Of Bone and Thunder (54 page)

Jawn waved at the air. “Don't forget my medal,” he spat out. “I hear it's shiny, though I wouldn't know.”

“Fuck your medal,” Rickets said, his calm demeanor finally cracking. “We both know you didn't risk your life for a medal. You can hate me all you want, but don't insult my intelligence.” Rickets drew in a breath and muttered before continuing. “I'm flying out on a rag this afternoon. I'll swing by your tent before I go. If you're packed, we go. If not, well, then fuck you, too.”

The sound of boots on the sand faded as Rickets walked away. Jawn lay in his own darkness, his fury so impotent he pounded the sand with his fist until it started to bleed, and then kept on pounding.

JAWN WAS READY
when Rickets returned.

“I want to know why, Rickets. Why all of it? Why me?”

“You do ask the most interesting questions, Jawn Rathim. We don't have time for the big view, so let me answer the why that matters most—why keep a blind thaum in the service?”

Jawn waited for Rickets to answer, but the man stayed silent. Jawn opened his mouth to cajole Rickets, then paused. Why? Why would Rickets want to keep him? What skill did Jawn have that other thaums with eyesight didn't possess?

“I've gone deeper in the aether. I can control more processes. You know I've talked with Breeze.”

“My dear boy, the RAT knows you've talked to her. High Command knows you've talked to her. I doubt there's anyone in Luitox or beyond who matters who doesn't know.”

Jawn felt his cheeks flush. “If everyone knows . . . but they can't do it, can they?” he finished.

“That little wisp of a girl is the closest to you in ability on plane, and she's still miles behind. You know she and all the rest of the thaums at Bone and Thunder are off plane.”

Jawn nodded. He didn't like the ominous name for the valley, but the moniker had stuck. Worse, though, was this new problem with the sheets.

“Might just be the air there.”

“Or enemy thaums,” Rickets said, giving voice to the more likely answer.

“Rickets, I don't know what it is people think I can do. Yes, I killed a thaum on plane, but I almost died doing it.”

“That's just it, you didn't die. Your eyes are two red devils, and that's a shame, but the rest of you is fit as the day I met you. You know how many other thaums have managed to kill another thaum in plane and live to tell the tale? None.”

Jawn shook his head. “Thaums are killed all the time.”

“Yes, but never by another thaum straddling two planes. Never.”

“Then send me to the academy. I can't study worth a damn out here. I'll need help.”

“You'll have Breeze.”

“I don't understand! Why the rush?”

Rickets's hand was on Jawn's shoulder again. “The Forest Collective has taken the bait. A bit more forcefully than anticipated. Massive columns of slyts are marching on Bone and Thunder as we speak. Thousands, tens of thousands. More have swung around the valley and cut it off from ground supply.”

Jawn started to respond, but Rickets kept talking. “An even larger army of slyts is pushing its way east. Looks like the Western Wilds have finally had enough.”

“Can we stop them?”

“Who knows? What I do know is that if Breeze and those soldiers out west are going to have any chance of getting out of this alive, they're going to need a miracle. And, Jawn, you're that miracle.”

Jawn allowed Rickets to lead him out of his tent and toward the launch field, which he knew from before was really just a stretch of empty beach. As he climbed on board the waiting rag and cinched himself in, he saw himself as he was when he'd last boarded a rag here, heading off to Luitox and to war. Then, he'd fully believed that glory awaited. Now, as the rag flexed its wings and he sensed the power beneath him readying to launch itself skyward, he didn't have a fucking clue.

AFTER GETTING THE HERD
settled with food and shooing them into their hammocks, Carny knew he couldn't sleep and went for a walk. He avoided the infirmary, having just been there with Wiz to check on Big Hog. Seeing the big farmer lying there, his head swaddled in bandages, hurt too much.

Wake up or be dead!
But Big Hog hovered somewhere in between, leaving Carny lost for what to feel, and so he walked. He knew he had Wild Flower in his rucksack. A little vial of Sliver, too. The temptation to drown in them was strong, but he couldn't look down at another body of a friend and be responsible.

Soldiers from command ran past him, their uniforms neat and clean, their boots laced all the way up, and their helms polished. He watched them as they ran to the keep and disappeared inside. It was curious behavior.

“Carny! Whoa!” Bristom shouted, reining in his pony before it slammed into Carny.

Carny turned and came face-to-muzzle with Gallanter. He reached out and stroked the pony's mane. “Hi, Squeak. What's going on? You guys throwing a party?”

Squeak looked around, then leaned forward. “You haven't heard? Fuck, the slyts are coming.”

Carny looked out at the still-smoldering eastern slope. “They're already here.”

Squeak sat upright again. “No, I mean an army. Legions' worth. It's slyts from the Western Wilds. They're coming.”

“That so?” Carny said. He knew he should probably be concerned, but the knowledge that slyts were coming to kill him didn't change his view on the world from a candle ago.

“Shit, are you high?”

Carny shook his head. “Haven't touched a thing since yesterday.”

Squeak leaned forward again. “Oh, you're out. Look, I can get you a little, but the price is going up by the flick. If we really are surrounded it'll be a king's ransom for a quarter ounce of Sliver,” he said. He sounded . . . gleeful.

“Naw, I'm good, you keep it,” Carny said, giving the pony one more pat, then continuing on his walk.

“Look, if you ain't got silver I can spot you. In fact,” Squeak said, spurring the pony toward Carny, “I could use a guy like you. I can't keep up with demand, and the way things are going, I'll be out of here soon. Work for me, and you'll have more silver than rain. And when things get crazy, I'll get you out.”

Carny stopped and looked up at Squeak. “Out? There is no out.”

Squeak shook his head. “That's the trouble with you boars—you don't think about the future.”

Carny didn't react to Squeak calling him a boar. Soldiers wore the nickname as a badge of honor. Boars were tough, determined, and filthy. It suited soldiers like Carny just fine.

“This won't last; it won't even change anything,” Squeak said, waving his free hand around. “You'll be back in the Vill someday and needing work.”

The thought of going back to the Kingdom, taking a job, a family, all seemed like a dream to Carny. “Are they all going back to the Vill?” Carny asked, motioning to another group of command soldiers on the run.

Squeak snapped the reins and got his pony moving again. “Everyone who can is looking to get a rag out of here before it's too late. If you change your mind, come find me . . . but don't take too long 'cause I ain't waiting.”

Carny thought about that as he walked, finally arriving at the eastern wall.
Before it's too late.
He hoisted himself up onto the gangway, shouted a greeting to the sentries in the watchtower, then walked along the wall until he found a spot and sat down.

A pair of sparkers flew overhead, their passage like one of those strange warm winds that would sometimes blow in the middle of winter. He looked
across the valley to where Red Shield had fought last night. The two sparkers Listowk and Knockers were riding were already skimming along the tree line.

“Count the bodies,” Carny said to himself. He didn't understand it. Sure, a few soldiers did it. He knew Wraith put a notch in his bow for every kill, but that made a grim kind of sense to Carny. But why would the people back home care? The world had been so much simpler before the war. The king was the king, a battle was won or lost, and a man was either alive or dead.

Motion across the valley focused his sight. One of the rags was flying almost straight up, its wings beating in a blur. The one behind was climbing, too, but much more slowly. Smoke started pouring out of the rag's mouth.

Carny stood up on the wall.

Small blurs chased after the smoking rag.
Fuck, ballistas!
Carny was sure he saw two hit the rag. The second rag rolled over and dove, its maw opening wide as it let loose a torrent of blindingly bright flame on the jungle below. The roar of its fire reached Carny a couple of flicks later. Fire splashed and danced among the trees. The other sparkers in the air all turned and flew toward the fight while the smoking rag angled its way back toward the roost beside Iron Fist.

Carny wanted to feel guilty about this, too, but he had volunteered to go out and count the enemy dead, and Listowk had turned him down. As the sparker struggled to fly, a wave of despair swept over Carny.
Is that all this war is? We kill more of them than they kill of us?
He snorted at his own naïveté. That's what wars were
always
about. You kill enough of the enemy so that they can't or won't fight back. You kill them so they can't shoot the next arrow, launch the next ballista, and slit the next throat. You spill their blood until their comrades choke on it.

It was hard for Carny to remember a time when his life was about anything but how to kill and not be killed. Times had been hard growing up, but living life was always the reason. Now, fuck, now he really didn't care. He didn't live anymore. None of them did. They survived until they were wounded or killed. That wasn't life—it was simply a few extra candles added to your time before you were eventually snuffed out. Going
back to the Vill was for soldiers like Squeak, who were only visitors in the war.

He looked up at the sun and closed his eyes. Carny knew he'd never see home again. He wasn't angry. If anything, he felt at peace. There was nothing left to worry about.

He lowered his head and opened his eyes as a bright orange flash over the valley changed his understanding of the war again.

“JUST PUT HIM
down in the fields!” Listowk shouted to the driver. He raised his left arm to cover his face. The smoke pouring out of the sparker was growing blacker by the flick. The rag's scales creaked as heat poured through them. The heavy clay-soaked blankets designed to insulate the riders from the intense heat weren't enough.

“I can't!” the driver shouted. “He's keening bad. He won't stop until he gets back to the roost.”

Listowk looked over the side. They were at least a hundred feet in the air and climbing. Jumping would mean almost certain death. He unhooked the restraint straps on his saddle and got into a crouch position. Sparkers flew hot even under normal conditions, but to stay on this rag much longer would be to roast to death. The string on his crossbow snapped, releasing the metal arms of the bow with a clang.

“We're going to burn!” Listowk shouted.

“I can get him back!” the driver shouted, turning to look at Listowk. Tears were running down his face. “I'm not leaving him. He's still got a chance!”

Listowk stared at the driver.
The stupid fuck is prepared to ride his rag to the end
.
He'll never jump
.

“Fuck that! Get him lower! I'm jumping!” Listowk shouted. He tore off his helm and aketon. The heat blankets were smoldering and the air shimmered, making it difficult to see. His lungs heaved with the effort to draw in the super-heated air and his skin began flaking and tightening on his arms and face.

“I'll try!” the driver said, swinging his iron gaff against the rag's neck. It bounced off the scales and seemed to have little effect.

Between wing beats, Listowk saw blurs of green and brown below. He wiped his eyes, but his vision would not clear. The heat enveloped him, roasting him where he crouched. He couldn't stay any longer.

Listowk stood up on his saddle, turned to the left, and jumped.

He cleared the wing by inches as it swung up on another stroke. The relief was instantaneous as he tumbled through the air. The rush of the wind cooled and soothed his skin. As he tumbled, his vision cleared and he saw the fiery nightmare the rag had become.

A feathery stream of flame gushed from a fist-sized hole beneath its left wing and trailed all the way to its tail. The air around the rag shimmered like shards of glass in a pool of blood. Several of the blankets were now on fire, revealing the heat-translucent scales beneath. The driver was no more than a blur in the heat, his arm still swinging the gaff.

A ballista spear wobbled through the air toward the rag. It struck the beast near the first hole and went all the way in. For a flick, nothing happened. Then the rag shuddered and vanished in a burst of white-orange light.

Scalding air slammed into Listowk as he hurtled toward the earth. He screamed, raising his arms to cover his face. Talons of fire reached down from where the rag had been and gripped his body in a searing embrace. The flames grew brighter as they fed off his flesh.

Listowk stopped screaming when he hit the ground.

CARNY GAGGED. EVEN
though it was too far away, he thought he smelled burning flesh. Flaming chunks of the rag still tumbled through the air, but his mind could only focus on the falling figure and the fiery trail it left as it plunged to the earth.

A plume of inky black smoke boiled up into the sky, marking the end of the rag and its crew as the debris crashed into a stand of bamboo.

Carny jumped over the wall and started running toward the burning wreckage. Rags wheeled overhead making run after run along the jungle's edge, pouring down fire.

Squeak's words echoed in Carny's head:
Get out before it's too late.