Barczak / Veil of The Dragon 1

Prologue

Ras Dumas

His black spotted hands trembled as Dumas drained the

cup. The wind and the rain buffeted him against the pale,

cool stone of the parapet. But none of these things could

quench the fire from which he suffered.

The sea roared against the jagged cliffs of the

Karagas Mun beneath him. Within the safety of its dark

arms the bay of the river Shinaras waited still, reaching

through the canals of the dead city. There the queer light

of the storm gave life to its gray stones. They laid siege

to the thin white line that cut across them like a scar.

Here, where their promise had been broken. Here, upon

the very symbol of it, the stone wall built along with

their towers long ago by the Forgotten Ones, the Evarun,

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the same ones who had abandoned them to its protection a

hundred years ago.

The machinations he and the other Servian Lords had

added to it were crude aberrations to its perfection.

Seamless stone not cut so much as poured like a moment

frozen in time. And it was.

The Evarun had abandoned no one. They had left them

something, such a simple thing, such a fragile thing, but

something. The Evarun had left them hope, and they had

lost it.

In the torch lit courtyard beneath him, amongst the

stables and barracks, slaves and servants harried about

despite the hour and the weather as they made the final

preparations for his departure.

He had delayed as long as he could. The weather, of

course, had helped him in this, but he could no longer

ignore their summons. The Taurate and their Council had

become far too suspicious of him already. There was no

time left for doubt. But there was still time to do what

he must. Because hope he had found again.

Dumas let the cup fall to the tower roof. Its chime

rang muffled by the storm. He turned away from the

battlement and descended through the small door set within

the towers’ signal spire.

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Darkness swallowed him. He leaned against the wall.

His breath escaped. Shutters rattled against the fury of

the storm. The dim light of his chambers waited for him

below.

The eyeless skulls of beasts he had once thought

dragons stared back at him over gold that had long since

lost any meaning. His riches lay discarded in piles around

the great table that filled the middle of the room. Dead

candles still held down the corners of the parchment he had

laid there. The cold wax, like amber, had captured objects

from the table’s surface.

He hesitated for only a moment at the sight of the map

before him. Pulling the quill free, he traced the still

dry tip across the map’s surface, along the narrow mark

that ran across its length from the place where his tower

stood. The Line; the symbol of all they should never have

forgotten, its signal towers empty, the promise of their

warning lost as belief and memory passed. From beyond its

crumbled ruin the one true Dragon had already returned.

Veiled behind the silk and perfumed masks of the Taurate

and its Theocratic Council, its reach had already spread

throughout the Pale.

The Gorondian Wizards of old had served the Dragon

well. They had been its priests, and it was said that the
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Taurate had been their reward, their vessel to continue

their master’s rule over the Pale. But even if the wizards

still lived, they were little more than husks, bent only to

the Dragons will. Beneath them, the rulers of the eastern

city states which made up the Theocratic Council bent more

and more each day.

It would not be easy to do what he knew must be done.

There would be no stalemate in this. The end game had

come.

Drawing forth a sheet of parchment, he dipped the

quill into the shallow well of ink and began to write. The

trembling of his hands had, to his surprise, left. The

storm and the room faded as he fell into the runes that he

traced across the page. Grace, he had once believed, had

long since left him. He had not felt it in some time. He

had not expected to see it again.

To those few literate people, the single word he

scribed would be meaningless. Only those for which it was

intended would comprehend. Only they would understand the

promise that it held.

As he worked, hope flowered through him, the aches of

grief, and of so many years fell from upon his shoulders.

His eyes grew wet as a trembling sigh escaped his lips.

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As he traced the final mark, the shaking returned to

his hands. It had ended so soon, but he had felt it, and

the memory at least of its peace remained.

But more would still be needed. The delivery of his

message to those who would use it could not be let to fail.

To do this, Grace would indeed need to come again.

Carefully, he rolled the parchment and lifting a

candle to it, bound it with wax. Marking it with his seal

he placed it in a small red leather tube, wrapping it again

in oilcloth and concealed it within his robes.

They were the only ones who could stop this. The very

ones he had helped to destroy.

A harried knock hung upon the door. Dumas removed his

hand from the scroll beneath his robes. “I said do not

wish to be disturbed!”

The cherubic voice of Michalas returned to him

uncertain. “Someone has come, my Lord.”

Dumas caught his breath. Shame overcame him. “I am

sorry. I did not know. Please, my child, come in.”

Dumas withdrew the cloth bundle containing the scroll

as Michalas stepped through the door. Dumas knelt before

the boy, the one who would save them. It was as he had

watched the cruelty of his own legion set loose upon the

boy’s village, as he had watched it set upon the child’s

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family, that he had seen the boy for what he truly was.

Unafraid, even as the tears flowed down his face. To one

who had once known it, the boy’s soul cried out with the

trumpets of angels.

Dumas seized his hand. “I have something to give to

you. It is what I have spoken to you about before. Do

with it only as I have said, and until this is done, hide

it well.”

Michalas hesitated. But then he took it. The mark of

the Dragon which he bore bleached upon his brow like a

crown scarcely showed beneath his dark hair. Michalas

placed the scroll at last beneath his tunic. “I will.”

Dumas rose. The boy’s hesitation troubled him. “Say

what you think.”

“The visitor, Master.”

“What of him?”

Michalas stammered. “I am sorry, Master. It is

something you should see.”

Dumas stepped back. Apprehension drew its shadow

across him. “What?”

“He is one of the Heretics, Master.”

Dumas felt his strength falter. He reached out to

catch himself upon the wall. “How do you know this?”

“By his blade, Master.”

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Dumas hesitated, as he felt again beneath his robes

for the message that he knew he had already passed to

Michalas. “Go now. Do what I have said. Let no one see

you leave.” Dumas straightened. “I will see to this

visitor and why he has come to me.”

Dumas exhaled as he listened to Michalas’ descending

footfalls. The child would do what he had asked of him,

and he would do so much more as well. His part in the

prophecy would be unexpected.

Dumas’ thoughts spiraled downward as he fumbled for

his cloak where it hung near the door. His hand lingered

by the hilt of his sword. It leaned against the corner

where he had discarded it. The gilt upon its scabbard had

dulled since he had last borne it.

The man’s own sword had been left to him. If the

visitor had been anything other than what Michalas had

claimed, than this would never have been. A groan escaped

him.

Dumas seized his cloak and descended the full height

of the tower towards his audience chamber, taking the long

spiraling stair with greater unease than usual. Beneath

him, the dim light sputtered as torches died upon the

fingers of cold air roaming freely, freed from the storm.

He pulled his cloak tighter about him.

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At the bottom of the steps, before the door to his

throne room, a hollow tapping echoed amidst the shadows.

Dumas stopped. He turned reluctantly to the familiar

sound. The visitor would have to wait.

Magus’ silver mask glittered beneath the torchlight,

his red robes draping his crippled form. His twisted

wooden staff, luminescent from use, rolled gently between

his gloved fingers as it rapped rhythmic against the floor.

Dumas scowled and straightened. “I see you have

returned.”

The Mouth of the Taurate who came and went at the dark

will of his master, replied with what Dumas knew to be an

obligatory smile, however unseen. It still left him ill at

ease. The doll like mouth of the silver mask held

motionless as Magus’ sweet and caustic voice drifted

towards him. “And I am safe as well. I see that your

visitor is something to be talked about Master. Your

position and that of the rest of the Servian Lords is

tentative as you go before the Theocratic Council this

time. You can dare not afford such talk there.”

Dumas turned away from him. “Do not concern

yourself.”

“You underestimate the vulnerability of your position.

The Taurate will certainly pose their questions of this to

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the Council. There will be whispers I am sure among them

of the Dragons return.”

“The Theocratic Council and your Taurate both hold

great power I know. But do not think that I am so blind as

to not see their truth.”

“And what truth is that?”

Dumas tasted the hesitation upon his tongue.

“It is fortunate that I overlook such transgressions,

my Lord.” Magus offered. “Do not think that there has not

been talk among some, of perhaps, even your own heresy of

late.”

Dumas turned away from him.

“Be wary of your comfort in this.” Magus confided.

“Do not think that I am against you. I seek only your own

protection, as well as the Taurate’s. I sense that this

man may be more than what he seems. It is clear that he

has come to bring you harm.”

“The Heretics for long now have only belonged amongst

the dead.” Dumas returned.

“He clearly carries the Gossamer Blade.”

“Perhaps, but just as clearly...” Dumas grasped the

pull of the door, “...until I am through with him, he is no

concern of yours.”
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Dumas slammed the door behind him and passed into the

great hall. The eyes of the tower bored into him, even as

the eyes of Magus and that which he served remained behind

him, watching, and waiting. Dumas fell into the single

gilded chair at the top of the dais. He signaled for the

stranger to be brought in.

The central fire, newly rekindled, pressed back the

palpable darkness. Glittering tapestries and gilt adorning

the round hall concealed what had once been a sacred place.

Furs and rushes hid the place where the stone seats of the

Council of Twelve had once stood. So much had already been

forgotten. So much had already been lost.

Dressed in bright clothes, their painted faces veiled

against the plague which he knew already consumed them, the

courtesans and scribes gathered around the edges of the

chamber, drinking wine and whispering amongst themselves

amidst the shadows, little more than whores and thieves.

For so long, he had used them, as well as the trappings

around them. Either to intimidate or impress, in the end

they meant nothing. Now he saw only death when he looked

at them.

A dramatic hush descended as the heavy doors above

them opened. The centurion and two legionnaires in full

hauberks led the visitor in, his hands bound. His

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shoulders sagged as they half carried him down the

rightmost stair that curved down into the hall.

Blood matted the old man’s thick gray hair upon his

brow, but his eyes, worn and deeply set, missed nothing as

they swept across the room. His sword still hung from his

waist, devoid of scabbard, its bare steel bound by plain

white strips of gossamer.

Spellbound, Dumas ordered him to be untied. The

legionnaires withdrew as soon as they had done so, fear set

deep within their eyes. The centurion lingered only

slightly longer. Dumas smiled. The power of ignorance can

be so strong, even for himself. It seemed that the ones he

had sought had found him first.

“Tell me your name.” Dumas said.

The Servian exile did not reply, but instead moved his

hand to the hilt of his sword, as a dozen cries rang out,

along with just as many blades. Still, Dumas noted with

wry skepticism, their hesitation as they placed themselves

before him.

The Servian exile lowered himself to his knees, his

head bowed, as he lifted the gossamer blade out before him

with both hands. The blade gleamed like a lost jewel from

beneath its covering as he set the sword on the rush

covered stone before him.

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Dumas felt his breath escape him. He gathered

himself. “I will not ask you again.”

“My name means nothing.” The Servian exile replied.

“You need only know only that I have come to you, Ras

Dumas, with a warning.”

Dumas felt the eyes of the host surrounding him.

Irritation beset with doubt took over him. He could not

reveal to the gathered eyes ears and tongues what he sought

from the man who knelt before him, from his order whose

survival he himself had kept secret now for so long. Why

would they do this? But more than that, he could not take

to safety the last hope that they held. “You will not

decide what I need.”

The Servian exile’s stare did not waver. He

straightened, growing it seemed, as he spoke. “The final

stones of the prophecy have been cast. The Shadow of the

Dragon has fallen. Once you led us. The time has come for

you to lead us once again.”

Mingled gasps echoed around him. Dumas shook in

disbelief. He stood from his chair. “I warn you. Do not

speak words that are so careless here.”

“But it is a truth that you already know.”

Silence pounded in Dumas’s ears. Fear strengthened

its hold on him. No. This could not be. Dumas slumped
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back into his chair. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps

indeed Grace had already passed.

The silence grew painful. The Servian exile’s all

knowing eyes looked through the very soul of him. Too many

years had passed since he had felt the compulsion of eyes

such as those. The press of his fever washed through him.

The Servian exiles’ voice brought him back. “Do you

not still believe?”

Dumas motioned to the centurion. He had no choice.

Not here. Not before them. His hope fell away.

The heretic smiled.

“Take him from my sight.” Dumas said. His voice

sounded hollow and empty as it echoed within the tomb of

his own failure.

The silence of the hall shattered as the heretic rose

suppliant beneath his captor’s hands. His eyes still fixed

before him. Dumas lowered his own as they took him away.

“Leave me!” Dumas said, breaking through the clamor

of the voices. He raised his eyes to the sword that

remained where the heretic had placed it. “Everyone!”

Dumas waited but a moment after all had left, before

he fell upon the sword, clutching it to him through the

fabric of his robes, cautious that no part of his skin

might touch it. Bowing over it, he wept.

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Stumbling to his feet, he seized a torch from the wall

and staggered behind the throne, pulling away curtain and

shadow. He held the torch out before him and entered the

narrow passage, searching until he found the place where

the floor descended to stair, leading down into a darkness

against which his light turned feeble.

The white stone of the tower walls gave way to the

bleak gray of its foundation as he descended, and the

stairs themselves became little more than ledges in a crack

that had been stabbed into the earth long before. Beneath

him, he could feel its roots darken further as they neared

the heart of the place upon which it stood.

The steps came to an abrupt end in a silent cascade of

broken black stone. Feeling and sliding his way down from

the mound, he thrust his feeble torch out into the darkness.

Nothing had changed. The evarish chair still remained

where he had left it before the shallow of the well of the

cenotaph. But its preservation there brought him no

comfort. Comfort could not be felt here. But still he had

so often returned, to watch and to wait. But now it had

come to him. He placed his shaking hand upon the back of

the chair. The gentleness of its engraving pressed back

into his hand.

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His mind collapsed into a maze of remorse. Walls of

fire and blood grew around him. The visions of everything

he had done.

The chair toppled as he did. His torch and sword fell

at the base of the cenotaph.

He succumbed again to tears. He held out his hands.

The black spots upon them quivered, the Dragon’s poison

turning within him.

A rhythmic hollow tapping sounded out behind him.

Magus waited at the edge of the shifting darkness, his

bearing had straightened, the torchlight setting a fire

upon his silver mask.

Dumas silently cursed himself.

Magus cooed from behind his mask. The air bent around

him. The mask faded. The face of the Servian knight

smiled from where it had been. But the eyes which had held

him had passed. Only soulless wells remained. The mask

shimmered back. “I am glad to find you here, Master.”

Dumas stiffened. “It seems I have come to wait for

you.”

Magus reached down and lifted the gossamer blade from

the floor, holding it leisurely. “Tell me. Do you know

what damnation is?”

“I will play no more games with you!”

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“I will tell you. It is such a simple thing, really.

It is to have once known grace and then to have lost it.”

The ground shook. A scraping hiss sounded out from

the well of the cenotaph behind him. Thin cracks opened

between the stones of its basin. Black and acrid fluid

bubbled forth, a darker shadow turning within its eddy.

Magus’s voice descended. “Do you see what I mean?”

The long black tendrils flailed around the pool in

hungry chaos. Their voice, the voice of the Dragon,

whispered its rage. He already knew it well, and as he

looked at them, the full weight of his own guilt descended

upon him.

They seized him, their touch like a thousand unseen

blades. He flinched and bled beneath them. But he

struggled for only a moment. He had struggled with them

unseen for long enough. They coiled about him. Dumas wept

once more.

They lifted him above the pool. He hung limp within

their grasp. The world seemed both heavy and light, though

his mind no longer swam in drink. The darkness itself

moved, quivering with a sick anticipation.

Magus stepped beneath. Wings of a deeper darkness

turned and billowed, stretching out behind him, wings that

should not have been. Magus placed the point of the

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Gossamer Blade against his chest. Its cloth binding looked

sullen. “If there ever was a time for fear, Master, I

assure you that it’s now.”

The tip of the point pressed into him. Dumas tried to

pull away. The warmth of his blood snaked down his skin.

He strained to keep his wavering sight upon Magus’ silver

visage, easier somehow now than the truth that it had hid.

Magus did not serve. Magus was. Behind Magus, spirits of

the other ten Servian Lords, bearing the arms of a hundred

years before, waited for him. “Then take me. You still

cannot have the twelve. Malius is already dead and beyond

your reach. My loss means nothing!”

Magus, the Dragon, tilted his head. “Oh, far from

that my love. It is the blood that is bound to the promise

that was broken. And there is blood that yet still

remains.” He gave a slight turn to the blade. “Did you

really think that returning to the promise you had broken

would help you? The time of its wielding has long since

passed.”

The first of his blood touched the edge of the

gossamer wrapping the blade, the mark of the promise he

himself had forsaken. It passed quickly through it like a

dike burst asunder.

Dumas sputtered. “They do not sleep as we did.”

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“Do not fool yourself with your sudden change of

heart. The time has come for recompense, and I have waited

for this for a very long time. In fact, I suppose I should

thank you and your kind for handing me the key to my

return. Your weakness is predictable. It defines what you

are.” A deep noise of satisfaction escaped the mask as the

Dragon pressed in the length of the blade. The blood

soaked gossamer which had bound it crumpled at the base of

the blade.

Fire burned in Dumas’s chest, wrapping around his

heart. Everything faded around him.

The lurid voice of Magus, the Dragon, pulled him back.

“It is a joyful pity, the weakness of you and your kind.

How ironic that it is your greatest and only strength. But

oh, how you fear it so.”

The Dragon’s words echoed within him. The press of

the vise upon his heart hardened. Darkness overcame him.

With relief he heard more than felt, the creak of the press

as it made one final, fatal turn.

The Dragon’s voice descended to a whisper. “No. Not

for you. For you there will be no rest. Not even that

offered by death.”
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Then in the silence that was left a light from some

unseen place descended upon him. The darkness at its edge

struggled back, screaming as it did.

The softest of sounds came forth from the light. It

was a voice, though no words came forth. Dumas smiled. He

had not heard it in some time. It was the gentlest of

laughter.