Through the Darkness

it, but he wouldn’t, not if the Unkerlanter knew what he was doing. In an odd way, it didn’t matter. With the chase on, he and his men could hardly abandon it.

He scuttled over to a tree, ignoring the scratches on his face and arms and the burrs clinging to his tunic and leggings. Cautiously, he peered out from behind the trunk-only for an instant before jerking his head back. He wasn’t so foolish as to peer twice from the same place; that was asking for a beam right between the eyes. Instead, he crawled over to another tree and took a look from behind that one.

He got lucky: he spied the flash from a stick, and it wasn’t aimed at him. He threw his own stick to his shoulder and blazed. A harsh voice cried out in pain. Istvan didn’t break cover to finish off the wounded Unkerlanter. He wasn’t sure the fellow really was wounded, and he wasn’t sure the enemy soldier didn’t have friends close by, either. The most he would do was hurry to another tree closer to the bushes among which the Unkerlanter had hidden himself.

Something thrashed in those bushes, something the size of a man. Istvan blazed again. His was not the only beam biting the bushes, either: here and there, they withered and turned brown, as if stricken by the drought that never came to this forest. After a while, the thrashing stopped.

“Got him!” somebody said in Gyongyosian.

Istvan wasn’t so sure. He’d seen too many wounded Unkerlanters who stayed alive for no other reason than the hope of taking a couple of Gyongyosians with them. King Swemmel’s subjects weren’t a warrior race-as the stars proclaimed, no folk but the men of Gyongyos were true warriors-but they weren’t soldiers to be despised, either. Gyongyos was learning that the hard way.

Kun strode forward. Before Istvan could shout a warning, the mage’s apprentice went in among the bushes, stooped, and then rose and waved. “He’s dead,” he called.

“Where are his friends, though, you fool?” Istvan called back. Kun started as if jabbed by a pin, then dropped down into the bushes again. This time, he didn’t get up right away.

But no Unkerlanters hot for revenge came charging at him. He made his way back to the rest of the squad. “Just one of the goat-eaters,” Szonyi said. “Just one, and now he’s not there anymore, either.”

“Just one,” Istvan agreed. “But he tied us up for quite a while. He wounded one man, and we’ll have to hustle to get back to the path, and hustle even harder to catch up with the rest of the company. He caused almost as much trouble as if he’d blazed us all, may the stars be dark on his spirit.” He trudged back toward the path. No one would ever put this down in a history of the war. He didn’t even know whether to reckon it a success. He didn’t know whether the war was a success, either. Success or not, it went on.

Sunlight sparkled off the greenish blue waters of the Strait of Valmiera. To the north lay the Algarvian- occupied mainland of Derlavai, to the south the great island that held Lagoas and Kuusamo. Cornelu looked up into the sky, watching for dragons.

For the moment, he saw none. He and his Lagoan leviathan might have been alone in the ocean, and that ocean might have stretched unchecked to the end of the world. He wished that were so. He knew too well it wasn’t.

He still hadn’t given this new leviathan a name. One day, he told himself. One day I’ll know. Meanwhile, keeping the beast nameless was one more way for the Sibian exile to keep Lagoas at arm’s length. The leviathan didn’t care one way or the other. So long as it got plenty of squid and mackerel and, those failing, sardines, it stayed happy. Cornelu wished the notion of a full belly cheered him as readily.

At his command, the leviathan reared in the water, working its great tail to propel the front of its body-and him with it-higher above the surface of the sea. But even with that widened circle of vision, he spied no ships. That suited him fine.

He checked the sky again-a beautiful sky, full of puffy white clouds that drifted across it the way dumplings drifted in soup. It remained empty of dragons. He wondered how long it would stay that way. Algarvian beasts flew against Lagoas and Kuusamo, while Lagoan and Kuusaman dragons visited destruction on the mainland of Derlavai.

Sometimes, high overhead, opposing flights met and fought. Sometimes a heavy stick or another dragon would wound a dragon over land, either before or after it dropped its eggs, and the beast and its flier would go into the sea. Fliers hoping for rescue could live for a while in the water.

Ley-line ships weren’t much good for rescuing them. If a flier came down on a ley line, they could scoop him up, aye. But the greater part of the ocean was closed to them. Old-fashioned sailboats and leviathans, both of which could travel anywhere, did far better in such missions.

And so Cornelu traveled with two crystals on this patrol. One was attuned to Lagoan dragonflight headquarters back in Setubal. The messages he got from it would direct him to Lagoan fliers who went into the Strait of Valmiera.

The other crystal had been captured from an Algarvian, and was attuned to the emanations the enemy used. Any Algarvian dragonflier Cornelu captured and brought back to Lagoas was one who wouldn’t fly again for King Mezentio.

Somewhere out in the Strait, no doubt, were Algarvian leviathan-riders with captured Lagoan crystals. There were stories about clashes when men from both sides raced to rescue a downed dragonflier. Cornelu hadn’t been in any of those. In fact, the next dragonflier he brought back would be his first. He understood how war could be that kind of business.

He also understood that the Algarvians would have been happier if their ships and leviathans dominated the Strait of Valmiera and their dragons dominated the sky above it. That meant watching the sky not just for flights of dragons heading south but also for hunters looking for him and others like him.

He felt easier after the sun plunged blazing into the sea. Even with a nearly full moon in the sky, he didn’t have to worry so much about Algarvian marauders-or about Lagoan marauders who might mistake him for the foe. The leviathan liked patrolling at night, too, for larger fish came nearer the surface than they did during the day.

“Attention! Attention!” That was one of the crystals he carried, but which? He had to pause and remember that he’d understood the call without having to think about it-Algarvian was much closer to his native Sibian than was Lagoan. Excitement tingled through him as he brought the captured crystal to his ear to listen better. An urgent Algarvian was saying, “He went into the water after the raid on Branco. We were halfway back to our base at Kursiu, and his dragon just couldn’t fly anymore, poor creature.”

“Noted on the map,” another Algarvian replied. “Will send rescuers as fast as we can.”

“He’s a good fellow,” the Algarvian dragonflier said earnestly. “He doesn’t deserve to drown all alone.”

“No, he deserves worse than that,” Cornelu muttered. Branco lay east of Setubal, and Kursiu … He pulled out a map printed on waterproofed silk and held it close to his face to read it in the moonlight. After a moment, he put it away with a soft grunt. He wasn’t far from where that dragonflier had gone down. Finding him wouldn’t be easy, not in the dark, but it wouldn’t be easy for the Algarvians, either. It ought to be worth a try.

Cornelu tapped the leviathan. It began a search spiral. Lagoans trained their beasts to spiral widdershins, not deasil, as leviathans turned in the Sibian navy. Cornelu knew it didn’t really make a copper’s worth of difference, but he couldn’t help thinking his mount was going in the wrong direction. Trying to retrain the leviathan to Sibian practice would probably just confuse it, though.

“Help me!” came from the Algarvian crystal, so loud and clear that Cornelu thought for a moment he’d come upon the dragonflier without realizing it. The fellow went on, “Don’t know how much longer I can stay afloat.”

An officer, Cornelu thought. A squadron leader, or a flight leader at the least, to have a crystal of his own. That made capturing him all the more important.

Cornelu’s hand slipped to the knife he wore on his belt. If he couldn’t bring the Algarvian back to Lagoas, he’d make very sure the fellow never flew for Mezentio again.

“Help me!” the dragonflier said again. He couldn’t be very far away, not when Cornelu was receiving the emanations from his crystal so clearly.

At Cornelu’s command, the leviathan lifted the front of its body into the air again. The Sibian peered across the moonlit sea, looking for someone bobbing in the water. The leviathan turned this way and that, enjoying the display of strength. Cornelu found nothing but frustration till…

“There, by the powers above!” he muttered, and sent the leviathan racing west. When he drew near, he called out to the man struggling in the water: “Here! To me! Hurry!” He spoke in Algarvian, trilling the r