The Price of Flight – part four
Aircrew selection. And more combat.
V0.1. As with everything, it has room for revision. Watch this space.
We're back… following on from the end of the prior chapter, but first, more backstory. Then a darker turn as the Battle of Lancre happens in the air. Adding backstory to fill in the gaps about several characters who are growing in my tales. I'm also getting very definite vibes about Hanna von Strafenburg and how to develop this character and round her out. Especially how a Discworld "German" interacts with Discworld "Russians".
Lancre Town, a few years before we pick up from the end of last chapter.
Prologue, one:
The Witch Trials were over for that summer. Most people were already ebbing away from the show site; others were being drawn to the beer-and-barbecue which would inevitably last till the small hours of the next day. Twilight was already oozing over the horizon. Disregarded by the general public, Witch business was still happening. In a shadowed and gloomy corner of the field far from others, the two young witches, both somewhere between sixteen and seventeen, stood attentively. Granny Weatherwax herself was Taking An Interest. Which they knew was no small thing. Next to her, the smaller wider figure of Nanny Ogg, reflectively pulling on her foul pipe, was slightly more reassuring. But only slightly.
Granny took her time in speaking. Both witches felt her eyes boring into them.
"I don't hold much with them things you was doin' in your piece just now." Granny said. "Showy, to my mind. Flashy. A broomstick's just a tool. You knows, for getting' between places promptly without needin' to walk. But what you two was doin'…"
Granny let her words tail off, ominously.
Nanny grinned.
"Come on, Esme." she said. "You got to admit, that thing they did with the smoke was clever. Beats me how they didn't set their brooms on fire!" (1)
Granny made a hmmph! noise. Trying to look impassive – they came from a faraway people who had turned poker-faced and impassive into a national trait - the two girls awaited their fate.
"I'll be honest with you." Granny Weatherwax said, dropping the thing with the broomsticks for now. "I'm not goin' to wrap it up in flannel and soft words nor put a pink ribbon on it or anythin'. You two ain't going to get Steadings in Lancre. You're both too forn to fit."
"Nothing personal, loves." Nanny Ogg said. "You're both bloody good Witches and I'm bettin' you both knows exactly how good you are. Wouldn't be Witches, else. Even before you came here you had all that trainin' from your local Witch. You got some more in Lancre. But the thing is…"
"We're too foreign for Lancre. Da. We worked that out." said the young witch who spoke the better Morporkian.
"And I'm just bettin' in the years to come we gets more girls from forn parts who've heard about Lancre. 'Specially since Miss Tick's out there findin' em. But you was pretty much the first. But…"
"I know." The spokeswitch said. "Local girls. Come first. We accept that. A girl from Lancre coming to our country would have difficulties fitting in. Langyuage, for one."
Nanny noted the hint of an exotic foreign language. She smiled sympathetically and went on.
"'sides, Lettice bloody Earwig don't like you. Too opinionated, she said. She don't want you in Lancre."
"But Annagryammya Hawkins, she is idiot." the second girl, with the sketchier grasp of Morporkian, said. "And her teacher, she is bigger idiot. Bol'shoya nevezhestvenniy duraka!"
Nanny shook her head. A hint of a smile came to the face of Granny Weatherwax.
"I hears you intends to go somewhere else?" Granny said.
"Da, Babiuschka Weatherwax." said the second girl, whose name was Irena. "We are to return to Rodinia."
Granny, who had needed to have it explained to her what a Babiuschka was, nodded, understanding.
"The Homeland." said the first girl, whose name was Olga. "But not to our Home. At present, not possible."
"Not with your father." the second agreed. Olga glared at her.
"Nyet. He would imprison me and have you whipped." Olga said. She turned to Granny and Nanny.
"We are going further." Olga said. "We have discussed this. Irena needs more training in riding a horse. She can ride a broomstick…"
"We know." Granny Weatherwax said, darkly. "We seen her ridin' a broomstick. You too."
"But she cannot ride a horse for long, although admittedly she no longer falls off the other side." Olga continued. "And I myself need advanced training in weap… in skills in which I am deficient. In return for their providing this tuition, we serve the people as ved'mya. As Witches. We hear our motherland needs Witches. We go to where we are needed. And this time we fly."
"Da. To steppe country of Cossack peoples. We wish to spend maybe year there. As Ved'mya." Irena confirmed.
This time Granny Weatherwax smiled. Not a wide smile and not for very long. But it was a smile. Not many people got one. Nanny Ogg hid her suspicion that Irena Politek's Morporkian was nowhere near as bad as she made out. She'd spent over a year in Lancre. And she'd been able to follow this conversation perfectly well. Nanny reflected that this was a bloody good understanding of Boffo: young Irena, a witch from exotic forn parts, with a heavy forn accent. People saw and heard that and reflected that if the witch was that forn, her witching would be better. Stood to reason. Everybody knew foreign parts had powerful magic.
"You'll come back, loves?" Nanny asked. "There's always a need for assistant witches. You knows, to help out. You'll never get a Steading here but you're allus welcome." Granny Weatherwax nodded her agreement. Just once, but that was as good as a great big hug. Maybe better.
Prologue, part two. Some years before the present, Near Überwald.
A young girl of maybe nine or ten was playing in a snowy garden. She felt at home in the snow. To describe her: she has the sort of lanky frame that promises to be tall and athletic. Her hair, where it can be seen under the winter hat, is a very pale blonde. Her features are well-shaped and defined and promise to be interesting, if not attractive. Her eyes are the sort of pale blue that goes well with ice and snow. She has a quiet, serious, demeanour and a certain intensity.
She is making a snowman. The disregarded spade stands vertically upright in the snow nearby. She took it from her home, das Herrenhaus, for the sake of appearances and to prevent awkward questions being asked. But she has no need of spade or shovel.
She focused, in the way that had suddenly arrived, nearly fully formed, in her mind and visualised a shape. She moved her hands, describing a shape and channelling the Force. The power moved and snow swirled. She frowned. What were the words again? Ah, ja…
She almost sang…
"Lass es wachsen…"
Let it grow, let it grow…
And the snowman took form. The girl frowned critically and then, manually, added the obligatory two pieces of coal and the carrot.
She watched the winter birds in the sky for a second or two. That was another yearning… and then the snowman moved. It took a shaky step, and then another. And then it said
"Danke. Thanks, Hanna, love."
Hanna von Strafenburg, only daughter of the local Graf, was a lonely girl constrained by social rank and What Was Necessary. Girls in these circumstances might create imaginary friends to compensate for the lack. Hanna had discovered early that in the winter months, she had no need. And winter in Near Überwald set in early and lasted for longer. (2)
And in Lancre, in the present where Elves are attacking.
Olga Romanoff led her strike force back to their base at Lancre Castle to land and recharge on magic. Her mind ran plans. She needed a standing patrol around the Dancers, just watching and observing for the expected major assault. There would be other people on the ground watching too, she knew. But any major assault by Elves might over-run them quickly. Air support would help them retreat and regroup, if necessary. Her fliers could run ground attacks to disrupt and blunt any attack. She smiled, grimly. The Air police had trained extensively in ground attack. Lord Vetinari had made it clear he preferred such training to take place well outside the City, but had asked, politely, about progress. Mr Vimes preferred not to know, but was well aware Olga and Irena took regular small parties of Air Witches out on long training runs as often, and as regularly, as they could. Hanna too, although she had not had the same active experience of these things, had a pleasing aptitude for the theory and performed extremely well in training.
Olga reflected on the fact only she and Irena had ever fired shots in anger, in a real battle. The Howondaland fighting. Irena had been fired on from the ground by a native Wizard; had the fireball been a few yards closer, it would have killed her and destroyed her Pegasus. As it was, a valuable mount had been slightly injured, the wing on one side scorched by fire, and had been out of action for a month to recover. Admittedly, the fighting impi to which that Wizard belonged had been utterly and conclusively destroyed in a pitched field battle a day or so later. Vetinari had made it clear the two events were directly causally linked, and governments around the Disc had taken notice. Nobody now tried to impede or injure a Pegasus. Nobody.
Olga herself had taken part in that battle, fighting from the air as she evacuated a messenger with an urgent request for help. She had flung down fireballs into the impi as it formed up to assault the defenders of the Tobacco Farm. Just to make the point. Attack a Pegasus, and you die. Apparently, jungle trees falling and blazing foliage dropping from above, as well as wooden shrapnel, had caused a lot of damage even before the enemy impi had charged. (3) And there were lots of trees in Lancre. Olga considered thousands of blazing pine needles, thrown with some force, hitting Elves. And smiled to herself.
Vetinari now absolutely forbade taking the rare and precious Pegasi into actual harm's way. Olga understood this. I left four girls behind at the Air Station to tend and look after them. If we are here for any length of time, I can look for whoever here has had enough of the fight and send them back for rest. Then bring a reserve of fresh pilots here from Ankh-Morpork.
There was a mood of elation among her pilots at the success of their first fight. Six Elves down, no casualties on our side. Olga frowned. She knew the battle, the big battle, was unlikely to be so one-sided. But how could she tell raw new pilots this?
Olga landed, and passed her personal broomstick to a ground Teknik for recharging. She saw no senior ranks, but realised among the pilots she'd left in reserve that there was a mood of despondency, even sadness. Backed with anger and rage.
"Report." she said, brusquely, to the most senior pilot she found.
It was bad news. The worst. The second patrol she had sent out, under Nottie Garlick, had also run into Elves. A second air fight had taken place. The patrol had returned, one pilot short.
"Where is Officer Garlick now, please?"
"She went to speak to her mother and to Mistress Ogg, ma'am. About what happened. To get search parties out on the ground looking for… well, whatever they can find."
Olga understood this. You did not leave anybody behind. Even if they were… and the icy realisation of being in command hit her. She ran the numbers again. After conferring with Tiffany Aching, she had sent a patrol out towards the Chalk. Their intention was to run a standing patrol in the vicinity of the Standing Stones there. Also, Tiffany had said she wanted to get home, to the Chalk, to grab some sleep. She had indicated she could do this on her own and had no need of an escort, but thank you for offering. Olga had considered this, waited for Tiffany's old and slow broomstick to get a reasonable distance out, and had briefed Irena and Hanna. They had selected their wingmates, and four big powerful Air Watch brooms were out there, possibly a thousand feet above Tiffany, watching over her and discreetly keeping her safe. With luck, Tiffany would not notice. They would then patrol the Chalk. Olga decided that if the attack took place in the Chalk, she would detach enough flyers to make a difference and vector them there.
Dividing my command already. The strategy books say that's a fatal error for a commander.
But first…
Nottie returned. She looked grave and sad.
"Who was it?" Olga asked, in a low voice. Although she'd counted faces and had a good idea.
"Sigrid." Nottie said. Olga clasped her hand. They remembered a friend together.
"How did it happen?" Olga asked. "No. Wait. Call everyone together. Briefing. Reports. Let's do this in the open."
It had been worse than that. Sigrid Helgasdottir, a Witch from a frozen cold island someway off the coast of Hubsvenska, Nothingfjord and the Skaggeraks, one who had in her time taken the long journey to Lancre to learn more about the Craft and who had joined the Air Watch afterwards, had been killed in action. No doubt. Her wingmates had seen it. They'd avenged her and taken down seven Elves, but the fact remained they'd lost a comrade.
She had got detached in the fight and lost contact with the others. Then she'd been mobbed by two or three Elves. She had got one with a fireball and was dealing with another, and a third had leapt off his yarrow stalk and onto her broomstick, behind her. He had grabbed hold of her long unbound hair, her blonde hair (it was odd, Olga reflected later, how small, strictly speaking, irrelevant, details like this got into reports), pulled hard to jerk her hair back, and…
"He threw her body off the broom. Just like that." Olga said.
Several pilots nodded. One, Marina Raskova, was weeping.
"We know where she fell." Nottie said. "I was asking Mum if people on the ground there can find her. Bring her body back."
"We're on it, mistress." said a ground-level voice. Olga looked down; Wee Mad Arthur, one of the Feegle who served with them. "The word is out. The clans know. They will find her, and bring her home."
"Thank you." Olga said.
The elf had then stood up on the staff of the captured broomstick, taunting them, waving the bloody knife and expressing his intent to parade the captured broom as a trophy.
"Smug little bastard." Nottie said, bitterly. "Then Marina got him. I had to hold the fireball. She got up close and personal."
"Quick death?" Olga asked. Nottie nodded.
"He's dead, Olga. But we're not Elves."
"Did you retrieve the broom?" Olga asked. Watch technomancy getting into enemy hands…
"No. After Marina had finished with the Elf, it was a bit bashed up and smouldering. We gave it a mercy fireball and it crashed somewhere in the forest out near Bad Ass. Hell of a bang."
Olga refocused. She reflected on how Sigrid had died. Then an icy cold realisation hit her. She'd gone into her own close attack on an Elf with her long unbound red hair streaming behind her. A lot of witches with long hair enjoyed the sensation of flying unbound with their hair streaming behind in the slipstream… ice filled her. That might have been me…
"All ranks. I repeat, all ranks. Will as of this moment bind, tie, or otherwise secure their hair. How you do it is up to you. But there is to be NO unsecured hair showing from underneath your headwear. That is an order!"
She nodded to Nottie.
"Get this message, somehow, to Irena and her command in the Chalk. Give her the story of what happened here. Thank you."
Olga beckoned Tatiana Grigorenko. Who also favoured long unbound hair. They sat together, plaiting and securing each other's hair. It wasn't the sort of job you could easily do on your own. Witches were pairing off. It was the sort of thing that bonded you.
After a while, Olga called for a vodka bottle to be brought up from Stores, with glasses. The Air Witches drank to the memory of one of their own, an absent friend.
Olga went briefly up and out to the battlements of Lancre Castle, oriented herself, and looked out towards Bad Ass. She felt a tear form, and allowed it. Then realised she wasn't alone: Tatiana, Marina and Nadezhda had joined her. She indicated her acceptance of it. Then Nadezhda took up the song, in slow tempo. It echoed over Lancre Town. People who heard it realised, without understanding the words, that it was a lament.
На горе стоял казак. Он Богу молился,
За свободу, за народ низко поклонился.
The song was an old one, that called for truth, justice, integrity of soul, a land where little birds could fly free and unafraid, and the vital need for the Rus people and specifically the Cossack nation to fight like Hell against anyone trying to take these things from you.
They felt better afterwards. Then went back inside.
"Right. Who's up for another flight?" Olga asked. "V'put. Let's go."
Lancre Town, a few years (less one) before we pick up from the end of last chapter.
"So you're back, then." Nanny Ogg said. She leant on the white-painted gate of her cottage and assessed the two travellers, who had returned, by horse this time, broomsticks strapped to the side of their saddles for quick use if needed. The strange foreign clothing had attracted attention: britches, high leather knee-boots, flowing baggy comfortable tunics, big comfortable black coats. It was exotic and outlandish for visitors to Lancre.
Nanny indicated the horses. Not big animals, but sturdy, barrel-chested, somewhat shaggy, and with the look of horses that could go all day if they had to.
"Not broomsticks, then?"
"Nyet, Nanny." Olga said. "Irena still needed the practice."
The travellers had somehow grown and matured in a year and a bit away. Practicing witchcraft did that for a girl.
"Well, come on in, the both of you. I'll get the kettle on."
"We brought you a samovar, Nanny."
"What the heck's one of those?"
"You make tea in it."
Nanny grinned.
"Won't say "welcome home", as this ain't your home. But welcome back, anyhow."
Later on, Granny Weatherwax looked sourly disapproving.
"Well, at least them furry hats is black. But the rest of it…"
Olga and Irena knew about Granny's attitude to witches in trousers. They kept respectfully silent as Nanny Ogg pointed out that they rides horses, Esme. Cossacks is famous for it. Them clothes is right for horses. Cossack women in skirts riding sidesaddle wouldn't fit the image.
Granny grunted. Then pointed out the other thing.
"Swords? What sort of a Witch wears a sword?" she demanded.
"Sabre, Esme. There's probably a word for it, in their sort of foreign." Nanny said.
"Shashka." Irena said, helpfully. Olga considered the question Granny had posed.
"What sort of witch wears a shashka?" she repeated, rhetorically. Then answered it, with force, and strength, and conviction. "A Cossack witch."
"Forn customs, Esme." Nanny said. "Different ways."
Granny looked hard at Olga for a few long silent seconds. Olga held her glare. Then Granny Weatherwax nodded. Olga, her point made, gratefully looked away and blinked first.
"Cossack witches." Granny repeated. "With swords. Well, it takes all sorts."
A week or two later. Commander Sir Samuel Vimes and his wife Lady Sybil Ramkin passed through Lancre. Through Granny and Nanny, they met Olga and Irena. Sam Vimes made them a job offer. They accepted it. (4)
The Chalk, at The Stones.
The prototype MIG-21 broomstick was designed for combat and high-speed aerobatics, not for routine patrolling. Hanna von Strafenburg was beginning to realise this as she settled into the routine of patrolling around, but very expressly not across, the age-old stones of the Chalk.
Hanna set about the vital but boring patrol flight with diligence and a sense of duty, remembering to watch the skies above and behind her for hostiles, all the time sensing that the MIG-21 was bridling, like a thoroughbred racehorse forced to pull a muck-cart. She set her shoulders and reminded herself of the dictum that had been drummed into her from earliest childhood. Befehl ist Befehl. Life is duty. Alles in Ordnung. Order is all.
Her mother had died young. Hanna recalled the funeral, people with un-naturally stony and unemotive faces. Even and especially her father, who as well as being Graf was an Army general. Showing emotion in public, especially at a funeral, was frowned upon if you belonged to the Junker class.
Hanna recalled trips into the town and country. It all belonged to Father. Everywhere she went, peasants, the Landser, took off their hats and tugged their forelocks. Hanna thought this was all a bit demeaning. But Father said "Landser. Salt of the earth. Fine people. But still below us. They must remember their place. We are Junkers."
Father remarried. Hanna reflected that in defiance of the way the story should go, her stepmother had actually been quite nice, or had tried to be in a chilly Junker sort of way, genuinely trying to at least get the acceptance of her new stepdaughter. Hanna had been willing enough to give it, but was crippled by not knowing how.
Memories formed. Hanna kept her mind on the tedious monotony of the Duty, but her mind could not help but project memories. Whatever the Elf-woman had done to her head, the one Tiffany had said was at the moment some sort of conditional ally, seemed to have sparked all this off. The memories cascaded…
Father, on a home leave, with close comrades. Talking about how the town butcher had taken at least six strikes with his hammer to fell a stubborn bull.
"Damn creature must have been an Ivan. You can fill those brutes full of crossbow bolts and they're too stupid to fall over. Untermensch. Animals."
"That bull was probably still three times more intelligent than an Ivan, though."
Things like this stick in the mind of an impressionable young girl.
Hanna was beginning to wonder if a Junker was shorthand for "constipated oaf with an unjustified sense of their own exalted status, just because they can out a "von" in front of their family name."
As she could put a "von" in front of her own family name, this rebellious thought worried her.
And the magic was still growing in her. Her father thought this was a peasant-woman thing, beneath contempt. She had managed so far to keep it secret from him.
Hanna, in the present scanned the sky again. She took note of Emily Maitland, who was patrolling half a circle away from her, on the other side of the Stones. Something was growing in there, in the zone they had been ordered not to enter. She could feel it…
The young Hanna got a new governess. Education for one of her social status did not involve school attendance. Education came to her, one to one. Her new tutor was diligent enough in the things a minor noblewoman should learn. Morporkian because it was essential. Formal Quirmian because, well, the noble classes spoke Quirmian. Überwaldean was necessary for giving orders to the Landser. Among ourselves, with our own kind, of whatever nationality, we speak Quirmian. And things like classical Latatian. Also the social skills for a noblewoman: how to embroider, how to prepare light social snacks and drinks.
But Hanna's tutor had been to the Quirm Academy for Young Ladies and had some progressive ideas concerning the shape of a girl's education.(5) These had included basic chemistry, or at least the theory. When Father wasn't around, she moved the curriculum to this sort of area.
"Prussic Acid?" Hanna had said, puzzled. "We live in Prussica. Was it invented here?"
Her tutor had smiled, wryly.
"No. This is a dangerous acid which doesn't burn as savagely or as intensely as, say, nitric or sulphuric. However, it poisons people in a horrible suffocating strangling sort of way. The Quirmian chemist who discovered it chose to name it after our own dear Prussican region of Überwald. I understand he was making a point here."
Hanna had felt secure in asking her tutor about the magic. The tutor had gone silent for a worryingly long time.
"Yes. I believe I know people who know people. We who went to Quirm have, shall we say, a network. Ladies Who Organise. I will ask. Miss Perspicasia Tick is an alumna of our school, and she understands more than I do concerning young Witches. This may take a little time."
In the present, Hanna von Strafenburg made herself focus on her current mission. Again. She felt her broom buck impatiently.(6)
But I made it to Lancre eventually. Circumstance, and Miss Tick, helped.
And out in Lancre, near Bad Ass, an encounter of a different sort was happening.
MISS SIGRID HELGASDOTTIR, FORMER WITCH?
The shade of Sigrid Helgasdottir turned from the wreck of her earthly body. She had a recollection of the exultation of downing an Elf and then of a few moments of sickening terror and pain, and the foul feral smell of the thing. She'd also somehow heard a distant song, in Far Überwaldean. People were lamenting her. She looked Death full in the skull.
"Oh, it's you." she said. "You took your time, didn't you?"
Sigrid indicated the blue cord.
"Come on. Get cracking." she said, impatiently.
I APOLOGISE. IN THE CIRCUMSTANCES, I NEEDED TO CONTACT A PROFESSIONAL COLLEAGUE WHO HAS AN INTEREST HERE.
Sigrid folded her spectral arms, and realised Death wasn't alone. The man – entity – with him was big and bluff and hearty. He had red hair with a matching beard and moustache and sideburns. Sigrid also took in the uniform, a sort of slate bluey-grey. Definitely military, definitely higher rank, with silver braiding and rank badges on the cuffs and epaulettes that went a long way up the arm and seemed to consist of wide silver-grey rings.
"Hello, m'dear." War said. "Got to say I'm enormously impressed with you."
"So you're War." Sigrid said. "You know, in my country War is an old-time warrior on skis with only one hand? Says that doesn't matter, as he can still swing a sword?"
"Oh, Tyr." War said. "Well, I could if you insist, but you died fighting in the air. That's a new thing on the Disc. You're the first, d'you see? Had to be here to meet you."
AND, ALAS, NOT THE LAST.
"Indeed, Mort."War turned back to Sigrid. "I like to tailor my service to the person, to make it bespoke, d'y'see. The thing is, the idea of an Air Force is still evolving on this world. It doesn't have a specific uniform, as such. So I had to borrow the look from a nearby universe. Air Chief Marshal of the Royal Air Force. That's had a good eighty years to build a reputation, and m' professional peer on that world, well, she recommended I adapt the uniform. What d'you think?"
"Lots of silver braid." Sigrid said. "Very impressive. Look, I'm kind of ready to go, if you don't mind?" She paused, and added, with satisfcation "At least I took one of them with me."
Death looked at her.
ACTUALLY, YOU TOOK NINE.
Sigrid blinked. She asked how, exactly? And - are you sure?
I AM EXPECTED TO KEEP A CAREFUL COUNT, YOU KNOW. YOUR TALLY IS NINE ELVES. YOUR BROOMSTICK WAS FATALLY HIT IN THE ENGAGEMENT. YOU WERE PROBABLY NOT AWARE OF IT, BUT AFTER YOU WERE KILLED IT SPIRALLED DOWN TO EARTH WHERE THE CHARGED MAGICAL FIELD EXPLODED IN A DISPLAY OF UNCONTROLLABLE EXOTHAUMIC ENERGY. THE ELVES IT LANDED ON WERE VERY BRIEFLY SURPRISED. EIGHT OF THEM, TO BE PRECISE.
sigrid took this in and grinned. In the distance, she heard a "Ho-yo-Hey-to", getting nearer.
"You're from a small country that was colonised by adventurers from places like Nothingfjord." War explained. "You have barbarian heroine in your ancestry. You died fighting with your right hand on the hilt of a weapon. You tick all the boxes."
The Valkyrie landed.
"One for Valhalla, sir?" she said. War nodded. Death's scythe flashed.
The spirit of Sigrid Helgasdottir brightened up. She nodded to War and Death, and vaulted into the saddle of the Valkyrie's horse, pushing her out of the way.
"Shift over. I'm driving. You're the pillion." she said. "Hey, I always wanted to fly one of these!"
The Valkyrie made an outraged face to War and Death.
"Sir, is she allowed to do this?"
War looked sternly at her.
"Well. She is now. Just give her directions. Roll with it."
And Sigrid Helgasdottir, from a small cold Island in a Hubwards ocean, went, singing, to her Afterlife.
The war continued in the world she had left.
Olga Romanoff left precise standing orders to her fliers, dictating who was going to relieve the standing patrol over – around – the Dancers in two hours. New reports came in of sporadic encounters with the elves. Olga stood down those of her fliers who were not due to go on patrols, and insisted they slept, as she was going to do. Ans that she wanted people who were refreshed and awake in the morning, if not earlier.
Nottie Garlick apologetically said – and saluted! - that she had sent a Clacks message to the Chalk, care of Tiffany Aching, knowing Miss Aching will pass it on to Sergeant Politek as soon as she can. Communicating your orders, ma'am, concerning hair. And also that Sigrid – Nottie hesitated – is missing in action. Sergeant Politek is to contact you, personally, soonest, for updates.
"Horoscho." Olga said, approving of Nottie's actions, but noting that ma'amdom had been conferred on her, along with salutes – the Air Watch hardly bothered with them, usually - and that things were all of a sudden getting uncomfortably military around here.
Then she wrapped herself in blankets and sought sleep. Her last memory was of the white cat that had suddenly got into the room. She wondered if others were seeing it too. It stared at Olga with uncomfortably human intelligence.
You are going to lose people. This is inevitable. Listen to me, Olga. Do the job that is in front of you, and do it well. The alternative is worse.
Olga thought the words had come from inside her own head. It couldn't have been the cat. Couldn't possibly. Sleep came surprisingly easily. Olga decided not to argue with this and sank into oblivion. Until she was shaken awake, an unguessable time later…
More will follow…. Including air combat, owing something to Derek Robinson and WE Johns.
(1) In one of the Tiffany Aching books, the one with the Hiver, there is mention of aviation-minded Witches putting on an Air Display on broomsticks, stunt-flying and trailing multicoloured smoke in the manner of the Red Arrows. Apart from hinting these witches were from the same training coven as Tiffany, nobody is named. It would be fitting if this were to be two eoptic foreign witches from Far Überwald…
(2) Although it's tempting, I'll try to keep the Frozen gags to a bare minimum. Hanna did get on well with Ilsa, daughter of the estate farrier, who had a sort of brown-red hair and what Hanna thought of as an irritatingly perky and up-beat personality. But she won't be mentioned in this tale. Hanna and her Snowman might feature in a Frozen parody, though… I've had to sit through that bloody thing with nieces who think it's the Greatest Film Ever and Disney deserves a kicking for this. And another for the sequel.
(3) Again, my tale Bungle in the Jungle.
(4) Now go to the tale When André Got His Badge Back.
(5) Father had flatly refused to send her to this wonderful place, where girls lived and worked together. Apparently Hanna would be mixing with the wrong social classes. Gods know, the Quirm Academy even took in Ivankas these days. Hanna had pleaded, seeing this as a way out of crippling social isolation. But there had been no moving Father.
(6) The MIG-21 was a prototype broomstick. Only one, so far, had been made and Hanna was riding it. It was in many ways a new and untried device. But Hanna had test-flown it and knew what she could make it do. What made it unique was that effectively it was not so much a broomstick as a flying crossbow with a seat on it. It also had a staff that bifurcated. This made the rear end look strange, with two parallel sets of bristles giving it twice the usual sort of power and thrust. What made it controversial is that the hollow staff contained something that was, as Sam Vimes had observed, dangerously near to a one-shotte crossbow. Only scaled up and capable of repeating fire. The body contained an immensely powerful spring, a repeating mechanism, and twenty-five heavy-duty bolts. Hanna had fired it, clandestinely, on a makeshift range out in the hills near Chirm. She had learnt to compensate for the recoil that almost stopped her dead in the air. Sam Vimes had said to Olga Romanoff – "I'll pretend you don't have that thing in the hangar, so long as you only use it in earnest if there is absolutely no alternative.And definitely not for normal police work. Are we understood, Olga?" For the look of the thing, the design now incorporated two residual stubby limbs and risers, which doubled as stabilising fins in all-out flight.