"There's only girls there?" a Highlander asked.
"Girls with the skill to make little girls of any of you," Wulfgar replied.
The men roared with laughter again, prompting the Highlander who asked the question to shake his head, red-faced.
"Wulfgar, Caillain," a boy said from the doorway. "Men approach from the north."
Wulfgar looked at Liam quizzically. "Already?" he said. "That's far too quick."
Liam shook his head, rising to join the procession of men who exited.
"Agreed," he said. "It would take longer than that to even get them ready to depart. Something must have happened."
"Northmen!" someone shouted. "A whole army of them."
"Northmen?" Svengaar repeated. "From where?"
He and Wulfgar looked at each other strangely. Liam wasn't sure why, but the looks on their faces told him that this was an unexpected, and possibly unpleasant, development. Whatever the reason, they were worried, and they both quickened their pace as they approached the small group of men who had gathered near the ridge looking north.
"Who are they?" Wulfgar shouted.
"Northmen," someone shouted. "Not just girls, but a whole army of men and women."
Liam followed Wulfgar up the slope. They stood at the top of the ridge, watching as the huge group crested the hilltops. There were indeed hundreds and hundreds of warriors, both men and women, and a man in the lead whose appearance made Wulfgar crouch to one knee.
"Kronos," the Northman said.
"Who is it?" Liam asked.
"The High King has arrived."
"Who?"
"Thorgrymm," Svengaar said. "From the mainland."
"What is he doing here?" Wulfgar asked.
"He must have seen the beacon, too," Svengaar said.
"Do you see this Ronja?" Liam asked.
"I see many shieldmaidens," Wulfgar said. "Including Greta, Thorgrymm's own. I don't like her."
Liam looked at Svengaar, who shrugged.
"I suppose we should meet them," Wulfgar said, half-heartedly. "And get this over with."
Again, Liam looked at Svengaar. This time the Northman responded.
"Thorgrymm may challenge his rule," he said. "That is, if Wulfgar's messenger reveals that Igrid has given up the helm."
"Perhaps we should tell him she hasn't, but she's not here." Liam suggested.
"No," Wulfgar said. "I am the king. I must stand up for that title."
"Does that mean battle?"
"That is possible. But let us hope that doesn't happen."
Wulfgar's breathing quickened as the massive army of Northmen approached. He kept his eyes forward, and his hand tightly gripped on his axe. The High King held his gaze, and Wulfgar wondered if Thorgrymm recognized that he had taken the helm. Surely, he reasoned, if Igrid had not given it up, then it would be she in front of the wayward tribes.
Wulfgar glanced over at Greta, with whom he had gotten into many squabbles. He didn't like the woman. Though strong and brave like Igrid, she had an air of superiority about her that Wulfgar despised. Even Igrid had mentioned her dislike of Greta on occasion, only being polite to her because their stations warranted it.
However, he knew she was a great warrior, and an asset to their people. If Thorgrymm decided to join their cause, she would be a welcome addition to their combined forces. Wulfgar would just have to put his disdain aside.
"Wulfgar!" Thorgrymm shouted. "You bald, overgrown bastard!"
Wulfgar chuckled. The High King seemed in good spirits. Still, as he approached, Wulfgar's instinct to kneel tugged at his knees. But he kept his stance, keeping his eyes fixed on Thorgrymm whose expression soured once he realized that no one was showing him the proper respect.
"What is this?" he said when he finally reached the gathering.
Wulfgar swallowed hard, and he could hear Svengaar do the same.
"We welcome you, King Thorgrymm," Wulfgar said. "You and your army."
"Why does no one bow before their king?" Thorgrymm asked, stepping forward to stand directly in front of him.
"I am the king of these tribes," Wulfgar said, boldly. He could hear Greta scoff.
"Is that so?" the High King asked. "And what of Igrid? Ronja tells me it is she who claimed the helm."
"That is true," Wulfgar replied. "But she has gone to perform other deeds. I am the king now."
Thorgrymm's gaze narrowed, and Wulfgar began to feel his heart thumping nervously. He held the High King's gaze for what seemed like days, neither of them flinching or moving. Then, as Wulfgar was tempted to look down, a smile spread across Thorgrymm's face.
"King Wulfgar," he growled. "I like the sound of that."
Thorgrymm stepped forward and embraced him like a bear, pounding him on the back with his fist. When he had sufficiently suffocated Wulfgar, he dropped him and stepped back, glancing from side to side at the warriors that had gathered.
"This looks like a fine army," he said. "Northmen and Highlanders alike. They look tough. I like them already."
"Our two peoples are a lot alike," Wulfgar said. "You will find their tales equally epic as our own."
Thorgrymm laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. He then stepped over to Svengaar.
"We saw your beacon," he said. "We decided to come join our kinsmen in whatever troubles them."
"Come to our longhouse then," Svengaar said. "We will share some mead and our tales."
Though it rarely happened, Menelith found himself in the depths of a dream. He stood in the great forest upon his own world, watching the wildlife and listening to their familiar and comforting sounds. It had been several thousand years since he had seen his home, and the sight of it brought back feelings that had been long forgotten.
He closed his eyes, taking in the sounds and scents of everything around him. It was a peaceful dream, to be sure, and it filled his heart with a longing that was too strong to ignore. He missed his home, and though he was away from it, his absence was the only thing that would save it. He had sworn an oath to help the Lady Allora locate a new Mother Spirit to strengthen their own world's lifeforce and bring it back from the brink of destruction.
He remembered how the darkness had come, bringing with it incredible beings of life-draining power. It was a darkness unheard of, and one that could very well destroy entire worlds—and that was what was happening now.
He wondered how King Faeraon fared against the hordes of enemies that launched their constant assaults on the land, and the Alvar cities. The armies of Trollkin that lived in the mountains had been tempted by the darkness, and united for a common purpose; to destroy the Alvar once and for all. Little did they know that they too would perish when the world perished.
The only hope of saving their home world was to find and capture this trapped Mother Spirit, hidden somewhere within the depths of this very world called Earth, and use her power to destroy the darkness, bringing life back to Alvheim.
But that quest had grown tiresome. For thousands of years, his people had been here on this world searching endlessly—who knew how much time had passed on Alvheim. It was an arduous and seemingly pointless task by now, and Menelith had grown hopeless. Though he desperately wanted to save his home, his people were more important. He had always wondered why the Alvar did not simply live here on this world, away from the darkness.
Surely the kings of the world would allow them to stay as they had in the past.
But it was not to be. Allora insisted on finding this spirit, despite their failure to do so in a timely manner. It was never ending, and Menelith could not bear to go on any longer. It would be the death of him, and his people as well, he knew.
He sighed, opening his eyes again. The forest had grown shadowy as the sun went down, and the darkness would overtake the beauty of everything. But then something changed. The trees began to wither before his very eyes, and the wildlife that had filled the forest with their sounds grew silent.
Leaves browned and fell to the ground
, as if a sudden autumn had befallen the land. Shrubbery and brush twisted and broke, falling over and blowing away with the harsh and hot breeze that blew in. Even the sky, once beautiful and blue with wispy white clouds became barren and dim. Streaks of orange and black appeared, swallowing the dark blue of dusk with its fiery glow.
The breeze picked up, and Menelith began to feel a horrible sense of doom. The world was crumbling and dying around him at a pace that he could never have dreamed of. Trees were laid bare, their trunks withering and whitening like ghosts. Birds fell from the sky, deer dropped in their tracks and decomposed right before his eyes.
Menelith's heart not only raced, but it felt empty and horrified as he watched. He began to run toward home, the Palace of Faeraon that was nestled along the cliff sides overlooking the sea. The plants crunched beneath his feet, and the soil was becoming nothing but dust. It rose up as he ran, clouding his vision and choking his lungs.
He could run no longer.
The darkness of the forest was now just a copse of dead trees as far as the eye could see. They jutted from the dust like blackened and skeletal sticks. There were no branches, no leaves, nothing. The sky was dull and dead, and the land was nothing but a desert devoid of all life. Even the springs that had once trickled with a pleasant sound were dry and barren; nothing but beds of rock and sand.
Menelith.
The voice echoed across the dusty landscape. Menelith recognized it; King Faeraon.
"I am here, my lord," he shouted. "Where are you?"
Menelith. It is too late. We are doomed.
"No," Menelith shouted. "No!"
It is done. Our world has passed. Nothing can change that now.
Menelith was speechless. His breathing was quick and shallow, and his heart was bursting with pain and sorrow. How could this be? How much time had passed on Alvheim? How long had King Faeraon been alone?
Suddenly, the dead world was gone. It was replaced by a vision of his Lady. She stood over her scrying fountain, swirling the water with her finger, smiling obliviously. She did not know, he realized. How could she not know? She saw all; everything. Why was she ignoring the fate of Alvheim? Did she know something that she was not telling her people?
Then, as he glanced behind her, he saw something horrifying. There was a man there, dark and primitive-looking, somewhat similar to T'kar, but with a rough-spun cloak that had all the darkness of his own world woven in to it. His eyes burned with lust as he glared at Allora, and Menelith knew that she was in danger. He tried to cry out, but his voice would not come. His arms would not move, and he could not reach his blade.
He watched as the strange man approached her, his lustful glare darkening and growing more sinister by the second. Why did she not turn around? Why did she not hear him?
Then, the dark figure raised his arms. He conjured some kind of spell that pulled streaks of dark energy from some unknown place, swirling it in his clawed hands, wrapping it around Allora like an ethereal rope of darkness. She struggled then, her mouth opening in horror.
Menelith screamed as her face withered, and her beautiful, flowing red hair turned white. He was draining her of all life, and that life was entering him as he entered her. Her gown fell away, and the dark man began stroking her flesh, violating her beauty as he stole it away. It was the most horrifying and perverse thing imaginable, and the sight of it made Menelith weep.
And he could do nothing.
He closed his eyes as he heard Allora's screams of torment. He could not bear to see her suffering, and even the sound of her screams became like that of some creature from the depths of the abyss. The sound echoed in his ears, becoming almost painful. It jolted his very soul, tearing through his body like daggers of molten steel.
He dared to open his eyes. There Allora was, a glowing mass of pure spirit energy, enslaved to darkness and doomed to eternal torment. The man was gone, replaced by a pile of bones; Allora's bones, he knew. There upon that pile, as the spirit form floated around it, was her skull. It too was withered, and upon it were the dark inscriptions of some perverse spell, written in a language that Menelith could not read. Even the sight of it seemed evil, the way the runes were swept in harsh and jagged angles.
The runes frightened him.
Allora screamed once more, her shrill cries echoing in his head like a demonic owl's. It was horrifying and painful to hear, and he could only grit his teeth and press his hands over his ears in hopes of blocking it.
His heart raced faster than ever before as the screams continued. His Lady's shrill tormented cries were tearing his body apart, filling his veins with dead blood, bursting his very organs. He opened his eyes once more, screaming in horror as he saw the spirit's grotesque face. It was nothing but a skeletal form, with a jagged mouth that stretched open wider and wider as the hellish screams issued forth.
It came for him.
"My lord!" he heard.
Menelith jolted awake, shouting out loud as the image of the creature faded. He was breathless, drenched in sweat, and his heart still raced.
"My lord," an Alvar warrior said, grasping his head with both hands. "Wake up. You were dreaming."
"Dreaming," Menelith said. "Yes, dreaming. I was…"
"Are you ill, my lord?"
"No," Menelith said, wiping the sweat from his face. "I'm fine. I was just having a…"
"A nightmare, it seemed."
He looked up at the young Alvar, seeing the true concern on his face. The rangers began to gather around behind them, all of them concerned and sympathetic.
"Yes," Menelith said. "A nightmare. A horrifying nightmare. But it is over now. It is time for us to move."
"By your command, my lord," the Alvar said, drawing his bow. "Lead on."
Menelith stood, taking a few deep breaths. He had never had such a horrible dream before, and wasn't sure why it had happened. Surely his world was not truly dead; not yet. Time passed differently between the two dimensions, he knew. How much time had actually passed on Alvheim…
He could not guess.
"Let us find some patrols to bring down," he said. "Come men. On me."
Chapter Fourteen
Tell me about T'kar," Rian said as the trio trudged down the shadowy path.
"He is the usurper, as we said before," Morrigan said. "Thirty years ago, maybe longer, he killed King Daegoth in battle and took his throne."
"What kind of man is he?"
"Not a man at all," Igrid said. "He is something else. I'm not sure what."
"If he's not a man, then why does he walk among men? Surely no self-respecting man would follow anything but another human."
"He is of a race that does not usually involve themselves in human affairs," Morrigan explained. "Primitive, beast-like, unintelligent. But he's different. He rose above his species somehow. He speaks, he is intelligent, but with the physical abilities of his race."
"And you say he's a formidable warrior?"
"Very," Igrid said. "I fought him in the last battle. He was tough, ferocious, and stronger than any man I've ever met. I even skewered him with this blade, and as far as we know he still lives."
"A magical blade, and he walked away."
"He was dragged away actually," Igrid said with a smile. "But yes."
"So what part are we to play in this?"
"Unknown," Igrid said. "All we know is that we are to find the ancient temple and meet our sisters there."
"We have no idea who they are," Morrigan added. "But if we meet them there, I'm sure we will know it, and they will too."
"We hope," Igrid said.
Rian shook her head. She seemed confused, and Igrid didn't blame her. From what she had said, she was just a thief trying to escape a group of mercenaries and get back home, and now here she was. A twist of fate, to be sure. But then, all of their paths had been altered. Igrid had been queen of the Northmen, and now she was to be a priestess.
"I wonder if we'll have to give up… men," she said, grinning crookedly as
she looked at Morrigan.
"Hmm," Morrigan said. "Let's go back home."
Rian laughed out loud. "I don't think so," she said. "I've met priestesses of other kinds before. They were as promiscuous as anyone else. I doubt the Great Mother would deny her daughters pleasures of the flesh."
"I hope not," Igrid said. "I'm so good at it."
The other two laughed, shaking their heads humorously. Igrid was beginning to like Rian, and the fact that she had a sense of humor made it all the more enjoyable. She could see the three of them being not only fellow priestesses, but true spiritual sisters as well. She felt the same kinship with the new member that she had felt with Morrigan, and it seemed that she was destined to join them.
As she thought about current events, Igrid began to notice a nagging feeling in her heart that something was ahead. It was something not entirely evil, but dangerous. That much she could tell. An animal possibly, or perhaps a bandit.
"Do you feel that?" she asked. "I do feel something this time, though not like what you described before."
"There's danger ahead somewhere," Morrigan said. "But there always is."
"Do you know where we are?" Rian asked.
Igrid stopped and pulled out their map. She looked around at their surroundings, then found a similar point on the map. According to what she saw on the parchment, they should still be in the swamp. On the map, the swamp was huge, taking up almost a week's worth of marching. But the land around them was dry. Even the roads they had previously been on should have been in the swamp, even the ruins they had rested at.
"This doesn't look anything like the map," she said.
"Then you're either reading it wrong or Menelith was wrong."
"Who is Menelith?" Rian asked.
"He made us this map," Igrid said. "He's a friend, an Alvar warrior."
Rian's eyes lit up. "An elf like you told me about before?"
Igrid nodded. "Yes, I guess that's what you call them."
"I think I know why the land looks different," Morrigan said, crouching down beside her. "Our current route is simply a dry area of the greater swamp. The swamp is still all around us, just not covering the whole area. The route marked looks correct. I remember this turn here. This is where we fought the assassin, and this is where the ruins are. It's all there, only not marked as being dry."
Sisters of the Blade Page 15