Dragonmaster

by Chris Bunch

  They’d reached the patch of cleared ground, not much more than a pair of lots, just inside the walls of the city, where Athelny had set up his show, before the flier could face Hal, who’d walked behind him across the city, leading his horse.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry. It’s just when I see the cards, and the silver, I can’t seem to hold back, and all my . . . I’m sorry.”

  Hal thought of things he could say, maybe should say, but pity took him. He shook his head.

  “What’s done is done.”

  He called Gaeta, the other two teamsters and their only spieler, told them what had happened.

  “What are we going to do?” one of the teamsters said dully.

  Hal looked at Athelny, but the flier remained silent.

  Something came to Kailas then. If no one took charge, then he must. He dug into his pants, took out his purse. He had saved a dozen gold coins, more in silver. He gave the spieler and the two teamsters a gold coin each.

  “Get your things, and go. Cut a horse free if you wish, but you’ve got to do it before nightfall.”

  “Where will we go?” a teamster asked plaintively.

  Hal shook his head.

  “I’m damned if I know. Gaeta and I’ll make for Paestum, try to find work to get across the Straits to home, I guess.”

  “What about him?” The other teamster jerked a shoulder at Athelny, who stood slumped, utterly defeated.

  Before Hal could find an answer, ten soldiers doubled up to the lot.

  Athelny saw them, shouted something Hal never understood, and ran for the wagon where Belle was tethered.

  “Hey! You!” one of them shouted.

  “That’s his dragon!” Hal shouted back.

  “Th’ hells ’tis! It now b’longs t’ Lord Scaer, an’ we’re here to make sure there’s no trickery.”

  “There’ll be none,” Hal said, running toward the soldiers, suddenly sure what Athelny intended.

  “That’s for damned sure,” the soldier said. “You there! Old man! Get away from that monster!”

  “He’s likely ’bout to sic’ ’im on us,” another soldier said.

  “In a pig’s arse he will!” the first said. “Get your bows ready! Fire on my command!”

  Athelny had Belle loosed, and her wings were unfurled, clashing in anticipation.

  “Stop there, you!” the soldier said. His fingers pulled an arrow from his belt quiver, and he nocked it, lifted the bow.

  Hal dove at him, knocked him down, was about to get up, and another soldier had a sword at his throat.

  “Stay easy,” he ordered, and Hal obeyed.

  “Now, Belle,” Athelny shouted, pulling himself up onto the beast’s neck. Belle’s wings thundered again, and she stumbled clear of the ground, was lifting, trying for height.

  The soldier had another arrow nocked, aimed, and his bowstring twanged.

  Athelny shouted agony, and Hal saw the arrow sticking out of his side.

  But he was able to pull himself up behind the carapace as Belle’s wings beat stronger.

  Other arrows went up, fell short of the dragon, and then it was high in the air, outlined against the sun, setting a true course north, out of sight, flying north toward Paestum, toward Deraine, toward home.

  Gaeta and Hal traveled together, taking the road toward Paestum Athelny would have flown above. They stopped at every village, asked every traveler.

  Only one man, and he looked unreliable, said he’d seen a green dragon overhead, days earlier. But there was no one mounted aboard it.

  No one reported finding a strange body, dead of an arrow wound, along the road, either.

  Two weeks later, little better than beggars, the two reached Paestum.

  There were other dragon fliers there. But none of them had heard anything of Athelny or Belle.

  Hal went to the cliffs at the edge of the city, just at sunset, and stared across the Straits.

  He hoped, wished really, that somehow Athelny and Belle had made it across them to Deraine and whatever home Athelny had.

  He suddenly realized in the two years he’d known the dragonmaster he’d never heard Athelny speak of home or family.

  All that he’d had, all that he’d wanted, was the dragons.

  Perhaps, he thought sadly, perhaps Belle had taken him on to the land that Athelny might have dreamed of, the land of dragons far bigger, far fiercer than any known, far beyond Black Island and the ken of men.

  Then Hal Kailas turned back, toward the city of Paestum.

  Now there was another life to begin, a life he had no idea of or dreams for.

  5

  “You,” the man carrying a spear and a half shield called.

  “Over here!”

  Hal pretended he wasn’t the intended. The man shouted again, and pointed at Kailas.

  Hal put on an innocent face—hard when you’re ragged and hungry—and strolled casually across the oceanfront walk.

  “City warder on special duty,” the man said importantly. “Who’re you?”

  “Hal Kailas.”

  “Citizen of what country?”

  “Deraine.”

  “You sure you’re telling the truth? There’s Roche about in Paestum claiming to be Deraine, which is why we’re checking.”

  “Deraine,” Hal repeated.

  “From where?”

  “Up country. Caerly, originally.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Hal shrugged, anger starting to grow.

  “They’ve never heard of you, either.”

  “Don’t crack wise,” the man growled, “or we’ll find my serjeant and let him sort you out. What’s your business in Paestum?”

  “I was on the road, and decided it was time to get back home.”

  “You and what looks like a million others. Damned if I knew there were that many Deraine in Sagene,” the man said, loosening a trifle.

  Hal didn’t answer.

  “All right,” the warder allowed. “Your accent’s too backwoodsy for any Roche to imitate. On your way.”

  Hal didn’t acknowledge, but moved quickly off into the crowd.

  The waterfront was crowded, and not with a holiday throng. Men, women, children, some richly dressed, some ragged, some carrying elegant travel cases, others with improvised packs of breeches or sheets, eddied up and down the walkway, stopping at the gangways of the tied-up ships. Most were looking for one thing—passage they could afford home before the war started.

  Hal had been almost three months in Paestum. He and Gaeta had gone their separate ways, figuring their luck would be better alone than in company.

  Hal had started looking for work with two dragon fliers he’d found in Paestum. Both were heading back for Deraine, though. The first told Hal he had no interest in hiring somebody who’d pick his brain and end up a competitor.

  The other, more kindly, a man named Garadice, said he would, normally, be willing to take on an apprentice, particularly one who’d worked for Athelny, which proved Hal had brains, was a hard worker, and had the ability to get along with difficult people. But he was heading for home, “and putting my head under the covers.”

  Hal asked, and the man explained why. He’d just gotten back from Roche.

  “Damned scary. Everyone’s running around talking about how they’re not getting their rightful place in the world, and Deraine and Sagene are conspiring against ’em, always have, and Queen Norcia’s the first to recognize it, and they’ll get their own back, and then we’ll see what we’ll see.

  “Don’t like it none. Especially when I saw the army warrants combing the villages, enlisting for the army.

  “Roche is getting like a damned armed camp. The smithies are churning out swords and spears, the farriers have horses lined up for shoeing, even the damned little old ladies are sewing uniforms for ‘their boys.’

  “Like I said, a place in the country where nobody comes, a good store of food and wine, and I’ll take note of the world again in a year or so.
<
br />   “Or maybe not.”

  Hal was driven to casual labor, unloading wagons, clerking for a day, cleaning anything that needed to be cleaned. But there were hundreds, maybe thousands like him, streaming into Paestum, willing to work for a meal, when Hal needed silver for his passage.

  And every time he had some money, the price of the passage across the Straits, no more than two days’ sail, had gotten dearer and dearer.

  Hal had at least found a warm, dry place to sleep in a byre whose owner treated him like he was invisible, not minding him washing up in a trough or even stealing a dipper of milk in the mornings before he went out looking for work.

  He was almost hungry and desperate enough to consider the army’s recruiters. But not quite. He’d worked too hard to serve any master for longer than a moment, except Athelny. He didn’t fancy regimentation, square-bashing or the yessir nossir threebagsfull attitude the army demanded.

  Somehow, some way, he’d find a way aboard one of those damned ships with their heartless captains, get across to Deraine and regroup.

  As the days passed, he started paying close attention to the rumors, taletellers and broadsheets.

  The rumors first said there were raiders abroad, hitting lonely farms and small villages along the Roche-Sagene border. The rumors were confirmed, and the story was they were actually Roche warriors in mufti.

  Queen Norcia denied these rumors, saying it was very like Deraine and Sagene to come up with these lies when they couldn’t keep their citizens safe, and perhaps they needed Roche to bring order back.

  Rumors said there were Roche infiltrators in Paestum, waiting for the moment to rise and support an attacking army. Frighteningly, these rumors were neither confirmed nor denied by the criers and broadsheets.

  Hal gloomily decided it couldn’t get much worse.

  But it did.

  The situation deteriorated by the day.

  A company of raiders was wiped out by government cavalry. Strangely enough, the cavalry was a mixed unit of Derainian and Sagene soldiers, strange because it was unknown for the two rival countries, always rivals, to cooperate.

  The massacre supposedly happened not many leagues south of Paestum.

  Next it was revealed the raiders weren’t brigands but Roche military, making provocative raids into Sagene.

  The Roche government, rather than disavow the dead bandits, agreed they were Roche dragoons, on an official mission, and had been ambushed well inside the Roche borders.

  This was shrilly denied by every official in Sagene, Paestum and Deraine.

  Next an official statement from Roche, sent out in Queen Norcia’s own hand, said the situation was intolerable, and reparations would be required from both Sagene and Deraine.

  The Council of Barons and Deraine’s King Asir icily refused.

  Queen Norcia increased her demands: reparations, plus a conference, in Roche, which would determine the proper governing of Paestum. At the very least, Deraine must agree to a power-sharing with Roche for the free city.

  Failure to meet these “reasonable” demands could have only one response.

  Norcia announced her military was being called up, and rumor had it Roche troops were already massing on the border, ready to march against Paestum.

  Deraine refused the “offer,” King Asir calling it blackmail “no decent man would ever respond to,” and force would be met with force, if necessary, although he hoped there was still a chance of peace.

  Hal looked up, wondering if that dragon, high above the city, was Roche. Other dragons, all flying in and out to the east, had been overflying Paestum.

  No one knew what they were doing, but hearsay had it there were Roche troops hidden not far across the nearby border.

  Hal remembered Ky Yasin and his flying show, and wondered just where the flier was, and if he might not be wearing a uniform or commanding those dragons overhead.

  But it wasn’t his concern, since he’d just figured a way that was almost unbeatable to stow away on a fishing boat bound for Deraine.

  There were dangers of smothering under a load of fish, being caught and thrown overboard or simply drowning in a fishwell, but what of it? Staying here in Paestum was already dangerous, between the threat of starving, and onrushing war.

  His planning was cut short by a stocky warder, flanked by a dozen grinning fellows. All had swords at their waists, carried ready truncheons, and looked as if they were in a transport of delight.

  “You, lad. Who’s your master?”

  “Uh . . . I have none.”

  “Your work?”

  “None, at present.”

  “You now have both. This is your official announcement that you’ve been accepted into His Majesty’s Army, and your service will be required to defend the walls of Paestum.”

  “But I’m a civilian and have no interest in carrying a damned spear,” Hal protested.

  “That’s tough treacle. King Asir has authorized conscription for all Derainians in this present emergency, and you’re one of the first to be honored and permitted to become one of the heroes of Paestum.

  “Lads, take charge of our new recruit, and escort him to the barracks for outfitting.”

  6

  Hal stared down from the battlement as scouts and dragoons of the oncoming Roche army sacked the outskirts of Paestum.

  Overhead, two dragons soared, banking back and forth in the stormy winds coming onshore. Hal supposed they were observing for the Roche commanders, comfortably behind the lines, planning the assault.

  Centuries ago, when Deraine had seized by force of arms the seaside city on the border of Sagene and Roche that became Paestum, they’d made it impregnable with high stone walls, sixteen feet thick, covering the peninsula the town occupied from both sea and land assault. Time passed, and Paestum, the most prosperous trading port along the Chicor Straits, had built up to those walls and beyond. After all, it was unlikely there’d be war again, certainly not between the three most powerful countries in the known world.

  These suburbs had given fine cover for the Roche army as it entered the city. Cavalry, dragoons and lancers had been the first to attack the Deraine lines on the outskirts, under the cover of a sorcerous fog. The untrained Deraine, in a moil of confusion, hesitated, and Roche smashed two waves of experienced assault troops into them.

  The Deraine fell back, not quite breaking, through the outskirts of Paestum into the ancient fortress.

  Hal had been very grateful that he’d been guarding the wall with his newly issued unsharpened sword, dented shield, and leather armor. That had been—what, he thought dully—three, no four days ago. Or maybe more.

  Hal had been assigned to a cavalry formation that lacked only one thing—their horses. He was supposed to be on guard half the day, the rest on other duties including eating and sleeping time. But there’d been continual panics, cries to man the parapets and such, so he didn’t remember the last time he’d had two hours of quiet, let alone sleep.

  Now Roche was bringing up its main force—Hal had seen, before the storm roared in on them, caterpillar-like columns in their brightly colored, if campaign-stained, uniforms moving steadily toward the city.

  Two soldiers manned a dart thrower in the nearby tower, a pedestal-mounted bow, arms of rigid iron bars. Tension came from hair skeins. The soldiers wound it back to full cock, aimed, and sent a long bolt flashing high at one dragon. The bolt missed by a dozen feet, and the dragon’s rider pulled it higher. The next dart fell well below the beast, and the two continued circling.

  Roche, fearless and confident, had sent four dragons against the men on the walls after the city was invested. They’d torn several men off the parapets to their deaths, then the dart throwers had been brought up under cover of night.

  The bolts, a yard long, iron-headed, tore into the dragon formation when they attacked the next day. Two dragons had been hit hard and, screaming, snapping at the huge arrows stuck in their bodies, had pinwheeled to the ground. Crossbowmen finished
off the one that still floundered in the muck, its rider already sprawled in death beside it. The other dove into a burning building, and both animal and rider had howled down into death.

  After that, the dragon fliers were more cautious, flying at greater altitude, doing no more than observing.

  Hal looked up at them, wishing he were up there, even in this building storm, a storm that everyone said had been brought by magic, the magic of Roche, so that Deraine wouldn’t be able to reinforce Paestum from across the Straits.

  Hal didn’t know, didn’t care about that. But he figured the Roche couldn’t try to climb the walls while this wind blew, and squally rain sheeted down.

  He scanned his sector again. No movement, save the occasional scuttle of looters. Then he smelt smoke, and saw flames rising from one house, then another.

  The Roche had fired the abandoned homes and businesses of the suburbs. Whether deliberately or by accident Hal didn’t know. Probably looters had done it, in drunken accident, for nothing happened for an hour or so.

  He heard shouts from behind him, looked across, saw a procession coming up the ramp to the next parapet. He was grateful they weren’t coming to him—he’d already learned one of a soldier’s greatest lessons: that anyone of higher rank showing up can only mean trouble.

  The group consisted of four men, wearing the gaudy green and yellow uniform of the King’s Protectors of Paestum, the supposedly elite regiment that guarded Paestum’s governor, high-ranking officials, nobility and interesting things like the treasury.

  Behind them were two young men, heavy-laden with boxes and cases, wearing expensive civilian garb.

  Following was the reason for this procession: an impressively bearded man, wearing dark robes and a tall red cap, stalking along with dignity, followed by four more guards.

  Hal decided this might be interesting. Interesting things attracted attention, so the first thing he did was plan his retreat—half a dozen steps to the nearest tower and its stairs, then inside against any danger.

  That settled, he watched the show, about a hundred feet away, as the magician’s acolytes opened box after box, spread out rugs and set up braziers. Incense went into the braziers, and the magician touched each brazier, lips moving.