Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  “Either way, I’m nearly spent,” Ivar groaned.

  “Just a little while longer,” Baleron said. “And then we can make camp. I’m sure Finn needs his rest as well.”

  “I’m fine,” Finn said, chuckling. “Didn’t I tell you before? I’m having a great time.”

  Baleron grinned. That was good.

  Haen lopped the head off of an enemy soldier, kicking it away as he charged the next one. Around him, his men were fighting fiercely, taking out their anger on those who had once enslaved them.

  He led them on, laughing and shouting as he dropped soldier after soldier. His own battle rage was growing, and for once in his life, he felt like a true warrior. It was a feeling that drew him in, turning his vision red with lust, and filling his thumping heart with strength.

  “Show no mercy!” he shouted. “Kill them all!”

  A magical streak passed him by, slitting the throats of nearly a half dozen enemies as it passed. He knew it was Morrigan, wielding Gaia’s magic. Nearby, many mirror images of Maela and Braela fought side by side, confusing the enemy as they attacked the magical avatars.

  Haen could only laugh. He grinned widely, gritting his teeth as he pushed on. He plowed into enemy after enemy, drawing blood that sprayed around him like a fountain. Finally, he could see Igrid through the mess. She battled Drak, the hated Trollkin. He knew that Drak was different from his kin. Arbotach had blessed him with special powers.

  Powers he had not told Igrid about.

  “Damn it,” he hissed.

  He had to get to her or she was doomed.

  “Igrid!” he shouted, pushing through as quickly as he could.

  He could see the woman’s eyes go wide after Drak shrugged off a blow that would kill a normal man. She had skewered him right through the heart, and the creature simply laughed. She would have to do better than that.

  “Igrid!” he shouted again. Still, she could not hear him over the battle.

  It seemed that all was lost.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  You,” Skulgrid said, glaring at Lorcan’s face as he knelt injured before him. “You killed a good man. You stabbed him in the back like a coward.”

  Lorcan said nothing, but sneered slightly as the Northman looked down at him. The blond haired man known as Randar was expressionless, but Skulgrid could tell he was also sneering, albeit less enthusiastically.

  He went to Randar, staring down at him. Thorgrymm stepped up beside him, standing in front of Lorcan while Skulgrid stared at Randar. Lorcan seemed somewhat less inclined to sneer as the giant Northman glared down at him, but the fact seemed to bring a grin to Randar’s face.

  “The King will arrive shortly,” Randar said. “And he will insist that we be released.”

  “Oh, we will release you alright,” Thorgrymm said, kicking Lorcan in the chest.

  The soldier fell back, snapping the arrow in half as he was forced onto his side. He grunted with the pain, and Thorgrymm laughed, kicking him again.

  “We’ll release your heads,” Skulgrid said. “Maybe we’ll load them up into a catapult after we chop them off.”

  Randar looked down, glancing over at Menelith from the corner of his eye. “Are you really going to perform such a brutal deed in front of a noble warrior like this?”

  Menelith cocked his head. “Do you really think I am concerned about your method of execution? I would do it myself, gladly, seeing how you dishonored my kinfolk.”

  “I did not bring your kin back from the dead,” Randar said. “That was another man. Our necromancer. Even now he gathers more corpses to fight for us. Perhaps you should keep an eye out for them.”

  Menelith drew his blade, holding it at Randar’s throat. The man did not flinch.

  “If I see one of my men stumbling in undeath, I will do more than just cut off your head.”

  “Then you should go and stop them before the children see them,” Randar replied, smiling crookedly.

  Menelith withdrew his blade, sheathing it as he turned to his men. “Well scout for them and stop them before they arrive. Skulgrid, I know this is not your way, but perhaps you should get the people through the caves and into the Highlands. Our forces are far better equipped for defense there.”

  Skulgrid knew Menelith was right, but giving up the fortress would be a sign of weakness. Surely Thorgrymm would agree.

  “That’s right,” Lorcan said. “Flee like the dogs you are.”

  Thorgrymm growled, reaching down to grasp Lorcan by the throat. He hefted the man up to his feet, grabbing the arrow with his other fist and twisting it painfully. Lorcan gritted his teeth, grunting with the agony, drawing a chuckle from the giant Northman.

  “Greta,” he said, calling for his shieldmaiden. The woman approached, her sword drawn, and her cold blue eyes focused on the enemy soldier.

  “Do with him what you will,” Thorgrymm said, flinging Lorcan in her direction.

  Lorcan’s face met her fist and the pommel of her sword. He grunted once before collapsing onto the ground. Greta sheathed her blade as two younger Northmen came to join her.

  “Take him away,” she said. “We’ll deal with him later. Strip him of his armor and tie him to the ground with stakes. Maybe we’ll rip him apart with the horses.”

  “As for you,” Skulgrid said to Randar. “We’ll take him to the top of the gate and await his King’s arrival.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Thorgrymm said. “He’ll make a nice decoration.”

  “Damn it,” T’kar cursed. “Those fools. If they harm a hair on Randar’s head I’ll make sure none of them escape.”

  The young soldier who had delivered the news backed away slowly as the king became focused on the mountains ahead. T’kar saw him do so, but decided to let him escape. He needed all of the soldiers he could muster. He turned his horse around, looking over his troops as they stood ready.

  “Forget negotiations, then,” he growled. “We wipe them out, Randar or not.”

  “Sire, the wizards return,” a soldier said.

  Malthor emerged from the tree line, his hands aglow with the dark magic he wielded. Behind him, a small army of dead soldiers, friend and foe alike, stumbled behind him. T’kar grinned as he saw them. There were Alvar and humans in the mix, defiled and ready to fight—or stumble along trying.

  “Malthor,” T’kar laughed. “Lead on. We march.”

  Malthor turned to the north, bidding his corpses to follow him. From the opposite side of the path, a series of growls and bangs echoed through the trees, and T’kar knew that Grongor had delivered as well. Four rocky giants burst through the trees, each of them wielding clubs and growling in anticipation.

  “Follow Malthor,” T’kar called out. “Those giants will make nice battering rams.”

  Grongor’s ugly face twisted into a grin as he bowed his head. He too turned to the path, stepping into place behind Malthor’s troops. T’kar laughed out loud, turning to his next in command.

  “Now that Lorcan has been captured, you are in charge.”

  The soldier nodded, drawing his blade and holding it in the air. “Give the order, sire,” he said.

  “We ride.”

  Menelith’s rangers stood ready with their bows drawn and their eyes to the south. The thundering of many hooves and boots rolled over the hills as the enemy drew near. Menelith gave his men a nod, telling them to fire when the enemy reached the far edge of the forest. He wanted as many of them on the road as possible before the barrage began.

  “On my signal, take them down,” he whispered.

  Over the sound of hooves, Menelith heard heavy footsteps, as if giants were leading the charge. When the first movement appeared, he saw that he was correct. There were several Fomorians in the front, followed by what looked like a dark wizard in loose and flowing robes that blew tattered in the wind.

  “Conjurer,” he whispered. “I’ll take him. Ignore the giants. Your arrows will not harm them. Focus on the soldiers when they appear.”

&n
bsp; Behind the conjurer was another figure; the necromancer that had defiled Menelith’s people. He led a small army of undead that stumbled along like the fodder they were. One arrow in the necromancer’s head and the entire group might fall. But the pressing matter was the conjurer. Though the giants would not disperse if he was killed, he was still a danger.

  Menelith took aim, focusing on the conjurer as the procession continued ahead. He heard the creaking of bows around him, and waited for just the right time to strike. The giants stomped their way forward, looking like slender, rocky statues intent on destroying everything in their path.

  The undead followed behind the two magic wielders, filling the road gradually. There were roughly two dozen of them, mostly human, but with a few Alvar mixed in. Menelith growled with hatred, turning his attention to the necromancer. He moved his bow, torn between the two wizards. On the one hand, there was a chance the giants would disperse with no master to lead them, on the other hand the entire army of undead would collapse if he killed the necromancer.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “Take out the necromancer,” he whispered to the ranger beside him. “Now.”

  An arrow was loosed, and just as it reached the necromancer, a blue flash appeared around the man, shielding him from the arrow. It bounced off harmlessly, causing the conjurer to command the giants to charge forward.

  The thundering of rocky feet filled the road, and the entire army, men included, began running ahead. The undead kept their pace, but were dropped one by one by the rangers’ arrows. Menelith loosed his own bow at the conjurer, but like the necromancer, his arrow bounced off harmlessly.

  He could hear the conjurer laughing out loud, his ugly face twisting into a rictus grin as those dark eyes turned toward his attacker. Menelith ducked away out of sight, running alongside the tree line to avoid the conjurer’s gaze. He could see that the man was building up his magic for another spell, and the Alvar feared that he or one of his men was the target.

  “Disperse!” he shouted. “Get back to the fortress quickly!”

  Menelith stood ready as his men fled. The army kept its pace forward along the road, but the conjurer stayed behind. It was then that King T’kar and the rest of his army crested the hill and came into sight.

  Menelith narrowed his gaze, glaring at the conjurer as the spell was complete. Despite being hidden, however, the conjurer found him and that rictus grin appeared once more as the magic words were spoken.

  “Here they come,” Skulgrid shouted.

  Thorgrymm, Wulfgar and Svengar had joined him above the gate, followed by the bulk of the combined army. The soldiers stood ready to guard the grounds if the gates were breached, and the archers among them had their bows in hand. Skulgrid watched the giants approach and gather stones to hurl them at the gates. They were large, to be sure, but not as large as Skulgrid had seen before. They were, however, as strong as any battering ram, and if they weren’t stopped, they would crush the gates.

  But they stopped and waited. For what, Skulgrid could only guess.

  “There are undead behind them,” Wulfgar said. “And I hear horses.”

  “We have T’kar’s men,” Thorgrymm said. “He likely knows it, so he’ll want to negotiate.”

  “Forget his negotiations,” Wulfgar said. “We should just kill them, especially that weasel Lorcan.”

  Skulgrid laughed. “As much as that would please me, we need him alive. With him in our hands, we have a useful bargaining chip. Or at least a distraction.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Wulfgar asked.

  “We can stall T’kar when he arrives, allowing the rangers to return. We will need their bows.”

  “They’re likely on their way back,” Wulfgar said.

  “Perhaps,” Skulgrid agreed. “But we wait. Archers!”

  Bows were drawn at his command, and he drew his sword. “Fire a volley beyond the giants. Take down as many undead as you can. T’kar will have no fodder this day.”

  At his signal, the archers loosed their arrows. They sailed over the Jarls’ heads, arcing into the air beyond the giants that waited patiently for their master to arrive. The undead fell without much effort, leaving a field of corpses for the approaching king to ride over before standing at the gates.

  Skulgrid grinned. “Now we wait.”

  Menelith dove out of the way just as the conjurer released a powerful pressure wave that bent and broke tree limbs in its path. The Alvar could feel the power as he rolled on the ground. He hopped up to his feet, taking one look back before sprinting toward the fortress. Behind him, he could hear T’kar’s shouts, and those of his men.

  The conjurer changed his course, running into the forest as if to chase Menelith. The Alvar laughed, knowing the human could not possibly match his speed, or even cause him any physical harm if he was caught.

  But that was not the conjurer’s plan. As Menelith bounded through the woods, dead limbs reached out to grab him. He dodged their woody fingers, slicing some away with his blade. Large rocks were hurled toward him as well, and he had to leap and roll to avoid them.

  But in one quick motion, he leapt over a fallen tree, spun in the air as he sheathed his blade, and drew his bow. He pulled it back and released before he landed, sending an arrow hurtling toward his black robed pursuer. As he landed, he heard a painful grunt, and the sound of breaking twigs as his target collapsed to the forest floor.

  Not looking back, he continued on, catching up to his comrades just before they reached the secret entrance through the earthen berm.

  “Did you kill him?” a ranger asked.

  “I think so,” Menelith replied. “Let us not worry about that now. T’kar comes quickly. Assemble along the wall and be ready.”

  He did stop then as his rangers went through the tunnel. He peered back into the gloomy forest, waiting for the conjurer to appear. He did not.

  “Goodbye, conjurer,” he whispered.

  T’kar arrived from in between the two Fomorians that stood the tallest. He rode a large horse, black as night and fearsome to behold. Skulgrid looked over at the Northmen, who glared silently, and grunted his discontent.

  Ronja and Greta had arrived to stand by their lords, both of them expressionless and impressive. Behind everyone, on the ground below, stood the bulk of the army. Northmen, Riverfolk and Highlanders alike, they stood ready and willing to die.

  Skulgrid grinned.

  “T’kar!” he shouted. “You stand before the unified armies of Eirenoch! Turn back and you may do so in peace!”

  He could hear the beast grumble and laugh as he rode forward. Off to Skulgrid’s side, he also heard the rangers mount the stairs and disperse among the archers lining the wall. He knew that their defenses were strong, and T’kar would not take the fortress. Not this day.

  “You,” T’kar shouted back. “You have two of my men. I want them back.”

  “We will keep them until you are gone,” Skulgrid replied. “We will release them only then.”

  T’kar drew his twin blades and held them out at his sides. For a moment, Skulgrid thought perhaps he would surrender then, but the beast’s smile told him otherwise.

  “If you are lucky, Randar and Lorcan may behave themselves,” T’kar said. “But I doubt it. They will find their own way out once I break down this pathetic wall you have constructed.”

  T’kar’s army began to fill in the empty space behind the giants, gathering on the open plain where the forest thinned out. Their only escape, should they require it, was to flee along the river. Somehow, Skulgrid doubted they would even try. These were fanatical soldiers, intent on destroying everything the allies had built.

  They would not surrender.

  “They are assembling archers behind the main line,” Wulfgar whispered. “I can see them.”

  “Tell the archers to aim beyond the bulk of the army,” Skulgrid replied. “We will take them out and then open the gates. We will focus on the giants.”

  Thorgrymm g
rowled. “Where is that dragon?”

  “Look,” Wulfgar said, pointing off to the army’s left. “Two wizards.”

  “Blast,” Skulgrid cursed, turning to Menelith, who stood a few yards away along the wall. “Elf, take out the wizards if you can.”

  Menelith wandered over, keeping his eyes on the impatient king below. “They have some kind of magic that shields them,” he said. “They are immune to my arrows.”

  Skulgrid sighed. “Then they must be killed by the sword.”

  “When the gates are opened, I will take them out personally.”

  “Good,” Skulgrid said. “T’kar! We have spoken. You have spoken. It seems we are at a stalemate.”

  He raised his hand then, signaling to the archers, and clenched his fist. Arrows were fired, sailing over their heads. Right then, T’kar charged, shouting at his army to begin the attack. The giants went into action, lifting stones from the ground or raising their clubs. The enemy charged, revealing the archers in the back, who also fired.

  As the sky filled with arrows, one thing was clear.

  The battle was on.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Cut off his head!” Haen shouted.

  He wasn’t sure whether Igrid could hear him, but as he pushed through the line of soldiers, Rian was suddenly next to him.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “His head,” Haen repeated. “She has to cut off his head. It’s the only way to kill him.”

  The thief nodded, and then faded from sight. He saw enemies pushed aside as her unseen form charged ahead. Nodding in her direction, he grinned, swinging his sword in a wide arc as he charged through.

  He blocked swing after swing, keeping his eyes ahead. The enemy was weakening, he could see, but even if they were defeated, there was still Arbotach to deal with. The Firbolga would not be easy, even for the dozens of men he had with him.

  Maela and Braela’s multiple forms encircled the enemy suddenly, drawing confused looks from them. They were struck down as they tried to figure out where the true forms were. Overhead, eagles and other birds of prey began to attack in screeching dives.