3

Hal heard the eager honk of a dragon before he came in sight of his base. His horse reared at the sound, and he quieted it.

"If you're going to be dragon-shy," he said, "you'd best learn different…

or think about becoming glue."

The dragon, a single rider aboard, passed about twenty feet overhead.

It was green, with broad red streaks across its belly, and a male.

The monster was fully grown, almost fifty feet long, with twenty feet of that in its lethal tail. On the ground, it would stand around twelve feet tall.

Its wings stretched wide, almost a hundred feet.

A dragon, in spite of its size and wingspread, could fly primarily because of its light bone structure, although it preferred, in its wild state, to spend as much time gliding as working its wings.

The warm-blooded creature had a heavily armored body, slightly less on its stomach.

Second only to man in its lethality, the dragon's weaponry was considerable: the head had twin horns, with impressive fangs, and spikes on either side of the snaky neck.

Its most deadly weapon was its tail, which the dragon cleverly used as a flail, a bludgeon, or a strangling cord.

At the neck's base rose a carapace, and behind it a flat area suitable for riders. "Tamed" dragons had holes drilled painlessly in the carapace for saddlery to be bolted into.

All four of its legs had three-taloned claws. There were also talons on the forward edge of the leathery wing.

No one quite knew how intelligent dragons were. In fact, no one had the slightest idea how to measure that intelligence. Everyone agreed they were smarter than dogs or apes, but as smart as a child? Some said they were, others said they were merely quick to learn.

Hal thought dragons were very smart at being dragons, and he didn't try to measure them against men.

Secretly, he thought that if he did, man might come up a bit short.

From here, Hal could smell the musky odor of the animal after it'd passed, and he grinned slightly, remembering Khiri's words about him getting dragon-stinky. Although there were other times she said she liked the faint smell that hung about him, times that made his body stir a little.

He put those thoughts aside as he turned off the "main road," just a rutted highway along the Comtal River, up a bluff to his landing field.

A few miles east, on the far side of the river, was the half-ruined city of Aude, and, beyond that, unseen, the front lines.

Hal hadn't recognized the dragon's rider, guessed he or she must be one of the three new flights he'd been given.

That might present a problem, he knew. He wouldn't have time to evaluate the other three flights, let alone put his stamp of command on them before this, hopefully war-winning, battle began.

Which brought up the idle thought—what would Hal propose doing when the war ended?

That begged the probability that he'd die before it was over. He remembered the words of his first, real love, Saslic, who believed "there won't be any after the war for a dragon flier." She'd died in the disastrous invasion of Kalabas, and taken a piece of Hal's soul with her.

Hal caught his mind's reel, lashed it back into line. There were many things to worry about first.

Such as the crowded near-chaos he saw as he topped the rise and looked down on his command.

Actually, it wasn't that bad, considering that the art of dragon riding had only been accomplished in his lifetime, and the idea of using dragons for anything other than aerial stunting hadn't begun until after the first year of the war, not half a dozen years before.

Especially since he'd planned the field to not only harbor, but conceal, a single flight of dragons.

At full strength, a flight numbered fifteen dragons and their fliers, and eighty men and women whose only duties were to keep the dragons healthy and flying. There were teamsters for the huge oxen-drawn wagons used to move the dragons about when they weren't being flown, cooks, clerks, blacksmiths, orderlies, leathersmiths, veterinarians, and, Hal thought, provided grudgingly, a doctor to keep the distinctly secondary humans functioning.

Hal had been most proud of finding this spot, heavily forested, ideal to hide the huge dragon barns. He'd had the brush and smaller trees selectively cut, concealing the other buildings of the base, and the paths were laid out to hide the movement of men.

He knew what happened when a field was discovered by the Roche dragon fliers, and had wreaked revenge for such a bloody attack.

Now, four flights had been jammed into this field. Trees were being cut down, tents for humans erected and canvas being pulled over skeletal iron hoops to shelter the dragons.

Men and women scurried here, there, intent on their tasks under shouting warrants, and dragons blared, some angry, some pleased, no doubt being fed, others just perplexed at being ripped from their homes to this new base.

A sentry blocked the road. Hal identified himself, and the sentry saluted smartly, and bade him welcome.

Very good, Hal thought. It appeared someone was in charge.

She was.

Mynta Gart came from under a dragon shelter. She was heavyset, an ex-seaman, the 11th Flight's adjutant, and a skilled combat flier. One of Hal's inflexible rules that he would be applying to the new flights was no deadwood. Everyone, no matter what his assignment, was expected to turn to and keep the dragons, and their fliers, ready for combat, and do whatever service required when they came back.

"Welcome back, sir."

"It's nice to be back," Hal said truthfully.

Gart smiled slightly.

"I think we're all doomed, for there's no place that calls home to us except this damned war."

"That," Hal said, thinking of his estates, his villages, and such, "is an unfortunate truth."

"We were told you were on your way back," Gart said. "Or, rather, I was."

"And given other information to boot?"

"Yessir."

"Let's talk."

"Yessir."

Hal followed her not to the shabby tent he'd been inhabiting before he left for Deraine, but to a large, double-walled pyramid tent, with a wooden floor.

Hal dismounted, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, and Gart shouted up a hostler, who took the animal away.

"Quite a mansion," he said.

"Anyone who leads four flights deserves a bit of comfort," Gart said.

"You'll note the shelving, the chairs, all made of packing crates."

"How are the other fliers?"

"I assumed you'd ask that," Gart said. "Equally posh."

Both of them were talking around what was foremost in their minds—the coming offensive. Hal told Gart to sit down.

"How ready are we?" Hal asked.

Gart considered.

"Overall, we're at full strength, men and dragons.

"The eleventh is in fair shape. I've had all of the replacements in the air as much as possible, and had the experienced fliers working with the new dragons. All of the fliers and dragons have had flights over the lines, and are, hopefully, learning to spot a dragon in the air, and a catapult on the ground.

"I've put Sir Loren in charge of the training."

"Good," Hal said. "He's easy with the ignorant. And speaking of ignorant—and the old crew—have we heard from Farren? How is he healing?"

"I don't know how he's healing, but he's here," Gart said. "And troublesome as usual."

Sir Loren Damian, with Mynta and Farren Mariah, had graduated from flying school with Hal and two others, now dead. Farren Mariah had landed on the Aude rooftop with Hal, and saved his life before going down wounded.

Hal had no idea what had happened to the other nineteen graduates of the school and assumed the worst.

"If you agree," Gart said, "I'll have the trainees fly in pairs, new with old, when the attack starts."

"Fine," Hal approved. "At least, as long as it's a standard recon. Don't put any of the virgins on anything shaky. And I'll give orders for any of them to break for the camp if they encounter black dragons. Speaking of which…?"

"We've sighted one or two," Gart said. "Well on their side of the lines, and damned skittish. I went after one, with three backups, and the bastard went for the ground and home. I turned back."

"Good," Hal said. "Maybe I got Yasin a bit twitchy when I shot him at Aude.

"Now, what about my new flights?"

Gart told him things were probably as good as could be expected.

"I can't really say, precisely, sir," she went on. "There's things I like, things I don't like, about all three of them."

"Details," Hal asked, then changed his mind. "No. I'll see for myself.

First the dragons, then I'll meet with all four flights, then, this evening, with the fliers in—I assume it's still standing and you didn't put it off limits—their club."

"Off limits? Hah," Gart said. "Farren's decided he is the new officer in charge of the booze, so I think that shack is completely out of my—and probably your—hands."

"That's our Farren," Hal said. "Give me a moment to unpack my saddlebags, and then let's have a look at the shelters."

"Leave the baggage. I've appointed an orderly to take care of you."

"But—"

"But me no buts," Gart said firmly. "You've got over three hundred women and men to take care of. You don't need to be mending your own socks."

Hal didn't think that was very democratic, but conceded her point for the moment.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Gart said, leaving the tent.

Hal got up, stretched, looking out at the bustle around him. He turned, trying to figure what he would do with an orderly, hoping Gart didn't mean for him—or her—to share the tent.

"Knock, knock," a voice said.

Hal knew without turning who it was.

"Enter, Farren."

"Arrh," the small, wiry man said, obeying. "Now that you're a full squadron commander, do I have to kowtow and genu-genu-genuflect?"

"I'll not hold my breath waiting for you to do that."

"That's wise, boss. Most wise," Mariah said. He looked around the shelves. "Yer back an hour, and there's never a bottle about. Th' damned king's gone and reformed you."

"I doubt that," Hal said. "How're your wounds?"

"Still stiff, still bothersome."

"Why didn't you stay in hospital, or on leave?"

"The thought occurred," Farren said. "Howsomever, there were ladies who seemed to feel marriage'd set right with Mrs Mariah's favorite son.

Two of 'em."

"And so you fled?"

"Aye, back to the safety of the front. I don't mind a deal of grief when I go, but I'm not of a mind to start makin' widows and orryphins. At least, not by the set."

Uninvited, he straddled a chair.

"So, we're off to war, eh?"

Hal tried to hide his reaction, evidently without success as Farren snickered.

"What in the hells makes you think that?" Kailas tried, somewhat feebly.

"Ah, when you're supposed to be gone, livin' on the viands of His Royal Hisself for a couple weeks, and then, just after you're gone, all these couriers start zippin' up and down the highways, and Gart's bustling about making sure the pikes are all sharpened and the talons burnisheed…

what's a poor lad to think?

"Although, bein' as how there's a grand collection of numbnuts about, I've said nothing, feeling there's none worthy of my wizardy talents."

Mariah did have a bit of the Talent—he claimed his grandfather, back in the warrens of Rozen, had been a notorious witch. And every now and then his spell-casting did work, most spectacularly when he managed to dump a wagon of shit on the dragon-fliers' school's most hated warrant.

"And you're making no move to dig in your duffle and buy me a congratulatory drink," he said.

"I brought no alcohol with me."

"For certain there's a battle brewing… not to mention your brain's a bit askew."

"Perhaps." Hal looked at Mariah steadily. "So what's your call on the squadron?"

Farren held out his hand flat, wiggled it back and forth.

"That good?"

"I'm a real old soldier now, you know," he said, "and there's none to match the old ones who've gone past and under."

Mariah turned serious.

"You know, your dragon, Storm's finally on the mend."

Hal hadn't wanted to ask about the dragon who'd saved his life time and again, but that was, of course, the reason he'd wanted to visit the barns first.

"He took a bad turn, but as soon as I got back, and put him on a diet of farmer's stolen pigs and the odd sheepdog, he started back to health, instanter. And I'll not say whether I cast a spell or six to help."

There was a moment of silence.

"All right," Hal said. "You've wormed it out of me with your wiles. We are going to battle. The day after tomorrow."

Farren made a noise.

"All that traveling up to Deraine was a deception," Kailas went on.

"Now, secretly, everyone's back, and we're to attack at once."

"Without running patrols, or aerial searches?"

"Exactly."

"That," Farren said, scratching the top of his head, "will give a bit of surprise, I suppose.

"And we should be hopin' the Roche haven't got their own surprises."

"We'll be taking dragon flights up along the lines, as close to crossing as we can get, tomorrow morning," Hal said. "And by the way, you and Gart are grounded until the battle."

"F'why?" Mariah's voice was an outraged shriek.

"If you go down, you might be made to talk."

"Me? Course, if captured, I always planned on singing like… like one of those birds out there on the tree, assuming the dragons haven't snapped

'em all up for snacks. But Gart'll never talk.

"And you need me up in the skies, fightin' ready for good ol' Deraine. So you might want to be rethinking that order, or I'll sic a dragon on you."

Hal considered. He'd wanted them on the field to keep order, but if it was to keep the secret from leaking, why was he himself proposing to fly?

Not to mention the probability that somebody in the ground forces would let slip, and the Roche would find out the secret.

Hopefully it wouldn't be believed by Roche headquarters, which, when Hal had gone north, had been commanded by Duke Garcao Yasin, head of the Household Regiments and, it was rumored with a snicker, Queen Norcia's "confidant."

Or, if it was, there wouldn't be time enough for the Roche to prepare their positions against the onslaught.

No, keeping Gart and Mariah in the rear, just for the stupid reason of giving them one more day of life, made no sense.

"All right," Hal growled. "Order cancelled. You'll fly with me, as my backup."

Farren grinned.

"I deserve no less. Dragonmaster and Companion of the King."

Hal threw a dagger, fortunately sheathed, at him.

Storm was indeed mending, kept in a pen by himself.

He recognized Hal's voice, staggered to his feet, and yawned.

Hal's stomach curled at the dragon's breath.

"We fed 'im a passel of geese an hour or so ago," the stableman said.

"T'at hits 'im like a padded hammer."

The veterinarian accompanying Gart and Kailas nodded. "We use poultices, and let the dragon sleep as much as possible, then feed him the best. Your man Mariah's been most helpful."

Storm, having given Kailas recognition, curled around himself, flapped his great wings with a noise like leathery thunder, curled back up, and put a paw over his nose.

"When will he be flying?"

"Oh… short flights, no strain, maybe two weeks," the vet, whose name was Tupilco, said. "No combat for a month."

Hal turned to Gart.

"I assume you've another dragon for me?"

"Already chosen," Gart said. "You can take her up any time you wish."

"After I talk to the flight commanders."

They went on through the cavernous, if drafty, shelters. The llth's older dragons were a bit battered, but all were well-fed and were stirring about, as if expecting the action to come.

The 34th's were almost as spotless. The 18th's were worn-looking, but Cabet's flight had seen much action. The 20th's were acceptable, although the stablemen could have done with a bit of a cleanup.

Hal's dragon, Gart said, was named Sweetie.

Hal winced.

Gart shrugged.

"A little letter came with her. She was hand-raised by some backcountry girl, then given to Garadice when he came through looking for remounts.

"You could always write a letter to the girl—we've got her address—telling her how fond you are of her dragon."

Gart snickered.

Hal gave her a hateful look.

"We'll leave that for Sir Thom, on his next pass through."

"And I'll make sure to tell him," Gart said, and burst into laughter.

"I'm delighted," Hal said, "to be taking charge of such a cheerful frigging squadron. I think I shall have all of you whipped."

Cabet was the first flight commander to arrive, which was just what Hal had expected. He was a small, precise man, with a small, precise mustache, and was known as a worrier. That may have hurt his digestion, but it kept his flight away from any foreseeable disasters, since Cabet managed everything very carefully.

Mariah had told Hal it was rumored that Cabet planned just when, and where, he would take his twice-daily shits, and was about to elaborate when Kailas told him to get out.

Pisidia, of the 20th, was the second. He was lean, with a hungry face and close-trimmed beard. He wore an eyepatch, from a wound early in the war, and Hal wondered how he was able to judge perspective with just the one eye. He, too, had a good reputation for taking care of his fliers and dragons, without much regard for the niceties of uniform and decorum the army preferred.

Last to arrive, announced by a booming laugh, was Richia of the 34th.

He was heavy, with a jolly face, a booming voice, and ready laughter. It wasn't until you looked closely at him, and saw his eyes were hard, cold, those of a hunter, that you knew him to be a dangerous man.

"Sit down," Hal said. "You know who I am, and I know, at least by name, all of you."

He glanced out of his tent, made sure the posted sentry was just beyond earshot.

"I have no idea what you think of being put under my command, and don't, at least for the moment, give a damn.

"There is no time whatsoever for personalities."

He told them of the upcoming attack.

All reacted in their own ways: Cabet began scribbling notes on a slip of paper; Pisidia began stroking his beard, looking into nowhere, making plans; and Richia barked a surprised laugh.

"This could be a chancy thing," Cabet said, looking up.

"Very much so," Hal agreed. "Which is why I don't propose to make any changes in the way you gentlemen have run your flights, at least until this offensive is over.

"However, I will issue one standing order. I want your new fliers to be paired with experienced ones, as much as possible. I realize, Cabet, that you were badly struck during the siege, and won't be able to always follow that order, but do what you can.

"I'll also want a flight of four fliers on constant standby. We'll take one from each flight.

"This will be a reaction element. If any Roche dragons approach this field, this flight is to get in the air and climb for altitude, whether or not orders are issued, and engage the bastards.

"I don't fancy the thought of having any of Ky Yasin's black dragons springing a surprise on us.

"And, speaking of Yasin, any black dragons that are sighted on our side of the lines are to be attacked immediately, always in pairs or more, and hopefully will be outnumbered.

"I want any other Roche dragons to be treated roughly, and I have no interest in any fair fighting or dueling.

"Kill the Roche when we see them, don't let them escape, especially if they might have gathered any information."

"What about claims, Lord Kailas?" Richia asked.

"I don't understand."

"Say one flier attacks a dragon, wounds it. He loses the dragon for a moment, and another flier kills it. Who gets the victory?"

"It'll be split," Hal said, "and I'll let you figure out how you'll explain to your granddaughter that you killed half a dragon."

There were smiles.

"Whatever your policies are," Hal said, "you might know mine. The only dead dragon I care about counting is the last one of the war."

"So we've heard," Pisidia said. "I think getting numbers-happy does no good for a flight—or a squadron's—morale."

"And I quite disagree," Richia said. Cabet said nothing.

"Another thing," Kailas went on. "I don't much give a damn about titles, or even being sirred, except when things are formal or when there's outsiders about."

"Good," Pisidia said. "There's too much flumpf about this war already."

"Formality has its place," Cabet said.

"Agreed," Pisidia said. "In the king's court, not over here."

"Well," Cabet said, "my men and women will continue to show proper respect."

"Run your flights as you wish, as I've said," Hal said, standing.

"Now, before I talk to the squadron, I want to wring a few knots out, and make sure I still know how to fly."

"Well," Hal said, "let's see what we're made of." He shuddered a little.

"Sweetie."

The dark red and brown dragon looked over her shoulder at him, blatted. Hal couldn't tell anything from that, but, since the beast seemed to know the name she'd been given, that meant he wouldn't be able to give her a better name.

He grabbed a scale, pulled himself up into the saddle, settled back and tested the reins. They were taut.

Kailas noted about half the squadron had drifted to the sides of the field, and were watching carefully, pretending to do other tasks.

This was part of the ritual of command.

If a dragon flier was worth a damn, he or she believed she was the absolute best. Around outsiders, a flier would swear that her flight commander was just a touch better, although that came from greater experience, not ability, of course.

So when a new commander appeared, it was expected that he would show his flying ability—unless he was one of those who led from the ground, which meant being held in complete, if unspoken, contempt.

It was stupid but Hal admitted to himself that he believed the same as any other flier.

"You're going to hate me before this is over," he said, and kicked the dragon in its slats.

It lumbered forward, lurching from side to side, its huge wings reaching out.

Then the awkwardness was gone as the dragon was in the air, wings striking down hard, lifting more slowly, and the ground shrank below Hal's boots.

He let Sweetie climb to about two thousand feet, then, using reins and feet at first, tapped her into a series of turns. She responded well, and Hal went through another series, this time just with the reins.

Again, the dragon obeyed.

Hal realized he shouldn't have been surprised—she supposedly had been trained by Garadice, a dragonmaster before the war, when the term meant a man who traveled about, giving rides, and doing stunts.

Garadice's son had trained and served with Hal, and had been killed by Yasin's black dragons, during the siege.

He put the dragon into a gentle bank, first right, then left.

He was looking far out, beyond the torn city of Aude, beyond the ribbons of trenches, where far mountains were lined in pink and gold as the sun moved down the horizon.

He thought he would give almost everything to be over those mountains, with nothing but this dragon under him, perhaps a pack with necessities lashed behind him, Khiri clinging behind him, or even on her own, and no one and nothing to worry about, except where he might land, buy a sheep for his mount, and cook a sparse meal before laying out his bedroll. At the next dawn, he'd be flying on, into the unknown, day after day, until… until he didn't know when.

He brought himself back to the present.

"Now, let's see how you can work," he said.

The field was just below him. He put Sweetie into a steep dive with his reins, let the ground close a little, pulled her out at what he guessed was a thousand feet.

He sent the dragon into another, more gentle dive, brought her back, turning, almost flying inverted, leveled her on an opposite course.

"Good," he said. "You can have a pullet or something with your dinner.

You didn't lose a foot of height."

Again, he sent Sweetie down and down, the ground rushing up at him, the wind whipping at him. The dragon honked protest, but didn't try to disobey.

At about three hundred feet he pulled back on the reins, and the dragon's wings flared.

As it pulled out, a bit over a hundred feet above the field, he tapped its left side, and, obediently, the monster banked, its great wing almost brushing the ground. He brought it out, then turned, and turned again, alternately left and right, then sent it down, and pulled hard.

The dragon's wings snapped out, and its feet reached for the ground, and they were on the ground.

Handlers ran up, and Hal slid from the saddle, tossing his reins across it.

He took a moment to pat the dragon's head as it snaked back, looking at him.

"Good," he approved.

His fliers were approaching, Farren Mariah at their head.

"Not bad… sir," he said. "I'd never trust a new one to be that well mannered."

"That's because you didn't pay close enough attention in dragon school," Hal said. "I don't have any trouble keeping my mounts in hand."

Farren sneered.

Hal had a wagon pulled into the middle of the field, and the flights surrounded him.

"Sit down if you want," he said, and did the same on the wagon's railing.

"Welcome to the First Dragon Squadron. We're trying something new, and I'll explain, later, just what I've got in mind. But I hope that my ideas are right, and this squadron is the signpost of the future.

"You know who I am… and I've yet to learn about you.

"Let's hope it's as pleasant an experience as it should be.

"We're going to be very busy for the next couple of weeks, which I can't tell you about yet.

"So the old bullshit about my tent's always open for anyone with problems can be set aside for a while. I'm going to be busy, and you are as well.

"There won't be any time for lollygagging or farting around for a while, so don't give me, my officers, and my warrants any grief.

"If you do, you'll reap the harvest you sowed.

"But I don't think there'll be any problems. You old soldiers know what's expected, and you new ones can study their ways and do the same.

"I don't expect anyone to have any questions this early in the game, and I'm not sure I've learned the answers yet.

"I'm not one who believes in speeches, and, as you've seen, am not worth much at making them.

"So fall out now for supper.

"That's all."

* * *

That night, Hal stood in a corner of the pilot's club, nursing half a pint of weak beer, and watching his pilots.

They were more than a little nervous. The braver tried to draw him out, into a drinking contest or a game. He smiled thanks at the offer, but refused.

The veterans he knew greeted him, and were bought a pint. In Sir Loren's case, that meant a mug of nonalcoholic cider. He was as abstemious before combat as always.

The replacements listened to Hal's easy banter with envy, and thought to themselves that they'd soon be considered worthy of equality as well.

Mariah was behind the bar with Chincha, and Hal was pleased they were still together and, frankly, still alive.

Hal and Gart talked briefly, and he knew the fliers were trying to figure out what they were discussing. If they'd known, they might've worried.

Hal was noting the fliers who were drinking heavily. It wasn't that he gave a damn how much someone drank—by this stage of the war alcohol was the only thing keeping some of the more worn fliers together.

But drink wasn't a good habit for a young flier to get into, unless he knew what he was doing.

The old hands could take care of themselves.

As a gentle guidance Kailas was scheduling all of the replacements who were guzzling heavily for a dawn patrol. They'd quickly learn that flying with a hangover wasn't the easiest way to spend a morning.

And he would be in the air with them.

Hal's orderly was a man old enough to be his father, named Uluch, who looked on anything and everything sourly. But he couldn't be faulted in his duties.

Kailas was quite grateful, especially in the mornings, he hadn't gotten some godsdamned chatterbox.

* * *

Hal desperately wanted to work his squadron to the bone, to make sure they were as sharp as possible before the battle.

But he knew better. An exhausted flier can be a dead one, very rapidly.

So he ran his patrols up and down the lines. There was only one fight, and he wasn't lucky enough to get in on it, and it was inconclusive, the two Roche dragons being chased back over Aude.

It seemed the Roche fliers were holding to their side of the lines as well.

Kailas wondered what orders they were under, but there were no clues.

"His" 11th Flight was armed with the repeating crossbows that Farren Mariah had designed. The other three had motley collections of conventional crossbows and short recurve bows. Hal hadn't the time to order the repeaters from Joh Kious's works far to the north in Paestum—yet another thing that would have to wait until after the battle.

So Hal stewed, and flew, and waited.

And then the day of battle came.