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

by Meg Cowley

  As soon as he was able, he met with both Tarrell and Farran to discuss what had happened. There was much news to be shared of the battle and what had happened since, but they had won, and that was all that mattered to Soren.

  “I am grateful for your help, Lord Tarrell. Without you…” Soren gestured to himself and drew a finger across his neck.

  Tarrell smiled and bowed his head. “I am relieved that we could save you.”

  “Farran-visir, well met,” Soren executed a short bow to the dragon, grimacing as his body warned him not to bend too low.

  “Well met, Soren-visir,” Farran rumbled, affording him the dragon’s term of respect.

  Once they had discussed news of the battle, for Soren did not recall anything after his battle with Cies and there was much he had missed, it was time for Soren to tell his own strange tale of how Brithilca had saved him from certain death at Cies’ claws and shown him of the making of the original pact.

  Soren explained it as best he could, painfully aware that he might sound insane, but Tarrell and Farran listened intently to his every word without a sound. They did not speak until he had finished.

  “I wish we could have seen this for ourselves,” said Tarrell longingly. They scried Brithilca at once, but the spectral dragon had only disappointment for them.

  “I have no doubt what you say is true, Soren,” Brithilca said gravely. “However, once more, my mind is clouded and I cannot see that which you speak of. I am sorry.”

  “What did Lord Falykas say? Can you remember the exact words?” Tarrell leaned forwards.

  “I…” Soren was about to deny him further, but he found that he remembered it with crystal clarity. “I need a quill and parchment at once, before I forget it!” he said.

  Tarrell rushed off to fetch one and returned momentarily, with a freshly inked quill held at the ready.

  Soren repeated Brithilca’s translation of the binding pact. “Great spirits, I command you to sleep, unmoving, unthinking, unchanging, and unyielding. Fire Spirit Bahr, I bind you under ice and water. I bind you with this, my energy, the energy of my kin, the iron of man, and the strength of dragonkin, until the end of time.”

  Tarrell scribbled the last words and blew on the parchment to try the ink. “What else? That cannot be all, for we attempted similar wordings to rebind Bahr of the Fire, Arandulus of the Water, and others; and all have failed. Tell us every detail of what passed. There must be an answer in what you saw.”

  Soren closed his eyes and brought forward the memory that was not a memory, reliving every detail, and trying to recall anything that might be material.

  “The dragons,” Soren said slowly, his eyes still clamped firmly shut as visions flashed through his mind. “They had melted a glacier. The Eldarkind were using the water to trap Bahr. It held Bahr at bay, but not for long. And then… Falykas spoke the incantation. Beren’s armour melted from him, and flew into the sky to join the water encircling Bahr. It seemed to slow him. Iron, it would have been at that time. There are few remnants left now. It was not enough.”

  Tarrell and Farran listened with bated breath.

  “Falykas cut his own palm,” Soren continued, “and Beren’s, and mingled their blood. He cut Brithilca too—dragons have purple blood!” Soren exclaimed. “Falykas caught the blood in his palm, and then shouted the incantation again. I think it was the same one—the words were lost to the wind. This time, it felt different. I could feel the magic ripping through me—Beren—through all of us. Brithilca vanished; he glowed like white hot fire, and disintegrated to nothing. Beren lost consciousness.” Soren opened his eyes. “That was all I saw.”

  “I can continue,” said Brithilca. “I remember now… some small details, as if through a haze. Beren and Falykas lived on. Bahr was imprisoned in ice, and my spirit inadvertently became his guardian. I have soaked up the magic and power of the bound elementals, as I have that of my kin for a millennia now. We must do this with Arandulus before it is too late. Soren, as your gift to the pact, we need iron. Tarrell, of you and yours, your magic. And Farran, of thine and mine, our strength.”

  “So, that is how it is done,” mused Tarrell. “The pact is in the blood, iron, strength, and the binding itself.”

  “And in the elemental’s greatest weakness,” added Brithilca. “For Bahr, it was water, in any form. For Arandulus, it will be different.”

  “Earth,” said Tarrell.

  “There is no time to be wasted if Arandulus walks the earth once more,” said Farran sombrely.

  “Will you go at once to bind Her?” Soren asked.

  “Yes,” Tarrell replied, and met his glance. “And you must come with us. We need your blood, and your iron.”

  “I will need some time. We do not use iron to make our armour or our blades anymore. I shall have to raid the forges and the stables and such places to gather some. Do you have need of more of my men?”

  Tarrell and Farran shared a glance Soren did not need explaining. “No.”

  Soren dipped his head in acquiescence. “I understand. Will you permit me to put my affairs in order before I leave? I have much to do.” And a plan of my own.

  He left anyway, once he had extricated himself from their polite goodbyes. He had not asked permission to leave, it was merely a formality, a politeness. Soren summoned the council at once.

  Barclay was first to arrive. “Well met, Soren! By jove, I thought we’d lost you.” He strode forward and clasped forearms with Soren, his face beaming with a relieved smile. Soren noticed he looked worse for wear himself and bore bruising to his face.

  Barclay raised an eyebrow. “Oh, this?” he said airily. “A mere bump, compared to your injuries.”

  Soren grinned, though his smile faded as other council members began to file in. Soon, they all sat, awaiting his command. Not one of them walked without an injury of some kind. That pleased him in a strange way. It meant they had all fulfilled their duties. Even Rafe, son of Asquith the coward. Perhaps, he had injured himself trying to flee. The thought materialised before he could stop it. Soren’s lips twitched in a smile, and he pursed them shut instead.

  First, he collected their reports from the battle. All were similar. Fire. Destruction. Heavy losses to the archers’ ranks. And little they could do. Their thoughts already turned to the devastation outside. Few areas of Pandora had escaped unscathed, and many had been totally destroyed. But they all agreed, grudgingly in most cases, that without the dragons and the Eldarkind, they would have been completely defeated.

  “Quite,” nodded Soren. “I hope now, that you can see the value of why I pushed so hard for an alliance?” He looked around the room, but got little more than reluctant nods. “Our oldest allies shall remain our strongest. We have but one more task to complete together, and I must leave you for this.” That grabbed their attention. All eyes were now fixed on him and not a word was spoken.

  “Roher. What are the latest reports, Barclay? I asked you to keep records of traders. Behan? News from our ambassador?”

  “Strange indeed,” said Behan, speaking first as his rank was most senior. “Our eyes and ears in Arrans tells of chaos in Harad’s court. By all accounts, and these have been verified by crown prince Janus, a god or demon walks the earth, spreading destruction and death on Roher. None may stand in its way. Harad is increasing his army as quickly as he can with boys younger and younger, and he puts on the most lavish and barbaric shows of power to appease these Roherii gods. By all accounts, it sounds bizarre. I cannot fathom the truth of it myself.”

  “Your report corroborates this?” Soren turned his attention to Barclay.

  Barclay nodded. “The traders tell much the same story and we suffer losses to wares from Ladrin and east Roher, most notably of all. All the sea and western land routes are open, but it seems the north roads out of Roher are closed, for some reason. There is a story of a great being of water as tall as the sky who washes away all before it.”

  Soren nodded gravely. Arandulus. He had seen He
r for himself, and would have described Her exactly the same. A great being of water as tall as the sky, he mused. “Strange, indeed, it seems, I know, but I know it to be the truth. What has risen is no god or demon, but an elemental of water who has lain bound for a millennia. The old stories of King Beren are true. He did make a pact with dragons and Eldarkind, and into that pact they made a binding to subdue the elementals to everlasting slumber, to save all three of our races. The pact is broken, and the elementals are rising. They bear no love for us. For our safety, we must turn to this new enemy at once, and defeat it.”

  Groans arose from the council, and questions. Soren held up a hand to stymie them.

  “I know of a way to stop this being, and form a lasting, binding, meaningful peace with Roher.”

  The council fell silent at once and all leaned forward expectantly.

  “The Roherii are powerless against Arandulus; for that is what the being of water is called. She is a powerful water elemental. They can do nothing to stop Her, however great their armies grow, because humans are of little consequence to Her, as they are to other elementals. We have something the Roherii do not. An alliance with dragons and Eldarkind; the very beings who can stop the elementals.” Soren did not mention the pact. Let them believe that we need our allies more than they need us… it is probably true.

  “It is my plan to offer Roher terms of peace, on the condition we banish Arandulus for good. We seek to do this anyway, but I do not see why we cannot also help our own cause. I am under no illusions. Our truce with Roher is weak, at best. I am certain when they grow strong enough, unless we have an agreement they will adhere to, we will be at their mercy again. We have a city, nay, a country to rebuild. We do not need that, too.”

  “So, why not leave this being to destroy them?” said Willam of Walbridge, Barclay’s father. “Why sacrifice our men, or our… allies… to save the Roherii, for a peace treaty we doubt they will uphold anyway?”

  “Because Arandulus bears no love for any of us. She will happily destroy the Roherii, and we would most likely be next. Not to mention, the other elementals who also awaken from their long slumber bear us all enmity,” Soren explained patiently, though he could not be cross with them, for it was a lot to understand. “Regardless of Roher, I am duty bound to assist the dragons and Eldarkind in binding Arandulus once more; and her kin. Yet, we can do it in such a way to exact a lasting promise from Roher. If they believe us to be capable of defeating gods, will they be so quick to attack us in future? I think not.”

  “If we do not do this, these… elementals… will seek conflict with us?” Theodore of House Arendall said with a wrinkled brow.

  Soren nodded, regarding them all solemnly. “It will be worse by far than the battle we have just endured. Caledan, all its people, and any trace of our existence will be wiped from the face of the earth with ease when they rise. It is not ‘if’, it is ‘when’. The sooner we act, the easier it will be to contain this.”

  “What do the Eldarkind and the dragons need from us?” Theodore was still confused.

  “Myself, primarily. I must be there when the binding is made, and strangely, iron, and plenty of it. Do you know of the old fairy tales of iron warding against fey beings?” He looked around the table with a furrowed brow and watched them nod in confusion. “Well, it appears this is much the truth. Iron will be our gift to the binding. I need as much as we can find, immediately. Send your men to raid the forges, stables, anywhere we might find some. By the word of the Eldarkind and the dragons, we cannot succeed without it.”

  As they departed, Soren could not help but feel a small pride at what he had accomplished. Somehow, despite all the odds, he had secured his role as king. They would follow him for now. Perhaps, for a long time, even into the strangest of situations. At last, he felt like a man, not a boy. If he could only manage to defeat Arandulus, and in the process bind Roher to peace, he would earn their loyalty for life, he was sure. If only. Soren suspected it would not be as easy as he hoped.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Soren handpicked a dozen of his most trusted men to accompany him, and Barclay as his right hand man. They were to travel to Roher immediately with all the dragons and those Eldarkind who were not needed urgently in the healing houses for the gravely injured. His men were none too pleased, however, when they discovered they would be travelling on dragon-back, but there was little other choice. Soren was glad. It was a much smoother ride than on horseback, which he appreciated more than he could say, for his body screamed at him still.

  Travel to Roher took three weeks at best; a long and arduous route by sea, and a dangerous and deadly one by land. Yet on dragon back, they would arrive within days. Soren could see the growing worry in Tarrell; his tight lips, troubled eyes, and constantly moving fingers told a tale his voice would not. There was no other option; time was running out, and Soren told his men as such.

  “I have chosen you because, though you number few, you are the greatest men I could have by my side in what will be the most crucial battle of our lives. You have already been briefed on the nature of our visit. I know it is difficult to comprehend what we face. Even I struggle. Yet, I would not choose any others to go into battle with.” His lips twitched in a smile as they saluted him: their fists brought up to their chests in the old way that was so rarely used now.

  They rode three apiece on the largest and strongest of the dragons, who could bear their weight with ease. The entire dragon clan had mobilised and flew with them, even those who had defected to Cies. Farran wanted to keep them close, and this would be their chance to prove themselves, or die trying, in his mind.

  It was dawn when they departed, and dusk settled as they descended to find a place to camp that night. The dragons did not need sleep, but their human and Eldarkind counterparts flagged. A day spent on dragon-back in the frigid, gusty air of the heights was too much to bear through the night. Already, they had flown south from Caledan and across to the mainland above Roher, where the deserts swathed the land.

  A dark blot on the pale sands was their home for the night; a small oasis for them to drink at. As they landed, the heat of the sand from that day’s sun baked them until they stood under the shelter of a few scraggly trees. It was a world away from the lush greenery of their homes. As they filled their water flasks, the huge disc of the sun slipped, bloody red, beyond the horizon, leaving them in the dark and quiet of the desert night.

  ~

  The next day, they alighted just north of Arrans, Roher’s capital city, and Soren set his plan in motion. The dragons and Eldarkind would not accompany him. Instead, they remained far from the capital; away from the roads and anyone who might spy them. This was the part of his idea that Soren had the least faith in. Trust the plan, he said to himself.

  Soren and his dozen men dressed in their finest clothes, buckled on their armour, and unfurled the Caldedonian banners which they had brought with them for this very purpose. Soren cast a critical eye over his band as they assembled. Not the finest envoy he could imagine, but certainly a more impressive sight to appear from the desert than their dusty travelling attire.

  The late afternoon sun scorched them, and Soren could feel perspiration dripping down his torso as the heat roasted him. They approached the walls of Arrans, where the road ran through an impressive gatehouse. The red stone towered above them, ending in triangular crenellations that were uncomfortably reminiscent of dragon teeth. As they stepped into the shade of the guardhouse, Soren felt unnervingly like he was walking into a real dragon’s mouth. Here he was, one of only thirteen men, about to set foot inside an unfriendly capital. Here he was, with no fall back plan and no means of escape. Here he was, placing himself knowingly at the mercy of a powerful king who would not hesitate to crush him if he so chose. Trust to the plan, he repeated.

  Guards watched them approach with obvious confusion. No horses. Shining armour. Banners. We must look like a mirage to them. Soren’s lips twitched. The portcullis was raised and the
way clear. Only traders must pass through here for Roher did not expect an army, Soren thought, but as he made to walk through, the guards scrambled to stop him.

  He chose an appropriate look of disdain and stepped back as one made to bar his way, coming so close as to contact him.

  “I request an immediate audience with King Harad,” said Soren in a tone that brooked no argument and sought no permission.

  Barclay stepped forward with a warning glance at Soren. “Have His Majesty informed at once that King Soren of Caledan, of the Throne of the Dragon Kings, Dragon’s Bane, Eldar-friend, Dragon-friend, First of his Name, seeks counsel at once.”

  The guard looked them up and down, and his eyes lingered on the banners. He called sharply and another scurried out of the gatehouse. “Caledonians.” He gestured at Soren.

  “I translate,” said the newcomer in a thick accent. Barclay repeated his request, and the man bowed. “At once.” He spoke quickly and urgently to his comrade, who saluted and jogged through the gate to mount one of the horses tethered in a shelter inside. Within moments, he had galloped into the city in a cloud of dust.

  “Please, here.” The remaining guard waved them forward, into the cool shade of the gate. “He is getting, ah…” he fumbled for the right word and shook his head. “Horse. Many horse, for you.”

  The thunder of hooves roused them some minutes later as the man returned with thirteen mounts for them, all fitted with strange saddles and bridles, and walked them past a mounting block so Soren and his men could mount. Soren stepped onto the mounting block with as much grace as he could muster. Even in the shade, the heat was overwhelming.

  They rode through the city at speed, but even so, it was a rush of sensory overload. Arrans was sprawling; far more vast than Pandora, for it spanned a valley that sunk between several hills and spread as far as the eye could see. They rode on wide, paved roads, but if he glanced left or ride, Soren could see shaded alleyways of bare dirt snaking between buildings that grew more ramshackle the further back they ran from the main street, which was kept immaculate.