There were cries of panic, shouting and an occasional scream, as if people thought the lyrinx were inside the palace. Shortly Xervish Flydd appeared at the end door, pulling a robe around his gristly frame.
‘Scrutator, surr?’ said Tiaan.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ he snapped.
‘Delayed,’ she lied. ‘We know where the enemy are, surr. They’re coming under a concealment of surpassing power, down through the forest on the north-eastern side of Booreah Ngurle.’ She partly unrolled her main map. ‘Here, surr. Their fliers could attack as early as tomorrow, and the whole army could enter northern Borgistry within two days.’
‘Attacking from the north,’ he breathed. ‘I never would have expected that. How can you be sure?’
Malien came hobbling up. ‘There’s so many of them that they’ve drained all the fields in a huge area, about ten leagues square, down to pinpricks.’
‘How do you know they haven’t put in node-drainers, to fool us?’ said Flydd.
‘Why would we check the fields in such a remote place?’
‘Come down to the war room. We’ll take a look at the big maps. I hope you’re right, Tiaan. If I direct our forces north, and they strike somewhere else …’
Two days after leaving Lybing, Nish was working in the command tent at Clew’s Top when Troist’s farspeaker gave forth a hollow tapping, like the flicking of a fingernail against a blown egg. He looked up. Troist was not there.
Nish did not know how to use a farspeaker, or even if he was capable of doing so. Putting his head through the flaps of the tent he bawled, ‘General Troist?’
A soldier standing a few paces away grinned and said, ‘He’s gone to the privy. He’ll be a while. The general suffers from a flux –’
‘Thank you, soldier!’
Nish ran to the farspeaker, which was still tapping, though more loudly. If it was already set, maybe all he had to do was talk. He tapped back. The farspeaker gave out a squelching noise, then a voice rumbled forth. It did not come from the farspeaker, rather from the air above it, and had an echoing, unearthly quality that made it hard to identify.
‘Troist? Is that you?’
‘Scrutator? It’s Nish. Troist is out at the bogs.’
‘Run and get him. We’ve found the enemy and they’re only days away.’
A spasm twisted Nish’s entrails. The moment had finally come. ‘Where?’ he cried.
‘From the north, east of Booreah Ngurle, if Tiaan is right.’
‘I’ll get Troist right away, surr.’
Nish ran down to the privies and yelled through the wall. ‘General Troist. Flydd is on the farspeaker. It’s urgent.’ He didn’t want to say more, since there could be a dozen men in the privies at any time and morale could easily be damaged.
‘I’m coming.’ Troist appeared after a short delay, holding his stomach.
Over the farspeaker, Flydd repeated what he had told Nish.
‘What are your orders, surr?’ said Troist. ‘What if Tiaan is wrong?’
‘Then we’re in as much trouble as if she’s right and we do nothing. Bring your army north to Ossury. How soon can you be there?’
‘My main force has only just got here from Strebbit, in their clankers,’ said Troist without consulting the map. ‘I’ll bring them north without delay, leaving the rest here. I can’t leave this place undefended. On good roads, going night and day, we should be able to reach Ossury in two and a half days, as long as we don’t have too many breakdowns. And as long as the fields last. There have been a few failures around here lately. How about there?’
‘The same,’ said Flydd. ‘We haven’t lost a node yet but the fields grow more unreliable by the day. Take the usual precautions and spread your clankers out. We can’t afford another loss like Hannigor. Goodbye.’
‘No surr,’ said Troist. ‘We cannot.’
‘What was Hannigor?’ said Nish.
‘It’s a village down south, between Saludith and Thuxgate. Fifty-four clankers were travelling close together at full speed, coming to the aid of a smaller force that had been ambushed by the enemy last autumn. They must have taken more from the field than could be borne. A sphere of light formed around them, collapsed, and they vanished. Even the ground they were travelling over was gone, annihilated down to bare rock.’
‘I heard a similar tale back at the manufactory. Do you think we’re in danger now, just travelling in a convoy of clankers?’
‘I don’t know, lad,’ said Troist. ‘Fields have never been perfectly reliable, but lately it’s become worse. Some mancers think we’re drawing on them beyond their capacity, but what can we do? Without the Art we would already have lost the war.’
‘And yet, each time we make a new advance, they counter it with one of their own that also uses power. What will it be next?’
‘I don’t dare think.’
Within two hours camp had been broken and they were heading north up the Great North Road as fast as the clankers would go. Every machine was packed with food and supplies, and most towed sleds or carts, piled high. More soldiers sat on the shooter’s platforms or clung to the sides. Troist had left behind two thousand soldiers and a token force of eighty clankers to help protect them. The goodbyes were sombre. Whether the enemy appeared in the north or the south, everyone knew that they were unlikely to see their friends again.
They were plagued by breakdowns and field failures on the way north, and by the end of the second day of travel were half a day behind schedule. They bypassed Lybing on the west and continued. Troist was in and out of the jolting clanker, either urging his operators and artificers on, or darting behind a bush or hedge to relieve himself. He drank flagons of a thick green liquid with an offensive odour, trying to quell his troublesome innards, but to little effect. The race had taken three and a half days, and morning had broken, before they came in sight of the towers of Ossury, the northernmost town in Borgistry.
‘I don’t see any sign of fighting,’ said Nish to Troist as they climbed out the rear hatch of the clanker and stretched their cramped muscles.
‘I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.’
An air-floater hung in the sky above the town. As they turned off the road towards a river, to make camp, a thapter screamed overhead. Judging by the exuberant swoops and rolls, Chissmoul was at the controller. Nish smiled, imagining the joy of his shy protégée.
‘How far away were the enemy when Tiaan sighted them?’ Nish asked.
‘The scrutator didn’t say.’
‘We’ll soon know. That looks like him now.’
A small man came cantering through the gates on a tall white horse. It seemed incongruous, after months of travel by air. They went to meet him.
‘Good day, Scrutator Flydd,’ said Troist. ‘What can you tell us?’
‘We believe they’re quite near,’ said Flydd, without so much as a greeting or a glance at Nish. ‘The depressed fields were no more than a day’s march away last night.’
‘What about now?’ said Troist.
‘I don’t know. I’m keeping Tiaan away, in case we alert them and they attack somewhere else.’
‘So we don’t know if they’re coming this way or not?’
‘Sadly no.’
‘Any news from the pig sentries?’ Nish said. ‘Not a sausage, I suppose.’
‘Very funny!’ Flydd said coldly. ‘We’ll just have to pray that Tiaan is right.’
‘If she’s not …’ Troist began.
‘We’ve been through that already,’ Flydd snapped.
They spent a long and anxious night, during which a hundred messengers must have come in and out of the command tent. No one knew what was going on. Nish retired at midnight but his tent was next to the command tent and he couldn’t sleep. Every minute he expected to hear the cry, ‘To battle!’
When a call finally came, it was something of an anticlimax. Nish stamped his feet into his boots and ran next door. ‘What is it? Are we under attack?’