A Sword for a Dragon (21 page)

Relkin groaned.

“Pekel thinks that since the First Kadein is the senior unit, he should be in command. Of course, Pax-ion has been a general for ten years while Pekel was only jumped up from commander at the beginning of this campaign.”

“Those damned Kadeini think they should always be the leaders.”

Relkin sipped his soup glumly and then turned in and tried to sleep. He didn’t even notice that the banner he and Baz had captured had been taken from his tent.

Meanwhile General Paxion was confronting a very unpalatable situation. Sleep was out of the question. Paxion was the obvious choice to replace Hektor, but now Pekel was making absurd claims. Pekel was demanding that the leadership of the expedition devolve on him despite General Paxion’s seniority. It was unheard of, a complete departure from the rules of the legion. The insult was insufferable, Paxion had been fighting battles when Pekel was still at school.

To make things worse, there were more problems beyond the matter of Pekel. Pekel was not even the complete master in his own legion. Some of the commanders were real Kadein aristocrats and unwilling to take orders from a career officer like Pekel, whom they considered their social inferior.

These men, like Err Dastior and Vinblat, had been insubordinate even to General Hektor, who had threatened to have Dastior flogged if he disobeyed orders again.

Paxion felt almost overwhelmed by it all. But he knew he could not give up. They were but ten thousand men and a few hundred dragons lost in the vast-ness of Ourdh. They faced a terrible enemy, who, although defeated in one battle, would surely be able to put another army into the field.

The guard pulled back the flap, and the surviving chief surgeon came in. The man was pale and smelled faintly of vomit.

“You are able to function?” said Paxion.

“Yes.” The surgeon sat down. “A little unsteady still, but I’ve purged and I don’t think I took enough of the wine. I had but a sip.”

“The major?”

“Dead before the meal was over, sudden, painless. That means a nervebane, these things can be deadly.”

“The general?”

“Coma. He drank but half of his glass of the wine. The major drank a whole glass, Surgeon Paris drank two.”

“And survived the major I understand. We had a report.”

“Aye, he did. Surgeon Paris was a large man and used to wine. Perhaps it took longer to work on him.”

“And, you, Surgeon Tubtiel?”

“I was drinking from another bottle of wine, a white wine that I brought myself. The poisoned wine was red, a famous vineyard here. I was going to drink some. I was very lucky.”

“Coma?”

“Peculiarly tricky thing coma, sometimes they never wake up. No pattern to it that I can tell. We will simply have to wait.”

“Well, we can’t wait here. We must move.”

“General Hektor should be moved as little as possible, of course, but if we must move on, then we must.”

Paxion sent messages to General Pekel and all the other senior officers. They were to meet him for breakfast. By then he hoped he would have decided what to do next.

Dawn broke grey and murky over the chariot arena. Relkin reported to punishment detail, and was given buckets and sent to fetch water for the legion’s breakfast. The pump was located on a subfloor of the stables. There were twelve steps between them. Relkin climbed the steps many times before he was allowed a meager breakfast of his own. At last the punishment detail was dismissed, and he ran to take care of his dragons.

He found them breakfasting cheerily on loaves of fresh baked bread smothered in akh brought them by the other dragonboys. They greeted him with dragonish chuckles. They had obviously heard all about his adventures.

Relkin ignored the lofty reptilian comments about the weaknesses of humanity, in particular of dragonboys, and worked on the Purple Green’s sore feet with antiseptic and blister sherbet.

All too soon, the cornets were blowing and orders came down for them to form up and march.

While quickly packing his gear, Relkin discovered that the banner they’d captured from the Sephisti was missing. His heart sank. Worse even than the loss of the banner was the thought that someone in the unit would steal it. He reported the loss to Hatlin, who went pale with anger.

An investigation was begun, and Hatlin searched through the baggage but no trace of the banner was discovered. Solly Gotinder, Rold’s dragonboy, reported seeing Dandrax wandering through the 109th tents carrying something.

Relkin was left downcast. If Dandrax had taken it, then he quite probably had the backing of Commander Glaves. Getting it back would be no easy matter.

“I don’t know what we can do. I’m under a cloud as it is, and we can’t just accuse Commander Glaves of stealing it.”

The dragons’ long tongues flicked in and out for a while as they thought about this.

“Perhaps we have to persuade him to tell us the truth,” said Bazil at last.

Relkin shrugged. Dragons were often impractical when it came to human affairs. Glaves was the commander of the regiment; they could not simply twist his arm behind his back. Naturally, Dragoneer Hatlin agreed on this point. The 109th would have to seek justice from a higher authority, and it would not be easy. They had no proof and no way to order a search of Glaves’s belongings. Teeth gritted, Dragoneer Hatlin promised to find some way of recovering the banner.

“You have my word on it, Dragoneer Relkin.”

Relkin was not encouraged.

“Maybe we ask questions of the man Dandrax,” grumbled the Broketail.

Hatlin pursed his lips.

“I never heard you say that,” he said.

Dragon eyes zeroed in on him. Then they looked at each other. Hatlin moved away.

“Time will come for it,” said the Purple Green.

They fell in and awaited the order to march.

Drums thundered, the cornet shrilled, and the First Kadein came marching past them with their colors held high. Rank after rank of men in grey and green, steel helmets polished, shields over their backs, went by and moved out of the arena.

At the rear came the Kadein dragons, leatherbacks, brasshides, gristles, and greens, a proud sight in their polished steel and fine leather joboquins. They went slouching past, their huge swords bobbing together above their shoulders. As they went, there were a few terse remarks in dragon speech, things that sounded like snarl-hisses and grunts to human ears.

Behind the legion came the wagons and coaches carrying the surgeons and their equipment. Among them was a small coach, two women on the driver board. For a moment, Relkin glimpsed Miranswa there, behind the weather witch. He raised a hand to wave to her, but his whistle died on his lips when he found Hatlin glaring at him the next moment. Miranswa disappeared into the wagon as it reached the gates.

Gloomily, Relkin wondered if he would ever see her again. Hatlin stormed by, there was a problem with Vlok’s pack. One of the straps was loose.

“Where are we going, Dragoneer?” called someone.

“Ourdh, damn it, we’re going to the city of Ourdh.” Hatlin did not sound happy. He berated Swane for letting a strap work loose on Vlok’s pack.

“I ought to make you carry it,” he snapped. “Hurry up and repair it. We’re not going to be the ones that slow down the entire legion.”

Swane worked furiously with thongs and needle while around him there was a buzz of conversation.

Everyone knew this was a change of plan. They were supposed to be marching full tilt to Dzu to destroy the heart of the Sephisti menace. Now they were retiring to Ourdh.

“It’ll be the Kadeini, you can bet on that,” muttered Dragoneer Hatlin as he went by. There were many rumbles of agreement. The Kadeini wanted to go home without finishing the job, everyone knew this. The Kadein First Legion had been due for two years back in Kadein, and had been none too happy with being sent to Ourdh instead.

They marched, swinging out onto Sokwa Avenue and heading into the center of the city, with the whistle and the drum to lighten their hearts. The crowds stopped to stare, and then to cheer them as they went by and the men stiffened their backs and marched as if on the parade ground. They went through the gates into the crowded heart of the city, and the throngs around them grew even larger.

Then they were on the great bridge of Kwa, marching out of the city and across the mile-wide expanse of brown water that was the Oon. This was the last bridge, actually a series of spans between islands, and from here to the gulf, the Oon broadened considerably and could only be crossed by ferry.

On the far side was an extension of the city, and then some suburbs, before they at length moved on into the province of Norim. Once again they traversed a landscape of villages, fields, and occasional ziggurats towering above the palms.

At night, they camped in the open behind a temporary rampart and parapet. Around dawn, they smelled smoke and Paxion sent scouts northwards. They returned by breakfast to report that a fresh Sephisti army had swarmed into Kwa almost as soon as they had left it, and that the great city was now besieged. The smoke they smelled came from the burning of the suburbs.

Paxion called a meeting. The Kadeini officers were gloomy and downcast. They were against going back. Paxion sighed and decided that keeping the legions together was the most important task. They would go on to Ourdh.

Afterward, Paxion called Pekel aside.

“Damn it, man, we’re here to fight aren’t we?” Paxion grumbled.

Pekel disagreed. “Use your head, General, we don’t have the numbers to hold a place like Kwa. You cannot trust the Ourdhi. Today they love us, but tomorrow they could turn on us. They are like that, fickle and vain, cruel and indulgent.”

“They welcome us to their city, they fed us.”

“By the gods, they poisoned General Hektor.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that Hektor was poisoned by anyone but an agent on the enemy.”

Pekel waved a hand. “Whoever did it, it happened in Kwa, and I know that my men will not go back. We must go to Ourdh and take ship for home. We must preserve our victory.”

Paxion could muster no argument strong enough to change the Kadeini’s mind. Paxion was uncertain of his power to command in this situation. If the legions separated, they might easily be overwhelmed piecemeal and the disaster would be blamed on him.

Paxion was left pondering an uncertain future. He had not asked for this command. They were far from home, and they were surrounded by a deeply alien culture. Pekel could well be right, and if the countryside turned against them, then they might have a devil of a time getting out alive.

Still, he felt guilt at the thought of leaving Kwa to the enemy to be sacked and ruined. That smoke bespoke a host of tragedies. Paxion thought of his wife and children far to the north in Fort Dalhousie. He thanked the Mother that they were far from this and perfectly safe, and he prayed that he would return to them soon.

As General Paxion finished breakfast and resumed the march south, Ribela of Defwode awoke in the city of Ourdh after a short but worthwhile sleep. She had returned late at night from an abortive attempt to reach Dzu. The river swarmed with pirates who, lured by the promise of plunder, had allied themselves to the new power in Dzu.

Ribela prepared magic. The news of the poisoning of General Hektor had been waiting for her, brought by Talion scouts sent ahead by Paxion. It seemed the commanders of the legion were demoralized. Ribela toyed with the thought of returning at once with the scouts and trying to infuse them with General Hektor’s combativeness. Then she recalled the emperor’s prohibition on interference with the military arm. The damage to morale from witch interference outdid any tactical benefit, in the view of the Imperial Council.

So Ribela prepared herself for another course. They still did not know exactly what they faced in Dzu. It was time for her to find out.

She sent Lagdalen to procure a dozen live mice and some food. Then she prepared passages of the Birrak, and went over the pattern of declension and volumata she would require. It was a spell she had used before, but it was always wise to go over it. There were more than a thousand lines of declension, and human memories were fallible, even those of Great Witches.

Lagdalen went to the Merchant Irhan’s stables and offered a Marneri silver piece to the two stables boys in return for mice. The boys, overawed, had difficulty at first in understanding her, a woman not clad in the garub, who inexplicably spoke Uld, albeit with a barbarous accent. Then they focused on the silver piece she held up for them.

In less than twenty minutes, Lagdalen had a bag with twelve mice writhing around inside.

Carrying the squirming sack, she ran to the kitchen and requested a loaf of bread and some oil, and then she headed up the steps once again.

On the third landing, she almost ran into the Lady Inula, who was clad in just a dressing gown and white puff slippers.

“By the goddess, what are you doing up at this hour, child? It’s barely dawn.”

Inula conveniently ignored her own wakefulness. But her eyes eagerly took in the details of Lagdalen’s burden. A loud squeak came from the sack as one mouse bit another mouse.

“Mice?”

Lagdalen nodded. “I must go, lady.” Ribela would not want her to waste a moment.

“Yes, I’m sure you must,” said Inula, who watched the girl go with eyes filled with calculations. Lagdalen ran up the stairs to the topmost floor. The small garret room that Ribela had taken was darkened and filled with the sweet smoke of lapsulum incense, burning on a square white altar stone that Ribela had asked the Merchant Irhan to move here.

“Thank you, my dear,” said the Great Witch. “Release them on the floor and stand by with the bread and the oil. They will be very hungry after a while.”

Lagdalen opened the sack, and the mice tumbled out to the floor and streaked away in all directions.

Ribela blew into a set of silver pipes that made sounds inaudible to human ears. The mice froze in place and stared upward with eyes like little glossy black pearls.

Here was the Queen of Mice! They were enchanted. How she drew them to her with those eyes so large and luminous. She played a little song to them on the pipes, and they came to sit in front of her in two rows as neat as if they were schoolchildren on their best behavior.