The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) (54 page)

But the bonds of comradeship were too strong. Flangers had
stood beside him many times during the war, and Flydd could do no less than back
him now, even at the cost of his own life. Which proves I’m no longer a
scrutator, he thought wryly. Few scrutators had ever risked their lives when
there were others to die for them. Just me and Klarm, but he couldn’t think
about that. Klarm’s betrayal was still too painful.

Flydd leapt forwards, as he had not been able to do for many
years, and took pleasure in his renewed body, so much stronger and faster than
the old one. I’ve finally
fitted
into
it, he exulted. And won’t it be ironic if I only have minutes to live?

A Whelm leapt at him, hacking with his jag-blade. Shorter
and stockier than most, and less awkward, he was on Flydd before he could get
the ice sword into position. Flydd swept it up as the Whelm slashed, but the
ice sword, struck side on, shattered.

Cursing, Flydd scrambled backwards, looking frantically for
the leftover pile of spears, but it was well out of reach. The Whelm lunged and
Flydd threw the sword hilt at his face. It cracked into his forehead; the Whelm
slipped on broken ice and Flydd kicked him in the belly.

He went down. Flydd fell on him as the Whelm’s head struck
the floor, trying to wrench the jag-blade out of his hands. It wouldn’t come
– the Whelm’s grip was unbreakable.

Flydd heaved him bodily off the floor, but the Whelm would
not let go. He was kicking at him, going for the belly with those sharp-nailed
toes. Flydd, painfully aware that his back was undefended, put his boot heel on
the Whelm’s throat and pressed down until his windpipe gave.

Even in death the Whelm clung to his sword. Flydd prised the
flat fingers off, hefted the sword, which was extremely heavy, then swung
around. There were dozens of Whelm in the room, and more scrambling through the
hole all the time. He had to block it and there was only one way to do that,
whatever Yggur said.

Unstoppering the flask of chthonic fire, he passed it around
the edges of the opening. White fire licked up and tongued down, forming a
tracery across the hole. The Whelm hesitated on the other side, afraid to risk
the uncanny fire.

Flangers had formed his spearmen into a square, its concave
front bristling with spears, and the formation was difficult to attack, for the
Whelm could not get close without running onto the points. However they had
learned that a swift sideways hack would often snap the brittle spears, and
were slowly advancing in a wedge.

Three or four Whelm lay dead on the floor, and another was
twitching feebly, but at least a dozen of the prisoners had fallen and a large
group had thrown down their spears and were backing into a corner with their
hands up. Flydd had to do something or their terror would infect the rest and
the cause would be lost.

‘Colm!’ he hissed. ‘You’re good with a sword, aren’t you?’

‘Relatively speaking. I was never a master.’

‘I was
taught
by a
master, but my renewed sword arm lacks the skill of the old one. We’ve got to
counterattack and we need a third, one we can rely on.’ Yggur had been a
skilled swordsman but could barely stand up for aftersickness, while Flangers
had his square to look after.

‘I’ll do it!’ Chissmoul thrust out her spear as if taking
down a Whelm twice her size.

‘You!’ Flydd couldn’t hide his astonishment, for she was no
bigger than Maelys.

‘I was a good thapter pilot,’ she said defensively.

He laughed. ‘The best I ever saw,
and
the most reckless.’

She smiled faintly. ‘All skills suited to a warrior. And
Flangers taught me well, on the way here. I can’t live without him, surr. If he
dies, and I know he will, I must also die.’

It made her one of them. ‘Get yourself a proper weapon and
come with me. Take my left flank, one pace back.’

Chissmoul twisted the jag-blade out of the hands of a dying
Whelm and took up position. Flydd knew he could rely on her. Colm was on his
right, and he was skilled with a blade, but Flydd wasn’t so sure about him.
Colm had always been an unknown, a loner, and after Ketila’s death Flydd had
never been confident that Colm would not turn on him at the worst possible
moment. And if he discovers I’ve taken the mimemule, Flydd thought, a trifle
guiltily, I’m a dead man.

‘We’ve got to attack the Whelm on their right flank,’ he
said, ‘or they’ll tear right through the square. Defend me – that’s all I
ask. Ready?’

The Whelm wedge was driving at the concave front of the
prisoners’ square, making a coordinated attack on their brittle spears. Within
seconds the ice spears of the front row had been shattered and they were
defenceless, buckling and about to break.

‘Hold, hold!’ roared Flangers from the other side. ‘Second
row, push through and attack.’

The prisoners could not cope and Flydd did not blame them.
‘Stand firm!’ he yelled. ‘Just a few seconds more.’

The front row, faced with an unwavering line of jagged Whelm
blades, threw down their shattered spears and, desperate to get away, tried to
force their way back through the lines. The second and third lines of spearmen
were torn open; spears pointed at the floor, the roof, anywhere save at the
attacking Whelm, who fell upon the backs of the front line and cut them down in
a few bloody seconds.

Flydd cursed bitterly. ‘The fools! Why couldn’t they have
stood fast?’

The Whelm plunged deep into the prisoners’ formation,
cutting swiftly and ruthlessly as though the mayhem helped to ease their own
pain. The next line of prisoners turned to flee, but only presented their
undefended backs to the enemy.

‘Come on,’ Flydd hissed, ‘or the lot of them will be dead.
Useless fools!’

They simply weren’t trained for battle. Flydd lunged after
the Whelm, picked out the leader and thrust the jag-sword at his back.

The blade felt unbalanced in his hands; it did not want to
go where he swung it. It angled into the Whelm’s back, low down, but twisted
sideways. It made a nasty gash but the Whelm turned and came at Flydd, swinging
his jag-sword in arcs like a farmer using a scythe.

Flydd just managed to get his sword to the other’s blade as
it hacked towards his belly. The weapons met with a mighty clang and a flurry
of sparks. The Whelm jerked backwards and Flydd’s blade, caught on one of the
jags, went with it.

Taken by surprise, he was dragged to the Whelm, skidding on
his knees. With a cunning flick-twist, his opponent freed his own blade and
hacked at Flydd’s head.

He ducked just in time. The blade cut through his hair; one
jag caught in a knot and jerked his head sideways so hard that his neck bones
went crack. Flydd tore free at the expense of a clump of hair and a piece of
scalp, and drove his sword at the Whelm’s unprotected groin.

The Whelm sprang backwards with such haste that Flydd knew
he’d found a weakness.

‘Cur that you are,’ grated the Whelm, ‘surely even your kind
know the rules of combat?’

So the groin was off-limits to the Whelm. It was good to
know. ‘I only follow one rule,’ Flydd panted. ‘The winners make the rules, and
the losers
die
.’ He hacked left, then
right, trying to draw the Whelm away. The fellow seemed to be weakening; blood
was running down his right leg from the back wound.

Flydd stabbed at the groin again. This time the Whelm did
not withdraw fast enough and the jag near the tip of the blade caught in his
loincloth. Flydd pulled back and tore the rag away. The Whelm reeled,
instinctively tried to cover himself, and it was an easy matter to skewer him
through the chest.

To his left, Chissmoul was labouring with the heavy blade,
which was far too long for her, only just managing to parry her opponent’s
blows. On the right, Colm was using his ice sword like a rapier, lunging
forwards and pricking his opponent with the tip, then whipping it back to
protect the brittle blade.

The Whelm were not master swordsmen; they lacked both
dexterity and practice. However they were strong, Flydd thought gloomily, as
well as tireless and determined to prevail for their master.

Chissmoul slipped on the bloody floor and fell to her knees,
gasping. Two Whelm came at her, one from each side, and Flydd couldn’t get to
either of them in time. The taller of the Whelm dragged Chissmoul upright by
the hair, baring her neck for the other, who swung back his jag-blade to hack
her head from her shoulders.

Flydd cried out and made a frantic effort to get to her, but
knew he was going to fail. Chissmoul’s eyes were staring; not at her attacker,
but over his shoulder, meeting her death bravely. She closed her eyes.

The ice spear came out of nowhere, hurled with such force
that it tore through the back of the shorter Whelm’s neck, out his throat and
struck the taller Whelm in the right shoulder. Blood sprayed in his face,
momentarily blinding him, then Chissmoul reached up and, in a wrestling
manoeuvre Flydd had never seen before, used the taller Whelm’s height to throw
him over her head into the other Whelm as he collapsed.

Flydd cut the taller Whelm down, absently, then turned
around. The room was a slaughterhouse awash with blood, but the last of the
Whelm had fallen. So had a couple of dozen of the prisoners, and the rest had
jammed themselves into a corner, eyeing the Whelm beyond the fire-webbed hole,
who were trying to use a blanket to put out the white fire blocking the hole.

‘That was a mighty throw for a dying man,’ Flydd said to
Flangers, who had come from the other side of the room carrying a broken ice
sword in one hand and three spears in the other. There was a spring in his step
that hadn’t been there before, and his formerly grey cheeks had a healthy glow.
‘How did you know Chissmoul was in danger? Surely you can’t keep the whole
battlefield in your mind at once?’

‘Every man, and every weapon,’ said Flangers. ‘When I was a
sergeant, I had to – how else could I look after my men and defeat the
enemy?’

‘It’s a skill few other sergeants have had.’

‘It won’t be enough next time. They’ll break through there
and there, and there.’

He pointed and Flydd made out shapes through the ice,
hammering furiously. ‘We can’t defend this chamber, can we?’

Flangers shook his head. ‘Not a hope. The prisoners are a
rabble.’

‘They were taken because of their book learning,’ said
Yggur, leaning on a broken spear. ‘I doubt there’s an experienced fighter among
them.’

‘And if we force them to fight,’ said Flangers, ‘they’ll die.
You can’t make a warrior out of a clerk in less than a month – if at
all.’

‘Up there.’ Yggur nodded towards the top of the stairs.

They clattered up the broad, curving stairs, which were
walled off at the top with solid, spans-thick ice. ‘When the Numinator built
this,’ said Flydd, ‘she was making sure no one could ever get through. You’ll
have to unmake the blocks, Yggur, since I’m not
allowed
to use chthonic fire.’

‘Sarcasm was never your strong suit, Flydd.’ Yggur put his
hands on the wall, but hastily peeled them off. The ice was so cold that skin
stuck to it. ‘I don’t believe I can.’

‘Why not?’ Flydd said peevishly.

‘The bracelets take power from me as quickly as I can draw
it, to maintain the tower.’

‘I gave you some power back.’

‘But the tower is under threat from chthonic fire now, and
it’s taking more. I feel drained all the time, like a well pumped dry. Removing
that block of ice, and making the ice weapons, took my last reserves.’

‘You’d better join the clerks in the corner, if that’s the best
you can do,’ Flydd said, turning away. ‘There’s no choice, then. I’ll have to
use the fire.’

He boiled ice with it until the chamber was full of mist, to
conceal what he was up to, and set to work. The ice was so thick here that he
had to use half of the white fire remaining in the flask, then they huddled at
the top of the stairs, feeling the vibrations from the Whelm hammering at the
walls and waiting for the fire to do its work.

‘It’s taking an awfully long time,’ Flydd muttered. He
wanted to pace, to relieve his anxiety, but there was no room.

Screams echoed up from below and the surface of the fog,
which hung thickly in the lowest third of the chamber, began to churn.

‘They’re through!’ said Yggur. ‘Better move fast, Flydd.’

‘Doing all I can,’ Flydd grunted. He was using his Art to
drive the flame through ice set as hard as metal, but it was slow, draining
work.

‘We’ve got to hold the Whelm off,’ said Flangers to Colm and
Chissmoul.

Before they could move, the prisoners stampeded up the
stairs. Flangers roared at them to let him through, and brandished his sword in
their faces, but could not move them. The prisoners below were pushing ever up,
forcing all before them.

More kept moving up, until Flydd was squeezed against the
fiery ice so tightly that he could scarcely draw breath. Behind him, prisoners
were gasping, screaming, collapsing; the smaller and weaker among them would be
crushed, but there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Flangers wriggled along the wall and shouted in Flydd’s ear.
‘What if we jump over the side, surr? We might be able to get them down again.’

‘It’s four spans, soldier. You’ll break both legs when you
hit the floor and the Whelm will finish you off. Clear a space for me. I can’t
work.’

Flangers shouted orders, but the crush grew ever tighter.
Below, men and women were screaming; and then came the terrible sound of
jag-blades tearing through unprotected flesh.

‘It was a sorry day when you came here, Flydd,’ said Yggur,
supporting himself against the wall, head and shoulders above the crowd. ‘The
Whelm are terrified of any threat to their master, and this rebellion is the
greatest threat they’ve ever faced. Do something quick, else they’ll butcher
all of the prisoners.’