Ian Irvine - Alchymist

Stay calm,' he yelled, firing his javelard. 'We'll be all right. General Troist can't be far away now.'

Nish had never seen the operator's face, just a pointed nose, dark hair thinning at the crown and no chin at all. It sounded as if the field was about to fail. He looked back; the battered lyrinx were close behind and gaining. How quickly they'd overcome their fear.

The open land on the far side of the river was empty, though in the distance he saw other groups of soldiers and clankers. More were coming out of the trees, and from other hiding places, now that they saw some hope. On the whole, Nish couldn't blame them. He did not see any enemy over there, thankfully.

'Pull up,' he ordered as the clankers approached a cut in the bank that marked the ford. The army hadn't gone across yet. Standing up on the shooter's platform, hanging on with one hand as the machine bounced and lurched across the uneven ground, Nish signalled to his clankers to form a defensive fan. Once that was in place, and it was pitifully thin, he signed to the main body of the army, 'Go across.'

The soldiers, accompanied by the leading clankers, began to move into the water. Further up the hill, the lyrinx were regrouping. Nish considered his one remaining spear and shivered. 'Hoy?' he yelled to the blood-covered shooter on the next clanker. 'Got any missiles left?'

The man shook his head. Nor did the one after, nor the one after that. Nish signalled the clankers that had crossed the river to fan out and ready their javelards, in case the enemy broke through his line. It would take fifteen minutes to get the remainder of the army across and his small rearguard would be lucky to survive that long.

Springing down, he scoured the ground for missiles. The pebbles were too small, though closer to the river there were flat stones the size of oranges. He gathered a couple of basketfuls and packed stones into the leather bucket of the catapult. The other shooters did the same. There was no telling where they would fly, but it was better than that desperate feeling of being defenceless.

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.