Story - Last flight

Orchaldor sat in the copilot seat. Stretching his neck, he looked over his HUD and past the pilot's head in the lower front cockpit.
"We should see the hangar right about now. Do not forget we are still leaking, Ecthelion."

From the rear gunner's seat, Peleth's voice came over the intercom.
"Yeah. It doesn't look good from back here."

Orchaldor turned, glancing through the narrow crawlway that linked the cockpits. Peleth's helmet was nearly pressed against the side glass of the rear turret.

Ahead, the hangar came into view. The base itself was buried in the mountain, hidden beneath snow and stone, but the hangar and its main gates were exposed. Orchaldor was surprised to see it so clearly. To see the sun here was almost a once-in-a-lifetime event.

The nuclear winter had done its work. Clouds and endless snowstorms covered Narnos, and what passed for "good" weather here were days when the blizzards eased enough to allow visibility. Even with their advanced technology, the ARC had to skirt the worst of the storms to reach this place.

The fighter slowed to a hover before the vast hangar doors. The metal groaned as it fought against frost and ice, grinding open at a painful pace.

Ecthelion guided the ARC forward. He was an excellent pilot, and it was no surprise when he spun the craft smoothly and set it down in one swift, practiced motion.

The doors closed behind them, sealing with heavy clangs. A moment later, the hangar vox crackled to life. A Naru attendant's accented voice echoed through the chamber:

"Stánd by for decontaminátion. Decontaminátion in pró-cess."

Sprinklers hissed, spraying chemicals across the ARC, washing radioactive frost and snow from its hull, along with whatever the winds had carried in.

"Decontaminátion compléte, báse áccess restoréd."

The cockpits hissed open, releasing a breath of cold, recycled air, and the crew climbed out. Ecthelion slid down across the hull, landing with practiced ease, while Orchaldor and Peleth stepped onto the wing near the engine before sliding down, the metal-on-metal scraping with a harsh sound.

As flight crew, their armor was stripped of much of the heavy plating worn by standard legionaries. What remained was a lighter frame, more akin to proto–power armor than full war panoply. Their helmets too were different: lacking the outer visor, with a wider T-shaped inner slit.

Ecthelion and Peleth, unsealing their helmets, revealed blue eyes and short, dirty-blond hair. If not for Ecthelion's sharp nose, they could have been mistaken for siblings. Orchaldor brushed aside his dark, slightly longer hair and gave a wry smile.

"Nice landing. When those Wyrocs swarmed us the second time, I thought we were going down."

Peleth chuckled as she joined in.
"Right? They were everywhere. I barely even had to aim."

Ecthelion faintly smiled, his gaze lingering on the ARC's battered frame. The hull was scarred, scratched, scorched, and chewed by chemicals.
"You had better thank the Iron Lady here. She held together like her life depended on it… which, quite literally, it did."

The ARC was a heavy starfighter, its silhouette closer to a compact gunship than a nimble interceptor. The fuselage was long and solid, its nose curving into a sharp, beak-like downward slope that housed powerful sensors and blaster cannons, giving the craft a predatory, hawkish profile.

The elongated double canopy sat high near the front, slightly raised, segmented by angular armored framing. Visibility was narrower than in sleeker fighters — less a panorama, more a fortified shelter.

Stretching from the fuselage, the wings were broad and lightly forward-swept. Each began with a heavy engine nacelle, glowing with orange exhaust. Along their inner edges, armored S-foils extended across three-quarters of the wings. In attack position, these split open to form a menacing crossed X-shape, venting additional thrust and nearly doubling the craft's power output. At each wingtip sat two heavy missiles, four in total.

Behind the main canopy, atop the tail spine, was the rear cockpit — a bubble turret with its own armored framing. From here, the third crew member manned twin retrofitted light Hel cannons, their barrels jutting like fangs.

The overall impression was of a hawk with feathers bristling and a head turned sharply backward, always watching. Heavy plating and exposed panel lines marked it as a craft of endurance — rugged, durable, and built for long deployments. It lacked the elegance of Denebolian interceptors, but what it traded away in grace it returned twofold in sheer power and survivability.

Small hangar doors yawned open, connecting the bay to the base, and a cluster of Morwen stepped out. With the ever-present threat of barbarian attacks from below, even engineers and maintenance crews came armed and armoured. The Morwen wore long linen gambesons, hel-rifles slung across their backs, power falchions and handaxes at their hips.

The crew chief — an older Morwen caked in grime — walked forward. He pressed his hand to his chest and offered a half bow, unconcerned by ceremony. The Arnorians inclined their heads in return. A warm smile split the chief's face. "Good ta see ye back, ye rascals, sure an' all." he said, his green eyes flicking to the ARC. "What've ye gone an' done ta her?!"

Ecthelion grinned. "Glad to see you, Caelric." Peleth brushed past him and clapped the chief on the shoulder as she passed. "We had an acrobatics contest with almost a thousand Wynrocs. The usual."

Caelric shook his head and rubbed his forehead. "Ah, grand joke, Miss Rûthyar — very funny. Now then, lads, get on with it so these would-be suicide fools can break 'er again."

Orchaldor had never been fond of the Morwen. The unspoken truth no one liked to say was that they were a harsher, more savage mirror of the Arnorians. Still, he had to admit one thing: they learned fast.

They had only just entered the first corridor when a Naru officer approached at pace, saluting crisply.

"Legátus Gwaithyár requests your pré-sence immediátely. There are úrgent developménts."

Ecthelion gave a short nod. "We will report to him now."

The trio pressed on through the bunker's narrow halls. The place was little more than a labyrinth of reinforced concrete and steel. Most of the time they had to keep their heads lowered; often they flattened themselves against the walls to let oncoming soldiers pass, and more than once they were forced to backtrack entirely.

Orchaldor observed the Morwen around them. Their presence was no surprise—over the course of integration, Morwen had come to outnumber Arnorians in the armed forces more than two to one. True, most served in supporting roles, but the sheer numbers spoke for themselves.

At last, they reached the central hall. The chamber was vast, almost a hangar in its own right. From the railings above, the three looked down as a battered convoy of Juggernauts rumbled in, unloading wounded soldiers and crates of munitions. Most of the vehicles were troop transports with light turrets, but among them rolled a container unit and, battered yet functional, an assault variant bristling with a heavy main gun and side gunneries.

Peleth counted them aloud. "This must be the convoy from Oikos Trirous. But… two transports are missing."

Ecthelion exhaled slowly. "Yes. Oíkos Triírous. These are theirs. But I did not count them."

Orchaldor turned to a nearby wall panel, accessing the logs. "She is right. The rearguard convoy to Oíkos Trie... Triar... whatever,  was listed as one JG-AS, five JG-TRs, and a single JG-CT. Only three Juggernauts made it back."

He returned to the railing with the others. Below, the survivors disembarked—mostly Morwen. These were no engineers in gambesons, but front-line fighters. They wore fully enclosed armor: bark-green chestplates and greaves layered with padding, bark helmets with breathing units and yellow visor-slits, finished with black boots and gloves. Even so, exhaustion radiated off them. A few dropped to their knees and vomited onto the concrete floor.

Peleth gripped the railing tightly, fury in her voice. "We should have gone to cover them."

Ecthelion's gaze slid to her. "No. We should have retreated while we still had the equipment to do so safely. If we had gone to cover them, Súlimë Company would have been left exposed."

He looked down again at the convoy, jaw tight. "We cannot be everywhere."

With that, the three turned from the railing and crossed the great hall toward the command center.

The command center resembled the bridge of a ship, its wide windows overlooking the great hall below. Two Morwen, fully armored and ready for battle, stood at attention as the trio entered.

Orchaldor's eyes swept across the array of panels and shimmering holograms. The live-feed maps painted a grim picture—Barbarian swarms closing in from every direction. What had been a steady, orderly retreat only weeks ago now looked like a rout without command or coherence.

Opposite the entrance, the doors to the commander's office hissed open. A Denebolian officer stepped out—tall, perhaps even a little taller than the Arnorians.

Orchaldor muttered under his breath, barely restraining himself. "These endless inspections must be some kind of provocation. They've been here a hundred times already. This terrorist–slavery nonsense makes my blood boil."

Ecthelion placed a calm hand on his shoulder. "Let them come and go. They get their inspection, we get materials for the Forge. The A.R.S.N. would not exist without them."

Peleth, half-distracted, tilted her head in thought. "Hmm. They're all getting the treatment for height again."

Orchaldor frowned. "Yeah, I don't remember the last time I saw one of them normal-sized. Another show of superiority, I'd wager."

Ecthelion gave him a light pat before stepping past. "Not everything revolves around us, Orchaldor."

Peleth ignored their banter, her mind still wandering. "Do you think they expanded the doorways beforehand, or did they have to duck like us for a while?"

The Denebolian passed them, giving a perfunctory nod as he exited.

Ecthelion motioned for the others to follow him toward the Legatus's office. "They expanded first."

Peleth nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I bet. Would've been stupid otherwise."

Orchaldor just shook his head, muttering something indistinct as the doors closed behind them.

As they entered the disarray of the office—dignified, yet still a mess—their eyes fell on Legatus Gwaithyar. The three of them pounded their chests in salute, and the Legatus, still seated, returned the gesture. His face betrayed exhaustion; dark circles framed eyes that had clearly seen too little sleep.

He rubbed at them and looked toward the hall. "Poor bastards had to take Tharenos's pass. Such radiation will ruin a day. The whole crew of the breached Juggernaut is basically gone. And, of all times, that city soft-hander chooses to visit for inspection."

The Legatus went quiet, as if lost in thought. Ecthelion cleared his throat. "Are you all right, sir?"

Legatus shook off the weariness. "Yes, yes… just haven't slept in a while, and I'm barely at the safe threshold with athelas. There is… so much to do."

He trailed off again, then refocused. "Right. Air Command sanctioned you for another mission that needs dealing with immediately. I know it's the third in a row, but Katafýgio Pígasos is gone, and with it, Mnēmeíon Aspídos is facing both deep and surface assaults. The damned clever beasts are smart. I have a column retreating from Pígasos—they're the only ones in the area able to reach Aspídos and extract survivors, if there will be any. Now, you come into play to cover them. You are the only battle-ready ARC crew in the southern hemisphere. I know I ask much… there are swarms all over the place. But I am afraid none of them get home without some extra push."

The three of them pounded their chests again, and Ecthelion spoke with firm resolve, "You can count on us."

The Legatus repeated the gesture, a faint, weary smile breaking through, and the three left the office.

On their way out of the command center, Ecthelion immediately began issuing tasks.

"Orchaldor, get us some meals and a bit of athelas for the journey. We'll eat once we're in the air. Peleth, go help Caelric — he won't be happy, but we need to leave sooner rather than later, and you know he likes to take his time on repairs."

Both nodded. "Got it," Peleth said.

"I'll try to pry some ammunition out of Logistics," Ecthelion added. "With convoys going left and right, I only hope there's something spare."

He ended the sentence abruptly. The three of them felt it at the same time as they stepped out of the command center — that mix of faint hope and dread hanging over the base like frost in the air.

Outside, they found themselves face to face with two Sisters of Blood.

They stood several heads taller, one bearing a spear, the other fitted with massive rune-etched gauntlets. Their black armour, lined in silver, was heavy with ornaments and ceremonial markings. A large ruby droplet, crimson and perfect, was embedded from chest to short of abdomen. Arnorian armour distinguished between male and female forms, but only subtly. The Sisters' armour made no attempt at subtlety — they were the Daughters of Yárcarniel, and everything about them showed it.

Ecthelion pounded his chest. Peleth followed suit, adding a deep bow of her head. Orchaldor dropped to one knee as he struck his chest. He often wondered how his comrades could stand upright in the presence of Yárcarniel's chosen.

The Sisters nodded in return.

The vox of the spear-bearer crackled. "Good to see you, big brother."

"You too, little sister," Ecthelion replied, warmth breaking through the fatigue in his voice.

The Sisters exchanged a look. Orchaldor rose from his knee.

Then the helmets of the Sisters hissed — splitting open at the line of the mouth. The lower half folded down to the chin, the upper half lifting like an ornate sallet to rest above their brows. Unlike all other Arnorian armour, the Sisters' helmets alone could open, and seeing it always felt like witnessing a ritual.

The faces revealed were beauty beyond imagining: flawless, impossibly young, with red eyes, raven-black hair, and skin pale as if untouched by blood or sun. The two looked the same age at first sight, but the gaze of the gauntleted Sister held decades of experience.

Ecthelion's sister stepped forward and embraced him, lifting him slightly off the ground with ease. They exchanged a few precious moments — all they could afford. The Sisters were the peak of Arnorian might, and every heartbeat not spent on their missions meant another soldier left undefended.

As they finally parted, she looked over her shoulder at the trio.

"Keep them safe, big brother."