The Dragon's Blade: The Reborn King Read online

  He found Darnuir not far down the corridor outside of the training room, leaning against one of the large, rectangular windows cut out along the wall. Many of these windows lined each curving corridor of the Royal Tower and offered magnificent views of the city. From their vantage point, all of the northern and western segments of Aurisha could be seen.

  The windows were in small bays that were just big enough for a fully-grown man to stand in; however, ancient spells prevented anyone from falling out and the elements getting in. Without them, Darnuir would have fallen out and down into the sprawl below, for it looked as though he was leaning on air alone.

  Brackendon approached the Prince, feeling a little apprehensive. “You must respect his decision,” he said simply.

  “I know,” Darnuir replied, his voice low and bitter. “And I will always do my duty. I’m sorry,” he said with genuine apology, “but all my life we have been fighting. Sixty years of an endless struggle. You are still young, but come back after another forty years and tell me if you too are not tired of the stalemate. Of this lack of action.”

  Brackendon was lost for words. He often forgot how old Darnuir was. Dragons lived well beyond even the healthiest of humans. Before Brackendon could marshal his thoughts, a tall figure appeared at the end of the corridor. It was none other than the King himself. Although broad and powerful like most dragons, Draconess bore little resemblance to his son, aside from stature. His hair fell at the same length, yet it was lighter, almost golden in places. His jaw was less broad and defined, and his eyes glistened a pale blue. Yet signs of his burden were evident. His face, while softer and kinder than Darnuir’s, was strained with a deep weariness. His hair was unkempt and tatty, his eyes were dark and sunken, and his shoulders drooped perceptibly, as if his responsibility had physically manifested itself upon him.

  “Darnuir,” Draconess said softly as he made his way towards his son. He stopped just short of Darnuir and seemed to toy with the idea of embracing him, before fumbling with his hands. The Prince’s expression remained frosty.

  “Father,” Darnuir said a little stiffly, “we were just on our way to the docks.”

  “The wind has been poor, I doubt the ships will arrive on time,” Draconess said.

  Brackendon sensed that to remain would be improper and perhaps unwise, given the potential row that might ensue. Politely, he addressed the King.

  “If it is possible, my Lord Draconess, I wish to return to my study,” he said with a small bow of the head. “Arkus has been pestering me to move to his own Kingdom. He says I ought to be with my own people and I’d rather not suffer his childish pleas today.”

  “Of course, Brackendon,” Draconess said. “He has been asking me to order you too. I suspect he wants you to try and re-establish your Order, but I don’t think that would be wise at present.”

  “Indeed it would not, my lord; at least you seem to listen to my counsel,” Brackendon said appreciatively, and gave Darnuir a little smile. “Do give my best wishes to Kasselle.”

  Chapter 2

  THE BRAVE, THE WISE

  AND THE YOUNG

  DARNUIR FELT EXTREMELY disgruntled as he watched Brackendon stride briskly away. If the wizard would only lend Darnuir his support, he might have convinced the council to defend the city. Yet Darnuir knew that it would make little difference if his father would not warm to the idea; and he knew that his father would choose the coward’s option.

  He had chosen that path too often lately.

  “We should head to the docks,” Draconess sighed, nodding vaguely towards the corridor that Brackendon had taken. Their short journey took them first to the spiralling stairs that wove around the Royal Tower, down countless levels until they descended the final grand staircase at the entrance to the tower, with a great marble archway leading to the plaza beyond. As father and son emerged out into the plaza, the warming late morning air and a bright sun greeted them. Darnuir could see Brackendon ahead of them, making towards the winding southern stairs, which would lead him down to the Arcane Sanctum, his blue robes flapping behind. He was moving as though with the wind, likely using magic to enhance his speed. Darnuir and Draconess were much slower as they made their way across the plaza to the stairs.

  The plaza spanned the top of a large plateau of rock, around which and upon which the city of Aurisha had been constructed. The plaza had once been a forum for the dragons of Aurisha and was a vast space, intended to hold thousands, lined by ornate villas, columned monuments and columned buildings. Much of the city was constructed out of a type of stone known as starium. It was a dirty gold in colour, extremely resilient, and glistened faintly in starlight.

  Some said the villas were designed to mimic the dragon nests of ancient times, back when they had scales and could fly. The thought often amused Darnuir. The Royal Tower stood tallest amongst them, as wide as three of the neighbouring buildings, and many storeys higher. The other major landmark was the Basilica of Light – a domed tribute to a dying religion. Darnuir averted his eyes, angered by its mere presence.

  Our people are on their knees. Perhaps if father spent less time on his own knees at prayer, we would not be in this position.

  As king and prince reached the top of the southern stairs, Darnuir savoured the panoramic view out over the harbour below, the long bay stretching off to the wider ocean, and the forest of tall homes they would navigate through, down the sloping side of the plateau. The other sides of the bluff of rock were smooth, sheer cliff faces: the western and northern sides were surrounded by the lower city, while the eastern face was met by the salty sea, and the sound of strong waves could be heard crashing against it.

  Darnuir and Draconess began their descent of the southern stairs. Around halfway, they passed a tower with many smaller segments jutting out, seemingly at random. The tower leaned at a looming angle, as if threatening to fall over. This was the Arcane Sanctum, where wizards and witches would gather when staying in Aurisha. Only Brackendon used it now. Aside from Castallan, he was the last of his kind. Darnuir considered that it must be a very lonely place inside. He imagined the wizard in his solitude, walking in dark corridors and performing work that no one else could understand. He envied Brackendon for it. Being left alone would mean more time to train and less on council meetings.

  As Darnuir marched next to his father, he contemplated the future of Aurisha. It was yet to fall to an enemy. It had been attacked many times, but never taken.

  How will history recall us, those who gave it up?

  The majority of the human and fairy armies were on the other side of the world, leaving dragons as Aurisha’s only defenders. Yet to allow the demons to take the city would grant them full control of the east.

  We cannot forfeit so easily if we are to survive.

  Their whole journey had been in silence. Darnuir sensed that his father was unwilling to engage prematurely in the argument he knew would come. Yet, once down at the harbour, with the bustle of the port all around them, the beating sun intensifying the aromas of fish and seaweed, and the billowing flag of the human’s capital ship off on the horizon, Draconess broached the issue.

  “Darnuir you know fine well that Aurisha cannot be held.” He spoke so quietly, it was almost a whisper. “We have to evacuate the city. I gave the order this morning and every ship we have is being prepared to take our people across the sea as we speak. Kasselle won’t be troubled to hear this; she is wise and will understand that nothing can be done. Arkus, however, won’t be pleased that we are abandoning Aurisha. I will need your help persuading him otherwise.” The King paused for a moment before putting a hand on Darnuir’s shoulder. “Do not fight me on this.”

  Darnuir was not at all surprised to hear those words spill from his father’s mouth. “And what, father, is the point of your councils if not to make collective decisions?” He shrugged the hand off his shoulder with a brusque jerk. “Why bother with this sham? You know my feelings on this matter and you have decided that they count for nothin
g.”

  “Given your other failed judgements, I assumed that you would be more cowed, Darnuir?” Draconess said, quiet but sternly. “In this instance, there was no time for discussion. Scouts returned before dawn: the enemy will be upon us tomorrow, if not before. I had to make a decision in the moment.”

  “And you chose to flee.”

  “I chose to regroup, and give us a chance to gather our full strength.”

  “To what?” Darnuir snapped. “To have to assault our own city? To have to throw our men against our own defences?”

  “No,” Draconess said simply. “As always, you see through the lens of our people alone.”

  “It is our people who will win this war.”

  “Since Castallan turned against us and took up residence in the Bastion, we face a war on two fronts, Darnuir. It is not in our interests to have most of our allies tied up, fighting that traitorous wizard across the sea to the west.”

  “You mean to re-take the Bastion?” Darnuir said, now feeling quite intrigued.

  “That fortress was designed to repel dragons,” Draconess said. “Do you think you are capable of taking it?”

  Immediately, Darnuir’s mind began to fill with plans and schemes on assaulting Castallan’s fortress. After some time, he decided that an enthusiastic display on his part might alleviate his recent disrespect.

  “If I can be guaranteed the command, father, then yes, I will help convince Arkus to take this course.”

  “I feel it would be fitting for you to take command of the campaign. I hope Arkus will also see the merit in my decision.”

  Darnuir knew from previous experience that the human king, Arkus, could be difficult to reason with; it had been troublesome for the dragons to coordinate armies while Arkus sat in a hall, debating with his own courts what to do. The Queen of Fairies, Kasselle, on the other hand, was different. Darnuir admired her greatly and, though he was a mere boy to her, she had always respected his position. She was perhaps the oldest being on Tenalp, at around one hundred and twenty years old. If she agreed to what Draconess was planning then Arkus would hopefully fall into line.

  “Over there!” exclaimed Draconess, pointing at a huge vessel, thickly built for security with heavy ballista along the top decks, and draped in the blue and silver of the fairies, as well as the white and black of the humans. The ship meandered its way towards the vacant dock and the two dragons arrived at the exit of the gangway in time to see Arkus and Kasselle leaving their ship.

  Arkus stood a little under Darnuir’s height. His hair was black and dangled just over his ears. Yet there was a sternness to him and he radiated an aura over his men that Darnuir could never quite interpret. Was it fear or respect? His face was darkened with a prickly stubble, an unusual sight in a city where no dragon allowed their beard to grow; and his eyes, though small, were inquisitively drinking in the scene before him. As he approached Draconess, his long charcoal-black robes, trimmed in white, brushed the wood of the gangplank, and his sleeves hid his arms from view. It seemed that the guards were all Arkus’ as he strutted down the gangplank and received salutes from every soldier present.

  Kasselle, on the other hand, seemed content to bring only two bodyguards. They were both large, lean, blue-skinned fairy warriors with huge swords strapped to their backs under folded wings, insect-like and translucent. They walked in pace behind their queen, who was not gifted with flight. Kasselle was taller than Arkus and infinitely more elegant. She glided serenely behind him, her radiant silver hair and pearl-white teeth enhanced in vibrancy by the sky-blue hue of her skin. Her large eyes were a deep indigo and moved to observe Draconess and Darnuir in turn. A gown of woven silver thread hung lightly over her slender frame and was being gently lifted up at her feet by the breeze, giving the impression that she was floating in mid-air.

  They stopped just short of Darnuir and both bowed their heads as Draconess greeted them. They then turned to Darnuir, who said, as politely as he could, “It is good to see you again my lord, my lady.” He gave a small bow to each of them. They returned the favour, Kasselle smiling broadly at him, Arkus a little more reluctantly, but lowering his head all the same.

  “I’m only sorry that it is not under better circumstances,” Kasselle responded in a light, tuneful voice.

  “When can there be good circumstances in war, my lady?” Draconess questioned.

  “When you’re winning!” barked Arkus. “I’m sure Rectar and his circle of foul creatures are quite joyful presently.”

  Everyone shifted uneasily and there was a moment of silence before Draconess spoke up.

  “Shall we continue our conversation up in the war room? I don’t think the docks are a particularly appropriate location.”

  “Quite right,” Arkus said, pivoting on the spot to get a better look of the situation. “What are all these people doing here? You’d think the whole city was trying to get on a ship and leave,” he chortled.

  “Like I said,” Draconess beckoned, “we should continue our conversation in the war room, please come.” Kasselle briskly followed. Arkus looked a little confused, as if trying to work out if he had actually been correct in his presumption, but then set off after the others. Darnuir was about to follow as well, when Arkus wheeled around and looked at Darnuir as if he was plucking up the courage to do something daring.

  “I had wondered whether you would do me a favour?” he asked rather furtively.

  Darnuir raised his eyebrows so as to feign a polite curiosity and waited for the question.

  “You see, ever since my son was lost to me, I’ve decided to take my daughter everywhere with me to keep an eye on her, you know.” Darnuir was somewhat shocked to hear this news; he knew that Arkus had a daughter, but she was only very small, just a few months old in fact.

  I will not play minder to your whelp. We are not equals, Arkus.

  “I don’t wish to seem rude, my good king, but bringing a baby across open waters during a time of war doesn’t seem the safest thing in the world to do.”

  “Please don’t question me, Darnuir. I cannot bear to lose another child, another heir, you must understand.”

  “I do understand,” Darnuir said without an ounce of internal sympathy. “But what has she got to do with me?”

  “Well, I was only wondering if you might watch over her while I am at this council.”

  “Don’t you have over a hundred soldiers who can do that?”

  “Yes, but even a thousand men couldn’t offer the protection you can,” he pleaded, though the obvious flattery did not please Darnuir.

  “I would be honoured to watch over your daughter, Arkus,” he lied effortlessly, “but I think my presence is better served in this meeting. It is my right after all,” he added firmly. Arkus fumbled slightly, and looked as if he was going to speak again, when Draconess called back to them.

  “I hope there isn’t a problem?”

  “Not at all Draconess,” Arkus shouted back, and made his way over to the small company making their way west around the bluff of rock to the lift in the northern district of Aurisha. This great lift would allow them to make the ascent back up to the plaza atop the plateau more easily than walking the meandering southern stairs. Darnuir allowed his feet to pound ahead of him without paying attention to the inevitably dull conversation between the three monarchs. Arkus had attempted such transparent power moves before. Darnuir was of the opinion that it was an effort to assert his own position as a king, over himself as merely a prince. Yet Darnuir was twenty years Arkus’ senior, and had bloodied himself in countless battles, while Arkus sat upon his cushions. Neither Arkus nor his recent forebears had led their men in battle themselves. Too easy to kill, and too weak, like all the rest of his kin. Before Darnuir knew it, they had reached the lift and began to ascend the seven hundred feet to the plaza atop the plateau.

  When the lift stopped, he stepped out and continued to walk absentmindedly behind Arkus as they crossed the plaza, his thoughts drifting between anger at his
father’s decision and excitement for the assault on the Bastion in the west. Darnuir glanced up as they reached the foot of the enormous Royal Tower and entered through the great archway that he and Draconess had exited from earlier that day. Their collective feet echoed lightly off the cool marble underfoot as they approached the grand staircase, chiselled from starium, with fierce, carved dragons forming the railings on either side. The royals trudged up the spiral staircase to one of the highest levels. Arkus let loose a pained, little yelp and clasped a hand over his ears. They must have finally popped. Darnuir smirked to himself. When they arrived at the war room, the elderly tower steward and several attendees hastened to push the heavy doors inwards for them.

  “Thank you, Chelos,” Draconess said to the steward. “Some food and wine for our guests please.”

  Chelos bowed earnestly and took his underlings with him.

  The war room was cluttered; full of depictions and trophies of wars fought and won long ago. Crates of incredibly detailed maps of almost every location and settlement in Tenalp lined the room; yet the most impressive piece was the table itself. Carved from starium, the table was a large crescent moon with two imposing stone seats at its centre. Opposite, on the outer sweep of the table, three small, wooden chairs had been arranged, facing across from the two beautiful starium ones (one for the King and one for the Guardian).

  Draped atop one of the stone seats was a dragon in its former bestial form. Wings spread outwards as if shielding the one who sat below with eyes that were wrought in such a manner that they seemed to follow the onlooker around the room. This was the seat of the King. The Guardian of Tenalp’s chair was entirely different. A severed sun was carved at the top of the seat, the lower half scorched with crossings, while the upper half was clean. A sword with a spiralling pattern on its hilt pierced the sun, and three elongated rays emanated from its tip. Whereas the King led the people in civic matters and in war, the Guardian headed the faith and spiritual matters. Yet there was no longer a Guardian. There had not been one since before the war, and the last was presumed dead.