Of Bone and Thunder (37 page)

“Lucky you,” Hyaminth said, easing Breeze away from the crystal. Modelar gasped as the RAT tipped her back. Blood covered Breeze's face and neck and had flowed down her chest. Vorly knew to expect it, but it still made him shiver.

“Get her to the sick tent at once!” Modelar shouted, motioning for more help. “Him, too,” he said, pointing at Vorly.

Vorly shook his head. “No way, sir. We've got to get prepped to fly back out there and get Cytisus.”

Modelar waved for him to calm down. “Vorly, I'm not grounding you. I just want you checked out. I'll see to it that Carduus and the rest of the flock are ready to fly. Grab a drink, wash up, and get a little shut-eye. We'll launch in a twelfth at predawn.” With that, Modelar jumped down from Carduus and marched away shouting orders and generally adding to the chaos.

Vorly turned away and watched Hyaminth as she gently passed Breeze down to the waiting arms of flockmen, who quickly carried her off. Numb with exhaustion and relief, Vorly slid down Carduus's right shoulder and landed on the ground. The soles of his feet stung when he hit and he stumbled before righting himself. It took him two tries to get his knees to lock. Modelar was right. He needed a quick nap to get himself ready for the next flight.

“Finest flying I've ever seen, sir,” Rimsma said, coming up and grabbing Vorly by the elbow to steady him.

Vorly looked down at the man's hand, then at him. “You planning on proposing?”

Rimsma quickly withdrew his hand. “No, sir, sorry. I . . . your eyes.”

Vorly held the stone face of command for one more flicker before finally granting the young driver a smile. “Just a bit of overexertion,” he said, hoping that was the case.

“Breeze looked bad, what happened?” Rimsma asked.

Vorly didn't answer at first, instead walking the length of Carduus's neck until he got to the rag's head. Carduus was purring contentedly, his
muzzle deep in his pool of slurry. The dull red glow under his scales was gone and the familiar sound of clicking and pinging filled the quarry. Flockmen surrounded Carduus, tending to him like he was a small child, which, in terms of rag years, he was. Five flockmen carrying lanterns pored over each wing looking for tears and stress marks. Anything found was circled with a red clay-copper stick for the dragonsmith to examine.

“Deep mountain heart! What the thundering fuck have you been up to with my dragon?”

Vorly turned and looked down into the glaring stare of Dragonsmith Pagath Rose. Dressed from head to toe in black leathers, the dwarf looked like a demon straight from the Valley of Fire and Damnation.

“Carduus is fine, Pagath,” Vorly said.

“So he didn't fire?”

Vorly sighed. “It was a short burst. It couldn't be helped.”

Pagath's stare suggested otherwise. Vorly leaned down and opened his eyes wide.
Go ahead, stare into these eyes, you short bastard
.

“Did you get hit in the head then?” Pagath asked, holding Vorly's stare.

Vorly blinked a couple of times, slowly. “Why do you ask?”

Pagath leaned forward until their noses almost touched. “Because the pudding you call a brain is leaking out through your eyes.”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking,” Vorly said, groaning as he stood up.

“Of course you are—it's Cytisus I'm worried about,” Pagath said, pulling a small flask from underneath his leather apron and handing it to Vorly.

“We're going to get him back, I promise,” Vorly said, putting the flask to his lips and taking a draw. The gin burned all the way down. Vorly handed the flask back. “That takes care of dinner.”

Pagath grunted. “Go. Get yourself cleaned up. I'll make sure Carduus is ready,” he said, turning and climbing up onto Carduus's back. “Poor lamb must have been scared half out of his tiny little mind flying all alone in the dark like that.”

Vorly shook his head. He gently rolled his shoulders. The pain from the base of his skull to his ass was still there, but not as fierce as before. The gin was doing its job. Another drink would dull the pain even more, but he knew that to be the trap it was. He'd settle for a wash, a change of clothes, and a nap.

Remembering Modelar's order and wanting to check in on Breeze, Vorly walked across the quarry floor toward the sick tent. He normally avoided the place at all costs. Like the crystal sheets, everything that went on in that tent was unnatural. He liked enemies you could see. All that gibberish about humors and such unsettled him. How was a man supposed to fight that?

Lanterns lit the tent in a blinding glow as Vorly walked through the open flap and stopped. The canvas, whitewashed with lime slake, made the tent unbearably bright. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out. The tent didn't smell like sulfur, which he found slightly distressing. Instead, the tent smelled like mint and camphor and even flowers, but no sulfur. Everything in a roost took on the smell of rags. It was natural. Just like a sty smelled of pigs and a bakery of bread. The sick tent was part of the roost and so it should damn well have smelled like the rest of the roost. That it didn't was one of the reasons he avoided the tent, but it wasn't the main one.

A roost was a man's world—at least, that was what Vorly had always believed. As unsettling as the arrival of women RATs had been, a shock he was still trying to deal with, the sick tent had been a thorn in his worldview much, much longer. Unlike every other facet of a military roost, the sick tent was run by women. Witches, to be precise.

He blinked, finally able to make out the interior of the tent. He was perturbed by its level of cleanliness and order. Leave it to women to clean up this much. A roost was supposed to be covered in layers of grime, crunchy strata of rock dust, sulfur, carbon, and even a little dried blood. The very existence of the sick tent suggested that his view of the roost was under siege.

Instead of plain canvas or palm fronds covering the ground, they had constructed a wooden floor from bamboo, which, in incomprehensible fashion, they had whitewashed as well. Water buckets were placed by every lantern in case of fire. There were even canvas lids placed over the buckets. Eight cots, four along each side wall, were neatly arranged. In the center of the tent a bubbling cauldron released steam that swirled its way skyward through a mesh opening in the top of the tent. A pair of
junior-grade wizards in white skullcaps and white full-length aprons over their standard military uniforms bent over the cauldron. One stirred its contents with a large wooden ladle while the other sprinkled in a powder that turned the steam bright green. A witch, similarly garbed and with her brown hair tied up in a bun underneath her skullcap, watched them carefully.

Vorly started to say hello, then realized he couldn't remember any of their names. He looked past them to where another witch stood by a cot at the far end of the tent with two men wearing thin white robes over their uniforms. Master Witch Elmitia Bogston, purveyor of more High Druid–forsaken potions and elixirs than a pushcart peddler, looked up and frowned when she saw him. Vorly ignored her, focusing his attention on the pair of strangers.
Who the fuck are these two
?

“Ah, Flock Commander, I see you're still covered in filth,” Bogston said. “There are robes to your right. Please put one on over what's left of your uniform.”

Vorly looked down at his bare chest and realized he hadn't put his shirt or jacket back on. He turned, wincing as he did so. A pile of neatly stacked robes sat on top of a small wooden dresser by the tent flap. “You recruiting?” he asked.

“Hardly,” Bogston said. She spoke with a clipped precision that dug into Vorly's brain like the point of a needle. “Unlike the squalid conditions you choose to live in, this is a place of healing. As such, it will remain clean. Balancing the humors is hard enough without bringing in extraneous dirt and foul humors.”

Vorly grabbed a robe and slipped it on. Bogston, better known as the Bitch Witch around the roost, was more thorn than flower. A spinster in her late thirties, she'd devoted her life to the healing arts with an all-encompassing ferocity that left no room for a husband or family. It was a shame, Vorly thought. For all her prickly ways, she was plump where it counted.

Vorly walked past the cauldron, giving it as wide a berth as possible without seeming to do so. The trio around it never looked up as he passed.

“You smell,” Bogston said when Vorly reached her.

“So do you,” Vorly responded, biting off a curse.
Damn her!

“You know, Flock Commander, even dogs lick themselves clean from time to time,” Bogston said, her mouth a tight crease on her face.

Vorly moved around to the side of Breeze's cot. She smiled up at him. Her face and hair had been washed and her eyes, though still bloody, looked good to him.

“How are you feeling?” Vorly asked.

“Ready to fly,” Breeze said, propping herself up on her elbows. She looked like she had all the strength of thin gruel, but he knew he'd have to beat her off Carduus with his iron gaff before she'd stay behind.

“Glad to hear it. We launch at predawn,” he said. “Nap while you can, it's going to be another busy day.” Breeze's fierce smile told him he was right.

“Flock Commander, I—” Bogston managed before Vorly cut her off.

“Is she dead?” Vorly asked.

Bogston drew in a breath, which expanded her already expansive bosom. “I don't know what you two were up to on that rag, but—”

Vorly cut her off again. “You're right, you don't. In here, you're queen witch. But outside this little whitewashed dungeon, I rule. When we launch, Breeze will be sitting on Carduus, even if I have to poke his head inside this tent to get her. Is that clear?”

Bogston's blue eyes stared unblinkingly at Vorly as the skin of her neck turned fiery red. “As always, Flock Commander, you make your point with all the tact of one of your infernal beasts.”

“Thank you,” Vorly said, realizing his cock was getting hard and feeling his own cheeks blush. He coughed and looked up at the ceiling. “LFC wanted me checked out, too. What do you think? Will I make it?”

“It appears we won't be graced with your absence for some time yet,” Bogston said, regaining her composure and sighing. “However,” she continued, a wry smile forming on her lips, “as the legion flock commander himself has ordered you here I would be derelict in my duty if I didn't conduct a proper . . . examination.”

The emphasis she placed on the last word sent chills up Vorly's back. He could have sworn Breeze chuckled, but when he looked down at her she had her eyes closed and appeared to be sleeping.

“Look, I—”

“You'll take the cot beside Breeze. You'll be given water and food to begin to bring your humors back in balance. You'll bathe, or you will be bathed. I'll conduct your examination to determine your condition, especially your eyes, and then you'll rest until you are called back to duty.”

Bathe or be bathed . . . fucking High Druid, she's got me by the balls.
The thought was . . . stimulating. “Who will conduct my examination?” Vorly asked.

Bogston jutted out her chin. “I am master witch here, Flock Commander,” she said. She fussed with the lapel of her white robe, then looked up and past Vorly. The sound of a ladle stirring in the cauldron sped up appreciably. “I am in charge and the most experienced healer in this tent, in this roost, and, I daresay, in this land.”

Smile and accept your fate
, Vorly heard in his head, imagining Breeze whispering in his ear.

Vorly nodded and offered Bogston the barest hint of a smile.

“Ah, lovely,” Bogston said, looking him up and down as if he were a skinned hare hanging in a butcher's shop. “This should prove enlightening.”

Vorly watched her turn and walk away. Even under the voluminous robe the sway of her hips was obvious. A small cough turned his head.

The two strangers stood quietly on the other side of the cot. Vorly didn't like them. The tall one stood straight with his chest out and chin up, but it was the short, chubby one who tickled Vorly's warning sense.

“Who are you?” Vorly asked.

The tall one opened his mouth, but the crowny started talking first. “Flock Commander, a pleasure to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand across Breeze's cot. Vorly stared at it for a moment before finally reaching out and grabbing it. The man had a strong grip, not at all what Vorly expected. He noticed the young one didn't offer his hand.

“I'm Field Inspector Rande Ketts, Commerce and Taxation, and this strapping example of manhood beside me is Junior Officer Jawn Rathim, Seventh Phalanx Command Group. We're part of a little survey being conducted by the Greater Luitox Agricultural Mission and have been assigned to your flock.”

Silence reigned in the tent. Vorly looked from Ketts to Rathim and then down at Breeze who continued to feign sleep.

Vorly couldn't muster the energy to shout, or even growl. “Well, that's
so much bullshit,” he said, sitting down on his cot and looking up at the two men. “I'm about to pass out, so either tell me the real story or get the fuck out.”

Rathim looked to Ketts, who smiled widely. “Your legion flock commander was equally as direct, and astute. The survey
is
real, and I would be most appreciative if you would keep up the fiction while we're here. Our actual mission, however, regards the crystals.”

“Killed two men,” Vorly said.

“Now, wait one—” was as far as Rathim got before Ketts's elbow to his ribs silenced him.

“A tragedy to be sure. It's why we're here,” Ketts said.

Vorly studied the two men. Ketts was obviously in charge, although Rathim outranked him. Vorly noted that Rathim clearly didn't think the crystals were at fault and cleverly sidestepped the issue. Vorly turned to Breeze. “Well?”