Trip knelt back from the parachute he was carefully folding to place into a pack and checked his pocket watch. Fifteen minutes before he needed to leave the hangar so he could trot across the fort and arrive in time to see Rysha’s initiation ceremony. He’d already gotten permission from Colonel Tranq to do so, though he’d had to promise to come back after final formation and finish packing parachutes. Seventy-five of the approved models, guaranteed to not get pilots killed if they used them, had arrived in crates that morning. He, some of the ground crew, and several others from Wolf Squadron had the honor of inspecting them and storing them for use.

“You’re paying attention to what you’re doing, right?” Colonel Tranq asked, walking up behind him.

“Yes, ma’am.” Trip slipped the watch into his pocket.

“Because not all of us can flap our arms and levitate ourselves to safety if our fliers are shot down.” She stopped at Trip’s side to look down at his work.

A stout woman barely over five feet, Colonel Tranq rolled along like a tank when she was on the ground but had the grace and agility of a ballerina when in her flier. She kept her graying hair cut as short as most of the men’s, and had a weathered face that made her appear closer to fifty than the forty she was.

“Trip doesn’t flap his arms, ma’am,” Leftie said from his side. “He just walks across the air real casual, like the hot air from his farts is pushing him aloft.”

“Thanks so much for correcting her,” Trip murmured.

“Any time, buddy.” Leftie, who also knelt in front of a parachute, made a circle with his thumb and fingers in the typical pilot’s ready or all-good sign.

“I’m sure something of his flaps,” Tranq muttered and walked off to inspect other people’s work.

“Yes, ma’am, but he keeps that buttoned in his trousers.”

Trip shook his head, not particularly mortified, as penis and fart humor was an hourly occurrence in the hangar. It certainly didn’t seem to bother Colonel Tranq.

“What’s taking so long, Ahn?” Tranq asked, stopping behind the captain. “You knitting that parachute from scratch?”

“No, ma’am,” the slender Captain Ahn said, her fingers sliding along the line of the parachute. “I’m carefully inspecting the seams before folding it for the pack. When I was a young lieutenant, I was among those who tested the early models of parachutes. I was along when one of our people didn’t make it.”

“Ah, carry on, then.”

“And I also do not have anything to flap to get myself to safety.” Ahn, freckled, fine-featured, and also short of hair and height, cocked a single eyebrow in Trip’s direction.

It had been three weeks since Trip had gotten back from his mission and truly joined Wolf Squadron, and he’d flown on a few short missions with the pilots, but they hadn’t seen much true danger together yet, and he wasn’t sure how his new squadron mates felt about him. He was doing his best not to sense the emotions and thoughts of his fellow soldiers, mostly because the first few times he’d done it, he’d found them wary and mistrustful of going up with someone who had magic. As if he might do something unprecedented and dangerous that would put the squadron at risk. Apparently, they didn’t mind flying into battle with ally dragons, but having an ally who was half-dragon… That was just weird.

“Nothing extra in the trousers, eh, ma’am?” Leftie asked Ahn. “I bet that Deathmaker of yours is tickled.”

“He prefers to go by Tolemek. Or Dr. Targoson now that he’s earned an Iskandian medical degree.”

“Does he? He sounds kind of stuffy.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t irk Captain Ahn,” Trip suggested to Leftie, “given her reputation for marksmanship.”

“What did I say that could irk her? Now, I could see Dr. Deathmaker being irked, but…”

“You called her boyfriend stuffy.”

“Some girls like that in a man.”

Ahn had turned to have a quiet conversation with Colonel Tranq and was ignoring Leftie’s further comments. That was likely good for Leftie.

There is trouble afoot, Telryn, Azarwrath spoke into his mind from his spot in Trip’s flier. Folding clothing is not the best use of your time today.

What trouble? And it’s not clothing.

Folding anything is beneath you. Dragons are coming.

Trip stretched out with his mind and immediately sensed a dragon flying over the harbor. He stood up, turning toward the open hangar bay.

Outside, rain fell from heavy gray clouds. Trip recognized Shulina Arya’s familiar aura and was relieved, since it didn’t look like a fun day to fly into battle. Then he sensed Rysha on her back and frowned—why was she flying in the rain instead of standing ready for her ceremony?

Shulina Arya flew toward the hangar, and Trip sensed a second dragon heading in their direction from farther up along the coast. Bhrava Saruth, perhaps flying south from his temple.

Rysha? Trip sent the question out toward her.

Trouble, she replied promptly. I was getting ready for my ceremony when Shulina Arya arrived to let me know. A bunch of dragons just converged on Portsnell, and they’ve proclaimed it’s now theirs.

I have been there before, Bhrava Saruth announced, thrusting himself into their telepathic conversation. My high priestess’s mate’s mother’s sister lives there.

General Zirkander’s… aunt? Trip asked, working through all the relations.

Yes, I believe that is the human term. She makes lovely cinnamon dragon-horn cookies. Also, I have sixteen worshippers in the town. It is imperative that we protect them. I would have already gone, but the odds of surviving a battle with all my scales intact against six dragons are poor. Against three, I am certain I would be victorious.

Uh huh.

“Now, I’m certain you’re not paying attention,” Colonel Tranq said, walking up to frown at Trip, then out the open hangar door at the empty gray sky, then back at Trip.

The dragons hadn’t yet come into sight.

“Trouble is coming.” Trip looked down at the parachute and willed it to fold itself so it would deploy properly when needed. Given the size of the item, this wasn’t a subtle display of magic. Usually, he wouldn’t have shown off his powers in front of the others, but if the squadron was sent north to fight those dragons, someone might need that parachute soon.

Tranq stared as the folded parachute slid into its pack, seemingly by itself, and the straps tightened, buckling themselves. “That’s…”

“Major Kaika calls it creepy,” Trip said.

“Does she? That seems callous.”

“I wouldn’t mind it if someone called my powers delightful.”

“Doesn’t Ravenwood do that while you two are writhing like snakes under the sheets?” Leftie stood, also turning to face the open hangar door.

“We’re nothing like snakes. We’re like two meshed gears rotating together to create the perfect amount of torque.”

“Seven gods, Trip, you don’t say things like that to women, do you?”

“It’s not any worse than the lewd things you say.”

“Trust me, it is. And torque? That’s rotation, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” Trip gave him a cryptic smile, even though his off-the-cuff simile perhaps hadn’t been entirely accurate. What he’d meant to say was that they fit together perfectly to create something greater than the whole. Was it too late to amend the statement? Or maybe he shouldn’t. Leftie was now wearing a speculative expression.

“Which dragon is that?” Tranq asked, ignoring them and touching the pistol at her belt, as if that would do anything against a dragon.

“Shulina Arya, and Bhrava Saruth is on the way too,” Trip said, as Shulina Arya flew above the level of the bluff and into view, her golden scales gleaming with moisture. Rysha rode astride her back in her full-dress uniform. She had definitely been getting ready for the ceremony. But she had Dorfindral, her chapaharii sword, belted at her waist, so the dragon must have found her while she was still in her room. “To warn us of trouble in Portsnell,” Trip added.

The small door in the side of the hangar opened, and General Zirkander jogged in. None of his usual affable mien showed on his face, so maybe Bhrava Saruth had already told him the news.

A thrum of anticipation coursed through Trip’s veins as he realized a battle was imminent. He should have been nervous and filled with dread rather than excited, especially at the prospect of six dragons, but he couldn’t help it. The part of him that craved taking to the sky like a deadly predator and pitting himself against foes hadn’t seen the light of day for weeks.

As Shulina Arya dropped onto the runway outside the hangar and Bhrava Saruth flew into sight, Trip waved his hand to duplicate the magical folding of the rest of the parachutes. His fellow soldiers jumped back, some cursing, some merely issuing startled squawks. The last parachute tucked itself neatly into a bag as General Zirkander reached Tranq.

He had been eyeing the self-packing parachutes as he jogged up and said, “That’s a little…”

“Trip prefers it when you call it delightful rather than creepy, sir,” Leftie said.

“Uh, right.”

“Maybe later, he’ll offer to torque something of yours,” Leftie added.

Zirkander frowned at him. Trip elbowed Leftie.

Even though Trip knew Zirkander much better than he had a couple of months ago, he still wouldn’t presume to quip and make jokes with him. He was the commander in charge of all the flier squadrons throughout the country, after all.

“If I need anything torqued, I’m sure I can find an appropriate tool without Captain Trip’s help,” Zirkander said. “Report, Tranq.”

“I don’t know anything yet, sir. They just got here.” Tranq pointed at the dragons.

Trip eased back a few steps, both so he wouldn’t intrude on their conversation and because he felt embarrassed after Leftie’s dumb joke. But Zirkander lifted his eyebrows and waved him forward again.

“You were just going to pack all the parachutes and flee, Captain?” he asked as Rysha dismounted and ran toward them.

“I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“Powerful sorcerers are allowed to be in the way. Or so Sardelle tells me.”

Trip thought about pointing out that his powers, such as they were, weren’t well-trained yet, so he hardly deserved special status, but the senior officers had turned their attention to the new arrivals.

Bhrava Saruth flew over Shulina Arya’s head, his talons almost flicking her scales, then tightened his wings to his body and arrowed through the open hangar door. He landed in front of Tranq and Zirkander as Rysha reached them. She’d been in the middle of snapping up her salute and jumped at the dragon suddenly looming over her shoulders.

Trip nodded at her when their eyes caught, but he didn’t run over and hug her like he wanted to. Her dress uniform was soaking, and her bun hung limply at the base of her cap, with a few strands of wet hair plastering her cheeks.

Human followers, Bhrava Saruth announced, dragons are invading your northern town where sixteen of my worshippers live and create offerings for me.

Shulina Arya, who perhaps hadn’t been inside the hangar before, entered more carefully, walking instead of flying. It seemed strange that the wide doorway, perfectly adequate for a two-seater flier, was cramped for a dragon with wings fully outstretched.

“Portsnell?” Zirkander asked.

“You know the name of the city based on how many followers he has in it?” Tranq asked.

“It’s my gift,” Zirkander said, though he didn’t crack a smile. “Are they attacking the city now?”

He glanced around the hangar, as if planning to order everyone to make ready, but everyone was doing exactly that, pilots running to their fliers and the ground crew topping off everybody’s oil supply.

They are not attacking, Bhrava Saruth said. Yet. They have ordered all humans to exit the town except for those who can provide food. They demand a tribute of one hundred cattle, sheep, and horses, or they will raze the city.

“Sheep and cattle?” Zirkander asked. “Portsnell is a fishing and tourism town. It’s a good fifty miles before you get to any farms or ranches.”

Perhaps the citizens could offer baked goods as a delaying tactic, Bhrava Saruth suggested.

That would only delay a dragon like you, Shulina Arya said.

“Ahn.” Zirkander waved the captain toward their group. “Are they all gold dragons, Bhrava Saruth?”

There is only one gold, in fact. But four are silvers, and they are still able combatants, though they lack fire. There is a bronze dragon also, a female. Bronze dragons are notoriously shifty. It is possible she is the ringleader. Dragons rarely work together unless they are mated. This is a disconcerting development.

Rysha grimaced, and Trip thought of the bronze dragon that had tricked them in Lagresh, making them believe he was an old friend of hers rather than a dragon after a journal. He wasn’t trying to read Rysha’s thoughts, but something flashed near the surface, and for an instant, he saw the bronze dragon in his copper-haired human form pushing her up against the wall.

He almost asked her right there what had happened, but Ahn reached them first, and Zirkander spoke again.

“Did Tolemek’s new bullets arrive yet?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a case in the office. Guaranteed to pierce dragon scales—if their magical shields are down.”

“Trip has brought them down before.” Zirkander’s gaze shifted to Trip. “Can you do that again? I know you’ve had more practice with dragons since we last flew into battle together.”

Trip had been looking at Rysha—worrying about Rysha—but he would have to ask her about that moment later. “I may be able to, sir. I have had some luck reading their thoughts even with their defenses up.”

“I don’t want you to read the dragons, Trip. I want you to utterly destroy them. Or at least lower their defenses so we can utterly destroy them.”

“Yes, sir. I’m not sure about my odds of doing that against six dragons, but I’ll do my best.”

That answer didn’t seem to reassure Zirkander, and Trip wished he could be more positive. He’d had practice battling the bronze dragon Xandyrothol, and had forced his defenses down once during that fight, but he still felt it was more a matter of rage than calculation that let him do that. Unfortunately, rage was hard to harness. He dearly preferred calculation, complete with equations featuring more constants than variables, to emotion.

“Grab Leftie, Duck, and some of the ground crew,” Zirkander told Ahn. “Get bullets in every flier that’s going out.” He raised his voice toward the hangar. “Everyone in Wolf Squadron, mount up. As soon as our elite troops with the magic-hating swords show up, we’re going to fight some dragons.”

A whoop went through the hangar as the activity level increased further.

“Does that mean you’re coming out with us, sir?” Tranq asked.

“You don’t think I ran all the way up here in the rain just to pat your butts and send you off, do you?” Zirkander asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Tranq said. “Some people here like your butt pats.”

“Like who? I know it’s not Blazer, and your husband would be alarmed to hear it’s you.”

Tranq snorted. “I mean the young men who idolize you.”

She looked at Trip. It was probably only because he was the last “young man” standing there.

When Zirkander’s eyebrows rose in his direction, Trip blurted, “I only like Rysha’s butt pats.”

Maybe that hadn’t been the most professional thing to say…

Rysha made an odd face—or was that an embarrassed face? “Thanks, Trip.”

Sorry, he whispered silently. He almost added more, but she turned toward Shulina Arya, and he sensed them communicating.

“Wolf Squadron is yours, sir,” Tranq said, nodding, “as always.”

“Thanks, Colonel.” He thumped her on the shoulder and ran toward his flier to prepare it for battle.

Trip followed, veering toward his and trying not to worry about how to lower the defenses of six dragons.