The cliffs of Albion.
Said to any novice navigator, the words immediately elicited dread. The shear cliffs of the White Isle were infamous for their treachery, the concealing mists, dazzling white surfaces, and the turbulent and oft unpredictable air streams that surrounded them transforming the coast of the floating continent into a lethal obstacle to approaching ships which frequently struggled at their altitude ceiling to rise over the dangerous rim.
Years of hard won experience went into the training of every Albionian Navigator so that they could negotiate around the edges and lead ships through the winds. Years more went into mastering the art of flying in Albion's shadow, a feat that could only be achieved by Royal Navigators. It had become a matter of Pride that only a real Albionian could master flying the coast and airspace of the White Isle.
Still, the cliffs had more than earned their reputation, demanding quick wits, sharp senses, a grasp of three dimensional navigation, and a clear head under pressure.
In short, it was the perfect appraisal grounds for Dragon Knights.
The air overhead shook, and a shadow flashed between the earth and the sun as the latest candidate and his mount dove through the finish marker hung between a pair of hot air balloons strung from the edge of the cliff.
“Nine out of twenty, time three minutes and twelve seconds.” Miss Luttece said dispassionately as she adjusted her glasses and cast a sharp glance to Sir William Wells, acting Flight Leader of the Fourth Dragon Knight's squadron.
The two were situated at the top of a wooden observation tower that had been constructed overlooking the cliffs, giving a wide, almost vertigo inducing view of open airspace along the Isle's western coast. It was from here that they'd been watching the trials so far. And as it was, Wells had only one word for it.
Disappointing.
“Is that really the best showing a member of the seventeenth squadron can give?” Wells wondered. If that was the case, then the consolidated squadrons were going to be in dire shape in the coming operations. As it was they were going to be hard pressed to integrate the new squadron members, there would be no time to bring the new recruits up to the standards demanded by the Captain.
“I'm sure that Master Dunwell would say that one 'Gets what they pay for' in the aerial cavalry.” Miss Luttece said quietly.
Wells didn't know from where his Captain's secretary hailed from, but he was thankful to have her. A brilliant hand at paperwork, and she simply did not seem to tire, even as Sir Wells found himself ground under the work load.
More importantly, she had an uncanny knack for grasping Sir Dunwell's intentions, acting at times nearly as an extension of the Captain's will. During Sir Dunwell's recent absences, her council had grown ever more important, especially as they struggled to return the Squadron to flightworthiness.
Up until just two months ago, the Fourth Squadron had been known as an elite formation. Sir Dunwell had taken care in selecting each and every member of the unit to form a well coordinated force that was more than the sum of its parts.
Together, they'd seen some of the hardest fighting after the fall of Londinium, eliminating Royalist Dragon Knight formations that had been sent on missions to destroy food stocks and poison water supplies in the Southern regions, and they'd been on point for the capture of York. Through all of that, they'd lost only three of their numbers, two serious injuries, and one fatality.
It had been the best showing of the war, on either side, until the Faeries had arrived. That was when their luck had taken a turn.
Their numbers winnowed down by almost half in the following pursuit and run ins with that woman. Wells didn't know where the epitaph that was being passed around the barracks had come from, but 'Asuna the Lightning Flash' and her Knights of Blood had lived up to their reputation as told by the resurrected Faeries.
It had taken luck and numbers to bring her to ground, and it nearly hadn't worked even then.
'And just when we thought we had her, she conjured a demon from the depths of hell.' Wells thought calmly as he recalled the monster that had torn through the field fortifications outside of Newcastle.
With horrors like that at their enemy's side, it almost made abominations like Aki tolerable. Almost.
In any case, the Faerie involvement had shaken up high command in the wake of the blunder at Newcastle. For generations, Albion had stood confident of its supremacy in the field of Aerial warfare. No Kingdom had ever contested the White Isle in the skies. Not until York and Newcastle.
The losses among the aerial cavalry had simply been gruesome. Of the six squadrons that had fought at New Castle and York, the combined attrition rate had exceeded thirty percent. Never in its history had Albion suffered such casualties in its home airspace.
The effectiveness of the Faeries had come as a shock to the field commanders of Albion's air forces and the stories that had trickled back to Londinium had the new 'Air Marshals' in an uproar.
Heads had rolled, some literally bouncing down the steps of Londinium Tower. One of those heads had nearly been that of Admiral Blake, but Lord Cromwell had seemingly taken a liking to him and extended his protection. Maybe the new master of Albion actually recognized competence, or maybe it was Cromwell's masters who had seen value in the former Supreme Commander of the Royal Navy.
Chaos was the order of the day, from the high offices on down to the various field commands. The mages and military minds at the Royal Arsenal had been set to work brainstorming countermeasures for the new threat presented by fast and agile Faerie skirmishers and their nearly inexhaustible bag of tricks.
In the meantime, units were being reordered as an expedient. The eighth and seventeenth squadrons of the aerial cavalry, which had taken the brunt of the losses, were being entirely cannibalized to bring the remaining formations back up to strength.
Meanwhile the ninth squadron had been disbanded and its survivors distributed to the remaining unblooded squadrons to spread around the firsthand experience in combating Faeries. The same had nearly been the fate of the Fourth Squadron until Sir Dunwell had managed to successfully argue for the unit's reconstitution.
The first step would be to restore moral and rebuild the Squadron's combat strength. But the success of that venture was entirely dependent on the quality of the recruits. Every cavalryman with a pair of stirrups would jump at the chance to join a respected formation, not all of them had what it took.
Targets were reset, hot air balloons were refired and let to drift up into the air where they swayed and twisted in the air stream. A horn call echoed across the edges of the cliffs, and to the north, in the near distance, a dark body cast itself from the heights of the cliff face and then spread wings wide into a fast swoop.
“Next one is up.” Miss Luttece examined her clipboard. “Sir Jacob Meinhardt, Ensign, formerly of the Eighth Squadron. Line of Fire specializing in combustion type techniques. Survived the battle of Newcastle.” The secretaries cold green eyes sparked. “He should be interesting.”
“We'll see.” Wells muttered as he observed for himself.
The man had daring, the Lieutenant would admit that much. As he watched, Dragon and Rider continued their dive until they reached terminal velocity, only then changing their flight regimen, wings catching on the morning thermals that drove them back up into the sky.
“He's missed the first four targets.” Luttece observed with a hint of disapproval, ruby lips pressing thin.
“But he's gained himself speed.” Wells offered with a small smile. “A Fire Drake isn't normally much on the wing, not compared to a Wind Dragon.”
Sir Meinhardt pulled his dragon into a tight bank along the edge of the cliffs. Well trained too, it was clear in the fluidity of their combined motions, each reading the other perfectly. Drake trusting rider to point the way, and rider trusting drake to get them there, unlike some new recruits who tried to force the Dragon to fly exactly as they pleased. It left Meinhardt plenty free to concentrate his attention on the hanging clay targets.
“You're right, this one might be interesting.” Wells decided.
Miss Luttece looked on, displeased.
The horn calls raced ahead of the Dragon Knight and his mount, as each was sounded, the balloon men released their charges into the air, each hung with a clay target swinging on the end of a rope.
Hitting the targets at speed would have been challenging enough in clear skies, doing so while the balloons and target was buffeted by the edge winds, and without being knocked into the abyss or dashed against the cliff face made the task nearly impossible. Which was the point.
“Fifth target.” Miss Luttece reported as Sir Meinhardt approached the spinning balloon and the red clay bull's eye that hung below. These were smaller than the standard targets, less than half a mail across to account for the challenge of hitting a moving Faerie. Chances were that at that speed it would throw off his aim.
One moment the target was there, the next there was a -pop- as the clay was blown apart by a pinpoint heat lance. A horn call was raised by the balloon men to confirm a successful hit.
“Well, well.” Wells felt his mood improving. This one had succeeded on his first attempt, even missing the first four by choice, that was impressive.
“Just luck.” Miss Luttece insisted with an air of certainty that was shattered a moment later as the sixth, seventh, and eight targets were shattered with their accompanying trumpet calls.
Wells glanced over. “Luck was it?”
The secretary fell silent, burying her nose deeply in her clipboard and marking down notes with a piece of pencil. “Meinhardt… the name is of Germanian origin, is it not?”
Wells felt his brow rise. “What of it?”
“Merely an observation.” Miss Luttece answered as they watched on in silence.
Nine and ten were taken together by a single well-timed lance. Wells would have given points for it if not for the fact that it had been a needless act of showmanship. Number eleven was missed as the fire mage overshot before recovered his momentum with twelves through seventeen, missing eighteen, and scoring on nineteen and twenty.
“Time?”
“Two minutes, forty seconds, fourteen out of twenty.” Luttece adjust her spectacles again. “I suppose you'll want this one?”
“He's the best we've seen so far.” Wells said, stroking his chin as drake and rider tightly circled around the finish marker before diving low for a landing.
“He's rash.” Miss Luttece corrected. “Rashness shouldn't be rewarded so easily.”
Leaning against the tower railing, Wells let out a low breath. “Maybe, but talent shouldn't be ignored either. Besides, all of the more senior candidates have been head hunted.” The Central and Southern squadrons had been pulling in ever favor they had to get experienced Knights for their own air wings, leaving Wells to pick through the remainder. It was a good break to find a diamond in the ruff.
“He has quite the disciplinary history.” The secretary added.
“That's something that can be fixed.” Wells answered, most likely anyways. “Next?”
“Ensign Sir Richard Holland.” Miss Luttece reported. “Formerly of the Eighth Squadron, recently recovered from injuries sustained as the battle of Newcastle. Pure wind mage of line class.”
The horn called again, and the next drake dropped free at the beginning of the path. Dragon and rider were a far cry from the previous showing.
Sir Wells frowned and even Miss Luttece grimaced. Everything that Sir Meinhardt had done right about dragon riding, Sir Holland seemed devoted to doing wrong. Dragon bucking to and fro beneath him, the young Knight would have been thrown from his saddle if not for his straps. But he clung on, for dear life if nothing else.
First balloon up, a clean miss.
Second balloon, a hit, if Wells was being charitable, he'd at least managed to graze it.
Third balloon was a solid hit, as was forth.
“He'd make a fine Dullahan rider.” Wells thought aloud. His aim was impressive at least, given that he'd managed partial success while being tossed all about like so. “What the blazes is he doing in the dragon Knights?”
“An elder brother is a member of the Second Squadron.” Miss Luttece supplied. “Sir Holland was forwarded from the Dragoon Trainees to the Eighth Squadron three months ago. Prior to that, he was to be transferred to Ground Mage Cavalry, but with the short-handedness his request to serve in the aerial cavalry was approved.”
Wells sighed. It wasn't the first time this problem had reared its ugly head, and it wouldn't be the last. “He wouldn't be half bad if he could fly straight.”
“A temperamental mount.” Miss Luttece shrugged again, voice growing displeased. “It's all that can be expected of a stupid lizard.”
Wells quirked a brow. “Isn't that a little contemptuous of you?”
“Not at all?” Miss Luttece answered. “They are stupid lizards. The fact that a human can ride one that does not wish to be ridden proves that fact.”
Very well, Wells decided. Her eccentricities aside, he wasn't about to argue the finer points of dragon riding with a woman who'd never taken the reigns herself.
Surprisingly, the young Ensign's aim proved not to be a fluke as his subsequent shots proved with each shattered target. Somehow he made it to the end without killing himself and the final tally was given. “Time, five minutes twelves seconds, targets hit seventeen out of twenty.” Miss Luttece looked up from her clipboard. “I like him. He has potential.”
“But is that what the Captain would say?” Wells looked down to where the other recruits were helping the boy from his mount. Once he was off, Sir Holland promptly began to wretch up his breakfast.
'Airsickness?'
This was the best that they could hope to gather, and now Sir Wells had the distinction of having to choose from among them. Best to get this over with quickly. “Those were the last of the candidates, weren't they? Let's…”
“One more.” Miss Luttece contradicted, pointing back to the cliff face.
Wells' frown deepened. “What is this?” He reached to grab for Miss Luttece's clipboard. “There were only twenty on the list.”
“Well then, this one was added late.” The secretary yanked the board back from him, reading the name on the last sheet. “He's…” She stopped and reread the name several times, eyes narrowed unhappily.
“What is it this time?” Sir Wells wanted to ask, but before he had any chance to hear the reply, the horn was sounded again and the last candidate launched like a dart into the open sky.
Wells had only one thought on his mind as wings unfurled and he got his first impression of the last rider. 'He's fast.' Just riding a wind dragon like that wouldn't account for the speed alone, and he hadn't made to dive the way that Sir Meinhardt had.
Curious, Wells drew his wand and conjured up a lens to view from afar and got his first hint of what was happening. Crouched low in the saddle, head pressed against his mount's neck, the rider had his sword-wand drawn and pointed behind him, the metal surface glittering in refracted light. “Boosting his mount with magic.”
“The rules allow it.” Miss Luttece said tersely. “I presume you disapprove?”
“He can't attack like that.” Sir Wells noted. And only the best bred Wind Dragons, like Sir Dunwell's Scirroco, could breathe fire. So. What was his plan?
Instead of replying, Miss Luttece simply went back to her clipboard. “First target.”
The Wind Drake was on the approach now, moving fast and dangerously close to the cliff edge on a near straight path for the bullseye. 'Get too close and you'll get tangled.' Wells thought. 'Get tangled, and you'll die.' Or so he still thought as the distance closed, and closed, the rider sitting up in his seat and at the last moment reaching for something holstered at his side.
A silvered flash, the first target shattered as it was overtaken, the Wind Dragon barely slowing as it dove for targets two and three and shattered both at once.
“What was that?” Sir Wells squinted, and then understood, resting in his saddle, the rider had drawn a second sword, and as Wells watched, he crossed both blades before him in preparation to cast.
“Dual casting.” Sir Wells concluded. “But only a line of wind?” Controlling more than one spell at a time was the sole domain of a seasoned square of the elements.
“It's not proper dual casting.” Miss Luttece answered as she followed along at his side. “Channeling the spell through two foci, but not changing its nature between the two. Very impressive, but not without precedent.”
Targets four through nine suffered the same fates before target ten and eleven were missed as the rider overshot. Watching closely, Wells could see them fighting off the urge to double back. So, a perfectionist.
“How did I not here of this recruit?” Sir Wells wanted to know.
“Seconded directly from the Dragoons.” Miss Luttece answered.
Sir Wells scowled at that detail. “I thought it was made plain that we only wanted men with Experience ighting the Faeries?” They were hard enough pressed as it was without having to babysit the unblooded. That said… Targets fourteen and fifteen were destroyed at the same time… That sort of skill could be very easily polished, he'd be a fool to pass it up.
The final target was shattered, the completion horn was blown.
“Time, three minutes five second, seventeen out of twenty.” Miss Luttece reported before looking up with green eyes. “Shall we retire to the castle to make the final selections?”
Wells looked down to where the last candidate was sliding from his mount, eagerly accepting pats on the back and flasks from the others as they congratulated him for his showing. The real sign of a wartime Squadron where the man who out flew you might save your life some day.
“No. I think I've already decided.” Wells said simply. He couldn't fill the roster with the ones here, but at least six showed potential. He was glad he'd stayed to see it through to the end.
The climb down from the watch tower and the walk to the field gave Wells time to finalize the decisions in his mind. He requested the clipboard from Miss Luttece and began calling off names. “Sir Richard Meinhardt?”
For the first time he got a close look at the new recruits, one in particular standing half a head taller than the mousy haired boy beside him. Blonde, slender, and with an air of bravado about him. If Meinhardt was of Germanian stock, then the blood ran strong in him indeed.
“Sir!” The Ensign stood stock straight, watching with dark blue eyes as Wells stalked closer in the company of Miss Luttece. The other recruits were watching too, waiting to face judgment.
“You look pretty smug Sir Meinhardt.” Sir Wells appraised the younger man. He spoke with some experience, smugness was the natural state of most cavalrymen, and Wells shamelessly knew he was no exception.
“Can't help myself, Sir.” The Knight said with a perfectly straight expression. “Born this way, Sir.”
Wells stared, Meinhardt kept his gaze level on the horizon. That was the way it was going to be. He could work with that. “It'll be fun breaking you Ensign, you're in.”
“Aye Sir!” Meinhardt barked. “Thank you, Sir!”
“Sir Holland.” Wells read the next name and found that it belonged to the mousy boy who'd been standing beside Meinhardt. Seeing the boy standing stock straight, trembling so softly that he looked like he'd fall over a in a stiff breeze, Sir Wells almost had to check again. “You are Sir Holland?”
“Y-yes Sir!” The boy barked, committing his fist to his chest. “Ensign Sir Richard Holland, Sir!”
“Well then…” Sir Wells almost resigned his decision, but appearances could be deceiving. “You're in too.”
“S-Sir!” The boy's eyes widened. “Are you certain Sir? I mean I…”
“Are you questioning my decision, Ensign?” Sir Wells growled. Not that that boy shouldn't doubt himself, but best he got it through his head that a superior's orders were absolute. There would be no more hiding behind his mother's skirts.
“I'm honored Sir.” Sir Holland bowed his head. “Simply surprised.”
“Don't be.” Sir Wells supplied coolly. “Your score was not terrible. More importantly, you made your best showing of potential back at Newcastle.”
The mention of that ugly battle caused the boy to cringe. “Sir?”
“Two points. First, of the twenty members of the Eighth Squadron, you and Sir Meinhardt were both among the new recruits who faced Faeries first hand.” Wells read over the report once more in his mind. Maybe he was giving the boy too much credit, but he'd learn fast or he'd wash out. “Second, of the ten trainees who engaged directly with the Faeries in Aerial battle, you and Sir Meinhardt are the only two who survived.” Sir Wells gave the young man a solid pat on the shoulder as he went pale. “Welcome to the Fourth Squadron.”
Now, where was… There.
He wasn't hard to find, still beside his dragon, gently stroking the monstrous beast's snout as he whispered comfortingly into the side of its neck.
“You.” Sir Wells said, not caring how ridiculous it sounded to address a cavalryman as such, reading the name off the clipboard, he had a hard time making out the scrawled handwriting of whoever had completed the transfer form.
“Dragoon!” Wells used the common form for an un-knighted Air Cavalryman.
In any case, the problem was solved for him, the young man turning to look at Wells as he neared through the mulling crowd of recruits. First impressions, up close, he was not what Wells would have expected. He was pale for one, and small, features still soft and boyish. Raven hair cut short and feathered messily about his head. A pair of clear blue eyes met with Wells' own.
At his side, Sir Wells did not notice Miss Luttece coming to a halt, or the way her nostrils flared suspiciously as she eyed the young man. He was much too occupied with getting his blasted name.
“That was you on the last run, Aye?” Wells asked.
“Aye Sir.” The boy said calmly.
“Seconding from the Dragoons.” Sir Wells made special note of the cutlass style sword-wands hanging from their scabbards. An unusual style to say the least. Self-taught? He wondered. Again, it was impressive, but the lad would have been better served concentrating on a more conventional style. “Think you have what it takes?”
He'd expected a false show of confidence, or maybe even a little arrogance. Instead the young Dragoon simply stood at attention and replied with calm honesty. “I'd like to try Sir.”
Wells gave him a hard look and then shrugged. They could use all the talent they could get. “Name? I can hardly induct you into the squadron without a name.”
“Aye.” The boy spoke with a sudden exhalation of breathe as if he hadn't been at all confident he'd be asked. “That one's easy Sir.” He said in a thick Southern Albionian accent. “Name's Blair Treyvor, Sir.”