"Sacrifices?"
"Yes," Adhaen said. "If you are truly a witch hunter, then I would think you would know of these Berujen."
"I do not," Randar said. "But go on."
"There were only a handful of them," she said. "But when they were created, they were somehow released upon the world instead of sacrificed. I do not know why this particular one came here to this island. Perhaps she was looking for others of her kind. I have heard that there was one in Eirenoch, other than her, but I cannot verify that."
Igraina? Randar was intrigued.
"Do you know the name of this bog witch?" he asked.
"Her name is Lilit," Adhaen said. "But I do not know the name of the one who lived here. I cannot divine that, as I am not divine."
She grinned slyly. Randar returned her grin.
"So this bowl seems to be very powerful," he said.
"Indeed it is," Adhaen agreed. "That is why I killed its owner and stole it."
"A vile deed, to say the least."
"I really, really wanted it," she said, her smile widening to almost comical size.
Randar chuckled, realizing this woman was likely a former thief before running across this warlock. How she managed to gain his trust enough for him to turn his back on her was fairly obvious, though. Even at her current age, she was somewhat attractive. Randar could imagine her being absolutely goddess-like in her youth. Her striking green eyes and soft features would have driven the mage mad, he thought. She could have easily taken anything from him.
"So," he said, changing the subject. "Once I find this location, how do I summon this witch?"
"You will have to free her, darling," Adhaen said. "There is no summoning her. Once you free her from her chains, she will either thank you, or kill you."
Randar nodded. "I thank you," he said. "You have been very helpful. The king will appreciate it, as well."
Her eyes widened then, and her face froze in terror. Randar found it amusing.
"You are a… kingsman?" she stammered.
Randar's blade swept across in a flash, severing her head, and his foot shot forward to knock her chair back at the same time. Her head toppled from her shoulders as her body was thrown back, and he could hear the pleasant squirting of her blood as it sprayed across the floor.
"Thank you for your time, Prophet Adhaen."
He stood then, pulling a gem from his cloak and letting it rest in his hand as it came to life. There, a few inches above it, a small portal opened, and Randar could see the inside of T'kar's chambers. The king himself appeared to be devouring the roasted arm of a small child. Randar sighed, disgusted, but chose to ignore the vile scene.
"My lord," he spoke.
T'kar looked up, rising from his table and standing in front of the mirror that was ethereally connected to the gem.
"What is it, Randar?" T'kar asked.
"I have discovered the location of what is called a Berujen," he said. "It is some kind of witch of divine origin."
"Good, good," T'kar said. "Can she be recruited to serve me?"
"Perhaps," Randar said. "I would assume she has no love for the people of Eirenoch, nor the descendants of the mages who drowned her in the bog."
T'kar's eyes widened, and he grinned, exposing his beastly, yellow teeth. "I want her," he said. "Yes. I want her. Bring her to me. You will be rewarded with whatever you wish. I promise."
"Very well," Randar said, knowing he would have to dive down to the bottom of the bog itself. "You will have your witch."
T'kar laughed, shaking his fists in the air. "I knew you wouldn't let me down, Randar. You are the best man I have."
"Thank you, Sire," Randar said. "I will return as soon as I can."
He closed his hand, taking one last look at the carnage he caused before leaving the shop. Though he did not look forward to diving in the bog, something about the whole scenario intrigued him. It had been decades since he had explored the bog, and he looked forward to returning. If not to find the witch, then to indulge in a bit of his own childhood.
The thought of it brought a smile to his face.
Dearg stood alone at the peak of the southern ridge, staring off in the distance at the dark tower. It was barely visible in the light of dusk, and the thick cover of mist that had rolled in, but he was mesmerized by its faint image nonetheless.
The inner turmoil that had troubled him before had become worse after the confrontation with Svengaar. The Jarl's refusal to gather the Northman was disheartening, to say the least, and it crushed Dearg's spirit more than anything. If he couldn't ride to the Highlanders' aid alongside his tribe, then he would have to go alone. Considering the danger of such small numbers, however, that would be riding to his own death.
Whatever the case, he would go, even if it meant going alone.
Behind him, he heard the scuffling of gravel and dirt, and he turned to see Olav making his way up the path. He turned back to the tower, and felt his father stopped beside him. They both stood in silence for a moment, each of them unsure as to what should be said. But Dearg's troubled heart could not wait.
"What do I do, father?" he asked.
Olav sighed. "I cannot tell you what to do, son," he said. "That is not my place."
"What would you do in my place?"
"I cannot tell you that, either. If it were me, I would simply do what my heart tells me."
"Even my heart doesn't know," Dearg said. "My head tells me to go, but my heart says nothing."
"Does your heart really say nothing?" Olav asked, skeptically. "I'm sure it has something to say, if you listen."
"I feel torn apart inside," Dearg said. "I had hoped that Svengaar would rally our tribe to fight."
He could see Olav nod out of the corner of his eye. "That is a given. But you must understand the Jarl's reasoning. The tribe has grown weak, son. Most of us can no longer summon the courage to fight anymore. Nor the strength."
"There are still those who are capable," Dearg insisted.
"Yes, there are. I agree. I understand why you want to charge off and fight. Though you were raised by our tribe, they are your people. Your blood."
Dearg turned to him, seeing the sadness in his eyes. It pained Dearg's heart to see that sadness.
"What would Kronos tell me to do?"
Olav shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said. "You owe Kronos nothing. It was not he who brought you to us. It was the Dragon. You know what the Dragon would say."
Dearg thought about it for a moment. He did indeed know what the Dragon wanted. But how could he go alone. What could one man do, in reality?
"And you know," Olav continued, "whatever you decide to do, Fleek and Ivar will follow you."
Dearg smiled. Olav was right. His two friends would follow him to the gates of Hell itself if he asked. They would proudly fight by his side, even if it meant death for them all. No one could ask for better or more loyal friends.
"There are others who would go with you," Olav said. "Hafdan would. I would, if I were not so old. Whatever the case, my son, you know what your heart wants. You only need to have the courage to follow it, and I know you have that courage."
Dearg put his arm around him, and Olav did the same.
"Whatever you decide," Olav said, "you have my support, and my love."
"And you have mine, father," Dearg said. "I think I know the answer now."
"I know you do."
Dearg eyed Igrid's house as he walked down the path. Outside the main doors were two of her own shieldmaidens, standing side by side with their blades held upward, and their shields covering their midsections. They stood as still as statues until he walked through the gate, when they pressed together and held their blades in front of their shields.
"Igrid is sleeping," one of them said. "No one enters after dusk."
"I need to speak to her," Dearg said. "Will you tell her I am here?"
"Why do you need to speak to her now?" the other asked. "Can it not wait until morning?"
> "No, it cannot."
The doors opened behind him, and Igrid was there, one brow raised. "Let him pass," she said.
The girls looked at each other quickly, then stepped aside, giving Dearg an annoyed look as he passed them with a grin. He followed Igrid inside to her private chambers, where she offered him a chair in front of her fireplace.
"What is it, Dearg?" she asked. "You know very well I cannot help you."
"I know," Dearg said. "Not you yourself, that is."
Igrid cocked her head. "Go on."
"In the morning, I will leave for the Highlands again. I will take Ivar and Fleek with me, but I will need someone skilled with a bow. I know that some of your servants have such skill, which is of course useless here in the village."
Igrid sighed loudly, leaning back in her chair. "You know that Svengaar will not allow me to assign anyone to you. As much as I would wish it, my hands are tied."
Dearg was disheartened, but not defeated. "Then perhaps one of your servants will wish to have her freedom?"
She leaned forward, eyeing him suspiciously. "You want me to give up one of my servants for good?"
"Come now, Igrid," he said. "You are not a slave driver. You don't need them all. Pick one for me, and offer her the freedom to choose her own fate. Tell her that I can offer her a life of adventure and battle; the very things you train them for."
She continued staring at him expressionless. He slowly raised his eyebrow, allowing a slight grin to tug at the right side of his mouth.
"It will cost you," she said.
Dearg knew what she meant, but his heart belonged to Morrigan. There was no way he could do what she would ask with Morrigan on his mind.
"My heart is elsewhere," he said.
She sat back up, crossing her arms and giving him a stern look. "Don't be so presumptuous," she snapped. "Do you think me ignorant? Fleek was not the only one smiling stupidly when you returned. I knew you were smitten when showed your face at my gate."
"Then what do you ask?"
She pursed her lips then. "As I said before," she began, "we have grown weak. I cannot allow this to happen. If we let ourselves become farmers and fishermen, we become vulnerable to attacks from others from our homeland."
"Right," Dearg agreed.
"I want to not only fortify our village, but rally the other tribes to join us in doing so. If I let you take one of my girls, then I want your support when I claim myself queen."
Dearg burst out in laughter. "Queen?" he snorted. "Are you serious?"
"I am serious," Igrid said. "I have the strength to lead. The Jarls do not. If I can rally them to join your cause, then they will all see that when the time comes for battle."
Dearg thought about for a moment. He had no doubt that if anyone could claim leadership over the tribes, Igrid definitely had the strength to do so. How that would happen, he had no idea, but it was worth trying.
"Done," he said.
Igrid smiled, leaning back in her chair. "Good," she said. "Now leave my house. You will have your archer."
Chapter Fourteen
Jarka's troops crested a ridge just north of the tower near midnight. The captain ordered his troops to halt as he beheld the fires in the valley below that were scattered among the faint outlines of huts and other primitive structures. Though they still quite far away, it clear that what he was looking at was a settlement of some sort.
Obviously the Highlanders of which Galik had spoken.
He glared at the scene below as a dark grin spread across his face. Lorcan came up next to him, also looking down and grunting with what sounded like enthusiasm. Galik, too, was optimistic.
"Do you see that?' Jarka said. "Blood for the taking."
"Highland blood, no less," Lorcan said. "With hearty women that will make good slaves."
Jarka gave him a mirthful glance, enjoying the young man's like-minded thinking. "We'll take them quickly," he said. "With the cover of darkness, they'll never see us coming. Then we can proceed down into the tower's grounds."
"Would you like me to release the Fomorians?" Galik asked.
"Hmm," Jarka said.
Surely watching the giants destroy the village would be brutal, and amusing, to watch. But, Jarka knew that his men were itching for a fight. They had been getting restless throughout the day, and he knew they were hungry for blood. Perhaps the Fomorians could wait.
"No," he said. "We'll cut them down ourselves. That will be more fun."
"Do you hear that, lads?" Lorcan called out behind them. "It's time for some fun."
Jarka could hear the excitement of the men behind them. They drew their blades, growling amongst themselves. He smiled again, enjoying their enthusiasm, and looking forward to slaughtering the hapless folk below them.
It would be a glorious battle.
Morrigan carried two buckets of water back from the creek, keeping her eyes on the dark ground below her feet. Her brother Jarvis held a torch for her, keeping slightly ahead of her with his own water bucket in hand, but the flame was dying from the moisture.
"Damn mist," she cursed. "I can't see anything."
"Try holding a torch and this ass heavy bucket, too," Jarvis jested.
Morrigan chuckled, knowing Jarvis was exaggerating. All of her brothers were strong as oxen, and he was no exception.
"I don't want to hear it, lass," she joked. "Father will have your hide if you spill that water. So buck up and keep going."
"Bah!" he exclaimed.
She could see the fires ahead, and several men sitting around it in their nightly "gathering of minds" as they called it. In reality, she knew, it was just an excuse to drink.
"It would be nice if they would help out a bit," she said.
"I'd rather carry the water myself," Jarvis said. "They'd probably just spill it one way or—"
Jarvis was suddenly cut off, and let out a choking sound. Morrigan turned just as he dropped his bucket and stumbled forward.
"Jarvis," she said, her heart thumping wildly as she looked around, confused.
Before his torch died out, its flame revealed an arrow protruding from his back. Morrigan's heart sank, and she dropped her own buckets, scrambling to take his hands and drag him away. Though he was heavy and limp, she pulled with all of her strength, desperate to get him back to camp.
"Jarvis," she cried frantically. "Talk to me."
Her heart raced as she dragged him, and she kept her eyes on the slope behind them. Though she could see nothing, she could hear the heavy tramping of boots in the mud far in the distance. There were soldiers coming.
A lot of them.
"Jarvis," she cried out again.
But it was no use. Jarvis was dead, and she was dragging him for no reason. She had to get back to camp. She would retrieve his body later. Crying, she dropped him and turned tail to run as fast as she could. She was still quite a distance from the camp, but she could still see the men around the fire.
"Father!" she shouted. "Father! Sound the alarm!"
Through her rage and anguish, she could see someone standing up from the fire, looking in her direction.
"Sound the alarm!" she shouted again.
This time, all of the men stood, and one of them ran from the fire in her direction. She could see him running toward her, hearing him shout over her own loud breath.
"What is it, lass?"
It was Angeus, the smith. She stumbled into his arms, grabbing onto his waist. "Enemy troops from the west," she said. "Jarvis is dead. Hit with an arrow."
Angeus' eyes went wide, and he released her, heading toward his hut. Morrigan went through the camp, shouting and screaming to wake everyone. Thankfully, she heard the large cow bell ring, and knew that someone had rang it in alarm. She saw her father emerge from his hut half-naked and disoriented.
"What's going on?" he called out.
Morrigan stopped and ran in his direction, her tears blurring her vision. "Father," she cried out. "Jarvis is dead. We are under attack."
Hamish went into action immediately. He went back into his hut, emerging again with his sword and shields.
"Arm yourselves!" he shouted at the men who were beginning to gather. "We are under attack!"
Morrigan stormed into her hut, grabbing her sword from the table, and rejoined the gathering outside. Men were beginning to line up at the west side of the village, weapons in hand, and a line of spearmen at their head. Hamish stood ready, and gave her a nod as she joined the line.
"Who is it?" he asked. "Did you see?"
"No, father," she said. "But Jarvis is dead. It was an arrow from nowhere. I could hear their boots coming down the hill on the other side of the creek."
Hamish pursed his lips with the news. Morrigan's other brothers appeared next to him, their weapons at the ready, and their faces twisted in rage.
"It's T'kar's troops," Hamish said. "I know it."
Morrigan's mind wandered to Dearg. He had promised to return, but the attack had come sooner than expected. There was no way he could arrive in time, if he was even on his way back.
The Dragon will protect us, she told herself.
"Lads," Hamish said to his sons. "Get your shields ready. If they have archers, they'll cut us down like dogs."
Morrigan's brothers took their shields from their backs, calling to the other men with shields to join them in the front of the line. Morrigan went with them, keeping behind her brothers as they pushed through. As the men stood together, locking their shields before them, the spearmen lined up behind her, poking their spears through the make-shift wall.
Morrigan's heart still raced, but now it was in anticipation. She did not fear battle, but not knowing whom or what they were about to face made a huge difference. For all she knew, the enemy could have demons among them—or worse; whatever that could be.
"I can hear them," someone said. "There must be dozens of them. Hundreds."
"Shut up, lad," Hamish said. "It makes no difference. Prepare to die either way."
"May the Dragon help us," another man said.
Before anyone else could speak, dozens of arrows swooped in like hornets, knocking loudly on the wooden shields as they impacted. Several men shouted in pain, falling to the ground within the ranks. The Highlanders ducked, guarding against another volley. Morrigan stuck close to her brothers, hiding underneath their shields as more arrows streaked in.
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