The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  “Are you okay?” Balack asked.

  “Yes I’m… I’m fine,” Darnuir struggled to say. “Can’t you smell it?”

  “A little fishy,” Balack said. “Nothing too strong. Why, what do you smell?

  “I can’t describe it. It feels like one of those smoked fish has been rammed up by nose.”

  “A disturbing image,” Balack yawned as he stretched. “I worry about you, Darnuir,” he added, “you’ve not been sleeping right. Always muttering and reaching for your sword half the time.”

  Darnuir managed to right himself as the initial force subsided. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m not sleeping well either,” said Balack. “Though likely for different reasons.”

  “I’m alright, Balack,” Darnuir said. “I think I am just going through some kind of, hmm, adjustment period.”

  “It’s not just me you know,” Balack said. “You haven’t quite been yourself at times. These strange moments that come over you, what are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Darnuir said softly. “It frightens me a little, I must admit.” Almost on cue, the dull prod returned.

  “Does something bring them on? Do they just come out of nowhere,” Balack said. “Have you noticed anything that eases it? Have you—”

  “I told you, human. I don’t know!” Darnuir said, rounding on a stunned Balack. No! I didn’t even have warning that time. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Balack just looked concerned. “It’s fine,” he said. “I was going to practice with my bow. Care to join me? There wasn’t a chance to stop in the marshes.” Darnuir was warmed by his friend’s genuineness.

  “Of course!” he said. Some repetitive training might do him some good.

  Although the marshland hunters took quarters in their Great Crannog, the area they used for target practice was outside the town walls. It was necessary for archery, lest they would lose countless arrows to the water. Quivers slung across their backs and bows over their shoulders, Darnuir and Balack picked their way through the crowds. Their trip through the town was brief but awkward. The volume of refugees meant that the streets were packed. Darnuir’s newly-enhanced sense of smell registered the lurid scents of sweat and grime. Like before, the intensity of it gave him the uncanny feeling that he was smelling something else entirely. It was strangely sweet, as though the weary had lined their clothes with crumbs of cake. The sensation was alien to him and unnerving.

  At the practice range, Balack warmed up by emptying his quiver into a stuffed sack, dressed up as a spectre. Darnuir took a few shots at a target himself but was more interested to watch Balack. After retrieving his arrows, Balack refilled his quiver but kept three arrows in his hand.

  “Was this what you wanted to show me?” Darnuir asked.

  “Yes,” Balack said, shuffling his feet into position and readying himself. “I’ve been working on it for a while now. Mainly back at the station when we were on leave. I think I’m ready to try it out for real now.”

  “As in combat?”

  “Hopefully,” Balack said. “Over the last year, when we were out on patrols, if we were ever ambushed, it was always hard to get a good shot off.”

  “What?” Darnuir said incredulously. “You always made excellent shots, a few I would have thought impossible.”

  “But that’s just it,” Balack said, “I only made a few. What is a few kills worth in a battle?” He paused, perhaps waiting for Darnuir to respond. “I felt useless in the battle, at Cold Point I mean,” he continued sombrely.

  “Balack, you must have taken out dozens of them,” Darnuir said. Where was this all coming from?

  “I was stuck behind a window!” Balack said. “A lot of us were. If I had been down there, I might have… I might have…” he trailed off. Darnuir guessed as to the reason why.

  “I was down there,” Darnuir said, “and the spectre still got to her from the shadow of the tree. Nothing would have saved her.”

  “Even so,” Balack said resolutely, “I don’t want to be trapped behind a wall again. I don’t want to be stuck at the back while everyone else is at the front. This will help.”

  “Holding three arrows in your draw hand will help?”

  Balack grinned. “Remember having to practice running and shooting at the same time?”

  “Not fondly,” Darnuir said. “I never quite got the hang of that.”

  “Nor has anyone really,” Balack said. “The first shot is easy. The trouble is reaching behind yourself for the next arrow, drawing it and firing, whilst maintaining your eye on the target, which, in reality, is also likely moving.”

  “That’s why archers tend to stand still,” Darnuir said.

  “Which is to our detriment. Think how deadly the hunters could be if we could all pursue our foes and fire rapidly after them?”

  “Show me then.”

  Balack beamed at him, steadied himself with a few good breaths, then fired. He immediately flicked one of his spare arrows up to the string, drew and fired again. He repeated this for a third time, each arrow sliced into the head of the fake spectre. It all took place in the space of a second or less. Balack turned to him with an expectant look. Darnuir’s stunned silence seemed to satisfy him.

  “Now I’ll show you it on the move!” Balack said and drew another three arrows. This time he advanced slowly forwards and launched his arrows again in quick succession. He sent each one at a different target. They weren’t all perfect shots but they all hit. Chest, midriff or head, the target is still dead. Darnuir was beginning to see the power of this technique.

  “Can you do it as you’re running?” Darnuir asked. “I’m impressed, but walking in a fight isn’t wise.”

  “I’m working on it,” Balack said. He performed his display for a third time, stepping in a sprint. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “Missed one.”

  “In a packed fight, you’d likely still hit something,” Darnuir said. “Just hopefully not a friend.”

  “Do you want to try it?” Balack asked.

  Darnuir pondered. A bow had never felt as comfortable to him as a sword and this art seemed particularly delicate. He lifted out three arrows like Balack had but struggled to even draw one without the others falling out of his grip.

  “It’s all in the finger work,” Balack said. “It will just take time.”

  Darnuir struggled with the shafts a few more times. “This is really not my strong point,” he said. Still he tried again. And again. And again. This was meant to take the edge off, not make me more frustrated. He tried one last time, managing to get off the shot without dropping the shafts, but they slipped immediately after. Why am I even doing this? I have a flying sword. He dropped the bow and unstrapped his quiver.

  “What are you doing?” Balack said. “You’ve only just started. Just firing one shot took me weeks.”

  Darnuir paid him no heed. He unsheathed the Dragon’s Blade with a clarity of mind he had not felt in a long time. He focused on the target ahead, drew back his arm and launched the sword forwards. The blade whistled through the air, lopped off the dummy’s head and soared back to Darnuir’s waiting hand. He caught it and twirled the sword satisfactorily.

  “Well,” Balack choked out, “that also works.”

  The two friends laughed and Darnuir’s head eased. It felt like they had not laughed at all in months, maybe longer. They continued at their new exercises. Balack running increasingly faster and attempting to hold ever more arrows in his draw hand. Darnuir also experimented with throwing his sword with movement. It seemed that no matter how far he ran or how bizarrely he weaved, the sword found its way back to his hand. If he veered suddenly to one side, the sword would adjust its path. Time passed pleasantly and, as the morning sun rose, the town began to stir. Bustling movement could be heard on the other side of the town wall and they would have to relent soon.

  Reluctantly, Darnuir decided he ought to return and discuss their plans with Scythe and Cosmo. If Cosmo will even speak to us. I need h
im. He looked down at the Dragon’s Blade and felt elated at its capabilities. I wonder what would happen if I turned my back? He could afford one last untested throw. Launching the blade out over the loch with all his might, he turned his back. Upon facing his new direction, he saw two mounted men approaching Torridon. Preoccupied by these men, Darnuir forgot about his sword. A powerful thump knocked him flat on his face. Dazed, he lifted his head from the lichen and wiped the worst of the mud off as Balack rushed over to him.

  “Lose your footing?” he sniggered.

  “If only,” Darnuir said. “Maybe I have to be concentrating on it coming back to me or have my hand ready for it to work?”

  “Maybe?” Balack chortled. “Sort of adds something to ‘falling on your own sword’.”

  “Did you see those riders?” Darnuir asked.

  “Yes,” Balack replied more seriously. “We should head back.”

  Suddenly, the wounded cry of an eagle cut through the air. The bird jostled ungracefully with what looked like an injured wing. Kymethra landed inelegantly near them in her human form, clutching at her upper arm. Her robe was ripped and the flesh beneath it shredded deep. Blood poured from her wound.

  “Kymethra!” Darnuir began, but she cut him off.

  “I’m alright,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Those clumsy bastards are going to be sorry when they get back.”

  “It looks bad,” Balack said. “You’ll need to—”

  “Shh boy,” Kymethra interrupted. “I can stop the worst of it.” She placed a hand over her wound and fell to her knees, shaking and jerking. When she pulled her hand away, the skin had sealed over but looked raw and rough. She let out a groan of pain as she collapsed. Darnuir elevated her head. She looked so ill. A few strands of her hair turned white from the roots and her skin matched its pallor. “Sometimes, healing just makes you feel worse,” she struggled to say. “Well then, carry me back.”

  Darnuir lifted her without thinking and found she was quite light. Even for a small woman, she was far lighter than she ought to be. She wrapped an arm weakly around his neck and he found he could run while carrying her. Balack hurriedly followed in their wake. They made it to the town gates just as the gatekeepers were about to close them behind the mounted men.

  “Hold the gates!” Darnuir ordered. As he hurtled through the entrance, he passed the two riders but only caught a glimpse of them. They were covered in a dark steel from head to toe, and wore jet cloaks laced with white. Kymethra groaned in his arms.

  “Brackendon,” she managed to say. “Get me… get me…”

  “Hold on,” he said. “Balack, where is Brackendon?”

  “He was in the crannog, I think,” Balack said.

  They wasted no time in forcing their way through the busy town to the shore of the loch. The bridge out to the Great Crannog was another matter. Darnuir had to employ some artful footwork to navigate the hunters and piled supplies there. Many shouts and calls of shock or surprise followed but they ran on.

  “What happened?” Brackendon said gruffly when they found him in the inner hall.

  “She was injured,” Darnuir said. “She used magic to heal herself.”

  The need for action seemed to snap Brackendon out of the stupor he had been in of late. “Darnuir, follow me,” he said. “Balack, go find water and bread to soak up the residual magic in her. Quickly now!”

  Balack did as he was bid. Darnuir shadowed Brackendon as he searched for a room with some privacy. There were many side rooms to check, most of which were only blocked off by thick curtains. Brackendon pushed back several hangings before announcing, “This looks suitable.”

  The room contained a single hard-looking bed, several quivers of arrows and multiple reed baskets of varying size. A squat-looking table bore some scattered ink and parchment, underneath a small opening overlooking the loch.

  “I think this might be Edwin’s room,” Brackendon commented, examining some of the paperwork.

  “I’m sure he won’t mind,” Darnuir said, setting Kymethra down on the bed.

  “Bastard,” Kymethra mumbled. “Shot me.”

  Brackendon bent down to her side and examined her in some wizardly fashion. He pressed his hand gently on her stomach and let out a coarse sigh. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I know that, Brackers,” she whispered.

  “Why did you do it?” Brackendon asked in return.

  “Losing a lot of blood,” she said. “Had to.”

  “You didn’t try making more to replace—” he began.

  “Maybe,” she said with the flicker of a smile. “Just a tiny bit. Got carried away.”

  “Fool,” Brackendon said kindly, but stroked her hair all the same.

  Darnuir began to feel incredibly in the way and unnecessary.

  “How’s my hair?” she asked.

  “A few new whites,” Brackendon told her. “Just a few strands.”

  She groaned. “But I liked it the way it was. So did you.”

  Darnuir most definitely felt it was time to depart. “If you have need of me then don’t hesitate…” he trailed off as he slunk out of the room.

  Balack hurried over when he saw him emerge from the room, carrying a jug of water and a heel of crusty bread. Darnuir nodded towards the room and Balack dashed inside. Scythe was nearby in the hall, looking harassed.

  “What has happened?” he asked.

  “Kymethra is injured,” Darnuir said. “She tried to heal herself but overdid it.”

  “Very well,” Scythe said brusquely. “I need you to come with me. Riders have appeared at the gate demanding Edwin’s presence. Chevaliers from Brevia, I am told. It seems you’re drawing the world to us.”

  Chevaliers? Darnuir had only ever heard of them from Cosmo. They rode out to assemble the armies for what become the battle at Demon’s Folly. “Do you think they are here to…”

  “I think it would be best for us to simply go and find out,” Scythe said. “I’d bring Cosmo along too but I feel his manners might escape him around such people, not that I care much more for them. I have a tendency to speak my mind.” He seemed lost for a moment in contemplation. “I never truly appreciated how much work he did for me, Cosmo that is. Since, well, you know, he has been so absent. For the men’s sake, I hope he returns to us soon. Currently he is asleep. Passed out from the drink.”

  “He needs our help now, Scythe,” Darnuir said. He had been little comfort to Cosmo so far. The pain was still too near. Approaching Cosmo would only make Darnuir feel worse. It was especially selfish of him to stay away. Cosmo had sat and talked with him the morning after Eve died, just to let Darnuir know he was there. Cosmo himself had walked in silence for days, breaking his quietness only to stop and forage their dwindling supplies for the last of the mountain goat’s milk for his son. Every day, the smell of it had grown a little fouler, but the crying boy had sucked gratefully on the soaked cloth all the same. There had been little choice.

  “And I would help him if I could,” Scythe said. “But I have hundreds of hunters to care for and thousands of people, even just here in this one town.” His words were heavy. “Come, let us see what these Chevaliers from Brevia have to say. I know I have a few things I’d like to say to them.”

  Chapter 17

  FRIENDS AND FOES

  DARNUIR TRAVELLED WITH Scythe back towards Torridon’s gates to meet the Chevaliers. As they crossed the long bridge from the Great Crannog to the shore, Darnuir noticed Garon dishing out portions of porridge from a large pewter pot to the youngest and sickest. The oats were watery but graciously accepted all the same. Slung over his spooning arm was a basket of the dried, smoked fish from the town. Garon broke up pieces of the trout and salmon and handed them out as well. And there I was playing with my sword this morning. Like I was a child again and Cosmo had given me a new, larger stick. He felt compelled to join Garon, to make amends for his selfishness, but Scythe needed him too. I cannot be everywhere at once.
r />   They reached the pebbled shore and began the difficult task of pushing through the crowds into the town. Torridon was full to bursting. It was even worse than earlier that day now everyone was awake. The fumes from the large smoke houses filled the air overhead, enhancing the cramped feeling. The Chevaliers had come a little way into town and had tried to clear a space free from the bedraggled around themselves. They were the most heavily-armoured men Darnuir had ever encountered. They remained mounted upon their enormous horses and towered above the refugees. Darnuir had seen few enough horses in his time but they had been less than half the size of these creatures. One man’s face was hidden behind his visor, while his companion had deemed to lift his, holding a silk handkerchief under his nose.

  “Ah, about time,” the chevalier with the kerchief snapped haughtily. “Are you Edwin then?” he directed at Scythe.

  “No,” Scythe sneered, “Captain Edwin is still to return form the marshes. I’d have thought this would have been explained to you.”

  “We have been told a great many things from a number of people,” the Chevalier said. “And none of them have been told the same way twice. Who are you then? Your leathers give you both away as hunters of the Boreac Mountains. When leaving Brevia, we had word that the mountains had succumbed to the demons.”

  “I am Scythe, Captain of the Boreac Hunters. The mountains were under siege but we who survived have escaped and are fleeing still. My companion here is Darnuir, King of Dragons.”

  “King?” the Chevalier said, raising his thin eyebrows, “and of dragons, no less. Yes, that was one of the tales we heard while we waited here.” The man examined Darnuir intently. “Darnuir? Could it be true? I have rarely seen a dragon with a burgeoning beard. My name is Raymond, for what it is worth.”