Dragonmaster

by Chris Bunch

Caught in the smash were the Sagene civilians, their villages and farms. A great swath was cut along the Roche-Sagene border. Here, all was desolation, save the occasionally staunchly garrisoned castle. What trade there was, what merchants there were, stayed close to the army, doing business as they could, when they could.

  But the lands weren’t empty. There were wanderers, deserters from both sides, and—most to be feared—those who’d turned renegade.

  They knew all men’s hands were turned against them so they gave and asked no mercy from any group of soldiers they encountered.

  That was one of the jobs of the light cavalry, tracking and destroying the bandits, one reason that Hal Kailas’ face showed hard lines, and his smile came but seldom these days.

  But it was better, in terms of surviving, than his present task, scouting for the main force as they closed once more for battle.

  Everyone knew this encounter was unlikely to be decisive, was not likely to end the war.

  Everyone except the high commands on both sides.

  Victory would only be won by one army breaking through and laying waste to the other’s homeland, yet maintaining its own supply lines.

  Sagene and Deraine had more men, more horses. Roche’s soldiers were better trained, generally better led. Plus they had more dragons, more magicians.

  Just recently, the Roche dragons had changed their tactics. They still scouted overhead, but, just as they’d done in the siege of Paestum, had begun attacking riders and patrols who ventured beyond the safety of the Deraine catapults.

  The few Deraine dragons were only used for observation, and what they reported was frequently wrong, and even more frequently disregarded.

  Hal sometimes wondered if the end would be all three countries hammered back into barbarism.

  All he could hope for, and it was a measure of his strength that he still could hope, was to survive until the war ended. All too many soldiers had given up, dully realized their doom was to be killed, wounded or captured, nothing more.

  But an end to this war seemed far in the future.

  Hal broke his thoughts, not only because they were veering into gloom, but because anyone who thought of anything other than the minute he was living in was likely to add to the butcher’s bill.

  He turned in his saddle, looking back at his patrol, scanning the hillsides for movement, then the skies.

  As he did, a flight of four dragons, in vee-formation, broke out of the clouds and dove on the patrol.

  Hal swore—some Roche magician must have sensed them and sent out the fliers.

  “Dragons!” he shouted. “Spread out, and ride hard for our lines!”

  The green-brown dragons swept past above them, then banked back, and dove toward the ground. They flared their wings no more than fifteen feet above the ground, and, almost wingtip to wingtip, beat toward Hal’s onrushing patrol, hoping to panic horses and horsemen. But this was not the first, nor the fifth, time Hal had been attacked by dragons.

  “Jink!” Kailas shouted, and, obediently, the riders kicked their mounts one way, then another. The dragons tried to turn with them, couldn’t, and the ten men rode safely under their attackers. One man—Hal didn’t see who—had courage enough to fire an arrow at a dragon.

  “Full gallop,” and the riders kicked their horses hard, bending low in the saddle, trying to keep from looking back at the closing doom.

  It was hard, especially when a scream came. Hal chanced a look, saw a horse pinwheeling through the air, gouting blood from deep talon-wounds in its back, saddle torn away.

  Its rider . . . its rider was tumbling in the dust, getting to his feet, stumbling into a run, knowing no one would turn back for him, following the strictest orders.

  Hal wheeled his mount into a curvet, came back at his afoot soldier, saw, out of the corner of his eye, a swooping dragon. He leaned out, arm hooked, and the man had it, was neatly flipped up behind him, and the dragon whipped past, close enough for Hal to have touched its right talon as it missed him.

  Again he turned, and his horse was gasping, flanks lathered. Two dragons were coming at him, each not seeing the other, then avoiding collision at the last minute as Hal rode under a torn-apart tree.

  A dragon smashed through branches above his head, climbed for height for another attack, and on the other side of the hill were the Deraine lines. Hal’s patrol was strung out in front of him, riding for safety.

  Two dragons came in for another attack, but the patrol was too close to the lines, and half a dozen catapults sent six-foot darts whipping through the air at them.

  All missed, and the Roche dragons were climbing away.

  One screamed in rage and disappointment, and Jarth Ordinay blatted an imitation up at him, one of his major talents.

  They galloped past the outlying pickets, were in the forward lines, and now they could sit straight, breathe, and even show a cavalryman’s panache, laughing at the past danger, easy in the saddle, safe for one more day.

  “It has been in my mind for some time,” Lord Canista, commander of the Third Deraine Light Cavalry, “that our king might be well served by your being promoted lieutenant and knighted, Serjeant.”

  Hal gaped. Being made an officer was impressive enough, the Deraine army having three ranks: lieutenant, generally knighted; captain, always knighted, and commander, who’d be a lord, duke or even prince.

  Outside Canista’s tent, all was a bustle as the army got ready once more for battle.

  “First, that pennant you spotted belongs to one Duke Garcao Yasin, who’s Lord Commander of Queen Norcia. The two, I was told, are close.” Canista coughed suggestively. “Very, very close. So obviously this upcoming battle will be of great import to Roche.” He noticed Hal’s expression.

  “You know of him?”

  “Uh . . . nossir.” Hal thought back, remembered the Yasin with the flying dragons back in Bedarisi had a first name of Bayle or something like it. “But I may’ve encountered a relative of his before the war. A dragon flier. Do you know if he’s got a brother?”

  “Of course not,” Canista said, a bit impatiently. “And let us return to more important matters, such as your knighthood. You fight well. But more important . . . well, did you know your troopers call you Lucky?”

  “Uh . . . yessir.” Hal was still considering this Baron Yasin. Assuming a relationship, and he had no way of knowing whether Yasin was a common name in Roche, that would certainly indicate the Roche fliers were, indeed, spies. He brought himself back, listened to Canista.

  “That’s more important... for a leader,” the lord went on. “Any damned fool with no survival sense can become a great warrior . . . until he’s cut down by some lucky sod from the rear.

  “Deraine needs lucky officers, Kailas,” Canista went on. “The gods know we haven’t had many leading us thus far.”

  Hal looked blankly unopinionated at that.

  “Well, I assume you have an opinion?”

  “Sir, I’m a commoner.”

  “Everyone knows that,” Canista said. “Where do you think all these damned knights’ and barons’ and dukes’ and whatalls’ fathers came from?

  “Damned few of us were born to the purple. Time past, time enough for us to get snotty about things, one of our ancestors was good at sticking people with his sword, and lucky enough to do it mostly within the law, or not get caught, plus live through the experience.

  “And their descendants are the ones who’ve ridden out in this war. And are getting themselves killed, like everyone else.

  “Deraine will need a whole new generation of nobility, and where the hells do you think it’ll come from? From commoners like you.

  “It might interest you that my grandsire, ten, no eleven generations gone, was a blacksmith.”

  “Yessir,” Hal said.

  “Mmmph,” Canista said. “At any rate, that’s something for you to think on, if you want the responsibility. Actually, I’m speaking like a damned fool, for you already have the responsibility.
Being knighted would just get you more.

  “We’ve a battle afore us, so think on it. Afterward, if we all live, you can give me your decision.”

  “Yessir.” Hal clapped his right hand against his breastplate in salute, turned to leave.

  “Wait, lad,” Canista said. Hal turned back.

  “Something I’m required to show you,” he said, pulling a rumpled piece of paper from his small field desk, handing it to Hal.

  Dragon Men!

  Deraine Needs You!

  Men . . . and Women

  Who Wish to Fly

  Mighty Dragons

  As the Eyes

  Of the Army

  Are Bidden

  By His Most Holy Majesty

  To Volunteer

  For the Newly Forming

  Dragon Flights!

  Experienced Dragon Handlers

  Will Do Deraine

  The Greatest Service

  By Volunteering.

  Fly High Above the Fray!

  Defy Roche’s Evil Monsters!

  Extra Pay

  Extra Privileges

  Bask in the Adulation

  Of the Nation!

  Join Now!!

  Experienced Men and Women Only!!

  “I call this damned nonsense,” Canista grumbled. “But someone said you’d been around the horrid monsters back before you joined up.

  “And doing the king’s duty, I decided to show it to you, and give you the chance.

  “Even though there’s a war, a real war, to be fought down here on the ground, not zooming around peering at the foe and, often as not, making up lies to confuse poor honest lords such as myself!”

  Hal barely heard the lord, looking at the sheet of paper, thinking, dreaming.

  To be out of the muck, away from the front lines and shouting officers, to be clean. Inadvertently, Hal scratched at a louse bite on his elbow, caught himself.

  Gods, how he wanted that . . . to be above the clouds, above this endless cutting and killing, free, alone.

  Then he caught himself.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, handing the paper back.

  “Good man! Not interested at all, I can see, like a proper soldier.”

  No. It was hardly lack of interest.

  It was Hal’s mind, suddenly reminding him of the twenty-five cavalrymen he was given charge of, plus another ten supporting troopers.

  If he left, who would take care of them?

  He thought of other sections, whose warrants had been killed or transferred, and their new commanders, who had caused more than their share of deaths learning the ways of war.

  Could Hal give over men, who’d entrusted him with their lives, to some fool, fresh from Deraine’s horse academies?

  Never.

  As long as they lived, Hal Kailas had to be there to lead and, if necessary, die with them.

  8

  “Water,” the soldier gasped, reaching a clawed hand up for Hal’s stirrup. “For the mercy of the gods, water!”

  Hal saw the gaping wound across the man’s stomach, his spilled guts, knew he could do no good, even if orders permitted him to halt.

  The Roche soldier’s hand fell away.

  “Then grant peace,” he croaked. “Please, for the sake of your mother’s soul.”

  Hal couldn’t bring himself to kill the wounded man, no matter what he wanted. But someone behind him in the column had no qualms. Hal heard the dull thud of a lance going home, the soldier’s gasp, and then silence except for the clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of their harness.

  This was the battle’s fourth day, thus far a sweeping defeat for Roche.

  Deraine, given the advance warning by Hal and, no doubt, other scouts, had time to find a strong position along a rocky ridgecrest. Then they’d waited for Roche.

  Duke Yasin had taken position on a ridge a mile distant from Deraine’s lines, a valley rich with grain between them. Deraine had made no offensive moves, and so Roche attacked first.

  Yasin sent his infantry sweeping wide, trying to flank Deraine on the north. But the lines were firmly anchored with heavy cavalry, and Roche was driven back.

  They attacked again, and were broken a second time.

  Then it was time for the wizards. Roche sent sweeping winds against Deraine, but the spells were broken, and counterspells of dust devils sent back against Roche.

  Yasin tried a night attack, with ghostly illuminations. But that barely penetrated the front line, before the Deraine second wave smashed into them.

  The third day dawned hot, muggy, promising rain, but none came.

  The drums started just before midday, all along the Roche line.

  Hal’s section had been assigned courier duty, since the light cavalry wasn’t needed for scouting, so he was well forward, almost in the front lines, when Duke Yasin’s army surged forward behind the drummers across the valley. Hal saw them coming, in wave after wave, and swallowed hard, very glad he wasn’t one of the poor bastards in the forward line trying to keep his spearpoint from trembling, trying to gather strength from his equally frightened brothers.

  Then sorcery came into play, and this no illusion. Red creatures surged into existence in the Roche line, creatures about the size of a small dog. They were fanged, and clawed, like enormous red ants, but each had the face of a leering man. They tore into the legs of the oncoming soldiers, and when they fell, others fastened their claws into the man’s armor, and tore at his face and throat.

  The screams rang loud above the drums, and the Deraine frontline commanders ordered their troops forward.

  The Deraine units obeyed, and the lines came together, and it was a knotted madness. Deraine pulled back, Hal thought beaten back, then realized they’d been ordered to withdraw, regroup, and come in again.

  The ant-demons savaged the Roche soldiers but, having taken mortal form, could be killed, although their fangs still held to their final bite, heads dangling from men’s arms, legs, bodies.

  As suddenly as they came, they vanished, the Roche sorcerers having found the counterspell.

  Deraine attacked again, and once more the lines smashed against each other. Deraine sent their reserves down into the valley, and that broke the Roche. They fell back, up the hill toward their own lines, pursued by Deraine infantry, killing as they went.

  The heavy cavalry started forward, to finally break Roche and defeat them in detail. But Roche regained its positions, behind sharp-pointed abatis and piled brush, and the Deraine attack was called off.

  The Roche, defeated, should have retreated, back within the safety of their own support lines. But they held on the ridgeline all that day and night.

  Perhaps Duke Yasin was afraid to retreat, afraid to reveal his defeat to Queen Norcia. Or perhaps he had another plan in the works. Or perhaps he was simply too stubborn to know when he was beaten.

  Regardless, the Third Light Cavalry, augmented with half a regiment of Sagene light, was assembled before dawn, and told to scout the Roche flanks and determine what they were up to.

  Hal attended Lord Canista’s orders assembly, staying, as deserved a young warrant, well in the back, behind the lords, keeping his doubts to himself.

  One knight, a very slender, very long-haired and mustached man in gleaming armor, did not.

  “Sir,” he said. “This is no more’n the second time we’ve ridden together in this strength.”

  “Third, actually, Sir Kinnear,” Lord Canista said. “The other was before you joined us.”

  “Which means we’re not experienced at fighting together. Plus light cavalry,” Kinnear went on, “isn’t supposed to do more than scout and raid.”

  “We have our orders,” Canista said. “But I believe the reason for us going forth in such strength is the lords of the army wouldn’t mind if we ran into some nice fat supply wagons and wreaked a bit of havoc.”

  “S’posing, sir, that we go a little too far, and supposing their damned heavies charge us?”

  “We wi
thdraw in an orderly fashion.”

  There was a murmur of amusement.

  “S’posing, once again, we don’t have that luxury,” Kinnear persisted.

  “According to my orders,” Canista said, “the Sagene heavy cavalry will be in close support, and if they’re out-manned, our own heavies will be committed.”

  “Sagene?” Kinnear said with a snort.

  “I resent that,” a Sagene knight, heavy, bearded, scowling said. “Are you accusing my people of cowardice?”

  “No,” Kinnear drawled, “just a certain . . . tardiness to respond.”

  “You have been given a chance to withdraw your words,” the Sagene knight said. “Now I must demand satisfaction!”

  “Now or at any other time,” Kinnear said, one hand on his sword.

  “Both of you stop!” Canista snapped. “We have an enemy to face, and if either of you persists in your foolishness, I’ll have you chained in your tent. After the battle, you’re welcome to satisfy your honor by any means you deem necessary.

  “But not before! We have a task set before us, gentlemen. Return to your troops and get them ready to ride, for the glory of Deraine and your regiments, and I wish you battleluck!”

  Hal was close enough to Sir Kinnear to hear him mutter, “This’ll be damned disastrous. Too many troops to move with any sort of subtlety, not enough to stand firm if we’re found out. Damned disastrous!”

  Hal agreed, but there was, of course, nothing that could be done.

  They went out at dawn, curving out from their lines, intending to skirt the enemy’s right flank, and probe, very cautiously, for his intent.

  The valley that had been yesterday’s battleground was a welter of bodies. Some, thankfully, lay still, quite dead. Others writhed, screaming, or, energy almost gone, managing no more than animal moans.

  There were healthy men from both sides afield—men looking for the wounded, dead, from their units, some to-be-blessed chiurgeons, some simply good hearted, trying to tend to the wounded, ease the pain of dying.

  And there were others, skulking jackals, looting the dead and, not infrequently, making sure the wounded wouldn’t object to being plundered, with a swift dagger.