Battledragon

In the land of the Kraheen, in the heart of the dark continent, three grim-faced men stood beside a long, ebony box in the temple of the God of Stone.

Their leader, a burly fellow of six foot or more, nodded to the high priests of the God of Stone, who stood before them clad in feathered headdresses and leather aprons studded with gold.

"Ye have come to see the miracle?" he said in heavily accented Kraht.

"We have come, O great Kreegsbrok, as ye commanded."

"Then ye shall see with thine own eyes and be enlightened. Know this, that the power of the Great One is beyond that of any other in this world, whether man or god or goddess."

The priests bobbed their heads at this, but their dark brown eyes reflected a lack of certainty. These men from beyond had brought many dread things to their land. Their master was indeed a mighty force. But to raise the Prophet from the dead? Surely this was impossible.

"Open the box," said Kreegsbrok.

The high priest snapped his fingers, and men lifted the lid that covered the sacred visage of "He Who Must."

Kreegsbrok looked within and smiled. He saw the body of a lean-fleshed man who had died in his early thirties, struck down by a sudden brain spasm during the height of a raging incantation. The black flesh was neither hard nor soft, the hair still curled in coiled locks about the massive head. The Kraheen had long excelled in the art of preserving the bodies of the dead. The body of the Prophet would be good material for the magic of the Great One.

"May I?" he asked in the same flat voice.

The feathered headdresses bobbed again, the eyes like black pebbles, unreadable.

Kreegsbrok nodded to Gulbuddin and Verniktun, who wore the same black uniform as he. They withdrew flasks of fluid and dust from the small packs they bore and took up a long-necked funnel of semirigid leather. Carefully Verniktun oiled it and made it flexible.

Under the intense gaze of the priests, they opened the mouth of the long-dead Prophet and forced apart the yellowed teeth that had been shut for a thousand years. Into the withered throat they eased the neck of the funnel.

From within his cloak, Kreegsbrok withdrew a small notebook.

They bowed together while he intoned a prayer to their Master. Then they began to chant the harsh syllables prescribed for the spell.

The priests stepped back, ashen-faced at the grating sounds that now came from the mouths of the pale men from beyond. The atmosphere in the tomb of the Prophet became thick and dark. A smoke was rising from the floor. The hair on arm, leg, and neck began to rise along with it. A smell of burning stone filled their nostrils.

Into the funnel Verniktun poured the sparkling black powder invigorated by the Great One. The first flask went down smoothly. Then followed a second.

Now Gulbuddin stepped up with a flask of blue fluid. It had an evil shimmer within its glass.

Kreegsbrok spoke words of power, and the fluid was poured into the funnel. A reddish vapor arose along with a hissing sound as both fluid and sparkling powder sank into the flesh of the long-dead Prophet of the God of Stone, "He Who Must."

After a moment, while the material still hissed within the body cavity, Kreegsbrok put out his hand to Verniktun and received a small silver flask. From this he poured a clear liquid into the funnel.

"Now for the invigorative."

Gulbuddin stepped up and held a black marble the size of a man's fist over the dead Prophet's forehead. He closed his eyes and tightened his lips.

Kreegsbrok called out in a harsh voice to the roof of the tomb. Verniktun struck a flame and touched it to the funnel.

There was a blinding flash. Gulbuddin screamed in agony but held onto the stone in his hand, which now glowed with an intense red light. Carefully he pressed it against the forehead of the corpse in the coffin.

The corpse shook and jerked abruptly within the box. The hips rose and then subsided. The legs kicked. An arm shot up.

Kreegsbrok pulled apart the ancient teeth. Verniktun lifted the leather funnel. Red viscous stuff surged up from the mouth. Gulbuddin's cries were obliterated by a primal bellow suddenly erupting from the long-dead throat, a sacral scream that rattled the bones of every man in that room, a shriek that announced new life in that which should never have moved again.

Gulbuddin barely stood back in time. His mouth working as red stuff oozed from the corners, the Prophet sat up.

The high priests stared with bulging eyeballs. It had come to pass, even as the pale men had claimed. Then with mouths agape they fell on their knees.

"Cry joy for the love of Ajoth Gol Dib!" they sang. "Cry joy for the mercy of the One Who Must!"

The three men from Padmasa exchanged grim smiles. The work was begun.

It had snowed the day before, and the woodlots at Dashwood were covered in a smooth, ankle-deep layer, virtually unmarked. The dragons' breath came in great steaming clouds as they hewed the young oaks and ash that were grown for firewood. Great axes fashioned from troll battle axes were their weapons of choice. Wood chips sang as they flew from the blows.

Dragonboys danced around the dragons, attaching cables for the mule skinner teams who hauled the trees back to the big, horse-driven saw that cut them to three-foot lengths.

"Watch it Jak, your foot's inside that harness," called Relkin of the 109th Marneri Dragons. Jak shifted his foot and snapped tight the studs on the tree collar he was fitting. When he looked up Relkin had gone, but Jak saw his back for a moment between two trees. Relkin was a dragoneer now and felt an all-consuming responsibility for the unit. Sometimes it riled the rest of them, but Jak knew that Relkin was simply anxious in a way he'd never been before. As dragoneer he was in charge, and any injuries were held against him.

"This dragon is thirsty," said a huge inhuman presence, standing ten yards away beside a felled oak.

Jak whistled to the waiting mule skinner and skipped clear.

"You want kalut?" he asked his dragon, a green freemartin named Alsebra, famous for her skill with dragonsword.

"No, just water." Her big dragon eyes fixed on something in the distance, over Jak's head. He didn't bother to ask what. In this mood she was unlikely to tell him.

Jak hoisted the big water can and set off back to the clearing where the saw was working. The water cart was set up nearby, with others that dealt out hot kalut and fresh bread. There were a hundred men, ten dragons, and forty mules at work in the woodlots that day. It was cold but dry, and the air was still. The work went well, and they had sent more than a hundred cords of wood, cut and split, into camp.

Jak was looking forward to getting back to Marneri. The 109th had almost finished their two-month stint at Dashwood and would soon march back to the city. Their alternates, the 66th Marneri Dragons, would then come up to Dashwood in their turn. In the city Jak had a girl, a girl whom he had been wooing for six months now. Her name was Kati, and she was the sweetest thing in the whole world, especially as she'd let him kiss her several times on the last occasion they'd been together, lurking in the alleyway behind her family's pantry, down near Templeside. Jak sighed. Just a few more days, and they'd be back together. How could he survive the wait?

Dragoneer Relkin paused beside his own dragon, who stood back while another oak gave a creak and slid down to the ground. The dragon, the famous Bazil Broketail, gave a grunt of satisfaction at the clean fall of the tree.

"Ah, boy finished minding everyone's business. Ready to take care of dragon. Where is kalut?"

"Kalut is brewed, and I'm going for some right now."

"Kalut would be here, going down into dragon stomach if boy attended to job."

Relkin nimbly slipped a hauling collar around the trunk of another felled tree, and jumped out of the way as the big mules hauled it back.

"If only it were that simple, Baz."

"You check too much on everyone else. Bring this dragon kalut. And some bread if they got any, with akh."

"There's no akh here. No akh until dinner."

"When is dinner?"

"You know when is dinner. At the end of the day, back in camp."

"That is a long wait for some akh on some bread."

"It'll be all the better for the waiting."

"This is a dubious human concept. Dragon doesn't agree."

Relkin was already on his way to the kalut stall with a big jug over his shoulder.

He passed the saw. Twelve huge mules provided the motive force, heaving around a drive-limber that ran a belt over their heads to the saw itself, which was a circle of steel spinning its way through the tree trunks with a massive whine.

Beyond the saw were the splitter and loader teams, sixty men under the command of Lieutenant Angloss. From their direction came the steady thud of hammers on mauls amid cheerful banter.

Lieutenant Angloss gave him a friendly salute.

"Good day, Dragoneer."

Relkin returned the greeting and went on to the kalut stall. It was a new experience being an officer, and he was still getting used to it. Of course he was just a brevet dragoneer, filling in while they waited for a real one to be sent to them. But in. his heart, he still nursed the slight hope that he would be confirmed as full dragoneer for the Marneri 109th. There were, admittedly, several points against him. He was young, not yet nineteen, and though he had four and a half years of service in the legions, he knew they never promoted anyone to command before they reached their twentieth birthday.

Then there was the trial against him. The blood of a civilian, Trader Dook, dead on a riverboat from Relkin's dirk, now stained his record. Relkin had been found innocent of murder after a lengthy trial the preceding summer, but he'd won by virtue of the testimony given by dragons. This had set a major new precedent. Wyvern dragons could speak the tongue of men, and they were known to be intelligent, as far above the rest of the animals as were humans. Still, such a decision rankled with some men. The subject was politically sensitive. As a result, Relkin's chances of promotion were compromised.

For a moment he thought of Dragon Leader Turrent, the stern critic who'd ruled their lives for the last year and a half. Turrent had mellowed, especially from what he'd been like when he first came to them, but he had always been a sharp commanding officer and never really one of them, never truly part of the unit. Relkin, of course, was utterly identified with the 109th. He'd served in it since its inception. Turrent had warned him that the trial would ruin his chances for advancement. And yet when Turrent left, he promoted Relkin to the temporary command.

Things were a little looser now that Turrent was gone, except in the area of practice. Relkin insisted that everyone, dragon and boy, go through combat exercises every day, with a hike in full rig once a week, which always ended with a quick round of the Dashwood obstacle course.

There'd been some grumbling from the usual suspects, like Swane and Mono, who were Relkin's age, but everyone knew in their hearts that he was perfectly right. They hadn't seen action in eighteen months, and it was pretty certain they would be sent up to the Axoxo front sometime in the coming spring or summer. So it was important to keep skills as sharp as their swords.

Relkin wondered how Dragon Leader Turrent was handling his new unit, the 167th Marneri Dragons. He should have reached Fort Dalhousie by now and joined them. One thing was sure, there'd be ten dragonboys in Dalhousie who would be really sick of polishing their kit after Turrent had had them for a while.

He brought back a full can for Baz, took a mug for himself, and spent the rest of the day getting felled trees pulled down to the saw. In between, he tried to keep a visual check on everyone else, although a voice in his head kept telling him to relax. They could take care of themselves. He wasn't there to nursemaid them. He had a dragon of his own to take care of, and that was enough.

At last the cornet blew, ending the day's work, and they formed up, axes over their shoulders, for the two-mile march back to camp.