Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "Hold fast," Hamish called out. "Wait until they charge and pick up your spears."

  Another man cried out as an arrow struck him, and Morrigan could feel him slump against her. She gently guided him to the ground, frozen with terror as his panicked and dying eyes focused on her before going dull. She didn't know the man very well, but she felt her heart sink as he fell still.

  "Lads," Hamish called out again. "Shoot back! Now!"

  Behind them, and from the shadows of the huts, several bows creaked and twanged as the Highland archers released their own volley. There was the satisfying sound of grunts and groans as they took down several enemies, and then there was the thundering sound of a charge.

  "On your feet!" Hamish shouted. "Push forward!"

  The Highlanders rose back to their feet, keeping tightly packed as they began forward. Their shields formed a wall of hardened wood, with a deadly array of spear points poking through. Morrigan held her sword between her brothers' shields, eager to see the faces of their enemies.

  Then, as the enemies passed into the moonlight, she saw them.

  There were hundreds of them, armored in black leather and spikes, bearing strange, crooked swords and jagged spears. Their faces were like that of ghosts, and the hatred and wild-eyed zeal in their eyes was frightening.

  "Devils!" Hamish shouted.

  "Bastards!" another growled.

  They clashed together, and the impact nearly knocked the Highlanders from their feet. But they stood fast, growling rage as they pushed back with all their collective strength. Morrigan thrust her blade forward, feeling the firm resistance of flesh as it impaled someone unseen. She growled in rage, drawing the blade back, and thrusting again. Her heart pounded wildly, driven on by the sound of her clansmen's battle cries.

  Her brothers led the way, pushing the enemy back, barring them from entering their village. Everyone behind them pushed with them, and Morrigan could feel them gaining ground as they expelled the soldiers from their territory. She jabbed repeatedly, keeping her eyes on those who had gotten past the spear points. Through the haze of her blood lust, she could see them fall by the dozens, both by spear and sword.

  It seemed they were winning.

  But then, the enemy's front line collapsed, causing the Highlanders to pitch forward. The enemy fled to the sides, leaving only an empty column, and the stark, gangly figure of a lone man standing there. Before the Highlanders could charge, he raised his crooked hands into the air, conjuring a ball of blue fire that he flung in their direction.

  There was a deafening burst, and a blinding flash of light as the magic exploded. Shields and spears were splintered, and the Highlanders were thrown from their feet. Morrigan landed roughly, with several men crushing her with their weight. Men leaped from the pile, flaming and thrashing around in agony.

  Morrigan's heart was anguished when she saw that two of her brothers had been set aflame, and cut down by the enemy as they thrashed about.

  "No!!!!" she cried out.

  The Highlanders scrambled to get back to their feet as the enemy charged again. The sorcerer casually walked forward, surrounded by his comrades, tossing fireballs into the nearby huts and setting them aflame.

  "Morrigan!" Hamish shouted. "Protect the other women and children. Get them out of there!"

  Though she didn't want to leave her clan, she knew that she was the only chance the other women and their children had to escape. As her clansmen regrouped and engaged the charging enemy, she pushed her way through, making her way toward the flaming huts, where she could hear the horrified screams of the children inside.

  She burst through the wall of one of the huts, pushing the grass and mud to the side. The interior was choked with smoke, and the children inside were huddled together in terror. She grabbed the closest one, pushing her though the opening she had made, and pulled the rest outside.

  "Run that way," Morrigan shouted, pointing to the east. "Run for the next village and don't look back."

  "Morrigan," the little girl cried out. "Where is mama?"

  "I don't know, lass!" she shouted. "Get running, now!"

  The little girl screamed, pointing behind Morrigan. A soldier had broken off from the battle and bore down on them with wild eyes. Morrigan dropped to the ground, slashing the soldier's gut as he charged. He fell forward, and the little girl dodged just as he hit the ground. Morrigan skewered him through the back, pushing the children away.

  "Go!" she shouted again.

  She followed, running sideways to guard their flank. At the next hut, a woman emerged, gripping her child in her arms like a vise. Her eyes were wide with horror, but she knew what to do. She followed the children, gesturing for the women and children in the other huts to run away. Morrigan was confident they would escape. The row of huts on the other side of the village began to burst into flame, but their occupants emerged quickly.

  Morrigan stopped as she heard the growls of the enemy close behind. Several men were pursuing them, and she readied her blade to protect her charges. She glanced back at the fleeing children one more time, then took her battle stance, glaring as her enemies bore down on her.

  She mouthed a silent prayer to the Dragon as she waited for death.

  "Dearg!" the young boy shouted as he shook Dearg's cot. "Dearg, wake up!"

  He shot up, heart pounding, throwing off his furs.

  "What is it, boy?" he mumbled.

  "Come outside and look," the boy said frantically. "Something is happening in the Highlands."

  Dearg jumped up, pulling on his boots. The boy jumped around at the door, pointing off toward the south.

  "Hurry up!" he shouted.

  Dearg stumbled out of his hut behind him, following the boy's finger as he pointed off into the distance. Through his fatigue, Dearg could see a faint glow off to the south, made dim by the rising sun in the east. There was a column of smoke illuminated by the flames, and bursts of blue light flashed intermittently like lightning.

  Dearg's body was jolted with shock as he saw it.

  "Morrigan," he whispered.

  He went back into his hut, grabbing his pack, sword, and everything else he could carry.

  "Boy!" he called out. "Wake Ivar, Fleek and the others."

  "Aye," he heard the boy cry out.

  Dearg emerged from his hut again, looking off toward the Highlanders' village as he ran for the longhouse. Men were beginning to come out of their huts, some of them drunk, others wide awake and ready to fight.

  "Anyone who is willing, come with me!" Dearg shouted.

  "What's happening?" someone shouted back.

  "The Highlanders are in trouble!"

  "Dearg!" he heard Svengaar call from the great hall. "What is the meaning of this?"

  He stopped, glaring at the Jarl as he waited for the challenge. Svengaar was silent, but looked at the men around the village as they began to gather around Dearg in wait.

  "Svengaar," Dearg said. "The Highlanders need our help. We are going with your blessing or without it."

  He waited for the Jarl's response, but Svengaar wasn't budging. It was only when Dearg heard the scuffling of gravel from Igrid's path that he broke Svengaar's gaze. There, coming down the rocky path, was a young girl, blond-haired and wild-eyed. She carried a bow, a pack, and a belt of daggers at her waist. Igrid was behind her, unarmed and stern-faced.

  "Svengaar," Igrid said. "These men are willing to risk their lives to protect others. Let them go."

  "The last I knew," Svengaar growled. "I am the Jarl. Not you, not Dearg, me!"

  Igrid stormed toward him, her eyes venomous and filled with rage. She stopped short of him, staring up as her breathing deepened and her fists balled up. Svengaar leaned back slightly to avoid her wrath, keeping his eyes locked upon hers.

  Dearg could hear Ivar and Fleek join the crowd behind them, but he kept his gaze upon Igrid and Svengaar as they stared at each other. His heart pounded as he waited for what would happen next, but was relieved when Svengaar simp
ly turned away and went back into the great hall, slamming the door behind him.

  "Go now," Igrid said, nearly breathless. "See to your friends. Freyja is yours now. Treat her as you would me."

  Dearg looked at the young woman. She returned his gaze, unflinching and confident. He could see the thrill of battle in her eyes, and could almost feel the fire she exuded from her heart. He liked her already.

  "Come then," he said. "Let us make haste."

  Morrigan slashed left and right, slicing open the first enemy that charged. He fell to the ground, clutching his spilling guts and rolled to the side screaming and groaning with agony. Another man charged her, thrusting with his spear. Morrigan jumped to the side, chopping the point off of his spear and spinning around to slash backhanded. Her blade severed his arm, and she spun again and charged the third.

  He chopped down with sword, missing wildly and stumbling forward. Morrigan kicked him in the back of the knee, dropping him, and then impaled him through the back, grabbing his hair and pulling him further onto her blade.

  "You've attacked the wrong village," she growled as she withdrew her blade.

  She paused to make sure no one else was following, then continued after the children. The chaos behind her was still at full force, and the shouts and cries of her people echoed in her ears. She knew they were being slaughtered; her father, her brothers, her people. But she pressed on, determined to get the women and children to safety.

  "Morrigan," a woman shouted. "We cannot see."

  Morrigan stopped and looked around the area for some cover. She could not allow the children to stumble around in the dark. She had to find a safe place for them to hide. There was only a nearby grove of trees, and a few large rocks that offered little shelter. Nevertheless, she directed the group into the shadows, hoping with all of her heart that it would be enough to keep them safe.

  At least until help arrived.

  As she crouched in the darkness with them, she gazed off toward her village. She could hear the women and children with her crying, and could feel her own tears as they rolled down her face. Their village, and its people, were being destroyed before their eyes, and there was nothing they could do. She felt their pain, knowing that they were all alone, and could very well be slaughtered once the enemies found them hiding in the trees. It was only a matter of time.

  In her heart, Morrigan hoped that Dearg would charge from the shadows and lay waste to them. But that was just a dream. There was no chance that he would make it in time.

  Her people were doomed.

  "You spend almost every waking hour looking at the tower," Menelith said to Baleron. "When it is in sight, at least."

  Baleron had no response, but he smiled and nodded slightly as he continued to watch the rising sun reflect off of its darkened form.

  "You feel something from it, don't you?"

  "I do," Baleron said. "But I can't explain it. It's almost like it calls to me, or speaks to me in some way."

  "As well it should," Menelith replied. "These are dark times, and when dark times befall us the gods have a tendency to call out to their children."

  Baleron turned to look at the Alvar, seeing that he too seemed mesmerized enough not to meet his gaze.

  "Do you feel it, too?"

  Menelith shook his head. "No, my friend," he said. "I do not. But I know that somewhere in there, the Dragon stirs in his slumber. He is calling out for his children to rise up against their foe."

  Baleron nodded, understanding. "Then we have already answered his call."

  "Yes," Menelith said, smiling. "You have. It remains for others with the will to fight to do the same. When the time is right, we will seek them out and stand together."

  Baleron was glad to hear those words. Menelith had kept his promise to take up arms against the Beast alongside those willing and able men that now lounged in the forest behind them. Together with Menelith's Alvar troops, they had made quite a mess of things for T'kar, and it was likely that he was not even aware of it. The rangers were coming along quite well, despite their short life thus far.

  He was proud of their progress.

  "Baleron," Odhran said behind them, silently making his way toward the break in the tree line.

  "What is it?" Baleron asked.

  Odhran motioned for them to follow them, and he led them to another break in the tree line that opened up farther east, offering a view higher into the mountains. Odhran pointed then, and Baleron followed his direction. There, barely visible on the higher horizon, was a dim glow, flickering and obscured by what looked like thick clouds of smoke. Baleron looked at Menelith, whose face became grim.

  "The Highlanders," the Alvar said. "They are under attack."

  "By whom," Odhran asked.

  "T'kar must have sent warriors along the shoreline," Baleron said. "That's the only way they could have slipped past us."

  "If his troops are in the Highlands, then they will face hordes of your countrymen," Menelith said. "It is likely a large force. T'kar would not be foolish enough to send a small army."

  "We must help them," Odhran said.

  "It is too late for that village," Menelith said. "But there are others. We will not allow them to stand alone."

  "Call the others," Baleron said to Odhran. "We make haste north."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The orange glow of the sunrise was glaring, even in the dense woods surrounding the bog. Randar squinted his eyes against it, uncomfortably swatting at the swamp flies that persistently buzzed around his face. The humidity was annoying as well, and he frequently found himself wiping his face with his increasingly filthy hands. By the time he finally reached the bog, he was drenched in sweat and humidity, and likely smelled very much like the bog itself.

  He stopped near the edge of the stagnant water, looking out over its dead calm surface. Clumps of rotten algae floated on top, unmoving and slimy, and only the occasional frog made any ripples on the surface.

  "Lovely," he whispered, pulling the map from his cloak.

  He unrolled it and stared at the tiny arcane circle. It was larger than it was before, telling him that the witch's location was further away. He began walking the edge of the bog, watching as the circle grew smaller and smaller. He stopped and held the map out over the surface of the water, and saw that it grew even smaller. She was there, somewhere on the bottom, likely rotting and in some kind of torpor, just waiting for some hapless fellow like him to go diving.

  Sighing, he removed his cloak and dropped the map on top of it. He squatted down and unbuckled his boots, pulling them off and setting them aside. It would do no good to get them wet. Then, after a few quick breaths for confidence, he took a step into the murky water.

  And fell straight in.

  He emerged from the smelly water, surprised but unfazed. He had simply forgotten that a bog was a straight-edged hole and not a gradually sloped pool such as a pond or even a deep swamp. He treaded water for a moment, gathering his wits, then swam out a few yards.

  Taking several quick breaths to hyperventilate himself, Randar held a lungful and dove down. He worked his way through the slimy strings of dead seaweed, mud and other filth, feeling the pressure increase with every inch. The silence and darkness was almost maddening, and the thought of some bog monster snatching him up and devouring him was beginning to weigh on his mind.

  Focus, he thought to himself. There are no bog monsters. Only trolls and a witch.

  If he could have laughed or chuckled, he would have. But now was not the time for fooling oneself. He kept his pace, allowing his ears to adjust to the pressure. Here, the dim sunlight was completely gone, and there was only blackness and cold. There was no way of knowing how deep the bog was, but they were generally never shallow.

  It was only when he felt the long, rigid form of a sunken tree that he realized he had reached the bottom. He pulled himself along it, heading in the general direction the arcane circle had indicated. There seemed to be some kind of glow there, as if
a tiny moon had fallen into the bog. But as he got closer, he realized it was some kind of trinket.

  The dim light illuminated a wretched-looking corpse that was bound in chains and blindfolded with a rotting leather swatch. The chains were attached to a large stone, wrapped around it and locked with a simple padlock that was corroded and caked with patina. He swam to the corpse, grabbing it by the shoulders to turn it around. He reached up and removed the blindfold, seeing its sunken eyelids closed tightly. The mane of stark black hair that surrounded the head flowed around it like dark flame, giving it an even more horrifying appearance.

  Then, the eyes popped open.

  Randar was startled, and nearly expelled his ever-depleting breath. But he gathered himself again and stared into them. They were green, sentient, and filled with agony. He briefly felt a twinge of empathy, but that quickly passed as he dove down to shatter the corroded lock.

  It was relatively easy to break. He grabbed it in both hands, twisting it until it shattered in a cloud of rust and patina. He then swam back up and pulled on the chains that bound her until her arms reached out for him. Though he felt some revulsion at the thought of being embraced by such a ghastly creature, he allowed it as he forced the chains to fall away.

  Then, with her eyes still locked on him, they began to surface.

  He held onto her tightly as the orange light of the sun began to appear above them. He could feel her moving, likely out of fear or anticipation, but he was wary of a possible attack. But as they broke the surface, and Randar's breath burst from his lungs, he saw that she began to choke as her own lungs were emptied.

  He reached up and grabbed a root near the bog's edge, using his strength to push her body up onto the muddy ground. She continued choking and gagging, her fingers curling into claws as she clutched at the ground around her. Randar pulled himself up after her, rolling her onto her side to drain her lungs.

  He was amazed and reviled at the same time. He could not even imagine the solitude she must have suffered all of these centuries. Her anger would be great, he realized, and he hoped she would not take it out on him. To ease her mind, and her anxiety, he began stroking her long black hair, untangling it gently. Her choking subsided, and she lay calmly, closing her eyes as she gathered her breath.