Chương 91: Chapter Ninety One

Garel led her squadron of Banshees into the battlespace at altitude, the thin air whistling past the canopy as the eight Super-Shards levelled out high above the chaos below. One Northern airship was already down. Two more were reeling, thick trails of smoke and aether pouring from ruptured ballasts where fire-lances had apparently found their mark. And around them the sky was a tangled mass of conventional shards and airships locked in a brutal, swirling furball.

The sheer amount of aether in the air limited visibility, yet even with that being the case, she could spot her squadron's quarry easily enough. The Southern - 'Shriekers' as their most recent captives had named them – were moving through the engagement with unnatural speed, leaving great plumes of aether behind them as they sought out and systematically demolished the Northern shards trying to oppose them. There was a temptation to dive now, while the enemy was vulnerable.

But it was a false vulnerability borne of old thinking. Speed. Altitude. Potential energy. Energy retention. Those were the concerns of lesser craft. For a super-shard, they were minor variables – easily corrected by simply opening the throttle.

"Orders, Flight Leader?" Larella's voice came through the small-orb in her ear, her wingwoman's voice only slightly distorted by the oxygen masked they'd all started wearing. Because masks were a necessity at the altitudes these new craft could reach. Garel's answer came reluctantly.

"Hold at altitude." Unfortunately, the orb in her ear was strictly for one to one communication, so the rest of the squadron was forced to take their cues from her craft's actions rather than her voice. And she could almost feel their frustration as her Banshee refused to dive. Frustration Garel herself wasn't immune to. Many of the pilots under her command only flew Banshees because their airships had been shot out from under them. Many by the Shriekers down below them. And she was no exception to that.

Of course, she was no orc – and wouldn't allow her hot-blood to get the better of her by being baited into an unfavourable engagement. And it would be unfavorable, given that a quick mental tally picked out no less than twelve Shriekers down in the furball. Confident in her fellow Northerners as she was, she was not so confident that she would throw them into a fight against nearly half-again their number while a veritable swarm of conventional enemy shards also thronged below.

Sure, conventional shards were not normally a serious threat to a Super-Shard in a straight up engagement given that a Banshee could simply outrun or outclimb them - but in a dogfight with another Super-Shard, those lesser craft could become a real danger by boxing her people in or capitalizing on any attempts at reversals. No, they weren't in a position to directly aid the flotilla at this juncture.

If there weren't so many Shriekers in play, things might be different, but for the moment they needed to stay at altitude. Fortunately, that didn't mean their presence wouldn't indirectly aid their allies. Even as she began to circle, to wait for the rest of the reserve fleet to arrive, Gerel could see the Shriekers below moving. The Southern Super-Shards were back from the main engagement and would no doubt seen begin climbing in preparation for a fight. Good, she thought.

Because by keeping her formation in reserve, Garel was effectively forcing her opponent to do the same, pinning both sets of Super-Shards outside of the larger battle. Of course, that still left the Northern flotilla they were meant to protect at a disadvantage, s as it was swarmed by conventional shards and airships. But those Northern shards that remained could now make more of a fight of it.

More to the point, the enemy Shriekers couldn't return to restock on fire-lances without leaving their own forces vulnerable - or risking leading Garel's squadron straight back to their carrier, if it was in the area. Four of Gerel's eight Banshees carried javelins, and it had definitely been noted that those weapons were markedly more effective when launched from a Super-Shard.

From a Banshee, at the right speed and angle, they could punch through armor that would normally cause a those same javelins to glance away. With all that in mind, the noble-pilot proverbially settled in for what she expected to be a long, tense standoff while they waited for the North's other assets to arrive in the area. At which point she fully expected the Southerners to flee like they always did. The cowards. Which was why she was so surprised by what happened next.

"Flight Leader, are you seeing this?" Larella's voice wrasped into her eat. And Garel did. Four of the twelve Shriekers were peeling away from their formation and heading back South.

"They're moving to re-arm," Geral said, blinking. Then she grinned.

"That makes it eight on eight," the other woman noted, almost casually.

"Even numbers." And the enemy Super-Shards were also now well above the furball. High enough that conventional shards wouldn't be able to intervene in any timely fashion if a fight broke out. The field was as even as it was going to get.

"Maybe these Southerners have bigger tits than normal. Because if I didn't know better I'd say they asking for a duel," Larel said. A slow, wicked smile spread across Garel's face beneath the oxygen mask.

"Well, who are we to decline?" She was wary of a trap – but glancing around she couldn't see any reasonable way of springing one. The skies were clear from horizon to horizon from up here. If any other super-shards tried to spring an ambush, she'd see them coming and have time to pull away. Yes, in doing so she'd be forced to present the tails of her squadron to the Shriekers they'd be engaged with at the time – but that was less of an issue than one might think. Super-Shards were fast. Damn fast.

So fast than one almost ran the risk of running into their own bolts if they fired them at anything close to top speed. Beyond that, opening the throttle up to top speed introduced a not inconsiderable amount of vibration into the frame. Those two factors combined meant that any super-shard moving at top speed had an effective firing range of all of point blank. Which meant that one actually had to slow down to shoot anything.

So no, Geral wasn't too worried about giving up her tail if they needed to flee in a hurry. It'd take them all of fifteen minutes to link up with the first wave of allied shards from the reserve fleet if they did, at which point their pursuers would be the ones in danger. She licked her lips as she stared out at the eerily familiar craft in the distance. … Beyond all that, if her people won here, they'd knock out a significant portion of the enemies Super-Shard fleet. Which would be an enormous boon for the North.

The biggest current threat to their slow advance would be removed from the board. They'd bleed a lot less ships going forward. Beyond that, the downed cores – which would be recovered once the reserve fleet arrived to drive the Southerners off - would allow for a much expanded Banshee fleet. They could reverse the current dynamic completely. And the glory, she thought. I'd go down in the history books as the woman who won a victory the first ever Super-Shard clash. This novel's true home is a different platform.

Support the author by finding it there. The Ironcreeks were not a wealthy or well known house. That kind of kudos, well, it'd do a lot for her marriage prospects… … All she had to do was win a fair fight. And what proper Northerner would back down from a fair fight?

"Form on me!" Garel ordered, momentarily lamenting her craft's lack of an 'engage' flag, as she opened the throttle towards the foe. Though not so fully that her people wouldn't have a chance to catch up as they noticed her intentions. Fortunately, while they might not have been the best of the best, they were Northern women one and all and were quick to react.

And there was nothing but acceleration and anticipation as her Banshee surged towards the enemy, frame vibrating with power as her family's aether-core howled under her. Her opponents didn't hesitate either, coming about to form an arrow to match the Northern diamond formation. Geral couldn't wait.

"They've taken the bait, ma'am," Tyana's XO informed her. Tyana could see that for herself. From her command throne on the bridge of her flagship she watched the two groups of the world's most powerful shards closing on one another high above the main engagement. And a slow, satisfied smirk curved her lips.

"Present a bunch of Northerners with what they think are even odds and they'll take it every time," she muttered. To be fair, that wasn't an instinct entirely borne of arrogance. The North had long been Lindholm's bulwark against the its foes and it showed. They fielded the most advanced ships, the most advanced shards and for the most part had the most experienced crews and pilots. For a Northerner, even numbers usually meant the odds were in their favor.

That confidence was part of why they had been so comfortable spreading their ships so thinly during the initial invasion of the South – before the Shrieker taught them the folly of that particular approach. And now, Tyana thought, they're about to be taught a second lesson from the same source. Because this fight only seemed fair. The Banshee - as their Northern prisoners had named the new Northern Super-Shards - was an unproven design rushed into service. It had to be.

Two weeks was not nearly enough time to design and develop a proper craft. Even with a captured Shrieker to emulate. Oh, certainly, they'd made updates since then, but the fact remained that the Banshee was at its core little more than a half-baked stop-gap thrown into service to address a problem. The Shrieker suffered no such limitations. More than that, it had access to weapons that the North simply couldn't emulate. As show by the Shriekers opening fire nearly six hundred meters from their foes.

And Tyana could almost see the collective mental swerve among the enemy pilots as they found themselves only microseconds to decide whether to continue their charge and hope to get into effective range for their own guns - or break off. Most broke off. Some did not. Tyana watched as two of that did not came apart in violent blooms of liberated aether as the heavier, longer-ranged rounds of the Shrieker's fifty cals tore through their airframes.

Because for all that the Yelena and Tyana had no intention of diverting 'powder guns' from the Corsair line for their Hyrda project – the same wasn't nearly as true for their Shriekers. Because for all that a Corsair was more cost effective than a Shrieker – a Shrieker was infinitely deadlier. So it got fifty cals. And her hand-chosen aces put them to work as the battle's second furball erupted. One that favored the Shriekers almost immediately.

The Banshees that had pulled off at the last moment had presented their tails, and in the opening seconds of the turning fight that proved a deadly disadvantage. It didn't help that the Shriekers were proving to be faster in level flight and retained better turning performance at high speed. It also didn't help that every Southern pilot flew with a proper radio and an open squadron channel. The Northerners, as they'd discovered from downed shard pilots, had developed something similar – but lesser.

Carved down orbs that could only be used for one-to-one, broadcasts. Tyana watched another Banshee disintegrate under concentrated fire, the core's aether venting in an expanding cloud. Of course, she did not expect the engagement to be bloodless in her people's favor. Losses would likely happen eventually. But the exchange would still favor the South, and that was acceptable. Ironically, for the moment the North would likely agree.

Losing that fight would be irritating to be sure, but if their reserve fleet arrived to find a field littered with downed Super-Shards, they would count the recovery of those cores as a strategic win. New Banshees could be built easily enough so long as the cores were retrieved. And until now the Royal Navy had always retreated when met with serious force, allowing the North to reclaim their wrecks. The difference this time was that Tyana had no intention of retreating. What did William call it?

A game of chicken, she thought. A contest where she who is willing to risk more ironically loses nothing? Well, this was a game of chicken Tyana had no intention of losing. For the first time in the war, the South was making a genuine stand and driving the North back.

"Enemy shards sighted by our air-scouts, ma'am," the XO reported.

"The enemy shards currently engaged around the enemy flotilla are beginning to break off. Their airships are withdrawing as well." Tyana nodded. That was expected. When her fleet had first arrived, the Northern flotilla had remained on station so it could continue covering the troops on the ground around Greyford. Now, with Norther reinforcements nearby, they were willing to accept a brief window of vulnerability in order to preserve their remaining air power.

That would give her own people an opportunity to rain fire on the siege camp, but brief window – and time they'd been given to scatter – would mean that enough would survive to continue the assault on the castle once the Southern fleet was driven back once more.

"Bring the Monsoon-class ships to the front and have them continue to pummel the retreating airships," she ordered.

"Have our shards break off pursuit and form up behind the Monsoons." Just as with the older Drake-class Shard, the Royal Navy maintained standardized designs amongst its ships. The Monsoon-class was simply the newest among them. And it would hopefully soon earn its name.

"Ma'am?" the XO asked, clearly uncertain about abandoning the chase so early.

"We're a bunch of soft Southerners," Tyana said sarcastically as she leaned back in her throne.

"We've not got the stomach for a proper engagement and our forward elements are clearly undisciplined and out of position." Yes, she was taking a risk by pulling her shards off the pursuit. It meant there enemy would make a clean getaway where she might otherwise be able to bring down another airship. … Though perhaps the Monsoons might manage that even without shard support. They were still essentially just regular ships of the line after all, even with their recent updates.

Still, with her shards puled back, the enemy might believe she was hesitating to get embroiled in a full engagement – and in turn see the Monsoons now steaming ahead as 'unsupported' and 'out of position'. Certainly, that alone would normally be enough to warrant a few javelin strikes before pulling back to cover the retreating flotilla. And she could only hope they did. Of course, she knew that even if they did exactly as she wanted, that wouldn't be the end of things.

No, this is just the opening move of a much longer battle, she thought. I just hope it takes Elanor a while to figure that out. Because when she did, she'd suddenly become a lot more leery about feeding her forces into Tyana's piecemeal – like she was undoubtedly doing now in hopes of 'catching' the Southern taskforce before it retreated.

"The Exodite reports that Shrieker Group A, Formation Three has arrived and is being re-armed." Tyana nodded.

"Good. Tell them to form up with Shrieker Group B and remain on standby." As tempted as she was to use them against the incoming shard swarm, she had a much more ambitious target in mind. She just needed to wait until she had some idea of where it was. Fortunately, they had a plan for that too.

"And our 'merchants'?" she asked.

"They're in position and signal is still strong, ma'am," her XO reported.

"The relays are working." Tyana grinned.

"Grab a curtain! We can net them!" Verity yelled in a panic as a half-dozen red-crested hawks wheeled around the office they'd borrowed in a chaotic storm of wings and very sharp claws.

"Ah- one of the fucks bit me!" Marline yelped at a pitch William had never heard from the dark elf before as she clutched at an ear. Though her defence, the birds they had chosen possessed very sharp claws. And beaks. William already had a few scratches of his own. And from those scratches, he'd learned a few things. Firstly, replacing ordinary pigeons with "smarter" birds for the project he was working on had not necessarily been the right move. Mostly because most smart birds were birds of prey.

Secondly, birds of prey came equipped with talons, hooked beaks, and a distinct lack of the mild-mannered stupidity that made pigeons so easy to handle. As proven by the way his first 'test subject' had escaped from the harness he'd built, launched itself across the room, and made a determined attempt to remove a strip of Verity's scalp.

Verity had naturally ducked, swung an arm, and in the process knocked over an entire stack of cages filled with similarly irritated birds, who promptly escaped from their wiry prisons. The results had been instantaneous and catastrophic, within seconds the office became a whirling, screeching mess of red crests, grey wings, and very offended raptors. The only upside to the whole situation was that the doors and windows were closed – so they weren't escaping.

The main downside to this was that neither he, nor Verity, nor Marline were escaping either until the birds were once more contained. The very angry, very bitey, birds. William could only count himself lucky that Marcille dipped out earlier. She stuck her head in earlier, muttered something under her breath, and immediately walked off again. Hopefully she was getting the falconer. Though she'd left a while ago, so it was possible she wasn't. She had also looked distinctly annoyed for some reason.

That worried him slightly. Did he have something else he was supposed to do today? He was vaguely certain something important was supposed to be happening today. Another raid or something like that? He shook his head and refocused. He had more immediate problems. If he was needed, they'd call for him.

"Big brother, what's all that noise in there? Whatever, I need to talk to you about the way you're treating your-" a familiar voice called from the hallway, as, to William's horror, the door handle to the outside started to turn.

"Olivia, don't open the door!" he shouted. Alas, he was too late. His younger sister pushed the door wide. Then froze at the sight within. Which was unfortunate, as the entire avian population of the office decided that freedom lay just beyond his younger sibling. Olivia served as an unwitting and unwilling obstacle to that freedom for mere moments.