The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “I’ve wondered where Darnuir got his insolence from. Maybe you were the bad influence on him.”

  Balack made a pained smile. “What do you want?”

  “To know why Darnuir struck you?”

  “Not out of concern for me, I’d wager,” said Balack.

  “I will be blunt with you. There are things about my past that Darnuir wishes to know. One day soon, I shall have to tell him. But I find it most unjust that he should have things hidden from me. We are linked Balack, Darnuir and I,” he unsheathed the Guardian’s Blade, “our swords are linked. If he is to be at my side when we face Rectar, I’d know everything about him.”

  At last, Balack turned his gaze away from Blaine. The boy wasn’t hesitant to speak, just saddened. “Why did he hit me? Well, a painful secret was revealed to me, and I said some rather nasty things to him in return. And then he lost his temper… all over something rather pathetic in the end.” His gasping voice finally broke.

  “There was a girl,” Blaine said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “He told you? Heh,” Balack’s laugh was blunted and pained. “Suppose he told everyone before me.” Another gasp. “And he never even told me.”

  “He didn’t tell me,” said Blaine. “But I’m old, boy. When you’ve lived to see generation after generation grow, you see the same patterns repeating. A common way for two friends to come to blows.”

  Balack closed his eyes. “I loved her, she did not love me. Darnuir knew, but that did not stop him.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard that tale before.”

  Balack reopened his eyes, a colder fury in them now. “You want loyalty? Don’t rely on him.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to,” said Blaine. He looked Balack over again and the pity he’d felt changed. Something in Blaine compelled him to say, “I understand the pain you’re feeling.”

  “I don’t need your false sympathy,” Balack said.

  “It’s not false. I told you, I’m old. You don’t get to my age without losing a lot. Like those you love the most.” What’s come over me? Why am I talking about this with him?

  “Does it get any better?” Balack said.

  “Barely, but you learn to soldier on anyway. You learn to throw yourself into your duty or find something to wake up for besides the person who’s forever gone.”

  And I must learn to let Kasselle go. I have my purpose again. Prepare Darnuir, restore faith to the dragons. Defeat the Shadow. Enough to get on with. Despite this, his hand curled in. When it found only air, he had to fight back a tear. Not in front of the human. Get a grip on your emotions.

  Balack rubbed at something in his eye. “Is there anything else you need, Guardian?”

  “Not now. N’weer speed you to health, human.”

  “I thought your gods only —” he stopped, staring behind Blaine.

  “What’s wrong?” Blaine asked, spinning to see for himself. Not far away from them, at the main entranceway to the dry dock, fairies were moving equipment to make space. As Blaine watched he saw them uncover four dark barrels. One lifted the lid to see what was inside, waving at his fellow to come over. The companion held a torch.

  Blaine’s blood turned to ice.

  His heart stopped.

  Then came the flash.

  It seemed to take forever for the bang to reach him, an ear-splitting roar.

  Something in him reacted and he threw himself between the blast and Balack. He felt the impact on his back, his starium reinforced armour absorbing the blows of debris. Intense heat followed and Blaine thought he would cook alive in his metal casing.

  He looked down at the human he was shielding. Balack’s eyes were white in shock. He’d curled up into a ball despite his broken rib.

  Blaine held on.

  He realised he was screaming but couldn’t hear himself. Then he choked, gasping in pain as something hot and sharp pierced the back of his knee, between the joints in his armour. He buckled but kept low over Balack.

  He just held on.

  Chapter 4

  THE COURT OF BREVIA

  When Dranus returned, he claimed the gods were using the dragons as tools in an endless fight against the Shadow. Furious, Aurisha dubbed his brother a heretic, exiling him and those who had been cursed into human bodies. Out of brotherly love, Aurisha allowed them to go in peace, thinking that they would wither and die in time.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Darnuir – Brevia – The Throne Room

  “NERVOUS?” BRACKENDON ASKED, as they waited to enter King Arkus’ throne room. The door in front of them was immense. Painted black, it was patterned with white gold and had sliding openings that allowed the attending servants to mutter quietly to colleagues on the other side.

  “Not at all,” Darnuir said. “Some rest would have been welcome, but it cannot be helped.” He yawned and strained to keep his eyes open.

  Arkus wouldn’t have been difficult to deal with if Darnuir’s memories of his former self had born any accuracy, but he hadn’t been left full memories of the Human King, so much as feelings and impressions he had of Arkus back then. All were laced with derision and scorn, making them far from intimidating.

  “You seem half asleep,” Lira said.

  She’s right. I need to be more alert than this.

  Darnuir touched the blood-red hilt of the Dragon’s Blade with the tips of his fingers, opening the door to the Cascade by a crack. Energy dripped into his system, staving off the worst aches of his muscles. He felt lighter, even glad, as the residue drained down his right arm.

  “You shouldn’t rely on that,” Brackendon said so only Darnuir could hear.

  Darnuir let go of the Dragon’s Blade. “It was only a little.”

  “A little is how it begins. A lot is how you break.”

  “I am about to meet another king,” Darnuir said. “I hope to show Arkus that I am a changed dragon. It won’t do for me to fall asleep in the middle of the conversation.”

  “Being polite won’t go amiss either. Mind your manners.” Nearby, a servant wearing a black velvet doublet over a white shirt coughed loudly. “See, he knows what I mean,” Brackendon said.

  “Does Arkus usually keep guests waiting this long?” Darnuir said.

  “His majesty will call for you when he is ready,” the servant said laboriously.

  “He knows there is a war on, right?” Darnuir said. The servant provided no response, which irked Darnuir.

  Is this some power play? Making me wait while an invasion looms upon us, while Castallan is still at large – while Cassandra is still hostage…

  He breathed gently through his nose and calmed. He shouldn’t get wound up before even entering the court.

  “What about you, Lira?” Darnuir asked. “Nervous?”

  She bit her lip, thinking for a moment. “As nervous as when I met you. Kings can have that effect.”

  “I feel that was due to Blaine’s ever-soothing presence.”

  “The Lord Guardian was certainly intimidating,” Lira said.

  “Still, you held your ground,” Darnuir said. “You won me over that day and this time you have the company of forty loyal dragons.” The stony-faced servant, who had an ear against one of the openings, coughed again.

  “Can we be of assistance?” Brackendon asked.

  “Will all of your company be entering the throne room?” asked the servant.

  “Certainly,” said Darnuir. “I’m sure the court will not object to the presence of my Praetorian Guard.” More muttering was exchanged at the door. To his side, Darnuir heard Brackendon wince again.

  “Are you sure you are alright?”

  “It’s not sore, it’s…” but whatever it was Brackendon seemed reluctant to say. He held his head and scrunched his eyes shut. “It’s nothing. I think I just need to sit for a moment,” he said, dropping into a plush high back chair with a footstool. “We ran a long way after all.” He sighed and stretched out luxuriously.

  “You may enter
, Lord Darnuir,” announced the servant. Brackendon grumbled as he got back up.

  “Form ranks,” Darnuir ordered and the dragons snapped into place.

  The huge throne room doors opened silently, revealing a long hall with polished benches, facing each other in rows along the high walls. At the distant end sat a black throne on a raised white stone platform. On the upper benches the people were finely dressed, the extravagance of the garments diminishing with each level to those standing in attendance. Black walls continued high up into an arching roof, as though the throne room was draped in a dark cloak. And above, a system of shutters directed light to bathe the clean white floor before the throne.

  “Announcing Lord Darnuir, King of Dragons,” the servant called and audible murmuring swept through the court. “The Reborn King, wielder of the Dragon’s Blade.” The murmuring grew louder. “Also announcing,” the servant went on, straining to be heard, “Brackendon, The Last Wizard.”

  “If only it wasn’t so,” muttered Brackendon.

  “And the dragon Lira,” the servant added. “Prefect of the Praetorian Guard.”

  Darnuir heard Lira gulp.

  “Head up now,” he told her, then took his first steps into the warm, stuffy throne room. Thick wafts of lavender and honey clogged his nose. He wondered whether the perfume was for his benefit or those on the benches. Such a sweetness would mask any sickly sweet scent of human fear.

  He focused on the great chair at the end of the runway, kept his face passive and walked with confidence. He was a dragon; the King of Dragons. In military matters, he held command of the Three Races. Even Arkus must answer to him.

  But Arkus was not sitting on his throne.

  Arkus wasn’t there at all.

  A line of guards stood before the steps to the throne’s platform, but Darnuir struggled to see due to the angle of the light that was now shining into his eyes. Entering the pool of light made it worse. What lay at the top of the stairs was now a mystery. Yet the dark-steel armour of the guards was familiar; their faces hidden behind closed visors. Darnuir stopped as close as he dared to them, within arm’s length.

  All was still. He could hear the breath of the closest Chevalier. Ahead, a door opened with a swish, followed by a pit-patter of soft-soled shoes along the platform.

  “Halt there, my Lord of Dragons,” a voice announced. The speaker had a distinct pomposity about him.

  I know that voice. It’s the Chevalier from Inverdorn.

  “Raymond?” Darnuir said.

  “Silence while you await his Majesty,” said Raymond. Yes, it was most certainly the Chevalier.

  More time passed.

  More silence.

  Come along, Arkus. We do not have time to wait on games and posturing.

  Yet more time drifted on and still the hall was silent.

  Then, without warning, the light shifted.

  Shutters over the windows were repositioned and the platform of the throne was thrown into relief. The black chair was simple but arresting, and a smaller version stood beside it. The change of light must have been a signal to the court because Darnuir heard everyone in the hall get to their feet.

  Finally, a door at the back of platform opened with a bang and King Arkus strode into view. His feet were hidden beneath his long black robes with white trimmed edges. Darnuir’s memory of Arkus was of a man with black hair to match his attire, yet the years had greyed him, his stubble was now a beard and his eyes, though small, were probing.

  Arkus made a meal out of sitting down, sinking slowly into his throne. When, at last, he was settled, the shutters above snapped loudly, changing the direction of the light. A few faint rays converged just above Arkus’ head, illuminating his crown. Arced and falling, like crashing waves, the crown looked to be pure white gold. It was a speck of radiance amongst the darkness of his robes, his throne and his expression.

  The silence held a while longer.

  Darnuir lost his patience and said, “How long must the King of Dragons wait? How long mus—” But Arkus threw out a hand towards him.

  Darnuir felt a hot prickle on the back of his neck. A little heat even crept dangerously up his throat and he felt the Dragon’s Blade warm at his waist.

  No, I must show that I have changed.

  “The court will remain standing for the King’s Lament,” Raymond said.

  From the front of the crowd, two minstrels made their way onto the platform: one all in black, the other in white. The minstrel in white produced a flute and began to play sombrely at a high pitch, as though a deep and devouring sadness was whistling on the wind. The minstrel in black began to sing, his voice light yet tinged with melancholy:

  There once was a black haired beauty,

  With starlight in her eyes,

  There once was a black haired beauty,

  Her smile was my demise,

  There once was a black haired beauty,

  Whom I loved with all my soul,

  There once was a black haired beauty,

  Now there’s no one there —

  At all.

  The singer’s voice cracked poignantly on the final words, as though the full weight of his grief had become unbearable. Both performers gave a small bow and then hurried off.

  Two more people walked onto the platform. A pale woman came first, wearing a tiara of white gold on top of her elaborately tied blond hair. She took the smaller seat beside Arkus. Darnuir assumed she was the Queen, although he had no memory of her.

  Am I looking at Cosmo’s mother? If so, she will be Cassandra’s mother as well, although they look nothing alike.

  Behind her came a man, and one singularly out of place. He had a wind-beaten, squashed face that was coated in a reddish fuzz. His figure was slender, his movements fox-like. Short in stature and short on adornments, his only jewellery was the longship broach pinned to his chest. He stood on Arkus’ left, between the King and Raymond.

  Arkus, who’s hand had remained outstretched for the whole song, finally brought his arm back in. He paused to cover his eyes, as if he were crying. Then, at last, it was done. Those gathered in the hall sat back down.

  “My good king,” Darnuir said, forcing down the heat in this throat. “We have run far and hard for days to reach you.”

  “No one asked you to.” Each word Arkus said was well measured to ring throughout the hall. “You have come unannounced. You have come without invitation. You have come seeking the blood of my people.”

  “Bodies, bought and bled,” came a soft echoing chant from around the room. It wasn’t said by all but it was said by enough. This isn’t going to be easy.

  “It is Rectar that seeks to bleed your people dry,” Darnuir said. “I only ask that some is spilt. All the Three Races will suffer before the end. I request that humanity’s armies join me in destroying Castallan at the Bastion. I ask they join me to meet a demon invasion I have warning will come from the east.”

  “Yes, this invasion,” Arkus said airily. “Raymond dutifully informed me,” and he waved a hand at the Chevalier. It was only now that Darnuir realised Raymond was not in armour like the other Chevaliers. Instead, he was in more courtly attire, a black velvet jerkin over a white shirt.

  “I am glad to see you heeded his warning,” said Darnuir. “Having your armies gathered will save precious time.”

  “Ha,” squawked the man beside Arkus. “Time’s oot, am afraid.” He had a sharp voice, as though he was permanently biting into a lemon.

  “My Lord Darnuir,” Arkus began, with barely concealed bitterness. “May I introduce to you Somerled Imar, Lord of the Splintering Isles. He arrived not two days ago, with harrowing news.”

  Darnuir’s stomach knotted, knowing fine well what that news would be. The Splintering Isles lay between east and west.

  “A pleasure, Lord Darnuir,” Somerled said, bowing. “The Splintering Isles are already under attack. My son, Grigayne, leads a desperate defence of our lands.” A great deal of murmuring then rose in the hall.r />
  “Silence,” Raymond called.

  The knot tightened in Darnuir. “I am deeply troubled to hear that, Lord Somerled. My thoughts are with your son and your people.”

  “I’d rather have yer sword and yer dragons,” Somerled said. “What good are thoughts?”

  “My dragons are still scattered,” Darnuir said. “Although many have arrived outside Brevia, I noticed. It grieves me to hear that the fight has already come on two fronts but Castallan has to be removed first before we can aid the Splinters.”

  “On that I agree,” Arkus said. “The wizard has remained at large for too long. Yet I am hesitant to move, Darnuir. That fortress will not fall easily. You ask for some blood to be spilt, yet, if we throw ourselves against the Bastion, then blood will surely gush.”

  “Nor will the Splinters last if ye have tae lay a siege,” Somerled said.

  “We’ll be forced to assault the fortress,” said Darnuir. “But I am hopeful it will fall without us wasting lives.”

  Darnuir knew that Cassandra had escaped through some secret tunnels. If they could be found again then countless lives would be spared. Arkus, of course, knew none of this, so he added, “I can explain this to you in private.”

  “Oh, can you?” Arkus said. “I’d listen more closely if you had more to offer than vague promises.”

  “Offer you?” Darnuir said, fighting down a fresh rage. Calm. I must remain calm. This is just the exhaustion.

  Yet Arkus’ smug look reignited the heat in his throat. Pressure built at the door to the Cascade in his mind, looking to fuel the fire.

  I must be better than I was.

  “Yes,” said Arkus impatiently. “What do you offer me in return for my armies and my fleet? Dragons alone cannot win this fight. Dragons die the same, after all.”

  That did it.

  “Offer, Arkus?” Darnuir roared. In doing so, he lost control of the door in his mind; it slipped ajar and a stream of cascade energy surged into him. It magnified his voice to dominate the throne room. “I am the King of Dragons. Commander in Chief of the Three Races, am I not? I do not offer, Arkus. I demand.” Outrage erupted from the audience. Hearing swords slide from sheathes behind him, Darnuir spun to reassure his Praetorians, gesturing they lower their weapons. Brackendon groaned, audible even over the outpouring from the crowd, but Darnuir knew what would quieten them. “What I will offer you is news,” he yelled. “News of your son, and daughter.” The crowd settled. The Queen gasped, looking stricken.