by Chris Bunch
He was very right.
The Eleventh Flight had commandeered a sprawling farm, almost a manor. Most of the buildings were cheery red brick, and the grounds were neat if overgrown, although the land had been fought through during the siege of Paestum, and there were still shattered remnants of out-buildings here and there.
It looked very peaceful in the summer sun.
Hal smiled when he heard the screech of a dragon from behind the manor house, answered by one of their dragons on the wagons.
But his smile vanished, seeing a formation of soldiers marching back and forth to the chant of an iron-lunged warrant.
“Drill,” Farren said as he might have mentioned slow torture. “Drill, here?”
“Maybe,” Saslic said, from her seat behind the wagon’s driver, “maybe those are guards for the flight.”
“Maybe,” Farren said. “Or, more likely, we’ve fallen into the clutches of a martinet, who thinks the war’s to be won by square-bashint.”
Captain Sir Fot Dewlish dabbed delicately at his nose with a handkerchief that, Hal decided, was probably starched and ironed.
Sir Fot was a very dapper officer. His uniform had clearly been tailored, and equally clearly had never seen a muddy battlefield, any more than Sir Fot had.
He sat, very calm, very much at ease, at a desk that wasn’t sullied with paper. Dewlish was about to say something when a clock gonged.
Both men turned to look at it. The clock was a bronze monstrosity of a dragon, holding a world in one claw, a clock in the other. It had been carefully painted in exact colors.
“That’s our mascot,” Dewlish explained. “The lower ranks quite revere him, and call him Bion.”
Hal made a vaguely understanding noise. He rather wished there was a dragon on Dewlish’s chest, indicating he was also a flier, instead of on the mantel.
“To continue,” Dewlish said. “I cannot say, to be truthful, I’m much impressed by your, or your fellows’, appearance. I’ve always heard that some of the dragon flights permit their fliers to go around looking scruffy, and now believe it.”
“There weren’t a lot of tailors where we were, sir.”
“Do not be impertinent!” Dewlish snapped. “Now, or ever.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll make arrangements for you to go into Paestum, in turn, and visit my tailor. He’s quite good, and fairly economical. I assume that your lot has some money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, first let me acquaint you with the way I run this flight. I believe a good soldier keeps himself, or herself, quite smart.” He frowned, as if not liking the idea of women being assigned to his flight, but said nothing.
“There is no room for slackers, Serjeant Kailas. Not here, at any rate.
“I believe that was the reason my late predecessor in charge of this flight suffered such terrible casualties.”
Hal didn’t reply.
“Fortunately, I understand you have had the benefit of being schooled, at least in your first days in dragon school—dreadful name, that—by an old friend of mine, a fellow heavy cavalryman, Sir Pers Spense.”
“Uh . . . yessir. We were, sir.”
“A pity how he ran afoul of these new thinkers in the army. Now he’s over here, responsible for dealing with the recruits that arrive, before they’re assigned to their new units.
“He tells me their discipline is shocking, most shocking, and he, and a loyal coterie, are doing their utmost to make them into proper soldiers of the king.
“Poor fellow. He wants, more than anything, to be reassigned to a proper station, perhaps in charge of one of the schools of heavy cavalry.
“But, like all of us, he soldiers on, without complaining.”
Dewlish smiled at Hal, and Kailas guessed he was supposed to have some sort of response. He smiled back, more a twitch than anything else, in return.
“Now, Serjeant, I’ll acquaint you with my manner of soldiering. I’ll be wanting to address the new men, and, er, women, before evening meal. But you can give them the gist of my feelings, and, since it’s still morning, help them to begin shaking things out, as I believe you fliers call it, informally.
“I believe, as I said, in running things firmly. All fliers will be neatly dressed at all times, including when flying. I especially despise those disreputable sheepskins you wear.”
Hal was grateful it was still summer, hoped that Dewlish would trip over his spurs or a dragon before winter came.
“We assemble before dawn, for calisthenics, and a run, for I believe a sound body breeds sound fighters. Then three flights, of two dragons each, go out on morning patrol, to scout the assigned tasks from army headquarters that we receive during the night.
“Then the fliers return for noon meal and, after, drill, which shall be mounted, once I manage to obtain horses. Then the afternoon flight goes up, on its assigned tasks. Sometimes there will be an evening flight as well, returning just at dusk.
“Are there any questions?”
“Sir, won’t the Roche figure out that we’re passing over their lines at a certain time, and arrange their affairs to allow for that?”
Dewlish snorted.
“I do not believe those barbarians are capable of that kind of analysis. In any event, those are my orders, and, consequently, that is the way this flight will be run.
“I’m aware,” he said, reaching into a desk drawer and taking out a rather thick envelope, “that your former commander allowed a great deal of independence.
“I received an interesting letter from him, suggesting that certain extraordinarily irregular changes you tried recently might be implemented in my command.
“First, the existing King’s Regulations give us quite enough to do as it is.
“But second, and more important, just as I do not tell any officer how to run his command, so I brook no interference from others!”
He ostentatiously tossed Miletus’ letter into a red leather wastebasket.
“As for certain other recommendations he made about you . . . well, I think a soldier must prove himself in person before any awards or such can be considered.
“That, I think, is all, Serjeant. My orderly officer will show you your quarters, which of course are rigidly segregated as to the sexes, which is only natural, and the stables for your beasts. The rank and file you brought with you will be integrated into the flight, which should speed up their learning my way of doing things, and your wagons will become part of my establishment.
“Oh yes. One other thing. I believe in a proper reward at the proper time for a man who has distinguished himself. And, on the other hand, I punish offenders uniformly, and with a very severe hand.
“That is all, Serjeant.”
Hal stood, saluted smartly, and marched out, wondering what Farren Mariah would say when he found out about the new wind-blowing changes.
Mariah offered four absolutely horrifying and anatomically impossible obscenities.
“Worst, the bastid ain’t flyin’, so that means he’s prob’ly immortal,” he mourned.
“We could always arrange an accident,” Saslic said.
“Careful,” Sir Loren warned. “This Dewlish doesn’t impress me as someone who can take a joke like that.”
“Who was joking?” Saslic said.
“One other thing,” Hal said. “Dewlish isn’t one for holding hands in the moonlight.”
“So what?” Saslic said. “I wasn’t considering holding his paw.”
“For him . . . or for anybody else.”
Saslic used two sentences, and Farren’s eyes widened in admiration.
“That eunuch,” she added. “I suppose we can’t drink, either.”
“I already checked,” Rai Garadice gloomed. “Fliers are permitted two drinks daily, which are served before dinner in the main mess.”
“I was wrong,” Saslic decided. “He’s not a eunuch, he’s a godsdamned Roche secret agent, determined to ruin our morale.”
The First Army’s orders were always the same: “Scout the Roche lines east of Paestum, and to their rear for any signs of troop buildup.”
Of course, since clocks could be set by the time the dragons overflew the lines, there was seldom anything to be seen, other than cavalry skirmishing, or an occasional infantry patrol in contact with the enemy.
Once Hal saw movement, extensive movement, in a forest just inland, and asked permission of Dewlish to take another patrol back over the area at once, to catch whoever was moving about down there by surprise.
Permission, of course, was refused—Dewlish said if it was anything of significance, it would be reported by the afternoon flight.
Nothing was seen.
“What the hell are we going to do about him?” Hal snarled.
“You keep telling me I can’t arrange an accident,” Saslic complained.
“Even if I did, who would you go to?”
“Probably take care of matters myself,” Saslic said. “Buy some poison next time I’m in Paestum. Lord knows if Dewlish ever fell over dead, there’d be no end of suspects.
“The fliers all want him skinned alive, and the rest of the flight think that’s too easy a fate.”
“Rest easy, children,” Sir Loren said. “Concentrate on practicing your flying and getting ready for the next time our peerless leaders decide it’s time to go out and get killed.
“Besides, nothing lasts forever. Not even Sir Fot Dewlish.”
“You c’n afford to be, what do they call it, c’mplacent,” Mariah said. “You’re ahead of him in the Royal List, so he gives you little agony.”
“True,” Sir Loren said, grinning. “And you lesser beings can work out your own fate.”
“Can I push him in the pond?” Farren asked Hal.
“With my blessing,” Hal said.
“Now, now. Us high-ranking knights deserve a little respect,” Sir Loren said.
“And that’s what you’re getting,” Hal said. “Very damned little respect.”
Frustrated, Hal took to doing just as Sir Loren suggested—flying his dragon either morning or afternoon around the base area if he wasn’t scheduled for a patrol, and doing acrobatics in the sky.
Thinking about the crossbowmen they’d used over Bedarisi, Hal started teaching his dragon to respond to shouts and pressure from his thighs. That would leave his hands free for other actions, which he was still devising. One thing he’d vaguely noted back then, through the haze of exhaustion, was that his dragon flew more slowly, couldn’t climb as fast, with Hachir behind him.
His dragon, still nameless, seemed to like curveting about, either high above the farm, or else flying very low, very fast along the country roads, hopefully terrifying any travelers and, sometimes, sending a wagon careening into a ditch.
The first time it happened, Hal expected the farmer who’d emerged dripping from the green water to complain to Dewlish, but nothing happened.
One of the stablemen said the locals were all terrified of the dragon fliers, swearing they’d made pacts with demons for their powers, and wanting nothing to do with any of them.
“Which’s a great laugh f’r us, ’cept when we figger ain’t none of us getting’ laid by th’ local lassies. Though,” he said and looked sly, “I’ve hopes for th’ future, puttin’ the word about one of th’ gifts th’ demons give us is double-length dicks.”
On the way back from a patrol, Hal landed near an infantry base, and traded some of the wine he’d bought in Paestum for a crossbow and a selection of bolts.
He set up targets at various ranges, and began mastering the weapon. He rated himself a fair shot with a conventional bow, learned when he was with the cavalry, and had little trouble adjusting to the more modern weapon.
But firing at motionless bales of straw on the ground did little to teach him how to hit a moving target in the air. He found a Roche banner, and a length of rope, and convinced Saslic to tow the line behind her dragon, Nont, and let him shoot at the banner.
The first time out, he almost shot Nont in the tail. Saslic had words with him when they landed, made him vow that if he was going to miss, miss to the rear, not forward.
“One more like that—especially if it happens to tweak me—and it’ll be a long, long time before this playground’ll be open for you,” she said.
Two problems were immediately obvious—he wasn’t good enough to always hit the banner on the first shot, and reloading the crossbow, while rocking in the saddle, was a good way to suddenly start practicing air-walking; and his bolts were unretrievable.
The crossbowmen he’d traded for the first weapon became his very, very good, if a bit alcoholic, friends, since he had to stop almost every day for new bolts.
Since his stops meant the other dragon in his patrol had to fly about for a time, he was afraid Dewlish would find out his extracurricular pastime, and forbid it, like he arbitrarily had forbidden the fliers associating with their stablehands when not on duty, keeping alcohol in their quarters, and ever appearing out of uniform.
He thought of acquiring more crossbows, but the thought of going flying with a stack of weaponry clattering about behind him, possibly hung on hooks drilled in the dragon’s plating, made him laugh, wryly.
“How strong’re you?” Farren asked without preamble.
“Strong enough, I suppose,” Hal said.
“Look ’ere,” Farren said, taking a roll of paper from under his arm. “I remember, back as a lad, seein’t a toy like this, use’t to shoot at the poor larks flyin’ about. I took the toy away from the little savage what wielded it, and warmed his butt with the thing.
“It looked sorta like this.”
The sketch was of a crossbow. But conventional crossbows had nothing but a length of wood from the butt to the foot stirrup, with perhaps a guard around the trigger. This had a curved grip just behind the trigger, and a second grip in front of it.
“Now, you can’t see too good f’rm my sketch, but the fore handle kinda slides, don’t remember how, but it’s got fingers, up here, t’ grab the string and cock the bow.
“Now, this, over here, on the side’s a box, wi’ I guess some kinda spring inside, for it held bolts. You sorta clamped it on the bow, and worked this fore handle back, cockin’ the piece, an’ a bolt drops down, and the wretch pointed it an’ shot.
“On’y problem is it’d be kinda light for killin’ people ’stead of larks.
“Anything innit?”
Hal studied the sketch.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I think I need to talk to somebody who knows more about weaponry than I do.”
That day, the flight took its first casualty since Hal and the others had joined it.
The afternoon patrol was swarmed by ten Roche dragons, just before it was supposed to turn north. One of the Roche monsters had an archer sitting behind. No one knew if the lost flier—one of Dewlish’s—had been hit by an arrow, or ripped from his mount by a dragon.
The dragon came home, bare-saddled, blood drenched down its sides.
Hal waited for Dewlish to react, to change the patrol order, possibly even to investigate Hal’s idea of crossbowmen, but, other than a mawkish funeral speech, the commander did nothing.
The sign over the small backstreet house featured an ornately carved dagger, with lettering under it:Joh Kious
Fine steel
By Appointment
To the Royal Household
Hal entered, and was dazzled. He had never dreamed of, let alone seen, so many different tools of destruction.
There were swords, daggers, maces, morningstars, javelins, short and long spears, arrows of various wickednesses.
Between them were bits of armor, a few ceremonial, most grimly practical. From the rear came the cheerful sound of hammers beating against steel.
The man behind the co
unter was slender, in his fifties, placid-looking, with an easy smile.
“Uh . . . Sir Kious?”
“There’s no sir to it, my friend. Merchants tend not to get much from their supposed betters, except their gold.”
Kious had a bit of a sharp tongue, though his accent was soft and country.
“How may I be of service? I’ve just recently opened this branch across the water to help in our efforts against the Roche.”
Hal produced Farren’s sketch, explained it, asked if Kious could build one, suitable for combat use. Kious thought a moment, noted the dragon emblem on Kailas’ chest.
“Might I ask you to do something, sir?” Kious asked. “Try to pull my arm down straight when I hold it up like this.”
Hal obeyed. Kious might have been slender, but was surprisingly strong. Hal put some of his war muscle into it, and succeeded.
“Well,” Kious said. “I’ve built some crossbows, though not for years, and certainly not of this type. I assume you want an adequate poundage, which is why I tested your strength.
“Are you planning on using this in the air?”
“I am.” Hal explained his intent.
“That somewhat increases the problem,” Kious said and went on in a scholarly fashion. “You would want, oh, about 150 pounds draw weight to be sure of dropping your man. But sitting down, cocking a 150-pound bow, especially more than once, with this rather ingenious arrow-box . . . that could be a strain.
“But if we decrease the poundage of the prod—that’s the bow itself—and increase the draw length—possibly use compound stringing—that will give us the arrow speed we want.
“Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. An interesting project. I’ll require a deposit of . . . oh, twenty-five gold coins, sir. The total cost will be . . . oh, seventy-five gold, and that will include a goodly supply of arrows. I notice your wince, sir, and must tell you, I would charge at least double, more likely triple, were you a civilian wanting this for sport.