Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  The remaining structure was tall, rising at least twice Igrid's height. It looked to her as if the arch had originally crossed over the path as some kind of gate. But now, there was little left of it.

  Morrigan bent down to brush away some dirt on the path, revealing the eroded corner of the same stone. Some of it had fallen directly on the path, and had sunken into it over the course of the centuries.

  "I wonder how long ago it crumbled," Igrid said. "And what it was for."

  "An entry way to their lands, maybe."

  Igrid examined the remains closer. She ran her fingers over the surface of the stone, tracing the faint outlines of the runes and carvings. There was a certain warmth to the stone itself, as if there was the faint signature of life, faded from the centuries, but still hanging on as long as it could.

  "It's alive," she said.

  "I know. I feel it, too."

  Morrigan had her hand on the stone, closing her eyes as she let the warmth pass into her. Igrid closed her eyes as well, letting the warmth show her things in her mind. She saw the archway standing in this same place, only whole and brilliantly gleaming. Alvar passed through it, all of them tall and proud. Their garments were similar to those of the dead Alvar within the wraith's barrow mound.

  In her vision, she stood where she was now, her hand upon the archway watching the figures go by. None of them paid her any heed, as she would expect, except for one. It was a fair warrior, dressed for the hunt, with an ornate bow strapped to his back. He turned to look at her as he passed through, nodding his head slightly. She saw into his deep blue eyes, feeling the very strength he exuded from his soul. But it was his bow that truly caught her attention.

  She had found his bow in the barrow.

  She opened her eyes, pulling her hand away and stepping back, her heart thumping. Morrigan opened her eyes, looking at her with concern.

  "What did you see?" she asked.

  "I saw the owner of this bow," Igrid said. "He looked right at me as if I was there."

  "Then he accepts you, I suppose," Morrigan suggested. "You are the right person to bear it."

  Igrid reached up to touch the bow with her fingers. She pictured the warrior in her mind, even felt him within the bow's wood. She was suddenly filled with a great sense of honor that she now had that bow strapped to her back; a bow that once belonged to this noble warrior. His legacy would go on through her.

  "I will wield it with honor," she said. "For him, and his memory."

  Morrigan smiled. "I know you will," she said. "Come. Let us continue on."

  Erenoth felt uncomfortable within the presence of the strange ruins. There was a noble aura around them, one that conflicted with his own. He felt the urge to pass far around the chunks of rock that had fallen from the structure, but knew he would likely lose track of the two women if he did so.

  Instead, he swallowed his gut feeling and passed by the ruins, ignoring the tugging he felt. It was not what he expected—pain and discomfort—it was an odd feeling instead, as if the ruins were speaking to him. What they were saying, he cared not find out.

  He knew of the Alvar. He knew of their presence both now, and in the ancient past. He knew they had been here before mankind rose from the grunting and stinking apes that once roamed the jungles of Anwar. They were a scourge upon the Earth, one that did not belong, and somehow the Great Mother had accepted them.

  But not Erenoth.

  He hated the Alvar more than anything. He had killed dozens of them in his life, both through contracts and by the desire in his heart. He would kill them on sight, contract or not, as the hatred he had for them was burned within him deeply for a reason he could not fathom.

  Perhaps it was the fact that they were invaders; creatures that did not belong here. Or, perhaps it was their beauty and fairness. He did not know why, exactly, and it didn't matter. He hated them, and those he beheld would perish before they even knew what was coming.

  But this ruin he passed did not curse him. It welcomed him, it seemed. It beckoned him to pass by peacefully, as if he was expected in this realm. Why, he did not know. All he knew was that the annoying presence of the dark tower seemed to begin growing again. The farther south he traveled, the stronger it became.

  There had been only one place where he did not feel the tower's presence, and that was the barrow mound. There, the dark presence of the specter reigned. It was a powerful presence, even darker and more menacing than he, and the two women had killed it.

  How?

  How had these two seemingly normal women killed an immortal entity? What exactly was this sword the Northwoman carried? Surely there was no blade that could strike a creature that did not truly exist in this plane, despite how much damage it had done to Dag T'kar.

  And what of the other woman? Did she have a divine blade as well?

  The question he wanted answered the most, however, was simple; where were they going? They had left their people in search of something, but even the witch did not know what that something was. She had only guessed that the woman's blade was divine, and that it had injured T'kar in a manner that only the spirits could.

  Whatever that meant.

  Frustrated and angry, Erenoth gritted his teeth and continued on.

  The path began to head downhill into a deeper area of the forest. The trees were beginning to get thicker, and their types were changing as well. There were more thick and twisted trees, many with dangling moss or vines that partially obscured the path. All in all, Igrid and Morrigan noticed, the forest was getting older.

  The trees in this area of the forest had been here longer, and their ages were obvious. There were trees that had broken with age and grown back, others whose trunks were as thick as a house, with many larger branches that had seen the ravages of centuries. The strangest thing was the fact that there were no dead trees.

  Though ancient and broken, all of the trees were alive.

  "Do you feel it?" Morrigan asked.

  Igrid nodded. She felt a comforting presence around them, as if they were surrounded by the spirits of the forest, dryads and pixies perhaps. Though she had never believed in such things, Igrid's doubt was fading away the farther south they traveled.

  "This forest is ancient," she said. "It feels welcoming, too."

  "Like it was expecting us," Morrigan said. "I still feel the dark presence behind us, but it is fading away."

  Igrid stopped and turned around, peering into the shadows of the forest. Though she still couldn't sense anything unusual, there was a slight feeling of being watched. By what, she couldn't guess, but it didn't feel particularly malevolent. Curious, she turned to Morrigan.

  "Do you feel something else?" she asked. "Like we're being watched by something… curious and not evil?"

  Morrigan cocked her head, sticking out her bottom lip. She then bobbed her head, smiling. "I think so," she said. "What do you think it is?"

  "I don't know. But maybe it'll keep the darkness away."

  Morrigan shrugged, and they turned back to the path. Ahead, there was a large tree whose branches drooped down to the ground, partially obscuring the path. They ducked under it, moving the smaller twigs out of the way as they went through. There was a slight rustling sound on the other side of the tree's trunk. Both women put their hands on their blades.

  "What was that?" Igrid asked.

  Morrigan shook her head, continuing through. Igrid's paranoia grew, though there was still no feeling of darkness. It was just uncertainty, she supposed. Something was around them, but she didn't know what it was. That was more frightening than anything.

  As they emerged, the path continued on, still sloping downward but this time curving around what looked like another ruin. They carefully navigated the rough path, noticing that there were eroded white stones embedded in the earth there. They were arranged in a definite and deliberate fashion, telling Igrid they may have been stone steps at one time.

  "This forest is full of ruins," she said. "How does Menelith keep
track of them?"

  "I suppose they're in his people's history, much like the old legends of both our tribes."

  Igrid saw movement ahead, and stopped to crouch. They both peered into the growing shadows, but saw nothing other than a faint glow that appeared to be getting brighter. It came from around the other side of the ruined building below. Igrid drew her blade and began creeping downward, staying out of the line of sight from the approaching glow.

  They crept silently, heading straight for the structure. It was a collapsed dome-shaped building, perhaps a small supply post. Either way, its collapsed roof and jagged remaining walls afforded them a place to conceal themselves as they began to hear a strange, high-pitched sound from the distance.

  It was only when it grew louder that Igrid realized it was singing; a chorus of what sounded like male and female voices together. It was beautiful, and Igrid could only close her eyes as the music surrounded and enveloped her in its warmth and beauty. She could feel Morrigan move close to her and lean against her. They seemed to sharing the same feeling, overcome suddenly by a sense of wonder and awe—so strongly that neither of them could even open their eyes.

  When Igrid realized the singing was coming straight for them, she opened her eyes slightly. There on the path, the glow revealed itself. There was a procession of Alvar, partially ethereal, heading down the path in their direction. She shook Morrigan, and they both watched as the group neared.

  They were the most beautiful creatures Igrid had ever laid eyes upon. Their robes were long, made of a silk that seemed woven from starlight, and their hair was long and golden. Leading the procession was a female, golden-haired and crowned in an intricate, golden tiara that stood another head higher above her brow. Behind her were seven white-robed figures, slightly smaller and concealed beneath their cowls.

  Igrid silently stepped over the wall as they began to round the building, and Morrigan followed. They remained concealed inside as the procession passed, still in awe and nearly frozen. The group was going up the slope now, stepping upon stone stairs that were no longer there, singing songs that no one sang anymore.

  They weren't real, Igrid realized.

  "They're shadows," she said. "Ghosts."

  "Shades," Morrigan corrected. "Impressions of things that once were, but are no longer."

  At the end of the procession was a pair of younger males, no taller than Morrigan. They too were golden haired and fair, wearing robes of blue silk, the hilts of swords sticking out of the splits in the fabric. Once of them turned his head and looked in their direction. Igrid's heart jumped.

  "Did he see us?" she whispered.

  "It can't be," Morrigan said. "Unless it is like the vision at the arch."

  Igrid continued watching them until the Alvar child turned back to his march. There was a strange familiarity about him, she realized; one that froze her in her tracks, so to speak. His eyes and brow reminded her of someone she knew.

  Was it Menelith?

  "Could those two boys at the end be Menelith and his brother?" she wondered out loud.

  "They couldn't be," Morrigan said. "I don't think they are that old. If these are shades, then those two boys would be dead… right?"

  Igrid shrugged, looking at Morrigan, hoping one of them could come up with an explanation. Surely, the Alvar boy looked like Menelith, but didn't Menelith's whole tribe have blonde hair and emerald or blue eyes? All but Allora, whose hair was strangely red.

  "Maybe Menelith's father?" Igrid suggested.

  "We'll never know," Morrigan said. "But whoever they were… they know we're here. I knew they were expecting us."

  Igrid smiled. "Then I suppose we'll be meeting with shades."

  "Perhaps," Morrigan said with a smile. "We'll see."

  "I wonder who the seven robed figures were," Igrid said. "They were women, obviously. I don't know how, but I think they're the priestesses we saw in our dreams. At least their predecessors."

  Morrigan nodded. "We're being given clues," she said. "Gaia is speaking to us in visions, leading us to our destination."

  "Then let's allow her to do so," Igrid said.

  Together, they stepped out of the ruins and continued down the path. In their hearts, they knew they were heading in the right direction. Somewhere down the road, they would find what they were looking for.

  Both good and bad.

  Erenoth slipped behind the cover of the large overhanging tree when he heard the strange singing. The two women had gone down the slope before him, and had evidently passed through without encountering whoever it was that breathed the beautiful music. He knew its source, and even though his hatred for the Alvar was great, he could not help but become entranced with the soothing sounds of their voices.

  From behind the tree, he could see the glow reflecting off of the nearby forest. It was a soft blue, like lightning, but felt warm at the same time. He couldn't resist the urge to look out from his hiding place, and what he saw brought an unwelcome feeling to his gut.

  The procession that came into view was like none he had ever seen. He had only encountered Alvar warriors in his life, but these few at the head of the line of Alvar were not warriors. They were golden-haired and divine, like the stories of the Norns or the fates of his own land. He even thought back to the fair maidens of the east, where he had trained in the arts of the shadow warriors.

  Breathless, he turned away and sat down against the trunk of the tree. He held his hands over his ears to block out the singing, but it persisted, bursting through any attempts at silencing it.

  He dared another look as the procession passed. At the end of the line, there were two young Alvar boys, each of them dressed in warrior's garb, though far too young for battle. They both stopped, and Erenoth's heart began racing as they stood motionless. Then, without turning to look at him, they drew their blades and plunged them into the ground, leaving them protruding from the dirt as they rejoined their companions.

  Erenoth stared at the blades. They were curved, like his own blades, but appeared made of silver and platinum, with handles shaped like the heads of dragons. It was an odd set of blades for Alvar warriors, he realized. From what he gathered so far, the Alvar of this forest worshiped Gaia, the cursed Great Mother. And they were gone, as well. Having died out many thousands of years ago, this original civilization of Alvar had become extinct.

  Or so he thought.

  Perhaps these were just ghosts, he realized. They couldn't be real. They were glowing, and even the Alvar didn't glow. They were flesh and blood beings just like humans. But these were different. He swallowed, standing hesitantly as he continued staring at the blades.

  They had left them. They knew he was here. Ghosts did not leave things for the living to take.

  Or did they?

  He sheathed his own blades, stepping out from behind the tree and approaching the blades. He walked around them slowly, not truly believing they were real. But there they were, there for the taking; the most beautiful blades he had ever seen. But much to his chagrin, the handles were dragons.

  Damned dragons!

  Erenoth, a deep and booming voice said in his head. These blades are yours if you choose to come to me.

  Erenoth froze, crouching down slightly as his eyes darted around. "Who are you?" he asked out loud, not really sure he was speaking to anyone real.

  He reached down to touch the pommel of one of the swords. It was not there. It was only a vision.

  Come to me and they are yours. They will be my gift to you.

  "Gift for what?"

  There was no answer. He stood straight, looking down at the swords, longing to hold them in his hands, despite the dragon shaped handles—or because of them. The metal was a dark and dull gray, with each dragon head having sparkling black jewels for eyes. There were no crossguards, and each pommel blended straight into the curved blades, running down their centers for a hand's length.

  He crouched down again, flexing his hands over and over again, hoping that someh
ow if he could grab them quickly enough, they would be his. But they would not be, he knew, and trying was pointless. The voice in his head wanted him to come to it—wherever or whomever it was.

  "Who are you?" he shouted as he shot up.

  Again, there was no answer. Frustrated, he looked up into the darkening sky, cursing the fact that he was being taunted. He drew his own blades then, determined to end this mission and get back to the mainland. He no longer wanted to be here on this island. He sprinted back through the large tree and down the path toward the Alvars' origin, rounding the curve in search of the two women.

  He would end them quickly and be done with it.

  Chapter Seven

  Menelith pulled Hafdan's body onto the bank and knelt over it as he examined the man's wounds. He had been stabbed repeatedly in the gut, likely with his own knife, and left to float underneath the walkways.

  He sighed sadly, placing his hand over Hafdan's heart in a gesture of sorrow and friendship. He hadn't known the Northman well, but he was well-respected within his tribe, and was Ivar's father. The young Northman would be devastated when he found out.

  Several other Alvar came down from the ridge, joining Menelith after their patrol. They too were shocked at the revelation; not only Hafdan's death, but the fact that the prisoner had escaped unnoticed. Their patrols had been thorough and spread out. There was no way a human could slip past them unless he traveled close to the gate.

  "Shall we hunt him down?" a warrior asked.

  Menelith shook his head. "He's long gone by now," he said. "Back to his master. All we can do now is keep watch and make sure our friend here receives a proper burial."

  "I will tell Bertram," the warrior said.

  Menelith nodded. The warrior leapt over the railing, leaving the others behind to assist with carrying the Northman's body to the main building.

  "He was a fine warrior," Menelith said. "He will be honored by our people as well as the Northmen themselves."