The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  I should have said no. I should have looked Darnuir squarely in the eye and told him, “No, bugger this, I’m staying.”

  He wasn’t a leader. Sure, he had led hunter patrols, but that was different. And Cosmo had been there for him. He’d always been there. Garon had been so young when he had stumbled ragged into the Boreac Mountains, he had no memory intact from before that time. Perhaps his mind had blocked them out to save himself the ache. He remembered the oozy black blood upon the door to his old home in the Dales; remembered pushing it gently in. Remembered seeing the bodies—

  He shook his head. Why ruin a perfectly nice night thinking about that?

  He swallowed down the last of his sharp yet creamy cheese, oddly satisfied with his meal. A cup of shimmer brew to finish was tempting; the very thought of its bitter fragrance wafting in the air made him rummage into the supplies. It had to be rationed carefully, but one cup could be spared. He was on the verge of setting some water to boil, crouched over, his back to the rest of the camp, when he heard the footsteps.

  “I thought I was clear,” he said. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Unless it is these two, I see,” came the irritated voice of Legate Marus.

  “You will want to know dis, Garon pack leader,” said Ochnic, discernible from his earthy voice.

  “Something tells me I won’t enjoy hearing it,” Garon sighed. He turned to be greeted by a frowning Marus. The dragon had such thick dark-blond eyebrows that Garon was surprised he could see at all when frowning like that. Marus’ red plumed helmet was tucked under one arm.

  “What is wrong, Ochnic?” Rufus asked.

  “We cannot travel through da glens dis way,” Ochnic said, his icy eyes piercing Garon’s gaze.

  “And why not?” Marus asked. “You made it down easily enough before, troll.”

  “Ochnic was alone before,” Rufus said. “The terrain is winding and rough. It will slow us down considerably. Likely we’ll be single file in places.”

  “Too slow,” Ochnic said, drawing out the words in a long breath.

  “And you had no idea of this beforehand?” said Garon.

  “Do you know of every rock of your own mountains?” Ochnic said.

  “I was aware of spaces a bloody army might pass,” Garon said. “Still, we must press on.”

  “It will take too long, Garon, pack leader,” Ochnic said. “We must reach da kazzek before da rains come; before de lochs rise too high; before de winds blow us back.”

  “We are aware that autumn and winter approach,” Rufus said, “but we still have plenty of time.”

  Ochnic seemed to ignore Rufus. He stepped closer to Garon, drawing himself up to his full and impressive height. He looked down with wide eyes, the white fur on his torso furrowed and Garon glanced apprehensively to the large dagger at the troll’s side.

  “I worry for da kazzek,” was all Ochnic said, softly, almost pleading.

  Garon relaxed and spoke softly in return. “I understand your concern for your people but—”

  “Last hope, I am,” Ochnic said, thumping a hand onto his white furred chest. His thick, grey skin wrinkled around his eyes as he fumed at Garon. One might have mistaken it for anger, as Marus seemed to do, reaching a hand for his sword. But not Garon. He’d developed an instinct for knowing when a person’s anger was really directed elsewhere. Perhaps it came from years of hearing angry fathers’ curse his name.

  “We’ll get there, Ochnic,” Garon said, reaching up to grasp the troll’s callused elbow. Ochnic squinted down, perplexed at the gesture. “I don’t intend to fail,” Garon assured him.

  “We must find a faster way,” said Ochnic.

  “And we shall,” Garon said. He gave a friendly squeeze on the troll’s arm.

  “Thankful, I am,” Ochnic said, taking Garon’s upper arm in imitation and squeezing overly hard.

  Garon winced. “You’re welcome. Griswald, you’ve sat enough, might you go fetch Wing Commander Pel. It seems we are in need of a change of course.”

  “That cheek will get ye intae trouble someday,” Griswald said, but lumbered off all the same.

  Garon, left uncertain of how to proceed, indicated that all should be seated around the campfire. An unpleasant silence followed. Marus removed his helmet and stared into the orange glow, Rufus fidgeted, and Garon half opened his mouth several times, trying to say something, but failing to think of anything. Ochnic didn’t seem to mind. He just sat picking a strand of meat out of his teeth with a chipped nail.

  “Shimmer brew, anyone?” Garon asked. The response was less than enthusiastic, but with little else to do he returned to his pot and dumped the silver leaves in. A tidal wave of sympathy for Darnuir crashed against any lingering annoyance he had for being given this job.

  How much harder must his task be? This is just a mere taste of it and it’s already going awry. He tapped his scroll again by way of tribute. And if I fail, then we all fail. If I fail, the Highlands fall and Val’tarra and Brevia are vulnerable from the north. We’ll be fighting outnumbered on two fronts. We’ll lose. All if I fail to get this lot to work together. He glanced around at each leading member of his expedition, who were all sitting grumpily, not looking at each other, arms folded, and was eternally thankful that Griswald returned promptly with Pel.

  “I am told our mission may already be in jeopardy,” said Pel. She was unable to hide the happiness in her youthful violet eyes, nor the flutter of excitement from her wings. Her silver hair was pulled back in a single long tail and a blue tunic with an emblazoned silver tree cut off at the shoulders revealed lean muscular arms.

  “A small snag, Wing Commander,” Garon said.

  “Perhaps we should return to the Argent Tree?” Pel said.

  Ochnic growled.

  “You would gie up so easily?” Griswald asked.

  “There is a greater fight waging in the south,” Pel said.

  “We have been given a task and we shall see it through,” said Garon. “I was at that council meeting, Pel. Your own Queen approved of this mission.”

  “We have never been friends with the trolls and General Fidelm —”

  “Is outranked by Queen Kasselle,” Marus said. “As is King Darnuir. I shall not return in disgrace, having barely begun.”

  “One more interruption and I’ll fly off,” Pel said. “You, Legate, should treat me as an equal and you, human,” she scowled at Griswald. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Griswald,” the big man said with a nod of his great shaggy head.

  “Griswald,” Pel began. “Shut up.”

  Garon ran a hand through his hair. This was swiftly getting out of hand.

  “How mature of you, Wing Commander,” Marus said. “You are young, but that does not mean you should act your age.”

  “Marus, please,” said Garon. “General Fidelm selected her for the mission. I’m sure he thinks her capable.”

  Pel laughed, an angry little titter of a laugh.

  “What is it?” Garon said.

  “Oh, I’ll be blunt,” Pel said. “Few of my kind wish to waste time wandering lost through the Highlands to save Frost Trolls. So few, in fact, that I was the only Wing Commander he could press into it, mostly by promoting me the day before we left.” Marus and Griswald looked as stunned as Garon felt. Pel shrugged. “My people want to defend Val’tarra, our home. Not theirs.” She flicked her hand at Ochnic.

  Ochnic himself made a loud sucking noise as he finished picking at his teeth. He uncoiled his gangly body and began to slope off. “Call me when da fairy girl is more reasonable.”

  “Come back here, troll,” Pel said. “You’ve even said it yourself, I’m told. We cannot go any further this way.”

  Ochnic stopped. “Always der is ways. Garon, pack leader, said so.”

  Garon smiled pleasantly at Pel. She did not return it.

  “If the River Avvorn will not lead us, perhaps we could follow the Dorain instead,” offered Rufus.

  “In
to the Hinterlands?” said Marus.

  “The Bealach Pass is known to be wide,” Garon said, drawing on old hunter lessons. “The town of Tuath lies at its end, or its beginning, depending on how you view it. Am I right, Griswald?”

  Griswald scratched at his beard. “Rings a bell, but getting over to Tuath from here will take time, lad.”

  “How long exactly?” asked Marus.

  “A week, maybe more,” Garon said.

  “Perhaps longer,” Pel said. “We’re on the wrong side of the Avvorn to reach the Hinterlands with ease. Doubling back or moving forward to find a crossing will take up yet more time.”

  “Den we should be movin’,” Ochnic said.

  “Is there an agreement?” Garon asked hopefully; too hopefully.

  Pel snorted and Marus droned on. Twilight turned to night and still there was no decision.

  I was a poor choice, Darnuir.

  Garon knew he had been picked to lead this expedition because Darnuir trusted him, but that meant little out here. How could he make this fairy listen, when her own General had admitted his resentment of this mission? How could he make a dragon listen to him when Marus could break him in two? How could he do any of it? Then, he started to have dangerous thoughts. Perhaps those who’ve gone over to Castallan have good reasons after all. That red-eyed Chevalier at Torridon did more than stand up to the dragons. If I was that strong, I might make them listen…

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden silence. Ochnic was acting strange, creeping towards Marus and sniffing loudly.

  “What’s wrong?” Garon asked.

  “Smoke,” Ochnic said. “Burning.” He leaned forwards a little more and gave the air another great sniff. “Fresh blood. Can you smell it, dragon legate?”

  Marus’ expression darkened. The legate sniffed the air as well, then reached for his sword and shoved his helmet back on.

  A distinct crack of steel on steel reached them. A roar of a fight. Cries of pain.

  “I don’t think we need tae smell what’s happenin’,” Griswald said.

  Be watchful for those with red eyes…

  Pel flew off into the dark without a word. Marus and Ochnic bounded off at a speed Garon could never match. He joined Griswald and Rufus as they ran towards the noise of the skirmish. Hunters looked on perplexed. They were all mixed together, a vibrant blend of white, grey, mud-red and grainy yellow leathers, illuminated by small pockets of light from campfires. Garon saw a glimmer of a larger fire to the south, towards their baggage train.

  They ran into the dragon’s camp, with all their white tents lined in neat rows. Most had removed their armour for the day. There was a surprising number of hunters here as well, mingling with the dragons, it seemed.

  “Arm yourselves!” Garon cried to them.

  Beware the red eyes…

  And he began to see them; close by, in the semi-darkness, red eyes opened with a furious intent. Eyes like true predators. It was hard to believe that behind each pair was a human like him.

  Knives were used to slit the throats of unsuspecting dragons. Some gouged at their bellies or backs from behind. Muffled screams barely left the dragons’ throats.

  A huntress in yellow leathers from the Golden Crescent weaved her way towards Garon. Her eyes flashed red as she wiped out her sword.

  “I’m with ya lad,” Griswald said, hurtling his bulk at the huntress. Griswald was a bear of a man, but she knocked him back effortlessly and charged towards Garon. He dropped flat on his stomach and the huntress bawled in annoyance as her blade swished at empty air. Garon rolled to one side to avoid her stamping feet. Still prone, he cut at her ankles, then her shins, then her thighs as she was brought low. It wasn’t sporting but these traitors had changed the rules. She twisted around and Garon rolled again without thinking, hearing his leathers tear as her blade narrowly missed the skin on his back. Flipping onto one knee, he stabbed deep into her exposed side to end the fight. Then, a broad figure was over him; grabbing him.

  “Up you get,” Rufus told him, blood running from his crooked nose. “They’re popping up all over.”

  Griswald staggered over to them. He seemed winded but unharmed.

  The camp of the Ninth Legion descended into chaos. The red-eyed men and women had taken the advantage with their surprise attack. In many places, it was hardly a fight. Half a minute past, or half an hour or half a heartbeat. Garon just tried to keep his head. Red eyes flashed in the night, running at him, as though he were their main target. He supposed he might be. He was the leader of this expedition, after all. Yet most were speeding southwards, towards their supplies where the fire grew brighter. He was only in the way.

  A hard buzz grew overhead, a noise like a thousand murmuring people.

  Fairies. About bloody time.

  Some of the red eyes began to ascend upwards, lifted by two or more fairies. They climbed higher and higher until the darkness swallowed them. Then they dropped and their eyes extinguished when they hit the ground. Garon stuck close to Rufus and Griswald, as the three of them together offered a better fight to each traitor. Tents were aflame now too.

  “We must reach the baggage carts,” Garon spluttered, shielding his own face from the smoke. “Or we’ll have nothing left to eat.”

  Griswald roared his displeasure at that, taking a swipe at an approaching red-eyed hunter. The traitor from the Golden Crescent avoided Griswald with ease, making the giant seem sluggish.

  “Bastard,” Griswald yelled as his quarry disappeared into the darkness and smoke. A moment later, the Golden Crescent hunter came flying back, clean off his feet. Legate Marus followed, his face red with fury, and buried his sword down through the man’s stomach.

  “Marus,” Garon implored, “the supplies—”

  “Come,” Marus said. As they ran, the tide of the skirmish turned. Fewer red eyes could be seen in the night and many were taking flight.

  By the time Garon reached the baggage train, the destruction of their supplies was already a full-blown nightmare. There was singed cloth and leather, ashes from burning shimmer brew leaves and the smell of burning bread – all that fresh fairy bread. Weapon carts were upended, swords and daggers stolen, arrows snapped or tossed into the fires. Dragons and fairies lay slumped against carts or strewn on the ground. Many had their throats slit.

  Marus spat at Garon’s feet. “I’d spit on your whole race if I could.” The flames lit his face in fractured lines, giving him a maddened look. Garon had no words. Even if he could think of some, he was struggling for breath.

  “This isnae our fault,” Griswald said. “Naebody’s but Castallan’s.”

  “Be reasonable, Marus,” Rufus said.

  “We were sent north on a fool’s errand,” Marus bellowed, not listening to them. “Sent north to care for some backward race and get stabbed in the back by humans.”

  “Marus—” Garon began, but Rufus threw out an arm to stop him getting closer to the dragon. He crept closer in Garon’s stead.

  “Those who have joined Castallan have betrayed us all,” Rufus said, stepping very delicately. “We have all suffered here.” He stretched a hand out to Marus. The legate looked disgusted as it touched his shoulder.

  “Get off, human.” His heave sent Rufus reeling; staggering into the path of a red-eyed straggler; a Cairlav huntress with sword in hand. She ripped through Rufus’ chest, through the muscle and the fat to chink off his ribs.

  “No,” Garon cried, but it was nothing on Griswald’s howl.

  Marus stood aghast at Rufus, frozen, reacting slowly for a dragon as the huntress made to strike him next. All thought of her escape seemed forgotten. Marus parried but only just. Garon started forwards but before he could reach them, the huntress had her skinning knife in hand and was making quick work of the weak spots on the legate’s upper thigh.

  Marus crumpled.

  Blood sprayed from the wound; colourful, scarlet blood that spoke of a cut artery. It splattered the huntress and her bright eyes turned
on Garon. She advanced, wielding both sword and knife. Garon’s block saved his life but the force behind her blow sent him crashing to the ground.

  So, I’ve failed already. I’m sorry, Cosmo, Darnuir. Rufus is dead, likely Marus, and now me.

  He didn’t even think to shut his eyes.

  Another figure rammed the huntress. It balled out of the night, all grey and white haired. Ochnic knocked her sword from her grip and spun in the air to land on his great hand-like feet, producing his own large dagger from his waist. For a moment, they circled each other. Then they wrestled; a savage brawl of scraping metal, tearing clothes and biting. They crashed and both lost their knives. The huntress was stronger but Ochnic was more agile, more flexible.

  He got hold of her neck from behind.

  He twisted hard —

  And with a ringing crack it was over.

  Griswald crawled over to Rufus’s body. Garon didn’t have the strength to look at their fallen friend. He groaned as he tried to stand and found a large grey hand helping him up.

  “I was warned of such humans,” Ochnic said. “But I did not think dey were dat strong.”

  “Marus is hurt,” Garon said. His wits were just returning. He staggered the short distance to the legate. There was a lot of blood. “Hold him, Ochnic.” He struggled with Marus’ armour but managed to get the upper leg guard off, unstrapped his own belt and tied it around Marus’ upper thigh. Garon buckled it and yanked down hard to clamp the blood flow.

  “Ah,” grunted Marus. “Get away human. You too, troll.” He thrashed, throwing Garon and Ochnic backwards. Garon landed onto his back with a thud. He was getting fed up of that this evening.

  “Do you want to die?” Garon said, getting up. He tore off layers of leather and pushed them down on Marus’ wound. He lay most of his weight on the dragon to apply pressure. Ochnic joined him, gnashing his teeth angrily. Marus let loose a pained whimper like a wounded beast; too tough to let himself scream. He tossed again but Garon held on, hating dragons for their pride.

  Would he rather die than admit a human saved him? But it dawned on Garon, as he fought to save the legate’s life. He’s more ashamed that a human has almost killed him.