Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "The man with the black hair?"

  "The man who looked just like you," Menelith said, smiling. "And the woman whom you first remember was your mother, Queen Fianna."

  Dearg's heart raced, ached even, as he struggled to make sense of everything.

  "She loved you so much, that she left you in the hands of the Norns. She trusted their judgment, and knew that they, the Fates, would keep you safe. You are the heir to the throne of Eirenoch, Dearg. It is you who must rise up and take the throne back from the Beast."

  Dearg folded his arms across his chest, staring sternly at the tower, a strange sense of courage flowing through him like never before. Menelith's words were not confusing to him anymore, and he no longer felt the need to protest them. He believed them. Menelith knew things that others did not. There was no reason for him to lie.

  "So what do I do?" Dearg asked.

  "Lead your people against him, knowing that you bear the blood of the Dragon himself. Tell them you are the Son of the Dragon, and they will follow you. The Highlanders, the Riverfolk, the tribes to the south. You are their king, their savior, and one day you must lead them in your crusade."

  "Knights," Dearg whispered. "Knights of the Dragon."

  "You have chosen them already," Menelith said. "They too feel the calling. They were meant to ride with you, and share in your glory. They know it. They feel it when they look at the tower. It calls to them, too."

  "Fleek," Dearg said. "He does not feel it."

  "He may," Menelith said. "His mind does not work the same way as yours or mine. He is a different kind of man. One whose life is shaped by his heart alone. His loyalty to you is out of love. He is simple and pure, like a rabbit who scurries in the forest. His mind is not clouded in judgment or confusion. He simply lives to live, and follows whatever his heart tells him. You must learn to do the same."

  "I never thought of it that way," Dearg said, chuckling. "The simpler the mind the bigger the heart."

  Menelith smiled, putting his hand on Dearg's shoulder. "Sometimes," he said, "the simplest minds are the wisest."

  Dearg chuckled as he remembered Bertram's words.

  "Bertram said the same thing to him," he replied.

  "Then Bertram is a wise man," Menelith said. "And he can be trusted. He was once a great warrior in his youth."

  Dearg found that hard to believe. "Bertram?"

  "Don't be fooled by his small stature," Menelith said. "Much as the simple-minded can be wise, the small of stature can be vicious."

  "I will remember that," Dearg said. "And I wonder if any of the Riverfolk feel something strange when they see the tower."

  "You may find more knights among them if you look," Menelith said. "You have chosen them among those you have met already, but there will need to be more. Only the Dragon can tell you how many you will need. But you need not seek them out, really. They will come to you."

  "Alric," Dearg said. "I chose Alric."

  "The son of Liam feels the same calling," Menelith said. "You knew this without him telling you."

  "I think I did," Dearg said, nodding. "I felt something when I looked at him after the battle."

  "He is a capable warrior," Menelith said. "And he will serve you well."

  "What of Morrigan?" Dearg asked.

  "She hears another calling," Menelith said. "I'm sure she told you."

  She had, Dearg remembered. But even she did not know what that calling was, only that a great tragedy had occurred. What that tragedy was, neither of them knew.

  "Do you know why the Great Mother has cried out?" he asked.

  Menelith shook his head. "I do not know, my friend. Gaia is a mystery to me. Only Allora can answer that question, I suppose."

  "Then she must speak to Allora," Dearg said. "She feels it, and I think my tribe's shieldmaiden has felt it, too."

  "Interesting," Menelith said. "I will try to arrange it."

  "Thank you, Menelith," Dearg said. "Thank you for everything. It's all much clearer to me now."

  "Follow your heart, my friend," Menelith said. "Follow it as best you can. It will never lead you astray."

  Chapter Twenty Six

  T'kar squinted against the rising sun, holding his hand over the right side of his face as he watched the wyverns approach from the north. Lilit stood with her staff held high, her ragged cloak and dress blowing in the wind.

  The largest wyvern landed near the witch while the others swarmed around the tower, slowly filtering into its interior through the large opening T'kar had smashed through the stone. The creature walked like a bat toward Lilit, and she held her staff near its head as she made a spiritual connection with it.

  T'kar walked over, curious, as she communed. He wondered why the larger wyvern he had seen before had not returned, fearing it may have been killed. When Lilit had finished, the wyvern shot into the sky, making a circle around the tower before diving into the tower with the rest of them.

  "The wyverns have given me the layout of their fortifications, Sire," she said.

  "Fortifications?" he asked. He had never seen fortifications. Neither had Captain Jarka.

  "The Highlanders have built structures in preparation," Lilit explained. "There are many Northmen among them, and the Riverfolk are beginning constructs of their own. It appears that they have been united."

  T'kar remembered Kathorgo's warning. Though he was skeptical that a uniting force would show itself within the three communities, it appeared that something, or someone, had.

  "How have they become united?" he asked.

  "They felt the presence of the Dragon there," Lilit said. "It was strong, and it was not the nearby tower as I would have guessed."

  T'kar growled in anger. So this son of the Dragon must be among them. Kathorgo was right; Igraina had truly betrayed him. Now whoever this man was, he was bringing his enemies together against him. If they fortified their lands enough, T'kar would end up laying an endless siege. He would have to attack before then and seek out this upstart.

  "I still want to know where my missing troops are," he said. "Who is killing them and my Fomorians?"

  "There was some confusion as they flew over the forests," Lilit said. "A mass exodus of unknown lifeforms in all directions confused them. They were unable to locate any large assemblies of troops."

  T'kar snarled, folding his arms across his chest. The thought that some mysterious group of soldiers was sabotaging his squads was infuriating, but it was more intriguing than anything. Of course, he knew how they had escaped his notice. It had to be the Druid, the same Druid Lilit had rendered inconsequential.

  "This Druid is becoming a thorn in my side, Lilit," he said. "I don't care what you think of him. He's dangerous and must be put to rest one way or another."

  Lilit approached him seductively, smiling as she looked up at him. His snarl turned to a grin as she stroked his face.

  "And who shall put him to rest, Sire?" she asked.

  "I think when Kathorgo's assassin arrives, I shall send him after the Druid," T'kar said, raising a brow as if he had just conceived of the most brilliant idea the world had ever known. "The warrior will fall to my blade alone. He is mine. The assassin will be reassigned."

  "Excellent idea," Lilit said. "But I remind you, this Druid is no one to scoff at. Druids are powerful, even if they are just pieces of this older Druid. They wield the power of the Earth itself. They can command the elements."

  "And so can you," T'kar reminded her, grinning. "Right?"

  Lilit backed away, tapping her cheek. "Of course, Sire," she said. "We shall have to give this assassin a gift, something that will help him defeat the Druid. When will he arrive?"

  T'kar threw his hands into the air. "Who knows?" he growled. "I can never make hide nor hair of anything that comes out of Kathorgo's wretched beak. He says the assassin will arrive when the time is right, which of course means he doesn't know."

  "He will arrive when he arrives," Lilit offered. "That is what he means. Nothing."
<
br />   She winked at him seductively, and T'kar began to chuckle. She always had a way of settling him down, turning his frustrations into hope. She was perfect in that respect. Again, an excellent queen.

  "When this battle is over," T'kar said. "I will crown you before the people as they writhe in horror on their knees. They will fear you and I together, and they will worship the ground you walk upon."

  "I look forward to it, my king," Lilit said. "I am forever grateful for my rescue."

  "Well, it is time I inspected my troops before their departure. I trust you will enhance the wyverns' senses a bit before their next sortie?"

  "Of course," Lilit replied. "And I believe their riders are just about ready."

  Jarka walked down the line of his new troops, mildly pleased at the appearance. They were not much better than his previous troops, mainly wild and nomadic commoners from the southern reaches with a penchant for cruelty and chaos.

  His favorite kind.

  Lorcan stood in the center of the line facing the men, his hands clasped behind his back and his face stern and calculating. Jarka liked him, especially the way he spoke to the other men. He feared no one, not even T'kar, and he would likely take Jarka's place one day.

  One day. But not anytime soon, if he could help it.

  Jarka counted five hundred men, all of them armored in Galik's special material. This would be the last of it, he realized, as the sorcerer was no more. He had not returned from his quest, and Lilit had said that his life force had simply vanished. Though it was a mystery to T'kar, Jarka knew exactly what had happened. The king had been foolish to suggest that Galik kill Igraina. It was like sending a toddler after a giant.

  Igraina was simply too powerful for Galik.

  He had favored the sorcerer greatly, but knew his limitations. He was a practitioner of arcane magic, not a witch of the Earth. Though able to heal himself, he could die, especially if his opponent wielded Earth magic. That much Jarka knew. He also knew that if T'kar hoped to rebuild his army to its fullest, he would likely need his new witch to help him do so. There was no more Galik, and no more Igraina.

  There was only Lilit, but she seemed even more powerful than both of them put together.

  Jarka stopped and saluted T'kar as he arrived. The king glared at the men, grunting somewhat confidently, but glaring at them as if trying to find something out of place. His eyes scanned the front line, and Jarka could see that the men were nervous. Suddenly, T'kar drew his dagger and stormed toward one of the soldiers, stabbing him in the gut several times.

  Lorcan laughed as the groaning man fell to the ground and struggled for breath for a moment before he fell still. T'kar wiped his blade off, stuffing it back in its scabbard, and then addressed the men.

  "You will not show weakness," T'kar said. "This man was weak. I could see it in his eyes. When I look at you, you will not look away. If you do so, I will know your fear."

  He turned and aggressively rushed at Lorcan, stopping inches from his face and snarling. Lorcan remained unmoving, unblinking, and fearless. Jarka could only grin. T'kar began laughing as he backed away and turned to the troops.

  "That man!" T'kar said. "He has courage. He fears nothing, even knowing that I could jab him in the gut for no reason whatsoever. He accepts that possibility, and does not fear it. That is how you must be in the face of our enemies. As far as you are concerned, you are all dead already. You will kill, you will conquer, and you will charge in knowing that your death has already occurred. That is how you remain courageous. That is how you conquer fear."

  The men were silent, but Jarka could tell that their passion was building.

  "Our enemy is weak," T'kar continued. "They are weak because they expect to wake up every morning and go on with their lives. They do not expect or welcome death. You are stronger, because you are already dead, and have no expectations for anything. Nothing but blood and glory."

  T'kar drew his kopesh blades, raising them in the air and howling at the top of his lungs. Jarka and Lorcan did the same, letting the soldiers know that they should join in. There was a collective cry as the soldiers drew their blades and mimicked the king. T'kar swung his blades around, walking from side to side as he encouraged the men to release all of their aggression.

  It was a beautiful sight, and Jarka's own spirit was filled with all the rage around him. He looked forward to charging in and killing every single peasant he saw. He could almost smell their fear, and their blood. He even closed his eyes to bask in it. When the howls finally died down, he stood silent for a moment, until he felt the hard grasp of T'kar's hand on his shoulder.

  "They are ready," The king said. "Keep them entertained until the rest arrive. Attack the nearby village. Lay it to waste. Spare no one."

  Jarka grinned. "Yes, Sire," he said.

  "Burn it to the ground."

  The young sorcerer was amused as he watched T'kar's army pour into the streets of Redrock like a tidal wave. The soldiers' battle cries echoed throughout, causing an immediate panic that sent the peasants fleeing for their lives. They were cut down with arrows or blades, left to be trampled by their murderers' heavy boots.

  The town militia, a small group of armed men, were overwhelmed. They didn't stand a chance against the descending horde, and were wiped out almost immediately. The sorcerer laughed as he sat upon the fountain in the center of the town square, unnoticed by the soldiers who passed him by.

  Woman and children were not immune to the slaughter, either. They too were cut down mercilessly, some of them forced into the buildings as they were set on fire. Flaming arrows filled the air, followed by the choking smoke that engulfed the streets like a deadly fog.

  The leader, a large man with a bald head and deep-set eyes, walked calmly as his troops passed him by, directing another man to fire flaming arrows at the buildings. He was impressive; heartless and bold. He looked like a man who could get things done, much like the king himself.

  A woman passed by the young sorcerer, and he cast a simple spell that caused her to stumble. A soldier jumped on top of her, dragging her into a nearby alley. Other soldiers began to notice him, but the sorcerer sat still, ignoring those who glared at him. His stance likely told them that he was indifferent to the slaughter, or would even join in.

  Which he did.

  The sorcerer had a blade, and he thought it would be amusing to stab a few peasants, or even brutally dismember them in front of the leader. That would surely get his attention. Determined to be noticed, he jumped up from his perch, pulling a man out of a nearby shop. He threw the man on the ground, holding his head down with his boot and holding his dagger in the air.

  A few soldiers stopped to watch him, and he reached down to pull his victim's head back by the hair. Before their eyes, and with a smile, he slowly sliced through the man's flesh until there was nothing left but bone. He then jabbed his dagger between the vertebrae, holding the man's severed head out before him in triumph.

  The soldiers glared at him strangely, unsure of his intentions. It was then that the leader made his way over, ignoring the thick smoke that was beginning to close in all around them.

  "Who are you?" the leader asked.

  The sorcerer dropped the severed head, casting another spell that swept the choking smoke away. The leader's eyes lit up in awe, and he grinned an evil grin that only a devil could manage.

  "Greetings, good captain," the sorcerer said. "I am Malthor, Necromancer and Connoisseur of all things dark and demonic. I am at your service."

  The leader lowered his head, and the joy in his dark eyes was obvious.

  "Lorcan," the leader said. "It looks we have our new sorcerer."

  "So," T'kar said as he looked over the young Malthor. "Where are you from, Necromancer?"

  "I am from the mountains of Krill," Malthor replied. "The land which you call the Southern Reaches."

  "And where did you learn your skills?"

  "I was born with them, Sire. I have lived my whole life playing with the d
ead."

  T'kar chuckled. This young man seemed as sick and twisted as any sorcerer he had ever met, and his cold blue eyes were those of a madman. He liked Malthor already.

  "Necromancers are the corruptors of flesh," T'kar said. "And I need a corruptor of flesh. My former sorcerer, Galik, fell to the magic of a Berujen, like the one you see here."

  Malthor looked over at Lilit, who stood leaning against a large cabinet. Her breasts were exposed, and Malthor looked at them hungrily, licking his lips as he was mesmerized.

  "Do you know of the Berujen?" T'kar asked.

  "I do," Malthor replied. "And this one is exquisite. Where did you find her?"

  "My man Randar found her near the village you were so casually watching be destroyed."

  "Ah yes," Malthor said. "The bog. I know of it. And I know of her. Lilit is her name. I had thought her lost forever. But it seems this Randar of yours has brought her back from the dead."

  "I was never dead," Lilit said. "I was trapped in a dream like no other."

  "I sympathize," Malthor said, bowing his head. "And I am impressed. Not even a thousand years of imprisonment has tarnished your legendary beauty."

  Lilit smiled, cocking an eyebrow at T'kar. The king laughed.

  "He will do," she said. "I can sense his power, and it is far greater than Galik's. He is truly a creature of darkness, great patience, and pure, putrid filth."

  "Thank you," Malthor said.

  "I want to test your power," T'kar said. "If you are truly a necromancer, then you can raise the dead, correct?"

  Malthor nodded, shrugging. "That is quite easy," he said. "Show me a corpse, and I will animate it in the blink of an eye."

  "Lilit," T'kar said.

  The witch drew a dagger and slit the throat of the guard who stood closest to her. The man's companion stared straight ahead as he stumbled forward choking, grasping his throat in horror. He fell in his own blood, writhing and gagging until he finally fell still.

  "Do your work," T'kar whispered.

  Malthor went to the corpse, kicking it with his boot and smiling at Lilit. He reached down with his right hand to swirl his finger in the man's blood, then licked his finger. T'kar chuckled. Then, Malthor stepped back, waving his hands over the dead man's body until it began to twitch.