The Dragon's Blade_Veiled Intentions

by Michael R. Miller

  “Good,” said Darnuir. “You’ll be able to communicate with Arkus in my absence.” They continued their descent, still in the grip of silent discord. After a while Darnuir felt compelled to speak. “You might start with a full apology regarding the Bastion. You might then inquire about the rest of our people back west. See they are treated well and get as many home as you can. It’s a task I don’t envy. Arkus is sure to want his own men home for late harvests and for sowing in the spring, but Rectar does not work to the seasons. Well? Nothing to add, grandfather?”

  “I shall make these demands, if you wish.”

  “Not demands,” Darnuir said.

  “Would you accept an alternative?” Blaine asked.

  “Within reason but, broadly speaking, no. We need their soldiers.”

  “Then you are demanding,” Blaine said.

  Darnuir wanted to shout, to scream at him but his head was spinning again. He lost his footing on the stairs and scraped his arm to a pink flaky ruin against the coarse stone railing.

  “Draw on a little more magic,” Blaine said curtly. “Just half-a-second.” Darnuir did and steadied himself. For now, he focused on making it down the stairs. The pain from his arm barely registered amongst everything else.

  One step at a time. Just one step at a time.

  “You should not have conversed with a spectre,” Blaine said. “They are full of madness and lies.”

  “Not this one. I won’t apologise for speaking with Dukoona. I’ll apologise for the recklessness, for my addiction, for a lot of things but not that. It was worth it. We’d never have found out about this new threat otherwise.”

  “And what threat is that?”

  “The very thought frightens me.”

  “You need not be afraid, Darnuir,” Blaine said, pausing to face him. That momentary stop made Darnuir lose his hard-won rhythm in tackling the stairs. He began to feel dizzy. “Come to the Basilica with me,” Blaine urged. “I’ll show you why you ought to start believing.”

  Gingerly, Darnuir began moving again.

  One step at a time. Just one ste—

  His hand slipped and his feet gave way under him. A solid edge of rock dug into his hip when he went down.

  “Ugh,” he moaned, but the greatest pain of all was the yearning to open the door. “I can’t do this, Blaine. I need more magic. Please,” he begged, spittle spraying from his cracked lips. “Please. Just let me draw on more. I can’t — I can’t go on like this.” Blaine stared down on him, lying spread-eagled and pathetic. He bent down to Darnuir’s side and reached out a hand to cup his face. Blaine’s eyes widened and for a moment, he was a concerned grandfather. Then the Guardian returned.

  “Back to your chambers.”

  Lira – Aurisha – the Lower City

  Lira picked her way through the streets at the foot of the Great Lift. This had been the poorer part of town, this cramped, tight maze of wooden extensions upon ancient stone homes. The wind was prevented from freshening the air and it was often in the shadow of the plateau. Aurisha had been constructed thousands of years ago, so Lira supposed there had been more than enough space for the dragons at the time. But not as the city grew. Those extensions rose six storeys in places and many now looked tilted and unsafe. Yet she could ignore those. Her old home would be at street level, the one home with the green door. A bit of green to liven the city, her mother had said.

  She found it on a narrow street four doors down from the base of the plateau. Her mother hadn’t exaggerated. Every other doorway was a pale yellow but not hers. It didn’t even look damaged. Lira pushed it in, crossed the threshold and half-choked on the stale air.

  A feeling of being unwelcome came over her, as though the abandoned rooms had grown accustomed to their solitude and wished her gone. A layer of dust covered everything, from the ceramic pots on the low built shelves to the still set table at the centre. Three plates were laid out: one for Lira, one for her mother; and one —

  She looked away, feeling foolish at grieving for a father she never knew. An urge to leave washed over her. She’d just find that damned doll her mother always talked about and get out. A last memento of her father. He’d made it for Lira, apparently. Not that she could remember. She found it flung unceremoniously on the child-sized bed in the tiny room off the kitchen. Its limbs were bent at bone snapping angles, the wooden joints frozen in time like the rest of the place. She picked it up, admired the carved detail of the women’s face: the broad smile and the happy blue eyes. Something gave inside her and an unwanted tear splashed on the wood.

  Doll in hand, she left the house with the green door. She glanced back once then retraced her steps towards the Great Lift. When she arrived, the lift had just finished a downward journey and dragons pulling carts of dead bodies from the plaza trundled out. They marched, stern-faced, towards the broken city gates, taking the corpses out for burial. The dead had been stripped of anything useful and left virtually bare, their skinned exposed to the elements. Already, an awful smell of rotting meat followed them.

  And Lira felt more tears well in her eyes, and she knew it wasn’t all for some doll or a promise made to her mother. It was this, being paraded right before her. Nothing but death, death and more death. Out of the heat of battle, it was sickening, terrifying. How much blood had been spent taking back the city? How much had been spent since the first demon crawled out from Kar’drun, and how many tens of thousands before that in every war ever fought by every king or guardian.

  She was exhausted. She had been exhausted even before she had run for a full day to crash into a horde of demons that didn’t break. Everyone around her was tired as well – just no one would admit it. Tired of fighting. Tired of death. At least for now they might rest and, with the demons defeated, begin to dream of peace.

  She looked up to the plateau where all the greatest of her kind use to dwell. Up there, amongst all the marble and the finery. Yet, while Darnuir recovered and Blaine droned on about his divine experience, the Great Lift brought more bodies down.

  Two waves of carts passed Lira before she finally moved on.

  Darnuir – the Royal Tower

  Darnuir sat shaking in a starium chair. The Dragon’s Blade lay sheathed across his lap, the hilt just a little out of reach. His hands, arms, shoulders, waist, thighs, calves and feet all bound.

  “I’ll likely rip out of these bonds,” Darnuir said.

  “I’ll have stronger steel chains brought soon,” Blaine said.

  Darnuir nodded, breathing hard. He’d been allowed one final draw before the real recovery began. Already, he felt desperate to feel the Cascade in his veins again. Failing that, he just wanted to scream.

  “Before this begins,” he said, practically panting. “What’s made you so sure of yourself? What happened on the Splinters to bring you back?”

  “I asked our gods for a sign and they answered,” Blaine said. His expression did not betray any twitch of a lie or coercion or anything except the plain truth. Blaine believed every word he said.

  “And your trouble with Bacchus?” Darnuir asked.

  “Gone. He has returned as a devout Light Bearer and follower.”

  “A follower of your religion or of you?”

  “When you have recovered, ask any of the Third who were there at the Nail Head. It was a holy event. Why else do you imagine the demons have crumbled before us now?”

  “Because the spectres let them die,” Darnuir said. “Because Rectar didn’t care for them any longer. Because something worse is coming.”

  “Don’t trust a spectre’s word.”

  In his frustration, Darnuir bit on his lip and tasted blood. He could move nothing else. “Damn it, Blaine. Dukoona wants to help us. He’s warned us. Rectar has dragons, enchanted like Castallan’s red-eyed humans. You must prepare. You cannot ignore this.”

  Blaine wrinkled his nose. “How can dragons fall to such a thing? We are the Light’s chosen race. We shall prevail.”

  “Of course, we
can fall,” Darnuir said. “One of your own did. Have you forgotten?”

  Blaine leaned in, right up to his face. “I am nothing like Kroener.”

  “Of course, you only have nine fingers,” Darnuir said. “Did your gods give you comfort when you lost it?”

  “I’ll forgive that based on your current condition,” Blaine said. “If only you believed.”

  “It’s not that I don’t accept there is something powerful out there,” Darnuir said. “Rectar has power. He reaches out to the minds of his minions. He summons them to this world from somewhere — somewhere else. Kroener alone, one dragon, even with a Blade, could not have this much power. There is something we don’t understand, but I don’t think we’ll have any help in this fight. We’re on our own Blaine, but we don’t need to be. Let the humans in. Let the bickering and the hate end. Look at what we’ve achieved in one year together. Let your prejudice go. Please. There’s no point in it. Please…” He hung his head and licked his lips, attempting to regain control of his breathing. Muscles in his back twitched, threatening seizure.

  “N’weer watch over you, Darnuir,” Blaine said, taking his leave and slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 33

  LIFTING THE VEIL

  The First War between humanity and dragons was bravely fought, but bloody. Humans hoped to match the dragons by breeding warhorses of immense power and size, even larger than destriers used by present Chevaliers. Mighty they might have been, but when the humans charged at the Battle of Deas the dragons stood there, allowing it. Some say they even laughed as the first ranks dodged the steeds with ease, cleaving into their legs and knocking them down with plated fists. In response, the earliest Hunters were formed. Humans set aside the notion they could beat the dragons with brute force. Leathers and mail replaced armour, bows would kill from afar and dense spear formations absorbed the brunt of a dragon charge. Where dragons have been content to rely on their physical prowess, humans have sought other means to fight and I suspect they always will.

  From Tiviar’s Historiesr

  Cassandra – Brevia – dragon refugee camps

  CASSANDRA HAD NOT anticipated feeling this distressed by Boreac’s death. For what seemed an aeon, she stared at his corpse. His blank, terrified, still open eyes looked up at her in shock.

  Gellick remained before her, waving his fine dagger in a vaguely threatening manner. He didn’t mean her harm, but he would not allow her to act either. There was nothing she could do.

  Does it matter? What’s one more killing when the whole city, the whole kingdom, has been backstabbing, plotting, scrambling over the top of one another. And all for what? For this? A dead old man running half-starved from his home. It’s over. I shouldn’t care. She looked again to Boreac’s body. No. It’s wrong. He was caught, cornered. He would have come quietly.

  Gellicks’ crisp voice snapped her back to reality. “Search him. We’ll take these possessions he deemed most dear back to the palace. I dare say a reward will be in order, gentlemen.” His voice was fat with triumph. The other cloaked Chevaliers murmured their agreement. Kymethra had stopped trying to break free from her captor. Boreac’s murder had left her just as still and confused as Cassandra.

  This is wrong…

  “This isn’t right,” she finally said aloud and was pleased to hear she sounded calm and still together, when the opposite was true.

  “Nor is plotting to overthrow the King to whom one is pledged,” Gellick said.

  “You can’t,” Cassandra began. She stepped towards him with no real plan. She tried to gently push his knife aside but he whipped a leather-gloved hand across her face, leaving a stinging scrape on her cheek.

  “It’s done. Take it up with your father, Cassandra. We’re leaving. Now.”

  “What about the body?” the man who had done the stabbing asked. His face was still hidden beneath his hood.

  “Leave it. King’s orders. Now, let us depart, quietly,” he added with a fresh flourish of his dagger at Cassandra and Kymethra.

  Back at the palace, their small company moved without a word to each other. Kymethra was escorted off to her quarters, still gagged. Cassandra was forced to follow Gellick towards Arkus’ council chambers. The Chevalier had a bounce in his step and his blond hair flopped with each rise and fall. He had Boreac’s worn sack over one shoulder and something in it clanked against his armour. There were no guards outside the council chamber.

  “Arkus will be meeting with the minor houses,” Cassandra said. Gellick didn’t acknowledge her. He sniffed and began leading her upstairs to the doors outside Orrana’s parlour. There were five Chevaliers there, all with their visors up. They saluted Gellick as he approached.

  “You’re dismissed,” he told them and the men marched off without dispute. He knocked once, twice, still no answer. “My King,” he called. “I have urgent news of—” But from the other side of the door came laughter, a mixture of low voices and high tenors. Gellick pushed on the door revealing a scene of Arkus and Thane guffawing at some private joke. Arkus was kneeling by Orrana’s regular tray of overly sweet cakes with purple frosting spread across his nose. Thane stood in front of him, with pink icing and crumbs in his hair, wielding a purple covered sponge in one hand like a mace.

  Their laughter took Cassandra by surprise. It was a happy, joyful, songful noise, the sort of laughter that might have forced a smile across the dourest faced dragon. Neither father nor son noticed Cassandra and Gellick’s arrival.

  “My King,” Gellick said again. This took Thane by surprise and he half choked in turning to face the Chevalier. His caught breath sent him into a fit of coughs, hacking loudly into a white doily cloth that Arkus snatched up from the tray. The King rubbed the Prince’s back and gave Gellick a look as though he wished the Chevalier to boil inside his steel. Cassandra dashed forward and poured a cup of water from the jug beside the cake tray, ready for when Thane surfaced from his episode. After half a minute, Thane calmed and yellow-green mucus clung like tar to the now ruined white doily. Cassandra offered him the water and Thane sipped it, sighing heavily between gulps as he sought to steady his breathing. A lone tear left Thane’s eye from the exertion and Arkus pulled him in for a tight hug.

  “Go on and find your mother now.”

  Thane nodded and left. Cassandra thought she saw Gellick flair a nostril in disgust before arranging his expression into one of deep concern. The moment Thane was out of the parlour, and the door closed behind him, Arkus rounded on Gellick.

  “Is it done?” he asked brusquely.

  “It is,” Gellick said. He dumped the sack at Arkus’ feet.

  “This is all of it?”

  Gellick nodded.

  Arkus bent down and rummaged frantically in Boreac’s last possessions before pulling out an object that Cassandra had never seen before. It looked like a hollow wooden tube with a slanted handle and some mechanism fashioned from metal pieces just above where Arkus held it. He let loose a shivering sigh as though overcoming some powerful trepidation.

  “Hiding in the refugee camp…” Arkus said, more to himself. “Nearly had me there Geoff. Nearly got away with it.” He turned to Cassandra. “You cannot know how much of a relief this is. You’ve done so well, Cassandra.”

  “You never said Boreac was to die. What about the trial?”

  “Annandale will suffice for a trial,” Arkus said. “And you have no idea the danger Boreac might have placed us all in. We’re not yet ready. We’re—” He had seen the cut on Cassandra’s cheek. “Did Boreac do that?”

  “Ask the young Lord Esselmont here,” Cassandra said.

  Arkus whirled, rose and asked, “You did this?” Each word was a bite as if chewing wood.

  “Just to move things along, sire,” Gellick said. His aura of pomposity suddenly shaken. “The Princess and the witch were—”

  Arkus struck Gellick’s face with the bronze butt of the handle. Gellick snorted in pain but had the grace not to clutch his bleeding and swelling fa
ce. He took his punishment well.

  “Never harm my daughter again.”

  “Never, my King,” Gellick said, a little thickly.

  “Leave us, before I rethink your approval to the White Seven.” Gellick did not need to be told twice and was careful to shut the door gently behind him. Arkus turned the strange weapon over in his hand, inspecting it and a tiny chamber which opened at the ridge of the handle.

  Cassandra shifted her weight between her feet, looking from Arkus to the thing in his grasp. Boreac had believed that Darnuir would be so grateful to hear about the weapon’s power, he would keep him safe from Arkus. And Arkus had been desperate for Darnuir not to find out. Desperate enough to hunt Boreac down. The old lord had died for this thing.

  The parlour seemed dull and lifeless now, the colours less vibrant without the early morning sun. Brevia itself looked grey under the overcast sky, half shrouded as though veiled in some secrecy.

  Brevia, the palace, the Queen, Kymethra, Thane; it had started to feel comfortable. She’d dared to hope she’d found a home. Had this changed anything? No, this is all Arkus. I might be caught up in his games but the others are genuine, right?

  “Your betrothed caused quite an upset with his speech to the dragons,” Arkus said, still inspecting the weapon. “Or should I say, your former betrothed?” He glanced over to her. “We made a deal after all.”

  “And you’ll honour it?”

  “Of course,” Arkus said. “I do not think you need to be bartered off. My grip on the Kingdom is firm now. The minor houses have been easy to appease with so much to be divided up; lands, titles, positions. You’ve helped, of course.”

  “Me? All I did was find Boreac.”

  “And ended my fears of the dragons catching wind of my activities. Annandale broke quickly. He thought information about his fellow schemers would make me more lenient. He was wrong. But he did go on about Boreac’s obsession with a secret project of mine here in the city.”

  “Were you always going to kill him?”