Steven Brust - Dragon

There was shouting, screaming, and the clashing of blades, but it all became a sort of noiseless noise, and I remember having the illusion that I was in my own universe, with no directions except forward; anything to the sides was someone else's problem. It was odd, and it was also odd how much time I had to think, to observe, to plan, and to act. Someone else bounded up, off balance and sword flailing as if he'd been propelled by something behind him, and I remember being able to pick my target, wait for it to line up, and to hit it. Then a hand appeared, and I cut it, and then I intercepted some sort of spell with Spellbreaker without being aware of how I spotted it. Then two came over at once, and I gave one a good cut across the legs while the other struck at me. I slipped to the side while holding my rapier up at a sharp angle—I even remember calculating the angle to keep the blade from breaking—and when I'd deflected it I stuck him one in the stomach. He fell forward, so I let a dagger fall into my hand from my left sleeve, stuck it into his throat as he lay on his back, and recovered Spellbreaker from his chest, where I'd dropped it.

I wiped my brow, dragging Spellbreaker in front of my eyes; its gold links were small now; no doubt that meant something. I waited for the next man to try to get past me, but there wasn't one; the assault was over.

I stood there and looked myself over, until Loiosh said, "Relax, Boss; not a scratch."

"Okay."

Then I looked for my tent-mates. Virt was on her knees breathing heavily, but didn't seem to be bleeding. Napper had one hand on the earthworks, the other holding his sword, as he watched our retreating enemies, and I had the impression he was willing them to return. Aelburr was sitting on the ground, grinning, shaking his head, and cradling his left arm with his right. He caught me looking at him. "Son of a bitch," he said, but not angrily, more as if he were commenting on the weather. "Dislocated my fucking shoulder."

"Next time," said Virt, looking up suddenly. "Try cutting them instead of throwing them around. For one thing, that way they aren't in such a hurry to crawl back over."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said.

I looked an inquiry at Virt, but she didn't provide any details. She opened up her water flask and helped Aelburr drink some, and presently the surgeon arrived. I walked away a little, because I don't like watching surgeons, physickers, healers, or anyone else whose job it is to undo the sort of thing I'm so good at doing.

Rascha came by about then and directed those of us who didn't need treatment to pick up javelins and make sure they were unbroken, which was sufficiently mind-numbing to be relaxing after the battle.

We had not, it seemed, been in the worst part of the engagement; there were places where the carnage was much worse, and Jhereg—normal-sized ones—were circling overhead. Sometimes one would come a little too close and someone would hurl a stone or a javelin at it.

"Why is it, Loiosh, that they hate Jhereg so much but like you?"

"My winning personality, Boss?"

"Yeah, that must be it."

By the time I got back, the bodies were neatly stacked, and the seriously wounded were gone, and the walking wounded had, for the most part, been tended to. Napper had gotten over his battle-fury and was himself once more. "We should attack," he said disgustedly.

"Good thinking," said Virt. "They only outnumber us about three to two."

"Don't matter," said Napper.

"And we'd be leaving our protection, which is the only way we survived the attack."

"Don't matter."

"And they could probably bring a spear phalanx against us."

"Hmmm. Matters," said Napper.

"What," I asked, "is a spear phalanx?"

"A unit specially designed to wipe out units like us."

"Oh."

"Think of a solid wall of very big shields with ranks of spears sticking out of them, and those in back, who aren't even in danger, pushing the ones in front at you."

"I see. Well, no I don't, but I'm convinced I don't want to."

"I've been through one of those," said Virt. "I didn't much care for it. I probably wouldn't be here if we hadn't had help."

"What sort of help?"

"They don't like getting hit from the flank while they're engaged in front. The especially don't like it when it's heavy cavalry."

"Do we have heavy cavalry?"

"Probably. I'd still rather skip that fight."

"Okay," I agreed. "I won't order it."

"Thanks," she said. "Which reminds me. That business last night."

"What about it?"

"Are you—"

I was saved from having to evade another question by the juice-drum, which told us to form our line again.

"Here they come again," said Rascha.

"Bugger," I said.

Napper stood and bounded back to the earthworks, his eyes shining.

"More mounted infantry," said Rascha. "Ready javelins."

You don't need to hear about the second assault, or the third. We survived, and more died. Virt picked up a gouge on her left leg that didn't amount to much, and I got a bruise on my forehead that knocked me down and would probably have been fatal if I hadn't been rushing my opponent; she caught me perfectly, but it was the flat of the blade. Things got hazy for a bit, and I don't know what became of her, but then it was over, and, while we were awaiting the fourth assault we got word to retreat. Napper didn't like it, but I was delighted.

Rascha came by and gave me a new cap, since I'd lost mine in the last assault, and Virt, limping along next to me, said that the bandage around my forehead made me look like a real warrior. I made scatological culinary recommendations.

"Loiosh, I just want you to know, for the sake of my familiar having complete information, that my feet hurt."

"I think you're cheating, Boss. Everyone else has to either carry on without complaint or be known as a complainer. You get to complain without anyone knowing it."

"Because I had the foresight to show up with a ready-made listener to complaints."

"That's a new job for me. Do I get a raise?"

"Sure, Loiosh. Your salary just doubled."

"Heh."

We didn't start the march until fairly late in the day, so we stopped blessedly early, posted the extra pickets, and settled in to a hasty but well-organized camp. I suppose the art of setting up camp has a whole lot of theory behind it, too. Maybe that was what Crown was so good at; I don't know.

I had the second picket duty, which gave me the dubious pleasure of sleeping a little less than four hours, standing guard for four, and then sleeping another hour and a half before having to get up. We weren't attacked during the night, which I wondered at. In fact, I wondered why we never launched attacks during the night. I wondered if it was some sort of agreement among Dragons, the way the Jhereg won't have you assassinated in your own home or in front of your family.

Turned out I was wrong, it was all a matter of generalship and the art of war, about which I know nothing now and at the time knew even less. You see, I somewhere got the idea that good generalship would have a lot in common with running the organization and that there would be a great deal of similarity between battle tactics and, say, planning an assassination. I found out later that I was wrong. Oh, in very general terms, sure there are some similarities, but not in any useful way. I was speaking with Sethra Lavode about the Wall of Baritt's Tomb and the campaign leading up to it. I said, "You have this reputation, you know. I mean, as being a great general. You were Warlord I don't know how many times, and—"

"What about it?"

I had to cast about for words. It's hard to tell the most powerful sorcerer and perhaps greatest general in history that you weren't impressed with how she did her job. She might take it wrong. After mumbling a bit, I finally said, "I don't know. It's just that the whole time I was marching and waiting and sneaking around and fighting and marching again I kept waiting for you to make some brilliant maneuver, or some great stroke, or pull some trick, or something."