Far away. Still far. Closer now. Too close.
He kicked away from Rectar, stretched his wings to their full length and glided above the warring armies. He sensed Rectar was not following and turned. Rectar hovered over the legions, preparing to spew his own fire onto them. Darnuir beat upwards, then dove, tucking his wings to his side, slicing through the air faster than a musket ball.
He felt the heat scorch his underbelly as he took the brunt of Rectar’s attack, sparing those below. Fighting through the pain, he hovered, looked Rectar in his jagged red eyes and cursed as his enemy took flight, heading back towards Kar’drun. Darnuir pursued him towards the hole from whence they came.
He pumped his wings with all his newfound might, meaning to prevent Rectar from reaching his goal. If Rectar sought it, it could only mean ill for him.
He rammed Rectar into the mountainside and they fought there upon the black slope, rearing on their hind legs to strike at each other like warring horses. It was a battle of sound as much as muscle, each one trying to deafen the other.
Darnuir’s head hit rock and pain exploded behind his eyes. His world spun in a haze of colour. When he righted himself, he saw Rectar had taken off again, this time climbing high as he’d done before, perhaps trying to lose him in the clouds. Darnuir gave chase, but lost track of Rectar’s swishing tail, until he vanished for good in the gathering clouds.
Beating his wings to remain in place, Darnuir turned, sniffing the air, hoping to find the trail of his quarry. Rectar had stopped roaring. Everything felt still.
He saw the movement from the corner of his eye, but too late. Rectar swooped upon him silently and the pair were locked brutally together once more. This time Rectar seemed to have no intention of letting go. His jaw clamped around the joint of Darnuir’s left wing. Darnuir howled as he was pinned in place. They hurtled towards the solid rock face of Kar’drun. He’d be taking the full impact of it.
Darnuir struggled, kicking and flailing with his talons but to no avail. Rectar had him and sank his teeth in deeper for good measure. Through the dizzying pain, Darnuir saw Rectar raise his wings to help angle their descent. Darnuir took his chance. He heaved up a blast of bright orange fire, concentrating on the softer tissue of Rectar’s wings.
His fire burned a hole and Darnuir began to bite, tearing sinew away in vile tasting chunks, biting on the bone of the wing until it snapped.
Rectar released Darnuir to roar in his own agony.
Darnuir flipped them mid-flight, and sent a taut, powerful stream of fire at Rectar; a mixture of flames and light. Rectar met it with his own, the jets clashing into a hellfire between them.
They held for a time, each trying to outdo the other, neither quite succeeding, yet always falling. Blinded by the inferno, Darnuir lost sight of Rectar, but not the sound of him. He heard Rectar crashing into the mountainside, the dark fires extinguishing soon after.
Darnuir had no time to react.
The hole in the mountain rushed to meet him.
He crumpled against the breach, then followed Rectar down through it.
Back into the cavern he fell, semi-conscious, hearing only a vague rumble of screams and cannon fire. The blue light of the Cascade Sink was fainter now, the opal of bubbling blue far smaller. The Cascade Sink was greatly diminished, as though an ocean had been drained to a pond. If there was battle left, it would be through raw strength, raw determination.
Rectar hit the cavern floor with a heavy thud, sending dust and rubble out like a tidal wave.
Darnuir hit the ground seconds later. All went black.
His fingers tightened desperately around the hilts of both Blades. So, he had arms and hands again, and a throbbing from his legs confirmed they too were back. Cascade residue flowed down his arms like shards of glass. Even with two Blades, even with all his exceptional new power, he sensed that his body was reaching a new breaking point.
Perhaps it was for the best that he sensed less energy behind the doors in his mind. Fighting against every protesting muscle, Darnuir rose.
He spat blue-tinged residue and scanned the area for Rectar. Amidst a ring of rubble, he spotted the crimson cloak now. Rectar got to his feet and the shredded cloak shifted from his shoulders. Darnuir saw the wiry body beneath. Kroener had not been as bulky as most dragons. His arm hung by a sickeningly exposed tendon, the result of Darnuir’s focused efforts on the wing. As Rectar began to heal, the Cascade Sink shrank further, until its light was but a gloomy lantern in the still dark segment of the cavern. Rectar’s arm snapped back into position and he threw back his head in ecstasy at the relief. His crimson hood fell back, at last revealing the face of Kroener in its entirety.
It was a face of sharp angles, with a brutally edged jaw and brow. Looking at his whole person was to look upon a knife edge made flesh. He met Darnuir’s gaze with vacant glacial blue eyes. In that moment, Darnuir felt pity for the dragon he’d once been. Was a piece of him in there still? Had Kroener been forced to watch all Rectar had done or had he embraced Rectar willingly? Blaine believed that Kroener had murdered Darnuir’s father, and if this was true, then Darnuir ought to feel no sympathy at all. But the only father Darnuir really had, the one who’d raised him, had died at the Charred Vale. For Kroener he held no anger. A terrible fate it must be to be possessed by a force such as Rectar. If the so-called betrayer had deserved punishment, he’d received it.
The moment passed. Rectar repositioned the hood and Kroener’s narrowed eyes were lost beneath it, glowing red once more. Rectar strode towards Darnuir, dragging the Champion’s Blade across the ground in a skin-crawling scrape. The God of the Shadows seemed to move slowly, in a more considered approach. Clearly, he was weakened, though Darnuir hardly felt better.
He raised both Blades and staggered forwards to meet his foe.
Dukoona
He heard the almighty crash, but did not investigate. Rather, he kept to his dark corner awaiting Rectar’s punishment for his failure. But it wasn’t from his Master that he hid. His fear was of another spectre coming across him and having to look them in the eye and explain how he’d let them down.
So when he heard footsteps tapping lightly nearby, he ducked away, unwilling to face judgement.
“Dukoona, what did you do?” Sonrid’s voice was weak, as though in shock.
“What I thought I had to,” Dukoona said, not looking at Sonrid. The little spectre had been so brave. Sonrid might be one of the Broken, but it was he, Dukoona, who was truly broken now. Rectar had ground all resistance from him.
“Darnuir is our best hope,” Sonrid said.
“And even he cannot do this. It is impossible.”
Sonrid groaned as he hauled himself closer. “That’s not what you used to say.”
“The pain… You cannot possibly…” but he trailed off. Look who he was speaking to. “You must understand.”
“I believed in you,” Sonrid said. His words hurt Dukoona more than Rectar ever could.
“I’m sorry. I failed us all.”
“It’s not over,” Sonrid insisted. “Darnuir fights still, for how long I don’t know but he’s there and his Blades still have light and fire to them. He has not given in. Nor should you.”
Dukoona stirred, finally looking at Sonrid. “The Master promised to free you all if I killed Darnuir.”
“Kill the Master and we’ll be free regardless.”
“There’s no guarantee—”
“There never was,” Sonrid said. “Dukoona. I did not suffer the walk from Aurisha for you to reduce yourself to this. I once asked you to kill me, so I’d be free of my pain. But you refused. You said it would be better to live, to suffer, but fight. And if we died we would die free, of our own choices, not under the Master’s neglect. All the Trusted followed you because they felt the same. You fail them by surrendering to Rectar, not by dying in battle. They are prepared to die t
o give you the chance. So, what are you waiting for?”
Dukoona’s resolve stiffened. He rose, summoning his shadow blade into his hand.
Darnuir
If ancient gnarled trees could pick up roots and fight each other, it might look like this. At least, that was how Darnuir felt. Most likely they were moving quicker than any normal dragon and far beyond a human, yet to him, to what he’d recently experienced, this felt like a slog. He spat out another gob of gloopy blue residue, barely noticing the bitterness anymore.
Finesse was gone. It was heavy swings and thrusts, followed by punches, shoulder barging, or stamping kicks.
Darnuir cut upwards, grunting like an old man clambering out of bed. Rectar met his strike silently, still with a good deal of force behind it. As the fight wore on, Darnuir began to accept that his own strength was fading, while Rectar’s rallied.
With ragged breath and his pulse hammering, Darnuir tried to regain the upper hand. He brought his swords across from one side, then the other, back again; up and across, then spun and back the other way.
Rectar’s last block sent him reeling.
Darnuir fell, crushing small stones under his armour. He had enough wits left to roll away, and the momentum brought him up in time to face Rectar’s overhead strike.
Darnuir brought both Blades up in a cross guard, catching the Champion’s Blade between them. There he held but knew it would be his last move. His arms trembled from the strain and the dregs of magic still thrumming through them. Rectar pressed his advantage. Darnuir took a step back.
“You have the power and will to go on,” Rectar said. “But you are flesh, and blood, and bone. Like he who came before you, you will tire, your body will wane and break, magic or no. I will not waver. I am restless. Endless.”
Darnuir stepped back again and felt his knees buckle. Under the crushing force of Rectar, he dropped to one knee entirely, and through the gap in the Blades, he saw Rectar’s eyes shift to his chest.
Still holding the twisted Champion’s Blade in one hand, he reached forwards with the other, his milk-white fingers turning into their true shadows as they moved towards Darnuir’s heart. Unable to move, unable to resist, the shadowy fingers plunged unopposed even through the starium lined armour.
Shards of ice entered Darnuir’s heart. Breath abandoned him. Hope left him. When next he heard Rectar’s voice, it was inside his mind.
‘I will take you, as I took him. You could never have wo—’
The chill in Darnuir’s heart disappeared as Rectar’s fingers withdrew. The pressure on his crossed Blades melted away. Blue light from the Cascade Sink burst like the rising sun, the well rapidly expanding. And in that brighter light, a shimmering blade of dark purple glinted right above where Rectar’s wrist had been.
Rectar gasped as the Champion’s Blade hit the cavern floor with a clang.
Bladeless, Rectar froze, eyes wide in horror. Darnuir didn’t catch Dukoona before he melded away, reappearing behind Rectar. The Lord of the Spectres, spoke quietly into his ear.
“Die now, Master.”
He shoved his sword through Rectar’s chest. The shadowy blade burst through like an arrow shaft, though no blood spilled.
Rectar began to flicker and fade between Kroener’s possessed body and his true dark form, blurring until, with an almighty crack, the crimson-cloaked body was left behind, and the shadow split apart from it.
Rectar’s dark form moved sluggishly through the air, an elongated body with limbs stretching further with every second. It made for the Cascade Sink, arms outstretched, but dissolved into nothingness before managing to touch the well of magic. A final shrill scream rang, echoed, and died.
Rectar, God of the Shadows, was gone.
Darnuir stood upright, fighting to control his breath. Jubilation, exhaustion, apprehension, he didn’t know what to feel first. He hadn’t forgotten Dukoona’s recent transgression and so raised the Dragon’s Blade pointedly towards him.
Dukoona already had his hands raised. “I was afraid and made a mistake.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“I thought it would be the only way to save my people. We had a bargain, you see. And I did not think you could do it.”
“I would have lost, if you hadn’t come.”
“And I would never have been able to avoid his possession had you not distracted him so well.” Dukoona offered a smile, but it didn’t make him any less foreboding.
Darnuir wasn’t sure what to do. Dukoona had tried to kill him, he’d come damn near close, in fact. Yet the spectre’s bearing was wildly different than it had been earlier in the battle. The confidence Darnuir had sensed when they’d met at Aurisha had returned. He stood taller, straighter, his blue flaming hair thicker and livelier. Dukoona had done right in the end.
Darnuir lowered his sword. “Why did you return?”
Dukoona looked about as though searching for something. “Because I was reminded about the value of resistance. Even if the odds are slim.”
“Thank you,” Darnuir said, if a little stiffly. “Though as you put a dagger in me, I hope this is a parting of the ways.”
Dukoona’s eyes rolled upwards and he titled back his head as though looking to something high above them. “Do not fear, Dragon King. Leaving this world is something my people dearly wish, something I think is already starting.” And before Darnuir’s very eyes, Dukoona’s body began to disperse into smoke; his feet and legs first, working slowly up.
Darnuir stepped forward as though to help him. “Does it hurt?”
Dukoona smiled. “Not at all.”
“Where are you going? What will you do?”
“I hope somewhere far away, to do whatever we like.”
“Farewell then, Dukoona. And good luck.”
“Farewell, Darnuir.”
Dukoona’s final words became a whisper, as the smoking dispersion reached his head. The spectre too was gone, leaving Darnuir alone in the depths of Kar’drun with only his aches for company.
Chapter 37
THE SCARLET FIELDS
“Even here, we could have taken another path.”
— Author Unknown
Darnuir
THE DUST FELL gently, caught by the light spilling in from the chasm in the mountainside. In the vastness of Rectar’s lair, Darnuir stood alone, embracing the peace in this moment of calm. Rumblings reached him from the world beyond, but not enough to disturb this strange tranquillity. The Cascade Sink slowly swirled away as the energy returned to the surrounding world but Darnuir ensured the doors were firmly shut inside his mind.
He supposed he should be on his way. The job was done. The world was saved.
So why did he feel so – so empty?
Just the tiredness he assumed. Once the Blades churned through the magic, and the victory had a chance to sink in, he was sure he’d feel it. Whatever it would be.
He was just about to leave when he remembered the Champion’s Blade. It must have fallen close by. Darnuir bent down amongst the rubble to search. It couldn’t have gotten far, Rectar hadn’t thrown it, yet there was no sign of it. Frustrated, he allowed a smidgen of magic back in to light the Guardian’s Blade and illuminate his surroundings. He sighed. Nought but dust and rock.
Darnuir craned his neck, gazing through the crack in the mountain, trying to see past the sky, the sun, to whatever lay beyond.
“Did you take it back?”
No answer.
“If you have, I wouldn’t give it away again.”
When still the Gods said nothing, he turned away from the breach, dimmed the light on the Guardian’s Blade and began his journey out of Kar’drun.
Out upon the red fields before the burned mountain, the armies of the Three Races had separated. Dragons stood farthest south of Kar’drun in their shimmering golden armour, where t
he battle had drawn them into thin lines. Fairies hovered in the skies or else stood behind the legions. Human companies had drawn to a halt between the mountain and the dragons.
As Darnuir picked his way across the battlefield, over the thousands of dead red dragons, he got a sense of what had occurred. The humans had forced a push on the enemy flank, cutting through to the mountainside, then turned east and blasted their way through the rest of the reds.
Perhaps things had gotten easier when Rectar had died. The enemy may have lost all their senses or given in. Darnuir did not know. All that was certain was not a single red dragon was left alive.
Black uniformed humans parted for him as he walked, looks of awe upon their faces and a touch of fear in their hearts. The sweetness in the air was light, but it was there. He supposed he would be wary of himself if he were them. He’d turned into a true dragon of old and flown above their heads. Although it was so recent, it somehow felt long ago and distant, as though it hadn’t really been him that had transformed.
In time, Darnuir emerged into the gulf between the human and dragon armies. A knot tightened in his stomach. This should have been a time of rejoicing, yet all was stilted, silent, grim and still. The hundred paces he had left to reach the dragons seemed to stretch out like a second horizon.
A few steps forward, his sensitive ears pricked. Hooves were thundering from the west and Darnuir turned to find King Arkus and a guard of Chevaliers cantering his way. Oddly, they stayed within the ranks of their soldiers, not coming out to greet him man to man.
“You succeeded then, Darnuir,” Arkus called out.
Darnuir nodded slowly. “Somehow, I have. We have,” he added, gesturing to Arkus and the humans at large. “We can begin to rebuild again. It’s over.”
“Yes,” Arkus said, a bite in his voice. “Yes, it is over. Your kind’s domination and abuse of this world is also at an end.”
The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian Page 43