by Ian Irvine
The sergeant grinned and thrust out a hand. 'We'll do it, surr. Death or glory!'
The whole army sighed as Nish clasped the callused hand. He addressed the sergeants. 'Then let's get to it. I want an advance guard, a third of our number. Not your best fighters but the fleetest and wiliest of them, for they've got to put on a good act. They'll attack, accompanied by a hundred and fifty clankers, but the machines will be driven as though there's barely enough power. The rest of the army is to hang back, breaking lines and generally looking afraid.'
'We won't have to put on an act,' Lemuir said dryly.
'When the attack is almost to the enemy lines, the clankers will grind to a stop, as if there's not power to drive them. The shooters will scream out in panic. The soldiers will fight for another minute, then everyone will turn and flee as rabble.
The lyrinx will, I hope, follow them. If they do take the bait, we attack when they'r right out of the neck and hit them with most of our remaining clankers and our biggest, toughest fighters. The fleeing advance guard will run to the rear, rearm and reform. Sergeants of the advance guard, ready your troops.' A number of the sergeants ran off.
'You' Nish said to a lanky, long-legged messenger, mounted on a stubby roan, 'run down to the clankers. Make sure the remaining operators and their troops know to act panicky, but if the attack succeeds, they are to form into a wedge behind my clanker. We'll drive straight at the lyrinx with all but fifty clankers and half our troops. Sergeants, put your best and biggest along the wings, the others behind.' He issued detailed orders for that attack then, 'Should we break through, we'll make for the river and ford it at the meanders. Get ready!'
The remaining sergeants and signallers turned away. The advance formation came together quickly. They were a disci-plined force but Nish was pleased to see they were acting as if on the verge of mutiny. Overacting, he thought, but the enemy could hardly tell that from their lines. He estimated the enemy numbers again. They might have been as many as ten thousand now. He'd lost well over a thousand in the earlier fighting, for he had less than nine thousand men and nine hundred clankers. So few.
Nish's ultimate plan depended on the strength of the field, or rather its weakness. It required a lot of power for the lyrinx to fly. If he could get his soldiers across the river they would have the advantage, given the lyrinx fear of water. But if there was enough in the field they'd fly across the river, attack again and his army must be defeated. 'They're ready, surr,' said a signaller beside him. Nish checked. 'Go!'
The advance guard charged. He held his breath, for the enemy completely blocked the neck and were so numerous that his troops might simply be annihilated. A hail of bolts and javelard spears fell on the lyrinx but made very little difference. They held the line until Nish's soldiers were within spear-throwing distance. Many lyrinx fell, but more of his troops.
"Turn now,' he groaned aloud, seeing what deaths he'd sent his men to. They kept on.
The clankers creaked to a halt, their shooters crying wildly to each other as if in panic. What if they were, and it spread? The operators lurched their machines around. The soldiers screamed, threw their weapons away and fled. Nish's nails dug holes in his palms. It was all too convincing.
Would it work or not? Everything depended on what the lyrinx did. Nothing, it seemed; then, all at once, the enemy bounded after the fleeing soldiers, taking some down with their own spears. Lyrinx were faster than men. The slaughter was sickening and there was nothing he could do about it -they were a sacrifice to save the rest.
The soldiers scattered; the clankers ground away in all directions, troops hanging off the sides. 'Your orders, sun? Nish's signaller said urgently.
'Not yet.' Let the lyrinx come up just a bit further. The wait was agonising, the deaths horrible, but finally the enemy were clear of the neck. 'Charge!' Nish roared, waving his sword in the air.
Running to one of the leading clankers, he clambered up the side, settling into the seat in front of the shooter. The clankers moved; the soldiers too. 'Is this as fast as we can go?' he called through the hatch.
'We'll pick up speed down the slope,' came the voice of the operator, 'but there's not much in the field and it's getting weaker all the time.' His teeth chattered. If he lost the field, he'd lose his clanker too.
Running full tilt downhill, they converged rapidly on the enemy. The shooter fired his catapult, the ball whizzing over Nish's head, and suddenly it was on. The other shooters were firing balls and spears. Gaps appeared in the enemy lines. The catapult ratchet went furiously. Nish, swaying with the bumps and lurches, heaved his shooter another ball. He wished he could fire the javelard but the clanker was an early make, not designed to use both at the same time. With only fifty paces to go, a rain of missiles came at them — used javelard spears, balls of rock and any other object the enemy could lay their hands on. A heavy spear took the shooter on the clanker beside Nish's right off his platform. The enemy also used catapults but none were in evidence here. Such large weapons could not have been stone-formed. For the first time in his life, Nish felt no fear for himself. He'd passed beyond such emotions, though he did feel a terrible, knotted pain for his troops, who were being slain and maimed all around, and even for the enemy. Perhaps the touch of the tears had heightened his senses. It was brutal and senseless, and all he could do was try to save as many of his men as he could.
He could see the expressions on the enemy's faces now, they were so close. Nish could almost read their flickering skin-speech. They were uneasy at his unprecedented mode of attack. Good!
The flying wedge of clankers and men struck the enemy lines with shattering violence. Nish's clanker drove right over a slowly moving lyrinx, which must have been injured. Another beast leapt for the shooter's platform, beheading Nish's catapult operator with a single blow. Whirling the javelard around, Nish discharged the spear. It went straight though the beast, lifting it over the side. The clanker kept going. He pushed the dead shooter out of the way and flopped into the sticky seat, trying not to think about it. He had an army to manage and it was impossible to take it all in.
The front of the wedge, a couple of hundred clankers and three times as many men, had burst right through the front ranks of lyrinx and now formed into a circle three ranks of clankers deep, firing furiously into the enemy. After half a dozen salvoes that left the ground littered with enemy dead, the soldiers moved out behind their shield wall, trying to split the lyrinx ranks apart. Nish fired the catapult and struggled to load another heavy ball, turning the weapon around to fire over his soldiers' heads. In this situation he could not miss.
Further uphill, the survivors of the advance guard had rejoined the rest of his troops, armed themselves, and were attacking with the strength of desperation, taking what advantage they could from their uphill position. Nish could not tell how the battle was going. Even from his elevated seat it was just a blur of violence that went on and on, but, under attack from front and rear, the leading ranks of the lyrinx must be feeling the strain. To his right a squad of lyrinx were forced into the river, where they panicked and could not save themselves. A ripple of ash-grey skin colours passed through the enemy. Drowning was a terror that death in battle could never be.
He fired until all his rock balls were gone, and all but one of his spears. Almost every shot went true, exacting sickening slaughter. How could they not, where the enemy ranks were so tightly packed? A shiver went through the lines of the lyrinx. Their jagged red-and-black skin patterns indicated distress, which flicked in an instant to camouflage colours as their front line broke.
It was far from over, but it was the first sign that his tactics were working. Nish signalled twenty clankers to secure the gap, and the rest fought on. After another vicious ten minutes, the tide seemed to be turning. The uphill section of his army was less than a hundred paces away, and their line still held.
Nish rallied his troops again and again, bolstering the weak places in the circle and expanding it to wedge the enemy f
orces apart. The lyrinx, now fighting in five or six bands all showing black-and-red distress patterns, split at the rear. Nish's uphill and downhill armies flowed together. They had broken through and the way to the ford was clear.
His troops and clankers streamed through the gap. 'To the ford!' he signalled to the second wave. Then, to the survivors of his flying wedge, 'Form a rearguard, clankers last of all, and we'll hold them off. Shooters, replenish your spears.'
They leapt off their machines and gathered up the fallen spears. Nish remained on his platform, watching the enemy. The lyrinx had drawn away to the side of the valley, shocked at the defeat and near to panic. Their leaders were trying desperately to rally them, so Nish fired a ball at a small group of officers and was pleased to see them scatter. His troops were vulnerable to a counterattack from the rear.
The army raced through the narrow passages of the neck and down the hill. He signalled his flying wedge into a defensive line, trying not to think of the injured, whose piteous cries could be heard above the thudding of the clankers. Again, anyone who could not walk had to be left behind to die, and there were hundreds of them. It was cruel. Tears poured down Nish's face at the thought of abandoning men who had fought so bravely, and who were in such agony, but nothing could be done. Any man who stopped to attend the injured would be slain by the enemy.
A band of lyrinx to their left had rallied and were getting ready to attack. Nish checked over his shoulder. The main body of the army was halfway to the ford. A soldier came running towards him, staggering under the weight of an armload of spears. 'Thought these might come in handy,' he said laconically.
'Thanks, soldier. Now run.'
The wings of the rearguard clankers were already in position. 'Fly!' Nish shouted to the foot soldiers of his rearguard. "Wait at the ford for us to defend your backs.'
He gave them a minute or two to get away, firing salvoes at the enemy to help keep them at bay. 'Move out!' he signalled, and the clanker rearguard turned as one.
The eight metal feet of his machine thudded against the ground, crushing stones and pebbles into powder. The clanker crashed down the steep slope, screeching across rock outcrops, slipping on wet clay and skidding from side to side. The operator over-corrected, skidded the other way then gained control.
Now Nish noticed an irregularity in the beat of the feet, thud-thud, thud-thud, which grew worse as they went on. 'What's the matter?' he yelled. 'I don't know,' wailed the operator.
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.