Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  Dearg ran to them, dragging Morrigan with him. "Protect the archers!" he cried out.

  Ivar nodded and went to Fleek, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

  Fleek smiled, nodding. "Big bat scratch hard."

  Dearg moved closer to Freyja, keeping his eyes on the air around them. The creatures swooped down occasionally, grabbing unsuspecting victims and carrying them off. Some were too heavy, and ended up crashing to the ground and rolling head over feet, injured but safe.

  Morrigan slashed out with her sword, chopping downward just as a wyvern went by. The creature crashed into the ground, its wing severed and spouting blood. Dearg stomped its head in as it tried to attack, thrusting his sword into the bulk of its body.

  "They're like dragons," he said, remembering the legends he had heard.

  He heard a screeching above him, and looked up to see the fanged beak and burning eyes of a wyvern descending fast. He dodged to the side, spinning and slashing just as the creature swooped right above the ground. He felt his blade connect, and the wyvern tumbled into the ground, quickly regaining its footing and crawling toward him like a walking bat.

  He charged, chopping at an upward angle. The wyvern's head moved swiftly, avoiding the blade and snapping back at him. He jumped back, swinging one-handed, chopping into the wyvern's skull. Two arrows thumped into its body, finishing it off.

  Baleron ran by him, his bow out and tracking a larger beast that was low enough to be visible. He loosed, catching the creature right in the head. It fell to the ground by Fleek, who stomped it to death with a grin. Baleron ran backward, keeping his eyes above him as he neared Dearg.

  "The rangers had to have seen them coming," he said.

  "Where did they come from?" Dearg asked.

  "They inhabit the caves in the south," Baleron said. "They have been summoned and commanded somehow. They usually don't attack humans."

  "T'kar," Dearg said.

  Baleron nodded. "The Alvar would have seen them from the ground," he said. "They can see heat signatures in the dark."

  Ivar laughed. "That's pretty handy. It would do us some good right now."

  "Form a circle," Baleron said. "They'll dive in the middle of us and we can take them out safely."

  "Freyja," Dearg said. "Blades only."

  The group formed a large circle as Baleron had said. It made sense to Dearg. The wyverns would take turns diving toward the middle of the group, and swoop in a random direction. The close proximity of the combatants would keep them safe, as there would always be someone on either side of the intended target.

  Unless they swooped from behind.

  A warrior was snatched away and disappeared, screaming, into the sky. Another clansmen quickly took his place.

  "That didn't work out so well for him," Dearg said.

  Freyja and Odhran suddenly struck out as a wyvern entered the circle. They parted quickly as the body and severed head tumbled in between them. They closed the gap again, both guarded and wide-eyed. Dearg gave them a nod.

  "Another one," Ivar said. "I got it."

  He chopped down with both axes as he ducked. The swooping wyvern's wings were severed, and its body sailed right over him, crashing loudly behind him.

  "That was fun," Ivar said.

  "Duck!" Morrigan said.

  Dearg fell flat just as Morrigan's sword swept inches from his head. He heard the screeching cry of her kill as it tumbled over him, and got back to his feet with a raised brow.

  "That was a bit close," he said.

  "Spread out again," Baleron said. "The circle is too tight."

  The group spread out, widening the circle. Those around them waved torches in the air to attract attention, some of them disappearing randomly as they were snatched up. The screeching of the wyverns was nearly deafening, and Dearg gritted his teeth against it. Then, a larger wyvern slammed into the ground in the center of the circle, knocking a few of the group from their feet.

  The wyvern hissed and screeched as it whipped its tail around and snapped its jaws. Dearg thrust his blade at it as its head turned in his direction. The wyvern snapped at him when it dodged, and Dearg was forced into Morrigan. He swung across, missing again, and the wyvern's piercing, angry scream drove him back.

  The spiked tail whipped around, piercing a younger man in the chest. Ivar's axes slashed at it, severing the tip, but the young man fell back, bloodied and convulsing. The Wyvern charged at Baleron, and the ranger backed away, breaking the circle. Dearg and Morrigan charged at its left side, waiting for an opening to strike. The stump of a tail whipped at Morrigan's head, and she ducked, swinging above her and severing another foot or two from it.

  Arrows began thumping into the wyvern's side. It stumbled to its right toward Dearg who awaited it with his sword held behind him and pointing forward. He thrust, piercing the tough flesh of its flank. The wyvern screeched, snapping at him from an angle. Then he saw Morrigan's blade flash right in front of him, and the wyvern's head tumbled away. The creature slumped to the ground, gushing blood from the stump of its neck.

  All around them, wyverns were falling from the sky. Their bodies impacted the ground roughly, bouncing among them, pierced with heavy arrows. Baleron pulled one out, laughing when he examined it.

  "Rangers," he said. "Menelith is here."

  The group scattered again, all of them running in the direction of the group that began emerging from the shadows. Dearg spotted Alric near the center fire, dragging the injured to safety. He gave the young man a nod as he passed, glad to see that he was still living.

  The brightening morning sky began to reveal the wyverns' locations, showing them as black shapes. They were beginning to disperse, regrouping and flying off toward the south. Dearg stopped and looked around, seeing all of the archers firing upward at them. The rangers who had arrived picked them off as well.

  Ivar stopped next to him, breathless but exhilarated, his face frozen in a grimace of glory and battle lust.

  "That was intense," he said. "Why were these things here anyway?"

  "Likely to spy on us," Dearg said.

  Menelith appeared from around a stack of lumber, his bow in his left hand, and his blade in the other. "That is correct," the Alvar said. "They already knew our location, but it is likely they will report the constructions to T'kar. Probably the fortifications the Riverfolk have begun building as well."

  "We need to get more lumber to them," Dearg said.

  "That will need to happen immediately," Menelith said. "They risk their lives gathering lumber from the nearby pine forests. But when this chaos dies down, we should talk, you and I."

  "About what?"

  "Meet me at the edge of the cliffs to the west," Menelith said. "Then we will talk."

  Dearg nodded as Menelith turned away to rejoin his group. Ivar shrugged, smiling.

  "Well, that was informative," he said.

  Dearg shook his head, looking around for his friends. Everyone was accounted for, but Alric was kneeling over a man near the dying fire, propping him up on his thigh. It was Liam, bloodied and injured badly. Dearg knelt down next to him, and Liam's other sons began to gather around. All but one. Liam's pained eyes glanced up at him, and the sadness nearly broke Dearg's heart.

  "I've lost Garen," he said. "My oldest boy."

  "I'm sorry, friend," Dearg said. "Are you alright?"

  "I'll be fine, lad," Liam said, sadly. "We lost over a dozen men and women, and two children."

  "This was a spying attack," Dearg said. "They'll know everything now, including the Riverfolk's activities."

  "They'll know about you," Liam said.

  Dearg swallowed. "Not everything," he said. "But I will make sure T'kar knows about me. One way or another. We will regroup, and we will launch an attack on them."

  "Father," Alric said. "You need to rest. We'll take care of you."

  Dearg stood, looking down at Alric. There was a sudden feeling that swept through him as he regarded the young man. He was s
trong, brave and capable. His skills were that of a man much older, telling Dearg that there was a fighting spirit within him that would be useful.

  "Alric," he said. "I need six good men at least. We will form a small force to lead this army, instead of just one man."

  "What do you mean?"

  Dearg shook his head, unsure of what he really wanted to say. The only thing he could think of were the old stories of Thyre that Mada had told him. In that kingdom, the king himself employed a special group of knights that would be his captains, and his partners. Together, the king of Thyre and his knights were at the front of his armies, and those knights gave inspiration to the soldiers underneath them. Dearg liked that idea.

  "Knights," he said. "Knights of the Dragon."

  Alric looked back down at his father. Liam grinned, putting his hand on the back of his son's head.

  "My son," he said happily. "Knight of the Dragon."

  Alric smiled, nodding his head as he looked back up. "Alright," he said. "I'm in."

  "Knights?" Ivar said skeptically. "What is a knight?"

  "You," Dearg said. "You are a knight. Or… you can be. Don't you remember the stories that Mada told?"

  Ivar rubbed his head, cocking an eyebrow. "I don't remember anything that old woman said. I never listened. Her breath was enough to wake the dead and make them run screaming."

  "Knights," Fleek repeated with a smile. "K-nights."

  He laughed, and Dearg butted heads with him lightly. "You will be one, too," he said. "The three of us, Alric, Freyja. We'll need a few more."

  "What about Baleron and that younger kid, what's his name?"

  "Odhran," Dearg said. "He's a good archer. Almost as good as Freyja."

  "So you want a girl as a knight?" Ivar asked.

  "Why not?"

  Ivar shrugged. "I suppose a woman could do just as well, Igrid for example, but Freyja is just a girl."

  "She is not just a girl," Dearg reminded him. "She's killed quite a few men, and at least one or two wyverns that I saw."

  Ivar nodded. "Alright then. But let's make sure of something."

  "I'm listening."

  "There are those of us who have… uh… felt certain things when looking at the tower."

  "Oh?"

  "Freyja felt it. I felt it. I know you feel it. You always have."

  "You feel it, too? You and Freyja?"

  Ivar nodded. Dearg had never thought that others could feel it, and he wondered why. No one had ever said anything before. Not back at their village, not here. Why suddenly did others feel the same thing he felt? Was there something to it? He looked at Fleek, who was still smiling, but looking off into the distance, watching the clansmen drag the bodies of the wyverns to another fire.

  "Fleek," Dearg said. "What do you feel when you look at the tower?"

  Fleek glanced at him, then turned around to gaze at the distant tower for a moment. He turned back around.

  "It's far," Fleek said.

  Dearg and Ivar laughed, and they put their arms around Fleek's shoulders.

  "We'll take him anyway," Ivar said. "It wouldn't be the same without him."

  "K-nights," Fleek said.

  With the sun behind him, Dearg headed toward the cliffs where the mysterious Alvar awaited him. He saw Menelith standing tall, looking off toward the tower, as still as a pine tree, the wind blowing his blue cloak around him.

  He stopped next to Menelith and looked at the tower, feeling that familiar strangeness that always filled him when in its presence.

  "What do you feel?" Menelith asked.

  Dearg searched for the words to describe what he felt, and his thoughts went back to the same conversation he had with Morrigan. It was hard to describe then, too.

  "Belonging," he said. "Like I was born there, maybe."

  "Do you the see path that leads down on the other side?" Menelith asked.

  Dearg nodded. He could see it clearly, but for some reason he felt that it wasn't actually there.

  "That path leads nowhere," Menelith said. "It is a ruse designed to distract and turn away those who do not belong there. The only true path to the tower lies through the caves you went through to reach the Riverfolk."

  Dearg grunted.

  "But that must change in the future," Menelith continued.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Dol Drakkar is a temple," the Alvar explained. "And a temple is no good if the people can't reach it to worship."

  "True," Dearg said, confused.

  "Only when T'kar is defeated can the temple be opened up," Menelith said. "The only other way in is to follow the river, and scale the rapids. No one can do that. Not even T'kar."

  "Who is T'kar?" Dearg asked. "Tell me where he comes from."

  "T'kar is not human," Menelith said. "He is of an older race, one whose members hide themselves away in the mountains and are never seen. T'kar himself developed a strange intellect that is unusual for his kind. Not to mention, an evil greater than any. I cannot explain why, but my Lady Allora says that he was consumed by the evil of an ancient spirit that lives within the Earth. He was seduced by it, and rose above his tribe, slaughtering many of them in his quest to gain power. When that wasn't enough, he came here to Eirenoch, and fought against King Daegoth."

  "And defeated him," Dearg finished.

  Menelith nodded. "And he then took Daegoth's throne, making the king's daughter his wife, that his blood may mingle with that of the kings of Eirenoch."

  Dearg sighed, thinking of how the poor woman must have felt being forced to bear a beast's child. But he had heard that she was barren, and could not bear children.

  "That did not happen," Dearg said.

  "That is correct. But she did bear a child."

  Dearg looked at him then. Menelith remained facing the tower.

  "Who?"

  "It is unknown," Menelith said. "But the child's father was the Dragon himself."

  "How is that possible?" Dearg said.

  "The Firstborn may take human form," Menelith said. "It has happened many times in the past, and will continue to happen in the future. The important thing is that Queen Fianna gave birth to the son of the Dragon, and he is still alive."

  What was Menelith saying? Was Baleron right that Menelith believed Dearg was that child? Why did Menelith believe this?

  "I do not know who my parents are," Dearg said. "All I know is that Daegoth's symbol was found in my basket."

  "And your shaman named you Son of the Dragon."

  "Yes," Dearg said. "But that was just a metaphor, I suppose."

  Menelith smiled. "Humility," he said. "It is a good quality, especially for a warrior."

  "The legends say that Fianna's child was killed the same night she was killed," Dearg said. "T'kar executed him along with his mother."

  "That is not the case," Menelith said. "The next day, a woman escaped with a child in a basket. She was killed by T'kar's hunters, but I killed them myself, and watched your basket float down the river safely. When we first met, I knew you were that child. It is you, Dearg. You are the son of the Dragon."

  He looked at Dearg then, and the bright blue of his eyes seemed to pierce Dearg's soul. He felt as if Menelith were looking right into him, into his very essence. The feeling made Dearg's heart race, and he couldn't tear his eyes away. He was transfixed. Then, as he fought to speak, his mind went blank and something strange played out before his eyes.

  He saw a beautiful woman looking down at him. She was smiling and weary, yet there was a sadness in her eyes. His heart felt warm, and he knew that he loved this woman, but why, he could not guess. There were others around, other women who looked upon him with both smiles and fear.

  But there was another, a stern-faced older woman who looked at him with disdain. He didn't know who she was, and she didn't appear to hate him, but hated the idea of him. He had no idea why he felt this, but for some reason it was clear to him.

  A brutish thing burst into the room, looking at him with hatred. He
was repulsive, primitive, evil. He knew right away it was T'kar. But despite his fear, the brute did not take him, nor harm him. He was disgusted and angry, but fearful, it seemed. As he stormed out, the older woman touched him, closing her eyes and chanting.

  Then, the scene changed again. He was looking up at a younger woman, one he had not seen before. She was terrified and fleeing, as if being chased or hunted. She fed him, took care of him, and kept him warm. He did not feel love for her, but he trusted her. She did not fail him, he knew. Though she had fallen for some reason, she had pushed him off into the river, and then she was gone.

  He saw the sky, day and night, and felt the water gently flowing around him. A man with golden hair and cold blue eyes followed him, he knew. He could see the man occasionally, looking down at him as he passed by. But Dearg knew it was not a man.

  It was Menelith.

  There was another man that he saw once. A tall man, heavily muscled and tattooed. His hair was black and flowing, and his eyes were also blue. He did not know who this man was, or why he was watching him, but he saw the love in the man's eyes, and felt it in his heart. He could feel himself weeping as he stared into the man's kind face. His heart was heavy, and he knew right away that this man loved him, and Dearg loved him, too.

  But then, he saw yet another man, a Northman, staring down at him with wide eyes and a smile that was familiar to him. This was his father; the man who had raised him. He was Olav of the Tribe of the Wolf. His father. The only father he had ever known. He loved Dearg right away, and so did the woman who held him at her bosom to keep him warm. He remembered her, felt her warmth, and felt her heart beating as he slept. His mother. The woman that had loved him as her own.

  And then the vision was gone.

  Dearg's face was covered in tears, and his heart ached. Who were these people, he wondered. Why did he feel so much love for them? Why had they loved him so? Why had Menelith been watching him?

  "I have been there your whole life," the Alvar said.

  Dearg turned to him, breathless and overwhelmed. "Why?"

  "You are the son of the Dragon, Dearg," he said. "Not in a metaphorical sense. You are his literal son. That is why he watched you."