A Darkness in the East

by Aaron Pogue

  Pazyarev soared along beneath the clouds, watching for some sign of danger. It hadn’t been a month, but the dragonbond let Daven drive the Elder Legend as if by natural instinct. He switched as easily into the dragon’s sight as he did the wizard’s special senses. Now he cast the monster’s gaze across the plains once more, and this time he saw a spark. The distant flare of dragonfire showed bright against night’s shadows, far off to the north.

  Toward the town of Auvillan. Daven’s heartfelt curse exploded from Pazyarev’s throat in a bestial roar. The huge wings beat, and Pazyarev sped north beneath the stars.

  There was not just one flare, but three, four, a half-dozen different dragons falling on Auvillan, blasting flame into the air. Back in the prison cell, eyes still closed, Daven frowned. He pressed Pazyarev harder, closer, anxious to uncover the strange mystery here.

  It was indeed a mystery, because those dragons weren’t attacking. Not with any focus, anyway. They put on a fearsome display, a complicated show of fire and noise above the terrified town, but they weren’t truly striking. Daven had never seen anything like it. Dragons didn’t toy with their victims, they didn’t bother showing off. They struck like an earthquake or flood, devastating.

  Daven had some hope that he was seeing a brood fight—two broodlords competing over territory, their dragons fighting in the skies. Such a thing was not unknown, though dragons usually struck at each other in their lairs, and usually closer to dawn. Pazyarev was still too far away to see clearly if that was the case, and even as he drew closer, the swarming dragons broke away toward the north. The Elder Legend screamed Daven’s frustration and beat its wings harder still. Pazyarev raced across the plain like wildfire, miles distant now, but somehow Daven thought he heard the dragon’s scream within the lonely prison cell.

  He frowned again. He opened his eyes, staring numbly into the darkness. Like a man waking from a dream, he dragged his senses back from the distant monster. He could still feel Pazyarev, could still judge how fast the creature was closing on the fleeing dragons. Even without directly controlling the dragon, even at a distance of leagues, Daven would be able to destroy the fleeing raiders with Pazyarev, like a Kingsday drummer keeping perfect time with one hand while banging out a complex flourish with the other.

  But now his focus settled in his human frame again, and those five senses surged back to the fore. He sniffed the air, and the acrid taste of smoke curled his lip. He tilted his head, listening, and heard again the screams—not the Elder Legend’s, but some villager’s. Then a dragon’s hunting cry did shatter the night, but it was not Pazyarev’s.

  Daven fell instinctively into his wizard’s sight and peered out into the night. Even in that strange vision, dragons did not glow with the bright light of human life. They burned blacker than night, an oily sheen against the starless backdrop of reality. The beasts were nearly invisible to the wizard’s sight, but they sometimes showed as faint blurs of motion, and Daven had gained much experience at spotting them. At a glance, he counted two dozen dragons on the wing over Cammin.

  He growled and summoned up a sword as he had done before, caught a ball of fire in his left hand. Then he raised his blade toward the thick stone wall.

  A small noise stopped him. Something behind him. Daven spun on his heel, flaring the fireball to flood the darkened corridors with light and shadow. A human figure cried out and darted away from the cell’s door.

  “Ricarl,” Daven said. “I told you I was here to help. Now you’ll get to see.”

  “I...I know,” Ricarl stammered. “I came to...to set you free. To beg your aid.”

  Daven flashed a smile, though there was no humor in it. “I was never your prisoner.” He turned back to the outer wall, nodded, and a portion of the wall as wide and tall as a manor’s doorway came unmade. Motes of dust hung in the gap, but the bulk of the stone was now nothing more than elemental energy, a thought of stone within the Dragonprince’s mind.

  Daven passed out into the night, then he released the pent-up power, and living stone filled the gap once more. He left Ricarl safe inside the town hall and flung himself into the fray.

  Two dozen dragons had come upon Cammin. These did not cavort in the upper air or give themselves to shows of power. Even as Daven stepped into the night, an adult red dove toward the market square, fire lancing down ahead of it. Daven leaped into a sprint, dragging threads of air around him as he went, and halfway to the square he snapped the bonds of air like a bowstring under tension and fired himself upon the stooping dragon.

  His arc gave him a clear view of the little town, many of its little houses already aflame. Vechernyvetr was nowhere among the raiding dragons. That thought hit Daven like a hammer blow. For one sharp moment the relief washed over him, and he could think of nothing else. He would not have to battle Vechernyvetr here. Not yet.

  But then a woman’s scream shattered his brief solace. Streets that had stood deserted when Ricarl marched Daven through town now thronged with panicked townsfolk. A rabble of armed farmers sought to array themselves in a futile defense, hoping to buy some time for the women and children, but the town offered nowhere safe to run. The jet of the red dragon’s flame stabbed straight toward the sad militia, and Daven knew it would burn them all to ash before he could even strike at the beast.

  So he stretched his hand toward the fire instead. He rolled his arm like a sailor taking a grip on some taut line, then heaved back hard. The plume of fire skewed off to the left. It stabbed against the town hall’s slated roof and seared the tiles until they glowed red and gold within the night, but the townsfolk weren’t harmed.

  Then Daven struck. Twisting in the air, he slammed feet first into the side of the dragon’s jaw. He reversed the sword in his grip, bent his knees with the impact and drove the blade clean through the dragon’s throat. A roar cut short. The flame cut short. The drum of the dragon’s wings faltered, then they fluttered with erratic, frantic effort. Daven caught one of the dragon’s horns in his left hand and heaved himself up onto the beast’s crown. The motion dragged Daven’s obsidian blade ungently free, and hot black blood gushed from the wound.

  Daven touched the threads of air still wrapped around him to right his balance, then he drove the blade down once more—this time through the stony skull and into the dragon’s brain. Then just as he had done a hundred times in the last few weeks, he pushed off hard, flung himself into the sky, and summoned Pazyarev to pluck him from the air.

  But Pazyarev wasn’t there. Pazyarev was still leagues away, just now crushing the last of the little dragons that had danced over Auvillan.

  Then at last the strange display at Auvillan made sense. It had always been a distraction, a ruse to draw off Pazyarev. And it had worked. Daven was alone in this, caught in a trap, and now it closed around him. Suspended in the air, he saw the ring of dragons bending their paths toward him now. Two dozen broodlings came after him, alone, while his bonded Elder Legend was stranded far away.

  Daven showed his teeth. Only two dozen. They didn’t stand a chance.

  ~

  One of the dragons survived. Just one, and that was by design. Daven fought it until dawn. He shaved the razor claws to blunted edges. He cracked the dragon’s teeth and blinded its eyes and battled until there was no moonlight left to heal the beast. Then he maimed it with one mighty stroke, he lay his sword’s point against the gasping throat, and he fixed his thoughts upon the dying creature. He tapped a hidden darkness that he hadn’t touched for weeks and spoke loud and strong within his mind.

  “You tangled with the Dragonprince. I have slain your entire flight—including those who caught Pazyarev’s attention. Who are you? What are your intentions?”

  He braced himself for the broodlord’s answer. He had spoken with dragons more than once before, and they always poured into his mind like floodwaters, roaring like thunder, striving to obliterate his mind even as they taunted him. Worse still would be a calm, familiar voice. With all his soul, he hoped it would not be Vec
hernyvetr answering.

  Instead, an almost human voice made a delighted hiss inside his head. The Dragonprince at last! Oh, how we have waited to see inside your human head.

  Daven flicked his wrist and the long black blade whipped in a short arc, slinging blood from a dozen other dragons to spatter this prisoner’s snout. He lowered the sword’s tip toward the glaring eye. “You know my name, but I do not have the privilege of yours.”

  You will know it soon enough. I have named it your destiny to be gathered into me.

  “An Elder Legend once thought the same. Now I’ve made ancient Pazyarev into my loyal hound. Will you defeat us both?”

  I know things Pazyarev didn’t know. I will devour you and leave his corpse to rot beneath the sun.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Scouting. Tasting. The broodlord’s thoughts were more than just words in Daven’s mind. They came along with sense and strong emotion. This murderous intention came with deep, dark satisfaction. Insidious, so that it almost felt like Daven’s own. He snarled at that and raised his sword to destroy the broodling, but the voice went on. I am choosing who will die.

  Daven hesitated. “Dragons do not choose. Not when it comes to men. What are you?”

  I am...something new. Like you.

  Daven lowered the blade, staring into the beast’s dark eyes. “A man?”

  The broodlord’s answer was a deep, contemptuous laugh. Then, almost too fast to see, the fallen dragon whipped its spike-tipped tail toward the Dragonprince’s heart. Daven moved on instinct, parrying the strike with his obsidian blade and then, in a clean riposte, he stabbed the dragon through the eye.

  Blood and ichor flowed, and the link was broken.

  Daven stood a moment, panting, then he shook his head. Chaos. Dragons were nothing but madness and devastation. But this one...this one had felt different. He shuddered, then turned his attention back to the stricken village.

  The villagers were tending to their own, and Daven was exhausted. He searched among the village men, rushing to drag away the raiders’ corpses or douse the few remaining fires, but he saw no sign of Ricarl or Mayor Bannus. He could have helped with the fires, perhaps, but his head was pounding now. His vision blurred and his arms felt weak. He checked to see that the villagers had matters well in hand, then he went back through the prison wall and resumed his place of quiet meditation.

  As he leaned his aching head against the wall, one thought surged up bright and clear. It was not Vechernyvetr’s voice. The pain was still there, the distant madness, but the broodlord who had come to Cammin was not Daven’s own.

  Daven breathed. Tensions he had carried far too long began to ease, at least a little. Pazyarev settled in a slow patrol high above the clouds, and Daven drifted off to sleep.

  ~

  He woke to the creak of the cell door. Ricarl entered bearing bread and cheese, three links of dark red sausage, and a little keg that had been tapped to fill the giant flagon.

  Daven smiled to look upon it all. “I had expected bread and water.”

  “But you have earned a hero’s feast,” Ricarl said. “And I have sent for Mayor Bannus with the sternest demands. You held true to your word—far more than we deserved—and I will hold him true to his.”

  Daven helped himself to breakfast, surprised by his own hunger, and for maybe half an hour Ricarl left him in peace. But something weighed upon the soldier’s heart—it showed in his expression—and at last the questions tore from him. “Where are they coming from? Why are they coming here? What do they want?”

  Daven shook his head and swallowed a long draught of beer. “Violence and blood. That is all the dragons ever want, and it is all the answer I can give you. At least until I know more. Your questions are the same as mine.”

  “Will there be more? How soon will they strike again? Or have you killed them all?”

  “No, to the last. I doubt I have killed them all.”

  “But there were dozens!”

  “I have seen hundreds to a brood. Pazyarev had more than a thousand until I broke his hold.”

  “A thousand?”

  “Aye. And nothing I saw last night made me believe the broodlord was here. He cannot be far off, though.”

  Ricarl wilted, grief darkening his brow. “Then they will come again.”

  “Not soon,” Daven said, nodding toward the amber light of dawn through distant windows. “Dragons rarely raid by daylight, for only moonlight heals them. And they will always choose some easy prey over an opponent that fights back. I wish I could protect every village on the plains, but Cammin at least is safe while I am here.”

  “I believe you,” Ricarl said. “How long will you stay?”

  Before Daven could answer, the mayor strode into the cell and proclaimed, “I don’t, so he will not be staying long.”

  Ricarl rounded on him. “How can you say that? After last night—“

  “Last night indeed,” the mayor answered. “Right after he showed up. We know that trick on the eastern plains. Since long before the dragons came. Some roughs come rolling into town, causing trouble. Then the hero follows after, bold and brave, he sets the ruffians on their heels, wins the love of the whole town, then late that night.....”

  Daven finished for him. “The hero helps the bandits loot the village stores. You’re talking about hucksters and rogues, but these are dragons!”

  “Dragons bound to you by blood, or so the rumors say.”

  “Bannus!” Ricarl shouted, horrified, and the mayor turned a fearsome glower on him.

  “You may go, Ricarl.”

  “I won’t! Not while you sling accusations at the man who saved our town!”

  “Oh?” the mayor asked. “Will you abandon your post, then? Will you risk the whole town’s safety just to defy me?”

  He was prepared to do it, but Daven interrupted. “Go, Ricarl. Watch the road and keep us safe. I can survive the sting of your mayor’s words. I will not abandon Cammin, and nor should you.”

  The mayor answered with a condescending hmph, but Ricarl bowed in Daven’s direction. Still glaring at his mayor, the soldier retreated down the hall and went off to his post.

  “You have a way with words,” the mayor said.

  “You are a pompous fool,” Daven answered. “But I’ll forgive stupidity born of ignorance if you will cure some of mine.”

  “No! You’ll leave my town by midday, or—“

  “Or?” Daven asked, not raising his voice. “You have seen what I can do, and still you threaten me?”

  “I have seen all the hucksters’ tricks,” the mayor said.

  “And I grow tired of this,” Daven said. He waved his hand and a short, sharp gust of wind slammed fast the iron door behind the mayor, locking him inside the room with Daven. “I suspect the good and noble Ricarl had the only keys, but even if he left you them, they will do little good against my magic. Make yourself comfortable. I plan to hold you to your promise.”

  “So! Aha! You show your true colors already.”

  “Enough!” Daven snapped. “I showed my colors when I left your cage to save your town, then came back on my own. Where do you get these notions?”

  The mayor straightened his spine, defiant, and gave no other answer. Daven sighed and went to face him from arm’s length. He raised his left hand, empty, then shrouded it in angry fire. The mayor shrank away, but Daven stalked after him until the older man cowered in a corner.

  Daven let him tremble for a while, then he asked quietly, “Where do you get these notions?”

  “From one of your victims! He came this way a month ago. He warned us you would come!”

  “Who was he?”

  “No one! A stranger. A cripple with a burn-scarred face who came from the distant west. He told us how you’d betrayed his town—“

  Daven shuddered. Could it be true? He was no monster, but there were those who’d called him one. Had he unwittingly wronged some village on his journey? He leaned closer
to the mayor and growled, “What town?”

  “Sachaerrich. I do not know the name, but he called it home.”

  “Sachaerrich?” Daven let the fire die and fell back two paces, stunned. “Sachaerrich? I have not betrayed Sachaerrich. It’s been a lifetime since I left—“

  “But you know it,” the mayor crowed, vindicated. “You have been there.”

  Daven shook his head. “It is a village in Terrailles, not far from the capitol. What this man told you is a lie. The Isle is safe.”

  “Then why do you tremble?”

  “Because no one in this place should know that name. Not in connection with the Dragonprince. Tell me more about this stranger!”

  “There is no more. He had a strange manner of speech. He ate like a starving man. He never slept, but he was only here a day before he moved on.”

  “To Auvillan?” Daven asked, remembering his reception there.

  The mayor narrowed his eyes. “No. To the south. He came here from Auvillan.”

  “And so did I. He must have told them the same lies. Who is this man?”

  “A broken wretch.”

  “No. No, he is a calculating villain. Do you see what he has done? There is no power in the world that could do more to serve your village in this darkness than I could, but by a simple tale he turned you against me. He robbed Auvillan of my protection, too. What is his plan?”

  “Are you suggesting he is working with the dragons?”

  Daven rolled his eyes. “Dragons do not work with men! But perhaps he means to profit from their presence. I’m more concerned that he named Sachaerrich.”

  Daven shut his mouth before he could betray more of his thoughts, but they were troubling thoughts indeed. He could nearly count the men upon this continent who knew that name, and most of those he could call friend. The rest were busy on the Isle, watching over the aging king. Who was this wretched stranger?

  Vechernyvetr?

  Daven dashed the thought before it fully formed. It was not Vechernyvetr’s voice. Daven forced a long, slow breath to calm his thoughts then fixed his gaze upon his prisoner.