Authors: Christopher Rowley
The Bea Third Regiment had finally staggered into Fort Kenor, a badly shaken formation. Tremendous casualties had reduced them to barely six hundred effectives. Many of the survivors were exceedingly nervous and found it next to impossible to sleep.
Even the Bea dragons were nervous. Mumzo, an older brass, had some bad slash wounds. Web, the leading leatherback, had bruising where he'd been stomped by the beasts as they tore down his tent. His dragonboy Lammi had a broken leg as a result of the same moments of terror and confusion. The unit was emotionally battered and physically beat-up.
The 109th had done its level best to welcome the 77th, and the Bea men, too. They all knew they faced a grim test against an army two and a half times their own size, and that it was vital to keep a sense of elan. Each night a few kegs of legion weakbeer had been squeezed out of the fort's commissary and after a big dinner, all the dragons and dragonboys milled just outside the fort's main gate, where they drank the beer and did their best to raise their own and each other's spirits.
There had been much speculation, some of it indecent, on the subject of how the swamp beasts had been generated. The guffaws were dying away from Roquil's remark that not even turtles would mate with crocodiles, who were infamously ugly in the eyes of dragons, even though they shared a few common characteristics. Crocodiles, of course, were cold-blooded dimwits, but successful ones that had outlasted most of their competitors in the history of the world.
"Still they have scales, they have four legs, big mouths."
"They not be dragons," said Zed Dek, the freemartin from the Bea 77th.
"They must have hatched from egg, this dragon know that much," said Vlok.
"Yes," agreed Zed Dek, who had already sized up old Vlok, who was not known for quick thinking. "They definitely not like cattle or mammoths, not live birthers."
"Big eggs though."
"Have to be. Not enough crocodiles in these swamps to produce all the eggs you'd need. There were hundreds of the things."
"Maybe they use giant eel?" wondered Vlok.
"What is this eel?"
"Giant eel only lives in the sea," said Alsebra before Vlok could inflict on them his idea of what a giant eel might be.
"Giant eel does have many eggs. Maybe they combine giant eel with crocodile and then with something else."
This concept made dragon eyes get big with anger. Vlok had hit a nerve somewhere. Dragon jaws shifted angrily, huge hands grasped involuntarily.
"Best we find them soon, kill them before they get much further with this."
"By the fiery breath, you right about that," agreed Vlok.
Vaunce joined the group. Vaunce, the crullo, was a quiet sort for the most part, a wyvern of a sweet temperament. He had a middling speed with the sword, for a brass, which meant he was slower than almost all leatherbacks and greens. But he had been taught great technique and used the shield well.
"This dragon still doesn't understand how you can be blue," said the Purple Green with his usual tact. "Blue color only seen on flying dragons, like me."
Vaunce shrugged.
"Well, I am blue, as you can see," he said calmly. "And I am wyvern."
"I see, but I don't understand."
"Not many crullos in the world," replied Vaunce. "The dragon master try to explain to this dragon and I think I understand, but it very complicated. First you have to have a green female from a mating between leatherback and a green. That green female then mates with a brass. Result is usually a leatherback, but sometimes like me, the crullo."
"Astounding."
"Leatherback and green is unusual pairing. Leatherback and leatherback is the rule, though greens are mated with brasshides. Gives you quick, light brasses."
"You know a lot about this," said Alsebra.
And why wouldn't he? Even as a sprat in the dragonhouse, he'd known he was special, almost unique.
"So why do they not breed more like you?"
"We are free beings, not animals. Dragons choose whether to breed or not. But every dragon know that one in three sprats from a leatherback and green mating will be freemartin."
And freemartins were sterile.
"I have heard this," said the Purple Green, casting a wary eye Alsebra's way. The 109th resident freemartin seemed unperturbed.
"That is the way it happens," she said. "Sometimes green and leatherback want to mate, so they do and wyverns like me are the result. I kill my share of our enemies. I just cannot mate."
"Yes, this dragon understand that. But if you were a green and you mated with a brasshide, then you would have leatherbacks?"
"Leatherback is the commonest type. All types breed to leatherback."
"But once in a while there would hatch a blue one?"
"That's it."
The Purple Green absorbed this in silence.
Zed Dek erupted in the strange noises that was the wyvern equivalent of laughter.
"Why is this so amusing?" asked Alsebra.
"When they put this force together the gods must have been drunk. We've got a crullo, a wild, winged dragon, two freemartins, and the amazing Bazil Broketail."
Rumbles and subdued laughter followed this remark.
"There is also I, Hexarion," said the big green from the 145th.
"There is you, this is true," said Zed Dek.
"Another green," rumbled the Purple Green. "We already have Gryf. He have enough attitude for all of us."
"You are partly green," said Hexarion.
"And mostly purple," said the Purple Green, with arched neck and flashed fangs.
"And mostly purple," said Hexarion, with unexpected meekness. Alsebra breathed a sigh of relief. To have a big green with a bit of good sense would make a pleasant change.
Vaunce had been listening to it all while idly pondering his own question. "When wild flying dragon mate with wyvern, what happens?"
The Purple Green whirled around, big eyes wide.
"Wild flying dragon would eat wyvern, better than mating."
"Well, in your case, perhaps you're right," said Alsebra. "But didn't the Broketail mate with flying dragon?"
All turned their gaze on Bazil, who until then had been quietly standing by, having drunk up all his beer ration early.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Well, did you or didn't you mate with a flying dragon?"
As if uncomfortable with the thought, Bazil replied in a sober-toned voice, "I mate with High Wings. I have two young; they have wings like their mother."
The Purple Green was scowling, eyes blazing. With a snort of uttermost displeasure he lurched up from where he'd sat by the ditch and stalked inside. The wyverns watched him go with astonished eyes.
"This dragon fail to understand why you had to go and say that," grumbled Bazil. "Now he will be prickly for days."
Alsebra checked her first response. Having the Purple Green sunk in a depression or a bad mood could ruin the morale in the unit. "You're right. I shouldn't have said anything, but one thing to be said, I didn't bring it up."
They all looked at Vaunce, who stepped back, tail low. "I only ask because I…" He looked at them all focused on him. "I didn't think it would upset the wild one so."
"The Purple Green and the Broketail fought for High Wings, and the Purple Green lost."
"This dragon meant no harm. I didn't know about all that."
"Too late now. The Purple Green will be dangerous company for a few days. Try not to say anything when he's around."
As this disaster among the wyverns took place, the dragonboys were off at the other side of the gate, sitting on a bench brought out from the fort.
Swane and Rakama were telling a complicated story about the twin daughters of the landlord of the Blue Post Inn at Dalhousie. Most of the others gathered around them, but Relkin sat apart, with Manuel and Mulian, the dragonboy for Zed Dek. They discussed what the Bea boys could do to help cope with the load of tending the boyless 145th.
"With Lammi down because of his leg," said Mulian, "we're having to cover on Web, but we can still pull extra details to help you."
"We'd appreciate it. Keeping two dragons going full-time when they're working so much outdoors is overwhelming."
"Joboquins going like crazy, I can imagine."
"Well, everything's going. At least we ain't been fighting yet, nothing chews up kit like fighting, but there's been a lot of extra things to do. Did your joboquins get torn up in this swamp fracas?"
"Most of the dragons never got the joboquin on, just had time to take the swords and then we were fighting."
Relkin nodded. In hand-to-hand fighting every moment lasted too long, but the dangers and exertions to meet them annihilated time simultaneously. Exhaustion or death was all that could end it sometimes, and often they came together, hand in hand.
"It was sorcery, Relkin." Mulian's voice had changed. "Pure evil. The water in the swamp was glowing green. It sounded as if every bug in the world was there, and then these things just came out of the swamp. They were almost the size of dragons, and they just ate men left and right."
"I guess it shows us why we're fighting."
"Well said, Relkin," spoke Manuel.
"The dragons are moving," said Jak.
When the wyverns straggled back to their tents, the dragonboys soon followed. They slept soundly for the most part, though many in the camp were disturbed in the second hour of the morning when something passed overhead, leaving a single shrill screech in its wake.
The batrukh that let out that scream was guided by Gring, the Mesomaster. Behind Gring, in the second seat of the saddle, sat the fair form that Waakzaam preferred to take.
The batrukh powered its way through the air until they spied campfires by the banks of a lagoon.
"Land!" said the tall elven lord.
With wings beating to slow itself, the batrukh swept in to land on the beach below the fires. It came in with a thump, lifted, and landed again, this time slowing to a walk and then halting.
Gring was still recovering from the violence of the landing when he saw that the tall figure had already descended to the ground. It stood like a statue in complete silence. The batrukh turned its huge head to the elf figure and seemed to purr. Gring had never seen a batrukh do this before. He shivered.
Gring dismounted and dropped to the ground. The batrukh ignored him.
The Lord Lapsor was already striding toward the Baguti who were gathered around the biggest fire. He had long since learned how to handle Baguti troops. They responded to greed, and also to fear.
"Welcome!" said one of the squat, muscular tribal chieftains. "I am Ugit. What are you called?"
The Lord Lapsor brushed past him. These Baguti in their leather armor and skullcaps were westerners, devotees of a cannibal cult called the Ulq Murqh. This meant they would be ruled by their Skulltaker, in this case Najj. Therefore, it was Najj that the tall serene elf lord approached. Najj, a muscular sort in black-leather armor, set his hand on his sword.
"Who are you?" said another Baguti. The giant stranger made no response.
Najj raised a hand. "Be quiet, Jihj. The stranger has come to talk with me. I am Skulltaker."
The elf stepped to the fire and suddenly stooped down and threw in all the wood that was stacked there. The fire had already been stoked up, now it blazed at once, and sparks flew over campsite. Men scrambled back from the intense heat.
The giant turned back to Najj.
"You are the one in command here."
"I am Skulltaker."
"You have not fulfilled the plan. You were supposed to be far north of this position."
The Baguti chieftains hissed at this, and several reached for their swords. He ignored them. "General Munth wonders why you haven't made better progress."
"General Munth commands the Padmasan army. I am Skulltaker here."
"Nonetheless, General Munth has a plan. You have not done your part."
"General Munth can go fuck himself," snarled Najj the Skulltaker, slapping his palm on his massive chest. "He ask too much of us. This country is not good for Baguti. Too wet, too much quicksand."
The elf lord struck so swiftly that they were all stunned into action. He reached forward, seized Najj neck and crotch, and swung him up high. Najj bellowed and struggled, kicking and swinging his arms, but he was helpless. The lord held him high, stepped forward to the blazing fire and hurled Najj directly into it.
Najj fell among the embers and burning logs and rolled out screaming, smoking, flapping his arms. He writhed onto his hands and knees, but the tall elven lord seized him again and dragged him to his feet. Najj struck out at the demon lord, but achieved nothing. He bellowed with unaccustomed fear as he was lifted off his feet again and swung up high.
Najj screamed as he was cast once more directly into the center of the blazing fire. The rest of the Baguti were watching in stunned horror, but none lifted a hand to help.
Najj thrashed, but failed to escape the flames. His screams cut off after a few seconds.
Over the fire the Man Burner had raised his arms while his eyes calmly surveyed the astounded and horrified Baguti. He lifted his eyes to the heavens and raised his voice so it rang off the hillsides.
"Aah wahn, aah wahn, gasht thrankulu kunj."
A strange sense of unease permeated the scene. The men felt their stomachs flutter in their bellies, and their hair stood on end.
"
Tshagga avrot! "
There was a huge flash of green fire that seemed to suck the blaze out and consume the very soul of poor Najj the Skulltaker.
The green fire shot down from the skies and onto the erect figure of the giant elf, standing with his fist clenched above his head. He stood there for several long, incredible seconds, while the green blaze continued.
Thus was the life force of Najj the Skulltaker totally consumed.
The clap of thunder broke over them and continued to beat back and forth in the hills for long minutes afterward.
The fire had gone out and there was nothing left of Najj at all.
The elf lord faced the Baguti.
"I am now Skulltaker, understood?"