The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  He tore from his shadow, his dark blade carving through the soft leather on the legs of the nearest human. Yet, now he was surrounded. He had to be careful, weaving within the web of ever changing shadows of the melee. One false meld and he’d be caught. Done.

  An axe sped towards his face. Dukoona sunk his legs into a shadow to drop under it. He heard a satisfying squelch as the axe continued into the human behind him. He travelled under the axe wielder’s legs, sprang up on the other side, knocking men and women aside, and drove his sword through an exposed throat.

  Other spectres had been forced to fight in the open as well, melding as fast as they could so as not to be swarmed. One was caught within his shadow and axe cleaved below the surface of the ground to crack at a head that could not be seen.

  “Spread out to fight them,” one of the humans roared. Quickly, the flickering shadows on the ground grew further apart. Dukoona spotted the one calling orders and made for him. He seemed young, a little stocky, but was quick and raised his shield against Dukoona’s dark blade. Dukoona’s swing rebounded off a metal coating. “This one is mine,” the boy called.

  “Lord Grigayne, stay back!”

  Dukoona fell back as the boy lowered his shield and rammed him. He melded into the shadow of the shield, taking Grigayne in the chin as he rose. They were so close. Dukoona’s cold tendrils of blue flame lapped at Grigayne’s face. He switched from his shadow blade to a dagger instead, the weapon morphing in his hand.

  He raised the dagger.

  He tried to bring it down.

  And felt a ferocious blunt blow at his side. Knocked off balance, the dagger scraped into the meat of the boy’s shoulder rather than somewhere more fatal. Grigayne screamed, drawing back the butt of his axe from Dukoona’s side. Dukoona melded away, under the boy and reappeared behind him. Somehow, the human managed to turn in time to block him.

  He was fast and strong this one; he would have to be to carry that reinforced shield. Yet Grigayne’s wound would end him and he raised that shield a little lower with each strike Dukoona sent. And then two spectres emerged, grinning their white smiles.

  Dukoona did not recognise the newcomers.

  That was odd.

  Only the Trusted had been brought to Dalridia; he was certain. It might have been the shock that prevented Dukoona reacting to the dark sword coming towards him. The grinning spectre locked eyes with him under hair of long orange flames. Only a slip on the wet earth saved Dukoona, slicing his arm instead. The wound smoked.

  So, that’s what pain is like. I’d nearly forgotten.

  Then he reacted.

  The second grinning spectre lunged for him. Dukoona jerked aside then caught the arm of his foe and dragged the spectre onto his dagger. Smoke rose, the grin faded. He threw the body at the first traitor, buying time to switch to his sword. The blade materialised in a whirl of shadows just in time to meet his enemy’s weapon. Dukoona pushed with all his might, enough to tilt bend the arms of his foe and impale the spectre upon his own blade.

  With the immediate threat over he looked around. Grigayne and humans had pulled away from the spectre infighting. The demons themselves had begun to fight each other Dukoona reached to those nearby and gave the order, To me. Many scuttled to his side, yet many also continued killing each other, ignoring the humans entirely.

  They’re getting conflicting orders.

  Spectres were melding in and out of the battle, but they moved so fast he couldn’t say if they were friend or foe. Those that leapt for him were clear enough. He knew none of them, they weren’t Trusted, but killing them was a blow to him all the same.

  Is this how you get rid of us, Rectar? Watching me kill my own kind? Does that please you? But Rectar’s power was elsewhere. He wasn’t even glancing in Dukoona’s direction. Were these traitors acting of their own accord?

  A fresh group of spectres emerged from the shadows and Dukoona had never been more thankful to see those guttering purple embers. Kidrian and members of the Trusted came to his aid. Before long, the traitorous spectres were smoking on the ground and the demons ceased fighting each other. Kidrian looked after the retreating humans, ready to give chase.

  “Let them go,” Dukoona said. “Keep the demons advancing but all Trusted are to fall back. Now.”

  Miles to the east, with the Nail Head rising behind them, Dukoona gathered his closest Trusted atop the Shadow Spire they had built upon landing. It was smaller, and squatter than the tower back on Eastguard but served well enough. Many galleys sat empty at the coast, their demons either dead, dying or continuing to press Dalridia. Dukoona had ordered the rest to stay on their ships until he got a grip on things. As ever, he needed time to think but it seemed time had finally run out.

  “Who were they?” he asked. No one answered. “I made it clear that I wanted no spectre who we did not trust to sail with us.”

  “Perhaps they came from Skelf,” Kidrian said. “Longboats landed to the north of the city to reinforce the defenders. Spectres could have travelled on them, melded away out of sight.”

  “So Kraz is dead?” asked Sonrid, shuffling forward eagerly.

  “We have no idea what’s happened on Skelf,” said Kidrian.

  “We need to know,” said Dukoona. “If those spectres were only seeking revenge for being sent on a suicide mission with Kraz then so be it. The alternative is… quite unthinkable.”

  Again, no one answered.

  Then, from the bottom of the spire below, came distant growls from the guards. Kidrian peered over the edge, and then looked to Dukoona. He gave a nod and Kidrian melded away to investigate. Dukoona paced, painfully aware that all eyes were on him: they were looking to him to tell them the answers, but he had none.

  Has Rectar, at last, decided to remove me? If so, what do I do? What can I do?

  An old haunting memory crept up on him, of when he had first been summoned – a memory of an endless cavern, with demons all around. The demons had charged at him and nothing he had done could stop them. “Know you cannot hope to turn my servants against me,” Rectar had told him.

  Even the spectres, my own kind, are his servants. Perhaps I could never have turned any against him?

  Kidrian emerged from the shadows and Dukoona stopped his pacing. “Trusted have returned to us from the west.”

  “From the west?” Dukoona said. He had been forced to send spectres to Castallan years ago. “Bring them up.” Kidrian disappeared again and returned shortly later with a score of spectres. Of the new arrivals, Dukoona recognised the leader with thick, scarlet flames on his head. “Nordin,” he said, dragging out the spectre’s name in disbelief. “It has been a very long time.”

  “I regret that we did not leave sooner,” said Nordin in a voice like an angry gale of wind. “Less of our brothers might have needlessly died.”

  “Why are you here now?” Dukoona asked. “Your timing is both a pleasant surprise and yet, it is also suspicious.” He caught Kidrian’s eye and he drew a blade from the shadows in case of danger. Other Trusted followed suit.

  “We would have come sooner,” Nordin said nervously. “We have come because the Dragon King slew the human who kept us down, who sent us in for a slaughter at the town of Torridon.”

  “Slaughter?” Dukoona said. “How many of you remain now.”

  “Just over one hundred, my Lord.”

  Just one hundred, out of the three hundred I sent west…

  “Then we shall take a moment, for the loss of so many spectres,” Dukoona said. He closed his eyes as did all the Trusted. After a minute, he opened them. “Our people are dying; being sent to death or turning on each other. We are too few now, too few to last another war. Who was this human that you allowed to treat our brothers so, Nordin?”

  “My Lord, forgive me, but there was little any of us could do. Castallan’s magic turned them into men and women with glowing red eyes who could match a dragon’s strength. The wizard’s favoured Commander Zarl was the strongest of them all. There w
ere so few of us, there was nothing we could have done. For years, there was no fighting and it mattered little, but then came Cold Point. And Torridon. And finally, the Charred Vale.

  “We did what we could; tried to abandon Zarl and let the demons turn rabid. But each time some of us fled, some of us would pay. At the Charred Vale, Darnuir defeated Zarl and so we took our chance.”

  “And the wizard?” Dukoona asked.

  “Dead, for all we care,” Nordin said. “The Three Races were moving to destroy him.”

  “Then the dragons will not be far behind,” Dukoona said.

  “I couldn’t say, my Lord,” said Nordin, and his voice petered out in some deep exhaustion. Not a physical tiredness, spectres did not tire. But something in Nordin and the spectres with him looked worn. Their flaming hair was dim and the shadows of their flesh were thin; more like steam than flesh. He caught Kidrian’s eye again and nodded. Kidrian dispersed his weapon with a wave of his fingers and all the weapons among the Trusted began to vanish. “I am glad that you have returned, Nordin. We shall need every spectre – every ounce of cunning. All has not been well in the east and all those gathered here should now know.”

  Kidrian stepped forwards. “Are you sure, my Lord?”

  “I am,” Dukoona said. “How did you describe these humans, Nordin? That their eyes were red? Another red creature attacked our kind near Kar’drun not so long ago. These things must be linked. The Master does not need us. We’ve become disposable. Sent to these islands to block his enemies, perhaps to buy him more time.”

  And even as he spoke, the truth of it dawned on him. He had after all been sending Rectar what he had wanted for decades. And what his Master had desired was dragons.

  “I don’t want to give him time,” Dukoona said. “We’re going back to Aurisha.”

  “What of the demons?” Kidrian asked.

  “Leave those already ashore. Those still on board their ships will come with us. It may pass as a tactical retreat to Rectar if it looks like we are trying to split the Three Races.”

  “And those on the other islands?” Sonrid asked. “Our brethren at Eastguard, Skelf, Ronra—”

  “All the spectres that I care about are here,” Dukoona said. “Leave the False to serve the Master a little longer.”

  Blaine – The Splintering Isles – Approaching Dalridia

  At the bow of the Grey Fury, Blaine looked to the swathe of demons upon the shore. They were another sea, one black and burning, ebbing and crashing against the battered walls of Dalridia. There was no order to them, but there were thousands, stretching as far as Blaine could see.

  One more battle and then I tell Darnuir everything.

  It was those memories which, had they not been locked away in his gems, might have haunted him every night. He clutched tightly at the chain around his neck, the terrible evidence of what he suspected. Kroener, the betrayer, the cursed, and Darnuir’s father had gone to the Highlands, how else could the trolls have come by the necklace? Two had journeyed northwards but only one had returned. Why that was, he would likely never know. But what happened after, he would never forget.

  “Are you ready?” Darnuir said, stepping up behind him. The boy was in full armour and his crimson cloak had been repaired. It fit him well; better even than his father and far more than Draconess.

  Was it all a mistake? Or is this what the gods intended?

  “Blaine?” Darnuir said.

  “I am ready.”

  “If you do not wish to fight… if you are still uneasy after the Bast—”

  “I’m fine,” Blaine said. It was only half a lie. Physically he was sound.

  “You’ve been quiet of late,” said Darnuir. Their ship was now approaching the shore, its shallow hull enabling it to draw right up to the beach.

  “The Cascade will not abandon me here,” Blaine said. He knew now that was the reason he’d suffered at the Bastion, but it was of small comfort. He’d felt life without magic, without his Blade propping up his aged body. What he couldn’t be certain of was whether the gods would abandon him.

  Perhaps they abandoned me long ago.

  “The city stands,” Somerled Imar boomed proudly from the portside. “My son has held the demon filth at bay.”

  “Good,” Darnuir said, drawing the Dragon’s Blade and spinning it in his hand. “Let’s help him kill them.”

  The Grey Fury beached and men and dragons leapt off over the deck rail. The dragons had removed their armour from their lower bodies to wade through the shallow water. Blaine jumped off with his Light Bearers, Darnuir on the other side with his Praetorians. Hundreds more ships followed in behind them.

  The demons didn’t seem to know what to do about the landing. Blaine cut through them, the Guardian’s Blade fighting the servants of the Shadow once more. It seemed too easy.

  Where are the spectres?

  “Make safe the city!” Darnuir cried sweeping westwards and rallying dragons to him.

  Blaine scored kill after kill; the demons were numerous and vicious, but lacked any direction. He sensed a trap, a false feeling of security. He kept his Light Bearers close and alert, worried that a huge demon fleet might approach from the rear. But nothing came. And the demons were pushed off the beaches, up the land, into the woods, right up against the slope of the Nail Head itself and were crushed there.

  It was good that the victory was so complete. After the Bastion, the men needed a win with less of a toll. Blaine basked in the blow they had dealt to Rectar’s forces, yet it was a fleeting feeling. The battle had not been as cathartic as he’d hoped. His mind turned again to the conversation he must have with Darnuir: his King, and his grandson.

  Chapter 19

  A DISH HARD TO STOMACH

  Out of every major settlement of humans and dragons, I feel most at home in Dalridia. The islanders’ earthern halls are closer to nature than anything in Brevia or Aurisha. There may not be trees but the humans of the Splinters show a deep respect and connection to the world. If only it wasn’t so wet.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Darnuir – East of Dalridia

  DARNUIR LOOKED UP to the top of the strange tower, shielding his eyes against the drizzling rain. It was nothing like he had ever seen before, in this life or his last. He wasn’t sure whether to even call it a tower, for it lacked any enclosed space. A multitude of wooden beams criss-crossed upwards to a flat platform under an open sky. The spectres must have built it, yet the spectres had all fled.

  They keep on fleeing. Why? Why don’t the wretches stand and fight?

  He’d enjoyed the battle, enjoyed the feeling of magic in him. The days spent at sea had been dry for he’d had no excuse to draw upon the Cascade. He needed it now. Needed to feel like he had in Castallan’s throne room. It wasn’t a feeling he relished, and Darnuir feared he was fighting a losing battle with himself.

  Each day it was harder to resist. Each day he yearned a little more for it. And each crucial decision he had to make became harder to focus on, for his mind was often elsewhere. He didn’t know who to turn to on the matter. Blaine was acting strangely and would only rebuke him. Brackendon was broken, a terrible sign of what might come to pass. What can I do? We’re in the middle of a war. It can’t be delayed just to help me. And if I let them know I’m in this state, they won’t follow me. In this struggle, he could only rely on himself.

  Darnuir congratulated himself on his small achievements in this regard. It had been a challenge, for example, to grant Grigayne Imar the honour of destroying the spectre’s mysterious tower. It would have made a good excuse to drawn on magic.

  To Darnuir’s right, Grigayne grunted through the pain in his shoulder and slammed his great war axe down in a two handed grip. It bit deeply into the wood of a supporting beam. Several hacks later and the beam split with a satisfying crack. His men roared in approval and began attacking the tower as well. A groaning soon followed as the first of the twisting walls came crashing down. Darnuir’s golden armour w
as already filthy so he didn’t mind the fresh splatter of mud.

  “Foul thing,” said Grigayne jerking a thumb at the wreckage. His reddish hair was pulled back into a knot and the finer hairs of his beard rolled around his face like the froth atop a great wave.

  “A foul thing for foul creatures,” Darnuir said. “Your defence of your lands has been nothing short of heroic.”

  “Has it?” Grigayne said, a touch of frost in his tone.

  “I’m sorry we did not arrive sooner.”

  “We’ve lost Eastguard, Ronra and Skelf after I had to pull my warriors back to defend Dalridia,” Grigayne lamented. “The demons sailed right around Ullusay. Took us by surprise here. There are some smaller villages east of the Nail Head, well there were...”

  “Demons burned my home,” Darnuir said. “There is nothing left in the Boreac Mountains now.”

  Grigayne nodded wearily. “Rebuilding will be especially hard with winter on the way.”

  “The demons will be driven back,” Darnuir said.

  “You dragons never seemed capable of driving them back before,” Grigayne said. “Why will this time be any different?”

  “Because something is amiss with our enemies,” Darnuir said.

  “I saw that first hand,” Grigayne said. He frowned in some thought. “While I was fighting one of them – a tough bastard with blue flames – more spectres appeared around me. I thought I was done for. But then, they started to fight each other instead.”

  “What happened next?” Darnuir asked, intrigued by this new development.

  “The one with the blue flames was the target. I disengaged due to my injury and to reform our shield wall. Once one side of the spectres won they vanished. All of them, though the demons did not descend into madness at that point.”

  “Something similar happened at the Charred Vale,” Darnuir said. “They fled the battle and left the demons rabid. The same thing allowed us an easy victory here.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” said Darnuir. “Only their leader could tell us.”