The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1) (50 page)

‘Help!’ Nish shouted. ‘Help, help!’ He scrabbled the other
way, saw a small gap between the tent wall and the ground and tried to roll
through it. The stitches popped in his back but he barely felt it. He couldn’t
think about anything but getting through that gap, though he knew he was too
slow.

He was expecting to be stabbed to death when two men burst
in through the flap and hurled themselves on the treacherous guard. Tearing the
knife from his hand, they dragged him outside and gave him the beating of his
life. Nish could hear fists and boots striking flesh for a long time, then a
man said, ‘He’s bleeding bad.’

Not even Monkshart could discover who had corrupted the
guard, for in the middle of the beating he’d thrust a hidden dagger into his
femoral artery and bled to death in a minute.

Zham was abject when he appeared at the flap, as if it
had been his fault for not standing guard twenty-four hours a day. ‘I’m sorry,
surr,’ he said, his broad jaw knotting. ‘I was so tired I had to sleep for a
few hours. It won’t –’

‘Zham, it’s not your fault,’ Nish said wearily, for he ached
all over and his back was in agony. The healer redoing his stitches was nowhere
near as gentle as the one who still haunted his dreams.

‘Of course it’s his fault,’ Monkshart said coldly from the
background. ‘He set himself up as your protector and –’

‘Monkshart,’ Nish gritted. ‘Get out of my tent and don’t
ever come back without my express invitation.’

There was a dead silence. The healer stifled a gasp, bent
over and busied herself with her stitching.

‘Deliverer –’ said Monkshart in a strained voice.

‘Out, and if you trouble me again I’ll set
my
Defiance on you.’

It felt good to humble him; foolhardy but very good. At that
moment, if Nish could have crushed Monkshart like a cockroach he would have
done it. The tables were turned and from now on he’d be the one giving orders.
The astonishing victory in battle had confirmed his authority.

Monkshart’s eyes flashed; he ground his teeth together,
looking as though he was going to burst with rage. Only with the most enormous
effort did he maintain self-control and bow his head as if deferring to his
master.

‘Surr!’ he said formally, then stalked to the flap, flung it
open and went out.

‘Deliverer,’ the healer said quietly, ‘You’ve made an enemy
who will never forgive you. And he’ll deal with Zham and me for overhearing.’

She wasn’t reproaching Nish, though she had a right to. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said, and he was. ‘Gather your gear and go home to your village
right away. And thank you, for all you’ve done for me.’

‘Beware, surr,’ she added on the way out. ‘There’s something
wrong inside Monkshart.’

Nish’s euphoria faded and he began to feel the burst
stitches. Why hadn’t he shown more self-control? His life was difficult enough
without making an enemy of his most powerful ally. He should have sent Zham to
fetch Monkshart back and made amends, but the pain caught up with him first and
he couldn’t face it.

Only after the nurse had gone, and Zham had taken up his
post, did it occur to Nish to wonder who wanted him dead. And why.

The caravan rolled on without incident apart from nightly
attacks by flappeters and other flying creatures, unidentifiable in the
darkness. These did little damage, for Monkshart’s guards kept close watch now,
and bonfires burning on all four sides of the camp gave them good light in which
to fire their heavy crossbows. Massed fire had brought one flap-peter down,
after which the others kept out of range.

Two days after the first attempt on his life, Nish was lying
awake listening to his night guards boasting about how easily the latest attack
had been beaten off, when something rustled on the canvas floor of his tent. He
turned up the wick of his lantern and froze, for what he was looking at
couldn’t possibly exist.

It was a nylatl, or something horrifyingly like it – a
creature he’d fought in ages past and one that had very nearly defeated him.
Nylatl had been flesh-formed by the enemy during the war for one purpose alone
– to kill as quickly, brutally and terrifyingly as possible. Near the end
of the war, once it had been discovered that flesh-formed creatures gave forth
an unmistakeable aura which was identifiable from a distance with the Seeking
Art, all such beasts had been hunted down and exterminated.

All save this one. He could smell its hot carrion stink,
like rotten meat thrown on a hotplate, but Nish couldn’t move. The new healer
had bound his left arm to his side and strapped him to the bed so he couldn’t
burst the stitches again.

‘Help!’ Nish yelled, but he couldn’t shout loudly enough.
After the first attack, his tent had been set up on its own with twenty paces
of open space in every direction, and if his guards were dead he’d have to roar
to wake anyone. ‘Help!’

The guards burst through the door and froze, staring at this
creature out of the Histories. It was the length of a dog, though lower to the
ground, with a long fanged mouth, vicious claws on all four feet, and all but
the underside was covered in needle-tipped spines which were already oozing
venom.

The leading guard, a stocky, scarred, red-faced fellow who
looked like a blacksmith, drew his sword and lunged. The nylatl was quicker.

Arching its back like a cat, it squirted a third of a cup of
milky green venom at his eyes. He let out a thin wail, not loud enough to be
heard at the nearest tent, staggered sideways and collapsed, clawing at his
face, which began to blister like pastry rising in an overly hot oven. The
blisters burst to reveal raw red flesh beneath.

The second guard, who was small, wiry and fleet of foot,
shielded his eyes with his left arm as he hacked and slashed but, as Nish knew
painfully well, nylatl never attacked in the same way twice.

It lost a couple of spines to the guard’s blade, then its
haunches bunched and it propelled itself at him as if fired from a catapult. He
tried to weave out of the way but the nylatl rolled in mid-air, opened its
massive jaws and, as it landed on his upper chest, closed them around his
throat. Blood fountained across the room.

The nylatl tore through the guard’s throat as he went down,
exposing veins, sinews and windpipe, then threw its head back and swallowed the
chunk of his living flesh. Blood slicked back along its neck as if blown by a
high wind. It stood on his chest for a moment but, instead of turning its head,
it gave a little jump-jump, rotating in the air, and came down facing Nish. Its
glittering eyes fixed on him and he felt its presence in his mind, compelling
him as the first one had tried to do, long ago.

Come to me. Come.
Come.

Had he not been strapped to the bed, Nish would have gone,
for in his weakened state he lacked the strength to resist it. He stared at the
beast, knowing it was going to eat his face.

It sprang again, arcing high over the first writhing guard
before landing on its four feet and tail. It had halved the distance between it
and him. Its gory mouth opened and it appeared to smile, then it propelled
itself through the air and thumped onto the wooden bedhead. It teetered back
and forth like a child’s toy, and on every swing its yawning mouth came so
close that he could smell blood and carrion on its breath, and see the ruddy
glare in its mesmerising eyes.

As it rocked back the third time, a strand of reeking red
saliva oozed from its mouth to drape itself across Nish’s forehead, burning
like a red-hot wire. His free hand swung up involuntarily, to wipe it away. The
nylatl lunged and for a second he thought it was going to tear his fingers off,
but it drew back, going pant-pant in a way which suggested laughter. It seemed
even more malicious than the ones he’d encountered previously, and more
intelligent. Was it toying with him?

He heard feet thumping on the hard ground outside. ‘Nylatl!’
he croaked, ‘Look out.’

The nylatl arched its spiny tail up over its head like the
sting of a scorpion, then snapped it down as if trying to get him in the
throat. Nish tried desperately to get out of its way but the straps held him
and one of its spines plunged deep into the muscle of his upper chest, just
below the right collarbone.

It hurt far worse than the arrow wound or the burst
stitches. The spine must have gone in half the length of a finger and he could
feel venom squirting into his flesh, eating into him like hot acid.

‘Deliverer?’ a man cried hoarsely.

Only Zham could have wielded the huge sword advancing
through the flap. A hairy fist, the size of a small melon, followed it. ‘Look
out,’ Nish gasped.

Nish didn’t doubt the big man’s courage but Zham seemed the
last person who could tackle a creature with the lightning reflexes and
malicious cunning of a nylatl. Its head swayed back and forth between Nish and
Zham as if it couldn’t decide whom it most wanted to savage, then it sprang low
and fast towards Nish’s belly and twisted around to face him, claws ripping
through his shirt. It was either going to tear his face off or eat his entrails
while he was still alive.

But it didn’t. It just crouched there, watching him. Zham
lunged and the point of his sword shot out, flicking back and forth too quickly
to see. The nylatl tried to swerve away, evidently decided there wasn’t time,
sprang and landed on the flat of the blade, its scaly feet scrabbling for a
purchase. The sword dipped under its weight and Zham swung it away from Nish.

The nylatl clung to the moving sword for a couple of seconds
before streaking up the blade towards Zham’s unprotected hand. He was going to
die the way the two guards had.

Zham spun the sword in mid-air in the centre of the tent, so
hard that it blurred like the spinning rotor of an air-dreadnought, with a
streaked-out red and black clump clinging to the end. The nylatl lost its grip,
shot up and struck the ridgepole. It tried to flip over to cling there but
missed and hit the floor on its back, where it lay for a second as if dazed.

‘It’s pretending!’ Nish cried as Zham leapt.

As it rolled over, Zham’s gigantic boot came down on it as
if squashing a cockroach. Putting all his weight on it, he twisted left and
right, flattening it against the hard ground. Yellow froth boiled out of its
mouth. He kept his weight there while it vainly tried to claw through his boot.
Zham ground it into the dirt then sprang backwards.

The sword thudded into the ground, point first. Zham reached
out without looking, heaved it free with his left hand, danced backwards and
with two quick cuts quartered the dazed and damaged beast. It didn’t move
again.

Nor did Nish’s guards. Both were dead.

Zham’s eyes met Nish’s. He was breathing heavily, though not
as heavily as Nish was. ‘Deliverer, I –’

Nish swallowed, then rubbed his burning, throbbing shoulder.
‘Don’t apologise for not being on duty, Zham. You just saved my life.’

‘Surr, I don’t think –’

‘Lucky you moved into the nearest tent.’

‘I swore to protect you,’ Zham said simply. He unfastened
Nish’s straps and pulled back his shirt, though the nylatl’s puncture had left
only a little circular spot of blood.

‘So you did, and I thank you. Would you be so good as to
take the bodies out? Then wash your sword. That venom lasts for a long time.’
Nish knuckled his shoulder, which made it hurt the more. He’d never felt such
pain – it was as if boiling lye had been injected into him – but it
did have one benefit. His mind was absolutely clear and he knew what he had to
do.

‘I’ll go and rouse out –’

‘Don’t go anywhere, Zham. Someone sent that thing after me
and I don’t know who I can trust, apart from you. Unfasten the strap; help me
up. I can’t bear to be so helpless.’

Zham did so, then began to drag the bodies out. Nish took up
the writing tablet he’d drafted his orations on and began to write a letter to
his Defiance. For once the words came quickly and were right the first time.

When it was done he set the tablet on the table beside his
bed, dressed and made sure his pack contained everything he needed. Zham
returned with a shovel and scooped up the remains of the nylatl.

‘Leave it outside, with the bodies. I want everyone to know
what happened.’

‘Surr?’ said Zham.

Nish waved him away, levered his feet to the floor and stood
up. The room revolved. He made a grab for the bedside table.

‘What are you doing, Deliverer?’ said Zham from the flap.
‘You can’t –’

Nish forced a smile, though it wasn’t as carefree as he
would have liked. ‘How long until the guard changes?’

‘Two hours.’

‘Then we’ve got two hours to cover our tracks, assuming
Monkshart doesn’t decide to check on me in the middle of the night. Get your
gear ready. We’ll need food and coin.’ Nish scooped a pot of salve and a roll
of bandage into his pack. ‘Take me to the tent where the war chest is held and
talk to the guards while I burgle it.’ Nish chuckled. ‘I feel better already.
Let’s get moving.’

It was a dark, misty night, and the scattered lanterns were
ringed with haloes as Zham led Nish to the treasure tent. Zham stood out the
front, chatting to the guards as he often did, though they snapped to attention
when they saw Nish.

He shook their hands and spoke briefly to them until the
guards at the back of the tent were called around to meet him too, as Nish had
known they would be. He exchanged pleasantries with them, then said he was just
going to have a leak and walked into the darkness.

He slipped around to the rear of the tent, eased up the
canvas and rolled under. The pain of the sting had eased, fortunately. The
large war chest and the smaller were locked, of course, but Nish had been an
artificer during the war and understood the workings of such mechanical
devices. He had the larger chest open in a minute.