by Ian Irvine
He was woken by someone roaring out orders like a drill sergeant. A soldier was directing the laying out of the camp, which now comprised almost a hundred troops.
As it grew dark a squad of a hundred and fifty marched in, followed by smaller groups and a mounted troop. There was no sign of Troist but as the mess tent began serving dinner Nish heard an unmistakable squeak and rattle.
His professional interest aroused, he limped to the edge of the firelight. Four clankers appeared, one after another, their eight mechanical legs moving in rhythmic pairs. They were a different design from the ones he was familiar with, lower and broader, with the overlapping armour plates shaped like leaves rather than oval shields. The shooter’s platform on top contained seats for two shooters: one to load and fire the catapult, the other for the javelard that could fire its heavy spears right through the armoured body of a lyrinx.
Troist came galloping in, close to midnight. Sliding off his horse he gave it an affectionate pat, greeted his wife and daughters and immediately went to the command area, a patch of stony ground covered by a canvas slung on long ropes from tree branches. Nish was called in as well.
The tent was crowded. A small map was spread out on a folding table. ‘We are here,’ Troist said, indicating a spot on the map about six leagues south-east of Nilkerrand. ‘We’ll break camp at dawn and head south-east, across the plains of Almadin in the direction of the Worm Wood. That’s an enormous forest,’ he said to Nish, circling it on the map. ‘Quite the largest in eastern Lauralin. Our next camp will be here,’ he stabbed at a location with his forefinger, ‘or failing that, here. I hope we can find more soldiers on the way. If General Boryl escaped –’
‘He did not, surr,’ said a bald man with a bandage around his bare chest. ‘I’m his adjutant. I saw him fall.’
‘Slain?’ asked Troist.
‘The blood would have filled a bucket. His head was practically severed –’
‘Later!’ Troist glanced at his wide-eyed children. ‘What of the other officers?’
‘Most are dead, surr. The enemy broke into the command tent and slew them in a minute. Had not I been outside they would have killed me too. You are the most senior officer alive, surr. If you can’t rally the troops, I fear all Almadin will be lost.’
‘I thought as much,’ Troist said heavily. ‘Well, there’s not much I can do with a few hundred troops and a handful of clankers, but whatever can be done, I’ll do it.’
He turned away, and Nish, standing at his elbow, caught a strange gleam in the man’s eyes. Troist’s chance had come. Should he be able to seize it, it would be the making of him. If he failed, none of them would survive.
Almadin was a largely treeless land, flat apart from residual mounds topped in black rock, the tells of towns abandoned in ages past. The soil was barren, salt-crusted, and supported only yellow grass. Here and there were round saltpans, quite bare of life. Carrion birds circled in the distance.
They wound back and forth across the arid land for days. Troist spent all the daylight hours in the saddle, combing the countryside for survivors of the battle and sending them back to the camp. All the troops he could spare were doing the same. The trickle of battered, dispirited soldiers became a flood.
More clankers began to come in. Many had been lost in the battle, for as soon as the officers had been slain the enemy turned the attack to the clankers’ shooters, exposed on their platforms atop the machines. Once the shooter was dead a clanker operator could do nothing but flee. Some machines had only an operator, others as many soldiers as could fit inside and cling to the sides and top.
Troist greeted each one, no matter what time they arrived, and ensured they were fed, given a place to sleep and had their wounds attended. Nothing was too much trouble. He scarcely seemed to sleep at all.
On the fifth night he took a detachment out on a raid, on horseback and in half a dozen clankers fitted with the new sound-cloaker that reduced their rattling squeal to a whisper. Nish was not invited to go with them and knew nothing of their objective. Yara, who did but would not say, paced the whole night. Her worry infected Nish. If Troist and his bold team did not return the little army would fall apart.
Dawn came and there was no sign of them. Noon went by. Yara was still pacing, rigidly now. The sun went down, and finally a dust cloud appeared on the horizon.
‘It’s Troist!’ cried Yara, her reserve failing for an instant. Tears glistened on her eyelids.
In they came, weary and brown with dust but grinning broadly. The clankers were packed with swords, crossbows, camp implements, tents, provisions and other gear abandoned by the defeated army. Hastily constructed wooden sleds, piled high, were towed behind.
‘This should solve the supply problem for a while,’ said Troist. ‘You could not call it a victory, since we were unopposed. We’re still running from the enemy but not as fast as before.’
‘Where are the enemy?’ Nish asked.
‘We saw them in the air above Nilkerrand, and doubtless some still occupy what remains of the city, but most, I am told, went back across the sea to Meldorin.’
‘So the attack on Nilkerrand was a raid, not an invasion?’
‘A raid and forerunner to the invasion.’
‘When will that occur?’
‘If I knew that, Cryl-Nish, I wouldn’t be wasting time listening to your inane questions.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Now that things are more secure, I’d like you and the children to go back to Kundizand.’
‘No, Daddy!’ cried Liliwen. ‘Don’t send us away again, please.’
Meriwen, normally conservative and responsible, supported her. ‘We wouldn’t feel safe without you, Daddy. And if you get hurt, you’ll need us to look after you.’
‘I’m not going to argue –’ he began, but Yara laid a hand on his.
‘Just a few more days,’ she said. ‘The enemy can fly across the sea to Kundizand in hours. We’re safer here.’
‘Oh, all right, but as soon as the chance comes …’
‘Of course,’ she said.
The army slowly swelled as they travelled. Troist had begun to form it into fighting units, and as the news got around, soldiers appeared from everywhere. After ten days they had a force numbering three thousand, several hundred of them mounted, as well as a fleet of seventy-one clankers. Five more machines needed repairs before they could go into battle, and Nish worked long days helping the other artificers get them ready. He learned more about his trade in that short period than he had in his years at the manufactory. Many more clankers lay abandoned at the battlefield east of Nilkerrand, or in flight, but until operators could be found or trained, they were useless. Troist had done a wonderful job so far, though he was worried that the scrutators would not let him keep his command.
In the evenings Nish sat with Troist and another tactician, telling them all he knew, or had deduced, about constructs. Together they began to formulate tactics to attack the machines, tactics for defence, and plans for all kinds of contingencies. They worked until after midnight every night, each taking one side or the other and fighting imaginary battles in a variety of terrain.
This night, the twelfth since leaving the inn, Troist tossed his lead pieces aside before the midnight bell had struck. He rubbed red eyes, yawning.
‘Games are all very well but they count for naught when the battle starts. Out there, we can’t see what’s going on after the first few minutes. Our messengers are slain, or the field simply changes so quickly that our orders are useless.’
‘They don’t make the kinds of mistakes we do in battle,’ said the other officer, Lunny. ‘It’s as if the enemy can communicate with each other.’
‘What if we were to send up an observer in a balloon?’ said Nish. ‘He could see the whole battle and signal us what was really going on.’
‘Until the wind blew it away,’ said Troist, ‘or a flying lyrinx tore it open, which they would do at once.’
A messenger ran in, saluted and handed T
roist a folded piece of paper. Troist read it, frowned and stood up.
‘We will find out soon enough, gentlemen. A sizeable force of lyrinx are moving in our direction; many hundreds. We must prepare to do battle in the morning.’
He looked every inch a commander, though as his eyes rested on Yara, who sat up the back winding bandages, Troist stiffened. Tomorrow could see the brutal end of his family, but it was too late to send them to safety. Why hadn’t he taken the chance while he had it?
PART THREE DIPLOMAT
TWENTY-SEVEN
Irisis woke with terrible roars and cries ringing in her ears. She felt her throbbing forehead, which sported a lump the size of a small potato. Lights, surrounded by haloes, danced along the corridor. They seemed to be moving closer. She rubbed her eyes, trying to see what they were, but they only separated into paired images.
She supported herself on the rock wall, struggling to recall what had happened. She had been on the eighth level of the mine. A lyrinx had come after her and Ullii had fled.
‘Who … are you?’ Irisis said to the first pair of lights.
The scrutator chuckled. ‘How quickly they forget.’ Bending down, he whispered, ‘It’s your lover, Xervish Flydd, come to rescue you.’
‘How did you know –?’
‘Peate turned up with a story about you going off with Ullii into the forbidden section, so I came to find out why. We had just about given you up when Ullii hurtled out from a tunnel that isn’t even on the map, crying for us to save you from the clawers. So here we are.’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘Mancer’s secrets, crafter. Mancer’s secrets.’
Taking her arm, he helped her to the lift, which was not far at all. Within the hour, Irisis was tucked up in bed with a cool compress across her forehead and a steaming bowl of willow-bark tea on the bedside table.
The scrutator took the map, which was still crumpled in her hand, and unfolded it. ‘The seeker said something about good crystal. A big crystal.’
‘I’ve marked it on the map, with a red circle.’
‘Here?’ He held the map out.
‘That’s where Ullii sensed it, but down at an angle. Like this!’ She mimicked the gesture. ‘The ninth or tenth level.’
He frowned. ‘It had better not be lower than the ninth. We’ll get started in the morning.’
That being miner’s work, Irisis went back to her own, directing the twenty artisans and fifty prentices in the making of clanker controllers. Once a day Ullii was taken down to check that the miners were driving in the right direction. Irisis sometimes accompanied her. Working on the eighth level was perilous and slow. The miners were guarded by squads of soldiers with heavy crossbows, but they saw no further sign of the lyrinx.
They reached the ninth level, which was dry here, but found no crystal. Ullii still pointed in the same direction so they continued sinking the shaft towards the tenth. Water began to trickle into the workings and they had to bring in a pump, powered by two workers on a treadmill, to keep them dry. Below the tenth, the trickle would become an unstoppable flood.
A couple of weeks after Ullii’s discovery of the crystal, Irisis woke to the familiar crash of a catapult ball against the wall of the manufactory. She was running to her station, up on the wall near the front gate, when the scrutator caught her by the arm.
‘What is it?’ she yelled, for already the racket was deafening.
‘Take no risks!’
‘I have to get to my post!’ She tried to pull away but he did not let go.
‘I mean it, Irisis. I can’t replace you.’
‘Plenty of women are prepared to warm the scrutator’s bed!’ she snapped, deliberately mistaking his meaning.
‘Don’t be a fool, crafter. I need you: to make controllers, to support Ullii and, most of all, to work with me on the node problem.’ Nodding curtly, he let her go.
Irisis ran up the stairs, feeling guilty that she had not done better, but she could not make controllers without crystal. On the wall, crossbow in her hands, she soon forgot the scrutator’s warning. In the light of the watch flares Irisis could see eight lyrinx, and from the clamour on the far walls, there must be just as many on that side.
A catapult ball sang overhead, smashing into one of the furnace chimneys, which collapsed in a shower of bricks. The masons and bricklayers would slave for a fortnight to repair it.
Crouching between the battlements, Irisis sighted on a large, green-crested lyrinx that seemed to be directing the attack from the eaves of the forest. Stay where you are, just another second. She fired. The lyrinx jerked, then slapped a hand to its breast. The bolt had gone low, embedding itself in the breast plate. The creature would be sorely bruised but no real damage had been done. It raised its fists to the sky in a voiceless cry.
Irisis was reloading the clumsy weapon when someone cried, ‘Look out!’ and she was struck hard between the shoulders. The crossbow skidded down the paving, struck the wall and went off, firing its bolt into the stone.
Irisis was on her knees, trying to work out what had hit her, when she was lifted in the air. A hovering lyrinx had her in its claws, flapping desperately. She must have weighed more than it had anticipated.
She thrashed her arms and legs. Her coat tore and she fell free but the creature slashed out and its claws went through her collar. The beast wobbled in the air as it tried for a better grip. She kicked, caught it in the groin and it went close to dropping her. Its eyes were staring, its breath coming in tortured gasps.
Irisis tried to pull out of her coat but could not get her arms free. She smacked at the face of the lyrinx, which snapped back, almost taking her hand off. Its wings beat irregularly as it struggled to gain height. She attacked again and managed to poke it in the eye with a finger. It canted sideways, its eye closed and she thought it was going to fall over the edge.
Its head lunged, the great teeth snapping so close that she smelt its hot breath. The abduction had failed; now it was trying to kill her. Irisis drew her legs up and kicked it in the jaw. The lyrinx howled and almost fell out of the air. She was a heavy burden for a creature that required the Secret Art to keep its own weight aloft. Irisis touched the artisan’s pliance hanging around her neck and could sense the distortion the lyrinx was making in the field.
She kicked again but it held its head well back now. Its free hand went for her throat, but so slowly she had time to get her arm across. The claws tore harmlessly through the heavy fabric of her coat. The lyrinx gained control, the great wings beat and it lifted. Irisis could see the guards, their weapons tracking the creature, but no one dared shoot for fear of hitting her.
The scrutator came running up the steps, only to stop at the top as if he had run into a wall. The beast was gaining height now, drifting out toward the edge, its wings thumping the air. Just a couple of spans and it could let her go. She heard its rumbling purr. Irisis struggled but its grip was too tight. She had no knife or any other kind of weapon. She kicked and missed. Kicked again.
The creature rotated in the air. Time seemed to be going so slowly. Flydd was up on the edge of the wall, then he whirled, racing for the steps that led to the lookout above the gate. What was he doing?
Appearing at the top of the watch-tower, he took a flying leap out across the angle of the wall. She felt sure he was going to fall to his death, but the lyrinx drifted underneath and he landed with a thump that drove it out of the air. Irisis crashed into the battlement, the creature landing on top of her with stunning impact. It slid down onto the walkway, its skin flaring bright orange, claws scraping the stone beside her face. Lowering its head, it thrust forward. Her arms were trapped. All she could do was draw her knees up before her face. The lyrinx wrenched them apart and kept coming.
The scrutator’s knife dug in between the neck plates and dragged across. Hot blood exploded from its throat, spraying the stone, her face and her hair. The lyrinx stopped struggling. Two soldiers dragged her out from underneath and s
he watched the great beast die, its eyes slowly closing, the head drooping. The death colours – mottled yellows, greens and scarlets – kept on flickering long after life was extinguished.
Irisis could not stand up. Flydd wiped the blood off her face, sat her with her back to a battlement and put her crossbow in her hands.
‘I told you to be careful. Get your breath. We’ve a long way to go.’ He ran down the wall.
A ball smashed stone into stinging gravel. Another crashed through the light-tower, scattering blazing tar-soaked straw everywhere. Little fires began on the roofs. Attendants scrambled to put them out.
A boulder struck the massive iron gates below their section of the wall, tearing one off its hinges. Another ball hurtled through the gap, followed by a third, equally large. A splintering crash was confirmed by the doorman’s shout.
‘To the gate! The inner gate is broken.’
Levering herself to her feet, Irisis peered over. The lyrinx charged in a group. In the gloom she could not count their numbers. One fell outside the iron gates, another on the step, struck down by a lump of rock dropped from the wall, but it got up again. She fired her crossbow as fast as she could load it, though soon there were no targets left. The survivors were inside the manufactory.
The attacks on the wall continued, the catapults firing from the edge of the forest. In the dark it was almost impossible to hit them, while the soldiers on the wall were easy targets. A splatting thud signalled the end of another guard.
Not long before dawn she saw Flydd hauling himself up the stair by the railing. He looked as if all the blood had been sucked out of him.