He could see Ivar spinning and twirling his axes in a smooth and endless killing cycle. The undead fell around him, beheaded or chopped to pieces. The others of his group landed around him, facing the horde head on.
Behind him, the gates began to creak, and they suddenly burst open, knocking the undead back as a large group of Riverfolk, Skulgrid among them, poured through to join the battle.
The soldiers formed a line, pushing the undead back toward the river. Dearg let loose his battle cry and led them on, tearing into the undead that charged at him. He thrust his blade through one, withdrew and chopped off its head, and split another in two. His rage grew, outshined only by the strange feeling that began to flow through him.
It was a power that drove him on fearlessly and powerfully. He felt invincible, as if there was nothing that could stop him, or even slow him. The undead that he cut down became a blur, and all that he saw were their pale and lifeless eyes as he released his fury.
Dark and decayed blood filled the air, and the smell of rot permeated his senses. But it fuelled him on evermore. He charged ahead, unstoppable, a force of death in his own right. The feel of his blade piercing and severing flesh made him howl with fury, and soon the horde began to grow thin.
He regained his senses then, seeing his allies fighting as furiously as him. He felt a sense of pride then, watching his chosen knights fighting their best, valiantly and fearlessly.
And he also saw a woman step into view from the other side of the river.
He stared at her as the undead swarmed nearby. He was mesmerized by her appearance, and the way she raised her hands into the air. Though her face was hidden underneath her amber cowl, he knew she was mouthing the words to a spell. He suddenly felt a sense of danger, and called out to allies.
"Look out!" he shouted. "Sorceress!"
It was too late. The woman released a wave of magic that swept over the battle. Before his very eyes, the undead fell straight down, dead once more. But the wave passed over his friends without harming them, and they stood unfazed and bewildered.
Dearg charged toward the woman, pushing his way through the soldiers that blocked his path. But when he reached the river bank, she was gone. She had disappeared.
"Dearg," Ivar called out. "What are you doing? What happened?"
Dearg shook his head, confused. "There was a woman here," he said. "She cast a spell of some kind. She killed all of them and then disappeared."
Ivar looked in the direction Dearg was focused on. "I see nothing, my friend," he said. "Are you sure it wasn't that Druid again?"
"No," Dearg replied. "It was a woman. I saw her as plain as day."
He kept staring at the woman's location, wondering if he really saw her at all. If he had, then perhaps they had an ally that was unknown to them; someone who worked from the shadows, like the rangers had. Perhaps it was the Great Mother herself, or one of her servants.
"Dearg," Skulgrid called to him. "Who was that woman?"
Dearg he turned, glad to hear that someone else had seen her too.
"I am not sure, Skulgrid," he said. "She was there, and then she was gone."
"Well, let's not dwell on it," Skulgrid said. "If she is helping us, then I welcome it. But it is strange that she simply disappeared."
Dearg nodded, shrugging. "Yet another mystery," he said. "She looked familiar though."
He realized it just then. There was something about her stance that he recognized, but he wasn't sure what it was. Was it her motions? Her gown? He began to wonder if it was just her presence; some odd aura that she exuded. Whatever the case, she was definitely something from his vision.
"Let's get these bodies rounded up and burn them," Skulgrid said. "We can't have them stinking up the place."
"I'll be right there," Dearg said.
Ivar joined Skulgrid, leaving Dearg to stare across the river; the river that he once floated down on his way to the Northmen. There was a strange feeling that overcame him, as if this woman had also watched him float to safety. He wondered if Menelith had seen her during that time, or if he knew who she was.
Things were beginning to get even stranger than before.
The fortress came into view over the tops of the jagged hills. Malthor spurred the horse on at top speed, hoping he could get Randar to Lilit in time. Despite his own magical skill, it was useless against wounds such as this, and the witch was his only hope for survival. He feared T'kar's wrath, as he knew how much favor the king placed on Randar.
But then again, if he died, Malthor could simply dump his body in the weeds and never return.
"No," he whispered to himself. He liked Randar.
He raced through the assembly of soldiers that Jarka had gathered, ignoring their angry shouts and rearing his horse back when he reached the gates. The two guards out front, recognizing Randar, rushed to his aid.
"Get him inside," Malthor said. "He's hurt badly."
"Lilit can help him," one guard said. "And you'd better hope so. T'kar will have your head for dinner if you've gotten his right hand man killed."
Malthor gulped. Though the thought of fleeing was still there in his mind, his dark heart told him to stay and see it out. He wasn't directly responsible for Randar's injury, but T'kar likely wouldn't see it that way.
As the guards rushed Randar inside, Malthor handed the horse off to a stable boy. He saw Jarka staring at him with a crooked grin; not friendly, but snarky. Jarka would likely enjoy seeing T'kar chop off his head. He seemed like a man who cared about nothing but killing.
Not that Malthor was any different.
Swallowing his fear, he went through the front gates to face T'kar. The king would be angry whether Randar died or not, but Malthor could take a little abuse. He would like it, in fact. He could picture himself asking T'kar for another strike with his scourge, just for the pleasure of it.
He laughed, shaking his head as he entered T'kar's chambers. The king was there, standing with his arms crossed, and his expression blank but thoughtful. Malthor approached slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. T'kar looked up at him with a strangely sad expression.
"What happened?" the king asked.
"Randar was struck by an arrow, Sire," Malthor said. "I take full responsibility."
T'kar snarled, grabbing Malthor's shoulder roughly and looking him straight in the eye.
"Did you shoot the arrow?" the king demanded.
Malthor's heart raced. What was the correct answer?
"No, Sire," he said. "Of course not."
T'kar let him go, turning away. "Then why take responsibility?"
Malthor had no answer.
"Well?" T'kar asked, glaring.
"It was my first ride with Randar," Malthor explained. "We did not position our—"
"Excuses," T'kar growled. "Do not give me excuses. You did what you were asked and Randar was injured. Unless you shot him yourself, it is not your fault. Never take responsibility for something that is not your fault. That is a sign of weakness."
Malthor looked down in shame. "Yes, Sire."
"Now, tell me everything that happened."
"Well," Malthor began. "We found a few squads of your soldiers who had been killed. The Fomorians were among them. Their skulls were, at least. I raised them all from the dead and we marched them for the Riverfolk settlement."
"Yes."
"They had built a wall, Sire," Malthor said, waving his arms in an exaggerated fashion. "A tall fortification with a strong gate. They were able to fend off the undead long enough for their archers to strike us. My horse was killed, and Randar was struck with an arrow."
T'kar nodded. "And what did you do?"
"I mounted his horse behind him and rode back to the fortress as fast as possible."
T'kar nodded again. "And you got Randar to safety, leaving the undead to continue their assault on the fortification?"
"Yes, Sire," Malthor said.
"Then you did well," T'kar said. "Help Lilit with Randar, and we wil
l decide what to do next. I will need you on the battlefield, Malthor. Do not let yourself fall victim to guilt. I employed you for a reason, and that reason is you have no regard for human life. Don't let that change. Randar is just a man, as important as he is to me. Understand?"
"Yes, Sire," Malthor replied.
"Go."
After piling the twice-dead bodies up and setting them aflame, the defenders rallied near the lake to regroup and make plans. Several archers were left at the wall to defend it in case of another attack, and Bertram ordered the placement of lookouts higher up the rocky slopes. The rest of the rangers had arrived and took places among the Riverfolk watchmen, and Menelith left with his Alvar troops to scour the forest.
Dearg, still curious about the sorceress, stood with his arms crossed as he stared off toward her last location.
"Can you describe her, perhaps?" Bertram asked as he quieted down the soldiers around him.
Dearg turned and directed his response at the entire group. "She wore a burgundy or amber-colored robe," he said. "I didn't see her face, but it looked like she had red hair, like a woman of Eirenoch."
Bertram scratched his chin. "I have never seen a sorceress in these parts," he said. "Much less one with red hair. But that makes sense."
"Why?" Ivar said.
"Well, there are legends of witches with red hair," he said. "But then again, red hair is not so unusual in and of itself. Magic users, that's a different story."
"There are folk about that we are unaware of," Baleron said. "Folks of all types. This woman may be a Druid of some sort. If her magic was powerful enough to effect the undead, she must be a priestess."
"The undead just dropped like stones," Dearg said. "As if she dispelled whatever magic had brought them to life."
"I would think that only a necromancer could negate the magic of a necromancer," Skulgrid said. "That would make sense to me, anyway."
"I doubt she's a necromancer," Dearg said. "As I said, I didn't see her face, but I would think a necromancer would be more vile-looking."
"We may be dealing with something new," Bertram said. "We must remember not to judge. We made that same mistake with the Bodach."
"I say we go and find her," Ivar said. "We went searching for the strange fellow in the white robes, why not her?"
"Why did the Druid disappear when the undead showed up?" Freyja asked. "If he is on our side, then why not help fight them?"
"Druids," Baleron said. "They are mysterious. Their powers come from the Earth, so I suppose they are simply here to maintain the balance, much like us rangers."
"Whatever the case," Dearg said. "This attack is troubling. With the wyverns and now this strange assault, we may be facing an outright battle soon. I suggest we rally all of our forces here; the Highlanders, Northmen and Riverfolk alike. We need to be prepared for war."
"Agreed," Baleron said. "I will send the message myself."
Dearg nodded. "Tell them to ready their mounts in case we have to ride out," he said. "We'll try to come up with a defensive strategy."
Baleron mounted his horse and rode up the slope toward the cave. The rest of Dearg's group gathered around him, seeming confident in his leadership skills so far. Even Bertram and Skulgrid were on board, eager to be led.
"Skulgrid," Dearg said. "Gather every able-bodied fighter you can. Even those who are unexperienced in battle. Distribute your weapons as you see fit."
Skulgrid nodded, heading back to the village.
"Freyja, Odhran, take your places at the wall. We'll need skilled archers among the rest. Fleek, Ivar… just be yourselves."
"What about the sorceress?" Ivar asked.
"I should find her," Dearg said. "But we need to stay together for now. She can wait. I have the feeling we'll see her again."
Igraina sat on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the sea. Her thoughts were clouded, not knowing what her true purpose was. The only thing she could be sure of was that the man she had met near the tower was the Dragon himself—or at least his human avatar.
Nowhere or at no time in her life had she met a man so mesmerizing. His eyes were like beautiful sapphires that pierced her very soul, and the sound of his deep voice was like music to her ears. Yet, when she had beheld him she had felt fear or shame. She wasn't sure which. He seemed suspicious of her, and for good reason, so why had he allowed her to leave, or to even enter the valley?
The questions were a plague to her mind.
And then she had just laid eyes upon the child, Daegoth. She had locked eyes with him as he fought against the undead, and for some reason had decided to help him. Maybe it was the Druid's words, or maybe there was some small part of her that wanted Daegoth to fulfill his destiny.
Was she growing soft?
Maybe it was the fact that Daegoth had appeared so much like his father. Even from that distance she had seen his eyes. They were those same blue eyes he had as a newborn, and the same eyes that she saw in the Dragon. He was definitely Daegoth, she knew. She had felt it.
He was the son of the Dragon.
"Very nice display of power," Jodocus said behind her.
Igraina was only mildly startled.
"It was against my very being," she said.
Jodocus sat down beside her, setting his staff on the ground between them. "I don't think that's true," he said. "I think there's a part of you that you were unaware of, and now it's coming out."
She glared at him, but his smile remained. That annoying smile.
"Everyone has good in them," he said. "Even if it's just a little bit. I'm sure even T'kar has some good qualities."
She retained her glare. Jodocus shrugged.
"Or maybe not," he said with a smile. "But I think you do."
Igraina shrugged, turning back to the ocean. "I met the Dragon," she said.
"Of course you did. I knew you would go to Dol Drakkar, and I was hoping you would."
"Why?"
"Because in order for you to see the logic of helping Dearg to get there, I felt that meeting the Dragon himself was necessary. He is a mysterious being, much like humans, but he has a heart and you needed to see that."
Igraina sighed, remembering the horror she felt. "He was terrifying," she said.
"Oh, I don't know about that. Sometimes a person who feels guilt may confuse it with terror when confronted with the object of that guilt."
"Why would I feel guilty about the Dragon?" she asked. "I helped his child escape."
"But for what reason?" he asked, raising a brow suspiciously.
Igraina laughed, knowing her very reason and realizing he knew it too. "My own selfish reasons," she said.
"You see," Jodocus said. "You're not as confused as you think."
"So now what do I do?"
"Do what your heart tells you," he said. "But make sure he gets to the tower before it's all over. He does not yet have the power to defeat T'kar."
"He is powerful, though. I sensed it in him. He has a strong heart, and his friends would die for him. I felt it and saw it in their eyes during the battle."
Jodocus nodded, sighing happily. "It's good to have friends," he said. "Even if they are a bit out of their mind."
She smiled and looked over at him. He had a bizarre grin on his face that made her laugh. She could definitely sense that despite his power, and his purpose, Jodocus was likely not right in the head.
That was alright.
"You have a strange way with words, Jodocus."
"We Druids wield a lot of power," he said. "But we are limited in the ways we can use it. That has the tendency to drive someone up the wall. I'm sure you can understand."
She did. Igraina herself wielded a lot of power, but she had never been allowed to use it fully. There had never been any reason to. But now, with someone else like her walking the Earth, that time may come soon.
"I will need to use all of my power to defeat my sister," she said.
"Yes," Jodocus said. "And it will likely drive you mad. That pow
er can be maddening. I foresee losing you then."
"What do you mean?"
"You have a choice in the future, Igraina," Jodocus said. "When the time comes, you can either run, staying the way you are now, or you can destroy her and lose something of yourself. Either way, one dark witch will remain. Who will it be?"
It will be me, she thought to herself.
She knew that Jodocus was gone, then. She sighed, standing up and looking back to the tower. She would do what she had to do to get the Dragon's son there, her heritage be damned. Whatever the future held, she would do what was right for now.
For now.
Chapter Twenty Nine
The Northmen, led by Queen Igrid, had opted to ride down the western shore, motivated by the possibility of Dearg having allied with the Riverfolk. Knowing the basic layout of the land south of the Droma Mountains, Igrid knew that there was a passage from the shore to their territory that they could reach much more easily than traveling over the Highlands.
It was there that her army spotted the large group of soldiers marching north, likely in search of the very horses the Northmen were riding. Igrid called the Northmen to a halt, glaring at the soldiers, who had not yet spotted them, and Wulfgar and Svengaar rode up next to her.
"They look like they're itching for a fight," Svengaar jested.
"I think so, too," Igrid said, drawing her blade. "We ride them down and take their weapons."
"Kronos!" Wulfgar shouted, raising his axe into the air.
The Northmen responded in kind, and Igrid led the charge. The tribes thundered over the rocks and black sand, throwing up clouds of dust as they rushed toward the enemy. T'kar's forces, vastly outnumbered, began to scatter. The horsemen caught up to them quickly, overtaking them before the soldiers even had a chance to decide what direction to run.
The Northmen howled as they rode them down, plowing through their ranks and chopping them to pieces. Not a single spear was hefted, and not a single Northman fell to the enemy's blades. Decimated and terrified, the remaining soldiers, scattered again.
"Archers!" Igrid shouted. "Take them down!"
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