Alchymist (40 page)

He
turned, frowning, to see an air lens form all around the fleet. The whole camp
seemed to rise off the ground, and then the ground with it, as if the light had
been bent upwards. A mirrored wall appeared, there came a shrill whistle,
rising to a whip crack, Nish blinked and the fleet was gone. The plain seemed
to be empty but for the anthills and the gently waving grass.

He
paced back, a hollow core of fear in his belly. The army could not have
vanished just like that, spell or no. But everyone had heard stories about
squadrons of clankers overloading a node and disappearing into nothingness.
Could Flydd and Nutrid — ridiculous name! — have taken too much from the node?
From a hundred paces he could see nothing but grass and the depressions where
the clankers had stood. They were simply gone. He raced back. Fifty paces away
the air began to shimmer and he ran right over Flydd, who was lying flat on his
back in the grass, observing the effectiveness of the cloaker. As Nish sprawled
on the ground, looking up, the fleet appeared out of nowhere.

'I
knew we could do it,' Flydd said cheerfully. 'Now we'll give the enemy
something to put in their dispatches.'

It
was mid-afternoon and they were going slowly over rough ground, in open forest
that ran most of the way to their destination. After much tinkering the cloaker
was working well, though Flydd was concerned about its massive drain on the field,
not to mention Nutrid's ability to maintain the spell while Flydd was
recuperating. The cloaker required constant attention and maintenance, and was
a strain on everyone who lay within its umbrella, especially the clanker
operators and Flydd himself. He was far from recovered and, after an hour
supporting the cloaker spell, had to lie down for four hours.

The
inside of the clanker was dark but for a conjured ghost light at Flydd's right
shoulder. He was deep in a small, thick volume bound in maroon calf, its title
inlaid in platinum leaf.

'What's
that you're reading?' asked Nish. 'Yet another tome on the Secret Art?'

Over
the past days, able to walk only with great discomfort, Flydd had gone through
every volume in Nutrid's small library. He was in a fine humour, now that the
spell was working.

Wordlessly,
the scrutator lifted the volume. The Great Tales, 23: The Tale of the Mirror.
No chronicler's name was listed.

'Reading
a story!' Nish said with mock sarcasm. 'You really are relaxed.'

'Every
human should know the Great Tales,' Flydd said pompously. 'They are the very
foundation of the Histories.'

'You're
old enough to be in them!'

'Choose
your words with care, Nish,' growled the scrutator. 'I'm no older than I look.'

'Two
hundred and fifty?' Nish ducked out of the way as Flydd swatted at him.

'I'm
sixty-four. A good, round age. An important number too, if you care for such
things.'

'Only
sixty-four?' Nish said seriously. 'I thought you mancers could extend your life
forever.'

'This
one has been hard enough; don't inflict another on me.'

'But
didn't some of the great mancers live for a thousand years?' Nish bit his
tongue, in case Flydd took offence. Perhaps he felt himself to be a great
mancer.

Flydd
chuckled at Nish's embarrassment Only two, to my knowledge. Extending one 's
life is a hazardous process, and more mancers have died in the attempt than
have survived it.

Mendark,
the long-time magister of Thurkad did it many times but he was a very great
mancer, the like of whom we will not see again. And in the end he died, as we
all must.

Yggur
was also long lived, but in his case it was natural longevity: no one knows
why. All those who extended their lives, male or female, were motivated by
greed. They wanted what only the other human species — Aachim, Faellem and
Charon — had a right to. I've many failings, Nish, but greed isn't one of
them.' He pointedly took up his book.

'What
part are you up to?'

Flydd
sighed, but laid the book aside. 'I was reading the final section of the tale,
where Rulke the Charon opened a gate between the worlds and tried to bring the
remnant of his people to Santhenar.'

'I ..,
don't recall that,' said Nish.

'I
thought you knew the Great Tales well?' Flydd's continuous eyebrow formed a
knot in the middle of his forehead.

'I
thought I did.'

'Well,
to cut this story to its basics, just a hundred Charon survived the void and
the taking of Aachan, many thousands of years ago. The Hundred, they were
called, but for some reason they could not reproduce on that world. It seemed
as though they would live forever, but theirs was an increasingly bitter,
lonely existence, as one by one they became infertile. The Charon were on a
one-way road to extinction.

'To
save them, Rulke brought the handful of fertile ones through the gate to
Santhenar. But Faelamor, the leader of the Faellem, who had always feared the
Charon, opened a gate into the void and brought forth several thranx,
intelligent winged creatures akin to lyrinx ... I think the lyrinx may have
flesh-formed themselves to resemble thranx, actually.' He reflected on that for
a moment, before continuing. 'While Rulke struggled with Faelamor's illusions
the thranx slew the Charon, every fertile one. From that moment, Rulke's species
was doomed. Noble Rulke was killed soon after, and the remaimder of the Hundred
went back to the void to die.' 'I'm surprised you don't know that part of the
story,' Flydd concluded. 'It is, to my mind, the greatest tragedy in all the
Histories, and the most poignant tale. Not even the fall of Tar Gaarn can
compare to it.'

I've
heard many of the tales told, though not by a master chronicler or teller.'

'There
aren't many left, since the College of the Histories at Chanthed was sacked by
the lyrinx. Most of the masters and students were eaten, and deservedly so, for
their scandalous lack of talent.' He smiled — a joke! Flydd was almost back to
his normal, crotchety self. 'I prefer to read the Tales as set down by the
masters of old. They're closer to the truth—' He broke off, as if censoring a
thought.

I didn't
know there was a College of the Histories,' said Nish.

Flydd
raised the left side of that famous eyebrow. 'What did they teach you, lad? The
college was there for thousands of years. Ah, but it was sacked before you were
born — the beginning of the end for all Meldorin. After that it was only a
matter of time until the whole of Meldorin was lost, even ancient Thurkad. The
city fought bravely and long, a noble failure that might have made another
Great Tale, were there any master chroniclers to tell it.'

'But
there are master chroniclers,' said Nish. 'My mother studied under one for a
while.'

'Crass
amateurs compared to those of olden times, such as Llian of Chanthed, who made
the twenty-third Great Tale. This one!' Flydd lifted the book and began turning
the pages.

'Llian
the Liar!' cried Nish, recalling his school lessons. 'The biggest cheat in all
the Histories. His tale was a fraud. The scrutators had it rewritten a long
time ago. My father told me so . . .' He trailed off. 'What's the matter?'

'I
can't talk about what the scrutators may or may not have done, Nish. You know
that.'

You
said they were corrupt and you were going to brine them down.'

"And
I plan to, but I still can't betray my oath of secrecy ' But you told me about
the Num-'

Flydd
shoved a gnarled fist into Nish's mouth. 'Don't ever mention that name!'

'Why
not?'

I can't
think how I was indiscreet enough to tell you,' muttered Flydd. 'The infection
must have turned my wits. All I can say is, learn to think for yourself.

He
took up the book again. The pages turned steadily. Nish had a thousand
questions, but he did not suppose that Flydd would answer them. How had the
Council of Scrutators come to hold more power than the generals and the leaders
of nations? Why had they censored the Histories?

They
went without a break until just before sunset, when the leading clankers
stopped on the sloping top of a square hill. Higher hills could be seen in all
directions, clothed in forest.

The
rear hatch was jerked open. Troist stood there with a rolled map under one arm.
Climbing in, he spread it on the table in front of Flydd.

'My
scouts report that Jal-Nish's army is camped in the valley of Gumby Marth,
two-thirds of a league away across those rugged ridges to the north.' He
indicated the location on his map.

Nish's
stomach cramped at the thought of meeting his father again.

'That's
not all, is it, General?' said Flydd.

'The
scouts report that there's not a single lyrinx to be found, and no one has the
faintest idea where they've got to.'

'Maybe
they don't want to fight after all,' said Nish.

'I
smell a trap,' Flydd replied, bending over the map. 'It's rugged country
between here and there.'

'More
than rugged, the scouts tell me,' said Troist. 'It's impassable to clankers and
mounted men alike. Foot soldiers could struggle through, though the upper parts
of the valley are bounded by cliffs with few paths down, and none are safe.

'We
can't go that way. We'll have to march west, this way, for several leagues, to
find a way into the valley. We'll begin at first light, Scrutator. With luck we
should reach the army by this rime tomorrow.'

Let's
hope we're in time,' said Flydd. 'Make ready for war, General, then see
everyone gets a good night's rest. For some, maybe most of us, it could be our
last. Especially if. . .' 'What is it?' said Troist. 'You don't mean to tell me
..." 'I don't think we can maintain the cloaker much longer. And going
after a superior enemy without it will be suicide.'

When
the camp had been set up, the lines of sentries had gone to their watches and
all was cloaked and quiet, everyone turned gratefully to their tents. No one
could remember when they'd last had a full night's sleep. Soon the clearing
echoed to the gentle snores of thousands. Even Flydd was abed.

Nish
was not. His father was down in Gumby Marth at the head of the army, and Nish
had been brooding about him for weeks. Jal-Nish was the great obstacle in his
life and Nish was dreading meeting him again, as surely he would tomorrow.

It
was still hot in the clanker, and Flydd was snoring like a hog. Nish felt
claustrophobic and oppressed. An insomniac at the best of times, he soon gave
up hope of getting a wink of sleep, for his thoughts were racing. Putting a
cloak under his arm, he slipped out of the rear hatch. Walking helped him to
think and he had a lot of thinking to do. It was pleasantly cool outside though
it might grow chilly later on.

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.