Almadin was a largely treeless land, flat apart from residual mounds topped in black rock, the tells of towns abandoned in ages past. The soil was barren, salt-crusted, and supported only yellow grass. Here and there were round saltpans, quite bare of life. Carrion birds circled in the distance.
They wound back and forth across the arid land for days. Troist spent all the daylight hours in the saddle, combing the countryside for survivors of the battle and sending them back to the camp. All the troops he could spare were doing the same. The trickle of battered, dispirited soldiers became a flood.
More clankers began to come in. Many had been lost in the battle, for as soon as the officers had been slain the enemy turned the attack to the clankers’ shooters, exposed on their platforms atop the machines. Once the shooter was dead a clanker operator could do nothing but flee. Some machines had only an operator, others as many soldiers as could fit inside and cling to the sides and top.
Troist greeted each one, no matter what time they arrived, and ensured they were fed, given a place to sleep and had their wounds attended. Nothing was too much trouble. He scarcely seemed to sleep at all.
On the fifth night he took a detachment out on a raid, on horseback and in half a dozen clankers fitted with the new sound-cloaker that reduced their rattling squeal to a whisper. Nish was not invited to go with them and knew nothing of their objective. Yara, who did but would not say, paced the whole night. Her worry infected Nish. If Troist and his bold team did not return the little army would fall apart.
Dawn came and there was no sign of them. Noon went by. Yara was still pacing, rigidly now. The sun went down, and finally a dust cloud appeared on the horizon.
‘It’s Troist!’ cried Yara, her reserve failing for an instant. Tears glistened on her eyelids.
In they came, weary and brown with dust but grinning broadly. The clankers were packed with swords, crossbows, camp implements, tents, provisions and other gear abandoned by the defeated army. Hastily constructed wooden sleds, piled high, were towed behind.
‘This should solve the supply problem for a while,’ said Troist. ‘You could not call it a victory, since we were unopposed. We’re still running from the enemy but not as fast as before.’
‘Where are the enemy?’ Nish asked.
‘We saw them in the air above Nilkerrand, and doubtless some still occupy what remains of the city, but most, I am told, went back across the sea to Meldorin.’
‘So the attack on Nilkerrand was a raid, not an invasion?’
‘A raid and forerunner to the invasion.’
‘When will that occur?’
‘If I knew that, Cryl-Nish, I wouldn’t be wasting time listening to your inane questions.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Now that things are more secure, I’d like you and the children to go back to Kundizand.’
‘No, Daddy!’ cried Liliwen. ‘Don’t send us away again, please.’
Meriwen, normally conservative and responsible, supported her. ‘We wouldn’t feel safe without you, Daddy. And if you get hurt, you’ll need us to look after you.’
‘I’m not going to argue –’ he began, but Yara laid a hand on his.
‘Just a few more days,’ she said. ‘The enemy can fly across the sea to Kundizand in hours. We’re safer here.’
‘Oh, all right, but as soon as the chance comes …’
‘Of course,’ she said.
The army slowly swelled as they travelled. Troist had begun to form it into fighting units, and as the news got around, soldiers appeared from everywhere. After ten days they had a force numbering three thousand, several hundred of them mounted, as well as a fleet of seventy-one clankers. Five more machines needed repairs before they could go into battle, and Nish worked long days helping the other artificers get them ready. He learned more about his trade in that short period than he had in his years at the manufactory. Many more clankers lay abandoned at the battlefield east of Nilkerrand, or in flight, but until operators could be found or trained, they were useless. Troist had done a wonderful job so far, though he was worried that the scrutators would not let him keep his command.
In the evenings Nish sat with Troist and another tactician, telling them all he knew, or had deduced, about constructs. Together they began to formulate tactics to attack the machines, tactics for defence, and plans for all kinds of contingencies. They worked until after midnight every night, each taking one side or the other and fighting imaginary battles in a variety of terrain.
This night, the twelfth since leaving the inn, Troist tossed his lead pieces aside before the midnight bell had struck. He rubbed red eyes, yawning.
‘Games are all very well but they count for naught when the battle starts. Out there, we can’t see what’s going on after the first few minutes. Our messengers are slain, or the field simply changes so quickly that our orders are useless.’
‘They don’t make the kinds of mistakes we do in battle,’ said the other officer, Lunny. ‘It’s as if the enemy can communicate with each other.’
‘What if we were to send up an observer in a balloon?’ said Nish. ‘He could see the whole battle and signal us what was really going on.’
‘Until the wind blew it away,’ said Troist, ‘or a flying lyrinx tore it open, which they would do at once.’
A messenger ran in, saluted and handed Troist a folded piece of paper. Troist read it, frowned and stood up.
‘We will find out soon enough, gentlemen. A sizeable force of lyrinx are moving in our direction; many hundreds. We must prepare to do battle in the morning.’
He looked every inch a commander, though as his eyes rested on Yara, who sat up the back winding bandages, Troist stiffened. Tomorrow could see the brutal end of his family, but it was too late to send them to safety. Why hadn’t he taken the chance while he had it?
PART THREE DIPLOMAT
TWENTY-SEVEN
Irisis woke with terrible roars and cries ringing in her ears. She felt her throbbing forehead, which sported a lump the size of a small potato. Lights, surrounded by haloes, danced along the corridor. They seemed to be moving closer. She rubbed her eyes, trying to see what they were, but they only separated into paired images.
She supported herself on the rock wall, struggling to recall what had happened. She had been on the eighth level of the mine. A lyrinx had come after her and Ullii had fled.
‘Who … are you?’ Irisis said to the first pair of lights.
The scrutator chuckled. ‘How quickly they forget.’ Bending down, he whispered, ‘It’s your lover, Xervish Flydd, come to rescue you.’
‘How did you know –?’
‘Peate turned up with a story about you going off with Ullii into the forbidden section, so I came to find out why. We had just about given you up when Ullii hurtled out from a tunnel that isn’t even on the map, crying for us to save you from the clawers. So here we are.’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘Mancer’s secrets, crafter. Mancer’s secrets.’
Taking her arm, he helped her to the lift, which was not far at all. Within the hour, Irisis was tucked up in bed with a cool compress across her forehead and a steaming bowl of willow-bark tea on the bedside table.
The scrutator took the map, which was still crumpled in her hand, and unfolded it. ‘The seeker said something about good crystal. A big crystal.’
‘I’ve marked it on the map, with a red circle.’
‘Here?’ He held the map out.
‘That’s where Ullii sensed it, but down at an angle. Like this!’ She mimicked the gesture. ‘The ninth or tenth level.’
He frowned. ‘It had better not be lower than the ninth. We’ll get started in the morning.’
That being miner’s work, Irisis went back to her own, directing the twenty artisans and fifty prentices in the making of clanker controllers. Once a day Ullii was taken down to check that the miners were driving in the right direction. Irisis sometimes accompanied her. Working on the eighth level was perilous and slow. The miners were guarded by squads of soldiers with heavy crossbows, but they saw no further sign of the lyrinx.