"Is the village safe?" Dearg called out.
"The attackers are done for," Odhran replied, taking down another swooping wyvern.
"How many?"
"Two dozen," Freyja said. "Not enough to do any damage."
They were a distraction, Dearg realized. One to draw their attention away from the wyverns, perhaps. T'kar, however, had not known that the rangers were skilled warriors. He had underestimated the defensive forces.
Or perhaps he was judging their skill with disposable warriors.
"Look out!" Ivar shouted.
Dearg ducked just as a wyvern swooped overhead. Odhran followed it with his bow, loosing as the wyvern turned in the air. It crashed to the ground and Fleek finished it off with a smash of his hammer.
"Big bats," he said, smiling.
As the chaos died down, Dearg looked around for everyone else. Baleron was atop the highest area of the wall, shouldering his bow. Alric was near him, crouched and guarded behind the wall, his eyes darting around. Menelith approached, also shouldering his bow.
"The wyverns have been defeated," he said. "T'kar likely waits for us to the south. He will stay as long as it takes. I imagine he will send out squads to cover any roads, should we try to flee."
Dearg looked back at the caves. "There's one path he cannot guard," he said. "But I wonder how Igrid fares."
"My scouts have relayed the message and they have followed the shoreline. They are still within range of Baleron's horn."
Dearg nodded. "He looks concerned," he said, looking up at the ranger. "He has Alric's attention. I will speak to him. Thank you for your help. I hope you will stay."
"Where Baleron goes, I go," Menelith said.
Dearg clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. "Thank you, my friend."
Chapter Thirty Two
This is a nice, easy ride," Randar said, plodding along aside Malthor as they rode north.
"The air is filled with smoke," Malthor replied, coughing.
"There is a reason for that, my friend."
"And what is that?"
"The Alvar can see very well at night," Randar explained. "They can sense heat signatures, seeing them as bright red shapes. With the fire burning behind us, and smoke filling the valley, the entire army is virtually invisible."
"Ah," Malthor said, smiling. "Excellent idea."
Ahead, the road began to narrow, and the two could see the pass where the fodder had met their doom. Randar stopped, listening for any sound of the enemy's presence. From what he had gathered, whoever was in the forests on either side of the river had fled back north.
That was the plan.
"Do you hear anything?" Randar asked.
He watched as Malthor craned his head toward every angle. The necromancer shook his head.
"Good," Randar said, spurring his horse forward.
"There are a lot of corpses," Malthor said. "None of them are in very good condition, though."
"Too chopped up to be useful?" Randar asked with a grin.
Malthor laughed, flashing him that smile that sent shivers up Randar's spine.
"They weren't very useful to begin with," he said.
"True enough. But I wonder what happened to the sorcerer."
"Look," Malthor said. "Is that one of the Alvar?"
Sure enough, as Randar followed Malthor's gaze, he saw the body of an Alvar warrior lying on its back surrounded by the less-than-desirable corpses of the men. They both dismounted, approaching the corpse cautiously, marveling at how the Alvar's pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight.
They crouched on either side of it, staring down in awe. Randar put his hand underneath the Alvar's head, cradling it affectionately.
"He's beautiful," Malthor said.
Randar stroked the skin of the Alvar's face with the back of his hand. "His skin is like a woman's," he said.
"Such a shame," Malthor said. "What a beautiful creature."
The Alvar's eyes suddenly popped open, and a blade flashed in the moonlight before it was buried in Malthor's chest. Randar quickly drew his dagger, jabbing it into the Alvar's temple, silencing him for good. He leaped over to Malthor, catching him before he fell back into the mud.
"Malthor," Randar said, cradling the necromancer's head.
"I'm alright," Malthor said, smiling. "That was very painful, though."
Randar helped him up, confused but relieved. "But your heart…"
"It's alright," Malthor said, rubbing the wound. "I'm more concerned about the shirt."
"How did you survive that?"
"Trust me," Malthor said. "I've had much worse. Let's use this Alvar to our advantage."
Randar stood back as the necromancer bent down to place his hands on the Alvar's head. After a short chant, Malthor stood, turning his clawed hands upward as he rose. Suddenly, the Alvar began to twitch, and it slowly stood, wobbling on its dead legs.
"Now," Malthor said, his eyes glowing red. "Lead us to the fortress."
The Alvar turned and began stumbling north. Malthor winked at Randar and mounted his horse. Randar smiled, laughing as he climbed up on his mount.
"This should be interesting," he said.
"I thought I saw some movement nearby," Baleron said. "But it's hard to tell with all the smoke."
"I see nothing," Dearg said.
Alric pointed off toward the burning village. "It's just movement in front of the glow of the fire," he said. "It could be smoke, but it could be the bulk of T'kar's army."
"They have stopped just north of the village and are waiting for something," Baleron said.
"Likely it's what we thought before," Dearg said. "They will not march this far and expect us to meet them."
"I say we wait," Alric said. "All he can do is send small squads at a time. Anything larger and he risks being trapped."
"They could always attack from the ridge surrounding the village," Morrigan said behind them.
"Morrigan," Dearg said, turning. "Where have you been?"
"Back through the caves," she said. "Gathering more supplies. I'm sorry I missed the battle with the wyverns. What are we looking at?"
Dearg pointed toward the red glow of the distant fires. "Movement in front of the flames," he said.
There was a faint clicking below, and Baleron leaned over the edge of the wall.
"Scout," he said, pausing for a moment. "He says there are two men on horseback approaching. They have stopped at the pass, but are riding this way again."
"Shall we ride out to meet them?" Dearg wondered.
"I will tell Menelith," Baleron said. "We should all ride out and have the Alvar keep their bows ready behind us."
Dearg nodded. "Morrigan," he said. "Keep things safe here. We will return."
"What do you see?" Wulfgar asked Igrid.
She stared down the shoreline, frozen with anticipation. She thought she had seen movement shortly after they had continued south. Being this far made her uncomfortable, but the strange feeling she got just a few moments ago was even more disturbing to her.
It felt as if someone or something was calling her.
"I'm not sure," she said. "Someone walking by the shore perhaps."
"Someone?"
A woman? She wasn't sure. She thought she had seen flowing robes, and long golden hair. But that was impossible. The sun was gone, and the moonlight wasn't bright enough to make out any details from this distance. Besides, what would a lone woman be doing walking along the shore at this time of night?
"Maybe I am just seeing things," she said, shaking her head.
"Do you want me to scout ahead?" Wulfgar asked. "If we are seen, we may lose our advantage."
"No," she said, drawing her blade. "You're too loud. I will go."
Wulfgar nodded, stepping away as Igrid crept toward the shore. She knew he would remain behind her, in the distance, but she felt safer that way. He could be fairly quiet from that distance.
She trudged through the rocks, keeping in the sparse shadows that
were cast by the nearby trees. There was smoke coming from the east, giving the shore a slight cover, but thus far the smoke wasn't that thick. It was a sign, however, that the village was still burning.
She found a large rock near the edge of the sand, where it met the rocky ground. She crouched near it, staring into the darkness, listening and looking for any sign of the mysterious woman. Could this be the witch Dearg had spoken of?
"Where are you?" she whispered.
She looked back, seeing the bulky shadow of Wulfgar about one hundred yards behind her. She chuckled to herself, and then turned back to the south. She could see nothing so far, and could hear only the gentle rolling and crashing of the waves. Satisfied she was still under the cover of darkness, she crept forward some more, running low and keeping her blade gripped in her nervous hand.
There was a humming sound that startled her, and she rushed to the nearest outcropping. She peered out from behind it, looking toward the humming sound. It was a pleasant melody, and the voice that hummed it was beautiful. It was smooth and divine, like the singing of forest spirits.
Still, she could see nothing.
Igrid, a voice said in her head.
Igrid froze. Her heart began racing.
Sister.
She could still see nothing in the distance but the white foamy waves that crashed into the rocks that jutted up from the sand.
Igrid, the voice said again.
She suddenly felt dizzy. She turned and leaned back against the rock to catch her bearings. But as hard as she tried, the feeling became stronger, and she could do nothing but slump down onto the gravel.
Igrid. Sister.
Igrid felt herself awaken in a strange place. She stood in front of a statue depicting a woman with her hands out in front of her, her head cocked and looking downward at her. It was marble, flawless and smooth, with a polished surface that seemed to glow in the light of the many candles around her.
She was in a room that had no walls or ceiling. The floor below her was inscribed with strange symbols; ones that looked familiar to her, even though she knew she had never seen them.
She was standing on a large circle with another symbol centered within it. There were three spirals connected together, each of them branching out from a central circle. The statue was right on the center, and she stood at the center of one of the spirals. Around her, placed around a larger circle, were six diamond-shaped platforms, barely an inch tall, and made of polished granite.
There were ghostly figures upon each one, women it seemed, each of them dressed in intricate armor and flowing silk capes the colors of the Earth. They were all staring at her, as if expecting her to do something; to speak or to fight.
She reached for her blade, finding it gone. She then looked up at the statue's face, looking for some sign of what she was supposed to do.
"Well?" she said. "I'm here. What do you want with me?"
Sister, the voice said again. We have been waiting for you.
"For what?"
Gaia has called to you. We have called to you.
Igrid shrugged. "Again, I am here. What do you want with me?"
Search yourself, Igrid. Search your memories. You have been called for a reason.
Igrid was confused, but she complied, trying to remember things from the past; things that fit her current situation. There was nothing. She had only ever felt a strange calling from the Earth itself. Never any words, only feelings.
I need you, a different voice said. It was the same voice that she had heard humming.
"Who are you?" she asked, knowing the answer.
You know me. I need you, Igrid. My children, my daughters, are no more. The Beast has slain them. I need you and your sisters. Bring them to me.
"What are you talking about?" Igrid asked.
She began to feel a great sadness within her. It was a feeling that brought pain to the pit of her stomach, her heart, her very soul. She felt like weeping, but she didn't know why. Was she feeling someone else's pain, perhaps?
"What do you want from me?" she asked. "I have no sisters. I have no…"
She trailed off, thinking of her conversation with Morrigan. The Highland woman had mentioned feeling the same strange calling that she had. She had felt an attraction to the woman, as well, and it was something that she did not understand at the time. But now…
"Morrigan," she spoke out loud.
Sisters, the voice said again. Find them and bring them to me. I need you. All of you.
"Igrid," Wulfgar's voice awoke her, and she felt him shaking her. "Igrid, wake up."
She opened her eyes, seeing the man's face right in front of hers.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Igrid blinked. She was back on the shore, with Wulfgar breathing right in her face. Where had she been?
"Where am I?" she asked.
"You sat down on the shore and fell asleep I think," he said. "What the hell happened?"
"I'm not sure," she said, thinking of the strange encounter. "I must have passed out."
"Then I think it's time you sleep," Wulfgar said. "I'll get you back to camp and watch over you. It's been a long day of traveling. We're all weary."
"Alright," Igrid said.
He helped her to her feet, handing her sword to her. She took it, realizing that it wasn't her sword. Wulfgar had not seemed to notice, but she knew it right away. The weapon was of the same type as hers, yet somehow different. The blade was polished and sharp, and that same strange spiral shape was inscribed upon the pommel that topped its handle.
"Thank you," she said, not letting on that something was different.
Use it for me, the voice said again. Free your sisters and destroy the Beast. Protect the Dragon's son.
She nodded.
"What?" Wulfgar said, leading her back to camp.
"Nothing," Igrid said. "I'm alright."
"You're acting stranger than usual," Wulfgar said. "Is it that time of the—"
She punched him in the gut, glaring at him, daring him to finish his sentence.
"Sorry," he said, pursing his lips and continuing on with his face turned away.
Igrid sheathed the blade, keeping her hand tightly around the grip. She felt a strange presence within it, as if it were alive. The longer she gripped it, the more she felt its warmth. It was comforting, loving, as if it had always belonged to her.
And it seemed that it had.
Dearg led his knights toward the pass, riding slowly and cautiously. Menelith and his warriors followed close around them, scouting the area for any ambushes. Dearg's heart raced with apprehensiveness. He had no idea what he was riding into, or whom he was going to meet. He felt comfort, though, in that he was surrounded by friends.
He was glad to have them at his side.
Ahead, Menelith stopped and held out his hand, urging them to halt. He crouched, as if waiting for something, and that something brought Dearg's heart to a stop. An Alvar stumbled into the moonlight, bloodied and staggering as if wounded badly.
"Who is that?" he asked out loud. "Is he injured?"
"Faerun," Baleron said sadly. "And I don't think he's merely injured."
The warrior continued forward, heading straight toward them. He could hear Menelith sigh sadly, and draw his blade. He glanced back at Baleron, shaking his head in an angry fashion.
"What is it?" Dearg asked.
"Abomination," Menelith shouted, beheading the stumbling Alvar with a single slash of his blade.
The headless Alvar fell forward onto the ground, and Menelith sheathed his blade, staring down at his friend in silence. Then, a cackling sound came from the shadows, and two riders came forward. Menelith backed away, his face twisted in rage.
The riders were dressed in dark colors, one of them in a black leather suit that shined in the moonlight, the other in a suede leather jacket and a lavish silk shirt that was stained with blood. The black-clad rider was older, possibly in his early fifties. His white-blonde hair was shortly
cropped, and his hazel eyes were glaring yet cultured and wise in appearance. The other man, younger and reckless-looking, bore a mane of curly dark hair that blew in the wind. His deep-set eyes were cold blue and seemingly lifeless.
They both exuded a darkness that made them all uncomfortable.
"Well met," the older man said.
Dearg rode slowly forward to meet them, keeping his eyes on their hands, searching for any hidden weapons.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am Randar, advisor and strategist to King T'kar," the older man said. "And this lovely young man is my colleague, Malthor, sorcerer and necromancer."
"So it was you," Menelith hissed, gesturing down at the dead warrior. "You defiled my kinsmen. I should cut your head from your body and impale it upon the highest spike."
The younger man cackled strangely, looking at his companion, who smiled grimly.
"You will do nothing of the sort," he said. "We have come to offer the king's terms, and you will listen."
"What terms?" Dearg demanded. "Speak now or I will allow Menelith to fulfill his wishes."
"Yes, well. Seeing as the king respects your claim to the throne, he has authorized me to make you this offer."
"I am not interested in any offers," Dearg said. "I am only interested in ending T'kar's reign of terror."
"He has seen to it that your bloodline is recognized, Daegoth, and as your grandfather's heir, you—"
"Daegoth?" Dearg echoed, angrily. This was the second time he had been addressed by that name. "What do you know of my grandfather?"
"Why, everything, of course," Randar replied, looking at his companion and laughing. "But that is not important. The king has offered to give you lands and title. If the title of Duke pleases you, he will give you all of the lands to the north of the village. You will answer only to him, and he will be your benefactor and friend."
"My friend?" Dearg repeated, furious. "My friend that has killed so many innocent people of this land? I have no interest in being his friend, nor his Duke."
Dearg spat on the ground in front of him. He could see Menelith grip his blade, and could almost see the rage that boiled within him.
"You have angered my friend," Dearg said. "You have committed something so horrible in his eyes, and mine, that I should slay you both where you stand. I care nothing for the men you led against us before. But the Alvar do not deserve such a fate."
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