Dragonmaster

by Chris Bunch

  “Excellent,” the man called, and someone on the ship shouted, “Good on the dragons!”

  The journey back to Aude took two days. Three times the dragons sprang traps, coming down from above on the ambushers, showering crossbow bolts, and the escorting ships landed soldiers to finish the job.

  Then, almost within sight of Aude, their escort duty was taken over by cavalry, and Hal signaled his flight back to their base.

  He saw a storm front approaching, was glad it looked as if they’d be stuck on the ground for at least a day. His fliers and, more important, his dragons could do with a bit of a rest.

  The storm lasted longer than expected, and by the third day, Hal couldn’t find any more maintenance for his soldiery.

  Serjeant Te reported no luck at all in finding the thief, but Hal told him to keep his watch out.

  “I’ll do that, sir,” Te said, yawning. “But it’s damned hard chasing the flight around by day and creeping through the bushes at night. Almost makes me think I’m back being an infantryman.”

  Hal was jerked awake by the duty officer.

  “Sir. It’s an emergency.”

  “It always is,” Hal muttered, rolling out of bed and dragging pants and boots on.

  “You’d best come armed, sir,” the man said.

  Hal belted his sword-belt on, went out into the rain.

  There was a flare of torches in back of the headquarters tent.

  Women and men stood around a body in Deraine uniform, sprawled on its face.

  “Must’ve surprised some damned Roche,” someone muttered.

  Hal knelt over the body, turned it on its back.

  It was Serjeant Te, eyes wide, mouth gaping. A long knife was buried in his chest.

  Hal knew the knife.

  It was the dagger issued only to dragon fliers.

  35

  Hal ordered the flight to parade, in full uniform, as a gesture of honor to Serjeant Te. Of course, he really wanted to see which flier was missing his dagger.

  There were enough shortages and uniform inadequacies for Hal to make quite a storm, and have his adjutant, Gart, make notes of what was missing.

  But the dagger gave him nothing.

  Some of the fliers swore they’d never been issued a dagger at all, which Hal had no way of knowing. Others, including Gart and Feccia, had lost theirs, somewhere. Sir Nanpean had the best reason—his, of course, had been taken from him when he was captured, and he’d never been able to get a replacement.

  Nothing.

  Hal, not having the slightest clue as to how to play warder, made what he thought were subtle inquiries, which also gave him nothing.

  Worse, from the death of Te on, the thefts came to a halt.

  Hal ground his teeth, got on with the war.

  The pioneers had finished their siege engines, and they began thudding away, hurling huge stones against the landward wall, firing huge arrows at any target that presented itself, lobbing other stones into the center of Aude.

  Hal, riding in back of the lines for a meeting with Cantabri, saw men going forward. They were lightly armed, and carried the types of picks and shovels Hal recognized from Caerly. He also remembered them from the horror-drenched days in Paestum, waiting for the Roche mine to be fired.

  He said nothing to anyone—the mine must be kept a secret.

  Deraine controlled the air, although Roche dragons still fiercely contested the issue.

  Hal took flights up in the morning and at dusk, and almost every day the Roche rose to meet him.

  None were the feared black dragons. Hal began hoping that maybe Yasin had been eaten by the monstrosities, or they’d discovered they couldn’t be depended on, or something.

  Hal killed his share and more, as did Sir Nanpean, Garadice, and Sir Loren. But the Eleventh Flight still took casualties, and the number of pilots gathered in their hut grew fewer and fewer, the revelry louder and louder, sometimes just short of hysteria.

  Hal sent inquiry after inquiry back to the First Army Headquarters, some bordering on the insubordinate, raging, begging for replacements.

  But none came.

  The soldiers on line were put on alert, with no reason being given, and for all dragon flights to be in the air from dawn to dusk, prepared, as the order said, “to take advantage of targets of opportunity.”

  Hal knew what it meant, but still kept silent. Perhaps the still-undiscovered thief/murderer in the flight was no more than that.

  But most likely, not.

  They were orbiting Aude in formations of three, other dragon flights soaring past them.

  It was a summer day that promised heat, but this morning was crisp and clear.

  Hal saw wisps of smoke coming from the base of one wall, watched closely.

  The smoke boiled out, and the timbers of the mine below cracked, and crumbled.

  The outer wall cracked, tottered, and fell, crashing down, almost into the river below.

  But no wave of Deraine soldiers rose to the attack. The space between the outer and inner city walls was too close for it to be anything other than a deathtrap.

  Roche reinforcements were hurried to the inner wall, waiting for the assault that never came.

  That was the first step.

  Somewhere, not far distant, another mine would be dug under the inner wall.

  In the meantime, the siege went on, daily patrols by cavalry and infantry to make sure Aude stayed invested.

  The Roche developed a new tactic—bringing four or six dragons up just before dawn. These carried the great wicker baskets, but were filled with supplies. They flew out—when they could—with wounded soldiers.

  Hal, still fighting his own war, told his fliers to attack the incoming dragons, but to let the ones leaving pass.

  His fliers, no more interested in slaughtering the sick and wounded than Kailas was, obeyed.

  Except for Sir Nanpean, who argued that any dragon and its flier should be a target, and there was no place for mercy in war.

  Hal, logically, knew he was right, and didn’t ground him for disobedience.

  But he liked Tregony no more than before.

  ... we lost two dragons today. The first was crippled in a fight with three other dragons, and we had to put her down. I frankly feel that the fault is that of the flier, who’s less than experienced, and should have known better than to fly against such odds.

  The other, Sir Nanpean Tregony’s, fell sick of some unknown ailment. We isolated it in a barn, which made the poor beast even more forlorn. Tregony, of course, refused to spend any time with his dragon, saying he had no intention of catching whatever ailment the monster had.

  We sent for a wizard, and asked around for an animal doctor. But no one had any experience with dragons, and the magician could do little but ease the beast’s last hours.

  I am starting to wonder if the poor damned dragons shouldn’t have stayed in the west, without matter what enemies threatened them.

  Certainly we haven’t brought them anything but grief. Perhaps, when this war is over, if it ever is, we should free all the dragons, and let them fly to wherever they wish.

  I write this, but I know it’s foolish, for many of the dragons are now thoroughly domesticated, and prefer our company. Also, those captured young could hardly be released into the wild, for they’d live but a few days, certainly less if they encountered wild dragons.

  And what of those who’ve been kept in zoos, thoroughly accustomed to having their sheep or whatever provided to them on a barrow?

  Once again it seems whatever Man touches he turns first to his own purposes, then to ruination.

  Sorry to end my letter on such a gloomy note, but that’s how I’m feeling at this moment.

  I do miss you

  Hal

  Hal hadn’t known what would happen between him and Khiri when he returned to the war, and was quite surprised to find he thought of her often.

  She wrote him daily, letters about the smallest, most normal things—wh
at was going on with the sowing at Cayre a Carstares, the newest fripperies around the capital, what dinners she’d been invited to, and what she’d worn and eaten.

  All of these, things Hal might’ve thought irritating, took him away from the war.

  She was working at one of Rozen’s hospitals, still living at Thom Lowess’ city home, and missing him desperately.

  Hal, in return, missed her, and wrote back as often as he could.

  He was learning the loneliness of command, and, without Saslic, had no one to confide in, especially about his feelings about war, and about dragons.

  He wondered if he was falling in love with the beasts and also with Lady Khiri.

  He snorted. He had no time for such weaknesses, especially not now.

  But still, when he thought of her, at the strangest times, a smile came to him, and his mood lightened.

  Again, the troops were brought to full alert and, this time, told to be ready for an all-out attack.

  Hal, once again, overflew the city, looking for any signs of trouble.

  This time, he found them.

  He saw, not far from where the first mine had been dug, men suddenly explode out of carefully camouflaged tunnels, running as if there were demons at their heels.

  He expected to see smoke, once again, as the pit props were fired.

  But nothing came.

  Heavy cavalry and infantry moved forward, guarding the tunnels.

  Hal wondered what had happened. Something must have gone wrong.

  The tale didn’t take long to reach the squadron.

  The miners had been within a day of undermining the second wall when suddenly—stories varied from nowhere or from a tiny, unnoticed crevice—monsters boiled on them. They were not men, all stories agreed, could not be men, being coal black, with a rigid carapace atop their head like a lizard’s. They had sharp pinchers for hands, and tore at the miners as they panicked, tried to escape the trap.

  The monsters, whatever they were, feared sunlight or possibly open air, for none of them came out of the tunnel, either by day or night.

  Evidently the master spell of two months earlier hadn’t gotten rid of all the Roche sorcerers.

  There matters rested for two days.

  Then magicians came up, staying well clear of the tunnel, and began chanting, dancing, weaving in steps as more magic was sent out.

  There was no smoke, no fire, but somehow the wizards’ thaumaturgy worked upon the tunnel props.

  Cracking noises came, Hal was told later. Then, slowly, majestically, the inner wall began toppling, outward, just as the miners had intended.

  It leaned out at an impossible angle, but its stones never shattered. And then it stopped leaning, and held at that impossible angle.

  Hal shook his head. Wizardry confounded wizardry.

  Then he heard a squeal from one of the dragons, looked away from Aude.

  Hurtling toward the city, above Hal and the other dragon flight, came Ky Yasin’s black dragons.

  36

  Hal had time for one warning trumpet blast, then had to concentrate on Storm, on trying to overcome Yasin’s height advantage.

  The other, experienced fliers of the Eleventh were doing the same, but the other flight over Aude, and some of Hal’s less-seasoned fliers did little more than gawp at the black death coming down on them.

  Yasin’s fliers were experienced—they tried to avoid combat with their equals on the climb, and struck at the newer fliers.

  They’d stolen a lesson from Hal and their own experimenters, and all their fliers were armed with short re-curve bows, harder to fire accurately than Kailas’ crossbows, but with a much heavier weight. The Roche fliers had become adept in clinging to their dragons’ backs with their knees, reins looped around the flier’s neck while he was shooting.

  A Roche dragon veered away from Hal, but he launched a bolt, and hit the beast in its wing. It shrieked, and its rider fought the reins.

  Hal slid another bolt into his crossbow trough, and was just under the Roche’s wing. He fired, this time at the flier, hit him in the leg. The man reflexively grabbed at the wound, and Hal fired again, this bolt taking the man in his chest.

  The black dragon, feeling no control at the reins, shrieked again, and flapped away to the west.

  Hal banked Storm sharply, looked down at disaster.

  Deraine dragons were falling, fleeing. He saw no more than half a dozen of his fliers still looking for a fight, dove down to support them.

  He put a bolt in a black dragon’s neck, another in a second beast’s tail, enough to make it coil in surprise, hurling its rider down toward Aude.

  A black dragon was flying at him from dead ahead, and Hal, dropping another bolt tray onto his crossbow, forced himself to hold his course.

  At the last minute, the black dragon turned aside, and Hal swore the flier was Yasin himself. He fired at the man, and missed.

  Then the blacks were gone, and it was time to limp home and count the losses.

  They were severe. Hal didn’t know how many fliers the other flight had lost, but he’d lost four himself.

  One of them was Rai Garadice, who’d been seen trying to fight his crippled dragon across the river, into his lines.

  Hal and Sir Loren went back into the air, flying low along the river front, hoping and looking.

  It was just before dark when they saw the broken remains of a dragon, landed, and found Garadice’s body a dozen yards away. It appeared as if he’d tried to jump for the leafy branches of a tree, hoping to cushion his fall. But he’d missed by feet.

  Another of the old guard was gone.

  It took Hal almost until midnight to find the right words for the letter to Garadice’s father.

  They buried Rai, full ceremony, the next day.

  Then Hal found a horse, rode to command headquarters, and found Cantabri.

  He was less than properly military, angry and demanding, that he had less than half his fliers left, and no more than one spare dragon.

  As of this moment, he was standing down his flight, unable to accept any further assignments until his unit was properly rebuilt.

  Cantabri listened, didn’t show signs of anger at the insubordination, said the matter would be taken care of.

  “When?” Hal half snarled.

  “Before the week is out,” Cantabri said.

  Hal stared at him, turned, remembered his courtesy, turned back, saluted the lord and stomped out.

  “Isn’t it a bitch,” Hal said, staring at the half-empty bottle of wine, “that not only are you the only one I can feel sorry for myself around, including Khiri, but I can’t even let myself get drunk.”

  Storm made what a serious dragon fanatic might have defined as a sympathetic noise, especially if no one considered his breath, palatable only to someone who likes the aroma of very dead sheep.

  “Troubles,” Hal went on, leaning back against the dragon, and considering the empty, dark barn. “Not enough fliers, and the ones I’ve got are fodder for that frigging Yasin. We’re low on supplies, and nobody’s answering Gart’s requisitions for anything and everything from socks to crossbows.

  “Plus I can’t find that . . . that person I’m looking for,” he said, cautious even when alone.

  “I don’t think we’re fighting the Roche in the right way, but I’m just too damned tired keeping up with this minute’s emergency to rethink matters.

  “If I could have a month or so to myself . . .” His voice trailed off, and he wished he could uncork and finish the bottle.

  “First, I’d go to Cayre a Carstares,” he decided. “And I’d sleep for a week. Then I’d spend the next week in bed with Khiri. Then I’d eat for a week. Eat and drink.

  “After I got over my hangover, I’d sit down, in that tower, and get the mud out of my brain on some of those ideas I had that looked so promising.”

  Storm made a noise.

  “All right,” Hal allowed. “You can come too. And we’d go out flying every day,
or, anyway, every other day. Flying west, and looking at some of your relatives as they sail toward us.”

  Hal heard a flapping noise, looked out the open door of the barn, saw, not far distant, flying low, one of Yasin’s black dragons.

  Storm made a keening sound.

  “You’d rather not go? You’d rather stay here and kill black dragons?”

  Hal pulled himself to his feet.

  “And me talking to dragons. There was more wine in that wine than I allowed for.

  “I’m for bed.”

  At the far end of the barn, a canvas blocking a doorway moved, very slightly.

  Hal Kailas didn’t notice.

  Cantabri’s word was good. Three days after Hal had stormed his battlements, seven new dragon fliers appeared. They weren’t nearly as trained as Hal’s flight had been what seemed like a century ago. But they were present, didn’t seem to have any significant flaws, and could be trained.

  Or else they’d die.

  “Now, yer see,” Farren Mariah said to the seven replacements, “there’s a gatillion an’ three ways to fight a dragon.

  “And all of ’em’s right, as long as it’s you that comes home all heroic and shit, and not the Roche.”

  “We don’t need generalities,” a dragon flier named Chincha said.

  “Hold on, woman,” Mariah said. “You’ll get statistics and such, if you want.”

  Hal had happened by the open back door of the fliers’ hut, heard Farren holding forth, listened, grinning.

  “We’ll start-a-tart by comparin’ our two grayt hee-roes, Lord Kailas, who I can call Hal but you can’t until you’ve gotten your paws thorough blooded. The other is Sir Nanpean Tregony, who’ll, thank you, prefer you use his title. Or you can simply call him a god.