Lawrence Watt-Evans - In the Empire of Shadow

“Aye,” the voice replied. “An it please you.”

“Thanks.” Singer shoved himself forward again, then stretched out one arm and found he could touch Valadrakul’s embroidered vest.

Then the roof fell in, or seemed to; the blackness that was the dead monster’s wing suddenly sank in, pressing down on him, and Singer found his face pressed into the dirt beneath. “Hey,” he managed to shout, his voice muffled.

Wilkins heard him, and called in, “They’re lifting it off the other one, the loony with the head wound. They were picking it up, and everything shifted.”

“Well, tell them to hurry up, for God’s sake,” Singer called back.

“Right.” Wilkins turned away and shouted something, but Singer was no longer listening; he was trying to see through the gloom ahead of him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Aye, lad,” the wizard answered.

“Can you move?”

“After a fashion, aye,” Valadrakul replied. “My head is free, ’neath the ship’s hull, like your own. And I can move hands, arms, and all, despite the weight of the flesh atop. But alas, one of the beast’s bones lies across the back of my legs, and holds me fast. An that be moved, I’d be free.”

“You can’t lift it?”

“Nay.”

“I saw you doing those fire tricks before; you can’t burn your way out?”

“Nay, I’d but set myself afire, as well. A blade might serve, but I’ve none, mine was lost long since.”

“A blade…” Singer mentally cursed himself for not bringing a knife. He had one, of course, a standard military-issue combat knife, but it was in his pack, inside the ship, and the ship was underneath the dead monster.

Then, abruptly, the thick layer of flesh above him shifted again, this time pulling up and away. Twisting around so that his helmet was out of the way he looked up at it, and realized that the rest of the squad must have heaved the wing out a little.

He still couldn’t see much, though. His flashlight was in his pack, aboard the ship, as well. Another stupid mistake. At least he wasn’t the only one who had made this particular mistake; as far as he knew, everybody, even Lieutenant Dibbs, had left his pack aboard ship.

He peered into the darkness. The dust had settled, and his eyes had adapted; he could see the wizard’s face as a pale, colorless blur.

He had room now to get up on his knees, his back pressing up into the creature’s wing; he did, and leaned forward, groped ahead until he was able to grasp Valadrakul’s hand.

“Maybe I can pull you free,” he suggested.

“Mayhap you can,” Valadrakul agreed. “An you haul, I’ll push.”

Singer grabbed the wizard’s arm in both hands, braced himself, and said, “Ready? Heave!”

They heaved.

Nothing happened. There wasn’t enough room for Singer to really dig in his heels, and his grip was on Valadrakul’s sleeve more than on the arm within.

Someone shouted, back out there in the world of light and air; Singer glanced toward the opening, then decided to ignore it. It couldn’t have anything to do with him or the trapped foreigner.

“’Tis the ankles that hold me,” Valadrakul said. “And the thing’s wing-bone.”

“Maybe if I dig down underneath?”

“’Tis a sound idea, methinks,” Valadrakul agreed.

Singer took a deep breath, cupped his hands, and started burrowing.

* * * *

Pel watched as Ted got unsteadily to his feet.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Guess I got the blanket over my face,” Ted said, looking back at the huge black wing. “Or maybe a pillow. Maybe I pulled it down off the bed-I think I must’ve fallen out long ago.”

Lieutenant Dibbs snorted with disgust; Pel didn’t blame him. Ted’s persistence in his delusion had long since passed the point of evoking sympathy, concern, or even amusement.

Pel had long ago run out of ideas for dissuading Ted, though; nothing worked.

Dibbs and the civilians watched as the soldiers heaved at the wing, trying to pull it out, away from the ship, as much as possible. The soldier who was helping in the attempt to free Valadrakul-Wilkins, was it?-had said that his companion was having problems, being squeezed in there.

That would not do. They needed Valadrakul, needed him badly.

So the soldiers were trying to give Valadrakul and his rescuer a little more room. They were too far under to have the wing lifted off them completely, the way it had been lifted off Ted, but it should be possible to stretch it a little tighter, so it didn’t hang down so heavily upon them.

Pel thought it was a very good idea. “Can I help?” he asked.

Dibbs looked at him, at the tattered remnants of his shirt and the blood and dirt smeared on his face and body, then turned back to his men. “No, sir,” he said flatly. “We’re doing fine.”

Pel didn’t argue, but he wondered just how fine Dibbs was actually doing. His commanding officer had been killed-and, Pel realized, Dibbs was now, under orders, trying to rescue the man who had killed Carson. Four of his men had vanished during the panic as the bat-thing approached, and still had not returned. His supplies, other than the useless sidearms, were all aboard the ship, which was inaccessible-and for that matter, the ship had crashed, stranding them all in an alien universe.

Pel reminded himself that this universe was just as alien to the Imperials as it was to the Earthpeople.

It would be perfectly reasonable for Lieutenant Dibbs to be feeling some pretty serious strain. Pel decided not to push the man about the rescue efforts, or anything else, just yet.

As Pel decided this, one of the soldiers happened to look to one side. Startled, he pointed and shouted. Equally startled, Pel turned.

A rather shamefaced Imperial soldier was stumbling out of the forest, toward the dead monster and the buried ship. His helmet was gone, and his face smeared with something.

Well, that was one of the four, anyway; Pel glanced surreptitiously at Dibbs’ face, and caught an expression of intense relief.

Then it vanished.

“All right, Sawyer,” the lieutenant shouted, “about time you got back! Get over there and give the others a hand!”

* * * *

Dirt sprayed into Singer’s face; his eyes had closed immediately, but not fast enough, and now they stung horribly. Dirt was blocking his nose; he huffed most of it out. He could taste the earth in his mouth, on his tongue and lips; he spat out as much as he could.

“Your pardon, good sir, a thousand times, I beg your pardon!” the wizard said hastily. “I am shamed and dishonored to have discomfited you, who sought to rescue me-and who did so! Look you!” He wiggled his newly freed, booted foot.

“No problem,” Singer muttered, wiping away dirt. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Aye,” Valadrakul agreed fervently, “with a good will!”

“You cannot see it,” Valadrakul remarked, gently probing his jaw, “but ’neath this beard, all my chin’s but a single bruise, by the feel.”

He stood a few feet from the corner of the tail assembly that was the only exposed portion of I.S.S. Christopher ; his long black vest and borrowed uniform were smeared with grime. Still, he was smiling.

Lieutenant Dibbs, a few feet away, was not. “All right, they’re out,” he said. “And Sawyer’s back, so that’s one out of four. Now, can I find the rest of my missing men, Thorpe, or has Base got some other stupid order?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’ve been out of contact,” Prossie replied, not mentioning that this was deliberate and entirely her own idea. “Should I ask?”

“Don’t bother,” Dibbs answered. “If they aren’t calling us, then there can’t be anything very urgent, and maybe we’ll do better if we don’t have a bunch of bigwigs watching over our shoulders.”