Rosinanti_Rise of the Dragon Lord

by Kevin J. Kessler

  “Wakey-wakey,” a silky, smoky voice breathed from behind him.

  Vahn turned his head just enough to catch the sight of movement in the shadows. A lone figure stalked toward the furnace and gripped one of the many rods. Vahn squinted through the hazy darkness enough to make out a broad back and grey hair. The being turned, pulling a long, pointed poker from the fire, its tip glowing a deep orange and yellow. Beyond the threatening sharpness of the blade, Vahn could make out a grizzled bearded face, pockmarked and weathered by time. It was a face he knew well and had known for decades. The man’s newly defining feature was a black leather eyepatch that covered the mess of pulpy remains that had once been an eyeball…before Vahn had driven a spike through it three months prior.

  “Landon,” he choked out through his parched throat.

  The leader of the Champions smiled wickedly at him, waving the poker in slow, flourishing figure-eight patterns, drawing ever closer. “Is that you, Burai? I can hardly tell. My vision isn’t what it used to be, you know.”

  Vahn’s muscles tightened at the threat of his former friend and colleague. But he would not shirk away. He would not break before this man. “You received exactly what you deserved, Landon.”

  The cruel old man chuckled as he looked over at his adversary. “What I deserve…” He was drawing out the moment, savoring this victory. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I deserve lately. I’ve sacrificed for this place so many times over a very long career. I spilled blood in the defense of Queen Rose, when this land was still Kackritta. And what did I receive in response? I was stripped of my rank and exiled. I served The Faithful after that, and in turn the Aleksandryan regime. What did I get for that? The man who had me banished from my former life returns and plucks out my damned eye!”

  He rounded on Vahn, striking out with his free hand, smashing it along the aged warrior’s temple. Vahn’s vision blurred, and the familiar metallic taste of blood washed over his tongue. Still, decades of hardened skill gave him the willpower to snap his head right back to the position it had begun, glaring at Landon with smoking hate.

  “What I deserve, Burai, is this moment right here. I deserve the opportunity to take a pound of flesh off your pathetic, old body for every year of my life that you’ve ruined! I deserve to take both your eyes. I deserve to hear your screams. And today, Vahn Burai, I am going to finally get exactly what I deserve.”

  “Lay on, Landon,” Vahn spat at him, showing no fear in the face of the pain this sadistic fool sought to bring upon him. “You know I will never break.”

  Landon leaned in close, so much so that Vahn could smell the revolting combination of rot and whisky wafting from his lips. “I don’t need you to break, Burai.” His words tickled Vahn’s neck in an unsettling manner, sending tendrils of disgust laced with the tiniest shred of fear down his spine. Landon reached out quickly, grabbing Vahn by the lapel and tearing open his shirt to reveal the aged but still defined chest that lay beneath. “I need you to scream.”

  Landon thrust the scorching tip against Vahn’s chest, and the former Captain Elite of the Kingdom of Kackritta filled the bowels of the Fortress of Aleksandrya with pained exclamations of the purest agony imaginable.

  Darkness swirled around Aleksandrya on this night with far greater intensity than any before it. For Kayden, times such as these, where the darkness gathered in abundance, responding to the anger, fear, and hate that saturated every human soul, gave him a feeling of euphoric might. On this night, however, he was filled with nothing but despair. Kayden stood in the chilled night air, feeling the reverberations of pain coming from within the Fortress of Aleksandrya. His heart hung heavy, knowing what they represented.

  His father’s pain burned out from the floating castle like a superheated torch. Kayden could sense the anguish, the fury, and the danger associated in every blow, every slash, every burn that he knew Landon would inflict.

  Aleksandra had arrived in the catacombs with all of her world-ending fury. She had intruded upon a confusing moment in Kayden’s life when he felt himself drawn down two conflicting paths. She had taken Seraphina, had taken his father. And the black dragon of the Rosinanti had just…stood there. The dark storm that was his power had lain dormant in that moment. He had argued against killing the girl. Truly, he saw no purpose in ending her life, but why?

  By all accounts, he should care nothing for Seraphina or her fate. He tried to convince himself the lie he had fed to Aleksandra was true. He solely wanted to add to Valentean’s pain by forcing him to face the horror of his princess dead at his feet. But deep in his heart, Kayden knew the truth. He had saved her not out of malice for his brother but because he could still hear the faint echo of his younger self radiating through his mind, begging with him, pleading for him to turn his back on the dark impulses that drove his rage and pain.

  He cursed himself, raging against his own mind for rebelling on him in such a way. He was the black dragon. He was the Spirit of Darkness. Why should it matter whether the foes of Aleksandrya die? Why should it matter if a princess he cared nothing for be sacrificed in the name of Aleksandra’s maniacal blood rage? It shouldn’t matter…but yet it did.

  Kayden sprang to his feet, emerging from the shadowy cover of the alleyway in which he had crouched to silently wage war upon his mind. The pale glow of moonlight licked at his bearded face through the darkness, a distant glow cutting through the night. Was this synonymous with his own heart? Kayden felt the tingling tickle of a tear forming and clenched his eyelids shut in an effort to bear down upon the unwanted, invasive moisture and snuff it out as though it were the last vestige of this pointless human compassion.

  Still though, despite the avalanche of skin attempting to crush it within the all-consuming darkness behind his eyes, Kayden felt this very human tear squeeze its way through and slide down his cheek. He slowly raised one shaking hand to wipe away the glistening line of fluid. Pulling his fingers back, Kayden marveled at the wetness as though it were some foreign intruder, some horrifying truth that he could not bring himself to face.

  You could have bent the power to your will, but instead you were weak, and you let it rule you!

  The words of the phantom, the child within, still echoed in through his mind. The words of Kayden the human, Kayden the weakling, Kayden the runner up. That last thought awoke the stirring darkness within his soul. He called upon his dark recollection of the Tournament of Animus. Valentean’s bloodied snarl, the impact of boot upon face, that final mana-empowered strike of explosive knuckles that dropped him amidst a throng of cheers from those he deemed inferior.

  The rage this memory infused in him was cold, it was familiar, and it was a welcomed assurance in this moment of doubt. He could not waver, could not stray from his chosen path. Not while Valentean still drew breath. He bore down on the hatred in his heart, envisioning his smaller sibling’s smug, condescending smile. His glowing white eyes through the blizzard of the Northern Magic. His pulsating blue stare shining through a wall of raindrops in Kahntran.

  In his heart, Kayden the dragon screeched and stretched and roared, once more bathed in the fury of his unquenchable rage. Despite his experiences meeting Valentean on the field of life or death struggle, it seemed as though the tournament remained the conduit to his rage. He had to hold on to it, had to recall every painful memory to maintain his grip upon the darkness.

  Kayden threw the hood up over his head and stalked out into the street of Aleksandrya, his face constricted from the view of the rabble who squirmed and slithered through the street like maggots. He looked not upon them, not even up toward the imposing spiked prison of Aleksandra’s floating fortress. Instead, Kayden locked his now purple glowing eyes upon one of the last remnants of the dead kingdom he had once called home. The one place in all of Terra where he could truly connect to his rage and pain. That one place in which the darkness could once again take him to the blissful reality of its intoxicating pulsation.

  Kayden exhaled forcefully through his
nose and stalked off with a purpose toward the Kackrittan Battle Arena.

  XXIV: War Room

  Maura stopped before the steel door at the rear of the Grassani throne room as the first strands of dawn light filtered in through the massive clock face that loomed overhead. At first, her instinct was to simply open the door and enter, and she silently chided herself.

  This isn’t your house, Maura. Show some decorum!

  As she knocked, Maura marveled at how in only a short time, Grassan had begun to feel like home. She wondered if that had more to do with the locale itself or, perhaps more so, certain people in it. She sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head as if to rattle such confusing thoughts from her skull. Returning her attention to the door, she rapped on it three times and waited.

  “Enter,” a voice called out. That voice lacked the usual poise and stylized grace she had grown accustomed to hearing. It made her heart ache. Maura slowly pushed the entryway open and poked her head inside. The barren office of King Matias seemed darker than she had remembered it as though the palace itself was mourning the passing of its king.

  At the end of the room, Nahzarro sat behind the desk of his father, hat resting upon the wooden surface as he perused through a pile of parchment. At his side stood the hunched, weathered Minister Khara, whom Maura now knew to be Nahzarro’s grandmother. As she approached, neither Grassani spoke. They simply continued to stare blankly at the parchment. Maura could hear the minister speaking very softly to her grandson.

  “…the commerce guild will need to be apprised of the situation. Construction units are maneuvering through the debris. Once cleared, we can get an accurate accounting of our losses.” Maura could tell Nahzarro’s mind was everywhere except on Khara’s report. “A formal coronation will have to take place before any kind of counter offensive—”

  “There will be no coronation,” Nahzarro said, looking up.

  “Your Majesty, the passing of the crown is a sacred right and—”

  “I don’t care, Grandmother,” the prince snapped curtly.

  “The coronation is important to—”

  “Maura,” Nahzarro said, looking over at her and cutting off his grandmother mid-sentence. Nahzarro motioned for her to come closer.

  Maura walked forward, feeling awkward at having intruded upon such a moment between family members. Nahzarro motioned for her to be seated in one of the large chairs before the desk. She obliged his request and settled in, crossing one leg over the other. Her hand fell into her pocket and wrapped around a small item that served as the purpose of this visit.

  “It’s almost time to meet and discuss tactics,” she said, her palm sweating around the artifact.

  Nahzarro’s face contorted in disgust. “So that we can sit in a room and let that Karminian blowhard continue to talk down at us.”

  “You weren’t exactly fighting back last time,” Maura retorted, instantly regretting it. While at one time, Nahzarro might have quipped back at her, erupting into one of the arguments that defined their tense relationship, her comment seemed to pacify him.

  He settled back into his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Noted,” he replied simply.

  Maura resisted the urge to roll her eyes. What happened to the proud noble leader she had met and loathed upon her first visit to Grassan? Where was the obnoxious, pompous sense of self-righteous confidence that would have actually served him well when dealing with the leader of a potentially hostile nation. Minister Khara sighed audibly, clearly thinking along the same lines. Maura decided she needed to break through this air of sadness for Nahzarro and for Grassan itself.

  “Nahzarro, I’ve been exactly where you are, and I know what you’re feeling. I closed off too. But I realized that there were bigger issues facing this world than my own grief.” She slowly pulled out the item Matias had handed her just before the moment of his death. Holding the white pendant up in front of her face, Maura watched as Nahzarro’s eyes settled on it. “Whether you want to be or not, you are the king now. That means you have responsibilities to your homeland, to your people, and to the legacy your father left for you.”

  “The Collective…” he said.

  “Exactly!”

  “Get that thing out of my sight!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, Maura,” he roared, rising to his feet and slamming a fist down upon his father’s sparse desk.

  “This was what your father believed in.”

  “And he’s dead now!”

  Maura’s face flushed with anger, and she took a long, slow intake of breath through her nose. She tried to remind herself that Nahzarro was grieving, that he didn’t mean to sound so harsh. She composed herself and spoke in a calm and even voice.

  “You know what this meant to your father.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. In fact, it’s all I ever heard about. The glorious mission of the Collective of Light to blot out the followers of chaos once and for all. Do you see this?” He gestured to the model airship that sat upon the king’s desk. It was the only decorative item found within the entire office. “I have no idea what it is, but he has always had it. He never told me about this, but I knew all about the bloody Rosintai.”

  “You’re acting silly.”

  “Am I?” The prince stepped back away from the desk, moving from the two women to stand within the center of the room. “I’m supposed to lead this nation now into the jaws of the most horrific battle Terra has ever seen. I’m supposed to send my men and women off to die in a fight they didn’t start. And for what? Because the Collective of Light needs it? Because we serve the needs of a dragon-god before our own? He could not care less about Grassan or its people. Maybe at one time he did but not anymore. And you can’t deny it, Maura. We’re all just pawns in his quest to get back to Seraphina, and he will burn through every single one of us without a care if it helps him do it!”

  “He’s sick, and he needs our help.”

  “Nevick tried to help, and he was put against the wall by the throat. We tried to help, and we were tossed across the room like trash! He invited a hostile rogue nation into my city without the consent of me or my father. He’s dangerous.”

  “I’m not going to believe that.”

  “Because you’re blinded by the person he used to be. People change, Maura. I’ve changed.”

  Maura saw the new king’s expression darken, and she walked up beside him. “You haven’t changed,” she whispered, interlocking the fingers of her right hand with his left. “You’ve always had a caring and compassionate soul deep inside you. It was just buried under bravado…a lot of bravado.” She felt his fingers squeeze hers and then release; the momentary burst of his righteous anger melted back into a mask of sadness.

  Nahzarro ran a hand through his unruly mop of purple-streaked, blond locks and sighed deeply. “I know Burai is still in there,” he acquiesced. “I understand that he needs help. The problem is he doesn’t want help.”

  “I know. But we have to make him see. The world is resting on his shoulders. He’s playing into the Skirlack’s hands.” There was silence between them, broken as Minister Khara spoke.

  “If The Rosintai is unwilling to listen, then perhaps you need to bring in someone who will make him listen.”

  “What do you mean?” Nahzarro asked.

  “The princess. Seraphina. You can tell by the way he speaks of her, the way his body gently rocks when someone mentions her name. She has power over him. Get him to the princess, and she will make him see the error of his ways in a manner neither of you are able to.”

  Maura nodded in understanding. “He’s uncontrollable, but he’s powerful, and he’s driven.”

  “Yes,” Nahzarro said. “We can’t break through his anger, but maybe we can…aim it.”

  “You mean just move ahead like nothing is wrong? Ignore the problem and hope that Seraphina can snap him out of it at the finish line? That sounds so…cold.”

  “Cold but necessary,” Khara said, pointing
a shaking, bony finger at Maura. “We are at war.”

  Maura sighed and relented. There was nothing she could say to counter their arguments. Valentean’s condition was a source of dread and anxiety for her, but it was not a problem she could solve in the here and now. She exhaled and let it go.

  “Fine. You’re right. There’s nothing we can do now. We have to worry about the bigger picture.”

  Nahzarro nodded. “There’s only a few hours before this strategy session is going to begin.”

  “We don’t know much, do we?”

  “No, but the Imperial seems to be boasting an awful lot of knowledge.”

  “He’s going to try and command the meeting.”

  “I know…”

  Maura watched Nahzarro’s gaze shift off to the side uncomfortably. “You can’t allow that.”

  Nahzarro nodded but did not speak. It was frustrating that when she actually needed him to be the stuffy, smarmy, pompous ass that he was upon their first meeting, he seemed incapable of summoning that infuriating confidence. She laid the king’s marble medallion upon the smooth surface of the desk. Nahzarro looked down at it and took a long intake of breath. She silently urged him to do the right thing, to become the king she knew deep down he could be.

  “Are you really going to let some shorm from the other end of the world talk down to you in your home, Your Highness?”

  Nahzarro smiled at her, a look of wild energy at play along his eyes. “Not in this lifetime,” he said with a playful sneer, slamming his hand down upon the table, directly over the talisman. He grabbed the bauble up and fastened it around his neck. Maura smiled, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see Minister Khara beaming with pride.

  A knock at the office door interrupted this triumphant moment of royal rebirth. Nahzarro gestured with one hand, and the door to his office swung open. Standing there was a tired-looking Grassani official leaning on the door frame, huffing and puffing as though he had sprinted the whole way up to the central tower.