Dragonmaster

by Chris Bunch

  Blood clouded his eyes, and he wiped them clear, swayed on Storm’s back, refused to allow pain. He considered his revenge, but that could lead to a dream, and in a dream lay death.

  All that could keep him awake was his pain, and so he embraced the agony as his dragon flew slowly, limping, across the gray skies.

  Below was the water, welcoming water, that would cool the fire raging across his body, and he and Storm would forever roll in the sea’s currents, flesh picked by multicolored fish, white bones being polished as their skeletons turned, turned, turned—

  Hal jerked himself awake, started singing, every song he could remember, from the bawdy chants of the soldiers to schoolyard nonsense songs.

  And the miles reeled past.

  Then there was land, three small dots, ahead, and Storm needed no urging, dropping down.

  Hal thought—hoped—the islanders would still be friendly, now that he was begging, not buying.

  They were. Zoan summoned the village witch, who used herbs and spells on Hal’s wounds, wanted to give him a sleeping potion.

  He refused, fearful that he’d been followed by Roche dragons, or a Roche warship would come on the island while he was unconscious.

  But he sagged down into unconsciousness anyway, waking stiff and in pain a dozen hours later.

  Zoan had assigned someone to sit with him, and the boy ran to get the village head.

  She came within minutes, ordered the boy to get the witch, and bring broth.

  “You must stay until you recover,” she said.

  “No,” Hal said. “I can’t.”

  “You talked in your sleep,” Zoan said. “About Saslic. That was woman with you before?”

  “Yes.” Again, the crashing wave of her death bore him down. Zoan saw his face, patted his hand.

  “We all die,” she said. “Soldiers die first.”

  “That’s what Saslic said.”

  “She was wise. Perhaps, when you die, you will meet again.”

  Hal didn’t answer.

  “I am sorry to do this,” Zoan said. “But men ask questions I cannot answer for what comes next.”

  “I don’t know if I can answer them.”

  “They are afraid,” Zoan went on. “Will Roche come here again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did they follow you?”

  “I don’t think so.” Hal struggled up. “Where is dragon?”

  “He is well,” Zoan said, pushing him back. “We fed him four pigs, and he slept. Witch put herbs, she not know what heals dragons, but work for men, for our beasts.

  “Herbs and sew leather . . . pigskin, tanned, on wound, strong bandage. When he woke, he did not tear off. Maybe good for him.”

  “I sleep,” Hal said. “When dragon wakes, wake me.”

  “What then?”

  “I leave.”

  “For where?”

  “For home.”

  Hal set his course back toward the mainland, but westering. He was in constant pain, but that kept him from falling off Storm.

  He’d expected the dragon to be angry, unwilling to fly. But Storm seemed to understand where they were heading, and screeched no complaint.

  Below him, high waves swept the seas, a summer storm. From time to time, he saw small boats, tattered and holed, limping their way away from the disaster of Kalabas. Sometimes they waved up, in friendship or thinking Hal was a scout for a rescuing force.

  But he had nothing, and could only hope to be able to rescue himself and his dragon.

  They made landfall, and Hal flew west, along the Roche coastline, until he found a forested headland where they could land. He and the dragon shared a meal of dried fish, but Storm snorted away from the cornmeal mush Hal offered.

  Hal woke, with joints and his wounds screaming, and Storm seemed in no better shape. They watered at a creek, took off, continued their slow odyssey west.

  The pain of Saslic’s loss tore at him, more painful than his wounds sometimes.

  Hal dared not fly Storm longer than a guessed-at three hours, then looked for shelter, a hiding place where no Roche cavalry or dragons could spot him.

  If they did, and challenged him . . . no. He would not surrender.

  Once, he flew over a bluff, where sheep sheltered against the onshore winds. Storm honked longingly, and Hal obeyed, had the dragon turn back and land.

  Storm had a half-grown sheep halfway down his throat before Hal could dismount, swallowed it whole, went for another, killed it, and was beginning to feed when Hal heard shouting.

  He saw the shepherd, and his dogs, running toward them, the shepherd waving a club.

  Hal admired the man’s courage or foolhardiness, killed him with one pass of his dagger. The dogs snarled at him, tried to nip at his heels, and Storm ate one of them, and the other fled, yapping.

  He killed a sheep, rough-butchered it, and dragged it on to Storm.

  They flew on until they found an abandoned farmstead farther west. Hal landed, used the remnants of a shed to build a fire, and ate roast mutton, while Storm slept at his side.

  The dragon moaned once or twice, and Hal wondered again if dragons had dreams, and if so, of what?

  That far land they appeared to have come from? The northern wastes? Black Island?

  He didn’t know, vaguely wished to find out someday.

  Someday, after he’d revenged Saslic.

  At dawn, he went on, west.

  Again, he found a herd of cattle, and Storm and he ate. But this time, if there were herders, they were sensible enough to avoid the ragged, bearded, bandaged flier, and his torn dragon.

  And west, and west.

  Then one day, after he’d flown for a week, a month, a year, he never knew, he flew over a burnt-out village, then wasted farms.

  The ruins brought what might have been a smile, and he drove Storm on, harder.

  Then, spread out below him, was a soldiers’ winter camp.

  He swept low over it, saw banners he recognized.

  Sagene pennons.

  He’d made it, flying all the way across Roche, back to his own lines, and suddenly, the end a hundred feet below him, pain took him as a terrier shakes a rat.

  He brought Storm into a clearing, an improvised drill-field, surrounded by log huts, canvas-roofed, slid out of the saddle.

  Men ran toward him, buckling on their weapons, passed by a man in armor.

  “You!” the knight barked, sword sliding out of his sheath. “Stand still!”

  Hal obeyed. Storm hissed, and the knight’s horse jumped sideways.

  “Who are you? Are you Roche? And keep your monster under control!” the knight called, fear obvious in his voice.

  “Don’t worry,” Hal said, about to let go. “He won’t hurt you. We’re on your side. I’m Sir Hal Kailas, Eleventh Dragon Flight. Come from Kalabas.”

  The knight jolted back.

  “You’re one of the—”

  “I’m one of the,” Hal agreed. “Now, if you’ll have someone see my dragon’s fed, watered, and his wound treated?”

  “Why . . . yes . . . but . . .”

  Hal smiled gently at him, let go, and slipped quietly to the ground.

  He’d made it back. Now it was the turn of the others for awhile.

  Then it would be time for red vengeance.

  28

  There came a blur of dressing stations, creaking ambulances, anxious attendants and, for some unknown reason, the peering curious.

  Hal didn’t bother with full awareness, except for making sure twice that Storm’s wounds had been treated, and that he was safe.

  He thought he must be in good hands, and if he wasn’t, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. So he drowsed, mind floating, trying not to return to that dreadful moment when the dragon tore at Saslic, and she fell away, and there was nothing he could do.

  Then one day, he woke to a clear mind. He was in a room by himself, in a bed with clean sheets, warm and cozy. There was a window in front of
him, with autumn sleet lashing against it.

  He wriggled, realized he was clean. He lifted an experimental hand to his cheeks, realized he’d been shaved while unconscious.

  There came a giggle.

  He looked to one side, saw Lady Khiri Carstares, as lovely as ever, in a chair beside his bed. She wore what should have been a prim white uniform that buttoned down the front. Khiri had unbuttoned the top three buttons, so the effect wasn’t quite what nursey efficiency intended.

  “I’ve never shaved a man before,” she said. “Let alone one who’s snoring.”

  Hal blinked, lifted an arm to point out the window, felt his bandages and stiff body.

  “Deraine?”

  “Of course, silly. You’ve been here, in the hospital, for almost a month. Which gave me time to learn about your whereabouts from Sir Thom—you know he’s been knighted for his courage in battle—even though your travels are all over the broadsheets, and arrange things so that I’m your nurse.”

  Hal blinked again.

  “My nurse.”

  “Until you’re well enough to be discharged.”

  “From the hospital?”

  “No, no. From the service.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been hurt, remember?”

  “I know.” Hal started to get angry, realized this was hardly the time, and let sleep wash up on him again. Before he went under, he managed a smile at Carstares.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. “For the shave. And...for being my nurse, I suppose.”

  Days drifted by. Hal knew he was feeling better, because the simple broths Khiri spooned into him became boring. She told him he definitely was recovering, since he was being altogether too bad tempered.

  Hal apologized.

  But he was bad tempered, and brooding. The news that he was going to be invalided out did not sit easy.

  What was he supposed to do then?

  Beg in the streets?

  Limp back to Caerly to go down into the mines?

  Logically, he doubted that anyone with a knighthood would end up swinging a pick, but since when have invalids been logical?

  What about flying? Starting his own flying show? But that would almost certainly be impossible at the present. He could guess there wouldn’t be any dragons on the civilian market, and those that might show up would be thoroughly spavined or rogues.

  Lord Cantabri came to call one day. He’d lost a deal of weight, and his face had new lines. He walked with a cane, and talked with a wheeze, but nevertheless said he’d be back in the wars by the time winter ended.

  Hal grumped at him, and Cantabri just laughed.

  Kailas, feeling ashamed once more, asked for details on the invasion.

  “You’re sure you’re up to it?”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse,” Cantabri said. “Of the hundred and twenty thousand, more actually, when you include Sagene’s replacements, we managed to evacuate about thirty thousand.”

  Hal grimaced.

  “And many of those were wounded, too many unable to return to the army,” Cantabri went on. “Lord Hamil was killed shortly after I was wounded.”

  “I assumed that, sir,” Hal said. “I was overhead, trying to figure a way to come to his aid. But there were too many Roche down there.”

  “Too many Roche everywhere,” Cantabri said, almost to himself.

  “I’d ask a favor, sir,” Hal said. “Would it be possible for you to look up the Eleventh Flight’s casualties?”

  “I figured you’d ask,” Cantabri said, and took a sheet of paper from his belt pouch.

  “You had about seventy-five when the invasion began. Of those, about fifty still live. The Adventurer, even though the black dragons tried to attack it, made it to safety. You had ten fliers when that final attack came, and eleven dragons. Six dragons, five fliers are still alive.”

  Hal asked about his fellow flying school graduates.

  “Vad Feccia, unwounded,” Cantabri went on, and Hal shook his head, thinking only the good die young.

  “Rai Garadice, also unscathed. Sir Loren Damian, wounded. Farren Mariah, wounded. Mynta Gart, wounded. All of them swear they’ll be able to return to combat, although I understand this Mariah character voiced his status rather colorfully.”

  “He would,” Hal said.

  “Other dragon flights took worse casualties, including one completely wiped out.

  “They’re training dragons pell-mell upcountry, and realize they’ve got to build the flights back up, and add more to boot,” Cantabri said. “The appearance of those black dragons, and their aggressiveness, has shaken the army badly.

  “The formation, by the way, is led by one Ky Yasin.”

  “I knew that,” Hal said. “I recognized his pennant.”

  “As our spies had said, his force is a squadron, more than four flights strong. Word has it, Queen Norcia of Roche has ordered it further augmented. He’ll be a force to contend with,” Cantabri said.

  Hal started to say something, kept his own thoughts for the moment. There would be other matters to clarify first.

  Cantabri and Kailas chatted on a bit more about inconsequentials before the lord got up.

  “I’ll say this, Sir Hal. The army without you will be a far lesser place. Far, far lesser.”

  “I’ve the best news,” Khiri said.

  Hal, who was still brooding about his seemingly unavoidable retirement, grumped something, which Carstares took as interest.

  “You’ll be permitted to leave the hospital under my care any day now,” she said.

  “For where?”

  “For wherever you want to go. I’ve got estates in the west, although I don’t know if you’ll want to go there, they’re pooh-gloomy, a dairy farm south of Rozen, sheep holdings on the highlands north of here. . . . Or we could even possibly impose on Sir Thom. I’m sure he’d let us stay in that great house in the capital.

  “You can decide . . . or I will.”

  “I might as well let you do that,” Hal growled. “Since it appears I’m no better than a lady’s handsome man these days.”

  Lady Khiri froze, her face went hard.

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  Hal should have shut up, but his shoulder was hurting.

  “Just what it meant. A nice, scar-faced popsy to flaunt about, eh?”

  Khiri came to her feet.

  “Has anyone ever suggested, Sir Hal Kailas, that you are more than a bit of a shit?”

  Hal opened his mouth.

  “No,” Khiri went on. “You’ve said quite enough for the present. It’s quite obvious that you have the manners of one of those damned dragons you love so well.

  “You think that I’ve been attracted to you because of your reputation. No, Sir Hal. I despise killers, and you’re one of the bloodiest-handed.

  “I like—liked—your company because you could make me laugh, which comes hard enough these days.

  “I know that you lost your lady in battle. Do you think you’re the only one to suffer a loss?

  “For your information, my father was killed at the war’s beginning, and my only brother, who I loved most dearly, two months later, not to mention someone else I thought I was beginning to . . . to care about.

  “That’s why I left those damned gloomy stone halls on the ocean, why Sir Thom was kind enough to take me in. I thought I was doing my bit for the war, and it turns out that you thought I was no better than a back-alley whore.

  “Sir Hal, you should be very ashamed of yourself. Very damned ashamed, and I hope you treat your new nurse better than you have me.”

  And she went out, the door crashing behind her.

  Hal’s anger had risen as she spoke, but vanished moments after Khiri had gone.

  He thought hard, staring out at the snow, just beginning to fall, not seeing it.

  Very good, you imbecilic moron. If you had brains, you’d take them out and play with them.

  At least now, he thought
, I’ve really got something to be glum about.

  And try to figure out how to apologize.

  If I can.

  Hal was still figuring when Sir Thom Lowess bounced through the door.

  “And what, my fine young lad, have you done this time? I saw my dear friend, Lady Khiri, crying bitterly in the nursing office, and she said that you’d ruined things.

  “Might I inquire?”

  Hal reluctantly told his story. Lowess listened, shaking his head.

  “Dear me. Dear me. You do, as the soldiers say, know full well how to step on your cock, don’t you?”

  Hal nodded.

  “Just for your information, not only did Lady Khiri tell the truth, but she’s given great sums to various hospitals.

  “She’s also, I suspect, without knowing, still a virgin, or so near to it as to not matter, so your shame should be complete. She originally came to stay with me in the hopes that I could introduce her to suitable men, men who weren’t just after tossing her into bed, or looking to marry her estates.

  “Have you any ideas on how you’re going to recover from this gaffe?”

  Hal was about to shake his head, then had an idea.

  “Sir Thom—and congratulations on your knighting—how is my credit with you? I haven’t been paid since before we left Paestum, and I assume sooner or later the pay-masters’ll—”

  “Don’t try to offend your other friend,” Lowess said. “Even if you were stony broke, you could still have my last piece of gold.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hal said, shamefaced. “I apologize if I insulted you, for I need not only some of your gold, but a bit of your help.”

  Hal explained.

  “Well, that might do for a beginning,” Lowess judged. “And it’s a matter handled just down the street. Sit here and contemplate your sins, Sir Hal, and I’ll take care of things.”

  He was gone for half an hour, came back smiling.

  “The lady I dealt with shall be singing your praises until the day she dies, as will all of her friends. And you should be most grateful her shop is—was—very well supplied, particularly for an autumny time of year.”

  “How long will it take?” Sir Hal asked.