by Duncan Lay
‘Tell me about the Dragon Sword,’ he said to the dragon, when Karia started supplying the voices of the adventurous fluffy bunnies to supplement Havell’s reading.
Argurium smiled. ‘There is much to tell. Is there something you need to know?’
Martil rubbed the hilt of the sword, feeling the dragon shape. Where to start?
‘I was told its power would inspire good men to rally around, to follow the wielder. Is that true? Is everything that the Norstalines boast about true? Would it really have killed me? Was it responsible for my nightmares about Bellic? Why did it let me draw it, if it only wants good men? Why wouldn’t it work for me for so long? Would it work on Derthals?’
‘Perhaps you should sit down and get comfortable,’ Argurium invited.
Martil almost flung himself down onto the ground.
‘Let me go back to the beginning and then you can ask questions along the way,’ Argurium offered. ‘It sounds strange but it took centuries for we dragons to comprehend that we must die and be reborn, as with all things. For time is relative to a dragon. To us, a century of your time is like a day. Our lives are not defined by the seasons but by a much greater cycle. But while birth is a natural thing for living creatures, for dragons it is something strange, for we do not breed. Our numbers do not increase or decrease. So how then could we secure our rebirth, and the continued life of the magic? And it must be done according to the laws of nature.’
‘Not exactly a perfect design. I’d say Aroaril was having an off day when he created you.’ Martil grinned.
Argurium stared at him. ‘That is a whole new question. After all, we were given the ability to create this process. So are we apart from the power of the Gods? Beyond their command, even? After all, natural magic and the magic that priests of Aroaril or Zorva can command is different. Who came first? Were we created by the Gods or did life spring into being from the magic and then the Gods were created because humans required a spiritual manifestation of the good and evil that lurks within them…’
‘Wait! Enough!’ Martil cried. ‘Perhaps we should leave that discussion for another day. Can we get back to the Dragon Sword?’
Argurium inclined her head. ‘Of course. But it is fascinating, is it not, to think about such things? We have pondered this debate for a millennia and are still no closer to the truth.’
‘Well, I don’t have millennia, so if we could just return to the Dragon Sword…’
‘So. We created the Dragon Egg. All of us, making it into the female essence of dragons. But an egg by itself is nothing—it requires fertilisation to secure rebirth. Also, the Dragon Egg, by its very nature, could not be like a bird’s egg, able to be cracked or damaged easily. We had to create a way to complete the cycle, act as the male to the female half of the egg. The Dragon Sword. It is the only object that can penetrate the Dragon Egg and, by that thrust inside, complete the process of fertilisation, leading to the rebirth.’
Martil found himself squirming a little at this description.
‘Then the Sword…’
‘Is the male essence of dragons and the missing seed to the female egg.’ Argurium nodded. ‘Thus we created the means for the dragons to be reborn, in accordance with the laws of nature.’
Martil regarded the Sword at his side rather doubtfully given it was, it seemed, a male dragon’s private parts. How many times had he handled it?
‘You should not think of it in that way,’ Argurium told him. ‘But surely, you are aware of the process?’
‘Yes, I’m aware of it!’ Martil snapped, images of Merren swimming in his mind.
‘Well then. Now you have accepted why it was created you can see the problem of who was to finish the process. The men that served the dragons, the Elfarans, were the obvious choice—except they had already lived far beyond the normal span of men. When the dragons died, they would follow. No, the Sword had to be given to normal men. It could not be kept on Dragonara Isle, for it was not safe to have them both close together. If the rebirth happened too soon, who knew what effect that would have on the world? So we had to send it away, find a safe home until it was needed. But it was a piece of magic stronger than anything ever seen before. It had to be, for it had to operate by magic after the last dragon had died, and the magic had ended. What if a man used its power for evil? And it had to be a man, for it was the male essence of dragons. Its magic would never, could never respond to a female. So we used magical safeguards. The Sword would not allow itself to be drawn by someone who wanted to use it for their own glory, their own power. And those who were allowed to draw the Sword were warned to always use it for good and noble purposes. Any selfish acts, acts of anger and hatred, acts of evil—then the Sword’s power would begin to drain the life from that wielder. It would offer warnings, in the form of dreams; it would give the wielder the chance to redeem himself but, if he failed to heed those, it would kill him. Because it is such a powerful source of male magic, it attracts other men. Its wielder can inspire other men, make them rally to him, especially if they are similar to the wielder. The hope was that the Sword’s wielder, being a good man, would bring together other good men, to help keep the Sword safe. We could not have it used to fashion an empire of bones.’
‘So why did it let me draw it? I have blood on my hands!’ Martil interrupted.
‘But you never wanted to use it to make a name for yourself. You did not draw it while imagining yourself as a king, an emperor, a ruler of armies and mobs. And, at your heart, you are a good man. A man scarred by life but a man capable of great kindness. The Sword saw all that. Then you began to use it in anger. You killed men who did not need to be killed—and did not deserve to be killed by the power of this Sword.’
‘How did you know that?’ Martil demanded.
Argurium indicated the Sword with a graceful stretch of her neck. ‘I am a dragon. I helped create the Sword. I can tell its history, how it was used, every wielder through its long life.’
Martil looked at the Sword. The eyes on the hilt seemed to twinkle at him and he felt an irrational urge to apologise to it.
‘But your true nature began to assert itself. Your desire to protect the Rallorans, to protect the Norstalines who served you at Sendric helped bring it to life and brought the Rallorans onto your side. You were almost ready to be its true wielder. Then came the battle of Sendric and you lost control again, killing unarmed men in anger and hatred. The Sword became afraid for you, and began to help you, forcing you to confront your past through your dreams.’
‘I’m so grateful,’ Martil told it sourly. The memory of those days, when he had been unable to sleep for haunting nightmares, was still strong.
‘Thanks to Karia and Merren, you were able to break free of your past, escape your memories and, when you tried to sacrifice yourself to save others—the most noble of purposes—you became its wielder and began to win over men like yourself. Good men. Men who wanted redemption, who knew they should be doing the right thing, even if it meant their life. And so you won Pilleth.’
Martil looked at the Sword. ‘So without Karia and Merren, the Sword would have taken my life?’
‘Yes, it would. And the country would already be lost,’ Argurium agreed. ‘But things happen for a reason. There is no such thing as an accident.’
Martil was about to deny that, when he thought back to the extraordinary chain of events that had brought him here. ‘All right. That might explain what happened to me. But what about King Riel and all this business with the goblins, or Derthals? How come you gave it to him, only to have him turn around and begin a war with the Derthals?’
Argurium’s head lowered.
‘When we chose Riel, we thought we had chosen wisely. He wanted to unite his country, to protect it against its enemies. A noble purpose. And Norstalos was the biggest country of the two continents closest to Dragonara Isle. If it could be united, it would be safe, at peace. The perfect place for the Sword. Its kings would never be in danger, never really need to use
the Sword—thus its true nature would not need to be revealed. It was given in secret, and meant to be kept a secret. We did not want it to become the symbol of a country or the subject of sagas. It was to be hidden but, when we needed to fulfil the Dragon Sword’s true purpose, the kings of Norstalos would be ready. Riel began well. He tried to use the Sword to unite the country, in secret. But many of his nobles were not good men—and it did not work. Then gold and silver were discovered in the north of the country. So he turned to greed to unite the country. All knew of the rich farmland to the north, the vast forest. But few were prepared to risk their lives by farming or logging, for this land was inhabited by strange-looking people. They looked so different, spoke such a completely different language, that people swore they could not be men—they must be monsters. Goblins. Creatures of saga and legend. To tempt people north, he made up a story about Norstalos being blessed by the dragons. About how the goblins, as he called them, had tried to kill a dragon. How he had rescued a dragon and the dragons had rewarded him by giving him a magic Sword. How it was the duty of every Norstaline to punish these evil creatures and all who did so would receive their own farm. Once the goblins had been driven away, he could then open mines in relative safety and use the gold from there to purchase the loyalty of his rebellious nobles. Those who swore fealty to him, who disbanded their armies and served him, were rewarded with grants of land and gold. Those who did not found themselves under siege from a king who could suddenly afford a huge army. So he won over the country—at a cost.
‘The Sword tried to reform him, giving him warning after warning. It worked, after a fashion. While he did not stop the persecution of the Derthals, he convinced his sons and his relatives that only good men could use the Sword. He put the fear of the Sword into them, so they took it up as a burden and a duty to the country, instead of wanting to use it to create their own glorious legend.
‘It was too late for him, it claimed his life. But while the secret was out, at least the true purpose of the Sword was hidden. And it ensured every Norstaline king after Riel did not use the Sword to turn themselves into a bloody tyrant. The few selfish ones who did dream of conquest were refused—and their refusal only secured its legend. Then Duke Gello tried to draw it, lusting to rule the world. And every other noble in the country tried to take it up, thinking of the dynasty they would forge, the legend they would create. So it stayed in its sheath, until you unwittingly drew it in Tetril, not thinking of what you could do with it.’
Martil sat there on the grass, trying to take all that in. One thing struck him.
‘Back in the capital, Karia was able to use the magic from it, to help us open a magic gateway. But she’s female. How did it work for her?’
Argurium nodded. ‘But she was only able to use it through you. If you had not been holding it, it would not have worked.’
Martil scratched his chin. There was only one more question he had.
‘So would it work on Derthals?’
Argurium looked grave. ‘That depends on what you want them for. You were correct in thinking the Sword would refuse to summon Norstalines across the land to form a massive mob that was doomed to defeat and slaughter. It is the same with the Derthals. If you want to sacrifice them to save Norstalines, then it will not. But if you truly believe the two races can unite to defeat the evil that is spreading across your land, then it will help you.’
Martil gave a bark of ironic laughter. ‘So I just have to work out how to defeat thousands of Berellians and Tenochs?’
‘Correct,’ Argurium agreed.
‘What’s going on? Are you telling stories without me?’ Karia raced over, followed by a slightly harried-looking Havell.
‘Would I do that?’ Martil asked with a wink, then laughed as she hurled herself upon him.
‘I can beat you, you know!’ she told him, as she contorted her face into a fierce expression and tried to wrestle him.
Martil let her think she was winning, before lifting her into the air.
‘Are we going to be flying again today?’ she asked from above his head.
‘No, we have to work out how to win a battle, instead.’ Martil lowered her to the ground carefully, whereupon she fastened herself around his waist.
‘That sounds boring. Can we do something else?’
‘The sooner we think up something, the sooner I can play with you,’ he offered.
‘That’s a deal! Show me and I’ll tell you how to win! After all, I did at Sendric!’
Martil laughed. ‘Let’s find some paper and ink.’
Merren rode back to the palace, deep in thought. Barrett had failed. Not only had he failed but, by extension, she had failed. She was the Queen, the one they all depended on. She should have marched down to Barrett’s house, dragged him away from that girl and demanded he make sure the weather was on their side. Another choice she must live with. For a moment only she blamed herself but then she stopped. You cannot go down that path. ‘If only’ is the way to madness for a ruler. You must make choices, then have the strength to live with the consequences, she told herself.
More disturbing was how she had behaved back there, demanding Tiera encourage Barrett to push himself past his limits, even unto death, if that was what it took. The parallels between her actions and Gello were impossible to ignore. She had always thought they had nothing in common but that was a lie. They were both prepared to do almost anything to win.
But there is a difference, she told herself. I can control myself, and my ambitions are for my people, not for myself.
There was another difference as well. Now her initial horror and anger at not being able to stop the storm had passed, she could see Tiera had done the right thing. Still…the storm would strike tonight. The plan to get everyone to safety had failed. It was enough to make anyone give up, but Merren would not go down that path, either. There had to be another way! Despite Nott’s confidence, his defiant plan of fighting Gello, the Berellians and Tenochs seemed foolish at best. Merren had been taught by Martil, who had learned his lessons in the bloody cauldron of the Ralloran Wars. Battles were fought when two sides formed shield walls and the side whose wall cracked first—usually the one whose line was shortest and thinnest—was the one that lost. But to form a shield wall took training and iron discipline. How did you learn that when you did not use shields and barely understood the language of those you fought beside?
And that supposed she could even get the Derthals to fight. What else could she offer them? And, even if she offered them the whole of the north, would the Derthals guarantee victory?
Then again, even victory would bring problems. She knew full well the muttering against her. Ironically enough, the areas that had been strongest for Gello, the south and west, had suffered the worst and were now more on her side than the east and the north, where the people were scared of what they thought was a horde of goblins waiting for them. She could save the country, only to have it turn on her.
She shook her head. Worry about the peace once you have secured it, she told herself. Concentrate on the problem at hand. But there was no comfort in that, for the problem defied belief. If only Barrett had been able to break apart that storm!
She left Jaret and Wilsen to look after the horses at the Royal Stable and decided to take a bath before trying to work out what to do next. It was her one chance to be alone, without anyone demanding she make difficult choices for them.
She was already anticipating the blissful silence when she walked around a corner and into Count Sendric.
‘Your majesty! How did Barrett fare? Is the storm destroyed?’ Sendric asked eagerly.
Merren composed her face hurriedly. ‘The storm is reduced—but it will still strike the northern half of the country tonight.’
Sendric’s face sagged. ‘But what will we do?’
‘There is only one thing to do. We shall have to find as many weapons as possible, arm everyone, then try and persuade the Derthals to join us.’
‘Pe
rsuade the Derthals? What else are you going to give them?’ Sendric snorted.
‘You forget yourself, Count! This is my country!’ Merren blazed.
Sendric grumbled an apology. ‘But it is my land that is being given away.’
‘Better to give it to Derthals than Fearpriests!’ Merren told him tartly.
The Count looked ready to continue the argument but instead swallowed heavily.
‘Your majesty, I bow to your wisdom in this matter. But I beg you for one favour.’
Merren regarded him suspiciously. ‘And that is?’
‘We need to secure the succession. What if I am killed in this battle? Then your child will be left fatherless and the country will be plunged further into crisis. It would mean the end of the royal line and Norstalos will become a laughing stock. I beg of you, arrange the marriage in the next couple of days!’
Merren stared at him. The country was about to be destroyed by Fearpriests and he was obsessing about his dignity and the country’s reputation.
‘That is solved simply,’ she told him icily. ‘You will not fight. You will remain by my side. You will be in no danger, unless I am. And in that case, we will all be dead and it will not matter anyway.’
Leaving the outraged Sendric in her wake, she swept upstairs, hoping he would not follow her—and thinking he would regret it if he did.
It was almost the last straw, and she could feel the pressure of it all threaten to overwhelm her. She was going to have to gamble everything on one battle. She thought she had already done that before, at Pilleth. Luck, Aroaril, the Dragon Sword, whatever, had favoured her that day. Surely it could not happen again. Thinking they could win two miraculous victories against the odds was surely too much to hope for. At that moment she almost felt like calling for Martil. They had not really spoken since his return from the south, and she had tried to put him out of her mind but now she wanted to see him. She needed some human comfort, even if it were just someone to hold her. Although she doubted either of them could restrict themselves to just holding each other.
