The Shattered Crown: The Third Book of Caledan (Books of Caledan 3)

by Meg Cowley

  Tarrell did not let down his guard, and Farran returned to patrolling the lofty heights. For a time, there was silence. Tarrell stood, his sword raised and every hair on his body risen and shivering. Every inch of his skin was alert and tingling. His breath stopped, but his heart pounded on in his ears like the thud of a dragon in flight. Thud. Thud. Thud. Nothing. Nothing in the darkness came for them. The drumming of his heart pattered with the drumming of landing dragons upon the hard ground as Farran signalled the descent.

  Once more, the flames crackling leapt into focus, and the chatter of Eldarkind and dragons became a cacophony. Still, Tarrell stood, seeking anything in the valley, but, before him, the valley was dark. The brightness of the flames behind him obscured his vision; it was a void of the blackest night. They were out there, he knew. Somewhere.

  “They have fled,” said Farran, breaking the spell upon him.

  Tarrell breathed a sigh of relief, but he did not dare ask.

  “Far away. They will return.”

  “For now, we are safe, though?”

  “For now.”

  Tarrell felt too numb to be angry. He was in shock now that the action of the night had faded. He turned to survey the devastation. A good portion of all he could see was burnt or smouldering.

  His kin moved about, quiescent themselves at the devastation before them. There were many injured to tend to. They wandered pale-faced and bleeding, clutching injuries and helped along by their kin. And then there were the dead, who lay splayed and broken; scattered like autumn leaves upon the forest floor.

  Tears glistened on his face as he walked amongst them, mirrored by his kin, as what had passed now sunk in.

  There would be much work to do to make Ednor good and whole again, Tarrell knew.

  ~

  The scale of the devastation was only clear the following morning in the cold light of a new dawn. Blackened and charred structures still smoked. Much had been flattened; collapsed through fire, or the bulk of dragons, whose bodies lay across entire buildings, having reduced them to rubble. Their death toll had been low, but the Eldarkind’s was much higher.

  The more Tarrell saw on his slow walk through the once lively and beautiful streets as Farran plodded next to him, the more his anger grew; a cold, inexorable rage that seethed in the pit of his stomach. He could barely wait to be out of earshot of his kin before he turned to Farran and unleashed the fury.

  “Look at what you have brought to my people and our home!” he accused. “Death and destruction! Such suffering we did not deserve for our compassion to you and yours!”

  “Cies would have sought you eventually, and without us to aid you, you would have been entirely at their mercy,” Farran growled. “There is something far greater in motion. You ought to know that and act upon it!”

  “Yes, we must remake the pact, and we cannot afford for this.” Tarrell gestured at the devastation around them. “This will take years to make good, and what of my kin until then? Shall we freeze and starve in the meantime? What of those who ought not to have died? Their death is on your conscience!”

  Farran rumbled menacingly. “I refute that, yet I understand your grief. We must remake the pact and the only way it will be achieved is by defeating Cies. Only then can the three races be in harmony. Only then can the pact be restored.”

  Grief broke through Tarrell’s anger and he faltered in his rage. For a time, he sunk onto a blackened stone and simply thought, only realising Farran still stood beside him when his reverie broke some time later.

  The anger was useless, he knew. And the grief. They would not be dismissed easily, and nor should they, but they would not help in what now lay ahead of the Eldarkind and the dragons. Tarrell knew the truth in Farran’s words, as reluctant as he was to admit it. “You may be correct,” he conceded. “If there is strife between the three races, the pact will not bind. Cies and his followers need to follow the ways of peace… or be defeated. The former is unlikely and therefore,” Tarrell sighed, “the latter is our only choice if that is the case. Even if you are right, how can it be done? It is clear we are sitting targets.”

  “We must play to our strengths,” Farran hinted. When Tarrell looked at him, nonplussed, Farran sat on his haunches and elaborated. “We struggle in the cold, and you struggle in the heat. How can we combat that?”

  Latching on to the problem at hand, Tarrell set aside his anger. “Protective spells from the cold and heat respectively.”

  “Yes, for our sakes, but I meant in the form of attack. How can we use this information to weaken our enemy? What of your blue fire blades? They did much damage with their cold fire. How did that happen?”

  Tarrell shook his head. “I know not much about them. In my lifetime, I have not seen a blade behave thusly, though I am very gladdened they did, for without their imbued magic, we would have had a harder fight.”

  Tarrell drew the blade that still sat at his hip, examining its unremarkable, and now silver, surface. Experimentally, he moved it slowly closer to Farran, who watched with one giant eye. As the blade drew closer to the dragon, it glowed with a blue light, mirroring the previous night.

  “Stay still,” Tarrell said, as he scrambled to his feet and moved back. With all his might, he ran towards Farran and swept the sword in a mighty arc towards him. At the last moment, he deflected the blade into the ground, just as it erupted into blue flames. As the energy of his attack faded, so did the flames until they sputtered out and once more left a blade that was extraordinarily cold.

  Farran huffed a ring of smoke from his nostrils. “Interesting.”

  “I do not know this magic,” said Tarrell, frowning. “But it is mighty useful. Our master smiths of old were great blade-smiths and spell-casters if they could make our blades so strong and powerful that they can endure thousands of years and still be thus. I must speak with our master smith and see if he can explain it. We need this protection if we are to succeed.”

  ~

  The master blade-smith caressed Tarrell’s blade like a treasured artifact, and examined it in silence for many minutes whilst Tarrell waited. He was not usually impatient, but now he had to force his foot to cease tapping upon the cobbled floor of the smith.

  “It is a beautiful blade,” Jarnsmi said with an approving nod. “An old blade, too.”

  This Tarrell knew, for its lineage was recorded from his grandfather’s hands at the time the pact was made a thousand years before, and even earlier than that.

  “All the old blades are made thusly,” replied Jarnsmi in answer to Tarrell’s question. “The heirlooms of Ednor tell a tale of our history. All the oldest blades were made with such magics to repel our old enemies the dragons. Unused as weapons against claw and scale for a thousand years, such skills have slept, but now they awaken as our old enemy seeks to challenge us once more.”

  “Does the magic have a limit?” Tarrell asked, wondering if the magic might have been used up in the battle. To his surprise, Jarnsmi laughed.

  “No, for it will draw the energy of the world to sustain it, such was the skill of my forefathers. Then, should that fail, it will call upon the wielder, and, last of all, the blade itself, so above all, the blade and the spell endures.”

  “What of our newer blades?”

  Jarnsmi shook his head. “The art has not been practised in a thousand years, given there was no need. It is a complex and lengthy process I only know snatches of theory from, but it is not used in our modern weapons.”

  “Can it be?”

  Jarnsmi pursed his lips and pondered. “No,” he said eventually. “It would take weeks now to forge a blade using this technique; a slow and lengthy process during which I would need to research the old ways and practise them. I am sure the outcome would be less than perfect.”

  Tarrell tried to stave off disappointment. “Not all carry blades as old as the times of the wars. Not all will have the protection afforded, or the ability to defend themselves. Can the protection be added to weapons already wroug
ht?”

  “No.” This time, Jarnsmi was quick in his reply. “The spells do not take to cold metal already wrought. As with all spells, they must be imbued when the blade is in the making and the spells must be cast at precise points in the forging to bind with the metal for all time.”

  Tarrell deflated. He had hoped there was some solution. “What of those who do not have old swords to protect themselves?”

  “The ice-fire itself can be made,” suggested Jarnsmi. “It can be coated upon the blades, or whatever surface you chose. It will be nowhere near as long lasting, though.”

  “Still, that could help us.” Tarrell latched onto the idea, and his excitement grew. “As we carry fire in jars to travel with on occasion, we could also make and store this, no?”

  “Theoretically,” Jarnsmi acknowledged. “If it be stable enough.”

  “We must test it. Will you retrieve the old records and put to practice this theory with any of our kin you deem could help?”

  “I will.”

  Tarrell swept out to call a meet of dragons and Eldarkind to share his news, confident he had found a way to successfully defend them against Cies.

  ~

  “Will we not be sitting ducks, as we were this time?” Sendari asked, as a host of all able-bodied Eldarkind and dragons met that evening.

  Tarrell shook his head as the spark of an idea formed. “I have an idea which can avoid this, though it requires the cooperation of our dragon friends. The Eldarkind and dragonkin could fight together, as one, in the sky, where dragonkin are most powerful and where we can lend our abilities in close quarters.”

  “How is this possible?” asked Farran.

  “We, ah, we could ride upon you.”

  Angry roars erupted around them as dragons stood, flexing their wings, kneading the ground with their claws, and shouting down his idea.

  “We are not like these mules you ride,” Farran said, glowering. “We are not beasts to be ridden.”

  Tarrell bowed his head to Farran and held up his hands, which had little effect to quiet the insulted dragons before him. “I cry your forgiveness,” he shouted above the din. “I meant no offense.” He paused as the discontent subsided. “With greatest respect, unless we can do this, how can we get close enough to Cies and his kin to aid you? We either sit on the ground, waiting to be picked off by flame, or attacked from above; or we join you in the skies to both protect you and fight with you: tooth and claw, magic and blade. Will you not allow us to engage in a fair fight?”

  He looked around. The Eldarkind had already shrunk away in doubt, still unsure of their ‘allies’, whilst the dragons recoiled with open disgust at being asked to be beasts of burden.

  Unexpectedly, the young black dragon, Myrkith’s son, Tarrell remembered, stepped forward.

  “I will fight alongside you,” Myrkdaga said. Smoke dripped from his nostril as his growl deepened. “I would see Cies, coward of the silver scales, destroyed and my sire avenged at any cost.”

  Lorellei pushed forward through the ranks of Eldarkind. “We fought well together. I would be honoured if you would consent to bear me into a new battle.” He bowed to Myrkdaga.

  “You understand I am not your beast to be commanded,” said Myrkdaga stiffly.

  “I do.”

  “No liberties will you take with me. You will treat me with utmost respect at all times.”

  “I shall.”

  “Then I will bear you, as I bore King Soren.”

  Lorellei grinned, and there was a fierce challenge in his eyes as he moved to stand next to his new dragon partner.

  Tarrell’s eyes widened at Myrkdaga’s words. There was a story here he did not know. After a moment, he recovered his composure. “Myrkdaga, I am honoured and gladdened by your commitment. Together, we can succeed. Lorellei, for your willingness to stand first, I will bestow upon you the greatest sword of your house to fight with. Are there any more amongst you who would follow this fine example?”

  When all was said and done, only a few dragons came forward to consent to Tarrell’s idea, and Tarrell struggled to recruit enough Eldarkind to match them. It will have to do, he thought as he surveyed the paltry gang before him. Nevertheless, with Farran’s insistence to his kin that it was necessary, he partnered Eldarkind with dragon, so one could fight from the ground and one from the air, always in constant contact with each other and able to help where needed. Those with spelled blades he gave the most important task of ensuring those Eldarkind on the ground were protected, and he hinted at his solution that would allow more of them to temporarily give their blades the same power.

  “Now, we wait,” Tarrell finished. “Set a watch,” he instructed.

  “Fly patrols,” Farran added to his own kin.

  The group made to disperse, until a voice piped up. “When will the attack come?”

  “With the dark,” Farran replied grimly. “Cies will want the element of surprise, and the cloak of darkness. We must use all of our senses to detect him, and the night to our own advantage. He will not want us to regroup. He will be swift to seek retribution.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The smash of hammer upon nail drifted through the window into Soren’s study, jarring his already pounding head. He peered out over the square in front of the castle. Out of sight, he knew a messenger pinned up the first of a stack of decrees bound for all corners of western Caledan.

  “It should not have come to this,” he said with a scowl as he paced around his study.

  Behan stood by the door with his hands clasped, examining the rug beneath his feet with greater interest than normal. He made a noncommittal noise as a reply.

  “The Eldarkind are our allies,” Soren stressed, glaring at Behan, who would not meet his eye. “Surely, you do not think otherwise?”

  Behan met his eyes for the briefest moment, shook his head, and looked to the floor again.

  Soren halted, his consternation rising, and looked at Behan. “Never have you been silent on a matter, Lord Steward. Speak to me now, Behan.”

  At his name, Behan shuffled uncomfortably. “They are not natural creatures, Sire.” He detailed what his many intelligencers reported back. “People are scared. After the dragon attacks, they fear anything they do not know. Who are these fleeting fey folk, with pale hair as bright as starlight, smooth faces, and lilting voices? Where do they travel from and to, and how do they travel so unseen and unheard? In the west, you know of the old tales of the fey folk. Are they to come to steal our babes, make us take leave of our senses, rob us? Which tales they know determines their fear.”

  “You should be able to sift rumours from truth, though, Lord Steward.”

  Behan twisted his hands together.” It is difficult to know what to believe in times such as these,” he admitted.

  “I expect better of you than this,” said Soren, a hint of sharpness about his tone. He narrowed his eyes. “For a thousand years, the Eldarkind—and the dragons—have guarded our borders, our people, and kept the peace of Caledan, whether or not it was known. They are our allies, now and forever.”

  Behan surprised him by meeting his gaze with a surprising fire in his eyes. “You cannot think this of the dragons, surely?” He bobbed his head apologetically as Soren glared at him for speaking out of turn, but his eyes still fixed upon Soren with a passion he was taken aback by.

  “Not all dragons are our enemy,” Soren said, wary of Behan’s strange mood. “There are a few bad eggs in every race. That I need to issue a decree stating it is against our laws to attack a member of the Eldar race—who have never done anything to harm us—is unthinkable.”

  “That you have to issue a decree at all shows the magnitude of the problem,” replied Behan quietly.

  Soren tremored with frustration at his words, and before he could say anything he would regret, he left. It would take a lot more than words to change Behan’s mind.

  ~

  “Good morning, Sire.” Barclay strolled in with a noncha
lant grin on his face and bowed as low as he could without tripping over; wobbling as he almost lost his balance.

  Soren did not smile.

  “Come, what ails you, Soren? It’s far too nice a day to be glum.” Indeed it was; a fine and warm winter’s day, and the snows had almost melted, but Soren could not shake the chill in his heart.

  “There have been more attacks on the Eldarkind, and Behan thinks I’m a madman for issuing the decree to protect them.” He trusted Barclay intimately with most details these days, and was glad for the close friendship they had developed.

  Barclay nodded, but his grin faded.

  Soren huffed, and threw his hands up. “What? Say it! Everyone clearly knows something I don’t. Damn it, be honest with me.”

  Barclay sighed and regarded Soren solemnly, with all trace of merriment gone from his eyes and his voice. “I say this as a friend, you understand?” A trace of anxiety flitted across his face, causing Soren to frown as he beheld it.

  “There is a… growing discontent, shall we say—that you will not have seen for yourself—and a distrust of your actions. People see you fraternising with what they perceive as the enemy. There are whispers you are losing your mind and are not sane or fit enough to rule.”

  Soren froze, not even breathing. “Swear you do not lie to me.”

  “I swear it.”

  “Who says such things?”

  “Who doesn’t? What is a rumour but a wildfire of words? Come, you know how court works.”

  “And what say you?” Soren held his breath as Barclay deliberated his answer.

  Barclay faltered and his mouth twisted. “I count you as the dearest of friends, Soren, this you know. I think you not mad, but I cannot help think what do you is madness. Dragons? Dragons! They attack us, and yet you want to befriend them?”

  Soren held his tongue for the moment. “And what of the Eldarkind?”

  “You know my feelings. They’re a strange people, and I cannot fathom them.”

  “Barclay, will you trust me on this, if I ask you to?”