The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1) (60 page)

‘What are you staring at?’ Flydd snapped.

‘You’ve … aged, surr,’ Nish said softly. Flydd looked
positively ancient and was even thinner, if that were possible. His skin was
pallid, blotched with age marks and sagging off his bones.

‘Of course I’ve aged. Time doesn’t stop just because you
want it to. You don’t look so fresh yourself.’

Flydd peered at him from eyes that lacked their old sparkle
because their centres were clouded by cataracts. Yet he was alive, and sounding
just as tough as ever, and a sudden hope surged through Nish. His father had
said that all Nish’s old friends and allies were dead and, since he’d lied
about that, he might have lied about all manner of other things. Why would the
all-powerful God-Emperor need to lie … unless he wasn’t as powerful or secure
as he made out? Nish couldn’t believe that he’d succumbed to the lie and had
nearly given way to what, he saw clearly now, was another of his father’s
temptations.

‘What’s so funny?’ said Flydd. ‘If there’s a new joke I’d
love to hear it. It’s been damned lonely up here these past years.’

Overcome by his feelings, Nish rushed forwards and threw his
arms around his old friend. ‘Surr,’ he said, squeezing him tightly, ‘I’m so
glad to see you.’

‘I’m pleased to see you, too,’ said Flydd, pushing him away,
‘but you won’t see me carrying on about it in such an unseemly fashion. Oh,
all right
!’ He embraced Nish briefly
then pulled away. ‘Let me go, idiot, before you crush my chalky old bones.’

Nish stood back, aware that he was grinning like a loon and
not caring. Everything was going to be all right. Flydd never gave up, no matter
how hopeless things became; whatever the problem, he always came up with a
solution.

Flydd tottered backwards, favouring his right leg, and sank
onto a bench against the crumbling wall of the hut. ‘You’ve aged too, Nish.
I’ve never seen you so scrawny. And can your hair be thinning at the front?’

Nish raked it over his forehead with his fingers, then
abruptly thrust it back. Surely he wasn’t so vain that he cared what this ugly
old coot thought?

‘What have you been up to all this time?’ said Flydd, smiling
as if he’d read the thought.

‘You don’t
know
?’
It was hard to believe that there existed a corner of the world where his
father’s propaganda had not penetrated.

‘I reached this bolthole a little over nine years ago, with
all my preparations made –’

‘What preparations?’ said Nish.

‘To overthrow your father, of course! To crack you out of
prison and begin the revolution. You must have heard – I sent secret
messengers so you’d be ready.’

‘They must have been caught; I didn’t hear a whisper about
it. The one thing I heard was that all my old allies were taken or dead, and
that my father was all-powerful.’

‘But – why did it take so long to get here? I left
hints all over the place, ones only you would recognise. You must have found
them when my allies finally broke you out …’

Nish sat beside him on the bench, which creaked and tilted
sideways under his slight weight. ‘Xervish, I wasn’t freed and Father didn’t
let me out. I served the whole ten years in the deepest dungeon of Mazurhize,
his special prison near Morrelune Palace. You must have heard about that, and
how he killed –’

Flydd’s gnarled hand came down on his shoulder. ‘I heard
that Irisis gave up her life to try and save you, and of your promise to the
world. And your sentence. But I thought …’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘It
was all planned so carefully.’

‘What was, surr?’

‘My scheme to free you. It was foolproof, and I couldn’t
work out why no one came here.
Everyone
must have been taken, betrayed. And Jal-Nish has kept it secret all this time,
hoping that the prize he wanted most of all – me – would come to
find out what had gone wrong. Are you saying that he made you serve the full
ten years?’

‘With not a moment’s remission. Father keeps his promises.
Ten agonising years, and I could have been free after the first.’ Nish let out
a heavy sigh. ‘But I’m free now and you’re alive. That’s all that matters.’

They sat together, staring into the fog with the wind
howling in the eaves of the hut. Nish smelt that elusive, spicy scent again.

‘Why didn’t you go and find out what had gone wrong,
Xervish?’

‘I waited and waited, but none of my spies or messengers
turned up. After a couple of months I knew something had gone wrong, and I was
starting down the chasm when I fell and broke my ankle, very badly.’ He thrust
out his right foot. Its knobbly, blue-veined ankle was much thicker than the
other. ‘It wouldn’t heal properly, and even with all my Arts I couldn’t repair
it. On bad days I can’t put any weight on my ankle, and I couldn’t climb down the
cleft for any price. I nearly killed myself trying, but I was trapped here, as
much a prisoner as you were. I’ve had no news in all that time.’ He looked
hopefully at Nish.

‘There was no news – no good news, anyway. Even after
ten years, Father wouldn’t relent.’ Nish told Flydd about the confrontation in
Morrelune, but didn’t mention Irisis in the crystal coffin; he couldn’t bear to
relive that again. ‘Then, a few weeks later I was freed in such an odd way
that, even now, I can scarcely believe it happened.’ He told the story of his
rescue by Fyllis and Maelys.

Flydd gave him a quizzical glance. ‘Odd indeed; downright
extraordinary. Yet sometimes the desires and deeds of the utterly insignificant
can change the course of the future. Are you alone?’

‘Maelys is here too, and two others, as I’m sure you know,
though I doubt they’ll come looking for me in a while. I … stormed off.’

Flydd chuckled. ‘Ten years older, but no more mature –
excellent! Your tantrum will give us the chance to catch up on things.’ He rose
painfully. ‘Stay put, rest your bones. I’ve a little something inside I’ve been
saving.’

Nish could have sworn he heard the old man’s joints creak,
though perhaps it was the bench. He leaned back against the wall and closed his
eyes, unaccountably weary. No, more than weary, he felt drained to the marrow
of his bones, as if the drive that had sustained him all this time had
dwindled. That didn’t matter now. Flydd would have a solution to all his
problems – he always did.

The old man returned carrying a small, squat flask whose
pottery bung had been sealed with wax, and two small goblets hand-carved from a
golden wood so thin that it glowed translucently even in this murky light.
Handing the goblets to Nish, Flydd ran the tip of a knife around the wax,
cracked it off and drew the bung, then poured a tot into each goblet.

Nish’s eyes watered from the rising fumes. ‘I haven’t drunk
spirits since … I don’t know when.’ He wiped his eyes.

‘Then you’ll enjoy this. It’s a hundred and ninety years old
and made by the master himself – Old Shand – or so my vintner told
me. Mind you, I never met a wine-seller who wasn’t a rogue, no matter how
charming they appeared. The first mug goes straight down the spout!’ Flydd
raised the goblet and poured its contents down his throat without seeming to
swallow. ‘Ahh! That reminds me of better days.’

Nish sniffed his liqueur; the vapour went up his nose like
hot mustard and he also caught a faint, elusive fragrance coming from the wood
of the goblet. He tossed the drink down his throat and it burned all the way,
then lay in the pit of his empty stomach, seething like soup in a saucepan. It
was far stronger than the liqueur Monkshart had given him in Tifferfyte.

‘You’ll have another, of course,’ said Flydd, raising the
flask.

Nish scratched the scar from the nylatl’s spine, which had
become irritatingly itchy lately. ‘In a minute. It’s very strong.’

‘Really?’ Flydd gave him a sideways glance. ‘I recall you
being a legendary drinker, once. After the dreadful homemade grog I pour down
my throat each night, this tastes like cordial.’

‘You make grog up here? What from?’

‘The sweet mucilage from the stink-snapper, mainly, and
devilish tricky it is to gather.’ Flydd rubbed a long purple scar down his
right arm, one of many. ‘But when a man must drink, he’ll go to any lengths to
get it.’ He poured himself another goblet, then filled Nish’s as well. ‘Let’s
hear the full tale, Nish, and anything else you care to tell me. I’m starved
for news. And company.’

The next hour or two passed companionably, assisted by most
of the flask of liqueur. ‘Monkshart?’ said Flydd midway through the tale. ‘I’ve
not heard that name before.’

‘He served my father during the war. Monkshart saved
Father’s life, and rescued the tears after the debacle of Gumby Marth, though
they crisped his skin like a roast chicken.’

Flydd appeared to be searching his memory. ‘It must be
Vivimord. He was tall and dark-haired, with a mesmerising charm even then,
though abominably ill-disciplined. I never liked the man; never thought he’d
amount to anything either. But great suffering changes one – things that
once seemed important become irrelevant, while paths that were confused now
seem crystal clear.’

Flydd reflected for a while, and Nish felt that his old
friend was thinking about his own life. Few had suffered more than he had, and
survived. ‘Enough of him,’ said Flydd. ‘Go on.’

Flydd toasted Nish with a goblet when he told of first
joining the Defiance, and again after the victorious battle. It felt almost
like old times as they sat together and Nish related his tale, up to the point
where the nylatl attacked. He choked and couldn’t go on.

‘What is it, Nish?’

‘I’ve been thinking about what happened ever since, and I
can only reach one conclusion. Who would risk Father’s wrath to harm me? No
one! Therefore only one man could have sent the assassins – Father
himself ! And that doesn’t bear thinking about.’

Flydd looked grave. ‘I can scarcely credit it. What, you
think you’ve become too great a danger and he’s ordered you killed?’

Nish nodded stiffly.

‘I can’t see it. Not even Jal-Nish would kill his only
surviving son. You’re all he has. Go on with the tale.’

Nish told the last of it.

‘You’ve done better than I have,’ Flydd said. ‘My plans have
come to nought and now it’s too late.’

It shocked Nish out of his merry state. ‘Surely not, surr.
Together –’

‘I don’t have anything left, Nish,’ Flydd said gently. ‘Look
at me. Take a good hard look and tell me what you see.’

Nish turned to his old friend. He looked as if he were reaching
for the handle of death’s door, and Nish couldn’t face it. ‘We’ve both aged,
Xervish.’

‘But you’re still a young man with your best years ahead of
you, while I’ve come to the end of my life and I’m fading fast. I’m going
blind, my knees are giving out and my ankle won’t support me for more than ten
minutes at a time. I haven’t been off this peak in nine years and I couldn’t
climb down now if the greatest prize in the world – a crate of this
liqueur – waited at the bottom. Nish, you’ve got to face the truth, as I
have. Every man has his time and I’ve used mine. I’m sorry that you’ve come all
this way with such expectations, but I can’t help you.’

‘Then it’ll soon be over. We saw flappeters in the west a
few days ago.’

‘You’re safe here, for a while anyway,’ said Flydd. ‘My hut
is built entirely from red amber-wood and I doubt that even the tears could see
it without my consent. If a flappeter flew straight over it would see nothing
but mire.’

‘We searched this area and didn’t see a thing.’

‘Until I allowed you to. But of course, you can’t stay up
here for long.’

‘Why not?’

‘The plateau barely supports me. Five people would eat
everything edible within weeks.’

‘Then where can I go? What happened to our allies, anyway?
Yggur, Malien, Klarm the dwarf scrutator, General Troist, Fyn-Mah?’

Flydd shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. We separated the day after
you were taken, and scattered so Jal-Nish couldn’t take all of us at once. I’ve
not heard from anyone else since.’

‘Not even Malien, or Yggur?’

Flydd shook his grizzled head.

‘But since you survived, others may have too.’

‘It’s possible, though my feeling is that he took them
quickly and put them to death.’

‘But I never heard of it, Xervish, and they were among the
greatest names of the age. Why wouldn’t he make a public spectacle of their
deaths?’

‘I don’t know, but Jal-Nish served under me for years and he
was never predictable. Indeed, he would sometimes act out of character so as to
make himself more unpredictable. Who knows why he might have kept their deaths
a secret? Ah, this will be your friends now.’

Zham was emerging through the fog, followed by Thommel, then
Maelys, who must have fallen in another sinkhole, for she was drenched and
dripping. The wind outlined her curvy figure through her clothes and Nish
caught his breath for a second. Her face lit up as she caught sight of Nish,
but then she just stared at Flydd.

Zham came up and ran his fingers along the wall of the hut.
‘We walked right past here and saw nothing.’ He extended his hand to Flydd. ‘My
name is Zham, surr, and I’ve sworn to protect the Deliverer with my life.’

Flydd shook the huge hand. ‘Deliverer, eh?’ He gave Nish a
quizzical glance. ‘But then, why not? I’m very pleased to meet you, Zham. You
look like my kind of man. My name is Xervish Flydd and I was –’

‘I know your name, surr.’ Zham bowed awkwardly. ‘Everyone
does who lived through the war. I saw you once, when I was young. You came to
Roros in a metal machine that flew through the air.’

‘What I’d give for a thapter now,’ said Flydd dreamily.
‘They were the most marvellous of all the Aachim’s constructs. Alas, all failed
when the nodes were destroyed, as did everything great, ingenious and beautiful
that had been created or sustained by the Art. I wonder if glorious Shazmak
still stands, or if it, too, has fallen into ruin. Everything passes, Zham.
Remember that and you’ll always be at peace within yourself. Expect nothing to
last, for nothing can endure.’