Well WolfWitch, looks like it's just you and me, and the anticipated meeting of the planes is here at last...not that this signals the end of the tale. Oh no, you're stuck with me for awhile yet.
On a side note, Saima is actually my PC - I felt obligated to slip her in somewhere. Then as I was writing her scenesI realized that I don't like her. So you won't see too much more of her;she was mostly to show the parellels between the worlds - hero and hero,leader and leader, lover and lover. And the differences, for that matter - she's farweaker in personality than, say, Juliana. As for the Morag battle scene - I hate doing redundant things. And everyone writes a 'Morag defeated' battle scene. So I skipped it for the good stuff - more Damaliti (By the way: Damalit is the singular: Damaliti the plural. Don't ask where I got the word from.)
On with the story!
The former adventurer and current lord of the city greeted Aarin with a wry smile, "That didn't take as long as I expected."
He was spared from having to answer by one of the castle guard. Armor clanking as he skidded to a halt in front of his superiors, he threw a hasty salute with his spear, "Sirs! One of the dragons just landed on the roof of the castle. Its rider dismounted, and then it flew off to the west, leaving the rider behind."
Aarin raised an eyebrow, "Has anyone tried to approach?"
"No, sir."
"Well," Lord Nasher mused, rubbing a scar on his elbow, "You did say you wanted to meet one of them, Gend."
He nodded, "Aye, that I did. Well, then, I see only one choice…."
The guard saluted once again, "I'll have my men bring her down into the Great Hall immediately, sir…"
"That won't be necessary," Aarin waved the suggestion away, "I, at the very least, will go up to…her, is it? If she is comfortable on the roof, then we should accommodate her. It seems safest."
The guard shuddered, recalling the damage the dragons wrecked on the Luskan troops, and nodded agreement. Aarin turned to head for the spiral staircase that led up to the roof, then paused. Lord Nasher was right on his heels. "As Lord of this city," he explained gruffly to Aarin's silent question, "it is my duty to greet such mercenaries – and even if they are not, then they still have broken the siege. For that, I owe them my thanks, if nothing else. Besides," his grin was crooked, "it's the most interesting thing that's happened in months."
Chuckling, the spymaster led the way up the stairs and onto the flat roof of Castle Never. He paused at the top of the stairs, half planned, but half in shock. The guards had neglected to mention anything about the actual rider, and Aarin and Nasher were taken aback by her strange armor. It was most similar to full plate, with a heavy breastplate with two sweeping upward triangles to protect the belly and a metal plate 'skirt' to protect the hips and upper thighs, open in the front and back.
But…there was absolutely no protection for the legs, beyond a series of small metal plates strapped to the outside of her muscular thighs. Instead, she wore a pair of tight black leggings, bound to her shins with gray material of the same make. If Nasher had to guess, he'd say that they were made of some kind of leather…but it was hard to tell.
By contrast, her upper half was very heavily armored; he saw chainmail on her upper arms, vanishing beneath small shoulder guards to the rest of her torso. Plates on her lower arms swept up in fanciful peaks, much like the ones guarding her front. Metal fingerless gloves flashed on her hands, her hands small, fingers tapered and callused. And yet she wore no helm; there was but a flash of gold beneath her fiery hair; some kind of circlet, he guessed, like the one Aarin Gend wore. All of the metals shimmered with colors as strange as those of the dragons'; bronze and black trimmed in silvery pale gray and hints of gold. On anyone else, he guessed, the armor would be ridiculous. But on her, and her alone, it was as natural as a second skin, borne with ease and pride.
Yes, pride. He could see it in her stance even now, with her back to the battlements, head down, hands clasped behind her, legs spread far apart to grant her balance. He took a step forward, and her head came up. Challenging emerald eyes flashed beneath the golden circlet, the large alexandrite gem in the center of the circlet, the only gem he could see, pulsing with an inner light. Her stocky build tensed in preparation to fight or…
He extended one hand towards her, palm up, in a universal gesture of peace, "I am Nasher Alagondar, Lord of this city: Neverwinter."
She inclined her head in a small bow. When she straightened, her stance shifted; her heels snapped together, her shoulders were thrown back, her chin tilted, and one hand – the right one – came up in a slow salute, touching her temple before resting over her heart, fingers arched claw-like. "And I am Wing-Commander Juliana, Flight-Leader of Flight Askew in High General Dachgon's First Army. I am honored to greet you, Lord Nasher of Neverwinter."
"The honor is mine, Lady Juliana; your dragons saved my city from sure destruction. But…"
When he did not immediately follow with his question, the Wing-Commander arched an eyebrow and tilted her head in a patient urge to continue. "Where have you come from, my lady? We have never seen dragons of many colors before, and ones that fly together like troops advancing, or armor like yours…"
She hesitated, a flicker of distraction lighting into her eyes, and then frowned thoughtfully, "It is hard to explain; I am not sure I understand it myself. But we have come from a different world, a world that runs parallel to yours. The Sly One, the evil raider of an ancient race, opened a doorway to our world to summon forth the greatest of our monsters, and we took the opportunity to hold the door open, so that we could come and go as we pleased."
"But how did you know that such a door would be open?" Nasher pressed.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, perhaps aligning things in her mind before beginning, "A strange god came to us; one of your gods. He told us that we would be needed, and could strike a decisive blow against the Sly One. He showed us what needed to be made to accomplish such a thing, and told us to be ready." She paused again, and swayed. Her smile was crooked as she addressed them once more, "I would say more, but I believe I'm going to faint. Will one of you two please be a gentleman and catch me before I hit the stones? Thank you." With that, her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed.
It was Lord Nasher who managed to catch her, but Aarin wasn't far behind him. The spymaster's voice was awed as he helped the city's lord ease her to the flat stones of the roof, "My gods, there's an arrow in her back…all that time, she was standing proud with an arrow in her back…"
Nasher shot him a glare, instincts honed by his years of adventuring taking over as he began to tug at her armor, trying to put pressure on her wound even as he did so, "I'm well aware of the fact, Gend. We need a cleric or a healer up here…" he growled when he remembered that all able-bodied clerics and healers were busy patching up the wounded near the war zone. And then he was struck with a thought, one that forced him to sink back on his haunches, considering the matter for a moment; did he trust her with this?
"My lord?" Aarin's voice was soft as he looked up from the other side of the fallen warrior.
"Go get Aribeth; she's a paladin and should be able to help…more than we two could, anyways." He had made his decision.
Aarin did not question it – a minor mercy – but nodded and stood, trotting down the steps into the castle proper while Nasher worked at removing the rest of the strange armor. He had just figured out the easiest way to remove it and was setting it to the side when Aarin returned with Aribeth in tow. Her eyes were wary even as she bowed low to the lord of the city, "I submit myself to your judgment, Lord Nasher."
"No time for that foolishness," he snapped, "come here and see if you can heal this young warrior. I'll explain later."
Her wariness was replaced by puzzlement as she approached the side of the Wing-Commander, kneeling down to examine the wound in the female's bare muscular back. When she touched the shaft, Juliana groaned, the pain no doubt flaring and redoubling. She laid cool hands on either side of the wound, a thoughtful frown tugging at her lips as she studied it. "This is recent, and from a Luskan bow, I believe. It wedged beneath her shoulder blades, but I can't tell if it hit her lung or not…Who is she?" the question was abrupt.
"Flight-Leader Juliana; she's not from the city," Aarin murmured, watching the proceedings with sharp dark eyes. "She – and the rest of her people – came from a different world; a god brought them here to help fight Morag and her army."
Aribeth's eyebrows shot up, but she was focused now on doing what she could for the wound; she held no grudge against this woman. Her fingers twined around the broken shaft, and she felt the stocky female shudder beneath her touch. "Lord Nasher, Aarin, if you would hold her still, please?" her voice was soft and cool, that of an experienced healer.
She was obeyed without question; both males gripped the fallen woman's shoulders and leaned their weight on the small of her back, keeping her still without getting in Aribeth's way. Gripping the shaft as far down as she could, the paladin took a deep breath and yanked out the arrow. Juliana screamed, bucking beneath the males' hands, and then went still as a fountain of blood gushed from the wound, held back until now by the very arrowhead that had wounded her.
"Holy gods," Aribeth whispered the curse, placing her hands on either side of the wound. She hesitated, but the sight of her fingers turning red with the flow of blood convinced her; she closed her eyes and began to chant, seeking to heal the wound, slow the blood…She groped in the dark for some god, any god, to answer her and help her. And her god answered.
Far to the west, Virenyr looked down at the demise last fire giant to the slings and arrows of the combined Wings with satisfaction; the battle was over, and the war was quieting down. He was just about to order scouts to sweep the battlefield, looking for isolated pockets of resistance, and to search the four directions for their Fortress that should be arriving soon….when pain knifed into his skull, so sharp and hot that he threw back his head and screamed.
He heard not the worried cries of the other dragons; he was searching with his mind for the source of the pain…and touched the fevered, weak mind of Juliana, his beloved Damalit. "…Virenyr…?" The thought was barely coherent, no more than a whisper in his mind.
Even as it faded, he was banking around, sprinting back for the city, where he'd left Juliana, he called out to her, "Juliana! Juliana, what happened!"
In response, she could not even form coherent words; a rush of pictures and emotions and feelings flooded into his mind. Flying high, triumphant. Pain in her back. Arrow. Flesh wound…? On the rooftop. Talking, talking. Weaker. Blood trickling down her thigh, her shin, into her boot. Blackness.
He managed to sort out the gist of how she had been wounded, and increased his speed, racing back to the city. This sudden awareness of the wound made sense enough; Juliana had mental defenses, like all Damaliti, to keep things like this – sudden, crippling pain – from touching the mind of their dragon, so that at least one of the pair could function. And Juliana was proud enough, strong enough, to not mention a wound, not wanting to worry him. Among other things. But when she fainted, those defenses came crashing down. And thus he felt as though he himself had been wounded, so strong was her presence in his mind – usually.
But now, after that last press of images, she faded away….he roared again, as if his call could bring her from the brink of death…but it was hopeless. She was so far from him, a gap between their minds, a gap that had never existed, not in his long memory. "JULIANA!"
He closed his eyes and dove into the glistening red-white thread that tied her mind to his, now fraying one slender thread at a time. She had turned her back to him, and was walking into the gleaming light of… "NO! JULIANA! Come back! …Please. Come back… Wait for me…" the last was a soft whisper as his wings drove him on to the city, to where Juliana was.
As if in response, she paused at the foot of the long ramp leading into the white portal of death, shoulders set, her back still to him. Then she threw back her head, back arching, and screamed. It cut through his skull even as renewed pain throbbed.
And then she was gone; so far that he could hardly sense her, could just see the two silver stands holding her to this life. If they snapped, the whiplash would kill him, just as it killed Deledia when her dragon died. That was well; he didn't want to live on without Juliana.
But the threads were strong, and seemed to grow stronger as he drew closer to her. He called out to her again, and felt her mind stir, disjointed but there, alive. He opened his eyes, and saw the cause of her pain. Humans, natives of this world, crouched around her, holding her still, hands on her wound.
He was beyond reason; they caused her pain beyond that of the original wound. She would have been fine, had they not interfered. Rage clouded his vision, and two strokes of his wings had him soaring over the castle with a roar; he would take his Juliana home, and there she would recover, or die beneath her own sky. And if he caused a little pain and suffering on their part, all the better; they deserved no less. They made her scream. They had almost taken her from him. They would pay.
Wing-Commander Drake leaned low over his brass-red's neck, urging her faster. He had heard Virenyr's tortured roar, and knew of only one thing that could cause such tones in a dragon, only one thing that could make them turn their back on all their training to rush to their Damalit's side. Something had happened to Juliana. Something bad. Beyond that, he was as much in the dark as any Damaliti.
He also knew, though, that Virenyr could – and would – tear through an entire army to reach Juliana's side, regardless of their alliance; in his condition, he would put allies on the same side as foes and fight them all.
Renegade. Such a dragon was a danger to himself and his rider along with the rest of the world. And Drake knew that not all the power of the Flight – much less the Squadron – could hold Virenyr, such was his raw strength, the very reason he had been elected Flight-Leader turning against them now.
But he was counting that the black-bronze Flight-Leader recognized him and his brass-red Zirella, and would hesitate to attack. It was a feeble hope at best, nonexistent at worst; sick with worry and fear for his Damaliti, it was likely that Virenyr recognized no one.
But Drake had to try; he couldn't allow the dragon Flight-Leader to burn down the rest of the war-torn city in his grief and rage. Besides, Virenyr's rampaging would distract him – and anyone else – from Juliana's wounds, perhaps even causing her death. He couldn't allow that. His grip tightened on Zirella's ridge until she complained, "Drake, let go! We're coming up on Virenyr; what do you want me to do?"
"Do…?" The word was quite foreign to him; he had been consumed with abstract thoughts, far too consumed to think ahead.
He could feel the mental roll of her eyes, "Aye, do. You know, that thing that involves working out a pre-determined plan? Never mind, I know what's what. You just hang on and do as I tell you."
Fortunately, that was what he usually ended up doing. And usually, he was just fine with it; Zirella was a natural tactician and strategist, thinking up both maneuvers in battle and the long-term advance and retreat of an Army. But when she showed her plan to him, he balked, "Do you think that I'm an acrobat! I couldn't do that five years ago when I was Juliana's age!"
"Drake, shut up and do as I say," her reprimand was mild with distraction, her eyes focused on her quarry, drawing every nearer as he slowed down, seeking out the exact location of his rider…With a glass-trembling roar he dove down,finding her. "Hold on!" Zirella shouted, folding her wings to her side to shoot for the larger bronze-black.
There was nothing for Drake to do but that indeed; hang on and pray his stomach and its contents stayed where it belonged. Zirella was the fastest in the entire Flight – they often won the races that were held in times of peace. Even as Virenyr was still diving for the three figures crouched around the female Damalit, his brass-red halved, then halved again, the distance between them, the male dragon now just a few short dragon-lengths away. She dipped in the air and came up at him from below with a snarl, startling him into flaring, braking in midair.
Drake took advantage of the half-upside down position and did as Zirella had planned; he slid his feet from the stirrups, working them around the heavy metal plates that curved around his legs, and tumbled backwards into thin air, flipping over just once so as to land on his feet, catlike. "Zirella, be careful," he warned even as he relaxed his legs for the landing.
She was already driving the startled bronze-black backwards, away from the rooftop. "Don't worry…yet. Worry if you can't save Juliana. If she dies, not even a Flight of Storm Dragons could restrain Virenyr, much less me…"
Drake flinched, and let himself crumple into a crouch as his feet struck the stones. He took several deep breaths, surprised he had managed the maneuver without breaking his legs, and straightened, surveying the scene before him.