Knighthood of the Dragon

by Chris Bunch

  Assembled, it made two complete orbits while Hal counted his beasts.

  Fifty-two were still flying, not including Storm.

  He'd lost five dragons in that nightmare over the crag, or possibly one or more in the attack on Carcaor.

  Hal turned the squadron again, holding a return course, back for the sheep meadow.

  It was no more than midday when they reached it, and landed.

  None of the dragons were hungry, nor were their fliers.

  Everyone was pale, shaken, jabbering about what they'd seen, whether it'd been real or not.

  Hal shouted for a formation, and, reluctantly, the fliers obeyed.

  "You will stay silent," he ordered. "We did well today. What that… that thing was, I have no idea.

  "Right now, you're to eat.

  "Then we're going to punish ourselves, and push on. We haven't been pursued or hit by the Roche yet, and I'm hoping we can make our lines before their wizards have time to alert the Roche squadrons there to be prepared.

  "Now, to your dragons, and make sure they eat something, even though they're still winded and wound up. We'll be taking off again in an hour. Move out."

  He quite deliberately said nothing about Pisidia's death, nor the others of his squadron. A little anger at Kailas's heartlessness might do a deal to break the shock the fliers all felt over the monstrous demon, or whatever it was.

  As the fliers finished, he had them shoot down and hasty-dress sheep, then tie them under the dragons.

  An hour later, by the sun, he had Storm watered and fed, although the dragon ate little, compared to his usual voraciousness.

  They took off, and assembled in formation, then flew on, north and a bit east.

  One flier carried the raider who'd been assigned to the meadow with them.

  Hal kept careful account of his compass heading, and his estimated flying time as the shadows walked long on the land below.

  There was just enough moonlight for him to see the lake below, and bring the dragons down.

  None were hungry, but all were thirsty and exhausted.

  He ordered the fliers to force the dragons into the lake, and splash them about.

  It seemed to help—they came out of the water hungry, and devoured the sheep, while the fliers made do with the smoked game.

  Then everyone slept as if stunned.

  Hal should have posted a guard, but didn't think anyone, outside of maybe an airborne magician, would find this cleft in the hills.

  The caretaking raider was enough of a guardian.

  They got up at dawn, and flew hard to the first night's base, the peaceful meadow, arriving in the afternoon.

  "An hour's rest," Hal ordered. "And food. Then we're off again, as soon as the sun dips down. I'm hoping we can muscle through the lines by dark. Once we're across, I'll worry about where we land."

  There were mutters, but quiet ones. Most of the fliers still had some energy from the excitement of the rage, and none of them, not even Danikel, wanted to face Yasin's black dragons with exhausted mounts.

  The dragons were complaining when they were resaddled, snapping at the riders and honking complaint.

  But they stumbled into the air, and Hal took them high, feeling for a wind. He found one, blowing due west, and let the dragons glide on it.

  Again, he was counting time, and by the early morning, guessed he was closing on the front.

  He blew a warning note on his trumpet, and took his fliers in a long dive to less than a hundred feet above the ground.

  Hal looked up into the skies as they came across the rearmost Roche positions and saw half a dozen dragons, dots in the sky, waiting for him.

  The magicians had alerted Yasin, or other Roche dragon flights.

  But they'd guessed he would be high, and Hal had fooled them.

  They dove hard for him, but turned away as they closed, realizing the squadron wasn't breaking formation, and that they were vastly outnumbered.

  Then the pits and tents of the infantry were below, and they were across the dead ground between the lines.

  Hal was trying to see just where they'd crossed, to get an estimated direction toward their base, if possible.

  But he was having little luck, as fatigue crawled over his body, fogging his mind.

  Storm snorted in surprise, and Hal saw, to his left, a spatter of whirling, magical lights in the sky.

  There was someone alive, and awake, over there, and he steered the squadron toward the lights.

  Landmarks below became recognizable, even in this dark, and he realized the lights were coming from somewhere close to the First Squadron's home base.

  They weren't close, they were in the middle of it.

  Hal, believing in miracles, brought Storm in. A handler ran up to him, caught him as he slipped out of the saddle, almost falling.

  "Limingo the magician cast a spell," the man said, unbidden. "Said you were approaching, and would need a guide. I dunno how he knew it."

  Dragons were thudding down on the field around Hal.

  "We've got food—and fodder—ready," the man went on. "And drink."

  Hal nodded dumbly.

  But all he could think of was that wonderful cot in the quiet little tent that was waiting.

  He stumbled off the field, as two men led Storm away, toward his shelter.

  Sir Thom Lowess was there.

  "Well, did you do it?"

  Hal nodded.

  "Do you want to tell me…" Lowess caught himself. "Sorry for being a damned fool. Maybe, when you wake."

  Hal nodded, pushed past Lowess, and then there was the cot in front of him.

  He slumped down on it, managed to pull one boot off.

  His orderly, Uluch, was there, trying to help. He pushed him away, reached for his other boot. Then the world swirled, and was gone as sleep took him for its own.

  27

  Hal woke, undressed, in his cot. It was just a bit after dawn. He hoped he hadn't slept more than the clock around.

  Peering cautiously out of his tent, he saw the dragon handlers currying and feeding the still-disheveled monsters, and realized he'd only slept a few hours, although he felt as full of energy as he had before the raid.

  He suspected he would run out of energy later that day, but determined to ride the spurt as long as it lasted.

  Hal swung out of bed, realized he had a bursting bladder, and walked carefully to the small circular canvas pisser behind his tent.

  Vastly relieved, he came back to see a steaming mug of tea, and a plate of crisp bacon and eggs scrambled with chives on a small table.

  "Thank you, Uluch," he said into thin air, didn't wait for a reply, but ate, famished.

  He went to the bathing tent, came back clean and shaved. A fresh uniform was laid out for him, and he was very grateful he'd been talked into having an orderly.

  He came out, and Gart, looking a bit bleary, was waiting.

  "I want Storm ready to fly in…" And he stopped himself. "Sorry. Dragons need rest, too."

  He thought.

  "Ask Sir Thom if he'd lend me his carriage. And say that he'd be welcome to ride along with me to army headquarters."

  "Yes, sir," Gart said.

  "And have the goods of the men who died wrapped up," Kailas said. "Have someone sort through them to make sure there'll be nothing embarrassing go to the family."

  Such as love letters to another woman or man, fish skins, and the like. What military goods were in the casualty's locker would be auctioned off on the squadron, generally for ridiculous amounts, and the moneys sent on to the dead man—or woman's—family.

  Supposedly there were now pensions for those maimed or killed in battle, but the old habit begun at the start of the war still hung on.

  Everyone may have respected King Asir, but almost no one had full confidence in his, or anybody else's, government.

  Sir Thom clattered up in his surrey, quite unable to hide his eagerness.

  Hal assumed he'd already heard bit
s and pieces from squadron chatter, but told the story from the beginning on the ride to First Army headquarters. He first swore Sir Thom to secrecy, and knew the man's word was good.

  He left out the spirit or demon, not sure if that should become common knowledge.

  At headquarters, he told Cantabri everything that had happened, and told him he'd be handing in a written report later in the day.

  He also said he'd told Sir Thom the essentials of the raid, leaving out the demon.

  Hal asked Cantabri if that should be included.

  "No," Cantabri said, then stopped, and thought for long moments.

  "Actually, there was a request from the king for you to proceed to Rozen and report directly to him."

  Hal thought of civilization, a chance to be under a real roof instead of canvas, a meal not cooked by the numbers, but most of all of Khiri.

  "No," he said, then made a quick revision, seeing Cantabri's frown. "Sorry, sir. Of course I'll go… if you order me to. But I've been on leave more recently than anyone else in my squadron, and I don't think it would be fair. Plus there's work to be done with the squadron, and I can't forever be running off to… to do whatever I do."

  Hal had reconsidered what he was about to say at the very last instant.

  Cantabri gnawed a lip.

  "No," he said reluctantly. "No, it wouldn't. The king won't be pleased, but he'll understand. I hope. He'll damned well have to. But you'll have to get a report ready… a good one, with details and color, not just a facts-blurt."

  "Yessir," Hal said.

  "Now, back to this matter of that demon or whatever it was," Lord Cantabri went on, frowning. "I wish I could keep it a secret, for it surely is a noisome matter. Especially as you don't seem to know whether this monster can be summoned by the Roche… or if it appears spontaneously.

  "But I doubt if we can gag everyone on your squadron and make them keep silent for long."

  "No," Hal agreed, thinking of Alcmaen, Farren Mariah, the dragon handlers. "No, I can't keep it that quiet. They'll be talking on the squadron, and it'll get out sooner or later."

  "So I guess you'd best tell Sir Thom. But tell him to keep it silent until someone—you or myself—gives him permission to write about it. That might keep the rumor from exploding completely out of control. Maybe." Cantabri nodded. "That's all."

  "One more thing," Hal said. "When do you want the squadron to return to normal duties? I want to start cycling my men out on leave. Some of them haven't been home for a year or more."

  "I'm thinking at present that the First Squadron may never be on normal duties," Cantabri said. "Whatever they are. I'm thinking that I want them as a special duty squadron, like the raiders."

  "Thank you, sir," Hal said. "I'll be glad of that."

  "You, and the other killers only," Cantabri said. "Because anyone who's sane, and I don't think there's a dragon flier around who is, would realize special duties will increase the chances of their getting killed."

  "They're all volunteers," Hal said, a bit of harshness in his voice. "That's part of the bargain."

  "So it is, so it is," Cantabri sighed. "As for this leave, go ahead. Say, five at a time. I can't see anything on the horizon in the next couple of weeks, not until we know how Norcia and the rest of the Roche hierarchy took their capital being attacked."

  Hal stood, saluted.

  "Thank you, sir. But I'll also want to have my men making patrols over the front, just for training." He made a face. "And if you'll excuse me, I've got letters to write after the raid."

  Cantabri nodded grimly.

  * * * *

  Hal had been too intent on his squadron and reporting for Cantabri to notice the small pile of letters waiting for him, weighed down by a gauntlet.

  All, except a plaintive bill from his tailor, were from Khiri.

  He should have written those letters to Pisidia and the other casualties of the 20th Flight's next of kin.

  But he allowed himself a moment of selfishness, and read the letters from Khiri.

  Written almost daily, they were precisely what he needed: a chronicle of her daily life, and the life at Cayre a Carstares, her castle on Deraine's west coast. Nothing to do with the war, but the trivia of summer, and the approaching harvest, and who was reportedly doing what to whom in Rozen. Except for one:

  Dear Hal

  I probably shouldn't be writing this to you, since I don't want to worry you ever, but two nights running I've had a most disturbing dream. It only lasted for a moment, but I woke, crying, both times, if you were here, I'd wake you up, and let you tell me what a silly I am. But you aren't, so please indulge me for a moment, and let me tell you about it. Then, if you wish, you can write me, and tell me I'm a silly.

  I dreamed I was on this great plain, and the ground was torn up, as if there'd been a battle. There were ruined catapults, and torn tents, and broken swords and lances. But there were no bodies, no soldiers. This landscape stretched on and on, almost to the horizon. But just before it was a city I didn't recognize.

  The only thing moving, coming toward me, was a dot that became a dragon. I think it might have been Storm, for it wasn't black like the dangerous dragons you've told me about. But you weren't riding it, even though it was saddled.

  That was all there was to the dream. I didn't feel threatened, by the dragon or anything else, but as I said, I woke up crying.

  You told me once that dreams have no meaning, that they aren't prophecies or anything. But I worry. Are you all riqht? Write me soon, please.

  Your Khiri

  Hal made a face. Certainly he didn't write her as much as he should, as much as he wanted. He didn't have the gift of putting words on paper. But now he found paper and a pen, and decided he would write her a long, cheerful letter, before he turned to the grim matter of the other letters.

  * * * *

  Pisidia, as it turned out, had not only a wife, but three children as well. That letter was hard, but the hardest was to a Sagene widow, whose only son had been killed by that great monster.

  It was with true relief that Hal finished the letters, and turned to the king's report.

  * * * *

  "You wish?" Hal asked Lieutenant Goang. He was sitting in a corner of the mess, watching his pilots cavort drunkenly. He was watching them carefully, for a favorite flier game, when drinking, was to somehow suck their commanding officer into their stupid games, such as rubbing ashes on their boots, and having other fliers turn them upside down, so they could "walk" on the ceiling, or riding a horse into the mess or swatting at each other with rolled up broadsheets, blindfolded.

  Often enough, Hal, and other flying officers, felt like playing the fool themselves and let themselves get drawn into the idiocy.

  But, for some reason, this night Hal didn't feel like drinking and carrying on. Maybe it was the letters, or maybe he was finally letting down after the raid.

  "A word with you, sir," Goang said. "An idea."

  "Good," Hal said. "That's what I pay you for. Or, rather, the king does."

  "I've been thinking of various ideas," Goang said. "But none of them have been worth bringing to you. I think I wasn't thinking right."

  "And you're sober, saying that?"

  "Yessir. I wasn't considering magic, until we were told about those pebbles."

  "So consider magic." Hal decided Goang didn't have much of a sense of humor.

  "That's what I've been doing, while you sorts were off being heroes. You're from the north of Deraine, aren't you?"

  "I was," Hal said. "But that was a long time ago."

  "Was your home around any mines?"

  "To put it mildly."

  "Did you ever have any disasters? Any mining explosions?"

  The memory came to Hal instantly, from when he was no more than six or seven. There'd been screams, and running men, and then the big bellows alarm at one of the mines had started screaming.

  There were twenty men trapped, far down.

  The village miners s
tarted trying to dig them out.

  Everyone else did what they could to help. Hal's mother and father set up a kitchen near the mine, and someone else put up a tent for the rescue workers to sleep in, out of the omnipresent drizzle.

  But they hadn't dug more than half a day when the ground rocked, and flames spurted out of the pit head. They'd gone up maybe a hundred feet, then died as the blast wave shot out after them.

  The twenty trapped men were dead, and another ten rescuers after them.

  "Once, twice," Hal said shortly, not comfortable with the memory. "Firedamp, it was."

  "Just so, sir," Goang said eagerly. "Gas that explodes when flames hit it."

  Hal nodded.

  "What would happen if we somehow got some of that, and confined it in a bottle, then set fire to the bottleneck, maybe with a rag?"

  "It would explode, I'd imagine," Hal said.

  "Suppose we wrapped the bottle with a bandage, with nails, bits of glass, things like that inside it?"

  Hal considered.

  "A nice, light weapon," Goang went on. "Ideal against troops or cavalry."

  "If it worked," Hal said.

  "Maybe it would, if there was a spell igniting it," Goang said. "Another idea I've had… When you were coming back, even though you were a day early, Limingo sensed it. Or, rather, he told me he'd cast a spell on your saddle, so when it drew near, he could feel it, and have those signs in the air to guide you."

  "Damned helpful it was, too," Hal said, realizing he was starting to sound like a curmudgeonly old fart, typical of a unit commander. "Sorry. What would Limingo's magic do elsewhere, since I assume that's what you're driving at?"

  "Suppose—I don't know how—but suppose we could get a bit of, say, what Ky Yasin feeds his black dragons. Suppose Limingo put a spell on it, and that spell could be passed along to all the fliers, so when Yasin's dragons are in the air, somehow we'd know about it, and be able to get airborne ourselves and maybe above his squadron?"

  Hal thought.

  "I'm damned if I see how we could do that. But it is a hell of an idea. I'm not sure about the firedamp, either." Hal shuddered. "Most likely it's my own memories stopping me.

  "What I think you seem to need now is to talk to a magician. Limingo?"