"Really?"
"Really."
Earlier, when they had driven to the rescue of the embattled Recce Squadron, Elizabeth had borrowed a microphone to pass a quick warning over the radio to the soldiers, but since then, Huck had done all the communicating for her—probably because Elizabeth didn't really know how to speak on the radio—radio voice procedure hadn't been part of Task Force Devil's training.
Huck helped her put on the helmet, placing the headset over Elizabeth's ears then positioning the microphone near her mouth. Right away, she heard voices talking in military lingo, and she understood maybe half of it. Next, Huck clipped a small box the size of a lighter with buttons on it to Elizabeth's shirt. A long, thick cable ran from the box and down into the vehicle. "You push this button when you want to talk," Huck said. "Wait a few seconds before you begin to speak, or your first words will be cut off. Also, it would be best if you thought about what you're going to say before you get on the air so you don't waste time or cut off somebody else. Share the net, Elizabeth, or someone will jump all over your shit."
Elizabeth bit her lip, nodding vigorously. "Share the radio. Jump on shit. Got it."
Huck watched Elizabeth, making sure everything on the helmet was where it needed to be. "Can you hear me okay?"
Elizabeth adjusted the helmet slightly. "I can hear you."
"You push this other button if you want to talk to the crew, the driver, the gunner, or me. I'll remain on comms to help you."
"Got it," said Elizabeth.
"Okay, you're on the squadron command net. Major Ryker is call sign 1-9. Whatever you do, don't cut him off. The command post with Serge—remember Serge?"
"Big French guy."
"Right. Serge is in charge of the net, and he's call sign 1. You still with me?"
Elizabeth bobbed her head.
"The three troops, what's left of them, all have call signs beginning with 1-1, 1-2, or 1-3. 1 Troop, 2 Troop, 3 Troop. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Any call sign with the word Foxtrot in it is the Patricias, the infantry platoon. They tend to talk with their mouths full of food and aren't particularly clever—more like smart monkeys, really—but we like them anyhow."
"Okay, Foxtrot, 1, 2, 3. Who are we?"
"I'm Gulf-22, the FOO, the Forward Observation Officer. But the troops have a special call sign for you. In fact, they've been asking for you to join the net for some time now. They want to hear your voice again."
"They do?"
"They’re the ones who came up with your call sign. I'm the artillery liaison officer, Elizabeth. If the artillery were in place right now, I'd be dropping big fuck-off bombs on the enemy—warheads on foreheads. But my unit's still moving into location behind the river, so you're the only fire support we have, and the guys know it. In the army, we call the artillery 'the guns.' That's why my call sign starts with a G."
"Okay."
Huck smiled then activated her own radio. "1, this is Gulf-2-2. We have a new call sign requesting permission to join the net, over."
A moment later, she heard Serge's French-Canadian accent in call sign 1. "1, roger, out to you. Gunz, this is 1. Radio check, over."
Elizabeth's mouth opened, and her finger hovered over the radio button attached to her shirt.
Huck nodded, pointing to her.
Elizabeth pressed the button and waited a few seconds. "Uh, loud and clear."
Huck leaned in. "Say 'over' when you're done talking."
"Over," Elizabeth said then released the button.
Someone activated a radio, transmitting a single click over the net. Moments later, more radios clicked in welcome, like applause. Elizabeth felt a thickness in her throat, and her face heated. Don't you cry, she told herself.
"Gunz, this is 1-9," said Major Ryker warmly. "Welcome to Recce Squadron."
41
Horlastia stepped past the sentries into the heavily guarded tent in which she kept her Seeing Stone, her conduit to her mother. She stared at the stone, her chest tightening with fear, sweat rolling down her spine beneath her armor. Carved from black obsidian, the Seeing Stone was taller than she was and more than twice as wide. Carved in the shape of an obelisk and covered with eldritch runes, it throbbed with magical energy, awaiting only her touch to activate. Master Dwarven masons had created the stones, one for each of Horlastia's sisters. They permitted instantaneous communication with their mother, similar to a mind-tether but much more powerful, allowing astral projection so that the users could not only talk, but see one another as well. It was through the magic of these stones, as much as by harsh discipline, that Queen Tuatha de Talinor ruled the Fae Seelie Empire.
Horlastia pulled her winged helm from her head then placed it upon a nearby table, glaring at the Seeing Stone. What do I tell her? How do I explain … that I'm losing?
And will I still live when the sun rises?
She exhaled heavily, her heart drumming. There was no other choice but to report her failure. Her mother had spies within her army. If Horlastia tried to hide this, someone—Ulfir Dunwalker, most likely—would report it, then her mother would execute her for treason … as compared to killing me for failure. She knelt before the stone, reached a trembling hand out, and trailed her fingers over the runes cut into the smooth black surface.
She closed her eyes… "Mother," she whispered.
Daughter. Her mother's voice resonated through her skull instantly.
When she opened her eyes again, she knelt before the Bane Throne in her mother's fortress. Her mother sat upon the throne, watching her expressionlessly, as if she were just another servant and not her own daughter. The surrounding throne room was dark, cloaked in shifting shadows, as if in a dream, empty—except for the thing that rustled behind her mother's throne: Rizleoghin, her mother's spider demon familiar, larger than a manticore and far more dangerous. According to palace legend, her mother had given more than a few of her enemies to the demon to be wrapped in a cocoon and sucked dry of their juices at the demon's pleasure, a process that took weeks of torment. The demon edged closer to the throne, its eight red eyes watching Horlastia, and sudden fear clawed through her.
Here, in the astral plane, the demon should not have been able to see her.
Yet clearly, it did.
Speak, child, her mother commanded without opening her mouth. Are we ready for the culling?
"Tlathia is dead. Her head will be brought to you."
Yes, I know this already. That's not what I asked you.
How? Ulfir, of course. Somehow, he could communicate with her mother. Did he have his own Seeing Stone? If so, how had he hidden it from her? Horlastia blurted out the truth before she lost her courage. "No, Mother, but I have only to recover the Shatkur Orb. With Tlathia dead, I shall have it soon. I have … unfortunately, run into a delay."
Contempt flashed through her mother's icy eyes.
Horlastia carried on. "Everything else goes according to plan. I've secured the Nexus Star location, and the machine is set up and almost ready. Word from the other invasion sites is equally promising. They have erected their towers and prepared the web to make use of the ley lines. You were correct, Mother. The manlings avoid battle with us."
Not all the manlings, it seems.
"I … there's … there's a problem. One no one could have predicted. I need your help."
My help? Now, her mother did smile, but it was decidedly unfriendly.
"The ancient ones, Mother, our foe, they fight for the manlings. And they are powerful beyond imagining."
You've seen them with your own eyes?
"I … no, Mother. I have not." Horlastia stared at her feet. "But any mage I send against them dies, and I have lost almost a dozen mage-wardens and their wyvern mounts within the last few hours of battle. No manling mage could wield such power. We need you to lead us to victory, Mother. Only you could stand against them."
Cease your prattle, daughter. Her mother looked past her in disgust. You're supposed to be
a general. Act like one. We always knew the ancient ones might interfere, but your own sister Maelhrandia—a lowly mage-scout—defeated one of them. Yet you, with your teams of mage-wardens and all your army, need my help?
"Maelhrandia is dead."
And you'll join her if you don't recover my orb.
"I killed Tlathia. I—"
Liar! Ulfir killed the heretic, not you. What a disappointment you are. Without that orb, the invasion will fail. If that happens, I shall give you to my pet and make a nightgown of your tender flesh.
Horlastia's blood ran cold, and Rizleoghin scuttled closer to the rear of the throne, one of its spear-like legs reaching around to brush against her mother's ankle. "Maelhrandia had Gaze-killer," Horlastia said weakly. "It was the basilisk that killed the ancient one—not Maelhrandia. If I had such a beast—"
Her mother laughed. Do you truly wish for your own basilisk to fight your battles for you? She shook her head, staring at Horlastia as if she were addlepated. Truly, you are too stupid to be my child. Why seek a frog when a colossus is at hand?
"What?"
Her mother reached down absentmindedly and trailed her slender fingers over the hairs on Rizleoghin's leg and sighed. "How is it possible that one so stupid came from my womb? I oft wonder if a mischievous midwife didn't exchange my true daughter for the half-witted get of a dwarven maid."
Horlastia's face reddened. "I don’t understand your intent, Mother."
That much is obvious. Allow me to be clear. You don't need me to fight for you. The only ally you need is already with you on the Old World.
Sudden understanding washed through Horlastia, twisting her stomach into a knot. "I … yes, Mother. I shall send an envoy immediately and beg his aid."
Go yourself, you stupid child, or he'll be insulted. He may be insulted anyway.
"Yes … yes, Mother."
Horlastia's vision went dark, and she fell forward onto her hands. When she could see again, she lay on her side, curled up before the cold Seeing Stone. "Spider-Mother, help me," she whispered. "The great wyrm."
THE RISING SUN was barely a sliver of crimson along the eastern horizon as Horlastia approached Bale-Fire's new home. Her wyvern circled the ruins of the manling base—still smoking despite the earlier downpour. The air was still raw with the stench of smoke, but she saw no sign of the dragon. Just how hot was the wyrm's breath? She had flown here alone, partially because none of her mage-wardens had the courage to accompany her, but also because she didn't want them to see her dishonor herself before the wyrm. Notoriously prickly, Bale-Fire might even see their presence as an insult. No, according to the tales—which were half myth—the only way to approach a great dragon was as a supplicant, and even then, it was uncertain as to whether the wyrm would talk to you or devour you. Whether I live or die depends now upon his mood.
But where is he?
This was the second time her mother had brokered a deal with the dragon. The first had been long ago, when her mother had sought his aid in winning the Secession Wars. She had set Bale-Fire loose on the dwarven federation, and in the firestorm that followed, the dragon had destroyed not only the dwarven construct army, but also their capital city, Deep Terlholm. The destruction had been so complete that even now nothing grew in the melted ruins, not even weeds. Dragons were creatures of raw cataclysmic magic, much like the ancient ones. Great dragons, such as Bale-Fire, were infinitely more powerful than their smaller brethren, not to mention more cantankerous—Bale-Fire notoriously so. Did Mother bend knee to the wyrm? Somehow, she couldn’t see her mother half-naked, begging Bale-Fire's aid. But if not, how did she obtain his service?
Her life likely depended on that answer.
She circled the ruins twice more, seeing nothing of the dragon. Much of the surrounding forest had been burned to ash, leaving thick smoke in the air. It looked as though the wyrm had destroyed the base and moved on, but she knew that wasn't so. Her scouts insisted the wyrm remained here … somewhere, a belief reinforced by the behavior of her terrified wyvern, which even now resisted her commands through the mind-tether. Wyverns were dragonlings, distant cousins to the wyrms, and they recognized the smell of death in the air. She forced her will on the wyvern, bringing it lower. No, Bale-Fire is here, she knew. He just doesn't wish to be seen. Perhaps he hides himself behind a spell as we do. Were the wyrms capable of such spells? There were no dragon scholars among her people. Those who tried to study the beasts vanished, the message clear—leave us alone.
As she approached the scorched ground, her wyvern's wings beat up clouds of choking dust. Once again, the wyvern balked, but she used the mind-tether to drive spikes of anguish through its small brain, reminding it who was master here. The beast shrieked in agony but landed.
She climbed down from its saddle, throwing off the thick cloak she had worn while flying here, immediately shivering in the frigid chill of this strange land. She wore only a short, gauze-thin glittering gold samunite dress woven from the silk of Crimson Nitebiter spiders, although dress might have been an exaggeration. In truth, it was little more than a night slip, something she wore to excite lovers. The neckline plunged below her belly button, and its hem stopped at mid-thigh, revealing her powerful legs. She wore nothing beneath the dress. Even her feet were bare. The wet ash coated her feet, still warm. This place will smolder for days yet, if not weeks, she thought. As a mage-warden, she was larger and more powerfully built than her sisters, her shoulders and arms muscled from hours of saber practice. But larger or not, she was still her mother's daughter and had inherited her stunning exotic beauty. Besides, many males preferred strong women.
And what of dragons?
Setting her sights on the far riverbank and lake-like reservoir around which the base had been built, she began to walk through the ashes, her intuition screaming in alarm. Death hung over her, she knew. Her beautiful long white hair, normally bound tightly for battle, hung loose, blowing softly in the wind, and she had carefully applied cosmetics before coming, accentuating her beauty. Another of the tales that no one really knew whether it was true or not was that dragons—especially the great dragons—lusted after fae seelie women. Can they truly take any form they wish? While Horlastia secretly doubted dragons saw her people as anything more than walking meals, if true, she'd be a fool not to make use of her body. On the other hand, tempting a great dragon could be even more dangerous than simply begging its aid.
What would she do if he did desire her?
The answer was clear: anything and everything.
The manling buildings, even those constructed from stone and metal, had been melted, running like candle wax, and she trembled from more than the cold, knowing there was no shield spell that could protect her from Bale-Fire's flame breath. Her life was like a leaf hanging in the fall, awaiting only the wind to rip it free.
Why does he loiter here? she wondered.
Ahead, a large hill sat near the walled edge of the dark lake. She approached the hill, finding it blackened with fire and gouged with long furrows. Claw marks, she realized. He dug at the hill—why? A manling structure had once sat atop the hill but was now only a charred, melted shell. She circled the hill, coming upon a massive fire-blackened round steel door almost twice her height built into its base. Despite the scorch marks blackening the door—clearly, the focus of Bale-Fire's breath—the door remained mostly intact, although the heat had warped it. She stared in wonder at the door. The manlings have steel that can withstand dragon-fire!
Now that was a secret she needed to pry from them—if any of their technomancers survived the culling. She placed a palm against the warped metal, finding it cool to the touch. He must have been furious, she thought, gazing at the deep furrows torn into the hillside. What is behind that door that so heats his blood?
She cried out and fell to her knees in the ash as icy tendrils stabbed through her brain, hurting far more than any mind-tether could.
GET AWAY FROM THERE!
Bale-Fire!
; WHAT DO YOU WANT HERE, ELFLING? His thoughts resonated through her skull, alien and cruel.
"I … I seek your aid," she gasped, barely able to speak through the pain. The invisible tendrils gave way, allowing her to focus her thoughts once more. Her gaze darted about, but she saw nothing. He could be only feet away.
LIAR! YOU SEEK TO STEAL THAT WHICH IS MINE. SPEAK TRUE WORDS, AND I SHALL BE MAGNANIMOUS IN MY MERCY.
"No," she blurted, her chest heaving with exertion. "My mother, the queen, sent me."
His laughter lashed her like icy hail. YOU THINK TO IMPRESS ME BY SPEAKING OF YOUR ELFLING BROOD-MOTHER? QUEEN? WHOSE QUEEN? NOT MINE. MY KIND DO NOT WORSHIP SPIDER-GODDESSES. WE ARE ABOVE ELFLINGS, ABOVE GODS. YOU'D DO BETTER TO WORSHIP ME, FEMALE. WORSHIP ME, AND PERHAPS I SHALL SPARE YOU TO SERVE MY PLEASURE—UNTIL I GROW BORED OF YOU.
"Please, I seek your aid against the manlings and their ancient-one demons."
HELP YOU? WHY? YOUR FOUL BROOD-MOTHER HAS YET TO DELIVER MY PAYMENT FOR WINNING YOUR WAR FOR YOU. BRING ME WHAT WAS PROMISED—THE DWARVEN ORB—OR I'LL DEVOUR YOU AND YOUR BROOD-MOTHER. WE'LL SEE IF YOUR SPIDER-GODDESS PROTECTS HER.
Realization washed over Horlastia: her mother had promised the dragon a Shatkur Orb, likely the same one stolen by Tlathia. If Bale-Fire even suspects we no longer possess the orb… "Wait," she blurted. "We cannot bring you the orb until after the ceremony. Surely my mother explained this?"
Silence fell upon her. The dragon's displeasure was a physical thing, threatening to crush her. But he didn't. After several moments, she once again heard his thoughts.
THEN YOU WASTE MY TIME, ELFLING. RETURN AFTER YOUR "CEREMONY," AND GIVE ME WHAT YOUR BROOD-MOTHER PROMISED.
Thank the Spider Mother; she had been correct. Her mother had promised to deliver the orb after the culling, when she no longer needed it. She thrust her shoulders back and lifted her face, accentuating her form, willing the promise of pleasure into her voice. "Please, great one! We … I have another request, a new bargain."
ANOTHER BARGAIN, ELFLING? YOU DARE? FOR THAT INSULT, I SHALL STRIP THE MEAT FROM YOUR SKINNY BONES.
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