Dearg smiled fondly, remembering Olav's bedtime stories. They had scared the hell out of him, ensuring that he wouldn't open his eyes again until the sun came up.
"They worked," he said. "Especially when my father told them."
"Well, the Druaga are no old wives' tales," she said. "We have seen signs of their presence when we traveled south to the forests. They are not in the forests up here, not the pines, only the old and thick woods where the oaks and willows grow."
"But you haven't seen them yourself?"
Morrigan shook her head; her fair, pretty head. "No," she said. "I've only heard the Riverfolk speak of them. They've only caught glimpses of them, and have never seen them completely. They stay away from humans."
"What of these Alvar?" Dearg wondered. "Do they show themselves to them?"
"I think so," Morrigan said. "They share a kinship of some kind, I suppose, even though the Alvar are not of this world."
"I know how they feel," Dearg said.
He could feel Morrigan's hand on his bicep. It was not just a comforting touch, he noticed, but one that felt loving and understanding with a hint of desire. He turned to look down at her. Though she smiled—quite unusual for what he knew of her—her eyes had a touch of sadness to them, as if she could feel the turmoil that now coursed through his veins. He felt the urge to grab her and embrace her, feeling her warmth against his bare skin, to press his face against hers and feel their very souls touch…
But he restrained himself as best as he could, not wanting to frighten or offend her. For, as he had noticed before, she was a scrapper.
"Tell me how you came to be raised by the Northmen," she said softly.
"I was under the impression you didn't like me," Dearg said, cocking an eyebrow.
"I don't like anyone," she said. "Especially strangers. But when I saw you staring at the tower it got me wondering where you came from."
"I came from the south, I suppose," he said. "The only thing I know is that when my father found me in the river, there was an amulet in the basket with me. It had the symbol of the Dragon carved upon it."
"Did it look like this?"
Morrigan pulled back the sleeve of her tunic, revealing a symbol etched upon the leather gauntlet she wore. Surrounded by a circle was the figure of a coiled dragon. His heart nearly stopped when he saw it. It was identical to the amulet that had hung around his neck as a child; the one that his father had found wrapped in his blankets.
"That is it," he said, taking her wrist and staring at the symbol closely. "What does it mean?"
"It is not only the symbol of the Dragon, but of King Daegoth as well. This gauntlet was my grandfather's, from when he served the king as a scout."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Could this mean that he was also the descendant of a kingsman? Did his own father or grandfather serve King Daegoth in some capacity?
"You are speechless," Morrigan said.
"Of course," Dearg said. "This is…"
"Just another clue," she finished. "There is a reason you stare at the tower. You feel something, don't you?"
"Yes," he replied, looking back at the tall, black shape that jutted up above the distant peaks. "Like nothing I've ever felt before."
"It is a sign," Morrigan said. "The Dragon has sent you to us."
He looked back at her in disbelief. "For what?"
"To lead us against the Beast."
Dearg shook his head, turning away breathless and bewildered. She rushed around him to stand in front of him again, putting her hands upon his chest and staring up into his eyes.
"You have the strength of ten men," she said. "I can feel it. You are a leader. You don't need your Jarl. Take your people, lead them to us, and rally us all to stand against T'kar. Svengaar be damned!"
"How can I defy my own chieftain?" Dearg said.
"He is not your chieftain," she said. "They are not your people. We are your people. You belong with us!"
"No!" he shouted, backing away. "No. I am Dearg, son of Olav of the Tribe of the Wolf!"
"You are Dearg, son of the Dragon!" Morrigan said. "That is what your name means! Who gave you that name?"
Dearg shook his head, turning in circles. "Our Völva," he said weakly. "Our…"
"Your shaman," Morrigan finished. "Your shaman gave you that name. Why do you think she gave you that name? That amulet was in your blanket for a reason."
"Why do you say these things?" Dearg asked. "What do you know?"
Frustrated, she grabbed his arm and roughly dragged him back to the edge of the outcropping. "Look at the tower," she said. "Look at it and tell me you feel nothing!"
He focused on the tower again, trying to block out the feelings he had. No matter how hard he tried, however, he could not shake those thoughts. There was a feeling of belonging in his heart when he gazed upon it. Not just a familiarity as he thought before, but a true feeling of belonging.
"Dol Drakkar is its name," Morrigan said. "It means northern vessel in the older tongues. It is a vessel for reaching the Dragon himself; a temple. Now tell me, Dearg. Tell me you feel nothing."
He took a deep breath, feeling it quiver as the air entered his lungs. He could not manage to take a calming breath, as his body was wracked with inner turmoil.
"I feel… something," he stammered. "But I cannot say what it is, for I do not know."
"You feel the same as I," Morrigan said. "And you feel it because you are one of us. We are all the Dragon's children, we of Eirenoch. The Northmen are the children of Kronos. Did you ever feel a kinship with Kronos?"
"To serve one Firstborn is to serve them all," he remembered.
"They are all children of Gaia," Morrigan reminded him, "but they have their own children, and their own power. This is the Dragon's land; this and others across the sea."
He turned to her then, not quite understanding her words.
"Other lands, other people, who live across the sea in the darkest jungles," she clarified.
"I had no idea there were other lands across the sea," he said.
Morrigan smiled. "There are, and their people are our brothers and sisters. The Dragon is the most powerful of the Firstborn. Did you think that such a powerful entity would only rule this tiny island? The world is vast beyond imagination. Eirenoch is but a small part of it."
"How do you know these things?" he asked.
"I feel them," Morrigan explained. "It's almost as if the Earth speaks to me; that Gaia herself speaks to me."
He gazed at her, trying to find some sense of what she was saying. Though her words were confusing, he remembered both Mada and Igrid the Shieldmaiden saying similar things. The Völva would quite obviously hear and feel such things, as she was the tribe's shaman and was connected with not only Kronos, but the Earth itself. But Igrid, she was but a warrior and a servant of Kronos.
Why would the Great Mother have any interest in her?
"Something tragic has happened," Morrigan said. "I felt it, but I can't explain it. I feel a calling, a beckoning. There is something that tells me I am destined for a path greater than being a simple farmer's daughter. I believe your destiny lies in a path similar to mine. So I feel a connection with you."
As soon as Morrigan mentioned that connection, he knew that there was truth to it. He felt drawn to her as well, as if their paths were connected somehow. Their destinies were entangled, it seemed, and the more he thought about it, the more real it seemed to him. What that connection was, he could not guess.
"I feel it, too," he said.
A slight smile spread across her lips, and it gave him a warm feeling again. He could not tear his eyes away from her, not for a second. Again, he felt the urge to snatch her up and entangle his soul with hers. But he had to resist. He did not want to offend her or seem hostile. But it was she that acted on that mutual feeling.
Morrigan reached up and grasped the hair on the back of his head, pulling his lips to hers. There was an instant surge of emotion as their lips t
ouched, and Dearg felt a stirring that he had never felt before. It was a powerful jolt that spread through his body, numbing him and making him more receptive at the same time. It was the most incredible feeling he had ever experienced, and he wanted it more than anything.
"You are mine," Morrigan said. "Now and forever. I will see you to greatness, and I will stand by your side no matter what that greatness brings."
Dearg was breathless. This was all happening too fast. He had been intimate with women on many occasions; with Igrid, with other women of the tribe—but this was different. It was not lust or animal instinct. It was something else; a connection that ran far deeper than just his loins.
"Come back to my hut," she said. "Share your soul with me tonight and forever."
Dearg wanted that. He wanted that more than he wanted her body. For the first time in his life, Dearg wanted to lay bare his very soul, to offer up his heart to this woman who had abruptly walked into his life and captured him like a trapper. He would surrender his will and his love, if not for just one night.
But for all time.
Chapter Nine
Guttural chants and whispers filled the darkened forest around Baleron and his rangers. They had located the troops they sought in a rocky clearing near the stagnant waters of an ancient pond. There, under the moonlight, the two dozen troops stood in a large circle as a sorcerer crouched in the center.
Two ghastly and large creatures were among them, standing on either side of the sorcerer. They were armored much like the human soldiers; blackened leather plates with steel buckles and chainmail. Each was armed with a large halberd that was even longer than they stood tall. These were the Fomorians they sought, the ancient creatures that had recently joined the ranks of T'kar's army.
Baleron's senses told him that something strange and vile was about to occur, and as he glanced at his comrades, it was evident that they felt it, too. Odhran had made his way over to him and watched closely, his bright eyes taking in the bewildering sight with a wisdom Baleron has never seen in one so young.
As they watched, the soldiers drew their swords, holding them high into the air. The sorcerer, dressed in black and frayed rags, stood up, his thin and skeletal arms reaching upward as strange chants came from his leathery and cracked lips.
"Veliki Kathorgo, gospodar podzemlja," he began. "Poslušajte nas i daj nam majstorstvo nad vragova koji žive ispod! Dajte nam još jedan brat tame, da prebiva među nama i uništiti svoje neprijatelje!"
The soldiers let out a guttural sound in unison. Baleron looked over at Odhran, who returned his gaze with a questioning look.
"What does it mean?" the young ranger asked.
Baleron shrugged, shaking his head. He had never heard the language before, but it definitely wasn't anything spoken on the island, nor any land that he ever heard of. One word stood out though. Kathorgo. He had heard this name before, in the legends of the Alvar. Though he didn't remember who this being was, he did remember something about it having emerged from the Earth itself, bringing with it demons of the deep.
Demons that existed before the coming of the race of men. Demons that he now understood were the giants standing before him.
"Esnatuko, anaia!" the sorcerer spoke.
The Fomorians repeated his words with hissing voices, dropping their halberds and crouching down to dig their claws into the very stone. Growls came from their fanged maws, and their eyes began to glow red as the sorcerer conjured a shimmering circle around himself and the giants. The ground began to tremble beneath them all, and Baleron's men crouched down lower, collectively securing themselves against a possible quake.
But the ground only cracked in front of the sorcerer. The stones split with a deafening rumble, and wisps of dark magic began to snake their way from the Earth itself. The sorcerer began cackling as the Fomorians reached in, grasping some unknown object. To Baleron's horror, they withdrew their claws, each of them dragging what appeared to be another of their kind from the ground.
The soldiers began to knock their swords and shields together as the creature emerged from the dark portal. It stepped out, withered and weak, cowering in the moonlight. It was revolting; pale and translucent, gangly and twisted. Baleron could hear his men sigh with disgust as it stood to its full height, wavering with the fatigue of centuries of imprisonment.
"Ghastly," Odhran whispered.
But the creature's appearance was nothing compared to what happened next. At the beckoning of the sorcerer, a soldier stepped forward, dropping his weapons and stripping down to his bare flesh. The sorcerer handed him a long and twisted dagger from his belt, uttering something in that same, vile language.
Before the rangers' eyes, the soldier cut his own throat. He dropped the dagger, spitting blood and staggering toward the newly summoned beast. The Fomorian snatched him up, raising him into the air to drink the blood that gushed from his open throat.
Baleron could feel his stomach turning inside him. His heart raced with horror, and his skin crawled. He had never witnessed anything so strange and horrifying in his long years with the Alvar. This was truly an abomination. The Fomorians were even more vile and repulsive than he could have ever imagined.
The Fomorian's jaw cracked loudly, and its maw opened impossibly wide. It lowered the soldier's head into its gaping mouth and ripped it off with one fell bite. Baleron looked away, no longer wishing to see the horror. The other rangers did the same, their eyes all focusing on him as they tried to keep the vision away. But the sound of crunching bone and ripping flesh drew their gazes back, and Baleron could only turn and creep away.
The rangers followed him closely until they reached a safe distance from the gathering. He then stood, leaning against an oak as the men gathered around him. He was breathless with horror, and it took a moment for him to realize that they were near. As he looked up, he saw that a few of the men were weeping silently. The sight had been so horrifying to them that they could no longer bare to even think of it.
This was not something simple farmers or hunters were used to seeing.
"A vile thing, this was," Odhran said. "Those creatures must be destroyed."
Baleron nodded. "We will need warriors much stronger than any of us," he said. "They are beyond our power. The Alvar must intervene and join our ranks. Otherwise, Eirenoch is doomed."
"I have never seen nor heard of anything like this," another ranger said. "What are those things? Those are no simple giants. I've seen giants. They don't look like that."
Baleron shook his head, frustrated that he did not have an explanation.
"Menelith may know more about them than I do," he said.
"Demons, they are," Odhran said. "They have to be."
"That is what they are, for the most part," Baleron said. "Demons that devour human flesh, and have done so since our beginning."
The company was silent as they reflected on their experience. Looking over the men, Baleron was glad, yet reviled, that they had this encounter. For he knew that exposure to such mind-boggling things built hardness in a warrior's heart. It was best to get these things out of the way as soon as possible. It was clear that they would be facing darker things in the future.
"Alright, lads," he said. "It's time to move on. There is nothing we can do about these troops, but there are others about, and there are villages to protect. We'll head toward the logging camp and scout the forest there."
Menelith clasped his brother's arm in greeting, bowing his head slightly as was customary for their people. Tenegal was with his own soldiers, patrolling the forest against the horrors of the night. He was expecting Menelith to return soon, and was happy to see him when they met.
"How fare thee, brother?" Tenegal asked.
"I am well, Tenegal," Menelith replied. "Baleron has successfully assembled the able-bodied men of the surrounding villages and they are ready for training."
Tenegal was silent, as he knew what Menelith would ask him. He turned, gesturing for his brother to follow, and the
n walked with his hands behind his back.
"It is customary for our people not to get involved in such matters," Tenegal said. "Baleron is capable of training them. He doesn't need our assistance in that capacity."
"That is true, brother. But what concerns me is that whatever training he can provide, it will not be sufficient for whatever dangers they may come to face."
"I'm listening."
"T'kar's numbers grow by the day," Menelith explained. "These men are but a few dozen. Even though they will be trained in our ways, they can only fight from the shadows. They are far too few to face the enemy in open battle."
"I see," Tenegal said. "And what do you suggest?"
"Brother," Menelith said, taking Tenegal's arm. "Baleron, though skilled, is but a man. He does possess our abilities, and those abilities are needed. Our numbers may be needed as well."
Tenegal sighed deeply. "Even with our soldiers, they could not be victorious in an open war. Our people would be wasting their lives assisting them in a lost cause."
Menelith's heart sank. He knew Tenegal was right, that the people of Eirenoch were not strong in numbers. T'kar's forces would crush them. Even the massive gathering of Northmen led by Jarl Borg had been easily defeated. It was a battle that had lasted no more than a few hours, leaving a majority of the Northmen dead. T'kar had even followed them as far as he could, slaughtering those who had tried to escape.
"We owe them our allegiance," Menelith said, appealing to his brother's honor. "We are here on their world searching for a means of saving our own world, lest the darkness take it. What have we given them in return?"
"What we are here to take," Tenegal said, "is something that does not even belong here. Lady Allora has sought out this Mother Spirit for millennia, and it is here for our taking. All we have to do is find it, and we may return home. The men of this world will not even know it is gone. Gaia will protect them."
"That is not my concern," Menelith said. "We still use their resources. We have built our forts here in their forests, we have sapped their Great Mother's energy to fuel our magic... we owe them."
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