Dawn of the Dragon

by Shawn E. Crapo

  "Oh," the younger man said sarcastically. "Forgive me, great Northman. I did not know they were so close to your heart. The next time I will be more careful and courteous when raising the dead against you."

  Dearg narrowed his gaze and rode toward the man, glaring at him with his jaw clenched and his heart burning with the urge to strike him down.

  "I will see your corpse dragged behind my horse when this is over," he hissed. "And then we will see who is more careful and courteous."

  The young man swallowed loudly, drawing a chuckle from Ivar behind him. Freyja rode up, circling the older man with a crooked smile on her lips.

  "You look familiar," she said. "You were quite a ways away the last time I saw you, but I hit you anyway. How are you feeling? You look quite ill."

  Randar glared at her, turning his horse away quickly. "Come, Malthor," he said. "Let us leave these barbarians to their fate."

  Malthor turned quietly, following him as he rode away. Dearg stared after them, highly amused with Freyja's statement. She was fearless, he saw, and her humorous statement had gotten to the older man. It was a successful negotiation, as far as he was concerned.

  "That went well," Alric said. "I think the little one pissed his pants."

  "Well," Ivar said. "I hope he brought a fresh pair."

  Dearg turned his horse around to face them, trying to come up with a strategy. From the look on the older man's face, he could tell that the king's offer was just a ruse. Even the meeting was a ruse. It was likely a distraction for something greater.

  "T'kar may be sending troops north as we speak," he said. "The pass is narrow, but the forest is wide open. The battle will likely take place there."

  "That will be a rough battle, even for him," Baleron said. "But you're right. That would be a better strategy. They will be protected from a cavalry charge in the forest."

  "We will need to post lookouts along the southern perimeter," Dearg said. "Menelith, have your warriors keep watch on the forest."

  Menelith nodded, returning to his group to relay the message. The Alvar then disappeared into the woods without a single word.

  "Baleron, your rangers will man the wall," Dearg said. "And higher up on the cliffs near the caves."

  "Right," Baleron replied.

  "Let us return. We have work to do. Freyja, watch yourself. The king will know it was you who shot his sorcerer, and whoever that was."

  "It's alright," she said with a smile. "I have more arrows."

  "Don't take it too personally," Randar said. "They're the enemy, after all. You can't expect them to be polite."

  "Barbarians," Malthor said. "Nothing but savages."

  Randar laughed, clapping his friend on the back. "Of course they are," he said. "But did you see the leader?"

  Malthor smiled, looking at Randar with a grin. "He was spectacular, wasn't he?"

  "Absolutely breathtaking," Randar said with a laugh. "And not mindless as one would expect. I got the impression he was much more than that. He will be a worthy opponent."

  "And he is Daegoth's heir?"

  "Yes. That and the son of the Dragon, as I've heard."

  "Well then, he should be a worthy opponent. I think T'kar has his work cut out for him."

  "Perhaps not," Randar said with a shrug.

  "What do you mean?"

  "As of yet, he is still just a man. Until he goes to see his father, that is. That is something we must prevent. If he goes to the tower, then he will receive the Dragon's blessing. Then, he will be unstoppable."

  Malthor was silent then.

  "T'kar will have to keep the attacks constant in order to prevent that from happening," Randar continued. "If there's even the slightest reprieve, we may lose our chance to stop him from going."

  "He must die."

  "Yes, my friend," Randar agreed. "He must die. And that little blond-haired witch, too. I look forward to cutting her heart out."

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Morrigan's dreams were troubled. In her mindscape, she walked alone down a dark corridor, ruined and crumbled by the ravages of time and neglect. Once a great and beautiful hall, inscribed with images of nature and murals of primordial gods and historic figures, it was now just a darkened and burnt out husk of what it used to be.

  She found herself at a great door the size of the hallway itself. Upon its stone surface was a large symbol of spirals connected together at the center. She had never seen it before, but she knew its type. It was a triquetra symbol of some sort, likely something ancient and powerful.

  In the center of it, there were three holes, arranged in a pyramid shape. Each of them was large enough to place a finger within it, but far enough from the others that only a thumb and finger could stretch between them.

  As she stared, standing in the cold and damp depths, she knew that there was something warm and inviting on the other side of the door. What it was, she could not guess, but something inside her knew she wanted to see it; needed to see it.

  She placed her hands upon the once beautiful stone, feeling a vague sense of warmth. There was a slight vibration there, like there was life within the stone, or on the other side of it. She placed her ear against it, listening for something, anything that would give her some clue as to what it was.

  There were muffled whispers, barely audible but sweet and fair sounding. She got the impression there were women on the other side. They were praying or chanting, singing together in one harmonious voice. They were calling out, rejoicing in some ancient ritual.

  But then there was pain.

  Deep, dark growls erupted from within. The singing turned to screams of agony. The growling and roaring overshadowed the screams, as if terrible beasts were among the singers, ripping them apart savagely.

  Morrigan began to cry, but she did not know why. There was a great sadness in what was happening. Someone was crying out, mourning the terrible event like a mother watching her own children be slaughtered. She couldn't bear the agony. It tore at her heart like nothing she had ever felt before. It was too much.

  "No!" she cried out, backing away.

  She covered her face in her hands as she collapsed to the floor. She wept, letting out the anguish that had built up within her so quickly. It was so much pain, so much sorrow—too much for her fragile human heart to bear.

  She shot up in her bedroll, breathless and terrified. Dearg was there, laying his sword on the floor at his side. He stared at her wide-eyed and startled. She pounced on him, embracing him tightly, feeling the comfort of his strong arms around her.

  "Morrigan," he said. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  She buried her face in the patch of fur he wore on his shoulder, trying to think of the words to describe what she felt. It wasn't truly terror, or fear of any kind. It was just uncertainty, confusion, something different. The dreams had done that lately.

  "I've been having the strangest dreams," she said. "I'm not sure what they're about, but they're… troubling."

  "Tell me about them," he said softly.

  She sat back, rubbing her eyes. He lay down beside her, putting his hand on her shoulder to bring her down to him.

  "Something calls to me from a place I've never seen," she explained. "It's a temple or something. Not for the Dragon, but for something else. There is a symbol on the wall, or door… I'm not sure. It's a triquetra symbol, with spirals and…"

  She paused, unsure if she was making any sense. Dearg was listening intently.

  "I hear chanting or praying," she continued. "But then there is pain and death, and a great sadness that I cannot…"

  She rolled over onto him, pressing herself against his warmth. "That's all I know."

  "Strange," he said. "How long has this been happening?"

  She looked up at him, glad to hear that he didn't think she was mad. "The dreams have just started," she said. "But I've had the same feeling my whole life."

  She propped herself up and looked into his eyes. There was some concern there; not for her s
anity, but a familiarity, as if he had heard this before.

  "What do you mean, strange?" she asked.

  "Igrid described this to me a long time ago," he explained. "She said she had always felt like something was calling to her. I had always thought that she meant the Dragon, but that wouldn't make any sense. For you, it would, but not for her."

  "It's not the Dragon," she said. "I feel like the Great Mother herself calls to me."

  Dearg nodded. "Yes. I think so."

  "So what do I do?" she asked.

  "I can't tell you what you should do," he replied. "If Gaia calls to you, then I think you should answer. But that is your choice."

  "What of Igrid?"

  "She should answer as well," he said. "If the Great Mother needs you, then she needs you. Something must have happened."

  "That's what I felt!" Morrigan said. "Like something horrible happened. Pain and death. Beasts. I know nothing of Gaia, but if something happened to her or her worshipers…"

  She trailed off. Thankfully, Dearg finished for her.

  "Her worshipers were slain, perhaps," he said. "She would have priestesses. That's what Mada, our Völva said, anyway."

  "Is she here?" Morrigan asked. "I haven't seen her."

  "She is back at our village," Dearg said. "She is far too old to travel. I don't think she would be of any help. She is a priestess of Kronos."

  The flap of their tent opened, startling them both. Dearg sat up, reaching for his blade, likely expecting some word of T'kar's advance. Instead, Liam was there, his face flushed and nearly frozen, as if he had seen the Great Mother herself.

  "Morrigan," he said. "There is someone here to see you."

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  Liam shook his head. "I don't know, lass," he said. "But I think she's an Alvar."

  Menelith stood near a small group of his people. There were warriors among them, one of them who looked almost exactly like Menelith, and another, smaller figure. She wore a green cloak, with a hood that hid her face, and a green silk gown underneath. She wore a necklace of silver, encrusted with jewels, that was partially covered with her long, flowing red hair.

  Morrigan felt a sense of apprehension when she saw the woman, and she knew right away that she wasn't human. When the woman lowered her hood, her suspicions were confirmed. Her ears were pointed like those of the Alvar, and her smooth features were nearly glowing with beauty. Her eyes were the color of emeralds, and they exuded a wisdom that was unmatched.

  It was like looking at Gaia herself.

  "Morrigan," Menelith said. "This is Lady Allora, daughter of King Faeraon of Alvheim."

  Morrigan bowed her head, unsure of why this Alvar wanted to speak to her. Allora smiled, stepping forward and producing a sheathed blade in her supple hands.

  "I was bidden to give this to you," the woman said, her voice soft and musical. "The spirits of the forest crafted it and gave it to me on your behalf."

  Morrigan stared at the sword. Its scabbard was of fine leather, etched with the same triquetra symbol she had seen in her dreams. The crossguard, curved toward the end of the blade, was of silver, and was inscribed with other symbols; all of them familiar. At its pommel was an emerald surrounded by a silver casing. Its handle was woven black leather with two silver pins on either side.

  It was beautiful. Even Dearg stared at it with his jaw open.

  Morrigan hesitantly reached out, taking the weapon in her hands. As soon as she touched it, she felt a surge of energy flow through her. She felt a great comfort as she held it, as if it were an old friend, or mother. She gripped its handle, looking up at the smiling Alvar as she did. With a gentle tug, she pulled it free.

  The blade was polished and gleaming like a mirror, and she could sense a sentience within it. It was alive, she knew. Alive and determined.

  "I do not know why I was chosen to bring it to you," Allora said. "All I can tell you is that the spirits were adamant. They insisted it was made for you."

  "Thank you," Morrigan said, still intrigued and confused.

  "And you, Dearg," Allora continued. "The spirits are with you. They have waited for you to come. The Dragon has called to you, and still does. You must go to Dol Drakkar."

  "I will," Dearg said. "But I cannot leave my army here alone. I swore to lead them, and that is what I will do. I will not abandon them."

  Lady Allora bowed her head in understanding, but Morrigan could see a sadness in her eyes.

  "That is your choice," Allora said. "I am only the messenger."

  "Lady Allora does not meddle in the affairs of men, Dearg," Menelith said. "But she knows how important it is that you answer the Dragon's call. She is very wise, and the spirits trust her, even though we are not of this world."

  "I believe that," Dearg replied. "But I will not abandon my people in their time of need."

  Menelith smiled. "And I believe that," he said. "Which is why I chose to fight at your side."

  "Menelith has my blessing in that matter, Dearg," Allora said. "He will remain with you and fight this battle. But I must go now. My mission is clear, and I too cannot abandon what I must do."

  "I thank you," Morrigan said. "For your wisdom, and this blade."

  "It was not mine to give," Allora said. "But if it were, I would have given it to you. I see strength within you, and I know that Gaia needs that strength. I trust you will do the right thing."

  Morrigan nodded. "I will do what needs to be done. But I do not know how to do it, or where to go."

  Allora smiled. "When the time is right, you will know."

  She turned away, pulling up her hood as her escorts bowed their heads in respect. Menelith did the same as the group faded back into the shadows, and then came to Morrigan. She looked up at him, noticing the glow he had. It was as if being in the presence of his Lady had brought new life into him.

  "If I can," Menelith said. "I will help you in this matter. My warriors know where many of the ancient temples lie."

  "Ancient temples?"

  "Temples even more ancient than our own dwellings," Menelith explained. "Temples that were built long before men walked the Earth."

  Morrigan had no idea these temples existed. But then she had spent her whole life in the Highlands, isolated from the rest of the island, much like the Northmen. The thought of such ancient structures intrigued her, however, and the urge to see them began to build inside her. That was the answer, she knew. That was her destiny, and perhaps that of Igrid.

  "I would appreciate your help, Menelith," she said. "For now, we need your blades in this fight."

  Menelith smiled. "Of course they are yours," he said. "My people will keep watch. You should rest. Both of you."

  "What news?" T'kar asked as Randar and Malthor joined him in his tent.

  "They appear to be waiting for us to advance," Randar said. "They know they would have the advantage in such a small and confined space."

  "They are trusting in their structures to protect them," Malthor added. "And their allies are spread throughout the forest just south of their position."

  T'kar approached Malthor, looking down at his chest. He reached out to touch the dried blood there, and grunted.

  "What happened to you?" he asked.

  "I was killed… briefly," Malthor said.

  "Interesting," T'kar said. "Tell me, did you meet this son of the Dragon?"

  "We did," Randar said.

  "What kind of man is he?"

  "He is very much like his grandfather," Randar replied. "Strong, determined, and dedicated to his people."

  "And his friends? Do they follow him without question?"

  "It would seem so. His army is loyal, and there are six of them who follow him closely."

  "And an Alvar warrior," Malthor added. "A very powerful one."

  T'kar nodded, turning around and folding his arms across his chest. He looked down at his armor, seemingly contemplating whether to don it or not.

  "We will draw them out," T'kar said. "Whatever
we can do to get their attention and remove the bulk of their forces. Once they leave, the Riverfolk will be vulnerable. Captain Jarka will take his troops through the forest and wait until that happens."

  "How will we draw their attention?" Randar asked.

  "If these Alvar are with them, then they will do whatever they can to protect the forest."

  He grinned then, picking up his armor and throwing the straps over his shoulders.

  "We will burn the forest down on the other side of the river."

  "Excellent strategy, Sire," Randar said.

  "Of course it is," T'kar replied. "Malthor, Randar, get it done."

  Igraina's heart raced as she sensed her sister's presence. She knew that she would be sensed, too, but a part of her wanted to feel what it was like to be in Lilit's presence once again. The two had fought many times in the past, and Igraina remembered how their power seemed to grow when in opposition to each other.

  She wanted to feel that way again.

  As she trudged silently through the forest, she could pinpoint Lilit's location more strongly. The closer she came to T'kar's camp, the stronger her presence was felt. Though masking herself with spells, Lilit would know she was there. But she didn't care. She wanted to see her sister, to feel her hatred, to gain some kind of sense of that ancient evil that dwelled within her.

  Jodocus had said that Igraina was more powerful, but she doubted that. Lilit's power, though not outwardly displayed, was like that of the sun itself. Her evil burned within her like the fire of Hell, but was stifled by her mortal coil.

  And that was what Igraina feared.

  If she were to face Lilit in battle, she would have to abandon any humanity that resided within. Only by letting out her true nature could she hope to defeat her sister. That was their nature.

  There were orders being shouted ahead, and Igraina stopped to crouch near a tree. Troops were being assembled, and Captain Jarka's voice was barking commands. She hated him; hated the very sound of his voice and even the shape of his round, bald head. But what she hated more was the smug face of his new cohort.

  She knew his name; Lorcan. Though young, he was cruel and heartless like his mentor. In fact, there was some part of him that she knew could be even viler than Jarka. It was the fact that he actually felt pleasure in doing evil things. Jarka had no feelings; he was completely heartless. He felt no remorse for his actions, but he didn't enjoy them. He was just performing his duties to his king.