Dragons of a Lost Star

5 Dragon Flight

The stables of the Dark Knights were located a considerable distance from Qualinesti. Not surprising, Gerard considered, since the stables housed a blue dragon. He had never been there, never had occasion to go, and had only a vague idea where the stables were. Medan’s directions were easy to follow, however, and guided Gerard unerringly. Mindful of the necessity for haste, he advanced at a jogging run. Gerard was soon winded, however. His wounds from his battle with the draconian throbbed. He’d had very little sleep, and he was weighted down with his armor. The thought that at the end of all this toil he would confront a blue dragon did not bring ease to his sore muscles or lighten the weight of his armor. Just the reverse.

He smelled the stables before he could see them. They were surrounded by a stockade with guards at the entrance. Alert and wary, they hailed him the moment they heard his footsteps. He replied with the proper code word and handed over Medan’s orders. The guards peered at these intently, looked closely at Gerard, whom they did not recognize. There was no mistaking Medan’s seal, however, and they let him pass.

The stables housed horses, griffons, and dragons, although not in the same location. Low, sprawling wooden buildings housed the horses. The griffons had their nests atop a cliff. Griffons prefer the heights, and they had to be kept far from the horses so that the horses were not made nervous by the smell of the beasts. The blue dragon, Gerard learned, was stabled in a cave beneath the cliff.

One of the stable hands offered to take Gerard to the dragon, and, his heart sinking so low that he seemed to walk on it with every reluctant step, Gerard agreed. They were forced to wait, however, due to the arrival of another blue dragon bearing a rider. The blue landed in a clearing near the horse stables, sending the horses into a panic. Gerard’s guide left him, ran to calm the horses. Other stable hands shouted imprecations at the dragonrider, telling him he’d landed in the wrong spot and shaking their fists at him.

The dragonrider ignored them. Sliding from his saddle, brushed away their jeers.

“I am from Lord Targonne,” he said brusquely. “I have urgent orders for Marshal Medan. Fetch down one of the griffons to take me to headquarters and then see to my dragon. I want him properly housed and fed for the return flight. I leave tomorrow.”

At the mention of the name Targonne, the stable hands shut their mouths and scattered to obey the Knight’s commands. Several led the blue dragon to the caves beneath the mountains, while others began the long process of trying to whistle down one of thegriffons. The proceeding took some time, for griffons are notoriously ill-tempered and will pretend to be deaf to a command in the hope that their master will eventually give up and go away.

Gerard was interested to hear what news the Dark Knight was taking with such speed to Medan. Seeing the Knight wipe his mouth, Gerard removed the flask from his belt.

“You appear to thirst, sir,” he said, holding out the flask.

“I don’t suppose you have any brandy in there?” asked the Knight, eyeing the flask eagerly.

“Water, I’m sorry to say,” said Gerard.

The Knight shrugged, seized the flask and drank. His thirst slaked, he handed the flask back to Gerard. “I’ll drink the Marshal’s brandy when I meet with him.” He eyed Gerard curiously. “Are you coming or going?”

“Going,” said Gerard. “A mission for Marshal Medan. I heard you say you’ve come from Lord Targonne. How has his lordship reacted to the news that Beryl is attacking Qualinesti?”

The Knight shrugged, looked around with disdain. “Marshal Medan is the ruler of a backwater province. Hardly surprising that he was caught off-guard by the dragon’s actions. I assure you, sir, Lord Targonne was not.”

Gerard sighed deeply. “You have no idea how hard this duty is. Stuck here among these filthy elves who think that just because they live for centuries that makes them better than us. Can’t get a mug of good ale to save your soul. As to the women, they’re all so blasted snooty and proud.

“I’ll tell you the truth, though.” Gerard edged closer, lowered his voice. “They really want us, you know. Elf women like us human men. They just pretend they don’t. They lead a fellow on and then scream when he tries to take what’s been offered.”

“I hear the Marshal sides with the vermin.” The Knight’s lip curled. Gerard snorted. “The Marshal—he’s more elf than human, if you ask me. Won’t let us have any fun. My guess is that’s about to change.”

The Knight gave Gerard a knowing look. “Let’s just say that wherever you’re going, you’d best hurry back, or you’re going to miss out.”

Gerard regarded the Knight with admiration and envy. “I’d give anything to be posted at headquarters. Must be really exciting, being around his lordship. I’ll bet you know everything that’s happening in the whole world.”

“I know my share,” the Knight stated, rocking back on his heels and regarding the very stars in the sky with proprietory interest. “Actually I’m considering moving here. There’ll be land for the asking soon. Elf land and fancy elf houses. And elf women, if that’s what you like.” He gave Gerard a disparaging glance. “Personally I wouldn’t want to touch one of the cold, clammy hags. Turns my stomach to think of it. You had best have your fun with one of them fast, though, or she might not be around for the taking.”

Gerard was able now to guess the import of Targonne’s orders to Medan. He saw quite clearly the plan the Lord of the Night had in mind, and he was sickened by it. Seize elven property and elven homes, murder the owners, and hand the wealth out as gifts to loyal members of the Knighthood. Gerard’s hand tightened around his sword. He would have liked to turn this Knight’s proud stomach—turn it inside out. He would have to forego the pleasure. Leave that to Marshal Medan.

The Knight slapped his gloves against his thigh and glanced over at the stable hands, who were yelling at the griffons, who were continuing to ignore them.

“Louts!” he said impatiently. “I suppose I must do this myself. Well, a good journey to you, sir.”

“And to you, sir,” said Gerard. He watched the Knight stalk off to bully the stable hands, striking them with his fist when they did not give him the answers he thought he deserved. The stable hands slunk away, leaving the Knight to yell for the griffons himself.

“Bastard,” said one of the men, nursing a bruised cheek. “Now we’ll be up all night tending to his blasted dragon.”

“I wouldn’t work too hard at it,” said Gerard. “I think the Knight’s errand will take longer than he anticipates. Far longer.”

The stable hand cast Gerard a sulky glance and, rubbing his cheek, led Gerard to the cave of the Marshal’s blue dragon.

Gerard prepared nervously to meet the blue by recalling every bit of information he’d ever heard about dragons. Of primary importance would be controlling the dragonfear, which he had heard could be extremely debilitating. He took a firm grip on his courage and hoped he would do nothing to disgrace himself.

The stable hands brought the dragon forth from his lair. Razor was a magnificent sight. The sunlight gleamed on his blue scales. His head was elegantly shaped, eyes keen, nostrils flared. He moved with sinuous grace. Gerard had never been this close to a dragon, any dragon. The dragonfear touched Gerard, but the dragon was not exerting his power to panic the human, and Gerard felt the fear as awe and wonder.

The dragon, aware that he was being admired, shook his crest and flexed his wings, lashed his tail about.

An elderly man left the dragon’s side, walked over to Gerard. The old man was short and bowlegged and scrawny. Squinty eyes were almost lost in a web of wrinkles, and he peered at Gerard with intense curiosity and suspicion.

“I am Razor’s trainer, sir,” said the old man. “I’ve never known the Marshal to allow another person on his dragon’s back. What’s going on?”

Gerard handed over Medan’s orders. The old man stared at them with equal intensity, held the seal close to his nose to see it with what was probably his single good eye. Gerard thought for a moment that the old man was going to keep him from leaving, and he didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” the old man muttered and handed back the orders. He looked at Gerard’s armor, raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not thinking of taking to the air in that, are you, sir?”

“I. . . I suppose . . .” Gerard stammered.

The old man was scandalized. “You’d freeze your privates off!” He shook his head. “Now if you was going into battle on dragonback, yes, you’d want all that there metal, but you’re not. You’re flying far and you’re flying fast. I have some old leathers of the Marshal’s that’ll fit you. Might be a trifle big, but they’ll do. Is there any special way you would like us to place the saddle, sir? The Marshal prefers it set just back of the shoulder blades, but I’ve known other riders who want it between the wings. They claim the flight is smoother.”

“I. . . I don’t really know. . . .” Gerard looked at the dragon, and the knowledge struck home that he was really going to have go through with this.

“By Our Queen,” stated the old man, amazed. “You’ve never sat a dragon afore, have you?”

Gerard confessed, red-faced, that he had not. “I hope it is not difficult,”

he added, remembering vividly learning to ride a horse. If he fell off the dragon as many times as he fell off the horse . . .

“Razor is a veteran, Sir Knight,” stated the old man proudly. “He is a thorough soldier. Disciplined, obeys orders. Not temperamental like some of these blues can be. He and the general fought together as a team during the Chaos War and after. But when those freakish, bloated dragons came and began killing their own kind, the Marshal kept Razor hidden away. Razor wasn’t happy about that, mind you. The rows they had.”

The old man shook his head. He squinted up at Gerard. “I think I’m beginning to understand after all.” He nodded his wizened head. “I’ve heard the rumors that the Green Bitch was heading this way.”

He leaned close to Gerard, spoke in a loud whisper. “Don’t let on to Razor, though, sir. If he thought he’d have a chance at that green beast what killed his mate, he’d stay and fight, Marshal or no Marshal. You just take him safe away from here, Sir Knight. Good luck to the both of you.”

Gerard opened his mouth to say that he and Razor would be returning to fight just as soon as he had delivered his message, but he shut it again, fearing to say too much. Let the old man think what he wanted.

“Will. . . Razor mind that I am not Marshal Medan?” Gerard asked hesitantly. “I wouldn’t want to upset the dragon. He might refuse to carry me.”

“Razor is dedicated to the Marshal, sir, but once he understands that Medan has sent you, he will serve you well. This way, sir. I’ll introduce you.”

Razor listened attentively as a nearly tongue-tied Gerard haltingly explained his mission and exhibited Medan’s orders.

“Where is our destination?” Razor demanded.

“I am not permitted to reveal that, yet,” Gerard said apologetically. “I am to tell you once we are airborne. The fewer who know, the better.”

The dragon gave a shake of his head to indicate his readiness to obey. He was not the talkative sort, apparently, and after that single question, he lapsed into disciplined silence.

Saddling the dragon took some time, not because Razor in any way hindered the operation, but the act of positioning the saddle and the harness with its innumerable buckles and straps was a complex and time-consuming procedure. Gerard put on the “leathers,” consisting of a padded leather tunic with long sleeves that he pulled on over a pair of thick leather breeches. Leather gloves protected the hands. A leather cap that resembled an executioner’s hood fit over his head, protected both head and neck. The leather tunic was overlarge, the leather pants were stiff, the leather helm stifling. Gerard found it almost impossible to see out of the eye-slits and wondered why they even bothered. The insignia of the Dark Knights—the death lily and the skull—had been incorporated into the stitching of the padding.

Other than that and his sword, nothing else marked Gerard as a Dark Knight. He placed the precious letter safely in a leather pack, tied the pack tightly to the dragon’s saddle.

The sun was high in the sky by the time both dragon and rider were ready to leave. Gerard mounted the dragon awkwardly, requiring assistance from the stable hands and the dragon, who bore his incompetence with exemplary patience. Red-faced and embarrassed, Gerard had barely grasped the reins in his hand when Razor gave a galvanized leap straight into the air, powering himself upward with the strong muscles of his hind legs.

The jolt drove Gerard’s stomach down somewhere around his boots, and he held on so tightly his fingers lost all feeling and went numb. But when the dragon spread his wings and soared into the morning, Gerard’s spirit soared with him.

He had never before understood why anyone would want to be a part of a dragon-wing. He understood then. The experience of flight was exhilarating as well as terrifying. Memories came to him of childish dreams of flying like the eagles. He had even attempted to do so himself by jumping off the barn roof with arms extended, only to crash into a hayrick, nearly breaking his neck. A thrill of excitement warmed his blood and diluted the fear in his belly.

Watching the ground fall away beneath him, he marveled at the strange feeling that it was the world that was leaving him, not the other way around. He was entranced by the silence, a silence that was whole and complete, not what is termed silence by the land-bound. That silence is made up of various small sounds that are so constant we no longer hear them: the chirping of birds, the rustling of the wind in the leaves, the sound of distant voices, the murmur of brook and stream.

Gerard could hear nothing except the creak of the tendons of the dragon’s wings, and when the dragon floated on the thermals, he could not hear even that. The silence filled him with a sensation of peace, euphoria. He was no longer a part of the world. He floated above its cares, its woes, its problems. He felt weightless, as if he had shed his bulky flesh and bone. The thought of going back down, of gaining back the weight, of resuming the burden, was suddenly abhorrent. He could have flown forever, flown to the place the sun went when it set, flown to places where the moon hid.

The dragon cleared the treetops.

“What direction?” Razor shouted, his voice booming, shaking Gerard out of his reverie.

“North,” Gerard shouted. The wind rushing past his head whipped the words from his mouth. The dragon turned his head to hear better.

“Solanthus.”

Razor’s eye regarded him askance, and Gerard was afraid the dragon might refuse. Solanthus was in nominally free territory. The Solamnic Knights had transformed Solanthus into a heavily fortified city, probably the most heavily fortified in all of Ansalon. Razor might very well wonder why he was being ordered to fly into an enemy stronghold, and if he didn’t like the answer he might decide to dump Gerard from the saddle. Gerard was ready with an explanation, but the dragon explained the situation to himself.

“Ah, a reconnaissance mission,” he said and adjusted his course. Razor maintained silence during the flight. This suited Gerard, who was preoccupied with his own thoughts, dark thoughts that cast a shadow over the beautiful panorama of the landscape sliding away far beneath him. He had spoken hopefully, positively of being able to persuade the Solamnic Knights to come to Qualinesti’s aid, but now that he was on his way, he began to doubt that he would be able to persuade them.

“Sir,” said Razor, “look below.”

Gerard looked, and his heart seemed to plummet to the ground.

“Drop down,” he ordered the dragon. He didn’t know if he could be heard, and he accompanied his words with a gesture of his gloved hand. “I want a better view.”

The dragon swooped out of the clouds, circled slowly in a descending spiral.

“That’s close enough,” said Gerard, indicating with a gesture that the dragon was to remain stationary.

Gerard bent over the saddle, grasping it with his gloved hands, and looked out over the dragon’s left wing.

A vast army swarmed across the land, its numbers so large that it stretched like a great black snake for as far as he could see. A ribbon of blue that wound through the green forests was surely the White-rage River that formed the border of Qualinesti. The head of the black snake had already crawled over the border, was well inland.

Gerard leaned forward. “Would it be possible for you to increase your speed?” he shouted and illustrated his question with a jabbing finger, pointing north.

Razor grunted. “I can fly faster,” he shouted, “but you will not find it comfortable.”

Gerard looked down, estimating numbers, counting companies, supply wagons, gaining all the information he could. He gritted his teeth, bent in the saddle and gave the nod to proceed.

The dragon’s enormous wings began to beat. Razor lifted his head to the clouds, soared up to reach them.

The sudden acceleration pressed Gerard into the saddle. He blessed the designer of the leather helm, understood the need for the eye-slits. Even then, the rushing wind half-blinded him, brought tears to his eyes. The motion of the dragon’s wings caused the saddle to rock back and forth. Gerard’s stomach heaved. Grimly he hung on and prayed that somewhere there were gods to pray to.