Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "Then Skulgrid," Dearg said. "We ask for you to speak on our behalf."

  Skulgrid eyed him for a moment, then averted his eyes, nodding his head. "Aye," he said. "Done. We thank you for your help."

  Dearg gave Baleron a nod, and the ranger returned his gesture. Already, they had made a good impression on the Riverfolk, and it looked like they would be able to speak to their leader without much persuasion. If they could convince him to join forces, then they would have their army, and could begin organizing against T'kar.

  The only question was if this Bertram was as wise as his name would suggest.

  Morrigan set down her shovel as she saw the horseman approaching form the north. Those around her stood and watched as well, muttering things amongst themselves. She stepped out of the trench and strapped on her sword, keeping her eyes locked on the rider. They weren't expecting anyone else from Dearg's tribe, but it was clear that the person was a Northman. No one else would approach them from that direction.

  "Who is it?" someone asked.

  "Probably a Northman," another said. "One of Dearg's kin."

  Morrigan could see that the rider was a woman, dark-haired and bearing a strength that was admirable. Her eyes were painted, and her hair was tied back in warrior fashion. She carried a sword and a bow, and was mantled in furs, wearing a chainmail shirt, and black leather leggings. She was definitely a warrior, and not some emissary. Morrigan briefly wondered if she was Dearg's wife but put the thought out of her head quickly.

  The rider stopped a few yards away, and looked around at the crowd of workers as she dismounted. "Well met," she said, standing by her horse.

  Morrigan bowed her head slightly in greeting.

  "I am Igrid," the woman said, approaching cautiously. "I am shieldmaiden of Jarl Svengaar of the Tribe of the Wolf. I think you know my friends."

  "You are Dearg's kin, then," Morrigan said. "I am Morrigan."

  Igrid smiled and extended her hand. "Dearg has told me about you," she said.

  Morrigan cocked her eyebrow. "Oh?"

  "Of course. I had to ask why he was smiling so widely when he returned."

  Morrigan blushed, embarrassed, but took Igrid's hand.

  "I came to find out if my friends fared well," she said. "I take it you were able to expel the enemy."

  "Aye," Morrigan said. "Dearg and his friends were a great help. We survived, though we took heavy losses. Now we are all here together as one clan. Come, walk with me."

  They began walking along the constructions, and Igrid seemed interested in the fortifications they were building.

  "We have decided to build up our defenses in light of the invasion," Morrigan explained. "Never before has anyone dared ride into our territory, so there was never much thought of fortifying or preparing for it. We will be ready if it happens again."

  "Very admirable," Igrid said. "I had thought of doing the same, but there is not much reason to do so. I think we are in more danger of invasions from our own homelands than from attacks from beyond the mountains. Speaking of which, where are Dearg and the others now?"

  "They have gone to the Riverfolk," Morrigan said. "Dearg thinks there may be good reason to enlist their aid, and offer mutual defense."

  "Always thinking, that one," Igrid said. "But how is it possible to get there from here?"

  Morrigan pointed off toward the pine forest at the foot of the mountains. "There are caverns there," she said. "They lead to the other side of the mountain range. T'kar's troops were unaware of its existence, and so was I, actually. But Baleron and his rangers came through it to stop the enemy's flight."

  "Who is Baleron?"

  "A man of Eirenoch," Morrigan explained. "Raised by the Alvar, it seems. He organized a force of hunters and trackers to stand against T'kar. They've been attacking his patrols and protecting the folk of the lowlands."

  "The Alvar?" Igrid said, stopping. "Here?"

  Morrigan shrugged. "I never thought I would see them, but they are real. And yes, they were here. They returned to their own territory earlier last night, but Baleron and another stayed behind to accompany Dearg to the Riverfolk."

  "I should like to meet one," Igrid said wistfully.

  "You may have a chance to do so someday," Morrigan said. "I am sure they will return."

  "So," Igrid said then. "Who is your leader?"

  "Caillain is now, I suppose," Morrigan said. "My father was the leader of my clan, but like the others, he was killed. Only Caillain remains, and he has rallied us together into one clan."

  "I would like to meet him."

  "Of course," Morrigan said, seeing Caillain approaching on horseback. "There he is."

  Chapter Twenty One

  Skulgrid led the group down the long dock from the lake shore to the central building. Dearg was amazed at the ingenuity of the whole town, how it stayed afloat, how the network of docks connected it together, and how even the children walked around without fear of the whole thing collapsing.

  The townsfolk watched the procession curiously, some of them leaning against the ropes that were stretched in between the support posts. Everyone seemed silent as they watched, and some of them eyed them all with suspicion and possible fear.

  Dearg couldn't tell which.

  The building in the center had a large set of double doors that were open. There were two guards out front, bearing spears and sheathed blades. They weren't armored, but both wore green tunics emblazoned with what looked like a crossed spear design. They nodded to Skulgrid as they approached.

  "The attack was thwarted," Skulgrid said to one of them. "Thanks to these strangers."

  The guard looked them over carefully, cocking a brow as he saw Freyja.

  "Who is this girl?" he asked.

  "That is not just a girl," Skulgrid said. "She's a fine archer and a fierce warrior."

  The guard shrugged. "Go on in," he said. "Bertram will want to hear of your victory. They will have to leave their weapons behind."

  "Come, my friends," Skulgrid said to them. "Your weapons will be safe."

  The warriors reluctantly unstrapped their weapons and handed them to Skulgrid, who gave them to the guards. They were taken inside and laid on a table near the door, where another guard looked them over and waved them in.

  The interior of the building was dim, with only a few windows letting in the sunlight. Two large candle holders stood on either side of a small wooden throne upon which a strangely squat man sat with his miserable-looking head resting on his hand. He looked unsurprised by their entry, and his only gesture was a brief chin scratch.

  "What news?" he asked.

  "The intruders have been destroyed," Skulgrid said. "They were driven into the river and are no more."

  Bertram nodded, still expressionless. "And who are these men and this…"

  He smiled and stood, moving in front of Freyja. "…this lovely young woman?"

  "This is Dearg, Ivar, Fleek, Alric, Odhran and Baleron," Skulgrid said. "The young woman is Freyja."

  Bertram ignored everyone else, taking Freyja's hand and kissing it. She raised an eyebrow, staring up at him as he gazed at her strangely. Dearg took Freyja's hand away, patted it, and released it. Bertram folded his arms across his fat chest and looked up at him as if he had uttered an insult.

  "And why are you here in my city, Dearg?" he asked.

  "We have come to make an offer," he said. "T'kar's forces are growing bolder, as you can plainly see from the recent attack, and we have come to rally you with us."

  "With whom?" Bertram asked. "Who are we?"

  "I am from the Tribe of the Wolf, north of the Droma Mountains. Baleron is a man of Eirenoch. Alric here is a Highlander, whose people were recently attacked."

  "How were his people attacked?" Bertram asked suspiciously. "T'kar has never come as far north as he has today."

  "A force was sent along the shore," Baleron said. "I believe they may have been searching for a passage to the tower."

  Bertram snorted. "The t
ower," he said. "That ghastly thing? Why?"

  Baleron shrugged. "I suppose he meant to destroy it."

  "Who cares?" Bertram said, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned. "That tower has done nothing for us. No one lives there, as far as I can tell, and it just stands there, for no apparent reason. Why should I care?"

  "Its existence or destruction is not the point," Dearg said. "The point is we are all in danger. Our numbers are few, if we stand apart, but if we join forces, then we stand a chance of surviving against a full on invasion."

  "T'kar's advances have grown bolder because of people like you," Bertram said. "Fringe groups who go around destroying things, sabotaging his operations, they're the ones who are causing all the trouble."

  "Their goals are to weaken T'kar's forces," Dearg said, giving Baleron a sideways glance. "By taking out small groups, they can ensure that T'kar's army is smaller day by day."

  Bertram shook his head, passing in front of the others in the group. He stopped in front of Fleek, who smiled, and looked back up at him with a furrowed brow.

  "And what's this one's story?" he asked. "Why is he smiling so strangely?"

  "Fleek is a fine warrior," Dearg said. "He is simple minded, but has a good heart."

  "Yes," Bertram said with a patronizing tone. "Simple minded indeed."

  Fleek laughed, and kept his smile, prompting Bertram to shake his head and turn away. He sat back on his throne, tapping his fingers on the carved arm as he regarded the group. Skulgrid waited patiently. After a moment, Bertram sighed loudly.

  "I am not interested," he said. "Begone."

  "Bertram," Skulgrid said, stepping in front of Bertram's throne. "We might not have won the battle without them. We owe them some consideration, at least."

  "Getting involved in their endeavors will do nothing to protect us," Bertram said. "They will only draw more attention to us. So far, we have been safe in our lands, mostly locked away from the danger. We can manage without them. Besides, what do we know about these men?"

  "We know, I know, that they are fine warriors. They show strength and a willingness to fight alongside those who are not their kin."

  "And what about that one?" Bertram said, pointing directly at Dearg. "He doesn't even look like a Northman. How do we even know his origins?"

  Dearg remembered the emblem his father had found in his basket. Before leaving, he had taken it from his mantle, and kept it hidden away in his belt. He had no idea why at the time, but it seemed to him that it would be of some use someday soon. This was evidently that time.

  He quickly pulled the small medallion from his belt, holding it up and stepping forward so Bertram could see. "Does this help?" he asked.

  Skulgrid stepped aside as Bertram leaned forward. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open as he recognized the symbol of Daegoth's house on the metal trinket.

  "Where did you get that?" he asked, as if Dearg had stolen it.

  "When my father found me floating down the river," Dearg said. "It was in my basket wrapped in my blankets."

  Bertram reached out, and Dearg handed him the medallion, hoping it would change things; anything. The leader smiled half-heartedly as he turned it over in his hands, gazing at it as if it had been his own.

  "My father served King Daegoth," Bertram said. "He wore an emblem like this around his neck. Though he always spoke of the Dragon, I knew he simply meant the king himself. There was never any reason for the Firstborn themselves to get involved in the affairs of men, so I can only guess that whoever placed this in your basket was a soldier; someone who wanted to keep you safe after T'kar usurped the throne."

  "I believe that Dearg may be the heir to the throne, Bertram," Baleron said.

  Bertram and Skulgrid both looked at him incredulously. It was a bold statement to make off hand, and Dearg felt his heart race. Judging by Bertram's expression, it was likely too much to claim up front.

  "I don't claim to be that heir," Dearg said. "I only know that I want to keep the people of Eirenoch safe, because I want my own people to be safe. Whatever I can do to make that happen, I will do it."

  "How can you lead?" Bertram said. "You seem like nothing more than a barbarian. You come from the north, not even knowing who you really are, and to top it all off, your bear the name son of the Dragon. Yes, I know that. I speak the language of the Highlanders, for it was the old language of our people as well as those of the lowlands. Who named you this?"

  "The Völva of my tribe," Dearg said.

  "Oh?" Bertram asked, raising his brow. "What is a…"

  "Völva," Dearg finished him. "Our shaman. She is a wise woman, ancient and mysterious. She is well-versed in the legends of the Firstborn."

  Bertram considered Dearg's words for a moment, tapping his finger on his cheek. His brow remained furrowed, and Dearg could tell that he was beginning to take things seriously.

  "Did you know of this, Skulgrid?" he asked.

  "No, sir," the Warchief replied. "First I've heard of it. We spoke very little as I was escorting them here."

  "Well," Bertram said. "If this is all true, then it is something that we should think about. But, as a man of skepticism, I can only say that it will take a lot to prove that this young man is someone worth listening to."

  He looked up at Dearg, holding the medallion in front of him. "If you are no one of great importance, and just man with a passion for fighting T'kar, why should we listen to you? How can you prove that your endeavors will not result in the total annihilation of the people?"

  "I claim no qualifications other than my willingness to fight," Dearg said.

  "So if you are successful in gathering an army to face T'kar's forces, will you lead it?"

  Dearg looked to his friends, who said nothing, but did not seem skeptical. Even Baleron did not protest.

  "If I am chosen to lead, then I will."

  Bertram laughed, tossing the medallion back. "That is no answer," he said. "Your answer should have been that you will do whatever it takes to prove your worthiness to lead."

  "That, I will do," Dearg said.

  Bertram clapped his hands together. "Very well," he said. "That you will. I have a task for you that should prove your worthiness."

  "My lord," Skulgrid protested. "You ask the impossible. You will be sending these men to their deaths."

  "Skulgrid, this is my decision. You know very well this is the test that will determine what we need to know. If Dearg can defeat the creature, then he is worthy."

  Creature? Dearg thought. He suddenly felt nervous, as if this strange man was about to send him to perform—or attempt to perform—an impossible task. He was, however, intrigued. Skulgrid was not so intrigued.

  "No one has ever returned from that task," Skulgrid said. "Not even Wyclif. His body still rots in that cave to this very day."

  "Oh," Bertram said. "We don't know that. It is likely he is nothing more than bones at this point. Nothing to concern ourselves with. The man failed; that much is evident. But Wyclif is nowhere near as impressive or… well, as large as this man."

  Skulgrid sighed, shaking his head as he turned away. "Fine," he said. "But if he dies, then we lose his sword."

  "What are you talking about?" Dearg asked, still waiting for an explanation. "You're talking about this as if I know what you're asking. Tell me the task, and I will decide."

  "You said you would do anything to prove yourself."

  He was right. "That I did," Dearg said. "Name the task, and I will do it. What is this creature?"

  "Ah," Bertram exclaimed. "Let me show you."

  He went to the far wall to his left and stood in front of a large mural that was painted on several planks of wood. It was the interior of a cave, dark and gloomy, with rays of moonlight shining through holes in the rocky ceiling. There, standing tall in the center of a large chamber, was a horrifying creature with claws, large horns that stood straight up from its ghastly head, and a gaping black maw filled with rows upon rows of sharp fangs.


  Dearg had never seen, nor heard of, anything like it. Its appearance was not only monstrous, but demonic as well. It was painted in a pale grayish-blue color, and its eyes were black and hollow, yet endless in their depth. It was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.

  "What is that?" he asked.

  "This, my friend, is the Bodach."

  "The Bodach," Dearg repeated. "Alright, what is the Bodach?"

  "The Bodach is a terrible creature first seen in the mountains a few hundred years ago. It devours human flesh, kills indiscriminately, and is nearly invincible. Our people have been sending warriors after it for decades. None of them have ever returned."

  Dearg swallowed hard, a bit horrified but curious. "Does it really look like this?" he asked.

  "Indeed it does, Dearg," Bertram replied. "Claws like scimitars, teeth like daggers, and eyes that can pierce the darkness. It is a demon of Hell, and a bane to our existence."

  Ivar came up behind Dearg and gazed up at the painting. He grunted his disdain and shook his head.

  "Has it ever attacked your village?" he asked.

  "No," Bertram said. "It appears to be afraid of water, which is why we built the lake and put our village on top of it. Here, we are safe, but out in the wilderness we are not. Hunters are afraid to chase after game, so we simply fish the river."

  "So you're telling me that if I defeat this creature," Dearg said, "you will have faith in my ability to lead?"

  "Absolute faith, my friend," Bertram said with a smile.

  Dearg nodded, still skeptical. "And if I fail?"

  "Then I'm afraid no one will ever see you again."

  Ivar laughed, nodding. "Alright, then," he said. "Sounds good. We'll do it."

  "Oh no," Bertram stopped him. "Dearg must do this alone."

  "Oh no," Ivar protested. "Where Dearg goes, we go."

  "What difference does it make who kills it?" Freyja said, joining them. "If we kill it, you are safe, and we join together."

  "That is my offer," Bertram said adamantly. "Dearg kills the creature, we join him. Take it or leave it."

  Dearg sighed. He had really not planned on monster hunting; there were too many other things to do. He had to get back to the Highlands to help with the fortifications, and to discuss strategy. There was really no time for this. But, there appeared to be no choice. It was the only way to convince the Riverfolk to join their cause.