City in the Sky (21 page)

“What happened to you?” he asked softly.

“We were attacked,” Erik said flatly. “A group of… I don't know – assassins? Thugs? Footpads? There were thirty or forty of them, at least. They used some kind of thrown explosive to lead their attack.”

“Gods,” the Dwarf cursed softly. “Sergeant, I promise you that this will be fully and completely investigated, and we
will
find out the cause of this! In the meantime, what aid we can extend to you, we will.”

Erik nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Once our men have been healed, we must return to our ship – I hesitate to continue to pick up our cargo after this, especially with our platoon commander wounded.”

“You have papers for this cargo?” Eeroin asked.

Erik nodded.

“Give them to me,” he ordered. “It will be brought to your ship.”

Erik gave the Dwarf the papers, and he handed them to another Dwarf whose armor bore a single silver axe, a lieutenant.

Eeroin spoke to the man in a rapid stream of guttural syllables, of which Erik managed to understand about a word in ten. While most of Cevran spoke very similar languages, and if it was spoken slowly, Erik understood Dwarven almost as well as he understood the Aeradi or his own native Hellitian dialect, the thick Dwarven dialect rendered the language unintelligible at full speed.

Whatever Eeroin told the junior officer, he took the papers Erik gave the senior Dwarf and left shortly thereafter. Eeroin turned back to Erik.

“These squads and I will accompany you back to your ship, as will the healers,” he told Erik. “We will make absolutely certain no further attack takes place.”

Erik murmured his thanks, but also knew that no amount of determination after the fact would bring back to life the six bodies the Dwarves were now covering in sheets.

In the end, Eeroin's entire company escorted both the platoon and the wagons of firepowder back to the docks. Messengers had gone on ahead, and the
Cloudrunner
’s Second Platoon was turned out on the dock in front of the ship.

At the head of the platoon, Demond and Albiers stood together, their faces like stone as the Dwarves carried the severely wounded, and Erik's squad carried the dead, past them and onto the ship.

Except for the stretcher party, the Dwarves stopped at the edge of the dock, leaving the Aeradi to themselves for this moment. The survivors of the platoon who weren't wounded or detailed with carrying the dead drew up in front of their commanders, exactly ten of them.

Six men were dead, ten were detailed with carrying their bodies, and four men, including Tolars, had been wounded beyond the immediate ability of the healers to fix. Ten men, a single squad, out of thirty, remained.

Erik saluted wearily. “Sir, First Platoon reporting.”

“At ease,” Demond ordered. “By the gods, at ease.”

The men of First Platoon seemed to sag in place, as if they'd been held up solely by the force of discipline. Albiers stepped forwards and surveyed them.

“Soldiers, you've done us proud,” he said quietly. “Go get some rest. That's an order.”

Erik waited in silence as the rest of the men were dismissed, and his commanders turned to him.

“That goes for you as well,” the Lieutenant murmured. “I've heard what the Dwarves have to say, and according to their prisoners, you were the only reason they didn't run right over the platoon.”

“Do their prisoners know why they attacked?” Erik asked. He knew the Dwarves had taken the attackers' wounded away to be interrogated, but none of the information from that had reached him yet.

“They were all too junior,” a voice said behind him. Erik turned to see that Eeroin had arrived. “It was, apparently, a street gang of long standing,” the Dwarf continued grimly. “We have such, but most don't come into this sort of area. All any of those we captured knew was that they'd been paid in gold to make the attack.”

Erik nodded acknowledgement, but his face was cold. “So we know nothing.”

“Nothing certain,” Eeroin replied. “One of them said he had seen the man who hired them, but it was in the dark and at a distance – all he could say for certain was that he was tall. Not just human tall, though –
very
tall.”

“Draconan,” Demond said flatly.

“Indeed,” the Dwarf agreed, nodding. “It would not surprise us, either.”

“Why not?” Erik asked.

“They have been buying cannon and firepowder in huge quantities recently,” Eeroin told them. “It is making us suspicious, but we cannot claim Adaeran's Edict without them actually attacking somebody.”

Adaeran's Edict was an order issued by the Stone King Adaeran a century and a half ago. It said, quite simply, that the Dwarves would not trade cannon or firepowder to an aggressor nation.

“You think they're stockpiling,” Demond said quietly.

“Yes,” Eeroin replied. “Not just that – I do not know how recently you left Newport, but there have been several incidents in the last few weeks. Dragons burned a sky ship off the Ellian coast a week or so ago – they claimed it was smuggling drugs, but all evidence suggests otherwise. Relations between your folks and the Draconans are starting to get nervous.”

“Our next stop is Black Mountain,” Albiers told Demond. “Maybe we should think about aborting and heading straight home. We do have our dead and wounded to consider.”

“I am afraid that I cannot make any recommendations,” Eeroin told the Aeradi. “I have probably already overstepped my bounds by telling you what I have, but somebody attacked you in our city. We owe you that, at least.”

Demond nodded. “We thank you, Captain.”

“Least we can do,” Eeroin replied. “My company will also be guarding your ship until you leave, just in case.”

“Again, our thanks,” Demond told him.

The Dwarf saluted and left, returning to where his company was taking over the security of this part of the dock area.

Demond turned back to Albiers. “We
can't
miss the Black Mountain leg,” he told him. “We've already loaded the cargo for there, and we need the cargo from there. We have contracts to meet.”

“We're delivering firepowder to a nation that appears to be preparing for war against us,” Albiers objected.

“Nonetheless, we have a contract and we
will
fulfill it,” Demond replied. He looked at the two marines. “We don't have a choice. We do, however, have five days until we land at Black Mountain. I want whatever arrangements you have to make to adjust for the losses here made, and the platoons drilled as fine as you can. If things are as bad as the good captain suggests, we may end up having to fight our way out.”

Albiers nodded stiffly. “In that case, captain, I should get to it.”

The marine commander left, leaving Erik and Demond alone.

“Sir,” Erik said hesitantly.

“What?” Demond asked, his voice portraying his weariness after the day.

“I think I saw the Draconan the prisoners mentioned,” Erik told him. “At a distance, but close enough. He was dressed in red – all in red.”

Demond looked at him oddly. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure,” Erik replied. “I saw a Draconan dressed like that, once. He was an assassin. He bought weapons from me when I was a smith, then tried to kill me. I killed him instead.”

“That's not good,” the older Aeradi meant. “Do you know what a Draconan who dresses like that probably is?”

“A Red Dragon,” Erik said quietly.

“They're bad news,” Demond agreed. “Very bad news. They're what the Dragon Lords use to deal with problems. And they're noted for hunting down those who kill their own.”

“Wonderful,” Erik said softly. “You mean the Draconan rulers' personal assassins are after me?”

“You have a talent for making friends, don't you, Sergeant?” Demond said, shaking his head. “Go talk to Albiers; then get some rest. Don't tell him about the Red,” he added. “He has enough worries as it is.”

“So do the rest of us,” Erik replied.

Erik found the commander of the
Cloudrunner
's marines sitting next to Tolars' bed. Healers could fix almost any injury, but often their cures for more serious wounds simply involved bringing the patient back from the edge of death, and then encouraging the rest of the healing process to speed up.

At least the healers
could
help the survivors, unlike the six bodies who had been carefully laid in a room lined with preserving crystals, but their methods could leave men who were badly wounded in bed for weeks, even after the healers had dealt with them.

The platoon sergeant had been almost on top of the second grenade, and had been quite badly wounded. Erik was surprised to see him awake at all, let alone talking with Albiers.

“Sir, Sergeant,” Erik greeted them quietly.

“Have a seat, Tarverro,” Albiers told him. “Tolars was just giving me his own assessment of what happened out there.”

“Sir?” Erik replied, questioningly.

“I think you're the only reason any of us are left,” Tolars said quietly, his voice scratchy with the aftereffects of his wounds. “I've not met many men who could have realized what was going on and gathered even the men you did. That's why I recommended what I did.”

Clearly exhausted by the effort of talking, the platoon sergeant leaned back in the bed in the barracks.

“What did you recommend?” Erik asked.

“Jola won't be able to command First Platoon like this,” Albiers told him. “He probably won't be fit to command until after we make it home.” The Lieutenant shrugged. “We're going to need First Platoon in North Hold, which means it needs at least a temporary commander. Tolars,” he gestured towards the sergeant lying silently in the bed, “has recommended you. Want the job?”

Erik was quiet for a moment. With the casualties and the wounded, the platoon was down to only two squads, but even so it was a lot of responsibility.

“Not really,” he admitted.

“Good,” Albiers replied. “You've got it. Your first task is to reorganize your men into two squads – put Ennie in charge of one, leave Sergeant Kalt in charge of the other.”

Erik stared at his superior for a moment, and Tolars started laughing, but stopped as he started coughing.

Once the sergeant had recovered, he grinned at Erik. “Anybody who wants to command a military unit probably shouldn't be allowed to, kid,” he told Erik in that scratchy voice. “You'll do, lad. You'll do.”

Brane caught Deris, literally, napping. The junior Red Dragon was leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Brane shook his head and proceeded to slam his sword into the desk directly in front of Deris.

The speed with which the agent had a crystal rod out and trained on Brane's head was impressive, but wouldn't have saved him had Brane really been out to kill him.

“You,” Deris said disgustedly, allowing the rod to slide back into its sheath. “What do you want?”

“Your locals failed,” Brane said flatly. “The Hold Guard is going to be busy dealing with a pile of dead thugs.”

“It happens,” Deris replied with a shrug. “No loss to us.”

“Except that they
failed
, and the man who killed one of ours still walks free,” Brane snarled. “You have
no
resources for this?”

“Captain Brane, I have the resources necessary to carry out intelligence operations and protect the embassy,” Deris told him coldly. “I was not provided with the resources to carry out assassination operations. What resources I have, I provided to you. If they failed, that is
not
my responsibility.”

Only a lifetime of self-control kept Brane from drawing his sword again and removing the insufferable little bastard's head.

“Very well then,” he grated out. “Can you at least manage to prepare me a dragon? If we are out of resources here, then we must strike in Black Mountain.”

The five-day voyage to Black Mountain passed in a blur for Erik. Entirely out of the blue his responsibilities had been doubled, and he found himself busy organizing and taking care of twenty soldiers. It left him very little time for worry or introspection.

When they drew into sight of the citadel, however, Erik found time to watch the approach. Where North Hold had been settled into a valley between mountains and dug into the mountains, the Draconan citadel of Black Mountain was built on a single mountain.

The mountain, whose black basalt stones gave the citadel its name, rose up like the unyielding patriarch of the foothills and lesser mountains around it. Its lower slopes, and the valleys and foothills around it, were cultivated, providing the grain necessary to feed a city of some hundreds of thousands.

Above the cultivated fields, however, the citadel rose up along the slopes of the mountain. Nine concentric sets of walls divided the city up along the line of the slope, and guarded the high palace and the entrances to the dragon crèches at the very top of the mountain.