It was then that a bloodied and sour-looking Malthor stumbled through the open gates, holding his gut, from which an arrow protruded. T’kar and Randar could only laugh at the man’s misery.
“You’re bleeding all over your new clothes,” Randar said. T’kar howled with laughter.
Malthor sneered, but said nothing. He reached out to grasp the reins of another nearby horse, patting the beast on the jowls as it protested slightly.
“I was shot,” Malthor said. “You remember being shot, don’t you Randar?”
T’kar howled with laughter once more. “Ah yes. But I hope you too were not shot by a little girl.”
This time it was Randar who grumbled, shaking his head as he rode away. The king continued to bellow as he made his way to the trail home. It would be quite an annoying ride.
“I never imagined it would be this majestic,” Haen said as he stood overlooking the valley where Tel Drakkar stood.
Igrid was next to him, searching the rocky valley below for any sign of Dearg. The sun had gone down, and she could see only shadows and nothing more.
“Dearg is in there somewhere,” she said. “He may not have emerged yet. Gaia said it would be several days before he did.”
“Either that, or we missed him,” Haen said. “Did he know you were coming?”
Igrid shook her head. “No. And the knights were to meet him here. Perhaps they already found him and are on their way to rally the tribesmen of the south.”
“We would have seen them if they had,” Haen said. “And I see no sign of Arbotach or the men he took with him.”
Igrid turned to him. “Where is his fortress?”
“To the east, near the shore. He will definitely go there eventually to gather more soldiers.”
“Then that is where we go,” Igrid said. “The knights will find Dearg and take care of him. That was his plan.”
“And what does the Great Mother say?”
“She wants us to defeat Arbotach, lest he join T’kar in enslaving the whole island.”
“Then, I agree,” Haen said. “To the fortress we go. But can we trust these men to stand against him?”
“Gaia will give them the courage just as she gave you and your men.”
Haen laughed. “I would like to think that courage was my own, but I will not argue. I only hope that I will see my family again soon.”
“Don’t worry,” Igrid assured him. “You will. And they will be free.”
Haen nodded, smiling. “I hope you are right. Men! Prepare to march east!”
Igrid took one last look at the valley below, hoping in her heart that she had made the right choice. Though Dearg was their savior, the Great Mother had tasked her with defeating the Firbolga warlord. The Dragon would take care of his own.
She hoped.
Odhran crept through the shadows around the camp, silently keeping watch as the others slept. As usual, he had taken first watch, and his acute senses would keep his companions safe as they rested. The journey had been a long one, and they could make the rest of it in the morning.
Tel Drakkar was within sight.
Somewhere down there in the valley, Dearg would emerge as a new man; a god. He would be their true king, and would lead them all to victory over the Heathen Throne. T’kar would fall, and Dearg would take his place as the King of Eirenoch.
The ranger continued on, circling around the north side of the camp. His eyes were adjusted well to the dark, and under the light of the moon, he could see almost as well as he could in the daytime. That, at this very moment, was a good thing.
Something was moving toward them, he felt. He could barely hear a thing over the light wind, but something moved in his field of vision. It was something that was taking care to come silently and purposefully. He cautiously moved forward, allowing his eyes to adjust even further. There, against the backdrop of the starry sky, he could see a figure.
It was tall and gaunt, with a horned helmet that framed a pair of glowing red eyes. Odhran froze, keeping as still as possible as the figure was joined by several other men. Who this person was, he could not guess, but he had to wake the others. They were in danger.
Silently he crept back toward the camp, keeping low and in the shadows. He would wake Baleron first, and the two of them would wake the others one by one. Behind him, he could almost feel the approach of the figure, as if its hands were reaching out to grab him. He suddenly felt himself unable to move.
“You,” a whispery voice sounded in the dark behind him. “I have found you. Just as I knew I would.”
Odhran’s heart raced as he struggled to face his pursuer. He could hear heavy footsteps, as if the figure wore heavy boots and armor. A metallic clang told him it was some kind of plate mail. But who was this being that now had him frozen in place?
He looked up as the figures approached. The leader was tall and skeletal, with tight skin stretched over bones that creaked as he walked. The others seemed like normal men, armored in a similar manner, and equally frightening. Those red eyes glared down at Odhran, and the ranger could only gasp as their appearance.
“Take the others,” the figure said. “The stone has rendered them all helpless. We will take them back to our camp and continue to the fortress in the morning.”
“Yes, my lord,” another whispery voice said.
The figure laughed in a raspy and guttural manner as it turned to look at the campsite. Odhran turned his head, seeing the rest of the knights and their companions frozen as stiff as boards. The men gathered them up, throwing their limp forms over their shoulders.
“Fear not, young ranger,” the voice said. “You will be able to move soon. I only need you still for a night or so. It would not be as amusing to me to kill you all while you are helpless.”
Odhran saw the glowing gem in the figure’s hand pulsing with a red light that tore into his very soul. Something about the gem’s power was sapping his strength, his very senses. The essence of the Dragon, even. He knew then that he looked upon the Dragon’s greatness enemy, and his heart sank when he realized that this enemy had gotten to Dearg first.
He had failed. The Dragon had failed. All was lost.
Igraina rested peacefully in a silent copse of trees in the thick forest. Here she felt at peace for the moment, happy and content that she had provided her offspring with fine families to raise them. All five of her daughters were now in the care of farmers, hunters and trappers; good folk who would love them as their own.
She had not anticipated giving birth to five children, but she was glad that they would be there in the future when they were needed. Her daughters would wield the magic of the Earth, supplemented by her own bloodline. The blood of Kingu ran through their veins, as it did hers, and would help mask their presence from not only the enemy, but herself as well.
It was that thought that brought tears to her eyes. Once she defeated her last remaining sister—if that actually happened—she would forget everything she was. She would continue on oblivious to her origins, and her own heritage. She would only have her dark magic to comfort her, and the knowledge and feeling that she would never belong.
Not until she found a master worthy of her loyalty.
Alone and scared, Igraina cried. Her hopes for the future had been dashed. Everything she had done to aid the Dragon and the Great Mother was for nothing. Would they even remember her efforts, or would they simply see her as nothing more than the enemy? What would she do and where would she go? Would she hide out forever? When would she return to the island to sit upon the throne as its queen?
The questions were nagging, and endless, but one thing was clear; Mother Igraina would be no more. There would only be the bearer of darkness that was to become.
That was not a prospect she desired.
Epilogue
Dearg’s breathing was labored. The pressure exerted on his chest and lungs made it difficult to take in air, and the pain it caused was excruciating. He struggled to inhale, and every breath he manag
ed to squeeze in was shallow and quick.
He did not have much time left.
His only comfort was the fact that the sun had gone down, and was no longer beating down mercilessly upon his exposed flesh. But the night brought other miseries. A stark chill was beginning to sting his skin and ache his bones. He was shivering, which made taking a breath even more difficult.
He wondered where his friends were. Had they made it to the tower? Had they been killed during their journey? Why was he here alone? Where was the Dragon?
“Father,” he whispered. “Father, where are you? Help me… please.”
There was no answer.
The Dragon was not here or was not listening. Why? Why would his own father abandon him like this? How could the Dragon just leave him here to die?
“Why?” he spoke out loud, groaning with the pain.
He closed his eyes against the moonlight, trying to ignore the pain. He would die soon, he knew, and it would be all over. His pain would be gone, and he would sit in Valhalla with Fleek and all of his brothers of the North.
But the image was shattered when he heard the sound of crunching rocks. His eyes opened, barely slits. He could see nothing but the shadowy ground, rocky and sparse. But the sound was growing louder. Painfully, he raised his head to look farther ahead.
There, silhouetted against the moonlit ground was a lone figure. It was a man, bald and wearing furs and leather belts from what he could see. He stood still and silent, staring at Dearg with eyes that glowed a strange golden red. It was not a frightening red, but a living and breathing red that seemed to comfort Dearg.
“Who… who are you?” he whispered.
The figure’s arms went out at its side, and before Dearg’s very eyes, the man floated forward until he was at the foot of Dearg’s tree. Then, he floated upward slowly and silently. Dearg could not believe his eyes. Surely he was seeing things; wishful things. He was dreaming of his own rescue. It was a rescue he had not anticipated, especially by such a strange being. The glint of fangs showed in the moonlight, and Dearg could see that his rescuer’s skin was pale and smooth.
“Daegoth,” the creature spoke. “You have returned. I have been waiting for you, my brother.”
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