Palom

by L. L. McNeil

  It was clearly the dragon’s nest, but everything was in disarray. Bones and branches littered the ground, and above it, Arillians swirled in the sky, terrorising the two dragons.

  Palom watched, creeping forward, using several of the larger logs for cover. The hatchling still clung to his fur, its small claws digging deep.

  The Arillians swarmed like bees, rising and falling on the wind, trailing the dragons, blocking off their escape, and somehow avoiding the plumes of fire both breathed with worrying frequency. Black smoke filled the air where the flames licked the ground or caught an Arillian who was too slow to avoid it.

  Palom wanted to help.

  Wanted badly to save the dragons under attack.

  Wanted revenge for his lost allies—whether these were the Arillians responsible or not.

  The sword flickered, an arc of blue light flashing from the blade, and he dropped it onto the ground.

  He was afraid he’d turn into a butcher again, like he had for those two Varkain near the Waterside Inn.

  That seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Leillu trilled again, and Palom knew it was afraid.

  So much movement, so much electricity.

  Thunder shook the ground and echoed into the cloudy sky.

  He was not the hero the Ittallan of Val Sharis—or Feoras Sol—claimed him to be.

  He’d beaten Aciel’s warriors with his friends by his side, a fierce determination pushing them on.

  He couldn’t hope to match up to that on his own, now, could he? Not against so many Arillians.

  Another plume of fire.

  Another scream from the dragons.

  Another Arillian storm.

  Leillu fluttered its wings, though it still had its claws embedded in his fur.

  Palom shifted back, gently slid off his jerkin, and pulled the baby dragon into his arms where he cradled it.

  He wasn’t a monster.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to become one again—regardless of Lathri’s thoughts towards the Valta Forinja.

  ‘It is okay, Leillu.’ He looked up as the Arillians continued to attack the dragons, their lightning storm intensifying all around him.

  The ground shook, the air felt thick and almost tangible, and the hatchling’s breathing increased.

  ‘You are safe. I am here,’ he said, continuing to reassure the young dragon, but its eyes were locked on the sky above.

  The tiny, brave little creature writhed in his hands until it turned to bury its head in the crook of his arm.

  Palom could no longer sit around and watch and do nothing.

  He could no longer let Linaria’s wars and power struggles slip by him while he lost himself to darkness.

  He would no longer be a bystander.

  Bundling up his jerkin by the log, he wrapped the fabric around the dragon’s body, concealing it as best he could. ‘Stay still Leillu.’

  Grasping the Valta Forinja, he took a deep breath.

  He would be in control of the weapon, emonos or not.

  He would not give in to its desires.

  Palom took aim, the power in the sword building, until he unleashed the energy in a display of bright blues and teals that flashed in the dark sky.

  Arc after arc, wave after wave, Palom pulled on all the strength of the Valta Forinja and cut open their ranks.

  When the Arillians reformed, several turned their electrical attacks on him, sending bolts of lightning and waves of burning wind to the ground.

  His Valta Forinja responded, a dome of energy shielding Palom from their attacks, deflecting the electricity harmlessly away.

  The Arillians screamed at him and yelled at each other over the wind, the two dragons forgotten. He couldn’t make out the words over the rushing wind and rolls of thunder, but it was clear from their behaviour that they were shaken.

  Their ranks thinned as the sword sent another crest of energy upwards, cutting off those on the edge and splitting the Arillians.

  Palom took several breaths, the weight of his attacks draining him, and watched, waiting for a counter attack or rebuke—but none came.

  They circled several times, a towering vortex of storms and electricity, before they broke away from the plateau, some unsaid instruction to flee before a greater opponent.

  Their thunder faded, and the ground stilled, as they disappeared into the dark winter clouds.

  Palom swallowed.

  He’d done it.

  His Valta Forinja hadn’t taken over and let him slaughter anyone!

  The skies darkened as the two dragons descended, blackened and burnt by the Arillians, but both alive.

  Palom dropped down to a crouch, hoping they didn’t see him as a threat an attack—he did not want to bring his sword upon them.

  They landed with a crunch, their talons scraping against the rock face, sending bones and small rocks flying.

  He was no expert on dragons, but both were far larger than the young drake from Niversai. These two had to be adults—both easily sixty or seventy feet long, with long serpentine necks and spiked tails. Their scales shifted in the light, bronze with flecks of orange, and vivid yellow-gold.

  Now on the ground, they flexed their wings, as though testing for breaks or tears, and Palom squinted in the force of the wind they caused.

  He took a step back as they checked themselves over and glanced over to where he’d set his jerkin on the ground. The young hatchling was still wrapped up in the fabric, and Palom bent down to grab both.

  A low growl caught his attention, and he turned to find both dragons crouched before him, their eyes locked on his. They rested their chins on the ground, and Palom was able to look both creatures in the eye.

  ‘I…mean you no harm…’ Palom said, though he was unsure whether holding a hatchling dragon helped or hindered his chances of being eaten by the enormous creatures.

  Slowly, he held out his hands, the hatchling clutching his fingers. When the hatchling didn’t budge, he shook his hands and stepped back, and the young dragon leapt from his hands to the ground.

  It looked up at the two dragons before trotting back to him and sitting by his feet.

  ‘No…You go with them,’ he said, shoving it forward with one boot. The hatchling chirped loudly, and Palom looked up at the adult dragons, half expecting to be roasted.

  They studied him a long time, smoke rising from their nostrils in puffs of black every time they breathed out.

  Palom tried to look away—staring any predator in the eyes was a recipe for disaster—but struggled to break the contact. So close, they were breathtakingly beautiful.

  The dragons were a primal power, ancient and mysterious as the goddess they represented. Even sharing the continent with them, Palom had never been close enough to touch an adult dragon.

  After what felt like a lifetime, they turned their heads away from him, and Palom breathed a sigh of relief. One lingered longer than its companion, and it took several seconds for Palom to realise it wasn’t looking at him—it was gazing at the Valta Forinja.

  Did it know the sword had been forged with ore from a Sevastos’s crystal?

  The elder dragon they’d met before Aciel’s battle had known.

  In fact—she’d been the one to warn him about the cursed creation. He’d dismissed it then, but now accepted the notion warranted thinking about.

  The dragon snarled and unleashed its fire onto the sword and rock against which it sat. Palom jumped back, startled by the sudden ferocity, the hatchling held close to his chest.

  When the flames died down, the dragon stomped off after its companion—mate, probably—and Palom shuffled over to the burning rocks to check over his sword.

  Despite the intensity of the dragon’s heat, the sword seemed unscathed. If anything, it looked brand new—like it had just been cleaned.

  He looked back to the dragons, who were busy digging in the centre of their nest, breathing small bursts of fire into the ground, and decidedly uninterested in him.

&nb
sp; ‘What was that…’ Palom muttered aloud.

  The hatchling clambered up his leg to sit upon his shoulder, quite content.

  ‘You are staying with me then, Leillu?’

  He pressed the back of his hand to the hilt of the Valta Forinja, and realised it was cool enough to touch. Picking it up, he felt the familiar energy buzz through him—somewhat lessened following its use—but nothing different than he’d experienced before.

  He frowned and glanced back to the dragons.

  Had it breathed fire in annoyance?

  Had it seen the sword as a threat?

  Or was this some kind of acceptance ritual among dragons?

  And now Arillians had returned to the mainland.

  At least Sapora would have a chance to prove his worth as king against the aggressors.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sapora stalked through the palace grounds, the Varkain on guard giving him a wide berth. Even Roke, the grizzled Varkain who seemed unfazed by anything, kept his distance and trailed him from no less than twenty paces away.

  Sapora knew he was in a foul mood.

  He just didn’t care.

  He’d been back in the city almost a week, spent half of it locked in the library, and the other half in his room of mirrors.

  Morgen had vanished, and that irritated him.

  He checked before dawn, checked in the middle of the day, and checked again at night, but Morgen’s room in Rosecastle was always empty.

  Sapora knew Morgen had to sleep at some point. But after three days in semi-stasis, watching and waiting, the door to Morgen’s room hadn’t even twitched.

  On the third day, when his own stomach growled, Sapora had to presume Morgen had abandoned his task and ceased reporting for some reason he didn’t know.

  There was no chance the young soldier had caught wind of his plans—not that he could do anything about them anyway.

  Morgen had always been loyal, obedient.

  Sapora had hoped after his failure to revive Malashash that Morgen would provide him with favourable information about the hunt for the Arks in Corhaven.

  But the captain’s lack of response had only served to anger Sapora even more.

  Topeko had travelled with him to Niversai. It was quite possible they spoke often—perhaps even daily. The damned Samolen’s peace talk could well have put Morgen off Sapora’s task.

  Silly lamb.

  Sapora had even sent a message the slow way—with a physical piece of parchment on a messenger ship through Voulhrik in the hopes that even if Morgen chose not to reply, at least he knew what Sapora wanted. He’d included twenty crowns as well—money always got people moving when you wanted them to.

  So, Sapora had returned the palace library, dug up ancient texts from the basement levels and dungeons—texts which hadn’t seen daylight in centuries—and continued to study.

  He’d been through every book in the library, scoured over every leaf of paper, and found nothing.

  Even Tacio had avoided the council tower while Sapora pored over maps and tomes, looking for some way to break the seal, some way of actually restoring the Arks.

  His entire plan for the Varkain—for Linaria—hinged on bringing back the Arks.

  All of it would be for nothing if he couldn’t even do that.

  They’d been sealed by a Sevastos.

  He controlled that Sevastos.

  Surely, he’d be able to unseal them?

  Of course, he was trying to do what had never been done before, had never been conceived before.

  It was no wonder there were no books with detailed instructions.

  And Tacio had insisted that Isa was a spy for some Ittallan who were conspiring to dethrone him.

  Sapora had held himself back.

  Isa was essentially the queen she’d always wanted to be.

  What more did she want?

  Tacio had never met Isa before he’d moved to Taban Yul, and Sapora had been arrogant to assume he would understand her and get along with her as he did.

  Their conflicts wore away at him.

  He needed as many allies on his side as he could get.

  Sapora decided to get some fresh air—too long stuck inside staring at writing by candlelight and he thought he was going half mad himself.

  Perhaps he would try and speak with the Sevastos again.

  It obeyed his orders, certainly. But speaking?

  That was proving a difficult nut to crack.

  From what Isa, Morgen, and Topeko had said, the dragon they’d found in the Feor Mountains had been an elder who spoke the common tongue.

  A Sevastos would certainly be capable of this as well—and yet it hadn’t said a word to him, or Roke, or any of the other Varkain he had guarding it.

  Sapora supposed being disturbed from a 5,000 year-long slumber would put any creature in a bad mood.

  Smiling bleakly at his terrible humour, he crossed the palace gardens towards where he’d kept the Sevastos.

  It had been snowing heavily for some days now, and his Varkain were flagging. There was a reason they lived underground, and forcing them to stay outside, active and on duty, was a tall order for most of them.

  Roke had reported a day or two after he’d returned from failing Malashash that Mateli’s body had been found by a young Ittallan guard stationed in the Rio Neva forest along with nine others.

  Sapora wondered whether the old crocodile had found Palom or whether he’d chosen to attack a group of Ittallan and they’d all perished in the ensuing bloodbath.

  While his Varkain had confirmed Palom had passed that way, it appeared the tiger’s trail went cold shortly afterwards, and the entire forest was simply too vast to mount any kind of effective search.

  Sapora hadn’t wanted to let Palom get away with murder, but he had to choose his battles carefully, particularly with the Arks out of reach and Aciel’s will seeping through Taban Yul.

  In the end, he’d settled to put a bounty on Palom should the tiger ever return to the city.

  Until then, he had bigger problems to deal with.

  As Sapora made his way towards his Sevastos, he spotted Isa sat atop the palace wall. She glanced down at him with the disdainful look she’d recently picked up, and Tacio’s accusations echoed in his mind.

  ‘Is it true, Sapora?’ She asked once he was near. ‘Mateli’s dead?’

  ‘You do have the best ears in all Val Sharis,’ Sapora said, though his voice lacked mirth. His pride still stung from returning to the palace covered in dirt, sweat, and blood, without an Ark.

  Isa shook her head and looked away. She never looked him in the eye anymore.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be happy. You didn’t approve of Mateli, did you?’

  ‘I just…’ She bit her thumbnail and kept her gaze on the middle distance.

  ‘Isa…?’ Sapora hated seeing his sister like this. She was strong, proud, and fearless. Since he’d moved to Taban Yul, she seemed more of an emotional wreck than anything else.

  ‘What if…what if this isn’t right…’

  Sapora narrowed his eyes. ‘Excuse me?’

  She turned to face him, nervous. ‘Moroda wanted peace, not power.’

  ‘And…what is it you think I’m trying to achieve?’ He asked.

  Isa shrugged. ‘The Arks…?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were after? You kept going on about “treasures” without telling me the truth! I had faith in you. So much faith. You were better than the Varkain who came before us, better than the Ittallan who sat in this marble palace preening and looking down on us!’

  ‘Why don’t you have faith anymore?’ Had she learned of his failure to revive Malashash? His pride stung.

  ‘I’m a prisoner again, Sapora.’ She tilted her head back and looked up into the sky. She was trying not to cry, he assumed. ‘Tacio hates me. His Varkain follow me everywhere I go. I just…I just…I wish I could turn back time.
I would’ve done things differently.’

  Sapora blinked. ‘How so…?’

  ‘Killing so many people wasn’t the right way to go about it…’

  ‘It was the only way to go about it. We discussed it. We agreed! Those peacocks and swans, who treated you like you were the scum of Linaria! I put them back in their place for you!’

  ‘I know, but…’

  ‘There is no going back. We make decisions, we carry them out. That’s what good leadership is.’

  ‘I want my home back.’

  Sapora shook his head. ‘What are you talking about? Half the palace is yours. You have two ships, the run of the city, you can go where you like, eat what you like, where what you like. Call yourself the queen if it makes you happy.’

  She trembled slightly, her heart fluttering. ‘It wouldn’t…’

  ‘Isa, you’re not weak. Do not act like you are. You’ve more power now than a year ago. I’d have hoped you wouldn’t be ungrateful.’

  ‘What do you want from Val Sharis? From the Ittallan? From me?’ She’d raised her voice, now.

  Panic.

  He spoke slowly and kept his voice low so as not to intimidate her. ‘I am bringing in a new age, Isa. The age of the Varkain. Getting rid of the fear and stigma which plagues us and ensuring Linaria treats us—all of us—with the respect that we deserve!’

  ‘And you need a Sevastos to do that? A god?’

  ‘The Sevastos is an animal. Like any other beast you’d find, and it can be trained. Why wouldn’t I use the resources I have?’

  ‘And the Arks?’

  He licked a fang. ‘Aciel is influencing the city. Somehow. What if he is able to break free? Dragons are already terrorising the cities in Val Sharis. If he manages to escape, who do you think is going to stop him? The Imperial Guard? They did such an excellent job of stopping him before.’

  She swallowed.

  Sapora continued, ‘I have no intention of giving up what we have—what we’ve worked so hard for—to an upstart Arillian with a bit of magic behind him!’

  ‘But, the Arks…’ She bit her thumbnail again.

  ‘My liege!’ Roke screamed from the other side of the gardens. ‘A fleet of warships!’