The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) (8 page)

Squelch!

She eased out, looked up at the chimney, but didn’t see any
movement this time. Better get going; Flydd would be anxious about the time.
Maelys put her hands on the top of the slab and tried to spring up, but her
feet went from under her and she landed flat on her back. She’d slipped in
Phrune’s congealed blood, and that reminded her of something she should have
remembered the moment she’d landed on the slab.

She rolled away, her hackles rising. Previously, Vivimord
had dragged Phrune’s body underneath, then stood on the slab, cut his own chest
and let his blood flow into the cursed flame in a despairing attempt to revive
his acolyte. But it had failed, and Phrune’s body had still lain under the slab
when Vivimord staggered off to confront Jal-Nish.

There was no sign of the body now – someone had been
here before her. Jal-Nish’s troops might have dragged Phrune out, but they
would hardly have carried his disgusting body away. Only one man would have
done that – Vivimord.

Was he here still? She couldn’t see anything in the deep
shadows. Heaving herself onto the slab, she reached for the harness.

Squelch!

The sound had come from her right. He was waiting for
someone to come to the flame, the only source of power here that Jal-Nish did
not control. Vivimord and Phrune had despised each other, yet they were linked
by terrible needs which only the other could satisfy, and until the day of her
death she would not forget Vivimord’s parting words.

You’ll pay for this,
Maelys Nifferlin! I know Black Arts that can make a corpse scream in agony,
that can torment even a bodiless spirit and cause lifeless bones to chatter in
terror. You’ll pay and pay, and keep on paying a hundred years after your
agonising death.

Had he been talking about the spectral beings inhabiting the
shadow realm? More than ever she did not want to go there. Her sore fingers
fumbled with the knots of the harness as she looked over her shoulder. Vivimord
could be anywhere, and there was no point calling for help, for the soldiers
they’d encountered earlier must have been his men, not Jal-Nish’s. Besides,
Flydd, Colm and Nish would hear nothing through the clots of swamp creepers
blocking the chimney.

Having checked that her harness knots were secure, she
reached up and gave two sharp tugs on the rope, but it stayed slack. She
signalled again; it was not answered. That dreadful squelching sounded once
more, she looked around frantically, then out of the darkness it came.

In the dimly flickering flame she couldn’t tell what it was
at first. It was man-shaped, though it did not move like a man. It had a slow,
stiff-legged, shuffling lurch, and every movement was accompanied by squelching
sounds, as if something liquid was sloshing back and forth.

Maelys caught a glimpse of a round, waxen head punctured by
blank eyes; the mouth was a bloated circular orifice with something long and
dangling jammed in it. It looked like a man who had choked on the head of a
squid, with its tentacles hanging halfway down his chest, flapping from side to
side as he moved.

The cursed flame flared, the creature stepped out of the
shadows and she nearly wet herself. It was Phrune’s ghastly corpse, its
intestines hanging out of its mouth. He had died that way after Maelys, in a
desperate attempt to save herself, had thrust her taphloid through his lips and
its contact had inverted his aura violently. But no one could have survived
what he’d been through. His corpse must have been reanimated by Vivimord’s
Black Arts.

‘Colm?’ she squeaked.

Why wasn’t he pulling her up? Had they been discovered;
taken;
killed
? She tried to climb the
rope but it was so slippery she couldn’t get a grip. She gave it a furious
heave and another span or two slid down – she hadn’t pulled hard enough
the first time; hadn’t drawn down all the slack line trapped between the swamp
creepers. Colm hadn’t got her signal.

She pulled the rope down until it went taut, then heaved
hard, twice, and twice more. Dead Phrune had covered half the distance between
them already and the sight of him filled her with a sickening, paralysing
horror.
Come on!

She gave the signal again and finally the rope began to move
up, though several spans of slack were pooled on the slab and Phrune was only
five spans away. She unsheathed Zham’s huge knife, the size of a short sword in
her hands, and held it out.

The corpse gave a squelching choke – laughter? –
and more white loops of intestine flopped out. She waved the blade back and
forth, but how could she harm a man who was already dead?

The slack was being taken up more quickly now; perhaps Colm
had realised that something was wrong. The corpse reached the edge of the slab
and reached out for the last coil of rope. Maelys kicked it out of the way and
slashed at the waxen-pale forearm. The tip of the knife parted grey flesh but
he did not bleed.

The corpse slipped in its own congealed blood and fell
against the side of the slab. Plump fingers gripped the edge; the gluey eyes
fixed on her and he began to climb. As Maelys backed down to the other end, the
rope tightened around her waist and began to lift.

Phrune was on the slab, straightening slowly, but as soon as
her feet lifted off she began to swing towards him. She would thump into him,
couldn’t stop herself, and all he had to do was hang on.

‘Pull, damn you!’ she screeched, for Colm wasn’t lifting her
nearly fast enough.

She bent forwards, holding Zham’s blade in both hands like a
spear, and pointed it directly at Phrune’s eyes. If she could cut them he might
not be able to see … though he could still grab her blindly.

She was swinging at him from his right. He shifted to face
her, which meant that he could see. His arms rose; he was going to duck the
knife and grab her, and she was moving too slowly to avoid him.

She whipped the knife back, doubled up her legs and as dead
Phrune came within reach she shot out both feet like springs and struck him on
the jaw.

His head jerked backwards; his arms flailed and he nearly
overbalanced, but his left hand struck her ankle and latched on. She kicked
furiously but he would not let go. She swung around him on the rope, then
struck at his wrist with her other foot and tore free, kicking Phrune again and
again, hitting him in the back of the neck and the shoulders, knocking him to
his knees, until the swinging rope carried her away.

Colm jerked her higher; she was now head-high above the slab
as Phrune regained his footing and came at her. Another jerk and she was above
his head. He reached up and his putrid fingers grazed her ankle, but could not
get a grip this time; she slashed with the knife, only managing to trim his
long nails before another heave lifted her out of reach. Colm had done it. She
was safe. Maelys sagged on the rope, barely able to see for the tears of
relief.

She hung there, limp and exhausted as Colm pulled her up
another half span. Phrune’s arm jerked upright, his plump fingers pointed at
her waist, and she felt a tickling at her middle, as if invisible fingers were
working there – the knots were untying themselves! She tried to hold them
together but the harness was already undone. The rope burned through her
fingers and she fell heavily to the slab at the corpse’s feet.

Phrune lunged for her. For an instant Maelys was too stunned
to move, then desperation fired her limbs and, as his oozing intestines trailed
across her chest, she hurled herself onto the floor and scrambled around the other
side of the slab. The rope had stopped moving up; Colm had noticed the weight
go off it and must be waiting for her to tie on again.

If she could distract Phrune, she might just scramble up,
grab the rope and hang on while Colm lifted her out of reach. She’d have to be
quick, though. Unfortunately, the corpse wasn’t moving; Phrune was just waiting
beneath the rope. Her gaze flicked around the large chamber. The cursed flame
illuminated it for a few spans, beyond which the shadows became progressively deeper.

Spying a scattering of precious amber-wood pieces on the
floor from her previous visit, Maelys scooped up half a dozen and tossed them
into the cursed flame. It flared up, illuminating the chamber for a good twenty
spans. The corpse lurched away from the flame but the moment it died down
Phrune resumed his position, guarding the rope.

The taphloid had done him terrible damage before –
might it still hold some power over his remains? It was worth the risk. Turning
away, she took it off and concealed it in her left hand, the chain wrapped
around it for security. Maelys crept in, waving Zham’s knife in her right hand.
The corpse slowly rotated to face her. She slashed at his knees but he didn’t
move; whatever intelligence had reanimated him, he knew she couldn’t harm him
with a blade.

Let’s see how you like the sting of my taphloid, she thought
savagely, then darted in and slammed it against Phrune’s pale calf, which was
chest-high to her.

The corpse didn’t react save to tilt its head to stare
blindly at her. Of course – being dead, it had no aura, so the taphloid
could not harm it. Nothing could, save hacking it into immobile pieces, and she
could not risk getting that close.

Wait! When the flame flared, Phrune had lurched out of the
way. Could he fear the fire, or was he repelled by the precious, sacred,
lucky
amber-wood that had saved her last
time?

She sheathed the knife, pocketed the taphloid, and gathered
all the amber-wood she could find, tossing it into the flame, which roared
higher than Phrune’s head. The corpse moved backwards, trying to shield its
eyes with its hands. It was her only chance.

She vaulted onto the narrow end of the coffin-shaped slab,
took two running steps and leapt high for the rope. Phrune hadn’t moved.

Maelys wrapped a loop of rope around her wrist and drew her
legs up out of reach, hanging on grimly as she waited for Colm to feel her
weight and start pulling her up. He did so, jerkily, but to Maelys’s horror the
rope began to slip across her palms. It was coated in swamp creeper slime, and
though she squeezed until her hands began to cramp, she wasn’t strong enough to
hold on. She was slipping, faster and faster, until she slid off the end and
landed on the slab, right over the flame.

It only stung this time, though she could feel the paralysis
from the cursed flame creeping upon her, slowly this time; perhaps it was still
partly affected by amber-wood. The corpse came her way. Maelys threw herself
off the far side, intending to bolt into the gloom, but her legs had gone numb
from the knees down and all she could manage was an awkward stumble. She hadn’t
gone far when two long arms wrapped around her and held her tight.

‘We have the bait,’ crowed Vivimord. ‘Now to set the trap.’

 
SEVEN

Nish moved in the darkness, bumped his burned hand
against the side of the chimney and bit down on a gasp. As the moss bandage
dried the pain was growing ever stronger, and he didn’t think he could take
much more of it. Even worse, there was no feeling in his last three fingers;
might he lose them, or even his whole hand? He was beginning to think so.

Colm was on his left, the taut rope looped around his right
hand so he would sense the smallest tug. Flydd was on the other side, murmuring
a rhyme, trying to recover his lost Art.

He broke off. ‘How’s your hand?’

‘It’s troubling me a bit, but I’ll be all right,’ Nish lied.
‘During my time in father’s prison I learned to be stoic.’

After a while Flydd said quietly, ‘That bad, eh? If I could
find a trace of my Art, I’d work a healing charm.’

Talking about it made the pain harder to endure. ‘Thanks,’
Nish said curtly. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘A few memories are coming back, though my flesh still
doesn’t fit my bones.’

‘It takes days to adjust to a new pair of boots,’ said Colm.
‘You can’t expect to feel at home in a new body in a hurry.’

‘One of the reasons why I’d always refused to take renewal.’

‘Still,’ said Nish, ‘many people would kill to be young
again – well, middle-aged, anyhow.’

‘Some people will kill for a few coppers,’ Flydd sighed. ‘I
have to admit that, despite my protestations, a part of me did want renewal,
after nine years in a failing body. I knew it would either kill me, thus
solving all my problems, or make a new man of me. In a way, I’m glad I was
forced into it – but don’t tell Maelys I said that,’ he added hastily.

‘What about the third possibility?’ said Nish.

‘That I’d survive but be damaged? I ignored it, and the
irony is bitter. I could have endured any physical agony more easily than I can
accept the loss of my talent. Mancery has been my life and soul, my Art and
Science, my work and play, but most of all it has been the crutch which has
held me up through every one of life’s crises since I first began training in
the Art as a small boy. I don’t think I can cope without it.’

‘It may come back,’ said Colm.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

After a long pause, Nish said hesitantly, for few mancers
liked to be questioned and Flydd was no exception, ‘Xervish, a while ago you
seemed to remember something puzzling about your renewal. And you mentioned a
woman dressed in red.’

‘Xervish?’ Nish repeated after a minute or two had gone by
and Flydd had not answered.

‘I had a strange, strange dream,’ said Flydd. ‘It was after
using the third crystal – or was it the fourth? The fire flared up oddly
–’

‘Fires flare all the time,’ said Colm.

‘Not peat fires, when they’re nearly out. Though mine was no
ordinary fire.’

‘What do you mean?’ Nish said uneasily. Whenever he thought
he knew what Flydd was talking about, he introduced some new oddity.