by Chris Bunch
Handlers had already offloaded barrels of beef, and hacked their tops open, one for each dragon. The monsters gulped hungrily, eyes darting back and forth, daring any of the two-legs to bother them.
Soldiers were passing out buns stuffed with smoked fish, onions and pickles. The fliers got their noon meal, cups of tea, and watched the madness.
Hal noted Garadice, standing near one of the dragon pens, and went over. The dragon trainer had a worried expression on his face.
"What are you eating your fingers about, sir?" Hal asked.
"I have no idea what secret—if any, other than endless patience—the Roche trainers are using to train these black dragons."
"Whyn't you ask one?"
"The soldiers say all of the trainers fled into the hills while we were landing. Maybe they're telling the truth, or maybe the trainers had time to disguise themselves as common guards.
"I was hoping we'd take prisoners of either the trainers or magicians, and find out the Roche secrets. But no such luck, and we don't have the time to beat the bushes for them," he said, and as he spoke, a trumpet blared.
"Back aboard," Sir Bab was shouting, the command echoed by his warrants.
One of Limingo's assistants scurried by.
"What's the problem?" Hal called.
He shook his head.
"Not sure, not sure at all. But we've detected some sort of magic out there, just a wisp."
"From where?"
"From the east," and the man was gone.
Hal's back prickled. That unknown dragon that maybe didn't exist had flown away to the east, too.
He looked up at the second flight, saw with a grimace they were very low, no more than two thousand feet overhead.
Bastards didn't want to get up there in the wind, where it's freezing. I'll have them sorted out, he thought, starting for his dragon.
Then he saw dots to the east. Five, flying close together.
He shouted a warning, and his three fliers saw the oncoming dragons, had perhaps a moment to hope they were a wild covey, then realized wild dragons never flew that closely together, and were in their saddles.
Hal jumped on to his mount, jerked the reins, and the dragon growled in protest, but turned away from the last of the salt beef, and sprang into the air.
The flight climbed, circling over Balfe as the last soldiers tumbled aboard, pulling up the transport gangplanks. Anchors had been dropped when the ships pulled up to the pier, and now the ships kedged back from shore, laboriously came about, and put on all sail. Hal saw signal flags going back and forth from corvettes to transports, had no time to watch others as five Roche dragons dove toward the second flight, about a mile away from Hal.
The on-rushing Roche dragons flew hard, wings driving, straight into the four.
The air was a swarm of dragons, beasts slashing at each other with their talons, fanged heads snaking.
A Deraine flier was struck by a tail-slash, sent spinning down toward the sea below. Another was fumbling at his crossbow when his dragon banked sharply, away from an attacker.
Hal could hear him scream as he lost his footgrip, above the screech and scream of the dragons and fell. Hal's flight was level with the free-for-all, and Saslic looked at him, for orders. He pointed up. Better to have altitude before they closed, he knew.
He glanced at the melee, saw it break apart, one dragon with a Roche pennant on its carapace spinning, wing torn away. Another Roche monster was far below, diving, wings folded, into the ground. The two surviving Deraine dragons howled, attacked the three survivors. The Deraine fliers may not have been the best, but they were certainly brave.
The Roche fliers wheeled their mounts and fled, just as a Deraine flier from the second flight slumped down over the neck of his mount, and slowly slipped out of the saddle, falling limply toward rocks.
Then the Deraine fliers, five of them, were alone in the sky over Black Island.
Hal was amazed how much time had passed, looking down, seeing the five Deraine ships well clear of land, at full sail toward the south-east.
He was about to signal his flight to make for the ships, then saw, against the gray haze on the horizon, the specks of ships. He counted twenty, and his eyes were tearing from the cold and wind, unable to make out more.
Hal's fliers were waiting for orders.
He knew what must be done, knew he was probably sending his fliers to their deaths. Hal waved his hand in a circle—keep patrolling. They must stop any oncoming dragons, to keep the Deraine convoy from being followed and destroyed.
The fliers obeyed, waiting.
Hal knew Limingo and his acolytes would be casting every possible spell to turn away Roche magic.
He thought about his warm bunk, about hot soup, about anything other than the cold creeping up his arms and legs.
Time passed.
The dragons honked unhappiness at the boredom.
The Deraine ships were over the horizon, and the Roche fleet, now counted at thirty-five ships, was closing on Black Island, when Hal saw another flight of dragons—once more, five—flying toward him.
He pointed, and his three, followed by the last survivor of the second flight, flapped toward the Roche.
His dragon whined protest, wing muscles tiring, but obeyed Hal's orders.
He had slight altitude on the Roche, motioned for his dragon flight to climb even higher.
The Roche dragons came up toward him, and Hal saw, with a chill, two of them were huge.
Huge and black.
Roche had learned how to train the feared black dragons.
He pushed fear away, picked up one of his crossbows, already cocked, bolt in its trough, steered toward the lead Roche.
They rushed together, and the fear vanished, for icy calm.
At the last instant, the Roche flier broke, afraid of collision, kicking his mount down, trying to dive under Hal. Hal aimed, pulled the trigger and it was an easy shot. The bolt took the Roche in the chest, knocked him back, bolt pinning him to his mount's back.
The dragon bucked, was gone, and Hal forgot him, pulling his dragon's reins as a black monster, almost twice the size of his mount, slashed with its dripping fangs at his dragon's throat.
Then they were past, and Hal pulled his dragon up into a climbing turn, saw a black dragon trying to turn inside him, wings shaking as he slowed into a stall, the sound like dull thunder.
He had his crossbow cocked, a bolt ready, and the black was almost on him, mouth gaping. He put his bolt fair between the beast's jaws, and it howled, bucked, and its flier almost fell, caught himself on the carapace, legs dangling, kicking for a foothold as his dragon rolled on its back, and dove toward the ground.
Again, the brawl was joined. Sir Loren's dragon tore at a Roche's wing, and Saslic took it from the front, talons ripping at its neck.
The last survivor of the second flight was flying in tight circles with a Roche dragon. The Roche broke the circle, was on the Deraine beast, ripping at its chest. Ichor spurted, and the Deraine beast convulsed, fell.
Hal had his second crossbow up, shot the Roche rider in the back, dove under the dragon, fumbling the crossbow string over the cocking fingers, stuffing a quarrel in, and there was a black Roche above him. He sent a bolt toward its gut, missed, hit neck armor, and the bolt skittered away.
The dragon was turning toward him, and Saslic dove on it, shot the dragon in the body as Farren put his bolt into its rider.
A dragon slammed into Hal's mount, almost knocking him free, the Roche monster's fangs ripping at Hal's mount behind the wing. Hal was trying to cock his crossbow as his dragon rolled, lost it, almost grabbed for it, and yanked the other bow from its nook.
Ichor sprayed across Hal's face, almost blinding him, then he saw the Roche dragon turning back to finish him.
But it was very slow, and he had all the time he needed to cock his crossbow, tuck a bolt into the notch, lift it, and fire. The bolt took the Roche rider in his guts, and he grabbed himself with b
oth hands, fell back from his saddle, bounced once on his dragon's tail, and was gone.
His riderless mount dove away, and the sky was clear of Roche, just as Hal felt his dragon shudder and saw the terrible wound in his mount's side.
Then he was diving down toward the sea below, pulling helplessly at his reins, his dragon trying to recover, trying to fly.
He almost made it, lifting himself on one wing and torn remnants of the other, bravely trying for land. But he ran out of sky, and Hal and dragon smashed into the ocean, Hal tossed away, to go deep, water green, turning black, while his thick fingers unfastened his sword-belt, let it fall away.
He kicked at his boots, slid out of his thick coat, and the water was lightening. He broke the surface, gasping.
Not a dozen yards away, his dragon thrashed at the water in death agonies, shrilled, then sank.
Hal Kailas was alone on the tossing gray ocean, the wind catching the tops of waves, turning them white.
Hal waited until a wave lifted him to its crest, rubbed salt-burning eyes clear, looked for land, thought he saw the peaks of Black Island.
A long ways away, but there was nothing else, and so he started the swim, arm over arm. A shadow came over him, and he flinched down before he realized, and looked up.
Saslic's dragon, Nont, banked above him, then, whining in protest, spread its wings as Saslic forced it to the water, splashing down on the back of a wave.
"Need a ride, sailor?" she shouted.
Hal, half drowned, didn't have strength enough for a reply, stroked toward Nont, caught hold of a wing, pulled himself along it and on to the monster's back.
"I guess we should think about going home, hmm?" Saslic called as she goaded Nont into a flapping run through the water, up the back of another wave, and then ponderously in the air, climbing, up to where Sir Loren and Farren flew.
"Before the rest of the party shows up."
Chapter Eighteen
The five ships docked in one of Deraine's western ports, and the stolen dragons were transferred to barges, and sent upriver to a secret training ground of Garadice's.
Hal and the other dragon fliers had expected to be put on a transport, with their three surviving dragons, and sent back to Paestum, the Eleventh Dragon Flight and the charming attentions of Sir Fot Dewlish.
Instead, the dragon fliers, Sir Bab Cantabri, half a dozen of his soldiers and Limingo were given special orders and transportation to Rozen, Deraine's capital.
"An' what do yer think that pertains to?" Mariah wondered. "We got away wi' it, so there'll not be a court martial."
"Medals, lad," a gray-bearded Serjeant said. "We're heroes."
"Mmmh," Farren said, thought for a moment. "That's nice, an' such. But I'll wager it means the army acrost the seas has taken it up the wahiny of late, and the king's lookin' for someat to distract the masses."
"Prob'ly," the soldier agreed. "But haven't you learned to take yer medals where they fall?"
Hal suspected the serjeant was right, since the transportation north wasn't the usual oxcarts soldiers got used to, but carriages more suitable for officers or minor lordlings.
It was cold traveling in the beginnings of winter, but there were crowds down the main street of each village, cheering the soldiers, sometimes even by name, generally Sir Bab, and every night the twelve were put up at decent inns, not crouching over fires in their stables.
Again, Hal noted there were few men about, and the farmers' winter tasks were being done more and more by women.
Saslic and Hal slept in each other's arms each night, waking to make hungry love, evidence they'd lived through the icy seas.
Others took full advantage of the adulation they were getting, and Hal wondered how many village maidens would have children nine months gone.
Saslic commented acidly that she truly admired the patriotism of her fellows, "trying to personally compensate for any war losses. Heroes all."
The two surprises were Sir Bab, who smiled politely at the invitations to linger beyond dinner from the country noblemen's wives and daughters, but no more.
"He's married," Sir Loren announced.
"An' what of that?" Farren asked. "As if anyone'd peach on him."
"No," Sir Loren said. "He's really married. Which means all those saddened virgins, mourning widows and lonely wives are forced to make do with the second best." He smiled, stroked the pencil-line moustache he was cultivating.
The other surprise was two-fold: first that Limingo favored young men rather than women, and the second part was how many small villages had boys eager for his embraces.
Saslic was a little taken aback, thinking that such practices were mostly restricted to cities, but Hal just grinned. Between the road and the army, very little of what people did in bed surprised him any longer.
A day beyond Rozen, the soldiers stumbled into the rather casual formation Sir Bab required for a headcount before the carriages moved off.
"Thank some gods," Farren moaned, peering through red-rimmed eyes at Hal, "pick your lot't' pray to, that we'll be in the city tomorrow. I thought when we lit off, I'd as soon spend the rest of m'life ridin' along, eatin' only the best, and beddin' the lustiest. But I'm worn frazzled. An' walkin' bowlegged."
"Better to ride your dragon," Saslic suggested.
"Y'know," Farren said, changing the subject, "there's not been a maid I've met who objects't' the gamy smell of me. One said dragons make her randier."
"I don't even want to think about her dreams," Saslic said, with a shudder. "And if you'd bath more, like we've been doing, you wouldn't still stink of the beasts."
"Lass," Farren mourned, "you're not thinkin'. If th' ladies love it, who'm I to arguefy?"
If the villages and towns were gleeful, Rozen was hysterical.
"Isn't there anybody at work?" Sir Bab marveled as the carriages made their slow way toward the city's center. He smiled at a woman who tossed him a rose from an apartment window overhanging the street, ducked as someone threw half a winter melon through the carriage window.
"Damn, but I wish they'd stop thinking we're unbreakable," he muttered.
All of them had learned to wear pleased smiles, and wave slowly, to keep from wearing their arms out.
Again, there were far more women than men to be seen, and those men were generally boys, elders or in uniform.
The warrants were betting on which of the City Guard's barracks they'd be put up in, but nobody won the bet, as the carriages were guided into the great Tower complex, where the government of Deraine and King Asir's main castle were.
"An' aren't we shittin' in tall clover?" Farren marveled as they were given separate rooms built into the walls of the Tower itself. "M'mum'll never believe me. I'll have't' steal somethin' of real moment't' prove I was ever here."
* * *
The throne room was a dazzle of tapestries, gold, silk and noblemen and women. But Hal barely noticed. He and the other soldiers, save perhaps Sir Bab and Sir Loren, had only eyes for their king.
King Asir was a bit shorter than Hal's six feet, stocky, with very tired eyes. He wore scarlet velvet breeches and vest, over a white silk shirt, and a mere gold ringlet for his crown.
The soldiers had been issued new uniforms that were tailored to fit in a few hours, told to stand by, and the gods help anyone who had brandy on his or her breath when they were summoned.
They were marched into that throne room, surrounded by Deraine's nobility, and all knelt, bowed their heads, as instructed, when trumpets blared and the king entered.
He was flanked by an elderly lord with a beard and martial stance that challenged belief, and a pair of equerries carrying velvet boxes.
Asir went down the line, and Hal was most impressed at his training, for he knew the names of each man and woman, although a bit of Kailas snickered about what would happen should, say, he and Saslic change places.
He spoke briefly to each of them, a bit longer to Sir Bab, paused at Hal, looked him carefully up and do
wn for a time. Hal tried to hide his apprehension.
"Serjeant Kailas," the king said. "This is the second medal I've given you in three months, the first in person."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Asir took a case from the equerry, opened it, and looped a medallion on a chain around Hal's neck.
"I'm delighted to honor your bravery, not just over Black Island, but in other places as well. You've served since the beginning," Asir went on. "Quite bravely, without proper recognition, both because of circumstance and evident jealousy.
"Fortunately for your building reputation, you're one of the favorites of the taletellers."
Hal, very nervous now, nodded, gulped.
"Yessir… I mean, Your Highness."
Asir smiled.
"Don't get goosey," he said. "Remember, I sit down to crap just like you do."
Hal had no idea whatsoever what the response to that should be.
The king nodded, went on down the line.
Farren, next to him, nudged him, subvocalized: "Whajer get for your medal?"
Hal ignored him.
The king returned to his throne, remained standing.
"I am mindful to make two further awards. Sir Bab Cantabri, come forward."
Cantabri obeyed.
"I now name you Lord Cantabri of Black Island, and declare this title shall be passed down to your heir and his heir, to keep the memory of your bravery fresh in men's minds until the ending of time. It is also in my mind to reward you with more earthly goods, estates, rights, which we shall discuss at a later time.
"Kneel, sir."
Cantabri obeyed, and King Asir took a small, ceremonial sword from the lord, tapped Cantabri on his shoulders and head.
"Rise, Lord Cantabri."
The king embraced him, and Sir Bab saluted, and returned to the ranks. Hal was surprised to see tears running down the hard man's face.
"There shall be one other honor this day," the king went on. "It was in my mind earlier today, but I wanted to meet the man first.
"This is an unusual honor, given not merely because this man is most brave, but is a pioneer member of our dragon fliers, what I have heard some call, before this lamentable war, dragonmasters.
