Her fingers touched the cold metal once more.
“I have worked with demons, yes, I admit it. But I had to learn everything I could from Rectar. I do regret some of the steps I’ve had to take but what will it matter once he’s defeated?”
Cassandra’s fingers slowly curled around the hilt of the knife.
“Demons and spectres were a necessary deterrent until I was strong enough to move without them. I welcome their loss at the Charred Vale and their burning bodies outside.”
Cassandra steadied herself.
“Sometimes deaths are necessary to build something great. I learnt that at the Conclave. You must be prepared to fight for change. What’s a few hundred lives, a few thousand, if Dukoona’s invasion is thrown back, if Rectar is defeated and all of humanity made safe?”
Cassandra whipped the knife at Castallan, unleashing a lifetime of coiled fury. Castallan barely flinched as he blasted the knife across the long table. It skewered the remains of a ham as it crunched through it into the wood.
He sighed again, this time irritably. “Sit still will you.” Cassandra felt an invisible force push her back down, holding her in place. She couldn’t even wriggle.
“They’ll come for you,” she said softly, the fight leaving her once more. “Darnuir, the Guardian, Brackendon – they’ll come to kill you.”
Castallan smiled then, as a pure a smile as she had ever seen another person make. “I’m counting on them coming. I’m holed up in an impenetrable fortress, which will be garrisoned with all the troops and hunters that the Southern Dales can muster. And so Darnuir and company will seek me out. They know there are passages throughout the Bastion, even one leading right under the walls.”
“Darnuir might know how I got out, but I couldn’t tell him exactly where the tunnel lies.”
“Oh, don’t fear. Chelos’ information leaves me confident they will find it. And they will run to me, right into my arms. I shall take Brackendon’s staff and graft a piece of it into my own, as I have done with all the others.” He gestured proudly at his collection behind the throne. Now Cassandra looked at them more closely she could see small chunks were missing from each one. Castallan’s own staff was whole but now she knew what to look for, and being so much closer, she could make out the faintest cracks running up the shaft like scars, as though it had been taken apart and stitched back together.
“I shall take the Dragon’s Blade,” Castallan continued in full swing, “and the Guardian’s Blade for good measure. A new age shall begin, and when we are finally at peace, I shall destroy one staff every year until magic is no longer needed to make humanity strong. This I swear, Cassandra. This I swear.”
“I still don’t see why I am here.”
“To lure Darnuir,” Castallan said. “I needed to know if you had one last use and you do. Your squirming at the mention of him told me enough. I want him to come to me, not fight out there on the walls. So, when the time comes, you will wait out the battle in this room with me. I’ll make sure everyone knows where you are and Darnuir will bring me the Dragon’s Blade. All I have to do now is wait. That, Cassandra, is why you are here.”
Chapter 7
TUATH
Three Talons for Three Blades, or so we are to believe. The Dragon’s Blade is known across Tenalp. The second is the Guardian’s Blade, held by the more secretive Guardian. The third sword is the legendary Champion’s Blade, often forgotten by many. Again, the rumours and stories are worthy of their own chapter, though I caution readers against thinking of it as anything other than a powerful myth. It holds allure because there is the chance that anyone might be bestowed great power if they are ‘worthy’. However, it seems strange to me that the ancient dragons would make such a weapon when the other two are so specifically designed.
From Tiviar’s Histories
Garon – The Hinterlands – near the town of Tuath
THINGS HAD GONE from bad to worse for Garon.
First, there had been the attack of the red-eyed traitors. Second, Marus’ injuries had made him no less amenable. He kept the dragons distant, communicating rarely and only through fairy go-betweens, who were themselves in a sour mood about continuing the mission. Thirdly, their journey eastwards into the Hinterlands and towards the town of Tuath had taken three days longer than expected, what with injuries and the need to hunt or forage for a lot more of their food. Those supplies were now running dangerously low. Fourthly, he now found himself at arrow point by about half-a-hundred blue and green clad hunters. It was a mark of the state of things that this did not immediately qualify as his greatest problem.
“We’re not demons,” Garon said. “There will be no need to shoot us.” The hunters had emerged from the wood hugging the base of the Highland range. Rugged heather-topped hills protruded to the left and grew into larger mountains in the distance.
“Just routine,” a woman said, emerging from their ranks to greet him. She was curvaceous, he was sure, beneath all that leather. Her face was sharply defined by contrast and she managed to pull off close-cropped hair in a way that few other women would dare.
“Is it routine for a mixed army of humans, dragons and fairies to arrive in the Hinterlands?” Garon asked. He very much hoped that Ochnic would not make one of his surprise entrances and spook any hunter with a weak draw arm.
“Well it’s not everyday work, I grant you,” she said, extending a hand. “I am Captain Romalla.”
“Garon,” he said, taking her hand delicately. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“Oh please, let’s not waste time. May I see the dragon in charge of this ‘army’?”
Straight to business, is it? No fun for Garon anymore.
Something fun might have helped to distract him from things, from the lack of a certain crooked nosed person.
“Legate Marus represents the dragons,” he said. “But he is not in charge of our expedition. I am.” He handed over Darnuir’s orders. Romalla looked suspicious but took the scroll. Her eyes darted from left to right down the words. “I should warn you that there is a member of the kazzek race among our number. I’d be most grieved if one of your hunters shot him.”
“What? Him?” Romalla asked, nodding to Garon’s right.
Garon turned and gasped. “Ah, Ochnic, how do you do that? Twenty years of hunter training and I can’t tell when a great big troll comes up behind me.”
“I’ve trained for longer,” Ochnic said with a toothy grin.
“You don’t seem surprised, Captain?” Garon said.
“Hmm,” Romalla said. She finished scanning the scroll and rolled it back up. “Surprised? No. You don’t think this is the first kazzek that Hinterland hunters have ever seen, do you?”
“Our people do not wander so far,” Ochnic said.
“Perhaps some get lost then,” Romalla said. “We send long range patrols north to watch for dire wolves and bears coming down from the Highlands. Many on those patrols claim to spot a troll from time to time.”
“Der senses must be keener than da pack leader’s,” Ochnic said, not unkindly.
“Romalla, we suffered a terrible attack from agents of Castallan,” Garon said “I ask that the injured take rest in Tuath and we could do with supplies. My intention is to travel through the Bealach Pass as soon as possible.”
“That would be my preference as well,” said Romalla. “Come. We shall escort you to the outskirts of town. You’ll set up camp a full mile from the walls, mind. No more than fifty of you lot inside at any one time.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Garon said.
Light lingered for a long time that night. Garon had never seen the sky turn lilac and slowly darken into purple, nor had he thought it would linger for so long. He longed to walk out underneath it and breathe in the fresh pine-scented air. Instead, he was perched at the windowsill in the Captain’s regular room at the Carter’s Rest in Tuath, with a dragon, fairy and troll, bickering with each other.
“What say you, Garon?” Romalla
called to him.
With regret and an ache between his eyes, Garon tore his gaze away from the enticing sky. “There is no question. We go north as instructed. And we’ll go with the forces left to us.”
He saw fresh annoyance rise in Marus’ face. The legate’s leg was elevated on a chair while he sat. The fact that he was moving at all was impressive. Such an injury would have left any human in their beds, but through some stubborn dragon stamina, Marus was moving around; puffy eyed and evidently in pain, but still moving.
“I’ll add again that I trust all my hunters,” Romalla said.
“We cannot take the risk,” Marus said.
“I understand,” said Romalla. “From what you say, I could be in for rude awakening. You’ll have the supplies you need. That much I can grant you.”
“That’s very accommodating of you, Captain,” Garon said.
“Then you may depart as soon as you feel ready,” said Romalla. Her position was more than clear.
“And so, our short and thankfully amiable business is concluded,” Garon said, with no small measure of sarcasm. Marus got up without a second thought, limping with a great swing of his foot towards the door and his dragons on the other side. Pel rose more slowly, lingering her attention on Garon briefly with a defeated expression before turning to Romalla.
“Thank you, Captain,” Pel said. “For being so helpful in our time of need. And thank you, troll, for your scintillating insights.”
With his forehead resting upon the table, Ochnic groaned.
“Thank you, Wing Commander,” Garon said, hoping to impress upon her that enough was enough. “You heard the Captain. Our discussion is over. Go get some rest.”
Pel traipsed out of the room, although her traipse was a human’s most graceful glide after ten years of courtly training. Once she was clear of the room, Ochnic dragged himself upright. One of his tusks gouged a small chip in the wood along the way.
“I begin to regret dis great walk,” Ochnic said. “Da cold waters of da river will freshen me. Night good, Romalla, hunter captain.”
Romalla turned to Garon in confusion.
“It’s ‘good night’, Ochnic,” Garon said. “And thank you again for your patience.” The troll flashed his fanged teeth in a gesture that Garon decided to interpret as a friendly salute, then he too lumbered off, ducking at the doorframe to avoid injury. With nothing else to do, Garon began to follow.
“Garon,” Romalla called after him. “Come back.”
Often, Garon had heard that phrase laced with a playful longing. Habit, therefore, prompted him to arrange his face into his best smoulder before turning, but a deep tiredness had come upon him with the evening’s bout of arguing done and his lips and eyebrows felt unresponsive. In the end, it was all in vain. Romalla had her back to him, bustling with some papers at a desk she must have kept permanently in the room.
After a while, she turned to check on him. “Is something wrong or do you always look like that?”
Embarrassed, he returned his face to normal and moved to the desk. “Can I help you?”
“By succeeding in your mission,” she said. “If this is all true then I will feel better knowing the Highland border is safe from demons.”
“I wondered why you had accepted all of this so quickly.”
“I accepted it because I have little choice. It’s absurd in truth. You, some nobody in Boreac Mountain leathers, shows up with a scrap of parchment with the signatures of two princes long thought dead – Darnuir, now King of Dragons, and countersigned by Prince Brallor, who supposedly died over twenty years ago, as well.”
“Both were very much alive when I left them.”
“Not only that but you, this nobody human, is leading this joint force and I can barely believe the dragons allow it.”
“They do yearn to follow their King’s instructions.”
“Will you let me finish,” Romalla said. He smirked and threw up his hands in mock surrender. To his relief, she smiled back. “Look, it’s all so utterly unbelievable that I have no choice but to believe it. Had you come alone with your piece of paper and a troll I’d have thrown you out of the Hinterlands with arrows on your heels. But you have the fairies, you have the dragons, and I don’t believe this many people could be so sure of the circumstances unless it was true. That and I can hardly prevent your little army taking anything it needs.”
“Has Brevia sent no word?” Garon asked. “There has been chaos brewing in the south for about a year.”
“Arkus called his army, and our Lord Clachonn dutifully summoned his vassals in the Hinterlands, and so on. Yet little solid information has filtered through. I had heard of the troubles in the Dales and Marshes affecting the Crownlands, but this business in the Golden Crescent, whole demon armies on the march — no I had not heard. And if the hunters have been compromised, as you say, perhaps it runs to the core of the Master Station, or perhaps some of my own people have been selecting my communications very carefully. It is… troubling.”
“You should enjoy the stability of your region,” Garon said. “I feel it is the last one left in the Kingdom.”
“Stable and drained,” said Romalla. “Even before Arkus called to war, I was sending many of my best hunters to Brevia for some unknown purpose. Lately, I’ve been loath to do so because none have ever come back.”
“You’re sending away your hunters without knowing why?”
“Indeed. Again, how can I prevent Arkus having what he wants? As for their purpose, you can take it up with Lord Clachonn if you wish. Arkus deals with him and then Clachonn deals with me, bypassing the Master Station altogether. The benefits of having your daughter as queen I suppose. But enough of my woes, I’d like to know a bit about you.”
“Me?”
“I don’t see anyone else in the room.”
“What does it matter? I’m just some nobody, after all.”
“You’re not anymore. Why you, Garon? Why were you given this task?”
“Darnuir didn’t have many options, I imagine. That Guardian fellow was hardly cooperative. I don’t think he and Darnuir saw eye to eye.”
“Guardian?” Romalla asked, her brow furrowing at this latest revelation.
“It’s complicated,” said Garon. He puffed out a breath and let it continue into a sigh. “Darnuir wanted someone in charge who he felt he could trust. Someone who would see the matter through to the end.”
“And you’re the best man for it?”
“I wouldn’t have chosen me,” Garon said. “But you’ve seen how they are, the dragons and the fairies. Pel was forced along because everyone senior refused to go. Marus gets on with it because the dragons want to kiss their king’s boots, but he begrudges every step he takes. So no, I would not have asked for this. But I was given the job and I shall see it through. I’ve led patrols; this is just a big one. A great big, shambling, arguing one. In fact, it’s worse. At least when the kids are being taken out for the first time they damned well do as you tell them.”
“Did you lead Darnuir out on patrols?”
“I did,” Garon said, remembering briefly more sane days, even if demons were involved towards the end. Things seemed to make sense back then. “He was a quick learner, fought well, and coped with the effort. Of course, it helped that he is a dragon.”
“Lira was much the same,” Romalla said. “Tell me did she—”
“She made it to Val’tarra,” Garon said. “She even made it to Darnuir’s new Praetorian Guard.”
“Really?” Romalla said, her eyes lighting up like a proud parent. “Well, her mother will be pleased to hear that. So you know Darnuir, is that it?”
“I was also trained by Cosmo – Prince Brallor that is – during the years he stayed in the Boreacs. I didn’t know who he really was. He kept that even from his own wife, poor woman. Grace deserved better than that.” He saw Romalla was confused again. He hurried along. “Cosmo helped me when I had nothing. He gave me back my life and a purpose. In turn, I helpe
d him to train Darnuir. My proximity to them is ultimately nothing more than coincidence, but it has led me here.”
“So you act upon duty and friendship. Admirable but hardly inspirational.”
Garon shrugged. “What do you want to hear, Captain? I’m just a man. I’m not a prince nor king nor wizard, nor even a plain dragon; I don’t have a magic staff or a magic sword. I have my bow and my wits, and I’ve only ever wanted to help people: the way Cosmo helped me. Foolish as that sounds, it’s true. Going to save a whole race, well that counts as a lot of help in my eyes and I’ll see it through, to whatever end.”
“You realise this is all going into my report,” Romalla said.
“Make me sound ten times as foolish if you like. All I need is those supplies.”
“They won’t last long,” Romalla warned. “One region’s spare rations and arrows can’t see so many through a harsh Highland winter.”
“Ochnic says his people will provide for us. I trust him.”
“And even if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have much of a choice,” Romalla said. She held out her hand again. “Take care, Garon, the nobody from the Boreac Mountains. And good luck.” He took her hand with a firm shake. “I will be heading up the Bealach Pass tomorrow to return to our station. We shall escort your expedition that far. After that—”
“We’ll be on our own, thanks,” Garon said. “I wish you a ‘night good’, Captain Romalla.” He winked once then turned before she could say anymore.
Out in the corridor and out of sight of Romalla, he took a moment to lean against the wall. His heart was beating quickly and his chest seized in pain. He strained for breath. Am I having some sort of panic attack? He hadn’t had one of these since the last war, when he was fifteen at most. Maybe this is too much for me to handle?
He blew out his cheeks and shook his head to try and rally himself. After another deep breath he stood up straight and made his way downstairs towards the chatter of patrons in the Carter’s Rest. At the top of the last staircase, the heat of the bar area hit Garon like a warm, damp cloth. Pulling at his collar, he descended. He hoped against hope that Griswald would be sitting at the bar. That he would be roaring with laughter at some mildly amusing joke, out of all proportion, just like the rest of him, and would call Garon over and slap his hand to order another mug of ale.
The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions Page 10