"You have not failed, Dearg," Menelith said. "This was only a setback. Your people are still alive, the Highlanders and Riverfolk are still alive, and they're all enthusiastic. They are ready to continue, with a little rest of course."
"T'kar nearly killed me," Dearg reminded him. "They only retreated because of Igrid. I never even touched him. She wounded him greatly."
"Igrid was protecting you," Menelith said. "Without you, the people would never have been united in the first place. Who knows how many of them would have been slaughtered had you not convinced them to fight together?"
Dearg sighed. Menelith had a point, but there was still the matter of the defeat. How could he be a leader to them if he couldn't even win a battle on their own lands? How could they ever trust him again? With an army the size of T'kar's, how could they ever hope to restore Daegoth's throne?
"My army is not large enough to defeat him," Dearg said. "He has unlimited resources, the entire southern population from which to populate his army."
"There are still those who are loyal to Daegoth," Menelith said.
Dearg was unaware of that, but it didn't make any difference. There was no way he could safely travel past T'kar's lands to even speak to any of them. And why would they listen to him anyway?
"They don't even know who I am," Dearg said. "They have no reason to trust me, either."
"They would trust the Dragon," Menelith said. "Or his son."
Dearg glanced over at him, seeing what he knew to be encouragement. He knew exactly what Menelith meant. But why was it important?
"If I go to the tower, what happens?"
"For now, you are just a man," Menelith said. "A great man, mind you, but a man nonetheless. You must become more than just a man. You must become the Dragon. Then, they will follow you."
He could only stare at the Alvar in confusion. He didn't know what to say, or ask for that matter. The only thing that seemed clear was that he needed to travel to Dol Drakkar; to answer that call he had heard all of his life.
"Alright," Dearg said. "But what of the tribes to the south? How do I reach them?"
Menelith smiled, nodding toward the tower that was barely visible from their position.
"What does Drakkar mean, Dearg?"
"Ship, dragon," Dearg said, shrugging.
"In the language of Eirenoch, it is ship. Or more appropriately, vessel. It is a vessel for travelling."
"To where?"
Menelith turned toward the south. "There," he said. "To the other tower, Tel Drakkar."
"The southern tower," Dearg said.
"Yes. You can travel between the towers. They both lead to the Dragon's realm, where you may meet the Dragon himself, if he still resides there."
Dearg looked back to Dol Drakkar, smiling, knowing that the Dragon's spirit was indeed there, among other things.
"He does," he said.
"Then you know what you need to do."
"I'm not sure what happened," Morrigan said to Igrid.
The two of them sat upon the ridge overlooking the village, contemplating not only their dreams, but the fact that Morrigan had healed Dearg with some kind of divine power.
"It was like the power of the Earth was flowing through me and into his wound," she continue. "And I just knew somehow that it was a healing power."
"I've had strange things happen as well," Igrid said, pulling her new blade from its scabbard. "I dreamed that I was among a group of priestesses standing before a statue of Gaia. She was beckoning me to find my sisters, and when I awoke, I had this blade."
Morrigan studied it carefully, noting its gleaming steel, and intricately-wrapped handle. She pulled her own blade, showing it to Igrid proudly.
"The Alvar brought me this blade," she said. "The Lady Allora handed it to me herself."
"What do you think it means?"
"I'm not sure," Morrigan said. "But Allora told me that the spirits had beckoned her to bring it to me personally."
Igrid held her blade next to Morrigan's, and the two compared their designs. While Igrid's was in the shape of a typical longsword, her favored type, Morrigan's was suited to her fighting style. It was short and broad, with a somewhat rounded tip, and a narrow crossguard. However, both blades bore the strange spiraling triquetra symbol in the center, and the same markings along the blade.
"That is the symbol I saw in my dreams," Igrid said. "I think it is Gaia's symbol."
"I think so, too," Morrigan agreed. "I think it means we are to fight together for the cause of the Great Mother."
Igrid smiled. "That I can do. It feels like she has undergone a great tragedy of some kind. The priestesses in my dream were dark and cloaked, as if I wasn't supposed to see them, or maybe their identities were unknown because—"
"They are us," Morrigan finished her. "The two of us and five others."
"Five other sisters," Igrid said, nodding. "And one of us is to lead them. If the Alvar brought you that blade, then it is probably you."
Morrigan's eyes widened at the thought. Could she really be a leader of some kind? Did she have it in her?
"I would follow you," Igrid said.
"But you are the queen of your people," Morrigan reminded her. "Who would take your place if you followed me?"
Igrid cocked her head in thought, smiling. "I think I know," she said. "Wulfgar is a great leader. He would make a great king."
Morrigan would have to agree. She didn't know Wulfgar that well, but from what she had seen, he was strong, noble, and as brave as any man she had ever met. He seemed to love his people, and it was likely that they would follow him without question.
"I agree," she said.
Igrid suddenly held out her hand, motioning toward the forest behind them. The two of them flattened down to their bellies as they turned around, peering down into the shadows. There was a faint sound, like twigs crunching. Morrigan looked at Igrid, who cocked her eyebrow.
"Someone's down there," Igrid said. "Someone sneaking."
"Alvar?" Morrigan mouthed.
Igrid shook her head. "They wouldn't make any noise."
Morrigan raised up into a crawling position, and began forward slowly. Igrid followed right behind her, both of them being as quiet as possible. The crunching became louder as the mysterious stranger came closer. Then, the sound stopped. Morrigan and Igrid both froze. Had they given away their position?
A woosh suddenly sounded, followed by a groan, and loud grunting. The two women stood, stepping down the slope, ready to take on anything that was down there.
"Let me go, you little bitch," a man's voice sounded.
There was another groan as the man was struck—by a fist, perhaps.
Morrigan and Igrid looked at each other, smiling. Freyja emerged from the woods, followed by Odhran, who had a younger enemy soldier in an arm lock.
"Look what I found," Freyja announced, grinning.
"Who is this?" Igrid asked.
"He looks like a sergeant or something," Odhran said. "Maybe an officer. His armor is different than the others."
"I am a lieutenant," the man insisted. "And if you don't let me go, you will face the wrath of T'kar."
"We've already faced his wrath, scum," Odhran said. "I wasn't very impressed."
He pushed the man forward, causing him to stumble. Morrigan noticed that an arrow was sticking out of his thigh. Freyja had placed it carefully, just above the kneecap and behind the muscle, where it would do no permanent damage.
"So, what do we do with him?" Odhran asked.
"Let's take him to Bertram," Freyja said. "He and Dearg can decide."
Ivar and Hafdan were still seated around Fleek's pyre, chugging ale in a morose fashion. They were quiet, each of them reflecting on the past, remembering the life that they had shared with the big Northman. Ivar felt the most emptiness, having known the man his whole life. Fleek had been his first true friend.
He missed him greatly.
"Do you remember when Fleek caught that salmon wi
th his bare hands?" Hafdan said.
Ivar laughed. He remembered how Fleek had carried the slimy thing back to camp, laughing and howling all the way.
"He was excited," Ivar said. "And he said he was a better fisherman than Olav."
Hafdan chuckled. "Your mother was a better fisherman than Olav," he said.
"I heard that," Olav said, taking a seat next to them.
Ivar and Hafdan laughed loudly, raising their mugs to their friend. Olav took a gulp of his ale, then set it down and clasped his hands before him.
"I remember all the times he fell into that river," he said. "We all had to rescue him at one time or another."
"Aye," Hafdan said, smiling. "It's a good thing that Dearg finally taught him how to swim."
"Right," Olav said. "And then we couldn't keep him out of it."
"Here here," Ivar said, raising his mug again.
They all drank, sitting their mugs on the ground afterward.
"He lived a good life," Olav said. "He was a fine warrior. We should be celebrating his ascent to Valhalla, but I can't seem to be happy about it."
"Ah," Hafdan said. "But it's all over for him now. He can rest in happiness with his woman and drink mead with Kronos. It's what we all want."
"Aye," Olav and Ivar said in unison.
There was a sharp whistle in the distance, and they all saw Igrid beckoning them to join a small procession that was heading into the village. With a look of confusion, they all stood and followed.
"What is your name?" Dearg asked the young soldier who was tied to a support post within the main building.
"Lorcan," the soldier replied. "I am a lieutenant in T'kar's army."
"He keeps saying that like we care," Freyja said.
"Come now," Bertram said, standing. "Let's not be disrespectful to his rank. I'm sure T'kar calls everyone who licks his boots lieutenant."
The crowd inside laughed, and Lorcan's face darkened. His lips pursed together in a pathetic pout. "I lick no one's boots," he growled.
"What were you doing sneaking around our village?" Skulgrid asked, standing directly in front of the much smaller man.
"I was trying to find the body of my captain," he whimpered.
Ivar growled, knowing he meant the captain that had delivered Fleek's fatal wound. He spat on the floor, drawing a strange look from Bertram. Dearg went to Lorcan and grabbed the front of his breastplate, pushing him back against the post.
"Listen," he growled. "You are our prisoner now. You will never see your king again. If he marches against us, we will hang you from the wall so he can see what we do with the likes of you."
"I'm not afraid to die," Lorcan said, smirking.
"Well then," Ivar growled, drawing his axes. "Let's kill him, then. I'll do it."
"Wait!" Baleron said. "We may need him for one reason or another."
"I'll never betray my king if that's what you mean," Lorcan said. "I would rather hang from the wall."
"We can arrange that," Skulgrid said.
Lorcan shrugged, smiling crookedly.
"Then let's do this," Dearg said. "We'll tie him to a post in the center of the village. One that's submerged in the lake. He can spend the next few days up to his neck in the cold water. Maybe then he'll talk."
"Well what are we wanting to ask him anyway?" Bertram asked.
Dearg shook his head. "Who is the sorceress? Who are this Randar and his pants-pissing companion?"
Ivar laughed.
"And then maybe we'll ask him how to get into T'kar's fortress."
"I'll never tell any of you anything," Lorcan spat. "You might as well chop off my head right now."
"How about we cut it off slow like?" Ivar said, running his finger across his throat and sticking out his tongue.
"I think the post is a good idea," Bertram said. "Skulgrid, take your men and make that happen."
Skulgrid smiled, grabbing Lorcan while Dearg cut him loose.
"Don't let him get away," Bertram said as Lorcan was taken away. "Now, let us discuss our next move."
He sat back down on his throne as everyone gathered around. They all seemed to be looking at Dearg, who sighed as he tried to put his thoughts together. He didn't want to go right into the subject of Dol Drakkar. Telling everyone he planned on leaving them for a moment was likely not a great way to start.
"We need a larger army," he began. "Even with our three peoples standing together, T'kar has a much larger force. I doubt that the army we saw was everything he had. He defeated the entire force of Northmen long ago on his own. Jarl Borg's army was the largest ever seen, I've heard."
"It was," Wulfgar said. "Borg was from the mainland. Every Northmen in that battle came by ship just to fight at his side."
Dearg nodded. "And even that was not a large enough army to defeat him."
"That was almost thirty years ago," Bertram said. "He's grown soft and his army is not as put together as it once was. That is why he resorts to terror tactics like impaling children."
Bertram held his tongue then, looking over at Odhran, who held his head down.
"Forgive me, Odhran," he said. "That—"
"Think nothing of it," Odhran said. "You are absolutely right. But that doesn't account for the men he can summon from the south."
"That is what I wanted to say," Dearg said. "Menelith says there are tribes down there that are still loyal to Daegoth's house."
"And that would be you," Bertram said. Dearg nodded. "But how will they know that? Do you plan on just walking into their territory and saying 'hello, I'm Daegoth's heir. Follow me'?"
"Of course not," Dearg said. "They would never believe that. They would need proof."
"What kind of proof?"
Dearg swallowed, clasping his hands behind his back. "Dol Drakkar," he said. "It is time for me to meet my destiny."
Bertram sighed, leaning his head against his hand. "So you want to leave us then? Just walk off and possibly never return?"
"No," Dearg said. "The tribes of the south will only follow me if I can prove that I'm Daegoth's heir. And if I can prove that I'm also the son of the Dragon, then they would surely follow me."
"Well," Bertram said. "I did not choose to follow you because you claimed to be the son of the Dragon. I chose to follow you because you are a strong leader. It makes no difference to me. Dragon or not, you proved yourself worthy of leading us."
Dearg nodded. "Thank you, Bertram," he said. "But those tribes may not be so easily persuaded."
"Go to the tower, then," Ivar said. "And your knights will go with you. All of us."
"Wonderful," Bertram said. "Everyone go and have a good time. Meanwhile, the rest of us will just wait here while you all go gallivanting in the south."
"This is something that Dearg must do alone," Baleron said. "The tower at least. We will definitely meet him in the south."
"Well how is he going to get there?"
"There is another tower in the south," Dearg said. "Tel Drakkar is what it's called. Menelith says the two are connected."
Bertram pursed his lips and nodded. "That makes sense," he said. "A drakkar is a ship…" he made strange gestures with his hands.
"Then we will ride there," Ivar said. "And he will arrive when he arrives."
"And who will protect our lands?"
"Bertram," Dearg said. "Everyone else will still be here. You won't miss the six of us. Besides, T'kar is wounded, and will likely not lead any attacks until he is healed."
"Wounded?" Bertram echoed. "Who wounded him?"
"I did," Igrid said. "With this."
She pulled her blade from its scabbard. Everyone gasped, almost comically.
"It was given to me by the Great Mother," she said. "Morrigan was given a blade, too. I'm afraid we will have to depart as well."
Dearg looked at Morrigan. She was looking back at him longingly. He wanted to protest, but he could see the determination in her eyes. She and Igrid had both shared the same calling, he knew, and it was evidently re
al. The blades proved it. They had their own mission to fulfill; their own destinies.
"Then you have work to do as well," Dearg said.
"Who will lead the tribes in your stead?" Ivar asked.
"If Wulfgar is willing, and the tribes accept, then I will pass the helm onto him."
"What makes you think I want it?" Wulfgar said, folding his arms across his chest, but smiling crookedly.
"Wulfgar it is," Hafdan said.
"Fantastic," Bertram said, clapping his hands together. "I suppose you'll be needing my map in order to plan your routes."
"I know the way to Tel Drakkar," Baleron said. "Odhran and I will lead the knights there."
"How will you get past T'kar's fortress?" Bertram asked.
"We will have to ride far to the east," Baleron said. "Through the swamps."
"And where will Igrid and Morrigan be going?" Ivar asked.
Dearg looked at Morrigan, who shrugged. "Wherever the Great Mother tells us."
"I'm not sure what's going on with Igrid or Morrigan here," Bertram said. "But this is giving me a headache. You can all work it out for yourselves and let me know what's going on. We should all get a night's rest and figure things out in the morning. And with that, I bid you all good night. Let's make sure to keep a constant guard on the young soldier."
"He seems shifty to me," Hafdan said. "I'll take first watch."
"Good," Bertram said. "Now, get out. All of you."
Chapter Thirty Eight
Dearg was awakened at dawn by an unusual presence. Though there were no outward indications that anyone had infiltrated their camp, the feeling was just that—a feeling. He sat up in the bedroll, looking over to Morrigan's sleeping form, and then stood to peer out the door.
The sun was barely poking up above the mountains, giving the village a faint, fiery glow. All was quiet, as far as he could tell, but that presence was still there, beckoning him to emerge.
He reached down and fetched his sword, strapping it on, and pulling on his boots. Then, he stepped out, looking around for any sign of the mysterious presence. At the wall, near the gates, two guards stood watch, evidently not sensing the presence. The only other movement was Liam, who stood on the ridge overlooking the forest.
Dearg sighed, not knowing where to look, but feeling the urge to follow Liam. The man was simply staring off into the woods, unmoving other than the occasional scratch or shiver. Dearg approached him, coming up from behind and climbing up the gentle slope.
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