Knighthood of the Dragon

by Chris Bunch

  The 34th's were almost as spotless. The 18th's were worn-looking, but Cabet's flight had seen much action. The 20th's were acceptable, although the stablemen could have done with a bit of a cleanup.

  Hal's dragon, Gart said, was named Sweetie.

  Hal winced.

  Gart shrugged.

  "A little letter came with her. She was hand-raised by some backcountry girl, then given to Garadice when he came through looking for remounts.

  "You could always write a letter to the girl—we've got her address—telling her how fond you are of her dragon."

  Gart snickered.

  Hal gave her a hateful look.

  "We'll leave that for Sir Thom, on his next pass through."

  "And I'll make sure to tell him," Gart said, and burst into laughter.

  "I'm delighted," Hal said, "to be taking charge of such a cheerful frigging squadron. I think I shall have all of you whipped."

  * * * *

  Cabet was the first flight commander to arrive, which was just what Hal had expected. He was a small, precise man, with a small, precise mustache, and was known as a worrier. That may have hurt his digestion, but it kept his flight away from any foreseeable disasters, since Cabet managed everything very carefully.

  Mariah had told Hal it was rumored that Cabet planned just when, and where, he would take his twice-daily shits, and was about to elaborate when Kailas told him to get out.

  Pisidia, of the 20th, was the second. He was lean, with a hungry face and close-trimmed beard. He wore an eyepatch, from a wound early in the war, and Hal wondered how he was able to judge perspective with just the one eye. He, too, had a good reputation for taking care of his fliers and dragons, without much regard for the niceties of uniform and decorum the army preferred.

  Last to arrive, announced by a booming laugh, was Richia of the 34th. He was heavy, with a jolly face, a booming voice, and ready laughter. It wasn't until you looked closely at him, and saw his eyes were hard, cold, those of a hunter, that you knew him to be a dangerous man.

  "Sit down," Hal said. "You know who I am, and I know, at least by name, all of you."

  He glanced out of his tent, made sure the posted sentry was just beyond earshot.

  "I have no idea what you think of being put under my command, and don't, at least for the moment, give a damn.

  "There is no time whatsoever for personalities."

  He told them of the upcoming attack.

  All reacted in their own ways: Cabet began scribbling notes on a slip of paper; Pisidia began stroking his beard, looking into nowhere, making plans; and Richia barked a surprised laugh.

  "This could be a chancy thing," Cabet said, looking up.

  "Very much so," Hal agreed. "Which is why I don't propose to make any changes in the way you gentlemen have run your flights, at least until this offensive is over.

  "However, I will issue one standing order. I want your new fliers to be paired with experienced ones, as much as possible. I realize, Cabet, that you were badly struck during the siege, and won't be able to always follow that order, but do what you can.

  "I'll also want a flight of four fliers on constant standby. We'll take one from each flight.

  "This will be a reaction element. If any Roche dragons approach this field, this flight is to get in the air and climb for altitude, whether or not orders are issued, and engage the bastards.

  "I don't fancy the thought of having any of Ky Yasin's black dragons springing a surprise on us.

  "And, speaking of Yasin, any black dragons that are sighted on our side of the lines are to be attacked immediately, always in pairs or more, and hopefully will be outnumbered.

  "I want any other Roche dragons to be treated roughly, and I have no interest in any fair fighting or dueling.

  "Kill the Roche when we see them, don't let them escape, especially if they might have gathered any information."

  "What about claims, Lord Kailas?" Richia asked.

  "I don't understand."

  "Say one flier attacks a dragon, wounds it. He loses the dragon for a moment, and another flier kills it. Who gets the victory?"

  "It'll be split," Hal said, "and I'll let you figure out how you'll explain to your granddaughter that you killed half a dragon."

  There were smiles.

  "Whatever your policies are," Hal said, "you might know mine. The only dead dragon I care about counting is the last one of the war."

  "So we've heard," Pisidia said. "I think getting numbers-happy does no good for a flight—or a squadron's—morale."

  "And I quite disagree," Richia said. Cabet said nothing.

  "Another thing," Kailas went on. "I don't much give a damn about titles, or even being sirred, except when things are formal or when there's outsiders about."

  "Good," Pisidia said. "There's too much flumpf about this war already."

  "Formality has its place," Cabet said.

  "Agreed," Pisidia said. "In the king's court, not over here."

  "Well," Cabet said, "my men and women will continue to show proper respect."

  "Run your flights as you wish, as I've said," Hal said, standing.

  "Now, before I talk to the squadron, I want to wring a few knots out, and make sure I still know how to fly."

  * * * *

  "Well," Hal said, "let's see what we're made of." He shuddered a little. "Sweetie."

  The dark red and brown dragon looked over her shoulder at him, blatted. Hal couldn't tell anything from that, but, since the beast seemed to know the name she'd been given, that meant he wouldn't be able to give her a better name.

  He grabbed a scale, pulled himself up into the saddle, settled back and tested the reins. They were taut.

  Kailas noted about half the squadron had drifted to the sides of the field, and were watching carefully, pretending to do other tasks.

  This was part of the ritual of command.

  If a dragon flier was worth a damn, he or she believed she was the absolute best. Around outsiders, a flier would swear that her flight commander was just a touch better, although that came from greater experience, not ability, of course.

  So when a new commander appeared, it was expected that he would show his flying ability—unless he was one of those who led from the ground, which meant being held in complete, if unspoken, contempt.

  It was stupid but Hal admitted to himself that he believed the same as any other flier.

  "You're going to hate me before this is over," he said, and kicked the dragon in its slats.

  It lumbered forward, lurching from side to side, its huge wings reaching out.

  Then the awkwardness was gone as the dragon was in the air, wings striking down hard, lifting more slowly, and the ground shrank below Hal's boots.

  He let Sweetie climb to about two thousand feet, then, using reins and feet at first, tapped her into a series of turns. She responded well, and Hal went through another series, this time just with the reins.

  Again, the dragon obeyed.

  Hal realized he shouldn't have been surprised—she supposedly had been trained by Garadice, a dragonmaster before the war, when the term meant a man who traveled about, giving rides, and doing stunts. Garadice's son had trained and served with Hal, and had been killed by Yasin's black dragons, during the siege.

  He put the dragon into a gentle bank, first right, then left.

  He was looking far out, beyond the torn city of Aude, beyond the ribbons of trenches, where far mountains were lined in pink and gold as the sun moved down the horizon.

  He thought he would give almost everything to be over those mountains, with nothing but this dragon under him, perhaps a pack with necessities lashed behind him, Khiri clinging behind him, or even on her own, and no one and nothing to worry about, except where he might land, buy a sheep for his mount, and cook a sparse meal before laying out his bedroll. At the next dawn, he'd be flying on, into the unknown, day after day, until… until he didn't know when.

  He brought himself back to the pres
ent.

  "Now, let's see how you can work," he said.

  The field was just below him. He put Sweetie into a steep dive with his reins, let the ground close a little, pulled her out at what he guessed was a thousand feet.

  He sent the dragon into another, more gentle dive, brought her back, turning, almost flying inverted, leveled her on an opposite course.

  "Good," he said. "You can have a pullet or something with your dinner. You didn't lose a foot of height."

  Again, he sent Sweetie down and down, the ground rushing up at him, the wind whipping at him. The dragon honked protest, but didn't try to disobey.

  At about three hundred feet he pulled back on the reins, and the dragon's wings flared.

  As it pulled out, a bit over a hundred feet above the field, he tapped its left side, and, obediently, the monster banked, its great wing almost brushing the ground. He brought it out, then turned, and turned again, alternately left and right, then sent it down, and pulled hard.

  The dragon's wings snapped out, and its feet reached for the ground, and they were on the ground.

  Handlers ran up, and Hal slid from the saddle, tossing his reins across it.

  He took a moment to pat the dragon's head as it snaked back, looking at him.

  "Good," he approved.

  His fliers were approaching, Farren Mariah at their head.

  "Not bad… sir," he said. "I'd never trust a new one to be that well mannered."

  "That's because you didn't pay close enough attention in dragon school," Hal said. "I don't have any trouble keeping my mounts in hand."

  Farren sneered.

  * * * *

  Hal had a wagon pulled into the middle of the field, and the flights surrounded him.

  "Sit down if you want," he said, and did the same on the wagon's railing.

  "Welcome to the First Dragon Squadron. We're trying something new, and I'll explain, later, just what I've got in mind. But I hope that my ideas are right, and this squadron is the signpost of the future.

  "You know who I am… and I've yet to learn about you.

  "Let's hope it's as pleasant an experience as it should be.

  "We're going to be very busy for the next couple of weeks, which I can't tell you about yet.

  "So the old bullshit about my tent's always open for anyone with problems can be set aside for a while. I'm going to be busy, and you are as well.

  "There won't be any time for lollygagging or farting around for a while, so don't give me, my officers, and my warrants any grief.

  "If you do, you'll reap the harvest you sowed.

  "But I don't think there'll be any problems. You old soldiers know what's expected, and you new ones can study their ways and do the same.

  "I don't expect anyone to have any questions this early in the game, and I'm not sure I've learned the answers yet.

  "I'm not one who believes in speeches, and, as you've seen, am not worth much at making them.

  "So fall out now for supper.

  "That's all."

  * * * *

  That night, Hal stood in a corner of the pilot's club, nursing half a pint of weak beer, and watching his pilots.

  They were more than a little nervous. The braver tried to draw him out, into a drinking contest or a game. He smiled thanks at the offer, but refused.

  The veterans he knew greeted him, and were bought a pint. In Sir Loren's case, that meant a mug of nonalcoholic cider. He was as abstemious before combat as always.

  The replacements listened to Hal's easy banter with envy, and thought to themselves that they'd soon be considered worthy of equality as well.

  Mariah was behind the bar with Chincha, and Hal was pleased they were still together and, frankly, still alive.

  Hal and Gart talked briefly, and he knew the fliers were trying to figure out what they were discussing. If they'd known, they might've worried.

  Hal was noting the fliers who were drinking heavily. It wasn't that he gave a damn how much someone drank—by this stage of the war alcohol was the only thing keeping some of the more worn fliers together.

  But drink wasn't a good habit for a young flier to get into, unless he knew what he was doing.

  The old hands could take care of themselves.

  As a gentle guidance Kailas was scheduling all of the replacements who were guzzling heavily for a dawn patrol. They'd quickly learn that flying with a hangover wasn't the easiest way to spend a morning.

  And he would be in the air with them.

  * * * *

  Hal's orderly was a man old enough to be his father, named Uluch, who looked on anything and everything sourly. But he couldn't be faulted in his duties.

  Kailas was quite grateful, especially in the mornings, he hadn't gotten some godsdamned chatterbox.

  * * * *

  Hal desperately wanted to work his squadron to the bone, to make sure they were as sharp as possible before the battle.

  But he knew better. An exhausted flier can be a dead one, very rapidly.

  So he ran his patrols up and down the lines. There was only one fight, and he wasn't lucky enough to get in on it, and it was inconclusive, the two Roche dragons being chased back over Aude.

  It seemed the Roche fliers were holding to their side of the lines as well.

  Kailas wondered what orders they were under, but there were no clues.

  "His" 11th Flight was armed with the repeating crossbows that Farren Mariah had designed. The other three had motley collections of conventional crossbows and short recurve bows. Hal hadn't the time to order the repeaters from Joh Kious's works far to the north in Paestum—yet another thing that would have to wait until after the battle.

  So Hal stewed, and flew, and waited.

  And then the day of battle came.

  4

  The Derainian and Sagene soldiers came out of their hides with a roar, just at dawn, running hard across the dead space between the lines, closing with the Roche.

  From the Deraine lines, ballistae hurled boulders into the Roche, and catapults shot their great arrows at clumps of officers on horseback.

  Hal's squadron had been in the air for an hour, and dawn had come first to them, while the ground below was still black, and shadowed.

  He had the 11th, the best armed, at about three thousand feet, the 18th at the same level, the other two squadrons providing high cover two thousand feet overhead.

  The replacements were gaping down at the battle, the first real fight they'd seen, in spite of orders to keep their eyes on the sky.

  Sir Loren Damian was the first to spot the Roche dragons, half a dozen of them, scattered, climbing for height.

  Communication on dragonback was done by trumpet. He blatted his horn twice—enemy in sight—and Hal replied with one long note—attack.

  The dragons, wings partially folding, dropped on the Roche, talons working in and out, mouths open, hissing, screaming, at least as eager for a fight as any human.

  Above and in front of the straggling Roche monsters were two black dragons, a third as big as the others, known for their ferocity.

  Hal steered Sweetie down on the lead one.

  He had his crossbow lifted, aimed, and there was nothing else in the universe but that black dragon, and its rider, who gaped up at him, then fumbled an arrow out, and nocked it on his bowstring.

  But it was too late.

  Hal's bolt took the rider low in the shoulder, almost in his heart. The rider screeched, dropped his bow, and lost his foothold in his stirrups. He swayed, feet flailing, grabbing for a handhold, forgetting the reins, and slid out of his saddle, and fell, twisting, toward the battleground below.

  Then Hal was past and below the Roche. He fought Sweetie back up, toward the other black.

  But Farren Mariah had sent a bolt into that beast's neck, and he lost interest in the battle, and dove for the ground and home.

  The air was a swirl of color, red, green, yellow, brown, and then it was empty of the Roche.

  There were
three Roche dragons fleeing, and nothing in the air around but Hal's squadron. In the distance, near the flank of the attack, Hal saw other dragons swarming, other Derajnian flights.

  That was the first skirmish, and Hal did a fast count. He'd lost no one, and relaxed slightly.

  He took Sweetie back to height, and then he could look down at the battle.

  It was a swarming melee, already behind the Roche positions. Deraine and Sagene had driven the enemy back, and were pressing hard. Reinforcements were coming up from the Derainian rear, and, on the flanks, the heavy cavalry was being sent in.

  They cut in and out of the struggle, and again the Roche fell back.

  But they fell back without panic, holding their formations, and the cavalry could do no more than nip at their heels, since horses will never charge into anything solid, whether a hedge or a spear-wall.

  Hal didn't see any strong point he might take the 11th, the most experienced in ground attack, down against, so didn't consider wasting his crossbow bolts.

  The Roche fell back and back, all that long hot day. Hal sent his dragons to the base in sections for the men and animals to feed, for no more Roche fliers came up to challenge them.

  Hal had a bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, this attack would do what it was intended to, break the Roche, and the way would be clear for the Deraine and Sagene armies to close on Roche's capital of Carcaor, and end the war.

  But that evening the Roche took up new positions, and Hal, swooping over them, saw the positions had been prepared earlier.

  He was no general, but didn't think that boded well for the offensive.

  His fliers were a chatter of excitement, not wanting to sleep, ready to fight their first battle over and over again. But Hal ordered them to eat and then to their tents, refusing Mariah permission to open "his" club for more than one beer per flier.

  The next morning, they were up and in the air in darkness.

  Below, Deraine and Sagene pressed the attack.

  Again, the Roche fell back, still orderly.

  By nightfall, the new line of battle was five miles or more into the Roche rear. But Hal had seen no sign of mass surrender, no sign of panic.

  The cavalry tried to flank the retreating Roche infantry, but the Roche cavalry blocked them, and there were savage, inconclusive skirmishes.