Scrambling backwards, Nish frantically wound the crank, knowing he was not going to be ready in time. The lyrinx threw itself at him. He tried to get around the side of the wrecked catapult but there wasn't room.
Snap, right behind him. The lyrinx went down with a bolt in the throat. Xabbier, firing from underneath the broken timbers, had saved his life yet again. Nish helped him out and they heaved the quivering body off the side. Half the rearguard were across. Nish's clanker was racing for the ford now but they weren't going to make it. A formation of lyrinx, hundreds strong, were streaming along the river bank to cut them off.
Nish loaded his bow with the next-to-last bolt, and waited. He might as well make it count. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend – head to chest, really – but Nish felt Xabbier's equal in every respect.
The enemy were closing fast. He sought out a target, fired, felt in the basket for the last bolt, and waited. The lyrinx were also choosing their moment, determined to snatch one small victory from the afternoon's rout.
A trumpet call echoed across the river – a familiar call. Nish shaded his eyes, staring into the distance. Over the hill came a clanker, then another, then a dozen. From the first machine, a vast, twelve-legged monstrosity, fluttered a familiar pennant that brought tears to his eyes. It was Troist's army at last.
Hey!' he roared, knowing that they could not hear him but still having to yell out his joy anyway. 'Troist! Troist! Here!'
The clankers, hundreds of them now, altered course towards the ford. The leading machine fired its catapult. The ball soared across the river to land in the middle of the lyrinx with red carnage, and suddenly they'd had enough. The enemy dispersed in seconds, skin-changing to camouflage colours as they ran. It was over. The last of the rearguard was crossing the river. They'd done it.
'Go across, Operator,' Nish ordered wearily. He desperately wanted to lie down and never get up, but he had to be on his feet to the end, to give his report to General Troist and the scrutator.
His clanker ground its way into the river. The water rose higher and higher, the operator cursing softly as it crept up his chest. But the other clankers had made it and so would he.
Ragged bursts of cheering rose up from the soldiers bunched on the far side of the river as Nish's squadron splashed across, last of all, and again as the clanker pulled up before Troist's wedge of machines, water pouring out through its overlapping armour plates. The soldiers formed a great circle, twenty or thirty deep all around, and then they began to cheer and beat their swords against their shields. It became a ground-shaking chant: 'Cryl-Nish Hlar, Cryl-Nish Hlar!'
Nish climbed down and had a struggle to stay upright. He was shaking uncontrollably; his ankle would scarcely bear his weight and his wrenched knee throbbed. He bore twenty or thirty wounds and was purple and black with the dried blood of the enemy.
Xabbier by his side, each supporting the other, they made their way to the party that had come down from the first clanker. He recognised Troist, the scrutator, Tchlrrr and Lieutenant Prandie.
They stopped, several steps apart. Nish opened his mouth but nothing came out. The sound of chanting was deafening. If only Irisis were here to see it.
'I'm sorry to have come so late,' said Troist. 'When the field faded, it slowed us tremendously. Once the cloaker failed, we came under attack from the forest. We beat the enemy off, though it cost us dear. And then we came upon a stream too deep to cross and had to ford the river, which is why we're on the wrong side. I hope-' He scanned the battered remnant of the once great army, and a terrible sadness showed on his face. Is this all?'
'The damage was done in the night, surr' said Xabbier. 'Before you could have hoped to reach us.'
'Even so,' said Troist, 'it's a bitter day. But not as bitter as it could have been. We must recognise that.' The general raised his sword high. The chanting ceased.
Xabbier pulled his hat off. 'Lieutenants Xabbier Frou and Cryl-Nish Hlar, at your service, surr.' His other hand deftly whipped off Nish's battered cap. 'Lieutenant Hlar will give the report.' He thumped Nish on the back.
Nish swallowed. He could not think of anything to say, and his mouth was too dry for speech. Tchlrrr passed him a skin of water and Nish took a mouthful, which tasted of leather.
'I – I got through in time, surr' Nish said to Troist. 'Though I was lucky to make it. The enemy were already coming out of the stone as I entered the labyrinth. The army had a few minutes' warning – not enough, for there were near thirty thousand lyrinx. They went straight for the command tents and everyone there was killed.'
Everyone?' said Flydd, meaningfully. 'Scrutator Jal-Nish Hlar lured the enemy's strongest to them. He attacked with the.., with a special aspect of the Art, surr, if you take my meaning. The enemy was too strong.' Nish described the initial success of Jal-Nish's Art and, and, after it was countered by the great mancer-lyrinx, its disastrous failure.
'We'll talk privately about that later,' Flydd said in a low voice.
'Subsequently, everyone in the command area was slain, including my father. They.., ate him.' In the past day there had not been time to think about that, nor was there now.
'We fought them all night and all morning,' Nish went on. 'We did the best we could; better than you might expect with such numbers against us. We've slain twenty-five thousand lyrinx, surr, but the cost has been terrible – nearly thirty thousand of us. Nine or ten thousand survived to cross the river, but only six hundred clankers. There are survivors on this side too. I don't know how many. That's all, surr.'
'That's not all, General Troist, surr,' said Xabbier. 'Lieutenant Hlar rallied the troops a dozen times; he killed at least ten of the enemy with sword and bow, and no one knows how many with the javelard. While I was unconscious, and no other officer remained alive, he led our forces on a frontal attack against a superior force of lyrinx, and broke them, and that's not been done in the history of the war. Had it not been for Cryl-Nish Hlar, not a man of Jal-Nish's army would have survived.'
There was a long silence, then General Troist stepped forward. 'Well met, Cryl-Nish. I heard part of the tale from the vanguard of your army, before we came over the hill. You can give me your report later, after we've made a secure camp and attended to the needy. But for the moment, I wish to recognise what you've done today.'
He signalled behind him and an aide came forward, bearing a black sword with a silver hilt and a single white jewel in the pommel. Troist took the sword, balanced it on his palms and in the same movement went to one knee, holding it out before him.
'Cryl-Nish Hlar, take this sword in recognition of your valour, and as a token of your commission as a lieutenant in my army.'
Nish just stood there, staring dumbly at the beautiful weapon. 'I don't understand…'
'He's confirming your field commission, you bloody fool,' said the scrutator, standing one step behind the general. 'Take the damn thing. Wave it in the air or something.'
Nish went to one knee and took the sword, which was unusually heavy for its size. 'I don't know what words I'm supposed to say,' he said in a hoarse voice. 'Thank you for arriving in time. And for the honour, surr. I hope I prove worthy of it.'
The honour is mine,' said Troist. 'Were there more like you. Cryl-Nish, we would have won the war long ago. Rise up. Lieutenant Hlar. Salute your men.'
Nish stood, saluted the general in the correct manner, with sword in hand, then raised it high in the air and carved a salute, north and south, east and west, to the soldiers he'd fought beside all day. And to the ones who had not survived.
Letting out a roar that hurt his ears, they began to chant, 'Cryl-Nish Hlar! Cryl-Nish Hlar!' and beat their weapons on their shields, and did not stop until they had roared themselves hoarse.