Asgeirr Vintersvend held a telescopic spyglass to his eye as he observed the approaching Weichsen air cavalry. He stood not in the enclosed observation deck of the main bridge, but near the port-side entrance of Polarlys' hangar deck. As a fleet commander, the bridge might offer better communications. However as an archmage, he needed direct access to the open skies.

Two full Weichsen companies -- over three hundred Phantoms -- flew across the open air towards the line of four Skagen skywhales. The Wickers approached in a tight-knit, close order formation, which Asgeirr recognized as the 'combat box'. It was an arrangement that focused on mutual, interlocking fields of fire from the Weichsen riders, whose ability to coordinate spell and grenade volleys at range have always been a step above their rivals'.

Curiously enough, they were led by a girl with burning wings enshrouded in blue-white flames. Behind her followed a chevron of armigers in bright burning-blue.

Asgeirr had seen an Oriflamme in combat once before, back when Alistair Mackay-Martel was still a mercenary and yet to become the King of Gleann Mòr. The Admiral had heard that the Crown Princess of the Lotharins had arrived at Nordkreuz a week ago. Clearly, his assault on the city had triggered the Weichsel-Lotharin Alliance.

It's surprising the Lotharins even have time to worry about others, being invaded from the south as they are, the admiral thought.

Meanwhile, two groups of sixteen drakes, which had been flying slow circles around the entire skywhale battlegroup, banked and turned towards the incoming attack. They formed the skywhales' combat air patrol, and were the only drakes that remained behind after the bulk of the air groups had been sent to raid Nordkreuz.

Asgeirr lowered his spyglass and turned to shout into a nearby communication tube that was installed into the bulkhead:

"Thirty degrees to starboard. Clear for broadside action."

"Aye aye Sir!" His longtime friend and first mate replied before the same voice echoed across the ship. "Thirty degrees to starboard! Staggered line formation! Prepare broadside!"

Hours ago, Asgeirr had launched his air groups for an all-out strike on Nordkreuz. He had hoped to not merely destroy the city's fortifications with a full aerial bombardment, but also to eliminate as many of the troops gathered there as possible. With any luck, he hoped the attack might even kill King Leopold of Weichsel, who had been sighted by Skagen spies in the city just two days ago.

Weichsel's Crown Heir was currently little more than an infant. Competing against two royal uncles and a general whose ambition was renowned even in the north, the fearsome Black Dragon might just suddenly collapse into civil war.

...Which would be perfect for Skagen's interests.

Asgeirr had no way of knowing if he had struck gold. But the remaining objectives of the air strike seemed to have been achieved. His son Thorsten was returning from a victorious assault that left the city's walls in ruins and the camps outside a blazing inferno. He also managed to do so in time to meet the counterattack that Asgeirr knew would come, as the Phantoms clearly intended to hit the skywhales before the drakes could return.

Unfortunately for the Wickers, time was not in their favor. The decisive air battle that was about to begin would seal their fate for this entire campaign.

Sure, Thorsten's drakes could use a rest from the early morning attack. The hangar deck wasn't merely an extradimensionally-expanded chamber to land and rest in. Magic also regulated the rear compartment to offer the sulfur-rich environment of the drakes' home habitat. The volcanic gases back there were terrible for unprotected humans. However the drakes not only preferred it, but found it essential for recharging their breath weapons.

The Admiral was actually worried that events were progressing a bit too smoothly. His rough estimate put the attacking force at around half of Weichsel's air cavalry. Did the other units fail to withdraw from the Skagen Peninsula in time? Or were they still out there in the clouds?

It doesn't matter, he quickly decided.

Asgeirr had placed a hundred experienced Västergötland adventurers and his brother Eyvindur's best company of Runebolt Archers on top of the skywhales. Combined with hundreds of the new 'Living Runes' that fortified their backs, the anti-air defenses protecting these behemoths were more than sufficient to take on another two to three hundred Phantoms.

To split his drake Outriders for defense at this point would not be caution, but cowardice instead.

"Order the combat air patrol to merge into one and engage the enemy right," Asgeirr bellowed into the communication tube again. "Do not wait to regroup with returning drakes. In fact, tell Thorsten to stay hidden in the clouds for as long as he can. I want him to charge in after the Wickers' formations have already been disrupted. Until then, master artillerists have discretion to launch broadsides at will against the enemy left wing!"

By attacking from the northeast, the Admiral hoped to use the flow of battle to tilt Weichsel's formation towards their right flank. This would not only present the skywhales' ballistae a semi-enfilade angle of shot, but also expose the Wickers' rear to Thorsten's drakes coming back from the southwest.

All they need is a nudge of chaos to buy time.

As an archmage worthy of the claim, Asgeirr not only had the expertise to craft the most complex spells, he also invented new, complex sorceries. Out of his half-dozen creations, two of them were made to support major battles and fleet action:

One was Storm of Twilight, or simply 'that acid rain spell' to everyone else.

The other was a wide area effect he named Mantle of the Stormlord. It covered the entire battlespace with charged clouds, causing any positive-current electric spell to trigger another lightning from above.

"What's your opinion Fannar? Acid or thunder first?" Asgeirr asked his first mate as he pulled several runestone tablets the size of outstretched hands from his belt pouch.

He always found it ironic that in their profession, having to kill an enemy barely warranted an afterthought. Meanwhile, it was the precise method of killing that required discussion and debate.

"Jarl Eyvindur did call you Admiral Vinegar," Fannar's nonchalant voice came through the metal tube. "Besides, maybe these 'civilized' southerners would appreciate their meat marinated before being crisp-fried in lightning."

"Vinaigrette then it is," the Admiral commented dryly as he activated the Levitation Flight rune on the tablet, causing it to zip into the skies. The rest of the runic inscription was set with a delayed activation of fifteen seconds, and after that the entire battlespace would change.

----- * * * -----

"Sir! Familiar scouts spot drakes inbound from the southwest! Numbering around hundred! It's the group that struck Nordkreuz!"

"Send the reserve Dawn Sky toward the southwest. Locate and skirmish the returning drakes. Do not engage in close combat. We only need to buy time to finish off the patrol before hitting the main group in full force!"

Sylviane heard General Neithard's stern voice about fifteen paces behind her, bellowing orders to a trio of signal officers who rode behind him. It was further reassurance of her allies' presence, although the message itself was something else.

Not even engaged yet and already committing the reserves. This is sure off to a great start. She thought with bitter sarcasm.

But then, at least General Neithard had the foresight to set aside those reserves, or they would be in trouble now as the Skagen drakes sought to pincer them between two groups.

Meanwhile, Sylviane focused her gaze on the skies ahead. It was her duty to lead the charge from the front. However to face only a mass of incoming foes without a single ally in view was no simple affair.

Four colossal skywhales floated across the open air, flying above the lower cloud cover and the blizzard below. They loomed in the skies like flying fortresses. And unlike the merchant vessel that Sylviane rode to Alis Avern on with King Alistair, the Skagen behemoths traded out its cargo nets to allow for much larger steel 'gondolas' to be strapped beneath the belly of each beast. These compartments bulged outwards to each side, and were separated into three decks.

The top deck had a row of wooden hatches, which lowered themselves to reveal ballistae that would soon be hurling out runic ammunition. The middle floor seemed squashed with many small, glass windows, hinting at its use for mostly crew quarters. The lower deck was the thickest of the three, and it was entirely armored except for the massive, rectangular gaps near the front -- the open-air entrance through which the drakes flew in and out to rest.

Three wide, steel bands wrapped around the skywhale's body to secure the gondola to the colossal beast. These bands featured ladders which were now covered with climbing men, as more personnel moved from the artillery deck up to the skywhales' backs. Crisscrossing rope nets filled the area between steel bands, offering both additional support for the gondola and better footing for those on top of each whale.

Had it not been for Pascal's plan of attack, Sylviane's first impression would have been that these imposing monsters were nigh undefeatable. Even as an Oriflamme Paladin -- the pride of Rhin-Lotharingie -- she couldn't help feel humbled by these colossal beasts.

Closer to her, thirty-two massive drakes flew straight toward her, each with a wingspan as wide as a farmhouse barn. Black-red scales covered their bodies like hardened magma, reinforced by steel helmets and banded breastplates that made them seem hopeless to stop. Their shrieking roars shook the air and sent chills down to the bone, not to mention their razor-sharp claws which were as long as scythe blades, or the sight of jagged rows of teeth that could rip a man to shreds.

To meet such predators in melee was suicidal -- so said her voice of reason, her instinct of self-preservation.

Sylviane could feel her arms shaking. Had she carried a sword instead of a chained hammer, the effect might have been obvious.

I have Hauteclaire with me. I can take these stupid beasts!

She readied the phoenix-crest shield strapped to her forearm, while her right hand began to spin her weapon of choice. It was a chain six paces long anchored to her left wrist. At its end was the knobby cylinder of a single-headed meteor hammer, which was wreathed in a thick corona of blue-white flames.

It would not do to let her idle arms reveal her anxiety and fright.

Fear was not a weakness. It was a sign of intelligence. It kept humans alive. But the same could not be said for cowardice.

For those born to royalty, leadership was an obligation rather than a choice. To inspire others, one must be willing to set an example. Soldiers matched the bravery they saw with their own courage. Those who followed lions into battle inevitably became lions themselves.

However what stood true for followers worked the same way for leaders. Soaring ahead at the tip of the spear, Sylviane's own mettle was fortified by the reassurance that hundreds followed in her wake.

Courage was not only the strength of an individual.

It was a collective force, drawn together from the hearts of many.

Perhaps that explained the sound of heavy drums and trumpets that accompanied Weichsel's cavalry into decisive battle. Without a single instrument, let alone an entire orchestra, the martial consonance that shook the air could only be the playback of magical recorders.

The music wasn't really her style. But even Sylviane had to admit that the hastening tempo of battle notes was nothing short of 'epic'.

Immersed in the atmosphere at the head of the army, Sylviane was not just a young lady on the fringe of maturity, not merely an inexperienced warrior facing her first true air battle.

She was a crown princess, who represented the honor and dignity of Rhin-Lotharingie.

She was an Oriflamme Paladin, who symbolized the strength of her people and their will to fight.

Before the eyes of her brave Weichsen allies, she could not falter in the slightest. She must be a leader they would be proud to follow, even to the depth of hell itself.

So while Sylviane the twenty-one-year-old girl continued to tremble and doubt, Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane, the Cerulean Princess of Rhin-Lotharingie, found herself increasingly resolute and firm.

She could even feel the support of another from within. Her union with Hauteclaire made the phoenix's presence persistent. Their selves intertwined so closely she was no longer certain where Sylviane ended and Hauteclaire began.

However she could feel his unequivocal approval and support: his soothing touch that calmed her mind, his blazing heat that warmed her soul.

"Storm clouds manifesting!" She heard Sir Robert's voice call out.

The clouds multiplied from the existing cover, with new ones even forming out of thin air. These dark, ominous masses grew rapidly in size, as though hours passed right before their eyes.

"Legion Resistance!" One of her armigers cast the elemental damage resistance spell with the prefix for multi-target, group enhancement. More protective spells followed suit as the soldiers behind her raised wards for battle, while others took the opportunity to unleash a wave of Mana Seekers.

"All units tighten up! Dietrich!" General Neithard called out.

"Cyclone Blast Field!"

Spells were universal. Any mage with sufficient expertise could cast them. Magic specializations -- which required both affinity and practice -- did not affect spell selection, but rather the power and capability of a narrow category of spells. Just as Wayfarers focused on boosting teleportation capacity and range, Stormcallers learned to control weather on a massive scale.

Instead of a small twister, Colonel Dietrich von Falkenrath created a colossal vortex of hurricane winds that wrapped around the entire Weichsen column, sheltering the Knights Phantom in the eye of its storm. This blew aside the clouds and rain that sought to hamper their charge.

It wasn't a perfect solution. It severely limited the cavalry's greatest asset -- their mobility. Instead of spreading out around the melee-oriented drakes and destroying them with ranged spellfire, they now had no choice but to engage their foes in close combat.

Pascal, on the other hand, had called it 'hugging the enemy'. This way Skagen rainclouds and ballistae could not harm the Phantoms without risking friendly fire. Given the Northmen's culture, there was no way their troopers would tolerate that.

From the pride in his voice, Sylviane had the distinct impression this was his familiar's idea rather than his own.

"Prepare for spell volley!" The General ordered.

"Firestorm!"

Sylviane stretched out her left hand as an orb of flames gathered before her palm.

Her thirteen armigers -- the addition of Reynaud had taken the number above the usual full complement -- did the same. Each of them held onto their spell charge in the palm of their hand, ready to shoot at will.

"Cross formation! Purify Flames!"

Unlike the Weichsel's Phantoms who rode aerial mounts, Sylviane's armigers followed in her wake using little more than Levitation Flight spells. The magic gave mages the ability to fly on command. However controlling it in combat required great concentration -- something in short supply during the frenzy of battle.

The Oriflamme complimented this by giving every one of their armigers an enchanted cape woven with embedded phoenix feathers. This channeled not only the aura of blazing heat that spread from the phoenix, but also linked them within the slipstream created by the paladin's flight.

As long as Oriflamme armigers followed closely behind their paladin, the demands of their magical flight were greatly reduced while their aerial performance improved. The standard formation was a chevron with two staggered wings of six. But with Sylviane's order, her armigers shifted to a slanted cross formation with four staggered, rotating wings -- which spread the armigers out further and allowed them to better evade enemy attacks.

Purifying mana trailed out of Sylviane and Hauteclaire, down the channel of their burning aura to each individual armiger. Orbs of blazing orange turned white-blue as the phoenix's power cleansed them into sacred flames. These Firestorm spells now bore the phoenix's strength just as Sylviane's did.

Different sources of mana normally repelled one another. However phoenixes were natural Metamages -- a rare affinity that allowed them to share mana with others, which in turn let them alter the spells of others with their own power.

This also made them the only familiars capable of merging with their masters, resulting in the Oriflamme's famous 'Unison'.

"Volley! Chain Catalyst Dispel!" Sylviane heard General Neithard cry out.

"Release!"

The antimagic dispels from Weichsel's front ranks shot out first, heading out to hammer the layered personal wards that Northmen always applied. After them came fourteen fist-sized orbs of blue-white flames, which soared into the oncoming drakes before proximity detonations turned them into blasts of fiery pellets.

Volcanic drakes had tough, fireproof hides that hardened in reaction to any damage. However the phoenixes' magical blue-white embers cared not as they penetrated through to cook the flesh within.

Nine vanguard drakes' excruciating screeches turned into death cries as two hundred more rays of mana arced in, bombarding them with what should have been an overkill of spells. Yet despite this devastating barrage, one of them managed to actually stay aloft.

Drakes weren't created by the dragonlords for nothing. They had redundant organs and were numb to all but the most intense pain. Each drake could absorb tremendous punishment before succumbing to death. However they also weren't very smart, which was why the Dragonlords had trained many human clans to ride them during the Dragon-Demon Wars.

"Kill the riders first!"

Sylviane called out as she tore into the enemy before the smoke could clear. Given that many drakes were familiars to their more fragile human masters, it was an easy way to kill two birds with one stone.

She first dodged a falling drake covered with bleeding wounds. Her eyes then sprang wide as a jet of liquid rimefire burst out from the smoke, coming straight at her like an infernal hand of death. The bladed tip of a charging lance emerged next, followed by the reptilian face of a hideously-scarred volcanic drake which let out a terrible, shrieking cone of flames.

Panic and terror seized her nerves for a precious moment as Sylviane froze in her flight. Her burning aura might repel the drake's breath, but nothing she had -- not wards, not armor, not even Hauteclaire's protection -- could stop the Northmen's weapon from hell, their infamous 'rimefire siphon'.

Just a split second before the rimefire would have melted her flesh, Hauteclaire took control of her burning wings and spun them away from an agonizing death.

The jet of flame traced her afterimage, intent on roasting the Princess who led the formation. However her phoenix maneuvered them beautifully through the air, transforming the sharp, spinning bank into a wide corkscrew that evaded not only the rimefire but also the couched lance. The loose formation of her armigers also allowed them to dodge the burst of flames, as they spun behind her in the wake of her flight.

Sylviane could hear Hauteclaire cooing in her mind, calming her back down with soothing sounds attuned to the ongoing symphony of war. Her resolve soon strengthened, although she continued the corkscrew to duck beneath the drake.

Even coming into reach of those scythes-like claws was better than playing with rimefire.

Her body rotated to face up as she dove below. She dodged one swipe of the drake's claws while deflecting another with her small shield -- a powerful blow which almost sent her hurling off-course. Meanwhile the drake screeched in pain as her mere proximity torched its underside with Hauteclaire's blazing aura. It provided just the right distraction for two of her armigers to smash their maces into the drake's biting head.

Coming out behind the drake, Sylviane soared back up and spun around to hurl out her meteor hammer. Instead of smashing the mace-like cylinder into the back of the rider's head, she wrapped its chains around his neck instead. Twisting the chain around her waist, she used her momentum to yank his body off the blinded beast, snapping his spine in the process.

The Outrider was dead within the second. But his fingers kept a death grip on his siphon. It was still pumping fire when Sylviane hurled his body toward another pair of drakes.

Burn in your own hellfire, her thought passed without a shred of mercy.

 

Air Battle of Nordkreuz, Phase 1.
Main air attack draws in the combat air patrol while reserves are committed against returning drakes.