Dragontiarna

by Jonathan Moeller

  She kept glancing back at Niall, checking that he hadn’t gone berserk and run off to die with a circle of slain arachar around him. He hadn’t been like this even after the betrayal and death of Pompeia Corinium. Moriah supposed that had been different. Pompeia had poisoned Niall and tried to betray Rhudlan to the Dragon Cult. Rufinius had been a comrade and a friend.

  Her own emotions reeled. Rufinius had been her friend as well. She had admired and respected Archbishop Caelmark. And the High King…God and the saints, Accolon’s father. The Crown Prince was now the High King. She thought of the solemn young man who had been her half-sister’s lover. Already he had seemed grim under the weight of his responsibilities as Crown Prince and the Regent of Cintarra.

  What would this do to him?

  If he was even still alive, the dark whispers in her mind murmured.

  Moriah shoved aside her emotions. She was good at that. Her time as a master thief had taught her that in the moment of crisis, you had to ignore your emotions. Acting in anger and fear would get you killed swiftly. Moriah could sort through her damned feelings once she had gotten Prince Tywall to safety.

  Assuming safety of any sort was even possible.

  They left the dockside district and came to the Prince’s Palace, its walls and towers rising before them. Moriah saw no guards on the walls, which was bad. The archbishop had summoned every single man able to wield a sword or a spear to the docks, and the Heptarchy had smashed them. Moriah supposed the soldiers would have been able to hold off the arachar for a few days from the walls of the Palace, but the defenses had been utterly crushed. Cintarra and the Palace were both open to the Heptarchy.

  Moriah skidded to a halt at the base of the curtain wall, preparing to turn left and head for the Palace’s southern gate.

  “Moriah,” said Niall. “The gate.”

  He pointed Starflame, the soulblade shimmering in his hand. It was strange to see him holding the weapon. That was Sir Rufinius’s sword, not his. But Rufinius had given the sword to him, had transferred his bond after Agravhask had dealt him a mortal wound. The explosions had dazed Moriah, and she had found herself on the opposite side of a collapsed wall from the archbishop’s party. Else perhaps she would have been there, and she might have been able to save Rufinius and Caelmark from Agravhask.

  Or, more likely, Agravhask would have killed her alongside everyone else.

  She looked at the southern gate and saw the arachar orcs.

  About a hundred of them approached the Prince’s Palace, shields raised, swords ready. With them came three of the black-robed priestesses and two of those strange gray-skinned creatures with pointed ears, creatures that wielded potent battle magic. An advance party, Moriah realized. Sent to seize control of the Palace.

  And likely to capture Tywall as well.

  “Damn it,” hissed Moriah. She looked back at Niall. “Take my hand. We’ll have to go through the wall.”

  Niall nodded, and Moriah took his hand and drew on the power of her wraithcloak. She became immaterial and brought Niall with her. It was harder, much harder, to take a Swordbearer with her. The soulstone of his sword had a peculiar weight, a mass that anchored it to the material world, and making Niall immaterial drained her cloak’s power far quicker than if she used it alone.

  Fortunately, it was a short trip through the wall. Moriah returned them both to solidity, and they stood in one of the southern gardens of the Palace. To the left, Moriah saw the tower that held her apartment. Would Giselda and Elena be there? No, she had left them with specific instructions in case the city fell.

  The tramp of boots and the harsh cry of arachar voices filled her ears as the orcs entered the gate.

  “Do you know where the Prince will be?” said Niall.

  “No, but I have a good idea,” said Moriah. “This way.”

  She led the way through the gardens, across a courtyard ringed with a pillared arcade, and to one of the great towers in the heart of the Palace. Moriah wrenched open a door. Beyond was a corridor leading to the Prince’s apartment. She heard hoarse voices echoing down the corridor and whispered a curse.

  “They’ve gotten ahead of us,” she said. “The orcs coming through the gate must be reinforcements.” The shuddering crack of an axe striking wood echoed through the corridor. “I think they’re trying to cut down the door to the Prince’s apartment. We’ll have to fight.”

  “Good,” said Niall, his fingers tightening against Starflame’s hilt.

  Moriah eased ahead, drawing her sword with her right hand. The corridor turned left, and she peered around the corner. The door to the Prince’s rooms was ahead. Four dead men-at-arms in Gwyrdragon colors lay on the floor, their blood pooling across the stone, along with six slain arachar orcs. The men-at-arms had given a good accounting of themselves before they had been overwhelmed. Five more arachar orcs stood before the door, one of them taking an axe to it.

  “We can take five of them,” whispered Niall.

  Moriah took a deep breath behind her mask. She didn’t like fair fights…but there wasn’t really any other choice, was there?

  “On three,” she whispered back. “I’ll go immaterial and attack them from behind.”

  Niall nodded, and Moriah ticked off the count on the fingers of her free hand.

  They flung themselves around the corner and charged, Niall bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  The arachar orcs reacted with admirable speed, turning to face the newcomers. Moriah sprinted towards them and jumped, and at the last second, she drew on the power of her wraithcloak. She became immaterial and shot through them, passing through the red orcs as if they had been made of smoke.

  They started to turn, and then Niall crashed into them, shouting in fury.

  Moriah hit the floor, whirled, and returned to solidity. She had to move quickly. Niall couldn’t take five arachar by himself, and…

  But even as she thrust her sword forward, Niall had already cut down two of the orcs and had turned to face a third, Starflame a blur of white fire in his fist. Moriah had forgotten how much faster and stronger a soulblade made a man.

  And Niall was already good at violence.

  Moriah stabbed her sword, using the magic of her gauntlets to drive the weapon with greater force. The blade punched into the back of an arachar orc and found his heart. Moriah wrenched the blade free, and by then there was only one arachar left on his feet. Niall attacked three times in rapid succession, and on the third blow, his soulblade sank into the orc’s throat. He wrenched the weapon free, and the orc collapsed.

  Moriah and Niall looked at each other. He had just killed four arachar with only minimal help from her.

  “The Prince is only a boy,” said Niall. “He shouldn’t have to see this.”

  “A lot of people are going to see things they wish they hadn’t,” said Moriah, and she pounded on the door. “Elena? Giselda? It’s Moriah!” She kept pounding, shooting a worried glance up and down the corridor. If they didn’t open the door, she would have to turn immaterial and pass through it. They needed to get out of the Palace right now. God only knew how many arachar orcs were already crawling through the place.

  “My lady?” It was Giselda’s voice, faint through the thick wood.

  “Yes, it’s me,” said Moriah. “Open the door. I have Sir Niall with me. We need to get the Prince the hell out of the Palace right now.”

  There was a thud as a wooden bar was maneuvered out of place, and then the damaged door creaked open. Moriah found herself looking at her lady-in-waiting Elena, who wore trousers and a leather jerkin and held a sword. Elena was an associate from Moriah’s days as a thief, and had been very willing to accept a comfortable sinecure in the Prince’s Palace. Giselda stood behind her, holding one of Helmut’s crossbows. They tried to look brave, but the arachar orcs would have killed them both in about two seconds.

  Prince Tywall stood behind the two women, clad in a green tunic, trousers, and boots, a sword in his hand. He looked very pale and v
ery frightened.

  “Lady Moriah, thank God,” said Giselda. “What’s happening?”

  “The city has fallen, and there are arachar orcs in the Palace,” said Moriah. “We have to get the Prince out.”

  “The Palace’s northern gate?” said Niall, though he looked dubious. “We’ll have to fight our way out.”

  “No,” said Moriah. “Follow me. Niall, watch our backs.” She looked at Tywall. “Lord Prince, you have to come with us. It’s not safe here.”

  The boy took a shaking breath. “Do as you think best, Lady Moriah. Prince Accolon said that I could trust you.”

  Moriah was touched. She also hoped that Accolon was right.

  “This way,” said Moriah, and she hurried down the corridor.

  A short walk took them to the private chapel of the Prince of Cintarra. Of course, since Cintarra was a rich city (or at least it had been) the chapel was the size of a small church, with a balcony where the Prince and his family could worship in private. The windows had been made of fine leaded glass and the floor of polished marble. Moriah hurried to the sanctuary and went behind the altar. A locked wooden trapdoor rested on the floor. She smashed the lock with a punch from her right gauntlet and flipped the door open.

  They scrambled down the ladder and into the crypt. Giselda, always prepared, produced a lantern, though Moriah’s helmet let her see in the dark. The flickering glow revealed a large room, the vaulted ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. Sarcophagi stood in rows, the lids carved in the likenesses of the Princes and their family. Burial niches lined the walls, some of them holding more sarcophagi, others empty.

  Moriah crossed to one of the empty ones, found a hidden lever, and yanked it. The back of the niche slid open, revealing a set of spiral stairs that descended into the darkness of the Shadow Ways.

  “So that was how you got into the Palace for Cyprian’s banquet,” said Niall.

  “No, I pretended to be a cook,” said Moriah. “I’ll go first.”

  They descended into the gloom.

  ###

  A few hours later, Moriah called for a stop.

  Niall had never been to the Shadow Ways, though he had heard of them. He had known that Lord Ridmark and Lady Calliande had spent a great deal of time searching the Shadow Ways for the Great Eye, but Niall hadn’t quite realized just how vast they were. In his head, he had pictured maybe a large cellar or perhaps something like the crypt beneath the Prince’s chapel.

  He hadn’t imagined the endless mazes of catacombs, the silent dead resting in niches along the walls. Or the ancient funerary chapels, solemn stone images of knights staring in the flickering light of Giselda’s lantern. Or the lower ruins Moriah said had been delved by ancient orcs, the walls built of massive stones, rusted weapons and bones lying strewn across the floor.

  “I hadn’t realized there was so much down here,” said Niall.

  “That’s why we’re here,” said Moriah. She took a deep breath. “There are miles and miles of galleries and corridors. Cyprian had all the resources and money of the Scepter Bank, and it still took him years to find the Great Eye. I know the Shadow Ways as well as I know the streets of Cintarra, and I’ve still only visited a third of them, maybe less. I don’t think anyone has ever mapped them all, not even the Drakocenti. I don’t care how many thousands of soldiers Agravhask has. It will take him a long, long time to find us down here.” She stopped and pointed to the left. “Here we are.”

  Moriah led the way down the narrow corridor, and it opened into a funerary chapel. Six sarcophagi with lids carved in the likeness of long-dead knights stood in a row. One of the walls had collapsed, a ramp of rubble descending into an orcish gallery of massive stones. There was a closed iron door on the left.

  “We can rest here for the night,” said Moriah, “and decide what to do tomorrow.”

  “Is it safe here?” said Elena, looking around with unease.

  “There’s no such thing as a safe place in the Shadow Ways,” said Moriah. “But there’s three different ways out of here, and we’re unlikely to be attacked from all three directions at once.” She pointed at one of the niches in the wall. “I’ve also hidden supplies there – rations and lanterns and some other useful things.”

  “You thought this out in advance,” said Niall.

  Moriah felt herself laugh. It sounded bitter to Niall’s ears. “Some of my friends have called me paranoid. But I’ve prepared for the worst…and, well, here we are.”

  “Thank you, Lady Moriah,” said Tywall. His voice sounded small and frightened in the gloom of the funerary chapel. “I don’t think we would have gotten away without your help.”

  “Yes,” said Niall, meeting her eyes. “I don’t think I would have, either.”

  He would have died at the docks, he knew, fighting and fighting until at last the enemy overwhelmed him or Agravhask got around to killing him personally. Part of Niall was ashamed that he had not fallen in battle with the other men. But he had heard Lord Ridmark speak of duty, and Lord Ridmark had sent Niall to help defend Cintarra.

  And right now, Niall could defend Cintarra by keeping the city’s Prince out of the clutches of the Heptarchy’s priestesses.

  Moriah looked away first, swallowing.

  “Well,” she said. “Couldn’t get Tywall away from the arachar by myself, could I? You’re a useful fellow to have around, Niall Lordsbane.”

  He felt himself smile, if briefly.

  They made a small camp, Giselda lighting a fire in a small iron pot that Moriah produced. Tywall lay down next to it and fell asleep at once, and Giselda and Elena fell asleep as well. Moriah moved to Niall’s side and spoke in a low voice.

  “It’ll be up to us to keep them safe,” said Moriah. “Giselda and Elena are good friends, but they’re not fighters.”

  “Aye,” said Niall. “Do you have a plan?” He was a knight, and he supposed he was a Swordbearer now, so he ought to have taken charge. But Moriah was smarter than he was, and she knew Cintarra far better.

  “I’ll go into the city tomorrow night,” said Moriah. “Take a look around. We don’t want to stay in the Shadow Ways, Niall. We’ll need to get Tywall out of the city and to the Prince…to the High King.”

  “If he’s still alive,” said Niall.

  “He’s alive,” said Moriah. “I refuse to believe otherwise.”

  “You get some sleep,” said Niall. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  Moriah hesitated. “You’re sure? I’ll admit I’m exhausted, but you have to be just as tired.”

  “I don’t think I could sleep yet,” said Niall. “Not after…everything.”

  She nodded and then touched his shoulder. “Wake me up if anything happens. And wake me up when you want some sleep, and I’ll take over the watch.”

  Niall nodded, and Moriah lay down next to the fire and went to sleep. He watched her for a moment, and then moved into the center of the room, where he could keep watch on all three entrances to the room at once.

  He stood on watch for hours, from time to time wiping away the tears that kept forming in his eyes.

  ***

  Chapter 26: Departures

  The Empire was at war, but it had been years since a new Emperor had been crowned, and so the city of Sinderost celebrated for three days.

  Tyrcamber was of two minds about the celebrations. On the one hand, he wanted to leave Sinderost at once and march north. The Fallen Order might have withdrawn the bulk of its forces into Corbrast, along with their muridach allies, but the war was nowhere near over. Tyrcamber and the others had stopped the Fallen Order’s plot with the Laethstones, but he didn’t know what other stratagems and tricks Theudeuric and the Theophract might have prepared.

  And yet…

  The Empire had been at war for nearly a decade, a long grinding war that had offered defeat after defeat. The Valedictor’s invasion had ended at the gates of Sinderost with the death of the Emperor and Tyrcamber’s destruction of the invading force, and then the
Empire had fractured as the Dragon Cult and the Fallen Order cast off their cloaks of secrecy and declared themselves openly. That had led to years more of warfare.

  It had been a long, long time since there had been something for the entire Empire to celebrate.

  And it wasn’t as if the army was lying drunk in its tents. The Order of the Griffin flew patrols around Sinderost, keeping an eye out for the enemy, and mounted serjeants rode out from the city since the battle with the Laethstones had proved that danger could come from below the earth as well as from the sky. Tyrcamber went out himself in dragon form a few times, flying over the countryside, but he found nothing.

  So for three days, Tyrcamber supposed, he could relax a little.

  Every noble with a house in the Old City of Sinderost hosted a feast in celebration of the Emperor’s ascendance, and the complex web of politics within the Empire played out by who visited which feast, who refrained from attending, and so forth. Tyrcamber sidestepped the entire thing by remaining at his father’s house with Ruari, though Third and Rilmael and Selene often went with the Emperor when he paid calls to the Dukes’ houses. The Guardian had advised the Emperors of the Franks since the founding of Sinderost, and Everard Roland was now the Emperor who would lead the marshaled strength of the Empire to destroy the Fallen Order.

  At least that was the plan. Tyrcamber knew it would be more complicated than that.

  Duke Chilmar was now officially the Imperial Chancellor, the right hand of the Emperor. That meant the Emperor paid a visit to his mansion first, and Tyrcamber stood with Ruari in the courtyard as Everard Roland arrived. The entire household had turned out to greet the Emperor and his guards, and Everard strode into the courtyard, flanked by his advisors and knights.

  “Your Majesty,” said Chilmar with a bow. The iron-haired Duke wore his finest mantle and tunic, jewels glittering on his sword belt. “Welcome to my house.”

  “Thank you, Lord Chancellor,” said Everard, and he stopped before Tyrcamber and Ruari. “And thank you, Dragontiarna Knights. The Guardian tells me that the Laethstones would have killed us all before the election finished.”