‘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?’
Troist looked like death and Flydd was not much better. ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Flydd. ‘The enemy has attacked from the east, fifteen leagues south of here, and are driving directly for Lybing.’
‘The east?’ said Nish. ‘How did they get there?’
Flydd just shrugged.
‘How many of them?’
‘We won’t know until dawn. Hopefully it’s just a feint by an isolated band of fliers.’
The farspeaker belched like a cow and a deep voice exploded from it. ‘We’re under attack, surr!’
Flydd rapped on the globe. ‘Identify yourself, you fool. How the bloody hell am I supposed to know who you are?’
‘Sorry, surr,’ came back after a considerable pause. ‘It’s Captain Maks, of Troist’s detachment at Clew’s Top.’
‘The south as well!’ Troist knuckled his bristly cheeks. ‘I knew it was the wrong –’
‘You forget yourself, General,’ hissed Flydd, turning away from