by Chris Bunch
He readied another fire bottle, and sent Storm down, determined he'd hit this time, or by the gods dive straight through that damned Roche galley.
He was low, very low, low enough to see oarsmen screaming, pointing, jumping overside, and he lobbed his fire bottle.
It hit just abaft the foremast, burst into flames, and the sail above it caught.
Fire roared up, took the ship, and Storm was speeding just above the waves, then up, barely clearing another galley's mast, and Hal went for the heights.
He looked back, saw three other ships afire, approved, and went down again with his third and last fire bottle.
This one missed, like his first, but four other fliers had better luck, and fire raged on the waters.
Ships were out of control, some oarsmen pulling pointlessly on one bank, the other side abandoned.
Ships collided with burning galleys, and the fire took them as well.
Hal and his flight, all intact, climbed high, just as the last Roche dragon plummeted past, into the sea.
There was nothing to do but watch now, as the Deraine fleet crashed into the swirling mass of galleys, their rams smashing, tearing the fairly flimsy hulls of the Roche ships, the galleys trying to send their soldiery across to board.
At first the Deraine ships refused close battle, smashing galleys down, sailing through into the second line, and attacking them. They turned, and awkwardly sailing almost into the wind, struck the rear of the Roche fleet.
Signals went up, and certain Deraine transports sailed into the middle of the battle, closing alongside crippled galleys, and sending infantrymen across to finish the ruination.
Another sweep by the Deraine and Sagene warships, and that was all the Roche sailors could take.
More than twenty of their ships broke away, skittering like waterbugs west, away from the battle.
But ten or so ships had harder men aboard, and fought on, refusing to strike.
They killed… but were killed in turn.
By dark, there was nothing left of the Roche fleet but crippled, burning, sinking galleys. The Roche had been shattered, for the loss of half a dozen Deraine or Sagene warships.
The way to the beachhead was now open.
Hal dreaded what might well happen next.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Victorious, the armada proudly sailed up to the Kalabas Peninsula. The town of Kalabas appeared abandoned, and there were no Roche warships, save two tiny patrol boats, securing the enormous Ichili River.
The way was open into the heart of Roche.
But the fleet just sat there, for all of a very long day.
Hal took his flight far up the peninsula, saw no sign of soldiery, saw nothing on the river to block Deraine.
But nothing happened. The warships cruised about, the transports sat, boats launched, ready to board the impatient troops crowding the decks.
When Hal brought his dragons at midday, he asked, almost in a stammering rage, what the hells was going on.
The answer, somewhat unbelievably, was that Lord Hamil was holding commanders' conferences aboard the flagship, to make sure everyone understood his orders.
They'd had many weeks aboard ship to rehearse and memorize, but now Hamil appeared to be letting opportunity slip past him.
"Th' bastid's afeared," Farren Mariah said. "He's had nought all his life but little pissyanty soldiering, and now he's got all these frigging ships ready to sail widdershins if he commands, and he's got both thumbs up his arse, walking on his frigging elbows!"
That unfair summation seemed most accurate.
The flight grabbed hasty sandwiches, took off again, without orders. Hal decided to scout the peninsula as far as he could go.
The land was rocky, with high cliffs surrounding the small village. There were only two winding roads climbing to the top of the plateau. They ran north, on either side of the land, through narrow passes broken by open land, with only low brush for cover.
Come on, Hal found himself muttering. Get ashore, before the damned Roche show up, because if you don't take the peninsula now, you'll never be able to hold it.
He passed another dragon flight, and its commander held up his hands in equally helpless anger.
It wasn't until late afternoon that the landing commenced, troops getting into the boats in a leisurely manner, as if they were on a holiday outing.
The cavalry's horses were hoisted on to small lighters, and rowed ashore, to splash about in the low surf.
Hal saw no signs of any of the smaller ships the fleet had brought with them securing the river.
At dusk, on another flight up the peninsula, he saw dust-clouds on the roads. He flew lower, saw endless columns of Roche infantry and cavalry pouring toward the peninsula's tip.
Saslic held up her crossbow, pointed down. Hal shook his head. Each bolt could kill one man, and that would hardly slow the horde. And where and when would replacement bolts be available?
Hal flew hard back to the flagship, chanced putting a protesting Storm down in the water almost alongside it. A boat was lowered, and he told the coxswain to keep the reins to the dragon close. He'd be back directly.
Aboard ship, he reported what he'd seen to Lord Hamil, who seemed unworried, telling Hal that the troops were already forming up for an attack from the town to secure a foothold atop the plateau. In fact, Lord Cantabri had just gone ashore, to get the men moving.
There was nothing for Hal to do, except go back to Storm, who was hissing unhappily at the poor sailor. Very grateful for not being eaten, the man shouted for his oarsmen to row hard back to the flagship, away from this damned monster and his demon-bound master.
Hal's next problem was taking off. The sea was calm, and there was almost no wind. Storm tried hard, but couldn't break free of the water.
Hal had to swim his beast to the Adventurer, and have Storm hoisted aboard the takeoff barge before he could get in the air. He took a moment to toss his dragon a squawking hen. Storm swallowed it in a gulp, but didn't appear that mollified.
Saslic, leading his flight, swooped low as he took off.
"The bastards have the heights," she shouted.
The Roche infantry, moving at a run, now controlled both roads going up to the plateau.
The Deraine infantry began plodding up the winding tracks. Hal saw a cavalry formation push past them, and try to charge. Arrows, crossbow bolts rained down, and men and horses screamed, died, fell back.
Another dragon flight swooped on the Roche positions. Two riders carried bows, and fired down at the enemy. A shower of arrows came up to meet them. The dragons rolled in midair, clawing at the shafts buried in their sides, stomachs, and smashed into the ground, writhing, dying.
The infantry mounted their attack, and were cut down in rows. None even closed with the Roche.
They tried again, going straight up the rocks, off the road, got within sword-reach before they broke, stumbling, jumping back the way they'd come, leaving men sprawled on bloody rocks.
The Roche seemed to have no interest in counterattacking, content with their commanding positions.
And then the sun dropped into the sea, and the first day's disaster was complete.
Hal and the other dragon flight commanders were summoned to the flagship, where Lord Cantabri awaited them. He was dirty, haggard and worn.
"We're attacking again tomorrow," he said. "I'll lead the assault. Straight up and at them, which is the only way we've got left now." He put emphasis on the last word, which the fliers noticed.
"We must gain a foothold on the plateau… or else the whole invasion may be lost.
"I want all of you to put every effort into doing anything to make the attack succeed.
"Sir Hal, I want your flight to scout behind their lines, and give me warning if Roche reinforcements appear."
"Sir," Hal said, "I think I can do better service than that."
Hal told him his plan. Cantabri winced. "That'll burn up—pun not intended—a valuable rese
rve."
"But you said—"
"I know what I said." Cantabri sighed. "All right. Cabet, you'll do the scouting I assigned Sir Hal to. That's all, gentleman. Pray for Deraine… And for all of us.
"You're dismissed."
The attack began at dawn. Men who'd gotten little sleep after the ordeal of the day before took position, and started up toward the plateau.
They moved in line, guides shouting orders to keep the lines even, as they'd been trained. Hal winced, seeing the Roche cut them down like a peasant scythes wheat.
The entire front line went down, and then the second. But the third pressed on, suddenly forgetting their training, darting from rock to rock, archers and crossbowmen firing only when they were sure of a target, closing on the clifftop.
Hal sent Storm into a dive, the rest of his flight behind him, well spread out. Each flier had a fire bottle ready, and looked for a target as the ground rose up at them. Hal threw, didn't know if he hit the knot of crossbowmen he'd aimed at, dragged Storm around, and came in on the level, dropping one, then his last fire bottle.
Flame gouted along the cliff, but Hal wasn't finished. Crossbow ready, he looked for targets—officers, men who looked important. He fired, reloaded, fired, and sent Storm back along the line.
Sometime in this sweep, he lost his first flier—the dragon hit in the throat, screeching, diving down toward the town, smashing through infantrymen moving steadily upward.
But he sent his flight back again, sniping at anything worth shooting.
Then he was out of bolts, and pulled Storm up, looking back and seeing Deraine banners top the cliff, and smash into hand-to-hand fighting with the Roche.
By dark, Sagene and Deraine held a precarious toe-hold on the plateau.
Some infantry units had been completely wiped out, almost all in the attack lost most of their officers and experienced warrants.
Lord Cantabri took an arrow in the side, fortunately a wound that looked far worse than it was. Bandaged and in a stretcher, he swore he could still lead the fight from the village, at the very least.
Hal had expended all the fire bottles he'd brought, as well as 200 irreplaceable bolts.
Instead of being able to sleep, he found every bottle the Adventurer had, enough lamp oil to fill them, and had them rowed across to the flagship, for Limingo to cast a spell on them.
The next day, with Lord Hamil himself ashore, accompanied by his staff and a distinctly unhappy Thom Lowess, although sensibly not going as far forward as Cantabri had done, the attack went forward, and Hal's fliers rained fire on the Roche.
By day's end, Deraine held a perimeter half a mile deep, a mile long.
But no more.
The Roche dug trenches, and further attacks were driven back, with heavy losses.
Hal lost another dragon, but the flier managed to save himself.
There were now thirteen left in the flight.
The attack up the peninsula was a failure.
Hal had wondered, rather dully, having other matters on hand, why the damned fleet didn't attack up the Ichili River, since that was the intended invasion route.
Perhaps Lord Hamil had been waiting for the peninsula fight to be over.
But when even he had to recognize there'd be no victory on the plateau, he finally ordered an attack upriver.
Sages cast runes, decided in three days there'd be a favorable wind from the south.
There was, and so the smaller, shallower-draughted ships started up, tacking from bank to bank.
Overhead were the dragons, scouting for an ambush.
There were no surprises for about eight miles, then the river narrowed into a gut, barely a quarter mile wide, the current fast-rushing, more than some of the ships could manage.
Supposedly someone asked Lord Hamil's main wizard for a spell to reduce the water-rush, and was laughed at.
"Gods make those kind of spells," the magician said, "not men. But I'll give you some advice—wait until the tide is on the flow, and that'll make it easier to sail through."
Gart, who'd watched all this from above, sat at dinner in the messdeck of the Adventurer, shaking her head.
"It's not so much the stupidity of the godsdamned army that bothers me," she said. "It's that it's somewhat like a disease. There must be seamen, even rivermen somewhere in this expedition of idiots who could've figured that out. But no, they've got to be as thick-headed as Hamil the Dolt."
"Careful," Lord Loren said, grinning. "That's treasonous."
"No, treasonous is the fool who named Hamil as commander of—"
Gart broke off hastily, remembering it was King Asir himself who'd chosen Hamil.
"So what now?" Saslic asked Gart.
"We'll try to force a passage through," Gart suggested. "Unless other things happen first."
Other things happened first.
At dawn the next day, there were Roche soldiers on the heights above the gut, equipped with catapults.
But that gave Hal a target, and so he and his flight went out with fire bottles, and the catapults roared up into flames.
Before the narrow passage could be sailed through, though, patrol boats found the river below the gut blocked, trapping two dozen ships.
The blockage appeared, at first, like a huge net, somehow stretched, in the course of a single night, across a half-mile-wide stretch of the river. The ends of the net were guarded by Roche battalions, who drove off attempts at landing.
Other Roche units reinforced the heights above the gut, until that passage was secured.
Lord Hamil decided to take larger warships upriver, and ram the net. Once the net was holed, the trapped ships could escape.
He also decided to make the attack at night.
It was blowing hard, so none of the dragons could handily fly, which Hal was very grateful for, later.
Three ships drove under full sail at the "net," and it came alive, lifting out of the water like so many conjoined serpents, reaching out for the ships as they closed. Certainly it was magic of a high order as the net took the ships, and tore at them, climbing over their bulwarks and pulling the ships down, until water surged over their rails, pouring down into their holds.
The three rolled, back, forth, then capsized, men spilling into the water, swimming away from the nightmare.
There were creatures in the river, creatures no one could later quite describe, that tore at the men until the river turned muddy brown with blood.
Few of the sailors aboard the three ships made it to the banks, and those that did were killed by Roche soldiers.
The net appearing to be broken, the twenty-four trapped ships tried to push for freedom. But the net, or whatever it was, reformed, ripping at these small ships, tearing out masts, winding like corpse-sheets around the hulls, pulling them under.
Seven of these small boats, carrying as many men as they could pull aboard, until they were down to the gunwales, made it to the river mouth and safety.
Something no one had appeared to plan for, or at any rate hadn't planned well, was resupplying the expedition. The fleet itself had to land all supplies, then sail back toward Sagene for more men, more equipment, more of everything.
Only a few ships were left—picket boats, the flagship, hospital ships and the dragon ships, among others.
With them went Thom Lowess, who'd taken Hal aside the night before sailing.
"I think it's time I moved on."
Hal lifted an eyebrow, Lowess drew closer, making sure there was no one to overhear.
"I came out to write tales that would build morale back in Deraine. This disaster is hardly my cup of tea. And, to tell you my own personal feeling, things aren't likely to improve.
"But don't worry, Hal. I'll make sure your career stays on an even keel. Yours and Lord Cantabri's."
* * *
Lord Cantabri sourly watched, from shore, as the ships sailed away, leaving the soldiers marooned, and said, "A frigging whale. We're nothing but a damned stranded wha
le on this strand. Deraine forever. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ninety days later, the beachhead was even worse. There was more debris along the shore, more broken, abandoned weaponry scattered on the heights and below. The village had been ransacked again and again for materials for shelter, firewood, or simply for the joy of having something to ruin that wouldn't ruin back.
The Roche archers and crossbowmen killed their share, waiting in concealment until someone had a careless moment, and ensured he'd never have another one. More died through Lord Hamil's insistence the Roche would only "respect" Deraine by aggressive patrolling. So every night patrols went out, and were ambushed.
But still more died from disease. The sere Kalabas peninsula hid strange sicknesses, some that killed quickly, others that tore until a man or woman screamed for death's relief.
The expedition had run out of room to bury its dead, and so priests and sorcerers burnt the bodies in tall pyres. Soldiers swore they'd never be able to eat mutton again, the smell being just like that of a burning corpse.
But that was just one of the stinks—decaying bodies of horses and men, spoiled supplies, burnt wood, decay and shit hung over the peninsula like an invisible fog.
No one had allowed for the winter storms, even in the more placid Southern Ocean, so the supply line was constantly overstrained, in danger of snapping, and the troops mostly lived on iron rations, almost never seeing fresh food. Officers and staff personnel seemed only too ready to "borrow" a cabbage or a ham for their own use, figuring one item would never be missed. Of course, by the time everyone took his little bit on the way up to the plateau, the fighting troops got damn all in the way of foodstuffs.
Reinforcements arrived, were assigned to different formations, plodded up to the top of the plateau, and came back down, wounded, dead or mad.
Hal was down to ten fliers, eleven dragons, and he couldn't tell which was in worse shape, the dragons with their lean sides and nervously flicking tails, or the fliers, with their twitching muscles, and remote stares.