"We are all men of Eirenoch," Baleron said. "Even the Northmen. We have a common goal."
"That is my feeling," Dearg said. "But I have to ask. Why did this one call me dragon?"
Before Baleron could answer, the Alvar stepped forward. Dearg straightened, his hand gripping his sword tightly. Though he wasn't under the impression the creature would attack him, his strong presence filled with him an odd sensation he had never felt before. Whether it was awe or fear, he could not guess.
The Alvar stopped before him, his bright and crystalline blue eyes almost piercing as they beheld him. Dearg couldn't blink, could barely breathe. This creature's demeanor was that of Kronos himself.
"I sense a divinity within you," Menelith said. "One that has not walked this Earth before."
"I don't understand," Dearg said.
"Our Lady has foreseen the coming of a king," the Alvar continued. "One who bears the blood of the Dragon, and who will lead the people to victory against the darkness."
"A Northman?" Caillain asked.
Menelith looked over to the chieftain, not fiercely or malevolent in any way, but calm and understanding of his skepticism.
"Dearg is not a Northman," Menelith said, turning back to him. "He is a foundling, scooped up from the river and raised by the Northmen as one of their own."
"He's one of us, regardless of where he came from," Ivar said.
Menelith smiled at him, nodding his head. "Such are the ways of kinship," he said. "Baleron, too, was born of the people of this land. But he was raised by the Alvar, and has been given the blessings of our people."
"Blessings?" Dearg repeated.
"Baleron has been granted the gift of immortality," the Menelith explained. "He has dedicated his life to learning our ways, and teaching them to his people. For that, our Lady Allora has given him our blessing."
Baleron came closer, looking over the Highlanders. "Who is chieftain among you?" he asked.
"Well," Liam said. "Caillain is the chieftain of the largest clan."
"I suppose I'm the only one left," Caillain said.
"Then Caillain," Baleron said. "As Chieftain, we humbly ask your permission to enter your lands."
Caillain shrugged. "You're here, I guess."
Baleron smiled. "Good," he said. "We have much to discuss. Our lands must be protected and its people freed. Together, I believe we can do so."
Dearg turned back to Menelith, meeting his gaze once more. For some reason, it seemed that there was a glimmer of hope in the Alvar's eyes. It was a glimmer that Dearg also shared. His dream of uniting the people of the island against T'kar was not his alone. Evidently it was shared by many, and this new group of men and Alvar was just the army he was looking for.
Galik opened his eyes at last. Though he saw nothing but smoke and dozens of corpses around him, he knew that he was alive, but that he had been badly injured. He could feel the point of an arrow within his skull, having pierced his brain and embedded itself in the opposite side of his cranium.
"Damn," he whispered.
Though it was a wound that would have killed a normal man, Galik's magical nature had protected him from certain death and sealed off that area of his brain. He was unconscious for a long time, he realized, but now he was awake. Awake, and in excruciating pain.
He reached up and grasped the shaft of the arrow, twisting and pulling, cringing in agony with every inch. The arrowhead was difficult to pull through the hole, however, and he had to twist it further to line it up with the slot shape it created when it punched through. Finally, though, it came out and he held the blasted thing in front of his face to scowl at it.
"Cursed thing," he hissed, then grinned. "Excellent shot, though. Fine craftsmanship as well. Impressive."
He tossed the arrow away, looking around him while trying to keep still. He could see a soldier a few feet away twitching, breathing shallowly and gurgling. That was good. He was still alive, and would likely have enough strength to heal Galik.
The sorcerer prodded him with his fingers, rousing the soldier enough for him to open his eyes.
"G—Galik," the soldier gurgled.
"Hello, soldier," Galik said. "I will need you."
"Help… me."
Galik spread his fingers, placing his hand over the soldier's face. He began chanting, focusing his draining power into his fingers. The soldier began to protest, realizing that Galik was not trying to help him. But Galik's claws pierced his skin, holding him in place as he drained the last remaining energy from the young man's body. Soon, he too was dead like his comrades.
And Galik was healed.
Before standing, the sorcerer conjured a cloak of smoke and shadow, concealing himself against the women and elderly men who began to loot the field of the dead. He slipped away, back the way his army had come. He would have to cross the Highlands again, and the river, but once he reached the shore where Bel awaited with the horses, he could return to the castle and fully heal.
As he drifted across the mass of corpses, he was relieved to see that Captain Jarka was not among the dead. He hoped the good captain had escaped, and looked forward to fighting at his side once more.
Galik's cackling echoed through the field of the dead as he drifted north, and those who heard looked at each other in horror. No matter, he thought. They would all soon be dead. T'kar would destroy them, leaving them nothing more than a memory.
Having sent his clansmen out to gather weapons from the battlefield, Caillain invited the rangers and Dearg's group to his fortress in celebration and mourning. In the large courtyard, a huge fire was built, and the ale was poured freely as the collective groups honored the dead, and cursed the enemy.
The bodies in the field had been piled up and set aflame after having been looted and stripped of their armor. The armorers had examined the strange material they wore, and decided that it was useless to them. It seemed that the glossy, flexible material was only useful when worn by T'kar's troops, but was effectively dead when its bearer was deceased.
It was a revelation that was odd, to say the least.
Now the allies gathered around the fire, separated into groups, with Dearg and Baleron seated next to each other along with a few others. Fleek demonstrated his hammer skills to some of the curious Alvar warriors, even handing the giant weapon to one of them, and laughing when the much smaller Alvar was unable to even lift it.
Ivar showed them his axes, demonstrating his double-chopping and sweeping technique that was as deadly as anything they had ever witnessed. Freyja shared the company of Alvar and human archers, showing them were impressive skills. There was a small competition among them, which she dominated quite easily. She was not only the best archer in Dearg's tribe, he realized, but was even comparable to the Alvar archers that had been wielding their bows for thousands of years.
Dearg watched then with pride, knowing that he chosen his warriors well. They were not only his friends, but also the best warriors the Northmen had to offer, and he knew they would serve him well. Baleron seemed to think so, too, as he also watched them with pride.
There was something about Baleron that Dearg found strange. There was a familiarity or kinship about him, as if they were somehow connected. He had never met Baleron before, but it was almost as if they were brothers. Perhaps they were in another life. Who could tell?
"The men were villagers before," Baleron said, referring to his rangers. "Hunters, trappers, trackers and the like. They were all willing to take up arms and use their skills to fight. I thought their abilities would translate well into the Alvar ways. I was right, and that is when I rallied them together as rangers."
"They are very skilled," Dearg said, impressed with their ability to learn so quickly. "Especially considering it has been so short a time."
Baleron nodded. "Indeed," he said. "Their willingness to die for their people is part of it, too. They all volunteered, most of them without even the slightest amount of persuasion. They were eager to learn the ways of t
he Alvar, and they are an effective fighting force."
Dearg nodded. "Fighting without being seen," he mused. "It's a good way to attack, I think. My people generally fight face to face, but I can see the value of shadow fighting."
Baleron chuckled. "There is nothing more terrifying than an enemy that cannot be seen."
He realized he liked Baleron. The man seemed not only noble, but had a bit of a wild spirit. He supposed that was the Alvar training. Having spent his life among them had made him similar to them, but with the same spirit and eagerness of a man with a cause.
He could already see that he and Baleron would be great friends.
"I'm still confused by this whole dragon thing," Dearg said. "It is true that I am descended from someone who at least belonged to Daegoth's house, maybe a soldier or other servant like Morrigan is, but that is as far as I can see it."
"Menelith seems to think it is much more than that," Baleron said. "Tell me, what do you feel when you see the dark tower?"
Dearg looked at him then, seeing that Baleron's face lit up when he spoke of Dol Drakkar. Did he feel the same?
"I feel like it calls me," Dearg said. "It always has, I think, but it was much stronger when I first arrived in the Highlands."
Baleron nodded. "I feel the same," he said. "I am drawn to it, as if I was meant to serve the Dragon in some way. But I imagine you feel it more strongly."
"Why is that?"
"Because of what Menelith said," Baleron explained. "I imagine you were given the name Dearg by someone of great knowledge in your tribe."
"Our Völva," Dearg said. "The shaman."
Baleron's expression told Dearg that the ranger was trying to urge him to have the same thoughts as Menelith regarding his name.
"So you think she named me that for a reason other than being of the Dragon's people?"
Baleron shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "Maybe you should ask her."
Dearg chuckled, downing the last of his ale. "She never speaks plainly," he said. "Ask her anything and you'll walk away with even more questions than you had before."
Baleron laughed out loud. "That is their way, is it not?" he said. "Always with the riddles."
"Lads," Caillain said as he sat down with them. "I wanted to give my thanks for your swords in this battle."
Dearg and Baleron raised their mugs.
"Long have we lived here in these lands, isolated from the rest of the people. Ne'er did I think that T'kar would send troops to attack us. I'm glad that we have allies now. Many thanks to both of you."
"If only I could convince the rest of my tribe to join us," Dearg said. "And perhaps the others. Then we could have a larger army."
"Leavin' them aside," Caillain said. "The people of the lowlands, the Riverfolk and such, are very superstitious. They believe in the ancient tales of the Dragon. If they knew there was someone like you who could claim the throne, they'd follow you."
"So would the Alvar," Baleron said. "They believe you are the true heir to the throne."
Dearg shook head, somewhat overwhelmed. "I would be willing to lead them," he said. "But king? I don't know. Caillain is a leader, why not him?"
Caillain laughed, slapping his knee. "Me?" he said. "It's all I can do to get up and have a piss in the mornin', lad. I'm too old to be king. By the time T'kar is defeated, I'll be even older. Mayhap my sons can rule the Highlanders, but the rest of the people of Eirenoch, not likely."
"There are tribes in the southern part of the island that would rally, too," Baleron said. "All you would have to do is convince them that you are the true Son of the Dragon, and they'd fight for you, whether it was true or not."
Dearg sighed. "I came here to help my friends fight," he said. "I had no intentions of leading them in any way, much less be their king."
"The people need something to believe in," Baleron said. "And I think that maybe the Dragon has chosen you to be that something or someone."
Dearg was stunned, but maintained his composure. Caillain seemed to be willing to follow him, which was odd. Never had there been any trust between the Highlanders and the Northmen until now. The fact that Dearg was not a true Northmen may have something to do with it, he supposed, but it was unusual nonetheless.
"I am happy that our people are allies now," he said. "But without more of us to stand together, there is no way we can defeat T'kar."
"That is why you must speak for the Dragon," Baleron said. "You must be the Dragon, and they will follow you no matter what."
"How do I do that?" Dearg asked.
"I don't know," Baleron said, prompting the three of them to burst out in laughter.
"Wear some horns or something," Caillain jested. "Breathe fire and shoot lightning from your arse."
Dearg choked on his own laughter, and he could see the other two convulsing as they tried to stifle their own. Try as he might, it was too much for Dearg to handle, and he let loose, throwing his head back to laugh harder than he had laughed in a long time.
Their collective laughter drew Liam's attention, and the man also joined them, giving them all strange looks as he sat down by the fire.
"Is this a private joke or can anyone join in?" he asked.
The three men burst out in laughter again, and Liam joined them, raising his mug in an attempt to toast their friendship. He ended up spilling his ale, prompting more laughter. When it finally settled down, a serving boy refilled their mugs happily, bouncing away enthusiastically.
"So," Liam said. "What are we talking about?"
"Dearg's leadership," Caillain said. "Baleron thinks all the people would follow him if he rallied us all together."
Liam shrugged, pursing his lips. "That seems plausible," he said. "He's a big as an ox and as mean as a dog. I'd follow him, so would my sons, likely. His friends are fine warriors, too. Especially that little lass with the bow."
"Oh?" Baleron said.
"Aye," Liam said, nodding humorously. "She hit that sorcerer from a league away, must have been. I never saw anything like it."
"She's a mean one," Caillain said. "Saw her stab a man in the eye with her dagger. Even my wife wasn't that violent, and she was a devil woman."
He toasted Liam, who evidently knew his wife. "Aye for that one," Liam said. "The redheads are always as mean as wild dogs."
The two men laughed, and Dearg gave Baleron a sideways glance. Baleron was smiling.
"Highlanders are a strange lot," Baleron said.
"Not as strange as those Riverfolk, though," Caillain said. "Now those are the ones you'll have a tough time convincing. They ne'er trust anyone but their own."
"They are fine warriors," Baleron said. "But yes, very untrusting and wary of outsiders. They keep to their floating village in a lake near the river. It is isolated from the outside, accessible only by the river itself."
"And they fortify that entrance," Caillain said. "Hard to get inside for sure."
"I say we send a small group their way," Baleron said. "Just a few men you trust. Nothing more."
"Do they speak the common tongue?" Dearg asked. "My people aren't skilled in languages other than common and our own."
"They'll understand you, lad," Liam said. "And I'll send one of my sons with you just in case."
Dearg nodded. "That sounds like a good idea then," he said. "I'm in."
Freyja had felt the strange attraction to the dark tower since the moment they crossed into the Highlanders' territory. It had grown stronger in the last few hours, and she now stood on top of the fortress wall, staring at it as the sun went down behind it. Strangely enough, she could see Ivar standing at the other end of the wall, leaning against a crenellation as he stared off toward the tower's direction. Curious, she decided to join him, wondering if he too felt the strange attraction.
He gave her a nod as she approached, then turned back.
"What do you feel, Ivar?" she asked, taking a spot next to him.
"I'm not sure," he said. "Something I didn't feel before."
"Just today, then?"
He nodded. "Last time we were here, nothing. It only started after we met the rangers in the grove."
"Me too," she said. "I wonder what it means."
"Well," he said. "It's not because it's pretty. That's for sure."
Freyja grinned, tilting her head a bit as she regarded the strange construction. "I think it is," she said. "In a way."
Ivar snickered. "Whatever you say. I suppose it's pretty the same way a dead, burnt out tree is pretty."
Freyja turned and leaned against the wall, looking down at the courtyard below. The people were still gathered happily, with small spots of activity where all the warriors were showing off their skills. Fleek was still there, grinning as always, happy with all of the attention.
"I wonder if Fleek feels it, too," she said.
"I don't know," Ivar replied. "If he does, it's overshadowed by the attention he's getting."
Freyja smiled warmly. She was happy to see the big man smile so widely, especially considering he had just lost the first woman who had ever paid any real attention to him.
"He's happy," she said. "That's all that's important."
"I see that you're happy, too," Ivar said. "Is that because Igrid gave you your freedom, or because you finally get to use your skills?"
"Both," she said. "Using my skills was easier than I thought it would be. The freedom is a bit… frightening."
"Was today the first time you've ever killed a man?" he asked. "Or seven or eight, however many it was."
"Twelve altogether," she said with a grin. "And yes. My first time."
Ivar nodded. "I would say that you'll get used to it, but I think that's pointless."
"As I said, it was easier than I thought. I just didn't feel like I was killing people, only monsters."
"That's for sure," Ivar replied. "It was fun."
She turned back toward the tower, resting her chin on her folded hands. "What do you think it means?"
"What?"
"The tower," she said. "Why do we feel drawn to it? Why does Dearg feel drawn to it?"
Ivar shook his head. "Who knows? Neither of us have the blood of these people. Maybe we just feel it because Dearg does."
Dawn of the Dragon Page 20
