It exploded in a burst of red and purple energy, throwing both women back into the swamp. As they watched, it began to swirl rapidly, growing faster and faster until it exploded once more, this time into a harmless cloud of black flame that dissipated into the shadows.
Morrigan looked over at Igrid, whose eyes were still wide with terror and awe. She stood, stumbling forward toward the barrow as she sought out the one object she knew would remain. Igrid stood up behind her, following her closely.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"The heart," Morrigan said. "It must be destroyed, too"
As they crept forward, she saw it. There in the muck it lay, pulsing and throbbing, giving off sparks of red energy that arced into the mud. It was about the size of her fist, and made of what looked like pure dark magic. She pointed her blade at it, jabbing it with its tip. The heart burst, splattering in a cloud of bright red magic. All that remained was a small puddle of black goo that sank into the swamp.
Breathless, Morrigan turned to Igrid. "That was a wraith," she said. "A creature of our legends. I've never seen one before, but it is clear that we can kill them."
She looked down at her blade, which was now the same gleaming steel as it was before. The glow had gone, and the life within it was calm once more. Morrigan's breath began to slow, and she sheathed her blade. She stared at the barrow, and she could feel Igrid come up next to her.
"What do you think is in there?" Igrid asked.
"I don't know," Morrigan said. "But let's find out."
Erenoth stopped cold when he heard the frantic splashing ahead. He leaped to the side behind a tree just on the edge of the swamp, looking out toward the sound. Through the distant mist, a pair of horses appeared, galloping toward him at an alarming pace, throwing sprays of muck everywhere.
From this distance, he couldn't see whether anyone was riding them, or they were fleeing from something horrible, having thrown their riders. Either way, they were spooked for a reason, so much so that they were fleeing at full speed.
It was then that he heard a growl that sent chills up his spine. The horses whinnied in terror, and the growl sounded again, followed by the slashing of flesh, and the screams of agony as both horses were cut down. Erenoth's heart pounded, and a strange numbness began crawling over his skin.
The sound of large bodies being dragged through the muck faded to his right. He turned his head, looking in that direction, seeing only a large shadow disappearing into the mist. He stayed still for a moment, watching until the dark shape faded away. Then, he looked into the swamp. The water was clouded, muddy and still roiling after the activity.
Something had killed the horses, and possibly their riders, and dragged them away into the darkness. He hoped that his mark had not been taken, too, but knew deep down that she was not atop the horse. Though it had been dark, he hadn't seen a rider on either horse, but he could be wrong.
He stepped out from behind the tree, not knowing exactly what direction his mark was heading. But the best thing to do, he knew, was to follow the horses' origin. They had come straight from the south, and appeared to have been fleeing in a mostly straight line. He would go that way.
Taking a look to either side to ensure he was not being stalked by an unknown creature, Erenoth stepped down into the muck, his blades out and his ears open. He would not be startled again.
"It smells like death," Igrid said as they approached the strange structure.
From the outside, it looked like a pile of branches, bones, mud and other disgusting material. There was the smell of decay lingering with the typical musty and muddy smell of the swamp. There was only a small opening on the outside, nothing more than a parting between stacks of muck, with flaps of rotting moss hanging over it like curtains.
Morrigan stuck her sword out and moved the moss to the side. It was dark inside, as would be expected, and the smell of death wafted out like a ghost, lingering in their senses and turning their stomachs.
On the ground directly inside the opening, worms and other disgusting creatures writhed and squirmed. Morrigan gulped loudly, looking at Igrid. The shieldmaiden's face was frozen in a ghastly expression, and her eyes were the only things that could move. They turned in Morrigan's direction.
"Shall we?" Morrigan asked.
"After you," Igrid replied.
Not sure why they were even exploring such a dangerous structure in the first place, Morrigan ducked her head under the hanging moss and squatted her way inside. The air within was warm, but smelled of decay. She could see that the inside was concave, having been dug in the mud and fortified on the inside with sticks and logs pressed up against the curved walls of the depression. Why an incorporeal creature needed a lair like this was unknown.
But it was a lair nonetheless.
Down in the center of the depression, there was a small, glowing orb, likely some glowing, gaseous swamp life being used as a light. It gave off a dim green glow that illuminated the mist that hung in the air, giving the entire barrow lair an eerie green cast.
"What do you see?" Igrid asked.
"I'm not sure," Morrigan replied, moving aside. "There's something in the center, down there in the pit."
Igrid stepped inside, her blade gripped tightly in her hand. Morrigan moved slowly down the slope toward the light, keeping her eyes on everything around her. She could see that there were two bodies near the bottom of the slope, each of them decayed and skeletal. Igrid saw them, too, and shot Morrigan a worried glance.
"They look like Alvar," Igrid said. "Look at their armor."
Morrigan approached them closely and cautiously. She could see the engraved hide armor they wore, similar to what Menelith wore without the gleaming metal plates. Either they had been taken, or had simply fallen off. However, laying near the glowing ball of mysterious material, there was an ornate bow.
"I've never been much of an archer," Morrigan said. "But that looks like a good bow. Take it."
Igrid cringed, reaching out to take the weapon in her free hand. As she brought it closer to the dim light, Morrigan could see that it was indeed of Alvar origin. The bow itself was of a light-colored and highly lacquered wood, still supple and carved in a strange yet beautiful shape. The string appeared golden and shimmered when Igrid touched it.
"It's beautiful," Igrid said.
There was a case strapped to one of the Alvar's thighs, full of arrows of the same wood. Though their flights were dirty and worn, they appeared to be structurally sound. Morrigan plucked one from the case and held it up. Its tip was still gleaming, and appeared sharp, untarnished, and as new as the day it was forged. Smiling, she replaced it, and unstrapped the case, handing it to Igrid.
"Good," Igrid said. "Now let's get out of here."
"Wait," Morrigan said, spotting the hilt of a fine dagger underneath the skeletal remains. She reached out and pulled it free, remarking at the strangely carved hilt. There upon the base of the blade, was the triquetra symbol that emblazoned both of their own swords.
"What do you think this means?" Morrigan said.
Igrid shook her head. "Odd," she said. "Why would the Alvar have this same symbol on their weapons?"
"I don't know. But I'll keep this. Maybe we'll find out."
She reached further under the corpse, finding the dagger's sheath. Though the leather was mostly withered and useless, it too had the symbol upon it. Morrigan examined it for a moment, then tossed it aside. It was useless.
"Let's go," Morrigan said. "We still have a long way to travel."
Chapter Four
Scarcliff was the strangest settlement any of the friends had ever seen. Tucked away at the end of a large crevice in the mountainside, it was a multi-level town built into the rocks, comprised of tents, shacks, and cabins arranged randomly within. Over the entire settlement was a large tarp that blocked the rain, trapped the smoke of the many fires, and kept out the sunlight for the most part.
The whole thing felt like a giant carnival.
>
Outside the main area was a well-built and secure stable with many mounts; some good, some lame and crippled. There were donkeys, horses, and even a camel or two. The stable keeper stood outside watching the six of them ride up and looked them over suspiciously as they dismounted. However, he seemed friendly and was quick to offer his services.
"Is your stable secure?" Baleron asked him, nervous about leaving their mounts.
"Of course, sir," the man said, grinning toothlessly. "We take horse thievery seriously. The town may be full of scum, but none of them are horse thieves… anymore, that is."
"What do you mean anymore?" Ivar asked.
The man pointed to a copse of trees just outside the crevice. Half a dozen men hung there, swinging in the light breeze.
"Ah," Ivar said, grinning crookedly.
Freyja made a gagging sound.
"Very well," Baleron said.
"That'll be two copper crowns apiece," the man said. "Per night."
Baleron dug into his purse, producing a handful of coins. He handed them to the stableman. "That should be enough," he said.
"Thank you, kind sir," the man said. "What brings you to Scarcliff?"
"We are traveling south," Baleron replied. "Just looking to meet the locals."
"Ah," the man said, smiling and winking. "We have lots of fine locals here." He made a quote gesture with his fingers. "You'll find them all over the place."
Baleron nodded his thanks and motioned for the rest to follow him into the town. Everywhere he looked, there were street performers, harlots, dealers in fine "things", and statue-like men who stared suspiciously. Though he felt nervous, Baleron was confident their group wouldn't attract too much attention.
Except for Freyja.
"Well look at this," a mostly toothless man said as he stumbled over, reeking of spirits. "She's a fine one, eh? How 'bout a nice kiss for me then?"
Freyja stopped and glared at him expressionless. Baleron swallowed, unsure of what would happen next. Would she punch him? Kick him in the groin? Stab him? Instead, she reached up, pulling him closer, and whispered something in his ear. His grin turned into a look of horror, and he backed away quickly, his eyes glued on her. Then she shrugged, continuing their excursion into the city.
Whatever it was she said, Baleron didn't ask.
"That looks like a tavern," Ivar said, pointing toward a larger tent-like structure.
"Maybe we can ask about lodgings there," Odhran said. "Or get some advice as to where we can sleep outside town safely."
"Or away from the smell," Alric added.
"I kind of like the smell," Ivar said. "It reminds me of the mead hall after a night I don't remember."
Freyja chuckled. "You've had too many of those."
"You can never have too many nights you don't remember," Ivar replied.
"He's right," Alric said. "That's how you know you had fun."
Baleron shook his head, grinning. He led them toward the tavern, weaving through the crowd that passed by. He noticed that very few people among them were dressed in the same manner. They all seemed to be from different parts of the island, some of them from other lands, even. There were a few men of Anwar that he saw, dark skinned and tall, and even a man of Pashir with a long and curled mustache that he twisted in his fingers as he spoke to another man.
"Strange place," Ivar said. "What is that thing on the dark man's head?"
"I'm not sure what it's called," Baleron said. "But he's a Radhja of Pashir. They're fine warriors allied with the common folk. Peasant heroes, you could say."
"Do they drink mead?"
"Of course," Baleron replied.
"Well, then they're fine with me."
The tavern was smoky as expected, but was warm and inviting, with the light of many fires and several oddly-glowing stones. In the center, a natural formation of rock jutted up through a hole in the wooden plank floor. The bar had been built around it, and its natural ledges were used to shelve the bottles of spirits.
No one stopped to look at them as they entered. Everyone went about their business, engaged in their conversations and business dealings as if they weren't even there. Baleron was glad to see that.
There were only a few men seated around the bar, and the bartender, a filthy and scraggly looking man, greeted them with a crooked smile.
"What'll it be for ye?" he asked.
"We're looking for lodgings for the night," Baleron said. "And maybe someone who knows a quick route south."
"Well," the barman said. "Where are ye goin'?"
"To the southern shore," Baleron said. "And we would like a route that's far away from T'kar's notice."
"Aye. I don't blame ye thar," the barman laughed. "Have a seat over thar and I'll find ye someone. I may know a few. The wench'll be with ye shortly."
Baleron could see Freyja's scowl at the mention of the "wench". He patted her on the back with a smile as he led them to the dark table. It was round and made of planks that were of different states of decay. It was sturdy, however, and there was plenty of room for everyone. As they settled in, an older woman with long stringy brown hair and just a few teeth wandered over with a tray held at her side.
"What'll ye have?" she asked.
"We'll have your finest mead," Baleron said.
"I'll have the backer bring ye a small keg, then," she replied. "We're short on help."
She eyed Freyja and Alric then, taking a glance at Odhran as well. But then she shrugged and went back to the bar.
"What was that about?" Freyja asked.
"They probably don't get a lot of folk your age," Baleron said.
Freyja rolled her eyes. "I'll be having water," she said. "One of us should stay sharp."
"Better you than me," Ivar said.
"We're here to get information," Baleron said. "We don't have to drink, and I would advise against doing it in excess. We all need to stay sharp. This place is dangerous."
After a few minutes, a hefty young man appeared with a small wooden keg in one arm, and six mugs in the other, all held together with his thumb and a finger. He set the keg down, and put the mugs in front of each of them.
"Five silver crowns," he said. "And me name is Gian if ye need me."
Baleron handed him the coins with a friendly nod.
"I thank ye, fine sir," Gian said. "And the barkeep has yer man. He'll talk to ye when he's finished with his dice."
"Thank you."
The young man walked away, and Ivar began pouring himself a mugful of mead. He tasted it, smacked his lips a few times, and sighed.
"It tastes like piss," he said. "But it's good."
As the rest of them took turns pouring their drinks, Baleron eyed the tavern, looking for anyone that looked like a traveler or tracker. He wondered who this man was the "backer" spoke of. Would he be a smuggler, a tracker, or something different altogether? As his eyes wandered, he caught the gaze of a cloaked man in the far corner, tucked away between two natural pillars of rock, smoking a long pipe and looking in their direction.
Baleron locked eyes with him for a moment, wondering if this was the barkeep's man. Surely anyone of any tact and caution would observe anyone who asked for him, for a moment at least. He got the impression the man was judging or assessing them. It's exactly what Baleron would do. Not surprisingly, the man stood up and made his way over.
"Good evening, sir," the man said. "You're a ranger if I ever saw one."
Baleron cocked his head in surprise, looking at Odhran, whose eyebrows went straight up.
"You're very observant," Baleron said. "Please, sit down."
The man pulled up a chair and sat against the wall, presumably to keep an eye on the tavern, not exposing his back.
"Name's Finn," the man said. "And I know a ranger when I see one. This one here, too." He pointed at Odhran.
"And how do you know this?" Baleron asked.
The man laughed, pulling up his right sleeve. There around his wrist, was a leather strap that covered
what looked like a tattoo of sorts. As he pulled it back, Baleron could see it was a coiled dragon; the symbol of Daegoth's house.
"You were a kingsman," Odhran said in surprise.
"Aye, lad," Finn said. "Don't be too surprised. There aren't many of us left, but we do exist. Now tell me what I can do for you."
"We seek safe passage to the southern shore," Baleron said. "One that's out of the way of T'kar's routes."
Finn leaned forward, cocking his head. "You mean to tell me that a ranger needs directions?"
"No," Baleron said, shaking his head. "I know the way, but we need quick passage as well as safe. I do not know the southern reaches as well as I do the north. The route I know is along T'kar's routes."
"Well, they're all along T'kar's routes nowadays," Finn said. "There's no avoiding that. The question is, how fast you want to get… wherever it is you're going."
"Just tell him," Alric said. "He's a kingsman after all."
Finn looked at Alric with a cocked brow. Odhran shrugged, telling Baleron he agreed.
"Fine," he said. "We are going to Tel Drakkar."
Finn's face brightened, and he leaned forward. "Tel Drakkar, eh?" he said with a grin. "And why are you going there? If you want to worship the Dragon then go to Dol Drakkar. It's closer."
"We want to share his word with those in the south," Freyja said.
"Oh?" Finn said skeptically. "And what would a shieldmaiden of the north know about it?"
"How did…" Freyja shrugged.
Finn chuckled loudly, taking a pull from his pipe. "Lass, I didn't become a kingsman because I'm handsome. That's for sure. I know where all of you come from. This one here with the pointy beard is also a Northman. This young one with the bare arms and the floppy hair is a Highlander if I ever saw one. And you two, the hunters, well you're both my kinsmen. I'm guessing by the younger one's look, he was a trapper or a furrier perhaps."
"A trapper," Odhran said. Then, turning to Baleron. "He's good," he said. "I trust him."
Baleron nodded. "Well then, Finn, we'll pay you if you can get us there quickly and without incident."
Sisters of the Blade Page 4
