The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  Signal. Yes.

  Darnuir slid his foot off the Dragon’s Blade and it flew back to his hand. Heat rose like a furnace in his throat and he raised the Dragon’s Blade, sending a thin stream of fire high into the air. He held it for a good half minute.

  When he let go and shut the door, it was all he could do not to be sick.

  Lira tossed him a waterskin, which he gulped down too quickly, nearly choking. He swirled another swig around his mouth and spat, but the bitterness stubbornly clung on. His tongue felt drier than dust. The Dragon’s Blade was smoking, as was the dragonhead of his armour. Rusty demon blood dribbled from its teeth, looking like it had spewed a fire of its own. Clutching to the Dragon’s Blade to process the poison, he slumped against the edge of the trench, looking out to sea. The water churned under thousands of oars.

  Lira stepped cautiously towards him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was like a frightened child.

  “It’s the magic, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “You haven’t been right since the Charred Vale,” Lira said. “I tried to—”

  “I know you did,” he said weakly.

  She remained standing. Keeping a distance between them.

  “I could barely control myself.”

  “Did the job, though. I think half the demons fell because of you.” Despite what he’d almost done to her, she looked concerned for him. She looked him up and down, then turned to check on the demon side of their trench. “They’re backing away for now.”

  Further down the trench, some of the Praetorians let loose a few arrows after them.

  “You were right,” Darnuir said. “This was too risky. I chased the fight because I was desperate for a reason to use magic.”

  She crouched down.

  “I saw those spectres waving us along. I heard that one tell you to come. The demons threw themselves at us, but like sheep to the slaughter. Whatever the reason the spectres want you to follow them, badly. We’ll just have to keep deaths to a minimum.” She stalked off.

  Ragged breathing and the sound of clanking plate announced Raymond. Darnuir watched him limp along and remove his helmet to reveal his face, which was slick with sweat.

  “Tired, my Lord of Dragons?”

  “Come take a breather, Chevalier,” Darnuir said. He took another long gulp of water as Raymond sat down beside him. “If this keeps up it’s going to be a very long road to Aurisha.”

  Chapter 26

  A SIGN

  I wish to know more about the Guardians and their Light Bearers. The current incarnation of the Order lacks purpose since the end of hostilities with the Black Dragons. Now there is peace, perhaps the Guardians can find a more positive role – one that aims to better the whole world, not just dragons. Already there is talk of a promising young Light Bearer. I hear his fellows call him ‘Blaine’ due to the fire of his zeal. If this Blaine becomes Guardian one day, I can only hope he grows to be a wiser dragon than some of his predecessors.

  From Tiviar’s private notes

  Blaine – Dalridia

  SOMERLED’S HALL WAS quiet. There was little talk to cover the chewing and grinding of teeth. The fire burned as lowly as their spirits. The whisky racks lacked their amber glow.

  Blaine raised his maimed and trembling hand, trying to feed himself with great effort. He took a small bite from the chicken leg, rolled the cold, dry meat around in his mouth without pleasure and slowly swallowed. His stomach turned and he felt cold sweat on his scalp. He reached for his water, awkwardly taking the tankard in a four-fingered grip. It was almost to his lips when he dropped it, spilling water all over the table. What few Light Bearers remained with him tended to the mess while one hastily refilled the tankard.

  Across the hall, Grigayne Imar glared at him. He’d suffered a cut across his cheek that had decimated his beard on that side and would surely leave a long scar. When he caught Blaine’s eye he drained his mug and slammed it down, so all the hall could see, before storming outside. Somerled avoided eye contact altogether. He had not climbed to the top of his rock tonight.

  “Lord Guardian, you should eat something more,” one of the Light Bearers said.

  “I have no appetite,” said Blaine. “Leave me.” He then realised that only two had remained for any length of time. When they left, Blaine was alone at the table.

  He was done, he knew that. He no longer had what it took to be Guardian. Perhaps he never had.

  “You shouldn’t sit alone,” came Fidelm’s deep tones. “Is that gash under your chin fresh?”

  “Cut myself shaving,” Blaine mumbled.

  The General sat down beside him and Blaine lacked the energy to protest. He let Fidelm take his right hand for inspection. “Are you using your Blade to help heal the wound?”

  “I don’t deserve to use its power,” Blaine said. He hadn’t touched his sword since sheathing it on the beach on Eastguard.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Fidelm.

  Blaine pulled his hand away and tucked it out of sight under the table.

  “At least allow me to apply a paste of silver bark and leaves,” Fidelm said.

  “No. This is a pain I must endure.”

  “There is no need to suffer,” said Fidelm.

  “I was a fool and — and Bacchus was right about me.”

  “Look at me.” Fidelm grabbed him and forced Blaine to face him. “You should have waited for our full forces. Even so, it’s war. Defeats are inevitable as well as victories and we had a lucky string of those behind us.”

  “I threw lives away. Fairy lives too. Aren’t you angry?”

  “I’m always angry with you,” Fidelm said. “A deep, burning fury that I learned to cope with long ago.”

  “What on earth do you —”

  “One Queen, one child, Blaine,” Fidelm said. “My race was doomed long ago. The least you can do is not allow this all to be for nothing.” He got up and spoke louder. “Most of the remaining Third Legion left an hour ago, heading towards the Nail Head. If you can no longer do this, pass the Blade on to someone who can.” He stretched his wings, beat once then took off, flying through the smoke hole in the centre of the roof.

  Blaine stumbled through the dark and misty drizzle back to his tent outside the city. Somerled had not been as inviting this time around. He tried to strip his armour. It was so heavy. The oversized suns felt as if they were crushing his shoulders. His useless hand fumbled and slipped at the knot, jarring the stub of his missing finger against the starium coating. A choking gasp of pain left him, and he almost missed the wheezy cough from the entranceway.

  “They’ve all left with Bacchus for service at the Nail Head,” Chelos said. He’d recovered enough to walk freely now. At least that was something amongst all Blaine’s misery.

  “I know that, I’m not blind,” Blaine said, more cruelly than he meant. “Wait,” he pleaded. “I am sorry, my friend. Could you give an old dragon a hand with his armour?” With a wrinkled, thin smile, Chelos came to his aid.

  “They’ll come back, you know,” he said, tugging at a strap at Blaine’s shoulder.

  “Why should they?” said Blaine. He tried to help Chelos by holding the rivets of plate still. Chelos’ waxy skin brushed over his own. It felt overly soft, malleable and frail like a silk sheet.

  So, weak, yet I am weaker.

  Together they freed Blaine from his metal cage. With the removal of each piece, he sighed in relief as his skin felt the kiss of cold air. He donned a fresh white shirt and washed his face at the basin though he was unable to cup his right hand properly. Water leaked from the gap of his lost appendage and he reluctantly switched to his left hand. It took far longer than it ought to and foolishly he’d gotten his bandages wet. Changing those would have been impossible without Chelos’ help.

  “What does he say to them?” Blaine asked.

  “You should go and hear for yourself,” Chelos said.

  “I’m afraid,” Blaine said.
>
  “Why? Because you’ve taken one little knock,” Chelos said. “You faced a god and lived.”

  “I’m afraid because our gods have deserted me,” Blaine said. “How can I face Rectar again if I cannot even win back one small island?”

  “And will Bacchus do any better?” Chelos asked. “Darnuir still needs you. You’ll face Rectar together.”

  “I can hardly grip my sword,” Blaine said.

  “I never dreamed I’d see you like this,” Chelos said. “It would break Draconess’ heart if he were still alive.”

  “But he isn’t,” Blaine said. “He failed. We failed. I failed. It’s time I stop pretending I have the grace of the Light. I have nothing left now.”

  “You’ll do what you think is right of course,” Chelos said. “But think hard, Blaine. I’d hate if after all this time, after all this struggle, you just gave up. I’d hate to never see the Basilica in its full glory again.” Chelos took a moment to press a fist into his own back. There was a crack and he sighed in relief.

  “Chelos, if I give up the Blade, I don’t know how long—”

  “Blaine, don’t you dare —”

  “Goodbye, old friend. Just in case,” Blaine said. He took Chelos by the shoulder and then stepped forward to an embrace. “Thank you for believing in me all these years. You will learn to place faith in another.” He took his leave, lacking the strength to look back at Chelos as he left.

  The stars and moon were bright enough to see by. He wouldn’t draw the Guardian’s Blade save for the final time. He was sure he could see where Bacchus was holding his congregation by the fire glow someway up the lower slope of the Nail Head. Blaine traipsed towards the base of the mountain, glad to reach the woodland of birch trees and inhale the scent of leaves, of moss, of wildness; to hear the warbling song of the night birds and have the time to savour it. A sense of calm had come over him. This at least he could not fail at.

  This close to a Principal Mountain many of the birches had an odd black branch or a silver dusting to their narrow white trunks. In his state of clarity, he could almost sense the Cascade in the air and ground, where it had seeped into leaf or insect. A slight swell formed from behind the door in his mind. It almost seemed to call to him for he heard something, ever so faint, like a distant whisper carried on a light breeze.

  Not now Blaine…

  But it was likely just the wind. It was so quiet out here at night. The sea still roared despite being so far away, as though in constant battle with the land. He heard it even as he climbed the Nail Head, heading towards the orange haze. The incline was steeper than he had anticipated, and after a while his calves began to burn. The fact he felt the exertion only proved his time was over.

  Finally, he reached them all. Bacchus had formed his congregation in the shelter of a mini-valley between the jagged slopes of the Nail Head. Three large braziers lit the clearing, one of which stood at the head of the crowd. A sole dark silhouette moved beside it. The golden armour of the dragons glittered brightly. Blaine quietly descended to join them, half-sliding on soft earth. As he approached the back of the crowd, Blaine paused for half a heartbeat.

  I must do what is right.

  Then he took a very deliberate step forward.

  And he took another.

  Bacchus was projecting his voice well, reaching even Blaine at the back with clarity.

  “The Lord Guardian vanished for years and we suffered. He returns, we suffer still. He withdraws from us, shaken from his first real battle in decades to spend his days with an old dragon none of us know.”

  “What are you saying, Bacchus?” someone called.

  “I’m saying that we deserve a stronger Guardian. Dwna, Dwl’or and N’weer deserve a stronger Guardian. Light must be brought back into the world. The Shadow has grown dark indeed. It’s touched the hearts of wizards and humans; it’s lain across our homeland unchecked for twenty years. What I am saying is hard to hear, but I do it out of love for every dragon. It might be time for change.”

  Blaine hadn’t stopped moving. He gently eased his way through the congregation. Soon the dragons were parting for him, creating a road directly to Bacchus. When he made it to the front, he stepped out, turned and faced thousands of twinkling yellow eyes.

  “It is the Guardian who decides when to pass the Blade on,” Blaine said. “It has always been this way. Through millennia, long before demons ever crawled into our world.”

  “None of us can remember such a time,” Bacchus said. “All we’ve known is war and death and endless demons.” There was much agreement at this from the crowd.

  “The Guardian has always decided,” Blaine said again. With some difficulty he took hold of the hilt of the Guardian’s Blade. His grip felt weak and clumsy but he drew it out and held it high. He looked to Bacchus and the Light Bearer took a careful step back, perhaps fearing that Blaine would strike him down. Blaine did bring the Blade down, with all the might still left to him and thrust it into the earth at Bacchus’ feet.

  “But I am no longer fit to be Guardian,” Blaine said. “If this is your will then I shall pass the mantle on. Bacchus, you may take the Guardian’s Blade. I grant it to you without reservation. Only the gods themselves can object now. And if our Lords Dwna, Dwl’or and N’weer do not wish this, then I ask them for a sign.”

  He let go of the Guardian’s Blade.

  He turned his back on it.

  The dragons in front of him turned wide-eyed and fearful.

  Light, purest most radiant light, began emanating from behind him. Blaine watched his own silhouette cast forwards in a dark shadow. His arm shook though he felt no rush down it. Then came a strident cry like a hundred dying owls. He went deaf.

  His shadow darkened as the light from behind grew brighter. And his breath caught in his throat. Invisible cords constricted his neck and tightened their control, suffocating him.

  Is this how I die?

  Something was clogging his mouth and Blaine recovered enough wit to spit saliva, thick and blue. The light intensified, growing so bright it removed his shadow altogether.

  It is a sign!

  Spinning, he faced the source of the blinding light and squeezed his eyes shut against it.

  If this is truly a sign, it will not harm me.

  He opened his eyes and searing pain did not come. His skin prickled as though bathed in the summer sun and a childish vitality returned to his muscles and joints; his mind felt clear and alert. In that moment, he forgot what tiredness was. He forgot all memory of hunger. He forgot pain.

  Grasping, Blaine’s hand found the pommel and slid down to take the handle. He gripped it strongly and pulled the Guardian’s Blade free.

  His arm seared then, as though dipped in molten steel, and the world darkened. Braziers went out, even the moon and stars, as all light in the world was sucked into the Blade. It held for a heartbeat in which Blaine heard a voice.

  It is not yet time to give in. Never forget our power, Guardian.

  Then, with the boom of a thousand powder barrels, the light radiated out in a single golden wave. Blaine watched it race to the horizon before it passed from sight. Slowly, the moon and stars returned and Blaine looked to the crowded dragons. Many had averted their eyes, crouching down and facing away. Those brave enough to turn back gawked at him, flexing their fingers as if they had felt the same freshening of their bodies. Others looked stark white as though they’d also heard what he had.

  Bacchus traipsed up beside him. “I heard a voice in my mind,” he whispered. “It told me, ‘It is not your time. It will never be. Never forget our power, Bacchus.’”

  “And we never shall,” Blaine assured him quietly. His finger was still missing but the gods had made themselves clear. He turned to the dragons assembled there and cried, “Never forget. How could we now? Never forget!”

  When next they landed on Eastguard, things went very differently. The gods favoured them with the weather, driving back the wind and rain, if not completely ba
nishing autumn’s cold. Despite heavy resistance, the demons folded swiftly under the new fury of the Third legion. On the beach, in the overgrown streets of the town of Errin, at the foot of the great twisted spire, Blaine’s dragons were a white-hot knife of the gods.

  The humans and fairies were out there, somewhere, helping however they could. But he and the Third did not need them.

  Even among the shadows of the spectres’ mighty construction, the dragons did not falter. This was the reward for faith, for zeal; this was why they, dragons, were the Light’s own chosen.

  Blaine waded in. He stopped a spectre mid-meld with an intense beam from the Guardian’s Blade, obliterating the shadow in which the creature hoped to flee. He kept the light aglow at all times, embracing the burn down his arm, spitting on the face of each spectre he killed to rid the bitterness from his mouth.

  Before long they were running up the rickety walkway of the spire. Blaine guessed it was there for regular demons to climb. But it was precarious and weak, cracking under the weight of armoured dragons. Blaine was forced into a Cascade enhanced jump to hurdle a widening gap. No one else could make it. He saw a Light Bearer try, fall, and descend three storeys to the battle still raging below.

  “Return and kill every demon you find,” Blaine called to them. “I shall flush out the devils at the top.” He continued his charge upwards. From this height, the jagged extensions to the town of Errin looked like a thicket of thorn bushes. Arrows filled the air from the Brevian forces who had finally joined the fight, their spearmen crawling up from the beaches, too far away to make any real difference. The islanders fought better, their axes rising and falling like shiny teeth. They pushed into the town at points where the Third had stormed passed

  Blaine climbed higher.

  A spectre with shoulder-length orange flames burst from a shadow to his side, howling with the full-blown shrillness of the insane. Blaine spun, quicker than a viper, and caught the spectre by its throat. He squeezed. The orange flames went out. A cloud of smoke puffed up as Blaine dumped the body. Nothing else tried to stop him before he reached the top.