He was not willing to abandon his heritage.
"Perhaps Igrid can talk some sense into him," he said. "Or maybe Mada."
"If Mada has any influence over him, she needs to speak up. She's as old as the hills."
As Dearg considered Ivar's words, he caught sight of Hamish staggering up the rocky path toward them. He felt a mild sense of panic, as it would be obvious that he had spent the night with Morrigan. He wasn't sure of the Highlanders' customs when it came to relationships.
"Dearg," Hamish huffed as he stopped before them. "We need to talk before you go back home."
"Sir," Dearg stammered. "About your daughter—"
Hamish waved the thought away with his hand, shaking his head. "Never mind that," he said. "Morrigan is a grown lass. She can bugger whoever she wants."
Dearg shot Ivar a quick glance. Ivar glanced back with a raised brow and a crooked smile.
"I wanted to ask you for your help," Hamish said. "Your tribe's help."
Dearg nodded. "I know, friend," he said. "Our Jarl will be hard to convince, but I agree with you. We agree with you. It is time to rally everyone together and face T'kar head on."
Hamish nodded. "We can't allow those villagers down there to stand alone. If T'kar kills them all, there will be no one left. They're all that stands between us and the Beast."
"I will do my best to convince Svengaar that fighting is the right thing to do," Dearg said. "But I can't say for sure what will happen."
"Either way," Ivar added, "you have our blades."
"That's right," Dearg said. "Such as they are."
Hamish nodded half-heartedly. "Fine, fine," he said. "We would appreciate it. I would hate for your chieftain to have to witness a slaughter in order to act. But bad as that would be, it would likely light a fire under his arse."
"It would," Ivar said. "Though I'm not sure what an arse is."
"It's this!" Ivar's woman said as she exited her hut and roughly grabbed Ivar's backside. He jumped up, grinning and turning to put his arm around her.
"You'll be leavin' then?" she asked.
"Soon," Ivar replied. "But we'll be back."
The woman shrugged indifferently. "Fine. If not, fine too. Doesn't matter."
"Looks like you made quite an impression there, lad," Hamish said in jest. "No worries though. She'll remember you. Dana remembers them all."
It was then that Morrigan emerged. She was wrapped in furs and her hair blew freely in the morning breeze. Hamish greeted her with a nod as she sidled up next to Dearg and put her arm around him.
"Dana is not the only one who remembers," she said. "But I hope that I won't have to remember you. I trust you'll return with your warriors."
"That is my hope," Dearg said.
"It is not just your hope," Morrigan said. "It is in your blood, and it is your destiny."
"What's this?" Ivar asked curiously.
Dearg sighed. "I'll explain on the way home," he said. "But I think you know."
Ivar shrugged. "Alright then," he said. "I'll grab my gear and we'll be off."
"Don't forget us, friend," Hamish said sadly. "I'll await your return. I truly hope to see you come back over that hill with an army of your tribesmen."
"That is my hope as well," Dearg said, taking Hamish's arm and meeting his gaze. "But as Ivar said, the three of us will return either way."
Hamish gave a hopeful nod, and then turned to start down the path again. Dearg turned to Morrigan, who was staring up at him expressionless. He took her head in his hands and kissed her, pulling back to look into her eyes.
"Remember our conversation," she said. "And remember the call you heard. The Dragon has chosen you for a reason. I do not know why, but he has. I hope you will not ignore his call."
"Never," Dearg said. "It is the only thing that makes sense to me now. I have heard that call my whole life. I just didn't realize it. I will return, and I will fight at your side. I promise."
"Do not promise," Morrigan said. "Promises can be broken. Fate cannot."
As he gazed into her eyes, Dearg realized he had never heard truer words. His fate was set, he felt. The Norns had deemed it when they delivered him to the safety of the Northmen. It was a fact that tore his heart. He was raised a Northman, and a Northman he would remain, but his blood boiled with the fires of the Dragon.
That was something he could deny no longer.
After loading up their wagon with gifts of potatoes, tobacco and other goods, Dearg and Ivar stood in wait for their enamored friend. Fleek stood embraced by his new lover, swaying her back and forth while the two of them giggled like children. Dearg and Ivar could only laugh, both of them feeling happy for their friend. Women had rarely ever shown any interest in the man, due to him not being "all there" as Ivar had frequently said, but this woman seemed to enjoy his company—and likewise he enjoyed hers.
"Come on, Fleek," Dearg shouted to him. "She's not going anywhere."
Fleek released her, setting her back on her feet, and she kissed him once more before finally walking away.
"Come back to me, Fleek," she said. "I'll dream of ye until then!"
Fleek's smile was as wide as his face, prompting another laugh as he joined his friends. Ivar clapped him on the shoulder a few times, and the big man laughed like a bear.
"I like Highlander women," Fleek said.
"They're friendly, eh?" Ivar said.
"And soft," Fleek replied.
Dearg gave the horse a smack on the flank and the beast started forward. They followed behind, each of them looking back until the valley disappeared behind them. It would be a long journey back home, but only because none of them would be able keep their minds on the road ahead.
Fleek's focus was obvious. Ivar, not so much. His lover was indifferent to his return, as was his prospect of seeing her again. He had evidently found someone who was not interested in finding a husband; just a night's passion.
Dearg, on the other hand, had found not only a woman with whom he could share his life, but a new-found possible future. It was a future laden with uncertainty. Could he convince Svengaar to join the Highlanders? Was Dearg himself capable of rallying enough support to form an army strong enough to stand against T'kar?
Every question was difficult to answer. But one thing was certain; Dearg would have to choose between living his life as a simple hunter, or risking that very life to free the people of Eirenoch. It was a difficult decision, to be sure, but Morrigan's revelation had given him more hope for the latter.
If the Dragon truly called to him, which he was beginning to believe, it seemed to him that he had no choice in the matter. The Dragon had made the choice for him, and there was nothing he could do to change that. He had surely felt something strong when he looked at the old tower, but he couldn't be sure whether it was the tower itself, or the feelings he was having for Morrigan. He had only known her for a short time, though, and he had seen the tower countless times in the past.
Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.
T'kar growled with laughter as he beheld the gruesome scene in Igraina's private chambers. Blood was splattered everywhere; on the walls, upon the floor, and on all of the furnishings. The bodies of Igraina's handmaiden's lay in various positions upon the bloody floor, all of them mutilated, disemboweled, and quite dead.
Igraina had slaughtered them before she left. The young women, whom she thought of as her own daughters, had truly meant so little to her that she had killed them rather than let them perform their duties for the king. Or, perhaps, her disdain for T'kar simply outweighed her love for them. To him, it didn't matter. He found it amusing either way.
He walked among the bodies, laughing as he saw the horrified expressions on their dead faces. Their mouths were frozen open, their eyes were wide and glazed, and most of them had blood on their fingernails. Those, he realized, had tried to fight back. The others had simply allowed themselves to be sacrificed, or had just been surprised.
"Pity," T'kar whispered
. "So lovely. All of you."
"My Lord," Randar said behind him.
T'kar was startled, but turned calmly. Randar's face was expressionless, as if the sight of the slaughtered handmaidens was of no matter to him.
"What is it?"
"Captain Jarka and his troops have departed and are on their way north now," Randar said.
"Fine," T'kar said. "I trust his sorcerer will be able to communicate their position upon request?"
Randar nodded. "Our own sorcerer is in communication with him now. He will keep me updated and I will pass their status on to you, Sire."
"Very well, Randar," T'kar said. "On your way out, tell the houseboys to clean up this mess."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to ravish the corpses first?"
T'kar was surprised by the question. Though it angered him for a split second, he found it amusing. Randar was indeed of man of dark humor. He was definitely a man he could deal with. He began to chuckle as he noticed that Randar's expression did not change.
"I will pass this time," T'kar said with a humored sneer. "But feel free to indulge if you wish. You've earned it."
"No thank you, Sire," Randar said with a sly grin. "I've had my share of lifeless women."
T'kar chuckled again. "Fine. One last thing. I am in need of a new seer. Send some men out, yourself ideally, and find me another one. Surely there are more witches out there."
"I will find one myself," Randar said.
Igraina wandered north along the river, keeping off of the main road as much as possible. She glanced up occasionally, cursing her luck as she beheld the sky. The clouds above were churning and darkening as the morning wore on, and she knew that a light rain was brewing.
Typical, she thought.
Her mood was dark, as the previous night's events had spun her sanity out of control. So much, in fact, that her rage had caused her to slaughter her own handmaidens. She had murdered them all in cold blood, slitting their throats, gutting them, and ripping them apart with her bare hands.
And she had no idea why.
She had a revelation of some kind, she knew, but she could not remember any details. The only thing that stayed with her as her mind was drained was the name Ach-Ia-gra. But, what that name meant—whether it was hers or someone else's—remained a mystery to her.
So, at T'kar's request, she had fled the fortress after killing her own servants. Why the king had asked her to leave was also a mystery. Surely he needed someone of her power, her ferocity, and her magic. But no. He had told her to leave.
It was maddening.
Now, as she wandered aimlessly, wrapped tightly in her green cloak and bereft of her armor, she began to feel the bitter cold of loneliness, as well as the coming rain. She pulled her cloak even tighter to ward off the chill, conjuring a cantrip spell to warm herself. The mist began to roll in, bringing with it more chill, and the coming rain.
It began to drizzle, much to her dismay, but it was something else that caught her attention. She could sense the presence of three men ahead, hiding somewhere in the brush near the tree line. Bandits, probably, waiting to pounce on her and rob her, or worse.
So they thought.
Her suspicions were confirmed when the brush erupted with activity and three men burst through. Igraina stopped, keeping her stance straight and rigid as they laughed and drew their blades. The leader, a man in his thirties, bald, and wearing a wide leather belt over peasant's clothing, approached. He grinned widely, looking her over with a cocked eyebrow over lustful eyes.
"Well," he said, his accent thick. "What do we 'ave 'here?"
Igraina said nor did nothing. She simply stared. The man came closer, cocking his head as it came uncomfortably close to hers.
"What are ye doin' in these parts, lass? Don't ye know this is my territory?"
"She's a pretty one, eh?" another said. "A bit old for me tastes, but shaggable methinks."
The leader laughed, his foul breath blowing into Igraina's face. It stank of whiskey and decay.
"How 'bout it then?" he asked. "Ye up for a shag or three?"
Igraina made a quick wave of her hand. The man's eyes widened as he realized his throat had been laid open. He dropped his blade, reaching up to grab his throat as he staggered back and fell to the ground choking and spitting. The other two men froze, shifting from side to side as they nervously contemplated their next move.
They were both younger, but equally foul and ugly, and Igraina cared not for their fates. She would destroy them regardless of their age. It didn't matter to her.
"Well?" Igraina asked as she waited.
The nearest bandit charged, raising his sword as he growled in rage. Igraina lifted her hand into the air, her fingers clawed and in a grasping formation. The man was stopped mid-charge by an unseen force and lifted from the ground. Igraina closed her hand, and the man's throat crunched. He fell limp, and she let him fall to the ground.
The remaining bandit turned to flee, dropping his blade and crying out in terror. Igraina threw a bolt of magic after him, igniting him with raging flames. He thrashed and screamed in agony, falling to the ground and rolling around to extinguish the flames.
But the flames remained, burning the man to a husk as Igraina continued her journey north. She smiled as she heard his final groans, and the smell of burnt flesh followed her with its pleasant scent.
"Fools," she whispered.
"What shall we do with the bodies?" Odhran asked as the rangers assembled outside.
They had slept for a brief few hours, and now gathered to plan their next move. The question remained whether to do something with the bodies of T'kar's soldiers before leaving, or to simply leave them where they lay.
"I say we throw them in the building and be done with it," one ranger said.
"No," Baleron replied. "If they are found, T'kar will think the loggers killed them and go after them."
"That may be a foregone conclusion either way," Odhran said. "Whether we dispose of them or leave them he will think it was them."
"Not likely," Menelith said. "These are warriors, armed and skilled in battle. The loggers are simple laborers with little to no military experience. When this camp is found, it will be clear to T'kar that we exist."
Baleron nodded. "Agreed," he said. "There is no stopping that now. He will notice that they have not returned."
"But if these soldiers were stationed here they likely would not report very often," Odhran said.
"Eventually a patrol will come to check on them," Baleron said. "When that happens, they will know."
"That is true," Menelith said, drawing his dagger. "So when they are found, we will leave them a message.
He drove the dagger into the heart of one of the soldiers. Baleron grinned, knowing that the sight of an Alvar dagger would likely inspire fear in the heart of any enemy.
"Now they will know the Alvar have been awakened," Menelith said.
The rangers moved silently through the trees, led by Baleron and Menelith. Occasionally they would stop and point out various signs of the passing of T'kar's troops; boot prints, strange claw marks from the Fomorians, and even the sticky remnants of urine left by those who went off trail to relieve themselves.
Baleron discussed the scene they had all witnessed before, relating how shocking and bizarre the Fomorian's awakening had been. Menelith listened intently, nodding his head as Baleron gave him the gruesome details.
"The Fomorians consume flesh," Menelith said. "Particularly human flesh. They have done this since before men were able to use tools. It's surprising that there are still men left on this island."
"Surely they are not confined to this island," Baleron said. "Especially considering they are from far within the Earth."
"No," Menelith agreed. "They are simply known by different names in other lands. Troglodytes, trolls and the like."
"Whatever they are called, this patrol had three of them. I think we should engage them, now that we are complete."
&nbs
p; "Yes," Menelith said. "That is the plan. The Fomorians must not be allowed to live. If we are to engage T'kar directly in the future, then it is urgent we eliminate these monsters beforehand. They have the ability to reproduce quickly once their numbers are great enough."
"What do you mean?" Baleron asked. "Are they male and female?"
"No," Menelith said. "Their collective life energy forces their bodies to split, and each half grows to another creature. If they are not eliminated soon, they will reproduce at an alarming rate, and the island will be overrun."
"Does T'kar know this?"
"Not likely."
Menelith stopped suddenly, holding his hand in the air to signal the company to stop and take cover. Baleron crouched down in the weeds, listening intently as a distant sound became clearer and clearer.
"It is them," Menelith whispered.
The Alvar signaled the rest of the company to ready their bows, and he drew his blade, staring unmoving into the shadows as the enemy troop neared.
"Get ready," Menelith said. "Use your bow. Ignore the giants. My warriors will take care of them."
Baleron nodded nervously. He had no idea why he felt such apprehensiveness. Perhaps it was the prospect of going up against such terrifying beasts. He couldn't be sure. He drew his bow even so, nocking an arrow and awaiting Menelith's signal.
The voices of the soldiers echoed down the nearby path, interspersed with the heavy footfalls of the three Fomorians among them. Baleron looked back at his men, whose faces, though mostly obscured, were visible enough for him to see their fear. He was glad that the Alvar were with them.
Menelith suddenly dropped his hand, and the sound of dozens of arrows filled the air. Baleron loosed his own bow, striking the first man in line. Most of the soldiers fell with that one volley, and the rangers leaped up and went to action.
Baleron followed Menelith into the fray as the soldiers prepared for battle. The Fomorians roared, their foul and ghastly voices stinging Baleron's ears like a banshee's cry. Menelith went straight for the nearest giant, putting an arrow in its chest, shouldering his bow, and drawing his blade all in one motion. He slashed the creature's gut, then spun back around and impaled it, dropping it to the ground.
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