The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King

by Michael R. Miller

  Darnuir’s throat felt like it was on fire, though no flames emitted from him. The blaze from the Dragon’s Blade did not abate. It stretched out; eight feet, ten feet, twelve feet. It almost sniffed the air, looking for prey. He flailed pathetically as he clung onto the weapon, and the hunters nearby dropped to the floor to avoid the branching tendrils of flame.

  “Darnuir,” barked Brackendon, “you must control it. You must!”

  “How?” he cried in dismay, but if the wizard had any advice to give, Darnuir did not hear it. The prodding in his head became a pounding and he went deaf again. He fought against it this time. He pushed back with all his might. It was the most peculiar feeling he had ever experienced. How was he to fight a foe within his mind? He twisted his head in the attempt until, with a final effort, he lurched both his gaze and arms upwards. He held his breath as he struggled and finally, he felt the pounding ebb away. His eyes were screwed shut and his throat was no longer burning.

  The fire, it’s stopped. Does this sword have a mind of its own?

  Another monstrous wail filled his ears. Darnuir opened his eyes to see the overhanging silver branches ablaze, the fire spreading towards the trunk of the great tree.

  “No!” Brackendon screamed in anguish. The wizard hastened to his staff tree with a crazed look. He attempted to break the branches but it seemed his power was faltering. Soon, the whole tree was on fire, a pyre in the centre of the battlefield, and Brackendon stood aghast as his staff began to shake uncontrollably. As the wizard fell to his knees, his staff exploded into countless splinters.

  It seemed as if the world was ending. Darnuir staggered away from the inferno of the tree but did not have his wits about him. Over at the melee, the hunters were beginning to show signs of breaking. Their right flank beside the hunters’ lodge was dangerously thin. If the demons swarmed in now, they would be lost. He noticed that the prodding in his head had returned again but this time it was gentle. He glanced down to the Dragon’s Blade and the rubies twinkled at him.

  Is it trying to speak to me? Prod, prod, prod. Am I going mad? Prod, prod, prod. Yes, I think I must be.

  Perhaps it was the sight of their right flank finally breaking, or the thought of Eve lying close by, but Darnuir gave up the fight within. His mind filled with a feeling, both alien and familiar, his stance changed, and his eyes drank in the battlefield with a newfound understanding. Darnuir watched on as an observer. He watched as his own hand acted without him controlling it, throwing the golden blade towards the breach in the line.

  Darnuir saw himself acting but was not in control. It was as though he were dreaming. The Dragon’s Blade hurtled at the demons, skewering three of them, and then flew back to his hand. He caught it before he crashed into the demon ranks. He watched on in astonishment as he waded through the demons, fighting foes on all sides with a speed and strength he never knew he had. The movement made him feel sick. Within moments, the tide of battle on the right flank was turning. Hunters fell back in beside him and the demons started to step back. He collected several more cuts but always fought carefully, with his back to his allies.

  One adversary in full plate, the colour of dried blood, emerged to challenge him. The joints of his armour and his shoulder plates were dotted in small spikes. A thick helmet hid his face but burning red eyes could be seen through the visor. Is that a spectre? I’ve never seen one in armour before. Is it a man? Darnuir’s body engaged the enemy. Whatever it was, it was giving Darnuir a harder fight than any of the others had. He stumbled when he blocked one of its blows. It must have been very strong to make him recoil like that. Darnuir was forced further backwards as the blood-armoured foe sent a series of attacks, putting him at a disadvantage. The demons rallied around their champion but Darnuir charged him, knocking the blood-armoured figure over. Its helmet flew off. Before Darnuir could see its face, an armoured hand thrashed his own face and spun him away, spitting blood. When Darnuir recovered and turned to fight the creature once more, it seemed to have fled.

  The demons close to the action became utterly disheartened. A mound of their dead lay near Darnuir and no spectres appeared to help maintain control. Those at the front began to flee but those further behind did not understand what was happening and continued forward. There was collision and confusion, and the hunters began to cut them down. Darnuir chased the demons as they began to flee and it soon became a rout. He carried on the pursuit long after the hunters around him had started to lag behind.

  Darnuir regained control of himself just past the town gates, which were bent and dangling off battered hinges. The Dragon’s Blade felt heavy in his hand again so he sheathed it. He picked his way back towards the square, stepping carefully over the demon corpses. The men all looked to him in awe and some looked on with fear. This was the sword’s work. It was not me.

  Everywhere, the snow was stained red and the smoky demon blood swirled foully with the black smog of the flames. The great silver tree had been reduced to ash; only a gnarled stump remained. He caught sight of the wizard. Is this what it means to break?

  Cosmo was helping a shaking and moaning Brackendon to his feet, taking him back to the tavern. Darnuir found his own feet guiding him back there as well, and followed a distance behind.

  He stopped when he saw her body.

  She was sitting upright against the small stone wall, as if relaxing. Her eyes, however, were still wide with the horror of her final moments. The spectre’s blade lay with its master behind the stone wall but the hole it had made in her remained. Dark crimson encrusted her entire chest. She needn’t have died. This was his fault. She had only been doing her duty but she had gotten too close. Too close. She was too close.

  Balack appeared at the tavern’s doorway. He made his way over to Eve’s body with such delicacy, it was as if he did not wish to break the snow. When he joined Darnuir, Balack’s silhouette blocked out the moon. He said nothing. Darnuir met his eyes and saw an emptiness, a lifelessness, grim and deadened.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.

  Then he twisted his head over the low wall and retched.

  Chapter 9

  THE LORD OF THE BASTION

  IN THE CEILING above the throne room of the Bastion, Cassandra lay flat on her stomach and peered into the room below, through the sliding grate. She could have crouched if she had wanted to; she may even have stood to her full height. Whoever had designed these secret ways in the Bastion had clearly intended people far larger than her to manoeuvre within them. Lying was the most comfortable however, for she might be there some time. Occasionally, days would pass where the wizard would not appear in his throne room at all. She was certain today would not be one of those days. Plenty of activity had gravitated around the room and she had spotted servants waiting in attendance. He would come.

  Whatever was about to happen would be important. Castallan rarely used his throne room unless he wished to hold audience in a place designed to project his image of power; his little self-indulgent fantasy of being humanity’s ‘true’ king. Most of his business was conducted in his private chambers and, despite her best efforts, Cassandra could not find a way to sneak closer to them.

  Her eyes snapped to the doors of the wizard’s self-proclaimed throne room as they swung open. Castallan strode imperiously into the long, rectangular room. His ashen-tinged hair was swept back in its usual perfect arc, and a greying stubble coated his face. His silver eyes seemed to crackle with energy and marked him as different from other men not blessed with magic. The robes he wore were light, close-fitting and regal purple in colour, with a silver hem. Her jailer sat down on his high-backed throne; an imposing construction that had at its back a fan of different staffs. Cassandra had counted ten in total. Ten staffs of varying design, but each one fashioned from silver wood.

  Two men with red eyes followed the wizard into the room, bearing a twisted iron plinth, which they placed in front of the throne. Four more men carefully trailed behind, their eyes also red, carrying a
n enormous glass orb. They placed the orb atop the plinth and quickly departed. The orb seemed to have something inside of it; a swirling white substance, like mist, rebounding off its sides. Castallan sat in quiet contemplation. The side of his mouth twitched up in a nervous fashion.

  Now, who or what would make you jittery, Castallan?

  No sooner had she begun to speculate than the white swirl in the orb began to spiral violently. In the chaos, a dark silhouette of a man’s torso began to appear, faint at first, but then clearer, until it seemed as if it were physically there in the room alongside Castallan. Only it was not a man.

  “Why don’t you come closer, wizard?” the image asked. “Or perhaps elevate me to your own height. I do so hate to crane my neck.” The voice drifted out in a light drawl, suggesting a sly intelligence and profound confidence. To Cassandra’s amazement, it was a spectre she beheld in the orb, though it was unlike any she had ever seen. Its shadowy flesh appeared almost fully solid, ranging subtly from pitch-black to solid purple. Tendrils of blue flames draped down behind its ears, like hair, without causing him any sign of discomfort.

  “Is that an order, General?” Castallan asked in his gravelly voice, with what Cassandra thought was added caution.

  “It might be,” the voice crooned. “A good lieutenant will follow orders, will he not?”

  “I have always obeyed his orders,” Castallan said stiffly. “Am I to take it that you are playing messenger now, Dukoona?” If the comment was designed to sting, it appeared only to prickle the spectre.

  “The Master has far more pressing priorities than to converse with you,” Dukoona tittered.

  “As do you, I’m sure?” Castallan said. “I haven’t had the pleasure of your company in many years.”

  “It has been many years since you have been of use,” Dukoona said lazily.

  “And what would you have of me?”

  “I would have nothing of you, wizard,” Dukoona said. “Remember who granted you the spectres you now have, and never forget where their true loyalty lies.”

  “Oh I never do. Now, will you tell me my task or not?”

  “Our master, Rectar, has commanded that the fleet begin preparations to sail west,” Dukoona smiled, his purple lips pulling apart to reveal an unnerving set of perfectly white teeth. Cassandra considered she would have been less disturbed if the spectre had borne fangs. This perfectness smacked of some sorcery. He went on. “Every ship in our power will descend upon the human realm and it will be up to you, dear Castallan, to prepare a beachhead for our forces. Maintaining control of the Southern Dales near that fortress of yours will suffice.”

  “Hoping to avoid a repeat of your last landing?”

  “How very astute of you,” Dukoona said. “Ready our landing and you might find yourself rewarded.”

  “Why now?” Castallan asked. “It’s been twenty years. Why this wait?”

  “It is not for you to question the Master’s decisions.”

  “But it is for you?”

  Dukoona gave another unsettling smile. “Perhaps.”

  “Why today, Dukoona?”

  “Why?” Dukoona drawled. “Because it was this very day I received my instructions. As a courtesy for your past services, I shall impress this upon you.” His voice soured and lost all traces of amusement. “We are coming, Castallan, whether you aid us or not. I would have the Bastion for my seat as I lead the campaigns against Brevia and Val’tarra. Be hospitable and you will share in some more of our power and stand in the Master’s court as the last of your kind. Resist, hinder or fail us, well, there are special halls under Kar’drun that even I will not visit.” His cruel eyes bore into Castallan, who returned the enmity.

  “How long?” Castallan asked.

  “As long as it takes,” Dukoona said simply. “Why? Do you have other things to attend to? See that you do not disappoint me.” The spectre lord’s terrible smile disappeared as he departed, the orb returning to swirling mist once more.

  Castallan’s face remained blank. He seemed lost in some deep, calculating thought before he finally rose. He was halfway to the doors when the mist began to convulse once more. It took form with its back to Cassandra, yet she recognised the spiked, blood-red armour and the thick helm to match it. You’d better have good news, Zarl. He doesn’t seem in the mood for failure.

  The wizard’s blank expression had twisted up on one side into a smirk at the sight of the man.

  “Commander,” Castallan greeted him. “Have the Boreacs fallen?”

  “No, my lord,” Zarl said carefully. For once, he did not sound collected, calm and deliberate.

  Castallan’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

  “I do bear some good tidings,” Zarl said. “I can confirm that the boy truly is whom we were led to believe.”

  “So you captured him?” Castallan said hopefully. “The region can lick its wounds so long as we have him.”

  “No, my lord,” said Zarl.

  Castallan stepped heavily towards the orb. “Did I not allow you to take as many demons as you felt fit? Have I not granted you enough personal power?”

  “You did and have,” said Zarl. “I am eternally grateful for you freeing me. Yet there was a complication. The boy had his sword and appeared to wield it with extreme competency for a time. There was also the wizard.”

  “Brackendon!” Castallan said. “So he has returned to the world of the sane.”

  “Perhaps not for long,” Zarl said, seeming more satisfied. “Darnuir burnt the ancient tree of the town to cinders. Flames poured forth from his sword but he seemed unable to control them.”

  “Well it will be easier to contend with a staff-less Brackendon,” Castallan said. He seemed a touch annoyed. “It would have been preferable to have obtained his staff for my collection but no matter. We can turn our attention fully to the Dragon’s Blade.”

  “You are certain that you require it for your work?” Zarl asked. “You have accomplished so much without it. My own strength—”

  “Was not enough to cope with Darnuir, it seems,” Castallan said scornfully.

  “My demons were becoming unwieldy,” Zarl said in his defence. “The spectres abandoned the fight the moment they saw me duelling Darnuir. I shall have them dealt with. I should have brought more of our own men with me to keep the spectres in check.”

  “The time for secrecy is almost over,” Castallan said. “Our friend, Dukoona, just informed me that an invasion is coming. If we are to save humanity and free ourselves of the dragon yoke then we must no longer take half-measures. This is why I need that sword, Commander. There is no better conduit of Cascade energy.”

  “Better than ten staffs?”

  “Eleven,” Castallan corrected him, holding up his own tall stave. “And yes, I am sure. Combining the sword with the staffs, I may even surpass Rectar himself.” Castallan paused as though chilled by the thought.

  “So you wish the boy alive?”

  “Alive would be desirable,” Castallan said. “Though now he is in possession of the blade, prizing it from his corpse may serve just as well; however, I would rather not needlessly risk the sword losing its power.”

  “I will require fresh forces,” Zarl said. “Should the hunters take refuge in the station, it will be an arduous battle.”

  “I shall assemble all our forces for you,” Castallan said. “No more half-measures, Zarl. Brevia has answered me with silence. We must take matters into our own hands. If Dukoona arrives before we are ready then all our plans will be ruined and humanity will fall. You know the stakes.”

  Zarl bowed within the orb and then began to dissolve away. Castallan swept from the throne room, barking out orders to those he passed and disappeared from sight.

  Cassandra remained where she was, stunned by the revelations. He mentioned the Dragon’s Blade. That sword belongs to the King of Dragons. She knew this from her extensive reading over the years. She had been here for as long as she could remember, possibly her entire life. Stuck in
the Bastion, there was little else to do at times. But the dragons had gone into hiding? Could this Darnuir really be him? The name was familiar to her. Chelos, her carer, mentioned him in hallowed tones as if speaking of the dead. The king, that’s what he always called him. And now, it seemed that he had returned or emerged from hiding. Chelos would be thrilled at the news. She ought to tell him at once.

  She scrambled up to the exit of the passageway. There were two options: a lever, which would open the wall out into the corridor beyond, or a ladder leading up. She took the ladder, as it was the quickest route back to her chambers. She climbed several storeys, her impractical dress hampering her movements. She heard a rip as it caught on a section of the ladder. Damn, how will I explain this? Her dresses had always been of exceptional quality but she loathed them and found them frustrating and restricting. She would prefer to wear more practical garments – contraband items such as boots, trousers and jerkins, which her friend, Trask, had smuggled to her over the years, yet she could not wear those and pass through open space as she would likely be seen.

  She reached her intended floor and carefully checked the corridor on the other side of the false wall for guards. There were none. As she ascended the last few levels to the top of the Bastion, she passed no one at all. They must all be preparing this army to move out. She called out for Chelos as soon as she made it back to her room. The old dragon came serenely to greet her, his face crinkling with age, though he was very still capable on his feet. Long years may have started to take their toll on him but there was still a deal of strength in him, as Cassandra often painfully discovered when they sparred. Not knowing other dragons, she found it hard to believe at times that he was one hundred years old.