The first chapter of
Rebellion, Book 2 of
The Tainted Realm. I'll put it on my website with better formatting shortly, but in the meantime, here it is.
Rebellion will be published in Australia in October 2012, and in the UK and US in early 2013.
http://www.ian-irvine.com/taintedrealm.html
THE TAINTED
REALM TRILOGY
BOOK 2. REBELLION
Copyright © Ian Irvine, 2012.
CHAPTER 1
‘Lord Rixium?’ The girl sounded desperate. ‘You gotta get up
now. The enemy are coming. Coming fast.’
Rix’s right wrist throbbed abominably, and so did the back of
his head. He groaned, rolled over and cracked his ear on a stone edge. His
cheek and chest were numb, as if he’d been lying on ice.
‘What …?’ he mumbled. ‘Where –?’ His eyes were gummed shut and
he didn’t want to open them. Didn’t want to see.
‘Chancellor’s stolen Tali and Rannilt away, to milk their
healing blood.’
He recognised her voice now. A maidservant, Glynnie.
‘And Lord Tobry’s been chucked off the tower, head-first.
Splat!’ said a boy’s voice from behind Rix.
‘Benn!’ Glynnie said sharply.
Rix winced. Did he have to be so matter-of-fact about it?
‘Tobe was my oldest friend.’
‘I’m sorry, Lord,’ said Glynnie.
‘How long was I out?’
‘Only five minutes, but you’re first on their death list,
Lord. If we don’t go now, we’re gonna die.’
‘Don’t call me Lord, Glynnie.’
‘Lord?’
‘My parents were executed for high treason,’ he said softly.
‘House Ricinus has fallen, the palace lies in ruins and I betrayed my own
mother. I am utterly dishonoured. Don’t – call – me – Lord!’
‘R-Rixium?’ She tugged at his arm, the good one.
‘That’s what my murdering mother called me. Call me Rix.’
Glynnie rubbed his eyelids with her fingertips. The sticky
secretions parted to reveal a slender servant girl, seventeen years old.
Tangled masses of flame-coloured hair, dark green eyes and a scatter of
freckles on her nose. Rix had not yet turned twenty yet he felt a lifetime
older. Foul and corrupt.
‘Get up,’ she said.
‘Give me a minute.’
They were on the top of his tower, at the rear of what
remained of Palace Ricinus. From where Rix lay he could not see over the
surrounding wall, and did not want to. Did not want to see the ruin a
hundred-foot fall had done to his dearest friend.
A freezing wind carried the stink of burned deer meat, the
forgotten skewers Glynnie had been cooking over the embers of Rix’s artist’s
easel. He would never paint again. Beside the fire stood a wide-eyed boy of
ten, her little brother. A metal drinking cup sat on the stone floor. Some
distance away lay a bloody sword. And a small puddle of blood, already frozen
over.
And a right hand, severed at the wrist.
Rix’s right hand.
Something collapsed with a thundering crash not far away, and
the tower shook.
‘What was that?’ said Rix.
She ran to the wall, went up on tiptoes and looked over.
‘Enemy’s blasting down the palace towers.’
‘What about Caulderon?’
Her small head turned this way and that, surveying the great
city. What was left of it.
‘There’s smoke and flame everywhere. Rix, they’re coming. Tell
me what to do.’
‘Take your brother and run for your life. Don’t look back.’
‘We’ve nowhere to go, Lord.’
‘Go anywhere. It’s all the same now.’
‘Not for us. We served House Ricinus; we’re condemned with our
house.’
‘As am I,’ said Rix.
‘We swore to serve you. We’re not running away.’
‘Lyf hates Herovians, especially me. He plans to put me to
death. But he doesn’t know you exist.’
‘I’m not leaving you, Lord – Rix.’
Rix did not have the strength to argue. ‘What about Benn? If
the Cythonians find him with me, they’ll kill him too.’
‘Not runnin’ either,’ said Benn. ‘We can’t break our sworn
word, Lord.’
Unlike me, Rix thought bitterly. The servants outreach the
master. ‘Ah, my head aches.’
‘That mongrel captain knocked you out,’ said Glynnie. ‘And the
chancellor – he –’ Her small jaw tightened. ‘He’s a useless, evil old windbag.
He’s lost Caulderon and he’s going to lose the war. No one can save us now.’
‘You can, Lord,’
said Benn, his eyes shining. ‘You can lead Hightspall to victory, I know it.’
‘Hush, Benn,’ said Glynnie. ‘Poor Rix has enough troubles as
it is.’
But he could see the light in her eyes as well, her absolute
belief in him. It was an impossible burden for a condemned man and he had to
strike it down. Hightspall was lost; nothing could be done about it.
‘Benn,’ he said softly, speaking to them both. ‘I can’t lead anyone. The chancellor has destroyed my
name and all Hightspall despises me –’
‘Not all, Rix,’ said Glynnie. ‘Not us. We know you can –’
‘No!’ he roared, trying to get up but crashing painfully onto
his knees. ‘I don’t even believe in myself. No army would follow me.’
Benn’s face crumpled. ‘But, Lord –’
‘Shhh, Benn,’ said Glynnie hastily. ‘Let me help you up,
Lord.’
She was stronger than she looked, but Rix was a huge man and
it was a struggle for her to raise him to his feet. The moment he stood upright
it felt as though his head was going to crack open. Through a haze of pain and
dizziness he heard someone shouting orders.
‘Search the rear towers next.’ The man had a heavy Cythonian
accent.
‘Where are we going, Rix?’ said Glynnie.
He swayed. She steadied him.
‘Don’t know.’ He looked around. ‘I need Maloch. It’s enchanted
to protect me.’
That was ironic. A command spell cast on Rix when he was a boy
of ten had left him with a deep-seated fear of magery, and recent events had
proven his fear to be justified.
‘Didn’t do a very good job,’ she sniffed. ‘Benn, get Rix’s
sword. And … and bring his hand.’
‘His hand?’ Benn said in a squeaky voice. ‘But – it’s all
bloody … and dead …’
‘I’m not leaving it for the crows to peck. Fetch the cup,
too.’
Benn handed the ancient, wire-handled sword to Rix, who
sheathed it left-handed. The roof door stood open. Glynnie helped him through
it and onto the steep stair that wound down his tower. Rix swayed, threw out
his right arm to steady himself and his bloody stump cracked against the wall.
‘Aaarrgh!’
‘Sorry, Lord,’ whispered Glynnie. ‘I’ll be more careful.’
‘Stop apologising. It’s not your damn fault.’ Rix pulled away
from her. ‘I’ve got to stand on my own feet. It’s only a hand. Plenty of people
have survived worse.’
‘Yes, Lord.’
But few men had lost more than Rix. He’d been heir to the
biggest fortune in the land, and now he had nothing. His family had been one of
the noblest – for a few moments, House Ricinus had even been a member of the
First Circle, the founding families of Hightspall. Then the chancellor, out of
malice, had torn it all down.
Rix’s parents had been hung from the front gates of the
palace, then ritually disembowelled for high treason and murder, and everything
they owned had been confiscated. Now, not even the most debased beggar or
street girl was lower than the sole surviving member of House Ricinus.
Rix had also been physically perfect – tall, handsome,
immensely strong, yet dextrous and fleet – and accomplished. Not just a
brilliant swordsman, but a masterful artist – the best of the new generation,
the chancellor had said in happier times. Now Rix was maimed, tainted, useless.
And soon to die, which was only right for a man so dishonourable that he had
betrayed his own mother. As soon as Glynnie and Benn got away, he planned to
take the only way out left to him – hurl himself at the enemy, sword in hand,
and end it all.
He reached the bottom of the tower stair, ignored Glynnie’s silent
offer of help and lurched into his ruined studio. When Tobry had smashed the
great heatstone in Rix’s chambers the other day, and it burst asunder, it had
brought down several of the palace walls. There were cracks in the walls and
part of the ceiling had fallen. The scattered paints, brushes and canvases were
coated in grey dust. He crunched across chunks of plaster, stolidly looking
ahead. He yearned for the solace of his art but had to put it behind him.
Forever.
‘Where we going, Lord?’ Glynnie repeated.
‘How the hell would I know?’
Not far away, sledge hammers thudded against stone and axes
rang on timber. The Cythonians were breaking in and they would come straight
here.
‘We’re trapped,’ said Glynnie, her jaw trembling. She
stretched an arm around Benn and hugged him to her. ‘They’re going to kill us,
Lord.’
‘You could go out the window –’
Rix looked down. From here the drop was nearly thirty feet. If
they weren’t killed outright, they’d break their legs, and in a city at war
that meant the same thing. He cursed inwardly, for it left him with no choice.
Glynnie and Benn were his people, all he had left, and as their former lord he
had a duty to protect them. A duty that outweighed his longing for oblivion. He
would devote his strength to getting them out of Caulderon, and to safety. And
then …
He headed down the steps into his once-magnificent, six-sided
salon, now filled with rubble, dust and smashed, charred furniture. The
crashing was louder here. The enemy would soon break through. The only hope of
escape, and that a feeble one, was to go underground.
‘Get warm clothing for yourself and Benn,’ he said to Glynnie.
‘And your money. Hurry!’
‘Got no money,’ said Glynnie, trembling with every hammer and
axe blow. ‘We got nothing, Lord.’
‘Tobry –’ Rix choked. How was he ever going to do without
Tobry? ‘Tobry brought in spare clothes for Tali. She’s nearly your size. Take
them.’
She stood there, trembling. ‘Where, Lord?’
‘In the closet in my bedchamber. Run.’
He still had coin, at least. Rix filled a canvas money belt
with gold and other small, precious items and buckled it on one-handed. He
packed spare clothing into an oilskin bag to keep it dry, and put it, plus
various other useful items, into a pack.
The crashing grew louder, closer. Glynnie filled two another
oilskin bags, packed two small packs and dressed herself and Benn in such warm
clothes as would fit. She strapped on a knife the length of her forearm and
collected the dusty food in the salon.
‘They’re nearly through,’ she said, white-faced. ‘Where are we
going, Lord?’
Benn still held Rix’s severed hand in his own small, freckled
hand. His wide grey eyes were fixed on Rix’s bloody stump. Benn caught Rix’s
gaze, flushed and looked away.
Rix gestured to a broad crack, low down in the wall at the
back of the salon. The edges resembled bubbly melted cheese, the plaster and
stonework etched away and stained in mottled greens and yellows.
He hacked away the foamy muck to reveal fresh stone, though
when he flicked the clinging stuff off the knife the blade was so corroded that
it snapped. He tossed it into the rubble. Benn ran back and fetched him another
knife.
‘Go through,’ said Rix. ‘Don’t touch the edges.’
‘What is that stuff?’ said Benn.
‘Alkoyl. Mad Wil squirted it around the crack to stop us
following him.’
‘What’s alkoyl?’
‘An alchymical fluid, the most dangerous in the world.
Dissolves anything. Even stone, even metal – even the flesh of a ten-year-old
boy.’ Rix took Benn’s free hand and helped him though.
‘We’ll need a lantern,’ said Glynnie.
‘No, they’d track us by its smell,’ said Rix.
He handed the boy a glowstone disc, though its light was so
feeble it barely illuminated his arm. Tobry, an accomplished magian, could have
coaxed more light from it, but – Rix avoided the rest of the thought.
‘We’ll need more light than that,’ said Glynnie.
She bundled some pieces of wood together from a broken chair,
tied them together with strips of fabric, tied on more fabric at one end and
shoved it in her pack.
They went through, holding their breath. The crack snaked ever
down, shortly intersecting a network of other cracks that appeared to have
freshly opened, and might close again just as suddenly.
‘If they shut, they’ll squeeze the juice out of us like a
turnip,’ whispered Glynnie.
Rix stopped, frowning. ‘Can you smell alkoyl?’
‘No,’ she said softly, ‘but I can smell stink-damp.’
‘That’s bad.’
Stink-damp smelled like rotten eggs. The deadly vapour seeped
up from deep underground and collected in caverns, from where it was piped to
the street lamps of Caulderon and the great houses, such as Palace Ricinus.
Stink-damp was heavier than air, however. It settled in sumps, basements and
other low places, and sometimes exploded.
‘I can smell
alkoyl,’ said Benn.
‘Good man,’ said Rix. ‘Can you follow it?’
‘I think so.’
Benn sniffed the air and moved down the crack.
‘Why are we following alkoyl?’ said Glynnie.
‘Wil was carrying a tube of it,’ said Rix. ‘He also stole
Lyf’s iron book, and if anyone can find a safe way out of here, Wil the Sump
can, the little weasel.’
‘Isn’t he dangerous?’
‘Not as dangerous as I am.’
The boast was hollow. Down here, Rix’s size put him at a
disadvantage, whereas Wil could hide in any crevice and reach out to a naked
throat with those powerful strangler’s hands.
They squeezed down cracks so narrow that Rix could not take a
full breath, under a tilted slab of stone that quivered at the touch, then
through an oval stonework pipe coated with feathery mould. Dust tickled the
back of Rix’s throat; he suppressed a sneeze.
After half an hour, Benn could no longer smell alkoyl.
‘Have we gone the wrong way?’ said Rix. ‘Or is Wil in hiding,
waiting to strike?’
Neither Glynnie nor Benn answered. They were at the
intersection of two low passages that burrowed like rat holes through native
rock. Many tunnels were known to run under the palace and the ancient city of
Caulderon, some dating back thousands of years to when it had been the enemy’s
royal city, Lucidand; others had been forgotten long ago. Rix’s wrist, which
had struck many obstacles in the dark, was oozing blood and throbbing
mercilessly.
‘Lord?’ said Glynnie.
He did not have the energy to correct her. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t think anyone’s following. Let me bandage your wrist.’
‘It hardly matters,’ he said carelessly. ‘Someone is bound to
kill me before an infection could.’
‘Sit down!’ she snapped. ‘Hold out your arm.’
An angry retort sprang to his lips, but he did not utter it.
He had been about to scathe Glynnie the way his late mother, Lady Ricinus, had
crushed any servant with the temerity to speak back to her. Yet Rix was
forsworn and a condemned man, while Glynnie had never done other than to serve
as best she could. She was the worthy one; he should be serving her.
‘Not here. They can come at us four ways. We need a hiding
place with an escape route.’
It took another half hour of creeping and crawling before they
found somewhere safe, a vault excavated from the bedrock. It must have dated
back to ancient times, judging by the stonework and the crumbling wall
carvings. A second stone door stood half open on the other side, its hinges
frozen with rust. To the left, water seeped from a crack into a basin carved
into the wall, its overflow leaving orange streaks down the stone.
‘I don’t like this place,’ said Benn, huddling on a dusty
stone bench, one of two.
‘Shh,’ said Glynnie.
In the far right corner a pile of ash was scattered with wood
charcoal and pieces of burnt bone, as if someone had cooked meat there and
tossed the bones on the fire afterwards.
Rix perched on the other bench and extended his wrist to
Glynnie. ‘Do you know how to treat wounds?’
‘I can do everything.’
It was a statement, not a boast.
‘But you’re just – you’re a maidservant. How do you know
healing?’
She pursed her lips. ‘I watch. I listen. I learn. Benn, bring
the glowstone. Rix, hold this.’
Gingerly, as though she would have preferred not to touch it,
she pressed Maloch’s hilt into Rix’s left hand.
‘Why?’ he said.
‘It’s supposed to protect you.’
‘Only against magery.’
She knelt in the dust before him, then took a bottle of
priceless brandy from her pack, Rix’s last surviving bottle, and rinsed her
hands with it. She laid a little bundle containing rags, needle and thread and
scissors on her pack, poured a slug of brandy onto a piece of linen and began
to clean his stump.
Rix tried not to groan. Blood began to drip from several
places. By the time she finished, Glynnie was red to the elbows.
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, for once
content to do as he was told.
‘Hold his wrist steady, Benn,’ said Glynnie.
A pair of smaller, colder hands took hold of Rix’s lower arm.
He heard Glynnie moving about but did not open his eyes. She began to tear
linen into strips. Liquid gurgled and he caught a whiff of the brandy, then a
chink as she set down a metal cup.
‘I could do with a drop of that,’ he murmured.
Glynnie gave a disapproving sniff. She was washing her hands
again.
‘Steady now,’ she said. ‘Hold the sword. This could hurt.’
She began to spread something over his stump, an unguent that
stung worse than the brandy. Rix’s fingers clenched around Maloch’s hilt.
‘Ready, Benn?’ said Glynnie.
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
Her hand steadied his wrist. There came a gentle, painful
pressure on the stump. Where his fingers touched the hilt, they tingled like a
nettle sting. Then Rix felt a burning pain as though she had poured brandy over
his stump and set it alight. His eyes sprang open.
Glynnie had pressed his severed hand against the stump, and
now the pain was running up his arm and down into his fingers. Blue were-flames
flickered around the amputation then, with the most shocking pain Rix had ever
experienced, the bones of his severed hand ground against his wrist bones – and seemed to fuse.
He had the good sense not to move, though he could not hold
back the agony. It burst out in a bellow that sifted dust down from the roof
onto them, like a million tiny drops falling through a sunbeam.
‘What are you doing to
me?’
