Bloodmines: Cheryl Matthynssens

by Cheryl Matthynssens

  “My common tongue? It’s not the language of the dragons as well?” Alador blinked in surprise.

  “Oh no,” Amaum huffed. “Far too vulgar for a proper dragon.”

  “Well, what does a dragon speak?” Alador had never considered they would speak a different language than the Daezun and Lerdenian people.

  “Draconic, of course,” Amaum tipped his head. “Wish to hear it?”

  “Yes.” Alador was intrigued by everything that these creatures represented.

  “Si charis ir kear ekess qe lae versvesh vur versel lae sia opsola.” Amaum’s voice took on an almost lyrical tone as the sounds rolled off his tongue with far fewer guttural tones.

  Alador did not know what Amaum had said, but Renamaum must have, for a sense of pride welled up in Alador. Renamaum moved within him and Alador could not help but smile at the older dragon’s reaction.

  “I imagine that is a hard language to learn,” he offered. “Whatever you said pleased your Sire.”

  Amaum sobered for a moment. “I can only hope so.”

  Alador felt a bit of discomfort at the change in mood. “So, don’t focus, you say?”

  Amaum nodded. “Look out, but look at nothing. You must quiet everything within you. You do not have to do that when you have enough practice, but the first time I saw the air stones I had to be completely still, aware of nothing but the air that touched me.”

  Alador decided to try again. He stared at the rock in the distance, then tried not to see it, even though he looked in that direction. At first, he saw nothing but a blur. He could feel the cool wind on his skin and the warmth of the sun. He suddenly saw movement in his vision. Alador tried to focus on it but lost it immediately. He let out a frustrated growl.

  “Maybe it is just easier for dragons,” Amaum consoled.

  “I thought I saw them, but then when I tried to see them, to really look at them, they were gone.” Alador shook his head at his failure.

  “You cannot look at them. You must see them without seeing,” Amaum repeated what Rena had said.

  “That is silly; you can’t see something without seeing it. It’s a contradiction.” Alador looked at Amaum with frustration.

  Amaum let out a rumbling sound. “Yet you just did. You said you saw them until you looked at them.”

  Alador realized the dragon was right. He had seen the little flitting movements until he had tried to focus on them. “Well, shite,” he spat.

  The dragon just laughed with a deep rumble and went back to his napping. Alador kept trying. Every time he would get a glimpse of the flittering movements, he could not help but try to focus on them. Every time he would lose sight of them at that moment of realization that they were there. He continued until he heard a footstep. Alador looked up to see Henrick. He looked at the dragons who seemed unconcerned at the mage’s sudden appearance.

  “I thought I sent you to speak to a red dragon, not a family of blue ones.” He clearly looked irritated. His hair was wild and unkempt, and his clothes were wrinkled and sweat stained. Alador could never remember seeing him in such a state.

  “What happened to you?” Alador blinked, wide-eyed as he asked, though he suspected he already knew.

  Henrick glanced over at the sleeping male that had curled up close to Alador. “It seems you have made friends who have a rather mischievous sense of humor.” Henrick plopped down wearily beside Alador.

  Alador was certain he saw Amaum smirk before he looked at Henrick. “Careful father,” Alador teased. “You are starting to sound like a village elder. I thought you made this walk all the time.”

  “Not since I learned to use a travel spell,” Henrick admitted. There was silence for a long moment before Henrick spoke. “It is father now?” Henrick asked.

  “Don’t question it and don’t push it,” Alador stated, looking off into the distance again. His tone was accepting and not upset.

  A few moments passed again before Henrick questioned. “What are you doing?” Henrick looked at the odd expression on Alador’s face.

  “Trying to see air stones,” Alador answered.

  “Air stones…?” Henrick sounded confused.

  “Has to do with weather spells; and don’t ask! - it took me too long even to begin to understand, without having to try to explain it.” He glanced over at the dragons, who all seemed to be content napping, and gave up, looking directly at Henrick instead. “I owe you an apology,” he stated bluntly.

  When Henrick started to speak, Alador put up his hand. “For once, Father, just listen. You are great at talking, but to be honest, you are crap at listening.” He had the satisfaction of watching his father snap his mouth shut, though Henrick did look a little bit indignant.

  “I am sorry I have taken my anger out on you. My image of an ideal father was moulded by Daezun decorum. I didn'ttake into consideration what growing up around Luthian must have been like - the lies you must have had to tell just to stay alive.” Alador looked down at the two stones that Rena had placed side by side.

  “I think I was angry that, if it were not for your magic, I could have had a Daezun father, and none of this would have happened to me. I could have grown up with Mesiande, become housemates and lived the quiet Daezun life.” Alador took a deep breath, relieved that Henrick did not speak.

  “But I realized that if this had been the case, Luthian would have eventually found another storm mage to cast his spell. I would have been without any power to save my people. Without Renamaum and you, the People might have well fallen into Luthian’s trap to unify the isle.” He looked over at Henrick. “If the Daezun fall, then there’ll never be anyone to protect the dragons.” Alador made that statement with firm conviction.

  Alador was startled when Pruatra spoke behind him. “And that is exactly why we will follow you.” She rose and lumbered around in front of the two mages before lying down again. Alador noted that she was not as graceful on land as Keensight. Her body was more elongated and her talons had webs between them, and her long tail reminded him of an oar with a single long line rising up and below the tail, much like small sails. Keensight’s tail and back were covered in spikes.

  Henrick and Pruatra’s eyes met, and Alador swore that something passed between them. He did not miss the subtle shake of Henrick’s head, nor Pruatra’s slight nod. Henrick stood. “Greetings Lady Pruatra. I had heard tales of your great beauty, but in truth they fall far short. They pale in your glorious presence.” Henrick swept an elaborate bow before the dragon.

  “A slick tongue, fire mage, will not endear me to you. Pretty words are easily spoken and easily betrayed.” Pruatra rose her head up. Alador swore that if there was such a thing as the Queen of Dragons, this one would be a candidate.

  Henrick put his hand over his heart. “You wound me madam. Truer words have never left my lips.”

  “Says one who often says what he means but does not mean exactly what he says,” Pruatra rumbled.

  “Do you two know each other?” Alador was fairly certain he was missing something here.

  “No!” both answered simultaneously.

  Pruatra went on to explain, though her gaze still held Henrick’s. “I recognize his type, be it in beast or mortal. A slick tongue, a charming demeanor and a quick wit... Dancing about with such skill that he draws the feminine eye, and yet leaves a trail of hearts in his wake.”

  Alador laughed outright. “She described you perfectly.”

  “You slay me, madam.” Henrick said with an obvious hurt tone. “I have only met two women who could tie my feet to a single abode. One is dead, and the other joined with my dear friend. How can one hope to find perfection when it has been lost twice?”

  Alador looked at his father in surprise. This was a side of him that he did not know existed. “You do have a heart!” he exclaimed.

  Henrick looked at the dragoness with a show of ire. “Now look what you have done: you’ve let the boy know I have feelings.”

  Pruatra shook her head. “I said nothing.
You were the one who spoke,” she pointed out.

  “Damn dragon tricks,” Henrick muttered and went stomping off.

  Alador grinned after Henrick before looking at Pruatra. “Thank you. I don’t think he would ever have told me that.”

  Pruatra looked at Alador, her mood sobering somewhat. “That is a man of secrets. I suspect there is much he has not told you for fear you will deny him. Give him time. Such males must come to the realization that the secrets they hold are the bars that bind them.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sordith stepped out of the hall without Owen. He was leaving the man to watch over Keelee and the hall. The girl had returned in a high state of distress from the halls of the Blackguard. He did not know what it was about his brother and women, but it seemed he was the one who ended up consoling them. In this case, he smiled at the thought; the consoling had ended pleasantly.

  He moved cheerfully down the stairs to the floor of the trench. Five of his men were sitting around at the base of the demonstration dais, a place that Aorun had often hung his vanquished from as a warning to others who disregarded the rules and whims of the Trench Lord. It lay empty today, as Sordith was more diplomatic in his leadership.

  He eyed the men who were each at some small task, and noticed immediately that none met his gaze. “I will need two with me to inspect the miners’ quarters,” he commanded firmly.

  Kester stood and stepped boldly forward. “I will attend you,” he announced firmly. “Guarin will come too, won’t ya Guarin.” He indicated a decidedly weasely-looking man just behind him, who nodded a bit more reluctantly.

  Sordith’s eyes traveled over Kester. His swords were immaculate, and his armor had clearly been attended to recently. Like Sordith’s own gear, the boots and leathers were shined to keep them supple and silent.

  So, today would be the day, he concluded. He had known since he had killed and replaced the former Trench Lord, Aorun, that this day would come. There were always attempts on the new Trench Lord as the shuffle for power and place rippled down the ranks. He could tell that Kester was setting his sights high, just by the way he moved.

  Sordith’s eyes roved over the rest of those around the dais. Most were polishing weapons or seemed more interested in their boots than his presence. Yes, today would be the day that he had been dreading. He nodded to both men and boldly turned his back on them before striding off.

  If there was going to be a fight, then he would choose a very public area: so there could be no doubt about who was Trench Lord. Kester was good with his blade and dagger; this could be a fight Sordith might lose - if he wasn’t careful.

  He purposely moved across the bridge to the side of the trench with more overhead exposure. A light rain was falling, creating run-off through the trench canal. He eyed it as he moved forward, very aware of the two men flanking him. However, he moved along the trench as usual, greeting people in his customary manner. He slipped trading tokens to various orphans and others without familial support. He suspected that Kester would make his move in the mine, where there was room to maneuver and drier conditions.

  Sordith considered what he knew of the two men behind him. Kester had a good six inches on him in height, and nearly that in reach. The man was strong, and favored a slash and stab method of fighting. Kester was good, and in contests, often left with a purse. Guarin was the wild card. Sordith had not seen him fight much, and he knew the man was known for less than honorable tactics. He would be the one more likely to take sly advantage of an exposed flank.

  Sordith eyed the widening area he was approaching. It was here that a short bridge had been built to prevent having to travel all the way to one end or the other. He considered the bridge with narrowed eyes as he approached it. It arched across the small canal, only about eight feet above the filth that ran below.

  “Need to make a stop on the way,” he called out to the men behind him. Turning his head to flash a grin at Kester, he moved to his right to cross the bridge. When he made it to the crest, he drew his blades and turned casually to face to two startled men behind him. They both took a step back.

  “I get the feeling that we have unsaid words between us,” Sordith stated casually. He planted his feet, making sure his stance was solid on the wet stone beneath him, and eyed both men’s blades with a pointed look.

  Kester grinned slowly as he drew his own sword and dagger. “I had planned to offer you a dry death.” Guarin took a step backwards to give Kester more room, a little slower to draw his weapons.

  “I prefer an audience,” Sordith answered coldly. He eyed the denizens of the trench who were gathering on both sides of the canal in a wide arc around the three men.

  Kester took advantage of Sordith’s apparent distraction and rushed in, his sword slicing towards the Trench Lord’s upper arm. Sordith had been watching his attacker with the corner of his eye, so was not caught unawares. He spun to the side to meet Kester’s blade, but blinked when he realized that Kester had paused in his swing and altered its trajectory. He just managed to snap his sword to meet the freshly angled blow, and the sound of steel against steel silenced what chatter was left in the trench.

  Sordith cursed as a stinging pain sliced up his right side. As the pain spread to his chest, he realized that by parrying the sword-thrust he had exposed his side to Kester’s dagger. Staggering back, he swiftly found his footing and balance on the wet stone. Guarin had managed to dart past him during this swift encounter, forcing Sordith to meet attackers from both sides.

  Kester pressed his advantage, launching his sword at Sordith’s middle. The beleaguered Trench Lord managed to parry this blade with his left hand, the singing clash of blades echoing in the trench. Almost immediately he pivoted to meet Guarin’s first strike with his right.

  Kester stepped in swiftly, attempting to get another blow in with his dagger, but Sordith swept his right arm back while darting to his right, taking his attackers by surprise: the maneuver forced Kester round to his left, which meant his two assailants were now together and prevented by the narrowness of the bridge from mounting a simultaneous attack.

  Sordith now commanded the width of the bridge. The only ways Guarin could have got behind him were by running the length of the trench to the next bridge or by wading across the putrid canal. The fumes off the filth made all their eyes water

  Sordith and Kester then engaged in a deadly duel. Each blocked and parried as blow after blow rang round the narrow confines of the trench. Both were struggling to see in the constant drizzle of rain. The frenetic pace was wearing on both fighters...

  Standing ready behind his more competent henchman, Guarin did not interfere for the moment and Sordith was able to focus entirely on Kester. He was hard-pressed by the bigger man and barely managed to avoid a strike at his throat by crouching under the thrust. Desperate, he came up in a flurry of blades, pressing his treacherous assailant back. He got an opening and kicked Kester backwards, hope surging as the treacherous pretender slipped over on the slick stone of the bridge.

  Sordith wasted no time in leaping past the sprawling Kester and going straight for Guarin: he was running out of energy, and these two could take turns. He needed to remove one or the other, and Guarin was the easier target. With a fierce cry he rushed at the slighter man, his swords clashing mightily with Guarin’s. Guarin wasn’t the swordsman Kester was and he was unable to respond as quickly. Sordith pressed him back and saw the blatant fear in his opponent’s darting eyes. Feinting with his left, his right blade made it through Guarin’s defenses and slashed across his thighs. He was able to get in another numbing blow to the man’s right arm before he caught sight of Kester out of the corner of his eye; the big bastard was back on his feet, ready once more to launch into the fray.

  Cursing, Sordith trapped Guarin’s main sword with crossed blades, wrenching it from his numbed grasp and sending it flying. He grabbed the now empty, outstretched hand and jerked hard, sending the man stumbling past him and into Kester’s path. Mouthing
profanities of his own, Kester shoved his gibbering accomplice aside while attempting to recover a fighting stance.

  Guarin completely lost his balance and went over the low stone wall into the seething mass of sewage and rainwater. Sordith heard him hit the stinking surface. He knew he was still alive by the splashing, retching and cursing coming from the center of the canal beneath his feet.

  Kester lifted his blade and closed in, but now it was one on one. Sordith watched his opponent’s shoulders and eyes carefully. Both men were panting with exertion, no energy left for insults or provoking banter. Sordith’s skill was being sorely tested by the younger man. There was nothing he could do but fight on and hope that Kester made a mistake…

  Kester’s blade came at him, and Sordith crossed his swords, sliding them apart to divert it before attacking with three swift blows. Kester deflected them skilfully, spinning round and getting in another vicious stab to Sordith’s side. The Trench Lord retreated, bleeding freely, his head beginning to spin.

  Kester saw he had the upper hand and came in for the kill. Whirling, he caught Sordith’s left hand and the hilt of his sword with such a blow that the blade shot from the wounded Trench Lord’s grip and clattered to the flagstones. Grinning triumphantly, Kester raised his sword and put everything into a final lunge at Sordith’s chest…

  But he had underestimated his master and it was the last mistake he made. With sudden strength and ability that surged from deep within his genes, Sordith slipped sideways past the lunging blade and used the traitor’s forward movement to drive his remaining sword deep into the man’s gullet, severing his windpipe.

  Blood gushed from the wound in Kester’s throat, and he gurgled frantically, no longer able to breathe. Dropping both swords, he sank to his knees, clutching at his neck. In one swift movement, Sordith drove his sword through his opponent’s chest, impaling his heart and stopping it in its tracks.

  As the life drained from Kester’s eyes, Sordith snarled between painful gasps of breath: “You... should have… brought… more men.” He placed his foot on the dead man’s chest and tugged the blade free from what had just become a bleeding piece of meat. He was severely winded, and his stomach was bleeding in two separate places.