The Blind Dragon

by Peter Fane

  And yet, I was defeated.

  He knew that much. He understood that much. Just as he had understood it many times in the past. Defeat was a part of war. Reversals were to be expected during any campaign. To deny that truth was to deny reality itself.

  "War is a savage, chaotic horse," the great Poder Jarlen had once said. "But victory will always go to the general who bridles, mounts, and rides with the most courage, the most ferocity, and the most conviction."

  Some losses were inevitable.

  What matters is perseverance.

  But how had he been beaten?

  He stared at the blue-grey disc of Dávanor. His own ignorance was infuriating. And dangerous.

  Both of Dávanor's High Gates were now closed to him. Two of his great cannon had been seized. And the world's unique and priceless dragons were lost to his Legions. He had been totally outflanked.

  There was a soft knock on the far door.

  "Come," Dorómy said. His baritone was perfectly calm.

  One half of the double door in the eastern wall opened. A Silver Guardsman stepped inside, crossed his chest with his fist, and bowed.

  "Lord Lessip has arrived, Your Grace."

  "Show him in, lieutenant."

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  The Guardsman shut the door. A moment later, he opened it again, and Lord Corlen Lessip, High General and Grand Duke of Peléa, entered.

  Lessip was short, rotund, and impeccably dressed. He wore a jacket of Eulorian silk cut in the latest fashion, a grey doublet, and matching grey pants. He kept his dark red hair a bit longer than was usual in war time, the tips just touching the top of his collar. Both his fleshy ears were adorned with fine hoops of gold. He wore gems on his chubby fingers, a fine ruby on each pinky finger and blood-red garnets on each thumb—all meticulously cut and set by Paráden's best jewelers. He was clean shaven, save a small patch of dark red hair below his plump lower lip. At first glance, you might be tempted to call Lessip a poseur or even a dandy. But you'd be mistaken. Lessip was Dorómy's spy master, his chief tactician, and one of the most ruthless men in the Kingdom. While his dress was flamboyant, to say the least, Dorómy knew that the man wore spring-loaded daggers in each of his silken sleeves and that his boot tips held hidden crescents of poisoned steel. Beneath his doublet lay a vest of high silver, light and indestructible. He was a short, round, eccentric man, yes. But he moved with that smooth grace that marked the Remain's most dangerous fighters. Brilliant, calculating, merciless. He was Dorómy's most trusted confidant.

  Lessip spoke a few words to the Guardsman, then turned into the room. He carried a large, ornate bird cage. The cage was crafted of high silver. Inside the cage, a large black crow sat atop a gnarled perch. Lessip approached the Stand of Worlds and bowed respectfully.

  "Your Grace," he said. His voice was a mellow tenor.

  Dorómy nodded. Lessip set the cage on the floor and glanced over the Stand of Worlds, taking it in all at once. The crow fluttered but was otherwise silent, its only motion a slight cock of head.

  "What do we know?" Dorómy asked.

  "Alas, I myself have no more news to share, Your Grace," Lessip said.

  Dorómy scowled at the crow and raised an eyebrow at Lessip.

  "More vague talk," Lessip continued. "Treachery within either the House of Fel or the House of Tevéss is the most common explanation. Although I just heard now that Lord Fel was killed by two teenage boys and a trained swarm of messenger dragons. The widest range of rumor."

  "We need facts, Lessip. Not lowborn gossip." Dorómy's voice was perfectly calm.

  "Of course, Your Grace," Lessip said, bowing.

  "How did Abigail—a nine-year-old girl—outmatch both Tevéss and Fel? Fel was no fool. He killed Lord David with ease—and David was a cunning, experienced soldier. Lady Abigail is a child, for the Sisters' sake. A child. Yes, she has captains of some worth, but even so. Did Bellános help her? Did Bellános know? How? I find it impossible to believe that House Dradón could've defended itself—alone—against a coordinated effort so carefully conceived. Bellános must've helped her. High General Ruge and a few others agree. Most of the others don't think it possible."

  "Of course it's possible," Lessip said, his lips pursed. "It is Bellános Dallanar we're talking about. And yet, the siege on Kon continues in earnest. Your brother is hard-pressed, no doubt. If he did send her aid, it couldn't have been easy for him."

  Dorómy frowned. "Would my brother hazard everything for one world? Needlessly expose his High Gate to our adepts? Risk all for one duchy?"

  "You know the answer as well as I, Your Grace. Bellános understands the Davanórian mind. He knows what it means should he fail in his promise. 'For this Reason the Dragon Riders of Dávanor are rightly feared throughout the Realm: Nothing is more terrifying than a Warrior willing to die for his Word.' Or so it's written."

  Dorómy nodded at the reference.

  "Moreover," Lessip continued, "if Bellános did send Lady Abigail aid, it could only have been for the briefest of moments. Our adepts have sensed no major changes in the High Gates' songs."

  "And yet." Dorómy scratched at his nose. "His adepts have proven most proficient in screening his movements, not to mention deflecting and circumnavigating our own assaults."

  "He is called the Silver Fox for good reason, eh?"

  "Great Sisters curse the man." Dorómy shook his head, but he smiled. It was hard not to admire his brother's skill. Dorómy had Kate, yes. But what he wouldn't give to have one of his nephews serve beneath him as High General . . . .

  "I have half a mind to force one of Dávanor's gates and to send in the Legions en masse," Dorómy said.

  Lessip nodded. "Indeed. But even if our adepts could penetrate their defenses—which, quite honestly, I doubt—what would we meet? A few squads of House Dradón guardsmen? Or two of our own great cannon supported by a hundred irate dragons and a company of Michael's ogres?"

  "Too true." Dorómy grinned. "Can I offer you refreshment?"

  "Honored, Your Grace."

  Dorómy walked to the wall and pulled the golden rope that hung there. A moment later, the far door opened and the attendant Silver Guardsman entered, bowed, and saluted.

  "Mead for Lord Lessip and myself, if you please, lieutenant," Dorómy said.

  The Guardsman bowed and closed the door behind him.

  "I've been dwelling on another possibility," Dorómy said. "Is it possible that Bellános anticipated our move from the beginning? Surely he saw the vulnerability there. We certainly did. Is it possible that he'd already assembled forces? That he was waiting for us to strike? Did Fel and Tevéss walk into an ambush? Were we caught in our own trap?"

  "If so," Lessip said, "it was masterfully done."

  "Agreed."

  "And if so," Lessip continued, "not only were we defeated, but we were defeated in what appears to be defiance of the High Laws. There were several missives on my desk this morning asking—rather indirectly, of course—if Fel and Tevéss acted under our orders. Toromon Jor of Hakonar is saying—quite publically and to anyone who will listen—that we were the aggressors here."

  "Great Sisters curse that man."

  Lessip cocked his head in assent.

  "Did Bellános lure us into this?" Dorómy looked at Lessip directly. "Is it possible?"

  "It's possible, of course," Lessip said. "But the rumors I've heard give no hint of organized or planned resistance. Perhaps bad luck, rather than the skill of your brother, was the real enemy here."

  "You don't believe that."

  "No." Lessip shrugged and looked at the crow. "Take it as testament to my own ignorance."

  Dorómy nodded. Lessip was the only man he'd ever known to speak thus in his presence. No lies. No pretense. No flattery. Just the truth, as he saw it.

  "And what of our spy?" Dorómy looked at the crow, a slight frown on his face. The bird cocked its head. Its black eyes glittered intelligently.

  "I've not yet asked him," Lessi
p said. "Indeed, he has only now arrived, not one bell past."

  A soft rap on the door.

  "Come," Dorómy said.

  The Silver Guardsman opened the door and let a servant wearing formal palace garb into the chamber. The servant carried a golden tray that held a tall beaker of mead and two golden cups. He placed the tray on an ornate serving table, carried the table to the Stand of Worlds, and set it down beside it. He poured two cups, bowed, and left. The Silver Guardsman shut the door behind him.

  Dorómy handed a cup to Lessip, then raised his own and sighed. "To Bellános Dallanar."

  Lessip raised his cup. "To lessons learned."

  They nodded, looked each other in the eye, and drank deeply.

  Dorómy set his glass down. He took the silver tactical token that had rested atop Dávanor's disc for the last year and replaced it with one made of obsidian.

  "Dávanor belongs to Bellános now," Dorómy admitted.

  "For the moment." Lessip inclined his head.

  "Shall we hear what this thing has to say?" Dorómy glanced at the crow. He made no effort to keep the distaste from his voice.

  Lessip nodded, turned, and walked to the chamber's door. He locked the door and withdrew a silver box from his pocket. He opened the lid and took from the box a small, clicking mantis of high silver. The mantis had shiny black eyes, like tiny shards of obsidian. Lessip pricked his finger, whispered something to the mantis, and dripped two drops of blood into its ticking mandibles. The mantis shivered and rubbed its front claws together. Lessip placed it on the door handle and whispered a final word. The mantis went still as stone.

  Lessip returned to the Stand and lifted the crow's cage from the floor. The crow squeezed its perch, black eyes silent and gleaming. Dorómy noticed a strange bend in its right wing.

  Lessip opened the cage's door. The crow dropped from its perch, cocked its head, and hopped to the Stand. It gave the map and the tactical tokens a glance, then leapt to the air, circling the Stand twice before splitting into two dark shapes, the shapes dropping to the Chamber's floor, becoming large, billowing up like black smoke, taking human form in a swirl of dark fog, shadowy feathers dropping from arms and fingers, tendrils of murky vapor circling and gathering into the coils and loops of hooded robes. One of the shapes was tall. The other was tiny, like a child. The tiny one reached up and took the tall one's hand. The tall one carried a sword of black iron, holding the blade under the hilt, tip pointed behind it, its shoulder sagging with the weight, as if the weapon was too heavy to bear. Its face was hidden in a deep cowl, but its hands were black claws, its fingers like skeletal talons.

  Kalaban. Dorómy frowned. Or so such a thing would've been known in ancient times.

  The tiny one threw back his hood and revealed a pale, childlike face. He was completely bald, his eyes heavily lidded and colorless. His skin was almost white, like an albino's. A flat, black stone—the size of a bird's egg—was set into the center of his pale forehead amidst a cluster of purplish veins. The stone reflected no light. The veins seemed to radiate from the stone, fanning back over the tiny man's skull. A band of black ink was tattooed vertically, directly beneath his tiny bottom lip, running down his tiny chin and disappearing beneath his jaw. The little man had a soft overbite, like a baby might have. He bowed and raised his right hand in formal greeting, wincing a bit, as if his arm pained him. When he spoke, his voice was high and lisping, like a child's.

  "Hail, High Lord Dorómy Dallanar! Silver King, Master of Gates, Prince of the Sea of the Sun, Grand Duke of Teládon, High Ward of Káladar, Protector of the Realm, and true King of Remain."

  Dorómy barely tilted his head. "Sles."

  The tiny man bowed again, perhaps too deeply and too long, the faintest hint of sarcasm in his formality. "We appreciate your willingness to converse with us. Truly honored." Sles lisped and looked around the chamber. "It has been many years since our people walked the halls of the mighty Káladar. Truly, the tales are nothing to the thing itself. It is said that its great walls were planned by the great Acasius himself, is it not?"

  "So it is said," Dorómy said, frowning.

  "Ah!" Sles said, his lisp becoming more pronounced. "Did the Great King see his full plans come to pass? Or, perhaps, one of his High Sisters completed his great work? We are, you might say, students of your long history. Perhaps we could see the Great King's Gate? There is none grander, none more powerful in all the Kingdom. Or so it is said. Oh, what a sight it must be!"

  "You have something for me, voidling?" Dorómy asked. "If not, then Lord Lessip will see you out."

  Beside Sles, the kalaban growled. Dorómy saw Lessip pivot at the sound and take a step towards the creature, placing himself slightly between Dorómy's person and the cloaked beast. Dorómy wasn't worried, not in the slightest. But he did realize that he was glad Lessip was there. Sles glanced from Dorómy to Lessip and back to Dorómy again. His eyes were glittering and black. The eyes of a crow. He did not blink.

  "Of course." The little man said finally, bowing long and deep. His lisp was pronounced. "Please forgive us, Your Grace. We do indeed come with intelligence and news. Remarkable things. Incredible things. Things we have witnessed with our own eyes. And, if you will give us but a moment, we shall tell you truly all that we have seen."

  The Kingdom of Remain spans all space and memory.

  It is the Eternal Kingdom, the Silver Kingdom, an ancient sphere born of our love and our sorrow, our blood and our joy.

  The Kingdom of Remain encompasses countless stars and minds. It has served our people for millennia. And we have served it in return.

  The Kingdom of Remain is our place. It is our home.

  The Kingdom of Remain is our legacy. It is our story.

  It is the only tale we have worth telling.

  The preceding events take place in the Third Year of Dorómy III, Founding Year 12,037.

  "As for the Kingdom's smaller Worlds, a Wise Prince will do his Utmost to secure first the Duchy of Dávanor. The Ferocity of Dávanor's Dragons is the stuff of Legend. The Zeal of its Knights, even more so. Trained from Birth into the Arts of War, the Fervor of a Davanórian's Sword is matched only by the Fervor of a Davanórian's Honor. For this Reason the Dragon Riders of Dávanor are rightly feared throughout the Realm: Nothing is more terrifying than a Warrior willing to die for his Word."

  – Katherine II, The Canon of Tarn, "Prolegomena to Imperial Tactics and Diplomacies." F.Y. 189

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Deepest thanks are due Amy S., Andrea W., Becky D., Erika F., Erin H.K., Heidi G., Jen K., Kari M., Kelsey D., Lincoln H., Matt C., Marilyn D., Mark E., Nikoli F., Nina M., Robert K., Robert R., Tamara W., Vanessa H., and Zoey S. for their generosity, criticism, support, encouragement, and faith. High Ladies and Lords of Dávanor, the Kingdom and its peoples salute you.

  Extra special thanks are also owed a tough squadron of young dragon squires who reviewed this book at an early stage: Anna L., Ainsley N., Amanda H., Aubrey G., Bennett W., Elissa C., Gentry N., Giovanni N., Grace S., Joey B., Lindsey H., Maddie B., Mason C., and Thomas W. Let it be known throughout the Realm: the next generation of dragons is blessed with riders of the highest quality—smart, dedicated, and fierce.

  Finally, the Kingdom of Remain would not exist without the love and friendship of the following warriors and poets: Anna S., Aurora M., Cady M., Christopher M., Darcie D., Jesse H., Kan L., Kristin L., Liz N., Mari H., Olga P., Roger S., Ruth S., Tianhua X., Tom M., Travis K., William S., and Zach F. I have not the words—so these, I borrowed: Πάς γοῦν ποιητής γίγνεται οὗ ἂν ἀγάπη ἅψηται.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Peter Valerianos Fane served in the Silver Legion's artillery corps for over forty years, rising to the rank of Peer Colonel under High Lords Bellános and Dorómy Dallanar. His most well-known actions took place on Colodóx, Batládea, and Ebum—all in the service of the High House of Remain. In retirement, Colonel Fane spends the majority of his time on
the great library world of Genonea, where he lectures on military theory, ancient Davanórian war poetry, and moral philosophy. He winters at his clan's hereditary estate on Egáton with his wife, his family, and a small flock of messenger dragons.