by Meg Cowley
Ahead, on the tallest point of the city, he could see a sprawling palace that had nothing in common with Pandora, either. His own castle felt poxy compared to it. The streets became wider, cleaner, quieter, and more affluent the further they travelled into the city. Ramshackle slums were replaced with towering stone build buildings with impressive facades and high walled gardens.
Here, the roads had gutters for waste water and a raised pavement each side of the road. Roherii men and women walked along it, dressed in clothes the likes of which Soren had not seen before: draped robes and dresses of the finest floating silks and in the most vibrant dyed colours.
The grandest of them did not walk at all, but were carried in chairs and palanquins by uniformed servants. All Soren could see through the translucent curtains shielding them from onlookers and the sun was the shadow of a face and the flash of jewellery, and then they were gone in a cloud of perfumed air as their bearers loped past.
There was no time to admire the grand walls and gates of the palace, nor stop to stare at the manicured gardens—lush and green, bursting with flowers, and scattered ornamental fowl and exotic beasts scattered about—for they were rushed inside the palace immediately.
Soren dismounted and followed his guide inside, shadowed by his men, who did not move to take their armour off despite the heat, and kept their fingers close to their swords and their eyes roving for signs of a threat.
They strode over polished marble floors, through frescoed high-ceilinged halls, and past priceless works of art. It was lavishness like Soren had never seen before; purely for pleasure, over Pandora castle’s need for function first. Indefensible, he thought, as he spied floor to ceiling windows open to the elements. His guide paused outside a grand door. Soren could not discern the wood, but it was covered with elaborate carvings and embellished with wrought metal designs. As Soren watched his guide slip inside, he noticed that even the door handles were elaborately designed. Gold? he wondered. The giant doors opened suddenly before him, silent on their hinges, and his guide gestured them into the huge space of the grand hall beyond.
Soren stood tall and proud and marched inside, knowing his men would be in identical form, with his banners held proudly as they were announced.
“His Supreme Majesty King Harad, Third of his Name, King of Roher, Ladrin and all the Lands of the West, welcomes King Soren of Caledan, of the Throne of the Dragon Kings, Dragon’s Bane, Eldar-friend, Dragon-friend, and First of his Name,” a booming voice introduced him.
Harad sat before them, statuesque, on a grand throne that sat on a stepped dais high above their heads. It was imposing, luxurious, and a display of wealth and power. The throne was studded with gems and precious metal designs, and Harad sat with a heavy crown atop his head, draped in golden and purple fabrics, and displaying a gaudy amount of jewellery. He looked like a sculpture.
It was far from Soren’s last meeting with Harad—his first—outside the gates of Pandora all that time ago. Then, he had worn crafted armour that enhanced his physique into a fearsome warrior. Now, Soren could see that, although fearsome and impressive, his hair had greyed somewhat more, and he had descended ever so slightly more into the corpulence of middle age.
Harad met his gaze as Soren strode across the smooth, polished floor that reflected his gleaming armour, and offered him a slight bow, as an equal. “Your Majesty,” said Soren, straight faced and impassive. Harad, he noted, looked more than a little surprised to see him—as was to be expected—but he recovered with grace, as Soren expected.
“Your Majesty,” Harad greeted him, but did not rise from his chair. His eyes, which had widened ever so slightly at Soren’s entrance, now closed again as Harad resumed his customary shrewd and impassive expression.
Soren noticed his glance furtively checking the room. They were surrounded by guards, he knew; some visible and some hidden in the shadows behind the vast columns which held up the lofty ceiling. Harad will be calculating whether to hear me out or not bother. They were vastly outnumbered, and in the heart of his enemy’s territory. Trust the plan, he steadied himself again.
“I thank you for receiving me at such short notice, Your Majesty,” began Soren. “I ask that you to send your men away, for I bear urgent news for your ears only.”
Harad scoffed, but Soren’s grave expression did not waver. “I know of your current predicament,” he said quietly, focusing his attention on Harad, who sat forward in his throne, straining to listen. Soren stepped forward until he was at the foot of the dais. Guards leaned forward, too, but Harad dismissed them with a flick of his finger and they sank back into their positions. “I know of the being of water, as tall as the sky.”
Harad blanched.
“I warn you now. You will not want any other to hear what I must tell you.” Soren drew himself up tall and firm, exuding a confidence he did not feel, and did not let his determined expression flicker.
Harad regarded him inscrutably, not giving any hint as to his thoughts. His eyes glittered under a shadowed brow his crown cast over his face. At last, he shifted on his throne and stood. At a slash of his hand, guards melted away. “Pray, continue.” He stepped slowly from the dais.
Soren suppressed a grim smile as King Harad descended to his level. I have his attention piqued, at least.
“It—She—is called Arandulus. She is an elemental. I suppose a god of sorts. She terrorises Roher, yes?” He looked to Harad, but he gave no response. Of course, he does not want to admit weakness, even in private. “And you cannot stop her.” No response, not even a twitch. Harad watched him guardedly now, like a predator. ”I can defeat her.”
Harad froze and fixed Soren in an eagle eyed stare.
“I alone can defeat her,” Soren repeated. “I can restore peace to Roher… and stability to your rule. It is undermining, no? Not being able to help your own people.”
Harad scowled, at last showing a chink in his seemingly impregnable armour. “No man can defeat this demon,” Harad sneered, but he was flustered by Soren’s unrelenting calm demeanour. “What is this madness?”
“I promise you,” said Soren, letting a smile slip. “I can deliver you from this being.”
“How can it be done?”
Soren paused, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “I cannot reveal it. Naturally, it is no ordinary method I use. But I promise you, it can be done, and by I alone. You will have to trust to that.” Soren could see Harad’s inner struggle. He is not one to relinquish control, power… or to trust.
“It cannot be done,” Harad said at last with a sneer.
“I promise it. On my honour as a king,” said Soren solemnly. “Naturally, in exchange for this great deed, I would require something in return.”
Now Harad regarded him with curiosity. At last, we speak the same language: business.
“Will you accept my offer? If you think it impossible, what do you have to lose?”
“What do you desire in return?” Harad’s tone was guarded.
Soren suppressed a laugh. Ever the businessman. He does not want to lose in this; as if the stakes could be higher for him! “I will defeat Arandulus, the ‘demon’ who terrorises you, in exchange for a meaningful, lasting peace treaty between our two nations.”
Harad was speechless.
“What say you? Is that a worthy price to pay for the salvation of your nation? By the accounts I hear, Arandulus ravages Roher and there is nothing you can do to stop her. It is only so long before your people lose faith in you.” As it had happened with himself and the dragon attacks. That was a dark time.
A flicker of anger crossed Harad’s face. “I can—”
“Not deal with this alone,” Soren interrupted him. “Humour me, if you think it so impossible. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. If I succeed, peace is restored to your country and your rule will be secure once more. I will receive just recompense. If I fail, well, you do not have to fulfill your end of our agreement, and you are no worse off than before.” S
oren watched Harad carefully. He was clearly calculating his own conclusions, for his eyes focused unseeing into the distance. He will be wondering whether it makes him any less of a man to accept help… and realising that Caledan will be ripe for the taking should I fail. The stakes are high for me, too. Trust to the plan…
“I will agree to this,” Harad said stiffly.
Soren smiled, a thin lipped smile of gladness, but not relief. This was just one step in a plan in which many things would have to come to fruition for success to be ensured. “I am most pleased to hear it, Your Majesty. I would suggest time is of the essence. I have less than two days at best before I must leave to complete my end of our bargain. I wish for our peace treaty to be negotiated and signed by then.”
Harad was not used to taking orders, or instruction, it was clear. A muscle in his cheek twitched and he clapped. A servant appeared in a flurry of movement from seemingly nowhere. Harad fired a rapid babble of Roherii at him, and the servant bowed, scraping the floor with his robes, and rushed away. “It shall be done,” Harad said grudgingly.
~
The negotiations took two days to complete, and Soren itched to leave. Tarrell and Farran’s own sense of urgency filled him.
They were made all the more difficult by the fact Soren did it alone, without the usual customary delegation that would assist him. Only Barclay accompanied him to negotiations, and the Caledonian ambassador to Roher, who Soren had never met before—a distant cousin to the Orrell family—who was glad to speak with someone else from his homeland.
He was a quiet man. Soren guessed anyone would have to be a private person to succeed in Roher. The Roherii court was a tense place, each watching Harad for his actions. Harad was quick to punish his enemies, and angering him never ended well. It must be a hard job here. Mind, the ambassador gets paid handsomely for his ‘troubles’, Soren knew.
Luckily for Soren, between the three of them, they had managed to pour over the draft agreements, which were riddled with intentional omissions, misleading, and unfavourable terms. Even in such need, Harad would not offer a fair deal, it seemed. Soren had not expected anything less from the shrewd king. Everything is business with him. The more he can gain, the better.
“We are fast running out of time,” Tarrell warned him again as Soren scried him using a small mirror he had secreted into the palace upon his person.
“I progress as fast as I can,” Soren answered, dragging a hand across his face. He was tired. It had been a long day of negotiating. Peace treaties, as it happened, were intricate, fiddly, and time-consuming to decide.
“We appreciate that, Soren,” Tarrell sighed. “But for our two races, Arandulus is the more pressing issue.”
“We sign the treaty tomorrow morning—at last. I will leave immediately.”
Tarrell was as satisfied as he could be, and it would have to do. It is too late now to change the plan.
~
As they ended the scrying, Tarrell turned to Farran with a sigh. They scried Brithilca next. The blue dragon flitted across the glass, filling its surface with his bulk.
“We have Eldarkind magic,” Tarrell mused, “and a suitable binding to use. We have your strength and fire, too,” he nodded at Farran, “though I suspect your fire will not sit you at an advantage in this fight?”
Farran rumbled in agreement. “No, indeed.”
“You have my strength for the binding also,” said Brithilca. “Remember, she cannot harm me in my current form, and I have an idea of my own. There is a way that I can use Arandulus’s own magic and power to make myself a physical form with your help. Farran, you know how to summon me into water; think of it on a grander scale. I will be immune to her water based attacks, and can channel your strength and magic if you remain in close proximity.”
“Will it succeed?” asked Tarrell.
Brithilca was silent. “I cannot be certain,” he said eventually. “Yet, we are of limited options. The clan is susceptible to her magic and her water, so I must try. If we are not careful, she could end the entire clan on a whim.”
~
Soren signed his name with a hideously impractical quill, made of a feather so large he could barely control its bobbing top as he wrote. But it was done, and the ink dried on a treaty more meaningful than any which had been signed in the past hundred years. It was not time to celebrate yet. There is much to accomplish first.
“A copy will be sent at once to Caledan?” he looked to Harad with a raised eyebrow. Harad nodded curtly. “I thank you. I retain the second copy, and you the third.” He took the roll of parchment from Harad’s aide.
“I will require proof,” said Harad suddenly, regarding Soren through half-lidded eyes.
Soren froze. Proof. There will be nothing left to show.
“I shall send my firstborn, Janus, with you. He shall report to me on his return, what has passed. The treaty will take effect with the destruction of the demon you call Arandulus.”
Soren thought quickly. “He will journey on horse?”
“Naturally.” Harad’s eyes narrowed again. “My men tell me you arrived from the desert with none of your own. Do you require mounts?”
“Ah, no, I have my own mounts outside the city.” Soren avoided the question skillfully.
Within the hour, they were on their way. Soren and his dozen men, and Janus, who was a copy of his father, only some decades younger. He had the same ruthless feel, and Soren was under no illusions that there would be no camaraderie between them. This is business to Harad. He will trust no one.
Harad accompanied them, too, much to Soren’s chagrin. He was clearly curious about the ‘mounts’ that Soren would not describe. Perhaps, he thinks I have bred special horses or beasts. Soren suppressed a chuckle. There would be nothing for it but to reveal his allies; a secret weapon of his own, he supposed.
Soren was glad that Janus had brought his own mount. It was still a sore point with the dragons that they bore their allies like beasts, and he had no intention of asking them to bear the son of a man he bore such enmity to. Perhaps, this could work out well. Tarrell and Farran will not wait for Janus. Perhaps, by the time he catches up with us, our task will be complete. Soren could only hope.
They crested the hill behind which the dragons and Eldarkind camped, and Soren heard Harad and Janus curse under their breath. They halted, wide-eyed and open-mouthed on the brow of the hill, regarding the sprawling camp of dragons and—to the Roherii—humans. Soren slyly examined them. A mix of fear, wonder and desire was written upon Harad’s face.
Harad rode forward to Soren. “Such wondrous beasts are these. What are they?”
“Dragons,” said Soren, and left it at that. He would not furnish Harad with more than was necessary.
“Where come you by these?”
Soren did not answer.
“What price do you demand for me to buy one, or perhaps more, from you?”
“They are not for sale,” Soren said swiftly, annoyed by the lust in Harad’s eyed. He looked at Harad scornfully. “They are our allies, not beasts of burden. They act only under their free will. I could not compel them to follow you if I tried.” At least, we are their allies, Soren thought gladly. I would fear to be their enemy.
“Free will, you say,” mused Harad. The lustful look had not disappeared him his eyes and Soren disliked the thoughtfulness with which he said it.
“Well met, Farran, Tarrell,” he said as they approached. “I bring with me King Harad of Roher, and his son, Prince Janus.” It was as much a warning as an introduction that meant ‘do not speak freely’.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” murmured Tarrell with a bow as Soren introduced him.
Farran regarded them with inscrutable eyes, and did not offer the same bow he had offered to Soren upon meeting him. His instinct is right, thought Soren, as he watched Farran’s wariness around Harad and his son.
“We must be away at once, yes?” Soren prompted.
“At once,”
Tarrell said. “We already make ready to leave.”
“We shall fly far and fast,” Soren said to Janus with no apology. “I thank you for telling us where Arandulus currently roams. Follow us as quickly as you can.”
“I am not to ride these beasts like you?”
Farran began to growl.
“Come, I can pay if it a question of price. What say you?” Janus stepped forward hungrily.
“We are no beast of burden,” growled Farran, and stabbed his head towards the Roherii prince.
Janus stumbled backwards and his face paled when Farran’s teeth were bared in his face.
“I would not do your bidding if you asked it, and it certainly cannot be bought.” Farran’s lip curled in disgust; a surprisingly human reaction.
Harad stood back from the exchange, Soren noted, but his eyes still held a gleam of insatiable desire and curiosity.
Chapter Thirty Four
The dragons, with the Eldarkind, and Soren and his men flew north-west swiftly, leaving Janus to trail them on his mount. He scrambled to keep up at first, but as they drew further and further ahead, gave up punishing his horse, which was well suited to riding in the desert, and settled for a steady pace instead.
It was a unanimous decision not to wait for him. There was no need for him to know of the pact and their magic, and much to do after Soren’s delay in Arrans. It weighed heavily on all their minds of the need to catch Arandulus by surprise to hold the advantage, for the dragons were incredibly vulnerable to water and not even Eldarkind magic would be able to protect them from her wrath.
Flying as high as they did, they needed little direction from Janus, they discovered, for Arandulus was large enough to be visible ahead of them or, at least, Her storm was. Dark clouds piled high into the sky, and underneath them was an inky blackness they could not discern.
Arandulus moved quickly, for She was already almost at the isthmus of land which separated Roher and the mainland from Caledan.