Chapter Eleven

It was a bit more than six months since Hal had been in Paestum, but the city had changed almost beyond recognition. The ruins from the siege had been mostly razed, and spreading far beyond the walls were caterpillering tents for the replacements and new units streaming across the Straits into Sagene.

When Hal had left, there'd been only the army. Now there were four, interspersed with Sagene armies down the Roche border, to meet the building threat of new Roche forces.

But the tactics hadn't changed, still the bloody head-smashing battles as the forces moved back and forth in the wasted, bloody landscape, hoping, each time, without luck, for a breakthrough into the heart of the enemy's country for the capital.

Hal, having a great deal of back pay in his purse, and nowhere to spend it, found a copyist involved with the replacement section who was bribable.

He was negotiating with him to keep Saslic, of course, plus Farren and possibly Ev Larnell, with him, whichever dragon flight he was assigned to, having learned there's no such word as "no" in the military if the pleader has sufficient rank or silver.

There were, at present, two flights assigned to each Deraine army, with Sagene having its own flights, roughly set up the same as Deraine's.

The transport ship had unloaded their dragons, and the new fliers were given a tented area to themselves, while they waited for orders to whichever dragon flight would need them. They were left largely in peace, no warrants rooting through their area for scut-details, since no one seemed to want to get too close to the monsters or the lunatics who rode them.

Contrasting with this were the jokes going around that no one had ever seen a dead dragon rider, and dragon riders were mainly concerned with qualifying for their king's old age pension, whereas an infantryman or cavalryman would certainly never live long enough to worry about it.

Hal was trying to figure out how much he'd have to increase the copyist's bribe to get "his" people assigned to the northernmost First Army area, near Paestum. Even though it was cold, rainy and swampy in spots, it was the area of the border he knew well, and thought that knowledge would improve his, and his friends', chances of surviving.

Then everything shattered.

Roche magicians managed to cloak the assembly of half a dozen armies, south, near the city of Frechin. They'd crossed the border, smashing a Sagene army.

Only the spring rains were holding them back from driving hard toward Sagene's capital of Fovant. But each day, the salient grew longer, a finger reaching into the heart of Sagene.

Deraine's First and Second Armies were stripped of any unit not vitally needed, all offensives against the Roche were put aside, and all replacements arriving in Paestum were detached on temporary duty to units in the Third Army, now engaged with the enemy.

So Hal's entire graduating class of novice fliers, and their beasts, were ordered south, at all possible speed. The Third Army needed them for scouts, spies and couriers.

The roads below were packed with troops, marching, riding, in wagons.

Hal was very glad to be high above the roiling mud below. His dragon wanted to find a nice, dry cave and hole up until the weather changed, but he drove it onward, and eventually it gave up squealing protest when he led it out from the canvas aerie the detailed quartermasters set up every night when they camped.

South and south they went, but it never got warmer, and the fliers wore everything they were issued, and still shivered.

Some of them—Feccia among them—got in the habit of buying whatever brandy they could find in their flights. Hal took barely a nip on even especially frozen mornings. He'd already learned brandy as a friend could quickly become brandy as a creaking crutch, and wanted none of that.

Of course the villagers along the roads were either bought or looted out by the time Hal's detachment passed, but the dragons had the option of flying away from the march routes, finding villages who barely knew there was a war, eager to trade, sell or even patriotically give away their produce, eggs, or drink.

It didn't make much of an impression to the ground-bound soldiery, seeing dragons float back to their wagons at dusk, laden with plunder. The elderly infantry warrant who'd been put in charge of the formation seemed to have no objections to what was going on, and Hal shrugged, it not being his concern. It didn't, however, improve his mood to hear the infantry give them new labels: "Defenders of the Veal."

"Champions of the Poultry Run."

"Guardians of the Keg."

"Omelet Defenders," and so forth.

At least he and Saslic were able to be together at least every third night or so, when one or another didn't have guard duty around the dragons.

Other fliers made similar arrangements, or, like Farren, chased after any women they encountered with the dignity of a hound in heat.

There were persistent rumors of bandits abroad, or cross-border partisans, but Hal never saw any, and these scoundrels were, according to the tales, either a day's march in front of or behind the yarn-spinner.

Before Bedarisi the open roads that had given the soldiers speed changed. Now the roads were packed with refugees, fleeing ahead of the advancing Roche armies.

Hal would always remember a few things from those days.

An old man, pushing an older woman in a barrow, and, from the time they first saw the pair until they vanished around a bend, she never stopped railing at him.

A middle-aged man, wearing nothing but long winter drawers, carrying only an ornate old clock taller than he was.

Three wagons full of young women, who claimed to be from a religious school, and were full of laughter. But if they were religious, they had scandalous rites, although those men—and a few women—who hadn't made bed partners seemed to enjoy their company. Hal and Saslic visited their camp, across from the dragon fliers, for a glass of wine, and Saslic noted, behind the laughter, the fear in the women's eyes, and the way they kept glancing south, toward the oncoming Roche.

A wizard, with two acolytes, their robes stained with travel, trudging along. Farren landed his dragon, got provisions from one of the fliers'

wagons, and walked for a third of a league beside them, then came back.

"Dreadful bad it is, in the south," he reported. "Or so the mage says.

Roche cavalry ridin' here an' there, lootin', cuttin', murderin', rapin', and the Sagenes don't seem to be able to stop 'em.

"He says we'll have our jobs set for us, an' wished us luck."

Hal asked why the man's magic hadn't kept him from becoming another wanderer, and Mariah, serious for once, had said, "I guess magic don't al'as help the one who's castin' it. Sure fire it didn't make m'

grandsire rich, just notable. Guess that the gods, whoreson bastids that they be, don't want wizards comin' up as kings or, worse yet, competin' wi'

them.

"That gives us some sort of order, I guess, 'though, thinkin' from present circ'mstances, I wouldn't mind if they let an option out f'r one short amat'ur witch, who's doodlin' around in the wilderness wi' dragons at present, needin' all the help he can get."

One day they were stranded before a washed-out bridge, waiting for the pioneers to rebuild it. There was a small country inn on a promontory over the river, but its proprietor said, mournfully, he'd sold everything he had in the way of provender, and their chickens and ducks had been pirated away by either soldiers or refugees.

Mynta Gart flew away northwest on her dragon, and came back two hours later with a cargo net full of foodstuffs bought in distant villages.

She refused the proprietor's money, told him to build omelets, and the man's two daughters went through dozens of eggs at a time until the fliers thought they might cluck and peck at each other.

Now their forced march from Paestum caught up with them, and Hal could feel fatigue at his back. But he said nothing, and cut Vad Feccia off sharply when he whined about sore muscles, merely pointing to the road they'd pulled away from, at the long lines of infantry, plodding through the mire, a pace at a time, and with nothing but a groundsheet and what they had scrounged from the roadside or begged or stolen from passing wagons for rations.

They reached Bedarisi, the streets crowded with fleeing citizens. It took them two full days to work their way through the jammed streets to open country again.

Feccia suggested low-flying the dragons over the crowd, and hoping some terror would clear the way, but the old warrant forbade it.

Beyond the city, they saw their first Roche dragons, swooping and diving in the distance, spying the country, and felt the war close on them.

Two of their dragons saw them, and Hal was pleased with their response—angry hissing and snorts, their heads snaking back and forth, mouths open, fangs dripping. He hoped the fliers mirrored their attitude.

Now the roads, such as they were, country tracks worn wide and into sloppy ditches by the army's passings, were empty once more of everything except the military.

They stopped at an enormous post at an intersection of three of these tracks, a log stripped of leaves and branches, and buried vertically. On it were half a hundred wooden boards, each pointing to where a different formation might be found.

Far at the top, Farren saw a small painted dragon.

"Or else't a winged worm," he opined.

They turned the wagons down that track, and went on for several leagues, passing encampments, ration dumps, stables.

The track emptied into a wide meadow, with a pond at one end, and there they found the dragon flight.

Hal kept his face blank, but Farren, Feccia and some others gaped in shock.

Expecting lines of hopefully weatherproof huge stables for the dragons, and neat barracks to the side for the men, they saw, instead, some tattered tents, worse than the ones the former students had brought with them, patched here and there with other colored canvas or even cloth. Some of them had torn grommets, and were held to the ground, flailing in the strong wind, with branches for stakes.

The human quarters were even worse, everything from huge packing crates to tiny infantry tents to sod-roofed shanties supported on logs and

"found" lumber.

It looked like a proper base—one that had been struck by a tornado, and then reoccupied by trolls.

There were a handful of people about, most seemingly doing nothing except squelching back and forth on the open meadow in front of the squadron's buildings.

One woman was watering a dragon at the pond.

At both sides of the meadow were catapults, with infantrymen manning them.

A single dragon patrolled the air overhead, flying in endless circles around the meadow.

Hal ignored the moans—as an old soldier, he noted what must be the cooktent, a large, well-pitched tent, with smoke coming from chimneys at the front and back.

Seeing that, he knew that everything had not fallen apart.

"Do you want me to report in, sir?"

"I'd appreciate that," their escort warrant said. "Now we're away from my grounds, and on yours."

Hal caught himself, glanced at Sir Loren Damian, who grinned damply, but made no protest.

There was a guidon pitched in front of a bell tent, and Hal went to it, knocked on the ridgepole.

"Enter."

He pushed the outer flap aside, and walked into a tent crowded with four cots, one piled high with maps and sword-belts.

On another, a man snored loudly, a ragged cloak pulled over him.

Sitting at a field desk sat a man whose body and face were sculpted by exhaustion. Hal was tired, but this man was beyond that.

"Serjeant Hal Kailas," Hal said, clapping a hand to his breast. "With eighteen other dragon fliers and mounts, mobile, as ordered by First Army Headquarters."

The man blinked, rubbed his eyes, picked up a bottle of brandy, and uncorked it. He shook his head, and put the bottle away.

"I am assuming for the moment you're not a magician's imp, sent to taunt me with impossibilities."

"Nossir. I'm… we're for real."

"Just maybe there are gods," the man breathed, realized Hal was still holding the salute. "Sit down… or, anyway, find something to lean against.

"I'm Lieutenant Sir Lu Miletus. Someone said I was going to be a captain, but the orders seem to have gone awry.

"You said nineteen dragon fliers?"

"Yessir."

The man stood, extended a hand, and Hal clasped it. Miletus looked as if he'd been studying to become a priest or other ascetic before the war, with his lean, long-faced, somber expression. But Hal saw smile lines on his face.

"Nineteen," Miletus breathed again. "That just might put us back in the war. Any support people?"

"Nossir. We were told you'd have all necessary ground personnel."

"We did," Miletus said. "Until the dragons brought the cavalry on us. At least we didn't lose any of our beasts… all ten of them.

"And now, just a little late, we've got those arrow-throwers assigned to keep us safe from intruders."

He shook his head.

"Never mind. We've gotten so good at making do with very little we can probably win this godsdamned war with absolutely nothing."

He pulled on a muddy cloak.

"Let's go see how we can get your people settled, Serjeant. I'll tell you beforehand I'm going to make myself rather loathed, since I'm going to take away five of your dragons from their masters."

Hal kept his face still.

"My fliers—all six of them—have more experience… I assume that none of you are more than school-trained?"

"That's correct. Sir."

"Don't look so sour, man. What I'm doing is not only best for the flight, but it might keep some of you alive.

"Also, all of you are grounded until I personally give you permission."

He grinned, noting Hal's deliberately blank look. "And I don't mean to denigrate you by keeping you out of harm's way for the moment.

"You'll see. You'll see your training didn't really give you any help for what's out here.

"Now, let's get your men fed, and start finagling for quarters."

"Four of us are women, sir."

"I'd heard they'd finally gotten around to recognizing the other half,"

Miletus said. "Not to worry. I don't think any of my men have enough energy to raise a smile, if that was your concern."

The new ones were quartered here and there, some in existing tents, some in the smaller tents they'd brought with them.

The escort warrant and his men rode back the way they came, showing evident relief they wouldn't be required to get any closer to the war zone than they already had.

Miletus didn't, as far as Hal saw, quiz any of the replacements about who was the best flier, who the worst. Instead, he put them up, one by one, over the meadow, ordering them to do certain maneuvers.

Hal quickly found out neither war nor careless habits had driven the flight into slovenry.

They'd been hammered hard when the Roche crossed the lines, losing fliers and dragons to Roche magic, their catapults, which were brought up just behind the front lines, weather, and two to enemy dragons, who'd attacked their beasts until the Deraine dragons went out of control, whipping across the skies and losing their riders, then vanishing into the mists.

Bad enough… but then the dragons had guided enemy cavalry through the shattered Deraine positions to the flight's base.

"Everyone," Miletus said tiredly, "became infantry, and we fought as well as we could." He looked around sadly. "Which wasn't very, I'm afraid, although at least we drove them back.

"The closest thing we had to a hero was Chook, the cook."

Hal waited for an explanation, but none came.

"The Sagene command offered us infantry to guard the base, but I told them to keep the men on the lines, except for those catapult men. There isn't anything here worth another attack." He brightened. "At least not 'til your arrival."

He grinned. "I'm certain you find that reassuring."

Hal found a relatively dry bell tent, with four cots. Three of them were bare, the fourth occupied by a wiry man with amazing mustaches, who introduced himself as Aimard Quesney, and told him to take any bed he wanted.

"Won't I be disturbing anybody?"

"If you are, and anyone says anything, move out sprightly," Aimard said. "For they're all quite dead, and I'm getting tired of waiting for their ghosts."

"Small, but cozy," Saslic said, waving a hand around her hut. "Note the greenery on the roof, which'll go well with my face when I think about what I got myself into wanting to play soldier."

The hut was small, ten feet on a side. But shelves had been built along the walls by a skilled carpenter, and there were cleverly-hinged windows on either wall.

"Built for two," Saslic said. "But I hid the other cot before anyone could claim it."

"Why?" Hal asked.

"Did your mother have any sons with intelligence?"

"I don't guess so. Explain."

"I thought a certain northern fool might want to come visiting from time to time, and since I'm not into either threesies or witnesses, I thought we might like privacy."

"Oh."

"Speaking of which, why don't you slide the door shut? I noticed you coming back from the pond, looking cleaner than you have since we left Paestum, and thought you might be interested in messing about."

In the dimness, Hal saw her slide out of her coveralls, and lay back on the bed.

"Close, but perhaps we can manage," she murmured.

Later, as they lay together, Hal had a question.

"I know men aren't supposed to ask and all. But what's going to happen to us?"

Saslic kissed him on the nose.

"Why, we're going to get killed. Preferably nobly, in battle."

"Oh." Hal thought. "No. I'm going to live through this."

"Of course you are," Saslic drawled. "That's what everybody who filled up all these empty cots knew."

"No," Hal said stubbornly, trying to sound as if he were positive about things. "I'm going to survive."

"Well, good for you," Saslic said. "I'm not. Which is why I haven't bored either one of us talking about love, or after the war, or anything else beyond this moment. So remember me fondly when I'm gone, and name your first child after me.

"And as for immediate moments…"

She moved close, hooked a leg over his thighs, and pulled him on top of her.

"Remember, anything you don't see might kill you," Miletus said over his shoulder. "C'mon, Fabulous. Get your arse in the sky."

He tapped reins, and the dragon's wings flapped slowly, and it took a few steps forward. Then it was clear of the mucky ground, and climbed into the skies.

Hal, sitting behind Miletus, tried to keep the map he'd studied ready, and glanced at the compass clipped to his fur-lined jacket, then put it away, mindful of Miletus' orders to keep his eyes on the sky, not anywhere else.

He shivered at the chill spring wind blowing in his face, and decided, before next winter, if he lived that long, he'd have to have someone make him furry thigh boots like Miletus wore, and some sort of tie-down fur-lined cap.

They flew south-south-west, toward the salient.

"I'll skirt the edges of the battleground," Miletus shouted. "No point in giving their damned catapults a shot at a virgin, now is there?"

The lines were clearly demarked—two long scraggly rows of huts, with most of the vegetation in front cleared, the woods around cleared for firewood and building materials. Between them was open, rutted-land torn by marchers and horsemen.

They flew down the lines, turned, went back the way they came, turned back to base.

Miletus slid out of the saddle, tossed the reins to one of his handlers, said, "Well? What did you see?"

"Not much of anything," Hal said honestly. "Smoke from fires, a couple of horsemen back of the lines."

"That's all?"

"Yessir."

Miletus shook his head.

"And you're a combat veteran. Kailas, if you expect to be alive in a month, you'd better learn to sharpen your eyes.

"First, you missed a flight of three dragons, ours, but they could well have been Roche, moving east, just west of that little bend in the lines that's marked as the Hook.

"Second, there was a Roche dragon circling a position about a mile north of them.

"Then there was that stationary cloud over that ruined village."

Kailas looked perplexed.

"There was a wind blowing, maybe seven, eight miles an hour. Clouds don't hang about when there's wind, correct?"

"Nossir."

"That'd suggest, if we were a proper scouting patrol, to take a look.

Probably the cloud is magically cast, and there's most likely something underneath it the Roche would rather we not see.

"I'll send a couple of beasts up as soon as I finish with you.

"Then there was a column of cavalry, a company, perhaps more, riding toward the southern end of the salient, which would suggest someone's up to no good.

"Lastly, and you couldn't have known this, we passed over a scruffy little forest that was a nice open piece of land yesterday or the day before."

"Magic?"

"Probably not," Miletus said. "More likely camouflage nets. By the size of the area, I'd guess an encampment of a company, perhaps more, on the move.

"On patrol, it'd be your job to get lower and closer, and find out what sort of unit."

Hal had nothing to say.

"Your most important weapons are your eyeballs," Miletus said. "Keep looking, keep moving your head about. And don't forget to keep looking over your shoulder.

"The Roche love to creep up on you from the rear.

"When you can find one, buy a nice lady's scarf, the softest silk or lamb's wool you can find. That'll keep your neck from getting chafed.

"Pity there's no way to clamp a mirror somewhere on a beast's neck plate.

"Now you see what we face, and what you've got to learn.

"I'll sign you off for patrol—but only with an experienced flier, until he tells me you actually stand a chance of staying alive around here."

Chook was a large, jovial, nearly bald man, who claimed that his family owned the biggest—and, of course, the best—restaurant in Rozen, with a clientele of knights, dukes, even, once or twice, the king himself, "though he came in disguise, of course," plus a goodly contingent of the royal court's magicians.

No one knew if he was lying, but no one cared. Chook was not only a superb cook, but could almost always make something close to edible out of the iron rations they mostly lived on these days.

He prided himself on his "beef in the grand tradition of Chook," which consisted of the smashed dried beef they were issued, the iron-hard crackers, powdered milk, and assorted liquids and spices from the huge wooden cabinet that was always kept locked.

It was this cabinet that'd made him into a hero. When the Roche cavalry attacked, he'd stayed in his mess tent, until four cavalrymen dismounted and, sabers ready, came looking for some food or drink to loot.

Chook told them to get out.

They laughed, started toward him.

The first two were bowled over by one of the long wooden benches he threw at them. The third slashed at the cook, who ducked around the stroke and hurled him against the glowing stove.

The fourth turned to run, and Chook threw, with unerring aim, the cleaver he used to behead any looted chickens. It buried itself, with a dull chunk, in the back of the man's head.

Miletus heard the sounds of sobbing, ran into the tent, saw the fourth corpse, the third man's head stuck into the open oven door, charring nicely, and the other two with ghastly saber wounds in their chests from their own blades.

Chook sat at a bench, crying bitterly.

If few were stupid enough to criticize his cooking before, for fear he'd throw a pet and lose his brilliance, no one at all dared after the slaughter.

"So what should I be most scared of?" Hal asked Aimard Quesney.

He raised an eyebrow almost as groomed as his mustaches.

"Odd for anyone to be owning to fear," he replied. "I thought we were all fearless knights of the air, and so on and so forth and I was the only one who…" And he broke into song:.

"There's a dragon leaving the border

Limping its way toward its home

With a shit-scared flier a-clinging

With a grip that'd bruise to the bone.'"

He hiccuped, pushed the flagon of fairly decent wine at Hal, who shook his head.

"I'm on my first patrol tomorrow."

"Have a drink anyway," Aimard said. "Gods know I will." He swilled, ignoring his glass. "It's easier to die with a hangover. Besides, it gives you an excuse for drinking the next day."

The flight had a separate club/mess for the fliers, administered to by the legendary Chook. It was no more than a raggedy tent, with planed logs for benches, and a long bar their rather pathetic supply of alcohol sat behind. The canvas walls were pinned with cutouts from the broadsheets of Deraine and Sagene: sketches of beautiful ladies, pertinent letters, stories of society and such.

The best thing was that the mess was open around the clock, with either Chook or one of his assistants standing by.

"To be most afraid of," Quesney mused. "First, your own dragon, who'll be the most likely to kill you, chewing your leg off, or just dumping you off to see if you can walk on air like it can.

"Second, the weather closing in, and you getting lost in it, or blown into a mountain or forest.

"Third… leave third for a minute.

"Fourth, the Roche on the ground, with their catapults, crossbows and archers. If you're hit, try to steer your dragon as far away from the troops as you can, for they'll treat you most harshly should you fall into their hands.

"At least, try for some soldiers you haven't been spying on, and hope for their tender mercies.

"Fifth, our own soldiery, who'll be as quick to launch a bolt at you as the Roche. Perhaps, since we're losing, a bit more quickly.

"Sixth, our own command, who haven't the foggiest what a dragon's supposed to do, and so will punt us into the most unlikely places and situations.

"Now, to go back to third." Quesney paused.

"That, of course, is the enemy dragons."

"What will they do?" Hal asked.

"What they'll try to do is scare you away, back away from the lines and your scouting.

"If there's one in the vicinity, they might try to attack with one of their teams. That's if their dragons decide they want to attack you, which is very seldom.

"They'll try to tear you off your dragon, or tear at your dragon's wings and body, though that's rare enough. Generally they make great pains of themselves, and occasionally get lucky, and one of them'll be close enough to get in with that snaky head and have a bite of you."

"Has anybody thought of taking a magician up, and having him cast a spell against the Roche dragons?" Hal asked, thinking of some of the ideas in his notebook.

Quesney looked puzzled, shook his head.

"Doubt if you could find a wizard stupid enough to strap himself on the back of a dragon. And it'd take long enough to build a spell so that everyone concerned would be miles away by the time it swirls into life."

"What about an archer?"

"Never heard of such an idea. Can't imagine a bowman astute enough to be able to cling on, and aim while some nasty monster's hissing and snapping at him," Quesney said. "Why? Are you planning on starting a one-man war in the sky?"

Hal smiled, poured a glass of water.

"I don't like that idea," Quesney said. "Just flying's enough of a hazard.

"Start bringing in that kind of thing, and we'd be no better than those poor bastards down in the mud, now would we?"

Hal's stomach was roiling gently, but he had enough remove to think of laughing at himself. As a cavalryman, he'd led patrols into Roche territory a dozen, a hundred, who knew how many times?

But here he was, as his dragon climbed away from the flight's base, with Aimard Quesney to his left and, beyond him, Farren Mariah, on his first dragon patrol.

He determined he'd follow Miletus' suggestion, and kept his head moving, swiveling like his dragon's, who also seemed eager to spy something out.

The day was starting to warm, but there were huge thunderheads towering over the land. Quesney had said they were to fly east along the salient, toward where the lines had been before the Roche attack, until the weather broke, which it would, and then strike back for base.

Hal kept his reins loose, scanning the ground below. Nothing, for a long time, then movement. A column of infantry, heading away from the lines.

Hal jotted a note on the supposedly waterproof pad he had strapped to his knee.

Something moved at the corner of his eye, and he saw two dragons, not far distant, flying toward him.

They closed, and he saw, with relief, they were Deraine, passing no more than a hundred yards away, with a wave.

Hal's dragon, though, cared little about man's definitions, and hissed a loud challenge, which the evidently older and certainly wiser dragons ignored.

Smoke down below… He couldn't tell what it came from. But the plume was large enough to warrant a note.

The clouds were closing on them, and he kept glancing at Quesney, who seemed oblivious.

Far in the distance was a flight of three dragons. Quesney slid a glass out of his boot-top, focused, then lifted a small trumpet, and blatted two notes.

One, Aimard had said, meant return to base. Two was enemy in sight, other toots had other meanings.

So there were the Roche, perhaps half a mile distant, no, more, Hal thought, allowing for the rain-rich air's magnification.

Quesney waved an arm, pointed down, and Hal pulled his reins right, tapped them on the dragon's neck, and the beast's head lowered, and the three dove away from the enemy, who showed no sign of having seen them.

They landed at their base, handlers running out to meet them, just as the rain began.

In the next three days, Hal made five more patrols, finally being trusted with a solo mission. The other novices were cleared for patrol, and enough dragons were assigned so the flight was at full strength, at least in the air, and everyone had a monster of her or his own.

On the ground, the formation was still woefully undermanned: at full strength, a flight should have about eighty men. The fliers were at the top of the pyramid, below them two stablehands for each monster, teamsters, cooks, clerks, blacksmiths, orderlies, leathersmiths, veterinarians, and so forth. Hal wondered why there weren't any magicians assigned, and Miletus laughed hollowly. "I'm sure, eventually, we'll get them. As soon as every infantry and cavalry regiment have them, plus all headquarters, supply people and any other unit who's been around for 150 years or so."

Then the storm closed in on them.

So far, no one had died, and Hal had come the closest to Roche monsters.

No one thought this would continue.

Hal was going through his notebook, staring gloomily out at the driving rain.

Saslic curled on the back of his cot. Quesney snored gently on his own cot, mustaches waving.

"Hey," Saslic said. "Aren't you bored?"

"No," Kailas said. "Thinking."

"I am. You want to go have a beer?"

"Not especially."

"You want to go for a walk in the rain?"

"Why?"

"Fresh air's good for you. What're you thinking about, anyway?"

"Oh… crossbows… magicians… if there's any better way of passing on information than those stupid little trumpets. Things like that."

"Hmmph," Saslic said. "You're bound and determined to grow up to be a dragonmaster, aren't you?"

Hal grinned. "I haven't heard that word used since… since before the war. I don't know if it applies."

"Maybe it should," Saslic said. "Maybe if this godsdamned war drags on much longer, it'll come back."

"Meaning what?"

"Considering the Way you seem to be thinking, somebody who's figured out a way to kill Roche dragons."

"Dragons," Hal said. "Maybe. Or maybe their fliers. A dragon without a mount isn't all that dangerous."

"Why are men so bloody-minded?" Saslic asked thin air. Receiving no answer, she got to her feet.

"All right. Last offer. You want to go help me make up my bed?"

Hal lifted an eyebrow. Saslic giggled.

They pulled on their cloaks, and went out, into the storm.

Aimard Quesney opened one eye, grinned, then went back to snoring.

The weather broke for an hour, and Hal volunteered for a patrol.

Miletus shook his head, muttered something about people too damned eager for a medal, and nobody else on the front would be in the air, but approved. Hal's dragon plodded through puddles, wings thrashing, then came clear of the ground.

By rights, Hal thought, a dragon base ought to be on a bluff somewhere, so the poor monsters didn't have to work that hard to get airborne. But in this sector there was little but rolling flatland for leagues around.

Hal circled the field, picking up height through scattered clouds, then turned his dragon toward the salient.

He was within a league of the lines when he snapped to full alert.

To his left, a flight of three Roche dragons. To his right, two more flights.

Something was very much afoot.

He could see no sign of any other Deraine beasts.

Ahead, he saw another three dragons climbing.

Hal thought quickly. Of course he couldn't proceed. But…

He had an idea, turned his dragon back the way he'd come, as if fleeing the watchful Roche, flew for the shelter of a cloud. Hidden, he dove for the ground, then banked back toward the salient. He flew no more than fifteen feet above the ground, his dragon's wings beating hard.

He climbed above trees, over abattis, tents, noted a Deraine flag near one pavilion, then was over broken ground.

Hal gigged his dragon for speed, and the beast's wings thrashed, like a ship's sails in a gale, and he was over the Roche positions, moving too fast for anything other than dimly heard shouts, and one arrow that missed by leagues.

A road junction was in front of him, and Hal's jaw dropped. The roads were packed with Roche troops, marching in close formation.

On another, parallel, rode columns of cavalry.

Below him, quartermaster wagons were being moved closer to the lines, unloaded for fresh supply dumps.

Their army was on the march.

He chanced overflying the junction, further into the salient, and every road, it seemed, had soldiers on the move.

The Roche must've used the break in fighting and the storm to rebuild their forces, and now were mounting an offense intended to end the deadlock, smash into open country, once and for all.

But no Deraine, evidently, had heard, seen or reported anything. No courier had come to the base with any reports of this…

Hal heard a screech, looked up and behind, saw a Roche flight, three huge monsters, diving on him. Their talons were reaching out for him, claws working in and out.

He jerked his dragon into a diving bank, turned back for his own lines, barely above spare treetops, his dragon flying as fast as its wings could beat.

Behind him, one dragon was closing fast, the other two hanging back, Hal's young beast having energy on the Roche brutes.

If there was some way of fighting back, Kailas thought, I'd let the bastard close, and try to take care of him.

But there was none, and the Roche flier was getting closer. His dragon was far bigger than Hal's, and he had a slight height advantage. Clearly his intent would be to savage Kailas as he overflew him, or else panic Hal's dragon into diving into the ground.

The two flashed over the lines, and Hal thought for an instant he was safe.

But the Roche must've known Hal had seen the troop movement, and must not be allowed to report.

The rain set in, drenching sheets, and Kailas hoped he could lose his pursuers in the gray dimness. But the Roche remained on his tail.

Long before they reached the base, Hal knew, at least that leading dragon would be on him.

There must be something…

Ahead, the ground rose to a stony hillside. Hal forced his dragon even lower, until the beast's talons were tearing across the scrub brush.

He looked back again, and the Roche flier was almost on him, having eyes only for his prey.

Hal forgot about him, saw two trees to his right, aimed his dragon at the gap between them, his monster screeching in unhappiness.

They shot through the gap, the dragon half-closing his wings, branches tearing, the dragon dipping, almost crashing, and Hal heard, behind him, an enormous crash.

The Roche flier hadn't been watching ahead, and his dragon had smashed into the trees, and pinwheeled, throwing its flier high into the air, arms flailing, trying to stay aloft, with no success.

The other two… The other two were far back, and Hal forgot about them, and went hard for his base.

The great hall of the half-ruined castle was silent, so quiet Hal could hear the patter of rain outside. Through a still-unshattered window, he could see couriers gallop in and out, wagons arrive, leave, marching men disappear out the gate.

It was the very model of an army headquarters.

There were seven men in the hall: Hal, Sir Lu Miletus, and three staff officers. Another wore a dark robe, breeches, and carried a magician's wand.

Standing behind a huge desk, easily dominating it, and the men around him, was the Third Army Commander, Duke Jaculus Gwithian. He was tall, perfectly white-haired, with a warrior's build. He wore dark brown, with a chain mail gorget. This far from the lines, it couldn't be for protection, more likely to remind everyone Duke Gwithian was a fighting leader. Complementing this was a low-slung leather belt, with a sheathed dagger with a jeweled handle.

His voice was a low, imposing rumble, full of certitude.

As far as Hal could tell, thus far on their first meeting, Duke Gwithian appeared to have less brains than a rabbit ensorcelled by a snake.

Frowning, he held a copy of Hal's report.

"I realize, Sir Lu," he said, "you place great trust in your… soldiers, which is a dictate of all commanders. However…"

Miletus waited, his face stone.

"What Duke Gwithian means, no doubt," one of the staff officers said,

"is your man Kailas isn't the most experienced flier under your orders, isn't that correct?"

"I think any man who's flown that low, and seen what he saw doesn't need to have any more experience than a boarhound's pup to know what he's looking at," Miletus said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Still," another staff officer added, "you must agree these circumstances are a bit… unusual. I mean, none of our wizards, none of our scouts, have reported such a move, and this young man sees… sees whatever he thinks he sees."

Hal, perhaps a year older than the staff officer, held his temper with difficulty.

"That is one worrisome point," Duke Gwithian agreed. "Certainly, I have the most powerful wizards, ones I cannot believe the Roche can flummox. Correct, Warleggan?"

The mage nodded frostily. He was slim to the point of emaciation, and his clean-shaven face appeared never to have smiled.

"I am hardly the one to agree with you, Duke Gwithian, not being given to vainglory. However, I do think that myself, and my more than competent aides, would certainly have detected signs, traces, of any spell the Roche thaumaturges could be working, and certainly a great spell such as this one would leave vast traces."

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by Miletus.

"Sir Oubang," he said to the officer who hadn't spoken, "you specialize in analyzing the information from our scouts."

"I do."

"Has nothing been reported by our light cavalry?"

"Well, this is the one thing that troubles me slightly," the small, stout man said. "Actually, over the last two days, our scouting has been most minimal, due to a combination of circumstances.

"We've been shifting our light cavalry to the tip of the salient, expecting an eventual attack by the Roche. Other units have been relocated to the base of the salient, getting ready for… well, for an action of ours that should solve our current problems that I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of.

"So, contrary to what Sir Cotehele said, we really haven't had what I'd call a truly effective scouting screen out beyond the lines for over a week."

"Be that as it may," Cotehele said, a bit of anger in his voice, "I find it utterly impossible that no one, no one except this…" He didn't finish, but his look made it obvious what he thought of dragon fliers in particular, and Hal Kailas in particular. "This man, saw.

"There is, after all, such a thing as logic, is there not?"

"In war?" Miletus' voice dripped incredulity.

"Now, now, gentlemen," Duke Gwithian said soothingly. "Let's not let ourselves get worked up.

"This young man risked his life to make a report. I commend him for it.

And we shall take this information under advisement, and assign the correct value to it.

"Sir Lu… and you, Serjeant Kailas, was it? I thank you for doing what you conceived as your duty.

"Be sure to avail yourselves of a good meal before you leave my headquarters.

"A meal…" And he looked at the two fliers' weatherworn garb. "And, if you feel there is time before returning to your—what is it, squadron? No, flight, that's it—making proper ablutions and drawing less shabby uniforms.

"Thank you."

Without waiting for the salute, Duke Gwithian walked out through a side door.

Hal was seething as he followed Miletus out of the hall.

"He didn't believe us, did he, sir?"

"Of course not," Miletus said. "He wouldn't've believed just you if you'd come back with a Roche prince's head on your dragon's headspike."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Eat his godsdamned meal—fast—and get our arses back to the flight,"

Miletus said grimly. "And get ready for the Roche attack."