by Chris Bunch
"I am very damned tired of our plans being ruined by the hesitant or the timid."
Asir didn't wait for Cantabri to say anything, but turned to Hal.
"Your orders are somewhat simpler. I know your flight was badly stricken during the battle, and the new fliers I had sent to you are hardly combat-ready.
"I want you to take over three other flights—I've specified them in my orders to you—and provide aerial security all along the front. I don't want any Roche peepers overlooking our plans for the offensive.
"If they present themselves, make the new black dragon formations and their commander, Yasin, a particular target. We must have, and keep, command of the skies.
"When the attack is under way, you're to revert to normal duties, and provide reconnaissance for our advance, plus, with your added strength, defense for other, smaller flights.
"I know your formation won't be fully trained for what I require, but I have full confidence that you'll fulfill your duties.
"I promised you a great squadron of dragons that I simply haven't been able to provide.
"These four flights, once the battle is over, will be the formation of that squadron. At present, that is the best I can do."
The king smiled wryly.
"I hope that the war will not last long enough beyond this coming victory for you to accomplish that.
"Do either of you have any questions?"
Cantabri and Hal shook their heads.
"I'll give you a further order, but hardly in writing. Neither of you has my permission to get killed. I'll need both of you in the days to come. "That is all."
* * * *
"You swear," Khiri said fiercely, "you didn't know anything about this little game of the king's?"
"I swear."
"You swear you're not going to do anything dumb like get killed?"
"I swear. The king personally forbade it."
"You swear you'll be making love to me enough, for the rest of the night, to make me think you never left when you come back?"
"Uh… I swear."
"Then come here. And one more thing. You'd better be thinking, while you're off getting all dragon-stinky again, about doing something wonderful for me when you get back."
"Like what?" Hal asked.
"You just think about it."
3
Hal heard the eager honk of a dragon before he came in sight of his base. His horse reared at the sound, and he quieted it.
"If you're going to be dragon-shy," he said, "you'd best learn different… or think about becoming glue."
The dragon, a single rider aboard, passed about twenty feet overhead. It was green, with broad red streaks across its belly, and a male.
The monster was fully grown, almost fifty feet long, with twenty feet of that in its lethal tail. On the ground, it would stand around twelve feet tall. Its wings stretched wide, almost a hundred feet.
A dragon, in spite of its size and wingspread, could fly primarily because of its light bone structure, although it preferred, in its wild state, to spend as much time gliding as working its wings.
The warm-blooded creature had a heavily armored body, slightly less on its stomach.
Second only to man in its lethality, the dragon's weaponry was considerable: the head had twin horns, with impressive fangs, and spikes on either side of the snaky neck.
Its most deadly weapon was its tail, which the dragon cleverly used as a flail, a bludgeon, or a strangling cord.
At the neck's base rose a carapace, and behind it a flat area suitable for riders. "Tamed" dragons had holes drilled painlessly in the carapace for saddlery to be bolted into.
All four of its legs had three-taloned claws. There were also talons on the forward edge of the leathery wing.
No one quite knew how intelligent dragons were. In fact, no one had the slightest idea how to measure that intelligence. Everyone agreed they were smarter than dogs or apes, but as smart as a child? Some said they were, others said they were merely quick to learn.
Hal thought dragons were very smart at being dragons, and he didn't try to measure them against men.
Secretly, he thought that if he did, man might come up a bit short.
From here, Hal could smell the musky odor of the animal after it'd passed, and he grinned slightly, remembering Khiri's words about him getting dragon-stinky. Although there were other times she said she liked the faint smell that hung about him, times that made his body stir a little.
He put those thoughts aside as he turned off the "main road," just a rutted highway along the Comtal River, up a bluff to his landing field.
A few miles east, on the far side of the river, was the half-ruined city of Aude, and, beyond that, unseen, the front lines.
Hal hadn't recognized the dragon's rider, guessed he or she must be one of the three new flights he'd been given.
That might present a problem, he knew. He wouldn't have time to evaluate the other three flights, let alone put his stamp of command on them before this, hopefully war-winning, battle began.
Which brought up the idle thought—what would Hal propose doing when the war ended?
That begged the probability that he'd die before it was over. He remembered the words of his first, real love, Saslic, who believed "there won't be any after the war for a dragon flier." She'd died in the disastrous invasion of Kalabas, and taken a piece of Hal's soul with her.
Hal caught his mind's reel, lashed it back into line. There were many things to worry about first.
Such as the crowded near-chaos he saw as he topped the rise and looked down on his command.
Actually, it wasn't that bad, considering that the art of dragon riding had only been accomplished in his lifetime, and the idea of using dragons for anything other than aerial stunting hadn't begun until after the first year of the war, not half a dozen years before.
Especially since he'd planned the field to not only harbor, but conceal, a single flight of dragons.
At full strength, a flight numbered fifteen dragons and their fliers, and eighty men and women whose only duties were to keep the dragons healthy and flying. There were teamsters for the huge oxen-drawn wagons used to move the dragons about when they weren't being flown, cooks, clerks, blacksmiths, orderlies, leathersmiths, veterinarians, and, Hal thought, provided grudgingly, a doctor to keep the distinctly secondary humans functioning.
Hal had been most proud of finding this spot, heavily forested, ideal to hide the huge dragon barns. He'd had the brush and smaller trees selectively cut, concealing the other buildings of the base, and the paths were laid out to hide the movement of men.
He knew what happened when a field was discovered by the Roche dragon fliers, and had wreaked revenge for such a bloody attack.
Now, four flights had been jammed into this field. Trees were being cut down, tents for humans erected and canvas being pulled over skeletal iron hoops to shelter the dragons.
Men and women scurried here, there, intent on their tasks under shouting warrants, and dragons blared, some angry, some pleased, no doubt being fed, others just perplexed at being ripped from their homes to this new base.
A sentry blocked the road. Hal identified himself, and the sentry saluted smartly, and bade him welcome.
Very good, Hal thought. It appeared someone was in charge.
She was.
Mynta Gart came from under a dragon shelter. She was heavyset, an ex-seaman, the 11th Flight's adjutant, and a skilled combat flier. One of Hal's inflexible rules that he would be applying to the new flights was no deadwood. Everyone, no matter what his assignment, was expected to turn to and keep the dragons, and their fliers, ready for combat, and do whatever service required when they came back.
"Welcome back, sir."
"It's nice to be back," Hal said truthfully.
Gart smiled slightly.
"I think we're all doomed, for there's no place that calls home to us except this damned war."
"That," Hal said, thinking of his
estates, his villages, and such, "is an unfortunate truth."
"We were told you were on your way back," Gart said. "Or, rather, I was."
"And given other information to boot?"
"Yessir."
"Let's talk."
"Yessir."
Hal followed her not to the shabby tent he'd been inhabiting before he left for Deraine, but to a large, double-walled pyramid tent, with a wooden floor.
Hal dismounted, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, and Gart shouted up a hostler, who took the animal away.
"Quite a mansion," he said.
"Anyone who leads four flights deserves a bit of comfort," Gart said. "You'll note the shelving, the chairs, all made of packing crates."
"How are the other fliers?"
"I assumed you'd ask that," Gart said. "Equally posh."
Both of them were talking around what was foremost in their minds—the coming offensive. Hal told Gart to sit down.
"How ready are we?" Hal asked.
Gart considered.
"Overall, we're at full strength, men and dragons.
"The eleventh is in fair shape. I've had all of the replacements in the air as much as possible, and had the experienced fliers working with the new dragons. All of the fliers and dragons have had flights over the lines, and are, hopefully, learning to spot a dragon in the air, and a catapult on the ground.
"I've put Sir Loren in charge of the training."
"Good," Hal said. "He's easy with the ignorant. And speaking of ignorant—and the old crew—have we heard from Farren? How is he healing?"
"I don't know how he's healing, but he's here," Gart said. "And troublesome as usual."
Sir Loren Damian, with Mynta and Farren Mariah, had graduated from flying school with Hal and two others, now dead. Farren Mariah had landed on the Aude rooftop with Hal, and saved his life before going down wounded.
Hal had no idea what had happened to the other nineteen graduates of the school and assumed the worst.
"If you agree," Gart said, "I'll have the trainees fly in pairs, new with old, when the attack starts."
"Fine," Hal approved. "At least, as long as it's a standard recon. Don't put any of the virgins on anything shaky. And I'll give orders for any of them to break for the camp if they encounter black dragons. Speaking of which…?"
"We've sighted one or two," Gart said. "Well on their side of the lines, and damned skittish. I went after one, with three backups, and the bastard went for the ground and home. I turned back."
"Good," Hal said. "Maybe I got Yasin a bit twitchy when I shot him at Aude.
"Now, what about my new flights?"
Gart told him things were probably as good as could be expected.
"I can't really say, precisely, sir," she went on. "There's things I like, things I don't like, about all three of them."
"Details," Hal asked, then changed his mind. "No. I'll see for myself. First the dragons, then I'll meet with all four flights, then, this evening, with the fliers in—I assume it's still standing and you didn't put it off limits—their club."
"Off limits? Hah," Gart said. "Farren's decided he is the new officer in charge of the booze, so I think that shack is completely out of my—and probably your—hands."
"That's our Farren," Hal said. "Give me a moment to unpack my saddlebags, and then let's have a look at the shelters."
"Leave the baggage. I've appointed an orderly to take care of you."
"But—"
"But me no buts," Gart said firmly. "You've got over three hundred women and men to take care of. You don't need to be mending your own socks."
Hal didn't think that was very democratic, but conceded her point for the moment.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," Gart said, leaving the tent.
Hal got up, stretched, looking out at the bustle around him. He turned, trying to figure what he would do with an orderly, hoping Gart didn't mean for him—or her—to share the tent.
"Knock, knock," a voice said.
Hal knew without turning who it was.
"Enter, Farren."
"Arrh," the small, wiry man said, obeying. "Now that you're a full squadron commander, do I have to kowtow and genu-genu-genuflect?"
"I'll not hold my breath waiting for you to do that."
"That's wise, boss. Most wise," Mariah said. He looked around the shelves. "Yer back an hour, and there's never a bottle about. Th' damned king's gone and reformed you."
"I doubt that," Hal said. "How're your wounds?"
"Still stiff, still bothersome."
"Why didn't you stay in hospital, or on leave?"
"The thought occurred," Farren said. "Howsomever, there were ladies who seemed to feel marriage'd set right with Mrs Mariah's favorite son. Two of 'em."
"And so you fled?"
"Aye, back to the safety of the front. I don't mind a deal of grief when I go, but I'm not of a mind to start makin' widows and orryphins. At least, not by the set."
Uninvited, he straddled a chair.
"So, we're off to war, eh?"
Hal tried to hide his reaction, evidently without success as Farren snickered.
"What in the hells makes you think that?" Kailas tried, somewhat feebly.
"Ah, when you're supposed to be gone, livin' on the viands of His Royal Hisself for a couple weeks, and then, just after you're gone, all these couriers start zippin' up and down the highways, and Gart's bustling about making sure the pikes are all sharpened and the talons burnisheed… what's a poor lad to think?
"Although, bein' as how there's a grand collection of numbnuts about, I've said nothing, feeling there's none worthy of my wizardy talents."
Mariah did have a bit of the Talent—he claimed his grandfather, back in the warrens of Rozen, had been a notorious witch. And every now and then his spell-casting did work, most spectacularly when he managed to dump a wagon of shit on the dragon-fliers' school's most hated warrant.
"And you're making no move to dig in your duffle and buy me a congratulatory drink," he said.
"I brought no alcohol with me."
"For certain there's a battle brewing… not to mention your brain's a bit askew."
"Perhaps." Hal looked at Mariah steadily. "So what's your call on the squadron?"
Farren held out his hand flat, wiggled it back and forth.
"That good?"
"I'm a real old soldier now, you know," he said, "and there's none to match the old ones who've gone past and under."
Mariah turned serious.
"You know, your dragon, Storm's finally on the mend."
Hal hadn't wanted to ask about the dragon who'd saved his life time and again, but that was, of course, the reason he'd wanted to visit the barns first.
"He took a bad turn, but as soon as I got back, and put him on a diet of farmer's stolen pigs and the odd sheepdog, he started back to health, instanter. And I'll not say whether I cast a spell or six to help."
There was a moment of silence.
"All right," Hal said. "You've wormed it out of me with your wiles. We are going to battle. The day after tomorrow."
Farren made a noise.
"All that traveling up to Deraine was a deception," Kailas went on. "Now, secretly, everyone's back, and we're to attack at once."
"Without running patrols, or aerial searches?"
"Exactly."
"That," Farren said, scratching the top of his head, "will give a bit of surprise, I suppose.
"And we should be hopin' the Roche haven't got their own surprises."
"We'll be taking dragon flights up along the lines, as close to crossing as we can get, tomorrow morning," Hal said. "And by the way, you and Gart are grounded until the battle."
"F'why?" Mariah's voice was an outraged shriek.
"If you go down, you might be made to talk."
"Me? Course, if captured, I always planned on singing like… like one of those birds out there on the tree, assuming the dragons haven't snapped 'em all up for snacks.
But Gart'll never talk.
"And you need me up in the skies, fightin' ready for good ol' Deraine. So you might want to be rethinking that order, or I'll sic a dragon on you."
Hal considered. He'd wanted them on the field to keep order, but if it was to keep the secret from leaking, why was he himself proposing to fly? Not to mention the probability that somebody in the ground forces would let slip, and the Roche would find out the secret.
Hopefully it wouldn't be believed by Roche headquarters, which, when Hal had gone north, had been commanded by Duke Garcao Yasin, head of the Household Regiments and, it was rumored with a snicker, Queen Norcia's "confidant."
Or, if it was, there wouldn't be time enough for the Roche to prepare their positions against the onslaught.
No, keeping Gart and Mariah in the rear, just for the stupid reason of giving them one more day of life, made no sense.
"All right," Hal growled. "Order cancelled. You'll fly with me, as my backup."
Farren grinned.
"I deserve no less. Dragonmaster and Companion of the King."
Hal threw a dagger, fortunately sheathed, at him.
* * * *
Storm was indeed mending, kept in a pen by himself.
He recognized Hal's voice, staggered to his feet, and yawned.
Hal's stomach curled at the dragon's breath.
"We fed 'im a passel of geese an hour or so ago," the stableman said. "T'at hits 'im like a padded hammer."
The veterinarian accompanying Gart and Kailas nodded. "We use poultices, and let the dragon sleep as much as possible, then feed him the best. Your man Mariah's been most helpful."
Storm, having given Kailas recognition, curled around himself, flapped his great wings with a noise like leathery thunder, curled back up, and put a paw over his nose.
"When will he be flying?"
"Oh… short flights, no strain, maybe two weeks," the vet, whose name was Tupilco, said. "No combat for a month."
Hal turned to Gart.
"I assume you've another dragon for me?"
"Already chosen," Gart said. "You can take her up any time you wish."
"After I talk to the flight commanders."
They went on through the cavernous, if drafty, shelters. The llth's older dragons were a bit battered, but all were well-fed and were stirring about, as if expecting the action to come.
