Conflict – At Month's End: The Day Before the Day

Written Jan 4th, 2021 – March 5th, 2021

Published March 6th, 2021.

Author's note: this is opening attempt #3, so I want it to stick. My writing is an extension of my thoughts, and the writing that was in this chapter before was all over the place.

Worrying.

The chapter was originally called Pestering Fortune, but received its new name when I finally decided it never fit with the theme I'm going for. Enjoy the new title. As for the review responses, most of what I can say to Pt I've already said. Allele will come up in future updates, but this chapter and the next one are more about what's going on in Pyrrhia at the end of the month. I feel silly for writing all this about just 31 days and a handful of protagonists.

It took me a long time to muster the nerve to write this chapter. I'd like your feedback, so I can do better next time.


July 31st, 5,015.

The Skywing Kingdom.

Lastka.

"Enemy contacts far high! North!" shouted Chervil: as far up as contacts got, if the experienced 3rd Company soldier's worn tone said anything. Byrd craned his neck upwards, battle-weary eyes casting around the edges of a fluffy cloud, skipping over the fuzz, and gazing upwards beyond, towards the strong wedge of red dots flying east, directly above the fledgling air defense garrison the Hivewings had garrisoned in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

"Raise the alarm," he said, "make sure the colonel knows. Get me a heading and speed estimate."

While Chervil relayed his orders to 3rd company and the rest of the garrison, he pulled out his spyglass, talons catching on a chip in the blood-red case, then sliding down to the grip and opening it to its full length and holding it up. After using it in training and then in war for over six months now, he instinctively steadied its lens a few inches from his eye, giving him the clearest, largest sight picture.

A red dragon flew at the fore of the wedge, and more filled the ranks behind it, broadening the traveling formation while filling out its interior as well. It looked nearly twenty dragons long, and five dragons wide at its widest in the rear; each soot keeping perfect spacing two wingspans apart with a slight height overlap, perhaps to benefit from their flight upwash.

And the whole formation couldn't be less than twelve thousand feet above the ground.

"Ninety to a hundred dragons," said Byrd, keeping the glass to his eye, "seventy at the least. I'm guessing over ten thousand feet."

He looked to the soldier in the fore, his strong resting heartbeat buffeting the lens every second. Black cauls protruded from his side, as if he wore a harness with filled sidebags: the others in the enemy unit wore the same.

His heartbeat sped up, and the glass shook. Byrd scanned the entire formation another time in case they brought a special threat, but nothing came up, save for those odd attachments.

Climbing to twelve thousand feet took a lot of energy, more so when the enemy burdened their sides with supplies. Over a day-long flight, the weight added up. So why carry it? Byrd folded up the glass, stowing it in his special combat webbing: no Hivewing received the netting below the rank of Staff Sergeant, and he wondered that his still functioned after the month of hectic war.

"Speed and course?" he asked.

"South-east by east, flapping at speed for twenty knots," said Chervil, relaying the information secured by 3rd company's sharpest eye: Daring. "Without scouting on the wind conditions, we don't know how much they're drifting. It could drive them or hinder them by ten."

"Well we can't send up an atmospheric scout with them hanging around up there," said Byrd. "I accept your estimate. Kintledge!"

"Sir?"

The narrow-shouldered dragon darted out of the barracks where Lastka's colonel had temporarily stationed them.

"Report to the colonel that we have high contacts to our north, heading south-east by east at an estimated twenty knots. It is up to him whether he relays the information to Divisional command in a flash bulletin or intelligence brief."

The 98th Brigade garrisoning Lastka kept a handful of liaisons with Divisional command around: dragons who temporarily gave up control of their bodies so the Colonel could feed them information. While tactically invaluable, it gave Byrd the creeps.

"Yes sir," said Kintledge.

"Dismissed."

The private buzzed off towards the tower in the center of the village; erected by Hivewing talons, standing on ground bargained for with Hivewing blood.

"They're not coming for us anytime soon," Byrd said to the rest of his dragons. "Come off alert, but keep your weapons close by, just in case."

Byrd didn't take Lastka; 98th Brigade did before he got here on the 27th, wearied and jumpy from watching for enemy during the entire recon patrol, noting enemy headings and concentrations and the general feeling in the increasingly mountainous terrain, traveling by night and resting and observing by day.

He had made it here without a single casualty, but he knew this place wasn't safe.

"Chervil, is second wing off hospital shift?"

His most trusted subordinate turned halfway to face him, the melted scales on his chest breaking his outline against the dirt and pine needles littered across the ground in front of the tall, pitched-roof stone building 3rd company now called home.

"They should be soon sir. First wing went in two hours ago; they'll be working till late afternoon."

"And we'll be keeping it up till dark," said Byrd.

He wished for 108th brigade to assemble again: for his unit to sally in great enough numbers to do damage to the enemy, instead of dying piecemeal in scattered engagements without their fellow soldiers at their backs: the guys they'd trained with since induction. Here in a populated military garrison, with medics tending their fellow Hivewings in pitched white tents, Byrd felt close to alone.

"Never the easy way, always the hard way," he muttered. He trotted towards a wooden board-post, nodding to the third company dragons when they recognized him from thirty yards: trotted up to it and grit his neck against the edge.

What would Bolt say? What angle would his subordinate have looked at the war from? His dead subordinate formed a shadowy profile in his mind's eye; Bolt's grey stripes coiling and his arm moving as he explained how he found an enemy patrol's tracks.

Then fire. Soots fleeing into the night. Blood.

Death.

An orange scale dropped from his neck, and he caught it and rolled it in his hard, streaked talons. Cautiously, as if afraid consequences followed his actions, he wound up his arm and threw it into a spinney of brambles where freshly cut tree trunks protruded from between thorn bushes. The scale whizzed, and then disappeared in a crackle of woody vines.

Byrd murmured words under his breath, asking the moons for forgiveness and luck: grace to atone for his actions since he'd come to this continent, and protection while he clawed for life in this war, each swipe buying him time to lead third company, his only family on this continent. The dragons he told himself he'd keep alive; who sang songs in camp and cracked jokes over mutton.

The family he'd failed.

The dragons who reminded him of the people he'd known back in the hives, whose faces always looked uncannily similar to those past dragons' likenesses even in death, like the reborn spirits he heard about in the late-night legends. He did not take old myths seriously when he was a street rat, and he'd had the old superstitions beat out of him during training, when indoctrination stated that Queen Wasp controlled their fate, and all other deities stood in their shadow.

At the time, he took that as true.

But over the past weeks, his old beliefs peered from their repressed corner of his mind, offering him hope, telling him that the world still held purpose. He pondered them now.

If some omniscient entity watched over dragons' destiny from its vantage on the largest moon, did it care? Did it remark on the tiny little wars fought in queens' names? Another scale fell from his neck; he scooped it up in the palm of his talon and chucked it.

The brush accepted his sacrifice.


August 1st, 5,015.

Skywing Kingdom.

Azkilach.

The aide ushered Grand Marshal Eagle into the briefing room, complete with a plotting map, where the northern mountains stood modeled in intricately detailed clay. Azkilach stood near the top of the map, perched on one of the highest mountains of the claws, with military and supply units placed around it, their locations estimated from reports received one or two or three days ago. The further away from Azkilach the units got, the more out-of-date his information became.

No matter how fast Skywing couriers flew, they couldn't outpace the fog of war, represented by the lack of enemy units on the right side of the map, and the tentative fortress locations marked in yellow. Towns marked by squares lay every foot or so on the hilly ground, with almost everything east of the river painted in enemy colors: the wasps had advanced farther into the Skywing interior than Blister ever managed at the peak of her strength, nine years ago.

"It's the first of the month," said Eagle. "What do you have for me?"

"Bad news and ugly news, and slight good news," said Marshal Forge. "I and my staff compiled a full order of battle of the units we know about, and estimated what we don't. We've also taken the information we had on the kingdom's economy, and used that to calculate how much has been saved from the enemy advance due to your order."

"Our forge capacity is the most important wartime resource," said Eagle. "Most of the ore is refined in the mountains, but there were always the forges we set up on the coast: perhaps twenty percent of total production."

"You are on the mark," said Forge. "But the order of battle first. Forty-five regiments reported to us since the army mustered; about one cohort and two divisions. Of these, the majority – thirty-one – are classified as light regiments. Eight are line regiments: seven are heavy. Only one regiment is at full combat readiness: able to excellently perform full offensive operations. Nine regiments are at standard combat readiness; performing limited offensive operations. Six are suited for full defensive operations; seventeen are at limited defensive readiness, and the rest are in tatters. About twenty percent of the army is suited for offensive operations. Furthermore, all of our regiments are understrength, with flagging morale. Our total count is estimated at forty-five thousand fighting dragons."

"What intelligence do we have on the enemy's fighting strength?" asked Eagle.

"From what we gathered, they have less dragons than we do in the northern area of operations," said Forge, "but they have less territory to defend, higher morale, and good operational tempo. Their reaction time is faster than ours on average: their brigades react to incoming threats a hundred or two hundred miles away several hours before their couriers should get to them. We estimate that they have thirty-four regiments remaining, little more than a cohort. Of these, the majority are line units, and the rest – about eight regiments total – are reconnaissance."

"Did you see any heavy units?"

"We did not, but dedicated escort regiments may have been formed, we're not sure. We estimate that three of their regiments are at full combat readiness: eighteen are at standard combat readiness; seven are suited for defensive operations, and six others are in bad shape. About seventy percent of their army is qualified for offensive operations, and so far they are using most of them."

"Hopefully we can wear them down," said Eagle. "What's the logistical situation?"

"Slightly better," said Forge. "For every two dragons in the field, we can muster three for supply, although one of these supporting dragons is elderly and the other is unfit for combat or a youngster. We have enough supply to support thirty-one regiments, but can mostly meet the demands of the forty-five due to their understrength nature. Only half our soldiers have a steel spear, however, and each sortie must share about fifty javelins between the hundred of them. Ninety percent of our forge capacity is intact, but we only have the dragons to operate about half of that, resulting in less replacement equipment arriving in the field than is lost. We can maintain equipment levels in about a month, but by the time that happens we estimate that only two out five of our soldiers will have a spear, and each sortie will have twenty javelins."

Eagle nodded. "That makes our ranged capabilities almost nil," he said.

"Exactly," said Forge. "The enemy is running low on blowgun ammunition according to our latest reports, however, so that disadvantage disappears within a few minutes of engagement. We think they have the same ratio of logistics to combat elements, but they have to transport their equipment across the ocean from however far that is, so their observed replacement rate is atrociously low. We think that by mid-September we will be increasing our weapons stocks, while they will still be losing more than they replace."

"And their food situation?"

"Of their estimated thirty-four regiments, we think that they can support thirty-three of them. Since they're not starving, it's likely that they're foraging as they advance."

"Concentrated attack on their supply lines will tie up their frontline forces and destroy their ability to attack," said Eagle. "Continue."

"Now for the ugly news," said Forge. "I said earlier that we had more dragons than they did, in the northern area of operations. This is not true in the southern area."

"They captured the Mudwing kingdom extremely quickly: they must be looking for another target. Our defense?"

"Besides the Rainwings, our Skywing expeditionary force, and the brigade we dispatched to reinforce our expeditionary force, we have three tattered regiments at the southern end of the Claws of the Clouds, held together by a colonel, facing perhaps thirty regiments of Hivewings, who are in better strength than their companions in the north, who are likely under a different command. The enemy's bad supply situation is the only thing preventing them from taking the southern mountains completely and encircling the jungle, then heading north and catching our current location in a pincer. Unless we convince another tribe to dedicate significant, trained forces to the area, this outcome is a certainty."

Eagle had already come to this conclusion about a week ago and told the queen. "The sooner Ruby can convince the Sandwings or someone, anyone to come to our aid, the better."

"Glory does not have the numbers to defend the line, unfortunately. I suggest hiring Sandwing mercenaries, but we may not be able to hire and move the minimum ten thousand dragons in time."

"Since such a move would drain the treasury," said Eagle, "the choice is up to Ruby. And she hasn't said 'go'."

"We already have a significant weapons contract with one of the Sandwing clans, that includes the option to hire mercenaries," said Forge. "You weren't aware of the details of this, but we may be able to secure a discount at a time when everyone else would jack up their prices due to our weakness."

The continent stood endangered by an enemy invasion force, and most Sandwings would use it as an opportunity to make more money. Eagle didn't blame them – sand-dragons do as sand-dragon does – but the reality did rankle him.

He took a deep breath.

"You mentioned one regiment in full fighting condition. That would be the 76th under Colonel Saunders, correct?"

"Yes," said Forge, pointing to a marker on the map several hundred miles south of Azkilach, on the same latitude as the captured town of Azley. "76th regiment was formerly a dragonet soldier unit created by Queen Scarlet's breeding program, with Saunders as its commanding officer. It was reconstituted by him on the 17th. He currently heads about eight hundred troops."

"That's understrength for a top-rated unit," said Eagle. "He has good soldiers."

"Very good. Brigadier General Column has him performing interception missions out of Thiels. Are you suggesting an offensive operation, sir?"

"I am, if the regiments are up to the task. If we could damage the enemy command in a strike, or wear down their supply elements, we can keep them busy for another month, enough for us to reinforce the south and hold off the enemy until the other tribes get enough soldiers together to help us."

Forge pursed his mouth in a wry expression. "There… is a unit suited for decapitating the enemy staff, sir."

"Who?"

"One of 76th's sorties, under the command of Captain Lightning. The captain who trained for high altitude insertion using new equipment during peacetime."

"I am aware."

"You don't like his tactics?"

"The casualty rate is too high," said Eagle. "Sacrificing dragons just to blow twenty thousand feet of altitude in a hurry is a waste."

"If you are thinking what I am, we could use his force without the dive brakes, sir. It'd take them longer to descend to target, but they'd still have surprise if they time it right."

"I may use other groups for the task," said Eagle. "What units suited for limited offenses are nearby to 76th?"

"71st and 83rd, both understrength and worn out, but with veteran men. Both are capable of supporting limited offenses at this time, with a combat radius of one hundred miles."

"And the enemy forces?"

Forge studied the map, took out some notes. "Our reconnaissance indicates strong enemy presence within one hundred miles of Thiels, perhaps three and a half regiments worth of dragons linked with corresponding support elements and a possible brigade of engineers. They want it badly, but their supply probably isn't good enough to chance an assault."

"What other friendly units are in the area?"

"72nd and 59th. 72nd is suitable for full defense, while 59th was never large to begin with and is currently in tatters. Together the two equal about one regiment."

"We have good supply in the area as I remember," said Eagle. He started to pace. "I ordered the regiments there as defense for the mountain farms behind them: we could plausibly support the regiments there plus one, correct?"

Forge murmured, doing a spot of quick math. "We could, but the units to the north – and ourselves – would be confined to purely defensive operations if we were to do so."

"Hmm. If we had 76th hop over enemy lines, then dedicated a full supply chain to them with 72nd serving as area security and escort, could we maintain a presence?"

Forge stopped, struck by the audacity of the move. Few times in military history had a commander deliberately sent a conventional unit behind the lines of the enemy. "We… could," he said. "But why not send a supply group, 76th and 72nd over all at once? The supply group carries a regiment-week extra and 72nd protects them while 76th conducts offensive operations. After a week, the supply group transfers their remaining victuals to 76th and hops back over the combat zone with 72nd, leaving 76th another three to four days of playtime before they're forced back to Thiels. The problem is stockpiling four regiment-weeks of food to use in the operation."

"Can we do that?"

"Probably not. Best we can hope for is three."

"Then the supply group only carries three to four days extra: still enough to prolong 76th's journey by half. If the Colonel is successful, he'll cause so much chaos that the enemy will be unable to capture Thiels, assuming we protect it with a unit like 59th or 71st."

Forge took a breath.

"It's possible, but very, very risky. The unit could be spotted and pursued on their way in – we know the enemy have good reaction times somehow, and if they mobilize reserves we don't know about, they may box in the battle-group. Laden with supplies, the supply group will be slower than 76th, and will have to arrange vulnerable meeting areas with the offensive regiment. We also have few officers to spare on the command of such a task force: every experienced dragon over the rank of Colonel is badly needed where we aren't doing so well, and it's unwise to do something so audacious with an untested commander."

"Every fighting Skywing has been tested by now," said Eagle. "Pick an officer who's performed well so far, and promote him or her. If we can delay losing ground for another month, we will have the resources to continue this war, until terrain, experience and reinforcements give us a chance. Will our regiments keep fending off and fending off, giving the enemy time to collect themselves and attack? We made the same mistake from 5,004 to the beginning of 5,006, against Blister and the Seawings. What is the alternative?"

"We had prepared several offensive plans," said Forge, "all including a limited attack along a weak stretch of front near here."

He gestured to an area some five hundred miles of Azkilach, south of 76th regiment's position and in the middle of nowhere as far as the war was concerned. Two Skywing regiments faced off against one known enemy regiment-sized force in flat terrain, in an area where the largest towns fell short of the 1,000 population required for a large marker.

Eagle shook his head. "That's too far from supply infrastructure," he said. "Meanwhile, if we don't do something about the three and a half regiments at Thiels, the enemy will eventually come and take it. It's the largest combat base for three hundred miles: losing it would be a hard blow."

"We have good maps of the terrain," said Forge, "and good supply, and the only regiment in the army suited to something like this. You're right: if we're going on the offense, Thiels is the best place to do it. We still need an officer to command it, however, and no names suggest themselves to my mind."

Eagle considered for but a moment.

"You."

"Me?"

"You performed well as a colonel near the end of the last war," said Eagle. "While you are a great help here, your staff can do your job for three weeks."

"I haven't done anything on the tactical level since the Darkstalker review exercises two years ago, sir," said Forge. "Just strategic planning."

Eagle stopped his pacing and leaned forward until the two stood eye to eye. "You have the qualifications," he said. "You admit this is our best chance for an offensive in the early month. Why not?"

Forge saw when Eagle had him beaten, but he sighed anyway.

"I accept."

"Good. You will draft orders to redirect supplies to Thiels and curb offensive activities in the north, then leave as soon as they are sent. You will also locate the sorties Captain Lightning trained with, if possible, and have them transfer to the back lines for temporary R&R. He'd be an asset for the type of strike I'm thinking of, but right now he's better in 76th where he is."

"This is a large operation," said Forge. "If it works, it will give us breathing space, a bit of morale. I suggest a name for it, sir."

"What?"

"Operation Morrowind. It smacks of hope and force that's undeniably Skywing."

A pause.

"We'll use that," said Eagle. "Even counting our improved supply in the area, however, it will take us time to muster the necessary resources."

His talon moved to a base on the map: SSB 'Fortitude', situated on the mountainslope just a few dozen miles above Thiels. If the enemy took the town, they'd be one step away from breaking into the Skywing supply network. He couldn't let that happen.

"Fortitude is the closest dedicated supply base, but its capacity is limited, sir," said Forge. "The supply officers on staff are constantly complaining that it can't hold more than a regiment-week at one time. It's unlikely that they have more than a couple days of supply on talon."

"How good is their network?"

Forge looked at his parchments. "They have contributed an average of five hundred tons of rations to the war effort per week over the last two weeks, of a possible eight hundred given the freighter brigade they have on talon. With early August harvests being made on every farm in the kingdom, they may soon reach capacity."

"It's a good place to start," said Eagle.

"I'll make orders for them," said Forge. "What happens after we supply 76th and 72nd? Should we divert other regiments to the area as well?"

"Have them on standby and recon. If we cause enough havoc, we will exploit it."

"Understood," said Forge. "However, this was intended to be a status report, not an operational planning session."

Eagle chuckled. "I see."

The briefing wore on, but embedded beneath the boredom lay the satisfaction of doing something useful.


July 29th, 5,015:

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," said Somers.

"Ugly, too," said Griff.

The two exchanged reassuring wingtaps, line soldiers pumping themselves up for the mission to come. No line soldier likes going in solo, without support or a solid plan C, but guerrillas used these tactics as their bread and butter. Somers became a guerrilla the moment he put down his spear and straight-standing soldier's demeanor, and waited outside the bustling town of Orwen until the last light of dusk withdrew from the land; the ground steaming and tendrils of warm mist curling around his exposed head, the only part of him that broke ranks with the muck. Low humming filled the air: of nocturnal insects, and also of the enemy.

"Let's get moving before it fogs up and we can't see," said Somers. "Wish we had a compass."

"You know that's too risky."

The duo strained, heaving bodies drawing free of the mud, then trotted in line at an angle towards the alien, imposing tower dominating the nighttime landscape. A narrow defile opened in the land before them, reflected moonslight suggesting water in the bottom.

Somers paused, asking a nonverbal question that demanded a spoken answer. Should they go into the gap?

"Definitely," said Griff.

They plunged into the shoulder-deep water of the trench, sticking to the side nearest the town so they wouldn't be spotted by a roof-top sentry. The cut in the landscape drained rain into a lowland backwater, but even during the dry season scum usually filled the things.

"A hundred yards more, then turn right and go for the buildings when I go over the top," he said, his voice quiet but paradoxically high pitched. Deep sounds carry too far, and he would rather sound like a falsetto than give away his position.

He moved forward slowly, varying the time between his steps to break up the pattern and make it seem natural – patterns in nature, in conflict, in war. He'd seen a lot of patterns with his brother during their long time of service. Each step of the two Mudwings made the water gurgle as if paddled by the broad stroke of an oar.

The buzzing rose louder in his ears, higher-pitched, closer. The enemy probably could not hear him over their own noise.

Somers quickened his step, reaching a divot on the muddy, root-infested bank, feeling his brother bump against his left wing as he came up alongside and let the water buoy him to a comfortable stop. He dug a claw into the yielding mud, gripped a root, pulled himself up over the top, his vision partially blocked by the thick rushes growing on either side of this stretch of the defile. The mist fell down on the earth, veiling Orwen from view with thick miasma. Only the light of a door-lantern reached him, swinging slightly with the wind, and darkening once when a shadowy dragon-form blurred in front of it.

"We are the night demons," he said, and Griff chuckled.

Oh, their mother should not have told them that story in their youth, about the creatures that infested the low dells and backwaters after every wholesome Mudwing threw himself on his sleeping-straw. But it felt fitting now.

Lieutenant Starling gave them a simple job at their rendezvous point fifteen miles ago: recon Orwen, cultivate sympathy, instill hope, and stay undetected. If all went well, the brigade – now not much more than a company – would send in more undercover soldiers to get necessary supplies, spy out the weaknesses of the occupying force, and plan a possible raid.

Somers waited for another shadow to pass the lantern, and for the condensing mist to obscure the surrounding countryside further still.

"Let's go, before they all fall asleep," he said. "Imagine if they thought we were burglars and raised the alarm."

Griff nodded, his face grim.

"Push me."

Somers gripped a clump of quackgrass over his head, gouging it from the earth with a mere fraction of his weight. Griff's impolite shove pushed him over the edge, and he slunk out of the pond scum with gritted teeth, then turned around to help his brother. Once in the rushes, the two struck out left of the lantern, Griff following exactly in Somers path to narrow their track. Somers moved with that same start-stop motion, varying the length of his moves, crouching low, ever moving obliquely to that glimmering light on his flank, until it winked out.

He kept moving, slinking in the building's shadow, listening to that hum, now falling in pitch, now rising again, and mingling with hissing alien voices. Would one of the sentries bump into him by sheer luck, and spoil his infiltration? Did a wasp eye cut through the ethereal veil floating over the floodplains, and lay his advance bare? The rustle behind him ought merely to be his brother following his footsteps, but it might mark Death's final stalk instead.

Somers swept away the doubts, moving until he bumped into a warm, hard surface, a building radiating heat from the day's dog-hot sun.

His brother brushed his wingtip, and together they waited for the euphoria to subside. He made it! Now came the dangerous part of the job. Silencing a sentry by killing it from behind would alert the enemy by tomorrow morning; thus they had to slip through the enemy net and take off if a dragon raised the alarm, retreating to a previously agreed-upon rendezvous point.

He followed the wall forward, dragging his talon along to feel for a doorframe, turning the corner and heading right. Up became the only way out. Up.

He closed his shuffling, nervous wings. Most buildings had doors on the side, if not for dragons than for cargo, and all structures had washout drains to keep water from washing out the floor and the hardy furniture standing on it. His talon grated on a material with a grain; wood.

There.

He turned the knob, pushed it, and took a sudden right: a form rose to its feet inside, stocky and two-winged and short – Mudwing – and he rushed forwards and silenced her with a talon before she could scream.

"Sssh," he said. "I'm a friend."

Griff entered the shadowed room, lit by the moonlight pouring in the door. Somers released the dragoness, and she gasped for breath.

"Are invaders quartered in this house?" Somers asked in a low voice, before his brother shut the door with a click.

"No," said she, invisible in the sudden, total dark. "Take the food, the money, anything, just leave."

Should he pretend to be a bandit, a nobody, or a freedom fighter? - then again, nobodies did not slip into houses where they didn't belong, at hours when most dragons had fallen asleep. His brother fumbled in the dark, found a flint and a candle and lit it. A tiny flame flickered to life on its last inches of wick, and Griff put it down on a small desk in the corner.

"We're not here to hurt you," said Griff, "miss -"

"Kite."

That exchange broke the baked clay, though Kite's tail swept the floor, nervous. She looked middle-aged now that he could see her – how old he couldn't tell – and she stood as tall as he did, though her skittishness made her look smaller, vulnerable.

"We're scouts," said Somers, catching Griff's tack, "here to look around. We won't cause trouble for you. Is there anyone else here?"

Kite worried her cheek. "Yes, sleeping. Should I wake him?"

"If he won't yell," said Somers.

She shook her head, then went down a narrow hall. "Two dragons came in the house, dear, they say they're friendly but I'm not quite sure…"

A dragon grunted, "I'll be right out."

Griff looked to Somers. "Think they'll be helpful?"

"Not sure. Depends how much they know."

A heavyset dragon with deep jowls turned out in front of Kite, blinking bleary eyes at the two newcomers. He cleared his throat. "What do you want?"

"Nothing special," said Somers. "You're Kite's husband?"

"Gall, yeah."

Somers nodded, wishing they had met under less stressful circumstances. "You can call us the good guys. We just want to know things, we won't raise hell for you if you don't want it. Just don't tell anyone about us if they don't already know we're here, alright?"

"Yeah," said Gall. "You going to talk right now?"

"When else?" said Griff.

Somers sighed. "Do the wasps check the houses at night?"

Kite nodded. "Is it -?"

"Sure honey."

"They shook up a whole row of houses last week, looking for a slave they said. They took Loon's food: they took everyone's food and locked it up in their safehouses and the tower, and they have soldiers watching over them to make sure no one can take food except when they ration it out."

Gall stayed silent, letting his wife speak while he stared daggers into the two brothers on the other side of the room, as if this were a confrontation instead of a meeting between allies.

"Is there anywhere we can hide?"

"Storm drain," said Kite. She mumbled something under her breath. "It's only big enough for one of you. Down that way."

She pointed around a corner.

"Okay," said Somers. "I'd rather not have to fight in here, they'd knock down the walls and surround us."

"And ruin my tools," said Gall.

He nodded along with the civilian. Whatever made him happy.

"Is there anywhere larger we can stay?"

"Loon has a big veteran's building down the street," said Kite. "He could hide you away for a couple nights, but maybe not feed you."

"Right," said Somers, while Griff paced back and forth beside one of the mud walls. Kite shrank from the motion, retreating nearer her desk and the lit candle. A fresh, white scar showed up on her shoulder, closer to a brand than anything else. "You said they keep the food in storehouses? How many are there?"

"Six," said Kite, "and half a wing of soldiers guards each one every night, and another wing joins the three wings on duty to oversee the goings on in the daytime. They change watch every four hours during the night and every eight hours at daytime, while four more wings guard the outskirts of the village, one patrols the inside, one supervises their slaves as they work on the tower, and three fly a combat air patrol that changes every four hours."

"You know all this?" asked Griff.

"I try to remember things," said Kite. She gave her first, slight smile. "Just in case."

Somers did the math. "Thirteen wings: that sounds like two understrength battalions in town. Did they put up special quarters or do they sleep in your houses?"

"They didn't put up a barracks, we did," said Gall.

The guy had to be ex-military at his age, old enough to have lived through the War. Somers felt an off quality hanging about the fringes of the man. Just his tired mind playing tricks on him, he guessed.

"What about their logistics? Supply flights, that sort of thing."

"A supply convoy arrived every week on Tuesday afternoon for the last two weeks; a battalion of freighters with about a company of guards," said Kite. "but it's already Thursday and no one has come yet. I haven't seen their command, they never have me work close to the tower."

"Three or four warrant officers, one CO, three NCOs, maybe thirty dedicated support staff," said Gall. "Their CO is odd. Like he wasn't picked for his leadership ability."

Griff blinked. "That's… not a lot."

"Their slaves build and act as support staff," said Kite. "Different dragons, blue mostly, also four-winged and with strange claws. They keep them in their own compound, and they're the ones that work on the tower and put up that strange material."

"You said something about their CO," said Somers. "Where was he? Does he wear a special patch?"

Gall paused, as if he'd said something he shouldn't have. "On the ground level of the tower. He has a gold rank plaque, and he's kind of thin. I saw him giving orders."

"I see," said Somers. "It's getting late. I thank you for taking us in, but you don't need to have us stay. We can sleep out in the mud, if we need to."

"Perhaps that is for the best," said Gall.

"Loon might be able to take you in," said Kite, her brow knitted and tongue worrying her cheek again. "But it's risky to go outside at night."

"Is he trustworthy?"

"He's an amputee, he helps a lot of war survivors and young dragons," said Kite. "The wasps have their eye on him, he's too important, too galvanizing. Staying with him is risky, but he won't rat you out."

And there she implied the ugly risk of informants; dragons who'd turn their backs on their own kind to get rewards, though they knew their actions would eventually catch up to them.

Tattlers got tombs.

"Okay," said Somers. "See if you can talk to Loon tomorrow, imply that friendly forces are in the area and see if he can do anything to help – if he can organize dragons who'd poison the enemy, or take up arms by night. We'll hurt the wasps for holding this town, burn them as much as we can."

"I'll do anything to help," said Kite. "The people lost hope when they drove the last army dragons out a couple weeks ago. They'll be glad to know you're here."

"But don't tell too much gossip," said Griff. "We'd like to catch them napping."

"Right."

"We'll be on our way," said Somers. "Mind if I blow out the candle?"

"I'll do it," said Gall.

He took the candle-holder and puffed: the light died and the room filled with darkness and the warm, familiar scent of smoke, before Somers opened the door and slipped outside into the thick, heavy mist.

"Left?" whispered Griff.

"Yeah."

They stalked out the same way they had come, confident that the wasps hadn't seen a thing. Somers allowed himself to smile when he made it back to the defile.

Night demons indeed.


The brothers withdrew another five miles before stopping to rest, planning to get their bearings on the morrow's first light and transit the rest of the way to where 305th brigade had holed up. Other two-dragon teams like them combed the countryside to the north, east and south, older, experienced men who knew how to form contacts, cover their tracks, and manage tough situations without constant oversight. Once they got back they'd take more dragons into the area with them, getting an idea of the enemy's patterns in the town, and where the wasps became isolated.

With the town's food locked up and under guard, Orwen looked like a tough nut to crack.

"What did you think of the people we met?" asked Somers. "They seem trustworthy to me."

"You jump in too far, trust too much," said Griff. "I trust Kite, but Gall has something to hide."

"Maybe he doesn't like two strange dragons inviting themselves into his home after dark," said Somers. "We had misgivings, we were jumpy, it was late, we weren't the best versions of ourselves."

"Yeah," said Griff.

He didn't sound convinced.

They rested overnight in a small cove where two dragon-made berms met, too tired to put up a watch.

He dreamed of victory and gold, and property, his property, restored as if the war never was, as if smoke never darkened the delta skies, and the dam never broke, and his siblings never died. And like all dreams, this dream seemed so clear to him, and so confusing when consciousness approached and the memories slipped away, leaving him grasping for the shadow of something real.

Somers woke first, then nudged his brother away from sleep, surveying the sky on this side of the berm. He rubbed his eyes with a talon, sure he'd been having a nice dream, but hazy about what it was.

"Let's scout the area," he said. "Then breakfast."

Instead of silhouetting themselves to check the other side, they trotted to a dip where rainwater had washed out the defile, then used the depression to look north to south-east.

"Clear," said Griff. "Swamp looks abandoned, as usual."

"Nobody on my side either," said Somers.

After checking out the area, they ate and took off, always flying low and on one side of cover. No wasps darkened the skies for most of their trip, although a far off string of dragons appeared through the hazy pall: freighters taking up the middle, while escorts covered their front quarter and high six.

"Kind of odd that they'd guard the top," said Griff, after another of these convoys loomed and receded into the foggy distance. "Mudwings aren't great at hit and run; we keep our energy well but we can't get it back fast enough once we lose it."

"Skywings do it," said Somers. "We have Skywings around, the rumors were true."

Griff snorted. "You trust too much, in everything."

"Too much? Don't you believe in the selfless compassion of dragonkind?"

Then Griff chuckled out loud, his deep laugh booming between the bent trees in the quivering bogs, startling the toads into the water and shaking the peat moss, as the water-striders skittered on the open patches between the lilies and duckweed. "You joker."

"You wish," said Somers, living in the moment. Suddenly shapes caught his eye and he hissed. "Get down!"

The two flared and met the mud talons-first. "Trees?" asked Griff.

"Sure."

He pulled free of the muck and hurried into a grove of cypress, and not a moment too soon. Buzzing besotted their ears as a host of enemy flew high above them, a thousand feet in the air and a few hundred yards off to the north. Somers flicked his ears, shaking his head to force out the deafening amalgamated roar, and his brother merely braced against the trunk of a cypress and looked up through a gap in the canopy, gaping at the assembled vanguard.

The wasps thundered above them for an interminable period of time, until the last dragon went over their heads and hummed on east, deeper into occupied territory, and south of Orwen, which Somers pegged as more to the north.

Struck by a sudden, foolish impulse, he leaped out of the treeline and watched the convoy continue on a mile away, flying until their shapes disappeared behind a patch of tree cover.

"You idiot," yelled Griff, splashing into the mud behind him. "What if they saw you and turned around?"

"They wouldn't have," said Somers. "Not in a hurry like that."

"It's still stupid to stand around and gawk like a dragonet with a case of hero worship," said Griff. "You wanted to see a wasp, so what?"

Somers shrugged. "They were straggling," he said, overcoming the awe. "They had less than the usual number of escorts, and the freighters fell out of line while I was looking at them. Plus nobody came around for a front or back sweep; all the escorts flew on top. These guys are mauled."

"Wells' work?" asked Griff.

"They'd be flying even higher if it was him," said Somers. "Could Wells get through the screen and hit the haulers like that? No. Face it, we have Skywings."

"Okay, I believe you. Good deduction, but el-tee will still take it as spotty intel," said Griff. "Hopefully the candle-lighters will hear enough from the locals to come and find us, so we can collaborate."

"They might even have a supply chain," said Somers.

"Keep dreaming."

"No. Keep moving."

They took off again in the opposite direction of the enemy battalion, staying low to the ground and keeping gauntlets of cover alternately to their left and right, switching every few miles, or flying between cypress groves or berms if possible. In this way they covered the remaining eight or nine miles to the rendezvous, slinking past abandoned store-barns as they went, and dells where traveling Mudwings often slept.

Starling had chosen 305th's position wisely. Secreted two miles away from the nearest farm, it hid far enough from the nearest point of interest that the wasps would have to look for it to find it. A line grove of willows on either side surrounded the dell, and a stream bubbled merrily on the south side under the tree cover, providing a close, accessible source of fresh water; water that attracted prey and livestock to the scene. With a small squadron of hunters, the brigade caught enough to supplement their supply reserves, though such measures never satisfied the soldiers' abyssal stomachs.

The sentry saw Somers before Somers saw him.

"Back so soon?"

"With good intel," said Somers. "Wing, do we have a surprise for you guys."

"If it can top what we've got, it's good in my scroll," said Snipe, stepping out of the willows with a long-handled billhook held loosely by his wingtip.

"Okay," said Griff. "Tell sergeant Robin we said hi."

Snipe smiled. "Will do. Your sergeant's out talking with civvies; standing orders for returning scouts like this is to report to el-tee first chance you get."

"Sure," said Somers.

He flew up to the treeline, then flared and trotted inside, following Snipe's scent trail back to 305th's center of operations: a semi-open meadow with Sergeant Robin and Falke's wings' hanging around inside. They must be reserves, he thought, defending the area in case of trouble. After leaving the ranch three days ago, the brigade as a whole set up operations closer to town, waiting until the uproar of their presence calmed down and the enemy gave them an opportunity to strike.

The inference about Skywings in 305th's AO felt less convincing when debriefing loomed in front of him, but the intelligence and contacts in Orwen still held up solid. Suddenly questions about soot activity became a moot point.

There was a Skywing talking with lieutenant Starling.

Somers stopped in his tracks, then, as if nothing had happened, trotted forward and stood just inside Starling's peripheral vision, waiting for his CO to notice his presence and accept his report – after an hour of talking, if need be.

More Skywings fell out of the woodwork when he looked for them: a clump of soots he hadn't seen because of the willows, eating a cold midday meal; five Skywings clustered around one of 305th's men as he whittled the buckle for a strap; a whole wing of them standing around in the forest, Skywings, Skywings everywhere!

And Seawings, too: blue splashers guarding a stockpile a few dozen yards off into the forest, wearing flight jackets and bucklers on their gauntlets. Shields!

"Where the hell did these guys come from?" he murmured to Griff, speaking louder than he thought, for Starling broke off his conversation with the Skywing – wearing the shoulder insignia of a Captain, Somers noticed – and spoke to them.

"Privates," he said.

"Sir."

"At ease. You are the pair sent to Orwen, correct?"

"Sir, yes sir," said Somers, while the Skywing captain looked on.

It wouldn't do to embarrass his lieutenant, not at all.

"Sum up the situation in a few words. Captain Lou would like to hear it."

Somers took a breath. "We made preliminary contact with friendly civilians in the town, gathering information and asking them to cultivate contacts we can use. They enemy have two understrength battalions locking down the town, quartered in a separate barracks, as well as an undefined number of non-Mudwing slaves. The food is in storehouses, which are constantly under guard. There is no combat air patrol at night, but a company flies above Orwen by day."

He paused for breath.

"Resupply comes every week on Tuesday afternoons, according to our contact, but they had not yet arrived this week when we made contact this Thursday night."

A small, unobtrusive expression that looked almost like a smile played across the Skywing captain's face. He probably had something to do with that.

"While the enemy is hostile to the populace, they are using them as workers and are feeding them minimum rations at this point. My contact implied that there may be able-bodied dragons sympathetic to us in the town, but there may also be informants. That is all I was able to learn, sir."

Starling nodded.

"Good. You doubtless have many questions about what is happening here. You will learn the answers from the sergeants while you are present: they have been briefed. You will leave for Orwen this evening with another pair of talon-picked dragons, to make more contacts and gather information. You two will stay in or near the town, while the other pair will act as messengers. One of them is a cartographer: she will help you draw a map of the town and its military presence. Understood?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"You are dismissed."

Somers bowed, then trotted towards the clump of 305th soldiers at a respectful pace, his mind churning. "How did they know to come for us?" he asked.

Griff shrugged alongside him. "Don't question good luck when it comes to you, I guess," he said. "I just want to know why the splashies are here."

Somers stepped up to Falke, who stood overseeing his dragons as they dissected a water buffalo. "Good afternoon, sarge - sir," he said. "What's going on with the color festival?"

"It's that Rainwing's fault," said Falke. "She ran off on, what, Tuesday to go report to her higher-ups, but met Captain Lou and Lieutenant Crab's force on the way, giving them our position as of the 26th. Their mission was already to assist Mudwing groups in the area with much needed supplies, so they headed to the ranch, arriving in the afternoon on Wednesday, bout eight hours after we left, and right as the wasps were sweeping the area for us. They cleaned up two wings of enemies; the rest holed up in the ranch, and the captain didn't bother to clean them out."

"And Crab is CO of the Seawings here?"

"Yes," said Falke. "It took two days for the captain to track us down, using local reports to get a bead on our location. They just dropped in this morning."

"That's odd, having a Skywing in charge of Seawings."

"They're in separate organizations, I hear," said Falke. "Crab is on loan or something like that: they have an FOB on the edge of the Rainforest and they're operating from there with Glory's support."

"That's close enough to give us constant backup," said Somers. "About two hundred miles from here to there, a full day's flight for a Skywing if he's cruising and carrying something. If we go any further we'll start suffering logistical breakdowns, especially if – am I rambling sir?"

"No, go on," said Falke. "That's good insight."

"The logistical elements will have to make camp at insecure locations if we go any further," said Somers. "Kitting out the fighters with extra supplies helps, but it reduces their combat effectiveness and quick-reaction capability, meaning they can't respond in time if one of our groups gets in trouble fifty or sixty miles away."

"It's a question of dragonpower," said Falke. "Assuming whoever is in command of Rainburrow has more Skywings, he can protect his logistics and still deploy Lou anywhere within two hundred miles of their base in two days, or four days if Lou gets outside that radius. That's a lot of striking power backing us up."

Somers mulled his next words, wondering if he should speak them or not. Privates do not argue with sergeants in a disciplined army. Ever. They also aren't supposed to discuss topics that could hurt morale.

"That's true," he said, putting aside for the moment the fact that Lou could be here today, gone tomorrow. "Given that the captain has limited supplies, and he's giving some to us, he'll make a move soon. If we cut off supplies to Orwen, the civilians there will suffer before the enemy does, because of the way the food is handled – hitting their combat elements directly is better if we want to convince dragons to join the fight. Just a suggestion, sir."

"Noted," said Falke. "You're going back tonight, right?"

"This evening," said Somers. He looked around to see where Griff had gone – there, getting a scrap of the wing's meal. "El-tee says he's talon-picked a pair of dragons as couriers and mapmakers, so we'll probably be borrowing Kyde."

Falke winced. "She's a good soldier of mine, take care of her."

"Yes, sir."

"One last thing," said Falke. "You see a blue-eyed Skywing, stay away. That's Peril."

"Uh-huh," said Somers. "The legend herself. Where is the nearest food, sir?"

And Falke laughed. "The Rainwings packaged up… something. Check the bags the captain brought."

Somers trotted off, finding a large rope rucksack with the drawstring left open and a sickly-sweet odor wafting out: did they send fruit to the frontlines? "Whose side are you on," he muttered, wondering if Lou's Rainwing backers intended to incapacitate the war effort with loose bowels.

He fished out the dying, mushy orange and pulled out a leaf-wrapped ration of mystery meat instead – the remains of an obscure jungle animal or whatever – and leaned against a tree to eat it.

Heck, it didn't even taste that bad.


The green willow vines saved the meadow from the sun's sweltering heat, but the utter lack of breeze inside the dell made the air stifling anyway: the shade attracting the mosquitoes from the bubbling pool at the southern base of the slope, and buzzing flies. Somers flicked one away with his ear, waited two seconds, and heard rather than felt it land on his neck, its tiny, nasty body skittering over the mud as it hunted for a crevice in his scales.

He shook his head, and it flew off again.

Long ago he accepted insects as a fact of life, like war and death and levies, if not from his own tribe than from whoever happened to be occupying the delta at the moment. The rich land grew cash crops in the dry season, but what did that matter if livestock contracted disease by the droves when it got wet? When the Seawings left off trade with the tribe, the dragons on the delta got poor and stayed poor, and starved amidst their crop paradise.

Bzzt.

He flicked his ear.

What did the splashies use the grain for, fish food?

"You're bored," said Griff, looking over Somers's shoulder.

"Getting rest," said Somers. "Hurry under this tree with me and wait for something to happen."

Rustling leaves disturbed his rambling thoughts; another dragon approaching.

"You two are lazy, so go be lazy outside the meadow," said sergeant Falke. "Relieve the sentries on the north side."

"Yes, sir," said Somers.

Falke stood outside his chain of command, but damn if he'd snub that in the guy's face now. He passed the Skywings on the way out; they'd formed up in small clusters again, putting on their wargear: one of them had a harness with two cinches around the waist in an old Sandwing style, and hooks behind the shoulders to put stuff on.

He recognized that thing.

"Jacket trouble?" asked Griff.

"Fuck yeah man," shot back a Skywing.

"He let a wasp tear it up and now he has to wear what the Rainwings use," said another Skywing, putting on his; a more sensible design with two pairs of clips on the underbelly, designed to tie stuff down so it didn't bang against his underbelly during motion. "They like it actually."

"They have four right talons," said the first. "It's not made for normal people."

"Ha," said Somers. "Sentry duty calls."

"Kay," said the Skywing. "We're gonna be out of here: cappy says to keep hunting."

"Go kill em for us," said Griff as they strode away. "We're tired of shakin' our fists at em."

"We will!"

Somers bore through a swath of willow vines, parting the tan-green curtain and trotting out into a warm patch of open sunlight, before once again slipping into the dappled, shifting shade. The treetops caught the wind, but the ground level didn't. Up ahead he spotted dark brown dragon forms, perched on the hill crest a few feet from the lip of the wood: one of them moved from a tree trunk and stretched.

He trotted a few more paces.

"Hey," said one of the sentries. "Are you relieving us? Hope to moons I get off early."

"Yep," said Somers, his good mood evaporating like a puddle once the sun comes out. "You can go on in."

"Bout time, I was getting bored," said Squirrel. The acrimonious dragon ambled away from his post with a lazy stride. "Did you guys have fun chatting with the civvies, or what?"

"Tons. So much fun you wouldn't even believe it," said Griff, to Squirrel's back.

The other sentry sighed. "Just… Squirrel being Squirrel."

"Just save his treatment till last after the next battle," said Griff.

"Believe me, I've wanted to do that for a long time," said the sentry, glancing at Squirrel as he lackadaisically swaggered off. A competent brawler, this dragon also served as Falke's corpsman. "But we're all allies here, so I'll fix him if he needs it."

"Yeah," said Somers. "Take care."

The corpsman beat his wings and went off south, gliding in short hops between trees and scraping the occasional thornbush. Somers made up his mind to find a copse of raspberry vines to wallow in the next time he had the chance. Itches deserved to be scratched.

Bzzzt.

He flicked his ear, the persistent fly zipping away in a wide loop before coming around on another pass. Bzzzt. Bzzschwizzzzztzz -

This twitch got it for good. Free of distraction for the moment, he stood up straight and watched the blue horizon: patches of woods stretching away like a quilt on the left, and wide, flat mud plains ahead and left. A dark shape circled far away, soaring on the air currents. Vulture.

Wingbeats interrupted his thoughts and he looked to the source: twelve Seawings with barrels strapped to their chests, flying towards a copse of willows at high altitude. Water spilled from their vessels as he watched, gleaming as it fell like diamond spray; tumbled in droplets and splashed onto the thick marsh grass fifty feet from the wood. The Seawings changed their course after the drop, heading left and out of his field of view.

"What was that all about?" asked Griff.

"Dunno."

"Other militaries are strange."

Somers shrugged, using the motion to rub his shoulder against a tree. "I wouldn't mind having a shield like they do, just so I don't take so many hits. And it'd be nice to have more than a haversack between me and enemy darts."

"Wasp darts are like breaking wind," said Griff.

"You didn't get hit by five in a row like one of our guys."

"Fair."

A pause.

Bzzt.

He swatted at the fly.

The afternoon proceeded placidly, meandering around oddly-shaped clouds and spinning in dragon-shaped whirlpools, as the Seawings returned twice to the copse and dumped water on it, each drop more precise than the last. Somers applauded their irrigation techniques. The point of the exercise, however, eluded him, especially when they threw sticks down into the by-now well watered trees, practicing their tosses, breaking off more boughs, and trying again.

Eventually the day breathed its last gasps of air: the sun neared the horizon, and an evening breeze started out of the east, bringing with it (he imagined) a whiff of the wasps' foul scent. Hunting Mudwings crawled along the bank of the stream far away, upwind of a landing where sturdier ground jutted out to the running brook: an animal watering place if he'd ever seen one.

Somers shook his head privately; that one stood too close to 305th's hideout, and the soldiers already scared off or hunted down the available prey for a considerable distance. Eventually the hunters figured that out and moved on.

So too did Snipe come out of the meadow to relieve the brothers.

"Group up with Squirrel, el-tee's orders," said Snipe. "Falke will brief you once that's done."

So the lieutenant talon-picked Squirrel to go with them? He probably made the decision just to to get Squirrel out of his scales.

"Gotcha," said Griff. "Did you say hi to Rob?"

"Didn't need to."

Somers headed back into the woods, cantering forwards with a faster, powerful pace through the shadows: the willow stand cast into semi-darkness, as the thick foliage blocked out the sun's rays at an oblique angle. Inside the meadow he saw a different group of Mudwings formed up in reserve; sentries swapped back to the center.

No more than thirty or forty under-equipped dragons filled out the roster here. Somers noted the Skywings by their conspicuous absence, extra supply bags stacked in professional rows on a cleared-out swath of grass that just so happened to grow under a patch of sun. The long shadows played tricks on the eye, and they'd help him evade detection during the evening phase of his flight to town.

305th needed reinforcements: with luck, Orwen's inhabitants would be brave enough to help.

He spotted Falke.

"Somers, present sir," he said, noting Squirrel and Kyde already at attention, both soldiers' scales thinly layered with dried scud.

Kyde stood as tall as he did, though his muscles filled out more than hers did, and her jaw rounded off at the front instead of forming an angular, masculine square. Not too bad, he thought. Atypical green eyes surveyed the scene from sockets mounted beneath a prominent, razor-like forehead, and her right shoulder carried the strap of a cowhide satchel, its bronze buckles discolored with scratches and acidic bog water to permanently prevent glinting.

Dragonesses made commendable soldiers, once they trained in like any dragon had to, and learned to let the dragons brawl against each other when it came down to Mudwing vs Mudwing slugging.

Griff bumped Somers wing.

"Private Griff, present, sir."

"Good," said Falke, splitting off from the remainder of his wing – most of them had vanished while Somers acted as a spotter – off foraging, perhaps? "Squirrel, get your head out of the gutter."

Squirrel straightened up from his musings, but otherwise said nothing. Somers mentally willed the guy to open his eyes and ears: his rookie status wore off a long time ago and he should act like it.

"Pleased to see that we're all paying attention," said Falke, his eyes flicking from Squirrel to Somers as he observed the byplay. "Corporal Kyde is charged with overall command. You will travel in spaced formation, to avoid detection, staying right of the fastest path to Orwen until you have flown ten miles. As Kyde possesses a compass, she will fly point. After this, scent-mark your secondary regroup point, then fly north-north-east towards Orwen's vicinity. Squirrel and Kyde will remain in your chosen primary regroup point, and you two will enter the town at night, situation permitting. Follow up with your contacts, and get more information, then leave. Return to the town during the daytime under civilian guise; this will allow you to travel more freely and observe what the enemy is doing. We want more information, so you'll have to take that risk. With me so far?"

Somers repeated the gist, and Falke corrected him on one of the points. "I said situation permitting, not 'only if there's dense fog'."

"Yes sir."

"Good to see that's cleared up," said Falke. "Relay information to Squirrel and Shyde on the 31st, and draw the map. Squirrel will leave on the thirty-first with the map and your intelligence: you will check the primary regroup point on the night of the first and every night after to receive further orders and intelligence. Questions?"

"How long do we expect to be in the town?" asked Somers.

"About a week, longer if the wasps don't get suspicious. We need actionable intelligence, and if necessary you will take risks to get it."

"I see. If dragons are willing to skip town and join us, can we let them?"

"After several days to a week, yes."

Kyde tilted her head to ask a question. "Will Skywing high-altitude reconnaissance make a map of the town, so we can combine ground intelligence with a street plan?"

"That's already being done."

She nodded.

"Repeat the route plan one more time, so you don't get lost."

They did.

"Good enough," said Falke. "Dismissed."

"Walk out on my bearing," said Kyde. "We'll travel a mile before flying."

"Yes ma'am," said Somers.

Would Lou raid Orwen's garrison soon? The Skywing commander rarely rested… and an alluring target stood only twenty-odd miles away, waiting for the captain to take his best shot.

Somers liked this prospect. He liked his orders less. They expected him to get a lot of information out of town, quickly, using an inflexible timetable that gave him little leeway, and a plan B flimsier than an oak leaf.

"You worried about Orwen?" asked Griff.

"Little bit."

"They can't kill us if they don't know we're there."

The four dragons still slogged across the ground, taking their exfiltration behind a strung-out line of cottonwoods. Somewhere from behind Griff, Squirrel sneezed. Once they took flight, most non-mission conversation would come to a halt.

"We were lucky to get through that fog. Lucky to bump a house without soldiers in it. Lucky that the couple inside helped us out. We could run into that wing patrolling the town. And the daytime mission is risky. We could get trapped in a civilian barracks and 305th will be forced to save our tails, which is also risky."

His talons splashed on a wet spot in the muddy terrain, which got softer as they left the mild up-slope and into the outskirts of a floodplain: his shadow stretched long and thin on the moist surface. In times like these, his mind focused on more concerning things than the sward of green, fresh-smelling grass on his right, or the lazy pools with waterstriders scudding between floating leaves that had fallen in, or the fresh breeze that broke the stifling heat of the afternoon.

"We'll do it, but I don't want to do it," said Griff, looking around to clear the horizon of any threats rather than to take in the view. "Choking guards on their piss-break and slamming them face-down in the mud for the enemy to find at dawn is a better deal."

"And then they send out parties to find who's doing it…"

"We killed those too, remember?"

"Yeah."

He almost laughed, thinking of how incompetent Seawing commanders sent out larger and larger forces to die in obscure corners of the swamps, wearing down their strength piecemeal until the Mudwings had enough strength to overrun the garrison of the fort.

But the dragon-life lost during those engagements felt wrong to laugh about.

"El-tee's probably holding them back so we can get rid of them in a critical strike," said Somers. "If he scares them badly enough, they may withdraw… although I doubt it."

"No, they'll send reinforcements sooner or later."

"Chit-chat's over," said Corporal Kyde, breaking the conversation. "Fly."

Somers nodded and spread his wings. Kyde's navigation skills earned her that rank: he wasn't going to object about a dragoness bossing him around.

Save for an amusing incident when Griff nearly clipped a willow trunk, the flight went over peacefully: Somers scent-marking a thick bank of rushes near a scum-covered pond. The secondary regroup point looked obvious to Mudwing eyes or even enemy, but thousands of others dotted the countryside and the wasps didn't have the dragonpower to check them all.

Cautious but optimistic in the progress of the mission, they bunched up after dark and made their primary regroup point two or three from the town proper, hidden by a patch of solid ground with brush, mud to slip into in case of emergency: running water nearby for drinking and yet more concealment, and a shallow backwater Somers could slip into and pretend to be a log in if he had to.

Having spent days as an innocent piece of deadwood while he was part of 305th brigade in the great war, he had enough experience to stay far away from that method.

"Stay quiet," said Kyde. "Don't make a ruckus, don't make promises we can't keep, and don't accept any alcohol, even if they give you the sun, the moons, the stars and the sky."

"Yes ma'am," said Somers.

"It's a pretty cloudy sky," said Squirrel. "So it's not worth much."

"Give your contacts the option to back out," she said. "Make them feel wanted. Horse-herded dragons might turn."

"Yes ma'am."

"Good."

The crickets chirped incessantly in the fens, and Somers nodded, his snout illuminated by a patch of dim moonslight filtering down through the clouds and the fog. "We're going."

Then he turned and strode off, his brother striking out with him through the bog. He plunged into deep swill and swam it, and got a footing on the bank, scrambling up it and pushing through the rushes: the moons and the mist conspired together and made the night beautiful and still, at this hour when even the mosquitoes slept.

He couldn't see the town, but he didn't need to: he smelled dragon-odor on the infrequent breeze, and that and his sense of direction kept him from losing the way. A glimmering light appeared ahead and on his left; he changed his course and headed near that direction, trotting obliquely to its luster.

"Think anybody ratted us out?" asked Griff.

Somers came to the lip of the defile he'd occupied twenty-six hours ago, and plunged into the mud without hesitation. Dragon-scent clung to this place, rank and musty.

"Not intentionally," he said. "We killed off the snitches in the last war."

"Sure."

He half-walked, half-waded until he reached the rut he'd made before: with gritted teeth, he grasped the mud about him and scrabbled up the bank, Griff pushing him up until he reached firmer earth. Once both of them reached the top, they headed off.

Somers had already covered this ground, so the walk passed quickly for him: he found the same building and put his ear to the wall, listening for the bzzt of wasp wings twitching, or idle words or whispers. Hearing nothing, he trotted on, reached the door and walked in like he owned the place.

A new candle already burned inside, both Gall and Kite drowsed off in front of it, as if expecting him. Somers frowned: he didn't want them to do that. They had to act naturally.

Griff coughed, and their hosts blinked awake and looked around. Gall leaped to his talons when he saw them. "Good evening," said Griff. Somers waved a talon to stop his brother from saying more: he didn't want to antagonize fellow Mudwings.

"Same," said Gall. "Not too loud, now."

His brother smiled anyway. Laugh it up.

"You came back quickly," said Kite, "quicker than we expected."

Griff tossed a head at Somers. "Even he can move fast when he feels like it. We didn't think we'd be back so soon either."

A partial truth: Somers expected el-tee would send him back, since he had been chosen to contact this village in the first place.

"Were you close?" asked Gall.

Somers shrugged, thinking back to what Kyde had said in the fens. "Close enough. If you think this is too dangerous -"

"We want to help," said Kite. Gall kept silent. "I always wanted to do something, drive them back, but I didn't know anyone who could fight them…"

"My unit is making a difference, but we have to know where to bring the hurt," said Somers. "We'd like to stay here longer, get a feel for what's going on. What happened with Loon during the day?"

"I made intimations that a friendly military is in the area, nothing more than a rumor," said Kite. "He mentioned it later, didn't ask for a meeting. He isn't ready to trust the news."

"That's wise of him," said Griff. "He probably thinks you're spies for the wasps."

Somers surveyed their faces. Husband and wife gritted their teeth.

"You're not," continued Griff, "but he doesn't know that."

"I'll find another way to get the news to him," said Kite. "If you could offer proof that you're here, he might be more forthcoming."

"Proof is dangerous," said Griff.

Somers thought to how he'd waltz into town tomorrow morning and ask for a job, and he suppressed a quiet pang of fear. He hoped 'fortune favors the bold' held true in his case.

"We heard of a damaged enemy convoy in the morning," said Somers. "Did you see anything about it?"

Kite nodded. "They came in this afternoon; the wasps went into a big fuss over it. They quit sending out company-sized patrols; now they only send out dragons in pairs, while the rest mill around inside town. They haven't left yet, they might not for a while. I'm afraid the food situation will suffer."

"How many of them were there?"

"Six or eight wings of freights, all understrength, and about five wings of escorts, all understrength too. They haven't been here long enough for me to guess."

Somers nodded. "What else?" he asked, looking at Gall.

"The CO locked himself in the tower this morning, no one's seen him since then," said Kite's husband. "Their overseers are as arrogant as ever, but their enlisted are restless and the freights are nervous. Something is up."

"Indeed," said Griff.

"We'll be making more inroads here," said Somers. "We'd like you to build a network of good people. Dragons who we can organize for when the time is right. Dragons who'll face the enemy with contempt. The more we can make them feel like holdouts in a country where they don't belong, the easier it'll be to make them fly when the fight comes."

Gall faded into the background, down the hall and towards the room with the storm drain. Taking a leak, probably.

"We'll do what we can," said Kite. "Our young men are getting restless; they need an outlet. Some Mudwing robbed a bar last night, as if there was anything left in it."

She snorted.

"Dragons like that need a place to go, or they'll keep pushing and pushing until they bring a crackdown on us all."

Griff spoke. "Recruits."

She nodded.

"We'll take dragons who can fight," said Somers, as if 305th had much choice about it. Their numbers had shrunk since the war began, not grown. The dragons el-tee had sent out in the country over the last few days might change that, however.

"Where's Gall?" asked Griff. "Thought he was taking a leak. You use the storm drain as a latrine?"

"No," said Kite. "The pit's on the other side of the house."

A pause. Somers nodded towards the door: his brother raised an eyebrow: he narrowed his brow and wiggled his ear. Not the time.

"Getting restless, maybe," said Somers. Griff cracked the door open behind him, then tapped his tail three times.

Problem.

He added another, urgent tap. Now.

Somers turned, just in time for the door to blow wide open and a spear-wielding wasp to burst inside.

"GET DOWN! Lay on your side and put your talons where I can see them! NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!"

Somers complied, sinking slowly to the dirt. He could take this wasp. He could take the wasp after that, and after that, but he knew he'd die if he tried to kill them all, so he surrendered. Another Hivewing entered the bar, big, striped and ugly, a short blowpipe shaking in its talons.

That fucking Gall! He must've told his masters during the day, then slipped out tonight to alert their kill squad.

"I'm sure this is some sort of misunderstanding -" said Kite, moving forward -

"We know you're insurgents, get on the fucking ground!"

That just confirmed it.

She jolted back, and the Hivewing archer fired at her. Fuck.

Adrenaline kicked in.

"GO RIGHT!" shouted Somers, springing up from the ground to the enemy sergeant and swinging a savage uppercut into the bottom of its jaw, shattering its bones and smashing up up up until the fist smacked into its cranium, and he found his back talons and pressed forward, past the sergeant as it screamed with a bloody maw.

No threat.

Keep fighting.

Orange backs flickered just outside the door: Somers scooped up the sergeant's spear right as Griff punched out the wasp on the right, gore spattering across his scales – and then a fresh coating of dirt dusted him as he charged into the wall and ran headlong into the archer on the other side – he threw a punch into its chest with his left talon and followed up with the spear into its heart.

Two.

He lifted the roaring dragon off its feet and swung it around in front of him – blowpipes hissed and darts slammed into the corpse, and into Griff as his brother came through the door, clocking the Hivewing in front of him with a chunk of masonry.

"Left!" bellowed Somers; he dropped the body and charged with the wall against his left shoulder, gripped the draconic form that loomed in the dark and blinded it with a punch between the eyes – then finished it with a slash to the neck while it roared impotently, spent blowpipe snapping underneath his claw.

The roar turned into a gurgling choke.

Three.

He glanced behind him, at the maelstrom of orange scales swirling around his brown-skinned brother, and he checked his momentum and turned back, flaying the enemy's wings with sharpened claws and tearing their tendons and blinding them -

Four.

Every punch a crippling blow, every other strike a kill, he surged to Griff's defense, taking in the six quills embedded in his brother's chest, and the long slash across his shoulder and the shallow cuts on his neck –

He ended another wasp with a slash to the jugular – dragons yelled and screeched and he lost track of the killing and the volleys of darts.

Another wasp surged forward with a spear and he waved an arm, brushing the point aside and then darting forward for a jaw strike that missed and landed on its upper chest: not a killshot.

His muscles tired; the enemy force could only strengthen. He turned to Griff.

"Let's go while we still can!"

His brother croaked out words, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. No, no no no no no -

Somers tunnel-visioned so hard he never saw the butt end of the spear come from behind and knock him out cold.