The sun had disappeared into darkness when Windclaw reached the swamp portal camp after almost seven, arduous hours of high-speed flight. There were few landmarks to navigate by, but the camp's scattered lights stood out sharply against the unrelieved blackness of a world mankind had discovered considerably less than a year earlier.
Windclaw backwinged neatly to a landing between the base camp's tents and the portal itself. An icy breeze blew across the camp from the portal, rustling the dead trees that speared into the sky on the other side, rattling the reeds on this one. The vast sweep of black-velvet heaven visible above the trees revealed brilliant stars, in an unnerving northern constellation pattern, vastly different from the southern skies it was pasted across.
It didn't seem to matter how many portals Salmeer saw or stepped through; the spine tingling awe never changed, and he'd been flying portal hops for the better part of thirty years.
Windclaw had barely furled his wings when a soldier ran across the muddy ground, holding what proved to be the transcript of another hummer message. He climbed up the foreleg Windclaw had been trained to offer, and Salmeer recognized him. He didn't know Javelin Kranark especially well, but he'd always impressed Salmeer as a competent trooper, utterly dedicated not only to the second Andaran Scouts, but also to Hundred Olderhan.
"Thank the gods you're here, Squire!" Kranark panted as he handed Salmeer the transcript. "The Hundred's halted at these grid coordinates. He didn't dare keep moving his wounded after dark. He needs you to bring the dragon through for an emergency evacuation of the worst wounded."
Salmeer stared at Kranark in disbelief. He hadn't taken Windclaw through the portal, but he'd made enough deliveries to the base camp when it was daylight on the far side to have a pretty fair grasp of the sort of terrain—and tree cover—waiting on the other side.
"Is he out of his mind?" the pilot demanded harshly. "He wants me to try to set a dragon down out in the middle of those fucking woods?"
"You can't do it?" The javelin's expression was barely visible in the darkness, but the horror in his voice was clear, and Salmeer winced. The critically wounded men out there were this man's brothers in arms, the closest thing he had to a family out here.
"I've seen that canopy out there, and it's murder," the pilot said in a marginally gentle voice, waving one hand at the looming portal. "I haven't actually flown over it, not in that universe, anyway. But I've seen plenty of forests like it. That's a solid sea of trees, Kranark, stretching for hundreds of miles. A transport dragon can't slide sideways between branches that are damned near interwoven!"
"Is that all?" Kranark replied, hope glittering in his voice once more. "The Hundred said he's camped along an open stream. He says there's plenty of wing room for a skilled dragon to get in and take off again."
"'Skilled dragon,' huh?" Salmeer muttered, interpreting that phrase to mean there was just enough clear space for it to be dangerous as hell, but doable. . . if your set was big enough, and your brain small enough, to try it.
In, of course, the opinion of a man who wasn't—and never had been—a qualified dragon pilot himself.
There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. The flight school training mantra ran through the back of his mind, and he hovered on the brink of refusing. After all, Windclaw was an incredibly valuable asset out here. If Salmeer flew him into a treetop, then the possibility of evacuating any of the wounded to Fort Rycharn went straight out the window.
"Just how many casualties are there?" he asked, temporizing while common sense fought against his own sense of urgency.
Kranark's muscles seemed to congeal. The javelin went absolutely motionless, and his voice went wooden and hollow.
"There were twenty-one. There are only twenty now. Hundred Olderhan took a full platoon through the portal—sixty-seven men, counting the supports. Twenty-five of them are dead now."
"Mother Jambakol's eyelashes!" The filthy curse broke loose before he could stop it, and he made a furtive sign to ward off "Mother Jambakol's" evil glance.
"Please, Sir." Krankark gripped his arm. "Please, at least try," he begged. "All the Hundred's got out there is an herbalist. We've got men unconscious, and the Hundred says Ambor can't bring them out of the coma. . . . "
Krankark's voice shook, and Sword Morikan leaned forward behind Salmeer's shoulder.
"Their situation's desperate, Sir. You've got to get me to those men. I can't Heal that many with magic alone, but I can save the most critically wounded, and we've got trained surgeons for the others. Except that unless I get there soon—and from the sound of it, we're talking about minutes, not hours—the death count's going to get worse. Feel that wind blowing through the portal? Badly wounded men won't last the night in that, even with a good hot campfire."
Salmeer swore again.
"All right. All right, I'll get you there, Sword. I won't take Windclaw in unless I decide there's enough room to get airborne again, but I'll lower you through the trees on a frigging rope, if I have to."
Morikan nodded sharply, and Salmeer looked past the healer at the two surgeons and the herbalists.
"I need to lighten the payload, especially if I've got wounded to haul out," he said. "You two dismount and wait for us here."
One of the surgeons looked a question at Morikan, who nodded again, as sharply as before.
"Go ahead, Traith," he said. "I'll take Vormak and two of the herbalists with me; you and the other two can set up here and be ready to work by the time the Squire and I get back. Don't worry," he smiled grimly, "it sounds like we're all going to have plenty to keep us occupied."
Salmeer snorted in bitter amusement and agreements, then turned back to Krankark as two of the herbalists and the surgeon Morikan had addressed began unstrapping and climbing down with their equipment.
"OK, Javelin. You've convinced me," he said. "Jump down so I can get this boy airborne." The pilot smiled thinly. "Hell, he may just be crazy enough to actually try landing if I ask him to!"
He took the printout the javelin thrust into his hand, with the all-important coordinates of Hundred Olderhan's camp. Then, the moment Krankark and the others were clear, Salmeer patted Windclaw's neck and urged the dragon back aloft.
Windclaw took a running start, snapped his great wings wide, and lifted slowly, rumbling into the air across the open campsite. Windclaw needed nearly a hundred yards just to reach treetop height, because he was big, even for a transport dragon. That gave him lots of lifting power, but he was simply too large and too slow to lift off on his tail, the way some of the smaller fighting dragons could. The fighters—especially the ones bred to go after enemy gryphons—had to be fast and agile, since gryphons were small, swift, and brutally difficult to catch in midair.
Salmeer didn't usually mind Windclaw's lack of agility. Tonight, though, it might pose a major problem. But it might not, too, he reminded himself loyally, for he was proud of his dragon. He and Windclaw didn't share any sort of special bond, like the ones bred into some of the more spectacularly expensive pets wealthy Arcanans sometimes commissioned. No pilot or dragon did. But he'd come to know his beast's moods and temperament. They'd come to . . . respect one another, and Windclaw was fond enough of him—in a dragonish sort of way—to make their working relationship satisfying on both sides, and tonight, Windclaw's decades of experience might just make up for his lack of nimbleness.
Now Salmeer whistled sharply, and the dragon made a wide circle, building speed as he flew. Starlight and moonlight burnished his wings with a metallic shimmer, glittering as they touched the elaborate wing patterns that represented Windclaw's pedigree, as well as his current unit assignment, They swept around toward the opening between universes, gaining speed and more altitude with every wing stroke. By the time he actually reached the portal, Windclaw was moving at very nearly his top velocity and climbing steeply to clear the trees on its far side.
They flashed through the portal, with the inevitable pop of equalizing air pressure in one's inner ear; then they were climbing through clear, cold night air. Windclaw straightened the angle of his climb and leveled out, cruising through a crystalline night sky ablaze with stars and a wondrous moon which wasn't the same one they'd left behind.
Salmeer tapped his personal crystal with the spell-powered stylus that allowed him to plug in Hundred Olderhan's grid coordinates, even though Salmeer himself had no Gift at all, and the crystal obediently displayed a standard navigational grid, with the familiar compass points in a sphere around the circle that represented Windclaw. A blinking green arrow pointed the direction to fly, giving Salmeer a beautifully clear, easy-to-read three-dimensional display to follow. When they reached the target zone, a steady red circle would appear, directly at the grid coordinates Hundred Olderhan had sent.
But before that red circle appeared, they had a good, swift bit of flying to do . . . not to mention the minor matter of figuring out how to thread the needle and land a dragon Windclaw's size, in the middle of the night, along the banks of a frigging stream, of all godsdamned things!
Squire Muthok Salmeer shook his head, not quite able to believe even now that he'd agreed to this. Then he set himself to ignore the biting chill and concentrated instead on the warmth of the extra layer of clothes under his flying jacket and a truly spectacular sky awash with brilliant stars.
Shaylar awoke to darkness, confusion, and the scent of woodsmoke. For long moments, she lay completely still, trying to figure out where she was. She remembered the attack, the frightful cremation of the dead, the strange device they'd used to lift Jathmar and their other wounded on floating stretchers. She even remembered walking beside Jathmar, holding his hand as they evacuated the contact area. But she couldn't figure out where she was now, which suggested a prolonged period of unconsciousness. That made sense, although very little else did. Her head still throbbed with a fierce rhythm, and she still couldn't hear Jathmar, but she felt more rested, which was a mercy.
Unfortunately, she was also beginning to feel the bruises and contusions where that last fireball had blasted her into the fallen tree. Her face was painfully scraped along one cheek and jaw, and the deep abrasions stung like fire. Bruises left that whole side of her face swollen, and they were probably a lurid shade of purple-black by now. She reached up to touch the damage, only to abort the movement when her entire shoulder locked up. A white-hot lance of fire shot straight up the side of her neck, and she hissed aloud in pain.
Someone spoke practically into her ear, and she gasped in surprise, skittered sideways—
—and promptly rolled off the edge of whatever she'd been lying on. She bit off a scream, but the fall to the ground was only about ten inches. Which was still more than enough to knock the wind out of her and jar her painfully, especially with her previous injuries.
Whoever had spoken leaned over her almost before she landed, making worried sounds that quickly turned soothing. Gentle hands straightened her bent limbs and tested her pulse, and Shaylar whimpered, cursing the pain that exploded through her with every movement.
Her eyes opened, and she looked up.
She couldn't remember his name, but she knew his face: the enemy commander. He was speaking softly to her, his gaze worried and intense. She hissed aloud and flinched back when he touched the bruises along her jaw with a gentle finger, and his face drained white at the pain sound. What was obviously a stuttering apology broke from him, and she wanted to reassure him. But the unending pain and fear and the silence in her mind left her weak, and far too susceptible to new shocks. She was horrified to discover that all she could do was lie on the cold ground and weep large, silent tears that stung her eyes and clogged her nose.
He bit his lip, then very carefully lifted her. Even through her misery, she was astonished by his strength. She knew she wasn't a large woman, but he lifted her as easily as if she'd been a child, and he held her as if she'd been one, too. A part of her was bitterly ashamed of her weakness, but as he held her close, she rested the undamaged side of her face against his broad shoulder.
He'd been wounded himself, her muzzy memory told her, yet there was no evidence of any discomfort on his part as he held her. He didn't rock her, didn't croon any lullabies, didn't even speak. He simply held her, and despite everything, despite even the fact that he was the commander of the men who'd massacred her entire survey team, there was something immensely comforting about the way he did it.
Perhaps, a small, lucid corner of her brain thought, her Talent was still working, at least a little. That was the only explanation she could think of for why she should feel so safe, so . . . protected in the arms of these murderers' commanding officer.
She was never clear afterward on how long he held her, but, finally, her tears slowed, then stopped. He held her a moment longer, then very carefully placed her back onto one of the eerie, floating stretchers. When she began to shiver, he produced something like a sleeping bag, which he tucked around her. Then he moved her entire stretcher with a single touch, guiding it closer to a bonfire that warmed her deliciously within moments.
The shivers eased away, leaving her limp and exhausted, but she didn't go back to sleep. Her mind was strangely alert, yet wrapped in fog. It was a disquieting sensation, but she found it easier to cope if she just relaxed and let herself drift, rather than struggling to make everything come clear. Thinking clearly was obviously important, perhaps even critical, in her current predicament, but she couldn't see any sense in struggling to do something physically impossible at the moment.
So she lay still on her strange, floating bed, and wondered in a distant, abstracted sort of way, how these people made their stretchers float. There was no logical explanation for it, any more than there were logical explanations for the other mysteries she'd already witnessed: glassy tubes that threw fireballs with no visible source of flame. Seemingly identical tubes that hurled lightning, instead of fire. The odd little cubes that had somehow packed enough explosive force to immolate an entire human body—yet did so without any actual explosion, just a sudden and inexplicable burst of flame.
Sorcery, the back of her wounded brain whispered, and Shaylar was so befuddled, so lost in this unending bad dream, that she didn't even quibble with her own choice of words. Whatever these people used for technology, it looked, sounded, and even smelled like magic. At least, it did to her admittedly addled senses.
As she drifted there in the darkness, she gradually became aware of something else. The scent of food tickled her nostrils, and despite the pounding in her head and the lingering bite of nausea in her throat, sudden, ravening hunger surged to life. The last food she'd eaten had been a hastily bolted lunch, just before Falsan staggered into camp and died in her arms. She had no idea how long ago that had been, or what time it was now, but the stars were brilliant overhead, and the moon was high, nearly straight overhead. It had obviously been up for hours.
It was the middle of the night, then, which left her puzzled by the smell of something cooking over a fire. Most people tramping about in the wilderness did their cooking early in the evening, at or shortly after sundown. But then the commander returned to her, with a bowl and spoon. He smiled and said something that sounded reassuring, and helped her sit up. Her stretcher continued to float, rock steady despite the fact that it was only canvas and ought to have shifted as she moved. Its motionlessness was yet another strangeness she couldn't understand . . . and didn't want to think about yet.
She would much rather think about the contents of the bowl. When he handed it to her, after making sure she was able to grip it, she discovered a surprisingly thick stew, with what looked and smelled like wild carrots—thin and pale golden in the firelight—chunks of what might have been rabbit, and other things she couldn't readily identify. She took a tentative taste, unsure how her uneasy stomach would react to food, and was instantly transported to a state of near-ecstasy.
She actually moaned aloud, wondering how any camp cook could create something this magnificent under such primitive conditions. Then she forgot everything else in this or any other universe and simply ate. Flavors rich and savory with spices she couldn't identify exploded across her tongue, and the hot food warmed her from the inside out. Some of the pounding in her head eased as her body responded to its first nourishment in hours, and she didn't even mind the savage ache in her bruised jaw when she chewed.
By the time she'd ravened her way through the entire bowl, she felt almost human again. A battered and bedamned one, but human, nonetheless. When she lifted her head, she found the enemy commander watching her, his expression wavering between intense curiosity, pleasure at how much she'd obviously enjoyed the food, deep concern, and lingering guilt. She looked back at him for several seconds, and his name finally floated to the surface of her memory.
"Jasak?" she asked tentatively, and his eyes lit with pleasure.
"Jasak," he agreed, nodding. He touched his chest and added. "Olderhan. Jasak Olderhan."
He waited expectantly, and Shaylar considered the intricacies of Shurkhali married names. Better to opt for simplicity, she decided.
"Shaylar Nargra," she said, and he repeated her name carefully, then glanced at Jathmar. His stretcher floated less than a yard from hers, close enough to the fire to keep him warm, and someone had laid a lightweight cover over him, so that the blistered skin and scorched clothing wasn't visible. He was still unconscious though, which terrified her, and her eyes burned.
"Jathmar Nargra," she said through a suddenly constricted throat, and an expression of profound contrition washed across Jasak Olderhan's face.
He said something, then gestured helplessly, unable to convey what he obviously wanted to tell her. His frustration with the insurmountable language barrier was obvious, and he took her hand, trying to reassure her.
Shaylar stiffened in shock. The rest or the food, or possibly the combination of both, had restored at least a bit of her Talent. She remained Voiceless, yet his emotions were so powerful, so strong and uncontrolled, that they rolled through her like thunder anyway. It was all she could do not to jerk her hand away from that sudden, roiling tide, but she didn't dare antagonize him, and she could learn more—much more—when he touched her. If he became aware he was transmitting information, he would almost certainly stop doing it, and she couldn't risk that. The understanding she might glean was the tiniest of weapons, but it was also the only one she had.
He was speaking in low, earnest tones, and she fought the blackness and pain in her head, soaking in as much information as she could. He was trying to help them. There was a sense of waiting for something or someone, with a feeling of great importance and urgency behind the need to wait. Someone was coming, she realized with a sense of shock. Someone who could help.
It shouldn't have surprised her, she realized a moment later. This universe didn't strike her as the home of these people. Contact with Jasak Olderhan reinforced that impression, but if they were as much strangers to this universe as Shaylar's survey crew had been, who was coming? More soldiers, undoubtedly—Jasak must have sent a message to another group of his people. But how many more soldiers? And from where?
Shaylar had no idea how his message had gone out. Did these people have a Voice with them? Or had Olderhan been forced to send a messenger on foot? In either case, they needed medical help urgently, given the seriousness of Jathmar's injuries and how many wounded Olderhan had. Yet he was waiting here, rather than pushing on. The help he expected must be close, then, however he'd summoned it. She didn't know whether to feel relieved that help for Jathmar might arrive soon, or alarmed by the threat another, probably larger, military force posed to Darcel Kinlafia and to Company-Captain Halifu's understrength force.
Once more, she tried desperately to contact Darcel, but her Voice remained nothing but a black whirlpool of pain and disorienting vertigo. The effort to establish contact turned the whirlpool into a thundering maelstrom so intense, so jagged with anguish, she actually cried out.
She jerked back, breaking contact with Olderhan to clutch at her temples and bending forward on the stretcher, hunched over with the torment in her head. And then she felt large, capable hands cradle her face. Fingers rubbed gently above her pounding temples, then moved down to her neck, where her muscles had knotted painfully. They massaged with surprising gentleness and skill, and she could sense Olderhan's genuine horror at the sudden onslaught of her pain, as well as his anxiousness to alleviate it.
That helped, as well, but her strength abruptly faded away to nothing. One moment, she was sitting up with Olderhan's fingers rubbing her neck; the next, she lay draped bonelessly against a broad chest once more, cheek pillowed against his shoulder yet again. She hated her own weakness. Hated the injuries that left her reeling in confusion, helpless to do anything.
She felt a tentative touch on her hair. The effort to use her Voice had scrambled her ability to sample his emotions once more, but he spoke to her, the words low and soothing, and it felt as if he were making vows of some sort. Promises to protect, or perhaps to defend; she couldn't grasp the nuances with no words or shared concepts, and with her Talent so crippled. Still, it was sufficiently reassuring to leave her limp against his shoulder, at least for the moment.
She'd rested against him for quite some time. She was actually drifting back towards sleep once more, when they were abruptly interrupted. A strange sound penetrated her awareness—a rhythmic flapping, like someone shaking out the largest carpet ever woven. Then someone shouted, and Olderhan responded with what sounded and felt like intense relief. He eased her back down onto the stretcher and hurried to the edge of the broad stream their camp had been pitched beside.
He stood there, peering out into the stream. But, no, she realized, that wasn't quite right. He was peering above the stream, with his head tipped back. He stared up at the stars, and the sound of shaken cloth was louder, much louder. Within moments, it had changed from rhythmic flapping to equally rhythmic thunder. A huge, black shadow swooped suddenly between Olderhan and the stars, then an overpressure of air blasted across the camp. The bonfires flared wildly as sparks, ash, and scattered autumn leaves flew before the whirlwind, and she jerked her gaze upward.
Scales, like a crocodile's armored hide in glowing, iridescent colors like shoaling fish. Immense wings, so thin the firelight glowed through them. Bats' wings the size of the sails on a ninety-foot twin-masted schooner. Claws, a foot-long and razor-sharp, glittering bronze as they reached down to grasp boulders in the stream when it landed. A long, sinuous neck, like a serpent twenty feet long, still as thick as her own torso where it met the triangular, adder-shaped head. Spikes, immense spikes, jutting out over eyes of crimson flame, and an eagle's beak of metallic bronze, sparkling in the wildly flaring firelight.
Its mouth opened, revealing rows of sickle-bladed teeth, and it was looking directly at her. Shaylar's wounded mind shrieked at her to run, even as she sensed an alien, inhuman presence behind those fiery eyes, malevolent and barely under control.
The nightmare apparition hissed. The sound was an angry steam-engine shriek, and Shaylar flinched back, drew breath to scream—
—and the man strapped to its neck spoke sharply. He emphasized his words with a jab from an implement that looked part-cattle prod and part-harpoon. It would have to be sharp, she realized through waves of unreasoning terror, to make itself—and its owner's displeasure—felt through hide that tough.
Wings rattled angrily, like agitated snakes, and the prod came down again, sharper and harder than before. The beast reared skyward and let out a shriek of rage that battered Shaylar's bleeding senses. She did scream, this time, and cowered down with both arms over her head—not to keep the creature's teeth off her neck, but to keep its fury out of her mind.
She heard men's voices raised in angry shouts and what sounded like bafflement. Someone touched her shoulder, and she flinched, then realized it was Gadrial. The other woman seemed as baffled as the men—baffled, surprised, still half-asleep. But she also seemed determined to interpose her own body between Shaylar and the enraged beast in the streambed if that was what it took to protect her.
Gadrial cradled Shaylar in a protective embrace, blinking in still-sleepy confusion and utterly perplexed. She'd never personally seen an angry dragon, but that was the only way to describe this one, and it was glaring unnervingly straight at her. Or, rather, she amended, at Shaylar. The injured young woman was trembling, and Gadrial spoke quietly, soothingly, stroking her hair while she felt the tremors rippling through that slender body. Fear had stiffened Shaylar's muscles so tightly the tremors were like an earthquake shaking solid stone.
She's been through too much in too little time, Gadrial thought grimly. No wonder she's all but hysterical!
Despite the distance to streambed's edge, Gadrial could hear Sir Jasak speaking with the dragon's pilot. They could probably hear him back at the base camp, she thought, and the pilot didn't look too happy at being on the receiving end of the . . . discussion. But then Jasak paused, hands on hips, head cocked, and the pilot shook his head.
"I've never seen Windclaw react like that, Sir," Muthok Salmeer said. "Never! He's an old fellow, smart as a transport dragon gets, with plenty of lessons in good manners. He's no war dragon, to be hissing at everyone but his pilot. He's spent his entire life in Transport and Search and Rescue work. It beats hell out of me, Hundred, and that's no lie. It's like he took one look at the girl there, and went berserk."
The squire's tone sounded as confused and upset as Jasak felt. It was obvious Salmeer was completely and totally perplexed, but the pilot had reacted quickly and decisively to his dragon's impossible-to-predict rage. That fact, coupled with his obvious concern, disarmed much of Jasak's initial fury.
The hundred made himself step back mentally and draw a deep breath. He glanced back at his prisoner, who sat huddled against Gadrial. Shaylar looked up, her face ashen as she risked a glance at Windclaw, then instantly pressed her face back against the magister, and he frowned as he got past his immediate reaction and started considering the implications of the dragon's behavior.
"That's . . . interesting, Muthok," he said after a moment, turning back to the pilot. "Damned interesting."
"You don't have any idea who they are, Sir?" Salmeer asked. "You could've knocked me down with a puff of air when that hummer message arrived, and that's a fact."
"No, we don't know who they are. But I intend to find out, and we won't do that if we lose them. The girl's hurt—I don't know how badly—but the man's critical. He won't last the night if we don't get him to a true healer, and some of my own men are almost as bad."
"Then it's a good thing I brought you one, Sir," Salmeer said with a smile. He gestured to the passengers still strapped to the saddles on the Windclaw's back, and Jasak's eyes followed the gesture. The dragon's reaction to Shaylar had kept him from paying much attention to Windclaw's other riders, but now his face lit with delight as he recognized Sword Morikan.
"Naf!"
"Good to see you on your feet, Sir," the healer replied. "And Muthok brought more than just me. I've got Vormak and two good herbalists riding the evacuation deck, and Traith and two more herbalists are waiting back at the base camp. Muthok needed to lighten Windclaw, and I figured it would be better to avoid doing any surgery we don't absolutely have to do out here. It's a hell of a lot warmer on that side of the portal, and we'll have tents to work in, as well."
"Good man!" Jasak said, nodding hard. "Good work, both of you."
"Least we could do, Sir," Salmeer said. "On the other hand, this isn't exactly what I'd call a proper landing ground you've got out here, if you'll pardon my saying so. We can probably take out most of your critically wounded now, but getting airborne before we run into the trees is going to be tricky, and Windclaw's already flown a long way today. He's going to need at least several hours rest after we get back to camp, so we'll have to come back for the others tomorrow." His eyes glinted. "Next time you decide to fight a battle, Sir, try to pick a spot easier to get dragons into, eh?"
"I'll bear that in mind," Jasak replied, with a smile he hoped didn't look forced. Then he smiled more naturally. "And I'm more grateful than you'll ever know to you for reaching us this quickly."
Jasak angled his head up to watch as Morikan, the surgeon, and the herbalists started to dismount. They hauled their gear down Windclaw's shoulder, then stepped across from his foreleg to the stream bank, where several of First Platoon's troopers waited to help them with their baggage.
Firelight caught the dragon's iridescent scales and set him aglow when he rustled his wing pinions or took a breath. He still looked agitated, and the sound of his breathing, the deep rush of air through cavernous lungs which no one could ever forget, once he'd heard it, was faster than usual. It was also higher pitched, almost whistling.
It's the sound a fighting dragon makes just before battle, Jasak realized with a sudden, shocking flash of insight. Humanity hadn't pitted dragons against one another in almost two centuries, and no one living had ever heard that pre-battle steam-kettle sound. Not in earnest, at any rate. But it had been too frequently described in the history books and the aerial training volumes—even in those silly romances his younger sister mooned over—for him to mistake what he was hearing now.
Which didn't make any more sense than all the other impossible things which had already happened this day.
Jasak stared up at the furious transport beast, towering over him, and wondered a little wildly what had set off Windclaw's battle stress. Salmeer had been right about one thing, though; he was sure of that. Shaylar Nargra was the source of the dragon's anger. Yet what in all the myriad universes about that terrified, injured girl could cause a dragon to react so violently to her mere presence?
The question simmered in the back of his brain. Intuition and logic alike argued that it was an important one, but he had more immediately urgent problems at the moment.
"Can you keep him under control well enough to put her on his back?" he asked Salmeer, twitching his head at Shaylar. "Her and the others?"
The pilot had been gazing at Shaylar, as well, obviously asking himself the same questions which had occurred to Jasak. Now he refocused his attention on the hundred, and his jaw muscles bunched.
"Oh, yeah, Sir. I'll keep him in line, all right. He might get around some greenhorn handler, but he won't try any tricks with me. If I might make a suggestion, though, Hundred?"
"Suggest away," Jasak said with a sharp nod. "You know your beast—and your job—better than I ever will."
Salmeer's eyes narrowed, as if Jasak's tone had surprised him. Then he twitched his own head in Shaylar's direction.
"Put her up last," he said. "He won't try anything that would endanger his passengers once he's got wounded aboard. He's a smart old beast, Windclaw is, Sir, and he knows his duty. He's responsible for the safe transport of wounded men, and he knows it. Not like a man would, you understand, but he's smarter than any dog you'll ever own, and dogs are smart enough to look out for those under their care."
"Yes, they are. It's a good suggestion, Muthok, and one I appreciate. Deeply."
Salmeer ducked his head in an abbreviated nod of acknowledgment, then gave Jasak a grim little smile.
"I've answered the call of more than a few commanders of one hundred, Sir, and I'll tell you plain—you're the first who's ever given a good godsdamn about the opinions of a transport pilot."
Jasak frowned, his gaze locking with Salmeer's, and his nostrils flared.
"I can't say that fact makes me very happy, Muthok. But thank you for the information. It won't be wasted."
Salmeer blinked. Then his eyes narrowed as he remembered whose son he was speaking to. Jasak saw the memory in the pilot's eye and felt a flicker of harsh inner amusement.
No, Muthok, he thought. It won't be wasted, I assure you.
The Duke of Garth Showma, who also happened to be Commander of Five Thousand Thankhar Olderhan (retired), would light quite a few fires under certain officers when that piece of intelligence hit his desk. Officers too haughty—or stupid—to consider the insights of specialists with experience far superior to their own were officers who got their men killed when things went to hell.
Rather like I managed to do this afternoon, he thought, and felt his face tighten for an instant.
Salmeer met Jasak's gaze for a moment longer, almost as if he could hear the younger man's thoughts, then gave him a sharp salute.
"You take care of the wounded then, Sir. I'll start prepping the platform cocoons."
Jasak nodded, then turned as Naf Morikan finished passing his own equipment over to Sword Harnak and waded ashore.
Morikan was a North Shalomarian—one of the towering variety. A big, rawboned man, nearly six-foot-seven in his bare feet, he still managed to move so quietly, almost noiselessly, that Jasak had sometimes wondered if it was a part of his Gift. The healer had huge shoulders, enormous physical strength, and a Gift for healing which made the hulking giant one of the gentlest souls Jasak had ever known. He'd never pursued the research necessary to earn the formal title of magistron, the healer's equivalent of Gadrial's magister's rank, so he was technically only a journeyman, which also explained why he wasn't a commissioned officer in the Healer's Corps, himself. But Jasak wasn't about to complain about that today. Not when it meant having a healer as powerfully Gifted as Morikan out at the sharp end when the remnants of First Platoon needed one so desperately.
"It's good to see you, Naf," he said quietly, clasping the sword's hand. "I've got four men in comas, and one of them's the only male survivor from the people we ran into out here. That girl there," he pointed at Shaylar, "was with him."
Morikan's eyes glinted. Jasak could almost physically feel the questions simmering under the big noncom's skin, but the healer visibly suppressed them.
"Five Hundred Klian wants a full briefing, Sir. I'm dying of curiosity myself, for that matter. But that can wait, and the wounded can't. Which one is most critical?"
Jasak led him straight to Jathmar. Morikan knelt beside the injured man's litter, then hissed aloud when he touched him.
"Gods, Sir! I'm a healer, not a miracle worker! He's holding on by a thread! And it's so frayed, it's about to snap!"
"You think I don't know that?" Jasak snapped back. "Magister Gadrial is the only reason he still alive at all!"
The big healer looked up, then whistled softly.
"Magister Gadrial kept him alive? With nothing but a minor arcana for healing?" He glanced at Gadrial, who'd given him a demonstration of her minor Gift when she'd first arrived in-universe. "Magister, you have my deep respect, ma'am. I wouldn't have believed this was possible."
He gestured at Jathmar, and Gadrial nodded to him across Shaylar's shoulder.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "And for Rahil's sake, do whatever it takes to save him. I'm convinced he's this girl's husband." She tightened her embrace around Shaylar, who was watching them, her hazy eyes wide and frightened. "She's hurt, herself, and she's in a fragile state. If she loses him—"
The magister broke off, her mouth tight, and Morikan nodded in comprehension.
"Their last names are the same," Jasak added. "I found that out when she woke up. They're either married or brother and sister, and I'm inclined to agree with Magister Gadrial's theory that they're married."
The big healer looked into Shaylar's eyes, took in the ghastly bruises that had turned half her face into a swollen, black mass of pain, and his jaw turned to granite.
"Start getting your less critically wounded onto the dragon, Sir Jasak," he said briskly. "I'll tend to them once we get back to the base camp, but I don't dare wait that long with this one."
Jasak nodded tightly and turned away to begin giving orders, and Naf Morikan crouched down over Jathmar's still form. He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached out, summoning the healing trance that gave him the power to work the occasional miracle.
Shaylar had no clear idea what the giant leaning over her husband was doing, but it was obvious he was the person Jasak Olderhan had been waiting for so anxiously. The newcomer was so huge he reminded her painfully of Fanthi chan Himidi, but the difference in his personality and chan Himidi's was blindingly evident, even to her presently crippled Talent. chan Himidi had been one of Shaylar's dearest friends, yet she'd always been aware of his capacity for violence. Trained and disciplined, it had always been firmly under control, yet it had always been there, as well.
This man might wear the uniform of a soldier, and his personality was certainly just as strong as chan Himidi's had ever been, but his battles weren't the sort one fought with weapons.
The newcomer had lifted the blanket off Jathmar's burnt back and hissed aloud at the damage he'd found. But he didn't appear to be doing anything else at all. He was just kneeling there, hands extended over Jathmar's stretcher, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. . . .
And then, suddenly, Jathmar began to glow.
Shaylar gasped. Light poured from the big man's hands, enveloping Jathmar's entire body. Then, despite the whirling black pain in her head, the marriage bond roared wide. Shaylar flinched violently in Gadrial's arms as Jathmar's pain blasted through her. She sensed Gadrial's sudden twitch of hurt as her fingers sank deep into the other woman's upper arms, but she couldn't help it. Her back was a mass of fire, her chest a broken heap of agony wrapped around ribs shattered like china someone had dropped to the floor, and her insides were bleeding.
Then she felt an odd presence, like a tide of warm syrup flowing over her—into her—and there was intelligence in the syrup. There were thoughts and emotions, a sense of awe that she was alive at all, and a determination to keep her among the living.
A soothing wave of light and energy she could sense but couldn't see sank down into her blistered back. The sensations were soul-shaking. She could literally feel her skin growing as blisters popped, drained, vanished. The damage ran deep . . . and so did whatever was sinking into her, repairing the deep layers of skin and tissue damaged in the hellish vortex of the enemy's fire.
It sank deeper still, down into her bleeding abdomen. She felt half-glued wounds knitting themselves together as new tissue closed the gaps and fissures in blood vessels, intestinal walls, muscles and organs. Pain flashed through her, bright and terrible, as ribs shifted, moving on their own, grating back into proper alignment. She writhed, whimpering, and the pain in her chest burst free in an agonized cry.
Shaylar's sudden scream yanked Naf Morikan straight out of healing trance. His head whipped around, and he stared, shaken and confused, as Shaylar writhed in Gadrial's arms. Motion under his hands jerked his attention back to Jathmar, and his eyes went wider still as he realized Jathmar was moving in exactly the same way.
"What the living hell is going on?" the healer breathed in shock.
"I don't know," Gadrial Kelbryan gasped, her own face wrung with pain from the crushing grip of Shaylar's daggered fingers as they sank into her biceps. "I don't know, but for pity's sake, man, finish the job! They're both in agony!"
The magister was right, and Morikan returned to the trance. He was shaken, intrigued, and utterly mystified, but he forced all of that aside, out of the forefront of his attention, and reached out to that healing flood of power once more.
Now that Jathmar was semi-conscious, the healer took care to stimulate the centers of the brain and spinal cord that produced natural pain killers. The patient's body flooded with his own internally produced pain-fighting serum in moments, which quickly put an end to his semi-aware thrashing about, and Morikan was dimly aware that his wife's cries had faded as well.
By the time the job was done, Morikan felt as if he'd spent the day slogging through a jungle under a hundred-pound pack. But Jathmar's grievous wounds were healed, and the healer let his hands drop into his lap.
"He's sleeping naturally," he sighed, sitting up from his hunched position over the stretcher. "He'll sleep for several hours, while his body replenishes its energy, mending itself. We'll need to wake him briefly to take some nourishment, but I'd rather wait until we've got him back to our side of the portal before doing that."
Jasak Olderhan had returned from overseeing the loading of his other wounded, and he arrived in time to overhear the healer's last sentence.
"Thank you, Naf. Thank you." He clasped the sword's hand in a firm grip. "Now let's get you back into the saddle. And let's get Shaylar onto the dragon, too. Magister Gadrial, I'd like you to go with us. Shaylar trusts you more than anyone else, and she'll need you to keep her steady."
"I'll just get my pack," Gadrial agreed, and bent her head, murmuring into Shaylar's ear.
Shaylar roused from deep confusion and the oddest dreams of her life and realized Gadrial was urging her to get up. She managed to obey, still supported by the other woman's arms, and realized Jathmar's stretcher had moved. She looked around, quick alarm cutting through her confusion, then relaxed—slightly—as she discovered that several men were maneuvering Jathmar and his stretcher upwards, toward a long platform strapped to the back of the immense animal still crouched in the stream.
At least the beast that couldn't possibly exist—the dragon, her mind insisted, because that fairytale label was the only one she could think of—wasn't still staring at her. That was a massive relief.
It had swiveled its head to watch the men climbing up its side with an almost absurdly attentive air, instead. The way its head was cocked, the intentness with which it watched what was going on, reminded her of the freight master on one of the famous Trans-Temporal Express' endless trains.
Cinches like the belly bands of an ordinary saddle, but far larger, were drawn up tight every four feet and buckled securely, securing the platform on its back. Sidewalls around the top of the platform, a foot and a half high, bore plenty of cleats for ropes or straps, and the purpose became clear as Jathmar's stretcher was hoisted up and roped into place so that his "bed" couldn't shift. They fastened straps to Jathmar, as well, so that he wouldn't roll off the stretcher.
It's a mobile hospital, Shaylar marveled. Or, rather, an aerial ambulance for evacuating wounded to the nearest real hospital.
They didn't load all the wounded soldiers onto it, however; only those with wounds serious enough to prevent them from walking out on their own. There were quite a lot of them, and she was glad of that. So fiercely glad it frightened her that Sharonian lives hadn't been sold cheaply. She only wished there were more dead soldiers, because however kindly Gadrial might treat her, however gentle and patient Jasak might be, she could not forget the slaughter they'd perpetrated. She would never forget it. Whether or not she could ever forgive it was a question for the future, and she was too battered to think even a few minutes ahead, far less weeks or months.
Then it was her turn.
Any faint hope Shaylar had nourished that they might release her, at least, died when Jasak himself escorted her toward the waiting dragon. She didn't want to go near that beast. Didn't want to come within striking distance of those lethal bronze claws, or those dagger-sized teeth. She was three or four yards away when it angled its head back around to glare at her. It started to hiss—
The dragon's handler spoke in a sharp, angry voice and swatted the beast smartly between its ears with his long, metal-tipped pole. At least, it looked like the blow had landed between its ears; they might have been mere armored spikes with hollow cores, but they were in the right place for ears. A cavernous, disgruntled grumble thunder-muttered from its sharp-toothed jaws, but it offered no further protest.
Men in uniform, balanced on the dragon's foreleg and shoulder, reached out to steady her across, then hauled her unceremoniously up to the low-walled platform. She trembled violently on the way up and would have fallen without the grip of strong hands on her wrists and hips.
At the top, she found herself seated beside Jathmar. The cushioned pallet, several inches thick, had been laid across the wood to form a softer surface for the wounded men, or their stretchers, to lie on, but Shaylar scarcely even noticed. She was too busy staring at her husband in disbelieving wonder.
The healthy, pink skin visible beneath his scorched shirt was a soul-deep shock. She'd felt it healing, but the very idea of such an uncanny miracle had been so alien that she'd more than half-feared it was no more than an illusion brought about by her own head injury. Something she'd wanted so badly, so desperately, that she had imagined it entirely.
But she hadn't. His hair was still a singed mess, but the terrible burns were gone, and her eyes stung as she leaned down to press a kiss across his cheek. She wished she could fling her arms around him and cradle him close, but the webbing around his body made that impossible. Straps stretched taut to either side, fastened securely to cleats that looked strong enough to hold a full-sized plow horse in place. The other injured men had been webbed down, as well, and lay head-to-foot along the narrow platform, filling it for almost its entire length. The man who'd healed Jathmar was kneeling beside another unconscious man, whose body glowed with that same eerie light.
Then Gadrial climbed up beside her and helped Shaylar with the unfamiliar webbing. Unlike the wounded men, Shaylar and Gadrial sat up, able to see over the low side walls, and the straps around her waist gave Shaylar a sense of security, despite their height above the ground. A few moments later, Jasak Olderhan scrambled up and helped the dragon's handler rig a windbreak around the front of the platform. It was made of sailcloth, and she was surprised—and grateful—that it didn't extend above her, Gadrial, and Jasak, as well. Instead, the dragon's handler gave each of them a set of goggles made of wood and round panes of glass that fit snugly around the head. Then he climbed into the oddest saddle Shaylar had ever seen.
The pommel and cantle rose high before and behind the rider's body, creating a snug cradle that hugged his waist. Straps from front to back held him firmly in place, adding to his security. Iron stirrups secured his booted feet, and a wide leather saddle skirt protected his legs from the dragon's tough neck scales, some of which were spiked in the center. The saddle skirt was soft, supple leather, and while it was well worn, showing signs of extensive use, it was also ornately tooled and bore flashes of silver where studs and roundels had been fastened to it. Intricate patterns in a totally alien design teased Shaylar's somewhat fuzzy eyesight.
Beneath the broad leather skirt was a thick pad of what looked like fleece from a purple sheep. She stared, unsure of her own senses in the uncertain, flickering light from the bonfires, but the fleece certainly looked purple. She wondered a little wildly if it had been died, or if people who raised genuine dragons also produced jewel-toned sheep.
Beneath the fleece pad, in turn, lay a saddle blanket woven in geometric patterns, and she blinked in surprise when she realized that the pattern in the saddle blanket was repeated in the dragon's scaly hide. Despite the straps and the bulky platform which hid so much of the beast, and despite the dimness of the firelight, she could see the same intricate, ornate swirls and chevrons in the iridescent scales along the dragon's side. She wondered whether the blanket had been woven to match a naturally occurring pattern, or if the beast had been decorated somehow to match the blanket. She was still trying to see more of the beast's hide when the man in the saddle called out a command.
The dragon crouched low, muscles bunching in a smooth ripple. Then they catapulted forward as the dragon's huge feet gripped tight on the stream's boulders and its powerful legs hurled them almost straight upward. The force of the sudden movement clacked her teeth together with bone-jarring force, but before she could even groan, the wide wings snapped open. The sheer breadth of the dragon's wingspan came as a distinct shock, despite its size for that they were even larger than she'd initially thought. They beat strongly, far more rapidly than she would have believed possible, and she felt the creature climbing in elevator-like bursts with each downstroke.
They flew parallel to the stream, barely clearing the water and the brush-filled banks to either side at first, for more than a hundred yards. Then the creek turned south, forcing the dragon to follow the curve of its bed. Another hundred-yard straight stretch gave it the room it apparently needed to get fully airborne.
Each massive sweep of its wings, loud as thunder cracks in her ears, lifted them steadily higher. By the time they reached the end of the second straightaway, the immense dragon had finally cleared the treetops. They flashed past a rustling canopy of leaves, argent and ebony in the moonlight, then sailed into clear air above the forest.
Shaylar discovered that she'd been holding her breath and her fingers had dug into the straps holding her securely in place. She glanced back and saw a brilliant spot of light in the darkness, where the bonfires in the camp they'd left burned like jewels against velvet. Moonlight poured across the treetops with an unearthly beauty, creating a billowing silver leaf-sea which stretched for miles in all directions. Wind set the silver sea in motion, with a constant ripple and swirl that was dizzying, exhilarating, like nothing Shaylar had ever experienced before. The windbreak shielded her from about mid-torso down, but the skin of her face was cold, except where the goggles shielded it, in the icy wind buffeting past its upper edge.
We're flying, she breathed silently. Actually flying!
For a time, the sheer delight of the experience pushed everything else out of the front of her brain. But as the novelty of it began to wear off in the cold wind, the implications of a military force which possessed aerial transport—and the far more frightening capacity for aerial combat—made itself abruptly known. Given the dragon's tough armor, not to mention its sheer size, Shaylar wondered if a rifle shot could be effective against it. There were hunters who took big game, of course, especially in sparsely settled universes where elephants, rhinos, immense—and aggressive—cape buffalo, thirty-foot crocodiles, and even vast herds of bison were a serious danger to colonists. There were some pretty heavy guns and cartridges for that kind of shooting, but Shaylar wondered if even those weapons could be effective at much greater ranges than point-blank into a dragon's belly or throat.
And what kind of weapons might something like a dragon bring to combat? Would it do what the legends of her home world said dragons could do? Breathe fire? Eat maidens for breakfast? She recalled the beast's fury at her, its rage battering her senses, the firelight glinting on claws and teeth as it reared up, and could imagine only too clearly what it would be like to have something like that actually attack her with lethal intent.
I have to warn our people! she thought desperately.
She closed her eyes behind the goggles, fought the black pain in the center of her head, and reached frantically through the spinning vortex to contact Darcel Kinlafia. The headache exploded behind her clenched eyelids, but she faced its anguish, refused to surrender to it.
Darcel! she cried into the black silence. Darcel, can you hear me? Please, Darcel!
She tried to send an image of the beast she now rode, tried to project the memory of it rearing above her in hissing fury, but her head spun. The whole world revolved in dizzy swoops and plunges, a drunken ship at sea in a typhoon. . . .
Gadrial's voice reached her, repeating her name with some urgency. Shaylar felt the touch of gentle hands on her temples, felt Gadrial trying to ease the pain. But she flinched back, clinging to the effort—and the pain—as she fought to reach Darcel, whatever the cost to herself, and—
A massive, metal-bending screech tore the air.
The dragon slewed sideways in midair. It actually bucked, and Shaylar's eyes flew open as her teeth jolted together and the whole platform creaked against the violent motion of the beast under it. Her head jerked, and she felt herself bounced backward against her safety straps as a raging red fury lashed at her mind.
The dragon bellowed again, whipped its own head violently around, and snapped at her with huge teeth. Shaylar screamed, then clutched her head, her senses bleeding. Someone was shouting, a voice white-hot with fury, and the dragon's violent gyrations ceased as abruptly as they'd begun. The rage in her mind was still there, still hot as lava, but the beast was no longer trying to throw her off or bite her in half, and she collapsed against Gadrial, shuddering.
"Help me," she pleaded brokenly, fingers clutching at the other woman's clothing. "Get it out of my mind!" she moaned. "Please. Oh, please . . ."
Gadrial had both arms around her, and, gradually, the pain receded and the nausea dropped away. Shaylar's throat loosened, around the terror she'd been fighting, and a delicious lassitude stole along her nerves. It eased her down into a comforting darkness, a lovely darkness, one that shut out the pain and the mortal fear of the beast in her mind.
She barely felt the cushioned pad as her back touched it.
Gadrial eased the tiny woman gently down, rearranging the safety straps so that Shaylar could lie flat beside her. Once she'd secured the straps in their new configuration, she brushed dark hair back from Shaylar's bruised face and stared down at her.
Who are you, really? she wondered. How far did you journey to reach us? And why should a transport dragon hate you the way this one obviously does?
"Is she all right?" Jasak demanded, half-shouting above the wind.
"Yes. I've helped her go to sleep."
"Thank the gods! What in hell just happened?"
"I don't know! Is the dragon under control?" she counter-demanded, and he nodded.
"He is now, but it was damned touch-and-go for a second, there." He'd twisted around to stare at the unconscious girl beside Gadrial. "She's the source. Whatever's going on, she's the source." Gadrial could see the intense frustration in his expression even in the uncertain moonlight and despite his flight goggles. "Did you see or hear anything? Anything from her that could have triggered it?"
"No." Gadrial shook her head. "One minute she was fine. The next she was screaming, and Windclaw was trying to throw us off his back!" Then she frowned. "But there was something strange, right before she lost consciousness. She was saying something, and it felt—I don't know. It felt like she was begging for help. Not protection, help. Something to do with the dragon and her mind . . . "
She trailed off, wondering abruptly how she knew that. Because she did know it; knew it as certainly as if Shaylar had spoken aloud.
"What is it?" Jasak asked, and she shook her head to clear it.
"I'm not sure. It's just . . ." She stumbled, trying to put it into words. "She was trying to tell me something, and I think I understood her. Not the words; they made no sense at all. But I understood her, Jasak. It's eerie." She swallowed. "Scary as hell, in fact. She was asking me to help her."
"Help her with the pain?"
"No." Gadrial shook her head again, trying to put her bizarre, elusive certainty into words. "No. She wanted me to help her . . . get the dragon out of her mind?" It came out as a question, because she knew it made no logical sense. "I don't have the faintest idea why I know that, but I know it, Jasak. She was clutching at me, babbling, and that's what came into my head."
Sir Jasak Olderhan, commander of one hundred, stared at Gadrial as though she'd suddenly sprouted wings herself. For a moment or two, she suspected that he thought she'd gone off the deep end, but then he gave a sudden, choppy nod.
"That's damned interesting," he said abruptly. "Has anything like that happened before?"
She shook her head again.
"I don't think so."
"Well, pay close attention to every impression you receive when you're talking to her, or she's trying to communicate with you, Gadrial. Something about her caused Windclaw to react violently, and more than once. We don't understand anything about these people! Except that they use weapons and equipment that are the most alien things I've ever seen. We can't assume they're like us in any respect, which means the door's wide open for totally inexplicable technologies, or whatever it is she was using or doing to set off the dragon."
Gadrial nodded, feeling far colder than the frigid night wind could account for, and wondered what terrifying discoveries lay ahead. Shaylar looked so . . . normal lying unconscious beside her. Normal, lost, and frightened out of her wits.
Gadrial stroked the night-black, windblown hair back from Shaylar's brow once more, and glanced at Jathmar, wondering what matching discoveries lay behind his face.
It was obvious the two of them came from racial stock as different from each other as Jasak's pale Andaran skin and round eyes differed from her own sandalwood complexion and dark, oval eyes. And although she'd had little time to study Shaylar and Jathmar's dead companions before their cremation, even that brief examination had told her the entire survey party had been as racially diverse as anything on Arcana. These people obviously came from a large, mixed-heritage society, whether it occupied only one universe or several, and she wondered abruptly how that society's members might differ from one another.
Did they have Gifts of their own? Different, perhaps, from any Gadrial had ever heard of, but equally powerful? Did different groups of them have different Gifts? How might their Gifts compare to those of Arcana? And what about their society's internal structure and dynamics? Had they evolved some sort of monolithic cultural template, or were they composed of elements as internally diverse—even hostile—as her own Ransarans and most Mythalans?
Jasak glanced back at Gadrial and noted her thoughtful frown. She was obviously thinking hard, sorting back through all of her impressions, and he nodded mentally in satisfaction. The brain inside that lovely head of hers was frighteningly acute. He had no doubt at all that if there were any clues buried among those impressions, Gadrial Kelbryan would pounce upon them as surely as any falcon taking a hare.
Satisfied that the bloodhound was on the trail, Jasak turned around again in his own saddle. He gazed straight ahead, but his attention wasn't focused on Salmeer's back, nor on Windclaw's shimmering wings as they beat powerfully in the moonlight. Not even on the glorious silver sea of leaves speeding past below them, with the dragon's moon-shadow racing from one bright treetop to the next in a flowing blur.
No. What he saw was Osmuna lying dead in a creek. A stockade filled with abandoned tents, foot-weary donkeys, and strange equipment. And a terrifying montage of battle images that flashed through his memory in bright bursts, like exploding incendiary spells.
And behind them was the frightening thought of what would happen if, by some unimaginable means, these people had successfully gotten a message back through the portal to their nearest base.
He couldn't imagine how they might have done it. A careful sweep around the battle site had found no tracks leading away from all that toppled timber, and there'd been no sign of messenger birds, like the hummers his own platoons carried. But these people had all manner of strange, inexplicable abilities and devices. If they had a sufficient command of magical technology—or, he thought with a shudder, some other sort of technology—to send messages across long distances without any physical messenger, Arcana could be in serious trouble already.
That thought was more than simply worrisome. It was downright terrifying. So far, he'd found nothing—nothing at all—in their captured gear which resembled arcane technology. An Arcanan crew that size would have been carrying all manner of spell-powered devices, but he hadn't seen a trace of anything made of sarkolis, hadn't sensed even a quiver of spellware. He couldn't even begin to visualize how anyone could possibly build an advanced civilization without arcane technology, but all he'd seen were fiendishly intricate, clever, totally non-arcane machines.
Was it really possible that one of those machines—possibly one he hadn't even found yet, one they might have destroyed to prevent him from finding it, as they'd destroyed their maps and charts—might have allowed them to send a message without a runner or a hummer?
The more he thought about how little he knew about Shaylar and her people, the more he wanted to avoid contact with any of them until Arcana had managed to fill in at least a few corners of the puzzle, punch at least a few holes through the fog of total ignorance which was all he could offer his superiors at the moment. And as he considered it, it occurred to him that if there was, in fact, something odd about Shaylar Nargra's mind, something which upset dragons, it was equally clear from her reaction that Shaylar had never seen anything remotely like Windclaw.
They don't have dragons, he realized. And if they don't have dragons, is it possible that they don't have anything that flies?
His frown intensified as that possibility hovered before him. He might simply be grasping at straws, but one thing he knew: dragons—unlike donkeys, soldiers, or civilian surveyors—left no footprints. If Shaylar and her companions had gotten a message back to their people, picking up his own route from the swamp base camp to the site of the battle and backtracking it wouldn't be particularly difficult for even semi-competent woodsmen. But simply finding the base camp wouldn't help them very much.
It was over seven hundred miles from the swamp to Fort Rycharn, with no roads, no trails, between the fort and the swamp portal. Everything at the portal base camp had been airlifted in from Fort Rycharn, and even Fort Rycharn was only a forward base. The actual portal into this universe was over three thousand miles away—across equally trackless ocean—on the island which would have been Chalar back on Arcana.
He nodded, mouth firming with decision. He couldn't undo what had already happened, but he could at least buy some time, and he intended to do just that. Pulling everyone back from the swamp portal to Fort Rycharn wouldn't be easy with only a single transport dragon available, but it would be one way to dig a hole and fill it in behind them.
If Shaylar's party had summoned a rescue party, it would find only the abandoned camp. Let it hunt through seven hundred miles of virgin, trackless swamp if it wanted to. By the time it could find Fort Rycharn, even that wouldn't do it any good, if Jasak had his way. Not if he could convince Five Hundred Klian to pull all the way back to the Chalar arrival portal and put twenty-six hundred more miles of water between any search party and the route to Arcana.
Time, he thought. That's what we need—time. Time to get word back up the transit chain. Time for someone who knows what the hell he's doing to get back here and handle the next contact with these people. Time to figure out a way to somehow get a handle on this situation before it spins totally out of control.
And the way to get that time was to make sure that anyone from the other side couldn't find a trace of Arcana.
Not until Arcana was good and ready to be found.