But another thought crossed Dearg's mind at that moment. Surely, with all of his power, the Dragon could speak to Kronos. Perhaps he could find out if Fleek had made it to Valhalla.
"Can I ask you one more thing?" he said. "I just want to know how my friend is doing. Is Fleek happy in the afterlife."
The Dragon smiled and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them and placed his hand upon Dearg's forehead. Dearg's eyes fell closed, and his mind showed him a vision of beauty. He was in a garden facing a great hall. It was constructed of white wood, with silver grain and gleaming silver ropes tethering them together.
Within the hall, he heard the sounds of laughter and shouting. There, he knew, his ancestors gathered together to feast and celebrate their lives among the Gods, and Kronos himself. But it was what was outside that caught his attention.
There, among the flowers and vines, resting against a stump, was Fleek. He lay back with his hands behind his head, smiling and laughing as Leela sang a song of the Highlands. She played a stringed instrument, singing what he could only guess was a humorous tune. Whatever it was, Fleek understood it and was enjoying it greatly.
The sight warmed Dearg's heart. He had known Fleek all of his life, and he and the rest of his tribe had loved the big man greatly. His pure heart and uncluttered mind were a joy to all, and he had touched the very souls of every person he had ever befriended. Dearg missed him, but he was happy that Fleek was enjoying his divine reward.
"He lived a good life," the Dragon said. "And Kronos has given him what every Northman prays for."
Dearg opened his eyes, feeling a small amount of sorrow with his happiness. "I'm glad for him," he said.
"Now," the Dragon said. "You have work to do. The tribes of the south will be hard to rally, but once they know you are the Onyx Dragon, they will follow you."
"How will I know what tribes to approach?"
"You will not know," the Dragon said. "And even those who were loyal to Daegoth's house will be a challenge. Your identity will not convince these tribes. You will have to prove yourself, much like you did with the Riverfolk."
Dearg nodded. "I understand," he said. "Nothing is ever easy."
"Nothing worth it is ever easy," the Dragon replied, smiling.
"Menelith says I can get to the southern tower from here."
"You can. Are you ready, my son?"
Dearg took a deep breath, looking into his father's eyes again. "I am ready."
The Dragon stepped aside, motioning toward the back of the room. There, the throne rested atop the dais, ready for its occupant. Dearg went to it and climbed the dais, turning back to look upon his father one last time. He felt a tug at his heart as he saw a single tear fall from the Dragon's eye.
This brought him to think of one thing he always wanted to know.
"What was my mother like?" he asked.
The Dragon lowered his head sadly. "I didn't know her well," he said. "I chose her because she was the daughter of Daegoth. As far as I know, she was a good woman, and didn't deserve her fate. If I could have saved her, I would have. But I could only be there in spirit."
Dearg nodded, accepting the Dragon's explanation.
"But your grandfather," the Dragon continued, "Daegoth was a great king, and a faithful servant. It was he who brought my power to the kingdom's attention. He also helped to protect the temples of Gaia, and even came to Dol Drakkar to oversee its reconstruction. He was like a son to me, and a great friend."
Dearg could see the fondness in the Dragon's eyes as he mentioned Daegoth. It gave Dearg the will to carry on his grandfather's line, giving him the strength to proclaim his own heritage. He would see Daegoth's house on the throne again.
"When I kill T'kar, I will take my grandfather's name," Dearg said.
"Then Daegoth II you will be," the Dragon said, smiling proudly. "Fight well or die well."
"Goodbye, father," Dearg said.
"Goodbye, my son. I will be with you, always."
Dearg turned and closed his eyes to stifle the flood of emotions he felt. He took a deep breath, unstrapped his sword, and sat down, prepared to face his destiny once and for all.
And then the blackness came again.
Chapter Three
Thick forest gave way to swamplands by evening. Morrigan and Igrid slowed their horses as the misty realm came into view, pausing for a moment to look at each other for mutual support. Igrid could only shrug, never having seen a swamp like this, much less navigated one. There would be no landmarks to speak of, she realized; only the distant mountains and perhaps a few ancient dead trees.
"This is the ugliest place I have ever seen," she said. "It's cold and damp, like the worlds my legends speak of."
"It's always cold and damp in the Highlands," Morrigan said. "But not like this. I doubt Menelith's map will be of any help."
"He said this was the quickest route to the old temple," Igrid said, dismounting and pulling the map out of her pack.
Morrigan dismounted as well and stood on the small ridge overlooking the swamp while Igrid unrolled the map. The shieldmaiden and former queen of the Northmen came next to her and looked out over what looked like a soggy wasteland. Other than the musty smells of putrid vegetation, the worst thing was the way it looked.
The swamp was dotted with hundreds upon hundreds of dead trees, most of them completely devoid of branches and jutting up from the slime like skeletal fingers. A thick mist hung over the water, barely moving, concealing whatever small creatures were lightly splashing in the waters.
For all Igrid knew, it could be trolls—or worse.
"I definitely don't like this place," she said.
Morrigan shrugged, still fixated on the scene. "Let's take a look at the map and see if there's a way around. I don't care what Menelith says. Our horses will never want to cross this."
Igrid squatted down, looking over the rough-drawn parchment. She noticed it was coated—or saturated—with a wax-like substance that prevented it from absorbing moisture. She also noticed that the swamp was huge.
"The only way around it takes us near either the village to the west, or the road along the eastern shore. Both routes are far out of the way."
"Is the old temple marked?"
"Yes," Igrid said. "It's far on the other side of the swamp, in something that looks like a thicker forest. I can't read this description. It looks like your language."
Morrigan bent down to join her, and Igrid pointed out the symbols. But Morrigan shook her head.
"It's not my language," she said. "Those are Alvar runes. But I know what this one means. It means 'magi'."
"What is a magi?"
"The Magi were a group of priests from the Mainland," Morrigan explained. "They were friends of the Alvar, and assisted them in cleansing the forests after the purging of the Firbolga."
"Firbolga?"
"Giant men," Morrigan said. "Not like the Fomorians. They built great structures here in the past, but fell to darkness when they began to worship strange gods."
"I have never heard this legend before."
"It's just that, I thought," Morrigan said. "A legend. But things that have been known to me as legends, I have seen lately with my own eyes."
Igrid grinned at her, fully realizing what she meant. Everything she had seen since leaving the tribal lands had been just a legend in her eyes, even the stories of the Great Mother. She now knew that her legend, at least, was real. Gaia had spoken to Igrid in a vision. She reached over and gripped the pommel of her new blade as she thought of it.
"Our blades will be the very embodiment of future legends," she said.
Morrigan nodded, gripping her own blade. "True," she said. "But not unless we get there safely."
Igrid stood, still apprehensive about crossing the swamp. "How do we even know we are going to the right place? The place in our dreams, I mean."
"I trust Menelith's judgment," she said. "He has been there, he said. He helped to drive away the Firbolga who
built it before they could desecrate it with their new gods' symbols."
"Who were these gods?" Igrid asked.
Morrigan shook her head. "I don't know," she said, shrugging. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough."
"Let's get this over with, then," Igrid said with a heavy heart. "The swamp isn't going to move out of our way."
Erenoth crouched down to look at the horse tracks that went to the south. He knew he had found the woman's trail, but was unaware that she had brought a companion with her. There were two sets of tracks instead of one, and that made Erenoth wonder if T'kar's story had been completely true. Perhaps his injury had clouded his memory.
The assassin had been intrigued when T'kar had spoken of the fascinating woman who had wounded him. The blade she bore, the king had said, was something magical, and had wounded him greatly. Considering the powerful appearance of the strange king, any weapon that could cause him so much pain would be great indeed.
It piqued his curiosity greatly.
Despite his contract with Kathorgo's agent specifically stating that he hunt down and destroy this Daegoth, as he was called, Erenoth had accepted T'kar's request and turned his attention to this woman and her blade.
She sounded like a much more worthy opponent.
Erenoth stood, looking off into the distance. He could see that the forest thinned out ahead, and had been told there was a great swamp somewhere south of his location. There, the witch had said, he would likely find his target.
In his dealings with Kathorgo's agent, however, there was no mention of the dark tower that loomed over the mountains in the distance. For some reason he couldn't fathom, Erenoth had been unable to tear his attention away from it. It fascinated him greatly, and he could barely take his eyes off of it. Even while traveling, he frequently found himself seeking it out on the horizon.
It was infuriating, to say the least.
But what was more infuriating was the fact that even though its influence waned the farther south he traveled, the more he felt the presence of another tower to the south. Far to the south, but there none-the-less.
Now as he crouched in the forest, he did he best to put the thought out of his mind and focus on his mark. Though he had not anticipated the woman traveling with another, he was confident it wouldn't make any difference. He would simply kill them both, return to T'kar, and collect his fee.
Erenoth stood, looking out toward the south as he kept his senses aware of every movement of the trees, every noise made by the wildlife, and every misplaced twig or weed. The tracks told him that the two horses moved in a steady pace, clopping casually and not galloping as he would have guessed. Evidently, his mark was unaware that she would have a pursuer.
That was good.
Gripping his blades, Erenoth began after them once more, wondering why the two of them were headed in this direction. The witch had said nothing on that subject, though the blond-haired man in the overly-tight leather suit had suggested that there were ancient ruins somewhere in there, past the swamp and in an area of the forest that was old and overgrown.
As much as he hated the idea of traversing an even thicker forest, he was still looking forward to meeting this warrior, and he began to hasten his pace southward. Judging by the freshness of the tracks, he would catch up to them by nightfall. They would likely make camp by then, and he could observe them for a few hours before making his presence known.
Then he would kill them both.
The horses had little difficulty with the swamp. They were likely used to traveling through harsh terrain, and the wetness bothered them very little. Still, the two women moved slowly, being sure not to rush their mounts, lest they plunge head-on into a troll hole and be sucked down into the darkness.
To their right, the sun was beginning to turn orange in the sky, throwing golden rays of dim light through the dead trees and vines. It offered them little illumination, and both of them were thankful the horses had no aversions to the darkness. However, the chill that was in the air was growing, and Morrigan began to feel uncomfortable.
"I had no idea the swamp would be so cold," she said.
"We're both from colder areas," Igrid reminded her. "But I agree. There is a strange chill in the air. It must be the swamp itself."
"I hope so," Morrigan said.
She had heard that the presence of dark spirits brought a chill to the air. Though she had never heard of any legends of dark spirits in the swamp, the thought of it still made her nervous. She kept her eyes moving, scanning her surroundings for anything that seemed out of place.
"I wonder how our friends are," Igrid said, thankfully taking her mind off of her troubles.
"I trust Baleron to lead them," Morrigan said. "And I'm sure Menelith is doing a fine job protecting the forest."
Igrid suddenly pulled on her reigns, holding out her hand to warn Morrigan to be silent. They stopped and listened, and Morrigan looked at Igrid curiously. The shieldmaiden cocked her head as she looked back, holding that position until a faint screeching was heard in the distance.
They both furrowed their brows when they heard it, and Morrigan's heart began to quicken. She had never heard that sound before. It resembled the sound that the wyverns had made, only long and drawn out, with an echoing quality that sent chills up her spine.
"What is that?" she mouthed.
Igrid shook her head, and her hand moved to her blade. Morrigan's did as well. They started forward again, this time slowly and cautiously, making as little noise as possible. Morrigan could feel her horse's fear growing, and she was concerned that it might throw her if it became spooked. She reached out with her free hand to soothe it with a gentle scratch behind the ear.
The screech sounded again, and she gripped her sword even tighter. It felt warm in her hands, and she looked down at it briefly. She then noticed that it was glowing slightly, taking on a reddish cast. Igrid's sword was the same.
"Igrid," Morrigan whispered. "Your sword."
The shieldmaiden looked at her blade, and her eyes went wide as she saw the glow. She stopped her horse again, pointing the blade forward. Ahead, Morrigan could see the faint outline of a large mound, or tangle of trees. It was some kind of barrow or branch hut; something that didn't belong. As strange as it looked, it was still far ahead; far enough to avoid if they wished.
"Should we go around?" she asked.
"We're too close," Igrid said. "Whatever is in there, I think it knows we're here. I wonder what it could be."
Morrigan suspected she knew. Though she wasn't positive, one legend stuck out in her mind; legends of a swamp creature that made mounds like this. It was called a wraith, and it was something neither of them wanted to meet in person.
"Wraith," she whispered.
"What is that?" Igrid asked as she turned to her.
"We should go around."
Igrid shrugged as if she wanted further explanation. But, it was unnecessary. The screech sounded again, and a dark mass appeared in the dead trees ahead of them. Morrigan's heart jumped, and both horses reared back in terror, throwing them into the swamp. Before the two women could recover, the beasts splashed frantically as they fled.
"Damn it," Morrigan cursed as she got back to her feet.
The wraith screeched again and began approaching them as they recovered. Its black clouded mass swirled and writhed in the air, floating toward them as the sounds of thousands of whispers began to fill the swamp. The two women gripped their blades, seeing how the glow was growing stronger the closer the creature came.
"Spread out," Igrid said, holding her hand out. "Flank it."
Morrigan wasn't sure how it would do any good, but she began circling to the right. The creature's mass didn't slow as it continued, and several wisps of the blackness shot out and lashed at each of them like tentacles of utter darkness. The whispering became louder and more frightening, echoing like a cacophony of tortured souls in their ears.
Then, it struck out at both of them.
A tendril of darkness shot out at Morrigan, ending in an ethereal claw that swiped at the air in front of her. She swung her blade to block it, and the tendril shot back as the creature screeched in rage. Igrid fared the same, and they both realized that their blades could harm it.
Perhaps even kill it.
Knowing this, Morrigan headed straight behind the creature, moving closer to the barrow from which it came. Igrid followed on the opposite side, dodging another streak of the black energy as it attacked. Morrigan shot forward, striking across and penetrating the ethereal mass. It felt almost solid as her blade went through, and she heard the wraith howl in agony. Instinctively, she struck again.
The entire mass shot toward her shooting wisps of blackness at her that surrounded her like the roots of a dark tree. She swung and swung, tearing through the darkness, screaming in rage as she did so.
The creature backed off and focused on Igrid, and Morrigan charged. But there on her side of the dark mass a face appeared, its fanged maw gnashing and chomping at her. She stopped and reared back her blade, prepared to strike once more. The face focused on her, narrowing its eyes. She could see it form into a familiar shape, as if the wraith had probed her mind when it engulfed her.
It was her father.
Morrigan froze in terror. The face drifted closer, suspended on a long tendril of darkness, its fierce grin tearing into her soul and clouding her thoughts.
"Morrigan!" Igrid shouted.
Igrid spun toward her, slashing downward into the long neck of energy, severing the head. It dissolved in a cloud of darkness, and Morrigan fell back stunned as she heard her own father's screams.
She watched Igrid continue her barrage, striking the creature over and over again until it began to back away. Igrid turned, reaching down to pull her to her feet.
"Wake up," she said.
Morrigan shook her head, keeping her eyes focused on the wraith's diminishing mass. With a growl of rage, she gripped her sword with both hands, focusing on the center of the creature's mass. As it charged at them, Morrigan pushed Igrid to the side. The creature's mass widened as it opened itself up to devour her. She struck, plunging her blade into the purplish, energetic heart of its essence.
Sisters of the Blade Page 3
