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Three days of idleness and confusion about their provision reduced AuSurath the Red’s forty dragons and riders to something more like an irritated gang than like the stronger half of the Aerial Host.
He swelled with pride every time he considered that he captained these dragons and their riders, probably the most powerful fighting force under the sun. Even the Tyr’s Demen Legion wouldn’t stand a chance against it, aboveground or below.
Which made lounging in the summer sun, waiting for a new set of orders, all the more frustrating.
Something had rattled NiVom. That was the only explanation that made sense to AuSurath the Red. Indecision was bad for morale from top to bottom. The flight lines sensed confusion at the top and it made them nervous. The officers had the frustration of seeing plans cast aside and replaced by last-moment improvisation—then when the improvisation didn’t work out, they were blamed for inadequate planning and leadership.
This sort of confusion weakened the dragons and their riders and left them vulnerable. They would have accepted delays and disorder had they only camped a horizon or two into Ironrider territory across the river. Empty bellies were expected on a campaign, almost as a planned incentive to make them edgy and in a fighting mood.
He’d been proud of them until now. The campaign against the princedoms of the Sunstruck Sea proceeded well, with only two casualties, and those were just wounds to dragons who would return to duty. This despite the fierceness of the Heavy Wing of the Aerial Host’s zeal to avenge their losses from the Fallen Queen’s Feast in Ghioz. They’d grown expert at tower-baiting, waiting for the southerners to launch their missiles, then dropping or bouncing boulders in to wreck the fortifications. Courier after courier returned to the Sun King’s palace at Ghioz bearing the choicest of the valuables sniffed up from gardens and wells, while the rest went down hungry gullets to replace arrow-loosened scale.
Yes, he could be rightfully proud of the job they were doing on the turban-wearing humans.
Then new orders came from NiVom, bearing his seal. They were to disengage as soon as practicable with an eye toward preserving the campaign camps, or within two full days of receiving the orders, whichever came first, and fly immediately to the Iwensi Gap, where the Falnges River flowed down to Hypat through the Red Mountains. There they’d be supplied by barges while they reorganized with the remainder of the Aerial Host for a campaign in northern Hypatia.
They retreated from the campaign, covering the ground forces that had to walk and take rivercraft for as long as they could, then turning northwest for Dairuss. They flew with minimal rest and no food, and made the landing along the riverbank after three very hard days of flight. The weather was idyllic, wonderful summer weather and at just enough of an altitude to allow for pleasantly cool nights, and the dragons recovered their strength with but one day of rest, aided by baths and great draughts of river water from the clean center channel.
A second order was waiting for them at the landing, and this one caused dismay in AuSurath. It simply read: Wait for further orders.
Idiots! If they were going to wait, why couldn’t they have ordered them to a city with garrison facilities? The City of the Golden Dome, the capital of Dairuss and Mother’s Protectorate, was less than half a day’s flight away. There were old halls to serve as sleeping shelter, markets full of food, an Imperial paymaster to draw funds, diversions for the men, and hunting in the mountains for the dragons. Everything his wing needed to wait for NiVom to decide where to send them.
Instead, they sat on the riverbank, supplying the mosquitoes with generous helpings of hominid blood (the dragons urinated in bits of rag and stuffed them in their ears to keep the mosquitoes away and out of the one area of their hide that was vulnerable to the tiny insect lances), but all the men could do was soothe the bites with river-mud.
AuSurath called his officers together. Nothing to do but organize some kind of games or entertainments. Perhaps the men could cook for the dragons, or the dragons could cook for the men.
They’d commandeered some of the fishermen’s catch. It would be enough to feed the riders properly, anyway. An enterprising rider had found beds of wild onions beside the river, so skewered fish and onions looked to be the menu, unless one of the promised supply barges arrived. As for entertainments, there was a good deal of driftwood along the riverbank that hadn’t yet been gathered for cooking fires. Perhaps they could have some kind of carving contest, with the winning dragon and rider pair being given a trip back to the palace at Ghioz to figure out just what in the glowering mood was the reason for this hungry delay.
Their meager dinner was interrupted by the arrival of the Commander of the Aerial Host.
AuSurath hated to see his dragons lined up for review showing muddy snouts, but they had been reduced to plunging their jaws in among the reeds and sucking in mouthfuls of mud and slackwater to catch frogs, fish, snakes, crayfish, worms, and water beetles. Hardly a diet that made for champion warriors, but until the barges arrived or he received orders to disperse some of his wing to hunt Ironrider lands, he had to do something to keep his dragons with the energy to fly and breathe fire.
They’d set up a command tent by stretching casualty netting between two large willow trees and weaving in reeds and willow-streamers. At night, the Dragonriders slept in it. It kept out the sun and burning fragrant wood kept some of the biting bugs down.
BaMelphistran, Grand Commander of the Aerial Host, grunted as he reviewed the Heavies. He had a newly fledged messenger with him, still wet about the wings.
“You’re down how many fighting pairs?” BaMelphistran asked, nodding in recognition at AuSurath’s rider, Gundar.
“Three. Two casualties, one on messenger duty.”
“Ah. Well done, considering you’ve been on campaign since spring.”
“Thank you, sir,” AuSurath said.
“Still, you could polish your scale while waiting for orders.”
“Red attracts enough attention in battle without adding polish, sir.”
Still, he passed word for a couple of men to attend to his scale. The Grand Commander liked to see limbs in motion as soon as he gave an order.
“I’ve bad news for you, son,” BaMelphistran went on. “Your sister’s joined a mutiny.”
He didn’t feel any particular emotion at the news. He hadn’t seen Istach in years, and never much liked her anyway. Too quiet and thoughtful. He liked lively, talkative dragonelles who enjoyed tricks and jokes and quick, flirtatious passes overhead. “Istach always was an ingrown scale. To be honest, sir, I’m not surprised.”
“Not your sister in Old Uldam. It’s Varatheela, in the Light Wing.”
“Varatheela? She’s not imaginative enough to be a mutineer. Your sources have the story wrong, I suppose.”
“CuSarrath himself,” BaMelphistran said. “The former Tyr RuGaard has gone mad and is committing suicide in a spectacular fashion. He’s walking—walking, mind you—all the way across Hypatia to his mate’s refuge to reclaim her. Several dragons of the Lights are fool enough to follow him. I’m sure when it’s all over they’ll claim they pretended to join him, just to see if there was a larger conspiracy at work, but it will be good fun stopping them, especially if he decides to remain on the Old North Road and on foot.”
