Rondel smiled. “You possess perhaps the most powerful weapon on the continent of Raa. That sword is a katana, a weapon style unique to Maantecs. Beyond that though, it bears a name. Maantecs call it the Muryozaki, literally translated as ‘Holy Dragon Sword.’”
“Holy Dragon Sword?” Iren raised an eyebrow. He had a hard time believing his father’s blade was some kind of divine weapon.
“What do you know about dragons, Iren?”
The young man shook his head. “Dragons don’t exist; they’re fairy tales.”
“Partially correct. True, no physical dragons roam Raa. However, somewhere on this continent live eight dragons.”
Iren’s brow furrowed. Despite her drinking, he’d found Rondel remarkably lucid up to this point. Now, he wondered if everything she had said merely amounted to alcohol-induced ramblings. “You crazy bird, there can’t be ‘no dragons’ and ‘eight dragons’ at the same time!”
She smacked him on the back of the head. “Watch your mouth, brat, and listen when people talk to you! I said no physical dragons roam Raa, but it does have eight dragons. They simply no longer have a physical form.” She sighed. “I’d best start at the beginning. Otherwise, a dunce like you will never understand. You know that, centuries ago, people worshipped the dragons as gods. However, they’re more like forces of nature, made by the Creator, Juusa, to maintain balance in the world. He intended for them to live in peace, but instead, the dragons warred among themselves over which had the most power. Ultimately, ten thousand years ago, their squabbling sank an entire continent, Teneb, or so Maantec history says.”
Iren shuddered at the thought of creatures so powerful they could sink continents, but he didn’t see how the legend could be true. Skeptically, he asked, “What does all that have to do with my sword?”
Rondel’s sharp reply came immediately, “It has everything to do with your sword! After Teneb sank, instead of realizing their folly, the dragons merely shifted their war to the sole remaining continent on our world: Raa. Two hundred of the finest sorcerers gathered to address the problem. They couldn’t convince the dragons to stop feuding, and they couldn’t kill the dragons without upsetting the balance of nature. Instead, they combined their might and cast a spell that sealed the dragons into gemstones, one for each. Though alive, the dragons could no longer war among themselves. Forever locked in their gems, the dragons cannot influence the outside world. But the story doesn’t end there, although it should have.”
Iren gulped as Rondel’s tone darkened.
“The sealing spell required so much magic that it killed all two hundred casters. As time passed, foolish Maantecs forgot why their ancestors willingly died to seal away the dragons. They began to desire the dragons’ magic for their own. Five thousand years ago, they developed an enchantment that, if placed around a dragon’s gem, allowed anyone who touched it to draw upon that dragon’s power. They inscribed the sequence on eight weapons, turning them into Ryokaiten, or ‘Dragon Weapons.’” Rondel motioned at the Muryozaki. “Your sword is one of them. See the three concentric rings of symbols on its hilt? Those markings are kanji, the Maantec form of writing. At their center, just beneath the surface, rests the Holy Diamond, containing the spirit and magic of the Holy Dragon, Divinion.”
Iren stared at his sword with new fascination. Divinion, the dragon in the painting, the creature whose name adorned the tower in which he’d lived most of his life, resided in his father’s katana. He could hardly believe a simple farmer would own a weapon that contained one of the mightiest beasts ever to live on Raa.
Rondel seemed to sense Iren’s thoughts. After a quick sip from her hip flask, she continued, “Over time, nearly all of the Ryokaiten have disappeared. Few Maantecs even know about them anymore; your father probably didn’t understand what he had. I can say this much for certain though. Throughout history, those who desire power have coveted the Ryokaiten. It could explain why someone would murder your parents.”
Two unspoken follow-up questions came unbidden to Iren’s mind. If the Quodivar leader had killed Iren’s parents to obtain the Muryozaki, why hadn’t he retrieved it at that point in time? And second, what would he do once he found out that Iren had it?
“You must understand both the might and the danger inherent in that sword,” Rondel noted firmly. “It can grant you great power, but it can also destroy you. Evil will seek you, wanting to claim the Holy Dragon Sword’s power for its own. No magic surpasses that of a Dragon Knight.”
Iren grimaced. “A Dragon Knight?”
“To put it bluntly, a Dragon Knight is someone who wields a Ryokaiten. The fact that the Muryozaki healed you proves you’re a Dragon Knight. You drew on Divinion’s power to do that.”
“Does that mean Amroth is a Dragon Knight too?” Iren asked. “He gave me this sword, and he’s had it in his possession for seventeen years.”
Rondel shook her head. “That isn’t how it works. The sword chooses one owner and one owner only. That person becomes the Dragon Knight, and once the bond is made, only the knight’s death can sever it. As long as you live, neither Amroth, nor anyone else, can become the Holy Dragon Knight.”
Iren held up the Muryozaki, trembling. “Why me?” he asked, mostly to himself. “Why would a dragon, especially the Holy Dragon, want to bond with me? Or for that matter, any person at all?”
“One question at a time!” the old woman called out, laughing momentarily before turning serious again. “Let’s start with the last one. Imagine for a moment that you’re a dragon. Originally, you were a creature of nearly limitless power. Now you spend eternity locked inside the tiniest space, in utter darkness, unable to move, unable to control what happens in the world, yet you still feel the flow of time. Sealing the dragons may have preserved Raa, but it sentenced them to the most fiendish prisons possible. Bonding with a Dragon Knight, however, gains them a window to the outside world.
“As for why Divinion chose you specifically, I can only say this much. The dragons don’t choose randomly. When a knight dies, the dragon finds its next partner by testing any non-Dragon Knight who touches its Ryokaiten. If the person passes the ordeal, they become the knight, but if they fail, they die. That means that if you aren’t already a Dragon Knight, touching a Ryokaiten whose owner has died is extremely dangerous. You might gain incredible power, but you could just as easily perish. Each dragon administers a different test. In Divinion’s case, Maantec lore says that he judges based on purity of heart. When I helped Amroth seventeen years ago, he gave me his account of your finding. I suspect that when your mother died, she dropped you. As you fell, you rubbed against your father’s blade. As an innocent infant, you easily passed Divinion’s test. You’ve been the Holy Dragon Knight almost all your life.”
“But I never healed myself until last night.”
“Of course. Holy Dragon Knight or not, Divinion’s power remains locked within the Holy Diamond and the Muryozaki. That’s why your finger didn’t heal until you touched your sword. Specifically, it didn’t heal until you touched the symbols on the hilt. Those kanji spell out the enchantment that connects you to Divinion. Unless some part of your skin touches them, you cannot use his magic.”
Iren’s head spun with all he had learned, but he nevertheless jumped to his feet. “Come on!” he cried. “Let’s hurry and tell Amroth! With Divinion, we can defeat the Quodivar easily.”
Rondel downed the last drops from her flask. “Don’t you listen to anything I say? Do you not realize that I could have told you all of this at any time while we rode? Amroth can’t know about Divinion.”
“Why not? We’re all in this mission together.”
The old hag said derisively, “You really think so? Take care, little boy. That man you admire so much means to send you to your death.”
“Amroth saved me from execution, you drunken windbag! He gave me my chance for revenge! He’s only acted kindly to me, unlike you.”
“Acting is indeed the right word for it,” Rondel counte
red. When Iren folded his arms and scowled, she waved her hand dismissively. “Fine, fine, don’t listen to me. But whether you trust Amroth or not, know this. There’s more to this mission than simply defeating the Quodivar. Far more.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Okthora’s Law
On the fourth day since departing Haldessa, the village of Veliaf finally came into view. All day, Iren and the others had watched as the boreal forest Akaku grew on the horizon, spreading from east to west in a blanket of conifer spires. Iren had considered the tiny wood where Rondel told him about the dragons impressive, but Akaku put that to shame. Its giant trees must have been at least twice the size of any in that thicket, and they grew so close together that almost no light could penetrate them. Iren could understand why Lodians feared it so strongly.
Veliaf didn’t look much more welcoming. A high stone wall encircled it, so as they approached, Iren could see nothing of the village itself. The only entrance appeared to be a solid metal gate, which faced the road.
“When we reach the gate, let me handle it. Don’t say anything.” Amroth turned in his saddle and glowered at Rondel. “Especially you.”
Iren gave the captain a sideways glance. Even if he didn’t believe her, Rondel’s warning about Amroth unsettled him.
Then again, considering the way Rondel could change her personality on a whim, she seemed the more likely actress. Immediately after reentering camp the other day, she had assumed her typical idiotic self and proceeded to grate on everyone’s nerves, Iren’s included, all the way to Veliaf. At the moment, she was complaining about the road conditions and how her horse kept stepping in every pothole. The useless beast of burden, she whined, would surely cause her to fall and break her arm. She waved an empty bottle in the air as she bellowed, having finished the last of her alcohol an hour ago.
The crone gave an impressive performance; Iren had to give her that. She didn’t look like someone who could speak seriously about Maantecs, dragons, and events that happened thousands of years ago. Nor did she look like the kind of person who could kill six Quodivar without breaking a sweat. If anyone in their group was disguising their true motives, Iren considered Rondel the most likely suspect.
Maybe instead of Amroth, he really needed to watch out for her.
“Amroth!” Rondel piped up, “My eyes have withered with age and no longer see what you young folk easily spot. From back here, I don’t see any watchmen on the wall. Can you?”
The captain fixed his gaze on the fortification, as did Iren. The annoying hag was right. Coming from this direction, they should easily see Veliaf’s guards silhouetted against the clear blue sky.
Amroth suddenly snapped, “Weapons ready, all of you.”
The group approached warily. Arriving at the gate, they found it nearly torn from its hinges. As they passed through it and entered Veliaf, Iren glanced around with disgust. Admittedly, he’d only ever known the manicured grounds and passages of Haldessa Castle, but surely villages should not look like this. Not a soul walked the cobble streets, even though it was barely midafternoon. All of the windows in every building were smashed, and many of the structures lacked doors as well.
Iren shuddered. Even in pristine condition, he would have considered the town intimidating. He couldn’t spot a single tree or blade of grass. Instead of individual houses, identical stone two-story row homes lined both sides of the roads. As a cold wind howled through the narrow corridor of the street, Iren felt claustrophobic. He clutched his arms around his chest.
Amroth’s eyes narrowed as he swiveled his head to take in the village from as many angles as possible. “Veliaf thrived when I came here on my last mission. What could have happened in such a short time?”
Dismounting, the group searched nearly a dozen houses and shops near the village entrance but found nothing of consequence. The town was devoid of life.
“I don’t even see any bodies,” Balear said when they reconvened back at their horses. “If someone attacked the village, shouldn’t we see corpses, at the very least?”
“I didn’t notice any valuables while examining the houses either,” Amroth added. “Someone has completely looted this place.”
“Quodivar?” Balear suggested, but while Amroth nodded curtly, Rondel did something unexpected. Adopting a broad grin, she started heading down a side street away from the others.
“This is all much too depressing,” she said innocently when Amroth asked where she was heading. “I’m going to find a drink.”
The captain raised a hand in warning, but she disappeared around a corner before he could say anything. He sighed. “I guess we’d better go after her before she gets herself killed. Leave the horses here; that alley’s too narrow for them anyway.”
After tying up their mounts, the trio pursued Rondel. The narrow lane twisted and turned several times before reaching the open ground of the village square. Arriving there, they found not only Rondel but a terrible sight.
The bodies of men, twenty or thirty of them, lay heaped and rotting in the square’s center. Dried blood caked nearly all of the square’s cobblestones. Four pikes surrounded the corpse pile, each topped with a decapitated head.
Iren and Balear both vomited at the smell; the people had died days ago. Even Amroth had a hard time keeping his composure. Rondel, however, appeared oblivious to the sensory overload. She stared lividly at the square, her body vibrating.
As Iren wiped his mouth, he realized he had overlooked a crucial element of the scene. He’d found the stacked carcasses so overpowering that he had missed a group of a dozen men about two hundred feet away on the far side of the square. The men jeered and kicked at something they surrounded. Through their taunts, Iren could barely discern muffled cries. Someone remained alive in the center of all that violence, though likely not for long. For the moment, the men contented themselves with just kicking the person, but each of them carried arms fit for war. All had bows and well-stocked quivers, as well as either a sword, axe, or spear. With an involuntary glance at his leg, Iren guessed that they likely had more than a few knives and daggers hidden away too.
Amroth gestured to Iren and Balear to take shelter in a nearby building. With Balear’s bow their only long-distance weapon, they had no chance of stopping those brutes. They would all be shot long before they could get within sword range. The captain tapped Rondel on the shoulder to get her to come also, but she refused. Giving up on her, Amroth joined Iren and Balear.
Rondel marched slowly into the square. As she did, Iren got a brief look at her face. He gasped. Sparks jumped in a crisscrossing pattern that filled her irises. Three nights ago, Iren had felt confident he’d only imagined the odd bolts in the hag’s eyes. Now those malicious sparks cowed him with fear.
Because this time, he knew they were no illusion.
“Excuse me!” Rondel barked, her voice low and with an edge keener than any blade’s. “What are you all doing there?”
The men stopped their kicking and faced her. One of the brutes, bigger than the rest, stepped to the front and said, “What’s it to ya, ya decrepit buzzard?”
In spite of the situation, Iren couldn’t help but smirk. Decrepit buzzard . . . he’d have to remember that one if they lived through this.
Rondel, however, ignored the man’s question. She gestured with her chin to the pile of bodies. “Who killed those people?”
The brute sneered, “They dared to resist the Quodivar and Lord Zuberi.”
“In other words, you did it as a warning.”
“All who defy Lord Zuberi must die.”
Rondel’s cold voice sounded almost sadistic as she replied, “You know, I haven’t been in a great mood these past few days. Killing you all would help that tremendously.”
The big Quodivar spat at the threat. Before his spittle reached the ground, the man next to him drew his bow and fired an arrow straight at Rondel’s face. Iren cried out in grief. Maantec or not, the crone couldn’t dodge a speeding arrow. He buried his head
in his hands as he saw the projectile sail past, cleanly through her head.
Amroth forced Iren to look back into the square. Rondel still stood, apparently unchanged. Iren paled, knowing that in a few seconds he would have to watch Rondel’s limp body fall gracelessly to the ground. He clenched his eyes shut, unwilling to view the dreaded moment.
“How rude of you; I wasn’t finished speaking.”
Iren’s eyes snapped open. Rondel still stood there uninjured. Somehow she’d dodged the arrow.
“If I were a kind woman, I might tell you to lay down your weapons and surrender if you don’t want to die.” Iren had thought Rondel’s voice couldn’t get colder or more frightening, but he’d been wrong. “However, I am not a kind woman.” She drew her dagger with her left hand. Sparks jumped over the blade just as they did on her eyes. “I follow Okthora’s Law: evil must be annihilated.”
The bandits all drew their bows and began firing rapidly. Rondel had nowhere to run, trapped between the tall townhouses lining either side of the street at the edge of the square. Iren cried out again, but this time, determined to see the tragedy through, he kept watching as arrows bombarded her location. At first he didn’t follow what was happening. Then his jaw dropped.
Rondel was dodging the arrows, her body blurring as she did so. The arrows aimed for all parts of her, yet she easily avoided every one. Her ancient body swayed with precision and balance so fluid, she made King Azuluu’s finest dancers look clumsy by comparison. Iren couldn’t believe it. Rondel had said that Maantecs’ speed and strength surpassed those of humans, but surely not by this much. He considered it highly unlikely that he could dodge all those shots if he and Rondel traded places. He could barely see most of them, and he had an even harder time tracking Rondel’s movements.
The barrage kept up until every bandit fired every last arrow he possessed. When they saw that Rondel remained unharmed, three of the Quodivar threw down their weapons and fled. As soon as they did, Rondel dropped into a run, her body blurring across the distance. She crossed the square in under a second. Her dagger flashed, dropping all three thieves at the same time. The other bandits, probably hoping to catch her off-guard, drew their close-range weapons and charged as one. The hag simply looked up, her eyes still sparking, and ran forward to meet them at a blinding pace. Several flashes ensued as Rondel’s blade danced, and then she emerged uninjured on the far side of the Quodivar. All but one of her enemies collapsed. The lone survivor, the man who had jeered at her so confidently mere moments ago, knelt before her with panicked tears in his eyes.
The Wings of Dragons: Book One of the Dragoon Saga Page 7
