Alchymist (53 page)

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.

'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.'