Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  There was another chuckle, and the figure slowly turned away. But as he disappeared into the shadows, he uttered a single word.

  “Torak.”

  Malthor stood momentarily to contemplate the encounter. Though he had never met this Torak, he realized, there was some kind of kinship that he felt with the creature. And he indeed was a creature, not a man. He appeared very much like T’kar; same race, perhaps. He was primitive-looking, but with a wisdom in his eyes that others of his kind did not possess. Again, like T’kar. But unlike the king, this thing wasn’t some violent warlord. No. He was something much darker, much more malevolent in a universal sense.

  And seemingly ancient beyond belief.

  T’kar was himself over one hundred years old; much older than others of his species. But this Torak exuded a dark wisdom that could only come from thousands of years of practicing dark magicks.

  Malthor suddenly wanted to know more about him.

  He took off running after the strange creature, ducking the trees and tall shrubs as he searched for him. He could hear the thing’s passing ahead, but he could not see him. Even the ground bore his tracks, but the sorcerer himself was nowhere to be seen.

  Not even the man’s dark presence could be felt anymore; every sense of him had faded. Did the encounter even happen?

  “Damn it,” he cursed to himself.

  He stood defeated in the forest, confused and bewildered. For the first time in his life he felt a kinship with something other than the dead, and he wanted more. But now that prospect was gone, leaving him with nothing but the decayed remains of the past battle. There were corpses here; both human and Alvar, mutilated and partially consumed by the beasts of the forests.

  Despite his disappointment, at least the dead made him smile.

  “We’re getting too close,” Randar said, holding out his hand to stop those behind him.

  Lorcan kept riding, however, and Randar dropped his hand, staring after the man.

  “Stop!” Randar called out. “They’ll see you. There are Alvar among them.”

  Lorcan slowed, dropping his head in frustration. He heeled his horse around to face Randar, one eyebrow raised, and his head bouncing around in a strange sarcastic fashion.

  “Really?” he said with a tone that matched his head’s motion. “I was there, you know. I was tied to a stake in a cold body of water that nearly froze me to death. I killed a Northman, and even snuck past those Alvar warriors.”

  Randar sighed, but said nothing.

  “I know what is there,” Lorcan continued. “I know who is there. I do not fear them, and I do not feel the need to surprise them. Why don’t we just ride up to the gate and say hello?”

  Randar glared angrily. His blood was boiling. He then realized he hated this inexperienced scum even more than Captain Jarka. Jarka was a devil, to be sure, but he enjoyed killing and such. This Lorcan was completely emotionless and tactless. What a bad decision to promote him, on T’kar’s part.

  “The King said to scout ahead, not run down the gates or make ourselves known. You will obey your king.”

  Lorcan lowered his brow tightly, glaring at Randar with those hollow and lifeless eyes. Randar did not flinch, but held his gaze, waiting—just blasted waiting—for Lorcan to make a move. He did not.

  “Fine,” he said, shaking his head as he took his place again.

  “Good,” Randar said. “I would hate to have to cut your throat in your sleep. You do sleep, don’t you?”

  Lorcan remained silent, but Randar could tell he was fuming. His pride was injured, and perhaps he had lost face in front of the soldiers. But that was good. A little humility never hurt anyone.

  Randar grinned.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  As the sun began to set in the west, Skulgrid, Thorgrymm and Wulfgar stood vigilant at the gates of the wooden fortress. Ronja and Greta also stood with them, prepared to defend their kings should the enemy decide to come closer. The scouts had spotted T’kar’s army riding north toward the settlement, and now Svengaar was rallying the troops behind the gates.

  “Can you see them?” Skulgrid asked, peering into the distance.

  “All I can see are trees,” Thorgrymm replied. “Maybe a few deer, but nothing more.”

  “It doesn’t matter what we can see,” Greta said, gripping her blade tightly. “The scouts said they are coming, so they are coming.”

  “Look,” Wulfgar announced, pointing off to the far end of the road. “A few horsemen approach.”

  “Should we meet them or just let loose?” Skulgrid wondered out loud.

  “We should let loose,” Ronja said. “We already know why they’re here. Negotiations are pointless.”

  Thorgrymm grunted. “Still, this might be a good opportunity to take a few captives.”

  “Good idea,” Wulfgar said. “I wonder if—“

  “Too late,” Thorgrymm said, laughing. “It looks like the rangers are one step ahead of us.”

  “Slowly dismount your horses,” Menelith said, aiming his bow at the blond-haired man who appeared to be the leader.

  The man was familiar to him. Randar was his name. The other man in armor he had definitely seen before. He was Lorcan, T’kar’s new captain. Menelith looked at him with anger. The man had killed Hafdan, stabbing him in the back like a coward.

  “We are here to offer a truce,” Randar said. “T’kar will agree to let you leave peacefully if you go now. Take your people and head back into the mountains where you belong.”

  “These are our lands,” a young ranger said. “We will not leave.”

  Menelith glanced at the young man for a moment, then turned back to Randar.

  “Tell T’kar that we will not leave,” he said. “This forest is our responsibility, and we will not abandon it.”

  Randar laughed. “How noble of you,” he mocked. “The Alvar protecting a forest on a world that isn’t even theirs. Where is your Lady, this Allora I’ve heard so much about. Does she not protect the forest as well?”

  “Lady Allora is none of your concern,” Menelith said. “Now, dismount your horses as I asked. You’ve been shot before. Imagine that pain multiplied many times over.”

  The man scowled, glaring at Menelith with those cold blue eyes.

  “You will lose this war,” Lorcan said. “It is pointless to resist. T’kar is the king and you are his subjects. I would advise you—“

  Lorcan’s words were cut short by an arrow that struck him in the thigh. The captain screamed out in pain, grabbing his leg as he fell from his horse. Randar’s horse reeled back, threatening to throw the man, but Menelith’s arrow silenced it. The horse fell, pitching Randar into the mud. The remaining soldiers dropped their weapons and began dismounting. Randar regained his stance, his hand gripping the handle of his sword tightly and his eyes focused on Menelith.

  “You killed my horse,” he hissed.

  “Drop your weapon or you are next,” Menelith said.

  Randar pulled out his blade, dropping it to the ground hesitantly. Menelith stood, ordering his men to take the soldiers’ weapons. Randar’s eyes remained locked on him, and Menelith smiled, confident that they now had important captives.

  That would offer them some leverage, he realized. Leverage for mounting a sneak attack.

  “Take them back to the fortress,” he commanded. “The rest of us will prepare for an ambush.”

  “What’s happening up there?” T’kar demanded, regretting the fact that he had sent all of his important men away.

  “I can’t see anything, my lord,” a soldier said.

  “Damn it,” T’kar growled.

  He rode ahead, trying hard to see into the distance. All he saw were trees and rocks. There was no sign of Randar and Lorcan or their small squad. Perhaps he had misjudged the rebels. They were craftier than he thought. He suddenly began to worry about Randar.

  “Sire,” the soldier said. “Malthor returns.”

  T’kar spun around, gleefully laughing as he sa
w the necromancer emerging from the forest with a small army of stumbling corpses. Malthor was right in front, smiling as he approached, holding his glowing hand up to halt the marching death troops behind him.

  “Sire,” he said. “I have our undead army. Shall we proceed?”

  T’kar howled with laughter, pointing his sword to the road ahead. “After you, necromancer,” he howled. “After you.”

  “Onward!” Igrid called out.

  The troops had come close to reaching a ridge where they could look out upon Arbotach’s army. The warlord was still far ahead, but at their current pace Igrid and her army would reach them by nightfall. She did not look forward to a nighttime battle, but with the magic her sisters wielded, it could work.

  Beside her, Haen kept his pace, staring forward in determination. Igrid admired the man. Though not born a warrior, the fact that he had adapted to the lifestyle forced upon him was something to envy. He was strong, determined, and eager to free his people.

  He reminded her a lot of Dearg.

  Right behind the two, Igrid’s new sisters inspired the soldiers to quicken their pace. Their magic was strong—Igrid could feel it—and the men were confident that they could win any battle they were thrust into.

  Which gave Igrid an idea.

  “Vala,” she called back. “Summon some birds of prey to give us an idea of the terrain ahead. I want this battle to go smooth and quick.”

  “Yes, sister,” Vala replied.

  There was a flash of magic, and a burst of mist above her as a small flock of hawks appeared in the sky. The dove and flew around the group before ascending once again and flying ahead. Igrid looked back at Vala, seeing her eyes glowing as she observed everything that the birds saw.

  “The dragon priest is nowhere to be found,” she said. “But the soldiers have slowed down. They are taking a defensive formation. It looks like they are preparing for our arrival.”

  “Good,” Igrid said. “Let’s not let them down.”

  “Halt!” Arbotach shouted.

  He stopped, allowing his men to pass him and reform behind him. Drak stood at his side, bouncing excitedly with his weapon in his hand. Arbotach grinned at the Trollkin’s mood. He knew the disgusting creature was eager to draw blood, even more so than the troops. This made the warlord smile.

  “We are being pursued by witches,” Arbotach shouted. “We will destroy them before they can protect the Onyx Dragon.”

  The men shouted their agreement, raising their weapons in the air and clapping them against their shields. Arbotach drew his sword, deciding to save the artifact for a later time. He had already used it against the dragon, he didn’t want its power to be depleted once they reached the tower.

  “My lord,” Drak said. “A flock of birds in the sky. They are glowing with Gaia’s magic. I can see it.”

  “Spies,” Arbotach said. “No matter. We know they are coming. They know we are waiting. There will be no surprises. Prepare for battle, lads.”

  “Archers,” Drak yelled. “Take your positions and ready up! Infantry, line up behind me!”

  The men shuffled into their positions. Spearmen came from the rear and lined up in front, directly forward of the swordsmen who stood there. Heavy troops lined up behind the infantry, followed by the archers in the back.

  Arbotach glared at the approaching enemy, debating on whether to use the artifact anyway, despite his earlier objections. It worked better at night, he knew, as the sun was what powered Gaia herself. Theia was powered by the fires of the Earth, having been ripped from her own world that now hung lifeless in the sky just above the horizon.

  Once the moon rose, her power waxed.

  But still, he would need all of that power for the Onyx Dragon. This battle was a distraction, a waste of precious time. He had to get to the tower by nightfall, or the artifact would not be strong enough to destroy the Dragon’s power. He had already wasted precious energy on the small dragon earlier. There was no need to waste more of it now.

  Clapping Drak on the back, he sheathed his sword and tightened his cloak about him. “Good luck, Drak,” he said, drawing a blank stare from the Trollkin. “I know you can do it.”

  “But…” Drak protested. “I am no general.”

  “Lead them into battle and crush these witches. Theia be with you. I must get to the tower to use the power of the moon. You see?”

  Drak pursed his lips, raising a bushy brow. “Of course, my lord,” he said, bowing his head. “I will die for our cause.”

  Arbotach laughed. “Perhaps, Drak. Perhaps.”

  He turned, looking out toward the tower. The dark shape mocked him, causing him to grit his teeth in anger. But his mind was set on the prospect of taking down yet another obstacle in his quest to claim the throne. In his rotting heart, he knew he would be king, everyone else be damned.

  “Ten men with me,” he said. “Come now, let’s go slay a dragon.

  “Get ready,” Igrid said. “They’re stopping. We’ll take them before they can line up.”

  “Arbotach is leaving,” Haen said. “He’s taking a small group with him.”

  Igrid growled. “He’s heading toward the tower. We have to stop him.”

  “Dearg can handle them,” Morrigan offered.

  “Not with the artifact in Arbotach’s hand,” Haen reminded her. “He’ll negate everything the Dragon has given him.”

  Igrid drew her bow. “Then we’d better hurry and take out this army. Archers!”

  Haen raised his arm, signaling his archers to draw their bows. He waited for Igrid’s signal, smiling as he admired her strength. She could feel his eyes upon her.

  “I have faith in you, my friend,” he said.

  “And you as well,” Igrid replied. “Now.”

  Haen dropped his hand and the archers let loose. As the arrows sailed over her head, Igrid loosed as well. Then, she drew her sword, waiting for the arrows to soar out of sight.

  “Now!”

  Igrid felt Gaia’s magic around her as her sisters summoned their powers. She was focused on the enemy ahead, watching their eyes widen as the barrage of arrows began to descend upon them. Many of them fell, skewered by arrows, and dropped their shields as they collapsed.

  “For Gaia!” Haen shouted.

  They crashed into the enemy line, plowing through them like weeds. Igrid’s strength and rage built as she slashed and hacked her way through them. Haen’s blade was quick and true, and all around him, the enemies fell one by one. His ferocity was unmatched, and Igrid couldn’t help but feel an attraction toward that strength.

  For a scholar, he was a fine warrior.

  “Find the leader,” she shouted. “Point him out.”

  “It’s Drak,” Haen shouted back. “You’ll know him when you see him.”

  “Die!” an enemy shouted. “You will all fall before the might of Arbotach!”

  Haen decapitated the man, plowing into the next one in line. The sounds of clashing steel filled Igrid’s ears, and she could smell the blood that sprayed around her. She watched the enemies’ faces, looking for the ugly countenance of the Trollkin leader. But he was nowhere to be found. He was likely in the back somewhere, cowering like some kind of worm as his own men were slaughtered.

  But there, through the chaotic sea of angry faces, she saw him.

  “You!” she shouted, swiping away a charging enemy and pointing her blade toward him.

  Drak’s eyes narrowed. His rotten teeth glinted yellow in the evening sun as he grinned, gripping his blade and charging right at her.

  “You will not succeed,” Drak growled. “The Onyx Dragon will die as soon as he steps out of the tower.”

  His massive blade came down quickly. Igrid dodged and countered with a horizontal swipe. Drak chuckled maniacally, spinning and backhanding. Igrid’s blade came up to meet his, and she pushed back with all her might, knocking him off balance. She quickly charged and kicked him in the gut, shoving him back further.

  But still he laughed.
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  “Little girl,” he taunted. “Go away and let the men fight it out. You’re nothing more than a distraction.”

  He charged, rearing back his blade to thrust, his eyes wide with rage. Igrid spun quickly out of the way as he came at her, and she bashed him in the back of the head with the pommel of her sword. It was then that she noticed the sword glowing again, this time with a reddish hue.

  She wasted no time, crouching and charging at Drak’s exposed back. She shouldered him, knocking him forward. Drak stumbled over the corpses that littered the ground, losing his balance and dropping his blade in the process. Igrid leaped into the air, turning her blade down and grasping the hilt with both hands.

  Drak screamed out in pain as the blade skewered him through his black heart, and was pitched forward with Igrid’s weight. But as she withdrew, he merely chuckled again.

  “That was painful,” he said, blood dripping from his yellow teeth. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

  Silently, Igrid growled in frustration as she glared.

  “The sun is going down,” Baleron said as he stared off into the distance.

  Tel Drakkar was still a day away at the most, and the way before them was littered with rubble, twists and turns, and thick brush. There was no way they could traverse the distance without the sun. Even his own skills were not enough to do that.

  “We’ll have to push forward a bit longer,” he continued. “Until the sun is completely set. Come lads.”

  “Look,” Ivar said, pointing off to the northwest. “What is that flashing?”

  Baleron could see what looked like magic energy in the distance. There was a cloud of dust that rose up, glowing with the magic that was being released. It looked like a battle of some sort; a battle they would never reach in time.

  “It could be Igrid,” Baleron said. “Perhaps she was able to catch up with the enemy.”

  “That means we have more time,” Ivar said. “Dearg should be safe until we arrive.”

  “I just want to know what happened to that dragon,” Alric said behind them. “He said he would return.”

  “If he serves the Dragon himself, he may have been tasked with other things,” Baleron said. “Maybe he is with Dearg as we speak.”