Ley-line ships weren’t much good for rescuing them. If a flier came down on a ley line, they could scoop him up, aye. But the greater part of the ocean was closed to them. Oldfashioned sailboats and leviathans, both of which could travel anywhere, did far better in such missions.
And so Cornelu traveled with two crystals on this patrol. One was attuned to Lagoan dragonflight headquarters back in Setubal. The messages he got from it would direct him to Lagoan fliers who went into the Strait of Valmiera. The other crystal had been captured from an Algarvian, and was attuned to the emanations the enemy used. Any Algarvian dragonflier Comelu captured and brought back to Lagoas was one who wouldn’t fly again for King Mezentio.
Somewhere out in the Strait, no doubt, were Algarvian leviathan-riders with captured Lagoan crystals. There were stories about clashes when men from both sides raced to rescue a downed dragonflier. Cornelu hadn’t been in any of those. In fact, the next dragonflier he brought back would be his first. He understood how war could be that kind of business.
He also understood that the Algarvians would have been happier if their ships and leviathans dominated the Strait of Valmiera and their dragons dominated the sky above it. That meant watching the sky not just for flights of dragons heading south but also for hunters looking for him and others like him.
He felt easier after the sun plunged blazing into the sea. Even with a nearly full moon in the sky, he didn’t have to worry so much about Algarvian marauders—or about Lagoan marauders who might mistake him for the foe. The leviathan liked patrolling at night, too, for larger fish came nearer the surface than they did during the day.
“Attention! Attention!” That was one of the crystals he carried, but which? He had to pause and remember that he’d understood the call without having to think about it—Algarvian was much closer to his native Sibian than was Lagoan. Excitement tingled through him as he brought the captured crystal to his ear to listen better. An urgent Algarvian was saying, “He went into the water after the raid on Branco. We were halfway back to our base at Kursiu, and his dragon just couldn’t fly anymore, poor creature.”
“Noted on the map,” another Algarvian replied. “Will send rescuers as fast as we can.”
“He’s a good fellow,” the Algarvian dragonflier said earnestly. “He doesn’t deserve to drown all alone.”
“No, he deserves worse than that,” Cornelu muttered. Branco lay east of Setubal, and Kursiu . . . He pulled out a map printed on waterproofed silk and held it close to his face to read it in the moonlight. After a moment, he put it away with a soft grunt. He wasn’t far from where that dragonflier had gone down. Finding him wouldn’t be easy, not in the dark, but it wouldn’t be easy for the Algarvians, either. It ought to be worth a try.
Cornelu tapped the leviathan. It began a search spiral. Lagoans trained their beasts to spiral widdershins, not deasil, as leviathans turned in the Sibian navy. Cornelu knew it didn’t really make a copper’s worth of difference, but he couldn’t help thinking his mount was going in the wrong direction. Trying to retrain the leviathan to Sibian practice would probably just confuse it, though.
“Help me!” came from the Algarvian crystal, so loud and clear that Cornelu thought for a moment he’d come upon the dragonflier without realizing it. The fellow went on, “Don’t know how much longer I can stay afloat.”
An officer, Cornelu thought. A squadron leader, or a flight leader at the least, to have a crystal of his own. That made capturing him all the more important. Cornelu’s hand slipped to the knife he wore on his belt. If he couldn’t bring the Algarvian back to Lagoas, he’d make very sure the fellow never flew for Mezentio again.
“Help me!” the dragonflier said again. He couldn’t be very far away, not when Cornelu was receiving the emanations from his crystal so clearly.
At Cornelu’s command, the leviathan lifted the front of its body into the air again. The Sibian peered across the moonlit sea, looking for someone bobbing in the water. The leviathan turned this way and that, enjoying the display of strength. Cornelu found nothing but frustration till . . .
“There, by the powers above!” he muttered, and sent the leviathan racing west. When he drew near, he called out to the man struggling in the water: “Here! To me! Hurry!” He spoke in Algarvian, trilling the r sounds instead of pronouncing them in the back of his throat as he would have in his own language.
“Hurrah!” the downed dragonflier shouted, and swam with sudden surprising strength to the leviathan. Hope of rescue powered him like a shot of strong spirits.
“Give me your knife,” Cornelu said, still in Algarvian. “Don’t want any accidents happening to my beast.”
“You’re the boss,” the Algarvian said, and passed him the weapon. “If you think I’m going to argue with the fellow who fishes me out of the drink, you’re daft.”
“Good,” Cornelu said. “Hold tight to the harness there. I can’t do that for you, and we’re still a long way from home.”
“Too far,” the Algarvian said. “Aye, too stinking far. I thought I’d be able to nurse my dragon across the Strait after that accursed Lagoan flamed him, but no such luck. He sank like a stone when we went into the water, the nasty creature, and I won’t miss him a bit.”
Dragonfliers always talked like that. They had nothing but scorn for their mounts. Cornelu had never understood why they wanted to fly them in the first place. He set his hand on his leviathan’s smooth back. A leviathan, now, a leviathan responded. All a dragon gave you was trouble.
“Hang on,” he told the Algarvian again. The fellow would not have any kind of sorcerous protection against the sea. He might yet freeze before Cornelu could bring him to land—although lying against the warm length of the leviathan would help keep him going.
At Cornelu’s command, the great beast swam south, toward Lagoas. Cornelu’s eyes slid toward the dragonflier. How alert was he? Would he realize what was going on before the Lagoans took him off to a captives’ camp? Cornelu hoped not—his own life would be easier if the Algarvian kept on thinking he’d been rescued, not captured.
For the first half hour or so, everything went as smoothly as the Sibian could have wanted. But then the dragonflier looked back toward the moon, which hung in the northwestern sky—and away from which the leviathan was swimming. “I hate to tell you, my dear fellow, but home is that way.” Mezentio pointed northward, as if certain Cornelu had made a foolish mistake and would turn around once it was pointed out to him.
Getting ready once more to pull out his knife, Cornelu answered, “No, Algarve is that way. My home is—was—in Sibiu, and I’m taking you to Lagoas.” He let his native growl come out as he spoke.
“Why, you son of a whore!” In the moonlight, the Algarvian’s face was a shadowed mask of astonishment. “You cheated me!”
“Ruse of war,” Cornelu said calmly. “I’ll tell you what: if you don’t like it, you can let go and swim back to Algarve. Go right ahead. I won’t stop you.”
For a moment, he thought the dragonflier would let go. Cornelu wouldn’t have missed a moment’s sleep if the fellow had. Then the Algarvian shifted as if thinking about attacking him instead. Cornelu did draw the knife. Its blade gleamed. The dragonflier cursed. “No wonder you wanted me to give you my dagger.”
“No wonder at all,” Cornelu agreed. “But you really don’t want to try anything stupid. You must know the sorts of magic leviathan-riders get. All I have to do is make the beast stay down longer than you can hold your breath.”
The Algarvian didn’t lack for nerve. “Suppose I let go then?”
“You get to swim home, same as before,” Cornelu answered. “Or, if you annoy me enough, you make about two bites for a leviathan.”
“Curse you,” the Algarvian said glumly. “All right, it’s a captives’ camp for me. I wish I could have dropped an egg on your head a year ago.”
Cornelu shrugged. “Then you’d be drowning about now, or maybe a shark or a wild leviathan would have found you before you
went under. You ought to thank me, not curse me.”
“I’d thank you if you were one of my countrymen,” the dragonflier said. “You didn’t sound like a stinking Sib.”
“I’ve studied Algarvian,” Cornelu said. “We know our enemies.”
“It didn’t help you,” the dragonflier replied. He didn’t know how close he came to dying in that instant; Cornelu was within a hair’s breadth of drowning him. Only the thought that the fellow might have useful information stayed his hand. The Algarvian went on, “Besides, you Sibs are Algarvic, too. You shouldn’t be fighting King Mezentio. You should join him in the real battle, the battle against Unkerlant.”
“No, thanks,” Cornelu told him. “Getting your kingdom invaded says a lot about whom you ought to be fighting.”
“You don’t understand,” the Algarvian dragonflier insisted.
“I understand well enough,” Cornelu said. “And I understand who’s got whom here.” To that, the Algarvian dragonflier had no answer. At Cornelu’s urging, the leviathan kept swimming south, on toward Lagoas.
Along with the rest of the men in his training platoon, Sidroc ran through the forest. His legs ached. His lungs burned. Sweat poured off him. He dared not slow, even if he did feel as if he were coming to pieces. The Algarvian drill instructors assigned to turn Plegmund’s Brigade into a real fighting outfit seemed to be made of metal and magic. They never got tired and they never failed to notice—and to punish—a mistake.
“Forward!” one of them shouted—in Algarvian, of course—as he trotted along beside the Forthwegian recruits. “Keep moving!”
Both of those were standard Algarvian commands. Sidroc had expected the redheads would make him into a soldier. Before joining the Brigade, he hadn’t thought they would make him into an Algarvian-speaking soldier. He wished he’d studied harder at the academy.
He splashed through a stream. The edge of the forest lay not far ahead. He and his comrades had run this route before. Once they got out from under the trees, they had less than a mile to go to get back to their tents.
“Faster!” the Algarvian shouted.
If I go any faster, I’ll fall over dead, Sidroc thought resentfully. The Algarvians were even worse than Uncle Hestan for making him do things he didn’t want to do. He’d paid Hestan back, paid him in blood: Leofsig’s blood. He hadn’t really intended to kill his cousin, but he wasn’t sorry he had, either. Leofsig had been another one who made him feel like dirt just because he wasn’t a lousy Kaunian-lover. He cursed well wasn’t—and neither was Leofsig, not any more.
Sidroc burst out of the trees and into the sunshine beyond. He could see the tents ahead—and the arch through which he and his comrades would have to run to get to them. He wished he were still back near Eoforwic, but the whole regiment in training had gone to this camp in the uplands of southern Forthweg only days after the Algarvian authorities got him out of gaol in Gromheort.
Another shout from the Algarvian drillmaster: “Keep moving!” He added something to the standard command this time, something Sidroc didn’t quite catch. He did gather the last man from the company into the camp would regret it.
He made his legs pound on. Already he was discovering he could get far more out of his body than he’d ever imagined. I shouldn’t have let Leofsig give me a hard time for as long as I did, he thought. I should have whaled the stuffing out of Ealstan, too. Well, maybe the day will come.
As he neared the arch, he noted with fierce pride that only a couple of dozen men were still ahead of him. Passing another one, he looked back over his shoulder. The rest of the company was strung out almost all the way back to the woods. Whatever the Algarvian had threatened, he didn’t have to worry about it—this time.
Above the arch stood a sign whose stark black letters on white announced an equally stark message: WE ARE BORN TO DIE. Sidroc wished he didn’t have to look at that message every time he came in from an exercise. He liked the slogan on the other side of the sign, the one he saw going out, better: WE SERVE PLEGMUND’S BRIGADE. That was what he’d signed up to do, and he’d cursed well do it.
He stopped running as soon as he passed under the arch. What he wanted to do next was fall on the ground and pass out. Had he been foolish enough to try it, an Algarvian drill-master or one of the men in the company would have booted him to his feet. He could go over to the unicorn trough and splash cold water on his face. Then, dripping, he took his place in the ranks and waited for the rest of the company to come in.
The last staggering soldier did collapse once he got under the arch. And, sure enough, the Algarvian drillmaster who’d gone with the company on its run—and who hardly seemed to be breathing hard—kicked him till he managed to force himself upright again. “Tired, are you, Wiglaf?” the drillmaster said in fluent Forthwegian. “You just think you’re tired. Maybe after you dig us a new slit trench you’ll really be tired. What do you think?”
Even Sidroc, who liked to mouth off, knew better than to answer a question like that. But the luckless Wiglaf said, “Have a heart, sir, I—”
Without visible malice and without hesitation, the redheaded drillmaster kicked him again. “No back talk,” he growled. “We are going to make you the finest fighting men in the world—after Algarvians, of course. Orders are meant to be obeyed. Get moving! Now!”
Wiglaf could barely move, but stumbled off toward the latrines. Sidroc nudged the fellow next to him, a scar-faced bruiser name Ceorl. “Poor miserable whoreson,” he murmured. Almost imperceptibly, Ceorl nodded.
“Silence in the ranks!” the drillmaster bellowed. Sidroc and Ceorl both froze into immobility. If the Algarvian—who might have had eyes and ears in the back of his head—had spotted them, they were liable to end up digging slit trenches with Wiglaf. But luck was with them. The redhead contented himself with glaring this way and that before snarling, “Dismissed to queue for supper.”
Till he heard that, Sidroc would have bet he was too worn to want anything to do with food. His belly had other ideas. Somehow it propelled him forward, so that he was third in line and had his tin mess kit out and waiting. Ceorl was right behind him, and chuckled a little. “Wiglaf’s going to miss supper, too.”
“Too bad.” Sidroc had scant sympathy to waste on anyone but Sidroc. “If he’s not worth anything in drills, odds are he won’t be worth anything in a fight, either.”
He held out the mess tray. A Forthwegian cook filled it with barley mush with onions and mushrooms and with a sharp, rather nasty cheese melted into it. Sidroc hardly cared what the stuff tasted like. He wolfed it down and could have eaten three times as much. He needed fuel for his belly no less than a baker needed it for his ovens.
Somebody with a soft heart, or more likely a soft head, went off to share his supper with Wiglaf. Sidroc wouldn’t have done that. He didn’t suppose anyone would have done it for him, either. Expecting nothing from those around him, he seldom found himself disappointed.
After supper came language drills. The Algarvians were even more ruthless than schoolmasters about pounding their language—or standard commands in it, anyhow—into the men of Plegmund’s Brigade. “You’ll be serving alongside Algarvians, likely under Algarvians,” the instructor growled at them. “If you don’t understand orders, you’ll get them killed—and yourselves, too, of course,” he added as if a few Forthwegians were of but small import.
By the time language lessons ended, it was dark. Sidroc found his cot, pulled off his boots, and was instantly asleep.
Clamor woke him. “Attack!” someone screamed. He put on his boots again, grabbed his kit, and stumbled, rubbing his eyes, out into the darkness.
It was only another drill, of course. But he and his comrades had to respond to it as if it were real, and it bit time out of precious sleep as if it were real, too. When shrill whistles summoned the company to assembly the next morning, Sidroc felt more dead than alive.
After roll call, he ate hard bread and cheap olive oil for breakfast. Breakfast was witho
ut a doubt the most relaxed meal of the day. He and his comrades gabbed and complained and told as many lies as they could think of.
One thing they didn’t do: they didn’t ask why their tentmates, their squadmates, had joined the Brigade. No one, Sidroc had discovered, did that. The rule was unwritten, but might have been all the stronger for that.
He had no trouble seeing the reason behind it. Some men had taken service under Algarvian leadership for the sake of adventure or because they hated Unkerlanters. Sidroc knew that; volunteering information wasn’t against the rules. But some of the men in the Brigade were plainly ruffians or robbers or worse—he wouldn’t have wanted to meet Ceorl in a dark alley. For that matter, few people would have wanted to meet him in a dark alley, either.
One thing united the men of the Brigade—and it, too, was a thing of which they did not speak. Sidroc knew—they all knew, they all had to know—most Forthwegians despised them for the choice they’d made. Sidroc didn’t care what most Forthwegians thought. So he told himself, over and over again. On a good day, he could make himself believe it . . . for a while.
“Form up!” an Algarvian drillmaster called: another command delivered in standard form.
The redhead, who carried a shouldered stick, marched his charges out of the camp. He pointed to a hill overgrown with bushes about half a mile away and switched to Forthwegian: “That’s the place you have to take. You have to be sneaky and sly. Do you understand me?”
“Aye, sir!” Sidroc shouted with everyone else. “Sneaky and sly!”
“Good.” The drillmaster nodded approval. “I’m going to turn my back for a while. When I turn around again, I don’t want to see you. If I do see you, I’ll try and blaze you. I won’t try to kill you, but my aim’s not perfect. You don’t want to make me do anything we’d both be sorry for later. Have you got that?”
Through the Darkness Page 22
