Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  Gythe indicated on the chart the route Dag was to fly, while Stephano explained.

  “Look for the floating lighthouses that mark the shipping lanes. Stay between those and they’ll guide you to land. You’re flying east, so land will appear to your left. We’ve sailed up and down the coast of Rosia so often you should find a familiar landmark and be able to tell where you are. If you get lost in the shipping lanes, look for the buoy boats. They sail the lanes repairing the magic that keeps the lighthouses afloat and they can help guide you, or you can ask the lighthouse keepers. Now if you fly into fog—”

  Dag was watching the dragons, who appeared to be growing impatient. “I’ll manage fine, sir. You can’t teach me in a few moments what it would take me months to learn. I’ve flown a dragon before.”

  “Once,” said Stephano. “And you and the dragon were both inebriated.”

  Dag laughed at the memory. “I don’t mind admitting I could use a drink now, sir.”

  Stephano wasn’t smiling. “I shouldn’t let you do this.”

  “I’m carrying four pistols, sir,” said Dag with a smile. “I don’t see how you can stop me.”

  Stephano grasped both Dag’s big hands, clasping them firmly. “God go with you, my friend.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Dag. “And with you.”

  “One more piece of advice,” said Stephano. “Hang on for dear life.”

  “You can be sure of that, sir!” said Dag emphatically.

  He turned to Gythe, who flung her arms around him.

  “Take care of yourself, dear girl. You’re in charge of the Doctor. See that he has a bit of fish at night. Tell Miri…” He paused, then said huskily, “Tell her I’m sorry.”

  Gythe kissed Dag on the cheek. As he turned to leave, he found Rodrigo standing in front of him.

  “I don’t believe I ever thanked you properly for saving my life. God speed,” said Rodrigo.

  Dag shook hands with him, then walked over to the rail. Stephano was motioning to the largest of the dragons, the one they had named Verdi for the green color of his scales, indicating he was to fly beneath the Cloud Hopper’s keel. Mounting a dragon from a boat was a tricky maneuver. The dragon had to fly close enough to enable Dag to climb down onto the dragon’s back, but not so close that the dragon’s mane scraped the keel.

  Stephano guided Verdi. The dragon was nervous and his first approach was off by about a half mile. Verdi’s next attempt was better, though he was not as close as Stephano would have liked. He did not dare ask the dragon to try again, for fear they would end up with a shattered hull.

  Verdi hovered beneath the Cloud Hopper. The sun glittered on his green scales. His wings moved gently up and down, holding him in position. His legs dangled, his tail extended out behind. Beneath his wings Stephano could see the deepening orangish pink mists of the Breath and a long, long fall to death.

  Verdi twisted his head, glancing up nervously at the Cloud Hopper. Dag leaned over the rail, eyeing the distance between him and dragon’s back. He gulped.

  “Rigo and I could lower you on a rope…” said Stephano.

  Dag gave a wry smile and shook his head. “I doubt you could support my weight, sir.” He drew in a deep breath. “Well. Here goes.”

  “Dag, wait—” Stephano cried, but he was too late.

  Dag climbed over the rail, let go, and plunged down into the Breath.

  Gythe was at the helm, keeping the Cloud Hopper steady. She was white to the lips. The crew on board the Sommerwind was watching, apparently, for Stephano heard some of the sailors cry out in shock. Miri must have been watching, too. Stephano heard a horrified scream. He leaned perilously over the rail, trying to see.

  “Rigo, hang on to me!” Stephano ordered.

  Rodrigo braced himself and took hold of the waist of Stephano’s breeches.

  Dag landed half-on and half-off of the dragon’s shoulder, just behind the neck. The startled dragon gave a great “whoof!” as Dag came thudding down on him. Dag clutched frantically at the dragon’s neck. An experienced dragon would have immediately adjusted his body to assist his rider. Verdi tensed as though afraid to move in case he made matters worse.

  Stephano held his breath. After a heart-stopping moment, Dag managed, using all his brute strength, to pull himself onto the dragon’s back. He slumped over in relief, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath. Then he positioned himself on the dragon, resting his back against the spike of the mane. He managed a grin and a wave.

  “Ready when you are, Verdi,” Dag called.

  Verdi did not appear at all sure about carrying a rider, but he flapped his wings and flew out from under the Cloud Hopper’s keel. The other two dragons joined their friend. Viola turned her head, looking back at Stephano.

  “I will meet up with you at the abbey!” he shouted.

  Viola stared at him in silence. Taking the lead, she and Petard and Verdi flew off, heading east, toward the Rosian continent. Stephano was glad to see Dag had taken his final word of advice. He was hanging on to the dragon’s neck for dear life.

  Rodrigo pulled Stephano back from the rail.

  “You might wish I’d let you fall,” said Rodrigo in warning tones.

  “Stephano de Guichen!” Miri’s outraged cry rang across the Breath. “You bring me aboard this instant!”

  Stephano winced.

  “You could move to Travia,” Rodrigo suggested. “Live there under an assumed name. She’d never find you…”

  Stephano gave a bleak smile. “This was my idea, my decision. I have to face the music.”

  “Might I suggest a funeral march?” said Rodrigo.

  Gythe sailed the Cloud Hopper back toward the Sommerwind. Stephano lowered the rope ladder. Two sailors grasped the ladder and held it while Miri nimbly climbed up. Coming on board, she walked straight toward Stephano. Her eyes blazed, her hair flamed red in the sun, her face was pale with fury. She walked up to Stephano and slapped him across the face.

  “You bloody idiot!” she cried, her voice shaking with rage. “How could you?”

  Stephano put his hand to his stinging cheek. “Miri, I can explain—”

  “I don’t want to hear,” Miri shouted. “You and I are finished, Stephano! Pack your things and get off my boat!”

  Gythe had been standing at the helm, watching and listening in unhappy silence. She left the helm. Catching hold of Miri’s arm, Gythe forced her sister to turn to face her. Gythe’s hands flashed her words. Fire kindled in her usually mild, soft eyes.

  “Dag volunteered to go. He said that flying on a dragon would be better than staying around you because you’ve been making his life miserable!”

  Gythe jabbed her sister in the chest. Miri stared at her in shock, taken aback by her sister’s sudden and unusual display of anger. Gythe stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Miri.

  “Dag said that?” Miri asked, stricken. “He left … because of me?”

  Gythe gave an emphatic nod.

  Miri was subdued for a moment, then her anger rekindled. “That still doesn’t excuse Stephano. He should have never let Dag go. Dag has never ridden a dragon!”

  Gythe’s hands made emphatic, stabbing gestures. “You had never ridden a dragon, either, and you rode one when you came to save me. You are wrong! You should apologize.”

  Miri looked at Stephano. “I guess I should have at least given you a chance to explain before I hit you.”

  “You could have always hit me afterward,” said Stephano. His cheek was marked with the red imprint of her hand. “Dag didn’t leave because of you. He left because I needed him to take the wild dragons to a place of safety. I couldn’t do it because I’ll have to go explain matters to my mother. We’ll meet up with Dag and the dragons at the Abbey of Saint Agnes.”

  “Dag will be all right, won’t he?” Miri asked pleadingly.

  “I won’t lie to you, Miri,” Stephano said. “Dag’s taking a big risk. If it’s any consolation, he has ridden a dragon before. Do
you remember the time the noble dragon, the duke of Ondea, hired us to catch the thieves that had stolen his jewelry collection? The duke had served in the Dragon Brigade, along with his friend, Count Pellerin, who was staying at the duke’s castle with us and, well, let’s just say the night involved me and Dag, a couple of bottles of brandy for us, and dragon-weed for the dragons. We all decided it was time Dag learned to fly.”

  “I remember,” Miri said slowly, thinking back. “I also remember Dag showing up the next morning, one massive bruise from his head to his toes with a tale about how he fell while trying to scale a cliff to chase the thieves.”

  “Dag and the duke had problems landing,” said Stephano. “We didn’t want to worry you…”

  Miri gazed at him. “I was wrong to slap you, Stephano. But we’re still parting company. Leutnant Baumann says we should reach Evreux in a few days. When we do, you will move your things off my boat and pay what you owe us. And now I have to go back to tend to the wounded. I came to fetch more salve.”

  She went below. Rodrigo walked up behind Stephano, rested his hand on his shoulder.

  “She’ll get over it. We’ve been living in each other’s pockets for the last month. I know I’m sick to the death of the sight of you myself.”

  “I may well have sent Dag to his death, Rigo,” said Stephano. “I’m not sure Miri will forgive me this time. I’m not sure she should…”

  The merchant ship was back on course, sailing for Evreux, the Cloud Hopper bobbing along behind. Stephano kept watch, trying to see his friend. But Dag and the dragons had disappeared into the mists.

  15

  Although Rosia controls vast tracts of land, most of the population lives within fifty miles of the edge of the Breath—what is termed “the rim.” The majority of the interior is made up of farmland, virgin forest, open prairie, and a few large inland trading towns.

  —Lord Jean DuCalie, famed explorer and cartographer

  Dag had deliberately made the leap from the Cloud Hopper to the dragon so that he didn’t have time to dwell on what would happen if he fell. As it was, he had almost missed landing on his mount. Only a desperate struggle and his own strength had saved him from a horrifying end. Once he was safely settled on Verdi’s broad back, he had to take several moments for his pounding heart to slow and the light-headed, sick feeling of terror to pass.

  A professional soldier since the age of twelve, Dag had known fear before. Fear was part of a soldier’s life and Dag had learned how to cope with it, just as he’d learned how to cope with sleeping in sodden wet clothes, eating tainted meat, drinking stale water, and dodging bullets and cannonballs. He had come to terms with death, at least for himself. He was still haunted by the deaths of good men he’d ordered to go on the mission that had got them all killed.

  Verdi seemed to understand his fear, or perhaps the dragon had been equally terrified. He flew slowly and as steadily as possible, hardly moving his wings, gliding on the same winds that were blowing the Sommerwind and the Cloud Hopper toward the continent. Verdi’s friends flew near. When Dag was able to relax enough to actually look around, he saw Viola on one side and Petard on the other, both watching him and their comrade with what looked to him like anxious attention.

  Dag was not particularly comfortable, straddling the dragon’s back. The thought of shifting even an inch was frightening. He had a long flight ahead of him, however, and his muscles were already starting to ache. Holding on to the lowest spike on the dragon’s mane, Dag slowly repositioned his posterior until he could more firmly rest his back against the first bony protrusion on the dragon’s spine.

  The only other time Dag had ridden a dragon—the drunken flight with the duke—Dag had ridden in one of the specially designed saddles used by the members of the Dragon Brigade. Dag still counted that evening as one of the high points of his life. He and Stephano had spent most of the afternoon drinking brandy, while the duke and his friend had lit a fire and thrown on a bale of dried burley leaves, what the dragons termed “dragon-weed.” The inhaled smoke of the slow-burning leaves affected dragons in much the same way catnip affected cats or brandy affected humans.

  They had told stories of the Dragon Brigade and lamented its demise. The brandy had given Dag courage to complain that a common soldier like himself would never have the opportunity to ride a dragon. Only noble dragons could serve in the Brigade and only gentlemen, such as Stephano, could ride them.

  Stephano and the dragons had agreed that this was a damn shame and something should be done about it. The result of this was Dag’s first dragon flight. He had drunk brandy enough to give himself courage and drown common sense, but not enough to completely cloud the mind. He and the duke had taken off shortly before sunset and, as he still remembered, flew among the orange and purple clouds, soared over the forests and fields, noticing for the first time how many ways God could find to paint green.

  No green beneath him now of any shade. Nothing except the mists of the Breath. He didn’t let himself think about falling, nor did he look down. He couldn’t look down, for the wind rushing in his face made it hard to keep his eyes open. He tried lowering the visor of his helm and that helped some. At least he could see and keep a lookout for the buoy markers.

  After flying for what must have been about an hour, Dag relaxed enough to find some pleasure in the solitude and the fact that for a little while, he had no duties, no cares, no responsibilities. He felt a deep and abiding affection for his friends, but for the first time in a long time he could draw a breath that was his own.

  He flew past a number of the lighthouses that were more boat than house, each one resembling a Trundler houseboat with a single gigantic balloon and no sails. The lighthouses bobbed up and down in the Breath. The operator kept them in place. The buoy boats visited each lighthouse at intervals to relieve the operator at the tedious work and to strengthen the magical constructs on the boat. An operator on one of the lighthouses was sunning herself on deck when Dag and his dragons flew by. She stared at them in amazement, her mouth agape.

  Dragons flew faster than any ship ever built. The Sommerwind was still far from Rosia when, shortly before nightfall, the dragons came within sight of land. The three dragons began to search for a suitable place to land, hunt, and sleep. Dag had a vague idea where they were. The ridge of mountains rising up from the coastline was probably the Cassée ridge, which would put him west of Evreux. If that was true, they were not far from the Abbey of Saint Agnes. He and the dragons had only to follow the coastline east tomorrow and they would find it.

  The dragons flew inland, leaving the rock-bound coast behind, searching for well-forested areas that would be filled with deer.

  When they came to a suitable site—an open field of grass and weeds, Verdi began to spiral down, flying slowly and carefully. Viola and Petard stayed with their friend, with frequent glances at him. When the dragon came close to landing, Dag braced himself. Dragons alighted on their back legs first, settling forward onto the forelegs. Dag and Verdi both came out of the landing safely, though Dag had a lump on his forehead where he’d crashed into the dragon’s neck.

  The other two dragons landed nearby, one on either side. Dag climbed down slowly and stiffly off the dragon’s back, stifling a groan at the soreness in his backside. He kept silent for fear Verdi would think he’d done something wrong. The dragon was gazing back at his rider with a worried look.

  Dag patted Verdi on the neck as he would have patted a horse—a gesture that would have deeply offended one of the noble dragons—and said, “Well done, Verdi.”

  Dag had no idea if Verdi understood him or not. The three dragons stared at Dag a moment as if wondering what to do with him and then, one by one, took to the air. Dag watched them soar away and the alarming thought came to him that they might leave him here, stranded in the middle of nowhere.

  There wasn’t much he could do about that now, Dag realized, and resigned himself to his situation.

  He was wading through tall me
adow grass, planning to make camp beneath some nearby trees, when Verdi appeared, flying above him, carrying something in his claws. As Dag tilted his head back to see, the dragon let his burden fall. Dag had to scramble to escape the bombardment. A dead deer landed on the ground, bounced, and came to rest a few feet from where Dag stood. He stared at the bloody carcass in astonishment and then began to chuckle.

  Verdi had brought dinner.

  * * *

  The dragons returned shortly after dawn. Dag was waiting for them in the meadow. Verdi landed on the ground. While the others flew overhead, Verdi lay down, his green-scaled body looking like a hillock rising out of the tall grass.

  Dag was aware of a keen intelligence behind the glittering eyes, but beyond that, he could glean nothing of what this wild dragon was thinking.

  “Verdi—” Dag began and then stopped. “Do you mind if I call you Verdi? I know you dragons have your own names. I don’t know what they are and you won’t tell us. So we made up our own names for you. I hope that’s all right.”

  Verdi’s mouth gaped wide, showing all his fangs. He blinked, his head tilted slightly, and he curled his tail around his hind legs. Stephano could have told Dag that such gestures meant the dragon was in a good mood, pleased with himself and the world this morning, excited to be in this new land, though perhaps a little nervous.

  Dag had no idea what the dragon meant, however, and not knowing what else to do, forged ahead.

  “Near as I can tell, those”—he pointed to the mountain range—”are the Cassée Mountains.”

  Verdi turned his head to look.

  “Likely that means nothing to you,” Dag conceded, “but it means to me that we are west of the Abbey of Saint Agnes, which is where we want to go. The abbey is that way.”

  He pointed again in a different direction. Verdi turned his head to follow.