A/N: Much thanks to WitchWolf and shadow0015, who reviewed! Enjoy!
As Juliana's Wing passed over the streets of the battle-locked city, flying over the rest of the Wings on their way towards the Luskan camp, Juliana noted the position of each of the four other Wings. Commander Drake was just rounding the farthest corner of the city, a trail of bonfires stretching out behind his Wing. One by one, the catapults were being silenced by fire and ice and spell; flaming boulders from the siege machines no longer crossed the city's sky-space like comets. Commander Zacho's had positioned themselves above a certain group of mercenaries – six, maybe? It was hard to tell from so far away – and were guarding them from the air, making the press of Luskans think twice before approaching with drawn weapons.
Commanders Styrander and Wythwen had joined their Wings together for a classic maneuver: Quarter and Blaze. One Wing would separate into their two Feathers and fly to opposite ends of the chosen section of the Luskan army. Then they would race along pre-determined border lines, spitting fire the entire way to cut that section off from their fellows with a wall of fire. Once the Wing rejoined at the corner of the section, they wheeled about and stretched out in a long line. Swooping low, they laid down a blanket of fire – or spells or arrows in some cases – to exterminate the soldiers in the quarter. Finally the second Wing flew a Sweep against any surviving soldiers, laying down a second blanket of fire, targeted directly against anything still moving. In this way they broke the army into manageable chunks, destroying squads and patrols at a time, nibbling away at the edges of the soldiers.
As her Wing soared over their latest 'Fire Field' – as the patch of burning land was known in the Damaliti barracks – Commander Styrander happened to glance up, and grinned, raising his distinctive lance in salute. Juliana smiled and raised her left gauntlet to her mouth, knowing that her Wing flew too high and too fast to call a verbal greeting to him. Touching his sapphire stone, she spoke into the crystal, "Having fun yet?"
"Hell yes! Where're you headed?"
"To their main camp to set some things on fire; should stop their fresh soldiers from reaching the battlefield."
He chuckled, "Wish I'd thought of that. Good luck."
"Thanks. You too." By that time, her Wing was soaring high over what remained of Neverwinter's walls, the camp of the enemy sprawling out beneath them. Idly, Juliana sank back in the saddle, looking over the camp, waiting for a stroke of brilliance. "Hm…Virenyr?"
"Yes?"
"Delta formation, then split the Wing?"
"And have each set of three start a fire in a different part of the camp? Good. Very good. But here's a tweak to it…"
His Damalit listed closely to his advice, then chuckled. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again; you are brilliant." His smug thoughts flooded her mind, and if he had been on the ground, he would have preened at the praise, sure that he never got enough. Shaking her head to herself, Juliana ordered her wing into the Delta formation; a linear box with six dragons on each side. Then each side split away into the Split-Wing formation; two dragons under the command of either a Captain, or a Lieutenant in the case of the two mage-scout Splits.
Or, Juliana admitted bitterly as she and Virenyr soared even higher to better see the camp and all four Splits of her Wing, in the case of the Back- right Feather Split, two dragons to a Split including the Lieutenant…but that's the way it has to be, with Deledia… She cut the thought off as she watched as each moved to a different section of the camp, giving them ample time to get into place before she gave the first order. "Mage-scouts, split away."
Confused but obedient, the two Damaliti in question soared into the middle distance, between Juliana and the rest of her wing, the right Split-Feather forced to juggle Damaliti so that in the end, they ended up with two dragons, including officers. "Now, cloak us. On my mark, drop the cloak on one of the Splits. Split, when that happens, swoop down and flame three or four tents, no more, then get out of there fast. Mage-scouts, be ready to re-cloak them on the ascent. Now!"
To the soldiers in the camp, it was like the three dragons appeared out of nowhere, dropping down with flame-rimmed jaws. In very short order, five tents – including an officer's – were encased in flames. Then the dragons vanished into the overcast sky again. For a moment, they had to stand in shock, staring at the hungrily lapping flames. But when the flames began to stretch out, seeking more fuel, they sprang into action. Those about to head out to the battle were recalled to help protect their camp as bucket brigades were formed. From above, Juliana watched the scrambling dots – that's all the soldiers looked to be from her height, just dots – with unbridled amusement. Then a wizard had the brilliant idea to summon a Water Elemental to deal with the raging fires.
As soon as the fire had died down to embers and the tent roofs were billowing inwards with the sheer amount of water from the Elemental, Juliana rubbed her hands together in glee, "Who's opposite the Split that just dropped? Lieutenant Lomyril's? Guess what you get to do."
"Oh, Commander! May we?"
Juliana chuckled, "Mage-scouts, you know what to do."
"Erm, There's a bit of a problem," the senior mage-scout, Monall, began, "See, once we drop this cloak spell – for any of you – we're tapped out. Can't recast it."
Juliana was just about to address this problem when a more urgent one arose. Drake's voice, made sharp with fear, echoed up from her left bracer, "All Wings, a fire giant phalanx just appeared out of the western forest! Repeat, there is a fire giant phalanx making its way towards one of the gaps in the west wall!"
She swore through her teeth and dismissed all minor problems from her mind; just as large as a dragon, a fire giant phalanx were one of the few things that stood a fighting chance of defeating a Wing of dragons. "Drake, how many do you count?" she barked even as Virenyr wheeled about, striking out for the western wall.
"Twenty to thirty; decent sized phalanx. My Wing's just finished the last of the catapults and we're pulling up."
Juliana nodded, "Do it." Then she bit her lip, looking over the Wings arrayed below her. Alright…how to work this…call their numbers thirty for the sake of pessimism; we need to match that at least…damn fire giants that are immune to fire! I can't pull all five Wings…Feathers, then… "My Wing: Captain Felin, I need your Feather to continue running interference with the camp; you've got the knack of it now. Keep the soldiers scrambling from one side to another. Mage-scouts: forget the spells and join the Splits as fighters. The Splits will just have to be sure to get out of there fast and fly high, perhaps even into the belly of the clouds. Captain Mers, your Feather's with me for now. Let's go."
Racing against the marching phalanx, the seven dragons and Damaliti in question sprinted away from the camp, the smoke from their exploits rising up behind them, darker than the clouds above. It seemed to take hours to reach the war zone and the two Wings that were quartering the army, and Commander Zacho's just beyond. "Commanders! You heard Drake's news. Commander Styrander, split your Wing into Feathers; one go to Drake, one carry on as you have been doing. Commander Wythwen, take your full Wing and follow Styrander's captain; Captain's Mers' Feather will take your place running sweeps. Commander Zacho! Split up your Wing and leave three to protect those adventurers; the other nine will fight the fire giants," she ordered into her bracer.
Affirmatives and soft prayers for good luck echoed up to her ears. As she watched the various switches taking place, she heaved a sigh, her first full breath in ages, and glanced out over the battle once more. Thunder rumbled close, and she glanced up to see if perhaps it would rain at last; rain, and break this press of air…what she saw made her gasp in shock. "Virenyr! That…that's…it's a…"
Her dragon's voice was awed, "It's a Storm Dragon."
Storm Dragons! Her mind raced as she stared at the huge dragon riding the winds of the storm front, colors swirling around his scales; blues and whites and grays and the pale, iridescent purples of lightning. Storm Dragons, rarest of the rare. Storm Dragons, largest of the large. Storm Dragons, the only dragons that could summon powerful storms with a glance; Storm Dragons, who breathed lightning strong enough to knock a dragon from the sky; Storm Dragons who cared not a whit for humanity or other dragons, for that matter, who only lived to destroy, who had the strength to defy the Damaliti Flights. The only blessing Juliana could think of was that at least they never flew together; she didn't want to think of the damage a Wing of Storm Dragons could cause. One was bad enough; their scales were tougher than most dragons', leaving no vulnerable places. Often it took the lives of an entire Wing or two to kill one.
And here she was, all of the Damaliti beneath her too involved with their various missions to notice the approaching Storm Dragon, armed with nothing but a sword that would break as soon as it hit the beast's scales and a bow that was even less effective. "Commander Styrander, give me your lance."
He was close enough to look up at her and convey puzzlement through his eyes…but her attention was fixed on the slowly approaching evil; it took its time flying, thinking that there was no rush, whatever it was going to destroy would still be there in a half-hour or so, and no one was going to rise up to challenge it…Styrander's eyes followed hers, and then he swore, "Dear gods…a Storm Dragon….No!" he suddenly realized what she had planned, "Commander, please! Don't go after it alone! My Feather and yours…"
"Styrander, shut up and give me the lance. One has just as good a chance of killing it as a baker's dozen."
He glanced at the lance in question, then grinned, reversing it to pass the handle up to her, "Be careful with it. It was my grandfather's."
As soon as Juliana touched the shaft, she knew that she had made a good choice in demanding it. "This is Dragonkiller!" Of all the lances it could have been, it was the one that killed a dragon – any dragon, even a Dimaliti's – on contact with its blood. Usually forbidden in Flights and Wings, as it was too easy to accidentally nick a dragon… "Styrander…." Her tone was low in warning.
"My grandfather said to take it; he thought we might need it. So…" he shrugged.
"Well…" Juliana glanced up at the razor-keen tip, glistening even in the pale light that had wormed its way down through the clouds, "I can't fault you; I'm too glad to have it now. I'll bring it back with the Storm's head pierced to it."
He waved agreement as she lowered it over the pummel of the saddle, letting it slide through her fingers so that the point rested near Virenyr's neck. "You watch that," he complained as he began the long flight to the confrontation with the Storm Dragon, picking up speed with every beat of his wings.
"I will," she promised. "You know," she added after a moment, tone thoughtful as she pulled off her bracers, storing them away; she needed no distractions from her Wing-Commanders or Wing if she was going to do this, "This is probably how we got here, too…the Sly One, the scaled raiders' queen who wants all the worlds, threw open a door between our worlds to summon the Storm Dragon…and our wizards and clerics were able to catch it as it swung shut, wedging it open. Now, with the crystals they gave us Commanders that let us pass through the Sky Door, we can open it full to let a Flight – or more – through, or leave it cracked shut to keep the worlds separate…"
"Yes…" Virenyr mused, "And we have that strange god to thank for warning us that our aid was needed here, now."
"The one with the missing right hand? Who scared the cleric so badly that she fainted? I remember…Faerun. Neverwinter. Luskan. Old Ones, Creator Race. Morag. Maugrim. Aribeth the Betrayer. Strange words on our tongue, strange names. I'm glad the Generals decided to let my Flight be the one to enter the new world."
"Me too. This is all so…different, so fascinating. I only wish that we have a chance to see the city when it is not torn asunder by war."
And then there was no time for talk, even mental talk, as they drew close to the Storm Dragon at last. It gave them a passing glance, not concerning its mighty self with mere mortals, one lazy beat of its wings sending it closer to the city, the lust for blood and death gleaming in its red eyes. No. This would never do. Juliana's eyes narrowed as she tucked Dragonkiller into the hooks made for spears and lances on the edge of the saddle, stringing her short bow. It must see them as a threat! It must stop and fight them! They, who stood a slightly better chance of surviving one of its attacks rather than the defenseless Wings and the city of Neverwinter.
Sliding one of her special arrows onto the string, she drew the arrow back to her ear, then beyond, putting as much force as possible into this single shot. She didn't bother to aim, but let the arrow slid off her fingers and sing out as it cut the air. It shattered on the neck scales of the Storm Dragon, but what she intended came to pass; its eye turned to her, narrowed in annoyance at this petty human who dared disturb its flight. Fanning the air with its massive wings, it opened its long jaws and roared, perhaps intending to frighten her off once and for all.
Though the Storm Dragon was far bigger than he was, Virenyr stood his aerial ground and bellowed right back, snorting tongues of fire out his nostrils. Juliana had just enough time to store the short bow away and bring the lance out, and then the Storm Dragon was upon them, long neck stretched out, teeth bared. Virenyr swung around at the last moment, the great scaled beast rushing by them, creating his own wind with his great bulk. Juliana snaked the gold-colored lance down, all fourteen feet of it extended, striking at the Storm's haunch. It skittered off the hard scales, and Juliana winced, commenting to Virenyr, "I was afraid of that; we need to hit true, with a full-fledged charge behind us."
"What do you need me to do?"
"Stay alive. Get me an opening. I want to slam Dragonkiller right through its heart; no sense in taking chances."
With a soft grunt, the black-bronze flared his wings, pivoting away from the second rushing attack, and began to back up for a true charge. "No sense in sitting still and getting hit. Let's attack, and be done with it! Ready?"
Juliana nodded, adjusting her grip on the lance, keeping it low over her dragon's shoulder for better control. "Let's do this. CHARGE!"
The Strom Dragon, when it saw the Damaliti rushing towards it with lance extended, paused. This little one looked to be more trouble than it had originally anticipated. Folding its wings to its side, it shot forward in a charge of its own, losing any hope it had of using its feared lightning breath; the two combatants were too close together to risk it. On that same token, the lance was unwieldy in close quarters, and through snaps of its jaws and pursuits of the retreating black-bronze, the Storm Dragon kept the Damaliti from using the lance as effectively as it needed to be used to kill it.
The press of doom was heavy in the air, the intermittent lightning and rumbles of thunder providing a fitting backdrop for this greatest of confrontations; if the Storm Dragon got through Juliana, the war would be over. Luskan would win. But the young Wing-Commander's warrior blood was up, and through sharp jabs, she managed to keep the Storm Dragon from slaughtering them at its leisure. It was a fight to the death, and a close-matched one at that. Juliana grinned as she leaned into her next thrust, seeking to drive the lance-head into the vulnerable veins at the muscular base of its wing; she wouldn't have it any other way.
As the greatest of aerial battles began in the skies high above Neverwinter, a very similar one was taking place in its depths. The ranger Saima padded forward, drawn sword in one hand, the other aloft, grasping a glowing amulet. Save for the light of her amulet, not a speck of light shown down in this, the deepest of depths. She paused in her tread just before a simple stone door, so much ones she might encounter in the cave lairs of various creatures she had hunted, but so much more. Instinct told her that her enemy was just beyond this door… "At last," she murmured aloud, "At long last."
How long had it been, she wondered as she took this moment to steel herself for that was to come. How long had she been tracking this evil Queen? Since she started searching for the cult…? No. Earlier. Even when she was just a student at the Neverwinter Academy, or while she was tracking down the lost cure for the Wailing Death, she was doing a slow dance of battle with this creature, each victory getting her ever closer to the final confrontation…this.
She heard her heart pound in her ears as she reached to push open the door, but no other sound. It was rare, in these days of late, that she hunted alone, but now…it was right that she stand her without even her wolf companion at her side. She had begun it alone, and alone she would finish it. She glanced down at the amulet around her neck, and smiled; alone physically, but never spiritually. He had promised her that, and she believed him; his spirit would always be with her.
It was time. She shoved open the stone door and came face to face with the Queen of the Old Ones herself, Morag. Saima had seen projections of the Queen before, and had battled Old Ones both in the ruins near Beorunna's Well and here, in the Source Stone Sanctuary. But nothing compared the Queen in her glory. Saima blanched, caught off guard at the aura of power and evil around the Old One.
Morag's smile was slow and as satisfied as a predatory cat's, her voice smooth and easy, "You are powerful…for a half-elf slave. You have slain Maugrim, the prophet who heralded my coming—" Saima remembered that battle – it hadn't happened twenty hours ago. The so-called prophet was insane and an idiot to boot. After all she had been through, all she had heard about him, she had been expecting…something more.
"—You have defeated Aribeth, the champion I chose among the slave races—" That had been an interesting fight, too. It had taken every ounce of her persuasion and conviction, but she had convinced Aribeth to turn away from Morag and walk the path of light once more. To the best of her knowledge, Aribeth had turned herself into Lord Nasher and Aarin Gend, and was now in the cells beneath the dungeon, awaiting her fate as a traitor…provided the city survived all this.
"—And you have slaughtered many of my warriors and priests." Saima was interested in how Morag ranked those three things; Maugrim, then Aribeth, and her warriors at the top. "But now you face Morag, Queen of the Old Ones, High Priestess of the Creators! Kneel, slave, and I shall let you live!"
And pigs will fly, Saima thought grimly. The free-spirited ranger gave a tight smile in response to this offer, and spat out, "I bow to no one, Morag! Your time is over; the Old Ones shall not rise again!"
With no more warning, the lizard-like woman swung her staff in a circle, shouting, "I shall rip away your flesh and feast on your soul, slave!"
Saima jumped to the side, dodging the spell thrown at her, drawing her long sword. It was time to end this six-month adventure.