I closed the door to their fuel. I won’t have long.
Spinning his sword once in his hand, he advanced on Scythe with a two-handed strike. Scythe blocked, countered, moved, and attacked again. The fight was quick and brutal. Scythe’s enhanced physique had made him akin to a dragon, perhaps he was even stronger. Darnuir ducked a swipe to his head then arced a blow against Scythe’s legs. The traitor jumped high to avoid it and landed his booted feet on the Dragon’s Blade, pinning it. Scythe brought his sword from above but Darnuir caught Scythe’s hands, using all his natural strength to hold the man there. Scythe’s sneering grin renewed Darnuir’s rage and he lunged a knee forward, striking Scythe in the stomach, denting his armour and sent him reeling.
Doubled over, Scythe was vulnerable. Darnuir allowed the Dragon’s Blade to flip up into his hand of its own accord and unleashed a savage flurry of blows. Darnuir held the advantage, pressing him back, nearly bowling him over, but it was a feint. Scythe let him in close then whipped one of his slight and deadly daggers from his belt, cutting at Darnuir’s leg. The sharp blade slashed through his leathers effortlessly. Blood splattered.
“Argh!” Darnuir cried, twisting his body away and smacking the dagger from Scythe. He’d have more.
A metallic heel to the back of his knee sent Darnuir sprawling one more. He rolled along the charred earth to escape Scythe’s next assaults. The glimpses he saw of his arena of flames were not promising; they would die out soon. Yet he was wary of opening the door again. Desperate, when he reached the edge of their arena he rose and threw the Dragon’s Blade at Scythe with all his might. It almost worked; however, Scythe placed a firm foot in the ground and managed to deflect it. The effort cost Scythe the top third of his bloody red sword but the Dragon’s Blade went soaring off into the demon host.
Scythe charged him and Darnuir, foolishly disarmed, could only attempt a tackle as he drew near. As they both fell, Scythe’s now jagged sword was knocked out of his grip. Darnuir tried to find some purchase but the many small spikes on Scythe’s shoulders made it too difficult. A fist slammed into Darnuir’s head and, dazed, he found himself being lifted into the air. A hand was at the nape of his neck and the small of his back. Scythe was lifting him overhead.
“I’ll bring you back dead after all!” he cried out. “Castallan will have to forgive me if your sword does not—” Scythe’s words were cut by his own excruciating scream. Darnuir fell limply to the ground. The Dragon’s Blade nestled itself back in his palm. It must have clipped Scythe’s arm as it had flown back. The traitor’s wrist hung half-attached. White bone jutted out from the wound, cracked and angry-looking.
Darnuir seized the chance. The fires around them guttered out as he opened the door to the Cascade again. He ignored the convulsions of his body as he felt his throat burn. The Dragon’s Blade began to heat up, though he did not let the flames gush forth. He kept the heat contained and the metal of the blade glowed a blistering orange as he severed Scythe’s wrist, cauterising the wound as he cut. Scythe collapsed in his agony, his sword hand gone; utterly defenceless. Darnuir risked more magic to boost his strength. He picked Scythe up with his free hand and held him high, just as Scythe himself must have done to Cosmo before he pinned him to that tree.
All trace of confidence and pomp had gone from Scythe’s face. Fear shone in his eyes and Darnuir smelled it. It was ever so sweet. He rammed the heated Dragon’s Blade through Scythe’s plated chest, the metal melting as he drove it through. Darnuir could not tell the blood from the armour. Scythe’s gargled choke was lost over the sound of the battle and the demons around him. He threw Scythe’s body down. He closed over the door in his mind again, worried by his shaking arm. As the Dragon’s Blade busied itself with draining out the poison, Darnuir’s moment of elation swiftly turned to despair.
The demons were not fleeing. His gamble had been for nothing.
He found that he was leaning on the hilt of the Dragon’s Blade for support, the blade stuck hard in the dry earth. His breath came in laboured gasps and he could barely stand the putrid taste in his mouth. The cut on his leg burned, his legs shook and his knees demanded that he collapse. Then he saw them.
Spectres surrounded him.
They were beyond count and beyond fighting. This was a reckless move after all. Yet the spectres did not attack. They simply stood and formed an audience around him for a long moment. Most of their eyes drifted over their fallen commander. One of the spectres stepped forwards and Darnuir raised his shaky sword. The spectre halted and threw out a hand as if to say he did not wish to fight. Its eyes wandered once more over Scythe’s body, as if checking he were truly dead. Slowly, the spectre pulled back its face in an unnerving smile. Darnuir had never seen them do that before, nor seen how disturbingly white its teeth were. The spectre smiled broadly at him then gave a little hand gesture from its head, like a salute, and the smallest of bows. After that, it melded away into nothingness. All its fellows did the same, morphing into the shadows nearby. Darnuir was left stunned and exhausted.
Soon after the spectres left, the regular demons went wild. They ceased running towards the army around the hill and instead moved in every other direction. Some fought each other, some fled, and some simply stopped and stood still, as though they had lost all function. Others even turned on the red-eyed humans dotted throughout their ranks as they tried to flee. It was chaos. They also ignored Darnuir, giving him a wide berth as they darted all around. His body aching, Darnuir marched slowly back towards the hill, the demons parting before him like some dark, cackling ocean. Closing the distance to him was a golden wedge, cutting through the demons and hounding them down.
It seemed the battle was won.
Chapter 30
THE REBORN KING
“I’M SO SORRY for what I did,” Darnuir said, a tentative hand on Balack’s own. “For this and everything.”
Balack said nothing but drew his hand away from Darnuir slowly as though revolted. The healer’s tent was quiet now. The wounded had settled into their deep sleeps and the dying had uttered their last breaths long ago.
“If you do not wish to forgive me yet, I understand,” Darnuir said genuinely. I have yet to forgive myself.
Balack held his silence. He winced sharply and wrapped an arm around his battered chest. Bandages weaved their way around most of his torso. He was sitting upright, propped up by several pillows at Darnuir’s request so he may speak with him. Likely, he’d rather just sleep and dream of simpler times.
“I will go then,” Darnuir said. “Take care, Balack. I won’t be back for some time.” He got to his feet.
“I lost you both that night, didn’t I?” Balack said with a quiet pain. “We won at Cold Point but I lost you both. You were right. I always knew. I always knew…”
Darnuir gulped. For some reason, his heart drummed in his chest, as if he had returned to battle. He struggled to find anything to say. Someone else stepped up close to them.
“My King,” Damien said. “It is almost time.”
“Thank you, Damien,” Darnuir said, his mouth bone-dry. He looked to Balack but his old friend refused to meet his eye. He took his leave, feeling more downcast than ever. Please come back to me, he thought. Cosmo is gone, Cassandra is taken, and I’ve sent our Boreac brothers and sisters north. Only Brackendon remained now whom he might call a friend, but those memories felt unsettling to him.
And there is Blaine, my ‘equal’, my ‘partner’, and yet I do not know him.
“Lord Blaine requested you change first,” Damien said, leading Darnuir to his pavilion. The King’s tent just off the centre of camp was an extravagance when compared to its surroundings. Perhaps he ought to sleep more humbly like the rest. This large space would be better served as a mobile war room where he might take his meetings and conduct affairs. Such changes could be delayed for now.
“I shall wait for you here, sire,” Damien said.
Darnuir entered the tent alone, feeling very fatigued. The effects
of the magic he had used to defeat Scythe were still wearing off. His arm undulated and he grabbed the Dragon’s Blade to let the poison draw away. He did nothing to alleviate the bitter taste still in his mouth. The victory was bitter enough. No other flavour would be suitable.
A heavy-looking chest lay in wait for him. What have you left me, Blaine? A simple key rested atop a squat square of parchment. A short message was written on it in fine letters.
I believe you are now ready, my King. I recommend you leave off the boots if you wish to move with any real speed.
Darnuir unlocked the box with a childlike eagerness. The contents looked like rough gold, similar to the material of his sword, though darker, heavier. He tried to lift out the largest piece and was so surprised by the weight of it, he almost dropped it. A breastplate? Then he recognised it. It was similar to the armour he had seen Dronithir wearing in the memory Blaine had shown him. A roaring dragon draped across the shoulders, forming the pauldrons. All the other pieces were present within the chest; heavy golden boots, greaves, thigh guards, helm and gauntlets. Underneath it all was a crimson woollen cloak with clasps in the shape of talons to attach around his base of his neck.
He changed slowly out of his bloodied white leathers, carefully placing the pieces back on a stand as he detached them. He knew he would miss the freedom of his hunter’s uniform but he was no longer a hunter. The wound he had suffered from Scythe’s dagger on his leg throbbed just then, reminding him of the disadvantages of hunter leather’s minimal protection. He found his new armour to be too heavy at first and felt he might suffocate with it on. I got used to the sword. I shall grow accustomed to this as well. As he adjusted the pieces in the mirror, the tent’s flap opened and several young boys entered, carrying a bowl of scalding water and a softly chinking pouch.
“What is this?” he asked them, recognising them as those who often tended to Blaine.
“From the Lord Guardian, sire,” one of them said. “For your face, sire.” They all scurried out.
Darnuir ran a hand through the burgeoning fuzz on his face. He did not shave as regularly as Blaine, but this rougher look, this human look, was not the way a dragon king should appear. His old self always had a clean face. He took his gauntlets off to work more carefully and brought the steaming water to his cheeks, chin and neck. The pouch was filled with bristly brushes, a tub of dry silver paste and a razor. The silvery paste foamed up into a thick cream as he worked it in and, as he removed the hairs, the skin underneath appeared healthier for it. He tried to make his hair a little more presentable as well, tucking the ends back over his head and behind his ears. It had seemed to lighten of late, as though bleached by the sun he rarely saw in the Boreacs. Or perhaps I am becoming more like Blaine? The thought was not entirely appealing. Finally, he reached for his new gauntlets with their crimson leather gloves attached and stepped back to observe his new image.
His overriding feeling was that this seemed right. The Dragon’s Blade hung casually from his side in a way that his old self could only dream of. With his magnificent armour and clean face, he at last looked the part. He looked like a king.
I will have to continue to look and act like a king. From this day forth, every day, until I die.
“My lord Darnuir?” Damien called from outside. “We should go soon.” When Darnuir exited the pavilion, Damien seemed surprised. “Sire…” he said. “It is good to see you this way.”
“Thank you,” Darnuir said, and allowed Damien to lead him towards the service. “Are you fit enough for another long run?” he asked the outrunner.
“That would depend how far I must go, sire,” Damien said puzzled. “But yes. I can run. Do you have need of me to seek word from Inverdorn?”
“No, from Brevia actually,” Darnuir said. “But you will not be going alone.”
The burial service was to take place between the two legionary camps. When Darnuir arrived, he saw the dragons had lined up on one side and humans on the other. Darnuir paced up the middle of the two races and stood awkwardly between Blaine and those hunters leading their own rights. Blaine was preaching something about his gods.
“In the beginning, this world was ours and Dwna shone on it brightly. When the shadow came, our world was cast in two. Like our Lord Dwl’or, we have existed for ages since in this duality.” The Light Bearers stood in wake beside him, and many of the closest onlookers nodded in their agreement. Yet other dragons seemed unsure and Darnuir saw them looking to him rather than the Guardian. However, he had nothing to say about these gods. Darnuir was more inclined to what the hunters said for their dead; the lament they chanted had always sounded simpler to him. Darnuir sung along ever so softly, barely moving his lips. Despite his inclinations, he knew it would not be good to be seen favouring one side.
“Yet now the time has come to lift the Shadow!” Blaine continued. “The power of N’weer will return our strength, our faith, our conviction and this world to us as it used to be, just as he has blessed your King. See him now before, rejuvenated and reborn!”
Ah, so that is why I am to look the part now. Because it suits you, Blaine.
“Hail Darnuir!” the dragons cried. “Hail! Hail! Hail!”
***
Cosmo was buried alongside the others. He would not have wanted any ceremony for his tomb. He would have wanted it simple and therefore, they had kept it so. Hours later, as the afternoon wore on, Darnuir knelt beside Cosmo’s grave, Brackendon alongside him. The wizard had slept all day and even through the service in order to help recover from the battle.
“To Brevia then?” Brackendon asked.
“To Brevia,” Darnuir said. “Will you come with me?”
“I think Blaine can handle things here on his own,” Brackendon said.
“Thank you. Find Lira. She is making the preparations.”
“As for before, Darnuir, with that prisoner—”
“I’m not sorry for it,” Darnuir said. “He was no longer human.”
“I do not know whether that makes it right,” Brackendon said. “When I convinced Cosmo to watch over you, it was an easy decision for me to make but it was one of necessity. Not truly out of affection. You had to live, that much we both knew, even if it took him a little longer to admit it.” He passed his scarred hand over Cosmo’s resting place. “If I had not felt we had to do it, then likely we would not have risked it.”
“Well I am grateful that you thought me such a ‘necessity’.”
“I only hope that you will not become what you once were,” Brackendon continued. “That is not what we both sacrificed so much for. Even your own father seemed hard-pressed to love you.”
“Yes, I was left some choice memories,” Darnuir said. He felt numb. “I did not allow Blaine to kill him, or the others.”
“I know,” Brackendon said. “I was tasked with binding them with magic and it took a good deal of my strength.”
“Was it worth it?” Darnuir said. “To weaken yourself prior to a battle to save some traitors.”
“Oh yes,” Brackendon said without hesitation. “If you treat them with respect, how can they find cause to talk against you? Kill them and those who sympathise will only grow stronger in their conviction.”
“That was my thinking,” Darnuir said.
“Breaking fingers is not respectful, Darnuir.”
“Nor is pinning a man to a tree with a sword,” Darnuir said angrily. “I will do my best to bridge our people but I am a dragon after all and a King. I must look out for my own people, first and foremost. If I find humans killing dragons, I cannot let that go unpunished. I hope you can understand that.”
“I will find Lira,” was all Brackendon said. He left Darnuir alone with Cosmo. There was an unusual tranquillity to the long minutes he spent quietly in grief. Finally able to mourn his loss, Darnuir wept. A part of him, his old self, felt disgusted at how he was behaving over a human. But that part was small. The Darnuir of the present was in control now and all he wanted to do was weep and
wet the earth on Cosmo’s grave. Perhaps it would cause some beautiful flower to bloom there. Perhaps it would only salt the soil.
“I will not chide you for this,” Blaine muttered from somewhere behind. “The loss of one so dear is a pain worth hiding in your gems.”
“I’d rather have the memories of him with me,” Darnuir said.
“He wasn’t such a hero,” said Blaine. “He ran from his duties his whole life. Some would call that cowardice.”
“You ran away as well,” Darnuir noted.
“I had my reasons,” Blaine said.
“As did he.” Darnuir bent over the unfitting grave. He deserved to be beside Grace at least but fate had conspired to deny even that. He placed a hand on top of the soil. It was cool – peaceful. “You will tell me what your reasons were I’m sure.” Blaine had travelled in search of the Champion’s Blade but that was clearly not the whole story. “Tell me, true Lord Guardian, what was that token the kazzek sent you and why did it affect you so?”
“It once belonged to someone very precious to me,” Blaine said uncomfortably.
“And how did the trolls come to possess it?”
“I can only guess, Darnuir.”
But you are sure, aren’t you?
If Blaine had gone north in search of the sword, perhaps he had been following in the footsteps of another; the one he suspected had found it already, this Kroener, the dragon who had become Rectar. Blaine’s shock at receiving the trinket suggested he knew not that the trolls had it in their possession. It must have belonged to someone precious. A lover? Is that why he was so stern when it came to Cassandra? Only Blaine knew the answers.
“I would have you tell me—”
“Darnuir, here and now is—”
“Not the time or place, I know. There will be time enough later. First, we have a wizard to handle and the armies of humanity to gather. But you will tell me, Blaine. You will tell me everything. Even if I must prise those white jewels from you myself. I tire of secrets.”
The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King Page 44
