The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian

by Michael R. Miller

  “All I’m saying is, I will think for myself now. If the Gods feel strongly about something they can let me know. Otherwise, I’ll do what I think is right and won’t wait until they deem to intervene.”

  “I find that very reasonable, grandfather.”

  Blaine scowled. “I don’t expect you to believe as I do.”

  “It would be stubborn of me to insist that there is nothing out there. What it is, or they are, I do not know. But Rectar is a force beyond us. He summons demons not of our world. His power makes Castallan seem a novice, and look how much Cascade energy he could process. No, Rectar must be something more. And despite my personal feelings towards your faithful, I can hardly deny it when thousands report the same event upon the Nail Head.”

  “That too seems reasonable,” Blaine said.

  Darnuir took the chance to stretch, leaning back until he felt a good burn through his shoulder blades. His eye fell upon the carving of Dwna upon the wall, in which the God was represented through three emanating rays.

  He took a moment to consider the other carvings; the three spiralling rays of N’weer and the half-seared sun of Dwl’or. One stone holder aligned perfectly with each relief. Three stone swords and three Gods. One for each.

  Yet when did the third sword get destroyed? Darnuir searched what memories of his past life remained to him. There weren’t many of the Basilica, he’d barely entered the place even back then. Vividly one recollection rose to the surface.

  “I argued with Draconess here, shortly before we both died.” He spoke without having meant to.

  “What about?” Blaine asked.

  “About everything. About how he did little other than pray upon his knees.”

  It came back to him then, as clearly as though he had stepped into a memory trapped within the rubies of the Dragon’s Blade. He remembered the seething frustration he’d felt, and the blood rushing hotly to his face and throat. His resentment had been raw, and Draconess knew it. He’d given up hope of Darnuir being able to take possession of the Blade, and he’d been right to withhold it. Darnuir knew that now.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t despair sooner, given how I used to be.” To his surprise, Darnuir found a lump in his throat. “He asked when I began to hate him; asked it so calmly, as if he’d long accepted it. He said he prayed for answers, but they never came.”

  “I prayed too much as well,” Blaine said. “It wasn’t right that I left you and Draconess alone. It wasn’t fair.”

  Darnuir wasn’t sure what else to say. Recalling that memory with Draconess had shaken him. It was so similar, so eerily like where he was now. Once again, he found this old religion troubling him and an old dragon sitting low between the stone swords. What, if anything, had truly changed?

  His people were hardly in a better position than they had been back then. One bad loss away from annihilation. He was king now, and he had the Dragon’s Blade. At a terrible cost, he’d gotten what he’d always desired.

  But I don’t desire it. Not anymore.

  He had no thirst for the power, not like back then. He was no longer the foul-tempered prince but a king who’d had sense beaten into him.

  Darnuir got to his feet and extended a hand to Blaine. “You’re here now. I can’t fight Rectar without you and frankly I don’t want to.”

  Blaine looked to the proffered hand, hesitant to accept it. “I shouldn’t fool myself or you. I don’t know if I can stand at your side.” He raised his hand with the missing finger. “Having a second Blade in our fight against Rectar would level the field, but this injury drags me back down.”

  Darnuir gave him a hard stare. “Are you Draconess? Are you giving up too?”

  “I’m only thinking of what is best—”

  “Look at me, Blaine. I’m half-wasted away here. We need to train. We’ll train and grow stronger together, rather than lock horns as we used to. We’ll teach you how to use your left hand if needs be. What do you say?”

  Blaine’s fingers twitched, a moment more of hesitation, then he grasped Darnuir’s hand and rose. “We’ll train.”

  Darnuir grinned. “I’m glad to hear it.” He looked to the stone sword on his right, the one opposite N’weer. And once again, the empty holder caught his eye. “That third stone sword must have been destroyed by the demons.”

  Blaine eyed the spot sadly. “I think you’re right. If you’re sure it wasn’t already destroyed?”

  Darnuir dredged the memory with Draconess back up. “Yes. There were three there before I died.” He drifted over to the sword before N’weer and ran a thumb over the worn stone, grainy and rough to the touch. “The demons suffered no repercussions for doing it.”

  He instinctively wrapped his fingers around the sword’s hilt as though he were about it draw it. He felt the stone give a little, even though the pressure he applied was minimal. The stone was starium and ought to have been stronger. Then again, it was wafer thin, as thin indeed as a real blade might be. A new thought came to him.

  “Let’s break them.”

  Blaine’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “We’re doing things our way now, aren’t we? Not relying on signs from Gods that clearly don’t care enough to help us. If a spectre or demon broke the other sword and the Gods did nothing, why should they act if we do? It may even jolt them awake.”

  “I… I…” Blaine’s face was a picture of torment. A century and a half’s worth of belief and ingrained values battled his desire for change: his features passing from shock, to outrage, to fear, to determination in the blink of an eye.

  “I’ll go first.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Darnuir said as Blaine strode to the sword in front of Dwna. The Guardian took a deep breath, widened his stance as though for battle, then drew his Blade. He raised his arm, held it, and for a moment Darnuir thought he was having doubts. But Blaine struck hard, and the crack rang throughout the Basilica. He kicked next, sending the bottom half of the free standing stone crashing against the wall.

  Darnuir followed, gripping the final stone hilt with all his might and ripped the top half away. A back-handed blow finished the rest. Within seconds there was nothing left; just three empty holders before three silent gods. He looked to the dome above and casually raised his hands as though preparing to catch a sack of turnips. Nothing happened.

  “I don’t think they care, Blaine.”

  “I wonder now if they ever cared,” Blaine said. “And I fear that I have wasted my life and the lives of those I love on them.”

  “We look to the future now,” Darnuir said. “No more lingering and reflecting. We’ve gone through fire and back Blaine and we’ve still got worse to come. Whatever’s happened has happened, and we’ll do all we can to right it.” He smiled again and puffed out his chest. It felt good this; feeling vaguely in control for once.

  “Come on, grandfather. Let’s work on that grip of yours.”

  Chapter 19

  THE RAG RUN

  “The oldest parts of Brevia clustered behind early walls. With unification came security and peace. Immediately, the rich fled across the bay to create their boulevards, estates, and promenades along the shore.”

  — From A Lengthy History of Brevia by Maddock the Scribe

  Cassandra – Brevia – The Rag Run

  THE BUILDINGS LEANED like crooked trees, trapping the air and noise together in a hot, grating storm against the senses. The Rag Run was one of the oldest sections of the city. From what she had gathered, it had always been cramped and downtrodden, but at least it was cheap. The war had done the area no favours. A dearth in trade, plus the requisitioning of soldiers and supplies, had turned the down on their luck to the poor, and the poor to destitute. Each queue that led to Chevaliers handing out coins and bread had swollen over the day, until they now seemed one single mass. Despite her sympathy for the people here, Cassandra fe
lt anxious.

  For her benefit, Arkus had ordered the Chevalier’s to double their numbers for the day’s alms, but Cassandra couldn’t fail to notice that she and her guards were now an island amidst a sea of the desperate. And the angry. Should the crowd turn against them, there would be nothing they could do. Guns or no guns.

  A young woman, no older than Cassandra in dirtied grey overalls held a baby’s bundle in her arms. She caught Cassandra’s eye and wailed.

  “Won’t you help us, Princess.” Shaking, she extended an open palm. “Oh, please Princess. You are so fair and lovely and kind.”

  Cassandra’s breath caught in her throat. That could have been her, save for the royal blood in her veins. She gulped and opened her mouth to say something, anything reassuring, if only she could think of what words could alleviate the girl’s fear. A wall of steel formed between them before Cassandra had a chance. She forced herself to turn away before she risked doing something foolish.

  She couldn’t show favours to one over the others, no matter how much her heart ached.

  Withdrawing to the centre of the Chevaliers, she took a moment to collect herself. Behind the sacks of bread, several knights protected heavy chests secured with thick iron locks. At great resistance from the Merchant Lords, Arkus had managed to increase the donations from the Assembly. It was far more than he was obligated to give, and that generosity had lightened the dark thoughts she’d held towards her father. At least, for today.

  Everything came at a cost, however. Rations to the dragons had to be cut back to afford this. She wasn’t sure she could have made such a choice.

  As she picked up another coin pouch to distribute, she wondered if it had been wise to use this as a cover for her real intentions. Yet she had to steel her resolve. The need of the people was great, but temporary. When the war was over, things would return to the way they had been given time. However, should another full-blown rebellion rise against Arkus, then conditions such as these might return. Arkus might be able to bully individual nobles into signing his new charter, but if she could get a powerful enough bloc to oppose him, he’d have to back down. She clung to that thought, telling herself it was all for the best.

  Returning to the front of the crowds she found Merrick, Lord Clachonn’s right hand Chevalier, straining his voice so as to be heard.

  “One at a time,” he called, swatting at a bony hand near his waist. “One at a damned time. You’ll get your fair share, but not if there isn’t some order.”

  “A fair share of nuthin’ ain’t sumin’ worth waiting for,” said a shrunken man at the front of the line. “You give plenty to them dragons, I wager.” He screwed up his crinkled face in defiance as Merrick towered over him. She felt desperately sorry for the old man. Even above the stench of the crowds, he reeked of a sewer in high summer.

  “It’s just words,” she said. “Give him his share and let him go.”

  “Just making sure things don’t get out of hand, Princess,” Merrick said. He snatched a black loaf out of hands of the squire tending the sack and shoved it gruffly into the old man’s arms. “Go on. Away with you.”

  The man’s eyes popped. “What about ’em coins? I seen others with coins.” His voice rose to an indignant screech. “Not even coppers for old veterans and hard workers. You’ll be showering gold on the dragons, I wager—”

  “Here,” Cassandra said, placing his share of three egg shaped copper coins into his hand. He looked at her, hungry for more. “That’s all,” she said sternly above the racket of the crowd. She was now very aware of all the extra pairs of eyes following her; well, following her hand back to the bag of coins – suddenly, all desire for the bread had been momentarily forgotten.

  “King Arkus gives all he can spare. Wars are expensive things.”

  A bold youth spat at Merrick’s feet. “Gold enough for this lot’s horses and armour.”

  “Gold and blood to buy dragons back their homes while ours burn,” another cried.

  “And them is murderers!”

  A quick glance around the crowd showed that many had Arkus’ latest pamphlets clutched in their fists; distributed to give information regarding today’s alms and also to stress caution in regard to dragons. It seemed a prudent enough measure given the events in Aurisha, but rumours had begun to spread. How, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps that was why Gellick had been assigned to the less glamorous duty of the camps. Perhaps he’d told the wrong people, those with loose tongues.

  A woman at the front of the crowd pushed herself forwards. Her hair was grimy, her cheeks hollow.

  “Still got money for some fine silks, don’t you? Lovely green shirt, yer Highness.” She reached out a long-nailed hand and missed taking hold of Cassandra’s arm by a hair’s breadth. Glinting steel sprang between Cassandra and the woman, who shrieked as they grabbed her.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Cassandra ordered, not knowing if her command could even be heard. “Let her go.”

  Crack.

  The gunshot was deafening at close quarters; the sulphuric tang of powder quickly infused the air. Cassandra covered her ears uselessly against the painful ring and turned wildly for the source of the shot. Merrick stood with his pistol raised, a thin trail of smoke billowing from the flint.

  “You,” he said, pointing to the old man clutching his bread, “Move along. Next person forward. Nice and orderly, now,”

  The wall of bodies backed away as best they could, budging against those behind them, feet scuffling loudly in the silence that still reigned.

  Cassandra watched the old man fight his way back through the throng, biting greedily at his bread and evading groping hands that tried to take it from him. She glanced to her left and right, and saw the masses begin to press forwards again. It was all the Chevaliers could do to prevent a full-blown stampede.

  For a time, there was a semblance of order, but the memory of the gunshot soon faded. The clamouring swelled anew as the hungry saw those with their baked prizes retreat to feast in private.

  Merrick appeared by her side, sweat glistening on his face. He gently took her arm and pulled her back to the relative safety by the coin chests. He looked concerned and unclipped his water flask, handing it to her.

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  She took the water gratefully. “I’m fine. Just the foul air, I think.”

  “If you are feeling capable, now would be a good time to slip away.” He stepped closer. “The crowd will only grow more desperate as the day wears on, and above all else, I am to ensure your safety. We might wait a little longer but I’d rather not risk it.”

  Cassandra briefly checked on the other knots of knights. The plan seemed good enough on paper, but she hadn’t considered how tightly packed they would be.

  “Won’t someone notice us leaving?”

  “Most of these Chevaliers are from the Hinterlands. The Queen and Lord Clachonn have gone to great pains to arrange this. Those men are trustworthy, but I cannot speak for the others. If we are to go, I would rather feign you are being taken back to the palace. It’s unlikely there will be another opportunity like this. There is a wider space along the base of the outer walls, a channel created unintentionally around the uneven old districts of the city. That was the intended escape route and sticking to that plan should dispel suspicion.”

  Her thoughts turned again to that girl in rags with her child and she felt a pang of guilt again, but securing a better future would be better in the long run. She had to keep telling herself that.

  “Let’s get moving then.”

  Merrick smiled. “Good, I shall set things in motion.”

  When he returned, his expression was grim, as though he was only now realising the potential repercussions if things went awry.

  “Grab the ‘special’ chest, Julian,” he said to a particularly young-looking Chevalier who had joined them. Despite his baby-faced you
th, Julian quickly unstacked the laden chests with commendable strength and speed, grabbing the smallest one at the back. With this in tow, their small company hastened away, slipping away into of the shelter of a dilapidated ale house the Chevaliers had earlier claimed as a base of operations.

  The men inside nodded in quiet acknowledgement of Merrick and Cassandra, clearly in on the plan.

  Behind the bar, a ladder led down into a basement full of rows of old kegs. As many were leaking, the smell of stale beer was thick in the air. A group of rats licked at a brown puddle. Merrick led their company to a service entrance at the back of the establishment.

  Emerging back into open air, the din of the crowd was still great, even with several walls between them. In the shade of the tavern and the sharp, sheer rise of the black city walls, it was at least far cooler.

  With pre-rehearsed precision, Julian set down the chest and unlocked it. Inside were tunics usually worn by the common man. To her surprise, Merrick and his four comrades stripped off their armour, down to unadorned leggings beneath and replaced their fine shirts with the plain tunics. The garments were strategically dirtied or torn. To finish the look, they ran their hands through the dirt underfoot, applying it to their nobly clean hair and faces. They even unstrapped their swords, placing them down beside their discarded armour. Julian, who had moved quickest of all, presented Cassandra with a light cloak. She put it on, presuming it was to hide her face. She’d have smeared the street onto herself as well, although whether she’d get the chance to clean herself before seeing Arkus that evening made her pause.

  In barely a minute, the Chevaliers were unrecognisable.

  “Ready?” Merrick asked the group.

  “You’re leaving your weapons and armour behind?” Cassandra asked.

  “Our men in the tavern will collect them,” Merrick said. “At any rate, we’re not expecting any trouble. But should it come, Julian can handle things with fists alone.” He nodded to the young Chevalier who grinned.

  It clicked for Cassandra. “You’re a dragon, aren’t you?”