by Ian Irvine
'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!' a
nd 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.
Thirty-five
Later that afternoon, Flydd drew Nish aside, questioning him about the fate of his father, and how Jal-Nish had used the tears. When Nish had finished, the scrutator said, 'We'd better ride up there.’
Nish had been expecting that. Flydd would have to see for himself, and try to find the tears, or discover what had happened to them.
'Now?' Nish said.
'Later. There are still too many lyrinx about. Get some sleep. We'll go in the night.'
Flydd woke him at midnight. It was cloudy and drizzling as they mounted and headed out, without a solitary guard. Flydd said it was better that way. They crossed the ford and he led them carefully up the valley, with lengthy stops where he sat his horse, sniffing the air and listening to the night.
'I believe they've gone,' Flydd said. 'The enemy don't linger around battlefields filled with their dead, and this one has cost them dear. Come on.'
It was not far off dawn when they reached the cliff-bound upper end of Gumby Marth, where the command area had been. They hunched under an overhang of limestone, out of the wind, to await the light. It was cool enough for the breeze to carry little taint. Nish hoped they would be well gone before the heat of the day ripened the dead.
'You must be feeling rather grim,' Flydd said.
'In truth, I don't know what to feel. I'm glad Father's out of his misery, and I suppose it's better this way, for everyone. He was an evil man, and becoming more wicked everyday. Had he lived …And yet, despite all he did to me, he was still my father and now I have none.'
'Its a loss for any man. I still remember the day I heard the news about mine …' Flydd sighed, rummaged in his saddlebags and brought out a large silver flask, which he offered to Nish.
Nish took a healthy swig and promptly choked. 'That's strong!' His eyes began to water.
A stiffener!' Flydd leaned back against the stone. 'It'll set your belly right for the job.'
He raised the flask to his lips but, despite his words, did not drink. It was just growing light. The grey cliffs separated from the grey sky, the lower valley from the horizon, the rocks from the dry grass. The brown earth from the humps and mounds made by the dead.
Wisps of fog hung in hollows and along the course of the streams. The scene was grey, dank and utterly, utterly dismal. Nish wanted to weep. 'So many dead, and all for the folly of one man, one scrutator. My father!'
It took more than one man's folly to create this disaster,' Flydd. 'You might as well ask how the Council came to have such power, yet lack the ability to use it wisely? Or how they delegated it to such a flawed man?' 'Or gave it to one so corrupt as Ghorr in the first place?' said Nish.
'He was a good man once,' Flydd reflected, 'but too ambitious. When his time was up, Ghorr couldn't let go, and perhaps it suited the power behind the Council—'
When I mentioned that the other day, you put your fist in my mouth.'
Clankers have ears, Nish. As I was saying, Ghorr refused to step down. He had the statutes of the Council changed to allow permanent tenure and that, I believe, was the first step on his path to corruption. The Council became unaccountable, even to itself. Others followed Ghorr's path and, once they grew old, many took the path of renewal, or rejuvenation — making their bodies young again. It's an evil I've sworn never to undertake.
'Not all survived it, but those who did soon had such power, such knowledge and experience that no one could better them. Instead of working for the security of the realm and the good of all, they became obsessed with maintaining control over everything. Power became more important than winning the war — indeed, the scrutators needed the war. It was their excuse to tighten the screws ever more, and in our terror of the enemy we allowed them to do so. Once that happened, Santhenar was on the road to ruin.
'It was only recently that I realised where we'd gone wrong, but by then it was much too late. The lyrinx had entrenched themselves and were outbreeding us. The war was no longer winnable.'
'What?' Nish leapt to his feet. 'You're joking.'
'I wish I were. Short of some brilliant breakthrough, it's already been lost. That's a secret that must never be revealed, Nish — the effect on morale would be disastrous; yet another reason to keep everyone in the dark. But the more you clamp down, the more people look for ways around it. Take your friend Mira, for example.'
'You know Mira?'
'I know she communicates, by skeet, with a network of like-minded people all over Lauralin.'
'Does the Council see them as enemies?'
'No, or they would have been eliminated by now, for all that they include many important and powerful people. But they are watched, very carefully, and if they make one wrong move it will be the end of them.'
'Not Mira, surely,' said Nish. 'She's already lost a husband and all three sons to the war.'
'She's safe for the moment. The Council have finally realised that, in seeking to control everything, they lost control of the war. Unfortunately, they're not capable of doing anything about it.'
'Are you saying that we're doomed? That we might as well give up?'
'there are always things that can be done, if you have the wit and will for it, and the arrival of the Aachim has changed the balance. We've a better chance than we had before they came, but there's greater danger, and more uncertainty. I
know only this: if we are to have any chance at all, this millstone of stinking corruption, the Council of Scrutators, must be eradicated. Ah, here comes the sun. Let's go.'
Hundreds of scavenging beasts had come out of the hills, and they did not look up from their grisly business as Nish and Flydd went by. Thus far they'd made little impact on the dead; there were simply too many.
Nish led Flydd to the former command area. He hardly needed to explain — the evidence of Jal-Nish's folly was clear enough, in the cleanly truncated bodies of the officers, the amputated limbs, the tents and even clankers shorn neatly in two by that bladed disc of white light. Many of the bodies had been fed on by the lyrinx, and since then by the scavengers that slunk around Nish and Flydd in circles, not daring to take them on, but not planning to be driven from their feast either.
'Here's General Tham,' said Flydd. 'And Grism beside him. Both good men we'll find impossible to replace.' The scrutator shook his head in incomprehension. 'Such unbelievable stupidity. He destroyed the entire command structure of the army, wiped them out in a second. Why did he assemble them all in one place? What can he have hoped to achieve?'
'I suppose he wanted to make a display of his cleverness,' said Nish, answering the first question. 'Father was ever like that.’
Flydd squatted by the war chests and began to pick up the coins. 'We'd better take this back. Disaster or no, armies on the march burn gold and silver. Do you recall where Jal-Nish's tent was?'
Nish pointed up the hill and told Flydd what to look for.
There's not much to be seen. I'll leave it to you, if you don't mind.' He did not want to go near. Nish especially did not want to see that booted foot again. He busied himself collecting the coins.
Flydd walked around and around, holding his hands out parallel to the ground. Stopping at the shredded tent, he pressed his palms against the surface of the broken table, then squatted by the splinters of the box that had held the tears. Picking up a splinter he ran his gnarled fingers up and down it, sniffed, closed his eyes, spun around and tossed the splinter whirling into the air. It fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, sighted each way along it, then grunted.
'The tears are gone,' he said over his shoulder.
They were the last thing on Nish's mind, for he was quite preoccupied with his memories. He poured a double handful of gold into the chest. 'Where?'
'I can't tell, nor who took them, though my guess would be that l
yrinx with the golden crest. If so, they're safely across the sea by now, where even the scrutators can't get them. Hello — what's this?'
He picked up the bloodstained platinum mask. 'I'll take this with me.' He looked around. 'You mentioned your father's boot and foot.'
Nish felt ill just thinking about it. 'It was just over there, beyond the tent poles. I should bury it.'
'It's not here now. The scavengers—' Flydd looked around. 'Hoy!'
A hyena-like creature had the booted foot in its mouth and was slinking up the hill, ears lowered. Flydd bent, picked up a stone and threw it, awkwardly but accurately, at the creeping beast, striking it in the ribs. The hyena let out a howl and dropped the foot. Flydd ran after it but before he got there the hyena took it up by the shank. It tossed its head and the boot went flying off.
Flydd reached for another stone but the scavenger was off, creeping into the bushes below the escarpment, and they saw no more of it. The scrutator retrieved the boot, inspected it carefully and let it drop.
'It's his, all right. The man is dead, the tears gone beyond our reach, and perhaps it's better that way. It's hard to imagine the lyrinx doing any greater harm with them than the scrutators would have.'
'They matter, then?'
'Oh, they matter. Why don't you sit down in the shade you look exhausted. I just want to check again, to make sure.'
Flydd collected a handful of splinters from the tears' box and began to pace up and down, tossing them in the air one by one. 'Hello?' he said sharply.
Nish looked up, too tired to be curious. 'What's the matter?'
'Eiryn Muss has been here.'
'Does that matter?'
The other day I sent him posthaste to Gnulp, and this isn't on the way. Why did he come here?'
Nish didn't have the energy. He found a tree that fitted the shape of his back, leaned against it and closed his eyes …
Flydd said little on the way back, and Nish kept his silence, there was too much to think about, not least his own future. The moment when Jal-Nish had forced Nish's hands down into the tears had been a life-changing experience. Until then he had been a prisoner of events, and preoccupied with himself. But on touching the tears he'd had an insight into what the world would be like under Jal-Nish, and it was not pretty. Now. Nish realised, he must begin to shape events to his own ends, ends that were against everything the scrutators represented. In that he stood alongside Flydd.
