Neither Clarice nor her twin sister had been able to simply stand idly by while their homeland was under siege. Not as nobles, sworn to protect their people, and certainly not as proud, red-blooded Linholmians.
For Clarice’s part, every fiber of her being had screamed for action when the first skydock came down, yet the Queen’s decree was unyielding. The students of the academy were not to make use of their private shards to join the air battle. They were to hunker down like rats and simply… let the chaos unfold.
Perhaps, in retrospect, that had been the correct decision – as they watched shard after shard launch from the airfields ringing the city, only for them to be brought down by the foe before they could even begin to account for themselves.
The women piloting those craft had been fully trained pilots, ones who’d likely graduated from the very academy grounds on which she now stood. And while their mass produced drakes weren’t likely to be of a similar quality to the bespoke rides that many of the students here possessed, Clarice couldn’t see that marginal difference in quality resulting in any kind of improved outcome for any student foolish enough to ignore her majesty’s orders and take to the skies.
Still, it hadn’t taken long for an opportunity for action to present itself as the first of the enemy airships moved to loom over the grounds of the academy itself and start disgorging enemy mages.
Clarice didn’t know how many the half-fleet had dropped. A platoon? Two? Significantly less troops than currently manned the academy garrison at any rate.
Though one would be hard pressed to see that now, she thought as screams rang out following the telltale whoomph of a fireball being launched from beyond the small checkpoint they’d made just inside one of the passages leading to the airfield.
"A fresh bow, ma’am,” barked a nearby guardswoman, snapping Clarice out of her musings.
The cadet’s hands moved automatically moved to hand off a fresh, bolt-bow, even as they accepted the one that was now almost entirely depleted of aether. The guardswoman gave a small grunt, checking the magazine was full – to Clarice’s slight irritation – before storming off back to the barricades. Leaving the cadet and her small collection of bolt-bows and their ammunition behind in the small nook she’d been told quite expressly not to move from.
For her part, as she set about repriming the weapon by refilling its aether reserves and replacing the magazine, Clarice was still a little surprised to see the academy’s plebian staff making use of bolt-bows. Normally they strode about with swords, spears or crossbows.
Plebian weapons.
Of course, now that she could see the system in action, she understood why the academy had trained its guards this way. In hindsight, it was obvious. If the academy were ever attacked, its surplus of partially trained noble born mages were far too valuable to risk on the front lines. With that said, it would be a waste to leave all that magical potential entirely idle.
To that end, the Instructors had asked for volunteers willing to essentially act as walking pressure tanks for the academy guardswomen doing the actual fighting. The bolt-bows needed refilling every two minutes or so, which meant women from the squad she’d been ‘attached’ to were constantly cycling back to her for refills of aether and ammo.
It was actually rather tiring, truth be told. Yes, a mage had access to a theoretically unlimited amount of raw aether, but in practice that wasn’t entirely true. The closest sensation to producing aether that Clarice could think of was in tensing a muscle. And while that tensing that particular muscle wasn’t particularly strenuous in the short term, after nearly an hour of constant use, she was beginning to feel it ‘cramping’.
Part of that came down to just how busy the checkpoint she’d been assigned to was.
Glancing around the pillar she was hidden behind, she could see the hangars just beyond the barricaded gates, where an intense firefight was still ongoing.
Of course, there were ongoing firefights all across – and in some cases, within – the academy grounds, but those taking place on the airfield seemed particularly heated.
The reason for that was simply because the academy absolutely refused to allow the enemy to access the many shards stationed in its exterior hangars – or more precisely, mithril cores that powered them. The Queen's decree might have forbidden a sortie from those shards for now, but there was every chance that might change in the near future.
With a steadying breath, she returned her focus to the task at hand, her hands never faltering as she readied another weapon for the next guardswoman to arrive at her position, the woman’s once gleaming white armor now marred by soot and scrapes. The hiss of pressurizing aether filled the air in a rhythmic reminder of her purpose in this battle.
Of course, that wasn’t the only sound filling the air, beyond the cannon fire of the airships above or the hissing of bolt-bows nearby. No, there was a new sound, one that was the cause for Clarice’s belief that the ‘no sortie’ order might well soon be lifted.
Clarice’s gaze shifted past the airship looming in the skies beyond the gates, its massive shadow a stark contrast to the fires raging in the distance. Beyond it, she could see the shard battle still unfolding. One of the shards briefly came into view, illuminated by the fiery glow of a burning ship as it dipped low, skimming dangerously close to the chaos.
Recognition struck instantly. Even through the dark, smoke and chaos. She’d would have recognized that profile anyway. It was too… strange for her not to.
“Empty frames my ass,” she muttered.
Well, now she knew why he’d not been selling his new design.
Rather than allow the Jellyfish to serve as a launch platform for Royal Navy shards - craft that would otherwise be left on airfields when a fleet left port – it was clear now that his intention had always been to create his own airfleet to garrison his carrier.
Which… she honestly didn’t know why she’d not thought that a possibility? Xela had relayed at length the story of William’s arrival at Redwater and his response to the mere perception of people under his command having ‘divided loyalties’.
Why would a man like that not want his ship crewed entirely by his own people if he had the means?
Of course, the rub was in the means.
How the hell had he gotten access to this much mithril? There… must have been enough flying around out there to produce an entirely new airship if need be.
Perhaps even two.
Yet rather than hold onto it, in case anything happened to the Jellyfish, the madman had apparently had all that mithril shaved down into shard-cores instead.
…Which, would certainly have a lot of traditionalist nobles asking questions, no matter the result of this fight – given the irreversible nature of that change. After all, for every half dozen dozen shards in existence there was one less airship – and that one less airship meant one less noble house in existence.
That could exist.
And I pray to god he’s not using the plebian pilots, because that means we’re about to start seeing them drop out the sky any minute, she thought hurriedly. And why do they make such a godawful roaring sound when they-
The distinct sound of a fireball exploding in the distance yanked her back to the present. A chorus of screams followed, cutting through the droning hum she’d just been momentarily distracted by. Clarice’s nose wrinkled as the acrid stench of burning flesh reached her.
Movement caught her eye - a guard, the rough-voiced woman from before, being dragged back by a colleague. Blood streaked the ground where her limp body was being pulled across the stones. It was clear what the woman’s destination was, but she paused as a glance toward the healing station further back, behind another checkpoint, showed a long line of moaning and injured women.
A situation Clarice didn’t doubt was the case at any of the other dozen healing stations that had been set up across the academy grounds.
"You a healer?" the injured woman’s voice rasped as she caught Clarice’s eye. “Taking a class on it maybe?”
Clarice shook her head, her throat tight.
"Shit, alright. Get her back to the healing station," the guardswoman ordered, her voice sharp despite her injury. "Then get back here.”
With that, she was gone, bolt-bow unshouldered as she headed back towards the barricade.
Clarice watched her go, before turning to the wounded and burned woman in front of her. It was clear being dragged had done her no favors, and while the elven girl was no healer, she did know first aid.
It wasn’t magic healing, but it might allow the guardswoman to live long enough to get some. Or at least, that was what her aunts always said.
Setting her jaw, she knelt beside the injured woman and began tending to her wounds. Her hands moved swiftly, tearing off a strip of her shirt to make a bandage while checking for signs of deeper damage. She worked in silence, her ears attuned to the battle raging around them.
Another explosion rocked the academy, this time from the main building. The ground trembled beneath her knees, and the distant shouting of orders and screams of pain blended into a chaotic symphony, but she ignored it.
She knew most of the fighting was actually towards the library – for some reason the enemy were focused there. By contrast, the attack on the hangars seemed almost like an afterthought.
But that doesn’t mean we aren’t holding on here by the skin of their teeth either, she thought as a dozen shards of ice flew overhead to shatter against a nearby pillar.
Sure, the academy guards had likely given the enemy a nasty surprise by showing up with bolt-bows, but that was all they’d done. At the end of the day, the plebian women weren’t mages. And while the Instructors were stiffening the lines where they could, they were thin on the ground given that a decent number of the more combat focused staff had sortied using their shards at the outset of the fighting.
And they likely weren’t coming back.
Clarice pressed her lips together as her thoughts went to her sister. She had no idea where she was. They’d been split up when they volunteered to help.
She could only hope her younger sibling was wise enough to keep her head down.
-------------------
Marcille knew this was a terrible idea. The eastern hangar wing was lost. Most of the other defenders had already pulled back to the western one to make their stand there – before presumably falling back to the main control building.
Marcille knew that was the smart choice. These pirates – or whatever they were – were seasoned killers. Despite being outnumbered nearly two to one, they’d torn right through the squad of guardswomen she’d been accompanying to guard the hangars.
Yet rather than run like she was supposed to when those brave women went down… she’d instead made her way here.
To the Whitemorrow hangar.
Where the basilisk sat. And now she was sitting in the pilot seat, staring at a very much unopened hangar door.
“You know this is likely to get us both killed, right?” A voice asked from behind her.
“I offered to drop you off at that checkpoint we went past. You could have limped from there,” Marcille pointed out as she continued going through the pre-flight checks.
“Oh, I’m not complaining,” the orc said, wincing slightly as she clutched her side. “I owe these bitches payback for what they did to my squad. I just… wanted you to make sure you knew what the odds were.”
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Marcille frowned.
She didn’t intend to die here – and yet, she couldn’t dismiss the other woman’s words out of hand. Before tonight, death had always seemed such a distant nebulous concept.
She could die here tonight. Likely would.
All for a shard?
Some part of her couldn’t claim that was wrong – and yet another part of her rebelled against the idea of her life being that cheap.
Or so easily ended.
“I-”
“Shhh.”
Marcille clamped her mouth shut instantly at the other woman’s sharp whisper. The guardswoman had crouched low behind the ball turret’s lower armor, her hand signaling silence. For her part, Marcille followed suit, ducking down as her gaze flicked to the Basilisk’s side-mounted rearview mirror.
There was movement at the hangar’s side entrance.
Both women watched as a squad of invaders breached into the room, their pitch black armor and gambeson fully visible for the first time in the hangar’s mage-lights as they moved forward with eerie synchronicity. Bolt-bows scanned every inch of the structure’s interior as the group of mages moved forward as one.
And in that moment, Marcille knew for a fact they were elves.
Oh sure, she’d suspected before, given the amount of magic the invaders had been throwing around, but seeing them clear the hangar only confirmed it.
It was in the way they moved. Fluid, precise, without a single wasted motion. Aunt Sara moved in the same way.
While other elves were often content to gain a certain level of competency in a given vocation before moving onto other pursuits, others chose to use their long lives to hone but one.
…And Marcille was about to try and get the drop on them.
What had she been thinking?
Her breath threatened to hitch as the group of enemy elves continued to spread out, checking every corner with chilling efficiency, their faceless steel helms constantly on a swivel. The guardswoman—whose name Marcille frustratingly realized she didn’t know—crouched even lower, as did Marcille herself.
Marcille caught the orc guard’s glance and shook her head sharply.
‘Wait,’ she mouthed.
The enemy team was closing in. One was approaching the Basilisk, likely to check for its core or confirm it was inactive. Others moved toward the hangar’s main doors, having sensed the latent magic laced into the structure and likely seeking to ensure they weren’t a threat.
Any second now, she thought.
The approaching elf paused, bolt-bow raised as she seemed to see something in the Basilisk’s rear turret.
…Which was when the enchantments Marcille had spent her last two spell slots imbuing into the hangar doors hinges went off.
The sound echoed through the cavernous space as the massive doors groaned and fell outward, exposing the hangar interior to the chaos outside, as every bolt-bow and open palm immediately pivoted toward the noise.
And for a split second, no one was looking at the Basilisk.
“Now,” Marcille grunted, hand thrumming with magic as she slammed her hand down on the Basilisk’s core activation plate.
The craft hissed to life as the dual-cores flooded the interior of the machine with high pressure aether.
Activating the pneumatic gun controls of the rear mounted gun pod.
The guardswoman within didn’t waste a moment. Her finger were already squeezing the trigger – and while the first rounds out of the barrel fired sluggishly, the Basilisk’s systems still warming up, the next few weren’t. As the twin cores surged to full power, the rounds tore through the air with deadly force, ripping into the nearest elf before sweeping across the room.
Caught out and surprised, the elves’ sleek movements were no match for the unrelenting firepower of the Basilisk. Marcille stumbled a little as she turned her back on the chaos, the vibrations from the guns thrumming through the frame as she started up the propellers and released the brakes.
A bolt of lightning slammed into the Basilisk’s hull as the craft began to reverse out of the hangar. making Marcille flinch - but the reinforced armor held firm. A normal shard would’ve been torn open by an attack like that, but the Basilisk was no ordinary shard. It wasn’t some nimble fighter. It was the world’s first dedicated anti-ship shard, designed to simply ignore incoming fire.
The guardswoman did not let the attack go unanswered, gun-pod swiveling around to spray down the area the spell came from, the Basilisk’s heavy cannons simply tearing through any intervening equipment the enemy tried to use as cover.
With that said, while they’d reaped a heavy tally on the enemy squad in the opening salvo, they hadn’t gotten all of them. More to the point, they’d spread out instinctively.
A second bolt struck the Basilisk a moment later, just as they hit the runway and started to turn. The air out here was alive with sound – even beyond the hissing of the Basilisk’s rear cannon and the plinking of bolt rounds hitting its outer frame, Marcille could hear the deep droning hum of the shards above as they continued to battle for dominance over the skies. Meanwhile, the airships overhead continued to fire the occasional cannon shot at the academy.
Oh, and the orc was laughing.
“Come on! You like that!? You like that!? Well mommy’s got more for you!” the woman cackled as she continued to hold down the trigger on the rear gun – only adding to the ongoing cacophony of noise.
Not that Marcille had long to focus on the acoustics, as the Basilisk started to pick up speed. She wanted to be off the ground and in the air before either the survivors of the squad they’d just ambushed got lucky with a spell or some of the other squads attacking the airfield doubled back and brought them down through sheer volume of fire.
Because while the Basilisk’s armored frame was damn tough for a shard, the propellers and cockpit were just as vulnerable as any other light craft.
To that end, while a vertical takeoff would have been standard under normal circumstances, sitting stationary with hostile mages nearby was a death sentence. Instead, Marcille prepared for a frog-leap takeoff - a hybrid maneuver designed to get airborne quickly while maintaining forward momentum. It was as ugly to see in practice as it was bumpy. It was also incredibly risky, but then again, so was everything else about today.
She’d just started powering up the accelerator though when her heart sank. Across from her, almost directly above her intended flight path, an enemy airship was shifting into position to intercept.
Their escape hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Now, while cannons weren’t typically effective against shards, the Basilisk wasn’t currently in flight. It was trundling up the runway - a perfect, slow-moving target.
For a moment, she considered bailing, only for another trio of pings off the wing to remind her of what the likely outcome of that would be.
The invaders, whoever they were, hadn’t seemed inclined towards taking ransoms before – and they most definitely wouldn’t be now. And on foot, they’d be sitting ducks for the commandos surely watching from the hangar.
Well, I tried, she thought faintly, some part of her still disbelieving as she saw the many cannons lining the ship’s starboard side. Sorry, Sis.
Sound and motion fell away – but for that incessant droning sound overhead. If anything, it suddenly seemed louder in that stilled moment.
It was actually a little annoying. She’d die, never quite knowing why the newly arrived shards made that sound. What William had done to them. How he’d had access to that much Mithril. Or the pilots to man them. It had definitely been more than ten minutes since she’d seen them swoop in, and yet they weren’t falling out of the sky – beyond those that were shot out of it - so they weren’t a product of his ‘plebian pilot program’.
Why did they sometimes burst into flames rather than aether? Why were they so fast?
That and so many other questions flashed through her mind as the droning reached an apex, drowning everything else out.
…Right before a series of... somethings shot through the smoke above the airship, trailing fire.
Like an aether javelin, she thought faintly – right before nearly a dozen of the things slammed into the enemy airship in a rapid, devastating salvo of flames.
The impact was catastrophic, the explosion lighting up the night and sending the airship lurching like a wounded beast. More followed in quick succession as more corsairs appeared from the smoke, sending salvoes of ‘fire-javelins’ into the side of the ship.
Not all hit. More than a few were launched too early or off target, sending them careening into the dirt – or in one case the academy itself.
Marcille barely noticed.
Her focus was on the airship that had once seemed so invincible, now lurching to the side as aether billowed from at least one of its aether tanks, while the propellers on its starboard side spun impotently, flames licking at the exterior armor.
The Corsairs, half a dozen at least, moved on, taking to the sky once more, as they sought to outrun what she now realized was a trio of shards impotently attempting to chase the faster craft as they shot into the sky once more. For just a moment, Marcille’s heart skipped a beat as she wondered if those pursuers would instead turn on her craft – only just now getting airborne – but they seemed entirely focused on taking revenge on the escaping corsairs and zoomed overhead.
“What the fuck was that?” she breathed as, in the distance, another airship was struck by a similar payload as had just struck the one in front of her.
Aether javelins, certainly, with some kind of powerfully enchanted warhead, but why had there been so many of them? Normally, firing a single aether-rocket required rerouting power to pressurize the launch, but those corsairs had unleashed entire salvos in the course of their pass.
And why fire?
Surely that – along with the fact that sometimes the Corsairs she saw burned when struck – had to be related in some-
“Hit the accelerator, kid!”
The guardswoman’s shout snapped her back to reality as she realized that the window of opportunity for her to make an escape was wide open. The airship that had once blocked her path was now barely able to keep itself airborne as it drifted aimlessly away from the academy.
Marcille didn’t hesitate as she hit the controls and the Basilisk roared forward, all of its aether production turned towards engine power as the ball turret powered down with a whine.
With the enemy shards still locked in their dogfight above – or chasing the recently arrived second group - the path was clear for now. To that end, rather than climb, Marcille aimed for the outskirts of the city and the safety of the darkness beyond. Once there, she’d be able to either climb and rejoin the fight – or rally with the Jellyfish wherever it might be.
As she did, her gaze flitted toward the large explosive sitting in the Basilisk’s belly. A mischievous grin tugged at her lips.
Certainly, she apparently owed William pretty much everything – but she was also determined to show him that he wasn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve.
The Corsairs had been impressive, certainly, but it had taken them half a squadron to wound that airship – even with their repeating fire-javelins.
The Basilisk had no need for such numbers.
Just a target and a window of opportunity.
-----------------------
“Order received,” Yotul conveyed to the orcish woman manning the Blood-Oath’s communication orb. “Tell admiral Nerensky we shall move into position immediately.”
In Yotul’s experience, the most valuable trait of a freedom fighter was patience. Not courage, or ferocity, though those were both useful too. But patience.
One would assume, that as the mobile threat, it was up to the guerrilla fighter to dictate the pace of the engagement. After all, it was usually they who picked the time and place of a battle, forcing the defender to scramble to repel them.
This was untrue.
It was the defender who picked where and when a fight took place. Unknowingly. For it was the role of the freedom fighter to wait. To wait until the defender made a mistake. They may not know when or where, but with enough time, an opportunity would present itself.
And then they would strike.
The current situation was a prime example.
She had not known what the outcome would be when she’d crossed the ocean to make her deal with the Dark Elves. It was a choice made more as a result of desperation than consideration. A final attempt by what was left of the free orc fleet to strike at their enemy by borrowing the strength of another.
She had known, even then, that there was a decent chance those elves would simply choose to enslave her crew and steal the Blood Oath – and his secrets – before they even heard her proposition.
It had been a gamble. But that was nothing new. Every raid was a gamble. Every step beyond the razorback mountains was a gamble. Every child born under the tyranny of humans and elves was a gamble.
In the end, the greed of the elves had paid off. The Blood Oath had been a prize to be sure, but it paled in comparison to the secret of how to slay Kraken.
A secret that could only be held in one of two places – the Royal Palace or the Academy.
Both places an Elven fleet could not reach without suffering great losses. Both places the Blood Oath could reach.
So an accord was struck. And for the price of one ship, she would have an opportunity to strike the very capital of her oppressors with the force of a dozen.
The gamble had paid off.
And once more she waited. She endured the slights and insults of the elves as they essentially laid siege to her ship. As they paraded her people as slaves before her. As they proposed a plan of attack that had her vessel act as the vanguard.
She had waited. For an opportunity. For a moment when her enemy would make a mistake.
For the enemy of her enemy was most certainly not her friend. Just another enemy.
And here and now, they had made a mistake.
One she intended to capitalize on.
“Olga,” she said quietly, or at least as quietly as one could while still being heard over the chaos of the bridge.
The arrival of two entire squadrons of shards had not been ideal at all. And while the Blood Oath had fortunately been spared the fate of two of the other underships hovering over the academy, she didn’t doubt those attack craft would soon return with fresh payloads of whatever weapon they had used to such great effect against those ships just moments ago.
The elven admiral was not taking the losses or surprise well and had just ordered the Blood-Oath into a new position via orb. A move that just so happened to position the Blood-Oath over the other ships still conducting the academy raid – almost like a shield.
An order Yotul had just accepted without complaint.
And if the elven admiral wasn’t a tyrant more accustomed to dealing with slaves than free orcs, she might have thought that willingness to obey such an order peculiar.
“Yes ma’am,” the former navy woman turned free orc responded.
“It occurs to me that our hosts of the last few months are rather distracted right at this moment. Between those peculiar new shards arriving and the ongoing assault of the academy, the ships we are currently performing overwatch for will be operating on a rather skeleton crew.”
No shard pilots would be onboard. No elven commandos either, given they had all been deployed to search the academy for the Kraken Slayer recipe. All that would be left would be two or three elven sailors and maybe a dozen plebian crew. Either human or dwarven auxiliaries – or orcish slaves.
Yotul rather hoped it was the latter. It would make what came next easier.
As it occurred to her that there were now no less than two underships running with minimal crew directly beneath her vessel.
While her own ship contained her entire tribe. Which had made for rather cramped conditions these last few months – but she was thankful for it now. She had inside this vessel nearly a hundred veteran warriors and a half dozen mages.
And an opportunity had presented itself.
Her enemy had made a mistake. Not least of all, in not recognizing her as their enemy. Even as they held her people in chains.
And she intended to punish them for that mistake.
“Rally the warriors,” she said as she casually reached out and accepted a bolt-bow of one of her guards.
The elf – their ‘liaison’ for the battle – didn’t see the shot coming, focused as she was on watching the battle unfold through the Blood Oath’s windows. The trio of bolts struck home, and the woman collapsed bonelessly against a nearby console.
“I think it’s time we replenish the losses we took in our last battle,” Yotul announced to the bridge crew – who already knew the plan - as she handed the weapon back, watching dispassionately as the elf’s body was dragged away by another guard. “And I think the vessels below us will serve as suitable payment for bringing our elven friends across the ocean, no?”
The cheers she received in return warmed her heart almost as much as the fires in the city beyond.
Had she planned for this?
No.
But that wasn’t what a good freedom fighter did.
They waited.
For the moment when their enemy made a mistake.
“Vengeance is done. The enemy have tasted our wrath. And now we retreat, to haunt their dreams.” Yotul shouted. “The Blood-Oath is leaving! But he shan’t leave alone!”
They’d need to move fast. They would only have so long before those shards returned with their strange fire-javelins.
And Yotul would not make the mistake of failing to recognize that just because they now shared an enemy that they weren’t still enemies.