Alchymist (48 page)

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.

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
around 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.