The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (12 page)

‘Rob the dead,’ said Flangers.

 
EIGHT

A couple of hundred enemy soldiers had died at the
hands of Nish’s archers and most still lay where they had fallen. The archers
replenished their quivers, the infantry abandoned their rustic weaponry for the
fine spears and swords of the Imperial troops, and took their stout helms and
shields, packs and boots. The packs contained dry clothing, carefully packed in
oilskin, plus provisions for several days’ march, and when everything useful had
been gathered, the militia withdrew into the forest for the first edible meal
they’d had in three or four days.

‘I doubt that Klarm will be back today,’ said Flydd. ‘Having
lost a small army already, he’ll want to make sure that his main force safely
reaches the pass; but when he does return, he’ll see that we’ve robbed the
bodies. Our only chance of surprising him lies in attacking the pass first;
tonight
.’

‘Impossible,’ said Nish, who was sitting on a crumbling log,
making a rope sling so he could carry the serpent staff on his back. ‘We had
little sleep last night and we’ve been living on half-rotten food for days.’

‘There’s no choice. Tell everyone to turn in. We’ll go in
three hours.’

The militia rolled into their cloaks on the wet leaf litter
and slept like the dead, but Nish dozed for a bare hour, all that his restless
mind would allow him. How could he attack in the dark when he didn’t know the
terrain? He mentally traced possible paths from here to the pass.

‘We’ll never get to Blisterbone in time,’ he said, thinking
aloud. ‘It’s too far. Liver-Leech Pass is a lot closer from here; at least,
that’s what Curr said, but how can I trust
his
directions? Besides, the mayor in Gendrigore said that no army could cross
Liver-Leech, and only the most desperate of climbers.’

‘How much closer is it?’ said Flydd, beside him.

Nish had not realised that he was awake. ‘Liver-Leech Pass
is five or six hours from here and, if we can cross it, it’d take another six
hours to circle around to the far side of Blisterbone Pass.
If
the weather is good.’

‘What about this side of Blisterbone?’

‘It’s more than a day from here.’

‘How can it be that far? I thought it would be closer.’

‘From here, the only direct route is straight up the valley,
but only skilled climbers could get up the cliffs at the top. Or we could
backtrack the way we came, assuming we can cross the river, and approach the
pass via the track from Gendrigore. But that’s a long, meandering route, and
Klarm would probably be back by then.’

Nish heard Flydd fumbling in the gloom but did not look
around, for he was trying to imagine what Klarm would be doing now. The dwarf
had taken some heavy falls and a good few blows, plus he had that bad Reaper
burn. Once he reached the main army Klarm would need to have his injuries
attended to, consult his officers, eat and sleep. To thoroughly search both
clearings and the river below the gorge would require far more men than he
could carry on the air-sled, and there was no urgency now. Klarm wasn’t young
and neither was he superhuman, so surely he would stay with the army until they
reached the pass sometime tomorrow.

Flydd was right – if they were to take the pass, and
hoped to hold it, they had to attack by dawn tomorrow, so Liver-Leech was the
only option.

Nish’s wandering thoughts turned to his father. He had
assumed that Stilkeen would have taken Jal-Nish to the void, since it had,
clearly, been in pain, but how could he even guess what an ageless, immortal
being might do?

Ting!
A faint
silvery glow formed beside him; Flydd was batting a small, spiky ball of light,
like a floating soap bubble, from one hand to another.

‘How did you do that?’ said Nish.

‘The mimemule has a little power back, now we’re well away
from the caduceus.’

And you couldn’t think of anything better to do with it?
Nish thought sourly, but that was unfair. After being helpless during the
battle, Flydd was entitled to be pleased that he could use his Art again, even
in the smallest of ways, and they were going to need it.

‘What’s it for?’ said Nish.

‘I’ve mimicked a spyball; the scrutators used them back in
the bad old days of the lyrinx war. Of course, they were powered by the
field
back then, so they could work for
months. This one won’t last for more than an hour or two, the way I’m feeling.’

Nish felt a twinge of unease. ‘What are you going to do with
it?’

‘Send it up to check the layout of Blisterbone: how many men
are guarding it, how alert they are and so forth.’

‘How can you be sure that Gatherer won’t detect it?’

Flydd looked irritated. ‘Klarm wouldn’t let Gatherer out of
his sight, and he won’t be anywhere near the pass yet.’

‘How do you know? Besides, he could have scriers there, with
wisp-watchers, and if they see it, they’ll alert Klarm at once.’

‘We’ve got to know what we’re facing, and it’s a small
risk,’ Flydd snapped, giving Nish one of his famous
How dare you challenge me – I used to be a scrutator
glares.

Nish put on an equally arrogant stare – And I’m the
son and heir of the God-Emperor. ‘It’s a huge risk. If they know we’re coming,
we’ll have no chance.’

‘You can’t attack without knowing the terrain – it’s
the first rule of warfare.’

‘I thought the first rule was
Know your enemy
. Listen, Xervish, I’m the captain of this militia
and I say we can’t use it, but –’

‘All right!’ Flydd snarled, making a pass over the ball with
his fingers. It vanished and the mimemule, a little knobbly wooden ball, stood
in its place. He pocketed it and stalked away.

Nish looked after him, frowning. He did not remember the old
Flydd, before renewal, acting in such a petulant way.

‘Nish,’ said Flangers quietly. ‘It’s not good for morale if
you and Flydd fight.’

Many of the nearby troops were awake and whispering to one
another. Nish cursed himself for not being more diplomatic, and cursed his old ally
as well. Flydd had never liked to be challenged, though in the olden days he’d
always put the greater good first. Since renewal, Nish had seldom seen the
kindly Flydd, but plenty of the hard, ruthless scrutator of old. And after he’d
arrived on the Range of Ruin, Flydd’s eyes had often taken on a lustful gleam
when he’d looked upon the tears. Nish wasn’t entirely sure that he and Flydd
were on the same side any more.

‘I’m sorry. But I’m right, aren’t I?’

Flangers hesitated. ‘You’re both right, and both wrong.’ He
turned away. ‘I need my sleep, Nish. Surr!’

Flangers, no matter his private thoughts, was too good a
soldier to get involved in a dispute between leaders. Nish lay there for a
while, trying to sleep, then gave up and went to the top edge of the clearing,
looking down on the field of battle, yawning and rubbing his eyes. It was
heavily over-cast, and night was falling. He thought he saw a light bobbing
down below, but when he looked again there was nothing. The rain had stopped
and the clearing was peaceful now, for the dim light laid a soft veil over all
and the dead were just humps in the grass.

Two hundred of his militia had died today, and he had known
the names of every one of them. He began to make a list, starting with sweet
Gi, and Forzel the joker, as a kind of remembrance, but the list grew too long
and he felt too heartsick. He couldn’t even bear to think about Maelys.

And then, something moved on the battlefield.

‘What’s that?’ he muttered, his hair rising. There had
definitely been no one alive when they had left, but now he could see a low
moving shape down there.

‘Don’t know, Nish,’ said a young voice from not far away.

‘Who’s there?’ Nish said sharply, reaching for his sword,
before recognising the Gendrigorean accent.

‘It’s Huwld, the cook’s boy.’

A gangly lad of eleven, with dark skin and incongruously
ginger hair, he should never have been allowed to come on this horror campaign.
‘Why aren’t you in your bedroll, lad?’

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Huwld soberly. All the cheer had gone
out of him too. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the battle.’

‘Me either. Come over here.’ The boy came across and they
stood together, watching the figure creep from one mound to another as the
light faded.

‘Do you think it’s a ghost?’ said Huwld in a half fearful,
half awed voice.

‘It’s not floating or fluttering,’ said Nish.

There was a long silence. ‘Nor creeping nor growling. I
don’t think it’s a beast, either.’

‘No,’ said Nish. ‘It’s human.’

Could it be one of the militia, gone down for a last look at
dead friends? Anything was possible, but Nish did not think so. Or Flydd? No,
he would not look so furtive. Nish felt sure that this visitor had some other
purpose in mind, and he had to know what it was.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a look.’

Nish crept down the slope, low and slow, knowing that,
despite the dimness, any sudden movement could attract attention. The figure
was moving across the clearing, going from one body to another in no particular
order, which was strange, and sometimes turning back on itself, but it looked
unsteady on its feet.

Was it a forest-dwelling hermit, wits curdled from a
lifetime spent alone? Again he saw that fleeting, bobbing light, some distance
from the figure. Were there more than one of them? Not hermits, then.

As he approached, Nish heard a thick, muttering voice. He
could not make out the words but the fellow certainly sounded addled. He caught
a whiff of strong drink and spicy, hallucinogenic nif-tree sap, and the food in
his belly curdled.

It was Boobelar, the drunken, nif-addled captain who had
nearly killed Nish a few days back, then fled with his men and most of the
militia’s food. Of course it was Boobelar, who had come to the Range of Ruin
for one reason only – to plunder the dead. Nish felt the chill of fear,
for Boobelar was a big, burly man, much stronger than Nish and a vicious, dirty
fighter. He wished he had not seen him going about his grisly business, but now
Nish knew, he had to stop him from dishonouring the fallen militiamen and
women. This time, he vowed, he would put Boobelar down like the vermin he was.

He shadowed the drunkard across the wet grass, sabre out,
while Boobelar rifled the bodies and dropped his booty into a sack that he
dragged behind him. Now he was bent over a tangle of corpses, laughing
drunkenly as he felt inside their clothing. Nish couldn’t bear it any longer,
and had just raised the sabre to cut him down when Huwld cried out from behind
him and caught his wrist with both hands.

‘No, Nish! Uncle Boobelar, look out!’

Boobelar spun around and came to his feet, long dagger in
hand and a sick grin plastered across his face. Nish shook Huwld off, cursing.
He’d forgotten that the boy was Boobelar’s nephew and, no matter what he might
think of his depraved uncle, owed him loyalty.

‘Put down the knife,’ said Nish. ‘I’ve got two hundred
militia within call.’

‘How’s your arse, runt?’ sniggered Boobelar. ‘I’ll do more
than whack it this time. I’ll shove your head so far up you’ll choke on it.’

Nish felt himself flushing, for Boobelar could always get to
him. Now what was he supposed to do? He could hardly kill him in front of his
nephew.

He circled, holding the sabre out, and Boobelar did too.
Nish lunged at him, trying to knock him out with the flat of the blade, but
Boobelar sprang sideways, took hold of Huwld and put the knife to his throat.

‘Back off or I’ll kill the boy.’

Nish lowered his blade, shocked to his heart. ‘He’s your
nephew!’

‘Always hated the brat and his slut of a mother. Drop the
sword.’

Huwld gasped, and Nish had no choice. He let the sabre down
in the mud and backed away, and Boobelar picked it up.

‘Take the bag, brat,’ said Boobelar. ‘That way.’ He pointed
down the slope.

Huwld, his teeth chattering, took hold of the heavy bag and
began to drag it away. Nish could not bear to let him go with the brute, but
how could he stop him?

He was watching them head down the hill when he saw the
bobbing light again. It shot up at Boobelar’s face, flared to a dazzling, spiky
ball, then Nish heard a double thump.

‘Got the swine,’ Flydd said with quiet satisfaction. ‘Run up
to the camp and send some men down, lad. We won’t harm him.’

Huwld ran off.

When Nish could see clearly, Flydd was tying Boobelar by the
fading light of his spiky globe. ‘So those lights were you, wandering around
the battlefield?’ said Nish.

‘Told you they’d be useful,’ said Flydd. ‘I saw him earlier,
robbing the bodies, and remembered you saying Boobelar had only come for
plunder. I guessed it was him and set a trap.’

‘I wonder you didn’t kill the bastard! I wish you had.’

‘He’s going to show us the way over Liver-Leech Pass,’ said
Flydd.

‘You’d better hang onto him, then,’ said Nish, taking back
his sabre and resisting the urge to carve Boobelar up with it. ‘He’s the
slimiest thug I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. He’d steal your
eyeballs if you weren’t looking.’

Shortly the militia had packed up camp, and they headed up
the ridge in the dark.

‘All right, Boobelar,’ said Flydd to the stumbling, reeking
soldier, who was securely tied, with a rope leading from his bound hands to the
muscular militiamen behind him. ‘Show us the way to Liver-Leech.’

‘Stuffed if I will and you can’t make me.’

Flydd reversed the staff and pressed its open serpent mouth
up against the soldier’s chest. Boobelar looked at it blearily but did not
flinch. He met Flydd’s eyes.

Flydd grinned. ‘We’ll see about that.’ He lifted a half-full
wineskin off Boobelar’s back, sniffed the contents, grimaced and tossed it over
the steep edge of the ridge. ‘Hey!’ cried Boobelar, ‘that’s neat brandy.’