Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  T'kar's heart jumped in his chest and he sat forward. Lilit's finger popped painfully out of his wound. "The other witch?"

  "Igraina," Malthor said. "I saw her."

  "She was present," Lilit confirmed. "I was about to kill her once and for all until the Druid showed up."

  T'kar growled, balling his fasts. "Damn her."

  "She is of no consequence, Sire," Randar said. "Surely Lilit's power is greater than hers. If she shows up again, Lilit will simply destroy her. The Druid can't be everywhere at once."

  "The king should be more concerned about the assassin's progress," Lilit said.

  "The assassin arrived, finally?" Malthor asked.

  "On the eve of the battle," Randar replied. "The king sent him after the woman who injured him."

  "He was supposed to go after Daegoth," Malthor said. "That is what Kathorgo wanted."

  "What do you know of it?" T'kar growled. "I am your king, not he."

  Malthor lowered his head. "Forgive me, Sire," he said. "I am only concerned with your well-being."

  "Don't be," T'kar said. "Kathorgo is for all intents and purposes a piece of stone for all I care. He has done nothing to help us. All he does is speak in riddles. I can make neither hide nor hair of anything that spews forth from his petrified orifice."

  "Perhaps I can decipher his cryptic words, Sire," Malthor offered.

  T'kar was intrigued. The young sorcerer was gifted when it came to dark magic, ancient dark magic. Perhaps he could be of some use in this respect. It couldn't hurt, T'kar realized. Of course, Malthor's presence might be insulting to Kathorgo. But then again, that would be amusing.

  "Done," T'kar said. "Randar, take our friend here to see Kathorgo. Then, if Kathorgo doesn't kill him, which I doubt he will, bring him back to Lilit. I care not what he looks like, but I don't like to see my servants moping around like useless dogs."

  "Yes, Sire," Randar said. "Come, my friend. To Kathorgo we go."

  As they left, T'kar chuckled at Malthor's plight. Though he felt a small amount of pity for him, he found the disfiguration amusing. Lilit, however, was not amused.

  "If he speaks to me like that again, I'll burn him to a crisp."

  "Calm down," T'kar said. "Go easy on him. He's young, He'll learn."

  Lilit sighed. "Very well, Sire," she said. "If you say not to harm him, I won't."

  "Oh, I didn't say not to harm him," T'kar said. "Just don't kill him. We need him."

  He could tell by Lilit's grunt that she disagreed.

  Malthor was led into a darkened corridor deep beneath the fortress. It was cold and damp for the most part, giving him chills and a sense of foreboding. But as they approached a stone door far down the hall, he began to feel warmer—and even more of a feeling of dread.

  "Kathorgo is a statue," Randar said. "T'kar is able to speak to it somehow. I have no idea how it works, and I don't care to find out. I will leave you there, and you can tell me all about it later."

  He looked at Randar then, feeling a sense of guilt as he scrolled through his previous thoughts. He had truly wanted to kill the man, to make him suffer for leaving him behind, but he simply hadn't taken into account Randar's duties to the king. He hoped Randar would forgive him.

  "I'm sorry about earlier," he said. "I had forgotten about—"

  "Make no more mention of it," Randar said. "There is nothing to discuss. I do, however, apologize to you if you thought that I had abandoned you."

  "I did," Malthor replied. "But I know that's not really true."

  "Then it is settled. Ah, here we are."

  The door before them was perfectly square and took up the whole hallway, as if it were simply a dead end in the stone corridor. Upon it was a relief carving of a horned helmet, with red gem eyes staring into the nothingness. Malthor cocked his head as he looked at it. For some reason he couldn't fathom, it seemed familiar.

  "What is it?" Randar asked.

  "I don't know," Malthor replied, shaking his head. "I think I've seen this before. Somewhere… I'm not sure."

  "Well," Randar said, clapping him on the back. "As I said, see me later. I don't care to be here in this place. It makes me ill."

  Malthor was silent, transfixed on the symbol upon the stone. He barely heard Randar's footsteps as the man disappeared down the hallway. Everything was distant it seemed, and Malthor felt alone in the world; he and the symbol.

  "Who are you?" he whispered.

  There was a rumble, and Malthor stepped back as the door began to slide inward, grinding against the stone floor. It moved to the left, revealing a darkened chamber inside. Malthor stood frozen, unable to flee or step forward. Then, as the door settled into its open position, dim lights began to fade into existence, lighting a large and strangely-shaped chamber. Upon the floor, he saw, was a giant magical circle inscribed in the stone itself, and a tall pillar or statue stood in the center.

  Malthor hesitantly stepped forward, his body trembling with both fear and awe. He could not take his eyes off the statue before him, and that vague sense of familiarity began to consume him.

  Malthor, the statue spoke. I've been waiting for you.

  He stopped at the mention of his name. It was an odd feeling, that this entity knew him. Its appearance was frightening, he saw, unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time. Though he had never laid eyes upon this being, his general shape was known to him. The large horns that adorned the symbol were also upon the statue's head, and even the red eyes were there, beginning to glow in a faint and fiery light.

  "Who are you?" he asked. "I only know the name Kathorgo. Who are you really?"

  I am he who has reigned from primordial times, beneath the Earth from the bottomless depths.

  Malthor cocked his head. He remembered having dreams as a child that frightened him; dreams of a great king who beckoned to him from the abyss. In his waking hours, he felt his own magic grow stronger with each dream the night before, as if the dream figure had been training him as he slept.

  Was this that king?

  "I remember you somehow," he said. "As if you have been with me always, but unknown to me."

  I am the source of all darkness upon this world. He whose rage fuels the evils of the world. Always and forever.

  "T'kar says you speak in riddles," Malthor said. "If he is your servant, then why not speak to him as you speak to me."

  We are all pawns. All of us. Pawns in a great game played by the Powers That Be. T'kar's frustrations are amusing to me.

  "Then why speak to him at all?"

  I need him. Only his presence can ensure my rise, my return. If the Dragon succeeds in regaining his throne, my power will fade and I will return to my sleep. I shall once again be dead but dreaming.

  "You spoke to Igraina," Malthor said. "Why?"

  That is not your concern. The only thing you must be concerned with is your servitude to me.

  Malthor laughed, unafraid. "I will not serve someone I know nothing of."

  You have known me your whole life. I have given you this power you wield.

  "No," Malthor said, realizing the familiarity was misplaced. "It came from somewhere else. It is mine."

  The statue was silent, but Malthor could feel a sense of rage building up within the entity. He found it amusing. Though the entity was likely correct about being the source of his power, Malthor cared not. The source of it was irrelevant. He wielded it for his own interests. He served no one but for his own interests. Not even T'kar's needs were relevant to him. But as long as he could use T'kar, he would serve him.

  "You say nothing," he said. "Do you fear disobedience, or does it make you angry?"

  I do not fear you. I fear nothing. The world fears me.

  "No one fears you," Malthor said, grinning. "You are but a statue. You are nothing but a spirit trapped within the Earth, powerless to extend your will upon the surface. T'kar serves you because he does not know your weakness."

  I have no weakness. Your insolence angers me.

  The
statue suddenly flared to life, and Malthor jumped back, throwing up a ward spell. A jet of red flame shot from the statue's mouth, striking the ward and reflecting off into the floor. It exploded in a fireball of magic that shook the chamber, but left Malthor unharmed.

  And amused.

  He dropped his ward spell, stepping back toward the statue. He grinned, looking up at the stone face that glared down at him.

  "You are nothing," he hissed. "I am greater than you. Igraina is greater than you. I will tell T'kar to smash your statue and rise above this kingdom through his own power. He has done that already. You have done nothing for him."

  Malthor spat upon the statue and turned to walk away. He heard a faint chuckling as he departed, but nothing more. He laughed the whole way down the hallway, amused at the pathetic weakness of the supposed "god" of the underworld. He was a farce, Malthor knew. Nothing but a being with magic tricks to frighten the ignorant. The symbol he remembered was nothing but a foreshadowing of some event in the future, he realized. Not a sign of servitude, one of his own victory.

  Still, Kathorgo knew him, and claimed to be the source of his power. He knew that was false. His power had come from elsewhere; some other darkness from another realm. Something that was far greater than a dead entity within the Earth. Kathorgo was a liar; a weak and pathetic liar demanding worship from the weak.

  Malthor was no weakling.

  You will regret your insolence.

  Somehow, Malthor doubted that.

  Having found a horse, Lorcan made it back to the fortress without much trouble. He was immediately recognized when he rode up the rocky path, and he was met at the gate with relief and great respect. When the gates were opened, he allowed a stable boy to take his horse and greeted the watch captain.

  "I have returned," he said, weary and beaten down.

  "It is good to see you, Lorcan," the captain said. "T'kar will be glad to hear of your safe return. But tell me, what has happened to Captain Jarka?"

  "He was killed," Lorcan said. "I found his headless body in the forest just south of the village."

  The watch captain nodded, not particularly disappointed. "Go on in, then."

  Lorcan entered T'kar's chamber moments later, happy to see his king alive and mostly well. T'kar, however, was indifferent and merely greeted him with a nod and a chuckle.

  "Lorcan," he said, strangely weak. "Where have you been? I thought you had fallen."

  "Captain Jarka fell in battle, Sire," Lorcan said. "I was captured after discovering his body, but I have escaped."

  T'kar laughed. "I hope you took a few of them out when you did."

  "One," Lorcan said. "A Northman."

  T'kar nodded. "Tell me of their leader."

  "The Northman called Dearg is their leader," Lorcan said. "But as Randar mentioned, he is no Northman. And as of now, he is gone."

  "Gone?"

  "To Dol Drakkar," Lorcan said, knowing the name would enrage the king.

  T'kar clenched his fists, growling loudly and fiercely. Lorcan feared the king might lash out, and backed away slowly until the normal color returned to the king's skin.

  "Then he has begun to fulfill his destiny."

  "But the Riverfolk are vulnerable without him and his knights," Lorcan said. "They too have departed, as well as the leader of the Northmen."

  "I know of her," T'kar said. "I have sent the assassin after her."

  "But Kathorgo—"

  "To hell with Kathorgo," T'kar hissed. "I care not what he thinks, god or not. He has done nothing for me."

  Lorcan nodded, remaining silent as the king tapped his chin with his finger. He glanced over to Lilit, who stood naked nearby, preparing a salve for the king's wound. Lorcan noticed the bandage on T'kar's shoulder that extended over part of his chest. He must have received a great wound.

  "What happened to you, Sire?" he asked.

  "The woman," T'kar said. "That bitch who led the Northmen. She has some kind of weapon that stings like fire. Lilit tells me she is in league with the Great Mother."

  Lorcan scowled, then smiled crookedly. "You mean such as the servants you fed to your dogs?"

  "Yes," T'kar said. "My dogs."

  He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair in thought. Lilit began removing his bandage to apply the salve, and Lorcan gazed at her body lustfully.

  "Stop looking at her," T'kar growled. "She is not for you."

  Lorcan looked away, clasping his hands before him.

  "Go to your chambers and rest," T'kar said. "When we are ready to assemble again, you will have Jarka's command."

  "Thank you, Sire."

  "Now go, Captain Lorcan, while my lovely Lilit heals me."

  Chapter Six

  We're still rather far from the temple," Igrid said as she perused the map. "There are ruins all over, but these are just outposts."

  Morrigan sat next to her, leaning over to get a glance. "At least we're out of the swamp," she said.

  Igrid traced the path that was marked, and looked up to compare the reality to the map. Strangely enough, she saw exactly what was drawn on the parchment. Menelith had been extremely accurate when he had inscribed it. It was almost as if he were looking directly at the forest at the time.

  "It's good to be on solid ground," she said. "And this map is helpful. The path here is exactly in the right place."

  "How far, do you think?"

  "Two days, at least," Igrid said. "Without the horses, that is."

  "Damn," Morrigan said, looking behind them toward the swamp. "I hope they made it home, at least."

  Igrid smiled, knowing the answer. "They know the way," she said. "They'll be alright as long as they don't run into any troll holes."

  "It's not the trolls I worry about."

  Igrid looked up at her, noticing the worried look on her face. She had seen that look before; when Dearg had gone through the mountains to meet the Riverfolk for the first time.

  "What is it?"

  Morrigan shook her head. "I'm not sure. It just feels like someone is following us."

  Igrid rose up to a squat, turning to look back at the swamp. They watched together, seeing nothing but the movement of the trees, and the gentle splashing of small creatures in the nearby swamp. A snake crawled up and over the bank, slithering to the right and disappearing into a hole tucked between the roots of a tree on the edge.

  All else seemed silent.

  "There is nothing there," Igrid said. "Nothing I can see or hear anyway."

  "It's just a feeling," Morrigan said.

  "We'll be sure to keep our eyes and ears open. We don't want anyone sneaking up on us."

  "It's more than that," Morrigan said. "I feel like something dark—very dark—is following us."

  "Then we should get moving," Igrid said. "Maybe whatever it is won't follow us into the Alvar ruins."

  Morrigan nodded, and the two stood to step onto the path. Igrid kept her eyes on Morrigan, whose expression had not changed. There was something after them, she realized. Morrigan's feeling was strong enough for Igrid to believe that it was real. Though she felt nothing herself, she reasoned that perhaps Morrigan had a natural talent; an innate sense of danger that Igrid did not possess.

  Or perhaps Morrigan's blade was giving her that sense.

  "You say that the Alvar brought you your weapon themselves?" she said.

  "The Lady Allora," Morrigan said. "But it's no different than yours, I would imagine. It's just suited to my fighting style. Yours was given to you in a dream. I find that strange, and even more impressive."

  Igrid smiled. "It was strange," she said. "Just bringing something back from a dream and holding it in my hand."

  "We dreamed of the same temple," Morrigan said. "And I heard others there. But you saw them."

  Igrid nodded, trying to remember the dream. She had seen figures, but no faces. Like Morrigan, she heard screams of pain and cries of sorrow. She guessed that the Great Mother was the source of the crying. Her daughters had been kil
led—ripped apart by great beasts. Now, she and the Highland woman were being summoned to some unknown fate, blindly answering that call that could spell doom for the both of them.

  "Whatever happens," she said finally. "We are in this together. The Great Mother has chosen us. Who else she chose remains to be seen, but I imagine there are others traveling to the ruins."

  "I still wonder about the ruins," Morrigan said. "If they are Alvar ruins, then why do they only know their locations, and not their purpose? How old are they?"

  Igrid shook her head. "Menelith says they are from a time before men, when the Alvar first came to explore. They are thousands of years old. Maybe tens of thousands."

  "Then if they no longer claim them, perhaps the Great Mother will allow us to claim them. We could choose our own temple, instead of the Firbolga ruin."

  Igrid smiled. "We need to find the temple in the dream first," she said. "Then we can travel to the others and choose one. There is a larger one in the south on the map. That one looks good to me."

  "I hope Menelith chose the right one," Morrigan said.

  "I'm sure he did."

  The Alvar captain had listened to their descriptions as he was marking the map. Based on their dreams, he and the other warriors had agreed that it most resembled the small structure just west of the shore. He had described the outside as an amphitheater structure, with a center entrance that led into a small underground chamber. There, he had said, the Firbolga had built a shrine to honor the Mother Spirit of this world; even carving her symbols on the stones.

  From what Igrid gathered, the first wave of Alvar had also worshiped Gaia, and not the Mother Spirit of their own world. It made sense, in a way. By worshiping her, they were honoring her graciousness in allowing them to inhabit her world. Perhaps she had even been inspired to create humans by the Alvar themselves. They were very similar to humans in many ways, though not as frail and short-lived. Menelith himself was thousands of years old.

  Who knew how old the Lady Allora was?

  "There are some ruins ahead," Morrigan said.

  Igrid looked up, snapped out of her thoughts. Ahead, on the right side of the path, was a small broken structure, likely an arch. Even from here, she could see the intricate carvings upon it, the way it was perfectly beveled along the curved top. There was only half of the arch standing. The rest was crumbled and lying on the ground in pieces, mostly shrouded by the weeds and moss.