The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (21 page)

‘Ice, shatter!’ he roared.

Cracks radiated out from the tip of the staff, met the
crisscross cracks on the surface and kept going, and without warning the ice
dropped beneath his feet. What do I do now, he thought, sure he was going to be
carried away with the ice. The surface was too slippery to run up so, ripping
the staff out, he scrambled back down the steep face, then up onto the wildly
shaking rock knob.

He only just made it as, with a deafening roar and crackle,
the ice sheet broke apart and began to slide over the sides of the nose. A
monstrous ice-fall poured down towards the bowl and the track above it, where
it shattered to fragments on impact and swept down the slope.

More ice followed it, and more, until it was all gone and
the great nose of rock jerked upwards from the release of weight. Nish, thrown
onto his belly, clung on desperately as the end of the nose quaked up and down.

He crawled to the edge, hanging on as the rock continued to
twitch, and looked over. The multiple impacts had shaken the track so
powerfully that not a single enemy was left standing. Many went hurtling over
the sides of the gully, or rolling and thumping down towards the bowl, where he
lost sight of them under a roiling cloud of smashed ice.

Below the bowl, the ice poured down the steep, narrow gully
until it appeared to form a glacier, save that the shattered ice was hurtling
down with the speed of an avalanche. It overwhelmed the climbing soldiers as
though they were ants and carried them down with it, all the way to the
red-uniformed blur of the army encampment on the mountainside far below.

The avalanche could not last, Nish knew. It must spread out
and lose force before it reached them. The army must have thought so too, for
the soldiers in the camp were not moving.

Now they began to run; the red masses surged to left and
right, but the roaring avalanche wall was travelling twenty times as fast. It
carved through the camp, white through red, sweeping it away out of Nish’s
sight, and the following clouds of ice dust covered all.

When it had settled, there was no sign of the army. It
hadn’t been Jal-Nish’s entire army, Nish felt sure, but certainly a good part
of it. A few enemy survivors still clung to the slope above the bowl, which was
now a glittering oval of pulverised ice, but Nish did not think they would
attack.

Utterly demoralised and leaderless, they began making their
shaky way down. There would be no attack tonight, but tomorrow, in all
likelihood, the survivors below would pull back together and the onslaught
would resume with even greater fury. Klarm would make them pay for this
monstrous humiliation.

The roar of the avalanche faded. Nish rubbed his ringing
ears and headed back up the knob to look for Aimee and Clech.

‘Help!’

The thin, feeble cry came just on the edge of hearing.
Aimee! He looked over the edge, back along the left-hand side of the nose. From
spikes embedded there a rope ran down, as taut as a wire cable.

From the rope, another five or six spans down, hung Clech.
Aimee dangled below him from the harness secured around his enormous chest. And
from where Nish stood, he did not see any way of saving them.

 
FIFTEEN

Why hadn’t he waited one extra minute? But there was no
profit in that train of thought. The deed had been done.

Nish slung the staff onto his back, scrambled down and
followed the ledges across to the spikes from which Clech’s rope was suspended.
They were tight; there was no danger of them pulling out, but that wasn’t the
problem.

‘I’m sorry,’ he yelled. ‘The ice was already moving, and …
and the enemy were storming the slot. I couldn’t wait any longer or –’

‘You don’t have to explain,’ said Clech. ‘You’ve always
looked after us as best you could.’ He looked down at Aimee, slowly revolving
on the line below him. ‘How is your … er, chest?’

‘Painful!’ she snapped, then, softly, ‘I think I’ve broken
another rib.’

‘Can you climb up the rope to me?’

‘Don’t think so. Every time I move, I get a sharp pain
here.’ She indicated her right side, midway down. ‘The broken rib is sticking
into something.’

Her lung, Nish thought. ‘What are
you
like at climbing ropes, Clech? I don’t think I’m strong enough
to pull you both up.’

‘I’m hopeless,’ said Clech. ‘And the rope is wet.’ He
clenched his fists around the rope, high up, strained, and managed to raise
himself a third of a span, but could not maintain his grip and slid down again.

‘Aaahh!’ cried Aimee.

Now Nish was really worried, for it had been the tiniest of
jolts. If the rib was sticking into her lung, any jerk could puncture it. ‘I’ll
have to let down my rope and lift you separately.’ Though even if he could get
Aimee onto the ledge, how was she going to climb down to the pass with broken
ribs?

‘Where’s your rope, Nish?’ said Clech.

‘I left it attached when I went up the tunnel in the ice …’
The rope was gone, and so were his spikes, torn out of the rock by the ice
fall. ‘No matter. I’ll just have to lift you both.’

Clech and Aimee exchanged glances. ‘It can’t be done,’ Clech
said quietly. ‘Get going, Nish. You’ve got to save yourself.’

‘I’m not leaving you.’

He moved across to their spikes, found a secure place to
stand on the narrow ledge, then, taking hold of the rope, heaved with all his
strength. Nothing happened save that the wet rope scorched across his palms as
it slipped. He had not raised Clech the width of a hand, and he knew he never
would. The load was far too heavy.

‘You’re at least half the weight of a buffalo,’ he muttered.

‘Sorry,’ said Clech.

Though he knew it was hopeless, Nish could not give in that
easily. He heaved until he could feel his face going purple and coloured spots
floated before his eyes, and he kept on heaving until the pain in his scarred
left hand was unbearable.

‘Keep doing that and you’ll burst your bowels,’ said Aimee.
‘Nish, you can’t save us. Pull me up, Clech – gently, you great lug!’

Clech pulled her up until her chest was level with his. ‘Are
you all right?’

‘I’m cold. Hold me.’

The wind had risen again and was whistling through the few
remaining icicle stumps. Clech tied off her rope so she would not slip down,
and wrapped his arms around her. She winced, then snuggled against his chest.

Nish clenched and unclenched his aching fingers, waiting for
the pain to diminish so he could try again. He closed his eyes as he ran
through his artificer’s training of twenty years ago. There had to be a way to
lift them. Could he run the rope through the rings of several spikes, so as to
make a crude pulley? Not without unfastening the rope first.

If only Flydd had succeeded in stealing the air-sled, he
could have carried them all to safety. For that matter, with the air-sled they
could have flown up here and done the job in minutes.

Nish had not heard its characteristic whine since they had
left the clearing, which was curious. If he were in Klarm’s position he would
have personally directed the attack from high above the pass, or even dropped
troops at the crest with it, to attack the defenders from behind. Could the
air-sled be damaged? It would explain why Klarm had waited so long to attack.

There was another possibility, though not one Nish wanted to
dwell upon – that Flydd
had
stolen the air-sled, but had fled on it with the tears, leaving everyone here
to their fate.

Nish had always known Flydd to be ruthless, though the old
scrutator he’d fought beside during the war would never have stolen the tears
and abandoned his friends. Nish wasn’t so sure about the renewed Flydd, who
looked different, acted differently and was certainly different inside. Did
that reflect what Yalkara had done to him during renewal? Had she changed him
fundamentally?

He took hold of the rope for one last attempt. Clech and
Aimee had their faces close together and she was whispering to him. He glanced
up at Nish, then nodded. Nish heaved until he felt a sharp pain in his lower
belly and knew he was on the verge of tearing something. Again he failed. He
wasn’t nearly strong enough.

‘I’m going down for help. I won’t be long –’ he began,
but broke off, realising how stupid that sounded.

‘You can’t,’ said Aimee. ‘You’d never have climbed up here
without us, and you won’t get down by yourself without a rope.’

That hadn’t occurred to Nish. ‘Then I’ll call for help.’

‘They won’t hear you over the wind; besides, they’d never
get up here and down again before dark.’

Taking a deep breath, he roared, ‘Flangers, hoy!’ until his
throat hurt, but none of the people in the pass looked up. The guards were
watching the mist-shrouded track, while everyone else lay in attitudes of
exhaustion. There was no way of telling what the survivors of Klarm’s army were
up to, for the lower slopes were completely obscured again.

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ said Clech. ‘It’s over, my
friend.’ He looked down at Aimee and gently kissed her brow.

She kissed him back, then looked up. ‘But you can still save
yourself, Nish.’ She nodded to Clech and passed him her knife.

Clech reached up above the point where her rope was fixed to
his, and drew the blade across and back.

‘No!’ cried Nish in horror. This couldn’t be happening.
‘There’s got to be a way.’

The rope parted and Clech fell with Aimee wrapped tenderly
in his arms, into the mist. Nish blocked his ears so he wouldn’t hear the
impact.

He never knew how he made it down again, for he could
only think about Clech and Aimee making the ultimate sacrifice for him, and how
little he deserved it. Now he
had
to
win. He had to find a way to do the impossible and beat Klarm; their sacrifice
could not be for nothing.

He raised the severed rope, extracted the spikes and went
across the ridge then down the wet rock towards the pass as they had come up,
spike by spike, ell by ell, barely thinking about what he was doing. It was a
dangerous climb for a lone man in the drifting mist but Nish felt no fear of
falling, even in the most dangerous pinches. He took no unnecessary risks but
did not waste any time, either. Klarm could not give in, any more than Nish
could; the attack might be renewed at any time.

If he were Klarm, Nish would have done so at once, while his
troops were still numb from the catastrophe. Give them the night to think about
the avalanche, the loss of so many comrades, and the unexpected and humiliating
defeat, and they could break, even mutiny. Immediate peril was the best cure
for that malaise – to drive them so hard that they had no time to think
about anything except their own survival.

It was almost dusk by the time he jumped down to the floor
of the pass. His knees were shaky and almost collapsed under him, but after a
minute to steady them he went on.

Everyone not on guard was asleep in their tents, save for
Huwld, who was asleep by the sputtering, reeking, oil-shale fire, looking as
though he’d collapsed from exhaustion. And not surprisingly, since he never
seemed to stop working.

There was no one to clap Nish on the back and congratulate
him, for which he was thankful. The mission had been a brilliant success, but
two friends had died because he hadn’t been careful enough, and that was all
that mattered just now.

He scooped out a warming mug of soup and drank it in a gulp,
without tasting a thing. He was also responsible for the deaths of thousands of
the enemy. War was war, he mused as he limped down to the eastern defences. One
did what one must, as honourably as possible, but there were so many deaths
chalked up on his slate that he could not have counted them, and all had been
human beings with much the same hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares, as
himself.

Flangers was dozing behind the high wall, wrapped in a
purloined military greatcoat, but he must have recognised Nish’s tread for he
said, ‘Well done, surr,’ before opening his eyes.

He stood up, wearily, and shook Nish’s hand. ‘We had fifty
fighters left, last time I counted. They’re grinding us down but we’re not
beaten yet.’

‘I lost Clech and Aimee,’ said Nish, and sat beside him,
shoulders hunched, to tell the tale. ‘I mucked it up, old friend. I should have
been more careful.’

‘We’re not perfect, Nish,’ Flangers said at the end. ‘We can
only do our best. I’ve also sent men and women to their deaths today, when a
better plan might have saved them. And once, long ago, I followed orders and it
killed people I had sworn to protect,’ he added quietly.

Nish knew that tale, but did not speak.

Flangers knew that Nish knew the story, but must have felt a
need to unburden himself before the end, for he went on, ‘Thirteen years ago I
followed orders and shot down the scrutators’ air-floater, sending everyone on
it save Klarm to their deaths. That broken oath still haunts me.’

Though Nish had not been there, he was well aware of the
facts. ‘Your superior gave you a legitimate order, and she was acting for
Flydd, when he was still commander-in-chief.’

‘But the scrutators had authority over Flydd.’

‘In the course of a battle, that’s debatable.’

‘That may be so,’ said Flangers, ‘but I caused the deaths of
some of our leaders, and there is no escaping it.’

Certainly not for Flangers, who was the most honourable of
men. For Nish himself, and knowing how bad most of the scrutators had been, his
conscience would have accommodated the conflict long ago.

‘There was a time, afterwards, when you seemed to have a
death-wish,’ Nish said carefully.

‘I felt that the only honourable course for a dishonoured
soldier was to atone with my life, and I fought recklessly in dozens of
battles, never caring whether I lived or died. Indeed, I wanted to die, but
each time my life was spared. Is there a reason why I lived, when so many more
deserving lost their precious lives?’