The Dragon's Blade_The Last Guardian Read online

  The

  DRAGON'S

  BLADE

  The Last Guardian

  Michael R. Miller

  THANK YOU!

  THANK YOU FOR reading on! Whilst this isn’t the place to thank everyone who has helped to make this trilogy possible, here I can thank you, the reader, upfront. Without you, there would be no series.

  The Dragon’s Blade was born out of a childhood love of this genre; from the seed of an idea for an amazingly cool sword, its powers, and who might be the one to hold it. Nine-year old me emerging from seeing Fellowship of the Ring at the cinema was hooked for life.

  If you haven’t already grabbed the FREE artwork bundle you can do so by signing up to my mailing list here!

  Enjoy!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Thank You!

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: The Slave

  Chapter 2: The Addicted King

  Chapter 3: The Prefect

  Chapter 4: The Doubtful Chosen

  Chapter 5: The Princess and the Show Trial

  Chapter 6: Escalation

  Chapter 7: Condemned Research

  Chapter 8: Tipping Point

  Chapter 9: Waking Nightmares

  Chapter 10: Honour and Necessity

  Chapter 11: Rhubarb Pudding

  Chapter 12: The Unlikely Soldier

  Chapter 13: Death to the Dragon

  Chapter 14: Down in the Guts

  Chapter 15: All Talk

  Chapter 16: Trouble in the Stables

  Chapter 17: Intrusion

  Chapter 18: Crumbling the Past

  Chapter 19: The Rag Run

  Chapter 20: Dinner With Arkus

  Chapter 21: The Loyal Son

  Chapter 22: They Are Afraid

  Chapter 23: The Disillusioned Hero

  Chapter 24: Gardens of Blood

  Chapter 25: The Torn Son

  Chapter 26: The Fifth Flight

  Chapter 27: Little Masters

  Chapter 28: The Spent Runner

  Chapter 29: Before the Storm

  Chapter 30: The Beginning of the End

  Chapter 31: The Last Guardian

  Chapter 32: After the Storm

  Chapter 33: Words Are Not Enough

  Chapter 34: A Final Promise

  Chapter 35: The Last Battle: Part 1

  Chapter 36: The Last Battle: Part 2

  Chapter 37: The Scarlet Fields

  Chapter 38: Rotten to the Roots

  Chapter 39: Three Blades

  Chapter 40: A Knight at Heart

  Chapter 41: All Things End

  Chapter 42: Always, Der is Hope

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  *** Eighty-One Years Ago ***

  Kroener – The Depths of Kar’drun

  BENEATH THE BURNED mountain, he walked alone. One heart beating in the darkness. How far had he descended? He’d lost all sense of time.

  Within his mind, Kroener pushed on the ethereal door and reached for magic. It kept him going down here, even if the Cascade felt ragged and weak. He’d assumed the Black Dragons were drawn to Kar’drun for its well of energy, so where was it? Had he been wrong? If recent months had taught him anything, it was how little he had truly understood before. How little they all had understood. Of the people he’d help to eradicate, he’d known even less. He realised this now as he walked their endless corridors in search of this God of the Shadow.

  Being tall and leaner than most of his Light Bearer peers, they’d called Kroener thin in his youth, scrawny even. Drawn cheeks accentuated the sharp angles of his face, which did little to alleviate such insults. But he was strong. Always had been. That was why Blaine had chosen him. And that was why he would be Guardian next.

  Once he returned. Once he had conquered their great enemy.

  He reached another fork; one way led directly ahead, the other was a set of stairs leading to a deeper darkness.

  ‘Descend,’ the voice rang in his mind. It was far stronger here, under the mountain, and he was grateful for the guidance of the Gods in this final hour.

  He raised the Champion’s Blade higher, to be ready at a moment’s notice, and took the stairs as instructed. The way ahead was lit in the usual manner; by light that came from shelves cut into the rock. Light from lanterns, he had first thought. Each shelf contained a floating ball of fire – flames of all colours. Yet they were far from cheering. Something made the light dirty, impure; the yellows were more akin to piss than the sun; the greens closer to bile.

  But he could not turn back.

  He had no choice. His only hope of justifying his actions and proving that he was the true chosen Champion of the Gods, lay at the end of this dim underground journey.

  ‘You are close now, Kroener. The Enemy is close. Rectar must be slain.’

  I will do this, Lords.

  He wasn’t sure whether mighty Dwl’or, Dwna and N’weer could hear his reply. They’d never given any sign that they did, but he answered all the same. He reckoned they only spoke when necessary, allowing him to forge his own path.

  At the bottom of the staircase, there was something on the edge of the Champion’s Blade that caught his eye. Blood. Dripping, luminous blood. His thoughts began to spin. He saw Drenthir look up at him in horror, heard a gargled choke, and felt warm blood upon his hand as the Prince’s life gushed from his slit throat. But he’d had to do it. He’d had to.

  Kroener blinked, shook his head, and realised there was no blood on the Blade at all. The metal had caught the glow of a red flame from an alcove, shining like raw meat.

  Breathing hard, Kroener paused on his march. His heart was racing. He drew in the foul air deeply three times, coughed once, and then fought to steady his breath. He’d suffered these mild panic attacks each time he thought about what he had done. Killing the Black Dragons had been easy. They were the ancient enemies of Aurisha and the Gods of Light, or at least they had been. From the looks of the bodies he’d passed under the mountain, the Black Dragons had been fighting and dying long before Kroener had brought the might of the Aurishan Legions to bear.

  Perhaps Drenthir had been right? But no. The Gods had confirmed he was doing their work in Highlands. Persecuting the trolls may have been a waste of energy in the end. Likely that was why the Gods had come to him, to place him back on the righteous path. There was only one small doubt that still plagued him, one thing he could not quite make sense of: his new weapon.

  He looked again at the Champion’s Blade. Such a plain looking thing, the black and gold cloth around the hilt was even a little frayed. A simple steel knob made the pommel. Only the grainy gold of the blade marked it as special, and a sibling to the Dragon’s Blade held by old King Dalthrak, and the Guardian’s Blade possessed so proudly by Blaine.

  Now Kroener was their equal, he may even surpass Blaine because the Gods had chosen Kroener to receive it. They had urged him to take it – that was undeniable. And yet, if it had been meant for him, why grant it first to Drenthir? It was a test, he had concluded. One last test to prove that he was willing to do anything to serve.

  It is not up to me to question the Gods. I am but their Champion, their sword against the Shadow.

  ‘Yes…’ came the voice, smooth as satin. ‘You are our Chosen. Go deeper into the mountain. You are close.’

  Kroener puffed out a breath and straightened, feeling bolstered. The Gods had answered him.

  Lords of Light, I thank you for my chance to prove myself. But I find I am afr
aid. If you are with me in this fight, please grant me a sign.

  Nothing happened.

  A simple sign, Lords. I am but mortal, after all.

  Nothing came.

  Kroener’s pulse quickened again. “I’ve done so much in your service; will you do nothing to raise my spirits?”

  This time something happened. All the ghostly fires around him went out and the door in his mind groaned with the sudden swell of the Cascade. Unprepared for it, the energy overwhelmed him and he fell to one knee, staggered by it like a freezing tide. Then came euphoria. Yes, he could do this. He could do anything. In that moment, he was a beacon of the Gods on this world; far more than smug old Blaine could ever be.

  As quickly as the feeling came, it went.

  Magic retreated from him until the well of power behind the door felt empty. A painful rush swept down his arm towards the Champion’s Blade. His mouth went dry and a bitterness lay upon his tongue. An odd sign, but it was enough to go on. The Gods had granted him what he needed. When he battled this Rectar, they would fill him with their power.

  ‘Forward, Kroener.’

  Kroener rose, bidden by the voice, and he stalked down the rocky corridors of Kar’drun. Soon, the hallways widened and the ceilings rose. The sickly flames were replaced by blue lines in the walls, running like veins towards the heart of the mountain. He continued on until he entered a vast cavern, so large that a fully sized dragon of bygone eras might have flown there. And at its centre hovered a shimmering blue opal. Kroener felt the door in his mind quake. This thing before him must be a Cascade Sink. He’d heard some wizards from the Conclave in Brevia mention such things in hushed tones. The wizards thought it a dangerous thing but the God of Shadows evidently did not. Rectar had gathered a great deal of power.

  ‘You have arrived.’

  “Show yourself, Rectar, enemy of the Light.” He braced himself for battle, feet apart, his hands tight upon the grip his Blade.

  Against the blue glow of the Cascade Sink, an outline appeared. It was humanoid in shape but featureless and blacker than night. It wasn’t merely darkness, it drew light into it to be destroyed.

  This was Rectar. This was why he was here, yet how was he to fight something like this? Could the Champion’s Blade cut through this force floating high above him?

  As the figure floated down, Kroener took an unconscious step back. He felt something press upon his mind; not the door to the Cascade, but something entirely new. An unwelcome probing feeling, like a brusque surgeon prodding to find where it hurts.

  The figure dropped through the air towards him, a dark hand outstretched. Kroener winced at a stabbing pain in his head but he rallied, fighting against this attempt of his enemy. Finding his courage, he yelled, “You shall not have this world, foul Shadow. I am a servant of the Light. I am your end.”

  He stepped forward with purpose, putting all the power he could behind his swing, and aimed for Rectar’s exposed arm. His blade met only air. The faceless figure had faded away. Feeling it must have retreated closer to the well of energy, Kroener gave chase, his blood up, all nerves taut for the fight to come.

  As he neared the centre of the cavern, his shadow grew longer. Then he saw it at the corner of his vision, mirroring his movements, but not at all where it should have been, given the direction of the light.

  Kroener halted. Had he imagined it? His own shadow then lurched in front of him, raising its dark sword, independent of his own movement. Impossibly, his shadow rose off the ground. No, not his shadow. He had no shadow anymore. Yet in that moment of hesitation he froze, and Rectar charged him. A shrill rush of wind echoed in his wake.

  Kroener almost failed to block the strike. He managed only by drawing on some magic. Rectar attacked again, placing a compelling strength behind his incorporeal blade. Kroener staggered, found his footing, whirled around in an arcing blow and fought the shadow in the blue glow.

  The fight was like nothing he had experienced before. His whole life, everything that had ever happened in the world, had led to this day; this confrontation under the charred mountain.

  And he was losing.

  Even with the Champion’s Blade, he was still made of flesh, blood and bone. This shadow he fought, never slowed, never showed weakness. Rectar moved in ways that a living thing could not, bending his arms at bone-breaking angles; his movements snap and precise. All the while, Kroener felt the probing against his mind increase with fresh vigour.

  “Help me, Lords,” Kroener cried.

  ‘Let us in. Let us fill you with our power.’

  The shadow was slicing towards him, filling the air with a shrill squeal like scraping steel. Kroener let the Gods enter his mind.

  And froze.

  The intrusion entered his conscious like a lance of ice. His body went numb. Unable to move, he could only watch as the dark blade pierced his armour and into his heart. But he did not die. He felt tendrils of hate coil around his being, his thoughts grew smaller and smaller. His very soul dimmed. He saw the shadow press itself right up against him, until it was all he could see. It pushed further, pressing into him, merging with him, even as all his thoughts and memories continued to wilt under its wroth.

  ‘Thank you, Kroener, for letting me in. Drenthir was too much a tool of the Others.’

  This cannot be. I am the Light’s Champion.

  ‘You killed the Light’s Champion. You slit his throat under my suggestion.’

  Under your—

  ‘And you did it so willingly. You always had ambition in your heart, didn’t you? I thank you for bringing me one of the Blades and a host to wield it. I can complete my work here.’

  So, it had been a lie. All of it.

  Drenthir had been in the right and he, Kroener, in the wrong. Gods, he had been wrong. Oh Gods, what had he done? What had he allowed to happen? Rectar wanted his body for the Champion’s Blade. What worse things would occur if Rectar took hold of such extra power?

  No!

  Kroener summoned what pieces of himself remained and lashed against his enemy. With every effort, he sought to take control of his sword arm. He’d die before he let the Shadow take him. He almost managed it. Cold metal kissed his throat before Rectar reacted. In the ensuing battle for control, Kroener’s body began to spasm. His crimson cloak billowed around him and was shredded by his flailing sword arm.

  No, he thought again. Though if thoughts had volume, his would have been the whispers of the meekest creature. His body stopped thrashing. His will had no power left.

  ‘Know that you have helped in the downfall of your Gods. Die now, Kroener.’

  His last thought was not of guilt or regret, not even shame, but fear. Terrible, terrible fear. N’weer would not accept his spirit now. Where would he go? He had no time to consider. Rectar squeezed the last resistance from him and Kroener let go. Forever.

  Chapter 1

  THE SLAVE

  *** Present Day ***

  Dukoona – The Depths of Kar’drun

  IT HAD BEEN nearly a full day since Rectar had tortured him, though it was hard to tell for sure. There was no rising sun down here. No stars. Not even the luxury of movement remained to while away the time. As a spectre, Dukoona never slept. Suspended by invisible bonds, he hung, rigid, six feet off the ground, limbs stretched to their limits; bound by Rectar’s will.

  Whether a day, or an hour later, Rectar would return. It was inevitable.

  “Awake again?” Rectar’s voice hissed. Somehow, his voice never seemed too close nor too far away.

  Dukoona shuddered at the words. It took longer each time for his wits to return, as though his conscious mind had retreated further into a quiet recess of his being, burrowing deeper in the hope that even Rectar could not reach him there. Perhaps he would eventually retreat forever. And that might be a blessing. When he could think clearly, he was haunted by h
is failure. He’d failed to keep his spectres safe. He’d failed to protect his Trusted, but worst of all was knowing that he could never have succeeded. Rectar always had the power to reel his servants back in.

  “Get it over with,” Dukoona whispered. And somehow, no matter how quietly he spoke, Rectar always heard him.

  “Why don’t you ask for death?”

  Dukoona had his answer ready. It was the reason he’d given to little Sonrid for not granting his own request for death.

  “I want revenge. I want to die free.”

  “Then your wait shall never end.”

  A great crack rent the air. He lowered his head in distress, not wanting to look, knowing what usually followed those sounds. Rectar would have summoned one of his spectres to be tortured in front of him. Dukoona mustered the strength to raise his head, yet lost all spirit when he saw the spectre before him.

  It was Kidrian. The guttering purple embers upon his head were unmistakable. He met Dukoona’s eye, and his courage showed in his tightly pressed lips.

  I’m sorry, Dukoona mouthed silently.

  Behind Kidrian, Rectar landed softly and began to take on his earthly appearance, though his body was shrouded by a ripped crimson cloak and a drawn hood hid his face. A pale hand slipped out from under the cloak and gently brushed down Kidrian’s embers. Kidrian writhed at the touch, winced and ground his teeth. But he did not scream.

  Rectar seemed displeased at this. Red eyes flashed from beneath his hood. He looked to Dukoona, and then Dukoona felt his Master forcibly enter his mind. It felt like Rectar was squeezing on his conscious with a plated fist drawn from a fire. An unbreakable grip that was just as strong as it had been back at Aurisha, when Rectar had torn Dukoona away from the city and from Darnuir. And then Rectar’s voice was in his head.

  ‘I’d like you to kill him.’

  You’ll have to make me.

  ‘KILL.’ Rectar’s command dominated him. Dukoona’s mind emptied. Now, all he desired was Kidrian dead on the stone floor, to see smoking blood rising from a dozen wounds.

  Dukoona found his bonds were broken. He fell to the ground, rose, enjoying the freedom of his limbs. He stepped towards Kidrian and began summoning his sword. Shadows swirled and the blade formed in his hand.