Malthor held his hands facing upward, his fingers clawed and his lips curled into a grimace. He continued chanting, bringing more of the soldiers to their feet. They began to gather around him, even coming from behind Randar or falling out of trees. Evidently the soldiers had guards in the trees, and they too had been killed with arrows.
Arrows that were still embedded in their hearts.
Randar plucked one from a corpse as it stumbled by and examined it closely. Its fletching was something he had never seen before, strangely colored as if bleached and then dyed. Even the shafts were made of a wood whose grain he did not recognize. These were definitely not the arrows of common folk.
"What do you make of this arrow?" he asked.
Malthor turned to him, standing among the wobbling dead. He came to Randar and took the arrow, looking at it curiously. He too seemed perplexed.
"They are unfamiliar," Malthor said. "Maybe Lilit will know. She knows many things we don't. But I will see if I can gather something from the dead."
Randar watched curiously as Malthor went to one of the dead soldiers and placed his hand on the thing's forehead. He closed his eyes, furrowing his brow for a moment. He acted as if he were listening to a man speaking, and Randar gathered that he was doing just that; only in a strange and disturbing way.
When he was done, he lowered his hand, and the corpse fell dead again.
"It was a strange group of cloaked men," Malthor said. "And something other than men."
"What do you mean?"
"I think he said shee or something like that."
Sidhe. "Interesting," Randar said.
"What does that mean?"
"Sidhe," Randar said. "It's what the lowlanders here call the Alvar."
"Ah," Malthor said, shrugging. "So the Alvar are helping them. T'kar will love to hear that."
Randar chuckled. "He doesn't fear them," he said. "Though he should be more careful. If they can take down three Fomorians, than they are even more powerful than I've heard."
"No matter," Malthor said. "We have the dead to help us."
He raised his hands into the air, conjuring a shimmering field above them. Randar wondered what it was until he realized the smell of rot had dissipated.
"It would do no good if the enemy can smell us," Malthor said with a wink. "Not right away, anyway."
Randar smiled. The anticipation was exhilarating.
The group entered the forest where the white figure had last been seen. The trees were widely spaced here, and the terrain was fairly flat, so there were few places to hide. Dearg stopped, looking at Odhran to see if the ranger even remembered where the figure had been standing.
Dearg sure didn't.
"I thought he was by this stump," Odhran said, riding over to a large, gray stump that had been split by lightning. "I guess not."
Baleron cleared his throat, motioning to the ground. Odhran shook his head and dismounted, crouching down to check the ground. After a moment, he shrugged.
"No tracks," he said. "No human tracks, anyway."
"Are you sure you saw someone here?" Ivar asked, grinning. "Maybe it was a shape shifter."
"We saw him," Dearg said. "Or her. Whatever it was, its robes changed color from white to all of this."
He waved his hand around in the air to indicate all of the colors of the forest. Ivar still grinned.
"If there are no human tracks then it probably wasn't human," Ivar said.
"You're right," a voice said.
Everyone froze, looking around for the source of the voice. A slight ruffling of leaves drew their attention to the stump where Odhran was crouched. A man in white robes stepped out from behind it, bearing a staff and a strangely bushy head of long hair. Odhran jumped back with his hand on his blade. Freyja's bow was out and drawn in an instant.
"Don't worry," the man said. "I'm not dangerous. Not to you, anyway."
"Who are you?" Dearg asked. "Why are you sneaking around?"
The man held his free hand out as if to explain something, but didn't speak. Instead, his robes changed back to the Earth tones that had hidden him before. He then smiled.
"My name is Jodocus," he said. "I am a Druid, and I was hoping you would come. I wanted to speak to you, Daegoth."
"What did you call me?" Dearg asked, dismounting quickly.
"That is your name, correct?"
"No," Dearg said. "My name is Dearg."
"Ah," Jodocus said, his eyes going wide. "Dearg. Interesting. That means son of the Dragon. Very clever."
Dearg felt uncomfortable, and this man wasn't helping. In fact, he was rather annoying.
"Why did you call me Daegoth?" he asked.
Jodocus shrugged. "I thought that was your name," he said. "Forgive me, Dearg. I just thought that's what your mother would have named you."
"You knew my mother?" Dearg asked, feeling his heart quicken.
"In a way," Jodocus said. "But no more than I know you."
"We rode out here for this?" Ivar said. "I came for a fight, and this nimrod shows up and spoils it."
Fleek laughed. "Nimrod," he said.
"What do you want, Jodocus?" Dearg asked, wagging a finger at Ivar.
"I wanted to meet you," Jodocus said. "I have wanted to meet you for a while, as I am the one who keeps these lands safe. As you can see, things are not going so well. Not that I'm not doing my job, believe me I am trying. But without the Dragon's dominance, it's hard to maintain my power."
Dearg nodded halfheartedly. He supposed that was true.
"But as you may have figured it out by now, the Dragon's power has waned over the years. Since T'kar has taken the throne, his power is threatened. T'kar is destroying any remnants of Daegoth's house, the one king who had pledged loyalty to the Dragon. You are the last remnant of that house."
"I know this," Dearg said. "So why are you here? Do you have answers for me?"
Jodocus cocked his head. "Do you have questions?" he asked.
Dearg threw his hands into the air in frustration. "I have a million questions."
"Well," Jodocus said, laughing. "I don't think we have time for that. But I will tell you this. Though I cannot interfere directly, I can offer you advice in any matter pertaining to… well, yourself or your destiny and so forth."
"There is no destiny," Ivar interrupted. "There is only battle and glo—"
Jodocus waved his hand in Ivar's direction, and the sound of the Northman's words was silenced. He continued moving his lips, waving his hands in front of his face and screaming, but no sound came out.
"I can only tell you that your fate lies in the Dragon's hands," Jodocus said. "Trust in his power, and you will be victorious."
Dearg was fixated on Ivar, whose frustration was growing. His axes were out, and it looked like he was on the warpath as he began to dismount. Dearg stayed him with a hand, and looked back at Jodocus.
"Diffuse that spell," Dearg said. "He is liable to chop you up if you don't."
"Fine," Jodocus said, waving his hand again.
"—your ass!" Ivar said as his voice returned.
He quietly mounted his horse, slightly embarrassed. Freyja squealed again and Ivar buried his face in his horse's mane. Dearg placed his palm on his forehead, shaking his head.
"It is important that you take the lead in this battle, Dearg," Jodocus continued. "The people need to believe, to know, that their king has returned. They have no use for some random warlord to rise up and take the throne. They need the Dragon. The Onyx Dragon."
"Onyx Dragon?" Dearg repeated. "What does that mean?"
"It means nothing as long as you are still just a Northmen with a sword."
"I don't understand."
"You will, I hope. Again, I cannot interfere directly, but I can offer you a suggestion."
"And what is that?"
Jodocus turned and pointed in the direction of the tower, which was not visible from this altitude. Dearg looked anyway.
"You hear a call," Jodocus said. "
Answer that call. That is all I can say."
Dearg considered the Druid's words for a moment. The call he felt was definitely coming from the tower, but so far he had only thought that it was a call to arms. It seemed to be the Dragon calling for him to take back the throne.
"I cannot tell you what to do with your knowledge, Dearg," Jodocus continued. "All I can do is hope that you will decide for yourself, and decide in the best interest of your people."
"His people…" Ivar began, but then decided to keep his mouth shut.
Baleron chuckled "Jodocus," he said. "We appreciate your advice. We will do our best to stand against T'kar. And we can hope that someday we will be prepared for a direct assault on the king."
"I know," Jodocus said. "I've watched you. All of you. You and your rangers have done well. With a larger force behind you, and the leadership of the heir to the throne, you will be successful."
"We thank you for support," Dearg said. "And we would also thank you if you could use your powers to help us."
"I will do what I can," Jodocus said. "For example, at this moment the enemy approaches."
Dearg reached for his blade. The others immediately went into action, scanning the nearby forest with sharp eyes. Freyja and Odhran drew their bows, and Ivar twirled his axes in his hands.
"Where?" Dearg asked.
But Jodocus was gone.
"Damn it," he cursed, mounting his horse again. "Fall back to the river. I have a feeling we are outnumbered."
"They're rather slow," Randar said, remarking on how the undead soldiers stumbled along instead of marching at an acceptable pace. On horseback, it was rather annoying.
"They're dead," Malthor said, drawing a chuckle from Randar.
"I know how they feel," Randar remarked. "I feel rather half-dead myself sometimes."
"And why is that?"
"Unlike a lot of T'kar's closest allies, I am just a normal man. A normal man in his fifties."
"You look rather young for a man in his fifties. Vigorous, too, I might add."
"Well, thank you," Randar said, gaining a small boost in self-esteem. "But the fact is, I'm growing old, and I feel it more and more every day."
"I see," Malthor said. "I suppose it is important to feel good as well as maintaining a youthful appearance. Allow me to help you."
He rode closer to Randar, stretching his hand out to touch his chest. Randar could feel his heart beat faster for a moment, and felt slightly dizzy. But as soon as the wave appeared, it faded, and his heart began beating slower and stronger. He felt vigorous then, as if Malthor had melted twenty years away.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"Your heart was strong for a man your age," Malthor said. "But I felt something wrong as soon as I touched you. There was a small defect, and I repaired it. I also rejuvenated the muscle, making it stronger. You now have the heart of a much younger man."
Randar smiled, locking eyes with the Necromancer.
"Don't worry, lovely Randar, it's still your heart."
"I thank you, my friend," Randar said. "Whatever gifts I may give to you are yours."
Malthor suddenly snapped his head forward, putting out his hand to stop Randar. There was the sound of hooves ahead, and Randar could see a small group of men riding away toward what looked like a wooden wall.
"Riverfolk, I think," Randar said.
Malthor shook his head. "No, not just Riverfolk. Something is among them."
"What?"
"I don't know," Malthor said. "But the time has come to make our presence known."
Malthor drew his blade, prompting Randar to do the same.
"Forward, my minions," Malthor commanded.
"Open the gates!" Dearg shouted. "Arm yourselves. The enemy approaches."
The group waited as the guards pulled open the heavy wooden gates. They rode in, each of them dismounting and climbing the stairs to the upper walkways behind the wall. The Riverfolk prepared their bows, lining up along the wall and peering off into the distance.
"What is it?" one of them asked. "I see nothing."
Dearg shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said. "But the Druid said the enemy comes."
"Do you smell that?" Ivar said.
Dearg sniffed the air. It seemed that the smell of decay was strong, and was blowing from out of the forest as quickly as the wind could carry it.
"That's revolting," Freyja said, holding her nose.
"Ignore it," Baleron said. "It will get worse."
Dearg looked over to him. The ranger had a feared look upon his face, and Dearg knew then that whatever was coming was something out of the ordinary and frightening to him.
"What is it, Baleron?"
"Undead," the ranger said. "A whole army of them."
Chapter Twenty Eight
Arrows flew as the horde of stumbling undead emerged from the forest and began crossing the river. Though dozens were cut down immediately, they still came. Even those who fell slowly returned to their feet, only to march forward once again.
"There is nothing we can do against them," Baleron shouted. "We have no magic, and that's what we need."
"What happened to the Druid?" Dearg shouted back. "He could have helped."
Undead began crashing against the wall below, banging their fists against the thick wooden beams. Though holding sturdy, they would eventually splinter, and the undead would overwhelm them.
"Torches!" Dearg shouted. "Set your arrows aflame!"
The Riverfolk scurried to gather buckets of tar and oil that was used to seal the wall, placing them at intervals along the wall where the archers stood ready. Others brought torches and placed them in brackets that were mounted on top, and brought arrows for everyone to use.
Dearg was handed a bow, and while not skilled with one, firing a flaming arrow into a crowd required little skill. He and the others began dipping their arrows in the tar and lighting them with the torches. Flaming arrows began flying into the midst of the horde, setting their targets aflame.
The undead flailed their arms to extinguish the flames, some of them ignoring the fire and continuing forward undaunted. Soon, there were fires all over, and the bodies began burning to the point of falling useless to the ground.
But still they came.
"There are hundreds of them!" Baleron shouted. "We've killed these before."
"How did this happen?" Dearg asked, firing another arrow into the horde.
"Necromancer," Baleron said. "They have a Necromancer."
"The sorcerer?" Dearg said, remembering the first battle that was fought in the Highlands. "Freyja killed their sorcerer."
Baleron fired and grabbed another arrow. "Either he's back or they found another."
"Look!" Freyja called out, pointing at the distant tree line.
Off in the distance, two horsemen stood, observing the battle from the safety of the trees. They both wore black, and Dearg knew that these were T'kar's men.
"Can you hit them?" Dearg shouted back at her.
Freyja pulled out one of her own arrows, knocking it and focusing on their position. After a few moments, she drew back her bow and aimed.
"I can hit one of them," she said.
"Odhran," Baleron said. "Take the other."
"How amusing," Randar said, laughing. "They're helpless."
Malthor chuckled, enjoying the display. Ever since he was a child he had dreamed of raising an army of undead and leading them against an enemy. Now that he had the chance, it was even better than he had imagined. He had never seen anything so beautiful, exciting, or so strangely mesmerizing. He had entire army at his disposal, and he felt like a king himself.
"They seem to be immune to the flames," Randar said.
"For a while," Malthor replied. "They'll succumb eventually, but they'll kill many before that happens."
He looked at Randar, whose eyes were glued to the grisly scene. He liked the way Randar's lips puckered and unpuckered, the way his tongue licked his lips and teeth with excitement
, and even the sound of his cruel laughter. Randar was a man whose company he enjoyed, even this first time together. He hoped to ride with him many times in the future.
But then, Malthor's horse suddenly reared back as an arrow pierced its heart. Malthor was thrown back, landing roughly and rolling to avoid the horse's bulky body. He was unharmed, but surprised, and rose quickly to regain his bearings.
That's when he saw Randar slowly toppling from his horse. Panicked, he caught the man before he could fall to the ground, and pushed him forward onto his horse's mane, leaping up behind him to shelter him.
"Randar," he cried. "Are you alright?"
Randar groaned, and Malthor could see an arrow protruding from the right side of his chest. Though he knew the point has missed Randar's heart, he could hear the gurgling of blood entering his lungs. He had to get Randar to safety, but he would do so with a clouded mind, as his fear and concern for his new friend were overwhelming.
"Bastards," he growled as he turned the horse around.
As he spurred the horse home at full speed, he realized that if Randar died, T'kar would likely kill him as well.
"They're gone," Freyja said. "I hit the man on the left."
"I hit the other one's horse," Odhran said. "But he was unharmed."
"That's good enough," Baleron said. "Without the Necromancer, the undead will disperse."
"Well then," Ivar said, dropping his bow, drawing his axes, and placing his foot on top of the wall. "Who's with me?"
"Ivar," Dearg said. "Are you mad? There are hundreds of them."
"Then I'll see you in Valhalla," Ivar said, twirling his axes and leaping down.
Fleek laughed, drawing his hammer and jumping down. He splattered a few of the undead as he landed, and Dearg could hear his maniacal laughter. He shrugged, shook his head, and drew his sword.
"Let's get this over with," he said. "We can't just let them wander around."
He leaped down, landing among the scrambling horde. His sword went into action immediately, and he delivered a spinning strike that chopped the heads off of two of them. They mobbed around him, and he swept his blade back and forth in a continuous arc, connecting with rotting flesh every time.
Dawn of the Dragon Page 31
