by David Weber
"Company-Captain Halifu," he said in a voice of steel-sharp hatred. "I believe you said something about needing reinforcements?"
Halifu met his gaze levelly?met and held it. Then he nodded.
"Yes, I did. If you'd be so kind as to transmit a message for me, requesting them we'll get started on that rescue mission."
"Compose your message, Sir," Darcel said very, very softly. "I'll be waiting when you're ready to send it."
He turned away than, without another word, and started breaking out the ammunition boxes in his gear.
Chapter Nine
"Cease fire! Cease fire!"
Jasak plowed into the nearest infantry-dragon's crew. He caught the closer assistant gunner by the collar and heaved him bodily away from the weapon. The gunner didn't even seem to notice … until Jasak kicked him solidly in the chest.
"Cease fire, godsdamn you!"
The gunner toppled over with an absolutely astonished expression. For just an instant, he didn't quite seem to understand what happened. Then his expression changed from confusion to horrified understanding, and he shook himself visibly.
Two of First Platoon's four dragons were still firing, blasting round after round into the tangle of fallen timber. There hadn't been a single return shot in well over a minute, but the gunners didn't even seem to realize it. They were submerged in a battle frenzy, too enraged by the slaughter of their fellow troopers?and too terrified by the enemy's devastating weapons?to think about things like that.
"Graholis seize you, cease fire!" Jasak bellowed, charging into a second dragon's crew while Chief Sword Threbuch waded into the third.
The fourth dragon hadn't fired in some time; its entire crew, and six other troopers who'd taken their places, were sprawled around it, dead or wounded.
Threbuch tossed the last operable dragon's gunner into a tangle of blackberry bushes at the clearing's edge just as a final lightning bolt sizzled from the focus point and slammed into a fallen tree trunk. Bark flew, smoke billowed up with the concussive sound of thunder, and then the discharge fizzled out.
Silence, alien and strange, roared in Jasak's ears.
He stood panting for breath, his pulse kicking at the insides of his eardrums like a frantic drumbeat. He made himself stand there, fighting his shakes under control, then dragged his sleeve across his face to clear his eyes of sweat and grime. Only then did he make himself look, make himself count the bodies.
His men lay sprawled like gutted marionettes across ground that was splashed with far too much blood. There were bodies everywhere, too many of them motionless, not even moaning, and his stomach clenched in the agony only a commanding officer could know.
Graholis' balls. Half his entire platoon was down out there. Half!
"You're bleeding, Sir."
The quiet, steady voice punched through his numb horror. Shocked, he slewed around to find his chief sword tearing open a medical kit.
"What?"
"You're bleeding, Sir. Let's have a look."
"Fuck that!" Jasak snapped. "It can't be more than a scratch. We've got to search for the wounded?all the wounded. Theirs as well as ours."
"So order a search. But you're still bleeding, and I'm still going to do something about that."
"I'm not?"
"Do I have to knock you down and sit on you, Hundred?" Otwal Threbuch snarled so harshly Jasak stared at him in total shock.
"You're our only surviving officer Sir," Threbuch's voice was like harsh iron, fresh from the furnace, "and you will damned well hold still until I find out why there's blood dripping off your scalp and pouring down your side!"
Jasak closed his mouth. He hadn't realized he was bleeding quite that badly, and he made himself sit quietly while the chief sword swabbed at the scalp cut he hadn't even felt. Worse was the furrow that something had plowed through the flesh along the edge of his ribs. Whatever it was, it had barely grazed him, but it had left a long, stinging wound in his side, ripped his uniform savagely, and left an impressive bloodstain that had poured down over his side. Another few inches inward, and it would have gone straight through a lung, or even his heart.
Jasak gritted his teeth, directing his surviving noncoms?there weren't many?to search for the wounded while Threbuch applied a field dressing. The instant the chief sword finished, Jasak strode out into the clearing, checking on his own wounded as he headed for his real objective: the enemy.
Some of his men had already reached them.
"We've got a survivor, Sir!" Evarl Harnak called out. "He's in bad shape."
Jasak hurried over to Garlath's platoon sword wondering what miracle had brought the sword through alive, since Harnak had led the charge the other side's weapons had torn apart. It was hard to believe that any of those troopers could have survived, Jasak thought bitterly. And that, too, was his fault?he'd been the one who'd thought the dragons had suppressed the enemy's fire.
He climbed through a tangle of fallen tree limbs and hunkered down beside Harnak. The sword was kneeling beside a man whose entire left side was badly burned. He'd taken a crossbow bolt through the belly, too, doing untold and probably lethal damage, even without the burns and the inevitable severe shock.
He was breathing, but just barely. It was a genuine mercy that he was unconscious, and Jasak was torn by conflicting emotions, conflicting duties and priorities. This whole disaster was his fault, which meant this man's brutal injuries were his fault. He reached for the wounded man's unburnt wrist and found the pulse. It was faint, thready, failing fast. Helpless to do anything else, he watched the stranger die.
"More survivors, Sir!" another shout rang across the smoke-filled clearing. "Oh, gods! One of them's a woman!"
Jasak ran, sickness twisting in his gut. He cursed the debris in his way, fighting to find a path through it, then flinging himself down, crawling under a fallen tree trunk to reach them. There were four survivors, fairly close together. Three had been burned badly; the fourth was scorched, but the infantry-dragon's breath had barely brushed her, thank Graholis.
She was unconscious. One slim hand was still wrapped around a weapon that was the most alien thing Jasak had ever seen. Drying blood caked the hair on the right side of her head, and a ghastly bruise was already swelling along that side of her face. A nasty lump ran from her temple to the back of her head.
"She must've been thrown against the tree trunk," he said, turning his head, eyes narrowed.
Yes, there was hair and blood caught in the rough bark, and it took all of Sir Jasak Olderhan's discipline not to slam his bare fist into the bark beside them. His only medic was dead?had been shot down, trying to reach wounded dragon gunners?and at least three of these people were so badly hurt they probably wouldn't have survived even with a medic.
"I need Magister Kelbryan," he barked over his shoulder, turning back to the savagely wounded survivors. "Now, damn it!"
Somebody ran, shouting for Gadrial, and Jasak bent over the unknown woman. Her pulse was slow under his fingers, but it was steady, strong, thank the gods. She was tiny, even smaller than Gadrial, with a beautiful, delicate face. She looked like a fragile glass doll lying crumpled in the ruins, and Jasak's heart twisted as he raged at Garlath and even at this woman's companions for coming here, for killing Osmuna and starting this whole disaster. And worst of all, for bringing this lovely girl into the middle of the killing his men?and hers?had unleashed in this clearing.
He'd kept Gadrial back at the very edge of their own formation, flat in a shallow ravine where she?and the men he'd assigned specifically to guard her?were out of the line of fire. Why the hell hadn't these men done the same?
Because, the stubborn back of his mind whispered in self-loathing and disgust, you left them no choice, circling around them to cut off their escape… .
Someone came crashing toward him through the underbrush, and he lifted his gaze to see Gadrial running recklessly through the tangled wood, past dead soldiers and smoking rubble.
"Where?" she gaspe
d, and Jasak reached out and lifted her across the five-foot fallen trunk as if she'd been a child. He set her down beside the wounded, and her breath choked on a sound of horror.
All three of the male survivors were burned. Two had been caught facing the fireball when the dragon's breath detonated amongst them, and their crisped skin and the stench of their burnt flesh twisted Jasak's stomach all over again. The third man had been facing away, or at least partially away, leaving him burned across the back. His shirt was a tattered wreck of blackened cloth. He'd been slammed into a jutting limb and fallen sideways, landing on one shoulder before sprawling across the ground, and broken ribs were visible through the tattered shirt.
"Rahil," Gadrial whispered. Jasak looked at her, saw her eyes, and flinched inwardly.
"Can you save them?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Can you save any of them?"
She swallowed hard and nerved herself to test the pulse of the nearest burn victim. He was semi-conscious, and a hideous, gurgling scream ripped loose as his arm shifted. Gadrial whimpered, but she didn't let go.
"Rahil's mercy," she breathed, then forced herself to inhaled deeply. "The others?"
Jasak led her to them. She tested their pulses in turn, her eyes closed, whispering under her breath. Power stirred about her, gripping hard enough to twist Jasak with a sharper nausea.
"It's bad?Heavenly Lady, it's bad. I can't save them all. I'm sorry. I might?I can probably keep one of them alive. Maybe … "
She stood, staring down at them, and Jasak felt her inner, helpless horror as she realized the hideous choice which lay before her. He started to open his mouth, to tell her which to try to save, to take the burden of that choice from her. It was both his responsibility and all he could offer her, but before he could speak, her shoulders twitched suddenly.
"Look!" She pointed at the woman's wrist, and Jasak frowned. The tiny, unconscious stranger wore a bracelet?a cuff of flexible metal that looked like woven gold. He'd already noticed that, but Gadrial was pointing at one of the wounded men, as well. He wore a matching cuff.
"That one," the magister said. "I'll?"
Her voice broke as she turned away from the others, the two who would die. The two she must let die.
She knelt beside the man with the wrist cuff. He was broken, as well as burned. The savagery of his wounds bled back through her hands, carried by her minor healing Gift, and she moaned involuntarily in the face of so much pain, so much damage… .
She closed her eyes, rested her hands carefully on his chest, and summoned the power of her Gift. Whispered words poured from her lips, helping her shape and direct the energy she plucked from the air about her. That energy was everywhere, a vast, unseen, seething sea that rolled and thundered like a storm-swept tide. It poured out of the emptiness between mortal thoughts and the power of God and scorched down her arms, out through her hands into the injured man. It was enormous, that sea of energy, an unimaginable, infinite boil of power flying loose and wild for anyone with the Gift strong enough to touch and take it.
But Gadrial's healing Gift was only a minor arcana. She could take only a little, only a sliver of the power someone with a major healing Gift could have taken, and even that small an amount had a price.
"He's … stabilized …" she managed to whisper, and the smoke-filled clearing looped and whirled around her.
Someone caught her shoulders, steadied her, and she leaned against a shoulder that took her weight effortlessly.
She needed that support?badly?as voices swam in and out of focus. The universe seemed to dip and swerve, curtsying like a ship in a heavy sea, and the start of a brutal headache throbbed somewhere behind her eyes.
Gift shock, her trained mind told her through the chaos. The strain of someone pushing a Gift far beyond its safe limits. It had been a long time since she'd felt it, and she wandered through seconds and minutes which stretched and contracted wierdly as she tied to find her way through the chaos of the backlash.
It took what seemed a very long time, but then her senses finally cleared, and she realized she was sitting propped against Sir Jasak Olderhan himself. His arm was about her, holding her there, while he issued a steady stream of orders.
"?and when that's done, Chief Sword, I want you to take one man and confirm that class eight portal. I want to finish that, at least, whatever else we do. I hate to give you up, but I want my best man in charge out there. Just be damned careful. We didn't?I didn't?mean to massacre these people, and I don't want anyone shooting at anyone else. Is that clear?"
"Very clear, Sir."
"Good. Just tiptoe in and tiptoe out, do whatever it takes to avoid further contact. Any questions?"
"No, Sir."
"Move out, then. The sooner you go, the likelier you are to get there and back before anyone realizes these people aren't coming home."
Jasak's voice went bleak and grim on the final few words. He could only hope the other side hadn't sent a runner ahead with a message. If they had …
"Keep your eyes open, Chief Sword, but don't dawdle. If they've dispatched a runner, I want him?alive and unharmed."
"Yes, Sir."
Threbuch saluted and turned away. Jasak watched him go, then noticed that Gadrial was watching him.
"Feeling better?" he asked quietly, moving the arm which had held her upright, and she nodded and sat up.
"Yes. Thanks." Her voice was hoarse, but it didn't quiver. "What we do now?"
Jasak glanced at the still-unconscious woman and the man Gadrial had pulled back from the brink.
"We have to get them back to the swamp portal before we can airlift them out. We can't get a dragon here in time. The nearest is at the coast, seven hundred miles from our entry portal. First it'd have to get there, then fly cross-country to meet us, and once it touched down out here?" he pointed at the clearing "?it wouldn't be able to take off again. Not enough wing room to get airborne fast enough to clear the trees. A battle dragon might be different?they're smaller, faster. They can dive, strike, and lift off again in a much smaller space. But transport dragons need a lot of wing room."
He sounded so calm, so controlled, Gadrial thought. Except for the fact that that calm controlled voice of his was telling her things he knew perfectly well she already knew.
"What about clearing a landing zone?" she asked. "Could you burn down some of the trees with the infantry-dragons?"
Jasak shook his head and gestured at the scorched trunks the enemy had found shelter among. They were smoldering, badly scorched, but mostly intact.
"Look for yourself. A dragon is designed to burn people," he said bitterly, "not to knock down trees. We do have some incendiary charges that could bring down even a tree that size," he nodded towards a towering giant, six feet thick at the base, "but not enough to clear a landing field long enough for a dragon to take off again. We'd need ten times as many as we've got to do that.
"We're Scouts, Magister Kelbryan, not heavy-combat engineers. No. The only hope is to get the wounded back to the swamp portal, or at least to someplace with enough open space for a transport dragon to take off, as well as land." Jasak glanced at the man Gadrial had saved. "Can he be moved? Without jeopardizing his life?"
"I don't know." She ran a weary hand through her hair while she struggled to focus her thoughts. "Probably. I'll know more when I touch him again. He shouldn't be moved right away, though. We'll have to get them out of this, I know." She motioned at the smoldering wreckage surrounding them. "But not far?not yet. Even the little I've done so far will have exhausted him."
Jasak nodded somberly. He'd seen what saving the man had done to Gadrial, and the healing Gift drew deeply upon the reserves of the injured person, as well.
"We can do that," he said. "And he'll have at least a little while to stabilize before we can pull out. We have a few things to do that will take some time."
He looked out across the open ground where so many of his men?good men, among the best in the Andaran Scouts?had died because of one man's
colossal stupidity. And because of another man's even greater stupidity in not relieving a dangerous, incompetent fool of command, whatever regulations and the articles of war said.
Gadrial turned her head, following his gaze, and her eyes were dark.
"What will you do with them?" she asked softly.
"The same thing the Chief Sword did for Osmuna." Jasak had to clamp his jaw tighter for a moment.
"Field rites," he said then, and looked down at her. She looked back, her expression puzzled, and his lips tightened. "I take it you've never seen them?" he said almost harshly.
Gadrial shook her head. The only thing she knew about "field rites" was that military commanders were sometimes forced by necessity to abandon their dead. Procedures had been developed for just that sort of emergency, but that was all she knew about it. She thought he might explain, but he didn't. Instead, he turned to Platoon Sword Harnak, his senior noncom now that he'd sent Otwal Threbuch away, and indicated the other two wounded men with a gentle, curiously vulnerable wave of his hand.
"Have someone stay with these men until … until they're not needed, Sword. No man should die alone."
Harnak nodded grimly, and Jasak inhaled and nodded at the girl and the man Gadrial had saved.
"I want these two moved out of this hellish pile of timber. But for pity's own sake, take care with him. He's got to survive, Harnak."
Gadrial realized there was more to Jasak's almost desperate insistence than any mere intelligence value living prisoners might represent. Jasak Olderhand was a soldier, but no murderer, Gadrial realized, and even she recognized that these people hadn't stood a chance once his support weapons opened fire on them. Now she felt his granite determination to snatch at least some of them back from the jaws of death … whatever it took.
"Yes, Sir." Harnak's acknowleding salute, like his voice, was subdued. Exhausted.
Gadrial knew how the sword felt. She watched Jasak smooth a tendril of long, dark hair away from the unconscious woman's face. His fingertips were so gentle, so tender, Gadrial felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes.