The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “They are alive?” she said, half-shaking, though whether from fear or happiness Darnuir couldn’t tell.

  “Hush now, Orrana,” Arkus said softly, offering her his hand. Orrana took it and seemed to settle. Then Arkus rounded on Darnuir. “My son is dead. My daughter was lost to me too or do you not recall that?”

  “My memories from my past life are few but, yes, I remember that,” Darnuir said. His voice had returned to normal. He did not wish to mention that he had failed Cassandra a second time.

  She was too close.

  “Yet I promise you Cassandra is alive,” Darnuir said. “Taken hostage by Castallan. I swear to you she lives.” Arkus didn’t even flinch at the words. He seemed unmoved. “I must also tell you of your son, Brallor, though I knew him as Cosmo.” This time Arkus’ features snapped into focus, as he peered down at Darnuir.

  “If you are here to open old wounds then I must caution you. The last time I laid eyes on you, Darnuir, you held my infant daughter in your arms. And the contempt I saw in your eyes panicked me. I feared you would simply dash her head upon the rocks that separated us. It worked out the same. You failed to make it through Aurisha to me and my daughter was lost.”

  The hall murmured once more, as though they had rehearsed this timing.

  “And you were never to see my grief, my woe,” Arkus went on. “As if you would have cared. It was almost too much to bear, to lose a second child. The pain – you cannot imagine. My first wife could not weather it. Her heart broke first and her body followed.” Arkus paused. The Queen beside him, his new Queen, squeezed her husband’s hand. “My son is dead,” Arkus said flatly. “Do not think some memory of him will help me now.”

  “Arkus, painful though it is, you must hear this,” Darnuir said. “It has bearing upon you all. Your son lived. Brallor lived. He spent his years in the Boreac Mountains as a hunter.”

  “It is true, majesty,” Brackendon interjected. “I must admit I was the one who took him from you. He asked me to take him away from the city, as far away as I could. I took him to Cold Point, where my staff tree once grew.”

  Arkus got up from his throne. “Will you make a mockery of my court with these stories? Demand your armies Darnuir and be gone!”

  The crowd grew more restless, shouting, taunting and jeering.

  “Sire,” Lira cautioned Darnuir, but he pushed on. This wound Arkus bore still had poison in it. The man needed it drawn. He needed closure.

  “He took a new name, Cosmo,” Darnuir bellowed, “and he took a wife. They had a son.”

  This time the silence was so complete that Darnuir felt he had gone deaf. Arkus’ face froze, his mouth half open. Queen Orrana paled even further, turning as white as the floor on which Darnuir stood.

  “A son?” she said shrilly.

  “Cullen is his name. Your grandson.”

  “How old is he?” snapped the Queen.

  “Mere months,” Darnuir said. “Only a baby. But an heir all the same.”

  “Silence,” Arkus cried, all his stiffness gone.

  “My king and husband has an heir,” Orrana said tartly. “Our son, Thane, a boy of eight years. A good and strong prince.”

  “And unlikely tae make it tae his ninth year if that cough keeps up,” Somerled said. Orrana shot him a look of pure venom. “Oh, it’s terrible sounding,” Somerled added, a cunning smile playing on his lips.

  “Enough,” Arkus said, looking first to Somerled, then his wife, then Darnuir. “You dragons and your tempers. You have my full attention now, Dragon King. I hope that satisfies you. We shall speak later. The court is dismissed.”

  “You will rise for the King,” cried Raymond, but his voice was drowned by the crowd.

  “Bought and bled. Bought and bled. Bought and bled.”

  “Order,” Raymond yelled but it had little effect. The Chevaliers around the platform braced themselves, hands flying to the hilts of their weapons.

  “Bought and bled. Bought and bled. Bought and bled.”

  Chevaliers were moving to encircle Arkus and Orrana, waving urgently, and attempting to take them away. Somerled Imar had quietly slipped away in the confusion.

  “Bought and bled. Bought and bled. Bought and bled for dragon wars.”

  Darnuir felt something smash off his heavy pauldrons. Shards of glass littered the white stone at his feet and an amber liquid dripped off his armour. Soon more items were being thrown down on him and his Praetorians. They drew their swords in response. Darnuir didn’t stop them. He’d just put an end to it.

  Pulling forth the Dragon’s Blade, Darnuir launched a blistering lance of fire into the air. He sent it up to the ceiling then split the flames and sent four strands arching against the roof of the hall. The noise of it covered even the shrieking crowd and after holding it for a few moments, Darnuir killed it, bringing a silence once more. His throat felt hot and raw, but he barely even felt the residue from the Cascade flow down his arm. A gentle kick hit the back of his head and he felt very satisfied. A grin broke out across his face.

  I must be getting more used to it. I can handle more.

  In the eerie quiet, not a soul stirred in the hall other than Arkus.

  The Human King got back to his feet. “The court is dismissed.”

  Chapter 5

  THE CASCADE CONCLAVE

  Despite their exile, Dranus and his Black Dragons flourished. They found a new home at Kar’drun, building the world’s first great city on the eastern coast and burrowed into the mountain itself for extra safety. Aurisha became concerned that Dranus would use the Cascade under Kar’drun to try and reach the gods again. More than that, he worried that Dranus had fallen to the Shadow. And so Aurisha convinced the fairies to aid him in transforming the rest of his true dragons into human form, in order that they might root out the Black Dragons from their mountain home. This was the Third Flight and the start of a long, devastating conflict.

  From Tiviar’s Histories

  Brackendon – Brevia – The Rotting Hill

  AFTER THE EXCITEMENT of the throne room, Brackendon was more than happy to seek a little quiet. Though whether that quiet would benefit him or not was another matter. While Darnuir had chased after Arkus, Brackendon had excused himself. He had some personal business to attend to. He was going to the Cascade Conclave.

  The tower of the Conclave loomed upon a hill in the north-west of the city and could be seen from any point in Brevia. Only the enormous white bridge that spanned the far banks of the city could rival its height. From a street near the edge of the borough, Brackendon glanced at the tower and pulled up the hood of his cloak against the drizzling rain. The weather had turned foul since their entry to the capital that morning, it was now muggy and Brackendon’s robes were sticking to his skin. No one paid him any attention as he walked; city dwellers hurried about their business or went indoors to escape the unpleasant weather.

  As he approached the borough of the Conclave, he wondered what had become of the botany shops, bookmakers, and especially the bakers who made their living from the Conclave’s existence. Within another street or so he saw his answer.

  Closed.

  Closed, boarded up or looted. And this was just one street a fair distance away.

  There was something akin to mist before him, a blue and silver fog floating unnaturally at waist height. It halted abruptly halfway up this street, creating a border with the rest of the city. He looked once more towards the tower.

  And he heard the whisper again.

  Brraaaccck-eendon.

  It was the feeblest of voices, but a voice nonetheless. He thought he had first heard it when he’d reached the outskirts of the city and then again outside the throne room.

  Brraaaccck-eendon.

  It sounded uncertain, as though the speaker were learning a new language. Yet there was also an agony in it that chilled his blood more than any demon ever had. Whatever it was, his instincts told him it came from the tower.

  He took his first steps into the
swirling vapour.

  “Wait,” a small voice said. Brackendon turned slowly and found himself facing a group of young children, too young to be out on their own. A bold boy in baggy clothes spoke to him. “You can’t go that way. It’s haunted.”

  “Haunted by what?” Brackendon asked.

  “A demon,” said a little girl.

  “No, it’s a ghoul,” another girl said. Both were shivering in the cold.

  “It’s a spirit of an ancient dragon,” said the boy at the front. “My brother says it’s what causes the smoke.”

  “I don’t see any smoke?” said Brackendon.

  “Comes at nights sometimes,” said the boy. “Some nights there’s lots and others there’s none. Depends on how angry the spirit is, least that’s what my brother says.”

  “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for this spirit,” Brackendon said. He stepped into the mist.

  “You can’t!” shrieked one of the girls.

  “I know a dragon who can get especially angry,” said Brackendon. “I can handle this… whatever it is. I can handle any ghoul or nasty thing.” The children looked horrified. “Here take this or you’ll freeze.” He unfastened his cloak and wrapped it around the two smallest girls. He then pulled out a plump coin purse and tossed it into the middle of the group. “You spend that on food now.” Delighted, the children gathered up the money and ran off. Brackendon tried to clear them from his mind before continuing his journey towards the tower.

  After a few more deserted streets he’d seen no sign of any evil spirit, but he could feel the Cascade energy in the air. Not pure energy, such as it was when he called upon it, but rougher, worked, stretched thin and worn: more dangerous. He smelled a faint trace of smoke. It was sulphuric, as though from a large wood fire. Presently, there was no smoke but then it was growing darker and the children said the smoke came at night. With so much twisted Cascade energy affecting the borough, he supposed that small wildfires could start and stop without much reason. Though for it to happen regularly enough to require an angry spirit as explanation would be surprising, but not impossible.

  I should have returned long ago. I might have done something.

  Though what he might have done to spare Brevia this magical fallout he didn’t know. Witches or wizards of the Inner Circle might have known yet the old order was dead. Literally. Only the tower remained. Only Brackendon remained.

  And Castallan! I shouldn’t have fled. I should have stayed to help when the fighting started.

  But he hadn’t. He’d run.

  Not again. Never again.

  As he trudged up the hill to the base of the Conclave tower, full of regret of his previous inaction, he saw that the earth between cracks in the paving slabs had turned a reddish colour and seemed dry.

  Before long, the doors to the Conclave lay before him; broken, unlocked and yet entirely uninviting. Brackendon just stood there, staring at the entrance.

  He didn’t know how long he paused before the tower doors – long enough for the sky to darken and the rain to begin lashing down. He kept the rain off himself, manipulating the air around him. Guilt or fear rooted him in place, though he couldn’t say which it was.

  Then, something took hold of his hand. It was quite wet.

  “I hope you weren’t thinking on going in there without me?” Kymethra said. Brackendon’s heart, his entire being, warmed at her voice.

  “You look drowned,” he said, facing her and pushing back a sodden clump of hair. He kissed her. “And you’re freezing.”

  “Heat,” she managed through chattering teeth.

  “One moment. Stay close.”

  As she hugged in closer, Brackendon took back possession of his hand and opened his palm. A moment’s thought, a nudge more on the door to the Cascade, and a hot ball of fire appeared. He felt a flow of magic through him then, from shoulder to hand, yet it seared so low it was almost pleasant, like the warming feeling of a strong drink. Keeping the fire burning cost little energy after all. Fire could destroy, and like movement it was cheap; for destruction is far easier than creation.

  “That’s better,” Kymethra said. She clung to him and after a while stopped shivering and began to breathe normally again. Her hair dried and fluffed up, the white tips curling upwards in their usual flick. “Ready?” she asked, nodding to the Conclave doors.

  “I am now,” he said, extinguishing the orb of fire in his hand. Together they made their way inside.

  The chill was the first thing that Brackendon noticed as they entered. It was unnaturally cold for the season, miserable weather outside notwithstanding. His breath rose in great clouds before his eyes.

  “I think you’ll need to relight that fire,” Kymethra said.

  Brackendon took some tentative steps down the dark, dank corridor. “I don’t think so. It’s unbearably hot here.” He tugged at the collar of his robes.

  Kymethra stepped to join him. “Ugh, we’ll sweat to death like this. The Cascade is twisted here. Why come back?”

  “I felt compelled… We don’t know what really happened.”

  Brraaaccck-eendon, came the strange voice again, louder than outside the tower.

  “What’s there to know?” Kymethra crept past him. “All we’ll come across are terrible memories. Bad memories or likely something dangerous – ouch, my knee. I can’t see a thing. Hurry up and light the way.”

  “Sorry,” Brackendon said, distracted. “Can you hear anything?”

  “All I’m hearing is you are not giving us some light.”

  “Like a voice,” Brackendon said. “Like a whisper.”

  “No… Come on now Brackers. Don’t leave us in the dark.”

  Brackendon shook his head and lit up the end of his staff. The corridor was suddenly illuminated. Parchment was strewn everywhere, cushions lay ripped, furniture snapped, drawers pulled out of cabinets, and a trail of debris led into each room. He checked each one and found the shelves were completely bare, not a book or scroll was left on them. He thought that perhaps some brave looters might have taken them along with items of more obvious value.

  At the end of the hallway was a winding staircase that would take them nowhere. Navigating the Conclave wasn’t obvious. You had to know your way.

  Brraaaccck-eendon. Up…

  “There it is again.”

  “Not that I’m jealous,” Kymethra said. “But why is it speaking to you?”

  “I have no idea. It is saying ‘up’.”

  “Up?” Kymethra said, rolling her eyes upwards as if she could see through to the top of the tower. “Well, let’s go.” She took a few more steps down the corridor, as though heading for the stairs, and sighed with relief. “Oh, it’s not so hot here and mmm, it smells like alderberry pie.”

  “Kymethra, maybe we ought to turn back. I thought it would give me closure to come here; give us both closure. I thought I might find something to aid me against Castallan but there is no way he would have allowed anything valuable to be left behind.”

  Kymethra gave him that look that only she could. “Scared?”

  “You’re not the one hearing voices.”

  Up…

  “I’m frightened too,” Kymethra said. “This place used to be our whole lives. I’m terrified of what might be up there. We might even find your old hat.” She shuddered at the thought. He smiled and then stepped towards her, happy to be out of the hot zone. Here the air really did smell deliciously tangy.

  “That hat is what got your attention,” Brackendon said. He kept on walking, veering into a side room that hid the real way to the higher levels of the tower.

  “What got you my attention was my desperate need for help on elemental control.”

  “Shame you never really mastered it,” said Brackendon. He twisted the inkwell at the special desk clockwise one full turn and a ramp descended from above. They began to ascend.

  Up…Up. Brackkkkkkkendon.

  “Or maybe you were just a bad teacher,” said Kymethra. “Good thing I
make up for it with my mind tricks.” She pressed three fingers over her ear in demonstration.

  “Do you ever regret not completing your training?”

  “A part of me does. I could be helping more than I am. But then—”

  “You’ve seen what it did to me,” Brackendon said. “I can’t blame you for wishing to have nothing to do with the Cascade after that.”

  “Actually,” she began, sounding slightly annoyed, “I was going to say that, had I completed my training you might not have come for me that day.”

  “Of course I would have,” Brackendon said. “How could you say such a thing?”

  “Stop interrupting,” said Kymethra. She halted before three doors. “Wait a moment. These are the shifting doorways, aren’t they? There used to be a method to figure out which one is real.”

  “Yes, there was,” Brackendon said, racking his mind.

  Left… something hissed. Brackendon twitched his head around. Left… The voice seemed to be getting stronger.

  “I think it’s that one,” he said, pointing at the left-hand door.

  “What’s the trick?”

  “I’m getting some help.”

  “Or you could be being led into the void.”

  “I’ll go first then,” said Brackendon. He pushed on it. “Stairs. I think we’re safe. And I’m sorry for before, what were you trying to say?”

  “That I’m glad I hadn’t received my staff, when it — when it happened. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come to take me away when the fighting started. And don’t try to pretend like that isn’t true. I could see it in your eyes. I remember. I’ve never seen you so torn.”

  “It wasn’t an easy choice. But that doesn’t mean I regret coming for you. Not one bit.”

  “I know,” Kymethra said and this time it was she who kissed him. “Nor do I regret smashing Malik’s face in with my alchemy tome when he tried to stick that glass dagger into you.”