by Chris Bunch
“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’rations 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 slightly 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 acknowledgment, 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 mêlée 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.
Deraine had held the Roche, driven them back slightly.
Duke Jaculus Gwithian and his staff were among the knights who stood their ground to the last man, neither asking nor giving quarter.
He may have been a dumb bastard, Hal thought. But he was surely a brave dumb bastard.
Aimard Quesney was sitting near the dragon lines, away from the others that night. Hal brought him a plate of food. He took it, set it down untasted.
“And so you’ve got what you wanted,” Quesney said. His voice was flat, not pleased, not angry. “You’ve got your war and your killing.
“Be proud, Kailas. Be very proud. We’ve bloodied the land and the water, and now you’re the first to take it to the skies.”
Without waiting for a response, he walked away, into the darkness.
They were in the air at dawn the next day. Again, Miletus, even though he commanded the flight, let Hal control the fighting.
It didn’t matter to Kailas—the situation was so desperate nothing mattered except killing Roche.
Again, the battle on the ground was mounted and again Deraine held.
On the next morning, before the two sides could stumble together and hew away in exhaustion, they heard trumpets from the south and east.
This time the flight’s mission was its original—to scout the land.
To the east, they found, proud in its finery, freshness and armor, a massed Sagene army. They barely had time to report the miracle before the Sagene smashed into the unprotected Roche flank.
They were the army that’d been assembled to defend Sagene’s capital of Fovant, and the Roche attack on the Deraine soldiers had given them time to march east, and strike where they weren’t expected.
The Roche fell back, across the wasteland their soldiers and green mist had created. But they didn’t break, as the Deraine soldiers had, but fought stubbornly from hilltop to ravine to draw, killing one Deraine here, half a dozen Sagene there.
But they were pushed all the way back through that bloody summer, back across the border, and several miles into Roche territory.
Deraine and Sagene disengaged, numbly prepared fighting positions, and then collapsed in total exhaustion.
No one knew how many men died in the brutal series of battles. Some said half a million, others said a million, others even more.
“Serjeant Kailas,” Miletus said. Hal was helping his hands groom his dragon. Hachir, still with the flight as were the other thirteen crossbowmen, was also helping.
“Sir?”
�
�I’ve got orders for you.”
Hal waited.
“Since the crisis appears over, you and six others—Dinapur, Feccia, Garadice, Gart, Mariah, Sir Loren, are reassigned.”
“Where?”
“Back where you were supposed to have gone in the first place. The First Army,” Miletus said. “Around Paestum.”
That was what Hal had wanted, but he was just too tired to celebrate.
“I’ll be sorry to leave you, sir,” he said, telling the truth.
“Don’t be,” Miletus said. “Those bastards across the line’re too tired to do anything for awhile. Things will be nice and quiet in these parts, and we can recover and maybe think about getting drunk and laid.
“Up north, where you’re going, things are just starting to get interesting.
“I’ve sent dispatches to whatever Lord High Plunk will take over the Third Army about what you did . . . about your ideas.
“And I’m giving you a sealed dispatch, for your new Commander at the First Army, with the same details. Maybe he’ll give you a medal, or make you a knight, or even give you a free drunk in Paestum.
“As for leaving us . . . we’ll run into each other again, down the road.
“If we live.
“It’s looking to be a very long war.”
14
Again, Paestum had changed, becoming more and more a smooth-running machine to process troops toward the front and, as a by-product, to relieve them of as much money as possible.
Hal was the ranking warrant of the seven fliers, still with the rank he’d had with the light cavalry. He’d wondered a time or two why no dragon flier ever seemed to get promoted. But he’d learned that if the army had a reason for doing what it did, it seldom chose to share its wisdom with the lower ranks.
Hal’s orders read for the seven to report to the Eleventh Dragon Flight. He asked a provost, got instructions to its camp, two leagues west of the city.
All of them were heavy-pursed—there hadn’t been much to buy during the retreat and battles. But none seemed in the mood for revel, still tired from the fighting, and Hal didn’t think his new commander would be entranced if a warrant decided to stop the war so his charges could get seduced and drunk.