Victory of Eagles Page 0,93

slept fitfully and uneasily, rousing at every rustle or whisper to peer into the darkness, seeing nothing, and before dawn he was awake for good and uncomfortable, an unpleasant sharp ache in the underside of his jaw and all along his neck to his breastbone, where the knotted scar bothered him. He tried to crane his head down to rub his nose against it, but could not quite manage it: his neck felt very strange when he tried, and crackled as he stretched. He could not make his foreleg bend to it either, inward, and at last he sighed and laid himself back down upon the cold ground, thinking wistfully of the warm stone at Loch Laggan, or the pavilions in China.

There was a faint orange glow of coming sunrise in the distance, to the west; and then he raised his head again realizing that was quite impossible. "Oh, oh!" he cried, "wake up, everyone - " and flung himself aloft as Iskierka came blazing towards them, turning now and again to fire flames off into the face of her pursuit: some seven or eight dragons, trying to get near enough to board her again: there were a handful of men on her back struggling already - "Laurence!" Temeraire cried, straining his eyes to make him out among the dim figures.

She shot by overhead and the French pursuit all of them backwinged as Temeraire rose into their path, scrambling to avoid running into him. Temeraire opened wide his jaws and roared furious thunder on them, a P锚cheur-Raye point-blank in front taking the brunt of the attack. The French dragon wavered a moment mid-air, and then a great gush of blood came pouring out of his nostrils, his eyes bloodshot and strange. He sank from the sky tumbling over himself, and his wings broke beneath him like kites as he smashed into the ground.

Majestatis was coming up beside him and Ballista: the other French dragons, all middle-weights, turned tail and fled. Temeraire hovered a moment longer, panting with frustrate energy and confusion. Requiescat was rising, too, complaining, "What is all the noise for? It is too dark to fight."

"We do not have to fight," Temeraire said. "They have all run away."

"Oh, cowards!" Iskierka said, circling back. "They did not mind fighting when they outnumbered me." She turned her head back anxiously, glaring hotly at the French boarders upon her back. "Granby, you are well? Are you sure I should not just kill these men?"

"No: they have surrendered, and now they are our prisoners," Granby said. "There is head-money for prisoners," he added, wearily.

"I would rather kill them than have money," Iskierka said. "They hurt you."

"You have hurt him," Temeraire said, angrily, "and after I gave him to you, too," and he reached out urgently to take Laurence off her back. "Are you quite well?" he said anxiously.

"Yes," Laurence said briefly, in the way that meant he was not well at all, but he did not like to say anything where anyone else might hear. Temeraire sniffed at him surreptitiously: he did not think Laurence was bleeding, but it was so dark he could not be sure he was not missing some injury. "We must away at once," Laurence added, "they will bring more pursuit, and we have neglected our duty too long: we will have been missed."

"We have been missed, and Wellesley sent a very rude note, too," Temeraire said to him, turning his head back to talk, when they had all gotten under way, "which was not very sensible, but we have worked out that the army has all gone back to London: how did you get Granby away?"

"We had help," Laurence said. He was looking at something very small in his hand, which glittered a little, golden, in the early dawn light.

"Is that a prize?" Temeraire asked in interest, cocking his head to look at it.

"No," Laurence said.

The flight to rejoin the British Army was long, but at least uneventful: Iskierka gave no more trouble. If she was not much chastened, she was at least very solicitous of Granby, and willing to do nearly anything only to please him, and Temeraire had rearranged the order of flight, in any case, so she was directly under their eyes.

The ring was like a coal in the small breast pocket inside Laurence's coat, which his hand kept returning to touch: heavy beyond its weight, while Woolvey's blood dried cold and stiff on his stolen shirt. Laurence tried not to think of Edith,