Dragons of Destiny

by Jeffrey Waddilove

  “You would deny me my fun, Saevo? How very selfish of you.”

  He briefly considered killing the Blood Priest for speaking to him without permission. Perhaps later.

  “Don’t you see, Saevo? These men are the most loyal to Tryss and to that blathering idiot, King Ortalis. I want Ortalis to hear the death cries from his perch atop his throne at the end of this hall. I want him to feel every mortal wound I inflict, every life that I end. It’s because of his selfishness that it came to this. He should have knelt to Lord Rathe months ago, but instead he lets his people be slaughtered like livestock out of his own sense of callow pride. For his arrogance, he will suffer the deaths of these men at my hands before I depose him from his kingdom and his life. So unless you would like to join him, I suggest you back away from me now, worm.”

  “As you command, Lord Dregan.”

  As Saevo bowed and backed away, the first wave of guards cast out valiant battle cries and charged fearlessly at Dregan. He bowed slightly to them and raised the blood-stained Sword of Duncar in defense. Three men reached him first, and he separated the frontrunner’s head from his shoulders with a casual flick of the wrist. The other two were able to keep their heads, but lost both arms apiece.

  The next two guards who attacked tried a high-low maneuver on him. Dregan kicked the spear that was aimed to hamstring him aside and skewered the man through the heart. He then kicked him in the stomach and used that momentum to help wrench his blade free. He was just able to get his sword up in time to parry the two-handed axe that was whistling through the air towards his skull. The guard wielding the axe wasn’t quick enough after the deflection to protect his exposed middle, so Dregan slashed him across the belly, and his innards spilled out onto the snowy marble tiles of the hallway.

  He dispatched six more guards who had the audacity to try taking him together. Two more were disemboweled as he opened them up with expertly aimed slices, while the rest were cut down before they even had a chance to put up a decent fight.

  “Are these your very best, Ortalis?” he roared. “They’re all pathetic! Send me your elite, damn it!”

  In response, the throne room door opened, and four hooded figures came out and forced their way through the throng of defenders. They stood quietly defiant at the front of the crowd, waiting for Dregan to approach. The Shadow Priest walked casually over the bodies and the bloody mess and into the hall to confront the newcomers. He dragged his sword tip across the tiles, and it threw up sparks in his wake.

  The four new wardens dropped their hoods and stepped forward, spreading out so they surrounded him completely. Dregan recognized these men; rather, he recognized their garb and distinct facial tattoos. According to the rumors he had heard, their tattoos told stories of their most epic battles and conquests. These men had copious amounts of their face covered with ink, telling Dregan that each of them had many excellent stories to tell. He would let them recite them to him with their blades.

  They wore all blood red armor that was so dark it appeared black, while each was armed with a slender great-sword that was nearly as long as Dregan was tall.

  Ghost Lords.

  These were revered holy men who lived and breathed by the sword exclusively. Even blade masters were known to seek out the Ghost Lords for training long after they had been granted the rank of Master. Ortalis had apparently spared no expense. Just one Ghost Lord bodyguard would cost as much as a small kingdom.

  Dregan could hardly believe his good fortune. A deranged smile traversed his face, and a reckless feeling came over him. His adrenaline skyrocketed, and his heart hammered in his chest. He had waited impatiently for a challenge of this magnitude all day long.

  “Good evening, Masters,” he said, bowing deeply in respect. “It will be a great honor to have died by your swords, or to slay you with mine.”

  Wordlessly, the four Ghost Lords bowed in unison and began to circle him, while Dregan waited with barely reined in patience for them to strike. To the left out of his peripheral vision came the first blow, a swipe that was almost too fast for him to register. His sword met the attack just in time, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the other three men. They took keen advantage of the openings left by his initial defensive. Dregan took a slash across his cheek, a stab to his thigh, and a gash that lopped off a portion of his right ear; his first wounds of the day. He felt the heat from the blood of the wounds, but his adrenaline fueled body didn’t register the pain… yet.

  “That‘s perfect!” he exclaimed. He laughed wickedly and licked the blood that ran from his cheek onto his lips.

  Now that the introductions were out of the way, he launched his own offensive onrush. He feigned a stab to the Ghost Lord on his right and lunged instead, spinning with a backhanded attack towards his right, only to be parried himself. The four Ghost Lords fought as if they were one, attacking and defending in perfect cohesion. After only a few short minutes, Dregan had absorbed a cut on his left forearm, and his ribs had taken a nasty slash as well. Despite his minor injuries, he had managed to delve out some punishment of his own. All four Ghost Lords were bleeding freely from various wounds, but it wasn‘t enough. They were getting the better of him, and they knew it.

  Dregan had never been bested in a sword fight before, so his rage had taken completely over by then. He snarled like a beast, and using his brute strength, he charged forward and kneed one of the Ghost Lords in the stomach, which doubled him over. As the man spewed forth the contents of his last meal, Dregan drove his sword downward into the base of his skull. He ripped the sword away, and the man’s head came with it.

  Dregan pulled the head from his sword by its hair and threw it with all his might, cracking another Ghost Lord squarely in the face. The sword deity grunted in pain and made the deadly error of flinching. As he did so, Dregan stuck the Sword of Duncar through his eye, and a fountain of crimson painted a gruesome masterpiece upon his ornate Shadow Priest armor.

  As the second Ghost Lord sputtered and died, the other two launched themselves into a whirlwind of attacks. It was all Dregan could do to simply keep them at bay. His saber moved with a frenzied tenacity, but these two demons of the sword were always a step ahead of him. He felt almost like he was telegraphing his movements for all the effect they were having.

  He hadn’t realized it because he was so intently focused on the fray, but the remaining Ghost Lords had cunningly backed him into a corner of the hallway. He cursed himself for making such an elementary mistake, allowing his movements to be so expertly controlled. With his back pressed to the wall, Dregan struck out desperately trying to create separation from his opposition as well as his surroundings.

  His attempt to use his strength to bully his attacker to his immediate left proved to be a fruitless endeavor. His powerful swings were knocked aside so nonchalantly that he felt like a newly trained novice with a wooden sword being taught a valuable lesson by a bored instructor. He was reminded of his days as a youth spent in the practice yard at the Tower of Axion being taught a similar lesson by his old teacher. Master Armsman Uyn would thrash him without mercy if he grew too cocky. He also remembered how Arius would cheer him on, thinking that Dregan was the best swordsman alive.

  Back in reality, Dregan finally came to the conclusion that he couldn’t keep this up without irreparable consequences befalling him. These weren’t wooden swords he was dealing with, after all. It was time for something drastic. He reached out to his ubiquitous supply of Duncar magic and mentally prepared himself for the excruciating pain involved with the particular spell he was about to perform.

  Instantly his veins felt like they were coursing with acid. Every nerve ending he possessed felt like they were host to a thousand daggers stabbing into his soul all at once. Through this catastrophic pain, he still had to keep up with the brutal swordplay that was taking place. The only thing keeping him alive at this point were his instincts and perhaps luck. He had absorbed a lot of punishment while preparing the spell, and blood loss was becoming
a real concern. Its dizzying effects were already hampering his vision quite severely.

  Even though the agony of the spell made it feel like it took an eternity for it to complete itself, in actuality it was only a minute or two. Over the clash of swords came a terrible ripping sound. Worse for Dregan, there was a ripping sensation to go along with the noise. From his body stepped his Duncar Twin. An exact replica of himself, armed with a Sword of Duncar of its very own, his memories, fighting skills and magical adroitness. The proverbial playing field had been leveled.

  Ghost Lords were said to be known for their abilities to mask their emotions, but the shock that shown visibly on these men’s faces proved that even the most infallible personas could be taken aback.

  Dregan and his Duncar Twin shared mirror smirks with each other before pressing forward on the offensive. With his Twin’s help, Dregan quickly had the advantage. The Ghost Lord he was fighting was giving up ground rapidly and losing his composure by swinging wildly. Dregan had run out of patience. so he struck swiftly and brutally. He sidestepped a stab that was heading towards his collarbone, and he reached out and grabbed a hold of a panel of his foe’s armor, spinning the man around and opening his throat from ear to ear in one fell swoop. Dregan let go and the Ghost Lord fell face first like he was diving into the pool of his spilled life force that had begun collecting at their feet.

  Dregan looked over in time to see his Duncar counterpart separating his opponent’s sword hand from his arm. His Twin was enjoying similar results, albeit in a far more unhinged fashion. Once he had his opponent disarmed, both literally and figuratively, the Twin began chopping at the Ghost Lord like he was felling a tree for firewood. After a few dozen unruly aimed hacks, the last Ghost Lord was reduced to nothing more than a pile of misshapen limbs among his ruined armor.

  “Unnecessarily vicious, but it got the job done. Congratulations,” Dregan said as he walked over and clapped his Duncar Twin on the shoulder.

  As it was about to reply, Dregan proceeded to drive his blade through its stomach and out its back. He twisted his sword for good measure to make sure it was dead. It slumped to the ground, eyes still locked on his face as it drew its last breath.

  “Your assistance was most appreciated.”

  Dregan found it disconcerting to say the very least to kill a mirror image of himself, but the spell would have quickly drained his life force, feeding it to the Duncar Twin. Dregan couldn’t have the doppelganger taking his place and his glory. As he pulled the Sword of Duncar free, it hissed and smoked as the Twin’s blood ate away at the steel like a raging fire melted skin from bone.

  It was another distasteful but useful trait of the spell. Any damage done to the Twin couldn’t be inflicted without consequences to the attacker. Dregan wiped the blade clean on his deceased assistant and turned his attention to the remaining honor guard. The dozen or so remaining guards had backed themselves as far away from him as possible. The bravery they had displayed just moments ago had evaporated like water during a drought.

  “Saevo!” Dregan sheathed his sword, turning and walked back towards his Priests and generals.

  The slimy Blood Priest all but sprinted to obey. “Yes, my Lord?”

  “I’ve grown bored with my little sport. You may use your potion now. And do be quick about it. I‘d like to present the city to my Master before sunrise.”

  “It would be my pleasure, my Lord.” The dumpy little man giggled and wrung his hands in delight.

  From within his dark green robes the Priest produced a miniscule vial of a swirling blue concoction. He held it lovingly, his breathing growing more rapid as a manic gleam entered his small watery eyes.

  “Oh, do get a hold of yourself, Saevo. It’s just murdering a few guards, nothing to get aroused about.”

  The Blood Priest removed the stopper, took a few steps into the hallway, and said over his shoulder, “You might want to step around the corner, my lord. The backlash from the blast could be quite extensive.”

  “Nonsense. I will watch from here, you insipid little shit,” Dregan said. “Throw it. Now.”

  Saevo didn’t wait for further instruction. He chucked the vial into the middle of the compact group of guards and scuttled back just behind where Dregan stood waiting. The Blood Priest covered his ears and shut his eyes tightly. Dregan, on the other hand, held his ground without flinching, wondering how effective the potion would be.

  The guards all tried to scramble away, but their final attempt at self-preservation was for not. The vial landed, and sound ceased to exist. A silence that Dregan could only describe as deafening washed over the hallway, and then without warning, the ear shattering explosion that followed it was a million thunderclaps at once. A blinding white and golden flash of raw energy exploded, causing the ground to erupt around him. Dregan threw his arm over his eyes and conjured a magical shield to protect his face from the light and the intense heat that was bearing down on him.

  As he opened his eyes, Dregan first made sure all of his limbs were in their proper places. Seeing that he was indeed intact, he then surveyed the decimated hallway. It was completely unrecognizable. The brilliant marble flooring and the priceless tapestries that had lined the walls were reduced to ash and rubble. The remaining guards were nowhere to be seen. They had been vaporized, as Saevo had promised. Through the dense dust and smoke caused by the explosion, Dregan could just make out that the doors to the throne room were hanging precariously off their hinges. It was amazing they hadn’t been blown completely off.

  “Shall I knock and see if anyone is home, gentlemen?” Dregan asked as he made his way deeper into the corridor.

  He had to step carefully, as there was ample amounts of debris and wreckage strewn about. He produced a handkerchief from his gauntlet and used it to cover his mouth from the incessant dust that had been kicked up by the blast. When he finally reached the throne room doors, he casually tucked away the rag and knocked, which caused the doors to finally admit defeat and fall over.

  Dregan stuck his head into the lavishly decorated throne room. It was heinously decorated in his opinion. The purple and black that made up Tryss’ flag was all over the place. Banners of the Tryss serpent entwined upon a sword, which was Ortalis’ coat of arms were proudly hung all over the room. As he took in the distasteful décor, he caught his first glimpse of the royal family since their negotiations had failed a few months prior. Not surprisingly, they were alone.

  “Care to invite me in, your majesty?”

  Ortalis, the battle-hardened king, stood with his massive arms crossed in front of the Throne of Tryss, his great sword hanging from its scabbard at his side. He was a giant of a man, but he was definitely past his prime. His bald head was a canvas to at least a dozen battle scars, and his thick black beard was heavily flecked with gray. He still had the shoulders of a warrior, but his stomach bulged like that of a king. Behind him on the throne sat his weeping wife, clutching her two young sons. One of the boys was only a toddler.

  Ortalis addressed him in his deep and commanding voice, but Dregan wasn’t paying attention to the king. He was intently focused on the sons being sheltered by their mother. Both boys regarded Dregan with terrified looks and clung tighter to the queen. The age difference between them was about the same as he and Arius.

  Instantly memories from his childhood flooded his mind. Ortalis was still droning on about something, but Dregan was too lost in his past to notice what the monarch was saying.

  The two of them were only three years apart in age. Arius had followed him everywhere, his loyal shadow. They had been an inseparable duo growing up. Much like these two boys must be, mused Dregan. Do they swim together in the summer, or steal cakes from the kitchens like he and Arius had? They would be learning the sword together soon, just like he and Arius did under the tutelage of Master Uyn. He could hear Arius’ laughter when they would run off after being caught sneaking looks at the young ladies who were skinny-dipping in the Bay of Kings where the Tower of Axion resid
ed.

  How strange that he would have these memories now. Dregan needed to focus. He cleared his mind in time to catch the last part of Ortalis’ rant.

  “… your murderous band of sycophants may have taken my city, but mark my words, tyrant. You will pay for your crimes!”

  Just as Dregan was about to deliver his retort, the older of the two boys climbed down from his mother’s lap and ran to his father’s side. He looked defiantly at Dregan and said, “I won’t let you hurt my brother, or my mommy!”

  Something inside Dregan snapped. He heard Arius screaming, pleading for his help. “Brother, where have you gone? Brother? Help! Someone has killed father!” Darkness swallowed Dregan then.

  Out of the oblivion he had succumbed to, Dregan felt that someone was shaking him urgently. And then he remembered. Arius had needed him. He contently stroked Arius’ hair like he always did when his little brother needed reassuring.

  “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll protect you,” he muttered dazedly.

  But that wasn‘t Arius’ voice that he was hearing now.

  “My Lord? My Lord? You must wake up! Lord Rathe is entering the castle now.”

  Dregan opened his eyes to find himself sitting on the Throne of Tryss. Saevo was there trying to wake him up. He pushed the Blood Priest harshly away from him. He looked around not understanding where all the blood had come from. There was so much blood, it didn’t make any sense.

  Ortalis was dead at his feet where Dregan had last seen him. His throat had been ripped out by some kind of beast, it appeared. To his right he could see the queen’s body. Her head had been caved in by someone’s boot.

  Where are the children?

  Dregan looked wildly around trying to spot Ortalis’ sons. There by the throne room doors he spotted two small forms lying in a pool of blood. Both boys had been decapitated.

  He stroked both boys’ hair as their heads lay in his lap, repeating over and over, “It’s ok, Arius. I’ll protect you.”