The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2)

by Ian Irvine

  Nish pitched his tent on the smoothest patch of ground he could find, made his way around the precipice to one of the less public waterfalls cascading down the side of the ridge and stood under it, fully dressed, until the worst of the mud was washed out of his hair and clothes. Everything he owned was saturated; for the past three nights he had slept in his muddy gear and woke feeling like a pig in a wallow, though at least the mud had kept the insects away.

  He stripped off, dropped his clothes onto a rock and scrubbed himself clean, then washed his slimy socks and mud-caked boots. As he’d suspected, the skin was peeling off his waterlogged feet in sheets.

  ‘Bad idea, bathin’ up here. Never know what might come after you when you’re all pink and naked.’

  Nish spun around. Boobelar was standing between the rocks twenty paces away, wine skin in hand, all his cracked teeth showing.

  ‘As long as it’s not the enemy,’ Nish said, pretending a calm he could not feel.

  ‘You don’t know who your enemy is up here.’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty fair idea.’ Nish’s chances weren’t good. There was no one in sight and he’d left Vivimord’s sabre back in his tent; if he took this brute on bare-handed there was only one possible outcome.

  Boobelar moved towards him, hand on the hilt of his blade, drawing the moment out. Nish eyed the shattered rocks littering the ground. Some had sharp edges; if he was lucky he might get in a telling blow.

  Boobelar grinned and took another couple of steps. Nish felt like a fool; he should never have let his guard down; should never have come around here all alone. Even if Boobelar didn’t intend to kill him, he certainly planned to inflict such punishment that Nish would be forever damaged in the militia’s eyes. Since they had little innate respect for authority, his position as captain did not elevate him, and once they lost respect for Nish the man he would never be able to lead them.

  He went backwards until he was under the edge of the waterfall. His clothes were just to the left but he could not afford to go for them – half dressed he would be even more helpless. Nor could he shout for help – no cry would be heard over the waterfalls – and if he ran he’d shred his feet on the rocks and Boobelar would take him from behind.

  His only hope was to attack Boobelar bare-handed, and beat him, but that wasn’t going to happen, unless … could he use his clearsight to tell what Boobelar was going to do next? It was such an unreliable gift that Nish seldom tried to use it any more, but it had been enhanced a trifle that day he’d put his hand into Reaper in the cavern on the edge of Mistmurk Mountain …

  He picked up a fist-sized piece of rock shaped like a hand axe and stepped forwards onto a relatively smooth patch of ground between the rocks, the best arena he could find. Boobelar drew his sword and came on.

  Knowing his cause was hopeless, Nish sought deep and despairingly for his clearsight, and for once, found it. What did Boobelar have in mind? How would he strike, and which way? Nish tried to see into his mind, but nothing came.

  The soldier was not a subtle man, but he was a cunning one. Would he feint, or pretend to slip and lure Nish forwards? He gave the clearsight all he had, suddenly saw himself through Boobelar’s red and yellow eyes, and recoiled, for he’d seen right into the festering mess that was Boobelar’s drink-addled mind.

  ‘Ugh!’ he gasped, cutting off the clearsight, so sickened that the stone slipped from his hand.

  Before he’d recovered, Boobelar, leering like a maniac, was upon him, and Nish felt sure he was going to die. Boobelar knocked him backwards with a fist like a small club, right through the waterfall, and Nish slammed into the rock face. Water thundered on his head, temporarily blinding him, the dropped sword clanged on stone, then he was caught in a headlock, dragged forwards and thrown belly down over the curve of a boulder. His chin hit the lower side and his head spun.

  Nish was scratching at the rock, dazedly trying to get up, when he heard Boobelar coming up behind him, roaring with laughter. What was he going to do? Surely he wasn’t planning –

  Whack! The blow drove him so hard against the rock that he felt its little projections breaking the skin across his belly, groin and thighs. His whole backside was shrieking. Boobelar had struck him with the flat of the sword and all the strength of his arm behind it.

  ‘Deliver yourself from this, Deliverer!’ The soldier’s wild laughter rang in his ears.

  Nish tried to get up. Whack, whack!

  He felt as though the flesh of his backside was splattering off and his bones were being crushed by the assault. Did Boobelar intend to beat him to death with the sword? It wouldn’t take long at this rate, and Nish couldn’t do a thing about it.

  ‘Hoy, what the blazes is going on?’

  It was Gi’s voice, though she couldn’t help him. Gentle Gi wouldn’t last a second against Boobelar. ‘Keep away,’ Nish gasped.

  ‘Get away from him!’ Gi shouted. ‘Come on, lads!’

  Boobelar gave Nish a final shattering whack and disappeared over the steep edge of the ridge. Unable to move, Nish lay over the rock, arse-up, letting the mortifying tears fall where they may. This was the end of his command and his quest. There could be no coming back from such a humiliation.

  Gi came running up with Forzel and Clech, a huge, gentle fisherman with a perpetual squint from staring out to sea.

  ‘Are you all right, Nish?’ she cried. ‘Clech, get after Boobelar.’

  Clech’s boots pounded away. Gi took Nish’s shoulder but he slid bonelessly off the rock onto the ground. He couldn’t move; couldn’t speak; and definitely could not meet Forzel’s eyes, for he was a perennial joker and Nish could only imagine what he’d make of this scene.

  Gi ran back for balms and bandages. A grimly silent Forzel helped Nish up, and when his many cuts and abrasions had been treated, dressed him and assisted him back. Nish crawled into his tent, too sore and sick to eat. By nightfall Boobelar’s men would have spread the story through the camp, and Nish would be a laughing stock, his reputation ruined. The militia would never follow him now.

  He huddled in his wet bedroll, knowing he should go out and address them at once, to try and save himself, but unable to face the ordeal. It would not have surprised him if they all deserted in the night.

  When he rose the following morning, after what felt like the most painful and miserable night of his life, the militia was still there. His backside was a swollen mess of purple bruises that were spreading up his back and down his thighs, and he could barely stand up. But he had to; the mortifying moment could not be put off any longer and, whatever came from it, he would face it with the few shreds of dignity he had left.

  Hoshi was just outside. Nish beckoned him over. ‘Would you –?’ His voice went hoarse. ‘Would you call everyone together? I have to tell them what happened and give them the opportunity –’

  ‘No!’ said Hoshi, more firmly than he had spoken to Nish before.

  It was starting already. ‘I’m your captain!’ gritted Nish. ‘It’s an order –’

  ‘You don’t know Gendrigore, Nish. We don’t make heroes of men like Boobelar, who kill for a living. Our heroes are ordinary folk who have fought against the odds, even if they’ve failed.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Nish.

  ‘We don’t think the less of you because a swine like Boobelar beat you black and blue. We admire you all the more because you had the courage to take him on unarmed, when you knew you couldn’t win.’

  Nish found this difficult to understand, for he had grown up in the old school, where everyone knew their place and it had been ruthlessly enforced. ‘But how can I maintain discipline when –’

  ‘We don’t obey you because you give us orders, Nish. We follow you because you care about us, and for our beautiful Gendrigore. We follow you because we believe in you.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘We have looked out for our captain,’ said Hoshi. ‘The matter will never be mentioned again.’


  ‘But –’

  Hoshi held up his hand and Nish broke off, humbled and overcome. The matter was not mentioned again, on that day’s march or afterwards, and Nish did not see a single smirk or secret smile on the faces of his militia.

  In the early afternoon he was having a leak behind a tree when Boobelar’s company hobbled past, every man of them sporting black eyes and battered faces. Nish’s own troops had swollen hands and bleeding knuckles, even gentle Gi. He could have wept for their simple, stubborn loyalty, and their refusal to allow him any shame for what he had been through. He loved them, every single one.

  But it could not erase his humiliation; it burned him night and day, lessening him in his own eyes. After making such an elementary blunder and leaving himself exposed to his enemy, how could he rely on his own judgment in the battles to come, when lives would be lost at every miscalculation or failed strategy? How could he believe in himself when at every critical choice he would see his naked body splayed over a rock, having his arse whaled by an addled thug?

  Maybe the militia would follow him as confidently as ever, but Nish felt eaten up from the inside. He was no longer sure he had the self-belief to lead them in the battle of their lives.

  That day was a nightmare; for the first hour Nish could barely stagger. But he forced himself to, enduring the pain and making every step into another blow against Boobelar. How he was going to pay.

  Nish would not accept the frequent offers of a helping hand; he could not, for in his mind that would only reveal another weakness. He had to do it alone, no matter how it hurt. And the next hour hurt even more.

  Each succeeding day felt worse than the one before, yet Nish drove himself harder, for they did not seem to be getting anywhere. When he finally clawed his way to the top of each ridge he could only see more ridges, looming ever higher until they blurred into the rain, and there was never any way to get to the next ridge without climbing down a precipitous slope and up the other side. Every day his terror grew that they would get to Blisterbone and find it held against them by thousands of jeering Imperial Militia.

  The business between him and Boobelar wasn’t finished, either. It could not be until he crushed the man, or Boobelar killed him. He could see it in the captain’s eyes every time they met. Boobelar said not a word, and neither did his troops, but the sore continued to fester.

  ‘I’m sure we’ve climbed this ridge before,’ Nish panted on the afternoon of the sixth day. ‘It looks really familiar.’

  ‘In that case, you’d see our tracks,’ said Curr.

  ‘The rain would have washed them away.’

  ‘Land all looks the same up here,’ said Curr. ‘It even fools me sometimes.’

  ‘We must be getting close now,’ Nish said on the seventh day of the climb. He had stopped with Gi, Hoshi and Curr for a few minute’s rest. They slumped to the ground but Nish stayed on his feet; if he once sat down, he did not think he would ever get up again.

  It was still raining as heavily as before, but it was milder at this altitude, and occasionally, when they emerged from forest onto an open ridge and the wind was blowing hard, he felt pleasantly cool.

  ‘Couple of days to Blisterbone,’ Curr grunted.

  ‘You said it would only us take seven days.’

  ‘It would have if you’d put your backs into it.’ Curr spat onto the ground between Nish’s feet.

  He became ruder and more disrespectful by the hour, and in the olden days Nish would have had him flogged for insolence, but without Curr he would never find the pass. Besides, he had too many other problems to worry about – like their rapidly dwindling food supplies.

  The militia had consumed far more than he had expected, and so had he, for the forced march in these conditions had been utterly exhausting and everyone had lost weight. Had they eaten any less, they would have been burning the flesh of their own bodies and growing weaker every day. As it was, he’d already left twenty-two people behind suffering various fevers and ailments, and another twelve with broken limbs and sprains. They would be helped down on the way back – if the militia came back – and if it did not, most of them would die. He had to keep up the strength and morale of the able-bodied; they had to reach Blisterbone Pass first, and then they would have to fight for their lives, so Nish ordered the cooks to keep doling out the food. If they ran short on the way home, at least they’d be walking more downhill than up. Well, slightly more downhill.

  Nish’s other problem, which grew more pressing as they approached their destination, was his ignorance of the enemy’s progress. There was no point labouring up to Blisterbone if the enemy already held the pass.

  ‘You’d better go ahead and find out where they are,’ he said to Curr.

  ‘Won’t do you no good,’ said Curr.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’ll have a hundred scouts out, and fifty scout hunters. You’ll just be telling them we’re on the way.’

  ‘Father has spies and watchers everywhere. He must know we’re coming.’

  ‘But not where we are. If you send up a scout, it’ll just be telling his men that you’re close.’

  ‘If they’ve taken the pass and are on their way down, I’ve got to know where they are so I can make a battle plan.’

  Curr sighed ostentatiously and hawked another gob at the fire. ‘Look, Nish, yer a decent fellow, for a white-skin and a foreigner, but you can’t fight the way you’re used to, up here.’

  ‘I’ve got to make plans.’

  ‘Battle plans are no good on The Spine, son – the land is too rough, the jungle too thick. This ain’t like a clear battlefield, where you can see everyone. You can’t see yer own men, and you never know where the enemy is. They can attack from any direction, and you won’t know it until their spears take your throat out. Send out a detachment, you lose sight of them and there’s no way to give them new orders. When the fightin’ starts, it’s every man for himself until they’re dead, or you are.’

  ‘So the biggest army always wins,’ Nish said bitterly.

  ‘The one that uses the land best wins.’

  ‘How can I do that when I can’t see the enemy’s formations?’

  ‘You don’t fight in formation. You fight them in secret, with pits and traps and snares. Poison the water, roll boulders down on their camps, attack at night with spears and arrows, then scatter and hide. Never show yerself if you can avoid it, for someone stronger and faster will always catch you. Never fight hand-to-hand unless yer’ve no choice. Fire, run, hide, then fire again.’ He got up and walked off.

  ‘That’s not a very noble form of warfare,’ Hoshi said quietly.

  ‘There is no noble form of warfare,’ said Nish. ‘War is maimed men left to die in agony, towns full of women and children put to the sword, lands razed, stock butchered, forests burned …’ He put his head in his hands.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Gi.

  ‘Curr is right. It’s the only way, though I don’t like shooting men in cold blood either.’

  After a long pause, Gi said, ‘I heard you were a javelard operator during the war, firing from the top of one of those metal caterpillars.’

  Most javelards had been mounted on the top of clankers, which were eight-, ten- or even twelve-legged armoured mechanical monsters driven by a force, now gone, called the field. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, clankers had failed when the nodes were destroyed, taking the fields which empowered the Art with them.

  ‘I’ve used javelards,’ said Nish. ‘In open battle.’

  ‘Did you always warn the enemy before you shot him?’

  ‘You don’t warn your enemy in war. You just shoot.’

  ‘In the back?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Nish said uneasily, not wanting to be reminded of those times.

  ‘Even if he doesn’t know you’re there?’

  ‘You kill or be killed until the battle is won, or lost.’

  ‘If the God-Emperor’s troops see one of us within range,’ Gi sai
d quietly, ‘will they shout a warning, or just shoot?’

  ‘They’ll shoot, of course. They’ll slaughter the lot of us and sweep down into Gendrigore, and hiding in the forests won’t serve your people this time. The God-Emperor’s armies will starve them out, Gendrigore will fall, your people will be carried off into slavery and that will be the end of resistance on Santhenar. Gendrigore will become a symbol – that there is no country, no matter how small, that Father won’t take the trouble to crush, to ensure his realm is unchallenged.’

  ‘Gendrigore did not challenge him.’

  ‘The moment Gendrigore put Vivimord to trial, it spat in the God-Emperor’s face, and he could not ignore it. That was my fault.’

  ‘Gendrigore brought Vivimord to justice and executed him, not you,’ said Gi.

  ‘Your people thought they were executing a murderer, and that would be the end of it, but I knew differently. I put the responsibility in their hands, not because I thought it was the right thing to do, but because I could not bear to act like my father. That cowardly choice is going to cost Gendrigore dearly.

  ‘I see the answer now. There’s only one way to win this battle, if our tiny militia can win it, and that is to fight Curr’s way. I will do whatever it takes to turn Father’s army back, and pay the price, even if it costs me my soul. I will never give in until the war is won – or lost beyond recovery.’

  ‘Finally you’re talking like the Deliverer,’ said Hoshi.

  FORTY-TWO

  Yggur looked at Flydd quizzically. ‘What if the woman in red didn’t just influence you during renewal? What if she actually entered you?’

  ‘I haven’t got time for such nonsense,’ Flydd snapped. ‘The prisoners are being slaughtered as we speak.’

  ‘You can’t avoid the question forever. I saw it in your eyes the moment you appeared here.’

  ‘Saw what?’

  ‘You were changed, Flydd. Changed more than any mancer should be after ten years, even one who has gone through the trauma of renewal.’