The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1) (29 page)

It was a brilliant plan with several major flaws, of which
the greatest was Nish himself. What if he failed, or broke, or simply didn’t
inspire people?

It was bad enough that he was taking on the most powerful
man in the world, one whose attention to detail was as legendary as his
ruthlessness, and moreover one who’d had ten years to perfect both his defences
and spying networks. But when that man was his father, by whom Nish had always
felt intimidated, and against whom he’d never felt that he measured up, he
simply didn’t believe that it was possible.

Furthermore, his father still retained that hold he’d put on
Nish before the battle of Gumby Marth. It had lain dormant all this time but
surely, as soon as he became the Deliverer, Jal-Nish would find a way to renew
it and everything Nish had built so painstakingly would come tumbling down, to
the ruin of all.

His father’s forces had withdrawn to Rancidore and had not
been seen since, nor had any flappeters approached the mountain. Monkshart took
that as a good sign but Nish did not. He didn’t believe that his father had
given up, nor that he couldn’t take Tifferfyte if he chose to.

Maybe Monkshart’s Arts could slay a few soldiers from afar,
or even a few hundred, but no renegade mancer could hold off an army determined
to fight through despite the cost. His father wouldn’t hesitate to lose most of
an army storming the mountain if their deaths allowed the rest to get through.
As they must.

Besides, Nish had spent years working with the greatest
mancers in the world, and knew that all Arts were painful and exhausting to
use, and caused debilitating
aftersickness
.
If Monkshart tried to fight his father’s army, alone, after-sickness would soon
cripple him.

No, Father had withdrawn because he had a better plan. Why
attack too soon, and risk a morale-damaging defeat, when he could build up his
forces to ensure an overwhelming victory at a time of his choosing?

Nish’s other problem was that, even here, he could feel his
father reaching out to him when he was half-asleep, trying to find a way past
the halo of protection. Despite Monkshart’s assertions, Nish didn’t feel safe
from Jal-Nish in Tifferfyte. Safer, perhaps, but not safe.

On the night before the attack on Rancidore was due to
take place, Nish and Maelys were drinking tea in the pavilion with Monkshart,
prior to retiring to their separate chambers, when a young messenger came
bolting down the glassy path from the top of the crater. A strip of paper
fluttered in his right hand and he was gasping as if he’d run all the way from
Rancidore.

‘Master?’ he croaked. ‘Master – the most dreadful
news!’

He skidded to a stop at the entrance to the pavilion, but
did not speak. Monkshart’s head jerked but he continued to peruse the map in
his hand, the picture of self-control apart from a tap-tap-tapping of his left
foot on the floor. After a minute he looked up. ‘Well?’

‘Master, a skeet has just come from –’ Catching sight
of Maelys and Nish sitting in the shadows, he broke off.

Monkshart glanced at Maelys, frowned, and motioned her to
leave. She began to rise, fuming, but Nish put a hand on her arm. ‘She stays.
What is it, messenger?’

The messenger, a slender youth no older than the servant
girl, Jil, looked at Nish, paled, then turned away, confused.

‘Yes, it’s him!’ thundered Monkshart, rising to his feet to
tower over the lad. ‘This is Cryl-Nish Hlar the Deliverer, and he’s just as
great and terrible as his father the God-Emperor. Read the message, cur, or
he’ll deal with you the way he does to all who oppose him.’

Nish scowled. ‘I’m not like my father!’ he snapped, ‘and
don’t make me out to be.’

‘The message, boy,’ growled Monkshart, ignoring Nish.

The youth raised the strip of paper and began to read. His
hand shook. ‘These tidings come from the hand of Byalmon, Under-Steward of
Hulipont.’ He glanced at Monkshart but couldn’t meet his fierce gaze. He licked
his lips and read on, the words tumbling out in a rush.

‘Sire, dreadful news. Hulipont has been captured and razed,
and Ousther, the Chief Steward of the Defiance in the east, taken and tortured
to death.’

Monkshart let out an inarticulate cry, swiftly bitten off,
then motioned with a clawed hand for the youth to continue.

The youth’s eyes were darting this way and that, like a rat
in a trap, but he read on. ‘But there – there is worse. As you know, the
leaders of all our eastern Defiance outposts were at Hulipont when it was
attacked, developing your campaign strategy now that the Deliverer is at
large.’ The youth’s eyes slid towards Nish, then darted away. ‘They –
they’ve all been captured and, under torture, must reveal the names of the
other rebels. Jal-Nish will take their outposts one by one, if he hasn’t done
so by the time you receive this.’

The youth gulped at the air like a stranded fish, before
reading on. ‘I, Byalmon, Under-Steward, take full responsibility for this
disaster and now die by my own hand.’

Monkshart reeled, his eyes darted wildly around the
pavilion, and then his jaw hardened.

‘How dare you bring us such evil tidings, idiot boy!’

He sprang forwards, caught the youth by the front of his
coat and raised him so high that his bare feet kicked helplessly a third of a
span above the floor. ‘The blasphemous God-Emperor must be toppled, and all who
serve him, wittingly or unwittingly, must die. In the name of the Deliverer you
shall suffer the penalty set down for all those who undermine the irresistible
march of the Defiance.’

The youth began to wail. ‘Please, Master. I only brought you
the message that came from the skeet. My crippled mother –’

Nish leapt to his feet but before he could take a step,
Monkshart, roaring like an enraged bull, threw the lad high out over the brink.
He tumbled in the air, emitting a hair-raising shriek that had Phrune screwing
up his face and blocking his ears, then fell towards the centre of the pit far
below. His cry tailed off to nothing well before the ghastly pulpy thud came
echoing up.

Maelys was so shocked that she couldn’t say a word. How
could Monkshart be so indifferent to the life of an innocent boy? And how could
it have happened so quickly, and so finally? Abruptly, she doubled over and
vomited her dinner onto the gleaming floor.

‘This is the end of us, Monkshart!’ Nish was choking on his
rage. ‘How dare you murder that innocent lad for telling you the truth.
And in my name!
’

 
TWENTY-ONE

Phrune stood in the opening, licking his bloated lips.
‘That was a waste, Master,’ he said, though Nish didn’t think he meant the
waste of a human life.

Monkshart was staring at his hands, which were held out in
front of him, fingers hooked. The left glove had torn apart under the strain,
exposing ruined skin which was red, flaking and weeping from hundreds of
cracks. He turned towards Nish, his dark complexion as grey and waxy as a dead
man’s.

‘Master, Master,’ said Phrune, like a mother to a distressed
child. ‘It’s over now. Come with me. I’ll look after you.’ He took the zealot’s
hand.

Without saying a word, Monkshart stumbled through the
circular opening, Phrune padding beside him.

Maelys was swaying on her feet, staring sightlessly into the
pit. Nish caught her arm. ‘Come on.’

She pulled free, took a gasping swig from the water jug and
rinsed her mouth with it. She dashed water into her face, wiped it with her
sleeve and nodded. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I don’t know.’ His voice cracked. Leaving here was madness,
but there was no choice. ‘I won’t stay to be manipulated by this monster. Have
you got anything better to wear?’

She picked at the flimsy gown. ‘The serving girl took away
my boy’s clothes but I still have my coat and boots.’

‘Get them. You can’t go mountain climbing barefoot. And a
hat. What about a weapon?’

‘Only a dinner knife.’

‘It’s better than I’ve got. Meet me back here in two
minutes. There’s no time to waste. Try not to look suspicious.’

She nodded and hurried away. Nish headed to his own
quarters, pulled on socks, boots and coat, and returned to the pavilion,
meeting no one on the way. Maelys was waiting there. The knife was thrust
through her belt and her eyes were staring. They were back to where they’d
started but she was with him all the way: leaving was the one honourable course
left.

They started up the winding path, which was lit only by
faint reflections from the walls, for it was after midnight now and the moon
was veiled by cloud. Maelys went first, staring rigidly ahead. Nish felt an
irresistible urge to look down into the pit, then wished he hadn’t, for steam
swirling around the cylindrical walls left a clear tunnel through the centre,
like the eye of a hurricane. It was lighter down there; he could see the
youth’s broken body on a knob of rock. Nish’s eyes veered away to a haloed glow
in the depths, though he could not distinguish its source.

His stomach knotted and he hurried up after Maelys, knowing
that he was acting like a fool. The messenger was dead; nothing could bring him
back, and once they fled Tifferfyte they would quickly be taken by Vomix.
Maelys would die and he, Nish, would be returned to his father, so what was the
point?

Yes, Monkshart was a monster, but a strong one, and it would
take the greatest strength to overthrow his father. Nish stopped. Was it really
worth losing everything just to maintain his reputation? One or two people
might praise his noble gesture, but the suffering masses of Santhenar would
curse him for the fool who had offered them hope, then robbed them of it.

He was wavering when Maelys looked over her shoulder and
came back, treading carefully on the mist-damp surface. ‘Better a fool than a
knave,’ she said quietly, as if she could read his thoughts. ‘Come on.’

She gave him her hand and at her touch his doubts vanished.
Choices that were so tortuous to him always seemed clear to her. ‘A pair of
fools! We’ll find a way, somehow,’ and such a wave of relief washed over him
that he felt his eyes moisten. Never compromise your principles, he told
himself. You’re nothing like the God-Emperor, so don’t fall into the trap of
acting like him.

Maelys was a few steps below the rim when a triangle of moon
peeped between the clouds, its single ray lighting her up like a princess
ascending to her throne. She stopped abruptly, one arm outstretched as if she
were posing for a sculptor.

‘Go on,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We must be well away
before –’

Her shoulders slumped. He climbed the next few steps then
stopped, for a pair of burly guards, armed with clubs, blocked the path up.
‘I’m Cryl-Nish Hlar, the son of the God-Emperor. Move aside.’

‘Go back, surr,’ said the leading guard.

‘I’m the Deliverer,’ Nish said furiously, ‘and I’m ordering
you to move.’

The guard took a step backwards but the fellow behind him
clapped him on the shoulder and his resolve firmed. ‘The Deliverer would not
run like a dog at the first setback,’ he sneered.

‘Don’t give in to them,’ said Maelys.

Her faith in his abilities was touching, in the
circumstances. Nish briefly considered rushing the soldiers, though she was
blocking his way on the narrow path. Besides, the edge of a precipice was no
place to launch an attack on two armed men.

‘It’s over,’ he said dully. ‘There’s no way out.’ He turned
and stumbled back down the path again.

There was no sign of Monkshart, but Phrune was waiting for
them in the pavilion with that sickening plump-lipped smile. ‘It’s the only
way,’ he said silkily. ‘Steel can only be fought with steel.’

‘You want to turn me into my father,’ Nish said as they were
led inside.

They spent the next day confined to their chambers,
with guards stationed outside, but the morning after that Maelys and Nish were
summoned to the pavilion. Monkshart was already in his chair, his eyes dull
blobs the colour of black olives in deeply sunken sockets. He wore a new set of
tissue-thin leather gloves, a fish-belly white this time. He gestured Nish and
Maelys to the other chairs.

‘Hulipont was the Defiance’s most important bastion,’ began
Monkshart in a flat voice that lacked any of his earlier fire. ‘It held most of
our weapons as well as our entire store of banned uncanny devices, carefully
shielded and husbanded over the past decade.’ He broke off, staring into the
pit, and a shudder rocked his long form.

‘And without them the Defiance is impotent,’ said Nish.

Monkshart turned those blackened eyes on him. ‘It’s a
setback, but we believers always knew there would be obstacles on the road. With
faith and determination we can overcome them. You can still become the
Deliverer. Indeed, the need is greater than ever.’

‘I wouldn’t give you the time of day.’

‘You will,’ said Monkshart in a tone that made Maelys
shiver.

‘In any case,’ said Nish, ‘I can’t begin an uprising on my
own, trapped here. Even if Father is unwilling to approach Tifferfyte, which I
doubt, he can simply encircle the mountain with troops and wisp-watchers, and
wait until starvation forces us out. You may be able to knock down a soldier or
two with your Arts, but there’s no power in the world, uncanny or military,
that can be used against the tears when he wields them.’

‘I’ve already abandoned that plan,’ said Monkshart.
‘Besides, there’s a power in the world which Jal-Nish cannot defeat, for every
attack on it will make it grow stronger: the power of faith, the power of
belief, that people can have a better life under the Deliverer.’

Maelys stirred uneasily beside Nish, but did not speak.

‘After you murdered that poor boy the other night, no one
will believe in the Deliverer either,’ Nish said coldly.