Manifest Fantasy

General Kelvand Drusc stood before the embassy gates, wonderin' if these Americans spoke any manner of truth at all. Flying machines. By the forge, what next – water that burned? Stone that floated?

The embassy stood proper enough – good stone, set thick and true as any dwarf would want. But what these Americans had done to it… By the forge, they'd planted some manner of great silver bowl atop the roof, bristlin' with rods like a hedgehog made of metal. The thing perched up there with great peculiarity, catchin' the morning light in ways that made no proper sense.

Those iron carriages, though. Aye, those he could credit. Great hulkin' beasts of metal squared before honest dwarven walls, with that long tube mounted atop like a cannon set sideways. The tales from Hardale spoke true enough – these wagons that spat death ere a man could draw blade. Seein' them there, all that strange smithwork and foreign craft set against proper stone, made the whole street look touched by madness.

But machines that flew? That stretched belief past breakin'. Dragons took wing, aye, and wyverns, and birds as nature intended. Even a mage might manage it with mana and skill enough. But iron boxes bearin' men through the sky, like sacks o' grain? 'Twas madness to credit such tales. Still and all, these Americans had made good on every other wild claim.

Made a man wonder if the world weren't bigger than he'd reckoned.

The door swung wide and out stepped Perry – the Ambassador, neat as a pin and twice as sharp. Behind him, that Alpha Team the tales all spoke of.

"General Drusc," Perry said with that smooth way diplomats had. "May I present Alpha Team."

Captain Henry Donnager came forward first. He was well-built for a human, and held himself like he knew his trade. He moved like one who'd earned his station rather than been birthed to it – a seasoned warrior. He was young, though – certainly no more than thirty winters if Kelvand had the measure right. The stories claimed his lot had risen from green adventurers to Tier Seven in one season's turn.

The big one, Lieutenant Owens – now there stood a proper warrior. He was built like he could put fist through stone and laugh while about it. He carried a Holding Bag larger than his fellows, which spoke of bearin' the heavy gear. Here was the sort who'd stand with a man in battle and drink him under table after. Kelvand knew the type well enough.

Then Hayes. Ryan Hayes. The Kraggen Slayer himself.

Four tankards of Kraggen ale. Four. Var had served under Evant forty years or more, and no human had ever lasted past his third tankard – not one, in all those years. Most couldn't finish the first. Yet this American – tall as any human, though not so broad as Owens – had put him down by fair means.

Lookin' at him now, Kelvand saw it plain: the man had a hunter's way about him. The sort who'd sit still as stone half the day, then strike ere a man could blink. Aye, this one had death in him, certainly. Different breed from Owens, but no less dangerous for it.

The quiet one, Yen, made Kelvand wary. Another killer, but the cold sort – the kind who'd cut down three men ere the first hit the ground, then wipe his blade clean and think nothin' of it. No sport in such work, no warrior's joy, just death dealt efficiently as a butcher's trade. Still, if he ran with the Kraggen Slayer, surely there must be somethin' to him worth havin'.

Anderson reminded him of nothing so much as Magister Grans – another dusty scholar who'd rather read o' battles than fight 'em. Every company needed one such, Kelvand supposed, though he'd never understood the appeal himself.

And at last there was Lady Seraphine ad Sindis. Well then. Lysander's daughter, in the flesh. Her father was the only elf Kelvand had ever granted full respect – saved his life once, as a child, and asked nothin' in return. The daughter bore herself the same way; the lass carried her worth honorably, without any boastin' nor preenin'.

Then Perry named the dwarven party one by one, swift and sure. When he came to "General Kelvand Drusc, Master of the War Domain," Kelvand gave a short nod. No call for ceremony amongst soldiers.

"Before we proceed," Perry continued, "I should inform you that our reconnaissance has identified a wyvern nest near Tannow – approximately two dozen hostiles, including what appears to be a Tier Nine Oppressor."

Kelvand looked to his fellow councilors. Already the heads were bowin', the will drainin' from their shoulders – content to wait a week and let the mountain take its due. "So that's it? We sit on our hands till the Guild's done their work, an' hope the villagers last that long?"

"On the contrary, General. We're proceeding as planned. We intend to neutralize the wyverns ourselves, using our fighter jets. We'll be traveling with them to the nest, where you'll be able to watch the performance."

The Council's Forgemaster caught onto the term. "Fighter jets? What manner o' weapon might that be?"

"Aircraft armed with explosives," Perry answered. "They'll strike from altitude before the wyverns know they're there."

This was beyond the agreement – the task had been rescue, not nest-breaking. Wyvern work was Guild business, a fight taken on with prep and planning, not tossed in the midst of a march. Yet Perry said it plainly, like the matter was settled, council's say be damned.

Kelvand started, "That wasn't the bargain—"

"The Americans act within the grant," Master Boral cut in, sharp enough to turn heads. Of course he had. Kelvand remembered the Harvest Master had kin in those villages. "The Council gave full leave for the rescue. An' if that means clearin' a nest, then let it be cleared."

Perry nodded. "Yes, that's right. The wyverns represent a direct threat to the evacuation. Removing them falls within our operational mandate."

Kelvand drew a slow breath through his nose. The point was settled, and he had no mind to look a fool like the Master of the Mountain, barkin' as he did. Truth told, a part of him wanted to see if the outlanders' thunder was as fearsome as they claimed. So he let it be. "Aye, very well."

The American ambassador was quick to pivot. "Our helicopters should arrive within the next few minutes," Perry announced, as though speakin' o' flyin' machines was natural as breathin'.

By Sola, if someone had told him a month past that he'd be standin' here waitin' for iron birds to drop from the sky, he'd have checked their head for fever. But here he stood, General of the War Domain, watchin' clouds like a dim-witted shepherd because these mad Americans claimed they could make metal fly.

Perry checked somethin' on his wrist – one of those queer American timepieces that showed numbers instead of hands. The silence stretched long enough that Kelvand felt a fool for starin' at empty sky.

In fairness, the Americans probably weren't lyin'. They'd been right about everything else – the guns, the mechanized carriages. Still, machines that flew? His mind kept turnin' away from it; he didn't want to believe.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

A sound started up, so faint he might've imagined it. It was just a distant rumble that could've been carts on stone, miles off. But it grew louder with each heartbeat. The sound was like a thousand wings beatin' in tandem.

And that was when truth revealed itself: they were right. By the forge, the mad bastards were actually right.

His gut went cold with the knowin' of it. If they could make metal fly – truly fly – then every cannon, every fortification, every principle of warfare he'd spent forty years masterin' was worthless as ash.

If all that be true, then scale mattered next.

Perry had claimed a few thousand souls held their base. The man was too canny to speak simple falsehood, and the numbers bore sense; no commander would hazard this many machines and men so far north for foreign villagers if he commanded only hundreds.

And these were no common soldiers. Why, both Evant and Brusk swore that the gear they bore might lift even a common soldier to fight like Tier Five or Tier Six. And when their great machines joined battle, they struck with the force of Tier Nine mages – if the words of Eldralore's adventurers held true.

If they could arm every man thus, how many such weapons did they possess? Those iron carriages before the embassy were all of a piece, each one twin to its brother. No master's hand had shaped these; they were common-made, like nails from a smith's die. Perhaps even a smith who made nails by the thousand, not the dozen. Any kingdom that could forge such war machines in number had strength beyond measure.

To make this many guns, they'd need foundries that never sleep, hammers that never still. A madness o' metal…

Wish it false all he liked, the damned proof stood before him! Perry had spoken of millions drinkin' their bottled brew daily. Millions of souls, all served by these same forges and workshops. If half that boast were true, the United States held more souls than Ovinnegard, the Sonaran Federation, and the Nobian Empire joined as one.

Aye, any o' these great powers could break their stronghold – but only with a great army, fully mustered. And still, thousands would fall 'fore they reached the walls. To strike through yon gate? Out o' the question – especially not if his count o' their number was right.

And yet, even with what was plain before him, there was too much beyond his knowledge. The Americans in Gaerra – were they the least o' their muster, or their elite champions? And their few numbers – were they thin at the forge, or just bein' wary? If this be them holdin' back, what hammer falls when they strike for true?

He could not yet weigh their full strength, and it galled him sore. A commander blind to his foe's measure stood half-defeated already. But they'd come offerin' rescue, not terms of surrender. He'd watch, he'd learn, and he'd remember every blessed detail.

The sound grew closer, pullin' south. He narrowed his eyes to the sky and beheld six black shapes – wrong in every fashion that counted. Each bore great blades atop, whirlin' too fast for the eye, like mill-wheels driven to madness.

Two were giants even among giants – broad-shouldered craft with single great blades thrashin' the air, each one near as long as a mountain hall and tall as a gatehouse. Between them flew another hauler, a strange double-rotored beast. All three were built for burden, no doubt of it – sky-wagons meant to bear men and war-gear through the air as though weight meant nothing.

The fourth was smaller, marked with the red of mercy, its frame trimmer than the haulers but cut from the same cloth. This was built to bear men swift and sure.

The last two were no such thing. Nay; they were hunters. These did not hang gentle like the haulers, but hovered with a predator's patience, sidlin' and shiftin' as though choosin' where to strike.

Beneath each narrow snout hung a single great tube, heavy as a culverin yet shaped like a cannon. At either flank were fastened two strange casks, squared and bristlin' with mouths like organ-pipes. There were too many to be aught but shot-housings, though what shot they cast he could not guess.

They hung in the sky as dragons do, watchin' from the heights, and in them Kelvand read the power to lay a city to waste. Aye – if such a machine were ever turned against a keep, no gate would hold, nor wall stand fast.

The hunters wheeled wide, keepin' watch from above, while the great hauler dipped low. The wind struck first, a great gale of grit and snow that tore at cloaks and beards. Then came its vast form, the thing settling on three struts like a beast kneelin' to rest, its blades thunderin' so fierce Kelvand felt it in his teeth.

The rear of the beast gaped wide, a jaw of iron big enough to swallow a wagon whole.

The belly of the beast ran longer than he'd guessed, its ribs stretchin' into the dark. Loops hung from the roof like tethers, but their use was a riddle. Canvas seats lined both walls, back to the hull, with straps an' buckles laid across each. This was a hollow made to bear two score men aloft as though weight meant naught.

Captain Donnager stood at the ramp's foot, pointin' 'em within.

Kelvand set foot on the ramp, and the metal yielded under him. The floor was cross-cut in little diamonds, a grip against slippin' no doubt, yet it felt wrong all the same: light underfoot, hollow, not any ground he had ever known.

"Sit here, General," Donnager said. "Belt goes across your lap – like this." He hauled the strap across and joined the buckle with a click. "Lift the latch to get free."

Kelvand settled into the canvas seat – firm enough, though it sagged more than any bench had right to. The belt took some fiddlin', and when it clicked home, it still felt a poor thing to trust his life to. Around him, the councilors wrestled their own straps, each pretendin' the task was no trouble.

Forgemaster Pragen leaned close and yelled, voice near lost to the thunder overhead. "Like sittin' in a dragon's belly, eh?"

Kelvand grunted, eyes on the open ramp. "Aye. Let's hope it doesn't bite."

The Americans came aboard then, brisk as a drill, each man takin' his place without a word. Owens, the big one, worked the packs into the wall nets quickly, every knot cinched like he meant it to hold through a storm.

Hayes, the Kraggen Slayer, dropped backward into a seat as though he'd done it a hundred times, drawin' a flat black thing from his pocket. Its face lit at a touch, glowin' like a firestone, though Kelvand heard no hum nor saw any gear turn within.

Perry took his seat between Alpha Team.

One of the crew came stridin' back from the forward hatch, helmet big as a bucket and a visor black as darkness. His suit bristled with straps and pockets, tools hangin' from half of 'em. He went down the row, givin' each belt a sharp tug like a smith testin' a rivet.

"First time flyin', huh?" he hollered over the rotors, grinning wide enough to show teeth. "Figured as much. I'm the Crew Chief 'round here, call me Turner."

Forgemaster Pragen started his prattle – of course the old man would try to flay the man with questions about how the thing flew.

The crewman cut him off with a chuckle. "Maybe some other time, yeah? Grab them overhead straps when we lift – keeps yer guts where they're s'posed to be."

Guts? Kelvand had a breath to wonder what he meant before the deck gave a shiver and tipped under him. Beyond the ramp, the earth began to fall — slow at first, then faster — like the last step of a stair giving way, only it kept falling, farther and farther, 'til Kelvand's gut lurched like it meant to climb out of him.

His hands caught the straps afore his wits did, clutchin' hard. Praise to the stone they'd set them there; at least the sky-carriage was built with sense enough to give a man somethin' to hold.

And then it truly struck him. By the forge, they were flying! Not by rune nor priestly boon, but by the Americans' mastery of iron an' whatever devilry spun those great blades.

The crewman's voice cut through the roar, shoutin' into a cone. "We'll swing south, set down on a cliffside. Ramp'll stay open; you'll have a good view."

Kelvand's gaze lingered on the dark earth far below. What would stop such craft from comin' with fire and shot, takin' a hold afore a man could rally?

Time stretched in the thrum of the blades, every jolt of the deck a reminder that they were hangin' in the sky with naught but straps to hold 'em. The councilors had gone quiet, each holdin' fast, eyes on the world rollin' away below.

Then the crewman came stridin' back down the row, tappin' shoulders as he went, grinnin' like a man about to spring a jest.

"Eyes right – you'll wanna see this."