Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  “No,” said Morigna. “Agravhask is here for Cintarra and the Great Eye. If this was a simple war of conquest, he would almost certainly choose another site for his landing. But he has come to claim the Great Eye for the Warden. He will attack Cintarra.”

  “Then we must be ready to repulse him,” said Arandar. “We shall have to wait for his attack, which I dislike. In warfare, the man who acts and forces his foe to react to him has a great advantage. But we have many advantages as well, and the army of Andomhaim has already been gathered.”

  “What is the High King’s plan?” said Ridmark.

  “The army will march south as fast as it is able,” said Arandar, “and we will concentrate our forces near Queen Mara’s castra northeast of Cintarra proper. I thought about splitting our forces to guard more of the coast, but that seemed dangerous. If our army is divided, Agravhask could defeat it piece by piece. No, we shall gather our strength at Queen Mara’s castra, and be ready to respond to whatever Agravhask intends.”

  Ridmark nodded. In the High King’s place, it was what he would have done. It would have been better to intercept and destroy Agravhask’s ships before they reached the shore, but that was impossible. Andomhaim had only a small navy, and the only ships that could serve as warships were near Tarlion or the eastern coast of the realm. Had the Arcanius Knights arrived, perhaps they could have rained fire and lightning on the warships, but the warriors from Owyllain were still a week away at best. The watch posts that Accolon had ordered built along the coast would give them ample warning of the foe. That would let them exploit another advantage – the enemy seemed to have no horsemen, since Agravhask had decided that transporting horses and their fodder halfway across the world would be impractical.

  “What about Rhudlan?” said Ridmark. “Are we abandoning it to the Dragon Cult?”

  Arandar sighed and looked at the receding walls of the town. “I hope not. I left a strong garrison there. Once we repulse the Heptarchy, I hope we can return and use the town as a base to march on Castra Melidern. But I doubt the Dragon Cult will be so accommodating. Merovech will likely seize the town in our absence, and there is little we can do to stop him.”

  “Perhaps we will find him waiting for us with Agravhask at Cintarra,” said Accolon, voice grim.

  “So far, it does not appear so,” said Arandar. “I asked Warlord Shalmathrak and his warriors to remain near Rhudlan.”

  “Ah,” said Ridmark. “That will do much to hinder the Dragon Cult.” If Merovech decided to take the town, both his soldiers and his supply lines would come under constant attack from ghost orc raiders.

  “They’ve seen no signs that Merovech is intending to move his army, though more reinforcements are coming through the gate near Castra Melidern,” said Arandar.

  “Merovech might keep his army at Castra Melidern, but go himself to Cintarra to aid Agravhask,” said Accolon. “He did that before the battle at Rhudlan.”

  “And he had Aeliana Carhaine with him,” said Calliande.

  Ridmark remembered that battle, the race to reach the Great Eye before Merovech and Aeliana. Third had been with him at that fight before she had fallen into the opened Eye.

  He wished Third was with them now. Her aid would have been welcome.

  Though he supposed that she might actually be safer wherever she was now.

  “Then if Aeliana and Merovech show themselves,” said Arandar, “we shall have to strike them down as well.”

  They rode south towards the battle that would define the fate of Andomhaim and likely the world.

  ***

  Chapter 17: Prisoners

  Third could not sleep, so she rose from the bed in silence and crossed to the rack that held her armor and weapons.

  Not that insomnia was unusual for her. She did not need all that much sleep, at least not compared to the amount required for a human. Something in her dark elven heritage gave her stamina beyond the normal, which had proven useful.

  Though sometimes it meant she could not sleep when she really wanted to do so.

  She glanced at where Rilmael lay sleeping on the other side of the bed. Third had worn him out, and she felt an odd sort of pleasure at the thought. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising. It had been a long, long time since Rilmael had enjoyed a woman’s company, longer than perhaps the age of human civilization itself.

  For her…well, it was the first time she had ever enjoyed the company of a lover.

  Though there had been nothing of love in what the Traveler had made her do to his prisoners.

  Third put aside that thought. It was easier than it had once been. Third had changed a great deal from the urdhracos she had been, the creature that had yearned for death as a release from torment but had never been able to find it. First, she had cast off the urdhracos, becoming a hybrid of human and dark elf able to control herself, free from the domination of any dark elven nobles.

  Then she had come here, and the Malison had overwhelmed her…but she had mastered it, becoming a Dragontiarna Knight, one of the few ever to exist. Third had power now. She had never been weak, but now she had real power, and that truth unsettled her a little. Had she wished, she could have used that power to carve a kingdom of her own and rule it as a tyrant queen.

  She had seen a vision of herself like that while fighting the Malison, a vision of the sort of creature she could have become. More than human, more that dark elf, a tyrant ruling over her subjects with a fist of iron. After seeing the bickering of the Dukes of the Empire, after recalling the squabbling of the nobles in Andomhaim and Owyllain, Third could see herself taking that path. Not from the desire to wield power, but from the impulse to do good, to bring order to the lives of others.

  Or that was how it would start. Just as the drunkard told himself he would only take one more drink, or how the brigand thought he only needed to rob and kill one more victim. There was always just one more, wasn’t there? The first step would be the easiest, and then all the others would follow until she became a tyrant who made her father and perhaps even the Sovereign look like petty thugs.

  Third thought of Ridmark and she suddenly wanted to talk with him very badly. He, too, had wielded immense powers. When he had borne the sword of the Dragon Knight, he had been perhaps the single most powerful man in Andomhaim. He could have seized the throne for himself or built an empire. But he hadn’t done that. If anything, he had regarded the powers of the Dragon Knight as a dangerous but necessary responsibility.

  “Because power is a responsibility,” Ridmark’s voice seemed to say in her ear, “and I’ve got enough damned responsibilities at it is.”

  Third smiled at the thought, remembering how annoyed Ridmark had been to accept the title of Comes of Castarium. But he had done it, regarding it as a duty, and he had done it well. No, if Third’s great power ever troubled her, she would think of Ridmark’s example.

  But something else bothered her.

  The golden armor of a Dragontiarna Knight rested on the stand, Storm and Inferno hanging in their scabbards. On Third’s belt was a long sheath that looked like a small quiver, something designed to hold perhaps a half-dozen arrows. Third opened the flap and drew out the object the quiver contained.

  It was a metal key about the length of her forearm, carved with thousands of intricate sigils that gave off a pale white light. The key was made of a brilliant metal that looked like silver but never tarnished and did not even show fingerprints. It was also lighter and harder than steel – if Third lost her swords, she could probably use the key as a club with a fair amount of success.

  It was the Key of Tarmyntir, one of the three keys that the great high elven wizard and artificer Tarmyntir had made to control the Great Eye. At least, Third thought there had been three Keys, and so did Rilmael. There had been three keyholes in the base of the Great Eye. Cyprian had tried to force open the Eye using dark magic, but Third and Ridmark and the others had killed him first. Merovech and Aeliana had found this Key somewhere. Rilmael thought they h
ad gotten it from the Theophract, who had likely taken it from Tarmyntir’s corpse. Tarmyntir had been supposed to destroy the Great Eye and the Keys after the gray elves had left their homeworld, but apparently, he had not.

  Or else the Theophract had killed him long ago and had been waiting ever since for the right moment.

  The Key was one of the major sources of Third’s unease.

  She didn’t know what to do with the damned thing. It was dangerous, hideously dangerous. If the Theophract got ahold of it, the Heralds would be able to use the Key to open the Great Eye and bring their armies to assault Cathair Kaldran. Worse, Third was the only person other than Rilmael who knew the truth. The Warden wanted to destroy Cathair Kaldran and claim the tomb of the Ascendant Dragon, and the Heralds and the Dragon Cult and the Fallen Order, all of it, were merely his tools to claim the tomb.

  Rilmael had said that Tarmyntir had been one for overdoing things, and that tendency had come through in the Keys. Not only could the Key of Tarmyntir open the Great Eye, it could open any lock.

  Including the one that sealed the tomb of the Ascendant Dragon beneath the Tower of the Guardian. If that door was opened, the world would be destroyed.

  And Third had the thing that could open that door hanging on her belt.

  She wanted to destroy it, but it was too powerful. Barring that, she wanted to put it somewhere safe, but there was no such place. She was a Dragontiarna Knight, and the hard fact was that the Key was safer with her than anyone else.

  “Responsibility,” murmured Ridmark’s voice inside her head.

  Third now understood why Ridmark hadn’t wanted to become the Comes of Castarium.

  She looked back at the bed and realized that sleep wasn’t happening for the rest of the night. Third crossed to the middle of the floor, halfway between the bed and the dying coals in the hearth, and settled herself cross-legged on the rug. She placed her hands palms-up upon her knees, closed her eyes, and regulated her breathing, slowing it with every breath.

  During her travels, she had once visited a monastery whose monks meditated every day. For them, it was a time of prayer, of drawing closer to the mysteries of God. Life inside a cloister was not for someone like Third – it would have been a retreat from her responsibilities, an act of cowardice, rather than an act of piety. But she had found meditation a useful tool for clearing her thoughts.

  She felt the carpet and the cool air of the bedroom against her skin.

  Heard the crackle of the dying coals.

  Rilmael’s steady breathing.

  The room fell away around her, and Third’s mind flickered over her long life. Faint images of her mother, all that Third could remember of her. The long centuries of torment as a slave of the Traveler. The liberation at the hands of Ridmark, the war against the Frostborn and the Sovereign.

  The fire of the Malison filling her, transforming her.

  Rilmael’s arms around her as they lay together for the first time in the pulsing light from the tomb of the Ascendant Dragon.

  “Aunt Third,” came a quiet voice.

  Rhoanna’s voice.

  No, that wasn’t right. It was the voice of an adult woman, and Rhoanna was a little girl. A strange little girl, to be sure, thanks to the Sight, but still a girl…

  Third opened her eyes as Rilmael stood and walked to join her. The Guardian of Cathair Kaldran was, beneath the armor and cloak, surprisingly muscular. The arms and shoulders of a warrior. Old scars from battles where the margin for victory had been close.

  “Meditating?” said Rilmael.

  “Yes,” said Third. “It was what I do when I cannot sleep.”

  “So do I,” said Rilmael. “Though if I am not careful, I can get lost in the past, and meditate for days until hunger cramps stir me. The perils of a long life.”

  “Losing yourself in the past?” said Third. “I understand that.” She unfolded her legs, kissed his stomach, and his chest as she rose, concluding with another kiss upon his mouth. “What can we do to focus your mind upon the present?”

  “It seems you already have some ideas,” said Rilmael.

  Later, they dressed and left the bedroom, descending to the great hall of Chilmar Rigamond’s mansion. Third and Rilmael entered just as Selene strode in from the doors to the courtyard. She stopped, grinned at them, and then approached.

  “Did you two get any sleep last night?” said Selene.

  “I slept quite well,” said Third to forestall what would inevitably be long-winded if gentle teasing. “You have news?”

  “I do,” said Selene. “A messenger from Count Niamar Eichenfel just arrived for Sir Tyrcamber. It seems that the Count’s men have spotted a group of muridachs and would like his help capturing some of them for interrogation.”

  ###

  The ferry bumped against the western bank of the River Nabia, and Tyrcamber led his horse ashore, followed by Angaric, Rilmael, Selene, and Third. Angaric swung into his saddle with a grunt and looked back at Tyrcamber.

  “I’ll speak with Master Ruire and return with serjeants as quick as I can,” said Angaric.

  “At least a hundred, if possible,” said Tyrcamber. The Count’s message had said that a hundred and fifty muridachs were lurking near his camp, led by a single Knight of Blood, and Tyrcamber wanted to hit them with overwhelming force. That way, they would have a better chance of taking prisoners for interrogation. “More if Master Ruire can spare them. Have them meet us at Count Eichenfel’s camp.”

  Angaric nodded, put spurs to his horse, and rode off. The others had mounted their horses, so Tyrcamber rode to the west, making for the camps of the armies of the Empire.

  Sinderost was a large city, but tent cities had sprung up on the western bank of the River Nabia. Tens of thousands of men had marched with both Prince Everard and the western Dukes to reach Sinderost, and all those men needed to be organized, housed, and fed. Tyrcamber and the others rode past endless rows of tents and hundreds of noble banners. The camps had been laid out in good order, with privy trenches dug to allow waste to drain into the River Nabia, where it would be carried to the Bellex and thence to the sea. With so many men packed close together, disease was a concern. One well-timed plague might do the work of the Fallen Order. In Prince Everard’s name, Chilmar had issued strict regulations about the use of the privies, with flogging and other severe penalties for men caught relieving themselves anywhere other than the trenches.

  At last they came to the camp of Count Niamar Eichenfel, the red banner with the sigil of the stylized castle and cliff flying overhead. Nearby camped the men of Falconberg, the city’s banner flying from their tents. Tyrcamber reined up at the edge of the camp and spotted Sigurd standing there with two of her husband’s knights.

  “Sir Tyrcamber, Lord Guardian, Lady Third, Lady Selene, thank you for coming,” said Sigurd. She managed to look lovely and elegant despite the harsh conditions of the camp, clad in a rich gown and jewelry and her hair arranged. No doubt, she had been living in the Count’s mansion in the city and had only come out to the camp to play the hostess. “This way, please. My husband and father await you, and our squires will see to your horses.”

  Tyrcamber dropped out of the saddle, and the squires came forward to take the reins. Sigurd let the way through the camp to the pavilion at its center. Count Niamar waited for them, clad in fine plate mail with a red surcoat. Karl Rincimar stood next to him, grim and silent in his chain mail and leather jerkin, hand resting on the well-worn hilt of his sword.

  “Ah, Sir Tyrcamber, thank you for coming,” said Niamar. “The muridachs are lurking three miles west of here, and my men have spotted a Knight of Blood leading them.”

  “Are you sure?” said Tyrcamber.

  The familiar sardonic smile came over Niamar’s face. “A fellow all in black plate with a gray face and blood-colored eyes? If he’s not a Knight of the Fallen Order, he’s doing a very good job of pretending to be one.”

  “If I was to guess,” said Rincimar, “I think t
hey’re waiting until nightfall. Then they’re going to enter the underground ruins.”

  Tyrcamber nodded. The work to map the ruins was underway, but it was nowhere near complete. They had found four underground ruins – one north of Sinderost, one west, one east, one south. Almost like the points on a map’s compass rose. Something about that bothered Tyrcamber, but he could not articulate why. The buried ruins were placed like siege camps around Sinderost. But when those hidden ruins had been built, Sinderost had still been Cathair Sindar, a cloak elven city. The Embalmer might have been hoping to raise a secret army in those ruins, but he had been dead for thousands of years, his hidden vaults forgotten.

  So why was the Fallen Order digging them up now?

  “Which surprised me,” said Niamar. “I thought the entrances had all been found.”

  Selene shook her head, her silver hair shifting along her jaw. “We found some of the entrances. But the dark elves were always paranoid. Justifiably, since they all plotted to betray one another. But dark elven ruins always have a secret door so its lord could flee. Given that the Embalmer was plotting to betray the Dragon Imperator, he likely installed a dozen secret entrances to his hidden vaults.”

  “And we have not discovered them all yet,” said Third.

  “Much to our dismay,” said Niamar. “But perhaps the key to unlocking some of their mysteries lies before us. My lord Shield?”

  “The muridachs are three miles west of here, concealed within a small forest,” said Rincimar.

  “Then I think we need to flush them out and have them advance towards us,” said Tyrcamber.

  “There are a few different ways we can accomplish that,” said Rilmael. “I…”

  He fell silent and then looked to the side. Lady Sigurd glided towards them, followed by a pair of squires and Sir Angaric, who was making a heroic effort not to leer at the way Sigurd’s fine gown draped her backside. Probably wise, given that he was in front of Sigurd’s husband.