David Weber - The Road to Hell

“Yes, Sir!”

Chan Geraith grunted in satisfaction. The two regiments of Brigade-Captain Losahl chan Sharys’ 3rd Brigade had remained behind east of Coyote Canyon. That position was actually almost four hundred miles closer to Failcham than Fort Ghartoun. Chan Sharys had been sitting there, champing at the bit to be off for Fort Brithik, for over a week now, but chan Geraith had been unwilling to send him on his way until he had Fort Ghartoun.

“As soon as I’m confident you and Shodan have the swamp portal locked down, Renyl, I’ll leave First Brigade in Hell’s Gate to keep an eye on it until the infantry can arrive while Shodan and I head for Fort Brithik in Losahl’s wake.”

His subordinates nodded, but their expressions showed what they were thinking, and chan Geraith didn’t blame them.

It’s twelve hundred miles from Ghartoun to Brithik, but Third Brigade’s only got eight hundred and fifty miles to go from Coyote Canyon. If the gods love us and every single thing breaks our way, he’ll already be on the Failcham portal before Harshu finds out he’s lost this one, but in the real world, some frigging dragon’s going to fly right over Third Brigade in the next few days and tell the bastards it’s coming. So it’s entirely possible chan Sharys will find himself taking the bastards on in an open field battle .

That was not a happy thought, and part of chan Geraith longed to be with 3rd Brigade precisely because of that probability. Unfortunately, it was even more critical to punch through Hell’s Gate and secure the swamp portal where Balkar chan Tesh and his men had died. That portal was far smaller than Hell’s Gate itself, which made it a much better “stopper” than Fort Ghartoun. And he had no intention of leaving the rest of that portal cluster in Arcanan hands, either.

Of course, they needed Fort Brithik just as badly as they needed the swamp portal. If they could close off Arcanan access to Thermyn from either direction, their own supply line along the steadily extending rail line from Kelsayr would allow them to build up a decisive superiority between Harshu and any possible reinforcements…or line of retreat.

Well, if chan Sharys has to fight, that’s why he’s got the Bison-mounted pedestal guns and the 37s. And the Arcanans won’t have the advantage of surprise this time, either. If they want to fuck around with my lads when we know they’re coming, they’re welcome to try it!

“All right,” he said now, returning his attention to his brigade-captains, “chan Bykahlar’s infantry ought to be on the ground here in Thermyn in the next week and a half, and Brigade-Captain chan Gorsad’s only twelve days behind him. Once the infantry takes over in Hell’s Gate we’ll move you and First Brigade up to support chan Sharys, as well, Shodan. And one way or the other, Third Brigade’s going to be rolling into Fort Brithik in about six days.”

He showed his teeth in a sharp edged, hungry smile.

“I would love to see Harshu’s face when he hears about that! ”

April 9

Not for the first time, Commander of Fifty Yoril Jerstan wished he’d been a battle dragon pilot. They got all the prestige, all the shiny medals, and-for that matter-all the girls. What transport pilots got was plenty of hard work, precious little thanks, and wind burn.

Transports lacked the cockpits formed into the back of battle dragons’ enormous, tree-trunk necks, and transport pilots got to ride in saddles, without the carefully sculpted scutes designed to protect strike dragon pilots from the airstream when their mounts reached maximum speed. Visored helmets and heavy leather flight suits made the transport pilot’s lot endurable, and there were times when the wild rush of air around his body as Grayscale’s mighty wings swept onward was as intoxicating as any whiskey. But over the long haul, day after day-especially given the hectic schedule necessary to keep the AEF supplied-windburn got old.

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.