The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  Arkus tapped his fingers over the ridge of the device. “Yes, does that bother you?”

  “That’s why you wanted me to come straight to you, because—”

  “Because I didn’t want you to come to harm.”

  “How do I know that’s not another lie?”

  “I like to think of it as omission,” said Arkus.

  “So, what happened today with Gellick? He said Orrana spoke to him, does that mean she—” This time her voice broke. She didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want to risk knowing Orrana had been lying to her as well. Arkus’ expression softened, his lower lip rose and he cocked his head by the smallest tilt.

  “Orrana was worried about you. Like me, she understood there might be some danger in hunting down a wanted man. She acted out of affection and then Gellick came to me.”

  “But she knew I was looking for Boreac.”

  “Yes, but like you, she didn’t know the full reason why,” Arkus said. “Just as she knows nothing of the weapons I have been producing here in the city. And even though I recruited hunters from the Hinterlands to be retrained; Lord Clachonn never let Romalla know their purpose. I have found it is… safer that no one person knows everything. Easier to track betrayals.”

  “You seem to trust Gellick,” Cassandra said.

  Arkus shrugged. “Gellick’s one of the best at what he does.”

  “Which is?”

  “Serving me,” Arkus said in his most kingly tone. “Keeping our family alive.”

  Cassandra lightly touched her stinging cheek. “I wouldn’t trust him. If he’s an Esselmont, then the only thing making him less fickle than others is his sister’s betrothal to Thane.”

  “I’m more than aware of that,” Arkus said. “I am under no illusion whatsoever. Gellick and his father will be loyal so long as they have a stake in power. This can be carefully handled. Dangerous rivals are those who have nothing to lose and everything to gain by changing the balance of things. Boreac, old and childless, was one of them. Humans I can deal with but the dragons…” he trailed off ominously.

  “The dragons are our allies,” Cassandra said. “They destroyed your enemies for you. And now they’re outside your walls, cold and hungry. Feed them, shelter them, and what will they have to hold against you?”

  Arkus took a moment to think. He strode to the windows with the whole city in view and tapped the wooden tube lightly against the glass.

  “Pride,” Arkus said, as though addressing all of Brevia. “Dragons will be accommodating and grateful whilst they need humanity. Yet, if the dragons regain their former strength they’ll dominate us again. You have a mind for the past, Cassandra. You of all people should know. The dragons have either made war upon us or dragged us into them. That Guardian, Blaine, is of the old ways and he is a walking warning. The tunnels of the Bastion prove we have never been safe. I cannot tell you how many contingency plans against dragon invasions relied on the Bastion holding strong.

  “And I remember the old Darnuir as well. I could never have felt secure around him. He seems to have changed, I grant you, but it may be an act. Even if it isn’t, even if Darnuir is sincere, and all the good things a fellow ruler could be, he won’t live forever. So how long, Cassandra; how long until another fanatical dragon decides humanity must be purged? My predecessors were foolish in keeping to the status quo. They voluntarily remained weak, a second-rate race. Castallan would have made us stronger I have no doubt, but then we would have been reliant on him and not even Castallan could have lived forever.

  “I have secured our future through craft and intelligence, through ingenuity and creativity. Humanity will no longer have to fear the dragons. That is the only way a true alliance can ever be formed.” Arkus ended his speech a touch breathless. There was spittle against the window.

  Cassandra had taken several small steps back without being conscious of it. Her calves pressed up against one of the plush sofas and she was sorely tempted to fall into it. This was the real Arkus. Stripped of any need to perform. This was the man – a cunning, careful planner who worked in decades, not mere years. And he had everyone either fooled or under his thumb.

  “Is that thing your grand solution?” Cassandra asked. She pointed to the wooden tube.

  “This is just one small piece,” Arkus said. He let the weapon fall into the sack. “If you come with me. I’ll show you everything.”

  Night had almost fallen and so, under the cover of darkness, Arkus and a guard of Chevaliers headed by Gellick, spirited them through the palace, to the back courtyard where there was a postern gate in the perimeter wall. Heavy vines hid the door in the wall but it only led out to a nondescript segment of the city.

  Cassandra wondered where on earth they were heading. Before long, the back alleys began to reek of piss and vomit. A tavern rumbled far to their right and lanterns covered in a red film winked at passers-by. This was the outskirts of the Rotting Hill, only now there was no tower to guide one’s way. Arkus and the Chevaliers made their way without discussion. They had clearly walked it many times before.

  Deeper they went into the rundown borough until no citizens of the city could be seen or heard. And still they walked on. Cassandra felt the land begin to rise as they approached the hill where the Conclave tower had recently stood. For a wild moment, she thought they might be taking her to the ruins of the site. Perhaps this wasn’t a trip of trust after all.

  She felt exposed, foolish, unarmed and unable to run. Boreac lay dead and the dragons were neatly setup to take the fall for his murder. Her own body could disappear here without incident.

  “Cassandra,” Arkus gently called. He had taken down his hood and was standing in the doorway of a crumbling building. “Are you coming?”

  She looked to the hooded Chevaliers around him and then to the ruined frame of the building. “Will I come back out?”

  Even in the weak starlight Arkus looked hurt. “I would never harm you.” He stepped a little closer. Cassandra mirrored with a step back and drew an inch of steel. Arkus raised his hands and said, “You are my daughter. I’m so proud of how strong you are, despite all you’ve gone through. I lost you once, Cassandra. Never again.” He didn’t come any closer or move to embrace her but she could see into his eyes from here. Small and narrow though they might be, they swam with an honesty that no one could feign. She’d only seen that before in Chelos when she was frightened or injured or upset, and he’d hold her and tell her, “I’m here for you, my girl. I’m here.”

  And Cassandra believed him.

  She sheathed her sword, along with her fear. She was safe, even if others weren’t. Yes, Arkus was a killer, yet half the world were killers, for one reason or another. Arkus strove for power but also for survival and to defend his family. And they were her family now too: Thane and Orrana. She would fight for them, if she had to. Many who fought gave the same reasons as Arkus and were called heroes. Was there really such a difference? He was flawed, but he hadn’t done anything irredeemable. Not yet, anyway.

  Arkus was beaming. “Not long now.” Together they returned to the Chevaliers and filed into the wrecked building. Two great ovens, cold and lifeless, indicated this had been a bakery. The wood was wet, parts were rotting away, and yet the door above the cellar looked new. Heavy iron locks held it in place. Gellick took out a set of keys and opened it.

  “Come,” Arkus beckoned, “Gellick and his men will guard the entrance.”

  They descended deep into the earth, for how long Cassandra was not sure. It was surprisingly well lit and clean and soon a faint rumbling sound came drumming from the end of a long corridor. Arkus led her towards it.

  As she walked beside her father, Cassandra realised the true extent of what Tiviar had meant when he said that most of what we read about the past is a lie, a trick, or a condensed and simple narrative. Arkus had proved frighteningly good at retelling events already. He’d become a butcher, cutting away all the sinew and mess from events at the Bastion, to leave an easier ta
le to swallow. One of human triumph and dragon failure. Boreac was growing as cold as his namesake; his story would not be told. As for Annandale, Cassandra guessed his word would be twisted beyond recognition, and who would stop it? Arkus had won. He had control and he had Lord Tarquill to print and spread any story he liked.

  Another round of loud cracks came, like breaking rocks echoing in a valley. She could make out many individual ones now, coming close together, but not at the exact same moment. They reached what she hoped was the final door and Arkus pushed it open.

  If there could be such thing as a horizon underground, then the space before her reached out to it. A vast cavern, supported by pillars and beams, not roughly constructed but laid with a stone floor. There were even carpets, desks, chairs, and beds stretching off. It might have been a hunter’s lodge. Men and women sat working, scratching at pages furiously as though they had no concept that night had fallen and the day was over. Two soldiers in black uniform sprang up when they saw the King.

  “Your Majesty,” the female of the pair said. “We were not expecting you.”

  “No matter,” Arkus said. “Take me to General Adolphus. I can hear he is at drill.”

  “You have soldiers living down here?” Cassandra asked. “Shouldn’t they be fighting in the war?”

  “They will be soon.”

  In another equally vast chamber, columns of soldiers paraded around, carrying weapons like the one Arkus had shown her only far longer, which they propped up on one shoulder. Others cleaned theirs, others practised some art with the latches on the ridge of the weapons while blindfolded. More soldiers were placing those little lead spheres into black pouches.

  Ahead, some of those who were marching stopped to raise their weapons straight with rigid shoulders. Deafening bangs followed. Smoke rose from between their hands, rising towards a series of shafts that must have led up to the borough above.

  Behind the marching troops, a light-haired fellow with an oversized moustache and wispy goatee was yelling orders. When he saw the King, he approached them briskly, long strides, arms swinging like pendulums at his side. “My King,” he barked in greeting, snapping his feet together.

  “General,” Arkus nodded. “Circumstances have contrived that my daughter must be shown our work here.”

  “Very good,” Adolphus said, without as much as a glance at her. “I shall continue with the drill.” The general returned to his troops and resumed his flurry of orders. A fresh round of the weapons went off. A hundred yards opposite them stuffed targets exploded with straw. The targets were replaced and armour placed over the top of them. “Fire,” cried Adolphus and the metal plates gave way at the force of the projectiles. More straw spewed to the floor.

  “What’s causing that?” Cassandra asked. “You’re using black powder to propel something. But—” she realised what it was. She reached into her leathers and pulled out the little lead ball. It rolled in the dip of her palm.

  “You found a musket ball as well, did you?” Arkus said.

  “Muskets,” Cassandra said slowly. She was taking everything in.

  “Igniting the powder proved more complex than we originally thought,” Arkus said. “The first designs required a match cord to be lit, fastened into a spring catch, which used to be above the trigger – where the soldiers are pulling their fingers back,” he added for clarification. His eyes were alight. She had only seen him more animated when playing with Thane. He continued. “But that was cumbersome and too dangerous. Now there are pieces of flint secured to the hammer you can see them cocking back. When the trigger is pulled, down it comes, sparks, and—”

  Bang. Another round of the weapons fired. The musket balls and punched holes into the thick metal plates over the targets, ripping the metal like steel through leather. It was only now that she paid attention to the plate, she realised the armour was golden; of dragon make and design.

  Who do you intend to be aiming at Arkus?

  “Why use that armour?” she asked.

  “Strongest in the world,” Arkus said off hand. “Why test on anything less. I’d like to see how it fares against starium stone, but our testing with granite would suggest the weapons have little impact. At least, not our hand-held muskets. Larger units are being finalised for that.”

  “Larger?”

  She thought she saw one of these larger muskets. A team of four was slowly pushing around a long thick bronze tube on wheels. Fear and awe took her, imagining the damage that thing might do.

  Cassandra’s apprehension only grew as she scanned the rest of the compound. She saw an armoury, stockpiled with weapons. Row upon row of muskets glinted in the depths, their polished wood barrels catching the orange lantern light. Mountains of black ammunition pouches must have carried enough shot to block out the sun a thousand times over.

  Drill sergeants and Adolphus each shouted their orders in rhythm but the men and women were a fraction ahead, already confident units firing, marching, loading, and firing again.

  Those at the front took their shot, turned, marched to the rear of their five-man columns and began to reload. They bit at white rolls of paper, poured black powder into the weapon, closed the hatch, sank the remainder of the powder down the muzzle, loaded a ball, stuffed the paper in after it and, from the side of the barrel, pulled out a thin rod to ram it all down. This whole process flashed by, the soldiers ready to fire again by the time they reached the front, keeping up a steady barrage. Within one rotation, the targets were nothing but shreds of metal.

  “So, this is your alternative to Castallan’s magic?” she asked. “This is how you will make humanity strong?”

  “Yes,” Arkus said, as though there was a great weight to his voice. “This is how I’ll keep our family safe.”

  “Fire,” Adolphus called.

  And bang went the muskets.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  EPILOGUE

  Dukoona – in the depths of Kar’drun

  PAIN. HAD SUCH pain ever been felt?

  Dukoona howled into the crevice of rock he had been plunged into. Or was it an endless cavern? Nothing had made sense. There had only been darkness. And the flames. There had been the flames.

  He slipped in and out of consciousness. One moment had felt like a lifetime, and cognizant moments between hallucinations were precious. Yet, when they stopped, there was only darkness.

  And the flames. He could not forget the flames.

  Mercifully, he closed his eyes.

  “Awaken,” the voice rumbled around him, through him, in his very mind. Dukoona felt his eyes wrench open to a blue light. It came from a great shimmering something in the distance. Its size was hard to gauge. He felt like he could be worlds away from it. Whatever it was, it was opal in shape and a bubbling blue substance boiled within it.

  Against the blue glow, the outline of a body began to form. Its darkness was utter and complete. It seemed to suck light into it because the cavern dimmed further as the figure took shape. Floating, the dark form drifted towards Dukoona. It looked down upon him with a faceless head.

  Pain seared within him, but he no longer had the energy to scream. His thrashing limbs were locked in place by some unseen force.

  There came a loud crack and before him stood a spectre. Dukoona thought he recognised this one; a member of the Trusted, with curling green flames upon his head. The spectre spun wildly until he caught Dukoona’s eye. There was no point in reassuring him. Dukoona could do nothing, say nothing that would save him.

  I have failed them all.

  The dark figure descended gently down behind the spectre and placed a hand upon his shoulder. In a cry of anguish that might have split the earth, the spectre smoked inch by inch from existence. First his hands and feet, then his arms and legs, then only his torso was left fizzling out of the world. As his throat smoked away, his last scream echoed on until he and it were gone.

  Dukoona watched it all.

  “Kill us and be d
one with it.”

  “Your service has been lacking,” droned Rectar’s voice. Slowly, the dark figure began to solidify. When it finished, there was little to see, as a shredded crimson cloak wrapped its entire body. Its head was shrouded by a hood, though a few blond strands of hair poked down at the neck. Just visible through one of the tears in the cloak was a pale hand, gripping the steel hilt of a sword covered in fine black and gold cloth.

  “We should never have granted your kind such freedoms and powers,” Rectar said. “We should have chosen our servants more wisely. The Others should have chosen more wisely as well. Dragons were strong. And now they are mine.”

  “I have been your slave,” Dukoona said.

  “I am the Shadow,” Rectar said. That seemed to be his answer.

  “And I have destroyed your armies,” Dukoona said. It was his one victory. His best act of defiance.

  He fell back into agony again. A hundred small cuts suddenly appeared on his body, the dense purple shadow ripping apart to ooze his smoking blood. Beneath the flaps of his torn flesh, he could glimpse his pristine white bones.

  “You have caused me a great setback,” Rectar said. “But you have not destroyed my armies. Not all of them.”

  Dukoona’s pain ceased. His cuts healed over and he hung his head, exhausted. Done. Defeated.

  There was another terrible crack and all light was taken from the cavern. A moment later, heavy footsteps crunched towards him and even heavier breathing came from above. Dukoona brought his hanging head up, looking for whatever it was. He could barely see anything, but he was sure it was there. The breathing sounded higher still. He craned his neck to look upon the thing. A long red-scaled face snarled at him with fire bright eyes.

  Rectar’s voice rung through his mind; a fierce, amorous whisper.

  ‘The end is nigh for all’.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

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