Written October 26th, 2020 – Nov 8th

Edited: Nov 11th, 12th, and 13th

Published Nov 13th, 2020

Conflict – Dark Days.


Sharpen your axes and harden your hearts.


July 15th, 5,015: Edge of the Rainwing Kingdom

"Welcome to Little Rainburrow, Cap," Corporal Falcon had said, with a grin, when Thrush had gotten back yesterday evening; less tired than he was annoyed with his guide, who'd dallied with her friends at Hammockon for four hours before he could get moving.

A real team player, that Liana.

"Rainburrow?" Thrush had asked.

"It was this or Shackville."

Well, better that than other names he'd heard. That night Thrush laid out his plan, explaining the rendezvous point, the maps, the intelligence; the attack on the enemy staging area and the right hook that second wing would execute, under the command of Sergeant Rudd. Marching orders had been given, supply requirements had been drawn up, and then the captain headed off to get a bout of well-deserved shuteye.

He wouldn't get much.

In the military, daily life begins before first light. Every Skywing knew the plan, and their place in that plan, however insignificant. They gathered around the spring; that source of clear, cool water bubbling from beneath two mossy, flowery stones, ate and shot the breeze, before heading up to do morning calisthenics.

Dawn arrived through a thick coat of morning fog; white soup that briefly clung to his scales, then parted when he moved. The Rainwing had left last night, was long gone by now. He wished the dragon luck, mostly because the mission would fail without him. Their target was close compared to the target of last war's Driftwood; little more than a hundred miles away, or six hours flight for his Skywings even when loaded down with equipment.

It was a pace a Nightwing could keep.

The mist burned off by the middle of the morning, and for half the afternoon a cloudless sky reigned over the Rainforest, until suddenly it didn't. Wisps formed, then bloomed into fluffy clouds, which soon grew upwards; tall towers of cumuli on narrow bases, leaning precariously on the wind. Far, far above those, in rarefied air where even Skywings couldn't reach, ripples appeared, while beneath them the cumuli merged, burgeoning into fledgling thunderheads. Thrush could read the sky like a scroll: the heat of the sun was warming the land as a fire heats a cauldron, and the water was getting ready to boil.

The first rumbles of thunder hailed from the south, but even before they arrived purple flashes played in the clouds, and shivers began at the bases of Skywing spines, then lanced further up their backs the closer the lightning got. Boom.

Falcon spoke for the Skywings clustered around the spring. "Looks like it's going to rain on boss's hopes."

It could. It would. If hard rain persisted into the night the expeditionary unit would be unable to get underway, and operation Maple Driftwood II would come to a crashing halt. The captain flew here and he flew there, testing the winds above the canopy, and frowning when they picked up.

Only the Rainwings didn't seem bothered. A few of them had come into camp, curious about the morning fuss, and they shrugged when Thrush asked them about the storm. "We get one every week or so," they said. "It'll be gone presently."

The word 'presently' can mean anything from this afternoon to next year in Rainwing time, and Thrush wasn't comforted. They did make an offer to install floor paneling on and around the limbs of the tallest trees, which Thrush graciously accepted. Open ground is at a premium in the rainforest, and it helps to have a place in the greenery where a lookout can see without being seen. He was lashing rope to a wide, thick bough a hundred yards above the ground when he felt the first droplet of rain; a wet splash on his nose, followed by another on his ear, and several on his wings; then many more as the storm front moved in and the last of the blue sky disappeared, replaced by unyielding slate grey.

Pattering arose; the sound of the rain hitting the leaves and wetting the treetops. It was impossible to know the time of day, beyond taking a guess: the sun might be low in the sky, or it might have hardly moved since the storm rolled in. Anxiety was short-circuiting the soldier's instinctual clock.

Deathbringer tossed him another line. The Nightwing had good aim, and Thrush caught the twisting end of the rope, then secured it to the bough. He wore all the accouterments of a nighttime soldier; two packs on his sides, and round, wicked disks secured to his chest by a belt, carefully covered in a patina of grime so the metal would never gleam. Everything the Nightwing had had been dyed black.

All the more reason for Thrush never to let the assassin out of his sight.

Unfortunately for him, assassins were excellent at the art of walking unseen.

A corporal shouted at the base of the tree far below. "Spears in cover, spears in cover; don't put the tips down or they'll get wet. Wipe them off to keep away the rust."

Thrush tied off another knot, then wiped his brow. Falcon's spyglass was probably fogged eight ways from Sunday. This mission was going to fail because of a storm. Like hell!

Time passed; an hour, maybe two, perhaps even three. The rain slowed to a drizzle, but the sky grew neither darker nor later, only remained that inimical dark grey with no color or contrast; a flat roof of frustration.

If it was only a drizzle it was good enough to fly in. The main problem was visibility; if the weather acted up again dragons could get lost. He slung the line over to the next branch, tightened it, worked on installing the floor-net. Once that was done they brought in a bit of furniture; shelving and tarps to keep out moisture.

It wasn't working. Dreary rain dripped on dreary cupboards. Moons, he'd had enough of waiting, he was going to call the mission and have them embark right here and now, only it was too early, and he counted off sixty seconds in his head. Damn, still too early. Or too late? He didn't know.

More conversation filtered up from the ground. "I hate this game…"

"Hold on, let's oblige our hosts…"

"I put down a one, six -"

"You can't do that!"

"No, wait, reverse, skip you, draw two Kettering," said Knotgrass.

"I quit."

That must've been Kettering.

"Game of One, boys?" asked Falcon.

A wet slap sounded when the remaining player threw down his cards. "It is now."

"Scoundrels, absolute scoundrels."

Low rumbles turned to a sudden clash of thunder. Thrush pushed off from the tree, body tipping forward in free fall, then leveling after he flared his wings to glide the rest of the way down.

"Get ready boys, we leave in twenty minutes."

"Yes sir," said a sergeant. "Last chance for water! We're already ready, but now we're going to be extra ready."

No one needed a drink, because everyone was soaked.

"So, Kett, you want to play poker after the mission?"

More grumbling. Thrush's eyes twinkled at the byplay.

"The sun's shining, we're winning, the girls are swooning -"

"What girls? You?"

"No. And wouldn't you like to say that in front of my father; he'd box you by the ears."

"But not you. You're not brave enough."

Insects hummed nearby, congregating in the thick leaves and vines where the foliage warded off the rain, and curled-up petals of tumpetcreeper gave off the last of their early-summer scent.

"Curse this wet," said another.

Thrush shrugged. "One cloud feels lonely," he said. "Two is one too many, and soon there's a storm."

Along came Peril, hissing like a steam-kettle. Alone out of all of them she wore no harness, and her red scales stayed mostly clean, save for thin lines of dirt that'd cemented themselves in the gaps between the overlapping plate. Dragons inched away from her, or leaned in the other direction. She did not mind.

"They're attracted by the blue sky," she said. "What's above them, I wonder? We call ourselves masters of the sky, but we don't know."

Silence.

Kettering spoke up. "At least you're in a good mood."

"Get over it," said Knotgrass. "Win some, lose some, you know?"

"And I lose everything."

"Cheer up, Kett."

"No."

"Ah, morning people. They can't function after noon."

Peril hissed, a long sizzle breaking the pattering pattern of rain. "Quit teasing," she said.

No 'or what?' followed: Thrush's soldiers knew when to back down, and now they waited, patiently or impatiently, peeling the bark from sticks or playing bob-stones (Kettering abstained).

Despite the ribbing, the expeditionary unit had higher morale than it seemed; here they were, rested up, going on a mission to take the fight to the enemy, under a successful wartime commander who'd brought them victory after victory, or draws at the least. None of them had died from eating poisonous things, either, and if any dragon was sick he didn't show it. Like hell they were going to miss an op like this for a grumbling stomach.

The seven wings of the expeditionary unit gathered under the trees, Peril among them. Someone had gone and recalled her from the brush outside the forest, and now a black patch lay bare under her feet, rain hissing as it fell to her brow. The drizzle abated to sporadic drops, but still a risk remained.

"Fourth wing, visibility check," said Thrush. "Pop up top and see what you find."

Wings rushed and dragons jumped, mud upchucking from their talons when they gathered their leaps. A while later a soldier poked his head down from the canopy. "Hazy conditions sir, two miles viz or less."

"OK, sounds good," said the captain. "First wing, up!"

He waited fifteen seconds for them to clear the trees, then, "Second wing! . . . Third wing! . . . Fifth wing! . . . Sixth! . . Seventh! Stay tight!"

He took off after seventh company, with Deathbringer close on his heels. Heretofore Thrush had led the unit wherever they went; now it was another dragon's turn. Strange, he thought, to see the Nightwing ahead of him, flying a calm twenty knots north-east, according to the compass. They both could go faster, and they knew it, but they saved their strength for another time. Barring lunch, they would fly all evening and all night.

Fourth wing's sergeant was right; the visibility was hazy, fluctuating farther or nearer as the rain strengthened and waned, the white fog obscuring the known world. From the horizon on the left to the horizon on the right the distance was two miles, and that is preciously limited compared to how far a Skywing can see from a mountain.

A whole enemy invasion force could be pressing the rainforest and Thrush would slip under their noses. That was how misty the sky was. Soon warmth grew in his shoulders, and his wingbeats turned easy and fluid, settling in for the long cruise at five hundred feet; an altitude that allowed them to make the most of their limited vision.

Not much happened for the next few hours, which was a good thing. Each head-count of the units behind him spotted seven wings, with the right number of dragons in each wing. Presently the sky darkened, and Thrush took a dark lantern from his belt, one of the Rainwing articles which he found useful for the occasion.

Each dark lantern had a bulbous glass dome protruding from one side, almost like a nose. Two handles came out; one from the top for holding, one from the back, for working the shutter that controlled the emitted light. The top assembly had threading on the base, too, so it could be twisted on or off the bottom for access to the wick (while some dragons found the threading so novel they toyed with it for hours, Thrush was not one of them). Still, he found the device incredibly handy.

He took off the top now. Enough candle remained for a few hour's operation, and when this one burned out there were four more in his pouch. A touch of fire set it afire, and then the top was back on and the only glow from the device issued from the porthole, casting a searching ray into the gloom.

If it were a clear night he would never have used this; even in mist like this it was risky. He flew up to Deathbringer, whose dark scales cut an imposing figure in the haze.

"Here," he said.

Deathbringer nodded, then took it without a word. His eyes jumped from bush to bush on the churned-up mud, which was bare of trees and almost everything else, save for sparse reeds and brambles.

"We're on the right bearing?" he asked.

The Nightwing's eyes twinkled. "I have a compass too."

Still, a compass could not account for wind; only the stars could, and they were invisible tonight, shielded by a looming roof of clouds.

Tremulous drafts affected the pregnant atmosphere, laden heavily with anticipation: now the breeze came from the south, then from the west, and later swung 'round to the east, running up and winding down as if it were the breath of a dormant lung. Discordant themes played by his ear; the cool swish of the mist rushing by, and the rustle, then sudden crack of his wings. Half a second of silence reigned; then all turned quiet again.

The lantern fell, growing closer and then farther, sweeping by so quickly he failed to drop his wing and follow it. It wasn't the lantern which had moved, he realized. Deathbringer had stopped and he had gone past. The golden ray gleamed behind him now; a shaft of light beaming into dark, interminable haze, mist that resolved into many-sided swirls, featureless except for their puffy tendrils. With keen eyes he traced that glowing line back to its source, half-obscured by his shoulders.

He pushed his tail right and his body swerved left, followed by his wings, which tilted and slid through the air; invisible yet tangible. A chill rode on the air, and the air thickened because of it. Worry took root in his gut, dread sickness spreading from intestines to stomach: a quarter of his dragons could've overshot the guiding mote, and vanished into the darkness.

Now he leveled out the turn, and a rush whistled in his ears, half born of his blood pumping with sudden action, half the newly strengthened wind stealing the warmth out of his scales.

He was speeding up, going down. A quick flap of his wings checked his momentum, bleeding velocity before the earth hove into view, with Deathbringer perched on a dry spot atop it. Mud gleamed messily from the gleam of the lantern, brown granules colored by the light. Thrush hit the ground and dirt splashed along his underside; splattering his chin, dripping from the bands of his harness.

It would brush off in time. The cool particulate slipped his mind when he strode forward, water filling the tracks he left behind, and the tip of his tail scraping the rough, yielding surface.

"This is the place?" he asked.

Deathbringer nodded, then pointed his nose left, indicating what he wanted Thrush to see. The ground sloped up from where the Nightwing stood, glimmering water lacing the clumps of grass and the little ledges of dirt where parts of the hill had fallen away, and roots stuck out from their earthy sides, bare for all to see.

"It's the largest hill this side of the lakes," said Deathbringer. A splash split the air behind him, followed by another, and many more; faint echoes drifted from the hill. "Our contact should be here."

"Report!" yelled Thrush.

More splashes; more dragons landing hard, a few hitting the ground on their knees when they failed to see it on time. One by one the sergeants of each wing sounded off; save one: third wing. Thrush waited what must've been fifteen minutes, but the whole of that unit never arrived.

Water hissed nearby, and steam bloomed as well as spray. Peril stalked by, wings closed, body exuding crisp, unpleasant heat.

"Second wing, fourth wing, split up and survey the hill," ordered Thrush. He looked over his shoulder, then folded his tail away from where Peril would be. Of all the dragonesses in the world she was the one he wouldn't touch with a ten-yard pole.

Dragons' forms shifted back and forth, never easy to see in the dark. Then an 'aye, sir' arrived and they brushed past him, inundating him in that Skywing scent of flint and the acrid smoke that flared from their nostrils. A dragon's smell was more useful than his sight in this drench.

"Damn, where's that Rainwing?" said Thrush. The nighttime flight teetered on the brink of disaster, and the whole shebang depended on their informant if it was to succeed.

Purple flashed and fractured tendrils of light arced through the sky, and then came the rising, rolling, chaotic gnashing of thunder.

Deathbringer shrugged, his eyes dark as coals. "He could have missed the fort in the rain. He could have been killed, or worse, captured. He could be lost, having never found the hill. He could've decided now was a good time to take a nap. All valid explanations. The most optimistic one is that we're early."

The sardonic Nightwing settled for changing the candle in his dark lantern, leaving Thrush to calculate the odds of his endeavor failing before daylight. The best thing to hope for now was for the Rainwing to arrive on time, and maybe, improbably, for third wing to complete their mission, which was rather like a flying back playing interference in a game of dragon-ball.

That was like asking a mouse to survive in an owl's nest.

A sigh.

He trotted up and down the ranks, which had arranged themselves in a circle around the lantern. "Keep looking," he said. "Two shifts; one rests and eats, the other patrols. Switch every fifteen minutes. I don't care how you pick who's on which shift, draw straws if you have to."

No officer likes having his plans fall apart. The next operation would have to have a looser timetable, just to prevent stuff like this… and they should travel during the day for better cohesion, spying eyes be damned. He rubbed his eyes. Or they could run more training for nighttime operations. He didn't know how useful that would be, given that the enemy would get wise to this sort of thing after two or three hits, but it would be good practice at least, retraining for experienced soldiers who'd let themselves get out of shape.

There was no sense in him to getting bent out of shape because of this latest mishap, either. He stood still and thought, and when his legs grew tired of standing still he paced, until they got bored of that, and he would stand still again.

A shout broke the quiet, deathly night. "He's here!"

No question as to who 'he' was. Thrush took off and glided towards the voice, landing a few feet away from the dragon in question: a Rainwing, scales decked with gaudy yellow and green so the Skywings would recognize him as a friend. No wasp ever girded himself so discordantly. No salute greeted Thrush when he arrived, either, but that was to be expected of a dragon from a different chain of command. Deathbringer appeared at Thrush's side, too, as if from nowhere, and no one saw exactly when he arrived or when he came.

"Are you the captain?" asked the Rainwing.

"I am."

"Good."

"Your information?"

The agent talked with labored breathing, and spittle gathered at his lips. It took him a while to settle down. "Not many enemies at the compound, but lots of slaves and supplies, gathered in two buildings which they've thrown up… There are no sentries in those buildings, but there are squads outside them, posted on each corner. The guards change every three hours or so; if they keep to their schedule they'll change right at dawn… they're pretty arrogant. I saw a few dozing off even in the afternoon, and no one reprimanded them."

"Do they have a barracks?"

"A limited one, on the east side of the camp, made of strange, smooth material… The two containment buildings are in a row to the north and west of that."

He coughed, then went on. "The ground is level with the rest of the area, so they had to dig a drainage ditch on the west side that drains into a little pond over an embankment. They had ten or twenty dragons in the ditch when I saw them, they're using it for cover…"

"How many wasps are there? – the black and orange kind."

"Forty or fifty. They have spears and long shafts they carry around with them."

Thrush nodded. "Blowpipes," he said. "They have poison darts and they can kill you from a distance. You said they had slaves; what kind of slaves? How many? Are they in good shape?"

The dragon hemmed and hawed, then answered. "I counted thirty at least, when they were moving supplies in and out of the buildings. There may be more inside. They had a Sandwing and about ten Mudwings, but also a score of four-winged dragons, with an odd coloration. They were blue and green, and they looked like they had antennae. All of them look worked to death; they aren't getting much food."

Thrush cocked his head.

"Were the four-winged dragons slaves or soldiers?"

"They were in shackles."

That settled it. "Thanks for the information," said Thrush.

"You're welcome," said the Rainwing. "They treated the Mudwings like chattel…"

Like the Nightwings treated his kind, thought Thrush, although he didn't say it. To Deathbringer that was clear enough. "Would you like food?"

"A nip of root brandy, if you've got any."

"We don't, and we didn't bring along any vegetable food," (for that is what Skywings call any edible that isn't meat), "except for medical herbs."

"I'll survive."

"We don't expect you to accompany us there, if you're hungry," said Thrush. That was only half-true; he would have ordered the dragon along, if he was a Skywing.

"I'll go anyway," said the Rainwing. "A ration will do."

Odd, that one of his kind would eat meat. Thrush gave the dragon a strip of jerky, one of the few produced in the Rainforest – for foreigners, he'd heard.

Skywings hung around the quick meeting, listening in. Thrush pointed at one of them. "You, yes, you, go get the sergeants for a briefing. You've got a good nose, now hurry up."

The dragon nodded, then hustled into the darkness.

Shortly after more soldiers came. They arrived slowly, in ones and twos; the wing sergeants and the company sergeants and his trusty lieutenant, who'd been supervising the rear while he'd been up front. Thrush explained all their intelligence, quickly.

"Forget the right hook," he said. "Don't go to the ditch, it's out of position and it's not what we're there for. If they want to come out and fight, let them. First, second, fourth and fifth wing will hit the barracks at first light with me. Sixth and seventh will go for the storehouses shortly after, one to each; bust them open and free any friendlies inside. We'll take what we want and burn the rest of it. Afterwards first company will sweep the outskirts and kill any runners. Questions?"

"Will we escort the freed-dragons outside of the combat zone?" asked Falcon. "Or will we leave them be?"

"We'll take those who'll leave and leave those who won't," said Thrush. "In my absence command falls to my lieutenant, followed by the ranking sergeant from first company."

The distant hoot of an owl reverberated through the sinuous mists. Thrush waited for more questions, and received none. "Those are your orders. Return to your units and prepare for takeoff."

His underlings turned and half flew, half glided into the haze, which swept along the ground in the grips of a slow-moving breeze that flowed downhill, from highland to swamp. Grass grew on the hill, the sour-smelling kind, and sprouting bush-like between the grasses stood clumps of sedge.

"Better take off now," he said to Deathbringer. "You know the way."

Soon after the lantern swung and its light rose up, up, up into the air, then turned and orbited the hill in a circle while Thrush gave the orders for takeoff.

"First wing, up! Second wing -" his mouth paused on third and he had to go on, "fourth wing, fifth, sixth, seventh! Shift's over, let's go!"

It fell to the sergeants to make sure their units stayed intact during the commotion of a nighttime takeoff, and to their credit they did well: only seven dragons bruised each other in midair collisions. Finally they all ascended and got into formation and found a modicum of order, then headed off on their way.

A quick climb to two-hundred feet was all Deathbringer risked; while the fog was thinner above the downs, that meant the light of the lantern penetrated farther and risked glancing upon enemy eyes, and the ground became dim and shapeless under the blanket of mist if he flew any higher than that.

Third wing still hadn't found them, and might not do so in time to complete their mission: it was a regrettable loss, but not a permanent one. As soon as Rudd realized he'd overshot he would've searched for Thrush along his route, and, failing that, would try to complete his part of the mission. Once the interference was run he'd likely search in the general area for a day or two, then head back to the Rainforest.

Barring extreme misfortune, all would be well when he returned to the Rainforest, blooded, tired, and hopefully victorious, and yet…

He could never put too much stock in hopes, just as no commoner places faith in the promises of a courtier.

A curious sensation came over him, of dry. It had stopped raining.

The night drew nearer to its end now; he smelled it, scented the crisp cold that always comes just before the dawn. The short rest injected strength into weary muscles and bones, and gave his flesh the will to travel and fight when he got to his destination, when before it might be heavy with fatigue and fail him. His talons glinted suddenly in front of him, little glimmers of silver on black claws.

Moonlight! He looked behind him and saw the others following him, swaying up and down like beads on an undulating string.

The thick clouds had drifted away, parting from the eastern horizon and vanishing towards the west, leaving a starry sky behind, laced with damp, translucent mists that glowed platinum from the light of the largest moon. It did not shine over them directly, that moon, but perched on the border between the clouds and stars.

Abruptly Deathbringer's lantern winked out, like light spilling out from a door-frame disappears when when the door is closed; suddenly, but not all at once.

Now the Nightwing was invisible even to Skywing eyes, at a distance. Thrush heard him coming before he saw him, and then found he was flying right next to him, for the assassin had dropped back after he'd doused the lamp, and now flew within earshot on wings so quiet they could've been padded feet treading gently on a carpet.

"We are there," he said.

He stretched an arm that Thrush failed to follow, except for the talon glinting at its tip, pointing at apparent nothingness. The mists stayed shapeless for a moment, then resolved to an empty grey sea, and a silhouetted straight line within, a dead giveaway. Straight lines never occur in nature.

"With fog like this we could drop right in and they'd never see us coming," said Thrush.

A flare checked his speed, for he was close, too close. An upheld fist brought the column to a stop.

A dragon bumped his tail in the dark, spinning them both in the air.

"Sorry sir, won't happen again sir."

"Bring up the officers, Kettering," said Thrush. He knew this voice. "Watch it."

Two minutes later they'd all found him in the haze. Time is a luxurious element in war, so precious that Thrush used every second of it. The enemy didn't know they were here – that was certain. Every moment he dallied here took the risk that a sharp-eyed sentry would peek into the gloom and realize through his sleep-addled state that something was wrong: that that echelon of two-winged dragons hadn't been there a second ago, and that the alarm needed to be raised.

"They're here, sir."

Thrush nodded.

"This haze will thicken before it thins," he said, keeping his voice low so the enemy wouldn't hear. "Change of plan: we go in now. First through fifth, and Deathbringer, with me; when I say go, sixth and seventh wait thirty rock, then attack."

He paused. "ID your targets. Friendly fire isn't friendly."

Of the supposed sixty-five dragons contained in those wings, perhaps forty actually made it to Thrush's position; it was a miracle any of them found him at all. By keeping in touch, often literally, they'd completed the passage of a hundred miles, and now stood at the enemy's gates.

The most difficult part of their odyssey was yet to come.

"You know your orders," said Thrush. His voice was low, but it carried in the dead silence. No one but him dared speak. "Go!"

Suddenly the barrier parts; the champion horse rears, and springs to the races. So it was now: the Skywings flung their bodies forward, whipping out their spears, powering powerful wingbeats with heaving breaths and toned muscles.

Their war cry was the thwack of impacts, and the sickly wet sound of steel parting enemy flesh wherever it appeared.

"Targets down! Targets down!" yelled a sergeant.

Fifteen seconds. Reinforcements were on the way. Thrush closed the distance to the enemy's courtyard in a jiffy, gliding above the wet ground, hearing the first enemy roars. "Torch the barracks!" he shouted. "And watch that ditch!"

The silhouette of the enemy armory loomed; long and tall and undragon, made of smooth stuff that sloped away from the ground in a perfectly flat wall. Both ends faded into the mist: in the middle stood an oddly shaped door with six sides, ajar.

Bright orange flame burst from Skywing jaws, then bloomed once more when it hit the walls and spread across the surface, leaving smoldering coals in its wake, and an afterglow that stuck in Thrush's eyes.

"Don't bother!" yelled Thrush. "Wait for them to come out."

"Yes sir!"

Wet as it was, standing in air saturated with moisture, the enemy buildings refused to catch, but they did smolder. They were not invincible; they could be burned.

Thrush turned away and hurried north, to the first storehouse; tall and solid, in a similar building style to the barracks, but with wide swinging doors on the southward facing end, locked.

"No fire, no fire!" shouted Thrush. "Did you get the key?"

A Skywing nearly ran into him because of the blue-tinted fog, the silver key held to a wingtip by a ring and a chain. "Got it, sir. Good call."

They didn't want to ruin the locks. It was Corporal Falcon, and he set to working the mechanism, fumbling with the key like the crossbowman searches for a quarrel while a Mudwing bears down on him, promising impending death. Battle fatigue this early on – the price of the night journey.

Another Skywing came along, wearing the sergeant's patch.

"Did you get the sentries?" Thrush asked.

"Every one," said the sergeant. "We scalded the ones in the ditch, too. Sixth has them locked down tight."

"Good."

"Six, eight, nine, get over here and ready for breach!"

Talons skittered and dragons turned, coming to a stop besides the little group standing in front of the door. Behind them soldiers yelled, and the earth lit up periodically with firelight.

Falcon grunted and twisted and eventually the key clicked and the lock parted, the door sliding open as if greased, a well-oiled machine devoted to one purpose. A dark hole opened before them, because no light illuminated the inside.

"Toss a torch," said Thrush. A soldier lit a firebrand, then tossed it in while the captain looked over his shoulder. No sense getting complacent in a warzone.

When he looked back the burning stick had fallen on dry dirt, lighting the midsection of the storehouse. Eyes glowed inside, bodies shuffled and dragons blinked.

"Good cast," said Thrush. "Seventh, follow me in."

He strode forward, so quickly and confidently it took his soldiers off-guard as much as it did the prisoners, who sat immobile, eyes filled first with bale, then a sort of dawning realization that these were Skywings; friends, allies, aid in the darkest times, who had come to make them free.

"Any threats?"

"No," said Thrush. "They're all inside. What about the prisoners?"

"They're in irons," said the sergeant. "Falcon, the key!"

Staring at a strange, blue-green dragon with four wings sprouting from its back, Falcon shook his head and strode to a Mudwing. He tried the man's padlock.

"No joy."

"Nine, get outside and give us another one," said the sergeant.

The ninth dragon in seventh wing galloped outside; a thump sounded, and then he heard nothing, save for dragons' roars coming from the barracks and the ditch. Great. Thrush motioned with his talons that the rest of them should come with him, leaving the captives behind, for now. Spear-first, he trotted to the door, near the wall, with Falcon behind him, and the sergeant taking the other side.

A crate – a loose knife sitting on the crate, yes, that would do. He picked it up and threw it outside. Someone picked at it with a talon, and Thrush rushed forward and -

Nearly killed his own Skywing, who was crouched just outside the door. They pointed their spears at each other, then stood down.

"Explain," said Thrush.

It was Knotgrass. "I heard someone coming out, so I tripped him, but it turned out to be a Skywing."

"We'd already gone in," said Thrush. "You should've seen that, why didn't you come in?"

Knotgrass didn't have an answer to that.

"Start looking for the master key," said Thrush. "If one of the guards had a key for the door they've got to have the cuff-key nearby. ID your targets!"

Damn friendly fire; it'd nearly cost him the lives of three of his own.

"Give me the door key," he said.

Falcon tossed it and Thrush caught it on his wingtip, then strode forward, knowing his underlings could take care of the storehouse by themselves. Eyes out now – a shape in the gloom, two-winged, friendly, approaching fast.

If they just ID-ed their fucking targets -

The last thing he saw was the javelin whistling towards his neck, and the wide-eyed face of Kettering, who'd thrown it.

Oh for fuck's sake.

After that the world turned white, and filled with pain, twisting around the sharp blade in his neck, choking him. Air! He called out, gargling on his own blood, then writhed on the dirt, vision coming and going until the pain ebbed, and so did his sight. His body slipped out of reach, away from his mind; a dragon rustled his wing, but the flesh was not him anymore, could no longer house his spirit.

They punched my ticket… stupid!

Captain Thrush died.

"Cap, what happened? Cap?"

Falcon rounded the corner from the warehouse and stopped, seeing the Skywing dead at his comrade's feet. A moment passed, the two dragons just staring until training took over and the corporal yelled. "Cap's down, cap's down! Check his pulse, Kett!"

"Sergeant! Sixth wing, medic! Is he any good?"

Kettering knelt to the ground, held a talon to the captain's blood-stained neck, mangled by the spear he'd thrown so suddenly at the fleeting outline, because he'd been scared and he thought it was an enemy coming out of that house - cap was too far gone, gone, his heart still beating, but pumping the blood out of the gaping wound and onto the moist, black dirt, now swamped with viscera. "He's not going to make it!"

"Calm down!" said Falcon. "Just... do something!"

The truth was, they could do nothing. No help existed for a dragon with an arterial break in this world, not for one in the neck, so close to the head, with the airway blocked. Thrush's heart beat, but he wasn't moving. Falcon heard footsteps, wingbeats, the sergeant hustling nearer.

"Clear out, I got tria - fuck!"

A moment passed: Falcon choked on a knot in his throat; the sergeant's heart jumped into his mouth, and Kettering shivered.

"Whodunnit?"

A meek murmur parted the pre-dawn air.

"Whodunnit!?"

"Me."

"If he dies it's your head."

Falcon spoke. "He's already gone."

"Don't tell the others," said the sergeant; the highest-ranking on the scene, he made the decisions. "Every wasp in this fort is going to die, so help me spirits." He looked Kettering in the eye. "So will you."

"C'mon," said Falcon. "Let's take care of the prisoners and - and get someone to clean up this mess."

His talons lingered on the rim of his spyglass.

When dawn came the barracks were razed, a smoking hole in the ground; the prisoners were freed, and the enemy killed in action, or standing under guard. Then Falcon told the battalion, and he had a story to tell. Mudwings, Skywings, an odd Sandwing, even the enemy slaves gathered around the blood-stained corpse splayed on the ground, paying their respects to their leader, their savior, their brother in arms.

No one talked. He'd been their leader for two weeks – an eternity to wartime soldiers, for whom tomorrow might never come. Now he was gone.

Someone got a clay pot out of the supply depot, and they burned his corpse, then swept the dust into the urn so it could be preserved for a proper mountain ceremony. His subordinates carried out his plan to the fullest. The Hivewings were routed; the day was carried, but not won.

It was a sober lieutenant who received his battlefield promotion that morning. The day-to-day operations of the battalion now became grim and lifeless. Almost as bad as that, too, was the knowledge that next time it could be his own head. Rarely do commanders die on the field, but always the risk is there.

Today's events could happen again.

As for Kettering, they bound him claws and talons; tied down his wings, clapped his legs in irons, and sunk him in a pond.

Skywings have no greater honor than to have their ashes burned and the smoke spread to the four winds; conversely, there is no blacker disgrace than to die by drowning. That is what they did to Kettering, and after they had done this, they struck his name from the battalion roster forever.

A patrol landed next to the lieutenant; fourth wing, back from doing a sweep of the marshlands, their full number on display plus three wasps in tow.

"Sir," said their sergeant. "They've surrendered, what now?"

The lieutenant was still pissed, with his blood up and the sadness and anger making an acidic hardness in his heart. He couldn't take them all under guard, what with his dragons carrying supplies to their forward operating base, and prisoners to comfort and mouths to feed. "Kill them all, spare one. Leave their bodies on the dirt."

"... all the wasps, sir?"

"All of them."


A:N:

Rushed, but... I was under pressure from reviewers. That's all I'll say.

Pt35: Operation Other Left sounds suspiciously similar to Operation FUBAR.

I came back to this the next day and did a large rework of the ending of the chapter, since I wasn't happy with the last one. This version is much better, more comprehensive, and, as you've seen, dark.