Posted on the Ides of May.
Author's Note: It's a pain when FFN decides that the whole chapter is italics, isn't it? So guess what happened when I loaded this chap into the editor today. It's funny how I can write a chapter, think 'hmm that's good' and then, as soon as I tell my friends I'm going to update I get queasy in my gut and I don't want to do it anymore.
Review responses:
MLG Larry: Get your butt out of my review section.
Pt35: We are about to see if Griff gets his card punched. But before that happens, I threw in an extra segment just for the suspense.
I'm conflicted about whether the Somers part of this chap is ready to post. But I figure it's been long enough since I posted something, so I'd better get to it. Ladies and gentlemen!
Chapter 20 - Traitor!
August 1st, 5,015.
The early morning glow and cheery birds did nothing to soothe her clenched gut. 305th had taken more casualties.
"We've lost the brothers," said Kyde. Although the Skywing captain's glare bored into her briefly, she stood straight and high, without fidget. Fine, if he thought she was beneath him, then she wouldn't even try to change that, no matter how wrong she knew he was.
Some units got along with their new Skywing officers well enough after Moorhen's army integrated with Scarlet's in the years following '03. 305th brigade was not one of them. And Kyde still didn't like Skywings after all these years.
"Did you spot any increased activity after they failed to make their check?" asked Lt. Starling. His sergeants leaned against nearby trees: Robin, Falke, and Snipe, with two Skywings and a Seawing sitting in on the side.
"Yes, but it might not be related to whatever happened to them," said Kyde. "They're running combat air patrols, day and night, all-altitude sweeps, even close to the ground. Very alert, in my opinion, but worried. No reinforcements have arrived, and only token resupply. There are no messengers heading in or out, either."
Squirrel fidgeted beside her, drawing two of the sergeants' gaze. With so many dragons gathered here, they'd be having a strategic conference after she left.
"It's like they're busy with something else, somewhere else," declared Starling. He looked at the Skywing captain.
"What that might be, we have no idea," said the Skywing. "They should be consolidating after taking so much ground, but they're not doing that here."
"They may have trouble beyond us," said Lt. Crab. "We Seawings are still out there in the bay, we can still make trouble."
Kyde gave him a questioning brow while he wasn't looking. They could have made trouble, if they hadn't powered down most of the military after the war, though most of their personnel still remained in service, last she'd heard. Four years of saltwater rust grinding down their war machine would take a long time to polish off.
"Continue, Corporal," said Starling, interrupting her thoughts.
She laid out the rest of her pitifully scant ground intelligence. While the Skywings had drawn useful maps from their scouting runs over the town, Kyde would have preferred more knowledge on the barracks, storage buildings, guard schedules, everything. They had no floor plan on that hideous tower, which would be useful if the enemy settled in and 305th had to storm it.
As a navigator, Kyde never plunged into a dangerous unknown if she could help it, but her superiors assigned her scouting runs time after time after time, until she accepted blank spots on the scroll as part of her job.
"That will be enough," said Starling, at the end. "Dismissed."
Kyde bowed – "Sir," - and slipped off, leaving the enclave of low-ranking officers. No one wore any brass, or if they did it was a discreet patch fastened on some upturned scale. Their soldiers recognized them by sight.
She paused out of sight, but not out of earshot, her ears picking the dragons' voices out of the ether while guilt waged war in her stomach. Her soldier's gut labeled this scouting. Her moral compass called it eavesdropping, then sat down to join the recon.
" - unning low on supply," said the Skywing captain. "Like I said, we're leaving tomorrow morning"
Something unintelligible.
"We can't spare any scouts."
Another dragon spoke. The Seawing maybe? "Orwen is a good target. If my men can get in there, we can burn their nest in one stroke, then hunt down the survivors."
Kyde briefly wondered what splasher night vision plus a Skywing kill squad could do. Then decided she didn't want to fight that, ever.
"And cause countless civilian casualties," said Starling. "The people will hate you."
"They're not our people," said the captain. "I'm not out here to sit and chat, I'm here to kill wasps. Something that we should all be doing. And I'll gladly take a few civvie casualties if we can burn down the garrison without risking our hides."
… so they were talking about Peril, then.
"So you mean Peril," said Starling, accidentally echoing Kyde's thoughts.
"Peril is the least criminal of our options," said the captain. "But she's not fit to fight, here or anywhere else. The Rainwings don't want her. The men accept her but half the Skywings back home want to kill her. And she doesn't want to do any actual fighting. If we burn down Orwen we'll do it with hellfire."
Hellfire, what? She found herself in unfamiliar territory, without so much as a chart.
A blue, webbed talon fell on Kyde's shoulder.
"Hey," said a Seawing. "You're not supposed to be listening."
More heavily built than normal for a Seawing, he still fell short on muscle compared to Kyde. She could have ignored him.
"Understood," she said. "Come on Squirrel, we're not in the napping business."
Her companion had found a tree trunk and decided to sleep on it. He started from his drowsy state.
"Fine," he said, and brushed himself off. "I'm feeling hungry."
"We had morning rations an hour ago," said Kyde. "We don't have timeto be hungry."
On her second glance, Kyde noticed the Seawing didn't have any scars, save a little smear that might have been a birthmark. Command had been babying the splashers like dragonets for the whole deployment, like they were precocious starfish VIPs that they didn't want let out of their sight.
Her mind raced. Would the officers decide to use this 'hellfire', or not? What would the casualties be? What was it like?
She started drawing in lines on her mental chart, with a big question mark on the legend. She just didn't know. It wasn't part of her job description to know, but she wanted to learn anyway.
Curiosity tugged at her heartstrings, and then she remembered she was supposed to leave, and scooted away from the Seawing.
Squirrel's eyes brightened.
"You up for a game of tabs?"
"No." And Kyde shot him down again. "I'm going to practice."
"Have it your way," said Squirrel.
Kyde filled in empty time with training, spear training, first leading with her right talon, and then switching to her dominant left. She picked an empty place for her drills, knowing the butt of the spear stuck out a few feet to her side, depending on how she held it, and the sweeps and lunges could hit someone who wasn't paying attention, like Squirrel often tended to do.
Not that she would've minded conking Squirrel with a spearshaft. That would've been therapeutic.
She assumed the correct stance, and began. A soldier's effectiveness in combat stemmed from their situational awareness; she sidestepped an imagined kick from the side, swinging the butt of the shaft into the enemy's face and pulling it where she imagined the blow to land. That enemy died to a claw.
Without a comrade to cover her wings and keep the enemy out of her guard, she would die; she was no pugilist like her brothers. She stabbed, impaling air, then waited for invisible allies to catch up with her and close ranks.
A daring enemy could knock the spear from her talon. She threw her weapon aside, defending with arm blocks until an ally stabbed the ghostly visage and it withered away.
"Ma'am."
Now she had to defend against enemy spears, picking her own off the ground with her back talon and throwing it to her front -
"Ma'am. Corporal!"
Kyde stopped and turned her head. "Yes?"
Sergeant Falke stood across from her, his face looking grim. "305th is going to Orwen. Tonight."
"I see."
She cocked her head. Part of the 'brigade' was away trading info with hiding civilians and other, small militia groups. They wouldn't have their full military strength in an assault. Plus she wanted to look confused because Falke didn't know -
"I know you've been eavesdropping," said Falke. That thought went out the window. "So you know more than you should. We'll have Skywing and splasher support from the air, but this time we're going in on the sticks. Full plan later, right now I need you to check the maps the scouts made, because we're training with them."
"Understood," said Kyde. "Show me."
The job didn't take much effort, just time, because whenever a map was significantly different from the original, she had to make a patch and slap it on the scroll parchment using their dwindling supplies of glue. When she finished up, Falke had her distribute the checked-up navigational aids to every wing in the unit; one for each sergeant, and one for his 2iC or backup navigator.
Then the real training began.
None of them had assaulted an intact town for a long time; a town without streets clogged by the rubble of broken-down buildings. Not for six or seven years in fact, and that last time they had been repulsed. So the sergeants had to jog their memory, digging up those dusty, blooded lessons that kept war veterans alive.
"Stay off the street, stay off the street," said sergeant Falke.
"Yes sir, staying off the fucking street sir," said private Snipe. They had two privates and a sergeant by that name, sometimes it got kind of confusing. This one had a foul sense of humor, and a sly smile.
"Attaboy. Now no one thought to bring the actual Mudwing tactical guide, and the Skywing one is less than useful for us, but I trust you remember the good calls. The weight of the company is focused into the tip of the spear, with adequate flank security provided at all times. Ranged attacks should be deployed to discourage the enemy from using the air…"
Kyde enjoyed the rehash; like old, familiar territory, she thought. What was unfamiliar were the Skywings filing in to watch, edging closer and closer while Falke talked.
"We don't have any crossbows with us, but we are bringing the Skywings along with us. Sergeant Rudd's wing are our permanent air-cover and liaison with the Captain during this mission. You'll be knowing them as Firestorm."
Their leader met eyes with everyone in Falke's wing, and the dragons briefing beyond, then nodded.
The briefing went about as well as she expected it to; decently, and then they fell to practice, which wasn't much because they only had swamps to work with instead of a real town. But the Skywings had put up air cover for the day, so at least 305th could train outside in the sun, with more space to maneuver.
They executed the three pre-planned maneuvers Starling had in mind, practiced and repracticed them, and then trained to shift out of them as the battle required. Kyde usually practiced well, with a focus honed by long years of soldiery.
Today she felt distracted.
What was hellfire, anyway? The officers didn't want to use it, citing Peril as the less dangerous option, and what could be more dangerous than a dragon who burned everyone she touched?Was it some artifact that incinerated everything a hundred feet around it? Who could use such a thing?
By the time they called off the training for rest (and to rest the Skywing BARCAP keeping the wasps off their backs) Kyde was no closer to answers than she had been before.
"No working," decreed Falke, as they all took a break in the shade. And moons, it felt weird to hear a sergeant, any sergeant give that order. "Take a nap. You know how pitch-runs are, so don't be stupid."
The Mudwing term for night battles barely got more than a grunt out of most of them.
"Kyde," said the sergeant. Her ears perked up. "You're pathfinder tonight. 'Grease 'll be up there with ya; don't let me down."
She gave a quick thumbs-up. "Of course not."
"Good."
Then she rested, and prepared for her trip into the black.
Death. Darkness.
So the grim reaper had come for him at last. And yet… his headache persisted into the Dead Plains, or the Lakes of Penance, or wherever death had ferried him and left him.
He opened his eyes, expecting to see damnation.
Steel bars filled his vision instead; rank odors burned his nose. Enemy. He flexed his talons, working the feeling into them again, and his head throbbed and the world blacked out, coming back in wavy lines and haze that never faded, no matter how many times he blinked.
An orange lamp glowed from the ceiling, casting its strong rays without the minute crackle of burning flame, without wax, without anything at all. He shied away from looking at it, feeling its wrongness somehow. But even its overbearing glare paled next to something else.
He lived.
He raised his head and turned it, sniffing for a familiar scent: a scent he knew from moments after birth: a smell he would never forget, and always remembered in combination with one dragon. Griff. And he smelled that scent, but he also tasted the metallic, iron tang of blood, and the sickly sweet stench of death.
A bulky Mudwing lay on the other side of the cell with his back turned to Somers and his right wing folded at an unnatural angle where it met the ground: the scars of old wounds scored his scales, and congealed blood oozed from new ones.
Somers got up, or tried to. Chains clinked as he stumbled and fell back to his shoulder, cold bronze cuffs binding his wrists.
"Bro," he said. "Wake up."
No response. The newly generated feeling degenerated into hot, pulsing heartbeats.
"C'mon. You stay with me man. Always. 351st. The pass. The river. You survived all those, so cmon dude, wake up."
Nothing.
"Helluva time to play a prank on me," he muttered. He closed his eyes, opened his talons and closed them again, and opened and closed. Then he punched the floor. The brown, smooth material bowed, a knuckle-shaped imprint forming around his claws, distortions forming around the edges, as if he'd hit hardened clay.
"Helluva time to play a prank on me! Wake up damnit!"
His shout echoed through the halls; he had awoken and the enemy would come shortly to interrogate him. They could try. Somers dragged himself to his brother's body, pale and careworn and still, and shook it: sticky blood peeled from the floor, but no arm rose to stop him, no voice spoke to reassure him, and no brown eyes stared back into his.
Somers had seen bodies like this lying in dirt, sand, mud and piss; dead as a box of rocks. Some of them he had killed himself, even as they begged for mercy, and he gave it to them, the only way he knew how.
He knew Griff was dead. And he tried to cling on to hope, but he'd seen this so many times before. Not to his only remaining brother, he'd sworn. They'd make it to old age.
Then this fucking war -
Metal clanked outside the cell; footsteps echoed outside the hall and his denial took on a flaming edge of anger. The enemy shot his brother, his alive brother who lay on the floor just… resting. That made it personal. But who told the enemy his location? Who slipped out in the middle of the night?
Gall.
His head throbbed, and he bared his teeth. Had Kite known the treachery her husband committed last night? He doubted it. If – no, once he got out of here, he'd check. He'd live. And Gall would die.
The footsteps paused outside the door; a dragon pushed a key into the oiled lock and turned it. A voice penetrated his mental haze.
"… -ese are the two we captured last night. One of the animals still lives."
"Show me."
His captors stepped into the cell, and Somers stared up at them through eyes that had seen hell. They had not muzzled him: that was their mistake. With one gout of fire he could turn them to ash.
And he fucking should. It would be a quick death, a little messy, but ultimately comfortable.
The lead Hivewing met Somers' face and he missed his tread when he saw Somers' sick grin. The wasp looked like scum, rich scum that had soared to the top of the mountain on dead dragons' achievements, and now acted at the pinnacle of his ability by ordering around a few dozen yes-men. He had a narrow face and yellow eyes, and he wore an embroidered patch of a scarab clutching lightning bolts, rimmed with gold.
He didn't look dangerous.
The second wasp gave Somers pause. He reflected the sick grin with a knowing smile; kindness overlaid over eyes harder than Skywing steel or flint, yet black as tar, all-consuming pitch that oozed outside the pupil and spilled into the edges where eyes were supposed to be white. He carried a set of knives in a bandolier, each catching the light of the sole ceiling lamp in the room and scattering it, with strange, liquid glimmers playing over the hardened bronze.
Poison.
Compared to that, the dragon's lowly silver bar rank patch and strange, limping gait couldn't fool Somers; he represented a threat which he had to guard against, or die.
The dragon's smile grew wider when he saw Somers' comprehension. His superior missed the byplay entirely.
"Wounded, but hopefully lucid," said the superior officer.
"Enough to feel pain?" said the one with the knives.
"Yes m'lord."
And Somers' understanding flipped on its head. The dragon in the lead had all the makings of a pompous superior… the embroidery, attitude, everything, and he deferred to the lowly subordinate behind him? Somers had seen enough blood-spattered wasp rank patches to know gold beat silver. Always.
But not now.
Knife-guy bent his knees and lowered his head, as if talking to a child. His accent sounded low and guttural, words spilling over themselves with hardly any time between one malformed syllable and the next.
"Where do you come from? Which city, hmm?"
Somers spat. "Fuck you."
The wasp's eyes blazed with sudden fire, and his curious demeanor changed to a leaping, snarling beast, anger taken physical form. One of the knifes flashed in a long, sweeping arc, and scored a long, thin line on his arm. It itched like fire, and bled unnaturally quickly; viscera trickling like water down to the floor.
"Filth!" growled the Hivewing. "You have no right to touch me. You will answer my questions, or else."
Somers heart hardened, as he waited for his strong healing to seal the cut: his constitution more effective than a swath of Seawing bandages. A fleabite like this would scab in moments, and he turned his attention to the Hivewing again, trying a different tack: stubborn silence. Would the wasp fume impotently after five minutes of no results? He could move fast; he needed to burn first.
But fire wouldn't free Somers from his bonds; it would bring the building down around him, and he'd die inside. Fire had to wait in the wings, until his body healed and they gave him a slim chance to get out. 305th might come, but Somers didn't count on it. Unless they arrived, he was on his own.
His wound still hadn't stopped bleeding. Odd.
The wasp spoke. "Too bad."
He struck again; poison erupted through Somers' veins and his world burned in pain.
Somers awoke.
A wasp officer galloped in front of the door, hissing, followed by a dozen or so of its brethren. The officer growled words at the guard, and he nodded and fell in with the rest of the troop, spitting his respects at Somers before he left.
Somers turned a sullen eye to the rattling bars, blood drooling from a cut in his mouth. He didn't bother to spit it out anymore.
He couldn't see anything except the door from his cell: they had isolated him from all allies, sense of time, and the mud. But he recognized action when he saw it. He sat up on an aching tail, and wondered how to turn the recent commotion to his advantage.
Soon, he heard a rasping noise from behind him: a dragon cutting away wood with a saw, then the clink of him setting a tool down, and choosing it for another. Somers was already discreetly looking behind him when a chink opened in the floor next to him, and an eye peeped out.
"Hey," the guy whispered. "Hey. Here."
Somers eyed the bars, then scooched over to the gap, placing an arm in front of it so no one would see.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The eye looked away from him. "A friend," he said, and then: "Phrase book. Don't know much common. Get closer."
They had phrase books? So that was how the guards knew how to shout him down, then. He didn't know how his interrogators had learned to speak Commonso well.
By torturing someone else, probably.
Somers crawled in front of the hole, dangling one of his leg chains over the chink, and the dragon beneath reached up with a file and poked him right in an open cut. He jerked away.
"Sorry, sorry," said the dragon, too loud for Somers liking.
"Sshh."
The dragon cursed in his accentedtongue, then filed away at Somers's thick chains with a long, thin rasp. Clicking talons echoed down the hall; Somers bowed his head – "Hist -" and the filing stopped just as the wasp jogged past and threw a momentary glance at the cell. It continued on like nothing was amiss, and Somers's rescuer resumed filing.
He had questions; so many questions. But they could wait. The first chain-link fell to pieces in a shower of metal dust, and he slipped the bonds with a practiced flick of the shoulders. Now only his left cuff remained; this one also the most dangerous. If a wasp looked in now, he would see one or the other chain dangling freely on the floor, and sound the alarm.
Somers shoved the chain in front of the hole anyway, holding it steady with his newly freed claw. His rescuer filed through part of it, then switched to another, sharper tool, rasping away most of the metal.
"Hey!"
Keys jangled in the lock! His jailer had returned, spear in talon, and charged into the cell with the sharp blade pointed towards Somers.
"A little more…" hissed his rescuer.
"Get down, sla -"
Somers heaved and the chain snapped with a loud bang. He leaped on newly freed heels, the spear swung up towards his neck and he bashed it out of the way with his shoulder, ignoring the pain. The wasp backpeddled, turning his head and roaring something unfamiliar -
And Somers punched his black and yellow face off. The skull shattered before the weight of the blow, and the disfigured body fell back into the cell door and swung it wide open. Behind him, a piece of the floor shifted, wide enough for him to fit his shoulders through, and he turned his head at the noise.
"In here," said the dragon, his face peeping out into the cell. Somers got his first look at his rescuer.
He had a blue and green face, with a ridge running above his eyes and antennae? - like a bug? What the hell?
Somers heard yells echo through the halls, wings buzz and talons clank. He didn't have much time. He pulled the spear out of his shoulder, then snapped the shaft with both talons, leaving the bloody blade and a short grip.
Then he jumped into the hole, and pulled the cover shut behind him.
"Fast," said the dragon. He crawled down the narrow shaft, and Somers followed, biting back the pain from his wounded shoulders.
"Name?" he grunted.
"Quintain," said the dragon in front. He looked so frail, Somers thought a breeze could've knocked him over; stick-like muscles barely showing up on a lanky, scale-and-bones frame. Like all extra-continentals, he had four wings, folded tightly on his back so he could squeeze through the tiny corridor, which Somers could hardly fit inside, let alone crawl in. Strange, that there'd be a corridor wasps wouldn't like prisoners having easy escape routes, so why did this convenient tunnel exist?
"Why?" he grunted.
"Why, what?"
Of course he should've been more specific. "Why help me?"
Quintain shrugged. Maybe his phrase book didn't tell him what to say. Instead, he took a right in the shaft, then started crawling down, or more down, Somers couldn't tell. Without visual references, directions became just another detail lost in the maze.
Somers heard a voice, a familiar voice. His ears snapped to attention as he tracked gruff, clipped tones coming from the wall on the left, Mudwing speech mixing with sibilant hisses originating from some chamber in the building. Somers stopped, and Quintain forged ahead for a while before stopping and turning his head.
"Here," he hissed. "Hey."
But Somers stayed put, his gorge rising as he listened. Then he started tapping the wall, ignoring Quintain's panicked yanks at his arm.
Fucking. Gall.
Somers knew stopping might get him killed, but he didn't care. That traitor was right there, in the next room, and he deserved to die a thousand deaths, before Somers pissed on his corpse.
"Come on -"
"No," said Somers. He found the thinnest point.
Then he punched the wall. It buckled with the first blow, groaned, then gave way with the third, and he pushed through and tumbled out into a dimly lit room. Griff's voice echoed in his head – "Quit heading off alone, you idiot!" and he pushed it away.
Sorry brother. But this is for you.
The wasp officer stood nearest to Somers, immobile with shock, but the true enemy stood on the other side of the table, one talon half-immersed in grubby food.
"TRAITOR!" Somers roared.
He bowled the officer aside and lunged at Gall, who shoved the table in his face and leaped to the door, his eyes dodging this way and that as he fumbled at the knob.
The officer hissed at Somers feet – cowards, the lot of them – and he stomped on its ribcage with a satisfying crunch, squeezing its life out with every passing second. Soon, its heart would burst.
"- elp!" it choked out.
Gall had a second to bowl Somers over and rescue his new master, a second to redeem himself, but he chose cowardice and he opened the door, turning to run – oh no he fucking didn't -
The spear handle left Somers' talon before he could think about it, the blade flying true and striking Gall's chest: a mere flesh wound, but the big Mudwing fell with a pained cry, spilling red blood on the clean floor.
"I am the night demon," said Somers, anger burning his heart. He pushed off the wasp beneath him, crushing its heart. "And you are mine!"
Gall tried to run, but Somers reached him in moments, ripping the blade from his shoulder.
"NO! I can help you, I know their secrets, I -"
"Die."
He plunged the spear deep into Gall's jugular, then slashed sideways, ripping the vein wide open.
"Dead yet?"
Gall gurgled something on the floor.
"Guess not."
He buried the blade deep in Gall's chest and twisted, then ripped it out.
"Wish I had ten pieces of copper," he said. "It'd be a lot more fitting, wouldn't it? The traitor, paid for his misdeeds, like Python paid Chog. And he's dead now, ain't he? AIN'T HE!?"
No response. He'd died too quick.
The deed done, Somers stood up straight, waiting for the soldiers to find and kill him. His only brother was dead, his killer, bleeding out. Somers's life had no purpose anymore.
But the wasps didn't come; instead the building shook and roars echoed outside, battle raging outside the tower's walls. It seemed the guards had more important things to deal with.
Someone gasped behind him, and he whirled, lunging forward to deal with the extra-continental threat peering from the wall -
"Please!"
He lowered his guard, as Quintain's eyes gazed open at him, wide with fright. Somers saw his reflection in those eyes. Long, deep cuts scored his body everywhere, blood dripping over old scars and new ones with abandon, dripping from his mouth, twisted with fury like the demon he said he was.
He had almost killed his rescuer.
And now he felt so, so tired, falling apart inside, even as Quintain's eyes darted around the blood-covered room.
"You… you -"
"They can't hurt you," said Somers. "They're dead."
The frail dragon shivered, pulling himself tighter. Somers reached forward with a placating talon before he realized it was covered in gore and bone, before he thought – and Quintain recoiled from it, turning away.
"Let's just – let's just go," he said, crawling back inside the tunnel.
"No," said Somers. He jerked his head towards the door. "This way."
His talons left bloody prints on the floor as he strode into the hall, picking up a pair of javelins leaning against the wall as he went. He tossed one behind him for Quintain to catch, though he doubted the frail extra-continental could use it at all.
Something to commit suicide with, if worst came to worst.
Dragons had come to liberate the village: 305th and the Skywings probably. Maybe Wells' fighting band. He didn't know, exactly. But they might burn down the tower, and he had to get out of here before that happened.
Together, they plunged into the maelstrom.
