“The ground rocket battery against the airship is at both an advantage and disadvantage. It’s chief advantage is that, firstly, it has a steady supply of ammunition and fire more indiscrimately, and secondly without the need to move rockets aboard a gondola, it can use heavier rockets and longer guidesticks. It is also a smaller target. However, the airship, although it is much bigger,only a little of it is mortal to be struck; nowadays our lifting gas is provided by sorcery, not chemistry, and therefore unlikely to burn. Nonetheless, a carcass rocket in any of the powder magazines can still bring it down, and the wooden keel is liable to burn.”

Rear Air Admiral Rhiannon Blys, A History of Air Tactics.

Hans Draiger, 16 October 1582 AAA. Farrier’s Hill.

“The Commonwealth is coming!”

Hans damn near went for his knife as Lorne shook him awake. The glow of dawn was visible on the eastern horizon.

“What? Where?”

“It’s the bloody Commonwealth! I heard shots off in the distance, and there’s airships, lots of airships, out there.”

“Uln! Uln!” Hans hissed, shaking at her. She was always a deeper sleeper than he was.

“What the-“

“Commonwealth’s here. They’re coming for Traharn.”

“What! Oh, bugger-“ she said, standing up, dressed in only her undershirt and reaching for their coats and rifles.

“Is Traharn here?” Hans asked, glancing at Lorne.

“Perhaps. He left around midday to go hunting with his men. Apparently he was going to return after dark. They were fully armed, so I have my doubts about that…”

“Christ.”

“I know. Get your weapons together. I’m going to go get the militia ready, then we decide what to do.”

Hans pulled on his clothes; stockings and breeches and gaiters, his second shirt and both his coats, then readied his weapons. He’d brought his rifle, hatchet and knife, as well as his half-pike, equally useful as a close-combat weapon, musket rest, and walking staff. Beside him, Uln was doing the same. Airships, five of them, were orbiting the town, cast in light even as the ground was still in shadow.

He halfway expected to hear gunfire and see bombs being dropped in the distance, but there was none, just the bells.

Lorne came striding back, his weapons and armour strapped on-padded jack, breastplate, hanger and dagger, a lantern glowing in his hands. “Half the men want to forget about Traharn and deal with the Commonwealth.”

“And the other half?” Hans said.

“Use the chaos to snatch Traharn. He’s a murderer.” Lorne said.

“A good plan.” Uln said, still finishing loading her rifle.

“If we want the wyverns on our side, it’ll have to be our justice, not the Commonwealths.” Lorne looked uncertain in the lanternlight.

“But if the Commonwealth takes him, he’s just as likely to hang. He was colluding with the bloody fey if rumours are to be believed.” Lorne added.

“Then let the Commonwealth take him.” Hans said.

Off in the distance, he heard gunfire. Not single shots, or even the snap, crackle and pop of a skirmish, but the crash like distant thunder of a musket volley. He’d heard the sound often enough when the militia bothered to drill.

This time, though, he guessed they weren’t shooting at butts.

He heard the clack of horseshoes behind him, and one of the militia, a riding-servant by the name of Arlew, came up behind Lorne, leading his horse.

“There’s no way he hasn’t heard that. Either he’s running and we can try and snatch him, or he’s fighting…” Uln said.

A lantern flashed three times, from a town hall’s spire.

The militia signal for all free men and women to turn out under arms.

Lorne glanced at Arlew. “Tell everyone to get mounted up. What was it Eidre said? I don’t want there to be a war, but if there has to be one, I want Carfane to win.”

“And Traharn?” Hans asked. He didn’t give a damn about the Carfani and the Commonwealth. He wanted justice. Traharn had set his men on him, on Uln, had killed the wyverns. He was the greed and ruthlessness and stupidity that had been grinding the Woose and Wyverns, and him ever since he’d fallen in love with Uln, down, distilled into one man.

“If you see him-tall man, half-shaved braided brown hair, grey eyes, uses a sabre-well, friendly fire is inevitable in night fighting. That’s if he hasn’t already gotten away.”

He clambered onto horseback, slinging his rifle and holding his spear like a lance.

They set off uphill, the airships still orbiting the hill above Farrier’s Hill. There was more gunfire, each volley more ragged than the last, and then the boom of a cannon.

As they crested the hill, flares came tumbling down, dozens of them, lighting the sky. He saw soldiers gathering in the town, fleeing down the road further out, and glimpses of armoured troops marching in columns. At this distance, they were little more than bugs.

“Bloody hell.” Arlew muttered.

“We’re going to make for Traharns manor house. If he’s still in there, we can grab him. If he isn’t, it’s a good defensive position and if the Commonwealth comes up the main road, which they look to be doing, we can come out and flank them.” Lorne said, trying to force confidence into his voice.

Why the hell are we doing this?

A knot was forming in his stomach, or his chest, or both. He couldn't quite place it.

“Put those lanterns out.” Lorne suddenly said. “We don’t want the airships to spot us.”

The men followed orders.

They had to take the hill slow, with the rocky ground half in darkness. He saw a cluster of militia ahead of them, twenty in all, bright to his third eye but little more than a moving mass to his mundane eyes. The gunfire in the distance had petered out.

When they reached the outskirts, the streets were in chaos, people hurrying this way and that, loading muskets and buckling on armour. A red faced man with a halberd over his shoulder raced up to them.

“Thank god you’ve got cavalry, they’re coming up the road all on foot... some of us tried to hold them but we got routed…”

“We need to get Traharn. They’re coming for him.” Hans said. He wasn’t a good liar, but that wasn’t a lie.

He worldlessly pointed at the manor. “I don’t know if he’s back from that hunt…”

“Doesn’t matter.” Lorne said. “The Commonwealth will be heading for his household anyway.”

They wheeled off, dodging past half a dozen men in coats thrown over nightclothes hurrying past. The shooting had started up again, too loud and too close.

His horse whickered and shifted nervously. It was a carriage horse, not trained for combat. If it bolted, he doubted he could control it.

As they crossed a street, he saw a company of Commonwealth soldiers advancing up the street what looked like two hundred yards distant, bayonets gleaming in the flarelight.

“Go! Go!” Lorne yelled, spurring his horse to almost bound back to cover. Hans barely managed to get his horse to trot, as did Uln, the other, more experienced, riders swarming past them.

“Keep moving!”

The shadows of the houses began to flicker as a flare came down.“Bloody hell, one of them’s right above us!” A militiaman yelled. Hans looked up, straight at the underbelly of a monster. The war machine was a floating hulk of canvas and wood kept aloft by demons and alchemy, studded with steering vanes and propeller housings and gun positions. Half of it was lit up bright as day by the rising sun and the flicker of its signalling lanterns, revealing the browned canvas and the green commonwealth flag sewn onto it’s underside. He could hear the faint clatter of it’s chain-drives over the sounds of battle, the machine steadily shifting away from them.

Then there was another noise, an ungodly hiss, and rockets streaking up, dozens of them, their fuses spitting, most of them undershooting the airship and going hurtling off into the countryside, one or two more hitting the airship.

The rockets from Highhome…

“Holy shit-“ someone called out.

He was cut off as a boom rang out, followed by a gout of flames from the airship’s topside.

“Run!” Lorne screamed, as the ship began to slowly but steadily fall, a second explosion going off and shooting a jet of fire out its rear.

His horse also had that idea. It took off at a gallop, running with the herd, himself clinging on for dear life. There was an almighty crash behind, and he glanced back to see the airships drifting lazily towards the ground, nose first, the central hull detaching with a crash and plunging towards the ground.

He heard, over the crackle of flames and the bangs of ammunition cooking off, the screams of people being burnt alive.

Smoke washed over them, mixed with burning embers, and he felt his eyes watering.

Just keep running. Just keep running. He shut his eyes, keeping himself close to Uln. There were souls, hundreds of them, in the airship, and an aether-kraken, tearing itself loose as its bindings collapsed.

“Make for the bloody manor house!” Lorne was yelling.

He couldn’t see him in the smoke, but he was up ahead, off to the right, close to the buildings.

Then the loudest noise he’d ever heard rang out. His horse screamed in fear but kept galloping, and he glanced back just in time to see burning shrapnel falling and rockets streaking at random up from the wreck. Survivors were staggering away, one of them on fire.

The ammo, the ammo, the fire set it off…

He’d done his best to stop this turning into a bloodbath, and now the Commonwealth had to go and ruin it. And Traharn too, the bastard, he’s going to burn half this town down…

Up ahead of them, Lorne managed to slow his horse down to a trot and then a walk. His own horse liked the sound of slowing down, and once she stopped he managed to turn her around and get her back to the group.

“They’re shooting from the manor…” Lorne yelled, pointing at another flight of rockets going up. This time, one of the airships was shooting back, spraying the manor with glowing pinpricks. He heard the splash of ballast hitting the ground, audible even over the ringing in his ears.

“If the killers are anywhere, they’re there.…” Hans said. Sweat was already running into his eyes, and his hands were shaking. Being stuck on a spooked horse was more frightening than being charged by a griffin.

The rockets had fallen short, all except one that punched straight through the airship and come out on the other side, still trailing smoke.

They set off at a trot towards the source of the carnage. The wind shifted back into them, blowing smoke down around them. The crackle of gunfire was constant, and the flames had began to spread into the houses.

“How far!” Hans yelled.

“Quarter of a mile or so.” Lorne grunted. “Just stay on me and we’ll reach it.”

They kept moving, out of the main town and into the outskirts where the houses where clustered around a single road, shielding them from view, the rest of the land a criss-crossed maze of fields and pastures. The sun was coming over the horizon; there was no need for flares now.

Traharn’s manor loomed ahead, a walled cluster of barns, stables and bathhouses interlocking with a single great house. Smoke hung around it, and one of the house’s roofs was burning. A company of militia was hurrying down the road ahead of them, making for the manor. The rocket battery was firing at a third airship, and this time they were hitting, the glow of flames visible through a hole punched in its nose. He’d heard modern airships didn’t burn so easy as the old ones, but even so…

In a distant field he saw reapers and cattle fleeing in panic, trampling down fences.

“Burnin’ airships, burnin’ manors, dawn attacks.” he heard someone mutter. “Feels like I’ve seen it all before.”

Hans glanced back at the town. Several buildings were aflame, and there was movement everywhere, shrouded in smoke.

The militia company moved off the road. Trying to flank the Commonwealth, or defend the manor?

They shouldn’t be doing either, he realized. They should be trying to fight the fire that was destroying their homes.

“Halt!” someone called from the manor house when they were twenty yards away. They reined their horses in as half a dozen militia and a woman in the queerest dress Hans had ever seen-some strange sort of mail armour, almost scale like, worn over a sky blue coat, with her head shaved except for a strip down the middle-levelled muskets at them.

“Is Traharn Hast there?” Lorne called out.

Hans unslung his rifle, glancing about to make sure he had room to dismount.

Arluk. Just like that assassin.

“Maybe. We have enough bloody defenders. Go flank the Commonwealth with those infantry. Their captain reckons if we push hard enough we can cut them off from the boats.”

It was at this point that someone screamed out “Wyverns north-west!”.

A moment later, Hans saw the streak of Glaive’s skein diving in, out of the pale dawn sky, hitting it first with dropshot then with burning vitriol followed .A moment later, with a flash and roar Traharn’s courtyard exploded, flinging shrapnel and rockets up into the air. His horse reared; Hans managed to throw himself clear and come up from a roll, the impact jarring him to the bone. He caught a glimpse of the pale grey underbelly of a wyvern sweeping overhead.

Uln was still on horseback, as were the rest, swearing as they struggled to control their horses.

“What are you waiting for! Dismount, get in there and help Traharn!” Lorne yelled, his voice nearly breaking.

Uln leapt down from horseback, and Lorne and about half the militia, the rest hanging back to hold the horses.

Lorne strode ahead of them. The fighters on the wall had vanished, and he kicked at the door. It was thick and heavy, from the days when a manor house doubled as a fortress against Woose and wyverns.

“Let us in!”

The aether was chaos, humans and horses everywhere. It wasn’t easy to tell if freshly killed souls were alive or dead, but there were plenty around, and they weren’t moving.

Someone opened the door, and Lorne stormed in, Hans following.

It was utter carnage. Chunks of wood and iron rocket casing where scattered all across the courtyard, while every window and door had been blown in. Four thin streams of slowly dying flame criss-crossed the courtyard where Glaive’s skein had spat their vitriol.

There were bodies everywhere. At least a dozen, burnt or bleeding or both. A few were moving, but it was it was impossible to tell for most of them.

“Is anyone alive!” Lorne yelled.

This is all Traharns fault… Hans realized. He’s already gotten hundreds killed.

“Help the bloody wounded!” someone yelled. The same woman as on the walls.

She was scrambling down a staircase cut into the wall, her carbine slung, dragging a wounded man with a splinter through his back. As she got closer, Hans saw the right side of her face was a mass of scars, with a freshly opened gash on the left that was running red.

“Is Traharn here?” Lorne called again.

“Help the wounded now, talk later” she growled.

Hans ran to the nearest man. He supposed Traharn might be among them, and besides, the victims of the blast might just have been militia defending their homes rather than Traharn’s thugs. He didn’t have high hopes, though.

The downed man was an Arluk too, with a long braid running down the back of his neck and bright red breeches. When Hans rolled him over, half his cheek had been torn away, and his left arm too. He was still breathing slowly, despite the spreading pool of pool. Hans looked away in revulsion, then forced himself to grab the man and pull him clear of the burning barn, trying to hold his hands over the wound to try and staunch the bleeding.

“Let him die. He’s a murderer.” Uln said.

Lorne stamped over to him, drawing and cocking one of his pistols.

“Is that Traharn?’ Lorne asked.

Hans stepped aside, letting Lorne see the man’s mangled face.

“Christ-Horus.” Lorne muttered, turning away. “Christ-Horus.”

“I think your captain’s dead!” Hans shouted at the Arluk women. She jogged over, crouching down next to him, taking his pulse.

“Shit, Valkej, Skola’s dead?” one of the militiamen asked, unslinging his musket.

Valkej stood up. “Near enough.”

“So where is Traharn-“ Hans asked.

“Why do you care so much about Traharn?” Valkej snapped.

“We heard that a band of renegades were planning to kill Traharn over some bushfight, so we set out to warn him.” Lorne said.

Valkej glanced at Uln.

Oh, shit.

“I recall that band had a Woose in it. Yours does too. Funny tha-”

Bugger talking, she’s one of them.

Hans slammed a tendril through Valkej’s soul, cocking and shouldering his rifle with a yell of “Murderer!”.

It almost seemed to slough off, but it broke her concentration enough that by the time her hands went to her carbine his-and Uln’s- rifles were levelled at her chest.

“Back the fuck down!” someone yelled, and “Crazy wolzie bitch!” and “What the hell?”

“She’s with Traharn! He tried to have my wife killed!” Lorne yelled, going for his pistols.

Someone started advancing on Uln, hand going to his sword, but Hans hit him with a tendril too, enough to knock him down. Lorne's other militia quickly got their guns trained on Traharn's men.

“Valkej is under arrest for being an accessory to five counts murder and god knows how many attempted, and I’ll see you and all your Arluk friends hang if you don’t tell me where Traharn is.” Lorne said.

“You were a bit late if you wanted to get Traharn. He’s off to set bloody Trackford ablaze.” Valkej answered.

What? Is there fighting there too? What the hell is going on?