As the rest of the men settled in, Kathir remained standing, scanning the peaks of the cliffs that rose before him. Though the mist shrouded most of the rocks, he swore he could see movement from the corner of his eye.
“What do you see, Kathir?” Achmed asked.
“I’m not sure,” Kathir answered, still looking to the rocks. “Something moving, perhaps.”
Achmed looked for a moment, seeing nothing.
“Your eyes deceive you,” he said. “You’ll feel better after some rest.”
“I suppose so,” Kathir agreed half-heartedly, taking one last glance before joining the rest of the men.
Kuros and the rest of the rangers watched as the members of the caravan disbanded, ate a light meal, and lounged separately. He wondered what the strangers were waiting for, which prompted him to send a scout to the East, behind the caravan. They were waiting for something, and Kuros wanted to know what.
The Captain had received the order to attack shortly before returning to Cael Pass, and now his men were in place. After he saw the scout disappear behind the caravan, he turned to Daryth.
“Take down the armed man by the Northern spire,” he said, pointing out the man who seemed a bit more aware than the others.
Daryth knocked an arrow and pulled back his bow, waiting for the man to stand still. When the man stopped to urinate, Daryth let loose. The arrow soared through air, striking the man dead in the base of the skull. He dropped to his knees, and slumped forward to the ground. Kuros then gave the signal to attack.
Achmed had not seen Kathir fall. Nor did he see the arrow that struck him between his own eyes. The rest of the caravan jumped in response, rushing to rearm themselves. As they frantically searched for the archers that had killed their leader, a flow of green-cloaked men melted out of the rocks and descended upon them like a pack of wolves.
Swords and daggers clashed in the afternoon sun as the rangers made short work of the caravan. Mostly diplomats, the invaders were no match for seasoned warriors of the wilderness.
After the last man had been slain, the rangers gathered around their Captain. Kuros acknowledged their victory and looked his men over to ensure none were injured. When he was satisfied, he turned to the wagons.
“Search the wagons for anything of value,” he said, “or that will reveal any plans the Jindala have made. When you are finished, burn them. Leave the bodies where they lie.”
The men complied, making a thorough search. They found nothing of importance, just provisions and water. Taking these for their own use, they burned the wagons, making sure the smoke from the fire could be seen for miles around.
Maedoc gasped in horror as he saw the approaching army from the West window of his tower. They had come from the coast, marching in formation with hundreds of infantry and a company of archers. How an army this size managed to slip past them was beyond him.
Garret had been right; the caravan of diplomats was a ruse to distract them. As the caravan approached the front of the city, the Western army had managed to sneak up from behind and was now in siege formation. Any attempt to flee from the city through the secret tunnels would be thwarted.
Maedoc quickly went to the Eastern window, seeing the bodies of the caravan strewn throughout the valley, and their wagons set aflame. The rangers had performed well, as expected, and now they were returning to help defend the city walls.
Kuros’ scout had spotted the army that followed the caravan in the East, and the Queen had ordered the company’s return. With one company of rangers destroyed and another nowhere to be found, Kuros and his men were the only outer defense.
During his communions with the Dragon, the ancient being had warned Maedoc that this enemy was crafty, and would appear where they were least expected. There were still groups of them unaccounted for throughout the kingdom, and still more arriving. The Western army, however, was a complete surprise. No sightings of ships had been reported on the Western shore anywhere near the Gulf, nor in the East.
With armies approaching from both the East and West, Morduin was now surrounded.
Eamon, Wrothgaar, and Erenoth made haste Southward. The Prince’s newly acquired senses told him that Morduin was in danger, and that the Mordumarc had met an untimely end. With the castle surrounded, and the Queen’s most skilled cavalry annihilated, the odds were shifting in the enemy’s favor.
The trio rode in the open, deciding that taking the trails would only hinder their progress. There was no time to waste in returning to the castle, and the flatlands would get them there quicker. Eamon was thankful that the Dragon had given their horses the strength and speed to get them home swiftly.
Earlier in the day, they had seen the city of Gallot, standing intact and as proudly as before. Eamon knew the Mordumarc had kept the city safe. As for Taryn, the Prince realized that Kaelos’ army was not strong enough to stand against the unnatural weapon that the enemy had employed.
“Erenoth,” Eamon said to the Priest. “The Dragon says you have powers that would be of good use. I need to know the locations of our enemies.”
The Priest nodded, bringing his horse to a halt. Eamon and Wrothgaar did the same.
“I will be your scout,” Erenoth said, drawing his swords and tightening his cloak.
The Priest knelt down, bringing his twin swords up behind him while planting his hands on the ground. For a moment, Eamon and Wrothgaar were speechless, uncertain as to what the Priest was doing.
Then, Erenoth began to change. The Priest’s cloak transformed into wings, spreading between his fingers and his swords. His skin darkened and scaled, growing thicker and stronger like dragon skin. His boots and gauntlets became claws, curling and sharpening like hooked daggers. Erenoth’s neck stretched to three times its length, and his head elongated to reptilian form complete with horns and dorsal spines.
When the transformation was complete, a black dragon stood in place of what Eamon and Wrothgaar thought was a man. It appeared as the statues at Dol Drakkar; two hind legs, a tail, and arms that doubled as its wings. The two friends looked on in awe as Erenoth stretched his wings and bared his teeth.
With a determined growl, the newly transformed Erenoth shot up into the air, disappearing into the clouds. Eamon and Wrothgaar looked to one another, dumbfounded.
“Well,” Wrothgaar said, “that was...unusual.”
The Hunters saw Erenoth transform and sail into the sky. They watched him in awe, recalling the various battles they had seen him fight in his dragon form. He was a mighty warrior, as a dragon or as a man, but his dragon form was most pleasing to them.
Now, as they watched the two men who remained, the Hunters knew that the smaller man in black was a servant of the Dragon. He bore the Serpent’s Tongue and thus wielded the power of their master. They would be the man’s servants, once again fighting alongside the Onyx Dragon.
The time to show themselves had come.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Wrothgaar said. “Is he a man, or a dragon?”
“He was a man once,” Eamon replied. “He is the Priest Jodocus spoke of at his tower.”
The Northman grunted.
“He has been the Dragon’s most trusted servant for thousands of years. Now, after all this time, his power allows him to take his form.”
“And what of the other Priests?” Wrothgaar asked.
“Draconians,” Eamon answered. “Once men, but transformed by the Dragon in order to wield his power more effectively.”
“Interesting,” Wrothgaar said. “But why—“
Before the Northman finished his thought, Eamon put his hand up to quiet him.
“What is it?” the Northman asked.
“Something is nearby.”
The two looked around, weapons ready.
“I can feel your presence,” Eamon called out. “There is no need to fear. Show yourselves.”
As the two men continued to scan the tall grass around them, a small figure stepped into view. It was cloaked in
black and green, stood only half the height of a man, and its face was obscured within a black cowl. The creature was armed with twin short swords and a small bow strapped to its back. It did not appear hostile, but stood motionless and silent. Slowly, others like it began to appear, each one dressed and armed identically.
“It’s the Druaga,” Eamon whispered to Wrothgaar.
The Northman shot him a questioning glance.
“Ancient servants of the Dragon,” Eamon explained. “Our legends speak of them, saying that they tended to Dol Drakkar in the beginning, subservient to the Priests. I have never seen them before. The Dragon never mentioned them during our conversation.”
“They’re small,” Wrothgaar remarked.
“Yes, they are,” Eamon replied. “Small, but deadly. These are our mysterious watchers. The ones who slew the fleeing Jindala near the lumber mill. They’ve been following us.”
The Druaga leader stepped forward, speaking telepathically.
We are here to serve you, Onyx Dragon.
Eamon revealed the Serpent’s Tongue, kneeling down to show the Druaga that he accepted their allegiance. The Druaga bowed before him.
You have returned.
“Yes,” Eamon replied in his own tongue. “I have returned, and I need your help.”
Ask what you will.
“Do you know the locations of all of the enemy armies?”
To the West and East of the Castle, converging upon it to lay siege. Another army lies nearby, but they do not concern us. They have not moved for a day. There are no other enemies on the island.
“What of the others who attacked my friend’s people in the North?”
They have been destroyed. The horsemen from the castle killed them, but were killed by an unknown creature. All but one.
“All but one?” Eamon asked. “Who?”
Unknown. But he carries a blade that we have seen in the past, many thousands of years ago.
“What kind of blade?”
A sword forged from iron that fell from the sky.
Eamon turned to Wrothgaar. “The Mordumarc are gone,” he said. “Killed by the creature. One of them managed to escape, but I do not know who. He has a sword that the Druaga say was forged from a meteorite.”
“Like my axe,” Wrothgaar said.
It is capable of destroying the walking void. The man who escaped killed it and rode South with other men.
“The survivor killed the Defiler and fled south. He’s heading for the castle. We must return as well.”
Soon, a shadow crossed the ground and Erenoth descended, landing with a thud. The Druaga bowed when they saw him, showing the same respect that they had showed Eamon.
Erenoth quickly transformed back into human form, his wings falling away and reforming his cloak. His face was grim.
“The Western army has laid siege to the castle,” Erenoth reported, “blocking any exits on that side of the crags.”
“That is dire news,” Eamon replied. “Where are our armies?”
“The guards line the castle walls, keeping the enemy at bay with their bows. But they will not last. There are rangers guarding the front entrance, ready to fend off the main army. Another force of cavalry approaches rapidly from the North, with a young man at their lead. If we leave now, we could cross their paths near Morduin and break the siege.”
“Did the enemy travel with anything not human?” Eamon asked.
“Not that I saw, but I could feel a dark presence.”
“Defiler,” Wrothgaar growled.
Defiler.
Erenoth looked to the Druaga, who patiently awaited their master’s order.
“They are here to serve you, my lord,” Erenoth reminded Eamon.
Eamon turned to the Druaga leader. “Find this other army that you say hasn’t moved,” he said. “Watch them and find out why they are still there. I will send Erenoth to you when the time comes.”
The Druaga bowed and quickly disappeared into the grass.
“I want to meet up with this survivor and his soldiers,” Eamon said. “We ride to the coast. Erenoth, show yourself to the army that comes from the East. Perhaps the sight of a dragon in the sky will break their morale. We’ll need every advantage we can get.”
Erenoth bowed, transforming again and flying off to the East. Eamon and Wrothgaar mounted their horses, with Eamon taking Erenoth’s reigns.
“Let us go, my friend,” he said. “The battle awaits.”
Brynn had seen the dragon in the skies overhead, circling, and diving. He wasn’t sure of its intentions, or where it had come from, but it did not appear hostile. Perhaps Prince Eamon had made it to Dol Drakkar and had summoned it to protect Morduin from attack. It was a plausible explanation, despite the fact that the dragon did not appear to be very large. Man sized, in fact.
Whatever the case, Brynn pushed his men forward, with Angen and his troops close behind. They would reach the castle within a few hours, and would probably face an overwhelming force. The West side of the castle was their best bet for getting inside and taking defensive positions on the walls.
“Ride, men, ride!” he shouted, encouraging his men to pick up the pace. He could hear Angen pushing his men forward as well. He was glad to have the Commander with him. A veteran like Angen was a valuable asset in any battle, and Brynn would trust any decision the man would be likely to make. In the field, a master tactician was hard to find, and Angen was the best. Why he was stationed at a fairly remote outpost was anyone’s guess.
“Brynn!” Angen shouted, riding up close to the younger man. “Look ahead, to the left!”
Brynn followed Angen’s direction, seeing what had gotten his attention. Along the rear wall of rocks that formed the castle’s natural barrier, a Jindala force was gathered. They were several hundred in number, and Brynn knew that another foul creature was probably with them.
“They’re infiltrating the caverns!” Brynn shouted back. “If they break down the barriers, they’ll storm the city!”
“Ride on men!” Angen commanded. “Cut them down! Defend the city!”
Brynn’s blood boiled with rage as the cavalry approached the enemy. He could see their bodies taking shape as his men grew closer and closer, their black masks mocking him and laughing at his pain. The memories of a day past flooded back to him as he laid eyes on his enemy again. The pain of losing his brothers built up inside of him, threatening to boil his blood.
He would have his revenge.
The Jindala broke through the heavy steel Western doors as if they were paper. The soldiers of Morduin watched in horror as they were forced open with a burst of blue energy that emanated from a single cloaked figure. The creature’s energy lit the caverns with its blue light, shrouding the enemies that poured in through the jagged hole it had left.
Morduin’s soldiers stood their ground, firing arrow after arrow into the encroaching force. The Jindala fell one after another, only to be replaced by the endless flood behind them. The soldiers retreated, giving ground to the attackers, drawing them inside where the battle could be fought on level ground.
The cloaked figure entered the caverns among its allies. It towered over every man in the room, appearing as a pillar of absolute darkness among the brightly colored Jindala. Behind the monster, a tall man entered, stepping casually through the breach. He, too, was dressed in bright colors, but was elegantly armored and more sinister in appearance than the others.
His gold and red tunic was embroidered with archaic symbols, with a wide black leather belt that held his sword. His armor, similar in style to the rest of the Jindala, was gold in color, and encrusted with jewels and sharp bladed fins. He wore a white turban, ringed with a golden crown.
As he stepped through the broken gates, the Jindala archers behind him began firing past him. He drew his curved and gleaming sword, smiling as he looked over his enemies.
The soldiers of Morduin fell back again, desperate to minimize their losses. Behind them, the main gates leading into
the city were beginning to open. The guard Captain turned to the gates, running to stop them.
“No!” he called. “Leave the gates closed! We cannot hold them!”
A voice called from the other side, barely audible. “Get out of there!” the voice pleaded. “The beast will kill you all!”
“Do as I say!” the Captain commanded, banging his fist on the gates. “Close them now!”
Slowly, the gates latched and the Captain and his men were trapped with the enemy. He returned to the front of the line, fighting on, watching the dark figure approach as if it were a nightmare shadow. He knew it was the end. This would be his last battle. He would die alongside his men, defending the city he loved.
It would be a good death.
Eamon and Wrothgaar crossed paths with Brynn and his company as they came within fifty yards of the crag wall. Brynn did a double take as he saw the Prince ride up to him at full speed, turning to ride alongside him.
“Eamon!” he shouted, excitedly.
“Brynn!” Eamon called to him. “You’re the one! What happened at Taryn?”
“The Mordumarc are gone!” Brynn shouted. “Killed by the creature!”
“How did you survive?”
“I’ll tell you later!” Brynn called back. “Right now we have enemies to kill.”
Eamon grinned, licking his lips in anticipation. He drew his sword, looking to see Wrothgaar hold his axe high. The three of them howled their battle cries, and the throng of men behind them did the same.
“Take the lead, my lord!” Brynn yelled to Eamon.
The Onyx Dragon took his place at the front of the line, flanked on either side by his two friends, and the veteran, Angen. The four of them appeared as messengers of death riding on into the chaos.
Jodocus smiled as they rode by.
Onyx Dragon (Book 1) Page 11