by Ian Irvine
'It's fighting against Jal-Nish's Art. It seems to be holding him for the moment. It must be incredibly powerful — I've never heard of a lyrinx that could fly and do great magic at the same time.'
The struggle went on. No one said a word. The dome swelled, contracted then swelled again. The violet rays pushed up thickly towards the mancer-lyrinx, almost touching him. Nish held his breath. So very close — there could only be a span between life and death for the mighty creature.
He felt a psychic sucking as the field was drawn down. Then the mancer skin-spoke, his whole body inverting in an instant from coal-black to brilliant white, and back to black. Triumph, or despair? Nish couldn't tell. The violet spines crept up again until they almost reached his armoured chest. Father's going to do it, Nish thought. He'll defeat the crea-ture and the battle will be over before it's begun. The thought did not fill him with joy. After such a victory Jal-Nish would be unstoppable. It could change the world, if the tears really were that powerful.
Once more the mancer-lyrinx flashed black-white-black, This time the spikes were pushed down a fraction. Nish felt weary from watching the struggle.
Again he experienced that psychic sucking, as if the field had been drawn swirling through a plughole. Nish's skin prickled. Suddenly Jal-Nish's roiling dome shrank, shrank again, and the violet spines thinned almost to nothing. The golden-crested lyrinx drifted down, and through the spyglass Nish could see its hands making patterns in the air. The dome was crushed down, down towards the tears from which it came.
'The lyrinx appears to have your father's measure after all,' Xabbier said quietly. He had climbed up unnoticed and now stood beside the red-haired shooter.
'I'm afraid so—'
The atmosphere seemed to charge up. Discharges wavered in the air from every metal object and the violet spikes shot up as if it had all been a ruse. One almost skewered the mancer-lyrinx, who twisted out of its way, moving his hands furiously in denial. Black-white, black-white, black-white,, black
With a tearing shriek, the dome split along its circumference. The air thrummed and a white disc of light roared up vertically, bright as the sun, sharp as a razor.
The great lyrinx somersaulted in the air, avoiding the scything blade. Some were not so lucky. Nish saw a hovering lyrinx cut clean in two, the parts continuing to float for a few seconds before falling out of the sky. Other lyrinx lost wings, limbs, heads.
The golden-crested lyrinx raised its arms, then plunged them down, pointing directly at the centre of the dome. The thrumming grew louder, more urgent, before cracking as the white disc shattered and vanished like smoke.
Nish felt another drain on the field and now, under the mancer-lyrinx's overwhelming power, the dome was crushed down and down, until it was no bigger than a wagon, a barrel, a melon. He lost sight of it. No — it swelled momentarily and again that bladed disc of white light roared out, but this time it was forced horizontally, low to the ground. Though it had no effect on the hovering lyrinx, it made a deadly scythe through the tents, the generals and their elite guard, extended out a hundred and fifty spans, faded then vanished.
The roiling dome imploded in a crash of thunder that reverberated off the cliff walls. Nish had to block his ears. It, was over and Jal-Nish had lost ruinously. Smoke belched into the sky. Whatever happened next, as hundreds of lyrinx fell on the survivors at the command tents, Nish did not see 'It's the end!' he said softly to Xabbier. 'No one could sur-ve such an onslaught, not even with the tears.' 'Then let's make a good account of ourselves before we die,' said Xabbier.
Nish had no time to dwell on his father's fate, for at that instant the lyrinx charged. As he drew his sword, the inner sight that had been with him ever since he'd touched the tears, and had allowed him to see the stone-formed lyrinx, faded away. He was glad to see it go. It had felt wrong — like wearing another man's underwear.
Someone screamed, the sound drawn into a viscous gurgling as the soldier's throat was torn out. The man two to the right of Nish went flying backwards into the fire. A lyrinx lunged at Xabbier — a small, wingless one, it must have climbed down the escarpment. Xabbier's sword flashed in and out, drawing purple blood at its chin. It reared backwards then sprang, arms whirling like flails. Xabbier avoided those blows but the backhander came out of nowhere, slamming into the side of his head and knocking him to one knee.
Nish lunged. His sword went into one of the plates of the creature's side but did no damage. He wrenched it out and cut at the beast's upper arm. The blade skated off the armour. It ignored him, slashing at the lieutenant's head. Xabbier managed to get the flat of his sword up but the blow tore the blade out of his hand and sent it flying into the fire.
Xabbier groped for his knife. The lyrinx reached out with both hands, intending to tear his head off, though it seemed sluggish compared to those Nish had met previously. Gathering his strength, he raised the sword with both hands and plunged it into the creature's back. It went right through a back plate and into its heart. The lyrinx reared up on the impaling sword, jerked around and fell dead at Nish's feet.
He slumped to his knees. From start to finish the struggle hadn't taken a minute. He'd struck but three blows, yet he was exhausted.
Xabbier pulled Nish's sword free and handed it to him, hilt-first. The blade ran with gore. Xabbier's own was in the fire. He replaced it with the dead soldier's and they fought on.
An hour or two later, the sun creaked up onto the bloody battlefield. Nish had no idea how he'd survived. Xabbier was also alive but most of his troops lay dead. It was much the same story across the valley. There seemed to be more dead and wounded soldiers than living ones.
Army discipline had disappeared long ago. They no longer fought in any kind of formation — it was just man against beast. Nish had taken a number of wounds, though none was serious. He could not even feel them, he was so keyed up. He had killed another lyrinx, this time face to face, and the creature had bled all over him.
Someone called his name, over and again, though it was the fifth time before it registered. 'What?' Nish said dully.
His arm was shaken until he roused from his stupor. He stood staring at the body of a lyrinx, belly carved open and entrails hanging out. Nish had no idea if he had killed it or not. Dead soldiers lay to left and right, men he had fought beside in the darkness, had exchanged the odd word with, without ever seeing their faces. Some no longer had faces.
'Come on, I said.' It was Xabbier, quite as bloody as Nish, though he seemed to be coping better. But then, he was a professional soldier.
'Hoy!' the lieutenant roared across the battlefield. 'To me.
To me!' He waved his sword above his head and a handful of soldiers ran, or limped, to him. They too began roaring to attract the attention of other stragglers.
Xabbier led them onto the higher ground to the south, where they could get a view of the scene. Gumby Marth had been a pretty place, its green sward dotted with patches of forest and bisected by silver streams, the encircling cliffs topped with limestone pinnacles like palisades. Had he really come down there in darkness, twice?
Further down, the upper valley narrowed at the cliff-bound neck, where the river ran deep over pale rocks. If they survived, the next battle would be there. He looked hopefully down the valley but there was no sign of relief.
Skirmishes were still going on all over the battlefield, which had spread across the upper third of the valley. This high, the streams were not deep enough to trouble the lyrinx. The air reeked of blood, smoke and burnt meat.
Xabbier appointed guards, then called Nish and a nearby soldier to him.
As far as I can tell, we've lost two-thirds of our number, dead or too badly wounded to walk. That still leaves thirteen thousand, if we can rally them. I see no flags, no pennants, no signallers, so our senior officers must be dead. But we've sur-vived the night, and done better than I could have hoped when the attack began. We've killed almost as many of them as they have of us, and I don't think that's ever
happened before.'
'They seem somehow . . , sluggish,' said Nish. 'They're slow and awkward, and less coordinated than before.'
'I've noticed that too,' said Xabbier. 'Could it be a residue of your father's magic?'
'Or an after-effect of being stone-formed?' said Nish.
'Whatever the reason, it's all that's saved us. Now that the sun's up, things should go better. We can bring our catapults and javelards to bear on them. All we need are people to give the orders.'
'There's no senior officers left alive,' said the third soldier, a grey-haired, scarred man of about forty-five.
'And not many sergeants, either.'
'You've seen experience, haven't you, soldier?' said Xabbier.
'Lemuir, surr. I've been in the army for twenty years. Was a sergeant once, in charge of a squad of clankers, but broken to private for insubord—'
'You'll do. You're sergeant again, Lemuir. Here's a hat.' He plucked a bloody sergeant's cap from a dead soldier. 'Run to the clankers and get them moving, in formation. Shepherd our troops this way. We'll try and move down this side of the valley, towards the neck. If that's not held against us, we'll keep going to the sea, then on to Gnulp Landing. The town is walled; we can take refuge there.'
'And with luck,' Nish added, 'we'll come upon General Troist by noon.' If noon isn't too late.
Lemuir saluted and ran off.
'Cryl-Nish, you're promoted to lieutenant. Find yourself a hat. Go across the stream and round up the soldiers over there. Send them to me On the way back, see if there's anyone alive up at the command post. Any soldier that looks up to command, give them a hat. I'll do the same, and between us we just might make it. We've got a chance, but only if we take advantage of it now.'
Sheathing his sword, Nish limped off.
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 ar
ound 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.'
