The view faced northwards towards his Master’s dwelling in the mountain of Kar’drun. Out of sight, but I’d rather be further away. Rectar had constructed new harbours on the western coast close to his mountain lair, but he made use of older ones, such as Aurisha’s and the long-abandoned docks of the Forsaken City. Many of their new ships were under construction here in Aurisha. It is time I inspected the work. Puffy clouds were being whisked along quickly in the sky above, casting fast-moving shadows over the city. Dukoona waited for one of these to pass close to the ground underneath the balcony. Closer, closer, closer. Now!
He dove from the tower and merged into the shadow on the ground far below him. Had he missed the shadow, he would have splattered onto the hard stone. It was risky but it was one of the few thrills he was allowed. As the cloud’s shadow crossed the plaza, Dukoona stayed in his shadow form and was carried with it. When he neared the southern staircase, his excitement grew. There were so many buildings, so many places where the sun will not reach. He leapt from his current means of conveyance into the large shadow cast by the dome of the Basilica. He continued all the way down the southern stairs, springing from shadow to shadow, reforming and re-melding with each transition. Gleefully, he descended until he was dockside.
Rectar had imbued him with much knowledge of this world. He knew that the dragons used to fly. He wondered if it had been as exhilarating as shadow leaping. True flight would be more useful of course, and would mean he could travel over oceans as well. Spectres could not meld into a shadow over water. Attempting it would bring them back into their regular form, to swim in the water like any other creature.
If only we could meld with water as we do with shadow, we could cross over to the west swiftly. But what then?
Even if every spectre could cross the ocean at speed, their lesser demon brethren would not be able to so easily follow. Ships would be required for them. Many hundreds of ships, perhaps thousands. The land passages to the north had proven difficult to traverse.
Rectar had amassed so many demons that it would take years to build an effective fleet. Dukoona had been given a few months at best. To make matters worse, more demons seemed to swarm from Kar’drun daily, only adding to the amount of transport they would need. Fifty fat galleys currently sat moored in the harbour of Aurisha in front of him, and others were anchored not far out to sea. They had been modified from dragon designs to cram in as many demons as possible. The dragons had kindly left schematics for such things behind when they fled the city. That had been kind of them.
Dukoona had no need to enforce discipline in his workers. The demons scurried over the ships like flies, hammering, sawing, and lashing rope. Spectres walked purposefully around, barking more orders here or there, but largely, the demons went about their tasks without trouble. Their Master had complete dominance over their weak minds. Yet obedience does not equate to competence. Often, there were setbacks, despite the vigils of his spectres. Dukoona considered it a blessing, really, that they had to take their time about it. Each day that passed was another chance for the wizard and the Three Races to bloody each other.
Let them weaken each other. Less of my people will die if more of my enemies are dead. And yet, that word troubled him. Enemies. Who are my enemies?
When he had asked this decades ago, his Master had burned it into his thoughts: enemies are humans, fairies and any dragons who would defend them. With humans and fairies, Dukoona was to kill on sight; with dragons, he was to capture. For years, he had fulfilled this purpose. He and his spectres would emerge from the shadows quietly and take captives. But it was a risky business and always involved the deaths of some of his brothers. So, naturally, he had started killing dragons as well. His Master had not liked this, and Dukoona had suffered for it. Not just personally but his people too. Yet those moments of rebellion had been so glorious; those moments when he had simply cut down dragons and deprived Rectar of the thing he wanted most. Nothing seemed to frustrate Rectar more.
Despite his efforts, however, some dragon prisoners were always alive to be sent to the mountain. What happened once they got there, Dukoona did not know. Any time it seemed one of his spectres came close to the answer, they would vanish. Dead. All of my agents dead. And he counted them as a tragic loss.
He was smarter now and wiser in handling his Master. Preventing Rectar from securing his precious spoils of war had been a long and tedious line of mutiny; satisfying in its own way, to be sure, but the victories had always been small. For all his efforts, Dukoona was still bound to Rectar, and so long as Dukoona was bound, his people were bound to this world with him. He had hoped that the wizard might prove a useful ally to him in countering Rectar’s strength but Castallan had proven unreliable. Too bold, too brash, and lacking in all subtlety; the wizard had, in any case, long pursued his own ambitions. Rectar had found him to be a willing and useful tool in smashing the Cascade Conclave. Rectar had taught Castallan how to summon demons of his own in return and, subsequently, Castallan had become a deep thorn in the side of the Three Races. But the wizard had proven remarkably capable of handling them. Perhaps a little too adept? Dukoona even suspected that Rectar had cut the wizard off from further knowledge for fear that he might become too powerful.
For some time now, Dukoona had decided that his long-term struggle via dragon slaying was not productive. This realisation had first struck twenty years ago when he marched into Aurisha after the sack. His spectres had taken thousands of prisoners. He had been unsure of what to do. Hand them over or kill them all? In the end, he had sent one in five to Kar’drun and had his men dispose of the rest. He had never felt sympathy for his supposed enemies but something about that day haunted him. The killings had occurred in the plaza and the blood had flowed in torrents down the southern stairs. For the first time in his existence, he had found that he could not look on.
The age of the prisoners had not mattered, nor had their sex. They would gather spectres and skewer us, given the chance. This is what he had told himself. This is what he had told his spectres. And yet, as the slaughter had unfolded, he heard the clanking of metal on stone as some of his spectres threw down their arms. Normally, he would have disciplined them personally, but when they were hauled before him, he found he could not. They never said anything in their defence. They simply stopped what they were told to do. In that, he recognised the same conflict he had with his Master and found he could not reprimand them.
The sight of the corpses had not moved Dukoona to tears – for he could not cry. He could not feel much at all. He never grew hungry, tired or sick. He existed awake and alert each second of each day; and without fail, the memory of that massacre drifted into his thoughts every day. The deaths had not made him feel regret or guilt, and yet it had made him feel something. Unease, discomfort, foreboding? He had considered them all. Doubt. He had felt doubt.
Naturally, he reckoned this was due to fear of his Master discovering his actions. But I do not fear my Master. There is nothing more he can take from me. If Rectar were to kill him in some fit of fury then that would be a welcomed release. So no, it was not out of fear; yet he still felt it, he had felt doubt. And as the blood flowed and the flesh began to rot under the Aurishan sun, all his spectres had gathered on the plateau. One by one, they came back to look upon their work and to him. They had added their own dead to the pile, then set it all ablaze in the most gruesome fire that ever burned in the world. The plaza was left stained red and charred black. He had thought that the whole world might burn before this was over, including himself and his people along with it. And he could not allow his people to suffer.
All these memories returned to him as he contemplated the upcoming invasion of the west. Their numbers were immense. Two hundred thousand demons were to set sail. They would root out the Lord of the Isles from his islands and storm his seat upon the Nail Head. They would break the walls of Brevia and burn Val’tarra down. And then what? What then when Rectar controls the world and has no more need for
spectres or their lord? He felt it again as he strode along the harbour side of his supposed enemy’s greatest city.
Doubt clawed at him.
Chapter 14
BOGGED DOWN
GRACE’S SCREAMS RIPPED through the night as she began her labour. She had collapsed a day into their forced march across the swampy terrain and they had been forced to stop and make camp. Had Cosmo and Darnuir not been close by her at the time, she might have been swallowed up by one of the foul pools of water they frequently passed. An immediate halt had been called and the healers had rushed to her side.
They were with her now, along with Cosmo, inside their largest tent that was normally reserved for the Captain. It was a large black canvassed construction, held up by three sturdy poles and dozens of pegs. It was a miracle they had found a spot nearby to erect it. Scythe had not begrudged use of it.
Darnuir waited anxiously outside. He had come as close as he dared, for he did not wish to become a hindrance. There was nothing he could do. His skill was in swords and war and he barely understood his own weapon.
He didn’t even trust himself to start a campfire with his sword. Instead, he relied on the old methods, kindling a fire from some of the supply of wood they had the foresight to bring from the mountains. It crackled nearby now, keeping the worst of the damp and the midges at bay. Foul little creatures they were, feasting on them and their misery.
Restless, he paced for an hour before resigning to take a seat on the soft, soggy ground. Brackendon sat, looking dejected as ever. Without his staff, he was just another man. Darnuir had heard the wizard curse beneath his breath as Grace was taken under canvas. “I could ease her pain, I could… I…” he had mumbled. But he could do nothing to help and Darnuir sensed it struck a hard blow to him.
Another agonising scream came from the tent.
“Bite down on this!” a voice commanded. The next shriek was muffled but, nonetheless, upsetting to hear.
Another cry hit Darnuir’s ears but this time from above him. An eagle swooped down in a flurry of wings and feathers, its form undulating and Kymethra landed in her human form.
“What is going on?” she demanded of Brackendon. “I could hear that from a mile away. If the demons didn’t know where you were—”
“The woman is giving birth!” Brackendon cut her off.
“Not well,” Kymethra said, concerned, her temperament changing at the news. She wasted no time in striding over to the tent and disappearing behind its front flap.
“Can she help her?” Darnuir asked hopefully. She used magic. She could make this alright.
“I’m sorry. She cannot help the way that I might have,” Brackendon said remorsefully. “Kymethra was never truly part of the Conclave. She did not complete her apprenticeship. Her knowledge is limited and she has never had a staff. Without one, her powers are as limited as mine.”
Darnuir was crushed.
“But I don’t understand,” he said desperately. “She can use magic. How else can she turn into an animal?”
“Kymethra has an affinity with shape-shifting,” Brackendon explained. “Had she the proper training and a staff, she might have been able to transform into some truly fearsome creatures. As it stands, she is limited, and drawing on Cascade energy to heal takes a lot of energy.”
“Well what can she do then?” he asked, hearing his voice crack.
“She can trick Grace’s mind into thinking there isn’t as much pain. It doesn’t require much power so she can keep it up for some time. It won’t help Grace physically but it may help her through the night.” Kymethra’s soothing magic must have taken effect for Grace’s agonising quietened.
“She looked so frail,” Darnuir said softly. “Brackendon, it’s my fault!” he exclaimed wildly. “All of this! If Grace—”
“Stop,” Brackendon implored. He did not raise his voice to match Darnuir’s. He remained calm. Darnuir slumped further where he sat and ran his hands repeatedly through his hair.
“Were we ever in worse situations before, Brackendon? You and I?” he asked the wizard. “What adventures did the Prince of Dragons and his wizard friend have?”
Brackendon chuckled. “We weren’t friends Darnuir, not truly. Friendship requires a mutual liking and trust, does it not?”
Darnuir’s thoughts turned to Balack. Trust, well he had broken that.
“Did I not like you?” Darnuir asked.
“I’m not sure if you liked anyone,” Brackendon replied. “I did not know you well. We grew closer after Castallan betrayed the Conclave but you were always guarded and you carried a lot of anger with you.”
Darnuir had felt that anger flare in him lately – sudden fleeting pangs of frustration and rage – yet they did not feel like his own. He had felt it recently, when their march had halted for Grace. Slowed down by a human whelp, he had thought. Yet he had not meant to think it. The prodding pain returned again and the intensity made his eyes water.
“I might be going mad, Brackendon,” he said, and sniffed heavily. “Ever since I’ve had the sword, I fear I have not been myself.”
“That blade is beyond my knowledge,” Brackendon said. “Maybe Kasselle will know more.”
Another loud wail from the tent sent them into minutes of solemn silence. The wind whipped up around the wider camp, whistling through the long grass. Whether hours or only minutes passed on that patch of dank earth, Darnuir could not have said. He was staring down as he gently rocked in his worry. His solitude was interrupted when another pair of booted feet appeared before him. Straining his neck upwards, Darnuir saw it was Balack. His friend silently took up a patch of ground beside him. Darnuir made to say something but the words stuck in his throat; however, the look that passed between them said much and more. They took each other by the shoulder.
“Arrgh,” Balack winced loudly.
“Sorry!” Darnuir exclaimed.
“You’re getting stronger then,” Balack noted, massaging his shoulder.
“It seems so,” Darnuir said, unsure how to strike up further conversation with Balack after their weeks of silence.
“Dreadful weather, this,” Balack said.
“The worst,” Darnuir agreed.
Silence descended again. Awkward and all encompassing.
“Darnuir,” Balack finally blurted, “I don’t think I can lose Grace too. Not after Eve.”
“I know,” said Darnuir. “I miss Eve too; I miss her so much it aches.”
“I never thought anything could hurt like this,” Balack said. “But I know, Darnuir. I know it was you she really loved.”
Darnuir’s insides churned furiously with his guilt and his shame.
Does he know what happened? How could he know? How?
“I know that it was you she really loved,” Balack said, visibly choked up with his emotion. “I just thought…” he tried to say, “I just thought that she would change her mind. I wasn’t so blind. I could see it,” he snivelled. “I could see it plainly every day but I chose not to ‘really’ see it. Does this make sense?”
“No, not exactly,” Darnuir said nervously, his innards still knotted with the fear of being caught. “Balack, if you knew that then why did you—”
“Delude myself?” Balack proffered. “Can’t explain it. I think I aggravated over telling her for so long because I knew. And I knew that as soon as I told her then she would tell me no and it would have been over. All of it would have ended with a few words.” His words sounded thickened with his heartbreak. “Did you know? I mean you must have. Is that why you were always trying to push me to say something? To do the right thing?”
The right thing. What would that be here? I cannot tell him…
“I did know,” Darnuir said. It was not the whole truth. Not the whole and terrible truth but it was true. This small piece was easy to give him. He hadn’t known for a fact until that fateful night but he had long suspected. Like Balack, he had saw it plain but had chosen not to ‘really’ see. Perhaps they were both
cowards. Yet watching his friend confess his darkest despairs to him now, Darnuir knew that only he was the coward between them.
“Exactly!” Balack said in an almost jubilant whisper. “You knew and you never took advantage of it. You never pursued her. You always supported me. You were always my friend first.” He took Darnuir firmly by the shoulder once more. “You are a good friend, whereas I have not been of late. I have shut myself away when your whole world has been overturned but I will be with you now. Forgive me?” his final words were almost pleading.
Forgive me? He asks for my forgiveness? I should be the one begging his clemency.
It was almost cruel.
“Oh, Balack, you owe me no apology. Not ever.”
“Thank you, I knew you would understand,” Balack said, with a trace of liveliness. “When we find the chance, I’d like to show you the new archery technique I have been working on.”
“I’d like that very much,” Darnuir assured him, remembering the unique method he had witnessed back in Farlen.
More wailing came from the tent but it was not Grace’s cries, not an adult’s. The bawling of a baby was heard as it was brought into the world. Darnuir looked up expectantly, hopefully; but then he heard another cry. This one was not of a child, nor a woman’s. It was protracted, guttural and deep, as if heralding that time and everything in it had ceased. Cosmo’s anguish drew the attention of those both far and near. Every creature in the marshes must have had heard his cry and felt stricken by it.
Kymethra burst forth from the tent. Blood covered her hands and smeared her face where she had rubbed under her eyes. She looked out to them horrified and could only shake her head. “I’m sorry,” was all she could mouth before returning. Brackendon’s face was desolate. The wizard rose to his feet and hurried over to the tent as well. Balack sat frozen. Darnuir felt as though his sorrow might consume him, filling his entire being, until it began to ebb away, replaced by the prodding head pain. More death and it’s all my fault. The demons are hunting me. This wasn’t her journey to make. His sorrow receded as the thrum of the headache grew.
The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King Page 20
