by Duncan Lay
‘I cannot detect a lie either,’ he admitted.
‘Show us the village,’ Merren said tiredly.
‘But Merren—!’ Martil began hotly.
‘We cannot fail here. If these Derthals are marked for death anyway, then we must do as he says, if it is to win over the High Chief—’
‘But—’
‘Martil, you are my Champion, and you will fight when I order it,’ she snapped.
Martil slammed the Dragon Sword into its sheath, seething. ‘I will see this village,’ he told Rath.
‘We all will,’ Merren said firmly.
Rath nodded. ‘Leave the horses here. You will be seen otherwise.’
‘Quiller, you and Barrett stay here with Karia,’ Martil suggested. ‘We’re only going to look.’
So Merren, Martil, Jaret and Wilsen followed Rath along the trail, the four humans stumbling and tripping and showing their clumsiness with every pace, while the Derthals glided from cover to cover, moving silently and with grace.
‘How do you want us to help? We only have three warriors and you have many,’ Martil whispered.
‘You will ride in along the trail, making as much noise as possible—even more than the noise you make now,’ Rath said and gestured. ‘As soon as you are in sight, attack any Derthal you see. The rest will run—and will run straight onto the spears of my warriors. None will escape that way.’
Martil gritted his teeth to stop himself from saying anything. It was a good plan. Too good. It reminded him of something the Berellians would do.
‘Where is the village?’ Merren whispered.
‘Look here.’ Rath led them off the trail, then used a short stick to part the leaves of a bush.
Martil peered through, to see a collection of about a dozen huts in a clearing. Derthals were in sight, although there were obviously more inside the rough huts. Huts was probably too good a word for them—they were low, crude shelters of sticks and leaves. Not even a Derthal could stand up in one. But Martil was not thinking so much about the huts. He was more concerned about the fact every single Derthal in sight was either a woman or a child. Not one warrior.
‘I have seen enough, we need to go back,’ Martil mouthed.
He stalked back up the trail, feeling a burning anger inside.
‘You see the way to do it? The huts all face the trail—make as much noise as possible and the traitors will all run,’ Rath said with relish. ‘We shall kill them all—eventually.’
‘We are leaving. We will not do this,’ Martil told him coldly, his stomach roiling with disgust.
‘What?’ Rath spat. ‘Do you not want our help?’
‘Of course we do!’ Merren blazed.
‘Didn’t you see that little village? It’s full of women and children! I will fight to save your life, my Queen, but I will not murder for you!’
‘But the High Chief wants to test us!’ Barrett snarled. ‘It is a test we cannot fail! I know you don’t trust me when I say Rath is not lying but you cannot doubt Quiller! He also said it—Rath speaks the truth, so this is the only way to win the Derthals’ help! Have you forgotten what waits for us back in Norstalos? There’s a huge army—three huge armies—ready to kill our people! Without the Derthals we are lost!’
‘I don’t care! I won’t do it! Finally my dreams are free of the horrors of Bellic! I won’t replace them with fresh nightmares!’
Merren grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the others.
‘Martil, I know what I am asking. The thought revolts me. If Barrett and Quiller were not telling me Rath speaks the truth, I would walk away. Aroaril knows I want to walk away as it is. But my country’s survival, maybe even the world’s survival, rests on this! Don’t you understand? The forces of Zorva will not stop at Norstalos! All of those people, all of those deaths, will be on my conscience! Against them are a handful of Derthals, who are marked for death anyway! They are all traitors, probably their warriors are all out hunting for us! Martil, I cannot go back to Norstalos and tell all those men and women and children back there that I failed them, that they are going to die! Sometimes, a small evil has to be done for the greater good. If the end result is our victory, then their sacrifice will be worth it.’
She was almost pleading with him now. If she had not said she felt nothing for him, if she had told him the truth, would he do this for her now out of love, not obedience? But it was too late to take back her earlier words. She had been horrified to see the village herself; as soon as she understood what Rath wanted, she had almost thrown up. If Quiller and Barrett had not said the Derthal was speaking the truth…While her heart screamed that she could not do this, her head was saying something more powerful. A people, a world, depended on her. She could not let them down. And still the voice of her father came back at her. A king would do anything to protect his kingdom. Do not be weak. Do not let your heart rule you. Sometimes you must grasp the nettle. The end justifies the means.
‘Martil, surely you see we have no choice here. To win over the Derthals I was prepared to offer them land, hope. They want to see we are willing to keep our bargain. We must seal this pact with blood. It is the only way to save the world.’
Martil shook his head. ‘I don’t care about the world,’ he said simply. ‘I know this is wrong. And I will not slaughter innocent victims to save others. If I learned one thing from Bellic, it is that there is no small evil—it is all the same. I will fight the Berellians, Gello and the Tenochs. I will defend Norstalos to the last drop of my blood but I will not do this. Never.’
‘Perhaps your other warriors are more loyal,’ Rath said coldly. ‘I only need two or three for the plan to work. Ignore this fool. Help me kill this village and I will take you straight to the High Chief! I will tell him myself what you did. If you want our help, you need to pass a test. And time is running out.’
Desperately Merren looked at Quiller, who merely nodded sadly. Merren turned away, trying to think. Despite all she had told Martil, she found his words more believable than her own. But even though everything within her told her to refuse Rath, her brain hammered at her the thought that she could not let her people down. She had to do whatever it took to save them. And if Quiller and Barrett said this Derthal spoke the truth, had been telling the truth since they met him, then she really had no choice.
‘Jaret, Wilsen,’ she began heavily.
‘Don’t do this, my Queen,’ Martil almost begged. ‘Because I cannot stand by and watch murder done. I will stand with those Derthals against you.’
‘What?’ Rath growled.
Martil drew the Dragon Sword. ‘You heard me. The only way to that village is through me, goblin.’
Rath’s face twisted in fury as Merren and the others gasped in shock and horror at Martil’s words.
‘Da-ad! You said the G-word!’ Karia whispered.
‘So you will not do this?’ Rath spat.
‘I will not kill those women and children for you, for anyone,’ Martil declared. ‘And I’ll cut down every one of your goblins that tries to do so.’
Rath laughed harshly. ‘You may try. What of you, Queen of the Friny? Will you do as I ask?’
Merren sighed. ‘No. I am sorry. You will have to tell the High Chief that we failed his test. But I still believe he will want to hear us out. What we have to say to him is of vital importance to us both.’
Rath spat. ‘You will not speak to the High Chief. He does not need to hear anything you say. I will not guide you to him.’
‘Then we shall find him ourselves,’ Barrett declared.
‘No,’ Rath disagreed, backing away. ‘You will find only death.’
Before Martil could stop him, he darted into the trees.
‘He’s gone to get his warriors—Barrett, can you use any of these trees to get us out of here?’ Merren demanded. Inside she had turned ice cold at the thought they had managed only to win the enmity of a senior Derthal chief, but her first instinct was to get away safely.
‘There is
no oak I can see—perhaps if we went further in…’ Barrett suggested.
‘Go further in and you’ll end up with a spear in your gullet,’ Martil snapped. ‘We can outrun them. They won’t be able to keep pace with the horses.’
‘Too late!’ Quiller pointed behind them, to where a dozen Derthal warriors had appeared to block their retreat. From the wood the rest of them slowly appeared, led by Rath, who now carried a wickedly sharp spear.
‘The Dragon Sword will open us a path through the ones behind—Barrett, can you hold the ones in the wood—do your thing with the plants?’ Martil cried.
Barrett closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, eyes wide in panic.
‘There is something wrong with the magic! I cannot reach for it…’
‘Never mind! Just stay close to me!’ Martil growled, swinging onto his horse. He guessed the Derthals would try to sink their spears into Tomon first, bring the riders down to their level. But Tomon, and he, knew how to fight that. He was just disappointed he did not have time to kill that Rath.
‘Death!’ he roared, pointing the Dragon Sword at the Derthals blocking their escape, then prepared to kick Tomon into a gallop.
But before he could do anything, a huge shape dropped from the sky.
‘Dragon!’ Karia screamed with a mixture of delight and fear.
Martil felt his jaw sag open as the massive creature flared enormous wings, stopping an impossible dive in a ridiculously short space. A long tail sent half the Derthals flying, then its bellow of challenge sent the rest running.
A dragon!
Martil had never thought he would see one. Thanks to Karia, he had read more sagas about them than he cared to remember, but the stories did not do them justice.
This dragon was golden in colour, but not the muddy yellow of gold coins. Instead, its scales rippled and shimmered, seemingly changing colour every heartbeat, a dazzling array of shades of gold. Its neck was long, its head regal, its wings wide, its legs graceful and strong, its tail powerful. Astride its back sat a strange-looking man.
Martil could not tear his eyes from the sight.
If as many as one in one hundred people saw a dragon in their lifetime, that was unusual. It seemed to be looking at him and, as it did so, the hilt of the Dragon Sword burned cold, then pleasantly warm and the dragon on it flashed. Almost of its own volition, it swung around to Martil’s right.
Automatically, his head followed—just in time. Taking advantage of his distraction, Rath had crept closer and now leaped at him, that wicked spear drawn back, ready for the killing thrust. If the Sword had not moved, Martil might have died—but as it was, he had time to slice the head off Rath’s spear, then reverse the blade and behead the Derthal.
Rath’s corpse, fountaining blood, collapsed on itself and, with that, the last of Rath’s warriors ran, throwing down their spears.
‘What in Aroaril’s name is going on?’ Quiller spoke for them all as they stared at the dragon.
‘I think we are going to find out,’ Merren said, as the rider stepped onto the dragon’s foreleg and was lowered to the ground, where he walked over to the bewildered party, and bowed.
‘I am Havell. And I seek the wielder of the Dragon Sword,’ he called.
‘You’re an elf!’ Karia exclaimed.
Havell shook his head. ‘I am of a race of men called Elfarans, who serve the dragons. I do not know this word, “elf”. Where is the wielder of the Dragon Sword?’
Martil urged Tomon forwards. ‘I am the wielder of the Dragon Sword,’ he replied. ‘We thank you for your help.’
Havell bowed again. ‘You must come with me now. The dragons are dying. It is the time of the Dragon Sword, and we have need of it on Dragonara Isle. Without it, all the magic will be gone and all life with it.’
Martil turned to Merren and saw his own shock and confusion mirrored on her face.
‘Does this mean I’m going to get a ride on a dragon?’ Karia asked excitedly.
25
Martil had heard stories about the elves, or Elfarans, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, how they were not a different race at all, but a nation of men who had been permanently changed by the magic, until they resembled something other than men. Seeing Havell now, he could believe it. Havell was average height, although with a slimmer build than Martil, but it was on his face that the greatest changes had been wrought. It looked as though his face had been stretched out like that of the dragon behind him—his chin was long, his cheekbones high, his eyes almond-shaped, his ears swept back and elongated.
‘He cannot go to Dragonara Isle! He is needed here!’ Merren gasped. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It is the destiny of the Dragon Sword wielder. The Sword was given to the Norstaline people in the full knowledge that one day the dragons would require a service in return. Surely your legends tell you of this?’
Martil looked at Merren, who looked at Barrett, who looked blank.
‘No matter,’ Havell said impatiently. ‘The dragons need the Sword, and its wielder, now.’
‘What for? And for how long?’ Martil demanded, a moment before Merren.
Havell stared at him. ‘Isn’t it obvious? The dragons are dying. In order to secure their rebirth, and the rebirth of the magic, the Dragon Sword must be used to pierce the Dragon Egg, before sunrise of the day after the last dragon dies. As soon as this solemn duty has been performed, the wielder can return, with the eternal thanks of the dragons, and the safety of the world ensured.’
There was a horrible silence while everyone looked at each other disbelievingly before realising Havell had actually said those words.
‘The rebirth of the magic? The end of the world? What are you talking about? How can this be possible?’ Merren demanded, her head whirling. Could nothing ever be simple?
‘Do we have the time to go through this now?’ Havell asked impatiently.
‘You want to take away the Dragon Sword, and its wielder, at a time when our need for them is at its greatest! You talk of the end of the world and the rebirth of magic! I think we deserve an explanation!’
‘It is simple. Our need is greater,’ Havell said. ‘All things must die, and be reborn. The power of magic comes from the circle of life, therefore it, and the dragons, must be part of this circle of life. They are dying and must be reborn, in order for the magic to continue.’
‘Simple for you, perhaps!’ Merren protested. This was all too much. First they had lost their chance to gain the support of the Derthals, then they had been nearly killed—and now a dragon wanted to take Martil and the Dragon Sword! She already felt sick inside, for thinking what she had nearly done at Rath’s behest. It was a shame that would burn inside her for as long as she lived, but she had to put it aside and try to find some sense in this. ‘Start at the beginning. How can there be an end to the magic?’
Havell’s face showed a flicker of irritation. ‘Ask your wizard there. Magic is subject to exactly the same strictures as all life. You cannot have anything, even something as wise and powerful as a dragon, living outside the laws of nature. It could destroy the very fabric of this world!’
‘But why now?
Havell threw up his hands. ‘It is not for me to determine when the magic must die, and be reborn. All I can do is tell you it is happening! Believe me, I would not choose this moment for the magic to die. If I had my way, everything would go on as before. But it is not my choice and we have to follow the path the dragons have laid out—or see the world end.’
‘Barrett, is he telling the truth? Could this really happen?’ Merren asked. She was clutching on to the faint hope that this Elfaran, or whatever, was mistaken, or lying, although everything in Norstalos’s history and lore said that elves were never wrong, and never lied.
Barrett felt every eye turn to him and licked his lips nervously. ‘My Queen, he could be right. There are some things that wizards learn—’
‘For Aroaril’s sake, stop being so bloody mysteri
ous and just tell us!’ Merren roared.
Barrett opened his mouth in surprise, caught sight of the look on Merren’s face and decided now was not the time to have a debate about the arcane secrets of his order.
‘Every young apprentice, upon gaining the First Circle, is told how the dragons guard and protect the magic. But those of us who have attained the higher Circles are told the full story, how the magic flows through the dragons. If the dragons were to die, then…well, I could not see how the magic could continue. And Havell is right. Nothing can exist outside the laws of this world, which say that everything is born, uses magic as it lives and grows, then dies, to release the magic back into the world. It follows that even dragons must die.’
‘But why now? Isn’t there enough happening?’ she cried. ‘Now you’re saying we must choose between saving a country and saving the world? What does Martil have to do now?’
Havell coughed a little. ‘Well, I make it sound dramatic, that all life on the world will end, but that is only so you understand the gravity of the situation. I do not ask for the Dragon Sword wielder lightly. For the Dragon Sword wielder, it will be a simple, short duty; no one will feel anything, no one will know anything, but the rebirth of the dragons, and through them the magic, will have been achieved. All for the work of but a few moments. Then the wielder and his companions can return and life can go on as before.’
‘So when will it be? How long before he can return?’ Merren asked, aghast.
Havell shrugged. ‘It is hard to say. This is not something that has happened before. The dragons knew it was coming, of course, because they planned for it with the Sword and Egg. The first dragon has died, which has triggered my coming here. It could be months, or even a year before the last one dies. But we are talking about the survival of the world. It is not something you want to leave until the last moment. The wielder, and as many of his friends as a dragon can carry, will dwell on Dragonara Isle until he is needed to perform this vital duty. If it is not done by sunrise on the day after the last dragon dies, the sun will never rise again.’