Hi all!

Right, so story is still in the works, but it's been a while since I last updated, so you're going to get the first chapter of it. I intend for it to be three parts (And I changed the name, because as it turned out the story was more about Ianto than Jack) but if it grows, well, then it grows. For those of you who know the Tortall universe, this is about the fall of Haven; I'm essentially re-writing the end of Lady Knight. Do be warned: there is a lot of off screen violence in Lady Knight, and this violence is decidedly on-screen in this story. This is a cross-over with Torchwood, after all, and things get ugly for Jack and Ianto.

War: Into the Fire part 1

It was like something out of a nightmare.

Ianto Jones, dead at twenty five and no longer counting, was trembling as he pulled the throttle of the Tosh Sato Mark I. The aerodyne screamed shrilly, six bolts lodged in her belly, wings and tail. She banked, low to the ground and fast, and Ianto thought dimly that he was out of ammunition.

The battle around Haven, his base and Lady Kel's refugee camp, raged and raged. Keladry of Mindelan herself was at Mastiff, giving reports along with three of her commanders, and without her the camp was going to pieces. There was fire and screaming, and as the smoke reached his nostrils Ianto's vision swam with memories.

The Tosh shuddered again, and the second killing device lunged, great bladed hand reaching. Ianto spiraled up higher , useless and afraid and re-living nightmares of Cybermen. Another bolt hit the Tosh, and the dyne rolled with the momentum.

Scowling, hating his own weakness and hating the monsters below, Ianto pulled his dyne into a dive, nose first, and the killing machine shot a bolt at him. He rolled out of the way, staring into the creature's awful eyes. Hissing furiously, he pulled a knife out of his sleeve, and at fifty feet, at a forty-five degree angle from the thing he threw it. Borne by Stromwing magic and gravity it flew true, slamming between the staring eyes. Ianto bared his teeth, hatred welling within him.

Never mind that they were not Cybermen – they looked like Cybermen, and he'd be damned if those fucking things killed the people at Haven they way the Cybermen had once destroyed Torchwood Tower. In his mind's eye he saw the fire and heard the clanking metal, the screams of Haven merging with the screams in his memories. He brought the Tosh into a roll, meaning to bring her about and face the next device.

He was too low. There were too many, and he was too inexperienced. As he rolled yet another bolt slammed into the belly of the Tosh and the dyne skidded in the air, wing first. Ianto tried to correct it, but at ten feet he was too close to the ground, and those things were nimble. One of them jumped, clawed hand gouging into the wings and the dyne fell from the sky, engines screaming.

Ianto Jones woke with a terrible pain in his shoulder and smoke in his nose. He gasped, coughed, tried to roll over, and couldn't.

Panting from the pain, he took stock of what was wrong.

Somewhere, someone was screaming. No, many someones were screaming. There was smoke from somewhere, but here it was dark. Light pricked through holes above his head. His arm hurt and his left leg was falling asleep. Ianto tried to move again, and still couldn't.

He stared up at the cracked wood above his head.

The Tosh. He was stuck in the wreckage of the Tosh. His dyne had gone down, and the only reason he hadn't died was because Numair had practically saturated the thing with safety spells. Ianto squirmed, and a splinter dug unpleasantly into his back.

"Rikash," he whispered. His voice was faint, fainter than he expected, like a wheeze. In the back of his mind, there was a green slash; Rikash heard him call. Green turned to white, then jagged yellow: fear. Ianto swallowed.

Rikash couldn't get to him. The battle must be still going on. Shit.

Oh, shit. So many times, shit. One of those things must have taken down the Tosh, and now Ianto couldn't move.

The yellow stripe in his mind intensified and flashed, frantic. "Rikash," Ianto wheezed again, not that the Stormwing could hear him.

Then the dyne moved.

"Mama?" asked a child's voice and Ianto's heart froze. "Mama, are you in here?"

He swallowed. "No," he replied hoarsely. "No one's here. Run along now, l-love," he said, stumbling over the endearment. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. His mind flickered to his horse, Anwen, the only living thing he ever called 'love.' She was somewhere in this massacre. Then he thought of Jack, whom he really did love, and his heart ached. He'd promised Jack five hundred years, if not forever. He couldn't die now.

"Mama," the child's voice called cheerfully. A blade slashed through the wood of Ianto's beloved Tosh, stopping inches from his throat. "Mama!"

Ianto swallowed, staring at the gleaming metal and trying not to panic. His mind jumped to conversion units in Torchwood, cannibals in the countryside, and too many guns in too short a time held to his head. He didn't like things near his throat, not after so much negative reinforcement.

He inhaled. He exhaled. Calm.

The blade jerked and went away. "Mama?"

The dyne shuddered, and Ianto bit down hard on his tongue to stop from wailing; the pressure on his shoulder increased, crushingly so. And then, suddenly, the heavy wood pinning him was lifted away, and there was sun in his eyes.

"Mama!" the thing cried, cold, cold eyes fixed on him. There were chunks of wood stuck to its hand.

Ianto was free.

It lashed with its foot but Ianto rolled quickly out of the way, landing on his feet. Pins and needles shot from his ankle to his knee and he staggered but kept on running, that thing chasing after him.

Haven was in flames, there were Scanrans everywhere and Ianto was completely unarmed. "Rikash!" he managed. A huge, clawed hand thumped to the ground next to him and Ianto yelled, dashing to the side.

Something gave an eagle's cry from above and the monster was distracted. Rikash spiraled down from the sky, claws extended. "Run!" he bellowed as the thing snapped at him. "Run, you idiot!"

Ianto had no gun. His dyne was down. His Gift was weak and he was not trained for battle. There was a small knife in his pocket and a larger one in his boot. Both were Stromwing-fletched, but at this angle even with the magic he was unlikely to hit his mark.

He ran.

He ran and he didn't stop, tears streaming down his face. He wondered about Merric, the knight commander here; he spared a horrified thought for Lily, his little protégé, lost in the melee. There were children, adults; friends he had made amongst the knights and refugees, all fighting, all losing. He called desperately to Rikash but the Stormwing only responded with a distracted flare of blue; he was unhurt.

Hooves beat beside him and Ianto turned, his knife from his pocket at the ready. If it was a Scanran, he was dead; Ianto was good with a gun, but a small knife versus a sword was a distinct disadvantage.

Anwen, his chestnut mare, snorted at him and Ianto could have wept. She'd found him.

She had no bridle and no saddle, but she stopped and let him clamber on before racing into the woods. He wanted to tell her to go back, to find Lily and the other refugees, but he was under no delusions; without a saddle, Ianto was not a good enough rider to navigate through a battle. As it was he could feel his balance slipping with each stride, and Anwen's spine dug uncomfortably into him.

He looked back, risking his precarious balance and gave a small moan of dismay. From here it was absolutely clear.

The Scanrans had won. Haven had fallen. Without a base, without his dyne and without supplies, Ianto made a decision.

"Anwen," he murmured to his mare. She turned her head and met him with one brown eye. "Anwen, stay close to the edge of the woods. They're going to try to kidnap the children—we're going to follow them."

.

.

Jack Harkness was making a daisy chain, because he was bored and because it would look nice hung on the Gwen's console.

Fort Giantkiller, his base, had fallen while Jack was away, distracted by a clever plan by the Scanrans. He'd returned to find the place in ruins, and no less than six killing machines waiting for him there. Horrified, terrified, he'd flown at them and killed them, their cries for their mothers cutting him like physical blades. Lord Raoul, who had miraculously survived, had ordered a trembling Jack to Fort Mastiff, where he would report to Lord Wyldon until Giantkiller was rebuilt.

Lord Wyldon had cleared out a stable for Jack's dyne, so there he sat, on the huge left wheel of the Gwen Cooper Mark I, with Red, his dappled gelding, lying in the dust by his feet. It was nearing one in the morning, but Jack knew there was absolutely no way he was sleeping tonight, because he was worried and because of the nightmares. The light from the candles and the glow of the spelled quartz in the Gwen's cockpit cast the hangar in eerie shadows.

Red had been colicky lately, and he'd given Jack a scare the other day, so he wasn't letting the horse out of his sight. The vets here had assured him that Red was fine, but Jack wasn't ready to rest until Daine got here and saw to him. Red tended to sleep lying down when he was healthy – Daine had said once that it was a personal preference – but since that was a symptom for colic Jack was still anxious. He really did want Daine to take a look at his gelding.

Of course, the war might make that a bit difficult, but still.

Red wuffled softly in the dust. Clearly, he wasn't able to sleep, either.

"Daisies," Jack told him firmly, "are bad for horses, so you can't have any."

Red rolled a bit and looked up at Jack. He grinned, hopped off the wheel of the dyne to crouch and scratch his horse's chin.

"I think," Jack stated grandly, "that you are the best horse that's ever lived, don't you, Red?"

Red snorted although his eyes, bright and intelligent from association with the wildmage, were clearly amused. Jack sat cross-legged beside him and stroked his neck. "My noble steed," he chuckled fondly. Red nickered. "Still not feeling your best, huh?" Jack asked softly. The gelding sighed.

"That's alright, buddy," Jack murmured, scratching under the soft chin. "That's alright. You take your time."

Red wuffled, pressing his chin into Jack's palm. He was getting old, Jack thought sadly. When he'd first met Red, the gelding had been barely four, dark haired and frisky. Now Red was twelve, which was still reasonably young for a horse – Red's life expectancy was increased dramatically because of Daine, she said he could live to be thirty – but the years were starting to show. The gray gelding's hair had lightened, and he was starting to look white. Jack thought it was fetching, and liked the thought of riding a white horse, but it still had him a little anxious. "You're not allowed to die just yet," he murmured, and Red snorted as though the thought was absurd.

"Yeah, I know, just let me worry, okay?" Jack chided, and Red leaned up and puffed warm air in his face. Jack laughed and shoved his nose gently. "Oi," he complained and combed his fingers affectionately through Red's gray and white mane.

Suddenly, someone pounded on the door. Red started and someone yelled, "Captain Harkness!"

Jack frowned and stood. Red huffed and rolled to his feet as well. "No reason for you to get up, old man," Jack murmured to his horse, slapping his shoulder before walking over to the stable door. Red followed him anyway.

"Yes?" Jack asked, opening the door to see Owen of Jesslaw, Lord Wyldon's page, standing in the night. "It's a bit late, isn't it?"

"Haven's been attacked, sir," said the boy urgently. "We just got the message. My lord wants to speak with you."

The bottom dropped out of Jack's heart. "What?" he demanded.

"Haven's fallen," Jesslaw told him again. "My lord's probably going to send you with Lady Kel, but you have to come with me."

An icy claw of panic slid down Jack's spine. Ianto. Ianto's base was Haven—

"Right," Jack said, all business. He glanced back at Red once in farewell before shutting the door, not even bothering to change out of his nightclothes, which he only wore because sleeping naked in hay was uncomfortable. "Lead the way."

The page nodded and sprinted up to Lord Wyldon's headquarters, Jack keeping pace beside him. When they reached Lord Wyldon's office, Jack threw the door open before the page could knock.

"Tell me everything," he demanded.

Lord Wyldon was sitting before the hearth in a nightshirt and breeches. Lady Keladry of Mindelan, at Mastiff to give a report, had a young, sobbing boy in her arms and Nealan of Queenscove had a glowing hand on the boy's back. There were eight other men that Jack barely recognized in the room.

"Haven's fallen," one of the men – his name started with a c, Corman or Cognac or something weird – "Tobe just told the tale." He nodded to the boy.

"Th-there was three of them," hiccuped the kid, and Kel hushed him. She looked up at Jack.

"He said the Tosh went down," she whispered, correctly reading the look in Jack's eye. "I'm sorry, Jack." Her eyes were glazed and shocked, her voice mechanical.

Jack let out a horrified breath. He stared at her, open mouthed, a roaring sound in his ears. Ianto, he thought faintly somewhere in the corner of his mind. Ianto. The great, yawning darkness of eternity threatened to engulf him. Ianto had promised him. He'd promised him five hundred years, if not forever; he couldn't just—just—

—just die. Not again. Please, please not again…

"Get your mage, Captain Harkness," said a voice. Jack blinked.

Lord Wyldon had stood. Kel was passing off the boy, now asleep, to a healer, and Wyldon, whom Jack didn't quite like but respected anyway, was standing before him with—was that compassion in his eyes?

He was a grizzled man, balding, with what little gray hair he had left cropped short. The scar that stood from his right eye to his hairline was an angry red, and one of his arms had once been savaged by a hurrock. It was functional, but thin and oddly lumpy beneath his tunic. Wyldon was a conservative, and had made his opinions on Jack and Ianto perfectly clear. Nevertheless, he had always been respectful, and the man knew how to strategize.

Now those dark eyes were almost gentle. "Captain," he ordered. "You are scouting ahead of Lady Keladry. Find your mage to charge your aerodyne."

Jack snapped out of it. "Yes, sir," he managed and spun on his heel. "When do we leave?" he asked over his shoulder.

"An hour," Kel said flatly from the hearth. "We leave in an hour."

.

.

Ianto sat, exhausted, on Anwen's back, urging her closer to the line of trees. She threw up her head, refusing, and took a step back.

"Shh," Ianto whispered, even though she had not made a sound.

The Scanrans had indeed captured children, but they had also taken adults. Kel had trained them well, though; they had fought tooth and nail, and now sat bound to poles in the burned out camp. Ianto spied Lily in the group and swallowed.

"Just hang on," he murmured, almost to himself, eyes fixed on the children in the center of the camp. "Hang on."

It took a day for the Scanrans to mobilize. Ianto gritted his teeth when they inspected his fallen aerodyne, but these were soldiers, not scientists. They did take parts, but the parts they took were the wings, not the main power source – not the engine. That was good. They could take the wings all they liked; they'd never be able to build an aerodyne of their own without a proper engine.

The remaining refugees fought their captors like wild things. The children, the adults, even the animals refused to be tamed, so the march was slow. Quietly following them, Ianto marked trees with his Gift, leaving evidence of his path. An X, an arrow, an IJ to let Jack know he was alive – he followed the troop with grim determination.

Sometimes he wondered about Rikash, but it was clear the Stormwing wanted to remain at Haven. That was sort of odd, because he tended to be anxious about Ianto's welfare when he was unarmed; Ianto's life was Rikash's life, after all. Still, each time he thought an inquiry to the Stormwing he got a reply—the color purple, whatever that meant. Sometimes he wished they had a stronger connection so they could communicate more efficiently.

Then he remembered some of the thoughts in his head, and was glad that they didn't.

He followed them silently up through the woods, stealing supplies when he could, drinking river water purified by his own Gift.

The prisoners were not treated well, and Ianto's blood quietly boiled every time he saw that whip. Still, there was only one of him and many soldiers. Ianto was nothing if not patient. He did little things; ropes snapped in the night, knives and arrows went missing. He didn't steal food unless he absolutely needed it, since the refugees were eating from the same stock as the soldiers. But he did everything within his power to stop them, or at least make the journey inconvenient.

And then, as though things weren't shitty enough, they went to hell.

Ianto was behind the troop of soldiers, keeping quiet in the woods. He only saw glimpses of them, shadowed as he was in the trees; a dot of color, the sounds of bracken and brush under many feet. Then, someone screamed. There was a crack of a whip; someone said something harsh.

The Scanrans did not speak Common, the language spoken by the Tortallans. When he'd been dead, Ianto had understood Common as though it were English; later, Rikash had explained that the dead spoke no language, and understood them all. Alive again, Ianto found that he could understand and speak every language that Rikash could understand or speak, and this included Scanran. This made a twisted kind of sense, as he was bonded with the Stormwing.

Thus, Ianto heard and understood the harsh voice of the Scanran in charge of the war party: "Leave her to die! She slows us down."

There was a shout that sounded like Common, but the words were garbled and whips cracked. The soldiers moved on, and voices wailed. Ianto gritted his teeth.

Dilemma. Follow the Scanrans, or stay with whoever they were leaving to die?

Jack would follow them, Ianto thought grimly, pulling on Anwen's mane to halt her. Jack thought of the needs of the many.

Fuck the many. Ianto thought he knew who this was, anyway.

He'd befriended the people of Haven during his stay there, Ianto mused dully as furious red began to tinge his vision. There had been a lot of people, but after they got over being afraid, many had gotten curious about his aerodyne, especially after Ianto had made it a point to bring back treats every time he went to Corus. He'd manhandled his way into the kitchen to brew coffee when he was able to get his hands on enough to share, and it had quickly made him a celebrity among the refugees.

Of course, delicacies like coffee and chocolate and tea and honey were a rarity in a refugee camp, but Ianto had tried, and they'd appreciated it. There had been some native plants that made wonderful teas, and Ianto was good at beverages, whether coffee or not. By the end, he'd been welcome in the kitchens.

One of the cook's assistants had been heavily pregnant and very excited. Yollane was a young thing, bedraggled and alarmingly thin. She'd liked her tea with honey, and Ianto had made it special for her, when he could. Now he gritted his teeth as he listened to the sounds of the troop marching away in the woods, the woman's husband – his name was Quaren – shouted and screamed and begged audibly over the sounds of the whips and the chains.

The sounds faded. Ianto was alone, and the forest was quiet enough to hear the harsh, distressed breathing.

He dismounted. Anwen snorted in alarm.

"Shh," he told her. "Stay close."

His horse crowded skittishly up to his back, and Ianto crept close to the sounds.

Yollane was lying on the ground, blood pooling around her as she gasped and whimpered pitifully. She was miscarrying, at close to eight months. Ianto swallowed hard, wanting to rage and charge after those fucking barbarians, who left this bright, sweet young woman to die of fucking childbirth, alone in a forest. He wanted to kill them all.

Instead he walked swiftly to her, crouching by her head. "Yollane," he whispered, resting a hand on her damp forehead. She sobbed and opened her eyes.

"Cap—Cap-t-tain?" she managed.

"Yeah," he murmured, stroking back her sweat-damp hair. "I've been following them. Marking the way for the rescue party."

She closed her eyes and shuddered with another contraction. She moaned, unable to respond.

There was little hope for premature babies in Tortall, even with the aid of healers. Yollane was dying, and so was her baby, and there was not a fucking thing Ianto could do about it. "It's going to be alright," he told her anyway, tears welling in his eyes. "It's going to be okay. You're not alone." He held her hand, and she squeezed it weakly.

It took her six hours to die, and Ianto wept bitter tears when she stopped breathing at last. He'd given her as many pain-killing spells as he knew, but he was not even remotely close to being a healer. Stormwing magic was not suited for it, and he cursed and he swore when it had little effect. He tried to help, he really did, but childbirth was not something he knew even slightly. He positioned her as best as he knew how, but it didn't matter. There was something wrong internally; the baby wouldn't come. He didn't know what to do.

Over those six hours, he talked to her, trying to keep her distracted and lucid for as long as he could. He told her about Jack, how he would come and find them, that there was hope for rescue yet and not to give up. She'd looked at him with her bloodshot green eyes and asked him to tell her a story; words tumbled from his lips. He told her of how he met Jack, how he loved him—tales of pterodactyls and other worlds and aliens and spaceships. She smiled when she could and squeezed his hand when she couldn't, and toward the end she did neither, whimpering and crying and bleeding and Ianto wept with her.

When she died at last, he couldn't move for the tears, and it was only Anwen, insistently pressing her soft nose to his shoulder, that got him to rise.

"I can't do this," he whispered to his mare. She bumped his collarbone with her nose. Ianto looked back at Yollane.

"I haven't the tools to bury her," he said thickly. "I h-haven't—"

Anwen nickered and nuzzled him and Ianto collected himself. He pulled away from his horse and stood next to the woman, bloody and dirty and quite dead. "I'm so sorry," he told her. He reached and softly closed her eyes, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief to lie respectfully over her face. "So, so sorry."

He swallowed and clambered back onto Anwen. "I'm going to kill them," he swore quietly. "Every last one of them." His horse snorted and picked up a determined trot.

Farther up ahead, the Scanrans had hung Quaren, Yollane's husband, from a tree. Ianto cut him down, swearing quietly to himself. He didn't have time to go back and put him with Yollane; instead he laid him on the forest floor with a handkerchief over his eyes, whispering apologies as he had done for Yollane.

At this rate, Ianto thought with grim humor, he was going to run out of handkerchiefs.

He tracked the Scanrans farther, riding Anwen hard up through the underbrush. The problem, however, was that Ianto had no scouts and no army; he was only one man. One man, unfortunately, was very easily overtaken.

.

More to come! You know, eventually. Please leave a review :)