It was a slaughter, aye – but not the kind he'd known afore. There'd been no clash of arms here, no cry of men locked in struggle, no moment where the issue hung uncertain 'twixt one side and the other. The Americans had gone about their work as a smith at his forge, the whole fight done with such cold surety it scarcely seemed battle at all. It was more a craft, mayhap, than a fight – practiced so long it wanted no thought.

Yet he could not strip the honor from it entirely. There'd been skill in the work: the patience to hold their distance whilst the beast raged, the discipline not to close when valor might've urged it. This was a different breed o' prowess than what he'd been reared to prize, mayhap, but prowess nonetheless. And there'd been a kind of thrill in the watchin', even as the Americans themselves had sat as calm as men watchin' cattle penned for slaughter.

Aye, till the beast fell, for then their calm had been replaced with fists raised and voices cheerin' in triumph.

And rightly so, for it was a kill earned fair, however strange the earnin'. Yet Kelvand stood fixed while they shouted their victory.

The Crew Chief turned back from where he'd been standin' near the ramp, shoutin' over the noise, "Aight folks, show's over! We're liftin' off now, headin' to Greyhar. Stay strapped!"

The deck gave a heave beneath 'em, then steadied as the craft banked. The jolt near took him from his seat – brought him back to himself, at least. Gods, he'd been gape-mouthed as a whelp when he ought've… what? Raised his own fist? He set it firm again, hopin' none had marked it.

Yet that correction had been for naught. He'd fixed his face soon enough, but it mattered little when the rest hadn't.

Pragen clutched his scope like a child his toy, starin' past sense; Boral, white as scraped parchment, had the look of one half-drunk. A council of the realm, and there they sat, mouths slack, eyes wide, starin' like apprentices at their first forge-flame. All his care for dignity, wasted the moment they showed themselves fools before the Americans.

Such would not serve. The Americans watched, measurin' strength, takin' the measure o' the realm itself. To sit gape-mouthed like lads at their first siege would hand the outlanders more ground than they'd claimed already – and they'd claimed plenty. Let them instead see dwarves unmoved, not boys gaping at thunder.

Kelvand drew a steady breath, straightened in his chair, and set his voice to carry. "Forgemaster Pragen."

The man jerked upright like one shaken from slumber, blinkin' as sense returned. "Aye, what is it?"

"I'd have yer measure, if ye're willin' to give it." He made his voice steady, lest the Americans take him for some bumpkin gaping at wonders. "What d'ye make o' the work we've seen? Speak plain, as a man o' the trade."

The ask steadied him. Pragen blinked, and the shock bled from his face, mind turnin' toward the forge it knew. He set the scope aside with care and drew himself upright, castin' a glance skyward where the silver craft still wheeled, then back to Kelvand.

"Start with the form," Kelvand suggested.

"Aye, the craft's form…" Pragen's voice came steadier now, findin' its footin'. "Well, the speed's in the drive, sure enough. Some engine we've not the like of, but the notion's plain; steady push instead o' stroke, same as a bellows pumpin' constant rather than a smith swingin' his hammer. The wings don't move, true, but they take the air right; faster over the curve, liftin' from beneath."

Kelvand nodded once. "Aye. And the weapons? The missiles?"

Pragen frowned, yet the light was back in his eyes – the glint o' a craftsman sniffin' after mystery. "Golem-work, mayhap, though finer by leagues. A thing that sees for itself, or near enough. We've runes that wake when they're crossed, or cool when the forge runs hot, but these…" He glanced skyward. "These are thinkin' whilst they fly. Judgin' the span, the wind, the quarry's move – all in the space o' a blink, and correctin' every bit as quick."

Some o' the tightness eased from Kelvand's shoulders. Pragen had the right of it, then. This was sound reasonin' that'd show the Americans they weren't witless, aye, but more than that: they could grasp the principles at work. That mattered, mayhap more than savin' face did.

Captain Donnager's voice carried over the noise. "That's not a bad comparison, Forgemaster. Different mechanisms, but the concept's similar."

"What mechanisms?" Pragen asked.

Donnager leaned forward, arms on his knees. "They track heat – engine exhaust, body warmth, anything throwing off temperature. There's also something called radar, but that's another matter." He waved the detail aside.

"Your golem comparison's sound, though. The missile's got… call it a small brain, I guess. It keeps track of all the conditions – distance, speed, trajectory – and uses all that to follow the target. That's the short version, anyway. You want the full technical breakdown, you'd need one of the engineers back home."

That'd set Pragen off, sure as spark to powder. The man leaned forward before Donnager had finished, questions no doubt burnin' behind his teeth.

And sure enough, the man spoke quick, eager as fresh flame. "If we could craft golems that thought half so well – by the Forge, what work we could do! No mage to guide 'em, no orders shouted. We could send such things into the deep works where the heat takes a man in minutes. And for war…" He paused and drew in breath like he meant to steady himself. "Constructs that learn, that turn to meet what the foe does – we'd change battle itself."

Pragen spoke true enough, yet in the manner of a craftsman – ponderin' what might be wrought, were there time and means to match the will.

Kelvand saw the matter plain. Even were they to master such craft in time, it would avail 'em naught against the Elemental Dragon – nor against the Nobian Empire, for that matter. The Americans held such power now, and had spent it not in conquest but in aid, flyin' all this way north just to pull strangers from ruin.

The choice was no hard one. He'd bring it afore His Majesty himself, and counsel alliance.

The Crew Chief's voice once more cut through the noise. "Five minutes to Greyhar!"

Donnager gave a slow nod, returnin' to Pragen's words. "Anyway, the potential's there, yeah. But I'll be straight with you, Forgemaster. Even for us, autonomous systems are complicated as hell. Expensive, too. You're talking decades or centuries of development, not to mention massive infrastructure to support it. It's not just the figurative golem itself; it's everything around it that makes it work."

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Pragen's enthusiasm dimmed some, though his eyes held their keenness still. "Aye, I'd reckoned as much. Still, to see it done…" He trailed, then gave a faint smile. "Gives a man somethin' to aim for, at least."

"Fair enough," Donnager said.

Kelvand leaned forward a fraction. He'd held his tongue till then, lettin' the Forgemaster and the captain have their talk, but he could scarce help himself now. "These missiles, Captain – how many can your craft bear? And how oft can they strike afore needin' to return?"

"Depends on the loadout," Donnager said. "The F-35s we had up there? Four, typically. But they can go up to like twelve or sixteen if we don't care about stealth. The Raptors carry less, but they're dedicated air-to-air. Probably not as useful here in Gaerra.

"Now, you get the new F-15s in the mix – those are the real heavy hitters. It's uh… another variant of jet. Anyway, they'll haul near two dozen missiles a pop if we rig 'em right. Not to mention how many tons of bombs they can carry."

Two dozen strikes? If he spoke true, then merely a single craft would suffice in destroying a wyvern flock. Kelvand near balked at the numbers, even as Donnager spoke as calm as talkin' weather. No boast in his voice, neither – to him, this was simply the work o' men.

And that was what chilled him. How many beasts could such a force lay low? How long could they hold a line? What manner o' army might stand to match it?

The answer, plain as daylight, was that none could. Not as armies were mustered now.

"Approachin' LZ! Landin' in one minute!" the Crew Chief called.

Pragen turned toward the ramp, where the sky'd begun to shift – the high, empty blue givin' way to nearer things, ridges and slopes drawin' up as the craft sank. "We're droppin', then."

"Aye," Kelvand said, followin' his gaze. The talk'd run its course, he reckoned. What questions remained would take more than a few minutes – and more quiet ground than a thunderin' deck – to answer proper.

About him, the others turned their gaze outward. They shifted in their seats, leanin' toward the open ramp to catch what lay ahead. The shock'd passed, or been pressed down deep enough not to show. That was sufficient for now.

Kelvand set his grip on the bench's edge and looked out through the openin', toward where Greyhar ought to lie.

The village came into view slow, revealin' itself by degrees as the craft banked and fell.

First the ridge to the north – a long spine o' grey stone, snow caught deep in its seams. Then the valley beyond, narrow, steep-walled, the lower slopes thick with dark pines. A stream ran its length, half-frozen, flashin' where the sun struck it.

And there, pressed against the eastern wall where the ground eased some, lay Greyhar itself.

'Twas a small place, mayhap twenty houses all told, huddled close as if for warmth. Most were stone, low and stout, steep-roofed to shed the weight o' snow. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, thin threads twistin' into the cold air. A single road cut through the center, packed earth dark where feet had trod it clear. On the fringe stood sheds and a smithy, its stack cold, no glow within.

Ninety souls, give or take, if the reports held. Enough to work timber and trade a little in fair weather, but not near enough to stand 'gainst a wyvern flock. A handful o' hungry ones'd do for them well enough.

The craft dipped lower, circlin' wide over the hollow. Through the open ramp Kelvand saw folk gatherin' in the square near the heart o' the village. They pointed upward, faces turned skyward, movin' close together, some backin' toward the walls as though stone alone might shield 'em.

A handful stood apart from the rest – guards, by the look of 'em. Border regulars in the Kingdom's kit, spears ready at hand. Beside 'em stood folk with tools instead o' weapons: hammers, rakes, a woodaxe or two. Villagers pressed to service, like as not, standin' fast beneath whatever might come down from the sky.

Their Chinook banked again, droppin' lower. The other helicopters held back, hoverin' high up the valley. Strange sight, aye. But there was some reason for it, sure enough.

Boral seemed to think the same, for he leaned forward and called across to the Ambassador. "Why do they hold off?"

Perry looked out toward the hoverin' craft, then back to him. "Probably best if the villagers see you first, Councilor. Let 'em see some friendly faces, first."

Boral nodded once. "Aye, fair enough."

The Chinook dropped toward an open patch beyond the village bounds – a field, or near enough. It weren't the flattest, but it had trees cleared, ground mostly level, snow thick and clean save for a scatter o' tracks near the edge. The earth came risin' fast to meet them; Kelvand braced as the deck shuddered and the craft eased to a hover, snow kickin' up round the ramp.

Through the ramp he saw the villagers clearer now. The crowd had swelled; folk spillin' from their houses, drawn by the roar and the gleam of metal beasts descendin' from the clouds. The guards stood fast at the fore, spears angled up, but their faces held more bewilderment than threat. Behind 'em stood the villagers – farmers, woodcutters, hands clutchin' tools – stiff and wide-eyed, some with mouths half-open, breath showin' in the cold.

They'd no notion what they faced. How could they, shut off so long with naught but tales and fright to fill their nights? To their eyes, these crafts might as well be wyverns of steel, come to finish what the flesh ones started.

The hull struck hard, a thud he felt through boot and bone. Snow leapt up round the skids, caught in the wash till all went white. For a breath the world vanished; then the storm cleared, leavin' the village standin' small and still beneath.

The guards stared, spears still lifted but sinkin' slow as they peered through the open ramp. Then Kelvand saw the spark of sense returnin'. One guard stiffened sudden, eyes gone wide; he'd caught sight of the folk within, bearded faces and dwarven mail glintin' under the lights.

He barked to his mate, sharp and quick. The second turned, squintin' through the swirl of snow – and in a breath his stance broke. The spear dipped, his shoulders fell, and what had been fear turned to somethin' nearer shame and weary relief both.

The strain went out of the crowd like air from a bellows. Spears dipped, makeshift arms droppin' to their sides. Folk pressed forward now instead o' back, voices risin' in a muddle Kelvand couldn't catch over the roar o' the blades.

The crewman was already on his feet, unbucklin' and movin' to the deck's center. "Alright, folks, we're down! Stay put till the rotors spool down – then we'll get y'all out!"

The thunder eased by degrees, pitch fallin' as the craft settled full onto the snow. The chief went down the line, unfastenin' straps, lendin' a hand – Royal Guard first, then Kelvand, then the rest o' the Council after. "You're good to go, General. Watch your step; snow's deeper than it looks."

Kelvand answered with a nod and rose, bracin' a hand to the frame as the deck thrummed beneath. The Royal Guard were already headin' for the ramp, boots drummin' on metal, and he fell in behind.

Cold air rushed in – sharp and clean after the stale warmth within. He drew a breath of it, that it might clear his head, then stepped down onto the packed snow.

The villagers waited just beyond the field's edge, still gathered close yet no longer cowerin'. The guards stood foremost, spears grounded; for they had seen the Council's colours and the Royal Guard beside them, and knew at last that these were their own.

Behind them, the folk of Greyhar watched in silence – not with fear now, but with awe an' hope both.

Kelvand stepped forward, boots grindin' through the crusted snow, till he stood within callin' distance. The nearest guard straightened sudden, fist to chest, and his voice rang out clear across the field.

"General Kelvand, sirs! We… we knew not who came. We scarce believed it could be ye."

"At ease, soldier," Kelvand called back. "We've come to see ye safe; every soul among ye."

The man's shoulders eased, the spear's point droppin' till it bit the snow. Behind him the crowd began to stir, voices risin' as more folk came to understand what they were witnessin'.

Rescue it was – odd in its manner, aye, but rescue all the same. And that was blessin' enough for any day.

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