Victory of Eagles

“Are you not assigned to Arkady?” Laurence said.

“We are of your crew,” the boy said, meaning himself and Sipho, whom Laurence now spied down in the clearing, helping Fellowes and Blythe to arrange their meager supply of tools, waiting in case Temeraire should need to come back in for repairs. “Both of us, together. You said.”

“That is quite right,” Temeraire said, looking around, “and I am sure Arkady does not need him; he was allowed to fight last night,” with a note of some disgruntlement, “and will be sleeping late, and I dare say we will have won by the time he wakes up.”

So they were four aboard, where thirty were common and hundreds had been managed, all of them latched to the one thick band: it circled Temeraire’s neck, and was joined by securing straps to bands about either of his shoulders, so it would not slide about. When they had all hooked on their carabiners, Temeraire sat up, and now Laurence could see past the trees to where a cloud of French dragons was coming, like bees, back and forth along the road: setting down great numbers of men and guns.

He had seen these maneuvers before, at the Battle of Jena, and he was heartened a little to see that the British Army was not waiting idly by, but guns were being hastily advanced to fire upon the French positions, before they could be secured. The guns moved slow, however, men struggling to drag them forward through the mud, and already the French were answering nearly as vigorously.

“They are begi

“No, wait, I have had an idea,” the blue-green dragon said, the one called Perscitia, and leapt into the air; in a moment she had returned, with something in her talons which she laid down upon the ground: a heap of the sodden and ragged figures, stuffed with straw, from their decoy clearing; some were still smoking and charred. “Tie them on to us,” she said, to the group of militiamen, rubbing their eyes, who had been sleeping beside her. “Tie them on, with rope—”

“They are quite wet,” Temeraire said, sniffing at the figures. “I do not see the use of that.”

“They will think you are harnessed!” Perscitia said. “Oh, and the paint, where is that black paint? Bring it at once, too, and make straps on them—”

“We have no time,” Temeraire protested.

“Their dragons are not fighting yet,” Perscitia said. “—very well, very well, we will do it only to the heavy-weights! Do you not see,” she snapped, “they will jump over to try and board you, and then there will be nothing for them to latch on to, and you will have them off in a trice.”

“Ha,” Jane said with satisfaction, when she had landed with Excidium, only a little while later, and had the plan explained to her, while the men finished painting Requiescat with the false harness-stripes. “Yes; very clever. They will smoke it soon enough, but while the trick lasts, they will be jumping over to board you big ones by the dozens. All right, gentlemen,” she looked over at Temeraire, “here are your orders, then: you unharnessed fellows will go in first, then, and go in close quarters at them. If you can draw their boarding parties, they will be underma

“And when you have come in?” Temeraire asked.

“Then I cut you loose against the flanks of their infantry,” Jane said. “If we are all fighting aloft together, we will only get ourselves into a tangle, but you ca

“And keep out of our acid, too,” Excidium added, and leapt into the air.

“We have acid ourselves,” the old Longwing Gentius muttered, from where he was perched aboard a big Chequered Nettle, Armatius.

Temeraire turned his head and asked, “Are you all quite secure?”

Laurence checked his borrowed cutlass and pistols, one last time. “We are,” he answered, and they were aloft, with a great surging rush of wind, and many voices roaring as they rose.

Bonaparte’s Armée de l’Air was seduced easily into trying again the strategy, which had served them so well at Jena, the cloud of smaller dragons rushing the heavy-weights, loaded up with men. Laurence looked away; thirty Frenchmen at once had flung themselves with enthusiasm and courage onto Requiescat’s back, to face the large company they expected, and a shrug of the great Regal Copper’s shoulders threw them off into the air, grasping and futile; and a few of them cried out as they fell, dreadfully, until the noise ended below.

“Ow!” Temeraire said, suddenly, jerking, and Laurence looked back to see that he too, had been boarded; but one of the men, an ensign, had caught himself by stabbing a knife into the flesh and clinging to the hilt. “Ow, ow!” Temeraire added, as the French officer drew another blade, and began crawling grimly upwards stab by stab.

Laurence tightened his hands uselessly, on the harness; if there was nothing for the man to cling to, there was also nothing for them to use, to climb back and fight him off, and the Frenchman was placed near the back haunches, where Temeraire could not reach with his claws. And where, Laurence realized, in a few more of his laborious steps, he would be placed to try and stab at Temeraire’s spine. “Take hold the harness,” Laurence said, to his small crew, and called forward, “Temeraire! We are well-secured, turn over and shake him free—”

The world spun sickeningly, and for all his effort Laurence’s hands pulled loose from the harness, and left him dangling by the carabiner straps as they turned, once and twice spiraling, and righted again; all of them a little green from the close and rapid turn, and the two knife-hilts standing up alone from Temeraire’s back, the small cuts trickling a little blood down his side.

“That has torn it, sir,” Emily said, pointing; and Laurence nodded. The French had noticed their lack of success, and the loss of men: they were no longer trying to board, but turning a steady rifle-fire upon the beasts instead. Quicker than he might have hoped; but their attempts had borne some fruit, at least, and many of the French middle-weights and light-weights, who had so daringly come in close to the decoyed British heavy-weights, had paid for it dearly as well: blood ran freely down many a side, black and steaming in the cold air.

“Throw out a signal, Mr. Allen: we are made,” Laurence said, and leaned forward. “Temeraire, you had better pull away now, and go for their flank—they have a weakness, there on their right; do you see it?”

“No,” Temeraire said, rather reluctantly detaching himself from the Pêcheur-Couro

“Yes,” Laurence said: the French lines were compressed, awkwardly, where the men were crowding to advance, and they made an ideal target for an aerial strike, which should drive a hole into Napoleon’s flank not easily repaired. “Quickly, before they have got past—”

“Alors, la prochaine fois vous feriez mieux d’y réfléchir à deux fois,” Temeraire said to the smaller beast, before with a final lecturing shake he let it flee, and turning towards his fellows gave a roar unlike any Laurence had heard from him before: an odd inflected sort of sound, rising and falling in almost an eerie musical way. It pulled the attention of the other unharnessed beasts quickly, and they came peeling away from their individual battles with the French beasts, as the formal ranks of the Aerial Corps charging forward took their place.