The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (28 page)

The remaining food was hastily packed away; the Gendri
militia replenished their supplies from the enemy’s stores, and Nish’s troops
scoured the battlefield to refill their quivers and replace their notched
swords and battered shields. A network of ropes was strung across the rear half
of the air-sled for the troops to hang onto – a wise precaution with
Chissmoul at the helm.

Nish limped up to the top of the pass, in case the survivors
of Klarm’s army were planning a suicidal counter-attack, but they were already
out of sight. He took one last look at the rubble-filled slot where so many of
his troops had died, and the scoured slope down which his avalanche had passed,
then turned back, shaking his head at the futility of war.

By the time he reached the air-sled the fifteen injured were
being carried on, bound to their stretchers, which were tied fore and aft to
the safety ropes. After making their farewells, his militia crammed on.

Chissmoul sat at the front beneath the empty pennant pole,
in a seat made of wood and canvas fixed to the deck. Flydd stood beside her,
clutching the pole in one hand and his serpent staff in the other, and Nish
took his place on the other side.

‘Take it gently,’ said Flydd as Chissmoul slipped her
fingers in between the wires and crystals of the air-sled’s controller. ‘We’ve
got fragile passengers now, remember?’

‘I know,’ she said mildly.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

A flurry of cold rain swept up the pass. Lightning flashed;
there was a shattering crash of thunder and a deluge fell upon them. The Gendri
militia pulled their oilskin hoods over their heads, waved and turned down
towards the western gap, and the long march home.

‘Farewell,’ Nish said quietly, knowing that he was unlikely
to return to Gendrigore, or to see any of them again.

Flydd banged the tip of the serpent staff into a socket
beside the pennant pole. Chissmoul wiggled her fingers within the wires; an
inner crystal shafted out a single beam of blue light, as if to mark the way
forwards; the air-sled lifted, revolved on its axis and headed up and over the
pass, then south for the city of Taranta.

‘The first phase of the war is over,’ said Flydd. ‘Now the
real battle begins.’

 
TWENTY

‘I’m glad it is you, Maelys Nifferlin,’ said Zofloc,
‘since your coming led to the destruction of my master’s tower and the death of
her hopes. Had I been informed in time, I would have prevented it,
permanently
. In the aftermath I must
exact a suitable punishment – as a lesson to all who threaten my master’s
plans.’

The sorcerer’s black and glittering eyes were locked on her,
and Maelys remembered someone talking about him previously. Unlike the other
Whelm, who had no interest in any but their own kind, Zofloc took a keen
interest in normal humans … but not a healthy one.

‘W-what are you going to do to me?’ Her voice went hoarse.
Why, why hadn’t she answered when Yggur had called earlier?

‘I’m going to kill you with slow sorcery, then wrap your
broken body in a treated shroud to make a perfect print of your torments. And
wherever I go I will exhibit your death shroud, to demonstrate that our master
must never be trifled with. Come.’ He crooked a bony finger at her.

‘Er, no,’ said Maelys, edging sideways along the fire-licked
ice. ‘It’s awfully decent of you but I’m finished here now.’

How could she combat a sorcerer? What were the Whelm’s
weaknesses, anyway? Flydd had talked about the topic once, but what had he
said?

They had a terror, born of their long and tragic Histories,
of being cast out by their master. The Whelm were born to serve and without a
master they were tormented, purposeless creatures. Unfortunately, Maelys did
not see how she could use that fear.

The only other option was to run for her life. Whelm were
slow and awkward and, if she could get away, she might beat Zofloc to the base
of the steep shaft, but it would be exhausting to climb. Whelm were also
tireless and relentless, and if she slipped he would have her.

Once she reached the shaft she could scream for help, and
Tulitine and Yggur would probably hear her, but that was no help if they could
not find a way in.

She backed around the fire-eaten pillar. Zofloc followed,
unperturbed; clearly he wasn’t worried about her escaping. She moved faster,
realised that she could no longer see him, and whirled.

‘Aaaahhh!’

He had gone the other way and was right in front of her,
reaching out with those repulsive spatulate fingers. One more step and they
would have slid around her throat … or lower. She did not like the look in his
eyes, nor what she imagined his
interest
in humans was.

Spinning on one foot, Maelys bolted, but slipped on a frozen
puddle and went skating forwards, her arms wheeling. Unable to regain her
balance, she fell and skidded across the ice on her palms and knees, trying to
scrabble away.

Zofloc stalked after her, his jerky Whelm stride covering
the distance deceptively quickly, and caught her by the ankle before she could
get up. She kicked furiously but had no hope of freeing herself; he stood head
and shoulders above her and was immensely strong.

Yanking her backwards, he lifted her by the ankle and raised
his arm until her head dangled several handspans off the floor. Her loose
trouser legs slid down to her knees, exposing her chalk-white calves. Blood was
trickling from her left knee.

Holding her well away, Zofloc inspected her neat ankles and
slim calves. Maelys knew that she looked very different from the Whelm women,
who were generally tall and lean, with grey skin, thick, prominent bones and
large feet and hands. They certainly didn’t have her well-endowed thighs or
broad hips – their bodies were long and brick-shaped, with practically no
waist. No bosom either, she realised as her shirt slid down towards her bust.

He was so strong! His arm wasn’t even quivering from her
weight. She tried to kick him with her free foot but he caught her other ankle
and locked fingers and thumb around it.

Now he was staring at her bosom, squinting against the light
from the twinklestone, and she remembered another weakness of the Whelm. Being
creatures of the cloudy south and the deep forests, strong light was painful to
them.

Raising her hands as if to cover her chest, she yanked the
twinklestone off her forehead and stretched it as far as it would go. Instantly
its dumbbell shape swelled to the size of a pair of oranges and the light
flared so brightly that it hurt her eyes.

Zofloc cried out incoherently and dropped her on her head.
Fortunately she did not fall far, though it took a few seconds to recover from
the impact.

She found her feet and backed away, holding the
twinkle-stone high and watching him carefully. The sorcerer wasn’t pretending;
he was holding his callused grey hands in front of his streaming eyes, clearly
in pain. Knowing it was the only chance she was going to get, she fled back the
way she had come.

As she was squeezing through the narrow passage, she heard
his wooden sandals clapping against the floor. He was after her, and this time
he would be more careful. Maelys reached the end of the passage, where it
opened into the broad outer tunnel, and looked back.

She could no longer hear his footsteps, and when she shone
the twinklestone down the passage, it was empty. However, many such narrow
passages ran out from the centre; he must have taken another of them and he
would know how she’d entered the underground labyrinth. If he reached the steep
shaft before she did, she would be trapped.

And perhaps he knew a quicker way there. Her breath was
rasping in her throat, her stomach churning sickeningly. She turned right into
the broad tunnel and ran, only to realise that she’d gone the wrong way. Maelys
had never had a good sense of direction; she should have turned left, not
right.

She ran back, panting so loudly that Zofloc must hear her, and
surely he would be nearly there by now. As she pounded along, she held the
dazzling twinklestone out in front of her, for it was the only advantage she
had.

But not much of an advantage, she thought ruefully. If he
cornered her, he could advance with eyes closed and arms spread from one side
of the tunnel to the other, and catch her by feel.

Ahead she made out the steeply sloping shaft; her light was
winking off the broken permafrost. Maelys glanced over her shoulder but there
was no one behind her, and there were no side tunnels between her and the
shaft. She was going to make it after all.

Then Zofloc stood up suddenly; he’d been waiting a few spans
from the junction with the shaft, and he was laughing. She thrust out the
twinklestone but, as she’d predicted, he closed his eyes and spread his arms,
low down so she could not get by.

Putting on a burst of speed, she sprang as high as she
could, her left foot just grazing his right arm, and landed at chest height on
the slope of the shaft. Pain shrieked through her knees and her palms, and the
light went out. Where was the twinklestone? She must have dropped the wretched
thing and there was not a second to look for it. As she dragged herself up the
broken permafrost into the darkness, Zofloc’s sandals sounded below her and he
made a muffled crowing noise.

She was scrambling higher when a pinpoint of light reflected
back at her from an icy facet. You silly fool, Maelys thought, you landed on
the twinklestone and crushed it down to a mote; that’s what happened to the
light. It was still stuck to her finger but she didn’t have time to stretch it
to brightness, because the sorcerer was only a span below. And, she remembered,
Whelm could see in near darkness.

She scrambled up the slope, tearing the soft skin of her
palms on the iron-hard permafrost and praying that the speck-sized twinklestone
would not stick to it and be lost.

With a snorting grunt, Zofloc lunged. She threw herself
upwards but his flat fingertips caught the heel of her left boot, tightened, and
jerked. She tried to kick him, but he was holding her too tightly.

Maelys attempted to shake him loose though that did not work
either, and her foot began to slip out of her boot. If it was the only way to
get free she would gladly lose it. She wiggled her small foot back and forth,
it came out and she pulled herself up another half a span.

Her filthy sock kept catching on the broken surface so she
threw it in Zofloc’s face and kept going, up and up, though after she had
climbed five spans or so Maelys realised that she could not hear him. Was he
close? Or had he gone another way to cut her off?

She stood up, swaying on the steep surface, and stretched
the twinklestone until it reached its original size and cast bright light up
and down the shaft. Maelys checked below her, yelped and nearly fell into the
sorcerer’s arms, for he was only a span away. He had discarded his wooden
sandals and was creeping up like a four-legged insect, his broad, flat fingers
and toes clinging securely to the iciest surfaces.

Stretching the twinklestone to its fullest extent, Maelys
thrust it down at him. Pain wrenched his grim features out of shape and he
swayed backwards so far that it seemed impossible he could cling on, but he
crouched, turned his head away and began to move up again.

She would never escape him on hands and knees; she wasn’t
quick enough. Maelys stood and tried to run up the slope, but it was too steep;
her legs did not have the strength, nor her feet the grip.

Whacking the twinklestone against her forehead, she used her
fingers to pull herself up. The glow was so brilliant that she had to squint to
see, but there was no time to reduce it.

She gained a span; he closed the gap in a scrabbling lunge.
She forced herself up further; again he nearly caught her. Twice she turned and
pointed the twinklestone at him without warning, and twice he evaded the light
just in time.

Maelys was exhausted now, her strength failing rapidly, and
she wasn’t yet halfway. She would never make it to the top. Might as well get
frostbite in both feet as in one, she thought, then wrenched her other boot off
and hurled it at Zofloc’s head.

At this range she could hardly miss and, with his eyes
screwed shut, he did not see it. The boot heel slammed into his nose with a
satisfying crunch, and he swayed backwards. His feet slipped and for one
glorious moment she thought he was going to fall all the way, but he caught a
firm hand-hold a few spans below her and hung on.

She’d gained a respite, though only a temporary one. ‘Yggur,
Tulitine!’ she screamed. ‘Help, help!’

The distorted echoes chased themselves up and down the
permafrost shaft, slowly dying away, and she thought she heard a reply, though
she could not make out any words. Yggur and Tulitine certainly weren’t nearby;
they must not have found a way in.

Now Zofloc was coming again, every breath making a repulsive
nasal gurgling. Blood was flooding from his nose; he licked it away with a long
grey tongue. If anything, he was moving faster than before. She’d hurt him and
clearly he planned to brutalise her, before … before he made that shroud from
her battered and broken body.

‘Help!’ she cried plaintively.

He looked up, eyes carefully averted, and smiled. They both
knew it would soon be over. Only one thing could save her now: the
dimensionless box, and if she unfolded it and held it edge-on, he could not see
it.

Maelys unbuttoned her pocket, carefully caught the
scrunched-up box by its edge, as Yggur had held it, and drew it out. While
she’d been thinking about the attack, Zofloc had climbed another span. Now he
was crouching not far below, his lower face smeared with blood.

She backed up a step, then another, but one of his long
strides closed the gap again. Maelys held the twinklestone out before her, like
a weapon. He glanced at her, sideways, then hastily away. His eyes were
watering but as long as he kept them averted from the light he could still see.