Storm of Wings

by Chris Bunch

  Only the spring rains were holding them back from driving hard toward Sagene's capital of Fovant. But each day, the salient grew longer, a finger reaching into the heart of Sagene.

  Deraine's First and Second Armies were stripped of any unit not vitally needed, all offensives against the Roche were put aside, and all replacements arriving in Paestum were detached on temporary duty to units in the Third Army, now engaged with the enemy.

  So Hal's entire graduating class of novice fliers, and their beasts, were ordered south, at all possible speed. The Third Army needed them for scouts, spies and couriers.

  The roads below were packed with troops, marching, riding, in wagons. Hal was very glad to be high above the roiling mud below. His dragon wanted to find a nice, dry cave and hole up until the weather changed, but he drove it onward, and eventually it gave up squealing protest when he led it out from the canvas aerie the detailed quartermasters set up every night when they camped.

  South and south they went, but it never got warmer, and the fliers wore everything they were issued, and still shivered.

  Some of them—Feccia among them—got in the habit of buying whatever brandy they could find in their flights. Hal took barely a nip on even especially frozen mornings. He'd already learned brandy as a friend could quickly become brandy as a creaking crutch, and wanted none of that.

  Of course the villagers along the roads were either bought or looted out by the time Hal's detachment passed, but the dragons had the option of flying away from the march routes, finding villages who barely knew there was a war, eager to trade, sell or even patriotically give away their produce, eggs, or drink.

  It didn't make much of an impression to the ground-bound soldiery, seeing dragons float back to their wagons at dusk, laden with plunder. The elderly infantry warrant who'd been put in charge of the formation seemed to have no objections to what was going on, and Hal shrugged, it not being his concern. It didn't, however, improve his mood to hear the infantry give them new labels: "Defenders of the Veal."

  "Champions of the Poultry Run."

  "Guardians of the Keg."

  "Omelet Defenders," and so forth.

  At least he and Saslic were able to be together at least every third night or so, when one or another didn't have guard duty around the dragons.

  Other fliers made similar arrangements, or, like Farren, chased after any women they encountered with the dignity of a hound in heat.

  There were persistent rumors of bandits abroad, or cross-border partisans, but Hal never saw any, and these scoundrels were, according to the tales, either a day's march in front of or behind the yarn-spinner.

  Before Bedarisi the open roads that had given the soldiers speed changed. Now the roads were packed with refugees, fleeing ahead of the advancing Roche armies.

  Hal would always remember a few things from those days.

  An old man, pushing an older woman in a barrow, and, from the time they first saw the pair until they vanished around a bend, she never stopped railing at him.

  A middle-aged man, wearing nothing but long winter drawers, carrying only an ornate old clock taller than he was.

  Three wagons full of young women, who claimed to be from a religious school, and were full of laughter. But if they were religious, they had scandalous rites, although those men—and a few women—who hadn't made bed partners seemed to enjoy their company. Hal and Saslic visited their camp, across from the dragon fliers, for a glass of wine, and Saslic noted, behind the laughter, the fear in the women's eyes, and the way they kept glancing south, toward the oncoming Roche.

  A wizard, with two acolytes, their robes stained with travel, trudging along. Farren landed his dragon, got provisions from one of the fliers' wagons, and walked for a third of a league beside them, then came back.

  "Dreadful bad it is, in the south," he reported. "Or so the mage says. Roche cavalry ridin' here an' there, lootin', cuttin', murderin', rapin', and the Sagenes don't seem to be able to stop 'em.

  "He says we'll have our jobs set for us, an' wished us luck."

  Hal asked why the man's magic hadn't kept him from becoming another wanderer, and Mariah, serious for once, had said, "I guess magic don't al'as help the one who's castin' it. Sure fire it didn't make m' grandsire rich, just notable. Guess that the gods, whoreson bastids that they be, don't want wizards comin' up as kings or, worse yet, competin' wi' them.

  "That gives us some sort of order, I guess, 'though, thinkin' from present circ'mstances, I wouldn't mind if they let an option out f'r one short amat'ur witch, who's doodlin' around in the wilderness wi' dragons at present, needin' all the help he can get."

  One day they were stranded before a washed-out bridge, waiting for the pioneers to rebuild it. There was a small country inn on a promontory over the river, but its proprietor said, mournfully, he'd sold everything he had in the way of provender, and their chickens and ducks had been pirated away by either soldiers or refugees.

  Mynta Gart flew away northwest on her dragon, and came back two hours later with a cargo net full of foodstuffs bought in distant villages.

  She refused the proprietor's money, told him to build omelets, and the man's two daughters went through dozens of eggs at a time until the fliers thought they might cluck and peck at each other.

  Now their forced march from Paestum caught up with them, and Hal could feel fatigue at his back. But he said nothing, and cut Vad Feccia off sharply when he whined about sore muscles, merely pointing to the road they'd pulled away from, at the long lines of infantry, plodding through the mire, a pace at a time, and with nothing but a groundsheet and what they had scrounged from the roadside or begged or stolen from passing wagons for rations.

  They reached Bedarisi, the streets crowded with fleeing citizens. It took them two full days to work their way through the jammed streets to open country again.

  Feccia suggested low-flying the dragons over the crowd, and hoping some terror would clear the way, but the old warrant forbade it.

  Beyond the city, they saw their first Roche dragons, swooping and diving in the distance, spying the country, and felt the war close on them.

  Two of their dragons saw them, and Hal was pleased with their response—angry hissing and snorts, their heads snaking back and forth, mouths open, fangs dripping. He hoped the fliers mirrored their attitude.

  Now the roads, such as they were, country tracks worn wide and into sloppy ditches by the army's passings, were empty once more of everything except the military.

  They stopped at an enormous post at an intersection of three of these tracks, a log stripped of leaves and branches, and buried vertically. On it were half a hundred wooden boards, each pointing to where a different formation might be found.

  Far at the top, Farren saw a small painted dragon.

  "Or else't a winged worm," he opined.

  They turned the wagons down that track, and went on for several leagues, passing encampments, ration dumps, stables.

  The track emptied into a wide meadow, with a pond at one end, and there they found the dragon flight.

  Hal kept his face blank, but Farren, Feccia and some others gaped in shock.

  Expecting lines of hopefully weatherproof huge stables for the dragons, and neat barracks to the side for the men, they saw, instead, some tattered tents, worse than the ones the former students had brought with them, patched here and there with other colored canvas or even cloth. Some of them had torn grommets, and were held to the ground, flailing in the strong wind, with branches for stakes.

  The human quarters were even worse, everything from huge packing crates to tiny infantry tents to sod-roofed shanties supported on logs and "found" lumber.

  It looked like a proper base—one that had been struck by a tornado, and then reoccupied by trolls.

  There were a handful of people about, most seemingly doing nothing except squelching back and forth on the open meadow in front of the squadron's buildings.

  One woman was watering a dragon at the pond.<
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  At both sides of the meadow were catapults, with infantrymen manning them.

  A single dragon patrolled the air overhead, flying in endless circles around the meadow.

  Hal ignored the moans—as an old soldier, he noted what must be the cooktent, a large, well-pitched tent, with smoke coming from chimneys at the front and back.

  Seeing that, he knew that everything had not fallen apart.

  "Do you want me to report in, sir?"

  "I'd appreciate that," their escort warrant said. "Now we're away from my grounds, and on yours."

  Hal caught himself, glanced at Sir Loren Damian, who grinned damply, but made no protest.

  There was a guidon pitched in front of a bell tent, and Hal went to it, knocked on the ridgepole.

  "Enter."

  He pushed the outer flap aside, and walked into a tent crowded with four cots, one piled high with maps and sword-belts.

  On another, a man snored loudly, a ragged cloak pulled over him.

  Sitting at a field desk sat a man whose body and face were sculpted by exhaustion. Hal was tired, but this man was beyond that.

  "Serjeant Hal Kailas," Hal said, clapping a hand to his breast. "With eighteen other dragon fliers and mounts, mobile, as ordered by First Army Headquarters."

  The man blinked, rubbed his eyes, picked up a bottle of brandy, and uncorked it. He shook his head, and put the bottle away.

  "I am assuming for the moment you're not a magician's imp, sent to taunt me with impossibilities."

  "Nossir. I'm… we're for real."

  "Just maybe there are gods," the man breathed, realized Hal was still holding the salute. "Sit down… or, anyway, find something to lean against.

  "I'm Lieutenant Sir Lu Miletus. Someone said I was going to be a captain, but the orders seem to have gone awry.

  "You said nineteen dragon fliers?"

  "Yessir."

  The man stood, extended a hand, and Hal clasped it. Miletus looked as if he'd been studying to become a priest or other ascetic before the war, with his lean, long-faced, somber expression. But Hal saw smile lines on his face.

  "Nineteen," Miletus breathed again. "That just might put us back in the war. Any support people?"

  "Nossir. We were told you'd have all necessary ground personnel."

  "We did," Miletus said. "Until the dragons brought the cavalry on us. At least we didn't lose any of our beasts… all ten of them.

  "And now, just a little late, we've got those arrow-throwers assigned to keep us safe from intruders."

  He shook his head.

  "Never mind. We've gotten so good at making do with very little we can probably win this godsdamned war with absolutely nothing."

  He pulled on a muddy cloak.

  "Let's go see how we can get your people settled, Serjeant. I'll tell you beforehand I'm going to make myself rather loathed, since I'm going to take away five of your dragons from their masters."

  Hal kept his face still.

  "My fliers—all six of them—have more experience… I assume that none of you are more than school-trained?"

  "That's correct. Sir."

  "Don't look so sour, man. What I'm doing is not only best for the flight, but it might keep some of you alive.

  "Also, all of you are grounded until I personally give you permission."

  He grinned, noting Hal's deliberately blank look. "And I don't mean to denigrate you by keeping you out of harm's way for the moment.

  "You'll see. You'll see your training didn't really give you any help for what's out here.

  "Now, let's get your men fed, and start finagling for quarters."

  "Four of us are women, sir."

  "I'd heard they'd finally gotten around to recognizing the other half," Miletus said. "Not to worry. I don't think any of my men have enough energy to raise a smile, if that was your concern."

  The new ones were quartered here and there, some in existing tents, some in the smaller tents they'd brought with them.

  The escort warrant and his men rode back the way they came, showing evident relief they wouldn't be required to get any closer to the war zone than they already had.

  Miletus didn't, as far as Hal saw, quiz any of the replacements about who was the best flier, who the worst. Instead, he put them up, one by one, over the meadow, ordering them to do certain maneuvers.

  Hal quickly found out neither war nor careless habits had driven the flight into slovenry.

  They'd been hammered hard when the Roche crossed the lines, losing fliers and dragons to Roche magic, their catapults, which were brought up just behind the front lines, weather, and two to enemy dragons, who'd attacked their beasts until the Deraine dragons went out of control, whipping across the skies and losing their riders, then vanishing into the mists.

  Bad enough… but then the dragons had guided enemy cavalry through the shattered Deraine positions to the flight's base.

  "Everyone," Miletus said tiredly, "became infantry, and we fought as well as we could." He looked around sadly. "Which wasn't very, I'm afraid, although at least we drove them back.

  "The closest thing we had to a hero was Chook, the cook."

  Hal waited for an explanation, but none came.

  "The Sagene command offered us infantry to guard the base, but I told them to keep the men on the lines, except for those catapult men. There isn't anything here worth another attack." He brightened. "At least not 'til your arrival."

  He grinned. "I'm certain you find that reassuring."

  Hal found a relatively dry bell tent, with four cots. Three of them were bare, the fourth occupied by a wiry man with amazing mustaches, who introduced himself as Aimard Quesney, and told him to take any bed he wanted.

  "Won't I be disturbing anybody?"

  "If you are, and anyone says anything, move out sprightly," Aimard said. "For they're all quite dead, and I'm getting tired of waiting for their ghosts."

  "Small, but cozy," Saslic said, waving a hand around her hut. "Note the greenery on the roof, which'll go well with my face when I think about what I got myself into wanting to play soldier."

  The hut was small, ten feet on a side. But shelves had been built along the walls by a skilled carpenter, and there were cleverly-hinged windows on either wall.

  "Built for two," Saslic said. "But I hid the other cot before anyone could claim it."

  "Why?" Hal asked.

  "Did your mother have any sons with intelligence?"

  "I don't guess so. Explain."

  "I thought a certain northern fool might want to come visiting from time to time, and since I'm not into either threesies or witnesses, I thought we might like privacy."

  "Oh."

  "Speaking of which, why don't you slide the door shut? I noticed you coming back from the pond, looking cleaner than you have since we left Paestum, and thought you might be interested in messing about."

  In the dimness, Hal saw her slide out of her coveralls, and lay back on the bed.

  "Close, but perhaps we can manage," she murmured.

  Later, as they lay together, Hal had a question.

  "I know men aren't supposed to ask and all. But what's going to happen to us?"

  Saslic kissed him on the nose.

  "Why, we're going to get killed. Preferably nobly, in battle."

  "Oh." Hal thought. "No. I'm going to live through this."

  "Of course you are," Saslic drawled. "That's what everybody who filled up all these empty cots knew."

  "No," Hal said stubbornly, trying to sound as if he were positive about things. "I'm going to survive."

  "Well, good for you," Saslic said. "I'm not. Which is why I haven't bored either one of us talking about love, or after the war, or anything else beyond this moment. So remember me fondly when I'm gone, and name your first child after me.

  "And as for immediate moments…"

  She moved close, hooked a leg over his thighs, and pulled him on top of her.

  "Remember, anything you don't see might kill
you," Miletus said over his shoulder. "C'mon, Fabulous. Get your arse in the sky."

  He tapped reins, and the dragon's wings flapped slowly, and it took a few steps forward. Then it was clear of the mucky ground, and climbed into the skies.

  Hal, sitting behind Miletus, tried to keep the map he'd studied ready, and glanced at the compass clipped to his fur-lined jacket, then put it away, mindful of Miletus' orders to keep his eyes on the sky, not anywhere else.

  He shivered at the chill spring wind blowing in his face, and decided, before next winter, if he lived that long, he'd have to have someone make him furry thigh boots like Miletus wore, and some sort of tie-down fur-lined cap.

  They flew south-south-west, toward the salient.

  "I'll skirt the edges of the battleground," Miletus shouted. "No point in giving their damned catapults a shot at a virgin, now is there?"

  The lines were clearly demarked—two long scraggly rows of huts, with most of the vegetation in front cleared, the woods around cleared for firewood and building materials. Between them was open, rutted-land torn by marchers and horsemen.

  They flew down the lines, turned, went back the way they came, turned back to base.

  Miletus slid out of the saddle, tossed the reins to one of his handlers, said, "Well? What did you see?"

  "Not much of anything," Hal said honestly. "Smoke from fires, a couple of horsemen back of the lines."

  "That's all?"

  "Yessir."

  Miletus shook his head.

  "And you're a combat veteran. Kailas, if you expect to be alive in a month, you'd better learn to sharpen your eyes.

  "First, you missed a flight of three dragons, ours, but they could well have been Roche, moving east, just west of that little bend in the lines that's marked as the Hook.

  "Second, there was a Roche dragon circling a position about a mile north of them.

  "Then there was that stationary cloud over that ruined village."

  Kailas looked perplexed.

  "There was a wind blowing, maybe seven, eight miles an hour. Clouds don't hang about when there's wind, correct?"

  "Nossir."

  "That'd suggest, if we were a proper scouting patrol, to take a look. Probably the cloud is magically cast, and there's most likely something underneath it the Roche would rather we not see.