Empire of Ivory (2 page)

hurry onwards.

"No, no, Gherni," Temeraire called out, and dashed forward

to swat at the little blue-and-white feral: she had dropped

onto the very back of a startled French Chasseur-Vocifère:

a courier-beast of scarcely four tons, who could not bear

up under even her slight weight and was sinking in the air

despite the frantic beating of its wings. Gherni had

already fixed her teeth in the French dragon's neck and was

now worrying it back and forth with savage vigor; meanwhile

the Prussians clinging to her harness were all but drumming

their heels on the heads of the French crew, crammed so

tightly not a shot from the French side could fail of

killing one of them.

In his efforts to dislodge her, Temeraire was left open,

and the Pou-de-Ciel seized the fresh opportunity; this time

daring enough to make an attempt at Temeraire's back. His

claws struck so near that Laurence saw the traces of

Temeraire's blood shining black on the curved edges as the

French dragon lifted away again; his hand tightened on his

pistol, uselessly.

"Oh, let me, let me!" Iskierka was straining furiously

against the restraints which kept her lashed down to

Temeraire's back. The infant Kazilik would soon enough be a

force to reckon with; as yet, however, scarcely a month out

of the shell, she was too young and unpracticed to be a

serious danger to anyone besides herself. They had tried as

best they could to secure her, with straps and chains and

lecturing, but the last she roundly ignored, and though she

had been but irregularly fed these last few days, she had

added another five feet of length overnight: neither straps

nor chains were proving of much use in restraining her.

"Will you hold still, for all love?" Granby said

despairingly; he was throwing his own weight against the

straps to try and pull her head down. Allen and Harley, the

young lookouts stationed on Temeraire's shoulders, had to

go scrambling out of the way to avoid being kicked as

Granby was dragged stumbling from side to side by her

efforts. Laurence loosened his buckles and climbed to his

feet, bracing his heels against the strong ridge of muscle

at the base of Temeraire's neck. He caught Granby by the

harness-belt when Iskierka's thrashing swung him by again,

and managed to hold him steady, but all the leather was

strung tight as violin strings, trembling with the strain.

"But I can stop him!" she insisted, twisting her head

sidelong as she tried to work free. Eager jets of flame

were licking out of the sides of her jaws as she tried once

again to lunge at the enemy dragon, but their Pou-de-Ciel

attacker, small as he was, was still many times her size

and too experienced to be frightened off by a little show

of fire; he only jeered, backwinging to expose all of his

speckled brown belly to her as a target in a gesture of

insulting unconcern.

"Oh!" Iskierka coiled herself tightly with rage, the thin

spiky protrusions all over her sinuous body jetting steam,

and then with a mighty heave she reared herself up on her

hindquarters. The straps jerked painfully out of Laurence's

grasp, and involuntarily he caught his hand back to his

chest, the numb fingers curling over in reaction. Granby

had been dragged into mid-air and was dangling from her

thick neck-band, vainly, while she let loose a torrent of

flame: thin and yellow-white, so hot the air about it

seemed to twist and shrivel away, it made a fierce banner

against the night sky.

But the French dragon had cleverly put himself before the

wind, coming strong and from the east; now he folded his

wings and dropped away, and the blistering flames were

blown back against Temeraire's flank. Temeraire, still

scolding Gherni back into the line of flight, uttered a

startled cry and jerked away while sparks scattered over

the glossy blackness of his hide, perilously close to the

carrying-harness of silk and linen and rope.

"Verfluchtes Untier! Wir werden noch alle verbrennen," one

of the Prussian officers yelled hoarsely, pointing at

Iskierka, and fumbled with shaking hand in his bandolier

for a cartridge.

"Enough there; put up that pistol," Laurence roared at him

through the speaking-trumpet; Lieutenant Ferris and a

couple of the topmen hurriedly unlatched their harnessstraps and let themselves down to wrestle it out of the

officer's hands. They could only reach the fellow by

clambering over the other Prussian soldiers, however, and

while too afraid to let go of the harness, the men were

obstructing their passage in every other way, thrusting out

elbows and hips with abrupt jerks, full of resentment and

hostility.

Lieutenant Riggs was giving orders, distantly, towards the

rear; "Fire!" he shouted, clear over the increasing rumble

among the Prussians; the handful of rifles spoke with

bright powder-bursts, sulfurous and bitter. The French

dragon made a little shriek and wheeled away, flying a

little awkward: blood streaked in rivulets from a rent in

his wing, where a bullet had by lucky chance struck one of

the thinner patches around the joint and penetrated the

tough, resilient hide.

The respite came late; some of the men were already clawing

their way up towards Temeraire's back, snatching at the

greater security of the leather harness to which the

aviators were hooked by their carabiner straps. But the

harness could not take all their weight, not so many of

them: if the buckles stretched open, or some straps gave

way, and the whole began to slide, it would entangle

Temeraire's wings and send them all plummeting into the

ocean together.

Laurence loaded his pistols fresh and thrust them into his

waistband, loosened his sword, and stood up again. He had

willingly risked all their lives to bring these men out of

a trap, and he meant to see them safely ashore if he could;

but he would not see Temeraire endangered by their hysteric

fear.

"Allen, Harley," he said to the boys, "do you run across to

the riflemen and tell Mr. Riggs: if we cannot stop them,

they are to cut the carrying-harness loose, all of it; and

be sure you keep latched on as you go. Perhaps you had

better stay here with her, John," he added, when Granby

made to come away with him: Iskierka had quieted for the

moment, her enemy having quitted the field, but she still

coiled and re-coiled herself in sulky restlessness,

muttering in disappointment.

"Oh, certainly! I should like to see myself do any such

thing," Granby said, taking out his sword; he had for-gone

pistols since becoming Iskierka's captain, to avoid the

risk of handling open powder around her.

Laurence was too unsure of his ground to pursue an

argument; Granby was not properly his subordinate any

longer, and the more experienced aviator of the two of

them, counting years aloft. Granby took the lead as they

crossed Temeraire's back, moving with the sureness of a boy

trained up from the age of seven; at each step Laurence

handed forward his own lead-strap and let Granby lock it on

to the harness for him, which he could do one-handed, that

they might go more quickly.

Ferris and the topmen were still struggling with the

Prussian officer in the midst of a thickening clot of men;

they were disappearing from view under the violent press of

bodies, only Martin's yellow hair visible. The soldiers

were near full riot, men beating and kicking at one

another, thinking of nothing but an impossible escape. The

knots of the carrying-harness were tightening, giving up

more slack, so all the loops and bands of it hung loose and

swinging with the thrashing, struggling men.

Laurence came on one of the soldiers, a young man, eyes

wide and staring in his wind-reddened face and his thick

mustache wet-tipped with sweat, trying to work his arm

beneath the main harness, blindly, though the buckle was

already straining open, and he would in a moment have slid

wholly free.

"Get back to your place!" Laurence shouted, pointing to the

nearest open loop of the carrying-harness, and thrust the

man's hand away from the harness. Then his ears were

ringing, a thick ripe smell of sour cherries in his

nostrils as his knees folded beneath him. He put a hand to

his forehead slowly, stupidly; it was wet. His own harnessstraps were holding him, painfully tight against his ribs

with all his weight pulling against them. The Prussian had

struck him with a bottle; it had shattered, and the liquor

was dripping down the side of his face.

Instinct rescued him; he put up his arm to take the next

blow and pushed the broken glass back at the man's face;

the soldier said something in German and let go the bottle.

They wrestled together a few moments more; then Laurence

caught the man's belt and heaved him up and away from

Temeraire's side. The soldier's arms were spread wide,

grasping at nothing; Laurence, watching, abruptly recalled

himself, and at once he lunged out, reaching to his full

length; but too late, and he came thumping heavily back

against Temeraire's side with empty hands; the soldier was

already gone from sight.

His head did not hurt over-much, but Laurence felt queerly

sick and weak. Temeraire had resumed flying towards the

coast, having rounded up the rest of the ferals at last,

and the force of the wind was increasing. Laurence clung to

the harness a moment, until the fit passed and he was able

to make his hands work properly again. There were already

more men clawing up: Granby was trying to hold them back,

but they were overbearing him by sheer weight of numbers,

even though struggling as much against one another as him.

One of the soldiers grappling for a hold on the harness

climbed too far out of the press; he slipped, landed

heavily on the men below him, and carried them all away; as

a tangled, many-limbed mass they fell into the slack loops

of the carrying-harness, and the muffled wet noises of

their bones cracking together sounded like a roast chicken

being wrenched hungrily apart.

Granby was hanging from his harness-straps, trying to get

his feet planted again; Laurence crab-walked over to him

and gave him a steadying arm. Below he could just make out

the washy seafoam, pale against the black water; Temeraire

was flying lower and lower as they neared the coast.

"That damned Pou-de-Ciel is coming round again," Granby

panted as he got back his footing; the French had somehow

got a dressing over the gash in the dragon's wing, even if

the great white patch of it was awkwardly placed and far

larger than the injury made necessary. The dragon looked a

little uncomfortable in the air, but he was coming on

gamely nonetheless; they had surely seen that Temeraire was

vulnerable. If the Pou-de-Ciel and his crew were able to

catch the harness and drag it loose, they might finish

deliberately what the soldiers had begun in panic, and the

chance of bringing down a heavy-weight, much less one as

valuable as Temeraire, would surely tempt them to great

risk.

"We will have to cut the soldiers loose," Laurence said,

low and wretched, and looked upwards, where the carryingloops attached to the leather; but to send a hundred men

and more to their deaths, scarce minutes from safety, he

was not sure he could bear; or ever to meet General

Kalkreuth again, having done it; some of the general's own

young aides were aboard, and doing their best to keep the

other men quiet.

Riggs and his riflemen were firing short, hurried volleys;

the Pou-de-Ciel was keeping just out of range, waiting for

the best moment to chance his attack. Then Iskierka sat up

and blew out another stream of fire: Temeraire was flying

ahead of the wind, so the flames were not turned against

him, this time; but every man on his back had at once to

throw himself flat to avoid the torrent, which burnt out

too quickly before it could reach the French dragon.

The Pou-de-Ciel at once darted in while the crew were so

distracted; Iskierka was gathering herself for another

blow, and the riflemen could not get up again. "Christ,"

Granby said; but before he could reach her, a low rumble

like fresh thunder sounded, and below them small round red

mouths bloomed with smoke and powder-flashes: shore

batteries, firing from the coast below. Illuminated in the

yellow blaze of Iskierka's fire, a twenty-four-pound ball

of round-shot flew past them and took the Pou-de-Ciel full

in the chest; he folded around it like paper as it drove

through his ribs, and crumpled out of the air, falling to

the rocks below: they were over the shore, they were over

the land, and thick-fleeced sheep were fleeing before them

across the snow-matted grass.

The townspeople of the little harbor of Dunbar were