movements, but he wanted to make sure the rest of the wing didn’t keep on flying back toward Forthweg and Algarve.
And there was the farm, too, with the dragon handlers waving and shouting to keep him from missing them. He brought his dragon down to a landing that splashed muck over the keepers who came running up to chain the beast to a stake. How they made stakes hold in this muddy morass was beyond him, but they did.
“What’s it like at the front?” one of the keepers asked as Sabrino slid down from the base of the dragon’s neck and into the mud.
“By everything I saw, we’re stuck,” Sabrino answered. “Hard for us to go forward--and harder than it might be, because the Unkerlanters are still wrecking bridges and ley lines and everything else they can. That gives them an edge of sorts, because they’re bringing up their reinforcements on ground that’s not quite so badly chewed up.”
“Aye.” The keeper wiped his eyes with a sleeve, an utterly useless gesture. “Cursed Unkerlanters are tougher than we figured they would be, too.”
“So they are.” Sabrino remembered General Chlodvald, then wished he hadn’t. The retired soldier had been right when he said his countrymen would fight as hard as they could and would keep on fighting.
More dragons splashed down into the muck. Seeing to his fliers and their beasts gave Sabrino an excuse not to think about General Chlodvald. After a while, he splashed past the keeper with whom he’d been talking. The fellow jerked a thumb toward the north. “If all else fails, those Kaunian whoresons in there’ll make sure we give King Swemmel what he deserves.”
Sabrino’s stomach lurched, as if his dragon had sideslipped and dove without warning. “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said. “If it does, though . . .” He shrugged uneasily.
At least with the whole wing down and safe--a minor miracle, in that ghastly weather--he could get under canvas. The ground was no drier inside his tent than outside, but the oiled canvas did keep water from pouring down onto his head. After he’d changed into a fresh tunic and kilt, he invited his squadron commanders to sup with him.
He had no idea what they’d get. It turned out to be fried trout, boiled beets, and a jar of clear spirits that kicked like a mule--more nearly Unkerlanter fare than Algarvian. “Phew!” Captain Orosio said after a pull at the spirits. “If Swemmel’s boys drink this stuff all the time, no wonder they’re mean.”
After a swig of his own, Sabrino wheezed, “Aye. I think I’ll send my gullet out for copper plating.” But that didn’t stop him from taking another swig a little later.
He’d never been fond of beets, especially plain boiled ones. He was still picking at them when a commotion outside penetrated the noise of the rain drumming on his tent. “Have the Unkerlanters managed to sneak raiders past our lines?” Captain Domiziano said, half rising from his seat.
But then one of the shouts out there in the night came clear: “Your Majesty!” A moment later, a dragon handler burst into Sabrino’s tent. “Sir, the king honors us with his presence!” he exclaimed.
“Powers above,” Sabrino said softly. “I wish I were better placed to honor him in turn than in this miserable bog. Well, it can’t be helped. See if you can delay him long enough for the cooks to bring in another serving of supper, anyhow.”
As things worked out, King Mezentio and the servitor bringing more fish and beets arrived at the same time. “Go on,” Mezentio told the cook. “I can’t very well eat that till you set it down, now can I?”
The wind had blown his umbrella inside out. He was almost as wet as the dragonfliers had been. Sabrino and his squadron commanders sprang to their feet and bowed. “Your Majesty!” they said in unison.
“Save the ceremony for later, can’t you?” Mezentio said. “Let me eat, and if you’ll pour me some of that, whatever it is, I’ll thank you for it, too.” He knocked back a slug of the spirits as if his gullet were already lined with metal.
After the king had demolished his supper--beets fazed him no more than the spirits had--Sabrino presumed to ask, “What brings you to the front, your Majesty? And why this particular part of the front?”
“Not just the pleasure of your company, my lord Count,” Mezentio answered. He poured from the jar again, then drank. “Ah, that warms me, curse me if it doesn’t. No, not the pleasure of your company. I probably wouldn’t have come if the Unkerlanters hadn’t stalled us.” His lips pulled back from his teeth in what was more nearly snarl than smile. “But they have, and so I’m going to watch what we do with a victory camp.”
“Ah.” Orosio beamed. “That’s fine, your Majesty. That’s very fine.”
