Dragon (Vlad Taltos)

by Steven Brust

  He grunted and moved on. There were no more screams, but there were still a few moans that I could hear over the sound of rain striking wooden shields, metal swords, and whatever else was there to make sound against. Whoever had helped with my jerkin now helped me stand up, which made my side hurt, but not badly, which was just as well since I don’t much care for pain. It turned out to be Aelburr. I said, “Anyone else hurt?” which of course was a stupid question, but he knew what I meant.

  “Napper lost some skin on his left hand, but nothing else.”

  “Can’t one of our sorcerers stop this Verra-be-damned rain?”

  “I suspect our sorcerers are more exhausted than anyone else on the field.”

  “Oh. I suppose. Any idea what happens now?”

  “We’ve picked up our wounded and our javelins, that’s always the first thing. Now, I imagine, we’ll re-form and—” The juice-drum cut in again. I was getting very tired of the thing. Aelburr paused, then said, “Or maybe we retreat to a prepared position.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “With luck, it means the higher-ups had this in mind all along. Without luck, it means we’re running and they don’t want us to fall apart.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I didn’t have to ask: They had it planned.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Uh … I’m an Easterner. We know things.”

  He didn’t look convinced, but he did help me find my pack, get my heavy cloak out and on, and then put the converted satchel onto my back. That hurt, too, but I could carry it.

  “Carry it on the wounded side,” said Aelburr.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you carry it on the healthy side the wound will open up.”

  That made too much sense for me to ignore it, so I did as I was told, then made my way up to the mudworks, which were vanishing into the field, and stared out; I could just make the enemy out through the drizzle, formed in a solid, even line, not moving, about a hundred and fifty yards away.

  The command came a little later, and this time it was in plain words: “Fall back!” Seemed like a fine idea. Rascha came along and formed us into something like a line, and then Crown yelled something and everyone else turned around so I did, too; we began to move, in one long line, the Captain to the extreme right, our backs to the enemy. We started out at a quick trot, which I can safely say that everyone in the company was better at than I was, but I kept up. Eventually, on command, we dropped it back to a fast march, which we kept up much too long, and then we halted and turned and waited.

  The rain stopped at last, and it was followed by a bitter wind that was only partially blocked by my rain-drenched cloak. Happiness, I decided, would be a nice campfire, proving once again that happiness is minor misery where before was extreme misery, if that ever needed proving. But there was no fire, and we waited.

  At the time I had no idea what was going on, or how our part fit into Sethra’s grand design, nor, to be honest, did I give it even a passing thought; but it is rare that a foot soldier has the chance to ask questions of his commanding general over a glass of red wine, and I had that advantage, so I ought to give you the benefit of what I was able to learn, later, when I had the leisure for curiosity.

  Most of the division led by Morrolan had been about half a day’s march away from us the entire time, and while we pulled back after their first attack, they were advancing. The engineers had been killing themselves preparing a defensive position for just this circumstance, and it was Sethra’s hope (though not, she says, her expectation) that their entire corps could be lured into battle against our company and the other companies in the van, which would hold them just long enough for Morrolan’s division to arrive and scatter, trap, or crush them. Of course, it didn’t work that way, and what happened instead is that we fell back to the “fortified” position and stayed there for an entire day convinced we were to be attacked any minute, and then we abruptly broke camp and marched away in another direction entirely, which turned out to be due east, rather than the southeast that Sethra had originally planned on. I don’t know what led to the change; none of my business, I suppose.

  I found it annoying, but everyone else seemed to take it as just part of the routine. The rains plagued us for the next day, and most of the conversation was about incompetent sorcerers who couldn’t manage the simplest weather control, and speculations about whether the whole thing was the work of Fornia’s sorcerers. We could all see that the weather system above us was too large and complex to be considered “simple” but that didn’t stop the remarks. I’d have hated to be a sorcerer; I’d have had to kill someone.

  At the end of that day’s march, with the rain still coming down, all of us soaked to the skin, and the ambulances having already carried our wounded back toward the rear, we held services for the nine soldiers in our company who’d been killed. The Captain gathered us together in formation facing the presumed enemy (I don’t know if they were five hundred yards from us or twenty miles at that point) and stood there flanked by tall torches, so we could see him. The bodies lay naked in front of us, wounds hidden, torsos glistening with rain and the embalming oils that would preserve them between here and Deathgate. I knew they were dead because they were the only ones present who weren’t shivering.

  The Captain spoke of the pride of the House of the Dragon and promised the souls of each of the fallen that they would be sent to the Paths of the Dead, where he was confident they would be received with honor. He named them, and their rank (none higher than corporal), and asked the Lords of Judgment to look kindly upon them, and then said a few words in the ancient tongue of the House of the Dragon.

  I felt as out of place as I’d ever felt anywhere, and I kept waiting for my natural cynicism to rescue me, but it was off catching up on the sleep that the rest of me wanted. Loiosh, too, was silent, and there was little talk as we broke up into squads and returned to our tents. I did ask Virt, in a quiet voice, how these things were handled, and was told that the bodies were to be placed on wagons and an honor guard sent to convey them to Deathgate Falls.

  “Beyond that,” she said, “who knows?”

  Well, I did. At least, I had a pretty good idea, but it didn’t seem right to say so. I was the only one in the company who had personal experience of what lay beyond Deathgate; I was also the only one in the company who had no right to the knowledge and the only one who, if killed in action, would not be sent there.

  My natural cynicism finally appeared, but by then it was time to sack out for the night, so I could arise, rested and alert, and spend another day marching through rain and mud and eating bad food.

  After a couple of days, the rains realized that we weren’t going to quit so they stopped, and even the overcast became higher and thinner. There were mountains before us now: the Eastern Mountains in general, and Mount Drift in particular; I remembered it from the map. There was no more rain at all, as we had reached the dry lands west of the mountains; by whim of the Gods or freak of nature, the eastern slopes of the mountains were lush and forested while the western would have been desert were it not for the mountain streams, washes, and rivers that made their way across.

  Now that the rain was gone, however, it was too hot, much too hot for marching, anyway. Both of my cloaks were stowed, my pack weighed a million pounds, give or take a couple, and even the little uniform cap was an irritation; the first thing everyone did when we stopped was take it off. On the other hand, I learned then what it was for: It kept the dust out of our eyes as we marched. Apparently cooling spells, or even wind spells, were too much work for the sorcerers of the company, and so those of us who knew a little sorcery, which was fortunately most of us, took turns attempting to summon up a breeze. This broke down by the second day of marching, after which we just put up with it.

  I was now consuming six or seven biscuits at a meal, to show to what depths the human animal can be reduced. And we still had no idea to where we were marching, nor for what purpose. Well, I
had a vague idea, thanks to having been at the one planning session, but it is one thing to hear elaborate strategic plans; it is quite another to spend a week marching with no knowledge of what was ahead except, in the most general terms, that we’d probably fight at some point. Stopping was a relief, but now, ironically, there was little reason to stop. We were on a good road cut by someone sometime for some reason through the harsh, rocky ground, but even the ground would have been passable, so we just trudged on and tried to make it to the next water break without screaming or choking on the dust kicked up by those in the front. My side did feel better.

  Eventually, late one evening, we reached the Eastern River. I had assumed we would stop there, but whoever was in charge—that is to say, Sethra Lavode—wouldn’t hear of it. We were to cross at once, we heard. I studied the river in the fading light and would have scowled but I didn’t want to look like Napper.

  There were grey, water-smoothed stones on the far side of the river, and smooth sandy banks near us; I’m willing to listen to explanations for that if you have any. Beyond it Mount Drift was getting close, and its companions were appearing tall and impassible. Impassible didn’t bother me, because I didn’t think we were going to pass them; as opposed to the river, where the engineers were already at work with wooden planks, floats made of sheep bladders, and prefabricated fittings. The river was wide here, and fast, but, we were informed, not more than four feet deep. “Not more than four feet deep” had a sound I didn’t like. The evening, ironically, had turned quite cool, so walking through water, for which I’d have traded my best dagger the day before, had, now, nothing to recommend it.

  “Are they going to ask us to ford it?” I asked Virt, gesturing significantly at the engineers busily putting together their makeshift bridge.

  “That’s what I’d do,” she said irritatingly. “We should have a force on the other side before we start to bring the wagons across, and the sooner the better.”

  “Why?” I said, just because I was annoyed.

  “Well, we have to figure the enemy is nearby; we’ve been skirting his territory for days, and he can’t let us just wander anywhere.”

  I mentally pulled out the map of the area. Oh, that’s where we were. Okay, that made sense; once we crossed the river, we could follow it downstream right into the heart of Fornia’s territory; if Sethra wanted to force him to attack us, that would be the way to do it.

  The drum ripped out, and by now I had no trouble recognizing the call to form up and prepare to move. We did, grumbling. Virt and Aelburr seemed like the only two in the company who didn’t mind; just my luck to be in the only squad in the company with two irritatingly cheerful footsloggers. I made a remark to that effect to Napper, who nodded glumly.

  Rascha approached before we started across and said, “Taltos, you’re a bit shorter than the rest; if you want to wait for a wagon you can.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Boss, I’m never going to figure you out.”

  “Shut up.”

  The Captain led the way, dismounting and leading his horse across, then we moved out, and got wet and cold and fought the current, and climbed up over the rocks on the other side and moved back about a hundred yards from the bank. Eventually fires were lit, and we put up our tent by their light, and they served the food, and we sat around the fires getting warm and dry, which translated to happy, which in turn translated to not too discontented.

  At the next fire over, they were playing S’yang Stones, and I knew that Aelburr would be there, maybe following my advice and winning, but more likely playing his own game and losing. I thought about playing myself, but sitting by the fire was too pleasant. Napper was off somewhere; the rumor was he’d formed a liaison with a woman in another company. I ended up sitting next to Tibbs, who kept trying to find humorous anecdotes that I thought were funny, and failing. When he got to the one about the headless private carrying the legless corporal back to the physicker, Loiosh said, “Aw, c’mon, Boss. That was funny.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  “If you stay in the army long, Boss, your sense of humor is going to vanish entirely.”

  We were joined by a young-looking Dragonlord; in the flickering of the campfire he seemed little more than a boy. Tibbs said, “Hey, Dunn. Where have you been?”

  “Fishing.”

  “Catch anything?”

  “No.”

  “Told you.”

  “I had to try.”

  “Yeah, you did, didn’t you? This is Vlad. Vlad, Dunn.”

  “I’ve seen you.”

  “A nice guy, Boss; he’s fed me.”

  “All right, Loiosh. I won’t kill him, then.”

  Dunn and I exchanged greetings. Tibbs said, “What are you looking so glum about?”

  Dunn said, “Crown says I still can’t carry the colors next time we go into action.”

  “Congratulations,” said Tibbs. “Why are you so all-fired anxious to be killed?”

  Dunn didn’t answer. Tibbs shook his head and remarked, “You should have been a Dzur.”

  “I’d challenge you to a duel for that,” said Dunn, “but there aren’t enough of you.”

  Tibbs gave a short, barking laugh.

  Rascha came by about then, wished us all a good evening, and said, “You may want to sharpen your weapons tonight.”

  Tibbs said, “You think we’ll see action tomorrow?”

  “Nothing’s for certain, but it looks likely.”

  We nodded and thanked her for the information. I went back to the tent and borrowed Aelburr’s whetstone, then returned to the fire and put it to use.

  Loiosh said, “What about the whole plan to bug out when the fighting starts, Boss?”

  “Shut up, Loiosh.”

  INTERLUDE: DEFEND

  I spent last night with Cawti, an Eastern girl who has agreed to marry me. She has a wonderful smile and a good hand with a dagger, and she knows how to listen. We lay in my bed, pleasantly exhausted, her hair all over my chest and my arm around her shoulder, and I spoke with her about the proposal from Sethra the Younger. She listened without a word until I ran down, then she said, “And?”

  “And what?” I said.

  “And why did you expect anything different?”

  “Well, I don’t suppose I did.”

  “Are you still angry?”

  “Not so much. Like you said, I should have expected it.”

  “And what about her proposal?”

  “What about it? Can you imagine me accepting it?”

  “certainly.”

  “You can?”

  “I have a great imagination.”

  “Among other things, yes. But—”

  “But, if she hadn’t been so annoying, what would you have thought about it?”

  “Why should I care?”

  “Aliera.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s why you should care.”

  I sat up just a little, found a glass of a very dry white wine that we’d kept cold by setting it in a bucket of ice. I drank some, then held the glass for Cawti. She squeezed my shoulder by way of thanks, and I said, “You think I owe her something?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Hmmmm. Yeah. What with one thing and another, I suppose so.”

  “Then you should probably tell her about the offer, so she can decide for herself.”

  “I hate the idea of doing a service for Sethra the Younger.”

  “Yes, I know. I hardly blame you, but …”

  “Yes, but.”

  The wine went down nicely. A welcome breeze came through the window.

  “I think it’s going to rain,” said Cawti.

  “I’ll speak to Aliera tomorrow,” I said.

  “Would you like me to come along?”

  “Very much,” I said.

  “All right. I think I’m sleepy now.”

  “Sleeping comes highly recommended as a cure for that.”

  “You thin
k? Next you’ll tell me that eating is a good cure for hunger.”

  “Temporary, but it’ll take care of the symptoms. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, but I’m more sleepy.”

  “Then we’ll have breakfast tomorrow. One problem at a time.”

  “Good idea,” she said sleepily, and nestled into my shoulder.

  “I wonder what Aliera will say. She doesn’t think much more of Sethra the Younger than I do.”

  Cawti didn’t answer. If she wasn’t already asleep she was close to it. I set the wineglass down next to the table, then pulled the covers up. Outside, it began to rain. I thought about shuttering the windows, but it was too much work, and the rain smelled nice.

  That was yesterday. This morning Cawti and I found Aliera in the library of Castle Black. Going there today, after spending so much time thinking about, remembering, those first few times I’d been within the walls of that peculiar place, caught me up. I looked at it as if seeing it anew—as I’d first seen it years ago before war and love and war. To me Castle Black has always seemed palatial, with the grand, sweeping stairway and the three great chandeliers lighting the enormous hallway, all of them decorated by artwork one might expect to find in the Imperial Palace itself, artwork that is violent and beautiful at once, as, I suppose, are the Dragons at their best.

  At their worst they are brutal and ugly.

  Aliera said, “Greetings, Vlad, Cawti.”

  We both bowed. Cawti said, “How is Norathar?”

  “Adjusting. Becoming reconciled. She’ll make a good Empress.”

  I glanced at my betrothed, but if the subject was still painful for her, which I was certain it was, she gave no sign of it. Every once in a while I wondered how the House of the Dragon felt about its next Empress having once been a Jhereg assassin, but chances were good I’d be long dead by the time the Cycle turned, so I didn’t give it that much thought, and it was one of the things Cawti and I still had trouble talking about so I don’t know how she felt about it.

  I said, “I have a proposal for you.”

  Aliera put down her book—I didn’t catch the title—and tilted her head. “Yes?” she said, in a tone that indicated, “This is bound to be good.”