Ferrovax thundered down the hillside, wings plastered to his side, crimson gaze narrowing in upon the soldiers at foot far below. His jowls worked back and forth, flexing to prepare for gorging upon such tough morsels as iron-hardened men. It would hurt, he decided. Blood would run down his throat and off of his chin and not all of it would be that of his prey, but of his own torn gums and tongue and throat. He did not like that. Almost as much as he did not like racing down like an ignoble lizard, claws raking through the earth, instead of soaring upon their foes as his ancestors of old. I have roared to make them proud, at the least, he allowed. Branches snapped as he bore through them. The sour-sweet stench of man and horse piss perforated the nearing encampment.
Then he was within the border, and distantly he heard the deep thudding sound of the Urgals trying and failing to match his pace. His head snaked back around in time to spy the first ballista lining up, and though it was apparent that he had inspired fear within the men, there were a few who would not be cowed like a wounded doe. Their eyes were empty, but their motions smooth and steady, coordinated. Such men barked orders, directing their soiled brethren into some measure of formation. Ferrovax almost felt an inch of sympathy.
But then he breathed in that odor that stirred his memory toward his own captivity in the egg, and he growled menacingly instead.
None shall pass that threaten me, he began in a challenge across all of the unshielded minds in the vicinity, and as the arrows bounced from his toughened hide and he stormed forward, intent upon reducing the nearest man into a fine slurry of guts and iron, his nostrils flared with that horrid memory-scent again, and a tall black creature fell upon him like a typhoon; wavy sword crunched against his right flank, scouring a thin, jagged trail up to his wing, and pain as rarely imagined filled the dragon's mind. An awful, eating, devouring fire, gnawing through outer wing to inner fold, chewing through thin membranes to muscle, to the root, and then leaping through his shoulder to strike behind his right ear.
Had he turned, it would have taken his eye. Instead he shook, and the wing which he was coming to realize had been ruined flared upright, throwing the slighter figure forward and ahead in a wild tumble. Ferrovax only then panned his head around, and anguish burbled in his crooning sorrow, a low, awful melody beneath the physical pain. The continual dent of iron arrows itching at his hide made no mind at all in that moment. Distantly he was aware of the Urgals flooding in around him; and the same he knew his Rider has been wounded. As if through a long, winding passage, the rumble and roar of battle about the dragon bled into his ears and finally reached his mind.
But when it had, the noise faded out of notice. What has it done? An emotional whirlwind shook his body. Pain. Anguish. Regret. Loss. And, smelling that traitorous smell again, eventually molten rage devoured all of the rest. Ferrovax filled his lungs to the brim and bellowed the very next moment from the very depths of his being, a scream of primordial wroth for the loss of any dragon's most natural right in all the world- the gift of flight. My wings! Gone!
A deadened silence fell upon the encampment as men and Urgal alike flinched. In the forestry to one side his Rider would be feeling and fighting the very same emotional rage.
Ferrovax became a storm with no center, sinking into the embrace of primal instincts. He thundered forward with no regard for man or beast, ally or enemy, and no thought at all toward what his Rider wanted with these troops. All that mattered was killing the one who had wounded him for ever. It quorked and hissed at the soldiery to rise, but Ferrovax's bloodlust charge slashed down any who stood before him, and the violator crouched to prepare itself. That same wavy sword which had wrought such agony to the dragon's body and mind danced in the creature's hands before it leapt, clinging to a tree branch, and then ducked away, forcing Ferrovax to follow through lines of enemies. One of the larger Urgal's stood in his way and Ferrovax snarled at him, battering forward; the Kull grunted and shoved back, and they two danced an awful weave of brute muscle against ferocious rage, smashing down trees and tearing through flesh. Whole spans of scale, slick and bloody, fell away from Ferrovax's hide before he had sunk his teeth deep into the Kull's throat and ceased its resistance. He shook to be sure its neck had snapped before dropping the weighty foe to the ground, spitting dark, foul blood out of his gorge, and roared in outrage that this had not been the enemy desired.
Around him fire and pain fell, for now arrows could meet his naked flesh and gouge deep, and flames could burn at his tender hide. He panted, though his wroth was not diminished. And from somewhere behind he heard the snap of a branch collapsing as the violator made its play for his back, turning his form around in time to see it in mid-air. That such a creature should now fly while he had been grounded ignited the embers waiting deep down inside of the dragon's chest, and on his snarl a gout of rich, dark flames burst from his bloody maw. The violator shrieked and tumbled as it fell, but that sword did not waver, and the tip drove into Ferrovax's shoulders. He bellowed and bucked as the burning enemy clung there, and yet it would not be dissuaded from its hold, though neither could it managed to sink in the blade any further. Another hail of arrows met them both, and at last Ferrovax whipped his head around and expelled another blaze directly into the creature's face. It shrieked once more and now its fingers relinquished their hold, for it fell to the ground and there, rolling futilely in only a fraction of the pain which filled Ferrovax's own form, it died as he reared up and came down with all his might. A satisfying crunch filled the dragon's ears, and a hollow sort of echo left him reeling afterward, at last feeling the toll of his vengeance. He swayed over its corpse and collapsed there, smouldering inside.
Around him, the battle continued to unfold, and Ferrovax could only lay as he was and lament in his fury.
A short while later Harry surveyed the scene before him in equal parts exhaustion and frustration. His left arm hung at his side dully, waiting to be treated. That would have to wait, even as thin undulating lines rove in spirals around his limb for all to see, proof of the craftsmanship of the leaf-blade which had cut even though his enchanted robes and which he now carried within his armory. Before his muddled green gaze, he found death lovingly at work. Of the men he had meant to save, there were few in any state fit to live, let alone speak through their shock. The Urgals were better off on the whole. Most of the young had made it through - though Otvek of the Kull had not, and Khagra and Garzhvog wounded deeply. As to Ferrovax... the overgrown wyrm growled like a furnace, sending a winch of pain and rage even now across their shared link, though Harry had raised his occlumency shields for some time, and at once he could see why. Seven hells, he looks like he took on the entire host of enemies by himself. It's a wonder he's even conscious right now. The survivors gave the dragon a mighty berth, though several awful looks kept heading his way from the Urgals.
"I won't bother asking if you're alright," he said as he approached. Heavy lids turned his way and Ferrovax snarled wordlessly. Harry raised a brow, not at all concerned for his own well being in the moment. "I do assume you'd like those arrows extracted properly? Not the most comfortable acupuncture I've come across in all my years."
Do not trifle with me now, Harry-kinslayer-partner-of-mine! I have suffered as you can hardly imagine! I have- Harry raised his good hand and gripped the sword he'd only just now noticed between the ravaged wings, and Ferrovax's exclamation shook the treetops once more on the extraction. It was an agonized howl. Harry quickly discarded the weapon and placed his fingers against the gushing wound, concentrating. Just as he wove his own blood, now too did he whisper and extend that control to his dragon's, and Ferrovax squirmed and gnashed his teeth irately only inches from Harry's face. Cease this at once! It itches! It burns!
Harry gave him a sharp look and kept at it until the gushing slowed and held in place like a stopper. One down, a few dozen to go. I got the worst out of the way first and I'll treat the remainder properly later, but this will do for the meanwhile. So don't scratch at it and simmer down, if you wouldn't mind. Ferrovax snorted and turned his head away, laying his chin across his front paws. Those claws tenderized the soil underneath and he resumed his low growling. One by one each arrow was pried out and the puncture treated the same, until at last Harry shucked out of his battle robes and laid them across the vulnerable flesh like one large piece of gauze. Suck in your gut for a minute and arch your back for me. A bit of finagling with his wand had the sleeves elongated if thinned out and tied loosely around Ferrovax's waist. There. That'll do until I can brew up some potions. As for these... he hesitated at the tarnished wings. These I may be able to do something about with a few months of practice.
Ferrovax rumbled, and a bit of that awful rage relented in his eyes and between their minds. Do you speak true? Then, without waiting, the dragon sifted through the memories which Harry begrudgingly brought to mind, of Skele-gro and transfiguration, chiefly. I may fly again?
I promise you, we shall fly together again one day, and not only in memory, but I need time. Until then there are those I can still help right now. With a weary wince he pushed at the dragon's thoughts and Ferrovax relented, settling to the ground more quietly now. Harry patted his dragon's neck and then approached the Kull's firepit. He sat down with a grunt on an upturned log.
"I told you we'd have words after the battle, Kull. I mean to have them out now." As he spoke - to Garzhvog, not that traitor Khagra - Harry dug through his armory and began withdrawing potion bottles and ingredients.
Garzhvog had opened his eyes in the wake of Ferrovax's roar, hot with the heat of victory yet dark with certain loss. Now he sat up and spoke, "What would you hear, Rider? For we too must now have words, and actions out of our past have repeated that bear repayment."
Harry continued drawing out little samples, mostly to prevent infection and stem blood loss - he was certainly no Saint Mungo's Healer, and those rudimentary spells that might help were iffy in this condition - so that he could draw something of value out of the 'mad king's' soldiers still alive. Perhaps even save a few of their miserable lives while that was still a possibility. He finally looked up.
"I need your reassurance that no more lives will be taken until we've all, man, Rider, dragon and Urgal, healed. This battle could have been avoided if things had gone just a little different, and I can not let any more die now that I should have saved then."
Khagra, as ever, grunted disparagingly and thumped his club against the dirt. "Do not listen to him, Nar Garzhvog! Let us finish our work to these men, men who ignore our signs, slay our people, kill our brother Kull!" He spat at Harry's feet. "Do not forget Otvek!"
There were times when Harry would have schooled his expression and let that go. But not today, not after having seen the extent of which warring was inscribed in these creatures. An insult like that would not be tolerated in their own community.
He shook his broken arm and mustered up the will to straighten out the damages temporarily, and given how much he was using to keep his dragon from bleeding out, his expression took on a rictus of pain and anger. Hurt like a bitch, lifting against the broken bones inside, angling the fingers to point accusingly, but he did so anyway. "You can drink a tall glass of shut the hell up, Kull. I'm speaking to Nar Garzhvog, as leader-to-leader, Rider to Nar, in matters of honor."
Khagra growled at him and struggled upward. Harry met Garzhvog's stare pointedly. And then Garzhvog raised his head, exposing his throat only a little less than usual, to which Harry returned in kind. Come, Rider, and let us speak without interference, the Kull offered him.
But would that silence your brethren and hold them to whatever we come to an agreement on? he asked.
Garzhvog rumbled in approval, and when Khagra took that for a sign to attack, Ferrovax rose. The camp as a whole stilled, as the downed dragon shredded the soil underneath his weaving, almost drunken steps, coming to Harry's side, and splaying open the maw full of richly decorated ivory less than a foot from the troublesome Kull's face.
Be you-Urgal-evil silent! Ferrovax spoke to all the camp. What was done was done in the bloodlusts of battle, as your own leader swore may happen!
Harry laid his broken arm over Ferrovax's neck, earning a rough shake, not enough to dislodge, but enough to convey the fury still boiling beneath the surface. Harry patted him stiffly. I take it you killed a few of their own? He asked across their link. A flicker of hazy, hot memories answered that, and Harry sighed to himself.
"Nar Garzhvog, I'm going to kill a great many people before my journey here is through. I would rather not end the journey's of those who could be spared-" he gestured to the soldiers not so far away, to the Urgal children and young huddling close together in the wake of his dragon's crawl, and ultimately at the Kull themselves. "I understand enough about the history of yours that dragons and Riders share little space where love is concerned, so I'm asking you now, warrior to warrior, leader to leader. Don't make me kill anyone else I don't have to today, and let this battle be a testament to the brutality of necessity."
Khagra turned to Garzhvog. The other Kull bared his teeth. "Go, Khagra, and calm our brethren. I will see to it the matters between the Rider and our lands alone are settled." Khagra stood up shakily, muscles strained from combat and, Harry thought, just enough fear of them to be useful, and trudged over to the others. Hushed whispering broke out at once in their guttural language.
Before he or Garzhvog could continue, however, lighter, shuffling footsteps preceded a soldier's trembling voice, "Are they dead? Those monsters... the King's envoys... are they truly dead?"
"Those rasping bird-bugs?" Harry asked. The soldier looked at him with shell-shocked, glassy eyes. "The King's overseers... are they dead?" the man asked again.
"Yes," he answered firmly. "The first is up in the western hills. The second is just over there, both dead." The soldier slumped to his knees and began muttering in tongues, dry gibberish as far as Harry knew. To Garzhvog he said, quietly, "You see the state of these men now? Driven against their will, against their better judgement. Not interlopers in your territory by choice."
The Kull scoffed. "There is always a choice, Rider. They could have died before marching against us."
The wizard bristled irritably. "They're dying now. And I have the resources to save them, if you'd let me, and that I intend to share with you and yours if you would have my skills."
Garzhvog shuffled his own broken arm and huffed in pain, a reminder that it would be to dishonor them to take on outside treatment. Then reclined his head, so that the rack of horns lowered by inches. "We of the Kull shall persist, Rider, though the cubs may accept your magic. But by our laws I cannot let these soldiers go freely, to harass our people, our land, again." And he huffed once more, as if a bad taste resided in the back of his throat. "But you have fought honorably, Rider, and for that I may concede the first spoils of battle to your choice."
Harry brought his injured arm around and with a fixed grimace clasped Garzhvog's hand, drawing a muted snarl to the Kull's face. Their eyes met steadily as they shook. "By your blood and mine, Nar Garzhvog. I will claim these soldiers that still breath as my spoils of combat, and as my subjects that they are bound to my word, my honor, such that what one does here onward, I lay claim to responsibility for. No more will these 'soldiers of the mad king' trouble you and yours, Nar Garzhvog, once healing has commenced."
Garzhvog ululated again. "That is good, Rider."
When that was done he broke their agonizing grip and settled back into his comfortable spot against a shattered log. "When we have healed, Rider, we shall go again our separate ways."
Harry gratefully allowed his arm to slide down to his side and then he began brewing potions by memory.
Nine days later and a little more knowledgeable, between a second and far more careful trip back to that old man's village and some tortuously slow question and answer sessions with the men left alive, saw a hostile departure on that edge of the Spine. Neither surviving soldiers nor Urgal appreciated the others presence in the aftermath of their battle. Harry kept the men in line, literary, with more of that enchanted gray rope he'd once affixed to Ferrovax's neck when this mess began two odd months prior, loops connecting the frail men together and to the trees at either end. No amount of pulling, or wearisome gnawing, had amounted to any damages in those fibers.
Today Harry tied them to his belt instead, after a brief but portent goodbye to the Kull.
"I cannot ask your patience if more of these fools turn up upon your doorstep," he said briskly. "Only that I ask your restraint. Send them down to the village, battered and bruised, yet still alive. I have a feeling that old bastard I clashed with once would settle them up just fine."
Nar Garzhvog rumbled. All he said was, "If they do not kill ours, Rider." No promise. But not disagreement, either, which, so long as that other scum, Khagra, stayed out of things, would work just fine.
"Long days and pleasant nights, Urgals."
They hissed, unhappy with his choice of farewell. "Short days and longer nights, Rider," Garzhvog answered.
Harry, with a surly, scabby Ferrovax thundering beside, herded the tied soldiers out to the east, in the direction they'd come marching from originally.
Chapter Three concluded.
A/N: Hi folks. Hope the wait was worth it. We're finally done with the Spine and can begin the long march across the Empire and toward better places, and Harry is only just beginning to find the troubles that will await he and Ferrovax. Otvek's death is a throwback to chapter one when Garzhvog first met with Harry, speaking about the heat of battle and the haze it can cause. Though Khagra would have Ferrovax's head in exchange, Garzhvog can see beyond that, though he may not be happy about it. So what awaits next? The Lethrblakr shan't be happy their children are dead, and captive soldiers are not likely to stay behaved when they near good towns. Trouble will answer Harry's mercy.