by E. E. Knight
“I felt a splatter before he went quiet. I thought it was vomit again.”
“Aurue,” Ileth said.
“We’ll need to log this,” Sifler said, mechanically. His eyes were fixed on the corpse. “It has to go on the board, so someone doesn’t put his name up by accident.”
“Steady there, Sifler,” Ileth said.
“Could he be removed?” Aurue asked. “Him bobbing around back there feels unsettling. I need to walk by myself.”
Others were gathering now, as word spread that a dragoneer had been killed. Ileth concentrated on inspecting Aurue for piercings. The way he was acting he might be injured too, blood loss fogging his brain. She couldn’t remember the last thing Vor Rapp had said to her before he set off for this flight. They’d been talking about the local cheese he’d been eating, she knew that. The fact that she couldn’t recall his exact words troubled her for some reason.
They set about removing his legs from the harness stirrups and unseating him from his crisscross safety lines. Between Mattin, who’d been press-ganged in because his dragoneer was still out with the second wave, Sifler, and Ileth, and with the slightest tip from the gray dragon, the humans got the body out of the saddle and laid it out on the ground. It looked like some sort of horrible practical joke getup to Ileth, something from a Feast of Follies where someone resolved to keep their head in a crisis. She giggled at the thought and the two young men looked at her in horror.
She blanked her expression. “Sorry.”
“No apology needed,” Sifler said. “Lots of people react to a shock by laughing. Completely natural. I have to . . . I have to attend to my comfort.” He hurried off.
Ileth found a bucket of water and used it to take the blood off Aurue.
When Sifler returned from the toilet slits, he pulled a clean dressing sheet from his satchel and laid it over Vor Rapp’s chest and onto the grass where his head would have been. It was a ridiculous act, but it struck Ileth as proper. Ileth wondered what Sifler was feeling at the moment. Triumph? Regret?
“I suppose we’re flying together now,” Aurue said. “I’m sorry, with all the confusion, what’s your name?”
“Sniffler,” Sifler said, lost in thought as he looked at Vor Rapp’s corpse.
* * *
—
Four hours of rest and Aurue had to go up again. Sifler spent the whole time pacing and worrying at his nails. Ileth tried to find one of the senior dragoneers to encourage him, someone like Dun Huss, but none were awake.
Finally he disappeared into his tent and came back in his flying rig. It was such an ill-fitting assortment of odds and ends that Ileth hardly recognized him. He looked like an overstuffed scarecrow someone had decided to rig out dragoneer-fashion as a joke.
“We’re doing message duty, giving notes from the previous wing to the next. You know how to pass messages?” Aurue said, flatly, while Ileth took over the wingman duties of adjusting his harness. He didn’t seem quite as tired as the other dragons, except around the eyes, which were haggard and bloodshot. Interesting to learn that dragons could get bloodshot eyes too.
“I’ve done it in training. Once,” Sifler said, from behind his face protection. It was an old full-face party mask, cracked and repaired, probably cast off from the Feast of Follies. A thick scarf was wound about his neck and there were two hats on his head, a tight skullcap beneath a tight fur riding hat.
“You know how it works?”
“You have to fly under the wave leader. He drops a line, I secure it, he drops the note canister on a ring, I get it, I release the line. Then we locate and fly above the next wave leader, I drop my line, he secures it, I drop him the message. Lets the wave leaders concentrate on their wave so they don’t have to hunt around for each other.”
Ileth knew the wave leaders had their dragon wings marked.
“Don’t worry. We’ll stay clear of the highpoons. I’ve learned my lesson,” Aurue said.
They went through the takeoff routine with the rest of the wave. It had nothing like the snap and precision of the first, but the dragons and dragoneers all looked calm and alert. Ileth felt almost sorry for the Rari. What must it be like, dragon attacks day after day at all hours, throughout the day and overnight? If she was wrung out and exhausted, what was going on over there?
Out the wing went with Sifler. This time, Ileth couldn’t sleep. She wondered what that little shopgirl would think, if she could see him taking off on dragonback. Which made her wonder, what was Rapoto Vor Claymass doing with himself? He was a wingman, and a good one, as far as she knew. Why had he been left behind at the Serpentine?
The wing returned a terrible, anxious stretch of time later. Ileth counted—all of them. Sifler landed, head firmly on shoulders.
She touched Aurue’s snout; he passed his tongue across her sweaty palm, and then she went to Sifler.
Sifler slid out of his saddle. He moved stiffly. Ileth went to assist him; he waved her off, but she went anyway and she smelled the problem. He’d fouled himself.
“Let’s get you to the wash-tent,” she said.
“Keep away!”
“My first flight, on Vithleen, I came back the same as you. I didn’t even have the excuse of war.” While true enough, she left out the key detail that Sammerdam’s water had given her terrible diarrhea.
“It was horrible,” he said, tears in his eyes. “They had our people in wooden cages. Warnings painted on the streets with whitewash. They burned them as soon as we attacked. I smelled people cooking.”
“You have a dragon to tend to. He might be wounded. Should I look him over?”
“I’m well, Ileth. We stayed up out of range. Mostly,” Aurue said.
“They’re not even fighting anymore,” a wingman said. “It’s just vengeance now.”
Sifler wiped his nose. “Nothing’s worth this. It’s mad. No order. Dragons coming down like crows on nests. Can’t see for the smoke. I think they’re burning wet rubbish to make it so we can’t see. Explosions. Howling stuff flying through the air. They were supposed to be broken by now. All broken up.”
“They are broken up. It’s just that spot around the Citadel,” Aurue said.
“Get cleaned up and have something to eat. You’ll feel better,” Ileth said, as if she knew. It was what they always did when new girls came into the Lodge, scared and overwhelmed. Cleaned them up, put them in a fresh sheath, overdress, and socks, and put food into them.
They were at the wash-tent. Sifler was saying something about wind directions and waiting for a good blow to attack so the smoke would be dispersed, but he seemed to be thinking out loud; his statements weren’t organized in his usual intelligent fashion. Ileth couldn’t just leave him, so she helped him undress. She doubted his underwear would be fit for much but rags ever again; the filth had started to dry. She’d worry about his attire later; she had to get his body cleaned up.
Another dragoneer, the one with the gold teeth, Roben, checked the confusion around Aurue.
“Knew he wasn’t ready for this,” Roben said. Ileth rounded on him, ready to spit curses, but his expression was sad and sympathetic. “Poor kid. That was a bad one. Bad luck.”
“I can hear you,” Sifler said.
Ileth got some fresh water to rinse off the soap.
“Too bad we won’t be here long enough to build a proper sweat lodge. Maybe they can add one to that garrison hole below the lighthouse,” Roben said to no one in particular. He watched Ileth set the bucket down by Sifler. “Can I be next, dancer?”
“She’s the Governor’s daughter,” Sifler said.
“Just having a joke, comp’ny.”
“Ileth, go look after Aurue. I can get myself dressed again. This is . . . improper.”
She left the wash-tent.
Aurue had his nose in one of the canvas feed troughs, eating greasy fish, slowly and without appetite or e
nthusiasm. Ileth waited until he finished. Someone had had the sense to loosen the girth before he ate. She reprimanded herself for forgetting that.
“Are . . . are y-you all right, sir? Was it bad?” Ileth asked.
“Cruelty is ugly. Are these your people? The ones they’re killing?”
“Maybe,” Ileth said.
At a word from Roben, Aurue and Sifler were put in the reserve for the rest of the evening so they could get some sleep. Dun Huss tiredly rearranged the rosters on the wooden board to give them the extra measure of rest. The third day of battle dawned clear, with a full moon visible in the sky.
Not that the numbers meant much anymore, but Sifler and Aurue were posted to Garamoff’s second wing, following up on Dun Huss’s strike at the Citadel, the last redoubt the Rari held in their main harbor of Lengneek. They started lining the dragons up for takeoff. There was some excitement; Garamoff was going to fly out himself to assess the situation.
“Sifler late?” Aurue asked, joining his new wing.
“You should check the tent. He had a bad night,” one of the wingmen checking a crossbow before securing it to his dragoneer’s saddle said.
Ileth rushed to what had been Vor Rapp’s small tent. As a dragoneer, he had the option of having his own tent or sharing with his wingmen. Vor Rapp had opted to share, and now it seemed extra spacious.
Ileth paused outside. “The d-dragons are at the line. Aurue’s waiting. You have to hurry.”
“Come in,” Sifler said.
He was seated on his cot. His boots were on his feet, but otherwise he was just in a long undershirt. “I’m frozen. My body won’t work.”
“Let me help you up.”
“I can’t do this, Ileth. I can’t. You go for me.”
“I don’t have my flying rig.”
“Wear mine. I’ve always been undersized. It’ll fit you, close enough.”
“I’m not a dragoneer, or a wingman.”
“But you’ve flown on Aurue before. He likes you. Better than he likes me, I’m sure.”
Ileth heard the first whistle for lineup. If he wasn’t there by takeoff, there would be trouble.
She decided.
She flung herself into his rig, thrust his cap over her head, and buckled into the flying mask. Her hair wouldn’t give her away. She hurried for the tent flap, ignoring a last-minute good-luck or something from Sifler, and ran to the flight line, still buckling herself into the flying girdle. The sword—the one that had belonged to Dun Klaff before she’d given it to Sifler, felt an awkward burden.
She just made it into the saddle as Aurue shook out his wings. Aurue sniffed her and his eyes widened. She shook her head.
“Now that girl Ileth’s gone,” another wingman said as he checked the saddle and safety tether. “What’s she playing at?”
Ileth shrugged.
Garamoff walked down the line of his dragons and dragoneers. “Flight. Listen up. Nephalia’ll lead, usual order to follow. Aurue and Sifler, you’ll find Mnasmanus and get any observations and orders from Dun Huss and report back to me. Black and yellow stripes this time, they were concentrating their fire on Mnasmanus when he had the red and white. We’ll strike at dawn. We’re not expecting much resistance; this is cleanup. The only boats you’ll see are ours. The barges pulled by the Duke and Duchess are supposed to be on their way back now. They’re to be defended at great hazard.”
“On the line?”
“On the line.”
“All secure?”
The dragoneers checked their safety lines and weapons. Ileth looked at Sifler’s cheap little secondhand crossbow. Vor Rapp’s had been dropped when he was killed, no doubt.
“All secure.” Ileth didn’t feel secure. She wished she’d been able to wear her own rig. This mess felt like it was going to fall off at the first hard wind.
“Then dragons up, and to glory!”
* * *
—
Fortunately for her, Dun Huss crossed his arms, looking down at her, giving the signal that there were no messages. Mnasmanus had a new hole in his wing and was having a hard time staying level.
Ileth got her first look at the Rari coast. There were blackened ruins everywhere. Bundles of dropped laundry had been lined up in a couple of the ruins for some reason. Ileth suddenly realized they were corpses when she saw a couple of militia carrying one out of the street on a litter.
Ileth turned her attention up. The flag of the Republic was waving over the Rari Citadel, flying jointly with the black dragon of the Wurm. Garamoff waved Aurue over to land next to him, where he hung from the widest part of the redoubt tower wall.
The dragons hung from their wing claws. Like bats, only head side up. Ileth clung as best as she could as Garamoff gave orders, thinking that she’d finally seen the great claws on their wings used—sort of—as nature intended. But it meant the humans had to hang on for all they were worth with their fingers and toes, or they’d fall out and be hanging from the safety tether.
“Sifler!” Garamoff shouted. “We saw a group of slaves gathered in the inner harbor, under heavy guard. Could be valuable hostages. They’re gone now. See if they’re on the road. The mountains behind are filled with caves and overhangs; if they get them up there, there’s not much we can do to get them back. If you see a long file of people, report back.”
Ileth admired him, clinging there easily in his saddle, balancing on his stirrups, like a boy up a tree.
“Yes, sir,” Ileth said, with a cough.
“Are you quite all right, young man?”
Ileth nodded.
“Aurue?”
“Might be hard to see. Trees,” the dragon said, looking at a forested cut headed up the mountainside.
“Fly low northwest, go up, come back down the road from the mountains. They might not be keeping a close watch in that direction. Use your head and your skin. Now hurry!”
Ileth made a fisted pulling-down motion across her face, the flying mime for “order understood.”
“Hold fast, Il—Sifler,” Aurue said. “I’m going to roll off.”
He waited until he felt her gripping with all the strength in her legs and arms she had, then dropped lightly off the tower backward, extending first one wing to start his turn and then the other, and he went shooting off across the rooftops of the inner harbor as Ileth’s senses and guts rearranged themselves. It was a gut-rearranger of a stunt. It was just as well she hadn’t breakfasted.
Aurue gained altitude fast, moving close to the trees parallel to the mountains. Up ahead Ileth saw a naked spur with a little bit of a wall and platform and a pole for hoisting signal flags, probably an overlook. It had a good view of the sea lanes to the west, where ships would appear making for the straits and the Inland Ocean. The pole was black and burned—someone had scorched it in one of the earlier attacks and nothing had been re-rigged, or she might have urged Aurue to get it again.
She saw a head bob behind the wall. Maybe they had crossbows.
“Avoid that,” she shouted. “Rari.”
Aurue didn’t respond, but turned toward the trees and beat his wings harder. The updraft was stronger closer to the coastal prominence with the man or men hiding from the dragon.
They rose and Ileth had a better angle. The men were hiding around a soup pot. She was just thinking that they chose an oddly exposed location to cook a meal in the middle of—
Three sensations hit in quick succession. Ileth felt something like a gust of wind—a more appropriate sensation was that of a rock thrown at your head passing by. Aurue rocked her in her saddle.
Aurue lurched, beat his wings harder. He lurched toward the sea, caught some wind. She heard and then saw what was wrong, rends torn in his left-wing skin. They were wide and tearing wider, like sailcloth in a storm.
“It winged me,” Aurue said.
He added something in Drakine; Ileth thought one of the words was try.
He partially closed his left wing, trying to protect the damaged area. They spun around and headed straight for the mountains. She saw the cut of the road they’d been following; it rounded a corner here in a switchback as it climbed toward a valley pass to a valley beyond.
Aurue tried to land on the road but fell short. Beset with his own difficulties, he didn’t pay attention to branches or anything but his own limbs. She lunged forward and held through a quick succession of blows like she was passing through the Long Bridge gauntlet again.
Then they were down with a jolt that sent her into his neck-bones.
Aurue snorted and stood up. He started singing, of all things. In Drakine.
Ileth blinked. She felt like everything inside her body from womb to brain had shifted upward in the impact, and she needed a moment to adjust to the new configuration of her innards. She groaned.
“Ileth. Ileth? Ileth!”
“Still with you,” Ileth managed to say. She tasted blood. She ran her tongue experimentally around her teeth. No gaps. Oh, there it was . . . a cut in her lip. She probed it and felt a sting that flamed into mild pain. If that was all, then she was lucky.
They were on a steep slope just short of the road.
“What were you doing with that noise?”
“What noise?” Aurue asked.
“The singing!”
“Oh, I was just thanking the trees for supporting me, just in case they used to be . . . um, oh, what’s the word. I can’t think of it. Forest-people.”
“You didn’t strike your head, did you?”
“You have twigs stuck into you,” Aurue said. “Let’s have a look at my wing.”
Ileth climbed off him, passed around under his neck—he flinched a little and she reprimanded herself; dragons were twitchy about their necks—and stood by his head.
“What was it, you think?”
“A bombard or an aerial trap.”
There was a museum of sorts in the old Charge’s residence. The cellars of it were full of projectiles and hooks that had been removed from dragons. Whatever they’d fired at Aurue hadn’t left anything behind to add to the collection.
