by Chris Bunch
About midday, when the weather had broken a bit, he grew bored with the book he was reading, pulled on boots and a heavy coat, and went for a walk down by the shore.
It was far too windy to take Storm out, but he stopped by the stables first, and fed a rather terrified lamb to the dragon.
Frozen sand crunched under his feet, and the wind wailed most attractively as he went.
A gust of wind sent particles of ice into his face, and he blinked them out, thinking he had spotted more bergy bits stranded on the beach.
He had not—the two bulky objects were dragons.
Wild dragons.
One was dead, being rolled by the waves, but the other still lived, and was able to pull himself farther up, out of the water.
Hal tried approaching him, and the monster managed a feeble lash of his tail, and a burbling low screech.
The dragon was hurt—a foreleg looked broken, and there was a long tear along his side.
Hal wanted to do something, didn't know what.
A thought came.
He ran back to the castle, shouted up a servant, and told him to saddle a horse—no, two horses—and take a companion, for safety against the storm's rage, to the nearby village and bring back its witch.
"Tell him it's to deal with a dragon," Hal said. "Maybe that'll give him a clue as to what herbs to bring.
"He'll think I've gone mad, but remind him my gold isn't mad."
The man looked puzzled, then ran off.
Hal went to the stables, got Storm, and walked him down to the wounded, probably dying, dragon.
The two creatures exchanged angry hisses, then, proper civilities having been observed, the injured beast lay back down, full length.
Hal didn't approach him more closely.
Within the hour, the witch arrived, a rather rotund, cheerful man, bundled in homespun. Hal's two servants carried big wicker cases.
He spoke in the rather queer dialect native to the district Hal's lands lay in, and Hal had to puzzle his way through the man's words:
"'Tis sad to see any animal, even a monsker like a dragon, in pain, and aye, there's been many of them wash up on our shores this winter.
"Wonder if there's some sort of war going on, almost. Almost like they're as stupid as people with their wars.
"Always coming from the west, being washed a bit south to our beaches. Wager there's more on the western approaches."
Hal remembered the dragons that had sailed, wings folded over their bodies, driven by the winds and the currents, past Cayre a Carstares, his ex-wife's citadel, and nodded understanding.
"I spent some time thinking, trying to bring up some spells, or some herbs or poultices that might help, tried 'em, almost got my head tore off for my troubles.
"But two, three, recovered good enough to swim back out and catch the current.
"Seldom saw one hurt as sore as this, but we'll do what we can."
The man cautiously approached the injured beast, who seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness.
He muttered spells, and took packets of dried herbs from the baskets, packed the dragon's wounds, and loose-splinted his foreleg. He tried to tighten the splint, and the beast semiwoke, and struck at him with his fangs.
The man ducked away, and laughed.
"Better nor a bull in heat, you are. But I have your measure, I do."
But the witch was sweating in fear.
Hal had a sheep brought down, and killed in front of the dragon, but he showed no interest.
He brought Storm back to the beach, and Storm stared at the wild beast and began a high keening.
Then he picked up the sheep Hal had killed, carried it to the other animal and set it down in front of his nose.
The dragon's eyes opened, and he considered the meal, Storm, and Hal, the witch, and several of Hal's curious staffers hovering nearby, then closed his eyes again.
Hal had his retainers pitch a sort of tent for himself, and set watch over the dragon as night closed in.
Storm curled nearby.
Hal didn't sleep that night, or so he thought.
But he dreamed.
Once before, during the war, he'd dreamed of being a dragon, Storm, and that dream had been so real he'd truly believed it.
So was this one, even though it was most strange, and lasted for only moments.
Again, he was a dragon, but one that knew not men.
The sun was warm on his back, and about a hundred feet below him was a savanna, its grasses just beginning to change with fall.
It was a land that Hal had never known, never seen.
He was just beginning to get hungry, scanning the ground below for prey.
Another part of him was watching the skies… for something.
An enemy?
He looked about, saw nothing except some scattering birds, went back to looking for his meal.
He thought of a full stomach, then quiet digestion atop a crag to the east, near the ocean, and was content.
He saw movement below, under a rocky escarpment, folded his wings and dove silently down toward what must be an antelope.
He was just below the rocks when two other dragons, big, red and black, dove at him.
The dragon felt fear, panic at the ambush, tried to dive out of it.
But the other two were clever, and forced him toward the ground.
He dove at one, struck with his tail, missed.
The other dragon was on him, lashing out.
The sound of his foreleg breaking was very loud, and he keened pain, rolled in midair to escape.
But both dragons were on him, ripping, tearing, and he felt the pain deep in his side. The ground was very close, and—
And Hal woke, sweating, hearing the nearby dragon moan and thrash.
Hal sat, helplessly, listening to the beast's last hours.
The dragon died without opening his eyes, just before dawn.
Hal felt pain greater than he'd known over the death of some men, and wondered at himself.
But at least he had an idea of what he might, perhaps should, do.
Hal left his castle on Storm that day, paying no heed to the dying tempest, and headed for Rozen.
14
Kailas's first stop was at the address that the dragonmaster Garadice had included with his letter.
Garadice's home was just outside Rozen, a large, sprawling, rather unkempt estate.
Hal found him in one of the outbuildings, staring at a large pile of tents, jarred rations, and heavy clothes.
"I'm not looking forward to going back north this spring," Garadice explained. "I hope you've brought something to distract me."
Hal explained his plan—he proposed to fund four or five teams, to be stationed along the west and north shores of Deraine. The teams would be composed of about six men, as many as possible with dragon-handling experience. One of the men would be a wizard, or, failing that, at least a competent witch.
Their job would be to help any wild dragons that beached themselves, first with medical treatment, until they healed enough to be able to fly, or, at the very least, return to the sea and let the currents carry them on.
Garadice made a face.
"Admirable, I suppose, Lord Kailas. But I sense something lacking. Once we—for I'll be delighted to aid you in any way I can—have our dragon all bandaged up, is there going to be any guarantee that it will simply take itself off our hands?
"Suppose the dragon likes being cosseted and hand-fed?"
Hal hadn't considered that.
"And the gods know we already have enough half-tame dragons on our hands from the war, with, as yet, no place to keep them or any task to keep them off the public rolls. We've seen how ungrateful the damned people are toward them already.
"Will there be any change in the way the populace feels?
"Remembering, of course, how quickly they've managed to forget the crippled soldiers who fought for them not so very long ago."
Hal was starting to ge
t upset.
Garadice held up his hands.
"Don't get mad, Lord Kailas. You have me on your side, as you should know. I'm merely asking questions that I think we have to answer before riding off on what could be a fool's errand."
Hal, scowling, said he would think on the matter, and left.
After some pondering, he decided his campaign needed a popularizer.
There was none better than Sir Thorn Lowess.
Lowess's mansion was, as usual, occupied by half a dozen young women, nobles of the outer provinces who were in the capital seeking excitement and, possibly, a lover or husband, preferably rich.
As far as anyone knew, Lowess merely liked these women's company, and never took advantage of the various offers he'd had.
Lowess, unmarried, wasn't attracted to men, either.
As far as anyone could tell, he seemed perfectly sexless, although no one committed the social breach of asking.
The two men chatted for a while, Sir Thorn carefully not bringing up the subject of Hal's ex-wife, then Hal explained what had brought him to the capital, and asked for Lowess's help in promoting his dragon teams.
"I am glad, I suppose," Lowess said, looking out the window, carefully not meeting Hal's eye, "that you consider me some sort of a superman.
"But that would be… will be… a very hard task.
"People are tired of the war, tired of reading about the war."
"But this isn't about the war," Hal protested.
"In most people's eyes," Sir Thorn said, "anything to do with dragons—like anything to do with the Roche or soldiers—reflects back on the war.
"Look at it like this, Lord Hal. How long have dragons been among us?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Perhaps everything. It's been what, a bit over two hundred years since they appeared from the west?
"You know, an awful lot of people had never seen or read about dragons before the war, in spite of the dragon shows and such.
"Dragons equal war equal death. Period."
"That's absurd," Hal said.
"It is," Sir Thorn agreed. "But I'll give you an example: a young writer I know asked for help getting a collection of stories about dragons published… flying them, caring for them, nothing, other than a brief mention at the beginning, of their war service.
"I tried. I really tried. But all of the people I wrote to came back with about the same response: that no one wants to read about dragons, and for me to suggest to the young man that he find another field of interest. That went from broadsheet publishers, including my own, to those who deal in books.
"I'll give you another example, this one closer to home. The broadsheets wanted ink on your last adventure with the Roche… a few months back. Half of that interest, by the way, came from your divorce. Since neither you nor Khiri was willing to talk to the tale-tellers, there were incredible scandals floating about.
"But now, if I decided to write a piece on your latest crusade… I doubt if I'd find a ready market.
"You are, as the saying goes, yesterday's hero."
"Well, the hell with them," Hal said. "I'll go ahead with my teams anyway. I've more than enough money, and don't give a damn about having anything to hand on to the daughters and sons I don't have, don't particularly want, and seem unlikely to have anyway."
"Now, now," Sir Thorn soothed. "Getting perturbed about something that does seem to be a fact won't do any good.
"Which brings up another point that just came to me.
"It's admirable—heroic, even—that you want to do something to help dragons.
"But is this it? Is this dragon-team scheme the answer? And I'm not sure I know what I meant by that question."
"Answer?" Hal asked, honestly puzzled. "Answer to what?"
"I don't know that, either," Sir Thom said. "Look. Let me think on it. There must be a way to do something for these pursued wild dragons.
"But do a stumble-witted man a favor. Think on what I just said."
Again, Hal dreamed he was that sore-wounded dragon. Now he was at sea, a great wind blowing over his tented wings, waves rocking him.
The current bore him steadily away from his homeland. Away from his homeland, but away from those red and black dragons who'd savaged him.
He longed for sleep, for death, but his body denied him.
He would heal, heal and find a new land for a home.
Hal sat in a taphouse, trying to feel sorry for himself, but mostly getting drunk.
Hells, he could have gotten this far staying at home… if those vast estates King Asir had granted him were really his home.
He realized he'd never thought of them as such, that in fact he'd really never had a home after running away from Caerly.
Kailas grinned, remembering an old sergeant, way the hells back when he was a young cavalryman, before the dragons, shouting, "From now on, th' army is your home."
Yes. Right. Of course, Sergeant.
What bat shit.
He listened to the laughter and joking at the bar, had no desire to join the roisterers.
Hal realized that, way down deep, he probably didn't like people very much. Noisy, scheming fools who seemed to do nothing but take.
So what, he thought.
That had nothing to do with anything, least of all dragons, which he'd decided would be his main concern for a while, until he thought of something else to do.
Another realization came: he'd probably be better off if he had to struggle for his meals and shelter, like most people.
Maybe there'd be more like him if everything came on golden platters.
Or maybe not.
This, he thought, wasn't getting him much of anywhere.
He glowered at an especially happy drunk, who lifted a glass in his direction, saw the expression on his face, and turned hastily away.
Hal felt a bit better for having ruined, if only for a moment, someone else's evening.
He looked for someone else to glare at.
Maybe it'd make him feel better if he got into a good, serious bar brawl on this night.
Although he'd probably lose, since it had been nearly for ever since he'd been in a fight with anything but killing weapons. He thought the warders of Rozen would hardly approve of him gutting some innocent lush with the dragon flier's dagger he had at his belt.
His eye was caught by a placard on the wall:
!See!
Real Wild Dragons
!Marvel!
At their Rage
Against Us All
More than 10
Of the World's Most
Dangerous Dragons
There was the address of a local hippodrome.
Hal studied the placard.
After a while, he pushed his half-finished brandy away.
Now, there was something he could deal with.
Hal realized he was a deal drunker than he'd thought, navigating slowly and carefully through the snowy streets, having to stop and ask directions twice.
He carefully faced away from the people he questioned, not wanting to paralyze anyone with his breath.
He was in time for the last "show," such as it was.
It consisted of a gravel-voiced man talking about how dangerous the ten dragons were, and how brave their captors had been, without ever specifying exactly how the monsters were trapped.
The dragons themselves, paired, arbitrarily, in thick-barred cages, looked wilted and underfed, hardly a threat to anyone.
But the shill raked a length of steel across the bars, and the dragons obediently screamed, and spat at the man.
Hal paid little attention to the man's blather. He'd done better himself when he was a boy with the dragon fliers' show. But he did force away his building stupor when the man talked about the hand-forged bars of the cage, and how only the system of locks kept the beasts from breaking free and ravaging Rozen.
After a time, Kailas decided there was nothing more to learn. He went out and found
a closet in one of the halls, and crept inside, hoping there wouldn't be any broom-pushers after the "performance."
He either slept or passed out, but all was quiet and still in the arena when he awoke, except for the rather plaintive roars of the dragons.
Hal slipped out, head already starting to ache from the brandy. He thought he could hold on until he'd finished, then go back to his inn and collapse.
There was a brazier in the central auditorium, giving a bit of light.
Hal stumbled down the steps, looking for something. He found it still laying on the floor—the steel bar the barker had used to demonstrate the strength of the cages.
Hal picked it up, shook it, approved of its weight.
He braced himself, and swung the steel against the rather flimsy-looking lock of one of the cages.
The lock bent, the sound boomed around the arena, and the dozing dragons woke.
He swung again, and the lock sprung open.
Hal moved to the next cage, took a firm grip on the bar, and a voice came from behind him.
"Hi! You! What the blazes are you doing?"
Hal spun.
An old man, wearing what had once been a uniform, stood there.
"Are you out of your mind?" the man, a nightwatch-man, shouted.
Hal thought, decided to play the role.
He came out with what he hoped would sound like maniacal laughter, and advanced on the old man.
The man backed up.
Hal laughed again, and drew his dagger.
The old man yelped, found that his legs weren't as old as he'd thought, and fled back out of the arena.
He'll go for the watch, Hal thought.
But he didn't run.
Instead, he went back to the cages, and smashed the other locks.
Then he went to the arena's doors, and opened them wide.
Snowflakes and cold air blew in.
Hal went back to the dragons.
"All right," he shouted. "You're free! Get out! Go north, or… or wherever you want!"
None of the dragons moved toward their cage doors.
Instead, they huddled back at the rear of their pens.
Hal swore at them, without results.
He looked about, saw the brazier, had an idea. With his dagger, he ripped one of the stadium seats apart, wrapping the cloth seat back about its frame.
