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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/DrDoritosMD on 2025-11-04 20:42:41+00:00.
Blurb/Synopsis
Captain Henry Donnager expected a quiet career babysitting a dusty relic in Area 51. But when a test unlocks a portal to a world of knights and magic, he's thrust into command of Alpha Team, an elite unit tasked with exploring this new realm.
They join the local Adventurers Guild, seeking to unravel the secrets of this fantastical realm and the ancient gateway's creators. As their quests reveal the potent forces of magic, they inadvertently entangle in the volatile politics between local rivalling factions.
With American technology and ancient secrets in the balance, Henry's team navigates alliances and hostilities, enlisting local legends and air support in their quest. In a land where dragons loom, they discover that modern warfare's might—Hellfire missiles included—holds its own brand of magic.
Chapter 65: Shock and Awe (2)
Kelvand twisted in his seat, straining against the belt to catch the sky through the gaping ramp. The straps bit into his shoulders, leather creakin’ with the pull. All down the row the councilors craned the same, a line of greybeards starin’ out like miners watchin’ for a fall. The wind came howlin’ in, cold enough to bite, but none of ‘em gave heed.
Six shapes came screaming out of the high sky. Hawks on the stoop, aye, but faster still; fiercer still. Too fast to mark, too fast to name.
Great silver darts they were, sharp as any forge-wrought blade, wings fixed hard as if hammered from one piece. No flap, no feather, no breath o’ life in them. They were only steel, flyin’ as though will alone bore ‘em up.
Where hawks wheel in wide grace, these things carved the air square and sudden, corners sharp as a mason’s set. Where eagles climb with beatin’ wings, these simply rose.
And the speed – by the Forge, the speed! Falcons fall fast enough to blur, but these… these were gone afore a man could point, dartin’ in ways that made his head swim.
The sound came with ‘em, shriekin’ past their ‘helicopter’ in a thunder that rattled the very frame. Wind tore through the open ramp, whippin’ beards and cloaks. The noise jarred his jaw, rattlin’ him to the roots o’ his teeth.
In a blink the shapes were past, gone out of sight. They vanished into the blue like arrows loosed from the gods’ own bows.
Then they were back, sweepin’ round with the surety of hawks returnin’ to the kill. Two hung close, glidin’ down the flank of their craft, metal wings steady as stone. The others broke wide, circlin’ high above. Kelvand craned to the ramp again, seein’ two lingerin’ astern, followin’ in tight line, hunters guardin’ their charge.
“Sweet stone o’ the mountain.” Pragen’s lips moved, though the roar made a mockery of the words. The old man was half out of his seat, strainin’ his belt near to break just to see.
One of the arrow-craft tilted, showin’ its belly for a breath. Four great eggs hung beneath, each thick as a prize hog and twice as long, two to either wing. The thing bore ‘em like they weighed naught at all. Its hide was painted queer, a gray that drank the light, cut with seams and edges sharp enough to turn the eye aside, as though made to be looked at yet never seen.
The crewman only grinned, calm as if thunder were an old friend. “Those’re our fighters,” he called over the roar. “F-22s up front, and the rest are F-35s.”
Pragen lurched forward, beard whip-snappin’ in the wind. “How fast? What drives them? What—”
“Fast enough they’ll be past ya before you hear ’em comin’.” The crewman’s grin widened. “No magic, no nothin’. Just good ol’ American engineering.”
Kelvand could scarce hear a word, the roar poundin’ through the hull like a smith’s line of hammers. The man’s easy talk set him ill at ease, as though such power were naught but another craft to boast of.
“But the wings don’t move!” Forgemaster Pragen’s voice cracked with the strain of shoutin’. “How do they—”
“Wings’re shaped special: curved on top, flat on bottom. Air moves faster over the curve, creates lift. Same principle as a sail, just…” He swept his hand through the air in a quick arc. “Faster’n sound.”
Master Boral, pale as fresh parchment, found his voice. “How high can they fly?”
“Higher’n any dragon ever dreamed of,” the crewman hollered back. “They could drop those bombs from so far up, the wyverns’d never even see ’em. Once they Pickle those bombs, things’re gonna get real interestin’ real quick.”
Pragen hadn’t stopped starin’ after the silver arrows. His mouth worked as though tryin’ to find words to match the sight. “What manner o’ metal…” he muttered at last, near reverent, near afraid.
“Titanium alloys, carbon fiber composites,” the crewman said, clearly enjoyin’ himself now. “Stuff that’s stronger than steel but weighs half as much. Hell, the skin on those Raptors absorbs radar – though I dunno if that’ll be of much use ‘round these parts.”
Pragen’s jaw slackened; his hands, still on his knees, curled as if grippin’ tongs that no longer answered him. To his ears it was likely blasphemy, and wonder both. No forge could birth such matter; no hammer could shape it. Yet there they flew, proof against every truth any dwarf had ever sworn by.
The crewman ignored the man’s awe. “Fifteen minutes out.” He checked his watch again. “Settle in, folks! You’re boutta see why nobody fucks with the U.S. Air Force.”
He gave them a last grin, then shouldered past to his seat near the ramp, strappin’ in without a second glance.
Kelvand’s stomach turned – not for the lurch of the craft, but for the ease with which a man might speak of such ruin. The others sat wordless; no man spoke, for what words could stand beside such power?
He drew a breath slow and steady, lettin’ the weight of it settle in his chest. Whatever awe had seized them, it would not serve; wonder was a poor companion to duty. There’d be talk, and sharp talk at that, once they were on the ground. Yet better it begin now, while the sky still held them close and the world below was out o’ reach.
The craft banked again, sure as a mason’s line, and Kelvand took his moment. He bent nearer to Pragen, his voice droppin’ into the deep-cut mountain-cant of their youth – a tongue rough-hewn and old as iron, too knotty for any spell to follow clean.
“Forgemaster, what’s yer measure o’ this?” Kelvand gestured around them. “Not whether we could make such things – that answer’s plain enough – but what would it take? How many forges burnin’ day an’ night to birth one o’ these beasts?”
Pragen shook his head. “It’s not the forges, General. We could fire a thousand, an’ it’d change naught. This craft isn’t won by heat or hammer; precision is what we lack.” He rapped a knuckle on the hull beside him. “Look here: every rivet twins its brother, every plate cut true within a hair’s breadth. No hand could keep such measure, not even the steadiest.”
Kelvand frowned. “Then what could?”
“Some art we’ve never dreamt,” Pragen said quietly. “A craft that shapes metal to command, not touch. Machines that make other machines, mayhap – each one perfect as the first, an’ blind to error. It’s not mastery of the forge, General. It’s mastery o’ repetition.”
He continued, “Their small tablets, their speakin’ boxes… each the same as the next, no hand’s mark in any. And the metal…” He drew from his pouch a little screw the Americans had given him, turnin’ it in slow fingers.
“That trinket,” Kelvand nodded at the screw. “Can ye at least fashion that?”
“With what, General?” Pragen’s temper showed in the tightness of his voice. “I’d need to know the mix itself! What metals, what trace o’ others, what temperin’ they used, an’ the heat to the very degree. Even then, I’ve no means to see that fine. We’ve hammers, tongs, gauges – aye – but naught that could measure the grain o’ the metal itself.”
Kelvand’s brow knit. “Their weapons, then – the guns.”
Pragen took a great pause, before he finally responded, “Aye, the shape’s no mystery. With mithril, the barrel need fear no thunder. Why, we might fashion a piece truer, harder than any rifle they cast.”
The man’s speech spoke of disappointment, as though such a feat would not be a great victory. “And yet?”
The Forgemaster set the bit of metal down and folded his hands. “We’ve no means to produce the ammunition. Their bolts are not lumps o’ lead; each is turned, dressed, weighed an’ beaten to a measure finer than any eye we keep. To make but a soldier’s day’s load by hand would call for a hundred smiths at least, an’ presses, jigs, gauges – tools we do not have in number nor in cunning. To arm a company thus would set our forges burnin’ for months; to arm an army would be to set the whole mountain to the task.”
Pragen’s shoulders slumped, the weight of his own admission settlin’ on him like slag gone cold.
“It is like…” He drew a breath through his beard. “Tryin’ to teach steelwork to a copper-smith. They might see what ye’ve wrought, even grasp the shape of the thing in their mind, but they’d lack every tool, every temperin’, every truth o’ craft that bridges the gap.”
Kelvand said naught for a spell. The Forgemaster sat bowed, hands idle on his knees – and that, more than any word, told the measure of it. “An’ we’re the ones still workin’ copper.”
Pragen nodded once. “Aye.”
The Americans and their ways yet remained a mystery. They could sit here guessin’ at shadows, or they could ask plain. Kelvand’s gaze found the e...
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