The glare struck full on, sharp enough that Kelvand scarce saw aught for the pain of it. He turned aside at once, arm raised by habit more than thought. Even through shut lids the burn held fast – pure, searin' light, like the heart of a forge torn open.

He steadied after a breath, sight still swimmin', and judged the blast by the thunder rollin' after. The sound came late, heavy and long, echoin' off the ridges. When the flare dimmed enough to bear, he looked again. Half the ridge had gone to ruin.

The front o' the nest had caved, then burst outward, as though the mountain'd spat out its own bones. Stones big as wagons went tumblin', timbers shattered to drift, and the packed earth blown clean away. The mouths of the tunnels folded in on themselves, walls split through till daylight showed where rock ought never yield. The great wyvern at the gate was naught but ruin in a blink – wings torn one way, the carcass another.

Half the slope followed after, slidin' in a roar of stone and snow. The steam that'd been risin' from the nest turned to a tower of dust and ash, climbin' higher than the peaks themselves.

Collapses he'd seen afore – charges set wrong in the deep galleries, fyrite run wild through veins o' stone where it had no business goin'. Fyrite gone awry'd tear a shaft near clean through, bringin' down timber and rock alike, men buried where they stood. Bad work, aye, and deadly, but the mountain bore the scar and yet stood.

What he'd just seen here bore no kin to such ruin. The nest hadn't fallen in on itself nor burned from within. Nay; it was as though a hammer vast as the world had fallen out o' the sky, smashin' stone and timber to dust in a single stroke.

Scant few o' the spells in all the tales could work such ruin. Battle-mages might crack a wall, bring down a gate given time and line enough. A Tier Nine, aye; he might devastate a mountain, only if he burned himself hollow to do it. But to deliver such a blow whilst soarin' faster than sound? Even the Baranthurians pale.

And the Americans had done it with but two of their arrow-craft.

Kelvand lowered the glass. Pragen sat still as carved stone, the scope yet to his face though his hands had slackened round it. His mouth worked, but no sound came. Boral had set his glass down entire, both hands clamped on the bench as though to hold the deck still beneath him.

Down the row the others were much the same – greybeards that'd weathered great trials, in politics, in famine, in pestilence, and in war; all of 'em struck to silence like lads at their first battle.

Across the way the Americans were laughin': hands in the air, shoutin' like lads at a tavern brawl. Owens had his fist pumpin' skyward, hollerin' "Hell yeah!" loud enough to cut through even the blades' thunder.

The crewman smacked the hull beside him, grinnin' fit to split his face, proud as though his own hand had felled the mountain.

Captain Donnager sat apart, arms crossed, face still but for the twitch at his mouth. He watched his men, aye – and the dwarves as well. Mayhaps the man was waitin' to see how the Council'd take it, whether shock or awe'd win the field.

Seein' the state of Pragen an' the others, Kelvand knew the answer. Both won, and more besides.

"It ain't over yet, folks!" the crew chief called.

Kelvand turned back to the ridge, liftin' the glass once more. Dust still hung thick where the nest had been – an ashy storm roilin' over the slope. Through it, shadows moved: dark, winged shapes haulin' themselves out o' the ruin. Wyverns. Some'd lived through it, gods help 'em.

They came up slow at first, wings thrashin' like drunkards findin' their feet, fightin' for lift. One listed hard and clawed at the air, another climbed clean then dropped half its height afore catchin' again.

Hurt they were, aye – stunned, blind, yet still breathin'. And breathin' meant fightin'. As they cleared the haze they spread wide, circlin' the ridge like beasts sniffin' for the hand that struck 'em.

There were seven o' them – six lesser, one greater. Out o' the smoke it came, wings broad as a longhouse roof, slow and certain in its climb: the Oppressor, sure enough. Even from here he saw the hurt on it. One wing trailed, scales split down the flank; yet it held the air still, stubborn as stone.

The wyverns climbed, circlin' wide and wary, heads craned this way and that as they searched for what had struck 'em. The Oppressor led, great neck stretchin' skyward – but the sky above showed naught: only blue, and sun, and air so high no wing had business bein' there.

Then white lines tore across the blue.

They came from high above, thin streaks o' smoke drawin' themselves across the sky faster than sight could reckon.

It took him but a heartbeat to mark what he saw. These were the 'missiles' the Americans had prattled of – their means o' fightin' from the sky. The contraptions seemed like arrows at first, or mayhap the kind o' seekin' bolts the high mages spoke of, but they were swifter by far, and truer besides. Neither flare o' rune nor glow o' aether to mark it; only smoke and speed, the thing flew by wit alone, as though guided by purpose and spirit both.

His scope caught one in time to see it bearin' down on a lesser wyvern, closin' like the beast were hung still in air.

In the blink o' it, the beast was gone – flare and ruin in the same breath. There lay no time between, nor work of the violence; all that remained to witness was the sight of the beast comin' apart.

Neither spell nor arrow nor ballista'd ever struck so fast; those gave a man time to draw breath, to see the hit land, to watch the fall. This gave no breath at all. One instant wings filled the sky, the next they were naught but shreds driftin' down like ashes caught in a gale.

The sky filled with streaks o' white, half a dozen more, drawin' down from the high emptiness. Each bent its course toward a beast below, wheelin' as though a hand unseen still guided the flight. He tried to follow one, then another, losin' count in the swarm o' 'em, till the whole set met their marks near at once.

By the Forge, what a slaughter it was.

One o' the beasts swerved suddenly, wings crossin' wrong upon themselves, and so lost all purchase on the air. It went over and down, turnin' end for end till it fell from sight. Another was struck clean, or so it seemed, for it started as if smitten by a giant's hand, then hung lifeless, droppin' straight as quarried stone.

A third's wing was torn through, and though the rent showed plain even from where he watched, the creature still made a vain effort to right itself. It turned broadside to the wind, beatin' what tatter remained, but gained no lift from it, and went into a wild spiral.

There were no great gouts o' flame such as dragonfire makes, nor any thunder reachin' this far. The missiles struck where they meant to, clean and quiet. Where they hit, the beasts were simply gone from the sky – some fell straight, some spun end over end, some fought the air and lost. Six wings down in the space of five heartbeats; six corpses tumblin' toward the ridge below.

The sound came after, no more than thin cracks, distant as hammers through stone; softer than the first, and near lost beneath the thunder of the blades above. Quieter, aye, though no less final for it.

He swept the scope slow through the emptiness, but there was naught left to mark. There remained only the smoke-trails twistin' off in the wind, and below, what was fallin', turnin' small as dust before it hit.

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Six lesser wyverns brought low. Such a flock weren't the terror of legends, yet no small feat neither; for even the lesser kind take killin' when aloft, and most that fall do so to bolt or spell when they've landed to feed. To strike 'em from the sky itself would take archers o' the Eighth Tier or mages burnin' near to hollow. Yet these'd been felled clean in the span of three breaths – naught but light, thunder, and ruin left in their wake.

His grip on the scope had gone tight without his markin' it. He eased it after, workin' the fingers within his gloves till the leather gave a soft creak.

And yet, one still flew – the Oppressor. The great one that'd ruled the nest, wings scorched and beatin' yet against the wind. Whatever had struck the rest clean from the sky had not finished the master of 'em.

Kelvand tracked it. This beast had endured what ought by rights have killed it thrice over – four great bombs fallen upon its nest, then the same missiles that'd torn its lesser kin from the air in single strokes. Yet here it flew still, wounded sore but still alive, climbin' higher as though altitude might grant it what strength could not.

The creature's wings labored unevenly – one shoulder favored clear over the other, scales along its flank scorched black where the bombs' fire had caught it – yet it rose still, wheelin' wide as it sought what had slain its flock.

A beast o' the Ninth Tier were no common quarry; such a thing called for engines o' war or a circle o' mages workin' as one, and the price in lives ran dear even then. That it should've stood so long 'gainst the Americans' craft spoke to a strength past reckonin'.

Mayhap their weapons had proved unequal to the work after all. The weight in his chest turned colder for it.

The Oppressor's head swung about, great jaws parted as though it might taste the air for scent of its enemy. Yet there was naught for it to find; the silver arrows hung so far above they were scarce more than motes against the blue. Still it turned and climbed hard, wings beatin' fierce despite the wounds, strivin' for a height no wing were meant to reach.

For a heartbeat Kelvand reckoned it might reach 'em. The brute climbed fast – faster than ought natural for a thing so great and hurt besides. Yet the jets hung far above, little more than sparks against the blue. Up it soared, beat after beat, wings thrashin' to tear themselves apart. But the gap stayed fast; no closer for all its fight.

At last it checked its climb, hangin' there on torn wings, fightin' the drop. A breath's space it held; then the jaws went wide.

Fire bloomed forth – a great gout of it, bright as a forge-mouth, roarin' upward in a column that reached and reached. He'd seen dragonfire afore; flame that'd melt steel, crack stone, turn a company to ash in the span of a breath. The Oppressor poured its wrath to the heavens, the fire climbin' higher than towers, higher than the peaks themselves.

Yet the jets flew higher still, and swifter besides. They crossed the sky untouched, the fire fallin' short by half a league or more, spendin' itself to smoke and heat ere ever it could reach where they flew.

A white streak cut down whilst the beast yet breathed flame, drawn from above and closin' swift. The Oppressor saw it comin' and twisted aside, wings foldin' to dive, but the missile bent after the turn and struck square in the haunch. The blow threw it sideways, the fire cut short as the jaws snapped shut. Scales cracked where it hit, blood flarin' dark against the sky.

It steadied after a breath, wings beatin' hard to win back the height it'd lost. Then again it loosed – another column of flame, sweepin' after where the silver craft had gone. But even as the fire rose, another streak came down and took it in the shoulder, turnin' the great body half-round with the force. The flame died, and the beast hung there, wings thrashin', flanks heavin'.

It had been struck four times now: once in the haunch, once in the shoulder, and all the wounds it'd taken from the bombs and the first volley besides. Yet still it flew.

The creature hung there a breath, then the air about it shimmered and bent.

Wind-darts – he knew them at once. Invisible cuts they were, keen enough to cleave plate or stone or anything foolish enough to stand its course. The Oppressor hurled them upward – one, then three, then a flurry of 'em, sendin' the cuts racin' toward where the jets flew.

They flew truer than the flame had, for wind runs swifter than fire; yet still they broke apart at height, scatterin' to naught, the jets flyin' on untroubled.

Then white streaks answered, another two of them, fallin' together. The beast saw and folded wing, droppin' instantly in a dive that might've spared it from a ballista bolt or a mage's seekin' spell.

But these were no bolts, nor spells neither.

The first passed close – so close Kelvand thought it near cleared the beast – when it burst apart a span short, breakin' in a flare of fire and shrapnel that raked the creature's back and wings. The second followed a heartbeat after, burstin' off the flank, the fragments cuttin' through scale and hide alike.

Kelvand's hand tightened on the scope. They'd not struck the beast directly. Nay, they'd burst afore reachin' it, as though they knew when they were near enough to kill. What manner o' craft was this? What forge or mind had wrought a weapon that could reckon distance and choose its own moment to strike?

A spell might do such—a high working, sigils bound to sense and trigger—but these bore no aether's glow, no rune's mark upon 'em. Naught but metal and fire they were, yet they'd measured the span as truly as any mage, and loosed their fury at the perfect instant, tearin' through the Oppressor.

The creature screamed then – a piercin' shriek that cut even through the wind and the blades. Its flight turned ragged, one wing beatin' slower than the other, the great body saggin' in the air. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds where the shards had struck home, dark streaks against the pale of its scales.

For a heartbeat, Kelvand thought it spent.

But the beast rose again, as if defiance alone might set it right. Even dyin', the beast would not yield.

A light built within its chest, faint at first, then growin' till the scales shone from beneath. The glow swelled, bright as forge-fire, till it let loose.

Lightning leapt from the Oppressor's maw – a great jagged bolt that split the air, reachin' up and up toward the silver arrows above. Of all the beast's spells, this came nearest to its mark; for lightning moved near instant, faster than eye could follow.

Yet even this failed. The bolt climbed high, then split and scattered, the charge dispersin' across the thin air ere it could reach its target. The beast called the lightning again, then again – once, twice, three times in swift succession, each bolt reachin' higher than the last, each scatterin' the same.

And whilst it spent itself thus, another missile came.

The wind heeded the great wyvern's call to form a shield. Yet all its effort was in vain; the missiles could not be deterred.

This one took it in the belly, punchin' clean through scale and hide both. The Oppressor convulsed, wings falterin', the lightning dyin' in its throat. It hung there, wings beatin' weak and slow, the whole frame tremblin' from wounds that near covered it entirely.

It had fought with fire, with wind, with lightning – every weapon a beast of the Ninth Tier might bring to bear. And all the while, the silver craft answered in kind, each missile strikin' true whilst the beast's own fury fell short or scattered to naught. It was dyin' now – dyin' in inches, perhaps, yet refusin' still to fall.

It turned and dove, wings foldin' tight to seek the shelter of the ridges below. But it was too late, and too slow besides.

A new volley came – three of them, fallin' in line. The Oppressor marked them and tried to turn, wings thrashin' in a last wild bid to change its course. But the beast was spent, and the missiles were not.

The first took it in the sound shoulder, tearin' through muscle and joint. The second struck high in the neck, snappin' the great head to one side. The third found the spine, and there ended it.

The beast's flight came apart. Wings folded wrong, the body convulsin' from the blows, it tumbled through the air; no longer fallin' with purpose but spinnin' wild, more corpse than creature.

When at last it struck the ridge, snow and stone burst outward in a white cloud. The shape rolled, slid, and came to rest halfway down the slope – twisted, broken, one wing still twitchin' against the snow as though some remnant o' life clung to it yet.

The twitchin' ceased soon after, and there was naught left but stillness.

Kelvand lowered the scope with care. His hands were steady enough, but his breath ran shallow, and he made himself draw air proper.

The sky hung empty now. No wings, no shapes, no sound but the wind and the beatin' of their own craft's blades. Below lay the fallen: dark forms strewn across the snow, others caught where they'd struck stone and lodged fast.

A flock o' wyverns – and among them a Tier-Nine Oppressor, a thing that ought rightly call for an army to bring down. All laid low in the time a man might brew his tea and let it steep proper.

He turned his gaze across the deck to where the Americans sat. They were easy still, grinnin' as men do after work well done. Captain Donnager had his arms folded, watchin' the Council with that same quiet manner, waitin' to see what they'd make of it.

Kelvand drew another breath and let it go slow. His hands stayed steady, yet his chest felt hollow – as if some great weight had been lifted from him, leavin' naught but the space where it had pressed.

What, in the name o' the gods, had they borne witness to?

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