But, as Menelith had said, there was nothing he could do.
It was when he approached the bodies that were laid out that a few of the townsfolk saw him and tore themselves away from the grieving men and women. The three people glared at him, just as he believed they would do. Though two of them were silent, the third stormed at him, stopping inches from his face. He could feel the man's anger, and it tore at his heart.
"You," the man growled. "Where were you when this happened?"
"I am sorry," Baleron whispered. "I could not fight them alone. Forgive me, friend."
The man furrowed his brow, and then looked over to Menelith, whose face was hidden in the darkness of his cowl.
"And you," the man said, "I know what you are. Why do your people not help us? You gather in your sacred places, protecting your own but ignoring our suffering."
"Friend," Baleron interrupted him. "The Alvar cannot interfere. This is not their fight."
"They live in our lands," the man said. "We allow them to be here, and they do nothing in return."
"It is not their fight," Baleron protested. "Menelith is my friend, but—"
"Baleron," Menelith said, cutting him off with a hand. "The man is correct. The inaction of the Alvar has gone on for far too long. King Daegoth generously allowed our people to reside here on this world, and now it is our time to repay that generosity."
"So what will you do?" the man asked, softening his tone. "Will you ask them to rally with us? Will they let us stand alone against this beast who murders our children?"
Menelith lowered his cowl, revealing his golden hair and sapphire eyes. He approached the man closely, offering him a comforting hand to his shoulder.
"I do not know what will happen, friend," he said. "But I will do my best to convince Lady Allora that we must not allow Dag T'kar to destroy everything that King Daegoth has built."
The man stepped away, returning to the grieving townsfolk. Baleron was torn. He would indeed sacrifice his own life to protect his people, but he could not do so alone. Even with the help of the Alvar, if they decided to get involved, the likelihood of defeating T'kar's army was slim. It was simply too large and powerful. Even the Northmen who had gathered in the thousands had been defeated.
T'kar had darkness on his side.
Baleron's only hope was to find like-minded men and women whom he could train in the ways of the Alvar. With a larger force of people like himself, there could be hope. Perhaps he could form a company of rangers; one so large that they could sabotage T'kar's forces behind the scenes, from the shadows themselves.
He could start here.
"I need everyone who is skilled with blade and bow," he said. "Those who are hunters and trappers."
Several men stood among the townsfolk, looking at each other in confusion. "I am a hunter," one of them said. "And I can track. What do you need us for?"
"You want action?" Baleron said. "You want to strike back? Protect your own? Then this is how it must be. We cannot stand against T'kar face to face. He is too strong. We will have to strike where he cannot see. We will have to instill terror in the hearts of his men. Terror from the shadows. Fear of the unseen!"
"We have no weapons," another man said. "T'kar's men took them."
"I have weapons," came another response. "I have them stockpiled in my root cellar. There's enough for three, maybe four men."
Baleron nodded, feeling some hope yet. "Gather them, and yourselves," he said. "Anyone who is willing and capable. I will train you myself."
The volunteers began to disperse, at least a dozen of them. Baleron watched them go, feeling a growing sense of hope at seeing his countrymen showing a willingness to protect their lands. Still, it wasn't enough. No matter what weapons the men could gather, they would still be outnumbered and green. They would need much training.
"Baleron," Menelith said to him. "If I can convince Tenegal and Lady Allora to support this cause, I can also convince them to provide weapons for these men."
"That would help," Baleron said. "I doubt these weapons are anything more than plow shears and simple bows."
"Likely. But we must remember that it is not the weapon that makes the warrior. It is his heart."
Baleron smiled. He knew that Menelith was referring to Baleron's own heart. Despite being a human growing up in the wild, using nothing more than what nature had provided, the Alvar had favored him for his heart. His spirit was divine and noble, they had told him, and that is why they chose to give him their blessing.
He was, for intents and purposes, an Alvar at heart.
"This will be a new beginning," he said. "I will create a new force of warriors trained in the ways of the Alvar. They will protect the forest and all who dwell within it, and will be a shadow to the enemy; a shield that cannot be seen."
"There is still an underlying question."
Baleron looked into Menelith's eyes, knowing full well what that question was.
"We will find the new king," he said. "The Dragon will choose him and we will fight for him. T'kar's reign must end."
"Indeed it must," Menelith agreed. "I am with you, my friend, no matter what Lady Allora says."
A warm feeling coursed through Baleron then. He knew that whatever the future would bring, Menelith would always stand by his side. If he fell into the very pits of Hell itself, Menelith would fall with him and fight by his side. Such were the ways of the Alvar, and the ways of Baleron himself.
Together, they would create a force to be reckoned with.
Chapter Seven
Golden rays of morning sunlight awoke Dearg from his troubled sleep. He emerged from the mead house into the cold air, wrapping himself in his furs against the chill. He squinted in the light of the rising sun, staring off into the distance. The tops of the lower mountains were covered in mist that glowed a bright golden color. It shrouded the path to the highlands in its magical cloak, but would soon disperse as the temperature rose.
They would wait until then to begin their trek.
The others of the tribe were beginning to emerge from their huts, heading toward the center pyre to build the day's fire. Women and children fetched wood and gathered their buckets to carry water from the river, and those that passed Dearg smiled or waved happily.
Ivar was already awake and preparing the wagon to haul the bodies up the steep paths into the highlands. Soon, they would depart and seek out the kinfolk of the slain men, hoping to deliver them into the strangers' hands without incident. Ivar looked up as he approached, tossing a large blanket over the carefully arranged bodies. Fleek was nowhere to be seen, he noticed.
"Are you ready?" Ivar asked.
"Where is Fleek?"
"At the river, gathering water for our journey," Ivar replied. "He's already collected some dried meat for us, and Mada's acolytes brought us some fruits and herbs."
"Herbs for what?" Dearg asked, throwing his furs in the wagon.
"Who knows?" Ivar said, grinning. "Maybe there's something we can smoke for our amusement."
Dearg shook his head, grinning. "We should take some ale, too," he said. "I don't know how to ask for it in the Highlanders' language."
Ivar made a drinking gesture with his thumb and pinky, raising his hand up to his mouth to mimic taking a drink.
"I suppose everyone understands that one," Dearg said, chuckling.
He could see Fleek approaching in the distance, carrying several skins of water over his large shoulders. He waved, and then turned to help Ivar arrange the wagon. They tucked the edges of the blanket underneath the bodies to prevent it from blowing off. Ivar's axes were at the head of the wagon, wrapped in a leather strap and tied to the front wall.
"Not carrying your weapons?" Dearg asked.
Ivar shook his head. "Not a good idea to go wandering into another man's territory with your weapons visible," he said.
Dearg supposed there was logic to that, but what about possible ambushes? He would hate to be unarmed and unable to reach his wea
pons in time. That seemed more dangerous to him. He tightened his sword belt, smiling crookedly at Ivar as he did so.
"Do what you must," he said. "I'm keeping my blade."
"Don't get me wrong," Ivar said, pulling two long daggers from his belt and twirling them in his fingers. "I'm always armed. Just not in plain sight."
"Water is cold," Fleek said as he arrived. "Almost fall in river."
Dearg chuckled, taking a water skin from Fleek and setting it in the wagon. "That'll freeze your berries for sure," he said.
He saw that his father approaching from the stables, holding the bridle of a good-sized workhorse with white and tan spots. Olav waved, and Ivar laughed when he saw him.
"Damn," he said. "I was hoping we'd just have you pull the wagon."
Fleek laughed aloud, prompting Ivar to poke him in jest. Dearg shook his head, smiling as Olav handed over the reins.
"Thank you, father," he said. "She's a fine one."
"I would have brought more," Olav said, "but it's probably best to walk, and to have a horse pull the wagon at a slow speed. If the three of you are on horseback, you're more likely to ride too fast. We don't want this man and his two sons bouncing out the wagon now, do we?"
"As amusing as Ivar and Fleek would find it, no," Dearg said.
He connected the horse to the wagon, pulling the straps tight and patting the horse's flank when he was finished.
"Be careful, son," Olav said. "And don't mind the Highlanders' tongues. They may seem harsh, but they just lack tact."
"I wouldn't know anyway," Dearg said. "We don't speak their language."
"They'll recognize you as Northmen," Olav said. "They speak our language, and the common tongues of the island."
"Well, that's good," Ivar said. "Otherwise we'd just have to drop the bodies and run."
Though Dearg smiled, his thoughts were centered on the fact that he was not actually a Northman. He had known since a young age that he was a foundling; having been scooped up from the river and rescued. He was a man of Eirenoch in blood, though raised by the tribe as one of their own.
He realized that Olav was likely aware of his thoughts, as the old man smiled at him and patted him on the back. No matter where he came from, Dearg thought, Olav was his father, and he loved him as such.
"Everything will be fine, father," he said. "Don't worry about us. We won't cause any trouble."
Olav pursed his lips and looked down at the ground. "Whatever happens, do what you think is right, son. I know how you feel about T'kar and his troops, and I can't tell you what to do. But I know you'll follow your heart."
"If his wanders," Ivar said, "I'll follow it, too."
Dearg looked at Ivar then, seeing his friend's resolve. He knew that whatever happened, Ivar would stand by his side until the end. Fleek would as well. Even if they were backed into a corner, with the choice of fighting or fleeing, the two of them would do whatever Dearg did. They were his brothers, and they would die with him if he chose it.
"I'll see you when you return," Olav said, giving the three of them a nod one by one.
The road along the river was smooth-going up until the steep slope that led into the highlands. The cliffs became taller and taller as they went, until the river became nearly invisible in its course below. Fleek tossed stones over the edge, smiling when he heard them splash into the water. Ivar was mostly silent, but occasionally laughed along with Fleek when his laughter itself became humorous.
They reached the summit of the hills around noon, stopping to look at the rough ground ahead. Though at a higher elevation than their own lands, the highlands themselves seemed to be a hill-and-valley landscape of their own. The highest hills were clouded in mist, and the valleys were deeply cut by small creeks and rivers that disappeared into the rocks themselves, some of them spilling into the Varg River in the small canyon below.
"It's beautiful here," Ivar said. "I can see why the Highlanders like it. Secluded, misty, good places for ambushes."
"Hard to breathe," Fleek added.
"Don't worry, my friend," Dearg said. "You'll get used to it."
"My hair is getting bushy," Ivar said, laughing as he squeezed the matted, blond curls that poofed between his fingers. "It's like wool."
Fleek laughed out loud, pulling on his own bushy hair. Dearg could only smile and shake his head. "Such are the worries of women," he said.
There was a scuffling sound ahead, and the three of them turned to their left, seeing a lone goat wandering near the edge of a stone outcropping. They continued on, nervously watching the goat as it stood motionless as they passed, chewing on a mouthful of grass and staring blankly.
"He isn't afraid," Ivar said. "He must belong to someone."
"That means there are people nearby," Dearg said.
He saw Ivar rest his hand near the hidden daggers at his belt. Fleek instinctively touched the head of his hammer, but left it hanging at his belt. The big man's eyes darted here and there, and Dearg knew that Fleek sensed others around. Though "not all there" as Ivar frequently said, Fleek's senses were incredibly sharp; much sharper than most other men.
"What do you sense, Fleek?" Dearg asked.
Fleek looked at him blankly, but his head was cocked as if listening. "Not sure," he said. "More goats, maybe. People. Something."
There was a column of smoke ahead, probably coming from a bonfire or perhaps a cabin or hut. Whatever it was, it was a sign of civilization, and they would soon run across the kinsmen of the bodies in their wagon. Dearg nervously grabbed the horse's bridle, restraining the beast in case of a sudden fright.
Then, as Dearg suspected, there was the familiar sound of bows being drawn back. The three of them stopped, waiting patiently as a number of dirty, scruffy men stepped onto the path.
"Cò th 'annad?" one of them said, evidently asking a question.
"What did he say?" Dearg asked. Ivar shrugged.
"Who are you?" the man said again, having a guttural accent. "What are you doing in our territory?"
Dearg raised his hands, stepping forward a ways to show himself completely. The men drew back their bows even farther, and he stopped. The leader stepped toward him. Dearg could smell the man's filth. He was as dirty as he looked, and even his shaggy red hair and beard were filled with debris and possibly chunks of food.
"We are from the villages to the north," Dearg said. "I am Dearg, and these are Ivar and Fleek. My friends."
"Dearg?" the man said. "That means son of the dragon in our tongue. Where did you get that name?"
Dearg shook his head. "It is what my father named me," he said.
"You don't look like a Northman," the man said. "These others do, but you do not."
Dearg shrugged, looking to Ivar for help.
"That is not important," Ivar said. "We have come to return to you what we believe are your kinsmen."
The man furrowed his brow, turning to Ivar with a strange look. "What do you mean?"
Dearg raised his hands and slowly turned, showing the man he meant no harm as he went to the side of the wagon. He grabbed onto the blanket, being careful not to expose Ivar's axes as he drew it aside.
"Come look," he said.
The leader gestured to one of his men, and a younger dark-haired man lowered his bow and joined Dearg at the wagon. He looked at the bodies, lifting the head of one of the boys, sighing as he saw their severed throats.
"Aye," the young man said, glaring at Dearg as if they had cut their throats themselves. "It's Donal and his lads. Throats cut."
The leader stepped forward angrily, staring at the bodies with bated breath. He shook his head, sighing loudly as he looked back at his men. "It's true," he said. Then, he turned to Dearg in question. "Where did you find them?"
"We found them floating in the river just south of our village, past the barrier bridge," Dearg said. "It was Ivar and a few boys who found them."
"And you brought them back?"
Dearg nodded, seeing the sadness in the man's
eyes. "Yes," he said. "We did not know these men's station or title. They could have been lords or even thieves, for all we know. But we brought them back so they could have a proper burial."
The man nodded sadly. "I thank you," he said. "If you'd like, we will take them from here, and you can return home. But I would ask that you join us at our camp tonight, and share with us your stories. There is much we should discuss concerning the deaths of these men."
Dearg looked at Ivar, whose expression was expected. Highlanders meant ale, and ale meant good times, despite the dark nature of their visit. The answer was obvious.
"We will join you," Dearg said. "And we brought some ale just for this occasion."
The leader smiled, taking Dearg's hand. "Then celebrate we shall," he said happily. "I am Hamish, by the way, and all of these men are my sons and nephews. You'll grow to find them as annoying as I do."
Dearg grinned, looking over the dirty young men and shrugging indifferently as Hamish laughed. Ivar and Fleek joined in the laughter, and Hamish guffawed loudly.
"Come then," he said. "Tonight we feast and drink."
Baleron stared intently at the strange tracks that lay covered partially by the fallen leaves. The dim light of the sun filtering through the treetops barely illuminated them, but the ranger was skilled enough to tell that they were, indeed, not human tracks. Their length was much greater than those of men, by at least another half, telling him that whatever made these tracks was much taller a man.
"What are they?" he said out loud.
Menelith approached from behind him, crouching down to get a better look. The other men, fledglings he had gathered from the surrounding villages, joined them.
"These are the tracks of Fomorians," Menelith said. "Giants of the Earth."
"They are among the tracks of T'kar's men," Baleron said. "It looks like they were travelling together."
"That is likely," Menelith said. "T'kar himself is inhuman. It stands to reason that he would employ others of inhuman nature."
Dawn of the Dragon Page 7
