“But,” Darnuir continued, “If I may ask, and please be honest, would you have helped my dragons if you’d known beforehand about the riots?” The question had troubled Darnuir too. For while the dragon in him raged at his people’s treatment, the human, and now the King, deplored the violence, no matter the provocation. Dragons always prided themselves on being a better race, yet they had acted like beasts and would have to carry that knowledge forever more.
Grigayne scratched what remained of his scraggly beard. “Honestly, I think I would have stayed away; not knowing what to do.”
“That feeling I understand,” Darnuir said. “A battle is one thing. But all this bad blood? I don’t know how to fight that. It goes beyond any weapon and will need more time and patience than I fear we have.”
Grigayne hung his head. “I worry I made a terrible mistake. I—”
“Stop,” Darnuir said, raising his hand. “This talk will do us no good. Not now. You and your islanders have a mission, see it is done.”
“Are you sure we cannot be of more… military assistance,” Grigayne said. He fingered his axe.
“I’d be sending your people to their deaths if I asked them to fight. This enemy will be the deadliest we have ever faced, and even my dragons will be hard pressed. Keep my people secure atop the plateau and I will hold the ground. Or die trying.”
Grigayne bowed his head, and took his leave.
Lira – The Plaza
Gingerly, Lira picked her way between the islanders and the famished members of her race. Every voice from an older woman made her snap around. Each time she was let down, and a little relieved all at once.
She didn’t much want to think on what might have happened to her mother in the camps. Then again, she didn’t even know if her mother had left the Hinterlands, so all this worry could be for nought. It was the not knowing that was killing her.
Another voice reached her, a cool, discerning tone that she’d grown up with. Lira spun. Sighed. Not her mother either. The poor woman looked old beyond her days, wasted away; her scalp prominent beneath thinning hair, her shape all but gone. She was clutching at the hand of a frightened young boy.
“What you looking at?” she demanded.
Lira blinked, startled. She hadn’t realised she’d been staring. “I’m sorry. To both of you. For everything,” she said somewhat foolishly. The woman narrowed her eyes and had half-turned when Lira called after her, “Wait. I’m searching for my mother. Her name is Bellona. Have you seen…” her voice trailed as the woman shook her head. “Oh. Well, take care up here.” The woman squinted at her then hurried away, son in tow.
Lira groaned at her useless remarks. Any promise of safety must seem empty now. From one hellish existence to an impending battle.
“Lira,” someone was calling.
She spun wildly again, looking for the source. “Mother?”
“Lira, come here,” the woman called again, and a young girl came running to her own mother’s summons, before melting into open arms.
Lira closed her open mouth, then tightened her jaw as she fought a fresh wave of embarrassment. This was no good. It was a churning sea of people up here, all yelling, moaning, weeping, or trudging in defeat.
She ought to be down on the walls, helping lift those heavy cannons into position. Raymond would be down there. He’d be doing his duty. And she was the Praetorian Prefect. She ought to be showing an example, rallying the troops, being seen at the front and thick of things.
Her feet betrayed her thoughts, taking her deeper into the throng of the plaza. Sharp hunter training allowed her to notice every swish of bright blond hair, and every time to no avail. She must have seemed half-mad wandering around, asking for a woman no one seemed to know. Crazed and lost would only make her fit in.
Apartments inside the upper plateau were being used to house the refugees from Brevia, perhaps her mother had already descended to them. She might have been one of the first off of the longships. Then again, Bellona had lived down in the narrow ground levels of the city. She wouldn’t know her way up among the villas.
She might also be dead.
The thought brought Lira to a halt. A couple of islanders bumped into her, grumbled and pressed on. For a time, she stared at her toes, suppressing the urge to hyperventilate. Once again, they were on the verge of a battle they had no great hope of winning and it wasn’t right that her last goodbye with her only family had happened over a year ago.
She drifted for a time, another lost soul amidst the swirl of fear and suspicion. A terrible combination. All were alert like abused animals, dark eyes darting quickly, legs braced and ready to run at a moment’s notice. Not an ounce of trust remained. Dragons must have been as awful to each other as any human had. Round and round she went, calling uselessly for her mother; her voice lost in the crowd.
“Lira,” a voice called. Lira twisted her neck so fast it cricked, but it was clearly a man’s voice on the second calling. “Lira.” It was Raymond’s voice. “Lira, there you are.”
Mounted on his towering horse, he cut a pathway through the crowd to her. Even allowing for the fact he was atop Bruce, Raymond looked taller somehow, his hair and steel glittering in the hazy sunset.
He dismounted when he reached her, looking deeply concerned. “You’re crying,” he said softly. Lira blushed so fiercely she thought her cheeks would catch fire. She made a fist and was about to rub at her eyes when Raymond raised a silent finger as though telling her to say nothing. Then he produced one of his white handkerchiefs.
Lira couldn’t help but laugh, a half-choked laugh, the kind of small laugh that could battle tears. Raymond looked unsure what this meant as he handed her the cloth, but she smiled at him as she accepted it. He was as heavily armoured as any Praetorian, with the stiff upper lip of Brevian blue-bloods, and rode a war horse so large it might bite a man’s arm off, but he still kept these dainty fancies on his person.
“Thank you,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “What are you doing up here?”
Raymond looked sheepish. “I assumed you’d be looking for your mother, and as I failed on that front before, I thought it only proper I should offer assistance. I’d like to,” he added.
Lira shook her head. “We don’t have the time to spare. I shouldn’t even be here.”
“I’m so sorry, Lira. This must be torture for you.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t feel grounded without knowing she’s okay. Does that make sense?”
Raymond took a step closer, then hesitated and drew up short. “For what it’s worth, if she has even half your tenacity, then I know she’ll be just fine.”
Lira felt a hug wouldn’t have gone amiss, but at the same time, she didn’t want to collapse into a bubbling heap in front of him. A cluster of beleaguered dragons squeezed by, forcing the pair of them to step very close together to avoid a collision. Lavender carried gently from him, light and pleasant. Damnit, what was wrong with her? She’d spent the weeks he’d been away rehearsing her speech if he ever returned, and when he did, she’d panicked. Said nothing. They were about to face a horrific enemy and probably wouldn’t survive it. So why was saying a few words to Raymond still so terrifying?
‘Why did you come back?’ she’d planned to say. It sounded casual enough. ‘Was it duty? Was it me? Was it Bruce?’ It sounded clever in her head, a nice bit of humour to end on. Though if it was for the horse, she’d look a right idiot.
She opened her mouth, then hastily closed it. No, no, no, she couldn’t ask it.
He smiled awkwardly at her.
She smiled even more awkwardly; the most awkward smile, in her opinion, that had ever disgraced the face of dragon or human alike.
Also, she was painfully aware of his hand hanging close to her own. Her fingers felt numb, as though plunged into a bucket of ice.
Some courage surged within her and she opened
her mouth to speak, but Bruce had another mind. The great horse nuzzled his nose in between them, his big sad eyes looking at her. Lira rubbed at his neck, just the way she’d learned he liked it.
“He really loves you now,” Raymond said.
Lira gulped. “Does he?” Her voice was high and traitorous.
“He’s never taken to anyone else so quickly.” Raymond sighed and gave Bruce a scratch too. “This battle will be no place for him. Shall we put him in his stable, then head for the wall? The company awaits us there.”
Lira tried not to show her disappointment and annoyance. It was the bloody horse, wasn’t it?
“Yes, that sounds good. I should get away from here. Work on the walls will take my mind off of… off of everything.”
Darnuir – The City Walls
The sun was beginning to set when the red dragons came. Darnuir saw the crimson line appear on the lip of the horizon like the crack of dawn. They came on quickly, too quickly, so fast he could hardly believe what he was seeing. How had poor Damien outrun these things? It was no wonder it had killed him to do so.
Rectar’s new servants flooded the land, a wild sea of blood.
And they did not slow down.
It was evident they had no siege equipment; no towers, no ladders, and it seemed they were in no mind to construct any. Some of the troops nearby were pointing this out to each other, exclaiming at their fortune.
“Rectar will not have released his armies without the means to destroy us,” Darnuir said. “We are in for the worst fight of our lives.”
He gripped the handle of the Dragon’s Blade, looking down at his weapon in trepidation. The head of the dragon was a dark-blood red. It always had been. Was this what his people truly were when stripped to purely the dragon?
Ahead, with the sun rapidly falling, the red dragons advanced even faster, seeming to gain fresh energy as they neared their goal.
Darnuir filled his lungs, tightened his grip on the Blade and unsheathed it, cutting skywards. He gulped, fear of magic piercing his courage more so than these creatures. But if they were to have any hope, both he and Blaine would need to find their strength.
He reached for the handle to the door in his mind; pulled it open.
The kick at the back of his head was the firm embrace of an old friend. His eyes widened, his body grew taut with power, and the burn down his arm felt reassuringly warm. Carefully, he steadied the doorway until only a gentle flow of Cascade ran into him. He’d have to pace himself if he was to last the night.
The red dragons continued to advance across the plain, their roaring now reaching the city walls.
Darnuir channelled the magic into his voice. “This night, we fight as one. All the Three Races. And we will stand together, hold together or die together.” He turned to face the city, looking along the walls and down into the packed streets below; to the mixed formations of soldiers looking up to him. He felt something more was needed, so he set the Dragon’s Blade alight with a stream of flames. “You’ve trained together, bled together, grieved together. Put aside lingering fears or fresh anger. Tonight, you do not fight for dragon lands or a dragon city. Tonight, you fight for your world. Our world. I would see us save it? Would you?”
The defenders of Aurisha cheered, clashing weapons and stamping their feet; a moment which drowned out all the enemy’s noise.
Darnuir returned his gaze northwards as the first of the reds passed the line at which the human cannons could reach. Lira and Raymond did not need an order.
The blasts stole Darnuir’s breath away. Dark balls hurtled out to meet the enemy, crashing into their swarming mass, throwing up soil and bodies as they pounded into the earth. Rectar’s minions did not pause, but the weapons proved to be effective. Too effective. In that moment, Darnuir had nothing but hate for Arkus for withholding this from him.
They might have stood a chance of survival if all of Brevia’s new army had been here to face Rectar’s own.
Closer now, Darnuir could make out the beasts wearing spiked armour along their forearms, shins and feet. They each bore an enormous black broadsword, crudely cut, more like a giant razor blade than a balanced weapon.
Musket balls penetrated their hide, but Raymond’s company were too few in number, and so the majority of the enemy drew close to the walls. Yet, there was no point in holding back. On the rooftops behind him was every hunter, bowman, and catapult crew they had spare. He pulled back the Dragon’s Blade, magnified his voice again and cried, “Hit them with everything.”
Darnuir lit the Dragon’s Blade and launched it as well.
The impact of the arrows was not as it should have been. The enemy ran through the storm as though each steel tip was nought but rain. Some fell, but it seemed there were few vulnerable spots on their scaly bodies. Rocks still crushed them, and the Dragon’s Blade skewered two like meat.
As Darnuir caught his returning Blade the first red dragons made it to the wall. They leapt, eight feet, ten feet, maybe higher off the ground, driving their spiked armour into the stone of the wall, cutting deep and holding firm. Only starium could so easily cut into itself. Rectar had gone to great lengths to equip his dragons.
They scurried up the walls like fat bloated spiders. Their taut tails maintained their balance and forked tongues lashed from long snouts. Arrows pinged off hard scales. Muskets cracked, cannons boomed, rocks thudded into flesh and earth.
Darnuir had never been less sure of victory. But he couldn’t show it.
“Make them pay for every inch,” he bellowed. He turned to one of his closer Praetorians. “Release the oil.”
“It’s not hot yet, sire.”
“I’ll make it so.”
He strode to the vat, tipped it over the wall himself, and sent a blazing cone of fire from his sword. Magical residue built disgustingly in his mouth and he spat the thick gob over the edge for good measure.
A smell like rotting meat being roasted churned his stomach.
Taking his cue, the defenders tipped all the oil barrels over. He hadn’t meant for that, but he couldn’t let it go to waste. He pulled on more magic, sending tendrils of flames licking left and right far along the walls, setting the spills alight.
Sweat dripped into his eyes as the inferno raged. The trick had decimated much of the first wave but more of the enemy now jumped through or over the fires to begin their climb up the city walls. Darnuir pulled back as the first creatures crested the battlements.
A towering monster, near seven-foot-tall swept savagely with bulging arms and thick tail, shredding soldiers with the spikes of its armour.
Darnuir charged. The beast sensed he was the real threat and roared at him, its putrid spittle flying into his face. Darnuir’s Cascade enhanced block shattered the beast’s weapon. That caused it alarm. It panicked, roared again, but Darnuir ran it through; the Dragon’s Blade cutting right through its armoured hide. A Praetorian tried his regular sword on it next, and it took a few hard shoves to break the scales.
Along the walls, red dragons clashed with the defenders. Their shields helped but the dragons had never faced a foe who could outmuscle them.
“Work as one, these are not demons to be taken on singlehandedly.”
He stamped on a long nose as it poked above the parapet. He sent another crashing to the ground amidst the reds who were working to clear the rubble that was blocking their entry at the gate. He ought to have stayed on the gatehouse to observe the whole battle and delay their breaking in below, but the fight for the walls already looked desperate.
“Stay here,” he told the Praetorians. “I’ll be back as often as I can.” And he was on the move, dashing to every weak spot, Cascade thrumming though his veins. He was the one person who might fight these things directly. He alone was stronger, faster, fiercer, even louder, as he called orders and encouragement with the power of a hundred horn blasts.
“Fight them,” he heralded, running from west to east, knowing in his heart that he could not keep this up forever.
Chapter 31
THE LAST GUARDIAN
“There has always been a Guardian and a King. An eternal balance. Neither stronger than the other.”
— From Tiviar’s Histories
Blaine – The Lower City
A THIRD ROUND of Rectar’s monstrosities joined the battle upon the walls. Their red eyes burned brightly, as large as eggs upon their beastly faces. Rectar had corrupted his people beyond all recognition. And he’d been allowed to do so.
Blaine looked to the stars and scowled. If the Gods had let this happen to his people, to their chosen people, then what kind of protectors were they? Darnuir was right. Down here, in this world, they were alone.
He refocused on the battle. Blaine was five hundred paces from the broken city gates, where only heaps of starium rubble blocked the enemy’s entry. A great formation of dragons and human spearmen stood prepared as the first line of defence for when the reds inevitably broke through. Bows twanged from above as the hunters unleashed their stores, for all the good it seemed to do.
The first gap in the mound of debris appeared. Red claws began sweeping great chunks of rock away as easily as digging through dirt.
Blaine tightened his grip as best he could upon the Guardian’s Blade. Before the night was over, he’d stand side by side with his grandson and prove to Rectar how strong they were. Or might have been, at any rate.
Should it come to it, Blaine still had one last option he could employ. It would break all the tradition, laws and understanding of his race. It might break the very rules of the Gods.
That thought caused him to smile.
More holes appeared in the gateway rubble, with more scaled hands scraping in. Snouts poked in after, puffing hot breath, desperate to join the battle.
Above, on the wall, the number of red dragons looked dangerous. Blaine saw half a dozen arrows splinter harmlessly off one. Their archers simply weren’t causing enough damage. Once Blaine would have scorned fighting from afar, but with these monsters it would be foolish to engage head on. Their necks appeared to be weak points, but surely they had more?
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