But it would only work on the surface.
“There he is!” a worker shouted.
Drak ducked behind a stone formation as arrows whizzed by, bouncing off the walls and cluttering the floor. He looked around desperately, seeing a dimly-lit tunnel to his right. There, he remembered, were the workers’ quarters; where they slept their allotted three hours a day.
It would be empty at this time.
Knowing that the quarters were directly linked to the surface through a short series of tunnels, he dashed down the hall. With his sword in one hand and the bag in the other he ran as fast as he could. The shouts of the men were growing fainter by the moment, and it seemed that he was close to losing them.
But two men appeared right ahead of him, emerging from the chamber to begin their shift. They were armed, he noticed, likely having grabbed some weapons when they heard the chaos above. Though with swords in hand, the men appeared surprised by his presence. He charged them at full speed.
“What is going on out there?” one of them asked just as Drak ran him through.
The other man screamed, dropping his blade and backing against the wall. Drak slashed at his gut, dropping him in a pile of innards and blood. He ran backward, watching the tunnel behind him as he went. His pursuers had heard the screams and taken up their speed.
He turned back, ducking into a small alcove that was masked in shadow. The men passed by as he cowered in the darkness, stopping a short way ahead. He heard their muffled voices as they searched for him.
“I saw him go this way,” one said.
“He is gone,” another said. “He has escaped.”
“He has the artifact,” another said.
Drak was unaware that the group knew what they were actually looking for, but evidently some of them did. Now they all did.
“Damn the artifact,” one said. “I want his vile head.”
Drak grinned, stifling a chuckle as the men continued down the hall. They had taken an alternate route away from the workers’ quarters. He could continue on and escape in safety, presenting Arbotach’s prize to him like the loyal servant he was.
With a vile grin, Drak charged toward the chamber, and freedom, placing his ring on his finger as the sunlight began to lighten the walls around him. He was home free.
The sky had become filled with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of birds of prey. They had come to heed Vala’s call, and were attacking the Trollkin from the air. Igrid pushed her sisters forward, commanding the men to surround and contain the Trollkin into a manageable group they could push back and corner near the rocks.
Haen’s men fought bravely and furiously, and the shieldmaiden noticed that many workers had picked up swords and joined them. They were all intent on ending their overlords and freeing themselves from their oppression.
“Maela, Braela!” Igrid shouted. “Surround them all!”
As she gave her command, the twins multiplied, becoming a ghostly line of warriors that spread out as far as she could see. They streaked inward toward the defeated Trollkin, surrounding them as they slashed at empty air. Finally, as Haen fought his way to Igrid’s side, the group of Trollkin had been decimated, leaving less than a dozen who cowered as they backed away.
“Enough!” Haen shouted, then turning to Igrid; “They are defeated. They will talk now. We need at least one of them alive to find the artifact.”
With blades pointed at them, the dark warriors dropped their swords and watched as the large woman pushed through the crowd toward them. They glared at her, bringing a grim smile to her face. She stopped before the one who seemed to rank above the others. His face was grim, angry, and strangely frightening in appearance.
He was beastly, with no irises in his eyes, and two small tusks that protruded from his bottom jaw. His skin was yellowish, and the patchy hair that covered his head was black and stringy.
He was the ugliest thing Igrid had ever seen.
“Where is the Heart of the Dragon?” she demanded.
The Trollkin’s yellow teeth poked through his thin lips as he smiled. “It belongs to Arbotach,” he growled. “Not you.”
Igrid stepped forward, lifting her blade to place it against his throat. He leaned his head back, exposing the yellow flesh of his throat, daring her to kill him.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I do not fear death, only the wrath of my master.”
“You do not face your master,” Igrid said. “You face the wrath of Gaia, and of the Dragon.”
The Trollkin grinned. “The Dragon is dead. We have his heart.”
“Where is it?” Haen demanded. “Take us to it or we will cut you apart limb from limb.”
“I feel no pain,” the Trollkin said. “You cannot scare me with torture. Do what you will. You will never have it.”
A flash of light suddenly appeared from the far side of the mine. Igrid turned to look, seeing a streak of red lightning shoot up from an unknown location, then arc and disappear to the east. The Trollkin began laughing.
All of them.
“It is gone,” the Trollkin said. “Pity.”
Igrid looked to Haen in question. “What just happened?”
“Drak,” he said. “Damn it. He has taken it back to Arbotach. It is lost.”
Igrid looked back at the Trollkin, who were now smiling. Their ugly faces were offensive, and angered her with their insolence. Evidently they angered Haen as well. He stepped forward, striking the Trollkin leader’s arm from its shoulder, then kicking him to the ground. As the creature laughed with the pain, Haen dismembered it with his sword. His soldiers joined in, killing the other Trollkin in the same brutal fashion.
Igrid could only watch.
When the men were finished, and the Trollkin lay in pieces, Haen sheathed his blade and turned back toward them.
“Alright then,” he said. “So who are you, and why are you looking for the Heart of the Dragon?”
Igrid shook her head, sheathing her own blade. “We are the Sisters of Gaia,” she said. “And we came to shut down this mine and prevent Arbotach from making more weapons.”
“The temple is in ruin,” Haen said. “T’kar killed the only priestesses there were before they even had a chance to reopen it.”
“I know,” Igrid said. “But we heard Gaia’s call. All of us. We came together to cleanse the temple of Mentach’s presence. It is done, and now we are here.”
“Why?” Haen asked. “Why come to the Southern Reaches? If you are against T’kar why come here?”
“The Dragon has returned,” Igrid said. “And we are here to find those still loyal to him.”
“The Dragon?” Haen echoed. “The Dragon is dead like that rotten thing said.”
“No,” Igrid said. “My friend Dearg is here at Tel Drakkar. He is the Dragon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dearg is the grandson of the former king, and the son of the Dragon himself.”
“You shouldn’t tell them this,” Morrigan warned. “We don’t know where their loyalties lie.”
Igrid put up a hand to silence her, seeing the wonder on Haen’s face.
“It is done,” she said. “I see that these men are loyal.”
Haen slowly nodded, looking around at his men. “We have waited for a chance to overthrow Arbotach and rally against the king. There are many of us, living under the rule of various warlords. Some of them are good, some wish the throne for themselves.”
“And what of you? Do you live under another warlord, or is it Arbotach?”
“Arbotach,” Haen said. “Our villages are under his rule. Before we rally together we must free them. All of them.”
“Then we will free them,” Igrid said. “We will gather them and overthrow this Firbolga menace. Then, when the time is right, and the Dragon is ready, we will march to bring down T’kar and the kingdom will belong to the Dragon once more.”
Haen was silent as he looked to his men. They all seemed hopeful, and they began chatting amongst themselves. After
a while, Haen began to nod. He stepped toward the front of his men, drew his sword again, and smiled.
“We will fight!” he shouted.
The men around him returned the gesture, raising their blades in the air. Igrid smiled, looking at her sisters. They were hopeful as well.
“For the Great Mother, and the Dragon,” she said. “We will purge this land!”
The men shouted again, and Haen’s face was bright with hope. With this band of soldiers, and the workers who joined them, they numbered at least two hundred. Not a large force, to be sure, but one with which to give the people hope. One that could convince the others to join them in defiance.
They had their army.
Chapter Twenty Seven
T’kar and Randar stood still in the darkened corridor below the keep. Both were apprehensive, as they knew that Lilit’s spawn was on the other side of the door they faced. The king had seen the witch lying in her bed, oblivious to the blood and gore that covered her floor. He knew then that her “child” had come in his absence.
He took a deep breath, looking to Randar for support. “Well…” he said.
Randar shrugged, raising an eyebrow, waiting for the king to act. “After you, Sire.”
T’kar grumbled, clenching his fists in frustration. Hesitantly he moved forward and placed his hand on the door. He immediately felt the darkness emanating from the room beyond, and could even hear the creature’s deep breaths as he stood silent. His heart thumped wildly, and he could hardly breathe.
But he pushed the door open.
The chamber was dark and smelled of dried blood and brimstone. The dim light of the magic orbs made the scene all the more frightening, and T’kar squinted in its faint redness. There, in place of the statue that once stood in the chamber’s center, was the tall and thin form of a living being. It was crouched, with its head down facing the floor. Its shoulders rose and fell as it breathed, and T’kar could hear the hellish rumble of its breath.
“I am here,” T’kar said. “I welcome you to my palace, Kathorgo.”
The creature lifted its face, showing the skull-like countenance it bore. Its eyes were hollow, but dimly lit with some strange dark light that was purplish in color and flickered like flame.
“You have failed me,” the creature whispered. “Failed me time and time again. Now I am here to guide you personally.”
“Your power has waned, demon,” T’kar said boldly. “But now that you are here, it will grow, and I will wield it as you wish.”
Kathorgo slowly stood, revealing his full height. He towered above both of them, even Randar, who was fairly tall for a man. As usual, however, Randar’s face was expressionless.
“The people have grown complacent,” Kathorgo continued. “Some of them no longer fear you. They need to be reminded of our purpose.”
“And what will you have me do?” T’kar asked.
“There is a village nearby, near the town where Randar found Lilit in the swamp. They have secretly gathered arms, planning to ally themselves with this Northman who is not a Northman.”
“Dearg,” T’kar grumbled.
“The Son of the Dragon lives,” Kathorgo hissed. “But you know this. And you have done nothing. Do you fear him?”
“I do not,” T’kar growled. “I fear no man.”
Kathorgo stepped forward then, laughing as he stared down at the king. T’kar’s pulsed quickened as he beheld the horrifying face.
“You only fear the woman who wounded you, yes?”
T’kar gulped. “She wielded the power of Gaia,” T’kar explained. “Her blade was enchanted with Gaia’s power.”
“I see,” Kathorgo said, cocking his horned head. “Then it is clear I should provide you with better weapons.”
T’kar drew his blades, showing them to Kathorgo. “I have used these swords my whole life, ever since I rose up from the scum and mud to slay my brothers.”
“Indeed,” Kathorgo said. “Give them to me. Return in the morning, and you will have the power of Kingu in your grasp.”
T’kar stood still, not wanting to give up his blades. He felt naked without them, and the thought of actually handing them over to someone else--regardless of their nature--made him sick.
“Sire,” Randar said. “Give him your swords.”
T’kar gulped again, looked at his blades, and held them up for the demon to grasp. Kathorgo took them, looking them over, then tossed them behind him into the shadows.
“Return in the morning,” Kathorgo said again. “Then we will discuss the slaughter. The people must be made to fear you again, as I was made to make your fear me again. And you will.”
Kathorgo’s eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer to T’kar’s face. “Fail me again,” Kathorgo said. “And I will make your suffering eternal.”
T’kar smiled crookedly, not knowing what else to do. He didn’t particularly care to be humiliated in front of his right hand man. But, he realized, at least that bumbling necromancer wasn’t with them. That much was true.
“Your will be done,” T’kar said silently.
Malthor perused the ancient tomes that littered the shelves of Igraina’s old chambers. Though a witch, she had dabbled in summoning before, and her books were the only thing that the necromancer could hope to study in order to do the king’s bidding. Not being a sorcerer, Malthor had no idea how to summon demons, and even the illustrations in Igraina’s books were little help.
His only hope was to study them all night, possibly gaining some kind of understanding of the arcane knowledge. If he succeeded, however, he could add that skill to his list of powers. A necromancer that could also summon demons would be valuable to anyone, he realized.
He smiled at the thought of it, becoming filled with a new sense of hope. Surely he could rise up the ladder of T’kar’s court, possibly becoming his right hand man whenever Randar succumbed to age. Malthor himself was immune to age, but Randar wasn’t. He could sit at the king’s right for eternity, or at least until T’kar died.
Then, he could be king.
He laughed out loud.
“It will never happen,” Lilit said from nearby.
Malthor was startled, but maintained his calm. He looked up at the witch. She stood in the doorway, her gown opened to reveal her blood-covered breasts. Her eyes were weary, and her dark grin betrayed her fatigue. Still, Malthor felt a stirring between his legs. The blood didn’t bother him in the least. In fact, it added a little to his excitement.
Maybe, just maybe…
“Take off your clothes,” she said, dropping her gown to the floor. “I want to taste the sweat of a necromancer.”
Malthor gulped nervously, but did as she asked. He stood, pulling off his clothes piece by piece until he stood naked in front of her. He felt embarrassed but aroused as she looked him over smiling. He couldn’t hide his excitement.
“You’ll do,” she said. “And as a reward, I will help you learn the art of conjuring.”
“How did you know?” the necromancer asked.
Lilit did not answer. She only smiled, licking her lips as she walked toward him. She then nudged him toward Igraina’s cluttered bed, pushing him down onto his back. Malthor swallowed hard, closing his eyes as he felt Lilit’s hands and tongue graze his skin.
This would be interesting.
Drak appeared near his master, materializing in a flash of light that startled Arbotach’s soldiers. The Firbolga grinned, knowing full well that his servant had delivered the artifact that he so wanted. The artifact that would render the Onyx Dragon helpless.
The pathetic Trollkin pulled the Heart of the Dragon from his robes and kneeled before Arbotach, holding the magical object out before him in pride. Arbotach took it, holding the pouch in one hand as he untied it with the other. Inside, he could feel the warmth and magic radiating from the large gem.
As he pulled away the cloth pouch, he was amazed at the artifact’s beauty. It was a red gem twice the size of his own fist, encased in a golden
frame, and pulsing with life. The faint red glow that came from within pulsated like a real heart, bringing a grin to the Firbolga’s face.
“Well done, Drak,” he said. “With this Firstborn’s artifact, we will crush the Onyx Dragon and lay T’kar’s kingdom to waste.”
“I look forward to that day,” Drak said, his crooked fangs showing through his rictus grin.
“Indeed,” Arbotach whispered, mesmerized by the heart. “But tell me, what happened at the mines?”
“Master,” Drak said. “The mine was attacked. We lost all of our soldiers. The Trollkin there are no more.”
Anger swelled within Arbotach. He lowered the heart, looking into Drak’s eyes.
“Attacked by whom? These witches of Gaia?”
“Yes, master,” Drak replied. “They were much more powerful than we could ever imagine. But I managed to get in the sanctum and spirit away the artifact before they could find it.”
“Good,” Arbotach said. “Tell me then, who leads this band of women?”
“I do not know, master,” Drak said. “But it looks like a woman of the north.”
Arbotach laughed out loud. “The same woman who injured our friend, T’kar, I would imagine. That is impressive. She has my respect, but I will see her head on a pike. She and her sisters are mine.”
“What of the Onyx Dragon?”
“I can feel his presence growing in Tel Drakkar,” Arbotach said, knowing that now was the time to confront his new enemy. “We will travel there and meet this Daegoth when he emerges from the tower.”
“And then what?” Drak asked.
“He will be crucified and left to rot. Then, we will lay waste to Eirenoch.”
Drak grinned again, the drool dripping from his fangs as his reddish eyes narrowed.
“It will be glorious,” he hissed.
The Knights of the Dragon sat around the campfire they had built on the shore. Having had to abandon ship, they were all exhausted and ready to rest for the night. Neko and Baleron had found several rabbits that were now roasting over the fire, and Hakeem had found a source of fresh water. Now they relaxed as the sun sank below the horizon.
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