Veil of the Dragon (Prophecy of the Evarun)

by Tom Barczak

  “You know much of me, Al-Aaron,” Chaelus said. “You know much of my father’s House. You know more than a boy, or even a knight not born of it, should. But that’s not what troubles me. It’s another thing. Tell me, Al-Aaron, Servian Knight, why did you raise me?”

  “We shouldn’t remain here.” Al-Aaron climbed onto the back of Idyliss. “I’ve risked too much in showing you this, but I wanted you to know what hunts you. Now it’s seen you. It won’t be long before it comes to claim you.”

  “Answer me,” Chaelus said.

  “Roanwaith isn’t far from here. I know someone there who will give us rest. It will be our last until we pass into Sanseveria, where what is left of my Order awaits. Only there will you be safe.”

  “Answer me!” Chaelus demanded.

  Al-Aaron’s dark eyes hardened. They were no longer those of a child. Their depth strengthened with zeal. “Because it’s you, Chaelus, Roan Lord of the House of Malius, that the Dragon covets and fears above all others. If you would regain your kingdom, you will come with me to Sanseveria. I will help you defeat the Dragon. But if the Dragon takes you first, know that not only will your own House fall, but so will the rest of the Pale as well.”

  Chapter Two

  Roan

  Twilight faltered through the gathering storm. A drumbeat echoed beneath it.

  Chaelus looked down upon the Village of Roanwaith. His fever had quickened since the darkness of the cenotaph that morning. Their rest since then had only been brief.

  A chill swept through him, a shadow of the Dragon itself.

  A whisper in the dark.

  A whisper in the dark from great wings of shadow spreading out as he drowned alone in the watery void of his tomb. The whisper of Magus in the dark, uttering poison to him, even as he died in fever upon his throne. The same whisper that Magus, or the Dragon, had delivered to his father, it did so now to his brother Baelus as well.

  Bloodstained snow.

  Over Baelus, wounded on the field of battle, Chaelus had risen up against their father. In doing so, it seemed he had damned them both. The blood of the father is the blood of the son, and the Dragon wanted him because he was his father’s son. So now the Dragon haunted Baelus as well.

  The blood of his father weighed heavy at Chaelus’ side. The tremor of his hand diminished as it tightened over Sundengal’s hilt.

  To silence a whisper and win his kingdom back, the kingdom of his father, the kingdom he’d never wanted.

  The keep of Hasslyd, Roanwaith’s queen, stood dark over the village beneath. The slumbering shape of the inn rested atop the ruined wall surrounding it. The acrid stain where Chaelus had left the bodies of its villagers to burn, still marked its bleached stones.

  But today, the drumbeats came for her.

  “It’s the march of the dead,” Chaelus said. “Their queen has fallen. They’re taking her to the cenotaphs.”

  Behind him, Al-Aaron’s face had turned ashen. “Then Hasslyd’s beyond our help,” he said. “Draw your cloak. Conceal your face as they pass, even Idyliss. Yours shouldn’t be seen here. Your war with them hasn’t been forgotten. For now, you’d do best to remain dead.”

  A black-robed and hunchback priest passed beneath the broken arch that reached above the happas. He held his hands above him, the chain of the incense burner held taut between them. The ball swinging from his left hand welled with fragrant smoke. The flattened bronze ring of the Giver hung about his neck, swinging to the staggered rhythm of both drum and step.

  The priest’s pale face turned upward, his sunken eyes closed, a scowl laced with ecstasy stretching across it. His lips trembled as he chanted in the Gorondian tongue. Behind him, a great cart bore the corpse of Hasslyd, pulled by four black-robed apprentices. Small yellow flowers wreathed Hasslyd’s brow above a crimson veil. Two more of the holy men followed, drums around their necks, beating out the rhythm of their death march.

  Villagers and sordid guardsmen gathered behind them, perhaps two score together and all with their faces veiled. They were silent save for the few who followed their priest in the muttering of words they couldn’t have understood.

  When the day of the Dragon had come

  All of the souls were seized with envy

  At the price that had been paid by some

  As a torch lit a fire within them.

  Chaelus pulled his hood lower, withdrawing into it, reining Idyliss onto the raised curb stones of the happas, and the sheltering shadow of the wood that ran alongside of it. He lifted his cloaked arm before his face as if to ward off the miasma of the dead.

  To spread the words they had heard

  Rejoicing they were already dead

  As they slept in their beds

  The truth of their vanity fed.

  The column passed.

  “The Dragon’s Sleep has fallen here,” Chaelus said.

  “No.” Al-Aaron reached behind, pulling forth the bundle concealing his sword. “It’s something worse.” He looked at Chaelus sideways. “No hail or challenge was made to us from either the procession, the guards, or the village. We’ve hidden our faces, but not our arrival. Even in their time of woe, the Measure of the Roan Kingdoms and its rule over your people shouldn’t have been forgotten.”

  The wall encircled the nearest half of the village, arching away as it rose beneath the shadow of the inn above. The thinning moonlight cast long shadows across the wall to reveal the fluted traces of a maker’s skill that had long ago been lost. They ran across its weathered face as it spiraled at last into the abrupt and broken arch. The peeling plastered face of a thatched guard tower stood beyond. Torn crimson banners marked with the Prostrate Cross draped from the broken twist of the arch above.

  “The trappings of the Theocracy have come far to be seen upon the House of a Roan Lord,” Chaelus said.

  “It’s been long since Hasslyd ruled here,” Al-Aaron said. “The war you made with her left her weak. She would have been all too willing when the Taurate came to her with offered hand.”

  Chaelus stiffened at the rebuke. “I didn’t bring this shadow here.”

  “No. But neither should you forget it was from its darkened ruin you were raised.”

  Al-Aaron loosened the bundle and eased it beneath his cloak. A queer silence ebbed across the threshold of the open gate as the clod of Idyliss’ hooves echoed against it. Beyond the gate the speaker stone, draped again in tattered crimson cloth, rose above the stones of the happas as it continued past. The villagers passed or stood muttering in darkened doorways unconcerned by the presence of strangers among them.

  Nestled beneath the shadow of the arch of the ruined wall, empty stables waited beside the smoldering light of the tavern. Mirthful voices babbled beyond its open door.

  Chaelus slowed.

  “Why do you stop?” Al-Aaron asked.

  “It’s been long since I’ve heard laughter.”

  “Don’t be seduced. Hasn’t their queen just passed? The veil of the Dragon blinds them, just as it blinds you to the shadow that consumes this place.”

  Thunder cut across the air and Idyliss shifted. Chaelus soothed her as Al-Aaron dismounted.

  Al-Aaron seized his arm.

  “Make your way to the chapel beyond the village,” he said. “There you’ll find the one we seek. He’s the chief priest and a friend of my order. His name is Joshua. His is a holy place; you will be safe there until I return.”

  Apprehension gripped Chaelus at the thought of Al-Aaron’s departure, but not for the boy, for himself. The threat of losing the boy surprised him.

  “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  Al-Aaron stared at him. “I fear more if I don’t. Do only what I’ve asked you and don’t waver from it. The shadow of the Dragon’s already here. It will test you. Now go.”

  A second crack of thunder sounded out. The scent of jasmine struck at Chaelus. He closed his eyes against the memory and regret that it summoned. He opened them to find Al-Aaron gone and the fullness of night de
scended upon the village.

  ***

  The shadows welcomed Al-Aaron just as they used to.

  They, like he, hadn’t forgotten. His mouth split into a grin as he slipped, silent and without effort, into their familiar embrace. The heavy sounds of the world fell dreamlike and distant behind him. His gift remained, learned in the darkness as a beggar thief, to listen to the whispers, the rattle of chains and the oiled creak of leather, the crumpled rustling of broken leaves upon the wind.

  And a whisper.

  Al-Aaron’s smile faded.

  The Dragon’s whisper. He could smell its pungent decay, its caustic touch upon everything. The stain it left sharpened the presence of everything around him and stared back at him through eyes that shouldn’t be.

  But the Dragon didn’t rule him. Not anymore. Now he would meet it at his choosing.

  The night deepened and the colors grayed. The silent eyes of villagers looked out through still darker doorways as Al-Aaron passed. The grief they suffered had little to do with the death of Hasslyd. Within each of them, the shadow of the Dragon turned. Their stares followed him.

  The fires from the inn diminished against the night. Above the longhouses, a mist gathered beneath Hasslyd’s keep. It had started there. What had she done? What could Hasslyd have been promised to make a sacrifice so great, to have condemned so many of her own to be taken by shadow?

  The wind fell still as thunder pealed across the void. The chill of the night caused Al-Aaron’s breath to gather.

  A dark figure stepped out from the doors to Hasslyd’s hall, searching. Shadow consumed its form. Al-Aaron’s smile returned. He’d found it. He had found the Dragon.

  A flush of crimson robes billowed next to him, unfettered by the rain.

  The ghost of Malius smiled, his voice little more than a tremor above the storm. “Keep him safe for me.” His spirit faded. His stay no longer than any time before.

  Al-Aaron swallowed the pride in his throat that always came with the presence of his Teacher. Only when Chaelus reached Joshua would he be safe, and this would only happen if the Dragon had its attention on something else.

  Al-Aaron’s grin widened, the pride in his throat swelling into his chest. He would do what no one else had done, what only Malius and the rest of the Servian Lords ever could have. He would summon the Dragon to him. It wouldn’t suffer to pass upon the soul of one of the Servians it had sought so hard to destroy.

  Al-Aaron stepped out from beneath the shadow of the eaves. He swept the binding and furs away from Baerythe. The soft blue light of its blade burned through the thin white gossamer that embraced it. Upon the air, songs once sung by the Cherubim and heralds of old danced upon the storm.

  The Dragon turned towards him, a pillar of shadow. The azure light of Baerythe reached out to it. The Dragon raised its hand. The mist swirled beside it, another shadow birthing within it. The same mist swirled at Al-Aaron’s feet as the truth of his failure swept through him. Dread filled the air behind him as he turned.

  Shadow filled his vision. The empty eyes of the Dragon stared down at him, dark and wretched pools beyond a chain mail veil. The glow from Baerythe’s blade succumbed beneath it.

  The Dragon’s voice spoke his name with an iced breath.

  “Al-Aaron.”

  The rain deepened. The Dragon spoke another name.

  “Chaelus.”

  Al-Aaron’s throat tightened. He thrust Baerythe upward. The distance between Al-Aaron and the shadow widened. The Dragon, brought its short blackened blade forward, catching Baerythe upon it. The swords locked, blue light washing over the blackened bands of the legion lorica the Remnant wore, the malevolence of the Dragon’s shadow pulsing from beyond the armored veil of its helm.

  Forgotten stories by heralds of old returned to Al-Aaron; songs of the Dragon, and of the Remnants which served it, the quickened husks of the souls it had already spent.

  The songs of the Cherubim fell away. Only the measured sound of the Dragon’s breathless whisper remained behind its veil.

  “I’ve found him,” it sighed.

  Fear gripped Al-Aaron. In a sweeping motion he swung Baerythe and himself away. But not before the Remnant’s blade fell, cutting down across Al-Aaron’s arm. Though it didn’t cut deep, frozen fire burned into him, lashing at his senses. He staggered from the pain and the chilled fingers reaching out from it. But more than this, he staggered from the sudden understanding that overwhelmed him. It was by his own pride that the Dragon had tricked him. It had used him, and he had led it to Chaelus.

  The Remnant turned in the direction of the chapel, its breath suspended about it like a second veil.

  Clutching the growing weight of his wounded arm, Al-Aaron’s failure closed about him. Tears welled in his eyes as he ran with a fool’s hope toward the chapel.

  Chapter Three

  Waith

  The rain drew against the village, a muted curtain, colors faded beneath it. Doorways on the happas stared back through the veil. Mud swelled. Lightning flashed upon the timber walls of Hasslyd’s hall. Her shredded banner tossed. The wind howled with a baleful cry.

  Once more, the scent of jasmine summoned Chaelus.

  Jasmine, and the musk of swamp and smoke. The gentle crush of veil and the soft press of lips beneath.

  Faerowyn.

  A vision of her, or her spirit, stood against the glow of the tavern door. Hearth and lamp light settled like a halo about her. Beneath a black cowl, her crimson veil burned with the brilliance of embers. Her dark eyes called to him just as they used to.

  But it wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

  Still he whispered her name, “Faerowyn.” His voice sounded hollow and grievous against the storm.

  The distance vanished. Her cold hand clutched his.

  Beneath her veil, the scent of jasmine fled before the nauseous sweet smell of decay. Thick, garish paint bled in the blowing rain. A hag, her skin gray and faded. A shadow turned within her. She stared back at him, beholding nothing.

  Still her hand gripped him, her voice a whisper he already knew well.

  “Chaelus.”

  Chaelus urged Idyliss past her.

  Lightning split the night again, and the longhouses succumbed beneath the brilliant glow as he rode. Beyond, the fields lay fallow and wasted, littered with the bloated filth of forgotten beast and harvest.

  The storm light dimmed. The warmth of fire beckoned from beyond a narrow doorway, a thin pillar of azure smoke rising from the center of the chapel’s conical roof.

  Carvings marked the lintel above the door: the sigil of the House of Waith resting within the sacred circle of the Creator.

  The door moaned in the wind. It opened to the bent silhouette of a man awash in the glow beyond. Chaelus found no voice to call out, but the man raised his own aged voice above the tempest.

  “What do you seek?”

  Chaelus dropped from Idyliss, his hand on Sundengal. The length of the happas and the eyes of the longhouses were empty. The whisper of the old woman was silent.

  “I seek a priest named Joshua,” Chaelus said. “I’ve come with a boy.” Chaelus withheld the honorific that revealed the boy’s knighthood. “His name is Aaron.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’ll come.”

  The man looked beyond him into the growing abyss of the storm. “Then the doorway’s no place for our talk.”

  The man weighted himself against a wide branch stave as he retreated through the narrow passage. Chaelus squinted against the light and followed him.

  A broad smile stretched the old man’s face, but his eyes revealed little. “If it’s the boy you wait for, then feel welcome. Feel safe. I’m Joshua.” He chewed on his lip. “And you must be Chaelus, once Roan Lord of the House of Malius.”

  Chaelus drew his hood back, the sting of rain in his eyes.

  “Don’t fear your past here,” Joshua continued. “It’s but chaff, like so many of the other things we do well to leave behind.”
He frowned for a moment as his voice faltered. He placed his hand upon Chaelus’ wrist.

  Chaelus winced at the chill, like that of the old woman in the storm.

  “Warm yourself by the fire,” Joshua said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”