Chapter Twenty-Seven

There was a dull keening in Hal's ears, and he dimly thought he must not be dead—demons of the other world would be rejoicing at having a man for their feast, for surely that was the afterlife he was intended for, not one of gentle lambs and flowers.

He was lying on sand, he realized. Wet sand.

The keening kept on.

Hal tried to force his eyes open, couldn't.

Oh. I'm blind, he thought, ran a hand across his head, felt stickiness.

Blood.

The keening changed to a yip. Hal recognized it as a dragon sound. He pushed himself up on an elbow, felt down, found ragged cloth. Hal ducked his head, scrubbed across his face, winced at the stabbing pain, and wiped blood away.

He could see, dimly, through a red mist.

He sat up, used both hands to lift his tunic, ignored the pain and rubbed hard.

Now he could see.

Storm was lying next to him, and now he could smell the dragon's fetid breath. Blinking hard, he reached out, found a scale, and pulled himself to his feet. He staggered, almost fell, but had his balance.

He was on a beach somewhere. Then he heard the smashing sounds of battle to his right, looked up, saw cliffs, vaguely recognized them as being west of the beachhead at Kalabas.

The war was still going on.

He looked down at himself, winced. There was a long tear in his side, up across his ribs, that had missed gutting him by an inch. Another pain came from his shoulder, and there was a gouge there, probably from a dragon claw.

That black dragon had also gotten him across his forehead. Blood ran freely down into his eyes, and he wiped again and again.

He still had his belted dagger, at least.

Then he realized Saslic was down, was dead, and there was no more world for him.

He almost collapsed back on the sand, caught himself.

The hells.

All right. She'd died first, as she'd wanted, his mind said, refusing to allow pain.

But I'm not dead.

That means that I'm to seek revenge.

She wouldn't have wanted me to just collapse here on this damned beach, and give up.

Maybe it was her spirit that made Storm call him back from wherever he was.

All right, he thought again. If that's the way it's to be.

Storm made another noise, and Hal looked at him.

The dragon had a slash down one side, and several head-spikes were torn away, green ichor clotting over the wounds.

There were other cuts down Storm's side. He'd fought hard as he fell.

Hal saw, lying in the low surf, the motionless body of a black dragon.

There was no sign of its rider.

"Good on you," he whispered, and his voice sounded as if he was gargling glass.

He wanted to lie down, get his energy back, but knew, if he went back down on the sand, that called to him more loudly than the softest feather bed, he'd never get up again.

Storm made a low cry.

"I hear," Hal said, and pulled himself toward the monster's forelegs. He almost fell, but made it to Storm's neck.

All that he had to do was pull himself up, into the saddle, but that was a million leagues above him.

But somehow he was there, where his saddle should have been, ripped out of its mounting rings, gone. His map case and quiver of bolts still hung to their rings, but his crossbow had vanished.

The reins dangled just out of his reach. He stretched for them, and pain stabbed. Hal almost cried, wouldn't allow himself.

"All right," he said once more. "Up, Storm."

The dragon whined, but came to his feet. Hal tapped reins, and pain came again. Storm thudded forward, slowly, then faster, and each time one of his feet struck, agony rolled through Kailas.

He heard shouts, looked up, and saw, on the clifftop above, a handful of soldiers. His vision was too clouded to tell, but an arrow arced down, then others, and he knew the soldiers had to be Roche.

Storm leaped for the air, wasn't strong enough, came down again, then, just short of the water, was in the air, feet dragging through the waves, then the dragon was up, climbing for the sky.

"Up," Hal whispered. "High."

Storm obeyed, and Hal could look along the coast.

There was Kalabas, not many miles distant, a scattering of ships moving out to sea, ships on fire, men in small boats.

Deraine was beaten, was retreating, the last of its soldiery fighting clear of the peninsula.

If Hal chanced going there, where could he land? Would any of the ships stop for him? Sure as hells, none would take his dragon aboard. He bleared, saw no signs of the Adventurer or any of the other dragon flight ships.

"You and me," he said, tapping reins to the right. Storm obediently turned south, out to sea, wings lifting slowly, coming down faster.

Hal found his eyes closing, fought them back open. If he went to sleep, he'd fall, and they were a thousand feet, more, over the water.

His fingers groped to the map case, opened it, took out the compass.

No, don't let it go, don't let it fall, and he looped its lanyard around his neck.

He knew the heading well, and turned Storm until he was headed a bit further to the east.

Toward the Landanissas Islands.

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 multi-colored 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 further 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 some day.

Some day, 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 drillfield, 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.