“Just my wife,” I replied as I nodded back at Elenari.
He took one look at Elenari and grinned. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t kick her out of bed for farting.”
We emerged out into the sunshine of mid-morning after spending the night in the tunnels. I was feeling a little more myself when I strode out from under the carved archway that fronted the mine entrance. I couldn’t help but view the dragons who had been chiseled into the beams with more understanding as to why they had been etched there in the first place.
More respect too.
I took a deep, refreshing lungful of mountain air when we were over the threshold. The sky had that lovely, insubstantial blue caste to it, like it had been washed with watercolors. Equal parts white and blue. The sun was veiled behind wispy, almost phantasmic clouds. The smell of resinous pines hit my nasal passages like a balm after the dry dusty nothingness of the Subterranean Realms. It was the scent of growth and life and hope.
“Good to be back, huh?” Elenari said from beside me.
I looked sideways and saw the red-headed elf warrior standing erect and proud. Her eyes were closed, and she was inhaling deep breaths. I had almost forgotten that she went by a title in her native land. She was the Hunter of the Wyrmwood. Seeing her drinking deeply of the smells of the pine forests, basking in the freshness of the alpine air, with her long red hair whipping about her face, I could well believe it.
“Yeah,” I said. “Good to be back above ground. Good to have you next to me.”
We walked down through the army encampment. The dragonmancers strode proudly at the forefront of the ranks of men and women who had survived the battle. It was no plan of mine to make our return into some sort of parade, but the further we marched into Dodge City, the more carnival-like the atmosphere became. Insidious rumor had obviously been doing its work, and it sounded and looked like almost everyone had some idea of what had happened down in the Subterranean Realms.
I grinned to myself and glanced around for Old Sleazy. I could smell his culinary handiwork on the soft breeze that stirred the air, but of the gnoll himself there was no sign. I would have staked a bucketful of scales on the fact that the business savvy bastard had something to do with the turnout though. The amount of onlookers and well-wishers who were clutching one of his famous vortex donuts or cured and spiced salamander sliders were clue enough that he at least was profiting from this general outpouring of goodwill.
The whole column of survivors was cheered and applauded as they made their way through the clapboard streets. Whores and gigolos, who are a key part of any large military caravan or gathering, rushed out into the streets to throw their arms around favorite customers. Cups of ale, fresh baked bread, and delicate sweet treats were pushed on the victorious soldiers. Uniformed and armored soldiers hung out of the windows of the occasional two or even three-story structures, waving flags of particular regiments and bellowing their approval of a job well done.
Not all was sweetness and light, however. Ox-drawn wains rumbled up parallel streets to the one that our tattered and exhausted troopers marched down. These wagon caravans were accompanied by legions of fresh soldiers and other dragonmancers. You didn’t have to be the sharpest knife in the drawer to guess that their job was to head down into the Subterranean Realms and recover the many bodies of the fallen.
Before we turned the final corner to the tents and quarters of the higher-ranking military officers and the dragonmancers, Penelope and Renji addressed the guard captains who followed close behind us dragonmancers at the front of the procession. They instructed them that the soldiers from the Stand of the Broken Fortress—as it was already being referred to—could be dismissed. They were to go and drink to their compatriots who had paid the ultimate price in the defense of the Mystocean Empire.
Once the captains had marshaled the rest of the soldiers and spread the word that they could go and enjoy some downtime, me and the rest of the dragonmancers assembled outside General Shiloh’s tent.
One of the aides stationed outside went inside to summon her, while us seven dragonmancers and Will, who would not listen to my instructions that he should flicker off for a few minutes, waited outside. Diggens Azee had already disappeared, tinny in hand while he muttered about the terrible rates of precious minerals these days.
For a full minute we stood in silence, awaiting the leader of this branch of the Mystocean Empire’s exploratory army. For my part, I turned my brain down to a simmer and listened to the soft sighing of the wind in the fir trees. It sounded, to my still slightly frazzled brain, like the world breathing.
Eventually, General Shiloh emerged. Her short auburn hair was mussed and rumpled and gave the impression that she had been running her fingers through it ever since we’d left. There were deep purple bags under her eyes, and she had the glassy, bloodshot stare of someone who had been partaking a little more liberally from the bottle than was probably prudent—which was saying something when you considered the metabolic rate of dragonmancers. In short, she looked like something that had been eaten by a wolf and then shat off a cliff.
“Well!” she barked, and I was glad to hear the same tough note of command in her voice that there had been when I left. “Here you are.”
She ran her tired but relentless eyes over me. I returned the stare, trying to hide my own fatigue. Then, General Shiloh’s eyes swept down the line; Tamsin, Penelope, Ashrin, Renji, Jazmyn, Elenari,
