Draconic Shenanigans - Episode 46

 Chapter Forty Six: Nether More

 

(Artwork mine, map of Nether Wallop)

 Still shivering and cold, Kaelin climbed back to her feet, hugging Haggis, who parped and purped in sympathy. The name of Jeremiah's god did something else to the mind, something that was becoming more and more difficult to resist. It had left a sour, metallic taste on her tongue and a horrible itchy, tingly feeling on, or rather, under her skin. The wolf in her blood wanted to roll over whimper like a puppy, shaken to the core by the thing it had seen, that somehow tiny and at the same time vast form made of light that did not illuminate, only burn. She shivered again and felt the air shiver in return. She frowned, turning her head, a strange sucking, gurgling sound bubbling through the night.

Ulrich turned Peter slightly, looking at the lake, Weatherall clicking his claws above his eyestalks as he clattered around behind his master. There seemed to be something very wrong with the edge of the water, it appeared to be running away from the land. The siege beast paid it no mind, even the ones in the river ignoring it as the water level around their feet decreased and the river's flow rate increased.

 The water continued to retreat, great slimy slipper mud flats being exposed, fish that had been swimming a moment before flopping and gasping, mouths agape as they started to drown in air.

 Jeremiah glanced at the strange behaviour of the lake but it was of no real interest to him. His attention was fixed more on trying to decide which ones where more befitting the attention of his god. Kaelin was more intrigued by the water's behaviour, feeling a slight rumour shifting up through the stones of the battlements, something rumbling through the ground below the foundations of Nether Wallop. Her eyes widened as she saw the hill of water coming towards the city.

"Back up! Back up!" Ulrich yelled, turning Peter's head, seeking shelter behind the south wall of Nether Wallop, trying to put the bulk of the city between him, his pets  and the wall of water rising out of the lake. 

 With a rumbling roar the wave broke on the mudflats, cracking into a line of white froth and spray, surging towards Nether Wallop and the river mouth. And out of that wave a head broached the surface. Orange scales below the chin, black scales crowning his old brow, Tikrumpdel surged towards Nether Wallop.

The siege beasts were too busy battering at the walls, snapping at the defenders manning the battlements, to notice the wall of death thundering towards them. The one nearest the shore, standing practically in the river's mouth, had its claws hooked into the stonework and was tearing and wrenching at the masonry, building blocks the size of tables tumbling like pebbles.

The competition between the siege beast's scream and the smash of water on the lake side walls of Nether Wallop was won in the opening round by the roar of the wave. The curtain wall shuddering around the entire length of is circumference, the lake side walls cracking with mighty bangs, water jetting through in bright, white fountains that stung harder than a wasp sting. But the siege beast's screams lasted longer, painfully loud, shockingly high. It thrashed its head from side to side, kicking and jerking, Tikrumpdel's teeth sunk up to the gums in the base of its tail, his thick neck bulging as he lifted it off its feet, plucking it from its footing as neatly as a farmer picking up a hen.

It screamed again, wailing and howling as Tikrumpdel twisted the last of his momentum to turn sideways, shouldering into the water that, piled up by the wall's of Nether Wallop remained deep. The flash of a wing, the splash of a tubby hand, the gleam of his belly scales cutting through the water and the siege beast's howls went silent as Tikrumpdel rolled with the retreating water, pushing out into the depths, his black scaled back cutting like a ship's keel through the chopping cross waves until he dived from sight in the dark.

The second siege beast turned its head to the waters and whined as the river ran back to its level round the siege beast's feet. It cocked its head, listening for a call, a howl, a voice, that it was destined o never hear again.

"I say chaps, that was smashing," Ulrich noted, poking his head round the corner where the south wall and river wall met. Peter hissed, shaking as many segments as he could to clear his breathing holes. Weatherall snipped his claws in agreement, water still running off his shell.

The white werewolves to the south, struggling to get back to their feet after the surge had thrown them through the mud, threw back their heads and howled.

Quenril flinched, granting with pain, muscles clenching in ways he was just not used to. I felt like his ears were trying to crawl up his head. He tried to bite back the sound of pain but it rose despite his effort, jaw aching, fingers feeling like they were on fire.

"Da bhfaigheadh muid bas," Michael Azrael's song lifted over the beleaguered city, worming its way into Quenril's brain. Quenril's sighed in relief as his shoulders relaxed. Along the walls others of the newly scratched and gouged straightened, the music unwinding something in their souls and minds. Weapons came up, braced, ready.

"Huh," Jeremiah sniffed, "It maybe half way serviceable but it is hardly inspiring." Without thought, without really paying the gesture any attention, he scratched at his arm, no longer bandaged but still baring the scars of Kaelin's teeth. He didn't think about Stink-of-the-Midden any more but the consequences for that action still waited, digging themselves deeper under his skin, unheeded, unnoticed, unchecked.

Kaelin herself had managed to regain her balance. She didn't know what Jeremiah had done to her when he had healed her following that damn spider bite but it was still there, dug into her skull, crawling beneath her skin, silent until he spoke that gods forsaken name. Just how did the man's face not bubble off the front of his skull every time he said that accursed name? It boggled her mind.

Stone burst and groaned as the siege beast on the north east corner tore and ripped at the battlements, its claws raking away facing stones, the start of a new breech forming.

Well best to put a stop to that.

Kaelin stood up and pocked Haggis' blow stick between her teeth, puffing and blowing until his wind bag swelled to bursting and the drone reeds howled with the pressure, the echoes bouncing off the mountains and rolling out across the lake. For a second, just a second Kaelin's mouth twitched as she remembered the story of a puppet show she had once kept half an ear on while she pilfered the pockets of the crowd watching it.

"I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll bloooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww your house down!"

She bet that her grandpa had never considered the fact that it could be his house that was being blown away by the storm. She straightened her face as best she could to get the proper resonance and her finger flew up and down the chanter reed. The siege beast at the north east corner reeled back, pawing at its head, yelping and shaking. The winged ones spiralling above it shrieked and shattered, their spiralling pattern thrown so far off that it was a miracle that none of them collided.

Clinging to the outer wall, the last full pack of abominations, tattered and whined, two of them knocking their heads together in their efforts to shake Kaelin's music out of their ears.

Kaelin drew a deep breath and blew again, Haggis's music wild, chaotic, almost descending into the mess of being a row but effective as a mallet to the back of the head in distracting the siege beast from its work.

The north east siege beast covered its ears and howled.

Yaga Tuf viewed the results of Kaelin's shrieking noise of a tune and nodded with respect. She would give the winged wolf girl that, the girl could use music alone as a weapon and highly effective one.

"Whoop?" her walking hut queried, "Whoop?"

"Hum," Yaga Tuf pinched her mouth thin, "No." She decided, tapping the hut's neck to make it turn so she had a full and unimpeded view of the south wall and the siege beast that was trying to dig a hole through the middle of it.

"That on," Yaga Tuf decided and raised her cane extra high. This time it didn't bang or rap when it struck the boards of the walkway that spiralled round the hut's back, it boomed. Thunder rolled. It rolled a d8 as the bright blue, giant rose bloomed in the siege beast's face.

The siege beast in the middle of the south wall, studded with bolts and arrows, stumbled back, shaking its head, its back legs bending in an odd way so that it could crouch on the turf. It blinked up at the walls as if couldn't understand what it was doing there.It's nose was twitching, rapidly. It blinked again, half turned and...

The three white werewolves to the south howled in disbelief as their massive siege beast bunny hoped away from the walls and started trying to eat grass.

Up on the high tower of the cathedral Estella burst out laughing as she realised what the woman who she was rapidly beginning o think of as grandmother had done to the pride of the werewolf army. Its massive shape was making the river plain shudder with its massive lunges and thumping back feet.

"Granny's Special," Alina grinned, "Those wizard's really do over complicate matters when it comes to their spells."

"Concentrate girls,"Milena admonished, "There are people being hurt and we have work to do."

"One must, however, admire the skill of being able to convince one's enemy that he is nothing but a small, white rabbit so thoroughly," Michael turned and inclined his head to her, "Your family is remarkable."

"Indeed," Milena narrowed her eyes at him. Michael was too smooth, too polished for her to trust, especially while she couldn't drag the right side of his face into focus. Something was preventing her from seeing him clearly and she found that suspicious. A howl beyond the wall drew her attention. Michael stepped aside and bowed to her as she approached the battlements.

The winged werewolves that were over the city were reorganising, the disruption caused by the bolts of the mob Jeremiah was rising left behind. They were gaining height, snarling as they came, murder and worse in their eyes.

"Mater Luna nos protegat," she raised her hands to the clouded sky and then brought them down so her spread fingers bracketed he winged pack thundering towards her and her daughter.

The vines erupted from the cobblestones of the main square, from the stone walls, from the slate tiles, writhing into the air, thickening a they came, thick green serpents of green that lashed whip crack sounds.

The winged werewolves howled and roared as their flight was arrested and they were plucked from the sky, smacking into the dark below, discovering that it was solid and resistant. The vines pinned them down, holding them there, vegetable matter grasping and gripping, refusing to let them rise. For every snap, for every  bite, for every wrench and yank the vines wriggled, writhed, lashed tight around limbs, beat wings to their will.

Alina took a step back from her mother, frightened by her expression but Milena was implacable. Alina had seen the dragon lurking in Estella long before it should have been obvious; Milena had seen what the winged werewolves had planned for her daughter and her daughter's cousin. Her condemnation was unforgiving and there was no mercy in her gaze as the winged werewolves fought their captivity and the mob began spilling into the square from the alleys and streets of Nether Wallop. The drum beat of marching feet was harsh and bitter.

Jeremiah leapt into the air, wings thumping, now he was sure he wouldn't be hit in the crossfire it was time to become airborne and oversee the utter destruction of these unworthy vermin. He spiralled up in to take their place in the sky, gliding over Nether Wallop on outstretched membrane limbs, watching the roaring mobs he'd woven out of words and minds ready to receive said words. The one in the town square was going to be worth the effort very soon he calculated. The mob flowing back up the steps to the battlements of the river wall, that was more up for debate. He would have to keep an eye on how well that mob performed. In the mean time there was the question of the siege beast that had been rendered so utterly helpless by the Witch of Mountains. It was galling to think that the towns folk, easily lead simpletons that they were might praise the Witch more than they praised him, lead astray by the sceptical of her work.

"You," he swooped low over the bone golems, "Dispose of that one." he jabbed a finger at the siege beast that was trying to eat grass. It looked round, eyes not comprehending as the bone golems began their slow deliberate march towards it. It's nose twitched in non comprehension.What would a rabbit want with a pile of bones? Especially bones that didn't have the decency to lay down and stay dead.

A bone golem raised as fist and swung as it stepped into a massive round house blow that rattled the siege beast's eyes in its head. Unfortunate for the bone golem the siege beast hopped back, rattling its ears until it could see straight again, then as the bone golem took another step forward to hit it again, the siege beast threw itself forward, crashing into the golem, front paws lashing out in double handed punches that made the air ring. Cracked cartilage and broken bone showered down on the turf, bouncing and rolling in the grass.

Then the bone golem fell, wrapped in the siege beast's arms, the jumble of bone, sounding like a whole bag of dice hitting the gamblers table as the siege beast brought up its back fee and kicked, over and over, long talons raking over the bone golem's form, splintering bone, tearing pieces free. If the bone golem had been a living creature the siege beast would have well and truly kicked the guts out of it.

Lady Zilvra nodded to herself, making a mental tally of the battle field. With the power of the unknown singer on the tower top having shaken her people free of their enslavement if not returned them to their true forms then the number of foes had greatly reduced, to the point that there were none near her stretch of wall. The length south of the east gate was now completely clear of werewolves, regular or not, the reserves hesitating in their approach as the grey and white werewolves faced down their oppressors.

Ceann Mor cheeped with irritation as he felt the silken tug of their bond but the Abominations were too busy scrambling in irregular directions to be able to take advantage of his momentary distraction.

The glow of secondary eyes opened once again on Lady Zilvra's forehead. What the group of unbroken townsfolk found most disconcerting about those eyes of light was the fact that they blinked slightly out of synchronisation with her real eyes.

"With this word declared," Lady Zilvra proclaimed, "This power now I share."

The townsfolk flinched but their gazes where sharper as they looked out upon their enemies, hands steadier on the grips of the crossbows as they saw their foes more clearly.

The foes in question were the last three packs of brindled coloured werewolves, one to the north of the east road, one south of the east road and one hovering off the south east corner of the walls. The brindled pack north of the east road circled round itself, whimpering and whining. The white werewolf that was supposed to be leading them had done a bunk along with the siege beast and some of their pack mates and the other white werewolf that were close enough to lead them was busy trying to avoid being hammered into the turf by a vast dire bear that had a personal grudge against werewolf kind.

Confused and leaderless the pack of regular, brindled werewolves circled in on themselves, unable to pick a leader for themselves, too scared of being punished for their audacity when the alpha caught up with them.

The pack south of the east road suffered no such inhibitions. They didn't need a white werewolf to tell them what to do, their just needed an enemy and there was one just to the south of them, a pack of turncoat traitors flaunting their betrayal in grey and white. The pack would not permit betrayal, the alpha would not have weak willed, spineless, human loving mutts like them in the true people. With howling roars the pack of brindled werewolves threw themselves forward.

Still dazed by its sudden renewal of identity, the grey and white werewolf closest was only just starting to turn towards the noise when they hit. The brindle werewolf slammed into it, jaws closing over its enemies face. There was no mercy and no release in the pressure until after bone had cracked an splintered and burst. Brindle threw back its head and bellowed its triumph as to either side of it another two grey and whites, went down in red stained grass. The last two survivors of the grey and white stood back to back, claws ready teeth bared as red slicked werewolves closed around them.

The pack off the south east corner didn't have anything like the same amount of success, even with a white werewolf leading. They howled their challenge to the clouded sky and instead of cowering as they should have done, the pack of grey and white werewolves stood, one stepping forward. Sleek grey fur slid over lithe muscle, the white mane even longer than usual, something unmistakably feminine in its form. It quite deliberately turned its back on the howling, snarling regular werewolves. Even as they started charging she trust a fist into the air, barking something through her fangs. Up on the walls, Quenril twitched, almost, almost understanding those short, sharp barks. He opened his mouth to yell a warning a second before the front runner of the brindle werewolf pack leapt at her back.

She spun with fluid grace and the smack of her claws flung him aside, sliding in the dirt with his gashed face bleeding. The howls were feral, the screams brutal. Brindle hide split around claws, grey fur turned red around fangs, handfuls of white manes floated on the air only to be trampled into the mud. Bones cracked, muscle tore, hide hung in shredded tatters and the grass turned black under the moonlight peeking intermittently through the clouds as if even the moon herself could not stand to watch the ruin happening between her children. The noise echoed off the walls of Nether Wallop, a violent melody, a berserk tempo, a savage rhythm. And Hartseer was loving every minute of it.

An abomination lunged, he ducked under it, spun and lashed out with the broken stump of his sword. The abomination yelped, the other lunged, caught one wrist, blocked the second, twisted aside from the third and Hartseer head butted it in the face. Blood poured from a broken nose. The first skittered around on the outer surface of the wall, came at Hartseer from behind. Hartseer kicked backward, smacking it in the pelvis. It rocked with a loud snap and a gasp, one of its three legs beginning to drag. The one that he was holding on to managed to twist out of his grip and stepped in, lashing out at him with a series of lightning fast blows. There was a meaty slap as the stump of his broken blade smashed its temple and Hartseer hopped back, one leg kicking up, pushing on its chest, forcing the opening between them. The air whistled with blows, Hartseer bending and twisting round them. The one with a busted hip came at him again from behind. He twisted, stepped up on to the lip of the crenel, continued the spin to the top of the merlon, crouched into the spin like a dancer of Jegoria, lashing out with a foot. The thud was one part meaty and three parts crunchy. A jump over the lash back, a sweep with the three blades he still had that forced them back and clipped an ear short, retracting the broken blade as he did so. The back flip turned into a half hand spring that landed him on his feet on the walkway of he battlement with both of the abominations in front of him. They snarled and charged.

Hartseer stepped back and then stepped forward, one, two, three, jumped for the extra momentum, landed on his knees, gouging the stone work as he slid, arched back, arms wide. The abominations both screamed as they lost a leg each, just below the knee.

Hartseer twisted round and up was up on to his feet, his wire hair billowed wide and then slashed through the air.

The abominations squealed, arms tangled in the stuff, a thousand tiny whips, thin as hair, stronger than steel, wrapping round their limbs. They yanked at what they could grasp, tugging and pulling at the tightening threads and then other locks of it lashed forward, wrapped round their now only two knees, pulled until they bent, kneecaps bruising on the stones as he forced them down.

Hartseer chuckled, that dry, husky sound closer to a gasp, yet some how it carried in the night, underpinning the din of the battle.

"Did you think the dog on the leash could no longer bite?" he asked, dragging them towards him, "Did you think that bending the knee in service dulled my edge? You have no idea the edge loyalty gives me. You have no idea how sharp the fear has honed me. I lost everything once before, I will not allow beasts like you to take it from me again!"

The abominations gasped as strands wrapped round their throats.

They weren't the only ones in trouble.

Ceann Mor wiggled his tail an almost puppyish gesture, only it wasn't puppyish, he was locking in the last calculations of size, speed, distance and...

The abomination clinging to the outer stonework of the wall of Nether Wallop screamed as Ceann Mor's clawed hands grasped it, as Ceann Mor's fangs found its shoulder. It screamed again, beginning to foam at the mouth. Its pack mates cried out, scuttling away as Ceann Mor shook it back and forth.

Thorian grunted as he finished cranking the rock lobba. He spared a glance for the last two remaining embers of the pack that had cost him all the work he'd done on the cranking the first time. He didn't know why they had suddenly backed off and changed colour but he had heard Ulrich saying to wait, to let them be while they did so and he had, then it had got real confusing as the doggos now seemed to be fighting each other. He couldn't work that one out at all so he decided to let it be. Trying to break things up between the wolfies back home had always resulted in him getting bit so it seemed best to leave it well enough alone.

He grunted as he picked up the back edge of he rock lobba and turned it round, squinting into the dark, lining it up with the things clinging to the wall and what stood beyond them. With a grin he jumped in the basket and spun his sword, round and round and round making the air buzz.

"It's..." he yelled as his sword swooped down towards the breaking cable, "Thorian tiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeee!!!!!"

Yaga Tuf blinked as her house turned to watch an orc cross breed take a  flying lesson. A flying lesson that involved smearing one of the wall clinging abominations across ten feet of stonework, shattering the wings of two of the winged ones re-organising around the siege beast at the north east corner and thumping high on the side of the siege beast. Thorian flung his arms over its spine, barely hanging on to his sword as it barked and backed away from the north east corner, trying first one way and then the other, barking and shaking, trying to see what it was that had just smacked into its ribs. Its feet stamped, its claws slashed the air. Thorian decided to hang on.

Seeing that Thorian had the siege beast well and truly distracted and was having enough trouble hanging on to it, Kaelin decided that she would not make his life more difficult. She tucked Haggis away, giving him a pat as he wound his drone down and picked up her crossbow again. She slipped the stirrup over her foot and pulled the string back with both hands, grunting through her nose as she did so. Picking it up she lent over the edge of the wall as she dropped the bolt into the groove. She sighted on an abomination clinging to the stone work and pulled the trigger. She grunted in disappointment as the bolt glanced off the stone work and span away into the dark.

Yaga Tuf tapped her walking hut , guiding it to step back so she could see both the one who believed it was a rabbit, granted a very aggressive buck rabbit by the looks of things, as well as the one that was now buckling around trying to throw Thorian off. She narrowed her eyes. She didn't want to let the one under the effects of her Granny's Special go so she concentrated on a different spell her plants had taught her. She tapped her came and the vines baring the red blooms climbed into the air, their golden pollen billowing into the cool night. The cluster of werewolf siege beast, abominations and winged ones hovering around the north east corner sneezed and staggered as they breathed it in, heads swaying, steps suddenly wobbly, their minds suddenly clouded and uncertain. They also felt really rather sick.

Milena closed her eyes, pain blooming behind them. The vines holding the winged ones down in the main square were withering and this far from the ground she was struggling to call upon the power of mother earth. She was more in her husband's realm, the place of father sky, the place of transmutation, when she needed the permanence of Mother Earth.

The winged werewolves tore free of the shrivelling vines and launched skyward, barking their glee, their power and their anticipation of what they were going to do once hey were up there on that tower top, the soft flesh that would yield, yield of be shattered.

"Mater Luna pos protegat!" Alina stepped forward, face hard, hands spread wide. She did not ask this time, she commanded, one mother to another, demanding protection for her child.

The winged werewolves didn't even get to yip their surprise, he vines ceasing them and slamming them to the cobblestones hard enough to crack ribs. Milena looked at her daughter and nodded with approval. She was becoming the Mother, he protector and the warrior, he nurturer and the siren, she who would do anything to keep her children safe. The circle of generations continued.

 The white werewolves raised their voices in defiance, the harmony of control weaving up and down the scales but their grip slipped, unable to grasp minds that had no desire to go back to being puppets in the schemes of the alpha werewolf and his followers. The white werewolves lowered their heads and snorted. Just how was over half the packs disobeying the call to be real people? How could they refuse to be the chosen of the world? Part of the only beings that had a right to breath? Why would they choose to be nothing but worthless human lickers? White lips curled back from fangs while eyes were shadowed with confusion.

 Quenril shivered and winced. The howling made him hurt, it was like an all over body earache and he wished it would stop. Loading his hand bow he scurried north along the wall, towards the group of soldiers at the north east corner who were being mobbed by the pack of winged werewolves who hadn't made it further than the town walls but even as he hurried the winged werewolves pulled up and away, snarling and barking. The soldiers were battered and bleeding but they were still standing.

"Are you humans always this tough?" Quenril asked as he came to a stop beside Kaelin.

"No," she replied, "But we are stubborn little baskets. We don't give up easily. If we did we wouldn't exist any more. We have a habit of continuing to fight even when we should give up."

"I see," Quenril nodded, levelled his hand bow, sighted and squeezed the trigger. A regular, brindled werewolf of the pack north of the east road coughed, red and sticky, the crimson running through the brown fur on its chest. It crumpled, joining the one that had toppled over with Quenril's bolt sunk to the fletching in its eye socket. The third sank to its knees, fingers trying to stem the bright fountain at its neck. It slowed and stopped shockingly fast. The two survivors gaped, non-comprehension dominating their minds.

Unfortunately fear had a habit of making werewolves aggressive and the now gurgling abomination Ceann Mor as flopping around was more than enough to make the rest of the twisted kin of its pack go completely out of their minds.

 Roaring and screaming they crested the wall and slammed into the soldiers who were still racking the winged ones above. Skulls gave way beneath fangs, claws found throats, bones broke and several were simply bullied off the wall to fall screaming to the ground below.

"Toin Nathrach!" Hartseer spat, jerking his head round to see what was going on. Next second he yelled as both the abominations threw themselves off the wall in that moment of inattention. Yanked off balance he half crashed to the stones and part way down their lengths wires snapped as the Abominations jerked to a stop and then finished the drop. Hartseer's glass eyes blazed with cold fire and he scuttled straight over the edge lizard fast as he followed his prey. The Abominations were already untangling themselves from the wire, the lattice of cut marks spitting red over their black hides, rising to snarl at their tormentor.

 Outside the wall Black Randle slammed down, leaving craters in the turf as the white werewolves rolled out of the way, whimpering as things crunched inside of it. The white werewolf backed and backed away from the dire bear, gasping and groaning, sheer desperation keeping it just ahead of the blows of the massive paws that were trying to stove in its ribcage.

Jeremiah circled over Nether Wallop, surveying the chaos below. There was a very interesting mob developing in the main square. Now if he pushed them just right they would so the route of the maenids of legend, those frenzied warrior women foreign lands and if he worded it just right, well, Hartseer was crawling around in the alleys now, an accident in the dark, a frenzied crowd and dead metal couldn't talk to any one. And Jeremiah knew exactly where he was going to address the crowd from.

"Rise!" he boomed, settling on to the edge of the roof of the Governor's Palace, the burning sigil casting black shadow and scolding light across the night, "Rise Nether Wallop! You have weathered the storm, now the eye of the One True God is upon you! Rise for his glory, prove that you are proper human beings! Prove you are worthy of his love! Prove that you are people! Prove that you are worthy of life! Bring the storm to these worthless vermin. Let your god see your devotion to him! An eye for an eye means these animals owe him a debt, their blood is demanded. Spill it for his glory! Offer them up as a worthy sacrifice!"

The winged werewolves pinned down in the town square, straining against the vines that held them down, snarled up at him, striving to break free, so focused on their new target, so focussed on getting up there and tearing the tongue out of his mouth they didn't see, didn't hear what was closing in on them, right up until the first stone smacked one of them between the shoulder blades. It yelped and twisted, fangs bared. The chunk of wood smacked it across the face, staining the spit that flew from its gums pink.

"Die evil ones, die! Blood and vinegar! For the fallen, for the children! Monsters! Murdering freaks!"

A dozen different war cries echoed around the square as chunks of woo, lumps of stone, clubs and just plain old fists and feet pummelled the downed winged werewolves, feet stamping, fingers tearing, nails gouging. The winged ones screeched.

They weren't the only ones crying out, the crowds that had flooded back to the river wall setting about driving he siege beast that gouged and gored at the wall back, anything and everything used, spades, staffs, cobble stones yanked from the alley ways. It reeled back yelping, a ten inch cook's knife lodged up the inside of its nostril. It howled, pawing at its face and snorting, blood dribbling over its lip. It shook and shook its head until its ears rattled. It sneezed. Something metallic and covered in snotty blood glanced off of the curtain wall of Nether Wallop but the siege beast still moaned, nose on fire with pain.

"Alright boys," corporals and the last remaining sergeant ordered the surviving squads of soldiers on the south wall, "Take the knee, take a breather, make sure your bows are still good, make sure you have ammo. Reload when you are ready." The non-commissioned officers watched the frenzied civilians as they battered at the werewolves, some nearly throwing themselves of the walls to get at them.

"What set them going?" one of he corporals muttered to the sergeant.

"No enough training, too much fear and that damned priest saying that name," the sergeant checked the string of his bow and flicked fingers through the fletching of the arrows he had left in his quiver, taking the tally by feel.

"Yeah that would do it," he corporal agreed, "Just what was he thinking say... saying whatever the hell that was."

"Well there's a reason that he's on the King's Special," the sergeant grunted nocking an arrow, "People forget that the King's Specials do not start as heroes. They become heroes if they live long enough." He raised his voice. "Rights lads! Up and at them!" Bow strings sang in he dark and werewolves howled at the sting.

Michael Azael listened with a critical ear.

"As much as I do not like that one's god," he admitted, "One must admit that it has produced... results."

"Aye," Milena noted, "But at what cost?"

"One has to wonder," Michael agreed, "So perhaps it would be best to shorten this confrontation." He peered into the dark. "Hum, it seems that these werewolves are as good as a paladin at giving Hartseer trouble but seeing as Hartseer is the only one likely to be able to keep our party friend in check I do not think he'd mind a hand catching up with the pesky little creatures." Michael turned and clicked his fingers. Suddenly his cello was no longer leaning on the far wall of the tower but instead rising out of the shadows at his side. Michael took hold of it and then apparently sat on the shadows alone, settling the cello against his chest. His fingers brushed the strings for a second, eyes closed as he considered the opening bar.

For a moment, just a flash, Estella saw the silken mask that clung to the right side of his face, like half a carnival mask had been wielded into his skin and the pale eye that looked out of that mask gave Estella the funny feeling she was gazing at a much bigger creature than the man who was sat before her.

Michael's fingers flexed and the bow touched the strings. It was not a solid note. It skittered and jagged around the ear, making the mind think of clicking legs and creeping things. Then the bow changed stroke and a longer more solid note rang out. Alina's eyes went wide as the first scurrying, skittering rift didn't die away but instead continued to move, like a spider, underneath the new chords. The new chords creaked and groaned like doors cracking out, like echoes in long, sterile corridors. Then the bow changed again and the music was running, running, fleeing, escaping, gasping as time and distance bent like a nightmare.

Down in the streets below, the pair of abominations that had been leading Hartseer on a merry chase as they took off to go and have their fun with a mob of unarmoured humans in the square, maybe even return the favour of their missing leg, suddenly hesitated, slowed. Their heads waved from side to side, their eyes grew wide. Muffled whines cut through the air. They weren't in the human town any more, the stinking unnatural dens of the humans no longer around them. The place they were in now - they had no reference for. They did not understand a long white corridor who's walls were neither wood nor stone but some strange smooth material fleck with tiny specks of blue. Light dim and flickering, came from huge rectangles in the ceiling. There were no doors, no windows and at the end of the corridor the light went out.

The abominations straightened, ears forward, noses twitching. They squinted at the caustic chemical smell of the place. The darkness took another step forward as another light went out.

The abominations stared as another light flickered out of existence. They couldn't see anything, they couldn't smell anything and they couldn't smell it either. They couldn't see anything but something was there. 

Hartseer slowed, wondering if this was a trap the abominations were setting. They were both just standing there staring at the same unseen thing. One arm clicked itself back together at wrist and elbow and shoulder, creating a hand that had one and a half blades growing out from between the knuckles of the outer fingers. The other arm stayed divided for the numerical advantage. Hartseer stalked closer.

Outside the southern wall, Ulrich smiled as he looked up at the struggling siege beast that was still pawing at its nose. Ulrich looked at Peter, looked at Weatherall, looked up the wall towards where he knew Lady Zilvra was riding on Bartholemew’s back and then looked at the siege beast.

"Weatherall?" he called, sheathing his swords, "Weatherall? Could you throw me up there?"

Peter whistled something that sounded very like 'don't you dare' but it was too late. Weatherall had already ceased Ulrich around the waist with his enormous pincer.

"Woooooooaaaaaaah!" Ulrich yelled. flying for the first time in his life and without the benefit of a dragon to ride. For moment he frowned, wondering if he was going to miss the target and then he smacked into the siege beast's back as it span and whimpered. His lungs burnt, his ribs protested as the breath was driven from his body but with great presence of mind, he decided to hang on. The siege beast stumbled, unable to decide what was more distracting, the prey on its back or the pain and the smell of blood up its nose. It shook but Ulrich hung on and as the shaking stopped he crawled towards the back of its neck. It arched its head back trying to see what was happening. It didn't need to see, Ulrich reached forward, grabbed it by the ears and yanked.

It screamed!

It bucked, it stomped, it sent Peter and Weatherall scurrying for safety, it roared and spun. Marmaduke screeched hissed his distress from the walls of Nether Wallop as he saw his master spin passed, hanging on to a siege beast's ears, his legs gripping on hard to its neck. It roared and spun again, clawed hands struggling to reach the back of its neck.

"Right you," Ulrich twisted an ear. It squealed.

"Now listen good," Ulrich didn't let go of its ears but relaxed some of the tension on them. It whimpered with relief. "Let's get something sorted out and sorted out good, if you have a mind enough in there, to understand me.  You can keep fighting us, that is probably what your pack leader, your alpha, Kaelin's grandfather has told you to do but let me make something abundantly clear to you - we will kill you for it. It might not be me, it might be Thorian ramming that big chunk of metal of his through you, or perhaps Kaelin will make you choke on your own tongue. It singly stands that you keep fighting us you will end up dead." The siege beast tensed and Ulrich twitched an ear, "I'm not finished! Because bare in mind we have not one but two dragons that are our friends and both of them would love to have you as a midnight feast. I know for certain that one of them would love to see if he could swallow you whole just to feel how much you'd wriggle on your way down."

The siege beast stilled.

"Now you can keep fighting us if you like," Ulrich sat up straight, "If you think that you can somehow that has lived for nearly five hundred years without a body of its own but if you do then you are fair game for all the teeth and claws and hunger that a pair of dragons can bring to bare. Or you can become one of my servants, at which point they have no choice but to leave you alone. What do you say?"

The werewolf siege beast rippled its lips back from its teeth, paused, turned its head, looked out across the dark waters of the lake. Its ears twitched forward or tried to against Ulrich's grip but there was no whisper left of its pack mate that had vanished beneath the water. It rippled its snout again, thought about it and then bowed its head with a grumble.

The howling mob on the river wall fell silent as Ulrich twitched the werewolf siege beast's ear and guided it round in a circle. It grumbled and rubbed its snout as it stomped on the river plain and turned to face the walls of Nether Wallop, this time not as a foe but as the servant of an ally. Ulrich sat high and raised a fist into the air.

The cheers were hesitant, uncertain to begin with but growing in volume as more and more realised that what they were seeing was real and not some fever dream. The siege beast grumbled and kicked the ground. It was not the only one that was not a hundred percent happy with this out come. Peter screamed, stamping his feet, his many, many feet, coiling and arching into twisted pretzel shapes, bubbling and hissing, mandibles crashing and cracking as his antennae thrashed above his head. Weatherall watched and twitched his eye stalks as Peter threw himself at the ground and beat at it with his feet until he'd trampled a double track through the grass and into the mud below, shrieking like a kettle about to explode at any second. The noise was some what piercing to the ears.

Estella flinched and rubbed an ear. Even up on the tower top of the cathedral the noise of insectoid fury was painful to have to listen too. There had to be a way to stop the sound. She looked out over he battle field and ran a quick mental tally. The numbers were swaying in their favour. She bit her lip as she realised that she was thinking of people as things, ignoring that every single one who had already fallen was someone who had once had a dream, even the werewolves. She straightened. If they weren't going to have the sense to run away when they had the chance then the only humane solution was to either put them down as quickly as possible or make them turn tail and run.

She stepped into her stance and her hands traced the circles, the multi-hued firefly lights dancing in the wake of her moments. Her talismans spun and turned in the air behind her, carving the light, spinning it into a beautiful halo of light that surrounded her as the power built. It punched across the sky and smacked into the last two survivors of the winged werewolves flying above the walls of the north east corner.

They looked down to see the ranks of the soldiers no only there, restored, whole and ready with arrows notched and drawn, there seemed to be more of them than there had been since the attack on the city had started. They howled and dived towards the walkways, claws gouging stone, teeth snapping and biting at foes that didn't  exist but in their minds they gouging and ripped, tearing flimsy humans apart.

Estella sighed and shook her head. Some beasts were determined to kill no matter how many other paths there were open to them. She met Valodrael's eye over the distance between the cathedral tower and the town walls and nodded once.

With a grin colder than an Artic field, Valodrael surged forward, claws gouging across the facing wall of Nether Wallop as he flowed like oil, crawled like water thick with corruption.

He surged up on to the battlement tops, clawed hands closing round the stone work. His tongue lolled into the night's air as he back handed one of the winged werewolves into the other. They went down, a helpless tangle of arms, legs and wing membranes. They clawed and bit at each other as they struggled to rise. Valodrael's maw denied them that escape.

Kaelin grimaced and swallowed. It was, she reflected, possibly a good thing that other than the werewolf abominations she was the only one in a position to witness this close at hand, seeing  as she'd already had some experience of Valodrael's feeding method. It was, she had to admit even more grotesque than usual, with his jaws stretching and straining to accommodate the writhin, wriggling mass that was two full sized winged werewolves at once. Extremely strange, uncomfortable looking things were happening in the region of his face and neck as clawed hands struggled and fought, gouging each other more than the dragon that was devouring them as wings bent and crumpled in impossible looking angles. The noise was also distinctly horrifying and all the more terrible for the fact that there were no screams, only the sucking oozing quick sand sound, the meaty slaps of thrashing limbs and the crack of bones giving way under pressures they were never designed to take.

Valodrael licked his lips as the last wing tip disappeared down his gullet and his eyes turned on the abominations who had been stupid enough to climb the walls and kill, instead of running when they had the chance. A wing pressed up from inside of his form, making the nebula speckled hide ripple and stretch. For a second, a second, it looked like it might break free but then it sank beneath the surface again. Valodrael took one pace forward, grinning like a shark, grinning like death.

Taking yet another bow from his adoring crowd, Ulrich was unaware of their ally's horrifying feeding habits as he was on he far side of the small city but he did see the water in the lake ripple up again. It was not a wall of water this time but a vee of rising water that came straight for the river mouth.

The river sloped and spilled over its banks as Tikrumpdel's massive shoulders broached the surface, the water backing up around his girth as he twisted towards the bank and the siege beast Ulrich was riding, jaws beginning to gap as he came.

"Oh," he halted half in and half out of the water, "It's you. Hum." He sniffed. "Um. You keeping that?"

"Yes, yes I am," Ulrich smiled and reached down, giving the siege beast's neck an affectionate pat.

"Do you mind getting it out of the way then?" Tikrumpdel rumbled, "It's just there seems to be more of the little blighters and I was under the impression we are here to deal with them."

"Absolutely," Ulrich nodded, agreeing with both question and statement and tapped the siege beast with his heals. It seemed frozen for a moment and then stepped aside, stepped closer to the walls of Nether Wallop, giving way to Tikrumpdel, who started to the arduous task of hauling himself up and out of the river and on to the embankment.

Howls cut through the night.

The white werewolves to the north of the city reared back and roared its challenge to the two packs of white and grey werewolves that had turned pale grey eyes on it. It was a challenge they were more than happy to answer.It stumbled back and yelped, parallel lines of red gouged across its chest, its white fur turning crimson.

 The two packs of white and grey werewolves north of the east road turned and charged what was left of the pack of brindle werewolves that Quenril had cut down to size. One of the brindle werewolves stood to fight and went down under the thrashing, ripping, biting mass of werewolves that had once been Ash Elves and who now had a serious bone to pick with the beasts that had enslaved them and controlled their minds.

The other brindle had the sense to turn tail and run as if death itself was chasing it, which it was. It flew back down the east road, heading into the mountains as fast as it could go, yelping all the way.

South of the east round the two survivors of the pack of white and grey werewolves that had been mauled and surrounded fought back with tooth and claw and wild desperation. They knew if they fell now there would be no mercy from the the werewolf loyalists so they found. They slashed grasping hands, they bit back, they gouged and they wrenched joints if they got the chance. A brindle werewolf stumbled back and then went forward on to its knees as the stain spread over the grass. It coughed once, red and wet, then went down on its face, the stain spreading further.

The pack at the south east corner were struggling more against the third pack of regular werewolves. The battle was turning against them, everyone of them wounded, everyone battered and bleeding and it was not helped by the fact that there were two female werewolves who  had once been Ash Elves in the pack. The matriarchal structure of the Ash Elves was trying to reassert itself as well as the wolf's inclination for the matriarchal hierarchy. In the middle of the battle was not the best of times for the pack leadership to be in question. The two females tumbled over and over, snarling and snapping at each other whiles the pack males tried to keep the brindle werewolves off their backs. Hides were split while red stained the ground.

The white werewolf that was meant to be controlling the packs off the south east corner circled the conflict, trying to judge what to do to bring them back under control. The white werewolf that was directly south of Nether Wallop never had that chance, distracted as it was by trying to convince the siege beast that it was not, in fact a rabbit and could therefore bite its foe and not just kick it to death. Barking and stamping it harangued its main charge, forgetting to check the others that it was supposed to be controlling where still in its control.

It managed half of a yell as the two packs of grey and white werewolves crashed into it. It vanished under the press of bodies, a writhing, wrenching, tearing mass of bodies that heaved and struggled and strained. It sounded like a whole bolt of cloth was being tore apart in the centre of that surging mass of teeth and claws and fury, it sounded like it was cloth tearing but it wasn't.

Ulrich turned his face away from the sight and swallowed, reminding himself of what had been in the nursery of the Snake Clan Citadel. Maybe the white werewolf had been one of those responsible for that atrocity, maybe it had not but it had been one of the ones that had helped enslave the adults. That was the problem with a slave chain. It kept the enslaved controlled... until it didn't. Until it was looped over the overseer's head and round his neck and the knee was put to the small of the overseer's back as the slack was taken up until the links crushed the windpipe and the eyes bulged with the struggle to breath.

Yaga Tuf frowned, the siege beast that had been fighting rabbit style rolling away from the bone golem to its feet, straightening fully, shaking its head, blinking. It's nose was no longer wiggling. She went to bang her cane but as she did so she felt the ley lines twist. She stumbled with a gasp, knowing that something incredibly powerful had just made a serious pull on the power currents of the world. The taste it left in her mouth was harsh an bitter, the flavour of poison. She closed her eyes a moment.

"Mother Moon," she murmured, "We are going to need all the help you can give us."

Up on the tower top Milena had raised her hands to swamp the minds of the abominations on the walls of the north east corner with confusion.

"Soror Sol, iudica ini..."

The ripple in the ley lines punches her like a physical blow. Even Michael's bow skipped off the strings, sour and shrill. Milena cried out and threw up her hands. She stiffened and arched backwards.

"My lady?" Michael asked quietly. She didn't answer, just continued to arch slowly over backwards, arms stiffly above her head. Michael caught her before her head could crack on the leads.

"My lady?" he cradled her with his bandaged arm.

"Corruption," she gasped, "Corruption in the blood. The web tangles, a curse travelling in the blood of the land. Oh my god! Oh my god! The stars are moving! They are moving! They are moving!"

Michael stared at her ashen face, her waxy lips crying out as the vision gripped her.

"Old bones."

Michael looked round to see Alina kneeling, crouched, arms protectively curled over her belly.

"Old bones," she repeated, rocking back and forth, "Old bones. Old sins. Old darkness. The land... oh my mother, the land. It's crying. The land is crying. Why is it dead? Oh why is it dead? Why is it dead and not lying down? Oh Mother Luna help us, its moving!"

A chattering sound came from the other direction. Estella lay curled up on her side, teething chattering like maracas, eyes too wide for her face, staring at something that only she could see.

"Not the only one," she muttered, "Not the only one. Oh gods? How many? How many did he hurt? He... he... oh god no! No, not that! Not that! Oh gods, don't you care? Don't you care? Oh gods, you don't care. You don't care." She trailed off, the tears starting, trailing down to drip on the leads of the roof.

Michael frowned, trying to ascertain what it was that had struck the women and then shook his head. Whatever had afflicted them was not what mattered, what mattered was the fact their minds were beginning to crumble under its pressure.

He could not sing his master work, that was part of the occult ritual that tied his life force to his Magnum Opus, but he could sing other songs. He started to hum, the words that followed spoken on barely a breath. It was a slow song, soft and gentle, rising and falling in gentle rhythms like a lullaby.

Gradually Milena's body relaxed, her arms dropping from their stiff posture. Michael guided her wrists so that her arms were comfortably across her and when she stirred he helped her sit up, leaning back to give her space once she had her head in her hands.

"Just what was that?" she asked everyone and no one at all.

"Something for later," Michael stated, the two voices that spoke from his mouth, once more at war with each other, snarling and growling over his words no matter how gentle he tried to make his speech, "I am sorry, my Lady, but we have needs of your skills still."

Milena looked at him, eyes narrowed, still not sure of him, not sure that he could be trusted but the noise of the battle still rang up from below so he spoke the truth and there was always balance. Sometimes the moon was light and sometimes it was black. T'was still the same moon. Life and death, light and dark, the duality held and sometimes the light held the greatest dangers as her daughter had learnt the hard way with her blonde boy. The dark hid evil but the light could blind you to evil.

"Help me up," Milena commanded.

"My lady," Michael inclined his head to her and did so. She leant on his arm as she stepped to the edge of the roof. The first thing she saw confirmed that sometimes the light could blind people to evil.

The sigil, the dragon that shone with a light that hurt, was spinning rapidly in the cage of twisted antlers, casting its sickly glow over the roof of the Governor’s Palace. Jeremiah smiled behind his beard as he watched the mob punching and kicking and stamping on the winged werewolves in the town square. It didn't even matter that the foul magic of those three worthless witches had failed, the vines withering and breaking apart as their power proved itself to be the false promise of the unclean, the townsfolk had already done enough damage. The only problem was that the werewolves were still alive. Well Jeremiah could do something about that.

"Harken to the will of the One True God," Jeremiah boomed, "Rise up, rise against the unclean, the unholy, the unsanctified. Smite them in the name of your God, the One True God, he who's name must be unspoken, such is his power. Smite the unclean, they who wear the pelts of the wild. Smite the unholy, they who run on more legs than the one True God gave them. Smite the unsanctified, they who refuse to submit to the collar and leash of civilisation, they who put self above community, they who break the divine law. Smite them in the name of the One True God, he who grants order, he who grants structure, he who grants control. Smite the wicked, the unclean. Smite them!"

The mobs did not answer directly  but the pummelling they were giving the winged ones they had at their mercy increased. The winged ones roared and surged up, the last of the vines holding them down parting. They battered their wings at the townsfolk, slashing out with their claws but for most of them their wing fingers had been too badly damaged for them to get lift quickly and they found themselves being dragged back down by determined hands, fingers grasping, pulling, gripping. One of them yelled as a hook pointed poker slammed down on its head, tearing its ear. The poker smacked and smacked again and it was not the only thing that was turned into a weapon against them. Turned out a walking stick could do a fair amount of damage if its owner was determined to drive its end into the beast before them. The mob was out for blood and it was determined to have it. A winged werewolf started screaming as wing membrane tore.

Outside of the walls of Nether Wallop, on the edge of Jeremiah's awareness, his second bone golem clubbed the siege beast that had just remembered that it was in fact a siege beast and not a nice white rabbit. The bone golem's fist, a club of conglomerate bone, bounced off the siege beast's ribs with dull, fleshy thuds that echoed hollowly. It gave ground before the bone golem, barking and yelping, still trying to splice together what had actually happened in the last few minutes as its brain still hadn't caught up with the pace of events. It shook its head, backing away further.

Tikrumpdel lifted his head and made an expermental snap at the siege beast's tail but it was just slightly out of his strike range, which was rather unfair.

Upon the walls Zilvra mentally pulled on her connection to Ceann Mor, the eyes of power upon her brow. She looked at the siege beast that was beginning to retreat, its head wavering from side to side.

"By the shadows I see, may your blood freeze," she pointed at it and for a second, a second, the eyes of power seemed to try and open on the forehead of the siege beast. It sneezed and the light brushed away.

Zilvra's mouth thinned to a line.

"I hate a botched job," she admitted.

In the dark alleys of Nether Wallop, the abominations that had fled the wall shivered and sniffed at the air, blinking as the vision of the corridor with the approaching dark parted to let them realise that they were still in the place of the man things and that meant...

They lunged and twisted aside, after a second ahead of the strike. Hartseer's swords scored a long, red gash down  one of their backs. The other struck out at Hartseer, scratching hard metal. Hartseer arched, sword lashing back. The blooded abomination leapt, seized and wrenched, landing with the shutter in its claws in time for Hartseer's blade to chop a chunk out of it but not hit flesh. Blooded metal flashed in the dark, claws slashed, teeth snarled and wood flew in chips and splinters as the second abomination armed itself with a small handcart that had been left in the alley. Hartseer ducked and turned, span and jumped, seeming to almost bounce off the walls of the alley way junction as the abominations kept trying to box him in. Immobility was the weakness of any defence. Well, these things might believe they had the King's Blade on the defensive but... He turned fully on one and lashed back with the other foot that hard the shutter baring abomination cracked against the side of a building hard enough to knock the air out of it. The one baring the handcart found itself falling back step after step, its shield being hacked to pieces in its grip as Hartseer rained the blows down on it. It started to pant as it backed away, having to move its hand cart shield over and over again as Hartseer's blades kept coming at new directions with every strike.

Hartseer chuckled as the abomination started to pant. As Hartseer had said long ago to Ulrich, he had no need to breath so he could keep up the speed indefinitely. An organic creature however... Oh it was coming close to trouble. Hartseer started calculating how long it had until a muscle cramped. He had to factor in the fact that it wasn't bleeding like a regular human. A human would have already fallen over due to blood loss after he'd shorn them of one of their legs but it appeared that werewolf abominations were as distorted internally as they were externally. No matter, it was only a matter of time after all and Hartseer had all the time in the world.

The abominations that had slaughtered their way on to the top of the north east corner were having no better luck either as they threw themselves at Valodrael. The Void Dragon stood there, completely relaxed, as they threw themselves at Valodrael. The Void Dragon stood there, completely relaxed as they threw themselves upon him, punching and kicking, biting and gouging. They might as well have been punching syrup for all the effects they had on him. Indeed Valodrael seemed greatly amused, almost as if he was being given a jolly good tickle and was rather enjoying it, where as the abominations yelped and cried out with shock and fear. Valodrael, Valodrael clung. The thick, oily dark matter of his form engulfed fists, stretching and creaking as the abominations tried to pull away. They yapped and yipped in confusion as they struggled to free themselves from him, while the ones who had bitten him choked and gagged as a slick black tide ran between their teeth and tried to force itself down their throats. It was most amusing for Valodrael.

On the other side of the southern wall the white werewolf that had been circling the scrap that had been going on off the south east corner, wandering how to regain control, had frozen where its circling had taken it closer to the river. The two pack of white and grey werewolves were straightening up from what was left of the white werewolf that was supposed to be controlling them. There wasn't a lot left.

The white werewolf at the south east corner whimpered and then turned and bunked. It had seen its future in those pale eyes and it had no wish to meet said future, the slicked, red stained fur stinking of death and worse. The dark of the night, preferably far away from Nether Wallop, was looking extremely welcoming and it fancied trying it out to see how long it would last.

The white werewolf that had been meant to be holding the centre of the south line threw back its head and howled a complex pattern. Michael Azrael, standing on the cathedral tower, twisted his head and glared as he felt the coils of  chains in that sound, reaching out to re-imprison those that had been bent to the werewolves' will. He sang, wordless, strong, true, the notes climbing and climbing in complicated melodies and harmonies, the two voices that warred in his throat uniting for the music fighting, instead of each other, that control.

The two blood smeared packs swayed and groaned as the opposing tunes rippled through them, liberty fighting control, responsibility fighting dominion. As the music died away, one remained in grey and white but the other pack snarled in brindle again. The white werewolf opened its mouth and lolled its tongue in a canine laugh. Michael frowned.

"Now that one enjoys treating others as things," he noted with disgust.

A roar that was not werewolf rolled out of the night. The white werewolf that was facing down Black Randle had managed to rake the Dire Bear across the face, splitting his cheeks and clawing his eyelid. The dire bear bellowed and pounded out massive blows that drove the white wolf back, shaggy black fur rippling as he thudded back down to all four feet, the ground shaking below him.

The other white werewolf that was supposed to be controlling the northern packs was having no better luck, the two packs it was facing down were comprised of individuals who were extremely nimble. They flowed around it, swirling and baiting it. It would charge, they would retreat only to close in about its sides slashing for its ham strings. It stumbled and lurched legs bleeding, gouges littering its lower hide. It started to whimper.

The siege beast it was meant to be controlling was having issues of its own. Thorian clung like a burr to its back as it stomped and roared, twisted and turned. Crawling along its neck he had an idea and grinned. He turned around. The beast roared, shaking like a dog trying to dislodge a flea. Thorian held on and bum shuffled back, striking out whenever a clawed finger came near.

The siege beast roared and snatched its hand away, snarling and trying to shake Thorian off. When it paused to pant, Thorian sheathed his sword, took hold of both ears, crouched and then let himself drop in front of the siege beast's face.

"Hello!" Thorian beamed. The siege beast reacted exactly how Thorian wanted it to. It charged the wall, intending to mash Thorian against the stones with the world's deadliest head butt. Thorian braced a foot on the bridge of its nose and kicked off, arching up and over its forehead so he was back on the back of its neck.

The wall cracked with the force of it, the bang echoing across the miles. The siege beast staggered, eyes crossed, ears ringing, the headache  bursting with the stars inside its head. Thorian twisted round on its neck, grinning up at the wall. Valodrael grinned back, inclining his head. An abomination tried to wipe the smile off of Valodrael's face, literally, clawing at his eyes over and over, howling and slathering, the light of madness in its eyes. Valodrael tilted his head over, his expression going flatly unfriendly as the abomination continued its raking attack. It didn't take the hint.

The strike was so fast the surviving abomination didn't really see what happened. One moment their pack mate was trying to rearrange the Void Dragon's face, the next its legs were kicking in midair as Valodrael started gulping, its arms pinned to its side as it slipped further and further down Valodrael's throat. Valodrael's tongue pushed the last tow down the back of his maw and he smacked his kips. For a second the face of the abomination he'd just swallowed pushed its way out through the kneel of Valodrael's chest, mouth gapping in a silent scream and then it sank back into the seething mass. Valodrael grinned at the other abomination and paced closer. Outside the wall Thorian sat up straight on the back of the siege beast's neck and drew his sword.

"Right," he stated, jabbing the siege beast in the base of the skull, "You feel that? That's mah sword. Now you do as you're told, mah sword don't wind up in your skull. You don't do as you're told, I'm gonna biff you one. You get it?"

The siege beast got it, stepping back from the walls and whining.

"Right," Thorian put his sword away and took hold of its scruff with one hand, "That way."

The white werewolf north of the city lashed out at the two packs snapping at it. They began to back down, back away, a suddenly wary look in their eyes. The white werewolf straightened and rippled its lips at them. It was about time the little mutts remembered their place. The white werewolf's eyes landed on the smallest one in the pack and it decided that after it had torn the runt's head off the others would be significantly cowed to be obedient, especially as said runt was a female. It stalked forward.

The whip lashed round its throat and its hands flew up to its neck as its eyes bulged. It choked as Thorian pulled in any slake in his dragon hide whip, stretching the white werewolf up on to its tip toes, fighting to gasp a breath.

The two werewolf packs of grey and white fell on it without hesitation. The night split with the rip that meant there was one less pack leader in the ranks of the army of Kaelin's grandfather.

"Follow me!" Thorian bellowed, brandishing his dragon hide whip, "I'll feed you more!"

He swung his new pet round and sent it stamping over the turf. The white werewolf facing Black Randle flinched, looked round, trying to judge what this new threat was and Black Randle caught it broad side, flinging it across the turf. It yelped and gasped with pain, broken ribs crunching as it landed. It coughed, constricted, reedy, whistling coughs.

Up on the walls above Ceann Mor, the spider dragon dropped the empty sack that had been such a struggle to drain dry and scuttled over the stone work, spinnerets on his tail laying down a trail of safety lines and catch points as he did so. He could hear the funny, five limbed prey on the wall top above him. They were making such a row as the liquid dragon closed in on them. Ceann Mor wasn't sure what she thought of the liquid one. He remembered tasting that one's scent in the big space under ground but his memories from that time were fuzzed, too close to his hatching to be really clear. Now the liquid dragon sounded too wet for Ceann Mor to be comfortable around him. Wet meant danger to his kind, Ceann Mor was certain of that but he had to admit that the liquid dragon was a good hunter, driving the prey towards him as they backed away from the liquid ones shiny, shiny form. Ceann Mor crept up the outside of the wall until his long fingered hands were just below the just.

The abominations backed another step, eyes fixed on Valodrael.

Ceann Mor erupted over the parapet, arms open, legs wide, scaly, hairy bodymoving fater and quieter than should have been possible. The abomination drew breath for the scream but it never left its mouth, Ceann Mor's fangs, swivelling on their basal segments having already delivered their deadly load. Ceann Mor thrashed the deflating sack even as he drank it dry, fluid gurgling down his gullet. The last two survivors of the pack of abominations whimpered and wet themselves, the stench of fear drifting on the air as they faced down not one but two dragons that were both hungry.

On the south wall the townsfolk fired erratically but their aim had not seemed to improve any as the missiles fell around the feet of the siege beast that had once believed itself to be a rabbit.

"Civies," a soldier muttered as the squad trained their aim on the same target but they had to eat their own words as with a dull crack every arrow broke on the release of the strings.

"Cack burgers," the soldier spat as the splinters spiralled to the turf.

The siege beast turned angry eyes upon them but before it could charge the walls once more Ulrich's siege beast slammed into it, knocking it off balance and bruising its ribs. They grappled, each trying to get the better grip but their grasps kept slipping as they heaved and shoved against each other.

"Now I say," Ulrich stated, "You, yes you big guy! I am going to give you the same explanation as I gave this one. You  keep fighting us and one of us will kill you but if you..."

The siege beast roared at him where he sat on the back of his siege beast's neck.

"I say, how rude wot," Ulrich wrinkled his nose, "And have you ever heard of a tooth brush? Your breath stinks."

It roared again and then yipped, off balance for a moment as Peter nipped its ankle.

Behind them a great sucking in noise sounded through the night, Tikrumpdel stoking the mighty internal fires.

Townsfolk and soldiers alike cried out as the great tongue of orange and red flame roared into the night, shadows leaping and prancing in the sudden light, the clouds above reflecting a false sunset for a heart stopping moment.

When the light shimmered down the last scorched twigs that had once been the werewolf pack that had be re-enslaved crumpled to the ground, cracking with the sound of sticks breaking under foot.

The white and grey werewolf pack that had been about to come to blows with them stared at the scorch mark that was all that was left of their one time enemies and brothers in arms. They looked up at Tikrumpdel, who was snorting the last smoke from his nose, and took a step back. Tikrumpdel sniffed at them and they froze.

"Hum," Tikrumpdel rumbled, "You don't smell like those other werewolves, you smell more like my old cave."

The pack of grey and white held still, wondering what the big dragon intended, hoping that if they kept still then he would lose interest in them, hoping they could be lost in the dark.

In the dark alleys of Nether Wallop a running battle was taking place. The abomination that had been using a hard cart as a shield had thrown the battered remains of it in Hartseer's face and made a run for it. Leaving the still winded one, he had given chase, thundering through the alleys ways and skidding round corners, metal feet gouging ruts in the muddy ground Nether Wallop, which were uncobbled save for the main square. Ahead the abomination suddenly squealed and turned right instead of left like it had wanted to, bounding more animal like on hands as well as feet, stump of its third leg twitching in the air. Hartseer caught a glimpse of sailors armed with long harpoons standing in the left hand way as he ran on, a little closer now. Ahead the abominations tried to scale the side of a building, seeking height to get away from him but a bolt snapped off the stonework just in front of its face and it dropped back into the alley to keep fleeing. Hartseer charged on, a little closer now, aware dimly of the sailors on the rooftops, using long poles to cross the gaps from building to building, helping to herd the abomination, cutting off lines of retreat. Some where else another abomination squealed but for Hartseer all that mattered was the prey ahead of him. Deal with this one then find the other but he didn't have to find the other, it was driven to him, hemmed in and harried by grim faced sailors.

Hartseer charged into a space where several different alleys met, the sort of space were unregulated markets sprang up, only now it was not a market. It was a kill ring. Sailors, their harpoons levelled and ready penned in the two abominations while on the roof others levelled their crossbows, blocking every avenue of escape.

"That's the problem with revolutions boys," the Captain grinned, "They do so come round again and treason? Well treason is treason when you start fighting against the king of a place and a trying to put your own king in his place. I believe that in this country the sentence for treason is to face the King's Blade so here you are, a-facing him and I do say have more chance of a-walking away alive than most, seeing as you are not tied up like most are. So are you a-ready?"

Hartseer looked at the two abominations and they looked back. He clicked his other arm back together at wrist, elbow and shoulder, crossed the two double bladed katana's his hands had become and then flicked them to the floor, the broken stump of his damaged blade dull in the cloud light of the night. The abominations snarled.

Up on the wall south of the east gate. Quenril swallowed back a sour taste in his mouth and focused down the sights at the pack of brindled werewolves that were menacing the last survivors of one of the packs of grey and white Ash Elves. The bolt whistled and a brindled werewolf barked as he ducked just a little too slow and it clipped an ear. Another looked round distracted.

Tasnar crouched, rested his hand bow on the lip of the crenel, squinted, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. A brindled werewolf toppled over, the bolt having passed clean through his ears. The second lifted a clawed hand to the fletching now erupting from his eye and then went over backwards.

Sabal stood grim faced and tall, breathed out, held his breath, sighted, squeezed the trigger and a third brindled werewolf went down. The two survivors stepped back from the Ash Elves turned werewolves they had been tormenting, suddenly unsure now that the odds were no longer stacked in their favour.

"Bullies," Lady Zilvra muttered, uttering another human word she had picked up.

Bullies or not they took the challenge thrown down by the two survivors of the grey and white pack of werewolves, slamming into them and grappling, bodies twisting and straining. The other pack of brindle werewolves, the ones off the south east corner were not doing well either missing every strike they dished out but neither were their enemies having much luck even though the two females had finally stopped their scrap. It almost looked as if they had fought each other to a stand still and were considering parting ways as respected foes.

North of the east road one of the packs of white and grey werewolves turned and bounded towards the prostrate white werewolf that had been tossed about by Black Randle. They were out for blood but a sharp bark from a female grey and white werewolf halted the other pack. she looked around, eyeing the battle field, the walls of Nether Wallop, sniffing the air. She barked a series of short commands and headed away along the east road, her packs following her. There were wild places in the mountains were they could learn what they now were away from the hostilities of men.

Kaelin watched them leave and put down her crossbow; they were just about on the moping up stage now so she didn't need it any more. She spread her pinions and pushed up from the wall, spirally into the sky. She turned, rolled, dived. A second before she hit she flicked her wings, flipping herself so she was coming in feet first, toes pointed. It was a good job she did as the abominations twisted aside at the last instant and she went skidding along the north wall before she came to a stop but as she was feet first all she lost was some boot leather, rather than the skin off her face. She twisted so she was looking back along the walk way at the abomination. They snorted their derision at her.

The abomination trapped down in the streets were not snorting. They gazed at Hartseer and at the circle of sailors hemming them in. They stepped forward but increasing the distance between the pair of them. In silence they advanced. Hartseer adjusted his stance, balancing on his metal toes digitigrade, allowing his outer toe to drop to form the grasping digit and waited, apparently not concerned at all. The abominations stepped forward again, at the widest part of the circle now. They paused. Hartseer tapped a toe talon. An abomination broke.

With a howl it charged. The other bounded forward a second later.

Hartseer was grace personified. He stepped forward, both hands flicked forward and then he lunged side ways, arm extended fully. The first abomination fell apart as it tipped over Hartseer's extended ankle, three exquisitely sharp swords having done their work. The second abomination coughed dark blood, having run on to Hartseer's swords at full charge, even the broken stump having pierced its chest. Its knees crumpled and Hartseer let it kneel at his feet, then in one fluid motion he pulled the blades free and took its head off at a single swipe.

"Well done sirrah," the Captain said, "Now let's grab what's left and a-drag it to the square.  I don't know about you but I do not want to be a wandering around these alleys tomorrow trying to find where the pieces are." the crew laughed and each picked up a lump as Hartseer cleaned and folded away his blades. His eyes frowned as the broke one folded. Repairing that would take some work and a half.

"That's the only problem with his swords," Someone muttered in the crowd, "It takes all of you to clean up afterwards." The laughter was a little nervous but it was good spirited so Hartseer let it slide. The people here needed a laugh after the near two months of war they'd been going through. They headed back to the main square, the noise telling them there was still work to be done.

Up on the walls Lady Zilvra guided Bartholemew to the south wall and focused on the siege beast that was still fighting.

Once again she started weaving the cat's cradle made out of strands of light, fingers flicking in the spider like movements until...

Once again the strands snapped, lashing back across her palms, raising welts and making her fingers sting. She hissed in pain and sucked her fingers.

Ulrich and his siege beast grappled with their foe, though to be precise the siege beast did most of the grappling, Ulrich just hanging on to its neck and shouting encouragement. The two siege beasts had their arms about each other and when they weren't trying to throw each other over they were bringing up a back foot to try and kick the guts out of each other.

Peter had to scramble out of the way to just avoid being trampled. He whistled with annoyance, waving his antennae. He couldn't even risk trying to bite its ankle again. Jeremiah's bone golems came stomping up behind the battling pair only to be tail slapped away, knocked into a cracking pile of bones.

Tikrumpdel sniffed. As he kind of like Ulrich and Ulrich was too close for Tikrumpdel to be able to attack the last fighting siege beast without possibly hitting Ulrich he instead swirled on his stomach towards the fight that was going on off the south east corner of Nether Wallop. he sucked in several really deep breaths but before opening his jaws he tensed his throat.

The flame that roared through the night wasn't so much a tongue but a beam, a lance that cut through the night. The back rank of the brindled werewolves vanished in a puff of ash. The front rank hesitated for a moment and paid the price. One went down bleeding, the other was shoved backward into the flame. It was that hot it died without a sound.

Up on the tower top Michael Azrael retrieved his cello and once again that music of creaking doors and creeping dark rang out. The winged werewolves in the square, fighting to break away from the mob, started milling, even while they were taking a beating, suddenly unsure of the direction needed to get away from the pain. They couldn't see, several fell to their knees and started crawling, trying to smell their way out. They weren't the only one crawling.

The white werewolf who had been taking a beating from Black Randle crawled across the ground on its belly, trying to leave the fight. It was whimpering, gasping, every breath a pain. It got no sympathy, Black Randle and the werewolves in grey and white, the ones it had once enslaved closing in on it.

Beside Michael, Estella danced, pulling in the power, her talismans dancing with her. When her power hit the last of the abominations they reeled back from trying to hit Valodrael.  Valodrael grinned as they stumbled and circled on the walkway before him.

"More, my children," Jeremiah bellowed "Your efforts are not pleasing enough for the One True God. Give to him everything. All that you are comes only from him. He gave you your lives, your bodies, your souls. You owe him everything! You owe him everything so give him everything. Prove your love for your god. Prove your devotion. Prove your obedience. You god does nor want your happiness, only your obedience. He loves a humble and contrite heart that submits wholly unto to him so prove that you are his perfect people, prove you are as good as your god. Prove that you will submit unto him. Prove that you are perfectly obedient! Only then will you be worthy of joining your god in Heaven!"

There was no mercy as the mob closed in on the blinded winged werewolves and the sailors who were just emerging from the alleyways of Nether Wallop were caught in the edge of Jeremiah's preaching. The long harpoons pinned three of the winged werewolves to the ground, their last twitched shuddering up the shafts of the weapons but some how their last howls broke the blindness spell Michael's music had put on all of them. They threw the townsfolk aside and hammered their way into the air, or at least tried to.

Hartseer leapt and for something so damn heavy he could jump shockingly high. The cobblestones cracked under him as he slammed back down but behind him a soggy thump marked where the mortal remains of one of the winged ones crashed.

The last survivor hammered for height, gasping as it started to spiral. All it had to was make it high enough and it would be able to escape the city. These earth crawlers could not touch one of the true people when it could fly. It just needed...

"Can you boost me?" Kaelin yelled. Valodrael smiled and lowered his head. Kaelin ran, jumped and her feet smacked into the top of Valodrael's skull. She grimaced at the spongy feel of it and then he flicked with all the strength of his liquid neck. She shot into the sky as fast as an arrow. The last of the winged ones didn't even know what hit it. It just tumbled from the sky, limp, broken.

Yaga Tuf nodded and tapped her walking hut. It turned so she could see the last knot of resistance outside of the walls of Nether Wallop. The survivors of the brindled wolf pack south of the east road faced off against what was left of the grey and white werewolf pack they had mauled. She tapped her cane.

Vines burst out of the ground but these were thicker and had masses of brown, knobbly wood at the end of them. They also battered the remaining two brindled werewolves, forcing them away from their prey.

On the top of the cathedral tower Milena raised her hands but stopped, closing her eyes and putting a hand to her face, pain cramping in her temples.

"Soror Sol, inimicos iudica," Alina stepped up beside her mother and her vines knocked the last regular werewolves for six. Her mother gave her a nod of approval.

Quenril laid his hand bow down and rubbed his ears. He hurt, he hurt all over and the need to lay down and close his eyes was almost overwhelming. He listened as his kin took their shots. Tasnar smiled as he bolt smacked into the turf by a werewolf's foot making it dance about. Sabal on the other hand, cried out as the bolt jumped the groove at an odd angle, snapping back at him. It missed his eye, just, but his ear and scalp flowed. He spat a stream of Ash Elf tongue that involved the Disgraced taking the maker of that bolt by the heels and shaking them.

Out on the river plain Black Randle finally caught up with the white werewolf. The crunched as its arm twisted was not drowned out by its scream as Black Randle's blow crushed its shoulder. It staggered, snarled and Thorian's whip cracked. The white werewolf choked, gagging and it was slowly, almost gently, that Black Randle put his paws either side of the white werewolf's head and squeezed.

"Well done," Thorian boomed, "Let's get the last two!"

Black Randle slammed down on to all fours and started shambling south.

"Twist him left and get his scruff!" Ulrich yelled at his siege beast, "Twist him left and get his scruff!"

It appeared that the siege beast did not know left from right as it twisted its foe to its right but Ulrich had to admit that it was effective, the siege beast going down at long last. Before it could rise Ulrich's siege beast bit down on its scruff and pinned it in place. It struggled, tried to rise, got pinned again and lay still, breathing heavily. It closed its eyes and waited.

"Alright," Ulrich straightened, "You ready to play nice?" It made a sound of submission. "Then we can be friends."

Peter curled into a pretzel and sulked.

Quenril straightened and levelled his his bow but the shot was wild, wayward and wide. Tasnar on the other hand was having fun making the werewolves dance. Sabal was not in a playing mood.

The brindled werewolf toppled over and lay still.

The last survivor saw Thorian charging on his siege beast and fled as fast as its legs could carry it, plunging not along the east road but into the trees, relying on the cover rather than its own speed to save it. It kept going though, even once the branches closed about it. It kept going.

The last two abominations up on the wall of Nether Wallop perked their ears and realised that they were the only ones left. For a moment they were still then they threw themselves over the battlements.

Ceann Mor snapped at them but missed. Valodrael was a better aim. The abomination's legs kicked in the air and slowly vanished.

The last survivor ran on, charging along the face of the wall, sticking out sideways as it ran.

"Oy, where you going?" Thorian nudged his siege beast into giving chase but the werewolf abomination was fast, travelling on a downward curve so when it reached the end of the east wall it could step on to the turf without breaking stride. It plunged on, heading south.

It could out run the lumbering siege beast, it could thread the way between the ones who had turned their coats, it could...

Tikrumpdel lunged. There was a snap, a bright burst of flames between teeth and then he gulped.

The cheer that went up from the walls of Nether Wallop was the sound of relief not victory and some broke down and wept. It was a quiet cheer, it was tired and Kaelin as she landed understood it, a little. She remembered what it felt like that first might after the hunters came and she thought she was free of her grandfather forever; the relief and the bone deep exhaustion. Oh yeah, she understood it.

The sergeant and corporal yelled for order, to keep bows still aimed at the still living werewolves. The grey and white werewolves looked up into the night at the walls of Nether Wallop. The females who were beginning to assert dominance over the packs barked, high almost fox like cries that echoed over the water. Slowly, cautiously, the grey and white werewolves turned and left the battle field, glancing back at the people of Nether Wallop regular to make sure that they weren't being followed. The two packs sandwiched between Ulrich's collection and Tikrumpdel were particularly cautious, freezing every time one of them moved. The moment they judge they were beyond Tikrumpdel's immediate strike range they ran, fleeing into the dark, the only sound the sound of paw on dirt as they retreated.

"Is it done?" a townsfolk asked quietly as the night became still.

"We can pray so," a soldier replied.

"Right people, we need volunteers to check for survivors," the sergeant came stomping along the wall, "Especially those who fell off the walls. The wounded are to go to the cathedral as fast as you can manage, our dead are to be stacked in the town square, preferably shrouded. The dead mutts inside the walls are to go over the edge. We'll deal with them further tomorrow. Corporeals organise the men into watches. Private Perks, see if you can find that Captain and his sailors, They'll be used to standing watches. We need them roped in."

"My people can help as well," Lady Zilvra rode up as well, "We understand keeping watch."

In the main square Kaelin looked around wearily and then bent to the task of helping to tidying up Nether Wallop. Her wings were very useful in shifting the dead werewolves outside of Nether Wallop, speeding up the process and she didn't have to drop them from the wall top so they wouldn't be so squishy the following day. Jeremiah watched the goings on from the top of the Governor's Palace. It did seem that the little people had the whole operation under control so they didn't really need Jeremiah to oversee this stage. Cleaning up really did belong to those whose minds were small enough to be content with such chores. Jeremiah took off and circled round the Governor's Palace. A small balcony and a loose catchment provided him with what he needed. With Risgath being kept at the Bishop's House it meant that the Governor's own private suite was being neglected. Jeremiah would do his absolute best to remedy this situation. That and as the Governor’s suite was right at the top of the building it was unlikely anyone would come and disturb him. It was a shame he couldn't get a nice hot bath but you couldn't have it all some days.

On the tower of the cathedral Michael snapped his fingers and a cello case formed itself out of the shadows. He bent and carefully laid his instrument in the velvet lined cavity and clipped the bow into the lid. Closing the case he locked it shut and lifted it on to his back.

"My ladies," he extended his bandaged hand to Milena, "Shall we go down? I believe they have need of your skills."

Milena's expression was still carefully neutral, her judgement about Michael still unfinished but with the pain still hard behind her eyes she accepted the arm and the support he offered for the stairs down.

"What do you think of him?" Estella whispered to Alina as they followed them down.

"There is something of the dragon about him." Alina whispered back. "A little like you and not you at the same time." She frowned. "It's not that he has a dragon riding within him but rather he should have been a dragon." She frowned deeper. "I don't have the right words."

"It's late," Estella agreed, as they clattered down the stairs, "Maybe..." she yawned, "Maybe tomorrow. Or better yet the day after."

"Aye," Alina agreed, yawning as well, "Tomorrow." They they reached the ground floor of the cathedral and there was not the time for talking. Alina and her mother were immediately up to their elbows, sometimes literally, in the wounded. Michael and Estella stood to one side for a while watching the work. Some of the ones that came in from the groups that had been thrown off the walls, well it was obvious that if they saw the dawn it was going to be a punishment. The healers had put them off to one side and given them something to bite on, if they could still bite but there wasn't enough pain numbing potion to go around so it was being saved for the ones who could survive the operations if the weren't thrashing about when the work was done.

Michael tilted his head and listened to the echoes in the nave. Unseen by all, he made his way round to the pulpit. He sat down on the steps and lay his cello case out before him, clever fingers undoing the clasps. Lifting the instrument from the velvet he plucked the strings, checking the tuning. He tightened a key and then laid the bow to the strings. The music did not distract, it did not attrach attention but it uncurled through the cathedral and people gradually quietened to listen to it. It was soft and sweet and kind, the gentle touch of a mother's hand, the quiet comfort at the end of a long day.

For the wounded it brought a quiet healing sleep, for the dying it was a painless slide into the soft darkness after death. The novice who had been trying to bring the dying some comfort bowed his head and wept, the hard sobs of relief. Estella saw, or thought she saw a tall, thin figure with four arms and an ever shifting visage moving among the dying, ready to walk with them as they walked across the black sands.

Estella looked around, wondering what she could do to help. Frowning she walked down the aisle to the doors and stepped outside.

In the main square there was a milling crowd. They looked stunned but uninjured. Some were cleaning or at least trying to clean away the battered remains of the winged werewolves that the crowd had nearly torn apart in their frenzy. Estella pursed her mouth and shook her head. That priest was more danger than he was worth.

She strode forward.

"You," she took one man by the sleeve, "We need water kettles, as big as you can find. Take them to the blacksmiths. You." She grabbed a woman's arm. "We need tin baths and soap if you can find it. You." She looked at another man. "We need sheets for privacy and a frame to hang them on. You, we need towels blankets, as many as you can find." It was probably a mark of how disorientated Jeremiah had left them and how exhausted they were that they obeyed her without question or argument. She made her way over to the blacksmith's workshop.

"I take it we won," Altan noted when he saw her.

"We did, for now," she nodded, "Could we borrow a corner of your fire please? This battle has left a lot of these people shaken and some of them haven't washed in a long while. I think the chance to have at least a wash and maybe a bath would help settle their minds and help them rebalance themselves. I have them bringing all the stuff to set up outside so we won't interrupt your work, we just need to borrow a corner of your fire."

Alina picked a glowing piece of metal out of the fire and began battering it into shape, sparks flying from his hammer blows.

"Good idea," he nodded as he put the metal back in the fire, "I might have one myself once I'm done. Just out of interest, where are you going to get the water from?"

"I'll provide," Estella nodded and then turned as her helpers arrived. Standing on the mud at the edge of the square she called forth the water from the ground below to fill the kettles. The people looked at her in awe but she figured that would make them more likely to actually listen to her when she spoke. Having people nervous of you made them more likely to listen to you.

She did start wondering if she had made a mistake as more and more people lined up to wash, but Hartseer gave her a nod of approval as he marched past, helping to clear the wreckage, human or other wise and she straightened her spine. Helping others was the right thing to do, never said it was easy.

"That was a nice little fight," Thorian grinned as he rode up to Ulrich on his siege beast.

 "Oh you have one to?" Ulrich asked.

"Yeah," Thorian beamed, "They learn right quick when you threaten to chop their heads off and yell at them a bit. I... Hey wait a minute, how come that one ain't dead?" He jabbed a finger at the siege beast that was laying as still as it could.

"Because it is mine," Ulrich beamed.

 "Yours? But you already got one!" Thorian protested, "Two? You can't have two! That's not fair!"

"Who said I was keeping it?" Ulrich beamed and called up to the walls, "My lady? Would this lowly siege beast be acceptable to you as a gift from your humble favourite?"

Lady Zilvra peered over the battlement and smiled.

"It most certainly would," she said, "I have to say my favourite brings me the most delightful presents." Ulrich smiled and bowed where he sat.

Thorian sniffed, part way mollified and then frowned again.

"Hang on, how are we supposed to get these in the city?" he said, "We can't get 'em in through the doors."

"And they wouldn't want them climbing in over the walls, not after all the effort we've just spent keeping them out," Ulrich agreed and frowned himself. "This could be a little tricky."

"I'll keep an eye on them," Tikrumpdel offered.

 "You sure?" Ulrich asked.

"I'm not going any where," Tikrumpdel rolled his shoulders in a shrug, "You leave them by the wall there and I'll keep an eye on them. If any of them try to make a run for it, I'll toast them."

"Thank you very much," Ulrich smiled and then patted the side of his siege beast's neck until it got the idea that it should lay down and let him off.

"Peter? Peter," Ulrich called, "Where are you?" A irritable sounding hiss came from the dark.

"Now there is no need to be like that," Ulrich admonished, "There are going to be times I need your skills over this one's size and now I have enough that none of our crew is going to have to walk. Now come here and help me up this wall." Peter came rippling out of the dark, whistling joyously that he wasn't being tossed aside. Laughing Ulrich swung astride him and clung on as they rippled up the wall. Peter whistled a query as they reached the top of the wall and Ulrich dismounted on the walkway.

"No I'll walk," Ulrich reassured, scratching around the bases of Peter's antennae, "You go join Weatherall on starting the clean up. Tried to eat all the small pieces first." Peter whistled and ran off back down the wall. Ulrich suppressed a shudder as he spotted Weatherall almost delicately picking up pieces of very dead werewolves and feeding them into his mouth parts. Still saved people having to do that job.

"Need a ride," Lady Zilvra's voice said behind him.

"With you any where," Ulrich turned with a grin. Lady Zilvra smiled back and patted Bartholemew's back behind herself. Ulrich swung up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Little brother has leant me a guest suite in the Governor's Palae," Lady Zilvra said as they rode through Nether Wallop towards the main square, "It has a room of its very own for washing in."

"That is... interesting," Ulrich noted carefully, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how warm the night was.

"Would you like to see it?" she offered, something else in her voice as well.

"I think that would be a marvellous idea," Ulrich noted, having to fight to keep his hands still. It was really was uncomfortably warm all of a sudden. His arm twinged, reminding him of the damage. "I need to see the healers first," he admitted. Lady Zilvra immediately heeled Bartholemew, making him go faster.

Thorian frowned as Ulrich disappeared and Peter came scurrying back to start picking over the battlefield.

"Now how am I supposed to get up there?" he asked no one and the night then he heard a mechanical groaning from up on the wall. "Hey-up," he noted, patting his siege beast how Ulrich had done to get it to let him off.

"Oy!" he yelled, "Oy up there, Marma-what's-yah-called, chuck us the end of a rope down would you? And hold on to the other end." For a few moments there was silence and then a rope spiralled down from the top of the wall. Thorian grabbed the end and started climbing.

"Whoa!" he grinned as Marmaduke pulled from the top end, speeding him on the way.

"Thank you muchley," Thorian grinned as Marmaduke help him over the battlements, "Now let's go and see if we can find ourselves a berth for the night." Marmaduke groaned and headed down the steps after him.

 

Ulrich woke up and wished he hadn't. It was warm and comfortable and...

"Morning sleepy head," Lady Zilvra kissed him.

"Is it morning?" Ulrich smiled, running his fingers through her messy hair. She looked over at the square of sunlight on the floor of their room.

"Not... sure," she admitted, "But that sun thing is up and about so we should probably get out of bed."

"Aye," Ulrich agreed, "We probably should." But getting out of bed took longer, a lot longer, than it usually did. When they did finally make it downstairs it was on the hunt for a breakfast, which fortuitously seemed to being served in the Governor's Palace, not that there was much of it and the kitchen staff were on to serving lunch things.

"Kitchen was designed to do those big fancy dinners," one of the serving ladies told Ulrich, "Not that we ever had those being so far out of the way here but it was built for it so we were able to adapt to feeding just about everybody  who was left a hot meal. Not that there is much of anything left." The worry in her eyes was unmistakable. "If we don't get new supplies in soon, the winter will be right hard."

"I'm sure that now we've put pay to the werewolves we'll be able to see about the food situation," Ulrich smiled.

"If we have sir, if we have," she corrected, "We've had battles like that before and they still keep coming back, the baskets, if sir will pardon my free talk."

"Pardoned and excused," Ulrich smiled and turned to find Lady Zilvra and himself a place to eat. It was after they had finished eating that they went to find Hartseer, seeing as the King's Special needed to make a full report of their activities and Ulrich preferred that it was he who made it to the King's Blade rather than Jeremiah.

They found Hartseer outside of the walls of Nether Wallop helping Black Randle render down the werewolves who were dead but were more in one piece than the ones Ulrich had total Peter to eat the night before.

"I was under the impression that those who wore a coat made out of werewolf skin ran the risk of becoming one themselves," Ulrich observed as the boat lowered him and Lady Zilvra. Ulrich had been a little put out that none of his beasts had answered to his call but had discovered why when they touched down on the turf. All three of them were dotted about the river plain in various attitudes of discomfort, gorged to surfeit, stuffed to bursting, only twitching slightly as the murder of crows and unkindness of ravens gathered. Lady Zilvra stared in amazement as a red kite, its deep forked tail swivelling, dived out of the sky and snatched a bloody lump from the turf before arching up into the sky. Ceann Mor paused in his repair work on the walls to blink his many eyes in its direction. 

"Amazing," Lady Zilvra murmured before Black Randle's answer to Ulrich's observation caught her interest. 

"It's hardly going to effect a puca born like me," the big man grunted, ceasing the edge of the incision he'd just made and pulling. Hide came away from flesh. "And who said that they were going to be turned into coats? There are plenty of rich people who will pay a huge amount for a werewolf skin rug on their floor and this town needs the money and lots of it." He tossed the pelt on the pile that had heaped up nearly half astral as tall as Ulrich. Hartseer picked up the pile and lifted the staggering weight without effort. Ulrich suppressed a shudder as the King's Blade walked passed, his blood spattered form the evidence that the dreadful work of last night was still not done but at least he'd rebound his warrior's cheque, his dreadful wire hair contained.

"May I suggest that you feed your new pets while you report all that the King's Special has been up to in your absence," Hartseer loaded the entire pile into the boat and tugged the rope to let the windlass crew know they had a haul up to do.

Ulrich looked round at the two siege beasts that were looking at him and then looking at the dozing Tikrumpdel who lay, steaming gently, in the river's shallows but staying out of the grove of willows.

"Ah, that might be a problem," Ulrich said, "I have to admit that I didn't think about food restrictions when I tamed them."

"Don't speak rubbish," Black Randle snorted, yanking the carcass from the skinning frame and tossing it at Ulrich's feet, "You can start with that."

Ulrich swallowed his revulsion and bent to dragged it to his new pets.

"So what happed after you left Nether Wallop?" Hartseer asked, "Try to leave nothing out."

Holding up a hand to stop a siege beast lunging for the offered meal Ulrich considered it.

"I suppose the first real event of note was when the goblins visited our camp," he started. Black Randle nearly snorted at the description of the goblin leader's squeaking request for learning that had happened the following day. Hartseer was more considered in his response.

"It would certainly explain the goblins recent behaviour," he noted, "When they started shadowing the werewolf packs we assumed the worse but they never joined in on the werewolf's side of the conflict and they stayed out of sight for the most part. Is it possible they will approach Kaelin again?"

"Possibly or possibly not," Ulrich hedged, "Unfortunately we had further developments after that." He described the fight at Black Randle's cabin in the woods and their plunge into the Underworld as he continued his sit and wait training with the siege beasts.

Lady Zilvra watched with admiration as he described, in suitably understated terms, their fights with the lashers and the dangers they had braved in the first few caverns. Her eyes went wide as he described the Disgraced they had battled and then the fight with the giant spiders that had managed to bite him.

"In my left arm ," Ulrich frowned so I suppose you could say that at least the werewolf injured my right arm so I'm back to being symmetrical again."

"One of the werewolves bit you?" Hartseer demanded.

 "Scratch only," Ulrich reassured, "Milena reckons I had the medicine soon enough after infection that I should be fine."

"Still," Hartseer noted, "Probably best if you stay here for a few days none the less, just in case."

"I don't think we were planning to move on for a last a little while," Ulrich admitted, "Just in case the rotters come back for another round."

"Some things never learn," Black Randle agreed.

"So after you recovered a little, what happened then?" Hartseer asked as he lashed another werewolf to the skinning frame.

"Well that's were we have a problem with the goblins," Ulrich informed him. He described the Temple of the spider dragon and their fight there.

"The goblins were not turning on you?" Hartseer asked, "There was no treachery?"

"No sir," Ulrich shook his head as another carcass disappeared down the maws of his new pets, "Stink of the Midden was for us right up until Jeremiah slit his throat. I hope you don't mind but none of the rest of us sort to chastise Kaelin when she bit him in vengeance for her goblin friend."

"Nothing I would not have done," Hartseer admitted, "And it was probably the only punishment he will get. Goblins are unfortunately not considered people under the law. As sch he would not be legally accused or charged with murder. Even if they prove their worth to society and the law is changed tomorrow, it will not be applied retroactively. Sometimes the law is not justice, which some people know how to apply to their advantage."

"I take it that Jeremiah has already given you his report," Ulrich asked without asking."Let us say his version of events were some what different," Hartseer's tone was bland, "I sent him out as part of the protection for the foraging parties to keep him busy. He motivation of being able to eat should be enough to keep him from doing anything too foolish."

"Ah," Ulrich agreed, "Carrying on then..."

Tikrumpdel lifted his head as Ulrich described the Battle at the Snake Clan Citadel and their discovery of Estella and her strange relationship with Valodrael.

"Yes the Void Dragon," Hartseer noted, "It seems that I was not the only plaything of the Domilii. I was surprised to discover that Valodrael knew about me.  I suppose that allowing him to witness our discussions through the rune stones and yet be powerless to warn me who the real enemy was struck the Domilii as... entertaining."

"It certainly strikes me as something he would enjoy," Ulrich hesitated to continue, wondering how to explain the next major even of their journey without Hartseer wanting to yank someone apart.

"The Lady Estella came to me at dawn this morning," Hartseer stated, "Valodrael wanted me to know that our mutual foe still lives in some capacity. We will discuss our next move once the current crisis has been resolves. Both of us understand that if he is moving again after five hundred years then this is just the beginning. We need to break this current scheme and then pray we can move fast enough on our own plans before his back up schemes can start revealing themselves."

"So you don't believe that this is the last gamble of a dying monster?" Ulrich asked. Hartseer shook his head.

"The Domilii was a master at manipulating and gas lighting. "He had an entire culture convinced of his virtue until the day he burned them all to the ground. If we are seeing his plans now it is because he is ready to start the game. Our salvation maybe that you have managed to discover his involvement before the final play. I have sent word to the King to make sure that the most likely targets of the Domilii's final game have extra protection."

"There are final targets?" Ulrich started and then shook his head, "No, that will be need to know information and so far we don't need to know it."

"No, you don't," Hartseer agreed, "So after the Snake Clan Citadel what happened?"

It was during Ulrich's description of their sojourn in the land's of the dwerg's after their fight with Nanny Tatter's that Tikrumpdel wriggled backwards into the lake and swarm away to the north.

"He volunteered to help cremate the bodies of the fallen," Hartseer explained, "Thorian is bringing the wood." Ulrich turned to look and saw Thorian's siege beast shoulder its way out of the trees, Thorian perched beaming on the back of its neck. A massive harness had been fashioned out of ship cabling and lashed round the siege beast's chest and behind it he dragged a dozen or so whole trees.

"Had to go a fair way but we found dead uns," he called, "They should burn good." Ulrich  lifted a hand to him and then went back to the debrief. Hartseer was extremely interested in the description of their confrontation with Greely, the Domilii and the possessed Nanny Tatters.

"He's not as restrained as he used to be," he noted, "The Domilii of old would not have been so open with his anger and hatred."

"Five hundred years of isolation could probably weaken a man's grip on his facilities," Ulrich noted.

"That is a possibility," Hartseer agreed.

The sun was most definitely heading for the horizon as Ulrich wrpped up his telling of their seven week journey.

"And there you have it," he stated as he saw the foraging party return, Jeremiah and Kaelin flying above them, "I hope that we have done a good enough job, even if we were out of contact for so long. I have to admit our stay in Endingborough now seems negligent and I wish we'd made it shorter."

"That was outside of your power," Hartseer stated, "And once you were able to move again you did so. You also brought us the allies we needed at exactly the right moment we needed them. Yaga Tuf and her family seem to be willing to stay here so it may well become a centre for the treatment of those afflicted by the werewolf curse. If Tikrumpdel is genuine about his offer to provide dragon fire to the forges here, then between him and if Lady Zilvra is agreeable to the suggestion of settling most of her people here so a trade route through the Underworld can be establish here, then Nether Wallop may have a much better future than it has had for many years."

"Rather the back edge of the Kingdom?" Ulrich asked.

"You could put it that way," Hartseer admitted, "Though even a change for the better seems to come with pain." He carried the last load of hides over to the boat and loaded them.

"You might want to be the next up," Black Randle was carefully cleaning his hunting knife, "The funeral is going to be big."

Ulrich frowned.

"I tracked the werewolves with that Void Dragon friend of yours last night," Black Randle explained, "They kept running. If they come back it won't be tonight so the Governor declared we'd do a funeral tonight, at sundown on the lake shore. We have a lot of dead and have had no time to bury them. Some of them are going to stink."

Ulrich blanched and looked sick.

"Won't you want to be first to the wash house?" he asked, looking at Black Randle's red soaked hands.

 "Nah," Black Randle put his knife back in its scabbard, "Guess which silly mumpty offered to help move the really stinky ones? Hartseer and I are going to shift the worst ones. Don't want their loved ones having to do that."

"Ah understandable," Ulrich noted and then shuddered as that whippy, rattling noise sounded out again. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

"My favourite?" Lady Zilvra asked, her slim hand on his shoulder.

"I hate that sound," Ulrich admitted, "I really hate that sound."

It turned out that through they had to go over the wall in the boat rig, they could walk out of Nether Wallop normally, Risgath having given orders that the West gate, the one facing the lake, was to be unblocked to facilitate the removals of the bodies. Risgather himself was finally up again and ad enough baths to remove the worse of the stink. A change of clothes made him look almost mortal again, although he, Bishop Peter and Lieutenant Winters all bore the haggard look the siege had carved them with. The gate was also not truly cleared, the soil and rock it had been blocked with having been loaded into smallish sacks and stacked beside the gate, ready to re-barricade it at a moments notice if that became necessary. As it was the lake side gate it limited the number of enemies that could crowd there and try to force a breach. Even for the dead tactics had to be considered and the greyness of that marked them all.

The trees that Thorian had brought back form the forest had been roughly hacked into straight trunks and the larger boughs laid with them in a two tiered lattice, the smaller branches and twigs shoved into the gaps along with uniforms and clothing torn to rags. The fatter werewolf carcasses had been rendered, the layer of fat under the skin striped off and laid over the funeral pyre of those that had died fighting them.

"I say," Jeremiah sidled up to Bishop Peter, "Correct me if I am wrong, but aren't we supposed to bury the dead?"

Bishop Peter's eyes were bleak as he waited for Nether Wallop survivors to gather on the grass between shore and pyre, the lake breeze and the hot dragon smell of Timrumpdel keeping the worse of the stink from the shrouded forms away from the congregation. It could not hide the stains of decay that had started seeping through the winding sheets.

"Special decompensation," he said, "The water table is too high here for proper burial. The graves either fill themselves in before the burial can happen or they just float back to the top of the grave. That and the risk of contaminating the water supply is too great. Not that I'd expect a follower of your god to understand that."

The look of distaste he shot Jeremiah's sigil was distinct and sour but he said no more.

"Come on Jerry," Ulrich called, "Let's not hold up the service. Bad form, wot?"

Jeremiah took his place without further comment and Bishop Peter walked to the front of the congregation. He nodded to the trio who had been found to provide the music for the service. Kaelin looked uncomfortable as she stood with the horned pink lady and the strange man Michale, who seemed to have just appeared in the town without warning. Still a man who's hand and face had been that badly burned he kept them bandaged and covered was hardly going to be much of a threat and his music was a gift to such battered minds as they had in Nether Wallop at this time. As Bishop Peter gave them the nod to start he had to admit that Michael Azrael was almost as talented as his legendary namesake. From the first brush of bow over the strings the silence was absolute.

"When other helpers fail and comforts flees, 

Help of the helpless, O abide with me." 

 Bishop Peter was very glad that his job was not depended on his singing voice because he had to give up part way through the second verse. There was something in the music tonight that had even jaded souls remembering when they were young and hopeful, reminding them of the dreams they'd once had and the griefs they'd gone through to lose those dreams. It even hit the Ash Elves. Most of them looked confused that something so etherial could be so moving. Lady Zilvra had her face turned to Ulrich's shoulder and Tasnar was an utter wreck. Quenril was stood, eyes shut, fist's clenched, shaking with whatever was going through his mind.

Ulrich caught Bishop Peter's eye and mouthed something.

"The nursery."

Bishop Peter closed his eyes. Lady Zilvra had spoken to him and Risgath, once, when she and her people had first appeared, of what had happened to her people, to the Clan the siblings shared and he could only thank the gods that it had not come to that in Nether Wallop, that they had kept the werewolves out.

"Heaven's morning breaks and Hestia's vain shadows flee;

In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me." 

 Bishop Peter had to take several breaths before he could start. On the lake's shore Tikrumpdel sniffed.

"Brothers, sisters, friends," Bishop Peter gave each of them a nod, "Allies, unexpected help. We gather tonight to pay our last respects to loved ones, neighbours, comrades who have been taken from us far too soon. We all known what it has taken for us to be able to stand here this night and witness the last moments of these brave souls on Hestia. I don't have to go over that again. We have lived it. Others may come in the future and ask for stories about it but no words will ever show them the truth of what we went through to be here in this moment. So how do we honour them? How do we make it worth the fight?How do we hold their memories in our hearts. With hatred? With hunting? With seeking to destroy those that killed them? It might even be the right thing to do, an act of prevention, preventing others from having to suffer what we have suffered. But will it bring us? Will others understand our hate, our drive, our need? When our own time comes, will we have anything worthwhile to pass on? Will we leave anything to let those that come in the future know we ever even existed? Perhaps it is better to remember what brought us through this time was not hate but comradeship, friendship and trust. We trusted each other to stand, to do what each was best at to bring all of us through to the other side. We trusted each other to ask not how best to protect ourselves our houses and our little families but how best to protect everyone, everyone's home, everyone's family. That's why... we're here. We didn't win but we survived and we can bare testimony for those we didn't. May we bare a testimony that grows so they are not forgotten.

Let us pray." 

Bishop Peter kept it short and simple, leaning heavily on his shepherds staff as he did so. He was not well himself and knew that many of his parishioners were not either. The less time spent out in the night air the better. That and grief could curdle into despair if it was too concentrated.

After the prayers and a short speech from both Governor Risgath and Lieutenant Winters, Bishop Peter gave the nod to the trio of musicians. The second song was a stronger tune, almost defiant in the face of grief, a call for the future, for memories that built up rather than tore down.

"O Trinity of love and power!

Our brethren shield in danger's hour,

From rock and tempest, fire and foe,

Protect them where so e'er they go,

Thus, evermore shall rise to thee,

Praise from the air, the land and sea." 

 At Risgath's gesture the congregation parted to make a wide avenue from pyre to lake. Tikrumpdel hauled himself out of the lake further and sucked in several gigantic breaths.

The flame light up the night, shone yellow gold from the walls of Nether Wallop, made the eyes ache with its brightness but the pyre caught and roared into the night, flame wrapping the shrouded forms. Tikrumpdel too another breath and then the flame roared again.

Some stayed, others drifted back to Nether Wallop, unwilling to watch their loved ones turned to dust and ash, unwilling to watch the flames devour them like so much wood.

Lieutenant Winter, deathly pale, came limping across to the King's Special, leaning on two sticks.

"I'd like to thank you," he shook their hands one after the other, "I don't know if the werewolves really are gone or whether this is just a ceasefire but either way we needed it. Thank you, especially for the allies you brought us. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that you saved all our lives last night."

"Just glad we got here," Thorian said.

"It was our duty and we are proud we managed to help," Ulrich nodded.

"For the glory of god," Jeremiah intoned.

Kaelin sighed and then admitted it.

"My family stated this fight," she stated, "I'm going to stop it. I've had enough of living in fear. I've had enough of watching others live in fear because of my grandfather. It's going to take some of that preventative action the Bishop was talking about but I want it to stop. I want children to be safe, I want young men to stay young men, I want young women to have the right to say no and have that respected. The only way I'm going to see that happen is if I make sure he's in the ground for good this time."

Lieutenant Winters nodded.

"When you are done with that then we may need you back here," he said. Kaelin tilted her head.

"I've read the reports," Winters admitted, "The men know you are a shifter but the way I see it, you have it under control. We have a lot of the newly turned here. I know the medicine offers hope of control but having someone who has actual experience would be a huge help."

"We are going to be staying for a few days," Ulrich said, "Kaelin could start teaching one or two so it could go from there while we have to move on to finish the mission."

"It would," Winters agreed, "Would you be able to do that?"

"Suppose I could try," Kaelin grimaced, not convinced that a couple of days would be enough."

"Come, both of you," Bishop Peter took Winter's elbow, his other hand already on Risgath's shoulder, "Neither of you should be outside for too long at night, not for a while yet."

Once back at the Governor's Palace most of the King's Special drifted off to find their beds, Ulrich with almost indecent haste. Kaelin lingered in the night, still wound tight by the funeral. She wandered round the square, noting that she could see soldiers patrolling the top of the battlements. The other soldiers were also sleeping out in the open, tucked into corners round the square, huddled together in squads, as ready as they could be for action while still catching some sleep.

She saw the forge's sullen glow. Altan was just closing up shop. Kaelin paused as she realised that he was not alone in the blacksmithy.

"So how was it broken the first time?" he asked, turning the snapped off piece of Hartseer's sword in his hands.

"It was a paladin," Hartseer admitted, his form back to being silver metal, scrubbed clean by sand for the funeral, " The Domilii sent a kill team after me once I realised his true indenity. they caught up with us at the coast. We were trying to load as many of the women and children on board ships and away as we could. Fear, intimidation and surprise. They finally had me on the back foot. She snapped it clean in two."

"What happened then," Altan asked, apparently studying the internal structure of the blade and then picking up hammer and chisel and testing the resistance along the length of the blade. 

"If you are asking if I killed her then no, I didn't," Hartseer replied, "That was the last betrayal of the Domilli. It was a new weapon. A chemical compound that could throw what looked like a metal pot out of a tube of slightly greater diameter. When the pot struck the ground, it exploded, like a whole thunderstorm released in a single lightning strike. They bracketed us, both me and the paladin kill team and unleashed hell."

"I'm surprised this was the only damage then," Altan said after a lengthy silence.

"I'd managed to drag the fight to the cliff tops," Hartseer explained, "And they were limestone cliffs."

"Ah," Altan nodded, "Subterranean cave?"

"Half full of water," Hartseer slumped, "Two of them bought their tickets in the strike, they were too close to the explosions. It was a case of count the pieces and divide by two. Another... his head met the cave wall on the way down."

Altan winced but didn't interrupt. Hartseer's manner was like one who, now they had been allowed to start the story, needed to be allowed to finish, that it hadn't been told enough to exorcise the poison eating at his mind.

"The one who broke that?" he flicked a finger at the broken blade, "I found her as I scrambled back up the scree slope towards the surface of the water. Half way up, roughly. Her leg was pinned by a one ton boulder and even the paladin's ability to control their oxygen needs was failing her. It was not a warrior's death." Hartseer made a sound that could have been a sigh. "I tried. They were as much the victims of the Domilii as I was so I tried to free her leg by by the time I managed to lift it enough for her to float free..." Where he was looking was not the blacksmith forge. "I hauled her back to the surface but... I could get the water out of her but I have no breath to give and she wouldn't start breathing. There no water left to come up but..." He just shook his head.

Altan let the silence stretch. Hartseer held out his hand and left the heat rising from the coals flow up round his fingers. A mortal, even some immortals, would have screamed in agony. Hartseer just watched the heat leave his metal fingers untouched.

"I think I know the problem with the repair," Altan spoke at last, "It was a forge wield. Good, don't get me wrong, but it was still a weakness in the blade. If you want this to be as strong as the original then it needs a total reforge. I need to take it right back and start by folding it back up and go from there and I know what to add to give it a little extra." He turned and dug in his tool kit, pulling out a plug of what looked like a dull grey mineral.

"Meteor Iron," he held it up proudly, "I've never managed to get it hot enough to work it but now that I have a dragon to help heat the forge. And that's something else." He dug in his bag and pulled out a porch, tumbling a couple of oblong, smooth lumps of metal into his palm. They looked like custom made sling shot but of a brighter metal than lead.

"Dragon Steel," Altan's eyes shone in the forge light, a craftsman faced with the chance of creating something amazing.

"Where did you get these?" Hartseer asked, picking one up.

"If you are asking did I going corpse picking in a Steel Dragon's graveyard then no," Altan replied, "Those people are carrion crows. No, these were found on an old battle field. Someone pushed a Steel dragon into an outright fight and these are its breath weapon. One of these hits you at speed it makes a mess. Nobody knows why they never rust but they came out of the ground in this state. Again they are hard to work but if we put the two together, although..." He stopped. "The different metals might not heat the same way but there again..." He stopped again and picked up a nail, striking it against the whet stone. The sparks looped in long, slow trails. He put it down and picked up a knife blade left half done by the previous blacksmith. The sparks he struck where short and fast. He nodded and then picked up the plug of Meteor Iron. The sparks were long and slow but shone a bright blue.

"What are you looking for?" Hartseer asked. Altan held up a finger and picked up the broken piece of Hartseer's sword. The sparks were blue, quick and burst as they died.

"It will work!" Altan shouted, "It will work! You're Sky Steel! It will work!" He beamed. "And I thought that I had made my master piece! This will be a wonder! But we are going to need help, someone with muscle to take the place of an apprentice, I'll have to ask my wife about the quenching fluid..."

Hartseer seemed equally interested and bemused by Altan's intensity as the blacksmith started sketching calculations, design ideas, shutting up shop completely forgotten.

Kaelin managed a tired smile and walked back to the Governor's Palace, seeking a warm wash if nothing else and her bed. Still she found herself unable to sleep when she laid down.

After a moment she propped herself up on the pillows and reached for the locket at her throat.

"Well this is an unusual time for a call," Charlotte noted.

"I can't sleep," Kaelin grunted, "Do you sleep?"

"No," Charlotte admitted.

"Well if you have time then I can give you a full report," Kaelin stated, "Starting from the fact that we are shot of Nanny Tatters and we might have managed to end the war here in Nether Wallop."

Charlotte stared, sighed and rubbed her temples.

"Start at the beginning," she instructed, "And take it slow. I'm going to need details."