Thirty-one

It took an hour, and several more skirmishes, before he reached the first stream. The lyrinx were more sluggish than before; he killed another on the way, though this one had been badly wounded and could barely stand. Nish had rallied well over a thousand soldiers and sent them back to Xabbier. He'd capped nine others, with orders to spread across the battlefield and send everyone who could walk to Xabbier's command post.

The stream barely came up to his hips, though the cold water bit into wounds Nish did not know he had. On the far bank he looked back. The valley spread out like a map below him and he could see threads of soldiers moving across it, as well as the larger force Xabbier had already gathered. Unfortunately the enemy could see them just as clearly. Several bands of lyrinx were also heading that way. Fortunately there were none in the air. That could mean they were too sluggish to fly. It might also mean the field was too weak to support them.

A clanker crossed his path, moving slowly. Nish waved his lieutenant's hat and the machine turned towards him. There was enough in the field to drive it, at least. He pulled the rear hatch up and yelled inside. 'Find all the clankers you can and lead them across to the southern side. We're making a stand further down the valley.'

'Got no shooter' the operator stated mournfully. Without one, a clanker was little use on the battlefield, and terribly vulnerable.

Nish made a quick decision. 'You have now.' He climbed atop, settled in the seat and loaded the catapult and javelard.

'That way.’

Should have thought of this earlier, he realised. Soon he had been around a dozen clankers, ordering them to contact every machine they came to, and escort the surviving troops to Xabbier. With his lieutenant's hat, no one questioned him.

All they needed was someone to tell them what to do.

'How's the field?' he yelled down through the hatch on the way back. The clanker was creeping across the stream, its feet slipping on the pebbly bottom.

'Weak, but it'll do,' the operator said.

'Head up towards the scrutator's tent, in case there are any officers left alive. You know where that is?' Nish couldn't imagine that any officers had survived, but that wasn't what he was looking for. He'd come to find out the fate of his father and retrieve the priceless tears. They must not be allowed to fall into enemy hands.

'Know where it was,' the operator muttered, turning up the slope.

This part of the battlefield was empty now, though there were torn and trampled tents everywhere, and each of the night's bonfires wore a halo of dead. In places they lay so thickly that it was difficult to avoid running over them. Nish often heard the cries of wounded soldiers but steeled himself to ignore them. If he stopped for the barely living he would soon join the dead.

'It was here,' said the operator. 'But it ain't here now.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure. Scrutator's tent was two up from the row of command tents. That's them there.'

The command area was a horrific sight. That bladed disc of white light had cut through everything it encountered — tents, clankers, horses and men — half a span above the ground. Right in front of him, half a dozen officers lay together, sheared off between waist and chest. He recognised several of them. The majority, from their uniforms, were generals and other senior officers. The sight made his empty belly heave.

He continued up the slope A square of yellowed grass, stained with alchymical droppings, marked the site of Jal-Nish's tent, though not a shred of canvas or rope remained.

His father's strategy must have been to lure the strongest of the enemy to him, then to destroy them with his An, fantastically boosted by the tears of the node. It would have been a master stroke, had he succeeded. Jal-Nish would have gained his own page in the Histories, and perhaps Ghorr's hat as well.

But the black, golden-crested lyrinx had turned the spell back on him, crushing it down, and finally Jal-Nish had done the lyrinx's work for them, scything through most of his commanders in one bloody second. He might still get that page in the Histories but it would be known as Jal-Nish's folly.

The yellow grass was littered with smashed glass, remnants of Jal-Nish's alchymical equipment. Orange fumes still rose from a small patch stained red by some corrosive fluid.

A crumpled mass of canvas and poles lay a bit further on. Something big had gone through the tent and dragged it away. 'Hold on,' Nish called to his operator. 'I've got to take a look.'

He jumped down, jarring the knee he'd hurt coming down the cliff, and limped to the wreckage. There was nothing inside the canvas but the remains of Jal-Nish's table and a torn map. The chest that had held the tears lay ten spans on, smashed to fragments. He went back and forth across the area a dozen times but found no trace of the tears. Presumably the golden-crested lyrinx had them, in which case they would be safe over the sea by now. Nish kept searching among the bodies for his father's. There were corpses strewn everywhere, and signs that the enemy had fed here — bodies partly eaten, dismembered limbs, loose heads.

And then, something glinting in the dirt: his father's platinum mask, crumpled as if a lyrinx had stamped on it. He turned it over with the toe of his boot, not wanting to touch it. The inside was stained with blood, though that did not mean Jal-Nish was dead.

He kept searching, and finally he found it — a long black boot, mirror-polished under its covering of dust. Jal-Nish took pride in his attire and Nish would have known the boot anywhere, with its intricate tooling down the sides and the carefully built-up heels to make him seem taller than he was. It was his father's, and there was a foot inside it, bitten off halfway down the shin.

Jal-Nish was dead and eaten. It was all over. Nish studied the remnant, feeling no horror, no sorrow, no relief. He felt nothing at all, and surely that was wrong, no matter what a monster his father had been.

'Enemy!' called the operator.

Nish looked over his shoulder but saw no immediate danger. He headed back to the command area and checked everybody there. None of the officers, nor any of their guards, had survived. The army's war chests had been broken open in the battle, leaving gold and silver scattered across the sward. He did not touch it.

Trudging around a neatly bisected clanker, Nish ran straight into a lyrinx that was just as surprised to see him. He grabbed for his sword.

Nish had developed a technique for dealing with these strangely sluggish lyrinx. They seemed to lack the dexterity of those he'd encountered on previous occasions, taking a long time to regain their balance after striking. He would go forwards, almost within reach, and feint with his sword, left then right. The lyrinx would swing wild blows at him with one arm, then the other. If off-balance to its left, he would lunge from the right. If to its right, he would attack from the left. If off-balance forwards, he would dive straight at it, the most risky attack of all, come up inside the sweep of its arms and thrust through the groin plates, or into the belly.

He'd nearly died three times, and once the creature had trapped him in its arms and was attempting to bite his head off before he got the sword in far enough. But so far he'd always been the victor.

This time it didn't work. As he went forwards the lyrinx brought a knee up into Nish's belly, sending him flying. He landed hard rolled and tried to draw his sword but the scab-hard tangled between his weary legs. He hopped out of the way as the lyrinx lunged The sword came free. Nish slashed at the join just below the creature's armoured kneecap, but missed. The lyrinx tried to kick the sword out of his hand. Nish brought it up just in time and the tip speared into the creature's instep, grating on bone.

He wrenched it out, feeling faint. No matter how often he did it, he would never get used to the feeling of his sword backing through the enemy's flesh. It was horrible.

The lyrinx screamed, put its foot on the ground and collapsed, leaving its belly and throat exposed. Nish should have slain the creature, but did not have the stomach for it. He col-ected an armload of javelard spears from a clanker that had been neatly cut in half, staggered back to his machine with them and climbed aboard.

'There's no one alive in the command area,' he said. 'Head up towards the cliffs.'

He'd seen soldiers hiding up there earlier though, if they were there now, they weren't coming out. There might well be thirteen thousand left alive but Xabbier would be lucky to round up three-quarters of them. And who could blame the others, after their second massacre in a month?

He spent another two hours scouring the battlefield, sending men and clankers across to Xabbier, appointing sergeants from any soldiers who had battle experience, and giving them their orders. He encountered lyrinx, though not many, for they had moved further down the valley, following the mass of the army. Nish used his javelard three times, killing two more of the creatures, and fired the catapult many times without doing any damage. It was only accurate in the hands of an expert.

Despite his earlier vow, he did stop for those wounded who had some chance of recovery. The seriously injured he had to leave where they lay, despite their piteous groans. He'd just lifted a cruelly wounded man, speared through the groin, when another called out to him. This fellow had his stomach torn open and was bound to die.

'I'm sorry,' Nish said, crouching beside him and giving him the last of the beer. 'I've no room left inside.'

'I'm dying anyway,' said the soldier, clutching at his wrist. 'Please, end it for me.'

Nish looked into the fellow's eyes and knew what had to be done but, despite his father, he could not do it. No matter how good the justification, killing the man to put him out of his misery was beyond him. He was sick to his heart of all the violence.

'I'm sorry,' he said, and had to walk away. For the rest of the day he could see the pain in the soldier's eyes, and the bewilderment.

The clanker was bursting with wounded by the time he finally reached Xabbier's staging post, having replenished his missiles from wrecked machines several times on the way. They were creeping along now, at little more than walking pace.

'What's the matter, Operator?' Nish called. He did not know the fellow's name. 'Can't you go any faster?'

'There's not much left in the field,' said the operator mournfully. Nish had yet to meet a cheerful one — the bond with the machine was so intense that all human interactions palled by comparison. 'It's been going down all morning. It's only a small node hereabouts and we've nearly drained it dry.'

Not surprising, given the number of clankers that had drawn on it, and lyrinx too, not to mention that great struggle between the golden-crested lyrinx and Jal-Nish. And if our clankers can barely move, he thought, Troist's won't be doing any better. But at least the enemy won't be able to attack us from the air.

A great mass of soldiers had gathered on a grassy mound, with smaller detachments grouped above and below. Rows of clankers defended them, some hundreds, but it was a pitiful remnant of the great army of yesterday.

The enemy had drawn off, for the moment. An army of lyrinx had collected under the trees near the closest stream, watching the scene. Nish had his operator drive the clanker up to Xabbier's flag.

I've done all I can.' He climbed down. 'I've sent across about four thousand men and a few hundred clankers.

'And I've gathered another six thousand,' said Xabbier, but that's not a quarter of those who were alive last night.'

'There are thousands of undamaged clankers with no operator to drive them,' said Nish, 'I saw a lot of soldiers further down the valley, across the second stream, though they were too far away to call back. There's no one left alive in the middle of the valley. At least, no one with a chance of living.' He saw that dying soldier's eyes again. 'There are so many injured, just dying there in the sun. And to go past and be able to do nothing for them . . .'

'It's cruel,' said Xabbier. 'But what can we do? If we stay to comfort them, more will die.'

'And all for the folly of one man, my father! How can I ever make up for it?' Nish knew he had to — the night, and the morning, had changed him forever, and he felt a need to atone for his father's crimes as well as his own blunders.

'You've already begun to,' said Xabbier, 'by what you've done last night and today.'

'It can never be enough,' said Nish. 'I can't bring the dead back to life.'

'Don't take on more than your due,' said Xabbier. 'Your father committed this terrible folly all by himself.' He looked burdened. 'I don't know what to do now. What do you think, Cryl-Nish?'

Why ask me? Nish thought. You're the soldier. But Xabbier hadn't commanded such a force in a rout either. 'We're low on spears,' Nish began, 'so I'd send a few clankers round the battlefield to pick up used ones. Then make our way down to the neck, fast as we can. The enemy have suffered terrible casualties, more than they must have expected, and their morale may be faltering.'

'Doesn't look that way,' said Xabbier.

'Well in bright sunlight they're slightly handicapped, but if we're not out of the valley come nightfall, there's not a man will be living in the morning.'

That was my plan too,' said Xabbier. 'And we can expect Troist's army before too long.' He sent the clankers off, then conferred with his sergeants. He gave orders and the signallers relayed them to the troops.

'We can hope for it,' Nish muttered.

The clankers returned, distributed the spears, and the army and escorting clankers set off. Before too long the bright sunshine was replaced by dark clouds sweeping in from the distant Sea of Thurkad. Raindrops pattered on the top of the clanker. Nish wiped his face, gloomily. Rain would disadvantage them and aid the enemy.

Soon they ran into heavy fighting. The army was quickly broken into struggling bands of soldiers and the leaders fell like flies. Nish had no idea what was going on, so he ducked through a line of fighting men and climbed a knoll. The soldiers were spread out all across this side of the valley and no one seemed to be leading them. He went back and forth in the clanker, issuing fruitless orders while he searched everywhere for Xabbier. There was no sign of him. He must have fallen in the assault.

Nish felt panic rising; this was going to be another massacre and at the end there wouldn't be a soldier left standing. He had to do something, hopeless though it was. He would try to rally the soldiers and get them down to the neck.

'Down there!' he ordered his operator. 'Take me to the front.'

The fighting was fierce; within minutes Nish had used all his spears. Rotating the javelard out of the way, he settled behind the catapult, wound it back a few extra notches and took aim at a band of lyrinx running towards him.

Nish pulled the release lever. The cords snapped, shaking the clanker, and the catapult ball rolled gently off the side.

'What's that?' cried the operator, peering fearfully up through the hatch. His 'crown of thorns' — a headband of wire and crystals that allowed him to control the clanker — hung askew over one ear.

'Catapult's broken' Nish said 'Keep going.’

Nish couldn't see the clankers with the extra spears, and could not go back for more without leaving his troops leaderless. His clanker was damaged and moving at less than walking pace so, ordering it back for spears, he slipped off the side, pulling out his bloodstained sword. He had learned more about sword play this morning than he had in the years of intermittent training at the manufactory. Every muscle throbbed, every bone ached, but he was inured to it now.

He fought his way down Gumby Marth, rallying the scattered bands of soldiers into a fighting force, and praying that when he topped the rise he would see Troist's army stretching before him. All he saw was more enemy and, despite the debilitating effects of stone-forming, in one-on-one combat they won more often than they lost.

At last he reached the opening of the neck with a dozen other soldiers. The survivors of the army were now close behind, at least, and their sergeants had them in hand. Here the valley was only a few hundred paces wide and cliffs hemmed them in on either side. A rocky ramp occupied the middle, over which the river, as it now was, roared in a series of cascades. There was room for the clankers and soldiers to pass down between the river and the cliff, though the broken country restricted movement to a few narrow passages, each guarded by lyrinx. At least the army had the advantage of height, though several lyrinx had climbed the cliffs and could hurl rocks down at them.

The slope dropped away steeply for the length of a bowshot, then flattened out as Gumby Marth broadened again. Down there, patches of trees, and folds in the land, made ideal places for an enemy ambush. In the distance he could just make out the Sea of Thurkad, there close to its narrowest as it rushed towards the Karama Malama, the chilly Sea of Mists.

He scanned the lower valley, searching for the nine hundred clankers and thirteen thousand soldiers of Troist's army.

All he saw were lyrinx, thousands of them, holding the neck of the valley against him.