“You are the Son of the Dragon,” Igraina continued. “Your name is Daegoth, but you must never forget the name your people gave you.”
“Daerg,” he said.
“Yes.”
Igraina stepped closer, reaching out to stroke Dearg’s face with her nails. He felt the tingling of desire course through his body, but knew she was not for him, nor he for her. She was here to take something from him, he knew; something he had promised her.
“Take what you need, Igraina,” he said.
“What I take from you, I will give back,” she said, though he knew not what she meant. “This power will remain on the island, in your kingdom, for all time through my offspring.”
Offspring. That was it. Igraina would fashion offspring from the power she took, and leave those children here on the island. Through their souls, the power of the Dragon would live on in secret, melded with the power of Gaia in the form of women like Igraina herself. Women who would never develop the innate evil of Igraina’s kind—the Berujen.
“When I have left my children, and destroyed my sister, I will be gone from your sight,” she said.
“I wish it did not have to be this way,” Dearg said. “But if it is fated, then so shall it be.”
Igraina reached down, placing her hand over his heart. He could feel the sensation of energy being drawn from his body and into her palm. As he looked into her green eyes, he saw them slowly begin to glow, taking on a reddish cast. Then, almost as soon as it began, the sensation was gone. Igraina closed her eyes, stepping back as the Dragon’s power coursed through her.
Before Dearg’s eyes, her belly began to swell. She smiled as she opened her eyes, caressing the lump that was forming there in her midsection. She looked up at him, nodding in thanks.
“This is a great gift,” she said. “Protect my offspring as best you can. I will leave them in capable hands.”
“They will be safe in my kingdom,” Dearg said. “And I will keep their existence a secret.”
Igraina turned to walk away, taking one last look back before she faded into the swirling background once more.
Then, the darkness returned.
Igraina collapsed against Dearg’s naked body, resting her head against the hard stone of the throne. He was still fast asleep, waiting for his spirit to rejoin his body in Tel Drakkar. She had taken what she needed, and now she could feel the Dragon’s essence making its way toward her womb.
Fully recovered, she rose up, stepping down onto the floor and retrieving her gown. She looked at Dearg’s body as she redressed, noting his powerful form; the way his muscles rippled, and the way his skin was rough and strong, yet somehow soft and inviting at the same time.
What a shame he was not hers.
“I will return, Onyx Dragon,” she said with a heavy heart. “Thank you for your seed.”
With that, Igraina turned and began the arduous climb up the stone steps to the outside world. She would leave the tower behind, knowing that Dearg would rise up to his fate, and topple T’kar’s throne. It was inevitable.
All that was left was to give her offspring away, and begin the hunt for her sister. Then, to her dismay, she would no longer be. Her new found spirit would fade away, replaced by that which belonged to her kind. She would be a witch once more, and would no longer remember her own good soul.
Soon, she would be the last of her kind.
Jodocus watched Igraina emerge from Tel Drakkar. From her expression, the druid knew that there was a great sadness within her. He felt compassion for her then, even knowing how she would return to the darkness. But, he knew, it was her fate, and the fate of all. Without her treachery, the last Onyx Dragon would never be born, and the world would fall.
“I wish there was more I could do to help avoid this tragedy,” he mumbled to himself. “But I will watch over you, and whatever this plot is you are hatching.”
“That plot is not yours to know,” a voice said within his head. “You must forget everything you know, or her offspring will be in danger. Forget Igraina. Forget her plans. Forget everything.”
Jodocus nodded, knowing that the voice was right. “I will,” he said. “But I have the feeling I will meet her offspring sometime in the future.”
“Of course,” the voice said. “I have deemed it necessary. One of them will be needed in the future, to administer to this land when you are gone. Someone has to protect it after all.”
Jodocus laughed. “A druid never truly dies,” he said with a smile. “I will return as well, even after I’m dead. You, Keeper, know this, do you not?”
“By the stars, I do,” the Keeper replied. “It is all part of the game.”
“I don’t trust him,” T’kar said. “I don’t trust humans, and he’s not even human.”
Randar was not offended, but offered his opinion. “Since he isn’t human,” he said, “that is simply all the more reason to trust him, is it not?”
T’kar grumbled. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But still, I need some way to spy on him and make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing.”
Malthor rode up next to him, cocking his head. “And what is he supposed to be doing, Sire?”
“What I want him to, of course,” T’kar growled. “But I need a way to make sure he does not plot against me like this Kathorgo does.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Randar asked, curious and dreading being sent there himself.
“I need a spy,” T’kar mused, tapping his chin. “Something divine, invisible, and powerful enough to keep him in line. A demon, perhaps.”
“A demon?”
“That’s it!” T’kar said. “Malthor, you are a sorcerer. Summon me a demon.”
Malthor’s mouth curled up, and his eyebrows squeezed together. “Sire,” he said. “Might I remind you that I’m not a conjurer? I am a necromancer. I deal with the magic of the dead, not the demonic.”
“Demons are dead, are they not?”
“Not exactly—“
“Do it!” T’kar demanded, pounding his fist on his knee.
Though knowing it was out of his scope as a necromancer, Randar had faith that Malthor could come up with something—if only he had a little help.
“Malthor,” he said. “There are tomes and scrolls left over in Igraina’s chambers that you might peruse. Perhaps they can be of some assistance. Lilit might, as well. You need but ask her.”
“She doesn’t like me,” Malthor reminded him.
“Nobody likes you,” T’kar said, laughing. “I didn’t hire you because I liked you. I hired you because Captain Jarka said you were a skilled necromancer. You have proven that to be true. Now do as you are told. Summon me a demon.”
Malthor sighed, giving Randar one last desperate look. Randar shrugged. Malthor dropped behind them, and Randar could hear T’kar’s chuckles.
“I still don’t like him,” the king said.
Erenoth bowed before the onyx statue of the Dragon, content in his new role as High Priest. His heart felt warm, and for the first time in his life, his soul felt cleansed and pure. He was relaxed, proud, and looking forward to a long life of serving the Firstborn.
It was a good life so far.
“You have done well, my friend,” the Dragon said. “You have proven yourself a valuable warrior and servant.”
“I only have you to thank,” Erenoth said. “For your guidance, and for giving me a new life—one that I can look back upon fondly when I am old and meek.”
The Dragon laughed kind-heartedly. “My friend, you will never grow old and meek. You will be at the head of this order for all time, and when the land is safe again, the Knights of the Dragon shall be your priests. They will be with you until the end.”
Erenoth cocked his head. “The end?”
“The end of this game,” the Dragon said. “The game that the powers that be continually play. Once they are satisfied, they will leave the Earth to its fate. One day, the Great Mother will sleep, and we will no longer be need
ed. A new generation of gods will rise to take our places, and their priests will take your places.”
Erenoth nodded. “And then what will become of us?”
“We will pass into the next world,” the Dragon said. “And play the game again.”
Erenoth chuckled. “Games,” he said. “It is disheartening to know that this whole universe was created just for the amusement of some divine master.”
“I know not the nature of the creator, but what I can say is that nothing is ever as it seems. Death is not death, evil is not evil, and good is not good.”
Erenoth shook his head in confusion. “I am not what sure what you mean.”
“I don’t quite understand it myself,” the Dragon said. “If I did, I would do what I could to change it. Every spirit deserves eternal life, not just those that meet the expectations of a master that none of us will ever meet—or know, for that matter.”
Erenoth considered the Dragon’s words. They were confusing to him, but he had faith that the Dragon would explain them in due time. From what he could tell, the Dragon was wise and versed in the history of things—sometimes. It seemed that the Firstborn’s memory faded in and out, allowing him to remember things as far back as the beginning, yet sometimes seeming as if his mind wasn’t fully functional.
That, in itself, was the most perplexing thing about him.
“You have never told me these things,” Erenoth said. “At this moment you seem to have divine knowledge, yet at other times you are forgetful and can’t answer questions.”
The Dragon laughed a long and drawn out laugh, ending in a sigh. “Yes, my friend,” he said. “Such is the nature of the Firstborn. We know what we need to know when we need to know it. And in our case, I will pass this knowledge on to you. Perhaps if I forget in the future, you can remind me.”
Erenoth smiled. “Of course.”
“Now,” the Dragon said. “Your next task will be an easy one. Nearby, as you saw from the sky, is a fortress built by my son and his new friends. There, the Riverfolk dwell, and the Highlanders and Northman have joined them. I want you to reveal yourself to them, and assure them that the Dragon indeed fights on their side.”
“Shall I transform out of sight?”
“No need,” the Dragon replied. “If you show up in human form, they may not believe that you are my priest.”
“Very well.”
“Good. Now go, and make our support known.”
Baleron and the rest of the crew waded onto the shore near the exit of the underground river. The ship had made it that far, fortunately, but was now on the brink of sinking. Neko stopped and looked back, his brow raised and his eyes saddened with the loss. Baleron put his hand on the man’s shoulder, watching as the ship slowly began to tilt to the port side.
“I’m sorry about your ship,” he said. “I can’t help but think this is our fault.”
Neko chuckled. “No, my friend. It is a sign of things to come. Though I was born to sail, I think that time has passed. There are bigger things to experience.”
“Indeed there are,” Finn said. “We have a kingdom to take back.”
“And I am with you all,” Neko said. “Until the end.”
“I thank you for your help,” Baleron said. “You will be repaid tenfold.”
“Can we get out of this cave now?” Ivar asked, already making his way to the large exit.
“We’ll make camp just outside,” Baleron said. “Gather some wood and we’ll make our plans.”
“Does anyone have any idea where we are?” Freyja asked.
“I’ll be able to tell once we’re outside,” Hakeem said. “We’ve sailed this coast a thousand times.”
The group quietly made their way outside, being careful not to fall off of the path into the rushing outlet. The ocean waves crashed into the rocks outside, slamming against the water that flowed outward and creating tall spouts of white wash that filled the air with a cool mist. The sun was in the west, telling them that the hour was late, and nightfall would arrive soon.
“Ah,” Hakeem said, staring down shore. “We’re about halfway along the southern shore. That was a good shortcut.”
“We should be able to see Tel Drakkar once we climb up the cliffs,” Baleron said, hoping that they weren’t too far away to meet Dearg once he emerged.
“There’s plenty of driftwood,” Alric said. “Odhran and I will gather some. Maybe we’ll find a squirrel for Ivar.”
He shot the Northman a grin. Ivar responded with a crooked smile and a shrug.
“It’s just as good as any other meat,” he said. “A bit greasy, but that’s alright.”
Baleron smiled, looking around the area for a nice, flat spot to make camp. Most of the sand was wet, telling him the tides were in recently. He led the group farther along the cliff side, finally finding a higher area of rock and grass. It was flat, dry, and littered with large stones and a fallen tree cut into short logs.
“Someone’s been here then,” Hakeem said. “But they left of plenty of chairs.”
The older men began rolling the logs toward the center of the clearing, then gathered rocks for a fire ring. Alric and Odhran returned with driftwood, piling it in the center while Baleron grabbed handfuls of grass for kindling. In a short time, they had a gentle fire going, and everyone sat down in a circle and quietly relaxed.
“I feel like I haven’t slept in months,” Finn said, groaning as he leaned his old bones against the stone.
“You look like it, too,” Neko said, smiling.
Baleron noticed how quiet Hakeem was. He could understand the man’s sorrow, or imagine it, at least. The other knights were quiet as well, which was not surprising. This arduous journey, though shorter than he thought, was still hard on all of them. None of them had eaten much for days, and the bickering between Ivar and Alric had even ceased.
They needed rest.
“I think we should stay here for a few nights,” Baleron said. “We are closer to the tower than we realize, and Dearg may not be there yet.”
“I thought he was traveling there through the Dragon’s magic,” Ivar said.
“He is,” Baleron explained. “But if he was given the Dragon’s blessing, it will take some time for him to recover and wake up. I imagine he is undergoing some kind of transformation.”
“He is,” came a voice from nearby.
The knights jumped to their feet, drawing their weapons quickly. Even Finn was on his feet with his blade out.
“Who’s there?” Baleron called out.
From the shadows stepped a familiar figure dressed in white robes and bearing a strange, vacant grin.
“Jodocus,” Ivar grumbled. “Why do you feel the need to sneak up on people?”
Jodocus chuckled, knocking his staff on the rocks. “I find it amusing.”
Baleron looked at Neko, who seemed to find the Druid interesting. His crooked smile told the ranger that he was intrigued, or at least amused.
“This is Jodocus,” Baleron said. “Great Druid of Eirenoch.”
Ivar scoffed.
“Good to meet you finally,” Neko said, giving the Druid a nod.
“Likewise,” Jodocus replied. “But I did not come to be social. It is time to get serious.”
The Druid stepped forward, taking a rock near Baleron and laying his staff on the ground beside him. The others sat down again, waiting for the Druid to speak. Ivar had one brow cocked.
“You were right, ranger,” Jodocus said. “Dearg is undergoing a transformation at the moment. He will awaken in a few days. Until that time, you must remain vigilant, and avoid any confrontations with the various warlords here in the south.”
“Warlords?” Ivar said. “I thought T’kar was the only warlord.”
“He is the usurper of King Daegoth’s throne,” Jodocus said. “But there were others in the past who were also contenders; those who dared not stand against the former king. They were hidden, silent, and remained inconspicuous while the king was alive.”
>
“And now?” Baleron asked.
“They have begun to form their armies once more. It has taken a long time, but a few of them are becoming more organized, ready to take the lands as their own.”
“If they are T’kar’s enemies…” Ivar began.
“No,” Jodocus interrupted. “They are not your friends. They are just as vile and beastly as T’kar, and one of them isn’t even human.”
“Like T’kar?” Odhran asked.
“Not like T’kar,” Jodocus said, shaking his head. “Something much, much older. You’ve heard of the Firbolga, correct?”
Baleron had heard of them. From the tales the Alvar told him, the Firbolga were an ancient race of beings nearly as divine and powerful as the Alvar themselves. Even more powerful in some ways.
“They were called giants,” Baleron said. “Noble creatures who once served Gaia.”
“That is correct,” Jodocus said. “They built most of the ruins here on the island and around the world. The temples are theirs, and the darkness that now dwells within them is theirs, too.”
“What darkness?” Alric asked.
“They fell into the influence of dark gods of the Earth,” Jodocus said. “Kingu, the king of the Underworld.”
“Kathorgo,” Baleron said. “That’s what T’kar calls him. The Alvar, too.”
“Yes,” Jodocus said. “And the one warlord who is not human also worships him.”
“Then he is a Firbolga,” Baleron said.
“One of the last of his kind,” Jodocus explained. “Not fully alive, but not undead, either. He is a strange mixture of living and dead.”
“What does that mean?” Ivar asked.
“He practiced dark magic in the past, and was able to keep himself strong and alive by replacing his own body parts. Unfortunately for him, there are no more Firbolga to slaughter to keep himself alive.”
“Then he is of no concern,” Ivar said.
“He is,” Jodocus said. “The Firbolga were immortal, and so is he. His body will not decompose, but he can still be killed.”
“What is his name?” Baleron asked.
“Arbotach,” Jodocus said. “He is the son of Ogg, King of the Firbolga. It was he who murdered his father long ago and led his kind into dark worship. He and his brother, Mentach, ruled the Firbolga with an iron fist, and slaughtered those who remained loyal to Gaia.”
Sisters of the Blade Page 27
