The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian

Home > Other > The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian > Page 14
The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian Page 14

by Michael R. Miller


  Kymethra chuckled. “Yes, well that is true.”

  “I wish I could fly,” Thane said. He manoeuvred his spoon through the air like a bird in flight, before descending again into the bowl. Cassandra noticed an alarming amount of it had already been eaten.

  “I think that’s enough for you,” she said. Thane groaned but continued to play with the mixture, pushing it around the bowl.

  An oven door creaked opened somewhere behind them and the soul-warming smell of fresh bread filled the kitchens. Kymethra rose to collect her order and Cassandra felt compelled to not leave things in such an uncertain state. She caught the witch’s arm.

  “Please consider coming back. Who else can work the scrying orb but you? I’ll talk to Arkus. Things will be better.” She hesitated, then just said it. “I’d miss you.”

  Kymethra smiled and bent to give her a one-armed hug. “You can get up to no good without me. Besides, I won’t just up and leave without telling you, nor is Brackers ready yet. But it’s something I’ll have to do, Cass.”

  Cassandra held on a little too tightly as Kymethra pulled back, then turned to meet the head chef coming towards her with a basket of steaming loaves.

  She returned her attention to Thane and caught him red-handed sneaking another spoonful. He pushed the bowl away without much of a fight and followed her back through the palace to the royal apartments.

  Cassandra’s thoughts were heavy with the news of the day. Everyone seemed to be leaving. The root of the problem was Arkus. He seemed to be at the heart of every problem; rebellions and dysfunctional marriages alike. Perhaps he didn’t realise what his behaviour was doing to people. Maybe she could get him to change course? She resolved to try, at the very least.

  Chapter 12

  THE UNLIKELY SOLDIER

  “I have observed adversity to be the true driving force amongst all races.”

  — From Tiviar’s Histories

  Sonrid – The Outskirts of Kar’drun

  OUT HERE, THE days turned from sun to stars in silence. No birds chirruped their songs, no wind blew. No precious water ever fell across the cracked plains surrounding the mountain. The only sound came from Sonrid himself. His breathy grunts of pain, the soft drag of his bad leg across the earth. There were no clouds today, so he could not meld into their shadows. He was secretly glad for it. Unlike his fully formed spectre brethren, melding was painful for him, so he preferred to hobble. Yet guilt jarred at him every step of the way.

  Dukoona and the Trusted had been summoned back to Kar’drun. They would be suffering at their Master’s hand, likely far worse than even Sonrid had. He had to reach them; had to do something, and time would be of the essence. But there was only so much agony a creature could endure, even a Broken so used to it like himself. A shadow meld across the continent, even with the aid of moving clouds, would have killed him.

  After weeks and weeks, his march was drawing to an end. Kar’drun dominated the landscape; a burnt and hulking mountain flanked by the eastern most edge of the Highland range. All the smaller mountains had snow-capped peaks, but not Kar’drun. It looked like a lump of charcoal amongst cooler ashes.

  He let out a fresh groan. It felt like his leg was on fire, though aside from a slight bend at his knee, there was nothing visibly wrong. He raised himself up as tall as his hunched body would allow and pressed on, dragging himself a few more steps and then another. He’d shuffled like this since leaving Aurisha, taking the occasional shadow when he had felt strong enough. Rest helped to ease the pain, but he was so close now. He ought not to stop for long.

  Yet when a shuddering pain ran throughout his body, he was forced to a halt. The shadows of his poor leg, already wispier than a normal spectre, parted and swirled madly. Bones were visible. Not good at all. Reluctantly, he decided to rest.

  I’ll be even more useless if I can’t walk.

  He imagined what Dukoona might say if he heard Sonrid call himself useless. Dukoona would tell Sonrid that he had a part to play against their Master. Sonrid wasn’t as sure, but Dukoona had been the first spectre to show him kindness of any kind. Before that fateful day, when he had seen the red creature emerge from Kar’drun, spectres had largely ignored him, like Rectar did. Sonrid’s existence until that point had been as close to pointless a thing as he could comprehend.

  He remembered other broken spectres seeking their end, walking into the dark ocean to never return, or limping off some high ruin in the Forsaken City and ending their miserable lives. Sonrid too had contemplated such acts, but cowardice had kept him alive.

  His leg eased up. The shadows there reformed into a denser purple and he squinted again at the mountain of Kar’drun. What purpose he now had in his life lay within its endless caverns. Slowly, he began to walk forwards.

  He noticed that the chalky red earth extended even further from Kar’drun than before, as though Rectar’s malice emanated outwards to spoil the world. There had been life here before. Sonrid used to notice it on the rare occasions he had dared venture this far from Kar’drun. Green grass, flowers with white and yellow petals he did not know the names of; birds in the sky and insects that thrived low in the soil.

  On he struggled, until the sun had risen directly above him and his pain increased to crippling levels. This time, he collapsed. Every joint flared and his whole body became a furnace of pain. His head hit the earth, his vision spiralled and darkened. He wondered whether he would die, if he’d somehow pushed his broken body beyond what it could handle. Spectres did not sleep, so he did not pass out. Instead, he lay where he had fallen with incoherent vision and nothing but anguish and the desperate hope that it would pass.

  When he regained himself, the light in the sky was pale and shimmering. He had no idea how long he’d lain there. His mind worked sluggishly, but after a time he was forced to accept the fact he was still alive. The thought of standing was intolerable. Perhaps if he lay here for long enough a cloud might pass and he could meld with it. Which would be harder to manage? Which was the lesser torture?

  He saw movement from the corner of his eye. A large beetle was scuttling towards him. It had a moss green chitinous shell, ill-suited to blending in against the red earth. As its antennae probed the world ahead, the beetle slowed as it drew closer to Sonrid’s face. Uncertain in its course, the beetle halted. Both he and the beetle remained motionless. Perhaps it was stubborn and thought he ought to move out of its way.

  “You’ll be waiting for a rather long time.” His voice was even weaker than usual.

  The beetle’s antennae wiggled at the sound of his voice, but otherwise the creature seemed unconcerned. He wondered if it felt pain like he did. He had wondered that about every creature he’d come across. Singing birds could not be in pain or they would not fill the air with their music. Yet, there was no longer any birdsong. Were they suffering too? All life might just be one of pain. He just felt it worst of all.

  Unmoving, like the distant mountains, the beetle remained.

  “If you are to wait it out with me, you shall die and rot while I shall remain. I will—” he stopped himself. Whatever pitiable thing he said, this beetle would not care. He could just lie here, but he’d remain forever unless some dragon, human or fairy found him and killed him. To actively find an end of any sorts meant moving forwards. Only under Kar’drun would he find peace. He’d either die in the attempt or aid Dukoona and the Trusted, witness their vengeance against Rectar and then, once he had some meaning to his suffering, ask Dukoona to kill him. Dukoona would not refuse him then.

  This hope of death dulled the pain from his joints.

  Unsteadily, he rose.

  Once upright, Sonrid saw the beetle continue along its resolute course. What a defiant little thing, he thought, smirking at the green bug that had bested him. He turned to face Kar’drun in the distance and his smile morphed into a determined frown.

  Groaning, he l
imped on.

  Chapter 13

  DEATH TO THE DRAGON

  “Common is the dragon willing to fight and die. Rare is the one who can sit with patience and lead.”

  — An old dragon maxim

  Darnuir – The Royal Tower

  IT HAD BEEN the worst morning of Darnuir’s life. His first day emerging from recovery had been one of perpetual bad news. Conflicting witnesses gave hastily made accounts and he had received nothing but silence from Blaine. It all sunk into him slowly, like a thick poison passing through his veins. He’d even wondered hopefully for a time whether he was still hallucinating.

  But it was not a nightmare. It was all real. As night fell, a deathly quiet choked the city of Aurisha, and Darnuir walked the hallways of the Royal Tower alone. Though weary from the day, he felt no need for sleep. He’d slept for long enough. And while his body still ached, his mind felt clearer than he could ever remember it being. So, while half the Praetorians kept watch on the Basilica and the others slept, Darnuir stalked the darkened corridors of his ancestors, allowing his mind to work on his myriad of problems.

  He entered a moonlit hallway, curved like all the rest in the tower. Life-sized statues lined the walls, disappearing around the bend. They’d been cut from starium, but the grainy quality of the stone had been smoothed away to leave unblemished faces. Each dragon held a carved version of the Dragon’s Blade, and struck a similar pose, thrusting their sword high and forwards to create a tunnel of swords under which Darnuir now walked. Had their faces not been different, Darnuir might have thought them all to be exact copies. These must have been the kings, though their names and when they had reigned had not been deemed important enough to remember. The uniformity of the kings, while unnerving, was not surprising.

  We are a stubborn race. We are a violent race. We are a crude, unthinking people.

  No king was depicted as a scholar, not one sat in contemplation. No Dragon King stood here with friends. None held a tool, only their deadliest weapon. Now the Dragon’s Blade hung at his hip, the source of his strength, his kingship. And his disgrace. Just looking at its blood red hilt sent a shiver up his spine. He flinched as though the sword had bitten him. He hated it as much as he loved it, and a flood of empathy for Brackendon filled him. At last, he understood the wizard’s struggle.

  One statue caught his eye. Darnuir recognised Dronithir’s face – the great hero of the Second War. He had stood alongside humanity as a prince and defeated the Guardian Norbanus in single combat in the marshes. Blaine had shown him that old memory within the Guardian’s Blade. Blaine had also said that he could see events repeating, if he looked back far enough. Darnuir examined Dronithir’s lifeless eyes.

  Am I you, but in the here and now? Must I defeat another Guardian?

  Although, Darnuir thought, Dronithir didn’t truly win in the end.

  He might have won the battle, but he failed to win Norbanus’ heart. Seven hundred years later, Darnuir faced the repercussions of it. Secret tunnels in the Bastion. A betrayal that was centuries in the making.

  As he drew away from the statue, he vowed to do better. Unlike Dronithir, Darnuir would not heedlessly charge in, roaring with a Blade in hand. He was too tired for that. The hot anger that had flared in him since receiving the Dragon’s Blade had lost its fuel. It might return, of course, he couldn’t be sure. Yet he didn’t think so. The Darnuir pre-cascade-cleansing would have stormed into the Basilica, Praetorians by his side, seeking retribution for the human killings; seeking answers, seeking action to vent his own fear and anger. But not now. Oh, he would have answers, but not at sword point. Not unless there was absolutely no other way.

  At the end of the hallway, he found Draconess’ statue. It was rougher, the stone not yet smoothed to a shine like the others. Yet, to Darnuir, it seemed the only one worth looking at. Here, at last, was some sign of frailty. Here, whether it had been intended or not, was the truth that dragons draped themselves in gold but there was nothing precious underneath. Just creatures, struggling in life like any human or fairy. As Darnuir exited the passage he decided he would not add to this strange collection.

  Let the world have something worth remembering me by that isn’t holding a sword.

  He ended his night-time excursion in the throne room, sitting upon the steps leading to his throne. No compulsion filled him to sit on that cold stone chair. He hadn’t earned the right to look down on anyone. And as the early dawn light broke the darkness, Darnuir had decided what he would have to do.

  Later that morning, Darnuir perched on the same step beneath his throne. He ate a small breakfast and drank three flagons of water. His appetite was there but his throat still ached from the use of that hard, unforgiving tube. Once he was finished, two Praetorians brought the scrying orb to the foot of the stairs so that it stood at eye level with him.

  “Is there anything else, sire?”

  “No, that will be all for now. Fetch Raymond and Grigayne Imar as instructed. Grigayne is to be at the front. His position demands the courtesy.” The Praetorians bowed and left him with only the orb for company. It was his duty to tell Arkus. His alone.

  From what little he had gathered, activating the orb wasn’t hard. It took one who had been touched by the Cascade to work, and so he reached out to it and spread his hand wide over its glassy surface. If there were many orbs in the world, he would have had to direct the connection, but there was only one other now.

  The misty innards of the orb rippled then parted, revealing a hazy version of Arkus’ private council chamber. As the image sharpened, he could see a lone Chevalier gawking back at him.

  “This is Darnuir, King of Dragons. I would speak with Arkus.”

  Slack jawed, the Chevalier nodded then disappeared from view. Darnuir withdrew his hand, and when the connection seemed to hold, he relaxed a little upon the steps. Resting his elbows upon his knees, his chin upon his hands, he patiently watched the empty room.

  Arkus had not redecorated since Darnuir had visited. It was still largely bare, with little to suggest it belonged to a king. Perhaps it was in service to that portrait of his departed wife hanging behind his desk. Ilana’s smile, her grass-green eyes and wavy black hair were rendered more beautiful with the flecks of colour and light that only a painter’s brush could add.

  It had maybe been half a year since he’d stood in Arkus’ room with that painting, but it felt far longer. It felt like years.

  Lost in thought, Darnuir heard something from the orb and lifted his head. Arkus stepped into view and the Chevalier Gellick followed a moment later.

  “Greetings, Darnuir,” Arkus said. He had his crown on and this time did not remove it. “I see you have, erm, recovered?”

  “I have overcome my addiction to Cascade energy, yes.”

  Arkus smiled. “My congratulations. Now, let’s get our business out of the way, shall we. It’s rather late at my end.”

  “My thanks, Arkus, and very well. Let’s begin, though I will need to be brought up to speed on a couple of matters. From what I gather, you and Blaine have not had regular contact. Did he speak with you regarding the position of our people camped outside of Brevia?”

  “We spoke, but dear old Blaine offered me no exchange. The Guardian’s generosity knows no bounds, as does his arrogance.”

  Darnuir sighed into his hands, so that Arkus could not hear. He’d known the pair of them would not see eye to eye. It had been one of his fears in withdrawing from the world to heal, but by the time he had resigned himself to the chains and the chair, he could barely stand upright, never mind negotiate.

  Arkus’s eyes shifted from side to side. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Blaine is… busy. I am sorry if he offended you. I’m sorry that I’ve been absent and that your soldiers have remained here for so long without obvious cause. But of everything I am sorry about over both my lives, this news might be th
e worst one. I have something I must tell you, but perhaps I could tell you privately?” He looked to Gellick. The Chevalier cocked his head, as though amused.

  “Gellick is my right hand in all matters,” Arkus said. “Much the same as that huntress is to you. Though I note with interest that she is not with you either.”

  “Lira is resting. She’s been through a lot.”

  Arkus stood straighter at those words. “Has Aurisha been attacked? Has this vague new threat materialised?”

  “No, and the threat is real. Rectar has taken dragons over the decades of war and enchanted them the same way that Castallan enchanted humans. They will be the deadliest foe we’ve ever fought. Rectar has simply not unleashed them yet.”

  Arkus leaned closer to whisper to Gellick. After a brief exchange, Arkus returned his attention to Darnuir. “Why not? Why would the enemy hold back?”

  “I do not know.”

  Arkus frowned. “Well, what’s your plan exactly? Why keep my soldiers? What good will humans be in a fight like that?”

  “Long spears, dense formations, hails of arrows; your troops can do a lot that mine cannot. I have high walls I can defend should it come to it. This gives us some advantage but—” Darnuir took a moment, struggling to tell Arkus of the tragedy which had occurred. The scrying orb was a miraculous device, but he couldn’t read much in Arkus’ eyes. From here they simply looked black and small, lacking their shrewd glint that existed in the flesh. Would Arkus remove his troops because of what had happened? And could he, Darnuir, refuse him now?

  “But what?” Arkus said, suspicion creeping into his voice.

  “Please, Arkus, believe me when I say you’d rather hear this in private.”

  “Speak now, Darnuir or don’t. Whatever you tell me, I’ll relay to Gellick in due course.”

  Darnuir sighed wearily again. An ache ran through him, but he was sure to look Arkus directly in the eye as he spoke, as one king to another.

 

‹ Prev