Forged by Fire (33 page)
At Daronpu Gen’s insistence, I’d been force-marched from my confrontation with the seven to the front line of that battle, but not before I’d first fought Gen with words, curses, fists, and teeth.
“Leave me here; I have a child and an infant to care for!” I shrieked as two soldiers wrenched me away from Gen, pinned me against a wall, and bound my wrists behind my back.
“The children’ll stay here, blood-blood!” Gen roared. “It’s you I need out there, not them!”
“You won’t use me against my sister! I refuse.”
“Then you’ll damn well watch her slaughter us firsthand. See if spilled blood and dead men won’t change your mind!”
Agawan wailed, and Savga’s eyes shot hatred and flame at Gen. “You keep them safe!” I cried over my shoulder to the seven, as two soldiers marched me from the room. “For the love of wings, you keep them safe!”
I murmured the words again, under my breath, a short while later, from where I stood upon the rooftop of the ar biyesku’s women’s barracks, flanked by Gen, Malaban Bri, and the soldiers. My wrists had not been freed, and I was shivering.
Before me, on the ground, was the sprawl of men and weaponry that formed our front line: thousands of soldiers gleaming in plastrons of oiled black leather and chain-mail gauntlets; twice as many rebels, hired mercenaries, and ikap-fen operatives in a motley of clothes, armed with an assortment of weapons; and at the very back, neat rows of archers manning the great, wicked crossbows that had been carted to the front line amidst much dust and tumult. The noise of so many men—a sea of limbs, axes, lances, sickles, pitchforks, swords, maces, and more—was a ceaseless roar. I thought of a mountain slide.
Our air squadrons were located to the northwest of the Clutch, where the seven hundred destriers that made up our air force had been housed in temporary stables erected near the river. Heralds darted overhead, carrying commu niqués from headquarters to the infantry, from the infantry to the air squadrons, from the air squadrons to the infan try. Their escoas wore the uprising’s burning-crown crest on their briskets, and the cloth shuddered and flapped in flight.
The air smelled of steel, sweat, dragon piss, and leather.
“It’s ludicrous, my being here,” I gasped to Gen. “Unbind me; give me a sword, at least.”
“You’ll do as I say,” he growled, scanning the heaving sea of foot soldiers.
“I have no skill in Djimbi magics. I don’t know what you expect from me.”
“I expect you to stop nattering!”
“Don’t treat me like a fool, Gen!” I cried. “This is my war as much as it’s yours. Now untie me!”
He turned his back on me and walked to the very edge of the roof. I spun on Malaban Bri.
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing—”
“Shut up, Zarq,” Malaban barked.“I saw what the Kwem bibi Shafwai were capable of, and I’ve seen what Chinion can do. If he says we’re to stand in the very center of the battle, then by Dragon, that’s where we’ll stand!”
“He’s human. He’s fallible.”
“As are you. Now shut up.”
He turned away from me and grimly stared at the roiling gray smirch that was Kratt’s gathering forces.
The air above Xxamer Zu was suddenly alive with destriers, all bearing the burning-crown crest of the uprising. In precise diamond formations, ninety-six dragons—eight squadrons of destriers laden with incendiaries—flew over head. The raspy, metallic noise of their wings vibrated the thatch roof beneath me; crests flapped, green and rufous scales gleamed, talons flashed, and tails that had been stud ded with steel barbs flicked like spiked metal whips in the sky. The dragons poured overhead . . . and then were wing ing hard above the savanna, carrying the deadly cargo slung beneath their bellies straight toward Kratt’s infantry.
A great cheer rose up from our forces, a typhoon of sound that swept over me and momentarily stilled my blood. It had begun. The bloodshed, the rebellion, that fight for lib eration that I’d wanted, had begun.
I felt ill.
Several long moments passed as our squadrons grew smaller in the cloudy skies. Wind soughed over the grass lands. The roil of activity in Xxamer Zu—of hundreds of destriers being saddled, of air squadrons mounting up, of soldiers taking position around the stables where the bulls were housed on the Clutch—rumbled and pitched in the background.
I was gulping air in fits and starts.
Some of our airborne dragons suddenly turned into gouts of flame and brilliant flashes of fire. I gasped, reared back.
“Enemy crossbows,” Malaban said. “Their quarrels shat tered the incendiaries strapped to their bellies.”
Plumes of oily black smoke spiraled earthward with the plummeting remains of corpses.
“One Dragon, have mercy,” I whispered, then tried to count the plumes of smoke. “How many?”
“Hard to say. Two clawfuls, at most.”
A locust swarm rose up from Kratt’s forces and swept toward our squadrons. The two aerial tides met; I expected to hear the sound of the two clashing—destriers bugling, men bellowing, talons slashing hide—but no, not at that distance. Only an eerie silence, beneath which ran the omi nous rumble of a Clutch ready for war.
Beneath the aerial battle in the distance, flashes of fire began leaping like crimson minnows from the ground; our squadrons were releasing their nets over Kratt’s sprawling forces. Black smoke rose into the air in plumes, and I wondered whether any of dragonmas ter Re’s former apprentices—those with whom I’d once trained—were there, in Kratt’s infantry or his air force, hearing dragons shriek and men scream as incendiaries whistled from the sky and dirt roared into the air, sever ing limbs and spewing guts, rock, smoke, and a fire-flash of heat into the sky.
Eight more squadrons of our incendiary fliers launched from Xxamer Zu: another ninety-six dragons. Two of those squadrons veered southeast, toward the road that led from Xxamer Zu into the mountainous jungle, the very same upon which marched the Imperial regiment. The other six flew like loosed quarrels toward Kratt’s forces.
More enemy destriers boiled into the air as our squad rons approached. Our fliers went wide, flew high, tried to avoid entanglement and come in from the sides and be hind. Red and orange flashed from the ground, a firework display of incendiaries. Geysers of black smoke spewed into the sky.
Eight more squadrons of our incendiary fliers launched toward Kratt’s forces. Beside me, Malaban Bri grunted. “They outnumber us four to one. We have to crush them hard and fast; once they draw nearer us, we can’t use the in cendiaries for fear of burning Xxamer Zu to the ground.”
Daronpu Gen was standing right at the edge of the roof, sucking huge drafts of air into his nostrils like a quarrycrazed hound, neck muscles taut. I wondered, briefly, if he were mad.
Another eight squadrons of our fliers launched toward the enemy, and I reflexively ducked at the typhoon of noise, at the unnatural sight of so many destriers swarming into the air. The seething aerial mass in the distance was spread ing outward, growing thicker, coming closer.
Clouds of black smoke billowed from the ground as incendiaries flashed crimson and red. Parts of the aerial battle were quickly becoming obscured from view by the smoke. I bit my lip, imagining what it must be like flying into that chaos, vision obscured, the acidic smoke choking lungs and stinging eyes.
“Notch!” our crossbow commanders bellowed, and winches clanked. Our infantry was pressing forward in bat tle lust, toward the low, grassy hill over which Kratt’s forces would soon arrive.
“If anything happens to Savga . . .” I said hoarsely, to no one who could hear me.
The skies in front of us were now clotted with rufousand-green outspread dragon wings flashing the color of old copper, the morass of airborne destriers pressing closer, closer. . . .
Another eight squadrons of dragonfliers launched from Xxamer Zu and flew toward the approaching enemy. Just under five hundred destriers we’d sent into the skies: al most our entire air force.
“They won’t be carrying incendiaries, not those,” Malaban said grimly. “Too close.”
The outraged trumpeting of fighting destriers carried on the air, thin and high.
“Draw!” our crossbow commanders bellowed, and the deep, resonant cries rolled like thunder down the rows of poised crossbow archers.
The mob in the skies was so close I could see some of the individual riders crouched on the backs of the dragons, could see the heraldic crests of the enemy flapping on bris ket and belly, bearing the purple-and-green Ranon ki Cinai emblem of a rearing bull dragon holding a black bird upon one extended claw.
The first ragged squadron of enemy destriers burst free of the combat and came toward us. Fast, faster, close, closer . . .
“Loose!” bellowed our crossbow commanders, and a flood of quarrels screamed toward dragon bellies.
“Where is she?” Daronpu Gen roared, slapping his head.
Our rain of arrows hit several targets. Enemy dragons plummeted earthward, wing membranes shredding in the descent. My guts clenched and I recoiled with each dragon scream that told of a quarrel driving deep into its mark. So much death, so much noise!
Several enemy destriers evaded our crossbows, flew wide around the northeasterly outskirts of our Clutch, heading south.
“They’re going to regroup behind us,” I cried. “They’ll join the Imperial regiment when it reaches us.”
“Not those ones,” Malaban Bri growled. “Others, maybe.”
Two of our remaining squadrons launched into the air and engaged in combat with the enemy heading south.
“Notch! Draw! Loose!”
More oncoming enemies were flying wide of our Clutch, skirting far around the eastern edge, continuing south. More of them came, and more.
“Notch! Draw! Loose!”
I was finding it difficult to inhale.
“She
must
show, blood-blood! The prophecy foretells it!” Daronpu Gen roared. His one eye rolled in his head, and he was frothing as he yanked on his hair.
I turned on Malaban, shivering hard. “Untie me.”
Malaban’s eyes dragged away from the battle and met mine.
“I brought you the dragons’ secret,” I said hoarsely. “I saved your sister. Untie me.”
The skies above Xxamer Zu were now thick with drag ons bearing Temple’s heraldic crest, and with a sound like the earth heaving asunder, Kratt’s impressive infantry sud denly boiled over the grassy hillock in the near distance and surged down toward us.
“Untie me!” I shrieked, as our infantry charged toward Kratt’s, bellowing insanely.
Our archers adjusted the angle of their massive cross bows; winches were cranked tight; quarrels whined into the air and showered upon the advancing enemy infantry. Men screamed and fell, but still the enemy sea poured toward us.
Malaban withdrew the dirk at his waist and sawed at the leather thong binding my wrists. “Chinion, we should move from here!”
Dragons swooped low; our archers fired from the ground, taking out individuals. Dragons screamed; winged bodies plummeted and crashed atop soldiers. The bindings around my wrists fell free.
The shadow of a dragon loomed imminent and huge overhead.
“Down!” I shrieked as I covered my head and dropped.
Talons scored thatch. The reek of agitated dragon burned my nostrils. A whip-fast tongue struck empty air. I smelled venom.
Then the dragon was gone.
I raised my head, spat gritty thatch from my mouth. Saw
things
dropping from some of the backs of airborne enemy destriers,
things
like great silky gray parasols, floating in exorably earthward, into the heart of Xxamer Zu, near its temple.
And with a bolt of terror, I at once understood their sig nificance. I grabbed one of Malaban’s arms, where he lay sprawled on the roof beside me, belly down, while dragons screamed and clashed overhead, while arrows whizzed and people died. “Malaban, look! Kratt’s dropping people into Xxamer Zu.”
“Our soldiers will deal with them—”
“No, you don’t understand! Kratt’s dropping my sister into the Clutch to provoke the appearance of his Skykeeper.”
Malaban stared at the gray parasols floating down upon Xxamer Zu. Attached to ropes that dangled beneath each parasol hung a person, whether it was a soldier intent on torching tinder-dry buildings and engaging in hand-to hand combat . . .
. . . or a woman whose very presence would provoke a mighty haunt.
A deafening skirl rent the air, and the smell of rot fell over the Clutch like a black cloud, and there she was, my mother, the haunt, splendid in her size and fury, swooping over Xxamer Zu, knocking aside airborne destriers with her body as if they were gnats, twiggy tail lashing like an impossibly huge whip, fanged beak snapping destrier wings in two. She banked, circled back, swooped down upon our infantry, talons extended, and raked bloody twin paths through that heaving sea of soldiers. Bodies and limbs were catapulted through the air by her thrashing tail.
Malaban clambered to his feet, hauled me upright. The two soldiers who’d been guarding us lay several feet away. One was headless, decapitated by dragon talon. Daronpu Gen lay sprawled facedown some few feet away from him, splattered by blood; whether his own or the soldier’s, I didn’t know. But he was alive, rising unsteadily to his knees. The river-roar of fighting soldiers was almost deafening.
I moved swiftly, snatched up the dead soldier’s sword.
“Gen!” I shouted, and he froze midcrouch as the point of my sword touched his throat. “Listen to me! You won’t harm my sister, understand? We’re going to remove her from the Clutch, that’s all.”
“Put down the sword, Zarq!” Malaban bellowed. He still held his dirk in his hand.
The haunt ascended the skies for another pass, eviscerat ing several destriers with a swipe of her talons.
“We’re wasting time!” I said. “Get on your feet, Gen. Slowly! Good. Now move over to the ladder.”
With my sword quivering at his throat, Gen approached the crude ladder that led down from the roof.
“You can’t protect her, Zarq. She’s the enemy,” he boomed.
“We’ll find her and remove her from the Clutch,” I said stubbornly.
An incendiary exploded near the arbiyesku, and the roof beneath us juddered violently.
“Chinion!” Malaban bent, snatched up the other soldier’s sword, and threw it to him. Gen spun away from me, caught the sword by the hilt, and our blades rang against each other, once, twice, thrice, a dizzy flurry of clashing steel.
The blows rang down my arms and wrenched my shoul ders, and my vision swam, but I’d trained with Dragonmas ter Re, and Gen was weak from recent torture, so I retained my grip on my sword. The two of us broke apart and slowly circled each other.
“You’re thinking with your heart, not your head, Zarq!” Gen panted. “For the love of wings, listen to how many are dying around us! Will you turn traitor and let your Clutch be captured, all for the sake of Kratt’s ebani?”
“She doesn’t have to die!” My voice was cracking, and I hated myself for it. “Put her on an escoa; take her into the jungle.”
“You think the shendwen-dar will permit that?”
“You think she’ll allow you to harm Waivia?” I fired back, and I attacked him wildly.