Dragonmaster

by Chris Bunch

  “What about an archer?”

  “Never heard of such an idea. Can’t imagine a bowman astute enough to be able to cling on, and aim while some nasty monster’s hissing and snapping at him,” Quesney said. “Why? Are you planning on starting a one-man war in the sky?”

  Hal smiled, poured a glass of water.

  “I don’t like that idea,” Quesney said. “Just flying’s enough of a hazard.

  “Start bringing in that kind of thing, and we’d be no better than those poor bastards down in the mud, now would we?”

  Hal’s stomach was roiling gently, but he had enough remove to think of laughing at himself. As a cavalryman, he’d led patrols into Roche territory a dozen, a hundred, who knew how many times?

  But here he was, as his dragon climbed away from the flight’s base, with Aimard Quesney to his left and, beyond him, Farren Mariah, on his first dragon patrol.

  He determined he’d follow Miletus’ suggestion, and kept his head moving, swiveling like his dragon’s, who also seemed eager to spy something out.

  The day was starting to warm, but there were huge thunderheads towering over the land. Quesney had said they were to fly east along the salient, toward where the lines had been before the Roche attack, until the weather broke, which it would, and then strike back for base.

  Hal kept his reins loose, scanning the ground below.

  Nothing, for a long time, then movement. A column of infantry, heading away from the lines.

  Hal jotted a note on the supposedly waterproof pad he had strapped to his knee.

  Something moved at the corner of his eye, and he saw two dragons, not far distant, flying toward him.

  They closed, and he saw, with relief, they were Deraine, passing no more than a hundred yards away, with a wave.

  Hal’s dragon, though, cared little about man’s definitions, and hissed a loud challenge, which the evidently older and certainly wiser dragons ignored.

  Smoke down below . . . He couldn’t tell what it came from. But the plume was large enough to warrant a note.

  The clouds were closing on them, and he kept glancing at Quesney, who seemed oblivious.

  Far in the distance was a flight of three dragons. Quesney slid a glass out of his boot-top, focused, then lifted a small trumpet, and blatted two notes.

  One, Aimard had said, meant return to base. Two was enemy in sight; other toots had other meanings.

  So there were the Roche, perhaps half a mile distant, no, more, Hal thought, allowing for the rain-rich air’s magnification.

  Quesney waved an arm, pointed down, and Hal pulled his reins right, tapped them on the dragon’s neck, and the beast’s head lowered, and the three dove away from the enemy, who showed no sign of having seen them.

  They landed at their base, handlers running out to meet them, just as the rain began.

  In the next three days, Hal made five more patrols, finally being trusted with a solo mission. The other novices were cleared for patrol, and enough dragons were assigned so the flight was at full strength, at least in the air, and everyone had a monster of her or his own.

  On the ground, the formation was still woefully undermanned: at full strength, a flight should have about eighty men. The fliers were at the top of the pyramid, below them two stablehands for each monster, teamsters, cooks, clerks, blacksmiths, orderlies, leathersmiths, veterinarians, and so forth. Hal wondered why there weren’t any magicians assigned, and Miletus laughed hollowly. “I’m sure, eventually, we’ll get them. As soon as every infantry and cavalry regiment have them, plus all headquarters, supply people and any other unit who’s been around for 150 years or so.”

  Then the storm closed in on them.

  So far, no one had died, and Hal had come the closest to Roche monsters.

  No one thought this would continue.

  Hal was going through his notebook, staring gloomily out at the driving rain.

  Saslic curled on the back of his cot. Quesney snored gently on his own cot, mustaches waving.

  “Hey,” Saslic said. “Aren’t you bored?”

  “No,” Kailas said. “Thinking.”

  “I am. You want to go have a beer?”

  “Not especially.”

  “You want to go for a walk in the rain?”

  “Why?”

  “Fresh air’s good for you. What’re you thinking about, anyway?”

  “Oh . . . crossbows . . . magicians . . . if there’s any better way of passing on information than those stupid little trumpets. Things like that.”

  “Hmmph,” Saslic said. “You’re bound and determined to grow up to be a dragonmaster, aren’t you?”

  Hal grinned. “I haven’t heard that word used since . . . since before the war. I don’t know if it applies.”

  “Maybe it should,” Saslic said. “Maybe if this godsdamned war drags on much longer, it’ll come back.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Considering the way you seem to be thinking, somebody who’s figured out a way to kill Roche dragons.”

  “Dragons,” Hal said. “Maybe. Or maybe their fliers. A dragon without a mount isn’t all that dangerous.”

  “Why are men so bloody-minded?” Saslic asked thin air. Receiving no answer, she got to her feet.

  “All right. Last offer. You want to go help me make up my bed?”

  Hal lifted an eyebrow. Saslic giggled.

  They pulled on their cloaks, and went out, into the storm.

  Aimard Quesney opened one eye, grinned, then went back to snoring.

  The weather broke for an hour, and Hal volunteered for a patrol. Miletus shook his head, muttered something about people too damned eager for a medal, and nobody else on the front would be in the air, but approved. Hal’s dragon plodded through puddles, wings thrashing, then came clear of the ground.

  By rights, Hal thought, a dragon base ought to be on a bluff somewhere, so the poor monsters didn’t have to work that hard to get airborne. But in this sector there was little but rolling flatland for leagues around.

  Hal circled the field, picking up height through scattered clouds, then turned his dragon toward the salient.

  He was within a league of the lines when he snapped to full alert.

  To his left, a flight of three Roche dragons. To his right, two more flights.

  Something was very much afoot.

  He could see no sign of any other Deraine beasts.

  Ahead, he saw another three dragons climbing.

  Hal thought quickly. Of course he couldn’t proceed. But . . .

  He had an idea, turned his dragon back the way he’d come, as if fleeing the watchful Roche, flew for the shelter of a cloud. Hidden, he dove for the ground, then banked back toward the salient. He flew no more than fifteen feet above the ground, his dragon’s wings beating hard.

  He climbed above trees, over abatis, tents, noted a Deraine flag near one pavilion, then was over broken ground.

  Hal gigged his dragon for speed, and the beast’s wings thrashed, like a ship’s sails in a gale, and he was over the Roche positions, moving too fast for anything other than dimly heard shouts, and one arrow that missed by leagues.

  A road junction was in front of him, and Hal’s jaw dropped. The roads were packed with Roche troops, marching in close formation.

  On another, parallel, rode columns of cavalry.

  Below him, quartermaster wagons were being moved closer to the lines, unloaded for fresh supply dumps.

  Their army was on the march.

  He chanced overflying the junction, further into the salient, and every road, it seemed, had soldiers on the move.

  The Roche must’ve used the break in fighting and the storm to rebuild their forces, and now were mounting an offense intended to end the deadlock, smash into open country, once and for all.

  But no Deraine, evidently, had heard, seen or reported anything. No courier had come to the base with any reports of this. . . .

  Hal heard a screech, looked up and behind, saw a Roche
flight, three huge monsters, diving on him. Their talons were reaching out for him, claws working in and out.

  He jerked his dragon into a diving bank, turned back for his own lines, barely above spare treetops, his dragon flying as fast as its wings could beat.

  Behind him, one dragon was closing fast, the other two hanging back, Hal’s young beast having energy on the Roche brutes.

  If there was some way of fighting back, Kailas thought, I’d let the bastard close, and try to take care of him.

  But there was none, and the Roche flier was getting closer. His dragon was far bigger than Hal’s, and he had a slight height advantage. Clearly his intent would be to savage Kailas as he overflew him, or else panic Hal’s dragon into diving into the ground.

  The two flashed over the lines, and Hal thought for an instant he was safe.

  But the Roche must’ve known Hal had seen the troop movement, and must not be allowed to report.

  The rain set in, drenching sheets, and Kailas hoped he could lose his pursuers in the gray dimness. But the Roche remained on his tail.

  Long before they reached the base, Hal knew, at least that leading dragon would be on him.

  There must be something. . . .

  Ahead, the ground rose to a stony hillside. Hal forced his dragon even lower, until the beast’s talons were tearing across the scrub brush.

  He looked back again, and the Roche flier was almost on him, having eyes only for his prey.

  Hal forgot about him, saw two trees to his right, aimed his dragon at the gap between them, his monster screeching in unhappiness.

  They shot through the gap, the dragon half closing his wings, branches tearing, the dragon dipping, almost crashing, and Hal heard, behind him, an enormous crash.

  The Roche flier hadn’t been watching ahead, and his dragon had smashed into the trees, and pinwheeled, throwing its flier high into the air, arms flailing, trying to stay aloft, with no success.

  The other two . . . the other two were far back, and Hal forgot about them, and went hard for his base.

  The great hall of the half-ruined castle was silent, so quiet Hal could hear the patter of rain outside. Through a stillunshattered window, he could see couriers gallop in and out, wagons arrive, leave, marching men disappear out the gate.

  It was the very model of an army headquarters.

  There were seven men in the hall: Hal, Sir Lu Miletus, and three staff officers. Another wore a dark robe, breeches, and carried a magician’s wand.

  Standing behind a huge desk, easily dominating it, and the men around him, was the Third Army Commander, Duke Jaculus Gwithian. He was tall, perfectly white-haired, with a warrior’s build. He wore dark brown, with a chain-mail gorget. This far from the lines, it couldn’t be for protection, more likely to remind everyone Duke Gwithian was a fighting leader. Complementing this was a low-slung leather belt, with a sheathed dagger with a jeweled handle.

  His voice was a low, imposing rumble, full of certitude.

  As far as Hal could tell, thus far on their first meeting, Duke Gwithian appeared to have less brains than a rabbit ensorcelled by a snake.

  Frowning, he held a copy of Hal’s report.

  “I realize, Sir Lu,” he said, “you place great trust in your . . . soldiers, which is a dictate of all commanders. However...”

  Miletus waited, his face stone.

  “What Duke Gwithian means, no doubt,” one of the staff officers said, “is your man Kailas isn’t the most experienced flier under your orders, isn’t that correct?”

  “I think any man who’s flown that low, and seen what he saw doesn’t need to have any more experience than a boarhound’s pup to know what he’s looking at,” Miletus said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “Still,” another staff officer added, “you must agree these circumstances are a bit . . . unusual. I mean, none of our wizards, none of our scouts, have reported such a move, and this young man sees . . . sees whatever he thinks he sees.”

  Hal, perhaps a year older than the staff officer, held his temper with difficulty.

  “That is one worrisome point,” Duke Gwithian agreed. “Certainly, I have the most powerful wizards, ones I cannot believe the Roche can flummox. Correct, Warleggan?”

  The mage nodded frostily. He was slim to the point of emaciation, and his clean-shaven face appeared never to have smiled.

  “I am hardly the one to agree with you, Duke Gwithian, not being given to vainglory. However, I do think that myself, and my more than competent aides, would certainly have detected signs, traces, of any spell the Roche thaumaturges could be working, and certainly a great spell such as this one would leave vast traces.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by Miletus.

  “Sir Oubang,” he said to the officer who hadn’t spoken, “you specialize in analyzing the information from our scouts.”

  “I do.”

  “Has nothing been reported by our light cavalry?”

  “Well, this is the one thing that troubles me slightly,” the small, stout man said. “Actually, over the last two days, our scouting has been most minimal, due to a combination of circumstances.

  “We’ve been shifting our light cavalry to the tip of the salient, expecting an eventual attack by the Roche. Other units have been relocated to the base of the salient, getting ready for . . . well, for an action of ours that should solve our current problems that I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of.

  “So, contrary to what Sir Cotehele said, we really haven’t had what I’d call a truly effective scouting screen out beyond the lines for over a week.”

  “Be that as it may,” Cotehele said, a bit of anger in his voice, “I find it utterly impossible that no one, no one except this . . .” He didn’t finish, but his look made it obvious what he thought of dragon fliers in particular, and Hal Kailas in particular. “This man, saw.

  “There is, after all, such a thing as logic, is there not?”

  “In war?” Miletus’ voice dripped incredulity.

  “Now, now, gentlemen,” Duke Gwithian said soothingly. “Let’s not let ourselves get worked up.

  “This young man risked his life to make a report. I commend him for it. And we shall take this information under advisement, and assign the correct value to it.

  “Sir Lu . . . and you, Serjeant Kallas, was it? I thank you for doing what you conceived as your duty.

  “Be sure to avail yourselves of a good meal before you leave my headquarters.

  “A meal . . .” And he looked at the two fliers’ weather-worn garb. “And, if you feel there is time before returning to your—what is it, squadron? No, flight, that’s it—making proper ablutions and drawing less shabby uniforms.

  “Thank you.”

  Without waiting for the salute, Duke Gwithian walked out through a side door.

  Hal was seething as he followed Miletus out of the hall.

  “He didn’t believe us, did he, sir?”

  “Of course not,” Miletus said. “He wouldn’t’ve believed just you if you’d come back with a Roche prince’s head on your dragon’s headspike.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “Eat his godsdamned meal—fast—and get our arses back to the flight,” Miletus said grimly. “And get ready for the Roche attack.”

  12

  Miletus gave his orders to the flight most cagily. He told them to be ready to move with an hour’s notice, not saying which direction they might be moving. Of course most of the fliers, having heard Hal’s report of the Roche on the move, assumed the worst.

  Miletus made sure all the troops had their weaponry sharpened and ready for use, inspecting them in sections.

  Nothing happened in the tag end of that day, and the weather stayed bad the next.

  “Hard telling,” Miletus said at nightfall, “whether the rain’s been encouraged by Roche sorcerers or not. It keeps their movement cloaked, but it can’t make their progress any easier.

  “We’ll go to hal
f alert for the night. You fliers, you’re exempt. It’s not unlikely you’ll be needed soon enough.”

  Hal woke well before dawn, hearing a sound like thunder, but somehow different, more like a series of great drum-rolls. It came from the south, from the salient.

  Faintly, he heard the sound of a wind roaring.

  Few of the flight members needed awakening.

  Chook and his assistants readied a hasty breakfast of bacon, fried bread and tea, and Miletus ordered the men and women to the cooktent in shifts.

  But nothing happened for a time, no one disturbed their isolated camp. The sun came up, blearily, through haze. No couriers with orders rode down the single road that led away from the front.

  Miletus had the fliers standing by their dragons, ready for anything.

  It was midmorning when a pair of riders bulled through the brush past the pond and through the meadow. Their horses were slathered, panting, and the men were wild-eyed, and had thrown away their arms.

  “They’re attacking . . . they’ve broken through . . . magic . . . their damn wizards had an infernal spell . . . no warning . . . they’re just behind us . . . ride for your lives!”

  Miletus tried to stop them, but they galloped around him, and were gone.

  He hesitated, then ordered the unit into motion. “There’s but one road away from here, and we’ll not be bottled up.”

  He looked at Hal.

  “If I’m wrong, I hope you’ll be a character witness at my court-martial.”

  Before Kailas could answer, Miletus ordered all dragons into the air, scouting ahead of the flight’s wagons and horses. He had his own beast chained to its wagon, and stayed on the ground with the soldiery.

  Slowly, terribly slowly, the flight started moving. They were held back not only by the nearly ruined road, but by the herd of sheep being driven in the middle of the flight, the dragons’ rations.

  Hal saw a rider galloping hard toward the flight. The rider pulled up in front of Miletus, hands waving for a few moments. Then he wheeled his horse, and splashed back the way he’d come.