by Chris Bunch
As he'd said, he was quite happy in this lonely valley, and said he wouldn't mind staying on until the war ended, if Hal wanted.
Hal tried to sleep, but found it hard, his mind bringing up visions of Carcaor from many angles and their attack, and which would be the best way to approach.
But eventually sleep rolled over him.
He was brought awake by the raider, standing sentry. It was growing dark, and, around the lake, the dragons were coming awake, walking into the lake and thrashing about.
Most of the fliers followed suit, and again they strapped their gear on, and climbed into the skies.
Hal was beginning to have a bit of hope that his overly elaborate plan might be carried off.
His mood was heightened by the flight along the empty winding forest valley. They stayed low, for the area around Carcaor might be patrolled by dragons, although Hal couldn't think of a reason why, since there'd been no threat to the capital.
Yet.
They saw only one person that evening—a young boy, fishing in a bright green rowboat, just at dusk, in the middle of a winding creek. Hal waved, and the boy waved back, and then the formation was gone.
Hal wondered what the boy had thought, and if he'd ever learn that the dragons were his enemies, or if he'd think they were fellow Roche, and maybe be drawn to flying himself.
He grunted at himself for being a damned romantic, concentrated on his flying.
It was, thankfully, a dull flight, and so Hal was glad to see the rolling meadows marking their third stop appear, just before false dawn.
They landed, and it was a rather bloody paradise for the dragons as they steered panicked sheep this way and that, always ending in a dragon's satisfied gullet.
Some of the fliers got a bit greenish at the sight, and even Hal had to admit a touch of queasiness.
One flier who paid fascinated attention, though, was Danikel. Hal asked him about it, and the man said, very seriously, that the more he knew about dragons the better he'd be at killing Roche.
There was no argument about that.
Hal was glad to see there were no outraged shepherds to deal with.
He decided to press their luck once more, and so ordered the fliers to be roused late the next morning and flew on to their final stop, the crag just beyond Carcaor.
Each dragon carried two carcasses tied in canvas—one for this night's meal, the next for the day after the raid. Hal wasn't sure how that would work out—if there were dragons patrolling Carcaor, or if they'd be able to get out as smoothly as he hoped they'd go in.
But that was for the morrow.
It was hazy that day, which gave decent cover for the squadron. Once again, Hal saw no dragons in the air, wondered if every one the Roche had captured was serving at the front. But that was impossible: they would have to have some way of training dragons—and their fliers—and they'd hardly do that in combat.
The Ichili River was below them, winding toward the capital, and the crag that would be their final layover loomed.
Hal felt another inexplicable chill seeing it.
He took Storm in over the ruined castle, looking for the yellow banner.
There was none.
Hal thought about finding another base, but it was late in the day. He certainly couldn't raid Carcaor with the supplies still on the dragons, and his boulders and the firedarts he'd brought unready to deploy.
He blew a blast on his trumpet, but there was no sign of his raider.
But there were no signs of Roche, either.
Hal took a deep breath, brought Storm in below the castle, on that open parade area.
Storm didn't seem to like landing there any better than Hal did.
He dismounted, crossbow ready.
But the crag was deserted.
There was a soft wind across the crag, and leaves moved on the weird trees below the crest.
No more.
Hal blew an alerting note on his trumpet, not wanting to, somehow reluctant to disturb the silence.
The dragons came in, and none seemed glad to be on this mountaintop, although Hal thought he might be putting his own feelings on the obviously tired beasts.
He told the flight commanders what had happened, and, even though the fliers needed rest, put a third of the squadron on alert.
Farren Mariah came to him as he was going over the last details of the attack.
"I like your home very little, sir, even though it has a great view."
Hal hesitated, then told Mariah of his own feelings.
"I'd guess the raider got spooked and ran off," Farren said.
"I surely would've considered it. But from what I've seen of Cantabri's killers, there's nothing on the earth or beyond it that would scare them.
"And I'm starting to scare me," he went on. "I think I'll shut my hole and get my head down.
"Although I won't be pissing and whining about having to take a turn on guard.
"I always feel better with a sword—or anyways a good solid tree branch—in my hand."
Hal nodded agreement, found his flight commanders, and made sure they were ready for the morrow, which would come early.
He took the first watch, and would take the last as well.
All was quiet, except for the occasional snore of a dragon, or the rattle of a wing as they moved in their sleep.
The last of the dying moons were setting as Hal came off guard, and curled up near Storm to get an hour or so's rest.
He slept… and he dreamed.
* * * *
Hal was in the minds of several men as he tossed and turned.
A crude savage who traded for furs with the bearded men who came up the river with strange gifts.
One of the traders, craftier than his fellows, for he had a post on the river, and was clearing land beyond it for farming.
A still cleverer man who ended up with his post, and the land.
Then it was as if he were standing at a distance, watching a moving tableau.
There was a town abuilding on the land, after the farmers who'd thought they'd owned it had been run off or killed.
But the river rose, and took the town.
The men rebuilt it on higher ground, and it became a city.
Then something came on them from the heavens above.
Hal couldn't tell, in his dream, if it was a demon, or some sort of earth spirit. But it was so fearsome that men died of fright just seeing it loom down on them.
It ravaged the city in a night, smashing and killing and, when dawn came, there were but few survivors.
They were stubborn, and there were wizards among them.
They cast spells, and determined that spirit or demon had come from the highest crag in the range that ran alongside the river.
Some peoples would have fled, or tried to placate whatever it was.
These men were different.
Using the labor of many slaves, the last of the native peoples of the region, and magic, they built a great castle, and assigned their strongest wizards to stand guard against the spirit, giving them power and the best of food, drink, men and women as payment.
Time passed, and the demon didn't appear again, nor did the guardians sense any sign of its presence.
They thought it might have died, if something beyond life could die, or perhaps had left this universe for another.
No one knew.
But there seemed little purpose in keeping the watch, and so the castle was abandoned.
Three storms within a year of its abandonment tore at the castle, and smashed it down.
Some people in the city on the river, growing larger and more powerful by the day, said this was a warning, or a sign the spirit still was present.
They were laughed at.
There were more important things to think of for the men and women of the city now named Carcaor—power, and wielding that power to form a great nation.
The magicians had lost their authority, so now barons, and then kings and queens
, ruled Carcaor and the lands around that were named Roche.
No one cared about the ruins far above the city, and no one visited them.
Perhaps there was still something there, something sleeping under the crumbling walls.
No one knew.
* * * *
Hal woke, sweating, feeling like he'd not slept at all.
It was almost time for the last guard, and so he relieved the post he'd assigned himself to, not fancying returning to that dream, and what else it might show.
It took the entire watch for him to come fully awake and rid himself of the dread that pulled at him.
But eventually it was gone, and there were other things to concern himself with as the dragons were saddled and readied for battle.
The firedarts were unpacked from their straw covers, and put in baskets on either side of the saddles. A pouch was hung on each dragon's carapace, holding the ensorcelled bits of that great boulder.
The dragons were fed, and the men flew them off the crag to the river below, to water them.
Then it was time, and they took off again, and circled up and up, out of the canyon, above the crag, and then on up the Ichili River in the dark.
It was bare minutes before false dawn when they rounded the last bend.
Carcaor, still sleeping, with only a few lights gleaming, was before them.
If Limingo and Bodrugan's model was at fault, Hal couldn't tell. The waterfront and warehouses sprawled to his left, along the river, and the suburbs stretched ahead of him, on Carcaor's far side.
The city's center was very obvious, all tall buildings, elaborate parks and palaces.
In the center was Queen Norcia's palace, two golden domes on either side of the huge entrance.
Hal tooted his trumpet once, and the four flight commanders echoed his command.
The dragons spread out on line, as trained.
Hal steered Storm at the palace.
Dragons had been called "whispering death" by the Roche front line troops. Now their capital was about to experience this death.
He fumbled open the pouch in front of him, took out a small fragment.
For an instant he panicked, not being able to remember the activating spell. But then his battle nerves steadied, and the spell came back.
He chanted the words as the palace closed, finished, felt the fragment squirm unpleasantly in his fingers, as if it were jelly instead of stone.
He tossed it away, and, as it arced downward, past Storm's wings, it grew and grew. Then it was a monstrous boulder.
It hit one of the palace's rooftops, bounced high, and smashed through one of the domes.
Two other great boulders tumbled down from other dragons. One crashed on the palace steps, rolled through four columns, breaking them like toothpicks.
The portico sagged, as another boulder missed the palace, striking short of the palace. But it bounced like Hal's had, and shattered a wall.
Then Hal was past, bringing Storm back around.
Not far distant was the Hall of Barons. Hal saw a pair of boulders destroy its flat roof; then he was leaning forward, a pebble in his hand, and, as he said the spell, he pitched the pebble at the back wall of the palace.
It tore through it, and stones cascaded down.
To one side was a great stable, and a misaimed boulder tore its wall away.
He heard the scream of terrified horses as he came around once more, and his boulder struck the palace square in the center.
I would hope, he thought savagely, that it landed on Queen Norcia's bed. With her and her favorite in it.
He heard dragons scream, saw, in the streets below, a unit of heavy cavalry in formation.
Hal, remembering his hatred and fear of the heavies when he'd been a cavalryman himself, took Storm low, and tossed a pebble at them.
It grew, and tumbled horses and riders aside like bowling pins.
There was a great building, perhaps an office, perhaps luxury apartments, and Storm barely turned aside in time.
Hal glanced back, saw Farren Mariah as he hurled his pebble at the building.
It grew, smashed into its center, and stone crumbled, and fell.
Again and again Hal struck at the palace.
Other fliers were crisscrossing the city center, and Hal almost rammed one, a blue female, recognized Danikel, and saw the fierce look of glee on his face, staring down at Carcaor, not seeing Kailas at all.
The palace was tumbledown, and Hal, with only a few pebbles left, went after large buildings behind it, not knowing what they were, offices or, this close to the palace, apartments for the powerful.
Then the last pebble was gone.
Below, the Roche were streaming out of their homes in wakening panic.
You've not good reason yet for a frenzy, Hal thought, and took a pair of firedarts from their baskets, clung to Storm with his knees, and cold-bloodedly pitched them down into the middle of a mass of men.
The darts exploded, and Hal could hear the screams.
Now have your riot, and that'll teach you to go and play at war, he thought and took Storm over the ruined Hall of the Barons.
Two firedarts went down into the shatter, and flames bellowed up.
Other buildings were afire as well, and fire was licking at the heart of Norcia's palace.
There was no one else in the skies except Hal's dragons, and he went down a broad boulevard, almost below the rooftops of the buildings around him, dropping firedarts as if he was a peasant, sowing a furrow.
Behind him, the inferno gouted.
Then he was dry, with nothing left to kill with, and took Storm high.
Other fliers had spent their weaponry, and were climbing as well.
Hal saw a single Roche dragon, boring in from the east.
A brave man, he thought.
And a fool, as he sent Storm diving down.
The Roche flier looked up, just as Hal triggered his crossbow.
The bolt took him in the chest, and he dropped off his dragon.
There were trumpet blasts from the flight leaders, and the squadron had finished its raid.
Hal took Storm high once more, then back to the west, toward the crag, his squadron in a ragged echelon behind him.
He came around the first bend, and saw the crag, now with ominous clouds rolling around it.
There'd been no sign of weather when they'd taken off, but over mountains things can change rapidly.
Hal was trying to decide if he'd chance staying on the crag through the day, or just feed the dragons and fly on, back toward that meadow, when the ruined castle ahead of him lifted, as if there was some creature digging out from underneath it.
There was.
The creature, brown like graveyard earth, reared, the castle stone cascading off its body.
He was, Hal thought, trying to suppress panic, more than two hundred feet tall.
But it was no bear, for its body, if that's what it was, moved, shifting, as if seen through rippling water.
There was no head, but just fangs, and a mouth, screeching like no animal or legend Hal had ever known of.
It had long talons, and thick arms, reaching for the fliers.
Hal forced his shock away, blasted a command to turn right, away from the monster, the demon, the spirit, into the clouds boiling around the summit.
The dragons were flying as hard as they could, at least as afraid of the spirit as any of the men.
Hal realized he was moaning in fear.
Then they were in the cloud, and the winds caught Storm, and tossed them; then they were in calm for an instant, then winds from another direction took them, and hurled them about.
Hal reached for his compass, but it was under his tunic, and it was all he could do to hang on to Storm's reins.
At least they were headed away from the nightmare, flying north.
He broke out of the clouds, and almost screamed, for somehow the clouds had turned them about, and they were flying straight at the mountain
peak and the waiting demon.
Hal had an instant to realize the clouds had been summoned by the monster, wondered if it was a creature of the earth or air, realized it didn't matter.
Behind Hal came the rest of the squadron, drawn by this death dream as if it were a lodestone.
Hal managed to reach for his crossbow, knowing that it was like hurling spitballs at a lion.
From his right Pisidia plummeted past, followed by his flight, diving straight into the monster.
Pisidia was screaming something that Hal couldn't make out, and firing bolts from his crossbow into what might have been the demon's face.
Kailas had his trumpet up, and was blowing a retreat. But the 20th Flight seemed deaf, determined to join Pisidia in death.
The monster reached out, almost casually, took Pisidia's dragon in its grasp, and smashed it down, spinning, spinning, into the canyon and the river below.
The spell, if spell it was, broke, and Hal was able to kick Storm into a tight turn, away from the horror.
Behind him came the others in the squadron.
He saw the creature swatting the air, hitting two of the 20th dragons, and knocking them out of the sky. Then the spell broke for the others in the flight, and they, too, tried to break away after Hal.
Then Kailas was back in the cloud, this time finding his compass, and leaning close over it as the winds tore at him.
The winds, accomplices of the nightmare, tried to turn him, send him back into its maw, but he managed to hold his course.
The clouds were intermittent, rushing past, and he saw, now and again, beside and behind him, other dragons, battling the storm, all following his lead.
Again they were in the clear and this time the crag was gone, hidden behind them. Mountains were below them, clean, honest peaks with no eldritch horrors hidden under ruined battlements.
Hal realized Storm was flying as fast as he could, and would soon wear himself out.
He bent forward, stroking the beast's neck, saying meaningless words in as soothing a tone as he knew.
Storm's wingbeats slowed.
Again, he looked back, and saw the ragged formation of dragons behind him.
Hal forced Storm up into a climb, then a turn, heading back on his unit.
There were trumpet blasts, and shouts, and slowly the panic broke, and the dragon fliers began sorting out their formation.
