Of Bone and Thunder (46 page)

The closer she got to Luitox, however, the more she doubted everything she thought she knew. The rag she'd been flying on had stopped at Swassi Island. A rambling sanitarium covered a third of the island, but was divided in two. Men were housed in the north in crude but solid-enough huts while sick and wounded dwarves were housed to the south under little more than canvas tarps over a mat of palm fronds. The more things changed . . .

Miska sighed and turned to face the soldiers of Red Shield riding on the rag with her. More than one stared at her like a lovelorn puppy. She'd found this male attention flattering, once, when she was a girl. Now, long
into spinsterhood at thirty-one, it was a briar patch of pricks she would just as soon burn to ash.

“League of Worldly Fellowship,” Miska said, not rising to the bait. “We believe that all the lands and all the races should live together in peace and harmony and that no one is better than anyone else.”

“You haven't met the slyts yet then,” someone said, eliciting laughter.

Slyts.
It was an ugly, ugly word. Why men had to be so crude and so cruel she didn't understand.

“If I may, I was hoping to talk to you some more about the murder of King Wynnthorpe,” she said, adopting a stern look. “It must be very unwelcome news to you.”

“They say he wasn't the real king anyway, so what does it matter?” the soldier named Big Hog said, lifting his head from his arms long enough to chime in. The big fellow didn't seem that keen on flying. There was a pale green tinge about him. Miska would have to get his real name later. All the soldiers had been introduced to her by nicknames. It was the oddest thing to rename everyone, but she'd found it prevalent throughout the army. Even the thaums were going by monikers, like Breeze.

“Legitimate or not, he was assassinated,” she said, surprised she was struggling to impart the significance of this. “An arrow shot from over a hundred yards away went in his left eye and out the back of his skull while he was riding in his carriage.”

“What was the wind?”

Miska jumped, unaware a soldier had settled in behind her.
How had he done that?
She turned and saw the one they called Wraith. He was a thin, serious-looking man with dark eyes and a gaunt face that suggested less a soldier and more a . . . predator.

“The wind?”

“A head shot from a hundred yards into a moving carriage. Tail wind?”

Miska shook her head. “I have no idea, but that's really not the point. There hasn't been a royal assassination in over one hundred years. The Kingdom is in turmoil. No one cares about the wind.”

“The assassin did,” Wraith said, standing up and nonchalantly walking along the back of the rag toward its tail.

News of the king's assassination had reached the Lux inside of a day, and that was over a week ago, but this was the first time these troops were hearing details from someone in the know. Still, most of them seemed far more fascinated by her breasts—or the wind of all things—than by the world-shaking news she had to convey.

“The Druid Council should assume command,” Ahmy said, staring at Miska with something that felt a lot like hate. The skin on his boyish face was taut over his cheekbones, as if he were in a perpetual state of trying to control his rage. “The Kingdom needs the saving grace of the High Druid now more than ever.”

“Fuck your council, Ahmy,” Lead Crossbowman Carny said. Actually, it was more a mumble, as his left cheek was filled with some kind of chaw. A dark brown liquid dribbled out of the corner of his mouth; he wiped it away with the back of his hand. His eyes were slightly glazed, as if he hadn't slept well. “It don't mean shit out here. We march, we fly, we fight, and then we do it all again. King, queen, druid . . . won't make a damn bit of difference to us.”

Most of the soldiers on the rag nodded. Miska had heard rumors of discontent among the legions in Luitox from the returning veterans, but she'd put that down to a few bad apples. It appeared there was far more to it after all.

“How long have you been over here?” she asked.

“Six months for most of us,” Big Hog said. The other soldiers appeared comfortable with his speaking for the group. “Knockers there came in a couple of months ago with the big sail,” he said, referring to the influx of nine additional legions that was supposed to end the war.

“I ain't the new guy,” Knockers said, taking his pipe out of his mouth to talk. It wasn't lit, and hadn't been since Miska arrived, but the soldier puffed on it as if it were. None of the other soldiers seemed to notice anything was amiss, so she said nothing. “Frogleg's the new guy. Came over two weeks ago, fuckin' fawn.”

“I don't think I met him,” Miska said, wondering what in the world had led to that name.

“He's riding on Cytisus,” Knockers said, using his pipe to point at one of the other dragons flying in formation with Carduus.

Miska looked. Stretched out behind Carduus like a flock of geese, the other five dragons in Obsidian Flock flew in single echelon to the right—starboard—of Carduus, each one a healthy two hundred yards behind the one in front. It was a truly awe-inspiring sight.

Carduus coughed, and a cloud of black smoke and sulfur engulfed her. She gagged, but truth be told, it was a nice change from the gamey odor given off by the soldiers, all save Wiz. She looked at them a little more closely once the smoke cleared and tried to come up with something more than
scruffy
to describe them. Were they to show up on the streets of the capital today they'd be mistaken for brigands instead of the bright-eyed warriors of civilization that had marched onto ships to set sail for Luitox.

Their helms weren't polished. In fact, most were deliberately covered in mud and vegetation. When she first saw them she thought they had chunks of sod on their heads. Few, if any, wore greaves, while their sleeveless aketons might as well have been dishrags stitched together by blind beggars. Only their weapons were well maintained. The heavy, mean-looking crossbows; the elegantly curved hunting bows; and the array of daggers, knives, hewers, and even axes bristling from their belts and pockets and the tops of their boots looked every bit as lethal as they had the day they were made.

They were a contradiction she didn't yet understand, but then that's why she was here. Her official orders, like those of all the criers sent to Luitox, were to tell the troops that everything back in the Kingdom was fine. Yes, she could admit that the king's death was very unfortunate, but she was to tell them that they should rest assured a proper succession was in place and all would be well.

Carny's right, it don't mean shit out here.

“Carny—excuse me, Lead Crossbowman, I'd very much like to understand what is going on out here in the . . . Lux,” she said, deliberately hesitating before using their term.

Soldiers smiled; a couple even winked. Carny stared at her for several flicks, then turned and spit before turning back. She took that as a good sign.

“You want to know what's really going on out here in the Lux?”

“I do,” she said, leaning forward. The wind whipped the top of her tunic and she felt the warm sun flash on exposed bosom and made no attempt to cover herself. You used what you had. “And I owe it to you, all of you, to tell the people back home what's really going on out here.”

This time Carny nodded. The dull look in his eyes cleared and he sat up a little straighter.

“First off, you hear anyone say that the slyts out here are nothing but cowards with all the fight of a dandelion on a windy day, you don't believe him. Ol' Faery Crud is about the cunningest, meanest little fucker you ever want to tangle with, and that's no lie.”

“Fucking right about that,” Big Hog said, not bothering to lift his head. Even Ahmy nodded.

“Faery Crud?”

“Fuckin' C's, Forest Collective . . . Faery Crud.”

They were creating a whole new language out here. Miska widened her eyes and allowed the hint of a smile to brighten her face. There was a future in relaying events from one land to another, she just knew it. The royal criers would tell the populace that all was well even as the walls crumbled around them. She had a chance to tell the people what was really going on. That was more than a future—that was power.

“I had no idea,” she said, genuinely intrigued. “This is all so fascinating. Please, tell me more.”

“SKY HORSE LEADER,
this is Blue Charger. I am coming in on your port side. Let your army ants know we're friendly, clear?”

Vorly glanced in the polished piece of tin Pagath had attached to the top of his crystal sheet. Vorly had been fed up with having a sore neck from turning around to talk to Breeze, so Pagath had come up with the brilliant and simple solution of the mirror. Not only could Vorly see Breeze without turning around, he could view the double row of troops on Carduus's back, the crier woman, and a fair chunk of the sky behind him filled with the rest of Obsidian Flock. They were flying at three-quarter normal cruise as Cytisus was still not back to form. It'd been two months since his wound and while he was healing, it was a slow process.

A series of three blue lines etched their way onto his sheet, all moving along the same path as that of Obsidian Flock. Vorly reached out and tilted the mirror to scan more sky. It was just midmorning, the sky a light fuzzy blue with barely a skiff of clouds. It wasn't as hot as Vorly had expected, but he wasn't disappointed about that unless it meant a storm was blowing in. He'd put the question to the RATs, but to a woman and man they said they couldn't predict the weather more than a day or so out. Vorly's left elbow did better than that.

Vorly lowered his chin to use the speaking tube buttoned to the front of his tunic. Pagath was a wonder. He'd fashioned a length of flexible tube using the sticky sap from some trees that when cooked turned into a semihard substance. He'd then wrapped it in linen and attached copper cones to either end. You could speak in one end and your voice, though a bit muffled, came out the other.

“You see them, Breeze?” Vorly asked, looking away from the mirror to scan the rest of the sky. He couldn't find Blue Charger and his flock.

“Definitely strong on plane and in our vicinity,” she said, the dots of her fingertips skillfully racing across Vorly's sheet. “They should be right there.”

Vorly hung his head. “I'm getting stupid in my old age. Rolling port.” He lifted his chin, popped a whistle made from a bamboo shoot into his mouth, and gave it a sharp blast. It let the troops riding on Carduus know a turn was about to happen. It was just one more element in an ever-growing manual of procedures that a driver had to know to fly these days. It also reduced the puke, piss, and shit cleanup after a flight, which, Pagath had indicated while waving his hammer about, was a good thing.

Carduus was already banking when Vorly tugged on the rein, tilting him until he was perpendicular to the ground.
Bugger learns fast
. Vorly was using far less rein and gaff these days on Carduus. Not only did he respond to the whistle, he responded faster.

“Welcome to the party, Blue Charger,” Vorly said, waving at the flight of three rags a thousand yards below them and coming up fast. Vorly blew his whistle again, not bothering to snap the reins at all.

Carduus resumed level flight, a low growl rumbling from deep in his throat.

“Easy, boy, they're friendly,” Vorly said, patting Carduus.

Blue Charger's rag rose up beside Carduus two hundred yards to port and dead abreast. The rest of his flock popped up and took position in port echelon with each rag another hundred feet above the one in front. Each rag was puffing hard, leaving trails of black smoke behind them.

Sparkers. Mean little bastards. Barely enough room for the driver and thaum. Looked cramped, especially with the extra layers of clay insulation packed around the two crew members. The walls of their protective cocoon were now two feet high. The joke was the sparker crews were gradually building a house on their rags and when the war was over they'd fly it back home.

“Your rags feeling the cold?” Vorly asked, noticing that each rag's belly and sides were adorned with steel plates.
That's new.
The plates just aft of the rags' rib cages glowed the brightest, although all the plates were cherry.

“I wish. I'm roasting my fucking balls,” Blue Charger said. “Faery Crud's been shooting a new kind of arrow. Some kind of crystal tip that'll punch a hole through scale. One even scratched a talon on Filix.”

Vorly whistled. Talon was the toughest part of a rag. “High fucking Druid. That plate enough to stop them?”

“Flock Command seems to think so,” Blue Charger said, perhaps being circumspect because they were on an open plane. “All I know is it's slowed our rags down and made them cranky. Still, when they're cranky, they fire up extra hot. You oughtta see those little slyts burn when—”

“Getting a line from the roost, clear plane,” Vorly said, cutting off Blue Charger. Vorly didn't need the image of burning slyts in his head today.

“Why didn't command order plates on our flock?” Breeze asked.

Vorly smiled. At some point in the last few months, Obsidian Flock had become her flock, and she and her thaums every bit a part of it. If only that poor fool Jate could have seen the future. Vorly's smile drained away. Probably wouldn't have changed a thing.

“We don't skim treetops trying to fry slyts on a rag that could ball if it sneezes too hard,” he said, using the euphemism for
fireball
.

“We do get shot at enough, though,” Breeze said. “I counted thirty-seven
patches on Carduus this morning before we launched. That's six more since last week. Pagath was spitting spikes.”

Vorly had only counted thirty-five. He hadn't realized Breeze looked over Carduus as well. “I'll talk to him about it,” he said. Right now he was lead rag in a ten-flock formation of some fifty rags stretching out over four miles of what was very unfriendly jungle. They were three hundred and fifty miles inland and heading deeper west toward some Druid-forsaken valley command decided it wanted. They called it a choke point for most of the western slyts pouring east into Luitox. Stop it up and you end the war. Naturally, Obsidian Flock was delivering the cork.