Darkness Descending

“Aye.” Sidroc grabbed his own crotch. “In my wet dreams.” Ealstan managed to laugh at that, which seemed to convince Sidroc nothing unusual had happened out in the oak grove. Sidroc chaffed him as they went into Gromheort, but not too hard. They both chaffed the Algarvian constable at the gate when the fellow looked disgusted at the baskets of mushrooms they showed him.

“More for us,” Ealstan said to Sidroc. The constable must have spoken some Forthwegian, for he made as if to retch. Ealstan and his cousin both laughed. Ealstan kept laughing all the way through the city, all the way back to his house. If Sidroc wanted to think he was laughing at the Algarvian, he didn’t mind a bit.

Rain beat into Colonel Sabrino s face as he led his wing east from the front toward the miserable excuse for a dragon farm at which they were based. His dragon didn’t like the rain, not even a little. It flew heavily, laboring much more than it would have had the weather been good.

Sabrino didn’t like the rain, either. He had a demon of a time keeping track of the dragonfliers under his command, and had to rely on his squadron leaders more than he wanted. He couldn’t see far enough to do anything else. Nor could he see far enough to spy Unkerlanter dragons and thanked the powers above the enemy couldn’t see very far, either.

He had a demon of a time finding the dragon farm, too. Flying low to glimpse the ground through the curtain of rain, he almost flew his dragon into the side of a hill. The beast screeched protests when he made it pull up. It would have liked hitting the hillside even less but was too stupid to know that.

He might not have found the dragon farm at all had he not flown over the victory camp that had gone up just north of it. Seeing the Kaunians huddled in dripping misery behind their palisade made him wonder what they thought of the name some clever clerk nad come up with. He doubted the Algarvian guards on the palisade were any too happy, either. In this weather, their sticks wouldn’t carry very far before raindrops attenuated their beams.

But that was their worry, not his. His worries shrank, because spotting the victory camp told him where he was. He swung his dragon into a sharp turn. The beast screamed at him, not wanting to obey. He whacked it with his goad, and shouted into the crystal he carried as he did so. The dragons he could see through the rain were conforming to his movements, but he wanted to make sure the rest of the wing didn’t keep on flying back toward Forthweg and Algarve.

And there was the farm, too, with the dragon handlers waving and shouting to keep him from missing them. He brought his dragon down to a landing that splashed muck over the keepers who came running up to chain the beast to a stake. How they made stakes hold in this muddy morass was beyond him, but they did.

“What’s it like at the front?” one of the keepers asked as Sabrino slid down from the base of the dragon’s neck and into the mud.

“By everything I saw, we’re stuck,” Sabrino answered. “Hard for us to go forward--and harder than it might be, because the Unkerlanters are still wrecking bridges and ley lines and everything else they can. That gives them an edge of sorts, because they’re bringing up their reinforcements on ground that’s not quite so badly chewed up.”

“Aye.” The keeper wiped his eyes with a sleeve, an utterly useless gesture. “Cursed Unkerlanters are tougher than we figured they would be, too.”

“So they are.” Sabrino remembered General Chlodvald, then wished he hadn’t. The retired soldier had been right when he said his countrymen would fight as hard as they could and would keep on fighting.

More dragons splashed down into the muck. Seeing to his fliers and their beasts gave Sabrino an excuse not to think about General Chlodvald. After a while, he splashed past the keeper with whom he’d been talking. The fellow jerked a thumb toward the north. “If all else fails, those Kaunian whoresons in there’ll make sure we give King Swemmel what he deserves.”

Sabrino’s stomach lurched, as if his dragon had sideslipped and dove without warning. “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said. “If it does, though . . .” He shrugged uneasily.

At least with the whole wing down and safe--a minor miracle, in that ghastly weather--he could get under canvas. The ground was no drier inside his tent than outside, but the oiled canvas did keep water from pouring down onto his head. After he’d changed into a fresh tunic and kilt, he invited his squadron commanders to sup with him.

He had no idea what they’d get. It turned out to be fried trout, boiled beets, and a jar of clear spirits that kicked like a mule--more nearly Unkerlanter fare than Algarvian. “Phew!” Captain Orosio said after a pull at the spirits. “If Swemmel’s boys drink this stuff all the time, no wonder they’re mean.”

After a swig of his own, Sabrino wheezed, “Aye. I think I’ll send my gullet out for copper plating.” But that didn’t stop him from taking another swig a little later.