This story started life as a birthday gift for the wonderful sivvussa and I was surprisingly happy with the way it turned out, so I thought I might show it off to the rest of you too. It's a Tamora Pierce/Naomi Novik crossover, so I'm posting it in both fandoms under varying titles. I'm also aware that it's a long way from my usual Tudor fare… Don't worry, Lionesses is next on the list after exams are over at the end of the week… Please do let me know what you think - I'm posting this to hopefully give me something other than revision to read!
I
The Grand Chevalier came out of nowhere.
Or rather, it came out of the flash of light that had blinded Moonsword, disorientating the Fleur-de-Nuit enough to prevent him from dropping to avoid a collision.
"Mithros!" Numair swore, as the heavier dragon body-slammed his mount, knocking Moonsword sideways with enough force to send him skittering through the air, despite his furious efforts to hold his position.
Numair was knocked off his feet by the impact and for a moment, lay stunned, all the air leaving his lungs in a single anguished exhalation.
A keening howl of pain snapped him back to himself. He was on his feet in an instant. "Moonsword!"
Scrambling down the charcoal back with the wonderfully familiar blue-black stripes searing their way along it, Numair was alarmed to see that Moonsword was listing sharply in the air and losing height rapidly to boot. Their engagement with the by now long gone Grand Chevalier must have left deeper marks than Numair had realised.
This thought had no sooner gone through his head than his second-in-command, Flight Lieutenant George Cooper, came scrambling up the wingstraps to meet him. "Sir! Those French bastards have incapacitated us! They've severed three of Moonsword's wing tendons!"
"Show me!" Numair ordered, climbing after his lieutenant faster than he had hitherto believed possible.
A single glance at the damaged wing – hanging crookedly from Moonsword's body at an angle that Numair would have said was impossible had he not been seeing it with his own eyes – brought a stream of invectives spilling from his lips. "By the Trinity and the Goddess!"
"Sir," Cooper's hand was on his shoulder, stilling his rage with cool, placatory reason, "We can't stay in the air."
Numair nodded, blinking back tears of rage. "Send up the distress flares," he ordered, leaning against Moonsword's scales as he spoke.
The by now visibly weakening dragon turned his head with an effort and Numair gave him what he hoped was an encouraging and reassuring smile. "All will be well, dear heart," he whispered, patting the flank he was leaning against. His words were lost in the hubbub of the battle, but he and Moonsword had served together for over a decade, ever since Numair had harnessed the newborn Fleur-de-Nuit at the age of sixteen. They no longer needed words to communicate.
"Salmalin! What appears to be the problem?" Captain Harcourt, the head of their formation, appeared over their right shoulder, shouting into a speaking trumpet to ensure she was heard over the din of the battle.
"Severed tendons from that bronze Grand Chevalier! We need to land, now!" Cooper roared back, summarising the situation as succinctly as he could. Captain Harcourt nodded in acknowledgement and turned her head to order her own crew to signal urgently to someone behind, before bellowing into her speaking trumpet once more.
"Cooper! Land on the nearest dragon transport as soon as you've let your Captain off. Salmalin, prepare to board Skysong as soon as Captain Sarrasri gets here. Sarrasri, for God's sake, hurry up!"
This last was directed at the slender figure crouched low over the back of a grey-blue Longwing. The momentary distraction meant Captain Harcourt only heard Numair's cry of horror rather than seeing the look of anguish that crossed his face. To leave Moonsword when the latter was so critically injured? It was as though she'd told him to cut off his own arm.
He made to protest, but Moonsword was dropping fast and, in the heat of battle, Captain Harcourt would brook neither dissent nor disobedience.
"That's an order, Salmalin! You're too crack a shot for us to lose you now. Leave Moonsword to your men and board Skysong!"
By now, the grey-blue Longwing was dropping to join the tiring Fleur-de-Nuit and Numair knew he had no choice. He delayed a few seconds longer, placing a final hand of farewell on Moonsword's neck and murmuring to Cooper, "I leave my heart in your hands, George. Take the greatest care of him."
Cooper saluted and then Numair leapt away, landing comfortably on Skysong's back.
"Finally! I was beginning to wonder whether Captain Harcourt was going to have to order you sent down for insubordination!" The Longwing's captain snapped, brushing an errant curl out of her eyes with an irritable hand, "Are you always so slow to follow orders?"
"Only where the health of my dragon is concerned," Numair snarled back as the younger woman's words stung, cutting through his defences like razors through silk.
His saviour's eyes softened, if only for an instant, but she whipped back around, battle mask firmly in place, as flares began to go off around them.
"We're being ordered to attack the French flagship. I need you to keep the French off my back while Kit and I take care of the ship, understood? Aim for their captains if you can; it'll throw their dragons into disarray."
Her tone was brusque; too brusque for Numair, still struggling to process his beloved Moonsword's injury, to comprehend. He hesitated as she scrambled up towards Skysong's neck. For half a beat, she turned to glare at him.
"The sooner we beat these varmints, the sooner you can be reunited with your precious Moonsword. Now do your duty as England expects you to and cover me while I attack L'Orient. Blasted Indian sepoys, riding vulnerable dragons into battle. No wonder we conquered them so easily."
This last was said as a grumble under her breath, but Numair, ears already used to straining to pick up every noise around him, as he often had to during reconnoitre missions, heard her clearly enough. Stung for the second time in their exceedingly brief acquaintance, he followed her up towards Skysong's shoulder, shifting his rifle to his shoulder as he did so. Captain Sarrasri cut him a sidelong glance as he came up alongside her, but said nothing more than, "Keep that thing steady when we dive. I'd rather not deal with any more injured dragons if we can at all help it."
Crouching over Skysong's neck, she urged the young Longwing into a dive before Numair had a chance to respond, "Go on Kit, there's a good girl."
If the azure and silver dragon responded with more than obedience, it was lost in the whistle of the wind rushing past their ears as she plummeted towards the French flagship.
A gigantic Honneur-de-Or screeched angrily and twisted to follow them, but his larger bulk made him slower to turn than Skysong. By the time he had rounded the turn, Numair had discharged half-a-dozen bullets into his crew. Their ensuing panic distracted the larger dragon long enough for Skysong to bob away out of range and join the other British dragons sallying volleys of flame at the French fleet. Numair saw a flash of frustration cross Captain Sarrasri's face as she noticed the way the other dragons were concentrating on the rigging, afraid to risk damaging the British fleet, who were so closely engaged with the French ships.
"Ally, signal to the Admiral that he needs to disengage and give us room."
"Aye, Captain." A young girl nodded and scurried away at Captain Sarrasri's words. Captain Sarrasri placed a calming hand on Skysong's neck.
"Hold your position, Kitten. Hold your position," she called lowly, voice taut with the strain of keeping her emotions in check. Numair recognised it, not because he knew her well, but because he had used a similar voice to Moonsword more times than he could count.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for the ships below to receive and respond to their signal. As soon as she had their consent, Captain Sarrasri started to count down from ten.
"On my count, Kitten."
The dragon nodded eagerly, beginning to puff herself up like a pair of bellows before her captain was even halfway through her count.
As soon as the word 'one' had left the young woman's lips, she rocketed down towards the French ship beneath them, releasing a ball of flame as she reached the vertex of her dive.
"Up!" Captain Sarrasri screamed, almost involuntarily, it seemed, for Skysong needed no second urging. She bounded up into the night sky, issuing a screech of warning to the other dragons as she did so. The formation scattered, and not a moment too soon, for the great ship below them suddenly exploded, raining flaming splinters all through the vicinity.
Captain Sarrasri clenched a fist in triumph, "Gunpowder first time. Well done, Kitten!"
"Happy to be of service," the young dragon chirped. Her words reached them during an unexpected lull in the fighting and held what Numair considered a surprisingly impish note, given the circumstances.
Before he could comment, however, Captain Harcourt signalled them, Retreat to transports.
"We're done here," Captain Sarrasri passed a hand over her face and, for the first time, Numair realised just how young and exhausted she was. She couldn't have been more than nineteen or so. Probably another of those girls who had been promoted prematurely because of the fact that Longwings would only accept female captains.
They flew back to the transport boats in silence, but, as Numair followed Captain Sarrasri off Skysong's back, he turned to her.
"You must excuse me, Captain, for having been so remiss as not to ask your name. Who did I have the pleasure of serving with tonight?"
The young woman glanced up from where she was personally unbuckling Skysong's harness. "Daine," she said shortly, unwilling to divulge anything more than she had to to this stranger, "Captain Daine Sarrasri."
Before she could turn back to Skysong, however, Numair had caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, heels clicking together with military precision in a gallant courtly bow as he breathed "Numair Salmalin. The thanks and honour are mine, Captain."
"A simple thank you would have sufficed," Daine arched an eyebrow, but Numair was already gone, his burning desire to see Moonsword and check on his welfare for himself superseding all else.
Had he looked back, he would have seen the blush that sent its rosy tendrils creeping up Daine's cheeks despite her best efforts to halt their progress. But he didn't. Moonsword's welfare filled his mind rather than the rules of gallantry, and he didn't.