by Chris Bunch
The officer clearly didn't know what to do.
The situation was resolved by one native, who arched an arrow high that clattered off Storm's armor.
Other bowmen followed suit, and that was enough for the skirmishers.
They rode directly toward the bluff, and three or four were cut down by arrows.
Then the horsemen overrode the archers, who ducked and fled, leaving a couple of bodies behind.
The man leading the skirmishers should have held his troops in place, and sent one man back to the main formation for reinforcements.
That would, should, have meant that no casualties would have been taken.
But the officer would learn that on his own—if he survived the next few encounters.
That evening, Hal was in the stables, burnishing and trimming Storm's talons, when Yasin sought him out.
He had half a smile.
"I have a complaint about you, Lord Kailas."
"From that young idiot."
Young idiot… Hal shook his head in amusement. Thinking someone was young, when he was but… what? Just turning thirty?
But how old in battle-knowledge?
"Yes," Yasin said. "That young idiot—who happens to be Duke someone's eldest son—went to General Arbala.
"The general told me about it, thinking the matter was a capital jest, and assigned the little duke to ride in the train for a few days to eat dust and learn."
Hal was mildly surprised.
He'd expected Yasin to take him to task, as he'd expected General Arbala to have torn strips off Yasin for letting one of his men dare, dare, to swear at nobility.
This expeditionary force wasn't behaving like a regular army.
Nor did it the next day.
Unfortunately.
Hal had been meandering about the skies, watching the troops move back toward Trenganu, when he saw something interesting.
It was a group of light infantrymen, chasing some barbarian men, killing one here, one there.
It looked, from Kailas's elevation, like men chasing children.
Hal shook his head at the lack of proper perspective, swung lower, and realized, with a sharp shock, that there was nothing wrong with his viewpoint.
The soldiers were chasing children, whooping every time they took one down, the attacker pausing to drive a sword into the youngster's back.
Hal should have minded his own business, if for no other reason than that he had certainly killed his share of women and children, stoning cities.
But he didn't, coming in for a skittered landing, and sliding off Storm in front of the pack.
"Halt, you!"
The lead soldier called an obscenity, lifted his sword.
Hal put a crossbow bolt between his feet, and the man slid to a stop.
"We don't kill babies in this army," he shouted.
The men looked at him sullenly.
"They killed Barthus!" one tried.
"Then Barthus must've deserved killing," Hal said. "For not being much of a soldier, letting a child attack him."
"They ain't proper kids, but demons," an older man said. "Learn killing from their mothers' milk."
There was a clamor of agreement.
Hal glanced over his shoulder, to see Farren Mariah orbiting just over his head.
There was no sign of the children.
They seemed to have vanished into a low, brush-covered hillside.
"Get back to the column," he ordered.
There was no point in arguing with a superior officer, who'd already spoiled the game.
Muttering, the men obeyed his order.
Hal, feeling very much the self-righteous do-gooder, climbed back aboard Storm, and prodded him into a takeoff run.
They lifted away over that hillside.
As they did, a stone hurtled up, almost taking Hal in the leg.
That figured.
That evening, they came back to Trenganu. Yasin gave the squadron the day off.
For the next day, Hal planned a critique of what had happened, which should sit well with a hangover, then time in the stables with the dragons.
But it didn't work out that way.
He was just coming out of the mess tent, trying not to think about the watery eggs, fried bread, and half-cured ham he'd eaten, remembering other, superior meals on the trip north, when he saw smoke rising beyond the city, to the southwest.
He wondered, decided to go see, and, even if it was unimportant, to make his flight aware that nothing in war could ever be planned.
Keeping track of how long it took, Hal ordered his men into the air.
The two new Roche did as best they could—Hal's Derainians were quite used to days that started like this, as were their dragons.
In ten minutes, they were in the air, the last storesman clattering crossbow bolts into the quivers tied to the dragons' carapaces as they waited to take off.
Hal had issued no orders other than to take the five-fingers formation on takeoff that Yasin preferred.
They were out of the pawky outskirts of Trenganu, and over partially cleared forest in minutes, homing on the smoke.
It came from a farming estate—a group of buildings clustered together for mutual protection, their fields spreading on all sides.
Beyond the houses were the barns, and two of these were burning.
There were bodies scattered in the central farmyard, and, even at this height, Hal heard women's screams. He saw half a dozen natives dragging farm women toward a hay rick, which they evidently intended for a bedroom.
Hal remembered that farm worker's story, back on Yasin's estates, and sharply tapped the back of Storm's head.
The dragon obediently went into a dive.
Hal blasted twice on his trumpet for the others to follow him.
He didn't know, didn't care, how many native raiders were down there.
He brought Storm out of the dive just above the ground, and came in over the farmyard.
Storm didn't need orders.
His talons reached out, took a pair of barbarians, and hurled them against the ground, as his fangs shredded another pair.
Hal brought him back in a sharp bank, as Storm's tail lashed across the ground not a dozen feet below.
From an outbuilding ran men, farmers, emboldened by the dragon strike, attacking the natives with flails, scythes, a sword here and there, pitchforks.
A bearded patriarch was grabbed from behind by a dagger-waving warrior.
Hal put a crossbow bolt neatly into the man's armpit. As he did so, he heard a warning shout, and Cabet, reins clenched in his teeth, crossbow aiming, almost ran into Storm.
The other Derainians had done this sort of thing before. They came in hard, and the battle swirled over the farmyard.
Then the natives broke, running, and Storm went after them, gleefully tearing at them as they went.
It was certain death if they looked back, but they did, terrified of the pursuing horror.
Forest loomed, and Hal pulled Storm up. The dragon whined in protest at losing some of his prey.
They flew back to the farm, and this time, Hal brought Storm down.
Storm folded his wings, and Hal went looking for barbarians.
One broke out of a hut, and fired an arrow at the dragon, which bounced harmlessly off his carapace.
Storm took the man in his jaws, and neatly bit him in half, then spat him out.
A barbarian, wounded, stumbled out, dazed, eyes wide in terror, and one of the farmers spitted him on a pitchfork.
Another was trying to run, and a handful of women were on him, clawing, kicking. He went down, rolled, and a very fat woman dropped a small grinding stone on his head.
Then there was nobody left to kill, and nothing but the moans of the wounded Roche.
Mariah landed his dragon beside Storm, and slid out of the saddle, as one of the two new fliers did the same.
The new man was gazing at Hal with worshipful eyes.
Mariah shattered
the mood.
"You're starting again, aren't you?" he said, angrily. "Playing hero… and you promised me."
Hal, breathing hard, was still looking for men to kill.
His breathing slowed, and he managed a smile.
"I'm sorry, Farren."
"I remember before," Mariah said. "Got me all speared and bloody and nasty.
"Don't be doing that anymore, fearless leader. Or I'll put a spell of… of creepy spidgers in your drawers."
Kailas noted the shock on the young flier's face, and started laughing.
"Godsdamned glory-dog," Mariah growled.
9
The rescue of the farmers was made much of in Trenganu. There was talk of medals for Hal's flight.
He wanted none, having more than his share already.
"We could hold out for prize money," suggested Mariah, who also had his share of geegaws.
Hal didn't need any of that, and spent a morose hour wondering what, exactly, he did want.
Of course, the two Roche in the flight were ecstatic about the turn of events.
"Enjoy it now," Mariah said. "The only reason we're being lauded and 'plauded is first it's early in the war, which is always the best time to make your name fame, and second because nothing much is happening right now.
"In theory," he said, "there shouldn't be, either. We should be taking up winter quarters. But five against a goat we'll be parading out on a campaign any day now.
"Why'd you think General Arbarbabarbarala had us fartle out and then back?
"Just because we need a little exercise?
"Believe that, and I'll sell you valuababble real estate in Fovant."
Mariah was right.
Yasin was called in by the general, and told to make his squadron ready for a winter campaign, to march north along the coast, where there were reported barbarian villages to take and hold.
Yasin was passing enthusiastic to Hal.
"That'll push the barbs back to where they're supposed to be, and let our people come in and open up the wilderness."
"Why does Roche need any more land than what it's got?" Hal wondered. "Seems that the war left a lot of the land open, unworked."
"By next generation," Yasin said, "we'll have filled all that up, and be crying for new land for our people."
Hal almost asked if that wasn't the excuse the late Queen Norcia had used for starting the last war, but kept his mouth shut. If Roche decided they wanted all that tundra that lay to the north, let them take it, and contend with the oxen and the wild dragons.
He busied himself making sure that Yasin's supply section was buying winter coats, high boots, stable blankets for the dragons, all the things that generals didn't seem to think of until the first winter storm.
And seasons changed quickly this far to the north.
Which brought the first calamity.
The expeditionary force headquarters had been located in one of the city's few great houses. It was built of wood, and strangely styled after some of the stone mansions Hal had seen the ruins of in Carcaor.
Yasin had been kept late at a planning session, and was still preoccupied when he left, around midnight.
There'd been a rainstorm, turning into hail, and then cold winds.
The water on the wooden steps had frozen.
Yasin was pulling on his coat, a bit off-balance, when he came down the steps.
He slipped, tried to recover, and pinwheeled down the flight.
Soldiers came to help him up, but his scream made them stop.
He was barely conscious, and had Hal sent for.
By the time Kailas arrived, Yasin had been given herbs and a spell, and was fighting to stay awake.
"What a bastardly thing," he growled, pointing at splints on his chest and legs. "They say I'll be wearing these for at least four months, and want me to go back south, for more expert care.
"Afraid I'll lose my leg, they are. Which I surely won't let them take."
Hal waited.
"So I'm out of any campaign until spring, gods-dammit!
"Lord Kailas, will you take over the squadron? You're about the only one I really trust. And I'll try to recruit more fliers and dragons for you."
There really wasn't any choice.
No doubt they could find another dragon flier or, worse yet, put in some cavalry sort. Hal had seen what that produced.
Feeling very unhappy, he nodded.
"Yes. I'll take command."
And that was the last he saw of Yasin.
Later, Hal was very glad to have seen the back of him.
General Arbala was most concerned that Kailas could handle the job. Hal explained, trying not to sound superior, that he had handled squadrons of squadrons in the war, and doubted he'd have any troubles.
All that was necessary was to find the barbarians, and let the general and the forward elements of the expeditionary force know.
The natives hadn't any dragons of their own, and so far their magic wasn't very potent.
Arbala's strategy was quite simple, with no subtleties kept hidden from the common troops—march northeast along the coast, striking at every barbarian camp they encountered. Drive the savages back north, with tales of the valor of the Roche, so they'd never leave their damned wasteland again.
Hal came out of the meeting somewhat less than impressed with the general than before. He might have been a fighter, but he didn't seem much of a thinker.
And battles may be won by fighters.
But intelligence and cunning are what wins wars.
His opinion was reinforced when a light cavalry unit was sent out on a vague patrol to find out "what's out there," without a more concrete plan, or, worse, any troops detailed for their backup.
They encountered a native patrol who, seemingly, panicked at the sight of the brave Roche cavalrymen, and fled, conveniently into broken country.
The cavalry went in hot pursuit.
About four times their strength was lying in wait. The cavalry, hit hard, retreated to the nearest hilltop, and sent a pair of riders for help.
Amazingly, one horseman made it back to Trenganu, and bleated for support.
But it was getting late, and no fool would move out of the city by night.
At first light, a handful of heavy cavalry went out, with banners and bugles.
Corpses need neither, and that was what met the relief expedition. All of the light horsemen were dead, creatively mutilated.
General Arbala swore, tears in his eyes, on his own sword, that the Roche would revenge the dead.
But that didn't seem to bring any of them back.
Fall brought rains and mud, seldom freezing, over the axles of some of the wagons.
The expeditionary force would have to wait until the first thorough freeze, when the weather would be better suited for modern war.
In the meantime, the scribes descended on Trenganu, entranced with the idea of a Derainian war hero fighting for Roche.
Hal managed to duck most of these awestruck fools.
But there was one he couldn't.
Aimard Quesney, dragon flier and one-time war objector, showed up at the tiny room Hal used as an office, with a covering letter from Sir Thorn Lowess saying Quesney was his representative.
His huge mustaches were larger than ever, and he seemed as morally sure of himself as when Hal had sat over him in a court-martial.
"I convinced Lowess to write that letter," Quesney said, "and I'll write something in the style I know he wants when I get back to Deraine.
"But all that's piffle, and hardly the reason I came east."
Hal waited.
"You did, as you told me at the time, save my life, although being adjudged insane may not be the prettiest way to do it.
"But I still owe you greatly.
"Your man, Manus, found me, just as I was about to enter the priesthood.
"At first, I had no intention of reestablishing contact with you… it's very clear our paths aren't meant to
be coincidental.
"But I owe you, and, when I heard you'd taken service with Roche, I had to find you, and, perhaps, return a little of the favor.
"First, though, I approached your advocate, and was told your divorce is final, and your estates are doing very well."
"Thank you for taking the time," Hal said.
"I did it because I wasn't sure how I was going to say what I'm intending.
"But what the advocate told me wasn't of any particular help.
"Lord Kailas, have you gone completely off your head?"
Hal was taken aback. No one had talked to the Dragonmaster like that since… since, well, the last time he'd had a conversation with Farren Mariah.
The situation struck him as funny, and he started laughing.
He got up and went to the sideboard, poured a shot of the raw spirits the people of Trenganu hopefully called brandy, and took it to Quesney.
"Unless you've gotten so pure you don't indulge in anything?"
Quesney took the glass.
"In Roche—and with this abysmal weather—I drink like a watering dragon."
He knocked the glass back, held it out for a refill as Hal filled one for himself.
"I didn't expect that reaction," Quesney said. "I thought you'd be too full of your rank… sorry, your former rank… and would have me tossed out of here on my ass."
Hal sat back down.
"All right," he said. "So I'm a fool. Explain."
"I think," Quesney said, "that you've gotten so in love with war, with fighting, that you'll take anything that promises excitement.
"That's a good way to get yourself killed, Kailas."
Hal nodded reluctantly.
"Breaking Yasin out of prison—yes, the street stories are very explicit—was bad enough.
"But helping these sorry excuses that call themselves Roche to grab real estate is pretty raw, you know. Hardly worthy of a great war hero and such."
Hal sat up, eyes wide.
"It was my understanding that the barbarians are the ones grabbing land."
"Which was theirs in the first place," Quesney said. "Before the war, the Roche were moving north toward the tundra, seizing land the natives had traditionally thought their own, even though it was kept open for hunting, not planted and plowed.
"The Roche stopped their land grab for the most part during the war, but now the old fever for living space has taken them once more."
