Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  The three men mounted their horses again and took to the road. It was bumpy and dusty, with weeds scattered here and there; not a great road for horses, much less wagons.

  "How do they not flip their wagons on this road?" Freyja asked. "It might as well not even be a road. I've seen smoother gullies."

  "It builds a horse's character," Ivar said. "A few bumps never hurt anyone."

  "It should be smoother ahead," Odhran said. "The forest would help block the rain from eroding the surface."

  Ahead, as Odhran said, the road entered a thick forest. There, after a few miles or so, Baleron knew Scarcliff was tucked into the rocky cliffs in the woods. It was a sheltered place, far from the eyes of T'kar, and was likely the hiding place of any soldiers that escaped his service.

  That was not a good prospect, but again was better than riding right past T'kar's fortress.

  "We'll have to be careful," Baleron said. "We can't cause any trouble or draw attention to ourselves."

  "Then you and Odhran should probably change clothes," Freyja said. "In fact, you should have done that before we left."

  Baleron and Odhran looked at each other then, smiling as they realized their error. They were both dressed in Alvar clothing, and would be the ones most likely to draw attention to themselves.

  "Damn," Odhran said. "She has a point."

  Baleron stopped his horse and began unstrapping his harness. He removed his vest, revealing the padded shirt underneath. As he thought about the shirt for a moment, he realized it was likely obvious as well. He pulled it over his head and laid it in front of him. He held out his hands for the others to look. With the undershirt of wool, he looked like a normal traveler from the waist up.

  "That's fine," Freyja said. "But you'll have to leave off the harness. Most people don't carry horns or fancy belts like that."

  "It's bandit bait, for sure," Alric said.

  Odhran removed the same garments, also ripping the sleeves off of his undershirt and replacing his gauntlets to give him a slightly different appearance than his captain. He then strapped his sword to his back, making sure the Alvar blade was secure.

  "Alright," Ivar said. "You look fairly inconspicuous now. But I think Odhran should shave his head. He would look much tougher that way."

  Odhran laughed, waving Ivar away. "Forget it," he said. "I have a funny-shaped head. It's not happening."

  Baleron grinned, strapping his clothing to his saddle with his harness. When he was finished, they began their ride once more. They would reach Scarcliff by midnight, and the dim light would help conceal their appearance even more. Even in the taverns, if there were still any there, they would be fairly safe.

  For some reason, Baleron actually looked forward to spending time with the rabble of the wildlands. He missed it.

  Chapter Two

  Dearg awoke upon another throne. There was a sudden change in the atmosphere that he felt when he regained consciousness, which told him he was somewhere else. As he slowly opened his eyes, he saw that he was within a great cavern. It was hot and dry, dimly lit by an unknown source of flame that emanated from a crevice far ahead of him, and there was a continuous shifting sound, as if something huge were moving there.

  He stood, gripping the pommel of his blade tightly. He squinted as he peered ahead, trying to see off into the distance, but the glowing mist that rose up from the great crevice obscured his view. Beyond, there was only darkness.

  And the rumbling that began.

  Dearg's heart began to race. His breath quickened as he stared into the mists. The rumbling came in spurts, sounding like giant footfalls on the cavern floor. He stepped forward, hesitantly showing himself to whatever was beyond.

  Then, in a burst of flame, the cavern was illuminated, showing him the massive and torn wings of a dragon. He stared in awe as they unfolded, revealing the horned and corroded head of the ancient being. Its eyes opened, and the head rose up slowly, the sound of its breathing growing louder as it awoke.

  Dearg was stunned; speechless. Even the vision of the Dragon he saw in the valley was nothing compared to what he looked upon now. The Dragon was much larger than he had been before, and its ancient body had become wracked with scars and age. Scales were missing, giant wounds that had healed over riddled his body, and the left half of his face was scorched and bare.

  But this was the Dragon all the same.

  Much to Dearg's surprise, the Dragon began to crawl toward him, its wings tipped with claws that it walked upon like a bat. Dearg's mind told him to flee, but he knew that this was why he had come. He swallowed hard, standing fast as the massive maw of the Dragon came within inches of his face.

  "I am here," he said boldly. "I see the Dragon. I want to see my father."

  The Dragon's head rose up as it backed away. Dearg wasn't sure what was happening, but it appeared that the Dragon's black scales were becoming dull and stone-like. It crouched, lowering its head to the cavern floor gently, and closed its eyes.

  Dearg felt a sudden sensation of warmth that flowed through him. Perhaps it was anticipation, but he couldn't be sure. Whatever it was he felt was unfamiliar to him, but it was similar to what he felt when he had embraced Morrigan.

  Was it love?

  As the Dragon's body began to become immobile, the giant maw opened. The Dragon's long and sharp fangs were visible, and Dearg could see that one of them was broken, probably from battle. Then, with a strange cracking sound, the Dragon became pure stone, dead and lifeless.

  "What is happening?" Dearg whispered.

  From within the darkness of the Dragon's massive mouth came footsteps. Dearg's hand went to his blade immediately, but he relaxed, realizing that no enemy could possibly emerge from the Dragon's mouth.

  He hoped.

  But there, upon the stone tongue, stood a man even more massive than Dearg himself. He was heavily muscled beneath the strapped harness that carried his breastplate. His pants were of black leather, with silver buckles that shone brightly in the flames of the cavern. Though his face was obscured, Dearg could see that his hair was black, long and flowing, and he wore a braided beard that reached down to his abdomen.

  Dearg was frozen. There was nothing he could think of to say, and his limbs seemed stuck. Even his breathing became labored, and he began to sweat. There was a strange tightness in his throat that he could not even swallow away.

  Then, the Dragon raised his head, meeting Dearg's gaze with eyes the brilliant blue of divine sapphires. His face was scarred, much like that of his true form, but appeared wise and noble, ancient and primordial. But it was the Dragon's expression that tore at Dearg's heart. This was the look that he remembered in Menelith's vision; that look of love that a father has for his child.

  It tore at Dearg's heart more than anything he had ever experienced.

  "My son," the Dragon spoke, his voice deep and soothing. "I have waited for this moment."

  The tightness in Dearg's throat was overwhelming. Though he wanted to speak, all he could manage was a choking sob. His vision blurred as his eyes teared, and he could barely breathe. He managed a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the Dragon was still there, his arms out before him.

  Dearg stepped forward, allowing the Dragon to embrace him. There was a sudden surge of strength and power that he felt, and there was an undeniable sense of love that came from the Dragon's embrace.

  "Let me look at you once more," the Dragon said, lowering his arms.

  Dearg stepped away, beholding the form of his father.

  "You have grown into a strong man," the Dragon said. "I can see that. The Northmen must be very proud to call you their tribesman."

  Dearg nodded. "I am proud to count myself among them."

  The Dragon smiled. "I am glad," he said. "I knew they would raise you well. I have watched you for your whole life, seeing how great a man you have become. I am very proud of you, Daegoth. Now tell me, what did your tribe name you?"

  "Dearg," he sai
d. "It was the name our Völva gave me."

  The Dragon smiled, nodding. "She is very wise," he said. "She knew the truth. I imagine she could feel it within you."

  The Dragon looked around frowning for a moment before he smiled and met Dearg's gaze again.

  "This cavern is no good," he said. "Let me take us to a place more fitting."

  The Dragon waved his hands and the cavern began to fade. Slowly, another scene shimmered into existence. There was a circular room with walls of burgundy, stained oak wainscoting and pillars, and a large dais with an ornate stand upon it. The Dragon's human form was there, standing over what looked like a sword within a black and silver scabbard.

  "Come, my son," the Dragon said. "I have a gift for you."

  Dearg stepped up onto the dais, his eyes affixed upon the blade as the Dragon reached out for it. He held the sword in his hands, pulling it free from the scabbard. Dearg could see that handle was carved into the shape of a dragon's head, and appeared to be made of some strange, dull gray and black metal. The blade was of the same metal, and was carved with the same strange symbols he had seen on the walls. Its crossguard was in the shape of a dragon's claws that reached out toward the end of the blade.

  It was a fearsome weapon, to be sure, and it was exactly the same type of sword that Dearg himself bore.

  "This, my son, is the Serpent's Tongue. It was forged in the fires of the Earth itself. It is yours, and you will wield it in my name."

  Dearg reached out as the Dragon handed him the sword. As soon as his hand touched it, he could feel its awesome power. There was a lifeforce to it, as if it were a being in its own right. It spoke to him, seeming to feel him out, judging his worthiness. He gripped it tightly, his eyes frozen upon it as it probed his very soul. Then, with a feeling of satisfaction, the sword was silent.

  It was his now, he knew. It had accepted him.

  "Only the Onyx Dragon may wield this blade," the Dragon said.

  "The Onyx Dragon?" Dearg echoed, remembering the phrase.

  "The Onyx Dragon is my son," the Dragon explained. "And will always be, now and forever. For now, that is you, my Firstborn."

  Dearg locked eyes with the Dragon once more, feeling a sense of pride in knowing that he was truly the Son of the Dragon, and now the Onyx Dragon.

  "I am honored," he stammered.

  The Dragon smiled. "It is now time for you to receive my blessing, so that you may rise up and lead the people of Eirenoch with my power."

  "I am ready," Dearg said.

  "Kneel before me," the Dragon said. "Keep the blade in your hands."

  Dearg dropped to one knee, looking up at the Dragon as he stood over him. The Dragon drew his own blade, another large sword like Dearg's own, and placed it upon Dearg's left shoulder.

  "By the power of Gaia, and all that dwell upon her, I name you Onyx Dragon, and heir to my power."

  Dearg felt the blade cut into his flesh. He flinched lightly, but the pain faded almost immediately, replaced by a surge of strength that entered the cut. He could feel it course through him, strengthening him and rebuilding everything within him that was not perfect. He felt his heart grow stronger, its rhythm slowed and strengthened. His lungs felt larger and more efficient, and even his mind began to become clearer than ever before.

  There was a tingling sensation in his muscles, and as he opened his eyes and watched, the flesh tightened over them as they became larger and as hard as stone. There was a slight stinging in his face, and he closed his eyes as it spread and danced across his flesh. It felt odd, as if tiny needles were piercing him thousands upon thousands of times. Then, the feeling was gone, replaced by a mask-like sensation that slowly faded as the Dragon backed away.

  "Onyx Dragon," the Dragon said. "Rise."

  Dearg opened his eyes again and stood. He felt taller, stronger, and much more confident than before. He stood at eye level with the Dragon now, but he knew it was because he simply felt stronger. The Dragon had given him something that he had been missing his whole life; something that now gave him the power to face anything.

  "The throne is yours," the Dragon said. "You need only defeat the usurper, and you now have the power to do so. But this power will not be complete without your warriors."

  "My knights," Dearg said.

  "That is correct," the Dragon said.

  He turned and waved his hand at the blank wall behind the platform. Upon its surface, seven figures appeared. He recognized himself and his five friends, but the seventh figure remained blank.

  "I grieve for your loss, my son," the Dragon said. "But Fleek was not meant to bear the title of knight. His soul was pure, and his heart was good and kind. To defeat T'kar, you must all become as beastly as he. You must show your enemy no mercy, and your hearts must be as stone. This will be the first command of the Order of the Dragon. You will form your knights under this banner of ferocity. You have already chosen five of them. The sixth you will find in the southern reaches."

  "You will take me there?"

  "I will," the Dragon said. "The witch Igraina awaits you there. She has given you a great gift, and you will return that favor. My land needs her power, and that power will be the source of magic in Eirenoch's future."

  "What gift has she given me?" Dearg asked.

  "She has given you the blood of the Ancient Ones," the Dragon said. "And that blood, combined with my own, has given you the power to summon that which lies within."

  Dearg cocked his head, confused. "What do you mean?"

  "When you go into battle, focus on summoning my strength. It will emerge to protect you."

  "I don't understand."

  "Close your eyes, my son."

  Dearg did so, still confused, but curious.

  "You are the Son of the Dragon. Bring that out from within."

  Dearg could feel the Dragon's hand touch his chest, and a sudden surge of strength entered his heart. Then, as the Dragon pulled his hand away, it felt as if something had been left there; something physical, something that could be summoned. He focused, picturing himself as the Dragon. He imagined the Dragon's wings, his burning eyes…

  …his scales.

  Something exploded from within, and Dearg staggered back as a burning sensation spread from his heart and throughout his body. Though not painful, it felt as if his skin was splitting. He gulped in terror for just a moment, but he heard the Dragon speak again.

  "Open your eyes, my son."

  He slowly opened his eyes as his heart slowed down to normal speed. He was shocked when he looked down, seeing that his body was covered in armor resembling the Dragon's scales. There were ridges and spikes along his arms, clawed gauntlets upon his hands, and a great crest over his heart that pulsed with life.

  "This armor is a melding of my and Igraina's power." The Dragon explained. "It can be summoned at will, thanks to her understanding of the nature of the Firstborn. And you will give this same gift to your knights, once you have met your sixth."

  "How?"

  "You will knight them all with the Serpent's Tongue," the Dragon said. "By doing so, you will pass to them a small part of my power."

  Dearg looked at the blade again. It was remarkable in his eyes. The balance was perfect, the blade was immaculate, and the handle felt like it belonged in his hand. Even the runes carved along its blade were perfectly etched, with a small amount of a purplish glow that pulsed with life.

  It felt like it was made for him, and only him.

  "I thank you for this, father," he said. "For everything."

  "Do not thank me, my son. Only do what you must to destroy the Beast. The power to do so is now within you, not me."

  Dearg nodded, strapping the blade to his baldric. It felt good on his back; perfectly balanced in its position and easily reachable.

  "There are things in the future that you must heed, Dearg."

  "I have seen some things," he said, remembering Igraina's words.

  "The witch has shown you things," the Dragon began. "Th
ese things will all come to pass. She will help you in the near future, but you must be wary. Once she destroys her own demons, she will not be the same. You must remove her from your kingdom."

  "Kill her?"

  "No," the Dragon said. "That will not be possible. She cannot be killed, unlike her sisters. She is the first of her kind, and will be the last. If you banish her, she will go willingly, for she knows she is fated to return and sit upon the throne one day."

  "I saw that," Dearg said. "She showed me everything."

  "Not everything," the Dragon said. "Only the future of Eirenoch; the events that tie your bloodline with her."

  "Is there more?"

  "There is always more," the Dragon said, putting his hand on Dearg's shoulder. "But that is not important. You have your task, and the means to do so."

  "I have one question," Dearg said. "What was the vision I saw outside the tower?"

  The Dragon cocked his head curiously. "Vision? Of what, may I ask?"

  "You didn't send it?"

  The Dragon's expression remained blank.

  "The battle," Dearg said. "Between you and another… god, perhaps. I don't know."

  The Dragon raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if in thought. His brow furrowed deeply, and he shook his head.

  "There are battles I do not remember," he said. "Two I think. One at the very beginning, and one later on. My memory is clouded, my son. I only recall that first battle was with the darkness itself. Something that… was nothing."

  "Why don't you remember?"

  The Dragon smiled. "Billions of years have passed, Dearg. My memory is not the same as it used to be. What you saw may simply have been shadows of my own memories; remnants of a past I can no longer fully remember. The Druaga remember things better than I do. I am sure it was they who sent you this vision."

  Dearg supposed that was understandable. Though he wasn't quite sure what a billion years was, he was fairly certain it was a very long time. Several billion was even longer. He smiled at the thought, wondering how the Dragon had spent so many years within the Earth without growing insane.