"Rise," Malthor said. "Your master commands you."
The man's legs began to jerk, and its fingers flexed and grasped at the empty air. T'kar's heart raced in awe as he watched the corpse clumsily rise to its knees, swaying back and forth as it gained its bearings. Then, its left leg came up, planting a foot on the stone floor and pushing itself up until it stood, blindly staring off into space.
T'kar roared with laughter, watching the animated corpse sway and flop its head around. He approached it curiously, walking around it and inspecting its motions.
"Can it fight?" he asked.
"It could," Malthor said. "Not as well as a living warrior, but enough to kill a few men before it is cut down. The advantage is having a soldier that can rise from the dead and fight again, no matter how clumsily and ineffective. The sight of a slain soldier rising to fight again is usually enough to strike fear in the hearts of even the strongest of warriors."
"Yes, yes," T'kar said. "It is repulsive. I am impressed."
The king turned to the other guard, who still stood wide-eyed and frozen.
"Kill it," T'kar said.
The soldier drew his blade and beheaded the corpse with a single slash. The headless body toppled forward, still twitching. The guard looked at Malthor, who shrugged, smiling.
"That will do," the Necromancer said. "It will die eventually without its head."
"Impressive," T'kar said. "If you could wield this magic on the battlefield, then we will strike fear in our enemies like none other."
"I am eager to do whatever it takes to spread fear, Sire," Malthor said.
"Good," the king said. "Then for your first act of loyalty, raise an army of the dead and lead them north. Randar will ride with you. Do not show yourselves to the enemy. Randar is my right-hand man and I do not wish for him to be taken from me, understand?"
"Yes, Sire."
"By the time you return, my forces will be ready to march upon the Riverfolk and proceed to the Highlands. Thanks to Jarka, we have a new route."
"I would caution you, T'kar," Lilit said. "Those caves are barely large enough for a horse to pass through. Your men would likely be walking into a trap."
"Then we will move the mountain itself," T'kar said. "That should not be too difficult for you."
"It would be my pleasure, Sire," Lilit replied. "I will consult the spirits, and have your spell ready by the time you march north."
"Good," T'kar said. "Malthor, there are plenty of corpses at your disposal. Do not fail me."
"The dead never fail to do their master's bidding," Malthor replied. "You will have your army."
Igraina stood at the foot of the dark tower, staring up at its incredible height. It was an odd thing, to say the least, as its construction was like nothing she had ever seen. Its builders, whoever they were, were skilled beyond measure. Not a single seam was visible between the stones, if there even were any, and the walls of the tower seemed as smooth as glass.
Around the tower, arranged in a circular fashion, were the foundations of many buildings. It was a city in the works, she realized, one that would minister to the needs of those who came to worship, though she could not imagine how a temple would function without priests.
She began walking the grounds, looking for any sign of the builders. She saw nothing, however. There were no workers around, mortal or immortal, and it seemed as if the tower were simply building itself. That would not surprise her, though, as she had seen stranger things.
The only thing she was sure of was that the presence of the Dragon was strong here. Though she realized that the Firstborn was likely not himself present, the tower served as a gateway to his realm. If only she could enter it, she could consult the Dragon himself.
Why she desired to do this was unknown to her. Perhaps she simply wanted to know her origins, and the Dragon might have some knowledge. He was, after all, the eldest of the Firstborn, and barring the Great Mother herself, the most knowledgeable. It was unlikely that the Dragon would willingly give her any information, however, unless she did the Dragon some favor.
Jodocus had suggested she help Daegoth make his way to the tower, and that seemed like a great enough favor. Surely he would be willing to give her at least a small amount of information in exchange. What the Druid had told her was not enough. She wanted more. All of it.
It was when she reached the south side of the tower that she noticed what looked like a door. There was a road going right to it through the foundations, a wide avenue where worshipers could travel straight to the tower itself. She stopped then, staring at the double doors with some hope. If she could enter them, she could explore the tower.
She stepped onto the avenue, looking around at the platforms and half-walls that were on either side of it, still looking for some sign of life. The valley was deathly still, and there was no one around to stop her. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, keeping her eyes trained upon the doors, watching as the runes carved upon it became clearer.
She recognized many of them as the writings of the Alvar, a language in which she was somewhat fluent, but only because of her desire to destroy them. She wondered why the Alvar language was even present. Surely they had nothing to do with its construction. But, as she finally came to the doors, she realized it was merely an illusion. Though similar, the runes were of some other language; something more archaic and industrious in nature.
They were not beautiful and flowing like the Alvar language, but halting and blocky. Still, their shapes were familiar, only not as elegant. Try as she might, she couldn't decipher them. They didn't seem to make sense in this configuration. It had to be a different language, one that was older or simply related somehow.
Nothing made sense.
In the center of the doors, where the two slabs met, was a circular shape with a handprint in the center. It was a human-sized print that her own hand fit easily within. But when she placed it there, it did nothing. She pushed, cursing, but it was no use.
Nothing happened.
"Damn you," she whispered.
"What are you doing?" a man's voice said from behind her.
She froze, twisting her hands into the shape of a fiery spell that she could release when she turned.
"Do you need something?" the voice said.
She turned, fully expecting to see some brigand, or even a priest. But what she saw was different. Much different. There stood a man in a black flowing cloak that blew around him. His cowl was up, hiding his face within its shadows, but his blue eyes shone through brightly, as if the sun were shining directly on them right through the cowl's shadow.
She was mesmerized.
"Who are you?" the man asked. His voice was deep, yet soft and pleasant.
"My name is Gemma," she lied. "I am a traveler, hoping to seek refuge in this great tower."
"This is a temple," the man said. "Or it will be soon. There is no one here but myself and my servants."
Igraina looked around, seeing no one. She gazed at the man skeptically, realizing he was probably a mad man. She felt no one's presence. If there others around, she would know. But then she realized she hadn't felt him, either.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"My name is Dagda," the man said. "I am the caretaker of these grounds. What is your name?"
"I already told you," Igraina said.
"You lied," Dagda replied.
Igraina gulped, suddenly afraid for a reason she could not fathom. She instinctively released her spell, throwing a flaring jet of flame at the man. It blew past him, flapping his cloak but not harming him in the slightest. He remained unmoving, still looking at her with those blue eyes.
"Why did you do that?" he asked.
She didn't know. Fear, perhaps?
"I am sorry," she said. "I was… afraid."
"You wield magic like that, and you're afraid? What do you have to be afraid of?"
"I am not sure," she said. "I was just… I don't know."
"What is it you want?"
> "I came to find answers," Igraina said.
"Ah," Dagda said. "The Dragon has many answers, depending on the question."
As soon as he mentioned the Dragon, her heart seemed lifted, as if there were some hope for finding answers.
"Can I speak to him?" she asked.
The man lowered his cowl, showing his face at last. He was handsome, with features that seemed chiseled from stone. His skin, pale like hers, was tattooed, and his long black hair framed his face like a lion's mane. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And his name… where had she heard it?
"What is your question, Igraina?"
The sound of her name made her heart stop. She panicked, pushing away from the door and bolting past Dagda as fast as she could, her mind swirling and reeling with terror. How had he known her name? Who was he?
She ran straight down the path, tears streaming from her eyes and her heart racing and thumping like war drums. Did she dare look back? Would the man be right at her heels? She didn't want to know. All she wanted was to escape, to hide somewhere back in the cave from which she had emerged.
But, as usual, her curiosity got the better of her and she stole one glance behind her. The man still stood at the door, his black hair and cloak blowing around him. He was unmoving, like a statue, and she wondered if he was even real. Trying to put him out of her mind, she turned back to the path and continued on.
Among the piles of blocks and beams that lay unused she could see small shadowy figures ducking out of sight. They watched her, she knew. She could feel them. They hid as she passed, but she knew they were still there, ready to jump out and attack.
But they did not. Breathless, she finally left the constructions behind, taking one look back. The man still stood at the door, watching her, and she could almost smell his scent. It was a musky smell, like sandalwood and pine mixed together in some variety of incense. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but there was no reason she would be able to smell it from here. She didn't remember smelling it while standing in front of him.
Maybe it wasn't even his scent. She didn't know.
Sobbing and bewildered by the experience, Igraina ducked into the dark and damp cave, making her way toward the spring that flowed through it. There, she would find the path again and be free of the valley. It terrified her, and she had no desire to go back. But as Jodocus had said, she must make sure that Daegoth made it there. He must go there, he had said.
It was time to find him, she realized.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Do you see him?" Odhran asked Dearg when he reached the top of the walkway overlooking the valley to the south.
Dearg squinted in the dimness of the dusk, searching for the figure that the ranger had seen. He saw nothing but the movements of the trees, and the various Riverfolk who continued working on the fortifications.
"He's wearing a white cloak," Odhran said. "Or maybe a robe. I can't really tell from here."
Dearg shook his head. "I'm sorry, I see noth—"
There was a small flash of white in the direction the ranger had pointed, and Dearg could see that it was a cloak of some kind that blew in the wind. He seemed to have something in his hand, whoever he was.
"Who do you think it is?" he asked.
"I don't know," Odhran replied. "I know of no one who wears white, much less robes that change color."
"They change color?"
"I think so. That's why you couldn't see him. The cloak or robe is the color of the forest, but then turns white in a flash. It's almost as if he's signaling."
"Signaling to whom, I wonder," Dearg said.
"I don't think anyone else sees him," Odhran said. "So probably us, or you."
Dearg glanced at him in question. Odhran shrugged.
"Who knows?" the ranger said. "Menelith says strange things about you; about the Dragon and the tower. I can't think of anyone else a strange character like this would want to talk to."
"Then perhaps we should talk to him," Dearg said. "I think now is a good time for our first ride as brothers."
"Knights of the Dragon," Odhran said.
"That's right."
Odhran sighed, leaning against the railing. "Just a few short weeks ago I was nothing but a trapper," he said. "And then I was a ranger, and now a knight."
"I wanted you to be a part of it," Dearg said. "Baleron has nothing but good things to say about your bravery and skill. I need skilled men to make up my knights."
Odhran nodded. "Well, if Baleron thinks it's a good idea, then I will join. If you are to be king someday, I suppose it's a good idea to get on your good side."
Dearg threw his head back and laughed loudly. "You are already on my good side, my friend," he said. "So let's gather the rest of them and take a ride to meet our curious friend."
Liam lent the seven of them his horses with the promise that they would bring them back safely. Seeing as Liam insisted that Dearg bring Alric back safely from their last excursion through the cave, it was odd that he was more concerned with his horses this time. Alric thought so too.
"Don't worry," Ivar said to him. "I'm sure your father still loves you."
"Thanks, Ivar," Alric said sarcastically.
"He just loves his horses more."
There was laughter, including a high-pitched squeal from Freyja that drew everyone's attention. Dearg even stopped his horse when he looked back. He saw her shrug indifferently, smiled, and spurred his horse on.
The horses had fit nicely through the cave, with just enough room above Dearg's head. They didn't seem to fear the caves, but were curious about the growing sound of rushing water deeper in. When they emerged and started down the path, they had little trouble negotiating the steep terrain, and Dearg realized it was possible to lead a large cavalry through it. The Highlands were the perfect stable, with access to the potential battlefield and a large open space to assemble once through the cave.
Once they made it to the bottom of the path, that is.
They passed Riverfolk who were tasked with building the fortified bridge across the river, and even had to pause for a moment while two armed guards opened the gates to the fields beyond. Dearg was impressed with how quickly they had assembled everything.
"They build fast," Baleron said. "I've heard they built their town in just a few days."
"All because of a monster who wished them no harm," Dearg added.
"Speaking of the Bodach," Ivar said. "I wonder what it eats. You know, besides people."
"Meat," Dearg replied. "Just meat and fish."
"Raw meat," Ivar said. "I can think of better things. I like it cooked at least a little bit."
"But just a little bit," Freyja said. "As long as there's a little blood left you can save for later in your beard."
The others laughed, and Ivar stroked his beard with a grin. "Why do you think I grew it?" he jested. "I bet you wish you had one."
Freyja grimaced, shaking her head. "Not a chance," she said. "But if I did, it would be much cleaner than yours."
Ivar snorted.
"What is that?" Alric asked, pointing off across the river.
Dearg saw the flash of white again. "That's what we're looking for," he said.
"Who is it, do you think?"
"I have no idea," Dearg said. "But it's fairly clear he wants our attention. So let's give it to him. We can cross here."
Randar and Malthor rode quietly through the forest, taking note of the rotting corpses that littered the brush and weeds. Many soldiers had been killed here, they noticed, and there were even the bones of giants among them. Someone or something had killed the Fomorians, and whoever had done it had to have great skill.
The Fomorians were not easy to kill.
Randar was curious, as was the young Necromancer. Randar had been loathed to be tasked with traveling with the sorcerer, but upon seeing him face to face, he had changed his mind. Malthor had a disgustingly vile quality to him that Randar found fascinating. He was not only a practitioner o
f dark magic, with a personality to match, but was highly attractive as well. His dark, mussed hair, and piercing hazel eyes drove Randar's blood to his loins like no one ever had before.
He had jumped at the chance to get to know him better.
"Most of these men were killed by arrows," Malthor said, dismounting and examining the nearest corpse. "But the arrows are gone. Whoever shot them took their arrows back."
"Who does that?" Randar asked humorously.
Malthor smiled. "Someone who wants to remain anonymous."
"Who do you think did this?"
"Like you said, someone with skill. It takes a skilled warrior to take down a creature like a Fomorian."
Randar dismounted, moving closer to Malthor as he looked around at the carnage. He could smell that the bodies were beginning to rot, and strangely enough, none of them had been touched by scavengers.
"They're still whole," Randar said.
Malthor stood, nodding his head. "You're right," he said. "No coyotes, nothing. Just arrow holes and sword slashes. Almost as good as new."
He grinned and pulled up his sleeves, beginning a strange chant that drove Randar mad. Just the sight of him in his spell stance made Randar grit his teeth. And the sound of his voice drove him into a frenzy. He was pure darkness, and Randar wanted him.
Badly.
Galik had been a repulsive but interesting man. Igraina had said that he was once a normal man in his youth, but the decades of magic use had turned him into a shell of the man he once was—the human he once was. The magic had turned him from a man to a disgusting, ugly thing that was grotesque and repulsive.
But Randar had still enjoyed his company; he just didn't like looking at him.
"Disgusting," Randar said out loud.
"What?" Malthor asked, pausing his spell.
"Nothing," Randar said, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
Malthor went back his spell, and Randar watched him with great lust in his heart. But then that lust turned to fascination as the corpses on the ground began to stir. A series of groans came from the bodies, sounding like a field of dying cattle. They moaned and gagged as they twisted themselves upright, and Randar's eyes went wide as they began to rise.
Dawn of the Dragon Page 30
