The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  Copyright © Michael R. Miller, 2017

  Published by I_AM Self-Publishing, 2017.

  The right of Michael R. Miller to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-911079-77-4

  This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be circulated in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise without the publisher’s prior consent.

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  www.thedragonsblade.com

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. A Poor Start

  2. Helping Hands

  3. Evening by the Loch

  4. The Court of Brevia

  5. The Cascade Conclave

  6. The ‘King’ in the South

  7. Tuath

  8. On the Shadow Spire

  9. A Meeting of Kings

  10. The End of Magic

  11. Highland Hunger

  12. The Bastion Besieged

  13. The Breaking of the Bastion: Part 1

  14. The Breaking of the Bastion: Part 2

  15. Aftermath

  16. Da Great Glen

  17. Whisky and Paint

  18. Shadows in Dalridia

  19. A Dish Hard to Stomach

  20. A Murkier Past

  21. Lord Boreac’s Manor

  22. A Father’s Plea

  23. A Shadow Beloved, A Light Fading

  24. The High Price Paid

  25. Blood on the Sand

  26. A Sign

  27. Just One Man

  28. A Sheep Amongst Dragons

  29. Return to Aurisha

  30. Unto the Dawn

  31. Revelations

  32. The War is Won, The War is Just Beginning

  33. Lifting the Veil

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  Grigayne – Island of Eastguard – Splintering Isles

  EASTGUARD HAD FALLEN.

  From his longship out at sea, Grigayne watched the old fort upon the cliff burn. It had stood for centuries, keeping watch for dragon war galleys in ages past. Today, it had taken the demons mere hours to destroy it. The flames now licked towards the dense clouds, waving wildly in the wind.

  We were undermanned, unprepared and taken by surprise.

  Grigayne rehearsed that line in his head. But no matter the reason, it was still a defeat. His father, Somerled Imar, the Lord of the Isles, would slump in disappointment all the same.

  Grigayne tasted blood. It was trickling into his mouth and he dabbed at his injured head with a wad of cloth while the oarsmen around him heaved against the angry waves. Water splashed onboard, wetting his clothes, which were already damp from sweat. Some of it entered his mouth as well, mixing unpleasantly with the blood on his tongue: a salty, tangy, metallic taste. Foul. Though not as foul as their defeat had been.

  “It wis hard fought,” someone said from behind. Grigayne did not recognise the speaker. A coarse voice was a common trait amongst the inhabitants of the Splintering Isles. The salt was said to rub at a man’s throat, a woman’s as well.

  “We should have sailed the moment we saw the demons approaching,” Grigayne said. His own voice was lighter, his letters better enunciated. Lord Somerled had desired Grigayne to blend in at the Lords Assembly in the capital of Brevia, and ensured he learned to speak properly.

  “And gie up the fortress without a fight?”

  “More lives would have been spared,” Grigayne said.

  “Most of the townsfolk in Errin got away, that’s sumin’.”

  “I suppose.”

  Grigayne turned to get a look at the man. He must have been in his fifties, with a patchy brown beard and the gore of battle on him. His only noteworthy feature was the stump on his left wrist.

  “Do I know you?” Grigayne asked.

  “Doubt it.”

  “Well, who are you?” In the chaos, Grigayne had jumped aboard this boat without much thought.

  “Oh, I’ll be the Captain. Names’ Cayn.”

  “You don’t sound certain, Cayn.”

  “Well, I’m sure I saw the last Cap’n on fire during the attack. Then his first mate died with a spectre’s blade in his belly, and then his closest mate died n’all. Seeing as it’s only a small ship, that just leaves me in charge.”

  “And a fine captain you’ll make.”

  Cayn shrugged. “Might do, though only reason I’m sat here is cause I cannae row.” He waved his stump in demonstration.

  Grigayne closed his eyes at that. More water splashed up and seeped through the cloth over his wound. It stung powerfully but he held the cloth in place, knowing the salt would help clean the cut.

  “So, Captain Cayn, do you think you can take us to Dalridia?”

  “I thought we would be stopping at Ullasay,” Cayn said, giving his beard a good scratch. “Much closer than the capital. The weather is against us, and we don’t have much in the way of food.”

  “Forget the weather. Every demon that Rectar has at his command seems to be set against us, and we do not have time to stop. My father must be warned as soon as possible.”

  Cayn’s expression was downcast, as if the aged man did not feel any amount of warning would suffice. “Aye, then. We’ll make for Dalridia.”

  Grigayne took stock of the oarsmen he had left. Although many of them bore signs of the recent skirmish, thankfully, they all looked experienced. Most had a small axe or sword at their belts, but nothing compared to the larger war axe resting on Grigayne’s own lap. He would have carried his strong round shield upon his back, but it had been cloven in two by the razor edge of a spectre’s shadowy blade.

  Grigayne would not call what had just unfolded a battle. The demons had come on so fast, there had been no warning.

  “Ironic really,” Grigayne mused aloud, “that a fortress built to ward against dragons should fall so easily.”

  “Not enough men,” Cayn said simply. “Place was a bit old too.”

  “Built at the same time as the Bastion,” Grigayne said.

  “Bastion has taller walls,” Cayn said, with another shrug of his shoulders. “And stone. We could’ve used more stone.”

  With the blazing fire in the distance, Grigayne could not disagree. The neighbouring islands were no better equipped to resist attack and would not last long. Ullusay, Ronra and the little island of Skelf would surely fall before he could return with aid. All the Splintering Isles were in peril.

  All of Tenalp will be in danger from such a force. We’ll merely be the first to fall.

  He kept such thoughts to himself, however. Despair would hardly drive the men to Dalridia.

  “Let us row with all our strength, Captain Cayn.”

  “Aye, milord. Hard at ’em oars now lads. Heave ’n ho. There’s a shark at yer arse, so heave and ho.”

  Grigayne settled in beside a rower who lacked a mate beside him. The man was shivering, though whether from fear or the cold Grigayne could not tell. He took the end of the oar and began to rock forward and back, forward and back, feeling the ocean resist his efforts. His head still rang from the blow he had taken, and his thoughts jumped from one uncertainty to the next. Why now? Will Brevia send support in time? Will Brevia send support at all? Grigayne didn’t know the answers and so, for now, he focused on the rhythm of his arms.

  Forward and back, forward and back, forward and back.

  Will the dragons emerge to fight alongside us?

  Forward and back, forward and back.

  One t
hing, at least, was certain.

  Eastguard had fallen.

  Dukoona – The Island of Eastguard

  A human was trying to scuttle away on a broken leg. When Dukoona reached him, he placed one of his shadowy feet upon the human’s chest. His victim stopped squirming, then attempted to raise his small, round shield to cover his face. Now that Dukoona could see him, he seemed so young. Not much more than a boy. A crying boy.

  Better a clean death.

  A blade forged from the shadows swirled into Dukoona’s open hand, ghostly purple and sharp enough to cut down through the wooden shield with ease. The boy lay still. He had been the last of the islanders left on Eastguard. The small band here had proven easy to remove. Dukoona’s landing had surprised them, as he had intended. A few ships, however, had gotten away. Dukoona had intended that as well.

  Kidrian appeared at his side, looking out to the longships heading south and west.

  “They will alert the rest of the islanders,” Kidrian croaked.

  “As they should,” Dukoona said. “Come, walk with me.” He moved away from the boy’s body and drew up short of the cliff edge facing south. Just beyond the horizon lay the island of Ullusay, and beyond that would be Dalridia, lying in the shadow of the Nail Head Mountain. If Dalridia fell, all the Splintering Isles would follow. Yet Dukoona was in no hurry to conquer it. Furtively, he checked his surroundings and then the sky. Dense clouds prevented any shadows from spreading across the land, so he needn’t fear being overheard here. He could not place faith in all his spectres, only his Trusted.

  “We may discuss matters here, I think,” Dukoona said.

  “What would you keep from the Master?”

  “Most things, but right now, I’d withhold how easily Eastguard fell. Rectar may expect quick progress if he knows how fast we took a foothold here.”

  “A foothold would require a more permanent base.”

  “I think you might be correct,” Dukoona said, turning to face his companion. A wry smile crept up the side of Kidrian’s face, starkly white against the dense flesh-like shadow of his body. The cold purple embers on Kidrian’s head burned lowly. Somehow, the wind did not affect them as it would normal flames.

  “A Shadow Spire should be constructed,” Kidrian said.

  “A wise move. One that would take a great deal of time, I’d imagine?”

  “It may delay us by a month, maybe more.”

  “A necessary precaution.”

  “I quite agree, my Lord.”

  My Lord. He looks to me. I only wish I could do more for him, for all the spectres.

  “Is there something more on your mind, Kidrian?”

  The leader of the Trusted shifted uneasily. “The disappearances of some of our people at Kar’drun, my Lord. They worry me still.”

  “I have not forgotten,” Dukoona said. “But, as always, we can only be patient. Go now, before those we do not Trust grow suspicious.”

  Kidrian bowed and took his leave. Dukoona lingered for a while, surveying Rectar’s vast fleet as it swept along the ocean. He could not turn the demons back; only play for time. He needed that now – time to think, time to plan – but there was none. He did not know what he could do to save his spectres from extinction. They were caught between the Three Races and Rectar, as though exposed in a great expanse between two shadows.

  Something stirred within his mind. In a split second, the endless presence of his Master glanced towards him, then looked away. Rectar said nothing, perhaps he was satisfied to see the burning fort and dead humans sprawled around it. With the moment over, Dukoona relaxed.

  He desperately needed time. But he could not delay for long.

  Chapter 1

  A POOR START

  Unlike previous eras, the Transformation of the dragons, the Third Flight and the forging of the Three Blades is the earliest period of what we can consider history; though it is still blurred heavily in legend. Sources from the time are scant but confirm just enough to allow us to speculate further.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Garon – North of Val’tarra

  A WEEK HAD PASSED since Garon’s expedition had left the tranquillity of the Argent Tree, and two days since they had left the forest of Val’tarra altogether. The Ninth Legion marched, three thousand dragons strong, along with a thousand hunters and as many fairies on their way northwards to safeguard the Highlands and aid the Kazzek Trolls.

  Garon had kept their column close to the west bank of the River Avvorn. Its crystal water was clean and energising, laced with hints of Cascade energy from the Highland Mountains. Garon might have found it harmonious, had it not been for his gnawing fear.

  He could still hear the pressing worry in Darnuir’s voice when he had pulled Garon in close and whispered, “Be watchful for those with red eyes.” The words had not been written among the orders on the scroll he had given to Garon, but it was an order nonetheless. He kept that scroll close. It was a reminder to Garon of who was counting on him. It reminded everyone else that he, a human, was in charge of this expedition. Garon thought it a bit of a joke that it had been left to him. The kind of joke that makes you wince and suck in breath through clenched teeth. Yet he was in charge, and so long as that was the case, he intended to stay alive and keep it that way.

  Beware the red-eyed men. Suppose I should beware the red-eyed women too.

  The threat of these unknown red-eyed traitors loomed over him. He couldn’t meet a strange hunter from the Cairlav Marshes or the Golden Crescent without staring awkwardly into their eyes, weighing them up, judging whether they had joined Castallan and been enchanted by his magic, as that red-eyed Chevalier at Torridon had been.

  Even those from the Boreac Mountains, he gave a second look; people he’d fought and bled alongside for years. All of them, apart from Griswald and Rufus. If he couldn’t trust them, he couldn’t trust anyone.

  “Not like ye tae be so quiet,” Griswald barked beside him. “No seemed yerself since we left the forest.”

  “I’m mourning the loss of that sweet fairy girl,” Garon said airily. He reached into a deep pocket of his leathers and pulled out a thin block of silver wood. “This is all I have to remember her by.” He showed the block to Griswald – two painted patterned lines, one pink and one blue, wove halfway along the piece.

  “Pretty. She forgot tae fill in the rest, though.”

  Garon tucked the wood away. “It’s supposed to represent our time together. “Passionate, but cut short.”

  “Ha,” Griswald laughed. “Young Pel better watch herself then.”

  “Wing Commander Pel,” Garon said, strongly emphasising her rank, “is off limits.”

  “I won’t hold my breath. If ye had a block like that for each of yer girls, you could build us a new station.”

  “Oh, come now, Griswald. A small hut perhaps, but not a whole station.”

  “Well, hold on tight tae that wee momento. I don’t reckon there will be many more women where we’re going.”

  “The Hinterlands aren’t so far away. I’m sure there are women there.”

  “I hear they grow ’em tall and blonde in the Hinterlands. I could be tempted. Sure, I cannae persuade ye to change course?”

  “I’m afraid I must dash your dreams of tall women to match your enormity. We’ll be following the Avvorn northwards. That is how Ochnic came down. It is the fastest way into the Highlands, or so he says.”

  Griswald gave a loud tut of disappointment. “Where is the troll?”

  “Further ahead with Rufus. They are scouting the best path for us to take.”

  “You trust that creature, lad?”

  “Darnuir does,” Garon said, tapping a finger against his scroll. “And so does Cosmo. That’s enough for me.”

  “Aye, I’ll take Cosmo’s word for it. Even if the royal git hid who he was from us all these years.”

  “Would you call your prince that to his face?”

  “Might be best to refrain when I next see him,” Gris
wald admitted. “Expect he’ll be wearing thick fancy robes and a crown tae boot by then.”

  “I hear those girls in the court at Brevia grow very pretty.”

  “Aye? I’ll march faster for that lad.”

  And march they did.

  At dusk, Garon called a halt. The warm amber light of a summer’s eve was a perfect end to a far too affable a day. Something is bound to sour it. Garon’s thoughts immediately jumped to Legate Marus, Commander of the Ninth Legion, and the snide remarks he’d make for halting their march before they keeled over in exhaustion. For now, Garon had managed to avoid Marus, claiming he wished to sup in peace. Though he had not protested when Griswald had taken up a space by the fire. A large space, it was Griswald after all. The man’s beard more closely resembled a thicket and a fair bit of cheese was tangled in it.

  Griswald belched. “Woah, beg yer pardon.”

  “Denied,” came the low voice of Rufus. Although not as large as Griswald, the cropped, black-haired hunter was still impressively broad.

  “You’re supposed to be scouting us a path with Ochnic,” Garon said.

  “The troll said I ought to return,” Rufus said, taking a seat on the dry grass by the fire. “It wasn’t looking promising, I’m afraid.”

  “So, where is he?” Garon said.

  “Checking other routes,” Rufus said. Garon eyed him, but Rufus just shrugged. “Apparently, he’d be quicker without me. Way that troll moves I’m inclined to agree.”

  “I’m not sure if you’ve really earned your dinner then,” Garon said, pushing a basket of food over with one foot.

  “Not a hot one, it seems,” Rufus said, exaggerating with a grimace. Garon rewarded him with a smirk. Whilst their fire was warm, their food, sadly, was not. Still, it was not without pleasure. Whatever the fairies did to their bread kept it tasting fresh for weeks, it even retained that fresh baked smell. Garon picked at the small brown loaf, topped with seeds, and ripped chunks from his stash of cheese. As much as he had liked life at the Argent Tree, he could not have lived there forever. That venison served during the council had been his first bite of real meat for far too long. His mouth watered at the memory of it. His stomach knotted as well, though not entirely at the thought of slow roasted deer.