A/N: Wow, it's been awhile since I updated…I wanted to make sure I kept various characters in character with their comments and such, and that took time. As you can no doubt tell. Hope I didn't scare anyone off back there, but much thanks to myreviewers: WitchWolf for continuing to review every chapter! Hope you think this one is just as good; everything about the Damaliti gets explained, and if it doesn't…ask.
And a big Thank You to the new person, Zazei! Yes, I have a list now! And yes, I did have an original story all plotted out for the Damaliti…then it twisted on me so many times that I gave up in frustration. But I couldn't resist a chance to put the characters into a story, and well…Neverwinter Nights was convenient.
On with the chapter!
In the end, three days passed before the city quieted down enough before Aarin Gend was free to visit the draconic mercenaries. In the few calm moments after the breaking of the siege, his thoughts had often turned to them, those mystical warriors, trying to puzzle them out. And yet all he had succeeded in doing was laying out what he already knew, over and over again:
They were from a different plane of existence, one that – from the sounds of it – ran parallel to his, so that a direct portal could be opened between them. They were somehow connected, bonded, to the dragons they rode, perhaps by the gemstones embedded in their forehead. They were fierce fighters, but not immortal; he would never forget the black smoke rising from the funeral pyre for their fallen comrade, dragon and human burned together, ashes mingling. They were arranged in Flights commanded by a Flight-Leader, each Flight with its own Flying Fortress, with about two hundred dragons in a Flight. Their dragons were two-colored, and seemed to usually be a chromatic and metallic color, and the color of their armor matched the color of their dragon's scales.
Precious little, when all was said and done. He would know everything about these strange mercenaries who had come out of an empty sky to fight alongside his soldiers.
And so, about four days after the last Luskan soldier surrendered, he made his way out to the ashy field that had once been the camp of the invaders; the Fortress now looming over it, casting ominous shadows. He stopped right at the edge of the shadows; he was wary of the large green-copper resting on her haunches next to one of the many ropes holding the Fortress steady, though he knew the mercenaries to be friendly. Or at least, not hostile.
Atop her back was a stocky man in what Aarin was coming to know as typical armor for these draconic mercenaries. However, he wore a visor-less winged helm, the first Aarin had seen on a Damalit, several strands of dark brown hair curling forward into his face and eyes. A brass bugle rested on his hip, its leather cord crossing his back and chest, one hand always straying close to it even as he surveyed the lands before him.
It took a moment for the Damalit to notice the human, but when he did, he stood up in his stirrups and saluted him by thrusting his spear in the air. "Hail to you! Have you come to speak with Wing-Commander Drake?"
Aarin Gend nodded as he approached the younger man. The dragon's huge coal-red eyes narrowed as he stepped up to her side, and she lifted up one huge foreleg, flexing the four black claws. The Damalit laid his hand on her neck scales, whispering something. She snorted smoke, but lowered her claws. The sentry shrugged, "She rarely tolerates anyone beyond me…makes flying in a Wing interesting….Anyways, grab hold of that strap near the stirrup and don't let go, plant one foot atop the girth…and up we go."
The copper-green's wings snapped open, and Aarin was subject to the dubiously pleasurable experience of a dragon's flight. Clinging to the leather straps of the saddle, he watched the ground fall away from him, one wing-beat at a time. He glanced up just in time to see the flattened base of the mountain filling the sky, and then the female dragon was soaring up through a…a well of air, an open area in the 'floor' of the Flying Fortress in the huge courtyard surrounding the towers. With a slight flutter of her copper-edged wings, she landed next to the wall surrounding the hole in the 'ground,' setting Aarin on his feet.
Looking around, the Spymaster of Neverwinter had to hide his shock at the similarities of the Fortress to his own City's Core. Below foot were gray flag stones…no, he realized with a smile; the stones of the entire open area had been carved to resemble cobblestones, but were part of the mountain still. He had not been prepared for just how big a space the area around the center cluster of towers really was, or how open. A road wound between the towers – more a series of gaps between the towers than any real pathway.
Noting that Aarin was staring at his surroundings, the sentry launched into a description of the Fortress, "This is the Plazia, known officially as Level-A. It surrounds the towers and acts as the Flight's gathering place. Four roads lead to the Inner Circle that surrounds Tower-B, the largest one. They are spaced evenly and are named after our four main gods: Via del Stella, Via del Luna, Via del Solis, and Via del Aethra."
Aarin blinked. The words were foreign to his ears, even after all his years of wandering and speaking with spies from foreign cities. Even so, there was something inherently soothing about the lilt of the words, the way they rolled and slide from the sentry's tongue. After a moment, no doubt noting his confusion, the younger male translated, "Road of Stars, Moon, Sun, and Sky."
He nodded; it made sense for a group so depended on flight and the heavens to worship the celestial bodies and the sky itself. The sentry pointed towards the base of the largest tower, "Drake's quarters are in Tower-B, seventeen flights of stairs straight up. Can't miss 'em." He saluted, and his copper-green leapt into the air, hooking around to dive headfirst through the well with a rush of wings.
There was nothing for it but to start walking….and climbing, for that matter. Two hours later, the Spymaster of Neverwinter leaned against the curved wall of the circular stairs and reflected that it had really been a long time since he had been active. A short jog up a tower had never bothered him before he settled down to ferret out plot for Lord Nasher…He glanced at the number on the small door on the landing, and regretted it; he was only on level ten.
It took another half-hour for him to drag himself up the last seven flights of stairs, and he was winded by the time he rapped on the plain wooden door. It took a moment for it to be opened by Wing-Commander Drake, his light blue eyes wary until he recognized his visitor. Then he bowed, stepping back from the threshold, silently inviting the Spymaster in even as he remarked, "I was worried that it was another scout with bad news…"
Aarin Gend arched an eyebrow, his natural affinity for finding information kicking in over his gasps for air, "Bad news? Of what sort?"
Drake waved off his concern as he gestured up the sweeping staircase up to the second level of his quarters, "Damalit business." He considered, then left it at that. "That's besides the fact that Juliana…well, she's gotten it into her head to try and walk about. I had to threaten to tie her down. And if she tries to move out of the bed again," he couldn't stop his back teeth from grinding together at the thought of it, "I'll make good on the threat and better."
Drake shook his head to clear his thoughts as he strode up the last few steps, flinching at the perpetual mess that greeted him – Juliana may have thought that an officer needed their quarters to be painfully bare, but he sure as hell didn't. He had to move a harp off the better of the two chairs, courteously offering to his guest. He ran his fingers over the strings in thought as he took his own seat across the small table from Aarin, "But never-mind my troubles. You came here for explanations, and I intend to give them to you. So. Ask."
Aarin Gend had debated this first question from the moment he began climbing, and by now, had decided to begin at the literal beginning. "What world or plane are you from?"
Drake winced, leaning back, "How can you name a plane? We call our home Oceana, and perhaps that name applies to the plane as well as the land upon – generally speaking – which we dwell I don't know. I can't even say for sure that it is a different plane; the portal can be opened between two separate worlds as easily as two planes…." Closing his eyes, he began. He spoke of his home in bardic tones, painting a picture with words alone for this foreigner. Even as he described, his fingers moved over the strings of his harp, a whisper of a haunting melody underscoring his words.
He told of the vast oceans of the world, covering much of the planet, the deep blue-green seas reflecting the glorious skies above. He spoke lovingly of the circular archipelagos of volcanic islands that dotted the ocean, many long since cool and dead, others still hot and active, the seas between the islands shallower, pale blue, bright coral reefs extending out from the shores of the islands. It was there that the Armies of Damalit made their official home, there where their Fortresses gathered when they were not busy being the mercenaries they were.
He spoke of the main continent, and how it was quartered by mountain ranges running from shore to shore, one north to south and one east to west. "So beautiful," he mused, fingers still straying over the strings in militaristic melodies, "We are always on the continent – with one kingdom in each quarter, all hating the others, demand for dragon mercenaries is high – but I have always loved those mountains. The Shoulders of the Sky. The Roof of the World. There are no passes between them; a dragon must fly high above the clouds, into the cold, sweet air, the thin air of the mountains, to cross."
"Thin air?" Aarin hated to interrupt, but he had never heard that term before, and it seemed to be one the Damalit threw around quite often.
"Of course. You have noticed that you tire easier here in our Flying Fortress than on the ground, yes? As one ascends, the air becomes thinner, and colder, so that you take in less air when you breathe. When we soar above the peaks at night and Zirella can barely stay aloft because there is nothing for her wings to beat against and it is so cold your breath hangs in front of you, almost solid, and the stars are as bright as crystal shards above and it is so silent you can almost hear their silvery song arching above you, sweet and clear as the air around you…"
His fingers stroked out an ethereal cord that shivered in the air, "It makes you believe that you've passed through a planer gate into another world, so still and…removed. Maybe it's the lack of air, but you feel so free; just you, your dragon, and the sky…I consider it a religious experience of the highest order.
"And then…then you plummet to earth because your dragon's so desperate to breathe and can't stand to carry you through the thin air one second longer; at those altitudes, it's all a dragon can do to keep themselves, their rider, and any gear aloft. And as you fall, the air heats fast, so fast that spark fly from your dragon's chilled scales and you look…oh, you look like a comet falling to earth."
"How many Armies of Damaliti are there?" Aarin asked after a moment's pause, unable to truly comprehend what it was like to soar so high but able to appreciate it, just from Drake's description of it.
"Five," Drake explained with a smile, "Creatively named the First, Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth Armies. Flight Askew with the First Army under command of High General Dachgon. All told, there are…" he frowned, thinking and counting on his fingers, "Yes, there are eight Flights in the First, or about 1,600 Damaliti, and about 200 more support staff, who are not bound to a dragon."
"Is that number average?" Aarin snapped the question without thinking about it, aligning more information in his mind, forgetting that these were planers that he was dealing with, not a rival city that they might need to face in battle one day.
"No. It's extraordinary. The Second though Fourth Armies have about six Flights each; 1,200 Damaliti. Fifth Army, however, was decimated in the last Sun War, and so declared themselves to be neutral messengers, carrying packages across the mountains for the four countries, and messages from one Army to another. Pity. They had some fine warriors.…" he mused.
"And what, precisely, is a Sun War?"
Drake stretched his long legs out in front of him and resettled the harp, "That will take some explaining. Forgive me if I ramble. For five years, the Armies of Damaliti hire themselves out to the various countries to fight in the squabbles against the other countries – usually to counter the Army the rival country in question has hired. But there is a strict law between us: no dragon or Damalit is killed. Not even one. A victory is declared when they are driven to the earth or far from the battleground, or when their standard is captured. For their purpose – and ours – is to harass the earth-bound army with weaponry and fire. If we are stopped from that, we lose.
"But the fifth year, regular as clockwork, the sun will dawn red. And the Damaliti go to war against each other. We fight under the red sun, until the earth below is red with blood and strewn with corpses. We fight for two years, and the Army that comes out the strongest will be the one approached by the human countries first, the one offered the best wages, the one that keeps the other Armies in line, even so far as to demand tribute from them."
"Horrible," Aarin whispered.
"Yes," Drake agreed. "But necessary. It keeps all Five – well, Four, now – Armies equal; even the strongest lose so many Damaliti in the Sun Wars that they don't dare antagonize the others too much. It keeps the balance of power shifting from Army to Army, forcing everyone to keep striving – like a monarch that stays in power too long, an Army in power too long will inevitably stagnate, and be overthrown.
"And…it keeps the dragon population from growing out of control. Because so few of us are killed in the years between and because we are generally long-lived…deaths have to occur somehow. One war's as good as another."
Aarin shivered in spite of himself. Despite the rationality of it… "That doesn't change the fact that it is horrid."
Drake nodded, eyes taking a far-away look, "We all lose friends and loved ones to it, and often great commanders and fighters as well. But what's horrible is when below-ground alliances are formed and two or three Armies attack the fourth…then it's a massacre, no matter what anyone says. I hate politics just for that reason." He sighed, looking down at his gold-plated harp, "And I fear that's what will happen to the First in two years; we're so large and powerful that we are making enemies of the other three fighting Armies, even by doing nothing. If they decide to turn on us all at once…
"I've seen entire Squadrons, entire Flights, killed during those huge battles of three Armies all against the fourth. It's bad enough when all four armies will fight in a single battle and you have to fight four very different opponents at once, but at least they are fighting each other as well as you. But to try and fend off three dragons attacking you at once…." He shuddered and blew through his first two fingers, then ran his hand, two fingers outstretched, from hair line down to navel. "Sign of the Dragon," he explained, grinning at Aarin's look of confusion, "wards off bad luck. Enough of that talk. What else do you have for me?"
"How did you get here? Juliana mentioned a god and opening a gate between the planes, but it was…confusing."
"If she was talking while she was wounded I don't doubt that it was," Drake muttered under his breath. "However, because I wasn't privy to the conversations that she was, I'm little better; all I know is common knowledge or gossip. What I can say is that the Sly One – Morag, I think you called her – had been sending raiders against our world, and we, the Damaliti, the ones called to fight them, grew…annoyed.
"Then several of the clerics in our Army – the First – had a dream of a strange god. He said that on a particular day the Sly One would open a portal, and we could hold it open, so that we could send fighters through to strike a decisive blow against her forces. Then he explained how we could make such a thing, and that was it.
"So all the Flight-Leaders got together with the General and discussed it, and decided that there was no harm in doing as the god suggested. So the mages – what we call wizards, sorry – constructed the platform that would stabilize the portal, with crystals all around holding the power needed for such a working. The kept watch, and when the portal opened, they did some great magical working a wizard could explain but I can't, and the portal, instead of closing once the Sly one was done with it, was held open.
"However, for safety's sake, they removed one of the crystals from the base, so that the portal closed, but remained present. Then I guess the Flights drew lots or something, and Flight Askew was chosen to go through the portal to fight whatever the Sly One's forces were. They reopened the portal, Juliana's Squadron flew through ahead of the rest of the Flight, who had to figure out how to drag the Fortress through and, well…you know the rest."
Aarin nodded; made sense enough. He cleared his throat, wishing he had thought to bring paper to take notes on, and contemplated his next question, "When Juliana was wounded, you said that Virenyr lost his mind? Because – and I'm speculating now – the bond was fading?" When Drake nodded confirmation of the spymaster's suspicions, Aarin took a deep breath and asked, "Just what sort of bond is between a dragon and their rider, then?"
"That, I can answer readily." Drake leaned forward, "In olden times, the first bonds – the only bonds – were formed when a dragon was born at the same moment as a human, with the two mothers being within feet of each other…a rare enough occurrence. Still is – though nowadays, with rider's dragons mating when they sense a pregnancy, it's gotten more common.
"Anyways, that lays the framework for the bond – an initial connection, you might say. Allows the minds to touch. And for those Damaliti of old, it was enough. But now, we have found a way to…strengthen the bond. A few days after the birth, both wyrmling and child are brought to a temple. There, a few drops of blood from each of them are spilled onto a precious stone, and a powerful divine spell is cast, splitting the gem in two and embedding one half in each of their foreheads – like my emerald, for example. The gem…magnifies thoughts. Allows words and images and emotions to pass easier from human to dragon and vice-versa. It is as if their very souls are joined; one could not harm, betray, or forsake the other."
Aarin was about to ask another question when a rush of wings drew his attention down to the open cave below…where the great black-bronze Virenyr was landing, tucking in his wings to leave enough space for Zirella. He reared back, head snaking up through the open space so that he could look Drake in the eye…but the Damalit was already moving. "Don't tell me, let me guess," the male human muttered as he placed the harp down on the chair and began to move for the steps, "Juliana."
Virenyr nodded, "Again. She won't listen to me."
"That's a first," Drake mused.
A ghostly smile flicked across Virenyr's muzzle – or at least, Aarin assumed it was a smile – "Not really."
Drake grunted, moving around to Zirella's side. She arched a wing and lifted a front leg, and he threw a soft pad over her back, buckling the long leather girth and adjusting the leather straps for stirrups of the rudimentary saddle. After checking the heavy steel buckle, he turned back to Gend with a theatrical sigh, "Duty calls; we'll have to pick up this talk later. Virenyr, would you be so kind as to ferry our guest back down to the city?"
The black-bronze studied the non-Damalit a moment, then nodded, "Very well. Throw a saddle or something over my back before you go – I doubt he could." The last was muttered, but as a dragon's voice was not made to speak softly, Aarin heard every word.
Drake snorted, but threw a similar harness over Virenyr's shoulders, fastening the heavy buckles, giving a quick explanation of the process as he did so. "The saddle sits right in front of the wings – easier flight that way. Buckles run around the base of the neck and below the belly, connected with a strap – this one – running up the chest. The leather is ridged, trained to sheath the scales. It makes it less likely to slide or slip off. Done…You'd better drop into the saddle from above…There. Feet in the leather loops, hold the ridge in front of you and don't try to steer. Virenyr…give him a smooth ride. No dives – he doesn't have a circlet."
Somehow, the thought of steering hadn't even occurred to Aarin. He supposed he was more concerned with not falling. As if sensing his thought, Virenyr twisted his head around on his long neck so he could face him and snorted, "Relax! I have never lost a rider…well, a conscious rider."
The memory of Juliana's fall was still fresh in Aarin's mind as the dragon's huge wings snapped open, filling with wind even as the male stepped towards the opening in the tower. He felt his heart stop as beneath him, the great dragon's muscles bunched, then with a rush, they were shooting out of the tower. The fact that Virenyr allowed himself to plummet for several feet before giving a lazy beat of his wings to send them spiraling up above the towers probably didn't help alleviate his fears. Focus, he told himself, even as he admitted that this was not the best idea he'd ever agreed to.
He glanced down, admiring the pattern of towers in the Flying Fortress…then they passed over the boundary of the Damalit "city," and he was forced to close his eyes with a hard gulp. The sight of the fields surrounding Neverwinter spread out like several rumpled handkerchiefs, trees looking to be no larger than his hand melding together to form the dark forest to the west, made him nauseous.
How, oh how, do the Damaliti stand it? He wondered. There was such a thing as flying too high…wait…what was it that Drake said? That he enjoyed soaring over mountain peaks that were taller than anything on this world? He glanced up, and was reassured by the sight of the fluffy white clouds high above his head – he felt lightheaded enough, without experiencing what even a Damalit would call 'a high flight.' He closed his eyes once more as a Wing of thirteen dragons shot across his sight, physically making his point – as far as the Damaliti were concerned: the higher, the better.
"Where?" Virenyr barked as he flared, hovering over the city of Neverwinter.
Aarin was fascinated at the way the city spread out like a map beneath him, the damaged areas – not that there were any areas that weren't damaged – easily visible. When the dragon repeated the question, louder, Aarin scanned the city, trying to figure out where the dragon could land… "Blacklake District," he shouted, pointing.
Virenyr nodded, "I'll drop you off," he shouted, and banked so sharply Aarin feared the dragon had meant literally. But the dragon had been flying all his life, and knew his craft – in moments he was flaring, his wings creating a wind as he descended vertically. Aarin felt the dragon's hind legs quest downward, seeking the first touch of claw against stone… "There," the dragon Flight-Leader grunted, sinking down onto all fours, flowing down after the leg that had touched first, going so far as to crouch low to the ground.
Aarin was grateful – the dragon's shoulder was generally ten feet or more above the ground, higher than some buildings in Neverwinter. Perhaps a Damalit could leap to the ground without shattering both their legs, but Aarin doubted that he could. He fumbled getting his feet out of the stirrups, and nearly landed up on his backside trying to dismount, but he managed.
The great black-bronze studied him for a long, long minute, then nodded to himself. "Well," he grunted, "You aren't a bad sort, for a foreigner."
"By my estimation, it is you who are the foreigner, not I," Aarin couldn't help but point out.
"You are not a Damalit; thus, you are a foreigner," the dragon explained bluntly…but a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Still, you aren't bad. Honor to you, Aarin of Flight Neverwinter." Rearing back on his haunches, Virenyr spread his wings in salute, then leapt into the clear blue sky.
"Dragons."
Aarin whirled in surprise at Saima's flat voice. The ranger stood some distance away from him, arms folded defensively over her chest, eyes on the great black-bronze. "You never said the mercenaries were dragons."
He shook his head, "No. But does it matter?"
She turned her head to look at him, eyes shielded and wary, "I hate dragons. When are they leaving?"
"I don't know." He considered, then offered, "I suppose as soon as they're able."
Wordlessly, Saima turned her back on him and the dragon, recoiling away. "Fine. Just…fine. Keep them away from me." Shoulders stiff, she walked away, leaving Aarin staring after her – he had never thought that his Hero was afraid of nothing. But she was afraid of dragons. Shaking his head to himself, he hurried after her; there was nothing he could really do, but that didn't stop him from wanting to be at her side.