The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  But Griswald was not there.

  There were men covered in dust with hammers and chisels at their belts, but no Griswald. He would be back out at camp, grief still heavy upon him. Garon bit back a fresh wave of his own sorrow.

  Don’t think on it. You can’t think on it. You need to hold up, be in one piece. You’ve lost men before. This isn’t any different.

  But this time it was different. Looking around this tavern, in this bar, in this town he had never been to before, Garon knew no one. And of the two people he was closest to on this mission one of them, Rufus – poor, poor Rufus – was dead. He had no desire to return to camp. Not right away. Perhaps a drink or two wouldn’t hurt. Cosmo had always favoured that option and it seemed to work, in the main. It was then that he caught her eye.

  A tall, blond huntress sat idly at the bar, well away from the quarry workers. Her blue-green leathers were loosened at her chest and her hair fell artfully inwards to cover the gap. She held his gaze for just a second too long to be accidental.

  Oh Griswald, you really ought to be here. Just like you said.

  Yes, he would stay for a drink, talk to this girl and, well, who knows? He’d take the chance to be away from it all again for one night. Just one night. Just like it had been before all this madness started. That wouldn’t be so bad. The blond huntress at the bar glanced in his direction again. It would be an easy form of comfort, one that wouldn’t help once the night was over, but he approached her all the same. No stool was free, so he leaned on the bar beside her casually, pushing an iron topped miner’s hat on the counter out of his way.

  “Rough day?” he said, nodding to the tankard in her hand.

  “Back from a two-week patrol on the Highland borders.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “If you run into a silver dire bear.”

  “And did you?”

  “Not this time,” she said, taking another sip of her drink. “Doubt there are many left now. Think you could handle one?”

  “Oh, it’s not animals that frighten me anymore,” Garon said.

  “What does then?” she asked.

  Red eyes in the night, he thought. He saw the huntress rip Rufus’ chest open again. Traitors could be anywhere.

  “Let me see your eyes,” he said, placing a finger gently but firm under her chin. He searched them for some trace of red, for some sign of treachery. He thought if he stared into them long enough he’d find the truth, if it was there to be unearthed. Yet her eyes remained nut brown, with the tiniest flecks of green. Only her pupils changed, widening into onyx ponds.

  “You’re from the Boreac Mountains, aren’t you?” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see the mountains there. I hear they are so much more beautiful than the Highlands.”

  “The Highlands hold a certain rugged charm.”

  “I’d like something a little easier on the eye,” she said. Her hand brushed against his free one and a warm finger ran over his wrist. He could feel her breath on his skin. It smelled lightly of ale. He let her go, rummaged in a pouch for some silver then dropped it on the counter. He had some catching up to do.

  He awoke the next morning before dawn. After the thrill and fun, Garon had hoped to rest undisturbed, but his sleep had been light and broken, and unrestful by most accounts.

  Cold blue light of a pre-dawn Hinterland morning entered the small room. He felt too energetic and too exhausted to move all at once. Infuriated, he scrunched the edge of the woollen mattress in his fist, over and over, feeling every strand of muscle in his forearm strain. He rubbed his eyes enough to chafe the skin and realised it was no good. He edged himself out of the warm bed and winced as the chill of the morning bit at his skin. Gooseflesh appeared along his arms.

  His companion muttered something. He had discovered her name was Jean and she was fully naked in truth, just delicately hidden under the sheets. She opened one eye. “It’s not even dawn yet.”

  “I don’t have the luxury of sleep it seems.” He finished strapping on his sword belt and grunted as he pulled it too tight. “Go back to sleep,” he told her before taking his leave. Carefully, he trod through the tavern, cursed his fortune as each stair squeaked louder than the last on the way down, stepped over an abandoned crowbar on his way past the bar, pushed on the tavern’s heavy door and stepped outside, where he was met by a scowling Marus.

  “Stay for some fun, did you?” the legate asked. To Garon’s surprise he was alone, propped up on a sturdy if roughly hewn crutch.

  “What of it Marus?” Garon asked.

  “I hoped to find our leader in camp to, now what was it again, lead.”

  Shame flared inside Garon and burned his cheeks. “I admit this isn’t my finest hour.”

  “How can I be certain you won’t be missing at a time of crisis?” Marus asked.

  “I won’t be missing again, I assure you.”

  “Can you swear to it?”

  “Can you swear you won’t be such a stubborn arse all the time?” Garon asked.

  “To you?” Marus said. “No. I cannot.” He smiled awkwardly, but whether it was in jest or to hide fresh pain Garon couldn’t say. He wasn’t sure if these older dragons were capable of humour.

  “What was so urgent that you had to come into town to find me?”

  “The troll wants a word,” Marus said. “And as you asked him not to enter Tuath in case he terrifies the locals I have had to—”

  “You could have sent an outrunner.”

  “I can manage just fine,” Marus snapped.

  “I see what this is,” Garon said. “This is your pride killing you.” He moved to Marus’ left side, which was crutch free. “Come let me help you back to cam—” But Marus snorted and limped on, not giving Garon so much as a backwards glance or a thank you.

  Damn you Darnuir. Damn you for leaving me alone.

  “You’re going to have to learn to ask for help,” Garon called to Marus’ back. In the silent, smooth paved streets of Tuath, his voice carried far and magnified off stone buildings.

  “A dragon does not ask.”

  “Then a dragon may hobble in pain all the way into the Highlands,” said Garon. The pre-dawn light had progressed to an orange haze, enough to see Marus by, as he sped ahead. “Slow down. You’ll damage that leg further.”

  Marus paused and turned, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Would you like me to slow down, human? Are you feeling weak after your exertions?”

  “It’s a sweet sort of weariness,” Garon said more quietly as he caught up. “You might try it sometime.” Though looking at the legate’s dour expression, Garon felt no one would be interested.

  “The only satisfaction I require is service to my King.”

  “Well, each to their own,” Garon said. “But would it be of service to Darnuir to cripple yourself?” No response came from the legate. “I thought not,” Garon added. “This whole mission was Darnuir’s idea. He won’t take it kindly if you ruin it. He might use some of that pent up rage of his on you.”

  “How dare you speak about the King in such a fashion.”

  “I knew your King when he was in swaddling clothes,” Garon said. “I held him. I even bloody changed him. He could make a right stink when he fancied.”

  Marus’ nose was twitching unnervingly fast. “The troll awaits us,” he said brusquely. Yet, in his haste to set off again, Marus twisted around too quickly, pressuring his injured leg. His knee buckled, the crutch slipped out from under his shoulder and Marus collapsed to the ground, armour ringing off the stone.

  Garon swooped down to his side. “Damn it, Marus. Are you alright?” The legate clenched his teeth so hard that Garon worried his jaw would shake out from his skull. “No, of course you’re not.” Marus was struggling to rise, letting loose an unmistakable yelp when he attempted to bend his right leg inwards. Garon offered him a hand but Marus swatted it aside.

  “Oh, Dranus take you,” Garon said. He got up and stalked away. If Marus would rather his leg fall off t
han admit he needed help, then so be it. Garon had a hard enough task. He didn’t need to tiptoe around Marus’ ridiculous need to be a good old tough dragon. He’d made it perhaps twenty yards up the street when Cosmo’s voice entered his mind, as though he were sixteen again.

  “On patrol, you never leave a squad-mate behind. Dead or dying you bring them home, just as you would want to be. There is no room for heroes or pride, and wounded egos will heal into strong bonds in time.”

  Damn you as well, Cosmo, Garon thought. He turned back around. Marus was still squirming in silent pain on the ground. It was clear that he couldn’t move. Garon spotted a worn wheelbarrow by the side of the road, loaded with tiny pieces of black gravel and propping up a glinting pickaxe. He went to it, shoved the pickaxe aside with a clatter, and was already moving the wheelbarrow over to the fallen dragon when Marus began to call, “Garon? Garon, please.” His voice was so laced with pity and hurt that Garon couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for leaving him.

  “I’m here,” Garon said, pushing the wheelbarrow, heavy as it was, into place behind Marus to support his back. “Sit up against that. It will give you some support.” The legate sat himself up and leaned back against the edge of the wheelbarrow with an audible sigh. One of his hands remained protectively on his leg.

  “Thank you,” Marus said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Garon sat down by the wheel near Marus, but not looking at him. For comfort, he raised one knee and put his arm over the wheel. He looked like he was tenderly embracing it. In his semi-delirious state of tiredness, the thought made him chuckle.

  “Finding it hard to believe where you are and what you’re doing?” Marus said, speaking low and slow as though on his deathbed.

  “If I could travel back in time and stop this from happening, I would,” Garon said. “Romalla was right to doubt me. I’m not cut out for this.”

  “I can sympathise.”

  “Come now, Legate Marus. Darnuir picked you. He must have thought you were capable.”

  “My King did not choose me,” Marus mumbled.

  “So who—”

  “The Lord Guardian.”

  “And you didn’t want to come?”

  “I don’t think Darnuir could remember who we all were,” Marus said. “Not our names, not the legions we belonged to, not our — but I should not be bitter. Nor should I speak ill of my King.”

  “He’s not infallible,” Garon said. “That I assure you.”

  “Fallible or flawless, he wields the Dragon’s Blade. None may challenge him. He is our leader and we must do as ordered.”

  “The Guardian has one of those golden swords,” Garon said. “Why not follow him?” For the second time Marus grunted something incoherent. “Why did Blaine pick on you?”

  “I never believed much in the old religion, even before we fled Aurisha. My father did, but he died at the hands of three spectres I am told, roaring how N’weer would return his soul to the world to fight on. Perhaps it’s true, but I still lost a father. When the Lord Guardian came to select a legate for this expedition I was doomed.”

  “He knew you were a non-believer just by looking at you?”

  “Not quite. Some of us attended his services so he recognised them. But when he gathered us all and announced there was a crucial mission to the Highlands, to lend our swords in service to the trolls, he asked, ‘Who here lacks faith?’ And I, being so foolish, thought by speaking out I might excuse myself from selection. I thought he would not want to send a non-believer. Turns out he wanted the exact opposite.”

  Garon felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. “I wasn’t tricked into this, but I was pressured to some degree. I think we can understand how one another feels on the matter, especially considering Pel was also forced here against her will.”

  “I admit it seems unfair.”

  “Well, I for one say we begin to get along, just to spite them,” Garon said. “What do you say to that?”

  “I can’t just forget the murders at the hands of humans.”

  “Humans died as well,” Garon said. “As did fairies. Probably more will die in the south. I’m not asking you to forgive it all right away, but perhaps, for now, you could stretch to letting me help you to your feet?”

  A pregnant pause followed and Garon prepared to sigh in supreme disappointment. But then—

  “Very well,” said Marus, and to Garon’s shock he saw the dragon lift up his right hand from the corner of his eye. Garon forced his own sore legs to work and stood up to take the dragon’s proffered hand.

  “You’ll have to meet me half way now,” Garon said, panting as he tried to heave the legate up. With another groan of pain Marus managed to rise and wrapped an arm around Garon for support. And as they held each other up, the first rays of dawn broke, warming their faces from the east.

  “Nothing makes the world quite as beautiful as a sunrise,” Marus said. Though shocked to hear those words come from Marus, Garon couldn’t help but agree. The stonework town suddenly looked fresh again in the pale light, even if the grey stone was drab and overused and each roof was slated in the same sharp black tiles. To the north there was fresh snow on the mountain peaks. It would only get colder now they were on the wrong side of midsummer but, to Garon, it felt a bit like going home.

  “Thank you, Garon,” Marus said. “Thank you for saving my life. It was remiss of me to wait this long to say it. It’s not how a legate should behave.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Garon. “Come, let’s go find Ochnic.” He scooped up Marus’ crutch, handed it to him, and together they made their way to the camps outside of Tuath. Once outside the town walls, Marus let go of Garon to save face and they continued into the woodland beside the River Dorain. Ochnic had mentioned taking up residence there, favouring the trees, moss, ferns and general dampness.

  To their surprise, they found Pel by the river, her azure skin clashing wildly with the green all around.

  “Marus told me the troll wanted to speak to us,” Pel said when they were near enough to hear her. “Though what would be so urgent he had to come ask before dawn, I don’t know.”

  “Well, where is he?” Garon asked. Pel shrugged unhelpfully and Garon continued wandering through the wood. “Ochnic?” he called. But there was no answer.

  “I hope that their entire race doesn’t hide from us like this,” Marus said.

  “There,” Garon said. He’d spotted Ochnic’s leather satchel at the root of a large hazel tree.

  “Ochnic?” Garon called again, a little louder. This time there was snapping from above, like twigs breaking. Then, the tall, long-limbed figure of Ochnic slid down from the trees and Garon, still walking, nearly collided with the troll’s white furred torso. Water dripped from the troll, rolling off his balding scalp and tusks. “I wasn’t aware it had been raining,” Garon noted.

  Ochnic cocked his head, curiously. “No rains have come, Garon pack leader.”

  “Then why are you wet?” Marus asked.

  “Clll-eeening,” Ochnic said awkwardly.

  “So it bathes,” Pel said quietly. “That’s something.” Thankfully, Ochnic didn’t seem to hear her.

  “Climbing da branches or rocks helps dry quicker but is better with more kazzek to chase.”

  “Naturally,” Garon said. “Well, Marus says you wish to speak?”

  “Da air from de north grows damper, pack leader,” Ochnic said. He sniffed in demonstration. “Already da season changes. We must not delay.”

  “We’ll move as soon as we have our supplies and the wounded have had a chance to rest,” Garon said.

  “Leave dem,” Ochnic said and Garon thought he saw the troll’s eyes flick towards Marus.

  “We’ll need every fighter we can get,” Garon said. “We’re already fewer in number than when we left Val’tarra and—”

  “Leave dem,” Ochnic insisted.

  “I will not be left behind, Ochnic,” Marus said. Garon was about to say something
, but stopped himself, surprised at hearing Marus use Ochnic’s name.

  Promising, Garon thought. Perhaps he is going to try.

  “We can hardly move faster,” Pel said.

  “You can try,” Ochnic said. It was more of a plea.

  “I understand your desire to reach your people quickly,” Garon said, “but I promise you that we are moving as fast as we—”

  “Last hope,” Ochnic spluttered, darting forwards to Garon. Water sprayed from him like a wet dog. He took Garon by the shoulders as if to shake him. “Last hope, I am.” He said repeatedly. Steel screeched as Marus half drew his sword, even if he was imbalanced, and Pel’s spear cut a swathe through the undergrowth as she swung it up to a guard position.

  “Stand down you two,” Garon said. “Ochnic, stop.” He grabbed the troll’s rough leathery arms and tried to gently push him away, but he barely moved the towering kazzek. After a prolonged tussle, and much squirming on Garon’s part, Ochnic finally released his grip to bury his great head in his hands. “Has something possessed you?” Garon asked, a little breathless.

  “Sorry, I am, pack leader,” Ochnic said. He hunched his shoulders and seemed to shrink by a foot in height. “Eager, I am, to return. I have no news of Cadha.”

  “Your wife?” Marus asked.

  Ochnic huffed trying to think of the word. “No, not life mate. My girl.” With one palm he pressed down through the air to his knees and with the other he waved at Pel.

  “Your daughter?” Garon said. “Child?”

  “Dat is da word,” Ochnic said, scratching his head. “Da chieftains told me to travel to da silver tree before my clan reached de Great Glen. I had no news.”

  “I’m sure your clan and daughter made it, Ochnic,” Garon said. He patted the troll on the back, squelching against the troll’s sodden fur.

  “Maybe we could discuss this over breakfast?” Pel asked. “I’m starving.”