The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “Why not just send the demons to attack?” Sonrid asked. “Get it over with. Let them die.”

  “My dear little Sonrid,” Dukoona said. “You cannot control our mindless cousins at the best of times so you won’t understand how hard it is when they are whipped up into a battle frenzy.”

  “Especially that many,” Kidrian said.

  “Many more dragons would die than we now wish,” Dukoona said.

  “So, all we can do is send smaller groups?” Sonrid asked. “Like we have been doing?”

  “For now, that will have to suffice,” said Dukoona. “Kidrian, send one hundred demons every hour towards their camp and empty the city of every demon. Make a big show of it. Let’s see if we can provoke them into an attack.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Kidrian said. He placed a hand into a nearby shadow, submerging most of his forearm, but hesitated. The purple fires on his head had dimmed.

  “What troubles you?” Dukoona asked.

  “Even if we manage this and Darnuir comes, and takes the city, what then?” Kidrian said. “He might simply kill you.”

  “I’ll ensure there are plenty of shadows. He’ll find me hard to kill.”

  “The Master then,” said Kidrian hurriedly. “One day he’ll find out. And then what?”

  “I’d have it so Rectar does not find out until it was too late,” Dukoona said. “But should the worst happen, then I hope the punishment does not last for eternity.” He took Kidrian by his shoulder, squeezing hard and the shadows of his flesh swirled energetically underneath. “We will be free.”

  Kidrian nodded then melded fully into the shadow on the balcony.

  Darnuir – West of Aurisha

  Darnuir scooped up the last fistful of silver alderberries from the deep copper bowl and rammed them into his mouth. He chewed frantically and swallowed. His armour had felt suffocating, so he’d taken it off but his white shirt clung to him with cold sweat. He paced in his tent. Up then down, up then down, to his bed, back to the table. He needed an answer to their plight but he couldn’t think. He needed the Cascade. Just one drop. In a nervous fidget, he reached for the empty bowl.

  “No,” he wailed. “No, no, no…” Unabashed he licked the bowl, covering every inch with his tongue, tasting nothing but the tang of metal. In a rage, he bent the bowl out of shape and hurled it. The crumpled copper hit his armour stand with a clatter.

  Sucking in choked breaths, he surrendered. He could barely keep his hands still, yet he forced one onto the hilt of the Dragon’s Blade. He nudged the door open in his mind. And he sighed. During one, long, luxurious exhale through his nose, he closed his eyes to enjoy the relief. His throbbing head ebbed away. All his troubles seemed to—

  “Darnuir,” Lira said. Her voice was like needles on his ears. “Stop.”

  “I can’t,” he whispered. Then he felt her hand fall bravely upon his own. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She wasn’t afraid.

  “You must,” she told him. The memory of standing over her during their landing, a stroke away from killing her, brought a wave a shame. It was strong enough to out burn his need for magic. Each finger suddenly felt made of rock and protested as he unfurled his grip. With a great effort, Darnuir released his hand, drawing on a last quick stream of power before his pinkie left the hilt.

  “Can I at least get more silver alderb—”

  “You’ve ate them all,” Lira said. “They aren’t easy to find, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I keep having to say that lately, but I am. I’m not so stubborn that I can’t admit fault.”

  “Our people need a king with a clear head.”

  “I know. But there is little I can do about it right now. I can’t cleanse myself of it before the war is over, before we are on the other side of Aurisha’s walls.” He breathed heavily again.

  “The demons came again,” Lira said after a few moments. “On the hour, just like the last five.”

  “Think we could kill them all if we waited long enough?”

  “Do you think you could wait that long before offering battle?” Lira asked. He didn’t have to answer. “He’s baiting us. It reminds me of tracking this huge silver dire wolf back in the Hinterlands. We were used to setting traps for white wolves from the Highlands that strayed too far when hunting. White wolves can be large, but this silver one was something else entirely. We stalked it, laid out meat to lure it away from the villages and quarries but it didn’t run back north. Once a civilian lost their life, we had no choice. But killing it wasn’t easy. I think it enjoyed the sport. It was fast enough to grab the carcasses and bolt before we could take clean shots. Some of us were brave enough to wear extra padding and plate armour, and stand near our offerings to catch it that way. Obviously, it didn’t come close then.

  “Eventually, we took down all the game in the area. The wolf started to grow hungry. And as it grew hungrier it dared to come closer, a little more each day. Finally, it couldn’t wait anymore and came for its food. Even with the iron traps in its hind legs, more than twenty arrows and two spears it still killed those brave men in the armour. Its teeth could bite through the steel. But it got hungry and it came at us and it died.”

  “Are we the wolf in this scenario?” he asked hoarsely, abruptly aware of how dry his throat was. He looked to his jugs but he’d drank all the water as well.

  “You’re the wolf,” she said. “You said it yourself, you’re craving the fight to draw on magic. How long until you grow too hungry?”

  “Not long at all. I can’t think straight. I don’t trust myself to make decisions anymore.”

  “I’ve always thought that had the wolf run away, we would have chased it,” Lira said. “If you’re the wolf then the demons will follow.”

  His head was pounding again. “We should run from Aurisha?”

  “Not all of us,” Lira said. “We’ll do something the silver beast could not. We’ll split in two.”

  Dukoona – Aurisha – The Royal Tower

  Dukoona was lounging on the throne of the Dragon King, his head dangling over one stone armrest, stretching out his neck with one foot lopped over the other. Many of the Trusted were with him, waiting. Sonrid crouched at the base of the stairs to the throne. Most spectres were out with the demons, trying to keep them in line. They were growing restless; Dukoona could feel their agitation even atop the plateau. He wondered if Rectar would be able to feel it soon, all the way at Kar’drun. If his Master checked in now things would not look good at all, but Dukoona tried to keep his fears to himself and not worry his spectres.

  “Have any of you ever wondered what it would be like to eat?” Dukoona asked the room at large. The two dozen or more spectres in the room all looked taken aback.

  “It is an advantage not to require regular provisions,” one spectre said. “We do not need to stop or rest.”

  “An advantage to whom, though?” Dukoona asked. “It makes us better killers, better soldiers but does it make our existence any better?” No one answered. “I feel we’re missing out on the ability to taste. Humans, fairies and dragons gain some pleasure from it.”

  “A temporary pleasure,” another spectre said.

  “I once found killing to be a temporary pleasure,” Dukoona said. “A brief glimmer of satisfaction. Do you think it is the same feeling?” Again, no one answered. “I’m not seeking a definite answer, I merely—”

  “My Lord,” came the croak of Kidrian. He called as he sprang from a shadow upon the wall, landing in a kneeling position. “The dragons are moving.”

  Dukoona flicked his legs around and jumped to his feet. “Do they approach the city?”

  “They stole a march in the night when our melding is hindered,” Kidrian said. “Heading north, my Lord.” All the spectres present growled low at the news, a mixture of excitement and disapproval.

  “North,” Dukoona repeated quietly. “How many?”

  “Seven dragon standards were seen,” Kidrian said. “It could be all of them.”<
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  “To what end, I wonder?” Dukoona said. “Send our army in purs—” He felt it then – a burning at the back of his mind; the feeling of being watched, magnified a thousand fold. Rectar was glancing his way.

  “My Lord?” Sonrid said in concern.

  “Send our army in pursuit of the dragons,” Dukoona said forcing confidence into his voice. He could not let them know. “And reserve five thousand demons inside the city in case of any trickery on the dragon’s part,” he added, looking right at Kidrian as he gave the order, willing him silently to understand, to not ask questions. For a nervous second, Dukoona thought Kidrian would not realise what was happening. Rectar’s gaze was lingering.

  “At once, my Lord,” Kidrian said, bowing his head deeply, overly so. He had understood.

  “Go,” Dukoona told them. As the spectres melded away, Rectar’s piercing presence left him as well. They had made it through another passing glance. Dukoona hoped it would be enough.

  Darnuir – West of Aurisha

  Half a morning’s march north from camp, Darnuir awaited news on the demons. He stood with Raymond and five Praetorians, armed with sword and bow, neither in sight of Aurisha nor the sea, under the shading of a small collection of stone pines. These trees were the sad remains of a larger area the demons had likely cut down for their ships. With clear skies the land was free of shadows cast by clouds, meaning the fear of spectre attacks was minimal. Still, the wait was dragging on and Bruce flicked a hoof impatiently, sending up a muddy-red dust cloud.

  I know how you feel.

  Raymond comforted his steed by gently scratching his great neck.

  Darnuir was still itching for magic, and he absentmindedly ground his foot into the ground as a poor means of release. More reddish, dusty earth puffed up. Beneath the grass, much of the land was cracked like dry lips. The closer they were to Aurisha, the more it appeared.

  “There,” Raymond announced, pointing and elevating himself on his stirrups. “I do believe it is Damien.” Sure enough, the outrunner materialised within the minute, pelting at a great pace from the north.

  “Take a moment to find your breath,” Darnuir said.

  Damien groaned. “No need sire.” His feet were swollen.

  “Damien, I do not require you to run yourself to death.”

  “It’s just my time approaching, sire,” Damien said. “Runners don’t last forever, and there’s fewer of us now, so we’re each doing more.”

  “Soon we’ll have our city and you can rest,” Darnuir said. “You’ve earned far more.”

  Damien smiled, painfully. “Once we’ve won back our home, I hoped to start a farm down on the peninsula.”

  “You would choose the life of labour?” Raymond said.

  “Better than my feet becoming bloody stumps.”

  “You shall have your farm,” Darnuir said. “Now, as for the demons?”

  “It’s working. The host chases Prefect Lira. They are now well removed from the city.”

  “A fine plan,” Raymond said. “I just hope holding back an extra legion’s worth of dragons does not cause Lira any more danger.”

  “She just has to take the demons as far from the city as she can,” said Darnuir. “After two days, they are to wheel about and return to the city with every ounce of speed and strength left to them. As for our extra men, I thought it a prudent measure.”

  “Well, I shall not complain to have more dragons around me,” Raymond said. “It will be a victory to savour.”

  “I hope so,” said Darnuir. “Back to camp for now. We move at nightfall.”

  When the sun set and darkness fell, Darnuir and his two legions set out quietly as they could towards Aurisha. Stars appeared and the city shined faintly despite its state of disrepair. Darnuir’s starium lined armour began to sparkle as well. They headed for the main gate, a large gaping hole in the otherwise indomitable walls. Chunks of the old gate lay broken and untouched in the courtyard beyond.

  Darnuir was the first to cross the threshold. It was dark and bleak, lifeless and soundless. Even the sea was calm and could barely be heard. He turned his attention to the plateau and there he saw a sole red glow, high above the plaza. It could only be coming from the Royal Tower. Praetorians formed up around him and followed his eyes, staring up at the sinister light like a beacon calling to them.

  “If this Dukoona is here then he is unlikely to be alone,” Darnuir said. “Stay vigilant.”

  They encountered no demons as they advanced along the northern thoroughfare. The Great Lift would have made the trip to the plateau painless, but it looked hoisted and tied up and, in any case, it would be too risky. It would be the long walk for them, first south to the harbour side and then up the switchback streets of the sloping side of the plateau. Darnuir had met his end running down that way, caught by demons and stabbed in the gut. He would not let that happen again.

  “Stay close,” he ordered. “Shields up.”

  All was quiet as the masts of the demon’s ships came into view and they drew closer to the harbour.

  And then they came.

  Shrieking demons fell on them, from above, from the side streets and alleys, from every doorway and window like black ghosts. But the dragons had their shields raised and the demons did not work in a swarm. They fought alone and died alone, each one falling quickly to a sword or a crushing fist. More demons sprang on them a hundred yards down the road and again they were soundly beaten.

  “Small waves,” Darnuir noted to those around him. “He’s trying to kill them off.” He couldn’t keep the hint of anger and frustration missing from his voice. This was no real fight and he had no need of the Cascade. Just easy kill after easy kill, a laborious grind. So few demons came that sometimes he was robbed of even that satisfaction.

  Ahead spectres began to appear. Hundreds lined the streets, stood out on rooftops and half-emerged from moonlight shadows, midway up walls or the rock of the plateau. The array of coloured fires was a sickening rainbow, and Darnuir had the unnerving sense that they were all looking to him.

  “Come,” many raspy voices called.

  “Come, Darnuir.”

  “Come, Dragon King.”

  “Come, come, come,” they chanted. Praetorians took shots at them but the spectres vanished only to reappear after more waves of demons. At the harbour, they began to scream at him, some clinging to the masts of their ships.

  “Come. Come. Come.”

  Their calling didn’t cease, not when Darnuir reached the incline of the plateau, not even as they cut their way through the demons on the switchback roads. And as the night wore on, so did Darnuir’s patience. He fought against the impulse to throw open the door to the Cascade and tear off after the spectres. It was harder with each turn in the road, with each cautious but safe step that the dragons took, leaving a smoking trail in their wake.

  At the summit, the demons finally abated. The final hunched creature, all swirling flame and dark mist, leapt towards Darnuir. It cackled, entirely happy to fight alone. Darnuir killed it with a well-timed lunge. Across the plaza, the spectres gathered. They smiled and their perfect white teeth appeared to float in the darkness.

  “Come, Darnuir,” they said. “Come alone.”

  When Darnuir stepped forward they vanished into one shadow or another cast by the moon. All that lay before him was an empty plaza and the red glow from the Royal Tower.

  No more games, Dukoona. Blaine gave me answers and so will you.

  “Form up,” he called to his dragons. “Take count and take rest, and rejoice for today we have won back our city.” There were no cheers or celebrations. After more than twenty years, it was too simple to just walk in the front gates; to have it politely handed over. Perhaps the slow march through their dead city had sapped their spirits. Darnuir wished he knew what was going on. He didn’t even raise his hand to tell them to stay because it was shaking again. “Wait for me,” he said. “And do not follow.”

  The marble archway at the entran
ce to the tower was fractured at elbow height. It felt cold inside and Darnuir lit a fire on his sword. His grateful body sucked up the magic as he let light and heat flow from the Dragon’s Blade. He moved up the grand staircase, one echoing step after another, and reached the spiralling stairs. They wove upwards for a long time. It was all vaguely familiar. Impressions from the memories left to him began to surface as he passed hallways, statues and rooms he used to see every day but could barely remember.

  Eventually, the red glow indicated he’d reached the right place. The doors were opened and inviting. To his surprise, he discovered he was sweating. It ran from his brow and stung at his eyes. He wiped it away, even as the bitterness grew in his mouth, and entered.

  This was the war room, he remembered, with the great crescent moon table and carved seats for the King and Guardian. Candles were everywhere, on the tabletop, on the floor and hanging from lanterns, along with a dozen torches lashed onto the balcony outside. Shadows crossed everywhere in a black mesh.

  “I’ve been waiting,” a sly voice spoke.

  “Show yourself, spectre.”

  “I think not. What advantage would I have if I were to step out of my shadow?”

  “Then I shall set this room ablaze to find you,” Darnuir said.

  “But I only wish to talk,” Dukoona said.

  “Is that so?” Darnuir said. “How can I be sure of that?” He took a few measured steps deeper into the war room.

  “Because, if I wanted you dead—”

  An ice-cold hand gripped his throat and a razor-edged knife materialised under his nose.

  “You already would be,” Dukoona said gently in his ear. Darnuir wrestled forward but Dukoona tightened his hold of him, keeping Darnuir’s arms down. “I am strong myself.”

  Let’s see how strong then.

  Darnuir shoved the door in his mind open and pushed his arms outwards against Dukoona’s locking hold.

  “Gah,” the spectre cried as he was knocked back. Darnuir spun, poison shuddering down his arm, but Dukoona was already gone.