She nocked an arrow, waiting for an opening to fire at the blond-haired man she had shot before. He was engaged on horseback, riding in random directions as he fought the villagers. The smaller man cast spell after spell, throwing small fireballs at his enemies. Odhran drew back, firing through a gap in the melee to take down the sorcerer's horse. It reared back as it was hit, throwing the smaller man to the ground.
"You take him," Freyja said. "I'll take the old one."
She waited for her chance to fire, dodging the attacking soldiers as they swooped down on her. Around her, the villagers and allied soldiers swarmed in, fighting off her attackers as she drew back and aimed. She loosed, taking down the older man's horse with an impact that impaled the man's leg to the horse's flank. They fell together in a heap, and Freyja rushed through the chaos to find him.
The blond man fought off several villagers who closed in on him. Though skewered through the leg, he had managed to rip himself free as the horse collapsed, and skillfully dodged every attack against him. Freyja drew her bow back, vaulting over her stumbling allies. She loosed in midair, but Randar swatted her arrow aside with his blade, slashing diagonally in her direction as she landed.
A sudden wave of magic blew all of the villagers back, distracting both of them. Though Freyja glanced in the direction of the magic's source, she shouldered her bow and drew her short blade, charging the older man while he was fixated. She double-slashed, but both attacks were parried. The man's blade whizzed above her head then, and she rolled back out of its reach. Randar charged her, not even limping as he came vaulting over his horse.
Freyja scrambled back, tripping over the body of a dead ally. The others had begun to get back to their feet, and they put themselves between her and the charging Randar. Then, another wave of magic erupted, and Freyja felt a hot blast of air. She looked over at Odhran, whose bow was pulled back as the sorcerer conjured a ball of flame in his right hand. The ranger loosed, striking the sorcerer's hand, turning his own spell on him.
Flames engulfed the young sorcerer, and he thrashed and fled as he struggled to extinguish the flames. Randar slashed out ahead of him, killing two villagers, stepping between them and looking down at her with a crooked smile.
"Some other time, my love," he said, turning to chase down his companion.
Odhran reached down to pull her up as Randar fled.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I tripped, damn it," she cursed.
"It happens," Odhran replied. "Let's head for the ridge and help defend it."
Igrid and Wulfgar led the charge into the forest with the entire assembly of Northmen behind them. Igrid's heart pumped wildly, and she could feel the spirit of Kronos watching over them as they brought their fury to the enemy troops. The queen of the Northmen was the first to draw blood, and the sight of her blade ripping through the enemy ranks fuelled her people's rage.
She took down two enemies right away, slashing her blade across twice as she pounced. The men fell away, replaced by others within, whom she skewered and beheaded with a series of frantic slashes.
Wulfgar's axe sang nearby, and he threw his victims into their comrades behind them. The rest of the tribe crashed in behind Igrid, and they all charged in, blending themselves into the fray. Igrid's chainmail was slathered in blood once again, and her new blade came to life as the battle lust grew within her.
She could almost hear the blade speak to her, warning her and guiding her as she sought out King T'kar. The Great Mother was with her, she knew, and her presence was greater than that of Kronos himself. Gaia called to her, driving her forward through the sea of enemies, strengthening her arm, shielding her flesh.
"Kronos!" Wulfgar howled beside her.
He swept his axe in a wide arc, from side to side, felling every enemy within reach. Igrid felt pride in the Jarl, knowing that even in the face of certain death, Wulfgar and his tribe stood with her. Even the aged Svengaar was a welcome presence, and the rest of the tribe was driven by the presence of their great leaders.
As she slashed open another enemy, she saw Hafdan chop into another. He kicked his enemy away, grabbing the nearest Northman and butting heads with him with a howl. Igrid clapped the man on the shoulder, pulling him away from a group of charging soldiers.
"Where is Sigurd?" she shouted over the chaos.
"Sigurd fell back on the road," he replied. "But he's safe. His horse is carrying him back to the fortress."
Igrid nodded, pushing Hafdan away just as a spear was thrust his way. Igrid grabbed the tip and pulled, and Hafdan finished the attacker off with a chop to the chest.
"He was an ugly one," Hafdan shouted, spilling into the chaos again.
Igrid grinned and charged back into the chaos. An armored soldier screamed at the top of his lungs as he took down a Northman nearby. Igrid rushed him, avoiding his slashing blade, and gutted him with an upward thrust. As she withdrew, he fell forward onto his own victim, and Igrid drove her blade through the back of his head.
As she recovered, an enemy fell before her, impaled through the back by a gleaming blade. As the man toppled forward, she saw Morrigan behind him, her blade poised for another strike. It glowed like her own, and the two women glanced at each other briefly.
"Morrigan," Igrid said. "Your blade…"
"No time for that now," Morrigan said. "Lead on. I will follow."
Igrid gripped Morrigan's shoulder, seeing a familiar gleam in her eye. This was her sister, she knew; the sister that Gaia had spoken of. Now she knew what the strange calling had been. The Great Mother was bringing them together for a reason.
"For Gaia," Igrid said.
Lorcan had lost track of Randar and Malthor, but now found the older man making his way toward the king's position. Malthor was not with him, he noticed, but Randar seemed unharmed other than the blood on his thigh.
"Randar," he shouted.
The older man came toward him, taking out a Northman that crossed their paths.
"Where is the sorcerer?" Lorcan asked.
"I don't know," Randar replied. "He fled toward the river."
"Why?"
"Probably because he was on fire would be my guess."
On fire? Had the sorcerer fallen victim to magic of some kind? "How did that happen?"
"I'm not sure," Randar said. "But he'll be alright once he puts himself out."
A villager came howling at them with a spear poised. Lorcan pulled Randar away, slashing at the attacker with a low attack, gutting him and pitching him forward into the ground. Randar laughed.
"Thank you, my friend," he said. "Where is Captain Jarka?"
"He's looking for the big oaf," Lorcan replied. "I will find him. Take care."
Randar nodded and melted back into the battle. Lorcan had faith that the man could take care of himself. Though older and somewhat foppish, Randar was a capable warrior. He would be alright.
Satisfied he knew Jarka's location, Lorcan made his way through the now widely-spaced battle among the trees. He used them as cover, dashing from tree to tree, cutting down an enemy when he could, and avoiding the larger, more capable warriors among them.
He would find his captain, and join him in assaulting the village once and for all.
T'kar smashed his way through the enemy soldiers, his twin blades slicing through the air in a whirlwind of death. His battle rage had peaked, and he was an unstoppable automaton that crushed all of those around him. He growled and roared as he slaughtered his enemy, reveling in the feeling of their blood splashing on his face. He licked his lips, gritting his teeth in pleasure as he tasted the hot fluid.
It had been decades since he had seen open battle, and his enjoyment of the activity was obvious to all around him. He also reveled in the sight of his new witch blasting the enemies with her terrible magic. She too was growling and laughing as she consumed them with fire. Her spells filled the forest with the smell of burning flesh and crackling energy.
She was a force of pure evil and h
ellfire; one that filled his heart with the joy of darkness.
T'kar sliced the head off of a charging Northman, surprised to see Randar appear nearby. The man rushed over to him, placing his hand on his shoulder as they made their way through the battle.
"What news, Randar?" T'kar asked. "Where is my sorcerer?"
"Malthor is engaged in extinguishing himself," Randar said. "A ranger turned his flame spell on him with an arrow."
"Interesting," T'kar said. "He is as inept as any sorcerer I've ever met."
"He's young," Randar explained. "He'll learn. Give him a chance."
Randar skewered a passing Northman, and T'kar finished him off with a beheading slash.
"Stay with us," T'kar said. "Keep Lilit safe from arrows and such."
"Yes, Sire," Randar replied, moving near the witch and keeping guard as she threw her magic around.
T'kar went back to his rampage, charging ahead, his eyes darting around the battlefield for the object of his hatred. He saw that hatred several yards away, and he narrowed his gaze at the young leader as he charged through the chaotic battle. Daegoth was his focus, and he gritted his teeth with rage as he bore down on the Son of the Dragon.
Chapter Thirty Six
Jarka ducked when the massive hammer came at him. It smashed into a tree, shaking the entire thing to the point of nearly collapsing. He rolled to the side to get around the huge man, rising to his feet just as the giant hammer came at him again. He jumped back, avoiding yet another attack that came straight toward his head.
Despite his size, and the size of the weapon, the big man was agile and quick. Jarka did not doubt his strength, either, as a weapon of that size would be impossible to wield himself. Still, the man came at him again, swinging the hammer in a downward arc that crashed into the ground.
"Prepare to meet Kronos," Jarka taunted him.
The huge man was unfazed, and came at him again, spinning and sweeping the hammer in a low arc. Jarka jumped back, immediately charging at the man's flank. But the man was too quick, and bashed Jarka's face with the back of his fist. He was thrown back by the heavy impact, and stumbled onto the ground.
The hammer came down again, and he rolled to the side to avoid being crushed. Sticks and rocks were thrown at him as the giant hammerhead smashed into the bedrock. Jarka rolled to his feet, ducking again to avoid the sailing weapon as it was swept at him again. He raised his blade to attack as the man's torso twisted around to backswing.
The fist came at him again, but he ducked and thrust forward with his blade. His wrist was met with the hammer's handle, and he felt the pain of his forearm being broken. He dropped his blade and fell back, slamming into the trunk of a tree. The giant man roared and growled, rearing back the hammer to crush him. Jarka's heart pounded as the world slowed down, but he instinctively reached behind him for his dagger, his sword having been knocked from his shattered right hand.
He ducked just in time as the hammer smashed into the tree. His body twisted toward the giant man as he fell away, jabbing out with his dagger. He felt it sink into the big man's ribs, and grinned in triumph as the hammer was let loose, and his enemy groaned with agony.
As he hit the ground, Jarka flipped his dagger around, rolling to his feet to attack again. The big man had stumbled to the side, holding his wound, his eyes filled with confusion, his mouth dripping blood and saliva.
"Oaf," Jarka taunted him.
He followed the wounded man as he stumbled through the forest. He would taunt him until he died a slow death, purely enjoying his revenge.
It was a good day.
Ivar's heart stopped as he saw Fleek stumbling away from the heavily-armored captain. He finished off his own enemy with a chop to the head, and charged, howling in rage at the sight of his friend's blood. The enemy captain glared at him, his expression quickly turning to one of horror as Ivar came charging.
The captain ducked to the side, lashing out with his dagger. Ivar spun around, swinging his left axe at the man's back. It connected, smashing through the thick armor to embed itself in the man's ribs. He could hear the satisfying cracking sound as he pulled out the blade. With another howl of rage, Ivar chopped with his other axe, lopping off the man's right arm.
The captain fell to his knees, dropping his dagger to grab at his stump. Ivar let his right axe fall and gripped the man's bald head, twisting it around to glare into those deep-set pig's eyes with all the rage Kronos could give him. He gritted his teeth in hate, his heart broken and sinking, and chopped down, chucking his axe into the man's neck.
He hacked repeatedly, enjoying the sound of the flesh and bone tearing, and the man's growls of agony. With one last shout to Kronos, Ivar stepped back and chopped one last time, severing the man's head.
He grabbed his other axe as the headless body fell forward, desperately seeking Fleek through the trees. He saw his friend stumbling nearby, trying to get back up the ridge. Ivar rushed toward him, dropping his axes into his belt hooks as he put his arm around Fleek's broad shoulders.
"Fleek," he cried. "Fleek, my friend."
"Hurts," Fleek stammered. "Hurts… bad."
"Come," Ivar said. "I will get you to safety."
He pulled Fleek up the slope, hoping that someone would be there to help them reach the village. He had to save his friend at all costs. There was no world, no life, without his best friend, and he couldn't bear the thought of any future without him.
"Help me!" Ivar shouted as he saw several Alvar rushing across the slope.
Menelith turned to them, his eyes widening as he saw them. The Alvar commanded his soldiers to press on, then sheathed his blade and came down the slope. He put his arm around Fleek's waist, helping them along breathlessly.
"What happened?" the Alvar asked.
"The captain," Ivar groaned. "It was the captain. I killed him."
"The wound isn't that bad," Menelith said. But Ivar knew it was for Fleek's benefit. "You'll be alright, my friend."
"Is there anything you can do for him?"
Menelith shook his head. "I can ease his pain, but that is all. We need to get him to safety first. The village is safe now."
Ivar glanced over at him, seeing the grave look on his face. The Alvar knew what Ivar knew, and the thought of it tugged at his heart. His throat tightened quickly, and he could feel the tears forming in his eyes as the bitter realization came to him.
Fleek was going to die.
Dearg's heart was pounding strongly, and his spirit was filled with the glory of battle. His enemies fell one by one, stricken down by his mighty blade. Around him, his soldiers, Alric and Baleron included, were making headway, smashing through the enemy forces as if Kronos himself were wielding their blades.
Throughout the chaos, Dearg could feel the Dragon watching him, goading him on, giving strength to his arm. He proudly watched his two friends skillfully destroy their enemies as well, Baleron wielding his blade like the veteran he was, and the young and reckless Alric taunting and playing with his enemies as he struck them down.
But it was then that Dearg felt the darkness approach. He struck down several more enemies before he felt the crackling of magic nearby. Several allies went flying through the air, set aflame by an unknown force. There stood a witch, her black and crimson robes flailing with the force of her magic. Near her, the older man named Randar cut down Dearg's allies as they tried to attack the witch to no avail.
He suddenly felt a wave of hopelessness, but even that was shattered when he heard the blood-curdling roar of what sounded like a beast from Hell. He stopped, turning his head toward the sound. There, wading through a sea of his own countrymen and Northmen alike, was T'kar.
The king was massive; more massive than Dearg could have imagined. Though not as tall as Dearg, the Beast was broad and heavily-muscled. His beastly face was chiseled out of stone, with a deep and thick brow that made his appearance even more fearsome. He wore leather straps, furs, and thick metal plates over his forearms and shoulders that ac
centuated his strength and build.
Dearg's heart pounded even more as the two of them locked eyes. His blood pumped heavily, and he could feel the rage and hatred build within him. In his mind, he pictured the king torturing and killing his mother. The eyes that glared at him had once glared down upon the helpless woman that had given birth to him, and it filled him with more rage than he had ever felt.
But he stood proud. With his courage at full strength, Dearg stood tall, gripping his blade confidently, urging the Beast to make the first move. He could see a smile slowly spread across the hated king's lips, and it stabbed at him with its smugness.
"Come for me then," Dearg growled.
The king held out two massive kopesh blades, each of them hooked and spiked like the weapons of a demon. The world seemed to disappear around him, and the only thing he could see was the king himself.
The Beast. The Usurper.
"Daegoth!" T'kar growled. "We meet at last."
"He's a pretty one," Alric said beside him.
"Baleron, Alric," Dearg said. "Kill the witch and the bastard that protects her. This one is mine."
He charged, his rage focused on the beastly creature that glared at him from Hell. The king swirled his two blades like a windmill as he approached, spinning out of the way as Dearg struck. One blade came at Dearg from behind, and he spun to block it, bashing the other with the pommel of his sword. The king attacked again before Dearg could recover, and he barely ducked in time, feeling the blades sweep above his head.
He charged the king, bashing his midsection with his own weight. The king was like a wall of stone, and even Dearg's mass was not enough to knock him back. He felt the pommel of T'kar's blade smash into his back, but then smashed his elbow into the king's gut. Though the king's ribs were like iron, he heard a groan of pain, and pushed away to raise his blade again.
"You're stronger than I imagined," T'kar growled. "Very impressive."
"You will pay for the terror you have caused my people," Dearg said.
"Your people," T'kar echoed, laughing. "You have no people."
Dawn of the Dragon Page 40
