Of Bone and Thunder (51 page)

With nothing to shoot at, Listowk aimed his crossbow in a likely area
and fired, then quickly reloaded with a red star. As he reached the edge of the valley he pointed his weapon in the air and shot again. The arrow flew skyward, trailing a stream of red smoke and fire.

“Skirmish line, form a skirmish line!” Listowk shouted as soldiers emerged from the jungle. He directed them to the left and right, counting them as they emerged. The berm of the dosha swamp provided good protection, although it was only ten yards from the trees.

“Wizard!”

Carny and Bard appeared carrying a third soldier between them. Two arrows stuck out of the soldier's chest. Listowk couldn't see who it was.

A booming clang sounded from somewhere in the distance.

“Fuck!” Listowk turned and saw a small dark objecting arcing through the sky. He'd panicked and fired the star too soon. Not all the shield were out of the jungle yet. Two of his men were still in there.

“Cat shot! Down, down, down!”

LEGION FLOCK COMMANDER
Walf Modelar did his best to be pleasant, which he'd have been the first to admit was a peak he rarely summited. He looked around the main room of the keep and a sneer of contempt twisted his lips.
Looks like a Druid-damned whorehouse in a cave.
Woven mats of saw grass covered the stone floor. The ten-foot-thick stone walls were covered in carpets and tapestries. Burning lanterns hung from the eight-foot-high ceiling and along the walls, which was useful because there were no fucking windows. Not one. He shivered. Modelar looked up at the log ceiling and then down. Right now there was a solid six feet of logs, earth, and stone above his head. For a career rag driver used to the open skies, it was a nightmare.

“Nice little place,” Modelar said, turning to Legion Commander Weel and doing his best to turn his sneer into a smile.

“In time it will shape up nicely, but for now we all must make do with what we have,” Weel said.

“About that,” Modelar said, not bothering with small talk. The sooner
he got out of this death trap the better. “My rags are out in the open. I need the stone from that quarry to build the roost and put walls between my rags.”

“And you're welcome to all you need,” Weel said, sounding sincere, “once my fortifications are complete.”

Modelar drew in a breath, ready to rip this pissant little fuck's head off, when a dull clanging sound reached him.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked.

A crippled soldier on crutches hobbled into the room. “Commander! One of the shields is under attack on the eastern slope!”

Commander Weel nodded. “I trust the artillerists are providing covering fire,” he said, turning from the table to look at a large map spiked to the wall.

“Those rock jockeys couldn't hit a bell tower with another bell tower,” Modelar said. “Tell them to stand down and I'll send in my sparkers. Too dangerous to fly with those rocks in the air.”

“No,” Weel said.

Modelar looked at him, trying to understand what kind of fool this officer was. “No? Laddie, I outrank you.”

Weel smiled, which only irritated Modelar more. “Of course, my apologies. I should have been more precise. No, sir. I am in command of all ground forces here, including the artillerists, while you command the dragons,” he said, his pronunciation of the word
dragons
sounding as if he'd just swallowed a bug. “The artillerists have strict orders to continue firing until they have used up their current supply of munitions.”

Modelar started rising up on his toes and forced himself back down. “All their stones? Why?”

“Quite simple, really,” Weel said, as if schooling a child. “This is the first attack by the slyts of any size. Our response will be . . . disproportionate. I want our enemy not just to be wary of us, but to truly fear us. They attack one of our patrols, we decimate an entire swath of jungle and everything in it.”

“They kill ours and we kill their trees?”

“They're slyts, my dear commander. They may have come late to the Word of the High Druid, but they follow Dendrolatrism with a fervor.”

“Most in the Kingdom are Dendros. You aren't concerned they'll be upset at all the dead trees?”

Weel rolled his eyes. “This is a blighted, filthy land. Have you seen the trees?” he asked, pointing up at the logs that made up the first layer of his roof. “It took the dwarves weeks to find enough straight ones to make this, and quite honestly, their reputation for craftsmanship is overstated. More to the point, High Command agrees with my approach.”

Another soldier rushed in. “Commander! We have several shields engaged in battle. FnC forces on the eastern side are hitting all of our patrols.”

Weel looked down at the large table in the room and studied the map of the valley spread out on it. Modelar wondered how the hell they'd gotten the table in there in the first place.

“Excellent. I want regular updates on the artillerists' fire. You see, sir,” Weel said, looking up at Modelar, “demand for stones from the quarry is quite high. Priority must go to fortifying our positions and providing ammunition to the catapults. Building little homes for your dragons will just have to wait.”

“Little homes . . . ?” Modelar said. His blood flowed so loud he heard it in his ears. The room grew fuzzy and a cold sweat covered his body.

“Commander, are you all right?”

Modelar shook his head and blinked. A rag was stepping on his chest. Druid be damned, it had never hurt this much. Mirina was right; his rage would kill him long before the enemy would.

“I need . . . just need some air,” Modelar said, staring through Weel and his smile. “Good evening.”

“And to you, Commander,” Weel said, his expression one of bemusement.

Modelar turned and strode out of the room. Each step felt like he was walking along the edge of a cliff. By the time he climbed the stairs and reached fresh air the pain in his chest had subsided, although his left arm
and shoulder were filled with that peculiar pins-and-needles feeling. Fourth time he'd had it in the last couple of years. Always seemed to hit him when he was dealing with a fucking ass.

He barely heard the cats firing as he got into the horse-drawn two-wheeled cart that had brought him over to Weels's fucking castle from the roost. The flockman driving the carriage helped him up.

“You feeling all right, sir?”

Modelar waved the question away. “Get me to the roost and don't spare the whip. Go!”

The driver saluted and hopped up into his seat, taking up the reins and shouting the horse into action.

Modelar wasn't sure how long the ride took. Most of it he couldn't remember. Hands gently lifted him from the carriage and carried him into the master witches' tent. The smell of herbs and potions was strong. He was placed on a cot. His boots were tugged off his feet and the collar of his jacket unbuttoned.

“Was he shot?” Flock Commander Astol shouted, bursting into the tent.

“Out! He needs peace and quiet,” the witch said.

Modelar grunted and waved at Vorly to come over.

“Walf?”

Modelar rolled his eyes. “Damn humors got out of sorts . . . talking to Weel.”

The tempo of the outgoing cat shots increased.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Vorly asked.

Modelar propped himself up on an elbow. “Shields being hit. Launch sparkers. Some of yours, too. They probably have wounded . . .” He fell back on the cot. Keeping his eyes open was becoming a struggle.

Vorly sat down on the cot and grabbed his hand. Modelar looked up at his friend and smiled.

“You know, you've always been a royal pain . . . pain in my ass.” He closed his eyes.
Just need to rest for a bit
.

“Walf!”

Modelar opened his eyes again, but they wouldn't focus.
So damn sleepy.
“You're a pain in my ass, Vorly, you know that?”

“I've heard, yes,” Vorly said. It sounded like he was miles away.

“Be a pain in Weel's for me. He deserves . . . your very . . . best.”

Modelar closed his eyes. He was falling, and finally, blessed be the High Druid, he felt warm.
About . . . about fucking ti
—

THE FIRST CAT SHOT
landed three hundred yards into the jungle. A series of heavy bangs told Listowk more were on their way.

Wiz ran across Listowk's line of sight toward the wounded soldier. Another group of soldiers emerged from the jungle as a salvo of cat shots fell. Pre-chiseled rock exploded on impact, shattering and sending broken shards in every direction. Listowk buried himself in the stinking muck of the dosha swamp as chunks of rock tumbled over his head.

“Wizard! I'm hit! Oh Druid, I'm hit!”

Listowk looked up. The tree line was a mess of shattered trees, rock dust, and leaves flying in the air. More whistles sounded, but these were off in the distance. A red arrow drifted skyward a thousand yards to the north.

Black Shield's in battle.
Two stars sailed up to the south. The entire eastern side of the valley was engulfed. The slyts had waited for the patrols to begin their march back to Iron Fist, when the shields would be tired and it was getting dark.
Clever bastards.

“Don't shoot until you have a target!” he shouted. It did little good. The shield was wild. Bolts flew into the jungle from inches above the ground to thirty feet in the air.

“Wizard! He's bleeding everywhere!”

“I'll get there when I can!” Wiz shouted. “Hold cloth on the wound and keep it there.”

Listowk counted four soldiers down. Slyt arrows whistled over his head, but he ignored them. He had to get the situation under control. A soldier emerged from the jungle. It was Gulmich.

“Gully, did you see anyone else back there?” Listowk asked as the soldier ran to him and slid down the berm.

Gully rested his back against the berm, his chest heaving. He turned to look at Listowk. “I was the last one.”

Listowk got up on his knees. “Big Hog, do we have everyone? Big Hog!”

Catapults sent in another salvo.

Listowk crawled out of the muck and onto the top of the berm. “Where's Big Hog?”

A few confused faces looked his way. “Last I saw him he was covering the trail,” Knockers said, pointing back toward the jungle.

“Big Hog!”

“I'll go,” Wraith said, getting into a crouch as he readied himself to run back into the jungle.

“The fuck you will! Stay put. Those rock jockeys are unloading everything they have,” Listowk said.

More clanging booms echoed from behind them as more catapults joined the fray.

A new sound rose above the others. Listowk recognized it at once.

“Flat on your bellies! The slyts are shooting spinners!” No sooner had he said it than two of the whirling scythes crashed down in the dosha swamp twenty yards behind the shield. The whirling wooden blades cut into the dirt at speed, flinging the muck fifty yards in every direction.

“Cover your string!” Listowk shouted, arching his body over his crossbow. Clods of stinking mud hit him in the back. The shield's relatively safe position behind the berm was now less so.

More cat shot thundered in, tearing up entire trees and sending them cartwheeling through the air. Listowk could barely make out the tree line as mud, dust, leaves, and chunks of wood and stone clouded his view. Through it all, the shield kept up its fire and, even more startling, so did the slyts. How any slyt could survive the rain of rocks pummeling the jungle he didn't know, but arrows continued to fly out of the murk.

A second salvo of spinners slammed into the mud, this time seventy yards away from the shield. A couple of soldiers cheered, but Listowk didn't. As long as those damn scythes were falling, they were trapped out in the open, and night was coming.

Movement out of the corner of his eye toward the tree line drew Listowk's attention. He was about to shout at Wraith to get back when he saw it was Carny. Before he could yell, Carny disappeared into the cloud of debris and was gone.

“Hold your fire! Carny's in there and so is Big Hog. Hold your fire!” Listowk banged his fist against his crossbow.
Think, you stupid ass, think or you're dead.
“Stay alert, but do not shoot until Carny and Big Hog get back. The slyts can't hit us here, so stay low.” He crawled along the top of the berm to where Wiz worked on the wounded soldier.

“How—” was all he said as he looked down at the pale, lifeless face of Frogleg. The Wiz's hands were red up to his wrists. He looked at Listowk. “He just kept bleeding.”

“Not your fault. Go see to the others. I want everyone ready to move.”

“What about him?” Wiz said, motioning with his hands toward Frogleg.

“We'll carry him with us. Now go!”

“Wizard! Big Hog's hit!” Carny shouted, emerging from the roiling cloud of destruction dragging Big Hog behind him. Carny had a grip on Big Hog's aketon at the back of the collar and was pulling him. Wraith darted forward, grabbed Big Hog under the arm, and helped Carny drag him the rest of the way to the berm, where they slid him down the far side.

“Where's he hit?” Wiz asked, scrambling over to Big Hog and patting his hands over his body. Big Hog lay still, his eyes closed, his mouth open. His breathing sounded slow but steady.

Carny pointed to Big Hog's head. His helm was severely deformed; a large dent the size of a fist marred the left side. Rock dust coated the dent.

Wiz grabbed the helm and tried to remove it, but it wouldn't budge. A single trickle of blood flowed down Big Hog's forehead.

“The dent is pressing against his skull. We need to get—”

“Wizard!”

Listowk pointed toward the call. “Go, we'll deal with Big Hog.”