Bazil Broketail (28 page)

Finally Bazil leant over Heltifer and muttered, “Tell this tree person to get out of way. I am going to put my feet in the stream.”

Relkin heard that and moved to Heltifer’s side.

“Baz, are you sure that’s the best thing to do right now?”

“Yes.”

Nesessitas was restless too. “My feet are just as hot— I too will place them in the cool water,” she said.

Relkin turned to her with his voice tight. Nesessitas was usually the most reasonable of the drags in the 109th.

“And we will then be fighting for our lives with who knows how many elves. Those arrows are poisoned.”

“I will get new dragonboy,” said Baz calmly. “My feet come first.”

“Oh thanks, that’s great to know. New dragonboy. And what about dragons that get so pricked with arrows that they die of the poison too?”

“Tragedy for dragons, tragedy for boys, but right now it is tragedy for feet.”

And with that all the dragons moved forward in a mass and sat themselves in the stream with huge groans of pleasure.

The astonished elf lord stared at them with bulging eyes. Then he began to rave in the forest tongue.

Relkin was on the point of reaching for his own bow in the impossible hope of living long enough to fire back at the archers he knew were aiming at them at that very moment.

Over his shoulder he heard dragonboys grumbling.

“This is a bloody stupid way to get killed!” groused Marco Veli.

“Damned right, we’re supposed to be on the same side with these hotspurs,” said Rosen Jaib.

“Hot arrows is more like it,” said Relkin.

And then they heard another sound, a shout from up ahead and then three sharp notes on the cornet and then several riders came cantering down the trail on the far side of the elves.

A moment later Lessis on a slender white mare and an elf riding a similar graceful, small-boned horse, had reined in beside the stream where the dragons sat, cooling their blistered feet.

This elf lord was clad in a costume of red and blue feathers, a small jacket, breeches and a headdress. He said something in the forest tongue to Lessis, who replied with something that made the red and blue elf lord roar with laughter.

Then he got off his horse and crossed the stream just above the dragons, strode up to Prince Afead and began berating him in a low, angry voice. Afead huffed and puffed in reply, but it was obvious that he was outranked and knew it.

Some more riders had appeared: Subadar Yortch, a couple of his men, and Lieutenant Weald. Their horses seemed huge standing next to the forest ponies of the elves.

Lessis had dismounted and now joined the two elf lords on the far side of the stream. Relkin watched her move diplomatically between the elf king, Matugolin, and the haughty Prince Afead. First she made the king laugh. Then she took Afead’s arm and walked away with him for a few paces and spoke in a soothing voice. Afead muttered and grumbled, but when they came back to Matugolin, Afead bent his knee and kissed the king’s hand.

. Matugolin then embraced the prince and bellowed something. The prince seemed to take this well and embraced the king in return. Then they turned back to the waiting men, elves and dragons.

Lessis noticed Relkin close by and nodded to him. “Well met, Relkin of Quosh. Lagdalen told me you were here.”

“Well met, lady,” stammered Relkin, still awed by the speed with which she’d settled down the high-strung elf prince.

Now the king went down to the stream and addressed the dragons.

“Great wyverns, please forgive the foolish pronouncements of Prince Afead. I am King Matugolin and I welcome you to Tunina.” The dragons were cooling their feet with gasps of pleasure. They gave little heed to the elf king. Dragoneer Heltifer was too stunned to say anything. Relkin seized the moment, moved to the front and gave a deep bow.

“On behalf of the dragons of the 109th Dragon Squadron, I thank you, oh great king.”

He noticed Lessis looking at him with a pleased expression. Encouraged, he went on. “Right now the dragons are too afflicted with sore feet to reply with fair words and courtesy, but I know that they would like me to extend my thanks to you on their behalf.”

King Matugolin blinked at him and looked at Lessis for a moment, then broke out into a smile and turned back to the elf archers and cried out something in the forest tongue.

The arrows went back into their quivers and their bows went back over their shoulders.

By nightfall Kesepton’s men and dragons were setting up camp in a clearing deep in the great forest. They had covered two-thirds of the distance to the old trade trail, which ran east-west through the forest of Tunina and was the most likely route for Thrembode to take.

Fires were blazing and Cowstrap the smith went to work on a mountain of repairs and welds that had yet to be done. It seemed impossible to finish it all. However, no sooner had he and his men struck hammer to steel than a half dozen elf smiths came out of the trees, staggering under the weight of anvils and sacks of charcoal.

As the men watched wide-eyed, the elves started more fires and unpacked bellows and hammers and small bags of dry weld. They had clearly come to work.

Cowstrap and his assistant Rogin were quick to recover from their initial surprise, however.

“Welcome to the firepit,” said Cowstrap. “Long have I admired the skill of the elf smiths of old.”

One elf, an elder with white hair and a luxuriant mustache, spoke for the others in turn. “We thank you for your welcome, and we will show you that the skills of our forebears are not lost.”

A loitering dragonboy was dispatched to beg Captain Hollein for a small jug of whisky to fire up the spirits of the smiths. Hollein gave his assent and soon the smiths, men and elves, raised the jug in a circle to toast this historic occasion in the forest of Tunina.

Then the elves fell upon the work ahead with cries of anticipation. There were a dozen Marneri swords that were notched or broken. Then there were the cut shields and the damaged pieces of armor. All these pieces were made for men and were thus much heavier and more robust than comparable pieces would be for elven warriors.

“You think that is work?” said Cowstrap, and he showed them Bazil Broketail’s damaged shield and Nesessitas’s notched tail sword.

The elves gasped at the size and heft of these things. Then they clapped their hands together and broke into excited chatter among themselves. The bellows roared and quickly their fires grew hot.

By the time Relkin returned with Bazil’s helmet, which had taken a dent sometime in the heat of the battle, he found a hectic scene.

The massive shield, the size of a door, had been heated over a pair of fires until the damaged areas were red hot. Now elves with slender hammers were at work, smoothing out the torn metal and working in one of their magical welds.

Cowstrap took the helmet from Relkin’s hands.

“Looks like we’ll need to hammer that out. Your dragon must have been sore under that.”

“He’s sore enough, but he’ll fight tomorrow if we have to. Of course, whether he fights after that will depend on that shield they’re working on.”

Cowstrap nodded and chuckled. “I reckon that shield will be stronger than it was brand new. They’re a wonder with those welds.”

Relkin noticed the regimental whiskey jug. His eyes lit up. “Is there anything left in that?”

Cowstrap looked up at him, then grunted. “There is, but it’s not for the likes of you. I’ve got a half dozen elves here and this is thirsty work.” He paused and grinned. “And besides you’re too young for it.”

. “I am not!” exclaimed Relkin, stung by this accusation. “I’m fifteen and I have seen five battles. I have drunk whiskey before.”

“I’ll tell you what,” snorted Cowstrap, “you square it with the captain, see, and I’ll give you half a mug.”

Relkin turned away in disappointment. He knew better than to ask the captain. Chagrined, he strode away. He was a seasoned campaigner and they wouldn’t let him touch a drop of the regimental whisky. It seemed very unfair.

“Next,” said Cowstrap. Relkin saw Tomas stagger forward with Kepabar’s mangled helmet.

Relkin made his way to the cookpit where they were preparing the evening noodles and waited there to take a big bowl back to the dragon lines. He was still there when Lagdalen appeared quietly out of the dark.

“Lagdalen,” he called.

“Relkin. So you survived the march.”

“Only just. A certain Prince Afead took a dislike to having the dragons on his fief.”

“I heard about that. The elves of Tunina have a proscription on wild dragons, poisonous snakes and manticores.”

“Manticores?”

“Lion-headed men—they died out long ago. At least in this part of the world.”

“Now you sound like Marco Veli, who tends Nesessitas. He knows everything too.”

Lagdalen laughed. “I have learned so much. Just being in Lessis’s company makes you learn things, like the weight of a thrush’s song, or how to spin the Birrak or the fate of the manticores in Eardha.”

Relkin could not fail to notice how lovely Lagdalen became when she laughed like that. He wished once again that he was a lot older than he was. They had both grown up since Fundament Day in Marneri, but Relkin was keenly aware that he was still just a dragonboy, not even a dragoneer yet, while Lagdalen was constantly at the side of the Lady Lessis, constantly involved at the highest levels of the struggle. He felt distinctly envious.

“And do you know what we will do tomorrow?” he said.

She nodded cautiously. “We will fight, all of us. Our enemy comes—he will have the advantage of numbers.”

. “How many?”

“A hundred imps or more, five trolls at least.”

“We don’t have enough men.”

“There will be two hundred elves fighting with us. Their arrows will help.”

“Not with the trolls. Trolls don’t care about poison.”

Lagdalen nodded sadly. “The dragons will have to destroy the trolls.”

“The drags are not at their best. Kepabar is still seeing double. Vander and Chektor have sore feet.”

“We will be with you, and the lady will think of ways to even the odds.”

Lagdalen spoke with a peculiar certainty about this. Relkin reflected after a moment that she probably knew something that he did not.

“Still there will be hard fighting—five fresh trolls, a hundred imps—we will need everything we have.”

“I will be there, Relkin,” she said. She pulled aside her robe and he saw strapped to her waist a short sword.

She drew it and showed it to him; it was a Kadein stabbing sword, light and sharp with a narrow blade some two feet long.

“I’ll be proud to fight beside you, Lagdalen of the Tarcho. I remember the way you fired that stone at me— I expect you’re good with that overgrown dagger.”

She put it away and shifted as if embarrassed, which she was by this display. She wondered what had gotten into her. This was not the sort of behavior that Lessis would approve of.

“Well, I’m taking lessons in how to use it. To tell the truth I haven’t wielded it in a real fight yet, and I certainly haven’t drawn blood.”

“Tomorrow’s your chance then,” he said. Then he was signaled to approach the cooks, who had a big bushel bowl full of noodles lathered with akh.

Relkin staggered away with it in his arms and lurched back to the dragon line. He found Bazil sitting alone, working on the edge of Piocar with a whetstone. The leatherback looked up with big, eager eyes and gave his chops a heavy lick.

“Ah hah, dragonboy finally bring back some food for starving dragon.”

“As quick as they could dish it up, Baz. We’re getting the first boil.”

Bazil put aside Piocar and took up bowl and fork. First he doled out a boy-sized helping to Relkin, who ate out of his steel pot helmet.

“Less akh,” said Relkin.

“Nonsense, akh good for you just like it good for dragon. Noodles boring without it. In fact noodles without akh make dragons go back to meat diet, which means end of dragonboys.”

“Which would mean end of back scratches and scale rubs.”

“Yes, that is true, so best we have plenty of akh, eh?”

There was no sound but the sound of dragon and boy feeding for a few minutes, then Bazil sat back and belched. He had eaten half the bushel bowl and had satisfied his immediate hunger.

“So what will happen tomorrow?” he asked the boy.

“We fight. There are five trolls.”

“Damn, with Kepabar knocked silly we will be down to four tired dragons.”

“Kep can fight.”

“We hope—I have my doubts.” Baz raked through the noodles. “Why is there so little akh? You know I like plenty of akh.”

“There’s only so much to go round—we don’t know how long we may be marching.”

“Bah, we need dragon cook. It was good in Dalhousie where we had cooks who knew how to cook for dragons.”

“Why didn’t you take some of those trolls you killed? I thought you were going to roast them.”

“Too heavy to carry troll meat all the way up here. But if there isn’t more akh tomorrow, then dragon will have to supplement diet with whatever he can catch.”

At this Baz gave his long jaws a snap and Relkin finished up his own bowl in silence. The morrow was likely to be a long and tiring day, and he just hoped there would be some dragons left alive at the end of it to worry about the amount of akh they got on their noodles.

And while dragonboys worried about the morrow’s battle, their captain was already fighting a battle, albeit with his senior officers. In his tent on the far side of the cookpit, as far as possible from the pounding smiths, he was engaged in a fierce argument with Duxe and Yortch, neither of whom thought they should be giving battle on the say-so of the Lady in Grey.

“We’re so under strength I’m having to compress all our formations. We don’t even have enough spears. And you want to risk everything in a fight for some elves on the orders of a Cunfshon witch?” Duxe spoke while giving him a stubborn look.

“Sergeant, we must fight. The woman has the rank to command it, and she says we fight to rescue the Princess Besita.”

“Bah,” said Yortch. “You are men! Why are you fighting to bring on the rule of women in Marneri?”