The Price of Flight – part eight
Syren and Red Star
V0.3. As with everything, it has room for revision. Watch this space. Thanks to reader mathust quill1 for suggesting a plot sideline worth adding - got to get Kiiki's surname completely correct and consistent across chapters.
GRAND TRUNKS++TURNWISE OCEAN REGION(LANCRE)
O/TOWER; LANCRE TOWN
D/TOWER: ANKH-MORPORK CITY WATCH PS/YD, FAO SIR SAMUEL VIMES
C/C – PP/AM FAO HIS GRACE LORD VETINARI, PATRICIAN.
LANCRE, DATE:
SITUATION REPORT:
FROM LANCE-CORPORAL (AIR WATCH) E.M.N.S GARLICK, ACTING (TEMPORARY) COMMANDING OFFICER, ANKH-MORPORK CITY AIR WATCH (LANCRE DIVISION)
CURRENT EFFECTIVE STRENGTH: ELEVEN PILOTS. (NOT COUNTING THE DETACHED COMMAND IN THE CHALK COMMANDED BY SERGEANT I.Y. POLITEK, LAST KNOWN TO NUMBER SIX)
KILLED IN ACTION: TWO
WOUNDED AND UNFIT FOR AIR COMBAT: TWO
MISSING IN ACTION: LIEUTENANT O.A.E. ROMANOFF
WITCH AIR POLICE CONSTABLE K.S. PEKKISSAALEN
NUMBER OF BROOMS LOST IN ACTION: NINE
TOTAL NUMBER OF ENEMY CONFIRMED KILLS IN THE AIR: NINETY-SIX
KILLS CLAIMED AND AS YET UNCONFIRMED: FIFTY-SEVEN.
ENEMY DESTROYED IN GROUND ACTION; THE BEST ESTIMATE IS OVER TWO HUNDRED, POSSIBLY MORE.
AS THE SENIOR RANK IN THE LANCRE DIVISION, AND WITH THE AWARENESS AND APPROVAL OF SERGEANT POLITEK AND CORPORAL VON STRAFENBURG IN THE CHALK, I HAVE ASSUMED TEMPORARY COMMAND HERE.
LIEUTENANT ROMANOFF WAS LAST SEEN IN CONTROL OF A BROOMSTICK THAT LOST EFFECTIVE POWER IN THE AIR. SHE WAS WITNESSED GUIDING IT DOWN TO A CRASH-LANDING IN THE WOODS. IT IS BELIEVED THAT SHE LANDED SAFELY AND IS ON HER WAY BACK TO US BY GROUND.
OFFICER PEKKISSAALEN WAS ALSO SEEN TO BE IN CHARGE OF A BROOMSTICK THAT SUFFERED LACK OF THAUMIC POWER WHILE IN THE AIR. SHE IS KNOWN TO HAVE REACHED THE GROUND SAFELY AND IS THEREFORE COUNTED AS "MISSING".
AS THE FAILED BROOMSTICKS WERE OF THE EXPERIMENTAL ME-262 CLASS, I HAVE ORDERED THE REST OF THIS FLEET GROUNDED AS UNFIT TO FLY. WE WILL SHORTLY HAVE USED UP THE LAST OF THE RESERVE BROOMS WE BROUGHT WITH US AND IT IS POSSIBLE, IF THIS RATE OF LOSS LASTS, THAT PILOTS MAY BE GROUNDED FOR WANT OF BROOMSTICKS.
I BELIEVE THAT IF SUITABLY ADAPTED, THE OFFENSIVE ARMAMENT OF THE 262'S (THE R-4-M AUTOMATED REPEATING CROSSBOWS) MAY BE ADAPTED FOR USE AS GROUND ARTILLERY. WE ARE EXPERIMENTING.
OFFICER V. HEARTSEASE IS NOW OUT OF DANGER AND HEALING BUT WILL BE UNFIT FOR FLIGHT.
PROBATIONARY RECRUIT AIR POLICEWOMAN MATILDA GLOSSOP SUSTAINED MINOR INJURIES IN A CRASH. THOSE WHO WITNESSED IT SAY SHE DID WELL TO SURVIVE THE FORCED LANDING.
WE ARE STILL FIGHTING.
Olga Romanoff considered her options. The rush of the air fighting and the speed of her broom had taken her out of the main action and she was a long way away from any of the others. Fortunately, there weren't any Elves in the sky out here too.
She was on her own out here. It was funny how a sky could be full of duelling air vehicles one minute, and the next, nothing. A phenomenon of air warfare, fluid and fast-moving.
She focused on the immediate problem. However high you were when you went into combat, the rush and impetus of the business took you down, a sort of fighting entropy. She'd started at six or seven thousand with height advantage; now, after the battle, she was probably at seven hundred. The treetops of the Lancre forests passed by underneath.
Underneath, she reminded herself, an unpowered broomstick where the magic had spluttered out, the thaumic flow that powered it having broken and faded. Mig Oyeff or Herr Schmidt would shake their heads sorrowfully and refer to a broken thaumic feedback circuit or a power ley-line disconnection or something. A known gremlin in the thaumo-technic power cycle in the two-six-two's Jumo systems, ma'am, but we're working on it… maybe we shouldn't use so much sapient pearwood in the thrusters, or a little more, or perhaps Howondalandian floating mahogany, it's tougher and has a more controlled capacity for thaumic release…
She currently had the opposite problem to the other hazard of high-performance broomsticks, the one where too much magic overpowering staff and bristles could cause things to go off bang. She had the one where currently there was no magic at all.
All Olga had was a lot of forward momentum from the high speed she'd previously been enjoying and using. This was propelling her forwards and slightly down, gliding her. She could use this. It was the only thing that was stopping her from plummeting down vertically, like a brick in flight. With luck and skill, the momentum would last just long enough. But she had to be careful, so very careful, and judge things finely…. Olga grinned to herself. This was flying. Now she'd find out just how good a pilot she was. Just her, Olga Romanoff, against the potentially unforgiving sky.
The Price of Flight…
Got to be a straight line, or I'm killing the only advantage I've got. Lose height carefully, so carefully, a little at a time, not too much, or gradual descent becomes uncontrollable. At the same time I'm losing the momentum from that last burst of speed, it will not last forever. Get the balance right, Olga. At least when they built the protective covers over the limbs and the bowstrings, they thought ahead and fared them to make them aerodynamic. Odd to see on a broomstick. Like wings, one either side. But so good for stabilising and balance. Swept back, too. I'll have to tell the Tekniks well done, they work so well for gliding.
She looked down. The Lancre treetops were getting closer. Pine here. It reminded her of home. From above it always had: Far Überwald looked that sort of dark green from above. Her Rodinia, dark green as far as the eye could see, except when it got white.
Am I fighting for my Rodinia too? If they get Lancre, they will not stop here. The plague will spread.
"Reckon there's going to be a clearing coming up soon, Mistress?" her Feegle asked.
Olga shrugged. A clear area to land, right in front of them, would be useful, she conceded. If the world would be so obliging. But it had to be at the right height and in the right place… she shrugged as the right sort of clearing in the forest passed by beneath. They were simply too high up. She could have landed into it, provided they didn't mind dropping vertically from a hundred and fifty feet up.
It passed by under them. Nichevo. Woodcutting and charcoal burning goes on here. In normal times. Where there is one there will be another.
And then the tops of the fir trees were whipping at her legs. She raised them. Olga accepted the sting with fatalistic stoicism. She focused on the green in front of her.
And suddenly there was a clearing. She didn't quite reach it; the broomstick smashed into low fir branches about ten feet up, the last fading momentum spending itself. There was a rending noise of abused wood.
Then a silence.
"Well, ye got us doon, Mistress."
"Govno." Olga said, spitting out pine needles. She counted and tested limbs. They worked.
When she eased herself out and dropped to the ground, thinking "A good landing is one you can walk away from", and realised she'd dropped into a clearing full of Elves, she sighed. Clearly, it was going to be one of those days.
"Perkele!" Kiiki Pekkissaalen screamed as the magic spluttered and died on her two-six-two. "Vittu! Saatana! Perkele!"
So as not to waste it, she lined up a last Elf against her nose, reckoned for deflection, and blasted off the last rounds from her R4M's. As the repeating action started to click on empty chambers, she conceded she might have made a little error of judgement here. Firing a big powerful weapon mounted on the front of a broomstick that had suddenly run out of forward energy hadn't just halted it in the air, it had actually juddered backwards.
She was now flying a brick.
Kiiki felt her two-six two slewing to the side and tipping over. She rolled with it, said "Perkele." philosophically, and threw herself off.
And to think I almost didn't bother with a parachute…
Wearing parachutes or not was left to individual pilot judgement. Some didn't like the restricting mass on their backs and the way it impeded movement. Kiiki had thought about this. She knew about the little design flaws and the bugs in the two-six-two's airframe. She had decided that with a broom that was beautiful when it worked, a shark of the air, but which had quirks, a parachute was a no-brainer.
She watched her broomstick plummeting out of the fight, and saluted it, hanging underneath the parachute.
"Jäähyväiset, terveellisyys."
She patted the flask of Swommi vodka she carried at her hip. It was against standing orders, she knew. The Ryssä (1) had probably noticed, but hadn't called her on it yet. Kiiki watched the sky around her. The hand that wasn't steering the parachute moved from the vodka flask to her puukko and squeezed the hilt.
"Witches shouldn't carry weapons!" she recalled. "Well, perkele on that."
A little later Kiiki had opportunity to use the other weapon, the pistol crossbow on loan from the Assassins as a side-arm. An incautious elf was trying to get in close with a wicked looking blade. The Air Witch dangling from the parachute then grinned. And got him first.
Kiiki knew the monogrammed initials in this one's stock were JFS-R. She intended to hand it back personally and thank the owner, once back in Ankh-Morpork. She re-loaded and reholstered it swiftly, then braced. Time to hit the ground running.
Ankh-Morpork, The Patrician's Palace.
Vimes read the latest despatch and blinked. He tried, conscientiously, not to think of Olga Romanoff in the past tense, reminding himself that all people had seen was her steering a damaged broomstick down to the ground and that she must have been perfectly unwounded and healthy to do that. With any luck he'd see her again.
He dragged his mind to other issues.
"Nottie's in charge?" he said, incredulously. "I mean. It's not as if she isn't fit, sir, but she is only seventeen, if that! And they're down to eleven? Olga went there with twenty-odd!"
Vetinari gave him a tolerant look.
"Read the despatch carefully, Sir Samuel." he said. "In normal circumstances, for any unit to begin with a lieutenant in command and to reach the point where the senior surviving rank is a lance-corporal would suggest it is in serious trouble and has taken grievous losses. But she makes it clear that the sergeant and the senior corporal are elsewhere and outside the chain of command at the moment. Both are accepting that the flight in Lancre has to be supervised and directed by someone. Sergeant Politek has not only kept her original four fliers alive, she has augmented them by two. Commendable."
"Matilda Glossop." Vimes said. "I did wonder "Who the hells is she?"
"They are recruiting already and seeking to make good their losses." Vetinari said. "I am sure you will accept an influx of new blood into the Watch in the customary way? Capital. Now. The news of the attack on the Clacks tower is grievous to me. We cannot have this sort of thing happening with impunity."
Vimes had an inner vision of Adora Belle Dearheart glaring at him and smoking meaningfully.
"This allows me a legitimate opportunity to intervene." Vetinari said. "I have considered appropriate escorts to the Grand Trunks engineers who will carry out the repairs at the Sheepridge tower. I need you to be even more flexible in your staffing arrangements while the emergency persists."
"Who do you need, sir?"
"Vetinari told him. Vimes sighed.
"I'll make the arrangements, sir."
Vetinari smiled, faintly.
"No need. They have already departed on the train to Twoshirts. You are making the command retrospectively."
Olga Romanoff glared at the Elves. She felt the beginnings of their glamour washing over her. She scowled and indicated that she was wearing steel armour. She was also wearing a metal skullcap inside her ushanka.
"I'll get help, Mistress." a voice said from ground level. Olga nodded, considering her options. Not many of the elves facing her had bows. But all were grinning and closing on her. One of the Air Witches who had caused them grievous damage was now caught on the ground, a reluctant infantrywoman. It was a good time for them to play catch-up.
Olga remembered something Jason Ogg the blacksmith had told her about the last time the elves had invaded Lancre. It sounded like desperation, but she reasoned that she was in a desperate situation and it might work.
She stamped her booted foot on the ground and established a rhythm. She started to sing at them.
Oy, chto-to my zasidelisʹ, bratsi ,
Ne pora li nam razgulyatʹsya?
It was working. She continued the Song of the Swords
Русь молодая , силы немерено ,
Дайте коня мне да добрый меч!
After a while she drew her sabre and began the moves, twists, turns and evolutions of the sabre dance. The Elves began to draw closer, entranced and captivated. Olga smiled. At least she was buying time. And who knows, she might get out of this alive.
Kiiki Pekkissaalen suspected other eyes had followed her down to earth. She needed to be fast. Shedding her parachute, she bundled it up into a depression in the earth between two trees and began kicking and throwing forest-floor debris over it. Satisfied it was hidden, she began a loping run, loosening the puukko knife in its sheath. She was tempted to have it in her right hand, but conceded that might not be a bright idea when running over un-known terrain with lots of tripping hazards.
She looked around her. Birch trees dominated here. And she smiled. She'd spotted a small lake as she came down. In a gloomy dank birch forest. One she'd been told had bear, wolves and deer in it.
All it needed was a soundtrack.(2) And it was just like home.
Kiiki loped on down a track, seeking for signs of people and listening for evidence of nearby Elves. She had no objection to finding the latter, but on her own terms. The former could guide her back to where she could get a broom and be back in the air again. She came from a country where people felt uncomfortably crowded if their nearest neighbours lived a mile away. Living in Ankh-Morpork had desensitised her somewhat and she even enjoyed it in many ways. But put her in a birch forest and suddenly she was a Swommi again. And she could sense another person, or persons, from a long way away.
And she heard, or sensed, something nearby. She swiftly went to ground in a place that overlooked the track from both directions, the pistol crossbow in one hand and her puukko knife in the other. She settled and watched. Anything hostile approaching would be dead without even noticing, or if friendly, would not notice her until she made herself known.
Then jumped as she heard the voice from nearby. From behind and to the left. Perkele, she'd been watching the track. But whoever it was, they were good…
"Madam? Please let me reassure you I'm friendly. I'm not asking you to put the weapons down until you've reassured yourself we're friends. We've been following you. Ever since you, er, descended to earth."
Kiiki frowned. The voice sounded Ankh-Morporkian, refined and educated.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
"Fair question. I know you're Air Watch and you need to get back to your squadron. I'm sure there are people there who are worried about you."
"Juuuu…" Kiiki said, drawing out the affirmative in a drawl. She thought of Marina. Boot-faced old Ruskki is probably frantic by now…I keep telling her it doesn't hurt to crack a smile every so often…
"But. You are?"
"Fair question. Roger Forbishley. Guild of Assassins."
"Heard about you. Come out where I can see you."
"Why don't we both come out at the same time to where we can see each other?" Roger offered.
They did. Kiiki met the Man In Black and was introduced to his companions. They were men who knew the Lancre forest. Huntsmen, foresters, and lumberjacks who'd heard about the massacre at Hot Dang. Kiiki then felt even more at home as she moved and occasionally fought alongside them. They were looking, she discovered, for the other young woman who'd been forced down. Eventually they heard singing. Kiiki frowned.
"I know that language." she said. "And the song."
The magic carpets had brought stores and people to the Chalk Command. Irena Politek didn't feel so desperately isolated now. And in one sense it felt absurd and surreal. They were fighting a war, but everyday life was going on all around her. She heard the train passing through Twoshirts, that had come out of Ankh-Morpork, for instance; somewhere people were getting on and off trains and going about everyday life as usual, unaffected by the war.
Irena suddenly remembered that in normal circumstances she wore Watch badge 587. Ensuring normal life could go on without fear and anxiety – well, preventable fear and anxiety – was the duty of the Watch.
To serve and to protect.
It was exactly what they were doing here, even if taken to extremes. Irena wondered if they'd moved to the other Watch motto, the one Fred Colon quoted
Fabricati Diem, PVNC.
She shrugged. Whatever it was, it was a police action.
The railway was probably safe from Elven attack. Given how much iron went into it. And it occurred to her that the railway was a continuous track made of steel. A barrier. Elves could never cross it on foot. The idea interested her and she speculated on the implications of this for a while. Barriers, hundreds of miles long, only four foot six inches between them, a few inches high – and impassable to Elves.
"Hey, Krasnaya Zvezda!"
Irena grinned. New pilots had arrived with the carpets. Old friends, too.
She greeted Tatiana Grigorenko with a whoop and a Cossack hug.
The new pilot, Bethany Hargreaves, looked at them with wide-eyed startledness. The two women who were dressed strangely, who were greeting each other in that spiky foreign language.
Tatiana nudged Irena.
"Who's the devyushka?"
"New pilot. Hey, I had to do something to get the numbers up. I think she'll do, with a bit of training."
"Were you and me that young once?"
"Might have been. Can't remember. Any news?"
"Some strange things came off that train. Saw them setting off to the clacks tower. The one the Servants of Koschei damaged."
Tatiana briefly touched metal.
"Da. The кики́мора."
Irena touched metal.
"Let's go and see." Tatiana said.
"Da. Take the new girl. We got two, by the way. I've put the other on bedrest for the moment. She…" Irena paused. "Let's say she looks at the moment as if she was pulled through a hedge backwards. Caught a few scratches. A little bit dazed. But she'll do too."
Irena nodded to Bethany.
"Grab a broom. We're flying." she said, in Morporkian.
Nottie Garlick tried to put it out of her head that she was too young and too inexperienced for this sort of thing. She had become the third Pegasus witch. Not by accident, but by camping out at the stables where Irena Politek's mare had become gravid by one of Hobley's stud stallions. A normal horse had mated with a Pegasus mare. Everybody was keen to see what happened next.
Nottie, who had slipped out of her bedroom at the Castle to keep vigil in the stables, had helped deliver the foal. Which had two stubby little wings on its back just behind the shoulders, as yet unfeathered. The foal had taken to her.
And the stern-looking Olga Romanoff and her friend Irena, the snarkier one with the wicked sense of humour, had conferred and said "Horoscho."
Olga had then looked at Nottie.
"It appears we now have a pupil witch, devyuschka."
Nottie realised that despite her years, this had made her the third-ranking senior pilot in the Service. And even Marina Raskova, who at thirty-two was the oldest pilot and positively ancient among girls in their late teens and twenties, was content to look to her for a lead.
Nottie had thought How would Olga do this? and then decided this wasn't the point. Olga wasn't here just now, was she? Until she came back – and Nottie fervently hoped she would – the real pressing question was – how can Nottie Garlick do this? And how can she do this right?
Marina, Nottie realised with horror, was looking frightened and terrified at this moment. Something shocking and scary had happened to her. She looked worried sick, bereft even. And this looked worrying on a Squadron member who usually took everything with a sort of stoic indifference. Nottie remembered the rumours. There was no hostility or revulsion or anything. It was accepted a Witch could marry and have the, you know, thing, with a husband. Nanny Ogg had had the thing with quite a few husbands, some of them even her own. Nottie reflected – briefly – that Mum was a Witch and she'd met Dad and let's not go there…. So, Witchdom had conceded the principle. If a witch met another Witch, they really liked each other, and wanted to try it the other way – "friend of Alice Band", they said – then that was okay too.
Nottie hoped Kiiki was coming back, too. She'd been seen to chute out, and even hanging from the chute had got one of them. So there was every chance.
Nottie took a chance. She asked Nadezhda Popova to fly wing to Marina and keep an eye on her. She might not dwell on it too much if she's up there flying.
And then she took the depleted Lancre Wing up into combat. Again.
"Errr… Dorfl?" Irena asked.
The Watch golems had arrived by train along with the engineers and equipment needed for repairing the broken Sheepridge tower. The sound of hammering, drilling and sawing floated down from above as clacksmen and golems worked.
Sergeant Politek. It Is Good To See You Well.
"Reinforcements?"
Miss Dearheart Spoke To Lord Vetinari. He Wishes Us Here To Defend The Clacks Towers Against Attack. He Considers This A Measured And Proportionate Response To An Attack By The Elves On The Legitimate Interests Of Ankh-Morpork. He Stresses We Are Here First And Foremost To Guard The Towers And We Are To Take Any Means Necessary Against Elven Intrusion.
Irena digested this.
"And not here for us?"
We Are All City Watch. If Assisting You Means Our Primary Task Is Not Neglected, We Will Help. But You Must Fend For Yourselves. Lord Vetinari Said This.
"Nice to know we're appreciated." Irena said.
His Lordship And Sir Samuel Did Send Something For You. The Watch Visited The Workshop Of Shrucker And Dave. The Need For Replacement Broomsticks Was Appreciated. Suitable Vehicles Were Requisitioned. Some Are For You And Some Are For Lieutenant Romanoff, When She Returns To Her Duties. We Brought Them Here.
Irena collected four serviceable replacement broomsticks and took them back to Home Farm with her.
Olga kept the song and the dance going.
"Ой, что-то мы засиделись, братцы ,
Не пора ли нам разгуляться?
Da ne pristalo nam sidetʹ po khatam
Dayte konya mne da dobryy mech!"
They were close in but getting no nearer, and they were captivated. They stank, too. Olga couldn't believe they were letting her do the moves where she tossed the sabre up in the air, let it make two complete circles, then to twirl for a whole body turn and to catch it in her other hand as she came full circle… hadn't it occurred to anybody to grab it or knock it out of the way?
She sang on.
I polykhnuli terema da khaty,
Baby vplachʹ da malyye rebyata,
A muzhiki vse, brat za brata,
Vyshli za Rodinu voyevatʹ!
It dawned on Olga that putting a glamour on something or somebody cut both ways. Humans could do it to Elves too. With music, song and dance.
It also occurred to her that the sabre dance took energy. Usually whoever did the dance would not be called upon to sing at the same time. Sooner or later she was going to run out of breath… I am going to have to finish this soon…
Over there on the other side of the clearing. Where the elves were not looking. Was that movement? People trying not to be seen in the undergrowth? Olga decided this was the moment.
Ой, да не уж-то Русская рать!
Не постоит за Родину-мать!
The whirling, swirling, flashing line of the sabre carried on spinning and twisting with the beat of the song. But on Ruskiya'rat! , an elven archer who had got too close fell one way while his head span in another. The second archer lost his head to the music on a very emphatic Rodiniu'mat!
Then as Olga sang and danced on, the air was briefly full of arrows. One narrowly missed her. Olga sang and danced on, her sabre felling another elf. The clearing was now full of people. Human people. A man in Assassin black seemed to be directing the battle. Olga danced and sang on. She observed that seemingly ridiculous-looking Swommi hat, soft and rounded and with a bobble on the top, but in black... and the flashing of a long puukko knife... Feegle were getting involved now. Suddenly there were no more Elves. Olga danced on.
A Feegle tugged at Kiiki's britches.
"She has been dancin'. For elves, ye ken. Elves. She canna' stop easily. Ye are also a Hag. Ye must stop her."
"Perkele!" Kiiki swore. She ducked under the sword.
"Listen, you crazy stupid vittuperkele Ruskki bitch!" she shrieked, grabbing Olga's shoulders, heedless of the sabre.
This did the trick. Olga lowered the sword and smiled sheepishly.
"I will overlook the insubordination, Air Constable." she said. "This time."
"And every time."
"I usually do." Olga admitted. "Good to see you, Kiiki."
"You too, Olga. Hey, you did good. One swing, one head. Impressed."
They hugged each other. Kiiki produced her vodka flask. They both took a swig.
"Now put me on a charge."
Olga closed her eyes as she passed it back.
"Never saw it." she said. "Ye gods, Swommi vodka is strong. Never heard you causing me a fuck-crazy stupid Russki bitch, either. Went deaf."
"Let's move on." Forbishley said. "Got to get you two ladies back in the air where you matter."
After a while, the Feegle Clacks took over.
"You will permit, Mistresses?" a spokes-Feegle said. A large number of his fellows were gathering, looking expectant.
"Permit what, exactly?" Olga asked. Those were her last words for a while. She heard Kiiki shriek "Perkele!" in surprise as both were pulled down – but respectfully – and they found themselves borne up by lots of Feegle. Their journey was horizontal and very, very, fast as hundreds of Feegle ran forward, passing them on to others at what Olga gathered were clan boundaries. it was actually quite pleasant and exhilarating, if you kept your eyes closed and relaxed. A relay of carrying Feegles soon had them back at Lancre Castle, where the two Witches left behind as reserves were really pleased to see them again. In the circumstances, Olga sanctioned glasses of vodka. It had been a trying day.
"That bundle of brooms is new." Olga observed. "Not standard Watch issue, though." She counted them: six replacements.
"Got delivered by golem an hour or so, ma'am." said the reserve Witch. "Vetinari sent Golems up here to guard the clacks towers. They brought us replacement brooms. Nottie clacksed and said we were losing brooms rather than pilots. Apparently Mr Vimes raided Shrucker and Dave's, and grabbed what he had in stock."
Olga nodded.
"Two are Watch runabouts. The rest, just standard Yaks." she observed. "Mr Schmidt? Can you do anything with them?"
The Teknik saluted and said he reckoned they might take an extra charge, ma'am.
"Do it." she said, in charge again. Then, to nobody in particular
"Dear Gods, I need a bath."
She had been fighting for two days and nights, had danced with the elves and had been ferried by Feegle. Olga was under no illusions. She probably stank.
"Well, I wasn't going to say it, ma'am." the duty Witch answered her.
"Perkele. We all do." Kiiki added. " Stink like reindeers in the marsh."
The patrols returned.
Nottie was halfway through saluting and reporting to Olga. There were shrieks of joy. Loud ones. Marina Raskova, usually impassive and hard to move, was laughing, crying and shaking all at once. She grabbed and kissed Kiiki in a way that was completely unambiguous. The others tried not to notice this.
"Told you I'd be back, boot-face." Kiiki said. They kissed again.
Olga shook her head.
"Nottie, are there bathrooms in this pace we can use?" she asked.
"Yes, you do whiff a bit."
"Thank you for the personal observation." Olga said, tartly.
Nottie grinned.
"I'll go and talk to Mum. See if we can scrounge up some hot water. Won't be long."
"You can go first, ma'am." Nadezhda said, helpfully. "Call it a privilege of rank." There was universal agreement to this.
Olga, currently without a broom, later picked the best of the replacements. She recognised it as one that had been undergoing repairs in the tech shed, noted it had one of the new Technomantic Devices attached to it and recalled it was something the Watch had been trialling. The idea was that it was a psychological thing: when you were pursuing a suspect, you switched it on. The Device, augmented by the passage of air in the slipstream, triggered a very loud noise that left the suspect in no doubt whatever that the Watch was after them. It was based on one of the old Dwarf war cries and made a high, strident, dee-dah! two-tone noise.
Olga looked at the name, with the usual approximate Ankh-Morporkian approach to spelling, engraved in the metal of the device.
SYREN no 1.
She shrugged, making a mental note to have a Teknik dismantle it from the broom later, as not needed here. When there was time. Then, after a heavenly bath – she hoped she hadn't left too black a tide mark in the enamel of Queen Magrat's personal bathroom – she took out a patrol. And discovered the bloody damn thing could not be turned off once activated. (3)
Over in the Chalk, Irena Politek had run into trouble. She screamed with frustrated rage as Hanna von Strafenburg and Bethany Hughes did the one thing they'd been briefed never to do. Chasing down two Elves – it was telling that airborne elves were now refusing combat with Air witches and running from the sight of them – Hanna and her wingman, in the heat of the chase, followed them over the standing stones of the Chalk. And vanished.
"nyet! No, no, NO!" Irena swore.
Her close-defence Feegle pulled at her tunic hem.
"We need to go in, Mistress. We'll have them out again. Aye. Feegle know the way!"
Irena considered. Then pulled her troops together.
"We're going in." she called. "If they won't fight us out here – we'll hit them in their space. V'put!"
Let's go.
The three others fell in behind the broomstick, the stand-out one with red stars outlined in gold painted on each side of the staff. They'd follow Red Star and take it to the enemy.
To be continued…
Next episode: how Hanna blunts the elves. How they all got counted in and they all got counted out again. And the main battle begins.
(1) Finnish readers, and I know there's at least one, help. Is there a slightly off-hand derogatory word for "Russian" that might parallel to "Ivan"? Or even "Ivanka"? There must be one. Also following up a reference to a Finnish Air force slogan and drinking toast from the Winter War that equates to "Goodbye, Sanity!" A vague memory that it's spelt "Tollkku Pois" or something close – I just haven't been able to pin it down. Filled the space with a blind idiot translation from Google Translate.
(2) Kiiki did indeed find herself humming a theme. It was one that called for full orchestration, lots of percussion, and a full-voiced choir singing a stirring nationalistic hymn. From her point of view, it was preferable to the one with the black swan on the ominous dark lake.
(3) You may be sure she was called "Syren" by the others after this, admittedly covertly. There. Back story.
Notes Dump: think of it as a sort of dispersal area for recovered ideas which can be cannibalised for spare parts so as to get new ideas up into the air again.
Shrucker and Dave: a broomstick workshop underneath a railway arch in Ankh-Morpork, referenced in The Shepherd's Crown.
Kukimori: not Japanese – sounds like they should be – but a species of Elf from Russian folklore who have a sort of entitled-bastard malevolence about them. I've taken a liberty or two here – strictly speaking they're all female and only come in ones. If a kukimora takes up residence in your kitchen, you have a nasty parasite to deal with, one who will sweetly convince you of her absolute right to be there and that your duty is to keep her well-fed, happy and entertained.
Koschei, or Koskey, also known as Koschei the Deathless, is a nasty evil Wizard in Russian folklore who may be a survival of an old God of death and malevolence. In some tales, elves serve him. If I've got it right, a magnificent Russian animated film which tells a great story, even if your command of Russian is sketchy and minimal, features his seeking to overthrow the good and valiant Prince Vladimir. (2006) Find it. Watch it. I want a version with English subs.