“He is a traitor to his own kind then,” Odhran said. “And to the Great Mother.”
“And by proxy, the Dragon,” Alric said.
Everyone looked at the Highlander strangely, as if his words were unexpectedly intelligent, which they were.
“What?” he asked. “I know words.”
Jodocus shrugged and continued. “Now that he realizes T’kar is not the all-powerful creature he claims to be, Arbotach will use the king’s disloyalty to Kathorgo against him, and try to take his throne. But to do so, he will first have to rally the warriors of the south. That is not an easy task.”
“He will have to destroy the other warlords first,” Neko said. “Just like the kings of the Northlands.”
Ivar looked at him, nodding. “That is right,” he said. “Though it is not done anymore, alliances were forged through combat.”
“Kathorgo’s influence is growing stronger,” Jodocus said. “Thus Arbotach himself is growing stronger. And a recent occurrence has solidified that power.”
“What occurrence?” Freyja asked.
“He has spawned an offspring with T’kar’s Berujen, Lilit.”
“Who? What?” Ivar said.
“Berujen,” Jodocus said. “Witch. She is the sister of the strange woman who helped you in the last battle.”
“Witches,” Alric spat. “Demons, all of them.”
“You could say that,” Jodocus said. “But what is important is that this offspring is the true enemy. It will also try to take T’kar’s throne without his knowledge, and then the world will fall.”
“Then we destroy him, and this Arbotach,” Ivar said. “Simple.”
“No,” Jodocus said, shaking his head. “Your task is to rally the loyal followers of Daegoth. The Firbolga and this spawn of Kathorgo can only be defeated by servants of Gaia herself.”
“There are no more followers…” Baleron said, trailing off. Then, his heart pounded with hope. “Igrid. She and Morrigan were successful.”
“Indeed,” Jodocus said. “They have cleansed the temple, and defeated Mentach, the Draugr Lord.”
“Then they have found five others,” Alric said. “There are supposed to be seven of them, correct?”
“Correct. Igrid has been anointed the high priestess, and she has been granted the powers of Gaia. They will defeat these beasts, and form an army to join the Onyx Dragon in toppling T’kar.”
“The rest of our army is north,” Baleron said. “At our fortress. How will we get word to them?”
“I can help you with that in a way,” Jodocus said. “I cannot directly interfere, but there is another who can, let’s say, get from there to here and back again in a very, very short time.”
“Another?” Baleron said. “Who is this?”
Jodocus smiled.
Chapter Twenty Five
Erenoth circled high above the allied fortress, taking note of the positions of the buildings, and the layout of the entire camp. There were several different groups of men, Riverfolk, Highlanders, and Northmen alike, all working together for mutual defense. It was an inspiring sight to say the least.
He wondered how the men would react to seeing a dragon, which is what truly kept him high above the site. He wanted to be cautious, not to cause any alarm, and land somewhere near the front gates to greet them. He decided that outside the gates would be a better idea. Landing right in the middle of their fortress might frighten or confuse them.
“Here we go,” he said, going into a shallow dive.
He glided a ways, slowing his descent and making a few more circles. From this height he was sure that they saw him, but no alarms were raised, and no screaming or yelling could be heard from below.
Just a swarm of arrows.
“Whoah!” he gasped, banking to the right and diving quickly.
The arrows soared past him, disappearing over the treetops. He swooped in, passing right over the wall that hid the archers. He could hear them shout as he passed, and could nearly feel the wind from a sword swipe.
“Be careful,” he shouted. “I’m not your enemy.”
“Wyvern!” someone shouted from below.
Wyvern?
Growling, Erenoth landed hard on the ground outside the gate so that the men could see him fully. Surely they could tell the difference between a wyvern, which was brown or green, and a dragon. His scales were black and gleaming, and the membranes of his wings purplish in color. He was not a wild beast, nor the creation of some mad wizard.
He was a dragon.
He quickly transformed back into his human shape, standing up straight as his clothes reformed over him. The men atop the wall froze, most of them staring in disbelief. He had to assure them that he meant no harm.
“Greetings,” he called out, holding his arms out. “I am Erenoth, and I come to bring the Dragon’s word.”
Another arrow shot toward him, burying itself in the ground right in his path. The man who shot it, called out.
“Stop right there,” he said. “Keep in my sight.”
Erenoth stopped. “I will, don’t worry. I only wish to speak to your leader.”
“Our leader is away,” someone else said. “Wulfgar is in charge for now.”
“Then I wish to speak to Wulfgar.”
“Wulfgar!” a man called behind them.
Erenoth waited while more shouts echoed through the fortress. In a few moments, as Erenoth stood still, the sound of the gate opening broke the silence. Two large Northmen, a woman, and a smaller and less threatening man stepped through. Erenoth smiled, hoping they would all recognize that he was friendly. The two women spread out as if to surround him, drawing their bows to keep him covered as the men approached. He knew their kind. Shieldmaidens, servants and bodyguards of the Jarls. He was familiar with their traditions.
“I am Erenoth,” he shouted. “I come from Dol Drakkar in the name of the Dragon.”
“You don’t look like a priest,” the smaller man shouted back.
I never said that, he thought, though he didn’t say it. “I am the first.”
“The first what?” the larger Northman said as they finally neared.
“The first Priest of Drakkar,” Erenoth explained. “I have come to offer my aid in this battle.”
The men looked at each other. The two Northmen called off their shieldmaidens with a flat palm in the air. The women lowered their bows, still glaring at him as they approached.
“I am Wulfgar,” the smaller Northman said. “I am Jarl of the tribes of this island. This is Thorgrymm, High King of the North. This man is Skulgrid, Warchief of the Riverfolk.”
Erenoth nodded in respect.
“I couldn’t help noticing you were a dragon when you landed,” Skulgrid said. “And now you are a man. What sort of magic is this?”
“The Dragon’s blood,” Erenoth said, “and his blessing.”
“You could be useful,” Wulfgar said. “We need eyes in the air. Someone who can watch T’kar’s fortress and the movements of his troops.”
Erenoth nodded. “That is why I came,” he said. “And I can also offer my guidance in other areas. I am a skilled warrior. I am as skilled as the Alvar, whom I detested in the past.”
“Ohhh,” Wulfgar laughed. “Menelith is going to enjoy meeting you.”
Erenoth cocked his head. The name sounded familiar. “I look forward to meeting this Menelith.”
Wulfgar motioned for Erenoth to look behind him. There, from the tree line, stepped a dozen or more Alvar, accompanied by men in similar garb. At their head was a tall, golden-haired Alvar whom Erenoth guessed was Menelith. He bore a striking resemblance to one of the twin Alvar boys he had seen in his vision.
As the Alvar approached, Menelith looked him in the eye, then down to the blades that were strapped to his belt. The Alvar cocked his head, nodding slightly.
“You bear the blades of the Alvar,” he said. “Where did you obtain them?”
“I was given them by the Dragon himself,” Erenot
h said. “They were a reward for turning from my path and joining the Dragon at his temple.”
“A great gift,” Menelith said, cocking an eyebrow. “They once belonged to myself and my brother. But if the Dragon has deemed you worthy, then they are yours.”
Erenoth bowed his head. “I thank you, and I swear to wield them in honor.”
“Their names are Ganindaron and Faethalion,” Menelith said. “Those words mean Light and Darkness respectively. You will understand why as you wield them in battle.”
Erenoth nodded again, feeling a strange sense of thanks as he considered the blades at his sides. They seemed even more valuable to him now that he knew their names, and there was no real reason why that should be.
“He is who he says he is,” Menelith told the Northmen. “Let him in. We have much to discuss.”
Igraina did not have to wander long before she began to feel her belly cramping with child. Her own magic, and the magic of the Dragon ensured that she would give birth very quickly—not even a day after taking Dearg’s seed.
She smiled as she remembered riding him in his sleep. Never before had she had a man so large inside her. He was nearly the size of T’kar, whose member was filthy and disgusting but large enough to rip open a tiny woman. Fortunately, she had not been subjected to his wiles. But she had willingly ridden Dearg.
Very willingly.
He was handsome and desirable, though a bit naïve and unlearned in the ways of the world. She had seen that when he was defeated in battle. The young man had charged in too quickly, waging war with a superior leader before he was ready. Now, as he sat in torpor, silently sleeping, his body would rebuild itself from the inside out, and the knowledge of the Dragon would be his to wield.
“Ah, Daegoth,” she said. “How you’ve grown.”
She had been there on the night of his birth, vowing to the child’s mother that she would protect him and ensure his survival. It was her idea to deliver him to the Northmen. Though her messenger had died doing so, her death allowed the child to reach the tribes and float safely down the river under the watchful eye of Dagda and even the Alvar prince, Menelith.
There was a part of her that hoped this memory would remain with her later on. But she realized such a memory would be dangerous. If she remembered her own actions, the Dragon’s bloodline would be in danger, and she was to be part of it. The future would be changed, and the world would likely fall because of her.
No, she had to forget.
She continued on through the forest, keeping to the trail as best she could despite her growing pain. It would not be long before her offspring was ready to emerge, and she had to find a suitable family before then.
Ahead, she could see a large clearing in the trees that opened up into the plains. Though she could not see or hear anyone ahead, she got the distinct impression that someone was there; someone of strong heart and character. A farmer or trapper perhaps. As she approached, there was the sound of splitting wood. She knew that meant there was a man ahead providing firewood for his family.
That was good.
The sound of chopping grew louder as she approached, and along with it the sound of whistling. Between the trees, she could see the figure of a man silhouetted by the lighter background. He was short, but thick and stout. He was dressed in simple peasant’s clothing, and wore a wide-brimmed hat.
Igraina stopped and crouched behind a tree to watch. The pains in her belly were beginning to grow, and she knew she had to decide quickly. If she could not find a suitable family for her offspring, she would be forced to keep it and possibly grow attached. She could not have that.
“The stew is ready,” a woman’s voice called out.
Igraina turned to look at the small house that was tucked in the trees. A woman, the man’s wife, was at the door smiling. The man stood straight, wiped his face, and nodded.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” he said. “Just a few more logs and I’ll be finished for the evening.”
“Don’t forget to wash your hands after,” the wife said, wagging her finger.
Igraina smiled. The couple seemed pleasant. The man was definitely a hard worker. Even from this distance, she could see that his hands were thick and well-worn. This was truly a man who had worked hard his whole life. And the wife was well-spoken and intelligent, probably a good housekeeper. What a wonderful mother she would make.
Why did they not have children of their own?
She focused on the man as he continued to chop wood. She probed his mind and his body, searching for some reason why he had not fathered many children with such a beautiful woman. She found nothing. He was physically fit, with no flaws that would prevent fatherhood. Perhaps it was the woman who was barren. That was a possibility.
Finally, the man set down his ax and took off his hat. His hair was matted with sweat and combed back from his face. He was handsome, rugged, and stern in his expression. There was a kindness in his eyes that Igraina had never seen. It was a kindness that told her he would love any child that he was given, and would raise it as his own.
He was a good man.
She would leave them her first offspring.
“Did you wash your hands?” Miram asked when her husband closed the door.
“Of course I did,” Hamish said, smiling.
She knew he hadn’t. Not thoroughly anyway. No matter.
“Sit down and I’ll bring you a bowl.”
She turned to dish out a healthy helping of the mutton stew, making sure to give him the biggest chunks of meat and potatoes. A hard-working man needed his meat and potatoes, after all.
“I’ll have to cut down a few more trees before winter comes,” he said. “I’ve chopped up all the fallen ones.”
“Maybe the storm will bring some down tonight.”
“Storm?”
Miram smiled. “Yes,” she said, knowing in her gut that a storm would roll in after then sun went down.
“The sky’s clear as all get out,” he said. “You’re jokin’ woman.”
Miram turned and took him the stew, setting the bowl down in front of him as he tucked a towel into the front of his shirt.
“You know me,” she said, smiling. “I always know when the weather’s turning sour.”
“That’s the witch in ya,” he said, winking.
He was right. Though not a witch in the true sense of the word, Miram was well-versed in nature. She could read the sky as easily as she could the words in a book. The subtle smells, breezes, and movements in the clouds told her all she needed to know to predict the weather.
She was a self-taught druid.
“Well then,” Hamish said. “I suppose I should make sure the leathers are covered before—“
He stopped then, cocking his head as if to listen.
“What is it husband?” Miram asked.
“Did you hear that?” he asked. “It sounded like… a cat perhaps?”
Miram stood up straight, standing still to listen. There was mostly silence, until finally a faint whining sound echoed from the forest. It did sound like a cat, but there was something uncat-like about it she could not place.
Hamish stood, fetching his bow from the wall beside the door.
“You’re not going to kill it are you?”
“Of course not,” Hamish said. “Just taking the bow in case it’s a trick.”
“It’s no trick,” Miram said, knowing that whatever was out there was harmless. She felt no malice anywhere in the area, but she did feel a strange presence. It was not a malevolent force, just something strange and curious.
“I’ll come with you,” she said. “There is no danger.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling the door open.
Miram nodded, and as the door was opened they could both hear the sound more clearly. It was not a cat. It was something else. Hamish looked at her strangely.
“What is that?” he mouthed, his brow cocked.
“It sounds like a—“
“B
aby!” they said in unison.
They rushed out the door, heading toward the sound. Miram’s heart was pounding. She knew there was a child in the forest, alone and helpless. She feared that the wild creatures would find it before they did, and she could not let that happen. All of her years with Hamish had been barren, and if they found a child in the woods, it could be theirs.
“This way,” Hamish said, his voice almost as excited as she was.
She followed, hearing the crying grow louder as they neared a small copse of fir saplings. There, nestled between the trunks of the two smallest ones, was a pile of pine needles. It moved slightly, and the sound was coming from within it.
The two stopped and approached cautiously. Hamish’s bow was slightly taut. He was being protective, she knew. There were creatures in the forest that could mimic the sounds of a baby to draw prey near. No good person could ignore the cries of a helpless child.
“It’s true,” he said, turning to her with a crooked smile.
Miram stepped forward, looking down into the bowl-shaped nest of pine. A newborn baby lay there, red-haired, pink-skinned, and crying with all the rage a newborn could muster. Her heart fluttered, and she felt Hamish’s flutter along with it. Gently, she knelt down and lifted the beautiful child to her bosom. She closed her eyes and held it close, the love in her heart pouring out in the form of tears.
“The gods have answered our prayers,” Hamish said. “It’s a changeling. It’s got to be.”
Miram nodded. “The Sidhe must have left it for us, beckoned by the Great Mother to do so. Can we keep her, husband?”
Hamish scoffed. She looked up at his crooked smile, knowing what he would say.
“Of course we can, my love,” he said. “You need not ask that question.”
She looked down at the child, smiling warmly as it opened its eyes to look up at her. The child’s eyes were green as emeralds; a perfect match for the thick shock of red hair that crowned her tiny head.
“She’s beautiful,” Hamish said. “Hair as red as fire. What shall we call her?”
“I don’t know,” Miram said, her heart still aching. “But she’s a special one.”
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