by Ian Irvine
‘Again?’ said Malien when they had returned to their starting point.
‘No! Just keep going. I’ve got to think.’
‘Perhaps if you were to think aloud …’
‘Sorry, Malien. The fields down there are all wrong. The nodes are strong ones but their fields are just points.’
‘Meaning that something has almost drained them dry?’
‘Exactly,’ said Tiaan. ‘But why would the enemy put node-drainers in the middle of trackless forest. We’d never fight in such a place. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘How many fields have shrunk?’
‘All of them, over an area of forest ten leagues square.’
‘All of them?’ Malien stared at her. ‘It would take an army of lyrinx flying over the forest to drain that much from the field.’
‘And there aren’t any fliers in sight.’
‘An army moving through the forest then?’
‘They don’t use the field when they’re marching. Unless …’
‘Unless they’re travelling under a vast concealment,’ said Malien, ‘even greater than the one that stone-formed thirty thousand of them into the pinnacles above Gumby Marth. And it would have to be much greater to conceal an army on the march. We’d better get back. Whatever Flydd’s expecting, I’m sure it’s not an attack from the north, between Booreah Ngurle and the Peaks of Borg.’
‘They must have done a forced march all the way from Strebbit, to have got here so quickly.’ Tiaan measured distances on the map. ‘They’re only twenty-five leagues from Borgistry and lyrinx march faster than soldiers. They could do it in a couple of days, even through the forest.’
‘Try the farspeaker again.’
Tiaan did so, but heard nothing except a shrill whistling. ‘What are we going to do?’
Malien jerked the thapter around in mid-air. ‘We’re going to Lybing.’
They arrived over the city at the darkest hour of the night. ‘Do you know where to go?’ said Tiaan as they approached.
‘I haven’t been to Lybing in a couple of hundred years.’
‘I’ve never been here.’
‘There’s the Great North Road,’ said Malien. ‘I’ll set down at the northern gate.’
The terrified guards did not know whether to fire their crossbows or run screaming as the thapter whined into the pool of light outside the gates.
‘Hoy!’ roared Malien. ‘The enemy is nigh. Where can we find the governor?’
The guards each pointed in a different direction.
‘General Troist?’ said Malien. ‘Scrutator Xervish Flydd? Lord Yggur?’
‘The White Palace,’ gasped the guard. ‘Where the three waters join. If you run that way –’
‘Run,’ said Malien. ‘At my age?’
The thapter screamed and shot off, directly over the gates. They landed hard on the manicured lawn outside the front door of the White Palace, skidding on the dewy surface and carving out a streak of crumpled turf three or four spans long. Tiaan gathered her maps and threw herself over the side, Malien following just a little less hastily.
Tiaan pounded on the bronze-studded doors with her free hand. A sleepy guard opened the left-hand one.
‘Where is Scrutator Flydd? Or Lord Yggur?’ Malien rapped out.
‘Inside,’ said the guard, ‘but they’ll be sleeping now.’
‘I am Malien!’ she said briskly. ‘Matah of the Aachim. My name is written in the Great Tales.’
He took a step backwards, calling out to his fellows.
‘The enemy is almost upon us,’ said Malien. ‘Let us in at once.’
No one else could have done it, but such was her authority that the guard did allow them through. ‘Take the stairs straight ahead. Turn left down the corridor. The scrutator’s door is at the end.’
‘Thank you,’ said Malien.
Tiaan ran. Her back was troubling her and her legs felt weak, but she soon outdistanced Malien. After scooting up the stairs, she turned left and ran along the hall. Which room? She couldn’t remember what the guard had said. At the end, or near the end?
She pounded on the first door she came to, and then on several others. ‘Scrutator, Scrutator! Wake, wake! The enemy is nigh.’
There were cries of panic, shouting and an occasional scream, as if people thought the lyrinx were inside the palace. Shortly Xervish Flydd appeared at the end door, pulling a robe around his gristly frame.
‘Scrutator, surr?’ said Tiaan.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ he snapped.
‘Delayed,’ she lied. ‘We know where the enemy are, surr. They’re coming under a concealment of surpassing power, down through the forest on the north-eastern side of Booreah Ngurle.’ She partly unrolled her main map. ‘Here, surr. Their fliers could attack as early as tomorrow, and the whole army could enter northern Borgistry within two days.’
‘Attacking from the north,’ he breathed. ‘I never would have expected that. How can you be sure?’
Malien came hobbling up. ‘There’s so many of them that they’ve drained all the fields in a huge area, about ten leagues square, down to pinpricks.’
‘How do you know they haven’t put in node-drainers, to fool us?’ said Flydd.
‘Why would we check the fields in such a remote place?’
‘Come down to the war room. We’ll take a look at the big maps. I hope you’re right, Tiaan. If I direct our forces north, and they strike somewhere else …’
Two days after leaving Lybing, Nish was working in the command tent at Clew’s Top when Troist’s farspeaker gave forth a hollow tapping, like the flicking of a fingernail against a blown egg. He looked up. Troist was not there.
Nish did not know how to use a farspeaker, or even if he was capable of doing so. Putting his head through the flaps of the tent he bawled, ‘General Troist?’
A soldier standing a few paces away grinned and said, ‘He’s gone to the privy. He’ll be a while. The general suffers from a flux –’
‘Thank you, soldier!’
Nish ran to the farspeaker, which was still tapping, though more loudly. If it was already set, maybe all he had to do was talk. He tapped back. The farspeaker gave out a squelching noise, then a voice rumbled forth. It did not come from the farspeaker, rather from the air above it, and had an echoing, unearthly quality that made it hard to identify.
‘Troist? Is that you?’
‘Scrutator? It’s Nish. Troist is out at the bogs.’
‘Run and get him. We’ve found the enemy and they’re only days away.’
A spasm twisted Nish’s entrails. The moment had finally come. ‘Where?’ he cried.
‘From the north, east of Booreah Ngurle, if Tiaan is right.’
‘I’ll get Troist right away, surr.’
Nish ran down to the privies and yelled through the wall. ‘General Troist. Flydd is on the farspeaker. It’s urgent.’ He didn’t want to say more, since there could be a dozen men in the privies at any time and morale could easily be damaged.
‘I’m coming.’ Troist appeared after a short delay, holding his stomach.
Over the farspeaker, Flydd repeated what he had told Nish.
‘What are your orders, surr?’ said Troist. ‘What if Tiaan is wrong?’
‘Then we’re in as much trouble as if she’s right and we do nothing. Bring your army north to Ossury. How soon can you be there?’
‘My main force has only just got here from Strebbit, in their clankers,’ said Troist without consulting the map. ‘I’ll bring them north without delay, leaving the rest here. I can’t leave this place undefended. On good roads, going night and day, we should be able to reach Ossury in two and a half days, as long as we don’t have too many breakdowns. And as long as the fields last. There have been a few failures around here lately. How about there?’
‘The same,’ said Flydd. ‘We haven’t lost a node yet but the fields grow more unreliable by the day. Take the usual precautions and spread your clankers out
. We can’t afford another loss like Hannigor. Goodbye.’
‘No surr,’ said Troist. ‘We cannot.’
‘What was Hannigor?’ said Nish.
‘It’s a village down south, between Saludith and Thuxgate. Fifty-four clankers were travelling close together at full speed, coming to the aid of a smaller force that had been ambushed by the enemy last autumn. They must have taken more from the field than could be borne. A sphere of light formed around them, collapsed, and they vanished. Even the ground they were travelling over was gone, annihilated down to bare rock.’
‘I heard a similar tale back at the manufactory. Do you think we’re in danger now, just travelling in a convoy of clankers?’
‘I don’t know, lad,’ said Troist. ‘Fields have never been perfectly reliable, but lately it’s become worse. Some mancers think we’re drawing on them beyond their capacity, but what can we do? Without the Art we would already have lost the war.’
‘And yet, each time we make a new advance, they counter it with one of their own that also uses power. What will it be next?’
‘I don’t dare think.’
Within two hours camp had been broken and they were heading north up the Great North Road as fast as the clankers would go. Every machine was packed with food and supplies, and most towed sleds or carts, piled high. More soldiers sat on the shooter’s platforms or clung to the sides. Troist had left behind two thousand soldiers and a token force of eighty clankers to help protect them. The goodbyes were sombre. Whether the enemy appeared in the north or the south, everyone knew that they were unlikely to see their friends again.
They were plagued by breakdowns and field failures on the way north, and by the end of the second day of travel were half a day behind schedule. They bypassed Lybing on the west and continued. Troist was in and out of the jolting clanker, either urging his operators and artificers on, or darting behind a bush or hedge to relieve himself. He drank flagons of a thick green liquid with an offensive odour, trying to quell his troublesome innards, but to little effect. The race had taken three and a half days, and morning had broken, before they came in sight of the towers of Ossury, the northernmost town in Borgistry.
‘I don’t see any sign of fighting,’ said Nish to Troist as they climbed out the rear hatch of the clanker and stretched their cramped muscles.
‘I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.’
An air-floater hung in the sky above the town. As they turned off the road towards a river, to make camp, a thapter screamed overhead. Judging by the exuberant swoops and rolls, Chissmoul was at the controller. Nish smiled, imagining the joy of his shy protégée.
‘How far away were the enemy when Tiaan sighted them?’ Nish asked.
‘The scrutator didn’t say.’
‘We’ll soon know. That looks like him now.’
A small man came cantering through the gates on a tall white horse. It seemed incongruous, after months of travel by air. They went to meet him.
‘Good day, Scrutator Flydd,’ said Troist. ‘What can you tell us?’
‘We believe they’re quite near,’ said Flydd, without so much as a greeting or a glance at Nish. ‘The depressed fields were no more than a day’s march away last night.’
‘What about now?’ said Troist.
‘I don’t know. I’m keeping Tiaan away, in case we alert them and they attack somewhere else.’
‘So we don’t know if they’re coming this way or not?’
‘Sadly no.’
‘Any news from the pig sentries?’ Nish said. ‘Not a sausage, I suppose.’
‘Very funny!’ Flydd said coldly. ‘We’ll just have to pray that Tiaan is right.’
‘If she’s not …’ Troist began.
‘We’ve been through that already,’ Flydd snapped.
They spent a long and anxious night, during which a hundred messengers must have come in and out of the command tent. No one knew what was going on. Nish retired at midnight but his tent was next to the command tent and he couldn’t sleep. Every minute he expected to hear the cry, ‘To battle!’
When a call finally came, it was something of an anticlimax. Nish stamped his feet into his boots and ran next door. ‘What is it? Are we under attack?’
Troist looked like death and Flydd was not much better. ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Flydd. ‘The enemy has attacked from the east, fifteen leagues south of here, and are driving directly for Lybing.’
‘The east?’ said Nish. ‘How did they get there?’
Flydd just shrugged.
‘How many of them?’
‘We won’t know until dawn. Hopefully it’s just a feint by an isolated band of fliers.’
The farspeaker belched like a cow and a deep voice exploded from it. ‘We’re under attack, surr!’
Flydd rapped on the globe. ‘Identify yourself, you fool. How the bloody hell am I supposed to know who you are?’
‘Sorry, surr,’ came back after a considerable pause. ‘It’s Captain Maks, of Troist’s detachment at Clew’s Top.’
‘The south as well!’ Troist knuckled his bristly cheeks. ‘I knew it was the wrong –’
‘You forget yourself, General,’ hissed Flydd, turning away from the farspeaker. ‘Morale, dammit.’
Turning back, he tapped the globe. ‘Captain Maks, this is Scrutator Xervish Flydd here. How many of the enemy are there?’
Again that over-long pause. ‘Ethyr must be very slow tonight,’ Flydd muttered.
‘Or the fields overly drained,’ fretted Nish.
The farspeaker belched again. ‘Maks, surr. Can’t tell their numbers. Seems like a good few.’
‘What the hell does that mean? Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands?’
‘Hundreds at least, surr.’
Flydd conferred with Troist, who tapped on the globe. ‘It’s Troist, Maks. Don’t engage the enemy. Take to the constructs, all that can fit inside, and retreat slowly north towards Lybing, protecting the infantry.’
‘Don’t engage … retreat … Lybing,’ Maks repeated, and faded out.
‘Troist, call for a general report,’ said Flydd.
Troist contacted the detachments of Borgistry’s other forces, one by one. Another squad, this one on the western side, also reported being under attack. ‘What are the enemy up to? Are they going to attack along a hundred and fifty leagues of border, or is this just a distraction until the main force is in position?’
‘It’s going to be a long time till dawn,’ said Flydd.
‘Why don’t you see if you can contact Tiaan, Scrutator?’ said Nish.
‘Good idea.’ Flydd ordered her to fly north, keeping so high that the sound of the thapter could not be heard. ‘And don’t fly over them. As soon as you detect them, turn back.’
An anxious half-hour went by, during which a stream of couriers ran in and out. Flydd was constantly interrupted by representatives of the villages surrounding Ossury, terrified that the enemy was about to fall on them. Finally he ordered the guard to keep them away. Troist pored over his maps, his back bent.
Tiaan eventually reported back. ‘The depression in the fields is still moving south, in the direction of Ossury.’ Her voice was clear, though there was a bell-like ringing of the ethyr in the background.
‘If it’s a feint, it’s a magnificently coordinated one,’ said Flydd. ‘How can they do that over such distances?’ No one answered. ‘We’d better get the other thapters armed and in the air,’ he went on.
‘Everything’s ready,’ said Troist. ‘We just don’t know where to send them.’
By mid-morning it had begun to rain, and it became heavier as the day wore on. They still had no idea what was happening. The attacking lyrinx could have numbered hundreds, or thousands. More conflicts broke out until the borders of Borgistry were ringed by skirmishes.
Finally, around the middle of the day, came the news they had been dreading.
‘General!’ Even through the rumble of the farspeaker they could hear the terror. �
�It’s Captain Maks. We’re still well south of Lybing. There are enemy everywhere.’
‘Are you using the light blasters?’
‘Yes, but we don’t have enough to make a difference. There’s thousands of the enemy, surr! They’re coming –’
The farspeaker cut off and they could not raise him again.
‘Doesn’t mean they’re lost,’ said Troist eventually, but there was a blank look in his eye that Nish had not seen since they’d first met, just after the ruinous defeat at Nilkerrand.
Flydd seized the globe. ‘Thapters, report! Who’s the nearest to Clew’s Top?’
A full minute passed before a youthful voice said, ‘It’s Chissmoul, surr.’
‘Who’s Chissmoul, Nish?’ Flydd said out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Chissmoul is the one who doesn’t have Yggur’s eyes. The rather … exuberant flier.’
‘Oh, that one. Downright reckless, I would have said. What’s she doing down there?’
‘Patrolling.’
Flydd turned back to the globe. ‘Chissmoul, go down carefully to where the soldiers are. Tell me what you see.’
They heard nothing for a good half-hour, then Chissmoul called back. She wasn’t exuberant now. Her voice quavered. ‘I’ve found them, surr. I have them with me.’
‘What the blazes are you talking about, Pilot?’ said Flydd.
‘The survivors. I have both of them.’
‘Both? There were two thousand soldiers and eighty clankers.’
There was a long silence.
‘Chissmoul?’
‘None of the clankers are moving, surr. All the soldiers are dead and the enemy has gone.’
Troist turned to Flydd, but Flydd couldn’t meet his eyes.
‘Gone where?’ said Nish, leaning towards the farspeaker globe.
‘They’re heading north, towards Lybing,’ said Chissmoul.
‘How many?’
‘More than two thousand. Surr.’
‘Follow them, but keep out of catapult range,’ said Troist, tapping the farspeaker to indicate that he’d finished. ‘What do we do now?’ he cried. ‘Do we let them slaughter our scattered forces, man by man, then fall on defenceless Lybing while we sit here watching for phantoms?’
