The Price of Flight – part six
Meanwhile, over the Chalk…
V0.2. Slight revisions. As with everything, it has room for revision. Watch this space. Bit quick and very first draft – but keeping the momentum. Revision will follow!
We're back… following on from the end of the prior chapter, with more backstory. Irena's war, this time. The war in Lancre after the passing of Granny Weatherwax is set possibly nine years before the Air Watch we see in chapters one and two - backstory to the proud history of what will become the 588 Girls. ( I can see how they get the number... it has significance in our world too...)
Prologue: a week or two earlier, in Ankh-Morpork.
Irena Politek was appreciating a night off-duty, with no Pegasus runs, no Watch duties, and no need to cover in the Watch Steading, something she and Olga had agreed was vitally necessary. Doing the normal, unglamorous, everyday work as a witch grounded them, even if it was only for one or two sessions a week. "Never forget we are witches." Olga had said. Irena agreed with her. Even though, as the Air Watch grew, there were more witches to share the Duty with. The Air Police had a rota for this and a Steading surgery in a lower room at the Yard, where any member of the wider City Watch family could consult a Duty Witch. You know, for the usual sorts of things. (1)
Tonight was different. Dinner with an old friend and time spent, precious time, as part of a family. Irena appreciated this. She spent time with her Godsdaughter until it was time for the little girl, and her rather lively younger sister, to be put to bed. Then she accepted a vodka refill from the attentive butler. The adults appreciated the child-free silence and the space to talk about things best not raised in front of the children. Irena nodded to the door, and the receding sound of nanny and children.
"You're going to have your work cut out with that little one." she observed. The little one's mother nodded, wearily.
"Ja. But you are not her Godsmother." the mother replied. "You get the bigger one."
Irena smiled, contentedly.
"She's going to be one of us, Johanna." she remarked, in a "resistance-is-futile" tone of voice. "Every time I see her. It's there and it's getting stronger. Witch."
Johanna Smith-Rhodes winced and changed the subject.
"Lencre." she said, after a while. It wasn't just a question.
"Da. Lancre." Irena replied. There was a reflective silence. Irena contemplated her vodka, then touched the hilt of her sword. The pommel terminated in a large stylised eagle's head. Johanna's younger daughter had been fascinated by it and had kept reaching for it, even trying to draw it from the scabbard. For a girl not even three, this had been incongruous.(2)
"It is dangerous, Johanna. Granny Weatherwax is gone, may her soul have mercy on the Gods. Also, we hear, and this is pravda, that the Queen of the Elves is dethroned."
Irena part-drew her sword and touched the blade. She thoughtfully ran the ball of her thumb against the edge.
"So the woman who was greatest of witches is gone from Lancre. Not all Witches accept Tiffany Aching is her chosen heir. At the same time there is a new lord in the fairy realm. Who hates us. We have instability."
"Dangerous." Johanna agreed. She came from a border country that often became unstable. When armies crossed in either direction it got very unstable. "Do you believe they will invade?"
"Da." Irena said, unhesitatingly. "And in force."
"End you are going there. When they do. To fight."
Irena nodded. Johanna recognised quiet determination.
"Da. Olga and I are making plans. We do not know how long the war will last. We have discussed this with Queen Magrat. She has made space in the Castle for a forward and secure Air Station. I'm sure the Dark Council has noticed we have been sending stores and supplies to Lancre."
"It hes been noted, ja. So the whole of the Air Watch?"
"Will be taking a grandmother's funeral." Irena agreed.
Irena sipped the vodka thoughtfully.
"We know, and this we nearly disbelieved as rumour, that the ex-Queen was cast into our world. Tiffany Aching has given her sanctuary and asylum. This sounds amazing, but is pravda. Truth. Mistress Weatherwax once said el… they… are too stupid to learn. Mistress Aching, I wonder, is thinking differently, trying to teach an Elf. Who may return as Queen of her people, but with different ideas. Meanwhile the lord who deposed her has an incentive to invade. One who could still return and take vengeance on him when her strength returns is in Lancre, for one thing. Also, his hatred for humans. There is going to be a war."
Johanna considered this. She decided to be equally frank. Although the news the ex-Queen had been given what amounted to political asylum in Lancre was new to her. It would be new to the Dark Council too.
"So. You are going to fight."
"Da. Have you noticed Witches from Ankh-Morpork and the Shires and the Sto Plains have been making their way to Lancre in recent weeks? We all trained there. We all have a regard for the place. We all despise El… them. We will fight."
"Wish I could go." Johanna said, ruefully. Irena smiled tolerantly.
"Knowing we would fight side by side again would be heartening. But you are a mother now. You have other considerations."
"Not only thet." Johanna said. "Vetinari."
She explained that the Assassins' Guild had been flatly and absolutely forbidden to send anyone to Lancre if hostilities broke out. No paid contracts, no pro bono, no freelancing. Vetinari had made it abundantly clear. Vetinari, she said, thought that if he sent overt military help to Lancre, or even covert Assassin help, it could offend Witches, who might interpret this as the Patrician considering that they couldn't sort out their own affairs without outside help. That he didn't think they were up to it.
"However. Lancre-trained witches. In the service of Ankh-Morpork. Given indefinite leave from our duties here." Irena remarked.
Johanna nodded. "Squares the circle." she remarked.
"Incidentally. Do you not have a man in Lancre? Is he forbidden from fighting too?" asked Irena.
Johanna grinned. "Ag. He's over sixty. Roger Forbishley, however, is a local Lencre man. If he wants to fight in defence of his country, insofar es he can, thet's eccepted. But he'll be the only one of us in this war."
The two smiled, old friends. It came as a surprise to the older men who had power in Ankh-Morpork, locked in old rivalries and power struggles and alpha-male battling between their Guilds and factions, that younger women who were rising in prominence had different ideas and readily co-operated. People like Johanna Smith-Rhodes, Angua von Überwald, Steffi Gibbet and Irena Politek didn't give a stuff that they belonged to the Assassins' Guild, the City Watch, the Thieves' Guild or the Air Watch. They all went to the same hairdresser, for one thing(3). And, crucially, when you've covered each other's backs in some vicious fights, that sort of thing engendered trust. Johanna and Irena had been together in the desperate fighting at the Tobacco Farm. Irena was Godsmother to Johanna's oldest daughter.
"Weapons." Johanna said, practically. "I know you use megic. I've seen you use megic. End some of those combet broomsticks you people are building. Ag, man. But I'm betting thet combet fighting means you hev to mix it up end close. Even in the air."
She nodded to Irena's Cossack sabre. And the matching kindjal battle-knife.
"You've got your own. Olga's got her Cossack weapons too. You earned them. But most of your girls get the crep from the Wetch armoury. You need close in-weapons. For when the other fellow gets so close thet you cennot use megic eny more."
Irena nodded.
"That thought occurs to me, too." she said, seriously. "Old rusty blunt swords and those crossbows you suspect are one shot away from firing backwards. Dead weight, in the air. And cumbersome. We leave them on the ground."
Johanna indicated her weapons walls. They were extensive.
"Pistol crossbows." she said. "Small. Light. Compact. Hitting power. Swiftly recocked end reloaded. I regret I only have four. But with sufficient reloads."
"We have twenty-eight witches." Irena said.
Johanna nodded.
"Essessins cennot go to this fight." she said. "However, our weapons can."
Johanna called for one of the house goblins. She dictated a clacks. She then sent one of her maids to run messages to Emmanuelle and Davinia who were her immediate neighbours, and to the young Assassins who rented a shared house at Number Four, down the street.
After a while, Irena had sufficent pistol crossbows, ammunition and holsters. Together with short swords and daggers for close-in fighting.
"What if any get lost or damaged?" she asked, practically. Miss Alice Band, who had replied to the call, patted her on the shoulder.
"Well. If you lose the crossbow, I'm just betting you'll have lost the pilot, too." she said, practically. Irena winced. "if that happens, giving you a bill for a replacement might be ungrateful. As well as insensitive."
"You are a sergeant, chere amie." Emmanuelle Lapoignard remarked. "Sergeants are expected to be providers for their troops, who go outside the usual channels of supply to provide. You have provided. You are worthy of those three stripes."
"We'll cover the loss for any you can't bring back. Just. You know. Bring yourself back. Bekki needs her other Godsmother."
Alice Band nodded at Johanna and smiled, pleasantly.
"You know. The witchy one."
The Chalk, in the present moment.
Sergeant Irena Politek tried not to seem impatient and frustrated. Mr Joe Aching, recognising the importance of the Clacks messages, had brought the first ones over himself rather than wake his daughter. He had frowned at the fact the Air Witches had set up a makeshift base in an old barn.
"Mrs Aching wouldn't like it either, ma'am." He had said. "Why not set up at Home Farm? We can at least see you get fed."
Irena had objected that it might make him a target for Elf attacks. He had smiled, wryly.
"And my Tiffany isn't? Besides, you're nearer the Clacks tower there."
The detachment had moved base. Further clacks messages went back and forth, couriered by Clacks goblins. The girls had made themselves comfortable. Irena had tried to keep them occupied as the news of the fighting in Lancre and the two deaths in combat had come in. mourning and grief had happened, but flying was still going on.
Morning had come, and no Elves. Irena reckoned the odds. She and her three fliers, all Olga had been able to spare, were a tripwire, there to slow and impede any elf attack and to get news out. She just wished they'd attack, so her small command could do something.
And, in the morning, there was…
….a hopeful Dwarf with a covered large square-shaped something on a barrow.
"Alsjeblieft, meisje." The Dwarf said, uncertainly. "Errr… apologies, miss. A moment of your time?"
Irena frowned. The language sounded vaguely familiar, but the accent wasn't what she'd have expected from somebody who spoke like that. She wondered which human ethnicity he had lived amongst.
"Yes, what is it?" she said, trying not to be too curt.
"Errr… you're the ladies who fly? The air witches?" he asked. Irena nodded.
The Dwarf smiled.
"I, well, broomsticks interest me. Watching them. Working hard what makes them go. I heard you are always interested in new ideas. I designed and built one. What do you think?"
"Okay…" Irena said, interested despite herself.
The Dwarf beamed and uncovered his wagon. Irena blinked.
It looked like three broomsticks. Three staffs, anyway. But held together with lateral struts. And all feeding into the same, extra-wide, single bundle of bristles.
"The pilot sits on the middle staff, ma'am." the Dwarf said, earnestly. "And it looks different. But I was thinking. Staff generates and shapes and condenses the magic. The bristles direct the thrust. And I heard you had one with one staff and two sets of bristles. I thought – why not three staffs? Three times the magical capacity?"
"Da, but not much more thrust and speed. Therefore, endurance." Irena observed. She added "Looks bloody dangerous. Not been test-flown yet?"
"No, ma'am. That's what the local witches said, ma'am. About it being bloody dangerous. So I thought. Them Air Watch witches from Ankh-Morpork. I knew you was here."
"It's dangerous. It needs a test-flight." Irena contemplated the New Broom.
"HANNA! Come over here a minute, would you?" Irena thought, and added "Bring a parachute."
The new model broom wasn't especially fast. But Hanna von Strafenburg reported that it was powerful, it was stable, you could turn it on an elim, and it was amazingly manoeuvrable. "I recommend we accept it for further test flights."
Irena nodded to the Dwarf.
"Any good at technomancy?" she demanded. "I need a Teknik."
The Dwarf beamed.
"Oh. And what's your name?"
"Anton van Fokker, ma'am." The Dwarf said, with an expression that was daring her to smile. "from the van Fokker clan of Sto Kerrig."
"From a long line of Fokkers." Irena mused. Some lines are not to be resisted.
She nodded to the Fokker Tribroom. Strange, unique – and serviceable.
"I'll introduce you to Olga – Lieutenant Romanoff." she said. "Just be our Teknik and you've got a job. Accepted?"
Later on in the morning, Irena got her next operational headache.
The two young witches had been hovering for some time, clearly nervous to approach but reluctant to go away. Irena observed them: fifteen or sixteen, in painfully new pointy hats and each with a broomstick. Hmmm.
Eventually she walked over and made a perfunctory Witch bow.
"Yes?" she invited them. The two girls looked painfully nervous. They Witch-bowed back. Irena looked out of the corner of her eye at something; she half-glimpses somebody of about Tiffany Aching's height and build, who seemed to be inobtrusively observing. Irena reflected that if somebody like Tiffany wanted to be unseen, Irena wouldn't even have caught a passing glimpse. Therefore, Tiffany wanted to be seen. Irena held that thought.
She stood back, and looked at the girls.
"Well?" she asked.
The older of the two girls swallowed, nervously.
"Please, ma'am, we want to fly with you…" she said, in a tiny voice.
Irena scowled slightly.
"First thing. It isn't "ma'am", it's sergeant. Three stripes. Count them. And secondly. You do not sound sure. You also said "please."
Irena frowned.
"You say you want to be Air Witches. Well. I want the sort of girl who is sure of what she wants. And I want the sort of girl who knows she wants to be an Air Witch. Therefore she does not say "please" as if she is begging a favour. She says "I CAN FLY. I WANT TO BE AN AIR WITCH!" And she says it as if she means it. Now. Again!"
The girl swallowed.
"I CAN FLY. I WANT TO BE AN AIR WITCH!"
The voice was high-pitched and a little shrill, but Irena looked behind it into the girl's eyes and registered the want and the need and the desire. She thought it was like looking into a mirror. She smiled.
"Good, but you missed out one thing." Irena observed.
"what was that, ma'a…. Sergeant?"
Irena stepped forwards and eyeballed the girl.
"You just got it. The Sergeant part."
Irena noted the MiG-21 was sitting in neutral outside the barn. She looked at the two girls whose eyes radiated covetuous desire. She smiled. Hunger to fly. Useful.
"Lance-corporal von Strafenburg!" she shouted.
Hanna, who had realised the game that was being played, did her best parade march, then stamped to attention.
"What does the flight-commander desire?" she asked.
"Lance-corporal, we have two fledglings. You are to take them up for a flight – on a standard model broom, in your case – and we will assess what they are good at."
She nodded to the two girls.
"Your flight assessment begins now." she said. "You have brooms. Fly them." She nodded, and shouted: "Bystro! Bystro! pereyekhat'!"
The potential recruits looked at each other. The tall blonde corporal glared at them.
"You will discover that means to go fast and at the double." she said. "When Sergeant Politek shouts "Bystro!", you move. And if I shout "Schnell!", you move faster. IN THE AIR! SCHNELL!"
The Patrican's Palace, Ankh-Morpork. Some weeks earlier.
Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers. He regarded Commander Vimes and Lord Downey.
"Do you know, My Lord." he said to Downey, in a pleasant voice, "I'm almost certain I gave strict instructions that the Guild of Assassins should not, under any circumstances, become directly involved in the current instability in Lancre."
"We are adhering strictly to the letter of your memo, My Lord." Downey replied, smoothly. Vetinari raised an eyebrow.
"Indeed. My information is that Doctor Smith-Rhodes is, at this very moment, leading her regular class in the practical use of the pistol crossbow. I understand she has marksman status in this weapon and under her instruction, poor shots become indifferent, indifferent shots become good and good shots become outstanding. Her class of student Assassins is at this very moment augmented with a detachment of Air Policewomen, I see."
Vimes grinned at Downey's discomfort, then sat up. Wait a minute…. He was sure he hadn't sanctioned this.
"And Madame Comptesse de Lapoignard is teaching a theory class in Bladed Weapons. I understand she has asked for a consignment of weapons normally considered too dangerous to be put on public display in the Dark Museum, and her class are being familiarised with them. Her class, on this occasion, also includes a rather mature component of Air Policewomen, I am given to understand."
Downey and Vimes winced together. The Patrician smiled what might have been an understanding smile.
"So long as there is no direct Assassin participation in any fighting." he said. "I consider it very public-spirited that you are opening your classes to interested members of the public, Lord Downey. And commendable, Vimes, that you are open-minded enough to allow your personnel to receive a degree of possibly life-saving tuition from the Guild of Assassins. Commendable."
Downey and Vimes shared a look. For once, they shared a sentiment almost exactly.
You get people like Johanna Smith-Rhodes and Emmanuelle les Deux-Epées. I've got Olga Romanoff and Irena Politek. Amazing how they can side-step us, isn't it? In ways which are not quite insubordinate, or which involve a flagrant breach of orders. If you still drank, Commander Vimes, I would offer you a great big drink. And I'm sure if I smoked, you would offer me a cigar.
Matilda Glossop, aged fifteen, shook all over as she got off her stick. She'd heaved up twice while she was in the air. She flushed with the shame of it. The Air Watch wouldn't want her, now she'd disgraced herself, she was sure. And from the stiff-legged way Bethany Hargreaves was walking, she must have wet herself…
The blonde Corporal had been ruthless. Her terse orders had been to follow my moves. Do as I do. Do not fail. I am observing. The Sergeant is watching from the ground. You are being assessed. There is no room for failure. You may find there is no reward for failure but death. Watch me, keep in the glidepath, some of the manoeuvres may make you faint, do not allow yourselves to be lost. (4)
She had then led them through some hair-raising and frankly impossible-looking twists, turns and stunts. Matilda had faithfully tried to follow, and had been thankful she had been hanging upside-down in a corkscrew manoeuvre when her abused stomach had given in. It had been both exhilarating and excruciatingly unspeakable at the same time. And now they were conferring. The frightening icy-cold corporal and the more dapper, shorter woman sergeant with the slightly exotic foreign look. The one who, inexplicably, wore ribbons in her single long, impeccably braided, ponytail. Pink ribbons.
And now the sergeant was walking over in an intense, unhurried, way. The girls waited, miserably, for the inevitable "you are wasting our time here. Whatever made you think you had what it takes? Go."
But the sergeant looked them over, a half-smile on her intelligent and somewhat unconventionally attractive face. Mathilda noted the high cheekbones and the slightly slanted eyes, suggesting something Agatean in her ancestry.
"You threw up." she said, frankly. Matilda nodded, miserably.
"And you wet yourself." Bethany nodded, even more miserably.
"But you kept up. You followed Hanna's lead. You only failed because those bloody broomsticks let you down. Not up to the job. The broomsticks failed. The pilots did not."
The sergeant laughed.
"Are you ashamed for vomiting and wetting yourselves? Govno! I've seen worse. And when I did some of those spins and turns for the first time, people on the ground wondered why it was raining puke!"
Irena paused, adding after reflection
"And, very nearly, real govno."
"They are fit, Sergeant." the blonde sergeant said. "We can make pilots out of them."
Irena Politek nodded. She extended a hand.
"Welcome to the Air Force." she said. Then she frowned.
"They fly like cows, mind you."
Hanna noted the shocked looks.
"Those broomsticks fly like cows. Not you." she clarified.
"Da. Yaks." Irena agreed.
A Yak was Air Witch slang for the standard everyday witch's broomstick. Slow, old, bovine and cumbersome.
Irena turned to the new Teknik.
"Mr van Fokker? While our new fledglings are cleaning themselves up, can you do anything with their brooms? Tune them up a bit?" she asked.
The Teknik saluted and smiled happily.
"Clean up, get the worst of it out of those clothes, ideally find britches or trousers to wear, and when time allows I'll get you sworn in."
Two or three hours later, their air war began. Irena led six, not four, pilots into battle.
Matilda Glossop would remember it for the rest of her life. Sergeant Politek had gone to talk to Mr Aching, the farmer, and Mr Aching had shown her a large pile of the usual sort of farm waste he intended to make a bonfire of. They had come to an agreement, she remembered.
"Bonfire. "Sergeant Irena had said, laconically. "What's missing?"
"Err… it's not on fire?" Bethany had replied. Sergeant Irena had nodded.
"Well done. Well observed. Now. Light it."
Bethany and Mathilda had looked at each other.
"Your best fireballs, ladies! In your own time, but this side of tomorrow would be nice!"
Fireballs had followed. Sergeant Irena had expressed dismay at the slow, small and lukewarm quality of them and had demanded better. And had then shown what was expected in terms of quality and firepower. It had been an education. The girls blinked away the afterimages.
It had been Irena's luck that when the scramble came, she had been up for a spin on the Tribroom. You know. Just out of curiosity. To see how it handled. She had seen the red rockets going up in the near distance. The distress flares every Clacks tower had for tricky moments like this. She also knew there'd be an automated emergency message going out along the Trunk with details of location, personnel involved and approximate nature of the emergency. She looked down and frantically signalled for Hanna and the two new girls to get airborne. She circled and carried on frantically signalling. She fervently hoped the recruits would get through it alive. She'd given them – she winced – one hour of flying time and an hour and a half of theory. Not nearly enough.
Then her standing patrol came racing back, from the turnwise. They were being pursued. Irena counted the dots in the sky: twelve hostiles. She saw Darleen O'Halloran turn in her place and shoot a fireball.
Okay. Eleven now. But for now just the three of us. And I'm on an untried combat broom. I don't even know if it's good for combat.
"Report!" she shouted, as Darleen drew level.
"Irena, what sort of a bastard is THAT bastard?"
"New broom. Hope it sweeps clean."
Darleen shrugged. They shouted a conversation from five yards away, brooms hovering in place
"Bastards are attacking the Clacks tower." she said, laconically. "Came out of the Stones. We got a few fireballs in among the bastards. Since there's a lot of the bastards, we got out faster than macarena nuts through a dingo with Djelibeybi Fever. Few less of them now!"
"Okay. How many?"
"Reckon fifty of the drongo bastards in the air. Hundred or so on the ground."
"Okay. Listen. Six of us now. But two are new girls. Keep them close and out of trouble, if you can."
Darleen nodded. She saw the other Witches getting airborne. Felt and sensed the roar of the Mig-21 taking off. It was not a stealth broom by any means.
"Ah-huh. Wipe noses and arses. I know the drill."
"Good. Let's kill some Elves."
Three broomsticks formed a rough line in the air. And charged. Irena steered mr van Fokker's Tribroom, still getting to know her new mount. It wasn't the fastest. But it could manoeuvre. That suited her right now.
Three against twelve pays off. Twelve get in each other's way. Three can manoeuvre. Irena sensed two Elves converging on her. She waited for just the right moment, knowing this had to be right. No second chance. Then she made an abrupt vertical climbing turn, surprising herself with how quick and clean and suddenly fast it was, with less than half the usual turning circle.
She saw the two Elves, racing at full speed to take her, suddenly collide as their target disappeared. It was only a glancing collision; but one was thrown right off the yarrow stalk and pinwheeled across the sky, arms flailing. The second elf went out of control and spun. Irena grinned and gave him no chance to right himself. Sudden fire blazed in the sky over the Chalk.
She saw the Clacks tower in the distance. Airborne elves were trying to get onto the platform. People inside were fighting back with whatever came to hand. On the ground, others were milling around, trying to climb up, while others were bringing fiery torches. Irena frowned. They had to do something. But first, the ones in the sky…
"Stay close, you dozy wombats!" Darleen yelled at the two new girls.
"Just sometimes, I wonder if I should have gone back to Wolamalloo to work on the sheep stations after I got the training in Lancre." she thought, as she lined up the next Elf. "or joined that new thing back home, The Flying Witch and Igor Service…"
"The bastards are coming thick and fast. No let up. You shoot down one, two more appear…"
Darleen looked over to where Sally Treadaway was zooming into firing range of a new target. Darleen saw the Elves getting into line behind her and realised she was faced with one of those choices. Get the bastards off Sally's back – which meant dumping the raw meat, the new recruits. Already other Elves were sniffing their nervousness…suddenly, she was spared having to make the decision.
What felt like a hurricane-force wind and an ear-grinding noise whipped past and dopplered into the distance. She heard the noise, twice, sounding like a lead ball rolled down a tunnel, speeded up a hundredfold, and magnified in eardrum-buggering intensity.
And it was as if a quadrant of the sky had been swept clean of Elves…
In the distance, a receding dot, one that had created a hell of a disturbance in its wake, turned, deceptively slowly at this distance, and started to grow again.
That's the problem with something that goes so fast. Takes a hell of a lot of distance to get it to even think about turning.
Elves were fighting to get out of its way. Darleen looked round her. Never stop searching the sky. One of the new girls seemed locked into an endless turning circle with an Elf, both fighting for the edge that would allow one to get behind the other. The second one was throwing her broom around the sky, either in very clever manoeuvres to put six or seven Elves off their aim, or else out of sheer novice inexperience and inability to properly fly the bastard. Darleen sighed and steered for this battle. Wipe noses and arses. Babysitting.
It also got her out of the way of the MiG-21. That bloody crazy bastard bitch dingo-queen drongo Überwaldean., Hanna. Laced up tighter than a duck-billed platypus's arsehole on the ground, stone crazy in the air.
She noted Sally, and Irena on that insane looking triple-broom, getting out of the way fast, trailing and chasing Elves.
And then the roar came again.
Darleen had leisure to watch this time; she appreciated the way the MiG-21 almost stopped in the air every time Hanna fired that big fucking cannon, understood the pilot had to be strapped in else she'd go right over the bastard front, and tipped the metaphorical bush hat with the corks on the brim to her as she nudged the nose of the battle-broom a degree to the left. Big bang, one more Elf. Nudge. Bang. Third elf. Nudge, Bang. Fourth Elf.
Then suddenly, hardly any more Elves in the sky. They'd either died or run. Which only left the ones on the ground attacking the Clacks…
Irena signalled down with her sabre. The others understood. Ground attack.
Darleen noted the elf in the vicious circle was closing in behind the new girl, the faster aircraft winning. She swore luridly and steered to get the bastard. Then to her surprise, as the elf closed, the new girl turned, saw the danger, and launched a vicious kick. It caught the elf, who was trying to close from behind and below, right in the side of the head. Stunned, his knife went one way and he went the other. But was still astride his yarrow stalk. Darleen was about to shout "For Offler's sake, finish the bastard off!"
The girl took a nervous deep breath, steeled herself, extended an arm – and lobbed a fireball. Darleen noted she closed her eyes as she did so. But it was close enough and hot enough. It did the job. She noted the other new girl was getting the script, and fireballing too. Not hitting anything very much – she needed range practice – but fighting. It was at least warning them off. Darleen entered the fight.
And over there… Irena and Sally swooped down. Low-level ground attack. They'd practiced often enough. A valley in remote Chirm, where they practiced, still had the scars and gouges.
A closepacked body of Elves caught the lot. But there was a lot of them. Irena and Sally banked and climbed for a second run.
Darleen saw Irena reach out an arm and check sally from a second run.
Then she saw, heard and felt the reason.
Hanna came in from seriously low level this time. And went straight through the elves, with what Darleen eloquently described as that fuck-off-great-cannon blasting them. The sound of a voice screaming "Fur dem Seig! Heil! came up to them. You didn't need a translation.
And then it was over. Suddenly, there were no more elves. No living ones, anyway. Six combat witches regrouped by the clacks tower, finding a spot on the ground relatively free from debris and dead Elves. . The senior Clacksman put down the hammer he'd been fighting with and grinned at them. The resident goblins clustered around Hanna and her combat broom, in awe of what they'd just seen. Hanna looked, for the first time Darleen could recall in bloody ages, happy. The goblins were chittering excited questions at her and she was answering. The two recruit pilots thrown in at the deep end looked stunned and traumatised and shaky, but, as Darleen pointed out forcefully, you're bloody well alive!
Irena nodded to them.
"You survived. You got a kill each. You're Air Witches. When you get to meet Lieutenant Romanoff, she'll swear you in."
And they suddenly looked happier. Tired and scared, but happier.
"That's if you live, obviously." Irena added, as a postscript. The girls suddenly stopped smiling. She was about to say more, and the clacksman called her.
"You're Sergeant Politek? I've got clackses for you!"
To be continued…
(1) Witch support was seen as vital Watch work. Sam Vimes, recognising this, made it paid time. Olga and Irena made a point of paying their shift earnings into Widows and Orphans. It was a point of honour that a witch working as a witch did not accept cash for her services. Anything else, yes. But not cash.
(2) "Nyet, Famke." Irena had sad, kindly but firmly, adding "Listen to me, 'chushka. You will hear the words "not until you are older" a lot as you grow, and this will frustrate you. But be assured, your mother will teach you about weapons. I know she will. But. Not yet. What I say is pravda. Truth."
(3) Barbarian Heroine (retired) Conina Haresbut – Cohensdaughter, who now ran a salon for professional women who led interesting eventful lives.
(4) Thank you to reader Ansela Jonla who suggested Sabatons "Night Witches" as a soundtrack. Haven't forgotten. Yes, I am working in references to one of the other great heavy metal songs about air combat here, Blue Öyster Cult's Me-262.
Vetinari on the Clacks from Morpork, says, girls, you've done quite a job! Vimes is on the Clacks from P-Yard, says, you might have pushed it too far... but with Hanna von Strafenburg on our next patrol, there's a flight of elven raiders comin' out of the stones, after twelve, they'll all be here - I think you know the job!
Notes Dump: think of it as a sort of dispersal area for recovered or crashed ideas, which can be cannibalised for spare parts so as to get new ideas up into the air again.
Anthony Fokker did not design the Fokker triplane. This came as a surprise to me.
Ok. I have to.
The lyrics to the Blue Öyster Cult's heavy metal showstopper "ME-262"
Goering's on the phone to Freiburg,
Say's Willie's done quite a job!
Hitler's on the phone from Berlin,
Say's I'm gonna make you a star!
My Captain Von Ondine, here's your next patrol;
A flight of English bombers across the canal,
After twelve, they'll all be here -
I think you know the job!
They hung there dependant from the sky;
Like some heavy metal fruit!
These bombers, ripened, ready to tilt,
Must these Englishmen live that I might die?
Must they live that I might die?
In a G-load disaster from the rate of climb,
Sometimes I'd faint, and be lost to our side;
But there's no reward for failure, but death!
So watch me in the mirrors, keep in the glidepath.
Get me through these radars, no I cannot fail
Not when great silver slugs are eager to feed,
I can't fail, no not now -
When twenty five bombers wait ripe!
They hung there dependant from the sky -
Like some heavy metal fruit!
These bombers, ripened, ready to tilt;
Must these Englishmen live that I might die?
Must they live, that I might die?
Me-262 prince of turbojet, Junkers jumo 004!
Blasts from clustered R4M quartets in my snout,
And see these English planes go burn!
Now you be my witness, how red were the skies,
When the Fortresses flow, for the very last time;
It was dark over Westphalia, in April of 45!
They hung there dependant from the sky -
Like some heavy metal fruit!
These bombers, ripened, ready to tilt -
Must these Englishmen live that I might die?
Must they live that I might die?
Must these Englishmen live that I might die?
Junker.s Jumo 004 (repeat many times)
Bombers at 12 o'clock high...
And, OK, the other one, Night Witches by Sabaton...
From the depths of hell in silence
Cast their spells, explosive violence
Russian night time flight perfected
Flawless vision, undetected
Pushing on and on, their planes are going strong
Air Force number one
Somewhere down below they're looking for the foe
Bomber's on the run
You can't hide, you can't move, just abide
Their attack's been proved (raiders in the dark)
Silent through the night the witches join the fight
Never miss their mark
Canvas wings of death
Prepare to meet your fate
Night Bomber Regiment
588
Undetected, unexpected
Wings of glory
Tell their story
Aviation, deviation
Undetected
Stealth perfected
Foes are losing ground, retreating to the sound
Death is in the air
Suddenly appears, confirming all your fears
Strike from witches lair
Target found, come around, barrels sound
From the battleground (axis aiming high)
Rodina awaits, defeat them at the gates
Live to fight and fly
Canvas wings of death
Prepare to meet your fate
Night Bomber Regiment
588
Undetected, unexpected
Wings of glory
Tell their story
Aviation, deviation
Undetected
Stealth perfected
Beneath the starlight of the heavens
Unlikely heroes in the skies (witches to attack, witches coming back)
As they appear on the horizon
The wind will whisper when the night witches come
Undetected, unexpected
Wings of glory
Tell their story
Aviation, deviation
Undetected
Stealth perfected
From the depths of hell in silence
Cast their spells, explosive violence
Russian night time flight perfected
Flawless vision, undetected