Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "Where does this creature live?" he asked.

  "I've never met a shieldmaiden before," Caillain said, raising his mug to clink it with Igrid and Morrigan's. "What exactly are your duties, if you don't mind me askin'?"

  "I serve my Jarl," Igrid said. "I provide for his personal defense, if needed, and act as his captain in matters of battle."

  "Do you have soldiers of your own, or do you command the warriors of the tribe?"

  "Both," Igrid said. "In his absence, I command the warriors, but I do have girls of my own whom I train and raise to be warriors. They are my servants, and they do what I say."

  "Ah!" Caillain said. "And do you own them?"

  "In a sense."

  "Freyja is one of them, isn't she?" Morrigan asked.

  "She was," Igrid said. "But I gave her freedom and assigned her to Dearg in exchange for his support."

  "Support for what?"

  "My bid for queen of the Northmen."

  "All of the Northmen?" Caillain asked.

  "That would be ideal," Igrid replied with a smile, raising her glass. "If it came down to it."

  Caillain laughed, clinking his mug against hers again. "Ambition," he said. "Very impressive."

  Morrigan joined them in their toast. She gazed at the shieldmaiden in awe. The woman was very impressive in almost every way; her demeanor, her strength, and her resolve to stand out. She envied the woman, and there was even a small part of her that felt connected somehow. It was as if they were meant to meet, much like she was meant to meet Dearg and reveal to him his destiny.

  Was Morrigan's destiny attached to Igrid's somehow?

  "Have you ever felt any connection to the dragon tower?" she asked.

  Igrid turned her head to look at her. There was nothing there in her eyes but curiosity.

  "No," Igrid said. "But I do feel something unusual about this land. I have always felt that though."

  "What do you mean?"

  Igrid cocked her head in thought. "I couldn't tell you," she said. "I feel lately that something tragic has happened to the Great Mother. She cries, and sometimes I hear her. That is all I know."

  Morrigan's heart skipped a beat, and she felt a warmth growing inside of her. It was familiarity, she realized. She too had felt the Great Mother weep. She had never known why, but a tragedy would seem to be a good reason. Something directly affecting Gaia herself.

  "She cries like a mother who has lost her children," she offered.

  Igrid nodded, putting her hand on Morrigan's shoulder. "That's it," she said. "That is what I feel."

  They were locked together in a gaze that made Morrigan hopeful, yet slightly uncomfortable at the same time. Caillain must have felt that discomfort, too, as he cleared his throat and shuffled a bit atop his crate.

  "Are we drinking or are we staring at each other?" he asked in jest.

  Morrigan and Igrid laughed, finally breaking their gaze and joining Caillain in another drink. Morrigan began to feel a sense of comradery with this shieldmaiden, a sisterhood or something similar. There was definitely a connection there. Was it a common interest in freedom, or was it something deeper?

  She hoped to know the answer soon.

  Jarl Svengaar stood in awe as he watched the herd of bridled horses round the northern shoreline and head in his direction. There were at least one hundred of them; maybe more. They were equipped with tack, saddles, and girthers made of black leather. They were obviously horses belonging to T'kar's army; possibly the same army that had invaded the Highlands.

  They stopped near him, chuffing and clacking their hooves on the rocks, waiting for something that Svengaar was unaware of. He looked around, wondering if anyone had driven them here, or if there were someone riding one of them.

  There was no one.

  "Well," he said, approaching one of them. "You're a fine lot. Where did you come from?"

  The horse whinnied, and Svengaar smiled, patting its snout and stroking its mane. Someone had brought these horses to them, but there was no sign of who it was. It was a mystery, and a gift, and he was not one to question the will of the gods.

  Perhaps Kronos has directed them here, he thought. Either way, they now belonged to the Tribe of the Wolf. For what reason, he could not guess, but it seemed Kronos had sent him a message.

  Unite the tribes for battle.

  "Alright, then," he said. "Let's get you to the stables and light the beacons. Kronos has spoken. We go to war."

  Randar lay lounged back in his bed, lying twisted and snuggled among the young men T'kar had provided for him. He felt warm and relaxed with them, enjoying the feel of their smooth skin against his own. It was like lying in a pile of silk-clad pillows. His favorite young man, Gen, lay across him with his head propped up on his elbow, watching him light the long herb pipe and awaiting his turn.

  "Lord Randar," he said softly, stroking Randar's chest and curling the hair between his slender fingers. "I fear the king greatly. He is a beast, cruel and barbaric. I am terrified around him."

  Randar smiled warmly as he blew out the spicy smoke that would soon bring him more pleasure.

  "You needn't worry, my love," he said. "You are mine, not his. He will not touch you or harm you in any way. I promise you."

  Gen took a pull from the pipe, handing it back to another young man who lay his head on Randar's shins.

  "Are you sure?" he asked.

  "As I said," Randar replied. "I promise."

  "What of the witch?" the other young man asked, hidden behind Gen. "She frightens me as well, but I find her strangely intriguing."

  Randar laughed. "She is, isn't she?" he said. "I too found her strangely intriguing, almost attractive in a sense. If I were a man who enjoyed the pleasures of women, then I could see myself rubbing against her naked body, slathered in oils and spices."

  Gen grinned. "I would like to watch that."

  Randar stroked his hair again, looking into his bright green eyes. Gen was beautiful, he thought. He was more beautiful than all of the others put together. He had gotten lucky in being able to choose him first. Surely, Lilit would have chosen him if she had gotten first pick. But, she graciously allowed him first choice, and for that Randar was thankful. He would hate to think of Gen being ridden by Lilit and not being able to do so himself.

  What a tragedy that would be.

  Much to Randar's surprise, T'kar burst in at that moment, storming toward his bed, then suddenly stopping to cover his eyes.

  "Randar," T'kar growled. "I need to speak to you. Now."

  "Why do you cover your eyes, my lord?" he asked, looking at Gen's terrified face. "You've buggered boys, this should not shock you. These are grown men."

  "I don't want to see you nude, Randar," T'kar replied. "It ruins my impression of you. Trust me on this."

  "Fine," Randar said. "Gen, boys, would you excuse us, please? And hand me my robe."

  The young men got up from the bed, disappearing behind the divider and into their own chamber. Randar pulled on his robe, tying the belt just as T'kar unshielded his eyes.

  "What is it, Sire?"

  "Lilit tells me that Galik has been killed," T'kar growled.

  "Killed?" Randar said. "By whom?"

  "She thinks it was Igraina," T'kar replied. "But she felt the presence of another. Someone who shouldn't exist."

  Randar tapped his chin with his finger. "And whom does she believe this person is?"

  "She said his presence seems familiar, yet not familiar."

  "Well," Randar said. "That answers nothing. Are you sure he wasn't simply toying with you? I gather that would be something she would enjoy."

  "Something about a wizard named Ptah," T'kar said. "Do you know what that means?"

  "A wizard?" Randar repeated. "No, but the name Ptah sounds familiar."

  "Go on."

  Randar folded his arms across his chest and went to the open doors of his balcony, gathering his thoughts.

  "There was a legend of a great being known as Ptah,"
Randar began. "He was a wise man, serving the Great Mother before the rise of men. He was the first sentient man, as I remember. I am not sure what his given name was, but he took the name Ptah for one reason or another."

  T'kar passed by him, leaning against the balcony's railing and looking out over the landscape beyond.

  "He would have been the first Druid," Randar continued. "But when the Firstborn grew in power, he decided to sacrifice himself in order to spread his influence all over the world. His being was split into several parts, some of them awakening immediately in faraway lands, some of them staying dormant until they were needed. This presence may be one of them."

  "A Druid?" T'kar asked.

  Randar nodded.

  "That is what Kathorgo warned me about," T'kar said. "Perhaps I should consult him on how to kill this Druid. He commanded me to do so, but I was unaware of where he was."

  "I am quite sure Lilit could divine his location," Randar suggested. "And, if need be, I will kill him for you."

  "How are you going to kill a Druid?" T'kar asked. "Druids wield magic, you do not."

  Randar smiled. "I have ways of doing things that are unexpected and effective," he said. "I did, after all, find you the greatest witch ever to walk the Earth, did I not?"

  T'kar grinned, showing his rotten and crooked teeth. Randar grinned in disgust.

  "That you did," T'kar agreed. "That you did. Very well, I will ask Lilit to find him, and you will kill him for me."

  T'kar rushed off, slamming the door behind him, leaving Randar to contemplate this new development. He hadn't planned on leaving again, much less chasing after some Druid. But it was his duty, and his pleasure. That was his job, after all.

  He clapped his hands to summon his lovers again, letting them know it was safe to return. He heard them climb back into his bed, sighing with relief that the king had left.

  "Come, lord Randar," Gen said. "Let us pass the pipe again."

  Randar smiled at the metaphorical meaning of Gen's words.

  Svengaar pulled back his great bow, aiming the flaming arrow at the large beacon up the steep slope of the southern peaks. It was a long shot, but he was an excellent archer. He loosed, watching the flames streak toward their target. Then, the beacon burst into flame, reaching up into the sky to signal every tribe in the area.

  "Jarl," a young man said behind him. "What are you doing?"

  Svengaar turned to him, a wide grin plastered to his face. "Light the other beacons, boy," he said. "I will blow the horn of Kronos. We go to war."

  The young man's eyes lit up, and he scurried away to do his Jarl's bidding. Svengaar shouldered his bow and turned to head toward the watchtower to blow the great signal horn. Standing between two houses he saw Mada staring back at him. He stopped, nodding his head in respect. She nodded back, and he knew that she approved.

  The tribes would gather, the other Jarls would consult with him, and they would rally together to join Dearg in his conquest. They would march to the Highlands and offer their swords to whoever was willing to lead them.

  In his heart, Svengaar knew that Dearg would be that person.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Don't worry Fleek," Dearg said, looking into his friend's teary eyes. "I will return, and we will fight side by side as we have always done."

  Fleek's tears rolled down his hairy face, filling Dearg's heart with sorrow. He knew his friend loved him like a brother, and his simple-minded nature would not allow him to think positively. Fleek was worried he would never see him again, and that worry was heartbreaking.

  "Dearg come back," Fleek said.

  Dearg held Fleek's head in his hands, touching foreheads and closing his eyes. "I swear to Kronos I will return, my friend."

  He felt the big man wrap his strong arms around him and squeeze. Dearg returned the gesture, and the two remained that way for a moment until Ivar chimed in.

  "We'll see you soon, brother," Ivar said.

  Fleek released Dearg and put his arm around Ivar, still staring at Dearg.

  "Take care of Fleek," Dearg said.

  Ivar grinned. "I'll get him drunk," Ivar said. "And he'll be alright."

  Dearg grinned, and held his hand out to Freyja. "Take care of them while I'm gone," he jested.

  Freyja smiled, slapping his hand out of the way and hugging him on her tiptoes. "I will," she said. "You take care of yourself. Come back in one piece."

  "And bring me back a drumstick," Alric said. "If it… has any. You know."

  Dearg shook Alric's hand. "I promised your father I'd bring you back home, so I have to stay alive to keep that promise."

  Alric grinned at him, nodding his head. "See you soon."

  Dearg strapped on his sword, taking one last look at his friends before he turned to head down the dock. Bertram and Skulgrid stood to the side, giving him a nod for good luck.

  "Be careful, lad," Skulgrid said. "Watch your back."

  Dearg clapped Skulgrid on the shoulder. "Thank you, friend," he said. "And Bertram, prepare to join forces with us."

  Bertram cocked his head, smiling. "We’ll see," he said. "We'll see."

  The path was rocky and steep. Dearg had barely been walking for a half hour, but was already fatigued from hiking up the hill. The cave was located up the slope of the mountains, somewhere in view of the forest below, and it would be quite a tiresome trek. It made sense to Dearg, though, as from its vantage point, the creature would have a full view of what was going on below.

  But it was a bad idea either way.

  "What did I get myself into?" he wondered out loud.

  It was nearly an hour later before he saw the darkened cave entrance ahead, tucked away inside a small cul-de-sac of rock and dead trees. He stopped and sniffed the air, noticed a foul, rotting odor that wafted down from above. He knew what it was, but shook his head and continued up the slope anyway.

  There, at the end of the path, was a flattened and rocky area where the cave entrance was located. There were bones lying around; some animal, some human. One of them appeared relatively fresh, still having dried bits of flesh clinging to the bleached bone. The smell was stronger here, and it, along with the disturbing sight, made Dearg cringe.

  Nevertheless, he drew his sword and stared at the cave entrance. Though it was small near the opening, he could see that the corridor inside was larger. He could also see hundreds of random bones just inside, piled or scattered everywhere.

  "Alright," he said, bobbing his head to gain confidence. "This is it. Fight or die. Or maybe both. Maybe neither."

  He stepped forward into the cave entrance, moving cautiously so as to remain silent. It would do no good to announce his presence right away. Or would it. Perhaps he could make enough noise to attract the creature, and then fight it outside.

  There was a growl from deep inside, and Dearg stopped in his tracks.

  "Maybe not," he whispered.

  The air inside the cave was hot and moist, saturated with the smell of rot and the underlying scent of what smelled like wet dog. He cringed in disgust as he continued forward, keeping his ears and eyes open for anything that would indicate where the creature was. His heart was pounding, and his knees felt somewhat weak.

  He was actually more terrified than he had ever been in his life, he realized. But this was no time for fear. He had a task to perform. He took a few deep, quick breaths to calm his nerves and continued forward again, his sword gripped tightly in his hands.

  Ahead he could see that there was a cavern, dimly lit by sunlight that streamed through the cavern rook above. The smell grew stronger, and Dearg could see more bones lying about, including a human skull. To his right, he noticed the body of another warrior, still clad in his metal armor and still wearing his helmet. He stopped and stared for a moment, picturing his own body lying there in its place.

  The growl came again, and Dearg's head shot forward, his skin crawling and his heart still pounding like war drums in his ears. He stepped forward again, hearing scuffling i
n the cavern ahead. As he turned a slight corner, he saw the familiar stalagmites and stalactites that were common in these types of caves. They were, however, dry and ancient. The moisture was simply not high enough to continue building them.

  But they were still huge.

  There was a large column in the center of the chamber. He realized he could use it for cover if need be. It would be a good defense, he thought. He could run from side to side as the monster chased him, jabbing his sword around either side, and running to the other. It seemed cowardly, but it was likely the only way to kill the beast.

  Among the bones, he saw that there were many weapons. There were swords, dozens of them, along with a few bows and several quillions of arrows, new and fletched with colorful feathers. If he survived, he would take some back to Freyja.

  The growl came again, and Dearg took a battle stance, quickly looking around to find its source. There was another corridor on the other side of the column, he saw, and he guessed that the creature was in there somewhere. He stepped forward and held his sword out at the column. Maybe if he banged his blade against it, the creature would come rushing down the corridor and he could fight it here.

  That was better than inside a corridor.

  He knocked the tip of his blade against the stone a few times, making a noise loud enough to echo around the cavern. There was another growl, this time louder, and he stepped back to keep his eyes on the corridor.

  He took a battle stance when he heard scratching and heavy footfalls. His heart pounded and his skin crawled once more. His breathing quickened as he waited, and he found himself regretting his decision. But he had promised. There was no turning back now.

  "Come for me, then!" he called out, hearing his own voice echo.

  There was another growl, and the sound of quickened footfalls. Dearg stared down the corridor, waiting for the creature to burst through, imagining its horrifying eyes and fanged maw. And that was just what he saw.