Ian Irvine - Alchymist

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.

He wrenched it out, feeling faint. No matter how often he did it, he would never get used to the feeling of his sword backing through the enemy's flesh. It was horrible.

The lyrinx screamed, put its foot on the ground and collapsed, leaving its belly and throat exposed. Nish should have slain the creature, but did not have the stomach for it. He col-ected an armload of javelard spears from a clanker that had been neatly cut in half, staggered back to his machine with them and climbed aboard.

'There's no one alive in the command area,' he said. 'Head up towards the cliffs.'

He'd seen soldiers hiding up there earlier though, if they were there now, they weren't coming out. There might well be thirteen thousand left alive but Xabbier would be lucky to round up three-quarters of them. And who could blame the others, after their second massacre in a month?

He spent another two hours scouring the battlefield, sending men and clankers across to Xabbier, appointing sergeants from any soldiers who had battle experience, and giving them their orders. He encountered lyrinx, though not many, for they had moved further down the valley, following the mass of the army. Nish used his javelard three times, killing two more of the creatures, and fired the catapult many times without doing any damage. It was only accurate in the hands of an expert.

Despite his earlier vow, he did stop for those wounded who had some chance of recovery. The seriously injured he had to leave where they lay, despite their piteous groans. He'd just lifted a cruelly wounded man, speared through the groin, when another called out to him. This fellow had his stomach torn open and was bound to die.

'I'm sorry,' Nish said, crouching beside him and giving him the last of the beer. 'I've no room left inside.'