August 13, 1011
“Welcome back listeners, to ‘Der Reichswehr Rundfunk Herzland!’ Your armed forces radio service, reaching out across the Kaiserreich!”

-Across the Kaiserreich!-

*a few bars from Herzland Gloria plays*

“I’m your host, Vizefeldwebel Hans Whiteclaw! Out there with all those soldaten, grenadiers, panzertruppen, Vollstrecker, flieger, seeleute and of course the MfÖS agents certainly listening in!

Before we get into the music, some news. Word out of the east says that the Brodfeld campaign has been an overwhelming success, and High Kommand is willing to put Operation Tartarus on the shelf as ‘mission accomplished’. Of special note, the 41st Panzergrenadiers received large honors for providing assistance to Reformisten troops, and I’m allowed to tell you they’re being rotated back home now their task is done. From here on, the Black Knights and the Gryps-Süd GmbH Landschnekte have the job well in claw!

The Grand Duke and Duchess Regent today gaves honors to the Bronzehill Legion for steadfastly taking the fight to the Sunstriker heretics in the north. We all salute the valiant Bronzedogs who are the best suited of the Kaiser’s vast forces to engage these traitors on their own turf! Victories have been reported from Arrowpeaks and Silkhorn, and the final advance on Dimpeak is already underway to snuff out these Whitetail cultists once and for all!

To all of you servicegriffs coming home, you may be hearing the narrative from the fiendish Aquileians to the south on their ‘public’ radio. As we have seen, public just means you are free to spread misinformation. Their propaganda machine spins the ludicrous story of our so-called ‘aggression’ against Skyfall last week. I say, if a destroyer does not count as fair revenge for a radio station, somegriff has some terrible arithmetic!

High Kommand has today released word on a new system called the half track! Already in testing with certain panzergruppe, it’s authorization for mass production and full adoption means you’ll see more of these vehicles all over the Empire very soon! Every year, Imperial science takes our already superior Reichswehr and makes it even more unbeatable! Truly, the best in the world!

In other news, foreign thrills! Across the sea, Equestria, that so-called bright and shining beacon of harmony, is not doing so well. Changeling forces are reported to have overrun the entire northwest and the Crystal Empire, and it's anygriff’s guess as to where they’ll stop. We’re already receiving reports of shells falling on Quebuck and Mariposa. Rumors are present that contact with Prince-Consort Shining Armor has been lost, and talks between Princess Celestia and General Secretary Pantsushenko of the Stalliongradian Socialist Republic are ongoing. The situation must be desperate if the Harmonists are reaching out to communists. Let that be a lesson in political folly, truppen.

The Riverlands continue to fall apart, even as we speak. Today, the unstable River Republic issued another ultimatum to the East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere, demanding they stand down their aggression. No word yet on Jezerograd’s response, if any. Riots, protests and socialist uprisings continue to plague all members of the Coalition as governmental reprisals worsen.

And that’s all we’ve got today, truppen! News as it breaks, but for now, enjoy the music as we play through your day, whether you’re in the mountains to the north, the Grenzwald to the east or the Herzland itself! Remember; the Kaiser is counting on you. Boreas bless, and here’s Der Ebonsterne with their record breaking hit, ‘Vielleicht’, still the most requested across the Kaiserreich for almost three months straight!”

Silvertalon Memorial Military Hospital
Visaginas, Hellsword

“Stretch out now, Vise-Korporal. That’s it, far as you can!”

Morgend Longpaw was the type of businessgriff the old Empire (ironic to call it old when it was only four years since the Grand Duke and Duchess had started to reform things) made sure to let flourish. An industrialist, he had holdings in mining, military manufacture, automobiles and more. While certainly not the richest or most infamous, he had one thing many other businessgriffs lacked that gave him a definite edge; an ability to adapt to the times. When the worker reforms had come down, Morgen had swiftly changed his practices while other nobles were busy complaining, embraced the Industrierat and reaped the benefits early. And when Großtatze Industrie had run into pressure and competition in the Herzland, he had simply taken his business to the one place those old robber barons couldn’t touch him; Hellquill. It was here that his work had gained the attention he needed, and with Reformisten backing his business struggle in the Herzland, he had finally pulled a win when nogriff else wanted to risk the public backlash of working with the former zealots. Which was why we was here, of all places.

Cyril grunted, stretching the stump of his wing out, looking upon the ruined flesh for what felt like the ten-thousandth time. After being evacuated to a field hospital, and then again even further north to a surgical station, the doctors had been forced to take off even more. Haul’s strokes had been strong, but a bit all over the place, resulting in deep cuts and additional damage that required the mangled limb to be cut down to heal properly. By now, the stump had long stopped bleeding, but not only did the pain remain, Cyril kept feeling the twinges of phantom limb syndrome as well. His balance was off when he walked, and if he flared his wings (well, wing) he immediately felt the awkward tilt on his back. It was not a pleasant feeling, in fact it was downright disturbing at times. A griffon losing a wing was nothing new, but it wasn’t an easy thing to fix. Removing the obvious lack of flight, the resultant depression and an inability to adjust meant that many simply took their own life afterwards. Some adjusted by rigging prosthetics, though they weren’t perfect and still couldn’t let them fly. Others never really settled because of it, feeling themselves to be only half a griff. Society for centuries had pitied these mained griffons, drakes and formels both, and simply quietly accepted the result.

But here in the modern age, a solution finally existed, in the form of Longpaw’s Steel Wing Program. His work with the military and Reformisten on magical crystals and automobiles meant he had the background necessary to understand both compact arcane power sources and metalworking. The chance to test his prototypes on wounded veterans had brought him here, as the owner and CEO of a large company normally did not work with product development personally. But Morgend Longpaw was here, scribbling measurements onto a notepad as Cyril wore a light, bare aluminum frame. The actual prototype wasn’t ready yet, of course. Each prosthetic had to be specially designed to fit each veteran perfectly, and the technology was just barely out of the concept test phase. But, as the industrialist kept insisting, it was only a matter of time.

“Splendid lad! Keep it like that…” Longpaw made another minute measurement, grunting to himself before scribbling again. “Three millimeters...interesting.”

“What difference can three millimeters make?” Cyril grumbled, already tired of this latest set of measurements. He shifted on the hospital bed, feeling the pajamas itch him in places he’d rather not think of right now. Morgend didn’t pause in his measures, taking another with the tape as he replied “Tell me, Vise-Korporal. If your shell is three millimeters off target when you fire your kanone, would that matter?”

Deciding to concede the point, Cyril remained silent, merely grunting in protest as he stared at the opposite wall.

Longpaw continued on without prompting. “Prosthetic limbs are normally built out of a framework or wood. A single piece you measure twice, cut once and wear for years. But if lost or the measurements change for some reason, it can always be replaced. What I’m building here will have to last just as long the first time it is crafted. I can only afford to build one of them right now.”

Cyril only grunted a second time, looking across to the other occupant of the room. He hadn’t had many visitors in the past month. His crew, the doctors and nurses, his uncle and now Morgend Longpaw and whatever secretaries and engineers he brought in and chattered at. It all felt like a blur at times, like they were just on the periphery of his existence. But today, he perceived this drake just fine.

One didn’t forget the Black King Wingfried of Hellsword, after all.

An hour ago, Wingfried had stepped into the hospital room. From the clattering out in the hallway, whatever aides and bodyguards he had with him had taken up position out there as well. Doctor Mercury had barely managed to squeeze her way in, a clipboard hovering in front of her horn. Her usual snappish care and clinical nature had seemingly vanished in front of the Black King, the doctor instead quietly taking her departure after getting a few readings from her patient that any nurse could have obtained, hurriedly saluting on the way out with barely a word to Cyril today.

There was another twenty minutes of quiet staring. Before, he had been unable to stay awake half the day, but so far through his recovery he was able to affix the king with a quiet scrutiny. He received the same speculation in return.

Finally, Wingfried spoke first. His voice was much lighter than Cyril had expected. Softer. No menace in his tone, nor really any emotion at all.

“I hear you performed heroically out there, Vise-Korporal.”

The Black King had no idea how much those few words would bring back. In an instant, Cyril’s mind was drowned out by smoke, clattering metal on metal, the dull thudding of the cannon. Then fire, and agonizing pain. One strike, two strike, three, flesh and bone splitting under the assault-

He took a breath to steady himself. On the outside only a split second had passed. He cleared his throat.

“I only did my duty, Your…” he wracked his brain for the honorific. Not many kings in the Empire, after all. “Highness. Anygriff else would have done the same.”

“They did not,” Wingfried retorted coolly, his expression unchanged. “They pulled back. Granted, they followed orders and left an obvious death trap. And you could have as well.” The first sign of movement from Wingfried, a slight shifting moving his cap from under one arm to the other. “But you went in with your panzer. Took a butcher’s bill from the enemy. Bought time for the rest of your comrades. No one would blame you for falling back as well.”

You have to go on. Do great things. Screams. Gunfire. Explosions.

He swallowed again, trying to school his breathing. If Wingfried noticed this time, he gave no sign aside from a small twitch in the eyes. Cyril inhaled.

“I had orders, Sir.”

Now Wingfried’s face did move. A small twitch around the edges of his beak. An eyebrow raised half a centimetre.

“I think we can agree, these were very unusual orders. For very unusual circumstances.”

Wingfried glanced to Morgend, who had finished whatever notes and equations he’d been working on in the corner, watching the exchange with rapt attention, like a spectator at a tennis court, eyes switching back and forth with barely contained, feverish energy. The industrialist was the antithesis of Wingfried; barely bottled excitement compared to the carved stone visage of the latter.

“Do you have your measurements, Herr Longpaw?” Wingfried inquired, drawing Morgend’s attention. The griff checked his notepad, evidently running down some kind of list as he considered the data. Cyril got a look at the pages as they passed and to his surprise the notes and measurements seemed jumbled, scribbled at all angles with little statements in the margins. From Paige’s description of the drake, he had expected a well-organized genius.

“Ja wohl, your Highness,” Longpaw finally concluded with a shine to his eyes. “For now.”

Wingfried’s response was merely to tilt his head towards the door. Luckily, Longpaw caught the hint swiftly, reaching up to take the bare frame down from Cyril’s stump, patting the panzertruppe on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, Duskwing. Edelstahlflugel is right over the horizon. We are going to do great things together, you and I.”

Great things…

”It’s down to you now, son.”

Cyril nodded, not replying as he pushed the memory away again. Seemingly nonplussed, Morgend simply smiled, nodding back before he strode off, whistling cheerily as he left, closing the door behind him.

Finally alone, Wingfried glanced back at Cyril. The silence between king and crewgriff was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.

“I wish I had more like you,” Wingfried finally said. He stepped away from the door, gently setting the cap down on a nearby cabinet. Cyril shifted on his bed uneasily. “Tell me Vise-Korporal; do you know why I founded the Reformisten?”

Taken aback, Cyril gave the Black King a skeptical look. “To fight the Riverlands, sire.” It was, after all, why the Order of Hellquill had set up fortifications in the Hellsword Territory, even if the Crusade to follow had failed. Wingfried’s expression did not change.

“That was one of the reasons yes. But the primary means was an ideology for reformation in the Empire.” True, the name ‘Reformisten’ literally translated to ‘Ones Who Change Things.’

“I admit the past few years have been a stain on our institution’s reputation. But I assure you those were the acts of traitors and conspirators. I have loyal soldiers, champion knights that much like me would happily sacrifice ourselves for Reich und Kaiser. It was through their dedication and my leadership that we are standing here as loyal defenders of our nation, because we dared fight against those who would see us fall and the Empire itself.” He fell silent, staring at some invisible spot on the floor, brow knitted, lost in thought. Then, he shook himself out of it. “I had a line of advisors and officers who would have happily shot me for my actions a few years back, because they disagreed in my belief that our way of life could be extended to anyone and everyone. They were weak and as a result of that weakness they have perished where they stood. Now you Vise-Korporal like all of those who had supported me and the Empire at large are mighty. And we know what is necessary as warriors of das Reich; but alas perception is truth, our image is shaped by the world we live in, is it not? We cannot escape it, anymore than we can hold a wave and turn it back, but do understand one thing; nothing is as black and white as others would have you believe. The world is a collection of shades of grey.”

Cyril felt his heart hammering in his chest, uncomfortable with where this conversation had turned to. This was above any discussion a monarch should have with a mere subject, and about something as deeply personal and divisive as ideology. Was Wingfried trying to convert him? Convince him? Maybe the Black King was caught in his own dialogue. He felt his wing flutter, the other stump twitching as it tried to copy the motion of anxiety. Without urging, his eyes flicked down to Wingfried’s holster.

The moment of tense silence passed with difficulty.

“I understand the Empire needing to stand against the threats at home,” Wingfried continued, one claw coming up to rummage around in his coat as he too felt the need to change the topic. “And the 41st belongs in the open field, not hunting through forests and mountains. We have moved from the plains to the forests and hills. I don’t plan to stop until I reach Cyanolisia either. For that, I need soldiers with spine. Grit. soldiers who can stare despair in the face and fight through the valley of death. Not because they do not fear death. But because they have something to fight their way home for. Good soldiers follow orders Herr Duskwing, but only warriors fight for what is truly right.”

After a moment, Wingfried, of all people, looked flustered. He dug in his coat one more time before he let out an aggravated sigh, scratching at his brow in thought before a bolt of comprehension flashed across his visage.

“Erich!” he called. Not a yell. But firm, with just a slight increase of volume.

The result was immediate. The door to the room opened, admitting a single equine figure,a stallion with a coat black as his clothing, dressed in the uniform of a Reformisten officer. To Cyril’s surprise, the infamous Prince Erich, of the kind of fame spoken of like Imperial aristocracy, was a unicorn. With but a tilt of the head from the Black King, Erich stepped towards the wounded panzergriff, his magic surrounding a small black box and lifting it into view, the lid popping with a small click over the ambient noise of a magic aura, rather unsettling and out of place here to Cyril’s ears. But the commendation that lifted out of the box was, to his surprise, nothing less than a Knight’s Iron Cross, resplendent with engraved oak leaves and a pair of crossed knightly swords underneath, strung on a ribbon to be worn around the neck. Almost a perfect replica for a Herzland Knight’s Cross, save the ribbon’s coloration being blue, white and black as opposed to the Imperial orange and yellow. The blue aura gently lifted the decoration out, pulling the ribbon out to its proper length, gently draping over a stunned Cyril’s head and sliding down his neck.

A Knight’s Cross. It was more than just a piece of tin or brass on a ribbon, like many other medals. The panzergriff’s attitude on such decorations was not fond, given the blood he had seen shed for them. But this medallion, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, was tantamount to a full knighthood. Had he wanted to apply to one of the Orders, Cyril would undoubtedly have been granted entry with this. Though he had no intent to, the fact it was now a possibility for a griff as lowborn as him suddenly made the prospect much more attractive.

“Vise-Korporal Cyril Dusking,” Erich addressed him, in a crisp, clear parade ground speechmaking voice, “For behaviour above and beyond the call of duty, in light of grievous injury and noble bearing, the Order of the Black Knights hereby awards you the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, with oak leaves and noble swords. For your bravery and dedication to honor and Empire, should you wish to enter our brotherhood, we will gladly take you with open arms.”

And with that, Erich stepped back, his back ramrod straight, as both the Black Prince and the Black King saluted Cyril smartly, an action which the stunned soldier returned out of reflex. After a moment, they both dropped the salute, and Erich stepped forward, smiling as he held his hoof out, shaking Cyril’s claw.

“We both know your dedication to the Reichsarmee. But should you wish to come stand in our Order, the gates are always open to you.”

Wingfried stepped forward now, reaching out to do the same as his adopted son.

“I see great potential in you, Duskwing. You and others like you. A force of great change in our Kaiserreich. The future rests in your claws.”

Cyril blinked, as with that profound and rather obscure statement the rest of his conversation with the king came rushing back, and he cleared his throat, only able to nod as the blue monarch finally stepped away, looking as if he was making to go. Finally, however, he found his voice.

“With your permission, sir?”

Wingfried glanced back, surprised. But after a moment, he nodded, gesturing.

“You are as a knight now, Herr Duskwing. Never be afraid to ask.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Your Highness?”

Wingfried paused, his wings twitching. Erich glanced back and forth between the two, his expression blank but his form just as tense. After a moment of thought, the Black King refocused on Cyril, a smirk on his face that lacked warmth but to the younger drake still held enough mirth.

“The world is...complicated, Vise-Korporal. I suppose, in the end, I am a king of a realm he expects to be absorbed by another, who once led a movement he himself dismantled. Larger minds than mine can find a lesson about the state of the world in that, but I digress. Join our ranks or not, the Kaiserreich needs you. You and others like you who see the truth of the world. One day soon, the Reich will need to change to survive. It has almost fallen twice in the past few decades.”

He reached out, squeezing Cyril’s shoulder reassuringly.

“I have been telling you all this because the Old must be eclipsed by the new. My beliefs were challenged, and I adapted. I already told you; you are someone who can bring that attitude to the old order. I have taken the time to speak to you, though you are a single drake, because that is how one finds those who are worthy to build a better Reich alongside our young Kaiser. One at a time.”

Wingfried’s talon let go of Cyril, instead falling to the Knight’s Cross the young tanker held, tapping it gently.

“Know this, Duskwing. This makes you a knight in our eyes, whatever banner you march under. And it will be those like you who will change the world.”

With that, the infamous Black King, founder and scourge of the Reformisten, lord of Hellsword and conqueror of the Grenzwald, stepped out of the room with nary a backwards glance at the young griff he’d just decorated. Erich smiled and nodded, levitating his peaked cap up from the chair where he’d set it and stepping out, the door magically shutting behind him.

And just like that, Cyril was left with his medal and his thoughts.

The next day, August Duskwing came to visit. He’d stopped by a clawful of other times, normally only for a few hours before the pressures of command forced him to return. This time would be the last for both of them. Cyril and his crew had recovered, and would be discharged soon, to go and crew another panzer. August’s command had completely withdrawn from the Grenzwald, leaving behind several regiments of Landwehr and Imperial Jager detachments. Wingfried had been correct that this was no longer a panzer war, and as such the machine heavy 41st and their supporting elements were long gone.

Today, as the door opened, August glanced up before blinking in surprise, slowly closing the door behind him. Standing in the center of the room was Cyril, dressed in his grey Reichsarmee uniform, ribbons and pins all carefully placed and adjusted just right with all the spare time Cyril had at his disposal. The left wingsleeve was pinned over the stump, which almost disappeared against Cyril’s back. Along his breast were pinned the Medallion Crimson, the Black Wound Token badge, Ribbon Intrinsic, and of course the Knight’s Cross around his neck. Raising an eyebrow, August noticed the Medal of Arcturus, Cyril’s decoration for valiant service in the Herzland War, was missing. Idly, he wondered if anygriff would figure out it was halfway across the world.

“You look ready to go,” August noted, crossing to the room’s table and flopping into the seat, dropping his general’s cap on the surface. From the sound of it, he’d been traveling all night. He glanced down, casting a quick eye over the papers Cyril had accumulated during his stay here. At the top, there was one bearing an address he recognized, in writing familiar to him, already opened. “Letter from Paige?”

Cyril nodded. “Just came in today. The mail system had a hard time finding me. Not hard to guess why.”

With Equestria at War and Cyril’s own rather remote location, August considered it a wonder the drake’s mail got out here at all, even late.

“How is she?”

“I don’t know,” the young panzertruppe admitted, a frown crossing his brow. “She sent it before the attack. If she got mine, she either hasn’t written a response or…” He paused, considering carefully before he quietly changed the subject. “We’re being released.”

“Any idea where you’re going?”

“No...for some reason, none of us got orders yet.”

Cyril had a sinking suspicion that he knew why, and General August Duskwing, Hero of the Kaiserreich, showing up out of the blue couldn’t be a coincidence. Spotsley was only missing an eye, Eihol had a series of scars marring his previously handsome face and half the feathers on his head wouldn’t grow back as a result. Haul had gotten away with only a single bullet wound from a stray round. None of their injuries should have stopped them from rotating back into another regiment. The crew had broken him out for his birthday a few days ago, just a few wounded veterans out on the town. But during the drinking, the trash talk, tomfoolery and all the other things soldiers got up to to distract from their memories, they had all agreed that getting this close to a posted medical release without orders was unheard of. Something was afoot, ahoof and aclaw.

August nodded, humming in agreement as he conceded the unspoken point. Cyril was far smarter than he gave himself credit.

“There’s a reason for that. We’ve been trying to decide what to do with you.” He waved a claw at his nephew’s concerned expression. “Relax, not like that. You performed admirably in Brodfeld. Given the circumstances and that we didn’t know the minotaurs were advancing, nogriff could have asked for more. But then there’s that wing.” He pointed towards Cyril’s empty wingsleeve, his face hard. August had picked up a head injury during his time in the trenches so many years ago. As a result, one of his eyes had changed from gold to a pale green, a condition called heterochromia the doctors assured him would not harm his vision. The effect, he’d been told, was unnerving to those he spoke with as the differing colors and the scars on his face gave him an intimidating appearance. “Kommand hasn’t been sure what to do about it and your career.”

“Last I checked, Herr General,” Cyril replied cautiously but with a obstinate visage, looking his uncle straight in the eye. “A panzertruppe doesn’t fly much.”

The elder Duskwing watched the younger carefully, inspecting his face. Cyril was defiant, hard, determined. He clearly was unwilling to back down, but August needed to make sure it was honest. The Imperial Akadamie had been going through several sweeping reforms lately. The quality of Imperial soldiers in the Reichsarmee had always varied depending on the Duchy or province that put together and trained the regiment. Bronzehill had only recently shrugged off its pacifism to defend the Empire. The newly retaken Herzland territories, underdeveloped and formerly treasonous, had questions of loyalty and quality there too. Angriver and Katerin recruits were aggressive, but untrained and untrustworthy. Now, with the Grenzwald reintegrated, the problem was compounded even further, as soldiers from Lushi or the Host who had likely never even seen a panzer before were to be integrated in combined arms warfare. Some didn’t even speak Herzlandisch, and the Host was still a stew of violence not yet stabilized into a border march by the Black Knights and Landwehr garrisons. Out of all of this melting pot of ethnicities and non standardized armed forces with varying effectiveness, the Black Knights of Hellquill proved to be the most suited military formation outside the greater Reichsarmee itself due to the Orders’ belligerent roots and martial prowess, well led and well disciplined a shining example of what the Imperial forces should emulate, albeit only so motivated by brainwashed fanaticism and suffering from an almost chronic lack of materials that the Empire proper had to compensate for. The Empire’s officer korps was even worse, composed primarily of the sons and daughters of aristocratic families, many of whom had used their family’s wealth or influence to land positions of prestige where they might not have been so capable. With the Herzland Wars and the Grenzwald Campaign, this practice was slowly being worked towards one of a more honest and meritocratic nature, following the same framework that the Reformisten had proven in the field alongside their Herzland brethren, a consequence of their reintegration into the Empire proper, and as a result even commoners were being allowed to become junior officers in the Reichsarmee. August hadn’t been immune to the issues, using his own influence and protection to watch over Cyril, a flagrant case of nepotism. Which contributed on top of the army reforms to bringing him here.

August sighed, knowing the issue was settled in his nephew’s mind. So much for his promise to watch over Cyril. Margot had torn strips off him over the telephone once she had heard the news. Apparently, her first thought upon receiving the message that Cyril had been killed. Fortunately, the truth had been swift in coming, but that had not tempered her rage towards her brother. August had let it come. In his attempt to get Cyril back to working order, he had pushed his nephew right into the fire, unintentionally of course, but it had still happened.

With little more delay (gods knew all this inner reflection had contributed to the setbacks Kommand had made), August sighed, reaching under his coat and extracting a large, thick envelope, held together with string and a wax seal bearing the emblem of Reichsarmee High Kommando. He tossed it onto the table with the other papers, where the thick packet audibly impacted. Cyril’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Orders,” August grumbled as he fished a cigar out, clamping down on the stogie but not lighting it. Hospital rules were against smoking in the rooms, and he had a lot to say without risking getting thrown out. “In a few days, you’ll be boarding a train to Zeltstadt with your crew. There, you’ll be retraining while attending to your commission as a kadet at the Jungeschulen, pending an entry exam. It would be preferable to take you west, of course. But right now the Imperial Akadamie at Osnabeak is working overtime, as are the Krona training grounds. So we’ll be sending you in for on-post training. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced enough talking heads and beaks that this would be the best way to handle the situation.”

Cyril finally seemed to break out of his stupor, staring at his uncle in absolute confusion.

“I’m...sorry, what? First you come in here asking me if I’m certain I want to continue serving, as if you’re about to talk me out of it, then you throw a commission into my lap?”

“You’re still addressing a general nephew,” warned, though the threat had no heat to it. Fortunately, it had the desired effect of cutting off Cyril’s rant before it built up steam, and the injured panzertruppe spun down, more carefully considering his words now his temper had been released.

“I just...I don’t understand,” he finally continued, far less heated than before. “You left me here in the dark, and then just hand me this. You had to have known.”

August nodded again, his weariness feeling far more physical now.

“I did. And they were going to discharge you.” He paused, considering his words. “To Kommand, a griffon serving without a wing is...unnatural. It's unprecedented. The power of flight is essential to Imperial warfare. But panzers are so recent and new, you’re probably one of a clawful of panzertruppe to lose a wing. I know you ARE the only one to not immediately ask to go home. The same case was made that you brought up; panzers cannot fly, and their crews are unlikely to need to. Your case was hotly debated for at least a week. I was brought in to make the final decision. And then, word came down that Wingfried intended to decorate you and your crewmates. As such, everything changed.”

“Why?”

“You don’t just send a holder of the Knight’s Cross home, Cyril. It’s a fighting drake’s award. It’s what you pin on heroes and generals and those that one of the Orders wants to induct. Wingfried coming to give you that around your neck,” and here August even stabbed through the air towards Cyril’s Knight’s Cross with his cigar “changed everything. We had only a few days to figure out an answer. Luckily, it presented itself.”

“By making me an officer?”

“It only works because of your profession. The panzerwaffe may be young, but they have accrued quite a number of veteran crews and commanders already. Kommand plans to take advantage of that, and now you’re part of the solution. Your whole crew’s been decorated, and they’ve all seen action from Herzland to Temsoar. But you’re about to join the ranks of an elite group, where Kommand can group the deadliest panzer crews in the Kaiserreich.”

August paused, glancing down at the packet of orders on the table. Cyril did as well, both of them regarding the envelope like it was an unwelcome guest sitting in the corner, staring them both down silently.

“It’s a big step,” August concluded, carefully nibbling at the end of the cigar thoughtfully. Cyril nodded, slowly stepping over to the table, reaching out and taking the orders gingerly, staring down at the wax seal.

“I kind of need a new panzer, don’t I?”

August nodded, suddenly back to energy as if the question had jolted him. “Not to worry. Your term as a kadet gives us a perfect opportunity. Have you ever heard of a Gryta?”

Cyril cocked his head to the side, feathered brow furrowed in thought as he ran through the news, rumors and scuttlebutt he’d been hearing both in the field and here in hospital, claws idly playing with the string around the envelope.. Finally, he shook his head.

“No. Should I have?”

“I doubt it. So far it's a prototype only in the claws of a few of the knightly orders, mostly the Order of the Tower and Sword and the Order of the Fiery Heart. But I managed to swing a few test models for the 205th Heavy Panzer Battalion. Didn’t take much to convince Grand Master Konrada of the Rosewood Spears to get a few models to train with them too. If all goes well with this last batch of trials, they’ll be approved for mass production next year. And if the information I’m getting is correct, we’ll definitely need them.”

With that, August held the cigar out to Cyril, digging another out of his jacket. His nephew paused, claw extended, feeling the ache of his severed wing and the echo of unpleasant memories in his head. Was he truly ready for this? In two days, a lot of pressures had been heaped onto his head. Now he had to figure out how to carry them through.

But after a moment, he took the cigar from his uncle, inspecting it thoughtfully as August dug out a lighter.

“So...when do I get started?”

August 15, 1011
1320 hours
Skies over Tall Tale
No. 1 Air Group, No. 11 Squadron

There were very few new aircraft around them. It turned out, Mariposa had not been the only airfield struck by changeling sabotage, and they had most targeted the newer pieces of inventory. Over the past year, the Equestrian RAF had replaced the Hurricane in their active air wings with the Spitfire, proud of their ingenuity in the air. But the sluggish production meant few replacements and spare parts were available once losses started mounting. As a result, the sky was full of Hurricanes, Wellingtons and Blenheims, replacements for the lost Spitfires, Beauforts and Beaufighters that had been destroyed in the past month by combat, sabotage and abandoning stockpiles in the face of the enemy advance. It was no secret that the entire RAF had become a chaotic mix of regulars and reservists, those who had been activated for the bogus wargames being thrown in to fill holes left behind while hurried wartime recruitment and training caught up. Now, their air inventory matched their personnel.

Below the Blenheim No. 83, the massive skywhale shape of a Halifax bomber rumbled by, and Paige couldn’t help but marvel at it, old memories resurfacing in her mind from the Crystal War. While a bit older, they were still massive engines of war, modern airships carrying enough munitions to flatten a city block. The behemoths of No. 35 Squadron had been through some of the worst punishment of the whole RAF, and she could see rough patches in the plane’s fuselage where mechanics had hurriedly gotten the heavy bomber back into working order in a hurry. Bomber casualties were worse than their fighter escorts, as Queendom Sv.109s hunted them like sharks. And yet, No. 35 Squadron was back in the air again with nary a complaint, just a few replacements and they were gone again.

Paige glanced up from the bombsight (a generous term for a few pieces of tape and a cluster of numbers and lines she had applied with chalk) and consulted her chart, examining the topographical map to ensure they were on the correct approach. Every plane had a navigator of course, but the more ponies corroborating information, the less likely the air group would be pulled off course. The fact this still happened stupidly often implied how essential the practice was.

”Sword Leader, this is Hammer Leader. We’re coming in on final approach, over.”

The radio chattered in Paige’s ears, laden with static from the clouds, distance, interference and the rushing of air past all of their crafts. The various squadron commanders were coordinating for the attack on the changeling forces assaulting Tall Tale. Their air group was one of a hoof-full still keeping up the pressure on the northern juggernaut, rather than simply reacting to stem the tide. Many commanders were nervous to commit their wings in case of yet another withdrawal, another retreat. If an attack was underway, they couldn’t leave until those planes had returned for vital fuel and medical assistance, not to mention providing air cover for the evacuations.

Tall Tale was under pressure from two panzerdivisions moving south from Vanhoover, bombers flying across the Luna Gulf and another assault by an Olenian brigade moving east from their landing at Seaward Shoals. The defenders were hard pressed, barely holding on as they were battered from land and air. That’s why it was up to their air group to come in and hopefully deal enough damage to the changelings to disrupt their momentum, buy time for the Royal Guard defenders to hold on for the armored regiment currently tearing up the road to reinforce them.

It had been a hard month.

Reflexively, Paige’s head came up from her map, scanning the skies out the cockpit for the telltale flash of silver that told of incoming fighters. Given that said planes would be flying towards their own, all the Equestrians would get for warning was that glimmer and a streak, and then bombers would start falling. In the pilot’s seat, Lieutenant Solar Ace leaned down, watching Paige for a moment before he straightened up.

“Ease up, Turner. We’re ready this time,” he said, in that same neutral, confident tone he used when he was trying to keep his crew going. Ace was well aware of their odds and the grim reality of war in the air.

“I know I am, sir,” came Static’s reply from her turret, watching the skies behind two .303 machine guns. “I grabbed the parachute this time.”

The three had a brief chuckle, before they returned to their business. No. 83 didn’t have much payload. As a light bomber smaller than even a Wellington, she possessed a brace of four 250 lb. bombs, a piddling comparison to dedicated bomber craft. Which was why they needed to drop their payload as fast as possible and rejoin the fight with their own brace of machine guns in the wings. Many other Blenheims had figured out this gave them the best chance for survival, rather than just acting like a dedicated bombing craft.

”Sword Leader to all Sword elements,” came the call of their squadron leader. ”We’re coming up on the target. Hammer’s going to hit the Bug positions with overwhelming force. It’s our job to cover them and lay down some hurt on the advancing columns. Bombers, stay in formation on approach. Fighters, get ready for some chop. Goddess speed to you all, over and out!”

As No. 83 began drifting lower in the formation, the entire air group finally crested over the forested hills, exposing the city of Tall Tale below. Even from here, Paige could see the battle was not going in the Royal Guards’ favor. Smoke plumes erupted from across the entire city, and to the north the land seemed to seethe with black shapes as the changeling advance seemed to worm its way in, infecting the buildings while also stretching out to surround it. Detonations could be seen from here as structures collapsed, and anti-aircraft fire lit up the sky. It was an awe-inspiring, terrible sight.

Abruptly, several black clouds appeared in the air group’s midst, followed a split second later by booms and pops, dozens more following as the sky seemed to disappear into these sudden clouds.

”Flak screen!” came the shout over the radio.

”Stay in formation! Keep speed, ponies!”

No. 83 abruptly bucked as a shell detonated far too close for comfort, the sound of shrapnel rattling off her belly as a grim reminder of how close and how sudden death would be for them. Up ahead, a Wellington suddenly took a shell straight in her number one engine, which began to spew smoke and flames, oil and debris streaming off as the propeller sluggishly halted on the ruined apparatus. The bomber began to list, dropping with increasing speed before she turned over, her wing breaking off and spiralling away. The bomber dropped from view. No parachutes were visible.

Another Blenheim took a shell directly in her fuselage, detonating spectacularly as the cockpit blew outwards, folding in on itself and spiralling around in mid-air.

”Holy-dead bird! Break, break!”

“It’s coming at me-” the rest of the message abruptly devolved into a high-pitched scream that was just as quickly cut short as the Blenheim turned over bodily and smashed into a Halifax below and behind it, crushing the cockpit as the two craft twisted into one piece of wreckage, tumbling to the ground below.

”Bugs!”

And with the silver flash Paige was already accustomed to, the sharks were among them. Sv.109s tore through the air group, guns blazing and engines roaring as the dove in. Machine gun turrets on bombers chattered, filling the sky with tracers as they chased after the much faster fighters. Everypony knew that their actual chance of hitting a fighter was extremely low, and the gun mounts counted for little more than keeping the fighters from getting too close. But if enough fire filled the sky, they could get lucky, as had happened several times before. At the back of No. 83, Static’s turret swivelled around, guns hammering at the blurred shapes in the sky. Spitfires and Hurricanes twisted around the air group, chasing after the predators. But the truth was they were merely reacting, and several Halifaxes and Wellingtons were already dipping away, even more still limping along in the group with fire spouting from damaged engines and bullet holes in the fuselage.

“Here we go, on target!” Ace finally yelled, and Paige immediately braced herself as the Blenheim dipped, her world swirling until blue was replaced by green, the ground rushing up to meet them. Trees whipped by at what seemed light speed, and Paige’s view was filled and occupied by a massive black smudge that she recognized as a formation of changeling panzers, trucks, halftracks and infantry pushing in towards the city, details blurry in the rush at this distance. “Get ready, Turner!”

It was up to her, now. She leaned forward, fighting the gut-wrenching effects of vertigo as her whole world continued into freefall, her wings twitching as they naturally wanted to catch her from her descent. The measurements she’d drawn on the glass were a best guess from practice, a far sight from the actual sights she’d used on Sombra’s troops. But experience had come back to her, and she knew exactly when she needed to let go. Her hoof hovered over the release button, watching the ground come up closer, closer, closer…

Now!

“Bombs away!”

She smashed the release, holding it down. With several thumps that felt like being kicked as No. 83 suddenly dropped a half-ton of weight. Ace instinctively hauled the stick back, the herculean task of defying high-speed gravity and yanking No. 83’s nose out of her dive. The lift they received from dropping the bombs coupled with their reduced weight helped recover, and No. 83 was soaring up and away again even before the bombs impacted.

“Here we go!” Ace whooped, twisting the craft around in a tight aileron as fire from the ground chased after them, pulling into a loop to twist back towards where the air battle was still happening. Now devoid of her primary job, Paige glued herself to the glass, watching out for incoming threats and targets. But the sky had turned into a twisting, seething mass of confusion, fighters dancing and chasing each other around, bombers on approach or turning back towards home, wrecks tumbling out of the air aflame, flak shells detonating in what seemed every open inch.

No. 83 continued to climb, slipping in nicely behind an Sv.109 that was chasing an already harried and alight Halifax. Her quartet of .303s hammered abruptly, shuddering through the entire frame as bullets filled the air. The majority of them missed, but the burst had still caught the fighter’s wing, and a stream of smoke wafted behind him as the changeling aircraft sloppily turned over, diving for safety. Paige punched the glass and cheered. Not a kill, but even better; a comrade saved.

”Hammer-9, many thanks! Almost bought the farm on that one, over! See you at home!”

The bomber peeled away, making towards the east with all speed left in her engines.

“Hammer-9, this is Sword-4. Take care of yourself, we can’t always be there to save you, out,” Static’s voice radioed back over the line.

Paige laughed, the exhilaration flowing through her body. Even if the odds were stacked against them, as desperate as they were, she was glad to see Equestria was throwing everything it had into the fight. They might suffer for a while, but they’d certainly bloody the bugs’ nose in the process.

”This is Sword Leader, all fighters form up on Hammer and the bombers! We need to take the pressure off to get them home!”

“All Sword elements, this is Wonderbolt Leader.”

Paige’s head shot up, and she leaned over, practically glueing her face to the glass, desperately searching for anything to tell her of the new arrivals. There, streaking across the sky! She couldn’t quite make it out, but if she squinted she almost thought she could spy the blue and yellow stormcloud of the infamous Wonderbolt Squadron, three Spitfires arcing in. Within seconds of their arrival, one dusted an Sv.109, another chased a changeling off a wounded Wellington and the third soared past No. 83, guns chattering as it went for some target Paige couldn’t see.

”Sorry for the late arrival. Head on home. We’ve got your backs, over.”

“Sword Leader to Wonderbolt Leader, many thanks! But what took you so bucking long, over?”

“Yeah, we ran into some trouble over Mead Lake, over. Good to see we came in for the save, so we can show you how it's done.”

“Keep at it, Wonderbolts. You might just inspire us to turn around and stay, over.”

“Not a chance, Sword. Take your ponies and head home before some bug gets lucky and slips past us, out.”

No. 83 formed up, joining the retreating flock of aircraft and taking her place in the fighter screen now she was light and fast enough to act as escort instead of fighter-bomber. The air group was now noticeably much smaller, and many of the survivors had taken serious damage. Paige leaned back, the adrenaline having left her body as she had to become accustomed to the relative silence again, the chaos of combat replaced with the simple droning of engines and whistling of air-

She blinked, realizing a new sound had joined the engines. Where was it? She turned, looking for the offending object before looking back towards Ace. That’s when she noticed the line of bullet holes, about six in all, that had punched through No. 83’s skin just above her head. She felt the same chill of cheated death pour down her spine as she tried to steady her breathing, staring at the tears in the aluminum skin. A few inches down, and the ground crew would've been hosing her brains out of her station.

“You alright, Turner?” Ace asked, not taking his eyes off his instruments and the view ahead. Consummate professional that he was, he seemed to have been barely affected by the entire exchange, though admittedly the frantic battle must have only taken ten minutes. “I didn’t think you’d been hit-”

“Turner’s hit?” came Static’s sharp voice over the line, and Paige could see the unicorn leaning down from the turret, trying to get a better view of her longtime friend. Paige held up a hoof, waving at her from her seat.

“No, I’m fine, dragi. Just had a close call.”

”Uh, Hammer-4, Sword-2. You got a pretty bad leak on your number two. It’s spurting like crazy, over.”

“Many thanks, Sword-2. Pedals are a little shaky, but we should be okay until-MERCIFUL LUNA!”

The call from the Halifax pilot suddenly devolved into a scream as, with no warning at all, the stricken bomber detonated into an uncontrolled fireball, the fuel leak spreading back to the tanks and the entire plane going up, gliding along as it turned into a ghastly apparition before almost comically slowly dipping down and crashing into the trees down below, turning into a small flash. Paige and Ace had front row seats to the entire show, and the event killed any further conversation as the tension which had so rapidly bled out had slammed back full force.

The rest of the flight was silent the whole way back to the airfield.

Longbottom Royal Airbase
Near Shire, Twisted Tail Valley

Unfortunately, no sooner had No. 83 set down on the tarmac, her crew dismounted and prepared to leave her to the mechanics for a well-earned bite and sack time, then they were immediately ordered to take off again.

“Sir, all due respect!” Lieutenant Ace protested to Wing Commander Smoky Chaser, the stern-faced pegasus who led No. 11 Squadron and the rest of the wing they flew with. “I’ve got holes in my cockpit, the whole air group’s been shot to pieces and we’ve been in the air more than we have on the ground today!”

“Lieutenant, I recommend you check your tone,” Chaser replied coolly, to which Ace immediately clammed up, shaking with frustration. For Paige, who was only used to seeing the level-headed and professional pilot, it was a stark change in attitude. “I understand your grievances, Ace. But this isn’t my choice. Tall Tale’s fallen to the Hegemony.”

Paige felt the chill creep down her neck, eyes wide. Her wings half-spread, she leapt down from the ladder where she’d been helping Static offload their gear from.

“But sir!” she said, fully aware she could be badly reprimanded for butting into a conversation between officers. “What about the tanks?”

“Never got there,” Chaser replied somberly. “The regiment got bogged down by Jaegers in the forests. Then they were called back. The Royal Guard Grenadiers were overwhelmed in Tall Tale an hour ago.”

The crew were stunned silent, absorbing that small fact. That meant that, short of whatever changeling casualties they’d managed to inflict, the entire aerial attack had been, in a word, pointless.

“Called back?” Ace asked, his fury abated. “Why?”

Chaser sighed, shaking his head. “Because Los Pegasus was taken by changeling marines and Olenian landing troops. The Lunar Fleet is wiped out. So we’re falling back to Bales. You’ve got an hour.”

With that, Commander Chaser turned, trotting over towards the next air crew. Watching him go, Paige realized that as the Wing Commander, he didn’t have to notify each and every plane. But clearly, he felt the need to do so personally. The situation was definitely getting dire on all fronts. If this was the state of Equestria’s defense after just a month, when would they finally hold back the changelings? Could they?

Static poked her head out, red aura of magic picking up the bags Paige had dropped and pulling them back into No. 83.

“Guess we’re moving again, huh?”

Ace nodded slowly, watching the airbase as injured were hauled to the base hospital, only to be loaded onto trucks to be taken away, supplies were hurriedly being inventoried and loaded up, bombers being taxied back out onto the runway having just barely fuelled up enough to make the journey. Some of them were still sporting battlefield damage and smoking engines, given just enough work to get them flying again. The base could still be used by fighters covering the army retreat, but even they would have to fall back as well once the lines got too close. And with word of Mariposa under threat by artillery shells and panzer assault, it wouldn’t be long.

Paige cursed in Rijekan, the language barrier allowing her to get away with the short, vicious cuss. She desperately hoped they didn’t have to fall back again. They wouldn’t have room to keep going much further. Because Bales was just north of Canterlot. And if Canterlot fell...then they had but a narrow strip of land until they hit the Celestial Sea.

And at this rate, they’d be -in- the Sea by Year’s End.

Author's Note

Once again, after a bit of a delay due to personal issues of money and time, I have returned to continue the fight! Hopefully this doesn't become a pattern, and the war will definitely be over by Christmas!

Thanks to all my loyal readers, those who have stuck with me and those who have only recently joined us! The fight goes on!