The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  Despite the obvious inference of where he was to be seated, Darnuir made towards the Guardian’s chair but was halted by a piercing look from his father. They had oft had this argument too.

  Still, father clings onto this ghost of a protector. If he hopes that someone might share his burden, why does he not share it with me?

  Darnuir had frequently stewed over this. Reluctantly, he took his place on the opposite side of the table along with Arkus and Kasselle. Servants hurried in, carrying light dishes of large green olives, round loaves, thinly sliced boar meat, and Darnuir’s favourite dipping sauce, garum. Watered honeyed-wine was also placed before them in golden goblets. Kasselle, like most of her kin, was not overly fond of meat. She picked at the olives and bread, while Arkus took a bit of everything, bar the garum sauce, which he claimed gave him a stomach-ache. Darnuir ripped off a piece of loaf and greedily dipped it into the salty fish sauce. Draconess piled the boar meat onto his bread in a calculated manner before eating. When all were done with their refreshments, Draconess rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat with a cough, and began his speech.

  “I call this council of war to order. Scant as our numbers may be, we here are the leaders of the Three Races (humans, fairies and dragons), and so our decisions cannot be contested. As you are doubtless aware, Rectar has launched a fresh campaign against the dragons. A demon army is approaching this city; a far greater army than any we have ever encountered before. Since pouring out of Kar’drun, the demons have swept south and have trampled our defences along the Crucidal Road.” Kasselle listened earnestly as Draconess spoke. Arkus merely frowned but said nothing. “We’ve had no choice but to evacuate what people we could to Aurisha from our outlying settlements.”

  “What of Castallan?” Kasselle asked. “Does he march with the host of his new master, Rectar?”

  “Castallan is still within the walls of the Bastion,” Darnuir said. “So far as we know. He should not trouble us here.”

  “This blasted war was going poorly enough when we faced Rectar alone,” Arkus said. “How are we to deal with both Rectar and Castallan? Especially now that Rectar seems to have instructed Castallan on how to summon demons of his own.”

  Draconess exhaled loudly. “I admit things have never quite seemed so bleak…” The King looked longingly towards the seat of the Guardian.

  There is no Guardian to help you father. You must help yourself.

  “And yet,” Draconess continued laboriously, “a turning point must come. The world does not move down a determined path. We may yet see a reversal in our fortunes. But for now, my people flee to Aurisha.”

  “For a last stand I presume?” Arkus asked leaning forward.

  “Not quite. I’ve ordered an evacuation of the city as well…”

  “What?” Arkus said stiffly. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Darnuir said, “I thought my father made it perfectly clear. We’re leaving!”

  Arkus shot him a dirty look.

  “I know perfectly well what he meant, Darnuir,” Arkus said a little more calmly. “I only mean to say, Draconess, why abandon the dragon capital, your capital, and the Three Races’ strongest foothold in the east without a defence?”

  The tiresome look on Draconess’ face showed Arkus that this debate had already been decided.

  “We do not have the strength to defend the city,” Draconess began, “not against such a host; not the dragons alone. As strong as we are, we cannot turn the tide, and this one will crash over these walls, manned or not.”

  “Surely there is something we can do?” Arkus asked. “This must be the bulk if not all of our enemy’s strength. If we can block him here, then we might—”

  “Arkus,” Draconess warned, “we cannot hope to hold the city with dragons alone. We’re too spread out and, as I recall, you requested I send quite a considerable part of my army to aid in your capital’s defence. Dragons now also guard your walls at Brevia in case Castallan attacks you there.”

  “Castallan wouldn’t even be a threat if it weren’t for Darn—” Arkus began accusatorially.

  “Gentlemen please!” Kasselle interrupted.

  “I am sorry,” Arkus said, looking a little abashed, “but if it was troops you required, Draconess, why not send for them? We could have brought thousands with us.”

  “The attacks started while you were still at sea, so there was no way to inform you,” Draconess said. He sniffed and rubbed the point between his eyes before continuing. “This meeting to discuss our position was already scheduled, so I thought it best to start the evacuation and inform you once you arrived.”

  “Why have these councils if you do not require our input?” Arkus inquired acidly.

  “Because it is his prerogative as commander-in-chief,” Darnuir informed Arkus in a pleasurable hiss. Reminding Arkus of his position always gave him a great deal of satisfaction. “As my father often reminds me.”

  “I do not think we should dwell on rights and privileges,” Kasselle interjected, “yet I must confess, Draconess, I do not understand. It does not seem wholly wise to abandon the east completely, unless you intend…”

  “To secure the west, my lady,” Draconess said in a bold voice, which Darnuir had not heard from his father in years.

  “And root out the wizard?” Arkus said with approval.

  “Uproot him and find out what he knows,” Draconess made clear. “We must learn everything we can from him about Rectar.”

  “What do you believe we can gather from him?” inquired Kasselle.

  “I cannot say for sure, though I will gladly take any insight he might offer,” Draconess said. “We know precious little.” The fairy queen slumped back, looking disappointed.

  That was unusual. What was she hoping to hear? Kasselle normally gave nothing away.

  “I intend for Darnuir to lead the campaign against Castallan,” Draconess said. “While he retakes the Bastion for us, we will consolidate the rest of our strength in and around Brevia.”

  “Rectar and his demons will only chase us across the water,” Arkus sighed. “Brevia is not the stronghold that Aurisha is. If we end up fighting on two fronts, we would surely be defeated.”

  “That is perfectly true,” Draconess admitted, “but that is why we must strike hard and fast against Castallan with all our might. The wizard has been permitted to secure his paltry kingdom in the south of your lands because we are spread thin. If we hit him hard then his Bastion will crack and break.”

  “That fortress was designed to be impenetrable,” Arkus said with mild disbelief at Draconess’ confidence. “Designed specifically, I might add, to prevent dragons from taking it with ease. How can you be so sure of victory?”

  “Because I must believe there is a way,” Draconess said simply.

  “Well, it is my lord’s prerogative to choose our path,” Arkus smirked.

  Draconess smiled graciously back.

  The meeting continued on for many more hours, largely discussing the means of bringing thousands of extra dragons across the seas to live for an undetermined amount of time. Finally, though, Draconess stood up. He surveyed those around the table one last time before speaking.

  “This is a most dangerous time for the Three Races,” he began solemnly. “This could be the end of us or it could be the beginning of a renewed effort against Rectar, Castallan and the demons who serve them. If, for whatever reason, we do not see each other again, I should like to say that it has been an honour.”

  “It has been our honour,” Arkus and Kasselle said together, standing up, their eyes gazing at him. Darnuir knew that Kasselle meant what she said, though something biased in the back of his mind told him that Arkus didn’t quite meet his father’s eyes. Draconess took one final look around the table then walked out of the room and out of sight. Kasselle and Arkus waited for a while before they too left the war room. Arkus was greeted by the old steward, Chelos, who would take him to his quarters. Kasselle made her way back to her ship where she would
stay for the night. She never stayed in the tower longer than she had to. Darnuir, however, remained where he was. He didn’t want to get up; he didn’t want to leave this room, the city, and his home behind.

  Give me ten thousand dragons and I swear I’d hold the city.

  Yet, he had no choice in the matter. Darnuir was to Draconess what Arkus was to himself: measly and insignificant.

  ***

  It was later that evening when Darnuir next saw Arkus. The human king was outside his room within the palace, his face even more hardened than normal. Further along the curving corridor, a number of guards carrying a crib were filing into the room. Darnuir presumed it was his daughter but did not get a chance to confirm this theory before the guards had entered the room and the door closed behind them. Arkus, seeing Darnuir, lingered in the hallway.

  “Good evening, Darnuir,” he said, with an attempt at indifference, though his hesitant start gave him away.

  “Do you think that wise?” Darnuir asked him, carefully approaching Arkus for maximum intimidation. “Leaving her up here?”

  “She was sick the last few days at sea. I think it best if she slept on solid ground tonight,” Arkus answered.

  “I believe there is some solid ground down by the ships,” Darnuir said sarcastically. Arkus closed his eyes and inhaled exasperatedly.

  “Must you always question everything I do?” he asked softly, yet continued without waiting for an answer. “I’ll be returning shortly. I want to help with the ships a while longer.” Darnuir was a little taken aback by this small but altruistic statement of intention. It was not like the King to get his hands dirtied. “There is much work to be done, after all,” Arkus added.

  “Much and more,” Darnuir agreed, and offered the man a small bow of the head. Arkus took this as his sign to leave and went back into his room, charcoal robes flowing behind him.

  Darnuir’s own room was a few doors down; it was long and curved, much like the corridor, with similarly large openings in the rock that served as windows. There was a four-poster bed with crimson hangings, a splendid fireplace, and an open balcony from which the entirety of the city could be seen. Five stands of armour stood sentinel opposite the bed, and behind them was a wall dedicated to a fine range of weapons of all descriptions. He found Brackendon lazily sprawled out on a plush lounger, avidly reading at some scroll. His staff leaned against the wall behind him. He hoped the wizard was in a congenial mood.

  “Sorry if I’m late,” Darnuir said, unstrapping his sword and flinging it onto his bed.

  “Not at all,” Brackendon said, as he looked up from his scroll. “I only just arrived before you did, and in any case, I’m quite at ease reading this excerpt from one of Tiviar’s histories.”

  Darnuir squinted at the scroll. “You have read that one before.”

  “I have read all the literature in your chambers dozens of times. You never change it.”

  “And?”

  “Well, you certainly make room for and rotate your armoury here regularly. Why not your library?”

  “I need those,” Darnuir said, waving at the armaments, “to be ready at a moment’s notice. The words on those pages have not changed since I first read them.”

  “And you remember them all do you?”

  “I do not need to know them at a moment’s notice,” Darnuir scoffed. “And I know them well enough.”

  “Your father is well versed in Tiviar’s histories,” Brackendon began. “Why, just the other day, I was discussing with him whether it is prudent to discuss the First Flight as if it literally happened or if we ought to—”

  “Perhaps if my father did not spend so long looking at tomes and parchment, he might have prepared us a sound defence.”

  “Knowledge can also be a weapon, Darnuir.”

  “One that I have no need for. Knowledge will not stop the threat against us. That will require strength.”

  Brackendon set his reading down and looked reproachful. “The same fight, Darnuir. Why did you summon me?”

  “To ask you how to kill a wizard.”

  “I had not realised I had displeased you that much?” Brackendon tittered. The wizard often laughed like this. It made him frustrating to interpret.

  “You know fine well what I meant,” Darnuir snapped back, growing impatient.

  “We bleed like other men,” Brackendon began, as he rose from his chair, “but we aren’t so easily overpowered. I think you should leave Castallan to me.”

  “Are you suggesting that I cannot—”

  “I am not suggesting anything,” Brackendon said sternly, as he made his way to the door. “I am telling you that some foes cannot be brought down by steel and muscle.”

  Darnuir bristled at these words. He turned to face the wizard but words failed him for some reason. He settled for a contemptuous, snorting grunt instead. Brackendon seemed unimpressed with the display.

  “May I suggest,” Brackendon offered, “reading some more tomes if you wish to know more?” And with that, he took his leave.

  I know more than you give me credit for Brackendon. And I have sought to learn even beyond your understanding.

  Darnuir did not grant the young man much thought afterwards. A weariness suddenly came over him. A dragon’s resilience to fatigue was, like everything else, far greater than a human’s; however, he had not slept in two days. The thought of sleep was alluring but he could not allow himself the luxury now. He decided to make the long descent back to the docks and do what he could to help quicken the evacuation.

  When Darnuir exited the Royal Tower, he noticed that the plaza was dimly lit around the Basilica of Light. Whereas the Tower was tall, the Basilica was bulky, and dominated a large swathe of space on the plateau. It was covered by a smooth dome that was supposed to allow light to enter and shine upon the various deities at the appropriate time of day. It had been years since he had entered that place. Draconess, on the other hand, was a more devout believer in the Way of the Light.

  Are you there now father? Rather than helping your people in their darkest hour?

  Of course, Draconess would be there. Only a minority of dragons bothered with the Light anymore. It was a dying faith of an age-long past. His father and his Praetorian Guard were all vehement believers. But where had it got them?

  Resentment towards his father flared inside Darnuir. He strode towards the Basilica, fully intending upon a confrontation. The entranceway was a grand collection of lofty columns, holding a triangular roof high above. He swept past the columns and through the open arch doorway. Open to allow access to all but few ever come, do they father?

  Inside the cavernous temple, it took Darnuir a moment to gain his bearings. Torches and candles flickered along the walls, growing smaller in the distance. The temple was always disconsolate at night. Bare marble floor made up the bulk of the space, intended for kneeling worshippers, but only a fraction of the space had cushions upon it. In the centre was a lone figure upon his knees.

  Darnuir took his time in approaching the King, ensuring every one of his footsteps echoed loudly around him, interrupting Draconess’ prayers. The centre of the Basilica was curved to match the dome above it. The walls drew downwards into the floor like enormous waves. Three reliefs adorned the walls, equally spaced from each other. Three Gods and yet not one ever came in answer. Three carved, plain stone swords protruded from three ornate stone holders at the centre where Draconess knelt, facing the relief of the god Darnuir knew to be N’weer, deity of rejuvenation. The King did not stir until Darnuir was almost right behind him.

  “Come to argue with me some more, my son?” he asked. His voice was heavy with exhaustion and perhaps sadness. Like most words he uttered these days, it seemed to come at a great effort. “Or have you come to pay respect to N’weer, so that the dawn will come again.”

  “And then, at daybreak, thank Dwna for giving us the light back?” Darnuir scorned. “No father, I will not plead with a god to bring the dawn. I haven’t prayed in years an
d still the sun rises.”

  “When you were a young hatchling, you used to pray with me,” Draconess said.

  “When I was a ‘child’,” Darnuir emphasised the word, “I wasn’t capable of making my own decisions.”

  “Tell me,” Draconess said, still facing the relief of the god, “when was it that you grew so bitter towards me? When was it that you began to hate me?”

  “Hate is a strong word, father,” said Darnuir.

  “And yet…” The accusation hung for a long moment. Draconess remained still, his eyes closed.

  “You cling on to this dead religion, father, as if it will save us?” Darnuir hissed. “Like you cling on to your notions of a Guardian who will come again to deliver us. These are dated things from a past no longer relevant. Both of them are gone.”

  “Yet still the temple remains,” Draconess said. “As does my faith. I know that these things will rise again.”

  Always the same fight. The same unfaltering argument. He has ‘faith’.

  “Our people once believed strongly in the Light,” Draconess said, “and in those days, we were strong. We had purpose. We had a cause. Now our faith is all but extinguished and we are weak. Do you not see?”

  “Perhaps things would change if you stopped spending time on your knees and got out there.” Darnuir pointed forcefully towards the arched doorway. “Keep your faith if you will but act, father; act rather than flee to your empty sanctuary.”

  “Act,” Draconess said, still quite calmly, “and do what?”

  “Kill demons?” Darnuir suggested. “Lead our armies. At least help pack the ships tonight!”

  “One demon or a thousand, it makes no difference so long as their master lives.”

  “Then kill him!” Darnuir bellowed. His voice reverberated around the temple. “You have the Dragon’s Blade; you’re supposed to have the power. If not you, then who?”

  “You?” Draconess questioned.

  Darnuir’s laugh was maddened. “I have asked you for the sword countless times and you refuse. But yes, I will do it. If I must.”