NationStates Jolt Archive

Fëanor Palace, Vinyatírion

Culdalot sighed as she flopped down into the deep chair in the ‘Media Room’ in the Palace’s personal quarters. It consisted of seven chairs arranged in a broken circle around a central ring on the floor, for complicated holo-projection, though the room could be adjusted to hold more or less people. A fireplace blazed against one wall, and the high ceiling of the dark room was decorated with the sparkle of a hundred lenses.

“Something the matter?” Sirithil sitting on one of the seats closer to the fire, asked.

“Puzzled,” the young – seemingly about fourteen – elf said, “Remember that thing with the Freethinkers lately?”

“I do,” Sirithil said, hardly needing to.

“I heard a few people mention not wanting to bomb them ‘again’ but I can’t find anything about previous wars against them.”

“Ah,” Sirithil said, “That’s because they weren’t called that back then. You should have tried a regional historical search.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling embarrassed. “So, what did happen.”

Sirithil smiled softly, “We battered them…”

The fire leapt higher, and the logs of old trees crackled as they burnt, tongues of flame bursting up, and casting long shadows throughout the room, both over Sirithil herself, and the liveried servant standing behind her. As she spoke – sang, even, in soft tones – the room seemed to fade, and through no artistry of the machinery poised overhead.

“In human calendars, it was in the year ‘Of Our Lord’ nine hundred and forty two. Menelmacar had walked on the moons of the system a dozen yéni before. We were learning to cross the stars as easily as the once-wide oceans blue; as we do now, when we encountered a most unusual and one-sided war…”

As she spoke, images appeared, as though one could step into the elf-song and many of them, Culdalot recognised. Ancient ships, Anor class cruisers, plying the void at relativistic speeds, Vinyatírion of the time, almost ten yéni ago, smaller than it was now, lower, different, and a touch less beautiful. The spacecraft of the time looked more ‘conventional’ stems of fusion-rockets and faux-mithril hulls of shining diamond-ite silver, synthesised in processes that would now be considered crude.

Skirmishes and trade with the Orion-drive rockets of a now extinct (through not by the hands of the elves) alien race beyond the stars of Cassiopeia. Strange and irregular journeys through distant lands showered human realms with gifts for no apparent reason, and traders criss-crossed the world, advancing those places within their reach by centuries or millennia.

And it was in one such place that the first contact of the elves with a brash, young, and wicked, culture would happen...

Salamand let his wings billow, the soft sea breeze making the thin membrane echo the shape of the canvas sails above his head. It was very refreshing, though now the time away from home had begun to bite, and the smell that filled his nostrils reminded him only of distant shores. Still, they were here, on the iron hulk that was the Sacred Light, with an objective and very soon an execution of the same. His massive claws gripped the railing of the deck, his hawkish gaze on the sea below watching a small boat slowly make its way towards the side of the massive Drake ship.

The craft made progress despite it buffeting from the waves, its single humanlike occupant being showed with spray but looking purposely nonplussed. Salamand watched silently as it moved alongside after a time, and moved down the deck to the ladder, waiting for the occupant to come aboard as younger Drakes around him secured the lines of the boat to the ship itself. Over the railings a beautiful raven haired woman pulled herself up, landing almost birdlike on the deck beneath her. Before greetings had exchanged however, she partially moved, partly fell to the deck and emitted a guttural, inhuman roar.

Her clothing tore as limbs grew in faint echo of swelling flowers. Her skin went from a harsh pale tone to strong armoured black-brown scales in the course of seconds, edged by red streaks as the surface struggled to expand at the pace of the flesh beneath. From her shoulders flaps of blackish membrane skin, as first mere vestigial extensions of the shoulder blades, rapidly unfurling into giant organic sails that spread at full tilt across the deck, forcing nearby Drakes back a step. A tail similarly unfolded, and her face, once strikingly beautiful by human standards, expanded, extended, reptilian features breaking through as her transformation continued. Twenty seconds from start to finish, and all human vestiges had disappeared, leaving behind a large and impressive female Drake.

Transformation finished, the female Drake growled from her prostrate position, and slowly began to rise.

“Welcome back, Sellan.”

She raised her magnificent head, and though her horns were shorter than those of her male colleagues in every other respect she was their superior, faster, smarter, and stronger than the young bulls surrounding her, and they knew it enough to never even test the fact. Sellan spread her stance and lowered her head, letting her wings fan before shaking off the excess water from her hide, sending a shower of droplets over the nearest Drakes and causing them to do an upright imitation of the act. Salamand stepped forward as she finished her preening and folded her wings back.

“Well?”

“Just as we expected a completely unsuspecting, sleepy little town. Just a wooden palisade and a few sentries. Fishing fleet is out past the peninsula, no chance of a warning.” She answered, licking the last of the water from her forearms.

“And the harbour sentry?”

“Alright, too much fat for my taste though.”

Salamand nodded, though her taste for flesh made even him wince. Being a carnivore was one thing, but there was a point where hunger crossed to sadism even they didn’t cross. Reprimand wasn’t a priority now however, and as the last of the light of day disappeared to the West, the great ship turned silently towards the edge of the bay and Salamand growled one last silent order.

“Extinguish the lights, let their demons come straight out of the night. ”

*************************

It had taken less than a minute for them to run the hundred yards or so from the beach to the settlement wall and another ten seconds for them to penetrate the wooden wall that provided the only real obstacle into the town. Another minute and the first screams of surprised residents snatched from their homes followed the pained death calls of the few guards, almost all taken out with effortless precision with a quick and lethal swipe or blow. Buildings and towers toppled, and flames leapt up from suddenly untended fires and stoves. Perfect chaos for them to work in as the bulky forms of the Drakes penetrated further into the town, scouts marking with dented scratches the homes and hiding places for the main warriors to tear open and search.

Salamand held back from his men for a moment as he scanned the scene further. Experience taught him to second guess human motivations during a fight, and smiled as his eyes came across one of the few stone buildings in the settlement. Primitive glass reflected the moonlight and slowly rising flames, and the cross-like shape belied its use as a human religious building. The massive Drake grinned as he remembered his previous experience; such a building would now contain an absolute treasure of captives.

However, given they would be far more valuable alive than dead, he found himself circling the building, looking for a door rather than crashing in the walls and reducing the primitive structure to rubble. He quickly found the entrance; a double oak door barricaded hastily with what he assumed was a hay cart. Lifting the ancient vehicle away with a quick grab and throw, he rested one thick clawed hand on the exterior before raising it and bringing down hard against the surface. The door shattered and broke beneath a single blow, and as the dust settled he shoved his head through the broken portal to look inside. As he had expected a crowd of human females and infants had gathered at the back, running here in the wake of destruction. Human faith caused incredible stupidity.

However, even as his foot landed inside the threshold, a blinding flash followed by something liquid hitting his head and for a moment blinding his vision.

“FLEE DEMON! LEAVE THIS HOLY PLACE!”

Salamand coughed as the liquid stuck in his throat, he opened his eyes and saw a man in long woollen robes standing in front of him, an outstretched arm holding a cup whose contents now graced

“Flee, demon, before the wrath of the Lord!”

Salamand looked at the human holy man, standing and trembling before him, trying to understand why his weapon of faith had failed. Feeling almost foolish with the water running down his scales, anger leapt up inside Salamand, and he dropped to all fours so the tip of his snout sat barely inches from the priest’s face. They stood eye to eye for the moment, the man frozen in terror on the spot, before Salamand open his jaws to their fullest extent and emitted a rumbling roar that shook the room. The women and children at the back of the building covered their ears, joining the sound with a chorus of screams and sobs.

The priest fell over backwards, his bowels going as he hands struggled to grab the edge of the pews, trying to pull himself away from the monster in front of him. Satisfied with his humiliation, Salamand merely stepped forward into the church, crushing the holy man’s chest beneath his right foot in casual nonchalance. He scanned the cowering villagers, some mothers holding on tightly to newborns whilst others did their best to shield older infants from his gaze. His admiration for the women arose subconsciously, even against his physical revulsion at such pointless acts of faith given their false belief in the sanctuary of the building. His momentary thought disappeared with heavy footsteps entering the church behind him.

“What do you want to do with these weak ones?” Sellan’s voice spoke with sparking clarity even in the wounded symphony of human misery.

“Take them all, or at least as many as you can carry, even their young grow up soon enough/” Sellan assented with a visceral grunt and stepped forward with a few of her warriors as Salamand turned and headed back out. “And try not to kill all of them this time.”

Fires now raged through many of the settlement’s buildings closest to the shore, casting everything in a hellish orange glow. Burning embers and sparks soon leapt from one wooden structure to another, a sea of flames that silhouetted the black shapes weaving throughout the slowly disintegrating buildings. His men moved quickly in the lights and shadows, reducing the last of the opposition to metal coated carrion. His eyes focused on each team in turn, checking to ensure all were still operating in the main part of the attack. His gazing stopped however, as an arrow buried itself into his upper arm.

Cursing his stupidity, Salamand ducked back into cover, and, bracing himself, pulled the offending missile out of his flesh. He felt the wound, small but nasty, through the plating of his armour. He chucked the arrow to the ground and scanned for its origin, only to spot two young warriors suddenly immobile on a corner about a hundred yards ahead of him.

Salamand knew the two young Drakes, brothers, in fact, both young, keen, and confidant, good warriors but still fairly green in terms of battle. He had promised their matron he would return them safe, and along with a natural paternal concern and that of a commanding officer he powered forward. A poor attempt at an ambush from of the remaining men resulted in the human being bodily lifted into the roof of the nearest burning building without even causing Salamand to break his stride. He neared the crumpled form of the wounded Drake and peered down. A massive stretch of charred skin had split to reveal similarly burned muscle beneath.

“By the guardian, what happened?” Salamand asked as he examined the wound. The slightest touch of the burnt flesh brought a growl of pain, but the cause of the injury was beyond his experience. ”Who did this?”

”Not sure, one of the defenders, no idea how though. Just some light we saw, we pulled back to make sure he was okay and killed anyone that followed.” Salamand peered up, only half-listening to the young warrior as his eyes scanned the burning town for anything other than his men or the last fleeing humans. Ten yards ahead the wounded Drake’s brother examined the head of a corpse with a curious expression, before sighting his commander looking at him and immediately returning to Salamand’s side.

Salamand debated admonishing the tardiness of the warrior before deciding time was of the essence and sending the Drake to help round up any remaining humans and begin carrying them back to the ship. Shifting the wounded warrior onto his back, supported between his shoulders and his wing muscles, he slowly walked back towards the ship himself, with a burning question or two on his mind. Between flesh and armour his burden weighed in at about a ton. He barely had to break a sweat.

He walked backed through the village, keeping his body fairly rigid to ensure his load didn’t slip in some unfortunate direction. Smoke and screams still filled the air, though the human shrieking now was the sodden realisation of many of their fate, worse than death for some and a terrifying prospect to all. He reached the edge of the settlement, stepped awkwardly through the sea of broken logs that had once protected it and out onto the beach. The bow of the Sacred Night, ridden high into the surf, jutted out over his head. The heavyset figures of Drakes with their captives clambered up and down the rigging and ladders, carrying the spoils of conquest aboard.

Trusting his charge with another warrior as he neared the ship, he saw Sellan approach him, lacking slaves and with blood on her still drawn teeth. Her grinning expression terrified him.

“All clear, I have the last of my men returning now.”

“Okay, any casualties?”

“Just your man there, few arrow shots, sword cuts, nothing to worry about my end. Everything’s set ready to leave whenever we need to.”

Salamand nodded to affirm his understanding. He peered up towards the palisade as the last of the slave carriers made their way down the beach.

“We’re done. Let’s get moving.”

*************************

The Sacred Night turned slowly, tacking into the Westward wind. Jagged canvas stretched and unfurled from the masts, filling and billowing out in the slowly rising light of dawn. Homeward bound from a successful hunt, its crew looked forward to a triumphant return.

Wind whipped around the ankles of the survivor, blowing a cloak of crudely woven cloth against slender legs in boots of quite alien manufacture, far beyond it. Long red curls crashed against her shoulders, and swaying blades of grass brushed at the base of a black staff of iron. The ‘young’ woman looked out and frowned. She’d been there earlier, and the raider – she wasn’t sure what it was, but she had ideas of it – who had encountered her had certainly come off worse from it.

The bright sails were already disappearing from view, however, and there wasn’t much she could do – there wasn’t much she could have done at any stage, either. She was confident that she could have done far more, but the damage she would have done in so doing would have been even greater than that the raiders had done.

That left the young elf with little choice. She raised her staff high, and brought it down hard into the ground before her. Nothing more, nothing more flashy.

It was enough.


She stood in still silence for hours, until the sun’s rays shot over the horizon, a blossoming curve of incandescence behind her, as she faced West, leaving the slope before her in darkness.

It shone off something in the dark blue sky. A glimmer of light that moved between the clouds, ripping them up as it passed through them. The object resolved itself into a ship of a different kind. Like a titanic bird with prongs at the tips of its wings, built faintly like a swallow, but immeasurably bigger, the colossus gleamed silver in the dawn light, and its underside swirled with colour as it raced over the ocean.

In the smooth expanse of its underside, marked only by recessed hatches for fuel and supply umbilical cords, and munitions launch systems, and a wide hatchway for boarding, at ground level, part of it opened, as though it were a camera iris, and part of the ship’s hull detached, sinking through the hundreds of feet to the ground.

Tan cloaks worn by those who stood on the two-meter wide disc fluttered in the higher altitude winds, unbroken by the local terrain. They were dressed differently from the way they would be in later ages – the Menelmacari had not yet returned to ‘traditional’ armour in this less warlike age, instead, the ‘marines’ who stood there, armed with tall spears that were entirely ceremonial, and curving swords that were less so were clad in various greens and browns that blended with temperate climates, and green-grey cloaks that could take on the appearance of innocuous objects when necessary.

She walked over to the disc, and stood beside it.

“I am Alyaentarë nos Laurëalótë,” one of the men on board, dressed more elaborately in a deep red coat, said, “Ciryacáno of the Menelmacari Vessel Aragorn Elssar…”

“Airaheri,” she said.

“Just Airaheri?”

“Airaheri Linaewen.”

“I see,” he said.

“I assure you, I’ve not called you here for no reason. I have been one of the Lady’s personal pupils, and that comes with a great degree of responsibility…”

“Peace, Airaheri,” he said, “I do not doubt your reasons. We have seen the local area quite well. Ciryaaran Ferinion nos Círdan welcomes you aboard his vessel.”


Alyaheriel growled quietly at the elf opposite her, lounging in a chair in the repair bay that doubled as the ready room for the bomber pilots. She was the latter, he was the new guy. And he was taking all her money. Tyaron Meneldil was his name. She hadn’t yet figured out which was more irritating; the fact that kept on winning when she knew he wasn’t a seer, or the fact that he insisted this was his first time ever playing “Cards”

“You think your ‘beginners luck’ is getting a bit long, Tyaron?”

“Why? Is this unusual?” he asked. Her reply was cut off by a ‘ping’ of the lift doors in the next room opening. Tyaron grabbed her cards, stuffed them down the collar of his robe, and did the same with his own, and those of the two other elves in the room.

“Look busy!” he said.


The Aragorn Elessar had been returning to Menelmacar to re-supply after a brief trip out beyond Io, to deliver yet more volcanism probes, when its commander had received Airaheri’s message. From there, it had been a brief deviation to the wrecked colony.

The tactical centre, on deck four of the ship, was a dark square room, with dozens of screens and vertical and horizontal plots of the local area. It was here that Airaheri was conducted, and treated to a bird’s eye view of the devastated church.

“Have you any idea what happened here?” Ferinion asked.

“To be honest; the attackers resembled the vampires of Melkor. Or something similar, a little more draconic perhaps, around three meters in height, moderately equipped, but not overtly armed. They left aboard a ship that would appear to be an ironclad…”

“Well, there’s nothing in the immediate vicinity. Still that kind of thing should be quite rare in this area…”


Alyaheriel sighed, stepping up into the Mor class bomber. Twenty meters in wingspan and length, it was designed for atmosphere, but with a form of fusion rocket for propulsion. She had little idea what was going on, and less what was happening. Nonetheless, she had her instructions, and a good idea of what they were looking for.

The ship had eight decks in all; this was the smallest, deck number one. It was just over forty meters wide, and one hundred and thirty in length. Wide doors on the top enclosed the bomber bay, which was a forty-meter square, and these three-meter thick armour plates began to slide open to reveal the sky above, other doors leading to the chambers on either side closed already automatically, even though the pressure in the bay was still normal.

Then she was in the air, a twitch of a finger bringing the bomber up ten meters, along with all the other sub-craft, and another starting its engines, bringing it out over the ocean, like a hunting hawk…

“Srih Salamand, I am surprised.”

“Surprised, Arkandaie?”

”That you finally left your cabin. Six Ionas aboard and yet you still view the open deck like a pack of ankle-biters on heat.”

”Honestly? There is little at the best of times to draw my attention up here. I will only be happy here when I see the shores of home after so long.”

Arkandaie merely nodded his assent, genuine though it was. The creaking of the hull beneath them and the rhyming reply of the waves of the sea provided a calming, almost hypnotic background for both Drake’s contemplations, but something about Arkandaie’s demeanour seemed to intrigue his companion.

“You look pensive. What troubles the seafarer’s mind?” The question was posed innocently enough, for the moment.

“No, not troubled, well concerned perhaps. I do not know why but more and more I cannot shake this feeling of dread within me about this voyage.”

Salamand smiled at the captain, the sort of patronising smile one might give to a child’s imaginative flight of fancy, or the vampiric equivalent at least, a grin displaying retracted serrated incisors in mock laughter. Arkandaie did not appreciate the gesture, turning again to look out to sea, his opal eyes staring at the horizon to the last of the Westerly light.

“You mock me. On the cradle of my craft of all places.”

”Really, do you honestly need me to explain why I don’t put much store in superstition?”

”You have known me long enough to be able to know the difference between superstition and experience. Successful completion is the domain of the paranoid.” He turned to stare back out to sea again, though this time he added a brief glance towards the rigging, checking the sails and the sentries high above their heads.

”Well, I assume ‘experience’ and its conclusions have evidence?” Muttered Salamand, finding himself surprisingly frustrated by the vague comments. A commander’s instinct for threat recognition, or maybe even a far baser hunter’s instinct, prayed his consciousness to seek more of the captain’s consul. “What is it?”

”Nothing…anyway, I thought you said earlier you were going to have a word with Sellan?” The subject change was neither subtle nor intricate, but it worked well enough. A pained expression crossed Salamand’s face.

”Yeah, I actually sent for her, I’m getting worried I can no longer rely upon her, her actions are becoming liabilities now.”

”She kills well enough.”

”I have two dozen men who can kill easily enough, but they can follow instructions too. She’s too, I don’t know, too invested in what she is to see what she has to do as part of this commission.”

”So why is she here?”

”Honestly, I can only say now as a reminder this is work, not pleasure. But she is a concern, one more than is necessary, and I need to sort it out before it becomes a genuine problem.”

*************************

Sellan looked at herself in the mirror, or rather her human self. Her experience in the transformation process had ensured her usefulness as a scout, and, in turn, secured her position within this mission. It had taken a huge physical toll on her, and what she had to endure as a ‘pioneer’ of Katec Ramason’s experiments had left her strength and instincts a fraction, a mere shadow of what once was. She stared long and hard, hating the image the silvered surface sent back even as she now struggled and trained herself in the art of maintaining this new form. She traced the darken lines of her human face with her fingertips, the soft flesh a distant alien texture to her, used to the razor-sharp point of a diamond hard talon.

She had come so close to losing her disguise on the last several scouting runs, and such a loss of ability in one who defined herself by her perfectionist prowess and attitude. Weaker now than an initiate of her temple, she found herself angry, not just with her new physical condition but the simple fact that she had had to sacrifice the same to be able to fight in a manner that seemed to go against every honourable principle and tenet she had learned as a Sister. To win through spy craft, subterfuge, against a weakling slave species, that they had to resort to such pitiful methods seemed contemptible at best for one of, no, the greatest predator species of all time.

For by nature’s law their actions here were based, the strong surviving, thriving by the end of the weak. Evolution, some of their Technologists had claimed, or mere destiny forged from their violent past. Sellan had learned from birth the basics of her faith, her culture, the literal cult of the strong, and she was its greatest disciple. The supremacy of their race against the various pale bipeds of the coasts was not some sadist’s nightmare, she knew, but merely the inevitable conclusion of their inability to survive their power.

The cult of the strong.

For what right did the weak have when faced with those whom nature, whom creation had deigned as their superior? What right had they to dictate the condition, the life of those on whom civilizations and nations are brought into being and to those to whom are as gods to them? No human could stand before them, no army, however mighty, know victory when the Drakes took to the field of battle. So much blood, so much hunger craved and sated, flesh, metal and bone battered and torn asunder, to prove something that should be known to all.

Dragons, serpent lords and forked tongued demons. Their history, their presence had left its impact on the lands they had visited, their names, though corrupted into the various human tongues, becoming common nightmares and apparitions out of the blackness of the unknown. Feared by all, worshipped by some perhaps, and yet, now, in the clear and honest light of day it was them who were running, them, the great and the mighty who fled in haste lest they stayed or dwelt for too long. Hatred of them was rife and yet, unfathomably, they did not stay, did not fight, did not conquer and multiply against the fast breeding mammals that they hunted…

Her reflection halted as the door to her cabin thundered open, leaving in its wake a scared looking human man, shorn head and restraints with little else to preserve his dignity. Scars and tattoos covered his body, the last remains of the mighty warrior the man had once been before being shackled and dragged aboard. A warrior, a hunter, named Harand; he had never given up as he had fought her, the only human to have ever wounded her in battle. He was alive; she had deigned to grant him such an honour, as her private slave, his personal bravery buying him his time on Earth.

It was this distant memory that she held in her mind as she looked at him for a moment, now at eye level in her new form, both of them looking pitifully small compared to the size of the cabin and its intended occupants. He returned the gaze, in terrified awe against his own revulsion, and Sellan wondered, for just a moment, where the spark of life had gone from him.

“Where,” she spoke hoarsely in the common tongue, “where did it go?”

“My lady?” he asked, unsure, obviously unnerved to find the human looking woman rather than the draconic demon he was used to except in the heated, silent moments before battle, questioning him in curiousness rather than demand. “I have…have brought you news fro…”.

“Stop.” The command lingered in the air for the moment, and she turned to face him again, eyes wider now. “I asked where it went.”

“Where …what went my lady?” His stuttered answer seemed to suit the flickering light of the room.

“Hope, Harand, where did your hope, your faith, where did your belief, your determination in life falter. When did you die, Harand, when did everything that matter depart your forsaken form?”

Harand didn’t answer, perhaps awestruck again, trying to remember, to define the emotions that her question returned to him. “I do, I do not know, my lady.”

“You do not know?”

“I live only to serve you.” Sellan cocked her head back and laughed, her hair moving and weaving in an almost unnatural fashion. Fire leapt in her eyes.

“That…is not living. That is death, to serve another and not yourself.” She whispered now, a strong reptilian hiss close to her Drakish Draconi. “Why do you continue to exist if you are dead?”

A mixture of terror and confusion filled Harand’s features, but strength, in his mind, forced him to stand before his superior.

“My Lady, please, I bring a…”

“SILENCE!” The word disappeared in an animalistic growl as Sellan’s face darted forward against his. The smell of meat, fresh kills washed over Harand, weakening but not yet destroying his resolve. “I asked why you continue to live when you are dead.”

“I do not….” His weak voice was cut off as Sellan’s anger rose and a balled fist, small and feminine yet as hard as rock slammed into the plating behind him, twisting the iron bulkhead like paper around her hand. The noise reverberated in a daunting echo, momentarily forcing their conversation to cease. He gasped suddenly as her hand darted forward and wrapped around his throat, a grip stronger than any metal, the will of a god made flesh. He grasped and griped with his hands against the thin arm of Sellan, who looked at her slave now with dispassionate disdain, coldly surveying the man struggling in her grip.

“Why do you, you, your pathetic species even exist? Why do you not fight? Why do you not try and be something more than this pathetic waste of existence?” She raised him above the floor and rammed him hard into the wall behind him. Cracking and tearing noises sounded as his body succumbed to the force placed upon it, forcing the air out of his lungs followed by specks of blood.

“Please, Sell…my lady...don’t…” Sellan increased her grip, a pitiful fraction of her strength yet still enough to end any resistance the human could hope to offer. She moved her own head closer to him, fangs now visible as she parted her obsidian lips in false lust.

“If you are not strong, you are…nothing.”

She smiled at him, a terrible flash now of carnivorous desire, a hungry predator surveying a kill. She opened her jaws and clamped down hard against the flesh of his neck, pointed fangs and teeth tearing into the vulnerable muscle. Harand screamed a bloodcurdling acoustic horror that merely registered as a delightful note to the raging Sellan. Blood splattered as arteries severed, covering both of them in wave after wave of the warm scarlet fluid, and she gave an animalistic squeal of delight as the liquid drained and washed over her. Instinct took over and she tore further into the human’s body, mercifully rendering the slave’s suffering short, but even in death his killer, his Mistress, feasted in primitive joy.

*************************

Salamand moved along the corridor, his ears trying to pinpoint the source of the sound, moving down a gangway and further aft as the volume increased. The violent clangs had disappeared now, but the cries and the sobs continued. He reached the opened door of Sellan’s suite, peering fruitlessly round its edge to try and discern what had taken place. He knocked on the door of the cabin, a rasping sound in the silence of the corridor, echoing through the length of the ship. There was no reply, merely the continuation of the same heavy breathing and animalistic rasps.

He pushed the door open silently, using the knuckles of his clawed hands to keep his subtle entrance. It was a horrific sight, red smears and chunks of muscle, gristle and bone covered the cabin from floor to ceiling, red splotches on the portholes and small gas lights casting the room in a red glow to suit the scene. Water poured, overflowing from the sink on the floor, dampening the flesh and spreading the scarlet fluid across the room. Even Salamand, a deep despiser of the prey species that now lay scattered across the room and used to the sight of burst and broken flesh, found he was momentarily overwhelmed in revulsion.

”What, in the name of the Guardian, happened here?” He gasped out, eyes quickly scanning the room, trying to ascertain his own answer to the question.

Sellan looked up after his command, her eyes reacting to the light from the corridor surrounding him as she gazed up and upon her commander. She smiled her wicked smile again, blood stained teeth matched her crimson soaked face and body, joined by unsettling claw marks across her bare arms and legs that had begun to scar, leaving long, black lines across her humanly fragile frame. Salamand could merely stare for a moment before stepping inside, his massive claws digging into the iron deck to steady him on the deceptively slippery floor.

Salamand moved into the centre of the room, keeping his eyes against her raptor-sharp orbs, whose subtle efforts of following him were perhaps the only movement her body created. He followed instinct and moved closer to her, toes and feet avoiding the largest clumps of the torn flesh and bone on the floor. The air assaulted his nostrils, not mere carrion but a diseased, decaying smell, the stench of a rotten battlefield.

”Sellan?” The neutral enquiry did not stir her from her gaze.

”By the Guardian, have you gone mad?” No response, just the unblinking stare once more.

”Sellan, answer me.” The words were simple, harsh, clear and now, in a militaristic sense, emphatic.

”I’m sorry.” Sellan’s words were soft, and did little more than frustrate him, but he felt for the moment the best course of action was softer than his planned course. He moved next to her and settled down on the floor. He moved next to her as best as his bulk would allow, his massive reptilian hulk monstrous against her small, naked and fragile form. She moved her eyes to the floor, ignoring him as he tucked his wing and tail protectively around her. They sat like that for several moments; red light drifting in the air, Salamand’s commanding instincts, and, secretly, revulsion of her state, suppressed by curiosity and the strong warrior bond they shared. Only when everything was still, even the rocking of the ship was repressed, did she speak.

“What do you live for? She asked in a distant, singsong voice, still locked in her trance like gaze.

”Live for? Glory, honour, my Clann, my…” Salamand stopped as Sellan turned to face him, the same gaze as before now penetrating far deeper as she locked into his eyes again.

”No, you don’t. I have known, I have watched you long enough to know that nothing like those empty words mean anything to you.” She starred at him more deeply somehow, as if the continual gaze was slowly boring into his own with every passing moment. ”I know what you live for, what all of us live for.”

“And what, pray tell, do we live for?”

”The hunt.” She smiled again, though seemingly more from genuine mirth from some unknown amusement. ”That is it, isn’t it? That is where you wish to be now, in the Northern plains with a harpoon, a shield and a fresh breeze in your wings. Think of it, a sleek Basilisk, a magnificent Sand Dragon, beautiful beasts, they whom made us what we are. Compare that to what we have to do now, ‘hunting’ humans for the amusement of our superiors and the profits of merchants.” She paused, thinking, a furrowed brow a strange guest on her blood sprinkled head.

”Yes?”

“When the Gods shake at our very name, why is it us who merely raid, and run? Why is it us who fear the attack, who deceive and poison and subvert? What happened to the days of battle, of the heroic duel, of the great hunt?

”You miss hunting?”

”I miss doing what I was born to do. Don’t you?”

”Perhaps. But regardless, our duty is here.”

”Our duty...” The words were almost sarcastic in tone, but there was also a sense of surrender that spoke volumes. Sellan closed her eyes, sighing deeply and spreading out more against Salamand’s body and the wall. He let her remain still for a moment, both of them were contemplating they hadn’t thought about for a long while.

Minutes passed before Salamand spoke, now authority replacing softness on his tongue.

”Strength is not a virtue for those fortunate enough to possess it, strength in physical or spiritual terms, strength, in its combined form, is vitality, the essence of life itself. Do you still possess that, even out here? I need to know you, even as you question why, can do what I ask of you.”

”I… I swore that to you when we started out.” Salamand nodded as he rose, resting his weight on his powerful legs, moving away from her. Looking back down for a moment, he turned again and headed for the door. As his hand moved out to grasp the ornate iron lock he heard a garbled sob reach out to his ears. Unsure of the origin momentarily, he turned to look at a now crestfallen Sellan, her head now in her knees, surrounded by her wounded arms.

”Stay. Please.” For the first time in a long while that was a hint of a plea beneath the detached delivery. Again, a mixture of sympathy and revulsion filled Salamand’s reply.

Get up Sister. Clean yourself and sort your wounds out. I want you ready to spar by the second glasern mark. Do not be late.” Salamand turned without a further word, moving back out into the corridor and wiping his still wet feet on the grating outside without a second glance.

*************************

The cradle-sant of Brun-Drah Arkandaie Tyrasundiaconranius.

Our journey since the final raid has left me both pleased and troubled. Pleased, perhaps, that our voyage and quest as a whole, has, so far, been both bountiful in terms of reward and blessed in the success and good health of both my crew and the warriors of Srih Salamand, one injury and no fatalities, six successful attacks, three hundred slaves in our hold and no notice of bad faith or ill discipline. I can not think of a finer crew or ship to have had under my command on this voyage.

So why does ill and misfortune still plague my mind? A light conversation several days ago with Salamand perhaps provides an explanation in my own superstitions, and though I dare not tempt the forces that dictate our fortune on these turbulent waters and hostile coasts I can say there is little practical reason to be concerned any more than should be prudent given the nature of our work.

Perhaps I should move back through our voyages to comprehend this growing unease. My first thought of the unusual was the colonies we had visited have proven…different, somehow. More developed, perhaps, but more than that. Touched or blessed would be a better term, human populations that still fall prey to our might yet, with only the same tools and materials are fare healthier and wealthier than those of a similar learning we have encountered before. I do not feel as if our farther reaching voyages have come across more advanced humans, as such, given the primitive beliefs and skills they all seem to possess regardless of location, but something else is at play there.

This is why young Sarris’ injury in our last raid on the Far-ioa Elpi has me unsettled. The damage done to him will heal, but the weapon, or the device that did it to him seems, at first glance, to be far beyond the damage of a mere fire-arrow or powdered weapon, at least ones which cut so fine a path yet swathed through drin-thick armour plating. An accident, perhaps, magic maybe, but either option or more outlandish suggestions are all unsettling, and I will do my best to hunt down one of the cartographer technologists and discuss this with him further, assuming the issue is not pressed with me beforehand on our arrival. I am glad responsibility, however, still rests with Salamand, given the marshalwork, though the Guardian bless his brave hide.

Other odd things have come to my attention too over the last few days. Omens in the sky have given my sentries, experienced all, significant scares. Indiscernible lights at the range of telescopic visibility, a concern perhaps but I have little time for such assertions until they become something more than ghosts in the night. Fear runs through this profession of mine and is shared by all who sail, and yet I do not need any crew being affected enough to begin endangering either our guests or our cargo.

This represents the sum of evidence for my worries, and the details here show perhaps how flawed I must be to pay heed to trivialities against the necessities of our trade. We have real dangers and real concerns to wager, especially as in the next few days we pass Heros and into the southern sea. Cidra is still a full Ionas sailing time away, assuming decent winds, but homeward bound we are and it is good to finally know we are coming home.

By the sound of it, the ship herself agrees with me.

May the Guardian watch over us all.

Brun-Drah Arkandaie Tyrasundiaconranius

Airaheri stepped into the wide lift shaft, a wood panelled octagonal car wide enough for two grown men to lie down in head to head without their feet touching the sides. She took hold of a handle and gave it a slight twist, “Take me to the captain…” she said.

“Please restate query,” it said.

“Hum, Locate the captain,” she said.

“Deck six, forward compartment, armament maintenance area.”

“Take me there,” she said, and the lift ascended a few decks, lights moving on its crystalline windows showing where it moved between four secured ladders, until it slid out sideways into a cavernous chamber eighty meters long and forty wide, holding half a dozen huge spheres half as wide as the room, of dark metal, which in some areas, seemed to flicker with quiescent inner light.

It disappeared into another tunnel, hissing too gently to be heard on steel rails, then it descended once more, before it came to rest and one of its doors sighed open sideways, revealing a long chamber that stretched into the distance, almost as long as the cavernous reactor room, though smaller in both other dimensions. It narrowed the further forward one went.

Blinking instruments were recessed into the walls on either side, and her keen elven sight could determine the location of what appeared to be heavy hatches in both the floor and walls. Wide semi-circles cut the white ceiling’s height to a ‘mere’ two meters in places, and these also appeared to be accessible. At the far end of the room, where it terminated in a semi-circular array of displays, stood Ferinion, leaning on a brass rail.

He seemed oblivious to her, as she began to cross the room’s floor, glancing at the displays; it occurred to her that they were for diagnostics on the guns, which must be on this deck and the one below it. The smaller doors leading off must presumably be to access the guns, the larger ones, and those in the floor, to move them into the far wider lift that dominated part of the chamber; one she knew went through the entire height of the ship.

She walked up behind him, “Planning to shoot something?”

“I’d need to get access to reactor control before doing that from here,” he said, absentmindedly.

“Have they said anything yet?” she asked.

“I’m told that the Prefect has complete faith in my ability to deal with the situation, and will support my decisions.”

“Good,” Airaheri said, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not good. It’s anything but good. I’ve been examining the reports…”

“And?” Airaheri asked.

“There’s about fifty million of them… And what I choose to do will affect them all. They’re not beasts of Melkor, much as they may look the part. Perverse, perhaps, but if they ever were such things, they’re not now. Now they’re a fairly civilised species in their own right; compared to humans at least.”

“I don’t see how you can make that claim quite yet…”

“And I have three courses of action, none of them appear good. The first is ignore them. I am granted foresight in this matter; if I were to do that, then they’d continue to conquer the local humans, without limit. At least until they run out of steam. If I do attack them, and wipe them out, then I’ll be responsible for genocide.”

“I…”

He continued talking, “Or we could conquer them, which is another nest of worms. And what’s really frustrating is that I know that this is the option I will take. I have seen it. I know what will happen. In a thousand years time, the place below us will… well, never mind.

“I suppose it’s time to begin…”

---

The fire leapt up for a moment, then dwindled, and Sirithil leaned back, taking a glass from the servant standing behind her, and drinking the water greedily.

“So, this is the Lóki war?” Culdalot asked.

“The nineteenth Lóki war…” Sirithil said, “Which is probably why it’s obscure. The others were of course, with various dragons, mostly lesser cold-drakes.”

“What about the ones in the southern continent…”

“We generally didn’t don’t, even, I think the last sighting was a few weeks ago, “call those ones Lóki, but rather Rámalókë.”

“So, how come no one’s put two and two together about the whole thing yet?”

“Well, as has been said, Ferinion saw much of the future at the time. Only relatively few of us know the minor sin; the knowledge about the nineteenth Lóki war you’ll find in our history books is… well, it’s lies… They generally say that the war against the beasts identified as something between vampires,” in this sense she meant the ‘vampires’ of Morgoth, which were similar to those of the Freethinkers, “and Lóki took place far to the north west of where it actually did, and contains other false details created by Ferinion at the time. I’ve never asked, but perhaps knowing that was part of what weighed so heavily on his mind at the time…”

The flames grew from embers once again…

---

The Aragorn Elessar was, to the drakes, barely discernable, for it hovered high against the sun, with flights of sub-craft around it.

The problems of hitting such a craft carefully enough to disable it, without destroying it instantly were another concern of Ferinion’s. The rudder was comparatively easy. The Anor class had around a dozen guns, but none of them had the required precision to do it; so it was a task for a fighter based eraser.

At the time, Menelmacari ships used laser-based weapons; which had the redeeming feature of leaving no apparent rapport or tracers, as the modern ones generally do.

Alyaheriel fired the first shot, carefully positioned to slice down through the water, volatilising a narrow line of it, and slicing the ship’s rudder loose from its wheel. Surgical; obscenely so, and difficult to comprehend immediately, but the drakes were unlikely to pay it much attention.

The next phase was to incapacitate its motive power; and that was far more obvious.

The sails were each targeted by a low-intensity beam.

They incandesced with terrible brilliance for a sliver of a second, and flamed, as though under a titanic lens, as indeed they were.

It may seem reckless; but one has to remember that they were merely canvas; for the most part, under a second, the heat involved had reduced each to ragged ashen tatters hanging limply from charred masts.

Cinders and sparks flew apart and rained onto the deck.


On board the Elessar, the ship’s compliment of marines were preparing their planned assault. Even then, Menelmacar had used weapons that included variants on the ‘sticky-shock principle’ but there was no guarantee of them working against the drakes.

Instead, penetrating explosive bullets about the size of ball bearings were the weapon of choice, along with small calibre erasers.

The ship had missiles, of considerable size, stored in internal magazines, which were ejected perpendicular to their direction of thrust, and then stabilised by a slight manipulation of the ship’s gravitic field.

Which also allowed the dual missile ‘dispensers’ to be used to deploy troops in a manner akin to parachutes, but more precise.

It wasn’t the only option, but it was the best; the Anor also carried suppression mist which was expected to work; but as Ferinion didn’t want to tip his hand too soon – foresight can sometimes be annoyingly vague in tactical meaning – he had no way of proving that a gas like that would work on the Drakes, especially in quantities not lethal to the humans on board, and deploying it and failing to render the crew unconscious could allow them to do something like scuttling their ship.

So, he was counting on luring most of them onto the deck with the sudden, inexplicable fire of sails and rigging, before swooping in to deposit his troops, who were here, in part, also equipped with archaic looking shields that generated powerful stunning forces on contact.

Arkandaie muttered some random epithet as the ship lurched as it broke the crest of a wave. A slight skewer of the hull caught his attention in passing, though not to a moment or two later did things really become much worse for him.

It started out as nothing but a strong glare, and, used to the sight of the sun neither he nor his crew respond at first, nor even if they had would it had done much good. A brilliant flash, and a sheet of flame and one by one under the glance of surprised eyes and gaping jaws the white canvas sheets billowing across their heads burst into brilliant white flame before disintegrating and raining their sultry remains across the deck.

A look of shock was Arkandaie’s first reaction, followed by quick assumptions and a horrific revelation.

”The Guardian. We are cursed.”

Black lids fells over his eyes from underneath their armoured scale covering. The rim and glare of the sun disappeared, leaving only a huge and expanding black shadow in its wake, now beautifully silhouetted. Arkandaie took a deep breathe, not quite understanding and yet, somehow, in his bones he felt a terrible dread come across him. The giant reptile went extraordinarily stiff for a moment, before letting loose a simple, stark command.

“Battle Quarters, now!”

***************
Salamand rushed down to the second deck, dodging past oncoming sailors simply by climbing and running along the walls. Lacking armour in the quickness of his departure from his own recluse his scaled bulk made short work of the journey. Arkandaie’s quick and frightful words down the chute had got him thinking again, and though a strange and awful idea had entered his mind already a plan was beginning to form. But first he needed confirmation.

As the line of warriors leapt from their bunks and messes, he searched for his particular target even as he told the other drakes rushing past to meet him on the under deck.

Saran, Sarris’ twin and fellow drake, came out last from his mess, looking eager or angry though possibly both, who grinned at Salamand with an impressive array of serrated teeth. Salamand grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him aside.

”The person, the thing that attacked Sarris, was it a human?”

Saran backed up slightly against the bulkhead, looking surprised at the question.

“Was it human?” Sharper and more urgent now.

Saran regained his composure quickly, his eyes locking on his commander in a mindful expression.

“I…the smell. That was what was strange. She didn’t have the human stench on her. She smelt, I don’t know, she didn’t smell like prey, well like anything at all.”

Salamand let go of the young warrior, turning away to look back up the corridor.

“Get up to the next level but stay off the top deck. I don’t want any of my men exposed. If Arkandaie’s men fail you will need the time and the cover. Tell the soldiers it is a direct order from me, understand?”

“Yes, Srih.” The thrill of the hunt returned to Saran’s face, opal like eyes blinking in the flickered darkness.

“Go.” Saran obeyed instantly, leaving Salamand momentarily alone before his racing mind formulated a desperate plan. He ran down the corridors, simply and literally bouncing off the iron bulkheads as he pelted towards Sellan’s cabin, heart and chest pounding. A dull thud of an explosion nearly tripped him as the sound echoed through the ship, though from whom or what was unknowable. He reached the cabin and stepped inside, finding the combatform Sellan putting on her armour. Salamand grabbed her by the arm as she turned and opened her mouth to speak.

“There is no time, listen, we are in a dangerous situation. I need you to do something for me.” His words were a low hiss, authoritative and urgent. She nodded without pause.

“Good, I know you’re going to hate me for this but I still hold you to your oath.”

She nodded again, brilliant eyes looking back at him without even a blink.

”I have some deep suspicions about what is about to happen. I need you…” The words stuck hoarsely in his throat for a moment. ”…to turn again into your human form. I want you to get down to the slave pens, get yourself muddied up, and if this battle does not go according to plan, I need you to be taken with the rest of the prisoners and, if necessary, either kill our captors or release us.”

She stared at him, first in shock and then in anger.

“You want me to hide?” The last word descended into a contemptuous hiss in the most literal sense. He closed his eyes, and nodded again.

”No. I am a disci..” Salamand cut her off with a wave of his clawed hand.

”Do…NOT…disobey.” Harsh and impatient were the words, but they hit home. ”This may be our only chance. Do not fail me.”

Without waiting for her reply he turned and walked back out, running back to the gangway that lead up to the gun deck.

***************

Salamand’s command still echoed, hollow and angry, in Sellan’s head as she made her way down to the third deck, at the waterline on the outside, where the various slave pens sat filled to various degrees. At about four and a half metres high it was fairly average for a drakian vessel, though this amount of space allowed for a double level design for the human pens. The deck had two rows, one to each side, and about eight pens in total running bow to aft. Each was about four metres wide themselves and about twelve metres long. The cells contained enough bunks for half their occupants to sleep at anyone time, some latrines and some wash troughs, though half the humans they captured didn’t seem to understand which water was meant for drinking and which for washing themselves anyway, even if they were the ones civilised enough to consider washing in the first place.

It was impressive indeed to Sellan, given the human’s poor situation that they were in actual fact, sanitation and probably nutrition wise, better off in here than at their miserable pits of home, even if it was merely the result of draconic study and a desire to get as many slaves back alive as possible. The concept of plumbing and of gas lighting seemed like divine or demonic gifts for these people, who probably still thought disease could be cured by drinking their own urine or some such nonsense.

She quickly transformed back into her humanform before the occupants of the cage had awoken from her arrival. She stood unclothed for only a moment, taking time to smear some of the rust and dirt over her hands and face to help improve her appearance with these wretches. She looked herself over once more, letting a black fingernail run against her skin in various places to create new cuts and welts, before her hand picked up a spare blanket from a nearby pile by the gangway and wrapped her self up in it, giving a remarkably similar appearance to the rag strewn slaves around her, watching the human like demon with frightened eyes. The sounds of battle did not fully enter here, disguised as thuds or light vibration, though even in their lightness they made Sellan wish she was up above deck engaging their attackers with claw and blade.

Against her very fibre of being she thought a battle between her instincts, her honour and her orders, and so very close she came to disobeying and running out the room that her muscles themselves prepared for her return to form. But she remained, her code echoing and etching itself repeatedly into her consciousness even as she admitted its supremacy. She moved towards the nearest cage on the lower level of cells, walking into the pen with heavy footsteps. The other occupants shied away, in fear or revulsion, though some recognised her and spit out archaic curses at her walking shadow.

She sat down, returning the spiteful gaze with her own contempt, happy to let them see she was not one of them despite her new appearance. She had merely one command for the trembling weaklings though, and even given her appearance it came out with impressive and final authority to the trembling groups before her.

“If you reveal me, even hint at it, should they reach down here, I will kill all of you starting with your younglings, letting you watch as I tear them apart before I eat you alive.” Fangs for emphasis, the threat had an effect, and they turned and ignored her, some sobbing, and some wondering who the attackers above them were. Silent prayers for salvation were whispered in the air and the question of when and what was coming suddenly began to dominate Sellan’s mind as she huddled up in the cold corner.

***************

Salamand stared at the gangway ahead that lead up to the open deck above him. Shadows moved as figures clashed in the straining light, heavy and light thuds clanging against the deck above his head. The hatch was marked by radiant sunlight, making it difficult for him to see above the armoured rim. He moved quicker now, though the reverberations in the hull suddenly began to die down, replaced more by light footsteps and low voices barking orders. It did not bode well, especially as he saw his orders to remain below deck had been ignored by his overeager men. If they were still alive he was going to kill them.

It didn’t get any better for him, however, as he kept moving towards the spot of light in front of him. His paced slowed as several dull thuds one again sounded, followed by a metallic crash as something large and heavy fell through the gap. The sprawled fell awkwardly, a drake, landing with a sickening crunch at the bottom of the gangway. The body was burned and bleeding, yes closed and unreflective, the warrior either horrifically injured or lost completely. The sprawling body made no sound as Salamand stopped in a heartbeat, staring at the form of the broken soldier before him.

Saran.

Anger leapt up inside him, but still instincts kept him still. He moved back into a recluse on the deck created by the closest bulkhead, mentally reaching into his body to slow his heart rate and breathing to a painfully small fraction of their natural rhythm. He felt himself release adrenaline and other chemicals into his bloodstream, controlled burst of additional energy for when he needed him. Pure biological preparation in light of his poor position and given his lack of manual weapons or armour his only real hope. The battle had not gone well, he knew that much even as rage built up inside him. With the exception of Sellan, this would be their final counter. He couldn’t help but feel terrifyingly inadequate in light of his failure to fight alongside his men, even if the young drakes had disobeyed such a command to take cover.

Could he blame them? They were hunters, after all, and what did they have to fear?

All musings faded as more figures appeared around the hatch, impossibly light-footed, and their smell was…well, also as faint and distant, nearly innocuous against the aromas of the ship and the sea. Saran’s words became clear now. He reduced his bodily activity even further, nearing himself to the point of asphyxiation in order to hide his presence, an activity in which itself he found appalling but now, given his lack of support unfortunately necessary.

Two jumped down. Humans? No, too light and fleet, firearms and other weapons at their side, superbly camouflaged to the point that he could barely discern their outline as the scanned the corridor and the body next to them. He didn’t have long to make an impact, if the horrific injuries on Saran’s immobile body were testament to their power.

He pounced, literally, tearing up the distance between him and the new arrivals in the corridor in less than a heartbeat. They turned, superhumanly quickly and brought their weapons to bear, heat searing against Salamand’s sides. He moved through the pain, momentary as it was, and between the two figures despite their impressive efforts to avoid him. His arms stretched out as he passed, slamming either soldiers into the steel behind them with bone crunching force, though catching their hastily arrayed shields with his extended fists caused him horrific pain as they made contact. Wincing but not stopping, he landed at the base of the gangway and leapt into the air above.

He landed on the open deck, turning to see an array of drake bodies and a large number of the attackers standing with weapons drawn. No time to think, he reverted straight to instinct. Bullets and horrific burns sheered across and into his flesh, but the monster that now arose within Salamand’s huge body seemed, at least for the moment, immune to the pain. He caught one at the furthest extent of his talons, moving under the drawn gun and shield and drawing blood, though it didn’t feel deep enough to be critical. His tail, twenty feet behind, swiped with lethal barbarity as the numerous spikes that lined it crashed whip like into anyone foolish enough to be nearby.

Figures darted away from his grasp, however, and used to the slower shuffling of humans the nearest warriors always seemed beyond his outreached talons. One last desperate charged brought contact against another shield, but the pain now caused Salamand to collapse awkwardly onto the deck, the pain from numerous wounds now becoming readily apparent even through the massive surge of combat hormones running through his blood. He heard the firing stop, he was crippled now and the attackers were perceptive enough to realise it. Merciful, for the moment.

Salamand breathed heavily as his hand moved over his frame, the pain itself too general and overwhelming to specify the damage done. Massive burns scorched the entire body, legs, arms, his trunk like torso, massive gaping holes, the remnant of the explosive rounds, had shorn several inches of flesh from his bleeding hulk and foot wide holes in his membrane wings. So much for the last stand, he thought, as he fell forward, landing with a dull thud on the deck, body finally catching up with the injuries it had sustained.

“Why don’t we use those shields now?” Culdalot asked.

Siri smiled, “Culda, tell me, what’s the density of air at sea level?”

“Between one point two five and one point two nine kilograms per cubic meter,” the young elf said, seeming to be insulted by being asked such a basic question.

“So, if a twenty kilo impactor, travelling at two thousand meters per second were to impact an object, how much air would it need to disperse that momentum over to give the air an additional velocity of one meter per second?”

“Forty thousand kilograms per meter second over one point two five… Thirty two thousand cubic meters, a cube of sides one hundred eighty meters”

“Right. That’s about the upper limit of the dispersal of those shields, and in normal use – as I was telling you about there – it was considerably less. They dumped momentum a few kilometres behind them, generally, and so they were never that useful in urban environments, because it was a damn sight harder to be sure you weren’t going to accidentally kill someone. And you’re very lucky to find a space habitat where that works, too. Also, they’re not that efficient, even if it stops a blow dead, there’s a fair chance it might send you flying anyway. So in the modern forces, for the most part – though I think they’re still in use in some places – you won’t see shields like those. Instead, they have some momentum cancellation systems in guns – which is why recoil doesn’t take your arm off these days.”

“Yes, I know about that,” the young elf said.

“Of course. I should’ve expected as much from Serendis’ kid,” Siri said, and both of them laughed, “if you want something to do some time, ask one of the guards to stand up on tip-toes with momentum handling on full, and then try and push them over…”

“That sounds cool…”

“Anyway… Back to the story…”

---

The chief of the drakes was unconscious, at last, on the deck, and several downed elves were in various states of injury; they’d been very careful to incapacitate limbs – especially legs – first. Though they had weapons that could probably do the job a lot easier than small arms, alas, that would have also destroyed a sizeable part of the ship, which was already burning, after all.

The other members of the crew were generally less severely wounded, and now the test really came. One of the elves, a medic, if one could read the insignia of ‘diamond’ shapes on his shoulders, began to shoot the wounded with a sidearm. The projectiles fired by that, however, were slightly different, containing immensely potent tranquillisers.

They weren’t as effective as they could have been, but they were useful nonetheless. While the Menelmacari had done considerable damage to most of them; as most of them refused to give up until actual unconsciousness, and this made the prospect of preserving the lives of the least some of the enemy practical.

Though that tends to be difficult when one doesn’t even know the anatomy of the race in question.

Unfortunately, the explosive pressure of many of the weapons prevented neat cauterisation of injuries, which meant that the slave ship was most appropriately awash in blood.

The boarders began to move down through the vessel’s decks, as a second group came aboard and extinguished the remaining fires on the top deck, and began to see to sweeping the vessel, and ensuring that it wasn’t in immediate risk of sinking.

It wasn’t, thankfully, which meant that when Sellan, in the slave deck, got a glimpse of the elves, they didn’t immediately do anything to help the abducted, simply moved in, checked for threats, and moved on. There was a simple reason for that, too. They didn’t want to bring the abducted and the abductees into contact again.

The medical technology of the nineteenth Lóki war was, unsurprisingly, considerably less advanced than it would be in a thousand years time. But the basic technique of treating vapourisation injuries was pretty much the same. The use of a reflecting, expanding gel solution with a microtechnological base, which was then – no longer necessary – impregnated with a microcomputer to govern it, which generally required scans of anatomy to work. What it did – and does – is repair damage to blood vessels, simulating viens and arteries where required, and even capillaries around the typically ragged edges. It did a few other things, including adjusting the lymphatic system, encouraging re-growth and suppressing bacteriological infections.

Of course, unlike its modern equivalent, it couldn’t restore muscular function (which was discouraged even ‘now,’ but still used in comparable field dressings), or lay down false nerve-pathways, or simulate lost organs, or repair ruptured organs…

In this case, it also took some time to get a complete map of the appropriate anatomy of major blood vessels for the gel’s computers, resulting in greater blood loss, and in some instances death, as the scans had to be taken of no less than three drakes, and then a new program compiled, taking several minutes altogether.

Menelmacar hadn’t quite passed the point where it could elegantly replace every organ with a smaller mechanical substitute; some of the trickier ones, in order to be practical, had a certain inelegance about them. Livers were particularly troublesome. And of course, the requirements were for far larger creatures, what the Aragorn Elessar had on hand had been designed for elves, which required some jury-rigging to work with the considerably larger demands of the drakes. What’s more, doing so required robotically assisted surgical intervention; the use of dressing-gel had not quite advanced to the point where replacement organs could be inserted, and would take another seven hundred be for it would be able to feasibly generate its own organ replacements (four hundred for anything but the most basic organ repairs – hearts proved particularly easy in that respect, surprisingly) on the fly.

So, despite conscientious medical attention, between actual deaths in combat and deaths due to the unsuitability of some of the medial systems they required, about twenty of the slave ship’s crew died. The elves simply removed the corpses below decks, into their rooms – and hard work that was too, until someone brought out gravitic stretchers and lashed them to the drakes so they wouldn’t be in the way.

The matter of confining the survivors was more important…


Ferinion watched from the loading bay doors as the first of the captives was brought on board the Menelmacari vessel. The ship’s embarkation bay, was like all its decks a standard height. Despite this, adjoining it were everything from a small set of stables to a bay with small robotic tankettes of a semi-gravitic design.

Three such tankettes were guarding the long corridor outside the hastily emptied cargo bay where the prisoners were being… dumped. Their sophisticated projectile weapons likely to do enough damage that putting any would be escapees back together would be a job for pottery-repair experts, not doctors.

It wasn’t the only area that had been vacated. On the other side of the large, Anor class, ship, several bays were being reconfigured with supplies stored in compact spaces, to allow them to carry – in considerably greater comfort than the drakes got – refugees.

Now all that remained was to get the humans off the ship without terrifying them. A problematic task, and one for Ferinion himself.

Salamand made an awkward, gargling sound as he slipped back into consciousness, rocking gently as his mass shifted from one side to his back. Slowly nerve synapses fired, bringing awareness, then touch, smell, sound and finally vision pouring back into his mind. His last few moments of fury forgotten, he glanced down as his wounded body, curious at first to his condition and his location before his memory kicked in, flooding his mind with a series of disjointed images and questions as he rose up quickly from the metallic floor he found himself on. Sharp pains brought his attention, dozens of wounds that now seemed cleaned and coated were numerous across his skin and wings, some damage more severe than others and yet he found himself surprisingly strong, grateful subconsciously for what healing their attackers had down despite consciously cursing their lives. He looked around himself in the light, realising that all the hulks in the low ceiling chamber were his compatriots, although at the moment his obstructed view did not belie the exact number of brethren within the confines of this place. A dull moan near him brought familiarity in the shape of Arkandaie’s sleeping form.

Arkandaie muttered softly as he arouse, slower than Salamand and giving the impression of one rising from peaceful slumber rather than in the confused aftermath of an enemy assault. He yawn, stretched, and in the wake of sleep induced haze he reached out without alarm to place a hand against the covered wounds on his chest. Pain from the receipt of his diamond like talon caused him to curse, the reaction also forcing him awake as the new surroundings revealed themselves. He rose with a start, grimacing as he made the mistake of putting weight onto his non-responsive leg, and, with a great intake of breath and a flaring of his nostrils he scanned the room from one end to the other in close proxy of Salamand’s own initial curiosity. Around him other Drakes began waking up in a similar manner, becoming more alert as the circumstances of their rest were brought to bear, growling angrily at both their wounds and their lack of armour or weapons, taken by their captors whilst unconscious.

The bay that held them contained few features save for lights that burned far brighter than the gas constructs aboard the Sacred Night. At just over three metres (or just under a ‘hrakin’ in Draconis) only the shortest members of the surviving crew and hunters could stand upright, though most were limping and stood crouched anyway given the unresponsiveness of limbs and muscles to their owners’ command. Salamand checked himself over again, peering at the attacker’s efforts at dressing his wounds. They had shown either impressive mercy or outright torment in their application of their healing craft, and Salamand also found himself increasingly angry at the loss of his ’brothers’, whose demise he felt assured of despite the lack of communication. Drakes themselves, the only standard he had to judged by, only kept prisoners wounded such as they had been alive to merely torture further a troublesome or despised enemy, a thought of some concern given the surprise and the ferocity of the attack, despite the seeming physical weakness of the attackers in Salamand‘s eyes.

“How long has it been?” Arkandaie kept his voice low as he moved towards the hunt leader.

“I have no idea. We haven’t been spoken to either, I doubt they even know we’re awake.” Salamand whispered, or the Drakish equivalent at least, as his eyes followed the lines of the room, searching for a door or window or indeed anything at all that deviated from the smooth curves that characterised the bay. His leg gave another twitched, a conscious grimaced accompanied by a subconscious release of local endorphins coming in its wake, and Salamand peered at the exposed flesh around his wounds in search, partly at least, for an answer to the same question. “Given the healing, a fair while, days, maybe, but if they can do, well, build this ship, then it could be anything from minutes to weeks for all we know. I still feel reasonably nourished though…” A slight pause followed as Salamand and Arkandaie in his wake ran fingers over their form, trying to detect any change in the small amounts of fats that were stored over their frame. “…yeah, a couple of days of most. I will assume that is the first time you‘ve awoken?”

“Yes, my memories are somewhat mixed up at the moment, I can barely remember the attack, invisible flames,” a hand brushed unnoticed against a prepared wound “then, just, this craft, flying down, then…fire, I remember now, hordes of them, moving down and out faster than any of the humans I’ve ever seen. Fleet, and their weapons…” Arkandaie went silent, but Salamand knew what he meant as his own distorted recollections of the last few moments on board the deck of the ship came flooding back. First course of action, however, was simple, to learn as much as they could about their remaining capabilities and about their prison and captors themselves.

“Right then, lets see what these walls are made. ”

**************

Sellan listened without sorrow or shock as the sounds of battle died down. A few final dull thuds followed by shouts and then nothing save the crashing and creaking of the ship on the waves. The stillness of the air belied the anticipation, the expectant hope and fear of the humans around her and the anxiety within Sellan’s own mind. She remembered her orders, forcing her mind to concentrate on Salamand’s word despite the doom filled atmosphere that now surrounded her.

The arrival of the enemy took Sellan by surprise, expecting as she did something far larger and louder than the thin, small, humanoid figures that appeared. The figures arrived cautiously, treading lightly, far more lightly than men of their stature should, glancing around with devices in their hands held threateningly and scanning the crowd with neither a sound nor a pause in their quick step. They were fast, doing whatever it was they intended to do in a manner of seconds before departing from where they had come from in the gangway, leaving barely a trace.

For those brief few moments Sellan watched them with sharp eagle like eyes and flared nostrils. Drake senses were, in the words of Ramason, were to those of a human as a human‘s was to an unthinking insect, at least in terms of sight, smell and hearing. This had granted them both advantages and disadvantages in kind, and the discomfort she had been forced to endure in the stench of human settlements, replicated here by the unwashed masses huddled in the cages around her, had nearly resulted in the failure of her undertakings several times over. However, trained now upon these new figures these immensely powerful sensory organs could do little save confirm that the new arrivals were not human, or, at least, if so then certainly distant in their relationship to the point of complete separateness. The rise and fall of hope and expectation in the eyes of the human slaves brought a little joy, but the unclear motives left Sellan somewhat flustered.

Indeed, the pace, the stance, the smell and sight of them was so completely different to what she had expected that Sellan found her own curiosity overcoming her revulsion and her instincts. The few fleeting glances replayed themselves as she tried to figure out what she could from her memory, trying to extrapolate what she could about them. That they were powerful was not in doubt, though through what mechanism given the paucity of their form remained in doubt. The firearms by their side, and the shields too, provided some clue as to the instrument, though from her reference to other firearms, primitive fire spewing contraptions of the technologists it didn’t seem to fit. There was no trace of sulphur or gunpowder in the air either from the battle above or from the weapons themselves that she could smell, indeed the Drake could only sense the heat they generated as they passed.

The concept of a magical source entered her mind, and though she was familiar with the protracted and elongated rituals of the higher temples such arcane knowledge seemed incompatible with the devices, though she couldn’t put the possibility out of her mind. Her knowledge of technology lacking, she also wondered if this was merely refinement of their own efforts at destructive ranged weaponry, given the gap between their own craftsmanship and those of the humans around them it was not inconceivable that there would be such a gap between themselves and others as well.

Sellan contemplated these few facts for a long while, taking in horror the silent pause and the problem of the unknown fate of her comrades above, and debated for a time freeing herself, given that it seemed given the swiftness and now silence that they may not be interested in the slaves at all. She caught herself as her thoughts drifted, however, as from the gangway the sound of footsteps, the light tapping of the attacker‘s faint footfalls, echoed through the corridor once more.

**************

Salamand nodded to the young hunter ahead of him, Herris, one of the few fairly untouched warriors left, knocked out by concussion from a falling beam rather than taken down by weapons fire in the battle. The hunter gave a grin, before rearing back and letting fly with a balled fist. The impact rebounded with a dull metallic thud, the wall creaking with a twang-like echo as the metal curved and then reformed its shape. Herris cradle his fist with an annoyed look on his face, before rearing again, and, this time adding some of his huge muscle weight from his chest into the blow brought his fist again to the same spot in the wall.

A splitting crunch brought a flash of a grin from Salamand, but this was quickly replaced by a confused and then horrified stare as Herris retracted his fist as an arc of lightning shot out over the left side of his body. A ear-splitting hiss, in concert with a lung busting roar accompanied the sight of Herris almost literally being flung to his feet and collapsing back against the floor. His tail and wing stretched out and spasmed, foam and blood erupted from his jaws and nostrils and his arms flailed, claws retracting and drawing at random and scouring the ground where they hit. A few nearby warriors and sailors, those that could move in time, did their best to arrest the fit as the young Drake’s violent movements began to subside.

Arkandaie moved without hesitation to address the hunter’s wound, which appeared as sharp, scarlet welts against the dark brown scales a fair way across his body. Unbeknown to any of them, the biology that gave them their impressively strong bones and claws also left them horribly vulnerable to electrical charge, but for know all Salamand could assume was a form of trap laid for any such attempt at escape, and one in turn looking at the damage to Herris’ body left him with an even greater feeling of anger.

The nature of this trap, therefore, seemed to confirmed the malevolence of their captors, something that caused a not considerable unease within him. Salamand was responsible, after all, for the safety and success of those under him, and even given the glory attained by those who fell in battle and of course the Drakish desire for strength and their worship of it should perhaps have given him a more nonchalant attitude towards Herris’ condition, he still felt an almost paternal urge in ensuring their survival and wellbeing as his primary raison d’etre in the circumstances. He closed his eyes momentarily, then, letting with a sharp intake of breathe and standing as tall as the low ceiling allowed, he let out a single, sharp question in the tone on a thunderous command, using the human over the Draconis language;

“I, Srih Salamand Tyrasdorran, pack leader and overall commander of this hunting commission, command our captor to make themselves known.”

Kicking his heels, as it were, the elf assigned to watch the surveillance of the drakes got a guilty chuckle out of watching one of them grab firmly hold of a live cable, and then listened to one of them, the leader he guessed, with a great deal of wounds, demand that their captors make themselves known. He considered pressing the intercom button before him. But then he thought better of it.

He called the other elf assigned to monitoring the cargo bays over, and nodded at the screen, and at the apparently impatient looking drake depicted. “Think we should give him an answer?”

“I don’t know… It might do them a world of good to wait a while. Can’t be seen to be pandering to them…”


Meanwhile, Airaheri descended the oversized stairs of the captured vessel, which had the drably coloured soldiers at each level, their clothes blending in a touch with the walls behind them, making them seem almost ghostly, save for their weapons, which as a result seemed almost to be stamped into greater solidity, and looked more lethal for it.

“Ah,” Ferinion said, looking over at Airaheri as she came down the stairs, “Airaheri… Do you have any idea what we’re going to say to these people?”

“It’s probably best to lay it on straight,” She said after a moment… “Have you found the keys by the way?”

Ferinion held up a piece of metal the best part of a foot long, one that consequently looked more like a sceptre than a key. “Shall we?”

Airaheri nodded, and they walked, flanked by a pair of the guards, with both shields and the lofty ‘ceremonial’ spears Airaheri had seen before, a weapon the captives would at least understand the rudiments of. The guards stood aside, and Ferinion opened the cage-like door. Airaheri and he stepped through.

“Hello…” Airaheri said in the ‘local’ language, “We’re here to take you back home. We’ve killed the… people… who have kidnapped you,” it wasn’t entirely true, but it would simplify the situation, and curtail any demands for revenge, “And we want to get you off this ship, and back home as soon as possible. We know you might not trust us, so, we’ll take a few people upstairs, show them what’s happened, how we’re going to get you back, and then they can return, and then we’ll begin taking you over to our ship in small groups…” the inference, to those who might know a little about ships was that some form of longboat would be used. It was of course, far more mind-blowing than that. The actual idea was rooted deep in elven myth-history, and it was left unspoken what would happen if the group they took aboard the Aragorn Elessar “Is anyone here hurt or ill?” she asked, smiling a little, trying to be reassuring. For her height, it was quite difficult.


“Think they’ve waited long enough?” the elf supervisor asked, glancing at the subtitled text of what was said in the human language again.

“No… I think they can stew a while yet…” his partner said.

Salamand had descended into a quadruped stance, feeling slightly undignified but secretly appreciating the comfort in the confined space, and moved between his hunters, especially ensuring the health of Herris as he slowly recovered from the blow inflicted by what they assumed was a trap. The wounds, though deep, had cauterised nicely and so the Drake’s own impressive immune and repair system had already began to work. Other Drakes occupied themselves with various activities as their commanders busied themselves, some meditating, others silently watching and scanning the room trying to ascertain more about their situation, some of the more tired or wounded merely played weirdly intricate puzzles on the floor, using their talons to etch out patterns in the metal plating.

His call had gone unheeded, perhaps not surprising to Salamand in retrospect, though the lack of communication was worrying. The only thing a Drake would admit to being afraid of was the unknown of the future, and everything that postponed the arrival of knowledge of their fate, either merciful or not was not good. The details of the attack had become known, although it did little to alleviate Salamand’s concerns. That their jailers were powerful was beyond a question now, and in conversations that mimicked the thoughts of Sellan similar conclusions were reached within the group. What peeked Salamand’s interest mostly was the motivation behind the factor, alliance perhaps with a raided power, more powerful raiders than they? Benevolent deities answering the prayers of their captors?

Arkandaie had taken it upon himself to mimic Salamand’s stance out of convenience, converging with him after a few moment’s silent contemplation and ensuring the wounds on his own charges were healing from the initial attack. He and Salamand shared understanding glances, both had similar situations to deal with and the hunt leader was glad the ship’s captain had shown immediate deference to his leadership, a useful bonus in ensuring his plan succeeded. The loss of personnel had hit both groups within the Drake crew, especially for those whose losses had been personal.

Sarris rocked gently, silent curses streaming from barely moving lips, his stretched out body separated from the huddled horde of his comrades who almost seemed afraid of the grief stricken warrior. Arkandaie arched his eyelids in concern at the sight, and Salamand felt the pain even worse. This wasn’t weakness as such, for after all the love of one’s comrade was what kept the unit together, and as blood brothers as well the death would have had a deep impact. What Salamand knew, however, was that Sarris would also take the most brutal of his lessons to his heart. Good training after all relied upon making conscious commitments and discipline in the face of danger subconscious traits, and now the training instincts that Sarris called upon in his grief would push him towards immediate retaliation rather than the drawn out plan Salamand had in mind.

Salamand moved over to the young hunter and placed a hand on his shoulder with an almost familial style. Sarris’ look, however, was one of brute anger as he turned up to face his commander, the grief Arkandaie had hinted at, as he had feared, had turned to fury in the eyes of the hunter, and the urge to kill seemed to flow unnaturally through the drakes body. Physical signs, contraction of the muscles ready to strike, breathing becoming heavier, slowly changing skin tones as blood and armour realigned and scales moved to reveal his unfolding claws. He peered at his commander, muttering heavy words with a slow and terrifying tone.

“I swear, on the lives and honour of my ancestors, that I will kill whoever took the life of my brother, and I will also tear apart any who stand in my way.” He peered from wall to wall, as if trying to discern an enemy hiding in the shadows. ”So they trapped the place? Since when have we feared the pitiful machinations of our enemies. By the Guardian let’s fight before they take us by trickery again!”

**************

Sellan watched the elves arrive once more, new ones, by dress and stance either the equal or the superior of the more combat orientated soldiers of earlier, brandishing primitive weapons that seemed almost at odds with the handheld devices of earlier. They seemed slower and more contemplative than before, and the female Drake could see them brandishing the keys, from the body of a hunter no doubt, a simple fact that, especially in the hands of one seemingly so frail made her stomach churn. It was in this moment, subconsciously at least, that Sellan suddenly realised the difficulty of her assigned task. The fear of the unknown.

She listened to the speech without comment, mimicking the pattern of silent obedience of the rest of the slaves, though without the rising hope they held in their eyes and instead with a further sinking feeling as the news of her comrades filtered through. Sellan had no reason not to believe them, after all, for to have gotten so far down into the ship meant that all resistance must have ceased from the hunters and sailors above, and for a Drake this surrender was only given with death. The question of injuries was greeted with a negative, for the Drakes had only kept alive those who would recover from their wounds, and so by now all who were left were reasonably healthy and mobile, especially by local standards.

Sellan moved quietly, trying her best to fit in with the huddling mass of survivors as she tried, and succeeded without raising suspicion, to get into the first group, thankful for what she assumed was the elves predilection for removing weaker and more vulnerable slaves first. She stepped out with other survivors, who moved away from her as much as they dared, though Sellan kept herself close enough to not raise too many eyebrows, though she found herself having, when no eyes were turned upon her, to lowering her inner eyelids to solidify the fear in a wavering female slave beside her as they moved towards the gangway. Keeping her changed, slower pace and feeble movements in line with the freed group they followed the attacker’s directions towards the main deck, the hidden Drake having to be careful in her movements to ensure not slip of the foot belied her increased weight to their observant watchers. The silence of the upper decks proved especially eerie to Sellan, used to avoiding the normal bustle and mock-combat there.

Entering out upon deck after a fair while with the rest of the survivors, Sellan’s lowered eyes caught the blood of her comrades splattered across the plating, massive splatters and trails of droplets leading to places where wounded warriors had either died or been carried off. Sellan buried another feeling of anger and disgust within her, eyeing where she could individual members of the attackers to try and discern motives, tactics and physical attributes that she had had little opportunity to view earlier. Some things were revealed, and assuming firearms it became readily apparent both in their conduct here and their defeat of the Drakes on deck that these were obviously well trained fighters, professionals certainly, and certainly far more gifted in many physical traits to the human captors, able to discern sounds and sights and react at a level that even rivalled Sellan’s own.

The examination of the scene on deck was soon momentarily forgotten however as Sellan peered skywards to figure out what was casting the shadow. What had distracted the others before now caught her eye, causing an audible gasp that actually betrayed the elongated fangs had anyone been fortuitous to catch the sight. Above their heads, sitting comfortably in the sky held by what only seemed the winds of the sea sat the ‘ship’ of the attackers, looking in contrast even to the metallic curved lines of the Sacred Night like the product, the gift perhaps, of another realm, divine intervention made manifest, to the humans beside her it was a wondrous answer to their prayers for salvation from their god. Slow realisation mixed with overarching wonder as she moved her eyes across the fuselage.

”By the Guardian…” She whispered under bated breath

**************

”So you don’t have a plan?” The voice was more direct now, Sarris’ slanted eyes now bearing in on Salamand’s own, as if through sight trying to detect the truth in his commander’s words.

Salamand wasn’t going to risk saying, even in his native tongue, the hope and faith that he placed in Sellan now, and indeed she now represented the sum numbers of assets that could theoretically help them now. He found himself concerned for her, both out of genuine empathy and in a more selfish sense in his fear of her personality reacting awkwardly to her orders. He felt pained in this knowledge, both because informing his fellow Drakes would both most likely cause anger at the dishonourable tactics used and a bitter recounting of Sellan’s own failings, despite the female’s ability to happily tear any of them apart without a second glance.

That Sellan’s status within the eyes of the crew was not the best was an understatement. Though Arkandaie’s words from the ships’ cradle reflected the sailing crew’s own cordial concerns, the hunters under Salamand had a far more intimate and base reason for hatred. Her refusal to either share victory in celebration or indeed during her somewhat violent cycles to take any of them as a mate left a lot of unsaid but silently understand aggression kept in check only by their physical inferiority. The ego of a young male Drake, honed on perpetual aggression trained into an art form, meant the supposed slurs against them were not forgotten, nor was their commander’s apparent, if somewhat chaste affection for her appreciated. The aura of both fear and disgust of her abilities merely provided the final reasoning for many.

“There is a plan, but…” He paused, sabre teeth biting into the lower jaw as he played the words out in his mind before speaking. “I will say no more. This is not the time to say, given the intelligence of our captors, nor is it your place to question.” The words were soft but firm, and though for a moment it seemed as if Sarris was satisfied or at least redirected in his anger it soon became apparent this was not the case. He snarled, curling his lips at Salamand, an almost unthinkable act of defiance that required, almost instinctually, only one form of response. The blow connected with such ferocity it took even Salamand by surprise. The younger Drake bellowed as his body twisted awkwardly in the air, impacting against the roof softly before landing a dozen feet away at Salamand’s feet. He turned his head immediately on landing to look up at Salamand, taking a moment to spit out a few shattered teeth, and looked up with a bitter and teeth-gritted stare.

“Too bad you could not hit the attackers that hard…”

Salamand turned in a flash, raising his body as high as the room’s low ceiling would allow and let out a low, dull growl that seemed despite its low volume was powerful enough to cause the room itself to shake. He stalked, three effortless strides and he straddled the prone body of the young Drake. Leaning down, his massive claws grasped Sarris by the throat, the younger warrior choking and gasping hard as his airway constricted, his own hands and talons instantly wrapping and tearing into Salamand’s wrists in a futile and short-lived effort to remove them.

” Are you MAD?” The words were mixed in with a snarl, a vocal plea and reminder of the larger Drake’s sheer physical power. The pair looked at each other through slanted, heavy eyelids, Salamand looking almost betrayed, Sarris now focused with the sight of his commander fuelling his rage.

Then Sarris did something that, in the contemplative aftermath Salamand would have given anything for him not to have done. Taking the larger and older Drake by surprise, the young hunter flicked his legs up and drove his clawed feet deep into the abdomen of his leader, pushing up with all his might into a kick that saw Salamand thrown himself against the low roof plating before staggering back away from the by now livid young hunter. The final challenged made, Sarris bellowed again, the tone of the sound changing which, combined with the spreading of the wings and the flashing of his fangs indicated a challenge to a duel, a lethal challenge in the context of their imprisonment.

The sheer sense of anger and sadness that swept Salamand caused a momentary halt. He hated himself, for his laxness, for his sin now in the eyes of his code. How could he have shown such indecisiveness? To have within the Drake’s structure seemed so inclined to almost have encouraged such a pitiful challenge? He could see now in the sheer anger of the other Drake the failings of his own leadership, his inability to appear strong, his absence in the heat of the battle. A silent prayer to the guardian remained internal, reflecting now as his body prepared for the fight. He returned the gestures Sarris made, making not surprisingly a more impressive display, accepting with a heavy heart the inevitable price of his failure.

In the confines of their prison Sarris had little chance of matching Salamand despite the seriousness of both their wounds which even with a flood of combat hormones running through their system still felt themselves known, and although his anger and grief blinded him to the futility of his action Salamand found himself locked into a course of action that he himself had brought about. No more words now, the time when negotiation could in the Draconian culture have brought this fight to a halt now long gone, and though in a duel Salamand could, being the senior of the pair have declined the fight, his position as the hunter’s superior in this pack forced him now to take part and prove what should have been already made clear.

Sarris charged, his pace softened by the lack of room, forcing Salamand to weave around and place weight on a still smarting leg injury as he curled his body around the younger Drake. Sarris turned on the spot, swiping with an outstretched hand and slicing into the wing though without causing major damage. A poor mistake from someone he personally had trained, Salamand, remaining silent now against Sarris’ painful bellows, reached out his own fists and landed a glancing blow that forced the young Drake away whilst Salamand himself reoriented himself from Sarris’ changed position. More swipes from Sarris were parried and returned, horrifically strong punches and swipes that would have liquidised humanoid bone had they landed fell into thin air or impacted with a deafening thud against the hardened floor, causing massive dents and scratches and the occasional flash of sparks as razor sharp claws tore into the deck plating.

The techniques became quickly more animalistic from Sarris, moving from biped to quadruped, his massive head and even his whip like tail forcing Salamand to slowly back up as he tried more concentrated and refined techniques to bring the young warrior into a hold where he could lever the body to cause maximum damage. Blinded now by fury, Sarris pushed ever further forward, his jaws once briefly tearing the scales and flesh from Salamand’s shoulder, but now had played Salamand’s own trap. Able to grab the Drake beneath his sunken shoulders, Sarris found himself lifted as best as Salamand could manage in the tight space with sufficient force that his horns and the bones lining and supporting his wings snapped noisily and bloodily as he impacted the ceiling, glimpses of white appearing as parts of the toughened skeleton penetrated the armoured scales. The twisting grasp stood itself in grim parody of Salamand’s earlier rescue of the Drake.

The fight neared it conclusion as Salamand let his opponent fall awkwardly to the floor, pushing down with his hands to increase the pace and therefore the pain of the blow. More bones shattered and blood splattered, more roars of pain and anger rising. Most of the Drakes, now invisible to Salamand’s concentrated vision, retracted now from the scene slightly as the conclusion made itself known. Sarris now lay in agony, turning awkwardly to rise on his four limbs but pushed back down as Salamand again positioned himself above the charge. But there were no words this time as the commander’s head lowered and the horrifically sharp teeth penetrated the flesh of Sarris’ neck.

Endgame. Salamand’s teeth gripped further into the vulnerable muscle of the neck, and with his horns shattered Sarris could do little but roar in defiance. A massive surge of power from the mighty jaw muscles, eight thousand pounds of pressure, resulted in an unsurprising but still stomach-churning crack as the spinal column was effectively pulverised and every major artery to the head was severed. A quick twist finished the job without another sound save for the gargling of blood and the almost pitiful twitching as Sarris’ body finally came to the realisation it was dead. Dark scarlet fluid dripped to the floor, though with the heart no longer pumping surprisingly little was actually released.

Salamand held the body in his jaws for a moment, the taste of saline and blood flooding his mouth without care. He let go, rising slowly as he turned his slightly to look at the eyes of his other charges staring back at him with both shock and almost simultaneously acceptance, peering from their chief to the fallen Drake and back with an almost satisfied expression, as if concerns had been answered. It was an horrific way to raise moral, and in his own failings Salamand internally berated himself, though to the men around him he rose confidant and now unchallenged again, though at a cost he found himself believing beyond its worth. His promise to the dead Drake’s ancestors suddenly remembered, another wave of regret flooded him, but circumstance forced his mind again to the moment.

The elves, their still unknown captors, had objected, it seemed, to the actions of their prisoners.

In the gaze of joined eyes ideas flowed like water, concepts moved by thought transference. A strange notice, of deviant behaviour as they passed through the lowest deck’s deployment area an area of white and silver metals that backed off to one side in bays of combat vehicles, sizeable metallic devices with turrets and flat angled surfaces that maximised protection.

Horses could be heard off to the right, neighing and whinnying now and then at the air of excitement on the ship. Heavy turret guns stood before them in ball mounts behind armoured plate a meter thick, on a heavy wall that seemed almost to be a secondary bulkhead, and served to protect the lift area behind it from blasts that may have entered via the loading bay.

The ‘guests’ were lead behind and into an area where a flat surface of an elevator twelve meters per side stood below double doors in the ceiling. This lift was part of a massive shaft that ran through the length of the ship, and which was used to move large pieces of equipment from any given deck to another. The aft doors were huge, too, similar to the ceiling doors, but they extended up past them.

The floor of the area was made of hexagonal grates that showed some machinery beneath, though what it was no one there – including Ferinion or Airaheri – would likely be able to say.

Two smaller lifts flanked the large one on either side, cylinders from floor to ceiling, and it was into one of these that Ferinion gestured the guests, a silver chamber with a florid pattern from a control band about half way up it, of bushes and trees that formed a leafed canopy on the ceiling, where, if there was an escape mechanism, it could not be discerned.

Airaheri twitched, as Sellan stepped into the lift, and the guards quickly and deftly stepped between her and the humans. It was a subtle twitch, but what she said had a different tone about it, a strong Quenya word, and one that made the lights go out, it seemed.

Then there was a shocking weariness and weakness, and she found herself falling through darkness.


For Salamand, meanwhile, a response seemed to be swiftly forthcoming as part of the wall opened and slid aside with a considerable rumbling noise. The air content of the room outside was kept lowered deliberately, to keep the drakes at least partially debilitated, as seven meter wide, ten long devices of silver hovered at the doorway. They were like flattened, hovering teardrops that came to points which folded back into dark barrels of guns the width of a human thigh. Glimmering glass optical sensor lenses clustered unevenly around the edges and surfaces of the hover tank, to provide an all-round field of view. Other than that, the joins in the metalwork of the floating menacing device were invisible, even to elven eyes, but for a few grilles at the back that served as emergency systems, and a pair of ingress/egress hatches in the tank.

It also had two more ‘barrels’ in sections that could apparently swivel at the top and bottom of the hull, to provide off-axis fire in close quarters, these promptly trained on the nearest drakes.

The first tank entered the cargo bay with the drakes by a few feet from its tail, two more kept back beyond it, hovering high to be able to shoot over their compatriot on either side, should the prisoners try anything; two more lurked at the far end of the dead end corridor.

“You…” the voice was, not that it would be obvious, and indeed it didn’t sound human, “will come with us. If you refuse you will be collectively punished again…”

If the drakes had hair, it would perhaps stand on end near the tanks, the hulls of which were charged, and would only need to be earthed to the floor or ceiling to give out a shock that would be easily lethal to humans.


Ferinion sat before Sellan in an empty room on the other side of the ship. Well, it wasn’t empty, it was in fact crowded, with boxes that would not change their design in the next thousand years, sealed white metal boxes, colour coded and electronically tagged, that stored numerous things.

The chair he sat on was a masterwork, carved in a common but strong wood, and upholstered finely with velvet and crushed silk, its arm rests curved into patterns of rearing lions that snarled at the viewer.

The woman-drake lay without any chains, and there were, furthermore, no guards. There was still the potential that she was, after all, simply a captive like the others, and thus it would be quite unlawful to restrain her. Ferinion, of course, had ordered her put into this small room, monitored like the others, and gone to see what she might say or do upon reviving. Elsewhere, on the deck above, the former captives were being brought from the sea ship beneath in small groups.

The removal of oxygen brought about by loss of air and the Drake’s own hyper metabolisms meant that the slow release of pressure provided the only warning for the sudden dullness of sense and strength that swept through the group and caused them all to slowly back down, lying on scarred bellies and resting wounded heads with barely a murmur questioning what was happening before the Drake’s own biology shut itself into a low metabolism routine almost akin to hibernation. Their hearts and breathing had slowed to a trickle, a similar act to their masking of their breathing when ambushing prey, but the effects here were even more severe, leading Salamand to assume, rightly, that their captors had objected significantly to the Drake’s own rank system and martial procedure.

The opening of the doors and the arrival of the tanks caught few by surprise save in the form their aggressors took. Unused and perhaps incapable of comprehending the concept of armoured vehicles the Drakes retreated slightly from what they assumed were giant magical beasts. The effect of the residual charge in the air made itself felt, the sensitive senses of the large reptiles well tuned to hunting from minor changes in the surrounding magnetic field. For the first time some of them seemed overtly cautious, and almost, given the unknown and ferocious quality of their attacker and their own limitations in the confines of their prison and their injuries, perhaps something close to frightened.

“You…will come with us. If you refuse you will be collectively punished again…”

Salamand rose, very slowly, the lack of oxygen and the tiredness and pain in his arms and legs no longer as easy to ignore. Others moved around him, but a swift bark and a nod to Arkandaie passing on authority he moved in compliance, knowing full well that if he kept this brief the chances of another hunter doing something stupid in a situation where they faced almost no hope of victory will be radically reduced. Curiosity and the prospect of answers also made him more amiable towards the threat than he would otherwise have been inclined.

The massive Drake fell into the formation as the tanks moved around to cover and isolate him from the rest of the room and escort him off. He moved as fast as he could, though the intelligence of the tanks seemed impatient, though at least the requirement for them to stick by him meant space in the wide corridors wasn’t an issue for his own massive bulk. Under the eyes and direction of the armoured titans around him, Salamand moved alone into the heart of the ship.

***********

Sellan knew before her eyes opened that she had failed. Seconds of thought and instinct left her only one option as she feigned sleeping still in the aftermath of the sleeping spell despite her becoming aware of neighbouring presences. She smelt only one clean foe, resting and relaxed from the sounds of his breathing opposite her. She could feel no bonds nor other restraint, and no chink of metal or scrape of a blade led her to believe, close to true in her situation, that her opponent had perhaps misunderstood what she was and had hopefully misunderstood what he or she was dealing with.

Underneath pale eyelids an inner, blackened set descended, to protect from glare in evolutionary origins but now more to scare the living breathe from her opponent. Muscles tensed, combat hormones pumped through her now compacted system. And then, without so much as an intake of breathe, she opened her eyes and leaped forward at her captor. The man who watched her did not even flinch, however, as she leapt forward. He didn’t need to either, and though his eyebrows raised and a sharp word in an unknown language from his mouth the only thing Sellan knew was sudden pain as what felt like a Troll punch slammed into her abdomen and pushed her back across the room.

The Drake recovered though even in flight, twisting, and with a certain animalistic grace landing like a feline, she rose without a second thought, taking a second to stare with solid black eyes at her attacker and her surroundings. Realising how alone she was she wondered just how strong this seemingly lonesome and weak-built enemy actually was. That the blow was magic was quickly decided in her mind, though such control and speed would cause a fellow Sister to blush and fan with envy.

The figure spoke, actually moving though several human languages that Sellan recognised from the sounds but did not bother to translate. The fine figure raised a hand from the arm rest, presenting three fingers into the air before placing one back into the palm. A patronising challenge that caused Sellan’s anger to rise. She grabbed one of the nearby cargo containers without regard for their contents, shifting in one arm a pack several times the weight of a man. She gave an angry cry and hurled it full force at the still seated and still almost seemingly amused man watching her. The crate like her previous attack got near and then, with a nasty grating sound, quickly reversed its direction and flew towards Sellan. A powerful punch reduced the metal to fragments in front of her, the shrapnel ripping through the poor slave clothing and leaving thin crimson trails across the silvered floor.

”Fine!” She yelled in humanform Draconi, not checking her mistake as frustration set in, the word coming out as a hiss-like growl more than anything else. She backed up away from her challenger, who still sat sitting there, looking at her. She moved into an almost cliché stance, arching her legs and moving her feet so that she stood almost on tiptoes as her body moved into an animalistic attack stance, her muscles ready to leap. She snarled, or something close, showing off her extended fangs in abject hatred alongside her blackened eyes to create a terrifying effect.

Sellan charged, and though she would have loved to lock her spine in combat form she made do with her more compact musculature. She ran on the tips of her toes, surprisingly graceful and incredibly fast footsteps as she attacked, but still the humanoid did nothing more than watch her approach, one finger left in the air. She neared, leaping and arcing in the air in front of him. Arms and her now talon like nails extended forward, time seeming to dilate as she watched the vice like fingers near the still seated figure.

Then she realised time wasn’t changing all, but instead her body slowed and stopped, the edge of her fingertips centimetres from the man’s face, who almost seemed to grin as he moved the last finger next to the palm. What happened next lasted but a few seconds but left its planned impact. Sellan fond herself catapulted away, some force constant now that let her recover as she slid across the room and crashed awkwardly into the containers opposite, winding her before dragging her out again, flipping her in the air with a shriek and accompanied by gusts of wind that seemed to draw her very body heat from her before slamming the female humanform Drake into the floor, depressing the metal like an impact from a charging Rhino. Whatever force or spell had held her remained for a while, constricting her body and driving further into the subsided floor.

Then the pressure disappeared in a moment. She looked up, panting heavily, fangs now reduced and her eyes returning to their red catlike normalcy. The female Drake panted, taking in gulps of air now her chest wasn’t restricted. She didn’t move even with the pressure lifted, remaining stationary save for her face and lungs within the indentation on the floor. The pain was easily ignorable, the small cuts and bruises and the drop of blood running down her cheek wouldn’t even be noticed and would simply be added to the number of small, slash like scars visible on her body through her now-torn slave clothing.

Indeed, what kept her down was confusion and fright, her brain, used to being able to categorise beings and creatures simply by their visible strength was working trying to comprehend how and why she was in this position. Sellan closed her eyes for a moment, and when they opened again her captor stood over her, peering down almost nonchalantly. His refined features, his physique and his absolute ease in ending an assault that would have destroyed even the greatest human warrior left her completely and utterly out of ideas. Words formed on her lips, and she spoke slowly in the language of humans she had heard them speak in on the deck of the Sacred Night.

“Who…what are you?” She murmured, watching him now with half closed eyes.

“Ferinion later told me that he’d found it quite amusing. He’s not all that powerful, but a few very subtle changes that reverse momentum, rather than direct force. That’s one of the more subtle uses of magic that, as far as I know,” Sirithil said, “is very rare and difficult to achieve with technology. Anyway, he answered…


With a slightly self-satisfied smile, “I am Ferinion nos Círdan, captain of this vessel, the Aragorn Elesssar. Further explanations probably have no translation into any language you understand.

“It might please you to know, or perhaps anger you, though your anger means little here, that what we said before about your crew was incorrect. They’re mostly alive, if injured, and confined nearby.”


Meanwhile, the interior of the ship moved by slowly for Salamand, as he was led along by the tanks. There were elves around, several of them, in various outfits, most of them armed, too. Another set of doors – multi-panelled wide doors intended, thankfully, to accommodate large containers. Inside, the chamber was wall to wall with painted white metal boxes, which smelt faintly of all sorts of aromas; this was a food storage room. Although the room was sealed, enough containers had been opened in it to give it a permanent flavour of various meats and vegetables.

“Do not touch the containers, do not attempt to escape. If you do so, you will be punished…” one of the tanks said, hovering into the food store with him as the doors rolled back.

Assuming the words were true, Sellan’s mind suddenly became very clear as the combat hormones drained from her system and her thoughts resumed their clarity for the first time since her induced ‘nap’. A mixture of joy at the fate of her comrades was overwhelmed by fear and shame, in her failure in her mission, in her broken oath, and the trepidation that came with having to explain that failure when and if she saw Salamand again. She went cold, almost fearful, still looking back up unblinking from her indentation in the ground.

Which of course led to the question of why she was even believing what he said, given that he was either lying now or lying before, either situation creating a reason to distrust the man’s words. And yet there was something that made Sellan, for the moment at least, believe him, even though she could not, given how she, and indeed her species as a whole, dealt with threats and news comprehend his reasons for the lie. Something about his manner, his total control perhaps spoke to her subconscious, his words true because in Drake eyes perhaps he had placed himself in a position of command where his opinion regardless was the truth.

So the female humanform Drake didn’t move for several moments as Ferinion stood over her, taking long enough perhaps to raise concern in the watching captain, but her words came soon enough. Clearer, quieter and perhaps more dignified as she rose to a semi-sitting position on her elbows. She withheld her own name in her reply, she was not ready to extend that courtesy just yet….

“Ferinion nos Círdan,…” Sellan let the word echo, though there was no emotion, positive or negative, that belied her feelings for the moment, “…I do not recognise the styling…I assume you are responsible for the unprovoked attack on my ship and my pack?” She wondered, how far to remain defiant and how far to try and ascertain her situation. “And do you speak the truth of them? Did you not say earlier they had perished?”

**************


Salamand followed into what from the various odours was or at least used to be a food store, the wave of smells, palpable to most humanoids and practically overwhelming to his own finely-tuned senses.

He grunted at the instructions, again annoyed and again beginning to get bored of the elven threats. Used to directness he found his captor’s … procrastination grating and far more of a torture than anything he had physically been subjected to.

Which meant for Salamand that from the short instructions given the huge Drake found himself without much to do save recuperate, surprisingly relaxed though due in part to his trust in Arkandaie not to screw up, and in turn not wanting to give his watcher the easiest time he curled up against a line of boxes (under a surprisingly warm lighting array) and positioned himself in what resembled an almost cute (had he not been a fifteen foot tall super predator) curled position, one black lidded eye staring out at the watching metal titan.

Beneath it Salamand slept, though the eye never shut, and he slept lightly as was natural for a breed that evolved where they had had to. One small act of defiance perhaps, but the rest felt good for when he was finally awoken….

The Aragorn Elessar pivoted in place, its silver shape turning around in the air as one of its aft guns trained on the ship it was leaving adrift.

The wood burst into flames as though it had been doused in paraffin, even the through fireproofing on some parts was no help, the laser weapon turned the whole ship, and the sea around it, to retina-searing brightness. The water bubbled and boiled in an instant, bursting into gouts of steam that were blasted at speed away from the ship by the overpressure, which splintered it into a million pieces that burnt or melted. Even the iron droplets behaved strangely for a moment, under the extreme conditions, burning as though in pure oxygen, such was the heat they were subjected to, blasted into smaller particulates of molten rust.

A column of steam and wind-blown ash and rust, catching high into the air and terrifying (rightly) the local seabirds was all that remained of the Sacred Night. All but for what had been taken aboard the Aragorn Elessar, at any rate.

Prisoners, ex-prisoners, parchment and food (after all, the elves weren’t quite certain what to feed their captive monsters) were most common amongst the things taken.


In the Elessar’s engine room, or rather, the engine control room where most of the regulation of output went on, monitors displayed the main engine’s breakdown of atoms and its ancillary combination of the same as it cut through the air. Despite this, the engines were running at a low output, and the majority of their pollution release was nitrogen, albeit superheated.


Sellan could feel it, a change in gravity’s pull that indicated that the ship was tilted, as though in a high wind. In actuality, it was the angle – about thirty degrees – of movement contrasted with the ship’s internal gravitation that created that effect, pulling her, and everyone else not quick enough to grab a hand hold or simply lean back towards the back of the vessel slowly.

Ferinion, of course, seemed to have expected it, leaning back so that the ground merely seemed to have a steep slope to it. “I don’t think I’ll be putting you in with them quite yet,” he said, “but if you’re want proof…” he strode over to the wall, and pressed a button, speaking quickly in a different language.

A moment later, a one-way relay of the microphone pickups from the chamber with most of the drakes locked inside came through to Sellan.


Meanwhile, on the ship’s top decks, the smaller aircraft were landing. They looked, largely, similar to their parent ship, chromed and tapering with long tails that came to rest on umbilical-clamps for re-charge and re-fuelling.

The ship was ascending upwards, out of the atmosphere, and into a sub-orbital trajectory that would take it to Menelmacar…

Sellan, still in her rather prone position, steadied herself as the ship rotated, and her head suddenly lurched from side to side, her eyes and ears trying to ascertain the location of the noise as her mind began racing over the rapidly changing elevationa nd angle of the room. She shuddered as realisation dawned on her, a being of flight herself she comprehended finally what was happening to the ship around them with an expression of, for the first time, what could only be described as ill-disguised terror.

In the wake of this realisation that the ship around was moving in the way only birds and draconi kin could, the confirmation of Ferinion's claims regarding her companions took another moment to register, as the intercom at first merely picked up heavy breathing, generic sounding, but then quiet, almost hiss like phrases came into the room, Sellan's attention quickly turning to the snippets of conversation.

Her movement and body language provided a far better translation of the Draconi than any software or magic could for Ferinion, the words causing elation, then sorrow, then anger with a strange combination within her features of betrayal and outrage. Without thought, her arm lifted and a small compact fist slammed into the deck plating with a loud cracking sound as the hand punctured through the metallic surface and produce another little job for whoever's job it was to mend such things. Her chest heaving beneath the tattered and bloodied remains of the slave blanket, Sellan looked up again at the elf with an expression of frustrated resignation.

"So now what?" She asked quickly and bitterly, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer.

The Aragorn Elessar’s flight control room, on the fourth deck, opposite the main control on a narrow corridor, was busy. The operation of a full planetary reentry was wasn’t that common, and this was the second they’d done that day.

The ventral surface of the Anor class cruiser, although it was winged, made up a mildly sloping convex surface of polished silver, and it was in this way that the ship preformed re-entry. The dual-gravity feeling vanished as the ship entered orbit, and the same gravitational forces acted everything in it at the same level. Were it not for the artificial gravity, the contents of the ship would be in free-fall.

The ship burnt a trail over an ocean as it fell, curved surface blazing with fire that was barely noticeable in the rooms closest to the inner surface of the hull.

Then, with a slight lurch, in the lower atmosphere, it began a high-gravity deceleration, causing a stomach-heaving jolt like a lift suddenly stopping, from the slight imperfections in the gravity systems as the ship slowed down, before allowing normal gravity back into the ship and switching internal gravity onto idling mode, hovering over the sea, towards Menelmacar….

“Menelmacar was much as it is now, though with a smaller population, without the guest-workers, and some of the newer species… The territory was the same, and most of the cities the same. Of course, back then, almost the entire civilian population was here,” Sirithil smiled, “In any case, time for lunch… And then things begin moving into place…”

Fëanor palace took up a sizeable space in Vinyatírion, with its gardens gradually backing into public parks – indeed, most of the gardens were open to all anyway. The palace and parks were on the north side of the bay, and had been originally established to the east of the city, outside its actual buildings. The site dated back around fifteen thousand years, with most of the current above-ground buildings on the site dating back three thousand years. Since the site was established, the city had grown around the palace, until it now occupied a fairly central location against the shoreline.

Sirithil sat at a small table in one of the more secluded areas, attached to one of the numerous side doors of the buildings, with Culdalot. She deftly and somehow delicately punched a stiletto-like knife through a large lettuce leaf, nibbling it delicately, and nodding approvingly to the blue skinned near-human (to be distinguished from necrontyr, who were far different internally) servant who had delivered her lunch, sipping from a tall glass of some imported fruit juice, “Mmm, very good… Edweniel, isn’t it?”

“Yes my lady, thank you m’lady,” she said, retiring away a little to wait.

This garden looked down across a variety of others, mixed in with flights of steps (and concealed lifts) of various sizes. The gardens of the palace were faintly reminiscent of the fabled Hanging Gardens of Babylon, on a grander scale. They clustered against the lowest three hundred meters or so of the towers, extending about the same distance radially around the base.

This particular one wasn’t the highest nor the most prominent, some soared over others on spurs of white rock and silver. However, it was exclusively used by Sirithil, Ranisath, and their immediate friends and servants, there were two classes of servants in the palace, those who attended to state functions, and those who looked after the immediate needs of the resident members of the royal family and their guests.

The sea air drifted along the terraced garden, rustling leaves and petals, and Sirithil leaned back on the circular bench hidden from the noon sun beneath the stirring leaves of a tranquil elm tree. “Now, as I’ve said, the drakes had been brought back to Menelmacar, at the time, there was an active military space port seven miles west of Vinyatírion, on the south shore. Where the Randir and Anor museums and a lot of other naval tourism is located…

Ferinion walked along the concrete and steel floor of the landing cradle of the Aragorn Elessar. It looked out to sea, and the ship itself rested on several tiers of support, that connected to the undersides of its ‘wings’ as well as its landing surfaces. Rumour had it someone had wanted to make these ships so that they could dock and then transfer lifts from their internal systems to the base’s, but that the idea had been shot down by the argument that the Anor already had enough holes in its ventral surface.

Ferinion walked under the nose of the ship, towards the edge of the cradle, where a sheer drop down to the beach below could be seen, and lent on the rail placed to stop people falling over.

The city wasn’t as great as it would be, but it looked broadly similar. The main building material of its towers at this time was however, a bright teal, and most of them sported large expanses of it, along with blues and oranges for contrast.

There was also, at this time, far more aerial traffic over Vinyatírion, as gravitic vehicles were in extensive use, rather than the later systems of deep tunnel networks for vehicle use in the cities.

He had a problem, he supposed. The drakes could fly. And were huge. Which made imprisoning them humanely rather difficult. For now, at least, he would likely have to keep them in the bays they were in, until he found somewhere for them to be put away. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anywhere that had easily secured rooms of sufficient size; he’d considered the base’s fluid tanks, but they were all full of one thing or another…

Half an hour later, he was back aboard the ship, working on persuading the desk-flying procurements officers to hire a decent cruise ship to ferry the humans back to where they’d come from. The alternative, of course, was to have Ferinion deliver them, but that was rather more problematic. Then he’d need to get reconstruction supplies delivered. Added to that, there were probably going to be some requests from the ex-slaves themselves. None of them had actually asked to stay in Menelmacar yet, but he predicted some of them would, and that would mean that the Menelmacari would have to find somewhere to send those refugees. Perhaps one of the human houses had some spare capacity…


It took about two hours to find somewhere to put the humans, and most of that was finding hotel capacity to spare and persuading people already in some rooms to move. The drakes however, had to wait for about a day before they were moved. One by one, guarded by the same hovering vehicles that had segregated Salamand, into what was essentially a large box with narrow windows in the sides, near to the top, at about eye level for a standing drake.

These uncomfortable transports carried about five or six drakes, and while bending the metal that contained them out of shape was rather easy, there was a continuous armed escort, and if they became too agitated, parts of it were wired to provide electrical shocks of the same power as those the drakes had inadvertently received before.


The journey made by Salamand – in his own container – and all of his crew but for Sellan, was about three hours long, as the containers clipped along at a relatively low altitude, at hundreds of miles per hour, leading from the tropical climbs they’d landed at, over an ocean, towards a desolate looking island where little seemed to grow, though there were some woodlands.

There were some old structures on the island, already there was no part of Menelmacar that had not been explored and lived in several times, save for the sea bed, and even that hosted some homes, albeit not as many as it would in the future – it was not as convenient as it would be with the widespread dissemination of teleportation.


The prison constructed rapidly for the drakes was simple enough. Cube shaped blocks of some kind of metal twenty meters to a side, with what seemed, on first inspection, to be concrete slabs a meter thick, for walls, awaited. The material was actually steel, but it had, somehow, the texture of concrete, as though it had been made of concrete, and then transformed into solid steel.

Each wall had a gap in it, from the steel foundations to the slightly inclined roof, filled with a hexagonal, honey-comb-like mesh of steel, about a millimetre in width. These ‘windows’ were each four meters wide, and contained several layers of the mesh, the interior ones of which were charged, to shock any drakes that felt adventurous in escaping their welded shut prison. If it weren’t for the cages, each of which contained up to ten drakes, and had been built so that nowhere the drakes went would be out of line of sight or fire of guards, the island would have been quite pretty. Stark rocks, with a few trees clinging precariously to them, and the ruins of a neglected fort or watchtower at one side of the island…

The doorways in these cages were even more secure, heavy panels in the steel, vault-like in their size and security…

Salamand even got his own cage, a good way from the others.

The Drakes reacted as one would have expected such a horde to in the face of their circumstances, surprised, outclassed and outnumbered and yet shackled most of all by the frustration of being incarcerated by beings similar in size and shape to those upon whom they had preyed so easily.

So as it was every part of Ferinion’s plan to move them was opposed by biting, snapping and aggressive non-compliance as far as the giant reptiles could manage, bared teeth and claw and hardened muscle tearing at the container walls and the guards around them, contained by the actions of the elvish guards yet never allowing either their probing or their underlying hatred to fade out for the duration of the operation, trying to draw in more attention and test the patience of their captors. Whether it was an organised act of resistance or simply a general subversive streak amongst the drakes was not exactly clear to anyone, lest of all the drakes themselves, though all took a quiet satisfaction in taking part.

And yet, even as the transfer was completed, all seeming resentment and aggression turned suddenly inward, as the newly separated groups acquired their own hierarchies, majestic displays of dominance as the younger males reared and snarled at each other, only to seemingly settle as the attention of the guards became apparent. The split forced new groups to emerge, the larger individuals finding themselves in charge without the leadership of either of their original commanders.

So things calmed an hour or so after the various groups arrival, interrupted only by the addition of new prisoners, and indeed once the transfer was complete the cages of the drakes appeared to resemble zoo exhibits more than anything else, the creatures inside moving to conserve energy and rest by lying snake like across each other, wings spanning out in the limited gaps where light and air entered the cages, reptilian skin absorbing the heat of the sun as the drakes themselves sat motionless, black lens covered eyes watching and peering back at the watching eyes of the elven guards.

And Salamand himself did little save move without hesitation into his environs, separated still but now able to read the chemical messages carried upon the air. A cage to himself, he spread his massive body against the line of the sun, looking not so much a carnivore as a particularly large floor rug as he lay quietly upon the stone floor.

His eyes closed again, this time in meditation.

The House of The Golden Flower was a shimmering marble structure perched perilously on high cliffs that overlooked the sea, crashing far below. Almost half an hour’s ride from the island the drakes were imprisoned on, the buildings were busy, filled with people coming and going; although the Lord of the House was unmarried, there were other members who were, and consequently, a considerable population. At the moment, many were present preparing for the Tarnin Austa, the ‘Gates of Summer’ festival, one particularly notable in this house, as it was when the lord of the house had first died.

Glorfindel watched from the lands about the house as the shining military shuttle came to rest on one of the house’s landing pads, and twitched slightly as he was shot in the back. “You’re getting better, Alyaentarë,” he said, as the system registered the gunshot. He’d actually known the boy was there in advance, but that was hardly fair, and he’d made very good use of terrain to shoot his opponent in the back.

“Thanks sir…” Alyaentarë said, stepping over the cover to look at Glorfindel. In human terms, he seemed to be about twelve, though he was considerably older.

“If you have enough time to line up at a static target like that in reality,” Glorfindel said, turning, “consider neck or head. As a rule, armour is less thick there…”

“Understood,” Alyaentarë said, nodding up at the older elf, “So, what was the flitter?”

“I don’t know. But let’s go and see…” the Master of the Mornahossë said, holding a wrist-mounted communicator, the fashion of the time, to his face, hitting a button, “Gravcar pickup…”


The gravitic personal vehicles of the time were more primitive than those of the present era in Menelmacar, but there wasn’t a noticeable difference, in this regard. Although the gravitic mechanisms were essentially based around righting the vehicle and generating lift, while hydrogen combustion thrusters, in this instance, provided fine manoeuvring and forward momentum. Glorfindel picked Alyaentarë up, and deposited him on the stone floor of the garage.

The place had been originally built as a fortress, and this entrance was no exception. At the presence of authorised persons, the rounded corner of the garage came to life, stone sliding over stone, with what appeared to be simple stones making up part of a well like construction sliding out, to form a banister-less spiral staircase a foot across.

Even though Alyaentarë was young, he had no trouble negotiating this potentially treacherous route along with the older elf, for the games played by young Menelmacari were far more demanding.


“Ah, My Lord,” Ferinion said, rising from the chair of the sitting room into which he’d been directed, “I must ask to discuss something I believe to be of quite some importance.”
Glorfindel nodded for him to continue, and put the practice energy rifle he had been using down.

“I want to start a war…” Ferinion said.


“That’s what he actually said? Rather… forthright, isn’t it?” Culdalot asked.

“He’s always been a rather forthright person,” Sirithil replied with a smile, “And there’s value in such frankness. In this kind of regard, we can’t ever afford to forget that real lives are involved and use disingenuous speech between our own people to delude ourselves into ignoring the consequences. Ferinion was already painfully aware of the injuries and deaths he had inflicted already. One of his crew had been killed, Laeroharad nos Arandur, and a considerably larger number were wounded, some with missing limbs. And that’s not counting the drakes who’d been killed.”

“Taking it pretty well, wasn’t he?”

“In these kind of situations, it’s always important to keep your eye on the ultimate goal, and not let the harm that must be done to serve the greater good overwhelm your better judgement. In this case, while his actions had brought suffering, they’d also brought liberation and hope to a larger number of Ilúvatarhíni…”

For the captive drakes, of course, all this was irrelevant. Only Sellan had the opportunity to learn of what was going on beyond their prison. She, still left aboard the Aragorn Elessar, had most of the day to sit and root about in the boxes she was confined with, before Ferinion returned from canvassing for support.

When he did, it was unarmed, as before. He took one of two strips of a metallic fabric a foot long out, and pressed it to the side of one of the boxes, pressing it down from the solid metal ends. It cut through the metal of the box easily, as a steel wire cutting cheese, and he left it there, holding the other one, dangling from his finger to show that significant force was needed to make it cut, “Take this, fix it around your neck, and then we can go. It will then do that,” he nodded to the box, “to your neck if you return to your other form. You are coming with me to see the Elentári…”

---

Meanwhile, in the drake homeland, the first of strange lights in the sky could be seen, high altitude glimmers…

Sellan sat up from her resting position, the contents of the boxes strewn around as if something akin to the bear had torn the crates apart in search of the food that now lay splattered haphazardly across the deck, though even something so large would have had trouble leaving the giant claw marks scattered across the compartment. That they had come from the petite figure sitting in what now was little more than a shred of material sitting before the elven captain would have been impossible to believe save for the complete security of the compartment itself.

Swallowing whatever had been in her mouth from the mishmash of fruits and vegetables she watched the demonstration with a rather annoyed expression, her eyebrows slowly raising as she realised precisely what the garment was for and how it would work. A wave of indignation caused her to do a very dangerous looking pout and to crack the shell of coconut sitting between her thumb and first finger that she had planned on tasting, before finally protesting as he finished his explanation.

“You expect me to…wear…that?” She growled. “Like some goddamn animal? I’m not some ..some human.” She spat out at the elf’s feet. Ferinion merely smiled.

“If you wish to get out of here, then yes you will wear it.”

Sellan growled again, then snatched the fabric and began examining it in her own hands, pulling and twisting the material but unable to tear it without doing damage to herself. She seemed to give in, then tried the same tests again.

“Anytime today would be good.” Sellan merely glanced up and then pulled the fabric around the neck with enough speed to bring a look of concern to Ferinion’s face as he pushed forward and grabbed the collar before Sellan could slice her own head off.

“I have no time for stupidity.” He whispered in a calm and serious tone as he fixed the fabric at the back of her neck. Sellan stamped her foot angrily, the deck decompressing beneath but in turn making no move against the elf given her suddenly rather precarious situation. She merely turned away, one hand holding on to her torn rags and the other grabbing the opposite arm as she suddenly felt very alone.

“Fine. Let’s get this humiliation over with.” She said softly, waiting for her captor to lead the way.


*************

Cidraneth, the tithe-lands of the Bastion of Cidra

The Drake Homeland fell under the jurisdiction of many different tribes with a dozen different ideas about who ruled them. All of them, however, save for the nomadic loners and hunter packs of the North, bowed inevitably to the power at the heart of the greatest city on the continent, the soaring towers of the bastion-city of Cidra, home of the greatest leader of the race in ten millennia.

“Sir, this is important.”

Garradan Maxilimus moved slowly from his den, soft sheets from the few human traders not dragged from their ships in screaming terror for having the foreknowledge or luck for having something the Drakes found more useful or more desirable than their indentured labour. He was comfortable, and did not like to be awoken after eating so heavily in the last few days, but he had been assured of the urgency of the alarm and had arisen, far slower than usual, to follow the messenger to the higher spires of his personal domain.

Built for drake hands, the refractor spire was impossible to reach for their human servants, secured away up un-scalable walls reachable only by thin and decrepit buttresses that only the Drakes with their fearsome agility could cross. In the tower itself lay several stone platforms of varying heights and function, some containing sentries, some massive layers of scrolls and paper charts recording incoming messages, and finally the refractors themselves, massive reflectors of the small fires inside, shuttered to allow the basic transmission of messages to the next posts in line flung out on the horizon.


“Refractors from the North, same thing from the Northwest and the Northeast. Something, fire the sky my Lord.” The watcher called as Garradan climbed into the complex, a lone scaly hand running talons against the hastily fixed steel plate armour that covered his hide.

“And?”

“Lights, lot’s of ‘em. Not sure the source. Airborne, not local though. Could be magic, Lord?” Garradan gave a sniff of derision as he moved up next to the commanding sentry, towering over his subordinate and indeed everyone on the platform and over a fair proportion of the inhabitants of the city that spread out in all directions a quarter of a mile below them. Something flashed on the horizon, catching all eyes on the platform.

“Another message?”

“Not ours, Lord. I don’t know what it could be.”

“Its in the air though,” called another watcher, peering through a huge ocular lense the size of a cartwheel. “Lord, brother, its moving.” Garradan turned to him, the commander following but a sharp hiss returned him to his position. The massive Drake rolled forward, leaping the thirty odd foot from a standstill without even having to flare his wings out. He peered through the lense and saw for himself the distant lights dancing in the sky. He thought for a bare second, than gave a sharp command.

“Bring answers when you can. I trust you can scream loud enough when something interesting happens.” He fanned out his wings, causing the watcher to sidestep, and with a leap and soaring glide floated serenely down back to his personal quarters far below.

The journey from the Aragorn Elessar’s hold was uneventful, Ferinion seemed to trust himself to deal with any further resistance from his prisoner. The ship tended toward a chromed, metallic feel of the era’s military constructs, with pipes and conduits even visible in places, either behind hexagonal-mesh surfaces, or part of the ceiling.

Leading his prisoner to a lift, in a freestanding cylinder from floor to ceiling a short walk away, Ferinion stepped into the four-meter elevator, which swished shut between them, and moved up, forwards, sideways, down again, in two seconds. The multi-part doors of the lift slid open, and Ferinion stepped out into the loading bay, behind a large blast bulkhead, protected at either end by a pair of guns large enough to fit on a tank in a vertical cylinder, protected by up to two meters of armour. Beyond that was the vast, space of the landing area, and a pair of green clad marines wearing the ‘sapphire star’ a diminutive award in the shape of a daggerstar an inch wide, with glimmering blue material in a golden outline.

These two had shortened, but still lethal, weapons, that combined both the explosive-projectile launcher and eraser functions. The whole assembly was less powerful than the battle rifles used in the boarding, but substantially more useful in an urban environment. They were armed, not that Sellan had any way of knowing that, with guided missiles that would lock in on the collar she was wearing, and provide a formidable (if brief) electric shock, should attempts be made to escape.

Of course, she got the same kind of ride as her predecessors, but this time, into the heart of the metropolis of Vinyatírion…

Sellan continued her silent indignition, training slipping over feelings for the moment though as she tried to pick up what she could from her surroundings. Even the corridors were analysed even down to their basic structure, what positions they designed to defend from often gave clues to the tactics of the abodes residents. Small and narrow the seemed to her, still used to the stance of her combatform...

...which caused her to both conciously and subconciously concern herself over the collar, wondering how to get out of it. Traditional iron rings had once been tried on her but her own talons passed through the metal like the human analogy of hot knives through butter. This was different, clever, and given she was dealing with at least on a raw technology basis a superior species she couldn't be sure enough of what the fabric did regardless.

The indignity of it was still grating however, an effect compounded by Ferinion's composure and assurance inwalking her unescorted. Subtle plays of power in Sellan's self-centred view, a constant push on containing her aggression. But curiousity still persevered over her anger, and as more of the ship became apparent she started to genuinely want to ask about it. It was big, an achievement for a race so physically limited, in her view, and accomponied by an arrogance that at least partially founded in it.

The ride was eyeopening, certainly, the soaring heights of the city breath taking, and even the angry voices of humiliation subsided in genuine awe. Never had she seen something quite like it, even the towering black spires of home fading into insignificance at the spectacule. She reclined back, the distribution of weight meant any move she made had to be compensated for by the power system, and she actually twisted and climbed partially out of the seat, semi-standing as she looked below. Eagle eyes and other senses catched the sounds and sights of the city around them. She closed her eyes.

And a sudden pang of homesickness decided in the meditation to make itself known.

The vehicle set itself down under an arched roof of crystal on the north side of the palace, on something made of shining white metal, set on a slightly slick depression in the silvery floor. Doors in the floor of the far side of the chamber suggested that there was something below, and beyond, shimmering curtains of something that looked like water, with gaps that appeared when one approached. They did so, Sellan being watched by the guards as gaps in the ‘water’ opened up.

Looking at it side on, it appeared to shine with a strange blue light as they passed through it. What followed next was a spiral stairway, which somehow seemed to be lit always as though the next turn would bring one to the top, but actually continued on for almost half an hour of climbing

When they were done the stairway came up between dark mossy stones, and strangely, seemed to be on the other side of the building. A few steps led down into a pathway, and a garden, between white leafed trees. Sitting on long benches were a number of elves, including a long, blonde haired one with red eyes, dressed in white trousers and something a little like a human coat, though cut of finer materials than any Sellan had ever seen before, and robed in shimmering translucent layers that could barely be seen, “This,” she said, as with Ferinion, seeming comprehensible to the drake, “is one of the creatures in human form?” she asked, “Do you have a name?” she added, beckoning Sellan over towards her.

Sellan peered at the hangar, eyes looking up and over the arches, then scanning the position of the guards nearest to her. She ponder running for, sure she was faster, but she was not going to get much further than the edge of the room in the most optimistic of outcomes. She sighed, glad at least the material allowed her to breath fully.

She followed Ferinion through the…whatever it was that rippled and cascaded, the door forming around them again peaking curiosity that pride tried but couldn’t quite beat down. The barrier behind them, she took to the steps between the guards, again revaluating her position, seemingly near an exit to the surface that she found, much to her annoyance, to be another elaborate trick. She was beginning to get increasingly frustrated with the continuous illusion, an effect amplified by every single step up the stairwell.

They emerged, and all Sellan could feel was an extraordinarily disappointing climax. Expecting some vast and obstentatious creature dwelling, perhaps, on some ridiculously compensating throne or seat and surrounded by literal piles of servants and hangers on, the figure before her seemed almost...pastoral. She hid her expression of contempt beneath a scowl, almost unable to believe this delicate little reclined creature commanded the loyalty of a nation.

She locked eyes with the female elf, and moved forward a couple of paces a few seconds after the beckoning, though making no inclination that the command and the move were related or that the elf's word were even heard. Sellan moved her eyes up and down, then briefly to her companions and then back to the blond woman before her. She sniffed subtley, but nothing she could pick out save for the surrounding flora, and without further acknowledgement, turned round to look back at Ferinion.

"This is your queen?" The derision in her voice was almost physically tangiable. She gave one last glance over her shoulder back at the elven woman then spoke again, pity replacing contempt. "Small...weak...fragile I'm sure. I'm surprised you haven't killed her yet and taken her place." Ignoring his reaction she forced a laugh and shook her head. "Pathetic."

She turned back, standing proud despite her ragged appearence. "My name is Sellan. Sellan Dryiadoressor." She paused, her words turning slowly more bitter. "I demand in the name of my homeland and my pack to know why you saw fit to order the murder of my fellow hunters, destroy our vessel, take our property and imprison our survivors with neither reason, negiotiation or parley." If looks could maim at this point the elven lady would have been leaving in a collection of specimen jars. "Is this what passes for civilized behaviour in your realm?"

Sirithil smiled seeming completely undaunted by Sellan, “I see you’ve not had a change of clothes yet,” she said, “allow me” she said, and twitched her hand slightly, two fingers forwards; resulting in the outfit Sellan wore suddenly unweaving itself into an opaque cloud of fibres, changing in quality, colour, and texture, and coalescing again a second later into a different outfit entirely, made from some kind of silk, a long, tight, white dress.

“And a little cleaning service perhaps?” she added, nudging the air again, resulting in the dirt disappearing from the human-form drake’s skin and hair in a cold wind that seemed to get under the (apparently woefully inadequate) clothes, and even under the skin.

“Now, Sellan,” she said, “I’m informed it’s how you treat our kin; murder, destruction, seizure of property, imprisonment, all without negotiation or parley... It is indeed, your own personal trade” she gave Sellan a meaningful look, with crimson eyes that seemed to, glow with some strange light,” she rose from her chair, “Please, be seated…” she added, at which point, Sellan’s legs promptly felt an intolerable weight upon them, though she didn’t sink into the ground; and as there were no unoccupied seats (save Sirithil’s own, which Sellan would never have come near) around, it seemed that the Noldorin queen intended Sellan to sit on the floor. She stood head, shoulders, and then some above Sellan, walking calmly to a side table, taking a plate from it, and walking over to her, “But there is always a reason.” She said, holding the tray out, to reveal inch-square pieces of some meat, lightly cooked and seasoned, “Would you care for something to eat or drink?” she said, showing no worry about being inches away from the prisoner.

The Drake closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, the indignity of being, if only for a moment unclothed as the new material washed over her still having an effect, and the force now pressing on her and the unspoken implications of it did her attitude and demeanour no favours. With a swipe of her hand, she struck the plate away from the elf’s grasp with a force that sent the tray far down the gardens and the food flying over the fellow occupants of the garden.

“I. Rather. Wouldn’t.” She snarled, barely moving her lips, ignoring the almost audible growl of her stomach.

“As for your reason, I wish you could explain. We take only those unworthy of continuing their existence and put them to more productive work. Dirty stinking little savages deserve no better. The weak serve the strong, its only natural, and if they are your kin then I can say you must agree with us considering how you seem to ignore the pitiful manner of their existence whilst you laze about in seeming plenty.”

She still resisted the force, though it crept on her muscles, powerful as they were. But she did not yield just yet. Her legs remained firm and tight, and the rest of her muscles clenched too, bringing her to her not too impressive height and tensing every sinew.

“But we are not human. We are far more, and we…” she stopped suddenly, as if becoming aware of something, then continued. “…I will not tolerate being treated like this.”

Sirithil smiled, seeming utterly unperturbed as the tray went sailing up into the air, with the slightest wave, even as it happened, warding a black clad elf away. “You have no conception of the scale of our interaction; suffice to say they are free to take what they wish of our gifts of both goods and knowledge, and leave that which they do not. As for more than human; were I unkind, I would tease out the root of your thoughts in that regard, and then disprove them, but the humiliation is hardly necessary, and it would do little but embitter you. It shall suffice to say, that your judgement of ‘more’ is, like all those who judge themselves to be greater than others, less than reliable.

“Nonetheless, if you would have the weak compelled to serve the strong, then we shall show strength in this matter,” she said, turning, and returning to her seat. The weight upon Sellan’s legs continuing all the while.

“And so, we ignored her for a time, as Ferinion described his prevision, and his thoughts. They were… effective. It was, quite simply, a plan to minimise the drain of manpower and resources in a conquest. The nature of the culture would help, as you will see. But first, there was a search for a suitable place; although our campaign at first would be one of harrying and containment, in time, it would need a vast quantity of land. This was found in the world of Vercaeressë, then a phase L colony in final stages of terraforming. There was some difficulty in acquiring it from the investors who’d created it, but they were amenable when they found out how the design of Ferinion would serve their ends…”

“What happened to Sellan?”

“Oh, her role in the tale is not yet completely done, but immediately, Ferinion took her back to the Aragorn… But patience, young lady, for there’s more to this story than her role now…”

The whole realm of the Sercëlócë was arrayed before Alyaheriel, a magnificent expanse of forests, deserts and shining seas; like so much of the endless lands of earth, it was beautiful. Yet her task was not to bring death today, though she would rain down torpedoes. For these were quite special, they would take time to work, quite slow, in all; and fired from beyond the horizon, they would be used upon outgoing ships on raiding missions.

They would not kill; this was as subtle as Ferinion’s first foray had been brutal, for these torpedoes would sink quite deeply into the waters, and speed – not terribly fast, but many dozens of nautical miles per hour – to rest underneath the ships of the slavers.

When they arrived, they were programmed to emit infrasonic and ultrasonic pulses, beyond even the exceptional hearing of the Sercëlócë, but calibrated to, after an hour or so, bring terrible seasickness to all those with the hearing of the Sercëlócë upon the targeted ship, beyond even that experienced by the newest landlubber upon his first voyage.

Every single ship sailing toward human lands would be afflicted thus, until such time as it turned for home, at which time, the effect would cease, instantly. It was hoped that this unmitigated, constantly changing, tormentful sickness would be taken as a message to dissuade future expeditions.

The most obvious issue, which Alyaheri had thought of upon being told this mission, was that they might, seeing some ‘god’ of the sea displeased, turn to sacrifice, of their own kind or of humans. She was informed that many Mornarána and Fanyarëtíri were primed for such an eventuality, and that a discouraging response had been prepared.

She almost wanted to see what that response might be. Almost.

Her heads up display scrolled with tengwar characters, as she was given coordinates and vectors for an unseen approach to deploy one of the torpedoes. One of many such missions she would fly today.

Sellan stayed silent, her expression getting slowly angrier, her words suddenly, for a reason she couldn’t figure out, suddenly seeming hollow. There was no smart reply, no dismissive shrug, nothing that the stress of the moment would allow her to say.

And as if to complete the humiliation, the weight and force finally reached a crescendo. She fell, haltingly, to her knees. She bowed her head, not in submission but in sheer mental agony at finally succumbing. She came so close to crying then, and her head hung low as she sank to the floor, an empty expression of defiance on her face.

*********

Garradan sat back as far as his tail would let him on the ornate stool that served as a throne in the grand chamber. Even seated, his massive bulked towered over most of the other Drakes present, a massive figure they were only glad to see resting rather than rampaging about in anger. Failure was rewarded by maiming or death here, and no one wished to be the scapegoat. Given the situation, it was an absolute mercy he had remained so calm, though it was more his arrogance and ignorance than the actual severity of the situation that did the trick. On his arm rested a human girl, in fabrics, no chains, who rested, seated, in the palm of his hand, singing softly, and the huge Drake seemed fairly content to sit there and listen.

“So” he began, and the girl fell quiet. “Another returned?”

“Yes my Lord, the same symptoms. It is the fourth returned in the last few days. Two more sent signals from the horizon. Once again, the illness seemed to clear as soon as they passed the harbour walls and docked.”

“Sorcery!” A female drake roared, her uniform of bones on chains and body clattering against her as her moonstone embedded shaft shone brightly. “Distant spells, the lights in the sky, the omens!” She spoke, far higher than most of her breed and far more hysterical. But the sulking, limping giant next to her barely moved as he issued a desisting roar. Ramason stepped forward. The largest draconic there after Garradan, he seemed far more frail, massive scars across his body ran inches deep into his hide. He limped, and his steps seemed heavy and cumbersome, but his voice was as determined as it was fierce as he faced down the messenger and the Priestess.

“Sorcery be damned. You think far too much of these savages. Poor little beggars can’t even keep clean.” He grumbled, hobbling forward to take centre stage in Garradan’s view, standing on the stone circle in the middle of the giant’s throne room. The drake imperator let the human slide down and scarper away.

“Ramason, you’re ability to reason is commendable, but as the Priestess said these, omens, such…”

“My Lord!” A collective shudder as the rest of the Drakes reared. Anyone else would never have dared before Garradan to interrupt him, but Ramason was no ordinary drake. Heavy, fogged eyes shone back up at Garradan, who shifted in his seat. “We abandoned superstition for a reason. This illness is no more sorcery than the crafts that built our towers and ships. It is a new phenomenon, perchance, and one which should be studied before rash acts are taken up. We gave up sacrifice long ago for this reason.”

“The Guardian does not think highly of us since we stopped showing our respect to him, he…”

“HE” Ramason raised his voice, rearing clumsily but compensating with his sheer presence. “Given how we wandered and thought and bathed in mud and stone obviously thought your…worship, was pointless, Terra, we obey him through thought and deed, not useless ceremony, it has allowed us to rise and claim our rightful place as I have explained so many times before. My Lord.” He turned to Garradan again. “I propose to study this illness, and see what effect it has upon the humans as well. I will send a ship, manned by men, under the eye of my…charges” Another collective shirk, and a few hisses of disgust, and Tetra shuddered and cried.

“Your charges, the indignity you placed upon my daughters is…” She seethed, ready to lash out, the staff glowing bright red.

“Has given us a far greater understanding of ourselves and those who oppose us, has saved the lives of our men and brought us wealth beyond imagination.”

“At the cost of everything it means to be loved by the Guardian…”

“The Guardian loves only those who adapt and survive, not some idealised stupidity,…”

“ENOUGH” Garradan erupted, rising from his stone altar, and both of the arguing drakes backed down in a submissive pose. “Ramason, I have and always will trust your opinion but something needs to be done. You will have a few sunrises to work things out but I expect to have a solution. I have no time for failure…” He flashed a line of serrated daggers the size of short swords that passed for his teeth, though few doubted he would truly hurt his old mentor. But Ramason was cowed enough, and it showed when he spoke.

“Of course, my Lord, of course. I will find out what this is, and bring my recommendations.”

“Good.” Was all Garradan said in response, and the two drakes before him departed with the messenger.

*********

Salamand stirred slowly, his movements over the last couple of days being so limited as nearly be non-existent. He wasn’t hibernating or in stasis as yet, though his heartbeat alone had slowed to a fraction of its normal rate. Whereas his kin at least moved and stretched every so often, he himself had declined to do so, merely sending out passive pheromones on the wind. It was a desperate plan that had formed, unoriginal and unlikely to work as hoped, but reliance upon external rescue was an even more unlikely possibility. He could at least rely on the lack of knowledge to arouse interest, and get them close.

That was the vital element, he had decided. Get close, get to their goddamn feet, get so stuck their ranged weapon would be useless as they tried to avoid their comrades in the mix. And close, up close, what chance did they have against his power.

But first to get them close, and it would require sacrifice. First was a casual release of a new set of pheromones on the air, harsher, acidic tones that made the other drakes restless. Fights and displays broke out, raising the guards attention, but his men knew, thankfully, not to push them to far.

The he rose, and began to pace. He watched everyone nearby, in the towers, on the ground, with penetrating gazes, so they knew he was thinking something, aiming for them.

Then he charged the grills. The electrical surge was, to put it bluntly, horrific, and the spasms of pain that ran through his body as he smashed against the grills, collapsing and arching his muscles against the metal as his body violently. He vomited and cried, the acidic bile arching over the metal and dissolving into it, sending up clouds of acrid smoke as the acid burned into the structure.

He collapsed, alive, burnt, functioning, and in sheer agony. But he had attracted attention. Every ounce of self control he put into himself, lowering his life signs to near the point of unconsciousness, but at the same time priming every muscle to task and flooding himself with enough combat hormones to fight for a week on the high.

All it had to do was get them close.

*********

Caida Cyrandoressor clung tightly to the railing of the sailing craft, her humanform hands digging into and twisting the iron. She moaned, deeply, her vision watching the waves, trying to keep her considerable stomach juices down. The few humans watched her nervously, scattering around, muttering, fearful of getting close, but she could barely keep an eye on them as they moved unaffected and she could barely walk without having to steady herself. They muttered and spoke in concert, and she was slow now in stopping them. The only humanform, Ramason’s charges, available to watch them, she had been assured one drake was enough to watch them all. It had been hoped that her new body form would shield her from whatever poison had affected her, but it had not been the case, and she cursed Ramason again for his optimism.

She moved round, snarling at the gathering humans to break up another impromptu discussion. They seemed eager, their fire rekindled, and she made a quick choice to turn them around and head back towards Cidra.

But even as she gave the order something hit her hard. The yardarm of the small clipper smacked across her, the humans, expert seamen all, knowing how to use the ship to unsettle her. They attacked, whaling spears and harpoons to keep her at bay. She swiped at them, breaking one against the mass and sending another , his body broken and twisted flung out into the ocean. But her balance offset and the human’s impressive control of the craft rocked the deck, adding to her balance issues, and in the confusion she couldn’t control herself enough to transform herself back.

A spear entered her side. She snapped it, and the arm of the perpetrator and tossed him aside, but still they came, sharp points that neared her. Another blow to the back of her head from a rope block, and she shuddered forward, hitting the edge of a hatch and falling forward onto the deck below.

She cried, there, as they closed the hatch above her, too weak to even climb up and free herself. The blows made their mark, and she slowly slipped off, her illness pushing her along, and above her, the human crew set sail for freedom.

The chamber in a low, garden compound south of the small village of Silharthad was home to half a dozen elves at any given time, supervising several hundred screens. Its occupants were the kind of people who enjoyed having secret knowledge, and many of them would probably in time go on to become mages of one flavour or another. Here, however, their task was rather more mundane, they supervised a portion of data that was recorded by Fanyarëtíri satellites. On flat screens that covered almost every inch of the walls, ships, coastal and otherwise, were being monitored, most of them still in dock, but the satellites and the agent systems that pre-processed the data were carefully monitoring those ships in dock for any signs of making ready to sail.

“There’s something interesting…” one of the analysts said, tapping a key before her upon the seat-less station she worked at, bringing the figure thrown overboard onto a larger screen lower on the wall. They had no seats here because they were essentially on a lookout, and it was not psychologically efficient to sit in such circumstances, it dulled awareness; even so, these elves weren’t part of the military, but rather, intelligence contractors. “On vessel number seven, someone was just attacked and thrown below. There must be some kind of mutiny going on…”

“Project,” the supervising elf said. He most certainly was part of the establishment, the Handë, as could be seen by his uniform as he stepped over to a meter wide table.

The table’s surface was set several hand spans below its outer surface, and it was levelled with a thick, crimson fluid, like oxygenated blood. Light reflected from it, and the whole material, known as naltayár, translatable as glimmer-blood or reflector blood, reflected this light upwards to a hologram that formed above its surface, the naltayár forming millions of complex lenses that filtered the hologram and improved projected resolution. The naltayár was a complex soup of crimson micrites and malovírin, a powder of special optical glass. Contact with the air damaged malovírin very quickly, reducing the purity of its images, and so naltayár was invented, to provide surfaces of malovírin as needed. A tank like this could last for years, but the red colour of its micrites, provided by oxygenated iron, indicated it would seen need replacement with new naltayár. The used fluid would be processed and reused, in time.

The image produced was worth the effort, though. The image of the ship that hovered above the table was perfect. The elf looking at it could clearly make out the faces and injuries of the crew, the elated emotions and the agony. A button brought up a computer estimate of the inside of the vessel, thermal readings showing life below decks with a moderate degree of accuracy.

The elf frowned, his inclination was to wait, see what the humans did, but that would be troublesome. However, sending a messenger down to them would be just as troublesome. It looked like the wounded would keep, for a time, if not heal right.

“Open link to the supervising ship,” he said.

A small three-dimensional image of captain Ferinion appeared above the tank.

“I see it,” Ferinion said, seeming not to need any communicated words, a certainty of what was in the other elf’s mind. “I’m dispatching one of the Mornarána to rendezvous with the ship from the forward base. With any luck, they’ll head on a vector that won’t take them anywhere too inconvenient.”


Though one wouldn’t think it from the cities of the drakes, the invasion was already beginning. With no ships to increase range, the next phase of the net was being prepared from a number of forward areas. Hundreds of sites had been selected, and dozens were laid down each night, along the same pattern. Most of these outposts were on coastal islands, so far, but a few were being placed in the desert, amid mine-fields. In inaccessible locations, behind electric fences of copper wire laced with high strength nets of reinforced steel sheathed in non-conductive materials. Such cages were ten meters high, and thirty wide each side. They were held together by bollards of compressed iron, behind palisades of compressed earth or sandstone. These electrical cages sank twenty meters beneath the surface of the ground. Inside each area were three buildings.

One was a bunker entry point, solid high impact steel prefabricated structures that one sank into the ground with earth moving equipment, and then buried. Inside that bunker, the operatives sat, ate and rested. Generators lurked at the lowest levels of these bunkers, which were designed to give any tunnelling creature a shock, and provide power for other functions.

The other two buildings were respectively a small structure that operated by remote control, inflating a structure and then releasing it, and a warehouse capable of holding hundreds of boxes; each one, a prefabricated balloon. These were in short supply, still, dozens only being produced per day as the system was improved. An old weather balloon model, it was essentially a high altitude airship, it had moderate control of its direction and speed, and was made of a black material that absorbed power from the sun at high altitudes. Each night, each forward station would inflate several of these balloons, and then release it into the winds, where it would, for want of a better word, lurk.

The little robotic, cigar shaped dirigibles were cousins, in a way, of the torpedos being used at sea. Substantially less powerful, but longer ranged, when this system was ready, more than the few test dirigibles being used now would be employed; rather, they would be used to land, each one deflating as it did so, into a streak of solar collector material, and a small box, the size of a briefcase, that would sit like an air-deployed landmine, its unheard but irritating song would interfere with travel, it was hoped, activating and irritating whenever anyone came near.

But this was a phase of operations for the future, and for now, the systems were only being used to launch the airship-missiles towards a small coastal settlement, the intention to cut it off from land travel. These devices, by necessity, also affected humans, and would be recalibrated to affect draft animals in the future, when some examples were found.

It was doubtless that the drakes in this area would see the black objects that would fall in the night from the air, for even though this design was approaching testing, the next phase, a higher powered device capable of preventing air travel, was not yet ready; it would be a conventional missile, it was decided, that would impact in a region and create nausea in entire settlements, and allow for the drakes to be captured. Designing such a thing would be complex, in order to prevent deaths. But the elves were eager to test their next concept, before moving in to take over their target village.

The whole purpose of the strategy was to develop and utilize effective means of dividing the drake settlements from one another, in order to make them easily captured.


Meanwhile, already in elven captivity, Salamand was engaging in a strategy of desperation. It certainly attracted attention, and indeed, three of the guards came over towards the electrified drake, their weapons at the ready. But while he stood on the other side of the dented, twisted mesh, he made a point of staying just out of a practical reach… “You,” the nearest guard snapped apparently having learnt some of the language already, “get up…”

In the hold of the escaping ship, Caida sank back into the small pool of water forming in the iron hull of the ship, her powerful limbs, normally capable of tearing through the iron around her like paper felt abused and weak, her sense of balance gone, her mind felt like vomiting every time she opened her eyes. Her self control distorted, she felt increasingly vulnerable as she heard the human crew high above scampering around.

She breathed in slowly, closing her eyes anew.

But she did not open them. She sat, concentrating on the shape of the room around her, letting her ear define her balance, distancing herself from the feelings of unease.

She breathed in and out anew.

She roared gently, and with a tearing of cloth she transformed, slowly, painfully, her body folding and morphing out beneath her.

They heard, above, from the panicked sounds and chattering. She heard the grating over her temporary cage move and shift.

She felt the spear penetrate the thick scales on her thigh.

Caida roared in pain as she rose, eyes still shut, the sickly feeling relegated to her subconscious. She leapt up, claws out, hands grabbing the hatches’ edges and hauling her huge body up and out, still blind by choice as she swirled above, feeling the heat of the soon on her as she rose above the panicking crew.

But they were not alone.

*********

Salamand didn’t respond to the words, barely hearing them through the thick barrier of pain and torment that wracked his body, every conscious effort going towards retaining his composure as he tried to put his plan into effect. It relied heavily upon his innate body control and hopefully his enemy’s unfamiliarity with it. It was desperate, a forlorn hope, but he was determined to try anything to gain even the lightest stab at getting free.

He lay there, unresponsive to outside stimulus. His heart, a muscle with the pumping power of an airport fire engine, slowed and stopped. All he could do was wait as long as his powerful biology let him. And to observers, every vital sign seemed to evaporate. He closed his eyes, and hoped. He almost felt sorry for the poor sod who dared come close enough.

And in Cidraneth

The elves would, of course, learn that the attributes of the Drakes meant phrases like ‘inaccessible carried a whole new meaning, and the idea of ‘settlement’ was also something that was somewhat different to most humanoid civilizations.

Inaccessible in these cases, if observation was based upon Drake movements, was in the middle of the hellish deserts themselves. And other dangers presented themselves here. Massive swarms of desert Marabunta, seemingly immune to both electrical fields and any basic pesticide laid down for them. Massive desert animals, the reptile relatives of the Drakes themselves, reacted as badly to the sound waves. The smaller breeds took flight, but the larger beasts turned and hunted their tormentor. And they in turn did not share their descendant’s fear of electricity either.

Settlements too, did not exist in the sense Ferinion had hoped, more akin to roving war bands dotting the landscape outside of the cities than anything recognisable as an organised community. These had several repercussions, mind, it meant that the black objects falling from the sky were investigated, as best they could, and that as the ‘sickness’ spread the bands dissolved into their own little groupings, small subgroups with each attack forming as the Drakes coped with this threat as best as possible. This created something of a societal breakdown mind, in the areas affected, and the plain Drakes in particular found themselves, almost, alone.

So, that is what would be found as the result of their first efforts, smaller and smaller groups of synapsids, increasingly isolated by the radii of the falling devices, annoyed, bitter, ill, and, weakened, beginning to fall prey to the desert wildlife that stalked all things out here.

Alyaheriel was used to flying without any true optics, but this was something special, even so. A dense mist, making it from ground level, look almost entirely like a cloud surrounded the bomber she flew. The difference between it and an ordinary cloud was, however, that it was steadily moving against the wind, generating a column of diffuse steam as the steam from its leading edge was blown backwards. In the cockpit, she watched several feeds screened upon the inside of the canopy, one a trans-thermal image through the cloud, another an orbital image of her destination, and others standard displays.

Normally, such subterfuge would be unnecessary. Atmospheric craft were sheathed in an outer layer that could darken to prevent the reflections from their reflective hulls being visible to crude optical detection systems – and certainly eyes, even keen ones – but at the level she was flying, she could have been seen anyway.

She reached back with one arm to pull a control, the bomb bay status indicator showing a draw in power. But her craft was not armed for destruction at the moment. Instead, the display showed a diagram of an attraction projector, which she thumbed into activity as she brought her craft down to hover.

Briefly, she wondered what the newly free crew of the iron-clad ship a little less than a mile away were making of the cloud that had descended from the heavens to the point where they’d thrown their tormentor overboard. Strange things happen at sea, as the old saying went, and she expected they’d get past it at some point. In any case, keeping an eye on what they got up to wasn’t her concern, the Mornarána had the unenviable task of contacting those people.

The beam lanced out toward the sea, penetrating invisibly into the cold waters, and yanking a column of water upwards in an impressive geyser that stopped just short of her airspace craft. Caught in the middle of this phenomenon was Caida, who’d probably be quite confused about the whole experience, were she well enough to appreciate it. Pinned by a channel of upward-pulling force through her centre of mass, the experience couldn’t be pleasant, and Alyaheriel carefully adjusted the device until it ceased pulling water upwards, and instead simply held the dripping drake in place a few meters above the ocean.

With a mental nudge of another control, Alyaheriel turned her ship, and headed back towards the King Elessar, moving quite slowly – she didn’t think her captive would be in a good condition to enjoy the ride, and as her own craft was easily capable of breaking the sound barrier a hundred times over and reaching orbit, a full speed jaunt wouldn’t do the drake any good.

Below, the torpedo that had harrowed Caida Cyrandoressor’s senses would continue, for a time, to follow that ship, doubtless, despite the undignified position, dimly aware of the shadow above her, Caida would begin to recover as its influence vanished.


For Salamand, meanwhile, things seemed to be looking up, as the current to the large cage he was being kept in, finally ceased. Several armed elves seemed to be walking towards him; if his captor had said anything to summon them, he hadn’t heard it through the pain. Then, he could hear the heavy sound of the massive steel door unlocking itself. Also with them was the gleaming teardrop shape of one of the combat vehicles he’d seen before.


The disorganized level of settlement did indeed present something of a problem for Ferinion. Sitting in the war room, in the second compartment of deck four of the Aragorn Elsssar, he watched a map displaying a processed Fanyarëtíri-feed of the drakes’ lands. As he spoke to the guards who brought Sellan in, she would not be surprised to find, after the meeting with Sirithil, that his own language, somehow made itself comprehensible to her. “You may remain outside,” he said, simply, “she is no threat to me.”

With a curious glance, they stepped out, and Ferinion beckoned her towards the map hovering before him, a holographic, horizontal depiction of Cidraneth, although not as fine as would be produced by a naltayár tank, was nonetheless spectacular, showing snow-capped mountains and bright deserts under diffuse, smoke like clouds. Here and there, shining blips of blue light interrupted the map, and out to sea, one green light slowly moved across the ocean, “I want you to tell me,” he said, “everything about your land…”

Sellan stood there awkwardly as the guards retreated behind her. She looked, although still cleaner and well presented than her salvaged slave outfit, nonetheless awkward and uncomfortable. She shivered, her synapsid body struggling in the mild temperatures, the constriction of her clothing, lacking underwear to smooth the forceful material and forcing her into a more feminine posture than she would have liked to have presented.

The bitterness and aggressiveness had also seemed to have disappeared, replaced by cautious glances that belied curiosity and caution as she exchanged looks with Ferinion. Now free of dirt and her scowl, she looked fairly attractive, a subservient echo of her former valkyre impersonation. Her white dress complemented her pale skin and seemingly suited her now clean jet black hair, now straight and uncluttered and fluttering on the merest glancing breeze, draping smoothly across her shoulders.

Now forced to accept temporary submission, her stance standing on the balls of her feet gave her height and gave her posture a very refined quality, and now choosing to do so, her movements were smooth and graceful, far more than a human could match despite the mass she was technically moving. The collar no longer seemed to bother her, though she still seemed to wince slightly as she tilted her head forward as the elven captain dismissed her guards, the slur on her fighting prowess now expected and to some extent shown to be true, at least whilst the elves’ guard was up.

The question, in its generalness, took her by surprise. She had expected more specific questions, and the drake reacted at first by merely walking up and examining the holographic display, curious about its construction, running her fingers through the light and watching the disrupted scenery move around her fingertips.

“Its beautiful, isn’t it?” She muttered as her index finger traced the outline of a mountain range. She looked up, as if waiting for a response. Not that it mattered. What could she say that he didn’t probably already know.

“It is a land to which even to be born is a battle for survival, every challenge you can imagine just to stay alive, to be smarter, stronger, faster and luckier than the things that hunt you. And that’s the thing. Perhaps like humans you are top of your food chain, life is a matter of working hard and you should be okay, your greatest threat is the malign intent of your neighbour or ruler. But not there, even we, gods compared to your ape like cousins, could never truly conquer that land.”

She stopped, but it was a force of will. Something made her keep talking on a subconscious but strong level, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to explain all of this, as if she genuinely owed this information, or at least that they were deserving of it. Sellan felt calm, suddenly, and her anti-magical training for her senses indicated no trickery she could sense. She succumbed to the feeling, gradually…

“We are the product of that land. Our every sense and sinew built for brute survival. We are strong on a level you cannot imagine, human kin, and for all your magic and machinery you are, in your basic selves, nothing but vermin compared to us. Your muscle mass is weak and hollow, your bones solid, useless lumps, your senses, designed for plains and for surviving at the mercy of animals we keep as lap pets. What are you, deep down, compared to me?” Her blue eyes glinted up again through strands of black hair, as if egging him to say something.

“But we were once split,” she returned to her musing, “different clans, tribes, our forms suited increasingly to new environments. Strong still, of course, but split. And we fought, and wandered, almost, defeated, lacking purpose or ambition or a goal beyond mere survival. We wandered our landscapes, travelled and mapped hunting grounds and trails and cursed spots on a scale we couldn’t at the end truly comprehend. But we never knew how strong we were. We felt weak and pitiful against the glory of our land, what mortal being could think otherwise? We lived and died at the whim of the Guardian. Powerless like your kin.”

Her voice trailed to a whisper, still lecturing with closed eyes at the hologram. “Then, our saviour, the living embodiment of the Guardian himself, he revealed himself to us one day, one fateful moment that made us realise our place in the world.”

She sounded almost subconsciously awed by the new memory, her speech becoming almost trance like.

“God against demons, he used to label his battles. But he had ideas, unique and yet so wonderful. He united the clanns in a way we’d never known, led us all, destroyed any opposition save the wanderers. He was…terrible. In the absolute meaning of the word. And we all worshipped him for it. And we suffered, in our ways, for his ambitions.”

“But he brought us glory, power, for once gave us purpose beyond nomadic drifting across the sands of our lands. He was triumphant. A living, breathing….god, I guess. And how we….I failed him.”

Sellan slowed, as if remembering something. Her tone drifted towards confessional, her head suddenly bowing in saddened remembrance. She went silent for a moment. “My memories falter around that time, but what hope did I have of producing something worthy of his name, of his breeding? I was condemned to experiments. Horrific torture that made me a gross imitation of our prey.”

She stopped herself suddenly, taking a sharp intake of breath. “An imitation of you and your kind. What fate could be worse?” She spat the words out, as if suddenly disgusted with her openness. “What did you really want to know. At least give me the honour of honesty given you’ve stripped me of all other dignity.”

********

Salamand curled inward as the current stopped, though hi s body remained stationary, the task of holding still made somewhat easier now that hellish pain was not constantly racking his body. The smell of burnt flesh in his nostrils was still annoying, but desperation crushed such pitiful concerns at this moment.

He let them get closer and closer, staying motionless, every organ slowing so that every scan would indicate nothing short of multiple organ failure. He was waiting for them to get close, but perhaps less close than they thought was the safe limit for a swipe of his claws or teeth. His plan wasn’t relying on his most obvious weapons though.

He struck, almost surprising himself, but his front actually drew away from his attackers in a flash. They expected that, from the draw of weapons, he thought he heard, but it was his tail that shot out, hidden under an expanding wing, thrusting forward weakly before wrapping around the nearest body, python like, with a near crushing strength and dragging the hapless figure, so it seemed, close to him so the others wouldn’t risk harming their colleague.

He knew it wouldn’t work. But that had never stopped him before. He prayed the elves did not believe in bloody retaliation.

********

Caida felt at first that she was finally dying as her senses told her her body was lifting from the ways. Under the unknown influence of the torpedo her eyes remained shut, trying to concentrate on her other senses to avoid the disorientating feelings. Still receiving her usual responses she opened her eyes a crack, keeping her black lids in use as she tried to peer around, only for another wave of nausea to hit as she began moving sideways, against the wind, seemingly at random.

The illness began to subside, but the new sensation of helplessness forced Caida to open her eyes again.

A cloud hung above her, the source of the pull on her body given little else surrounded them. She cried out weakly and twisted her form around, flapping her wings desperately as she tried to fight the movement. The drake struggled, flinging her body head over tail, trying to break away from the force holding her, her balance already going off kilter suddenly thrown right out of synchronisation as her brain tried to figure out why her body wasn’t moving the way it should relative to her subconscious reckoning.

Caida finally gave in, finding her wings useful only to steady herself and give her the dignity of a relatively stationary position, feet down and head high, as she tried to figure out what was happening.

“Cease”, “Halt” “Who are you?” all escaped her, her voice disappearing on the wind as her body arched, reflecting the sea below and sky above in a dizzying display. Powerful in her element, helpless here, she made a glancing look back to her homeland on the distant horizon before shutting her eyes again.

Alyaheriel watched the shining shape of the Aragorn Elessar appear on the horizon, having dropped to a suitable level in the atmosphere. As she approached, on the top of the ship two hatches slid open, rising from the smooth reflective surface and sliding across it to reveal the interior of the ship.

One of those was the bomber bay, one of four hatches that protected the Aragorn’s fighter craft. In the bay she could see the landing block, she’d been out long enough that it was worthwhile refuelling, anyway. Rather than landing as the bomber would on a flat surface, the Aragorn was equipped to pull the bomber into its landing deck, not even requiring its landing gear. Each of the landing bays for the four bombers and twenty Fion fighters, was individual and sealed by blast doors, the small fighters were positioned on the dorsal surface of the wings, and the bombers, on the dorsal centerline of the ship.

Further forward on the centreline, the other hatch was the main cargo lift; smaller than a bomber bay, but big enough to land a fighter, this was designed to accommodate the parts of the Elessar for replacement, including the ship’s six reactors (it was something of a design tradeoff that one often had to remove one of these to get at one due for repair, for while the reactors could be shut down and moved within the reactor housing, space was always at a premium on a starship) though these had to be disassembled first. This lift ran from reinforced blast door on the outer hull, to the very keel of the ship, one of two, and the only one that opened onto the outer hull.

She reached out and pressed two buttons in quick succession, dropping the cloud-cloak as she approached, and bringing up an image from the bomb bay on one of her screens. This showed the hovering synapsid held beneath it. Carefully positioning the bomber above the main lift, she waited for it to reach the top level.

She mentally instructed the ship to lower Caida toward the deck beneath her. The gravitational force still pushing her down, flattening her against the deck of the ten-meter square lift, which finally began to descend; she adjusted the force to keep Caida on it as it did. The top level, through which the lift passed, was, when the lift wasn’t in use, used as a backup repair bay for fighters, and Caida could see numerous sealed hatches off this area. As the lift descended to the third deck, the rear side of the shaft became one continuous doorway, so that large vertical parts could be transferred to the chamber behind the bulkhead, which was where reactors could be tested, assembled or disassembled. This area extended for the remaining six decks, this great, (and extremely heavily armoured, it wouldn’t do to have the enemy able to shoot into the generator compartment), double doorway over twenty meters in height.

As the lift reached the bottom-most deck, Alyaheriel heard the ship’s control announce that they had it in hand, and she could begin to release the force holding Caida in place.

Caida, was still held in place, as the deep lift shaft began to close; every three meters of its height, there was a thick, reinforced mesh designed to allow one to walk across it. These were normally a precaution to stop people falling down the lift shaft, but in this case, the second lowest of them, at six meters in height, had been rather heavily modified, to administer a very heavy electrical charge. The bottom-most mesh layer remained open, so the drake could stand, briefly, at least, imprisoned in a ten-meter across, six meter high cell, of sorts, with numerous smaller doorways on its sides.

As the various doorways closed across the lift shaft, the top pair, both slabs of thick hull-metal, closed, cutting off all light save that shed by narrow strips around the edge of the lift.

The starboard of these slid open, revealing a quartet of hovering silver shapes she wouldn’t recognise; the same light armoured vehicles as had moved Salamand; this deck opened onto the ‘ground’ vehicle area of the Elessar where these ominous tear-drop shapes were stored. Though he would perhaps have noticed slight changes to their weapons.

It was clear to her hearing that it was the closest of these shapes talking, when it snapped, in somewhat strangely enunciated, angry, imperative Draconi, “You will kneel, wings folded, hands behind your neck! Resist and you will be punished!”


Of course, far across the globe, Salamand was having problems of a different sort. His tail had indeed caught one of the guards, yanking him into the cage. It took merely a few seconds.

He most likely wouldn’t actually notice the stabbing in his tail, as the man in his grip swiftly drew a dagger from the back of his belt, which flared a bright blue in the morning light as it was driven into the bones of the tail. The knife had been the unchanged standard issue for almost seven thousand years, designed to resemble the daggers of ancient Gondolin. They had a distinguished history, and having been consistently the standard issue of the Menelmacari army for millennia, and unlike other bladed weapons, standardized completely, they were probably the most duplicated bladed weapon anywhere. They bore potent but subtle táralúcë that warned of the approach of orcs, and was most specifically known to unmake wraith-creatures. Neither of these, nor their numerous lesser properties, were specifically applicable to Salamand, but nonetheless, the slim steel blade penetrated far better than should have been possible, as the man stabbed it into his foe’s tail-bones, aiming to sever the nerves there.

This was the least of Salamand’s worries, though; for the enemy he held in his tail was not alone; an elf a little way back seemed determined to prove him wrong; immediately shooting Salamand in the eye, small explosive projectiles blasting sizeable chunks of flesh away with each shot.

Fortunately for him, the drakes had brains not much larger than those of humans, and their larger heads were instead largely muscles for their massive jaws, and heavy, armoured bones, even behind the eyes.

Unfortunately, the elf didn’t just mean to cause pain, but to disable, and almost instantly shot the other eye away too, without the slightest compunction or hesitation.


Meanwhile, close to Caida, Ferinion was listening to Sellan, seeming thoughtful, “Of course, it might please you to know that all of your kind have the same faculty for transforming into a human form. You are in no way altered from the others we brought in. I expect you could train any of them to do it with minimal work.

“You yourself,” he said, awaiting the probable outburst of rage, “may be more biologically distant from your ‘prey’ than we are, but you are nonetheless derived from them, ultimately. Certainly you are as much human kin as we are. I can demonstrate, if you wish…”

Caida, simply put, had been stunned. It is hard to comprehend new experiences even with a broad background comprising the life Caida had led. When the air itself seemed to force her to the floating bastion that was the Elves’ warship, she had gazed in abject wonder, as Sellan and the others had done, at the sight of it. Lacking Sellan’s slightly more gentle introduction to the race within, Caida’s mind merely drew supernatural conclusions.

This had changed as she was thrust onto the elevator and taken down into the ship, and the appearance of machinery and metals gave her surroundings a more worldly feel. Intimidated and claustrophobic, Caida scanned everything with every sense she could, horribly realising she was in the dark about pretty much everything, not just her vision. Then the doors opened….

Caida reacted in the usual way Drakes had reacted to the elven demands, lacking witness to the fate of her colleagues. She roared and reared, her wingspan reaching the thirty three or so foot diameter with ease, glad to be back on terra firmer she had regained some of her fighting confidence, and she roared defiantly in as threatening a pose as possible.

Unfortunately for the new arrival, Caida’s wings, reaching upward as part of the intimidation display came into contact with the electrified mesh. The results were expected but nasty to watch as electrical current arched through the Drake’s body, causing her to scream loudly and fall awkwardly to the floor of her makeshift cell.

She rose again, quickly, as the contact was broken, but her interrupted exercise in strength made her surprisingly willing to comply, even if only to give her time to regain her stance. Already kneeling awkwardly, she brought her wings down and moved her arms slowly to the minimum point her opponents would be satisfied.

Right now she would be grateful just to know what was going on. Somehow she knew this was related to everything else rumours insisted were going on back home.

********

Sellan looked at Ferinion with that curious expression she had shown before. His words hadn’t quite seemed to register, as though she had expected something more from him. What he was saying didn’t seem to make sense, though in his position he had no outright reason to lie to her save to break her, and what he had said she was sure he knew would only reinforce her resolve.

“Those statements imply you know more about us than we do. Forgive me if I don’t oblige you by asking for such a demonstration and instead tell me how you are even qualified to make those judgements.” She said the words slowly, as if trying to ascertain his motive from his response. She had assumed the information or assistance he was seeking was wrapped in his prior questioning, and she was going to fall for his entrapment just yet.

She also had to admit she wanted to know the answer to her own question. She gathered the elf knew more than he was letting on, perhaps, but she had never encountered this race before and so had little clue of just what he could actually possibly know…

********

Salamand’s tail went through automated movements, the results of long combat training for use as a weapon, even with the blade striking horrifically into the flesh the tailed curled inward, applying constrictor style crushing power to the figure, followed by looping out the coils in a fast motion and throwing the elf across the floor as blood sprayed from the wound. The entire action, a product of instinct and technique, happened in milliseconds, the force applied even as Salamand recoiled from his facial wounds.

The Drake took the horrifically precise shot as expected, with a queasiness inducing shriek as his massive head turned from the impact against the side of his head. Eye fragments and the remains of the surrounding cartilage sent shards into the exposed nerve endings, causing cursing pain to suddenly replace Salamand’s already dulled vision. His feet rocked and he lifted his hand, unable to follow the movements of his elvish opponents as more crimson flecks covered the cage.

He was losing, badly, and he could do nothing about it as he felt more impacts tore into his body. It showed a lot for his build as the projectiles blew holes that reached only to the sub dermal plates and the wounds that resulted quickly stemmed the loss of blood. But the sheer number of impacts was terrible, and already weakened it provided no respite for the thrashing giant. Claws and talons again swiped at air, his attackers knowing full well their range advantage and using their agility to keep it.

The second eye shot seemed to finally bring him to a slow halt, tail and arms weakly smacking out but not even coming close. Giant trickles of blood now streamed down both sides of his face as the draconi started to give out, his muscles finally succumbing to the horrific punishment they had born over the last few days. He was dying, he could feel it, and he felt unsure if this was an honourable death or a pitiable one. Denied even a certain last kill, he dropped to his knees, his wings and tail suddenly folding up around in weak defence.

He was broken, or as close as a Drake could come to being so. His fearsome size now seem shrunken and crocked, his natural weapons stained only in his old blood. There was no cunning, no hope, no defiance, just a wrecked machine unable to fully comprehend what was happening to him beyond the abject agony his body was forcing him through. He seemed just a poor animal now.

Salamand swaggered, and finally toppled over, laying on his side, breathing slow, deep breathes, wishing for the inevitable to come as quickly as possible.

********

The huge white tiger purred as one of Garradan’s talons scratched it between the ears. The great feline rested on the top of Garradan’s thigh, opposite to and giving occasional hungry glances at the human singer on the adjacent knee. The animal, impressive in its own environment, looked like toy as its talons barely scraped against the Drake’s thick hide.

“The ship was lost.”

“Yes my lord.” Ramason’s tone echoed through the hall. Some of the other attendees drew away, but the Lord of Cidraneth merely looked thoughtful. “Nothing at all, Caida and her human crew have not been in contact.”

“She was overpowered?”

“Possibly, the illness did seem only to affect our kind, not these cretins, so perhaps, but it would seem unlikely they would ever be numerous enough unless she was very close to death.” Ramason got out, not nearly sounding apologetic enough for those around him. Garradan nodded, stroking both his pets now distractedly.

“And nothing new on this illness?”

“I can report it appears that where the sickness has spread on land it has affected other draconic. We have been able to note that that the areas the sickness passes us over provide a rough circumference and from this was we have been able to map the expected position as to where we may be exposed to it…”

“But…” Garradan interrupted sharply. “This is not an illness, or a plague, is it? It would stay, there’s nothing that changes in the air or water as you have said before, could it be magic or something else?”

“I do not know. Magic would be hard to eliminate, and Tetra will not lend me her Priestesses for this work.” Garradan shot a look at the female High Priestess, who returned the gaze with silent eyes.

“Is this true?”

“I do not trust him.” Tetra said openly to her Lord. “I will not, even if ordered, allow him to touch my daughters again.”

“Tetra…you have no idea…”

“YOU TORTURED THEM, YOU BROKE THEM FOR NOTHING,” She yelled, voice grating and her ornamentation clattering around her painted body. “Not again.” She turned back to Garradan. “Never again, you can have my corpse before I let you.”

Garradan rose at the threat, eyes blazing, the tiger and girl jumping to the floor by his feet as he did so. He stormed forward, Tetra suddenly submissive as he toward over his bickering subordinates.

“You” he said to Tetra, “do not get to choose whether to obey me or not. And you” he turned to Ramason. “Need to stop wasting good lives for your experimentation. Send men out into the desert, get them to track it down. Promise freedom to however finds out.”

“Humans, in the desert, my Lord?” He said, plainly, despite the shock evident in his trembling stance. “Will they last that long?”

“No. But their lives are inconsequential. Ours are not. Remember that.”

“Yes sir.” The acknowledgement came from both of them. Garradan turned away, angry and annoyed with the whole situation. Something worse was coming, and he didn’t even know what was happening now. Guardian protect them all.

“Elements within your blood and flesh can be analysed to determine the lines of descent from which you derive. This is the same for almost all living creatures, even ourselves, to a degree. A simple examination of those of you we have found so far can thus determine which species you descend from,” Ferinion said, pressing a button before him and saying something that wasn’t translated. The image of her homeland disappeared. At the same time, he worked a spell to pin her in place; for she would doubtless react… poorly to this. “This may seem like mythology and legend, but I assure you that it is the truth as best it is known.

“Thirty two thousand, five hundred fifty five, if I recall rightly, years ago, a group of creatures called ‘dragons’ in your langauge,” he said, adopting the word for the great beasts in the deserts, “And lóki in ours, the serpents of Morgoth, were scattered by a great war against our kind and the Valar, far to the north of here.” As he spoke, the display sprung into life, depicting great lizard-like creatures, a painting, rendered in three-dimensions, rather than a recording, of great serpentine lizards, breathing fire high into the sky. “They were of three general types, wingless worms, and great flying creatures, and deep-delving sea-serpents, though these were the rarest.” As he spoke, each were displayed, this time, with photo-realistic clarity, a serpentine creature with legs, heavily built and muscled, with a harsh crimson light glowing upon its scales from within. Next a longer still, more lightly built creature, in flight, its great batlike wings spread wide as it flew through the air at a tremendous pace. Third, a ship, not unlike the one she had been on, though smaller built for humans it seemed appeared, for a moment then, nothing happened. Then a vast creature, larger than the others, a combination of crocodilian and eel-like traits, leapt from the water hundreds of feet from the vessel, and plunged back down, its ravenous maw engulfing the entire ship, masts snapping against enormous teeth as it was simply ploughed under the water. “A hundred years after, they gathered in the south-west of what is now our lands, though the world has changed since that time, and they regarded it as the uttermost east; the Last Desert. They came lured by rich findings of gold, and a material far more precious, Anglaurë, gold transmuted in primordial times by the light of Ormal,” Ferinion paused, and the display switched to show one of the worms lounging upon a vast pile of jewels and gold, “but of course, I get ahead of myself. Suffice to say, it is as gold, but more, and subtly insinuates lust for it in all that behold it. The dragons found this, and they, already creatures that lust for gold and jewels, gathered to exploit it and enrich themselves.”

“Though they are mighty in many ways, they have neither the temperament nor bodies for mining, and so they brought many human tribes into the desert to be their slaves.” Vast, smoldering mines appeared, a winged dragon watching as from a hundred entrances, steam-engines dragged impure rocks with fragments of gold within them. Again this image had the unreal look of a recreation. “The most aggressive and intelligent humans were put in charge of others, and in time, were rewarded with an ability to change their forms to closely resemble their masters.” The image changed again, to show a man changing his form into a small, winged dragon, a process that doubtless looked somewhat familiar. “Thus they could rule other humans more effectively, and create new warriors, for by this time, the Dragons were concerned about our kind.

“It is from these that you are most directly descended; the dragons of the First Kingdom were adventurous and exploratory; they ranged far and wide, gathering many creatures that they enjoyed the taste of, or simply found amusing, to their realm from far across the world. It would appear that they came here, and found much to like in the fauna of your land.” You are of course, not one of these Ahyalóki, rather, you are a further engineered form; incorporating elements from other species, some of them unknown to us, presumably from your region; but I would expect you are all designed to change. Your culture has merely, for the most part lost the knowledge of how to do so.”


For Caida, below decks, the hoped for chance to compose herself did not come. The weapons of some of these vehicles had now been changed; and one fired upon her. The substance it fired expanded drastically in the air; it was made to cling and bind, not unlike a spider’s web, but substantially thicker and more resistant to cutting, and with even greater tensile strength. The microengineered weapon was also, perhaps more importantly, able to select what it stuck to – clinging quite eagerly to Caida’s skin, but not the floor, wrapping around the towering drake in a tight net. This was why the insistence that she fold her wings back behind her was required – with them and her other limbs pinned she would be far easier to handle.

Of course, there were other weapons on the vehicles, too, and even as she reacted to this, several more shots – their impacts almost painless – followed. The elves didn’t really know much of the drakes’ body chemistry yet, so the tranquilizers were of rather too low a dosage, for now, and chosen for safety, rather than speed of action…


For Salamand, the inevitable didn’t seem to come, he could hear, shortly after, the sound of his captors coming in greater numbers, and even feel – if he noticed – them prodding and touching him, and then a strange cool sensation in his more prominent wounds. The programming was more refined than it had been for the first time this treatment had been used on the drakes, but the effect from his perspective was identical to what had been applied to the dozens of wounds already on him. The hard, flexible gel material simulating muscle where he moved, giving him a strange, mottled look from a distance. Then they left, sealing him away once more; but there was little in the way of relief from the pain of his wounds, at least, that he would notice. While the gel was designed to increase the speed at which tissue regenerated, by orders of magnitude, and would soon repair the tissue around his nerves and thus eliminate any discomfort, immediately, it did nothing whatsoever to aid him.