Dragons of War (50 page)

"When will that be?"

"In about seven years."

"A long time…"

"Yes, but then we'll be pensioned, and we'll get a grant of land and we'll set up to be farmers."

"You and the dragon will stay together."

"Have to. Until one or other of us dies; that's the way it is for dragonboys. Dragons and men work well as a farming unit. To get started you see. Once you're going then you buy the horses you need for the heavy labor. But to clear land, dig up stumps, a dragon is the best there is. And where a dragon can't reach, or where the work is delicate, then you need a man."

Eilsa shot him a coy look. "And where might a woman fit into this picture of bliss?"

Relkin flashed serious. "She would work beside him, live in the house they built together, and bear the children they would bring into the world."

She looked at the mighty dragon standing silent, as if carved in stone. She recalled how it had looked at her, with those bright, interested eyes, so uncanny and unsettling. How it had spoken, with that odd, inhuman tone and cast to the words, but words, human speech.

To be the woman of a dragoneer would mean accepting one of these monsters into her life. Learning to accept their strange sounding speech, adjusting to an intelligent animal of two tons or more.

For a moment she envied their life, uncomplicated by the demands of heraldry and family lineage. Vagabonds of war, blown here and there about the world on campaign after campaign. A boy and his dragon, the ultimate fighting machine.

Eilsa had once loved a pony, but Pippin could not speak except in lowly horse, and in fact, was wholeheartedly stupid, if the truth be known. Dragons ate ponies, she thought suddenly.

And she still liked this boy, who was not really a boy anymore, despite his youth.

Before she could say anything further, there was a scream from legion cornets, and Captain Senshon of the 322s went galloping past.

Sergeant Quertin came running by in the opposite direction.

He whistled up Dragon Leader Turrent, who had been discussing archery tactics with Bowchief Starter.

"Enemy's moving, expect attack within the minute."

Turrent lifted the cornet and blew the blast to bring everyone in the unit to attention. They were already up and peering over the barricade.

The dragons had still not moved a muscle.

A skirmishing line of a dozen or so Kenor bowmen was scrambling back up the valley. Behind them came a sudden charge of Baguti, trying to run them down before they could reach the security of arrow range from the barricade.

Waiting for them were two dozen legionaries who rose up from hiding and scattered Wattel-made caltrops across the grass. The caltrops had four sharp points so that one was always sticking up. The steel points glittered on the grass. Behind this screen they retired with the bowmen.

The Baguti slowed when they reached the line of steel points. They milled about and exchanged arrows with the retreating bowmen. One legionary was hit, two Baguti tumbled from their saddles.

Now the drumming began to thunder into the valley and with an almighty great blare of those heavy horns, the enemy assault began.

The enemy came straight on, a hammer-blow charge. There were five thousand or more imps, a thousand fell men, and ninety trolls, formed up in three platoons. All were drunk on a shipment of black drink that had been brought up the river in the past two days. Under the influence of the dark spirit made in Padmasa, they feared nothing and in their eyes blazed a red rage against life itself. They wished only to sink their blades into the defenders of Argonath.

Now the dragons stirred suddenly, moving as one, their heads coming up and their tongues flicking out to taste the air.

As the enemy came within range, arrows flicked out from the barricade, first the long shafts of the Kenor bowmen, then the shorter ones from Cunfshon crossbows. Imps fell here and there, an officer toppled from his horse, arrows sprouted on the armor of trolls, but on they came. The horns snarling and the drums rolling like a peal of thunder. Up the barricade they came and fell under a volley of timbers and rocks, hurled by the no-longer motionless dragons.

Dozens of imps went down, crushed beneath these missiles. Several trolls were felled and some of these did not get up again. But they came on, up the great mass of trees, brush and rock, like a great ocean wave, curling high, throwing imps and trolls to the fore, axes high.

Dragons rose to meet them, dragonboys crouched and ready at their sides. Legionaries and clansmen stood up in the spaces between the dragons. Steel rang up and down the line of the barricade and punctured the roaring of the trolls and the thunder of the drums. Soon there came the counterpoint of war, the scream of wounded men, the shrieks of dying imps, and the occasional sharp hiss of rage from the great wyverns. The smells of fear, blood, and reeking sweat rose to the heavens.

Three trolls came up the barricade to converge on Bazil Broketail. The leader was a purple-hued brute of great girth in the lower limbs who stepped up smartly and swung with surprising speed. The great ax whistled down and would have taken Bazil's shield arm off at the shoulder, but the leatherback twitched aside at the last moment and the axblade buried itself in the tree below.

Ecator shivered with a living spirit as it flashed forth in answer. The troll barely got its shield up, and a section was riven by the white steel blade. The troll could not get its ax free. Baz put one foot up on the troll's midriff and shoved it away, freeing Ecator just in time to deflect an ocher sword troll's thrust from the right.

The sword troll was quick, whipping its blade back in a well-rehearsed reverse, and Bazil was forced to dodge and hold it off with his shield. His tail mace rapped hard on the troll's helmet, but it still forced him back a step with a heave and mounted the barricade.

Then Ecator came over in a forehand slice. The troll glimpsed the flash of the steel and shrunk aside, and the sword sank into the wood.

The sword troll gave a greasy gasp of joy and hewed at the dragon, who took the blows on the shield until his tail mace struck the troll in the face, and it wobbled backward with a moan.

Frantically Bazil heaved on Ecator, but the blade was buried deep in the green cut wood, and it would not release. Bazil gave a mighty groan as he hauled on it.

A second sword troll came in from the left. It came too confidently, and looked down to see where to put its feet, and in that moment Bazil smashed it in the face with his shield and knocked it to its knees.

The first sword troll was recovering, but now the black-purple troll pulled free its mighty ax, and with a shriek it came straight for Baz.

Relkin darted in front, and his arrow struck just below the monster's eye. It hissed but merely shook its head and came on, lashing out at him with an enormous foot that he evaded by a hairsbreadth. His sword slashed at the thick troll hide protecting its Achilles tendon as it tried to hammer him with its shield.

As he jumped, he caromed off the dragon's thigh and landed on all fours. His sword had fallen into a chink between two trees, and he struggled to free it.

The troll tried to stamp on him but was knocked back by the dragon. It swung its ax in a cut that whistled low over Relkin's flattened form, while Bazil danced back.

Then three legionaries from the 322s surged forward in the nick of time, their spears thudding home into the ax troll's hide. It gave ground with a sneering roar and broke off the spears, tearing them out of its mute, fibrous flesh.

A sudden move and it cuffed a legionary who'd ventured too close, trying to strike with the sword. He went down on his back, and the troll bawled in triumph and hewed him in twain from neck to crotch.

His friends screamed with rage, hurled themselves at the troll, and were batted back with its shield. It prepared to slay them for their rashness and would have but for an interruption from the left. Leaning over from his own position, the Purple Green thrust in at the troll and forced it to dodge back, an ungainly effort that caused it to miss its footing. It sat down hard and then slid down the outside of the barricade, crushing an imp beneath it.

The Purple Green returned his attentions to a sword troll on his own front.

With a tremendous hiss of effort, Bazil finally pulled Ecator free and swung to engage the sword troll as he closed. Blades rang, striking blue sparks from the steel. Bazil drove in with his shoulder and pushed the troll off balance; as it stepped back, he cut down with the blade and took off its arm at the elbow. The troll's scream was cut off by a thwack from the tail mace, and as it toppled backward, a fountain of black blood arced out and away.

Baz turned to face the next ocher sword troll, aware that two more ax trolls were already climbing the outside of the barrier. Relkin dodged in front of it, firing an arrow that bounced off its helmet and then slashing with his sword.

The troll swung at the boy but missed. He spun away, and Bazil thrust in with Ecator. The troll barely deflected the thrust with its shield and then struck with an overhand that the leatherback took on the shield. They struck again, sparking and clashing. The ax trolls were almost on them, and behind them came more. Imps were coming, too, sensing the dragon's desperation.

Bazil swung, Ecator struck down the troll's sword but did not go home. There was no time for this!

And then the sword troll stopped dead in its tracks, and Bazil looked on in puzzlement for a moment before he saw the arrow jutting from its eye. Silently it toppled backward and fell off the barricade and knocked the ax trolls over and sent them rolling back.

"By the ancient gods of Dragon Home, sometimes a dragonboy is a useful thing!" he said over his shoulder. Relkin was too busy rewinding the bow, which with its cunning box of gears, could be done far more quickly than any normal crossbow.

A swarm of imps, their eyes inflamed by the black drink, came up the barricade, over the fallen trolls and ran in with their swords ready to cut a dragon's hamstrings and leave him helpless.

Bazil stepped back smartly and swung his shield arm out to batter aside the first three imps. Ecator sang a moment later and sent the skulls of two more flying into the air. Another imp sagged to his knees, coughing over Relkin's arrow, lodged firmly in his chest.

Meanwhile the first ax troll had recovered its feet again and was starting back up the barricade. Relkin's arrows sprouted from the troll's head and shoulders, but these were protected by thick leather armor and thick troll hide. Certainly they did not seem to stop the troll.

Other trolls were either arriving at the scene or were getting back on their feet. Men in the black gladiatorial costume of the mercenaries of Padmasa were there, rallying the imps and urging them up the slope. With a scream of rage they came, a thick column of them.

A line of clansmen met them shield to shield and engaged with spear and sword. The Clan Wattel did not fight with the precision of the Argonath legions, and though the legionaries did their best to maintain the pure line, the clansmen found the discipline difficult. Yet they drew on the ancient well of pure fury that was the mark of their kind. Their swords rained down on the imps in a hail of steel, and from their eyes spoke death.

The imps kept coming, climbing up the mound of bodies that built up along the outer side of the barricade. And now and then a member of the clan staggered back with a mortal wound and fell and rolled to the bottom of the inside. The battle raged on, sustained by the enemy's numbers and the terrible energy unleashed by the black drink.

At one point trolls broke through the line between Alsebra and Cham. They got to the top of the heap of bodies and crashed through the line of clansmen, trampling any that got in their way. The trolls started sliding down the inside of the wall. There they were delayed by ten legionaries from the 322s, but it was plain that they would soon be through, and behind them came a mass of imps seeking to exploit the break. The legionaries jabbed with their spears and gave ground. The trolls came on.

The men of the Fird were summoned by the clan pipers, and the Fird hurled themselves forward into the gap, swarming around the giant trolls, hacking at their legs and chests.

The imps were hurled back, but the trolls were hard for men on their own to kill. Alsebra from the left and Cham from the right did their best to help, but each was constantly engaged by other trolls from their fronts. The Fird were forced to engage the trolls and close the gap, a bloody, horrifying task. Men were smashed, trampled, pulped, and even torn asunder by the trolls before they succumbed. Spears sank deep into them at last, penetrating leather armor and troll hide, but not before they did murderous work upon the Fird.

Among the trolls there were men, grim warriors, mercenaries brought from all over the world to serve the dark power of Padmasa. Taller and stronger than the imps, they wielded sword and spear freelance, seeking any opportunity to break the line and get the imps through. To them, the men of the Argonath showed no mercy.

One of these, clad in black leather and steel, sprang past Bazil as he held at bay two sword trolls.

A legionary from the 182s engaged, their swords rang. Relkin released, set an arrow into an imp that was about to thrust home into the legionary's back.

Relkin drew sword and hewed down another imp that sprang toward him. It tumbled, and he looked up just in time to see the legionary fall, blood gushing from his mouth. The man in the black leather pulled free his sword and swung to confront Relkin.

No time to notch an arrow, Relkin attacked, sword to sword. The man was a giant, a head taller than Relkin, and powerful to match. After three strokes, Relkin felt his arm turning numb. The man smashed him back, shield to shield, and he almost tumbled.

Manuel leaned over and fired point blank, but his arrow caromed off the nose piece of the man's helmet. The mercenary snarled and slashed sideways, and Manuel tumbled away, cut slightly on the right leg. This attack opened his side, however, and Relkin's blade was there in the same second. The man gaped, screamed in rage at the sight of his blood running down his side. He lashed his shield hard into Relkin's, again throwing the lighter youth back on his heels. He was wounded, but he was hardly affected. This was a common effect of the black drink. Men felt little pain and fought like maniacs, but they often neglected their defense.