Enraged, Dearg charged again. T'kar backed away, blocking his attacks one by one with his blades. Dearg persisted, striking furiously and repeatedly, each of his attacks finding only steel. He spun, slashing with a strong beheading strike. T'kar's left blade came up to block, and his right blade came across to counter. Dearg's gauntlet stopped the blade, but he could feel the pain of the impact and backed away breathless.
T'kar charged with a barrage of attacks, each blade coming down at an angle in an endless assault that drove Dearg backward. The sparks that showered down from their striking steel illuminated the shadowy forest, and he could smell the molten fragments of steel as they fell away.
T'kar ended his barrage in a spin, both blades swiping across with lightning speed. Dearg crouched and charged, shouldering into T'kar's midsection again, this time knocking him back. Dearg continued ahead, swinging his blade with all of his strength. It impacted T'kar's right hand, knocking his blade to the ground. But the left blade came forward, missing Dearg's head by mere inches as he dodged to the side.
He spun again, striking the blade and swatting it downward at an angle. His foot came out to kick at the king's wrist, but his grip on the blade was too strong. The blade came back up and struck home, knocking Dearg's blade from his hand. T'kar's foot followed, knocking Dearg to the ground breathless.
T'kar pounced, stabbing downward with his remaining blade. Dearg rolled out of the way, kicking out with his foot. T'kar stumbled, and Dearg leaped to his feet and grabbed him from behind, arching his back to flip his enemy into the ground. He strained against the king's mass, but managed to lift him from the ground. But T'kar's elbow came back, smashing him in the face. The blade followed, and Dearg felt the agony of the metal crossguard bashing into his temple.
He staggered away, his vision blurring. He could hear T'kar laugh as he retrieved his other sword. Dizziness overcame him, and the world began to swim. Then, he heard the whirl of T'kar's blade as it came toward him. In his heart, he knew he had failed. He would die, and T'kar would destroy the people who stood against him.
But then, before his world went black, he heard the ring of steel and a familiar voice calling out the name of Gaia.
Igrid's blade bore the brunt of T'kar's attack. She swept upward as the king struck, blocking his blade, and switched direction to strike across. Her blade caught T'kar's breastplate, knocking him back.
"Get him away!" she shouted to Morrigan, who swooped in to drag Dearg by the arms.
Baleron and Alric appeared, helping her to drag him away, and she turned to face the king once more.
"Out of my way, woman!" T'kar hissed, coming at her with his blades spinning.
Igrid blocked his attacks, gritting her teeth against the impact against her sword. She groaned and growled in rage as she summoned the Great Mother's strength. It flowed through her, through her blade, and gave her the strength to push on. She spun, knocking T'kar's right blade away and thrusting right toward his heart. Her blade caught the thick metal plate there, and was knocked away by his other sword. She spun again, swinging with crushing strength that knocked T'kar back.
With one last cry to Gaia, she struck hard. Her blade skewered T'kar through the shoulder, and she felt the rage of Gaia flow from her blade into the Beast's body. He howled in agony, dropping his blades as his claws clutched at his great wound. She withdrew, rearing back for another strike to finish him off.
But then, a wave of magic blew her back, and she hit the ground hard. There stood the robed figure of a witch, summoning a spell as an older man in black dragged the king away. Igrid struggled to get to her feet, crawling back with her blade in her hand. She felt doom come over her as the witch's face darkened with the hellish magic of her spell.
But she too was blasted away by a wave of magic. She was thrown out of Igrid's sight, into the retreating forms of the enemy soldiers. There, in her place, stood a younger man in white robes, his straggly blond hair blowing in the fierce wind of his magic. She knew this was a Druid, just by the power of his magic alone. Grateful and relieved, she let out her breath, letting her head fall back onto the ground as the smiling Druid came to stand over her.
"That was a close one," the young man said. "Are you alright, sister Igrid?"
Igrid stared at him. "How did you know my name?"
The young man laughed. "That is not important," he said. "The enemy flees. Get back to your people and help them escape."
With that, he disappeared, leaving Igrid to get to her feet alone. The Northmen were coming back, having given up the chase, relieved that the battle was over for now. Wulfgar was the first to greet her.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Dearg was injured," she said. "Badly. We need to gather everyone and get them to safety. I have the feeling this is not over."
"Fall back!" Randar shouted, dragging T'kar along.
The king was wounded badly, it seemed, despite the minor nature of its appearance. There was nothing to indicate any major damage had been done, yet T'kar was still stunned and racked with intense pain. It was all Randar could do to keep him on his feet so they could escape.
"It burns, Randar," T'kar growled. "It burns like the fires of Hell itself."
"Never fear, Sire," Randar assured him. "We will return to the fortress and Lilit will heal you."
"It's not a… it wasn't a sword…"
"What?" Randar asked, struggling to pull him along. Frustrated, he called out. "Bring a horse! Now!"
Several passing soldiers sought out a horse, and brought it to Randar. They helped him put the king upon it, and Randar climbed up behind him.
"Return to the fortress and we will regroup," he said. "Someone find Lilit and Captain Jarka."
He spurred the horse forward, riding quickly out of the forest and onto the road. The village ahead was still burning, so the road was obscured, but he managed to stay on it as he assured the groaning king with a gentle hand on his back.
"It was lightning," T'kar whispered. "Lightning. A stroke of fire from the sky… or the Earth."
"It was just a blade, Sire," Randar said, beginning to believe that it wasn't. "Just a woman with a blade."
"There was something in her eyes, Randar," T'kar said. "Something… familiar."
Though he wasn't quite sure what the king meant, his mind flashed back to the raid on the Temple of Gaia. He had seen a strange sentience in the eyes of the priestesses when they were captured. Was this what the king meant?
"We will seek her out, Sire," Randar said, placing his palm on the king's back.
He could hear T'kar groan as he lost consciousness, and sighed, spurring the horse to ride faster. He wondered what had happened to Malthor, whether the necromancer was still alive and suffering, or he was burnt down to bare bones. Either way, a small part of him was concerned. But, for the most part, he was simply glad that he was still alive.
There would be other handsome sorcerers.
Igraina found the young necromancer laying half submerged in the river. He was still alive, she knew, as the dark spirit within him was stirring. It was repairing him, bringing him back to consciousness. She bent down to roll him over so she could see his face. It was burnt badly, with the flesh hanging off in flaps. His hair had been completely burned off, and even his eyeballs, which darted around lidless, had been badly damaged.
He was likely blind… for the moment.
"Wake up, young man," she said. "Tell me who you are, and maybe I can help you."
The man choked and gagged as he struggled to speak. He was in great pain, it seemed, and Igraina was not surprised. There were several places on his body where the bone was exposed, and the edges of the flesh were cooked and black. His lips had been burned away, as well, leaving his teeth and blistered gums visible. If he were to heal, the process would be lengthy and excruciatingly painful.
"Malthor," he choked. "My name is Malthor."
"Hmm," she said, smiling. "How skillful of you to still pronounce your 'm' sounds withou
t any lips."
Malthor seemed to smile as he chuckled in a choking and spitting manner. Igraina cocked her head, placing her hand on his forehead to comfort him. She felt sympathy for him in a way, though she knew he served T'kar. There was a small part of her that felt a kind of kinship with him, but she wasn't sure why.
"My name is Igraina," she said.
If Malthor had eyelids, they would have widened. She saw the recognition in his eyes, and perhaps a bit of fear.
"Fear not, Malthor," she assured him. "I will not harm you. I will help you. T'kar is my enemy, but that does not mean that you are. You are still young, and very powerful I see. You have the gift of immortality, but I'm sure you know that. Allow me to ease your great pain."
She focused her energy on him, exploring the damage with her mind. She directed her own healing powers into his flesh, repairing his nerves and reconstructing his flesh. She could hear him whimper as the process happened. Though she knew he had probably felt the same pain countless times before, speeding up the healing process so much was sure to be ten times more agonizing.
She opened her eyes to watch his flesh repair. It would heal quickly, but he would remain scarred for some time, perhaps centuries, perhaps forever. Either way, he would never be the handsome sorcerer he was before. A shame, really. To lose one's beauty at such a young age…
"I'm sorry, Malthor," she said with sympathy. "I cannot make you beautiful again, but at least you will be whole."
"Why do you help me?" he asked.
"I feel a strange kinship with you," she said. "And perhaps we can work together to destroy our common enemy."
"What enemy?"
"The witch," Igraina said. "She is a threat to you and your future, and mine as well."
"I have no quarrel with her," Malthor insisted, sitting up as his pain subsided.
"You will," Igraina said. "Trust me."
He looked at her strangely then, as if he believed her somewhat. He shrugged, and then leaned over to attempt standing. He groaned, slowly rising. She stood with him, clasping her hands before her as he tested his flesh. He flexed his fingers, touched his face, and then placed his hand on top of his head with a frown.
"It might grow back," she said. "For now, go back to your master. We will meet again in the future. I know this."
Dearg struggled to open his eyes, nearly blinded by the bright light that emanated from an unknown hand that was placed over his wound. There was no more pain, and he felt a comforting warmth coursing through his body.
When he finally managed to open his eyes, he saw Morrigan's face. She was smiling down at him, but with a sad look in her eyes. Something was wrong, he knew. Had they lost? Had everyone been killed?
"T'kar escaped," she said. "Igrid wounded him greatly with her blade, but you were hurt as well."
"Did you…"
"I healed you," she said. "I don't know how. I just touched your wound, and something strange happened. I can't explain it."
He attempted to sit up, and she reached out to help him. He saw that they were back inside the wooden fortress, and the Northmen and villagers were recovering from the battle. Everyone was morose, scared, and defeated. The realization pained him. They had relied on him, and now they were disheartened, decimated, and overpowered.
He had failed.
Dearg placed his hands over his face in shame. This was his fault. He was not strong enough to defeat the enemy. Even Igrid had done more damage to T'kar than he had, from what Morrigan had said. He was not a leader. He was no Northman or a Highlander. He was nothing.
"This is all my doing," he whispered. "I led everyone into battle before we were ready."
"It's not your fault, Dearg," Morrigan assured him. "Everyone went into battle willing to die to protect their lands. You gave them hope, united them, and led them as best as a man could. But now is not the time for a man to lead. You know what must be done."
He looked up at her, seeing her smile fade. He knew what she meant. Even with the tip of the tower looming behind her, he knew. He must go there. He must meet the Dragon himself. His father. He must become what he was meant to become.
He must become the Dragon.
"I will go," he said.
"There is something you must do first," she said, sadly. "Go to your people now, near the river. Ivar is waiting."
Dearg stumbled toward the river, where a host of Northmen were gathered solemnly. Though defeated and injured, he saw that their sadness was centered around something else. Ivar and his other tribesman were gathered close together, with other members of his tribe looking on. As he pushed his way through, he passed Olav, whose face was turned down, with a tear sliding down his cheek.
"What is happening?" he asked.
Olav nodded toward Ivar, who was crouched near the edge of a river by a stump. Igrid was there as well, along with Svengaar, Freyja, and Hafdan. Dearg wandered over, his heart racing wildly in anticipation. When he finally saw what they were gathered around, his heart sank. He froze, feeling the tightness growing in his throat.
Fleek rested against the stump, his tunic covered in blood, and his face pale but still smiling. Dearg's lip trembled, and his breath quickened as he stood still. Ivar looked up, his lips pursed, and shook his head.
Dearg went to them and crouched at Fleek's side. He felt hollow, speechless and in shock. Though injured beyond help, he saw that Fleek was still in good spirits, but that did nothing to ease the pain in his heart. When Fleek looked up at him, his heart sank ever more, and he nearly burst into tears.
"Dearg," Fleek whispered.
"Fleek, my friend," Dearg said, placing his hand on his friend's head. "How are you?"
"Hurt bad," Fleek replied, still smiling, though blood was beginning to pool just inside his lips.
Fleek coughed, swallowing, but then smiled again.
"Who did this?" Dearg asked.
"The captain," Ivar said. "The big one."
Dearg nodded solemnly, wiping his tears away. He could hear Freyja crying nearby, and the comforting sounds of Igrid as she held Freyja's head close to her heart.
"He fought like a true Northman," Svengaar said. "I can almost feel the Valkyries above."
"Can you see them, Fleek?" Dearg asked.
Fleek smiled, nodding his head. "Valkyries."
"They are coming to take you to Valhalla, my friend," Ivar said. "Where you can see Leela again."
Fleek smiled widely. "Leela," he said.
Dearg reached out to take Fleek's hand. He gripped it tightly, knowing that time was short. Fleek's breathing became more labored. He could hear the rattling grow stronger with each breath, but through it all, the smile never left Fleek's lips.
Until he drew his last breath.
Devastated, Dearg pressed his head against Fleek's. He could feel Ivar's arm around him, and he raised his own to return the gesture. The three of them huddled together in brotherhood, letting their sorrow prevail as the rest of the tribe grieved in their own way. For the first time in a long time, Dearg let his heart show, and he wept with his brothers and sisters at the loss of a great warrior and tribesman.
"May Kronos welcome you, brother," Ivar whispered.
"Kronos!" Igrid shouted nearby.
There was a great clash of steel as the tribe unsheathed their weapons and held them high.
"Kronos!" they shouted in unison.
Deep in the hearts of all the Northmen, men and women alike, the Valkyries blessed them, giving them strength, and showing them honor for their bravery. They knew that Fleek's spirit was carried away, high above them where the birds flew, and the souls of the dead made their way to their final destination. There, under the watchful eye of Kronos, Fleek would be judged for his deeds, and the gates of Valhalla would open for him.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Fleek's funeral had been a celebration of his life as a beloved member of the tribe. Though parentless, the man had grown up as a common child of every adult, and had been a brother, son,
and friend to all. He was well-respected, revered, and a skilled and willing warrior of virtue.
He would be missed greatly.
The Riverfolk, Highlanders, rangers, and Alvar had all joined in, gathering in a huge crowd around his pyre. All were grieving, and all honored him wholeheartedly. Igrid had delivered his eulogy, wishing him a happy and safe journey to the afterlife, where Kronos would honor him and give him everything a man of his character deserved.
Dearg and Ivar had felt the most pain. The two of them had known Fleek their whole lives, and despite the fact that Fleek was older, he was like a brother to them both. The three of them had been best friends since the beginning, and now it seemed like the world had gone empty. They would no longer enjoy his company; his humor, his gentle nature, or his humorous smile.
He was gone, but not forgotten.
Now, as Dearg sat high upon the cliffs near the cave system, he felt that the best way to honor his friend was to do what he was born to do. Dol Drakkar called to him, and that was where he would go. There, he would seek out the Dragon; his true father.
Why, he could not guess. The Dragon had always seemed like a myth. He was just a tale to tell the children of Eirenoch to give them hope and purpose. Never before had he thought that the Dragon was real. But now he knew that was false. The Dragon was real, and he was Dearg's father.
Nothing made sense anymore.
His name was Daegoth, he knew. That was what his mother had named him—his true mother. Though now that he thought about it, he cared not for a woman he had never met. Olav and Svana were his parents, and the Northmen were his people. But, as everyone had insisted, he would find his destiny. Perhaps the Dragon would give him the strength to defeat T'kar.
Whatever that strength was.
The crunching of nearby stones caught his attention. He turned to see Menelith ascending, and stood to lean against a tall outcropping. The Alvar came to stand next to him, folding his arms across his chest as the two of them gazed off toward the tower.
"I have failed," Dearg said. "I led these people to be slaughtered, and I lost a good friend as well."
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