League of Dragons (32 page)

“Temeraire, your heading is east by north,” Laurence said, clasping his own carabiners onto the harness.

“East by north,” Temeraire called. Fidelitas and Obituria returned, “East by north,” correctly, and then—a leap, a beating of wings, and they were all aloft, the formations taking their arrow-head shapes behind him to either point of wing as they climbed. Temeraire would have liked to pause hovering to look over the display, or at least to crane his head around for a good look, but it would have spoilt the picture they made and reduced his dignity; he restrained the impulse. Distantly he heard Ricarlee and his fellows coming along after them in a clamoring mass.

When his ear could catch no more of the beating sounds of dragons in their first climb, he wheeled away from the coastline and over the open water. A rush of bracing air met him coming in from the Channel, and he let the warmer air beneath his wings carry him up above it. It was a fine clear day, and the harbor speckled with white sails and rowboats, faint cries of people seeing them streaming past—only for a moment; then they were already whipping past and out to sea.

Temeraire settled into a comfortable pace, flicking out his wing-tips on the upper crest to make sure everyone behind him saw the beat. A quick glance to starboard made sure he had not exceeded Obituria's pace—she would be their limit. She was certainly making an effort, but not unduly so, Temeraire judged. He would have to slow a little in an hour, perhaps, to give her a rest, but it was so lovely to fly swift at the start of a journey, after so long in covert; he was sure everyone must be glad of the chance to stretch themselves.

The cliffs had fallen away behind them; the Continent was a faint smudge on the horizon. One of the large ships of the blockade—a first-rate, or a second-rate? He should have to ask Laurence—was beating up the Channel on patrol, working against the wind that was diving beneath them. Only mizzen and mainsails spread, but she was still impressive, and to Temeraire's surprised delight she fired a salute as their shadows came streaming over the waves and ran up her sails.

“Laurence, what is that ship?” he asked.

Laurence trained his glass upon her and after a moment said, “My dear, that is the
Temeraire,
herself.”

I
SKIERKA'S FLAME SCORCHED THE
air just short of Temeraire's leading wing—“I beg your pardon,” Temeraire said indignantly. He wheeled round, and then discovered half the ferals had abandoned their positions, wreaking merry havoc among a handful of French supply-carts on the road to the south, quite away from any fighting.

“Temeraire, we must try and establish control over the left flank,” Laurence called, his glass trained upon the field below, where all the infantry of both sides were tangled in what Temeraire found an indistinguishable mass, clouded by stinking wafts of black powder smoke. “I think we are near to breaking them. A run of incendiaries, united with Wittgenstein's advance, would have a material effect, if it can be done—a quarter of an hour from now, I think, or a little more.”

“But Laurence, look what the ferals are doing,” Temeraire protested. “If I do not go and chivvy them back into line—”

“We knew not to expect better from them, my dear,” Laurence said. “This is not the moment to concern ourselves with their correction.”

Temeraire without pleasure resigned himself to ignoring the ferals' pillaging; he recalled with pain the behavior of the Russian beasts, over the Berezina—and those dragons had not been under his command; it had not reflected on him. Now here they were with nearly the entire city of Berlin observing, and all their allies—General Wittgenstein himself was at that very moment taking a courier on an arc to the east, watching the battle through his glass—and everyone could see that nearly half his troops were behaving in this scaly and disorderly fashion. He writhed inwardly with mortification and threw a glance towards their right flank, where Dyhern and Eroica were maneuvering with their fellows. Perhaps they would not notice?

He turned his attention back to the battle and called to Iskierka, “Can you take that blue-green fellow over there, or will you need some help?”

“Oh!” Iskierka gave her present victims, a pair of French light-weights, a last pursuing gout of fire. “As though I should need any help to manage anyone at all,” and she was tearing off after the big French cross-breed, who was serving as the anchor of their artillery-cover.

Quite naturally, a handful of the middle-weights from the left flank came to help screen him. “There,” Temeraire said. “Requiescat, pray knock us a hole on the left.”

“Do you mean their left, or my left?” Requiescat said, circling him lazily, as though they had all the time imaginable. “And which
is
the left; I am no hand at remembering.”

“Over that large building with the green steeple!” Temeraire said irritably.

“Have him take the rest of the ferals with him,” Laurence said, and Temeraire passed along the order—for what it was worth, as nearly all the Scottish dragons were busy rummaging through the sacks of the shattered wagons below; but some half a dozen of the smaller ones went after Requiescat when he called them to order, even if they were not likely to be much use.

Meanwhile, however, Temeraire's new signal-ensign Quigley was putting out the flags—
ready incendiaries
and
fall in behind leader.
Temeraire fended off an attempt by a couple of over-daring young French beasts, who did not know better than to come at him from his lower flank—a quick hovering twist and he was doubled on himself. He roared at them as they closed. Both wheeled away with cries of anguish, a lighter lesson than they had asked for, Temeraire felt; but he did not have time to pursue them at present. Requiescat had gone barreling through the lines, his head down and the rifle-fire pinging harmlessly off his helm, and the ferals had gone in after him clawing about the dragons who had been first bowled out of the way and were struggling to beat back up into place.

“Excellent,” Laurence said. “Make your pass when ready, Temeraire,” and Temeraire plunged into the disorder of the French line with his legs tucked in carefully, the long-unaccustomed feeling of his bellmen scrambling about in the rigging below, which was growing noticeably lighter as they cast off the incendiaries in their careful way—he could feel each one being handed along a line of men until it reached the end of the rigging, just below his tail, and there down a line of three men suspended by lines, to the last one who ignited the fuse and let the bomb drop.

Obituria and Cavernus were with him—Cavernus another of their formation-leaders, a Malachite Reaper, who had come over with Granby from Edinburgh; she was a bit standoffish, and not above middle-weight, but a really clever flyer. All their formations came behind them, their crews dropping their own bombs. Not one in five landed anywhere useful, of course, and each one was necessarily small; that was the trouble with incendiaries—and worse, there was no sign of Fidelitas, who ought to have come along, too. Temeraire, startled, did a quick survey over the battlefield as he finished his pass; the dragons of Fidelitas's formation were circling uncertainly, many of them having small unhelpful skirmishes with French beasts—and Fidelitas himself was down among the baggage-carts, with the ferals.

“Oh!” Temeraire said, indignant.

“Can you manage another pass?” Laurence called, at the same moment; they had created some noise and confusion on the ground beneath, but not as much as one might have hoped—not as much as
four
formations should have done. But the French dragons were recovering from their buffeting now, coming for them in their dangerous swarming numbers, and if he tried to lead the others back through that cloud instead of going round back to their own lines, Obituria was sure to take some injury; she was not quick enough. Fidelitas
would
have been, Temeraire thought resentfully.

He cast an eye quickly over the ground below—the incendiaries had at least thoroughly disordered the twenty gun-crews covering the French center; those would take several minutes to begin firing again. “Laurence, I might take those guns, myself, if the others could keep the French dragons off my back a little longer,” Temeraire called back, proposing an alternative, and Laurence gave the word. The signal-flags flashed out, telling the rest of the dragons to cover his pass. But Obituria seemed perplexed; she was already climbing up out of combat-height to circle back to the allied line, without any orders at all, and even though the signal-ensign on her back ought to have been watching the flag-dragon, she did not turn round. Fortunately, Cavernus rallied her own formation to make a shield—but the smaller dragons, unsupported, would not be able to hold for long. Temeraire calculated quickly—he would have to go straight at the gun-crews, flying over the French infantry before them; he could not afford the time to circle round and come from their rear.

There was no more time to consider; either he must go at once, or they must give up, accept that their pass had failed in such a clumsy manner in front of everyone, when it
ought
to have gone well. Temeraire whirled and dived low even as he caught a glimpse of Laurence raising the speaking-trumpet to call him off, and steeled himself against the frantic spattering of musket-balls that struck his chest and legs from the French infantry below—like being bitten all over by rats or something equally unpleasant, and he could not even give vent to a hiss of displeasure; he required every last ounce of breath.

Halfway from the guns, he began roaring at measured intervals, just as though he meant to raise up a wave. Men and horses collapsed and scattered even before the shorter roars, and most of the already-disordered artillery-crews broke and began to flee in every direction; faintly he heard voices crying,
“Le vent du diable!”
as they ran. But one brave crew had stayed by the third gun in the line—blood streaming over their faces and hands, and the ground near them still smoking where an incendiary had landed not far away, but they were holding fast, exhorted by a tall young officer in a shako with its once-proud plume replaced by a makeshift bunch of chicken feathers. They were trying to bring the gun to bear—on him.

The wide mouth of the iron cannon gaped hideously round as they struggling turned it inch by inch. Staring down its dark maw, Temeraire tried not to think of all the dreadful things Perscitia had said about being struck by cannon-shot, and especially not of poor Chalcedony, who had gone down so horribly in the Battle of Shoeburyness with a ball to the chest. He could only try to outrun them: if he shifted his course now, the divine wind would collapse, and it would not do against all those guns; it was not enough just to destroy
one.

He kept his roars coming, kept flying, even as the gunners frantically tamped down the wadding, and loaded in the shot. And then he was close enough: even as they were putting the slow-match to the tube, he gathered one last breath and roared enormously, collapsing the other waves into a single monstrous force, and the divine wind rolled out over them.

The gun rang so violently it might have been church-bells, pealing. The crew fell away like rag dolls, collapsing; Temeraire glimpsed with sorrow the officer with his feathers sinking, his eyes gone red with blood. And then the barrel exploded. Flames and bits of iron and splinters, red-hot and smoldering, flew in every direction. All along the ridge of the low hill, the oaken carriages of the guns were shattering as though they had been struck by cannon-fire. Those men who had not fled fast enough or far enough littered the ground unmoving, in a wide fan-shape marking the path of the divine wind.

And as Temeraire lifted away, wincing, the entire hill upon which the guns had stood abruptly collapsed, as though some essential foundation had shattered. Dirt and sand and pebbles cascaded away in a tremendous wash, burying the nearest ranks of French infantry to their ankles where they had not already been decimated by the hail of metal.

The French ranks near-by were dismayed by the attack, and the dragons above reeled back; Cavernus and her formation wheeled into a diamond-shape round Temeraire, sheltering him as he got back aloft, and together they climbed out of fighting-height and dashed back to the safety of the allied lines. Temeraire had the satisfaction of seeing Eroica's signal-ensign dip flags in a quick salute, as they swept past. His breath was short, and now that the moment of crisis had passed, the bullet-wounds stung fiercely; there seemed a great many of them.

“Report, Mr. Roland,” Laurence called.

“Flinders lost, Warrick wounded, sir,” Emily Roland called, hanging off halfway up his side. “A dozen hits to the chest, and the bellmen cannot stanch two.”

“Mr. Quigley, signal Iskierka that we are going to the field-hospital, and to hold the line until we return,” Laurence called.

“Surely that can wait until the battle is over,” Temeraire said, flinching; oh, how he hated the surgeons. “Truly, Laurence, I do not feel them in the slightest.”

But Laurence was inflexible; with a sigh Temeraire put down at the clearing, and tried to console himself that at least Keynes was with them again—the finest dragon-surgeon of Britain's forces, and the quickest hand at getting the wretched musket-balls out. It was not a very
good
consolation, however.

“What the devil were you about, giving them your whole belly for washing?” Keynes demanded in great irritation, having ordered Temeraire to sprawl on his side—a highly uncomfortable position, nearly squashing one wing—while he clambered about with his savage long-bladed knives, and his assistants scuttling behind him with the dish.

“Well, I did not
want
to!” Temeraire said, protesting. “But there was nothing else to be done, after Obituria had flown off. It would scarcely have gone better if I had circled around while Cavernus and the others were bowled over, and then the French could have come at me from aloft. Ow!” Another ball had dropped into the dish, with its inappropriately pleasant chiming sound, and the hot searing iron had been pressed to the wound to close it. “Surely that is all of them.”