Drakan: RATH and the Story of Lady Annwn

Drakan : RATH - The Story of Lady Annwn

Excerpt from Drakan : RATH - The Story of Lady Annwn

The gargantuan alien warship had dropped from the sky like the Plague of The Prophesies, eclipsing the sunlight for

miles around the cities and countryside over which it had descended. Then it had continued advancing, hovering miles

above the ground, like the Shadows of Unreasonable Darkness, and began it's deadly methodical scouring of the planet's

defenseless population centers.

Defenseless because it had come nearly without warning, after somehow managing to penetrate the Planetary Defense

Shields! A scenario that had hitherto been considered to be impossible, because the great shield-generators were powered

by the Seven Suns of the Realm. And those vast ancient thermonuclear facilities, buried deep beneath the highest mountain

valleys, housed tiny artificial stars, the Thermosuns, that were considered to be an inexaustable source of unlimited energy.

In all the centuries of the Golden Age, no rival force had ever found a weakness in the Shields, no man had ever found a flaw!

Within the shield perimeter, the ship was unstoppable. It had been constructed of the very same war-materials and military

supplies whose sale to the Other Worlds of the Veil had made the Golden Age so golden. And it's massive hull had

obviously been thickly reinforced with Drakanium Alloys, in which even the most minute addition of the stable but still rare

transuranium super-heavy element had made steel nearly indestructable. So protected, the warship had confidently cut it's

path at a leisurely pace, from Fiefdom to Fiefdom, advancing on each of the great corporate City-States and centers of

Industry with the dawning of each new day, as if to deliberately approach in it's own shadow of the victim's doom!

Drakanium! A substance so priceless that even the Imperial Army could barely afford it's use in their own munitions.

Derived from the processed Drakanite Ores found only in the Dragon Fire Mountains, so named not only because of the

region's volcanic activity, but also because of the ore's intense red colour. Erupting lavas that contained even the smallest

amounts of the pyroclastic mineral were easily recognised, because they flowed, and their smoke and ash rose, as red as

fresh blood. The same firey hue, amplified by every glimmer of external light, as seen in the rare gemstone of Drakanium

oxide. Dragon's Eye was a prize coveted not only by every Fiefdom, and even the Emperor, but by the Other Worlds as

The finest and largest known specimen of Dragon's Eye in existance, The Dragon's Eye, was owned by one man: Wolvgann Arduino Rimbaldi. He had always worn it openly ( confounding those who would have secreted it away into their deepest dungeons ) as an embellishment to his clothing, clasped within the frame of a golden medallion, and worn beneath both of his chins. The jewel, and the true fire-breathing dragons that had been created by the genetic engineers of his medical science and research subsidiaries, were symbols of his Fiefdom. And of his reign as the principle shareholder and Chief Officiating Noble of the largest and wealthiest, the most well-fortified and indeed the newest of the industrial city-states within the Realm. Though, in truth, his title of Nobility was not something that he had been born with.

Wolvgann Arduino Rimbaldi had been born a lowlander. A child from a family teetering on the edge of ruin and starvation, who had escaped the poverty of his roots by joining the Imperial Army. He had been "fortunate" enough to make the aquaintance of a middle-class commoner whose academic skills had earned him the right to an "Invitation" to join the ranks. But the youth did not wish to join, and it had been a simple matter for Wolvgann to convince him that he could take his place. He did so, with ease, and once there he had quickly begun to forge the beginnings of his fortunes. Through the application of the raw survival skills and ruthless cunning he had learned as a youth, he had achieved the rank of Master Supply Sargent, and could finallly dip his cup into the vast river of military supplies and materials that flowed through every base, barrack, and bootcamp in the realm.

Eventually, through outside investments... of various sorts, he had achieved sufficient wealth to buy back his freedom, and

then he was finally able to move freely through the slowly growing ranks of the Nuevo Riche. Soon thereafter, his growing

fortunes had allowed him to secure the partial ownership, followed quickly by the total aquisition, of the Pleasure Resorts

of the Second Moon. Knowing, through indiscreet contacts, that these Resorts had long been the private obsession of an

aging Nobleman, Lord Ichoban Degenraggas, Wolvgann had openly announced sweeping changes to be made. Enraged

by these actions, the Lord had gone so far as to publically challange Wolvgann's Right to Ownership, and then had offered

to buy the properties at twice the price that he had paid for it. Wolvgann had politely refused. Finally driven to despair after

several more attempts ( and you would have had to meet the man in person to understand why ), Degenraggas had offered

Wolvgann any property in his holdings in exchange for the Pleasure Resorts. Since, on this world, just about anything could

be bought and sold, Wolvgann had responded, this time, with a simple proposal: he would give up the Resorts in return for

the Lord's Title of Nobility. At first, Degenraggas would not, or could not venture even an indignant response. And it is said

that he had waited up until the very last moment, as Wolvgann had ordered the dozerships into formation and had drafted

the dismissal notices for the staffs, before giving in and finally agreeing to the exchange.

The lowland boy, turned Master Supply Sergeant, turned formidible businessman, had laid the papers in front of the old

man without so much as a hint of emotion. Shaking as much from anger as age, Degenraggas had quickly scanned the

documents and then had signed, having been handed Wolvgann's own elegantly sculpted gemstone pen, while muttering a

curse under his own breath. It wasn't until after he had handed over the documents, seal, and artifacts held so long by

generations of his family that he had noticed the slight smile on Wolvgann's face. And it wasn't until some days later when

one of his unfortunate advisors, unlucky enough to be the first to summon up the courage, had told the ex-Lord that due to

his "understandable disregard for the trivial facts of astronomical science" that ownership of the Pleasure Resorts only

extended to those periods whereupon the somewhat eccentric orbital motions of the moon brought it to within the legal

range of the location specified within the Documents of Sale at it's time of signing... for about thirty-three seconds once

every three-hundred and forty-two years.

Thus it was, that Lord Wolvgann Arduino Rimbaldi, a.k.a. Lord Drakan, had aquired the wealth and Title that would open

doors and clear pathways toward greater power and greater aquisitions than he would have ever dared to dream as that

lowland boy. And then, at last, his unquenchable lust for control over his own destiny had ushered him into dominion over

his own corporate realm. As the Master of the DrakanCorp City-State, whose mining facilities, offices, palaces, mansions,

commerce buildings, apartment blocks, marketplaces, and worker slums were built at the very edge of a still active, though

technologically contained, volcano. A sprawling city by a dangerous sea, at the very end of the Dragon Fire Mountain Range.

A location that had initially been chosen to lessen the difficulties involved in mining and processing one of the principle

products of the DrakanCorp Mining Subsidiaries.

And so it had come as no surprise to the remaining members of the Noble Classes when the composition of the alien

warship's indestructable hull had been discovered. Having narrowly escaped the annihilation of their own Fiefdoms, and

fleeing away in front of the oncoming ship's path followed by only a small fraction of their remaining armies and surviving

civilian populations, they had converged upon the walls of DrakanCorp not only seeking refuge, but demanding to know

the truth behind this apocalyptic disaster, as well.

If Wolvgann's own forces had not still been fully intact, he might have ended up lynched instead of merely questioned by

the furious crowd of Noblemen and Women. As it was, he could only offer them an obligatory sanctuary rather than an

explanation, as none would accept his denial of involvement in how so much of his ore could have fallen into the hands, or

tentacles, of so dangerous an enemy. Though, he had managed to quickly sidestep some of their wrath by reminding them

of the mystery of the Shields. And by pointing out the Emperor's immediate and hasty retreat down into the very largest,

deepest, and most well-protected of the Thermosun facilities!

All that they could do now would be to stand together. Though who, exactly, should have been their leader was apparently

still open to question or, in some cases, even violent dissent. The furious debate had continued until the end without firm

resolution, but one fact had remained clear and obvious: it was Lord Drakan's territory, after all, and his voice would continue

to speak the loudest.

But the clearest? Curiously, military tactics and stratagies had never been his forte, despite his undisputed brilliance at ruthless

social and econonmic manipulation. He could not offer a decisive plan of attack, and certainly not against an enemy whose

flagship had remained impervious to even the most advanced of weapons... which had been designed for an unlikely surface

Still, a solution would have to be found within only days, as the ship's slow and steady path, circling the planet at the pace

of the dawning sun, would lead it, at last, to the walls of DrakanCorp. It was certain that the facilities were the last target on

the invader's hit list, for it was likely that surrender, rather than the destruction of so valuble a resource, was on whatever sort

of minds they had. And surrender was not an option. The battle had to be won, and by any means possible, because the

consequences of such resources, and the Thermosuns as well, falling into the possession of any of... the Others... were

unthinkable. And, so far, not even the best equipped of the Star Force's Skyfighters had put so much as a dent onto the

surface of the monstrous alien machine.

Amidst the shouting and the fray, even Lord Drakan's echoing baritone could hardly be heard, though he had stood on the

dais at the very front ( with his own glaring and banner-sized gold-framed portrait behind him ) of the Executive Meeting Hall.

Then one old Lord, a bespeckled, frail, and wispy-white-haired man, had raised an anxious hand. Agitated and frowning, he

glanced around the marble-pillared Hall at the faces who continued to ignore him, but had maintained his salutory posture

all the while. After a period during which the moments had begun to stretch into awkward minutes, Wolvgann, with a sudden

sharp exhale, and wiping his hand over an uncharacteristically wearied brow, had then signaled a cursory recognition of the

elderly man's gesture. After several more moments of increasingly impatient and futile attempts to quiet the crowd, he could

no longer contain his frustrations. Seizing upon one ill-fated gold and porceline artifact from amongst those that had lined the

walls on each side of the Hall, he had then slammed it onto the stone table in front of him with a force that had split it into

fragments. When the reverberating crash had faded, it was clear that he finally held the attention of his audience.

"Yes, Ivor." he had said, instantly recovering his composure and calmly brushing the debris away, "What do you want?"

Lord Ivor Crystimann, who in his younger days had been singlehandedly responsible for the building of the glassworks

industry which continued to produce, up until the hour of it's destruction, the very finest mass-produced sculptures, vases,

and dinnerware in the Realm, glanced sadly at the shattered remains that now lay forgotten on the floor, and then seemed

uncertain as to whether he should dare speak.

"What did you want to say, Ivor?" asked Lord Drakan, a hint of impatience rising again in his voice.

"Umm.." Ivor began. After a nervous stammer and a fruitless search for a misplaced word or two, he finally spoke, " I... I

The wave of incredulity which had swept over Drakan's face had lasted only an instant before returning to perfect calm. In

all probability, it had come and gone, entirely unnoticed.

" Do you intend to use it to battle the Othership on your own?"

One man had actually laughed, but swallowed and choked upon it, as he met with Drakan's sudden burning gaze.

"No, no!" Ivor spoke up, his confidence returning, "It is no ordinary sword! It has been in my family's possession for a

thousand years, and it was originally forged by the Tech Mages of Wyvern's Vale... by King Justinianii himself! I am

speaking of the Stormsword!"

A hushed murmer swept through the Hall. Lord Drakan blinked... and then recovered again, but had concealed his own

doubts with a dismissive response, "That... is a myth."

"No. No, it is not."

Ivor stood and moved toward the center aisle, while he looked searchingly toward the back of the Hall. Spotting his

attendant, he raised his hand, snapping his fingers to summon her forward. She moved quickly, lifting a long, slender and

ornate wooden box, and delivered it into her master's hand's without ever daring to allow her eyes to look at anyone else.

Taking the box, he walked toward the dais, carefully stepping over the scattered fragments of porceline and ignoring the two

guards who stood at each side, and placed it carefully on the table before Drakan. Ordinarily the guards would not have

allowed anyone to approach their master this closely, particularly with an unknown object in hand. They advanced by a

step, their weapons at the ready, but he had steadied them with a single slight movement of his hand, all the while never

once diverting an intrigued gaze from the box now resting in front of him.

Without a word, he motioned to Ivor to open it. Ivor did so and, snapping the latches, he lifted the cover to reveal a sword

of gleaming metal with a jewel encrusted hilt. Even in the open light of the Hall it could be seen to glow with a faint bluish

light, and Drakan recognised the gemstones immediately. They were of an even rarer variant, like Dragon's Eye, but made

from a purified Drakanium isotope. They glittered brightly, sky blue instead of the familiar blood red. And they were the one

thing that Lord Drakan would have given anything else to possess. Even his own soul... if he had actually believed he had

Drakan, now tranfixed, drew a steady breath through parted lips. For the first time in his life, he simply did not know what to

say. After a moment's pause, Ivor spoke again, breaking the mood.

"The Mages, then, were Masters of particle-beam technology... and they built this... as a purely defensive weapon. After

our ancestors had abandoned nuclear devices following the Holocaust in which they had nearly destroyed themselves. It

produces a tightly focused and confined beam of antimatter particles, which it shields from the atmosphere using a cloak

of powerful electromagnetic energy. Up until the precise point at which the antiparticles reach a solid target... so it's no

good against ghosts!"

Drakan looked up at Ivor's smiling face, barely perceiving the joke. "How... how is it... how do I use it?"

Ivor paused again, for a longer moment this time, to consider his words, "Well... there is one... two... are two... slight

Drakan's brow tightened ever so slightly, "Go on."

"You see... as I said, it was built as a purely defensive weapon... they made sure of that. But it can cut through anything...

even Drakanium alloy, albeit a bit more slowly. The problem is... that it also generates powerful radiation emissions in the

process. And they are fairly deadly. Even thickly armored, a normal user could not activate it for more than a few seconds

and hope to survive. So penetrating a thick Drakanium hull might be... difficult. And it also generates intense bursts of EMI

emissions... disrupting any cybernetic activity, so a robotic carrier would be useless as well."

Drakan's arms dropped limply to his sides. Then his hands tightened into fists, and he hissed through clenched teeth,

"Then how do I... how do we use it to save ourselves?"

Ivor sighed and shook his head, "Well... that is for you... and all your scientists to figure out. I'd get right on it, if I were

The audience of Lords began to grumble amongst themselves. The crowd of citizens up in the galleries, who had observed

quietly until now, started speaking out loud, some in tones of panic. Drakan, himself, had stood there, briefly, quietly, while

entertaining inner visions of throttling the old man right on the spot. But his reason prevailed and he signaled for his guards

to haul Ivor away, instead.

Fortunately for Ivor, at just that moment the great doors of the Hall had swung wide open, while a blue-clad and blonde-

haired woman marched confidently through, and up the center aisle toward Drakan. No one had made a move to stop her,

as her face was familiar to all as their world's most brilliant Quantum Geneticist.

"My Lords!" announced the Lady Annwn in a bright and clear voice, "I believe that I have the solution to your problems!"