They are running, thought Rostrom, who had not moved from his place on the peak of Arma. Ah, the sacrificial lambs, he thought as he saw the enemy’s movements. A large section of the fleet was breaking off and retreating, but a small vanguard continued on towards the Lair, drawing the fire of his brothers as they came. The six sky-ships heading for the Arma Peak had opened fire with their Sabre Cannons. Caution told Rostrom that he should retreat below but pride would not let him, Fenngaard had reached out to snuff the flame of resistance, but their hand was burned and snatched back. The logical part of his mind said that this would prompt an even stronger response from Fenn but even so he could not help but be elated as his watched the flaming silver wrecks fall out of the sky.
The cannons boomed and filled the air with purple fire and an acrid smell. Most of the fire rained down on the jackal’s head, they sought to deface the mighty beast even as they flew to death in its jaws. Some foolish gunners tried to fire at the sorrow hawks, but the birds were too fast. They stand more chance of hitting their own, thought the old jackal as he watched their numbers reduced to three, then two, then one last sky-ship.
Several fires burned on its deck and hundreds of fireballs slammed into it as it soared over Rostrom’s head. The last vessel crashed down into the hollow that housed the nest of sorrow hawks. Most of the hawks were absent, having flown out into the clouds upon Rostrom’s command, but he spared a thought for the eggs still down there, many of which would be crushed by the falling vessel.
All restraints of age and faculty were forgotten as Rostrom raced back up the mountain path to the platform around the crater. He'd walked down to the Lair to sound the alarm and it had only taken minutes for hundreds of jackals to answer his call and swarm up the mountainside to mount sorrow hawks and go on the offensive. Many more were emerging from the Lair in addition to those who now swooped in to land from their steeds.
As Rostrom reached the platform he was joined by Cahir and Jakalen. The ship was destroyed, a mound of burning metal which had carved a crater into a crater. Hundreds of talented jackals were now standing around the edge of the mountain top. They watched the sky-ship burn, its heat like victory in which they bathed and cheered. Then came a sound from the ship and Rostrom saw a figure emerge from the wreck. It was a silver claw, battered, bloody but alive. The figure staggered upwards and Rostrom was not surprised when it flexed its claw and lunged up towards him in a clumsy charge. Several of the jackals tackled him, threw ropes about him, blew misery dust in his face and then struck at him with hammers.
They tried to smash the silver claw on his gauntlet but were unsuccessful; unsurprisingly, the claws were made of sterner stuff. They settled for tying his arms close to his sides, rendering the claw useless.
“Bring him”, barked Rostrom, turning and heading down into the Lair.