Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  The enemy commander charged as well, and their horses crashed together, knocking them both to the ground. T’kar was up immediately, twirling his blades at his sides. The halberd sliced through the air in a wide arc, nearly catching T’kar’s face. But the king jumped back, and then charged again, knowing the halberd was now useless. The commander dropped it and drew his sword.

  “Begone!” T’kar shouted, charging with his blades forward.

  With one fell swoop, he lopped the commander’s head from his shoulders, spinning around and kicking the man’s body as it fell. He howled with laughter and rage as the severed head rolled onto its back, staring lifeless into the sky.

  “Hahaha!” the king howled. “Watch the sky, friend. Enjoy it while you can.”

  Randar, not concerned with the king’s safety, charged his horse through the line. He cut soldiers down left and right, growling in ecstasy as the blood sprayed all around him. His horse ran straight into a halberd, impaling itself immediately, pitching him forward. He crashed into the halberd’s wielder, knocking the man back and to the ground. Randar leaped atop him, slashing open his throat and shouting in rage as he charged the soldiers ahead of him.

  T’kar plowed through a group of charging men, knocking them down with his bulk and slashing at them with spinning attacks. He was in a rage, gritting his teeth and working his rage to a frenzy. The sound of the battle around him drove him on, and the smell of the blood in the air fuelled him even further.

  Then, a burst of heat followed by a bright flash stopped him in his tracks. Ahead, a dozen enemy soldiers screamed in terror as they were set ablaze and blown to pieces by some kind of fiery spell. As the smoke cleared, there stood in a void the ugliest man he had ever seen. The dark wizard’s hands shuddered with the aftereffects of his spell, and his rotted teeth were gritted beneath his smiling lips.

  T’kar laughed out loud, racing toward the wizard as another spell charged up. The wizard shot a bolt of lightning from his fingertips, sizzling those on the ground around him. The smell of burnt flesh wafted up, filling the void with its acrid smell.

  “Grongor!” T’kar shouted.

  The wizard turned his way, dropping his hands and bowing as the king approached.

  “My king,” he hissed. “I am here. I received word of my master’s demise. I have come to fill his place, if I may.”

  “You are very welcome,” T’kar said. “Your skill is astounding. Join us, my new friend, and we will crush these rebels like rats.”

  “After you, my king,” Grongor said, falling in step behind the king as he continued through the battle.

  T’kar resumed his furious assault, feeling the sparkle of magic behind him. The new wizard seemed powerful, as evidence by the fact that the enemies around the two of them cowered in fear as they passed.

  T’kar laughed in delight.

  Randar had seen the mage join the king, and fought his way toward them. From what he could see, Grongor was indeed as ugly as Galik ever was, and his powerful spells were just as deadly. He wondered how the new mage would get along with Malthor.

  Cutting his way through the battle, Randar spotted someone in the window of a nearby house that had been destroyed in the previous assault. It looked like a young boy, but that was unlikely. Whoever it was had been holding a crossbow, and had fired into the crowd.

  He quickly ducked through the swarming enemies, searching the ground for any loose bolts that had been fired. Though he found none in the area that he expected to find them, there was one embedded in the head of one of T’kar’s men. Randar headed toward the soldier, slaying a man who charged him, screaming.

  The bolt was deep, poking through the other side of the man’s skull, probably killing him instantly. He wore the sigils of T’kar’s army, and Randar knew that he had served directly under Captain Jarka until the man’s untimely demise.

  He looked up at the window, seeing a shadow duck behind the sill as his eyes reached it. He growled, gripping his blade, and then headed toward the burned out house determined to kill whoever it was that had fired at his men.

  “Time to die,” he whispered.

  There wasn’t much left of the house, he noticed. The bones of it were still there, holding up what was left of the upper floor. He headed up the rickety staircase, pressing himself against the outer wall and looking up as he went. The upstairs room was dark, with only a bit of sunlight shining through the roof and broken walls. Even the sounds of battle were mostly drowned out.

  He took a few steps in, stopping to listen. There was little noise, only the creaking of floor boards that told him someone was hiding here. He grinned, summoning his deepest and most terrifying voice.

  “Who’s here?” he growled. “Come out and I’ll kill you quickly.”

  There was a crash, and a curtain flew open as a small figure tore out and began running toward him. Randar raised his blade, ready to slash his attacker. A dagger was swiped in the air right in front of him, but he ducked, kicking out to shift his balance and swiping with his own blade.

  “No!” a high-pitched voice squealed.

  Randar flipped around to see his attacker. It was a young girl, dressed in ragss and covered in blood. Her eyes were wide and filled with terror, and looking below her chin Randar could see why. She clutched her throat, which he had slashed in his attempt to dodge.

  A small lump rose in his throat at the sight of the girl’s expression. She couldn’t be much more than a twelve or maybe thirteen. Too young to even hold a blade in his opinion. But there she had come, intent on killing him, and she had paid the price.

  Well,” Randar said, sheathing his blade as she swallowed desperately. “I hope you learned your lesson, such as it is.”

  The girl dropped to her knees, still staring at him with those bright but fading blue eyes. He reminded her of someone.

  “Ah,” he realized. “You look just like someone who shot me. Well, isn’t that bizarre. I get my revenge vicariously. Amusing, to say the least.”

  “Sheep…” she managed to choke out. “Sheep… shag—“

  She collapsed forward to the floor, twitching as her last breaths faded away. Randar grinned, but strangely enough there was a small amount of guilt. He felt bad, and he didn’t know why. Any normal person would feel guilt. She was, after all, just a child. But she had attacked him, and had even killed some of his men.

  She deserved to die.

  Didn’t she?

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  There are many tribes in the south that are still loyal to the throne of the Dragon,” Haen said as he and Igrid marched side by side at the head of their army.

  “We need but find and rally them,” Igrid said. “But I fear there is an even greater menace than T’kar. This Arbotach is what Gaia has tasked us with destroying. Only then can we rally the tribes against T’kar.”

  “What of your armies in the north?” Haen inquired. “Are they not ready for war?”

  “Of course they are,” she said. “Most of them are my people, who are always ready for war. The Highlanders and Riverfolk as well. But they are also patient, and know when the time is right.”

  “And when is the time right, Igrid?”

  She grinned, giving him a sideways glance. “When the Onyx Dragon returns.”

  “Ah yes,” Haen said. “When he finally emerges from Tel Drakkar. I have heard the tales. I have heard my own men speak of the call.”

  “The call?”

  Haen shook his head. “I’m not sure, but a lot of them feel drawn to the tower, as if they are compelled to travel there to meet this Onyx Dragon.”

  Igrid noticed the hint of sarcasm in his voice. Perhaps, she realized, he was not a believer. “I know who he is,” she said. “He is my friend, and my occasional lover.”

  Haen chuckled for long after as Igrid fell silent. She noticed he was still smiling, not really questioning her statement, but she could tell he was still not fully believing the idea of a man actually being the son of the Dragon h
imself. Why, she did not know. It was part of his land’s history and mythology, as it were.

  “His name means Son of the Dragon,” Igrid said. “Our shaman gave him that name, in the language of the Highlanders.”

  “It is our language, too,” Haen said. “It’s the only language some of us speak, especially the older folks. I know what Dearg means. It’s not the meaning I doubt, truthfully. I do not even doubt that he is who you say he is. I believe you, in fact, when you first told me, just as I believe that you spoke to the Great Mother yourself. That sword you carry, and the bows and blades of the other women, they’re all divine. I can sense that. What I doubt in both cases is that even the great Onyx Dragon himself is strong enough to stand against what Arbotach found at the mines.”

  “You said yourself it wasn’t real as far as you know.”

  “I do not truly know that,” he said. “Whether it was truly a part of the Dragon at one time I do not know. What I do know is that it is a powerful artifact in any case.”

  “How powerful?”

  Haen shook his head again, biting his lower lip. “Powerful enough to negate any powers the Dragon may have given this Dearg friend of yours.”

  “Then it is something even greater than Gaia herself,” Igrid mused, sadly. “It must have come from somewhere outside this realm.”

  “That is fairly obvious,” Haen said, nodding. “But where?”

  “Perhaps it is not the Dragon’s heart after all, but a piece of a greater being. One that is even greater than the Firstborn or even Gaia. Something… from above.”

  “The divines?”

  Igrid shook her head, unsure of Haen’s meaning. “Explain.”

  “Explain to a priest of Gaia the nature of the universe itself? That is something this old soldier cannot do. I’m surprised we even speak the same language.”

  “You do not seem like just a soldier,” Igrid said. “You are an educated man. I can see that. What did you do before you became a soldier in Arbotach’s army?”

  Haen sighed. “I was an alchemist, actually. That is why Arbotach wanted my help. He had felt the presence of the artifact in the crater, along with the other metals, but was unfamiliar with such things. He was a warlord when he was… alive. Not a philosopher or scientist.”

  “I see,” Igrid said. “What kinds of things did you study?”

  “My interest in alchemy led to all sorts of strange quests for knowledge,” Haen said. “From the time I left Bray, I went in search of all the answers. I found only enslavement and misery. But, on the bright side, I hope to pass all of my knowledge and interest on to my son, Traegus.”

  “Traegus, eh?” Igrid said quietly. “That’s an interesting name.”

  Having climbed to the top of the cliffs near the shore, Baleron and Odhran looked off to the northwest in the direction of Tel Drakkar. The tower loomed ghostly in the distance, obscured by the haze and rolling fog that surrounded its valley. It would take a good two days to get there by their estimates, and the entire group was weary already with travel.

  Among the group, Neko seemed the most affected. Not physically, as he was a strong and hardy man, but the loss of his beloved ship had taken its toll on his mind. He grew up on that ship, he had said, and had sworn to sail her until the day he was thrown overboard in death.

  Even Hakeem, who had lost both of his sons was not as glum, and Finn being an older man was still full of energy. Baleron was impressed with his endurance, and credited it with his Highlander blood; much like Odhran himself. Though neither man was from the Highlands, the blood of that hardy folk was there in their veins, giving them the strength and will of men who had struggled for centuries in the harsh environment.

  Now, as the two looked toward their destination, Baleron began to feel the call of the tower’s soul. He had felt it when looking at Dol Drakkar in the north, and now felt it once again. Here, however, the call was stronger, multiplied by the fact that his friend was here.

  “Can we get there by the time Dearg’s transformation is complete?” Odhran asked offhandedly.

  “I would imagine,” Baleron said. “Let us just hope that if anyone else is on their way as well, that we get there first.”

  Odhran sighed. “I wonder how Igrid and Morrigan fare.”

  “Igrid is a strong woman. So is Morrigan. If they have found what they were looking for, I suspect they are on their way there as well.”

  Odhran closed his eyes, seemingly lost in some kind of thought or emotion. Baleron glanced at him, wondering what was on his mind.

  “Do you feel something else?” he asked.

  The young man nodded. “There is a darkness,” he said. “Something else that I can’t pinpoint. Just a feeling, I suppose.”

  “Never let your feelings go unheeded,” Baleron advised him. “That’s the way of the ranger. Whatever your heart tells you is always the truth.”

  Odhran sighed, nodding. “Then we’d best hurry. Danger is afoot.”

  Baleron turned to look down at the campsite. The remainder of the crew were huddled around the fire, struggling to keep warm in the morning chill.

  “Get ready,” he called down.

  Ivar looked up, slowly nodding in agreement. The Northman roused the rest of them, and they began packing their belongings.

  “Whatever the cost of our battle,” Odhran began, “there is nothing more damning than the cost of a man’s will. I hope they can continue.”

  “They must,” Baleron said. “Or all is lost.”

  “You up there!” came Ivar’s call. “Are you going to wait for us, or are you going to help haul our equipment up?”

  Odhran chuckled. Baleron clapped him on the back and called back, “We’re coming.”

  He looked off to the tower once more, taking a deep breath, trying to sense what Odhran was sensing. He felt nothing but the Dragon’s call, although there was another feeling. He couldn’t tell what it was, but to him it felt as if something was wrong. It was dark, indeed, but not the way Odhran described. Maybe the young man’s inexperience gave him a different impression, he guessed.

  Or maybe there truly was something dark and foreboding headed to the tower as well.

  Arbotach eyed the tower in the distance, his leathery face expressionless and still. He could feel Drak nearby, which irritated him even more than the sight of the cursed dragon tower. He knew that from within its forbidden depths, the Onyx Dragon would emerge and threaten his own power—and his chance of seizing the throne. He could not let that happen.

  “Drak,” he hissed. “Gather the men. We are ready to make our move.”

  “But master,” the Trollkin said, “how will we capture this Dearg? He has the power of the Dragon.”

  Arbotach held up the artifact, incorrectly called the Heart of the Dragon. It was, in fact, a piece of Theia, an ancient mother spirit whose existence was a weakness of Gaia, and thus her children.

  “This will destroy his power,” the Firbolga said. “Long enough for us to deal him a mortal wound and set an example of him.”

  “King T’kar will be grateful,” Drak reminded him. “That is, until you run him through with your blade and seat yourself upon his throne.”

  Arbotach laughed maniacally, putting the artifact back in its pouch. “I like the way you think Drak,” he said. “Now, fetch me a fresh soldier. My left arm is rotting away. I need a new one.”

  “Right away, master.”

  Drak scrambled away, leaving the Firbolga to his thoughts. He glanced down at his arm, which was becoming more withered by the hour. The environment had taken its toll on the dead flesh, and the entire limb would need to be replaced before it rotted away completely. The pain was excruciating.

  Once the limb was replaced they would continue. They would march on the tower and wait for the Onyx Dragon to emerge. Then, Arbotach would kill him. There would be no sword to the gut or slash to the throat, however. No, it would have make an impression. It would have to be something that would send a message to not only h
is potential supporters, but to the Dragon himself.

  He would crucify Dearg.

  “Master,” Drak said as he returned. “I have a soldier for you.”

  Arbotach turned, seeing the tall and healthy man his servant had brought him. The soldier was fairly young, well-built, and with arms that could crush a bear—or at least some animal worth crushing.

  “What can I do for you, my lord?” the young man asked.

  Arbotach stepped toward him, eyeing the healthy left arm that was poised firmly at the man’s side. With one single motion, Arbotach reached out and took hold of the upper arm, gripped it tightly, and ripped it from its socket.

  The man screamed in horror, grasping the empty socket where his arm was once proudly attached. Blood spurted through his fingers as he backed away, turning to look at Arbotach with a blank and pale face. He fell back, writhing in agony, whimpering and scrambling to crawl away. Drak chuckled at the man’s situation, prompting the Firbolga to feel a small amount of pity for the man.

  A small amount.

  “Finish him off, Drak,” he said.

  The Trollkin drew his blade and skewered the man through the back, pinning him to the ground. He moaned for a few seconds before finally falling still. Drak cackled with delight, twisting the blade a few times before pulling it out.

  “Hold this,” Arbotach said, holding the dripping arm out.

  Drak took hold of it while Arbotach ripped the rotting limb off of his own body. He tossed the thing away, reaching out to take the new arm. Then, as he held it to his gaping socket, black threads of sinew and rotting flesh reached out to grasp the still warm arm, wrapping themselves around it and pulling it into place.

  Within just a few moments, the warlord had a fresh limb, strong and capable of dealing much more death than the old one. It was smooth, supple, and powerful, much like his own original arm. He smiled, looking at Drak.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Drak grinned.

  Dearg awoke, groaning in discomfort as his head slowly stopped spinning. He was weak, disoriented, and felt like he had fallen down a cliff. His muscles ached, his stomach turned and his skin was crawling across his bones, it seemed. He was distraught, and to make things worse, his trousers were down.