The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “Melded away again?” Darnuir taunted, though it was nearly a gasp. He slammed the door to the Cascade shut. “You’ve made your point, Dukoona. If you want to speak with me, then speak.” Still there was no answer. “I know you’ve been holding back. Your spectres fled at the Charred Vale after I killed Castallan’s commander. You abandoned your siege of Dalridia and I’ve seen spectres vanish in the midst of battle since landing in the east, leaving their demons exposed.”

  There was still no answer.

  “Why?” Darnuir yelled.

  “Where is your other half,” Dukoona said from some unknown place.

  “Blaine would call it blasphemy to even hesitate in killing you,” Darnuir said. “But I’ll hear you out.”

  There came a sound like wind blowing, and Dukoona appeared in the chair of the King. The carved dragon atop the chair looked down on the spectre menacingly. Dukoona rested his feet lazily up on the war table and held his blade of shadow across his lap.

  “Come, take a seat,” said Dukoona.

  “You’re in my chair.”

  “Oh,” Dukoona said, looking up as though to check. “Force of habit.” He melded into the shadow cast by the snout of the carved dragon and rematerialised on the chair of the Guardian. “Does this suit better?”

  Darnuir couldn’t help but smirk. “And your weapon?”

  “I’ll keep it ready, I think,” Dukoona said. “I imagine you shall do the same.” The spectre pointed his sword towards one of the dusty chairs across from the great stone seats. Darnuir drew up behind it but did not sit down.

  “You seem to have put yourself in a difficult position,” Darnuir said.

  “You cannot begin to comprehend.”

  Darnuir frowned. “Why this ruse?”

  “I want my people to survive, as many as can be saved. Too many have fallen already.”

  “Those still on the Splintering Isles?”

  “They are nothing to me now. Only those I trust most dearly are with me.”

  “Seems callous,” said Darnuir.

  “Loyalty is worth more than anything when you live forever,” Dukoona said. “So far as I am aware, I shall not decay. I will only die in battle, by my Master’s wishes or by a traitor’s knife. I very nearly did.”

  “You were ambushed at Dalridia,” said Darnuir, remembering Grigayne’s words of a blue flamed spectre being attacked by several others.

  “I was and so I left those who I cannot trust to rot on those islands.”

  “The Guardian will see to them,” said Darnuir. “And with the help you have provided we have made incredible gains with minimum losses. The end will come soon.”

  “Yes, but unlikely in the manner you intend,” said Dukoona. “I do not know when but my Master is almost ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To release his new servants,” Dukoona said. “I believe my kind are no longer as valuable to him as we once were. There have been deaths, disappearances, strange red creatures with incredible strength leaving Kar’drun.”

  “What new servants do you speak of? New demons?”

  “That is the frightening question,” Dukoona said. “I only have a theory, though I am certain there is no other explanation. Especially since reuniting with those spectres who were long under Castallan’s tyranny.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “To warn you for one,” Dukoona said. “And offer you my help in killing him.”

  “Your help?” Darnuir said, quite taken aback. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Sonrid, come here,” Dukoona called. A twisted, hunched over creature hobbled out of a dark corner of the war room.

  “What is that?” Darnuir said.

  “This is Sonrid,” Dukoona said. “A Broken spectre, the result of my Master’s lack of power following the taking of this city.”

  “Does it speak?” Darnuir asked.

  “Yes, I speak,” Sonrid said, trying to pull himself up another few inches. “I also think and feel.”

  “I can hardly believe I’m even having this conversation,” Darnuir said. “So, Rectar failed to summon more spectres properly. Forgive me if I do not grieve.”

  “He treats us like tools to be worn into disuse,” said Dukoona. “Sonrid’s suffering is uniquely painful but all spectres suffer. We are slaves, not servants. And we want to be free.”

  Silence reigned for a few moments.

  “What is coming?” Darnuir asked. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Castallan experimented on humans with his magic, making them stronger,” Dukoona said. “He was successful, I am told.”

  “Too successful,” Darnuir said.

  “Strong, were they?”

  “As tough as a dragon. Some, such as Scythe, he made even stronger.”

  “Hard to fight?”

  “Hard enough,” Darnuir said. “Get to the point, spectre.”

  “For years Rectar commanded me to capture dragons, not kill them.” Dukoona seemed to weigh up his next words. “They were sent to Kar’drun as prisoners. What he did with them, I never knew…”

  Darnuir gripped the chair more tightly, crushing through it, even without reaching for the cascade. “No,” was all he could say. It was unthinkable. To face such enemies would be impossible. Fighting Scythe had been difficult enough.

  “What can we do?” Darnuir asked softly.

  “I’ll do what I can from Kar’drun,” Dukoona said. “But their army will be your trouble.”

  “As will killing your Master,” said Darnuir. “I’m not seeing what I gain from this truce.”

  “Kar’drun is a labyrinth,” Dukoona said. “You could spend a lifetime and never find your way. But I know and if you can make it to the mountain, then I will take you and the Guardian straight to Him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I am a demon and he is my Master,” said Dukoona. “There is little I can do in truth. But I want him dead. I do not see a place for my kind once Rectar’s new servants are ready.” Dukoona spoke more urgently, all pretence at intimidation gone. It was almost a plea. “I do not see a… a—” the spectre stuttered and then paused, as if he had been struck dumb. “No!” Dukoona wailed, then vanished again, reappearing moments later by the balcony facing north. He clutched at his fiery head with one hand as he stumbled out to the balcony’s edge.

  “What is going on?” Darnuir said, rushing over to him.

  “He’s re-retaking control,” Dukoona said, the agony evident in his broken speech. “The forces I sent away from the city—”

  “They’re coming back,” Darnuir finished for him. “You must stop them.”

  “I can’t stop Him,” Dukoona said. “Not when he—” Dukoona burst into a scream. It was a sound Darnuir had never heard before, chilling him beyond all the cold of the Boreac Mountains; a sound not of this world. Darnuir bent and took hold of Dukoona, thinking he might help, but not knowing how, nor why he should truly trust him.

  “Fight him,” was all Darnuir could think to say.

  “We must go to the mountain,” Dukoona said meekly. The dense shadow of his body began to swirl, unravelling a little, revealing glimpses of pristine white bones underneath. “I cannot resist…”

  “You must!” Darnuir implored. “How else will you fight him?”

  “Do you trust me now, Dragon King? Do you trust me?”

  Darnuir did not answer. He could not answer. He could not be sure.

  Dukoona pulled him in closer with one of his dark purple hands, the other groped for a nearby shadow. “We do not have to be enemies,” he whispered before his finger found a shadow and he was gone.

  Chapter 30

  UNTO THE DAWN

  Humans and fairies will rarely settle in Aurisha. For the fairies, there is precious space to attempt cultivating a silver tree, while humans feel they have no place. Military service lies at the heart of dragon culture but a human could never hope to join a legion. Intermarriage is scarce and children of such u
nions are considered unfit for service. And how can the new human baker or tanner or shoemaker compete with the established businesses that have been running since before they were born and will continue after they die? It is a wondrous city, something all should see. Yet the future of our alliance won’t be served in such an environment. However, I am merely a chronicler. I do not have the solution.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Darnuir – Aurisha – war room of the Royal Tower

  DARNUIR REMAINED ON his knees after Dukoona left. When he got up, his muscles felt stiff and tired. He went to the balcony’s edge and leaned forward, as if he might see across countless leagues to the demon horde heading back to Aurisha. He’d been killed in this city once before. A second death now looked possible. I’ve gambled too much. I’ve caused this. Darnuir could only hope that Lira would discover what had happened and return in time.

  He wrenched himself away from the ledge and strode back into the war room to be greeted with the sight of the little spectre.

  “Why are you still here?”

  “The Master did not call me,” Sonrid rasped. “He never calls the Broken.”

  Darnuir contemplated killing the half-formed spectre. He looked in pain after all.

  Wouldn’t it be a kindness to put him out of his misery? He drew the Dragon’s Blade just enough to show an inch of golden metal.

  “I do not wish to die,” Sonrid said.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “I asked Dukoona once to end my suffering,” Sonrid said. “He refused. He said it would be better to live and seek revenge on the Master. Dukoona has shown me I have worth to him. I’ve aided him and he has given me hope. I wish to do what I can.”

  With a loud snap, Darnuir sheathed his sword. “You have a lot of respect for Dukoona.”

  “He looks out for the Broken; the Master does not.”

  “I’ve never seen your kind before.”

  “Most of us cannot escape from labour in Kar’drun or the Forsaken City,” said Sonrid. “I only got away because of the red creature I witnessed. Dukoona’s closest, those he calls the Trusted, brought me here to tell my tale.”

  “Trusted…” Darnuir said. “This rebellion sounds like it has some weight behind it.”

  “Dukoona has gathered spectres to him for many years,” said Sonrid. “He means what he says Dragon King. He wants the Master dead.”

  “Then we share that goal.” He crouched down to Sonrid’s level and looked into his small twitching eyes. He held out a hand, palm upwards, and after a moment of confusion, Sonrid placed his own crooked hand upon it. “Your body is freezing. I never knew that before.”

  “And I never understood how warm your kind is,” Sonrid said.

  “I suppose I never stopped to think much about spectres,” Darnuir said. “When I was young, I had a sword thrust in my hand and told to kill demons.”

  “We are spectres,” said Sonrid. “Our lesser brethren are beyond help.”

  “It’s a curious thing. I’ve been trying to bring the Three Races together to stand strong against Rectar. I’ve not enjoyed a lot of success. Everyone has a grudge or wants something in return. Dukoona asks for nothing. He offers help instead.”

  “We want to be free,” said Sonrid.

  “One day, I hope you are,” said Darnuir. He withdrew his hand and rose. “Will you meld and travel back to Kar’drun as well?”

  “Melding causes me great pain,” Sonrid said. “The Broken struggle with it. I will return to Kar’drun though. I have nowhere else to go and Dukoona might have need of me.”

  “I’ll escort you to the city gates.”

  Sonrid dismissed the notion with a wave, as high as his tightened shoulder would allow his arm to rise. “You will have much to prepare. I will meld my way to beyond the walls then make my journey from there.”

  “Then I wish you luck, Sonrid,” said Darnuir. “If we ever meet again, may it be over Rectar’s corpse.”

  Sonrid sniggered, unable to form a full laugh. He shuffled over to the balcony and staggered towards a shadow on the ledge. When he melded it was slowly done. Spectres normally zipped into their shadows in an instant but for poor Sonrid it appeared to be a lengthy process. He groaned and winced as his hand vaporised, then his arm, then a leg and torso. After about five full seconds he had finally melded and Darnuir was alone in the war room.

  He stood frozen for a moment in the grip of fear.

  Over Fifty thousand demons. Six thousand dragons.

  This time there was no Scythe to kill. No head of the beast.

  Darnuir sat down in the King’s chair. The pressure of his armour as he sat instantly made him uncomfortable. The stone chair as a whole was rather uncomfortable. He was just a little out of reach of the crescent moon table, meaning he couldn’t even lean on it. So, he slumped back, tired, craving magic, bitterness building up again in his mouth. This moment should have been triumphant, instead he was alone amongst the candles and flickering shadows. Darnuir placed his head in his hands and sighed, feeling his hot breath on his skin and tugged at his hair.

  He sat there for a long time.

  In the daylight, Aurisha looked even worse for wear. Most haunting of all was the plaza. The stone was charred black from some great fire, and there was a red tinge to it that was too close to blood to be anything else.

  “Something terrible happened here,” Raymond said. He rubbed his eyes furiously, revealing dark lines when he withdrew his hands.

  “And it could happen again,” Darnuir said. He felt as energetic as Raymond looked. Small bursts of the Cascade had fuelled him through the night while they gathered their supplies, equipment and, of course, Bruce. Morning came in the middle of their toils and a fatigue had settled over the legions. Darnuir couldn’t sleep in his current state, but did not wish to be alone. Raymond kept him company by the pulley of the Great Lift, taking in the view and soon-to-be-battlefield.

  “I assume we will be defending the plaza in lieu of the walls,” Raymond said. He gestured to the six working catapults they had managed to salvage from the demon warships.

  “That is my intention,” said Darnuir.

  “A necessary step,” Raymond said. “Blocking the gate would prevent Lira from entering as much as the demons.”

  “And if we’re stuck inside we can’t help Lira in turn. Fleeing on the ships left by the demons is not an option either. Lira and her legions would be caught in the open. No, we make a stand here. Bring the demons into the narrower streets, break up the horde, and with some luck Lira might be able to smash those caught outside against the city walls.” He felt the bite in his own voice and his pulse quicken just thinking about it. “We’ve been tiptoeing around avoiding battle for weeks. It’s time to fight. I ache for it. I need—” he stopped himself.

  “Lira told us about your… condition,” Raymond said. “Sickness is not your fault.”

  Darnuir sniffed and looked to his boots. “I’m not entirely innocent. The consequences of my actions could lose us the war. And I’ve caused enough pain to those I care about already.”

  Raymond straightened his back and stood tall. “If it helps at all, Darnuir, I’m glad I joined you. You are still in need of some refinement, but your intentions are right. I’m used to refinement but from those who are selfishness and manipulative. It took you to show me what honour really is.”

  “Me? I’ve not been so honourable of late.”

  “Daliridia would not stand, were it not for you,” Raymond said. “I would still be Gellick’s whipping boy. Lira might not be with us at all. And then there was Torridon, where I grew to admire you more than any Chevalier who’s ever reigned above me. You do improve the lives of those you meet. You have done good, don’t forget that. Right now, you’re sick, but you’ll get better. And we’ll be there for you.”

  Darnuir allowed himself a half-smile. He felt his back and shoulders unwind some tension and he actually sagged from the relief. “Thank you, Raymond. I didn’t know how m
uch I needed to hear that. Go get some rest.”

  Raymond yawned. “You will not sleep?”

  “I’ll sleep when this is over.”

  Raymond bowed and took his leave. Darnuir turned to stare out across the city and the Crucidal Road running straight to the north.

  He had omitted to tell Raymond that his decision to forgo sleep was also due to fear. He doubted his body would rise in time for the battle, if he rose at all. Only the Cascade sustained him and he dreaded going without it for any length of time. Withdrawal would cripple him. Of course, breaking would be worse. The image of Brackendon wrapped tightly in blankets like a baby reminded him of the consequences. Despite this, his shaking hand could not help but find the Dragon’s Blade for another reassuring drag.

  Run, Lira. Run faster than you ever have before.

  The demons appeared at twilight, kicking up a cloud of dust as they trampled onwards. Darnuir forced life back into his stiff limbs, stretching and rolling his shoulders. He’d never gone so long without sleep, not even before the battle at Cold Point. He could hardly believe that had only been earlier this very year. Now here he was, a king atop his hill, preparing to face an equally dismal fight.

  I wish you were here Cosmo and Brackendon and Balack too. I wish you were all here to help me again.

  He wanted to turn back time and save Eve, to not act so foolishly with Cassandra, to get to Cosmo’s side in time, and never have to see his dying body pinned against that tree. More than anything else, right this instant, he just wanted to rest.

  Seven hundred feet below the demon army began to converge, forming into a thinner stream at the city gates like water flowing to the path of least resistance.

  It was time.

  He stepped forward to address his six thousand dragons. The two legates were at the front, the red plumage of their helmets ripped or frayed in places, and they called the men to attention. Flanked by tall colonnades, the dragons barely filled a third of the space of the plaza and seemed so small beside the Basilica of Light.

  “This will be the longest night of our lives,” Darnuir cried. “But if we can hold until the dawn, then we few will have held where our whole race once fled. This is not our grave. This is our city, our home; and Rectar and his demons have held onto it long enough.” He raised the Dragon’s Blade and let a jet of fire pour forth. “Unto the dawn!”