The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  Darnuir seethed, snorting air like a bull. He was on the verge of continuing the argument when the door burst open.

  “I did not say enter,” barked Arkus.

  “My King,” Gellick said, ignoring Darnuir. “The dragon and fairy armies have been spotted.”

  “Then I think we can conclude matters here for now,” said Arkus.

  “We’re done for now,” Darnuir said. “But the matter is not.” He stormed out the room, letting his inflamed anger carry him back to the Chevalier training hall. Lira and the Praetorians stood outside, their way barred by a group of dark steeled guards. “Back inside,” Darnuir ordered.

  “But Darnuir, the guards, Raymond told us—” Lira began.

  “If they want to stop us, they are welcome to try,” said Darnuir. “I want a fight.” The air grew very sweet as he approached the closest Chevalier on the door. “Well?” he asked, drawing close enough to the man to see his eyes widen behind the slots in his visor. The Chevalier said nothing but moved to one side.

  Right move, human.

  He heard the footsteps follow him in, down the tiered room to the lowest level. It was like a small arena or pit this far down and an audience would doubtless form soon. Darnuir whipped out the Dragon’s Blade, turning it over and over in his hand.

  “We need to intensify your training,” he told the assembling Praetorians. “Four of you, you’ll fight me at once. The rest of you, pair up and spar. No exercises; fight like you mean it. Now.”

  They began. Darnuir’s opponents were better than he anticipated, that was good. Each time he fought them off he demanded they charge again. One managed to land a hit on him and that made him laugh. Soon he was lightly nudging on the door to the Cascade, letting a drop or two in.

  That felt better than anything.

  Soon he forgot why he was enraged. All he felt was the movement, all he saw was the eyes of those he trained with, all he heard was the thud of feet and the scrape of steel. He didn’t stop. He just kept fighting.

  It only ended when he saw what surrounded them. Hundreds of Chevaliers, faceless behind their visors, stood silently around the hall. Had they snuck in? Had they crept in like mice scurrying around the feet of wolves? Darnuir looked to them. Raymond wasn’t there but Gellick was, the only one to have removed his helmet. He looked down upon Darnuir with a blank, unreadable expression. With one hand, Gellick lightly tapped the pommel of his sword.

  “We’re done for the day,” Darnuir said. His Praetorians were trying to calm their breathing around him. “Come let us go meet our kin.”

  Chapter 10

  THE END OF MAGIC

  The wizards and witches of the Cascade Conclave are simultaneously remarkable and worth little attention. Their use of magic is extraordinary but their reserved nature – a necessity in handling magic in such a free manner – has dissuaded them from engaging in major events of the world. Had the Order joined one war or another in full force, the course of history could well have been different.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Brackendon – Brevia – King Arkus’ Palace

  “AND THERE THEY go,” Kymethra said. “Darnuir, Arkus, even Lira and enough guards to clog the streets. But not us.”

  “Not right now,” Brackendon said. He didn’t look up from his reading.

  “Darnuir will want you down there.” She rapped her knuckles on one of the tiny glass panes held within the lead lattice. The sharp tapping made Brackendon lose concentration on his page. He looked up and was met with Kymethra’s frustrated expression.

  “I’m busy,” he said, his voice half a rasp. He took a gander out of the window towards where Kymethra had gestured. The palace resided on higher ground than most of the city, and Brackendon’s room was high within it. High enough to see beyond the black walls of Brevia and witness the dragon legions approach the city like a wave of molten gold. And so, we draw ever closer to the Bastion. His silence seemed to annoy Kymethra further. She was scowling. “You might help me rather than berate me,” he said.

  “We’ve been through all these books. There’s nothing there. Too much was either stolen from the Conclave or lost.”

  “There might still be something—”

  “But there isn’t,” she said, her voice half-cracking. His brooding was fatiguing her, Brackendon knew. But it was more. She was afraid, as was he. For each day drew them closer to the battle to come; each day drew him closer to Castallan.

  Whatever it takes, it must end. We must end.

  “Will you stop acting like this?” she said, a little desperately.

  “Like what?” he said, returning to his reading.

  “Like a child. It’s not like you at all.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upse—“

  “I’m worried, Brackendon. You’ve barely spoken since the Conclave. Each day you’ve fallen deeper into this mood. It’s like a part of you died. I heard what those things had to say as well, but I’m not giving up on the world.”

  “The Inner Circle attacked him,” Brackendon said. “Castallan was forced to act as he did.”

  “Maybe in that moment,” said Kymethra. “But in every moment since? Everything he’s done since? I don’t see how this changes anything.”

  “It doesn’t,” he said morosely. It doesn’t, and yet it changes everything.

  “Are you just going to brood here?”

  He nodded, closing his eyes.

  “Rather than tell me what really troubles you?”

  He continued to nod.

  “Fine,” she stormed towards the door. “I’ll go. Hotheaded dragons sound more reasonable at present.”

  There was a slam and distant footsteps. Brackendon took in a breath, held it, and then let it go slowly through his nose. He opened his eyes and returned to the page he had been reading.

  This one was Mallory’s On the Bitter Taste of Power. So far it was proving a tedious read and wasn’t offering any insight into the limitations Castallan might have. When Brackendon reached a section about the optimum diet for a cautious Cascade user – oddly, poppy seeds were the prime recommendation with most meals – Brackendon closed the book. He added it to one of the many discarded piles with a thud. Landing askew, Mallory’s dense tome tipped the balance and sent the entire stack crashing off the desk.

  Grumbling, his frustration mounting, Brackendon rose to tidy up the books that lay scattered beneath the window. In his haste, he bashed his hip into the desk corner. Groaning, he bent down to collect the fallen books. It was warmer beneath the window due to light angling in through the glass. One beam burned uncomfortably at the delicate skin around his eye. The vexing heat caused an itch and jerked his head to escape it, only to slam against the underside of the desk.

  This time he let loose a growl and tossed the book he had just retrieved back down. He gave up on the endeavour and stood, leaning his weight against the window and watching the dragons draw closer to Brevia. A blue mass crept into view behind them and behind the fairies marched hunters in red and yellow. We’re all gathering. Ready for the pointless slaughter. It was a shame that Kasselle did not join her forces. Brackendon could have used her advice and knowledge, but then, the toil of marching and war had never been Kasselle’s way. She sent others in her stead. Brackendon had been granted a shiny staff and been sent to do the impossible.

  For there had been no answers. Not then, nor now on how he might actually win such a fight. Perhaps there might have been within the Conclave but he had brought that tower to dust.

  He didn’t regret it.

  In the days since he’d exhausted Arkus’ limited vaults and found nothing. Like Darnuir’s rebirth, the situation was the first of its kind. Castallan had possession of all the staffs of the Conclave, save for Brackendon’s. As powerful as Brackendon’s new staff was, surely it alone would not best such incredible processing power. And where once Brackendon had been fuelled by a sense of justice and revenge, driven by a belief that Castallan was the enemy, he now felt deflat
ed. It was as if his previous conviction had acted as a barrier between him and the reality before him. Yet, since the Conclave, the full weight of the duel ahead had begun to crush down upon him. Slowly. A little more pressing each day. Slowly. Until Brackendon considered that they had all been fools.

  Where had this infighting gotten them? To the precipice of disaster. It was too late now for either party to make amends. Brackendon wasn’t sure why he ought to fight. He was simply on one side and was stuck there. It wasn’t the ‘right’ side, not anymore, just a side. He supposed it had always been this way, but he had been blind to it.

  It was only then that he noticed his hands had bored into fists against the glass. They felt hot – too hot to be heated from sunlight alone.

  Perhaps Castallan’s intentions had once been noble, but Kymethra was right. His methods left him irredeemable. Brackendon would do his best against him, but not for the reasons he once had. It wasn’t to avenge the Conclave; nor for humanity, for it seemed so many had joined Castallan, both then and now.

  Something in Brackendon shook and the air around grew even warmer. A tremor ran down his right arm, yet there was no staff in his grasp.

  He wouldn’t fight for Darnuir either, he decided, looking out at the massing dragons. He knew Darnuir hoped to rectify his own mistakes by killing Castallan. Brackendon reckoned all the dragons were paying for their past. Not even the memory of Cosmo could move him. Yet Brackendon would fight. That was not in question. Though what he would fight for would be very different.

  I will fight to end magic.

  If by some miracle, he succeeded, then he’d break every staff that remained. He’d burn his own as well, even if he risked breaking to do so. He’d pass on no teaching.

  Magic will end with me.

  The window shattered, breaking in a shockwave from his fists and pouring down into the palace grounds. The tremor running down his right arm intensified, as did the heat around him. He grabbed his staff and felt the stinging rush of the Cascade.

  Loose sheets of paper were whipped towards the breach. Embarrassed, Brackendon tried to grab them out of the air but most of them made it past him and flitted on the wind outside. Cooler air blew in and took the worst of the heat away, leaving Brackendon ashamed of himself. He ought to go down. It was childish of him to lurk up here when there was so much to do. There was nothing else that solitude and books could offer him.

  Sadly, Brackendon’s mood did not dissipate on his journey down. There was a restlessness within him, mixed with a reluctance to take part in whatever talks were going on between Darnuir, Arkus, Blaine and the rest. The thought of standing in the middle of that argument, for there was bound to be one, was enough to cause a grating headache all on its own.

  So, he took his time, drifting slowly through the army camps outside the city. He passed by the palisade wall of a legion encampment and saw a human with a cart being barred entry by grim-faced dragon guards; that is until he managed to convey he was delivering food. Then he was waved on through.

  Dragons will take and take, and never give.

  Fairies seemed allowed to fly in and out as they pleased, however. One shot over head, drawing Brackendon’s eye, speeding to some far away section of the sprawling tents above the rising strands of smoke and steam.

  Soldiers laughed, soldiers wrestled in their boredom; some glanced inquisitively at Brackendon as he walked by, while others ducked their heads to avoid eye contact. Hunters and huntresses from the Crownlands patrolled in their black leathers, setting those idle to work and bemoaning the quality of the men’s equipment. One pudgy fellow knocked into a stand of spears, nearly skewering passers-by, and hastily tried to pick them up before the hunters saw.

  You might have called up many to fight Arkus, but these are hardly soldiers.

  As arrogant as the dragons were, Brackendon could not deny that humanity would be at a woeful disadvantage in this war without them.

  Somehow, Brackendon found himself before the hastily erected pavilion, positioned at the central point between the camps of the three races. There was a collection of Chevaliers, Light Bearers and Darnuir’s Praetorians outside, standing in an awkward silence. One amongst them was not armoured but seated by a crude-looking crib. Auburn hair and the favouring of one side signalled that it was Balack, a little hunched over in his white leathers – well, what passed for white under that dirt.

  Are those burn marks and singes?

  “What happened to you?” Brackendon asked when he reached him.

  “More of that Dragon Powder, or Black Powder, whichever it is,” Balack said. He rolled up the clothing on one leg to reveal a series of burns.

  “You must be in a lot of pain?” Brackendon said.

  “Could have been worse. The Guardian shielded me, actually. Kept me in one piece, though I doubt I’ll be battle fit in time for the Bastion.” He winced and gently put a hand to his chest. “What’s wrong with you?” Balack asked.

  “Nothing,” Brackendon said, perhaps a little too tetchily. “Did you see Kymethra?” He added, attempting to sound more pleasant.

  “She flew down a while back. I think she’s inside. Are you not going in?”

  “Darnuir can make his decisions without me. He always has.”

  “He’s changed,” Balack said simply. He didn’t seem to want to add any more. Footsteps beat behind Brackendon, and both he and Balack were spared further talk of Darnuir by the arrival of the outrunner Damien.

  “Milk for the child,” said Damien. “Approved by Queen Orrana’s trusted wet nurse.”

  “He’s asleep right now,” Balack said, accepting the bottled milk. “But I’m sure he’ll be eternally thankful.”

  “You didn’t just bring the wet nurse?” Brackendon said, unable to resist despite his mood.

  “She protested,” said Damien. “Excuse me, I must return to the King.” And he disappeared into the tent. Brackendon observed as Balack filled a horn with milk and lowered it carefully towards Cullen. A wedge of good clean cloth stymied the flow of liquid.

  “Why are you playing mother?” Brackendon asked.

  “Well, I’m still injured and so won’t be able to fight. If I am honest, I feel I lack the will as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s difficult to put into words. I don’t feel as strongly as I did before; a little empty, truth be told.”

  “Cosmo’s death has hit us all hard,” said Brackendon. “He and Grace were decent people. I find it cruel that they’ve been taken.”

  “Yes, that was hard. I still don’t think I’ve grasped that he’s gone. Darnuir seems fine, though. He just ran off. Barely even checked to see whether Cullen was alive, never mind being looked after by anyone who cares.”

  “That seems a touch harsh,” Brackendon said. “He has been concerned about Cullen.”

  “Concerned but not present. Not here… not the same.”

  Ah, so that is it. You miss your friend, even if you can’t stomach the thought of him right now.

  “It’s not fair, what happened to you either,” Brackendon said. “None of this is fair.”

  “Back home, even when things got desperate, even before you arrived, I somehow didn’t feel as bad as this,” Balack said. He hadn’t seemed to register Brackendon’s words. “We were all together then. All fighting; fighting for each other. And now—” Balack stopped, as though something had stuck in his throat. He swallowed and then busied himself feeding Cullen.

  “I feel like I’ve lost something too. Lost what was driving me, so to speak. I understand what you’re going through, I think.”

  “Have you lost the ones closest to you?” Balack asked. “Were your friends sent far to the north while you stayed here? Did the man you might have called a father die without you being able to do anything? Did your closest friend betray you and crack your ribs?”

  “I don’t have many friends,” Brackendon said, and it sounded strange to say it aloud. “Most of the people I cared for
were lost to me when the Conclave fell or have died in some other fashion. Until recently, I thought I was fighting for their memories, to make things right. Now, I’ve discovered that many were not who I thought they were. Darnuir is far better than he was, but the only one I truly have is Kymethra…” And I’ve been pushing her away.

  “I, I’m sorry,” Balack said, looking guilty for his outburst. “I hadn’t considered that. Still, I can do good by honouring Cosmo and helping Cullen. I’m glad to.”

  “You might be of more help in the war.”

  “What can one archer do?”

  “What can you do for Cullen that all of Arkus’ palace staff cannot?” Brackendon rebutted. Balack opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to reconsider, burying his face into his hands instead. “We need to keep fighting,” Brackendon urged him, kneeling beside the young man. “As hard as it seems, we must. You might not wish to go on for Darnuir, but you can still go on with him. We can both help. But in our own way. For our own reasons.”

  Balack lifted his head up slowly, looking Brackendon in the eye. “What are your reasons?”

  “I’m going to kill that wizard, or break him, and I’m going to prevent anyone else ever having the power that we do. With more luck than I dare count on, I might live out my days as just a man. A recovering addict, sure, but just a man.” Balack said nothing. “Is there nothing left to drive you?” Brackendon asked.

  “Helping a friend is worthy,” Balack said. “Cassandra is a prisoner again. Although she can take care of herself, and I think Darnuir will have the rest covered.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll fight for Cosmo. That can be my reason.”

  “All you need do is help,” Brackendon said. “And I can get you there. How many weeks have you been in recovery?”

  “About three,” Balack said. “I thought you couldn’t heal with magic?”

  “You can it’s just… ill-advised. May I?” He moved an inspecting hand towards Balack, who obligingly raised an arm. Brackendon hovered his hand above the injured rib, sensing the damage there.