Tetrarch

T WENTY-FIVE

Nish scanned the flame-shot darkness. A solitary figure ran along the wall but nowhere did he see a family group. He risked a shout. 'Colm! Oinan, Tinketil! Ketila! Fransi!'

No reply. Perhaps a lyrinx had circled around the palisade and got them. More likely they had dared wait no longer. He could not blame them. In this race, the stragglers would be eaten. He was sorry, though. They had risked their lives for him and he would have liked to thank them.

Taking up his mallet, Nish slid like a spectre into the darkness. Which way? In the field of war you could never tell. Even if you guessed right, an hour later it might become the wrong way.

He was skidding down the gully when something crashed through a thicket to his left. It was probably another refugee as miserable as himself, but Nish was taking no risks. He crouched down so that he would not show against the glowing skyline. Someone hurtled out of the bushes, straight for him. Nish tried to get out of the way and the man – it was a man, by the size – swung something at him. Nish thought it was a sword, and that he was going to lose his head.

Foolishly, he threw up his arm. A piece of wood snapped against it, just a brittle stick, luckily. Nish swung the mallet hard and low, into the fellow's midriff. He went down without a sound. Nish fled along the reedy gully until he smelt salt water. The Sea of Thurkad lay ahead.

To go right would take him in the direction of Nilkerrand, which was still burning, and the enemy. He turned left. The coastline curved west here and, as he reached the shore, Nish saw flames reflecting on the water. Such a pretty sight, from this distance.

As he continued on sand that squeaked underfoot, it began to grow light. Making out a low promontory, Nish broke into a trot. A flying lyrinx would easily spot him on the beach or in the dunes behind it.

He reached the promontory as the sun rose. The headland was layered sandstone, as grey as the water. A rock platform, weathered into rectangular blocks, surrounded it. Sullen waves crashed over the edge. Picking his way across, he came upon a band of oyster shells. His mouth watered. Nish pounded an oyster with the mallet and shell fragments flew everywhere, one catching him in the corner of the eye.

The oyster was just a smear on the rock. Nish found a pebble in one of the tidal gutters and attacked another shell, more carefully. He managed to crack it in half and picked out the oyster. It was not very big, nor did it look appetising, but he was too hungry to care.

He ate about thirty of the little creatures, only stopping because they were salty and he had nothing to drink. Nish climbed the sandstone stack at the back of the promontory to look for a stream.

From the top he could see the towers of Nilkerrand, still burning. The westerly wind drifted a greasy brown plume across the landscape. Smoke trailed upwards from several parts of the refugee camp and lyrinx circled in the air over it.

To the south a long curving beach extended as far as he could see. Behind the beach were dunefields and salt marsh, country difficult to cross, easy to get lost in. There were hundreds of boats on the water, from majestic barges to little dinghies with scraps of sail. All were heading away from Nilkerrand, well out to sea where the lyrinx would not dare attack. He waved in the faint hope that one might come to his aid. None did.

To the east Nish saw a road crowded with refugees. It offered the safety of numbers and the possibility of begging for food. Further on, a meandering line of trees appeared to mark a creek. Nish set off in that direction. Two hours later he was sitting in the shrubbery next to the road, thirstier than ever, watching the refugees go by. He had not reached the creek. His leg throbbed after the long walk through the dunes and he did not think he could go much further.

The refugees comprised every kind of humanity imaginable. Passing him now was a fat merchant or lawyer, staggering under bags of silver plate and precious metal chains. His fine clothes were tattered and soot-stained; he was drenched in sweat and scarlet of face. He would not last long, nor his equally plump and beringed wife.

Behind them trudged a mother and four young children, the youngest a babe-in-arms. They were dressed in peasant's drab, coarse brown cloth that hung in baggy folds. They would not last long either. Then Nish saw the knife in the woman's belt, the fixed look in her eye, and was not so sure. He would not want to get between her and her cubs.

A farmer's cart followed, a rickety affair with a wheel that squealed at the top of every rotation. The mournful nag looked as if it wanted to lie down and never get up again. An aged woman and her equally weathered man sat on top.

The dismal procession continued. Nish was looking for someone who had been in authority and was still strong and capable. He planned to ingratiate himself, which was not going to be easy – people would be more suspicious than ever. Failing that, after his accidental success with Colm he would try to find a child to befriend, in order to get into the good graces of the parents.

Hours went by. He kept watch for Colm and his family but did not see them. Nish saw few people who looked more competent than himself. However, around midday his eye was caught by two girls, about twelve years old, coming up the road arm-in-arm. They looked to be identical twins. Both had the same coppery-brown wavy hair, the same dark eyes and sturdy figure. Each was dressed in plain green blouse and pants, their faces shielded by broad-brimmed hats. Their little packs were identical. Superficially they could have been any children on the road, but their clothing was of fine weave and well cut. But they were alone, and that was no good to him. No point, if they had already lost their parents.

One of the girls was limping. She sat down on a stone at the edge of the road, not far away. Taking off her boot and sock, she inspected a blistered heel.

'I don't think I can go much further, Meriwen,' she said. 'My foot really hurts.'

'Remember what father said. If we were separated we must keep going, and never stop, until we get to Kundizand. He will find us there.'

'My foot is killing me.'

'It's not far, Liliwen.'

'It is! It'll take us all day and half the night.'

'The sooner we start the quicker we'll get there.'

'You sound just like Mother,' said Liliwen crossly.

Another group of refugees, wearing straw hats and labourer's drab, passed by. No one gave the twins a passing glance. The world was full of lost children.

'They'll be really angry if they can't find us. You know Father has to go back to the army tomorrow.'

'If there is an army,' Liliwen muttered.

'Of course there's an army! There will always be one.'

'The beasts might have eaten Mother and Father,' said Liliwen, clearly the pessimist of the pair.

'Stop it!' shouted Meriwen. 'Don't talk like that!'

Nish, desperately thirsty and in considerable pain, could see no better prospect. Cutting through the scrub, he came out behind the girls, who were still arguing as he limped by. The wound in his leg was agonising. He walked on a dozen steps, then perched on a boulder. Pulling his trouser leg up, he began unwrapping the bandages.

The rents in his calf muscle had been healing, but one had torn open with the night's exertions and was trickling blood. The tooth marks were red, swollen and filled with pus.

The twins were walking towards him. As they came by, Nish probed the wound, groaned and looked up. 'I don't suppose you've got any ointment, have you?'

The first girl stopped. They weren't absolutely identical. Liliwen had thicker eyebrows than Meriwen, a rounder face, and the beginnings of a bosom. 'I'm sorry,' said Liliwen. 'Mother has some but she's… not here.'

'Is she coming?' said Nish, looking down the road. 'My leg is killing me.'

'Liliwen!' hissed Meriwen, standing some distance away. 'We're not allowed to talk to strangers.'

'That's very wise,' said Nish, knowing that he must look a fright. 'There are all sorts of wicked people on the road. My name is Cryl-Nish Hlar, but everyone calls me Nish. Actually, I hate that name,' he said confidentially, 'but it doesn't seem to make any difference.' He held out his hand.

Liliwen took it in a way that suggested she had never shaken hands before. 'I'm Liliwen. This is my sister, Meriwen.'

'Hello, Meriwen,' said Nish.

'Hello,' she said grudgingly, keeping well away. 'You sound strange.'

'I come from the other side of the world. I'm not very good at your language.'

'Come on, Liliwen.'

Nish rose and limped beside Liliwen. Meriwen kept to the other side of the road.

'Do you live in Nilkerrand?' Nish asked.

'Yes.' Liliwen looked up at him. 'At least -' She suppressed a sob.

'What happened?'

'The enemy came, those horrible flying beasts. Everything was on fire. Our lovely house was burnt, and all my toys, and…' she began to sob, 'poor Mixy.'

'Who was Mixy?' he asked gently.

'Her old tomcat,' said Meriwen, still uncomfortable with him.

'I'm very sorry. I lost my cat too, when I was a kid, about as old as you.'

Liliwen wiped her eyes. 'What happened to him?'

'Her,' said Nish. 'Finn was her name. A cart ran her over in the street. I cried for days.'

'Did you?' Meriwen thawed a little.

'I loved my old Finn,' said Nish. 'She used to sleep on the end of my bed at night. She kept my feet warm in winter. I can still hear her purring sometimes, when it's dark.'

They continued along the road. 'What's the matter with your leg?' asked Meriwen.

'I was attacked by a nylatl,' said Nish. He showed them the wounds. 'It nearly killed me.'

'What's a nylatl?'

He explained, and though it was a bright day, both cast a glance at the undergrowth and moved closer to him.

'Have you lost your parents?' Nish asked a while later.

'They're going to meet us down the road,' Meriwen said quickly.

'They're not!' Liliwen wailed. 'We've lost them and we'll never see them again.'

'How did you become separated?'

'We were waiting outside the front gate,' said Liliwen. 'Mother and Father were trying to get something from the house. All these people came running down the road, screaming. Millions!' she said hyperbolically. 'We got carried along with them and when we went back, our house was on fire. Mother and Father were gone.'

'It burned to the ground,' said Meriwen. 'We waited for ages but they didn't come back. Then people started screaming and running away, so we ran too.'

'Your parents are probably up ahead,' said Nish. 'Waiting for you.'

'I hope so,' Liliwen said doubtfully.

This was developing the wrong way. He could not afford to take on someone else's problems. Two girls, alone on the road with no one to look after them, did not bear thinking about. He told himself that this situation must have been repeated countless times in the war, but it made no difference. He knew the girls now and could not abandon them.

The day grew hot, and Nish's leg more painful with every step. Liliwen was struggling too. They came to a rivulet trickling across the road, its reeds trampled into mud. Nish eyed the brown water, swallowing raspily. If he drank here it would probably make him sick.

The girls stood by. 'I can't go any further.' Liliwen wiped away tears of pain.

Her sister pointed upstream to where a pair of umbrella-shaped trees leaned towards each other. 'It'll be cool in the shade.'

'I don't think it's a good idea to stop yet,' said Nish. 'The enemy -'

'We don't need your help,' said Meriwen, eyes flashing.

'Yes, we do. Don't be silly, sis.'

The shade looked beautifully cool, and Nish's throat was as dry as the soles of his boots, so he accompanied them up the wooded stream, gripping his mallet. It was a good place for an ambush. There were all kinds of vermin on the road, desperate for whatever they could get.

His stomach began to bubble and churn. The stream was about a long leap across, and here flowing clear and clean. The girls cooled their feet in the running water. Nish drank until he was bursting, then looked for fruit, nuts or anything else edible. He found nothing; it was too early in the season. Judging by the trails twisting through the scrub, plenty of game came to drink, though he doubted if anything would be slow enough for him to thump with the mallet.

'I don't suppose you've got flint and tinder in your pack?' he said to Meriwen.

'Of course! Do you want to make a fire?'

'I need to boil water and bathe my wounds.'

She handed him a flintstone, a small packet of tinder and a little cooking pot with a wire handle. Nish gathered dry wood and soon had a fire going. It gave off just the faintest trail of blue smoke. He heated water, cleaned his wounds, then poked the dirty bandages under the boiling water. After a few minutes he fished them out with a stick and, when they were cool enough, wrapped the wounds again.

His stomach was now churning like a milk separator. Those wretched oysters! Nish hobbled into the scrub to relieve himself. It took a long while, and he had just turned back when he heard a muffled cry.

The girls! Why had he gone so far from the fire? He ran a few steps before realising that he was heading in the wrong direction. Everything looked the same in this scrub. Walking in a circle until he found his footmarks, he followed them back. When he finally burst into the clearing by the rivulet, the girls were gone.

If he lost them, Meriwen and Liliwen were as good as dead. Their abductors would take them away from the crowded road. Which way? They might have gone up the stream, or off into the scrub. He hunted for tracks.

There were tracks everywhere. Hundreds of refugees had filled their water bottles here. Nish hobbled back and forth, feeling panicky. Why hadn't he been more careful? He'd had a bad feeling about this place from the beginning.

Tracks ran into the scrub here and there, though none were the right size. Wading the stream, he searched the other side and came upon several sets of marks leading upstream. Among them he saw a small bootprint. Nish limped that way.

There could have been two abductors, or even three. Bad odds, especially if they were armed. One man with a sword would make short work of his mallet. Hopefully they would not take the children too far, or Nish's injured leg would beat him. He followed the tracks for a few hundred paces by the water, came into a clearing and lost them on hard ground.

Now what? Nish stopped, cupping his ear. Was that a groan? No, just the wind rubbing two tree trunks together. Had they gone back across the stream? He could see no tracks there. He took the risk and kept going. Despair crept over him. If he lost them he would never be able to forgive himself.

There – a footprint in the soft mud of a dried-up pool. It belonged to one of the girls, and the dry grass was crushed beside it. He followed stealthily and, anxious minutes later, caught a flash up ahead, perhaps the sun reflecting off a pack buckle. Creeping forward, he peered between the trees.

There were two of them: big, unshaven ruffians in filthy clothes. Each had hold of a struggling girl but, as Nish watched, the taller of the men struck Meriwen across the face and threw her down on the grass. Nish had a moment of panic, a failure of nerve. There was no way he could attack them both. He closed his eyes, feeling sick. Then Meriwen screamed.

He hurled himself through the trees, ignoring the agony in his leg, and swung wildly at the man who held Liliwen. His leg folded up and the blow missed. Thrusting Liliwen to one side, the man lashed out.

The blow caught Nish on the side of the head, making his skull ring. He staggered backwards. The man came after him, arms flailing. Nish did not have the strength to lift the mallet above his head. All he could do, as the bearish man lunged, was to swing it up, underarm.

The amateurish attack took the man by surprise and the heavy, iron-bound mallet caught him fair under the chin. His head snapped back so hard that his feet lifted off the ground. He fell, legs thrashing.

The other fellow flailed at Nish with a cudgel, which caught him on the elbow. The mallet went flying and Nish's whole arm began to go numb. The backswing crashed against his ribs. The third blow was aimed at his head.

Nish ducked but the cudgel clipped the top of his skull, knocking him to his knees. His vision blurred; he could hardly see. His hand, scratching on the ground, found a pebble. Nish hurled it at the ruffian's face. It missed.

The man kicked Nish's legs from under him. Nish went sprawling. The man lunged. Hands big enough to throttle a steer went around his throat. The fellow gave out a horrible, black-toothed grin and squeezed.