Baleron charged two soldiers who set their sights on Menelith, and he double-slashed as he passed, disemboweling one, then spun and sliced open the second soldier's hip. Around him, the rangers and the Alvar seemed like shadows, taking down the enemies quickly and efficiently.
The remaining Fomorians roared as two Alvar warriors leaped into their paths. Their giant axes slammed into the ground, sending debris flying everywhere, but their attackers rolled to the side, each of them dispatching their foe with quick slashes of their blades. The entire battle was over but a few seconds later, and Baleron stood breathless and filled with the lust of battle.
"Excellent work," Menelith praised the company. "Quick and efficient."
"Most of them didn't even get their blades out," Odhran said, laughing.
Baleron grinned as he sheathed his blade. "That's the way it's done, lads," he said. "You're learning quickly."
"My lord," an Alvar said to Menelith. "One of the soldiers had this blade."
He handed the sheathed weapon to Menelith, who drew it halfway out with a cocked eyebrow. The blade was polished to a mirror-like finish, and the hilt was trimmed in gold and jewels. Even the scabbard was of fine boiled leather inlaid with gems and gold trim.
"This is an Alvar blade," Menelith said. "Its bearer was undeserving of such a weapon. It should be in the hands of an honorable warrior."
He handed the blade to Baleron. "You choose," he said. "My warriors are well-armed. It should go to your bravest warrior."
Baleron took the blade, knowing full well who he was going to give it to. "Odhran," he said proudly. "You should bear it."
The other men voiced their agreement, seeing that Odhran was the first to volunteer when Baleron called for their recruitment. They nudged him forward, and he begrudgingly accepted, staring at the blade like a child seeing a rainbow for the first time. Baleron could almost feel the awe that radiated from the young man as he reached out to take the sword.
"Go ahead," Baleron said. "It's yours. You've earned it."
Odhran smiled, taking the blade in both hands and holding it close to his heart. He closed his eyes and moved his lips, almost as if speaking to the blade itself. And from what knew of Alvar blades, it was likely that he was.
"Thank you, captain," Odhran said softly.
"You're welcome, Odhran," Baleron replied. "I know you will wield it with honor."
"You have received quite an honor, Odhran," Menelith said. "Rarely ever has an Alvar blade been given to a mortal. I trust it will serve you well. Its name is—"
"Mandrasukar," Odhran finished him.
Menelith smiled, nodding to Baleron. "Indeed," he said. "The blade has spoken to him. He is now its master."
"Very well," Baleron said. "It's time to move on. We still have much work to do."
Chapter Twelve
It was late evening when the trio crested the ridge that overlooked the village. Dearg and his friends trekked along silently, each of them consumed with their own thoughts. Everything was just as they had left it, quiet and uneventful. The only thing that was different was Dearg's outlook upon returning home.
The site of the Northmen's territory reminded him of how fragile and illusory the whole scene was. The Northmen went about their business, oblivious to the potential tragedy that could befall them at any moment. No one realized, or even suspected, that this life could be upturned and thrown into chaos in one simple action by T'kar's troops.
Dearg knew that he would have to speak to Svengaar soon, and it was not a conversation he looked forward to.
"Home sweet home," Ivar mumbled.
Dearg grunted. It was an odd thing for Ivar to say. He wondered for a brief moment if his friend was having the same thoughts he was. Of course, Ivar was aware of the dangers of ignoring the threat of T'kar, but he would definitely not understand the turmoil that Dearg felt. Ivar was born into the tribe. He was a Northman by birth. So was Fleek.
The thought of it made Dearg feel even more alone.
"I'll take the wagon back to Vigo," Ivar said. "You should see Svengaar as soon as possible. I will join you when I am finished."
"Alright," Dearg said. "Be sure to thank Vigo for the use of his wagon."
"Of course."
"Fleek," Dearg said. "Are you coming with me or Ivar?"
"Hungry," Fleek said. "And thirsty. Need ale. I'll come with you."
"Fine then," Ivar said, smiling. "Save me a pint or twelve."
He split right, leading the horse and wagon toward Vigo's farm as Fleek and Dearg continued along the riverside path. Here, the bank was only slightly higher than the water itself, and they both watched the lazy flow of the river as they neared the barrier bridge. Dearg paused to look it over, seeing its inherent flaws for the first time.
There was no way it could block an enemy army from traveling downriver to invade their villages. The only reason the river was fairly secure in the first place was that there were many rapids near the southern edge of the mountains. An enemy force could never travel past the mountains by river. They would have to travel alongside the river and pass through the Highlanders' territory that lay high above the river.
Not to mention, the tower was there somewhere, its location unreachable from the south side of the Droma Mountains.
Or was it?
Captain Jarka halted his troops as Galik located a large, passable crack in the cliffs to their right. The sorcerer rode toward the cliff as Jarka waited, made a few gestures with his hands, and rode back with a strange-looking grin plastered on his ghastly face.
"Galik," Jarka remarked. "You're as ugly as you are frightening. What have you found?"
"A way up, captain," Galik said. "But this is where we go on foot. We will have to leave the horses here."
"That goes without saying," Jarka said. "So how do we get up there?"
"I can conjure a set of stairs," Galik said. "Or perhaps a ladder. Either way the men will have to climb roughly fifty feet or so."
Jarka nodded, turning back to his troops. "Do any of you have any objection to climbing roughly fifty feet or so?"
The men laughed, and Jarka turned back to Galik. "They have no objection," he said. "Do your thing, Galik."
The sorcerer dismounted and walked back to the foot of the cliffs, staring up as he contemplated his spell. Jarka turned to his sergeant, Bel, who watched Galik with a grin.
"Sergeant," Jarka said. "Pick one of your men to stay and guard the horses."
"Right," Bel said, turning his horse toward his men. "Lorcan. You will stay and watch the horses."
"What?" the young soldier exclaimed, riding over to the two of them. "Why do I have to guard the horses? Pick someone else."
Jarka glared at the soldier, taking note of his act of insolence. Strangely, though, he wasn't angry. Bel, however, was irate.
"Do not speak to me that way," Bel said. "I'll have you skewered for insubordination."
"I didn't join the king's army to watch horses, you arrogant sheep-shagger."
Jarka laughed out loud, amused despite the young man's treasonous words. Bel began to reach for his blade, but Jarka stopped him a hand and rode over to Lorcan.
"Why did you join, soldier?" he asked.
"I joined to fight and kill."
Jarka nodded. "Fair enough," he said, impressed. "And what would you do if you came with us?"
Lorcan shrugged. "Whatever it is you tell me to do, captain."
Jarka laughed. He liked this young soldier. "Very well, then," he said. "You're with us. Bel, you guard the horses."
"Blast," Bel mumbled as he rode away.
Dearg and Fleek passed Igrid's longhouse, stopping briefly to watch her fledgling girls spar and practice their archery. Igrid herself was casually leaning against a tree near the path, talking to an older man of the tribe, Sigurd the Gray as he was called. The shieldmaiden turned to them as they neared, nodding her head in greeting.
"It's about time," she said. "We were getting worried that you all
fell in love with Highland maidens and decided to stay."
"Fleek looks like he's smitten," Sigurd said, laughing.
"He is," Dearg said. "But we have returned."
Igrid cocked her head, evidently noticing Dearg's troubled demeanor. He sighed, realizing he could never hide anything from her. She was as observant as they come, which was probably why she held such a high station.
"Something troubles you," she said. "Is it something you'd like to talk about?"
Dearg crossed his arms across his chest and stood in thought. "I'm not sure," he said. "There is definitely something I must discuss with Svengaar. I could use your help."
"Is it that serious?" she asked.
Dearg nodded.
"I should get to the mead hall," Sigurd said. "I haven't had a pint for at least three hours. Fleek, join me. Tell me of your travels, and why you are smiling so widely."
Dearg watched them leave as he sought the words to convey to Igrid. Though he knew that she was loyal to Svengaar, she was also a warrior and would likely be intrigued by the prospect of marching to war. If he could convince her to take his side in defending the Highlanders, or at least joining, she could influence the Jarl into doing so.
"The men we found were of the Highland clans," he began. "Their chief tells me they were southbound to trade with the Riverfolk, and were expected back several days before."
"And they were dumped in the river?" Igrid asked.
Dearg nodded. "They floated right by the clans and they never even noticed."
"As they wouldn't, since the river is far below their lands."
"The chieftain also tells me that T'kar's forces have slaughtered the children of the northernmost village, mere miles south of the Riverfolk."
"The children?" Igrid repeated, shocked.
"The Highlanders are worried about T'kar reaching farther into the north," Dearg said. "And if they wipe out the Highlanders…"
"Then we could be next," Igrid finished for him.
"They are the only thing standing between us and the Beast."
Igrid nodded, staring off to the south. She sighed, seeming hopeless.
"Our tribes have grown weak," she said. "There are few warriors left. You, Ivar and Fleek are the strongest of what's left, and the most willing. Even Sigurd, as great of a warrior as he once was, is more concerned with ale and mead."
"He is too old to fight, anyway."
"Even if we joined the Highlanders, how would we do so? Do we stand in wait? Do we simply help them protect their lands, or do we charge south and lay waste to T'kar's forces?"
Dearg cocked his head. "Would such a venture seem too ambitious?"
Igrid laughed. "Our people have never lacked ambition in the past. But as for our tribe these days, I would think so."
"Then maybe it's time to reawaken that warrior spirit. Our people have lost faith in Kronos, but maybe the Dragon can offer them some inspiration."
Igrid looked up at him strangely. She knew of Dearg's origins. She knew that he was a man of Eirenoch by blood, but also knew that he was loyal to the tribe that raised him.
"Does the Dragon speak to you?" she asked.
"Does Kronos still speak to you?"
Igrid shook her head. "No," she said. "He has never spoken to me. I have never heard the call of any divine being, only my own soul has ever spoken to me."
"And what does your soul say?" Dearg asked.
Igrid was silent for a moment. Dearg waited for her response, but knowing her, he already knew the answer. When she turned to look up at him with a crooked smile, he grinned.
"My soul says we fight," she said.
"Well, that was the worst idea I've ever heard of," Captain Jarka said as he looked down at the half dozen men who had fallen to their deaths.
"Forgive me, captain," Galik said, fidgeting. "I thought perhaps your soldiers would be better trained for these harsh conditions.
Jarka fumed for a moment, but realized Galik was right—and he appreciated the sorcerer's dark sense of humor. Jarka's men were trained for combat, not for climbing or negotiating rough terrain in any capacity. He could only imagine what kind of terrain lie ahead of them He would likely lose more men to the land itself than to whomever they would encounter.
"To hell with them," Jarka said. "They were weak soldiers anyway. What say you, Lorcan?"
The young soldier spit over the edge of the cliff, sneering as he looked at Bel's fist shaking at him from below.
"They belong with him," Lorcan said. "Guarding the horses like women."
Jarka threw his head back in laughter, clapping the young soldier on the back. "Excellent!" he said. "You'll be more and more like me the longer you are in my presence. I should make you sergeant."
"That would be an honor sir," Lorcan said with a grin.
Jarka liked the young man more and more. Perhaps he should give him a position of authority. He was truly curious as to what the young man could do; what level of brutality he could achieve.
"When we return from this trek," he said, "kill Bel, and you may take his place."
Lorcan's grin grew wider and more maniacal.
"Now, Galik, let's find a way to that tower."
The sorcerer stood downhill a ways, looking off into the distance. They could all plainly see the tower from here, but the jagged rocks that surrounded the valley were only the signposts of what the true barrier was; steep cliffs and more potential for a crushing death on the rocks below.
"I can see why no one was able to get there," Galik said. "The passage to the west appears to be recently opened, probably by a quake. But even then, the only way down is a small trail on the east side of the valley."
"How far?"
"At least a day's walk, maybe longer."
"Is the path negotiable?"
Galik shot him a sarcastic look, then gazed at the eager soldiers behind him. "For these men?"
Jarka sighed. "Right," he grumbled. "The king gave us his orders though."
"We should march around the north lip," Galik said. "Now that there is a way through, it will be possible. But we may encounter the Highlanders as Randar said."
"Then we will crush them and continue on our way," Jarka said, gritting his teeth. "I look forward to it."
"As do I," Galik said. "As do I."
Jarka turned to the troops. Though weary and somewhat disheveled, they all appeared eager and prepared for battle. All but one. There was a man sitting on the ground with his head in his hands, and his sword lying on the ground before him. The sight of him angered Jarka greatly, and he turned to Lorcan with a venomous look.
"Kill that man," he said.
Lorcan drew his blade and pushed his way through the formation. The sitting man saw him and scrambled to his feet, backing away as the angry young soldier drew back his blade.
"No! Wait!" the soldier pleaded.
Lorcan thrust his sword through the man's gut, kicking him back as he withdrew it. Jarka's heart raced as he watched, and he licked his lips when Lorcan grabbed the man's hair and cut off his head with a few quick strikes of his sword. He was truly impressed with the young soldier's heartless zeal. What a great leader he would make. The only thing that was even more impressive was the collective look of horror on the other soldiers' faces.
Jarka enjoyed that, too.
"Men," he growled. "Lorcan is your new sergeant. You will obey his orders as you would mine. Is that understood?"
There was a collective affirmation, and Lorcan joined him at the front of the formation, proudly crossing his arms across his chest.
"Now," Jarka continued. "We may very well encounter the Highland clans on our journey, and I want to make one thing clear. These will not be docile peasants who will cower in fear at our very presence. They are warriors; savage and fearless. Even their women will take up arms and stand against us. They deserve our respect, and are worthy opponents. Do not underestimate them. Understood?"
There was another collective affirmation.
"Now," he said. "Let the journey begin."
Svengaar held out his mug while the young woman refilled it. He winked at her when she was finished, and watched her walk away with a grin. He then turned back to his table, where he sat at the head and listened to the day's stories as his tribesmen related them. As usual, they were stories of livestock, foxes and coyotes, fishing and hunting.
Nothing too terribly exciting.
One conversation, however, piqued his interest. Fleek's tale of a fine young Highland woman brought not only a smile to his face, but a great warmth to his heart. Like everyone else, he loved the big man, and seeing him smile the way he was currently smiling was a great thing to see.
"Hail to Fleek," Sigurd said, raising his mug.
The Northmen laughed and cheered loudly as Fleek's face grew red, his smile still chiseled there as if set in stone. Svengaar roared with laughter, joining the men in their toast. It was a joyous occasion, but not quite as joyous as the rack of deer ribs that was passed his way.
"'Tis a great day for sure, lads," he said. "But let us not forget the underlying event. We have made friends with the Highlanders, and we have Dearg, Ivar, and Fleek to thank for that."
The men cheered again. Svengaar looked around, wondering why Dearg and Ivar had not joined their friend. Perhaps they were resting, or greeting their families. But he noticed that Olav and Svana were there among the men and women, although Ivar's own father, Hafdan, was not present.
"Where is Dearg?" he asked.
"He was talking to Igrid last I saw," Sigurd said. "I've no idea where Ivar is."
"He takes the wagon back to Vigo," Fleek said.
"Ah," Svengaar said, setting his mug down on the table. "I would like to hear everything that happened when they arrive, which I assume they will."
"I hear the Highlanders wear skirts," Sigurd said, laughing.
"They call them kilts," came Ivar's voice from the doorway. "And they wear nothing underneath."
"Were ye lookin' lad?" came a random voice from the crowd, followed by a roar of laughter.
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