The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1) (68 page)

She sat up, which really hurt. Her fingers were covered in
flakes of skin; Flydd’s old skin.

‘It’s as bad as it could be,’ she croaked brushing it off.
‘Four crystals gone and I still don’t know if it’s done. He had to draw on
me
, Nish, though he’d warned me not to
come near while the spell was still active. He took something from me and now
my head feels strange. I don’t know what’s happening and I’m really, really
afraid. Should I have kept him at bay? Have I made things worse?’

His larynx bobbed up and down; his mouth opened and closed.
‘Maybe it’s all part of the spell. We’ve got to keep faith.’ He didn’t sound as
though he believed it.

‘But he used
four
crystals
, Nish! He hoped he could do it with one. Flydd said at least three
were needed for our escape, so without them –’

‘Get a grip on yourself!’ he snapped, then added with a
heroic attempt at calm, ‘No one in the world is better in a tight situation
than Xervish. Trust him. Believe in him. We’ve still got time. There’s no sign
of them yet –’

Maelys thought she’d heard something outside. ‘What’s that?’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

The sound came again, a faint
clack-clack
, followed by running feet and a low, urgent cry of,
‘Nish! Nish!’

Before Nish could reach the door it slammed back against the
wall and Zham was framed in the opening. ‘They’re coming!’

 
FORTY-SEVEN

Nish’s drowsiness vanished. ‘Where?’

‘North-west cleft,’ said Zham, his mighty chest heaving.

‘How many?’

‘I don’t know, but the clappers just went off.’

Nish said, ‘It’s all up to you, Maelys,’ and turned to the
door.

‘No, it’s up to Flydd,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t do any
more.’

He ran out. ‘We’d better fire the peat walls, Zham.’

‘All of them, surr?’

Nish splashed down the track after Zham. He, Zham and Colm
had inspected the defences earlier. Flydd had cunningly built the peat
barriers, walls a good two spans high, at the narrowest and steepest parts of
the three narrow clefts, where it was impossible to climb around them. A
knotted rope, fixed to the rim of the plateau, could be tossed over to assist
climbing down to each wall, and bladders of oil were concealed nearby to ensure
a good blaze.

Once fired, the peat walls would hold a small force off for
an hour or two, since peat burned slowly, though after that the walls would
collapse.

All depended on how many climbers came up each cleft. If
Vomix had sent just a few, they probably wouldn’t risk their lives trying to
get past the burning walls in case all were lost, which would leave a gap in
the attack plan. But if each cleft held a dozen or more troops, their leaders
would order the most reckless soldiers to pull the burning wall down from
below, and shelter under their shields. His father wouldn’t care if a few men
fell to their deaths as long as enough survived to carry out the attack plan.

What would that plan be? First, guard the four clefts so no
one could escape, and make sure they couldn’t get away in a home-made
air-floater. Then secure the rim so they couldn’t leap to their deaths, though
that would take a sizeable force.

To be sure, the attack must wait for dawn, by which time
hundreds of soldiers would have climbed the main cleft. Sunrise was still some
way off, but could he, Nish, afford to wait? No, he had to give Flydd as much time
as possible, for even if the renewal spell worked perfectly he’d suffer cruelly
from aftersickness. The soldiers must be approaching the peat walls now and if
they got past all was lost. Nish felt a spasm of panic and struggled to control
it.

‘Do it!’ he said hoarsely. ‘Run! I’ll take the south-western
cleft. Signal Colm to fire the north-western one, and you do the north-eastern.
Then come back to the main cleft.’

Zham lit one of the lanterns and waved it in a great circle
on the end of his arm, the pre-arranged signal. Nish was already running around
the lobe of the plateau. It would be further than cutting directly through the
marshes, but would be quicker, since the footing along the rim was solid rock
or hard-packed earth. After a minute or two he made out Colm’s answering
lantern wave from the other side, a moving halo through the wind-churned ground
mist.

Watching the light as he ran, Nish’s toe snagged on
something and he hit the ground so hard that his sword jarred out of its
scabbard, clanging on rock. He skidded into a puddle, mud splashed into his
eyes and he flailed blindly for his weapon. Not now! What if they were already
tearing down the peat barrier?

Panic again. He didn’t recall being quite so prone to it in
the old days, but since getting out of prison it had been his greatest failing
– apart from despair.

Think! The sword couldn’t be more than half a span away and
it had probably flown forwards. He came to his knees, felt in the most likely
place and there it was – cold, comforting steel under his hand. He slid
it back into its sheath and limped to the cleft.

At the top he scanned the misty gloom to left and right, in
case the enemy were already up, but saw and heard nothing, nor from the cleft
either. This one was just a gash into the plateau, like a thin wedge cut deep
into a cake. It would make the climb up even more difficult for the enemy;
would make it harder to fire the peat wall, too. Nish marvelled that Flydd had
been able to build them at all in such precipitous terrain.

He peered over the edge but saw only impenetrable darkness.
The clapper warning had gone off in the north-western cleft, though he must
assume that there would be coordinated attacks from all four clefts.

He couldn’t see the peat barrier in the moon shadow, though
he knew where it was, some ten spans below. Unfortunately he couldn’t fire it
from here. He’d have to go down the knotted rope with the bladder of oil slung
over his shoulder, to make sure the oil ended up on the peat.

Nish searched the darkness for any sign that the other walls
were on fire. He’d not see flames from here – wet peat wouldn’t blaze
high, as dry firewood did – but might glimpse a glow. He saw nothing.
What if Zham had fallen in the swamp, or been taken by one of the stink-snappers?

Stop it! Just get the job done. Nish felt for the oil
bladder under its concealing moss, checked that he had the flint striker as
well, then lowered the rope. Still no sign of the enemy, nor any sound. He’d
eased over the edge and was hanging from the first knot in the drizzling rain
when he smelt something.

It was the reek of sweaty, unwashed bodies, carried to him
on the updraught, so they weren’t far below. What if they’d torn through the
wall already? He wouldn’t see them among the dark rocks, looking down, though
he’d be clearly outlined against the sky. They’d grab him before he saw them.

There wasn’t time to worry about it. If they’d crossed the
wall, all was lost anyway, so he had to go down and make sure. It took all the
courage he had. The thought of walking tamely into his father’s clutches and
being sent back to prison couldn’t be borne.

He went down facing outwards, the better to see, lowering
himself hand over hand from one knot to the next, and as his fingers closed
around each knot his terror grew until his stomach became a clenched fist of
pain. Every second he expected to be struck down by an unseen blow, or for big,
callused hands to grasp hold of him.

He didn’t try to will the pain away, or ignore it. Nish used
it to focus his mind on one thing only: defeating the enemy. He would go on, no
matter what. He would master his fears and do his best, and if that failed, so
be it.

A projection in the stone gouged along his backbone, though
he barely noticed. His heels struck a knob; he lifted his feet forwards, went
down to the next knot, then the one below that, holding his breath, expecting
the blow. It didn’t fall. Hands didn’t grasp him out of the darkness, and after
a couple more knots a dark wall rose in front of him and his feet settled on
steeply sloping rock. He was at the base of the peat barrier; he was in time.

He reached out to feel its comforting, fibrous solidity.
Flydd had built it well, chiselling out the steeply sloping rock to make a
sound foundation. The wall was a third of a span through at the top, thicker at
the base, and as solid as stone when he leaned his weight on it. Nish settled
the oil bladder on his back and began to pull himself up the rope, pushing at
the barrier with his feet. He was just below the top when he heard the
tap-clink
of a climbing iron being
knocked into a crevice, then someone spoke.

‘What the blazes is this?’ There came a thump, as if the
soldier had laid into the wall with his sword. ‘It’s like it’s made of cheese.’

‘Toss a grapple iron over it and be quick,’ hissed another
man, a sergeant from the authority in his voice. ‘That last cliff has cost us
time and if we’re late the whole troop pays. You know what Vomix is like.’

He’d survived that dive over the cliff on the flappeter,
then. Nish shivered, drew back against the rock face so he couldn’t be seen and
twisted the bung of the oil bladder. It rotated in place. He pulled a little
harder, but it didn’t budge.

Rope whirred through the air and a grappling iron struck the
upslope wall of the peat barrier. He caught a faint gleam of silver as the rope
pulled taut and the soldier tested it with a couple of quick heaves. It held.

Nish jerked furiously at the bung, which came free with an
audible pop.

‘What’s that?’ hissed the soldier.

‘A guard, drinking on duty,’ said the sergeant. ‘Quiet now.’

Nish crept along the top of the wall, pouring the thin,
volatile oil onto the damp peat and fretting that there wouldn’t be enough to
set it alight. He could hear boots scrabbling on the peat, the soldier coming
up rapidly. Too rapidly. Nish dropped the bladder at the other end of the wall,
allowing the remaining oil to drain out. There wasn’t time to light it; the
soldier was halfway up. He should have cut the rope at once.

Heaving out his sword, he slashed wildly at the rope,
burying the blade deep in the peat. The rope parted but the soldier, lightning
fast, threw a brawny arm onto the top of the wall and swung from it. Before
Nish’s sluggish reflexes could wrench the embedded blade free, the man had the other
arm over and was pulling himself up.

There was no choice; no time to think. Nish had to clear the
wall before he could fire it. He wrenched, twisted and the blade came free in a
cascade of peat chunks as the soldier rolled over and onto the wall.

‘He’s on the wall. Get another grapple up there,’ roared the
sergeant.

Nish slashed at the soldier’s head. The soldier ducked then
flung his sword up, the blade sliding along Nish’s and striking the hilt so
hard that it nearly tore the sword out of his hand. Nish’s blade went sideways
with a clang and a drifting spark. His arms wheeled as he tried to avoid going
over the edge onto the swords of the troops below. By the time he’d recovered,
the soldier was on his feet and the advantage had been lost.

Nish had been a skilled swordsman, once. He’d
single-handedly slain a number of the alien lyrinx, which were much bigger and
faster than men. His muscles remembered the moves but he was too slow for this
crack soldier.

Nish went backwards, parrying for his life, the soldier
thrusting and cutting like the expert he was. Nish stumbled; the soldier swung
his blade out then prepared to bring it back in a blow that would take Nish’s
head off his shoulders. He couldn’t get out of the way, nor get his blade into
defensive position in time. He stumbled backwards, the moonlight shone on his
face and the soldier stopped his blade in mid-air with a wrench that went all
the way up to his shoulder.

‘Surr!’ he cried to the sergeant. ‘It’s the son of the
God-Emperor.’

The sergeant let out a whoop. ‘Bring him down, but don’t
harm a hair of his head. Signaller, signal for the
luminal
.’

Nish had no idea what a luminal was and didn’t wait to find
out. While the soldier was still off-balance he thrust his own blade up into
the man’s groin. It burst with a spray of fluid and the soldier doubled over,
dropping his blade on the wall. He slid sideways, landed on the edge and fell
onto the soldiers below.

The sergeant was roaring and bellowing at his men. Another
grappling iron flew up and over the far end of the wall. Nish fumbled the flint
striker out of his pocket, touched it to the peat and struck it. A feeble spark
jumped but went out.

The iron caught hold on the back of the wall and the rope
was jerked tight. Nish snapped the flint striker again and again, with no
success. A soldier was already coming up the rope; another was close behind.
Nish ran along the wall, hacked the line apart and snapped his striker a few
more times, fruitlessly. The drifting sparks did not catch.

The troops now hit on a better approach. Four of them had
hammered spikes into the peat and hung onto them, allowing other soldiers to
scramble onto their shoulders and reach up to grab the top of the wall at the
same time. If he attacked one, the others could spring onto the wall. Nish
raised his blade high and hacked down at the fallen blade on the wall with all
his strength. There was a mighty clang; a flurry of sparks landed on the
oil-soaked peat and it caught. As the soldiers tried to scramble onto the wall,
the oil blazed up beneath their fingers.

It gave Nish his chance. He dashed through the growing
flames, slashing at the soldiers’ arms, and the combination of fire and attack
proved too much. Two lost their grip and fell back. A third leapt to safety. The
fourth made it onto the wall, sleeves blazing, but before he could come to his
feet or beat the fire out Nish swept down on him, swung his blade hard and took
the soldier’s round head off his stubby neck. Blood fountained all over him.