He was going to spirit the dragons east and stick it to Arkus and his well-crafted schemes. The King had brazenly overstepped his position. It was only right that someone showed him there was will left to resist, and if this would help fulfil his sworn promise to aid Darnuir, and his people, all the better.
He felt a thump on his back. Cayn walked by and Grigayne followed the grizzled captain towards the crowd. Before addressing them, he looked out to the camps arrayed between them and the city. It looked more of a bog than anything, a great grey-brown sore under the rising sun.
Grigayne drew his axe and banged his shield. “Men of the Splinters, shield maidens, sons and daughters of the seas. Today, we repay our debt to the dragons, who saved our lands from conquest.”
There were a few rumbles of agreement, though not yet a chorus.
“Aye, I understand you have reservations. I felt them too. Anger held me for a time, but the dragons stayed and fought and bled with us. They led the charge at East Guard, tore the Shadow Spire to the ground. And where were the Brevians?”
“Takin’ a leisurely stroll up the beaches,” someone answered.
“Weighed down by all that fancy armour.”
Grigayne smiled and bashed his shield again. “The dragons gave lives for our people. What did Arkus and Brevia give?”
“Sweet fuck all,” Cayn said, sharp and high. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Grigayne let it settle, finding himself laughing too. His fury with Arkus, mixed with frustration at his father, had granted him a clarity he’d rarely felt.
“The dragons saved our families. Our loved ones, our elders, our children. Look how their own loved ones suffer?” He pointed his axe towards the camps. “You all know why we’re here. I say we save them.”
A resounding, “Aye,” was declared followed by waves of shield banging.
Grigayne brought a finger to his lips and the noise reduced to a low thrum. “Wouldn’t want to wake up our Lords and Ladies from their sweet dreams, would we?” He earned another rumbling chuckle. “Alright, quickly as we can. Let’s take these dragons home.”
Cassandra – Oranna’s Parlour
Oranna stroked Thane’s hair for the thousandth time.
“I want him taken north, to my lands.” Her voice hovered above a whisper. “He deserves to be buried in the mountain soil. Amongst the scent of pines and clear waters.”
Sitting on the edge of the sofa, as dead and grey as a walking corpse, Arkus finally met her eye.
“I already have one son buried in the middle of nowhere. You would take another from me?”
Oranna’s lips trembled. “I won’t have him laid to rest in this place. In this graveyard of a city.”
The argument carried on.
Cassandra only half listened. She was in one of the plush chairs opposite Arkus, her body sunk deep into the soft cushions. A terrible voice kept telling her she was partly to blame. If only she hadn’t been so selfish. If only she’d let Oranna take Thane and go. What had all her trouble gotten in the end? It had all been too little too late. Perhaps the chair would continue to swallow her, so she didn’t have to think; didn’t have to hear.
Thane’s casket lay on a bed of flowers. What remained of the palace gardens had been stripped to form it. Their scent caressed Cassandra, and she felt disgusted with herself for finding it pleasant. She shouldn’t have found them pleasing. Not with her brother lying cold upon them.
The argument escalated and Arkus sprang to his feet. “How dare you. How dare you say I don’t care.” He looked to Thane, his eyes entirely bloodshot. “I’ll see justice for this.”
“Justice?” Oranna said, her voice shrill. She rounded Thane’s casket and stomped towards her husband. “And who will you punish?”
“The drago—”
“There are bullet holes in his chest,” Oranna screamed. “That’s how he died.”
“You’d blame my men, our men, our soldiers.”
“Your men. Your weapons. You’re giving them to any boy who can carry one.”
She drew up right before the King.
Arkus stood his ground. “Are you really blaming me for—”
“I hate you.”
Oranna clawed at Arkus’ face, a bear-like swipe from ear to nose. He barely tried to avoid it, accepting the punishment. Blood seeped from five ragged lines. Tears rolled from his eyes.
Oranna beat him with bony fists. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate – you.”
Her fury died as she descended into uncontrollable crying. Arkus found some strength, pushed her away and Oranna collapsed into a sobbing heap upon the floor.
Cassandra dove silently to her side, wrapped her arms tight around her. Oranna howled and buried her face into Cassandra’s shoulder.
Cassandra looked to her father. There was no emotion in him. The blood dripped steadily down his face and onto his robes. After a time, he pulled out a white handkerchief, much like the Chevaliers bore, and gently dabbed at his face.
“Guards,” he said softly. He coughed, then tried again. “Guards.”
Gellick entered with five Chevaliers. He looked at Cassandra and Oranna rocking in a ball upon the floor, to Arkus’ wounded face, and looked alarmed.
“My King?”
“Please escort the Queen to her chambers, she is overcome with grief.” His words came out abrupt and stilted. She wondered if he was in pain. The gouges on his face seemed to barely register with him. Blood still seeped from the wounds.
“Something to help her sleep would be a kindness,” Arkus said.
“And for you, Lord?” Gellick said uncertainly.
“I require nothing. Please. Do as I say.”
Gellick bowed. He looked to Thane then quickly averted his eyes.
Out of all of them, Cassandra had to wonder whether Gellick cared at all. She couldn’t quite decide before he lifted Oranna to her feet and left Cassandra sitting alone, legs sprawled awkwardly. It took a great deal of coaxing to get Oranna past Thane, but she relented in the end, too exhausted to fight anymore.
When the door closed behind them, Arkus stepped to Cassandra’s side and proffered a hand. Choking back her own fresh tears, Cassandra took it and rose. She caught sight of Thane’s pale face, and that set her off again.
“I do not need to hear ‘I told you so’,” Arkus said.
Cassandra shook her head. “What would be the point?”
“It’s alright,” Arkus said. “No one opinion will matter anymore. What’s happened is too much.”
“What does that mean?” Cassandra said hoarsely.
“They’ve attacked us in the east and now they’ve attacked us at home.”
“We’re still piecing together what happened,” Cassandra said. She was desperate not to let him run on to some terrible conclusion, whatever that might be.
“You blame me as well.”
“I think you blame yourself.”
A tense silence followed, broken by a great knock at the door.
“Come in,” Cassandra called.
Gellick returned, this time breathless.
“Have the dragons stirred again?” Arkus said.
“They have, my Lord,” Gellick said. He threw up a hand. “But not like before. They are running south, boarding longships—”
“Ships?” barked Arkus, suddenly alert. “Where the… oh, Somerled I will ruin you for this.” He spoke lowly and more to himself.
“I’ve called the Chevaliers,” said Gellick.
“Call up every damned man,” Arkus said. “Every boy, every girl who can level a musket. The dragons are not to escape without judgement.” He was shouting now, spittle flying. “They shall not get away with murder.”
Gellick looked stricken and, for the first time, looked pityingly upon his King. “We’ll never stop them all. Many have
already left—”
“Then ride and stop those you can,” Arkus said. “Then summon every able-bodied person we have left, all the cannons, all the guns and all the powder. Prepare to sail east afterwards. It’s time this war was over.”
Grigayne – South of Brevia
The gates of Brevia were opening. Well, they were opening further, having already been damaged by recent events.
Talk from the dragons had been disturbing. There had been killings and maiming. Rioting and death. And now, it looked like every Chevalier still with a warhorse was galloping out of the city, cutting a straight line south towards the longships.
Grigayne ran his fingers through his scraggily beard, his mind racing. Dragons were stumbling past him; old and sick, young and fearful, lost orphans, and thin mothers clutching babes to their breast. Not all the dragons had agreed to come. Many of them were too scared to move, he reckoned, but those who were fleeing might not all make it. The riders from the city were fast gaining ground.
“Back to the ships,” he called, and the message spread from islander to islander. The dragons picked up their pace as best they could, but the Chevaliers only rode harder. Would they really ride him and his warriors down as well? Would they start a war with the Splintering Isles just like that?
A tremor ran through the earth at their approach and Grigayne felt it best to run now, think later.
After a minute of flat-out sprinting, he risked a glance behind. It was no use. They’d be upon them before the last ships could depart. Worse still, beyond the riders, marching down from the city the gates, Grigayne could see soldiers and hunters emerging in force. It seemed they were about to start a war.
“Have the Brevians lost all sense?” he said to Cayn, who’d stuck close during the evacuation.
“Nae point dwelling on it now,” Cayn said. “We cannae take back what we’ve done, just as the dragons can’t. Or them,” he added, pointing to the gleaming Chevaliers. Cayn hawked and spat in their direction for good measure.
Grigayne gulped. “What happened here must have been horrific, worse than we can imagine.”
“I dunno. I can picture a lot of bleak things, m’lord,” Cayn said. “Like getting caught out by them horses.”
“Horses aren’t known to be swimmers,” Grigayne said. He unslung his war axe and shield, and cricked a sore spot in his neck. “See the last of our ships are ready to sail Captain Cayn. I’ll do what I can to hold back this storm.”
Cayn flashed a toothy smile of encouragement then slapped a hand on Grigayne’s back. “Don’t let this wash you away. I don’t fancy tellin’ ol’ Somerled how you died.”
They both looked out to the riders again, then to each other.
The Chevaliers were close enough to begin a charge.
Hooves hammered. Trumpets blared.
“I’ll see you on the Fury,” Grigayne said. Cayn was gone in a flash and Grigayne faced the onslaught, clanging the head of his axe against the iron boss of his shield, making as much noise as he could to draw attention.
“Shield wall,” Grigayne ordered. His warriors and shield maidens came running. “We hold them here.”
The islanders still close to the camps fell to the Chevaliers – knocked aside or sliced to ribbons.
“We hold the line,” Grigayne shouted.
The Chevaliers drew out smaller versions of their muskets and fired at a hundred paces out. Wood cracked followed by the meaty thud of punctured flesh. Yet the wall held.
“We are free,” Grigayne roared. “We do not bow to Brevia.”
The roar of the islanders temporarily drowned out the charge of the Chevaliers.
Then the crash came.
One young noble tried to break the line. His steed did damage but the line absorbed it, bringing the horse down. The boy flew from his saddle, landing within reach of Grigayne. Puppy fat clung to the boy’s cheeks and his eyes were swollen with dreams of glory. Grigayne brought his axe down hard, extinguishing those dreams.
He’d never killed another human before. It wasn’t like killing a demon. This was thorns passing through his guts. This made him sick.
Most Chevaliers broke against the shield wall like water on rock, splitting their formation and riding left and right in a flanking manoeuvre. Some carried on past, hunting down the dragons as though they were escaped cattle.
“South face,” Grigayne bellowed, trying to keep the wall well-formed against the next assault.
“East face.”
“North face.”
On it went, with little ground given, but with less hope of making a last mad dash to the ships. The Chevaliers had them penned in and the foot soldiers would arrive shortly to finish them off. Grigayne tried to have his fighters take what steps to the shore they could before the next charge came. He just hoped that Cayn and the other captains would have the sense to flee once the dragons were aboard.
He could feel the resolve of his people weakening, saw their shields lower with each turning. A wedge of Chevaliers, older looking, experienced, set spurs to beast with lances lowered.
“Hold,” Grigayne tried, but his voice was coarse now and he too felt the fear. They hit the line. Grigayne was thrown back and hit his head on a heavy boss as he met the ground. Colour and light exploded in his vision. By the time he staggered to his feet the wall had fragmented. The last charge had lodged like an arrow in a shield and the Chevaliers were entering the breach.
Grigayne knew it to be over.
He cried for his people to fall back, his throat burning from the strain.
Terrible memories of East Guard flashed before him as he sprinted for the Grey Fury. The carved axeman on its prow looked comforting and strong. Then its face blew apart. Grigayne saw dozens of dragons and islanders fall to projectiles unseen, though the bangs rung clearly.
His warriors were by their ships now, fighting desperately in small units. The Chevaliers had mostly backed off, letting the infantry march on. Yet, a great bulk of the Brevians was not advancing. They remained out of reach of the battle, led by a white clad figure with a bow held aloft. Was the man telling the regiments to stay? There wasn’t time to consider.
A dozen Brevians were running towards the Grey Fury, armed with muskets, a Chevalier leading their small charge.
Grigayne looked about him, saw the last of the stragglers still climbing onto the deck of the Fury and found that he alone was left ashore to face the threat. Waves be at my back, he thought.
Then he ran.
He hadn’t felt so wonderfully mad in all his life. He’d always been the voice of caution to his father, but now his blood ran like hot whisky. His father had been right about Arkus, about this disgusting city, and now the Brevians had shown their colours.
The soldiers saw him burst from the back of the refugees and halted. They raised their weapons. Took aim. Grigayne dove to the earth, heard bullets zip above. He rolled, body crunching on his own shield, but momentum brought him to his feet.
The fools had fired all at once.
Grigayne reached them as they scrambled for powder. He swung his axe up, down and whirled it overhead in a twisting blow, screaming out all the breath he possessed. Four men fell. He leapt over a body, thrust his shield into one soldier’s neck and cleaved at another’s stomach.
He gasped, half-laughing as the remaining cowards began to flee.
Something hard hit the back of his head. He crumpled. The world spun, and a Chevalier loomed above him like a steel mountain. Grigayne cursed that this man would be his doom. He was a perfect stereotype of the city: a blond-haired, high-nosed prick, though it looked as though it may have been broken once. His horse reared, front hooves snapping in the air like pincers. Grigayne rolled again, missing being crushed by inches. He hit a fallen dragon and stopped dead. All hope fled from him as the blond flop drew one of those little muskets.
&n
bsp; An arrow, with black shaft and white feathers, thwacked into the Chevalier’s shoulder. He cried, his shot went wild, and he fell from his horse.
Grigayne didn’t stop to think why an arrow came from the Chevalier’s own side. He just knew it was high time he was gone. There was nothing more to do here.
Dizzy, he staggered to the water’s edge and fell again. Heavy salt water washed into his mouth. He choked. Spluttered. Couldn’t open his eyes. Yet hands seized him roughly under his arms and dragged him up.
“C’mon, lad.” Cayn’s coarse voice sounded melodic compared to the carnage. “This ain’t the day you return to the sea.”
Chapter 27
LITTLE MASTERS
“Serving oneself may keep you alive but a life of service is to have lived.”
— Dragon Proverb
Sonrid – Kar’drun
AFTER MANY DAYS of searching, this passageway held potential. In truth, it was more a great crack in the side of the mountain, but natural light ahead held the promise of a larger opening. Sonrid shuffled towards the light. The space might be a touch tight for a human or dragon, but it seemed passable and he didn’t remember Darnuir as being unusually large. With any luck, it would serve.
Before long he emerged to fresh air and screwed up his eyes against the sun. Within the mountain it was easy to forget a world of warmth and light lay beyond it. He’d grown accustomed to the sinister flames, the howls of the red dragons, and the lonely corridors.
He risked opening his eyes and found there was a small outcrop on which he might sit, though it was a long way down from here with a sheer drop. Yet his bones ached worse than ever from his tireless wandering, and so, carefully, he sat down to rest.
Crack, crunch, went his lower back and he grunted from both pain and relief. With a rasping sigh, he settled himself, legs dangling over the edge. The distant world beyond the immediate lands of Kar’drun had turned a richer green since he’d last seen it. Near the charred mountain, however, seasons came and went without change. The trees that still stood were as black as the rock, with no birds to fill the air with song, nor flowers springing up to display their colours. Sonrid had seen and heard such things even at the Forsaken City, the old ruined capital of the Black Dragons. But not here. Not so close to the Master.
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