by Ian Irvine
I've heard many of the tales told, though not by a master chronicler or teller.'
'There aren't many left, since the College of the Histories at Chanthed was sacked by the lyrinx. Most of the masters and students were eaten, and deservedly so, for their scandalous lack of talent.' He smiled — a joke! Flydd was almost back to his normal, crotchety self. 'I prefer to read the Tales as set down by the masters of old. They're closer to the truth—' He broke off, as if censoring a thought.
I didn't know there was a College of the Histories,' said Nish.
Flydd raised the left side of that famous eyebrow. 'What did they teach you, lad? The college was there for thousands of years. Ah, but it was sacked before you were born — the beginning of the end for all Meldorin. After that it was only a matter of time until the whole of Meldorin was lost, even ancient Thurkad. The city fought bravely and long, a noble failure that might have made another Great Tale, were there any master chroniclers to tell it.'
'But there are master chroniclers,' said Nish. 'My mother studied under one for a while.'
'Crass amateurs compared to those of olden times, such as Llian of Chanthed, who made the twenty-third Great Tale. This one!' Flydd lifted the book and began turning the pages.
'Llian the Liar!' cried Nish, recalling his school lessons. 'The biggest cheat in all the Histories. His tale was a fraud. The scrutators had it rewritten a long time ago. My father told me so …' He trailed off. 'What's the matter?'
'I can't talk about what the scrutators may or may not have done, Nish. You know that.'
You said they were corrupt and you were going to brine them down.'
"And I plan to, but I still can't betray my oath of secrecy ' But you told me about the Num-'
Flydd shoved a gnarled fist into Nish's mouth. 'Don't ever mention that name!'
'Why not?'
I can't think how I was indiscreet enough to tell you,' muttered Flydd. 'The infection must have turned my wits. All I can say is, learn to think for yourself.
He took up the book again. The pages turned steadily. Nish had a thousand questions, but he did not suppose that Flydd would answer them. How had the Council of Scrutators come to hold more power than the generals and the leaders of nations? Why had they censored the Histories?
They went without a break until just before sunset, when the leading clankers stopped on the sloping top of a square hill. Higher hills could be seen in all directions, clothed in forest.
The rear hatch was jerked open. Troist stood there with a rolled map under one arm. Climbing in, he spread it on the table in front of Flydd.
'My scouts report that Jal-Nish's army is camped in the valley of Gumby Marth, two-thirds of a league away across those rugged ridges to the north.' He indicated the location on his map.
Nish's stomach cramped at the thought of meeting his father again.
'That's not all, is it, General?' said Flydd.
'The scouts report that there's not a single lyrinx to be found, and no one has the faintest idea where they've got to.'
'Maybe they don't want to fight after all,' said Nish.
'I smell a trap,' Flydd replied, bending over the map. 'It's rugged country between here and there.'
'More than rugged, the scouts tell me,' said Troist. 'It's impassable to clankers and mounted men alike. Foot soldiers could struggle through, though the upper parts of the valley are bounded by cliffs with few paths down, and none are safe.
'We can't go that way. We'll have to march west, this way, for several leagues, to find a way into the valley. We'll begin at first light, Scrutator. With luck we should reach the army by this rime tomorrow.'
Let's hope we're in time,' said Flydd. 'Make ready for war, General, then see everyone gets a good night's rest. For some, maybe most of us, it could be our last. Especially if…' 'What is it?' said Troist. 'You don't mean to tell me …" 'I don't think we can maintain the cloaker much longer. And going after a superior enemy without it will be suicide.'
Twenty-six
When the camp had been set up, the lines of sentries had gone to their watches and all was cloaked and quiet, everyone turned gratefully to their tents. No one could remember when they'd last had a full night's sleep. Soon the clearing echoed to the gentle snores of thousands. Even Flydd was abed.
Nish was not. His father was down in Gumby Marth at the head of the army, and Nish had been brooding about him for weeks. Jal-Nish was the great obstacle in his life and Nish was dreading meeting him again, as surely he would tomorrow.
It was still hot in the clanker, and Flydd was snoring like a hog. Nish felt claustrophobic and oppressed. An insomniac at the best of times, he soon gave up hope of getting a wink of sleep, for his thoughts were racing. Putting a cloak under his arm, he slipped out of the rear hatch. Walking helped him to think and he had a lot of thinking to do. It was pleasantly cool outside though it might grow chilly later on.
He paced along the lines of clankers, keeping inside the envelope of the cloaker. What did Jal-Nish hope to achieve, bringing the army into country like this? The enemy could be anywhere. He must have some plan — his father always did -but Nish could not imagine what.
Nish saw few people, for the soldiers were in their tents sleeping, or trying to, while the sentries were well out from the camp. Flydd had worked the cloaker so that wisps of glamour clung to everyone as they moved. If the enemy came upon a sentry, even half a league from the camp, he would see just a foggy blur.
Reaching the end of the lines of clankers, Nish kept going.
Being a private person, he'd found the past days, surrounded by thousands of people day and night, especially confining.
longed for a little solitude, even if only for a few minutes.
Pushing through the cloaker envelope, he felt a moment of unreality when everything inverted, another when he looked back and the entire army was gone. Enveloped in his own little wisp of cloaker, he walked across the few hundred spans of open grassland to the surrounding forest. It had already been checked for signs of the enemy but there had been none.
Just before he reached the edge, something fluttered overhead. It was just an owl, but Nish had a premonition of utter, bloody disaster. Hunching down against the hole of a tree, he tried to shrug it off. Surely it was just a fancy to do with meeting his father again. He'd thought he was free of Jal-Nish a long time ago — Nish remembered talking to Minis about it last spring, when Minis had been so admiring of him.
What a joke that now seemed. He was just as trapped as Minis, and Jal-Nish was less than an hour away, across the rugged ridges beyond the forest. Nish's guts churned. He looked back to the lines of clankers but saw not a glimmer of candlelight. The cloaker was still working, at least. He slipped into the forest, needing to walk, and soon realised that he must have passed through the inner line of sentries without being noticed.
The moon was a few days off full but the forest was dense here, the shadows deep beneath the trees. Nish had learned to move quietly of late. His feet made just the faintest crackle on fallen leaves. Hitting upon a winding path through the trees, probably a deer or bear trail, he ghosted along the edge where there was less danger of being seen.
On the other side of the patch of forest he emerged into an open area of short grass and grey rock, covered with an array of pinnacles roughly the size of termite mounds. Gleaming whitely in the moonlight, it looked like a field of standing stones, but why had they been assembled here, of all places? He scanned the sky; not a cloud. The night was absolutely still. Curious, Nish gathered the cloak about him and, keeping his head low, slid like a shadow across the grass.
Reaching the first pinnacle, he ducked behind it. It wasn't a standing stone at all, but a long vertical blade of limestone formed by the elements. Its top has been etched by rain into a series of steeples with fluted, razor-sharp edges. Nish wandered along the shadowed side, feeling the smooth rock with his fingers.
He had just passed around the edge when he heard the faint but dis
tinctive creak of a crossbow being wound back. As Nish threw himself into the shadows, a bolt smashed right through the blade of stone above his head. He scampered the other way, using all the cover he could, then ran for his life. The guard must be jumpy, to fire without knowing what he was shooting at. The glamour still covered Nish but his shadow had given him away.
There was shouting behind him, and answers to left and right, but Nish did not call out his name. It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that he should not have left the camp. He would get a severe dressing down from Flydd and Troist if he revealed himself, to say nothing of the risk of being shot by an over-anxious sentry. Better to wait until the guards had settled down, then sneak back in. On second thought, Troist's well-drilled guards would stay alert all watch. He decided to circle around and approach the camp from the other side.
He concentrated on moving with absolute stealth and, as he progressed, silence settled around him. He was past the last line of guards. Beyond the pinnacle field he encountered another patch of forest, after which Nish found himself crossing a rugged expanse of grey limestone etched into mounds and sinkholes, grey ridges only a few spans high and canyons little deeper. Shortly that developed into another pinnacle field, much more extensive than the first.
He'd gone further than he'd planned. Beyond, Nish knew from Troist's map, a steep escarpment ramped down to the broad oval box-valley of Gumby Marth, where Jal-Nish's army was camped. On the far side, white peaks rose up equally steep and sharp while the upper end of the valley was defended by a sheer limestone cliff.
He tried to work out his position. Gumby Marth narrowed to a rocky neck halfway down, there falling sharply away before broadening out in the direction of Gnulp Landing. The lyrinx could not come through the neck without being seen.
They might fly in, but lyrinx in the air were vulnerable to archers and spear-throwers, unless they came at night, and Jal-Nish would be sure to have his watch-fires burning.
On the other hand, if they held the neck of Gumby Marth they could bottle up Jal-Nish's army and starve them out. Why had his father brought his army into such a perilous battleground? Surely he was planning a trap of his own. He must have some secret weapon or strategy, but what could it be?
The precipice could be no more than ten minutes away. So near, and if Nish went to the edge he would see the camp fires and, in this moonlight, even the tents and clankers, far below. And, Nish rationalised, if Troist did catch him sneaking into camp, having information about Jal-Nish's forces might get him out of trouble. I'll do it, he thought. I'll just slip across to the edge, have a quick look and go back.
The moon told him that it was after nine o'clock. He could be back in his hammock by ten. Edging through the rows of pinnacles, he found himself in a narrow defile where the light did not penetrate. It was so dark that it was eerie. As he felt his way along, imagining what might be lurking in those thousands of narrow walkways, his heart began to pound. Nish's outstretched hand touched an edge so sharp that it slid through the skin. He drew back, muffling a yelp. As he licked his fingers, the hairs on the back of his neck came erect.
Nish looked around. It felt as if someone was watching him, though that did not make sense. The passage between the pinnacles was barely wide enough for his shoulders. He crept back, hands outstretched like a sleepwalker, but encountered only rock. If someone had been following him, they were gone. He could not be seen from above — nothing heavier than a sparrow could have perched on those razor-topped edges.
Shrugging the unease away, he kept going and eventually found a way through the maze to the other side. Only as he emerged onto an expanse of white rock, almost glowing in the bright moonlight, did the feeling of being watched dissipate.
Making it to the edge unscathed, he looked down on the oval of Gumby Marth, hundreds of spans below. Countless watch-fires blazed on this side, up to his right, marking out the rectangular pattern of the army camp. The shapes of the tents were clearly visible, as well as the camouflaged outlines of the clankers. Nish was looking along the length of the cliff when his eye caught a dark, fluttering shape, halfway down.
A lyrinx, spying on Jal-Nish's army! Did that mean the attack was imminent? Now what was he supposed to do? Nish's initial impulse was to go back though, if the enemy were about to attack, the warning would come too late. Troist's army was still a day's march away.
He leaned out as far as he dared, caught another brief glimpse of that moving form, then lost it. It seemed too big to be a man, and the wrong shape. It had to be the enemy, and his duty was horribly clear — he must climb down the cliff, if he could without killing himself, and take the warning to his father.
At that thought, Nish's heart began to pound like a threshing machine. Was there any other way? Even if he screamed out a warning at the top of his voice, it would not carry as far as the camp. No; he had to go down.
The escarpment consisted of a series of cliffs broken by rock outcrops only marginally less steep. After some searching along the edge, he discovered what appeared to be a goat track heading down, though in the moonlight he would be easily spotted against the pale rock.
Taking off the black cloak, he tied it around his waist and set off, hanging on with hands, feet and knees. It was a long, difficult climb, dangerous, too, for the moonlight played Kicks. Once he was about to step on what seemed solid rock, only to realise that there was nothing underneath his foot but empty air.
After a good interval of heart-in-the-mouth scrambling, Nish was creeping down a precipitous defile, anxiously watching a small cloud that had covered the moon, and hoping he could get to the bottom before it shone out again. As he reached the base of a knob of white rock shaped like a brain impaled on a stick, a guard stepped out in front of him and levelled his spear. The man was huge: as high and wide as a door, with a cape that stretched out behind him in the updraught.
Nish was not armed. Not intending to leave the camp, he'd left his weapon in the clanker. The soldier jerked his spear and Nish thought it was going right through his belly.
'I'm not a spy!' he gasped.
'Hands in the air!'
Nish complied and the moon shone full on his face. There was a long pause, then an astonished cry: 'Well, blow me if it isn't Cryl-Nish Hlar, and hardly changed! What the blazes are you doing here?'
The soldier's face was in shadow. Nish had no idea who he was, though the nasal tones were vaguely familiar, and the man had an Einunar accent.
'Should I know you?' he said hesitantly.
'You certainly should.' The soldier emitted a booming bellow of a laugh. 'We used to play together when we were little, Cry-Nish.'
The soldier came out of the shadow. He had a big square head, dark curly hair and a grin that crinkled one corner of his mouth. Nish stared at him. Memory stirred. 'Xabbier? Xabbier Frou?'
'At your service.' He put out a hand the size of a lobster.
Nish clasped it in both of his, remembering Xabbier fondly: a big, rough but kindly boy, always breaking things and being punished for it, which he'd shrugged off with that endearing grin. He'd more than once rescued Nish from schoolyard bullies who'd picked on him because of his father's reputation. 'How did you get here? I haven't seen you since I was . . , nine or ten, I suppose. It's good to see you, Xabbier.'
'And you Cryl-Nish. I worked with my father for a while, lawyering, and hated every moment of it. One day I walked out and joined the army. It's a bloody life, but better than being a poxy notary. I ended up in a unit that your father took to the manufactory near Tiksi, and after that I came west on one of the air-floaters.’
And now you're a guard for my father.' Try as he might to repress it, there was the faintest hint of scorn, that Xabbier should have ended up a common soldier.
Xabbier was not easily slighted. He gave Nish a cheerful clap on the back that almost drove shards of backbone into his lungs. 'I'm a lieutenant now, and will be made captain if we survive the coming battle.' He frowned at that thought, then grinned.
'Which of course we must. I like to take my turn at sentry duty. Prefer the air out here to the fug in the command tents.'
Not to mention the company of my father, Nish thought.
Xabbier scanned the slope, up and down. Nish stood beside him, thinking about his childhood. They had been friends until Xabbier's mother had died in childbirth and his father moved to another town.
Seeing nothing, the soldier turned back to Nish. 'What are you doing here, Cryl-Nish, creeping about like a spy? You're not a spy, are you?' Xabbier gave Nish a troubled look. 'I know what your father did to you, and there's not a man in this army agrees with him. I won't speak a word against him, out of respect for you, but my men obey him out of sheer terror.' He shook his head.
'I was at the top of the cliff, looking over, and I saw a moving shadow halfway down. I thought it was the enemy, spying on the army …" It occurred to Nish that a man as large as Xabbier, with a cape blowing out behind him like a wing, might easily have been mistaken for a lyrinx in this light.
'Where?' said Xabbier. 'And when was that?'
That way.' Nish pointed to the right. 'Nearly an hour ago.'
Xabbier relaxed. 'It was probably me, but I'll take a look, just in case. He fingered a coiled horn hanging from his belt, but let it be.
They did not find anything. 'It must have been me you saw,' said Xabbier. He glanced at Nish. 'I was glad to hear you'd escaped with the scrutator. He's a good man, but…But Nish, why are you here?'
Nish chose his words carefully. Though Troist's army had come to aid this one, he did not have leave to reveal that secret. 'I can see what you're thinking, Xabbier. I'm held to be a traitor and now I've been found spying …' Though Xabbier's manner was friendly, Nish knew the soldier would not shirk his duty, if it came to it. 'Ever since my father took command, I've been afraid he was leading the army into a trap. I had to find out.' Though that was the truth as far as it went, to Nish's ears it sounded unconvincing.
