The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) (65 page)

‘I just like to check these things,’ he said hastily. ‘A
prudent captain –’

Boobelar’s fist came out of nowhere, slamming into Nish’s
nose so hard that he felt it break. He went down on his back, his head ringing
and his eyes watering so badly that he couldn’t see. He rubbed the wetness
away, momentarily unable to get up. His face was covered in blood and it was
flooding from his nose.

Boobelar was standing over him, swaying like a sapling in a
gale. He booted Nish in the ribs. ‘Curr’s gone, hasn’t he?’

Nish, spitting out blood, couldn’t answer. This was it; he
had to take Boobelar now.

‘Curr’s led us into a trap, then run like the dog he is
– Curr the Cur,’ bellowed Boobelar. He wiped his oozing nose on his
sleeve, leaving a silvery trail there and a muddy smear across his face.
‘There’ll be no plunder for any of us, boys, and –
it’s – all – his – fault!
’

He raised his boot to smash Nish’s face in. Nish couldn’t
roll out of the way in time, and was trying to get his hands up when Hoshi
threw himself at Boobelar and shouldered him out of the way.

Gi heaved Nish up and put his hand on the hilt of his sabre.
‘Only you can stop this, Nish,’ she said in his ear.

Nish knew it. He’d put it off too long through self-doubt,
but Boobelar had to be crushed, right away. He steadied himself and waited
while the crazed drunk came at him, but did not draw his sabre. In wartime,
attacking a senior officer was a capital offence, but capital punishment wasn’t
the Gendrigorean way, and if Nish cut him down in cold blood the whole militia
might walk.

Boobelar, despite the nif sap, or perhaps because of it, was
incredibly fast. He was on Nish before he had time to weave away, fists going
one-two into his belly, and when Nish doubled over, wheezing and breathless, a
knee coming for his groin. Nish couldn’t pull back in time; he lurched forwards
and the knee caught him in the belly instead.

Completely winded, all he could do was throw his arms around
the bigger man and hang on like a punch-drunk boxer. He tried to knee Boobelar
but he twisted sideways. Nish attempted to head-butt him under the chin, no
more successfully. If he let go, Boobelar would knock him down; the captain’s
fists were pummelling his sore ribs.

Now laughing like a drain, Boobelar caught hold of Nish,
trying to turn him over and pull his pants down. Nish struggled furiously and
broke free. He wasn’t going to suffer that humiliation again.

He swung hard and hit Boobelar in the mouth, breaking teeth
and knocking him off his feet, but Boobelar didn’t let go and Nish went down
with him. Boobelar landed on his back and Nish twisted free; Boobelar bounced
to his feet.

Nish rolled out of the way, sprang up and punched Boobelar
in the left eye. Boobelar reeled back, then raised his arms, knotted his
clenched fists into a club and swung it down at Nish’s head with enough force
to drive it halfway down his spine. Nish managed to get his head out of the way
but the blow nearly broke his left collarbone and shoulder, and his arm began
to go numb.

As the captain staggered, off-balance from the force of his
swing, Nish back-pedalled away. His flooding nose had left a huge bloodstain on
Boobelar’s front. His head was ringing; the captain separated into two then the
images slowly rejoined, but began to separate again. Nish knew he could not
stay on his feet much longer.

He groped for his sabre. His bloody fingers slipped on the
hilt, he took a firm grip and dragged it out as Boobelar rushed him, fists
flailing. Unfortunately the tip of the blade snagged on its sheath, for the sabre
was considerably longer than any blade Nish was used to, and he hadn’t drawn it
far enough.

Boobelar got in another blow to the jaw that knocked Nish
sideways, rattling his teeth, then drew his knife. ‘This time I’m gonna have
yer balls for earrings.’

Nish just managed to stay on his feet; he jerked the sabre
all the way out and, when the two images became one again, with the deftest of
little jabs he cut Boobelar’s belt on either side of his hips.

The captain did not realise his pants were falling down
until they were halfway to his knees, and the grimy sight beneath was not one
Nish wanted to remember. Boobelar caught his pants with his left hand and tried
to heave them up, while hacking at Nish with his knife.

Nish wove backwards. Boobelar came after him, stumbled over
his pants and fell to his knees. Nish swayed to the left and whacked him hard
on his hairy backside with the flat of the sabre, counting the strokes aloud.

‘One, two, three, and one for luck!’

A massed cheer went up behind him but Nish couldn’t turn to
see who it was, for Boobelar, incoherent with fury, had stepped out of his
pants and caught the sword one of his men had tossed to him. He threw himself
at Nish, knife in one hand, sword in the other.

Nish could have killed him then; he should have, but he
wanted to bring him to trial the Gendrigorean way, to end it once and for all.
He reversed the sabre and, the moment the captain came within reach of the long
blade, swung the back of it at his head, just above the ear.

Boobelar crashed down and did not move. It was over.

Nish was seeing double again, and Boobelar’s men were
rising, drawing their rusty swords and home-made spears. Behind him he heard
people shouting, and feet pounding down towards him, but whoever they were,
they would not be in time to interfere. If he hesitated now, he was dead.

Forcing himself up to his full, meagre height, he advanced
on Boobelar’s men, the shiny sabre upright. They stopped but did not back away.
The pain in his broken nose was ferocious, the double vision coming and going,
but he had to fight it, and them, and everything. I will not be beaten, Nish
kept telling himself. If I fail now, Gendrigore is lost and so is the war. I’ve
got to impose my authority no matter the cost. I can’t afford the least
hesitation; even a stagger could bring me down.

Forcing the pain away, and holding himself rigid, he
advanced, carving an arc through the air with his sabre; it was a beautiful,
elegant stroke that made his opponents look like farm labourers. He took another
step, lunged with the sabre, twisted and drew back. Boobelar’s men swayed
backwards away from the demonstration, for Nish’s stroke, had he been within
reach, would have sliced open an opponent’s belly and hooked out his entrails.

The double vision was getting worse; he couldn’t last much
longer. ‘Lay down your weapons!’ he said, struggling to put on the commanding
voice that had once come naturally to him. ‘Swear to me, and me alone, or die
by my hand.’

‘You and whose army,’ said a squat, burly man.

‘Nish’s army,’ came Gi’s high voice from behind, and another
rousing cheer. ‘Us!’

It helped. Nish managed to force his double vision back into
a single image and concentrated as hard as he could. Boobelar’s troops did not
want to swear to him – they wanted to rush him and hack him to pieces,
and if one among them dared, the rest would follow. Which would it be? Nish
fixed his eye on the burly fellow, who was built like a blacksmith and carried
a well-maintained broadsword.

‘Who wants to die first?’ Nish said.

‘You do,’ said the burly fellow, and came at him.

With his brawn, and that sword, he would be a formidable
opponent, assuming he had any fighting skills. Nish had to take him first and
hope the others didn’t attack at the same time, from behind.

He advanced on the smith, step by slow step, with every
stride demonstrating another from his repertoire of strokes. The smith raised
the broadsword like a man about to chop wood and Nish felt a trace of hope. The
fellow evidently knew no sword play and would be an easy target, if his blow
could be evaded. But if he hit, the heavy broadsword would have enough power
behind it to cut him in two. Nish stopped.

The smith grinned, a trifle nervously, evidently thinking
Nish was afraid. He was terrified but he could not afford to show any
hesitation, any fear. The smith advanced a step and Nish matched it, hoping the
man would crack and run, though it didn’t look as though he was going to.

‘Cut the little turd in two, Lenn,’ shouted a giant of a man
carrying a woodsman’s axe.

‘Smack his skinny arse good,’ yelled another.

Now the smith was only three steps away, almost within
reach. Nish, hoping he would not have to kill the fellow, went forwards a half
step and practised the gutting stroke again. It would have been a beautiful
blow, had he not trodden on a round stone which made his left knee twist
painfully.

Instantly, and with phenomenal speed, the smith leapt and
swung his broadsword down and across in a sweeping curve that was near
impossible to avoid. Nish couldn’t block it, for it would have shattered his
sabre. Nor could he weave out of the way or reverse direction in time. All that
was left to him was to use his forward momentum, dive under the swing and hope
to get his back and legs low enough.

He hit the ground on his belly, head and shoulders and chest
between the smith’s legs, clinging desperately to the sabre; if it jarred out
of his hands he was finished. He just held on to it. The smith tried to stop
his swing but the weight of the broadsword carried it on.

Nish’s vision was blurring, bloody bubbles were shooting
from each nostril, and he didn’t think he would be able to get up. Still flat
on the ground, he blindly swung the sabre in both hands up over his head and
back as far as it would go, praying that he could aim true. It went up through
the smith’s lower back and came out the middle of his chest, and he was dead
before he slammed into the rocks.

Nish forced himself to hands and knees, came to his feet,
swaying, jerked the sabre out and held it up. ‘Anyone else want to try me?’

A child with a toy sword could have cut him down, but
Boobelar’s men had their mouths hanging open, cowed and awed by his sword play.
Nish held the pose for a moment, then hastily swung the sabre tip to the ground
and leaned on it to prevent himself from falling down.

‘I never knew you were a master swordsman,’ said Hoshi
quietly.

Nish wasn’t; merely a well-trained and very experienced
fighter who had been far luckier than he deserved, but he wasn’t going to admit
that to anyone. In the coming battle, his reputation was going to need all the
help it could get.

‘Throw the body over the side,’ he said. ‘Get two of my most
reliable men and bind Boobelar securely. Guard him day and night until he can
be tried the Gendrigorean way. If he gives any more trouble, heave him over the
side.’ His eyes met the eyes of Boobelar’s most loyal troops. ‘And anyone else
who supports him.’

It was over, and even if Nish’s troops felt no differently
about him, Nish did. It was his first real victory on the long road to
overthrowing his father.

They resumed the march until dusk, only an hour away,
dragging Boobelar on a litter, since they could hardly leave him behind. That
evening the camp was tense and silent, for everyone knew what the fight had
been about. And maybe Boobelar had been right. For the first time, Curr did not
appear when dinner was served.

Hoshi woke Nish before dawn the next morning. ‘You should
have killed Boobelar.’

‘What’s the matter now? What’s he done?’

‘Someone freed him and he’s fled in the night with forty of
his men – and most of our supplies.’

 
FORTY-SEVEN

The Numinator wrenched Maelys to her feet and dragged
her down the hall without another glance at Emberr, as though his death, the
most shattering loss of Maelys’s life, no longer mattered. Maelys couldn’t
wonder about that – she was numb with despair.

The Numinator had her hand on the latch of the outer door
when it was gently pushed from the other side. She leapt backwards, landing as
softly as a cat, and drew a small triangular blade. Her other hand went over
Maelys’s mouth.

‘That’s pointless, and you know it,’ said a deep, somewhat
rasping voice. ‘You can’t keep me out, nor can you fight me here, for this
place is mine and I maintain every part of it.’ The hand fell away. ‘Stand
back.’ A tall, statuesque woman entered.

‘Bel?’ said Maelys, for there was a hint of Bel in her now.
Had Bel come to save her? Maelys hardly cared; nothing seemed to matter any
more, not even her own family.

The tall woman’s eyes took in Maelys, and the Numinator
behind her, and she nodded stiffly, as if she knew her.

‘Yalkara!’ said the Numinator coldly.

Yalkara? Maelys was in the presence of a legend, probably
the most powerful and dangerous woman in all the Histories. Her heart was
thumping like a great drum. Of course Yalkara hadn’t come here for her; she’d
come for Emberr – her son.

‘Granddaughter,’ said Yalkara.

Maelys stared at the Numinator. ‘She’s your
grandmother
?’

‘You don’t seem pleased to see me,’ said Yalkara.

‘You stole Rulke’s body and took it to the void,’ said the
Numinator.

‘That would have been his wish. Besides, you did not
complain at the time.’

‘I was sick with grief.’

‘And you have been brooding about him ever since. You always
were obsessive.’

‘You were going back to the void as well; and to extinction.
Why are you still here?’

‘You know why. My people went, and I would have gone with
them, had I not previously given birth to a child – here in the
Nightland.’

‘You never said.’

‘I dared not reveal my secret, not to anyone, for my son was
in deadly danger. Where is he?’ said Yalkara.

Maelys jerked one hand down the hall, shivering in terror.
What would Yalkara do when she discovered that her son was dead? The Charon had
been the mightiest of all the human species, and the most barbaric. They
believed in vengeance, she recalled; to the utmost degree.