The Last Battle

by Chris Bunch

  We found they were the remnants of other, more "civilized" tribes, which meant, as far as I could tell, tribes that had more sophisticated methods of killing.

  These tribes had migrated south, and I'm told have been providing great pain to the poor damned Roche and other nations to the east.

  The reason for the migration was simple—the coming of the dragons.

  There were food supplies enough for only one race, these people thought, and fearing the dragons, sought other lands to vanquish.

  The dragons, we were told, had but recently come to these lands, within the memory of a grandfathers grandfather's grandfather.

  Once again, the question becomes, what has made the dragons migratory, since it appears their real home lies to the far west?

  I do not know, and have not a clue even as to what line of questioning I should pursue.

  I do wish that someone would commission an expedition west, to discover the nature of dragons in what might be termed its raw state.

  One thing of extraordinary interest came about when we studied the dragons.

  Each of the rookeries was crudely organized, so there would be dragon leaders, and herdsmen, who would chouse the shaggy bison into death traps. Other dragons… not parents… would guard the nurseries, changing shifts on a regular basis.

  I do not mean to compare intelligence, but these dragons behaved like particularly well-trained packs of dogs, except being far, far brighter, of course.

  This alone, to me, justified the expedition, although I'm afraid the diplomats and soldiers were bored silly.

  I wish I could write more about this society of dragons, but Id barely begun my studies when we were attacked by a coalition of savages, and driven back out to sea.

  I shall, however, go back, to learn more.

  I shall write more when I deduce more from my notes, and, of course, will invite you to be present when I present my paper.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Qaradice

  Pondering what this might mean lessened Hal's mourning.

  Again, the mystery of the dragons' flight from the west was evident.

  The second letter contained shocking information. It was a clipping from a Sagene broadsheet:

  Roche Dragon-Criminal To Hang

  Arch-criminal Bayle Yasin, once one of the evil Roche hierarchy, and commander of an infamous black dragon formation guilty of the most heinous war crimes, including murder, arson, and rapine, has finally been brought to the bar of justice in Frechin, accused of controlling a smuggling ring, bribing public officials, and personally flying many loads of contraband, including arms, from Sagene back into his native land.

  Yasin sneered at the courtroom proceedings, arguing that it was no crime to attempt to feed starving people, nor give them weapons to defend their lands and lives, and refusing to recognize the obvious right of Sagene to try him.

  It took less than half a glass for the court judges, two of whom had served nobly under the colors, to find him guilty, and sentence him to suffer the maximum penalty.

  The sentence will be carried out immediately after the new year, and after Yasin, in Sagene's infinite mercy, has exhausted all appeals.

  "Son of a bitch!" Kailas swore in shock.

  His wartime nemesis still lived.

  Yasin had been, before the war, head of a dragon circus that had almost certainly hidden espionage as it traveled Sagene.

  Hal had hated him from the first time he saw him, helping euchre Athelny of the Dragons out of his circus.

  Later, he and Hal had jousted in the skies when Yasin led a black dragon formation, and, when Kailas became a prisoner of the Roche, Yasin tried to have him killed as a criminal.

  But, in the end, in the final battle over the Roche capital of Carcaor, fighting the obscene sorcerous monster beyond the city, Hal had killed Yasin, sending a crossbow bolt into his chest, watching Yasin's dragon crash and vanish into a river.

  Or, at any rate, he thought he had.

  The bastard still lived.

  At least he would, until the Sagene fitted him with a manila neck cloth.

  But to hang a man for smuggling?

  Smuggling food?

  That was no way for a dragon flier, no matter how big a shit he might be, to die.

  The weapons might be another matter, but that was to be determined.

  Hal packed carefully, as if he were intending to go to the field.

  The next dawn, he flew south on Storm, toward the Deraine capital of Rozen, not sure, or at any rate unwilling to admit, just what he planned to do next.

  3

  Hal took his time flying south, considering what might be either a noble gesture or climactic stupidity. He laid over just outside Rozen at a country inn he remembered fondly from his days wooing Khiri.

  He shouldn't have stopped. The chef he'd admired had run off with a scullery maid, and there were new owners, determined to extract the maximum amount of gold from their guests.

  They recognized Hal, about the time he saw a plaque behind the front desk showing a dragon landing outside the inn, with a rider wearing full antique armor.

  Of course they wanted him to sign the plaque, somehow endorse the inn and its now-pedestrian fare.

  Equally, of course, they charged him full rates.

  It was almost funny.

  Hal flew Storm into Rozen early the next morning, scratching at what he was fairly sure was a bedbug bite on his ankle.

  It had been some months since he'd been in the capital.

  Then, he'd found it depressing. Gray, wintry streets filled with gray, wintry people, jostling, wearing shabbi-ness.

  There were old men and women, children, and a scattering of young women.

  He didn't remember seeing any young men, and realized they were either working, or casualties of war.

  This time, in spite of spring sunshine, Rozen was even less attractive.

  He flew low over streets whose businesses were boarded up, or whose shops clamored liquidation sales.

  There were more beggars out than before, even this early in the morning. Many of them were clustered around the still-occupied palaces of the wealthy.

  He passed over Sir Thorn Lowess's palace. It was darkened, with no sign of occupancy. Sir Thorn was most likely off finding someone or something else to glorify.

  Lowess was Deraine's most famous tale-teller, who'd figured out, early on, that the path to fame and fortune was less being a superb writer than a Presence, particularly a Presence Who Discovered and Heralded Heroes.

  Hal was one of his first, and he never forgot that, were it not for Lowess's mythmaking, which sometimes in his case was the truth, he'd likely have gone to an early grave as an unknown dragon flier.

  Lowess also was the one who'd introduced Hal and Khiri.

  Beyond Lowess's house was a large stable that had seen profit in housing dragons belonging to transient fliers.

  Hal landed there, and Storm was the only dragon about.

  The owners were eager to house and feed Storm, especially seeing Kailas's red gold, and they rented Kailas a carriage.

  He smiled wryly at that. At one time, he wouldn't have been happy with anything other than a spirited charger. But time wears, and the spring weather was showery and brisk.

  He rode to the apartment he and Khiri had bought, located in an immaculate sector not far from the king's palace.

  He'd only been there half a dozen times, but Khiri loved it, close to her city friends, shopping, and exclusive restaurants.

  He left the carriage in front, and stood, taking deep breaths, determined not to spoil Khiri's mood with his current dark thoughts.

  Forcing a smile, and making himself think it was real, he put his saddlebags over his shoulder and went up the steps to the apartment.

  Hal realized he'd left the damned keys back at his castle, and knocked hard.

  A thousand thousand times he would relive the next few moments.

  Khiri's voice came from inside,
wondering who that could be.

  Then came a man's voice, clear, much closer to the door.

  "Prob'ly the post, lover. I'll get it."

  The door came open, and a handsome young man, about Khiri's age, stood there. He was barefoot, wore expensive dress trousers, and was stripped to the waist. His face was half-lathered, and he held a razor in one hand.

  Hal's razor.

  The world stopped.

  Hal's first impulse was to grab the man by the throat and throw him to the ground. Or draw the old dragon flier's dagger he still foolishly wore.

  But he fought for, and found, control.

  The man stared at him. Over his shoulder, Hal saw Khiri, quite lovely in a wispy green silk dressing gown, and nothing else.

  He'd bought her that gown on her last birthday, and somehow that made it worse.

  Hal tried to find something to say that wouldn't be utterly foolish:

  How long has this been going on?… How could you?… Who is this man? . . . and various obscenities.

  All were stupid.

  Khiri's mouth hung open, and there was a great roaring in Hal Kailas's ears.

  But all he managed was:

  "I'll have my representative contact you."

  There came a blur, then he found himself untying the reins of the carriage, and he was moving through the city streets, trying to keep the horse from galloping, and sucking in great lungsful of air, as if he'd been in battle.

  Hal probably should have gone back north until his head cleared.

  But he didn't.

  He thought of various friends he could stay with in Rozen, didn't call on any of them. They, no doubt, would provide a place for him to stay.

  But he thought of how many people found a cuckold's plight humorous, and didn't feel like making himself into a laughingstock.

  Or rather, more of a laughingstock than he already felt himself to be.

  That might well push him over the edge, and make him bring out the dagger.

  He found an anonymous suite in one of the large inns that had sprung up during the war, advised the stables he wished to keep the carriage for an indeterminate time, and asked them to continue caring for Storm.

  He had no thirst, which was good. Kailas had never sought the bottle when times were hard. He also had no appetite, which was not good, and so he found a comfortable tavern where no one knew who he was, nor would they have cared if they did.

  He was chewing a ham steak, which he found tasteless, when his ear was caught by a man at the table next to him, talking about a certain advocate he'd come against in his business. According to the man, the bastard had three rows of teeth, all facing inward like a shark.

  The man didn't sound like he meant disparagement.

  Hal took note of the advocate's name. He slept little that night, and the next day got directions to that advocate's office.

  The man was Sir Jabish Attecoti. Hal thought the knighthood a good sign. He'd obviously helped, in one way or another, someone with influence, enough to have him named to the peerage.

  Attecoti was of medium height, and rather rotund. His face fairly beamed goodwill, and was framed in carefully trimmed muttonchops.

  Hal might have thought Sir Jabish an amiable philanthropist, until he noted the man's eyes. Steel blue, they were as hard and cold as any warrior Kailas had known.

  Attecoti listened intently to Hal's story, and Hal realized that while very few people actually heard every word, Attecoti could probably recite their conversation word by word a year later.

  He finally finished, a little proud of himself that he hadn't burst into tears or raised his voice.

  "Nasty," Attecoti murmured. "Very nasty indeed, Lord Kailas. There are many actions I might take in this matter. What is your preferment?"

  "Why… to end my marriage, as I said."

  "Since both you and Lady Khiri are known public figures, you might realize this will be a matter for the broadsheets. How do you wish it played?"

  Hal thought of dragging Khiri's name through the mire. But what would that give? And his own would be equally tarred, no doubt.

  "Just end it," he said. "She has great properties in her own right. Let her keep what was hers, and I mine. And I wish no mention, if possible, of the cause of the divorcements. Call it irreconcilable matters."

  The words tore at his heart, but they were the truth.

  "I shall open on that front," Attecoti said. "If it worsens, though…"

  "Do what you must," Hal said.

  "I have some instructions for you," Attecoti said. "First, stay away from the broadsheets. Do not go to any taletellers, even if you now think them friends."

  Hal nodded, thinking of Sir Thorn Lowess.

  "It would be wise for you to absent yourself from the capital until the hearing is set," Attecoti continued. "Go back to your estates.

  "If you have… shall we say lady friends… it would be wise to avoid their company for a time."

  "I have none such," Hal said.

  Attecoti nodded, didn't comment.

  "This case could well be the biggest I have yet handled," he said.

  "Name your price," Kailas said indifferently. "I can meet it."

  "In time," Attecoti said. "Oh yes. One other thing. Try to avoid having contact with Lady Khiri. That will not make things easier for me."

  "I have nothing to say to her," Hal said, and, surprisingly, found it to be the truth. He wondered how long it had been like that.

  "Be advised I shall be retaining a seeker," Attecoti said. "Less because I'm curious about either of your private lives, but because I like to know everything to do with a case I handle.

  "Might I ask where you will be staying?"

  Hal told him the name of the inn.

  "But that will be for only a few days," he said. "I shall be abroad for a time."

  This came, unbidden, from him, as he remembered the vague thoughts he had had while flying south.

  "Have your seeker call on me," he said, "if you would. And retain a good one. I have another matter—matters—I would like his help with."

  "I shall do that. Do keep me current as to your location," Attecoti said. "And… my sympathies, Lord Kailas."

  He sounded as if he meant it.

  Hal tried to force coherence on his jumbled brain, and looked up Calt Beoyard, who had a farm half a day's flight from Rozen.

  Beoyard was delighted to see him, tried to insist on Kailas staying with him, "even though I know this place is far too simple for a lord."

  Hal politely thanked him, said he had business in the capital. He wanted the addresses for Mynta Gart and Sir Loren Damian, and the last known place Farren Mariah had been seen.

  Tay Manus was slim, very calm, and very obviously an ex-warder specializing in crime investigation.

  Hal told him he really wanted to find Farren Mariah… or, at least, if something had happened to him, what it was.

  Then, cursing himself for being a romantic, he asked him to hunt up Aimard Quesney. Quesney had shared a tent with Hal when he'd been attached to another squadron, in the war's early days. He'd asked Quesney to join the First Dragon Squadron when it was being formed. Quesney, not for the first time, had called Hal a born killer and declined. Later, he had refused to kill any more, and had been court-martialed.

  Hal had sat on the board, and, realizing Quesney was facing execution for refusing battle, forced a verdict of insanity from the other board members, in spite of Lord Bab's rather explicit instructions that he wanted Quesney at least hanged as a traitor, if not tortured for being antiwar, whether or not the King's Regulations permitted such treatment.

  The verdict may have been shameful and false, but it saved Quesney's life.

  Now Hal wanted to see the man, and ask a few questions.

  Manus said he didn't think either assignment would be difficult, and left.

  Hal went to the shipping district, found Mynta Gart's rather imposing warehouses.

  Gart was overwhelmed at
Hal's emergence from the "northern bracken," as she called it.

  She poured him a brandy, which he liberally watered, stared closely at him, and asked what the matter was.

  Hal hesitated, then told her, without going into specifics, that his marriage had just crashed into the rocks.

  "No hope of putting it back together?" Gart asked.

  Hal shook his head.

  Gart wryly poured herself a drink as well, closed the door to her glassed office, stuffed with ship models.

  "Things like that happen," she said. "Remember Chincha? The flier Farren was sweet on?"

  "I do," Hal said.

  "Something like that happened to them," Gart said. "I guess, when the fighting stopped, he and Chincha found out they didn't have much in common."

  "So where is Farren?"

  "I haven't a clue, sir," Gart said. "Which asks the question—what are you doing around here? Other than to renew old friendships, and all of that."

  Hal told her, and she whistled.

  "This nice suicidal idea didn't come to you after you and Lady Carstares came to a parting?"

  "No," Hal said. "I was on my way down here, about half sure of what I was going to do… and then what happened, happened."

  "I'll put the word out in Farren's district," Gart said. "But I don't know. Oh. One person I know of who might be interested in your idiocy is Cabet. He's doing nothing but running a dragon patrol for the king, chasing smugglers around the straits.

  "He might be up to doing something stupid with you."

  Cabet was the thin, detail-minded flier who'd commanded the 18th Flight of the First.

  "Thanks for the compliments," Hal said.

  Gart smiled a little.

  "The war's over. I don't have to watch my words now.

  "And, speaking personally, I've too much sense to involve myself in your scheme… outside of its launching, I mean."

  "I didn't expect a stable young businesswoman like yourself to do something insane such as I propose," Hal said, letting just a bit of a sarcastic drawl into his voice. "And, since you said you'll help get things under way, pun not intended, I'd like to have you charter a transport for me, capable of carrying dragons around the capes to the Southern Ocean."