Lira gently pushed through until she gained a view of what the everyone was looking at; a pile of crates before the wall and the man who stood atop it. The Preacher. He was tall, and wiry, in a plain Brevian uniform over mail. Unremarkable in truth, although the audience was enraptured. With sweeping arms, he held court with as much ease as Bacchus might.
“More of our lads getting beaten up every night, but we can give back just as good, can’t we?”
A few ayes and grunts of agreement sounded.
“Safety in numbers. Move in groups of ten or more. These light spouting dragons is cowards in the end, and won’t try it if they think they’ll have a real fight on their hands. They want us outta the city, tossed out inna’ the cold. If I recall, we helped take this city back, didn’t we boys?”
“Aye,” came another appreciative rumble.
“And ladies,” The Preacher added, offering a blown kiss to a woman near the front of the crowd. “Fairies too, though I don’t see any o’ them here.” He raised his hand as though blocking the sun and peered mockingly around. “Lots of folks took part, is me point on all this. So why are we to bugger off into the cold and danger while they stay behind nice big walls?”
It was then he caught sight of Lira and smiled broadly like a contented cat.
Her heart hammered, and her hand flew to her sword.
“Annnnd would ya look right here. Islanders have come ta see me humble show.” The man gave an exaggerated bow. “Well, they’ll know a thing or two at seeing light shining in unusual places. Tell me, sir,” he directed his appeal to Grigayne, “when the dragons came back down from that mystical-magical-better-than-your-first-time mountain, did you too feel a godly finger tickling yer arsehole?” The crowd bellowed. Some turned to await Grigayne’s answer but many were too consumed in mirth to do anything more than maintain their breathing.
The Preacher signalled for silence. “Friends, I jest, but the matter is entirely serious. Now, there has been talk of stealing our friends’ ships and buggering off ourselves. But I think that’s ill-mannered talk. Humans is humans. Be welcoming to our salty cousins and we’ll be better off for it. Strength in numbers, I says. Gotta show we ain’t afraid.”
He clapped his hands and, a moment later, a shield was passed up to him from below. A large, rectangular shield with the painted emblem of the Guardians on it.
Lira tensed. Was it the shield of the very dragon who’d turned up dead?
“Ooo it’s heavy,” The Preacher said. “Quite pretty I s’ppose. Might look quite nice up on the wall. Me dashing assistant here is going to help me paint it.”
A broom was handed to The Preacher, followed by the thud of a bucket. The Preacher lowered the broom down, dipping into whatever the contents were below. Lira doubted it was paint. As The Preacher began to work, it became all too clear what it was. Taking shape upon the wall was a larger imitation of the sword cutting through a spiralling sun, smeared in a soft brown gloop. Bits of it slid down the wall and the front rows recoiled.
Lira spun, grabbed Raymond and Damien both by the arms and edged back through the throng of soldiers. She’d seen enough.
Just as they got free of the crowd, a roar of laughter erupted. The Preacher must have finished his art. She closed her eyes, buried her face into her hands. This would surely get back to Blaine; there was no way something on this scale could be kept from him.
“What are we going to do?” Raymond asked.
She had no answer.
Grigayne and his men emerged from the crowds too, looking grim-faced.
“It’s like he’s asking for a sword through the guts,” Grigayne said.
Another bout of raucous laughter filled the air.
“Though he’s little more than a comic. Maybe Blaine will ignore it,” Grigayne said.
Damien was frowning so hard his brows had become one. “He might be a fool, but he’s a fool that provokes. The Light Bearers will hear of this, Prefect.”
“So we’ll deliver it first,” Lira told him. “It’s all we can do to get ahead of this. Go to Blaine at once, Damien. Tell him that I wish to meet tonight and never mind the lateness of the hour. Keep the details to yourself if you can. I’d rather he didn’t turn up already in a fury. We have to come to some solution on this.”
“At once,” Damien said. He bent to unstrap his boots, the better to run but she threw out a hand.
“Wait, if you run barefoot through the streets they’ll know you’re a dragon.”
Damien pursed his lips but retied the straps that he’d just loosened.
“I’m sorry, Damien. I know you’re in pain.”
“No more than I can handle.” He spoke proudly but she saw him wince and clench his jaw as he took off at a gentle pace to mimic a human.
Upon returning to the Royal Tower, Lira decided out of habit to check upon Darnuir. Muscle memory brought her to his room before her overtired body had registered the trip. There she stood, fixated on the door. Darnuir was on the other side, still recovering. Maybe she had been too critical of him before. From the outside in, the job looked easy. But that was because he was Darnuir, with the blood right and the Blade. She’d had to fight for every ounce of respect and had barely earned any. It wasn’t right. Still, he had to deal with Blaine, with Arkus, with all of it; it was little wonder he’d turned to magic. She understood that better now. What other release did he have?
“Are you well, Prefect?” It was Harra, her face full of concern.
“I’m fine…”
“Do you wish to see the King?”
“Is he awake?”
“He’s sleeping for now,” Harra said. “Has been since I took over the watch.”
“I’ll sit with him for a time,” Lira said. She wasn’t sure why. Solidarity, perhaps. Harra gave her another concerned look then stepped aside.
Lira entered and found two Praetorians tending to Darnuir, gently mopping his brow and some of the fresh cuts along his arms. She waved a hand by way of telling them to continue and leaned back against the wall, watching the Praetorians as they worked. Darnuir did not so much as move. This was one of his deep sleeps, and she doubted the arrival of Rectar himself could wake him. Once he had been out for nearly three days and they’d all feared he would never wake again.
The Praetorians finished their work and looked to Lira, clearly expecting instruction. “Bring two extra blankets,” she said. “The night is cold.”
Left alone with Darnuir, Lira slumped again to the floor. Back against the wall, with all the weight taken off her body, she had no intention of moving. Her legs wouldn’t move in any event. They’d gone numb. It was fitting really, two battered dragons in need of their rest. But she’d have to move to meet Blaine. He must have come by now? She had to move.
Her eyelids moved. Fluttering, she couldn’t stop them from closing.
Chapter 9
WAKING NIGHTMARES
“Better green than silver with a charred tomorrow.”
— Old Fairy Proverb
Darnuir – The Royal Tower
A PANICKED VOICE reached him.
“Prefect Lira, you must come.”
More voices, high and fearful this time, but muffled by the door and his own swimming head. He tried to focus on them, grasping at this small piece of lucidity. Lira had to go. Why? Had Rectar’s army come?
“I’ll need my gear.” It was definitely her voice, but stronger, sounding more assured. That was good. He needed her to be strong. “Assemble in the throne room. Every Praetorian save three to watch over Darnuir. Now.”
Desperately, he tried to waken; to see her, to ask what was happening. With an effort he raised heavy eyelids and saw Lira’s back as she darted out of room.
“Lira,” he said faintly. “Lira,” he tried again, croaking her name this time. His head lolled, chin bashing against his chest, c
ausing him to bite his tongue. Blood swirled in his mouth. Fresh sweat ran down his face. He found it hard to keep his eyes open and blinked so rapidly that everything became a blur.
“Water,” he whispered, begging that someone would hear him.
Someone did.
Freezing metal touched his lips, the rim of some jug. The pourer tried to gently tip the water into this mouth but a fresh desire for Cascade overcame him. Muscles spasmed, causing his head to jerk upwards and scrape his cheek against the rim of the jug. Clanking metal and a loud splash followed.
“Get another,” someone said, “and bring the tube too.”
“No. Not that,” Darnuir murmured.
“My King, you must have water.”
A Praetorian gingerly approached, holding a tough tube, the sort that healers might use to drain poison. A cone shaped funnel had been fashioned at one end. Darnuir hated this thing. He hated it when strong hands held his jaw open; hated it when he half-choked as it was edged down his throat; hated the overwhelming desire to wretch as the slop or water plunged into his stomach. Worst of all, he hated how powerless it rendered him.
The Praetorian with the tube now stood over him.
“No,” Darnuir said. “I can manage. Please. Try it normally. I will keep control this time.” The Praetorians looked to each other for confirmation. The girl who held the jug visibly gulped. Harra, that was her name. She’d fought alongside him to defend the plateau of Aurisha. “Harra, you’ve faced worse than me being irritable. Please, try again. If I don’t manage. Then… then you may use the tube. I won’t fight you.”
Harra smiled, looking a little nervous, but it was a smile. Carefully, she stepped up to Darnuir’s side, brought this new jug to his lips and slowly tipped it.
The water was cold and clean. It swept away the bitterness of magic and the tang of blood. It soothed his raw throat and dampened the fire in his stomach. Darnuir drank greedily, nearly choking in his haste to satisfy his dreadful thirst. He took in too much, dribbled, then spat the rest out. Harra moped the blood and water from his chin, as though he were an infant, and what little pride remained in him died.
“Thank you. I shall rest now.”
“It’s nice to hear you speak again, sire,” Harra said. She and the other Praetorians then trooped out and shut the door.
Sleep eluded Darnuir for a time; caught in that semi-delirious state between waking and rest, where his body was numb but his mind raced. Desire for the Cascade flared, though not as fiercely as it had before. The last embers of a great bonfire. Yet it was still there and so long as it compelled him to reach for his sword, for no other reason than to draw on that sweet energy, he could not risk it. Waves of pain crashed in his head, urging him to reach for relief. He struggled against his bonds, all the while hoping for sleep to take him…
“So, you think you are ready?” Draconess said. His darkened eyes met Darnuir’s disapprovingly. Darnuir looked to the Dragon’s Blade hanging at Draconess’ waist and deeply desired it. They were alone in a dazzling white room. Or was it merely bright light? Was this memory or his own imagining?
“You can’t even take your eyes from it,” Draconess said.
Darnuir shifted his gaze. “I wasn’t—” he began stupidly.
Draconess held up a hand. “I understand your frustration. We’re dragons and we’re strong, and yet we cannot fight this foe. I have the Blade that is the essence of our people distilled. Our people’s power placed into a single weapon, and yet I alone can do little.”
“You don’t even try, father,” Darnuir said. Wait, that wasn’t right. Not father, but uncle. He’d never known his real father. Blaine had explained it all. Whatever the case, the disdain in his voice towards Draconess was visceral. It at least was real.
“I’m out there, neck-deep in the blood of demons and our own people. And you’re, well, you’re scribbling at parchment, taking meetings – nothing helpful.”
“Nothing helpful?” Draconess said. He shook his head sombrely. “You will never be ready for the Blade.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you do not understand, even when I speak plainly to you. I cannot change the tide alone. You could not change the tide alone. One person, no matter their power, cannot win a war on their own, nor keep an alliance together. We need the humans and the fairies.”
“The fairy flyers have their uses,” Darnuir admitted. “But I find the humans often get in the way.”
Draconess began to pace. “How long do you think we would survive without food shipments from Brevia? Hmm? Or Val’tarra for that matter. Do you think we could feed or clothe our people when almost half of our lands have been scoured by demons?”
“Fine, so we need their labour.”
“Will you ever understand? I used to think like you. Most of our kind still think like you; gods it was far worse when I was a young hatchling. But I’ve spent decades trying to hold this all together, and I’m afraid it’s beginning to crack. Three Human Kings I’ve dealt with. This youngest one, Arkus, he begins to question why he is doing what I ask of him. ‘What am I getting in return,’ he asks, and frankly, I’m not sure.”
“Were it not for our legions, the world would be crawling with demons. We are the bulwark against this Shadow, father. Our warriors will be the ones to push to Kar’drun and end it.”
“And when exactly will that be?” Draconess said.
“When you take some fucking action.”
“And on and on it goes,” Draconess said. “I say I cannot make a difference alone. And nor will you.”
“Does the Blade have no power?” Darnuir asked. His voice had risen higher, into something like a plea. “Is that why you do nothing? Is it all just a lie? When you pray too, is that a lie? When you tell me of the Gods and a Guardian, are you lying to me?”
Draconess closed his eyes. “The Gods will favour those who earn it. They will smile and shine upon us when we do all we can to help ourselves. Hmm? Running and hiding and burying our past will not aid us…” he trailed off sounding bitter.
Darnuir was lost. What was Draconess talking about now? Had he gone mad?
“Tomorrow,” Draconess continued. “You will take our newest legions north. I implore you again to devise a joint strategy. Become one army, not three.”
‘Three Blades were given,’ a voice whispered in his mind.
“How did you do that?” Darnuir said.
“Do what?” Draconess eyed Darnuir suspiciously.
‘Three Blades shall be returned…’
“Talk in my head – how?” He backed away from Draconess, a little unsteady on his feet.
“You look pale, Darnuir. Pale and sickly.” Draconess stepped cautiously towards him and, as he did so, he began to morph slowly into Blaine. Soon the Guardian was standing over him, looking down in disgust.
Darnuir was on his knees, licking desperately at a bowl full of mushed silver alderberries. He needed every drop of the juice.
“Such a disgrace,” Blaine muttered.
“Help me?” Darnuir moaned.
“Help you?” a deep voice called. Blaine was gone, replaced by Dukoona amidst a fog of purple mist and dancing shadows. Dukoona took Darnuir by the scruff of his neck and hoisted him upright. The blue flames of the spectre’s hair flew wildly about his face.
“I’ve done all I dare to help you. It is up to you now, Dragon King. The red dragons come!”
And then Dukoona threw him backwards, and Darnuir was falling freely through white light: falling and falling and falling, until he smashed against dry, red earth. A mountain of brunt rock loomed above him, stretching well above the clouds.
“Help me,” Dukoona’s echoing voice came from the mountain.
Despite his great fall, Darnuir felt no pain. He got to his feet and walked towards it, trying to steady his shaking hand, which held the
Dragon’s Blade. A passage opened in the mountain and he entered it. The tunnel walls began to whip past him, although he walked no faster. Rectar will be at the end of it, he thought, ready to strike me down.
Yet all that he found was a Cascade sink. It shone like a blue sun and then, he saw it: a black figure outlined against the light. Before Darnuir could steel his courage, an invisible force yanked him inexorably forwards. Clumsily, he raised the Dragon’s Blade, ill-prepared, knowing death would come. Yet, before he reached it, the Cascade Sink changed. The light turned to ambers and golds, and a voice rang out from it: “Three Blades were given.”
Darnuir hit the golden light and woke.
Panting he looked fearfully around. He was only in his bedroom atop the Royal Tower. The same made but unused bed sat to his left, and moonlight glinted off the steel chains holding him in place. How long had he been out for? As his breathing calmed, he noticed that his head was clear for the first time in recent memory. His heart beat regularly, not threatening to burst through his ribs, though pain reached him from his legs and arms, as if reminding him that he ought to be suffering. The chains had made fresh cuts and abrasions, likely during his last, intense fever dream. Had some of it been real? The part with Draconess perhaps? That had seemed more real. There had been a voice telling him something but the details of it were slipping away.
He looked to his abused forearms. Blood and puss oozed from half-healed wounds beneath the steel. Despite the pain, he was in control for the first time in months. And that felt very good indeed.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” He had to call twice more before the Praetorians entered. They looked tense and approached him cautiously, as though he was a mother wolf defending her den. “I think it’s over. Will you release me?”
Perhaps it was the calmness of his manner and voice that made the Praetorians feel at ease. He imagined he had asked to be set loose before now, though not so nicely. Whatever led them to believe him, they began to loosen his chains. Each bond they removed brought the relief of stepping into a hot bath. He winced as some segments pulled at still healing, sticky flesh. The wounds stung fiercely and would need proper attention. He wouldn’t dare use magic to speed his recovery.
The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian Page 11