Thirty-three

Nish's shattered army was now below the junction of the two streams, which here formed a river some twelve spans across, too deep and fast flowing to cross. At the neck it narrowed in a rocky cleft, rushing over a chain of rapids down the steep part of the slope before forming a series of wide meanders below it, where Gumby Marth broadened.

'How deep is the river down below?' he asked the soldier at his side.

'We forded it on the way in,' said Sergeant Lemuir. 'It was hard going — chest deep for the most part. The danker operators weren't pleased.'

'I can imagine.' Clankers could move even when half full of water, as long as the operator's head was clear, but it must have been an alarming experience.

there were troops on the other side of the river too, in scattered groups, and doubtless enemy as well, although the bulk of lyrinx seemed to be on this side.

'What are we going to do, Lieutenant?' said Lemuir.

A professional soldier was asking his advice? But as far as they were concerned, he was their lieutenant. A good five thousand troops were staring expectantly at him, with the rest forming up behind them, escorted by seven or eight hundred clankers and a scattering of men on horseback. He'd asked about Xabbier but no one knew what had become of him or any other officer. It was past noon and there was no sign of Troist, either. Privately, Nish no longer believed that any relief would arrive, but he wasn't going to say that aloud.

What was he to do? It was one thing to give orders to a few dozen soldiers, another entirely to command an army. But, if they expected him to lead them, he'd better get started.

'Lad,' Nish said to a young signaller, 'call all the sergeants to me. Does anyone know the land further down the valley?'

'I do,' a tattered youth said.

'If we can get past the enemy, what next?'

'It's easy marching downriver to the sea, and then only a couple of days south along the coast to Gnulp Landing.'

Nish climbed the side slope to get a better view down the valley. Lemuir followed.

'What do you think, Sergeant?'

Lemuir gnawed at a bloodstained fingernail. 'Looks to be nine thousand holding the neck. More than us.'

'And a good few behind, sheltering under the cliffs and trees,' said Nish. 'They can afford to wait till dusk, but we can't.'

'Never heard of an attack on a superior force of lyrinx succeeding.' Lemuir tore off an arc of fingernail, chewed pensively on it a moment, then spat it onto the grey rock.

'Nor I,' said Nish. 'We could wait. Troist might yet turn up.'

'We'd have seen him coming up the valley by now.'

Nish had the same fear. 'He'll come over the ridge further down, where he can cross with the clankers.'

'Not in time. The lyrinx aren't going to wait, surr. They're getting ready to attack.'

Down the slope, the gathered lyrinx were moving, and behind them others were coming out of the trees. 'It's always better to attack,' said Nish. The decision had come easily after all. 'And they're fighting uphill.'

It wasn't much of an advantage, the enemy being so much bigger and stronger, but it was all they had. Nish ran down to his assembled sergeants and explained his plan, and the way he'd been successful in attacking the sluggish lyrinx.

'This has got to succeed,' he concluded. 'If they can keep us up here until dark, we're done for. General Troist can't take the neck against such a force. With the field so weak, his clankers might not be able to move uphill. But ours can still go down the slope. We must attack now, and know we'll win.

Anything less is our doom. And we can win!'

'How?' said a sergeant with a bushy beard and a pair of oozing lyrinx scalps hanging from his shoulders, one green-crested, the other red. 'My men are as brave as any, but this has been a day without hope.’

'I've told you how I fight them,' said Nish. 'I'm not a trained soldier, and I've killed six of the enemy today, with sword alone.'

'That's not much help,' grunted the sergeant.

'They don't like fighting in the heat and brightness of midday, so now's our best chance.'

'It's going to rain again.' The sergeant looked pointedly up at the sky.

'The sun's out further down the valley. The cloud's breaking up and, running downhill, our clankers can go through them even with the weak field . . .'

The sergeant shook his head. 'To beat such fierce fighters we'd need an entirely new battle plan, and all the luck in the world.’

'The enemy have another weakness,' said Nish, improvising desperately. 'They've lost twice as many as they'd have expected, so their morale must be low. Also, they're not used to losing and tend to panic after a sudden reversal. Let's form a flying wedge of clankers, cavalry, and our biggest, stoutest fighters, and charge them.'

'Never been done,' said the sergeant. 'Besides, it's too narrow for the clankers to manoeuvre down there. It'd be suicide.

'So is standing here doing nothing.'

'Look, surr, we need a proper plan. I can't inspire my men if I don't believe in it myself.’

Nish had an idea. 'The lyrinx don't like to break off an attack when they're winning. What if we were to attack with, say, a third of our army, then turn and flee as if in panic. If they follow us out of the neck, we hit them hard with the rest.’

'That's not much of a plan,' the sergeant said, rubbing his stubble.

'I haven't finished yet. In our counterattack, we drive five hundred clankers at full speed right into the middle of their formation, then attack out in all directions, driving some of them up against the cliffs and others into the river. In the deep water, they'll panic and be swept down the rapids and it'll alarm the rest. Once their front line turns around to defend themselves, the remainder of our force attacks them from the other side. They won't have been pressed like that before, and if we're strong enough, we might break through.'

The sergeant considered Nish for a long moment. 'Your father was one for reckless plans, though I never saw him in the front lines. He always took good care of his own life.'

'My father is dead,' said Nish, 'and eaten by the enemy. I'm not reckless, Sergeant. In fact I'm terrified, but I'll be out in front, leading us — to victory or to death.'

The sergeant seemed to be weighing Nish's youth, stature, parentage. The other sergeants and soldiers held their breath. The sergeant asked a question of Lemuir, though Nish did not catch it. The man turned back to Nish and now, Nish knew, he was weighing his reputation, and what he'd done last night and today. The whole army knew of those deeds.

The sergeant grinned and thrust out a hand. 'We'll do it, surr. Death or glory!'

The whole army sighed as Nish clasped the callused hand. He addressed the sergeants. 'Then let's get to it. I want an advance guard, a third of our number. Not your best fighters but the fleetest and wiliest of them, for they've got to put on a good act. They'll attack, accompanied by a hundred and fifty clankers, but the machines will be driven as though there's barely enough power. The rest of the army is to hang back, breaking lines and generally looking afraid.'

'We won't have to put on an act,' Lemuir said dryly.

'When the attack is almost to the enemy lines, the clankers will grind to a stop, as if there's not power to drive them. The shooters will scream out in panic. The soldiers will fight for another minute, then everyone will turn and flee as rabble.

The lyrinx will, I hope, follow them. If they do take the bait, we attack when they'r right out of the neck and hit them with most of our remaining clankers and our biggest, toughest fighters. The fleeing advance guard will run to the rear, rearm and reform. Sergeants of the advance guard, ready your troops.' A number of the sergeants ran off.

'You' Nish said to a lanky, long-legged messenger, mounted on a stubby roan, 'run down to the clankers. Make sure the remaining operators and their troops know to act panicky, but if the attack succeeds, they are to form into a wedge behind my clanker. We'll drive straight at the lyrinx with all but fifty clankers and half our troops. Sergeants, put your best and biggest along the wings, the others behind.' He issued detailed orders for that attack then, 'Should we break through, we'll make for the river and ford it at the meanders. Get ready!'

The remaining sergeants and signallers turned away. The advance formation came together quickly. They were a disci-plined force but Nish was pleased to see they were acting as if on the verge of mutiny. Overacting, he thought, but the enemy could hardly tell that from their lines. He estimated the enemy numbers again. They might have been as many as ten thousand now. He'd lost well over a thousand in the earlier fighting, for he had less than nine thousand men and nine hundred clankers. So few.

Nish's ultimate plan depended on the strength of the field, or rather its weakness. It required a lot of power for the lyrinx to fly. If he could get his soldiers across the river they would have the advantage, given the lyrinx fear of water. But if there was enough in the field they'd fly across the river, attack again and his army must be defeated. 'They're ready, surr,' said a signaller beside him. Nish checked. 'Go!'

The advance guard charged. He held his breath, for the enemy completely blocked the neck and were so numerous that his troops might simply be annihilated. A hail of bolts and javelard spears fell on the lyrinx but made very little difference. They held the line until Nish's soldiers were within spear-throwing distance. Many lyrinx fell, but more of his troops.

"Turn now,' he groaned aloud, seeing what deaths he'd sent his men to. They kept on.

The clankers creaked to a halt, their shooters crying wildly to each other as if in panic. What if they were, and it spread? The operators lurched their machines around. The soldiers screamed, threw their weapons away and fled. Nish's nails dug holes in his palms. It was all too convincing.

Would it work or not? Everything depended on what the lyrinx did. Nothing, it seemed; then, all at once, the enemy bounded after the fleeing soldiers, taking some down with their own spears. Lyrinx were faster than men. The slaughter was sickening and there was nothing he could do about it -they were a sacrifice to save the rest.

The soldiers scattered; the clankers ground away in all directions, troops hanging off the sides. 'Your orders, sun? Nish's signaller said urgently.

'Not yet.' Let the lyrinx come up just a bit further. The wait was agonising, the deaths horrible, but finally the enemy were clear of the neck. 'Charge!' Nish roared, waving his sword in the air.

Running to one of the leading clankers, he clambered up the side, settling into the seat in front of the shooter. The clankers moved; the soldiers too. 'Is this as fast as we can go?' he called through the hatch.

'We'll pick up speed down the slope,' came the voice of the operator, 'but there's not much in the field and it's getting weaker all the time.' His teeth chattered. If he lost the field, he'd lose his clanker too.

Running full tilt downhill, they converged rapidly on the enemy. The shooter fired his catapult, the ball whizzing over Nish's head, and suddenly it was on. The other shooters were firing balls and spears. Gaps appeared in the enemy lines. The catapult ratchet went furiously. Nish, swaying with the bumps and lurches, heaved his shooter another ball. He wished he could fire the javelard but the clanker was an early make, not designed to use both at the same time. With only fifty paces to go, a rain of missiles came at them — used javelard spears, balls of rock and any other object the enemy could lay their hands on. A heavy spear took the shooter on the clanker beside Nish's right off his platform. The enemy also used catapults but none were in evidence here. Such large weapons could not have been stone-formed. For the first time in his life, Nish felt no fear for himself. He'd passed beyond such emotions, though he did feel a terrible, knotted pain for his troops, who were being slain and maimed all around, and even for the enemy. Perhaps the touch of the tears had heightened his senses. It was brutal and senseless, and all he could do was try to save as many of his men as he could.

He could see the expressions on the enemy's faces now, they were so close. Nish could almost read their flickering skin-speech. They were uneasy at his unprecedented mode of attack. Good!

The flying wedge of clankers and men struck the enemy lines with shattering violence. Nish's clanker drove right over a slowly moving lyrinx, which must have been injured. Another beast leapt for the shooter's platform, beheading Nish's catapult operator with a single blow. Whirling the javelard around, Nish discharged the spear. It went straight though the beast, lifting it over the side. The clanker kept going. He pushed the dead shooter out of the way and flopped into the sticky seat, trying not to think about it. He had an army to manage and it was impossible to take it all in.

The front of the wedge, a couple of hundred clankers and three times as many men, had burst right through the front ranks of lyrinx and now formed into a circle three ranks of clankers deep, firing furiously into the enemy. After half a dozen salvoes that left the ground littered with enemy dead, the soldiers moved out behind their shield wall, trying to split the lyrinx ranks apart. Nish fired the catapult and struggled to load another heavy ball, turning the weapon around to fire over his soldiers' heads. In this situation he could not miss.

Further uphill, the survivors of the advance guard had rejoined the rest of his troops, armed themselves, and were attacking with the strength of desperation, taking what advantage they could from their uphill position. Nish could not tell how the battle was going. Even from his elevated seat it was just a blur of violence that went on and on, but, under attack from front and rear, the leading ranks of the lyrinx must be feeling the strain. To his right a squad of lyrinx were forced into the river, where they panicked and could not save themselves. A ripple of ash-grey skin colours passed through the enemy. Drowning was a terror that death in battle could never be.

He fired until all his rock balls were gone, and all but one of his spears. Almost every shot went true, exacting sickening slaughter. How could they not, where the enemy ranks were so tightly packed? A shiver went through the lines of the lyrinx. Their jagged red-and-black skin patterns indicated distress, which flicked in an instant to camouflage colours as their front line broke.

It was far from over, but it was the first sign that his tactics were working. Nish signalled twenty clankers to secure the gap, and the rest fought on. After another vicious ten minutes, the tide seemed to be turning. The uphill section of his army was less than a hundred paces away, and their line still held.

Nish rallied his troops again and again, bolstering the weak places in the circle and expanding it to wedge the enemy forces apart. The lyrinx, now fighting in five or six bands all showing black-and-red distress patterns, split at the rear. Nish's uphill and downhill armies flowed together. They had broken through and the way to the ford was clear.

His troops and clankers streamed through the gap. 'To the ford!' he signalled to the second wave. Then, to the survivors of his flying wedge, 'Form a rearguard, clankers last of all, and we'll hold them off. Shooters, replenish your spears.'

They leapt off their machines and gathered up the fallen spears. Nish remained on his platform, watching the enemy. The lyrinx had drawn away to the side of the valley, shocked at the defeat and near to panic. Their leaders were trying desperately to rally them, so Nish fired a ball at a small group of officers and was pleased to see them scatter. His troops were vulnerable to a counterattack from the rear.

The army raced through the narrow passages of the neck and down the hill. He signalled his flying wedge into a defensive line, trying not to think of the injured, whose piteous cries could be heard above the thudding of the clankers. Again, anyone who could not walk had to be left behind to die, and there were hundreds of them. It was cruel. Tears poured down Nish's face at the thought of abandoning men who had fought so bravely, and who were in such agony, but nothing could be done. Any man who stopped to attend the injured would be slain by the enemy.

A band of lyrinx to their left had rallied and were getting ready to attack. Nish checked over his shoulder. The main body of the army was halfway to the ford. A soldier came running towards him, staggering under the weight of an armload of spears. 'Thought these might come in handy,' he said laconically.

'Thanks, soldier. Now run.'

The wings of the rearguard clankers were already in position. 'Fly!' Nish shouted to the foot soldiers of his rearguard. "Wait at the ford for us to defend your backs.'

He gave them a minute or two to get away, firing salvoes at the enemy to help keep them at bay. 'Move out!' he signalled, and the clanker rearguard turned as one.

The eight metal feet of his machine thudded against the ground, crushing stones and pebbles into powder. The clanker crashed down the steep slope, screeching across rock outcrops, slipping on wet clay and skidding from side to side. The operator over-corrected, skidded the other way then gained control.

Now Nish noticed an irregularity in the beat of the feet, thud-thud, thud-thud, which grew worse as they went on. 'What's the matter?' he yelled. 'I don't know,' wailed the operator.