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

by Ian Irvine

  ‘How is he going to release them?’

  ‘I gave him his enchanted sabre. It’s the key to opening the gate.’

  ‘You gave Vivimord the means to return from death?’ Flydd said dazedly.

  Maelys crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I had to take the risk.’ And she prayed that it worked.

  ‘It’s a big risk. What if he comes back and leaves the revenants there?’

  ‘Then I’ve failed,’ said Maelys. ‘But if they do come out, and we can attack them before they rejoin with Stilkeen, they can be annihilated and Stilkeen will be crippled for half an eternity … at least, that’s what Nadiril said.’

  ‘How do we attack revenants?’ said Flydd.

  ‘Unfortunately Nadiril didn’t know that …’

  ‘So either we face a resurgent Vivimord back from death,’ said Flydd, pacing, ‘if he betrays his word, or if he keeps it, the revenants will come forth to rejoin with Stilkeen. Once that happens it will no longer be crippled; it will be a thousand times as powerful, and bent on revenge.’

  Through the thickening smoke, the sounds of battle rose and fell. ‘It’s got to find the true fire first,’ said Maelys.

  ‘I feel I should know how,’ said Yggur, who had his arm around Tulitine.

  ‘How to find the true fire?’ said Maelys.

  ‘No – the way to destroy the revenants. The answer feels … just out of reach.’

  Maelys started, for she’d had a sudden flash of memory – the rain, the caduceus steaming on the hillside – but it eluded her too.

  Flydd stalked across to Yalkara, who was slumped on the promenade some distance away. ‘I don’t believe that you know nothing about the pure fire. Charon never give up.’

  ‘The other Charon gave up at the end of the Time of the Mirror,’ said Yalkara. ‘They went back to the void, and to extinction, if you recall.’

  ‘And you returned, so it’s hardly extinction.’

  ‘It is now. I’ve burned out my Art fighting the Numinator, I’ll not get it back, and I’m ready to die. I can’t help you – I have no idea where the pure fire is to be found.’

  Flydd was watching her carefully, and finally he nodded. ‘You speak the truth. Very well; before you go, would you answer one question for me?’

  ‘If I may,’ Yalkara said indifferently. She looked old now and seemed to be fading by the minute.

  ‘When I found Rulke’s virtual construct in the Nightland, it was live; therefore it had been used after Rulke died – after the Nightland collapsed and was rebuilt. Did you use the construct?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Yalkara. ‘When I left Emberr there, I departed via the gate through which I had entered, and could not return.’

  ‘What about Emberr?’

  ‘He could never leave the Nightland; not even with a virtual construct.’

  ‘How curious,’ said Flydd. ‘Now, to the pure fire. Stilkeen said it wasn’t far away. Was any lost, when you first had it?’

  ‘Not when I first had it,’ said Yalkara. ‘I guarded it with the utmost care.’

  ‘But later? After you brought it to Santhenar?’

  ‘I thought some might have been taken, once, but who can be sure? Fire grows, and fire dies down. You can’t measure it in a bucket.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘At the end of the Clysm, not long before Kandor died –’

  ‘Aahhh!’ said Yggur.

  FORTY-SIX

  Nish absently slapped his leg with the flat of his sword, trying to work out a way to seal the opening, assuming they survived long enough to try, which was looking increasingly doubtful.

  The human and lyrinx guards were arrayed in a semi-circle inside the opening, on the track that extended into the chilly void. There was nothing to either side of the track – literally nothing – though further away separate bands of atatusk were moving along it like beads on a wire until they blurred into the distance.

  ‘There’s thousands of them,’ said Ryll quietly.

  And only two dozen human and lyrinx defenders to hold them back until the opening could be sealed. The javelard operator began winding his apparatus up so he could fire over the defenders’ heads.

  An inflowing current of air ruffled Nish’s hair, and round knobs of green ice were forming around the inside edges of the opening, condensing layer by layer like pearls around grains of sand.

  ‘How are we going to raise the platform?’ said Nish.

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Aimee, who was standing on tiptoes whispering to Clech.

  ‘At least they can only come straight on,’ Clech said in a low rumble. ‘Imagine if they could attack from all directions.’

  ‘Nothing is fixed in the void,’ said Nish. ‘In five minutes there could be a dozen paths leading this way. What’s your idea, Aimee?’

  ‘We sew the opening up, like a tear in the knee of your pants.’

  ‘Fire!’ said Stibble, the burly, hairy smith who was Nish’s acting sergeant. He did not deign to carry a blade, but wielded his long-handled blacksmith’s hammer with deadly force. Crossbows snapped.

  ‘Direct hits.’ Nish recognised the voice of Lym, the stocky little archer, then she said, ‘Beyl, Beyl, they’re not falling.’

  ‘It’s hard to kill atatusk with a chest or belly shot,’ said Ryll. ‘They’ve got six ells of blubber there. Aim for the throat or the head.’

  Neither would be easy to hit, for the nearest atatusk were at extreme range, but the archers fired again. ‘Got one,’ said Zana.

  ‘He’s not falling, though. He’s pulling the arrow out of his neck,’ said Lym, her voice rising. ‘That was a killing shot for any other beast, and the atatusk is still moving.’

  ‘Hold firm,’ said Beyl, the grey-haired veteran, who also sounded panicky.

  Nish turned away. He had a job to do and he was wasting time. ‘Sew it?’ He realised he must sound like a fool.

  ‘We worked it out while you were scratching your arse,’ said Clech rudely. ‘You’ll run around the edge of the platform, burning little holes with the flask of distilled fire and knotting ropes through them, while Aimee and I make matching holes in the wall around the opening. Then we attach your ropes to arrows, shoot them through the holes in the wall, and heave the platform up.’

  ‘Let’s get it done,’ said Nish.

  He smoothed the shadow web down with the perilous dimensionless glove, dropped it into the black box, screwed it up and shoved it into his pocket. Pouring a dribble of fire onto the end of his sword, he passed Aimee the stoppered flask. Now Nish tilted the sword blade to allow a single drop of the pink fire to fall near the edge of the platform. It burnt a hole through it, but it kept expanding until it reached the edge – one drop of distilled fire was too much.

  He touched his sword tip to the platform, which was better; his second hole was only as wide as a saucer. Once the fire had gone out, Nish hastily threaded a rope through, tied it securely, coiled it beside the hole and ran to do the next.

  There came a fearful roar from his militia, and a shout of ‘Hold! Hold!’ from Ryll. An atatusk let out a triumphant barking bellow but Nish restrained the urge to look around; he continued burning holes and tying ropes to them.

  After finishing the last hole, he darted to the opening and looked in, but the view ahead was blocked by a furious melee. Three of his troops were down and one, unidentifiable from his blood-covered back, had been maimed by a savage blow.

  Another, the archer, Lym, bore no apparent injury, though her head now faced backwards and her eyes were wide open, as if astonished at what had happened to her. Stibble the hairy blacksmith appeared to have been gored through the skull with two tusks – three more of Nish’s loyal Gendrigoreans gone.

  Two lyrinx were also down, though one kept trying to rise, purple blood streaming down his left thigh, his right hand reaching out to Nish as if for aid.

  It wrenched him to turn away, but he had his own work to do and if he failed their deaths would be for not
hing. Aimee was twenty spans up the barrier wall, hanging from sticky pads of shadow web bound around hands, knees and feet. Clech was below her, trying to climb, but the shadow webs weren’t sticky enough to support his weight, which was not greatly lessened at the barrier.

  Nish began to sweat, for the plan depended on them raising the platform quickly and it was taking far too long. If the atatusk broke through first, as seemed probable, the opening could not be sealed.

  Aimee unfastened her rope and crept across the barrier, above the curve of the opening. Being so small and light, the sticky pads held her easily. She shook the flask, withdrew the stopper with her teeth – Don’t! Nish thought, if you get any pink fire on you, it’ll eat through your face – and pressed it against the barrier until a neat hole formed there.

  Bellowing like a walrus, a huge atatusk burst through the line, sending guards and lyrinx flying, and before the javelard operator could bring his weapon to bear, the beast had leapt three spans in the air and was falling towards him from above.

  The operator tried to drag out his sword but the atatusk landed right in front of him and snapped its head down, plunging the twin tusks into his back on either side of the spine. It tossed its head from side to side and the operator went spinning across the track, pouring blood from twin lemon-sized punctures, then over the edge into the nothingness of the void.

  The atatusk slammed one of the heavy metal spears into the groove of the javelard and wound the cranks so fast that they were just a blur. No dumb beast this – it had understood how to use the javelard in an instant.

  Nish reacted without thinking, knowing that if the creature was not stopped it would wipe out the defenders in seconds. As he sprang for the back of the javelard’s box-like wooden frame, the atatusk pulled the lever and the spear, fired at point-blank range, passed straight through a massive lyrinx and into the spine of the smaller one in front of him, bringing it down as well. Was it Ryll? No, it had wings.

  Letting out a roar of approval for the ruinous weapon, the atatusk took another spear. Nish climbed the frame one-handed and went for the creature from behind. It could not have heard him over the clamour of battle, so it must have smelt him, and it was spinning around in the seat as he swung.

  He drove hard for the junction of the atatusk’s neck and right shoulder, and the blade cut deep into a blubbery layer before stopping on bone. Such a blow would have killed any human, and disabled most lyrinx.

  Green blood poured out; the atatusk emitted an explosive snort, but went for the blade and Nish whipped it out of the wound; another second and it would have been snatched from his fingers. But then, as he watched, the gash pulled itself together and the flesh knitted across, leaving a dark brown, seamed scar across the thick grey skin.

  No wonder atatusk ate the lyrinx for breakfast – not even a master healer could heal that quickly. How was he supposed to kill such a creature? Nish wasn’t game to get close enough to strike that steep, angling and desperately risky blow up into the heart.

  He slid backwards, then feinted, going for its eyes. The atatusk did not even blink; it threw its left arm around the frame upright next to it, swung around it and launched itself at him before he knew what was happening.

  Such a heavily-built creature ought to be slow and lumbering, but in the void it was desperately fast, and Nish couldn’t get out of the way in time. He hurled himself backwards off the javelard from a height of a span and a half, a fall which, on Santhenar, would have risked a broken neck.

  He landed on his head, bounced, flipped over backwards and ended up on his feet again, but the sword jarred out of his hand and went skidding across the track.

  Pink fire still flickered near the tip. He leapt for the sword, steadied himself, and waited. He had to stop the atatusk and he’d better be quick. It took a little jump forwards and bared its teeth at him, but its eyes rolled upwards; it was looking at Clech and Aimee. Could it spring that high? Nish rather suspected that it might be able to, in the void, and they were unarmed.

  ‘You’re not touching them,’ he gritted. ‘You’re mine, atatusk.’

  Letting out a barking sneer, it snapped its tusks up and down, and moved towards him. He ran at it, weaving a wall of steel in front of him, and got in a slash to its lower left arm. The wound was a minor one but the creature seemed to be expecting him to follow through, so Nish did not, and only just evaded a blow that would have torn his head from his neck.

  He struck again, trying to probe its weaknesses, but he wasn’t seeing any. In the past he’d defeated lyrinx by diving between their legs, but the atatusk’s legs were so much shorter that it wasn’t an option.

  It sprang, soaring high above him then down, the way it had attacked the javelard operator. He swiped at it and rolled well out of the way, or thought he had, but it flipped sideways in the air, a movement he would not have thought possible, swung at his head and a claw tore through the top of his ear, ripping it like parchment.

  Nish threw himself the other way, but too far; being close to weightless here, he was having trouble controlling his movements. As the atatusk landed in a crouch he saw an opening, spun on his left foot, bounced upwards and took an almighty slash at its face.

  It swayed backwards and he missed, but several motes of the pink fire must have been flung off his blade into the creature’s eyes, for it made a harsh squealing sound and rubbed furiously at them.

  Yes! Pink fire was glowing in its eyes and it couldn’t see, though it continued to fight, turning its head from side to side and sniffing the air to locate him by smell. Since its eyesight was poor, the loss of vision probably wasn’t a great handicap.

  Nish back-pedalled, thinking furiously. Surely its sense of smell, no matter how acute, could not locate him as accurately as sight, especially if he came at it front-on. That’s it, he thought: I’ll try to confuse it, make a furious front-on attack, and if I’m wrong, I die.

  He rubbed his left hand in his sweaty armpit then raised it high to the left, to spread a false scent trail. As the atatusk swung at his hand, he closed his fist, ducked to the right and darted in under its upraised arms. For a fraction of a second it hesitated, unsure where he was, because the Nish smells were coming from two different directions.

  It located him and lunged to take him in a bear hug, but Nish threw himself against its lower belly and struck up, under the hump at the top of the chest, and levered inwards. He felt the tip of his sword slide between the bones into solid, thumping muscle, the heart, and twisted. The atatusk stiffened, emerald blood exploded from its mouth, and before he could free his sword the creature fell on top of him.

  On Santhenar the impact of an atatusk eight times his weight would have crushed him to death, but here he was merely trapped beneath it, its scalding blood flooding over his face until he could barely breathe. Its internal organs churned and bubbled deafeningly; its punctured heart gave a last ragged thump, then stopped.

  Nish tried to push it off but could not get a grip on the blood-slick skin. His nose was squashed and with every strangled breath he blew gory green bubbles. Each breath was harder than the last and he was close to drowning when the atatusk was heaved off and Ryll stood there, his armoured chest heaving.

  Long claw marks across his right shoulder had torn through his armoured outer skin to the soft inner skin beneath, but lyrinx could take a lot of punishment and he did not seem troubled.

  Ryll shook his head, wonderingly. ‘That was a mighty stroke for a little pink grub,’ he said, lifting Nish to his feet. He tore the shirt off the dead javelard operator and Nish scrubbed the green blood off his face with it.

  ‘We can’t hold them, my friend,’ Ryll said to Nish’s unasked question.

  Six of Nish’s twelve had fallen, plus four lyrinx, and the enemy was regrouping not far away. Nish looked around. ‘Where’s Clech and Aimee?’

  ‘Outside, trying to shoot your ropes through the holes. Better give them a hand.’

  Ryll bounded back to the defenders.
As Nish stumbled out, Clech fired an arrow and it shot up towards the wall, trailing the rope, only to fall short.

  ‘Can’t get it near the hole,’ Clech said disgustedly as he hauled it back.

  ‘The rope’s much too heavy,’ said Nish, ‘and we’re running out of defenders. Aimee, you’ll have to climb up and pass the ropes through each hole.’

  ‘Have we got time?’ said Aimee.

  ‘I’ll make time. I’ve had an idea. Give me the flask.’

  She handed it to him. ‘Don’t use all the pink fire up – I need some to stick the platform back in place.’

  Nish ran in and leapt up into the high seat of the javelard – he was getting the hang of the low gravity now. He fitted a spear into the groove and spun the winding handle with one hand while he swung the sights back and forth, looking for a target.

  A pair of atatusk were advancing, about fifty spans off, but three lyrinx were in the way. He pointed the javelard to the left, where Ryll was in furious combat with another atatusk, and put a spear through its middle. The impact took the creature over the edge of the track and out of sight. Its blubber layer might stop an arrow but only the heaviest steel armour could keep out a javelard spear.

  Ryll raised a thumb in acknowledgement. Nish was looking for another target when Liett flashed though the air above his head, her outstretched wings an iridescent glory. She was pointing further down the track.

  ‘What is it?’ said Nish.

  ‘The void is changing, or they’re changing it. Paths are forming everywhere.’

  Nish squinted into the distance. His eyes hurt from the atatusk blood and his vision was a trifle fuzzy, but something did seem to be forming down there. Yes, more paths were extending slowly this way, one curving in from the left and another down from the right, while two more were snaking up from the unseen depths.

  On every path he could see atatusk, and once they reached the opening they would wipe out the defence in moments.

  ‘Hurry, Aimee!’ he yelled. ‘Can you help, Liett?’