by Chris Bunch
Hal's fliers spotted Roche cavalry lying in ambush three times, dove, dropping streamers with notes wrapped around pebbles to give a warning.
Hal wished there was some way he could drop more than a pebble. A huge damned boulder on a Roche's head. But dragons couldn't lift anything that heavy, and it would take much training, even if such a device existed, for a flier to be able to hit a target.
Hal, feeling frustrated, with Mariah just behind him, went flashing over the Roche positions not fifty feet in the air. Heavy bolts from catapults flashed up at him, and he came to his senses and broke off the attack.
When they landed for a meal, Farren gave Hal a bolt almost as tall as Mariah, said he'd plucked it from the air at the top of its flight, and added, "Hee-roes might skedaddle along first in line, flashin' their cocks about, but it's their poor damned wingmates trudging along behind that give the fine target.
"No more showin' off, boss, unless there's something to shoot at, orright? That big damned arrow damned near put paid to your favorite flier."
Hal, grateful that Mariah had said this out of earshot of the other fliers, nodded sheepishly.
* * * *
The attack went on, and every day the Roche fell farther and farther back.
Hal, isolated in his camp and in the sky, had no idea what the high command and Sir Bab thought was going on, but one evening, as he was making the last high patrol, it came to him.
In the distance, to the east, mountains rose, now no more than five leagues distant.
Hal suddenly thought he knew what the Roche intended: to retreat on this open ground, which gave neither side the advantage, and take position on the mountains. They could hold the heights until doomsday, and let Deraine and Sagene waste their best trying to reach them.
He thought of darting back, and giving his illumination to Sir Bab, then caught himself. Cantabri was hardly a fool, and could read a map as well as anyone, even if he was deathly afraid of going aloft.
And even if Hal's surmise was a revelation, what could be done about it?
Deraine and Sagene were attacking as hard as they could, leaving a strew of bodies as they advanced.
What more could be done?
* * * *
A week later, the dragon fliers were groggy with fatigue.
They still hadn't had any major engagements with the Roche fliers—their command seemed to be keeping them back, though for what end, Hal had no idea.
Kailas knew if the fliers were tired, even though they were able to land at a base every evening, eat hot food, and sleep in a bed, what shape could the poor damned infantry and cavalry be in?
He remembered his days as a light cavalryman, before he became a dragon flier, and how he and his horse would be staggering with fatigue after scouting for an advance and skirmishing around the battle.
The Roche couldn't be in any better shape. It was demoralizing to retreat, and retreat again, even though done in an orderly manner.
By now, it was indeed clear the Roche had a plan, and it was just as Hal had feared: pull back to the mountains, really not more than a low range of bluffs, and then bleed Deraine and Sagene.
So what if Deraine was occupying Roche territory?
Queen Norcia couldn't care much about this borderland, sparsely settled and garrisoned by the occasional castle.
When Deraine came on one of these, rather than waste time with a siege, they bypassed the stronghold. They could come back later and reduce it.
The retreat went on. There were no surprises to be found from the sky, and, after each dawn's reconnaissance, Hal started taking his dragons low, as soon as the Roche moved back.
They shot down soldiers, got lucky from time to time and killed an officer or courier. Hal was doing this not only to do what little he could to help, but out of pure frustration.
* * * *
Kailas was flying back to his base, the setting sun reddening his wind-battered face, when it came to him.
He realized, and felt like a dolt for his thickness, what Khiri might have meant, back in Rozen, when she told him that he would be expected to do something wonderful when he came back to Deraine.
He landed, turned Sweetie over to a handler, and hurried to his tent.
Dearest Khiri,
First, I love you, and I'm glad that you love an idiot like me. When I return, would you grant me the greatest honor I could have, and agree to marry me?
And then the ground began to rise, and, day by day, the Roche retreated less, and the Deraine and Sagene forces fought uphill.
There was no estimate of casualties so far, but there were rumors that entire Deraine units had been so decimated they had to be pulled from the fight.
And things could only get worse.
Then Hal was summoned by Sir Bab Cantabri to a conference.
It was short.
The attendees were commanders of units on the Deraine west flank. Hal noted no Sagene officers.
"This is a last ditch effort," Cantabri said, "that I'll take command of. We've got to stop the bastards short of the hill-crests, or this war could become even more of a stalemate than it's been."
He pulled the cover off a large-scale map. The canvas, as it fell to the dirt floor of the tent, rattled loudly in the silence.
"Our scouts have found a break in their lines, over here." He tapped the map.
"Our attack will be simple," he said. "We're going to feint on the right with cavalry, then hit hard on the left, here, into this break, with units we've moved away from the center.
"If we can break them, or round their flank, we can roll up their lines like carpets.
"If they stop us… Well, that's the end of campaigning for this year, and we'll be fighting them from here. But if we can smash them before they reach the top, before they start digging in…"
He didn't finish the sentence, nor need to. His hard yellow eyes gleamed.
* * * *
Once more, Hal and half his squadron were in the skies before sunrise, but the hope that this attack would be the breakthrough had torn away their fatigue.
Hal had offered to recon the target area, been refused by Cantabri, who was afraid any extra attention in the area might tip off the Roche.
"Just like we'll attack without any magic. But once we start moving," he said, "anything you can give me will be appreciated."
Even this high in the air, Hal heard the thin blare of the trumpets as the attack was mounted.
Tired soldiery heaved themselves out of the temporary shelters they'd found at the end of the previous day's fighting, started forward.
There was a first, then a second, then a third line of dirty, weary infantrymen who went in.
Hal heard a trumpet toot twice, looked over as Pisidia swung close.
"Down there," the man shouted. "Just in front of the point men."
Hal looked, couldn't see anything, cursed that a one-eyed man could see more sharply, dug his glass from a saddle boot, sent Sweetie around.
"There's a great cave down there," Pisidia shouted. "Or, rather, a whole bunch of 'em."
Then Hal saw the darkness of the entrances. Worse, he saw the flash of metal, and the flutter of banners as hidden Roche soldiers charged out into the midst of the Deraine formations.
"Son of a bitch!" Hal swore. "They've laid a trap. Pisidia, take the message back."
He blew four blasts—assemble on me—and his squadron, scattered across the front, flew toward him. It might be a waste, but it was the least he could do.
He blew two blasts, and, pulling back the cocking handle of his crossbow, let a bolt drop down into the track.
Hal snapped reins down on Sweetie's neck, sent her into a dive, aiming for the mouth of one cave.
Other fliers saw the targets, and followed him in.
Hal brought his dragon out of its dive low, almost at tree-top level, spotted a man on horseback, shot at him, hit his horse. He let go the reins, and worked the slide of his crossbow, reloading it.
Maybe he should've listened to Farren's advice about trusting a new dragon too much, for as he looked for another target, holding on to Sweetie's sides with his legs, something startled the dragon, and she jinked sharply sideways.
Hal lost his balance, slid out of his saddle, dropping the crossbow, grabbing for a hold on Sweetie's wing, scrabbling at the leathery skin, losing his grip again, and falling.
He dropped only about twenty feet, smashed into the top of a tree, tumbled, grabbing for branches, had one, and was safe for a moment.
Then the branch snapped, and dropped him, bruised, bleeding, ten feet to a soft landing on moss.
He rolled to his feet, reaching for his sword.
But there were five, no, a dozen, shouting Roche soldiers rushing at him, spears ready to be cast, arrows ready to be fired.
5
The two leading Roche soldiers skidded to a halt, seeing Hal's ready sword. But they were experienced soldiers. One nodded to his fellow, and they split up, coming in on each side of Kailas.
One chanced a lunge, and Hal's sword flashed out, cutting the spearhead off at the haft. The second struck at almost the same moment, and Hal barely jumped out of the way.
That man was muttering, "Dirty buggerin' dragon bastard, kilt my brother, kilt my brother, dragon bastard, cut your balls off an' feed 'em to you for supper."
Hal saved his breath.
The man drew back, then thrust with his spear, cutting an ugly gash in Hal's thigh.
His fellow had dropped his spear, had a sword out and was about to attack.
Kailas was surrounded by half a dozen soldiers, cheering for the two going in on Hal when a shout came.
"Stop!"
They pretended not to hear, and the one whose brother had supposedly been killed by dragons tried another thrust, which was parried, and then Hal counterthrust, and lopped the man's ear off.
"You heard me," the shout came again. "Stop and stand to attention!"
One soldier turned, reluctantly, reacted.
"Attention!" he shouted, and this time the knot of Roche froze as ordered.
A young officer—Hal didn't remember Roche ranks that well—pelted in. He carried no weapon, only a short stick.
"When I give an order, it's to be obeyed at once," the man snarled. "All of you are on bunker detail when we get to the top of this hill.
"Now, you, Teat, get your butt to the herbist, and tell him what you've got is only what you deserve, so he's not to worry about causing you a little pain.
"Move out!
"You, and you… You'll escort the prisoner—and I'll be with you to make sure you don't kill him 'attempting to escape'—to company central."
For the first time, he appeared to take notice of Hal.
"And you, drop that damned sword, and unbelt that dagger.
"For you the war's over, unless you keep trying to play hero."
Hal looked around, saw, high overhead, one of his dragons, swooping down, a hundred feet above, which might as well have been leagues.
He dropped his sword, unfastened his belt, and let it fall.
Hal Kailas, Dragonmaster, was a prisoner of the Roche.
But the officer was the only one who might actually believe Kailas's war was over.
* * * *
The Roche company commander seemed not at all disturbed that his headquarters was no more than one guard, one warrant, two runners, and a tattered chunk of canvas tied between two trees.
"Your name?" he asked.
"Lord Kailas of Kalabas," Hal said.
One of the runners gulped, whispered "Th' Dragonmaster!" and got a cold look from the officer.
"Your rank?"
"Commander."
"Of what?"
"I'm sorry," Kailas said. "That's information I can't give you."
"No," the officer agreed. "But we read the stories your taletellers publish. I know you're the Lord Commander of the First Dragon Squadron, and far too rich a dish for peasants like us."
He looked at the officer who'd saved Kailas's life.
"You'll be commended for this. Now, take this man—and two more guards—and escort him back to regimental headquarters."
"Yessir."
The commander turned back to Hal, and Kailas knew what he was going to say before he spoke.
"Congratulations. Your war is over. And you'll be alive, if you cooperate, to see our great victory."
Hal didn't reply.
* * * *
The young officer noted that Hal was limping.
"Can you walk?"
"I can walk," Hal said.
"If you're having trouble, I can assemble a party of litter-bearers."
"I can walk," Hal repeated.
* * * *
Regimental headquarters was a collection of skillfully camouflaged tents in a wide ravine that had been covered with netting stuffed with branches that was just back of the military crest of the hill Hal had been attacking when he was brought down.
A beribboned officer whistled when he heard who Hal was, immediately relieved the young officer, and took charge.
Hal had wanted to get an address for the young man and, when the war was over, planned to write him a letter, thanking him for his life. But the man saluted, and was gone.
The ranking officer was about to ask Hal a question when he noticed the dark stain seeping through his trousers.
"You're wounded!"
Hal nodded.
"Then you're for hospital, at once. I'll have no one of your rank ever thinking we Roche are uncivilized."
He shouted for a sergeant, and bade him assemble stretcher-bearers.
"There," the man said. "There'll be an officer arrive in the hospital to interr—ask you certain questions.
"Man, you look pale. Sit down, here, on this stump.
"My leg is starting to bother me," Hal admitted.
"Our potions and spells are the best," the man said. "So, for you, the war is over."
Hal almost laughed at the stock chorus, but then noted the officer had spoken with an unconscious note of wistfulness.
* * * *
Pain was starting to wash over Hal, but he forced alertness, trying to take note of everything as the stretcher-bearers carried him to the rear.
A great deal of the trip was done under cover staked poles, with camouflaged netting over them. Hal didn't know if the Roche did this because they thought Deraine and Sagene were barbarians who'd attack the wounded, or because they didn't want any aerial observers being able to make estimates of the casualty rate.
There'd been tales that the Roche were beaten, stumbling, on their last legs in this offensive.
Hal saw no evidence of that.
The troops were battered and their uniforms were worn… but no more than their enemies.
Kailas was able to verify his idea of the Roche plan—that they'd be holding, and fighting, from this hill range. He saw almost as many soldiers working hard with mattock and shovel, making entrenchments, as moving forward with weaponry into the dying battle.
There were no signs that the king's great offensive would end the war, or be more than another killing ground for both sides.
* * * *
The hospital was a good ten miles from the front, exactly laid out rows of tents, with graveled walkways between them, and white-painted signboards. Orderlies came and went, and wizards, chirurgeons and what Hal heard called nursing sisters, women in a sort of uniform, a gray smock and cap.
He was being logged in, and questions asked, when, very suddenly, the world swam about his shoulders, and he sank into peaceful, pain-free unconsciousness.
* * * *
Hal awoke to a throbbing pain. He must have moaned, for a voice said, "Ah. Good. If it hurts, it means your leg is yet alive."
He opened his eyes, saw a rather tubby man bending over him. He had a thin fringe of hair, a rather scruffy beard he was trying to grow long, without much success, and plain robes.
"I am Mage Nizva," he announced. "I a
m in charge of the healing spells in this and three other tents."
"And I'm—"
"Hush. Talk later," Nizva said. "Concentrate your attention on letting the spells I've cast, and the herbs I've poulticed your wounds with, take effect."
Hal lifted his head from the cot he was on. The light was dim in the long tent, seventy-five feet by about twenty feet. Every few feet was another cot, with another wounded man, and a scattering of women, on it.
Somewhere Kailas had lost his bloodied uniform, and wore only a gray ankle-length nightshirt.
Hal nodded understanding to Nizva, and sank back into a stupor.
* * * *
Hal was awakened by the preposterous shout: "Lie at… attention!"
He lifted an eyelid, saw a host of medal-heavy officers stamp into the tent, dancing attendance on an even more beribboned man with a very impressive white beard.
"I am General Ottignies," he said. "And I greet you, honored warriors of the Roche nation, in the name of Her Most Blessed Highness, Queen Norcia, who this day has authorized me to provide you with rewards for your heroism."
He started down the row of wounded, two aides beside him. At each bed, he'd select a medal, say a few words, pin the medal to the soldier's blankets, salute, move on.
Hal couldn't believe what was evidently about to happen.
But it happened.
General Ottignies looked benevolently down at Hal.
"Healing nicely?"
Hal nodded.
"Good. Good. We need warriors like yourself back at the front, to ensure our great victory."
He took a medal, attached it to Hal's blanket, saluted.
Hal found strength, was able to feebly return the salute.
"Good man," Ottignies said, not understanding the uncontrollable grin on Hal's face, and moved on to the next hero.
Hal reached down, lifted the medal. It was a tasteful bronze medallion, with a ribbon of red and white. On it was scribed: HERO OF ROCHE: SECOND CLASS.
Kailas choked back laughter, wondered what he'd have to do to become a First Class Hero.
* * * *
"Oh gods," Nizva breathed. "You're not one of us at all."
"No," Hal said.
