Tetrarch (Well of Echoes) (48 page)

The whole camp knew of Nish’s fall from grace, and that any chance of an alliance with the Aachim had vanished. He ate alone. Nish had begun to have stomach cramps, so knotted was he inside. He had let Troist down, and everyone else. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut?

He went back to his old work, assisting with the development of tactics to use against the Aachim constructs, but Nish was conscious how little he knew of them. He did not even know what weapons they carried inside. But at least he had seen constructs in operation, and that was more than the other officers could say.

He realised that someone was talking to him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

‘If they attack, h-how can we c-c-combat them?’ The speaker was Lieutenant Prandie, one of the most junior officers, even younger than Nish.

‘Pits!’ said Nish. The idea had just popped into his head. ‘Constructs float hip-high above the ground and I don’t think they can go any higher. If we were fighting a pitched battle we could dig a series of pits across their path, cover them, and when the constructs fell in, they would not be able to get out.’

‘Neither would our clankers, should the battle move that way.’

‘But we would know they were there.’

‘A useful idea,’ said Troist, who had been standing up the back unnoticed, ‘but it’s not going to win the battle.’

The weather continued unrelentingly hot and dry. The green shoots soon withered and they had to move camp constantly, but still the horses lost condition. Troist was forever worrying about their supplies. The flour was full of red weevils, the casks of salt meat had a putrid tang, and they had not had fresh vegetables in a fortnight. Troist had recovered the fallen army’s war chest but money could not buy what was not available.

A bout of dysentery passed through the camp, leaving half the soldiers groaning in their hammocks with vomiting and bloody diarrhoea. Troist, a man who seemed to have constant trouble with his bowels, was among them. Nish was unaffected, perhaps because he had been ostracised by the rest of the camp. Everyone lived in fear of an attack that they would not be able to defend against.

It did not come, and as the days passed, he began to understand how the soldiers felt. Maybe battle, bloody though it would be,
would
be better than this waiting day after day, never knowing what the enemy was doing or even where they were.

In the second week after the failed embassy, clouds began to build up in the afternoon. Instead of being hot and dry it was hot and sticky. Storms threatened but never came. There were more fights than ever, but Troist now turned a blind eye to them. Nish understood that too – it was the only way they could let off steam. Sometimes he felt like punching his fellow officers for no other reason than the way they spoke, or walked, or ate.

This day it looked as if the storm was finally coming. At sunset, towering clouds hung in the south-west, and they were an ominous purply-green. Lightning flashed. Nish was bent over the chart table when he heard pounding hooves and one of the scouts skidded to a stop outside the command tent next door. He ran inside, then came out again. ‘Where’s General Troist?’

Nish hurried across. ‘What is it? Is there news?’

The scout made a rude gesture. ‘Not for your ears!’

Troist appeared from the direction of the latrines, hastily fastening his trousers. They went into the command tent. Nish tried to follow but the guards barred his way. Frustrated, he returned to his work, but shortly afterwards was called to the command tent, now empty apart from Troist. The flaps were closed and it was sweltering inside.

‘It’s war!’ said Troist. ‘The lyrinx are moving. They must have been waiting for the weather to change.’

Lightning flickered in the west. This was it.

‘I have another job for you,’ the general continued.

‘I’m surprised you still trust me, surr.’

‘It’s not a diplomatic mission,’ Troist said coolly.

‘What is it?’

‘My wife and daughters are still here. I should have sent them away long ago but … I could not bear to be parted from them. You are to take them east to safety.’

‘Won’t that be rather dangerous?’ Lest Troist think he was a coward, Nish added hastily, ‘For them, I meant.’

‘Not as dangerous as staying here. Will you do it?’

‘Of course, surr. I would be honoured. Where are we going?’

‘Yara will tell you, once you are gone. I’m not taking any risks.’

‘Risks, surr?’

‘Spies, traitors,’ Troist said impatiently. ‘The families of high officers are always targets in times like this.’

‘When do we go, surr?’

‘You’ve got fifteen minutes, or until the storm hits. Easier to keep it quiet that way.’

‘Am I going alone, surr?’

‘Mounce will accompany you. He won’t like it, but that’s the lot of a soldier. I can’t spare anyone else, nor even him. Get ready!’

It was the work of a few minutes to pack, toss his oilskin cloak over his arm and report back to Troist. ‘I’ll walk with you,’ the general said. ‘They’re waiting over by the horse yards.’

The camp had been darkened for the night, though they could see clearly enough, for lightning flashed continually. Nish’s skin prickled in the heat.

Troist embraced Yara, Meriwen and Liliwen. They all looked stoic now. Mounce loomed out of the darkness like a squat bear. ‘Storm’s almost on us, surr.’

‘Mount up!’ Troist said harshly. Yara clung to her man as he lifted her into the saddle. The girls went up onto the next horse, one from either side. In the gloom Nish could not tell which twin was which.

He climbed onto his own horse, the one he’d had on the previous mission, and checked his saddlebags, which Mounce had already packed. His sword was at his hip, a crossbow tied down behind him.

Troist passed him up a small packet. ‘Your papers, Cryl-Nish.’ Nish put them safely in an inside pocket and buttoned the flap. Another packet followed, rather heavier. ‘Coin for the journey.’

‘Thank you, surr. And afterwards, what would you have me do?’

‘If we survive, we’ll be long gone from here, I know not where. You’ll have to look out for yourself. Use what remains of the coin if you need to.’

Nish nodded. Lightning struck a tree on the creek, not a hundred paces away. The thunder was shattering. Horses whinnied.

Troist reached up his hand. Nish took it. ‘Don’t let me down, Cryl-Nish.’

‘I won’t, surr,’ he said hoarsely.

Mounce led the way. Yara followed, the twins after her, and Nish last. He looked back as they rounded the corner of the yards. A flash illuminated Troist, a forlorn figure standing with his hand still upraised. His family would probably never see him again.

The storm struck before they had crossed the creek. It was a kind of rain Nish had never felt before, fat stinging drops that were not cold at all. He was used to freezing rain that seeped through everything and made his bones ache. This was so deliciously mild that he caught the drops in his hands and rubbed them all over his face.

He was not so pleased when, a few minutes later, the downpour turned to pellets of hail, large enough to strike him painfully on the head and shoulders. The horses ahead were black silhouettes when the lightning flashed, completely invisible when it did not. Nish prayed that Mounce knew which way to go; he had not the faintest idea.

Lightning struck the trees behind him. Nish’s horse reared, screaming in terror. He clung desperately to the mane, expecting to be thrown, but its front legs struck the ground with a jarring thud and it bolted.

He pulled the reins with all his might but it made no difference. The terrified horse galloped into the darkness. The next time there was lightning he could not see anyone. Once again his life was running out of control.

Not this time
. Nish hauled the reins back savagely and to the right. The horse reared up, propped and tried to throw him. Letting go of the reins, Nish caught the saddle straps with both hands and hung on. The next heave lifted him in the air. He pulled himself down. ‘Stop it, you stupid nag!’ he roared. ‘There’s a bloody war on!’

He went one way, and then the other, but Nish did not fall. The horse was tiring rapidly. It stood still, and the next flash of lightning, closer than the other, only made it rear its head.

Taking up the reins, he gave the horse a pat on the flank, took his bearings and began to ride around in circles that extended away from the creek, each one larger than the previous. On the fifth of these he saw the three shadows, standing quietly, and rode up to them.

‘Perhaps we should rope together until the storm is over,’ he said to Mounce.

The storm went east; they headed north-east. Within half an hour it was just a mutter on the horizon. They did not hurry, since the ground was too stony for rapid riding in darkness. As dawn streaked the sky ahead, they approached another ribbon of trees. The plain looked exactly as it had for the past month: grey grass, brown stones, and as flat as a table.

‘Where are we heading?’ he said to Yara.

She sat her saddle upright as a post, though she must have been as weary as he was. She studied him for some time before answering. After his failure as an envoy Yara had barely spoken to Nish, and clearly she had misgivings about him now. With reason, if he was honest with himself.

‘A place in the Worm Wood,’ she said coldly.

How far is that?’ Geography was not one of Nish’s strengths.

‘The forest is a few days away, if we can ride uninterrupted.’ She glanced up at the sky, then back at him as if weighing him up. If a lyrinx spotted them and decided to attack, Nish could not save them.

‘I won’t fail you,’ Nish said, trying to reassure himself as much as her.

‘I believe you made that promise to Troist a while back.’

Yara held his gaze until he was forced to look away. She was terrified for her children and counted him as near useless. It was not a good moment.

They camped by a river, the most substantial one Nish had encountered in many days. It actually had banks, a higher set and a lower. They built a fire next to the higher bank, which was a head-high wall of yellow, pebbly earth. There was plenty of dry wood here, and ribbons of twisted bark that burned as bright as a candle, giving off little smoke.

The girls curled up on a blanket and slept. Nish could not – he had to prove himself to Yara and was determined to do so.

‘If you’re not going to sleep, surr, I’ll take a few hours,’ said Mounce.

‘Do that,’ said Nish. ‘I’ll keep watch.’

Yara rested against a tree, eyes going everywhere, a short sword at her left hand. Nish climbed the bank and looked around. Nothing moved on the flat plain. The other side of the river looked just the same. He walked back and forth, discovering a pair of ancient trees with patterns carved into their trunks. Growth swelled around the markings, partly obscuring them and obliterating any meaning, at least to Nish’s eyes.

Mounce relieved the interminable watch at midday and Nish took his turn on the blanket. They set off as the sun was going down, wading the river, which hardly came up to the horses’ bellies.

Twice, from his lookout high in a tree, Nish saw riders in the distance. He made sure that Mounce and the others stayed well hidden until the riders moved away. He expected thanks from Yara but got none.

In this way they travelled for three more days, toward a growing smudge on the eastern horizon. Yara barely spoke to Nish and double-checked everything he did. She did not trust him at all. Even the children were quiet.

Hilly country now lay ahead. On the fourth morning they were close enough to see that it was clad in forest.

‘Why is it forest there,’ Nish wondered, ‘and not in Almadin?’

‘Good, deep soil,’ said Mounce. ‘Not this stony muck.’ He kicked a pebble.

They rested for the morning and continued after lunch. There was an hour of daylight left by the time Nish, who was scouting ahead, reached the first of the trees. He rode back to confer with Yara about their route.

‘I wouldn’t call this forest,’ said Nish, eyeing the scattered copses.

‘There’s woodcutting here on the edge,’ said Yara. ‘You’ll see trees enough before we get to where we’re going. Shouldn’t you be up ahead, scouting out our path?’

That was unfair. ‘Which way?’ he snapped.

‘Don’t speak to me like that,
soldier
.’

A bitter retort was on Nish’s lips when he heard a familiar, disturbing whine.

‘What’s that?’ cried Yara, jerking her sword from its scabbard.

A construct emerged from the trees to the front of them. Another appeared behind.

‘If you’ve betrayed us, Nish, you’re dead!’

T
he soldiers held her arms. Irisis looked around frantically but the blank walls of manufactory and cistern offered no escape. Jal-Nish was going to mutilate her.

He slashed down. Irisis flinched; she could not help herself. The sword stopped, resting on her outstretched arm.

‘It’s not that easy, Irisis.’ Jal-Nish uttered a liquid chuckle, like vomit splashing in a bucket. ‘You haven’t suffered enough.’