Alchymist

The lyrinx was slow to move. The blow must have been accidental. He did not give it the chance for another, but scuttled by it on hands and knees, came to his feet and ran.

Nish sprinted across the platform of white limestone and reached the cliff edge. Where was the precipitous way down? He ran back and forth. The cracking grew louder. Ah, there! As he gained the path, Nish looked back.

The moon, just tipping the western horizon, shone across the field of stone, illuminating a hundred thousand spikes, spires, pinnacles and blades of limestone. It was beautiful, for the tips and edges were as translucent as milk. In many of them he could see the bones of the stone-formed creatures.

A single clap of thunder reverberated across the valley, and before his eyes the spires began to burst open in waves that spread from one end of the pinnacle field to the other. Lyrinx thrust their heads high, moving as sluggishly as chickens just hatched from eggs. The moonlight caught their eyes, dozens of them, hundreds, thousands upon thousands, and still they emerged, stone into flesh.

The first lyrinx lifted, flapping ponderously, evidently still weighed down by the spell. Nish felt an internal sucking, which his charged senses knew was due to the creatures draw-on the field to keep them aloft. Within a minute, dozens were lurching into the sky.

'Soldiers, wake! Nish roared, bolting down the perilous goat track, screaming so loudly that it tore at the flesh of his throat. He gave no further thought to Jal-Nish. 'Wake, wake!

Ambush! The enemy are upon us. The lyrinx are coming down from the heights. Soldiers, wake. Xabbier, Xabbier!'

Nish never knew how he got down, and later, looking at the cliff in daylight, could not believe that he had. The previous time it had taken nearly an hour; this journey he completed in a scant ten minutes, leaping off boulders, skidding down loose gravel in miniature landslides, scarcely looking where he put his feet, giving his fate up to instinct. And, perhaps because his senses had been so enhanced by the tears, he had made it unscathed, apart from a badly wrenched knee where a stone rolled underfoot when he was nearly down.

He was still roaring hysterically when he reached the bottom. The camp was alive, the highly disciplined soldiers running to their formations, the watch-fires stirred to blazing brilliance. The great war machine had been alerted just in time and was grinding into battle position.

'Soldiers! Wake!' Nish kept shouting long after there was any necessity for it. 'Xabbier! Lieutenant Xabbier!'

A soldier caught him by the arm. 'Come this way please, surr.'

He ran, pulling Nish after him. Nish's mind was ablaze with that image of the enemy streaming into the sky. He could still see the skeletons through their flesh.

The soldier stopped by a blazing pyre. Xabbier stood there, tall and broad as a door, rapping out orders. He sent his troops off and turned to Nish.

'Cryl-Nish, that was you brought the alarm?'

'Yes,' Nish said hoarsely. It felt as though he'd screamed his throat out.

Xabbier took Nish's two hands in his, squeezing hard. 'Never was a warning more welcome.' He looked up at the sky, now full of wheeling lyrinx, touched by the setting moon.

Nish tried to estimate the number. More than ten thousand, surely, and still they cracked out of the pinnacles. There could be twenty thousand of them, even thirty. Not all would be fliers, of course, but those who weren't could come down the cliffs more quickly than he had Cold fear dripped down Xish's back. And if there were more on the other side of the valley…

'We'll talk afterwards,' said Xabbier. 'If there is one! Are you armed, Cryl-Nish?'

'No, I didn't think to bring a weapon. Stupid, isn't it?'

Xabbier sprang through the rear hatch of a clanker and tossed out a metal helm, a set of chest and back armour made of hardened leather, and a long dagger in a sheath. Nish buckled the helm under his chin – it fitted well enough. Taking off the forgotten skin of beer, he put the armour over his shoulders, settling it in place. It was made for a bigger man than he, but protected his body, shoulders and upper arms without encumbering him too greatly.

The lieutenant passed Nish a short, dark sword. 'This has a virtue set on the blade and may even penetrate the'armour of a lyrinx, if you strike a lucky blow.'

Nish buckled it on. 'I'm not much of a hand with a sword, Xabbier, but I can shoot a crossbow well enough.'

'I've none in my squad, unfortunately. Ready?'

Nish took a hefty swig from the skin of beer. It no longer tasted sour; it was just what the situation required. He downed half and held it out to Xabbier.

The lieutenant shook his head, then said, 'Why not? It'll probably be my last.' He squeezed a stream into his mouth, grimacing at the taste. 'Ugh! I hope that's not my last memory of beer. Bring it. Fighting lyrinx is thirsty work.' He looked up at the sky. 'How many are they?'

'Ten thousand, at least,' Nish replied. The wheeling creatures now darkened the sky. 'Maybe twenty or thirty, counting the ones climbing down the cliffs.'

'So many? Why didn't they attack head-on?'

'Perhaps they're afraid Jal-Nish has a secret weapon. Or they've some weakness we don't know about.'

'I hope so. Come this way.' xabbier's position was high enough for the fires to outline the shape of the surrounding valley and reflect off the screams. The camp lay at the upper part of the valley, which was a tilted bowl about a league across, mostly pasture land with patches of trees here and there. A pair of streams divided the width of the valley into thirds, though the camp lay in the southern third. Each stream was ten or fifteen paces across and, though not deep, was fast enough to cause trouble for a man weighed down with armour and weapons. The jagged escarpments to east, south and north formed the steep sides of the bowl, the tilted western side the valley entrance. The rocky neck midway down the valley could not be seen in the dark. They might escape that way if the enemy failed to defend it, though that seemed unlikely.

The lieutenant led Nish to the troop he commanded, called out his name and gave final orders. The soldiers assumed defensive positions behind their clankers.

'Who the blazes picked this place?' said Nish. 'If the lyrirrx come up the valley, as surely they must, we'll be trapped.'

'Your father chose it,' said Xabbier, 'against the advice of his generals.' 'Why?'

'He failed to communicate his strategy to his officers.' 'Where's my father's tent?' Nish had no idea where Xabbier had taken him on his previous visit.

'Further up, near the northern rim,' Xabbier pointed. 'Keep well away from there, and should we win-'

'Don't worry. I'll be out of here so fast that you'll see nothing but smoke.'

'Better keep away from the command tents, too. They're below your father's tent.'

'I forgot to mention,' said Nish, 'that Troist is coming around to hold the mouth of the valley open.'

'Who the hell is Troist?' Xabbier moved his sword in and out of its sheath.

'General Troist. He's come down from Almadin with an army of thirteen thousand soldiers and nine hundred clankers.'

Xabbier threw his arms around Nish and crushed him to his chest. 'Thirteen thousand, you say?'

'Yes,' said Nish. 'I served under him earlier in the year. He's a good man and a fine leader, though he's not fought a battle like this one.'

'None of us have, Cryl-Nish. How did he come to be nearby?' 'Flydd and I brought him here.'

'The scrutator is with him? Even better news. We must talk more of this later.' Xabbier called his messengers, a pair of tall soldiers who looked like twins. 'Run to the command tents. General Troist of Almadin is coming to our relief with thirteen thousand, and nine hundred clankers. He'll try to hold the valley neck. How long will they be, Cryl-Nish?'