The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (53 page)

‘It’s a rapier.’

Nish had encountered many weapons in his career but he had
never seen a sword like it. The point could kill if it found its target, though
without an edged blade she would be at a tremendous disadvantage.

The soldiers grinned and nudged one another, mocking the
ridiculous, girly weapon.

‘Take them,’ yelled Vomix.

The first two soldiers were scarred veterans, the third a
young man with a shock of yellow hair and a shiny weapon that might never have
been blooded. It soon would be. Nish raised his sword, now so weak that it
shook in his hands, thinking himself a proud fool. And yet, the whole empire
believed him to be their Deliverer, and expected him to fulfil his oath, so he
could do no less.

Another step and the soldiers would be within lunging
distance. His pulse was pounding in his ears. His opponent tensed, about to
strike. Nish lifted his sword and prepared to defend, knowing he would be too
slow, and afraid that if he moved either foot his thigh would collapse under
him.

Beside him, Persia went into a crouch and her opponent’s
eyes narrowed. He was lifting his blade when she lunged, the rapier flashing
out too fast to see, then whipping back.

What was she up to? It wasn’t until a red spot appeared in
the centre of the soldier’s chest that anyone realised she had thrust the point
through his heart.

As he toppled backwards she lunged again, this time at
Nish’s man, the rapier sliding between the ribs before he saw it move. The
youth, dismayed to find himself alone, hacked at Flangers with the shiny sword
but Flangers knocked it out of the way, cut him down and thrust his body onto
the next three, sending two over the side and the third skidding down the ramp
on his back. The soldiers below managed to avoid him but he knocked Vomix’s
feet from under him.

‘Not laughing now, seneschal?’ sneered Nish.

‘Get them!’ roared the seneschal as he came painfully to his
feet. ‘Cut them to shreds. A thousand pieces of gold for Nish’s balls.’

He threw his coat down on the oily patch, crossed it and
began to lurch up.

‘We’re done!’ yelled M’lainte, hurling her completed rope
net down onto the other end of the platform. ‘Come on!’

‘Go!’ said Flangers. ‘I’ll hold the top of the ramp. Lend me
your rapier, Persia.’

She slapped it into his hand and he tossed her his weapon.

Nish hobbled backwards, with her assistance, and fell into
the net. Persia scrambled in, militiamen pulled on the ropes on its four
corners and it lifted them as if they were in a basket. The next soldier came
rushing up the ramp, swinging his broadsword in a roundhouse sweep at
Flangers’s middle, a blow difficult to evade and impossible to parry with a
rapier.

Flangers did not try; he swayed backwards, the blow coming
so close that the sword tip cut through his shirt, then lunged. The rapier was
so light that no ordinary sword could match it for speed, and when perfectly
aimed it slid into living flesh like butter.

The soldier toppled down the ramp and Flangers turned to the
net, but its base was already shoulder-high and rising fast, and there was no
way to get into it. He sheathed the rapier, ran and threw his right arm through
the meshes as the remaining soldiers rushed the platform.

We left it too late, Nish thought. They’ll never lift us in
time.

‘Go!’ bellowed M’lainte to Chissmoul.

The air-sled shot up, jerking the net after it, with
Flangers dangling underneath. The wound on his gashed left shoulder had broken
open and was bleeding again. The leading soldier dodged by him and took a hack
at the net, trying to spill Nish out. Flangers kicked him in the head, drew his
legs up out of reach and then they were over the altar, the net swinging
wildly, directly towards the underside of the dome. Nish held his breath, sure
they were going to be pulped against it.

As they were about to hit, Clech yanked sideways on his
rope, centred the net and they shot up through the hole, but Nish and Persia
were thrown to the bottom of the net and she screamed as she landed on her
broken arm.

In the impact, Flangers lost his grip and his hooked arm
began to pull through the meshes. Nish caught his wrist and Persia groped for
his other hand as he was sliding free.

‘Can you hang onto the net with your left hand?’

‘Sorry,’ said Flangers. ‘Can barely raise it. My shoulder
–’

‘Careful!’ Persia yelled at the air-sled. ‘One more jerk
like that and we won’t be able to hold him.’

Nish heard M’lainte speaking to Chissmoul, after which the
air-sled steadied and moved slowly away from the temple, above the green lawn
now littered with the bodies of the monks of the Celestial Flame.

Nish strengthened his grip on Flangers’s right arm; Persia
took his hand with her good hand. Her broken arm must have been excruciating,
for there were tears in her dark eyes. Blood began to run from Flangers’s left
shoulder down his arm and off his fingers.

‘Hang onto him,’ called M’lainte. ‘Not long now.’

‘It better not be,’ gasped Nish. ‘We can’t hold him much
longer.’

A troop of soldiers outside the temple saw them, then
scrambled onto their mounts to follow the slowly moving air-sled. Several
javelins whistled up, passing not far below Flangers. Vomix came lurching out
of the entrance, saw them and roared a series of orders. Soldiers ran from
everywhere.

‘Tell Chissmoul to go faster,’ Flangers said.

‘If she does, you’ll fall.’

‘I’m not afraid of dying.’

Nish tightened his hold, but he was weak from loss of blood
and his grip was failing. ‘I’ll never win the war without my most trusted
lieutenant – and dearest comrade-in-arms.’

‘Thank you, surr,’ said Flangers, deeply moved.

‘You’ll have to set down,’ yelled Persia.

They began to pass over the great wheel of the monastery,
heading in the direction of the rainforest and the mountains, but too low and
too slowly.

‘There’s more soldiers outside,’ called Aimee. ‘We can’t set
down.’

‘We can’t hold him!’ cried Persia.

Their drifting flight continued, not far ahead of the enemy
riders. Some carried bows and began to ready them, and once they came within
range they would pick people off the air-sled with ease.

‘You must let me go, surr,’ said Flangers.

‘No!’ Nish ground out.

‘One man can’t jeopardise your chances of taking the
empire.’

Seized by the fear that Flangers would let go, to save them,
Nish cried, ‘Hang on, Lieutenant, and that’s an order.’

‘Surr,’ said Flangers.

The net could not be hauled over the side for fear that he
would be shaken free. Nish didn’t know what to do. His consciousness was slowly
fogging over and, once he lost his grip, he did not think Persia would be able
to hold Flangers.

‘Stay with us, Nish,’ she said. ‘Just another minute.’

‘What’s the point?’ he said weakly. ‘We can’t set down or
they’ll have us.’

‘Stay with us.’

He clenched his teeth and held on, and then little Aimee was
lowered down on a rope behind Flangers. She swiftly tied another line around
his middle, he was hauled up and the net heaved aboard, and it was over.

The air-sled shot away, the militia jeering at Vomix and
casting aspersions, undoubtedly true, on his parentage. He bellowed out a
volley of oaths, then his voice was lost in the whistle of air around the cabin
as they accelerated away.

Nish was laid on his back on the deck, biting down on his
wadded-up sleeve as the healers cut his trouser leg off and began to clean the
spike wounds. Now that he had nothing to distract him, the pain doubled and
redoubled until he could scarcely think of anything else.

‘Fly due west,’ he ground out, ‘towards the mountains. Make
– make sure they see us. After nightfall, head for Kralt.’

PART THREE

 
THE FINAL BATTLE

THIRTY-SIX

‘Where’s the fleet?’ said Flangers as the air-sled
slowly circled the cove at Kralt a few hours before dawn the following day. It
was a clear, hot night and the whole bay could be seen in the light of the
waning moon, but there were no ships at anchor, nor any troops visible. ‘Are
you sure this is the right place?’

Nish, who was wrapped in a blanket behind the pilot’s bench,
shivering one minute and burning the next, peered listlessly over the side. The
healers had done their best for his two thigh wounds but they were still a mass
of pain and the bone throbbed mercilessly.

‘Quite sure,’ said M’lainte, who held the map, though she
did not bother to check it. ‘Chissmoul, circle around low and slow, in case
it’s a trap.’

Chissmoul moved her fingers inside her controller but the
air-sled continued on its course. She swore, shook it and the craft turned,
though sluggishly.

‘Is something the matter?’ M’lainte said sharply.

‘The stupid controller is acting up again.’

‘I’ll take a look at it in a minute.’ M’lainte squatted
down, her plump knees popping, and rummaged in a wooden crate.

Chissmoul circled over the scrub behind the sand but when
there were no suspicious signs she set down on the middle of the beach, close
to the water.

‘Stay at your posts in case of an ambush …’ said M’lainte,
who had taken command as if she were born to it, ‘though our soldiers and ships
have gone.’

‘Gone?’ said Nish dully. ‘Without us?’

‘There are tracks in the sand at the far corner of the
beach. Yulla’s men must have crossed there, heading for that flat rock sticking
out over the water. It’s the best place to embark, quicker than carrying
everything through the surf.’

‘Why didn’t they wait?’ said Nish, trying to get up. He rose
halfway but could go no further; the pain was too bad.

‘How would I know?’ said M’lainte mildly. ‘Let’s see what we
can find. Guards, keep a sharp lookout. Lie down, Nish. You’re not looking too
good.’

He fell down, cracking his head on the deck. Persia, who was
ever solicitous of his welfare, put a folded coat under his head and spooned
more potion into him.

Flangers and Clech took a troop and quartered the area
behind the beach, searching the scrub with lanterns. Nish huddled under his
blanket, watching the lights, which kept going in and out of focus. One minute
the hot blood was roaring in his ears, the next he felt that he would never be
warm again.

‘There might be a perfectly good reason why the fleet has
gone,’ Persia said to Aimee and Clech, though from the tone of her voice she
was trying to convince herself.

‘I can think of several perfectly bad reasons,’ Aimee said
darkly.

Nish closed his eyes and drifted into a daze where time
passed slowly, then quickly, then seemed to stand still …

‘Wake up, surr.’ Flangers was shaking him.

Nish surfaced slowly, having no idea where he was or what he
was doing here, though he remembered a dream where he had been watched by
black-robed scriers. He had always been afraid of them and the dream-fear still
touched him. His hot, tight thigh throbbed with every heartbeat, and he was
incredibly thirsty.

‘Leg hurts.’

‘Bugger your leg,’ M’lainte said. ‘Pull yourself together;
we’re in trouble.’

He opened his eyes. He was still on the deck of the air-sled
and the sky was starting to lighten. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Chissmoul’s controller isn’t working.’

‘Are you saying the air-sled won’t go?’

‘It’s like last time,’ said Chissmoul. ‘It’ll go forwards,
but not up.’

‘Thought you fixed it, M’lainte?’ Talking made Nish’s head
ache.

‘This is a different problem,’ said M’lainte. ‘The
air-sled’s controller was so badly made I’m surprised it works at all.’

‘It’s taken a lot of punishment,’ said Chissmoul
defensively, as though criticism of any part of the craft was a criticism of
her.

‘Weren’t you making a better one?’ said Nish.

‘I haven’t had a chance to test it,’ said M’lainte.

He pushed himself upright, which felt like climbing a
mountain. She had something in her lap and her stubby fingers were working on
it in the semi-dark.

‘Drink,’ he croaked.

‘You’ve got a fever,’ said Persia exhaustedly. ‘You can’t
have strong drink.’

Her broken arm must be causing her a lot of pain and yet she
had watched over him all night. Nish bitterly regretted the way he had spoken
to her yesterday.

‘Give the sod a drink,’ said M’lainte, ‘and bring me one as
well – a big one. I’m going to need liquid inspiration to get this thing
working.’

Persia turned away stiffly.

‘I only wanted a drink of water,’ said Nish.

M’lainte chuckled. ‘Don’t spoil my fun; you should have seen
her face. Your prim and proper bodyguard doesn’t approve of strong drink.’

‘Don’t tease her,’ said Nish. ‘She saved my life.’

‘And you saved hers, so you’re even. Ah, Clech, what’s that
you’ve got?’

The giant was hopping across the deck on a pair of crutches,
swinging a familiar, stolen flagon in one enormous hand. Aimee trailed in his
wake.

‘Where did you get that?’ said Nish, remembering the
enchanting liqueur, though it was the last thing he wanted now.

‘Divers found it on the bottom when they were putting the
lifting ropes around the air-sled,’ said Clech. ‘Had to confiscate it, of
course.’

‘How come you didn’t give it back to Flydd?’

‘Reckon the old coot has had enough to last a lifetime.’
Clech pulled the bung out.

‘What’s the matter with you lot?’ Aimee snatched the flagon
from his hand and put it behind her back. ‘You’re not getting any ’till we’re
safe on board ship.’