"Were they Northmen?" he asked.
"No. Villagers from the south."
Dearg grunted. That was even more disturbing. If they were men of Eirenoch, then they were likely Riverfolk from the other side of the mountains—killed and dumped into the river just to float downstream to the ocean. If not for the dams built by Dearg's own people, they might have done so unnoticed.
As they broke through the tree line, Dearg saw Ivar standing on the river bank. There were three bodies lying nearby, and he stood over one of them, his long blond hair blowing in the breeze as he stared down at it. He looked up as Dearg approached.
"Come, friend," the man said. "Take a look."
The boys were right. They were definitely men of Eirenoch. Two of them had red hair, the other dark brown. All of them had green eyes, frozen open in horrified death stares. Each of their throats had been cut. The stark white spinal bones of one of them were visible through the gaping gash.
"Their throats were cut deep," Ivar said, gravely. "All the way back to the spine."
"By Kronos," Dearg whispered, horrified.
He bent down to take a closer look, shocked at the age of the two red-haired men.
"Barely out of their teens, it looks like," he said. "Just boys."
"Probably this one's sons," Ivar offered. "The green eyes and all."
"Who would do this?" one of the boys asked.
"No doubt the Beast," Ivar said. "Only he would allow this kind of barbarism. Take a look at their hands. All covered in scars. Loggers or millers, likely. Definitely hard workers."
"No," Dearg said, taking an amulet in his hands. The charm was hidden in the collar of the eldest man. He pulled it out, snapping the cord, and held it up for Ivar to see. It was formed of a pair of crossed spears with a goat's head in the center.
"Highlanders," Ivar said. "That means…"
"Whoever did this was far too close for my comfort," Dearg finished. "We should tell Svengaar. This does not bode well for our tribe."
"If T'kar's men came this far north to kill them, there's no telling how much farther he will come."
Ivar bent down to take the older man onto his shoulders. Dearg took up the two younger men, one on each shoulder.
"Are you taking them back to the village?" one of the boys asked.
"Aye," Ivar said. "Run back to Vigo's farm. Tell him to meet us outside and we'll use his wagon to go the rest of the way."
"The deer was a good catch, Fleek," Svengaar said, raising his mug in the air as he sat upon his large wooden throne. "I hope your fist feels better soon."
Those gathered in the longhouse praised the big man for the successful hunt, and they all raised their mugs to drink. Svengaar, though proud of Fleek, didn't forget about Olav.
"As for the great fisherman," he began, drawing laughs from the others, "his catch will keep us fed for the whole winter; maybe then some."
The others cheered again, and the children began crowd in front of Svengaar's throne. He grinned as he looked upon their dancing and carrying on. One of the children took Fleek's hand, carrying him away in a dramatic dance that took him into the gathering crowd.
"Olav," Svengaar said. "Fine job with the nets, my friend. I'm glad to see they worked as well as they did."
Olav took a chair near the throne, pouring himself a mug of ale from the wooden keg that was mounted on the table.
"I suppose I was lucky," he said. "The waters have been dark of late."
Svengaar nodded solemnly. "They come from the south," he said darkly. "That is to be expected. I'm surprised the great king hasn't directed his fortress's piss ditches into it."
Olav drank from his mug, smacking his lips. "Well," he said. "If there's one thing T'kar doesn't have that we have, it's good ale."
"Of course not," Svengaar laughed. "He doesn't have brewers as talented as ours, nor the highlanders."
"Jarl!" a boy called from the door of the longhouse.
The room went silent as the boy approached, and those who knew him recognized the look of fear on his young face.
"What is it, boy?" Svengaar asked.
"Come outside, Jarl," the boy replied. "We have something to show you."
Dearg had the dead men out side by side for the Jarl to see. He stood over them when his father and Svengaar came outside, led by the boy. The Jarl was silent when he saw them, but Dearg knew that in his mind he felt the same rage that he did.
"We found them floating down the river," Ivar said. "Their throats are cut."
"Who are these men?" Svengaar asked.
"Highlanders," Dearg said. "From an area much farther north than T'kar's men have ever ventured. Not even the Riverfolk go that far north."
"How do we know that T'kar has done this?" Olav asked.
Dearg looked at his father, whose face was a frozen mask of doubt and fear. "Who else would do this?"
Several others gathered around, some of them stumbling slightly with their consumption of ale. Svengaar waved them back, kneeling down to examine the bodies.
"Whoever did this," he said. "It is none of our concern. What quarrels the highlanders have with the king are their own."
"These people are our allies," Dearg protested.
"No!" Svengaar said, standing quickly and leaning in to get close. "They are not our enemies, but they are not our friends, either."
"But we hunt the same lands, and do so while respecting each other's presence. They have put themselves between us and T'kar's advances. We cannot allow this to go unpunished."
Dearg felt his father's hand on his shoulder, but he held Svengaar's gaze. The Jarl's eyes narrowed, yet Dearg could feel the fear that he exuded. It was strange, and uncharacteristic of Svengaar.
"Son," Olav said. "The Jarl has spoken. No matter how you feel, we should not get involved. We would be putting our people in danger. Listen to Svengaar. He has never led our tribe astray."
"I say we at least take their bodies back home," Ivar said. "We owe them that. No one deserves to rot in the sun."
"Fine," Svengaar said. "Do it in the morning."
He turned to Ivar, pointing his finger directly at him. "But do no more," he said.
With that, Svengaar turned and entered the longhouse. Olav looked down at the bodies once more, giving Dearg a concerned look, and followed. Fleek was there, staring down at the men in silence.
"Fleek," Ivar said. "What do you think?"
Fleek shook his head, pursing his lips. "Dead men," he said. "Dead men need their families to bury them."
Dearg could sense that Ivar felt the same thing he felt. There was anger, and there was some fear. Not fear for their own lives, but for those of the men of Eirenoch. If T'kar was slaughtering those who gave their support for King Daegoth, then the Northmen owed them their friendship. It was, after all, King Daegoth that had allowed them to settle here.
"We will take them back in the morning," Dearg said, "and whatever happens… happens."
Chapter Six
T'kar's terror troops rode into the valley south of the river, where the scattered population of farmers made their homes. They provided food for the nearby village of Riverfolk and some of the smaller settlements in the area, but their main compulsion was to provide for T'kar's troops.
They had failed to do so of late.
The troops thundered down the road, splitting up into smaller groups to gather the farmers and their families and bring them to the town square. There they would make an example of them, and put the fear of T'kar into the hearts of all who witnessed.
As Captain Jarka rode down the center of the rough dirt road, the separate groups rode to the homesteads on either side to awaken and abduct their inhabitants. They were dragged kicking and screaming from their homes, knocked to the ground, and tethered to the backs of the horses.
There were men, women and children alike, some of the mothers carrying their infants in their arms. They were all roughly chained together and forced to walk behind each group faster than what w
as comfortable for them. The children cried and screamed, while the fathers shouted and protested, putting their own lives, and the lives of their families, in even greater peril.
Jarka sneered as each family was dragged away, and he led the macabre procession into the town that was built near the river. His sorcerer, Galik, rode beside him, his pale and ghastly form almost skeletal and corpse-like in the moonlight.
"Galik," Jarka said as they neared the town square, "conjure your moonspell that we may have light for all to see."
Galik's lips parted, showing the captain his rotten and crooked teeth. He raised his clawed hands into the air, chanting in his strange and guttural tongue. From above them, far ahead in the center of town, a pale and bluish light erupted in the sky. It illuminated the buildings that were arranged on either side of the road in its lunar glow, growing brighter and brighter as the troop slowly rode into town.
Captain Jarka raised his sword and shield, prompting his troops to begin clashing them together to wake the townsfolk. The thundering sound echoed through the street, and several men and women showed themselves in the windows.
"Come one and all!" Jarka shouted. "Witness the price of incompetence!"
Jarka's troops laughed, pulling hard on the chains that bound the farmers behind them. The women and children began to protest once more, and their cries drew the townsfolk from their sleep and into the streets.
"I have been too lenient in collecting what is ours!" Jarka continued. "As a result, you have been unable to provide what you were commanded to provide. Tonight, under this fine moon, we shall take all that you have, and leave you with no means to fend for yourselves. All that you have is now ours."
"Captain Jarka," an older man said as he emerged from the crowd. "It is not time for you to collect. We have not yet prepared your provisions. Come back in two days and all shall be ready for you."
Jarka sneered, dropping down from his horse and approaching the man. He stood close, putting his hand on the man's shoulder.
"Doryn," he said. "It pains me to have to do this. But our requirements have grown of late. Our army is getting larger by the day, and they need to be fed."
"Of course, Captain," Doryn said. "And we shall accommodate as usual. There is no need for this display."
"These farmers and their families will be set straight," Jarka warned. "They have not provided their fair share of goods and labor. They will be punished."
"If they are killed, then who will provide for you, then? They are the ones who grow the food, and raise the livestock. Without them, we, and you, would have nothing."
"The king demands punishment," Jarka said. "It is my duty to comply."
Doryn shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. "You know as well as I do that T'kar does not think ahead. His only desire is to instill fear. Well, Jarka, I tell you this; fear does not feed armies."
Jarka laughed, sheathing his blade and raising his arms as he turned to his troops. "Did you hear that, lads?" he said. "Fear does not feed armies!"
The troops laughed, and Jarka drove them on by pounding his fist on his shield. He then turned back to Doryn, his rictus grin plastered on his cruel face.
"Our army will be fine without you, Doryn," Jarka said. "We have other farmers, other towns, and other sheep to herd. Your incompetence is your downfall."
"Jarka, please," Doryn protested. "Do not do this. There are women and children among them."
"Why should I care about them?" Jarka asked.
"These are your people," Doryn said. "You once served King Daegoth in your youth. What has changed you, Jarka? Why have you become so cruel?"
Jarka's eyes narrowed. He stepped in closer to the old man, glaring into his eyes. Doryn did not flinch nor cower. He held Jarka's terrifying gaze, and that angered Jarka even more.
"You have spoken your last words, Doryn," he said, drawing his sword.
Doryn, still unmoving, shook his head slowly. "Such a disappointment," he whispered. "Kill me if you must, but let the women and children go. All of them."
Jarka plunged his blade into Doryn's gut, grinning as he twisted the blade. Doryn groaned with pain, but fell to his knees without crying out. He fell forward into the dirt, and Jarka sheathed his blade.
"Bring them," he commanded.
The farmers and their families were brought into the town square. The townsfolk whispered and voiced their shock as the poor people were dragged. Several soldiers began unloading spears from the wagon, laying them out in a neat pile near the farmers. Jarka began walking back and forth, glaring at the townspeople as his men prepared the farmers for their execution.
"For your unwillingness to cooperate," he said. "I will now execute… the children."
There were gasps from the crowd, and shouts of anger and dismay from the men and women in chains. The children were ripped from their parents' arms and taken to a separate group in the middle of town. The farmers were all forced to their knees, swords and spears held at their backs as they watched their own children being herded away. The town square erupted into cries of horror and pleas of mercy. The troops chuckled at their plight, and Jarka could only grin as their pain wrapped itself around his cold heart.
"No, Baleron," Menelith whispered, pulling his human friend back with a hand to his shoulder.
"This cannot happen!" the ranger protested. "These are my people. They are only children."
"We are vastly outnumbered, my friend," the Alvar said. "They would slaughter us as well."
Baleron crouched down, resigned to watch the horrifying display from the darkness of the woods as the tears welled up in his eyes. His heart ached, and his throat tightened in agony. He forced his eyes closed as the screams came like the keening of a banshee. They echoed in his mind and his heart, tearing his soul in two.
He covered his face, letting the weeping come like a flood. The only comfort he felt was the warm and loving hand of his best friend who now crouched beside him, feeling his pain and weeping along with him.
In his heart he knew that when they were better-prepared, they would hunt down and slaughter the men that gathered before them. They would avenge the deaths of the innocent children, and T'kar would know that his time was short.
This Baleron swore.
T'kar glared at his wargs in rage. The beasts cowered in various places in their collective kennel, stricken with some bizarre infliction that ate away at their insides. They whimpered below him as he stood on the balcony overlooking their living space, barely able to acknowledge his presence.
They only knew their master was there by the growls of rage that issued from his drooling lips.
"What is happening to them, Sire?" Helata asked beside him, equally confused.
"Whatever it is, Captain, I will find out and I will dismember the one responsible."
"This is an outrage," the captain said. "I will personally find out, my king."
T'kar heard the door opening behind him, and turned to see Igraina enter the balcony with a familiar smug expression. It was infuriating the way she wore that mask of contempt. He hated her, but he knew that he needed her.
"What is it, Igraina?" he growled.
Igraina approached the balcony, looking out over the kennel, her expression unchanging but for a slight smile that T'kar detected.
"A shame," she said. "Such noble beasts. A horrible end for them, indeed."
"You are a seer," T'kar said. "What do you… see?"
Igraina cocked her head as she turned to him.
"Answer me, witch."
"It is plainly and painfully obvious, T'kar," she said. "You allowed them to devour the Great Mother's servants. She has inflicted them with a deadly illness as revenge. They are going to die, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it. You might as well destroy them yourself to save them an agonizing death."
T'kar growled, sneering as he glared at Igraina. Though his hatred for her implanted the desire to rip her throat out, he knew she was right. Besides, ripping her thro
at out would be pointless. She would simply grow a new one.
"Helata," T'kar said. "Kill them."
Helata drew his bow without hesitation, knocking arrow after arrow as he shot the wargs one by one. Throughout the whole ordeal, T'kar ignored their whimpers as he remained locked upon Igraina's face. He could detect her unseen gloating, which enraged him further, and even saw the ever-so-slight signs of a grin.
"Done, my lord," Helata said.
"Good," T'kar replied, drawing his dagger.
He stormed past Igraina, plunging the dagger into Helata's gut. He grabbed the man by the back of his hair as his eyes went wide. T'kar grinned as he watched Helata's gaze grow lifeless, and then threw his body over the railing. He watched the man's body impact the stone below, laughing when he saw the splatter of blood and brains that sprayed from the shattered skull.
It was refreshing.
"Feel better?" Igraina asked smugly.
"I do," T'kar said, spitting over the railing. "I feel much better."
He heard Igraina chuckle faintly, sneered, and turned to head toward the doors. He stopped, though, and cocked his head slightly as he realized why the witch was laughing.
"If you think this outrage will go unpunished, you are wrong," he said. "I do not fear the Great Mother, as you call her, and I will hunt down and destroy everyone who worships her. I will avenge my pets."
"I do not doubt that," Igraina said. "But I must warn you, do not incur the wrath of her children. They are far more dangerous than she."
Such insolence. T'kar grinned as he pushed open the door.
"I have much more powerful allies on my side," he said, thinking of his master, Kathorgo. "The Firstborn are powerless against that which cannot be seen or found. You, on the other hand, are powerless against me. Do not defy me."
Igraina was silent. T'kar proceeded into the fortress, letting the door slam behind him. He would await her next move in his chambers, gloating over the trembling body of some young girl.
Or perhaps, this time, a young boy. It made no difference to him.
Baleron wept silently as he entered the village. The townsfolk were gathered around the devastated parents, offering their condolences and voicing their rage. The ranger could hardly bear to look into their eyes, knowing that some small part of their souls would berate him for his inaction.
Dawn of the Dragon Page 6