Veil of the Dragon (Prophecy of the Evarun) (3 page)

Shadow filled his vision. The empty eyes of the Dragon stared down at him, dark and wretched pools beyond a chain mail veil. The glow from Baerythe’s blade succumbed beneath it.

The Dragon’s voice spoke his name with an iced breath. 

“Al-Aaron.”

The rain deepened. The Dragon spoke another name.

“Chaelus.”

Al-Aaron’s throat tightened. He thrust Baerythe upward. The distance between Al-Aaron and the shadow widened. The Dragon, brought its short blackened blade forward, catching Baerythe upon it. The swords locked, blue light washing over the blackened bands of the legion lorica the Remnant wore, the malevolence of the Dragon’s shadow pulsing from beyond the armored veil of its helm.

Forgotten stories by heralds of old returned to Al-Aaron; songs of the Dragon, and of the Remnants which served it, the quickened husks of the souls it had already spent.

The songs of the Cherubim fell away. Only the measured sound of the Dragon’s breathless whisper remained behind its veil. 

“I’ve found him,”
it sighed.

Fear gripped Al-Aaron. In a sweeping motion he swung Baerythe and himself away. But not before the Remnant’s blade fell, cutting down across Al-Aaron’s arm. Though it didn’t cut deep, frozen fire burned into him, lashing at his senses. He staggered from the pain and the chilled fingers reaching out from it. But more than this, he staggered from the sudden understanding that overwhelmed him. It was by his own pride that the Dragon had tricked him. It had used him, and he had led it to Chaelus. 

The Remnant turned in the direction of the chapel, its breath suspended about it like a second veil.

Clutching the growing weight of his wounded arm, Al-Aaron’s failure closed about him. Tears welled in his eyes as he ran with a fool’s hope toward the chapel.

Chapter Three

Waith

The rain drew against the village, a muted curtain, colors faded beneath it. Doorways on the happas stared back through the veil. Mud swelled. Lightning flashed upon the timber walls of Hasslyd’s hall. Her shredded banner tossed. The wind howled with a baleful cry. 

Once more, the scent of jasmine summoned Chaelus.

Jasmine, and the musk of swamp and smoke. The gentle crush of veil and the soft press of lips beneath.

Faerowyn.

A vision of her, or her spirit, stood against the glow of the tavern door. Hearth and lamp light settled like a halo about her. Beneath a black cowl, her crimson veil burned with the brilliance of embers. Her dark eyes called to him just as they used to.

But it wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

Still he whispered her name, “Faerowyn.” His voice sounded hollow and grievous against the storm.

The distance vanished. Her cold hand clutched his.

Beneath her veil, the scent of jasmine fled before the nauseous sweet smell of decay. Thick, garish paint bled in the blowing rain. A hag, her skin gray and faded. A shadow turned within her. She stared back at him, beholding nothing. 

Still her hand gripped him, her voice a whisper he already knew well. 

“Chaelus.”

Chaelus urged Idyliss past her.

Lightning split the night again, and the longhouses succumbed beneath the brilliant glow as he rode. Beyond, the fields lay fallow and wasted, littered with the bloated filth of forgotten beast and harvest.

The storm light dimmed. The warmth of fire beckoned from beyond a narrow doorway, a thin pillar of azure smoke rising from the center of the chapel’s conical roof.

Carvings marked the lintel above the door: the sigil of the House of Waith resting within the sacred circle of the Creator. 

The door moaned in the wind. It opened to the bent silhouette of a man awash in the glow beyond. Chaelus found no voice to call out, but the man raised his own aged voice above the tempest. 

“What do you seek?”

Chaelus dropped from Idyliss, his hand on Sundengal. The length of the happas and the eyes of the longhouses were empty. The whisper of the old woman was silent.

“I seek a priest named Joshua,” Chaelus said. “I’ve come with a boy.” Chaelus withheld the honorific that revealed the boy’s knighthood. “His name is Aaron.”

“Where is he?” 

“He’ll come.”

The man looked beyond him into the growing abyss of the storm. “Then the doorway’s no place for our talk.”

The man weighted himself against a wide branch stave as he retreated through the narrow passage. Chaelus squinted against the light and followed him.

A broad smile stretched the old man’s face, but his eyes revealed little. “If it’s the boy you wait for, then feel welcome. Feel safe. I’m Joshua.” He chewed on his lip. “And you must be Chaelus, once Roan Lord of the House of Malius.”

Chaelus drew his hood back, the sting of rain in his eyes. 

“Don’t fear your past here,” Joshua continued. “It’s but chaff, like so many of the other things we do well to leave behind.” He frowned for a moment as his voice faltered. He placed his hand upon Chaelus’ wrist.

Chaelus winced at the chill, like that of the old woman in the storm.

“Warm yourself by the fire,” Joshua said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Twelve hammered silver rings hung between the twelve open doorways around them. The flat discs captured the sullen red glow of the fire light. The fragrant musk of incense held thick upon the air. Twelve stone seats surrounded the fire burning in the center of the room; there to wait for the return of the Giver and the twelve whom he would choose. Chaelus sat down beside the fire. He eyed the open doorways, then settled his sight upon the one through which they’d come. Joshua leaned his stave against the wall and raised a small copper cooking pot to a hook above the flame.

Water pooled around his boots. The memory of Faerowyn and the whisper of the old woman wouldn’t fade.

Joshua raised his hollow stare as he stooped over the fire. “You’ll find that many things aren’t what they seem.”

Al-Aaron appeared like a ghost within the doorway.

He held his left arm close to him. It was bound and bloodied. With his other he carried his sword, bound in gossamer. An azure light showed beneath its wrapping.

Chaelus stood.

Joshua did n’t, instead crumbling leaves into the pot. “The weather’s become fierce, has it not?”

“You’re the high priest,” Al-Aaron said, “yet you do not march with your queen.”

“Such sentiment becomes lost to one who’s soon to follow.”

Al-Aaron came forward. “When did the Dragon come here?”

The kettle trembled as Joshua removed his hand from its chain. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“It walks among you. I wouldn’t have thought even the Fallen Ones would be so blind.”

“That’s because they’re dead.”

A thick, palpable silence descended. 

“What?” Al-Aaron asked.

“Less than a fortnight ago, the Servian Lords were murdered as if they were one. Their assassins wielded Gossamer Blades.”

Al-Aaron recoiled as if Joshua had struck him. “It’s not possible.”

“A Servian Knight surrendered to each them. Then they escaped and murdered their captors.”

“It’s trickery.”

Joshua raised his eyes, his voice gaining strength. “It doesn’t matter now. The persecution of the Theocratic Council and their Taurate won’t falter this time.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I’ve been hiding for too long.”

“Do you believe this?”

Joshua’s eyes grew wide. “It doesn’t matter what I believe! The Fallen Ones have been returned to their master. The die has been cast. The Taurate will now have the willing support of the Theocratic Council. From here forward, our persecution will seem more like redemption.”

Al-Aaron remained silent, his face uplifted.

The kettle trembled.

Joshua rose and lifted it, placing it on a wide stone beside the hearth. He stared into the fire. His voice sounded frail. “I’m tired. I’ve been tired a long time and you’re so very young. I’ve walked long enough with the Servian Order.”

The front door crashed open. The storm rushed in. The fire flared before the room plunged into the twilight of the storm. Joshua’s face thinned. A shadow turned within him, its illusion unveiled, just as with the woman in the storm. Unlike her though, Joshua knew it. Yet he didn’t seem to care.

Unmoved, Al-Aaron rose and stepped towards Joshua. “Do you believe the Prophecy has changed?”

Joshua recoiled. “Everything’s changed. You choose not to see!”

“I am afraid it is you who’ve lost your vision.”

“No. I don’t think so.” Joshua’s voice lowered again. He leaned forward. “I know that more than the Dragon’s Sleep has fallen here. I know that we wait in the Dragon’s shadow and we are woe to find any defense against it.”

“It is woe indeed to be without hope.”

“Don’t pity me. Save it for yourself.” Joshua, seized by a fit of coughing, fanned his arm toward the village. “I assure you that it’s not for my character that I suffer the same fate as them.” Straightening, he stared into the still glowing embers. “I don’t suffer from their lack of faith.”

“That is why you’ve fallen.” Al-Aaron turned towards Chaelus. “It’s time to go.”

Al-Aaron stopped within the passage and looked back toward Joshua. “It isn’t too late to stop this madness.”

Joshua turned away. “I’m so sorry that it is.” As the door shut between them, Joshua’s voice followed them. “Flee while you can.”

The rain gave way to a greater darkness. A low mist hung upon the whispering wind. Idyliss whinnied restless from where she wandered nearby.

The markings on Chaelus’ brow began to burn. He reached for Sundengal.

Al-Aaron touched his hand. The dark stain of blood marked its wrapping.

“It won’t protect you in this,” he said.

Chaelus’ consciousness fell to shadow. Darkness exploded beneath an azure flame.

***

Al-Aaron waited as Chaelus tumbled to the ground.

The Remnant which hoped to claim him leaned down in pursuit, appearing strange, almost like child going after a lost sweet. But then the Dragon, having already once suffered Chaelus’ loss, would have its attention on nothing else.

Al-Aaron plunged Baerythe down.

The Remnant’s faceless veil gave a slow turn in surprise as Baerythe’s length penetrated between the bands of its blackened lorica. Blue flame swirled about it. Tremors claimed it. The Remnant’s armor buckled inward.

Al-Aaron pulled Baerythe free. Wind rushed from the Remnant’s tumbling husk, brushing past him. It smelled pungent and sweet, for the scent of the soul that had been set free.

Al-Aaron’s wound cried out. 

Two pillars of shadow stood across the narrow clearing, the mist of their making still gathered about them. Beyond them, at the edge of the darker forest night, Magus reined in a black steed.

Chaelus stirred on the ground, an awakening moan upon his lips.

Al-Aaron stepped before Chaelus as the two Remnants, now fully summoned, marched towards him. Their black legion blades hissed as they withdrew them from their scabbards. Beyond the Remnants’ veils, the ire of the Dragon clamored. If the scent of a soul was sweet, then the scent of one made captive held like iron upon the tongue, like the pungent odor of death, but all the worse for the suffering it carried. 

The smell washed over Al-Aaron as he narrowed the distance between them. Around him, the ghost songs of the Cherubim sounded again.

Beyond the Remnants themselves, the Dragon, Magus, waited. It hadn’t come for him, but for the return of one he’d taken from it.