by Ian Irvine
A chunk of ice the size of a mammoth separated from the left-hand side, below the crevasse, and fell. He watched it dwindling in size as it hurtled down, and the soldiers frantically scrambling to get out of the way.
It was too late for the dozen directly underneath, for the ice slammed into the ground, smashing to fragments which knocked down every surviving soldier in the bowl and many on the track above. The shattered ice turned red.
The rest of the soldiers got up again and stumbled for the sides of the bowl, but a horn sounded and, like the disciplined troops they were, they pulled together into a line. At the slot the fighting had stopped, for the impact had brought down the scaling ladders and broken rungs off two of them. The attackers drew back some fifty paces, out of rock-throwing range, to repair their ladders, but that would not take long.
More ice fell from the left, and then the right, the last of the mass below the crevasse. Nish looked over and cursed. The twin impacts had knocked the soldiers lined up around the bowl off their feet again, but few seemed to have been harmed this time. After all the effort it had taken to get up here, he’d hope for a bit more damage.
The horn sounded and officers shouted orders. The ladders had been repaired, the attackers were advancing towards the barricades again, and the soldiers in the bowl were about to move up for the final onslaught.
Suddenly the ice sheet went creak-crack as if it had been twisted in two hands; crisscross cracks appeared on its upper surface, and Nish felt a sudden and terrible foreboding.
It had never occurred to him that the whole vast ice sheet might fall, and if it did, he would almost certainly be thrown off the knob. The ice groaned and hundreds of icicles, each longer than a man, broke away. Most shattered harmlessly on the rocky slopes, but one or two soldiers collapsed in red, silent messes.
Another few chunks of ice fell into the bowl, missing the soldiers crossing it, though the impacts knocked one or two down. They soon got up and appeared to be unharmed.
‘It’s safe now,’ Nish heard an officer bellow. ‘A thousand pieces of gold to the squad that takes the pass. Go!’
The scaling ladders were being carried up and the leading attackers were approaching the slot. Nish eyed the ice, which was still groaning, still creaking. The crisscross cracks over the top had widened a little, but the ice sheet had not moved at all. It must be still frozen tightly to the bridge of the nose.
Nish clambered off the knob, down several spans, then up the steep end of the main ice sheet, where it had been split by the crevasse. At the top he prodded the ice, hoping to dislodge some more, but nothing happened. Why not? Why had the staff showed him the way, and assisted his passage through the ice sheet, then stopped helping him?
A great mancer might have been able to free the ice, but he could not, for he did not know how to use the power locked within the serpent staff.
Unless he was being too timid. Perhaps that was the answer – Stilkeen certainly wasn’t timid. Raising the staff high, Nish speared the tail-tip of the iron serpent down, the way Stilkeen had buried his caduceus deep in rock.
‘Ice, shatter!’ he roared.
Cracks radiated out from the tip of the staff, met the crisscross cracks on the surface and kept going, and without warning the ice dropped beneath his feet. What do I do now, he thought, sure he was going to be carried away with the ice. The surface was too slippery to run up so, ripping the staff out, he scrambled back down the steep face, then up onto the wildly shaking rock knob.
He only just made it as, with a deafening roar and crackle, the ice sheet broke apart and began to slide over the sides of the nose. A monstrous ice-fall poured down towards the bowl and the track above it, where it shattered to fragments on impact and swept down the slope.
More ice followed it, and more, until it was all gone and the great nose of rock jerked upwards from the release of weight. Nish, thrown onto his belly, clung on desperately as the end of the nose quaked up and down.
He crawled to the edge, hanging on as the rock continued to twitch, and looked over. The multiple impacts had shaken the track so powerfully that not a single enemy was left standing. Many went hurtling over the sides of the gully, or rolling and thumping down towards the bowl, where he lost sight of them under a roiling cloud of smashed ice.
Below the bowl, the ice poured down the steep, narrow gully until it appeared to form a glacier, save that the shattered ice was hurtling down with the speed of an avalanche. It overwhelmed the climbing soldiers as though they were ants and carried them down with it, all the way to the red-uniformed blur of the army encampment on the mountainside far below.
The avalanche could not last, Nish knew. It must spread out and lose force before it reached them. The army must have thought so too, for the soldiers in the camp were not moving.
Now they began to run; the red masses surged to left and right, but the roaring avalanche wall was travelling twenty times as fast. It carved through the camp, white through red, sweeping it away out of Nish’s sight, and the following clouds of ice dust covered all.
When it had settled, there was no sign of the army. It hadn’t been Jal-Nish’s entire army, Nish felt sure, but certainly a good part of it. A few enemy survivors still clung to the slope above the bowl, which was now a glittering oval of pulverised ice, but Nish did not think they would attack.
Utterly demoralised and leaderless, they began making their shaky way down. There would be no attack tonight, but tomorrow, in all likelihood, the survivors below would pull back together and the onslaught would resume with even greater fury. Klarm would make them pay for this monstrous humiliation.
The roar of the avalanche faded. Nish rubbed his ringing ears and headed back up the knob to look for Aimee and Clech.
‘Help!’
The thin, feeble cry came just on the edge of hearing. Aimee! He looked over the edge, back along the left-hand side of the nose. From spikes embedded there a rope ran down, as taut as a wire cable.
From the rope, another five or six spans down, hung Clech. Aimee dangled below him from the harness secured around his enormous chest. And from where Nish stood, he did not see any way of saving them.
FIFTEEN
Why hadn’t he waited one extra minute? But there was no profit in that train of thought. The deed had been done.
Nish slung the staff onto his back, scrambled down and followed the ledges across to the spikes from which Clech’s rope was suspended. They were tight; there was no danger of them pulling out, but that wasn’t the problem.
‘I’m sorry,’ he yelled. ‘The ice was already moving, and … and the enemy were storming the slot. I couldn’t wait any longer or –’
‘You don’t have to explain,’ said Clech. ‘You’ve always looked after us as best you could.’ He looked down at Aimee, slowly revolving on the line below him. ‘How is your … er, chest?’
‘Painful!’ she snapped, then, softly, ‘I think I’ve broken another rib.’
‘Can you climb up the rope to me?’
‘Don’t think so. Every time I move, I get a sharp pain here.’ She indicated her right side, midway down. ‘The broken rib is sticking into something.’
Her lung, Nish thought. ‘What are you like at climbing ropes, Clech? I don’t think I’m strong enough to pull you both up.’
‘I’m hopeless,’ said Clech. ‘And the rope is wet.’ He clenched his fists around the rope, high up, strained, and managed to raise himself a third of a span, but could not maintain his grip and slid down again.
‘Aaahh!’ cried Aimee.
Now Nish was really worried, for it had been the tiniest of jolts. If the rib was sticking into her lung, any jerk could puncture it. ‘I’ll have to let down my rope and lift you separately.’ Though even if he could get Aimee onto the ledge, how was she going to climb down to the pass with broken ribs?
‘Where’s your rope, Nish?’ said Clech.
‘I left it attached when I went up the tunnel in the ice …’ The rope was gone, a
nd so were his spikes, torn out of the rock by the ice fall. ‘No matter. I’ll just have to lift you both.’
Clech and Aimee exchanged glances. ‘It can’t be done,’ Clech said quietly. ‘Get going, Nish. You’ve got to save yourself.’
‘I’m not leaving you.’
He moved across to their spikes, found a secure place to stand on the narrow ledge, then, taking hold of the rope, heaved with all his strength. Nothing happened save that the wet rope scorched across his palms as it slipped. He had not raised Clech the width of a hand, and he knew he never would. The load was far too heavy.
‘You’re at least half the weight of a buffalo,’ he muttered.
‘Sorry,’ said Clech.
Though he knew it was hopeless, Nish could not give in that easily. He heaved until he could feel his face going purple and coloured spots floated before his eyes, and he kept on heaving until the pain in his scarred left hand was unbearable.
‘Keep doing that and you’ll burst your bowels,’ said Aimee. ‘Nish, you can’t save us. Pull me up, Clech – gently, you great lug!’
Clech pulled her up until her chest was level with his. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m cold. Hold me.’
The wind had risen again and was whistling through the few remaining icicle stumps. Clech tied off her rope so she would not slip down, and wrapped his arms around her. She winced, then snuggled against his chest.
Nish clenched and unclenched his aching fingers, waiting for the pain to diminish so he could try again. He closed his eyes as he ran through his artificer’s training of twenty years ago. There had to be a way to lift them. Could he run the rope through the rings of several spikes, so as to make a crude pulley? Not without unfastening the rope first.
If only Flydd had succeeded in stealing the air-sled, he could have carried them all to safety. For that matter, with the air-sled they could have flown up here and done the job in minutes.
Nish had not heard its characteristic whine since they had left the clearing, which was curious. If he were in Klarm’s position he would have personally directed the attack from high above the pass, or even dropped troops at the crest with it, to attack the defenders from behind. Could the air-sled be damaged? It would explain why Klarm had waited so long to attack.
There was another possibility, though not one Nish wanted to dwell upon – that Flydd had stolen the air-sled, but had fled on it with the tears, leaving everyone here to their fate.
Nish had always known Flydd to be ruthless, though the old scrutator he’d fought beside during the war would never have stolen the tears and abandoned his friends. Nish wasn’t so sure about the renewed Flydd, who looked different, acted differently and was certainly different inside. Did that reflect what Yalkara had done to him during renewal? Had she changed him fundamentally?
He took hold of the rope for one last attempt. Clech and Aimee had their faces close together and she was whispering to him. He glanced up at Nish, then nodded. Nish heaved until he felt a sharp pain in his lower belly and knew he was on the verge of tearing something. Again he failed. He wasn’t nearly strong enough.
‘I’m going down for help. I won’t be long –’ he began, but broke off, realising how stupid that sounded.
‘You can’t,’ said Aimee. ‘You’d never have climbed up here without us, and you won’t get down by yourself without a rope.’
That hadn’t occurred to Nish. ‘Then I’ll call for help.’
‘They won’t hear you over the wind; besides, they’d never get up here and down again before dark.’
Taking a deep breath, he roared, ‘Flangers, hoy!’ until his throat hurt, but none of the people in the pass looked up. The guards were watching the mist-shrouded track, while everyone else lay in attitudes of exhaustion. There was no way of telling what the survivors of Klarm’s army were up to, for the lower slopes were completely obscured again.
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ said Clech. ‘It’s over, my friend.’ He looked down at Aimee and gently kissed her brow.
She kissed him back, then looked up. ‘But you can still save yourself, Nish.’ She nodded to Clech and passed him her knife.
Clech reached up above the point where her rope was fixed to his, and drew the blade across and back.
‘No!’ cried Nish in horror. This couldn’t be happening. ‘There’s got to be a way.’
The rope parted and Clech fell with Aimee wrapped tenderly in his arms, into the mist. Nish blocked his ears so he wouldn’t hear the impact.
He never knew how he made it down again, for he could only think about Clech and Aimee making the ultimate sacrifice for him, and how little he deserved it. Now he had to win. He had to find a way to do the impossible and beat Klarm; their sacrifice could not be for nothing.
He raised the severed rope, extracted the spikes and went across the ridge then down the wet rock towards the pass as they had come up, spike by spike, ell by ell, barely thinking about what he was doing. It was a dangerous climb for a lone man in the drifting mist but Nish felt no fear of falling, even in the most dangerous pinches. He took no unnecessary risks but did not waste any time, either. Klarm could not give in, any more than Nish could; the attack might be renewed at any time.
If he were Klarm, Nish would have done so at once, while his troops were still numb from the catastrophe. Give them the night to think about the avalanche, the loss of so many comrades, and the unexpected and humiliating defeat, and they could break, even mutiny. Immediate peril was the best cure for that malaise – to drive them so hard that they had no time to think about anything except their own survival.
It was almost dusk by the time he jumped down to the floor of the pass. His knees were shaky and almost collapsed under him, but after a minute to steady them he went on.
Everyone not on guard was asleep in their tents, save for Huwld, who was asleep by the sputtering, reeking, oil-shale fire, looking as though he’d collapsed from exhaustion. And not surprisingly, since he never seemed to stop working.
There was no one to clap Nish on the back and congratulate him, for which he was thankful. The mission had been a brilliant success, but two friends had died because he hadn’t been careful enough, and that was all that mattered just now.
He scooped out a warming mug of soup and drank it in a gulp, without tasting a thing. He was also responsible for the deaths of thousands of the enemy. War was war, he mused as he limped down to the eastern defences. One did what one must, as honourably as possible, but there were so many deaths chalked up on his slate that he could not have counted them, and all had been human beings with much the same hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares, as himself.
Flangers was dozing behind the high wall, wrapped in a purloined military greatcoat, but he must have recognised Nish’s tread for he said, ‘Well done, surr,’ before opening his eyes.
He stood up, wearily, and shook Nish’s hand. ‘We had fifty fighters left, last time I counted. They’re grinding us down but we’re not beaten yet.’
‘I lost Clech and Aimee,’ said Nish, and sat beside him, shoulders hunched, to tell the tale. ‘I mucked it up, old friend. I should have been more careful.’
‘We’re not perfect, Nish,’ Flangers said at the end. ‘We can only do our best. I’ve also sent men and women to their deaths today, when a better plan might have saved them. And once, long ago, I followed orders and it killed people I had sworn to protect,’ he added quietly.
Nish knew that tale, but did not speak.
Flangers knew that Nish knew the story, but must have felt a need to unburden himself before the end, for he went on, ‘Thirteen years ago I followed orders and shot down the scrutators’ air-floater, sending everyone on it save Klarm to their deaths. That broken oath still haunts me.’
Though Nish had not been there, he was well aware of the facts. ‘Your superior gave you a legitimate order, and she was acting for Flydd, when he was still commander-in-chief.’
‘But the scrutators had author
ity over Flydd.’
‘In the course of a battle, that’s debatable.’
‘That may be so,’ said Flangers, ‘but I caused the deaths of some of our leaders, and there is no escaping it.’
Certainly not for Flangers, who was the most honourable of men. For Nish himself, and knowing how bad most of the scrutators had been, his conscience would have accommodated the conflict long ago.
‘There was a time, afterwards, when you seemed to have a death-wish,’ Nish said carefully.
‘I felt that the only honourable course for a dishonoured soldier was to atone with my life, and I fought recklessly in dozens of battles, never caring whether I lived or died. Indeed, I wanted to die, but each time my life was spared. Is there a reason why I lived, when so many more deserving lost their precious lives?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nish. ‘When I ponder the big questions, I either find too many answers, or none. But perhaps you were spared so you could lead the defence of Blisterbone yesterday and today and, hopefully, tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Flangers with a brief, wintry smile. ‘It has done me good, this fight that can never be won. I no longer want to die; I feel as though I have atoned, in my soldierly way.’
‘Your conscience must be a damned hard taskmaster if it’s taken you thirteen years. If only my father were as honourable –’
‘Let’s not talk about him just now.’ Flangers sighed and settled down in his greatcoat. ‘I expect I will be killed now, since I’ve found a reason to love life again.’
And not just life. Where were Flydd and Chissmoul, anyway? Having no way of finding out, Nish pulled his coat around his ears, settled his back against the rock and closed his eyes.
‘What’s that?’ one of the guards hissed, then, ‘Lieutenant Flangers!’
Flangers was awake and up before Nish’s sluggish mind could register what was happening. He staggered to his feet but his knees gave way and he fell onto the sharp-edged slate rubble. Every muscle in his body was aching, every bone. It was dark, the wind had dropped and he could feel the damp mist drifting around him.
