The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (52 page)

‘Nish?’ called Beyl from halfway up the ramp.

‘Go up. I won’t be a minute.’

The riders were outside, revelling in the slaying, and fear
tightened Nish’s chest. He was not afraid of dying, but he was terrified of
Vomix, a depraved brute who loved to torment and brutalise.

When he’d served Jal-Nish, Vomix had dared not harm his son.
But now, with the God-Emperor gone and Klarm missing, there was no law save the
might of men like the seneschal and, after being humiliated by Maelys and Nish,
Vomix would feast on vengeance.

Was there a way to fool the brute? Nish picked up the fallen
censer and emptied the smouldering incense down the hole. Bundling up the
chain, he coiled it inside the lower half of the censer, twisted the top half
on and tore the back out of the youth’s white robes. He wrapped the censer in
the cloth, tied a knot so it could not fall out and slung it over his shoulder.

A thin haze of smoke issued from the square hole, scented
with incense. The Celestial Flame might have been defiled, but it had not been
entirely extinguished. He checked again; still blue, and no use to him.

Nish crept up the benches to the top of the triangle and
peered over. There was no one in sight though he could hear the clack of shod
hooves on the smooth paving stones. They must have finished the last of the
monks and were riding into the temple.

The narrow ramp up into the dome was about fifty paces away.
Nish was about to run for it when Vomix rode through the columns and saw him.
He bolted, the bundled censer bouncing on his back, knowing he’d left it too
late; the warhorse would cover the distance to the ramp in a few strides.

Vomix stared at the bundle over Nish’s shoulder, cried,
‘He’s got the white fire! He’s mine!’ and spurred his warhorse, but as it
sprang forwards, its rear hooves slipped on the polished stone and it went
down.

With a furious oath, Vomix leapt off and pounded after Nish.
For such a big man he was very fast. Nish made the ramp with just paces to
spare and leapt up it.

Vomix swung the scimitar at his back, trying to cut the
bundle free, and barely missed. Nish scrambled up another few paces, but
slipped and landed hard on hands and knees. Vomix came after him, lunged, and
the three-bladed spike passed between Nish’s arm and his ribs.

He kicked backwards, driving his heel into Vomix’s knee,
then went on hands and knees up the ramp to the first landing, where he turned
and swung the serpent staff at Vomix’s head. The seneschal’s eyes widened.

‘Where did you get that?’ said Vomix. ‘You’re no mage.’

‘It’s part of Stilkeen’s caduceus, and it has powers you’ll
never dream of.’

‘Not in your hands,’ snarled Vomix.

‘How do you think my little militia beat ten thousand of
Father’s finest?’ Nish sneered.

Vomix hesitated, then lunged again, but Nish was ready and
thumped him in the side of the head, slamming him into the temple wall. Vomix
arrested his fall by dragging the tip of the scimitar down the stone in a
shower of sparks and lunged again, this time stabbing with the spike.

It speared into the fleshy part of Nish’s left thigh and
struck the bone with an excruciating flare of pain. Nish swung the staff in
reflex, slamming it into Vomix’s shoulder and driving him down several paces
before he could stop himself. Blood pulsed from Nish’s thigh as he hobbled
backwards up the ramp. If the spike had cut an artery he would collapse from
loss of blood before he could get to the dome.

His trousers were soaked and blood was flowing down the
inside of his leg, though he did not think it was coming out fast enough for
him to bleed to death. It was hideously painful though, and he was starting to
feel faint from shock. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against the wound
and kept going.

Far below, two soldiers had dragged the old monk down to the
square hole above the flame. Another pair of soldiers were rolling a barrel
between them, directed by a robed scrier.

The old monk was stripped, stretched over the square hole
and held down, and the oily contents of the barrel poured in. Yellow flames
gushed up and he began to writhe, but did not cry out.

‘Tell us where the white fire can be found,’ said the
scrier, ‘and we may let you go.’

‘Liar,’ said the monk. ‘You’re going to burn me alive and it
will do you no good, for I can tell you nothing.’

Vomix chuckled. ‘Roast him some more.’

Nish turned away, feeling sick, and limped up, wincing with
every step. He could now see the edge of the air-sled through the circular hole
in the dome, and his militia were scrambling up knotted ropes, watched by
Flangers. M’lainte stood on the platform surrounding the altar, binding a
splint around Persia’s broken arm, and she was staring down at Vomix as though
she was about to throw up.

Beyl and two other militiamen were not far above Nish,
waiting.

‘Go up,’ he gasped. They could not help him, since the ramp
was only wide enough for one, and they carried neither bows nor spears.

Vomix leapt up and struck at Nish again, but he slammed his
staff into the seneschal’s arm, below the spike, and Vomix reeled backwards,
shaking his wrist.

‘Fall down and break your stinking neck,’ Nish cried, but
Vomix recovered and struck with both spike and scimitar at once.

Nish wove out of the way of the scimitar but could not avoid
the spike, which speared into his thigh an ell or two above the first wound.
Now, when he moved, his foot squelched, for his boot was filling up with blood.

Nish’s leg would barely support him, but he dragged himself
up another pace or two. His head was spinning and he felt like throwing up, but
he fought the shock for his very life. He had to finish Vomix somehow; Nish
knew he couldn’t get away unless he did.

Vomix was watching the blood pulsing from the twin holes in
Nish’s thigh, grinning viciously. He had his victim where he wanted him and was
in no hurry to end the fun. Nish stood upright then swayed, pretending that he
was near collapse, hoping to lure Vomix into coming too far forwards.

Vomix bared his few remaining teeth. ‘You won’t get me that
easily.’

Nish backed up another pace, and another, widening the
distance between them, then deliberately fell backwards onto the ramp, crying
out in pain. It wasn’t feigned; his leg was giving him agony.

Vomix came after him, raising the spike to stab for the
belly. With his last reserve of strength, Nish flicked the heavy serpent’s head
up into Vomix’s groin.

It hurt him, though not as much as Nish had hoped, and
unfortunately Vomix fell forwards, crushing him against the ramp. Knowing that
he’d made a fatal miscalculation, Nish attacked with his knees and fists and,
when the seneschal went for his throat, head-butted him on the bridge of his
broken nose.

The blow must have been excruciating but the brute seemed
almost immune to pain. His eyes were red with rage, his breath so foul that
Nish gagged, and snotty blood gushed from his nostrils. Vomix took hold of
Nish’s head and began to bang it on the stone ramp. He tried to poke his finger
in the seneschal’s eye but he pulled back sharply and, with the strength of
desperation, Nish slammed the heel of his left hand up against the seneschal’s
larynx.

Vomix let go, his hands clutched at the air and he began to
gasp and wheeze. Nish brought up his knees and forced Vomix off, hoping that he
would choke. He slid a few spans down the ramp but after several laboured gasps
he gained a breath.

‘Take him,’ Vomix gasped to the soldiers who were coming up
behind.

Nish turned and went up in a hopping stagger, trailing blood
down the ramp and knowing that he’d never outrun the soldiers.

 
THIRTY-FIVE

Nish scrambled up and up the curving ramp, his breath
tearing at his throat and his thigh burning, knowing that he wasn’t going to
make it. He reached a short landing and his blood-drenched leg collapsed under
him; he could go no further.

The enemy soldiers had climbed over Vomix and were coming on
quickly. Flangers was running down from the platform but he could not haul Nish
up and fight at the same time. They were going to take him, though he wasn’t
going to give Vomix the satisfaction of winning.

‘Flangers!’ he gasped, struggling to his knees. ‘I’ve got
the white fire. Catch!’

Flangers stopped, and Nish tossed up the bundle of cloth
with the censer inside, but his thigh twanged agonisingly and the throw went
wide. For an awful moment he thought it was going to fall to the floor of the
temple and burst open, revealing his meagre deception, but Flangers stretched
out, caught the trailing end of cloth and reeled it in.

He passed the bundle up to Persia, who handed it to Beyl,
and he threw it up to M’lainte. She dropped a large two-handled amphora to him,
which he threw to Flangers, who caught it one-handed, nearly overbalanced under
its weight and said quietly, ‘Duck!’

Nish did so, wondering what marvel of the mechanical Art
M’lainte had constructed. The amphora soared over his head, smashed at the feet
of the leading soldiers on the ramp and oil went everywhere. No marvel at all;
it was full of oil.

The leading soldier skidded backwards onto the upraised
sword of the man behind him, arms wheeling. Blood gushed; he fell and slid down
on the spreading oil, bringing the other two down with him. The lowest soldier
clawed at the oil-covered stone but could not get a grip and went head-first
over the edge of the ramp. The man above fell as well, and the injured man
followed them.

‘Let’s get you away,’ said Flangers.

Despite his bloody shoulder, he took Nish under the arms and
dragged him up the ramp, which flared at the top, where it met the platform
below the circular hole in the dome.

As they reached it, reinforcements came running up, but
stopped below the oily patch, which was too long to leap, and the first man
began to edge his way up, clinging by his fingernails to the stone of the
temple wall. It was slow work, yet he and the other soldiers would reach the
platform before the short line of militiamen could be lifted to safety and
Nish, Persia and Flangers could take their turn.

Through the hole Nish could see his troops lined up along
the side of the air-sled, peering down anxiously, while M’lainte sat with her
plump legs dangling over the edge, calmly knotting ropes to make a net.
Whatever the situation, she seemed unflappable.

Persia eased past Flangers and Nish, holding her splinted
arm at an angle, and went to the edge of the platform, facing the line of
climbing soldiers. The leading man let out a snort of derision.

‘Seneschal,’ he said over his shoulder.

Vomix limped up to the oiled stone, his red eyes flitted
across the three on the platform, and his belly shook with silent laughter.

‘Wait until the world hears this,’ he said venomously. ‘The
great Deliverer, the son of the God-Emperor and Hope of the World, slaughters a
monastery full of peace-loving monks, then hides behind a pretty woman with a
broken arm because he’s too gutless to face justice.’

Was this whole raid a set-up, its aim to destroy Nish’s
reputation in the eyes of the people? And if it was, was Yulla in on it? Well,
Nish wasn’t giving up, and if he had to die here, he was going to die on his
feet.

‘They’ll believe me before they’ll believe scum like you,’
Nish said. ‘Vomix by name, and by nature.’

‘You won’t be talking to anyone, Nish,’ said Vomix. ‘You’ll
be dead and dismembered, and your body parts nailed to the gates of the city.’

‘I’ll live to piss on your corpse.’ Never had a boast
sounded so hollow.

‘Take him, lads. No need to be gentle, but save the woman
for me. I never finished –’

Persia choked back an involuntary cry and Vomix roared with
laughter.

‘Go up, Persia,’ Nish said out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I know what the bastard is like and –’

‘So do I,’ she whispered, and he turned to stare at her. He
had not seen Persia lose control before, but now her face had frozen and there
was something dark and hollow in her eyes, as if she had personal knowledge of
the seneschal’s depravity. ‘I cannot break my word to Yulla.’

And Nish could not leave her to defend him from Vomix; not
like this. ‘Let me go, Flangers.’

Flangers continued to hold him. ‘Surr, your wits are addled.
You can’t fight.’

‘I’m your commanding officer,’ Nish hissed, ‘and I’ve given
you an order.’

Flangers let go and Nish tried to stand upright, but his
thigh would not move. He would have fallen and made a fool of himself had the
lieutenant not held him up by the back of his shirt. Nish looked over his
shoulder; there were still three militiamen to be lifted to the air-sled.

‘We’ve got to hold the enemy off for another minute or two.
Where’s my sword?’ He groped at his scabbard.

Flangers pressed the hilt into his hand, though Nish
struggled to raise the light blade. He took it in both hands, as he’d done during
his lessons in swordplay as a sixteen-year-old boy, propped himself up with it,
and felt a little stronger.

‘Come back to me,’ he said to Persia, since he could not
move to join her.

All the blood seemed to have withdrawn from beneath her
brown skin, leaving her a sickly grey colour. ‘I have my orders.’

‘In warfare, mine take precedence. For the sake of the
empire you may stand beside me, but not before me.’

She moved backwards, taking her place to his left and
sliding a long, slender sword from her sheath. It had an ornate hilt of metal
basketwork that protected her hand, though the blade had no edges, just a
pointed tip that could only be used for thrusting.

‘What’s
that
?’ he
muttered.