Onyx Dragon (Book 1)

by Shawn E. Crapo

  The Prince laughed again, passing the wine back to Wrothgaar. “How many uncles do you have?” he asked.

  Wrothgaar paused, thinking, his face crunched up oddly. “I have no idea,” he said, finally. “But I have six aunts. Who knows? I do not even know who my grandmother is...on either side. I do not think my father knows either.”

  “He doesn’t know who is own mother is?” Eamon asked in disbelief.

  “No. I mean...I do not know...”

  Wrothgaar paused, thinking again. After a moment, he shrugged and took another swig of wine.

  After another fit of laughter, Eamon caught his breath and leaned in closer to the barbarian. “I’ll tell you something about these woods that few people know,” He said, nodding as if to accentuate his seriousness.

  “And what is that?” Wrothgaar asked.

  “There’s a banshee somewhere near. I’ve seen it. And I’ve heard its keening.”

  Wrothgaar laughed. “Banshees are fairy tales!” he exclaimed. “There are no evil female fairies to die and become banshees.”

  “Not anymore,” Eamon said with a stern look. “She was the last one.”

  Wrothgaar swallowed his wine and studied his friend’s face. The Prince did not flinch—nor did he blink. Wrothgaar guessed that he was truly serious.

  “How long have you known of her existence?” Wrothgaar asked.

  “Since Garret showed me her lair,” Eamon replied, poking the fire. “From a distance, of course. And during daylight hours.”

  “When did you hear her keening?”

  “A few years ago, when I was hunting at night. I heard the terrifying shriek and turned to look. I saw a ball of light floating in the distance, which I assume was her. Fortunately for me, I was far enough away that her keening didn’t harm me.”

  Wrothgaar sat back against his rock, contemplating the story. They both sat still for several more minutes before the Prince spoke up again.

  “Come!” Eamon said, hopping up. “I will show you her lair.”

  “I already told you I do not like snakes. So, it would stand to reason I wouldn’t like banshees, either, don’t you think?”

  “Come on,” Eamon urged him. “It’s dusk. She’s probably hunting. She won’t even be there. If she is, we’ll kill her.”

  Wrothgaar stood, stumbling a bit. “Fine,” he said. “But I don’t think even my axe will stand a chance against her.”

  The darkness was almost impenetrable as Eamon and Wrothgaar trudged through the forest. The underbrush became sparse, and the mist became thicker, obscuring what little visibility the two had. There were no crickets chirping, no night owls hooting, or no small rodents scurrying through dropped twigs or leaves.

  It was dead calm.

  As they approached the clearing where Eamon was leading them, the calm grew into an eerie silence. A silence that was befitting of the scene before them.

  The trees became twisted and broken, as if an evil presence had bent and tied them together in ghostly knots. There was no doubt in the Northman’s mind that Eamon’s story was correct. Something terrible did indeed inhabit this forest.

  Eamon stopped and crouched, cocking his head to listen. He heard nothing.

  “Odd,” the Prince said. “Not even the insects are making any noise.”

  “I wouldn’t either,” Wrothgaar replied, gripping his axe tightly with both hands.

  “Usually the cicadas will still make their mating calls, but there is no sound at all.”

  Wrothgaar glared into the darkness, trying to make out something that lay several feet away. He crouch walked towards it, stopped a pace from it, and studied it intently.

  “What is it?” Eamon asked, crawling over to Wrothgaar’s side.

  “I think it’s a helmet.”

  Eamon took a few steps closer to the object and knelt in for a closer look. “It is,” he said. “A very strange one. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  It was indeed different from anything either of the two men had ever seen. It was made of thin, black iron, with a mask shaped like a sinister human face, and spikes circling the crown. The eye holes were narrow, and the mouth was an open hole about the size of a fist. Just under the spikes was a black cloth that had been wrapped around the whole helmet, embroidered with symbols similar to the ones on the tobacco pouch Wrothgaar had found in the ruined village.

  “The Jindala,” Wrothgaar said, recognizing the markings. “So, one of them was killed here somehow.”

  “Likely it was the banshee,” Eamon suggested. Wrothgaar turned to ask how the Prince knew, but he had wandered a ways away. The Northman looked in his direction and asked in a harsh whisper, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Come here.”

  Wrothgaar followed the sound of Eamon’s voice, and found him face to face with a frightening construction of twisted trees and roots. “The banshee’s lair,” Eamon said.

  Hundreds of mid-sized to large saplings were bent over into the shape of a dome in the center of the clearing. They were bone white, drained of all life, and ghostly in appearance against the black backdrop of the forest. Around the macabre dome lay the bodies of six or so men, all wearing the same helmets the two saw before, with bright red tunics and black plate armor.

  Wrothgaar bent over to look at one of the bodies. He gasped at the sight of the corpse’s face. It, too, was twisted and lifeless like the trees. The skin was blistered and torn, the eyes were wide open, and the mouth was frozen open as if in mid scream.

  “What happened to these men?” The Northmen asked.

  Eamon sighed. “It’s what a banshee does. Her keening is so unearthly and disturbing that it steals a man’s soul, leaving his body to wither and rot in seconds.”

  “And you wanted to fight it?”

  Eamon paused, realizing the foolishness of the idea. “Maybe tomorrow night, we take it easy on the wine.”

  “Agreed.”

  Eamon took a few steps forward and looked further into the lair. Near the entrance, a strange skull sat atop a small pile of ash. It was decayed and crumbling, as if it had been lying in the same place for centuries. Upon its surface, runic symbols were inscribed.

  The Prince studied the remains further, probing into the pile of ash with his sword. Gathered around the skull were the tattered remnants of a once ornate gown, now withered and stained with the dried blood of countless victims.

  “It’s the banshee,” Eamon said, urging Wrothgaar to come closer. “She’s been destroyed.”

  “Banshees have bones?” Wrothgaar asked.

  “Their undead spirits inhabit the skull, but there are no other bones. Usually only dust. I’ve never seen another banshee, much less a dead one. But the gown and the strange markings on the skull tell me that this is definitely her.”

  “The skull is strangely shaped,” Wrothgaar remarked.

  “Yes. Not human. She never was, even when she was alive.”

  “What could destroy a banshee?” Wrothgaar asked, wincing at the strange sight of the remains.

  “I do not know of anything that could kill a banshee. A powerful Priest, maybe, but very little else. They’re undead, like a wraith or wight. Only magic could kill them.”

  Wrothgaar stared at the remains in disbelief. His fear began to build, and he could feel the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  “Let us leave this place,” he said, turning to walk away. Eamon followed, glancing back, still wondering what could have destroyed such a formidable monster. Whatever it was, it was not of this Earth.

  Quickly, the two bounded off into the woods to return to their camp, both agreeing that the trek was a foolish one. Whether the banshee was alive or not was unimportant. Whatever else had passed through the forest was equally powerful, and, apparently, much more dangerous.

  Chapter Six

  The Mordumarc arrived at the burned out village in less than a day. Their journey had been swift, as the Mordumarc were expert horseman, and rode the fastest mounts in the Kin
gdom, selected from the finest stock in the South.

  Fergis was the first to dismount. The older Captain looked at the grim scene in horror. The charred remains of the bodies lie in a pile in the center of the village, all evidence of their suffering erased by the Northmen who had found them. Better to burn them than to let them lie and rot, he reasoned. Wooden staffs had been carved into likenesses of Northern gods and placed around the pyre in remembrance. Apparently, even the somewhat barbaric Northmen had respect for their kin.

  It was a sad scene.

  Though the Northmen had been enemies in the past, they were now accepted in Eirenoch as settlers and were treated with the honor they deserved. As colonists, they were under the Mordumarc’s protection as well. Fergis grieved the deaths of these innocent people, especially the children, and also grieved the fact that he had failed in protecting them.

  “Brynn!” The Captain called to his First Lieutenant.

  Brynn joined his Captain at the pyre. “Yes, Captain?”

  “Have the rangers search for any tracks in the area,” The Captain commanded. “I want to know how many attackers there were, what direction they went, and if there are anything other than human tracks.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brynn answered, running off to fetch the company’s two hired rangers.

  Fergis himself went hut to hut, searching for anything that would provide the answers he sought. The remains of the huts were filled with broken furniture, shattered pots, and other minor possessions the Northmen might have owned. He found nothing out of the ordinary, but he could tell the huts had been torn apart in a frantic search before they were torched.

  Returning to the pyre, he searched the charred bodies for any weapon marks, arrow holes, or any other sign that would tell him whether they were killed by weapons or otherwise. There was not much left of the villagers to inspect. However, the corpses of the livestock were still lying out in the open.

  Fergis sifted through the corpses with his sword, turning them over to find any sign of weapon marks. From what was left of the animals, their deaths were unexplainable. Whatever had killed them did not use weapons. They were not killed by men. Something much more sinister had been here, and had not only killed the villagers and their livestock, but had stripped the very land of its life as well. He hoped the rangers would find some answers.

  “What gods do your people worship?” Eamon asked Wrothgaar as they rode slowly along the mountain trail.

  “Gods of the sky,” Wrothgaar explained. “Their chief is Kruum, God of Thunder and Lightning. He rules over Valhalla and decides who may reside there after death, and who is cast back to Earth.”

  “Interesting,” Eamon said. “What do they look like?”

  “They are giants,” The Northman said. “Jotun, in my language. Some are good, some are evil. But they are all statuesque and perfectly formed. I imagine such appearances add to their arrogance.”

  “There were giants here once,” Eamon said. “They were called the Firbolga. Mighty warriors who inhabited this land before humans arrived. Our ancestors drove most of them out or killed them in battle. Some say they still exist, hidden among the trees. Though I doubt a giant could hide very easily.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. But I believe it. Sometimes when my tribe hunts, we see foot prints that are much larger than a man’s. Even larger than my Uncle Asger’s feet.”

  Eamon laughed out loud. “Another Uncle!”

  “Really. His feet are huge.”

  The two laughed together, trying to keep their spirits high in spite of their difficult journey. The road was long and winding, and the rests were few. They were growing tired.

  “There are also the Valkyries,” Wrothgaar continued. “Female spirits who roam battlefields, selecting the best warriors to join Kruum in Valhalla.”

  “What do they do?”

  “If they are impressed with your skills,” the Northman explained. “and you have battled enough in your life, they touch you on the shoulder. Then you die.”

  “Just like that?” Eamon asked.

  “Just like that. Then they carry you to Kruum. There, he decides.”

  “I do not think I ever want to see a Valkyrie,” Eamon exclaimed.

  “Tell me of this Dragon of yours,” Wrothgaar requested, genuinely curious.

  “Well,” Eamon began, “he was one of the Firstborn; ancient beings that came to life at the beginning of time. The Dragon created much of what we see today; the mountains, the rivers and valleys, everything that is on this island. He now lies underground, emanating his power to keep everything in balance. But his influence is fading. His temples lie in ruins, and very few people even believe in him anymore. But, obviously, he still exists.”

  “The balance?” Wrothgaar inquired. “So he is neither good nor evil?”

  “He only exists to keep order and to maintain the balance of life and death. Without him, there is chaos.”

  “Who are the other Firstborn?” Wrothgaar asked.

  “I do not know them all,” Eamon replied. “But each one created some part of the world, and gave it life. They are all children of the Great Mother, who is the Spirit of the Earth. She created them, and each of them created their own secondary children. Probably like the Gods you speak of. Or perhaps Kruum is one of the Firstborn and is the life of your homeland. I don’t know. But here, the Dragon is the life.”

  Wrothgaar contemplated those words carefully, not fully understanding, but willing to keep an open mind. If this Dragon is the heart of all life on the island, then surely his death would mean the end of everything, or the beginning of something horrifying. Neither prospect seemed very pleasant to the Northman.

  The trail started downhill again, winding deep into another forested region. The path itself seemed more pleasant now, softer and covered with pine needles and leaves. It was much easier on them and the horses, who themselves were weary.

  “I think this is a good place to find a camp,” Eamon suggested. “We should be able to hunt some rabbit here. I’m tired of dried deer.”

  “As am I,” Wrothgaar agreed.

  After dismounting, the two set their horses free to graze and wander. They were both exhausted and needed a night’s rest. The woods here seemed like a good spot. Though shady, there was still plenty of sunlight filtering through the canopy above to light their camp, and the pine trees were widely spaced. It was a pleasant, comfortable setting that would provide a peaceful night’s sleep.

  Wrothgaar began to clear an area for a fire pit while Eamon searched for stones. Within a few minutes, the Northman had a good sized spot of bare ground, but Eamon was unable to find any good stones.

  “It looks like we’ll be rolling into the campfire tonight,” he joked. “No stones worth picking up.”

  “Not a problem,” Wrothgaar replied. “I’m not afraid of fire, just snakes and banshees.”

  Eamon laughed. “We should scout the area for some wood and maybe a rabbit or two.”

  “Good idea,” Wrothgaar agreed.

  The men headed off in the same direction, gradually spreading out as they went. Wrothgaar picked up a few small branches, but there weren’t any logs to gather. Eamon had the same luck.

  “I should have known,” Eamon said to himself. A forest comprised of nothing but pines wouldn’t provide much firewood. The branches of this particular breed were small and fragile, with nothing larger than his own wrist. Frustrated, he tossed the few small sticks he had found to the ground.

  “Eamon!” Wrothgaar called from a distance. “Come, my friend.”

  The Prince headed toward Wrothgaar’s voice, finding the Northman staring excitedly at a small cabin tucked into a small grove of larger pines. It was in good order, complete with glass windows, shiny brass fittings, and a chimney that billowed smoke.

  “A cozy little cabin,” Eamon remarked. “I wonder who lives here.”

  From behind them, an old man’s voice said, “I do.”

  The two men turned, startled. Before th
em was an old man dressed in simple earth toned robes, with an overstuffed pack and a twisted oaken staff. He was bent and wrinkled, but seemed spry and lively for a man his age.

  “Well,” the old man said impatiently. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me with this pack?”

  “My name’s Jodocus,” the old man said, inviting the men inside. “These are my woods.”

  “Your woods?” Wrothgaar asked.

  Jodocus stopped short, put his fists on his waist and stared the tall man in the eyes. “Yes. What of it?”

  “Nothing,” Wrothgaar shrugged, glancing out of the corner of his eyes at his snickering friend.

  The old man turned, going to the fireplace to fetch his teapot. Eamon set the man’s pack down on the floor, looking around. “You keep a clean house,” he said.

  “Thank you, Prince Eamon,” Jodocus replied.

  “You recognize me?” Eamon asked. “Have we met?”

  “Of course not,” Jodocus laughed. “But you are unmistakable. Why, your friend’s people refer to you as the Dark Prince. And now I see why.”

  Eamon looked down at his clothing, mostly black with only small amounts of dark purple trim. “Ah yes.”

  “Tumsi Prins,” Wrothgaar clarified in his own tongue. Then, to Jodocus, “How did you know?”

  “I’m a Druid, boy,” the old man replied, bringing the piping hot teapot to the table. “The spirits of the Earth tell me these things. Now sit down and have some chamomile. It will soothe your pains and help you relax.”

  Eamon and Wrothgaar each took a seat at the small round table. Each place setting already had a small mug waiting, as if the old man knew they were coming.

  “I knew you were coming,” Jodocus stated. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

  “It was almost thirty years ago,” Jodocus began, “back when I was only slightly less old than I am now—you see I hate to use the word ‘younger’ since I was never really younger. I’ve always been old—but anyway. I felt the coming of something cold and dark. Something that came to this world as if by some magical doorway. I felt the Dragon recoil in discomfort, as if the new invader’s presence had disturbed his slumber—or his peace—who knows?”