The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  Draconess shook his head resignedly and sad. “I once hoped that you might be able to take it but you have proven that granting you such power would not be wise.”

  “One mistake, father…” Darnuir began.

  “Reckless, susceptible, hot-headed, blunt and without subtlety!” Draconess interrupted. He remained kneeling but turned to face Darnuir. “Good intentions do not change that. You’ll recall Dranus once had such good intentions. He sought power to serve the Light, and in doing so he splintered our race and we fought the Black Dragons for centuries.”

  “You would compare me to some ancient enemy, again long dead?” Darnuir said. “Let go of the past, father. Think about our future. Dranus is not the enemy now, it is Rectar. He needs to die. I ask again, who will do it if not you?”

  “This is why I pray,” Draconess said, “for I am certain the answer will come.”

  “You’ve given up, haven’t you? That’s what all of this is about. You will no longer even try!”

  “I have faith.”

  “You have an empty hall and emptier promises!” Darnuir spat.

  “Leave me,” Draconess said, returning to face N’weer. “Go and take action. Do what you think you must.”

  Darnuir tore from the Basilica. His blood was hot and his hand itched for his sword. It was a shame the demons were not here now. How cathartic it would be to tear them apart. Perhaps he ought to do just that. Drive into the horde. Kill. He could leave a river of their smoking blood. And if he died, he would have at least done something. He drew in long, deep breaths in an attempt to steady himself. A strong wind whipped through the plaza, cooling his skin. As it died down, the air returned to being warm and dry, even now at night, as it always was in this part of the world.

  Yes, he could stay behind and fight the enemy, but he would die. Somehow, he might fight his way all the way to Rectar’s feet but he would die there just the same. Would that really be any better than kneeling on a cold temple floor? He decided to pursue his original course and headed for the southern stairs leading to the docks. He could lend his hands to the evacuation even if Draconess would not. His people needed action but nothing reckless. His father was right about that much.

  But Darnuir was not his father.

  Chapter 3

  THE FALL OF AURISHA

  DAWN CAME AND with it blasts from the city’s war horn – a massive instrument that took three dragons to blow. Darnuir dropped the crate of grain he was carrying as he heard it roar. It sounded like the bellow of the beasts they once had been. Everyone else around him froze as well.

  They have come.

  Silence followed the horn for a few heartbeats before the stunned masses began moving hysterically towards the remaining ships. Cries came from all directions as the King’s elite Praetorian Guard tried to maintain some control. Darnuir found himself caught unprepared. It was truly fight or flight. He desired the fight. He longed to prevent the city from falling, but around half of the troops had already departed on the ships, on their way west to the human capital of Brevia. As much as it pained him to admit, it would have to be flight. Yet something must be done.

  Stuck at the harbour at the southern end of the city, Darnuir could not see the demons. They would be assaulting the walls of Aurisha by land on the northern side. If they got over them and into the city too quickly, then they would have access to the great lift and then the plaza itself would be endangered.

  “Darnuir!” a voice strained over the crowd. “Darnuir! I need you. Please!” Arkus pleaded, approaching clumsily through the chaos.

  The sudden appearance of the human king was both the last thing Darnuir expected and the last thing he needed.

  “What?” he snapped at the man. “Why are you here? I thought you would have returned to your chambers.”

  “Th-th-there was so much to do,” Arkus stammered out. “Please, Darnuir. My girl, she is still up there.” Darnuir had to close his eyes in fury and frustration.

  The sooner this child walks the better.

  “I’m sure your men are capable of bringing her down,” Darnuir told him.

  “You’re quicker, though – so much faster. Please, Darnuir. Please!” Arkus beseeched. Such was his fear that it almost sounded like a whimper.

  Darnuir didn’t respond immediately. He searched around for a suitable replacement, yet most of the Praetorians were making their way towards the western side of the city. The streets there hugged the base of the plateau at ground level and, hopefully, the Praetorians were joining his father in some rapid defence of the city walls. Darnuir looked back at the cowering man and felt both pity and disdain. He desired his place to be with the Praetorians but he knew Draconess would not have him refuse Arkus.

  We cannot afford humanity to break apart.

  “Stay here,” Darnuir told Arkus, before sprinting off towards the winding stairs. As he began the ascent, he saw his father in the distance, drawing the Dragon’s Blade and leading his guard to block the narrow streets. Heavily armoured, with red plumed helmets, and curved, rectangular shields that stretched from neck to shin, the Praetorians roared in unison as they surged onwards. Darnuir tore his gaze away and continued upwards.

  Such was his haste in reaching Arkus’ chambers that he actually had to stop to catch his breath. He felt a stitch begin to burn faintly across his midriff – a sensation he had not experienced in a long time. He should have gotten more sleep. He took several deep breaths to collect himself before turning his attention to the chamber’s door. As he reached for it, the door opened seemingly of its own accord and six steel-armoured guards nearly collided with him in their haste to exit. There was little time to exchange words. Darnuir saw the baby in its carriage and was satisfied.

  “As fast as you can,” he implored them. They flew as swiftly as humans could do behind him, down the tall Royal Tower. Several of his father’s Praetorians passed them as they made their way out onto the plaza. Darnuir decided to conscript them into service and signalled them over.

  “But the King, my prince, we must go to him,” one of the Praetorians told him.

  They are loyal to a fault at times, these dragons.

  “The King will not miss a few of you, nor will he be pleased if our relationship with the humans unravels. See her?” Darnuir pointed at the crib. “That’s Arkus’ little princess. So get her to the docks.”

  Before more words could be exchanged, the anxious human guard at the head of the crib party piped up, “My lord, Darnuir. Please, we must not tarry. The child—” he began, but the Praetorians had already relented and bustled to wrest control of the crib from the human guards. There was a cry of protest from the humans but they settled down as the Praetorians shot them hard looks. The weight of the crib would mean nothing to them. Darnuir and the Praetorians could make the journey much quicker.

  The small company hurried across the plaza as swiftly as they could. As they drew closer to the great lift, a scene of pandemonium unfolded. Those still caught atop the plateau were running in blind panic towards the stairway to the south side of the city. Another squad of Praetorians emerged from the lift, along with some regular dragon soldiers, all looking bloodied. They ordered that the great chains of the lift be cut to prevent further trips.

  Those chains are too thick to be cut. The demons will be up here soon if they have breached the city walls.

  Down below, Darnuir could already see flames licking menacingly upwards, as if trying to reach the plateau’s top. The putrid smell of burning flesh and the demons’ vile, death-like odour violently raked his sensitive nostrils.

  Darnuir directed the crib party down a narrow street at the plateau’s edge, which would avoid the main thrum of the crowd spilling towards the southern staircase. From this height, Darnuir could see the black mass of demons beginning to swarm over the city walls, virtually unopposed. If Draconess was making a stand in the narrower streets between the city walls and the base of the plateau on the western side of the city then he might hold fo
r a time at least. The demon numbers would count for less in the confined spaces.

  At the top of the winding southern stairs, the company pushed their way through the mass of bodies pelting downwards. Out at sea, the sails of the ships dotted the blue landscape, stretching off to the horizon. Most of the ships had departed during the night but many still remained, awaiting their precious cargo to climb aboard. Others were hastily departing right now. The staircase to the docks wove ten times before it reached sea level. Running down, Darnuir’s view became blocked by rising buildings on every side. Their company rounded the third turning and there was a deafening bang as a chunk of rock flew over their heads, colliding with the buildings above. The starium held up well but the projected rocks broke apart on impact and sent heaps of debris flying across the stairway. Another group of figures came towards them from around the next corner.

  “Darnuir!” Arkus yelled. “Thank goodness you…” he exclaimed, out of breath.

  “I told you to stay put!” Darnuir shouted. Arkus was like a disobedient child but the fresh wave of frustration was quickly extinguished, given their situation. “We don’t have time to talk, just keep moving. Your daughter is safe; she is with us. Let’s go!” Arkus took several deep breaths then whirled around and started to head back down to the docks along with his own guards. There were more screams and collisions as buildings fell on either side of them. Darnuir briefly glimpsed demon warships bombarding the city with hewn rocks from afar.

  “I saw your father, Darnuir, he took his Praetorians to try and hold off the demons. I saw them fighting in the streets as I ran up,” Arkus gasped breathlessly, for they were moving at a good pace. “I think Castallan is with them – that’s how they’ve managed to advance so quickly.”

  “Impossible,” Darnuir bellowed, but momentarily froze. “I thought he was west, in the Bastion.”

  “I thought the same,” Arkus managed to say through his panting, as the men chased down the stairs. “But I saw unnatural gales and chunks of rock flying too precisely. I’ve only seen Brackendon do such things and he was down on the ship when I saw it.” Arkus made the effort to point vaguely westwards where Darnuir could indeed see pieces of debris set ablaze, swooping down upon their victims below with abnormal precision.

  Just then, there was an almighty crash as the walls on either side of them began to crumble under the weight of continued impact from the missile-like rocks. Darnuir leapt back as a jagged lump of starium pierced the ground where he had stood moments before. A deafening avalanche of stone crashed around him, and in his haste to flee, he tripped, falling hard onto the stairs. His head rang painfully from deep inside. Regaining his footing, Darnuir turned to check on the rest of the party, only to see several of the men who had guarded the crib lying face down, a red pool of blood around them. Two Praetorians lay crushed; one was only visible by an outcropping hand. The crib and the last Praetorians seemed unharmed, but upon turning back to face Arkus, Darnuir saw the impenetrable wall of rubble that had separated them. Worse, the quickest route to the docks was now cut off as well.

  “No!” he groaned before dashing to the wreckage and began to shift what he could. “Come help me move this, it’s the only way down,” he cried to the survivors behind him. They hastened to him and all heaved at the heavy stones, but the damage was too great and Darnuir knew, grimily, that they would not get through it in time. As one of the human guards made to grab another rock, Darnuir saw him jerk awkwardly and haphazardly. An arrow protruded from the man’s back. The crooked and blackened wood was wet with fresh blood. Darnuir looked back to the top of the plateau. All along its edges, hundreds of demons fired arrows down at the stragglers upon the stairs. With a jolt, he remembered the little baby and bolted to the crib. He lifted her out, heaved one of the dead Praetorian’s shields up to cover them, and felt half a dozen arrows bounce off it. From behind this cover, he saw the other men on the ruined stairway get cut down by multiple arrows, falling in the expanding bloody pools.

  The last of the Praetorians died lifting his head over his shield, taking two arrows to the face. Darnuir remained down and tried to find an escape route. There was only one door close enough that he might reach. He got up, baby in his right arm, shield in his left, and sprinted over to it. More arrows grazed the shield and whizzed past his ears. He heaved at the handle of the door but it didn’t budge. He tried again but still nothing happened. Roaring with rage, he stepped back, dropped the shield, and made to ram the door with his shoulder whilst still clutching the babe. As the door caved in, he fell with it, and saw a flash of black ripple past his face. His right cheek flared in pain as the arrow sliced through the top layers of his skin.

  He clambered to his feet and ran up the staircase before him. He knew not where he was, nor where he was going, but he knew that he had to keep moving. He burst out onto the first floor he came to and continued as fast as he could down the corridor. The girl was wailing in his arms. Onwards and onwards he ran, until, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large crystal orb resting on a three-legged plinth in the middle of one of the rooms.

  I’m in the Arcane Sanctum.

  Although he had realised where he was, the knowledge didn’t much help his predicament. He was fast approaching another door at the end of the corridor and, when he reached it, slammed his shoulder against it. It did not budge. The force of the blow sent him hurling onto his back. The girl let out a fresh shriek of protest at this latest ill-treatment, although she landed softly on his chest. The door must have been sealed magically. Such was the impact of the blow that the plated armour on his left shoulder had caved inwards and pierced his flesh. It was all he could do to stumble to his feet, only to witness the shadows of demons coming up the corridor.

  There was no way out.

  Holding the tiny princess tightly under his remaining good arm, he doubled back until he found a small storage area containing crates of food, heavy-bound books, stacks of parchment and an abundance of clay inkpots. He put the baby down behind one of the larger crates so she was out of sight, then hid behind the door. He ripped off his chest piece and examined his shoulder, which was now a mangle of muscle and bone. It was pain such that he had never felt in his life: it seemed as though his whole existence was now burned and concentrated on his injury. Thankfully, his sword arm could still be used and he drew his weapon, ready to strike. Darnuir cleaved the head off the first enemy who entered the little room. Lurching forwards, he kicked the next demon in the stomach before impaling it on his blade.

  Demons were not as small as they appeared but were often stooped or misshapen. They had no flesh to their bones, which were sometimes visible behind the swirling body of fire and shadow that formed substantively around them. Their blood, if that is what it could be called, was like hot, bubbling lava, the colour of rust. Darnuir was not afraid of them but he knew that he could not last in this room forever; yet he wasn’t about to just lay down arms and die. He hacked and slashed again and again until it seemed that all of the demons who had been chasing him had either been killed or had fled.

  His last foe slipped past him, perhaps hearing the cries of the princess. Darnuir caught the creature hard on its side with the flat of his blade, sending it crashing into the shelf of inkpots. The cascade of falling clay smothered the demon and flooded the room in ink as dark as its own shadowy flesh.

  Darnuir stumbled back out into the corridor beside the magically sealed door to check if the way was clear, favouring his right side greatly. He almost felt exhilarated at his small victory but then he saw a fresh wave approaching. Whatever advantage the dragons had in strength, the demons more than made up for in numbers. They were cunning in their own way and could work surprisingly well together. Often one demon would purely distract a foe while another exacted the killing blow. Their chief tactic was simple but effective: swarm the enemy.

  Four approached him now.

  Darnuir reacted instinctively as the closest demon lunged at him, barbed blade in hand. He
dodged the blow and brought the hilt of his sword down to cave in the creature’s skull. Another leapt in the air towards him, bringing its weapon down. As he raised his sword to block it, he noticed the remaining pair of demons break off to either side. He was surrounded. He jumped backwards but hit the impenetrable door and could go no further. He elbowed the demon on his right, simultaneously blocking the assailant directly in front of him with his out-struck sword. It worked but his left arm hung uselessly, and the fourth demon made it to him. The little abomination let out a triumphant howl as it plunged the nasty blade into Darnuir’s unprotected waist. Perhaps the shock of it numbed him at first for he felt no pain, but it quickly came, in such intensity that it was beyond screaming, and his breath caught in his throat.

  Hunched over and bleeding, he rose with the last of his strength, ramming his sword through the offending demon on his left, feeling hot gore cover his hand. In a continuing motion, he ripped the sword out and brought his elbow back to crush the demon on his right against the wall. The last of them hesitated and Darnuir kicked it so hard in the chest that it flew up the corridor, turning in mid-air and landing on its head to leave a smoking trail of bloodshed in its wake.

  Darnuir staggered, swayed on the spot and fell to the cold, stone floor, unable to feel anything, his vision going cloudy. He felt his wounds now, really felt them, like he never had before. The pain was paralyzing. More demons were noisily coming up the corridor. He tried to resist thinking that this would be his inglorious end. Such an end would not be worthy of one of Brackendon’s books.

  He almost didn’t care about Arkus’ spawn wailing now, for it seemed to be ebbing away, along with the pain. It was as if his body was already shutting down, not wanting to live its last seconds in agony. He lay on his back, staring at the doorway, waiting for them to come, and he slipped further out of consciousness. No. I won’t have my eyes closed when the end comes. But try as he may, he could not fight it. ‘Some foes cannot be fought with steel and muscle,’ he heard Brackendon’s words come to him. Was death such a foe?