by Naomi Novik
The four other French dragons were all coming about again. Temeraire put on a burst of sudden speed and just barely slid past the reaching claws of the Pêcheur-Couronné, and collided with the great French beast with all his claws outstretched even as the Chevalier slashed at Lily’s back.
She shrieked in pain and fury, thrashing; the three dragons were all entangled now, beating their wings furiously in opposite directions, clawing and slashing. Lily could not spit upwards; they had to somehow get her loose, but Temeraire was much smaller than the Chevalier, and Laurence could see the enormous dragon’s claws sinking deeper into Lily’s flesh, even though her crew were hacking at the iron-hard talons with axes.
“Get a bomb up here,” Laurence snapped to Granby; they would have to try and hurl one into the Chevalier’s belly-rigging, despite the danger of missing and striking Temeraire or Lily.
Temeraire kept slashing away in a blind passion, his sides belling out for breath; he roared so tremendously that his body vibrated with the force and Laurence’s ears ached. The Chevalier shuddered with pain; somewhere on his other side, Maximus also roared, blocked from Laurence’s sight by the French dragon’s bulk. The attack had its effect: the Chevalier bellowed in his deep hoarse voice, and his claws sprang free.
“Cut loose,” Laurence shouted. “Temeraire, cut loose; get between him and Lily.” In answer, Temeraire pulled himself free and dropped. Lily was moaning, streaming blood, and she was losing elevation rapidly. Having driven off the Chevalier was not enough: the other dragons were now as great a danger to her until she could get back aloft into fighting position. Laurence heard Captain Harcourt calling orders whose words he could not make out; abruptly Lily’s belly-rigging fell away like a great net sinking down through the clouds, and bombs, supplies, baggage, all went tumbling down and vanished into the waters of the Channel below; her ground crew were all tying themselves to the main harness instead.
Thus lightened, Lily shuddered and made a great effort, beating back up into the sky; the wounds were being packed with white bandages, but even at a distance Laurence could see she would need stitching. Maximus had the Chevalier engaged, but the Pêcheur-Couronné and the Fleur-de-Nuit were falling into a small wedge formation with the other French middle-weight, preparing to take a dash at Lily again. Temeraire maintained position just above Lily and hissed threateningly, his bloody claws flexing; but she was climbing too slowly.
The battle had turned into a wild melee; though the other British dragons had now recovered from their initial fright, they were in no sort of order. Harcourt was wholly occupied with Lily’s difficulties, and the last French dragon, a Pêcheur-Rayé, was fighting Messoria far below. Clearly the French had identified Sutton as the commander, and were keeping him out of the way; a strategy Laurence could grimly admire. He had no authority to take command, he was the most junior captain in the party, but something had to be done.
“Turner,” he said, catching his signal-ensign’s attention; but before he gave any order, the other British dragons were already wheeling around and in motion.
“Signal, sir, form up around leader,” Turner said, pointing.
Laurence looked back and saw Praecursoris swinging into Maximus’s usual place with signal-flags waving: not being limited to the formation’s pace, Choiseul and the big dragon had gone on ahead of them, but his lookouts had evidently caught sight of the battle and he had now returned. Laurence tapped Temeraire’s shoulder to draw his attention to the signal. “I see it,” Temeraire called back, and at once backwinged and settled into his proper position.
Another signal flashed out, and Laurence brought Temeraire up and in closer; Nitidus also pulled in more tightly, and together they closed the gap in the formation where Messoria would normally have been. Formation rise together, the next signal came, and with the other dragons around her, Lily took heart and was able to beat up more strongly: the bleeding had stopped at last. The trio of French dragons had separated; they could no longer hope to succeed with a collective charge, not straight into Lily’s jaws, and the formation would be up to the level of the Chevalier in a moment.
Maximus break away, the signal flashed: Maximus was still engaged in close quarters with the Chevalier, and rifles were cracking away on both sides. The great Regal Copper gave a final slash of his claws and pushed away: just a fraction too soon, for the formation was not yet high enough, and another few moments were necessary before Lily would be able to strike.
The Chevalier’s crew now saw his fresh danger and sent the big dragon back aloft, a great deal of shouting going on aboard in French. Though he was bleeding from many wounds, the Chevalier was so large that these did not hamper him severely, and he was still able to climb quicker than the injured Lily. After a moment, Choiseul signaled, Formation hold elevation, and they gave up the pursuit.
The French dragons came together at a distance into a loose cluster, wheeling around as they considered their next attack. But then they all turned as one and fled rapidly north-east, the Pêcheur-Rayé disengaging from Messoria also. Temeraire’s lookouts were all calling out and pointing to the south, and when Laurence looked over his shoulder he saw ten dragons flying towards them at great speed, British signals flashing out from the Longwing in the lead.
The Longwing was indeed Excidium; he and his formation accompanied them along the rest of the journey to the Dover covert, the two heavyweight Chequered Nettles among them taking it in turn to support Lily on the way. She was making reasonable progress, but her head was drooping, and she made a very heavy landing, her legs trembling so that the crew only barely managed to scramble off before she crumpled to the ground. Captain Harcourt’s face was streaked with unashamed tears, and she ran to Lily’s head and stood there caressing her and murmuring loving encouragement while the surgeons began their work.
Laurence directed Temeraire to land on the very edge of the covert’s landing ground, so the injured dragons might have more room. Maximus, Immortalis, and Messoria had all taken painful if not dangerous wounds in the battle, though nothing like what Lily had suffered, and their low cries of pain were very difficult to hear. Laurence repressed a shudder and stroked Temeraire’s sleek neck; he was deeply grateful for Temeraire’s quickness and grace, which had preserved him from the others’ fate. “Mr. Granby, let us unload at once, and then if you please, let us see what we can spare for the comfort of Lily’s crew; they have no baggage left, it looks to me.”
“Very good, sir,” Granby said, turning to give the orders at once.
It took several hours to settle the dragons down and get them unpacked and fed; fortunately the covert was a very large one, covering perhaps one hundred acres when including the cattle pastures, and there was no difficulty about finding a comfortably large clearing for Temeraire. Temeraire was wavering between excitement at having seen his first battle and deep anxiety for Lily’s sake; for once he ate only indifferently, and Laurence finally told the crew to take away the remainder of the carcasses. “We can hunt in the morning, there is no need to force yourself to eat,” he said.
“Thank you; I truly do not feel very hungry at the moment,” Temeraire said, settling down his head. He was quiet while they cleaned him, until the crewmen had gone and left him alone with Laurence. His eyes were closed to slits, and for a moment Laurence wondered if he had fallen asleep; then he opened them a little more and asked softly, “Laurence, is it always so, after a battle?”
Laurence did not need to ask what he meant; Temeraire’s weariness and sorrow were apparent. It was hard to know how to answer; he wanted so very much to reassure. Yet he himself was still tense and angry, and while the sensation was familiar, its lingering was not. He had been in many actions, no less deadly or dangerous, but this one had differed in the crucial respect: when the enemy took aim at his charge, they were threatening not his ship, but his dragon, already the dearest creature to him in the world. Nor could he contemplate injury to Lily or Maximus or any of the members of the formation with any sor
t of detachment; they might not be his own Temeraire, but they were full comrades-in-arms as well. It was not at all the same, and the surprise attack had caught him unprepared in his mind.
“It is often difficult afterwards, I am afraid, particularly when a friend has been injured, or perhaps killed,” he said finally. “I will say that I find this action especially hard to bear; there was nothing to be gained, for our part, and we did not seek it out.”
“Yes, that is true,” Temeraire said, his ruff drooping low upon his neck. “It would be better if I could think we had all fought so hard, and Lily had been hurt, for some purpose. But they only came to hurt us, so we did not even protect anyone.”
“That is not true at all; you protected Lily,” Laurence said. “And consider: the French made a very clever and skillful attack, taking us wholly by surprise, with a force equal to our own in numbers and superior in experience, and we defeated it and drove them off. That is something to be proud of, is it not?”
“I suppose that is true,” Temeraire said; his shoulders settled as he relaxed. “If only Lily will be all right,” he added.
“Let us hope so; be sure that all that can be done for her, will be,” Laurence said, stroking his nose. “Come now, you must be tired. Will you not sleep? Shall I read to you a little?”
“I do not think I can sleep,” Temeraire said. “But I would like you to read to me, and I will lie quietly and rest.” He yawned as soon as he had finished saying this, and was asleep before Laurence had even taken the book out. The weather had finally turned, and the warm, even breaths rising from his nostrils made small puffs of fog in the crisp air.
Leaving him to sleep, Laurence walked quickly back to the covert headquarters; the path through the dragon-fields was lit with hanging lanterns, and in any case he could see the windows up ahead. An easterly wind was carrying the salt air in from the harbor, mingled with the coppery smell of the warm dragons, already familiar and hardly noticed. He had a warm room on the second floor, with a window that looked out onto the back gardens, and his baggage had already been unpacked. He looked at the wrinkled clothes ruefully; evidently the servants at the covert had no more notion of packing than the aviators themselves did.
There was a great noise of raised voices as he came into the senior officers’ dining room, despite the late hour; the other captains of the formation were assembled at the long table where their own meal was going largely untouched.
“Is there any word about Lily?” he asked, taking the empty chair between Berkley and Dulcia’s captain, Chenery; Captain Harcourt and Captain Little of Immortalis were the only ones not present.
“He cut her to the bone, the great coward, but that is all we know,” Chenery said. “They are still sewing her up, and she hasn’t taken anything to eat.”
Laurence knew that was a bad sign; injured dragons usually became ravenous, unless they were in very great pain. “Maximus and Messoria?” he asked, looking at Berkley and Sutton.
“Ate well, and fast asleep,” Berkley said; his usually placid face was drawn and haggard, and he had a streak of dark blood running across his forehead into his bristly hair. “That was damned quick of you today, Laurence; we’d have lost her.”
“Not quick enough,” Laurence said quietly, forestalling the murmur of agreement; he had not the least desire to be praised for this day’s work, though he was proud of what Temeraire had done.
“Quicker than the rest of us,” Sutton said, draining his glass; from the looks of his cheeks and nose, it was not his first. “They caught us properly flat-footed, damned Frogs. What the devil they were doing to have a patrol there, I would like to know.”
“The route from Laggan to Dover isn’t much of a secret, Sutton,” Little said, coming to the table; they dragged chairs about to make room for him at their end of the table. “Immortalis is settled and eating, by the by; speaking of which, please give me that chicken here.” He wrenched off a leg with his hands and tore into it hungrily.
Looking at him, Laurence felt the first stirrings of appetite; the other captains seemed to feel the same way, and for the next ten minutes there was silence while they passed the plates around and concentrated on their food; they had none of them eaten since a hasty breakfast before dawn at the covert near Middlesbrough. The wine was not very good, but Laurence drank several glasses anyway.
“I expect they’ve been lurking about between Felixstowe and Dover, just waiting to get a drop on us,” Little said after a while, wiping his mouth and continuing his earlier thought. “By God, if you ever catch me taking Immortalis that way again; overland it is for us from now on, unless we’re looking for a fight.”
“Right you are,” Chenery said, with heartfelt agreement. “Hello, Choiseul; pull up a chair.” He shuffled over a little more, and the royalist captain joined them.
“Gentlemen, I am very happy to say that Lily has begun to eat; I have just come from Captain Harcourt,” he said, and raised a glass. “To their health, may I propose?”
“Hear, hear,” Sutton said, refilling his own glass; they all joined in the toast, and there was a general sigh of relief.
“Here you all are, then; eating, I hope? Good, very good.” Admiral Lenton had come up to join them; he was the commander-in-chief of the Channel Division, and thus all those dragons at the Dover covert. “No, don’t be fools, don’t get up,” he said impatiently, as Laurence and Choiseul began to rise, and the others belatedly followed. “After the day you’ve had, for Heaven’s sake. Here, pass that bottle over, Sutton. So, you all know that Lily is eating? Yes, the surgeons hope she will be flying short distances in a couple of weeks, and in the meantime you have at least nicely mauled a couple of their heavy-combat beasts. A toast to your formation, gentlemen.”
Laurence was at last beginning to feel his tension and distress ease; knowing Lily and the others were out of danger was a great relief, and the wine had loosened the tight knot in his throat. The others seemed to feel much the same way, and conversation grew slow and fragmented; they were all much inclined to nod over their cups.
“I am quite certain that the Grand Chevalier was Triumphalis,” Choiseul was telling Admiral Lenton quietly. “I have seen him before; he is one of France’s most dangerous fighters. He was certainly at the Dijon covert, near the Rhine, when Praecursoris and I left Austria, and I must represent to you, sir, that it bears out all my worst fears: Bonaparte would not have brought him here if he was not wholly confident of victory against Austria, and I am sure more of the French dragons are on their way to assist Villeneuve.”
“I was inclined to agree with you before, Captain; now I am sure of it,” Lenton said. “But for the moment, all we can do is hope Mortiferus reaches Nelson before the French dragons reach Villeneuve, and that he can do the job; we cannot spare Excidium if we do not have Lily. I would not be surprised if that was what they intended by this strike; it is the clever sort of way that damned Corsican thinks.”
Laurence could not help thinking of the Reliant, perhaps even now under the threat of a full-scale French aerial attack, and the other ships of the great fleet currently blockading Cadiz. So many of his friends and acquaintances; even if the French dragons did not arrive first, there would be a great naval battle to be fought, and how many would be lost without his ever hearing another word from them? He had not devoted much time to correspondence in the last busy months; now he regretted the neglect deeply.
“Have we had any dispatches from the blockade at Cadiz?” he asked. “Have they seen any action?”
“Not that I have heard of,” Lenton said. “Oh, that’s right, you’re our fellow from the Navy, aren’t you? Well, I will be starting those of you with uninjured beasts on patrolling over the Channel Fleet anyway while the others recover; you can touch down for a bit by the flagship and hear the news. They’ll be damned glad to see you; we haven’t been able to spare anyone long enough to bring them the post in a month.”
“Will you want us tomorrow, then?” Chenery asked,
stifling a yawn, not entirely successfully.
“No, I can spare you a day. See to your dragons, and enjoy the rest while it lasts,” Lenton said, with a sharp, braying laugh. “I’ll be having you rousted out of bed at dawn the day after.”
Temeraire slept very heavily and late the next morning, leaving Laurence to occupy himself for some hours after breakfast. He met Berkley at the table, and walked back with him to see Maximus. The Regal Copper was still eating, a procession of fresh-slaughtered sheep going down his gullet one after another, and he only rumbled a wordless, mouth-full greeting as they came to the clearing.
Berkley brought out a bottle of rather terrible wine, and drank most of it himself while Laurence sipped at his glass to be polite, as they told over the battle again with diagrams scratched in the dirt and pebbles representing the dragons. “We would do very well to add a light-flyer, a Greyling if one can be spared, to fly lookout above the formation,” Berkley said, sitting back heavily upon a rock. “It is all our big dragons being young; when the big ones panic in that way, the little ones will have a start even if they know better.”
Laurence nodded. “Although I hope this misadventure will at least have given them some experience in dealing with the fright,” he said. “In any event, the French cannot count on having such ideal circumstances often; without the cloud cover they should never have managed it.”
“Gentlemen; are you looking over the plan of yesterday?” Choiseul had been walking past towards the headquarters; he joined them and crouched down beside the diagram. “I am very sorry to have been away at the beginning.” His coat was dusty and his neckcloth was stained badly with sweat: he looked as though he had not shifted his clothes since yesterday, and a thin tracery of red veins stood out in the whites of his eyes; he rubbed his face as he looked down.
“Have you been up all night?” Laurence asked.