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

by Meg Cowley

  The visions faded and suddenly, Soren was back in his own body. Pain stabbed through him once more. Soren’s head span as he tried to process what he had just witnessed, seemingly with his own eyes and body.

  “Magic, and strength, and iron,” growled Brithilca, interrupting his confusion. “Magic, and strength and iron,” he repeated, enunciating every syllable. “These three things you need to remake the pact.”

  Soren nodded. “What of Cies?” He stumbled as the floor shook once more, and braced himself on Brithilca’s wings.

  “In that, I cannot help you. This fight is yours to face. It is nearly time. Are you ready? I can give you one parting gift.”

  “No! Wait!” Soren cried, but it was too late. A chink of light appeared, and another and another as Brithilca’s wings cracked open. Soren rushed to draw his sword, which glowed a fiery, flickering blue, and held it before him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dull light, which was blinding after the darkness.

  “Now!” Brithilca’s voice cried, and the statue moved with as much speed as a living dragon. Above his head, Brithilca’s jaws opened and a jet of blue fire spurted out towards Cies, who towered above Soren with glittering eyes that were full of rage.

  The flames struck Cies square in the chest and he yelped a piercing shriek that drove into Soren’s head. Soren paused for just a moment, but he knew this was it. I’m not going to live through this, he thought, but there was no time to be scared. I might as well do my worst.

  Behind Soren, Brithilca fell still and the fire stopped, but as Soren rushed forwards, the blue flames did not dissipate. Instead, they clung to Cies, just like ice-fire. Soren reached Cies’s clawed feet, and with a battle cry as fierce as he could muster, hacked at what he could reach of Cies’ legs. Cies stumbled backwards, distracted by the flames and this new annoyance when behind him, a roar announced new company. Through Cies’s dancing legs, Soren saw Myrkdaga land just inside the cathedral doors with an Eldarkind on his back and relief blossomed.

  Myrkdaga dashed forwards on all fours and attacked Cies with tooth and claw, whilst the Eldarkind on his back cried in their strange tongue and leapt from Myrkdaga’s back onto Cies with his flaming blue blade. He danced over Cies’s writhing form with uncanny balance and agility, peppering him with flaming blue cuts as Myrkdaga bit and clawed the giant silver dragon.

  Cies turned away to face these new foes, hobbling on cut paws and Soren took his opportunity to slice off the tip of Cies’ tail, too. Cies roared again and half-turned back to face him with fire brewing in his throat.

  Panic and adrenaline washed over Soren, and then he remembered the small bottle of ice-fire he had brought, just in case his blade needed re-coating. He dropped his sword, fumbled for the stopped bottle, and ran towards Cies. The heat was unbearable and the jaws were more terrifying as they closed in on him, but Soren knew he could not falter. He removed the stopper from the bottle and tossed it into Cies’s open jaws.

  It sailed into his giant maw, dwarfed in an instant even as blue fire tumbled from the open neck of the clear bottle. The bottle danced through the air, creating a shimmering trail of flames into Cies’ mouth, bounced off his spiked tongue, and into his throat.

  In an instant, the white-hot fire brewing in Cies’ throat turned the deepest blue, and he sputtered and choked. Soren dove aside as Cies spurted a jet of flames, but they were blue and cold. Cies thrashed as the fire consumed him from the inside, sending Lorellei tumbling from his back.

  Cies swiped at Myrkdaga, but the young dragon held on with hate glowing in his eyes as he shredded Cies’s wings, until, at last, he was knocked clear and sent tumbling through several stone columns and into the cathedral walls, which shook from the impact. Soren scrambled to his feet to run, but Cies’ claw caught Soren, rending his armour from chest to midriff, and then his tail battered Soren too, sending him sailing through the air. Soren smashed into a pillar and sunk to its bottom in a crumpled heap.

  Time slowed. He watched in slow-motion as Cies thrashed. More pillars collapsed and the roof caved in, raining slates. Buttresses fell. The vaulted ceiling tumbled in pieces, no longer beautiful and strong, but as missiles. Cies roared as they struck him. They fell as deadly rain, thudding into the ground and fracturing into infinitesimal pieces.

  Myrkdaga rushed to Soren’s side, carrying Lorellei in his jaws, and gingerly deposited the unconscious Eldarkind beside the fallen king. The young dragon sheltered them all against the pillar, screeching in pain as he was hit time and again with falling masonry. Glass shattered, leaving no window intact. Cies’ scales glowed blue, and the blue ice-fire peeked between them, bursting to emerge. Emerge it did, and through the smallest gap in Myrkdaga’s wings, Soren saw the silver dragon consumed entirely by the blue flames. With one final shriek, Cies fell to the ground and did not rise.

  Soren blinked slowly. The pain was overwhelming. White hot and fierce. He could feel hot blood leaking down his front to pool in his lap. With every beat of his slowing heart, it pulsed out. Myrkdaga had sunk to his haunches under the brutal barrage, and his weight and warmth smothered Soren. Soren tried to move, but no part of his body worked. He couldn’t breathe it hurt so much, and his chest would no longer obey him.

  The pact, he tried to say. I must remake the pact. I know how. I cannot fail. No words emerged, only the faintest moan. The tightness of his chest was painful now. Soren’s lips cracked open in an attempt to suck air in, anything. He wanted to take a breath so desperately, but it would not come. I… have… failed…

  He would die. He would never rebuild the pact. He had failed. There was no energy or effort left to be sad, or angry; or feel anything. Soren’s eyes slipped shut and he faded into darkness.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Myrkdaga dragged the still forms of Soren and Lorellei through the collapsed cathedral wall just as Tarrell and Farran landed. Farran’s wings battered the square in warm winds filled with ash and smoke that made Myrkdaga cough.

  Farran galloped towards him with Tarrell close behind. “Where is he?” Farran growled.

  “Dead,” said Myrkdaga. “Cies is dead.”

  “What of Soren?” Tarrell asked urgently as he surveyed the devastation before them with wide eyes.

  “Here,” Myrkdaga said.

  Tarrell rushed to his side.

  Farran passed them without a word, and leapt onto the piles of rubble, digging through them to discover for himself.

  Tarrell placed a hand on Soren’s forehead and felt for a pulse before doing the same with Lorellei. “We have no time to speak of what has passed. Can you fly? We must try to save them.”

  Myrkdaga nodded. “I can fly.” Barely. But I will not desert them. He looked down at the pair. Lorellei looked in peaceful slumber, but Soren was a bloody, rent mess.

  “Take Soren to the castle, now. I will have healers waiting.” Tarrell shook his head. His eyes lingered over the wounds, which still oozed blood. “I do not know if we can save him. We must try. I will take care of Lorellei.” He placed his hands on Soren and sent a blaze of magic surging into the fallen king. “Mayhap that will help.”

  Myrkdaga gathered Soren in his clawed feet as gently as he could and took off with a giant leap into the air. His wings screamed with pain as he laboured, flapping them harder and harder to gain speed and altitude.

  Pandora burned beneath him in a raging inferno. Ashes floated up on the heat, tickling Myrkdaga’s nostrils as he breathed them in. He paid little heed to it, glancing down only to look at Soren. He was sickly in the murky orange glow, and the blood was dark and thick upon him. He felt cold in Myrkdaga’s claws, and he moved not at all. I cannot even sense breath from him, nor heartbeat. Myrkdaga’s eyes lingered over him. There was precious little hope to be found here. He was not sure what even Eldarkind healers could accomplish.

  His thoughts turned to the pact. Cies was vanquished. All he had sought was accomplished. But of course, Farran sought the greater good, as did Tarrell, as did Soren. Where would th
at be now without Soren? Myrkdaga had seen Bahr and he did not wish for others like him. He growled, gritted his teeth against the pain, and pushed harder to reach the healers at the castle. Almost there.

  ~

  “Farran!” Tarrell cried, hovering about Lorellei for the dragon still dug with the needs of a madman. “We have work yet to do!” He bent over once more to murmur words of healing into Lorellei’s ear. He was relieved to see a small flushed tinge on Lorellei’s cheeks and the faint rise and fall of his chest.

  Tarrell’s words were drowned by an almighty roar as Farran uncovered Cies’s body beneath the rubble. “Cies is dead!” he shouted into the minds of everyone who could hear; friend and foe alike. “The traitor and worm is vanquished, never to rise again. Come and see for yourselves.” He spat the challenge out and began to tug Cies’s giant body from the ruins so it could be seen.

  Cies had not died a good death. The edge of every scale was burnt to a white, fine ash, and they were faded and pitted with damage from the ice-fire magic. Cies’ eyes were closed, but through the slit of his eyelids, Farran could see dull, lifeless pupils. He grinned with satisfaction and tugged harder until Cies’ crumpled form lay in a heap upon the ruins. He roared again and spurted a giant jet of fire into the sky.

  “All you who followed Cies of the silver scales; the traitor, the coward, and the outcast. Come see what has happened to your mighty leader!” Farran crowed into the night. His eyes glittered with glee. Dragons of his own clan alighted around him, and they roared with him of their prowess, shouting into the darkening skies of sunset.

  Farran might have acted for the greater good, but he was no soft dragon. A clan head had to be ruthless. “Hunt them down,” he said to his clan. “All who defected. Kill any who will not join us. There can be no peace for us until they are all gone.” Dragons took to the sky in a whirlwind, and he followed them into the air with grim resolve. It was no enjoyable thing to kill kin, but for the future safety of the clan, and the future of the pact, there was no other choice.

  ~

  Tarrell exclaimed with frustration as Farran left. “Dragons,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Lorellei murmured an intelligible sound and Tarrell bent closer to here.

  “St..u…. Stubb..orn…” Lorellei opened his eyes slowly, groaning. “My… head…”

  Tarrell sighed with relief. “I am glad you are alive, Lorellei. Well done.” He placed his hands upon Lorellei’s shoulders and channeled some of his own energy into the younger Eldarkind to revitalise him.

  Moments later, Myrkdaga landed with a crash and a thud. “Well met, friend,” he said with a toothy grin at Lorellei.

  Lorellei slowly sat, and used Myrkdaga’s bulk to pull himself to his feet where he swayed unsteadily. “Well met, indeed.” Lorellei grimaced. “What happened? We’re not dead.”

  “We defeated Cies,” Myrkdaga replied smugly, a puff of smoke bursting from his nose.

  Lorellei had no answer for that. Speechless, he surveyed the wreckage around them and his eyes fixated on Cies’ body. “I did not think it possible.”

  “We are not done yet. There will no doubt be dragons who will not acknowledge defeat. Will you fly with me once more?”

  “I would be honoured, friend.” Lorellei winced as he clapped Myrkdaga on the leg. What is necessary, is not always easy, Lorellei reminded himself and clambered onto Myrkdaga once more with a pounding head, aching body, and a drawn sword.

  ~

  It was swiftly done after Cies’ defeat. Many smaller dragons meekly surrendered in the face of Farran’s clan, the Eldarkind, the humans, and the ice-fire magic. There were few to defeat in combat, and fewer still who ran, for cowardice was not a common trait amongst dragonkin.

  Those who had surrendered were not welcomed back into the clan, but viewed with suspicion. They were to remain, for now, outside Pandora under the watchful eyes of dragons loyal to the clan, where they would cause no trouble.

  Then, it was all hands needed to put out the fires still raging in places of the city. By all accounts, Pandora was ruined, but before it could be rebuilt, it had to be quenched. In this, the dragons could not help due to their vulnerability to water, but the Eldarkind’s magic made up for that as they drew water from the ground to extinguish the flames whilst Pandora’s people made human chains to pass buckets from the lake into the city.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Soren’s eyes opened just a crack to warm, inviting light, but it blinded him, and his eyes slipped shut once more. That was strange. He had not expected to awaken again. His head pounded. He tried to swallow, overwhelmed by the dryness of his mouth, but his muscles would not obey him.

  Everything was almost silent; the only sounds the rustle of something nearby.

  “Nngh,” Soren managed to say. That hurt, too. Everything hurt. His front more than anything; it was on fire with pain. His breaths were laboured and shallow, for each hurt even more.

  “Don’t move,” a firm, reassuring voice said.

  Tarrell, his lethargic mind suggested. Soft hands—more than one pair—were cool and soothing on his skin.

  “You took quite a beating,” Tarrell said, somewhere above him. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Soren. We were not sure you would make it for quite some time.”

  Beside Soren, Tarrell and his team of Eldarkind healers continued to labour, soaking dressings and applying them to Soren’s bloodied body to gently clean it.

  It had been a long healing over several days, and Tarrell’s own eyes threatened to droop shut, but he was determined not to fail. Without Soren, the rebuilding of the pact and the saving of all they held dear would be lost. Tarrell would give everything he could before he let Soren slip away, because the alternative did not bear thinking about.

  They had needed all their skills and concentration to save him, for Soren’s wounds ran deep and he was on the verge of death as they tended to him. It had taken hours of joint spell casting to knit Soren’s broken flesh back together, mend broken bones, and replace his blood loss.

  Tarrell looked over the king’s broken body. There would be a reckoning yet. Soren would have much to come to terms with. Even the Eldarkind could not work miracles.

  “Water,” Soren whispered hoarsely. A cool trickle of liquid ran down his throat as someone carefully tipped it through his cracked lips. “Thank… you.” He slipped back into unconsciousness, hounded by shadows of fragmented dreams.

  ~

  It was easier the next time. Everything still hurt, but this time, Soren managed to open his eyes. Gaunt and exhausted, Tarrell continued waiting on him. He slumbered sitting up with his head tipped to one side, but jerked awake as Soren twitched his limbs under the coverlet. My chamber, Soren realised. “What happened?” His voice was hoarse. Soren tried to prop himself on his pillows, but, once more, his body would not obey, and Tarrell placed a hand gently on his shoulder to stop him.

  “Do not move. Not yet.”

  Soren lay back obediently. Full of questions, he opened his mouth, but unsure where to start.

  “You may now add ‘dragon slayer’ to your list of titles,” said Tarrell with a wry smile. “Cies is gone—vanquished forever—thanks to you and your quick thinking. Myrkdaga says you were quite heroic, in a reckless sort of way.” Tarrell explained what had happened after Soren passed out.

  “I thought I would never wake again,” said Soren quietly. There had been no time to reconcile with his death, but he had been so certain that was the end.

  Tarrell regarded him with an inscrutable face, remaining silent for a while before he replied, “You very nearly did not wake, Soren. I… we… have done our best. You are alive, and that is what matters.”

  “What do you mean?” said Soren. He frowned.

  “We cannot make all whole again. You were too deeply injured. Time will tell how this will affect you, but for now, you have some scarring.”

  Soren struggled to sit up. Tarrell made to stop him, but he shook his head. �
��I want to see.”

  At Tarrell’s word, his Eldarkind attendants dragged forward a tall mirror, and Soren slipped his feet over the side of the bed to sit up. His legs, he noticed, were covered in bruises: purple blooms of all shapes and sizes that spread across his skin. Armour isn’t dragon-proof, then. Soren dragged his gaze away from his legs, which seemed otherwise intact, to look in the mirror. He swallowed.

  He was naked under the covers, and it meant not a detail escaped him when he tugged them back; though, it would have been hard to miss. A giant, red scar, freshly healed, swirled from his shoulder to his hip, across his chest and stomach. It was hideous. The skin was angry and vibrant, not yet healed, with scabbing and pale areas on the edge of infection.

  “You broke a leg when Cies threw you aside,” Tarrell said quietly, watching Soren for his reaction. “Several ribs. Fingers. One of your arms. An ankle. These were easy enough to heal, for the most part, though, you may notice stiffness and aching for a while. This, though… Cies’s claw rent your armour with ease, like shearing though fabric. You lost so much blood you were almost beyond saving. That alone will leave you weakened for a short time. This wound was not something we could heal whole again. With some further ministrations, we will ensure it gives you no pain and will not be susceptible to infection, but you may not be able to fight and move as you did, for the flesh of a scar does not knit together properly again.”

  Soren could not take his eyes from the wound. He had rarely considered himself handsome, but now his athletic body would be forever marred by this.

  “Come, you must rest some more. We still have work to do before you are ready to try walking.”

  Soren slid back into bed obediently, but he could not erase the unsightly image of his battered body from his mind.

  Better alive and scarred, than dead? he asked himself.

  ~

  In a few days, Soren was able to walk with minimal pain and the wound on his chest gave him little trouble, save where the scar tissue tugged at him strangely as he moved. That would take some getting used to.