“What?” he said out loud, looking around to see if there was anyone nearby.
When he had decided that the darkened room was empty, he slowly stood, pulling his trousers back over his hips. The area around him was full of shadows, with only a few rays of sunlight poking through the various darkly colored windows that lined the walls far up. There was dust and debris everywhere, most of it from stone, and hundreds of small tools were scattered about.
He turned to look at the throne he was seated upon. It was identical to the one he had sat on in Dol Drakkar. He wondered for a moment whether his visions had even happened. The fact that his pants were down, however, made him realize that at least one of those visions had been real.
Igraina had mounted him while he was unconscious.
“Devil,” he said, shaking his head. “She takes after Igrid.”
His voice echoed throughout the chamber, and he then realized how large it was. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the thousands of carvings that covered the walls. There were dragons, warriors, strange runes, and even a figure that looked much like the image of his own father, the Dragon himself.
“Father,” he whispered.
My son, came a reply in his head. Your transformation is complete. Welcome to Tel Drakkar.
“What do I do now?” he asked.
Rest. Then, fulfill your destiny. But beware, the road ahead is fraught with danger, possibly death.
“I can die?” he wondered.
Of course. Though you are my son, and my blood, you are still a man. Whether by the sword or the trials and tribulations of time and age, you can still die.
Dearg nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
Never forget your kind, my son. Both the people of this land, and the Northmen who raised you are your people, and they are your responsibility. Rally them and lead them to freedom from T’kar and his tyranny.
“I will,” he said. “Or I will die trying.”
Protect yourself, your friends, and all of your people. And beware the near future. Your trials are not over.
“What do you mean?” Dearg asked.
There was no answer.
“Father?”
He cocked his head, waiting for an answer that never came. It was then he remembered that his friends were on their way to meet him and they might already be here, or at least nearby. He knew in his heart that Baleron would get them here one way or another. He trusted the ranger’s heart, and his skills.
“Greetings, my king,” came a low and smooth voice from the shadows.
Dearg instinctively reached for his blade, but found his belt empty. He crouched, looking around the room for the source of the voice. Then there was a clicking sound as many claws scraped against the stone floor. A small dragon appeared from behind a pillar, crawling on all fours with its head held low.
“By the gods…”
“No,” the dragon spoke again. “Just your father.”
As Dearg relaxed his posture, the dragon rose up on its hind legs, folding its wings behind it. It quickly began to change form, becoming an equally fearsome-looking man with slicked back black hair, cold blue eyes, and beautiful twin blades at his sides.
“Who are you?” Dearg asked.
“My name is Erenoth,” the man said. “And I was bade to come here by the Dragon himself.”
“What manner of creature are you to change shape like that?”
“I am your priest,” Erenoth replied. “It is my duty to serve you and lead your crusade. The spiritual part of it, at least.”
“Then you are my…”
Erenoth raised his face, cocking his head as he waited for Dearg to continue. When Dearg couldn’t find the words, Erenoth spoke for him.
“Servant,” he finished. “That is correct.”
“Are you a shape shifter of some kind?”
Erenoth shrugged. “I suppose you could say that,” he replied. “I was once a man like you; quite recently, I might add. But I am now a priest in the service of the Dragon, and by proxy, you.”
Dearg was confused, but intrigued. This man looked like a deadly fighter, and the Dragon had mentioned him, Dearg thought. Perhaps not, but there was something familiar about him, and something different. His accent was strange.
“Where do you come from?” Dearg asked.
“I am a man of Thyre,” Erenoth said. “I came here as an assassin, hired by King T’kar to kill you and this Igrid woman. But, as I began my task, I realized that the power on this island is much greater than those for whom I kill.”
“An assassin?” Dearg repeated. “Alright, so you’re a murderer but now you’re a priest. How noble of you.”
Erenoth chuckled and began walking slowly toward him. Once again, Dearg reached for his blade, but it was not there. Erenoth cocked his head, casually pointing toward the throne.
“Your sword is there,” he said. “But at the moment you won’t need it.”
Dearg looked back, seeing the beautiful blade leaning against the stone throne. He pursed his lips as he looked back at the strange man, but said nothing as the priest looked back at him.
“The Dragon wants you to rest for the moment,” Erenoth said. “You will be safe inside the temple. I must leave now. There are other things I must do until the final battle against T’kar. Stay here until I return.”
Dearg straightened. “I’ve rested long enough,” he said. “I must return to my people… my knights.”
“Your knights are safe,” Erenoth said. “They are on their way at this very moment. They were slightly delayed, but they will arrive.”
“Have you seen them?”
“I have. I was asked to deliver a message to Ivar, that his father was killed.”
Dearg felt his heart sink at the news. He had been friends with Hafdan. The man had been like a second father to him, and always stood by his and Ivar’s antics when they were younger men.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Hafdan was a good man.”
Erenoth nodded. “So I’ve heard.”
Dearg rubbed his head, still trying to clear the cloudiness. Perhaps he should stay awhile and rest, but something told him he should find his people as soon as possible. However, a small rest wouldn’t hurt.
“I will stay here until nightfall,” he said. “But after that, I must find my friends.”
“Very well,” the priest said. “But beware when you leave the temple. The Southern Reaches are even more dangerous than your lands. Not all the tribes here are friendly, and sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s a friend or foe.”
“I will remember that.”
Erenoth nodded and turned away. Before Dearg’s very eyes he transformed back into a dragon and soared straight up through a gap in the high ceiling. He was gone in seconds.
“Well,” Dearg said, looking around. “Now to find a more comfortable place to sit.”
Chapter Thirty
T’kar and his soldiers gathered in front of the fortress as the rest of his army prepared for departure. With the success—and satisfaction—of the recent raid, T’kar’s confidence and will were both boosted beyond their recent level. He was zealous and thrilled with the prospect of laying waste to the rebels in the north.
He would destroy them even before the Onyx Dragon had a chance to rally them.
Malthor and his flying pest rode out to greet them, the little demon fluttering annoyingly at the necromancer’s side, glaring and grinning at Randar with a smug look. T’kar chuckled to himself, knowing his man hated the little thing.
“Fear not, Randar,” the king said. “In a thousand years, no one will care what this little bug thinks of you.”
Randar gave him a blank look, causing him to slap the back of his horse’s neck in amusement. The beast snarled and bucked a little, and T’kar laughed once again.
“Ah yes, my friend,” he said to his mount. “More Highlander bones for you to crush under your mighty hooves.”
The horse whinnied, shaking its
head roughly.
“Sire,” Malthor said hesitantly. “This is not my forte, as you know. I think it would be a real—“
“Shut up,” T’kar said. “You’re going with us. I need you. But first, I want you to meet your new peer.”
Grongor rode up next to his king, bowing his head at Malthor in respect. Malthor returned the gesture, smiling crookedly.
“We are familiar, sire,” Malthor said. “We have… done things together.”
“Oh?” Randar said, cocking an eyebrow.
“Killed people,” Grongor said. “Made them to suffer, whereupon Malthor would bring them back to life to stumble around mindlessly until they rotted apart.”
“It was quite amusing,” Malthor said.
“Boys will be boys,” T’kar grunted. “Right, Randar?”
“If you say so, Sire.”
“Hurry up!” T’kar shouted to the soldiers. “We ride soon!”
The imp flew toward Randar, flittering around his head cackling. Randar swatted at it, but it dodged his attacks, flying back to Malthor and settling on his shoulder.
“You,” T’kar said to it. “What have you discovered about my witch?”
The imp buzzed over to him, hovering in front of his face.
“Witch consorts with demons,” it said. “Speaks to nothing, sits and stares.”
T’kar grumbled. “Strange,” he said. “You stay and watch her more. I want every detail.”
The imp growled and buzzed away, headed back toward the fortress. Malthor watched after him, evidently not wanting to stay behind, but the necromancer kept his mouth shut.
“He’ll be better off here,” Randar said.
T’kar knew Randar wasn’t concerned about the imp’s safety. He didn’t like the thing. Not at all. Yet another thing that T’kar found amusing.
“Fear not, Randar,” T’kar jested. “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know the creature when we return.”
Randar sighed.
“Ride!” T’kar shouted.
The horde burst northward, thundering along the riverside trail as fast as the horses could take them. T’kar’s heart raced with anticipation once more, and he laughed out loud into the evening sky. He looked over at Randar, whose face echoed his own excitement. Today was a good day, he thought. One successful slaughter would lead to another victory over the allied peasants.
Soon, he realized, there would only be one obstacle to his rule.
Arbotach was next on his death list.
Erenoth had flown over the Firbolga’s army high above the clouds. He could see their numbers clearly, and though they weren’t a large force, he knew that the warlord commanded the strongest warriors in the land. The primitive tribes of the south were fierce and heartless.
They were feared even by the Northmen.
Now as he raced toward his goal, having bypassed Arbotach’s forces without being seen, he could see the large force of soldiers marching in the same direction, their auras glowing with a pure green light that told the priest that his former enemies had achieved their goal.
The Temple of Gaia had been cleansed, and the Great Mother’s priestesses had been reborn.
Though he did not look forward to facing the two women again, he knew that was what he had to do. He would present himself to them as an ally, and let them know that Dearg was safe and preparing to meet his knights.
He could see the line of women leading the army. Seven of them, he saw, marching next to a man who looked to be in his thirties. He was not particularly large, nor menacing. He was probably a man who had been forced to throw down his rake and take up a sword, becoming a warrior in his own right in the process.
A warrior out of necessity.
Erenoth folded his wings back and began his dive down toward them. Even from this distance, he could see that they had spotted him, and some of them were drawing their bows. He silently hoped that none of them would loose.
“Hold!” Igrid shouted as she heard several bows being drawn.
The men were shouting amongst themselves, and even Haen gasped as he saw the dragon hurtling toward them.
“You heard her,” he shouted. “Put them down.”
He turned to Igrid with a brow cocked. “Is that your friend?”
Igrid shook her head. “No,” she said, doubting her own words. “I wouldn’t think he would be an actual dragon.”
“It is not,” Morrigan said. “I cannot feel Dearg’s spirit, but I feel something familiar.”
“Familiar?” Igrid echoed her. “How so?”
Morrigan said nothing, but shook her head as she continued watching the dragon descend.
“I feel no malice within it,” Vala said. “None at all. A strange… darkness though.”
Igrid’s question was answered as the dragon landed roughly several dozen yards in front of them. It tumbled a few times, gasping in its dragon form just before transforming into human shape. It was a human dressed in black, with a familiar face.
“You,” Igrid said, drawing her blade as she narrowed her eyes.
“Wait,” the man said. “I mean you no harm. I am here as a friend.”
Igrid hesitated, staring at the man’s strangely haunting face. She looked at Morrigan, whose mouth was curled up into an odd smile. Igrid sheathed her blade.
“Why are you here then?” she asked. “I was hoping you wanted another match.”
The man chuckled, putting his hands behind his back as he began stepping forward. Igrid drew her blade again, not trusting a man with his hands behind his back. He stopped, putting his hands out.
“As I said,” he began, “I mean you no harm. I serve the Dragon now, and I have come to deliver a message.”
“What message is that?” Haen asked. Then, he turned to Igrid. “Do you know this… man?”
Igrid smiled. “Yes, sort of. We’ve met.”
“I have seen your friend Dearg,” the man said. “He is ready to meet his friends, who are now on their way to the tower. But Arbotach is on his way there, too. You must intercept him before he reaches it.”
Igrid’s heart skipped a beat, and she looked at Morrigan again.
“The artifact,” Morrigan said. “If he reaches Dearg, he could kill him.”
“We need to hurry,” Igrid said. “Could you go on ahead and give them trouble until we arrive? Distract them, at least.”
“I will do what I can,” the man said. “But I’m afraid no matter what happens, you will not reach the tower in time if you do not hurry.”
“Then we have no time to waste,” Haen said. “Onward, men!”
“Who are you?” Igrid asked Erenoth as he began to change shape again.
“A friend,” the man said. “Erenoth is my name. We will meet again.”
With that, the dragon shot straight into the sky, disappearing into the low clouds. The sun was beginning to drop lower, and the shadows were lengthening, and it wasn’t long before he was out of sight.
She only hoped they could reach Dearg in time, or all was lost.
Odhran scouted ahead as the others quietly followed, watching ahead for any danger as they crept along the rocky trail. The climb up the cliff had been arduous, especially for Finn, and the group was already on the edge of exhaustion. But their purpose was clear and urgent. They needed to get to Tel Drakkar.
Despite their need to hurry, Odhran did not rush them. He crouched alone in the brush, keeping his eyes ahead, scanning the horizon and everything else around him. Other than the tower in the distance, and the outlines of many crags and rocky peaks, there was nothing. The landscape here was much different than where he was from, but he could still see the same basic features, and could tell when something was disturbed. Everything looked different, but worked the same, he reasoned.
It was when he looked directly to the north that he spotted the faintest glimpse of movement. There was a growing dark spot, seemingly moving in a south-western direction toward the tower. Perhaps it was some tribe of the south, or mayb
e a group of worshipers come to pay tribute to the Dragon.
But he realized that may not be the case when he suddenly sensed a strange presence. Something was out of place, he felt; something that he felt an uneasy revulsion to. It was something that caused a strange stirring in his gut.
He raised his hand then, turning to look at Baleron. The older ranger approached quickly, sensing Odhran’s trepidation. As he came up beside him, Baleron’s eyes were immediately drawn to the same spot on the horizon, and he furrowed his brow in response.
“Do you feel it?” Odhran asked.
Baleron nodded silently.
“What do you think it is?” Odhran wondered out loud.
“I’m not sure. But if we both feel it, it must not be a gut feeling.”
He turned to the younger man. “Do you remember the feeling you had when you looked at the tower in the north?”
Odhran nodded, remembering feeling drawn to it.
“To me it feels just the opposite. Perhaps it is something to do with the Dragon.”
“Not likely,” Finn said behind them.
The two rangers looked at each other in surprise. Neither of them had heard the older man sneak up to them.
“There are tales of an ancient warlord in these lands,” Finn said. “One that has been searching for a terrible artifact that was borne in the Earth itself. It is something that even Gaia fears, and is dangerous to those that worship the Firstborn.”
“What is this artifact?” Odhran asked. “And who is this warlord?”
“Arbotach,” Finn replied. “Arbotach is his name, and he is the last of the Firbolga. Mind you, he’s not even really alive by any definition of the word, yet still he walks. The artifact he has been searching for has no name to my knowledge, but every warlord on the island has sought it.”
“Why?” Odhran asked.
“Because,” Baleron said, realizing what Finn was talking about. “It is the key to overthrowing the Dragon.”
“Indeed,” Finn said. “All of the Firstborn. It must be destroyed. And if my guess is right, this Arbotach is headed for Tel Drakkar for one reason and one reason only.”
Sisters of the Blade Page 33