Onyx Dragon (Book 1)

by Shawn E. Crapo

  Siobhan gasped, leaning in closer to the Northman.

  “How did your other settlements not see this attack?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” Wrothgaar answered. “The settlements are fairly distant from each other. But I believe the sounds of battle would have carried that far, at least. My tribe was completely unaware of the attack until we saw the smoke rise in the distance. There was also no sign of the attackers.”

  Siobhan scowled. “Who do you think these attackers were?” she asked. “Wild men?”

  “I do not think so,” Wrothgaar explained. “The islanders would not be so bold as to come to the mainland and attack. They are primitive, and wield weapons of brittle bronze. They would not stand against even the most unskilled warriors of our tribes.”

  Siobhan thought for a moment. “Do you have any ideas, then, Northman?” she asked. “I know of most of the inhabitants of this island. The only people I am unsure of are the travelers that have arrived in the Southern Kingdom.”

  “I have not heard of these travelers,” he said. “All I know is that my people were attacked by an army capable of being unseen. Many of the women of our tribes think the attackers were witches, or perhaps sorcerers in service to you.”

  “Unfortunate,” the Queen lamented. “I would hope that only a small minority believes this.”

  “Of course,” Wrothgaar replied, taking another sip of wine. “Old wives will have their tales. But our elders do not believe it. They know something terrible walks the land and that you are not likely to have a hand in it. Your generosity has benefitted our tribes in many ways. And no one of any importance truly believes that you or your mages would wield such terrible magic against them. Magic that not only kills animals and people, but nature itself. The grass was dead, the crops withered, and the bodies of the villagers, what bodies were left, were dried like husks. Their faces were twisted and gnarled, as if they all died in absolute pain and agony.”

  Eamon leaned in closer to Wrothgaar. “Were there even any wounds to show that they had been attacked with weapons?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t tell. But, no, I do not think so. We burned the bodies after we found them, so there is very little evidence left.”

  The Prince looked to his mother, whose face mirrored his concern.

  “This is disturbing, indeed,” she remarked. “I do not know what to say. Perhaps my brother, the seer, can provide some answers. He is very wise, and can commune with the Dragon himself. The Dragon may be able to shed some light on this mystery.”

  She paused for a moment, remembering the seer’s ability to receive visions from physical objects.

  “Did you find anything that could have belonged to the attackers?” she asked. “It may help if he were able to hold something that belonged to one of them.”

  Wrothgaar stood, reaching into his pack. He then produced a small leather pouch.

  “I have this,” he said. “I do not know what is in it, but the markings are in a language I do not recognize, if they are a language at all.”

  Eamon reached out to receive the item, looking it over carefully before handing it to his mother. She studied the pouch for a moment, her brow furrowing in uncertainty.

  “These markings are strange,” she agreed. “My brother will definitely want to see this. If this is a human tongue, then he will recognize it. He may also know what it is inside.”

  “It’s some kind of pungent herb,” Wrothgaar explained. “But it is something I have never seen.”

  Siobhan opened the pouch, pouring some of the herb out into her palm.

  Garret was the first to suggest its identity. “It looks like tobacco,” he said. “My father smoked it in his pipe. It is fairly common on the mainland, though. Not many answers there, I would imagine.”

  “No,” the Queen said, putting the herb back into the pouch. “But the writings will be telling.” She handed it to Garret, who stuffed it into his tunic.

  “I will take this to Maedoc,” Garret said.

  “Thank you, my love,” the Queen said. “As soon as he finds some answers, I will come to him.”

  Eamon sat finally, taking a seat closer to Wrothgaar. “Tell me of your decision to seek our help,” he said.

  Wrothgaar sipped his wine again. “I volunteered to make the journey,” he said. “Most of our warriors do not have the verbal skills to speak with royalty. They are crude and uncivilized. They are warriors, nothing more. I have experience socializing with nobility.”

  “And your father approved?” Eamon asked.

  “He had no choice. He is sick with fever. He cannot speak, and our shaman does not know if he will survive. His illness is why I chose to come here for aid. I am not able to lead the tribes in battle myself.”

  Siobhan interrupted, “If he passes, will you become King?”

  “Not necessarily,” Wrothgaar answered immediately. “I must still defeat any contenders in combat to the death.”

  “Interesting,” Eamon remarked. “How many contenders are there?”

  “Only one that I know of. Cerdic, Son of Ceor the Mighty.”

  “Can you best him?” the Prince asked.

  “Likely,” Wrothgaar said. “But if I had a choice, I would prefer not to. He is a mighty warrior, and in these times, the loss of such a great warrior would be hard on our people. Losing my father will be bad enough.”

  “I am sorry to hear that Ulrich is ill, Wrothgaar,” the Queen stated. “Since he is unable to lead the tribe on a search, I will offer any assistance I can. When my brother discovers the identity of the attackers, I will dispatch whatever aid is necessary.”

  “I thank you,” Wrothgaar said. “And we would be honored to have your cooperation.”

  Siobhan smiled, recalling the many scuffles the two peoples had engaged in previously, relieved that the lasting standoff may finally come to an end. “Our enmity ended long ago, Wrothgaar, and in light of recent events, we must consider the need to join forces.”

  “Agreed. I will accept that offer. I speak for my own tribe, but I will have some trouble convincing the others to accept.”

  “What will you have to do?” Eamon asked.

  Wrothgaar firmly placed his goblet on the table. “Unite them,” he said. “It is the only way. But I can only do that if I were King. This is why I ask for your help.”

  “Very well,” Siobhan said. “I will speak to my brother about the matter at hand. In the meantime, please enjoy my kingdom’s hospitality. My son will show you around the city if you wish.”

  Wrothgaar glanced at Eamon. “I accept,” he said. “But may I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “If you have a brother, then why is he not King? Is he younger than you?”

  Siobhan laughed. “No, he is older. But his interests lie in philosophy and science, not politics. Had he accepted the throne, however, the kingdom would not have been split between myself and my sister, and her people would enjoy his rule instead of hers.”

  Wrothgaar looked confused. “Is she not fit for the throne?” he asked.

  “She cares more about her appearance, status, and pleasure than ruling. She is weak minded and cares nothing for her people.”

  “Sad,” Wrothgaar lamented. “She must have inherited all of the King’s bad qualities.”

  “Our mother’s, actually,” Siobhan corrected him. “She was the same, but she was exiled when we were children. No one has heard from her since.”

  “Exiled?” Wrothgaar asked. “To where?”

  “Somewhere across the sea. No one really knows where, or whether she is even still alive. But rumor has it that she dabbled in strange magic.”

  Wrothgaar said nothing, but glanced at Eamon again, then sipped his wine.

  “I take my leave,” Siobhan said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Wrothgaar.”

  Siobhan rose. Her guards followed close behind as she left the room. Eamon stood, motioning for Wrothgaar to rise as well.

  “We will see Maed
oc soon,” the Prince said. “First we’ll give him time to look over the markings. In the meantime, we will eat.”

  “Good,” Wrothgaar said, glaring at the bowls on the table. “I do not care much for fruit.”

  Maedoc was in his study when he heard a knock on his door. He was perusing maps of the mainland marked with cryptic symbols that only a sage or seer would understand. It was his pastime, and if there were ever a question as to his whereabouts, he would invariably be found here.

  Without looking up he said, “Come in, Garret.”

  Garret slowly swung the door open, leaning inside inquisitively. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “Come in, I said. And sit down. Hand me the pouch.”

  Garret entered, reaching into his tunic to retrieve the item. Maedoc took it, holding it close to inspect it thoroughly. He studied the symbols carefully, then sniffed the pouch.

  “Tobacco?” he asked. Garret nodded.

  “It was brought to us by a Northman,” Garret explained. “He said he found it in the ruins of a settlement that had been sacked. It was left there by the attackers. I do not recognize the symbols.”

  “The writings,” Maedoc began. “Which is what they are, come from a language spoken in the Southeast region of the mainland. They tell me that this belonged to a high-ranking Sheikh. That would be similar to a chieftain, or in military terms, a General. If I am reading this correctly, his name is Khalid.”

  “Why are they here?” Garret asked. “And why would they attack the Northmen?”

  “Unknown, my friend. Unknown. Perhaps these attackers have a history with the Northmen. One that stems from past conflicts on the mainland. Or, perhaps, the settlement was simply in the way. Leave this here with me and let me consult the Dragonstone. I will find what answers I can.”

  “Good,” Garret answered. “The Queen will be anxious to hear any information you can give her. So will the Northman who brought us this item.”

  Maedoc raised his brow. “Keep the Northman here,” He advised. “If my guess is correct, this event will further increase any kinship that has been built with the tribes. As King, Eamon will need all the allies he can obtain. The Northmen would be a valuable addition to our military forces. They may be needed in the future.”

  Garret wasn’t quite sure what the old man meant, but he had learned never to question his wisdom. Without a word, he left Maedoc’s study and gently closed the door behind him.

  Maedoc remained seated, turning the pouch over in his hands. There was something strange about the writings. Though he could read them quite plainly, he felt that the symbols themselves weren’t quite right. As if they were more archaic than what he had seen in the past. He couldn’t explain it.

  Setting the pouch on his desk, he turned to a pedestal in the corner. Upon it, a large object sat covered in black silk.

  The Dragonstone.

  Maedoc approached it, gathering his energy, letting his thoughts converge and coalesce into a single point. He removed the silk covering to reveal an orb that blazed with the energy of the Dragon itself. He reached out to touch it, letting the energy flow through his body as he placed his hands upon the glassy surface. It was a feeling of pain and knowledge at the same time.

  Maedoc’s grey mane was tossed about his head as the magic gathered and flowed out of the orb. Blue flames circled him, black smoke billowed from nowhere. He moaned in agony as his spirit became one with the Dragon, feeling the connection strengthen until it was complete. Only by surrendering his will could he communicate with the ancient forces that once ruled the Earth, and only through pain could he get the answer he sought.

  That was the price of knowledge.

  With a deep breath, he focused his intent, then asked his question, the very words of which shot pain throughout his body as they echoed throughout his chambers.

  “Who challenges the power of the Dragon?”

  Eamon and Wrothgaar strolled casually through the streets of Morduin, enjoying the bustle of activity. Everywhere, people were happily going about their daily lives, haggling with merchants, playing their musical instruments, and enjoying the tales of the troubadours who entertained on every corner. No one gave Wrothgaar a second look. Apparently they were not at all uncomfortable with his presence.

  The Northman noted the taverns, shops, and houses that lined the neatly paved streets and how they each had their own character, despite being similar in appearance. He felt at peace, not only with the city itself but with the people as well. He was especially glad to have met Eamon, who was not at all as he assumed a Prince would be. Eamon seemed like an honorable man, one who would die defending his people, and would do so with pride. He had met the nobles of other countries, but none of them had the compassion, or the capacity for honor, that this young Prince possessed. He knew they would be good friends.

  “There is a blacksmith shop that is empty now,” Eamon said, pointing toward an abandoned building. “Govran was the best blacksmith I’ve ever known. His swords were of the highest quality and were beautiful as well. That’s the sign of a good weapon. He died last winter, leaving no apprentice to take his place. He will be missed.”

  “My Uncle Thorgrymm was a blacksmith as well. He forged my axe, and many others before his death.”

  “How did he die?” Eamon asked.

  “His wife caught him with another woman,” Wrothgaar answered, grinning. “He died smiling.”

  Eamon considered the story for a moment, finding it humorous but not sure whether he should laugh or hold his tongue. Before he could decide, the Northman chuckled, and the Prince eventually joined him. He was glad to see that the Northman had a good sense of humor, and hoped that characteristic was common among his people.

  The Prince showed Wrothgaar all of the important sites of Morduin in turn, each possessing its own interesting tale and appeal. The Northman delighted in the stories he was told, and looked forward to knowing more about the people of Morduin. It was a pleasant city, and the people were joyful and accepting. Wrothgaar knew he would grow to love them as his own.

  “Come,” Eamon said after the tour. “Enough time has passed. Surely Maedoc has found out something.”

  “Lead on,” Wrothgaar said. “I look forward to meeting him, though I’m not sure how to address a seer. Is that what you call him?”

  “Sage, seer, shaman...” Eamon said, trailing off. “Just call him Maedoc.”

  The two men continued on through the streets, circling around to return to the castle. Wrothgaar eyed the taller tower he had locked his eyes upon outside the gate. That was where they were heading. The Northman might have guessed that a man who dabbled in strange, arcane knowledge would pick the tallest tower to make his study. Once he finally became insane from conversations with demons and other frightening spirits, he could end it all very quickly by throwing himself out of the highest window.

  “Maedoc it is,” Wrothgaar said.

  “There is troubling news,” Maedoc warned the Queen in a harsh whisper.

  Siobhan leaned in closer to her elder brother as he lie propped up on his bed. He was fatigued from his communion with the Dragon, as was usually the case. But it wasn’t the fatigue that concerned the Queen, it was to be expected, it was the fear in his eyes. She had never seen him this way.

  “What is it, Maedoc?” she asked. “What have you find out?”

  Maedoc attempted to sit up, groaning as he swung his feet onto the floor. Siobhan helped him with a firm hand, standing to gain leverage.

  “The Kingdom is in great danger,” He began. “The Dragon senses an imbalance in the Earth, and the travelers that your sister has welcomed are the source. They have overrun her cities. They have murdered civilians, disarmed the military, and have enslaved the children. The Southern Kingdom has fallen.”

  Siobhan gasped. “Why have I not heard this until now?” she demanded.

  “The messengers you have sent have never returned. Maebh, or whoever has her under their spell, may have imprisoned
or executed them. She lies transfixed in her palace, paying tribute to a Sultan who has somehow convinced her that submission is to her benefit. She has groveled to the power of these invaders, and has been blinded to her peoples’ plight.”

  “You found this out during your communion?” She asked, settling back down in her chair, her face grave.

  “This, and many other things,” Maedoc answered. “The Dragon feels the presence of something he has not felt in eons; a dark spirit that threatens to draw the very life from the land.”

  “What is this dark presence? A demon? A wizard?”

  Maedoc shook his head. “I do not know. It is something of another world, or Universe. Whatever it is has brought others with it into this world. Dark things that feed on the life energy of everything around them. I can only guess as to their nature.”

  “And the Dragon can feel this?” Siobhan wondered.

  “Yes. He can feel that these invaders have stepped foot in this kingdom in the North and East. They have murdered innocent people here, as they did in the South. Your barbarian friend’s people have already encountered them. The invaders may have been looking for something specific among his people, but I do not know what.”

  “We must do something!” The Queen said. “I cannot allow either kingdom to be overrun. My people trust me. I cannot let them down.”

  “I’m afraid there is nothing you can do,” Maedoc warned. “Only the power of the Dragon can defeat this enemy, and he does not have the strength to fight this enemy himself.”

  Siobhan sighed. “So, what do we do?”

  Maedoc rose, straightening as best as he could. Siobhan rose with him and their eyes met. The old man’s worry was gone, his face stern with determination.

  “The Knights of the Dragon must rise again.”

  Chapter Three

  Candles and incense burned throughout Maedoc’s study, giving it a calm, relaxing atmosphere. The room was decorated with ornate tapestries, wall-sized maps, and strange contraptions that Wrothgaar had never seen before. The Northman stood wide-eyed, mesmerized by the sheer complexity of the decor, and was unable to take his eyes off of a single map that dominated the East wall.