Banshee (12 page)

“Rifles!” The Commodore’s voice boomed. A single volley of fire smashed the nascent calm and, despite his mental preparation, Orontes took an unwilling step back from the observation post’s edge before stiffening his resolve. He planted his feet and saw, with utter shock, that men and women bearing long spears were now visible within the glow of the fires. They were mere yards away from the advancing horrors that waved claws about, cutting the air with hissing speed but, other than some minor wavering of their weapons, their courage held.

“Down line and sweep!” Eilert shouted again in his command voice.

The ground troops dropped as one to a knee and placed the butts of their spears in the soft sand. In seconds, they were transformed into a lethal forest of steel that shimmered with danger in the dancing lights of the fires.

Like a phalanx
, Orontes mused. It seemed that he wasn’t the only person versed in the classics.

“It’s a thin wave, isn’t it?” Byrna asked to the air. To Orontes, the glittering horde of demonic arachnids looked
far
from thin. There were hundreds by his estimate, some of which were ten yards in length. Their bodies were slickly mechanical, golden bronze, and equipped with powerful legs and complex mouths. The pedipalps fanned about in rhythmic contractions that gave glimpses within the horror of the beasts’ inner mouth. Then, as if by some unseen signal, the scorpions squealed as one, raising their glistening stingers high into the air as each razor point
clicked
into place.

The dragons struck from four vectors. With blinding speed, their long bodies slashed downward into the rattling mass of scorpions. Banshee snatched a pair of scorpions and hurled them like stones into the nearest mass of their brethren. The scorpions hit by the friendly fire exploded into sticky spray. Despite himself, Orontes gasped at the raw power that dragons brought to bear on the battlefield. A squeal broke his thoughts, as Alvaro’s mount, Hert, was nicked with a high-reaching stinger that stabbed across his low-hanging foreleg. Whirling in his saddle, Alvaro fired a three-round burst of fire into the side of the scorpion, causing it to rise up in agony. As soon as its soft underside was exposed, three ground troops plunged their spears between the segments of gleaming carapace. A shriek of pain erupted from the impaled scorpion, which thrashed wildly until a passing dragon casually ripped it in half. Fluid slewed through the air in hot spatters, and every soldier nearby took cover from the sizzling liquid.

The order of battle began to break down, as scorpions surged forward in desperation. Their stingers darted from on high in a relentless threshing motion, and the venomous points of bone began to find their mark. Screams of pain disrupted the called orders as one, then three, and then a dozen or more of Trinity’s foot soldiers fell, some writhing in agony, while others were horribly still.

“Clear to center. Rifles, fire!” the Commodore ordered. Instantly, the dragons elevated and swept aside as a thunderous discharge from the rifle platoons ripped into the enemy. Bullets punched through plated exoskeletons and left massive exit wounds. Among the rising cacophony of unearthly shrieking, the scorpion advance slowed to a trickle and, when their motion indicated an aura of indecision or weakness, the dragons struck again.

This time, each magnificent dragon dropped from the sky in a hover to engage the enemy at close quarters. Their bulk and claws crushed and tore as they settled onto the beach, while each rider fired freely into the masses of arachnids. Whirling dragons slew sand in gritty torrents as they bit, grabbed and threw scorpions about, taking terrible wounds in the process. When a dragon would hurl a scorpion aloft, the rider would target the helpless enemy and snap off shots until the clawed creatures hit the sand once more. If the scorpion still moved, the dragon would pounce like a scaled lion, ripping and scoring with talons that were slick with noxious fluids. Orontes saw more than one rider slump from their beast, the toxin of a wound rendering them unconscious or paralyzed. Their dragons fought on despite being unridden and, with a final grim crunch, Dauntless ended the fracas by biting the last two eurypterids clean through as his enormous forefeet held their struggling bodies to the sand.

“Medics!” Moss Eilert’s bellow carried across the arc of the beach. Even as his word echoed down the walls, trained medical staff flew down ladders to the wounded. The fires still popped under a freshening breeze that carried a horrid array of scents into the city. Blood, of many kinds, a cloying scent of death from the fallen scorpions, and the musk of dragons exerting themselves. It was unlike anything Orontes had seen in his life, and he stood with one hand over his mouth in mute amazement at the carnage. Dragons keened in pain and citizens started a bucket brigade from the sea, dumping warm salt water over their wounds in preparation for treatment. No stranger to death, Orontes estimated that four of the soldiers would not rise again. Delandra furiously pumped the chest of a woman whose abdomen had been cleaved by the pointed leg of an enormous scorpion; after a moment, the healer rose and wiped her hands on a cloth in resignation. It appeared that six victims were never to return to their side of the wall, an enormous price to pay for something that happened each and every month.

Saavin brought Banshee to hover low enough that she could see Orontes’ face. The young woman’s scowl was visible even in the near dark and, for a moment, the visitor turned away, chastened.

“There are three of the big ones coming?” Saavin asked, her voice tired and weak.

“Yes. And a fourth wave, if I make my mark,” Orontes replied. Moss Eilert looked at him sharply before returning to shout directions at four men carrying stretchers. When their path was suitably adjusted, he turned his dark eyes to Orontes.

“You will have your dragons and, if there’s anything holy left on this earth, they will fight and win. But”—he stepped close enough to Orontes that their noses were touching—“if those riflemen are not here with the goods by the approved time? I’ll send every flying dragon I have to track you down and tie you to a post on that beach. Do you understand?”

Orontes nodded tersely, his Adam’s apple working to reveal his nerves. “Yes. You don’t just have my word; you have the assurance of our military commander.”

Moss withdrew to consider the man before him, and casually pulled a cloth from his pocket to place over his nose. He was going to the beach to assist his men, and the fumes from the corpses would be powerful. With a mild nod, he said, “I don’t know him. I don’t
really
know you, but make certain French Heavener understands that it’s his ass, too.” He straddled a ladder and stepped rapidly into the darkness, leaving Orontes to his thoughts and new responsibilities.

Trinity bustled before the dawn as riders and dragons readied to cross the desert. Supplies were cinched against the dragons in slim leather messenger pouches. By Orontes’ tale it was estimated that the flight would take less than a day. At altitude, the temperature would allow updrafts to do the work for the dragons, lessening their need to burn precious energy accelerating. For their size, the beasts were remarkably quick but, like any flyer, their tendency toward laziness was created by a practical need to conserve power. The long glide east would be the largest movement of dragons since their emergence; how they knew this fact, they could not explain. It simply
was
in their draconic minds.

Moss Eilert stood straight as he saluted the riders and gave them the signal to go aloft. Byrna joined him solemnly, and the reality of the entire cause for such upheaval became a little more real.

“Will they ever come back?” Byrna asked.

“I hope so, because I believe Orontes.” The Commodore watched the wing of dragons form up in a delta as they prepared for extended flight.

“So do I,” Byrna said with a gravedigger’s acceptance. There would be much work to do when the dragons brought back soldiers to protect Trinity from something worse than their current nightmares. She suppressed a shudder, thinking back to the things that Trinity had already faced. Hell was proving to be more ingenious than imagined. As the day grew to a heated fury, the combined eyes of Trinity watched five dragons and riders, plus Orontes, wing off into the east, and the unknown.

New Madrid, August 23, 2074 A.D.

“There it is!” Orontes said in Saavin’s ear. Banshee had taken him on as passenger, winging over the Texas desert. After five hours of flight, the land had turned golden, then green, and finally, they’d wheeled downward toward the silver ribbon of a small river and what looked like green checkerboard lands. The farms radiated outward in a wildly verdant pinwheel, ending in an orderly village comprised of low houses covered in even more greenery. From a height, the entire scene resembled a lumpy garden perched in the midst of a circular lawn, but on an enormous scale. Saavin quickly noted geological formations that were oddly unsettling, resolving to ask about them upon landing.

“Down at will, and do mind the sod houses, big guy,” Saavin admonished her mount, who responded with a deep chuckling snort.

“I won’t crush the huts,” Banshee called back. His disdain for the organic architecture was evident in his mirth.

With a bellow, Banshee called the other dragons to begin their spin earthward. The emissary wing consisted of Saavin on Banshee, Rae on Spellbound, and the matched fighting pair of Teodoro and Alvaro on Jindy and Hert. They’d rounded out the wing with the addition of Dauntless, ridden by Bertline. Both man and beast were proven commodities, in addition to playing well with others. Already, Bertline’s broad ebony face broke into a smile of thanks as he spied the cool green of actual vegetation. He’d be an asset to them here, as his family had some experience in agriculture as well as warfare.
Eilert chose well
, mused Saavin. As one, the wing of five magnificent beasts turned a wingtip downward and craned their necks to the center of New Madrid. Already, people spilled out of buildings and began to stream in from the outlying fields. Dragons were news, and to the people who straddled the Underneath, they represented nothing short of a benediction from above. With a flutter, all five dragons dropped into the common area closest to the taller town hall. Hundreds of people cheered their arrival, and the dragons were busily greeting them in what passed for their best possible manners. Moss Eilert had been adamant; they might appear as beasts, but they represented the best of Trinity, and their behavior reflected that. With the exception of the Dauntless having occasional bouts of shyness, all five riders and dragons were outgoing, capable, and uniquely skilled. Teodoro and Alvaro brought a lethality that was unheard of among ground fighters, spurring their dragons to the same level of carnage among enemies. Spellbound was fast and agile, specializing in low angle assaults that often slipped under the larger dragons’ comfort zones. Rae’s natural energy played well with Spellbound, and they tended toward chatter during battle.

Orontes sought out the quiet regard of Harriet Fleming, who pushed her way to the forefront of the growing crowd. She eyed him, hands on hips, and then smiled slowly.

“I didn’t think you’d make it.” Her admiration was grudging.

Dismounting with some difficulty, he gave her a wincing bow. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, ma’am. I assure you, my safe arrival was in doubt until the good people of Trinity pulled this from my back.” He handed her the talon that had pierced his body, and she pursed her lips into a soundless whistle.

Under the tumult of dragons and riders conversing with the crowd, she leaned in closer to make herself heard. “I’m glad you survived. Things have become even less tenable here in your absence.”

Relief colored Harriet’s face. She looked worn.

“More than survived. I made the case with their leader, a redoubtable man named Moss Eilert, whom they call the Commodore. I’ll give you the entire report when we can get some quiet,” Orontes said. His dry tone encompassed the general chaos that tons of shouting dragons could bring to a scene. It was nearly a riot, but with deep, draconic laughter and cheering. The open curiosity shown by the people of New Madrid reached an absurd crescendo when children began holding up their hands to shake claws with Jindy, who laughed so loud that he caused dust to drift from his neck.

Before Orontes had gone ten feet into the melee, a familiar voice carried over the chorus of excitement. “I see you sent an emissary without council approval.”

Harriet and Orontes turned in unison at the accusatory whine. On cue, Colvin Watley forced his bulk through the onlookers to stand before them. His shadow, Yarnell, was blessedly gone for the moment. Sweating and rumpled, Watley was far from the polished charmer who swayed the council just a month earlier. His fall had been dramatic and total, but Harriet sensed the scheming that continued behind his cold, calculating eyes.

Orontes placed a gentle hand on Harriet’s arm and ran interference for her. “The council knew of my journey. So did French. And before you ask, I’m fine, thank you. News of my demise was somewhat exaggerated.”

That brought Watley up short. “I, of course I’m glad you’re alive, but I don’t understand why the secrecy.” He was running out of complaints, and time. His influence was in freefall, and he’d be lucky to remain in New Madrid, let alone continue his attempt to seize power. Lines around his mouth intimated the depths of his hidden anger, but Harriet was too cagey to miss them, and she quirked a brow at his lack of control. It infuriated the big man even further, forcing him to take a deep breath, paste a smile on his face, and wave grandly at the scene around them.

“Dragons. You seem to have brought the proverbial cavalry, Orontes.” Watley tried to be glib, but failed. His face was still a road map to vengeance.

“More than just dragons, Colvin. These riders are combat experts, and they bring years of experience to us. They’re some of the best that Trinity had to offer, and they will absolutely turn the tide when the giants stalk from the dark.” Orontes held out and arm to Harriet, who gratefully leaned against him. Neither of them were in pristine condition.

“Mint tea? I’m sure you missed it,” Harriet asked, as Orontes screwed up his face with a tattered smile.

“Of course. If only to get out of this noise. But yes. We have much to discuss. Let’s find French, and get down to business. These beasts,” he said, thumping Spellbound’s flank as they walked past, “aren’t just for decoration.”