Dragons of War (4 page)

Relkin flushed. The comb had been given him by Miranswa Zudeina, who had given him a lot of other things besides, but mostly an education in the arts of love.

I lost the other one last year in Ourdh, sir. Due to circumstances beyond my control, we lost several pieces of our kit while we were campaigning."

Turrent did not like references to previous campaigns. Turrent was painfully aware of his own unfortunate shortage of combat experience. He had but a single combat star, and be knew some of these boys had two, three, or even five. He fastened his eyes on Relkin.

"Well now, Dragoneer, you understand that the regulations exist for a good reason. We cannot allow nonregulationary items to be displayed. We might start with discreet little Ourdhi combs, but we'd end up with no uniforms at all and poor morale."

Relkin had learned that the only way to handle these attacks was to stay calm and not to protest in any way. Protestations only made the dragon leader more excited, more determined to find fault.

"Now I know, and the general knows, indeed the whole world knows what a special dragonboy you are, Dragoneer Relkin, with your Legion Star and all. And, of course, we realize how privileged we are to have you."

Relkin heard a real loathing behind Turrent's words. Relkin kept the coveted Legion Star discreetly hidden. He wore it only for full regimental parades and never for a simple unit parade. Why did the dragon leader hate him so?

"But, Dragoneer Relkin," Turrent was leaning over him breathing into his face. "Despite all that, it does not mean that we want to sit around watching you comb your darling locks with this fanciful nonregulationary comb. Despite all that, Dragoneer Relkin, we want to see you use the proper regulationary item as prescribed."

"Yes, sir," mumbled Relkin.

"What?"

"Yes, sir!"

"So, Dragoneer Relkin, how shall we solve this little problem? Shall I perhaps confiscate this nonregulationary item?"

Relkin steeled himself to show no emotion.

Turrent gazed at him for a few seconds, gauging his response. Finally he sniffed.

"Now, I would confiscate the item, Dragoneer, and thus spare you any agony of decision, but I'm sure you treasure this keepsake, so I want to give you the chance to rectify your error. By next unit parade you will have replaced the item with the proper, regulationary item, which you will obtain from the quartermaster store. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly."

Turrent gave him a brief, triumphant smile. "Right then, Dragoneer, carry on."

Turrent strode past to examine Mono and Chektor. Relkin's eyes followed him with frank hatred.

The parade ended at last, and the dragons ambled back into the Dragon House. Some were to prepare for combats in the ring. Others were going to exercise in the yard and practice sword drills.

Bazil Broketail would rest that day, following on the hard bout of the day before. In the late afternoon he would exercise, doing a few routine movements with weights and sword at the butts.

Once the dragon was sound asleep, Relkin went to the north entrance of the river gate. On the second floor was the legionaries' bank where Relkin kept a small locked box. He signed the chit for it and opened it with the clever Cunfshon-made key. Inside were a few papers, a joint will for himself and the dragon, a bag of gold and silver coins, his medals, including the lustrous Legion Star, and a few keepsakes from Tummuz Orgmeen. Here he put the silver-backed comb that Miranswa had given him. As he did so, he kissed it and whispered her name.

Then he went down to the quartermaster stores and obtained a regulationary comb, a crude thing of wood, manufactured in Kadein.

Then he brought water and refilled Bazil's water tank and checked that the dragon still slept.

Sitting there with nothing to do but polish bits of equipment for the next unit parade, he quickly grew bored. After a while Relkin rose and flung himself out of the Dragon House. He headed out the gate into the fairgrounds again, but ignoring the roar of the crowd from the dragon bouts, instead meandered down the road to the town.

At the rear of the Sand Pie Inn, he loitered and was rewarded after a while by the appearance of a girl emptying a box of ashes from the kitchens.

"'Hullo, Dacy," he said, and took the box from her hands.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, and she smiled coyly.

"Why, it's my dashing dragoneer, Relkin of the 109th."

"The very same."

He hauled the heavy box over to the ash heap, dumped it out, then gave it back to her.

"And would my angel of the Sand Pie Inn have a moment or two to dally with me?"

Dacy was in a playful mood. His hopes rose.

"I might, if I knew who the dashing dragoneer was going to take to the end-of-games dance. I might very well stay and dally a moment."

"What a coincidence! I was just going to ask if you would care to go to the dance with me."

Dacy smiled, and leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

He reached out to take her hand, but she withdrew it quickly and rolled her eyes.

"But first I need to know if you're old enough for me. How old are you, Relkin?"

He swallowed. Dacy was barely sixteen. This he was sure of. He'd found out by bribing her youngest sibling, a boy of seven who was partial to rock candy. He was older than she by a year, but he was still barely old enough for some strange, irrational reason. He who had lain with Miranswa Zudeina in the Temple of the Goddess Gingo-La. He who had fought in battles up and down the continent, he was unsure about this subject more than anything, and it left him feeling inadequate.

"Seventeen, I think."

"You think?"

"Well, I could be more, maybe even eighteen; it's hard to say."

Her eyebrows had narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he began, "I don't really know when I was born. I was raised in the orphanage, like all the dragonboys."

She smiled wickedly.

"Well, not quite all, Dragoneer Manuel has a family. Quite distinguished, really."

So Manuel had been playing up to Dacy, too. Relkin was furious, but glad to have the information.

"So will you be coming with me to the dance, then?"

She looked away into the distance.

"Well, perhaps. I'll think about it."

"Go on, say yes, Dacy. I can do all the new dances."

"Mmm, so you say. I'll have to think about it."

Piqued, he stepped down. "Well, in that case, it sounds like I'll have to ask someone else to the dance."

Her eyebrows rose. "You do that and I'll never go anywhere with you again."

"This hardly seems fair."

He never got her response to that because the door opened and a tall lout named Dert Waller lurched out and crashed down the steps. He noted Relkin's uniform.

"Hey, dragonboy, guess what I saw today over at Fresham Landing?"

Relkin did not really want to know. Damn, now Dacy was looking at hulking Dert instead of at her ardent dragoneer. The moment was wasting away.

"Trader there by the name of Dook, he's got a wild dragon he captured up on Mt. Ulmo along with two little ones, a whole damn family. All in cages on the dock. Rare angry beasts they are, I can tell you."

"What's he want with a wild dragon?" Relkin was instinctively hostile to anything involving mistreatment of dragons. A family of dragons? He felt a strong foreboding.

"He's taking them to Ourdh to sell to the circus. Think's he's going to make his fortune."

"By the breath, that's so"—Relkin struggled for words, anger rising in his chest—"so damnably stupid."

"Yeah"—Dert waved a hand and disappeared into the stables—"whatever."

Dacy picked up the ash box and opened the door.

"Darling Dacy, what about the end-of-games dance?"

"I don't know right now. Ask me tomorrow. I'm going to think about it."

She flounced inside, and Relkin was left with the terrible news provided by Dert Waller.

A family of dragons? Captured on Mt. Ulmo. With a sudden flash of realization he knew it could only mean one thing.

He went down to the dockside where a gang of stevedores unloaded a schooner. Sacks of grain were piled on carts and hauled away by teams of mules. The movements were methodical, the scene peaceful. The river Argo, here joined by the tributary river Dally, was half a mile wide, swift and deep. On the far side, the land rose up through pinewoods to the yellow bluffs. The sun dappled the water through the clouds.

A captive wild dragon, most likely a dragoness, and with voung. He would have to tell Bazil. He knew what that meant. Relkin had spent two miserable spring leaves sitting in the damp, freezing woods on Mt. Ulmo hoping for the return of his dragon's ladylove, a fiery green dragoness. Once Bazil knew of this captive dragoness, there could only be one course of action.

Turrent, he had to ask Turrent, tell him how important this was. Surely the dragon leader would see the point.

He hastened back up the hill, ignoring the riotous sounds of the festival grounds and went straight to the dragon leader's office.

By that time his initial confidence in this course of action had diminished. Turrent might refuse permission. He might order a watch set to keep Bazil within the fort.

He saw the office door open while he was still twenty-five paces away. The dragon leader came out, followed by a dragonboy. He spun around, walked back to the corner, and slipped out of sight. He was sure that they had not seen him. He went instead to the main gate and tried at the office of General Wegan.

The guard took his name and a slip on which he noted, "My dragon is about to desert."

He waited half an hour in the cold antechamber. Messengers came and left every few minutes. Then the inner door opened and two commanders, Oaks of the 3rd and Sunter of the 8th, came in.

Relkin gave them his crispest salute. Commander Sunter returned it, and pointed him out to Commander Oaks, a tall man with a pointed grey beard and a friendly smile.

"Looks a bit young for a Legion Star," he heard Oaks mutter.

The guard was signaling to him.

"General wants to see you inside."

Wegan had replaced old General Paxion in the spring. He had brought a brisk efficiency to the fort, but the legion had not yet warmed to him. Wegan knew he was replacing a legend. Ol' Pax had taken not only the legion, but an entire expeditionary force and preserved it through the terrible ordeal of the siege of Ourdh.

Wegan also knew that the broketail dragon was a legend in the legion, indeed in the entire army. The hero of Tummuz Orgmeen, he had also been in the final battle in the pits of the dark city of Dzu. Wegan did not want to have trouble with that particular dragon. It would be all over the legions in no time.

Wegan also disliked the thought of captive dragons being sold down in Ourdh. He wished he could do something to stop it officially, but his powers were limited to wyvern dragons, the wingless battle dragons of the legion. He could ask the civil authorities to take action, but he knew they would move too slowly to prevent the trader leaving for Ourdh.

Then he had what seemed like a brilliant idea. If the dragon had a family, then he deserved family leave, which he had never had and was entitled to. The general made out a special order on the spot, signed it, and gave it to Relkin.

"Take whatever transport you can find and get down there. The trader Dook will have to be stopped. I will send an order at once."

Relkin mumbled thanks and then ran to the Dragon House.

Inside he found Bazil stirring from sleep, scratching a big leathery ear and yawning every so often.

At Relkin's news, the dragon's big eyes popped and his huge hands came out and seized the dragonboy up around the chest.

"Sometimes dragonboy worth his weight in gold, I think." Then he deposited Relkin high up on top of their closet while he shifted great reptile limbs in a spontaneous jig that shook their cubicle's walls.

Relkin vaulted down, dug out his pack, and began to fill it. The dragon thrust his great sword Ecator in its scabbard, and strapped it over his shoulder. Relkin threw him his helmet. They both seized their waxed-cloth rain capes, and in a few moments were out the door, hurrying to the main gate while Relkin explained that General Wegan had given them a special pass.

They marched down to the dockside, ignoring the sallies of the Kenor folk gathered at the booths. The broketail dragon was well-known in Dalhousie and accepted as a kind of giant mascot.

A woman thrust a bag of pastries into Relkin's hand. A man threw up a bunch of roses. Baz caught it with his tail and a moment later used it to drop the roses into the arms of a dark-haired girl serving at a hot-bun stall. The people at the stall cheered, and the cheer was taken up at intervals all the way down the hill to the town.

They went straight to the dockside and Relkin used the pass from General Wegan to commandeer their passage on the schooner
Starkaor
, which had finished loading with beer from the Dalhousie brewery. The brew was destined for several stops along the river reaches just below Dalhousie. The first of these would be at Fresham Landing.

The schooner unshipped from the dock and clapped on light sail to get out into the current. She turned her bow downstream and slipped quickly out of Dalhousie harbor and away.

Relkin took himself to a bunk and snoozed, but Bazil stood by the rail on the schooner's bows and stared downstream, willing himself closer to her, the dragoness he had dreamed of for two years now.

There were young! He was a father, of at least two! His heart swelled with pride. To fertilize the eggs of a female dragon while serving in the legions was difficult. Generally, it was the task of those dragons who survived their legion service, or were wounded and mustered out and returned to the villages of Argonath to aid the agricultural effort. Bazil felt the tug of new emotions, feelings of paternity, warm and simultaneously fierce boiled within him.

All afternoon they hurried downstream through the Soda Reach with the purple hills of Strom rising to the south and the endless expanse of the steppe to the north. The river bisected the landscape from here until its junction with the Oon. The change was quite abrupt. On the south were forests of oak, pine, beech, and hemlock. On the north, a straggle of trees limned the river itself, but then this faded out and tall grass prairie began, which went on, flat and unbroken, to the horizon.