Storm of Wings

by Chris Bunch

  Hal had his dagger out, and thrust hard. It went home in the beast's eye, and it screamed deafeningly, rolled, dumping its rider, who fell, endlessly.

  Then he was in empty sky, looked back, saw the Roche dragon-carriers and the other Roche monsters in the distance, no signs of his own flight.

  Hal dove for the ground, found the main road, and followed it back to his flight.

  There was jubilation—they'd finally found a way to strike back at the beasts.

  "Now, let's find a way to kill the damned riders and leave the beasts alone," Saslic said. "They don't deserve what we're dealing out to them, any more than the poor damned horses deserve that green horror."

  "I'm thinking about it," Hal said. "And I've got some ideas, if this war would slow down for a little and give me a chance to work them out."

  There was one man separate from the others—Vad Feccia. He claimed his dragon was sick, unflyable. Hal noted that, put it aside for later.

  There was one man missing—Asser. No one had seen him after they'd taken off that morning, and he was never seen again by the army. Hal didn't know if he'd been killed in the fight, or, more likely, if he'd flown north toward Paestum, toward safety as far as he could, then melted into the crowd and made it across the Straits to Deraine. He guessed he wasn't much as a hard man, for he sort of wished Asser luck.

  Twice more that day Miletus sent them against the soldier-carriers. Once they tore a formation apart, the survivors flying back at full speed. The second time the dragon-carriers were escorted by thirty Roche dragons, and Hal's flight couldn't attack.

  They were fighting back—but the retreat went on, to Bedarisi.

  Bedarisi was an even bigger nightmare than Frechin, units on top of other units, soldiers looking for their fellows, others trying to avoid rejoining a fighting formation, bewildered civilians, officers without commands bawling orders, and always the walking wounded, staggering, looking for a chiurgeon or a wizard to treat them, forcing themselves to keep moving, afraid of what the Roche would do if they captured them.

  Everyone was terrified the Roche would bring that greenish fog down once more, but it didn't materialize. Perhaps the Deraine sorcerers had found a counterspell.

  It was bad enough that the Roche dragons were flying close to the city, and the suburbs were being harried by Roche light cavalry.

  Hal remembered a ring road from before the war, led the unit around the city and found a place to set the flight up. Chook and his helpers went looking for a ration point or foodstuffs to buy or steal, and Miletus rode into the city center, looking for Third Army headquarters.

  He came back in a few hours, looking very grim.

  He'd not found Duke Gwithian's headquarters, but had encountered a lord who was somewhat in authority.

  That nobleman had brayed that the army wouldn't need spies or fliers, but only men with swords, and for the flight to leave its dragons and work its way to the front lines forming before the city, and become infantrymen.

  Ev Larnell was gray-faced, obviously sure he would never cheat the death he'd avoided.

  "Damme," Farren said softly, "wot a waste of all that trainin'. Not to mention some pretty good folks as well."

  Chapter Thirteen

  "The Roche are expected to attack before dark," Miletus said. "Every man who can fight is to be on the lines."

  He was about to continue when Rai Garadice gasped, and pointed. Everyone turned.

  Smoke coiled above Bedarisi, and Hal thought for an instant the Roche killing fog was about to strike. But the smoke firmed, and became the huge figure of a man, armored, sword in hand, but helmetless.

  Kailas recognized him. It was Duke Jaculus Gwithian, the Third Army Commander, the man who'd refused to admit the Roche were on the attack, standing more than 300 feet tall, noble, warlike, awe-striking.

  He lifted his sword, pointed it south, and spoke, his voice a rumble that shook the ground, or so Hal thought.

  "Soldiers of the king! I call on you in this most desperate hour. The enemy has driven us back, but from this hour, this minute, we shall retreat no more.

  "I order you as soldiers, and also you of Sagene who fight alongside us. This shall be our finest hour.

  "Here we will make our final stand. Not one man, not one woman shall fall back, shall flee.

  "We call upon our courage, our gods, our heritage as free men and women to fight to the last man.

  "This battle, shall Deraine and Sagene live on for an aeon, will be looked back by those who come after us with awe, and give inspiration for a thousand generations.

  "Here we stood, moving back not one yard, not one inch, fighting for our king and, uh, our barons.

  "Here we shall stand, like a rock against the tide, firm, to the last man.

  "Here, in Bedarisi, a new legend is being born, a legend of—"

  Suddenly the figure writhed, and changed, and became a rooster wearing armor, who crowed loudly.

  Then the image changed once more, and was a Roche warrior, who looked down at Bedarisi, and began laughing, a grating, ominous laugh.

  And then there was nothing.

  "Dunno," Farren said skeptically, "what that was supposed't' do for my morale."

  "That isn't important," Sir Loren said. "We've just got our marching orders… or, rather, our dying orders.

  "We fight—and die—where we stand."

  A few minutes later, they dimly heard the chortle of trumpets, and knew battle was closed.

  "I suppose," Saslic said, rather weakly, "we'd best be going forward as Roche fodder."

  "Or else runnin'," Farren said, pointing down at the road, where soldiers continued to trail past, "like those, who've gone an' decided they'll go for home and make those other gen'ra-tions the image was talkin' about, to tell them about us."

  "There's something we could try that might be a little better than a suicide stand with a sword," Hal said, surprising himself, for his ideas weren't quite formed.

  "Anything's better than dying in the muck," Ev Larnell said.

  "Agreed," Miletus said. "What do we need?"

  "Fifteen brave men… or fifteen fools."

  "Goin' beyont us fools?" Farren said.

  "Sir, if you'll go with me out to the road," Hal said. "We'll go fishing."

  "What am I for?" Miletus said, half smiling.

  "To give me a little authority."

  "After you… Serjeant."

  It only took half an hour to find the prospective heroes.

  There were thirty of them, crossbowmen, shambling along, beaten, with no officers at their head. But Hal, who'd let a group of archers and another of catapult men pass, since they were unarmed, noted that these thirty still had their bows in hand, and bolts in their quivers.

  Men who're broken don't bother, generally, worrying about their arms.

  "You men," Miletus called at Hal's nudge. "Form up over here."

  A few lifted their heads, studied Miletus, looked back at the road.

  "I said, over here!" Miletus shouted, and there was a hard snap to his voice.

  The thirty came to a scuffling halt. The man at the head of the group was huge, mightily muscled with a gut to match.

  "Who're you to order us… sir?"

  "We need you," Hal said. "To fight. With us."

  "Haw." The man spat. "We're done fightin'. Mebbe Paestum's worth fighting for, more likely Deraine, on our own ground.

  "Not here, against dragons like you appear to be flying, and the Roche's damned magic, and Sagenies who won't stand up for themselves."

  Hal ignored him, but unobtrusively took something from his belt pouch and held it in his fist.

  "I need fifteen of you," he continued, "who aren't afraid to fly on—and fight from—the back of a dragon."

  Utter silence, except for the shuffle of other soldiers moving steadily past. Then somebody catcalled, and somebody else laughed harshly. But Hal had seen a couple of men shed their fatigue, straighten, and look slightly interested. Very sl
ightly interested.

  "Fifteen men," Hal said again. "Who wouldn't mind taking down some Roche fliers."

  The big man sneered.

  "You want us to go up on them beasts, what, riding behind, and do what? I ain't had shit to do with dragons, but I'll wager they take more than one shitty little bolt to kill."

  "I didn't say anything about dragons," Hal said. "We're going after their fliers."

  A man, lean, with an intelligent look on his face stepped forward.

  "Somebody just came up with this idea," he said. "Nobody ever thought about it before? You'd think someone would've tried it, and got himself killed. Or, more likely, some other people killed. Which might make you think this idea isn't all that great from the outset."

  "This is the army, remember?" Hal said. "They barely admit to having dragons, let alone how to use them. And since when is any army quick with new ideas?"

  That got a few smiles.

  "Aw, sod off," the big man said. "I'm not about to get kilt followin' your foolishness, nor am I gonna let any of my friends get et up by monsters.

  "Let's go, people. We're moving on."

  "Stand where you are," Miletus said. "That's an order. You're still in the army!"

  "Naw. Naw, I ain't. Call it uni… uni… whatever resignation."

  "I gave you an order, man."

  "And I told you to sod off," the big man said. "If you're hard of hearing, try this."

  He started to pull the long sword at his side from its sheath. Hal stepped forward, and snapped a punch into the man's stomach.

  The man's sour breath gushed out, and he stumbled forward and threw up. He fought for air, couldn't find it, and fell on his knees, then, moaning, on his face in the dust.

  "Toss him on that bank," Hal ordered, picking up the sword, and putting his hand back into his pouch for an instant. "You, and you. I'll not trust a man like him at my back, on a dragon or in a brawl."

  He indicated two men, who'd been fingering their crossbows.

  "Now, fifteen of you," he went on. "Volunteers. We'll do it the army way. You men there… and you four… and you two. You just volunteered. The rest of you little boys can keep right on running."

  He turned his back, and started back toward the flight. After a dozen yards, he looked back. A bit to his astonishment the fifteen, plus another three, were straggling at his heels.

  Hal looked at Miletus beside him, and grinned.

  "Not bad, Serjeant," Miletus said. "You're not a bad leader… or fighter, either. One punch! That was one enormous bruiser."

  "It doesn't hurt," Hal said, "to have a bit of an equalizer." He reached in his pouch again, showed Miletus the paper-wrapped roll of coins that'd been hidden in his fist.

  "You ever flown before?" Hal asked the intelligent-looking man.

  "No, Serjeant," the man said, looking around curiously from his perch behind the dragon's shoulders on a hastily-improvised saddle. Other crossbowmen were being helped to mount as well. "Thought about going for a ride a couple of times, before the war, when a show'd come to our district. But either I didn't have the coin, or the courage, or enough drink, or, once, the head of the school I was teaching at heard I was thinking about it, and forbade it.

  "Said that wouldn't be a good example for my students."

  He looked at his ragged uniform, sword-belt, and crossbow across his knees.

  "As if this is."

  "The name's Kailas. Or Hal. Forget the serjeant. You?"

  "Hachir."

  "That's a good upcountry name."

  Hachir grinned.

  "Here's what we're intending," Hal said, although he'd already lectured the drafted crossbowmen, as he hoped each flier was doing to his assigned soldier. "First, you can't fall."

  The man fingered the ropes that held him securely in place, nodded.

  "Keep hold of your bolts, though. Without them, you might as well be riding for joy. Now, have you the strength to recock your bow after each shot?"

  "I do," Hachir said. "Assuming I can get a foot in the stirrup, and I'm not being thrown about."

  "Good." Hal made a mental note for something to try at another time.

  "What we're going to do is simple," Hal said, sounding very confident. He'd learned that with his Serjeant's stripes, remembering the number of times his patrol had been utterly lost, yet he'd reassured his fellow riders that they were in exactly the place they were supposed to be.

  "I'm going to find some Roche dragons. I'll get as close as I can, and you take a shot. Try and hit the rider in the body. About the only place that'd be vulnerable on a dragon with your crossbow would be under the wing, right where it joins the body, or between the bellyplates, and that'd take, I think, a very sure aim."

  "I'm not a bad shot," Hachir said, without boasting. "But I'll aim as you say."

  He looked about him once more.

  "The woman I'm affianced to will never believe this, and most likely whip me like a dog for making even more of a fool of myself than I did joining up."

  Hal laughed, climbed up into his seat, and picked up the dragon's reins.

  "Let's go see if we can change the way the war's going, just a little."

  Miletus motioned Hal to take the formation lead as they circled over their wagons below. "Since you seem to have all the ideas today," he shouted when their two dragons came close.

  Hal waved acknowledgement, shouted back to Hachir, "We'll try to get on top of the Roche before we attack them. Maybe that'll give us surprise."

  The crossbowman grunted. Hal glanced back, afraid the man was getting sick, saw he was staring about him, wide-eyed, entranced, reminding Kailas of his first flight with Athelny.

  He hoped that was a sign everything would be all right.

  Just south of Bedarisi was a throng of dragons, too many to be from Deraine or Sagene. They paid little attention to the tiny formation of dragons a few miles distant, especially as the Deraine monsters appeared to have no interest except possibly flying into the sun.

  The Roche dragons were intent on the battle being waged below, lines of infantry crashing together down blocked streets and through ruined buildings, and, to the east, the twisting melee of a cavalry fight.

  Hal and his flight were a thousand feet above the Roche.

  Hal signaled, pulled reins, and his dragon began a long, slanting dive toward the enemy. Behind him streamed the others. This time, even Vad Feccia hadn't backed out.

  "Get ready," Hal said, and felt Hachir stir about behind him.

  He bent over his dragon.

  "That one, that one," he said in a croon, stroking the monster's neck, pulling the reins with his other hand until the dragon was looking at a beast circling at the edge of the Roche formation.

  The creature seemed to understand what Hal intended, wings clattering as it turned, flying faster, closing on the Roche.

  The rider saw Hal's onrushing dragon, and his eyes widened.

  "Shoot!" Hal called, and the crossbow thwacked. The bolt went just wide of the rider, ricocheting off the dragon's carapace.

  "Shit!" Hachir shouted.

  "Forget it! Try again!" Hal shouted, pulling the reins, finding another target, closing, wondering if his idea was that great.

  "Now!" he shouted, wishing he had the crossbow in his own hands.

  Once more, the bow fired, and this time the bolt buried itself in the rider's back. Hal heard him scream, saw him contort, fling himself backward, off the dragon.

  "Again," Hal shouted, feeling a fierce grin across his face, and there was a dragon above them, its rider peering down. The crossbow fired, and the man clawed at his throat, collapsed across his mount's neck.

  Hal saw a shadow, and reflexively snapped his reins, and his dragon dove, just as an enormous brute whipped past, talons clawing at Hal's dragon's wing.

  "Godsdammit!" Hachir shouted, but Hal paid no mind, yanking his dragon into a tight, climbing turn.

  "At his guts!"

  Hachir pulled the trigger, and his
bolt thunked home in the Roche dragon's side. The monster screamed, impossibly loudly, whipped on its back, talons clawing at the wound. Hal saw the rider hanging by his reins below the dragon's head, then the man lost his hold, and fell.

  Hal forgot him, and looked for another dragon rider to kill.

  He saw Ev Larnell's dragon, pursued by two Roche beasts. He slapped his dragon's reins, trying to go to the rescue, but his dragon was closing slowly, too slowly.

  A Roche dragon had a bit of height on Larnell, tucked its wings, and dove. Hal thought it would ram Larnell, but it passed just above him.

  A talon reached out, almost casually, took Larnell's head in its grasp, and tore it off.

  Larnell's corpse sprayed blood like a fountain, and his dragon squealed in fear, dove away. The crossbowman behind him sat petrified, making no move to reach for the reins, and then the dragon was gone, far below.

  There was nothing around Kailas but his fellows.

  The Roche dragons were fleeing south, in a ragged mess.

  Hal took his flight down, across the battleground, saw, on a knoll, the colors of Deraine and a handful of dismounted knights fighting desperately around the rallying point. Roche soldiers swarmed about the knoll.

  There was nothing Hal could do except go back to the flight, get more bolts, and look for more dragons.

  He couldn't tell what was happening on the ground below, who might be winning.

  Hal looked for that knoll when he was airborne once more, couldn't be sure he found the right one, since there was nothing but high-piled bodies.

  At dusk, he landed, dazed with fatigue, mourning Larnell, wondering if he'd still be alive if Hal had exposed him on that long ago day.

  But the fliers had learned their lesson about how to mourn their dead.

  Chook had found a flagon of brandy, and they, and their crossbowmen, toasted Larnell''s memory.

  And then they forgot him.

  Hal and Hachir had killed five dragons or their riders that day.

  The flight had taken out sixteen Roche beasts. Saslic had taken out three, as had Sir Loren. Rai Garadice had accounted for two.

  By their last flight, no Roche dragons were in the air.

  But that mattered little, at least at the moment. He asked of the battle, the real battle, down on the ground.