The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “They aren’t beasts,” Darnuir said. “No more than humans think dragons to be.”

  “For all I know, they might have been,” said Blaine. “When I asked Ochnic, all he would say was ‘Da chieftains know dis, not I’.”

  “Did you ask nicely? Or did you grunt and call him troll?” Darnuir asked. Blaine narrowed his eyes at the boy but it was Chelos who spoke.

  “You should be more respectful,” he wheezed. “Blaine is your equal.”

  “And so, I shall speak to him as I will,” Darnuir said. “Cassandra loves you dearly Chelos and that speaks volumes. Don’t give me a reason to find fault with you now. This tale is one of mistake after mistake, of bad assumptions and your Order gone wrong. Be on with it. I fear it will only get worse before the end.”

  Blaine did not have a rebuke this time.

  This is not the same Darnuir I met at Torridon. And the more I tell him, the worse it will get. Still, I must go on.

  The hardest truth of all for Blaine was that Darnuir might be right. Yet, like a poison, the past had to be drawn out.

  “Without news of his son, King Dalthrak feared the worse,” Blaine said. “His sickness deepened and Draconess and I began preparations for a regency. You were only a baby and, as you well know, the Dragon’s Blade will not pass until you are of age. Even as we were deciding how to proceed, legion upon legion trudged back to Aurisha. Battered and spent, the legates told us that Kroener had demanded they travel with him into the depths of Kar’drun. When many refused, Kroener had called them heretics or Shadow sympathisers. Fighting broke out and those loyal to Kroener remained. Rumours spread that Kroener had an unnatural power since returning from the north.”

  “You think it was the Champion’s Blade?” Darnuir asked.

  “I’m sure it was,” said Blaine.

  “But how?” Darnuir said hoarsely. “How could he have been ‘worthy’? And how does Rectar come into this?”

  “Something must have happened when Kroener entered Kar’drun,” Blaine said. “The Black Dragons always said that when one enters the mountain, someone else comes out.”

  Blaine’s hands were shaking now. He clasped them together, rubbing them to try and ease the tremors.

  “Arlandra stayed strong for you but I could tell a part of her had died,” Blaine continued. Each word was a knife in him. “No smile could cover it up. I promised her I’d make Kroener pay if he was to blame. Then one night, without warning, he returned. He and his companions kept their faces covered with crimson hoods. When word reached me in the Basilica he had already entered the Royal Tower. I tore across the plaza but fighting had already broken out. When I arrived in your mother’s room, you were gone. And Arlandra was. She was—”

  “You don’t have to talk about it, Blaine,” Darnuir said.

  “It’s not quite what you think. I mourn still, of course, but the memory of that day is locked in my gem here.” He pointed to the topmost white jewel on the hilt of the Guardian’s Blade. “Whilst it is in there, I cannot remember the events other than as a vague impression, like the ghost of a dream.”

  “I remember what you told me,” Chelos said from his corner. “How you confronted Kroener in the King’s chambers. Darnuir was in his arms, you said. You must have just saved Dalthrak from being murdered.”

  “That’s right, and as I tried to reason with him, he only said that, ‘The one you see is dead. The child will be mine. I am Rectar. The Shadow will fall over your world’.”

  “And then you fought him,” Chelos said, his voice a strange mix of youthful awe and hardened pain. “I watched you from up high in the Royal Tower.”

  “Down through the tower and out onto the plaza,” Blaine said. “The hardest battle I have ever fought. Near enough killed me, drawing on that much Cascade. I thought I might break.”

  “Well, you didn’t lose,” Darnuir said.

  “I didn’t win either.”

  Darnuir leant forward and blew out his cheeks. “You think Kroener must have the Champion’s Blade because he fought you to a standstill. Seems to me you could look into that memory of yours and see whether it is the right sword.”

  “I haven’t relived it in such a long time,” said Blaine. His hand was shaking so violently now that he could barely fumble his fingers on the gemstones.

  “Stop,” Darnuir said. “There’s no need.” He got to his feet, moved to Blaine’s side and took his hand in a firm grip. “What happened after this duel?”

  “I returned to Dalthrak’s side. Draconess was there, injured from the battle in the Royal Tower, but not fatally so. I summoned Chelos to attend as well.”

  “A witness to the King’s Will,” Chelos said.

  “Only it wasn’t exactly the will of the King, was it?” Darnuir said. He did not break eye contact and Blaine held it. It was a punishing stare with barely room to breathe between them.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Blaine said. “Dalthrak wished for a standard regency. Draconess would have the Dragon’s Blade until you came of age and no longer. Whilst Draconess had the sword its power would naturally dim, as it was not in the hands of the rightful king. Yet, rather than the Blade simply passing upon your twentieth year, we altered the wording so that Draconess would hold onto the sword—”

  “Until such time as my rightful heir is fit to rule,” Chelos recited. “More open to interpretation. Dalthrak sealed it with a drop of his blood.”

  Blaine sniffed and tried to fight back more tears. “The Blades are linked. I hoped that by weakening the Dragon’s Blade I would also weaken the Champion’s Blade, and thus Rectar. I took the armour of the King with me. For without the full power of a Blade, Draconess couldn’t wear it. I thought it would buy us some time, and prepare you.”

  “It might have,” said Darnuir, “but it may also have dragged out the war. Why did Draconess not pass the sword along? Why put such a condition on my receiving it?”

  “Because we had been wrong about Kroener,” Blaine said. “I had, Dalthrak had, Draconess had, and many legions of dragons had. I should have known better than to let one with such a temperament take charge of any army. We had to see whether you would do better.”

  “Draconess raised you in the Light of Dwna, Dwl’or and N’weer,” said Chelos. “But you proved resistant to the teachings. A hot-headed, rebellious young man.”

  “Was there ever a time when Draconess considered granting me the sword?”

  “There was an occasion or two…” Chelos said. “I think he despaired of ever passing the Blade along after the incident with Castallan. That is when Draconess gave up, I think.”

  “You knew about that, did you?” Darnuir asked.

  “One of the few,” said Chelos. “Draconess confided in me, but even I lost touch with him during those final years. He spent more time in the Basilica than anywhere else, praying day and night.”

  “And your gods never came,” Darnuir said. “And you did not come back,” he added, jostling Blaine with his free hand. Blaine lowered his head, utterly drained. He felt more exhausted than after the battle at the Bastion. And yet, a portion of the crushing weight he had carried all these years seemed lifted.

  Darnuir was frowning. Blaine assumed the King would scold him but when Darnuir spoke, there was the softer touch of a grandson in his voice.

  “It seems to me you have been punishing yourself for eighty years. Isn’t that long enough?” And for the first time, Darnuir embraced him. A true hug, if a little awkward in their armour. “I’ll need you before the end. We all will.”

  Blaine tried to speak but the tears rolled faster and he hiccupped while trying to draw breath.

  “I’m taking our legions east,” Darnuir said. He pulled away from Blaine but still held his hand firmly. “The spectres have split their forces and the demons with them. I’m going to seize Aurisha while we have the chance and before the wilder winter winds come.”

  “I will prepare the Light Bearers,” Blaine said.

  “No,” Darnuir said.
He was not angry, just firm. “You will stay with the Third to help the humans in retaking the Splintering Isles. Come east when you are done.”

  “I would fight to retake our city,” said Blaine. “Our holy city. I must—”

  “Enough,” said Darnuir. He raised a hand towards Chelos to prevent him speaking as well. “This time I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Why are you so insistent I stay?” Blaine said.

  Darnuir hesitated. “We owe the humans our help. It will go a long way in showing our continued support if the Guardian himself remains to fight.”

  “That’s not the real reason,” Blaine said. He’d held back the whole truth for long enough to know when someone else was lying. “Don’t go chasing a fight. Don’t do what Kroener did.”

  “You will stay,” Darnuir said. As he let go of Blaine’s hand, Blaine noticed Darnuir’s was shaking. It was only a little, but enough to worry Blaine. His eyes were blinking quickly too.

  “You’re not well,” Blaine said.

  “We can’t both be absent,” Darnuir said. He placed his unsteady hand on the Dragon’s Blade and his whole body relaxed. “I’ll await you at Aurisha, grandfather.” The King moved to the door and pulled it open. Fresh air reached Blaine’s face like a splash of cold water. Before he left, Darnuir looked over his shoulder. “Kasselle is my grandmother, isn’t she? That’s why you hid there for so long.”

  “She is,” Blaine said.

  I don’t think you should come back…

  “I am sorry, Blaine,” Darnuir said. Then he left.

  A week after Darnuir left, the first of Arkus’ forces, along with Fidelm’ fairies arrived, having retaken the island of Skelf en route. Blaine found himself attending a celebratory feast in Somerled Imar’s great hall.

  “Tae retaking our lands!” cried the Lord of the Isles.

  “Tae retaking our lands!” the cheering crowd responded. Each islander, man and woman, raised a glass and drained a dram of whisky. Imar himself stood atop the outcrop of rock, nodding happily as he let the furore die down.

  The humans were growing wilder with each toast. Many dragons in attendance were slow on capon, slumped forwards with glazed eyes. Somerled had not offered it to Blaine and the Light Bearers. Further down the table, Bacchus held a lively court with some of Blaine’s best men. Those closer to Blaine were all taking short shallow breaths to try and avoid the alluring smell of the capon, Blaine included. The heat didn’t help. The air was close and so thick with the smell of alcohol it felt strangling. His white linen shirt clung to him with sweat.

  The roaring of the humans finally quietened.

  “With the help of our neighbours from the mainland, of course,” Somerled continued. “And the fairies and the dragons as well. We should make a toast to ’em.” He looked towards Blaine. “Lord Guardian, might ye join me?”

  The hall burst into a murmuring of agreement at this request. Few of the dragons joined in, being so content with their meal. Nor did the Light Bearers at his table react much, forcing themselves to maintain composure. Bacchus leaned forward, watching Blaine with a hawkish interest.

  I’m still the Guardian, boy.

  Blaine rose and walked over to the base of the rock. He’d entertain Somerled this novelty, even if he disliked the man. Serving up roasted rooster was a threat in Blaine’s eyes; not a treat like some dragons felt. But he’d hold his tongue for the sake of the relationship between their people. Darnuir was right on that much, they needed humanity’s help now. More than Blaine cared to let Imar know.

  “There’s a good sport,” Somerled said as Blaine rounded the base of the rock and ascended the carved steps. He gave Imar the benefit of the doubt. He was probably feeling the effects of all that whisky.

  Blaine had visited the Splinters only a few times in his past, but he’d never been on top of the rock before. He first noticed that Somerled was barefoot, his feet wedged into two smooth gouges in the stone. It was the ancient coronation site of the Splintering Isles. Barefoot in the rock, it connected their kings to the land and the people.

  But there is no king of the Isles anymore, only a lord who is subject to the rule of another throne.

  Somerled was beaming at him.

  “The dragons helped save this city and our home,” Somerled said. “Now they fight fer their homes, their lands. From body to rock to land to sea, I wish their King the very best o’ luck on the battlefield.”

  The islanders thumped their tankards approvingly.

  “But the Lord Guardian remains to help us in our endeavours. His very purpose is tae rid the world of these wee devils. Why, with him and his Light Wielders—”

  “Bearers,” Blaine muttered.

  “We shall drive the demons off our islands. Send them running back tae Kar’drun. The war shall be over before winter!”

  Blaine forced a smile as another round of drinking ensued. The arrival of Fidelm and ten flyers caught Blaine’s attention. They looked so small from up here. He leant in closer to speak quietly to Somerled.

  “If I may excuse myself?”

  “Be my guest,” Somerled said in a hushed voice. Blaine turned and was about to descend the steps when Somerled lightly grabbed his arm. “You will sail as soon as possible, yes?”

  “As soon as we have the full contingent of Arkus’ fleet,” Blaine said. He shrugged his arm free. “Fidelm thinks it another week at most.”

  “Grand,” Somerled said. “Waves be at yer back.”

  Blaine nodded curtly then took the steps two at a time and swept through across the hall. Fidelm met him halfway.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Fidelm asked.

  “Immensely,” said Blaine.

  “I hope Somerled realises we aren’t ready yet,” said Fidelm.

  “He does,” said Blaine. “He is just eager to capitalise on your victory on Skelf.”

  “That was barely a fight,” said Fidelm. “The demons were fleeing the island as we arrived. Heading east. Oh look,” he said, nodding towards the tables of Light Bearers. “Some of your men are trying to subtly look at you without drawing attention to themselves.”

  Blaine looked back. Bacchus was on his feet, talking to two whole tables at once.

  “I shall deal with this,” said Blaine. “Enjoy the feast, Fidelm.”

  So many Light Bearers were listening to Bacchus that they didn’t notice Blaine returning and he caught the end of the speech. “…doesn’t seem capable anymore. We can’t afford to lose the Lord Guardian so perhaps—”

  “Don’t worry,” Blaine said. “You haven’t lost me. I’m right here.” The Light Bearers’ reactions were mixed. Some looked guilty, some looked frightened, and others still bore hard expressions as though bracing themselves for battle. “Bacchus seemed to have you all enthralled there,” Blaine added with as much injected confidence as he could muster. Truth was, he was worried by Bacchus’ growing appeal.

  I might wield the Blade, but I no longer wield their hearts.

  “Lord Guardian,” Bacchus began. “We are your Light Bearers. We look out for the faith and you are the figurehead of our belief. I was only hoping to express my concern that your recent wounds and hardships might have left you fatigued. Your leg at Inverdorn, the strain you endured in bravely storming the Bastion walls, and enduring our faithless King with such patience. And, as I was hoping to convey to my brothers, there would be no need for you to place yourself in harm’s way in the coming battles merely out of obligation. You’re too important for that.”

  “Are you insinuating that I am too weak or old?” How could they do this to me?

  “Certainly not, Lord Guardian,” Bacchus said. His tone was impeccable. Unreadable. Undeniably powerful. “You have carried burdens for longer than any of us can dream. I only suggest that you might wish to delegate some more of those duties, such as—”

  “Such as entering battle?” Blaine snapped. He glared at each Light Bearer. He didn’t have Bacchus’ gift of speech, so he drew the Guardian’s Blade
and enhanced his voice for sheer volume. “I am not as old and done as you think.” With a little help from the Cascade he jumped unnaturally high and landed upon the nearest table. Plates and tankards went flying. The entirety of the great hall was paying attention now.

  “That’s not what I saw at the Bastion,” Bacchus said, his silky voice faltering ever so slightly.

  “To lose faith in me is to lose faith in the gods,” Blaine said.

  He’d neglected a few matters of late, but nothing to deserve this. He was the Guardian. He could barely remember life before he had been the Guardian. And he had no life beyond it. No family. No lover. Only one old sick friend. Darnuir was his flesh and blood, but he was as much a stranger as anyone in this room.

  He raised the Guardian’s Blade and lit the metal of the sword until those nearby were forced to cover their eyes. This was what he had. This was all he had.

  “Allow me to rekindle your faith in me,” Blaine said. “The Third Legion will sail for Eastguard tomorrow. Will we break the demons under the light Dwna, Dwl’or and N’weer. All those who wish to sail with us may do so.”

  Fidelm was running over, waving his hands in protest. Across the hall Somerled Imar got on top of his own table and raised another glass.

  “Ah ha, there’s the fightin’ spirit of the dragons. Tae retaking our lands!” His son, Grigayne, threw back his tankard with a grim expression.

  Blaine drank in the atmosphere. He only hoped that he was right. He prayed the gods really did favour him.

  Dwl’or grant me strength. Every ounce of it you can give.

  Chapter 21

  LORD BOREAC’S MANOR

  Since the unification of the Kingdom of Brevia with the Splintering Isles, human nobles have continued to compete; not through war but instead through the size of their manor homes. When space ran out in the Velvet Circle, the ornateness of the stonework or design of the garden took over. More recently, size has come back into competition, specifically in how large a Lord or Lady might make their windows. I theorise this constant need for renovation is also due to picking a permanent place to live, rather than roam, as fairies do. You must keep changing your home or else you’ll grow bored with it.