“I understand,” Eamon said.
“I have faith in you, my son,” The Dragon said, embracing Eamon one last time. “Now go. My power is fading, and I cannot maintain this form much longer. I will extend a small amount of my power to speed your way back to Morduin. Your horses will run tirelessly and with greater speed. You will arrive much sooner than you would have. There is no time to waste.”
“Thank you, Father,” Eamon said. “I will not fail you.”
“I know, my son. But you must be careful. The battles ahead will be unlike anything you have ever faced before.”
The Dragon watched as Eamon faded from his sight. He smiled, knowing that Eamon would be the greatest King Eirenoch had ever known. His son would destroy the darkness and restore the balance. He knew it in his fading heart.
The Dragon let himself fade back into his body, feeling the warmth and comfort of the form he had inhabited since the beginning. He could rest now, and regain his strength. Then, if it became necessary, he could extend some of his power to the other Firstborn.
Chapter Eleven
The Mordumarc reached Taryn by late afternoon. As the men cleared the edge of the forest, the conquered city came into view. Its houses were burning, its walls crumbled in some areas, and the Jindala had desecrated the flag of Eirenoch.
Fergis took out his spyglass, extending it to full length, and peered through it. He saw several Jindala soldiers rounding up civilians and gathering them in the town square. Hundreds of dead bodies lay about the streets, some slaughtered by weapons, others by more sinister means. There was still fighting going on in small pockets of town, indicating that the guards were still resisting.
Outside the city, the bodies of dead Jindala littered the plains, possibly the victims of a cavalry charge by Kaelos. That’s good, Fergis thought. Kaelos wasted no time making his point. He wondered if the man was still alive. He returned his attention to the town square.
“They’re rounding up the civilians,” Fergis growled. “They’ve already executed hundreds of them.”
“They will pay!” Brynn promised.
“Men!” Fergis shouted to his troops. “Our brothers and sisters are in danger. We must protect them and retake the city at all costs! Prepare your weapons.”
As the men dismounted and began unloading their packs to reduce weight, Fergis returned to his spyglass. He saw no men outside the city gates. A mounted charge would be useless. The best tactic would be to approach the city silently and try to rescue the surviving civilians before they were executed.
Looking back through the spyglass, Fergis saw a woman violently thrown down by a Jindala warrior. She landed face down on the bloody ground, and struggled to escape as the soldier pinned her down and beheaded her with his knife. The Mordumarc Captain gasped in anger.
“Rally men!” He commanded, dismounting. “We go on foot. Hurry, and stay below the grass. We need to remain unseen as long as possible.”
Brynn had spotted a single Jindala occupying a tower on the East side of the city, and crept up to Fergis to point him out.
“Up there,” he said, pointing to the watchtower.
“Can you hit him?” Fergis asked. “That’s a long shot.”
“Of course,” Brynn boasted.
The watchtower was nearly two hundred yards away, and at least thirty foot high. The Jindala soldier posted there was turned away, watching the executions inside the city.
Brynn crept up a few paces and plucked an arrow from his quiver. He knocked the arrow and pulled back his bow. With a few seconds of aiming and steadying, Brynn suddenly shifted his bow upward to compensate for the distance. Then, he let loose.
The arrow disappeared from sight as it soared into the air. Brynn lowered his bow, never taking his eyes off of his target. Within seconds, the guard jerked violently and dropped like a rock, his body disappearing behind the railings.
“By the gods!” Fergis exclaimed. “What a shot.”
The other men quietly acknowledged the young lieutenant’s skill, whispering amongst themselves. After a few moments of observation, Fergis saw that the guard’s death had gone unnoticed.
“Go!” He commanded.
The Mordumarc sprinted and crouched across the field, closing the gap between them and the city walls. They quickly reached the site of the battle, where hundreds of Jindala spearmen lie dead.
“Cover!” Fergis whispered.
The men went prone among the dead Jindala, hiding between their bodies before the next charge. Brynn heard voices in the distance, growing louder every second.
“Men to the North,” he whispered to Fergis. “Two of them.”
Two other Mordumarc quickly dispatched the approaching guards with their daggers before Fergis even gave the order.
“Where did they come from?” Brynn wondered. “I didn’t see them before.”
“They must have been in the stables,” another man suggested. “I didn’t see them either.”
As the men awaited the order to continue, Brynn saw a glint of metal a few feet away from his face. He reached out to move the grass out of the way, and was stunned by what he found.
A golden claddagh lie on the ground, glowing as if with a life of its own. Imprinted around its circumference were intricate druidic symbols, depicting the ancient words for life and protection.
Intrigued, the young warrior grabbed the claddagh and stuffed it into his tunic, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed. He saw that the other men were still absorbed in listening for Fergis’ order. No one had seen.
When the Captain was satisfied that the way was clear, he whispered to his men, “To the left break in the wall. We attack from there.”
Without a word, the company quickly jumped to their feet and sprinted to the nearest break in the wall. The archers among them pulled back their bows, ready to fire as soon as Fergis gave the order.
From their new viewpoint, Fergis counted nearly one hundred Jindala. About the same number as the Mordumarc. It would be an even fight.
Fergis signaled the archers to fire. The arrows flew past him, plunging into the breastplates of several of the Jindala who terrorized the civilians.
“Charge!” Fergis yelled. Then, to the civilians, “Run, people, run! Flee the city!”
Screams and battle cries rang out as the chaos ensued. Though caught off guard, the Jindala recovered quickly and lined up in a defensive formation. The Mordumarc archers fired again, felling several of them.
The two armies clashed in the town square. The Mordumarc fought furiously, taking down half of the Jindala without suffering a single loss. The sight of the civilian’s bodies fuelled them, increasing their rage at the foreign invaders.
Then, without warning, several Mordumarc fell, pierced by the bolts of a hidden crossbow. Fergis scanned the walls and windows around him, spotting the marksman near a guard tower to the East.
“Brynn!” he called, pointing to the target, “take him out!”
Brynn spotted the bowman, retreating to the back of the line for cover. He drew his bow and released an arrow that sailed straight into the man’s heart. The man slumped over and dangled over the edge of the window.
Brynn put away his bow, drawing his sword again and rejoining the throng.
“Release the Defiler!” Khalid demanded. “Kill them all!”
The Jindala Sheikh nervously watched the battle, banging his fists on the sills of the keep’s windows. The loss of men infuriated him. It would mean less men to join the army that lie hidden on the coast West of Morduin. But he was more concerned with his own life. If need be, he would escape with his personal guard and leave the rest of his soldiers behind.
They were fodder. They meant nothing.
The Mordumarc pressed on, driving the Jindala from the town square. The enemy, already weary from fighting the city guards, fell back, outmatched and dwindling in number.
Fergis fought hard, parrying attacks from all around. The battle was tight, and the combatants wer
e in close quarters, making it difficult for him to strike a good blow. Even so, his enemies fell before him and his men quickly, every drop of blood they shed spilled in vengeance for the slaughtered townsfolk.
Brynn had been trained well, he saw, the young warrior displaying skills in battle unmatched by most. He frequently switched weapons, being a master at both the bow and the sword, and slew the Jindala with nearly every attack. Fergis was proud to fight beside him.
Backing off to catch his breath, the Captain saw that the Jindala were beginning to flee one by one. As they scattered, Fergis spotted the reason for their departure. In their place stood a giant, cloaked figure, slowly rising to unbelievable height. He gasped at its horrific appearance. The entire company was frozen still, but Brynn pushed his way through to stand by his Captain.
“What in the name of Hell is that?” Fergis exclaimed.
Before anyone could answer, the beast crouched, making the air around it swirl and crackle. Fergis raised his sword in defiance, calling on his men to attack.
“Take it down!”
The Mordumarc charged, their faces masks of rage and determination. The creature drew back its arms, its cowl falling back to reveal its glowing red eyes. The men hesitated, horrified. One by one they began to retreat slowly, unsure of whether to risk angering the creature even further. Fergis began to back away as well, wary of the beast’s combative stance. But their retreat was too late.
Dust began to rise as the wind stirred. The air crackled with intense heat, and the men choked and struggled to breathe. One by one, they withered and fell to the ground, their screams muffled by the creature’s howls. Those that did not die immediately writhed in agony as their life force was drawn out and absorbed by the monster. They were all in the throes of an agonizing death.
All but Brynn.
The young Lieutenant stood his ground, seemingly unaffected by the monster’s attack. He looked around at his comrades as they flailed about in pain, Fergis among them. He cried out in anger as he watched them die and crumble, their ashes blowing away in the wind, and their energy swirling around him.
The creature drew in the energy, basking in its life giving comfort. Brynn growled in vengeance and charged forward with his sword drawn back. With a cry of rage, he plunged the sword upward into the monster’s gut, feeling it pierce the unearthly flesh.
The Defiler screamed in pain as the sword impaled it, oblivious to how a mere human could cause it such agony. It hissed and growled as Brynn continued to twist and push the blade into its torso, multiplying the pain with each thrust. The creature’s claws slashed at Brynn, but the young warrior’s speed outmatched the injured Defiler’s attack.
“Die, foul devil!” Brynn growled. “Go back to Hell!”
He withdrew the sword, stepping back to get clear of the beast as it fell to its knees. With one more battle cry, he struck again, swinging his sword in a wide arc. The blade sliced through the neck, decapitating the unearthly beast. Its head fell to the ground with a sickening splat, and the massive body slumped forward, plunging into the dust.
Brynn collapsed to his knees, drained. As he looked around him, the air began to stir and dust clouded his view. The creature’s body began to quiver as it lie in the throes of death, lightning shooting from its wounds and arcing into the ground around him. The young warrior watched as the crumpled body collapsed, its stolen energy slowly rising from the remains and gathering into a swirling cloud.
Brynn fumbled in his pocket for the claddagh, feeling it growing hot as the gathering energy began to flow toward him. The claddagh glowed with life, drawing the energy inward and collecting it in its golden depths. Brynn placed the claddagh around his wrist, feeling its warmth against his skin. Suddenly, the claddagh shrunk, squeezing his wrist and spreading out until it faded into his skin.
The trinket had protected him from the Defiler’s magic, and now it was a part of him. The life of all of his comrades emanated from it and into his body. It strengthened and renewed him, giving him the power to rise again, alone, among the ashes of the Mordumarc.
As he stood, he looked around at the carnage; weeping for the men he had called his brothers. He had grown up with the men of the Mordumarc, and now, in one fateful encounter, they were all gone. He let the tears fall, and threw his head back, screaming into the air in rage. When he had exhausted his breath, he breathed deeply, slowly regaining his composure.
Drying his eyes, he finally took a step, looking around to find any signs of life. The remaining Jindala were nowhere to be found. As he stumbled through the scattered remains of the Mordumarc, he began to hear voices nearby. The townspeople had gathered in a wide circle around him, the warriors among them carrying bloodied weapons. With the enemy’s numbers down and the beast destroyed, the townspeople and surviving guards had bravely chased down and eliminated the remaining Jindala.
As Brynn admired the crowd, an older man stepped forward and approached, his sword coated in blood. “Are you alright, son?” the man asked, placing his hand on Brynn’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Brynn assured him. “I’m fine. The people are safe. Thanks to you and your men.”
“We only did what we could,” the man said. “But you destroyed that monster, whatever it was, and we all saw it. You are a mighty warrior. What is your name?”
“I am Brynn,” he answered. “I am all that is left of my company.”
The man sighed, lowering his head in respect. “They died fighting for us. For that, we are all grateful.”
Brynn said nothing, but sheathed his sword.
“Hail Brynn! Hero of Taryn!” the man shouted. With that, the townspeople burst into cheers, shouting Brynn’s name. He was thankful for their honor, but still grieved the loss of his men, and his mentor, Fergis.
The remaining city guards then approached, having chased down, and captured the enemy leader. The white-robed Khalid was dragged before Brynn and thrown at his feet. The warrior looked down at the pathetic man who lay squirming and whining in his bonds.
“What should we do with him, Captain?” one of the guards asked.
“Captain?” Brynn repeated.
“Your insignia ranks you at Lieutenant,” the guard pointed out. “Since your Captain is gone, you have moved up in rank. What do we do with him, Captain?”
Brynn said nothing. He simply stepped forward and grabbed the prostrate enemy by the hair, pulling his head back to meet his eye.
“Leave this place,” Brynn told him. “Tell your superiors that the people of Eirenoch will never bow to your will. We will hunt you down wherever you are and send you to Hell.”
Brynn smashed Khalid’s nose with his fist, sending the man backward into the dirt. Khalid squirmed, struggling to stand while pinching off the flow of blood from his broken nose. Brynn cut his bonds with quick slash of his sword.
“Begone, devil!” Brynn said as Khalid fled the town square. “And never return!”
Brynn looked to the leaderless men, seeing the desperation in their eyes.
“Rest up,” he commanded them. “Tomorrow, we ride for Morduin.”
Chapter Twelve
King Ulrich opened his eyes, seeing the blurry outline of Olga, the tribe’s shaman, standing over him. Her body was a lumpy mass of drooping flesh and veils, wrinkled and repulsive. He struggled to see her, or not see her, he couldn’t decide which. When his vision cleared, he saw that she was smiling.
“How long have I been asleep?” he asked.
Olga sat next to him, cradling his head in her giant bosom.
“For eight days, Jarl,” she replied, stroking his grayish blonde hair. “I tried calling the spirits to wake you but they wouldn’t have it. They don’t like you. But, a messenger came with medicine from Queen Siobhan. I gave it to you last night, when the moon was full...after tasting it myself, of course.”
“A messenger from the Queen?” he asked. “With what message?”
Olga stood, letting her veils glide across his face. “He would not s
ay. He will only speak to the Jarl.”
Ulrich grudgingly sat up, his head pounding like a thousand hammers. He looked to his bedside, found a flagon, and drank deep. When he had finished, he slowly stood, groaning with every movement, dropping the flagon to the floor.
“Send him in.”
Olga called out to the messenger, who entered Ulrich’s tent. The King of the North glared at him, making the man uncomfortable.
“What is the message, boy?” Ulrich demanded.
“King Ulrich,” the messenger began, “my Queen sends her greetings and invites you to meet—“
“On with it!” Ulrich growled.
“She has sent her elite guard, the Mordumarc, to investigate the attack on your nearby settlement. Her royal seer says that the attackers were men from across the sea who have arrived on the island to enslave its people...yours included.”
Ulrich laughed, “Who are these men?”
“I do not know, sir, but it seems that the Southern Kingdom has fallen, and the invaders are here to ensure that the North falls as well.”
Ulrich grunted in indifference, “So?”
The messenger cleared his throat, continuing, “Your son, Wrothgaar, traveled to Morduin to ask for the Queen’s aid, and she has granted it. In return, Wrothgaar has been asked to accompany the Prince on a quest to Dol Drakkar.”
“To the dragon tower?” Ulrich asked. “Why?”
“I am not sure,” the man answered, “but Wrothgaar agreed and they are on their way, if not there already, as we speak.”
Ulrich folded his arms across his chest. “That’s his choice to make,” he stated. “But it’s my choice to make the next move. Where are these enemies now?”
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