Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 1 — Rebirth

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Brecc slogged along the shore of the Black River, water trailing off his clothes. Surrounded by fog, silence sat upon them like heavy weights. He stared at the ground, listening as his wet boots sloshed through the muck. A chill ran through him as he remembered the last few hours of clutching a log, hoping the currents would not swallow him in its murky, cold depths. His hands ached as he tried to pull his damp cloak tighter to stave off the frigid night air. But the effort failed as much as his attempts to avoid the pervasive dark thoughts crossing his mind.

He had fallen far in just a couple of days. No longer the King of Bretagne and heir to Cazidor, to a fugitive whose life depended on the “charity” of his companion, Dathon, otherwise known as the Magus. Ahead of him, the man’s tight bearded face jutted out into the fog, eyes burning with a fire that could seemingly cut through the vapor. For nearly an hour, Brecc silently followed, with no clue where they were going or why. Several times, he flirted with stopping and letting Dathon disappear into the darkness. But each time, he wrestled the thought away, for he was now without a country, a title, or a role in the future of Westfal. On his own, he had no existence or purpose. Would he, like the mist, vanish once the winds shifted? If he stayed with the Magus, what would happen to him? The silence goaded again, so he forced the issue and cleared his throat.

“What is it?” Dathon snapped, not breaking his slog-filled stride.

“You said you had a plan. Were you saying that, or did you mean it?” Brecc asked, struggling to avoid irritation from showing in his voice.

Dathon suddenly stopped and whipped around. Eyes bored into Brecc. “If I did not, you would not be here.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and resumed his relentless pace.

Brecc raced to keep in step. “Then where are we going?” he shot back between breaths.

“To get help,” Dathon replied.

The Magus halted, and Brecc followed the Magus’s gaze through the fog toward a series of lights. With a grin, Dathon stated, “And here it is–Eldghast.”

Brecc fixed his eyes on the glow in the distance, but his hopes did not rise to the occasion. He knew of the village, but it was nothing more than a backwater settlement in the borderlands beyond the southern boundary of Bretagne.

As they approached, Brecc could not restrain himself. “What sort of help are you looking for?” he asked, now trying to conceal the desperation in his voice.

“From Eldghast, we can reach the Council. In the meantime, I will tell you what I intend to do.” Slowly, the outlines of the hamlet resolved, as did a series of low-slung wooden buildings perched on a sandbar jutting into the river. Several flat-bottom river boats bobbed lazily against the timbers of the wharf.

Dathon’s statement was somewhat encouraging since it included the word ‘we.’ But Brecc had no idea what type of help the Magus sought. His anxiety forced him to ask, “What are you proposing to do?”

Dathon spun on him, his brow furrowed and face tight, but he said nothing. Slowly, the man’s countenance relaxed. “Tell me, what do you want?”

The nature of the question struck squarely, but Brecc blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Revenge!”

Dathon smiled broadly. “That is entirely my plan. And you are key to that,” he said, jabbing a finger into Brecc’s soggy tunic. “Is that sufficient?”

Despite his misgivings, Brecc grinned, too. Perhaps he did have a purpose after all. Questions ran rampant through him. “Revenge on whom: Edwyn, Gall, Alric?”

“All of them,” Dathon replied, a twinkle in his eye. “I intend to avenge myself on them all.” He gazed past Brecc back into the gloom of the mist hanging over the river and north into Bretagne.

Brecc glanced at Dathon, then looked away. Both wanted the same thing, but he could not see how either could get what they wished. They had neither the capacity nor the resources. But that, perhaps, underestimated Dathon’s qualities–his ruthlessness, competence, and ambition. If it were within the realm of possibility, the Magus could make it happen.

But what possible role would he play? He had been a usurper to Edwyn, his older brother, whom he had overthrown just the month prior. That aspect had been easy enough to exploit, for Brecc hated his brother for many reasons, not the least of which was that he sat on the throne.  To make matters worse, his sibling had found love and companionship in the achingly beautiful Kathryn. Of everything else his brother possessed, she was what he had hoped to take for himself, but an executioner reached her first.

Yet Edwyn did not meet the same fate. Wavering support of Edwyn’s former allies and incessant raids by Nagun tribesmen endangered his position. His kingdom, newly won, teetered on the brink. He needed legitimacy quickly.

So Dathon intervened again, securing for him a bride–a hot-headed red-haired harpy from Cazidor. An irritating stepping stone to the throne of that country once her father, King Alric, died. The concept had been ideal except for a fatal flaw–it allowed the King of Cazidor to interfere. In that role, Gall–an emissary sent by Alric–subverted Brecc’s military plans to crush the Nagun and convince Edwyn’s supporters he could lead Bretagne. At first, Gall had been helpful, saving Brecc from assassination and a Nagun ambush. But at Knife Edge Pass, the interloper left them to be butchered by the tribesmen. By cleverness and luck, however, they escaped, but not before Edwyn was once again King of Bretagne, leaving Brecc with nothing.

His hatred of Edwyn redoubled, equaling the discontent he had for Alric. The prospect of exacting justice on both was exhilarating but perplexing. He could not envision Dathon allowing him to do what he wanted, yet he had a role to play, if only on the periphery. For that, he was grateful, but not knowing what his part was to be and having no means to exert control over events meant he had to be patient. Let others plot and connive; he would watch until it was time to act.

They wound through the darkened streets until finding a tavern aptly named the Water’s Edge Inn. Dathon led the way inside and spoke quietly to the proprietor, who pointed toward a door in the back. Through that, they passed into a long room, barely wide enough to stand next to each other. On the far side hung a massive tapestry decorated with all manners of birds.

Brecc looked around. There was no furniture or furnishings or even sufficient space to sit. “What is this place?” he asked.

“A means to an end,” Dathon replied as he began to walk toward the drapery.

What does that mean? Brecc followed at a discrete distance until Dathon stopped. The Magus reached up and swept the adornment aside.

A mirror stood before them, Dathon’s grim visage filling it. He closed his eyes and held his palms facing the device, “reserare ostium, aperi transitum [unlock the door, open the passage].”

The surface turned milky white, then started to swirl with many colors. The air shifted from behind Brecc and began flowing around the Magus and into the looking glass. Dathon turned and spoke, “Follow me.” With that, he stepped into the mirror and disappeared.

Heart thumping wildly, Brecc walked toward the reflective glass. He could see no evidence of the Magus, just the whoosh of air as it streamed past into the swirling mass of color in front of him. Closing his eyes, he extended his foot forward and felt himself leaving his feet and tumbling end over end in an instant. A scream followed his passage.