The lance of griffons beat their wings heavily, struggling to haul themselves and their heavy training barding into the sky overhead. Their padded spears drooped as they labored under the combined weight. Higher overhead, the great grey mass arrowed by at a significant clip, making another pass over the training field, before turning to lift into another gyre.

The griffons' lance corporal somehow had enough spare lung capacity to bawl out her files and file-closers loudly enough that Lyra could hear them from the little platform she and two officers were standing on to observe the exercise. The lance was slowly gaining altitude, but their rate of rise was also increasing, if slowly.

In the near distance, there was a rumble of booms and cracks, the sound of Trixie's ponies playing with their new toys in the ranges hidden from Lyra's sight beyond the juniper groves to the east.

Captain Big Bell, a big and burly pegasus mare that Lyra didn’t really know that well, stood placidly at the front of the platform. Standing slightly behind her was Lyra and the rest of the observation party.

Lyra shot an eye sideways at the new lieutenant, another pegasus, slate-blue-grey and black maned. Lieutenant Martin Gale's eyes were narrowed, and her muzzle pinched into a slight frown so natural that it must have been her resting nag face.

"They're impossibly weak-winged. I knew griffons weren't good lifters, but these Trottish birds are beyond intolerable. Why haven't you been running them in wind sprints?" she demanded of the much bigger pegasus mare standing on the far side of the observation post.

"Well, I was mostly usin' the standard manuals. Which says to keep the new winged recruits on the ground as much as possible, and weigh 'em down with weights if you cain't keep 'em from flitterin' about."

"Phfagh! The manuals are written for pegasi, and cloud-city pegasi at that. You can't treat griffons like pegasi with beaks, it won't fly, Be- Captain Bell. Especially not Trottish birds. Haven't you seen them in the city? Lazy birds, the Trottish. Never fly anywhere they can walk."

The lance of griffons finally found the elevation of the circling Turul princess, and at some signal lost to distance, burst out of their formation, three clots of blue spreading out on three diverging axes of movement, still rising to get above and around their target.

There came another chorus of falcon fire from beyond the juniper groves. Dark clouds of smoke began to be visible to the east.

"Hrm. Sluggish and predictable. You! Corporal! Get those retrieval troopers with the cloud nets in the air! Now!" bawled Martin Gale at a bat-pony lance corporal hovering on leathery wings off to the side. The lance of bat-ponies began following in the aerial tracks of the griffons before them, pushing fluffy white clouds ahead of them. Huh, pegasus-ensorceled safety nets?

"We usually let the training lance take their time-" Captain Big Bell began, uncertainly.

"She's about to knock at least two or three of your birds out of the sky. If you don't want them washed out on medical leave or dead, let's get those safety bats in place, yes?"

"Uh, yeah, o-of course."

Another crescendo from the artillerymare's hidden orchestra, and then the blue dots in the distance stooped against the much larger grey and brown flying arrowhead, like suicidally aggressive bluejays harrying a great crow out of their territory. They swooped about and baited and jinked and tumbled, but none of them were falling out of the training fight.

"Blast! Your roc is sandbagging. Why is the trainer letting her beast go easy on your recruits? They aren't going to learn anything like this. Pardon me, Captain, I need to get up there. Be back in fifteen." And the slate-blue-grey pegasus took off with a mighty thrust into the sky, rocketing towards the now-distant sparring session.

The falcons sang out their killing song once again, and the clouds belching above the juniper bushes began to vary by colors. Was Trixie using different powder formulations for each of her falcons or something like that? The darting grey-blue blotch of the new lieutenant finally reached the distant cluster of dots and the great turul, just as some silent explosion on the other range sent up a great clotting white cloud behind the bushes.

"Well, Martin Gale's something else, isn't she, Bell?" Lyra said, smirking. She wasn't a soldier, she didn't have to bow to this rank bullshit.

"Uh, yeah. Ain't wrong, though. I think ah've been goin' about this wrong. But…" The big, ugly, beautiful pegasus grimaced as she squinted at whatever it was the other pegasus officer was doing to her distant troops. The little grey-blue blot was flitting between the blue dots, and now was - doing a circuit around the head of the big arrowhead that was all that Lyra could see of the turul princess?

"She doesn't really have much in the way of filters, does she?" Lyra asked.

"Nah. And I'm not sure if her loose talk about lazy Trottish griffons is gonna fly, what with the Major and her… yeah."

"You think Major Shield'll have a relapse if she's working with this one?" Lyra asked, grinning.

"Maybe not? But ah can see sparks a-comin'."

"Bell - can I call you Bell? - the bigots you gotta watch out for aren't the ones who'll cuss out somebody they hate to their beaks. It's the ones that only cut them dead in the safety of their velvet-lined well-appointed clubs or offices, the ones who just make things happen where there's no chance of strife or conflict or controversy… those are the ones you gotta watch out for."

Far overhead, the pegasus lieutenant had gotten the griffon lance reformed into a flying wing, and had shooed away the turul on another raising gyre. She coaxed the blue dots upwards, gaining on their target in a stern chase.

Trixie's falcons settled into a rapid-fire series of detonations. Well, at least for falcons. A volley every other minute or two. Like they were providing a soundtrack for the aerial battle.

Until the turul turned on her tail and dropped like the wrath of Celestia.

After that, things got interesting. And the bat-pony retrieval team got busy pushing their fluffy white clouds under falling griffons before they hit the ground far below to the sound of the falcons firing.

High Trotski's Fifth Celestial Era Overture. We've got the cannons, just needs the brass section and the chimes. Wonder if they were using live steel up there, what it would sound like?

"Six wing sprains! Contusions in every griffish lance! I've never seen the flying platoons so demoralized!" yelled Gilda's major at the asshole pegasus they'd just hired on.

"Yes!" the blue-grey mare yelled back at Gleaming Shield. "And it's a crying shame they're this weak at this point in training! You all have been doing this all wrong! Bell has an excuse, the Marezonians aren't an aerial squadron, what does she know about breaking fliers to the standard? You should know better, 'Major'! You were a bloody Territorial officer, and by all accounts a passably good one! Why were you letting them coddle these birds?"

"Coddling? They were marching twenty-five miles a day! And running ragged through the worst obstacle courses we could come up with!"

"Poppycock! I told Bell, I'll tell you to your face, the Trottish theatre of operations is impossibly ground-bound, and it's all the fault of defective training standards among the Territorials! If the rebels themselves weren't a bunch of heather-sucking dirt-loving traitors and untutored infants, we would have lost this war in an afternoon!

"Nopony in theatre except the aerial squadrons know how to think in three dimensions, and high command insisted on keeping the pegasi on interdiction and deep patrols. The only really good scrap we ever saw was the Crab Bucket, and we only showed up in time to mop up the remnants. Any real army would have torn us to pieces here in the Isles, and we would have deserved it!"

"So what's your solution," ground out Gleaming Shield through gritted teeth, "To have George's roc beat all of my troopers out of the skies and get them all killed?"

"You train as you plan to fight, Major! Because you'll fight as you trained, and if you trained in a padded, silk-lined box, you'll find yourself cut to pieces when you hit something that didn't learn how to fight in a parlor! Bloody training, bloodless battle! And you're planning to go off and harry a race of enormous bird-monsters, with half-cocked, mis-trained ground-bound Trottish birds? It'll be a blue-feathered slaughter.

"If you're going to get all your birds killed, I'd prefer to do it here where we have graves-registration ponies on hoof to take care of the carcasses."

Gleaming Shield turned away from the new lieutenant, and Gilda almost sighed. Her unicorn drew a hoof over her lavender lips, and groaned.

"OK, start from the beginning. What are you saying we're doing wrong?"

"Using pony manuals to train griffons!" the pegasus squawked. "Pegasi aren't griffons, and griffons aren't pegasi."

"What about the bat-ponies?"

"Bah, the thestrals. They take care of themselves, they're not in the manuals. Did you see any batponies in the medical report from today?"

"No… not really. Hrm. None. Gilda, am I missing a page?" Shield asked her sergeant.

"No, major ma'am. But the lieutenant did have at least one bat lance on search and rescue."

"Ha! Because I knew that they could handle it," scoffed Martin Gale. "You have a great resource here, Shield. So many thestrals in a single unit? It's never happened before!

“But your griffons aren't going to train up to shock standards, not by the schedule you're operating here. We'll do what we can with the time you've given me, but you need to use your thestrals as front line troops, Celestia spare us all. Your griffons won't be more than second-line support until we can get them physically conditioned. You've already lost a month's training, we're running behind as it is."

"What do you think, Gilda?" asked the major.

"I think you just lost the lieutenant's respect for asking me, major ma'am. And she's probably right. The Trottish are far too fond of their cobblestones, and I should have seen it. Two-dimensional thinking will get us killed."

"Ha! Knew a treebilly would see sense," laughed the bigoted pegasus.

Gilda turned on the lieutenant, doing her best to restrain the rage that surged under her chest like a banked fire pulsing. "Thank you for your input, Lieutenant Martin Gale. We will take it under advisement. If you could please submit your proposal in writing by the end of shift, that would be greatly appreciated."

"Tha- that's in an hour and a half! I haven't had a shower yet-"

"Then you had best get to work, lieutenant. I'm sure it's within your capabilities, as such a sterling example of the pegasus aerial corps, isn't that so?" Gilda said, smoothly, staring the lieutenant square in her pony eyes.

"Ah. Yes, of course. Excuse me, Major Shield, I'll get that on your desk by-" Martin Gale said rapidly, hoof drawn up in a proper salute to their superior officer.

"Nineteen hundred hours," Gilda supplied helpfully.

"Nineteen hundred, yes, of course." And with that, the pegasus disappeared from their office.

Gleaming Shield let her breath whistle through her teeth like the Borean wind rattling dead branches. "Yeah… what do you think, Gilda?"

"I think she is a loose-tongued sadist who enjoys hurting others. She's bigoted, and not afraid to show it. She's also opinionated and stubborn."

"That bad?"

"Major ma'am, that used to be what I loved about you. I adore this mare. I want to have her foals. She's perfect. Don't let her get away."

"Oooh...kay. Seriously?"

"Major ma'am, she's ruthless enough to get us where we need to be, and heartless enough to make it happen. Make sure she's got someone keeping an eye on her, and I think we'll be golden.

"Martinets," Gilda said, mildly, "are as necessary to an organization as likeable officers. She'll do."

"But we should probably get a medical officer before we go?" Gleaming Shield said, looking thoughtful.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. We need a squadron doctor."

"Ping!" the master sergeant yelled, trying to catch him by surprise.

Again.

"Yes, Master Sergeant?" Ping said, smoothly, pivoting on his swivel chair. He loved that thing, it was a shame it wouldn't fit in the carrier when the refit was done.

"Has Hawk Eye figured out where her sister got to, yet?"

"No, Master Sergeant. I made sure that her inquiries have been getting misfiled as you asked."

"Well, I decided that was cruel of me. Make sure she knows it was us."

"If you think that's wise, Master Sergeant."

"I do."

"Might I ask why?"

"We need a regimental surgeon. I figure this is the easiest way to get a competent one."

"Captain Eye is an accomplished combat surgeon. It would be an offense against good order and efficiency to bury her in a regimental position like that."

"I know! But we need a good doctor. We're going out where griffons and ponies are gonna get mangled, best have someone who knows what they're doing on talon."

"She's not at her best in regimented conditions, Master Sergeant. She'll drink like a fish, and fight like a griffon, and prank like an earth pony."

"Well, I don't know any other doctors I can foalnap without consequences. Unless you want Burn Salve?"

Ping involuntarily shuddered.

"No, I thought not. Wait, wasn't there a diamond dog in your old unit? Bones! Bones seemed like a good egg, and I was thinking we could use a diamond dog or two, y'know, for diversity."

"We're easily the most diverse bunch I've seen yet, Master Sergeant. And that's counting Captains Eye and Bones. But Bones isn't a diamond dog or two. He's six diamond dogs."

"Wait, really? I only counted three bitches in his harem."

"The other two - Bowser was on maternity leave, and Flopsy just was really good at never being found. She was around, trust me. She ate like three dogs. Bones' harem was a logistical nightmare, Master Sergeant. We've already got the griffons and bat-ponies' dietary considerations to take into account, I don't think Purse Strings will be wanting to be sourcing kibble on top of that."

"Well," Master Sergeant Gilda said with a triumphant grin, "That means Hawk Eye then, doesn't it? Make it happen, Ping. I want her in my office by Monday, fulminating and threatening me with the stockade or… hrm. What's a griff like Hawk Eye likely to do to the hen who foalnapped her little sister?"

"Cut off your wings and stitch them back on backwards, Master Sergeant."

"Excellent! I look forward to it!"

And with that, the master sergeant was gone. Ping sighed, and pulled out his fresh set of Night Infiltration Pattern 63. It was going to be another long night.

Author's Notes:

Thanks for editing and pre-reading help to Shrink Laureate, and brainstorming and general kibitzing to Damaged, Walker of Voids, and the general Company.

Also thanks to the guys in #writing-chat who talked me out of a really awful, tone-deaf ponification of Tchaikovsky... in favor of another, much dumber pun.