Chapter Seventeen

Black Island, from about five thousand feet, looked exactly like that plaster model in one of the Adventurer's cabins, barring the cloud-scatter below Hal and his three fliers.

Clouds, and the moving dots that were two of the transports, landing soldiers on the horns that enclosed Balfe's harbor.

There seemed to be no other sign of life below them, and then Hal felt a surge of sickness, knew the Roche magicians were casting what spells they could bring up in time.

He scanned the town, saw nothing worth reporting, looked to sea, which was gray, speckled with white.

He motioned to Saslic to stay high on patrol, and pointed to his other three fliers to dive.

They shot down, dragon wings furled, across the northernmost point of land, saw soldiers, in formation, trotting along a dirt road toward the settlement. Still lower, they saw two bodies sprawled outside a shack, couldn't tell if they were Roche or Deraine.

Hal led his flight in a sweep around the island, saw no sign of alarm.

They flew past a huge seamount, and saw half a dozen full-grown black dragons crouching, watching. Hal shivered at their size—fifty or sixty feet—far larger than the beasts they rode.

He kept his hand near the two crossbows hooked to his dragon's carapace until the wild dragons were out of sight.

They flew over Balfe, saw no dragons with riders trying to get in the air, but smelt the strong reek of the beasts from long roofed pens below.

Running toward the settlement, from the other point, came other Deraine soldiers, as the Adventurer and the other two transports hove toward the settlement's single pier.

The escorting corvettes stayed clear of the bay, watchful for Roche ships.

A handful of Roche soldiers ran out of a guardhouse, and either died or surrendered to Cantabri's soldiery.

The second flight of dragons came off the Adventurer, landed near the barracks to wait their turn in the sky.

Hal saw Garadice and his specialists disembark from the Adventurer.

The other transports unloaded bulky stretchers and small carts. Soldiers were detailed by Sir Bab's warrants to assist Garadice.

Then the craziness began, as dragons were taken out from their pens, and chivvied, coaxed or carried to the transports. Hal, swooping overhead, trying not to fall off in his laughter, counted more than fifty dragons of various ages, saw them snapping, trying to claw, and tail-lashing, heard shouts of pain, and squeals of rage from below. The soldiers trying to help Garadice may have been deadly warriors, but as dragon handlers they were bumblers.

Farren flew close.

"Glad to be out of that!" he called.

"Aye," Hal shouted, pointed up. "Relieve Saslic. It's cold up there."

"Bastard," Farren called amiably, and took his dragon upstairs.

The dragons went up the gangplanks on to the transports reluctantly, but they went.

Saslic's dragon flapped down alongside Hal.

"Nothing here?"

"Nothing," Hal shouted back. "No dragons anywhere but on the ground."

"Can't believe… Roche sloppy…" Saslic said, words torn by a gust of wind. But Hal understood.

He swept back and forth over Balfe, then it was his turn to freeze.

Hal kicked his dragon in the ribs, pulled on the reins. The beast's wings beat harder, and he went to altitude and relieved Farren.

He saw nothing, and Sir Loren replaced him.

The biggest of the Roche dragons from the hatchery—they were about twenty feet long, Hal guessed almost yearlings —were being loaded as his flight landed, and the second flight took off on patrol.

Handlers had already offloaded barrels of beef, and hacked their tops open, one for each dragon. The monsters gulped hungrily, eyes darting back and forth, daring any of the two-legs to bother them.

Soldiers were passing out buns stuffed with smoked fish, onions and pickles. The fliers got their noon meal, cups of tea, and watched the madness.

Hal noted Garadice, standing near one of the dragon pens, and went over. The dragon trainer had a worried expression on his face.

"What are you eating your fingers about, sir?" Hal asked.

"I have no idea what secret—if any, other than endless patience—the Roche trainers are using to train these black dragons."

"Whyn't you ask one?"

"The soldiers say all of the trainers fled into the hills while we were landing. Maybe they're telling the truth, or maybe the trainers had time to disguise themselves as common guards.

"I was hoping we'd take prisoners of either the trainers or magicians, and find out the Roche secrets. But no such luck, and we don't have the time to beat the bushes for them," he said, and as he spoke, a trumpet blared.

"Back aboard," Sir Bab was shouting, the command echoed by his warrants.

One of Limingo's assistants scurried by.

"What's the problem?" Hal called.

He shook his head.

"Not sure, not sure at all. But we've detected some sort of magic out there, just a wisp."

"From where?"

"From the east," and the man was gone.

Hal's back prickled. That unknown dragon that maybe didn't exist had flown away to the east, too.

He looked up at the second flight, saw with a grimace they were very low, no more than two thousand feet overhead.

Bastards didn't want to get up there in the wind, where it's freezing. I'll have them sorted out, he thought, starting for his dragon.

Then he saw dots to the east. Five, flying close together.

He shouted a warning, and his three fliers saw the oncoming dragons, had perhaps a moment to hope they were a wild covey, then realized wild dragons never flew that closely together, and were in their saddles.

Hal jumped on to his mount, jerked the reins, and the dragon growled in protest, but turned away from the last of the salt beef, and sprang into the air.

The flight climbed, circling over Balfe as the last soldiers tumbled aboard, pulling up the transport gangplanks. Anchors had been dropped when the ships pulled up to the pier, and now the ships kedged back from shore, laboriously came about, and put on all sail. Hal saw signal flags going back and forth from corvettes to transports, had no time to watch others as five Roche dragons dove toward the second flight, about a mile away from Hal.

The on-rushing Roche dragons flew hard, wings driving, straight into the four.

The air was a swarm of dragons, beasts slashing at each other with their talons, fanged heads snaking.

A Deraine flier was struck by a tail-slash, sent spinning down toward the sea below. Another was fumbling at his crossbow when his dragon banked sharply, away from an attacker.

Hal could hear him scream as he lost his footgrip, above the screech and scream of the dragons and fell. Hal's flight was level with the free-for-all, and Saslic looked at him, for orders. He pointed up. Better to have altitude before they closed, he knew.

He glanced at the melee, saw it break apart, one dragon with a Roche pennant on its carapace spinning, wing torn away. Another Roche monster was far below, diving, wings folded, into the ground. The two surviving Deraine dragons howled, attacked the three survivors. The Deraine fliers may not have been the best, but they were certainly brave.

The Roche fliers wheeled their mounts and fled, just as a Deraine flier from the second flight slumped down over the neck of his mount, and slowly slipped out of the saddle, falling limply toward rocks.

Then the Deraine fliers, five of them, were alone in the sky over Black Island.

Hal was amazed how much time had passed, looking down, seeing the five Deraine ships well clear of land, at full sail toward the south-east.

He was about to signal his flight to make for the ships, then saw, against the gray haze on the horizon, the specks of ships. He counted twenty, and his eyes were tearing from the cold and wind, unable to make out more.

Hal's fliers were waiting for orders.

He knew what must be done, knew he was probably sending his fliers to their deaths. Hal waved his hand in a circle—keep patrolling. They must stop any oncoming dragons, to keep the Deraine convoy from being followed and destroyed.

The fliers obeyed, waiting.

Hal knew Limingo and his acolytes would be casting every possible spell to turn away Roche magic.

He thought about his warm bunk, about hot soup, about anything other than the cold creeping up his arms and legs.

Time passed.

The dragons honked unhappiness at the boredom.

The Deraine ships were over the horizon, and the Roche fleet, now counted at thirty-five ships, was closing on Black Island, when Hal saw another flight of dragons—once more, five—flying toward him.

He pointed, and his three, followed by the last survivor of the second flight, flapped toward the Roche.

His dragon whined protest, wing muscles tiring, but obeyed Hal's orders.

He had slight altitude on the Roche, motioned for his dragon flight to climb even higher.

The Roche dragons came up toward him, and Hal saw, with a chill, two of them were huge.

Huge and black.

Roche had learned how to train the feared black dragons.

He pushed fear away, picked up one of his crossbows, already cocked, bolt in its trough, steered toward the lead Roche.

They rushed together, and the fear vanished, for icy calm.

At the last instant, the Roche flier broke, afraid of collision, kicking his mount down, trying to dive under Hal. Hal aimed, pulled the trigger and it was an easy shot. The bolt took the Roche in the chest, knocked him back, bolt pinning him to his mount's back.

The dragon bucked, was gone, and Hal forgot him, pulling his dragon's reins as a black monster, almost twice the size of his mount, slashed with its dripping fangs at his dragon's throat.

Then they were past, and Hal pulled his dragon up into a climbing turn, saw a black dragon trying to turn inside him, wings shaking as he slowed into a stall, the sound like dull thunder.

He had his crossbow cocked, a bolt ready, and the black was almost on him, mouth gaping. He put his bolt fair between the beast's jaws, and it howled, bucked, and its flier almost fell, caught himself on the carapace, legs dangling, kicking for a foothold as his dragon rolled on its back, and dove toward the ground.

Again, the brawl was joined. Sir Loren's dragon tore at a Roche's wing, and Saslic took it from the front, talons ripping at its neck.

The last survivor of the second flight was flying in tight circles with a Roche dragon. The Roche broke the circle, was on the Deraine beast, ripping at its chest. Ichor spurted, and the Deraine beast convulsed, fell.

Hal had his second crossbow up, shot the Roche rider in the back, dove under the dragon, fumbling the crossbow string over the cocking fingers, stuffing a quarrel in, and there was a black Roche above him. He sent a bolt toward its gut, missed, hit neck armor, and the bolt skittered away.

The dragon was turning toward him, and Saslic dove on it, shot the dragon in the body as Farren put his bolt into its rider.

A dragon slammed into Hal's mount, almost knocking him free, the Roche monster's fangs ripping at Hal's mount behind the wing. Hal was trying to cock his crossbow as his dragon rolled, lost it, almost grabbed for it, and yanked the other bow from its nook.

Ichor sprayed across Hal's face, almost blinding him, then he saw the Roche dragon turning back to finish him.

But it was very slow, and he had all the time he needed to cock his crossbow, tuck a bolt into the notch, lift it, and fire. The bolt took the Roche rider in his guts, and he grabbed himself with both hands, fell back from his saddle, bounced once on his dragon's tail, and was gone.

His riderless mount dove away, and the sky was clear of Roche, just as Hal felt his dragon shudder and saw the terrible wound in his mount's side.

Then he was diving down toward the sea below, pulling helplessly at his reins, his dragon trying to recover, trying to fly.

He almost made it, lifting himself on one wing and torn remnants of the other, bravely trying for land. But he ran out of sky, and Hal and dragon smashed into the ocean, Hal tossed away, to go deep, water green, turning black, while his thick fingers unfastened his sword-belt, let it fall away.

He kicked at his boots, slid out of his thick coat, and the water was lightening. He broke the surface, gasping.

Not a dozen yards away, his dragon thrashed at the water in death agonies, shrilled, then sank.

Hal Kailas was alone on the tossing gray ocean, the wind catching the tops of waves, turning them white.

Hal waited until a wave lifted him to its crest, rubbed salt-burning eyes clear, looked for land, thought he saw the peaks of Black Island.

A long ways away, but there was nothing else, and so he started the swim, arm over arm. A shadow came over him, and he flinched down before he realized, and looked up.

Saslic's dragon, Nont, banked above him, then, whining in protest, spread its wings as Saslic forced it to the water, splashing down on the back of a wave.

"Need a ride, sailor?" she shouted.

Hal, half drowned, didn't have strength enough for a reply, stroked toward Nont, caught hold of a wing, pulled himself along it and on to the monster's back.

"I guess we should think about going home, hmm?" Saslic called as she goaded Nont into a flapping run through the water, up the back of another wave, and then ponderously in the air, climbing, up to where Sir Loren and Farren flew.

"Before the rest of the party shows up."