The Shattered Crown: The Third Book of Caledan (Books of Caledan 3)

by Meg Cowley

  “I apologise, Soren,” said Barclay. “I mean no offense. You know I would not. I simply cannot understand how we would ally with a creature so barbaric. Look at what these dragons do.” He gestured to the pile of letters, for he knew their contents. “I have read some of your letters. I have heard the tales. I have seen the pleas for help. How can we befriend, and trust, such monsters?”

  “Because they are not all thus,” said Soren, as a gnawing desperation rose inside him. Barclay would not be the only one who held this view, or felt strongly enough to express it. There would be more; many more. How can I convince them all? Soren fought back the feeling of overwhelm.

  “I fear I must call a council meeting on this before it spreads further. I can no longer act alone in this, and we must ally with the Eldarkind and dragons. It is not only critical to our survival we do so, but it sends a message. I will not tolerate attacks on our allies. An alliance is the only way we may be sure of defeating those which conspire to destroy our nation.” He omitted to mention the threat of the elementals. “Send the summons.”

  “Yes, Sire.” Barclay bowed and left, leaving much for Soren to contemplate. His head felt heavy and overburdened as it had already been without this fresh problem.

  ~

  Soren surveyed the solemn, impassive faces of the council sitting before him around the round table as the council meeting began. Lord Steward Behan, seated to Soren’s right, hefted himself out of his chair with a groan and an audible creaking of his bones, to call a member of each county to stand forth in attendance. It was the only ceremonial flourish before the matters at hand were discussed.

  Each member stood in turn. To Soren’s left hand sat Barclay and his father Willam of House Walbridge. Lady Elsard of House Orrell was more stern-faced and thin-lipped than usual. Rafe of House Bryar, son of Asquith the traitor and just as untrustworthy, dabbed the sweat from his tufty moustache with a silken handkerchief as he bobbed his head in greeting. Godwin of House Bryar, the other loyal spur of the house, cast sidelong glances of disgust at his young, distant relative.

  Lord Heligan, chief amongst the law readers was a welcome ally, as was his cousin Lord Finihan of Duncombe, and Doren of House Kinsley, brother to another dead traitor, Loren. Filling the second to last seat next to Behan was Theodore, older cousin to Dane, nephew of Edmund, and new Lord of Arendall House. Soren still could not adjust to how uncannily alike in appearance he was to Edmund and Dane. Last of all to arrive, red-faced and muttering apologies, was Soren’s cousin, Ilyas of House Balaur. He attended on behalf of his father, who minded over Balaur territories to the south. It was his privilege to give the first account of the day.

  By his account, it appeared Lowenmouth, the heart of his county, was in grave danger of being attacked, but the dragons had veered north, and nothing had been seen or heard since. They were still on high alert.

  Lord Verio was, unsurprisingly, not present, having refused to leave the safety of his stronghold in Denholm county. He had been hit hard by the attacks, but Soren reckoned his absence was due more to cowardice. He said nothing, for Tristan, Verio’s son, attended in his stead; instead, Soren graciously welcomed him with as much politeness as he could muster. Tristan was the shadow of his father, puffed with the same intolerable air of self-importance.

  As Soren looked about the table once more, he realised Lord Bron of Rainsford was absent and had sent no-one in his place, though Behan, of the same house would stand in for him. No one from Arrow county sat, either. Karn was sick and Eve was on his own private business. Still, Soren regarded those before him feeling pleased. Not only was it the largest council gathered in a while, most of those attending were loyal to him, which was reassuring, given what he had yet to accomplish.

  “I welcome you all,” Soren began, his hands spread in invitation. “You are aware in part why you are here: to discuss how we can put an end to these dragon attacks.”

  Furious murmurs erupted as those about the table expressed their fear and anger at the devastating attacks. The clamour grew as they berated any lack of solution. Many of them had been personally touched, and Soren was taken aback by their vehemence. This could be more difficult than I anticipated, he thought, but there was little choice; onwards, or defeat.

  Soren held up his hands to quiet them, but it did not work. “Your attention, please!” he shouted. Eventually, they subsided enough to listen, though now all seemed riled and in disagreeable moods, much to Soren’s dismay.

  “I have a solution.” That captured their attention. Now, every eye was fixed upon him, every mouth was shut, and they leaned forward almost as one. “We cannot defeat these dragons. That is a fact. We cannot get close enough, we do not have the weapons to harm them, and we have not the strength to best them. You know this to be true.” He looked into the eyes of every man and woman there, and saw the truth of his words reflected in their eyes. Good. We are agreed on that, at least. Perhaps there is some hope yet.

  “There is one solution. We must ally ourselves with those who can. You remember, the dragons were my allies when I cast down Zaki. They have been our allies for a thousand years, as have been the Eldarkind, in a pact invoked by my forebear and the first King of Caledan, King Beren the Unvanquished, First of his Name.”

  They still watched him. Soren felt the pressure of their attention boring into him, like a rabbit transfixed in the eye of an eagle. “Not all the dragons are those perpetrating the attacks. That is only the minority. The majority of the clan still wish for peace and the old alliance to hold.” He exaggerated the numbers to give them hope the situation was more favourable; a gamble he hoped which would pay off.

  “The dragons and the Eldarkind have the skills and the strength needed to defeat these rebel dragons who lay waste to our land and break the peace between our races.” It’s now or never. “We must invoke the old alliance, and ally ourselves with the Eldarkind and the dragons.” He braced himself for their response, but was overwhelmed by their forceful denunciation of his plan. Barclay remained quiet, though his expression spoke volumes; he had already had chance and forewarning to say his piece.

  Reeling from the overwhelming attacks now coming from all sides, he took a moment to regroup before he stood tall again, now with a thunderous expression upon his face that gave some pause for thought even before he spoke.

  “Cease this madness!” he said. “Listen to reason. Of old, dragons, men, and Eldarkind fought and they were to tear each other’s races to pieces. All would be destroyed, and there would be no winners. So, instead, they forged a lasting peace to ensure all three races could live in prosperity.”

  Soren glared around the room, challenging anyone to interrupt him. “That peace has now been broken by a mere handful of dragons, who rebel against this notion of good sense, which has endured a thousand years.” He knew the numbers were far worse. The clan had split in half, and possibly more had defected to Cies. He could not be sure, but it was irrelevant; he could not afford to add more fuel to the fire. Better to let them think we have the greatest chance; that this will be easy.

  “We must join with our allies to defeat them. We cannot do it alone; our many recent losses show this. We need the magic of the Eldarkind, and the strength of the dragons; and they are willing to give that in order to restore peace for themselves, also. We must act in good faith now, before it is too late,” Soren stressed.

  He was at once shouted down as a deafening uproar ensued.

  “Dragons cannot be trusted!” snarled Tristan.

  “Where have these feckless Eldarkind been through our wars?” Lady Orrell said haughtily.

  “Cowards!” Rafe said, with spittle flying from his mouth. The irony was not lost on Soren.

  “Hiding goodness knows where!” Willam pounded the table. He hated cowards.

  Soren was shocked by the hate, anger, and fear he saw upon their faces. He was surrounded by wide eyes, flaring nostrils, and thunderous brows. Hands were slashed, clawed hands were shaken, and fingers wer
e wagged as each strove to shout their opinion.

  “They are not monsters!” Soren replied, trying to make himself heard. “Dragons are wise creatures as old as the world—as are the Eldarkind! We need their wisdom and their strength. We need them!”

  It was no use. He stared at them all as if they were strangers, wondering why they were so alienated from him when he was trying to do the right thing. Why can they not see? In that moment, he missed Edmund more than ever; a voice of calm and support throughout everything, a steadfast friend. Even Ilyas, his cousin and loyal supporter, was muttering darkly and shaking his head, with his brows furrowed in anger. Soren understood his people had felt the devastation firsthand, but he had hoped Ilyas would be more receptive to a solution; even a drastic one.

  Will anyone trust me on this? Soren wondered. After all it had cost to secure their hard won loyalty regaining the country from Zaki and repelling attacks from Roher, it seemed as though all that support had vanished in an instant.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Janus left at once with a band of his most trusted riders to see the truth of the matter for himself. He chose the closest reports to investigate, but even so, they were three days ride from Arrans.

  He could see the devastation from miles away as they crested the last hill before the valleys rolled away into the northern deserts. Beyond the river which marked the edge of Roher, there was nothing but waves of sand. But before it, cutting deep into the valley, was a trail of devastation no man could create.

  Janus rode hard, pushing his riders the last of the way until they galloped through uprooted woods, through crop fields that were now heaps of dried mud, and past the remains of villages that were nothing more than piles of firewood. As they rode through the mess, his men were silent, observing the destruction about them.

  There were no people, nor habitation left to question about what had happened. Janus kept riding with his men in tow in the direction the trail of debris left. They rode for another day before they espied the storm ahead, and then Janus could see only too clearly the truth of the matter for himself. He paused upon the edge of the forest, watching the dark clouds whorl and grow miles ahead of them, and the figure as tall as the sky that walked over the lands, preceded by a dark wave that glinted in the storm-refracted light.

  His men muttered prayers to The Mother to protect them and The Warrior to give them strength. Janus said nothing, watching the spectacle before him and not knowing what to make of it. He knew his men were devout and fearful of the gods’ wrath. He knew only their loyalty to him would keep them from speaking treasons or worse. And he knew what they would think: that the gods were angry with them, that Roher was out of favour, and perhaps, after the army’s recent losses in Caledan, that their wrath was aimed at his father.

  Janus needed to see no more. It did not matter if he coveted the throne for himself; there would be no throne to covet if they did not fix this mess and placate the gods, for this would cause an uprising that would endanger them all.

  ~

  Harad was greatly troubled by his reports, but he knew Janus would not lie in this, for it affected his own future. The safety of Harad’s crown was Janus’s guarantee of kingship. Janus would selfishly guard that.

  “The gods are displeased, then,” Harad said, scowling. “But with what?”

  Janus shrugged. “It matters not. We must be seen to appease them for the people’s sake, and their continuing faith. It cannot be stopped by force, that is clear.” He had already described to his father at great length what he had seen.

  “I agree. We shall host games and feasting in the gods’ honours. They must commence tomorrow. We have no time to waste! Make the arrangements. These must be our grandest. We must show our strength to the people, and the gods.”

  Harad’s advisors swiftly assembled to take note of his ideas.

  “It shall be three days, yes, three days, of games and feasting. I want every male hard-labour slave in the city over the age of eighteen bought and sent to the arena. Their masters shall be compensated. Three coppers a single, and a silver per half-dozen.” Harad paused to glare at his treasurer who had begun to fuss over the cost.

  “The price of the gods’ happiness is immeasurable. Let it never be said I saw fit to scrimp and scrape. Mind, I am not foolish. Levy a tax to pay for it. ‘The Gods’ Tax’ it can be called. People cannot say no to their gods.” Where was I? Ah, yes.

  “Three days of games. I want fighting, I want wild animals, I want crowd-pleasing, blood-thirsty entertainment. I want feasts that revel coronation celebrations.” Harad paused again whilst his chief of ceremony held a whispered conversation and sent his underling scurrying.

  “Yes, quite. The arrangements need beginning immediately.”

  “Sire?” Janus said. “What is to be done with those slaves who are not killed in the games?”

  Harad met his son’s eyes. They were as ruthless as his own, but he knew he would shock Janus with his revelation. “On the third day of the games, at the closing ceremony, they shall all be sacrificed to the gods.” He was right. Janus’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but he was smart enough not to say anything, and instead nodded and saluted his father.

  “Sire, are… are you sure this is wise?” said his chief of ceremony.

  “It is drastic, yes.” Harad spread his hands wide and shrugged slightly. “Yet, what is more important? The happiness of our gods? Or… no. Of course, only their contentment is of value to us. We are all but slaves to them. Sacrifice was practiced until some short decades ago. Why as a boy, I remember it from my grandfather’s rule. It served us well then, and will serve us well now to return to the favour of the gods. Our slaves should be honoured to lay down their lives to serve our gods in the next life.” His tone was soft and honeyed, persuasive, but it sharpened.

  “These are my orders and I expect to see them carried out with meticulous precision. Anyone who does not fulfill their duties will join the sacrifices on the third day.”

  Janus and Harad watched them with identical cold eyes as they bowed, and scraped, and left in a hurry.

  “Are you sure that was well done, Father?” Janus questioned in his usual arrogant manner.

  “You ought to remember I am your King before I am your father,” replied Harad coldly. “I am doing what I feel is best to secure our future on the throne. You would do well to appreciate it.”

  Janus inclined his head. “My apologies, Father.” Harad could tell the words were hollow. Janus was a cold, callous, and ambitious man just like himself. At times, it was something to be proud of, at others, something to be frustrated by. Ever as I train him to be a strong king, he looks for a chink in my armour. Harad loved Janus as little as Janus loved him. Crown Princes in Roher did not survive on their father’s warmth; they were far more motivated by their deaths.

  ~

  The games were held, and the capital city Arrans held festivities that were well attended by all in the city and those who were able to travel in time for the hastily put together events. Nothing could be faulted. Harad’s councilors were skilled at hosting many such events. It was but a trifle to them to do it at such short notice. Harad was pleased. Everywhere, he saw revelry and pleasure, and not a trace of fear of the gods’ wrath upon them.

  Yet, his closing gesture shocked them all. Only the heavy army presence and forced enjoyment by his supporters staved off dissent as thousands of slaves were herded into the arena in chains, offered to the gods, and sacrificed. The sand, especially transported from the nearby coast for the purpose, was not enough to soak up all their blood.

  Their bodies burned long into the night on giant pyres that covered the city in a heavy, sickly smog. Up in flames they went, along with other offerings to the gods; fine fabrics, crafted goods, jewellery, food, and wines.

  Harad was satisfied; he had made his point. His people feared him more than they feared the gods, and in that, they were wise. For now, at least, both they and he were assured the gods were
placated, so he could return to ruling Roher in peace. No greater or grander an event could have been thrown, no more lavish, or expensive, and certainly, no more generous to the gods in lives and chattel. As the cleaning operation began and Arrans returned to business, Harad was confident he had solved their problem. No more would this god trouble Roher. He had shown the gods his strength and knew they would be appeased.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Myrkdaga lazily uncoiled in the cave as the mid-afternoon breeze swept in and tickled his nostrils. The air was different, here in Ednor. Sweeter. No salt from the sea, for one. It was filled with the scent of life and nature, instead of the barren desolation of Kotyir. One by one, he stretched every limb, right down to the tip of his claws, before unfurling his wings, shaking them, and refolding them neatly by his side.

  A pang of hunger snaked through his stomachs, and he considered whether to move. There were no hard choices here; food was guaranteed, not hard won. Myrkdaga had to admit, it was enjoyable to feast on fat, well-fed beasts rather than the best Kotyir had to offer: wiry, tough mountain goats. As the pang reappeared, more insistent this time, Myrkdaga stirred, contemplating a hunt for a juicy deer to stretch his wings and fill his belly.

  “Oy!” A voice cut through his thoughts. Myrkdaga was already enjoying a fresh, warm kill in his mind’s eye. “Who’s there?”