Of Bone and Thunder (39 page)

“Until now,” Modelar began, “we have seen little of the enemy in this war. Where is the vaunted Forest Collective we keep hearing about?” He paused, allowing for the echo that was ever present in a quarry roost. It amplified his voice, making him seem larger than he was. He jutted out his chin and continued. “The only conclusion is that the little fuckers fear us!”

Cheers rose up from the quarry floor.

“Sly little Faery Cruds, aren't they?” Modelar said, invoking the flockmen's unflattering moniker for their enemy.

The cheers grew louder.

“They hide in their jungle and among the peasants, fighting only when they can quickly sneak away, never standing firm and meeting us man-to-man!”

The quarry shook with the flock's roar of approval. A rag added its voice, which only egged the men on more.

Modelar smiled. He knew his men, and he knew the frustration they felt. This damn war—fuck, you could barely call it a war—was in serious danger of becoming one shit-filled midden with nothing to hit except flies. They'd trained to support the army in large battles. Instead, they spent their days flying endless sorties searching for any little sign of the enemy slyts and having fuck-all to show for it except the occasional arrow shot up at them as they flew past.

I could order them into the heart of the Western Wilds and they'd run there
, Modelar realized. He stood on the balls of his feet and leaned out over the railing.

“It's time we brought the fight to them! It's time these little
people
,” he shouted, putting as much sneer into
people
as he could, “learned their place!” It occurred to him a flick later that the mules present were often called little people, and not fondly.
Well, they know what I mean.

“We're going to go get our rag and its crew back, and woe be to the slyts who get in our way!”

The noise in the quarry rolled in waves. The stone balcony beneath Modelar shook under his boots. He was glad he was up this high. He'd be embarrassed if his men could see the tears in his eyes.

“So I say to you,” he shouted, deliberately slowing his cadence to make them hang on every word. “I say to you, you defenders of civilization, you fighters for freedom, you warriors of the greatest kingdom in the world . . . light 'em up!”

The High Druid can hear this
, Modelar thought, looking up into the sky and smiling.

It was possible men had cheered longer and louder, but Modelar doubted it. The walls of the quarry vibrated as the flock roared with the power of storm-tossed breakers. Dust powdered the air and glowed orange as mule-operated bellows blew air into the chark pits, fanning the charcoal and carcasses into blossoming flame.

Modelar nodded at the flockmen as he made it to the roost floor. For the vast majority of them, this was as close as they would ever get to the fight. Slyts would no more attack an active roost than they would stand and fight in traditional battle. He knew many of the men had volunteered to ride on the rags in any capacity they could. He admired that.

Modelar stopped and took it all in, drawing in a deep breath and gritting his teeth as the familiar sting of sulfur and rock dust bit into his lungs. By the High Druid, he loved this.

Those slyts were going to get a war if Modelar had to burn every fucking acre of jungle to the ground.

“HE'S GOT A
future in politics, that one,” Rickets said, appearing at Vorly's side.

Vorly snorted, but he agreed with the crowny. Modelar had always had his eyes on the next rung on the ladder. Vorly thought his wife played a part in that, but Modelar couldn't have minded too much.

“The king's still the king as far as I'm concerned,” Vorly said, turning and walking the fire line. Feeders were shoveling chark into the open maws
of the rags. It was hot, foul, and dangerous work, but the mules were all volunteers. From what little Vorly knew of dwarf life, working the fire line beat working in the mines.

“A traditionalist—I like that,” Rickets said. He sounded like he meant it, but that only made Vorly distrust him more.

“What little we hear over here, it sounds like the Kingdom is in a bigger mess than Luitox,” Vorly said. “They should have left well enough alone. The Kingdom was working fine.”

“For some, definitely,” Rickets said, agreeing pleasantly with him.

Vorly stopped and looked at the man. “You think riots and strikes are better? I heard women were actually in the street burning brooms. Can you believe that? Burning their brooms! What's the world coming to?”

“Believe it or not, Commander, I think we agree far more than we disagree.”

Vorly didn't but held his tongue. He had more important things to do.

“Are you coming along?” Vorly asked, picking up his pace.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Rickets said, matching him stride for stride.

“Fucking great,” Vorly said, forgetting to hold his tongue.

LISTOWK WAS SO
intent on the incoming flock of rags that he didn't notice the presence behind him until he felt breath on the back of his neck.

Fucking Wraith!

“The Orange Herons?” Listowk asked, not bothering to turn around.

“They'd set up camp three miles west of here. Left in a hurry,” he said.

“Guess they knew the slyts weren't here,” Listowk said, knowing damn well the more likely explanation was that the LooTees had fled.

“We going somewhere?” Wraith asked.

The rags skimmed along the treetops, their wing tips thrashing the jungle foliage with each downstroke. Geysers of shredded leaves filled the air behind them, tinting the horizon green. It was unsettling to watch, and made all the worse because the sound of their wings lagged behind their motion, making the rags' impending arrival that much more jarring.

“Another day, another adventure,” Listowk said. “They found the missing rag and Sinte.”

“I got back just in time,” Wraith said, moving away.

If any other soldier had said that, Listowk would have taken it as sarcasm, but he knew Wraith meant it.

Listowk focused again on the rags. Their wings glowed a dull orange, while their sides were brick red. He didn't like the looks of it. He'd seen metal turn that color in a forge.

“Secure your gear!” Listowk shouted. “And find a place to get low. These rag drivers have got the whips out!” The sharp, concussive flaps of their wings began hitting the village. Each stroke hit him in the chest with a heavy thud.

Listowk did a quick mental calculation of the length of the dosha swamp and started backing up. He seriously doubted the rags would be able to slow down and land without plowing right through the village at the speed they were going.

“Move!” Listowk shouted, turning and running back toward the village. He'd gone ten steps when a wall of hot air slammed him in the back, flinging him to the ground.

The wind roared across the dosha swamps and into the village. The bamboo huts rocked and shook. One gave under the strain and flew apart in a spray of bamboo splinters and whirling fronds. Listowk rolled onto his side and squinted into the storm.

Twenty yards away the five rags fell through the air, their wings spread straight out to their sides catching wind so that the skin billowed. Their hind legs were fully stretched as their taloned claws reached for the earth. They plunged their talons into the dirt and grabbed hold. Their forward momentum ceased as if they'd flown into a mountainside. The beasts' huge chests tipped forward and they slammed down on their front claws. The muzzle of the nearest rag bounced off the ground only two yards from Listowk. Sparks flew from the rag's mouth as its teeth grated against each other. The rag opened its jaws wide and for a heart-stopping moment Listowk saw deep into the raging orange fire of the beast. He threw his hands across his face as the heat washed over him.

“Carduus! Shut your damn mouth!”

Listowk recognized the sound of the man's voice. It was the rag driver
from yesterday, although his voice was hoarse, a far cry from the booming instrument Listowk remembered.

The heat cooking Listowk vanished with a loud crack. He lowered his hands and sat up. The rag's head was now several feet in the air.

The flock commander stood up from his saddle, wobbling with the effort. He wore no helm and squinted in the morning sun.
Druid preserve me!
His eyes were filled with blood.

“You!” the flock commander shouted, pointing at Listowk. “You in command?”

The rag, Carduus, tilted its head to the side and stared down at Listowk. Of the two, Listowk chose to stare into the bloody eyes of the flock commander.

“Yes, sir,” Listowk said, gingerly rising to his feet. “Lead Crossbowman Listowk. We got your message last—”

The flock commander waved away the rest of Listowk's sentence. “Forget that. The Fuckin' C's are moving in on my rag and crew. Your men, too. If we don't get there fast they're all dead.”

“But—”

“Get all your men on board now, Lead Crossbowman!”

“Your eyes,” Listowk said, unable to accept the sight before him.

“It's normal,” the flock commander said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. Listowk looked and shuddered. His co-driver, a wisp of a woman with a witch's broom of red hair, was looking at him from her station on the rag's back. She had equally bloody eyes.

“That's normal?” Listowk asked.

“So I've been told,” the flock commander said. He sounded less than convinced. “Now get your men on board!”

Listowk started shaking his head when a gaping wound in the side of the rag's chest opened up, revealing more of the boiling orange fire burning deep inside the beast. Heat flooded out.

“It's wounded!”

“What! Where?” The flock commander leaned over and looked to where Listowk was pointing, then stood back up. “That's his fucking air gills! That's normal, too!”

“Did you wound my poor Carduus, then?” The head of an angry mule popped up from behind a dorsal plate halfway along Carduus's back. What at first sight looked like two black snakes clamped onto his jaw turned out to be the braided halves of his beard, each a foot long. The mule's face was a dark mahogany and glistened with sweat.

“High fuckin' Druid, Pagath,” the flock commander said, turning and addressing the mule. “Carduus is fine!”

“I'll be the judge of that,” Pagath said. Spry as a spring rabbit, Pagath hopped over the plates and jogged forward. Clad in black leathers from neck to boots with a soot-stained helm pushed back on his head, the mule huffed as he made it up to Carduus's wing joint.

“Where?” he asked, looking straight at Listowk.

Listowk motioned to the gaping wound in the rag's side with his crossbow.

“That's his fucking air gill,” Pagath said, looking to the ground and smashing his clenched fists together in a prayer that no doubt sought to save him from fools like Listowk.

“That's what I just said!” the flock commander shouted.

“I thought it was wounded,” Listowk said. He'd spent little time among mules, and never in his life had one looked down on him as this one did now. The shock of it combined with bloody eyes and fiery wounds that weren't left his mind wandering without an anchor.

“Look,” the flock commander said, running a hand through his hair. “You can ride on top, or we can pick your shield up in their claws. You've got the time it takes me to sit back down and strap in!”

Listowk tore his eyes away and located the rest of the shield. Soldiers milled around in various states of agitation. Several were pointing their weapons at the rags. “I need to go over the—”

The flock commander shook his head. “We don't have time. I need you on now!”

Listowk took a breath, choking on the fumes and the heat roiling off the rag. His gut told him to run.
Fuck it
.

“Carny, Wraith, get everyone on! No one stays behind.”

The shield didn't move.

Listowk dug deep and found the voice of authority. “That wasn't a fucking suggestion! The FnCs are bearing down on Sinte and the boys. If we don't go now they won't stand a chance!”

The shield scrambled toward the rags. Men clambered up wherever they could, ignoring every safety precaution they'd learned the day before. Curses rang out as bare hands touched hot scales, but they continued climbing onto the rags. Listowk double-timed it to the rag in front of him. With the beast's long neck laid flat against the ground Listowk could just reach the flock commander's outstretched hand. He grabbed it and jumped up beside him.

“Don't they teach you army ants anything?” Pagath said, staring up at Listowk. The dwarf's eyes were brown with flecks of gold and not a hint of blood, but looking into them was barely an improvement.

“They train us to fight,” Listowk said, finding a rudder now that things were happening. They were going to fight. That he understood. He gripped his crossbow a little tighter and leaned toward the mule. “They trained us well.”

“That's comforting,” Pagath said.

“Get the ants tied in, Pagath,” the flock commander said.

“By your command, FC,” Pagath said, turning and stomping off along Carduus's back.

Listowk struggled with the desire to put a bolt in the mule. The little fuck reminded him of Vooford.

“Here, sit your ass between me and Breeze,” the flock commander said, pointing at a patch of quilted gray blanket tacked into the scales with iron nails. Listowk looked around and saw more of the quilts tacked in place. Copper braid ran between two charred easels with crystal sheets mounted on them. Listowk steered clear of them.

“There's no saddle,” Listowk said. He looked down Carduus's back and realized all the saddles were gone. All that remained of the original furniture were the two central chains running down either side of the dorsal plates. In place of the saddles were pairs of sturdy leather thongs hung from the chains every couple of feet. Each set featured a thong one foot long and another that was three feet long. Both had knotted loops at their ends. More of the gray quilts had been tacked into place, each corresponding with a pair of thongs.