time, Fernao found he really didn’t know everything. The discovery never failed to annoy him. “When will they get here? Have they made it past Sibiu safe?”
“Aye, they have, or so my crystallomancer tells me,” Junqueiro answered. “Now that a good deal of the ice has melted, they could follow ley lines farther south than any we dared use in dead of winter. No Algarvian dragons or leviathans out of Sibiu spied them. They’ll be here in a couple of days, and then we’ll have dragons of our own, powers above be praised.”
“Powers above be praised indeed,” Fernao agreed. “Nothing like giving Mezentio’s men a nasty surprise the next time they come calling.”
“Aye.” Looking pleased with himself, the Lagoan general whuffled out air through his white-streaked mustachios. “They may have made us stop for a little while, but we’re not down for good.” He puffed out his chest and looked strong and brave. Fernao had always thought he was strong and brave. What the mage had wondered was whether Junqueiro had any brains. Now Fernao began to hope he did.
But the Lagoan dragons didn’t get there to give the Algarvians a nasty surprise the next time the Algarvians flew overhead, for Mezentio’s dragonfliers returned later that evening, not long before sunset would usher in the brief spring night. This time, they had more eggs than on their first visit. Huddled in a hole in the ground, Fernao hurled curses at them that he knew would not bite. He also cursed the mosquitoes that kept harassing him. The mosquitoes bit. Again, the curses didn’t.
This time, a couple of dragons did swoop low to flame the Lagoan soldiers. A heavy stick on a behemoth’s back blazed one of them out of the sky. Fernao cheered himself hoarse, even though the dragon’s thrashing death throes did as much damage to the Lagoans on the ground as had its fiery breath.
After the Algarvians flew off again, a runner came shouting Fernao’s name. On following the man, he discovered that three of the hostages had taken advantage of the chaos to flee. The ones who hadn’t got away looked as if they expected to be blazed for their comrades’ transgressions. Fernao wondered whether they were grateful to be spared or despised the Lagoans for their mercy.
When morning returned, so did the Algarvian dragonfliers. Going forward while eggs fell was impossible for the Lagoans. Scattering to minimize the damage from the enemy’s eggs was a better ploy. It wouldn’t have been had Junqueiro feared an attack from Yanina’s footsoldiers, but the Yaninans had shown they had no stomach for such assaults.
The Algarvians came back twice more that day, keeping the Lagoans from advancing against Heshbon. The scouts Junqueiro did send forward showed that the Yaninans, despite their unwillingness to attack, were strengthening positions that covered the approaches to their coastal base. The commanding general cursed when he got the news, though he could hardly have expected anything different.
And then, that evening, Lagoan dragons did come flying into the army’s unhappy camp--eleven of them, no more, and all in the last stages of exhaustion. The men who flew them were hardly in better shape. “Leviathan,” one of them said, gulping at the flask of spirits a soldier pressed into his hand. “Cursed leviathan, or more likely a pod of them. We never knew we were in any trouble, either dragon transport, till the eggs they planted against our sides burst. By then they were long gone underwater. And not long after that, both our ships went under the water, too. Most of the dragons, most of the fliers, never made it out.” He swigged again, tilting the flask so he could drain it dry.
“What will we do without enough dragons to fight the Algarvians?” someone asked. The question hadn’t been aimed at Fernao, but he saw only one thing the Lagoans could do: they would have to retreat.
“We are not satisfied,” King Swemmel told Marshal Rathar. “By the powers above, how can we be satisfied, with the cursed redheads still infesting so much of the richest part of our kingdom?”
Rathar bowed his head. Had he been in Swemmel’s audience chamber, he would have gone down on his belly, but the king had come to his office, and so that indignity was spared him. He said, “Your Majesty, we may not have done so much as you’d hoped, but we have done a great deal. Even after the mud fully dries, the Algarvians will be hard pressed to mount another assault on Cottbus. The last one cost them dear, and we have new fortifications protecting the way west toward thie capital.”
He’d hoped his words would please the king, but Swemmel’s eyes blazed angrily. “We care little for what the Algarvians may seek to do to us,” he growled. “We care far more for what we can do to the Algarvians.”
Within limits, that was a good attitude for a soldier to have. King Swemmel had never recognized limits, not for himself, not for those he commanded. Rathar said, “We will hit back at Mezentio’s men in the south. But we must also make sure the capital is safe. When the ground lets the redheads move, they won’t stand idle, waiting to be attacked.”
The marshal of Unkerlant wondered how big an understatement that was. The previous summer and fall’s campaign had proved the Algarvians had taken too big a bite to swallow at once. It hadn’t proved they couldn’t swallow it in several gulps rather than one. And Rathar remained uneasily aware that, man for man, Mezentio’s soldiers were better than Swemmel’s. He thanked the powers above that Unkerlant had more men.
