He paced along the lines of clankers, keeping inside the envelope of the cloaker. What did Jal-Nish hope to achieve, bringing the army into country like this? The enemy could be anywhere. He must have some plan – his father always did -but Nish could not imagine what.
Nish saw few people, for the soldiers were in their tents sleeping, or trying to, while the sentries were well out from the camp. Flydd had worked the cloaker so that wisps of glamour clung to everyone as they moved. If the enemy came upon a sentry, even half a league from the camp, he would see just a foggy blur.
Reaching the end of the lines of clankers, Nish kept going.
Being a private person, he'd found the past days, surrounded by thousands of people day and night, especially confining. longed for a little solitude, even if only for a few minutes.
Pushing through the cloaker envelope, he felt a moment of unreality when everything inverted, another when he looked back and the entire army was gone. Enveloped in his own little wisp of cloaker, he walked across the few hundred spans of open grassland to the surrounding forest. It had already been checked for signs of the enemy but there had been none.
Just before he reached the edge, something fluttered overhead. It was just an owl, but Nish had a premonition of utter, bloody disaster. Hunching down against the hole of a tree, he tried to shrug it off. Surely it was just a fancy to do with meeting his father again. He'd thought he was free of Jal-Nish a long time ago – Nish remembered talking to Minis about it last spring, when Minis had been so admiring of him.
What a joke that now seemed. He was just as trapped as Minis, and Jal-Nish was less than an hour away, across the rugged ridges beyond the forest. Nish's guts churned. He looked back to the lines of clankers but saw not a glimmer of candlelight. The cloaker was still working, at least. He slipped into the forest, needing to walk, and soon realised that he must have passed through the inner line of sentries without being noticed.
The moon was a few days off full but the forest was dense here, the shadows deep beneath the trees. Nish had learned to move quietly of late. His feet made just the faintest crackle on fallen leaves. Hitting upon a winding path through the trees, probably a deer or bear trail, he ghosted along the edge where there was less danger of being seen.
On the other side of the patch of forest he emerged into an open area of short grass and grey rock, covered with an array of pinnacles roughly the size of termite mounds. Gleaming whitely in the moonlight, it looked like a field of standing stones, but why had they been assembled here, of all places? He scanned the sky; not a cloud. The night was absolutely still. Curious, Nish gathered the cloak about him and, keeping his head low, slid like a shadow across the grass.
Reaching the first pinnacle, he ducked behind it. It wasn't a standing stone at all, but a long vertical blade of limestone formed by the elements. Its top has been etched by rain into a series of steeples with fluted, razor-sharp edges. Nish wandered along the shadowed side, feeling the smooth rock with his fingers.
He had just passed around the edge when he heard the faint but distinctive creak of a crossbow being wound back. As Nish threw himself into the shadows, a bolt smashed right through the blade of stone above his head. He scampered the other way, using all the cover he could, then ran for his life. The guard must be jumpy, to fire without knowing what he was shooting at. The glamour still covered Nish but his shadow had given him away.
There was shouting behind him, and answers to left and right, but Nish did not call out his name. It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that he should not have left the camp. He would get a severe dressing down from Flydd and Troist if he revealed himself, to say nothing of the risk of being shot by an over-anxious sentry. Better to wait until the guards had settled down, then sneak back in. On second thought, Troist's well-drilled guards would stay alert all watch. He decided to circle around and approach the camp from the other side.
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.