Before his eyes closed, Darnuir saw a burst of some queer purple energy, like lightning but somehow thicker, coming from the door he had crushed his shoulder on. Only now, the door was open. A robed man walked through it and Darnuir felt a spurt of hope that he couldn’t quite register. Before his sight faded, he saw a brilliant flash of white light, and then nothing at all.
Chapter 4
UNFORESEEN TROUBLES
THE SHOCKINGLY BRIGHT light illuminated the little house. Momentarily, it seemed like a star had fallen violently from the heavens. Brackendon and Darnuir appeared amongst the unnatural shine quite smoothly; no noise at all was made as they materialised out of apparent nothingness. As quickly as the light had appeared, it vanished like a candle blown out, leaving the room dark and damp once more. Brackendon looked around him and saw he was inside a rather small and shabby shack, with dust-covered furniture and an old, wooden bed up against one of the windows. The place had a musky smell of dried straw, mingled with something that reminded Brackendon of the drains of Brevia, a smell of mould and unwanted growth. Outside the tiny window, he could see snow being blown around in the wind, visible in the starlight. Clearly, they were no longer in Aurisha.
The Prince of Dragons lay unconscious at his feet. Pointing his staff at him, Brackendon gently lifted him onto the bed. Instinct told him that Darnuir was wounded but he could barely see. He desperately needed more light and he was starting to feel a chill. There was a small fireplace here in this room. It would have to do, though there was precious little firewood available, and so he directed his attention to a haggard-looking cabinet. Concentrating for a few seconds, he slowly curled his free hand into a fist and the cabinet broke apart into smaller pieces as he did so. Using magic for destruction, like for movement, was relatively cheap, but he nonetheless felt the surge of the poisonous substance flow to his shoulder, down towards his staff, enjoying the relief as it drained out of him. His staff would process the magic for him but it could only deal with so much.
Gathering up the broken cabinet, Brackendon stacked the fire high and sent a few sparks at the wood to ignite it. With the crackling fire to aid him, Brackendon returned to Darnuir’s side to more closely examine his charge. Darnuir was a mess. His cheek had a long red gash, which trickled blood. His shoulder was a mangle of flesh and bone; then there was the knife protruding menacingly from his side. That would not be so cheap to mend. He could easily remove the knife but healing Darnuir’s wound and fixing up his shoulder would take a great deal of power. Perhaps more than he could risk. He attempted to draw out the dagger with his hand, to save using even that small amount of magic, but the blade was twisted in deep.
There will be blood when I pull it out. A lot of blood.
Resigning himself, Brackendon began to slowly edge the dagger out magically. It slid out neatly onto the bed and a torrent of dark blood followed behind it. Brackendon had no choice. He used his powers to knit up the skin and muscle, enough so that the bleeding would stop. As he felt the magical energy wash through him, empowering him, he turned his attention to Darnuir’s shoulder. With this injury, he also did the minimum required to stop Darnuir bleeding to death. The protruding bone snapped back into place and a thin veil of pink flesh formed over it. When he finished his work, Brackendon stopped drawing on the power. There was a moment of brief euphoria, a moment in which he felt invincible, unstoppable; then he began to feel the full force of the magic he had just used.
His body convulsed in powerful shakes as he felt the poisonous remains of the magic flood his system. He gasped for air as his lungs tightened and he fell writhing to the floor. Whimpering, he thrashed around helplessly, like an insect missing too many legs, before curling up pathetically. He felt the magical residue rage throughout his body, agonising, before it drained down his arm to his staff. His hand gripped the silver bark tightly, in dire need of his staff’s processing ability. Without it, he would have handled barely a fraction of the power he wielded.
He lay still for a time on the dank floor. When he finally regained a degree of sense about him, his head pounded fiercely and a strong bitterness lay upon his tongue. I must be careful. It would not do for me to break; not here, not now.
For a wizard to break was a terrible fate. Magic was addictive stuff but its true name, for those who knew it, was Cascade energy. The more one drew on the Cascade, the stronger one felt and the more one was tempted to consume. When a wizard broke, it meant he had surpassed the limit both his body and staff could maintain. There were many consequences but a common occurrence was total psychological breakdown. Brackendon had seen a few of his colleagues break in their youth. Men reduced to boys and the boys to babes. It wasn’t permanent but the recovery process was uncertain, and for many, it took years.
Brackendon had just drawn on a significant amount of Cascade energy in order to heal Darnuir. Healing and creating with magic always drew on far more power than using it to destroy. ‘Wood versus stone’ was what he had been taught. A house might be built quickly and cheaply out of wood, but one of stone would endure. Building things properly took time, effort and resources. The magical comparison was almost too much for anyone to bear. The body took a long time to heal, for example. For a magic wielder to speed up that process, and make it almost instantaneous, was to use the same amount of energy required for the healing in one burst. Destruction, on the other hand, was an easier thing. A masterpiece tapestry might take the weaver months to sew, but any urchin with a torch could ruin it in seconds. All considered, he had called upon infinitely more Cascade energy to heal Darnuir’s wounds than he had in crushing the cabinet. And he had only just stopped the bleeding. He hadn’t even made an attempt to heal the other internal damage Darnuir might have suffered.
Regaining himself, Brackendon sat up slowly and went over to inspect his patient, and noticed, to his horror, a greenish tint of poison upon the jagged knife he had extracted from Darnuir. This made matters even worse. Dragons had a weakness to poison. Crude as demon toxin was, Darnuir might well perish from it. A long moment passed in which Brackendon found himself unusually lost and unsure.
What am I to do?
Darnuir shivered a little. Brackendon found some old blankets in a wardrobe next to the door, along with an assortment of mismatched, ragged clothing. He quickly shook the dust off them and removed Darnuir’s remaining armour. The thick plates were so heavy that he had to use a little magic to move them. He winced doing so, feeling the build-up in his system. He could barely maintain the effort and the armour clashed to the floor as he suddenly let go. Cold sweat covered Darnuir underneath the metal. Brackendon wrapped the blankets around Darnuir’s body and placed the clothes bunched up behind his head for a makeshift pillow.
Kneeling by the bedside, Brackendon put his head in his hands. What can I do?
It had only been a stroke of luck and good timing that had saved Darnuir. Kasselle had asked him where Arkus had run off to, so he had explained to her about the King’s daughter. She had then urged him to go and help, as time was extremely short. He had only made it to the beginning of the winding stairs when he saw the debris fall onto the path above. He had continued up the stairs but only found a wounded and exhausted Arkus. The King had said that the rubble had cut him off from both Darnuir and his girl.
Brackendon knew that the Arcane Sanctum would provide a way around the blockage but, when he had attempted this route, he had found the entrance blocked inside by the same door that must have stopped Darnuir. As he was removing the spell he himself had placed, Brackendon had heard the banging and shouting coming from beyond the sealed door. When he had made it through, he had dispatched some of the advancing demons with arcane energy, but had been too late to save the prince from injury. Darnuir had seemed an inch from death and Brackendon had heard more demons coming. He could not have fought them all whilst moving Darnuir at the same time. In the heat of the moment, Brackendon considered he had only one path. He had taken hold of Darnuir and brought him to the one
place in the world he could instantaneously. A small settlement called Cold Point, high in the Boreac Mountains, on the opposite side of the world.
A wizard could only travel in such a way to the place where his or her staff tree resided, and, even when they did travel in such a manner, where they ended up was never exact. Wizards teleporting could appear anywhere within a mile’s radius of their staff tree, and Brackendon supposed they had been fortunate to land inside an abandoned house. He had little reason to teleport to Cold Point normally, for it was far removed from the important areas of Tenalp. Still, he had used it once before.
Although Darnuir was now stable, Brackendon was in a true predicament.
He couldn’t know for sure whether Draconess was still alive, nor Arkus and Kasselle. Anything could have happened since they left. Hopefully, they would all be safely at sea by now, heading to Arkus’ capital of Brevia. There was a great harbour there, like Aurisha’s, and most of the ships would be able to dock there. Brackendon and Darnuir, however, were in the Boreacs, and far to the southwest of the human capital. They were closer to Castallan’s sphere of influence than any stronghold of the Three Races.
Brackendon was lifted from his thoughts as Darnuir began to stir. Very slowly, and with evident effort, the prince half-opened his eyes. He tried to speak but his voice was weak and rasping.
“Where are we?”
“Cold Point,” Brackendon informed him.
“In the Boreac Mountains,” Darnuir added as if to clarify. Darnuir knew the geography of Tenalp well at least. Anything that was useful for war, he tended to know. The Prince didn’t question how they had gotten there. He likely knew of Brackendon’s staff tree, or perhaps he was simply in too much anguish to care.
“You must be in incredible pain,” Brackendon said. “There is no need to—” Brackendon was interrupted as Darnuir’s body wrenched in agony. He opened his mouth in a silent scream. Dragons were tough and Darnuir was tougher still. Brackendon had never known him to show signs of sufferance. These gestures unnerved him more than the wound itself.
How much pain does it take to make such a creature wail?
He got up and held Darnuir steady. Darnuir closed his eyes once the convulsions had stopped and drew in a long, calming breath. He spoke again; this time his voice was not much more than a whisper.
“The girl…” Darnuir’s voice trailed away.
The girl! She isn’t here. Was she nearby Darnuir? I didn’t see her.
“Darnuir, I’m sorry,” Brackendon choked. “She must have been left behind. I…” Brackendon stopped his confession as Darnuir slipped unconscious again. His chest and stomach rose only a little from his shallow breaths. Brackendon was left once more with his unanswerable question.
What am I to do?
Snow fell more heavily outside the tiny window. It collected around the edges of the pane, further obscuring the world beyond. Little could be seen, other than the spiky outline of towering pine and evergreen trees. The shack must have been on the outskirts of town. He had only been to Cold Point once before but roughly remembered its layout, although the circumstances under which he had travelled here in the past were completely different. It had been just four years ago at the end of his training when he had been presented with his staff.
As Brackendon stared out on the snowy scene, he recalled his previous trip to Cold Point. He had been aiding a friend escape from a previous life. His name was Cosmo, a young man from Brevia, then only eighteen. He had opposed his father, and political life in the capital, in every way. He had not wanted to stay and become something he wasn’t. So he had come to Brackendon in confidence; wishing to run away as far as he could. Wherever he ended up, his plan had been to join the regional hunters, an organisation in which he felt he could actually achieve some good.
Hunters and huntresses were well-trained and respected across all human lands. They fulfilled many roles. Sometimes they acted as an elite scouting force, sometimes as local law enforcement, and other times, they did just what their title suggested – they hunted. Larger wild beasts were their primary concern these days, especially here in the Boreac Mountains, where bears were a known issue. They kept the roads safe for travellers.
Yet bears were not their original targets. Brackendon looked to Darnuir with slight apprehension. In the earliest days of the hunters, their main duty was to hunt dragons. That had been when humanity and the dragons were in open conflict.
Thankfully, those days were far in the past. Cosmo had sought to join the hunters because of their involvement with their regional communities. Above all, Cosmo had desired to help people – truly help them. Hopefully, he would still be alive and well.
Brackendon was sure he would need Cosmo’s help in one way or another. Perhaps if proper aid could be brought to Darnuir, he would pull through. Though Brackendon did not allow his hopes to rise. Hope could be fragile thing and Darnuir’s fate was all but decided. Poison was the death of a dragon. There was one potential spell Brackendon could use but it was little better than death. Would it be right to perform it? Would it kill him to do so? For now, at least, he decided he would seek out Cosmo. It was a start. There was little more he could do for the prince presently. Brackendon turned from the grimy room and left the shack, feeling guilty for leaving Darnuir.
What other choice do I have?
Brackendon left Darnuir and the warmth of the fire behind as he stepped out of the shack into the cold snow. It seemed he was right on the edge of the town. A jumble of flickering lights in the distance indicated life did exist here. Cosy, squat-looking log cabins sat all around him. Each building was covered in a layer of snow, as were the pines and other evergreens upon the slopes of the valley in which the town was nestled. From what Brackendon could remember, the roads of Cold Point were, where possible, constructed out of cobbles, but the vast majority were simple dirt tracks, which, due to frequent snowfalls, were more like muddy rivers. Brackendon splashed across the surface of one now and headed towards what he guessed was the centre of the town. The light sandals he had worn to combat the heat of Aurisha afforded him no protection against the freezing water or the biting wind.
Perhaps Cosmo can also spare me some of those sturdy hunter boots.
The preference for wooden cabins came from the logging work that was conducted in the Boreac Mountains. Cold Point was the highest settlement in the region and had easy access to vast bodies of trees to be felled. Built in the steep valley, the town was protected at its thickest end by a large, iron gate, while the rest of the settlement followed the flow of the land to the valley’s tipped point. The effect was to make the layout of the town seem misshapen, and many regarded that it looked, quite fittingly, like an icicle.
In the freezing air, Brackendon hurried towards the square ahead. Lights were kindled inside the cabins he passed but he saw no living soul. When he reached the square, he felt stone beneath his feet and was relieved to no longer be walking through the icy water. The busiest-looking building appeared to be the tavern. Many silhouettes were framed against the glass, as were the outlines of tankards and drinking horns in hand. Were they celebrating? If they were then Cosmo was most likely with them. Before investigating further, Brackendon found himself drawn towards his staff tree. Despite the urgency of his situation, he felt compelled to see it. After all, he was bound to it in a way. Should it ever be destroyed, his staff would shatter along with it, crippling his magical capabilities. He didn’t have to wander far until he saw it, surrounded by a small, stone wall.
It was a magnificent sight to behold. He recognised the twenty feet of gnarled silver bark, its branches criss-crossed and weaved throughout one another as if in a frenzied dance. Its leaves were a mixture of silver and white; some lay scattered on the ground around it but most remained on their branches. Near the top, there was a long, thin section of wood cut away from the trunk that was the same length as the staff he held. Being close to his tree filled Brackendon with a kind of primal energy. He felt bolste
red: powerful. Perhaps it was just as well, considering what he may have to do. Yet the feeling was likely deceptive. Magic had an unrivalled capacity to make the user feel like he could accomplish anything; and many died because of it.
As he was paying homage to the tree, he saw a man across the square wearing the layered, leather armour of the hunters, designed by region to blend into their surroundings. The approaching hunter’s leathers were thus primarily white, interwoven with pieces, stained oily black and dull grey, which would help camouflage him amongst the dirtied snow and rock of the mountains. However, against the log buildings, he was easily discernible. A fur-lined hood hung behind his neck and his leather pauldrons were thick and bulky, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders. The hunter was walking quite purposefully as though on patrol. He spotted Brackendon just before he reached the tavern. After a moment’s pause, the hunter whipped out his bow and drew an arrow so fast that Brackendon would not even have had time to draw breath if the hunter had intended to kill him.
“Who goes there?” the hunter yelled threateningly. Brackendon raised his arms slowly to indicate he meant no harm.
“Do not be alarmed,” Brackendon said. “I am but a simple traveller who is an old friend of one of your own.” The excuse was feeble but his head ached so much from the magic he had recently used that he could barely string a sentence together. So long as he found Cosmo, it didn’t matter.
“Name him,” the hunter replied, his bow still raised.
“Cosmo,” Brackendon said, trying to hide the nervousness he felt at the drawn bow. “I would be very grateful if you could take me to him.”
“Cosmo,” said the hunter with admiration in his voice. Though there were no ranks as such within the hunters, except for a captain who was in charge of individual stations, there were always some who earned more respect and loyalty than the others. Cosmo appeared to be one of them. “He’s in the tavern with the rest of the men,” the hunter informed him. “We killed a demon-raiding party today with no casualties on our side.” The man stopped for a moment as if to savour the victory. Since Castallan’s betrayal, demons had been scourging the southern human kingdom almost with impunity. Brackendon thought it terribly ironic that here were men celebrating their achievement, while across the ocean on the other side of the world, the Three Races’ most coveted city was now in the hands of Rectar. “So, you want me to take you to him?” The hunter made the offer coolly, not lowering his weapon.
The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King Page 5
