The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  Chapter 29

  THE BATTLE OF THE CHARRED VALE

  “WHO IS COMMANDER Zarl?” Darnuir seethed at the dirty-faced man before him. Darnuir did not know his name. It wasn’t necessary. The prisoner had extinguished his red eyes, perhaps in hope of garnering some pity. Darnuir would give him none.

  “We only ever knew him as Zarl,” the man said. The prisoner was a hunter, if his yellow leathers were anything to go by. Of course, it might all have been an act. The chaos of recent months had led to this.

  “He lies,” Blaine uttered ominously from behind Darnuir. “I can smell the fear on him.”

  Darnuir’s senses were swamped with the sweat, blood and smoke that clung to his clothes. Blaine called it true for the man’s eyes quickened in fright. “We knew he was a hunter,” the man said. “A high-ranking hunter too. From the master station.”

  “Anything else you would like to add?” Darnuir asked. He danced his fingers towards the man’s hand, lying bare upon the table. He was well-restrained to his chair otherwise. As if running would do him any good now.

  “N-n-no,” he stammered.

  “You seem quite afraid for one of Castallan’s pets,” Darnuir said. He picked up the man’s little finger with an exaggerated delicacy, making a show of holding it between thumb and forefinger. “I am only surprised because attacking a camp of trained dragon warriors, supported by hunters, is a bold act. Not one for those weak of stomach. You and your companions fought incredibly well.”

  “What are you doing?” the man asked.

  “I am considering whether or not to crush your finger,” Darnuir said. These red-eyed men were as tough as dragons, perhaps tougher. Darnuir was sure the prisoner would not allow his finger to be mutilated. “There really is no reason to hold back on us. We have you.”

  He remained silent.

  Fool, Darnuir thought and then squeezed on the man’s finger.

  Immediately, the man’s eyes flared red and Darnuir found he could not succeed in his punishment.

  “The arrogance of dragons,” the man said, his voice turning suddenly into an echoing, visceral rasp. “Castallan has freed us from your kind, beast.” He spat at Darnuir. There was a smooth sound of a sword unsheathing.

  “I’d like to see how those red eyes handle one of the Blades,” Blaine said. “Do you think you are strong enough to stop me sending you back to your master in pieces?”

  “Humanity will be free!” the man proclaimed.

  “Castallan is not a saviour but a traitor,” came Brackendon’s voice.

  Darnuir wasn’t aware of Brackendon entering the room, so focused was he on his prisoner.

  “A traitor to the dragons perhaps,” the man said. “Yet he never swore an oath to any dragon. What did he owe dragons?”

  “He owes me some information,” Darnuir said. “I bought it after all.” The man seemed confused. “Pray, tell me, how is it not treacherous to kill your own kind? Castallan has slaughtered humans in their droves.”

  “Not so,” the man said. “The demons he summons might, as those spectres will too, but those he has blessed kill only dragons.” He gave Darnuir and Blaine a twisted smile. “For dragons die the same, after all.” Darnuir searched his mind for that door to the Cascade. He tried to open it very carefully, as Brackendon had instructed, and let just a little bit of magic flow in. He pressed again on the man’s finger.

  “Argh!” The man screamed as Darnuir crushed his bone. Darnuir closed the door in his mind, feeling the peculiar rush down his arm. The man recovered reasonably quickly and gave a low growl. “Scythe. That was Zarl’s other name.”

  The confirmation was a pang to Darnuir. Scythe’s gaunt face floated into his mind. Where once there had been respect, even reverence, there was only anger. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  “Darnuir,” Blaine said, “perhaps you ought to relieve him of his thumb next?”

  “Perhaps you ought to refrain,” Brackendon protested.

  “If you do not wish to see this, Brackendon, then leave,” Darnuir said without facing him.

  “This is what I hoped you would avoid becoming,” Brackendon said, making a humping sound as he left them.

  The red-eyed man seemed cowed. “What else do you want from me?”

  “You attacked this camp deliberately,” Blaine said. “You hit very specific sections, some of which were unimportant. Why?”

  “We were looking for the girl,” he said.

  “Cassandra?” Darnuir asked. The memory of their kiss still taunted him with its uncertainty.

  “Is that her name?” the red-eyed man said lazily. “We were told to find a girl in white leathers, with long black waving hair and green eyes. She was either to be in that tent at the edge of camp or near you, we we’re told,” he said, looking to Darnuir. “Those men the Commander had planted in the Boreacs knew her better.”

  “Do you know why Castallan wanted her back so badly?” Darnuir asked, taking up the man’s thumb this time to show he meant business.

  “There is no need,” the man began with the air of one enjoying being better informed. “The girl is Arkus’ daughter. The Princess of Humanity,” he said with relish.

  A memory jumped forth to Darnuir. One of a looming corridor, of a shattered shoulder and a crying baby lying not so far away. “The Princess died at the fall of Aurisha,” he insisted.

  “Castallan was present for that assault,” Blaine said. “It may well be the truth…”

  “If it is true, it seems like too valuable of information to share with underlings,” Darnuir said. “Why would you know?”

  “I assure you, we were only recently informed,” the man said. “The Commander made it perfectly clear that if anyone killed the girl, they would find their face impaled upon one of his spikes. His closest circle knew. Word spreads.”

  The revelation impacted Darnuir physically. So many secrets were coming to light that he was not sure whether this might just be some bluff. Yet, why else would the wizard have kept her imprisoned all these years? Why else, unless she was a hostage? Did this mean that Arkus knew? Is that why he had been so slow to move?

  The silent gap seemed to amuse the prisoner. “The great King,” he said tartly, his raspy voice wrapping itself around every word. “Such power you are supposed to have and yet you know so little; unable to stand against a simple man from the Dales; unable – argh!” Darnuir had flattened his thumb. “Argh! Curse you, dragon. Kill me then if you must. Though I suspect your kind gets a sick pleasure from playing with humans.”

  “You see now why I distrust this race, Darnuir,” Blaine said. “They see us as monsters when we have only fought their enemies for them.”

  “For us?” the man howled, half in pain and half in indignation. “How much human blood has been spilled along the Crucidal Road? And what has it ever achieved us? Dragon wars have only bled mankind.”

  “Cease your ramblings,” Darnuir said. “There is one last thing we need of you. You were on the run from Torridon to Val’tarra, I presume?”

  “I was,” the man said bitterly.

  “Then tell me what you know of this black powder?”

  The man blinked in confusion and a watery tear of pain dripped out. “Of what?”

  “Dragon Powder some seem to name it?” Blaine said.

  “Ah, is that what caused the explosion?” rasped the man.

  “What did I say about not being honest?” Darnuir said, selecting another finger.

  “Seems you’ll hurt me anyway,” he scorned, “but I swear to you, oh mighty Dragon King. I know nothing of it.”

  “Such a concoction reeks of the wizard,” Darnuir said. “Who else might have produced such a thing?”

  The man shrugged slowly, his red eyes blank. “I tell you, I know nothing of it. Nor did I hear any mention of such a thing the last time I was at the Bastion. To my knowledge, Castallan has had no hand in it.”

  Blaine sniffed loudly. “I think he is telling the truth.”

>   “Very well,” Darnuir said, rising. “What will be done with him and the others? They are too dangerous to keep prisoner.”

  “If you are unwilling, Darnuir,” Blaine said menacingly. “Leave me to it. It shall be quick.”

  Darnuir was aghast. “Blaine, if you intend what I think you do—”

  “You said it yourself,” Blaine whispered to him. “It would take several guards to properly watch over each of them. We cannot spare the men.”

  “Find some way,” Darnuir insisted. “We will not feed their cause, Blaine. Killing them will only strengthen the resolve of those like him who despise us.”

  “You seemed quick enough to harm him,” Blaine said.

  “They are not fully human anymore, I admit,” said Darnuir. “But they are far from being demons. They are our prisoners. I will not allow them to be slaughtered.”

  “As before, the consequences lie with you,” Blaine said disapprovingly.

  “So be it,” Darnuir said. He stormed out of the tent, Blaine followed. Light Bearers moved in to secure the man. Beside him, the Guardian sighed at the ashes of his holy tent and symbol. Blaine went to stand in the middle of the wreck, knelt and placed his sword deep into the earth. Darnuir watched him curiously.

  “It seems your gods are rather good at taking insults.”

  The Guardian said nothing, his eyes closed in some silent vigil.

  “We need to prepare for battle,” Darnuir went on. “Scythe surely knows of our intentions. He will hit us hard with everything he has.”

  “I fear it is as you said, my King. We will be surrounded in a pitched battle. Their numbers are too great.”

  “Then we shall not meet him in the open,” Darnuir said. “Scythe has granted us the hill. Let us hold it.”

  The heat of a mid-summer morning seared harshly above as they awaited the demons. Their forces were deployed on and around the hill in an arc. The hunters, some nine hundred in total now, would rain arrows from their elevated positions, aided by Brackendon, while the dragons would try to hold at ground. They could only pray that there were no more agents of the enemy amongst them. With Blaine’s guidance, Darnuir had lined the dragons up traditionally, with some alterations, given their situation. Out front were the lightly-armoured javelin throwers, with heavier units arrayed spaciously behind them to allow for a quick retreat. A secondary line of warriors stood behind the first, ready to fill the gaps, and stocks of additional javelins awaited some way back. All those dragons who still had their large shields were to form the main defence. They favoured shorter, stockier swords for the crush of a melee. A third line comprised those dragons who lacked their shield for one reason or another. They stood as reserves and many were posted up alongside the hunters to watch for spectre attacks.

  It was the best they could do.

  Despite the early hour of the morning, the heat was uncomfortable. Darnuir felt especially sorry for those dragons kitted in their armour today. Though they will be thankful when it saves them, he thought. He still had on his dirtied leathers from the night before, the blood drying in nicely under the sun. A clear sky would have been preferable. The clouds might offer the men a passing relief from the sun but it would also allow spectres to move amongst them, avoiding their shield wall as if it were not there.

  Darnuir stood beside Blaine at the head of their army, overlooking the soon to be battlefield of the Charred Vale.

  “Forty thousand demons,” Blaine muttered.

  “Moving en masse,” Darnuir said. “Exactly what we hoped to avoid. They will be here any moment.”

  “The hill will give us some advantage,” said Blaine.

  “Not enough,” Darnuir said dejectedly. “A valiant defence is only as good as the support you hope to receive. Out here, we are on our own, and four legions will not be enough. This is a last stand. And yet…” He remembered the fight that had raged at Cold Point. Remembered facing the red-armoured man. He had not defeated Scythe but he had forced him to withdraw. And when he fled, his forces fled with him. “If I can kill him—”

  “Scythe won’t risk himself at the front,” Blaine interrupted. “There’s no need for him to do so.”

  “Then I must seek him out.”

  Blaine considered for a moment. “Removing their leader might have an effect,” he said flatly. “Yet even if you somehow manage to find him, manage to kill him, you would still be in the middle of the host. You would die.”

  Darnuir held Blaine’s eye as a dark wave appeared at the periphery of his vision. The demons were emerging, wasting no time in their advance. Zarl was eager for the kill. It is Scythe, Darnuir reminded himself. It is Scythe and he betrayed us all. Darnuir clung to the freshest of Scythe’s crimes, the better to fuel his own fires. The demons swarmed towards them, yet there was no sign of Scythe’s spiked armour.

  “He must be conducting them from further back,” Blaine confirmed. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I feel I must,” Darnuir said. “My old self did not pass on everything from his life. He was not what you would call a learned soul. Yet he devoured everything he could on war: every book or scroll or diary written by every general, king or soldier across the ages. He trained himself to master every weapon. I feel oddly comfortable with the thought of wielding a mace, an axe, a polearm or spear, though I have never grasped some of these in my life. He was obsessed with beating back the demons, Blaine, and he moulded himself into weapon. That is all I might be: a machine of war.”

  “For now, that may be what we need most,” Blaine said. “I forced you to become ready. Your first plan was a good one; were it not for the traitors amongst us, it might have worked.”

  “So you approve of what I intend to do?” Darnuir asked.

  “I doubt I could convince you otherwise.”

  “No,” Darnuir agreed.

  “We are surely lost lest we end Scythe,” Blaine admitted. “Killing him may be our only chance.”

  “You aren’t going to warn me of the risk?”

  “You know the risk and, whether you die out there or alongside your people, the result will be the same. One day, Darnuir, you and I, or one of us alone, must face our true enemy. If you cannot win today then we were always doomed.”

  With no more words, Darnuir unsheathed the Dragon’s Blade, the glint of the golden metal catching his eye in the morning light. He moved towards the oncoming horde.

  He started slowly at first, letting the demons close the gap. Blaine began shouting behind him but Darnuir soon lost track of it as the noise of the demons filled his ears. He picked up his pace into a light run before charging into a full sprint. It was madness this, running head on against thirty thousand or more demons. A part of him was terrified, but another part, the older part, relished the chance. That side of him came to the fore as he allowed himself to be engulfed by the single-mindedness that only battle could bring.

  The gap closed.

  Darnuir increased his speed as he pounded on the smouldering earth. He reached out to that door, to the Cascade, taking great care to only open it ajar. Extra power washed over him, like he had felt at Torridon, only now it was more controlled. The pace he reached would have shamed a galloping horse and he worked his legs harder still. The gap grew closer, and closer, and closer, until they might have thrown a spear at him.

  Then he leapt.

  Such was his momentum that he hurtled high over the demon ranks, flying far into the midst of their army. His landing sent a shockwave, knocking every demon nearby off its feet. Smoke from the demon’s blood began to seep into the air. Scythe was nowhere to be seen. Darnuir took to the air again, fuelling his jump with more magic. Without momentum behind him, he did not travel quite so far, nor did his landing have the same impact. He whirled his sword around him as he rose to clear the immediate area and found his mouth was bitter. He scanned hastily again. No Scythe. He spat out the horrid taste in the face of one of the wretched creatures before leaping again.

  Darnuir bounded th
rough the demons.

  Leap, rise, cleave, look, spit. Leap, rise, cleave, look, spit.

  Arrows flew at him. Some clipped off his sword; one tore a neat cut at his side; most missed.

  Leap, rise, cleave, look, spit.

  Beneath him, the demons continued to surge forwards. During one flight, he glimpsed a figure encased in red. He adjusted his next jumps to find him.

  Leap, rise, cleave, look, spit.

  He almost took off again before realising he had found his quarry. He would soon be engulfed by foes, and so concentrated upon fire bursting forth from his sword. His throat felt hot, the door to the Cascade nudged itself open a little more, but he maintained control. He moved the thick lashing flames around Scythe and himself, creating a small arena like the one he had fought Blaine in.

  Demons and red-eyed men alike howled in pain as the flames caught them. He tried to direct more towards Scythe himself but he streaked to Darnuir, knocking his sword aside with an inhuman blow. The force of it sent Darnuir sprawling. Flipping onto his back, he saw Scythe bringing down his sword, his own hands uselessly empty. The Dragon’s Blade returned to his grip and blocked Scythe. Darnuir’s eyes were watering, perhaps from the smoke, perhaps from his use of magic. The effort it took to hold Scythe did not bold well. Caution aside, Darnuir heaved open the door to the Cascade and let it flood him. He knocked Scythe off and hopped to his feet, slamming the door shut, hoping he had not taken in too much. Suddenly he felt extremely weary. Something writhed down his arm towards the Dragon’s Blade, as though his blood was accelerating. The taste in his mouth was vile and he drew in laboured breaths.

  “Overexerted yourself?” Scythe sneered. Even his sword had been cast in a malicious red, with a terrible serrated edge.

  Darnuir did not deign to answer. He had no words for Scythe; the traitor would only receive his sword. Darnuir realised that he was leaning on the Dragon’s Blade for support and arduously stood upright to face his foe. The flames from the Dragon’s Blade still burned high, but they were starting to dwindle.