At first he mistook it for a thunderstorm when it woke him. It was dark, a little after midnight. Clouds hung low, obscuring the sky, and the trees moaned and sighed in the distance, stirred about by a stiff breeze. But there was no rain.

Then he heard it again, a series of booms in the distance. But the sounds were all wrong. They had the distant, immense quality of thunder, a series of bursts and then rumblings throughout the sky, but there was no lightning. And there was an unnatural pattern to them.

Unease gripped him, and he stood, suddenly far from sleep. He went to the door. It sounded like artillery. But he hadn't see anything like a cannon or even a handgun here.

He could see men running around waving torches and lanterns, and a few brighter lights in the distance that had more in common with a floodlight.

Then, as he watched out the door, a sonic boom thundered in the sky nearby, bringing with it a shockwave that rustled his hair. Trailing on its heels came the sounds of pandemonium about him in the camp.

As he tried to make sense of what he was seeing, a brilliant, bloody red light washed down from above over the camp, illuminating everything in the glare of a flare magnified a hundred times. He squinted, raising his hand in front of his eyes to block some of the light. It was coming from something in the sky, beyond the clouds. An aircraft?

Before he could pinpoint it, it flickered a few times and then vanished, leaving him blinking off afterimages in the sudden darkness as his eyes adjusted once more.

A few moments later another shockwave and explosion of sound reached him. He flinched despite himself, the sounds all too familiar.

The sounds coming from the camp were becoming even louder, screams and shouts and panic ratcheting up in intensity moment by moment.

He looked for the guard. He was nowhere to be found. Oliver backed to the door of his cell and kicked at the door. It shuddered, but didn't fall. He adjusted his aim to just below the handle and repeated the process three more times. Finally, on the third kick, the door burst out of its frame with a crash and swung open slowly.

He pushed it the rest of the way open, breathing heavily. Adrenaline flooded his veins.

He couldn't see anything in the overcast sky above, but his eyesight had finally adjusted and he could see people moving between the tents nearby. The guard was still nowhere to be seen in the chaos.

The nearest tents between him and the far side of the tree line marking the edge of camp were perhaps five or ten yards away, so he readied himself to make a dash. He still didn't have a plan firmly in mind, just knew that if there was some kind of attack going on it would be better to not be here.

As he set off across the open space, he heard a voice calling. him.

"Hey! Hey, you!"

He glanced around, didn't see anybody. That red light flashed again in the sky overhead for an instant, followed shortly afterwards by another boom and a shockwave that he felt physically. It wasn't thunder, wasn't artillery.

"Hey pal, I'm in the cell! Can you come get me out?"

In one of the cells a man was waving through the window trying to get his attention. Oliver jogged over to the cell and looked in.

It was a young soldier in his mid-twenties, dressed in light civilian clothing, a thin cottony short-sleeved shirt and brown trousers. He had a dark, palm-sized tattoo in unfamiliar sigils on his left arm.

"I've got to get back to my tent and get my armor on, before the ground troops get here. Can you get me out?"

Oliver nodded and looked around, finding a stone on the ground which he used to break open the door handle.

The man exited the cell, gave him a nod. "Thanks. Watch yourself. The troops are going to get here soon. Where's your tent?"

"I'm not sure," Oliver said. It wasn't a lie. He'd left it in the garage at home, but by now somebody could have moved it. "I'm not familiar with the layout of the camp." That was true. "What's going on up there?" He asked, gesturing vaguely to the sky.

"I think it's the Ephresians, well, it's probably them. Who else would it be?"

"Is that artillery?"

The soldier looked at Oliver strangely. "Artillery?" – he butchered the pronunciation – "What's that? No, it's the captains fighting, on their side and our side. But come on, there's no time. We don't want to be stuck here without our armor when the legions touch down."

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Without waiting for a response the young man set off at a jog into the maze of tents and buildings that lay towards the center of camp.

Oliver looked at the tree line. He could be out of here in four or five minutes' steady run. But then what? Hide out in the trees and wait for some dinosaur to come eat him? For the natives to find him? Better the devil you know.

He followed the young man into the tents, once more trailing behind somebody else in the midst of a disaster. He felt acutely uncomfortable, out of control of the situation. He was usually the one who knew what was going on, the one who called the shots. Not here. Not now.

But taking decisive action in a chaotic, uncontrolled environment was nothing new to him, so he powered on, eyes fixed on the man's back.

Then there was a series of cracks so loud and close together they sounded like the rattle of a fifty cal in his ear.

He looked upwards to find the origin of the sound as he ran. Far in the distant sky above, the clouds slung low before the moon parted as he watched, expanding before a colossal shockwave.

He had just enough time to duck away, open his mouth and cover his ears before the shockwave struck with the force of a blow. There were spikes of pain in both of his ears and a high-pitched keening sound told him his eardrums had burst.

He took his hands down from his head. They were bright red with blood in the sudden moonlight.

He spared a quick glance at the now-cloudless sky and immediately wished he hadn't. Three enormous winged creatures hung impossibly suspended hundreds of feet up in air. Their wingspans must have been in the hundreds of feet, their long serpentine bodies at least as long as a football fields.

Thin black lines falling from them marked ropes, and the dozens of dots sliding down them could only be soldiers rappelling to the ground below.

Oliver wrenched his attention away from the absurd vision to see the soldier looking back at him and waving him on.

He followed, picking up into a quick jog. Around him other members of the camp were running to and fro, some camp followers carrying belongings, some soldiers in various states of attire, and others besides.

Sounds were muted and he moved as if in a dream. He focused on the the back of the soldier running through the tents and followed him for what felt like an eternity but really was only a few minutes.

Then the soldier stopped and entered a tent. He followed him inside a moment later, clarity slowly returning to his senses. As he entered into the gloom of the tent the soldier was lighting some kind of lantern.

Then the soldier turned to a wooden dummy carrying a familiar set of gray plate armor on one side of the tent, reaching for the chest piece.

"Here, help me get this armor on, will you?" he asked.

Oliver froze for a second. The closest he'd come in his life to strapping on armor was probably getting into his hockey goalie gear. He hadn't the faintest idea how to put on real armor.

But looking at the chest plate he saw a few straps and buckles that immediately made sense, so he nodded silently and helped the soldier lift it to his chest.

It was just as heavy as it looked, and he didn't envy the man at all as he pressed it to his chest and stepped around behind him to do the straps.

In moments he had on the breastplate and the soldier was reaching for the greaves and other pieces. Some he was able to strap on himself, and others he asked Oliver to help with.

Oliver went slowly, carefully, didn't rush despite the obvious need.

Slow was smooth, and smooth was fast.

Some ten minutes later the soldier stood fully accoutered, aside from the gloves, which he left off.

"Right, that's that," he said, voice muffled by his helmet and Oliver's burst eardrums. "Let's get you sorted now, and quickly. Which quadrant was your tent in?"

"I'm not sure," said Oliver, thinking furiously. "I just got into camp. But I know it was in the northern–"

The young soldier gestured impatiently. "We don't have time for that. Did you see the Ephresian legions coming in? Their dragons are here already. Look," and he gestured to the side.

Turning, Oliver saw a second armor rack, also with its suit of armor intact. "It's my tent-mate's, but he, ah, won't need it right now."

Oliver chose not to question. Armor would definitely add to his survivability – if, that is, he could move around in it. He decided not to second-guess himself, nodded.

"Right. Thanks," he said, and lifted up the breastplate, pressing it up to his chest. A few clanks came from behind him as the other man came up, and then he was putting the buckles together.

They repeated the same process, except the unknown soldier had to help him with a lot of the buckles that he'd had no problem with.

By the time they were on the last piece, another ten or fifteen minutes had flown by and the other man was regarding him with a measure of unguarded suspicion.

Oliver was distracted from his observation as the last piece of armor clicked into place, seeming to almost be drawn from his hands to its location on his leg rather like a magnet. He strapped it on and as he did so, there was a muted hiss underneath his helmet, and the armor – shifted.

It re-situated itself on his body, buckles tightening and plates realigning. He had a sudden uneasy feeling that it was alive and engulfing him. Then suddenly it seemed lighter, much lighter, tighter yet much more comfortable, and he forgot entirely about that.

The whole suit of armor together now seemed to weigh as much as the breastplate alone had, earlier, and it was so well fitted that it seemed almost a part of him, a second skin. No wonder the soldiers could've jogged in it the way they'd done the first time he saw them. It was just magic.

He hid his reaction, instead casually adjusting one of the gauntlets as he pulled it on. He looked over at the soldier, who was still watching him.

Then, as they locked eyes, a trumpet sounded clear and piercing through the noise and chaos. Both men looked to the entrance of the tent and the other soldier seemed to forego his suspicions.

"That's the muster call. Finally! Let's go."

He grabbed his sword belt from beside the armor rack where it leaned – Oliver mirrored his action, doing the same – and then they exited the tent, the other soldier taking off in the direction of the trumpet immediately.

They'd only made it a few paces when what felt like the actual fist of God came slamming down into the earth around them. A tremendous explosion threw Oliver into the air – along with everything else in the vicinity – and sent him flying away like a rag doll.