Authors: Steven Brust

Dragon (Vlad Taltos) (19 page)

BOOK: Dragon (Vlad Taltos)

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We dumped kerosene over them. Now was when we had to be fast, because no one is going to pay much attention to someone half glimpsed who is moving about the camp as if he belongs there, but the smell of kerosene is strong and sets off alarms in anyone.

It only took a minute or so to drench the wagons, then I signaled that we should retreat back toward our own camp. Virt looked a question at me, presumably, How are we going to set them on fire? I smiled back at her and led the way.

We made it past the pickets without incident, at which point Virt said, “How are you going to start the fire from here?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I picked a stick, drew on my link to the Orb, and started it burning. “I’ll think of something,” I said, and handed it to Loiosh, who flew off into the night.

They stared in wonderment for a moment; none of them, I think, had any previous clue of Loiosh’s intelligence. Just for fun, I led them past our own pickets.

Once back in camp, all three of them reacted as I should have expected: laughter bordering on the hysterical, which was a little terrifying in Napper’s case; and, along with the near hysteria, an unreasonable desire to continue being silent, as if the habit had been ingrained for life in the few intense hours.

Eventually they quieted down, and then Aelburr whispered, “Hope they like toast,” and they all burst into giggles again, with hands clapped over mouths to keep it quiet, which, of course, made it even funnier. I found myself laughing with them, until we were informed that if we didn’t quiet down at once we’d be put on report. Napper, tears streaming from his eyes, tried to whisper something that struck him as funny about that, but couldn’t get it out, and the effort made him laugh even harder.

Virt, however, hysterics or not, was not anxious to be put on report, so she gestured that we should follow her. She started jogging toward the river, then veered away to stay within the boundaries of the camp. I wondered what she was up to when my question answered itself; it is hard to stay hysterical when you’re out of breath from running, and hard to run when you’re out of breath from laughing. In a few minutes, we weren’t laughing anymore, and Virt led us back to our tent.

It actually worked; I, at least fell asleep quickly, and I think the others did as well, and there was really nothing more to the incident until breakfast the next morning, when we each took our biscuit and looked at it.

“Yes,” said Napper. “They taste rather better today than they did yesterday, don’t you think?”

Whatever happened in the next few hours, I decided, getting a pleasantry out of Napper counted as a moral victory.

A FEW BUMPS AND BRUISES

Sounds broke in to interrupt my stare-down with Ori: the sounds of Easterners being slaughtered. Mostly screams—and screams that were different from the cries of the wounded, because these had the edge of terror. I realized then that even from here I could feel the presence of Blackwand. On the field below me, to my right, Easterners were dying and my side was winning; the souls of my kind were gone, swallowed up, vanished forever, destroyed; and my side was winning the engagement. You could say I had mixed feelings about this.

On the other hand, if I wanted to present myself as a negotiator, it did put me in a stronger position. As I considered this, another interruption came, this one in the form of someone pushing through past the honor guard and coming up next to Ori.

It was about here that everything speeded up and slowed down; that is, things began to happen faster, but it seemed as if I had more time to observe and think it all over, to weigh the options, note the dangers, and be afraid.

“Well,” I said. “My Lord Fornia. I hadn’t expected to find you here.”

He didn’t appear any better disposed toward me than he had been when last we met, which, now that I thought about it, was only about a quarter of a mile from this very spot. Coincidence, if you like. I don’t, terribly. I did think, for a moment, about taking a shot at him; the reasons against were legion, including not having much chance of killing him, having less chance of escaping
alive, and being certain that Morrolan wouldn’t thank me even if I managed. But I did think about it.

Ori said again, “He’s an assassin. Kill him.”

I said, “Oh, let’s not.”

Fornia said, “No, he’s not here to assassinate me. Whatever his threats, Morrolan would never countenance such an act.”

“In war, my lord? In battle?”

“On the other hand,” said Fornia, “I do not believe you are here as a negotiator. Morrolan would no more send an Easterner to negotiate with me than he would send a Jhereg to assassinate me. So what
are
you doing here, exactly?”

The warriors stared at me; behind them, no doubt, were more of Fornia’s sorcerers. I turned my head and gestured to the battle to my right. It was worse than it had been; I could make out Morrolan, and around him, even from this distance, I saw corpses lying in heaps. Or, at any rate, bodies; I didn’t have to be there to know they were dead.

I turned back to Fornia. “They’re getting closer,” I said. “Morrolan and his brigade. With Blackwand,” I added.

He didn’t seem unduly worried. I went on, “Morrolan didn’t send me to kill you or to negotiate with you. He didn’t send me at all. I’m here on my own.”

“Indeed,” said Fornia. “Do you, then, imagine you can kill me, here, now?”

Why wasn’t he worried? If Blackwand was coming for me, I’d be worried. I’d be more than worried, I’d be bloody terrified. “No,” I said. “Or, perhaps yes, I could, but it is not my intention to try.”

His eyes strayed to the carnage below, now noticeably closer than when I’d reached them. He seemed unconcerned. “What then?” he said.

“I want to stop the slaughter.”

He gave a short laugh. “You
have
become a soldier. Soldiers have wanted to stop the slaughter as long as the profession has existed.”

That I believed. That, at any rate, had been my desire since the first time I was in battle. No, I suppose, since the second time; the first time was too confused, the second time, the morning after we had burned up the enemy’s biscuits, is the battle I have the clearest memory of, and the greatest feeling of disgust, at least up until this point. It all seemed to happen slowly, with a neat succession of images burning themselves into my memory.

That time, the engineers, instead of digging the ditches and building up the earthworks, passed out shovels and guided us in doing so. The ground, I remember, was soft and easy to work with, a fact the engineers never let us forget. The air was dry—almost throat-parching dry—but cold. The sort of cold where any little bump or bruise has an additional sting to it. I hoped we wouldn’t be doing any fighting, but I expected we would, and I was right.

So we dug a deep ditch and piled up dirt until it reached the height of our chests, and whether our clandestine activities in the night had anything to do with the fact that we were able to finish before they attacked, I don’t know, but I’d like to think so. It makes me feel useful.

The juice-drum gave the call, “Rubbing Elbows,” which meant to form the line, and we did, under Rascha’s guidance. We were each given three javelins, which we stuck into the ground near us. Rascha had a spyglass, and her first word as she studied the enemy that was just too far away to see with the unaided eye was “Cavalry.” Then she said, “Pass the word for pikes.” Then, almost at once, “No, never mind. They’re reforming.”

This time Loiosh did not suggest I bug out; he probably didn’t know why I’d stayed in the line last time, any more than I did, but figured there was no help for it and I was just bound and determined to remain for the fight.

Rascha continued studying their lines, occasionally making aimless gestures with her left hand; I assumed some sort of spell
to help her see or to counter any clouding spells the enemy might be using.

“No cavalry,” said Virt. “You won’t have to fight your own kind yet.”

“Good,” I said, meaning it.

She said, “Smart, too. I wouldn’t send horses against ditches and earthworks.”

“What would you send against us?”

“Well, certainly not a spear phalanx—they don’t like ditches and they hate earthworks. I’d say either mounted infantry or heavy infantry, like last time.”

“Mounted infantry?”

“Ride like bastards up to the ditch, dismount, and come right over. They could get here awful fast, and the horses will shield them from javelins once they’ve dismounted. Why do you ask? We’ll know for certain in a few minutes.”

“Just killing time.”

“Best to be killing something,” put in Napper. His eyes were shining and he kept baring his teeth.

I shook my head. “You really like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. “And so do you, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“Mounted infantry,” said Rascha.

“Good call,” I said. “So, what do we do? Think the Captain will pull something clever?”

“Nothing clever to be done, really. We just have to hold this spot. Maybe Sethra will send someone in on their flanks, maybe not. Depends on how much of their forces they’ve committed and, well, on a lot of things we don’t have any way of knowing.”

I grunted.

Crown, from far down the line, called, “Make ready.”

I drew my sword, transferred it to my left hand, and picked up a javelin.

“You really ought to borrow a heavier blade,” Aelburr told me. I grunted again.

Virt said, “We’ll be lucky to have time for two throws before they’re on us.”

“Yes,” said Aelburr.

That meant one for me.

Rascha said, “Aim for the horses.” That was funny; how was I supposed to aim for anything else? We could now see the line clearly—it stretched out to more than cover us; we were flanked on both sides, then. But that, of course, was not my concern. Whoever was guiding the battle was supposed to make sure our line didn’t get rolled up, and if whoever that was blew his job, it wasn’t my concern.

It was, of course, my life. I remembered what my grandfather had said about trusting your officers even though you know they aren’t worthy of trust. My hand was cramping from gripping the javelin tightly and I made an effort to relax it.

I wasn’t used to this. Analogous situations in the Jhereg just weren’t analogous.

“You know, Loiosh, I don’t think I’d care to make this a career.”

Whatever answer he was going to give was masked by an intrusion into my head. It took a minute for me to figure out what it was, then I realized that it was Kragar, choosing just then to get in touch with me.

“What is it
,
Kragar?”

“Nothing important, Vlad, but—”

“Then forget it, for the love of Verra. I’m just a little busy right now.”

“
Okay. Later.
”

I looked up again, and there were many horses riding down on us, and Rascha said, “Javelins ready!” We all prepared to throw; I prepared to ignore the order to throw until I had at least some chance of hitting something. I wondered abstractedly if this time I’d be able to follow the flight of the javelin as it left my hand. I wondered if—

“Loose javelins!” called Rascha, and the sky darkened again. I waited a moment, then threw, instantly forgot that I wanted to
see where my javelin ended up, and transferred my sword once more to my right hand.

Someone screamed, and someone yelled, “’Ware sorcery!” so I let Spellbreaker fall into my hand, and I noticed that there were an awful lot of horses writhing about on the ground. At first I thought someone had strung a trip-wire, then I realized that they were the result of the javelins, and then I wondered why I hadn’t thought of stringing trip-wire myself, or, at any rate, why someone hadn’t thought of it, and then some guy came bounding up out of the ditch in front of me so I stuck my sword through his neck and he went down.

There was shouting, screaming, and the clashing of blades, but it all became a sort of noiseless noise, and I remember having the illusion that I was in my own universe, with no directions except forward; anything to the sides was someone else’s problem. It was odd, and it was also odd how much time I had to think, to observe, to plan, and to act. Someone else bounded up, off balance and sword flailing as if he’d been propelled by something behind him, and I remember being able to pick my target, wait for it to line up, and to hit it. Then a hand appeared, and I cut it, and then I intercepted some sort of spell with Spellbreaker without being aware of how I spotted it. Then two came over at once, and I gave one a good cut across the legs while the other struck at me. I slipped to the side while holding my rapier up at a sharp angle—I even remember calculating the angle to keep the blade from breaking—and when I’d deflected it I stuck him one in the stomach. He fell forward, so I let a dagger fall into my hand from my left sleeve, stuck it into his throat as he lay on his back, and recovered Spellbreaker from his chest, where I’d dropped it.

I wiped my brow, dragging Spellbreaker in front of my eyes; its gold links were small now; no doubt that meant something. I waited for the next man to try to get past me, but there wasn’t one; the assault was over.

I stood there and looked myself over, until Loiosh said,
“Relax, Boss; not a scratch.”

“Okay.”

Then I looked for my tent-mates. Virt was on her knees breathing heavily, but didn’t seem to be bleeding. Napper had one hand on the earthworks, the other holding his sword, as he watched our retreating enemies, and I had the impression he was willing them to return. Aelburr was sitting on the ground, grinning, shaking his head, and cradling his left arm with his right. He caught me looking at him. “Son of a bitch,” he said, but not angrily, more as if he were commenting on the weather. “Dislocated my fucking shoulder.”

“Next time,” said Virt, looking up suddenly. “Try cutting them instead of throwing them around. For one thing, that way they aren’t in such a hurry to crawl back over.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

I looked an inquiry at Virt, but she didn’t provide any details. She opened up her water flask and helped Aelburr drink some, and presently the surgeon arrived. I walked away a little, because I don’t like watching surgeons, physickers, healers, or anyone else whose job it is to undo the sort of thing I’m so good at doing.

Rascha came by about then and directed those of us who didn’t need treatment to pick up javelins and make sure they were unbroken, which was sufficiently mind-numbing to be relaxing after the battle.

We had not, it seemed, been in the worst part of the engagement; there were places where the carnage was much worse, and Jhereg—normal-sized ones—were circling overhead. Sometimes one would come a little too close and someone would hurl a stone or a javelin at it.

“Why is it, Loiosh, that they hate Jhereg so much but like you?”

“My winning personality, Boss?”

“Yeah, that must be it.”

By the time I got back, the bodies were neatly stacked, and the seriously wounded were gone, and the walking wounded had, for the most part, been tended to. Napper had gotten over his battle-fury and was himself once more. “We should attack,” he said disgustedly.

“Good thinking,” said Virt. “They only outnumber us about three to two.”

“Don’t matter,” said Napper.

“And we’d be leaving our protection, which is the only way we survived the attack.”

“Don’t matter.”

BOOK: Dragon (Vlad Taltos)

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