Conflict - Blue Yonder


A/N: Today's chapter brings the story over 100,000 words, which would never have happened without those insomniac nights where my brain went into overdrive. I have many thanks for pt35, whose contributions have been invaluable in the making of this work, especially as the first Sandwing you'll meet in this chapter belongs to him. My gratitude also goes out to the followers and reviewers of this story.

You help keep the dream alive.


July 12th, 5,015: Somewhere in the Sandwing Kingdom.

"You're sure about this?" asked Vermilion.

"I'm sure I'm sure," said Harrier. He snorted, nostrils clogged with the ever-present sand. "They told me it was the best place in town."

The tuna-bellied states-dragon gazed at the tall, yellow building before them, bright on the walls and dusty at the corners. It fit in perfectly with this part of the world, cheerily announcing with a dry wooden sign 'Agular's Armory' and beneath that, in faded red print with a blue outline around the lettering, 'And Antiques!'

"It's not a proper establishment," said Vermilion. "Could we find one with a Skywing proprietor?"

Harrier hissed. "Stop acting like an Icewing and get inside, dragons are looking at us funny."

Vermilion was an artifact of the Scarlet era; a vessel for the wishes of his higher-ups who himself thought nothing. Nevertheless, he strode forwards and opened the battened door, which was flush with its frame to keep out the sand. A loud creak came from the hinges when it swung and Harrier cringed; it sounded like chalk, or talons scraping glass. There were weapons everywhere; piled on tables and hanging from hooks on the wall, daggers, wrist-daggers, pikes, spears, halberds, crossbows, and eccentric Rainwing blowguns, filling the air with the tang of iron as well as another, less familiar scent.

"I do love new customers," said a voice from the back. "Unless you're Thorn's people."

"We're Skywings," shouted Harrier.

"Good, good," said the dragon. His tone was hurried, moving from one word to the next with no pause for breath. "They want me for something."

"Taxes?" asked Vermilion.

The Sandwing emerged from the darkness of the shop's back end, talons dirty with a kind of black powder, which he wiped off on a rag before Vermilion had a chance to notice. "Nothing so simple," he said, throwing away the cloth. "It stinks of government, that's all."

"Some dragons told us this was the best place to get quality arms," said Harrier. "You are Agular, I'm presume?"

"I was never anyone else," said the Sandwing. "Whoever told you that spoke true words. I have arms here for every task you can think of, from personal defence weapons to tools of assassination. What are you seeking to outfit? Your persons, perhaps?"

"Ruby wants us to supply an army," said Harrier. "A shop like this might not carry enough to arm a division, but you'd know who could."

Agular frowned. "Ah – never mind the why. My weapons are crafted with a focus on individual use, not standardization. I would love to supply any elite units you might have in mind, but as for anyone else, my services would be too expensive for their worth."

Harrier opened his mouth to say something when there was a knock on the front door.

"Hold that thought," said Agular. He fetched a knife from the work-table so fast Harrier saw only a silver glint, then opened the door and revealed a narrow-shouldered Sandwing with a scar on the snout and brown freckles. "Ah, if it isn't Thorn's right-hand man. I have customers, so you'll have to wait."

"The disrespect he's showing to a dragon of the queen," muttered Vermilion.

Harrier raised a brow. I like this guy.

Agular was already shifting back to the table, putting down the knife on the second shelf. "If you wanted to know who sells quality weaponry in bulk, that would be Mezti's just down the street. Go two buildings south, ten west and it'll be right up on the hill. They play it straight. There are lots of other good dealers, but there're bad ones too, and foreigners never know when they're getting junk."

Vermilion stared, and Agular shrugged. "It's true."

"Right," said Harrier. "Was there anything else you'd recommend?"

"Sandwing flight jackets," said Agular. "Lifesavers, especially against projectiles; arrows, darts, you name it."

"Do you sell any?"

"A few. Only with the extra clips. They go with the equipment."

"Alright," said Harrier. It would be rude to leave without buying anything. "I'll buy one of the crossbows, to test the quality."

"Pick the one you want and I'll tell you everything wrong with it," said Agular.

"Ha," said Harrier. He picked out one he liked, a weapon with a long stock, wide limbs and an iron riser. He hefted it to the table.

"Too heavy, too hard to reload, too temperamental with the trigger action," said Agular. He jerked it downwards while pulling the trigger. "Don't do that."

"Is it any good?"

"It'll go in one side of a dragon and out the other," said Agular. "But you can't use it without ammunition."

"What kinds do you sell?"

"All sorts of eccentric stuff, for assassins mostly. You don't need anything better than standard." He reached under the table and came up with a brown-cloth pouch. "Forty quarrels, a hundred and seventy pounds."

"How much do we owe you?"

"Sixteen for the crossbow and five for the ammo," said Agular. "And none of the Blister-mint junk. Real silver."

"Is this good enough?" asked Vermilion. He laid out a gold piece with Scarlet's likeness.

"That," said Agular. "will do just fine."

He probably didn't know the Skywing Kingdom was trying to get rid of every coin with Scarlet's name on it, but even if he had he still would've taken the deal. The money was a collector's item in this day and age, and would fetch multiples of what Agular had paid for it, if he found the right talons. Harrier was glad to have the thing away from him; the portrait reminded him of worse times.

"Thank you," said Harrier. He took his purchases and retired to the door, intending to fly to the Mezti's place which Agular had mentioned. If all went well and they sold in bulk, he'd bring in the Skywings he had camped on the outside of town and use them to carry out enough weaponry to outfit a regiment.

The Sandwing stopped him. "Do I know you?" he asked. "I mean, I feel like I've seen you before, a couple of years ago, near the Skywing palace, before Ruby killed Scarlet."

Harrier stopped and turned his head. "That was you?"

"Surprise, it's me."

"I've come a long way since that Nightwing knocked me unconscious," said Harrier. "How's life now?"

"Hectic, but good," said Qibli. "Right now I'm trying to recruit Agular here, but he's stubborn as embedded nails."

"Damn right," said Agular. "You haven't told me what you want me for, so what makes you governmental types think I'll join you?"

"We want you for quality control," said Qibli. He slipped past Harrier and closer to Agular. "We're making weapons again."

Agular picked dirt out from beneath his talon, eyes oscillating from his claws to the dragon he spoke with. "Go on."

"We want you to help correct design flaws and create better ways to train new craftsmen."

"That's a chore," said Agular, but his eyes lit up. "You know what young people know? Zilch. The war ends and it's romance this, romance that, no real skills in sight."

He leaned forward over the table. "Disarmament made it impossible for the kingdom to stockpile weapons. You couldn't, or the people would throw you out. Nobody wants another war. Hell, business has been slow since those two Nightwings dropped by. Except now you're rearming, and the same day you drop in to recruit me is when the Skywings say they want to have weapons for an army."

"We knew you were sharp," said Qibli.

"I'd have to be dimwitted to see two and two and not make four," said Agular, voice rising.

Harrier slipped out of the shop, leaving the Sandwings to haggle on their own. "I think those two will get along just fine."

"Like us," said Vermilion. Harrier stared at him.

"Did you say something funny? I must've misheard. C'mon, let's go find that Mezti place."

He took off, Vermilion lagging behind for a good deal of the way. Two west, ten south, and it would be right up on the hill, Agular had said. He blinked heavily, the sun and the sand warming his scales with radiant heat that made him feel like he was in an oven.

"Why do I feel like we forgot something?" asked Vermilion.

"Oh, you caught up. That's nice."

Vermilion huffed and Harrier went on. "It's probably because you forgot something." He snapped his talons. "That's right. We were supposed to look for mercs."

"Those trustworthy enough not to turn their backs on us the moment the enemy pays them more," said Vermilion.

"Hilarious, coming from you. We should leave that to the other teams – we're just here for weapons. And here we are."

"This looks like a disreputable establishment," said Vermilion, looking at the building. Black paint was scrawled on the south wall of the lone establishment atop the sand dune, its bricks sunk halfway into the ground and its structure tipped sideways. "You want to ask someone if this is the place?"

"You're not a real dragon," said Harrier. "Real dragons don't ask for directions."

"But you did in Agular's shop!"

Harrier ignored him. He looked down and saw the ground rising up suddenly to meet his talons, then flared hard and kicked up a cloud of dust. He was still coughing when it settled. They were standing in a dusty little courtyard with short, thick walls and stalls made of gritty dun-colored brick, with warped wooden panels and shelving displaying all sorts of murderous wares, as well as (in the corner) a boutique of vibrant desert cacti, and a few dowdy holdovers from the north that Harrier knew, starched by the heat. Fluted music drifted up the slope from the bottom of the hill somewhere to his left, and his talons scorched on the white-hot sand.

The first thing he did was move into the shade, under a helpful awning with the tag still on it; a white piece of dry scroll that cheerfully said 'for foreigners only'.

A Sandwing dragoness greeted them. "Welcome to Mezti's, how can I help you?"

Vermilion regarded a stack of spears. "Just browsing."

"More than just browsing," said Harrier, injecting sarcasm into his voice at that last. "How many spears do you have – standard, heavy, light?"

The dragoness raised an eyescale. "We have five hundred standard, two hundred heavy, three hundred light. Were you planning on buying any mister?"

Harrier drew a spear from the stack and regarded its shape; the lashing of the speartip to the shaft, and the thickness of the shaft itself – about six inches around, smoothly cut, with indents at the top and bottom for the wielder. "If every one is like this, then we'll take all of them."

The Sandwing's hesitation was slight, but it made Harrier smile. Finally she recovered. "We do deliveries in a one-hundred mile radius for any purchase over two hundred crescents," she said. This was obviously over two hundred crescents. "Will you be using that option?"

"Maybe," said Harrier. He looked to his companion. "Vermilion, go get the boys and the treasurer; we'll take it all."

"Will do," said Vermilion. He took off, and more than Harrier's fair share of dust drifted into his nose. He looked back to the Sandwing.

"Vermilion? The prince?"

"None other," said Harrier, tracking the retreating dot with his eye.

"Then you must be -"

"An ordinary Skywing. Vermilion's a pushover, once you get to know him."

"Forgive me; it was rude to inquire."

"No, no; we want everyone to know what we're doing," said Harrier. Pyrrhia was in danger, and the faster the news spread the better. Gossip was just that – gossip – but when Sandwings heard of foreigners flying into a warehouse and buying up the supply, heads would roll. "So. How many crossbows do you have?"

"Excuse me for a moment," said the Sandwing. "I need to talk to my father."

She got up and retreated into the building, while Harrier stayed back, examining the weaponry with a critical eye. Getting enough weaponry to equip the mobilizing Skywing army was paramount – thanks to a certain Disarmament, they were lacking the good stuff like heavy spears, halberds and crossbows. Furthermore, even if there was a javelin for every Skywing, the supply would be rapidly depleted by attrition. Obtaining arms early was a way to preempt the coming loss.

Wheedling Sandwings into the fight was diplomat's work. Anyone who knew anything had always known that the way to persuade the younger members of the tribe was money. The Sandwing dragoness would be back soon, with all sorts of offers and sales pitches – the better she handled this sale, the better she'd look to her family and the more cash she'd contribute to the clan coffers.

It wouldn't be so hard to pocket a few extra shekels, as sort of a finder's charge – no, what was he thinking? This was how corruption began. He shook his head to clear it, and after he did so he saw the Sandwing returning, led by an older dragon with a missing wingtip; an old soldier, or a smuggler.

"Afternoon," he said. "Care to share your name?"

"Harrier," said Harrier. He held his talon over the table.

"Canton clan Mezti," said the Sandwing. His grey eyes took in Harrier's character. "You were wanting crossbows? We sell ammunition as well."

"Where do you have them?" asked Harrier. "I don't see any."

"In the back," said Canton. "They're high-value items and we don't want thieves attempting to steal them at night, despite the guard."

"They try?"

"Oh yes," said Canton. The Sandwing opened a swinging door and invited Harrier to come in, which he did.

"What kinds of ammo do you sell?" he asked, making conversation while he eyed the lethal wares.

"Stone-tip bronze-tip steel-tip, in order of expense," said Canton. "We have different shafts as well, but a lot of those are at the warehouse under lock and key. Are you in a hurry to buy in bulk?"

"I am."

"Then we won't bother with the custom arms," said Canton.

They were inside the building now, which was dark, but still dry. Harrier's eyes took a second to adjust. When they did he saw a long warehouse with rows and rows of shelving, with drawers on the first shelf and bare weaponry laid crosswise on a metal frame after that. Canton pulled open a drawer and Harrier peered in. It was filled with quarrels: short crossbow bolts with tips that bore the ferric tang of fresh iron, with straight shafts and rigid fletching.

"If I bought ten thousand rounds," said Harrier, "would you throw in partial transport to the Skywing border?"

Father and daughter exchanged a quick glance. "We'll think about it. This is a big purchase."

"If you can handle it quickly, I'll be coming back," said Harrier.

"We'll be wanting scrolls to have an agreement on paper, in case either party falls through," said the daughter. "Excuse me." She trotted away again, opening a side-door into the bowels of the building, then disappearing into the newly revealed room with a slam.

"A good kid, Shyla," said Canton. "She's right. I can get the rest of the clan to pitch in on about two days notice for this. There are always the transport companies, but they're expensive."

"Sounds good," said Harrier. "We'll be freighting it by Skywing, the first time. I'll be wanting to test this stuff, though, until my companion returns with payment."

Where was Vermilion, anyway? He only had to get to the outside of town and back without being waylaid, distracted or kidnapped. The adviser could take care of himself… probably.

"We sell high quality," said Canton. He hesitated. "There's a range out back if you want it. Fire away."

Harrier toyed with a crossbow bolt between two talons. "Will do. I have a feeling I'll be paying for it."

Canton tipped his horn. "Aye."

Somehow he ended up facing the dun wall, resting his body against a table while he loaded the crossbow; a wide-armed version with a short stock to facilitate easy loading. It was rougher than Agular's work, but that could be fixed by wearing in. After a hundred shots the wood would be smoother than dragonet's talons, he knew; one of Burn's soldiers had taught him the use of these things back in the days of Scarlet, and the skill came back now, as he turned the weapon on its side and drew it with the fullest use of his strength, then aimed, a frown on his lips. Either he was getting old or out of shape; that pull took more out of him than it should've.

The trigger release was a surprise, and he flinched after the light press of his claw resulted in a whine and a buck upwards because there was no weight of the quarrel to hold the weapon down. The crossbow was satisfactory. Now for the next one. The weapons varied in length, perhaps to ensure that there'd be one for every user in a lot, but the draw weight was always the same: heavy, and by the time he'd fired five quarrels his arm was tired out and he had to take a rest.

"Do you find it adequate?" asked Canton.

"Entirely," said Harrier. He'd retreated to the shade to rub his scalded talons. "I'm just waiting for my companions to come so we can pay and get the matter settled. Where could he have got to?"

"The Scorpion Den can be confusing for newcomers," said Canton. "Thorn's people set up guides for foreigners who lose their way, so he'll be alright."

"He'd better," said Harrier. "He's the pain, you know that?"

"He is your business colleague," said Canton.

Harrier frowned, backed off the heat. "You know what I mean."

"It's wise for him to bring both transport and payment," said Canton. "Freighters make good bodyguards, if mercenaries are short."

"And speaking of mercenaries," said Harrier, throwing grammar by the wayside, "I'm in the market for organized, armed groups who'd fight for pay."

"You mean organized crime."

Harrier smiled, until he realized that that might not've been a joke. "This is going to be hell on the treasury."

"Yes," said Canton. He smiled. "Although it's a windfall for me. There are groups who stuck around after the war, former soldiers for Blister mostly. There's not much legal business for them these days."

Harrier mentally translated. "That means a low price for hire."

"I do happen to know a dragoness who frequents their haunts," said Canton. "A relation from the clan."

"Good to know," said Harrier. "Maybe I'll inquire."

Darkness fell across his warm brow, and he looked up just in time to catch an eyeful of sunlight when the shadow moved. It was swiftly replaced by another, and another, while a multitude of red dragons poured into the terrace. A whole sortie of dragons had come, and Vermilion was at their head, his snout twisted in an impish smile, and overall looking as weaselly as ever, especially when he gave a wide landing flare that was less for stopping than for show.

Harrier spoke when the dust cleared. "Back so soon?" he asked.

"A few difficulties here and there, but nothing much," said the royal adviser. He stepped past Harrier with his wings half-furled, forcing the middle-aged soldier to step aside. The message was clear: Vermilion would do the negotiating.

It would be less irritating if he was incompetent, but Ruby hadn't kept him around just because he was her brother: the arrogant snot had talent in the art of the deal. Why merchants like Canton put up with him was anyone's guess. Maybe they were used to these people.

Harrier chose this moment to retire to a spot on the western wall, where a slim shadow graced the sand and he could stand under the open sky without burning his talons. He'd done his work, he'd found leads he could follow up on later, because it was his job, but there was no stipulation that said he had to stick around the arrogant Skywing prince.

A butter-bar lieutenant joined him at the wall. "Not just you, huh?" he said.

Harrier looked back at the warehouse, watching the two haggle back and forth about prices. "Nope. I'd prefer action to this."

"You'd have that if you stayed up at the palace, you know," said the lieutenant. "Ruby sent dragons into the Mudwing kingdom under Thrush – did you know him?"

"No."

"Shame. He was real bright as a cadet, got promoted early and all that."

Harrier looked the lieutenant over: thought, and you didn't. That makes two of us.

"When did she send him?" he asked.

"Third, fourth, who knows. I wonder where they are now."

"Bleeding blood, tearing guts and earning glory," said Harrier. He folded his wings and unfurled them again, stirring up a light breeze; a movement that sounded like the slow flapping of a banner down the hill, or the rippling of a flag.

"While we get stuck with the lug jobs."

Harrier sighed, the disappointment congealing into pessimism. "No one thought we'd have another war, but here we are."

"For queen and country."

The tired old slogan rolled off the lieutenant's lips like the opening stanza of a bar song. Neither of them believed it. Neither of them were sure what to believe in anymore. He could try to be philosophical, but there was no easy way to put his feelings into words.

"Hey," said the lieutenant. "At least there'll always be hagglers around."

The two of them chuckled, before Vermilion beckoned the lieutenant with a flex of his talon.

"Guess he wants you to bring the silver," said Harrier.

"Yeah."

With fluid, quick movements the officer pushed his body away from the dusty wall, wings quavering and catching the air even though he wasn't flying, though his companion barely noticed. Harrier's eyes had settled on the Sandwing dragoness, the daughter, then swiftly glided away when he realized what he was looking at.

The silver chest was brought over by two burly freighters, and money was counted out, recounted and summed, with Shyla scratching down notes every so often to estimate the value of the Skywing currency vis a vis her own. A bill of lading was produced, signed and countersigned, and Harrier chanced to sidle over while Vermilion was still talking, curious as to the terms of the deal, though he'd never paid more than glancing attention to these kinds of complicated documents, which were shuttled to and fro through the doors back when he'd been a palace guard.

The price was low, low enough to be fair; Canton wasn't making much money on each item, but he was making it up with volume. An additional surcharge caught Harrier's eye; an uncertainty fee because of the size of the purchase, which would have to be converted to Sandwing silvers in batches.

"… pleasure doing business with you," Vermilion was saying. He was as still as a statue, holding his stance in an unnatural way.

"And you," said Canton. "As I was saying, it would be possible for you to bring with you a purchasing agent the next time you come here, to finalize a production agreement…"

The words blended into mumbo-jumbo in Harrier's brain. He was interested in trade, but not that much, and so he was relieved when there was a lull in the droning conversation. He stepped over to Vermilion, who'd taken a pace back and was rereading the contract for himself.

"Did you finish yet?" he asked.

"Of course not," said Vermilion. "We still have to load this stuff, you know, and pay customs before sunset if we want to start the journey today."

"Because that would be a rule. Naturally."

That dragon was just enjoying the privilege of lording it over him.

"I made sure to study up on Thorn's system in detail before I visited," said Vermilion. "When in the Nightwing kingdom…"

Speak tailhole, thought Harrier, so strongly he missed whatever the adviser had said.

"The delicacy might be hard to understand," went on Vermilion, "but it's easy once you've been doing this as long as I have."

Blah blah blah

"Yeah," said Harrier. He opened a carrying crate. "Stand back or you'll catch a case of masculinity."

Vermilion recoiled, but Harrier's mind was already in a different place; his mountain home, with a spear in his talon as he steadfastly stood to protect it. He was a guard most of his life; a husband for the last three years, and a father for two. Soon he'd be on the front lines, he thought to himself: soon he'd stand in the enemy's way.

He knew what he planned to say to his wife. "Forgive me, but I was delayed…"

Even when he left the city he still wore that satisfied grin, sailing on the breeze while Vermilion flapped sulkily beside him.


July 14th, 5,015: Smolderfax.

One does not simply command a town, nor does he manage its garrison with ease. Most of the former inhabitants of the village were gone, escaped during one chaos or another, and with them had fled the knowledge of where the stores were kept; where the fields were, and the underground barns where they often stored food. That Byrd even knew those existed was a stroke of luck, for one of his dragons had stumbled upon the door. They were surviving off that now, but it wouldn't last long, and in the meantime the trickle of dragons arriving from the back lines was turning into a flood.

A few of them bore messages.

"To Staff Sergeant Byrd," a letter read. So he hadn't been promoted. That was both a disappointment and a relief. "Reinforcements and replacements en route to your location ETA 14 July including replacement brigade commander. Resupply and attack westward starting 15 July: supporting elements due soon. DO NOT allow enemies to penetrate your area."

Byrd had halted midway through the letter, scanning and rescanning the words 'including replacement brigade commander'. Either Thorn was wounded and unfit for combat, or he was dead. He forced down the inevitable sadness, and made his eyes go on. Gradually annoyance grew and competed for sadness in his guts.

Either no one had been filling out intelligence reports or the brass was just that stupid. Keeping the soots from overflying the line was all but impossible: they could get into friendly territory whenever they wished, bypassing strong points and attacking weak staging areas. The enemy could reach heights a Hivewing could only dream of. Byrd set down the letter with a kernel of doubt in his stomach.

He would be surprised if the reinforcements arrived on time, either. The ETAs were whimsically optimistic or backdated so much they became irrelevant, with neither type true to reality. Idly he wondered how high up in the officer corps a dragon had to be to have a desk job: colonel, probably. He hadn't seen officers over the rank of lieutenant since they hit the beach, which meant the higher-ups were all in the back lines.

With an exasperated breath he looked up, out from underneath the eastward eaves of the temporary command building and towards the dawn; a different sort of dawn than the one eleven days ago: its light thin and haggard to his eyes, just like he was. He remembered looking out from the red tower, annoyed because fourth and sixth were late. It'd been too long since he'd seen those companies.

Behind his building stood the soots' inn, or what was left of it; a pile of rubble with one wall standing and the basement crushed in by the weight of the stone that imploded inwards when a falling soot smashed it to smithereens, killing nearly everyone inside. At least there was one brick of good news in all that mess, for Apocri was still alive, if only just.

The soft hiss of claws against grass filtered into his ears, so he put the scroll down and stepped outside. There were dragons standing guard with spears raised outside, and one or two down by the bank, though precious few. Most of their personnel were working, or dead, but there were a few out and about. One of them stood right in front of him, holding a bucket full of clams.

"Breakfast for you, sir," he said. It was one of the survivors from the line company who'd been stationed here.

"Thanks," said Byrd. He rubbed his eyes. "Maybe this'll make it so I don't look like shit."

He took two, the same as any other soldier's ration these days, but even after he had them in his claws the dragon stayed there, waiting expectantly.

"You can have more."

Byrd's mouth watered.

"I'm on the same paygrade as everyone else," he said. "This is all I need."

The Hivewing looked down, then back up again. "One more thing, sir. We're running out of clams in this part of the river; it looks like there weren't too many of them to begin with. Should we go farther upstream?"

"Only with lookouts on the cliffs," said Byrd. "Change the positions of the watch every half-hour so the soots don't murder us in our sleep, and don't take more than eight men. If there are soots, run and hide in the forest, then come back to me."

"Yes sir, thank you sir," said the Hivewing. He made a shallow bow, then left, making the rounds for the next cottage that had survived.

Byrd's stomach growled, and he knew it was time to take the edge off his hunger. He peeled open the clamshells, which already were weakened by the cook's boiling, then worked out the meat with his claw and swallowed the morsel in one gulp. It wasn't much for taste – especially not compared with lamb – but it was sustenance, and it satisfied him long enough so he could make good decisions. Soon the second one was gone, and he put the hard shells in a pile for… well, something.

The order said to attack starting tomorrow: it was time to inform his soldiers of that fact. Most of third company was fishing, or playing sentry in the woods, leaving a pitifully small force to guard the town proper. Half of those were in triage either as doctors or patients, and the rest were playing a long game of hurry up and wait. Byrd's wings hummed as he took to the air, skimming over the grass as he decided to pay a visit to the latter group.

Most of the bloodstains were gone, but not all.

He strode into one of the town's warehouses where they'd set up shop, noting the equipment hung up on the walls and the Hivewings joking and playing cards around a table with a pile of knick-knacks on it. They looked up when his shadow fell across them and froze. Byrd frowned.

"No betting," he said. "You can play cards but you can't wager anything."

The youngest one of the group groaned. "But boss, it's not real money, and you know us."

Byrd adopted the most innocent tone he could manage. "Are you questioning my authority?"

A half-second's gaze and the soldier wilted like a flower in the summer sun. "No."

Control had been restored.

"Put your stuff away," said their sergeant. "and get your canteens off the hook. We're going on the offensive tomorrow."

The soldier grumbled, as soldiers have been doing since the beginning of time. "Hardass."

His companions were both more prudent and attentive. They put the game on hold and started organizing their haversacks, stuffing in the last rations left-over from their arrival and a few that had arrived in recent days; first-aid stuff like bandages, and more esoteric lucky possessions.

"Problem, sir," said another one of them. "We're low on blowdarts."

"How many left?" asked Byrd.

"I have zero. Anyone else?"

"Nothin'."

"Zilch."

"Like, five."

Byrd rubbed his forehead. "Hopefully our reinforcements will bring more ammunition."

"Eyyyy, reinforcements," said the youngest one.

"Yeah, more bodies," said the other. "You roll with your buddies so they can take the hits for you."

Chuckles.

"Guess high command is serious about us pressing forward," said a soldier. "Write me a will. Don't let Chervil do it."

"Chervil'll never need a will," said the youngest. "He's invincible. Just wait till we link up with Thorn and the gang…"

Byrd looked away from the group, suddenly interested in the shelves on the wall. Then he turned back to them and sighed. "It's serious, but I'd like to say to you -"

A breathless dragon buzzed inside and interrupted him midsentence, probably unaware that he'd been talking. "Sarge! Friendlies incoming from the east!"

I'm pleasantly surprised, thought Byrd. The cavalry had arrived. He spoke aloud. "How many?"

"Two or three score, about the size of a company, but they're split into separate formations, sir."

Byrd stepped outside to take a look for himself, then beat his wings in short bursts to carry him above the overbearing trees and into the open, his subordinates following him out to break up the boredom. A cloud of specks greeted his eyes; dragons arrayed on either side of a long column made of two Hivewings abreast, with a smaller column in the group's train and a single dragon flying twenty yards at their head, guiding the formation in. Byrd ducked down to the houses, those that were left.

"Be on your best behavior, boys," he said. "No need to make a racket."

A loud huzzah greeted his words. Finally, another set of grunts to do the dirty work: third company was saved! Byrd chuckled to himself, then groomed the worst stuff from between his scales; the cockleburs and the dried slime that gave him a fish smell from diving in the river. The rumor mill was busy grinding out truth flour while he did so, for he was halfway through when a dragon popped in and regaled him with the good news.

"Boss, looks like we're goin' home."

Byrd stopped and stared.

"What?"

"They're coming to relieve us, can you believe it? Grab a keg while you can, cause if you turn in a soot souvenir they'll give you an extra cell back in the hives."

The sergeant huffed. "We'll see," he said. "Now go tell your buddies to buckle down and stop speculating."

"Yes sir, right away sir," said the private. He rushed off with a smile on his face and Byrd shook his head. His dragons were soldiers and killers, but still young at heart, and vulnerable to the same tall tales that got him wide-eyed as a kid. He still remembered that stranger…

No, now wasn't the time for recollections; they could come later. The incoming party had cleared the tops of the trees, sweeping above the chasm and its muddied waters, influenced by a light southerly wind. They turned and alighted with hard thumps on the level grass: two dozen Hivewings with heavy packs, breathing hard; another twenty or so carrying only their haversacks and spears and blowguns, and in the back – was that Silkwings?

The leader of the group stepped forward, holding an outstretched talon with smooth, shiny scales unlike those of Byrd's, which were rough and dull. They shook claws.

"Good to meet you boys," said the dragon. "Lieutenant Hex, at your service."

"Staff Sergeant Byrd," said Byrd. "Reinforcements?"

"Twenty-one of them," said Hex.

"And the other nine?"

"Natural wastage took three along the way."

Still, that was a goodly number of dragons ready to be ingratiated into third company, at a time when the army had an atrophied replacement system, too…

"I see," said Byrd.

Hex turned his head. "You brigade saps, come meet your new boss."

A line of dragons filtered forward at his words, slowly, creeping quietly as if frightened of something. They were all young; Byrd didn't see anyone over twenty-five, and the youngest of them looked the age Bolt had been, if not younger. Their scars were emotional, not physical, and to them even the lankiest veterans from third company looked like veterans, old claws experienced in the business of war.

"What about supply?"

"You're covered there," said Hex. "We've got food, ammo, and weapon spares."

"Any compasses?"

Hex frowned. "None that aren't ours."

So that was a disappointed hope. "Are you staying here to take command of the brigade?"

"No. I'm taking these freighters south-west along the lines, then back to base to refill on supplies. With any luck you should get reinforcements soon – I heard the soots are getting awfully thick around here, especially at night."

"No kidding," said Byrd. "Who's replacement brigade commander?"

"You need one?"

"I received a dispatch saying we'd get one."

"We didn't bring one."

"He must've been held up."

"I'm afraid I can't help you there," said Hex. "I know as much as you do about what goes on in the higher-ups' heads."

And Byrd was tempted to say nothing. "And the Silkwings?"

"They're a work team destined for this town. We're going to put up real towers here."

"Big targets," said Byrd. He grunted.

"We'd have this place locked down tight if not for the convoy raids," said Hex. "I don't know how many dragons like us are busy playing escort, but it must be thousands."

"A real problem," said Byrd.

"Yeah. Do you have any space inside? I don't like the clear sky."

"We had plenty of space," said Byrd. "but as for the amount we have now, it could fit in a nutshell."

"That's a pity," said Hex. "I was looking forward to the inside air."

"Was there a foreman along?"
"You're looking at him."

"Good," said Byrd.

He shifted his body halfway towards the village, indicating the lieutenant should come with him, which was painfully odd because the last time he'd checked he was separated from Hex's level by an entire paygrade. Even so, the arrival was welcome; here was a chance to catch up on the news, both good and bad. Hardly had he taken two steps than suddenly a wordless roar came from the river, and in an instant Byrd's talon was at his spear and he was shouting orders instead of making conversation.

"To arms!" he shouted. Third company dropped what they were doing and came galloping with their weapons in one talon and wingtips holding haversacks, which they jerry-rigged onto themselves as they went. The sergeant hardly paused for breath. "Form up! Takeoff! Flank west!"

In a matter of seconds the veterans were in the air, leaving the poor reinforcements bewildered in their wake and Hex with his claw outstretched, about to make an observation of some kind.

It might be a trap, or it might be the conventional, no-holds-barred kind of dogfight of the night of the tenth. "Eyes peeled," he cried, and rushed on, past the rubble of the tower and crossing open water even as the reinforcing dragons were still immobile with shock.

He'd have to train in those guys as soon as possible – it was like third company's teething troubles all over again, only this time they were alone, without the brigade's numbers and dedicated logistical support.

"Contact, down!" shouted Chervil.

Byrd looked beneath him to the river, where the muddy water boiled with rough patches of white spray and objects lifting out of it and plunging back again – limbs, he realized, Hivewing limbs, mixed with another color. His hesitation was slight.

"Dive – rescue!"

All thirteen or fourteen of them halted their wingbeats and plummeted as if clapped in irons – not too fast now, or he would pancake when he hit the water. He caught himself at the last moment and pulled up, talons skimming the fray, then hauled tail around and yanked at the friendly Hivewing who was caught in the tangle. Between him and Chervil they managed to pull the poor dragon out – his lungs were half-filled with water by now, and Byrd had half a mind to bring him up when suddenly thwack, a heavy blow caught him on the underside of his chest and knocked the breath out of him. An impish face gazed at him for a fraction of a second, then disappeared beneath the waves.

Byrd wheezed. "Dragons in the water," he said. "Dragons in the water! Buddy up! Don't let them drag you down."

He repeated this a few times, yelling it to anyone who would listen to break through the chaos. A headcount was almost useless – he had only a hazy of who he'd started out with, and who'd gone to the river for clams.

"Chervil!" he shouted. "How many of us went to collect?"

"Five, sir," said his subordinate, scales glinting in the dim, partial sunlight that shone from the northern side of the chasm.

He nodded, said: "Get in the shadow," then slipped into the lee of the shaded craggs. "Less of a target."

His chest hurt with every word, moons, but he needed to concentrate on something else, another thing than the pain, so he looked around – there were eighteen of them, Monarda inside, and the garrison on lookout – that meant he should have twelve with him. Right now he saw only eleven, plus the guy they'd dragged from the water and deposited on top of the cliff; a shivering heap of a Hivewing with his wings limp and useless because they were soaked.

Byrd had never seen a soot wearing a snorkel: it was another tribe, had to be, one he knew nothing about, and who probably knew just how to beat him. His eyes panned the surface of the waters, looking for undue churning or bubbling that might give away the position of a friendly, but saw nothing at all. There might be a hundred of them down there, waiting for an unlucky Hivewing to get too close to the water, and against their strength he had a dozen soldiers if he counted himself.

He flew closer to the cliff. "Can you move him?" he asked.

Chervil gave the dragon another compress, then shook his head – the boy had been busy. "He's so heavy I think he's mostly water," he said, then looked across the chasm. "Here come our reinforcements, tardy as usual."

Byrd followed his gaze. "I'll take over here," he said. "Warn them not to come too close to the water."

Chervil nodded, then flew off, and Byrd stepped in. He kept trying to force the water out, leaning in during the lull of every third pump to check the pulse, which was weak and irregular, but there. He'd been doing this for half a minute when he heard a loud splash.

Not again; there was another dragon down, and one less to help them out on tomorrow's recon trip, if the boys couldn't pull him out quickly enough. The soldier's breath began again, and Byrd took occasion to peer over the lip of the cliff and see what was going on.

A bedraggled Hivewing was flying up from the water as fast as he could go, while at the surface two more struggled with one of the interlopers, who was kicking and scratching and lashing with his tail so as to force off his attackers and prevent them from dragging him out of the river. He took another swing at a Hivewing, and that was his last mistake, for another soldier came up and hauled him out of the water tail first.

After the spears were blooded there wasn't much left of him.

Byrd looked to the soldiers near him. "Get off the ground and go tell Hex we're going to withdraw," he said. He took the half-drowned dragon at his side and hauled him up, and between Byrd and another helper they managed to lift the guy off the ground and drag him home. A stab of guilt heckled his heart as he went. He could've spent more time here figuring things out, bettering their knowledge so the next time they faced these opponents they wouldn't be caught out like this, only this time he was at a loss.

He needed to think like Bolt; to derive a tactical countermeasure to the problem, and soon. Without that there was nothing to stop the enemy from coming up to the bank and ambushing the dragons in Smolderfax from the river – wait. Suddenly his blood ran cold, and he hurried on.

It didn't help that the attack had cut off their primary food source – the clams. Without them he'd have to send out hunting patrols to augment their supplies, at least until the convoy chain got in shape, which it might never. The order was suicide, that was what – asking him to press on again with no more dragons than he'd had the last time he'd gone, and expecting better results, because even as he'd gotten better the soots had too.

He passed the last cliff on the northern-side which overlooked the town, then descended into relative safety and a harsh landing which made the soldier's body jostle heavily on his back, his talons meeting the ground with a thump. A disgruntled groan filled the mid-morning air, and the dragon's eyes opened slowly, droplets of moisture dripping from his chin as he blinked sleepily, looking around with unseeing pupils. Byrd's gaze fell on one of the Silkwings, who was half-cantering half-galloping towards him, probably to ask if he needed any help.

With a surge of anger and stubbornness he brushed aside the slave, because he was in the way. The whole army was in the way, higher-ups and lieutenants and supply difficulties culminating in a brick wall as impenetrable as the enemy. He'd just lost another of his vets to… to those sea dragon things and now he had to train in these new recruits all over again, just to lose half of them in the next week. In his wake he blazed a trail of anxiousness. 'Boss is mad today'.

Where was the proud third company who'd fought with him in that first battle over the new world's green? - dead, that was what, its survivors molded into battle-weary dragons, and the wounded left behind. It had been too soon since Monarda was hit, and her injury stood too much chance of reopening, so it was better if she stayed here, or was sent to the back line with Hex.

The whole thing was a momentous headache.

A dragon brushed past him; Chervil was close at hand. Byrd turned and spoke. "Get the reinforcements together in the warehouse, tell them I'd like to talk to them soon. Teach them what you know, have them chat with the boys and open up a bit. Veterans on watch, as usual."

Chervil tipped his horn. "I'll get the guppies, boss."

"Guppies? Oh…" For they really did stand around with wide eyes and open mouths. "It's 'sergeant' or 'sarge' to my face, not boss."

"Yes sir," said Chervil. He strode off, and Byrd had just turned the other direction to find Hex when he heard the dragon say, "Listen up, boss wants a meeting in the warehouse, so get your lazy tails in gear and follow me…"

Byrd grunted, but he appreciated the humor. He'd never said anything about what his subordinates were supposed to call him behind his back, and that was alright; better boss than hardass, he thought, as he trotted around the green looking for the lieutenant. Only a few buildings were still standing in the town, and there weren't many places for a dragon to hide.

A weary feeling permeated the air; a smell of blood and grime and the cloying scent of healing wounds, along with the constant stink of river water and exertion. There was no way to take a bath now, and his scales itched like the chiggers. The clouds of the morning had parted for the noon sun, and with the renewed light came stifling heat and humidity: Byrd watched the trees wave their boughs atop the cliffs, but felt no breeze on his cheek, for there was no wind in the valley.

His mind contracted a sentry to scan for Hex while the rest of it thought, and thought, idly and wastefully in this moment of peace. The order was suicide – but there was no choice but to follow it. The army told him he didn't have a choice, but that wasn't strictly true: he could disobey and he could desert, if he wanted to, but where he'd desert to, that was the question. He'd just watched a sea dragon pulled from the water into the air, bound so he was relatively helpless – and killed by his soldiers: would the soots do the same?

He was groping in the dark now, fumbling to find the exit between a rock and a hard place. This was defeatist thinking, and he'd just written a report rebuking defensive thinking – but it was hard to be upbeat when two-thirds of his company had vanished in a fortnight.

Lieutenant Hex came into view, talking with his men, and the little sentry in Byrd's head rung an alert, though not fast enough. The lieutenant caught Byrd out the side of his eye and asked, "Were you looking for something?"

Byrd mentally cleared his brain with a broom. "I was wanting to talk to you, actually, and make a request."

"One moment please," said Hex. He went on talking for a few moments, giving orders – the chain of command was different in the line brigades than in recon – then came back to Byrd. "I know the circumstances are a bit… unusual of late. You're a staff sergeant, I'm a lieutenant, but you're commanding as many dragons as I am, nominally anyway."

Hex was turning into a talker. Byrd stored that away for future reference.

"What is it that you wanted?" went on the lieutenant, unaware of the sergeant's thoughts.

"I'm attacking tomorrow," said Byrd. "I want you to garrison this place until further reinforcement."

Hex read between the lines. "I see. How are you going to handle this, shall we say, unorthodox train of events with the higher-ups?"

Byrd gave a tired smile, more out of a habit than anything else. "I'm not."

"That could be a black mark on your record."

Byrd ignored that and forged ahead. "I also want you to evacuate my wounded, or care for them at least."

"That's a counterproductive policy," said Hex. "When a dragon is too damaged to be useful, no further resources should be spent on their support."

Byrd stared. Where had this dragon grown up, in a cocoon? He was reciting the book, but the book was wrong; Byrd had always known that, because on the street you stuck together; you cared for your buddies and you didn't let them down. His upbringing stamped that into his head, over and over again.

"My dragons aren't useless."

Hex shrugged. "It's not in my responsibilities."

Byrd tried a different tack. "What's better for the Hivewings? Us holding the village, or you getting back to base on time?"

"What's better for all of us is me getting back to base on time," said Hex. "I'd like to remind you that I'm a lieutenant and you're still a sergeant, no matter how many staffs you have in front of your name."

Byrd huffed. He could draw himself up, argue and make a scene, but that wouldn't matter; it wasn't worth it to undermine both officers' authority over a spat, especially when the lieutenant was right in Hivewing eyes. All the same, he put Hex's name on the mental list where he'd placed Stinger: brown-noser.

"We'll do what we can," he said.

He flew away without waiting for Hex to let him go, leaving a dismissive lieutenant in his wake. Now that that was over and done with, he could rejoin his company in the hangar, and that was what he did, setting foot outside the door and treading with quiet footsteps so he could observe without being observed. A droopy Monarda leaned against the wall, the front of her body a wall of bandages. A small smile graced her lips even as she rested her head on a shelf, and after a moment her eyes slipped to Byrd, who she gave a slight nod. Three or four of the original forty-eight were lounging around the table, and they were the only ones sitting down; the rest of the dragons in the hangar were standing, shuffling their feet and buzzing their wings nervously, all facing the back of the room, where Chervil had appointed himself a soapbox to use as a jury-rigged podium.

"It's confusing, I know; we've all had that moment when we figured it was time to stick together and realized the hard way that that was the last fight where we should've stayed close. Generally you want to be as near your buddy as possible when the soots come down, and I mean 'ow-you're-hurting-my-wings' close. They feed on lone dragons like parasites, which makes you think they're weak in close quarters until you walk up to one and say, 'Gee, how do you do?' and they turn around and blast fire in your face."

A few dragons laughed. Chervil was getting the mood. It'd been, what, twenty minutes since he was fighting for his life? Save for the worry lines around his eyes he looked cheerful as ever.

"They don't stick around long; they're not much for a fair fight, those guys. They're the beat-'em-and-leave-'em type – just like my momma," said Chervil. He pointed his talon at one of the newcomers. "You, what do you do with your blowgun when a soot is overhead?"

"Uh, shoot?"

Chervil made a mock-disappointed face, though he couldn't hold it for long when he had so many admirers. "Nah, you just wasted your wad. Before you can reload he's down on ya' and he's choking ya', gurk. They can fight you from above, but if they dive on you, what do you do?"

The dragon hadn't learned his lesson yet. "Uh, dodge?"

Chervil folded his wings behind him. "You're out of formation, you die, dead, unless you make it back by a miracle." He pointed at another dragon. "What do you do?"

"Hold up your spear and hope yours is longer than his," said another.

"And brace," said Chervil. "That's important. Congratulations, you got it right. We'll be drilling you tonight, and tomorrow, and any time we get a chance, and between me and boss and the rest of the old hands we'll run you ragged."

"What about combat?"

Chervil paused. "We're a recon unit; hopefully we won't get in too many fights. Don't go looking for one unless boss says so."

He caught Byrd's eye and winked. Then he went on.

"The best thing you can do against the soot attacks – call 'em boom and zoom – is get down to where you're about twenty feet off the ground and fight them that way. They can't come at you from below, so they'll have to come from the sides or above, and hopefully get stuck in. Tie up his snout as much as you can; don't be where his face is pointing, because they have fire and it's nasty."

He held up his arm and waved it around. "I didn't get this from scale paint at the hobby store."

There were no oohs and ahs, but there were a lot of held breaths. Chervil put his arm down. "In the daytime they fight in twos; at nighttime they split off and go lone wolf. Trust your buddy, safety in numbers, follow sarge's orders. And uh, speaking of sarge, there he is in the back."

Twenty-one pairs of eyes turned and gazed at Byrd, which made him uncomfortable. He tried not to show it. He was the leader here, and his dragons depended on him to make the right choices and inspire them, whether they were following good orders or bad. With slow steps he waded through the crowd, and it felt like a crowd, too; as many dragons together as he'd seen in a week. A small circle opened up around him; they were uncertain, hesitating, waiting to see just what kind of character this sergeant was, and what he would do.

"He doesn't bite," said Chervil from where he was on the podium. "Mostly."

Byrd gave his subordinate a stern look and the dragon nodded, then stepped away from the box. Slowly the first of the newcomers stepped forward, looking to introduce themselves. They had many names; Kintledge and Daring and Seagrass stuck out to him, among others. Eventually he made it to the podium, cleared his throat. A score of expectant faces gazed into his, hanging on his every word.

"I was never one for making speeches, but that doesn't matter much, because I am one for giving orders."

He paused, thinking of what to say next.

"You've found a place in third company, nothing more and nothing less. Listen to the veterans; they know the little things that keep you alive."

There wasn't going to be any talk of reaching their objectives, of being the cream of the crop. These guys had heard that before and it wasn't what they deserved.

"Nobody told me what would happen to me when I landed on the beach and headed off inland," he said, his voice sharp with double-edged experience. "Nobody told our boys. We've suffered through thick and thin, and soon you'll be suffering through it with us. We're not all going to come out unscathed, but I can make damn sure that most of you do. That means taking care of you and showing you the ropes, and giving you the training you need to make it."

He surveyed the room, looking each dragon in the eye.

"Don't go dying on me," he said, took a breath, forced the anger away. "Get yourselves in groups of four, one of five; we're doing limited training today. You have ten minutes to prepare."

The dragons all nodded, talked amongst themselves, then filed out in twos and threes, dragging the veterans along with them. The reinforcements knew each other; probably their commander had been killed, and high command had sent them here. That explained why they were so skittish. Monarda went out into the sunlight, but Chervil didn't, choosing to sidle up to Byrd where he was standing next to the soapbox.

"Afternoon sarge," said he, in a voice lighter than Byrd's by a half key.

Byrd leaned against the stone wall that led up to the roof. "Thanks Chervil."

"Sure hot out there."

"Too hot for our sick," said Byrd. "How's Monarda been?"

Chervil gave him a blank stare for a few seconds. "We haven't talked much for the past few days."

"I'm sorry to hear something's gotten between you."

"You told me not to be with her," said Chervil. "After the raid."

"That's not what I meant," said Byrd.

He let the words hang in the tense atmosphere of the storehouse.

"I thought -" said Chervil. "- you didn't like us or something."

"You're too young – no – I didn't want you to see her while she was hurt."

"Understood, sir."

Chervil turned away and looked at the metal shelving.

"You can go see her now."

"Sure."

The young dragon remained where he was. Byrd decided to rephrase his words.

"I'm ordering you to see her."

Chervil's head turned, a question on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed. "Yes, sir."

His snout was dark in the low lighting, eyes gleaming orbs poised above wide nostrils that moved with every breath, sharp-bladed wings quivering behind him.

"Dismissed."

Byrd turned aside and let Chervil walk to the door, dragging a claw with every step.

"You're limping."

Chervil stopped with two feet in the grass.

"The ladies like a genuine war wound," he said, then huffed.

"Be serious," said Byrd. "Take hanky-panky and it's back to Pantala."

His subordinate stepped into the grass. "Yes, sir."

This time he looked Byrd in the eye.

So that was done. The sergeant stood in the shade a while longer, dreading the moment when he would get up and go manage the fustercluck; the newbies running around with no idea of how to fight, or worse, a fear of fighting. It made sense for dragons to avoid battles, because they were dangerous, but the academy stamped lies into their heads so they would go out and fight and get killed. Byrd sighed, then trotted outside to where he could be seen. He was playing into the system's talons like this, and there was no excuse in his mind anymore that could make this war feel right.

Champing their bits, his soldiers stood around in little clusters, making small talk: Byrd got the feeling they didn't know what to say. How were they supposed to make friends when for all they knew everyone in the company could be dead in a fortnight – when for all he knew he could lead them into a trap none of them would survive; let his worries get the best of him, as they were now.

These dragons depended on him…

"Alright boys," he said. "Here's how we're going to conduct the drill…"


The heat was stifling; the sun's glare glinted off the waves, and the newcomers were getting their tails handed to them.

"Flight four, you're out!" he called. "Against soots you'd be dead."

The recon chain of command gave more responsibility to the soldiers, but these dragons were too inexperienced to use it effectively, too unsure of themselves. The trust they'dbuilt up during the first combat patrol had eroded to nothingness.

Only seventeen of the original forty-eight were fit for action, including Byrd himself. Of those, he'd assigned five to the newcomer flights as advisers, and used the remaining dozen as an opposing force, or Opfor. Blufor had empty crates clamped to their bellies; extra weight to emphasize their flight disadvantages against the soots. He had a day to train them, and he'd do it hard.

"Start again!" he shouted. "You've got the numbers advantage, so use it."

Again Opfor rose to the call, gaining a few hundred feet of altitude above the disgruntled friendly group, which clustered together and tightened their grips on the long boughs they'd cut from the forest as simulation spears. There were blowpipes, too, but no dummy ammunition for them, so Byrd had his soldiers throw pebbles.

Byrd was part of Opfor, too, and he watched from his aerial position above the forest as his opponents deliberated, listening to the veterans but also to one of the larger reinforcement Hivewings: if he remembered right the name was Kintledge.

"Alright," he said. "We've given them enough time to lick their wounds. Buzz the trees so the pebbles won't hit you, then close in one mass, talon-to-talon."

"Yessir."

"Go."

They stopped their wingbeats and dropped, catching themselves before they went too fast and chopping the treeleaves as they flew diagonally; half towards the river chasm and half towards the defending force, who were hovering above Smolderfax in a tight group. It was better than their last performance, where half of them had hung around the fringes as if expecting to bolt for the woods.

Pebbles whizzed past them, but none hit: it was harder to hit a target moving across than directly towards or away from the shooter.

"Turn!" shouted Byrd. With sudden cohesion his force hauled around and cut for the defending force, taking a straighter route than before. More rocks came towards them in lazy arcs, moving so slowly he could almost dodge them, and then he was upon Blufor, twisting through their spears in a quick dance and tapping out the dragons behind them.

Suddenly the opposing formation split on his right and left, leaving three or four dragons caught in the open, which his force were quick to eliminate. All the same there was still a line of soldiers in front of him, holding their sticks out in front of him and slowing his advance, whereupon the lines surged back and caught Opfor in a trap: dragons piling on him and everywhere around him. He tapped out the first one, twisted and slashed the second, and then was forced to fall back, for his formation was imploding around him.

Still, they gave better than they got, and it was an eternity in combat time before he felt a pain in his ribs, turned and saw the impish face of Daring grinning at him with a sparkle in her eye. Byrd cast down his arms, and when he looked around he saw that everyone else had too.

He nodded his head at the defenders. "Good job," he said. "That's what's supposed to happen when you get low."

He let them bask in the victory glow for all of five more seconds. "Form up," he said. "Let's go again."

Two hours and five bouts later, Byrd called it off, his body glowing warmly from the heated exertion of the war games, which he thought fit to call a qualified success. Training like this was an important way to freshen the troops – and give an impression of strength to enemy eyes. The new soldiers performed admirably, given the experience gap between them and the third company hardliners, and they'd learned a lot during the war games: when to increase their spacing and when to huddle together; when to maneuver and how to follow simple plans made up on the spot.

Granted, the last one had been a little silly – Byrd made them camouflage their force as part of the training, only they couldn't roll in the mud because the river was off-limits during the little charade, which meant the opfor had to pretend not to see them. They'd gotten better; that was the important part, and now most of the company was eating their ration bars in the storehouse, combat equipment at the ready, with sentries posted outside.

As always, Chervil was the first to strike up a conversation.

"What do you guys do with your combat pay?" he asked. "Mine's going to Pa so he can pay alimony."

There was a pause in the room as each soldier thought back to their home continent, which by now seemed an eternity away.

"I have a savings account," said Kintledge. "I told my broker to invest in properties for me, ponics, market square, that sort of thing."

Daring chimed in; the only dragoness among the newcomers, her voice was lighter than the boys', but only just. "I'm sending it to my husband."

"Savings."

"Capital for my cousin's glass company."

"Charity."

"What about you, Monarda?" asked Chervil.

"I don't get paid," the dragoness murmured. "Each week I'm alive the orphanage the orphanage gets a flower to remind the dragonets I'm out there."

Chervil sighed. "I guess… not the best question to ask."

"It's fine," said Monarda. "I won't bother you guys."

"Alright. Sarge?"

"To my brother," said Byrd. "He's neighborhood warden; they don't get much."

The soldiers nodded and Chervil called "Seagrass?"

A narrow-shouldered dragon, Seagrass shrugged. "It goes to my parents so they can put it in a trust fund."

The others looked at him.

"I was always a rich brat," he said, and chuckled. "I thought everyone had bodyguards until I joined the army, which was a fun experience, by the way."

"How often did they drag you out to the latrine?" asked Kintledge, saying it as if that were a fact of camp life.

"Thrice."

"I had them do that to me when I was in boot," said Chervil. "They said wisetail needed a dunk."

Byrd shifted where he stood, intending to let the talk go on a few more moments before he cut it short and changed the watch. A few of the more experienced dragons caught the move and stepped closer to the door.

"What are you going to do when they end your commitment?" asked Kintledge.

"Get a job in development work I guess," said Chervil. "Don't tell me what you'll do when you get out of the military. You've found a home in the army."

Laughs. Byrd laughed too, then cut the conversation short.

"Finish up," he said. "Change the watch when you're done, do head count."

Chervil touched his horn. "Aye, sir."

"I've decided we'll be leaving before dawn," said Byrd. "We'll travel north until mid-morning, then go to ground and creep westwards during the afternoon. We will then assume a nocturnal traveling schedule."

The dragons nodded along.

"Tell that to your buds – quietly, now. There could be spies in the river. As for what we're going to do about that… I'll be placing the 112thers on high alert tonight. We'll leave our wounded here for the duration."

Hopefully the river dragons would go away. Byrd doubted it. It was time to hurry up and wait, and prepare. He hadn't so much fought a war in the last two weeks as survived, living when too many had died, on the plains, in the town, above the forests and in the scorching flames of the inferno. Who knew if he would return from the next recon trip? Not him. Whatever deity was out there, it needed to give him a chance.

A moment passed, the dragons of third company finishing their meals. Quietly Byrd left the storehouse, slipped into one of the soot homes and felt for an item on a shelf. A wistful smile entered his eyes when the cool, crinkling surface of parchment slipped into his talons, and the rod-like form of a quill. Was there standing furniture here? Yes. He signed his name at the top, then began to write, shaking his head when he hard a low hum.

It was Chervil singing a low tune as he went out to guard duty, shadow flickering on the golden grass. Some of the words were too high-pitched to hear; others were too fast, or too slow. A single phrase caught in Byrd's mind.

"Off we go, into the wild blue yonder… lost again, son of a bitch!"

Yeah.


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Signed, Black.

Published October 16th, 2020.