A/N: Well, the way I figure, this is going to run about 10-12 chapters. Give or take…five. Witchwolf: glad you loved that last chapter; it was fun to write. Yes, explanations are coming…in time. And yeah, I too hate it when the 'god of death' is a villain: figure most people die in their sleep, so how evil can he be?
And I know there are more people who are reading this…you're out there…somewhere…right? If you like this, drop me a review and tell me so! Or I'll epic it. I swear, I'll epic it – last page count on the last story I epiced: 200 pages, give or take 20. And going. And going…
Drake let out his breath in a hiss, "That son of a…that insufferable…"
"Cunning of him," everybody whirled around, startled at Styrander's cool words. He and his silver-blue Asorria hovered over the main center of the city….and behind them stretched all five Wings, the drizzle that still fell from the skies rinsing away wet blood on armor and scales alike; Drake hadn't even noticed the weather. "He decides when and how you die anyway, so he just reiterated that fact while healing Juliana."
"I hate it when gods find loopholes," Drake muttered under his breath.
Styrander chuckled, leaning against the pummel of his saddle, "So, all's well that ends well, Drake?"
The tall Damalit walked over to Juliana, kneeling down at Aribeth's side. He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheeks, then sought her pulse in her neck. He couldn't help breathe a sigh of relief at the strong, steady pulse, and then tilted her forward into his arms to check her back….the wound was just a new scar, pink and ridged, dried blood splattered across her back. At last he commented, addressing all sixty-five dragons and Damaliti at once, "She's lost a lot of blood; she'll be weak for a time. But –" he glanced at Virenyr, who nodded confirmation, "But she'll be fine."
A long sigh was pulled from the Damaliti's lips; no one had been aware just how much the death of Juliana would have affected them all. "So," Drake continued as he gathered the unconscious leader into his arms, "you are all here because….?"
Styrander, the ranking Wing-Commander, was the one to give the report, "Mage-scouts reported in; area's clear all around the city for miles. And look!" He pointed to the north.
Drake turned, and grumbled beneath his breath, "Finally! It took them long enough!"
His annoyance was not typical for those on the roof; they gasped, getting to their feet in awe. The Flying Fortress Westeringe had appeared on the horizon, towed by the other two Squadrons of the Flight, or about 165 dragons. The sight was enough to make even Drake's throat close with wonder and – for him, a Damalit – joy.
The Fortress itself was the peak of a mountain shorn from its base and thrown aloft, spells contained in crystals and gems along the flat bottom keeping it on an even keel in the air. But it was the actual dragons of a Flight that powered its flight; ropes attached to the saddles allowed the Fortress to be towed and directed – no easy feat, but nothing the dragons' weren't used to.
But before the peak had been lifted aloft, it had been sculpted with spells; the rugged mountain peak crafted into a series of towers, clustered near the center, flat roofs acting as landing pads for the dragons of the Flight. Scores of floors were then hollowed out in each tower, each floor a single set of rooms; the quarters of a Damalit and his or her dragon…except for the main tower, the one formed out of what had once been the crowning peak of the mountain. There, the bottom levels were used as meeting rooms, classrooms, mess hall, and kitchens and the top levels were the reserved rooms of Wing-Commanders, with the highest suite being the Flight-Leader's…Juliana's….
Of course, the wide base of the towers was still the natural rock, and natural shape, though tunnels for various rooms cut through it – the dungeons, storerooms, wizards' workshops, forge areas – and the area around the towers was flattened into a vast landing area, big enough to hold the entire Flight of dragons at once. The Fortress Westeringe, of Flight Askew….Home sweet home. Zirella echoed Drake's sentiment, spreading her wings in offering. He stepped towards her, intending to mount up, when a cleared throat behind him reminded him of the fact that explanations – lots and lots of explanations – were in order.
He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order, tried to plan ahead. Juliana herself foiled his attempts. She squirmed in his arms, naturally refusing to stay unconscious, groaning and twisting – or trying to – into a more comfortable position… After a moment, she opened one eye and glared up at Drake, "I had better not be where I think I am," she snarled.
He winced, just remembering that Juliana never woke up in a good mood, and was always testy when wounded to boot… When no answer was forthcoming, she continued in the same tone, spitting out each word, "Put me down. Now."
Drake couldn't help but arch an eyebrow, "You think you have the strength to stand on your own?"
"I don't care," she hissed, "I refuse to be carried in front of the entire Flight! I am not a helpless female!" When he hesitated one more moment, she barked in true Flight-Leader style, "Commander Drake, I order you to unhand me this instant!"
Drake rolled his eyes, and let her slide out of his arms. She swayed the instant her feet touched the roof, but she brushed off all attempts to help steady her. She happened to glance down, and hissed, "Give me my armor. NOW." Under her breath, she added, "And I thought being carried like some damsel in distress was bad…in front of the entire Flight in nothing but my underthings? Worse."
Drake managed to turn his chuckle into a cough, then pressed, "Jul…you're still recovering from the wound, god-healed or not. It's not far to Westeringe, and the skies are clear…" Her glare forced his words back into his throat, and he swallowed, decidedly uncomfortable.
"Commander Drake," she gritted out between clenched teeth, "You are already out of line: don't make it worse. Armor."
Muttering under his breath about stubborn females who thought they were immortal, Drake located her discarded breastplate, presenting it to her with a sharp flourish. She never stopped glaring at him as she wiggled into it, yanking the straps tight. She blinked, "When did this get so tight…and am I supposed to be seeing black spots…?"
"Juliana," Virenyr's voice was serious in her mind, "Drake could be right…"
"Don't you start," she grumbled as she shook rainwater out of her eyes, making her way for her dragon's side, focusing on the task of putting one foot in front of the other in a straight line without undue wobbling. It was a relief to grab the saddle-leathers, gripping the girths tight so as to hide her trembling hands. "Ok. Mount up. Fly to Westeringe. Land. Collapse in bed. Good plan."
If Virenyr hadn't been so worried, he might have laughed. As it was, Juliana adjusted her grip, resettling the saddle on his back before craning her neck back, one hand each on a loop of leather to either side of the stirrup. In usual circumstances, she would haul herself up into the saddle, but circumstances were hardly normal. "How in the name of the gods did I ever get up there the first time?" she wondered.
"Want a leg-up?" Drake drawled from behind her.
"No," she snapped before she could think – yes, she wanted a leg-up! The saddle was some five feet above her head! – "I don't need your help."
Drake sighed and folded his arms over his chest. Juliana ignored him and considered the problem a moment longer. Then she backed off, and got a running start, using the momentum to help drag her first foot into the stirrup. The other followed in short order, and then she was sitting tall and proud atop her dragon…in theory. In reality her head spun from her exertions, the edges of her sight blurry. She reached up to touch her alexandrite stone for reassurance, and then glanced down at Drake. "My circlet?" Her tone was as lofty and as arrogant as any nobles'.
In return he bowed mockingly, stooping to retrieve the gold item in question. "Your circlet," he offered it on the barest tips of his fingers, his tone still a drawl, as it usually was when he was annoyed at her.
She scowled and was forced to lean down, half-way out of the saddle, to retrieve it from his hands. Black and white spots whirled before her sight as she straightened, competing for dominance. She hurried to clasp the two halves about her head, beneath her fiery hair, fastening over the alexandrite stone…it did little good. That wasn't a great surprise; it only helped her to compensate for the differences in air at the various heights. But she could pretend it helped to clear her mind, too. By leaning against and gripping the flexible ridge running down Virenyr's spine, she could keep herself in the saddle without wanting to faint…again.
"Ok, Virenyr. Any time you're ready."
He snorted, but knew better than to undermine her when she was this testy. Spreading his wings, he leapt up into the sky, cutting through the drizzle, making his way for the Flying Fortress that glided just over head. Drake's blue eyes were sharp as he watched her go – surely leaning against Virenyr's neck like that wasn't the most stable way to fly…? – before turning his attention back to the stunned natives of this world. He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Stubborn fool of a….woman!"
A slow grin touched the lips of the big dark man who had remained near the back of the group throughout all the fuss, "Ah, but unless they are stubborn and strong, they're not worth it. Still, you have my…deepest sympathies."
Drake winked, then sighed through his teeth, glancing up at the Fortress and the Flight, and at length winced, "Well, unfortunately, with Juliana out of commission, I'm the ranking officer; I have to be the one to keep the Damaliti on task. In short; your questions are going to have to wait until we get the Fortress settled outside the city. In fact….I'll post a sentry below the Fortress; whenever you're ready, just stop by – I'll leave orders to have you ferried up to the Fortress proper. Then any Damalit can give you directions to my quarters: B-17. Tower B, level 17," he clarified.
Lord Nasher nodded understanding. Drake was just about to add a few more comments about the layout of the Flying Fortress when a distressed scream cut the air. He whirled around, and then barked for Zirella, already running for his brass-red. She sprang into the air even as he was scrambling into the saddle, sprinting for….
His hunch had been accurate, gods curse it. Virenyr's scales had been made wet by the rain, and slick. In her disoriented state, it had been too easy for Juliana's hands to slip, too easy for her weight – focused as it was on her hands and arms – to throw her to the side, out of the saddle…For the first time in many, many long years, Juliana had fallen from her dragon, and from a great height to boot, a scream ripped from her throat as she plummeted for the unforgiving cobblestones.
But Zirella was both fast and agile; in record time she was swooping up from beneath the female Damalit. Her positioning was incredible – Juliana fell neatly into Drake's outstretched arms with a gasp, her breath driven from her. Up above, Virenyr checked his dive, banking around in a slow spiral of acknowledgement; they held her safe, and he would not attempt a mid-air transfer of riders, not in Juliana's current condition.
Drake brushed a strand of her fiery red hair back from her face as he settled her across the pummel of his saddle, Zirella following Virenyr in his spiraling flight. "Now," he asked, tone mild, "wouldn't it have just been easier to have me carry you in the first place? I'm pretty sure it would have been less humiliating then falling in front of the entire Flight…"
"Drake, shut up," rather than being the brusque statement he expected, she seemed to beg him, "I'm dizzy and can't think."
"Blood loss," he meant to be cheerful, mocking, but he didn't have the heart, "Just because the wound healed doesn't mean you don't need to recover." His fingers brushed her temples as he continued, "Please, Jul, you need to rest. I've got you safe enough…Just rest for now. Don't fight. For a change…"
Perhaps it was the use of his pet name for her, or the stress of the day, or the loss of blood, but she slumped down, head lolling against his chest, face still hard and fierce, even in sleep. Or unconsciousness. Either way. He sighed, shifting his grip on her, and nodded up to Virenyr, "Lead the way," he shouted to the larger male dragon.
He dipped his wings in an aerial nod, twisting up through ranks of dragons, sliding through the maze of taut ropes and chains attached to the base of the Fortress in a display of agility only a master flyer could pull off. Drake and Zirella followed, their passenger forcing them to take a less-acrobatic way around.
Those mounted atop the dragons on 'tow duty' glanced up as the flashy brass-red passed, lifting up an arm in a salute when they noticed their Flight-Commander…and there were more than a few chuckles, Drake noted, at her position in his arms. As far as they were concerned, it was about time she settled down with someone, if only a lover…
And if she had heard any of it, he admitted with a wince, heads would quite literally roll; as far as she was concerned, her personal life was none of their business, and that was final. He found himself sighing once more as they soared into the Fortress proper, dodging needle-like towers. Juliana's ferocity and independence was renowned in the Flight, even more so than Virenyr's…It made dealing with her on a personal level – or trying to – a running battle they were both determined to win…
Virenyr coiled around and around the single white tower, cresting around the flat roof, dipping down to flow into the large cave-like mouth – one of the entrances into Juliana's quarters. Drake and Zirella landed with less flair a few seconds behind him in the circular room at the top of the tower, cool stone below the only testament to its mountainous origins. Shadowed and closed, it still resembled a cave, right down to the low half-ceiling covering half of the vast tower-room and the staircase of living rock that had been carved out of the wall, sweeping up to the second floor of the quarters.
The large black-bronze folded his wings at his side, moving out of the way of Zirella as she landed beside him, into the enclosed space below the ceiling. He heaved a smoky yawn, rubbing his head against some of the gemstones embedded in the wall, his hoard. "Drake," he addressed the male Damalit even as he stretched out, cat-like, "Would you mind removing my saddle after you put Juliana to bed? Thank you."
Drake chuckled as he swung down from Zirella's high back, cradling Juliana in his arms; Virenyr's 'request' was more of an order, as usual. Some things didn't change from human to dragon partner. Shifting the armor-clad female to try and redistribute her weight, he ascended up to the second level of the chambers, the Damalit's personal quarters.
Drake was glad that Juliana kept her quarters unfurnished; it was hard enough to carry her up the steps and across the room to her circular nest-like bed without having to worry that he was going to trip over something. As he climbed up the two stone steps leading to the lofted bed, he frowned to himself even as he settled the Flight-Leader against the plumped pillows nestled where dark wood border of the bed met gray stone wall. Tugging the soft down comforter around her, he turned, sinking onto the edge of the wide border around the bed, looking over her room as if seeing it with new eyes.
While the lower part of the cavernous room was dark and shadowed, stone walls closed with the exception of the mouth-like entrance, here windows had been carved from the rock, letting natural light spill into the curved 'room,' if the ceiling extending over half of the main room could be called that.
Next to her bed was a simple armor stand – though he knew that she would wake up stiff after sleeping in her armor, after her reaction a few minutes ago, he didn't dare remove her steel covering. Settled just next to the armor stand was a weapon's rack, snug against the curved wall. A few lethally sharp spears were propped up in their slots, but save for those few, it was empty; she had carried all her weapons into battle this day. And just beyond the weapon's stand was her armoire, half-filled with sensible wool and leather clothing, the top shelves serving double duty as a bookcase, looking as though it could use a good dusting.
No, he realized, the only ornate thing in her room was the rug rolled out on her floor, so soft his booted feet seemed to sink into it up to his ankles. It depicted a deep azure sky, a few fluffy white clouds at the fringed borders, their tops taking on just a hint of gold – the promise of a warm sun on the flyer's back. The sort of sky ever Damalit loved to fly beneath. As Drake stared at it, the light cascading down through the windows seemed to cause the gold threads to shimmer and gleam, the entire scene to move.
He laughed to himself as he climbed down to the lower level; the tension of the day was getting to him; no carpet, no matter how beautiful, made the viewer think that he was flying into an endless blue sky, the clouds scuttling away below him, their tops tinted with the colors of the bright sun.
It was quick work for him to strip off Virenyr's saddle and place it atop its rack, removing the fabled lance from the leather straps holding it close to the stirrup. He tossed the saddle over the half-barrel on a crude stand in the corner of the shadowed cavern and propped the lance up against the wall near the stairs, far from any dragon, letting the Storm Dragon head continue to drip blood onto the stone floor, bidding the black-bronze pleasant dreams as he passed….and warning him to come and get a Wing-Commander if, no, when Juliana woke up and tried to walk. She was still too weak by half, and would undoubtedly hurt herself even more trying to force her beyond her limits.
Virenyr agreed in a heartbeat, and before Drake knew it, he was flying above the Fortress once more, watching the two-hundred dragons of Flight Askew guide it through the air with tugs on tough ropes. Scouts flitted back and forth between the Fortress and the chosen Anchor site – ironically, right above the former camp of Luskan's troops, now in flames – reporting on the distance between the two sites…
Drake gave the order, and the Flight began angling the Fortress downward, lowering it to a more manageable air-level; forcing its spires to scrape the clouds was fine for distance flying, but for living? A lower altitude was needed.
In no time at all, weighted lines had been thrown out from the lowest levels of the Fortress, secured to the trunks of thick trees, primarily to keep the Fortress from drifting too far via winds. And then the Flight withdrew to the Fortress to lick wounds gained from battle, sulk because they missed the battle, and wait for the Flight-Leader to recover….
And thus the two heroes from the two parallel worlds slept; the Hero of Neverwinter – as the ranger Saima would come to be called – and Flight-Leader Juliana, Damalit: Rider of Dragons. Their strength – physical and mental – had been tested to the limits this day, and the strength of their comrades as well…And all had passed through the forge, scathed by fire but stronger for the experience.
Rest was the order of the day: a long-deserved, healing, cleansing rest. Much work awaited them in the future in rebuilding the fallen city and finding their way back home, but Neverwinter and Flight Askew could live without their heroes for a time.