Draconis' Bane (38 page)

“Hold!” Robertson
shouted.

The men were getting
restless; some of them were getting sloppy and lowering their
shields so they could watch the fight. Not that Robertson could
blame them; the boy was like a man possessed in battle. None of his
self-doubt seemed to nag at him while he was concentrating on
staying alive.

Tristan spun in spot
and used a dangerous move where he put his shield over his
shoulder. This time it paid off as the slayer’s sword hit the
shield. Robertson watched as Tristan thrust his sword backwards and
the woman’s eyes went wide as he plunged his sword into her
gut.

When he pulled his
sword free Robertson drew his, knowing that her men wouldn’t accept
defeat so easily. He began shouting orders for his men to form up
as the boy’s final stroke knocked the woman backwards. Her men
stood in shock, looking from their leader to the Prince and back
again.

“NOW!” Robertson
shouted.

The men ran across
the bridge, but the Knight-Captain was well ahead of them. He slid
to a stop right behind the dazed boy, grabbed a hold of the back of
his armor and launched him as far as he could. Bow strings sang
from the battlements knocking the last of the archers out of their
perches. The soldiers caught up the Knight-Captain and paused
briefly at his side.

“Make them pay!” He
shouted and roared a loud war cry.

They were easily
outnumbered, but the 7
^th
had been outnumbered before and
still survived. Robertson was filled with energy as he began
slicing down the fools who came too close to him. He took a spear
in the shield and tossed it away. He drew his second short-sword
and moved forward, hacking and slashing his way through the press
of slayers.

Before him a slayer
stood, his mighty twin bladed axe heaving with his labored
breathing. He swung high and Robertson ducked, slicing the back of
his knee out from under him. The slayer dropped to his knees as
Robertson reversed his grip on both swords and screamed as he drove
them into either side of the man’s’ shoulders. The blades plunged
deep into his torso as Robertson let out an animalistic yell of
triumph.

He pulled his blades
free, kicked the dying slayer in the chest and turned to face the
next motherless fool. A pinching pain struck his chest. Robertson
looked down to see a spear point protruding from his breastplate,
drenched in his own blood. He dropped to his knees as the spear was
unceremoniously ripped back out.

Knight-Captain
Robertson’s last thoughts were of Tristan. He said a silent prayer
with his last dying breath, a simple one, taught to him years ago
while he sat on his mother’s lap, for he’d never had a child of his
own to teach the prayer to.

“Gods, protect my
boy. Tell him I will be with him, even in his darkest hour.”

~

“Mistress.” Antonius
Rossi whispered.

She looked up from
the ever-present tome she was reading. Antonius had a disheveled
look about him today; no doubt he brought news of another defeat at
the hands of that half-breed bastard. The minor servants simply
refused to bring her news of failure lest they be the next one
enveloped in a ball of mystic fire. She narrowed her eyes,
preparing for another disappointing report.

“Yes?” She replied
dryly.

He cleared his
throat, oh how she hated the spineless sorcerer. His manipulation
of the prophecy had created this whole mess. All of her careful
planning had been on the basis of a ridiculous mistake. Since then
he had proved himself useful in a hundred ways. Yet the sting of
his failure tainted his deeds.

“Master Slayer Eberts
is dead.” He muttered.

Memories of a simpler
time flooded in on her unbidden. When she and Amanda had been
lovers,
Draconis’ Bane
had been created by her father for
his own misguided reasons. The two of them had deposed him and
created a powerful network of assassins, magicians and soldiers.
Danica’s desire to learn the full extent of the prophecy had
created a rift between them and finally Amanda had left shortly
after the slayers had disposed of the last dragons they could
find.

Eberts had returned
shortly after the dragon spawn scum had overcome the spell Antonius
had cast on him.
Eternal Nightmare
was an involved spell
needing a powerful bit of magic behind it and an intense loathing
for the target. Coincidentally, Rossi had created the very
situation he needed to cast this black spell on the young Vallious
Prince.

Anger festered in the
consul’s soul; she blamed Antonius Rossi for the failure, for her
alienation from her love and now, for Amanda’s death. She gathered
her strength, shaking as she employed more power than she had ever
used before. The air in the room crackled and hissed as she
unleashed a purple ball of fire at him.

Antonius merely
smiled; raising his staff above his head. He spun the staff and
slammed the end down onto the floor in front of him. Bricks cracked
at the impact and a faint hue gathered around him as the ball of
fire struck the protective field he’d erected. The fireball fizzled
and melted off the barrier as he continued to smile. When the last
heat from the spell had dissipated, Consul Danica Rhodes looked on
in shock.

“My turn.” Antonius
Rossi said as he smiled sadistically.

~

Groggily, Tristan
woke in his old room. The black four post bed, matching wardrobe
and desk were illuminated by a fire crackling merrily in the
fireplace. He groaned as he put his hand to his head, feeling a
cloth bandage wrapped around it.

“Took a nasty bump.”
Dion grunted.

Tristan’s eye shot
open, which he immediately regretted as his vision swam. He groaned
again, trying to keep the bile down in his throat as the nausea
rose up inside him. Slowly he rolled over and sat up on the bed. He
rubbed his eyes as the nausea died down, finally allowing him to
get his bearings. He opened his eyes slowly. His father was the
only one in the room; he was sitting in one of the black
chairs.

“How are you feeling
son?” He asked.

“Ill-used.” Tristan
replied. His throat was very dry so he poured himself a glass of
water from his bedside table. After he’d finished the third glass
he looked up at his father.

“What happened?” He
asked in a clearer voice.

Dion sighed,
composing his thoughts. He stared at the fire for a long time,
obviously trying to word something in such a way as to not harm
Tristan. All it served to do was make the young Prince nervous and
irritated. His mind began to race with images of Eurydice, William,
Knight-Captain Robertson, Lesariu, Socolis and his mother lying in
a pool of their own blood, their bodies broken and abused. The
images themselves made him angry. Sensing his sons growing anxiety
Dion cleared his throat.

“Knight-Captain
Robertson and Corporal Kincade are dead.” He said quietly.

Tristan swallowed
hard. His memories of the blunt old war veteran and his young brave
corporal invaded his thoughts. His friends, the last of his
Shroud
, the last of those that had watched his back
uncountable times in impossible situations, all of them dead and
gone.

The callused hand
that had launched him over the soldiers on the drawbridge, it had
to have been Lance. He was dead now. The empty feeling returned; a
profound loneliness. He tried to imagine their dying moments and
the courage they’d always displayed. His relationship with
Robertson had always been tumultuous but he’d grown fond of the old
war dog.

Tristan felt
helpless, as though he should have fought harder to get back into
the fight, stand beside his friend and die with him if he must.
Sadness, such as Tristan hadn’t felt since his loneliest hours in
his nightmare, gripped him and he felt as though he should like to
crawl into a hole somewhere and cry himself dry.

“We need to talk.”
The King said quietly, interrupting his son’s introspective
self-loathing.

“About what exactly.”
Tristan whispered his voice hoarse and heavy with emotion.

“I’m sending an envoy
to Delhi. To bolster defenses there for the boy.” He replied.

“You know?” Tristan
asked, shocked at the depth of his father’s knowledge.

Dion turned and
looked his son in the eyes.

“I know.” He
said.

“That doesn’t matter
right now though.” The King said dismissively.

“What does?” Tristan
asked bitterly, his emotions still running free.

“From what my agents
have gathered you have but one
Bane
Captain left to kill.”
Dion began calmly.

“Your agents?”
Tristan interrupted. The Prince’s eyes narrowed, unsure of what he
was about to hear.

“Yes, no one inside
your
Shroud
mind you. Not that it matters at this point
since the last of them are dead.” The King replied.

“Even if I told you
their names and described them you wouldn’t remember them. That’s
what I pay them for.” He chuckled.

“Should I assume you
know everything I know?” Tristan accused.

“Up until Lesariu and
Socolis took off with you three, yes.” The King shot back through
narrowed eyes.

“You gave your mother
quite a shock by the way.” He accused.

Tristan felt properly
ashamed, he was trying to stop something horrible and alienated one
of the people he was trying to save.

“Sorry.” Tristan
muttered under his breath.

“It’s alright; there
are things I keep from your mother as well.” The King
explained.

“I don’t think she
truly understands the anti-draconic sentiment in our neighboring
countries.” He concluded.

“Listen. We both know
the prophecy wasn’t about me now.” Tristan began.

“I have agents with
Draconis’ Bane
as well, though a few of them have died
recently.” Dion replied. “The leader of
The Bane
knows who
the prophecy refers to now.”

“Then I’m out of
options. I have to finish what was started.” Tristan concluded.

Dion looked hard at
his son. Since the attack he’d been growing at an alarming rate,
both physically and in maturity. He didn’t doubt his sons drive to
complete the task he’d adopted. He didn’t doubt his skills either.
Instead, the King worried that the mountain of a task would cost
the boy his life. Since he’d recovered from the
Nightmare
Spell
, Dion had tried to put him with as many able, experienced
leaders as he could and his son had proven himself strong and
capable.

The King couldn’t
express how proud he was in the boy, before the spell had fractured
his sons’ mind he’d all but given up giving him any kind of
responsibility. Now he felt confident that he could give the lad
any task and he would set to it with a dogged determination that
would put most clerics to shame. It was the end result of this task
Dion feared and the effect it would have on the boy’s mother.

The attack on Tristan
had nearly destroyed her, losing her son and quite possibly her
daughter if Eurydice had set her mind to accompanying Tristan and
William on their quest. All these things weighed heavily on Dions’
mind as he regarded his grown son. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Yes, I know.” The
King admitted finally. “Socolis will go with you, but Lesariu is
still healing.”

“How’s her arm?”
Tristan asked.

“Not well. I think
that bitch coated her arrows in some sort of poison.” The King
explained. “It finally stopped bleeding, but it’s not healing over.
She can’t even transform back into a dragon.” The King sighed.
“Dragon Magic being in the state it is, I’m not sure anything will
heal the wound.”

Dion waited as his
words hit Tristan like a hammer, another life at his feet. The King
considered the price his son already paid, all for a prophecy that
wasn’t even about him.

“What else do you
know?” Tristan asked.

The King sighed as he
began to unravel the mystery that had cost so many their lives.

“Dragon Magic hasn’t
faded naturally.” He began. Tristan opened his mouth to interrupt
but the King waved him off.

“Let me finish.” He
said.

“Dragon Magic hasn’t
faded. Somehow the leader of
The Bane
figured out a way to
siphon Dragon Magic into an object.” The King began. “It took a
long time because there are so many of them scattered around the
world. The leader had that Slayer, Amanda Eberts, as well as spies
who located dragon nests and a mercenary leader who would assemble
armies to trap the dragons and kill them.” The King explained in
detail.

“As they progressed,
it became easier to funnel the power into this object. We don’t
know what the object is though. Your grandfather and I think it’s
something alive, like a crystal or a person, though he admits that
it would be too much for a person or even a dragon to absorb, so
it’s probably a gem of some kind.” The King concluded.

“About twenty years
ago, just before you were born, things came to a head. Draconis had
trouble diverting a storm that would have destroyed this city.
Instead we had to rebuild the entire northern quarter when a fifty
foot wave wiped out the docks and everything for the first dozen
blocks.” He explained.

Tristan sat forward,
enraptured by the history of that which had come to pass to bring
him to this point.

“Ten years ago a
tornado completely destroyed Fenhold. You would have passed the
rubble left of the town on your way to Durshire. It was leveled and
our people believe it to be haunted by several less than savory
spirits.” The King admitted.

“Your grandfather
couldn’t turn away the tornado and it was then that he realized
that most of his magic had vanished. He left us, stopping in from
time to time in mortal form to visit, but now he hides. Between the
mercenary companies, spies and slayers he couldn’t trust his fate
to humans any longer. It broke your mothers’ heart.” He
finished.