The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

“We’ll need the help,” Fidelm said. “The powder was set off too soon. Only a segment of the gate was destroyed and there’s a crush forming at the opening.”

  “We won’t win like this,” Blaine spluttered. “Go.”

  Fidelm nodded then took off, just as another hunter from the Dales charged across the wall. Blaine raised the Guardian’s Blade high and brought it down, cutting through the man’s raised wrist and burying the sword into his shoulder. The effort brought Blaine to his knees, unable to resist the momentum of his own swing.

  He spent a dazed moment staring at the fresh green pulse wrapping around the citadel. When the Cascade had left him, so too had the sound of nature. The wind was silent, the ocean sounded still, and every cry of battle sounded thrice as loud because of it.

  A hand gripped Blaine by the shoulder but he felt unable to resist it. “Lord Guardian, are you wounded?” Bacchus asked.

  That could have been the end of me, right there.

  “Only my pride is hurt,” he lied. In the courtyard below, Castallan’s troops were giving little ground to the humans loyal to Arkus. Hunks of stone continued to be launched by the defenders with very little being repaid in kind. Victory would come at too high a cost. A glance around depressed him further. Even if they took the outer wall, the inner wall remained well guarded. Not far ahead was the gatehouse that stood above the semi-breached gate below. A fierce fight already raged atop it.

  “We need to take that gatehouse,” Blaine said. “We need it open.”

  “Are you able to continue?” Bacchus asked. He was looking at Blaine differently than before, with less awe, more concern, and even pity.

  “Are you really asking me that?” Blaine said.

  “You did not give the signa—”

  “I know!” Blaine yelled. Then he was coughing again. Light Bearers were fighting all around him. Their efforts shamed Blaine, enough to force him to stand. “To the gatehouse,” he spluttered.

  The humans at the gatehouse had prepared a defence, perhaps intending a last stand.

  Blaine fell into the brawl clumsily, his arms feeling lethargic. A figure amongst them, a white blur, caught his eye, firing arrows as fast as he moved. The boy was fighting as though the strength of all three gods were at his back.

  Is that truly Balack?

  Red-eyed humans continued to come up from a staircase leading into the body of the gatehouse below, where the gate mechanism would be. Blaine caught Balack’s eye and the boy gave a curt nod before dropping to one knee, hacking at a soldier’s shin allowing Bacchus to finish him. But with every fallen defender another came.

  Blaine could barely lift his arm. He needed the Cascade, but it had abandoned him. Have the gods abandoned me as well? Darnuir might be dead. That could be why his powers had diminished.

  Another hunter from the Dales locked eyes with him.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  The hunter swung his sword.

  I’m just too old.

  A screech filled his ears and a tawny eagle dove into the hunter’s face, raking at his soft eyes. Kymethra’s screeches were painful on the ear.

  “Lord Guardian,” some deep voice was calling. Fairies flew in to support them on the gatehouse, swarming the defenders briefly. “Blaine,” the voice shouted again. “The Third have come.” Fidelm was in front of him, bloodied. A chunk of his long hair had been cut away.

  “Open the gate,” Blaine managed to say. Fidelm strode off, barking orders at some flyers. They disappeared down into the gatehouse proper. Balack was still fighting.

  How is he doing this?

  Balack took the last kill, ripping out a knife and throwing it into a red eye. The flow of defenders finally ceased. Something stirred within Blaine again. It was far from pity this time – more like pride. The boy has done well to put his despair behind him.

  Below, on the besieging side, the troops were looking up to them as they stood atop the gatehouse.

  “This was your doing, Balack,” Blaine said, nodding to Castallan’s purple standard. Balack seemed to understand and wordlessly retrieved his knife from the corpse of the red-eyed hunter.

  “Lord Guardian, are you sure?” Bacchus said, scowling at Balack’s back. “Take the victory for your own.”

  “He earned it. I can’t deny that,” Blaine said.

  Balack stepped up to the parapet’s edge and cut the flag down as the great doors began to open underneath them. A cheer grew across the army of the Three Races. It nearly sparked some life back into Blaine, until he remembered that the inner wall still stood and red-eyed defenders still lined it.

  We are far from done.

  Another explosion ripped across the battlefield.

  Blaine looked up to see a large hole in the face of the citadel tower. The debris blasted outwards, raining onto the battle, crushing those on both sides. And from the wound in the tower came light. It spilt in tiny pinpricks against the ashen sky, as though a thousand shooting stars in a thousand colours were hurtling out from the breach.

  You better be alive, Darnuir – for both our sakes.

  Cassandra – Castallan’s throne room

  Cassandra thought the heat might cook her alive, somehow it didn’t leave a mark. It had blown half the room apart, though. She looked out onto the carnage below; the armies looked like swarming insects. She couldn’t tell who was winning and the fight in the throne room was equally indecisive.

  The wizards were circling far apart, whirling their staffs and sending pulses of energy at each other. Countless jets of light in every colour – colours she couldn’t name. Brackendon fired energy at Castallan and Castallan batted it back; back and back and back, until the room was blindingly bright. Their attacks seemed to have weight as the balls of light blew chunks from the floor and walls upon impact. When several had hit the Cascade Sink at once, the explosion had blown half the wall away.

  The circling continued. Brackendon was close to the doors when he launched a ball of greenish-purple energy. Castallan, who was closer to Cassandra, deflected it and then sent a silver jet of his own. Something from outside the throne room drew Brackendon’s attention for a split second and the silver wave nearly took him. He dropped to the floor, the silver light shattered against the wall behind him. While prone, Brackendon flicked his staff at the open doorway. The doors closed with such force that Cassandra felt the reverberations in her steel cuffs. A muffled bellow came from behind the door.

  “Brackendon, don’t do this alone.”

  Darnuir?

  “It won’t open. Damn it. Lira, hold them off while I try to break through.”

  “You’d protect him?” Castallan asked, flicking one hand upwards. Brackendon was flipped off the ground and flung towards Castallan. As he passed the crest of his arc, Brackendon righted himself, gripped his staff in both hands like a mace and brought it down on Castallan. They collided with a bang to rival that of the black powder, sending both wizards sprawling.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk, came from the doors, as though Darnuir was trying to hack his way through.

  Castallan was the first to recover. He looked a mess; jaw hanging loosely, and his left arm bent backwards at the elbow. Yet he turned even more gruesome as he began to heal. As his bones reset the black lines across his skin slithered further across his neck and up onto his scalp, under a patch of hair whitening to milk then catching fire and smoking.

  Brackendon had fared little better. One leg looked crushed and red pools were collecting under his robes.

  He wasn’t getting up.

  “Heal yourself,” Cassandra cried out, her throat nearly cracking with the effort. “You can’t give in now. Brackendon? Brackendon?”

  But Brackendon stayed down. Something rolling across the floor caught her eye. Brackendon’s staff, the most powerful staff in the world, was making its way to Castallan’s feet.

  “No,” she sobbed.

  Castallan’s skin had lost all colour and he looked like a laughing skull as he gently stopped th
e staff with one foot. Brackendon tried to move, propping himself up on one arm, but it gave way. He slumped down and lay still. Brackendon’s power over the throne room doors must have broken for, at that moment, Darnuir stormed in, a bloodied Dragon’s Blade in his hand. The sound of a skirmish raged from the corridor beyond.

  “And at last, here you are,” Castallan said, sounding half dead. “Will you give the sword to me? Or will I be forced to take it?”

  Darnuir looked first to Cassandra, then to Brackendon. “Is he—”

  “Give me the sword, Darnuir!”

  “Never,” Darnuir said, taking the Dragon’s Blade in both hands. He charged Castallan, who grunted impatiently. Darnuir was halted mid-stride, frozen in place, and the Dragon’s Blade was ripped from his grasp. The sword shook in the air, trying to return to Darnuir, but Castallan brought it towards him, an eager arm outstretched.

  “And now, the last act I make as a mere man,” Castallan said, raising his staff at the Cascade Sink. The blue glow intensified, the substance within it violently bubbled and tossed. The Dragon’s Blade started glowing, heat was rising in it; first a pale yellow, then orange, then red, then white. “Yes,” Castallan said, a crazed look in his eye. “Yes. Even this ancient magic can be broken and turned.”

  Is it really over then? They can’t defeat him… no one could have. Such a thought should have made her weep, but she felt nothing: just a cold emptiness at the wasted energy. Everything she had gone through, everything they had all gone through; all for nothing.

  Then, the Dragon’s Blade stopped moving.

  It hung for a moment in the air between Castallan and Darnuir, close to the wizard. If Castallan only stepped forwards he might have taken it. But the Dragon’s Blade began to move back towards Darnuir, fighting against Castallan’s magic. Castallan’s eyes popped madly and the glow from the Cascade Sink shone even brighter.

  “Come to me,” Castallan growled. Darnuir unfroze as the sword drew nearer.

  “The Dragon’s Blade is mine alone.”

  “I will save this world,” Castallan screamed. “I am the only one who can.” And with what appeared to be a final effort, Castallan reached for the sword again. The Cascade Sink produced a near deafening droning, and then, just as the Dragon’s Blade was exactly midway between the two, both Castallan and Darnuir began to convulse. Fits came over them. Their eyes rolled up into their skulls. No sane word came from their mouths.

  From Darnuir’s came something more terrifying – a hint of a forked tongue, and a roar like a true beast. Patches of his skin grew red, hard and shiny. Skin to match the head of his sword.

  Cassandra’s bonds released and she fell. She managed to roll as she hit the floor, keeping low as the horror unfolded before her. This was no place for an ordinary human.

  What do I do? What do I do?

  The bestial roar from Darnuir grew louder.

  Cassandra forced herself to look anywhere but at him. She whipped her head towards Castallan instead and there, at his feet, she saw it, just lying untouched. Brackendon’s staff. She bolted for it, picked it up and tore back to Brackendon. She fell down at his side, shoved the shaft into his hand and closed his fingers around it.

  “Brackendon, get up. Fight. Please,” she said desperately, shaking the wizard by the shoulders. His eyes were closed. “Brackendon. Please get up. Please. Brackendon.” And with a great gasp, as though he had been drowning, Brackendon opened his eyes. He tried to stand but his leg was too badly hurt. Cassandra placed herself under his free arm, and he leaned heavily upon her.

  “Thank you,” Brackendon said weakly into her ear. “Castallan,” he said, raising his staff with an air of finality. “You are just a man.”

  The Dragon’s Blade flew back to Darnuir’s grasp as Brackendon broke the bond. Castallan’s eyes rolled back down to face them, one pupil now black. Nearly all his hair had burnt away. It looked like there was no life left in him. Even with all his power, he had failed. It hadn’t been enough. The Dragon’s Blade had one master.

  Castallan did nothing to resist Brackendon’s magical push, perhaps he wanted to die. Cassandra would never know. Brackendon sent him back, right into the Cascade Sink. A puff of red mist, a blinding blue light, and both Castallan and the Sink were gone.

  Brackendon became a dead weight, letting out a rattling sigh as he slumped onto her. She couldn’t keep him upright so tried to lay him gently down. All his hair had turned white, his right hand entirely black, and a little bubble of blood gathered at the corner of his mouth. He was mumbling, but nothing that made sense.

  She pressed the staff firmer into Brackendon’s grip, closing her eyes and feeling the hot, salty tears descend. She didn’t want to open them again. Every emotion was flaring at once; joy, horror, distress, and despair. Cassandra didn’t know what to feel, so she just let herself cry. Brackendon was still breathing, that much she could feel from the shallow rise and fall of his chest. She didn’t know long she knelt beside him. Time simply passed until a soft hand closed over hers.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Kymethra said. There was no life in her voice.

  Cassandra sat back, wiped her running nose on the back of her sleeve, and didn’t know what to do. Darnuir looked to be stirring. He’d be fine. So, she sat there with Kymethra, as the witch lay down beside Brackendon, embracing him in a silent hug, and wetting his robes with a downpour of her own tears. It seemed that no sound was fitting for her grief.

  Only silence.

  Chapter 15

  AFTERMATH

  In Val’tarra we bury our dead under the cleansed earth of blackened trees. When the first flower blossoms on that ground, we know our loved ones have found peace.

  From Tiviar’s Histories.

  Darnuir – Castallan’s throne room

  DARNUIR FELT LIKE he’d been beaten to death. He never wanted to move again. This floor felt like a feather bed, and the stone was cool on his cheek. It was quite a come down from the godlike high of only moments before. Every pore of his body had been seeped in magic, then. But it had been sucked out too soon. It had been so good.

  What happened? I shouldn’t have that that much Cascade in me. Brackendon won’t be pleased… where is he?

  Then he remembered where he was, and what he had come here to do.

  He slowly opened one eye. A crumpled blue robed body lay across the room, with two women around it: one with long black hair, the other brown with white tips. His groggy mind was slow to process it all. A painful rush down his arm towards his sword had started; it felt like bits of gravel were flowing through his veins.

  With some effort, he managed to get to his feet. The Dragon’s Blade slipped from his limp fingers but flew back when it bounced off the floor. He forced his hand to tighten around the hilt, trying to drain out the poison. A strong wind battered him and he drifted a little closer to the chasm in the wall. A distant cheer was spreading and, even at this height, Darnuir caught a sweet scent in the air.

  “Darnuir,” Cassandra said. There were cuts on her wrists, her eyes were puffy and had dark circles underneath; but her black hair still fell in thick shining waves. He’d expected his heart to drum when he saw her again; instead, it slowed almost to a halt.

  “Darnuir?” Cassandra said.

  “Yes.” He found it very hard to speak.

  “We need to leave,” Cassandra said.

  “Yes,” Darnuir said again. Instinct told him to walk to Brackendon’s side, sheathe his sword, and drop to one knee. Brackendon’s eyes were milky and blank; his entire right forearm had turned black and scaly. His hair had gone white. Kymethra had her face buried into his robes, one arm clutched like a vice around Brackendon’s shoulder.

  “Kymethra,” Darnuir said, trying to be gentle with his ragged voice. “We have to go.” The witch did not move. More footsteps hammered along the hard stone and Lira and the Praetorians came surging into the remnants of the throne room.

  “Darnuir, is everything…” Lira began, trail
ing off when she saw them.

  Cassandra returned, attempting to prise Kymethra off Brackendon. “We need to get out of this tower.” Kymethra resurfaced, her face red and glistening.

  She wiped at her eyes. “Come on Darnuir. Use that strength.” Darnuir made to pick Brackendon up. “Wait,” Kymethra said. “The staffs. Burn them.”

  Darnuir looked to the toppled throne. The eight remaining staffs were scattered, one lying precariously over the edge of the room where the wall had collapsed. Lira and Cassandra helped collect them, and once heaped together, Darnuir drew out the Dragon’s Blade and set them alight. He felt no need to watch them turn to ash.

  Darnuir picked Brackendon up in both arms. He felt so light and fragile. They walked in silence down the citadel tower, the Praetorian Guard surrounding Darnuir and Brackendon like a golden shield. Followers of Castallan cowered before them now. Only minutes ago they had rushed Darnuir as he fought up the tower, swords raised and eyes red. Before exiting the tower, Lira sent a few Praetorians down to the dungeons to collect Raymond and Chelos.

  Out in the vast inner courtyard of the Bastion, the people parted for them, or ran back into the buildings lined against the inner wall. Darnuir found the sweetness in the air nauseating. Ahead, the western set of gates had been opened. They passed through, passed the bodies already being piled, and the prisoners already being split up, towards the gates of the outer wall, which were half blown to cinders. Burnt stone, burnt bodies and a trail of embers ran deep into the Brevian army. No one stopped them through all of it, until about a hundred Chevaliers marched towards them with a man in billowing black robes at their head.

  “It is over then,” Arkus said. His small eyes flitted over Brackendon. “Is he—”

  “Broken,” Kymethra said shakily.

  “Such an outcome was a risk we…” but he froze, having finally noticed Cassandra. Arkus’ mouth hung foolishly open and the colour drained from his face. He gulped, opened his mouth as if to speak then closed it again.

  “This is King Arkus,” Darnuir said. He wondered if she knew about her parentage. “Arkus, I’d like you to meet—”