Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  “Do we know where we are, exactly?” Finn asked, watching the rabbits roasting with hungry eyes.

  “We are just south and east of the tower,” Baleron replied. “A day’s walk, more or less.”

  Ivar spit into the fire. “I’m tired of walking,” he said. “Walking, sailing, sitting, sleeping. I want to fight… something.”

  “There are seagulls down shore,” Alric jested. “I’m sure they’ll put up a good fight.”

  “I’m just tired,” Freyja said, gathering her things around her and pulling her cloak tighter. “And cold.”

  “We’ll start off again in the morning,” Baleron said. “And I’m sure it will be warmer and more exciting.”

  “We may have trouble convincing the tribesmen that the Dragon has returned,” Hakeem said. “Especially if we meet them before we meet your friend at the tower.”

  “That’s a given,” Baleron said. “We’ll have to find other ways to convince them. Through might or deed, or even diplomacy.”

  Ivar snickered. “We’re about as diplomatic as a tribe of cannibals.”

  “Some of us are a bit more refined,” Neko joked. “Baleron is good with words. So is Finn. We’ll put them out front.”

  “What is that?” Odhran said suddenly, pointing to the sky.

  There was an odd black shape in the sky, circling around high above the cliff tops. It looked like a large bird; an albatross, perhaps. But then, as they watched, the long neck and tail became visible, and the group gasped.

  “It’s a dragon,” Ivar said. “By the gods.”

  They all stood, swords in hand, as the dragon circled lower. Freyja’s bow was out, but Odhran stayed her hand as she reached back to fetch an arrow.

  “Just wait,” Baleron said. “I have the feeling he’s on our side.”

  “Are we sure it’s not a wyvern?” Alric asked. “Or a firedrake?”

  “No, it’s a dragon,” Neko said. “Maybe the Dragon.”

  “Can’t be,” Ivar said. “He’s too small.”

  The dragon quickly dropped down, folding its wings at its side as it plummeted right for the ground. It landed with a thud and a growl, shaking its head quickly as if not expecting the impact. As the friends drew their blades in caution, the strangest thing happened.

  The dragon quickly morphed into a man.

  “What in blazes?” Ivar exclaimed.

  The man was dressed in black clothes, leather armor, and had piercing blue eyes that were as cold as ice. In his hands were two blades that had appeared just as the dragon’s wings disappeared. The man stood, bowing his head as he walked toward them.

  “Greetings brothers,” the man said. Then, turning his head to Freyja. “And sister.”

  “Who are you?” Ivar said, his axes in his hands.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, sheathing his glorious blades. “I am Erenoth, High Priest of the Dragon, and caretaker of Dol Drakkar.”

  The friends looked around, confused. Neko grunted. Hakeem snorted.

  “Where is Dearg?” Ivar asked.

  “I have not seen him,” Erenoth said. “His transformation is not yet complete. I am here to deliver a message from your friends in the north. Which one of you is Ivar?”

  “That would be me,” Ivar replied, suspiciously.

  Erenoth faced him, slowly approaching, a look of sympathy on his face.

  “I am afraid I must be the bearer of bad news,” he said. “It seems your father was killed when a prisoner escaped.”

  Ivar remained expressionless.

  “Hafdan?” Freyja asked. “Hafdan is dead?”

  “Yes,” Erenoth replied. “I am sorry. This is the message I was to give you. I am bidden by the Dragon to scout out the territory here for your armies. I must return to that task. But I warn you, there is a large army approaching from the northeast, led by a powerful warlord. Either stay here on the shore, or find an army of your own. I would suggest the tribes to your west. Parlay with them before making your way to Tel Drakkar.”

  “How long until Dearg is ready?” Ivar asked, still expressionless from the news.

  “Only a day,” Erenoth said. “He will wake up then. Make sure you are there, else he will only have this warlord to wake up to.”

  “That doesn’t leave us enough time to gather warriors,” Baleron said. “We should find him first and then make haste back to the shore where we can plan our return.”

  “Whatever you find is the best route,” Erenoth said. “Meanwhile, I must return to the stronghold in the north after making one more sweep in the south. The Dragon has bid me to assist in the upcoming battle.”

  Baleron cocked his head. “Battle?”

  Erenoth nodded, folding his hands before him. “T’kar will strike once more,” he warned. “The Dragon has sensed that he has been ordered to do so, but not after whetting his appetite with innocents in the villages to T’kar’s east.”

  “Damn those villagers,” Ivar said, spitting. “They care not for freedom.”

  “Willing to live under the rule of a tyrant in return for the illusion of security,” Alric added. “They would rather be alive than free. They will be neither when T’kar has his way with them.”

  “Still,” Baleron said, waving the two men down. “They are innocent folk with children about them. We cannot ignore them.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Finn asked, speaking finally. “We’re all the way here in the south.”

  “Erenoth,” Baleron said, approaching the strange dragon-man. “Will you please give word to my friend Menelith? The rangers may be able to help the villages. I’m sure they will be easy for you to find.”

  “I know where they are,” Erenoth replied. “I sensed them as I passed overhead near the stronghold. I did not hide my presence so they are aware of me as well.”

  “Will you warn them?” Baleron asked.

  “I will,” Erenoth said. “Fear not. The villagers will not stand alone.”

  “Then we must go,” Baleron said. “First thing in the morning we head for Tel Drakkar. We cannot leave Dearg to be captured by this warlord.”

  “Arbotach,” Erenoth said. “A Firbolga of the vilest nature. Don’t forget that.”

  “I know the legends,” Baleron said. “And the name is not surprising. Thank you, my friend. We are in your debt.”

  “Hail the Dragon,” Erenoth said, bowing his head.

  With that, the priest leaped into the air, transforming into a dragon in the blink of an eye. He shot upward on his strong wings, barely missing the cliffside as he disappeared over it. Ivar chuckled.

  “He looks new to flying,” the Northman said.

  Baleron, concerned for his friend, approached Ivar with a sympathetic expression.

  “Ivar,” he said. “Are you alright, my friend?”

  Ivar nodded, cocking his head curiously. “Of course,” he said. “I will not grieve the fact that my father is in Valhalla. That is good. Kronos will welcome him, and I will see him again someday.”

  “That’s right,” Freyja said. “He and Fleek together.”

  Ivar smiled at her, placing his hand on her shoulder. Baleron was surprised and confused by what seemed to him to be a lack of sympathy. But, he realized, this was the way of the Northmen. Death was different to them. The manner of a man’s death was important, and even though to the ranger being stabbed in the back would seem dishonorable, to the Northman it was still an honorable death; one that was better than dying slowly in a bed.

  At least he had died with his boots on.

  “Come now,” the ranger said. “We should get some rest. We have a rough journey tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  I am ready, my lord,” Malthor said, preparing himself mentally for the upcoming conjuring.

  “Good,” T’kar said. “Please proceed. But remember, we need a demon with good stealth skills; one who can go unnoticed. I want to know Arbotach’s every move.”

  “Yes, sire,” Malthor said ne
rvously.

  T’kar took his throne as Malthor looked over the magic circle he had drawn on the floor. There were five braziers—one at each point of the star within the circle—and a large chalice in the center with a small amount of his own blood. Randar and Lilit looked on, each of them curious as to how Malthor would perform.

  Lilit had given Malthor some basic instructions, which were confusing and somewhat vague, but the bulk of the ritual was gleaned from Igraina’s tomes, including the name of the demon he was about to summon. Though he never heard the name, Igraina’s notes had indicated that this was a demon of skill, whose power on Earth would be determined by the power of his conjurer.

  Malthor was not skilled. Not at all.

  But, T’kar needed a spy, and this entity seemed the best fit. Lilit had chuckled at the name, telling the necromancer she at least knew of him. Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.

  “Get on with it,” T’kar growled.

  “Yes, sire,” Malthor whispered.

  He moved in between the lower legs of the pentagram, kneeling down and placing the tome on the floor. He stared at the words before him, gathering his magic inside his head. He closed his eyes and began the simple chant.

  He knew not what he spoke; the words simply rolled off of his tongue as written. But, as soon as he spoke the first line, he felt a gentle, hot wind swirl around him. He smiled, continuing the chant.

  “Guul tak genom khag silo man,” he spoke.

  The torches around the room began to flicker, and Randar stepped closer, curious. Lilit was grinning slyly, making Malthor even more nervous.

  “Fors bliud ka gema no toc!” Malthor chanted, louder this time.

  “Come to me,” he whispered. “Thou hast been summoned to do my bidding. Show yourself.”

  The chalice shook as a ball of flame rose from the surface of Malthor’s blood. It swirled and crackled, filling the air with the smell of sulphur and electricity. Smoke rose from the fire, also swirling as it went upward toward the ceiling.

  “Baktun rig ah!” Malthor continued, ready to utter the name of the entity.

  “I call to you… Fizrahi!”

  There was a burst of light, and a loud boom that shook the chamber. Malthor fell back, shielding his eyes from the brightness. He could see Randar and T’kar doing the same as the light grew in intensity. Lilit still grinned, chuckling now as Malthor’s heart raced with uncertainty.

  Then, the light flashed out of existence, and there was a puff of smoke. There, fluttering above the chalice, was a tiny winged thing. It was little more than an imp, with bat-like wings, and crimson-brown skin. It hovered above the chalice, its tiny little eyes darting around the room as it chattered like an angry mouse.

  “Bah!” T’kar boomed. “Bah! Hahahaha!”

  Malthor looked on in confusion. The king leaned back on his throne, slapping his knees hard and bouncing his hairy feet.

  “What the hell is that?” T’kar shouted, laughing hysterically at the pathetic thing. “I’ve shat bigger imps than that!”

  Malthor stood slowly, looking over the tiny creature that glared at him with hatred.

  “I don’t…” he stammered, shaking his head. Lilit chuckled and left the room, her head held high in triumph.

  She had betrayed him.

  “This piss ant?” T’kar boomed. “This is the best you could do? What am I supposed to do with this… flea!?”

  “Sire,” Randar said. “It could be useful. It is small, after all. Besides, Malthor is a necromancer, not a conjurer. I’m sure—“

  “Fine, fine,” T’kar said, standing and waving Randar away. “I’m sure we can find some use for it.”

  The imp fluttered in T’kar’s direction, then began buzzing around his head. T’kar waved it away, swatting at it with his meaty hand. Malthor was embarrassed, but he could hear Randar chuckling. Then, the imp buzzed toward Randar, stopping right in front of his face, laughing in its tiny squeaky voice.

  “Buggerer,” the imp hissed gleefully. T’kar roared with laughter.

  “He knows, Randar,” the king howled. “He knows.”

  Randar shook his head, swatting the imp away before storming out. T’kar, still laughing, came to Malthor. The necromancer eyed the imp that buzzed about, uncertain whether T’kar would simply strike him down and find another wizard, or let it go.

  “That was amusing,” the king said. “Not exactly what I had in mind, though. But we’ll keep it. It won’t be much use outside of the fortress due to its size. I have an idea, though.”

  “What is that, sire?” Malthor asked.

  T’kar leaned in closer, putting his hand on Malthor’s shoulder. “I don’t trust Lilit much anymore,” he said. “And I trust this Kathorgo creature even less. I want you to command the piss ant to watch them both. He will report to you, and you report to me.”

  Malthor’s heart slowed down in relief. “Very well, sire,” he said.

  T’kar turned to exit the throne room, stopping to stare at the creature and laugh once more before heading out. The imp watched him go, then flew over to Malthor, stopping just inches from his face.

  “Necromancer,” the imp said. “Why have you summoned me?”

  Malthor swallowed. “You heard the king,” he said. “Watch the witch, and the demon.”

  The imp cackled, flitting around like a sprite that had just found a lotus flower.

  “Demon demon demon,” the imp repeated. “No demon be he. But I watch. I watch witch well. Watch and like. She smell like mother. Taste her, taste her. Smell her on you. You lie with her, yes?”

  “That is none of your business,” Malthor replied. “Just do what you were told.”

  The imp grumbled, flitting around angrily. “Fine,” it squealed. “Finefinefinefine.”

  Malthor shook his head in defeat. What had he created?

  T’kar stormed down the hallway toward the stables, shouting curses at his soldiers as he passed. The time had come to reclaim his brutal reputation, and though not wishing to bend his knee to Kathorgo, it sounded like a good idea anyway. He longed to smell the blood of his enemies and see it splattered on the ground around him.

  As he burst through the doors where the soldiers were preparing their mounts, he saw Lorcan there, rallying the men for battle. T’kar grinned when Lorcan looked his way, the deep-set eyes of the young man locking with his and flaring with fury.

  “My lord,” Lorcan said. “The men are ready to ride. We all look forward to riding at your side again.”

  “Good,” T’kar said, jumping up onto his horse. “What is the word on the tribes to the east?”

  “They are gathering, sire,” a scout said, breathless. “The secret was leaked as planned. They are worthy opponents, ready to die for their lands.”

  “And so they shall,” T’kar growled. “So they shall. Lorcan, we ride.”

  “Saddle up!” Lorcan shouted. “Into formation men! Whet your blades.”

  The collective growls of anticipation filled the stable yard. The footsoldiers gathered outside raised their blades when they heard, and parted as the riders exited. T’kar rode to the front of the gathering with Lorcan in tow. Randar was there waiting.

  “Where is Malthor?” T’kar growled.

  “He will not be joining us,” Randar said. “But I have secured the loyalty of a mage in the remains of the east village. He will join us when we arrive.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Grongor,” Randar replied. “He was once a student of Galik. Brutal, heartless, and just as ugly as his master.”

  T’kar laughed out loud. “Good! I like ugly.”

  The Beast King led his army to the east, thundering over the hills and through the forests like a herd of angry aurochs. Wildlife shuddered and fled at their passing, and T’kar watched them with glee. His heart pounded as he imagined the sight and smell of blood splashing on his rough skin, and his stained and crooked teeth were bared.

  The thrill of battle was
overwhelming.

  The enemy troops, small in number, appeared over the crest of a large hill just on the east edge of the thick forest. There boasted two lines of pikemen, a reasonably large force of foot soldiers, and at least two dozen archers in the back. At their head was a strong leader, armored in steel and carrying a halberd. Next to him was a standard bearer, holding high a flag that bore the symbol of the Dragon.

  “Ha!” T’kar growled as they slowed to a stop. “He thinks the Dragon is his master. He should think again.”

  “Don’t underestimate them,” Randar warned. “They may be small in number, but their loyalty to the Dragon’s throne is strong.”

  “Good,” T’kar replied. “Good. That means they’re willing to die. We shall indulge them.”

  “Archers!” he called out. “Give them hell!”

  A volley of arrows soared over their heads and into the overcast sky. T’kar watched them swarm overhead like bees, slowly arcing downward as they neared the enemy troops. The men prepared for the impact, holding their shields over their heads. T’kar laughed, drawing his blade.

  “Let’s not waste any time, boys,” he shouted. “Charge!”

  They thundered down the slope toward the scrambling men. As the arrows hit, dozens of them fell, having abandoned their shields in order to brace for the charge. Beside the king, Randar drew his blade. T’kar could see his teeth bared, and grinned. He knew Randar was just as lustful as he when it came to enemy blood.

  He knew there was a reason he liked the man.

  T’kar’s army crashed into the enemy lines. Lorcan was the first to arrive, and T’kar followed with his twin kopesh blades swirling and chopping. He felt the impact as he slashed around him, blood spraying in the air, and the screams of his victims filling his ears. The sound of steel on steel echoed in the valley, and the shouts of the king’s soldiers was pleasing.

  They reached the center of the enemy force, chopping their way through like a reaper through grass. The enemy commander was nearby, having cut down a few of T’kar’s men during the crash. T’kar focused on him, but kept his awareness of the surrounding chaos. He locked eyes with the man, and laughed out loud as he charged.