The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  Dukoona pondered what this meant for him and his people. If he was to go to Kar’drun then he hoped it was to launch their new fleet and campaign. Any other reason was dangerous to consider. None entered the mountain, save for the mindless demons who were so much easier to manipulate. It had been decades since Dukoona had been allowed entry.

  Does he suspect disloyalty? Does he know of it? Dukoona had often showed signs of resistance in the past but it had never been an issue. He assumed his Master expected his more powerful minions to push back, if only a little. Yet the lack of communication with Rectar was now more worrying than comforting. Does he no longer have use for us? Once, the thought might have cheered him, however, its implications were severe for his kind. If we are not needed, then what will be done with us? And what will take our place?

  Such was his concentration that he did not at first notice the ten spectres materialising from the floor at the centre of the room; springing up from a shadow cast from the open doorway. Dukoona had been expecting them. These spectres were some of his Trusted – those who had proven to him that they shared his doubts about their Master. Kidrian, for example, had been with him almost since the start. He would have been identical to his spectre brothers, were it not for the patches of guttering purple embers upon his black head.

  “Kidrian,” Dukoona said softly. The respective demon stepped forward.

  “My Lord,” Kidrian said in his croaky voice.

  “What news from Kar’drun?” Dukoona asked.

  “Little, in volume, as always,” Kidrian said. “Though this time, there was an event of great interest.” If Dukoona had had eyebrows, he might have raised them; instead, he opted to sit more upright on the throne. Noticing this, Kidrian continued. “As you instructed, my men and I watched the mountain closely as we ostensibly oversaw the construction of the fleet. For weeks, there was no unusual activity, until a fortnight ago, when something emerged from the mountain.”

  “You saw him?” Dukoona asked. For Rectar to step out of his sanctum was unheard of, but nothing else ever came forth from the jaws of that burnt rock, other than demons.

  “No, my Lord,” Kidrian said. He motioned a few of his fellows forwards as if to back him up. “The Master remains out of sight as always. None of us actually saw the incident ourselves but a witness states that he saw a creature running across the Lifeless Lands, being chased by demons. The creature appeared to have red skin and was humanoid in shape.”

  “Why the uncertainty about its shape?” Dukoona asked.

  “It might have been a human or a dragon but for its size” Kidrian said. “It was quite large apparently. As I say, none of the Trusted actually saw the creature.”

  “Do you believe what you were told?” Dukoona asked.

  Kidrian nodded towards one of the spectres on his flank. This spectre was smaller and weedier than the others. Its form was not as solid as a regular spectre but more so than a demon. A shadowy mist swirled slightly, whereas the other spectres had a denser, flesh-like shadow. The creature was clearly one of the Broken; poor wretches whom the Master had failed to summon properly into the world. Looking at this frail member of his kind, Dukoona’s aversion to his Master flared within in.

  “Sonrid here witnessed the event,” Kidrian said. “He was close to where the creature eventually fell and came to us afterwards.” Kidrian paused, contemplating his next words. “His tale is quite disturbing, my Lord.”

  “Come forward,” Dukoona indicated to Sonrid. “What is this disturbing news you have?”

  “My Lord, Dukoona,” Sonrid said in a strained voice, as though his throat had a fist clenched around it. “The creature was indeed red in colour, though not its entire body. Some of its flesh was still pink, like the skin of a human or dragon. It was tall, as Kidrian says, and may have been seven feet in height, but it was gangly and uncoordinated. Its face was long and stretched, and it howled as though tormented. It managed to make it as far as the edge of the Forsaken City, before…” Sonrid paused, looking towards Kidrian.

  “Go on,” Kidrian told him. “Our Lord will want to know. He will not be angry at you.”

  Dukoona leaned forward. “Sonrid, if Kidrian had any reason to doubt your loyalty, you would not be alive today. Speak, now.” Little Sonrid looked to him with dark eyes, devoid of any insight into the spectre that lay behind them.

  “As Kidrian said,” Sonrid began nervously, “there were a number of demons chasing the creature. They fell upon it at the edge of the abandoned city and, after a brief fight, it lay dead, although it had fought hard and managed to take down many demons in its rage.”

  “Were there no spectres at hand to fight this creature?” Dukoona asked.

  “This is the part you will find disturbing, my Lord,” Sonrid said. “Those spectres nearby who witnessed the incident moved closer to investigate, perhaps to help, but…”

  “Yes,” Dukoona growled, moving to the edge of the throne.

  “The demons turned on them, my Lord,” Sonrid said, flinching as he spoke, as if Dukoona had struck him. “The demons swarmed over those spectres. Every spectre at the incident was killed by the demons.”

  “But not you, Sonrid?” Dukoona said. “You survived.”

  “My Lord, I was afraid of the red creature,” Sonrid quivered. “When it drew close, I melded into a nearby shadow to hide and saw the whole thing. Please, forgive my cowardice.”

  “Cowardice?” Dukoona questioned. “To live in the shadows is our nature, Sonrid. To strike from them, to travel by them and to learn by them. You have learned a great deal by hiding and I am grateful you were not killed. This information is the most distressing I have ever heard.”

  “My Lord?” Sonrid said quizzically.

  Dukoona cocked his head as he contemplated the little spectre. Did he really need to be told why?

  “Tell me, Sonrid. When were you summoned to this world?”

  “Around the time this city fell, I think.”

  “I imagine it was shortly after,” Dukoona told him. “You are one of the Broken, are you not?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Sonrid said, hanging his head in shame.

  “It is no fault of yours but of the Master’s,” Dukoona said. “Every spectre he tried to bind to this world after we took this city was malformed.” The other spectres around the room turned to get a better look at Sonrid, as if he were some spectacle. Many of the Broken perished after only a few years; to see one alive was quite rare. Dukoona continued. “You might be among the youngest of our kind, Sonrid, but have you ever known demons to turn against a spectre?”

  “No, my Lord,” Sonrid said. “Never.” He fidgeted hesitantly and took a step closer to the throne. He raised his head to better look at Dukoona. If his eyes had been well enough formed, they might have been pleading. “My Lord, to exist as I do is to exist in pain. Will you end me?”

  “End you?” Dukoona said, a little taken aback by the request. He rose from the throne and slowly approached Sonrid. He brought a hand up to the spectre’s face, the deep purple of his own body appearing solid against Sonrid’s wispier form. “Such a brave request? Why ask this of me when a moment ago you were afraid of punishment?”

  “I thought we lived to serve,” Sonrid said. “If the Master is killing our kind, I see no reason to continue to suffer.” Dukoona seriously contemplated the request. He stroked the little spectre’s face slowly. He ran one finger from the tip of his head down to the point of his misshapen chin. With both hands, he could twist Sonrid’s neck and be done. Yet, looking at him, he saw in the poor spectre all there was to mistrust and fear about the Master.

  We are only his tools. He does not care to fix us if we are broken. He will simply reach for a fresh one, or perhaps seek something else. A better tool for his purpose. Are we no longer useful?

  “I will not kill you,” Dukoona said. “Too many of us have died already.” He swept dramatically back to the top of the stairs leading to the throne. He turned and addressed the room at large.
“Too many,” he told them. “And ever since we took this city, our numbers have not been replenished. The Master gave up after he summoned only the Broken, after his power diminished. For diminish it did.” He stared around at the Trusted; they all nodded in agreement. “I felt it, perhaps you did too? His voice, once as loud as the howling winds, became little more than a whisper; and even when those whispers came, they seemed strained. A few years ago, when he ordered I take our forces north, I did so but with little urgency. He sought a passage overland to the west and I sought to delay him. I marched deliberately into dead ends; I allowed those grey-skinned beasts to believe they were repelling us. Yet I wondered why he allowed such leeway. Could his power really have faded so much?”

  No one answered him.

  “I wondered,” he continued, “and I gathered more of you together, my Trusted. I feared that perhaps he was allowing our kind to die; for every death is one less spectre to maintain control of. He may have needed to conserve his strength but he might have required it for something else. Today, that fear has become more founded.”

  “Do you mean to say that the Master no longer needs us?” Kidrian asked.

  “I suspect it,” Dukoona said. “Something has changed. His strength has now returned in full. His commands are infrequent, but when his voice calls, it is louder and clearer than ever; and now we have more questions left unanswered. What was this red creature? Are there more of them? Are they to replace us? In short, have our people been sentenced to extinction?”

  Around the room, the Trusted stared first at each other and then at Dukoona. Little Sonrid just kept a bowed head, seemingly disheartened.

  “What are we to do?” Kidrian asked.

  “We will do what we have always done,” Dukoona told them. “We will wait, and watch, and learn; and we shall do it from the shadows. Above all, we will resist.” The Trusted nodded in agreement. To resist was what they had always done. Sonrid kept his head low. He is unconvinced. “If you wonder why I will not kill you, Sonrid, it is because I have far more use for you alive than dead.”

  “But the Master—”

  “Is happy to throw our lives away,” Dukoona interrupted. “I’d rather resist that a little longer. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Death would free me,” Sonrid said feebly.

  “Death would end you,” Dukoona said. “And if you are dead, you cannot work against he who has brought you into this world to suffer.”

  “My Lord, we cannot act against the Master’s will,” Kidrian said.

  “No, not directly, but we are not the only ones who resist him.” He gave them one last knowing look. “It is time we worked at more than simply killing dragons. But we must tread very carefully. Go now, I must consider our next move.” They all bowed and slowly made their way out of the throne room. Kidrian was at the back of the group. As an afterthought, Dukoona called after him. “Kidrian, find our new friend a place amongst the Trusted.” The purple embers on Kidrian’s head flared at the command, a sign he was disgruntled at the recruitment. He gave another curt nod all the same before exiting.

  When Dukoona sat back on the throne, he heard it again, that loud and awful voice ringing through his mind. “Come,” it said. Dukoona knew he could not delay for long. He would have to the travel to the burned mountain: to Kar’drun.

  Chapter 21

  VAL’TARRA

  “I SHALL REQUIRE GOLD and lots of it,” said the familiar robed man, whose hair was swept back in an arc and who inhabited Darnuir’s dreams. As always, the scene unfolded before him in a jarring combination; being both vivid and opaque at the same time.

  “And what will you need that for?” Darnuir asked.

  “To find sufficient volunteers,” the man said. “Do you really want to know the details?”

  “No,” Darnuir said without hesitation. “What you do with humans is no concern of mine but I must insist you refrain from approaching my own people.”

  “Of course, my Lord,” the stranger said, a little nervously. “In any case, I do not think dragons would be suitable. All I need from you is gold and a safe environment to work. With that, and enough time, I will find the answer for you, for us!”

  “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 work without interruption or suspicion. 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 basic instinct of survival. I feel he has resigned himself.”

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

  “I hope so, Castallan.”

  The scene dissolved and Darnuir awoke with a sudden jerk. His head swam from the rapid movement and his heart thrummed against his ribs. These dreams cannot continue. It had taken them four days to struggle through the thick forest to the Argent Tree and they had been here now for three. Strangely, Darnuir felt alert, despite his disturbed sleep and his exertions on the run from Torridon only a week ago. The Dragon’s Blade was likely to thank for that. Darnuir reached for the large cup of water at his bedside. He had taken to having one on hand every night. He took a long drink to wipe away the bitter taste in his mouth. I don’t know how I’ll ever get used to this.

  Starlight filled his room within the Argent Tree. His bed was a soft and welcome comfort after the many weeks of rough living, but he was never able to return to sleep after awaking from these fever-like dreams. He tossed off the silk sheets and rose from his bed. The room was spacious and had been carved out of the Argent Tree itself. Everything within it was connected, almost as though the room had grown organically. Though the wood was generally silver, some of the gnarled areas were worn and less vibrant, while paints of cool blue and green weaved intricate patterns across the rest. The fairies were truly skilled with their brushwork. Faint starlight spilled in through a balcony, which rested on a sturdy overhanging branch outside.

  Darnuir stepped out into the starry light, reflected by a thousand silver leaves above. Some drifted downwards in a genteel dance, sparkling as they descended hundreds of feet to the ground. Looking down, the mixed canopy of Val’tarra swayed in the breeze, millions of rustling leaves, black, green, and silver, out to the horizon. The air was crisp and chilled at this height but Darnuir felt at ease. I grew up in the snow and mountains. Nothing that happens will ever take that away. He had heard from some of the dragons that Aurisha was a hot and dry place. The thought of living there was as alien to him as were the people he was supposed to lead. It was fortunate that the dragons here seemed to adhere to his commands without protest, although they often glanced to Blaine, if he was nearby, for confirmation. They have not fully accepted me yet. And why should they?

  Among the hunters, captains and leaders only gained respect through their deeds. Scythe had earned that when he had staved off the encroaching demons in the Boreacs, allowing them to hold back the dark tide for months. Yet Scythe had not garnered the love of the hunters. He deserved it though. He did his best and gave everything for us. Yet Darnuir was beginning to understand that love and respect were two very distinct things. Growing up, he had both loved and greatly admired Cosmo, so the feelings had felt entwined. From what he had observed with Blaine, it was evident that he commanded respect from the dragons, almost without question, but it did not seem that they loved him. Blaine deserved that esteem from his demeanour and his battle prowess, if nothing else. And which do I want? Do I want love or respect? Knowing he had either would be beneficial.

  There was something else he had noticed on occasion from the dragons: a wariness that for some verged on fear. It was subtle, only noticeable in the tentative way they approached him or cautiously backed away. Perhaps it was simply natural behaviour towards someone in his position, but Darnuir suspected that his reputation proceeded him or, at least, his previous reputation. He had heard from Brackendon and even
Cassandra, via her carer, Chelos, that he had once been less than amiable. It only made the recurring dreams more disconcerting. The latest one had been the most extensive yet and the most worrying. At the end, I said his name. Castallan. He hoped desperately that they were only dreams but some instinct told him they were more than that. What did I do? What answers did I hope Castallan could provide?

  As a more forceful breeze hit him, he decided that a good bout of training might clear his head. Perhaps some of those Light Bearers Blaine is so fond of might be up and willing to spar. He returned to his room and grabbed his leathers, leaving off some of the fur-lined pieces so he wouldn’t be uncomfortable. The fairies had given his clothing a deep cleaning and Darnuir’s nose was grateful for the fragrance of crushed flowers, as opposed to sweat and dried blood. He was beginning to get used to his increasingly acute sense of smell, but some scents still took him by surprise. Chief of these unusual aromas was the occasional sweet smell he picked up when around some of the hunters or other humans. Grabbing the Dragon’s Blade and strapping it to his waist, he began the long descent through the Argent Tree.

  Steel clashed on steel as the dragons trained in the clearing. The noise rang amongst the trees surrounding them, rebounding and echoing off a hundred trunks. Darnuir squinted in the dawn light as he lifted his dulled training sword to block a downward strike from Lira. Her instincts were good. Very good. Darnuir had not faced someone who could match him except for Sanders, the red-eyed Chevalier, and, of course, there had been the foe in blood-red armour at Cold Point.

  He threw Lira off but she maintained her balance, despite the damp morning dew underfoot. She lunged forwards and he spun to one side. He took a swipe at her, hoping to regain the offensive, but she danced out of the way with incredible speed. At least, it seemed incredible. Darnuir had rarely met a real challenge when he was younger. In hindsight, he had always been just a little bit too quick to react, his blows a little too strong for his size. He thought he had just been gifted. They all had.