The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) (42 page)

‘So you believe that Father can conquer Gendrigore.’

Tulitine sighed. ‘This is not a wealthy land – or
rather, the wealth of Gendrigore lies in its forests and the creatures that
inhabit them, but there is no way to tap that wealth from outside. Gendrigore
is not rich in jewels or ores, rare spices or costly fabrics. It’s rugged and
rocky; its patches of fertile farmland are small, steep and difficult to farm.
It has little that can be traded outside its boundaries, and so there is no
pressing reason to plunder, or invade.’

‘Are you saying that previous attackers weren’t serious?’

‘Must I spell everything out for you? I’d have thought, as
the son of the God-Emperor, that you would understand.’

‘You must!’ Nish snapped, nettled. He didn’t like being
compared to his father in any way, nor did he appreciate the implication that,
as the son of such a monster, he should also be a master of the cunning arts.

‘Gendrigore’s previous attackers were small armies driven
solely by greed, and any prisoners they took would have told them how poor this
country was. After discovering that they had little to gain here compared to
what they had already lost, they did not persist.’

‘Father isn’t driven by greed,’ said Nish. ‘Gendrigore has
nothing he wants, apart from me. But if he’s learned of Vivimord’s death, he
will punish Gendrigore for the insult done to the man who saved his life. He
cannot do otherwise, and once he begins the attack he dare not fail, for that
would show weakness. He was defeated on Mistmurk Mountain; if it happens again
it could encourage rebellions all over the place and fatally undermine him, so
Father will crush Gendrigore out of existence to teach the rest of the world a
lesson.’

‘He must,’ said Tulitine.

‘Do you think he’s on the way?’

‘I have been reading the wind, and listening to the cries of
the birds and the squeaks of the bats, and the calls of the dolphins.’

What was she trying to tell him? That she was a Wind Talker
and a Bird Caller? Or was she merely in tune with the natural world?

‘What do they tell you, Tulitine?’

‘The bats squeak about a great army on the march from
Pashnak and Huccadory, cities east of here in Northern Crandor. The dolphins
talk of a fleet of ships leaving the safe harbour of Turtle Haven, heading west
towards Gendrigore.’

He sprang up so hastily that he slipped on the wet rock near
the cliff edge, and his arms windmilled for a few seconds before he regained
his balance. He moved well back. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ he said
hoarsely, shocked at his carelessness.

‘I knew how you would react,’ she said drily, ‘and I didn’t
want you to fall over the cliff before I was sure what the signs meant.’

‘But you’re sure now.’

‘The cry of that dolphin confirmed it. A battle fleet is
sailing east, though that doesn’t mean your father intends to attack
Gendrigore.’

Nish knew in his bones that Jal-Nish was coming. ‘Barquine
said Gendrigore can’t be attacked by sea. Is that right?’

‘I believe so. The few inlets along Gendrigore’s coast are
cliff-bound, and the currents that race between the reefs surrounding this
little peninsula are vicious. Only a foolhardy captain would approach such a
shore.’

‘Jal-Nish cares nothing for the lives of his men,’ Nish
mused, ‘but he won’t risk the humiliation of losing a fleet. It will be
carrying more land troops, and all manner of engines of war. How long do we
have, Tulitine?’

‘They will reach Taranta in days, and disembark there. The
land armies? Perhaps another week and a half.’

‘The troops from the fleet won’t head for The Spine until
the armies arrive. Father only attacks when he has overwhelming strength. How
long would it take his army to march from Taranta to the top of The Spine?’

‘You’d have to ask Barquine, though I expect it would take
another week.’

‘And how long for Gendrigore’s army,
which it doesn’t have
, to get into position to defend Blisterbone
Pass?’

‘A couple of weeks, from here.’

‘How big are Father’s armies?’

‘The birds and the bats didn’t say. They’re not very good at
counting.’ She smiled.

Panic tied Nish’s intestines into a painful knot. Jal-Nish
would hardly come with an army of less than ten thousand men, plus battle
mancers, flesh-formed beasts and all manner of terrible engines of war. How
could Gendrigore oppose such a force, even with its advantages of mountain and
cliff and wild, wild weather? It wasn’t a populous land, and its few towns and
many villages were far apart. It would take weeks to round up a core of raw
recruits, assuming he could convince them to come at all, and if a militia of a
thousand men could be raised, he would be astonished.

‘A thousand untrained, ill-disciplined and badly armed
youths,’ said Nish, ‘against a professional force of battle-hardened men ten
times that number – it doesn’t bear thinking about.

‘It’s not quite that bad, Nish. No army could cross
Liver-Leech Pass, though the survivors of a broken army might scale The Spine
to Blisterbone, if the weather allows it. But there a few hundred men, if they
stood fast, could hold the pass against an army in the wet season, which is
now.’

‘What about the dry season?’

‘Gendrigore doesn’t have a dry season. There’s only the
wet
season, and then the
really
wet season – and in the really
wet season not even a forest rat could cross The Spine, for there are no
bridges, no fords, and every gully is a torrent of wild water and rolling
boulders that will grind everything in it to paste.’

‘How long is it until the
really wet
season?’

‘A few weeks, if it comes on time, and it lasts for five
months. so if you can hold Blisterbone until it begins, Gendrigore will be safe
for half a year. A lot can happen in that time.’

‘If The Spine becomes impassable, how do we get down again
once the really wet season comes?’

‘In great haste,’ chuckled Tulitine. ‘It takes a week or two
to build up.’

‘Leaving a small window for the enemy to follow us.’

‘Not in the really wet season. Your father would call his
generals back, be sure of it.’

The Spine sounded like a nightmare but Nish couldn’t see any
choice. His new-found resolve was burning in him, and if he had to fight his
father all the way he was going to start here, right now.

‘I’ll try to defend the pass, if I can raise a force. I dare
say Gendrigore will have armour, weapons, and so forth?’

‘Nearly everyone hunts from time to time; they have bows and
know how to use them. And I imagine there’ll be a rusty sword or two lying
around,’ she said lightly, ‘though most would have been reforged into more useful
tools long ago, since iron is rare here, and expensive. But as for armour
– who could wear it in this climate? You’d collapse with heat stroke.’

Nish rubbed his stinging neck, dislodging a thousand gnats
bloated with his blood. He’d moved too far away from the edge. ‘There won’t be
time to make many swords, even if I can get the steel; good swords take ages to
make from scratch and they won’t be a match for the equipment Father’s soldiers
have. Our smiths can make spearheads, at least, though amateurs with spears
against trained swordsmen … No, to defend the pass I’ve got to have a force
armed with bows, spears and swords; a few hundred, at least, and they’ll have
to be trained.’

He thought through all that had to be done before they could
leave for the pass, then sank his head in his hands. The conclusion was
inescapable. ‘It can’t be done. If it takes a week to round up a small militia
– I can’t possibly call them an
army
– and another fortnight to get them into place, there won’t be any time
for training.’

Tulitine laid her old hand on his arm. ‘It looks bleak, I
agree. You can’t possibly fight him in battle and win, so you must find another
way.’

‘What other way? Father thinks of everything. He will have
identified his army’s every weakness by now, and found ways to strengthen
them.’

‘Then forget about trying to identify his weaknesses. Work
out his army’s strengths and try to find ways to turn them against him.’

‘I’ve no idea how,’ Nish said acidly. ‘Perhaps you’d care to
point out a way for me.’

‘I’m a healer, not a warrior. I don’t fight wars.’

‘I wish I didn’t.’

 
THIRTY-ONE

‘
Ketila, No!
’
Colm screamed. He threw his arms up to catch her but she was already falling
out past him.

Maelys managed to get a couple of fingers to Ketila's billowing
shirt. The weathered fabric tore apart. She watched her all the way down to the
rocks at the base of the cleft, then wished she hadn’t.

‘Ketila!’

In all her life, Maelys had not heard such anguish. He threw
his arms up, clawing at the sky; his mouth was a raw hole, his eyes black pits
of despair. Then he started down the crevasse, springing from rock to rock with
reckless desperation.

‘She’s gone, Colm,’ said Flydd, swaying into his path.

‘Get–out–of–my–way!’

Flydd put his arm out, blocking the way down. ‘You can’t do
anything for her. I’m really sorry.’

‘Ketila could still be alive and I’m not leaving her to die
alone, Flydd. I’m all she’s got.’

He tried to force Flydd out of the way. Flydd raised his
hand, touched Colm in the middle of the forehead and his eyes went blank.

‘You can’t do this to me,’ he said in a dead voice.

‘
Go up!
’ It was a
command this time, with all the Art Flydd could summon behind it.

Colm gave a terrible moan, deep in his throat, but he went.
Maelys followed, barely able to look at him, or Flydd. She did not glance down
again, for Ketila must have died instantly. Even so, Maelys would not have
stopped Colm.

‘Why did I throw away the amulet?’ she whispered. ‘With it I
might have kept Rurr-shyve back. I might have prevented this. If only I had …’

Colm turned stiffly, his white-hot stare on her. You allowed
her to die, he seemed to be saying. It’s your fault. Maelys’s eyes locked with
his and she could not tear away.

‘Go up!’ said Flydd.

Colm went, and Maelys followed, every nerve screaming fool,
fool!

Flydd dragged himself up the crevasse on will alone, until
finally they reached the top. It was a dome some five spans wide, with a chilly
wind rushing across it. The male flappeter was spiralling down, still
trumpeting in agony. Rurr-shyve’s rider was circling the pinnacle and the
archer who had fired the fatal shot held a clenched fist high in triumph. The
leading soldiers coming along the ridge to the north went to their knees and
aimed their bows.

‘Surely they can’t hit us from there?’ said Maelys, ducking
just in case.

‘If they put enough arrows into the air, one or two are
bound to find their mark. Get down, Colm.’

Colm stood on the brink of the crag facing the archers, as
if daring them to shoot him. A flight of arrows soared up at them. Maelys
flinched. The archers following them up the cliffs were almost within range.

‘Keep low,’ said Flydd. ‘Stand by me and be ready.’ He
lowered his voice. ‘The instant the portal opens – if it does –
take hold of Colm and make sure he comes through.’ He knelt down and took a
small grey globule from his pocket. It had a rubbery appearance.

‘What’s that?’ said Maelys.

‘An envelope formed from the wall of the Nightland.’

‘And it’s for?’

‘I inflated it around the virtual construct before I came
through the portal, then allowed the envelope to shrink to its original size.
Everything inside it should have shrunk proportionally.’

‘What if it squashed the virtual construct into a blob, like
parts of the Nightland had been squashed?’

‘The construct isn’t solid, so it can’t be squashed … at
least, I hope not.’ Flydd did not sound as certain as he had previously.
Holding it out on his palm, he began to mouth the words of the mancery that
would restore it to full size.

Maelys kept watch on their attackers. For the moment, the
male flappeter didn’t offer any threat, though Rurr-shyve was climbing rapidly
into the window of clear air to the north-east, the one place unaffected by the
archers’ attack.

A rain of arrows flashed silver as they climbed into late
beams of sunlight, then fell around the left side of the crag. None hit, though
one shattered not far from Maelys, driving splinters into her left knee.

Hurry, Flydd.

The archers fired again. Rurr-shyve had climbed above the
level of the crag and was hovering, waiting for the arrows to fall. Down below,
the male flappeter was climbing slowly. Its rider had regained control.

Arrows rattled on the sides and top of the crag. One speared
through the back of Colm’s right boot heel, another flashed past Flydd’s
outstretched hand. He dropped the globule but caught it again, still mouthing
the spell. His eyes were screwed up as he attempted to visualise their
destination.

The Island of Noom – the Tower of a Thousand Steps.
After all she’d heard about the Numinator, it was impossible to think they
would be safer there. And yet, surely anything had to be better than Jal-Nish?

Flydd completed his spell, but the little envelope of the
Nightland failed to expand. The archers on the ridge fired a third time and
this volley was tighter, focused on the top of the crag. The male flappeter was
climbing rapidly now, heading straight for them, toothy maw gaping, its
collapsed compound eye fluttering in the wind.

‘It’s racing Rurr-shyve,’ she said absently, watching it
hurtle towards them, fluid leaking from its eye.

‘Why won’t it work?’ muttered Flydd. ‘Can some other Art be
interfering with it?’ Laying the envelope carefully in a hollow where it would
not be blown away, he went down on his belly and peered over the edge.