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

by Meg Cowley

  ~

  The cost could be counted when dawn came anew. More broken, blackened buildings. More bodies. More injured to tend to.

  Farran and Tarrell walked amongst the smouldering ruins in silence. Both were exhausted after a long and sleepless night. They had watched into the darkness, but Cies had not returned after their sustained and organised defence.

  “He is gone for now, at least,” murmured Farran. “He could not stand before us.”

  “We were nearly spent also.”

  “Cies does not know that. We presented a strong and unified front to him. He will know there are easier victims to terrorize, not least because he will be severely weakened, both in body and in leadership. He has much work to do before he can challenge us again.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I do not know,” Farran rumbled.

  “What would you do, if you were he?”

  Farran paused. “I would regain my strength, and I would ensure no division in my clan. This defeat will weaken him. Dragons do not follow loss and defeat; only strength and success in battle. He will need to prove himself again to his followers.”

  “Surely, this means they will attack again?” Tarrell stopped, aghast. We cannot sustain this.

  Farran stopped also, and met his eye. “He will not attack here.” The implication was clear.

  Tarrell shut his eyes momentarily and swallowed. In his mind’s eye, he relived the past two battles, and knew no others stood a chance of resisting Cies as they had. “It will be a massacre,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “It is inevitable.”

  Tarrell shook his head. He refused to believe it, yet he knew it to be true. They had managed to save themselves, but nothing could be done for those in Cies’s path.

  “We must gather our kin. We cannot continue as we are.”

  ~

  “We are too isolated here,” Tarrell addressed his kin and Farran’s, who watched him with shadowed eyes and hunched shoulders.

  “As you know, our sole purpose is to rebuild the pact, to ensure our true enemies lay sleeping, and the peace of our realm and others is saved. We can only accomplish this by defeating Cies to unite our land and three races in peace once more. However, we cannot do this alone.” He paused, to meet the eyes of those before him. Their gazes bored into him. He could feel the weight of their losses as his own.

  “After the events of the past days, Cies will not return here. We are safe for now. Yet, he will choose easier prey. Humans who cannot evade or repel him. We cannot remain here and allow innocents to suffer when we have the power to vanquish him. It is our duty, under the terms of our pact, broken as it may be, and I intend to uphold it.”

  Dragons rumbled their assent, and Eldarkind nodded, but many looked doubting. He could understand why. Their victories had cost them much.

  “Will you follow Farran and I away from Ednor, to help in whatever way we may?”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The messenger was clearly an Eldarkind in disguise. His hair was dark brown, but sleek and shiny, and his face was covered in uncharacteristic stubble. Unlike the Eldarkind messengers who came before him, he wore the clothes of a human messenger, and carried the royal seal that would grant him unbarred access to the king’s own confidence. Yet, the slender set of his jaw was unmistakable. Soren ushered him in, casting a glance at the empty corridor outside. His guards, facing forwards and staring into nothing, closed the door behind him.

  The messenger sagged with relief as the door snapped shut. Soren poured him a hot drink from the kettle by the fire, so he could warm against the winter chill that permeated inside the castle as relentlessly as always. A plate of steaming food arrived minutes later, and Soren fidgeted, waiting for him to finish eating. The last mouthful was barely in the Eldarkind’s mouth before Soren asked, “What news?”

  The Eldarkind swallowed the last morsel and rose to his feet to execute a sharp bow, despite his obvious exhaustion. “Sire. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sendari and I travel at the behest of Lord Tarrell.” He explained of the attacks on Ednor. The news was bleak. Death tolls, destruction, and many injured; Sendari spared no details, and by the end of his recount, Soren gripped the arms of his chair with white knuckles.

  “This explains why I am unable to scry with Lord Tarrell?” he questioned.

  Sendari confirmed his suspicion. “Much has been destroyed. There is not a mirror or pool left from which to scry in Ednor. That is why Lord Tarrell sent me. I travelled without stopping to reach you as soon as possible.”

  Soren frowned. “This is ill news indeed. I am sorry for your losses. I have had no word of further attacks. Does this mean Cies is vanquished and will trouble Caledan no more?”

  His heart sunk as Sendari replied. “It is unlikely, Sire. Lords Tarrell and Farran believe he will choose an easier target to allow him to consolidate his power after a humiliating defeat at our hands, and that means an attack on your people. He may well have already attacked. I rode here without delay, but your human messengers are not so fast. News will be slow to come, or it may not come at all.”

  “We are vulnerable, then.” Soren sighed. “We do not know where he will strike, or when. And yet it matters not; we cannot defeat him.”

  “We are only vulnerable in isolation,” Sendari cautioned. “We must work together in this, my Lord urges you. I come at Lords Tarrell and Farran’s behest because they wish to negotiate a relocation of both races to Pandora. We are isolated and vulnerable, too, but they believe by working together, we can succeed.”

  A relocation, Soren pondered.

  “Our people are not yet convinced it is the best option,” Sendari admitted, biting his lip. “The dragons are all for it, being—pardon me for saying—a bold and more confrontational race. My people are more cautious. We have never before abandoned our sanctuary in Ednor, and many are loathe to do so now. Lords Tarrell and Farran request your opinion on this matter with great urgency.”

  “I am in two minds myself,” Soren replied. “I believe our best chance lies in unification, and a relocation to a stronghold like Pandora makes great sense. Together, we could defend a position of strength. We have the fortifications, resources, and position.

  “However, there is too much discord at present sowed to act on this.” He explained about the growing intolerance and even hatred towards both dragon and Eldar races, but his words were brief. Sendari had his own knowledge of this, first hand. “Peace is barely holding. I fear a coup or worse, and any proposals of an alliance have so far been shouted down most strongly. Take this news back to Tarrell and ensure him I support him fully and will do all I can to ensure we three races can work together. On my part, it requires great tact to orchestrate. I will do my best. Ensure he can scry with me soon—I would speak with him and Farran. I am gravely concerned.”

  Soren summoned Behan to share the news the moment Sendari departed for Ednor. However, the steward was not as responsive as Soren had hoped.

  “You cannot be glad for the attacks upon Ednor, surely?” Soren asked, dreading the answer. “You cannot celebrate the weakening of Eldarkind.”

  Behan did not respond to deny it.

  “You do not count them as friends?”

  “No!” said Behan, and scowled most uncharacteristically. “Where have they been throughout the years of your mother’s and grandfather’s reign? Hiding in the mountains whilst our people fought and died when the Roherii invaded.”

  “They are a peaceful folk, and not bound to die for us, and why should they? Surely, the fact they are willing to abandon their homeland and stand with us, when they themselves are attacked, proves they are our allies?” Soren knew he was getting angry, for he could feel his cheeks reddening and could not keep the scowl from his own face, but he fixed Behan in his gaze and tried to remain calm. Losing his temper would not help.

  Doubt crept into Behan’s face, and he tapped his fingers together. “I cannot say, Sire.”

  “These a
re our allies,” Soren pressed. “Remember, they have come to our aid in times of gravest danger before, unasked and unpaid. They have laid down their lives with us, because we are their ally. And now, they are prepared—and preparing—to do so again, despite their homes being devastated, and despite many wanting to stay ‘hiding in the mountains’, as you say. Everything they hold dear is gone, perhaps, and still, they have the courage to stand hand in hand with us in this. How can they be evil? Have you ever known them to be thus? Is this gesture an evil one?”

  “No,” said Behan, reluctantly.

  “I should think not,” said Soren determinedly. “So, why do you distrust them now? Of all people, I trust you highest.” Soren softened his tone. It was not lost on him the absurdity of a man of his age chastising an elder, whether he was king or not. “You are wise beyond your many years, and well-versed in our history—our shared histories.”

  “It is hard to know who is friend and who is foe in these troubled times,” Behan admitted.

  “They are not our enemy,” said Soren simply, with a shrug. He could not shrug off his concern, however. He knew he owed a great debt to Behan for his support in earlier troubles: for regaining his throne from his usurping Uncle Zaki, and for supporting him doggedly when storm clouds of treason were brewing in his attempts to stave off an uprising and hunt down Zaki. Without Behan’s support, he would have failed in all tasks. Without Behan’s support, he would no doubt be dead now, captured and executed by Zaki.

  Soren could not shake the apprehension that grew at potentially distancing his most staunch supporter, and someone he trusted so deeply, but Behan’s opinions were growing dangerously intolerant. If it were true of his greatest supporter, what did it say of others? If Behan did not support him, who else would be like-minded?

  As they feasted in the hall that night, Soren felt in a bubble on the top table, set aside from the usual revelry and casting a suspicious eye over all who attended. Their smiles were friendly and their eyes shone with merriment, but to him, all seemed cold and calculating, and Soren could feel a palpable tension. Am I imagining things?

  Barclay slid into the chair beside him. Lost in thought, Soren started at the interruption, but smiled with relief at who had joined him. “Well met, Barclay.”

  Barclay replied with his usual lopsided grin, and slouched in the chair, reaching forward to grab a chicken thigh, which he picked at idly. “It’s not hard to see you have something on your mind, Soren. What ails you?”

  In hushed tones, careful to not be overheard by anyone, Soren recounted his meetings with Sendari and Behan, and his fears that his support was dwindling in this crucial time.

  “Will anyone try and rise against me?” he asked Barclay.

  Barclay tossed his bone aside and cleaned his fingers meticulously on a napkin before tossing it in a crumpled heap on the table. “Well, you know you can count on me, on House Walbridge, I mean. Father is still lord, of course, but he’s getting on a bit now, and not what he once was. I command a good deal of respect from our men, and I am set to succeed him.”

  “Thank you,” Soren said, throwing a grateful smile to his friend. Who would have thought I could count on House Walbridge first and foremost, he mused. “I am fairly sure I can count on the rest of House Balaur to support me. Uncle Andor and Cousin Ilyas have ever been good to me. The other houses are bound to me by loyalty or ward, but I feel it counts for so little in these testing times. I feel these bring out the best and worst in men.”

  “I can toast to that,” said Barclay wryly. “Don’t forget the womenfolk, though. They’re not as sweet as they appear. It’s a good thing House Orrell is so small. Lady Elsard certainly fancies herself for queen, though gladly no one else thinks it. She’d be a mean and shrew-like ruler.” He pulled a comical face of disgust, but wrinkled his nose at Soren’s grim response. “Oh, come, I meant a jest. She would not dare. She’s ambitious, not stupid.”

  “Mmm,” replied Soren. “Perhaps, I should up my guard, or get my food tasted.” He sighed.

  “You could be worrying too much.”

  Soren forced out a chuckle. “I might be, but I’ve been around this court too long to be naive to what happens. I have always relied on Behan to deal with any plots, and yet his demeanor worries me. Speaking of which, I have not heard such whispers in a while, which is suspicious in itself. Is he hiding things from me?” Soren knew the question was rhetorical, and Barclay could not answer, but he wished he could discern the truth. Is it omission or neglect on Behan’s part? Either way, I am vulnerable. Soren did not fancy eating anything now, and looked at his plate grimly.

  Beside him, Barclay stood, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Worry not, Sire. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, and my nose to the ground. I wouldn’t concern yourself. You’re king, and it’s as simple as that. If they don’t like it, they have to lump it. That’s the perk!”

  Soren forced out a smile as Barclay turned away, but it fell as soon as his friend left. He swallowed. The pressure was palpable. I have to act, but how? I cannot let this insecurity rule me, for that alone will be my downfall. Yet, how can I plow ahead with a course of action so vehemently opposed by so many others? What’s worse: insanity or incompetence? He hoped they did not talk about him like this, but Soren knew it was a futile wish.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Sustenance, and a lot of it, was needed to recoup after the defeats at Ednor. Another day and another village was burnt to the ground and all its livestock eaten; bones and all.

  Cies looked upon his clan with suspicion. He knew they would be questioning him behind his back—it was only a matter of time before he discovered it—and he would not suffer dissent. Their eyes fixed upon him slyly, watching and waiting for him to prove himself, and the biggest looking for their opening to challenge him.

  One dared challenge him for the biggest cow, rushing forward with wings outstretched, and teeth bared in a hiss. Cies defended his prey, roaring deafeningly loud and pinning his opponent down by the neck. He grasped the dragon in his powerful jaws and shook it like prey, tightening his vice-like grip until the dragon could struggle no more for its breathlessness. Cies ached with the effort, but he would not show it.

  He released the other dragon after a pronounced pause, and met the eyes of all those who looked up from their feasts to regard the spectacle. His bold stare sent the message he wanted. Challenge me and I will crush you. Cies tossed aside his challenger like a twig and it backed away hissing, with hate in its eyes.

  Cies turned back to his meal, knowing he would not be challenged again—at least, that night—and glad for it. The cold hastened the weakening of Bahr’s magic, it seemed, for he felt somewhat worse for wear.

  They had flown down from the mountains to milder climes, where the forests sheltered their plump prey and would guard them from the worst of the howling winds. There would be no sleep, merely a few hours of laying still and resting with open eyes and alert minds to rest their muscles before moving on, but it was a stop they needed nonetheless. It was still too cold, even out of the cold heights. Cies knew the south was warmer, and he did not want to fly back to Kotyir; despite those isles being an oasis of warmth and sustenance, they were in the midst of cold bleakness. Besides, to fly back to their homeland would be defeat to him, and he could not tolerate that.

  His plan was to move south; closer to the warmth that would enliven and sustain them, not this cold that stripped them of their strength and sapped them of their energy. He told his followers just that, in no uncertain terms, proposing they move south and replenish themselves in warmer climes.

  “You would flee like a coward?” said a dragon big enough for Cies not to challenge him at that.

  Cies snarled instead. “How dare you insult me. No, I have a better plan, one that will aid us as it weakens our enemy.” He paused, waiting for the other dragon to subside. It drew its head back into the shadows and he continued. “We ought to wait for Farran to weaken himself—and all those worms
who follow him—in the cold north, whilst we grow strong in the warm south. The lands there will be rich and plentiful.” His voice was silky and smooth as it painted a picture none of them could resist.

  “They’ll be full of prey for the taking—fat, juicy and plentiful—and humans for conquering, and we can return in the high spring, waxing whilst our enemies wane. They will cower before us; them, and their little Eldar friends who think their clever magic tricks can defeat or intimidate us.” He scoffed.

  “We have already shown Caledan we are unbeatable. No human may stand before us. Now, let us conquer new lands without anything to get in our way. Let us show every human we meet our ferocity and strength. No longer are we bound to such weak races as humans and Eldarkind. No longer do we have to suffer this humiliation.” Cies’ grin stretched wide over white, serrated teeth. “Who will fly south with me?”

  Roars drowned him out. Smugly, he sat on his haunches and watched his followers work themselves into a blood-lust-like frenzy.

  They flew through the night, so energised were they, following the March Mountains south, until new lights were spotted on the horizon. They twinkled in the distance. An invite. Cies was full; his stomach strained from how much he had eaten. Now, though, he had a message to send to the humans and to his clan. He was unbeatable. No one could stand before him.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The bells and horns rang out deep in the night, rousing Eve from her slumber with a curse, as, bleary-eyed, she realised what they could herald. A frisson of fear jolted her awake in an instant. Please, be a false alarm.

  The fire burnt low in the grate, giving her just enough light to see by. She threw on a jumble of clothes, donned some light armour and snatched up her sword, which was now always close to hand. As she ran downstairs, the rest of the house was alive with noise, already rousing, and when she reached the courtyard, her father was waiting. Men carried him out on a makeshift palanquin, but he was struggling to sit up and insisting he was well enough to walk or ride. Her cheeks blushed with embarrassment for him.