by Chris Bunch
As the sun sank and it grew colder, the ship's warmth called, and, one by one, they circled back to the Adventurer and its salt beef.
"That incantation Limingo was saying," Saslic said to Farren as they groomed their dragons. "It was damned poor poetry."
'"Twas," Mariah agreed.
"Since you're supposed to have some talents as a witch, Farren," she asked, "does it matter how good your poems are? Do demons—or whoever helps magic work out—like good poetry, or crappy stuff, like soldiers go for?"
"Don't seem't' matter," Farren said. "M' gran'sire said it just focused the mind an' will on the spell."
"So a magician could be going doobly, doobly, doobly, and it'd have the same effect?"
"Nope," Farren said. "Best if you've got to slave some, writin' the chant, and then, sayin' it, keeps you payin' attention."
"And if you don't pay attention," Hal asked from his cage, "the spell won't work, right?"
"Mayhap," Farren said. "Or a demon eats you."
"There goes one of my choices for an after-war career," Hal said firmly.
Hal ordered all dragons to have their carapace scales pierced and smallish hooks installed that he'd had the ship's artificer make, patterned after the pelican hooks used in the rigging.
The dragons seemed to have no feelings in their scales, save where they were attached to the beast's skin, and so did no more than growl when the handlers were at work with their bow-drills.
He assembled the dragon riders, gave instructions, and issued two crossbows and four bolts to each rider. The bolts were colored for each rider.
A small raft was tossed overboard from the Adventurer, with a block of wood covered with bright cloths in its center and a long towrope connecting it to the ship.
Each dragon rider flew off, then assembled, in a line, behind Hal.
In turn, each dragon swooped on the raft and its rider fired at the block, climbed away while the rider rehung his first crossbow and prepared the second. Four passes per dragon, which took almost three hours as riders aimed, lost their aim, pulled away to try again, and then dragons were landed, and the raft dragged aboard.
The results were fairly wretched—Hal had three hits, as did Saslic. Sir Loren had two, Farren one, and one of the other flight's fliers managed a strike.
Not good, Hal thought, pondered long, but couldn't think of any better way to train the fliers. He talked to Limingo, and asked if magic could help.
"Certainly," the magician said briskly. "If you could bring me a bit of a Roche dragon flier's tunic, preferably with a little of his blood on it, I could cast a similarity spell, and that would do the trick."
Hal grinned wryly, found Sir Bab, told him not to be expecting much if the Roche and Deraine fliers came in contact.
"I always expect nothing, or almost," Cantabri said. "That way, I'm almost never surprised.
"Look at it like this, Serjeant. If you buzz a bolt close to one of their fliers, something he can't be used to, that should scare him off.
"At least for awhile. And maybe, when he gathers his courage and tries again, the flier he goes against will have better aim."
Hal saluted, called the fliers together, told them they'd be flying twice a day against the evil raft until they got better.
They did. Slightly. But only slightly.
They spent almost as much time studying that model of Black Island as they did in the air. The soldiers' warrants and officers did the same.
Hal was impressed, seeing how many of the common warriors spent time in the room, lips moving silently as they walked around the model, then pointing to various places with their eyes closed, whispering the place names to their mates.
And there was always the thunder of soldiers running back and forth on the decks, exercising, practicing swordplay with wooden swords against each other.
When they reached Black Island, they'd be as ready as soldiers could be.
"The problem with war," Sir Loren mused as the four fliers sat on the deck one morning too foggy to fly, "is it's no fun any more."
"Di'n't know it ever was," Farren said. "Killin' people ain't my snappy-poppy idea of pure joy."
"That's the bad side of it," Sir Loren admitted. "But when it's a clear morning, and you can hear the horses neighing across a camp that's bright with banners and knights' tents, or when you're riding out on a spring day on a country patrol, or even when you see a castle besieged in its splendor… You've got to admit there's a certain glory."
"No," Saslic said flatly. "I don't."
"Never mind, Sir Loren," Hal said. "You're in the minority here. But what made war no fun… in your eyes?"
"The damned quartermasters and victuallers," Sir Loren said.
The other three blinked.
"An' a course, you've an explanation," Farren said.
"It used to be," Sir Loren said, "that soldiers would assemble, at the will of the king or whatever nobleman had their fealty or could offer gold or loot, in either spring or fall, after the harvest or after the roads thawed, most generally in the fall, after the harvest was in.
"We'd campaign for three months, then, when the army couldn't find any more peasants' farms to loot, and if there hadn't been a knockdown battle that settled the issue, everybody went home."
"Except the poor looted peasant, who didn't have a home to go to," Saslic said.
"He could enlist for the next campaign, hoping for loot to compensate," Sir Loren went on. "But now, we've got efficiency, with victuallers riding here and there, dealing with contract merchants for so many hogsheads of hogs' heads or corn or whatever, and all that goes to depots for issuance to the army.
"And so we can stay in the field forever, not like my father and father before him, who'd have a chance to return home, let his wounds heal, and rest for a time."
"And possibly procreate more killers for the next king to call on," Saslic said.
"Well…" Sir Loren let his voice trail off.
"Sorry, Sir Loren," Hal said. "No sale here. Although I'm sure Sir Bab'd agree with you."
"Not him," Sir Loren said. "He's of the new school of warrior. Fight until the enemy's down in the ditch, then stab him a few times to make sure, paying no attention to anything like a white flag."
"A bleedin' monster," Farren said, mock horror in his voice. "Bet he doesn't curry to ransomin' brave knights, either. Stick a bit of iron in their armpit, where the armor don't cover, an' march on, knowin' they're no more a threat. Right?"
"Aargh," Sir Loren said. "There's no chivalry in the lot of you."
"And thank the gods for that," Saslic said.
It grew colder, and a flier reported he could see the northernmost headland of Deraine, sinking into the ocean. The seas grew larger, sweeping across the vastnesses of open ocean, and Saslic was seasick again, moaning that she thought she'd gotten her sea legs, but somebody lied to her, and if she ever found them she'd either kill them or throw up on them.
But she staggered to Nont, and was airborne with the others. Hal thought the epitome of courage was seeing her tight, pinched face, ignoring nausea, fighting her way into the air.
One day, all fliers were in the air, and a sudden storm swept down from the north, bringing rain and fog with it, the seas rising.
The dragon fliers used their amulets to drive hard for the Adventurer, and the handlers rushed each from the landing barge on to the ship, another dragon already approaching, spray reaching up and soaking its belly.
Eight dragon fliers had taken off.
Seven came back.
The missing flier was Saslic Dinapur.
Hal tried to take off, to look for her, but Sir Bab forbade it.
Limingo was afraid to cast any spells this close to Black Island, for fear of being discovered by Roche wizards.
Kailas wanted to rage at him, rage at Cantabri, but fought himself under control.
All that long night, as the storm boomed, and the ships rolled, taking green water over the rails, Hal stood on the p
oop, out of the way of the watch and helmsmen, feeling no cold, no wind, none of the waves' drenching, eyes burning as he tried to peer into blackness.
His mind kept running the thought—I never told her I love her, over and over, never willing to change the word to loved.
Cantabri came on deck at dawn, saw Hal, and ordered him below for hot soup and a change of clothes.
Kailas obeyed, his loss overwhelming him, his mind numb.
Less than a turning of a glass later, the lookout reported a dragon, flying toward them.
Hal was on deck, lips murmuring prayers from his childhood, knowing uselessness, knowing that this was nothing but a Roche scout who'd sighted them.
But it wasn't.
It was Nont, and Saslic Dinapur, weaving in the saddle, almost falling, as she brought her dragon down on the barge. A wave almost took it, but there were handlers on the decking, heedless of the storm, fastening bellybands under Nont and bringing it aboard.
Saslic tried to stagger up the gangplank to the Adventurer, stumbled, almost went overboard, and Hal had her in his arms, carrying her to her cabin.
She was near-frozen, body unfeeling. Limingo and the ship's chiurgeon were there, stripping her clothes away, and putting her in a tub of heated salt water, constantly refreshed.
She stirred, came back to consciousness, saw Hal, and a smile quirked her lips.
"That," she managed, "was the longest damned night of my life."
Then she went out again. Limingo had herbal rubs, hot plasters and drinks, and she was put to bed with high-piled blankets, and slept for a full day and night.
She woke ravenously hungry, and all the delicacies the mess cooks could provide were hers.
Hal sat beside her while she ate. She burped delicately.
"I think I feel like getting screwed," she said. "Just to convince myself I'm not frozen in some wave."
Kailas was only too happy to comply, and moaned, in the height of passion, his love.
After they were finished, she looked at him strangely.
"You mean that?"
"Yes," Kailas said firmly.
"Me, too," Saslic said. She sounded a little embarrassed, and hid her face against his shoulder.
"Would you like to tell me how you came to live?" Hal said, a bit relieved to change the subject.
"It was all Nont," Saslic said. "Did you know dragons can swim?"
"No," Hal said, then caught himself. "Yes. We take them down to the river for washing. But that's just splashing about."
"They swim like godsdamned ducks," Saslic said. "That's what kept me alive. When the winds got too strong to stay in the air, Nont ignored what I was trying to get him to do, and dove for the water.
"I thought we were dead, but he spread his wings just yards above the waves, and flared us in with a great damned splash.
"Then he folded his wings over his back, over me, and we bobbed around. It was almost warm, like I was in a weird tent.
"It was dark and, well, smelly, and the water kept drizzling in. Then it got colder, and Nont put his head in the tent with me. He was breathing on me, and it was like being on a battlefield three days after the fighting, maybe worse. But it was warmer, and I could just concentrate on not throwing up.
"I wonder if dragons can cross oceans like that, just hunched up, letting the currents carry them? Maybe they don't come from the north, like everybody thinks.
"Anyway, I think I spent a lifetime under his wings, but it got gray out, and the waves didn't look as high. I didn't know what to do, but Nont did. He waited until we were on top of a wave, and then I could feel his feet paddling hard, and his wings spread, and we went up the next wave, before it could break over us.
"The wind caught us, and lifted him in the air, and we skipped across the water and he flew like he's never flown before, and then started listening to the reins and what I was shouting.
"I used the amulet, and it worked perfectly, and brought me back home."
She was silent for a moment, then smiled, in childlike happiness.
"I do love you, too.
"And I want to sleep again now."
Hal sought out Garadice, told him what Saslic had discovered about dragons.
"I'll be whipped," the trainer said. "This certainly shows that nobody knows anything about the beasts. I can picture this great flotilla, swimming, or being borne by the storms, from some far-distant land to the northern lands. I'd heard tales of dragons settling on water, but I thought just to drink, or rest for a moment.
"Nobody knows anything about dragons," he repeated. "Or, come to think about it, anything else, as far as I can tell, the older I get."
The next morning there were alarums. A lookout on one of the flanking corvettes reported something in the air at a distance.
Hal and Sir Loren hurried their dragons from their cages, went aloft, climbing in tight spirals.
But they saw nothing.
They circled the tiny convoy for an hour, came back in for a landing, chilled to the bone.
No one other than that single lookout had seen anything, and Sir Bab decided it was likely an illusion, for the dragon was reported flying almost due east, rather than north to Black Island or south to Deraine or the mainland.
There was nothing east for leagues, so the lookout had to have been mistaken, or perhaps had sighted a wild dragon.
But no one relaxed after that.
The following day, Hal was on high patrol, and saw something to the west of the convoy. He took his dragon lower, ready to flee, expecting to see ships, and there could be none but Roche in these waters.
But the tiny dots—Hal counted more than forty of them -stayed very small, and he chanced going still lower.
Then he made them out, and a chill went up his spine.
The dots were dragons, wings folded over their backs, heads tucked inside the tent, being carried along by the current and waves.
Dragons migrating… toward where? Black Island? The unknown wastelands to the north of the island?
Was this a regular process? Or were the dragons fleeing something?
Hal flew low over the dragons. One, near the lead, lifted its head, looked up at Hal, saw no evident menace, and put his head back under cover.
Hal had no answers, nor did Garadice, who added a further question that perhaps some ultima Thule to the west was the dragons' real homeland, and the northern wastelands a current-ordained temporary destination.
Hal puzzled over it, put the matter aside as one more intrigue about dragons, and returned his mind to the war.
Two mornings later, just at dawn, a high-flying dragon rider reported, just lifting from the northern horizon, gray land bulking out of the gray seas and mist. Black Island.
Chapter Seventeen
Black Island, from about five thousand feet, looked exactly like that plaster model in one of the Adventurer's cabins, barring the cloud-scatter below Hal and his three fliers.
Clouds, and the moving dots that were two of the transports, landing soldiers on the horns that enclosed Balfe's harbor.
There seemed to be no other sign of life below them, and then Hal felt a surge of sickness, knew the Roche magicians were casting what spells they could bring up in time.
He scanned the town, saw nothing worth reporting, looked to sea, which was gray, speckled with white.
He motioned to Saslic to stay high on patrol, and pointed to his other three fliers to dive.
They shot down, dragon wings furled, across the northernmost point of land, saw soldiers, in formation, trotting along a dirt road toward the settlement. Still lower, they saw two bodies sprawled outside a shack, couldn't tell if they were Roche or Deraine.
Hal led his flight in a sweep around the island, saw no sign of alarm. They flew past a huge seamount, and saw half a dozen full-grown black dragons crouching, watching. Hal shivered at their size—fifty or sixty feet—far larger than the beasts they rode.
He kept his hand near the two crossbows hooked to his
dragon's carapace until the wild dragons were out of sight.
They flew over Balfe, saw no dragons with riders trying to get in the air, but smelt the strong reek of the beasts from long roofed pens below.
Running toward the settlement, from the other point, came other Deraine soldiers, as the Adventurer and the other two transports hove toward the settlement's single pier.
The escorting corvettes stayed clear of the bay, watchful for Roche ships.
A handful of Roche soldiers ran out of a guardhouse, and either died or surrendered to Cantabri's soldiery.
The second flight of dragons came off the Adventurer, landed near the barracks to wait their turn in the sky.
Hal saw Garadice and his specialists disembark from the Adventurer. The other transports unloaded bulky stretchers and small carts. Soldiers were detailed by Sir Bab's warrants to assist Garadice.
Then the craziness began, as dragons were taken out from their pens, and chivvied, coaxed or carried to the transports. Hal, swooping overhead, trying not to fall off in his laughter, counted more than fifty dragons of various ages, saw them snapping, trying to claw, and tail-lashing, heard shouts of pain, and squeals of rage from below. The soldiers trying to help Garadice may have been deadly warriors, but as dragon handlers they were bumblers.
Farren flew close.
"Glad to be out of that!" he called.
"Aye," Hal shouted, pointed up. "Relieve Saslic. It's cold up there."
"Bastard," Farren called amiably, and took his dragon upstairs.
The dragons went up the gangplanks on to the transports reluctantly, but they went.
Saslic's dragon flapped down alongside Hal.
"Nothing here?"
"Nothing," Hal shouted back. "No dragons anywhere but on the ground."
"Can't believe… Roche sloppy…" Saslic said, words torn by a gust of wind. But Hal understood.
He swept back and forth over Balfe, then it was his turn to freeze.
Hal kicked his dragon in the ribs, pulled on the reins. The beast's wings beat harder, and he went to altitude and relieved Farren.
He saw nothing, and Sir Loren replaced him.
The biggest of the Roche dragons from the hatchery—they were about twenty feet long, Hal guessed almost yearlings —were being loaded as his flight landed, and the second flight took off on patrol.