The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian

by Michael R. Miller

  “We don’t know exactly what happened,” Darnuir said. “Bacchus wasn’t among the zealots attacking the humans. It’s a mess right now, but I will find the answers. Don’t suffer like this. It’s not your fault.”

  “An outrunner takes his message to the recipient and them alone,” Damien said. “I failed. And it may have led to deaths. That’s something that will haunt me.” He finally faced Darnuir again. “Send me on another run. Let me repent through service.”

  “What about starting a farm? I fear I’ll need more farmers than soldiers before long.”

  “If I leave now, I’d carry this with me.”

  Darnuir hesitated. To have guilt eat away at Damien was unfair, but Darnuir did have need of intelligence on their northern outposts, especially on the Nest. And he needed to send someone that he could trust. With Blaine in seclusion, no one else seemed to know what was happening in that area. Yet was it fair to ask Damien to go? One look at his feet was alarming. They were swollen, the veins visible beneath the skin, his heels akin to sandpaper.

  “Are you sure you can manage a run?” Darnuir said.

  “I wouldn’t ask you if I couldn’t, and I won’t need to run so hard when it’s just light reconnaissance.”

  Darnuir explained what he needed and Damien accepted.

  “Take a small team with you. Share the burden.”

  “I’ll work faster alone,” said Damien. “Besides, we have too few outrunners left as it is. None are being trained and two died during the battle for the city.”

  This time it was Darnuir who cast his gaze to the ground. “Another thing that’s been neglected. I shall try to remember it. Thank you, Damien. You have no idea how much I rely upon all of you. And please, do not let the actions of the Light Bearers weigh upon you. I look forward to your return.” Damien smiled weakly then he too left.

  Once again, Darnuir found himself alone in his throne room. His neck now throbbed with a fresh ache, and he tried to rub some of the tenderness out of it. Miraculously, he hadn’t craved magic. Not once. Not even a drop. As worn as he was, he felt liberated. His mind was free and fully his own; no longer in thrall to the Cascade.

  He risked a glance at his sword. The rubies of the dragon’s eyes twinkled up at him and a fleeting panic took hold. What if it happened again? When the inevitable battle came, would he succumb to magic’s alluring strength? Only time would tell.

  He decided some fresh air was in order and set out for the plaza. Stepping out of the Royal Tower, he had to press his eyes shut against the sunlight, as he was no longer used to it. It felt good upon his skin though, warm and clean, like life being massaged into him. He moved slowly between the towering columns that lined the plaza, keeping the Basilica and the Praetorians surrounding it at the edge of his vision. The sight of the domed temple sickened him, so he turned down a street between two crumbling villas. It led him to an open viewing point where he could freely see the lower city, the walls, and the tint of gold from the Crucidal Road stretching to the horizon.

  And he was not alone.

  Fidelm sat upon an ancient stone bench with an easel and a half-worked canvas propped up before him. The General’s spear lay discarded to one side, but the way that he wielded his paintbrush so dextrously, so finely, one would not think of him as a hardened fighter. He registered Darnuir’s arrival with a curt flick of his eyes before returning to his art.

  “This is a side of you I haven’t seen,” Darnuir said.

  “Hmm,” Fidelm intoned. He made a particularly delicate stroke with his brush then sat back, examining its effect.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” Darnuir said. “While I’m here, I should give my thanks for aiding Lira during the crisis. I know you lost fairies that night. I’m sorry.”

  Fidelm offered nothing.

  “I’ll leave you then,” Darnuir said. He turned and entered the street leading back to the plaza.

  “Ironic isn’t it,” Fidelm called out. “The Guardian. What has he guarded? He’s left only misery in his wake.”

  Darnuir returned to his side. “Blaine stopped the attacks.”

  “Would they have ever occurred if he and his flock weren’t trying to convince so many of powerful gods who favour dragons above all else?”

  “We’ll never know,” said Darnuir. “Many of my kind look down on humans, that’s sadly a fact. But if Blaine had not rallied what support he could when he did, and came to rescue me, I might have perished in the Cairlav Marshes and the west would have fallen under Castallan’s rule.”

  Fidelm sighed. “It’s only natural to defend your grandfather.”

  Darnuir’s mouth fell open. “How did you—”

  “I know much more than I think even Blaine wants to admit,” Fidelm said. “I am my Queen’s General, but also her confidant. Someone who isn’t merely stuck to the Argent Tree and can offer insight from a life lived beyond its branches. Besides, the fact that Blaine stayed as a guest in secrecy for so long was enough of a sign that their relationship ran deeper, even if that had been long ago; even if it was broken by the time I discovered it.” He pondered his piece again, scrunched up his lips in thought, then swirled more brown paint into the golden colour he had mixed for the city’s stone. He dabbed the darker shade onto the canvas.

  Darnuir stepped around to get a look at the scene. Fidelm had accentuated the decay of the city; where the stone was crumbling or worn, he had brought out the detail while blurring the areas best preserved. It gave Aurisha an ancient look without any grandeur; age lacking in wisdom; the sickly yellow of illness creeping across skin. It shook what optimism Darnuir had left.

  “You have talent.”

  “I’ve had many years of practice. I’ve always found it a release to paint after blood is shed. It’s good to stay sane. I’ve noticed that my whole race has become more obsessed with art and creation in recent decades. The arborists work tirelessly with their budding nurseries, the carpenters create masterpieces in half the time, and the paint often runs dry before more can be made.”

  “Why the change?”

  “I do not know. It is in our nature to create and nurture but perhaps, as a whole, we feel compelled to work harder because we are decaying.”

  “What do you mean?” The fairies weren’t in any real danger. Not like the dragons were, bearing the brunt of nearly a century of war.

  Fidelm put his brush and palette down, and finally met Darnuir’s eye. “One queen, one child. That is how it’s always been.”

  “I see,” said Darnuir, not sure if he wished to probe further. How much bad news would it take before the weight became crushing?

  “Many have long suspected something is wrong,” Fidelm went on. “A queen should raise and train her daughter to replace her. Kasselle’s lack of an heir wasn’t unexpected during the initial turbulence of the war but, as time has slipped away, whispers have begun.”

  “Can’t a new queen be found, when… when the time comes?” He’d meant to say ‘when she dies’ but thought it might be harsh to speak of her in such a way. After all, as surreal as it seemed, she was his grandmother.

  Fidelm was staring blankly off into the distance. “I don’t think we’ve ever been without a queen.”

  “Your people can adapt, I’m sure.”

  “As the dragons did when you died?”

  “That’s different,” Darnuir said, though he immediately felt foolish for saying it. It wasn’t different. Not truly. “Well, if I die now what will the dragons do? Will they all drop dead on the spot? I think my people would learn to live without me if I were gone. Put some more hope in your own kind as well.”

  Fidelm’s expression darkened. “I’ve never seen any real hope for change. And I’m part of it. I was wrong, you know, oh yes,” he nodded along to his own words. “I was wrong to treat the troll so poorly. Wrong to judge you for trusting him. For wanting to
work with him. I took the anger simmering within me because of Blaine and directed it down the easiest path.”

  “Is this why you turned down my offer to join the Praetorian Guard?”

  “I refused to join you because I think I’ve lost hope and that makes me angry too.”

  Darnuir sniffed and straightened. Was there anyone left who wasn’t old or exhausted or done with it all?

  “Kasselle is far from dead and neither am I. When we defeat Rectar we’ll either figure out a way to help her or work out how a new queen might be chosen. But until then, we need to remain focused. Don’t worry over something that hasn’t yet happened.”

  “I fear it is too late,” Fidelm said. “Kasselle is the heart of my race and her heart has been broken for too long. I told her, she should have sent Blaine away, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t send him away, but having him near hurt her just as much. She was trapped. And so are we. I feel like I can sense her pain even across the world.”

  Darnuir breathed in deeply. He took a moment to regard the city, the lifeless place it had become. Was it all merely war weariness or something more?

  Back in the Boreac Mountains, when he was still just a hunter, when they’d retreated inch by inch with no end in sight; even then, things had not seemed so bleak.

  Maybe it had been Cosmo who had radiated hope because he had known about Darnuir, and that Brackendon would one day return to them. Right now, they could all use a little hope, only Darnuir was struggling to find it. His thoughts darkened and then he remembered that all had seemed lost before the demons came to Cold Point. Everyone had assumed the battle would be a last stand. And then Brackendon had come, and Danuir had been given a sword which turned the tide. A year later, he now stood overlooking the city of Aurisha with Rectar’s demon hordes vanquished.

  I’ll cling onto that, even if no one else will.

  He’d placed hope in Raymond and Grigayne’s missions. He had to have hope to move forwards.

  “Do you think you can ever forgive Blaine?”

  “No,” Fidelm rasped. “Deep down I only wish to create, and I’m forced to kill instead. Those dragons wanted to destroy needlessly. I despise that.”

  “I’ll leave you to your painting, General.”

  Darnuir ambled back to the plaza. Slowly and without fuss, he joined the Praetorians outside the Basilica and simply watched it for a time. No one stirred in its dark doorway. Darnuir approached the Basilica and climbed the stairs halfway before stopping.

  A part of him still wanted to yell out for Blaine, to demand that he showed himself and answered for what happened. But that part of him was small now, and not even a flutter rose in his throat. Screaming would earn him nothing. It had earned him only disrespect and error so far. Yet he stood there for a while, wondering whether Blaine might come of his own accord. He wondered desperately what he would do if that happened.

  Chapter 14

  DOWN IN THE GUTS

  “Despite months of effort, no converts have emerged from the cells beneath the Basilica. The Guardian assures me they will break soon, yet I wonder if pain is the best reinforcer of dogma.”

  — King Darklin, writing in 856 AT

  Blaine – The Basilica of Light

  “HE’S STILL OUTSIDE, Lord Guardian,” Chelos said.

  Blaine didn’t register the words at first. He was too busy staring at the stone swords, in particular at the dusty empty holder. The demons must have destroyed the sword and the Gods had done nothing.

  “Blaine? The King stands there. What will you do?”

  But Blaine did not hear.

  Demons took this city and the Gods did nothing. Rectar came to this world and the Gods did nothing. “What is he doing here?” Chelos asked.

  There was a scuffle, sounds of a struggle.

  “He insisted upon seeing the Lord Guardian.”

  Blaine brushed the dusty remains aside with a finger, feeling a grooved edge in the stone. Will I also do nothing?

  “Let me explain, I beg you,” Bacchus pleaded.

  Something snapped within Blaine. He shook his head, turned from the stone swords and found Bacchus on his knees, his eyes dark and bloodshot. Charm had all but abandoned him. Behind Bacchus were two loyal Light Bearers with a hand each upon his shoulders.

  Chelos stood uncomfortably to the side, looking between Bacchus and Blaine, a worried look in his eye. He had a right to be worried for Blaine’s hand curled inward, though not for Kasselle’s sake this time. This was a fist he dearly wished to swing at Bacchus.

  “I told you to remain in your quarters.”

  Bacchus gulped. “I know, Lord Guardian. I just—”

  “I’ve been lenient so far. Your involvement with the murderers is—”

  “Please,” Bacchus said. He clasped his hands. “I told you, I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. I’d never condone mindless killings. Blai— Lord Guardian, please.”

  “You tried to take my place. Do you think you were ready for that?”

  “No, Lord, I was not. You are the Light’s Chosen. We all saw. We all heard.” He looked desperately around; to Chelos, to the remaining Light Bearers. They all averted their eyes, as though merely looking at Bacchus would infect them with his disgrace.

  “How far you’ve fallen,” Blaine said. “How far we’ve all fallen to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

  Bacchus nearly wept. “I had no idea that my words would lead to this. I did not mean it. I did not wish it.”

  “You’ll have your chance to speak,” Blaine said, looking to the entrance of the Basilica. “The Praetorians are mobilised in force out there. Perhaps I ought to throw you to them.”

  Bacchus’ eyes widened. “But the King.” His voice was laced with fear.

  Blaine thought he caught a whiff of sweetness from him. Blaine even felt a twitch of fear himself. For a moment, he’d forgotten Darnuir was standing outside.

  “Yes, the King is out there. Waiting for me, I dare say, but I’m certain he’d like to hear from you. I imagine he isn’t pleased with what has happened in his absence.” Bacchus didn’t respond. His chest rose and fell quickly, as his breath came in ragged puffs.

  The satisfaction of seeing Bacchus so cowed wasn’t enough to alleviate his own misgivings. His grandson had a fierce temper and was lukewarm at best to the Way of Light. Why had he gathered his Praetorians outside? Did he intend to strike at them? If so, then why wait? Blaine had been prepared for swifter action, but Darnuir’s more subdued reaction was unnerving.

  Bacchus sucked in a wet breath. “Hear me out, Lord. Hear me out and speak to the King first on my behalf.”

  “If you had remained in your quarters as ordered, you might have earned some small favour with me. As it stands—”

  “Hear me, please. Do not let your prejudice against me cloud your judgement.”

  Blaine bit his lip. What did Bacchus hope to achieve? Did he think he think he could talk his way out of this one?

  “Be quick and true, and I’ll make my decision,” Blaine said. “And once you’ve told me your story, you shall return to your quarters, and there you shall stay. Leave again without permission and I’ll presume your guilt.”

  Bacchus took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he began. “I was on night duty while you slept, Lord, as you know. The outrunner Damien came to deliver a message to you from the girl – from Prefect Lira. Damien said he would only speak with you, Lord. I told him you were not to be disturbed. He tried to move past me, down into the sanctum below but I stopped him. I may have used a little too much force in blocking him – that was wrong of me, I know, a foolish misstep.” He rattled through his last words, embellishing his remorse. It wouldn’t help.

  “Go on.”

  “In the end, I managed to get him to tell me the message and assured him that I would pass it on to you.”
>
  “Why didn’t you let him through?”

  Bacchus gulped again. “I didn’t think it—”

  “You didn’t think it important enough?” Blaine finished for him.

  Bacchus grimaced. “You’ve rarely responded to Prefect Lira’s requests to meet before now. I assumed it could wait.”

  Blaine clenched his jaw. Bacchus wasn’t wrong. “I have always been the one to judge that.”

  “You’re right, forgive me,” Bacchus said.

  “Get on with it.”

  “Yes, of course. The outrunner spoke of trivial matters, Lord. Well, ones I thought to be trivial. Just some fool human amusing his fellows down in the Lower City. Why you would have to be disturbed for that, I don’t know, but yes, you are right. Naturally, I should have brought it to you.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, my duty ended at the end of that hour. As the whole shift changed, I debriefed the men on what had happened. You had received a message, but I would tell you in the morning.”

  “And did you explain the contents of this message to the Light Bearers taking over from you?”

  “I did but as briefly as I just told you. I knew few details myself, after all.”

  It was a lie. If not an outright lie, then a poor half-truth. Blaine could read it plainly on Bacchus’ face. In his panic, he’d lost his silver tongue.

  “So,” Blaine began, “These Light Bearers and legionnaires just happened to take it upon themselves to, what, seek vengeance for the insult offered by this human?”

  “If you worry that I told them to Lord—”

  “I am not worried by you anymore,” Blaine said coldly. “Did you, or did you not give the order for the atrocity?”

  Bacchus finally lowered his hands, his expression resolute. “I did no such thing.”

  There was a certain air of honesty about that. Blaine stepped closer to him, sniffing lightly, trying to discern if he could truly smell fear on him. Alas, he could not. Such sweetness was only reserved for humanity after all.