Storm of Wings

by Chris Bunch

  "No, thanks."

  Feccia hesitated, then ran off.

  Serjeant Te had witnessed the exchange.

  "He's been acting a bit different since he had some kind of accident I heard about," he observed.

  "He is that," Hal said shortly.

  "Almost like a bully that's been whipped into line… Or the way a dog licks the arse of a bigger dog that got him on his back, pawing for mercy… except, of course, there's no fighting at this school."

  Hal made no answer. Feccia had been very friendly with Kailas since the "fight," which Hal considered no more than a shoving match.

  "Word of advice, young Serjeant," Te said. "A snake that turns once can do it again."

  "I'd already figured that."

  "Thought you might've."

  "This 'un might be in'trestin'," Farren Mariah said. "You see what I'm wigglin' here?"

  "Looks like," Hal said carefully, "a kid's toy. You going back to your childhood, Farren, playing the simpleton, hoping to get away from one of Patrice's little fun details?"

  "Heh. Heh." Mariah said deliberately, if uninformatively. "What sort of kid's toy?"

  "Uh…"

  "Like the shitwagon coming down the line, 'bout halfway with its rounds," Rai Garadice said. The four hutmates were crouched in the door to their hut, Farren having cautioned them, without explaining, against being seen.

  "Wood, wood, goodwood," Mariah said. By now, the others were used to his occasional rhyming slang. "Just so, just like, and keep thinking that.

  "And who's ramblin' up the row toward the shitwagon?"

  "Patrice."

  "Heh. Heh. Heh," Farren said again, spacing his "hehs" deliberately.

  "This center piece's carved by me, out of a bit whittledy from the wagon's arse. It's dipped in real shit—used my own, sackerficin' an sanctifyin', like they said—an' rubbed with some herbs I plucked on the last run beyont the grounds I know the meanin' of. Plus I said some words my gran'sire taught me when I was puttin' it together.

  "Th' wheels're toothpicks, an' touched an' charmed by rubbin' against the real ones out there.

  "Now, be watchin', that wagon, and I'll be chantin' away."

  Garadice drew back, a little nervously. Farren grinned, seeing that.

  "Careful m'magic don't slip, an' you go hoppin' out as a toady-frog.

  "Wagon roll

  Wagon creak

  Full of stuff

  I'll not speak

  Wheel wiggle

  Wheel haul

  Wheel wobble

  Wheel FALL!!"

  At the last words, Farren twisted one of the toothpick wheels off the toy.

  But no one noticed.

  Outside, a wheel on the real privy carrier groaned, and gave way.

  The cart teetered, and Serjeant Patrice had a moment to shout alarm. Then it crashed sideways, spilling a brown wave high into the air, to splash down over the warrant.

  He tried to run, but the wagon was turning on its side, and more ordure washed over him.

  There were shouts, screams, laughter as the students tumbled out of their huts.

  "Paradise," Hal said, solemnly taking Farren by the ears and kissing him.

  "Git away!" Mariah spluttered.

  "You are a wizard," Ev Larnell said.

  "It'll be a long night's cleanup he'll be having us doing," Rai said. "But worth every minute."

  "Can I ask a question, Serjeant?" Hal asked Te, who'd taken charge of the formation due to Patrice's absence.

  "Ask."

  "You're assigned to this class, correct?"

  "Aye."

  "But I haven't seen you doing any teaching, or more than a morning run once a week or so."

  "Aye."

  "Can I ask why?"

  Te smiled, the look of a cat with many, many, secrets, didn't respond.

  "I've got a question of my own, Kailas."

  "Yes, Serjeant."

  "Do you have any ideas how that unfortunate accident could've happened to poor Serjeant Patrice?"

  "No, Serjeant."

  "Didn't think you would. Nobody else does either." Te smiled, and his skull face looked almost friendly.

  "Go after your classmates, young Serjeant. Late class is coming up."

  Hal, realizing he wasn't going to get an answer to his question, saluted, and doubled away.

  As he ran, a possible answer came—just as a high-ranking officer didn't get where he was without having a bit of a political sense, the same had to be true of a troop serjeant.

  Was Te aware of how screwed this school was, and making sure none of the blame would stick to his coat?

  Some of the students had gotten in the habit of sitting behind the row of huts, in a quiet glade, between curfew and bed check, when the weather permitted. It gave them a chance to talk about the day, to try to decide if they were ever going to look at a dragon, let alone learn how to ride one.

  Since fall was edging toward winter, most brought blankets to sit on and wrap around themselves.

  One night, everyone had gone to bed except for Hal and Saslic.

  It was clear, a chill in the air, and it seemed very natural for them to lean together, and look up at the almost-full moon.

  "Do you suppose," Saslic asked softly, "that over in Roche there are a boy and girl dragon rider, looking up at the same moon… I wonder what they're thinking? Romantic things, maybe?"

  Hal had been wondering about the Roche as well, except that his thoughts were running more toward some ideas he had for killing Roche dragon fliers, no matter their sex.

  "Of course," he said hastily. "Romantic things, and about, umm, dancing in the moonlight, and…"

  His voice trailed off, and he was looking into her eyes, great moonpools.

  It seemed like a good idea to kiss her, and he was moving closer, her lips parting, and a voice whispered in their ear.

  "How wonderfully romantic!"

  Hal whirled, saw Serjeant Patrice, who'd crept up behind them on his hands and knees.

  "We have a great deal of energy, do we, to be wanting to play stinkfinger when we ought to be in bed like good little boys and girls?"

  "Uh…"

  "On your feet, students, and at attention! Move!"

  They obeyed.

  "I suppose, with all this vim and vigor, you'd appreciate a task to occupy you for the rest of the night, wouldn't you, since you can't be sleepy?"

  "Uh…" Hal managed.

  "Is the shitwagon fixed yet, Serjeant?" Saslic said.

  "No, more's the pity. Not that I'd detail you for that, since it makes noise, and I don't want any of your classmates disturbed from their slumber merely because of your… pastimes.

  "You go change into your fatigue suits, children. And then meet me on the far side of where the horse ring used to be. There's at least one stable that wasn't cleaned thoroughly from the old days."

  By false dawn, that stable was as clean as it had been on the day it'd been built, Hal and Saslic working by lantern light and with Patrice's occasional check-in.

  "Very good," he approved, just as the drums of reveille began clattering. "Now, back to your huts, and change into class uniform. You've an easy fifteen minutes, and I don't want either of you late, or stinking of horse dung like you do now.

  "Fifteen minutes, and I've planned a nice cross-country run for us before breaking our fasts."

  Brooms were clattered down and the two pelted for their huts, knowing there was absolutely no way they'd be able to get clean, let alone dressed.

  But then came the surprise.

  Two huts—Hal's and Saslic's—gleamed with fire- and lamp-light.

  "Come on, you eejiots," Farren shouted, and Mynta Gart beckoned from the other hut. "Water's heatin', and yer uniforms're ready."

  Busy hands helped Hal out of his stinking fatigue suit, and buckets of soapy water were cascaded about him, as he stood, shivering, outside the hut. Across the way, Saslic was getting similar treatment.

  Hal was too
tired to even consider lascivious thoughts as his clothes were hurled at him, pulled on.

  The only thought that did come, as he and the other students ran toward the shrilling of whistles in the assembly area, was that, with or without dragons, somehow the students had come together, and formed a team, cadre be damned.

  The next day the dragons arrived, and everything changed.

  Chapter Ten

  There were twenty-five dragons, angrily hissing, long necks snaking around, trying to sink their fangs into anyone around. They were chain-lashed to wagons, each drawn by ten oxen.

  Hal thought they were just entering their prime.

  Saslic agreed, and said they were four, maybe five years old.

  "A little young for riding, but easier to train," Rai Garadice added, then yelped in glee, broke formation, in spite of Serjeant Patrice's snarl, and ran into the arms of a medium-height, frothy-bearded man Hal recognized.

  "Didjer happen to do a count?" Farren said. "Twenny-five of th' monskers. Assumin' that we, like the eejiots afore, take these mooncalves off to war as our personal mounts, a'ter they've finished trainin' us, that means that somebody's allowin' for either cas'lties or bustouts. So fifteen of us're doom't."

  "Most likely both," Ev Larnell said gloomily.

  "Yar, well, I don't plan on bein' either," Mariah put in snappily. "Fly the skies, spy the ground, that's my fambly motto."

  "Since when?" Larnell asked suspiciously.

  "Since right now," Farren said. "What's a good fambly 'less you can shake it, change it, turn it all about?"

  There were very immediate changes. Garadice had brought five of his dragon-buying team, all experienced dragon fliers. He announced he had orders to take over command of the school, and everyone would now please help unload the dragons.

  "Cadre included," he said.

  Sir Pers Spense departed, and no one saw him leave.

  Garadice appeared at the dinner formation, told all the students to gather around.

  "I'm not one for speeches. I understand from the good Serjeant Te you've been getting marched back and forth a great deal, and it doesn't appear much was done about why you all volunteered.

  "That'll change.

  "Serjeant Te will take charge of whatever military drill needs doing, which I don't think is much, and the bulk of the time will be spent trying to teach you men and women not only how to fly, but how to stay alive once you reach the front.

  "The battle has worsened, and no one is quite sure how dragons will fit in. So it'll be up to you to not only fight bravely, but determine the future of dragon flying.

  "There are quite a few… well, I shouldn't say old fuds, but that's what they are, who think an army should forget nothing, and learn nothing.

  "It'll be your job, and the few that have gone before, and, hopefully, the many that will follow, to make them learn differently.

  "Now, go in to eat. I'm afraid tonight's meal is nothing but cold victuals, pickles, tomatoes and bread. I was forced to discharge the cooking staff, since I believe we should eat no worse than dragons, so until we bring in some better qualified people, we'll have to shift for ourselves, and some of you'll be detailed to help prepare and serve.

  "Not that any of us will have much time to brood about food. We're all going to be very, very busy."

  "Very well," Garadice said, propping a pair of half-moon spectacles on the bridge of his nose, "you might want to pay attention here."

  He lifted an enormous folio on to the lectern. It was stuffed with papers, some printed, some scribbled on.

  "This is what I think I know about dragons, from twenty years' experience.

  "But if any of you know better, or even think you do, please interrupt me.

  "Remember, we've only known about dragons for three hundred years or so, when they first appeared on our shores."

  "Where did they come from?" Sir Loren Damian asked.

  "Almost certainly from the far north, even beyond Black Island."

  "Better, why'd they come south?" Farren asked.

  "No one knows, precisely. Some have theorized the climate changed, and drove them south.

  "Another theory is that they feed naturally on the great herds of oxen that roam the northern wildernesses. Perhaps a plague of oxen, or even overcrowding their natural grounds could have caused this migration."

  "More like, somebody was chasin' 'em," Farren said.

  "That's not unlikely." Garadice smiled. "Which may be one reason why the far north remains unexplored, besides the problem that Black Island, the logical jumping off place for any such exploration, is claimed by the kingdom of Roche."

  The students were paired off, almost two to a dragon, and stable duties began. Somehow Vad Feccia ended as Hal's stable partner. Hal did most of the work, since Feccia seemed terrified of the monsters.

  That didn't bother Hal. He cheerfully put Feccia to pumping the stirrup pump they were given, and sprayed his beast with soapy water, then scrubbed it with stiff-bristled, long-handled brushes.

  "His" dragon seemed to like that, at least it only tried to sink its fangs into him at the beginning of the session and at the end.

  Saslic determined the dragon's sex was probably female. "All to the good, Hal. Easier to train, easier to keep."

  Saslic had a male dragon, which she'd named Nont, after, she said, "one of my imaginary friends when I was a little girl."

  Hal didn't name his. He knew that it was going to be a long war, and this dragon might be the first of many, especially if his ideas bore fruition.

  After washing, Hal oiled his dragon's scales, checked its talons for splitting, although he wasn't sure what he'd do if one was broken, carted out the amazing amount of waste a dragon could produce, changed the straw it slept on, odorous with the beast's pungent urine.

  He then took it, on a very long lead, its wings bound, for a walk around the horse ring. He thought it was a good sign that "his" dragon wasn't very friendly to the other beasts.

  The dragon was fed twice a day, generally a sheep or calf in the morning, perhaps some salt fish at night. Hal was grateful there was a butcher attached to Garadice's unit. As a special treat, a handful of rabbits might be tossed into the dragon's cage alive.

  "There are four, most likely more, species of dragons. It's also possible that three of these are merely variations.

  "The other class, known as the Black Island or black variation, is significantly larger in all dimensions than other dragons, is predominately black in coloration, and is considered untamable, and the deadliest of mankillers.

  "As a side note, though," Garadice said, "a number of dragon fliers, back before the war, were able to obtain, tame and successfully ride dragons which had supposedly been gotten from Black Island, so here, again, nothing is certain. Do these other species interbreed with the black dragons? "I simply do not know."

  New cooks had been brought in, Garadice permitted the issue of beer at the end of each week, and one afternoon was given over to free time.

  None of this was important to Hal as Rai, who'd quickly been promoted to cadre, gave him a hand up into the rear saddle of a docile dragon cow for his first flight.

  "Now, here's the way you steer this brute," he said, "which I suppose you know from your days with Athelny. Slap her with the reins on the left side of her neck, and, with training, she'll turn that way. Hit her on the right—and I don't mean hard, you're not supposed to be cruel—she'll go that way. Drag the reins back, and—with any kind of luck—the beast'll climb. Rap both reins on her neck, and she'll probably dive.

  "Kick if you want her to fly faster, pull back on the reins again to slow her down.

  "That's the hard way to do things. Some dragons—I remember the one my father gave me—obeyed by voice. Others I've seen can feel the rider bend in the saddle, and will turn with him.

  "This lumbering cow is purely stupid, and thinks just getting off the ground is repayment enough for her daily meat.

  "Strap yourself in, and
let's go flying."

  Hal obeyed, and Rai slid into the front saddle.

  "Hup," he shouted, and the dragon stirred, got up from her crouch, and staggered forward, out of the pen. Her wings uncurled, beat, beat again, and, very simply, they were flying.

  Rai let the dragon climb of her own will, giving no commands.

  He looked back, saw Hal's look of pure glee, nodded.

  "You were a flier, or anyway you've been up, not like some of us."

  Hal didn't answer, intent on looking at that most magical of all sights, the ground lower away below him, and the horizon unroll.

  "I'll not take her higher," Rai said. "I want you up front here as soon as possible, really learning something, not joyriding with your finger in your nose."

  The classroom training was very much by guess and by the gods. Garadice and the other instructors taught map reading, use of a compass, survival skills in case they landed and were trapped in enemy territory.

  There was an infantry training camp about half an hour's flight distant, and the trainees helped the class learn what horsemen, marching infantry, a command group looked like from the air.

  Hal thought it mildly amusing that the soldiers, when the dragons landed, treated the prospective fliers with a mixture of awe and incredulity that any normal-looking man or woman would trust themselves to the monsters they loved.

  He could see the use of most training, but it was evident that no one, instructor or student, was really sure how these dragons, and their fliers, would serve Deraine.

  Hal, keeping his own council, was following Garadice's lead, and keeping a notebook that filled up with his own, rather bloody, thoughts on what use dragons might be put.

  "Damnation, Kailas," the instructor shouted. "Don't saw at the reins—you're not trying to cut this poor beast's neck in half!"

  Hal tried to be lighter with his controls, and the dragon ignored him. He tried leaning to suggest a command, and the dragon ignored him.

  He felt sweat on his forehead, under his arms, in spite of the wintry day.

  "This isn't producing much," the instructor said. "Bring him down toward the ground, and I'll take the reins.

  "I do hope you do better next time," the instructor added, gloomily.