“We did our duty,” the young Algarvian officer said when they finally got back to the village from which they’d started. “We successfully developed the enemy’s position. Now that we know where he is, our counterattacks stand a better chance of driving him back.”

Sidroc didn’t want to think about counterattacks. He’d lived through another day. He was content-he was delighted-to savor that.

Captain Frigyes prowled along the muddy beach of Becsehely. “Be ready, men,” Istvan’s company commander urged. “You must always be ready. No telling when the Kuusamans are liable to descend on us.” He pointed to Ist-van. “You wish to say something, Sergeant?”

“Aye, sir.” Istvan nodded. “We’ve been hearing for months that the slanteyes would hit us, and they haven’t done it yet. Why should we figure this time is any different?”

“Because I say so would be reason enough,” Captain Frigyes answered, and Istvan winced. He’d meant no disrespect. But then Frigyes went on, “But there’s more to it than that. Our mages have stolen emanations from their crystals. They’re talking about Becsehely in ways they never have before. They’re serious this time, no doubt of it.”

“Ah.” Istvan nodded again. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.” Frigyes pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Are we going to lick those goat-eating whoresons when they try to take this island away from us?”

“Aye!” most of the men in the company roared. Istvan had to roar, too. So did Corporal Kun and Szonyi and a few other soldiers. Each of them bore an identical scar on his left hand: a remnant of the purification and penance Captain Tivadar, Frigyes’ predecessor, had inflicted on them for inadvertently eating goat from a captured Unkerlanter stewpot. Tivadar was dead. Only the men who’d committed the sin-deadly, by Gyongyosian standards-knew of it these days. But a cry like Frigyes’ still made Istvan sweat cold for fear he’d be discovered.

“We’ll smash them like crocks! We’ll beat them like drums!” That was Lajos. He hadn’t been in Istvan’s squad when they’d eaten from that accursed stewpot. He’d never fought the Kuusamans; they were just a name to him. He was young and brave and full of confidence. Life looked simple to him. Why not? He didn’t know any better.

“We can beat them,” Szonyi agreed. He’d been with Istvan a long time, ever since the fighting on Obuda, which lay a good deal farther west, in the Bothnian Ocean-and which, these days, belonged to Kuusamo once more. The difference between his can and Lajos’ will was subtle, but it was all too real.

Kun didn’t say anything. Behind the lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles, his eyes were sober. Years of war had taught Szonyi some few reservations. Kun seemed to have been born with more than most Gyongyosians ever needed to acquire.

And what about me? Istvan wondered. Unlike Kun, he wasn’t a city man. His home village, Kunhegyes, shared a mountain valley with a couple of other similar hamlets. Had it not been for the army, he might never have left that valley his whole life long unless he went raiding into a nearby one. His horizons now were wider than he’d ever imagined they could be. Sometimes he thought that marvelous. Rather more often, he wished it had never happened.

Not much horizon here. Even when he climbed out of the trench, all he could see was the low, flat, muddy island and the surrounding sea, which looked bare of ships. He found another question for Frigyes: “Captain, are they bringing more dragons to Becsehely to keep the slanteyes from pounding us the way they’ve done before?”

“We’ll have plenty of dragons, Sergeant,” the company commander replied, and strode on down the line.

Istvan beamed in considerable relief… until Corporal Kun spoke in a low voice: “You do realize he didn’t answer your question, don’t you?”

“He said-” Istvan broke off and thought about what Captain Frigyes had said. He kicked at the muddy ground. “You’re right. He didn’t. He might have been a father telling a little boy not to worry.” The comparison angered him. He wasn’t a little boy. He was a man. If he weren’t a man, he wouldn’t have been here with a stick slung on his back.

But Kun ’s voice held only calm appraisal: “He’s a pretty good officer. He doesn’t want people fretting about what they can’t help.”

“I wouldn’t have, either, if you hadn’t opened your mouth.” Now Istvan was ready to be angry at Kun rather than Frigyes.

“One thing being a mage’s apprentice taught me,” Kun said: “what words mean and what they don’t. I’d sooner find out the truth, whatever it is. And whatever it turns out to be, I expect I can look it in the eye. You can’t say that about everyone.”

“I suppose not,” Istvan said. How would Kun take it if somebody pointed out the truth about his immodesty? Istvan didn’t intend to do any such thing. Kun went on enough as things were.

And he had a gift for asking unpleasant questions. He found one now: “Suppose we look like we’re going to lose Becsehely. Do you think our mages will start sacrificing us to build the sorcery they need to drive back the Kuusamans?”

“That’s as the stars decide,” Istvan answered. “Nothing I can do about it one way or the other. And you did volunteer, the same as I did, the same as most of the men in the company did.”

“Oh, aye, I volunteered.” Kun ’s eyes blazed from behind the lenses of his spectacles. “How could I do anything else, with everybody looking at me?”

“Aren’t you the fellow who doesn’t care what anybody else thinks?” Istvan returned. He usually enjoyed turning the tables on Kun, not least because he couldn’t very often. Today, though, the corporal didn’t rise to the bait. He just scowled at Istvan and strode off, silent and gruff as if he’d come from a mountain valley himself.

For the next couple of days, everything on Becsehely stayed quiet. Gulls wheeled overhead. So did other, bigger, seabirds, some of them with a wingspan twice as wide as a man’s outstretched arms. Those enormous birds spent most of their time in the air. Istvan had seen them on Obuda, too. When they did land, they often rolled and tumbled. Watching them crash to the ground-and watching them trying to get airborne again-was more entertaining than most of the things the Gyongyosian soldiers had to do on the island.

Alarm bells began clanging before dawn three days after Captain Frigyes delivered his warning. Troopers who weren’t sleeping in their trenches ran for them. “This is no drill!” the company commander shouted moments after the clanging started. “The dowsers see enemy ships out over the horizon.” He hesitated, then shouted one thing more: “Volunteers, remember your oath! You may be summoned.”

Istvan wished Frigyes hadn’t said that. How was he supposed to concentrate on staying alive against the Kuusamans if his own side was liable to kill him to drive back the invaders?

“Dragons!” That shout seemed to come from everywhere at once. Istvan hunkered down in his trench. Becsehely had been hit before. It had been hit hard, too. But Gyongyosian dragons flying off the little island had also struck back hard at the enemy. Not this time, or not for long. Kuusamo seemed to have gathered every dragon in the world and put all those beasts in the air above the island.

That was how it felt to Istvan, anyhow. The rain of eggs was the hardest he’d ever known. There were almost as many as if they’d been real raindrops, or so it seemed to him. The ground under him jerked and quivered, as if in torment. Dirt flew into the air and thudded down onto him and his squadmates-so much dirt, he feared being buried alive.

And the dragons swooped low, too, flaming whenever the men who flew them found targets they judged worthwhile. Shrieks rose from the trenches, punctuating the roar of bursting eggs and the alarm bell’s brazen clamor. Before long, Istvan smelled charred meat. He cursed. He knew what meat that was.