The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  “Dwna shines upon us,” the congregation chanted.

  “Today, we shall bring our King back into the fold. May his will be strong and his faith stronger,” Blaine continued. He suspected that the King would have no comprehension of the faith, having grown up with humans. Though his story was one of great significance. “Our lord King, Darnuir, had his life renewed so that he may live to lead us against the shadow. For his renewal, I thank N’weer.”

  “N’weer revitalises our strength,” the crowd murmured. More men entered the tent to join the flock.

  “Like our Lord Dwl’or, we are now half-blinded by the shadow. The east of our world lies in darkness but our journey to lift that shadow begins here,” Blaine said, yet this time, there was no response from his audience. Have they forgotten the words? How could Draconess let things have slipped so far? He decided that this would be enough for now. He would rebuild the faith in time. There was also the matter of restoring his order to some semblance of its past strength. And for that, he would need capable warriors.

  “Of those of you gathered here today, were any among you members of the Praetorian Guard? Rise if so.” To his delight, every member of his small congregation got to their feet. Ah, Draconess. You did not completely fail then. “I am moved by your conviction, friends. But the Gods of Light require us to be active as well as devout. Henceforth, I would have you all as the first members of my newly-resurrected Guardians – my Light Bearers.” He took their silence for consensus. “Very well, please leave your names in my quarters.”

  “My lord Guardian,” one of the closest dragons said, “where have you been all these years? Why has the shadow been allowed to spread?”

  Sometimes Blaine did not quite know the answer himself. Because I failed and I was afraid.

  “Those are questions to which you all deserve answers. Yet unfortunately, a deserving explanation will take time and we are pressed in our current state. I promise you this; I will explain myself to those who prove they are loyal. To those who prove they are worthy.” Blaine felt a quick display of the light might help bolster the men’s belief. Why ask someone to believe when they could see for their own eyes? He drew the Guardian’s Blade from his side, a brother to the Dragon’s Blade.

  The body of the sword was constructed from the same material as its sibling. Its hilt, however, was very different and cast in the symbol of his order with half the severed sun at the pommel and the other at the cross guard. Yellow and orange rays extended downwards to protect his hands as he wielded it. White gems adorned the grip of the sword, sparkling brilliantly in the smallest amount of light.

  The very sight of the sword alone drew gasps from his audience, but all let out some exclamation when he carefully produced a beam of pale light from it. The beam hit off the roof of their tent and Blaine intensified it until it seared through the cloth and was lost in the day outside. He stopped it almost immediately afterwards. Enough for now. I may need all my strength later. The magic he had drawn on was relatively small, to be sure, but even this he felt course through his body, up to his shoulder and out down towards his sword, which would process the poisonous and corrupting substance. Despite the blade’s unmatched ability to process Cascade energy, it was always a risk to draw upon it. As a dragon, he was severely limited to the poison at any rate. Best to keep to small doses and use it only when required. His minor display already had the men before him captivated. With any luck, they would spread the story and it would grow larger in the telling. If the story grew large enough then his congregation might swell accordingly. Time would tell.

  Blaine swept from the tent, keenly aware that the men ought to move out as quickly as possible. All were up and readying themselves, though it appeared many were still at their breakfast and others struggled with the straps of their gear. Perhaps twenty years is a little long? Even for us? His foot trod on something that crunched. Several stalks of wheat lay crushed into powder. Being in the middle of the Golden Crescent, they had had little choice but to camp in one field or another. The region was renowned for being the breadbasket of the west, and even supplied Aurisha too, or at least it had. The local hunters had not been ecstatic as two legions trundled through the farmland. We cut the grain and bundle it for them. If anything, they should be thanking us for the service. Humans were entirely ungrateful.

  “Lord Guardian,” came a small voice from nearby. It was one of the boys who had earlier brought him his hot water. “One of the outrunners has returned. He says he must speak with you at once.”

  “Is he incapable of finding me himself?” Blaine asked the boy. “Or have things changed without my knowing? Why have messengers if not to bring the message?”

  “Your pardon, Lord Guardian,” the boy said nervously. “Damien, that’s his name, sir, he’s in a terrible way. His breath comes hard to him and he clutches at his side.”

  Gods, but he must have ran hard to be so out of breath. The child’s confusion was likely due to never having felt breathless before: never having pushed his limits, even as a dragon.

  “I shall go to him,” he informed the boy. “Thank you, and spare a thought for N’weer so that Damien’s strength might be rejuvenated.”

  “I will, sir,” the youngling said, and hurried off to perform his other duties.

  Blaine remembered how it used to be when far older boys would have fulfilled the role of attendant. Boys of eighteen, nineteen, even twenty. He watched as the child who had delivered the message scampered off. He could not have been more than nine, maybe ten. No better than a hatchling. It was a sign of his race’s decay and he knew it. There were too few of them left now. Far too few. Their King was little more than a child as well. This Darnuir would have to learn fast. Blaine disliked the idea of having to rule in his stead – which would have to be subtly done – yet he also wished to avoid handling a King with whom he was at loggerheads. To rule was not Blaine’s place but their people needed guidance and a firm hand to lead them back to their home.

  Remembering that urgent news from the outrunner awaited him, Blaine set off at once down the via primacy, to the south end of the camp. On his short journey, he saw other signs of degeneration that the years of inactivity had wrought. Rows of tents, which ought to have resembled many sleeping doves, were pitted with empty spots or dirtied canvases. Men tended to rusted and neglected weapons, trying to recapture some of their former sharpness. Others were strapping on damaged armour, the golden plates chipped and cracked in places. Tall containers of javelins with long, iron tips lay half-empty. Blaine would have been incensed, were it not for his own lethargy.

  This must never happen again.

  The most obvious omission was clear to see from all points, for the camp’s perimeter was marked only by the last tent, and not, as it should, by high, slanting palisade walls. This final collection of tents housed the outrunners; dragons with prodigious speed, stamina and even keener eyes, who would run on scouting missions or relay messages to other legions on campaign.

  Blaine reached the southern outrunner post on the perimeter. As he swept into view, the men snapped to attention. The ‘post’, such as it was, was a crudely-constructed platform raised ten feet above the ground. A single ladder granted access to it. It should have been a small tower, granting an unhindered view of the landscape. Blaine suppressed a sigh. The men were all down below the platform, huddled over a map of Western Tenalp, spread out on a table before them. One of the men was clearly winded. He wore loose-fitting clothes that granted maximum flexibility and went barefoot, as was custom amongst the runners. He and his fellows were lean and wiry, compared to a dragon’s usual bulk. We all serve our purpose.

  “Damien, I presume?”

  “Yes, Lord Guardian,” Damien struggled.

  “You must have run like few of our kind ever have. What news is so urgent? Is the King in danger?”

  “Yes, Lord Guardian,” repeated the runner. “He and his company have arrived at the town by the loch. Torridon is its name, according
to the map.” He indicated its position. “But demons fast approach them. I ran farther into the marsh to gauge how long the refugee train is and saw the black tide accelerating on the horizon.”

  “How long until the demons reach the town?” Blaine asked.

  “I would estimate a day, and maybe half of another, sir, but no longer than that.”

  “What sort of state were the humans in?” Blaine asked.

  “A wearied one, sir,” Damien said. “More than half their numbers appeared to be civilians. All haggard and worn from their journey. How things are inside the town, I could not say.”

  “Anything else?” Blaine pressed the runner, and he bent low over the map himself to better appreciate the scenario.

  “I did see countless human parties fleeing north towards Val’tarra as I made my return. Most had hunters from the Crescent with them, clad in their yellow and brown leathers. I also saw mounted men, carrying the banner of Brevia, but they were heading south like us.”

  “Chevaliers? What are they doing here?” Blaine pondered aloud. Is anyone in control? “Where are we in relation to Torridon?”

  “Here, sir,” another outrunner said, pointing to the map for him. “Still some way to the north but a day’s hard march should close the distance.”

  “Then it is imperative that we secure the King,” said Blaine. “You have done well Damien, take your rest.” Blaine knew that it would take some time yet to break camp and march to Darnuir. We must act sooner. “You there,” he barked at the helpful map-reading runner, “take a message to the Camp Prefect. The men are to continue south to Torridon immediately, but ensure they have the strength to fight if need be.”

  “Shouldn’t I bring this to the legionary legates, sir?”

  Blaine grunted in annoyance. “Ordinarily, yes. But as there is not yet any legates in place, the Prefect will suffice.” Proper command will have to be installed as well. Have I been too hasty in my endeavours? “Inform the Prefect that I shall be leading a vanguard mission to secure the King. You will rendezvous with us there.”

  “Yes, Lord Guardian,” the fresh runner said dutifully, dashing off.

  Blaine resolved himself to action. Hastily, he made his way back to his tent and was satisfied to find the collection of Praetorians who had gathered for prayer that morning. They were scratching their names down onto a piece of parchment as requested. There were even more now. Likely word had spread amongst the former Guard.

  “Praetorians, today I granted you all the chance to join me as my Light Bearers,” he announced. They all listened intently. I have not addressed a group of loyal warriors in far too long. And loyal is what they best become. “I must warn you now that to become a Light Bearer is to dedicate yourself to the Way of Light; to forsake your duties, even to your King, for you will serve a higher power.”

  “Lord Guardian, we are ready,” one of the men said intensely. “Draconess swore that you would return; that you had not abandoned us. He told us that we must keep our faith and be steadfast, even when so many lost their way.”

  The outburst pleased Blaine greatly but also gave him some reservations. Had there been divisions amongst Draconess’ own guard? “Thank you,” he told the dragon, “thank you all. Now you have a chance to prove your worth to me. An outrunner brings news that the King, your king, is in danger. I intend to run to him myself and secure his safety. A host of demons advance and he is surrounded by the weakness of humanity. Will you join me?” A satisfying chorus rose in response to his request. “Lightly equip yourselves and assemble at the southern perimeter. Now!”

  They all sprinted out without delay. Blaine swiftly pulled on a leather jerkin to act as padding between his body and his armour, which stood awaiting him on its stand. Freshly cleaned by his own hand only the night before, the gold glistened. The armour was unique, like his sword, and it too had a sibling set that he would one day present to the King. The metal was thick, far thicker than any human could endure to wear, with large ornamental pauldrons representing part of the severed sun of the Guardian. The symbol itself was prominently raised on the chest piece. He donned his greaves and gauntlets as well but decided to keep his feet lighter, and chose a pair of leather boots instead. Readying himself for battle lit a fire in him that had guttered lifelessly for too long. This might be my first fight since… But he could not remember the exact details. He glanced down to the three white gems on the grip of his blade. There, the full memory resided. He pressed a thumb gently on the gem closest to the pommel and it popped out of its socket. The gem was heavy in his hand, laden with memories.

  Most of those memories were his own but some were not. Dare he revisit his greatest failure? He had kept the memory in the gem so it would be stored perfectly. Inside the jewel, it would not fade with time or be altered by himself. Consciously or not, everyone on occasion twists their own memories. If we alter it just enough for long enough then that becomes the truth of it. It was a Guardian’s duty to preserve and to keep watch. Some memories should not be forgotten. Another time, he decided, depositing the gemstone back into the sword.

  He was not yet ready.

  Chapter 16

  TORRIDON

  DARNUIR WATCHED THE robed man with the arced hair materialise before him once more. As always, his vision was jarred and the familiar conversation played out.

  “… with that, and enough time, I will find the answer for you, for us!” the stranger said, a little nervously.

  “You are sure?” Darnuir asked him in a considered tone. “I seek answers,” he reminded the man, “not more questions.”

  “I am, though it will take a deal of secrecy to begin my work without interruption or suspicion,” the stranger said. “Few are as open-minded or understanding as you, Darnuir.”

  “Few share my passion to preserve my race,” Darnuir said. “Even my father lacks that most base instinct of survival. I feel he has resigned himself.”

  “We shall turn the tide,” the stranger assured him.

  Darnuir felt as though he had more to say, even more to feel, but vision and sound swirled as the scene transformed in front of him. The next vision was far clearer. He found himself in a grand room, with a long crescent moon table of golden stone. Two carved chairs faced many small freestanding ones on the opposite side. Maps were strewn across it, along with plates of half-eaten food and goblets of untouched wine. He shared the room with a man of shoulder-length blond hair, who he knew well yet resented greatly.

  “Father,” Darnuir began slowly, “I see that the strain of kingship is ruining you but there is no need for you to continue if you can longer bear it.”

  Draconess turned to him, bearing an expression of utter disbelief. “You would ask me to abdicate? To grant you the power?”

  “I would,” Darnuir said. “Not for my sake but for the sake of our people. We both know I am the more natural warrior. With the sword, I could—”

  “Storm Kar’drun?” Draconess said, his temper rising. “Cut your way through a hundred thousand demons and slay our foe yourself? Do you believe it is so simple?”

  “I would win us more battles!” Darnuir said. “I would re-take lost ground; I would turn defeat into victory; and yes, I would kill him if I could reach him.”

  “Such arrogance,” his father said. “It pains me to see how little you have listened. How little you have learned.”

  Darnuir’s frustration hit a boiling point. “Father, give me the sword! It cannot not make matters worse.”

  “Could it not?” Draconess said, unsheathing the Dragon’s Blade with a flourish. The tip of the blade caught one of the nearby glasses and sent its contents across the table. The spilt wine flowed across the table, soaking one of the maps in a bloodlike stain.

  Darnuir looked at the Dragon’s Blade and drank it in. The carved head of the dragon, the wings descending downward, and the thick blade etched with the forked tongue of the beast. A hunger gripped him, along with a great desire to raise his hand towards it. Yet before
anymore could be done or said, Darnuir felt the jerk of being pulled away from the scene and away from his body.

  He awoke as he did most mornings now: heart pounding and chest heaving. His dreams were becoming increasingly vivid. The first one, the one he had most frequently, had expanded a little since his initial viewing. The second one had been new to him and even more disturbing. It had felt like he had known that man. Did I call him father? If so, why did I feel so bitter in his company? He was beginning to suspect that these dreams were flashes from his past life. That or his imagination had become both twisted and stale. Though the reason as to why they were appearing now eluded him. Again, he suspected his new sword was to blame.

  However, if they were memories, they were worrying. What did I promise to the stranger? Why does that dream never appear fully formed? He had a lot of questions and there was no one who could answer them. Brackendon had told him that Kasselle might have insight. He hoped she would.

  As sleep was no longer an option, Darnuir decided to get some fresh air. First, he had to navigate his way over the other hunters inside the stuffy crannog. The air inside the Great Crannog was acrid from the number of people crammed into it. Their sleeping bodies lined the inner hall in a circle, following the shape of the cavernous space. He quietly stepped over his fellows in search and felt relief when he emerged out onto the decking. A gust of wind did much to wake him fully and he took in the scene in the pre-dawn dark.

  The Great Crannog in which he had suffered such poor sleep served as hunter station for the Cairlav Marshes. Despite its impressive size, it was now quite full, as was the town back on shore, swelled in population by the survivors of the Boreac Mountains and fleeing marsh dwellers. Torridon lay at the edge of the loch, a blip of civilisation amongst the muddy pools, tall grass and bright fauna; separated by a simple wooden wall. Pine from the Boreac Mountains was the dominant material of construction for the town. At least one thing is familiar. Numerous vessels, ranging from rowboat to trading ship, lined the pebbled shore. Water slapped gently up against the boats, the stones and the columns of the crannog. The height of the town was raised several storeys by sizeable smoke-houses, releasing a steady stream of fish-infused mist. The smell was intense. There was smoke, salt, and fish flesh, but perhaps something more? His nose twitched under the strain of the fumes. The strength of it led him to cough and splutter. In his convulsion, he only heard the footsteps approaching once they were right behind him.