Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  Odhran and Baleron looked at each other again, this time with more urgency.

  “Dearg,” Baleron began.

  “We must hurry, my friends,” Finn urged them.

  Baleron whistled to the rest of the group, waving them in with urgency. They quickly joined them, not even questioning why they had picked up their pace. With much haste, and little care for being spotted, Baleron led them toward the tower.

  “What are going to do once we reach him?” he asked. “What chance do we stand against an entire army?”

  “We must get there before Arbotach,” Baleron said. “That’s our only chance.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ivar asked. “Who is Arbotach?”

  “Just hurry, Ivar,” Odhran said. “There is no time to waste.”

  From his perch atop a rough stone, Jodocus sighed as he watched the knights pass. He silently hoped they would make it in time. If not, Dearg would be in great danger. Such a terrible artifact could change the course of history, and everything the druid knew to be true about that future would be completely different.

  If only there was something he could do.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the Keeper said in his head. “You know the rules.”

  “I know,” Jodocus said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t think about it.”

  There was a harsh sigh as the Keeper probed the druid’s thoughts even deeper. Jodocus could feel the intrusion but did nothing but direct his own thoughts. Perhaps he could find someone to warn; someone to tell that the Onyx Dragon was in danger and needed help. Someone who could benefit from saving Dearg…

  An image appeared in his head. One of darkness that could be brought to the light. A damned and tortured soul that, given the chance to walk underneath the blue sky again, would gladly do so.

  “Fine,” the Keeper said. “Tell him if you wish. I would prefer that his kind not get involved, but I can see there is no other way to complete the Order of the Dragon.”

  “He would make a great knight,” Jodocus said, thinking of the object of his grand idea. “Indeed, he will make a great knight.”

  “I hope you are prepared to pay the price for interfering in the natural order of things.”

  Jodocus smiled. “For the Great Mother,” Jodocus began, “I would give my very soul, such as it is.”

  “Then consider that debt paid in the future.”

  Jodocus nodded to himself. He did not doubt the severity, and sincerity, of the Keeper’s words. After all, everyone died eventually.

  Even druids.

  Arbotach stopped, turning his ear to the wind as the flapping of wings became noticeable. He grinned, showing his rotting teeth, and pulled out the powerful shard of Theia. Its red glow was pulsing, vibrating in his hand as the power of the Dragon neared. He turned just as Drak cackled, and saw the black dragon diving down toward them.

  “Begone, dragon,” he said, holding the gemstone up in his clawed hand.

  The artifact blazed into life, firing a spark of bright orange energy that exploded into the dragon’s chest. There was a loud explosion, and a puff of smoke, and the sizzling creature veered off to the side, disappearing over a rocky crag with a loud screech. The crowd of soldiers laughed and guffawed at the dragon’s fate, knowing full well that their leader would do the same to the son of the Dragon himself.

  “You see that, men?” he shouted. “I bear the power to destroy any of the Firstborn! The Dragon is only the first. Next, perhaps we shall travel to the mainland and lay waste to Kruum as well.”

  “Kronos,” Drak said. “Only the Northmen call him Kruum.”

  Arbotach glared at the ugly Trollkin, sneering in annoyance. Drak lowered his eyes, kicking the dirt with his foot.

  “Now,” Arbotach continued. “We continue on to Tel Drakkar.”

  The men shouted in anticipation, clapping their swords onto their shields. Arbotach looked upon them with pride. He had assembled a mighty army, and they were all eager for blood. Whatever the Dragon had waiting for them in Tel Drakkar would surely test their skills, and feed their hunger.

  They were eager, and so was he.

  Soon, Dagda, he thought. We will meet again, and I shall have my revenge.

  Erenoth crash landed in the rocks, tumbling over and over again until he finally came to rest at the bottom of the cliff. He had nearly reached the ocean’s edge, only coming to a stop when he hit the wet sand of the shore—and the large rock that he had smashed his shoulder into.

  He felt himself shift back into his human form, feeling an even greater pain this time as he transformed. His shoulder was dislocated, and possibly broken, and he could feel that his sternum was cracked, along with several ribs.

  But how could this happen?

  “Dragon,” he whispered weakly. “What has… what has happened?”

  His head fell to the sand, his body being too weak to hold it up. Try as he might, he could not lift it back up. He felt numb and paralyzed. Whatever the warlord had wielded, had certainly sapped him of his strength, and likely his very lifeforce. It seemed like all of the energy had been drained from his body, along with all the power the Dragon had given him.

  But how?

  With much effort, he managed to turn his head enough to see the beach with his left eye. Everything was blurry and rippled, as if he was looking at the surface of the water. But he could make out one thing—one fascinating and mysterious thing.

  In the distance, playing among the waves and coming in his direction, was a beautiful woman. She wore a white gown with veils that flowed around her like smoke, and she bore a shock of long golden hair that looked like a mane of fire.

  He closed his eyes, dismissing the vision as a dying hallucination. He was just seeing things before his death, he reasoned. One last beautiful vision before his soul departed his mortal body and descended to the depths of Hell.

  After all, that was where a murderer belonged.

  Chapter Thirty One

  T’kar’s forces rode northward, with the footsoldiers trailing slightly behind. The king was in the front, with Randar at his side, and the new sorcerer riding beside Malthor. The necromancer seemed absent, but T’kar guessed he was still miffed about the summoning of the strange and annoying demon. It was too bad he hadn’t met Grongor earlier, he thought.

  “Ride on, men!” he shouted. “Victory is nigh. We will crush these rebels without breaking a sweat.”

  He could hear the men behind him shouting and cursing in glee, and that put a smile on his face. He was ready to end the conflict, to send the rebels to their graves, along with their accursed Alvar allies.

  The other-worldly rats had been a bane for him in the past, but now he knew their weakness. Malthor had reanimated some of the dead ones, and the golden-haired weaklings had been shocked and appalled.

  That made T’kar smile.

  “Malthor!” he called out, slowing his pace.

  The necromancer rode up, followed by Grongor.

  “Find some corpses,” he said. “Bring them back.”

  Malthor nodded and rode away without a word. Grongor chuckled, smiling crookedly as the king looked him in the eye.

  “Can you summon giants from the Earth?” T’kar asked.

  “I can,” Grongor replied. “But we will need to find a limestone outcropping. That’s the only way they can be brought to the surface.”

  “Ah,” T’kar grunted. “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of them around. Meanwhile, Randar will scout ahead and see if the rebels’ defenses are prepared. I’d prefer to meet them head on. I’m not in the mood for a surprise attack. Blood smells much better when it comes from the frightened.”

  Grongor nodded and also rode away. T’kar turned back to Randar, who was glaring at him with a brow raised. T’kar sneered.

  “Get to it, Randar,” he said.

  “You wish me to ride ahead by myself? Do you remember what happened the last time?”

  “No,” T’kar taunted him. He remembered. �
�Tell me. What happened?”

  “I was shot.”

  “Oh. That was unfortunate. But rest assured, that little blond dog is no longer there. I doubt any of the others there could make such a shot. Besides, you won’t be alone. I’ll send a few soldiers with you. Maybe Lorcan would be willing.”

  T’kar turned to his army, waving his hand in the air to summon the new captain. Lorcan barked a few orders to his men and rode up, eager to please his king.

  “Sire?” he said.

  “Scout ahead with Randar,” T’kar commanded. “And take some fodder with you. I don’t want Randar harmed. Understood?”

  “Yes, sire,” Lorcan said.

  As Lorcan rode away, T’kar grinned and looked at Randar again. “See?” he said. “You’ll be fine. You know how to duck, don’t you?”

  Randar sighed.

  Menelith led the rangers swiftly through the forest toward the activity they had spotted. A young ranger had heard the distant sound of horses, and the shouts of many men over the south side of the large hill. The Alvar, being slightly distracted by thoughts of his own peoples’ plight, had not sensed anything himself.

  He was losing his mind, it seemed.

  The cause for which his people had come to this world was becoming more and more hopeless by the day. Allora insisted that they could find this new Mother Spirit if only they stood together, but Menelith had lost heart. Not that he did not care for his own world, but some part of him believed that this world would make a good home for them.

  Unfortunately, even his own brother disagreed.

  Now, as he sped toward the possible enemy gathering, he found it hard to push those thoughts from his head. He would have to speak to the Lady herself about the situation. Perhaps she would agree. Perhaps she would not. Asking Tenegal to intervene was pointless. He was too loyal to both Allora and Faeraon. He could not be swayed. He would not agree.

  “My lord,” a young ranger said as the group approached to edge of the forest. “They were seen that way, on the other side of the springs.”

  Menelith looked toward the springs, where the rivers originated; one going north, the other going south. There, on the wide trail, several leagues away, was a large gathering of troops. Though he could not make out any details, Menelith knew the Beast King had come once again. There would be another battle soon, and this time without Dearg and his Knights to help them.

  “I wonder how Igrid and Morrigan fare at this moment,” the Alvar mused out loud. “If these soldiers are here, then were they successful at all?”

  “You know the answer to that,” another Alvar said. “Gaia is at ease. Can you not feel it, brother?”

  Menelith sighed. “I have been distracted of late,” he said. “I feel almost nothing anymore. Only guilt and hopelessness in our cause.”

  “Put those thoughts aside,” the Alvar said. “They will do you no good.”

  Menelith nodded. “Come then, let us prepare for their passing. We will thin their numbers before they arrive at the fortress.”

  “Wait,” the young Alvar said. “I need to tell you something, and I am not sure if it is true.”

  “What do you mean?” Menelith asked, curious about the young soldier’s strange demeanor.

  “I… I saw something, someone, in the forest before. He was near our camp.”

  “Someone?” Menelith asked. “Who?”

  The Alvar shook his head, looking down. “I am not sure. A dark figure. When I saw him, it was just out of the corner of my eye. But I felt…”

  “What?”

  “I felt a strange darkness,” he continued. “Something ancient and evil. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. Such malice, such hatred. Dark desires, perhaps.”

  Menelith looked his young kinsman in the eyes. There was terror there, he saw. Terror mixed with a sense of dread. Never had he seen that expression before, not in his own kind, anyway. The young soldier was mortified, not just afraid. He looked as if he had seen or felt something even greater than the darkness that was destroying their own world.

  Was that even possible?

  “Could you not just be feeling the doom that belies our world?” he asked.

  The young soldier shook his head. “No,” he said. “It was different. It was here, and now. Right in my own presence.”

  “I wonder why Lady Allora or my brother have not felt it.”

  “The Lady could, I know it. But in my case, I think whoever it was wanted me to feel its presence.”

  Menelith sighed. “We do not have time for this. The battle is nigh. I am sure Lady Allora and my brother’s soldiers could fend it off, whatever it is. At least until we can return. We cannot let these men stand alone.”

  “Very well, my lord. I will take some archers and line the forest’s northern edge.”

  “Good,” Menelith said. “And send your fastest messenger to the fortress to warn them.”

  The young Alvar placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head before disappearing into the forest. Menelith watched after him, going over his words in his own mind. Such a revelation was disturbing, he knew. Someone or something was coming far too close to their camp. He had no doubt that Tenegal could fight off whatever it is. But such a terrifying creature as the young Alvar had described would be more than just a combat danger.

  The Lady Allora’s purity and essence could be at stake.

  But Menelith had given his word to the men of Eirenoch and their allies. Baleron was his friend, and he would not abandon the ranger, no matter the danger. Though he felt torn, he did his best to reason his way out of his oath to his King and his Lady. Allora was a powerful sorceress, and Tenegal was just as powerful a warrior as Menelith. Together, the two could hold off any danger.

  Besides, if the Lady were concerned enough to need his assistance, surely she would have sent word one way or another.

  Malthor scanned the forest floor with sword in hand. He was not skilled with the weapon, but it did give him some small sense of comfort in the shadowy woods. He had jumped at the chance to do something away from the others—the thing he did best—and now felt somewhat comfortable on his own.

  Strangely, he was beginning to dislike the king, even Randar, and especially the witch. Though she given him a good ride at the fortress, one that made him quiver with ecstatic glee, he still found her mentally repulsive. She never really displayed her true self around the king, or even Randar, but when he looked into her eyes as she climaxed, there was a true darkness there—one that even he found disturbing. He was a mere necromancer, she was a demon.

  Much more than just some rotting witch brought back from torpor.

  But, he thought with a smile, she was rather snug around him, and moved like an expert. If riding a man were some kind of magic power, then she was a master; so much so, that as he thought more about it, the stronger the tightness in his trousers grew. He found himself bouncing up and down slightly just thinking about her smooth and pale skin, the firm bounce of her breasts, and the smooth gyrations of her rounded hips.

  He stopped, looking around. There was no one about. He chuckled to himself, heading toward a nearby tree to lean against as he undid his trousers with his free hand. He leaned back against the bark of the oak he found, sheathing his sword, closing his eyes, and lying his head back. He closed his eyes as he reached inside his pants.

  “Dark deed,” a voice said nearby.

  Malthor jumped away from the tree, pulling his hand out of his trousers and drawing his blade. A bright ball of blue flame appeared in his left hand, ready to incinerate anyone who came too close.

  He saw no one.

  “Show yourself,” he called out, his heart thumping like a battle drum.

  “Such thoughts,” the voice said again. “Such thoughts will expose you to your object of desire.”

  “Who are you?” he called out again.

  There was a rustling of leaves and twigs as a bent, dark figure appeared between two large trees. He could not make out any detail
s, only the shadowy outline of what looked to be tattered robes that flapped in the gentle wind. Whoever it was held a twisted and strange-looking staff in his left hand.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Our father will call to you soon,” the voice said, clearly something non-human.

  The voice was guttural, almost like T’kar’s, but more coherent and aged. There was wisdom in that voice, but a dark wisdom. It was the kind of wisdom that could only be obtained by centuries or millennia of evil deeds.

  “What are you?” Malthor asked. “And what do you mean our father?”

  “The darkness,” the voice said. “He is coming. Coming from their world. The world of the Alvar. He wants this world as well.”

  “Who?”

  “Your father,” the figure said. “The void. Apsu.”

  Apsu. What was Apsu, Malthor wondered. It was a word that meant something to him. But it was not a person, nor a god. It was a thing. A darkness. The darkness. In the common tongue it meant abyss. A bottomless pit of darkness.

  “Go away,” Malthor said. “Before I burn you to a crisp and then reanimate your body.”

  The figure chuckled, Malthor guessed. It was not what a human would call a chuckle. It was more like the sound a dog would make when waking its owner for food. A snort, a grunt, a guffaw—or something.

  “Prepare yourself for his coming,” the figure continued. “I have deeds of my own to perform. We need only find his prophet when he is ready. I shall be his sword, and you shall be his corruptor.”

  “Corruptor? What the hell does that mean? Who is my father?”

  “Apsu,” the dark voice repeated. “Apsu. He will call to you when you are needed, and you will go to him through the void. Cross the fabric of the universe and you will find him right next to you.”

  Malthor shook his head, not sure what the figure was getting at. He was speaking in riddles, much like a beast-man—something T’kar would have been raised around before Kathorgo gave him the ability to think and speak like a man.

  “Tell me who you are,” Malthor insisted. “Now.”