Dragon Road

by Joseph Brassey

  The other fighters were still cheering for their commander, but Belit’s gaze was on Elias. Still gripping his palm, she said – quiet enough to keep it between the two of them – “You fight like a demon, Elias; with fury and passion and verve, but against the calm mind, your skill unravels. Who taught you to hate so much?”

  Disarmed, beaten, Elias’s mouth opened and closed several times before he could form a response. “Someone utterly unlike you,” he said at last. “Someone who no longer teaches me.”

  Orphaned. Alone. It was one of the smaller prices paid, if he was honest, and nothing against all the crimes upon his soul.

  Belit gave a slow nod, then released his hand, and looked at the others. “Alright, enough watching. The ship has yet to pick her new captain, which means our duty until they do is to hone our skills. Back to work, the lot of you. First paired drills, then formation, then defensive perimeters. By day’s end, you will execute all of these flawlessly. Move.”

  The men and women jumped to obey, and the room filled swiftly with the crash of repeated training weapons and the shouts of assigned group leaders correcting their juniors on form. Elias looked around, feeling both at home and utterly alien in this place.

  “I didn’t say we were done,” Belit said, and when he turned towards her she tossed him a messer, single-handed and single-edged. He caught it easily, then cleared his throat. “Commander,” he began, “I come on behalf of Harkon Bright.”

  “Perhaps that is what sent you here,” Belit corrected him, “but not the why. You owe me several more rounds first, so I can know the broken state of your skills in full.”

  Dumbfounded, Elias simply stared at the woman across from him, analytical in her gaze, fierce in her strength, but calm as well. And determined in whatever it was she’d set her mind upon.

  “Why?” he asked at last. “What are they to you?”

  “You’re a broken orphan, Elias Leblanc,” Belit answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s obvious in everything about you, from how you fight, to the grieving reticence with which you entered my hall. I swore a vow to the one who first put a sword in my hand and taught me its secrets, that I would always look out for the orphans, for the lost, the broken, and the forgotten. Now put up your blade, Elias. We can speak after. First I must put to mending the mess of a warrior in front of me.”

  The messer sang through the air. Elias stepped back, parried Belit’s rapid upward cut and pushed the blade out and away from his center. He rammed the point in, aiming for her throat. She snapped her arm high and across, drew her steel back and dropped the point. A parried sword was now a wall of steel, and Elias’s thrust veered away from its target. With his pressure as leverage, her blade rotated in a lightning-swift circle that brought it snapping down at his shoulder. Instead of dashing back and trying to block, Elias moved inside the range of her cut and thrust his off-hand beneath the wrist of her sword-arm, stopping the cut in its tracks. Then he went for the grab. Throw her. If he could just get close enough to throw her–

  A brown, scar-coated set of knuckles filled his vision. The punch caught him in the side of the face, scrambled him enough to set her up for the same throw. She’d signaled her move enough that he registered what she was about to do, and instead of being slammed onto his back, Elias rolled when the world spun. He came up in a crouch as she barreled in on him, sword still in hand. She stopped short without effort, smiled, and gave a nod of approval. “Better,” she said.

  It was their sixth bout. Elias’s arms burned and his breath came hard. He was in exceptional shape, but dueling with blunts for hits that didn’t end the fight immediately took a toll… and he ruefully acknowledged that he wasn’t fully recovered from his fight with Malfenshir. It had been a month since he slew his former second-in-command in the bowels of the Iron Hulk. A month since he’d taken a wound that should’ve killed him.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have expected to be at the top of his game.

  “Had your fill?” he asked, straightening. “I didn’t actually come here to fight, you know.”

  “Ah,” Belit answered with a correcting, raised finger. “But I did. That is the purpose of a training hall. Talking is for after practice. If you wish to speak,” she said, “you first have to train.”

  A small smile perked at the corner of Elias’s mouth. Whatever else might have been said of the commander of the Red Guard, he liked the way she thought.

  “Go on,” she said, facing him fully now. “Speak.” Her gold eyes were direct, their gaze hard to meet. Elias did so anyway.

  “Harkon Bright and Rachim want your help,” he said. As he spoke, he watched the look on her face turn stony, reserved. A sense of sudden helplessness assailed him: he was not a diplomat. Roland had trained him in the arts of the worlds’ courts, but his every skill in that sphere was intimately tied with manipulation, with deceit and with murder. Abruptly, he remembered standing in the sun-tinted splendor of Port Providence’s royal palace, pointing an armored finger at a king and a prince he would soon kill, and promising them absolute oblivion.

  He felt sick. So he met her gaze and said, simply, “I don’t know which candidate will win your captain’s chair, but I have seen what happens when a people come apart, commander.” There was a lump somewhere in his throat. He swallowed it. “If you can do something to prevent it, you should. I can’t say if it will work,” he said, “but your conscience will be lighter.”

  The stone cracked slightly, but her expression was still reserved as she watched him. Somewhere a door opened as someone else entered the training hall, but Elias didn’t turn to look.

  “It’s not appropriate,” she said after a moment of painful silence, “for the commander of the Captain’s Guard to involve herself in the politics of succession. Your master is the moderator of that process. I cannot be seen helping him.”

  Elias slowly nodded, the weight of her choice settling on him. He closed his eyes for a moment. “I will not ask you to compromise your position.”

  She considered that for a moment, but the sound of footsteps made her turn. Elias followed her gaze. Resplendent in his medals and uniform, Yaresh, lord of the muster, strode towards them, lightly clapping his hands.

  “That,” he said, “was a magnificent display of swordplay. I did not think to see another student of the Varengard style other than our own exceptional Belit in my lifetime.” Up close, Yaresh’s face was pitted and scarred. He had that combination of strong jaw and intent gaze that had likely made him very handsome in his youth, but the weight of age made skin sag off at odd angles. His nose had been broken twice, and there were scars that even the finest magical healing hadn’t removed. It was his gaze, however, that set Elias’s teeth on edge. He looked at the warriors in this room like well-bred birds, or adornments to his coat.

  It was familiar. Yaresh fixed his stare on Elias. He was a few inches shorter than the black knight and Belit, but his presence had a weight that made up for it: this was a man accustomed to obedience.

  “You are not supposed to be here,” Belit said. Her tone – warm before – was frosty. “This is my hall. The Red Guard takes no part in the selection. We should not even be speaking.”

  “I’m not talking to you,” Yaresh said with an amused smile. “Mind you, I have no particular fondness for that bit of archaic formality – as outdated as veneration for white knights and archaic trials – but I’ll play along, Commander. Suit yourself. I am speaking to your guest.

  “Now then,” he turned to look fully at Elias. “You must tell me where you received your training. It fascinates me to find that Harkon Bright has a bodyguard of such rare martial learning. Belit is the only other student of the Varengard school I have ever met, and she was trained by the previous master of the Red Guard. There is only one other group that practices it, and they guard their secrets jealously.”

  He smiled. Broad. Hungry. “What other talents do you possess?”

  The threat landed hard. Elias felt
his pulse quicken. His fingers itched for the sharp blade hidden in the wooden box a few feet away. He knows, a panicked voice inside him started. His fist clenched beside him. Lethal spells pulled at his mind. His foot took an involuntary step forward. “My talents are sufficient.”

  Yaresh’s eyes widened in surprise that switched to satisfaction. “Goodness,” he said quietly. “And a temper, as well. Have a care, boy. Your master’s position is precarious, and my healers are exceptional.”

  “Yaresh.” Belit interposed herself between the two of them. “This is my hall, and this man as such is my guest, not your conversation partner or your whipping boy. State your business, or get out.”

  Yaresh’s expression darkened. He clasped his hands behind his back, as if to keep them contained. He hates her, Elias realized. This had nothing to do with me.

  “I have a right to look in on my future bodyguards,” he said simply. “Especially ones that failed my predecessor so spectacularly.”

  That had stung. Belit’s voice abruptly raised. What had been calm and cold before was suddenly a lightning bolt that pulled every fighter in the room to attention. “Yaresh of the muster,” Belit snapped, “you are not captain yet, and my guardsmen take no part in the selection process. Our hall is private, and while I don’t know who invited you in, you have overstayed your welcome. Get out. Hakat, escort the Lord of the Muster to the door.”

  Yaresh’s expression was cold contempt, but he didn’t fight the bald warrior that took him by the arm, saying, “This way, my lord.”

  “No position is untouchable, Belit,” the older man said over his shoulder. “I will be captain. There is no other fit to the challenges ahead. Do not oppose me, or it will fall upon you when I succeed.”

  The door closed with an audible thud. Belit turned and regarded her subordinates. “What are you all gawking at?” she asked. “Staring is not training. Back to work.”

  Not wishing to linger in the awkward silence, still flushed with shame and fear, Elias walked towards his box, and removed Oath of Aurum, buckling it about his waist. His hand brushed the hilt. Warmth answered his touch, though it did little to reassure him.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Belit said behind him. Slowly, Elias straightened and turned. “He is forbidden to come here, but he grows bolder by the day–” Abruptly, her eyes fell upon the longsword hanging now at Elias’s hip “Wait,” she said. “That sword.” Now she grabbed him by the arm, hauled him off to the edge of the hall, away from earshot of all the others. “How did it come into your possession?”

  Elias’s throat dried up. The memory of a flashing duel across the gundeck of the Iron Hulk played through his thoughts, and the gut-churning recollection of a noble prince’s corpse falling into the inferno of his dying city. How was he to answer that question? He grasped about for an answer in his mind, before the most honest came.

  “At great cost,” he said, before asking a burning question of his own. “How is it that the commander of the Red Guard of Iseult possesses the secrets of the Varengard style? I think we both know that its only other masters aren’t generous with their knowledge.”

  “That,” Belit said after a careful pause, “is a long, complicated story. The sort that people like Yaresh think nothing more than a myth.”

  Elias thought about how improbable the last few weeks of his own life had been. “Try me,” he deadpanned.

  She examined him again. Then, apparently seeing no deception behind his sarcasm, nodded. “Very well. We will meet again, and soon. You will tell me how you came by that blade, and I will tell you the story behind my own martial lineage.” She looked again, checking for listeners, and finding none, looked at him. “And, while I am still not permitted to involve myself in the selection process of the new captain, well, my second duty is to Iseult herself. Should Harkon Bright be acting in her interest in other ways, tell him that he may rely upon me.”

  She extended a hand between them. Elias hesitated for only a second before gripping it in return. “Deal struck,” he said.

  “Good,” Belit said, firmly. “And practice, while you are away. Knowing what you know, fighting as you do, I expect everything to be thrice again as clean, when next we meet, junk ritter.”

  That phrase. He’d read it before. In the manuscripts Lord Roland kept prized in a vault in his own keep.

  “As you say,” Elias answered. He tried to keep his voice steady.

  As he made his way back through the halls of Iseult’s upper levels, back towards the relative safety of Rachim’s villa, the black knight felt a strange sense of hope in a place previously drowned out by despair and alcohol: he had failed, but then he had succeeded. He was bringing confirmation of a much-needed ally back to Elysium – and more, something else that he had never again thought to find upon fleeing the order.

  He had found a teacher.

  Chapter Six

  The Suppositions of Harkon Bright

  Aimee stood in the expanse of Amut’s royal villa and took in the curious sights. Over the past two days she’d had the chance to see several other estates of the officer aristocracy up close. As it turned out, a large number of faction partisans within the council had a vested interest in wining and dining Harkon Bright and his apprentice.

  It was as if they wanted to influence the process.

  Most of these palaces were opulent beyond the blushing dreams of her former Academy classmates, resplendent with the trappings of trade from across the known sky – and, some whispered, parts of the unknown. Even aboard a ship such as Iseult, a city unto itself, space was at a premium, so wealth tended to be concentrated in displays of expensive construction materials, art, and decorations, with treasures representing only what the highest quantities of gold could purchase. Aimee had never seen so much gilding in one place.

  And that was where Amut’s former residence was different. The Captain’s Manse was a simple square-shaped building of black stone that stood out by its place in the center of the forward segment of the upper levels of Iseult. In a sea of domes, balconies, and the occasional stepped tower, it was a sparse structure that nonetheless commanded tremendous authority and presence.

  And inside, it was beautiful. In this place of gilded finery and adorned wealth, the interior of Amut’s manse was one spectacularly lovely garden. Her breath left her in a solid gasp as the doors closed behind them. Everywhere, built into the very framework of the main entryway and hall, were stunning plants, blooming flowers, and pools of fresh, clear water. For the house of a dead man, Aimee had never seen more life.

  “He was not a man who took pleasure in precious stones or heaps of gold,” Viltas said, with fondness in his voice. The lord shipman had accompanied them, this time. As a close friend of the late captain, he knew his home well. “But his youth in Ishtier instilled in him a great love of things that grow. The crystals of his homeland don’t thrive away from their native isle, so he turned instead to botany as a hobby. Wherever we went, Amut would seek to acquire some local flora to add to his grand gardens. He planned their layout meticulously, and where plants fruited or grew food, he was always generous in donating it to the needy below.”

  “A noble pastime,” Harkon said thoughtfully, taking in the sights. “And the whole of the manse is like this?”

  “As much as could be managed,” Viltas nodded sadly. “Now it is in decline. Only Amut and his master gardener knew its secrets … and the old man passed shortly before he did.”

  “Two deaths in the same house, so close together,” Harkon murmured, considering an osiria rose jutting from a mass of thorny branches. “Odd.”

  “Convenient,” Aimee murmured.

  “You think so?” Viltas answered, a wan smile on his face. “Good, then at least we’re on the same page. Come, I will take you to his quarters. Perhaps there is something in his journals you can make sense of, or in his papers.”

  They passed through two more garden-halls, and a room in which the captain’s portrait was displayed over a hearth, the
likeness shrouded by a hanging, translucent veil that obscured the finer details. Aimee took note of sharp, intent eyes, however, and an expression with an inscrutable sort of knowing in the mark of the line.

  “The painter did him well,” Aimee said as they passed it.

  “You never met him,” Viltas pointed out. “How can you tell?”

  “In my home,” she said, “fine portraits are a sign of status as well. Many are beautiful, but bland. A good artist can capture a likeness, but it takes a great one to instill it with personality.”

  “Painting the soul,” Viltas affirmed. The older man smiled as he walked beside her. “You know your art.”

  “My mother was insistent,” Aimee said with a small smile.

  Viltas chuckled. “Good mothers often are. My own Vallus takes more after my late wife than I, I think. Oh, he looks like me, but his essence is hers. Gentle. A peacemaker.”

  “You don’t strike me as the contentious sort, Lord Viltas, if you’ll forgive me,” Harkon added as they began to climb a set of black stone stairs.

  The lord shipman laughed. “Perhaps I don’t, but I’ve had years to mellow out. Still, peaceful men don’t spend their lives getting into contentious fights with their fellow officers. Before Amut came to us, I was a contender for his seat,” he admitted, his voice sad – not for himself, Aimee sensed, but for a youth that had been spent making mistakes. “I wasn’t born to the upper levels, you know. I married well. I wanted to make life better for those who toil beneath. Then I met Amut, and everything changed. He was a uniter. An outsider who could see how to reach both noble and common man, speak to both, represent both. Once I met him… I no longer wanted power myself. He made many reforms after he became captain, and had many more planned, but I doubt they will come to fruition now.”

  They crested the top of the stairs, finding themselves in a room with high arched windows facing the bow of Iseult. Positioned thus, the viewer had a line of sight straight down the spine of the vessel. A desk of expensive hardwood rested off to the side. Viltas produced a key from inside his vest, and knelt beside it, turning it in an archaic lock until the sound of tumblers shifting echoed through the small room. “I believe he put them in here,” Viltas said. “Ah yes, there they are.”