Quickly.
He snorted at the familiar thought and reached down to rest one hand fondly on Grayscale’s warm scales. The big transport was slow and not very maneuverable, compared to the swift, agile battle dragons, but he was steady as the sunrise, and just as reliable. And he was in a good mood today, because he knew they were headed up-chain towards the bison herds. He might not be a battle dragon, but he was a canny and capable hunter. And while Thousand Toralk’s decision to send his dragons to hunt for themselves wasn’t the most efficient way to keep them supplied, it worked, and Grayscale thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to chase down his own meat.
The truth was it didn’t take a lot to make Grayscale happy. He had an unusually placid disposition, even for a transport, and he was normally as cheerful and willing as the day was long. Even his disposition had developed a few rough spots over the last few months, though, especially since the Sharonians stopped Two Thousand Harshu’s advance dead in front of Fort Salby. The sheer drudgery of one endless flight after another-without a sufficient stockpile of levitation spells, the transports’ carrying capacity was so small they had to fly twice or three times as many missions to ferry the same quantity of supplies forward-would have taxed the patience of a saint, and transport dragons were anything but saintly.
Of course, Grayscale had no way to understand all the downsides of their present situation. He knew he was working harder than he ever had in his lengthy life; he didn’t know the entire AEF was stuck at the end of an impossibly extended supply line, that no one seemed to be killing himself to provide the additional dragons and spell support Two Thousand Harshu needed, that the Sharonians had demonstrated just how dangerous their bizarre weapons and Talents actually were, and-according to scuttlebutt Jerstan absolutely believed-they’d managed to kill the Sharonian Empire’s crown prince at Fort Salby. He didn’t even want to think about how that was going to further fan the Sharonians’ fury at Arcana’s “sneak attack”! The last thing they needed was-
Fifty Jerstan’s thoughts broke off and he frowned. What in Ekros’ name was that?
He pressed the sarkolis crystal embedded in his flight helmet. A circular window appeared in the center of the helmet’s face plate, and the earth far below snapped into sharp focus as the helmet linked with the sarkolis embedded in Grayscale’s hide, allowing Jerstan to see what his dragon saw. The cross hair in his field of view was more of an aiming mark than the sighting system it would have been for a battle dragon-Grayscale had enough red dragon in his ancestry to generate a fireball of sorts on command, yet it was a pallid, feeble thing-but the principle was still the same, and so was the helmet linkage.
Now Grayscale turned his head in tandem with Jerstan’s, guided to follow the crosshair by the helmet spellware. Dragons’ eyes were capable of picking up incredible detail even from four or five thousand feet, and Grayscale refocused his vision on the strange, low-lying cloud which had attracted Jerstan’s attention.
For a moment, it failed to register. His brain simply refused to process the preposterous input. But then Yoril Jerstan snapped fully upright in his saddle despite the buffeting slipstream as he realized what that low-lying cloud was.
* * *
Gerun Hostyra was bored.
He wasn’t about to complain where any of his superiors might hear him, and he thoroughly understood the importance of keeping the dragon trains moving. But given how thin 1st Provisional Talon’s combat strength had become after Fort Salby, it made no sense at all-in his opinion-to detail a pair of desperately needed battle dragons to play “escort” for the transports.
On the other hand, he was only a lowly commander of twenty-five. It was unlikely Thousand Toralk would appreciate his opinion if he wandered by headquarters to share it with him. Besides, whether or not the transports needed an “escort” this far from the front lines, Sky Sabre wasn’t going to complain about the opportunity to eat fresh bison, and the gods knew a well fed battle dragon was far less proddy than one with an empty belly. So, on balance, he supposed it was possible Thousand Toralk knew what he was doing, after all.
Which didn’t make the three-day flight from Traisum all the way back to Hell’s Gate any less boring. For that matter, why couldn’t he and Sky Sabre stop here in Thermyn, spend three or four days hunting, and then pick up a fresh transport flight on its way back to the front? It wasn’t as if-
The abrupt flash of a double crimson flare above Fifty Jerstan’s transport jerked his attention out of its familiar rut, and he frowned as a second pair of flares burst. He glanced to his left, where Helok Bersil, his regular wingman, flew on the far side of the lumbering transports, and saw Bersil’s head come up into the slipstream, craning around towards the flares. He seemed just as surprised as Hostyra.
What the hells did Jerstan think he was up to? He was the senior officer of the flight, as well as Hostyra’s superior in rank, but he was a transport pilot. A trash-hauler. Maybe he had delusions of grandeur, and maybe he thought this was a good time for some weird practice drill, but even he ought to know the double-crimson was never used in training exercises. It was a live-action signal, reserved for actual combat, not a toy for a transport pilot to flash around just because he was bored!
Then a third double-crimson flashed.
Hostyra muttered a curse and hit his helmet crystal rather harder than was necessary. He turned his head, staring at Jerstan, and Sky Sabre’s eyes focused on the fifty. Jerstan-and Grayscale-were staring back at him, and as soon as the fifty realized he had Hostyra’s attention, he pointed urgently to the southwest.
All right-all right, idiot! Hostyra thought grumpily. You’ve got my attention, so what’s this all abou-
His eyes widened. Dozens-scores-of bizarre vehicles ground across the prairie towards him. He’d never imagined anything like them! Some were enormous, towing huge trailers behind them; others were no bigger than a large freight wagon. But all of them came surging across the plains without any sign of the draft animals upon which the Sharonians relied. They were moving on their own, as surely and steadily as any slider, and if their speed was lower than a slider’s, it was obvious each of them was picking its own course across the rolling prairie. They were being individually steered, advancing with no indication of whatever bizarre force might be propelling them, and he swallowed as he saw the artillery pieces-the “field guns”-some of those vehicles towed.
They couldn’t possibly be here, yet there they were, and they were headed directly towards the Failcham portal, two hundred miles to the northeast.
Gerun Hostyra stared at the impossible sight for long, endless seconds, trying to digest it. He was only a commander of twenty-five, yet the danger of that enormous column-he and Sky Sabre could see even more of the weird vehicles rolling along behind the ones closest to hand-was abundantly clear. The picket on what had been the Sharonians’ Fort Brithik consisted of no more than a couple of platoons of infantry, and there had to be thousands of men in that oncoming horde. How in Shartahk’s name they could be here, coming from the AEF’s rear, was more than he could even begin to imagine, but he knew exactly what was going to happen when they reached the portal.
But they’re not they’re yet, he thought suddenly. And they’re not in one of their godsdamned forts with all their frigging artillery dug in to cover its approaches, either!