After the sun came up, Leudast saw Captain Gundioc’s body. He sprawled in the snow with some of his own men and some redheads. Leudast sighed. Gundioc might well have made a good officer with some seasoning. He’d never get it now.
Seven
Wind whipped past Colonel Sabrino’s face as his dragon dove on a ley-line caravan coming up into Durrwangen from the south. He didn’t know whether the caravan was carrying Unkerlanter soldiers or horses and unicorns or simply sacks of barley and dried peas. He didn’t much care, either. Whatever it was carrying would help King Swemmel’s men inside Durrwangen—if it got there.
As the dragon stooped like a striking falcon, the caravan swelled from a worm on the ground to a toy to its real size with astonishing speed. “Mezentio!” Sabrino shouted, loosing the eggs slung under his mount’s belly. Then he whacked the dragon with his goad to make it pull up. If he hadn’t, the stupid thing might have flown itself straight into the ground.
Without the weight of the eggs, it gained height more readily. Behind it, twin flashes of light marked bursts of sorcerous energy. Sabrino looked back over his shoulder. He whooped with glee. He’d knocked the caravan right off the ley line. Whatever it was carrying wouldn’t get to Durrwangen any time soon. Flames leaped up from a shattered caravan car. Sabrino whooped again. Some of what that caravan was carrying wouldn’t get to Durrwangen at all.
Captain Domiziano’s image appeared in the crystal Sabrino carried. “Nicely struck, Colonel!” he cried.
Sabrino bowed in his harness. “I thank you.” He looked around. “Now let’s see what else we can do to make King Swemmel’s boys love us.”
No immediately obvious answer sprang to mind. A nice pillar of smoke was rising from the wrecked ley-line caravan now. More smoke, much more, rose from Durrwangen itself. Algarvian egg-tossers and dragons had been pounding the city ever since the late-winter counterattacks pushed this far south. Sabrino hoped his countrymen would be able to break into Durrwangen before the spring thaw glued everything in place for a month or a month and a half. If they didn’t, the Unkerlanters would have all that time to fortify the town, and then it would be twice as expensive to take … if it could be done at all.
That wasn’t anything about which he could do much. He couldn’t even drop any more eggs till he flew back to the dragon farm and loaded up again.
“Sir!” That was Domiziano again, his voice cracking with excitement like a youth’s. “Look over to the west, sir. A column of behemoths, and curse me if they aren’t stuck in a snowdrift.”
After looking, Sabrino said, “You have sharp eyes, Captain. I didn’t spot those buggers at all. Well, since you did see them, would you like to give your squadron the honor of the first pass against them?”
“My honor, sir, and my pleasure,” Domiziano replied. Not all the rank-and-file dragonfliers had crystals; he used hand signals to point them toward the new target. Off they flew, the rest of Sabrino’s battered wing trailing them to ward against Unkerlanter dragons and to finish whatever behemoths they might miss.
Sabrino sang a tune that had been popular on the stage in Trapani the year before the Derlavaian War broke out. It was called “Just Routine,” and sung by one longtime lover to another. Smashing up columns of Unkerlanter behemoths was just routine for him these days. He’d been doing it ever since Algarve and Unkerlant first collided, more than a year and a half ago now.
Great wingbeats quickly ate up the distance to the behemoths. Sabrino laughed aloud, saying, “So your snowshoes didn’t help you this time, eh?” The first winter here in the trackless west had been a nightmare, with the Unkerlanters able to move through snow that stymied Algarvian men and behemoths. Those odds were more even now: experience was a harsh schoolmaster, but an undeniably effective one.
The snow down there didn’t seem all that deep. Sabrino had seen drifts that looked like young mountain ranges, drifts into which you could drop a palace, let alone a behemoth. Of course, gauging the ground from above was always risky business. Maybe snow filled a gully, and the behemoths had discovered it the hard way. Still, although they’d halted, they didn’t seem to be in any enormous distress.
He frowned. That thought sent suspicion blazing through him. He peered through his goggles, trying to see if anything else about the behemoths looked out of the ordinary. He didn’t note anything, not at first.
But then he did. “Domiziano!” he shouted into the crystal. “Pull up, Domiziano! They’ve all got heavy sticks, and they’re waiting for us!”
Usually, dragons took behemoths by surprise, and the men aboard those behemoths had scant seconds to swing their sticks toward the dragonfliers diving on them. Usually, too, more behemoths carried egg-tossers—useless against dragons—than heavy sticks. Not this column. Swemmel’s men had set a trap for Algarvian dragonfliers, and Sabrino’s wing was flying right into it.
Before Domiziano and his dragonfliers could even begin to obey Sabrino’s orders, the Unkerlanters started blazing at them. The behemoth crews had seen the dragons coming, and had had the time to swing their heavy sticks toward the leaders of the attack. The beams that burst forth from those sticks were bright and hot as the sun.
They struck dragon after dragon out of the sky, almost as a man might swat flies that annoyed him. A heavy stick could burn through the silver paint that shielded dragons’ bellies from weapons a footsoldier might carry, or could sear a wing and send a dragon and the man who rode it tumbling to the ground so far below.
Domiziano’s dragon seemed to stumble in midair. Sabrino cried out in horror; Domiziano had led a squadron in his wing since the war was new. He would lead it no more. His dragon took another couple of halfhearted flaps, then plummeted. A cloud of snow briefly rose when it smashed to earth: the only memorial Domiziano would ever have.
“Pull up! Pull back!” Sabrino called to his surviving squadron commanders. “Gain height. Even their sticks won’t bite if we’re high enough—and we can still drop our eggs on them. Vengeance!”
A poor, mean vengeance it would be, with half a dozen dragons hacked down. How many Unkerlanter behemoths made a fair exchange for one dragon, for one highly trained dragonflier? More than were in this column: of that Sabrino was sure.
Another dragon fell as one of his own men proved less cautious than he should have. Sabrino’s curses went flat and harsh with despair. Some of his dragonfliers started dropping their eggs too soon, so they burst in front of the Unkerlanters without coming particularly close to them.
But others had more patience, and before long the bursts came among the behemoths, as nicely placed as Sabrino could have wished. When the snow cleared down below, some of the beasts lay on their sides, while others lumbered off in all directions. That was how behemoths should have behaved when attacked by dragons. Even so, Sabrino ordered no pursuit. The Unkerlanters had already done too much damage to his wing, and who could say what other tricks they had waiting?
“Back to the dragon farm,” he commanded. No one protested. The Algarvians were all in shock. Not till they’d turned and been flying northeast for some little while did he realize that, for perhaps the first time in the war, the Unkerlanters had succeeded in intimidating him.
Because of that weight of gloom, the flight back to the dragon farm seemed against the wind all the way. When he finally got his dragon down on the ground, Sabrino discovered he had been flying against the wind. Instead of endlessly blowing out of the west, it came from the north, and carried warmth and an odor of growing things with it.
“Spring any day now,” a dragon handler said as he chained Sabrino’s mount to a crowbar driven into the ground. He looked around. “Where’s the rest of the beasts, Colonel? Off to a different farm?”
“Dead.” Whatever the wind said, Sabrino’s voice held nothing but winter. “The Unkerlanters set a snare, and we blundered right into it. And now I have to write Domiziano’s kin and tell them how their son died a hero for Algarve. Which he did, but I’d sooner he went on living a
s a hero instead.”
He was writing that letter, and having a tough go of it, when Colonel Ambaldo stuck his head into the tent. Ambaldo was beaming. “We smashed them!” he told Sabrino, who could smell brandy fumes on his breath. With a scornful snap of his fingers, the newcomer from the east went on, “These Unkerlanters, they are not so much of a much. The Lagoans and Kuusamans are ten times the dragonfliers you see here in Unkerlant. We smashed up a couple of squadrons over Durrwangen, and dropped any number of eggs on the town.”
“Good for you,” Sabrino said tonelessly. “And now, good my sir, if you will excuse me, I am trying to send my condolences to a fallen flier’s family.”
“Ah. I see. Of course,” Ambaldo said. Had he left the tent then, everything would have been … if not fine, then at least tolerably well. But, perhaps elevated by the brandy, he added, “Though how anyone could easily lose men to these Unkerlanter clods is beyond me.”
Sabrino rose to his feet. Fixing Ambaldo with a deadly glare, he spoke in a voice chillier than any Unkerlanter winter: “A great many things appear to be beyond you, sir, sense among them. Kindly take your possessions and get them out of this, my tent. You are no longer welcome here. Lodge yourself elsewhere or let the powers below eat you—it’s all one to me. But get out.”
Colonel Ambaldo’s eyes widened. “Sir, you may not speak to me so. Regardless of what you claim to be the rules of the front, I shall seek satisfaction.”
“If you want satisfaction, go find a whore.” Sabrino gave Ambaldo a mocking bow. “I told you, we do not duel here. Let me say this, then: if you ever seek to inflict your presence upon me here in this tent again, I will not duel. I will simply kill you on sight.”
“You joke,” Ambaldo exclaimed.
Sabrino shrugged. “You are welcome to make the experiment. And after you do, somebody will have to write to your kin, assuming anyone has any idea who your father is.”
“Sir, I know you are overwrought, but you try my patience,” Ambaldo said. “I warn you, I will call you out regardless of these so-called rules if provoked too far.”
“Good,” Sabrino said. “If your friends—in the unlikely event you have any—speak to mine, they need not inquire as to weapons. I shall choose knives.”
Sticks were common in duels. They got things over with quickly and decisively. Swords were also common, especially among those with an antiquarian bent. Knives … A man who chose knives didn’t just want to kill his opponent. He wanted to make sure the foe suffered before dying.
Ambaldo licked his lips. He wasn’t a coward; no Algarvian colonel of dragonfliers was likely to be a coward. But he saw that Sabrino meant what he said and, at the moment, didn’t much care whether he lived or died. With such dignity as he could muster, Ambaldo said, “I hope to speak to you again someday, sir, when you are more nearly yourself.” He turned and left.
With a last soft curse, Sabrino sat down again. He re-inked his pen, hoping the fury that had coursed through him would make the words come easier. But it didn’t. He’d had to write far too many of these letters, and they never came easy. And, as he wrote, he couldn’t help wondering who would write a letter for him one day, and what the man would say.
Sidroc took off his fur hat and stowed it in his pack. “Not so cold these days,” he remarked.
Sergeant Werferth made silent clapping motions. “You’re a sly one, you are, to notice that. I bet it was all the stinking snow melting that gave you the clue.”
“Heh,” Sidroc said; Werferth being a sergeant, he couldn’t say any more than that without landing in trouble. He could and did turn away from the sergeant and walk off down one of the lengths of trench north of Durrwangen Plegmund’s Brigade was holding. His boots made squelching, sucking noises at every step. Werferth had been rude, but he hadn’t been wrong. The snow was melting—indeed, had all but melted. When it melted, it didn’t just disappear, either. Things would have been simpler and more convenient if it had. But it didn’t: it soaked into the ground and turned everything to a dreadful morass of mud.
A couple of eggs came whizzing out from Durrwangen to burst close by, throwing up fountains of muck. It splatted down with a noise that reminded Sidroc of a latrine, only louder. He threw his hands in the air, as if that would do any good. “How are we supposed to go forward in this?” he demanded, and then answered his own question: “We can’t. Nobody could.”
“Doesn’t mean we won’t,” Ceorl said. The ruffian spat; his spittle was but one more bit of moisture in the mire. “Haven’t you noticed?—the redheads would sooner spend our lives than theirs.”
“That’s so.” Sidroc didn’t think anyone in Plegmund’s Brigade hadn’t noticed it. “But they spend plenty of their own men, too.”
Ceorl spat again. “Aye, they do, and for what? This lousy stretch of Unkerlant isn’t worth shitting in, let alone anything else.”
Sidroc would have argued with that if only he could. Since he agreed with it, he just grunted and squelched along the trench till he came to a brass pot bubbling over a little fire. The stew was oats and rhubarb and something that had been dead long enough to get gamy but not long enough to become altogether inedible. He filled his mess tin and ate with good appetite. Only after he was done, while he was rinsing the mess tin with water from his canteen, did he pause to wonder what he would have thought of the meal were he still living soft back in Gromheort. He laughed. He would have thrown the mess tin at anyone who tried to give it to him. Here and now, with a full belly, he was happy enough.
He was also happy that none of the Brigade’s Algarvian officers looked to be around. As long as they weren’t there, nothing much would happen. He’d seen that they didn’t trust the Forthwegian sergeants to do anything much. Forthwegians were good enough to fight for Algarve, but not to think or to lead.
The Unkerlanters launched more eggs from the outskirts of Durrwangen. These burst closer than the others had, one of them close enough to make Sidroc throw himself down in the cold, clammy mud. “Powers below eat them,” he muttered as bits of the thin metal shell that had housed the egg’s sorcerous energy hissed through the air. “Why don’t they just run off and make things easy on us for once?”
But, despite the pounding the Algarvians had given Durrwangen, Swemmel’s men showed no inclination whatever to run off. If the Algarvians wanted them gone, they would have to drive them out. After the eggs stopped falling, Sidroc stuck his head up over the parapet and peered south. “Get down, you fool!” somebody called to him. “You want a beam in the face?”
He got down, unblazed. The outskirts of Durrwangen lay a mile or so away. The Unkerlanters held on to the city, from the outskirts to its heart, like grim death. He couldn’t see all the fortifications they’d put up, but that proved nothing; he’d already discovered the gift they had for making fieldworks that didn’t look like much—till you attacked them. Whatever they had waiting in Durrwangen, he wasn’t eager to find out.
Whether he was eager or not, of course, didn’t matter to the Algarvian officers commanding Plegmund’s Brigade. They came back from wherever they’d been with smiles as broad as if they’d just heard King Swemmel had surrendered. Sidroc’s company commander was a captain named Zerbino. He gathered his men together and declared, “Tomorrow, we shall have the high honor and privilege of being among the first to break into Durrwangen.”
He spoke Algarvian, of course; the Forthwegians in the Brigade were expected to understand him rather than the other way round. But, no matter what language he used, none of his troopers was eager to go forward against the heavily defended city. Even Sergeant Werferth, who loved fighting for its own sake, said, “Why am I not surprised they chose us?”
Captain Zerbino fixed him with a malignant stare. “And what, pray tell, do you mean by this, Sergeant?” he asked in his haughtiest manner.
Werferth knew better than to be openly insubordinate. But, from behind the Algarvian officer, somebody—Sidroc thought it was Ceorl, but he wasn’t sure—spoke
up: “He means we aren’t redheads, that’s what. So who gives a fornicating futter what happens to us?”
Zerbino whirled. He drew himself up to his full height; being an Algarvian, he had several inches on most of the men in his company. After a crisp, sardonic bow, he answered, “I am a redhead, and I assure that, when the order to attack is given, I shall be at the fore. Where I go, will you dare to follow?”
Nobody had anything to say to that. Sidroc wished he could have found something, but his wits were empty, too. Like all the officers assigned to Plegmund’s Brigade, Zerbino had shown himself to be recklessly brave. Where he went, the company would follow. And if that was straight into the meat grinder … then it was, and nobody could do anything about it.
Sidroc slapped his canteen. It held nothing but water. He sighed, wishing for spirits. Somebody would have some, but would anybody be willing to give him any? All he could do was try to find out.
He ended up paying some silver for a short knock. “I can’t spare any more,” said the soldier who let him have it. “I’m going to drink the rest myself before we go at’em tomorrow.”
Sidroc wished he could get drunk for the assault, too. He wrapped himself in his blanket and tried to sleep. Bursting eggs didn’t bother him; he had their measure. But thinking about what he’d go through come morning … He tried not to think about it, which only made things worse.
Eventually, he must have slept, for Sergeant Werferth shook him awake. “Come on,” Werferth said. “It’s just about time.”
Egg-tossers and dragons were pounding the forwardmost Unkerlanter positions. “More will come when we go forward,” Captain Zerbino promised. “We are not breaking into Durrwangen alone, after all; Algarvian brigades will be moving forward, too.”
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