Ian Irvine - Alchymist

He concentrated on moving with absolute stealth and, as he progressed, silence settled around him. He was past the last line of guards. Beyond the pinnacle field he encountered another patch of forest, after which Nish found himself crossing a rugged expanse of grey limestone etched into mounds and sinkholes, grey ridges only a few spans high and canyons little deeper. Shortly that developed into another pinnacle field, much more extensive than the first.

He'd gone further than he'd planned. Beyond, Nish knew from Troist's map, a steep escarpment ramped down to the broad oval box-valley of Gumby Marth, where Jal-Nish's army was camped. On the far side, white peaks rose up equally steep and sharp while the upper end of the valley was defended by a sheer limestone cliff.

He tried to work out his position. Gumby Marth narrowed to a rocky neck halfway down, there falling sharply away before broadening out in the direction of Gnulp Landing. The lyrinx could not come through the neck without being seen.

They might fly in, but lyrinx in the air were vulnerable to archers and spear-throwers, unless they came at night, and Jal-Nish would be sure to have his watch-fires burning.

On the other hand, if they held the neck of Gumby Marth they could bottle up Jal-Nish's army and starve them out. Why had his father brought his army into such a perilous battleground? Surely he was planning a trap of his own. He must have some secret weapon or strategy, but what could it be?

The precipice could be no more than ten minutes away. So near, and if Nish went to the edge he would see the camp fires and, in this moonlight, even the tents and clankers, far below. And, Nish rationalised, if Troist did catch him sneaking into camp, having information about Jal-Nish's forces might get him out of trouble. I'll do it, he thought. I'll just slip across to the edge, have a quick look and go back.

The moon told him that it was after nine o'clock. He could be back in his hammock by ten. Edging through the rows of pinnacles, he found himself in a narrow defile where the light did not penetrate. It was so dark that it was eerie. As he felt his way along, imagining what might be lurking in those thousands of narrow walkways, his heart began to pound. Nish's outstretched hand touched an edge so sharp that it slid through the skin. He drew back, muffling a yelp. As he licked his fingers, the hairs on the back of his neck came erect.

Nish looked around. It felt as if someone was watching him, though that did not make sense. The passage between the pinnacles was barely wide enough for his shoulders. He crept back, hands outstretched like a sleepwalker, but encountered only rock. If someone had been following him, they were gone. He could not be seen from above — nothing heavier than a sparrow could have perched on those razor-topped edges.

Shrugging the unease away, he kept going and eventually found a way through the maze to the other side. Only as he emerged onto an expanse of white rock, almost glowing in the bright moonlight, did the feeling of being watched dissipate.

Making it to the edge unscathed, he looked down on the oval of Gumby Marth, hundreds of spans below. Countless watch-fires blazed on this side, up to his right, marking out the rectangular pattern of the army camp. The shapes of the tents were clearly visible, as well as the camouflaged outlines of the clankers. Nish was looking along the length of the cliff when his eye caught a dark, fluttering shape, halfway down.

A lyrinx, spying on Jal-Nish's army! Did that mean the attack was imminent? Now what was he supposed to do? Nish's initial impulse was to go back though, if the enemy were about to attack, the warning would come too late. Troist's army was still a day's march away.

He leaned out as far as he dared, caught another brief glimpse of that moving form, then lost it. It seemed too big to be a man, and the wrong shape. It had to be the enemy, and his duty was horribly clear — he must climb down the cliff, if he could without killing himself, and take the warning to his father.

At that thought, Nish's heart began to pound like a threshing machine. Was there any other way? Even if he screamed out a warning at the top of his voice, it would not carry as far as the camp. No; he had to go down.

The escarpment consisted of a series of cliffs broken by rock outcrops only marginally less steep. After some searching along the edge, he discovered what appeared to be a goat track heading down, though in the moonlight he would be easily spotted against the pale rock.

Taking off the black cloak, he tied it around his waist and set off, hanging on with hands, feet and knees. It was a long, difficult climb, dangerous, too, for the moonlight played Kicks. Once he was about to step on what seemed solid rock, only to realise that there was nothing underneath his foot but empty air.

After a good interval of heart-in-the-mouth scrambling, Nish was creeping down a precipitous defile, anxiously watching a small cloud that had covered the moon, and hoping he could get to the bottom before it shone out again. As he reached the base of a knob of white rock shaped like a brain impaled on a stick, a guard stepped out in front of him and levelled his spear. The man was huge: as high and wide as a door, with a cape that stretched out behind him in the updraught.

Nish was not armed. Not intending to leave the camp, he'd left his weapon in the clanker. The soldier jerked his spear and Nish thought it was going right through his belly.

'I'm not a spy!' he gasped.

'Hands in the air!'

Nish complied and the moon shone full on his face. There was a long pause, then an astonished cry: 'Well, blow me if it isn't Cryl-Nish Hlar, and hardly changed! What the blazes are you doing here?'

The soldier's face was in shadow. Nish had no idea who he was, though the nasal tones were vaguely familiar, and the man had an Einunar accent.

'Should I know you?' he said hesitantly.

'You certainly should.' The soldier emitted a booming bellow of a laugh. 'We used to play together when we were little, Cry-Nish.'

The soldier came out of the shadow. He had a big square head, dark curly hair and a grin that crinkled one corner of his mouth. Nish stared at him. Memory stirred. 'Xabbier? Xabbier Frou?'

'At your service.' He put out a hand the size of a lobster.

Nish clasped it in both of his, remembering Xabbier fondly: a big, rough but kindly boy, always breaking things and being punished for it, which he'd shrugged off with that endearing grin. He'd more than once rescued Nish from schoolyard bullies who'd picked on him because of his father's reputation. 'How did you get here? I haven't seen you since I was . . , nine or ten, I suppose. It's good to see you, Xabbier.'

'And you Cryl-Nish. I worked with my father for a while, lawyering, and hated every moment of it. One day I walked out and joined the army. It's a bloody life, but better than being a poxy notary. I ended up in a unit that your father took to the manufactory near Tiksi, and after that I came west on one of the air-floaters.’

And now you're a guard for my father.' Try as he might to repress it, there was the faintest hint of scorn, that Xabbier should have ended up a common soldier.

Xabbier was not easily slighted. He gave Nish a cheerful clap on the back that almost drove shards of backbone into his lungs. 'I'm a lieutenant now, and will be made captain if we survive the coming battle.' He frowned at that thought, then grinned. 'Which of course we must. I like to take my turn at sentry duty. Prefer the air out here to the fug in the command tents.'

Not to mention the company of my father, Nish thought.

Xabbier scanned the slope, up and down. Nish stood beside him, thinking about his childhood. They had been friends until Xabbier's mother had died in childbirth and his father moved to another town.