The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1) (17 page)

There was no way of knowing what had disturbed it; the
creature was too alien. Nish was recalling his travels in Meldorin, and trying
to think of the best place to head for, when it occurred to him that Maelys had
been gone rather a long time.

The moon had moved a third of the way across the sky since
she’d left, so the best part of four hours must have passed. More than enough time
for her to walk to the village, spend an hour there and walk back.

Still, she wasn’t a child. She’d eluded his father’s
Militia, controlled an alien flappeter and killed its rider, a man armed and
experienced at hand-to-hand combat. What harm could she come to? he
rationalised. He paced back and forth across the camp site, still thinking
about Meldorin, but his thoughts kept returning to Maelys and he realised, to
his chagrin, that he’d changed his previous view of her capabilities to suit
himself.

A young woman, out alone in the dark, was never completely
safe from villains. Or she might have fallen and broken her leg. Even a twisted
ankle could be fatal in this wilderness, where savage creatures hunted day and
night. Should he go after her? But there was no path to the village and she
might have gone any way, so how would he find her?

Nish resumed pacing but his unease grew. What could possibly
have delayed her? He peered between the pinnacles in the direction of the
village but saw nothing save a faint fire glow. He scrambled up the tallest
pinnacle, which was hazardous in the dim light. The glow was a bonfire and he
made out smaller sparks of light moving around it.

The wretched girl was probably gaping at some third-rate
tumbler cavorting around the bonfire. He would give her another hour. Nish had
just climbed down when Rurr-shyve reared up again.

For Maelys to control the beast, there had to be a
connection between her and it, and if one suffered the other felt it. On the
way here, he’d seen her flinch each time Rurr-shyve let out a cry. Was it now
reacting to her pain?

‘Rurr-shyve,’ he said quietly, unfastening the ropes,
packing them away and going to the front saddle, ‘Maelys is in trouble. I’ll
have to direct you down to her.’

The flappeter gave a snorting gurgle, as if to say,
You don’t have the talent
.

Nish knew he didn’t, but he climbed on, put his hand through
the hoop the way he’d seen Maelys do and said, ‘Fly, Rurr-shyve.’

Rurr-shyve snorted more snottily, but did nothing. After
sitting there for a minute or two, feeling like a fool, Nish got off and
refastened the head rope around the tree. ‘You’d better hope I return safely,’
he snarled as he began to tie the second, ‘for if I don’t you’ll be shackled
here until you die of thirst. And good riddance.’

The flappeter lunged at him and he had to leap smartly out
of the way, though Nish felt sure it couldn’t harm the only son of the
God-Emperor. At least, reasonably sure … He hoped it couldn’t, anyway, though
with its untrained rider missing, his father’s prohibitions might not hold at
all.

Taking the crossbow out of the saddlebag, he wound it as far
as his strength would allow. He’d been exercising hard since the escape, and
now managed to rotate the crank a full turn further than previously, though not
as far as Maelys had done. A direct hit would certainly disable an opponent or
a wildcat, and possibly kill it, though he wouldn’t be able to wind the crank
quickly enough to deal with a second attacker. It was better than nothing, though.
He thrust the leather bag containing the short crossbow quarrels into a deep
pocket.

Standing on the rocky edge, Nish put a hand to his ear but
heard nothing save Rurr-shyve’s gurgling. He headed down. Rurr-shyve trumpeted.
He kept going but the sound was repeated, loudly and urgently, and the
feather-rotors went
thuppetty-thup
.
Rurr-shyve never used them when tied down, for fear of catching a rotor blade
in the ropes. What was the matter?

He clambered up again. The flappeter was hovering a span and
a half off the ground, straining the ropes tied to the two small trees until
they slid up the trunks. If the relatively small branches gave, the ropes might
pull up and off.

‘Stop!’ Nish brandished the crossbow but Rurr-shyve spun its
feather-rotors faster, until the rope tore through the bark of the small branch
on the left-hand tree and slipped free. If it managed the same with the other
rope, it could get away.

‘All right! I’ll untie you, but you’ll have to let me lead
you like a dog on a leash, and if you try to get away I’ll put a bolt right
through your rotor.’

Again that gurgling snort, and Nish was sure he detected
amusement this time, but the flappeter came to ground and waited while he
untied its tail and put the rope in the saddlebags. However, as soon as he’d
untied the head rope from its tree, Rurr-shyve sprang, lifted three or four
spans in the air and dragged Nish over the edge.

Letting out a squawk, he clung desperately to the rope as it
carried him out into mid-air a good ten spans above the steep slope. He could
feel the line slipping through his fingers, and if he fell from here he’d be
killed, or as good as. He tried to loop the line around his wrist but it was
too taut.

‘Rurr-shyve!’ he gasped as the flappeter carried him even
higher, ‘Put me down. I’m slipping.’

There was no mistaking its malicious amusement this time.
Rurr-shyve kept flying straight ahead. The rope burned as it slipped through
Nish’s fingers and his arm was cramping from the strain. The flappeter dipped
sharply; Nish swung through the air in a figure-eight, just managed to hold on
as the rope looped out then swung back and, as he shot past the rocks crusting
the steep slope, dropped sprawling onto them and tumbled into a crack, whacking
his head and nearly taking an ear off.

He expected the flappeter to race away, but when the stars
had gone from his eyes Rurr-shyve was still hovering above him, the end of its
tether moving in a lazy circle, its breathing tubes squelching in merriment.
Nish struggled out of the crack, caught the rope above his head, swiftly made a
loop in it and pulled it around his waist.

Instantly, Rurr-shyve was off again, sweeping down the slope
so quickly that he couldn’t keep up. He was continually lifted in the air, legs
windmilling, then dropped until his feet dragged across earth, rocks and grass,
and through spiky shrubs, before being jerked up again so hard that he left his
dinner behind.

Finally they reached the gentle slope at the base of the
ridge. Nish expected Rurr-shyve to take off and drag him through the tops of
the trees, but it merely continued at the same height and pace. He was now
running like a man hauled by a racehorse, stumbling, falling and being dragged
on his knees, or full length or on his backside, until he was battered and
bruised all over and his legs would no longer hold him up.

Rocks loomed up and, afraid that he’d be smashed into them,
he untied the rope and skidded across the ground, sure that would be the last
he’d see of the flappeter.

Rurr-shyve kept going for a few seconds, then curved around
and hovered, allowing the tether to loop itself over Nish’s shoulder. He
swatted it away and flopped onto his back, his heart thumping so erratically
that he was afraid it would tear open.

The rope dragged across him, as if Rurr-shyve wanted him to
take hold of it again. He brushed it away. ‘I’m sure that was very amusing,’ he
panted, ‘but I’m not playing your game any more. You’ve got your freedom, so
fly away and be damned.’

Rurr-shyve kept looping around, pulling the rope across
Nish’s face until he remembered an earlier conversation with Maelys about the
binding of such creatures. Because she’d been able to take command of
Rurr-shyve with the amulet immediately after its rider had been killed, his
contract and link must have transferred to her. Presumably Rurr-shyve couldn’t
go free unless it either retrieved the amulet from her, or she died.

Nish knew that the bond between flappeter and rider was
meant to prevent a flappeter from conniving at its rider’s death, though it
could happen where the rider was weak, new or poorly trained. Since all of
those factors applied to Maelys, and she’d slain the true rider, Rurr-shyve
must resent her even more. He, Nish, would have to be careful once he found
Maelys in case Rurr-shyve tried to kill her and snatch the amulet.

He’d better be ready to thwart it before it struck. On the
other hand, Rurr-shyve could probably sense where Maelys was. Nish slung the
crossbow securely on his back then fastened the rope around his middle and
braced himself, expecting the flappeter to take off with a jerk. It was
watching him with those great globe eyes, but this time it moved ahead at no
more than a fast walking pace, the whirring feather-rotors taking most of the
weight off its spindly legs.

The passage through the forest took longer than he would
have liked, for once inside it Rurr-shyve had to be careful to avoid vines and
overhanging branches. Nish was worried now. If Maelys was still at the village,
she must be in some kind of trouble. He didn’t think she was the kind of girl
to be distracted for hours at a village fair, but then he knew so little about
her.

Approaching the edge of the forest, he looked down at a
blazing bonfire circled by the whirling sparks of dancers carrying torches, and
a spasm of fear clenched his heart. He unfastened the rope. Rurr-shyve rotored
up into the darkness and disappeared. As soon as it had gone he regretted
letting it go; at least it would have struck fear into the credulous villagers.

He unslung the crossbow, forced the crank another half-turn
until it dug painfully into his palm, then seated a bolt in the groove. After
making sure that the bag of quarrels was within reach he began to creep towards
the village.

A two-storey dwelling lay straight ahead, with smaller huts
to left and right; a narrow alley ran between them. He headed for it, sliding
noiselessly along the wall of the house to the end, where he would have a clear
view of the circular area within. Judging by the smell of manure, the villagers
stabled animals below their living quarters.

He reached the end of the alley and peered out into the
lighted circle. A tight cluster of people stood down the far end, beyond the
bonfire. It didn’t look like a festival gathering. He was trying to work out
what they were doing when everyone surged to the left, revealing a small brown
figure suspended from a hoop mounted vertically on a post.

No, not a figure, a model made out of clay. He let out his
breath, but the figure raised its head and he glimpsed patches of pale skin
between the brown. It was Maelys, thickly covered with mud, and a group of
children ran forwards together, hurling more handfuls at her. She cried out,
squirming as she tried to avoid them, but every throw hit. What had she done to
turn them against her so violently?

‘Enough,’ said a squeaky old voice. ‘Bring the red-hot
pokers.’

Nish’s heart gave a painful lurch. At most he could kill two
of them, but if he did the villagers would tear him to pieces. The only
alternative was to declare himself as the son of the God-Emperor, though that
would reveal him to Jal-Nish, for Nish could see a wisp-watcher in the
distance.

He hesitated, though only for a second. Whatever happened
next, he couldn’t allow them to harm an innocent girl. Nish swallowed, raised
the crossbow and stepped into the light. He was about to shout his name when
something struck him hard on the elbow. The crossbow flew out of his hands,
struck the ground and went off. Someone shrieked from the crowd and everyone
swarmed around a falling figure.

A fist seized Nish by the collar, a sharp point dug into his
back, and a hoarse voice said, ‘Don’t try anything.’

He couldn’t resist, for his arm had gone numb. Before he
took in what was happening, Nish had been dragged across to the hoop by a
fellow as strong as a blacksmith, stripped to a rag wound around his loins and
bound upside down to the hoop, his feet beside Maelys’s head.

‘Stop!’ he cried thickly, feeling the blood running to his
head. ‘Don’t you realise who I am? I’m Cryl-Nish Hlar –’

An old man lurched across and smacked him in the mouth.
‘Liar and blasphemer! How dare you rouse us to rebel against the God-Emperor?’

‘But I didn’t …’ Surely Maelys hadn’t tried to enlist their
aid in a rebellion? How could she think to begin an uprising in such a remote
village? How think it at all, the little fool!

The old man whacked him again. ‘How dare you take the sacred
name of the God-Emperor’s Son!’

A gaggle of old women approached, wailing and tearing at
their clothing. Four of them carried a thin crone with straggly hair and a
wound in her side, still seeping. Her clothes were drenched in blood and Nish
knew she was going to die. In the war he’d seen death enough for a hundred
lifetimes.

A cry went up. ‘The blasphemer shot Gyghan deliberately, and
she a helpless old woman. Kill him!’

Nish’s face was swelling with blood, his pulse pounding in
his ears. ‘But I didn’t! The man behind me knocked the crossbow out of my hand.
I wasn’t even holding it when it went off. You must have seen …’ He scanned the
crowd for the fellow but it was impossible to tell, upside down. ‘Look at me!’
he said desperately, despising himself for having to invoke his father’s name.
‘Can’t you see my father, Jal-Nish, in me?’

A fistful of mud struck him in the face, going into his open
mouth and up his nose. He gagged and tried to spit it out but dribbles of muddy
saliva ran into his eyes. He blinked enough out of his right eye to see.

‘Liar!’ shrieked one of the crones, the shortest and most
hideous person Nish had ever seen. ‘We’ve seen the graven images. Cryl-Nish
Hlar is a young, handsome man, the image of the God-Emperor, and you’re an ugly
scrawny runt.’