by Chris Bunch
"I'll send a couple of beasts up as soon as I finish with you.
"Then there was a column of cavalry, a company, perhaps more, riding toward the southern end of the salient, which would suggest someone's up to no good.
"Lastly, and you couldn't have known this, we passed over a scruffy little forest that was a nice open piece of land yesterday or the day before."
"Magic?"
"Probably not," Miletus said. "More likely camouflage nets. By the size of the area, I'd guess an encampment of a company, perhaps more, on the move.
"On patrol, it'd be your job to get lower and closer, and find out what sort of unit."
Hal had nothing to say.
"Your most important weapons are your eyeballs," Miletus said. "Keep looking, keep moving your head about. And don't forget to keep looking over your shoulder.
"The Roche love to creep up on you from the rear.
"When you can find one, buy a nice lady's scarf, the softest silk or lamb's wool you can find. That'll keep your neck from getting chafed.
"Pity there's no way to clamp a mirror somewhere on a beast's neck plate.
"Now you see what we face, and what you've got to learn.
"I'll sign you off for patrol—but only with an experienced flier, until he tells me you actually stand a chance of staying alive around here."
Chook was a large, jovial, nearly bald man, who claimed that his family owned the biggest—and, of course, the best—restaurant in Rozen, with a clientele of knights, dukes, even, once or twice, the king himself, "though he came in disguise, of course," plus a goodly contingent of the royal court's magicians.
No one knew if he was lying, but no one cared. Chook was not only a superb cook, but could almost always make something close to edible out of the iron rations they mostly lived on these days.
He prided himself on his "beef in the grand tradition of Chook," which consisted of the smashed dried beef they were issued, the iron-hard crackers, powdered milk, and assorted liquids and spices from the huge wooden cabinet that was always kept locked.
It was this cabinet that'd made him into a hero. When the Roche cavalry attacked, he'd stayed in his mess tent, until four cavalrymen dismounted and, sabers ready, came looking for some food or drink to loot.
Chook told them to get out.
They laughed, started toward him.
The first two were bowled over by one of the long wooden benches he threw at them. The third slashed at the cook, who ducked around the stroke and hurled him against the glowing stove.
The fourth turned to run, and Chook threw, with unerring aim, the cleaver he used to behead any looted chickens. It buried itself, with a dull chunk, in the back of the man's head.
Miletus heard the sounds of sobbing, ran into the tent, saw the fourth corpse, the third man's head stuck into the open oven door, charring nicely, and the other two with ghastly saber wounds in their chests from their own blades.
Chook sat at a bench, crying bitterly.
If few were stupid enough to criticize his cooking before, for fear he'd throw a pet and lose his brilliance, no one at all dared after the slaughter.
"So what should I be most scared of?" Hal asked Aimard Quesney.
He raised an eyebrow almost as groomed as his mustaches.
"Odd for anyone to be owning to fear," he replied. "I thought we were all fearless knights of the air, and so on and so forth and I was the only one who…" And he broke into song:.
"There's a dragon leaving the border
Limping its way toward its home
With a shit-scared flier a-clinging
With a grip that'd bruise to the bone.'"
He hiccuped, pushed the flagon of fairly decent wine at Hal, who shook his head.
"I'm on my first patrol tomorrow."
"Have a drink anyway," Aimard said. "Gods know I will." He swilled, ignoring his glass. "It's easier to die with a hangover. Besides, it gives you an excuse for drinking the next day."
The flight had a separate club/mess for the fliers, administered to by the legendary Chook. It was no more than a raggedy tent, with planed logs for benches, and a long bar their rather pathetic supply of alcohol sat behind. The canvas walls were pinned with cutouts from the broadsheets of Deraine and Sagene: sketches of beautiful ladies, pertinent letters, stories of society and such.
The best thing was that the mess was open around the clock, with either Chook or one of his assistants standing by.
"To be most afraid of," Quesney mused. "First, your own dragon, who'll be the most likely to kill you, chewing your leg off, or just dumping you off to see if you can walk on air like it can.
"Second, the weather closing in, and you getting lost in it, or blown into a mountain or forest.
"Third… leave third for a minute.
"Fourth, the Roche on the ground, with their catapults, crossbows and archers. If you're hit, try to steer your dragon as far away from the troops as you can, for they'll treat you most harshly should you fall into their hands.
"At least, try for some soldiers you haven't been spying on, and hope for their tender mercies.
"Fifth, our own soldiery, who'll be as quick to launch a bolt at you as the Roche. Perhaps, since we're losing, a bit more quickly.
"Sixth, our own command, who haven't the foggiest what a dragon's supposed to do, and so will punt us into the most unlikely places and situations.
"Now, to go back to third." Quesney paused.
"That, of course, is the enemy dragons."
"What will they do?" Hal asked.
"What they'll try to do is scare you away, back away from the lines and your scouting.
"If there's one in the vicinity, they might try to attack with one of their teams. That's if their dragons decide they want to attack you, which is very seldom.
"They'll try to tear you off your dragon, or tear at your dragon's wings and body, though that's rare enough. Generally they make great pains of themselves, and occasionally get lucky, and one of them'll be close enough to get in with that snaky head and have a bite of you."
"Has anybody thought of taking a magician up, and having him cast a spell against the Roche dragons?" Hal asked, thinking of some of the ideas in his notebook.
Quesney looked puzzled, shook his head.
"Doubt if you could find a wizard stupid enough to strap himself on the back of a dragon. And it'd take long enough to build a spell so that everyone concerned would be miles away by the time it swirls into life."
"What about an archer?"
"Never heard of such an idea. Can't imagine a bowman astute enough to be able to cling on, and aim while some nasty monster's hissing and snapping at him," Quesney said. "Why? Are you planning on starting a one-man war in the sky?"
Hal smiled, poured a glass of water.
"I don't like that idea," Quesney said. "Just flying's enough of a hazard.
"Start bringing in that kind of thing, and we'd be no better than those poor bastards down in the mud, now would we?"
Hal's stomach was roiling gently, but he had enough remove to think of laughing at himself. As a cavalryman, he'd led patrols into Roche territory a dozen, a hundred, who knew how many times?
But here he was, as his dragon climbed away from the flight's base, with Aimard Quesney to his left and, beyond him, Farren Mariah, on his first dragon patrol.
He determined he'd follow Miletus' suggestion, and kept his head moving, swiveling like his dragon's, who also seemed eager to spy something out.
The day was starting to warm, but there were huge thunderheads towering over the land. Quesney had said they were to fly east along the salient, toward where the lines had been before the Roche attack, until the weather broke, which it would, and then strike back for base.
Hal kept his reins loose, scanning the ground below. Nothing, for a long time, then movement. A column of infantry, heading away from the lines.
Hal jotted a note on the supposedly waterproof pad he had strapped to his knee.
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Something moved at the corner of his eye, and he saw two dragons, not far distant, flying toward him.
They closed, and he saw, with relief, they were Deraine, passing no more than a hundred yards away, with a wave.
Hal's dragon, though, cared little about man's definitions, and hissed a loud challenge, which the evidently older and certainly wiser dragons ignored.
Smoke down below… He couldn't tell what it came from. But the plume was large enough to warrant a note.
The clouds were closing on them, and he kept glancing at Quesney, who seemed oblivious.
Far in the distance was a flight of three dragons. Quesney slid a glass out of his boot-top, focused, then lifted a small trumpet, and blatted two notes.
One, Aimard had said, meant return to base. Two was enemy in sight, other toots had other meanings.
So there were the Roche, perhaps half a mile distant, no, more, Hal thought, allowing for the rain-rich air's magnification.
Quesney waved an arm, pointed down, and Hal pulled his reins right, tapped them on the dragon's neck, and the beast's head lowered, and the three dove away from the enemy, who showed no sign of having seen them.
They landed at their base, handlers running out to meet them, just as the rain began.
In the next three days, Hal made five more patrols, finally being trusted with a solo mission. The other novices were cleared for patrol, and enough dragons were assigned so the flight was at full strength, at least in the air, and everyone had a monster of her or his own.
On the ground, the formation was still woefully undermanned: at full strength, a flight should have about eighty men. The fliers were at the top of the pyramid, below them two stablehands for each monster, teamsters, cooks, clerks, blacksmiths, orderlies, leathersmiths, veterinarians, and so forth. Hal wondered why there weren't any magicians assigned, and Miletus laughed hollowly. "I'm sure, eventually, we'll get them. As soon as every infantry and cavalry regiment have them, plus all headquarters, supply people and any other unit who's been around for 150 years or so."
Then the storm closed in on them.
So far, no one had died, and Hal had come the closest to Roche monsters.
No one thought this would continue.
Hal was going through his notebook, staring gloomily out at the driving rain.
Saslic curled on the back of his cot. Quesney snored gently on his own cot, mustaches waving.
"Hey," Saslic said. "Aren't you bored?"
"No," Kailas said. "Thinking."
"I am. You want to go have a beer?"
"Not especially."
"You want to go for a walk in the rain?"
"Why?"
"Fresh air's good for you. What're you thinking about, anyway?"
"Oh… crossbows… magicians… if there's any better way of passing on information than those stupid little trumpets. Things like that."
"Hmmph," Saslic said. "You're bound and determined to grow up to be a dragonmaster, aren't you?"
Hal grinned. "I haven't heard that word used since… since before the war. I don't know if it applies."
"Maybe it should," Saslic said. "Maybe if this godsdamned war drags on much longer, it'll come back."
"Meaning what?"
"Considering the Way you seem to be thinking, somebody who's figured out a way to kill Roche dragons."
"Dragons," Hal said. "Maybe. Or maybe their fliers. A dragon without a mount isn't all that dangerous."
"Why are men so bloody-minded?" Saslic asked thin air. Receiving no answer, she got to her feet.
"All right. Last offer. You want to go help me make up my bed?"
Hal lifted an eyebrow. Saslic giggled.
They pulled on their cloaks, and went out, into the storm.
Aimard Quesney opened one eye, grinned, then went back to snoring.
The weather broke for an hour, and Hal volunteered for a patrol. Miletus shook his head, muttered something about people too damned eager for a medal, and nobody else on the front would be in the air, but approved. Hal's dragon plodded through puddles, wings thrashing, then came clear of the ground.
By rights, Hal thought, a dragon base ought to be on a bluff somewhere, so the poor monsters didn't have to work that hard to get airborne. But in this sector there was little but rolling flatland for leagues around.
Hal circled the field, picking up height through scattered clouds, then turned his dragon toward the salient.
He was within a league of the lines when he snapped to full alert.
To his left, a flight of three Roche dragons. To his right, two more flights.
Something was very much afoot.
He could see no sign of any other Deraine beasts.
Ahead, he saw another three dragons climbing.
Hal thought quickly. Of course he couldn't proceed. But…
He had an idea, turned his dragon back the way he'd come, as if fleeing the watchful Roche, flew for the shelter of a cloud. Hidden, he dove for the ground, then banked back toward the salient. He flew no more than fifteen feet above the ground, his dragon's wings beating hard.
He climbed above trees, over abattis, tents, noted a Deraine flag near one pavilion, then was over broken ground.
Hal gigged his dragon for speed, and the beast's wings thrashed, like a ship's sails in a gale, and he was over the Roche positions, moving too fast for anything other than dimly heard shouts, and one arrow that missed by leagues.
A road junction was in front of him, and Hal's jaw dropped. The roads were packed with Roche troops, marching in close formation.
On another, parallel, rode columns of cavalry.
Below him, quartermaster wagons were being moved closer to the lines, unloaded for fresh supply dumps.
Their army was on the march.
He chanced overflying the junction, further into the salient, and every road, it seemed, had soldiers on the move.
The Roche must've used the break in fighting and the storm to rebuild their forces, and now were mounting an offense intended to end the deadlock, smash into open country, once and for all.
But no Deraine, evidently, had heard, seen or reported anything. No courier had come to the base with any reports of this…
Hal heard a screech, looked up and behind, saw a Roche flight, three huge monsters, diving on him. Their talons were reaching out for him, claws working in and out.
He jerked his dragon into a diving bank, turned back for his own lines, barely above spare treetops, his dragon flying as fast as its wings could beat.
Behind him, one dragon was closing fast, the other two hanging back, Hal's young beast having energy on the Roche brutes.
If there was some way of fighting back, Kailas thought, I'd let the bastard close, and try to take care of him.
But there was none, and the Roche flier was getting closer. His dragon was far bigger than Hal's, and he had a slight height advantage. Clearly his intent would be to savage Kailas as he overflew him, or else panic Hal's dragon into diving into the ground.
The two flashed over the lines, and Hal thought for an instant he was safe.
But the Roche must've known Hal had seen the troop movement, and must not be allowed to report.
The rain set in, drenching sheets, and Kailas hoped he could lose his pursuers in the gray dimness. But the Roche remained on his tail.
Long before they reached the base, Hal knew, at least that leading dragon would be on him.
There must be something…
Ahead, the ground rose to a stony hillside. Hal forced his dragon even lower, until the beast's talons were tearing across the scrub brush.
He looked back again, and the Roche flier was almost on him, having eyes only for his prey.
Hal forgot about him, saw two trees to his right, aimed his dragon at the gap between them, his monster screeching in unhappiness.
They shot through the gap, the dragon half-closing his wings, branches tearing, the dragon dipping, almost crashing, and Hal heard, behind
him, an enormous crash.
The Roche flier hadn't been watching ahead, and his dragon had smashed into the trees, and pinwheeled, throwing its flier high into the air, arms flailing, trying to stay aloft, with no success.
The other two… The other two were far back, and Hal forgot about them, and went hard for his base.
The great hall of the half-ruined castle was silent, so quiet Hal could hear the patter of rain outside. Through a still-unshattered window, he could see couriers gallop in and out, wagons arrive, leave, marching men disappear out the gate.
It was the very model of an army headquarters.
There were seven men in the hall: Hal, Sir Lu Miletus, and three staff officers. Another wore a dark robe, breeches, and carried a magician's wand.
Standing behind a huge desk, easily dominating it, and the men around him, was the Third Army Commander, Duke Jaculus Gwithian. He was tall, perfectly white-haired, with a warrior's build. He wore dark brown, with a chain mail gorget. This far from the lines, it couldn't be for protection, more likely to remind everyone Duke Gwithian was a fighting leader. Complementing this was a low-slung leather belt, with a sheathed dagger with a jeweled handle.
His voice was a low, imposing rumble, full of certitude.
As far as Hal could tell, thus far on their first meeting, Duke Gwithian appeared to have less brains than a rabbit ensorcelled by a snake.
Frowning, he held a copy of Hal's report.
"I realize, Sir Lu," he said, "you place great trust in your… soldiers, which is a dictate of all commanders. However…"
Miletus waited, his face stone.
"What Duke Gwithian means, no doubt," one of the staff officers said, "is your man Kailas isn't the most experienced flier under your orders, isn't that correct?"
"I think any man who's flown that low, and seen what he saw doesn't need to have any more experience than a boarhound's pup to know what he's looking at," Miletus said, trying to keep his voice calm.
"Still," another staff officer added, "you must agree these circumstances are a bit… unusual. I mean, none of our wizards, none of our scouts, have reported such a move, and this young man sees… sees whatever he thinks he sees."
