18

Khiri had wanted to come back to Rozen with Hal, but he'd asked her forgiveness, and said that he would be too busy to give her any attention, let alone the amount she deserved.

She sniffed, complimented him on getting a bit more politic, stayed at the castle.

Hal returned to Sir Thom's, and was immediately just as busy as he thought he'd be.

He'd requested Farren Mariah and Mynta Gart to stay on when the other dragon fliers returned to the squadron, which the king had ordered withdrawn from the lines until Hal returned to duty.

His dream of a fully-manned unit, made up of the best fliers, had been approved by the king more than two years earlier. But shortages in both men and dragons, plus the devouring offensive east of Paestum, had prevented him bringing the dream alive.

Now Hal had enough of equivocating, and used every bit of clout he had with the king to obtain one weapon.

It was a parchment scroll, in Asir's own hand, ordering that the bearer, Lord Kailas, be given anything he requested, or face royal displeasure or worse.

That was a start.

Hal, sadly familiar with the ways of the army, knew there would still be many who'd find a way around the order, never quite refusing cooperation, but never giving it, either.

The second weapon was a tale for the broadsheets, carefully crafted by Sir Thom.

It announced that Lord Kailas of Kalabas, the Dragonmaster, was building a super squadron, intended to take on anything the Roche could put in the air, and that this would be the spearhead for the inevitable spring offensive.

Volunteers were being accepted immediately.

The trick, Hal told Sir Thom, was that he wanted to attract the best, but without slighting other fliers who weren't good enough, or, Hal said grimly, "without enough of the killer in them."

Also, other flights couldn't be made to feel inferior. Morale was low enough as the endless war dragged on.

Hal's plan was simple—he would fly south, calling on every Deraine dragon flight. He knew commanders would try to shuffle their worst and slackest fliers on him, in the manner of every army formation in history.

But he knew enough names, and fancied himself a good enough judge of fliers, if not necessarily men and women, to bring only the best back with him.

One thing he had to take care of in Rozen was tracking down Goang, the prisoner who'd built a glider and tried to escape Castle Mulde.

He found him after some effort—he was a civilian, Lord Callo Goang.

He'd been studying the chants of certain Roche hill tribes when the war caught him up. The Goangs were a famous family in Deraine, so naturally he became a hostage in Castle Mulde, where he made four unsuccessful escapes.

He was the darling of his family, who tried their best to keep him safe from the batterings of the world.

"I don't understand, Lord Kailas, just why you want me to join your squadron, although of course I'm more than flattered."

"You don't think like the rest of us," Hal said.

"Beg pardon?"

"A castle full of fliers, yet you're the only one who studied birds and tried to fly out."

"It seemed quite obvious to me."

"Exactly."

"I certainly had no interest in the war, but I must say I have developed a certain dislike, even before the fighting started, for the bullying ways of the Roche. I do not think the world would miss the absence of their form of government at all.

"Besides, until I'm able to travel the hills of Roche freely, my studies are at a halt."

"Good. I'll give you the rank of lieutenant, at first," Hal said. "And the minute the war ends, you'll return to civilian status."

His family was horrified that Kailas was putting their jewel in harm's way, and Hal swore he had no intention of letting anyone harm him.

Goang settled the matter by saying he was joining, and that was that.

Hal felt a bit like a kidnapper, taking Goang from the heart of his family. The man left burdened with packages, warm clothes, advice and money.

It was very different, calling on Mav Dessau's father, Baron Dessau. The student of architecture and magic had survived the raid, but just after returning to Deraine had fallen ill, and died within a week.

Hal, as he'd promised Mav, called on his father, a bluff, boisterous country man. He didn't seem much interested in Hal's account of his son's help, nor of how he clearly looked up to his father.

The man offered Hal a drink, then said, "Well, I suppose I'm glad you came to call, Dragonmaster. But I'm sure you'll have to admit that Mav's help was purely accidental. You could hardly call him worthy of soldiering, now could you?"

Hal set the untouched drink down, looked coldly at Dessau, and said,

"Baron, you may be a big supporter of the king, but I'm sure you will have to admit you're more than a bit of a shithead, and damned unworthy of having a son like Mav."

Dessau goggled. Clearly no one had ever, or not within memory, had the temerity to call him that.

He glared at Hal, considerably smaller than he was, and reached for a coach whip hanging on the wall.

Then he noted Hal's hand was on his dagger, the catch of the sheath unsnapped, thought better of doing anything, and stamped off.

Hal let himself out, rode away, trying to think that he'd somehow revenged Mav, but knew the dead could never be avenged.

Hal was summoned for a final audience with the king, who gave him only one instruction: that he was to visit all Sagene dragon flights as well as those of Deraine.

Asir had already gotten permission from Sagene's Council of Barons for such an irregularity.

"And," he added, "be sure to pick more than a token number of Sagene.

You, by the way, will be flying a dual banner of both countries' standards when you take the field."

Hal was starting to realize there was a great deal more to high command than merely bashing the enemy.

He picked up his cap, clapped a hand to his chest, was about to back out of the royal presence, when the king held up a hand.

"One other thing," Asir said. "I know Baron Dessau is a shithead. In fact, I'd most likely call him worse names. But to myself.

"That's all."

Hal found a frizzy-bearded man with a sad face waiting at Sir Thom's.

It was Garadice, chief dragon trainer, who'd withdrawn to a secret base with some fifty black dragons, gathered in the raid on Black Island. His son, Rai, had trained and flown with Hal and had been killed in the siege of Aude.

"I have a small present for you," Garadice said. He attempted a smile, failed. Hal wondered if he'd ever smile again. "The rest of the army will think me a villain, and you a conniver who only succeeds because you're the king's favorite."

"A small present can do that much damage?"

"Well, perhaps it isn't that small."

Hall waited.

"I have some forty-six trained black dragons, which I have been instructed to provide for your new squadron."

Hal whistled, then asked, "How trained are they?"

Garadice chose his words carefully.

"I don't think I'd walk up to one on a dark night and shout Boh, and I'd make sure they're well fed at all times… but other than that, as trained as any dragon by a show-flier before the war."

"Good," Hal said. "Very good. Now we might have something to really shake Ky Yasin in his boots."

"There will be more in the offing," Garadice said. "We've had some luck setting out trapping ships like the Adventurer, keeping well south of Black Island, putting out lures, and have snared some twenty or so kits, almost yearlings.

"Some, interestingly enough, come from the west, and are a bit war-torn, even though, as far as I can tell, they've never seen man or his wars.

"It makes me wonder what the dragons coming west are fleeing. But that's for another time, when there's peace.

"With several wizards, I'm working with them and hope to have them in shape by the time they're a year older, perhaps less."

Another man sought Hal out, just as he was completing final packing for his trip across the Straits to Paestum, to start his quest.

The man limped up to Sir Thom's mansion, knocked on the door, announced himself, and was taken immediately to Hal.

"I don't suppose you might have room for a crippled flier," Sir Alt Hofei asked, a bit tentatively.

"Great gods, yes," Hal said. "I've never heard of a dragon flier who needed to run footraces.

"Welcome to the First Squadron, my friend," he said, pouring Hofei a brandy. "I was wondering if you were going to decide to serve on."

"Why not?" Hofei said. "There's little joy to be had here in Rozen these days. The time's past, and I missed it fair, when a man in a uniform would never lack for a damsel."

"I don't think it was around very long at all," Hal said.

"That's what the old soldiers say," Hofei said. "A war sucks away all the best things, and leaves nothing."

Hal looked at him closely.

"Are you sure you want to go out again? I'm sure you could find some nice soft posting training new fliers or something."

Hofei shuddered.

"I think being around half-trained glory-boys and -girls, not to mention quarter-trained dragons, might be even more dangerous than finding some Roche fliers to bother.

"No, Lord Kailas. I'm in it for the duration… or until they succeed at killing me."

"Then be welcome."

Hal had assigned Farren and Mynta two of the black dragons, in spite of their protests.

"It's simple," he explained. "We want to make as good a show as possible."

"You think a good show's one of those nasty bastards chewing my leg off?"

Hal considered.

"It could be."

"What about you?" Farren said. "I notice you're still on that old beast you had before."

"He's the Dragonmaster," Mynta explained. "He can do as he likes."

"Damned great monster we went and created," Mariah whined.

Two days later, they flew across the Chicor Straits to Paestum, and started looking for fliers.

Cabet was running the squadron and, Hal grudged, doing a good job, even if his attention to the smallest detail was driving everyone slightly insane.

There'd been orders issued by King Asir other than the all-encompassing one Hal had in his belt pouch: the First Squadron was almost overwhelmed with supplies, from new tentage to farriers and wine and beer.

Mariah licked his lips at the thought of all that alcohol going down the throats of the undeserving, and wondered again if he was really necessary on this recruiting trip.

Hal said he was. Farren grimaced, but didn't object, and went to spend some time with Chincha, the dragon flier he was sweet on.

Two days later, the Grand Tour commenced.

It was fairly grim.

They started in First Army's area, which was the hardest fought through, so Hal comforted himself that this was as bad as it would get.

It didn't make him feel better.

He encountered two sets of dragon fliers at the first three bases. The old, experienced fliers were worn out, exhausted. The newer fliers were eager, inexperienced, and fell fairly easy prey to Ky Yasin and his black dragons across the lines, or the other Roche flights.

Of the names he had for prospective volunteers, the response, all too often, was: "Sorry, sir. But he was killed a month or two months or three months ago."

Or: "Wounded. Sent home. Won't be back. Hope he makes it."

Or: "Gone missing on a dawn flight. We think we saw his dragon heading north that day, with nobody in the saddle."

Or just a slow shake of the head.

Hal had twenty-seven fliers in all four flights of the First, and needed at least another thirty-three.

He'd thought that wouldn't be an impossible goal, but was starting to wonder.

He had many volunteers—at one base, the entire flight turned out, drawn by the magic of the name Dragonmaster.

Hal put them through two tests in the air—one against either Farren or Mynta, and, if they appeared competent, then against himself.

In neither case did he insist on a mock victory. He wanted to see if the fliers had a feel for the air and, more importantly, for their mounts.

A mediocre flier with a good dragon, and some empathy for the beast, could destroy a superior flier who had no feelings at all for his dragon.

After these tests, he interviewed the prospective volunteers.

He rejected those who were flying out of revenge, or anger, just as he refused those who seemed intent on building a score.

The new fad with the broadsheets was to keep track of the top-scoring dragon flier.

Hal considered it absurd, since he had less than no idea of how many men—or dragons—he'd killed, and wasn't interested in trying to keep track.

The days were bloody enough as it was.

He also rejected those who spouted patriotism. These were invariably either the inexperienced or the fools. Flag-waving didn't last long on the front lines, and, when it vanished, the flier was most likely to be killed in a short while. What gave true tenacity were things like inner strength, in a very few cases, religion, or, the most common of all, fighting for the others in your flight.

They found ten acceptable volunteers in all of First Army, and moved on south.

The situation was a little better in Second Army—they hadn't been as heavily engaged for as long a time as the First, and the fliers weren't quite as shattered.

Twelve more volunteers were picked.

They, like the first, were told to secure their gear, given chits for meals and fodder, and told to make their way to Paestum and report to the squadron.

Mynta muttered that, as adjutant, she should have been left behind at the base to make sure the replacements were slotted in properly.

Hal didn't tell her there would be another change made when they returned—he still wanted an adjutant who'd been trained as a flier, someone who'd have a degree of sympathy for the poor bastards aloft. But this time, he would look for one who couldn't fly anymore. A flier as able as Gart was too good to waste on the ground for even the few hours allotted.

It was desolate winter, the ground gray and muddy below the dragons'

wings, the skies dark and foreboding when they weren't storming.

Hal's thoughts were equally bleak, wondering how much longer the war would go on, and what would, what might, happen when it ended. He wondered if he'd be content with his estates, and Khiri, but suspected not.

But he had no idea of what might interest him, if he lived.

He also wondered why both sides couldn't just quit, and say this whole nightmare had been a mistake. He didn't say anything, of course. The Dragonmaster's face could only be turned to war.

Besides, there'd been too much blood shed for a painful, inconsequential peace to be declared. There would have to be a winner and a loser… and so the war would drag on to a dark and unknown conclusion.

The lines they flew over appeared deserted, although now and again there'd be the moving dots of horsemen as light cavalry foraged or patrolled, and were driven back by infantry or heavy cavalry.

Hal knew there were infantry down there, huddled in their winter shelters or, if they were lucky, in some castle that hadn't been razed or in the ruins of a village or town.

Occasionally they saw other dragons in the air, sometimes on their side of the line, sometimes on the other. Generally the Roche fliers had the odds, and so Hal and his two companions would dive for cover.

Hal had the idea that the Roche had the edge in the air at present, and determined that would be changed as quickly as he could manage.

Yes, there was still a war to be fought, no matter how tired the soldiers were, and so he continued his search.