Sonata Form

by Carole Cummings

  Ellis started yelling—“Stop! Be still!”—before they all shoved each other off the edges. It was a long drop to the water from up here.

  He swooped down to snag up a child someone was holding above their head before they dropped her. There wasn’t even a moment to make sure she was on her feet as he roughly put her down behind him before more were being held out toward him. Others began to claw their way up the too-steep rock.

  Two more Wardens came barreling in from downriver, thank every goddess, their horses’ hoofbeats loud on the cliff top’s sedgy path. Ellis called out, “Marston! Willa! Get over here and help!” but he hadn’t really needed to—Andras, along with some of the would-be spectators, was already heaving people up, and Marston and Willa immediately dismounted and dropped to their knees at the edge to start pulling.

  It wasn’t helping with the panic—it seemed to be making it worse. “Stop!” Ellis shouted again, and again every one of them ignored him. Probably didn’t even hear him, too busy screaming and belling at each other and jockeying for space on rock steps that had looked a lot wider and safer only a moment ago. Ellis pushed his way to where bodies were clogging up the way out, and just started tugging. “Stop!” It was sharp, angry, almost despairing, because they weren’t listening, they were making it all so much worse, and—

  And then Zophia was taking hold of him, yanking, until she pulled him away with such shocking force he almost went over on his arse. She snapped, “Hurry, it’s there,” then shot away and up the edge of the cut bank at a run. Ellis didn’t know what “it” was, but someone had shouted “Bomb!” before, so he went.

  Zophia was fast, but Ellis’s legs were longer. Good thing, too, because he caught her up as she pelted toward the cliff edge, hands out to either side and ahead of her, face screwed into a look of fierce concentration. Ellis had to grab at the back of her coat to keep her from running right off the cliff. She didn’t seem to notice. She leaned over the edge, shouting something in guttural Ostlich that sounded furious and vicious as she windmilled her arms as though winding up for a bloody good throw then sliced her hand through the air. Ellis hadn’t even seen who she was yelling at until a man went flying backward at the base of the cliff where the bitten-apple contour of it sprawled back outward. The man landed just at the edge of the water in a wrecked-looking heap and went still.

  “Knew I feel magic,” Zophia muttered as she twisted her brow and frowned harder. “Fuse. Is burning.”

  Which meant it was too late. Ellis could smell the faintest whiff of charcoal rising from just beneath the lowest step of the cut bank. Whatever had been triggered, it involved black powder. And it was abruptly clear what the goal was here.

  The point bar on the other side—the safer side—had been closed off. Signs told of dangerous erosion of the slip-off slope, Ellis could see the bold block letters from here. Thing was, the signs hadn’t been there this morning when he’d ridden Calannog the length of the River Chwaer. And if there had been an erosion problem, he would’ve heard about it. Whoever that man was down there, he’d wanted everyone on this side of the river.

  A sharp breath huffed out through Ellis’s abruptly clogged throat. “It’s going to blow up the steps.” And all the people who were on them. Those who didn’t get hit in the initial blast would die in the resulting rockslide or fall straight down the too-long drop to the water.

  “Fin,” growled Zophia, and shut her eyes, vibrating beneath Ellis’s grip still fastened to her coat as she fisted her hands out in front of her. Opened them. Closed them. Turned them up toward her and pulled them in.

  Gasps and new shouts went up from everyone who’d been scrambling below them as, in clumps of five and ten, they were lifted into the air and wafted up and over the top of the cliff. Ellis could do nothing but hold on to Zophia and watch as people were lofted right above his head, flailing and frightened, and dumped roughly down in the grass behind him.

  Andras was helping people to their feet now, and directing them away, trying to instill calm, but almost none of them were having it. Panic made them irrational, and shock was probably not far behind. Willa dug a whistle out of her pocket, though, and once she started blowing it, sharp and shrill, everyone started moving in the direction she and Andras were waving them.

  “Faster!” Ellis shouted to them. “We don’t know what’s down there!”

  Zophia was still concentrating, ignoring Ellis and trying to shrug him off as he started tugging her back and away from the edge of the cliff before the bomb Ellis was now dead-sure was down there somewhere went off.

  “Damn it, Zophia,” Ellis snapped just as faint little fwumps sounded from beneath them, right under where the curve of the rockface cut off the line of sight. A small scree of pebbles plinked and plunked its way down as Zophia huffed a sharp “Ha!” and vibrated harder. Ellis stopped trying to pull her away and stared instead. Because those were…

  “Bloody… damn.”

  He had to choke back a faint, crazed little chuckle as small bundles of dynamite, blasting caps inserted snug and still fizzling, came loose from where they’d evidently been inserted into the crags of the rockface. Somehow. Magically? Maybe. There was no way anyone would’ve had the time to drill the holes necessary for the six—seven—ten, bloody damn, the bombs just kept coming, and counting them was making Ellis’s gut hollow out. One by one the deadly packages drifted out from under the steps then sailed up into the sky like clay pigeons launched for skeet.

  Up. Away. Out over the river and high above it.

  The explosions were much grander than skeet, though—loud, frightening, and much too close but just far enough away.

  The screaming ramped up again. People who’d been slowly letting the Wardens herd them out of danger all at once started running. Some took the time first to gather up family members; a few others were more interested in gawking, clearly awed, as Zophia continued to pluck out the trussed bombs and send them to explode just far enough up and out they would do no harm except to the ears of anyone close enough.

  And there were a bloody lot of them. Enough that they would’ve taken out the entire cliff face, likely. It seemed like endless hours before the barrage finally stopped and there was nothing left but small clouds of smoke and ash catching the breeze to glide docilely downriver.

  Zophia was still standing there—eyes closed tight, hands out, fists clenched—well after the last one had gone off. Ellis’s ears were ringing; his heart hadn’t yet seen fit to descend from his throat. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to park his arse on the grass and put his head between his knees. Maybe cry a little. Just a very little.

  Except Zophia still wouldn’t let him pull her back and away from the edge. Still didn’t seem to know that she’d got them all, had saved everyone, had even caught the villain. She wouldn’t move, wouldn’t be moved.

  Until Andras sidled up alongside her, peered down the cliffs, lifted an eyebrow, and said, “Well, being the hero’s nice for you, Zoph, but you’re still not getting out of calisthenics in the morning.”

  Ellis felt the shift in her, the abrupt swing from muscle strained tight and tense to a rude desertion of adrenaline and the rubbery infirmity it left behind. She laughed—just a quick, bright burst of it—then fell back into Ellis and passed out.

  He’d been halfway expecting it, so Ellis was steady as he caught her and laid her on the grass. “Don’t worry,” he said before Andras could work himself up. “I’ve seen this before.” And under similar circumstances, though with Milo there’d also been a life-threatening magical wound to add to the fun. “It’s mostly exhaustion. She used a lot of magic but she’ll be fine.”

  Shaking a little with spent nerves, Ellis peered around, spotted Willa, and jerked his chin. “Get someone to find a wagon or something.” And then to Marston, “Ride ahead to Rhediad Afon and tell my mam to expect a guest.”

  Andras straightened. “Syr, I thought I’d—”

  “No.” Ellis shook his head and ignored the
crestfallen look Andras gave him as Marston hefted Zophia up and took her away. “You did well, Andras.” Ellis stood to set his hand firmly to Andras’s shoulder. “Very well. But we’re not near done yet.”

  PADDLEBOATS. BLOODY paddleboats, for the love of every goddess.

  The man who’d planted the bombs, whoever he was and however he’d got into Wellech, had indeed been expecting company—twelve people in three paddleboats had been caught trying to slip past the coastal patrols in the dead of night three days ago. There’d been a series of attacks planned. Railways, of course. Any roads and bridges they came across on their way down to Tirryderch, because that was what these people really wanted. But the worst of it would have been the planned bombing of the Millway Dam, which would have flooded a great deal of the Hollow Valley. Ellis didn’t even want to guess at how many might’ve died in the resulting surge and flood.

  And because the lieutenant colonel who commanded the Home Guard’s Wellech division was an arse who liked Folant better than he liked Ellis, no one reported any of it to the First Warden. And because no one had reported any of it to the First Warden, his people had been unprepared.

  “Tilli was beaten nearly into a bloody coma, Crilly! D’you not get what you’ve done here?”

  “You keep telling me your Wardens don’t fall under my purview, and I’m not—”

  “Not under your purview does not mean you can withhold information that almost gets one of my Wardens killed!” Ellis could barely breathe, he was that tamping. “That’s not even counting how many might’ve died today if one of my Wardens hadn’t spotted what you missed!”

  “Ah, yes, your… Warden.” The curl to Crilly’s lip told Ellis he was probably going to have to clamp down tight on his temper for the next thing that came from Crilly’s mouth. “Zophia Weber, I’m told. Dewin from Taraverde.”

  “Ostlich-Sztym. Not that it should bloody matter.”

  “That part, no.”

  Which meant the part that did matter, at least to Crilly, was that Zophia was Dewin.

  Crilly eyed Ellis, challenging, one corner of his mouth turned up. “Are you quite sure she’s not—-?”

  “I think,” Ellis cut in, soft and very, very calm, “you’d best not finish that sentence.”

  Ellis found himself with his fists pressed to the edge of Crilly’s oak desk, looming, though he hadn’t done it consciously. Crilly was trying to look unaffected, but he’d shifted back in his chair, gaze sharp on Ellis’s hands.

  Once Ellis pulled away, Crilly seemed to bolster himself to say, “Every angle should be explored, Rhywun Ellis, and I assure—”

  “I’ll take Rhywun Morgan, thanks.”

  Petty, perhaps, but they weren’t friends, and Ellis merited the respect, even if Crilly saw him as nothing more than Folant’s wayward brat who needed a lesson. Today was no bloody lesson.

  “Of course.” Crilly actually smiled. “Please expect one of my inspectors to call on you in the next day or so, Rhywun Morgan. And on your… Warden.” He made himself busy with shuffling papers around and not looking at Ellis. “As I said—every angle should be explored. We’re at war, after all.”

  “Yeah. We are.” Ellis nodded, watching carefully. “So why don’t you tell me how the search for the other three spies is going?”

  Crilly blinked. Frowned.

  “Three boats captured,” Ellis said softly. “Four in each.” He paused, tilted his head. “So where are the three our bomber was with?”

  He watched Crilly’s face go blank. And he wasn’t sure if it was because Crilly sincerely hadn’t thought of it, which was bad, or was dismayed that Ellis had, which was much, much worse.

  “Tell you what.” Ellis opened Crilly’s office door. “You send your inspectors to investigate me. I’ll send mine to investigate… well. Every angle, I reckon.”

  He left it there, smiled with all his teeth, and quit the room.

  FOUR DAYS later, two frigates patrolling the small upper islands off Preidyn’s eastern coast were bombed in a massive air attack that finally broke through Her Majesty’s Navy’s lines. This was not an expeditionary force. This was not a stray plane accidentally caught outside its supposed airspace. This was numerous battle squadrons with air power no one had until now suspected. They came in coordinated waves, and were led—shockingly, though it shouldn’t have been by then, probably—by two colossal, seemingly feral bellwing cows. Seemingly feral because, though they were vicious and crazed as any animal gone rabid, those who saw them up close—the ones who survived, at least—testified that the dragons wore collars, of all things. And seemed to be taking direction from a cruiser that sat behind the battle lines and never engaged.

  By the time Preidyn’s own fledgling Air Brigade arrived from their base in Werrdig, the islands were devastated. The pictures in the paper of the destruction were hellish and shocking. The loss of life hadn’t yet been calculated. Ellis had heard more than once that the Central Confederation’s attempts against Preidyn were less strategy and more the Verdish Premier’s personal antipathy for Queen Rhiannon. This attack convinced him.

  Preidyn won the battle in the end. The flotilla of Royal Navy patrol ships already cruising the Goshor converged with the destroyers that sped in to join the fight. The planes from Werrdig sported not only bombing capacity but gun turrets with crack gunners Taraverde’s planes just didn’t have. All of it meant more of the Confederation’s forces—planes and ships both—ended up at the bottom of the ocean than did Preidyn’s.

  The silence in the crowded pubs said it was a hollow victory. The laments sung in the common rooms said it was a costlier one than most had imagined. They had, until now, only read about Western Unified victories in other parts of the world through newspaper reports, or heard them described each week’s end through the Queen’s calm, plummy tones on the radio. The realities of the damage done even in victory had just been made acutely clear, and the collective pain of it was stunning.

  It brought the war home like even the attacks in Tirryderch hadn’t done, like the attempt at the Riverfest only days ago hadn’t managed.

  Ellis lost another five Wardens to enlistment. He was sure he was about to lose more, and it hit him unexpectedly hard because, though everyone had known conscription was coming, having it enacted into immediate effect was sobering. And Ellis knew, with a guilt and weird longing he didn’t quite understand, he wouldn’t be getting one of those letters with the sharp coat of arms of Her Majesty’s Royal Forces on the envelope.

  After a week of frantic preparation, covert reports to Alton, and an argument with Lilibet over whether she should take Bamps to Whitpool where it was relatively safer—which did not go as Ellis had hoped—Ellis camped out alone in a field in the Hollow Valley. The redcrest had somehow managed to make its way southwest from Caeryngryf to skulk the floodplains outside Millway. When there’d been evidence it had tried to squeeze its way through the too-small-for-it entrance to the Red Whisky Mines, Ellis guessed what it must be after. He arranged with Dyfan to have a ton of coal dumped by the banks of the Aled where the dragon seemed to be slurping up enough fish that Ellis was expecting complaints from the fishing villages downriver any day now.

  It was hunting for itself, so that was good, even if “hunting” meant it was merely dipping its snout in the water and waiting for it to fill up with fish. And it was clearly looking for the minerals it needed, though coal wasn’t going to be enough.

  Can send instructions to smelter for fire. Best I can do, had been Howell’s answer to Ellis’s probably somewhat tangled and definitely fretful telegram when the dragon had shown up in Olwyn’s pastures. No kin before Reaping end.

  And. Well.

  There’d been no way to arrange things with the closest forge because the dragon wouldn’t stay in one place. And it wasn’t as though Ellis could tell it to “Go wait over by the forge at Red Whisky” and have it understand that if it did so, he’d see its fires relit. So he merely kept an eye on its movements, and spent time ar
ound it when it let him. Aleks was arriving on the morning train, intending to try leading the dragon back to Whitpool using the lorry Ellis had appropriated. Which, Ellis supposed, was good, since Eira had been sending cables complaining “The longer you keep that rattletrap, the worse my paperwork.” Ellis would’ve thought getting rid of two nuisances at once would be a relief. No more harassment from Eira, and no more dragon to worry about. Instead, he was just glad the dragon had stayed where he could find it before what would be a very strange goodbye tomorrow.

  “This is it, I’m afraid,” Ellis told the dragon. She—because Ellis had looked up the markings—she was peering over from the levee across the channel where Ellis had set up camp. Just sitting there. Watching. She didn’t look wary, though. And Ellis had brought half a side of beef and lit the coal for her. “Just you and me. For now, anyway. Your kin will be coming to look after you until…”

  Until Milo comes home, he didn’t say, because it was stupid and probably had more to do with the now half-empty flask of single malt in his hand than reality. Even if—when Milo did come home… well, the dragon would likely be dead by then. She was still dropping scales. Though she’d emerged from her attempt to camouflage herself behind the too-thin tree cover so she could scoff the smoldering coal pile as soon as Ellis set it burning and moved back, there was no resulting glow to her belly. She smelled of rotten ash and mildew rather than petrol.

  Then again, maybe Aleks could work miracles as well as Milo could. The little razorback and its mam had recovered. Or at least they were recovering. Glynn said Aleks expected they might even join the clan at Reaping migration. If the same thing that had happened to those dragons had happened to this one, only worse, so much worse—

  “Maybe there’s hope for you,” Ellis said softly.

  Then again, those razorbacks were safe on a preserve right from the beginning, being cared for by dragonkin who loved them simply because they were dragons, being fed good rations and fat cows and goats before retiring to their secure, sturdy hot springs caves. This one had been sick and mostly fending for herself for… well, who knew how long? Who even knew if she could be saved?