The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “Malik,” Brackendon sighed, remembering the young apprentice. “He was only seventeen.”

  “He was trying to kill you,” Kymethra said.

  “It sickens me how Castallan twisted their minds. He must have been working on the youngest apprentices for a long time to get so many to join him.”

  “Didn’t sway me.”

  Brackendon realised he had never asked before. “Did he ever approach you or try to persuade you to overthrow the Conclave?”

  “Not directly,” said Kymethra. “He came to speak to us all often though. A lot about how we should be using our powers to help humanity become stronger; about how we could end the war and make a better world for humans; a world where we weren’t at the mercy of the whims of demons or dragons. I’ll admit, he was charismatic.”

  “But you weren’t convinced?”

  “Many seemed to listen but it sounded like madness. He was talking about changing the whole world; overturning everything.”

  They emerged from the staircase into a new corridor where the wall turned sharply away, as if back on itself. Brackendon remembered this zigzagging set of hallways where their dormitories used to be. No room ever seemed large enough from the angles of the walls but they were always spacious once you entered.

  Hurry… the voice urged, echoing as though a crowd of people were whispering altogether. The air was thick with the Cascade. It looked clear to the naked eye but Brackendon could feel it as he began to walk. It was like wading through water – stinking, murky water that tried to pull him down. A noise followed him every step down the jagged hallway, like someone gargling their last breath.

  “Can you feel this haze?” he said sluggishly.

  “Y-Yes,” Kymethra struggled.

  The Inner Circle’s council chamber… come…

  “Would the fighting that day really have caused all this?” Kymethra asked.

  “It’s not just the Cascade at work here. We should go to the Inner Circle’s council chamber. I think we’ll find our answers there.”

  They fought through the quagmire of Cascade energy higher up the tower to the council chamber of the Conclave. This was where the Inner Circle, the eldest five members of the Cascade Conclave, used to meet. The door to the chamber lay in splinters against the opposite wall.

  HURRY.

  Brackendon steeled himself. He crept forward, Kymethra behind him and they stood outside the room, backs to the wall. His breath came in short bursts, his heart beat a little quicker and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled into life.

  “I do not know what we will find in there,” he said.

  “Come on,” Kymethra said, squeezing his hand. Together they twisted around the corner as if bursting into battle. Brackendon held his staff forward and light flooded the room. He gasped as foul stale air caught in his throat and Kymethra shrieked. There, at the large round table, were five skeletons.

  Some lay bent and broken; one of the skulls was pressed down upon the table itself, completely caved in. Another had a short dagger lodged in its eye socket. Another held its jaw open in an eternal silent scream.

  “The Inner Circle,” Brackendon said softly. “This is where it started.”

  “Why is there a dagger?” Kymethra said. “Brackendon, they look like they were killed with brute force, not magic. And what’s with the rest of the place?”

  He glanced around, tearing his eyes away from the bones. It was immaculate. Not a patch of dust or dirt could be seen.

  You have come, the voice said.

  “I can hear it now,” Kymethra said hoarsely.

  “What are you?” Brackendon called out.

  We were the Inner Circle… five… now one. In the chamber, the voice was at its strongest, yet a distance remained to it. It was jarred and tangled, as if five voices were speaking in unison.

  “Are you not dead?” Brackendon asked.

  We wish we were, rattled the voice.

  Brackendon felt a shiver run through him. “What dark magic did Castallan weave here?”

  Full of anger. Full of fury…

  “Castallan’s going to answer for what he’s done,” Kymethra said. “For this and for everything.”

  Not his magic, not his anger… ours.

  Brackendon looked to Kymethra. She looked as confused as he felt.

  “This wasn’t caused by Castallan?” Kymethra asked.

  Impertinent, the voice rumbled. Castallan would not listen. He would not accept our judgement.

  “So, he attacked you?” Brackendon said.

  Not him… us, hissed the voice.

  “I don’t understand,” Brackendon said. He felt a dark cloud of doubt enter his mind.

  We felt there was no other way. We demanded he hand over his staff. He refused. We had no choice…

  “You attacked him?” Kymethra said, her voice high with surprise.

  We had no choice… the voice moaned in terrible pain. Even the apprentices would not listen. They tried to help him. Stepped between us… we cursed him more for that.

  “Y-you caused all of this?” Brackendon said. “You hurt the apprentices who got in the way?”

  He was strong, stronger than we realised… And his experiments… scarlet eyes… such strength… such speed.

  “So Castallan stood where I am now?” asked Brackendon. “Presenting his red-eyed men to you all. What did he want?”

  Kill us.

  “What did he want?” Brackendon asked again.

  KILL US.

  “Answer me,” Brackendon demanded.

  He wanted approval. He wanted our help. Said he needed more power to end the war. He wanted humanity to be strong. Through magic… the dragons would never have allowed… He was mad…

  “And you reacted by attacking him?” Kymethra asked softly.

  Too much change… he would not listen. KILL US.

  Brackendon felt a chill in his heart. So Castallan had not conspired against the Conclave after all, not truly. He had intended for the whole order to join him. Brackendon wasn’t sure if that changed things. He decided it didn’t. Whatever injustice had been done to him here, he had paid back tenfold to the world. He’d consorted with demons and used foul magic to enchant those who he brainwashed in joining him…

  Yet Brackendon was forced to stop this line of thought. The apprentices had stood in the way. They had believed enough in Castallan, more than just from coercion. Scythe must have truly believed as well.

  “Are you all aware of what has happened since?” Brackendon said. “What Castallan has done?”

  We are one… the voice croaked. And we are aware of little beyond this room. The Cascade haze has prevented our spirits from departing the plane of this world. Trapped… trapped… KILL US.

  “Brackendon,” Kymethra said, taking hold of his robes. “Do it. Free them. Please.”

  “If you know nothing beyond this room, how did you know I was in Brevia?”

  Where the Cascade is strong we can connect to the world. This tower… your staff… such power. Like lightning rods to the mortal realm. Pleaseeeeeee – RELEASE US.

  “I do not know if you deserve it,” said Brackendon. “Castallan turned to Rectar after the Conclave fell. I thought it had been his plan, but perhaps he didn’t have a choice. Your actions pushed him that way.”

  He had to be purged…

  “The blood of thousands is on your hands. Fairy, human and dragon alike.”

  “Brackendon, please,” Kymethra wailed. Then he felt her grip loosen. He turned away from the skeletons and found Kymethra with her head in her hands. “They’re hurting me.”

  “Stop this!”

  KILL US, the voice boomed and the whole tower quaked. Trapped. Trapped. Torment and pain. KILL US.

  Kymethra screamed so hard that Brackendon thought her throat would rip.

  Brackendon bellowed in turn, slashing his staff in an arc before the table. A thick purple light ripped from his staff and blew the skeletons to pieces. He felt the light r
esidue from his destructive magic rush towards his staff and panted; not from the magic, but from the cry that had emptied his chest. “Kymethra are you—” he froze in horror. Her eyes had rolled up into her head. Blood oozed from her nose and ears, and her skin had turned as pale as milk.

  NOOOO, shrieked the voice. It did not work. End us. END US.

  Brackendon ignored its pleas. Whatever hellish existence the Inner Circle were in was too good for them now. He reached out to the Cascade, yanking the door in his mind wide open. He filled his body with strength and speed and Kymethra felt lighter than a feather as he tore from the chamber with her. He streaked back down the Conclave tower, even as it began to collapse around him, trying to ensnare him.

  The three trick doors appeared again.

  Brackendon blasted them off their hinges and the correct way was revealed. He spat out a gob of bitterness building in his mouth.

  Come back. Kill us or we’ll kill her.

  Brackendon did not listen. He ran on as fast as he could, not stopping, not even when a chunk of the floor gave way before him. He simply leapt, landing with bone shattering force. His enhanced body shrugged it off.

  The Cascade washed over him now, pulsing down his arm. Movement and strength were cheap in bursts but this was prolonged. He could have probably pulverised even Darnuir like this. Soon he was hurtling back down the ramp towards the tower exit, weaving between falling stones. He took a short cut by shouldering his way through the walls of the ground floor.

  KILL US

  Brackendon burst out of the Conclave into the pouring rain. Night had fully descended and the city flickered with torches. He could feel vibrations in the ground from the tower. Kymethra grunted in his arms and coughed blood.

  He was enraged, angrier than he had ever been. He wanted revenge, he wanted the tower and everything to do with his old order erased from the world.

  And he knew he could do just that.

  He placed Kymethra down, praying she would last, and raised his staff high at the tower. After building up Cascade within his body, feeling the euphoria take him, feeling like he was a god, he began to close the fingers of his free hand into a fist. He did this slowly, for the tower offered some resistance. But piece by crumbling piece it fell.

  He caught those pieces in the air so they would not fall into the rest of city and sent them hurtling back at the tower.

  Rain lashed, stones cracked and Brackendon’s fingers finally closed over. A small pile of gravel was all that remained.

  Despite the din of the wind, the rain, and his own ragged breath, Brackendon thought he could hear an echoing sigh of relief, as though the voice was in ecstasy.

  Thannnkkkkk youuuuuuuuuu…

  Brackendon dropped to his knees. With a great effort, he closed the door to the Cascade. The pain of it felt like venom in his veins. Such levels of destruction would have been impossible without his new staff. It hummed loudly and the diamond bright wood shone as it processed the magic. He clutched onto the staff desperately, his eyes shut against the rain.

  “Brackendon. Brackendon,” Kymethra said. He felt her hands take him by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  His eyes blinked open. “Are you?”

  “Yes, I’m alright. No harm done.” She too was kneeling, right in front of him. Her bloody nose was gone and the colour had returned to her face. “You brought the whole tower down.” She just stated it as fact. Brackendon fell forwards to lean on her and they knelt, embracing in the rain.

  “The world is better off without it,” Brackendon said. His throat was dry, his mouth was bitter. It took some time for his thundering heart to steady and the flow of magic down his arm to ebb.

  “Are you going to be alright?” Kymethra asked.

  “Oh, I think so,” Brackendon said. “But perhaps we should head for the nearest bakery and kindly request a loaf or cheese roll to soak the magic up. Wherever that may be.”

  Chapter 6

  THE ‘KING’ IN THE SOUTH

  Although our current Aurishan dragons will contend that they won the Third Flight, in truth it was a stalemate. As one of the last dragons still able to take their true form, Aurisha confronted his own brother in the final battle and both perished. The Black Dragons returned to Kar’drun and attempted to rebuild their lives. The followers of Aurisha moved south to build their own city on the site where their gods had spoken to one of their kind. It was holy to them, despite the actions of Dranus. Legend says they brought three of Aurisha’s talons with them.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Cassandra – The Bastion

  WHEN CASSANDRA CAUGHT sight of the Bastion she felt sick. She would be a prisoner once more. Already she lacked freedom, being latched to this man’s back as he ran at an inhuman pace alongside the other red-eyed hunters.

  As the prospect of returning fully dawned on her, she emptied her stomach.

  “Ugh,” grunted the hunter carrying her.

  “Are you ill, Princess?” Freya asked. She was a red-eyed huntress in yellow leathers.

  “Extremely,” Cassandra gasped. Her mouth tasted of bile. “If you want to cure me, you better take me far away from this place.”

  “Nonsense,” said Freya. “The Bastion is strong and safe. Castallan can help you. He has helped all of us.”

  “You keep calling me, Princess,” Cassandra said. “Doesn’t that mean you have to do as I say?”

  “Castallan is our true ruler,” Freya said. “We chose to follow him and—”

  “Quiet,” grumbled the hunter. “Clean her up and let’s go. We’re all exhausted.”

  Freya mopped Cassandra’s face gently with a clean cloth. “That’s better,” Freya said and the group started to run again.

  Cassandra closed her eyes to avoid having to look at the Bastion and those impossibly high walls. With any luck, she would fall asleep and not wake until Darnuir and his army had brought Castallan down. That is if Darnuir and the others were still alive. She had seen the demon horde moving towards their camps as she was sped away. But she tried not to think too much on Darnuir either. It made her too uncomfortable.

  The incident atop the hill at the Charred Vale refused to leave her mind. He had half dragged her down the hillside afterwards; that had been how she’d fallen in the first place. She didn’t want much to do with him after that.

  Her captors began to cough loudly, then the smoke hit Cassandra as well. It was putrid and burnt. She opened her eyes to a mountain of demon bodies, piled high and burning.

  “About time we did away with those creatures,” the hunter carrying her said. “The spectres never kept them well enough in line.”

  “What will Scythe do with the army he took to the Charred Vale?” Freya asked.

  “Who cares,” said another man who wore the dark green leathers of hunters from the Southern Dales. “We won’t need them if he succeeds.”

  “And what if he hasn’t?” Freya asked.

  “If he was fool enough to fight the Guardian and Darnuir, he won’t have,” Cassandra said. The hunter brought up his hand and slapped her. Her head snapped to the side at the blow, her cheek grazing the hardened leather on his shoulder.

  “A dragon lover eh? Might be literally for all we know.” He spat on the ground. “Come on. We’re almost at the main gates.”

  Cassandra assumed she’d be thrown in the dungeons of the Bastion, but she was wrong. After being hauled all the way to the top of the Bastion’s inner tower, she was finally dumped into her old accommodation and left alone. Several juddering slams echoed as the door bolted over.

  She glanced around. Her once lavish quarters had been gruffly searched. Tables had been upended, heavy drapes torn down, drawers pulled out and their contents scattered. In her private chambers, her bed had been shoved against the wall, left battered in some fury. Sections of wall and floor had been hammered at or taken away. She dashed through to Chelos’ room.

  He wasn’t there.

  She had known he wouldn’t be
waiting for her – arms wide and smiling – but not seeing him still cut at her.

  Hot tears rolled down her face. She sniffed, rubbed at her eyes and tried not to think about what might have happened to him. Something terrible, she imagined, for their great secret had been revealed. Chelos’ bed lay broken and the trap door to the passageway beneath had been covered with iron bars. She backed slowly out of the room, as if a dead body lay there.

  So here I am. Right back to where I started.

  Fresh tears began to well up, blurring her vision, but these were tears of rage. She was angry; angrier than she had ever been in her life. She screamed until she had no more breath. She kicked everything she thought she could break. A table leg buckled and then cracked on her third strike. She picked it up, wielding it like a mace, and began bludgeoning anything and everything she could.

  Her makeshift club finally broke against an upturned chair, so she picked it up instead. Heart pounding, arms straining, she spun and lobbed the seat at one of the windows. It didn’t go right through, but it smashed several panes, sending shards of glass and lead out onto the balcony. Cold wind blew in and she regretted her actions.

  Cassandra stood panting, trying to collect herself. It had felt good, even if the temperature was now dropping. Then she noticed the library door was closed and unharmed. When she entered, she could hardly believe it. It was all there; everything – every book, every scroll, and every note was just as she’d left it. A volume of Tiviar’s History of Tenalp lay where she had last put it down. Old instinct made her reach towards it. When she placed her hand on it, she glanced over her shoulder, feeling this might be some cruel trick Castallan was playing on her. Cautiously, she picked up the weighty tome.

  Nothing happened.

  Tension unwound from her in relief. She ran a finger through the pages of the tome and suddenly felt a crippling fatigue come over her. Feeling defeated, exhausted and truly alone, Cassandra returned to her old bed. It had already been made. She’d been expected to return, it seemed. She reached the bedside and fell limply on it.

  Sleep eluded her.

  Despite having closed her bedroom door, a chill was gathering from the broken window in the room beyond. She curled up against the cold under her sheets and propped up Tiviar’s History. This was his volume on the Second War between humanity and dragons. She flicked it open to a random page and began to read.