Thirty-four

The operator was cracking under the strain. Nish had to be the strong one, the one who never gave up, for his operator's sake, for the sake of all the survivors.

Stay calm,' he yelled, firing his javelard. 'We'll be all right. General Troist can't be far away now.'

Nish had never seen the operator's face, just a pointed nose, dark hair thinning at the crown and no chin at all. It sounded as if the field was about to fail. He looked back; the battered lyrinx were close behind and gaining. How quickly they'd overcome their fear.

The open land on the far side of the river was empty, though in the distance he saw other groups of soldiers and clankers. More were coming out of the trees, and from other hiding places, now that they saw some hope. On the whole, Nish couldn't blame them. He did not see any enemy over there, thankfully.

'Pull up,' he ordered as the clankers approached a cut in the bank that marked the ford. The army hadn't gone across yet. Standing up on the shooter's platform, hanging on with one hand as the machine bounced and lurched across the uneven ground, Nish signalled to his clankers to form a defensive fan. Once that was in place, and it was pitifully thin, he signed to the main body of the army, 'Go across.'

The soldiers, accompanied by the leading clankers, began to move into the water. Further up the hill, the lyrinx were regrouping. Nish considered his one remaining spear and shivered. 'Hoy?' he yelled to the blood-covered shooter on the next clanker. 'Got any missiles left?'

The man shook his head. Nor did the one after, nor the one after that. Nish signalled the clankers that had crossed the river to fan out and ready their javelards, in case the enemy broke through his line. It would take fifteen minutes to get the remainder of the army across and his small rearguard would be lucky to survive that long.

Springing down, he scoured the ground for missiles. The pebbles were too small, though closer to the river there were flat stones the size of oranges. He gathered a couple of basketfuls and packed stones into the leather bucket of the catapult. The other shooters did the same. There was no telling where they would fly, but it was better than that desperate feeling of being defenceless.

Nish monitored the soldiers' progress. More must have come out of hiding than he'd thought. Four and a half thousand had crossed, he estimated, and there were four or five thousand to go. Not many clankers, though — less than six hundred. He'd lost three hundred in that desperate twenty minutes above the neck. Last night there had been five thousand. What a rich haul of precious iron for the people who dwelt near here, if any had survived the lyrinx raids.

The lyrinx, at least a thousand strong, charged.

'Clankers, hold formation,' he yelled, though they could not have heard him.

'Don't fire until I give the word!' Nish could not even hear his own voice and already the shooters were firing spasmodically, wasting their precious missiles. Leaping down, he ran around the front of the fan, waving his arms. 'Don't fire yet! Pass it along the line.'

He hobbled all the way to make sure they had the message. Nish was exhausted before he got there. There was nothing in his belly — nothing driving him but sheer will. The enemy were coming on fast and a good number were heading straight for him; they had learned that lesson early in their struggles with humanity.

Nish reached for his sword but his groping hand closed on an empty scabbard. It had been in the way when he'd been sitting behind the catapult, so he'd laid it on the shooter's platform.

He looked over his shoulder. The enemy were only a hundred paces away — less than ten seconds. 'Fire!'

The shooters fired a stuttering volley that tore a ragged hole through the enemy line, but it was quickly filled. A dozen lyrinx were still heading towards him. With luck the shooters might fire another salvo before the lyrinx struck, but most would survive it. He leapt for the handholds on the side of the nearest machine, but his bad knee folded up and he fell.

The ground was shaking underfoot. No time for another attempt; the enemy would drag him down and tear him to pieces. Nish hurled himself between the second and third pairs of metal legs, tearing off his fingernails in his desperation to evade those flailing claws. He almost made it.

The lyrinx caught him by the boot. Nish kicked furiously, trying to pull his foot out, but the lyrinx squeezed his ankle so hard that its claws went through the leather. It heaved. He grabbed hold of a rod underneath the machine and clung on with all his might, but it was no use. The lyrinx was much stronger. It heaved again, breaking his grip, and jerked him out. This was it. He was dead.

Nish twisted as he came out, so he could see his enemy. It was a small one, and the green crest meant that it was female.

females were often larger than the males, so this one might not be fully grown, though its teeth were as sharp as any. He thrashed helplessly as she drew him towards her.

 The lyrinx stumbled backwards and kept falling, a red spot blossoming on the right side of her forehead. Her grip did not relax in death and Nish had to prise the fingers off.

His ankle turned when he tried to stand up but he eventually managed to drag himself onto the shooter's platform. Lyrinx lay dead all around and it took him a moment to work out what had happened. A host of soldiers had turned back from the water to defend them, laying down a withering fire with crossbows.

Thanks,' he said to the big man, blood all over his head and shoulders, who was reloading a crossbow. 'I'll do the same for you some day.'

'You already have,' the man croaked, turning his way. It was Xabbier. 'There's another bow and a few bolts in the basket.'

Nish loaded the crossbow, wound the crank back and fired. 'Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you.'

'Inside, unconscious,' his friend said. Xabbier bent his head to reveal three bloody furrows across the top of his head, where the scalp was torn to the bone. 'Going to have trouble with haircuts for the rest of my life.'

'How are we doing?' Nish scanned the melee but his eyes were having trouble focussing.

'You've done brilliantly, Cryl-Nish. Most of the troops are across.'

'But we've only got nine thousand left.' The scale of the disaster left Nish speechless.

'You've saved nine thousand lives, Cryl-Nish. Not many men can say that. And more have survived across the river. It could have been much worse.'

'It will be for this rearguard,' said Nish. 'If the enemy rally again, as they seem to be. What are we going to do? I can't think straight.'

'Make an orderly retreat towards the river. Give the order.'

'But you're the officer here.'

'You've done well today, Lieutenant.' Xabbier saluted him.

A simple thing, but Nish felt such a swell of pride that he almost burst. He had done well, all on his own. He stood up, holding onto the frame of the catapult, and waved a flag. 'To the crossing!' he yelled down the hatch.

The clanker turned clumsily, the legs on one side beating faster than the others. This was a newer machine and both weapons could be used at once. Xabbier rotated the catapult so that it faced the rear, aimed and fired. Nish loaded the javelard with the last spear.

At first it looked as though they were going to make it, but the lyrinx began to gain on them, hurling whatever missiles they could find — sticks, stones, dead bodies. A good-sized log came whirling through the sky, right at Nish He ducked and it went over his head, smashing the catapult into a tangle of ropes and timber.

'Xabbier?' called Nish.

No answer — he was somewhere under the wreckage. A

lyrinx leapt onto the back of the clanker. Nish took up the crossbow, swaying on his feet as the machine crashed into a depression and, metal feet thrashing, climbed out again. He fired, the clanker lurched and the bolt went wide.

Scrambling backwards, Nish frantically wound the crank, knowing he was not going to be ready in time. The lyrinx threw itself at him. He tried to get around the side of the wrecked catapult but there wasn't room.

Snap, right behind him. The lyrinx went down with a bolt in the throat. Xabbier, firing from underneath the broken timbers, had saved his life yet again. Nish helped him out and they heaved the quivering body off the side. Half the rearguard were across. Nish's clanker was racing for the ford now but they weren't going to make it. A formation of lyrinx, hundreds strong, were streaming along the river bank to cut them off.

Nish loaded his bow with the next-to-last bolt, and waited. He might as well make it count. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend — head to chest, really — but Nish felt Xabbier's equal in every respect.

The enemy were closing fast. He sought out a target, fired, felt in the basket for the last bolt, and waited. The lyrinx were also choosing their moment, determined to snatch one small victory from the afternoon's rout.

A trumpet call echoed across the river — a familiar call. Nish shaded his eyes, staring into the distance. Over the hill came a clanker, then another, then a dozen. From the first machine, a vast, twelve-legged monstrosity, fluttered a familiar pennant that brought tears to his eyes. It was Troist's army at last.

Hey!' he roared, knowing that they could not hear him but still having to yell out his joy anyway. 'Troist! Troist! Here!'

The clankers, hundreds of them now, altered course towards the ford. The leading machine fired its catapult. The ball soared across the river to land in the middle of the lyrinx with red carnage, and suddenly they'd had enough. The enemy dispersed in seconds, skin-changing to camouflage colours as they ran. It was over. The last of the rearguard was crossing the river. They'd done it.

'Go across, Operator,' Nish ordered wearily. He desperately wanted to lie down and never get up, but he had to be on his feet to the end, to give his report to General Troist and the scrutator.

His clanker ground its way into the river. The water rose higher and higher, the operator cursing softly as it crept up his chest. But the other clankers had made it and so would he.

Ragged bursts of cheering rose up from the soldiers bunched on the far side of the river as Nish's squadron splashed across, last of all, and again as the clanker pulled up before Troist's wedge of machines, water pouring out through its overlapping armour plates. The soldiers formed a great circle, twenty or thirty deep all around, and then they began to cheer and beat their swords against their shields. It became a ground-shaking chant: 'Cryl-Nish Hlar, Cryl-Nish Hlar!'

Nish climbed down and had a struggle to stay upright. He was shaking uncontrollably; his ankle would scarcely bear his weight and his wrenched knee throbbed. He bore twenty or thirty wounds and was purple and black with the dried blood of the enemy.

Xabbier by his side, each supporting the other, they made their way to the party that had come down from the first clanker. He recognised Troist, the scrutator, Tchlrrr and Lieutenant Prandie.

They stopped, several steps apart. Nish opened his mouth but nothing came out. The sound of chanting was deafening. If only Irisis were here to see it.

'I'm sorry to have come so late,' said Troist. 'When the field faded, it slowed us tremendously. Once the cloaker failed, we came under attack from the forest. We beat the enemy off, though it cost us dear. And then we came upon a stream too deep to cross and had to ford the river, which is why we're on the wrong side. I hope—' He scanned the battered remnant of the once great army, and a terrible sadness showed on his face. Is this all?'

'The damage was done in the night, surr' said Xabbier. 'Before you could have hoped to reach us.'

'Even so,' said Troist, 'it's a bitter day. But not as bitter as it could have been. We must recognise that.' The general raised his sword high. The chanting ceased.

Xabbier pulled his hat off. 'Lieutenants Xabbier Frou and Cryl-Nish Hlar, at your service, surr.' His other hand deftly whipped off Nish's battered cap. 'Lieutenant Hlar will give the report.' He thumped Nish on the back.

Nish swallowed. He could not think of anything to say, and his mouth was too dry for speech. Tchlrrr passed him a skin of water and Nish took a mouthful, which tasted of leather.

'I — I got through in time, surr' Nish said to Troist. 'Though I was lucky to make it. The enemy were already coming out of the stone as I entered the labyrinth. The army had a few minutes' warning — not enough, for there were near thirty thousand lyrinx. They went straight for the command tents and everyone there was killed.'

Everyone?' said Flydd, meaningfully. 'Scrutator Jal-Nish Hlar lured the enemy's strongest to them. He attacked with the .. , with a special aspect of the Art, surr, if you take my meaning. The enemy was too strong.' Nish described the initial success of Jal-Nish's Art and, and, after it was countered by the great mancer-lyrinx, its disastrous failure.

'We'll talk privately about that later,' Flydd said in a low voice.

'Subsequently, everyone in the command area was slain, including my father. They . . , ate him.' In the past day there had not been time to think about that, nor was there now.

'We fought them all night and all morning,' Nish went on. 'We did the best we could; better than you might expect with such numbers against us. We've slain twenty-five thousand lyrinx, surr, but the cost has been terrible — nearly thirty thousand of us. Nine or ten thousand survived to cross the river, but only six hundred clankers. There are survivors on this side too. I don't know how many. That's all, surr.'

'That's not all, General Troist, surr,' said Xabbier. 'Lieutenant Hlar rallied the troops a dozen times; he killed at least ten of the enemy with sword and bow, and no one knows how many with the javelard. While I was unconscious, and no other officer remained alive, he led our forces on a frontal attack against a superior force of lyrinx, and broke them, and that's not been done in the history of the war. Had it not been for Cryl-Nish Hlar, not a man of Jal-Nish's army would have survived.'

There was a long silence, then General Troist stepped forward. 'Well met, Cryl-Nish. I heard part of the tale from the vanguard of your army, before we came over the hill. You can give me your report later, after we've made a secure camp and attended to the needy. But for the moment, I wish to recognise what you've done today.'

He signalled behind him and an aide came forward, bearing a black sword with a silver hilt and a single white jewel in the pommel. Troist took the sword, balanced it on his palms and in the same movement went to one knee, holding it out before him.

'Cryl-Nish Hlar, take this sword in recognition of your valour, and as a token of your commission as a lieutenant in my army.'

Nish just stood there, staring dumbly at the beautiful weapon. 'I don't understand . . .'

'He's confirming your field commission, you bloody fool,' said the scrutator, standing one step behind the general. 'Take the damn thing. Wave it in the air or something.'

Nish went to one knee and took the sword, which was unusually heavy for its size. 'I don't know what words I'm supposed to say,' he said in a hoarse voice. 'Thank you for arriving in time. And for the honour, surr. I hope I prove worthy of it.'

The honour is mine,' said Troist. 'Were there more like you. Cryl-Nish, we would have won the war long ago. Rise up. Lieutenant Hlar. Salute your men.'

Nish stood, saluted the general in the correct manner, with sword in hand, then raised it high in the air and carved a salute, north and south, east and west, to the soldiers he'd fought beside all day. And to the ones who had not survived.

Letting out a roar that hurt his ears, they began to chant, 'Cryl-Nish Hlar! Cryl-Nish Hlar!' and beat their weapons on their shields, and did not stop until they had roared themselves hoarse.

It would have been the greatest day of Nish's life, had it not been for the thought of all their dead. And his.