Rocs just weren’t tamable. The most that could be done with them was to keep them fed and try not to irritate them. When they weren’t hungry or annoyed, they mostly behaved. Unless it was mating season. Or they heard a loud noise. Or something shiny drew their attention. Or they smelled a chicken. Or they thought they smelled a chicken. Or they just felt like stomping something under their tremendous feet. For such immense creatures, they were terribly jumpy.

Gabel glanced through the sky. The flight was ten minutes late. Might be a normal delay. Might mean the transport had gotten hungry and stopped for a snack. This wouldn’t be the first new officer to be devoured before he reached the fortress.

Goblins staffed the roc program and nearly every other project that required personnel equally fearless and expendable. Their bold obtuseness was fortunate. Otherwise, the way they bred, they’d have overrun the world long ago.

Gabel stopped a goblin passing by. This one wore a helmet with the crest of a pilot squadron. Gabel didn’t recognize the design. Either The Flying Brunches or Stubborn Chewables. This particular pilot had three scratches on his helmet, signifying he’d successfully flown a roc into the air and back again three times without perishing. That qualified him as a seasoned veteran.

“Yes, sir!” The pilot saluted sloppily, but Gabel ignored that.

“Any news on the commander?”

“No, sir!” The pilot shouted. “But I’m sure he’s fine, sir!”

Gabel looked to the pens. Four rocs paced about. Their long serpentine tails whipped up clouds of dust. Their merciless eyes glared. The biggest bird, about thirty-five feet high, nipped at another. The attacked roc shrieked and nipped back. Instantly all four monsters were busy shrieking and tearing at one another. Stains of dried blood and immense feathers from previous squabbles littered the pen.