The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian

by Michael R. Miller

  Kidrian did not break eye contact as his executioner approached. “I do not blame you,” he said. “It was an honour to fight; to try. And better by your hand, Lord, than His.”

  A distant part of Dukoona, the minute part that Rectar had not grasped, looked on in horror as his body drew up before Kidrian. This was no fitting end for his most loyal spectre, the leader of his Trusted. Dukoona felt his sword arm rise, readying the killing blow.

  No, he thought. He had to fight. He must resist until the bitter end.

  Dukoona pushed against Rectar’s will with everything he had. It was enough to nudge his arm off course as it descended, slicing through Kidrian’s arm instead of cutting across his chest.

  Kidrian shrieked as his limb fell wetly to the floor. Smoke billowed from the wound. Dukoona himself felt both grief for his friend and frustration at not fulfilling the burning command that Rectar had placed in his mind. Yet no matter how much he fought it, his arm rose again for the kill. He ought not to have tried to stop the inevitable. Kidrian would die now in agony. He deserved better. Hating himself, Dukoona gave up.

  At that moment, Rectar turned sharply around. From the darkness, a distant roaring reached Dukoona’s ears. As it increased in volume, the grip Rectar had on Dukoona’s mind lessened. Rectar took a step towards the noise, and Dukoona felt a great deal of his Master’s presence leave him. Without pausing to consider the matter, Dukoona attempted to retake control of his body. The feeling was nothing like he’d felt before. He strained, his mind searing in pain as he fought against Rectar, but his arm slowed and stopped, just above Kidrian’s exposed neck.

  He hardly believed it. Rectar’s presence was still very much in his mind, a vast mountain to overcome. And Rectar himself was standing only feet away. It was the closest Dukoona had ever been to his Master. Could he kill him? The wild thought might be futile, but it gave him a burst of hope. Even if he failed, so what? What could happen now? How could things possibly get any worse?

  The roars persisted and Rectar’s grip loosened further.

  Dukoona had to try.

  He gathered the last remnants of his strength and pushed back against the lingering presence of his Master. His body lunged forwards and he swiped at Rectar’s back. The dark blade swished and would have caught the crimson cloak, but Rectar had vanished. In the same moment, his Master’s presence left him entirely. Dukoona regained full control.

  He darted to Kidrian’s side, though there was nothing he could do to heal such a wound. He knelt, cradling Kidrian in his arms.

  “I am ashamed,” he said.

  “Never give in,” Kidrian said. “If we die, we die free, yes?” The shadows on his flesh were thinning and parting, fleeing like steam through an open window, leaving his bones bare.

  “We’ll die free,” Dukoona said. He didn’t know what else to say.

  Kidrian smiled weakly, and just as the light in his eyes looked to flicker and die, he gasped and sprung up from Dukoona’s cradling arms. Kidrian’s shadows thickened and formed, the wound by his shoulder closed though his arm remained missing. Yet before Dukoona could react, another great crack sounded and Kidrian vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “Kidrian?” Dukoona called. “Kidrian?”

  But it was no use shouting. No use in hoping. He sunk back down, letting his blade turn to wisps of shadow, and held his head in both hands. It was times like these that he wished he could weep like the other races could; wished for some way to release the fear, and guilt, and pain welling inside of him. Nonetheless, he gave it a go, resulting in shortened, painful, dry sobs. His hands shook so badly that he feared he’d lost all control of them.

  He regained himself after a time, and found it strange that Rectar had left him for so long. What had happened? What would cause Rectar to lose his grip? To Dukoona’s knowledge, nothing could. And he was under no illusion. He’d only gained back partial control because Rectar’s hold over him had weakened. Something else must have taken his power. Yet the only living things down here were his Master’s new servants. Could they require such an exertion of Rectar to control? The thought of that was frightening.

  The distant roaring still sounded, although fainter than before. Dukoona looked through the gloom in the direction that it came from. Ahead, a great opal-shaped pool shimmered, like a towering window onto an ocean of bubbling blue blood. Black silhouettes moved against the blue tear in the world, with pairs of red eyes bobbing like fat angry fireflies.

  When at last the roaring ceased, the light in the cavern shifted. The blue pool in the distance vanished, the red eyes snuffed out. Flames encircled Dukoona, but he’d grown accustomed to this frequent trick. Even Rectar had his routine. So, it came as no surprise when the crimson cloaked figure returned.

  ‘Kneel,’ Rectar commanded, but there was no need. Dukoona remained on his knees, but the command compelled him to straighten his back and face his Master directly. Rectar stepped through the ring of fire, which extinguished at his touch, drew out his sword and pointed it down. Its blade reminded Dukoona of the starium stone of Aurisha, dull and grainy and gold.

  “I’ll ask again. Do you wish for death?”

  I won’t say it. I won’t ask you for it.

  The crimson hood tilted to one side. “Well?”

  Dukoona hesitated, confused. Can he not hear my thoughts? If he is in my mind, he can; but until that time I am free, free to think at least. Dukoona had always assumed his Master’s power over him was complete. But then he had not been in such close proximity to Rectar since the time when he had been summoned to this world. Perhaps he had assumed wrong.

  “My answer remains the same,” Dukoona said.

  Beneath the hood, Rectar’s red eyes flashed. “Your endurance is pleasing. Looking back, I ought to have stripped some of your free will when I brought you and your kind to this world: a mistake I shall not repeat.”

  “Who are you, Rectar?” Dukoona had asked that question many times when he’d first been summoned. This time he desired more than a name.

  “I am Rectar, God of the Shadow. One of three.” And to Dukoona’s surprise, Rectar lowered his hood. His face was both ordinary, and yet distinctly alien. His skin was too smooth to be natural; his cheeks pinched too tightly; the irises on his eyes widened and closed hastily, as though adjusting to an ever-changing light. Dark blond hair fell past his shoulders, a mark of the race he belonged to.

  “This vessel had the strength to contain me,” Rectar said. He raised a stark white hand as though to examine it and his eyes narrowed in disappointment.

  “Who was he? The dragon whose body you use.”

  “Kroener was his name. Unlike you, he was a good listener.”

  ‘He obeyed my voice.’

  Dukoona winced as Rectar’s voice burned in his mind. Thankfully, as quickly as Rectar entered his mind, he was gone.

  “I would have preferred the other one,” Rectar said. “Had I taken his body, I would have had access to two Blades. Yet the young prince was strong in will and strong with the Others. Kroener was the more malleable. My deception was upsetting for him, at the end. What’s left of him whimpers still, even to this day.” There was no pity in Rectar’s life. No emotion at all. Not even a sick pleasure. “Power in this world is crude but potent when channelled correctly. The Others helped their servants craft such fine weapons to harness it. I wonder if they regret it?”

  “What do you speak of?”

  Rectar cocked his head, ignoring the question. His shifting red eyes looked Dukoona up and down. “Such a shame, you could have been so much more. Alas, it is always the way with lesser beings. You lack the focus, the patience, the foresight. Lesser beings count time in years, whereas I and my kind count it in millennia. I wonder if the dragons have disappointed the Others as you have done me. But they are mine now. I have made the perfect servants. And all worlds will fall to them.” To
Dukoona’s shock, Rectar knelt to face him. He cupped Dukoona’s chin in one of his freezing white hands. “Your strength is admirable nonetheless.”

  “Admirable?” Dukoona struggled to speak with his Master’s hand around his jaw. “I destroyed your armies.”

  “You did, though the demons were measly creatures. All I could summon and control once the power of this Blade had diminished. The Guardian delayed me. He played for as much time as he could. If I had been able to kill their infant king—” Rectar trailed off in a throaty growl. For once he seemed frustrated.

  Dukoona took heart in these words. His Master had failed before then. Perhaps there was hope?

  “The Guardian has their King by his side now,” he said. “If you could not kill Darnuir as a child, how will you face them both? Darnuir will stop you.”

  “Will he?” Rectar said, locking eyes with him. “Let’s discover why you feel so strongly about that.” And then followed the lancing pain as Rectar pierced his mind. Dukoona had no strength to even flee as his Master raked through his memories, each one replayed at speed across his mind’s eye. It wasn’t long before he was reliving that night when he’d met Darnuir atop the Royal Tower. He relived the nerves, the excitement, the fear that Rectar would surely see; and the faint relief, the desperate hope that this young dragon might have listened to him. As he lay writhing on the terrace from Rectar’s summons, he looked up at Darnuir. ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked. The King’s face was struck with worry, but he did not answer. Dukoona reached up and pulled Darnuir closer. ‘We don’t have to be enemies,’ he said.

  His free hand had found a shadow and he melded away, and as he did so, so did the memory, and the presence of Rectar from his mind. Dukoona returned to the present with a gasp, back in control of himself.

  Rectar withdrew his hand and got to his feet, his hood drawing up of its own accord.

  “You may still have a use before the end.”

  Dukoona didn’t wish to know what use that would be. For now, he was lifted back off his feet and bound by invisible chords. Fresh roaring echoed from the blackness and Rectar moved off to deal with it, morphing into his shapeless form once more. Dukoona was left hanging helpless in the dark of Kar’drun, with only the cries of Rectar’s new servants to break his thoughts.

  Chapter 2

  THE ADDICTED KING

  “Mind addled, soul torn. Body aged, blackened and worn. Resist, resist, resist the blue, else horrors and woe will find you.”

  — Ancient fairy verse

  Darnuir – Aurisha – The Royal Tower

  STEEL CHAINS BIT at his arms. Hot blood ran from the chaffing points, and he heard the tap, tap, tap, as droplets hit the floor. He shouldn’t squirm, but his hands couldn’t help but struggle to reach his sword. People were approaching, yet his vision was so clouded it was hard to tell how many. At least three people, he thought. Maybe four. One brought a cloth to dab at his brow and he felt cold water run down his face. His eyes closed against the water and, sighing from the momentary relief, drifted away from the world.

  Sleep enveloped him like a hot bath. He was safe, and whole and calm; not in pain from his hunger. He was at peace.

  Then the steel chains turned into snakes.

  Their white fangs flensed his flesh. When he screamed his defiance, the snakes only turned their baleful eyes at him and hissed. Red tongues and scarlet eyes; they mocked Darnuir. Him of all people. Did they plan to make a meal out of the Dragon King? Darnuir began to laugh instead. These snakes were worms compared to him.

  As he laughed, the room around him came into focus. It was Castallan’s throne room. He was sure of it because a segment of the wall had been blasted away, and blue light shone from the Cascade Sink. Magic welled up behind the door in his mind. Powerful, delicious magic.

  No, no, I mustn’t use it.

  The red snakes began to drink his blood, their scaly bellies swelling fit to burst. So Darnuir relented; he had no choice.

  He let the door burst open, filling him from head to toe with Cascade energy. He felt unstoppable and his laughter at the snakes turned to a roar. Deep, guttural, bestial. He saw what remained of his skin turn scaly and red, felt the heat rise in his throat, and saw the fear engulf the little snakes as they tried to slither away.

  He crushed them all under his claw, leaving a mess of blood and cracked stone. The throne room became constricting, as his growing wings scraped against the ceiling. Just as he thought about making for the broken wall to escape, the Cascade Sink turned from blue to yellow and shone brighter than the sun. Darnuir groaned, worried that the light would blind him. But it didn’t. Somehow it burned brighter and still his eyes remained unharmed. Yellow deepened to gold and amber, and Darnuir heard a voice in his mind. Such a quiet voice. An echo of a whisper uttered long ago.

  ‘Three Blades were given.’

  Darnuir dug his talons into the stone beneath and dragged himself towards the light. Just before he reached it, pain seared his eyes. He rammed them shut. Something burned them and he was desperate to rub them, tear them out. But his arms were held in place.

  “Hold him. Prefect Lira is on her way.”

  Red snakes, red eyes, what was it Dukoona told me? Darnuir’s mind raced for the answer.

  His eyes opened and he saw he was back in his chambers. There were no snakes. No light. Only two young Praetorians and Lira before him, holding a solitary candle. She stood taller than he recalled, her grey eyes hard and cold. Her mouth moved, as she spoke to the Praetorians, but Darnuir couldn’t make out her words. The Praetorian handed her another cloth and she brought it over his face, dabbing gently at his burning brow.

  His thoughts kept spinning. Red snakes, red eyes. Dukoona warned him. Dragons taken to Kar’drun.

  Lira finished her work and stepped away. Darnuir wanted to hear what she was saying but couldn’t. His ears rang, and he shook his head repeatedly, as though water was trapped between them.

  Dragons twisted like Castallan’s men. So many. Coming. We must prepare.

  Lira was at the door now, but this time he caught a smattering of words.

  “His turns don’t last nearly as long, Prefect.”

  “Then we must hope he’ll return to us soon,” she said. “Dranus be damned, but I can’t make Blaine do a thing on my own.” She looked to Darnuir again. “You better feed him today,” she added.

  Darnuir tried to say her name but the word died in his dusty throat.

  “He hates it when we use the tube, Prefect.”

  “It’s all we can do,” said Lira. “And give him as much water as you can. We need him back.” She turned away. She was about to leave.

  “Lira,” he gasped. In an instant, she was back at his side, her face silhouetted in the weak candlelight. “Lira,” he wheezed again. She took his hand, her own was warm against his cold, clammy skin.

  “What is it?”

  “They are coming,” Darnuir said. “Dukoona warned. Dragons. Stronger than us. Must prepare… must prepare.”

  She smiled weakly. “Thank you, Darnuir. I shall try my best. You must rest now, if you can.”

  Darnuir nodded, unable to say anything more. Lira patted his hand before leaving with the other Praetorians. The door closed. He was left alone, head drooping to one side. Drool dangled from his mouth, and he hadn’t the wit to spit it away. Then his eyes closed again, this time to a merciful, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 3

  THE PREFECT

  “I’m going to write it down. Everything that happened.”

  — Author Unknown

  Lira – Aurisha – The Royal Tower

  LIRA CLOSED THE door to the king’s bedchambers, shut her eyes, and blew out her cheeks with a heavy breath. She allowed herself this moment before straightening. The muscles in her back and shoulders somehow tightened further and fought her attempts to move them
. Her eye fell upon the open crate nearby. Feeding tubes. Such a horrible act they’d been forced to adopt. And fresh steel chains should Darnuir break another set. The Praetorians who had attended Darnuir with her took up positions on either side of the door. They would all be needed to contain him if he took a turn for the worse. Three more awaited her by the stairs.

  “The King improves,” she told them. The Praetorians nodded silently. Lira wondered whether any of them ever believed her. “We must keep working hard for him. There is still much to do if we are to face this new threat.” The Praetorians continued to nod. She resisted biting her lip. She wasn’t the most rousing speechmaker. She’d opted for a no nonsense, blunt and to the point approach in dealing with matters these last two months. A nagging part of her knew that if she had even half the charisma of Bacchus, she’d have gotten more done.

  A young boy emerged from the stairs, carrying a fresh jug of water for Darnuir. Seeing the very young dragons always knotted her stomach. It wasn’t fair to bring them on campaigns with the legions, they were children still. The boy brought the water to the guards by the door, then saluted Lira. She looked him up and down, from his fraying breeches to his overgrown, unkempt hair. Who even looked after these young boys? Their mothers weren’t here with them. They were all stuck in the camps outside Brevia, she supposed, perhaps with her own mother as well.

  Lira offered the boy a smile in return. “You’re not even breathless. You could make a fine outrunner one day. Make sure the King drinks plenty,” she added to the Praetorians by the door. “And fetch more if needed. I’ll return at nightfall.” She made for the stairs leading down the Royal Tower, the boy and her three attending Praetorians following in her wake.

  Near the bottom of the tower, Lira entered the throne room. She and the Praetorians had taken it as their main base of operations, the better to represent Darnuir in his absence. The blocky starium throne lay unoccupied, its steps leading down to the largest tables they had found intact within the upper levels of the city. Stacks of parchment sat beside open maps of eastern Tenalp, and more detailed sketches of Aurisha and its immediate environment. In the middle of the room was an iron plinth, holding up the scrying orb that had been salvaged and brought from the Bastion. Despite going through the trouble of brining the communications device, it had barely been used. Presently, the orb’s misty innards were white and calm.