Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "The Fomorians are only legend, I thought," a young man said. "Are they truly real?"

  "It would seem so," Baleron replied. "If Menelith is correct."

  "I trust his judgment," another man said. "He has not led us astray."

  Baleron silently stared at the tracks, wondering how such a large creature would look to the common folk of Eirenoch. Surely, being the stuff of legends and horror, such a beast would appear as a monster, or even a demon. The appearance of demons was whispered among the commoners, and it was now evident that there was some truth to it all. The Beast King truly had the power to summon demons; demons from the depths of the Earth itself.

  "No matter their fierce nature," Menelith said, "they are flesh and blood. They are no more immortal than men. They can die just as easily."

  Baleron looked up at his men. Though horrified at the prospect of eventually facing such fierce creatures, they seemed to maintain their composure. That was the true meaning of courage, Baleron knew; charging forth despite the fear they may feel.

  He had chosen them well.

  "Killing such creatures will require skill," Menelith said. "Facing them one on one will not be possible. They are hard to kill, as they feel no pain, but they have their weaknesses. I will teach them to you."

  "Have you faced them before?" the younger man asked.

  "Many times," Menelith replied. "I have killed four of them, my brother has killed five that I know of. The Lady Allora has killed one with her magic, and even she had difficulty. We will step up your training, Baleron and I. We will not allow any of you to face them without preparation."

  "This was an unforeseen development," Baleron said. "We may have to delay any action until we find out how many of them are among T'kar's troops. We will follow and observe this group and decide whether to engage them or not, depending on the number of beasts among them."

  "If need be, I will kill them myself," Menelith said. "If we must face them, then these men must not be put in such danger. They are still green, and most have seen too few moons. I have seen many. They should not face such monsters until they are ready."

  "Then show us their weakness," the young man said. "We do not fear death. Only the prospect of our people's demise."

  Baleron smiled then, as did Menelith.

  "Your bravery is commendable, Odhran," the Alvar said. "I have the feeling you will go far within this new company of warriors."

  Odhran nodded gravely. "Whatever it takes to defend my people, I will do it."

  "Very well, then," Menelith said. "Baleron, take the company and follow these tracks. I will return to Lady Allora and ask for her blessing. Until then, stay hidden and do not engage the enemy. If I am successful, I will return with my warriors and we will begin our campaign."

  Baleron nodded gratefully. Each of them placed a hand on the other's shoulder, bowing their heads slightly.

  "May the Dragon watch over you, friend," Baleron said.

  "And you as well."

  Menelith turned and stepped into the shadows, leaving the company of rangers alone in the clearing. Baleron looked over his men, seeing the eagerness in their eyes. Odhran was the most eager, and the most willing to fight, it seemed. But, the young fledgling was somewhat too eager, Baleron knew. He would have to tame Odhran's spirit, lest he go charging into battle unprepared and get himself, or others, killed.

  "Come lads," Baleron said. "As silent as shadows, and as unseen as the wind, we go. Keep behind me, always be watchful of the world around you, and become one with the forest. This will be your lesson for today. We will follow and observe this troop, and nothing more. Understood?"

  The men nodded, but Baleron could see the disappointment in their faces, particularly Odhran's. He arched an eyebrow at the young man, challenging him to answer out loud.

  "Understood," Odhran said. "After you, captain."

  In the trees nearby, hidden in the shadows and crooks of the oaks, the young Druid watched the small company of men depart. He found them fascinating, as they seemed to mimic the movements and tactics of the Alvar themselves, and even the diminutive creatures he knew as the Druaga.

  But what was more fascinating to him was the fact that the Alvar known as Menelith had not detected him, even as he walked within touching distance. It was a thought that made the Druid smile, and chuckle to himself.

  He was new to this world, relatively-speaking. In his short two hundred years since his awakening, Jodocus had witnessed so many strange and exciting things in the world, and nothing was more interesting and intriguing to him than these creatures called Alvar. He knew by their very nature that they were other-worldly, not of this Earth. There was something about the way their spirits reverberated that wasn't quite aligned with this world, or this dimension, at least.

  They were strangers, he knew, here for some reason unknown to him. Surely he would have to find out what that reason was, eventually. For now, he decided, it was best—and most potentially interesting—to follow these young men to whatever their destination would be. There, at least, he would get some sense of how strong the people of Eirenoch could be in the face of danger. For he knew that this dark force they followed was something that none of them had ever faced before.

  He hoped that things would not turn out badly for the men. He rather enjoyed them. He would do his best to make sure nothing happened to them, and that they would survive long enough for this Alvar warrior to bring his own people to the table—as it were.

  Only then could this company of men gain the strength to stand up against the darkness. But, in the back of Jodocus' mind, he knew they were not the only hope. Somewhere, he felt, the blood of the Dragon coursed through a mortal man's veins, and would someday call out to him to take up his sword and lead the people to freedom.

  For the innocent folks of Eirenoch, this could not come too soon.

  Chapter Eight

  Dearg, Ivar and Fleek stood at a respectable distance from the small gathering around the graves. The Highlanders had brought the bodies to a rocky area where other graves were scattered among the outcroppings, and had dug three graves for Donal and his sons. The bodies were placed within them, wrapped in white linen cloths and adorned with flowers and other small items.

  Hamish, his sons and nephews, and other members of the clan gathered around, their heads hung in sorrow. A woman among them, clad in warrior's garb and with fiery reddish-gold hair, stood in the center near Donal's grave, her hands clasped before her and her head bowed. As Dearg and his friends watched, she suddenly began humming.

  Her voice was soothing, filling Dearg's heart with a warmth that he had never felt before. Though he had never met Donal, the woman's voice made it seem that he had known the man his whole life. He suddenly felt their sorrow, and had to take deep breaths in order to keep his wits. As he looked to either side of him, it seemed that Fleek and Ivar both felt the same strange familiarity.

  He was glad he was not the only one.

  Gradually, as the clan began humming along with her melody, the woman began to sing. Though Dearg did not understand her words, they rolled off of her tongue as beautifully as the crashing of waves upon the rocks of the shore.

  Cha bhi gal airson an tuiteam

  Chan eil iad a dhol air dhìochuimhn no

  Tha iad a 'fuireach nar measg a h-uile

  A 'sabaid agus a' dìon dhuinn o'n bhàs

  When she was finished, the young woman pressed her hands together, palms flat, and bowed her head before taking a place among the circle of clansmen. Hamish took her place at the center, gesturing for Dearg, Ivar and Fleek to join them in holding hands. They did so, seeing the looks of sorrow on the faces of those around them.

  "We thank these three sons of the north for bringing our kinsmen back to us," Hamish said. "They took it upon themselves to honor Donal and his lads, not knowing how our clan would react to their presence. They have shown true honor in doing so. Tonight, as we honor Donal, Gael and Duril, they shall join us as our guests."
/>   Dearg could feel the eyes of the clan on him. They were expressionless, though he could feel their gratitude. Only the young woman who had sang the dirge kept her eyes locked on him as the others turned away. Dearg returned her gaze, unsure of whether she was angered, thankful, lustful or otherwise. Either way, he was apprehensive.

  She looked like a scrapper.

  "Now," Hamish continued. "Let us give our own prayers to the Dragon and his kin. Let us give our offerings for Donal's safe passage into the land of the dead."

  One by one, the people left the circle and dropped offerings into the graves. Some left flowers, some food, others small knives or decorative stones. It was a beautiful ceremony, Dearg thought, somewhat touching to his own soul. These were his people by birth, and he felt a strange kinship with all of them. It felt as if their souls were a missing component in his life, one that now felt fulfilled while in their presence.

  It tore at his soul more than anything.

  "Friend," Ivar said, nudging him in the ribs. "That girl is staring at you like a Valkyrie about to carry you to Valhalla."

  Dearg looked back at the young woman. She was indeed still staring at him, her expression unchanged.

  "I think she's the chieftain's daughter," Ivar said. "So I would be careful with that one. A woman with that many brothers and cousins is a dangerous one for sure. I, on the other hand, will be having some words with that one over there."

  Dearg turned his gaze toward where Ivar was gesturing. There was another young woman, this one of bright red hair and striking green eyes, staring hungrily at Ivar, a crooked and longing smile on her plump, red lips.

  "She looks like she wants to eat you," Fleek said, smiling.

  "Let's hope so, my friend," Ivar jested. "Let's hope so."

  It was close to dusk by the time the bonfire was lit and the clan had all gathered together. They danced around the fire, men and women alike, and flute and lyre players pelted out tireless melodies both sad and celebratory. The ale and whiskeys flowed freely, and the Northmen were happy to share their own blends with the Highlanders.

  "Not bad," Hamish said, tasting the Northmen's ale. "It's got a nice sweet flavor. Try this, though."

  Dearg took the mug one of Hamish's sons handed him. The ale was dark, very dark, almost the color of roasted chicory root. He tasted it eagerly, finding it somewhat thick and pleasantly bitter. He licked his lips and passed it to Ivar, who tasted it and nodded approvingly. Fleek didn't seem to enjoy it, but kept quiet as he finished it.

  "That's called stout," Hamish said. "Not much bite to it, but good in the mornin'."

  The others laughed, raising their mugs in unison. Dearg felt warm inside, welcome and at home. It was clear that Ivar and Fleek felt the same way, though to a lesser degree. The Highlanders were very much like their own people in spirit. They liked to drink and make noise, enjoyed music and laughter, and held similar beliefs about the dead.

  Dearg liked them.

  "Tell me, Dearg," Hamish said. "Have your people had run-ins with T'kar's men?"

  "Nothing serious," Dearg said. "Minor scuffles. Nothing like the slaughter of the past. Since Jarl Borg was defeated, none of us have ever ventured far to the south. Our people mostly keep to ourselves."

  Hamish nodded. "Well, that's all well and good. But it won't stay that way forever. Eventually T'kar will travel farther north to claim the rest of the island. We are ready to die to protect our lands, which we will probably do. What of your people?"

  "I have long suggested to our leader that we prepare," Dearg said. "He has yet to understand how important it is for all of us on the island to stand together."

  "The Beast's men have come farther and farther north," Hamish said. "Not two days ago, the northernmost village was raided, the Riverfolk tell us. T'kar's men rounded up all the farmers and murdered their children as an example."

  Dearg was shocked. He could never imagine even the most evil of men slaughtering children. And to think, T'kar's men—most of them anyway—were men of Eirenoch. How could they have been so seduced by the Beast to murder their own people, much less children?

  "If the northernmost village is as far north as T'kar has come, then how did Donal and his sons come to be killed?"

  "He had traveled south several days ago," Hamish said. "He and his sons went to the river dwellings to trade. They must have wandered too far south. But as far south as they went, it's still too close for my comfort."

  "How do we even know that T'kar was responsible?" Ivar asked.

  A valid question.

  "That is the way T'kar's men operate," Hamish said. "Never outright execution. It's always something that causes suffering. Dumping their bodies in the river was a message. He, or the men who did this, would have known that they would be found."

  "Your lands are too high above the river for you to find them," Ivar said. "Which is probably why they were found near our village. Perhaps they were killed as a message to all of us."

  Ivar was right. And if the message was to all of the peoples of the north, then it should be all of them who would answer that message. If only he could convince Svengaar to at least consider an alliance, there might be some hope of freeing the people of Eirenoch from the beastly menace that sat upon the throne.

  "The Jarl will never get involved," Dearg lamented.

  "Then perhaps it is time for new leadership," the young singing woman said out of nowhere.

  Dearg looked up to see her standing by the fire, her arms folded across her chest.

  "Dearg," Hamish said. "This is my daughter, Morrigan. She is a feisty one, to be sure, but she speaks her mind."

  Dearg stood to greet her.

  "Sit down," she said. "I am not a queen, nor a noble lady."

  "She's not much of a lady, period," an older man said from the other side of the fire.

  Morrigan turned to glare at him, and he fell silent. The others around him lowered their heads. Dearg could hear Ivar chuckle.

  "If your Jarl does not hear the call of the Dragon, then he does not belong in our lands. And neither do you."

  "Morrigan!" Hamish scolded her. "Mind your tongue. Dearg and his friends are welcome here. His people are welcome on the island. King Daegoth made it so, and we will not defy his generosity."

  Though Morrigan sat back down, her face was still defiant. "Then as his guests, they should fulfill their end of that generosity and help to protect the lands they were given leave to inhabit."

  "It is not our place to say who is or who isn't—"

  "She's right," Dearg interrupted Hamish. "She is absolutely right. We can no longer stay hidden on the other side of the mountains. T'kar will come eventually, and when he does, there will be no one left to stand with us."

  "Convincing Svengaar will be difficult," Ivar said. "He's as stubborn as they come."

  "Stubborn like a pig," Fleek added, to which Ivar grunted and raised his mug.

  "Then we have work to do," Ivar said. "Jarl or not, I am more than willing to offer my axes in battle."

  Dearg nodded, gripping the handle of his sword. Fleek smiled, patting the head of his hammer as he did, chuckling like a child. Hamish grinned, cocking his head as he looked at Dearg.

  "What's the story with that one?" he asked.

  "Fleek is a good man, and a fine warrior," Dearg said. "He's just… uh…"

  "He's not all there," Ivar said, laughing.

  Fleek laughed again, and eventually the Highlanders, including Morrigan, joined in.

  "Then he'll fit right in," Hamish said.

  As night fell, Dearg found himself looking off to the southeast, gazing at the shadowy form of the dark tower that stood out against the overcast sky. Though he had seen it many times in the past, when the mists were light, he had never seen it so clearly. Here, it seemed, he felt drawn to it. Not just by its appearance, but by some force or instinct that tugged at his very soul.

  He could only gaze as it in wonder as it stood there, stark and obvious to anyone within viewin
g distance. What was it? Why was it there? Why had T'kar not claimed it for his own? It seemed a good place to keep watch over the tribes and clans of the north, but there it was, empty and unused.

  At least, that's how it appeared.

  Perhaps T'kar—or someone or something worse—did keep watch from there. Perhaps the Beast King stood at a window or other portal, gazing out over the hills and mountains that stood between him and his enemies. From here, it seemed impossible to reach. How would one get there without flying over the mountains?

  He was lost in thought, trying to guess how it could be reached, and didn't hear the footsteps behind him until he noticed Morrigan's shadow in the moonlight. She stood next to him for a moment, evidently looking where he was looking, wondering what he was wondering.

  "I've seen this tower a hundred times at least," he said. "But I've never had such a strange impression of it until now."

  "It is the home of the Dragon," Morrigan said. "His temple, where the Druaga keep his spirit. Some say they built the tower, as well, and continue to do so, even as we speak."

  "The Druaga?" he asked.

  "You've never heard of them?"

  Dearg shook his head. "No," he said. "Who or what are they?"

  "No one knows, really. They are simply a mysterious people that sprang from the forests themselves. They serve the Dragon, and protect its lands when they can. They are the reason T'kar's men stay out of the thicker forests; the ones where the Dragon's power is the greatest."

  He had never heard of such a thing, but it was fascinating. He couldn't imagine what kind of being could inspire such fear in T'kar or his men, especially one that wasn't well known to him. Surely if great beasts roamed the forests, he would have heard legends at least.

  "What do they look like?" he asked.

  Morrigan shook her head. "Some say they are tiny," she said. "Some say they are faeries, not to be confused with the Alvar, but faeries none-the-less."

  "Pixies," Dearg said. "Goblins. Bogeys."

  Morrigan chuckled. "Those are old wives' tales," she said. "Meant to make children behave."