“We’re out of ammunition for the catapults,” Raymond said. “Darnuir?”
“Yes,” Darnuir said, snapping back to the situation. “Out of stones, yes.” He paused again, looking from the Royal Tower to the Basilica. They could try setting a defence within one of those stout buildings, but eventually they would die.
That is not the way I will go. That is not the way we will go.
“Sire!” The call came from behind. Darnuir whirled to see a member of a catapult crew waving him up. “Flyers,” the dragon called with childish glee. “Flyers in the air.”
“It can’t be,” Darnuir whispered. He sprang towards the announcer with fresh spirit, leaping in a Cascade enriched jump to the roof of the villa. What he saw from the south pulled his lips into a broad grin.
Fairies were indeed approaching, their wings invisible blurs, and further beyond, so small in the distance but unmistakable, the black and white sails of Brevia were making for the harbour.
“We might survive this,” Darnuir said. The catapult crew were smiling too, looking half-mad from sleep deprivation. “Join us below,” said Darnuir. He turned and hopped back to the ground. “We will survive this,” he told the Praetorians and those dragons in the back ranks nearby. “Raymond, fetch your horse. We push back.”
“With pleasure,” Raymond said.
Darnuir felt life return to him, his aches seemed to dull and he felt the blood rush to his cheeks, so jubilant was he at this moment. Dragon’s Blade in hand, he opened the door and pulled on magic to enhance his voice.
“Dragons,” he bellowed, moving back to the front. “Unto the dawn, I told you. Well, the dawn has come and with it comes your Guardian with all our allies from the west. I say we venture down and meet them. What say you?” His men bellowed their assent; a chorus of song-like joy at their salvation. The demons didn’t comprehend their change in fortune. Perhaps Rectar did not know. They kept up their attack but found their way blocked more aggressively. The dragons took steps forwards rather than back.
Across the plaza, Raymond came cantering upon his great steed. Darnuir called, “Let him through,” and the Chevalier drew up by his side. “Today we take back our city alongside humanity,” Darnuir told them. “Today we win this fight as we should have years past, united and stronger together. Let us usher in that future. For dragons, for humanity, for fairies, for the Three Races!”
And so, they charged.
The demons were unprepared. They were knocked aside or trampled as the dragons ran. The natural descent of the sloping roads made leaping over the body piles of the fallen shield walls easier. Darnuir and Raymond spearheaded the counterattack, Bruce the horse scoring as many kills as his master. Halfway to the docks, the first of the fairy flyers dove down into the fray, helping to clear the way. Darnuir spotted Fidelm’s inky skin whiz above, twirling his double-ended spear in smoky spins. He met the General when they reached the harbour’s edge.
“Blaine landed with the Third Legion and the islanders while we sailed around the peninsula,” Fidelm informed him.
The demons were hit with precision by the mangonels of the human fleet and soon their own spearmen and archers were disembarking and the demons could not hope to withstand an assault from three sides.
Darnuir led the push through the city, scouring every street and alley. The demons refused to flee. At the city walls, he ran up to judge the battle beyond.
Blaine was coming. A new golden formation, small but compact, and driving on with purpose approached the remaining demon flank. A dazzling light issued from the figure leading them.
When Darnuir rejoined the slaughter, he forgot to check how much Cascade he was relying on. The door in his mind pulled free of its hinges and when he tried to spit out the bitterness it was more like dry retching. His stomach was empty. The heaving brought on muscle spasms. And as the last demon fell dead on the dry earth, he thought he saw Blaine stepping cautiously towards him. He thought but could not be sure.
Then, he blacked out.
Chapter 31
REVELATIONS
The Champion’s Blade is an enigma. Dronithir is the only person to wield it. Many have tried to theorise why he was ‘worthy’. Did he give up Elsha, the woman he loved, for the greater cause? On and on it goes. In the end, it is naïve to place our own conceptions about ‘worthiness’ onto Dronithir’s story. With each generation, the theory shifts as values change. And even then, the story that the Blade shall appear to ‘those who are worthy’ comes from a time little better than legend. If we take a leap, and believe it all, then the gods of the dragons blessed the creation of the Blades. And if the Champion’s Blade was blessed by gods, would it not be for their Champion? Who is to say how they would judge who is worthy to them? It could not be for us mere mortals. I’ve said it before, but it could be a myth; a story invented to give hope in the darkest of times. I’d prefer that. Hope saves us from despair. It saves lives. I’ve never known a sword to cause anything but pain.
From Tiviar’s Histories
Garon – the Great Glen
RAIN DRIZZLED UPON the Great Glen. Garon struggled through the thick mud at his boots and his waterlogged cloak weighed uncomfortably on his smarting body. The splint rubbed roughly on his forearm, his sling pulled painfully at his neck, his shoulder throbbed, a rib or three were bruised and he’d suffered a concussion, but otherwise he was fine. And so while the weather wasn’t the most fitting return for the victorious, it didn’t dampen his spirits much. He was alive, walking and, given the circumstances, very, very grateful.
A little rain didn’t stop the kazzek from celebrating either. Music filled the glen from kazzek blowing into long pipes attached to swelling bags under one arm, sending out high-pitched blasts at a thunderous pace.
“Daa-daa-dee-da,” Ochnic hummed.
“Know this one?” Garon asked.
“De song? It is familiar,” Ochnic said. He winced loudly, sucking air through his large teeth. Tenderly, he placed a hand at his back.
“The wound hasn’t opened,” Garon remarked as he checked the linens for signs of fresh blood.
“I will mend,” Ochnic said. Then he returned to humming. “Daa-daa-dee-da.”
“Papa you’re not keeping in time,” Cadha said. Ochnic’s response was to hum louder and even more offbeat. Cadha laughed and thumped his leg with her tiny fist. She hadn’t mourned the loss of her doll.
“Foul water,” grunted Marus. “Your people know how to cope though, Ochnic.”
“We hadn’t had da rains yet,” Ochnic said nonchalantly. “So now we get dem all at once.”
“Look at us three now,” Garon said. “The walking wounded. Ochnic bent at odd angles with his back, I’m favouring my right side so much I might tip over and Marus limps along as usual.”
“Just means we’ve done our duty,” Marus said.
“And then some,” said Garon. “Where has Pel gotten to? Has she acquired any debilitating injuries since the battle? She can’t be flying in this rain, surely?”
“She isn’t,” came Pel, sloshing up in between Garon and Ochnic.
Cadha jumped for joy at her arrival. “Can we fly again, Pel?”
“Later, I promise,” Pel said. “If the rain ever stops. Could we hurry up and get out of it?”
“We can only go so fast as our broken bodies will carry us,” said Garon. “You’re young though and mostly unscathed. Run ahead if you like.”
“And sit in a room with those Chieftains alone? No, thank you.”
“I don’t blame you,” Garon said. “Rohka hasn’t seemed too angry though, am I right Ochnic?”
Ochnic gave a rather large and rather unhelpful shrug of his shoulders.
“We’ll face them together,” Marus said.
“Marus,” Garon said in mock exclamation. “Are you telling me that you will stand by us? Are you saying we’re one solid tea—”
“I should have let you fall,” Marus muttered darkly. He smirked and Garon returned the ge
sture. Then he grunted from fresh jolts of pain as they began to descend farther into the valley.
The ancient set of standing stones looked even larger than Garon remembered them, dwarfing even the Stone Father standing sentinel at their front. The blue lines on his rocky body pulsated lightly. When Garon reached him, the golem proffered a vast hand, palm up, and Garon placed his own upon it. His senses morphed as they had done back in the Glen of Bhrath. He saw all rock and stone in great clarity, saw the presence of magic lining the mountains and felt the strange heartbeats from deep within the earth.
‘We owe thanks to you, Lowlander. You and all those who came with you.’
We failed one of your golems. I’m sorry for your own loss.
The Stone Father sighed deeply. It echoed around every crevice of Garon’s mind.
‘My kind has accepted our fate. The day the Dark One came to the Black Rock the blue of our halls began to fade. There is no point in clinging on when other creatures might live and carve out their own path in earth or stone. Your coming made my sister’s sacrifice mean something. For that, I thank you.’
Sister? Garon thought but the Stone Father’s presence was already retracting from him. The golem withdrew his hand and took his leave, heading for the eastern mountainside, and leaving large muddy pools in his wake.
“You don’t look well, Garon,” Marus said.
“It leaves you disorientated for a moment,” said Garon. But it was more than just discomfort from the strange sensory experience. The Stone Father’s words had left him disheartened. A golem had died for them, and there were so few left. He took a moment of silence and listened to the pit-patter of rain on Marus’ armour. The arrival of the Chief-of-Chiefs forced him to smile.
“Da kazzek owe you thanks,” Rohka said a little stiffly. “Our food stores are filled and a clan was saved, even if you risked much.” Although Rohka was intimidating, Garon held his gaze. “Da chieftains insist dat you come now and eat with us.” He led them towards one of the more lavish homes surrounding the ancient stones, the one with smoke rising from four chimneys. Stepping across its threshold was a relief Garon hadn’t realised he needed. Crackling fires and the smell of roasting beef warmed him to the marrow, and a portion of tension in his back unknotted. A young kazzek in black tartan took their cloaks, paused, seeming unsure what to do with them, then tossed them roughly in a pile by the doorway. Garon couldn’t help but laugh. The young troll looked confused but Garon gave him a wink and carried on.
How will I ever return to stodgy civilisation after this?
It seemed this floor of the house was one large gathering area. A feast was arrayed hapzardlay in stone dishes upon the floor. Kazzek were merrily helping themselves, using their hands to place food on their boards of wood which they used for plates, and using no cutlery to tear or mash their meals. Many stood but some were on stools fashioned from thick blocks of wood, cut in whole cylinders from tree trunks.
Garon picked a stool and helped himself to one of the small round golden vegetables he’d seen before in Pel’s soup. He bit at it tentatively and blew fiercely as steam rose from inside it. Its skin was crisped and coated lightly in salt and garlic, yet its inner flesh was light and fluffy.
“What are these little wonders?” Garon asked.
“You don’t have dem in da south?” Cadha gasped.
“Potatoes,” Ochnic said. “Dey grow well up here.”
“I’ll have to bring some back with me,” said Garon. “After we see out the winter.”
“Hmmm,” Ochnic mused.
As Garon went to examine some more of the fare, he saw a kazzek presenting Pel with a separate deep wooden dish, which looked filled to the brim with a mashed gloop of carrot, neeps and cauliflower, glistening with butter. Pel accepted it happily.
“Mmmmm,” she said, taking a second bite. The kazzek looked even happier and bowed his head. He walked away with pride on his face.
Their fellow guests consisted of the chieftains and some assorted staff or higher-ranking clan members. Occasionally, they stared at Garon, Marus and Pel, and put their heads together to talk more quietly. Even Ochnic received a few looks. After sufficient time was granted for everyone to eat their fill, the Chief-of-Chiefs called for silence and moved to address them.
“Today, we remember those kazzek lost to us. Orrock was a chief like us, and he is no more. Many more kazzek have gone unburned and I hope da blue poison will let dem rest.”
“Let dem rest,” muttered the rest of the kazzek, including Ochnic and Cadha.
“Now der is a decision ta make,” Rohka said solemnly. “Will da Lowlanders stay?”
Silence reigned.
“Where else would you like us to go?” Garon asked. He felt a bit bold, perhaps due to the first proper hot meal he’d eaten in months. “Winter approaches and the demons may yet return. You’d really send us marching off in the cold?”
Rohka’s nose twitched. “You have great spirit, Garon pack leader. But you were also reckless and dis decision cannot be made lightly.”
“Lowlanders should not be in da Great Glen,” said the chieftain in the pink and green tartan.
“Dey have earned a place,” Ochnic said. He did not bow his head or hold his tusks this time. “My clan would be dead if it weren’t for dem. Da Stone Father too. Chieftain Rohka would not have helped us.”
“I took a risk, yes,” Garon said, “but I did it because I felt it to be right. Now, I know the kazzek have bad history with the fairies—”
“And da dragons,” someone called out.
“Dat was da work of one mad dragon,” said Rohka. “It was agreed. The Wise Ones declared dis long ago.”
“Dragons?” Marus said. “What have we ever done to your kind?”
“Dey do not even know,” bemoaned the chief in yellow and black.
“What is this all about?” Garon said.
Ochnic set Cadha down from his lap and got to his feet. “Dey have earned der place. Dey have righted da wrongs of da past. Let it go.”
“Who was this dragon?” Marus said. “I know nothing of dragons in the Highlands.”
“It was before even your birth,” came a wizened voiced. “Before even da demons came.” A very old troll stepped forward from between two concerned bodyguards. Her tusks were worn down to the roots, her white hair was cut closely to her scalp, and she was wrapped in an extra layer of tartan.
“Chieftain Glik, der is no need to trouble yourself,” said Rohka. “Please sit.”
“It is no trouble,” said Glik. “I fear da truth is forgotten. De years will have worn at the tale despite my trying.” She was shaking a little in the effort to stand, so one of her guards produced a chair. He slid the cut tree trunk underneath her and she sat down. “It was over eighty years ago. I had only seen my tenth summer when dey came.”
“Who came?” Garon asked.
“Drenthir, Dragon Prince and Kroener, Cursed One,” said Glik. The kazzek chieftains responded to the last name in their own choice way. Some spat on the floor, some gnashed teeth, some growled lowly. Others simply seethed in silence, pressing their lips into thin lines.
“Wait one moment,” said Marus. “Eighty years ago, the then prince was surely Draconess.”
“Der was no Draconess,” said Glik.
“You are mistaken,” said Marus.
“Chieftain Glik never forgets,” said the Chief-of-Chiefs.
“Never,” Glik repeated. “It was Drenthir and Kroener, Cursed One. Dey came in search of da Black Dragons, those who had fled their homes after Kroener slaughtered the rest of der people.”
“Slaughtered?” Marus said. The colour was rising in his face. “The Black Dragons were our sworn enemy. Agents of the Shadow, they—”
“Marus,” Garon snapped. He grabbed the dragon and pulled him closer. “What happened to you not truly believing in all that religious stuff?”
“This — this is different,” Marus said.
“I’m not so sure it is,” sai
d Garon. Then, for the room to hear, he said, “Let Chieftain Glik tell her tale.”
Glik carried on without even a momentary pause. “As I was tellin’, Black Dragons were fleeing north into our lands. We took many in. I remember helping a young boy who was sick and underfed. Each day I mashed up potato and fed him spoonfuls until his strength returned. But Kroener came for dem, and that little boy, the one I had helped, was rounded up and slain like a beast.
“Dark days followed and Kroener came down hard on us kazzek who had tried to help da Black Dragons. My mother and I were taken by da dragons, chained and held for questioning. Kroener marched as far as da Glen of Bhrath, though it had another name in those days. Der was only one who spoke against Kroener, as I remember, and that was Drenthir, Dragon Prince.”
Glik paused then and signalled for a drink of water. As she drained her mug, Garon chanced a glance at Marus. The legate’s cheeks were ablaze and growing hotter with each second. To Garon, the whole story seemed well rehearsed. Doubtless, the old troll had told it hundreds of times. Glik passed her mug back, wiped her mouth and continued.
“Kroener found out about de roads of da Stone Men and thought he could enter Kar’drun through dem. Black Dragons eluded him in its depths. Drenthir tried to change his mind. I remember, one night in my pen, the two of dem were close by, hoping to talk away from der men. Drenthir told Kroener he was wrong, that having fought the Black Dragons he saw dey weren’t different. Dey were not the enemy, and nor were da kazzek. Drenthir spoke of dark creatures from Kar’drun, which the Black Dragons had been trying to keep in check. Now dat the Black Dragons were all gone, what was to stop these new creatures? Drenthir told da Cursed One dat he thought dey had made a great mistake. Kroener disagreed.
“Two nights later, Drenthir came around da holding pens. He broke our chains and set us free. He told us dat a mighty weapon had been granted to him, a sword of great power. He said a guiding voice had spoken to him whilst on da mountainside, telling him he was right. He told us not to fear da Cursed One anymore. But I was scared and did not move even as my mother called me to follow her. I sat curled in my pen, not trusting dat Drenthir could stop Kroener. As de others fled, Drenthir walked over to me and knelt by my side. He pulled out a chain of silver from around his neck and told me it had been given to him by da woman he loved. She was the daughter of a powerful dragon. Da dragon Guardian. Drenthir said da Guardian would listen to him because of this and not Kroener. He said dat together they would stop Kroener. And so, I got up and ran with my mother to safety.
The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions Page 45