Sonrid offered fresh screams.
“It’s fine,” Darnuir called, as the Dragon’s Blade flew back to his grip.
“Are they trying to hit you?” Sonrid shouted.
Darnuir hesitated. Sonrid hadn’t been serious, but he’d touched a nerve there. Darnuir shook his head and forced himself on, bringing the Dragon’s Blade up to continue the climb.
He carried on, enjoying the warm burn down both arms as the Cascade began to process. Higher and higher he went, using the Blades as picks in the rock. He kept going, entering a rhythm and not truly paying attention.
“Back down there,” Sonrid cried.
Darnuir paused, his Blades cutting through the rock like butter until they caught fast.
“What? Where?”
“To your left.”
Darnuir looked and saw a small lip of an old platform below. He drew the Guardian’s Blade out of the rock, and leaned back as though rappelling, keeping himself upright by holding onto the Dragon’s Blade that was still stuck fast in the mountain. For a second he hung over the reds below, like a piece of meat over a pit of rabid dogs.
He looked down and regretted it immediately.
Fresh tremors ran from the impacting cannon shot and he waited for the moment to pass, feeling the Dragon’s Blade edging slowly out of the rock. It was now or never. Darnuir took what few steps back he could, then ran parallel to the mountainside, kicking off on his last step with a burst of Cascade.
He caught the edge of the ancient balcony with the Guardian’s Blade and only breathed easy when his free hand made purchase.
Sonrid moaned as though he was being sick.
Darnuir made the final leg of the climb and hauled himself over the edge. He lay on his back for a moment, never more thankful to have solid stone beneath him.
Sonrid melded away from him. The little spectre staggered forward, spitting and cursing under this breath. Then he stopped, going suddenly silent.
“No,” Sonrid whined.
Darnuir rolled over. “What’s the matter?” All he could see were demon corpses, though that had never been a bad thing.
“They were discovered,” Sonrid said. “Come, Darnuir. Come.” He was shuffling as quickly as his stubby legs allowed, down a set of stairs and out of sight. Darnuir picked himself up and almost forgot about sending out the signal to Adolphus.
He thrust his hand forth, concentrating on the Dragon’s Blade until it pulled free from the mountain and returned to him. With it he aimed high and launched a swirling cone of flames, so large it could not be missed. The cannons fell silent.
He turned, and with a burst of speed caught up with Sonrid.
At the bottom of the stairs, under a ghostly yellow glow, were the bodies of two red dragons, still bleeding from many wounds. Around them were dozens of demon corpses and another small spectre, like Sonrid, slumped against the wall.
Sonrid was by the spectre’s side. “Zax? He’s still alive, Darnuir.”
Darnuir picked his way over and knelt beside them. The other spectre had a shrivelled arm, as though a baby’s arm had been attached to a child.
Zax coughed wetly. A wisp of smoke trailed up from his mouth.
“What happened?” Sonrid asked.
“What does it look like?” Zax whispered. “The demons were fierce things. Swarmed all over the reds. Got ’em with my dirk too,” he added, raising his good hand with evident effort. The dagger spun out of existence, turning back into swirling shadow.
Sonrid sighed, took his friend’s hand and bowed his head. “I am so sorry.”
Darnuir was unsure what to say. They were demons, but they too suffered at Rectar’s hands. They’d probably been affected more than anyone in the Three Races. Out of the gloom came a regular demon, the flames under its shadowy flesh flickering lightly in the darkness. It sat by Zax with wide eyes.
The demon started speaking. Darnuir couldn’t understand it’s words, but he could recognise sad tones. Sonrid responded to it in a language oddly soft upon the ear.
Darnuir was at a loss. Was anything as simple as it had first appeared? He placed a hand on Sonrid’s hunched back and marvelled again at how cold his body was.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Sonrid. But we must move on.” He looked to Zax next. “I could ease your passing, spectre. I owe you something for the help you’ve given Sonrid and myself.”
“Leave me,” Zax croaked. “I do not feel anything right now. Let me live a little while not in pain. Kill our Master, Dragon King, and I’ll consider us even.”
“That I shall try with all my strength.”
Sonrid let go of Zax’s hand. “Goodbye, my friend. Perhaps we’ll meet on another world.”
“I’d like that,” Zax said. Another puff of smoke billowed from his mouth. “Go now.”
Darnuir didn’t need any more reason. He was about to pick Sonrid back up, but the spectre was already moving, nattering something to the demon in a hurried voice. Some way up the corridor more demons were tentatively emerging. Sonrid spoke to them. As Darnuir’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw many heads with fiery eyes nodding excitedly. Some let loose their usual howling. They scattered soon afterwards in all directions.
“What did you say to them?”
A smile crept up Sonrid’s face. “I told them to free the spectres and rally the other Broken for aid. The time has come to fight the Master.”
“Not in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be calling a spectre a friend,” Darnuir said. “But here I am. Come along now, we have to find Dukoona.” He scooped Sonrid up like a kitten, ignoring the protests. “Be quick with the directions. Every second is precious.”
He charged off down the dank, eerie corridor, past grey light, and brown, sickly light, and through no light at all.
At a fork in the tunnels, a red dragon came bounding towards them, roaring mightily, forked tongue lolling madly. In the confined space the creature looked monstrously large. Darnuir met it coolly, letting the red swing its weapon to clang against the ceiling, while he jumped, pushed off the nearby wall, twisted under its arms and thrust the Dragon’s Blade neatly through its skull, before landing in tune with the red corpse as it thudded to the floor.
“Perhaps you can do this after all,” Sonrid snickered.
“Let’s hope so.” He pointed his sword towards the fork in the road. “Which way now?”
Sonrid kept up a running stream of directions as they descended deeper into the heart of Kar’drun. It all led to a cavernous hall with only the light of the Guardian’s Blade to see by. The Cascade felt stronger the deeper into the mountain they went. He amplified the golden glow, bathing the place to find Dukoona. The space truly was vast. Several Basilicas would have sat comfortably within it.
“Above us,” Sonrid said.
Sure enough, high overhead, strung up by thick ropes of coiling shadows, the Lord of the Spectres hung. Darnuir recognised those long tendrils of blue flame.
He glanced about, as though Rectar might jump at him from a shadow, then placed Sonrid down and went to the first bond. He drew the Dragon’s Blade and, with both Blades ready, paused.
Would this be wise? He’d come all this way, and he didn’t think it all a ruse. That performance from Sonrid at the alcove couldn’t have been fake, could it? In a horrible moment of doubt, he wondered whether his trust of Dukoona had been born of real gut instinct or whether his attempts to rebel against Blaine months before had led him to trust for the wrong reasons.
Darnuir decided to trust himself.
With both Blades he severed each dark bond and Dukoona fell silently, landing with a seamless meld into the shadow cast by Sonrid’s body. Dukoona bounded back out at once, unfazed by the fall. He looked no different than when Darnuir had last seen him, with no visible signs of pain or torture, yet there was something in his eyes. The whites were c
louded and grey, perhaps the only outward sign of suffering that spectres could show.
“You’ve done better than I dared hope, Sonrid,” Dukoona said. “And you, Darnuir, I am grateful you have come at last.” He sounded pleased, though he did not quite meet Darnuir’s eye.
“Are you fit to fight?”
Dukoona hesitated, flexing his fingers. A blade swirled into his hand from the purple shadows, flickered as though about to fail, then fully formed.
“I am.”
Darnuir nodded. “Good. Your people are being released to join the battle outside. The sooner we find Rectar and kill him—”
“The spectres are fighting?” Dukoona said, sounding alarmed.
“I have sent demons that remain to free them,” Sonrid said.
“But they would be safe here,” Dukoona said.
“Wouldn’t they rather fight?” Darnuir asked.
“They’ve suffered enough.”
“So have my people,” Darnuir said. “We all have. Now is not the time to falter.”
Dukoona groaned. “How strong are you now? Can you defeat Him?”
“I wish I could tell you yes.”
Dukoona at last met his eye and Darnuir saw some struggle in him, though what he couldn’t say. Rectar would have punished Dukoona for his attempted rebellion. It probably made his own time in the chair seem relaxing. He just needed some encouragement.
“Fight with me,” Darnuir said. “Together, we stand a better chance. That’s not changed.”
“He is my Master,” Dukoona said. “There is only so—”
“Much you can do,” Darnuir finished for him. “You said before. Can you fight at all? I know he can possess you or force you to do things against your will.”
“He has to focus on us to do so,” Dukoona said. “With his mind bent on the battle outside, and you, I do not think he will have the will spare to control me. But I cannot make guarantees.”
“I understand,” Darnuir said. “Let’s start with finding him. Where is he hiding?”
Dukoona’s eyes widened. “He does not hide. He comes for you, if he deems it.” Dukoona opened his arms wide and looked up as though to the sky. “Master, I will fulfil my promise.”
“Promise?” Darnuir began.
But before anymore could be said, a sharp crack rent the stale cavern.
A distant blue light pulsed into life, beating gently, growing, until Darnuir could see a great opal of boiling blue. He’d been right in his assumption then. Rectar did have a Cascade Sink, just like Castallan, though many times larger. A cloaked figure was outlined against it, seeming tiny so far away.
The figure landed and started walking towards them.
Darnuir looked to his companions. Sonrid had retreated. Dukoona’s sword arm trembled.
“We can do this,” Darnuir said. “We have to.”
“We will do what we must,” Dukoona said.
Darnuir nodded, hoping Dukoona would find that formidable part of himself soon. He lit the Guardian’s Blade, bright as a summer’s day and blazed life onto the Dragon’s Blade. Magic was no issue here, not so close to that well of energy.
Rectar fast approached them. His steps were regular and small, though he covered the space as though running, leaving a blurring trail of himself in his wake. The cloak he wore was in shreds from the waist down, yet the hood shrouded his face. Was that Kroener’s face he could see underneath or something else entirely?
Darnuir steadied himself, trying to maintain a level head when everything in him urged him to charge. Why wait? This is why he was here and for every second he wasted more dragons, fairies and humans would die outside. Arkus’ anger would grow, and hope would fade. So why was it so hard to move? So hard to breathe?
He had two Blades. No one had ever held two Blades before. Even Rectar only held one, which he was now unsheathing slowly, as if savouring the moment. Darnuir caught sight of the plain handle, unadorned save for a grip of black and gold cloth. The Champion’s Blade. The same Blade he’d witnessed Dronithir use to defeat Norbanus in that memory. The Blade supposedly borne only by ‘those who were worthy’. Either these Gods had told a pack of lies or ancient dragons had been inept in interpreting them. At worst, the Gods were uncaring to have let this happen.
Rectar ran a deathly white hand lovingly from the tip of the Champion’s Blade to its hilt, leaving a purple-blue shine to the metal like a bruise forged in light.
“You are far stronger than he was,” Rectar said. “In every way you are greater. But you will die.”
Darnuir’s heart pumped madly, and the caution of a moment before burned away. Everything, everything had led to this. Every death, every loss, every moment of despair and fragile hope. Cosmo, Eve, Grace, even Damien, and poor Brackendon; they’d fallen to get him here or he’d failed to save them. But not now. Not with the whole world resting on the outcome of this duel.
“I will not fail,” Darnuir roared, magnifying his voice, refusing to be thrown off by Rectar’s confidence. Darnuir found a use for his old anger again and embraced it.
He kicked in both doorways in his mind.
And he charged this God of the Shadows.
Chapter 36
THE LAST BATTLE: PART 2
“It has been two thousand years since a true dragon soared across the sky.”
— From Tiviar’s Histories
Dukoona
HE WATCHED DARNUIR run at his Master. The pair quickly became a blur of motion and colour, tinged blue from the light of the Cascade Sink.
He was grateful that Darnuir had torn off without warning. It gave Dukoona an excuse for his lack of action. This wasn’t like him. He normally knew what he had to do, even if it was hard. Even if it meant sacrifice. Could he risk his people entering an endless nightmare? Riveted by the fight, he merely looked on, trying to decide.
Darnuir was unleashing a fury upon Rectar. They slowed down briefly enough for Dukoona to see the King of Dragons swing a blow, a kick, another blow, another spinning kick, and end on a hammer strike. Rectar evaded or parried his blows but not without some exertion. Ribbons of crimson cloth fell away from Rectar’s cloak as Darnuir scored near misses.
Was Rectar truly on the back foot or was he just toying with Darnuir?
Or was it all for his, Dukoona’s, benefit, some last terrible test after decades of servitude? Rectar could force Dukoona to do his bidding if he committed his will to it; this was just another form of torture. To make him choose.
“Dukoona, help me,” Darnuir bellowed over the clashing swords.
‘Dukoona,’ Rectar said in his mind. ‘Don’t forget my promise. Don’t let your people down.’
He was just so weary, so stiff, so sore in a way that no spectre should have been.
‘I’m waiting, Dukoona. Do not fail your peo—’
Rectar’s voice hissed out of his mind as Darnuir locked swords with him, pressing so hard that the dark God slid back across the cavern floor. Dukoona perked up, hope now kindling inside him. Fighting Darnuir clearly took a great deal of Rectar’s power. Maybe they could defeat Rectar together.
The tremble refused to leave his arm. He’d called out to Rectar that he would follow through, yet now it came to it…
Damnit. Why couldn’t he just decide and be done with it either way?
Ahead, Darnuir attempted to break the stalemate by dousing Rectar in fire. A cocoon of orange-white flames spiralled around Rectar, tightening like a noose. Dukoona started forwards. Had he managed it?
No. Such thoughts were folly.
The fires began to swirl away as a wall of shadows beat back Darnuir’s flames. Then, a screaming rose, a shrill bone-piercing cry that Dukoona had not heard since he’d been summoned to this world. It seemed to come from the shadows that Rectar commanded, as though each one was a tortured soul he’d savaged and
kept as a plaything. Thinking of the red dragons, he might have done just that.
Darnuir’s flames burned brighter; Rectar’s shadows screamed louder, until fire and shadow burst in a wave of heat and smoke. Both combatants were swept off their feet, Rectar towards the Cascade Sink, Darnuir towards Dukoona.
Darnuir skidded, slowing himself down by digging his swords into the cavern floor, then halted on one knee nearby. Panting, he looked pleadingly at Dukoona.
“What are you doing? Help me.”
“I—” Dukoona started, but his two sides were warring within himself. He wanted to explain, to run away, to not have to do this cowardly act. The other voice told him that Darnuir was so close; unsuspecting, weakened, on his knees. He raised his sword.
“Darnuir. I’m sorry, I—”
Rectar interrupted, trying to take Darnuir by surprise. The King of Dragons was knocked over on his back. He crossed his Blades, catching Rectar’s own weapon between them. The tip of the corrupted Champion’s Blade hovered an inch from Darnuir’s throat. Rectar was going to win, and if he made the killing strike then the spectres would never be free.
Dukoona had no need to consider. He hurled himself forwards, adding what strength he could to aid Darnuir. Together, bit by bit, they pushed Rectar back, until Darnuir found the strength to stand and their duel resumed.
Dukoona’s head exploded in pain as Rectar entered his mind.
‘Next time you’ll take your chance. You could have finished him. I’ve directed my dragons to kill your kind first. You’re running out of time.’
Dukoona gasped as his Master left him and he knew that he was right. He’d saved Darnuir when he could have killed him. And now more spectres had perished. He tightened his grip on his sword, collecting himself. The tremor in his limbs ceased.
He’d have to kill Darnuir.
Dukoona tried to intervene in the fight but they were both so powerful he could barely keep up watching them, never mind join the fray. He was nothing on either of them.
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