Dragon Ultimate (18 page)

"You ask many questions, great Gring."

"Of course, you are to be my guide in the eastern lands. There is much I will need to know."

Higul stepped closer to the batrukh, which was eyeing him hungrily. "I hope it has had its dinner today."

"He ate a young pony an hour ago on the Gan."

"You watched, I suppose."

Gring remained impassive. "You have ridden a batrukh before?"

"Once."

"Then you know what you must do."

Higul ignored the look in those wicked eyes and stepped up to the stirrup and hoisted himself over its neck and into the small saddle. The Mesomaster followed, climbing into the second saddle just in front.

The batrukh stood up and sprang forward a few times as the wings unfolded. Then it bounded up and beat its way into the sky with sheer brute power. Higul gripped the monster's huge neck as tightly as he possibly could and tried not to look down. The immense body warmed as the huge wing muscles beat furiously, hauling them into the sky. Soon the ground was no more than a gray enormity spread to the far horizon under the moon.

The man's face contorted in a scream. The eyes bulged in the head; the skull deformed and became something else—a rising serpent, a giant moth, a thing of webs and tissues that hissed death at him. He felt himself turn, gliding across the land and saw drifts of the dead, heaps and windrows, huge mounds of corpses rising into the sky.

The very land breathed in sorrow, the gods shed their tears in gray torrents, but death marched on victorious, riding his pale horse, carrying the long scythe with which to cut men down and stack them like the corn.

He wished there was something he could do, but there was not. He notched the arrow. He raised the bow. The man's face was open wide, mouth a black circle, eyes bulging, lungs screaming. Wil, was his name, Wil Fansher.

Relkin drifted toward a dream shoreline littered with bodies, which thickened occasionally into drifts, moving backward and forward in the shifting surf. The oceans were gray and greasy, the skies ominous. Death rode over all.

And then again Wil Fansher came on, still screaming, and Relkin raised his bow. Fansher's face became the target, his right eye the bulls-eye. With a sick feeling in his heart he prepared to release.

And woke up to the nudge of a large, well-tended talon against his ribs. There was someone sobbing for breath, and after a few seconds he realized it was himself.

"Boy have dream again."

The dream. The same damned dream. It still haunted him, even now, months after the plague had died out.

They were in Razac, at Camp Fairwood, on their way to Fort Dalhousie. Having survived the plagues without loss, the 109th had been immediately pressed into service. The High Command had ordered all available troops to head for the Argo valley. This was the old, dilapidated dragonhouse in Razac. It was night, and it was warm and muggy.

"Sorry." He shook his head sadly. "I don't know why I keep having that dream."

"Boy kill men before, many times. This was just one more man you killed. You were ordered to kill man. It was your duty. Why it haunt you so?"

It seemed crazy. Bazil was right. Dragonboys soon lost that elemental guilt from killing another being. It happened too often in their lives. And yet, poor hysterical Wil Fansher tormented his dreams.

"He wasn't an enemy, you know? It's not good to kill Marneri folk."

"You say this about Aubinans. I understand what you say. But you not sweat in night for Aubinans."

"His name was Wil, and his wife had just died and he had lost his mind. I could feel his insanity, feel his pain." Relkin willed the dragon to understand. He'd felt that poor man's mind, torn to shreds by grief and fever. Felt it right inside his own, and then he'd shot Will Fansher dead.

"I've changed, Baz, I'm not who I was. Sometimes I think I'm losing my own mind."

There was a reassuring chuckle in the dark.

"You not only dragonboy to do that. Half of them are lost, thinks this dragon."

Relkin sighed wearily. "Yeah, well it's no wonder considering."

"We fight again soon. That will settle your mind, if you live."

Relkin chewed the inside of his lip and hugged himself against his fears. He wasn't who he'd been. Something in his core had shifted on that great and terrible day in Mirchaz. To be the vessel for so much power could unhinge a man's mind,

Relkin had no doubt of it. He had stood before the great gates of the city of the elven lords. He had raised his hand, and fire had blasted the gates asunder bringing down the dynasty of the Lords Tetraan.

How was he supposed to stay the same after that?

He shivered, but not because he was cold. For solace he turned his thoughts to war. The dragon was right, there was bound to be fighting in their future once again. The plagues had been intended to soften up the Argonath. Now the enemy would take the field to try their strength. It was the perfect way for Padmasa to retake the offensive. With both Axoxo and Tummuz Orgmeen occupied by Legion troops, the Argonath was stretched thin on the military end even before the plagues. Now Legion numbers were drastically reduced. A program of recruitment had been begun, but it would be months before the new recruits would be trained. For now they would have to hold their lines with what they had, which was barely enough.

The enemy was sure to attack, and soon. And considering that the Argonath still held the great fortresses at either end of the White Bones Mountains, the attack would be sure to come across the Gan toward the mouth of the River Argo.

Relkin was already convinced that the fighting would be in the old battleground of the lower Argo valley. Fort Kenor sat up on the flank of Mount Kenor and commanded the whole region. Below the fort the Argo River wound across the flat land like a silver-gray snake toward the enormous silvery mass laid across the horizon all down the west, the Oon, the great river, several miles across at that point in its course. The winter winds whipped across the Gan and over the river before coming up against the mountain with a wicked snap that could cut through two freecoats and a sweater and leave you chilled to the bone.

"Got to take freecoats, it'll be cold up there."

"Where?"

"Fort Kenor."

Bazil remembered Fort Kenor. A cold winter with boring duty for the most part.

"That's where the fighting will be."

"Of course, dragonboy knows this. Dragonboy knows more than general, right?"

"No. But I know that there'll be fighting down there. Even a dragonboy can see that."

The dragon did not respond. Dragonboy think he know everything, it was always the same.

While the dragon began to snore, Relkin lay awake for a while thinking of Eilsa, and then of the village of Quosh. The village had come through the plagues pretty well. Quosh was fortunate there, making up for the misfortune of being caught up in a wild battle the year before, which was a precursor to the rebellion in Aubinas. They were still rebuilding, down by the village green where the fires had burned just about everything.

His thoughts fluttered back to Eilsa, as they usually did at this time of day. He prayed that she was well, and healing and recovering. He prayed that they would be reunited for good someday soon, if he should live through the upcoming campaign. Finally he slid back to sleep with the image of an extra freecoat in his mind. And blankets!

The plagues had devastated Dalhousie, the big military town on the Upper Argo. The 109th debarked from the barges from Razac at the Dalhousie dock and marched up to the fort through the town. Empty shopfronts and boarded-up houses were common. The crowds were sparse and gaunt-faced. By some estimates half the population had died or fled from one or the other of the plagues.

It was painful to see the old town so down on its luck. The older dragonboys had served plenty of time in Dalhousie, and they were shocked by the state of the place.

The fort was similarly half-empty, except for the dragonhouse, which was full of the dragons of the 145th Marneri. The 109th marched into the fort under the pennon of the Eighth Regiment, with the cornet shrieking a welcome. Much of the housing in the lines, where the soldiers lived, was empty. At the kitchens the crowd was more manageable than usual for a soldier's camp.

First out to greet them were the pack of young leatherbacks, with Hep, Kapper, and Jumble in front. Then three big brasshides, Rudder, Chepmat, and Vaunce shouldered through the mob. Vaunce was a rarity, a pale purple wyvern, a color only seen on brasshides, called "crullo." Nearly all of these dragons had lost their dragonboys to the plague.

Once he'd seen Bazil into quarters, Relkin went down to the kitchen for a wheeled tub of noodles, slathered in akh. The fires were blazing, but not all the ovens were lit. Still, there was the smell of fresh-baked bread and frying chicken. Noodles were dumped out from enormous cauldrons and akh was poured from five-gallon jugs. Dragonboys from all over the Argonath were milling around.

Standing next to him was a beanpole, at least a head taller than Relkin. He nodded and stooped a little as he introduced himself.

"Welcome back to Dalhousie. I'm Ralf, 145th Marneri."

"Thanks. I'm Relkin of the 109th."

Ralf's eyes got wide.

"You're Relkin?" he said, as if surprised.

Relkin smiled. "You were expecting a giant, seven feet tall?"

"No, of course not. Sorry. But if you're Relkin, then they sent the 109th up from Marneri to replace us."

"Right."

"By the Hand, but, well, I think it's an honor."

"I thank you, Ralf, for your kind words. What's the situation with the dragons here?"

"Not so good, really. I'm the only dragonboy left. We've got the services of five stableboys, part-time, plus the Dragon Leader, who has pitched in with a will. Dragon Leader Hussey is one of the best, but it's not enough. We've got a lot of little nagging problems. Vaunce, the crullo, has a soft plate that needs skin toughener a lot of the time. Stableboys don't know how to do these things. They can't cut talon either. We've got three split talons now. Rudder has a bad one; I think it might infect."

"Well, we've got ten dragonboys, so we'll pitch in. Let's get together right after they finish feeding."

"Over by the pump, then."

Relkin rolled the tub of noodles back to the dragonhouse and saw that Bazil was set up for dinner. Once again he marveled at the flexible natures of the wyvern dragon's appetite. Wyverns would eat anything that moved, of course, but they also enjoyed man-made foods like bread and pasta. Relkin had half a loaf of fresh-baked himself, with some salt pork and sour pickles. He washed it down with a cup of weakbeer, then roused himself to go out to meet Ralf. He took his kit bag with Old Sugustus, needle and thread, cutters, scissors, and the rest.

Along the way he passed the word to others. Jak came out with him, as did Manuel and Endi. They met Ralf in the pump room and accompanied him down to the 145th's row of stalls.

There was a lot to do.

Rudder was a big, healthy-looking brasshide, in the usual tan to ocher shade. However the second talon on his right front hand was badly split and already swollen with infection. Rudder's dragonboy had succumbed to the plague on the first day. Rudder had been in the care of stableboys pretty much ever since, and he looked it. In addition to the split talon, he had a dozen scrapes and untended bruises and rips all over him. Wyvern dragons were big and boisterous, and they exercised hard. Dragonboys always had work to do.

Manuel and Jak mused together about the danger while they looked in their kits. Rudder was in pain, but hardly showed it. Typical brasshide behavior, of course. Brasses could be tricky. Just because they were big and a little slow didn't mean they weren't complicated.

Jak saw the need for stitches to a cut on the left shoulder. Manuel decided to lance the infection around the talon and bleed out pus before soaking with Old Sugustus and packing the wound with honey under a clean bandage. Rudder listened with keen attention, big eyes going from one to the other.