After looking back toward the footsoldiers, Spinello shook his head. "That's Plegmund's Brigade. They're on our side- Forthwegians in Algarvian service."
"Forthwegians." Turpino's lip curled. "We are throwing everything we've got left into this fight, aren't we?"
"Actually, they're supposed to be brave," Spinello said. Turpino looked anything but convinced.
On came the behemoths. They started tossing eggs at the Unkerlanter beasts on the hill the Algarvians needed to take. The Unkerlanters answered, but they still didn't handle their beasts or their gear as well as Mezentio's men. Spinello cheered when an Algarvian behemoth crew used the heavy stick mounted on their beast to burst the eggs an Unkerlanter behemoth carried, and then, a moment later, repeated the feat and took out another behemoth and crew.
But the Unkerlanters' eggs and beams knocked down Algarvian behemoths, too. And more beasts with Unkerlanters aboard trotted over the crest of the hill. Captain Turpino cursed. "How many fornicating behemoths do Swemmel's fornicators have?" he demanded, or words to that effect.
"Too many," Spinello answered, looking from the beasts on the hill to the Algarvian behemoths moving against them. He sighed. "Well, we'll just have to get them off of there, won't we?" He blew his whistle as he got to his feet. "Forward!" he shouted, waving his arm to urge on his troops- what was left of them.
Turpino stayed beside him as they advanced. Turpino still wanted the regiment if Spinello fell, and he also wanted to show he was at least as brave as the man who held it now. Spinello grinned as he ran past craters and corpses and dead beasts. He'd expected nothing less. Algarvians were like that.
The Unkerlanters not only had behemoths on that hill, they had footsoldiers there, too. Spinello watched beams flash from places where he would have sworn no squirrel, let alone a man, could have hidden. Beams burned brown lines in the green grass, some very near him. Here and there, little grass fires sprang up. He almost welcomed them. The smokier the air, the more it spread beams and the more trouble they had biting. But bite they still did; men fell all around him.
He dove into a hole in the ground. It was big enough to hold two, and Spinello's dour shadow dove in right behind him. Turpino said, "They're going to make us pay a demon of a price for that high ground."
"I know," Spinello answered. "We've got to have it, though."
"The army's melting the way the snow did this spring," Turpino said.
"I know that, too" Spinello said. "I'm not blind." He raised his voice to a shout again: "Crystallomancer!" A moment later, he shouted it once more, and louder: "Crystallomancer!"
"Aye, sir?" The Algarvian who scrambled over to Spinello didn't belong to his regiment. He'd never seen the fellow before. But he had a crystal with him, and that was good enough.
"Get me the mages at Special Camp Four," Spinello said: the fourth special camp was attached to his division.
"Aye, sir," the crystallomancer repeated, and went to work. In bright daylight, Spinello could hardly see the flash of light that showed the crystal's activation, but he couldn't miss the image of the mage that formed in it. The crystallomancer said, "Go ahead, sir."
"Right." Spinello spoke into the crystal: "Major Spinello here. My regiment and a good part of this army, footsoldiers and behemoths both, are pinned down in front of the hill at map grid Green-Seven. We need that hill if we're going to go on, and we need the special sorceries if we're going to take it."
"Are you certain?" the mage asked. "Demand for the special sorceries has been very high, far higher than anyone expected when we began this campaign. I am not sure we'll have enough to sustain us if we keep using up our resources at this rate."
Spinello abruptly dropped the language of euphemism: "If you don't start killing Kaunians pretty cursed quick, there won't be any campaign left to worry about. Have you got that, sorcerous sir? If the Unkerlanters halt us here, what's to stop them from rolling forward? What's to stop them from rolling over you and all the precious Kaunians you're hoarding?"
"Very well, Major. The point is taken." The Algarvian mage looked and sounded affronted. Spinello didn't care, so long as he got results. The mage said, "I shall consult my colleagues. Stand by to await developments."
His image winked out. The crystallomancer said, "That's it, sir."
Turpino said, "You made him angry when you reminded him what he was really doing back there."
"What a pity," Spinello growled. "If he's unhappy about it, let him come to the front and see what we're really doing up here." That earned him one of the few looks of unreserved approval he'd ever had from Turpino. He went on, "Besides, if he's not getting screams from every other officer on this field, I'm a poached egg."
Regardless of whether he was a poached egg, the mages back at the special camp must have decided the Algarvian army did need help. Spinello knew to the moment when the sacrifices began. A great cloud of dust rose from the hillside as the ground shook there. Cracks opened, then slammed shut. Flames shot up from the ground.
"Now we're in business," Turpino said happily. "Cursed Kaunians are good for something, anyhow." This time, he rose and ran forward first, leaving Spinello to hurry after him. Spinello did. So did the crystallomancer, evidently glad to have someone giving him orders even if it wasn't his proper commander.
But they hadn't gone far before the ground trembled under their feet. A huge crack opened under the crystallomancer. He had time for a terrified shriek before it smashed him as it closed. Violet flame engulfed two behemoths and their crews not far from Spinello, and more men and beasts elsewhere on the field.
Spinello fell. He clutched the ground, trying to make it hold still. "Powers below eat the Unkerlanters," cried Turpino, who had also fallen. "Their mages are hitting back harder and faster than they ever did before."
"Can they spend more peasants than we can spend Kaunians?" Spinello asked- a question on which the fate of the battle might turn. He gave the only answer he had for it: "We'll find out."
Even before the mage-made earthquake ended, he fought his way back onto his feet. He hauled Turpino up, too. "Thanks," the company commander said.
"My pleasure," Spinello said, and bowed. He looked behind him. "I think we've got more still standing than the Unkerlanters do." After blowing his whistle, he yelled, "Come on! Aye, all of you- you Forthwegians, too! We can take that hill!"
Take it they did, though the Unkerlanters who hadn't been overwhelmed by Algarvian magecraft sold themselves dear and weren't finally driven back or killed till after sunset. By then, nobody on the blood-soaked field had any doubts left about whether the men of Plegmund's Brigade could fight. Algarvians and bearded Forthwegians sat down together and shared food and wine and water and lay down side by side to rest and ready themselves for the next day's horrors.
Spinello found himself trading barley bread he'd taken from a dead Unkerlanter for the sausages a couple of men from Plegmund's Brigade had. One of them looked more like a bandit than a soldier. The other was younger, but might have been grimmer. Speaking pretty good Algarvian, he said, "I hope they get rid of all the Kaunians. It's the only thing they're good for."
"Oh, not the only thing." Tired as he was, Spinello still laughed. "I was posted in Forthweg before I came here, in a little pisspot village named Oyngestun."
"I know it," the man from Plegmund's Brigade said. "I am from Gromheort."
"All right, then," Spinello said. "I found this Kaunian tart there named Vanai, who…" He'd been telling stories about her since coming to Unkerlant.
Tonight, to his astonishment, he was interrupted. "Vanai! By the powers above! I remember now," the Forthwegian exclaimed. "My cousin, the cursed fool, was sweet on a Kaunian bitch named Vanai, and she was from Oyngestun. Could it be…?"
"Don't ask me, for I don't know," Spinello said. "But I do know this: I was in there first." And he got to tell his bawdy stories after all, there in the brooding night filled with the stink of fire and the far worse stink of death.
Even in his dreams, Count Sabrino flew his dragon against the Unkerlanters. He had few dreams. He had little time for sleep. He and the men of his wing and Colonel Ambaldo's wing and all the other Algarvian dragonfliers on the eastern side of the Unkerlanter salient around Durrwangen had been flying as often as their flesh and that of their mounts would stand, or perhaps rather more than that.
But Sabrino was dreaming now. He'd blazed an Unkerlanter dragonflier and made the man's beast fly wild when suddenly his own beast was flamed from behind. It stumbled in midair, trying to right itself, but could not. It stumbled, it staggered, it shook. It shook…
Sabrino's eyes came open. He discovered a dragon handler shaking him awake. Sabrino groaned and tried to roll away. The handler was inexorable. "Colonel, you've got to get up," he said urgently. "The wing's got to fly. You've got to fly now."
"Powers below eat you," Sabrino said.
"Dowsers have spotted a great swarm of Unkerlanter dragons flying our way," the dragon handler said. "They'll want to catch us on the ground, drop their eggs all over the dragon farms hereabouts. But if we get into the air first…"
Sleep, and the need for sleep, fell away from Sabrino like an abandoned kilt. "Get out of the way," he growled, springing off his cot. He checked himself, but only for an instant. "No. Run and sound the alarm."
Before the dragon handler could ever begin to turn, horns blared in the predawn darkness. Sabrino grunted in satisfaction. He pulled on his boots, donned the heavy coat he'd been using as a blanket, and put his goggles on his head. Then he ran past the dragon handler and toward his own stupid, evil-tempered mount.
Other dragonfliers, from his wing and Ambaldo's, were dashing to their dragons, too. Sabrino grudged a quarter of a minute to cry out, "If we get into the air, we slaughter the Unkerlanters who are coming to call. If they catch us on the ground, the way they want to, we're dead. Come on. Mezentio!"
"Mezentio!" the dragonfliers shouted.
Behind them, in the east, the sky was going pink. Off to the west, the direction from which those rock-gray dragons would be coming, stars still shone and night still ruled. But not securely, not even there. Purple-black had lightened to deep blue, and the dimmer stars winked out one by one. Day was coming. By all the signs, trouble would get here first.
A handler released the chain that held Sabrino's dragon to the spike driven deep into the black soil of southern Unkerlant. Sabrino whacked the dragon with his goad. It screamed at him. He'd known it would. He whacked it again, and it bounded into the air as much from sheer rage as for any other reason.
Sabrino didn't care why the dragon flew. He only cared that it flew. As the ground fell away below them, he spoke into his crystal to his squadron commanders: "Get as high as you can. We don't want Swemmel's boys to know we're up here till we drop on them."
"Aye, Colonel." That was gloomy Captain Orosio. He was the senior squadron commander left alive. He'd been juniormost when the war started- or had he even had a squadron then? After close to four years, Sabrino couldn't remember anymore. He marveled that he himself still survived. If fighting on the ground in the Six Years' War didn't kill me, nothing here will, he thought.