teeth. Wild leviathans were wolves of the sea. Tamed and trained, they turned into hunting dogs.
Moving quickly, Cornelu got out of his jacket and tunic, his kilt and his shoes. Naked, he jumped into the water of the leviathan pen. It was cold, but the chill did not pierce him to the core. He let out a long exhalation of relief: his sorcerous protection against the ice waters of the southern seas still held good. Had that not been so, he would have frozen to death before long.
He swam toward the leviathan. By everything Sibian spies knew, Mezentio’s men guided their leviathans with pokes and prods almost identical to those Sibian riders used. He was betting his life the spies had it right. A man made a good mouthful for a leviathan, no more.
The great beast let him climb onto its back. His hand found the harness secured by its fins. The leviathan quivered expectantly, as if waiting for him to show what he was. He tapped it with the signal that, in the Sibian navy, would have ordered it to leap out of the pen. If the spies were wrong, he wouldn’t last long and would pass his final moments most unpleasantly.
The leviathan gathered itself. After a dizzying rush, it hurled itself through the air, then splashed down again. Cornelu let out a whoop of joy drowned in that titanic splash. He could go to Lagoas, which, while not home--he had no home, not anymore--was not Mezentio’s to do with as he would.
And, if he decided to drown himself halfway there, Costache would never know.
“We are a warrior race,” Sergeant Istvan declared, and all the Gyongyosians in his squad solemnly nodded.
“Aye, indeed we are a warrior race,” said Kun, who was less inclined to argue with his sergeant now that he had reached the exalted rank of corporal.
Istvan kept his face straight, though it wasn’t easy. Kun looked about as little like a warrior as anything under the stars. He was skinny--weedy, when you got down to it--bespectacled, and had been a mage’s apprentice before finding himself joined to the host of Ekrekek Arpad, the sovereign of Gyongyos. Even his tawny beard came in by clumps and patches, as if he needed some nostrum for mange.
Being thick-shouldered and furry himself, Istvan tended to look down his beaky nose at anyone who wasn’t. But Kun, even if he did complain and split hairs whenever he got the chance, had fought well on Obuda out in the Bothnian Ocean, and he’d fought well here in the frozen, mountainous wasteland of western Unkerlant, too. And the little bits of magic he’d learned from his master had served his squad mates well.
“There is a village up ahead,” Istvan said. “It is supposed to have Unkerlanter soldiers in it. Captain Tivadar says there aren’t supposed to be too many of the goat-eating buggers in there. Stars grant he’s right. However many there are, though, the company is going to clean them out.”
“Unless we don’t,” Szonyi said. Istvan remembered when the hulking private had been as raw a recruit as Kun. It hadn’t been so long before. Now Szonyi might have been an old veteran. He wasn’t old, but he certainly was a veteran.
“We are a warrior race,” Istvan repeated. “If the captain orders us to take this village, take it we shall, and he will lead us while we do it.” Szonyi’s big head bobbed up and down in agreement. Tivadar was an officer fit to command warriors, for he never asked his men to do anything he would not do and did not do himself.
“Onward!” Kun said. As a private, he would have been better pleased to hang back. Rank made hanging back embarrassing for him. It worked the same magic on Istvan. He wondered if it worked the same magic on Tivadar, too.
That didn’t matter, and he had no time to worry about it, anyhow. Other sergeants were haranguing their squads. Back when Istvan had been a simple soldier, he’d listened to sergeants as little as he could get away with. His own men listened to him that way, except when they listened closely so they could argue afterwards. But he heard his fellow sergeants, and even officers, with new ears these days. He had to get the troopers in his squad to do as he said. Any tricks he could pick up, he would.
Here came Captain Tivadar, who was only a few years older than Istvan. “Is your squad ready?” the company commander asked, glaring as if he intended to tear Istvan limb from limb if the answer was no.
But Istvan nodded and said, “Aye, sir.”
“The Unkerlanters aren’t supposed to have more than a section holding this miserable little place,” Tivadar said. “They can’t afford to fight out here in the middle of nowhere any better than we can--worse, in fact, because they’re fighting the Algarvians, too, a quarter of the way around the world east of here.”
“Aye, sir,” Istvan repeated, and then added, “A quarter of the way around the world is too far for me to think about. All I know is, I’m too cursed far from my home valley.”
Tivadar nodded. “A man can’t be farther away than too far from home. But I’m glad we’ve got you with us, Sergeant. Even
