Free The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) by Ian Irvine

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