Hur’agha snarled at the pair, her captors. She stalked towards them unafraid, fire burning behind her eyes.  The Cardassian shot her a mocking smile. The human soldier’s expression was unreadable. Hur’agha huffed and jerked the chain. “Release us peteQ!”

“Swa hit is to wênne of Klingon beasts.” The priest said with condescension in his voice.

“And gēa, swa beast, hīe worhton þæt flying-mæsċine.”

Hur’agha shook her head in frustration. The universal translator was finally working out the language. Would the insults ever end? First, someone shoots her ship down, obviously not these people, then she is chained to a barn while they talk about her like a zoo specimen.  She scowled at both of them.

“Hit mihte beon God’s gift.”

The warrior shook his head in skepticism. “The Gods are dead. All you healden are your eald superstitions.”

He approached Hur’agha as the priest instinctively wrapped his hands around the cross hanging from his neck. Studying her, he took her in keeping a safe distance, before moving to the side and taking in Kora’q, who was still kneeling in the straw, meditating, doing his best to ignore the intruders.

“What do you want from us?” Hur’agha demanded.

“The brute speaks our tongue,” the Cardassian exclaimed, his knuckles whitening around the cross.”

The human held up a hand for silence, his companion cocking his head at her.  Silence stretched as he worked the information being dropped on him like it were a full spread of photon torpedoes.

“You are a curious creature,” he said, and bent down, picking up a squat three-legged stool, and placed it before him and Hur’agha. With a tired grunt and a clatter of armor, he dropped onto the stool, setting his helm and gauntlets on the ground next to him.  Hur’agha could smell a foul combination of body odor, oiled steel, and that unique sour and rot scent of leather repeatedly saturated with sweat.

“I have never known a Klingon to speak Saxon, but that isn’t even the most interesting thing about you and your companion.  You were found in the wreckage of an iron bird. No one on Niwe Bryten controls the skies since we killed the old Gods.”

“The Vulcans are as clever as they are brutish,” the priest hissed. “They may have located one of the relics used by the Old Gods and resurrected it using their demonic magic.”

Kora’q stirred and climbed to his feet, joints popping. He locked his good eye on the priest and chuckled. “It is a relic, but not of this land, and there was no magic in its creation. Our ship was just old.”

The priest scowled, and he made a motion to extend the cross toward Kora’q, but stopped.  “The beast dares speak to us.  Savol has unleashed his demons upon us.”

“Enough, Father Rumar,” the human said in a clipped tone. “The Vulcans and their Klingon allies are not demons.”

Anger flashed across the Cardassian’s face, but he quickly replaced it with a fake smile. “Of course, Lord Ælfweard, but one can never be too careful when dealing with the tyrant Savol.”

Ælfweard laughed, “Of course, Rumar, of course. I care not how they acquired an iron bird. I care what it means for us. What these birds are capable of.” He continued speaking to Rumar, but he turned his attention to Hur’agha, directing the questions to her. “Do they only fly, or can you shoot arrows from it or throw fire like dragons of legend?”

“Yes,” Kora’q said, “It has weapons beyond your comprehension. So powerful they can destroy planets.”

“But,” Hur’agha added, “they are for the enemies of the Empire.  Right now, you are my enemy, but not the Empire’s.”

Rumar hissed, clutching his cross in an act of protection, the color fading from his face, “Christ the High King, guard us from the devil’s works and the wrath of our foes. Let no evil cross our threshold.”

Ælfweard stiffened, his jaw clenched, as he processed the information. Hur’agha knew the primitive human would have no concept of disruptors and antimatter torpedoes, but he would understand the threat. A world-destroying weapon would be incomprehensible to him. It was almost incomprehensible to her.

“And what Empire might that be? I have never heard the tribes of Klingons refer to themselves as an Empire.  Their alliance with the Kingdom of Vulcanis is not an Empire unless Savol has consolidated his allies with your people, the Betazoids, and the Danes.”

Hur’agha let out a deep rumble from within her chest. “We are not from this world. I do not know of its politics or care about them. What you call an ‘iron bird’ is a spaceship. A ship that transported us from the Klingon homeworld to here, where we were attacked.”

“Domine Sancte in Altis!” Rumar uttered.  “I will not stand here and continue to hear this blasphemy. These heretics must be put to death. They associate with demons and spread lies! Only fire will purify their souls.”

“Enough!” Ælfweard growled.  “These people pose a threat. I need to know what that threat might be and who it might be from. The Klingon tribes are sworn enemies of King Godfrey, and it is my sworn duty as thagne of these lands that I protect my people and my king. To do this, I need to know as much about the enemy as I can.”

“Enough?” Rumar spat red, flooding his cheeks and ears. “My lord, do you not hear the poison on their tongues?”

Before Ælfweard could answer, a soldier rushed into the barn with a clatter of plates. His armor was battered and covered in mud. His face was smashed and bloodied, nose broken and streaming blood that he no longer bothered to staunch. As he approached Lord Ælfweard, he turned his head to speak in confidence with his lord, and Hur’agha saw his neck, and she raised an eyebrow.  There running up his neck and around his ears were the distinctive markings of a Trill.

How many species are on this planet? she asked herself.

Ælfweard gathered his helm and gauntlets and stood. “You have done enough, Jax. Alert Sir Odalric and then get yourself cleaned up.  I want my levies moving out within the hour.” He turned to Rumar,  “Priest or not, if harm befalls the prisoners while I am gone and I find that you are behind it, I will kill you.”

The Cardassian blinked and flashed that fake smile again. “Of course, my Lord. They shall have the protection of the church.”

Ælfweard grunted and gave the priest an expression of disgust and walked out of the barn, Jax at his side, and the black robed Cardassian following in reluctance.  At the door, he paused and looked back at Hur’agha and grinned.

This time it was a genuine smile. “I will drive the demons from your soul if it’s the last thing I do.”

The doors slammed shut, and the barn was cast in shadow, and out of frustration, Hur’agha gave one jerk against her binding with a clatter of chain. When she escaped, one of the first people she killed would be that Cardassian. He was without honor, so his death would not bring her any, but something told her that she would be balancing some cosmic scale. Rumar was a man of evil, no less than Dukat; the only difference was that he hid behind religion instead of the state.