The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “You will leave Castallan to me, understand?”

  “You cannot be seriou—”

  “Yes, I am,” Brackendon said. “I didn’t save your life all those years ago, so you could break just months after getting your sword. I broke remember? I wouldn’t want to see anyone go through that, not even Castallan. Stay away from our fight.”

  “I will try.”

  “Try very hard,” said Brackendon. “Magic truly is a curse. Now, let’s move on.”

  Grumbling, Darnuir faced his Praetorians and was surprised to find Raymond standing sheepishly amongst them. The chevalier looked a little pale and he was still without his armour.

  “It was I who came to deliver the message,” Raymond said sounding hoarse.

  “Well out with it then,” said Darnuir.

  “You’ve had it, my Lord of Dragons,” said Raymond. “About Lord Imar and Kymethra’s return. I tried to get your attention but—”

  “You did more than try,” Lira said. “Nearly ripped your throat out shouting to them.”

  “Then why did Brackendon…”

  “Lady Lira ran to fetch help,” said Raymond. Lira blushed at the formality.

  “And here I am, fetched,” said Brackendon.

  Darnuir looked around the group. None of his Praetorians gave anything away: they weren’t afraid or disgusted, but they weren’t admiring him either.

  “I have acted inappropriately,” said Darnuir. “Forgive me?” Silently they nodded. Lira too, if a little stiffly. “Please, Raymond. Lead me to Somerled.”

  It turned out there wasn’t much to discuss. Kymethra reported that demons had bypassed Ullusay and had landed east of the Nail Head Mountain, on the island where Dalridia was based. Every longship Grigayne Imar could spare was en route to the Bastion to pick up reinforcements as soon as the fortress was taken. Until that time there was little that could be done. Darnuir made his promises that Castallan would fall soon and took his leave. Night had fallen and, as always, Lira fell in beside him when he emerged from Somerled’s tent.

  “You’re allowed to rest, you know,” he told her.

  “I think you should apologise to Raymond.”

  “I should. He’s a good man.”

  She seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Are you… are you feeling okay, Darnuir?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “As the Praetorian Prefect, I feel it is my duty to—”

  “I’m fine,” Darnuir said irritably. She nodded quickly and cast her eyes to her toes. Then she yawned widely.

  “If you intend to go see him now I will leave you, if that is your wish.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Darnuir. “Come with me. You can send the rest of the Guard to bed, however. They will need to be well rested.”

  Minutes later they had made the short walk to the Chevalier field accommodations beside Arkus’ pavilion. The guards didn’t utter a word as they approached, nor did they protest as they entered the encampment. They passed a slim boy brushing a horse with its nose in a bucket of oats. The next tent over had a lad hastily polishing steel greaves in the light of a dying fire.

  They did not find Raymond until the far end of the Chevaliers’ enclosure. He had no youths attending him. His tent was smaller than the rest and he was setting down a pale of oats for his own nut-brown steed when they reached him.

  “Lord Darnuir, Lady Lira,” Raymond said, bowing low. “I did not think to expect you.”

  “I came to tell you I’m sorry,” said Darnuir. “It must have been humiliating trying to get my attention. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “You were busy, my Lord. One such as yourself need not apologise to the likes of me. I did not acquit myself well at our first encounter, after all.”

  “I bear no grudge,” Darnuir said. “Not to you. Not for that.”

  “And I the same,” said Raymond.

  Lira stepped up to Raymond’s horse and began petting his mane as it bent over the pale. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Bruce,” Raymond said. “T’was the name of my grandfather before our house had a name. Sanders desired to call him Longshanks. I’m glad I went with my own choice now.”

  “I haven’t seen you ride him on our entire march,” Darnuir said. “He isn’t injured after the stresses of Inverdorn, I hope?”

  “Chevaliers who are banned from wearing their steel cannot ride, my Lord,” Raymond said. “I keep him healthy in case but alas, I fear I have been reduced to Gellick Esselmont’s lackey.”

  “Is it all my doing?” Darnuir said.

  Raymond shook his head. “I returned to Brevia a different man. Sanders’ betrayal and your heroics, saving all those people who weren’t your own kind, it made me rethink the stories I had been told. The fairies too have surprised me. Taking so many humans into their care, you wouldn’t think it possible given what is said around the capital.”

  “I’m glad you don’t think of us so poorly, Raymond,” said Lira. She scratched Bruce fondly along his neck and shoulder.

  “Perhaps not after my display in the throne room and earlier tonight,” said Darnuir.

  Raymond shrugged. “Your intentions are noble even if your methods are yet unrefined.” His eyes widened suddenly. “I am sorry for that outburst. I don’t know—”

  “It’s quite alright,” Darnuir said, waving it off with his hand. “I want my Praetorians to feel comfortable in telling me when I have erred.”

  “But I’m not…”

  “I’d like you to be,” Darnuir said. “If Lira is okay with it.” Lira looked as stunned as Raymond. “You’re the Praetorian Prefect, Lira. You’re in charge of recruitment. But I did wish to include all the Three Races in my new Guard. Castallan’s infiltration of the hunters has made that difficult, but I can trust you, Raymond. Will you join me?”

  “As part of your – Guard?” Raymond said as though the meaning of the word had temporarily left his mind. “What good can a mere human do to help you?”

  “It’s a sign of what I want to achieve,” Darnuir said. “You know honour, you are well trained and both you, and Bruce here, would make fine additions, I think. Say yes, Raymond. Say yes and don your steel again.”

  “I – I accept, Lord Darnuir.”

  Darnuir shook his hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. “Welcome, Raymond. And please just call me Darnuir from now on.”

  “And just Lira for me.”

  “That may take some getting used to, my Lor— Darnuir,” said Raymond.

  Lira smiled. “It gets easier with time.”

  Chapter 13

  THE BREAKING OF THE BASTION: PART 1

  There has been a First War, and a Second. When, I wonder, will the Third War come?

  From Tiviar’s Histories.

  Cassandra – The Bastion

  CASSANDRA WAS COILED snakelike on her bed when the knock came. Dranus only knew why they bothered to knock. It was tiring that some of those serving in the Bastion still felt the need for niceties. Some didn’t, of course. Some seemed to loathe her for being Arkus’ daughter.

  Her visitor knocked again.

  “Come in,” she said, scrunching her face into her sheets. The door hit the wall with a soft tap and heeled boots clicked in.

  “Good morning, Princess.” Whoever he was, he was highborn for his speech lacked any provincial accent. “The enemy’s siege machines are built and they will strike soon. His majesty will be sure to request your presence in the throne room.”

  “Just get out.” She untangled her face from her sheet and craned her neck. He wore a courtier’s purple velvet doublet, pulled in tight about the waist by a belt. Something on that belt caught her eye. Something sharp.

  “If it pleases you, I have your breakfast and fresh clothes.”

  Cassandra didn’t answer. Her attention had turned to the bowl on the bedside table, where lay the remnants of her dinner the night before. It was a sturdy treen dish. Quite heavy in hand, but would it be enough? Then she looked to the
fat volume of Tiviar’s History.

  “Princess?”

  “It would please me,” she said hastily. “My head is spinning. Perhaps some food will help.”

  “I don’t feel right in the morning until I eat,” the man said. He bowed out and Cassandra hopped out of bed. The smell of cold grease from last night’s stew made her feel sick as she grabbed Tiviar’s tome.

  The purple clad man returned with an oversized tray with folded clothes on one side and breakfast on the other. She gave him a smile to disarm him. Now that she saw him properly, Cassandra could not be sure of his age. He sported only two patches of wispy bristle on his chin and cheeks, which had not lost their youthful chubbiness. He must have been even younger than her.

  She had the heavy book in hand, feigning that she was browsing it innocently.

  I’ll have to be quick.

  “Now I shall give you some time to get ready,” he said, turning his back foolishly to her as he set the tray down.

  Cassandra stepped towards him, raising the book high.

  “Please do not tarry Princess, as—”

  Thunk.

  Cassandra felt the blow ricochet up her arm. The boy spun, dazed, his jaw hanging loosely. She struck him again between the eyes and he smacked his head for a third time off the bedpost before he crumpled to the cold floor. He lay unmoving with a bloody nose.

  A rush of panic came over her. Is he dead? She bent down, placed a finger on his neck and found a pulse. She puffed out her cheeks in relief and collected herself. It’s fine, you’ve done it now. She deposited the book onto the mattress and began searching at the boy’s belt. Hanging amongst coin purses, keys and vials, she found what she was after.

  There we go. Thank you, whoever you are.

  The knife was stubby but strong. It would serve. She pilfered the belt so that she could strap the weapon to herself. If positioned at her abdomen, she could probably keep it hidden under her clothes. Upon rising, she assessed her situation.

  The boy’s limp form was still at her feet. It would be prudent to do something about him before anyone else arrived. Cassandra dragged him to the bedside, his leather boots squeaking terribly, and began stuffing him unceremoniously underneath the bed. Another pang of guilt hit her so she placed a pillow under his head.

  Before attending to her food, she inspected the clothes. As usual, they were too courtly. There was a clean smock, which Cassandra was grateful for, and she used the knife to cut out the looser bottom half so it became more like a shirt. Then she belted the dagger to her midriff, put on the modified smock, and placed her hunter leathers back on once more, trying to ignore the smell. No one had thought it necessary to clean off the gore from the Charred Vale; it was likely they were trying to force her not to wear them.

  The food was next – chewy brown bread with butter to spread, a plump pear, thick wedges of hard tart cheese and crunchy honeycomb. She wolfed it all down. Cassandra wondered whether all Castallan’s prisoners ate half so well.

  What grog would Chelos be suffering?

  More guilt stabbed at her, and shame. Even as a captive, she could not feel the quiet pride of enduring hardship; of having something active to fight back against. Instead of torture or a cell she had a four-poster bed, fresh clothes daily, food to feed a lord and servants delivering it all. It had always been that way. She was a spoilt prisoner.

  Then she saw a smear of blood on her hand. She wiped it away with the ripped remnants of the smock she had no use for. There was some blood on her bed as well, from where she had put Tiviar’s book down. She scooped it up like a wounded animal and wiped it clean, making sure it was spotless before returning it carefully back to the library. It was a crime to have used the book in such a manner, yet needs must.

  With adrenaline still flowing, Cassandra returned restlessly to the main chamber of her suite. She stood waiting, rocking on the balls of her feet.

  Now what, Cass?

  Attacking the boy had been impulsive. What she would do with the knife she did not know. Anything she could, she supposed. Someone who searched her might feel it but the leathers were padded and she’d take the risk. Castallan wasn’t going to kill her.

  But she would kill him if she could.

  Chelos was probably dead after all. Cassandra had asked time and again to see him, even just briefly, but she’d never been answered. She hadn’t been denied; her requests just fell on deaf ears, as though there was some unspoken agreement to spare her feelings. It hadn’t worked. She had thought on it and she’d soaked one pillow with her tears.

  Cassandra knew she would fail. It was desperate. Still, she had to try something and was still standing stupidly in the middle of the foyer when they came to collect her.

  “I see you’re ready,” the huntress Freya said. Her eyes were scarlet. “Come along then.”

  Blaine – Outside the Bastion

  Blaine kept low as he crept through the trenches. Lacking his armour and wrapped in a cloak, he prayed he would not be recognised. The digging teams were too busy to notice much beyond the dirt and danger. They had worked day and night, moving ever closer to the outer wall of the Bastion. Shovels rose and fell rhythmically as Blaine passed, piling the soil up on the sides for added defence. Now dawn had passed, archers on the walls resumed taking shots when they could, but the catapults were the greater danger.

  “Look out,” someone cried, and Blaine whipped around to see a rock impact into the trench behind him. A team of dragons rushed to remove it.

  To Blaine’s great disappointment the brave digging teams had not been successful in their main objective. He had hoped to avoid this, hoped the tunnel might be found on its own. It would have been far better that way. Each day he had checked, even nudged the teams in the right direction but to no avail. And now they were so close to the walls the battle would come soon, perhaps that very day. The ridge of the trench obscured their camps but he could see their lumbering siege towers were complete at last. He had no choice. He couldn’t keep quiet about the tunnels and let thousands of dragons die just to safeguard old Guardian secrets. Arkus would fume in rage, Darnuir would hate him for it, but he had to reveal what he knew.

  I’ve run out of time.

  Cassandra – The Bastion

  Castallan’s throne room was brimming with armed men and women. Many were hunters of the Dales but many more were regular infantry in padded jerkins. Those more fortunate wore some chainmail. Nearly all had glowing red eyes, save for Castallan and a group of lavishly dressed people crowded around him. He stood in front of his elevated throne.

  “It will not be long now,” Castallan said. “The great battle for humanity is upon us, friends. Will we be forced to follow the whims of dragons or shall we forge our own future?”

  A cheer followed with much clanking of weapons. Cassandra’s spirits rose as well.

  Soon it will all be over; you will be dead.

  Freya manoeuvred Cassandra towards the throne. She was close to the wizard, but couldn’t reach him from down here. These red-eyed devotees would easily stop her before she made it anyway.

  “Victory today is my burden,” Castallan said more solemnly. “All the power of Brevia, of Val’tarra and the dragons is set against us. I cannot ask you to triumph through strength of arms but through resolve. I ask that you hold the walls, hold the defences and hold together.”

  Another round of cheering, even louder than the last. So many voices, and this was not even a fraction of Castallan’s supporters. Cassandra never had a hope of killing him. But she had to do something. Thousands of dragons, humans and fairies, were about to storm the Bastion. She couldn’t just sit here helpless.

  “You have placed your faith in me,” Castallan continued, his voice rising, “and I promise I shall not disappoint; when I take hold of the Dragon’s Blade and bring humanity into a new age!”

  Cassandra covered her ears against the roar that followed this time.

  She realised then that these people truly were prepar
ed to fight for him, to die for him too. Did he really stand a chance against Brackendon, Darnuir and Blaine? Surely not. But then he had all those staffs, grafted and bound to his own. Like each lord’s signature on the declaration, each staff added legitimacy to Castallan. Power was persuasive and many had been swayed by it. She looked to the throne, lingered on the gleaming silver staffs, and decided what she must try to do.

  The uproar had not died down and Castallan was revelling in it. She’d only have one shot to reach the staffs on her side that were low enough. Realistically, that meant two potential targets.

  Her heart quickened and her mouth went dry. The idea was insane.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Castallan raise his hands for silence. “Bring in the dragon,” he called. Jeers and booing answered in preparation as the great doors of the throne room opened. Cassandra couldn’t see through the dense crowd but she knew who it would be. It was another full minute before Castallan raised a hand to bring order. Then he pointed an accusatory finger down the length of the throne room. Cassandra stood on her tiptoes to try and see but it was no good.

  “Before you stands an ancient dragon,” Castallan said. “One so old he can remember a time before Rectar and the demons, a time when dragon fought against dragon and somehow humanity still bled. Tell me Chelos, do you still not see the merit in what I do?”

  Cassandra started forwards at the name, her fear confirmed, but Freya held her back with an iron grip.

  “Never,” Chelos said. His voice wavered but there was still strength in it and that spurred Cassandra on.

  “No?” Castallan said. “So, you do not think I should seek to end the war? I have found the means to defeat our great enemy.”

  “What you make are abominations,” Chelos said. “Are you all fools? How can you follow this man who’s set demons upon your own kind?”

  There came a piercing, echoing slap.

  “Do not harm him,” Castallan said lazily. “Let him have his say. Let him rant and preach his old ways, even as they burn around him and a new world begins.”

  Cassandra renewed her efforts to break free. “Let me see.” But her captor wrestled her back. “Let me see him. Let me go. Let m—” Cassandra’s breath left her as she was hoisted up onto the platform of the throne.