Ian Irvine - Alchymist

'I'm dying anyway,' said the soldier, clutching at his wrist. 'Please, end it for me.'

Nish looked into the fellow's eyes and knew what had to be done but, despite his father, he could not do it. No matter how good the justification, killing the man to put him out of his misery was beyond him. He was sick to his heart of all the violence.

'I'm sorry,' he said, and had to walk away. For the rest of the day he could see the pain in the soldier's eyes, and the bewilderment.

The clanker was bursting with wounded by the time he finally reached Xabbier's staging post, having replenished his missiles from wrecked machines several times on the way. They were creeping along now, at little more than walking pace.

'What's the matter, Operator?' Nish called. He did not know the fellow's name. 'Can't you go any faster?'

'There's not much left in the field,' said the operator mournfully. Nish had yet to meet a cheerful one — the bond with the machine was so intense that all human interactions palled by comparison. 'It's been going down all morning. It's only a small node hereabouts and we've nearly drained it dry.'

Not surprising, given the number of clankers that had drawn on it, and lyrinx too, not to mention that great struggle between the golden-crested lyrinx and Jal-Nish. And if our clankers can barely move, he thought, Troist's won't be doing any better. But at least the enemy won't be able to attack us from the air.

A great mass of soldiers had gathered on a grassy mound, with smaller detachments grouped above and below. Rows of clankers defended them, some hundreds, but it was a pitiful remnant of the great army of yesterday.

The enemy had drawn off, for the moment. An army of lyrinx had collected under the trees near the closest stream, watching the scene. Nish had his operator drive the clanker up to Xabbier's flag.

I've done all I can.' He climbed down. 'I've sent across about four thousand men and a few hundred clankers.

'And I've gathered another six thousand,' said Xabbier, but that's not a quarter of those who were alive last night.'

'There are thousands of undamaged clankers with no operator to drive them,' said Nish, 'I saw a lot of soldiers further down the valley, across the second stream, though they were too far away to call back. There's no one left alive in the middle of the valley. At least, no one with a chance of living.' He saw that dying soldier's eyes again. 'There are so many injured, just dying there in the sun. And to go past and be able to do nothing for them …'

'It's cruel,' said Xabbier. 'But what can we do? If we stay to comfort them, more will die.'

'And all for the folly of one man, my father! How can I ever make up for it?' Nish knew he had to — the night, and the morning, had changed him forever, and he felt a need to atone for his father's crimes as well as his own blunders.

'You've already begun to,' said Xabbier, 'by what you've done last night and today.'

'It can never be enough,' said Nish. 'I can't bring the dead back to life.'

'Don't take on more than your due,' said Xabbier. 'Your father committed this terrible folly all by himself.' He looked burdened. 'I don't know what to do now. What do you think, Cryl-Nish?'

Why ask me? Nish thought. You're the soldier. But Xabbier hadn't commanded such a force in a rout either. 'We're low on spears,' Nish began, 'so I'd send a few clankers round the battlefield to pick up used ones. Then make our way down to the neck, fast as we can. The enemy have suffered terrible casualties, more than they must have expected, and their morale may be faltering.'

'Doesn't look that way,' said Xabbier.

'Well in bright sunlight they're slightly handicapped, but if we're not out of the valley come nightfall, there's not a man will be living in the morning.'

That was my plan too,' said Xabbier. 'And we can expect Troist's army before too long.' He sent the clankers off, then conferred with his sergeants. He gave orders and the signallers relayed them to the troops.

'We can hope for it,' Nish muttered.

The clankers returned, distributed the spears, and the army and escorting clankers set off. Before too long the bright sunshine was replaced by dark clouds sweeping in from the distant Sea of Thurkad. Raindrops pattered on the top of the clanker. Nish wiped his face, gloomily. Rain would disadvantage them and aid the enemy.

Soon they ran into heavy fighting. The army was quickly broken into struggling bands of soldiers and the leaders fell like flies. Nish had no idea what was going on, so he ducked through a line of fighting men and climbed a knoll. The soldiers were spread out all across this side of the valley and no one seemed to be leading them. He went back and forth in the clanker, issuing fruitless orders while he searched everywhere for Xabbier. There was no sign of him. He must have fallen in the assault.

Nish felt panic rising; this was going to be another massacre and at the end there wouldn't be a soldier left standing. He had to do something, hopeless though it was. He would try to rally the soldiers and get them down to the neck.

'Down there!' he ordered his operator. 'Take me to the front.'

The fighting was fierce; within minutes Nish had used all his spears. Rotating the javelard out of the way, he settled behind the catapult, wound it back a few extra notches and took aim at a band of lyrinx running towards him.

Nish pulled the release lever. The cords snapped, shaking the clanker, and the catapult ball rolled gently off the side.

'What's that?' cried the operator, peering fearfully up through the hatch. His 'crown of thorns' — a headband of wire and crystals that allowed him to control the clanker — hung askew over one ear.

'Catapult's broken' Nish said 'Keep going.’

Nish couldn't see the clankers with the extra spears, and could not go back for more without leaving his troops leaderless. His clanker was damaged and moving at less than walking pace so, ordering it back for spears, he slipped off the side, pulling out his bloodstained sword. He had learned more about sword play this morning than he had in the years of intermittent training at the manufactory. Every muscle throbbed, every bone ached, but he was inured to it now.

He fought his way down Gumby Marth, rallying the scattered bands of soldiers into a fighting force, and praying that when he topped the rise he would see Troist's army stretching before him. All he saw was more enemy and, despite the debilitating effects of stone-forming, in one-on-one combat they won more often than they lost.

At last he reached the opening of the neck with a dozen other soldiers. The survivors of the army were now close behind, at least, and their sergeants had them in hand. Here the valley was only a few hundred paces wide and cliffs hemmed them in on either side. A rocky ramp occupied the middle, over which the river, as it now was, roared in a series of cascades. There was room for the clankers and soldiers to pass down between the river and the cliff, though the broken country restricted movement to a few narrow passages, each guarded by lyrinx. At least the army had the advantage of height, though several lyrinx had climbed the cliffs and could hurl rocks down at them.

The slope dropped away steeply for the length of a bowshot, then flattened out as Gumby Marth broadened again. Down there, patches of trees, and folds in the land, made ideal places for an enemy ambush. In the distance he could just make out the Sea of Thurkad, there close to its narrowest as it rushed towards the Karama Malama, the chilly Sea of Mists.

He scanned the lower valley, searching for the nine hundred clankers and thirteen thousand soldiers of Troist's army.

All he saw were lyrinx, thousands of them, holding the neck of the valley against him.