War of Princes | Chapter Fourteen | "Wrath and Blood"

In the crumbling ruins of an ancient city, Nivan the sorceress at last makes contact with a long-dead dragon.

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NO LIGHT SHONE within the tomb, yet Nivan’s eyes saw through the darkness. The weeks she had spent here had seen her adapt, so that even without the aid of sun or lantern, she could make out the edges of smooth-hewn stone, of noble columns ridged and stately.

It was not for seeing then that she built a fire. She had prevented Prince Daras—King Daras as he insisted he be called—from bringing torches here. She must grow to know the dark as the dead themselves. As Ord the dragon knew it. Only then would the fire help.

For it was Ord she sought, the youngest wyrm. The pagans of Logren worshiped him, calling him the Hammer of the Drakau. He was said to be rash, a creature quick to anger and violence. And she knew he slumbered within the vault before her. Nothing but the intricacy of her craft prevented her from reviving him.

To reach him, she needed fire. Adhlac had taught her that much, early in her studies, when she had first come to him, a tearful orphan, Moreana her only kin. Fire was first, he had said. Later came words, gestures, songs. But first was fire.

In all the creeds of Moralann, fire held primacy. According to the cultists of the Drakau mysteries, it was from fire the world was born. By the heat of the primordial flame, order sprang from chaos. In the doctrine of the Faithful, the First Fire kindled out of Aonel’s wrath, created to scourge the fallen Bárdor of Pridaeron. And in the arcane science of the Athwyr, fire was the first principle, the primal element, the sorcerer’s focus and the instrument of her will.

Nivan lit the fire. It was a raging thing, a bonfire. She stared into the flames and remembered her lessons. It was all so long ago, before the madness of the present. And she had grown since then, deepening her knowledge of the dead, outpacing even Adhlac. Only Moreana could match her. And Moreana was gone.

She knew her sister had escaped Turòlas. Old Anysel sent word by pigeon the moment she had fled. She would be with Orthen now, spilling all her filthy secrets to him, rousing him to action.

That meant Nivan had little time to act. The fire before her rose, and her flesh prickled under its heat. She stared into it, focusing with all the strength of her will on nothing at all, on the great yearning void beyond and before creation. At last, she saw him, the creature himself, rising before her mind like a billowing wave. She knew it was no beast before her but a god. A power greater than any she had known.

“Who are you?” the specter asked. The voice sounded only in her mind.

“I am your master,” she said aloud.

The vision laughed.

“You have come to free me?”

“From the grave. But you will not be free, Ord of the Drakau. I raise you to be my servant, the instrument of my will, the symbol of my power.”

“And what is your power? You are mortal. And mortals bow to me.”

“I am like no mortal you have known. I am Nivan, Raiser of the Dead, third of Adhlac’s acolytes, a wielder of mighty wyrmcraft. And I say that you are mine.”

“How? My bones have lain for centuries, my essence trapped within these walls.”

“It will take time. But I will restore your body piece by piece, return you flesh and bone. You will stand before the armies of men in all your glory, a weapon like no other.”

“Impressive.”

His tone was flat. Detached. She could not tell if he mocked her, or if her words had impressed him.

“You intend me for a weapon then? Yet I sense there is another purpose too.”

A shiver ran down her spine. “There is. I would have you tell me of the future.”

“The future?”

“Yes. That is the lore of dragons. You exist outside of time and know the destiny of every man.”

Again the soul of the dragon laughed.

“If only. We catch but glimpses. A tree of many branches, a road of forking possibilities. That is destiny.”

“Tell me what you glimpse then.”

“Tell me what you would know.”

“Who will win the war of princes? Will Daras sit the throne of Gallodel?”

In response, Ord intoned:

“The shadow of war darkens Moralann

      The plains run black with blood.

The Drakau will rise again and in their rage

      Consume the wretched stain of man.

The crypt shall yield accursèd fruit

      As Rhiun’s legions march to ruin.

Men’s eyes will see the fall of him

      Who longs to break the Bárdor’s power.

Yet not your eyes, for they will close

      In death before that end is come.

Beware the man of wrath and blood

      Beware the roiling ocean’s lord

Beware the one who thwarts your will

      And wrests from you the victor’s crown.”

Nivan listened in rapt silence, shuddering at Ord’s words, feeling her blood go cold. She would succeed then. The Drakau would rise again. Rhiun’s horde of vicious Scalthir would at last be freed. And Orthen would fall.

But there was warning too in the prophecy. “Beware the man of wrath and blood,” Ord had said. It was a warning she had heard before. Adhlac used those very words when he called the Athwyr to him, telling them of his awful visions. In the wyrmhaze he had seen young Orthen’s rise, and in his babbling madness, she remembered the phrase “man of wrath and blood.”

“Who is it?” she now asked. “Who is the man I should beware?”

“You have drunk already from this well. Finish your task before you ask again.”

With that the vision vanished.

Nivan focused on the fleeting remnants, pulling on Ord with all her power. But he was gone. The dragon was not hers to command yet. She must complete the resurrection and bind the haughty creature to her will. Then she would have all the answers she required.

♚ ♚ ♚

Daras was waiting for her in Marbhglyn, in the Telian villa where he had established his court. It was a grand building, a place of luxury and power, of splendor and decay. It crossed Nivan’s mind that Daras’s power too was like this place, a thing decaying. A defeated prince, heir to an ancient title, languishing in the ruin of exile.

Daras sat on a throne attended by Caelran and a few loyal knights, mainly those who bore the title of Talons. Though Daras insisted he was king, this was no royal court. No foreign dignitaries came to pay him homage, to ask for trade deals, or offer alliance. He was beaten, disgraced. Only Nivan had sought him out. And Caelran with her.

“Nivan,” Daras said, brightening to see her. “I have anxiously awaited your return.”

Of course he had. On their first meeting, Daras had seemed bursting with swaggering pride. Standing well over six feet, broad shouldered, and possessed of strikingly handsome features, he was the very image of kingship. Daras had welcomed her to Marbhgyln with unfeigned warmth, lavished her with his attention. Famed for his many lovers, Daras did not take long to seduce her. And she had happily acceded, finding welcome distraction and pleasure in his bed.

His manner had deteriorated greatly since then. Perhaps it was the long period of idleness or the gradual realization of defeat, but Daras seemed to have lost his edge, succumbed at last to indolent despair. He relied entirely on her now, awaiting her counsel on matters great and small. Like a simple, anxious child, he seemed unable to adopt any course of action that she did not decide for him.

“Sire.” Nivan inclined her head. “My work has kept me away. But I trust all is well?”

“Very well.” Daras’s eyes glimmered with an unusual spark. “Lord Igan here has come on behalf of Cregeirann’s new king.”

That was certainly unusual. Since she had joined with Daras, there had been not even the rumor of an ambassador. The lords who remained loyal were with him in Marbhglyn already, and the neighboring Logrenians wished only to slit his throat. A foreign emissary was a true rarity.

Nivan nodded to Lord Igan, noticing him for the first time. He was tall, though not especially so for the sea people. His kept his golden hair long and unbound, his beard cropped short. He wore a shirt of polished mail that caught the daylight streaming in from the villa’s broad windows, and at his side a sword was strapped to his leather belt. The luxurious red cloak draped over his armor marked him as a man of wealth.

“My lady,” Igan said with a protracted bow. “King Tassach sends his greetings to you and to Daras, rightful king of Eburneum.”

Daras looked pleased. Igan continued.

“My king hopes the friendship between our peoples might continue, so that prosperity might reign in Moralann for all our days and the days of our children’s children. King Tassach would renew the alliance forged between the thrones of Cregeirann and Gallodel.”

Daras darted a searching glance at Nivan. She nodded subtly.

“It is our wish also to extend this alliance,” Daras said, his voice rich and vibrant. Defeat had rattled him, shaken his inner confidence, yet still he looked and sounded every part a prince.

“Excellent!” Igan flashed his courtier’s smile. “There is one more thing also. One favor my king craves from you, mighty Wyrmlord.”

Daras shifted slightly in his chair. “And what favor is that?”

“That he might borrow the services of the Stormkindler Caelran.”

Nivan saw Caelran frown, crossing his arms. The tall, dark-skinned sorcerer stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “‘Borrow’ me, Lord Igan? Do you think I am a common tool?”

“Apologies,” Igan said, holding up his hands. “I did not mean to offend. What I meant to say is that King Tassach craves the protection of one as mighty as you. And he knows that you have pledged service to King Daras.”

Daras held up his hand to silence Igan. “Caelran is right. He is not to be lent or borrowed. He has given me his oath freely, and freely he may make his own decision. But before he does, I would ask you: why does your king need protection? Do enemies threaten? Bròn?”

“No my king, it is not Bròn. King Ganwae is our ally.”

This news took Nivan by surprise. She was not well-versed in the details of Ellani politics, but she had learned enough to know Cregeirann and Bròn were mortal foes, their blood feuds reaching back generations, embroiling every island in the Iarlir. How could they ever be allies?

“Did I hear you rightly?” she asked. “Tassach has allied with Ganwae?”

“Yes, lady,” Igan said. “There is peace among the islands now.”

She had a hundred questions. But it was Daras who spoke first.

“If there is peace, why does your king need a wyrmcrafter?”

Igan grimaced and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “There is one who would break that peace.”

“Who?”

“Connal. An outlaw. A danger to us all.”

“The Connal?” Nivan’s voice rose. “Craedon’s son?”

“Yes.” Igan scowled. “That Connal.”

“Why did he not inherit?” Daras demanded, an edge creeping into his voice. The inheritance of elder sons was a matter of personal significance to him.

“The Suid decides who will be king,” Igan explained. “Connal abandoned Cregeirann. He stole away with a ship full of warriors, defying the Suid’s orders to—”

“So Tassach stole the throne from him?!” Daras interrupted. He wore his anger clearly now. “On what grounds?”

“Careful, Daras,” Nivan communicated silently to him. “We cannot afford to make enemies of would-be friends.”

“It was not so simple as that, sire,” Igan insisted. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “Connal is a traitor. He has bound himself to our enemy, Orthen of Gallodel.”

Nivan had to appreciate the adroitness of Igan’s response. By invoking Orthen’s name, he had steered Daras’s attention away from usurpation to the subject of his brother, a matter on which he was incapable of clear, measured thinking.

“He serves Orthen?” The prince’s voice rose barely above a whisper.

“He does, sire.”

“But I don’t understand. His father joined me in the siege of Gallodel. Craedon fell to Orthen’s treachery. Why would Connal ally with that covetous weasel?”

Igan shrugged. “Connal is a great warrior, but no thinker. He’s an impulsive fool, a man of wrath and blood. No doubt your treacherous brother managed to turn him with promises of greater power and wealth.”

“Yes,” Daras muttered. A cloud of gloom hung over him. The spark was gone from his eyes. “He is skilled in corrupting the feeble minds of vile men.”

“So you see,” Igan pressed his advantage, “King Tassach fears the day of Connal’s revenge. Who knows what havoc he will wreak when he returns, or what sorcerous power Orthen has equipped him with?”

“Orthen does not believe in sorcerous power,” Daras complained. “He fancies himself too righteous.”

“As you say, sire,” Igan conceded, before continuing as if the prince had said nothing. “In return for Caelran’s protection, King Tassach will aid you in your war. The ships of Tassach and Ganwae will harry your brother’s western shores, firing the homes of his vassals, putting his people to the sword.”

Daras stroked his beard and mused silently.

“It is a good offer,” Nivan told him. “We can get by without Caelran for a little while. And raids from the sea might draw off many of Orthen’s supporters.”

Daras nodded. “It pleases us to accept this offer. Yet the decision lies with the Athyd Caelran. What do you say, Stormkindler?”

“I accept,” Caelran said. They waited a few moments to see if he would say more, but he was silent.

“Excellent!” Daras said, rising from his throne. “Tonight we will feast. And tomorrow you will sail back to King Tassach with Caelran and our oath of friendship.”

♚ ♚ ♚

As the sounds of revelry rang out in the night, Nivan stood upon the ancient roof of a ruined Telian bathhouse, the wind stirring her long black cloak. She watched the moon’s reflection dance upon the dark surface of the water. This alliance with Cregeirann was welcome news, yet she could not celebrate with Daras and his lords. Her heart was heavy, her mind burdened. The dragon Ord’s warning still echoed in her ears. “Beware the man of wrath and blood,” he had said. It was what Adhlac spoke before his flight. What Igan had called Connal.

Who was this Connal? She knew little of him—only that he was Craedon’s son, a prince of Moralann. But what was he doing at Orthen’s court? What was his role in all of this? She must be watchful, ready for the moment he would interfere, the moment he would try, as Ord had warned, to wrest her victor’s crown.

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