Blade flew on the new course for another minute, until he'd passed the halfway point of his flight. Then he made another sixty-degree turn back on to his original course. He wanted to strike the river at the sharpest possible angle, to get across it as quickly as he could. The river was mostly shallow but it was swift and bone-chillingly cold. It would also ruin his glider.
Now he could see Haima and Daimarz and the others waiting for him on the far bank. The glider seemed to be sinking faster and Blade raised the nose slightly to decrease his speed. He didn't want to come down too fast onto one of the patches of rocks scattered across the flats.
The riverbank was still coming at him too fast, though it looked as if he might get across. That wasn't important today, but it would be vital on the day of battle. Anyone who landed on the Jaghdi side of the river then would have several thousand enraged enemies on him in minutes.
The people on the far side were waving, and Blade thought he could hear Haima shouting. He'd seen her win several arguments by sheer lung power.
The riverbank passed below, and Blade wasn't sure if he had the altitude to get across or not. He put the nose down to increase his speed again. If he hit he'd hit fast, but he could afford to hit the water faster than the rocks.
He crossed the river with no more than six feet of altitude to spare. His boots swept over Haima's head so low that she had to duck. Then he pulled up the nose, the glider stalled, and Blade came down to a standing-up landing just beyond the tent.
Haima barely let Blade get untangled from the glider before she threw her arms around him. Daimarz pounded him on the back while the weaver kissed him.
Tressana popped to the surface and pushed wet hair out of her eyes in time to see Jollya dive off the bank. Jollya was not as good a swimmer as she was a rider, but she still made a fine sight, her bare tanned body arching through a shaft of sunlight.
Jollya swam across the pond toward the queen, then treaded water while she glanced over the women guarding the banks of the pond. They looked as alert as anyone could be after two weeks of forcing a path through the forest of Binaark. The amulets held back the killer plants; but they did nothing to fight insects and snakes, level the hills and valleys, bridge the streams, or reduce the damp heat and the foul smells of decay.
Fortunately the end was in sight. The scouts five days ahead reported that they'd seen the last of the plants and the first of the Elstani. That meant ten days traveling, perhaps twelve, for the cavalry. Could this be reduced? Every day saved would be a small victory on its own. The faster the cavalry reached Elstan, the less time the Elstani would have to prepare. With speed added to luck, half of Elstan might fall without a battle.
They could move even faster if they left the wagons behind, but that would mean leaving King Manro as well. There would be grumbling and talk of bad omens. Tressana realized they would have to split up, the women staying with the wagons and most of the cavalry rushing ahead to reach the site of the camp. Tressana turned to Jollya. «Jollya, if I send the men ahead, would the women be able to guide and guard King Manro?»
«Oh, yes. He seems to be stronger than I've ever seen him. He recognizes me whenever I pass by, and calls me 'Dark Jollya.' He seems to be trying to say more, but I can't understand it.»
The queen hid her irritation. Jollya sounded as if she might be getting fond of the wretched man. And if Jollya couldn't be trusted, could anything be done about her that wouldn't cripple the Women's Guard right in the middle of the war? Also, what if Manro was actually regaining his wits? There was no telling what he might say or do. It was now more important than ever that he not be allowed to live much longer.
Suddenly Tressana was no longer in the mood for swimming. She scrambled up on the bank and started toweling herself dry with quick, jerky movements. She was angry with Manro for living, with Sikkurad for his disloyalty, with Jollya for attracting Manro's attention, and with Richard Blade of England for being dead.
Blade hurried across the beach, ducking as an Elstani swept overhead in a hang glider. Blade recognized Borokku, who'd been in his ground crew on the first flight into the Kettle of the Winds. The young man came down to a smooth but somewhat hard landing, and sat down abruptly. He was up again in a moment, muttering curses but apparently unhurt. Blade helped him get out of his glider, then watched him trot back up the hill, picking gravel out of the seat of his pants as he went.
There were five hundred glider pilots training here in the hills two days' march from the Kettle of the Winds. There could have been three thousand, if there'd been any need for that many or any chance of building that many gliders in time. The five hundred were not all showing great skill, but all were enthusiastic. Those who'd been woodcutters were almost frighteningly casual about the risks they ran.
As he learned more about Elstan, Blade stopped being surprised at Elstani bravery. Daily life in Elstan toughened both the mind and the body. The woodcutters in particular faced an enemy that allowed even fewer mistakes than flying a hang glider. Now everyone was facing the choice of either victory over Jaghd, death, or life in slavery. Those who volunteered for hang gliding had the chance of being the heroes of the victory, or at least finding an honorable death.
Blade walked through the cluster of tents that made up the training camp. At a safe distance on the other side Haima and Daimarz were standing next to what looked like a small clay water pot. Then Blade noticed that it had a complicated brass lid with a length of cord sticking out.
«We were waiting for you, Blade,» said Haima. «We thought you ought to see this.»
«The new fire pot?»
«Yes.» Daimarz bent over, struck sparks with a flint and steel lighter, and went on striking them until one landed on the cord. It flared up in a cloud of sparks and smoke. Daimarz hastily signaled a retreat, which Blade joined. There were buckets of sand and urine on hand for putting out the Living Fire, but the stuff had an unpredictable habit of spraying. If any of it fell on a person…
Wssssshhhhhhhh! The pot erupted in a great gout of angry blue flame that shot twenty feet into the air. Gobs of burning liquid came down over a wide circle, some of them only a few yards from Blade and his companions. It was at least ten minutes before the flames died down. Meanwhile the breeze carried smoke to the watchers until they had to step back even farther to be able to talk.
«You're thinking of two for each glider?» said Blade.
«Yes. Some women may be able to carry a third, if their glider is as large as a man's. But most will have two.»
Each of the clay fire pots held twenty pounds of the Living Fire. Five hundred gliders each dropping forty pounds of the Living Fire meant ten tons of it on the Jaghdi camp. That might be enough to cremate the rolghas, not just drive them into a panic.
Blade examined an empty pot. He noticed that the fuse was coiled inside the lid, with a few inches sticking out. «How are you going to light it in midair?»
«We aren't. The ones we use in battle will have longer fuses. We'll light them before the gliders go off.»
Blade looked hard at Daimarz and Haima. «What happens if a fuse burns too fast?»
Daimarz shrugged. That shrug would have annoyed Blade if he hadn't known Daimarz would be among the glider pilots on the day of battle. He wasn't being casual about dangers other men would be facing.
«Believe me, Blade,» said Haima earnestly. «We asked some of the glider pilots themselves. They want to be sure the Living Fire burns what it hits.»
Blade would never have asked the pilots to accept this, but if they were willing, that was another matter. Besides, was there really an alternative? Trying to drop the pots into the Jaghdi campfires or blacksmiths' forges would need better flying and better bombing than the Elstani glider force could be expected to give. Or at least better than the glider force could give without much practice in the Kettle of the Winds itself. And, of course, that would be risking the whole victory. The Jaghdi were bound to learn from their scouts reports of war preparations by the Elstani right where the Jaghdi were planning to camp. The enemy might not understand what kind of trap was being prepared for them, but they certainly wouldn't ride blindly into it.