sure that he and Flydd were on the same side any more.

  ‘I’m sorry. But I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Flangers hesitated. ‘You’re both right, and both wrong.’ He turned away. ‘I need my sleep, Nish. Surr!’

  Flangers, no matter his private thoughts, was too good a soldier to get involved in a dispute between leaders. Nish lay there for a while, trying to sleep, then gave up and went to the top edge of the clearing, looking down on the field of battle, yawning and rubbing his eyes. It was heavily over-cast, and night was falling. He thought he saw a light bobbing down below, but when he looked again there was nothing. The rain had stopped and the clearing was peaceful now, for the dim light laid a soft veil over all and the dead were just humps in the grass.

  Two hundred of his militia had died today, and he had known the names of every one of them. He began to make a list, starting with sweet Gi, and Forzel the joker, as a kind of remembrance, but the list grew too long and he felt too heartsick. He couldn’t even bear to think about Maelys.

  And then, something moved on the battlefield.

  ‘What’s that?’ he muttered, his hair rising. There had definitely been no one alive when they had left, but now he could see a low moving shape down there.

  ‘Don’t know, Nish,’ said a young voice from not far away.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Nish said sharply, reaching for his sword, before recognising the Gendrigorean accent.

  ‘It’s Huwld, the cook’s boy.’

  A gangly lad of eleven, with dark skin and incongruously ginger hair, he should never have been allowed to come on this horror campaign. ‘Why aren’t you in your bedroll, lad?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Huwld soberly. All the cheer had gone out of him too. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the battle.’

  ‘Me either. Come over here.’ The boy came across and they stood together, watching the figure creep from one mound to another as the light faded.

  ‘Do you think it’s a ghost?’ said Huwld in a half fearful, half awed voice.

  ‘It’s not floating or fluttering,’ said Nish.

  There was a long silence. ‘Nor creeping nor growling. I don’t think it’s a beast, either.’

  ‘No,’ said Nish. ‘It’s human.’

  Could it be one of the militia, gone down for a last look at dead friends? Anything was possible, but Nish did not think so. Or Flydd? No, he would not look so furtive. Nish felt sure that this visitor had some other purpose in mind, and he had to know what it was.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a look.’

  Nish crept down the slope, low and slow, knowing that, despite the dimness, any sudden movement could attract attention. The figure was moving across the clearing, going from one body to another in no particular order, which was strange, and sometimes turning back on itself, but it looked unsteady on its feet.

  Was it a forest-dwelling hermit, wits curdled from a lifetime spent alone? Again he saw that fleeting, bobbing light, some distance from the figure. Were there more than one of them? Not hermits, then.

  As he approached, Nish heard a thick, muttering voice. He could not make out the words but the fellow certainly sounded addled. He caught a whiff of strong drink and spicy, hallucinogenic nif-tree sap, and the food in his belly curdled.

  It was Boobelar, the drunken, nif-addled captain who had nearly killed Nish a few days back, then fled with his men and most of the militia’s food. Of course it was Boobelar, who had come to the Range of Ruin for one reason only – to plunder the dead. Nish felt the chill of fear, for Boobelar was a big, burly man, much stronger than Nish and a vicious, dirty fighter. He wished h
e had not seen him going about his grisly business, but now Nish knew, he had to stop him from dishonouring the fallen militiamen and women. This time, he vowed, he would put Boobelar down like the vermin he was.

  He shadowed the drunkard across the wet grass, sabre out, while Boobelar rifled the bodies and dropped his booty into a sack that he dragged behind him. Now he was bent over a tangle of corpses, laughing drunkenly as he felt inside their clothing. Nish couldn’t bear it any longer, and had just raised the sabre to cut him down when Huwld cried out from behind him and caught his wrist with both hands.

  ‘No, Nish! Uncle Boobelar, look out!’

  Boobelar spun around and came to his feet, long dagger in hand and a sick grin plastered across his face. Nish shook Huwld off, cursing. He’d forgotten that the boy was Boobelar’s nephew and, no matter what he might think of his depraved uncle, owed him loyalty.

  ‘Put down the knife,’ said Nish. ‘I’ve got two hundred militia within call.’

  ‘How’s your arse, runt?’ sniggered Boobelar. ‘I’ll do more than whack it this time. I’ll shove your head so far up you’ll choke on it.’

  Nish felt himself flushing, for Boobelar could always get to him. Now what was he supposed to do? He could hardly kill him in front of his nephew.

  He circled, holding the sabre out, and Boobelar did too. Nish lunged at him, trying to knock him out with the flat of the blade, but Boobelar sprang sideways, took hold of Huwld and put the knife to his throat.

  ‘Back off or I’ll kill the boy.’

  Nish lowered his blade, shocked to his heart. ‘He’s your nephew!’

  ‘Always hated the brat and his slut of a mother. Drop the sword.’

  Huwld gasped, and Nish had no choice. He let the sabre down in the mud and backed away, and Boobelar picked it up.

  ‘Take the bag, brat,’ said Boobelar. ‘That way.’ He pointed down the slope.

  Huwld, his teeth chattering, took hold of the heavy bag and began to drag it away. Nish could not bear to let him go with the brute, but how could he stop him?