The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “I am aware of that,” said Darnuir. “But what do you expect me to do? Wait as a bystander while you tackle him alone? I cannot let you do that. Besides, I feel I have yet to push myself to my real limits. Perhaps I would fare better than you think.”

  “I admit, you seem capable of drawing on more power than I would have thought,” Brackendon said. “Your battle against Scythe was impressive. But Castallan is leagues beyond—”

  “If I cannot help you to fight Castallan, then how am I or Blaine or any of us going to tackle Rectar one day?”

  “On that, I’m not certain.” Brackendon sagged a little. “Tell me, why are you so insistent on this? One might almost think it was personal.”

  Darnuir had to wonder whether Brackendon was just observant or clairvoyant. The wizard couldn’t know about how Darnuir had aided Castallan in his past life – could he?

  Gold, and time, and volunteers… what a mess I made.

  “Well?” Brackendon asked. Darnuir’s mouth twitched involuntarily and he looked anywhere but at Brackendon. Over by the enclosure, Lira had resorted to simply picking up the poor sheep and dumping them over the fence. The noise of the animals’ protests cut right through him in his wearied state. And then he felt hunger. Was that roasted meat he could smell, or was his imagination merely wandering as he looked at the huddled sheep?

  “Darnuir?” Brackendon said.

  He could take the Dragon’s Blade, pour out flames: take a bite.

  “Darnuir,” Brackendon said more sternly. Finally, Darnuir looked towards him, still not quite able to meet the wizard’s eye. “That silence has told me all I need to know. What did you do? It isn’t about Cassandra, is it?”

  “No, not her,” Darnuir said, his throat suddenly dry. Though I’ve been such a fool there as well. Why did I kiss her? Stupid of me. It’s my fault she fell. She was too close… He coughed. “My old self left me a memory of Castallan. In it, I helped him. I came to him, even, looking for a new way to fight Rectar and his demons.” Brackendon blinked silently at him. “Castallan promised he had some solution to the war. Something he was working on. Clearly, I was wrong, duped, reckless,” he said at a pace, hoping Brackendon might latch onto one excuse or another.

  “Anything else?” Brackendon asked. “About Castallan. Anything about what happened at the Cascade Conclave?”

  “Nothing. It was before he turned openly as a traitor. I don’t think he’d attacked the Conclave yet.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Which part? What I did or the lack of information on your old order?”

  “Both,” said Brackendon, looking lost in his own thoughts. Further discussion was halted by the emergence of Walter Foulis, carrying steaming bowls in both hands.

  “We’ve made supper for you,” he announced. “If you want it. If you like this sort of thing.” Belinda bustled out behind him, more bowls in hand. The Praetorians eagerly dashed over.

  “Just a moment,” Darnuir told them.

  “Nothing fancy I’m afraid,” Walt said. “Just some of the stores we won’t be able to eat through with just the two of us.” Darnuir took one of the bowls and inspected it. A dark watery gravy swirling around chunks of meat, carrot, mushroom and onion. He sniffed deeply, practically tasting the lamb, searching for any poison. There was nothing untoward in it, so far as he could tell.

  “Just a precaution,” said Darnuir, handing the bowl back to the nearest Praetorian. She began wolfing it down with a grin. Darnuir turned to speak to the farmer but he had already dashed off, leaving his wife behind. “You have my thanks, Lady Foulis,” Darnuir said.

  “Least we could do,” Belinda said curtly. “You’re helping us after all. A damn sight more than King Arkus ever has.”

  “You are not fond of your King?” Darnuir asked.

  “My husband’s family has been struggling for generations,” Belinda said. “King Arkus cares not.” She sniffed. “I have some bread baking. It should be ready soon.” With that, she stalked off. Walt reappeared shortly after, struggling with a large steaming pot. Darnuir went to him.

  “Let me take that.”

  Walt let go without protest. “Thank you, my Lord.”

  “I hope we have not offended the Lady Foulis?”

  “Forgive her, my Lord,” said Walt. “Arkus calling up the army has brought up old memories. Terrible memories. We lost our eldest boys in the last war twenty years ago. They died in the east, we were told but we never received their bodies.”

  “She blames me,” Darnuir said.

  “She blames dragons.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “It used to be all I thought about,” said Walt. “But I’m getting on, I’ve nearly broken my body trying to keep this estate in order, and I’ve brooded for long enough. We have Ruth now, such a sweet girl and my youngest boy, Ralph, is in Brevia with the hunters. Smart boy. A good boy. He’ll rise up and make things right again. I won’t ever love you or your kind, mind.”

  “We aren’t perfect,” said Darnuir.

  “If I may say, my Lord Dragon. You’re nothing like I expected.”

  “And what did you expect?”

  Walt paused, weighing his words. “A bit more aggressive, I suppose.”

  A part of Darnuir yearned to say, “You have no idea, human”, but he managed to ask for more bowls instead.

  By the time everyone had a bit of food in them, the repairs completed and the sheep forcibly returned to their pen, night had fallen and eyes began to droop. The Praetorians threw down a thick layer of straw on the barn floor and curled up on their bed rolls. It was pleasantly warm with the lingering heat of day still thick in the air.

  “We’ll sleep till dawn,” Darnuir said. “Then we must be on our way.” He noticed that Brackendon was out on a bank of grass, staring blankly ahead of him, his staff lying to one side. Darnuir picked himself up and walked to join him. “You should get some sleep as well,” he said as he slumped down beside the wizard.

  “I’ll live,” said Brackendon.

  “You’ve been through worse.”

  “A fate I would never wish on anyone.”

  “Even Castallan?”

  “Even that bastard. Be careful how you use the Cascade, Darnuir. You must tackle early signs of addiction quickly. The longer you leave it, the more energy you may feel you need to satisfy your craving in one burst. The risk of breaking grows exponentially.”

  “Were you addicted, before you broke?”

  “I was, in my own small way. We all are to some degree. We just have to keep it manageable.”

  Darnuir looked at Brackendon then. Really looked at him – at the crease lines of his face, at his prematurely grey hair, and finally at his blackened, scaly fingers. Despite the stark warning of what might come, Darnuir’s hand twitched towards the hilt of the Dragon’s Blade. He clenched his fist just above the pommel.

  “I’ve never thanked you, Brackendon. Not properly. Not in the way you deserve.” Brackendon raised an eyebrow. “I mean it,” Darnuir said. “You sacrificed so much and not just for me, for the whole world. And I’m sorry it had to be that way.”

  “I was glad to do it,” said Brackendon.

  “I probably didn’t deserve to be saved,” Darnuir said. “Even now. What I did to Balack… if you hadn’t been there.”

  “But I was there,” said Brackendon. “On both occasions. Fate has a miraculous way of placing us where we are needed.”

  “I’m trying to apologise,” Darnuir said. “For everything.”

  “Don’t take the whole world and everything in it on your shoulders. Even for you, it’s too much. Still, I appreciate the sentiment. It’s always nice to know one’s hardships have been recognised.” He smiled more kindly.

  “Would you still have saved me if you had known I had helped Castallan?”

  “I didn’t save you out of affection. You’re too important. That sword of yours is too important. So no, it wouldn’t have changed my decision. In fact, knowi
ng the truth might have been useful. All these years I thought Castallan had acted alone; one selfish, power-crazed man. But you helped him along. Perhaps others did as well, either voluntarily or through trickery. Perhaps I have been thinking about this too simply.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I have a nagging feeling there is more to this. In attacking and destroying the Cascade Conclave, Castallan took a great risk. Back then, he was one wizard with one staff. It makes no sense for him to have attacked the Inner Circle. So, why did he? And how did he manage to succeed?”

  “We’ll never know,” Darnuir said. “Unless we take him alive, and then it’s only his word.”

  “The Conclave tower is still in Brevia to this day,” said Brackendon. “I kept my distance on my brief visit earlier this year. People say it’s cursed along with all the land near it. They call the borough the Rotting Hill now, but if there is a chance I might learn anything, I should go, as painful as it might be to re-enter that place. If I can find some clue as to how Castallan succeeded in defeating the rest of my order, then perhaps I can use that against him in turn.”

  “I will come with you,” Darnuir said.

  “No. I feel this is something I must do alone.”

  Unsure of what more to say, Darnuir settled for, “I understand. Please, try to get some rest. We can’t afford to stop like this again.”

  “I think I will sit a while longer,” Brackendon said, and returned to gazing blankly across the estate grounds. A light was still on in the unadorned farmhouse and Belinda Foulis was peering out at them again through the lattice of the window. When Darnuir and Brackendon both caught her in the act, she slammed a shutter across.

  “Good night, Brackendon.”

  Darnuir returned to his own straw pile and bed roll. He curled up, too tired to even bother removing his armour, but sleep eluded him. Beads of cold sweat clung to his brow and along his arms, his right arm especially. A thirst grew in him for more than water. Brackendon would stop me if he saw me do it, but I just need a little – just enough to help me rest tonight. That won’t be so terrible. In silence, he reached for the hilt of his sword; in his mind, he pushed down on the handle of the door.

  His sigh was soft and long. And then he fell asleep.

  On the morning of the third day of their run, the vast city of Brevia loomed into view. Darnuir had never seen anything so massive; not in his current life at any rate. Brevia looked as though the entirety of Cold Point could fit inside it a hundred times over. It curved around the bay like a great horseshoe, enveloped by thick walls, with tall towers, like rolling black hills. Further off, closer to the mouth of the bay, an enormous white bridge spanned the banks of the city, its cresting peak visible even at this distance.

  “Black limestone,” Lira said, drawing up to him. “Nearly all of that will have come from the Hinterlands. Maybe even from quarries near Tuath.”

  “Imposing,” noted Brackendon. “Though far from cheery. Used to be a light brown stone that made up the walls.”

  “So why the change?” Darnuir asked.

  Lira shrugged. “The King’s wishes. For nearly ten years, Arkus ordered all black stone hewn in the Hinterlands to be brought to Brevia. I saw them hauling it off in mile long wagon trails.”

  Darnuir thought on the only other great city from his choppy memories. Aurisha, the city of gold. Brevia looked startlingly different from it.

  “A statement, perhaps,” Darnuir said. “One we must bear in mind. Arkus sets humanity apart from dragons, even in the colour of his city.”

  “And there is Arkus’ army,” said Brackendon. “Look southwards,” he added, pointing for them. Another city lay in the distance, though this one of tents, carts and ditches. Like Brevia, the human army’s camp was the largest Darnuir had ever set eyes on. Yet there was more than just humans assembled there.

  “Then we can march on Castallan that much sooner,” Darnuir said. Something in the camps caught his eye. “Are those palisade walls?” he indicated with a waving finger, drawing a line around a portion of the camps in the air.

  “I’d say so,” said Lira. “I think we have found the rest of our dragons.”

  “There could be thousands still out there for all we know,” Darnuir said. “Unsure where to go, lost, hunted by Castallan’s red-eyed servants or perhaps oblivious to events. Everything has moved so quickly.”

  “I also think we’ve been spotted,” said Brackendon. Darnuir looked out again, seeing many black-clad figures moving in and out of the main camp. A small group appeared to be coming straight for them.

  “Hunters,” said Darnuir and Lira together.

  “They wear the black leather of the Crownlands,” said Lira.

  “And now I understand why,” said Darnuir, glancing once more at the hulking walls of Brevia.

  “Well, we must make ourselves known somehow,” said Brackendon, tapping his staff on the hard earth. He took one step closer to the city then winced loudly, taking his head in one hand.

  “Brackendon?” Darnuir asked in concern.

  “It is nothing,” Brackendon said. “A fleeting pain. Lack of sleep.” The wizard gave nothing away.

  “Just a little further now,” said Darnuir and he called the same back to the Praetorians. “We shall be comparing the food and lodgings to that of the Argent Tree soon.” The Praetorians smiled gratefully through their fatigue and followed him and Lira towards the human capital.

  Chapter 3

  EVENING BY THE LOCH

  It is said Dranus angered the gods and they cursed many dragons for his sin, warping their bodies into a weaker, human form. The mountain shattered, breaking a corner of the world and leaving behind a bluff of rock crumbling into the sea. Dranus himself was left scarred, his once golden scales charred black from the Cascade.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Blaine – Inverdorn

  Blaine smelled Inverdorn before he saw it. A potent mix of smoke and fish, reminiscent of Torridon, with the added stench of a city suffering from siege. He had expected a faint aroma of sweetness to accompany it, but there was none.

  They are no longer afraid. Fidelm must have succeeded.

  The town itself soon came into view. Lying where the River Dorain entered Loch Minian, it might have looked serene in the late afternoon light, were it not for the piles of bodies. Smoke rose from smouldering mounds of demon corpses. Inverdorn itself seemed relatively unscathed, but he could not account for its inhabitants. Blaine’s concern lay with the dragons that had been trapped there. In the aftermath of the ambush at the Charred Vale by traitorous hunters, his concern for humans was limited.

  His focus was on his dragons. The Second, Third, Fifth and Sixth Legions were with him. It had been from the Third Legion that the bulk of his new Light Bearers had come from and he favoured their company. Indeed, when they had searched Scythe’s encampment after the battle it had been members of the Third who had brought him the Scrying Orb from Scythe’s possessions. Sensible of them. Such a powerful instrument had to be held with caution.

  The legions made camp outside of Inverdorn and Blaine approached the walls with a score of his Light Bearers in tow. A dark figure with inky skin stood on the parapet above the gate. Fidelm flew down gracefully before Blaine, a lean arm outstretched.

  “It is good to see you safe, Guardian.”

  “And you,” Blaine replied, taking Fidelm’s arm. The fairy had a few small cuts but nothing serious. His long, braided, silver hair had avoided harm.

  “Your timing is not so good,” said Fidelm.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You interrupted my painting,” said Fidelm. “The light this afternoon has been exquisite. I fear I shall miss it.”

  “There will be other occasions,” Blaine said. “I see the city is now ours.”

  Fidelm nodded. “To be fair to the boy, his plan worked remarkably well. Dragons and hunters from within Inverdorn joined us in our attack. The demons were taken from both
sides.” Fidelm cast his eyes around. “Where is Darnuir?”

  “He runs to Brevia,” Blaine said.

  “Alone?”

  “The wizard is with him,” said Blaine, “as is that girl and those younger dragons she has been gathering.” He didn’t like speaking of Lira by name. Darnuir’s disregard for tradition would be a dangerous combination with that hothead of his. Still, Darnuir had proved himself. He had killed Scythe, won the day, and Blaine had given him the King’s armour. The rest, he prayed, would come in time. Fidelm seemed to be mulling it over. “I thought we might allow our men to rest here before moving to Brevia,” Blaine continued. “This day is done at any rate.”

  “Rest would do everyone some good, particularly the humans,” Fidelm said. Blaine clenched his jaw with a low growl. “Is something amiss, Blaine?”

  “Are there many hunters within the city?”

  “A few hundred,” said Fidelm.

  “Have them brought out to join their fellows,” Blaine said, waving a hand behind him. All the hunters left after the battle of the Charred Vale were wedged together between the legions. If any of the wretches tried to betray them now, they’d be swiftly crushed.

  “I do not underst—”

  “I shall explain but when we have more privacy.”

  Fidelm nodded again, though slowly. “Open the gate,” he yelled. The sound of chinking chains and mechanisms followed, and the thick oak doors swung inwards. Blaine threw up a staying hand to the legates who were awaiting their orders. His Light Bearers knew to follow, however, and walked with him and Fidelm into the city.

  “Stay vigilant,” Blaine told his Light Bearers. “Our enemies could be anywhere.”

  Fidelm shot him a wary look before muttering to some nearby fairies. They flew off and Fidelm spoke quietly to Blaine.

  “I shall take you into the fairy quarter, Guardian. We may trust the ears there.”

  Blaine kept close to Fidelm, and his Light Bearers fanned out in an arc behind them. He took in the scene of Inverdorn. In his long life, he had travelled to most places in the world, even if only once. Inverdorn was no exception. On their way to the fairy quarter, they passed the shores of Loch Minian. A small harbour, although far larger than the rundown jetties of Torridon. It lay in silence.