The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1) (34 page)

Maelys sprang from the shadows, threw her right arm around
his neck and dug the point of her knife in under his ribs. Nish, standing half
turned and straining to hold Monkshart’s weight, could see the fury on the
acolyte’s face, and the stealthy movement of his knife hand as he prepared to
hack into her side.

‘Put down the knife,’ Nish said, ‘or I’ll drop your master
into the pit. Harm Maelys and he dies, and curse the consequences.’

Monkshart had gone as rigid as a board, but he’d regained
self-control, or perhaps come to an acceptance of his fate. ‘Let it go, Phrune.
The Deliverer has mastered me.’

Phrune could hardly bring himself to do it. It was touch and
go whether the lust for violence twisting his chubby features could be
overcome, or whether he’d strike anyway. The stiletto was shaking in his hand,
inching into striking position.

‘Down!’ choked Monkshart.

With an awful grimace, Phrune tossed the stiletto to the
side. Maelys jerked his head backwards then thrust him stumbling the other way.
Before he could recover, she snatched up the blade, her breast heaving. She’d
gone close to being disembowelled, and knew it.

‘Well, Monkshart?’ said Nish. ‘Will you swear to serve the Deliverer
this time?’

‘I swear it upon my faith and holy purpose,’ Monkshart said
thickly, his face a congested purple. The panic was gone, and Nish could not
help but admire his strength of will, to say nothing of his resilience.

Nonetheless, he held Monkshart above the drop for another
half minute, reinforcing his dominance and even taking a shameful pleasure in
revenge, until his arms began to shake. He hastily drew the zealot back from
the edge and allowed his long legs to drop to the floor. ‘I’ll be giving the
orders now, Monkshart.’

‘Of course, Deliverer.’

Monkshart sat up, rubbing the back of his head, wincing and
inspecting his fingers. He wiped off the threads of blood seeping through his
torn gloves. ‘You’re a bold man, as the Deliverer has to be.’ He had so gained
control of himself that he revealed neither terror nor anger. He climbed to his
feet, indicating the chairs. ‘Bring refreshments, Phrune; the best we have.
This is a moment to celebrate.‘

Phrune, his eyes glittering with malice, jerked his head and
went out.

‘You don’t believe I can change,’ said Monkshart, sitting
down and repeatedly smoothing the torn leathers to cover his inflamed calves.
‘And why should you? But when you came to Tifferfyte, Deliverer, you showed
none of the strength or determination needed to take on the mantle bestowed on
you. To put it crudely, you weren’t up to it. If the Defiance were to have any
hope of success I had to take on the role of puppet master. It was a role I
assumed reluctantly, and one which, now you’ve exhibited the qualities
required, I’m happy to relinquish.’

‘You’re right,’ said Maelys, holding the knife out low,
blade upwards, in imitation of Phrune’s expert stance. ‘We do find it difficult
to believe.’

‘But not impossible,’ said Nish, ‘as long as you live up to
your words. The balance has changed, Monkshart. We’ll work together to overcome
the God-Emperor, and I’ll listen to your advice, but the final decision will
always be mine.’

‘Master.’ Monkshart bowed his head.

He seemed genuine this time, but he always had. Monkshart
was a consummate actor and a master manipulator. Nish decided to reserve
judgement. All that mattered was that they be able to cooperate to bring down
his father’s realm.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Maelys wearily. ‘He’ll say
anything to get what he wants. Judge him by his slimy acolyte.’

Monkshart looked pained, though he said calmly, ‘You’re
entitled to think that way, Maelys. I won’t attempt to persuade
you
.’

‘What happened?’ Nish said shortly, looking at Monkshart’s legs.
Straw-coloured fluid was now weeping through the ruined tissue-leathers.

‘The kiss of the tears,’ said the zealot. ‘Should you ever
be in a position to take them, Deliverer, beware!’

‘Father thrust my hands into the tears and they didn’t hurt
me. Did you try to steal them?’

Monkshart clenched his fists, then waited until he’d calmed
himself before saying, ‘I held to my oath to your father, as I’ve already
stated. I – I dare say you’re entitled to know. Jal-Nish would have
shielded you from the kiss of the tears but he couldn’t protect me. It was at
the end of the battle for Gumby Marth, when he was defeated by the great lyrinx
sorcerer, Anabyng, and I carried your half-dead father to safety on my back. He
begged me to go back for the tears and, much against my better judgement, I did
so. They were still singing with power from the monumental struggle and, in the
brief minutes I held them before I gave them up to Jal-Nish, they burned me all
over.’

‘All over?’

‘Inside as well as out.’ Monkshart screwed up his eyes for a
moment. ‘Such pain,’ he said in a faint voice. ‘You cannot imagine it,
Deliverer, for it was like no kind of burn I’ve ever had. It crisped me like a
chicken’s skin in a hot oven, even to the soles of my booted feet, and as you
see, all these years later I still suffer from it. Only Phrune’s balms can keep
the pain at bay.’

Nish made a disgusted sound in his throat.

‘I know what you think of him,’ Monkshart went on. ‘Poor
Phrune repulses everyone he meets. He always has, and he can’t understand why.
I’m his one friend, and in return he looks after me as no one else can.’
Self-disgust flickered in his eyes, then he added quickly, ‘His potions and
unguents are unique. Moreover, his enchanted tissue-leathers protect me from
the torment of touch, and I can’t do without him.’

He held Nish’s eyes for some time, as if weighing him,
before continuing, ‘I wasn’t afflicted by these rages before I touched the
tears. And so you see, Cryl-Nish, the webs of obligation that tied your father
to me were strong, layered, and complex. That’s why he swore never to harm me.
Ah, Phrune comes.’

Phrune bore a tray of tiny orange cakes and three rock-glass
goblets whose bowls were no bigger than eggcups, each containing a viscous
yellow-green liqueur. Its luscious bouquet made Nish salivate. Phrune handed
the goblets around, then offered the cakes.

Monkshart’s eyes lit up. ‘The very last of the aged
gellon
liqueur! A fitting way to toast
the end of an era, since gellon is unobtainable now at any price.’

‘And the beginning of a new era; the age of the common man,’
said Nish sententiously, raising his glass and sniffing deeply before taking a
small sip. ‘That’s good.’

‘You’re not joining us, Phrune?’ said Monkshart.

‘I see little to celebrate,’ Phrune grated, casting a
malicious look at Maelys, ‘and there wasn’t enough for four.’

‘Very well!’ Monkshart said sharply. ‘I won’t keep you from
your bed. I know how much pleasure you take from your activities there.’

Phrune reacted as though he’d been slapped, then flounced
out.

‘To business,’ said Nish. ‘I’ve looked into the Pit of
Possibilities, Monkshart, and what you showed me wasn’t there.’

‘Nonetheless, it is
one
of your possible futures,’ the zealot said blandly. ‘I judged it the only one
that would convince you – the former irresolute you, I mean – that
you
could
become the Deliverer.’

‘I don’t like to be lied to.’

‘The God-Emperor must be cast down,’ said Monkshart, ‘and it
can’t be done by the weak or squeamish. Nor is there much time.’

‘Less than you think. Vomix has a huge army surrounding the
mountain and they could attack as soon as the morning.’

‘No!’ Monkshart sprang right out of his chair. ‘The sentries
would have told me. I saw it coming in five days’ time –’

‘Look again, Monkshart. It would be ironic indeed if your
failure in the Pit of Possibilities cost the Defiance its only chance.’

‘Phrune!’ Monkshart bellowed down the corridor.

Phrune came running. ‘Master?’

‘Run up to the lookout, quick, and tell me what you see.’

Phrune dashed up the path and disappeared. Shortly an
inarticulate cry echoed down, then he reappeared, staggering from side to side.
‘The sentries are dead but there’s no mark on them. And there are lights as far
as the eye can see. A gigantic army surrounds the mountain, making no attempt
at concealment, and I saw flappeters wheeling in the moonlight. We’re undone,
Master.’

 
TWENTY-FIVE

‘Pull yourself together,’ Monkshart snapped. ‘He won’t
attack until his army is here. How close are the foot soldiers?’

‘Two hours, I’d guess.’

‘The Deliverer and I have much to do before we can take the
secret way. We’ll need at least that long.’

‘If you know a secret way,’ said Nish, ‘you’d better get the
villagers into it.’

‘It’s a dangerous path and there are … problems to be solved
first,’ said Monkshart. He glanced at Maelys, whose head was nodding. ‘Such
beautiful skin. It’s as soft as I’ve ever seen.’

An odd turn of phrase, to Nish’s mind, though he was too
weary to pursue it. With the lateness of the hour, and all that had happened
since he got up, and now the liqueur singing in his veins, he was finding it
hard to concentrate.

‘Her one good feature.’ Phrune reached out to touch her arm
but Monkshart shook his head. ‘Shall I take her?’ the acolyte went on.

‘What?’ Nish said thickly.

‘To bed,’ Monkshart said smoothly, rubbing a frayed patch on
his left glove. ‘Are my new gloves ready?’

‘They tore in the tanning, Master. The charm goes wrong,
sometimes. I –’

Monkshart went cold. ‘I have to have them, Phrune.’

‘I know. I’ve already begun –’

‘How long?’

‘A couple of hours. But if we had twice that, I could make
you the finest gloves you’ve ever had. They would caress –’

‘There isn’t time,’ Monkshart said regretfully. ‘What a
waste. I’ll have to go with what you have. Take her, Phrune, and come straight
back.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Nish said hastily, knowing how Maelys felt
about Phrune. He carried her out. Her eyes drifted open, she smiled, settled
her head against his shoulder and didn’t stir as he laid her on the bed and
folded the covers over her.

‘What if you were to send the Deliverer’s true believers out
to his defence,’ Phrune was saying slyly as Nish returned, ‘to sacrifice
themselves while you lead him away, shrouded by an illusion created from the
possibilities from the pit?’

‘No!’ Nish advanced on Monkshart. ‘I’m not starting this
campaign the way my father would. We’re taking the villagers with us.’

Monkshart and Phrune exchanged pregnant glances, as if Nish
was again displaying a lack of the required mettle. ‘Alas, if only we could,’
said Monkshart.

‘Why can’t we?’

‘The secret way is perilous, even for the best prepared
mancers.
Especially
for the best
prepared, since those strong in the Art or in physical strength are more
susceptible than the weak. The paths we must take are not entirely of this
world, and so deadly that, without the protection of a certain potion, none of
us could survive them. Unfortunately I’ve only been able to prepare enough for
us.’

He withdrew a small box from a pouch and prised open the
lid. Inside, a crystal phial was wrapped in blue velvet. Nish held out his hand
and, after a brief hesitation, Monkshart gave it to him. Nish held the phial up
to the light. It was half full – a couple of teaspoons at most.

‘So all along you’ve been planning to abandon the villagers
to their deaths!’

‘Deliverer, you see evil where there is none. I never
intended to leave here by the secret paths, because they’re too draining. We
were going to retreat down the steep western ridge-path, cross the stream at
the Ford of Milbo and take refuge in the endless caverns of Spondee. We could
hide from a dozen armies there, but with my spies captured and the mountain
surrounded, that way is now impossible. Yet if the villagers surrender …’

‘They’ll die like the rebels they are,’ said Nish. ‘You know
that as well as I do.’ He expected Monkshart to tell some glib lie but the
zealot surprised him again.

‘Aye,’ said Monkshart. ‘There’s no hope for them now.’

‘But there is for us,’ Phrune said with that sickly smile.
‘They can give us the extra hour we need.’

‘How?’ said Nish.

‘Your followers love you, Deliverer, and they’ll willingly
fight to the death for you. Indeed, they’ll glory in their martyrdom, knowing
that their deaths are helping to create a better future for their absent
families, and the whole world.’

Had Monkshart said it, the words might have had a certain
grandeur – a noble sacrifice – but from Phrune’s mouth they sounded
sick, as though the villagers’ lives meant nothing and their deaths gave him a
perverted pleasure.

‘I won’t –’ Nish began.

‘They’re doomed, Deliverer,’ said Monkshart softly. ‘Would
you deny them a chance to give their lives for the noblest cause of all?’

The zealot’s arguments were self-serving, yet despite Nish’s
repugnance for the idea, he felt tempted. Having taken up the challenge of
becoming the Deliverer, why not fashion something from the villager’s deaths if
they were going to die anyway? The coming struggle must cost thousands of lives
and if he were too squeamish to face up to the consequences he might as well
abandon the cause right now.

‘Very well,’ Nish said, feeling ill. ‘But I’ll go up and
speak to them first, to offer them the choice. I won’t sneak away like a cur
– as Father did – leaving them to die.’

‘Not like a cur, no, but you must come with me now,’ said
Monkshart. ‘The circle is drawing ever tighter and there’s much to do before we
take the perilous paths. Phrune will speak to the villagers on your behalf.’ He
rose.