"What?" T'kar asked, surprised and angered. "What is there left? Who remains?"
"As you know," Kathorgo began, "the Firstborn have their servants as well. The Grand Druid, though perished and gone, remains in spirit. His heirs have risen up upon his death and have spread themselves throughout the world. They roam the lands, seeking out the blood of their masters."
"What blood?"
"The blood of the children of the Firstborn. Even now, a great prophet is being groomed in Khem by the priests of Imbra."
"What does that have to do with me?" T'kar growled. "This is not Khem, and this is not Imbra's land."
"This is the Dragon's land," Kathorgo reminded him. "And the Dragon, being the oldest and most powerful of the Firstborn, has made his mark in the bloodline of mankind."
"How so?"
"You know the answer to that question, T'kar. Long ago you executed the queen of this land, the daughter of King Daegoth."
"Yes," T'kar said. "Her death was a warning to those who would defy me."
"She bore the seed of the Dragon."
T'kar scowled, thinking of the blue-eyed child he had also killed.
"That child still lives."
T'kar rose up, his blood suddenly boiling. "What?" he growled. "The child was…"
"The Dragon's," Kathorgo finished. "And still is."
"I killed the child as well," T'kar said. "This was… decades ago."
"The blood of the Dragon remains," Kathorgo said. "I still feel its presence."
"Tell me where," T'kar said. "And I will hunt him down like the dog he is."
"Fear not, T'kar. He will come to you. He need but hear the call of the Dragon."
"What shall I do?"
"You will hunt down the servants of the Dragon," Kathorgo said. "Kill all who call his name, and bear his power. The Great Druid of Eirenoch has risen, and he too will seek out this progeny."
"Then the Great Druid will die as well."
"Good," Kathorgo said. "Spare no one. Kill them all; man, woman and child alike. Slay the druid, slay the progeny, and the throne will remain yours. But beware, the Dragon himself stirs even still. If he is able to reach his child, then that child will rise against you."
"I will send soldiers to his temples and burn them to the ground," T'kar said. "But I will not allow this son of the Dragon to answer his father's call."
"It is not your task to hunt him down," Kathorgo said. "Your task is to eliminate our enemies through the hands of those whom are unknown to them."
"I do not understand," T'kar said. "My men are capable of hunting down a Druid and a bastard son of the Dragon."
"The Druid will know them when he sees them, as will the Dragon's son."
"Then what shall I do?" T'kar asked. "Whom shall I send? Igraina?"
"No," Kathorgo replied. "Do not trust her with such a task. I will summon a soldier to your service. One unknown to anyone on this island."
"Who?"
"Through the darkness I will call him," Kathorgo answered. "And through the darkness he will come."
"You speak in riddles," T'kar growled. "Why can you not answer my questions directly?"
"Patience, T'kar," Kathorgo said. "All will be revealed when the time is right. Await the assassin. Do not move against the Dragon's allies until I give you leave to do so. Until then, make the people of this island as fearful of you as possible. I will allow you to summon the giants of the Earth and enslave them to your will. Lead these monsters against the people of Eirenoch and they will tremble before you. Show them the meaning of terror, and show them no mercy when they beg for it."
"That is not so difficult a task," T'kar said, grinning. "It is what I do best."
"Indeed. But there is one thing you do not do well, T'kar, and that is seeing treachery in those who surround you. Be wary of those who would betray you."
"What do you mean?" T'kar asked. "Who around me would defy me?"
Kathorgo did not answer. Instead, the energy began to fade from the statue, and the eyes closed. T'kar stepped forward, slamming his fist into the serpent's chest.
"Answer me!" he growled. "Who will betray me?"
The only sound was a word that sent chills up T'kar's spine.
Ach-Ia-gra!
T'kar stared in silence, confused by the phrase. What did it mean?
"Riddles," T'kar hissed. "Nothing but riddles."
Enraged, he reached down and took the severed head by the hair. He held in his hands, pressing them together with all his might. The skull began to crack, and its eyes bulged out under the pressure, drawing a smile from T'kar's lips. Then, the skull collapsed, and the blood that remained within it spilled to the floor and onto T'kar's hands.
He dropped the shattered remains, staring at his bloodied hands as he contemplated Kathorgo's final words.
"What does it mean?" he growled. "What does it mean?"
He thought back to the past, when he had discovered the disappearance of Cohlein, Igraina's servant. She had fled to the north, along the river. He did not know why at the time, but now he realized she could have taken the child with her. But what child did he kill that night? Whose throat did he cut?
Igraina had been there, he remembered. She had been there to witness the queen's execution, and had said or done nothing to indicate any betrayal. She had laughed at the queen's pain. She had demanded that the child be murdered. It was she who suggested he execute them both in public.
He didn't trust her, and she didn't fear him, he knew. But she would not betray him. She had offered herself up to him. No, it was someone else. It was someone who still remained loyal to the queen. But whom?
At that moment, T'kar vowed to find the answer. He would find the traitor and bring them to justice. Then, he would find this son of the Dragon and skin him alive. He would destroy the Great Druid and devour his very flesh.
The thought made him chuckle. To whet his appetite, he licked his fingers clean, enjoying the taste of the young boy's blood. It was sweet to him. But not as sweet as the taste of the Dragon's blood, he knew.
Soon, he would taste that as well.
Chapter Five
Dearg spied the large deer near the water's edge. It had emerged from the woods to drink from the river, and though knowing that two men were on its trail, it didn't hesitate to rest. The chase had lasted for more than six hours, and the tireless men were close to ending the hunt once and for all.
Dearg signaled his friend Fleek to move to the right, closer to the river where several large rocks would hide his bulk. If his friend could get close enough to draw the deer's attention by making noises, Dearg could skewer it with his spear, and the tribe would eat well this night.
He carefully crept forward as Fleek took position behind the rocks. The deer seemed oblivious but alert, its ears pivoting this way and that as its head was lowered to the water. Once he was within throwing distance, he nodded to Fleek. The big man made a quick succession of noises, sounding like a wounded coyote.
The deer's head shot upward, and its ears spun quickly. Dearg took the opportunity to creep around to its flank, always keeping his eyes on the beast's head. He dashed toward a large tree on the forest's edge, and stood behind it, gripping his spear tightly as he anticipated the kill.
The deer turned toward Fleek's position, showing Dearg the bulk of its body. He reared back the spear, stepping out from behind the tree, and hurled it with all his might. There was a sharp groan as the point drove home, penetrating the deer's rear flank. It reared up, snorting loudly, and shot off toward the rocks.
"Fleek!" Dearg shouted. "Stop it!"
Fleek leaped out from behind the rocks, his eyes wide and his spear readied. The deer bounded toward him, snorting and angry. The big man dropped his spear as the beast neared, rearing back his fist and letting loose a wild haymaker as the deer charged. His fist connected, cracking the deer's jaw, but the beast plowed into him.
Dearg's heart leaped when he saw his friend trampled, and sped toward him. The deer was still st
umbling, both from the injury and the impact. Dearg drew his dagger and leaped onto the deer's back, driving the blade into the beast's heart. It fell limp with a groan.
"Owwww, ha ha ha," Fleek groaned, sitting up and rubbing his shaggy head.
"Are you alright?" Dearg asked him, offering a hand to help him up.
"Hurt some," Fleek said. "But good."
"That was quite a punch," Dearg laughed.
"Hand hurts, too," Fleek said, grinning.
Dearg removed his dagger from the deer, wiping it off on the beast's pelt and returning it to its scabbard. He rolled the beast over to get a better grip, and hefted the large carcass onto his massive shoulders. Fleek adjusted the deer's head to keep the antlers from poking against Dearg's back, and the two began their journey back home.
"That was a long hunt," Dearg said. "The longest we've had all autumn."
"Deer go away," Fleek said. "Not many left."
"Right," Dearg agreed. "It's sure to be a long, meatless winter."
"Fish good, too," Fleek said. "Olav can catch many."
"Maybe," Dearg said, knowing his father was not the best fisherman. "More likely he'll catch himself in the nets."
Fleek laughed out loud, drawing it out a bit longer than necessary. Dearg smiled, amused at his friend's good nature. He knew that even before his own birth, his father had spent much time with Fleek. The man had always been a son of the whole tribe, and everyone had cared for him in one way or another. Now, as a man, Fleek did everything he could to help his people, and everyone loved him.
"Your laugh could wake the dead," Dearg joked.
"Dead men can't hear," Fleek said. "But they smell bad."
"Ha!" Dearg laughed. "Probably not much worse than either of us at the moment."
"Look," Fleek said, pointing off toward a nearby field. "Vigo need help."
Vigo the farmer stood near his plow scratching his head. The donkey that was tethered to it was squatting in the dirt, trying desperately to stand. Dearg shook his head, knowing the donkey was probably as old as he was and was definitely on its last leg, so to speak. There was no pulling a plow for that old nag.
"Here," Dearg said, hefting the deer above his head so Fleek could take it. "Take the deer to Svengaar. I'll help Vigo."
"Okay."
Fleek took the deer, easily dropping it onto his big shoulders and continuing down the path toward the village. Dearg approached Vigo, chuckling as he watched the farmer curse the poor donkey. The tired old thing gave up, dropping down into the dirt and refusing to budge.
"Leave that old man be," Dearg said. "He's tired."
"Bah!" Vigo cursed. "The damn thing doesn't wanna work anymore. He's useless. I'll make torches of his legs."
"I'll help you," Dearg said, unhooking the animal from the plow and grabbing the straps himself. "How many more rows do you have?"
"Just two," Vigo said. "You're not planning on draggin' the thing yourself are you?"
"Take your spot, Vigo," Dearg said. "You drive, I'll pull. What are you planting so late in the season anyway?"
"Lettuce, my friend," Vigo said, taking up the poles. "Something I've been wanting to try. It grows well in the cold I hear."
"Alright then," Dearg said. "Lettuce it is."
Olav dragged his line in from the river, forming a cup shape with the net. The line didn't give as easily as usual, forcing him to pull harder than he could muster. It was strange, he realized. He must have gotten the net caught on something in the water; perhaps a rock or maybe a sunken log.
"Damn it," he whispered.
But then, as part of the net surfaced, he saw that the water was roiling with activity. There was splashing, heavy splashing, that suddenly put a smile on his old face. He threw his head back and laughed loudly, growling with delight as he pulled in the line.
The net was full of fish.
"Yes," he growled. "Yesssssss!"
Fish flopped onto the bank as he dragged the net in. From what he could see there were hundreds. Salmon from downstream, carp from the deeper pools, and even a few bass here and there. It was a good harvest, and he felt much pride in the fact that his idea had worked this time.
But there was still room for improvement.
He tied off the line to a nearby post that had been driven into the bank, and put his hands on his hips as he looked out over the river. He would have to get help in bringing in the net. It was far too heavy for him to haul it in by himself. Perhaps Dearg or Ivar could help.
The two young men were not only the strongest warriors in the tribe, but they both had the thinker's mind. Dearg had the countenance of one who thought deeply. He could assess any situation with the insight of a sage, and was often called upon to judge the best locations for traps and hunts. Ivar, on the other hand, was a master of land engineering. He could judge the course of rainfalls, water drainage over the terrain, and was always consulted during the building of a new longhouse.
And all of this in addition to their prowess at battle.
Since the two were old enough to fight, they were always ready to take up arms to defend the tribe against the barbarians who crossed the channel from the small island nearby. The subhuman monsters were no match for the Northmen in general, but they greatly feared Ivar and Dearg. Olav only hoped that if T'kar's soldiers ever ventured over the mountains or through the passes that they too would look upon the young men as warriors to fear.
"Olav," he heard from down river.
Fleek was there, marching toward him with a large deer on his shoulders. Olav laughed, partly from the humorous sight, and partly for the fact that the deer was enough for a fine feast; not to mention, some salted and dried venison from the leftovers.
"Fine kill," Olav said, going to Fleek and looking the deer over. "Where is Dearg?"
"Dearg helps Vigo," Fleek said. "He will return."
"Then let's get this big fellow to the larder and strip off those backstraps."
"Backstraps good," Fleek said. "Fish good, too."
"Ah yes," Olav said, looking back at his flailing net. "Quite a good catch this time. I'll need help bringing it in. How about we return after dropping off the deer and you can help?"
"Yes, help," Fleek said. "Fleek hungry."
Olav clapped Fleek on the back. He loved the young man as much as he loved his own adopted son. Along with Dearg and Ivar, Fleek, being the eldest of the three, was a welcome member of the tribe's fighting force. His skills in battle were unmatched; not only for his prowess, but for the fact that he was rather immune to pain. Olav had seen Fleek shrug off a large rock falling directly on his head—laugh it off, in fact.
He was a veritable beast.
The two passed nearby the Völva's hut. The Völva herself sat just inside the doorway, smiling at them as they went by. Olav waved, nodding his head respectfully. She did not respond, but looked away, going back to her scrolls. Ahead, Olav could hear the halting shouts of Igrid, the tribe's shieldmaiden, as she led practice sessions with her girls.
Igrid had a dozen girls under her command, all of them skilled warriors in their own right, but still under her thumb and not ready for true battle. Igrid wandered near the wooden fence of her practice yard as she shouted commands, giving Olav a nod as they passed.
"Tell Dearg to come by when you see him," Igrid shouted. "He still owes me a chore or two."
Olav laughed. By "chore", Igrid meant something else. Though she often described Dearg's visits as simple acts of labor, Olav knew she was lustful toward him and would fabricate "problems" around her house for him to fix. No matter, he thought. Igrid was a shieldmaiden. She could have whatever—or whomever—she wanted.
"I will tell him," Olav said. "After he helps me bring all the fish home."
Igrid's eyes widened with surprise. "You've actually caught something, then?" she quipped.
Olav grinned, shaking his fist. Igrid smiled and went back to shouting orders at her girls.
"She spends way too much time with the young men,
" Olav said.
"She's lonely," Fleek said. "She needs man like me."
Olav threw his head back in laughter. "Maybe she does," he said. "But she's awfully bossy. She would run you ragged, boy."
"Ragged is good."
"Yes it is," Olav said. "Yes it is."
"I thank you, lad," Vigo said as Dearg dropped the plow. "Now I suppose I should get meself a new donkey."
Dearg knelt down to look at the poor beast. Though weary and old, it didn't seem to be sick. Its plowing days were definitely over, that was sure, but it could be useful in other ways.
"Maybe we could let the children ride it," Dearg said. "And he can spend his last days among them."
"Well now that's an idea," Vigo agreed. "I would be willing to let him go for that if I can find a new one."
Dearg grinned, pulling the tired beast to its feet. He stroked its bristly mane, laughing as the old boy twitched its ears.
"I should get back now," Dearg said. "Fleek has probably taken the backstraps for himself."
"Thank you again, son," Vigo said, taking the donkey's bridle. "You're a prince among men."
Dearg was about to respond when the two of them heard the excited shouts of children approaching from upriver where the forest met the base of the mountains. He and Vigo watched the three boys come quickly, their eyes wide and their brows pressed down.
"What's wrong, boys?" Vigo asked as they stopped, breathless.
"Come to the river," one of them said. "Ivar has found some men. They're dead, and their throats are cut."
Dearg eyed Vigo. "Get your animal back home," he said. "I'll take a look."
"Be careful," Vigo said. "All of you."
The boys took off, and Dearg followed close. He regretted not bringing his blade with him, as the presence of dead bodies indicated trouble nearby. He did have his spear still, and that would have to do.
"Were the bodies in the river?" he asked as he followed behind them.
"Aye," one of the boys said. "Dead and bloated, but fresh."
It was a disturbing thought, Dearg realized. There had never been any bodies in the area. The only people on this side of the mountains were his own adopted tribe. People of Eirenoch rarely ever ventured on this side of the peaks, and T'kar's troops had never been seen north of their own territory.
Dawn of the Dragon Page 5