Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  “Keep at them, men!” Haen shouted, his confidence growing stronger with each sword swing.

  He was now pushed through, and the distance between him and Igrid was only a few dozen yards; mostly clear of enemies and allies. There, at Drak’s flank, the thief appeared, her sword drawn and ready to strike.

  “She’s going to do it herself,” Haen chuckled.

  Either way, Drak was finished.

  Igrid kicked the wretched creature in the gut, laughing out loud as she heard him grunt. Though tired, and full of holes from Igrid’s sword, Drak kept coming. Something was keeping him—or it—alive, and the priestess was unsure what it was.

  Obviously, Drak was no ordinary being.

  “What are you?” she hissed, flinging the blood from her blade.

  Drak cackled maniacally, twirling his sword in his hand. “Come see,” he taunted.

  Then, as Drak reared back his blade for another strike, Rian appeared behind him. Igrid charged then, determined to meet Rian’s attack from Drak’s front flank. Together, they could take him down.

  Drak’s eyes widened as Igrid leaped into the air for a strong thrust. His blade came up to block, but was too late. Igrid’s blade skewered him through the chest again, followed by her heavy bulk. He was thrown back, only to meet an unseen blade.

  Rian’s katana sliced right through Drak’s neck, severing his head from his shoulders. Rian ducked out of the way as his headless body flipped over her, and she stood to meet Igrid’s body. The two of them clashed together, gripping each other tightly as the Trollkin’s lifeless form flopped onto the ground. His head rolled a few times, landing upright as the life drained from its eyes.

  Haen was there just a moment later, breathless and laughing. “Good,” he said.

  “How did you know to do that?” Igrid asked Rian.

  “Haen tried to tell you,” she replied. “But he was too far away. I was there.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Igrid said.

  “The soldiers are giving up,” Trista said as she joined them.

  All around, the enemies were throwing down their swords at the sight of their second in command having been defeated.

  “Arbotach will kill all of us,” one of them said.

  “No,” Haen said. “You are now under my command, and that of the sisters. We will shed each other’s blood no more.”

  Haen looked over to Igrid, who felt skeptical of their allegiance. But Haen encouraged her with a nod, and she raised her blade in the air to gain their attention.

  “Fight for the Great Mother,” she said. “And fight for the Dragon. He returns, and we must meet him at Tel Drakkar. I give you my promise that your loyalty will be rewarded. I swear it!”

  “Arbotach has the artifact,” the same soldier said. “He can defeat the Dragon with it.”

  “He will not succeed,” Igrid said. “We have artifacts of our own. Artifacts much more powerful than anything dug from a hole in the Earth.”

  Just then, as if on her command, a bright flash of lightning appeared in the sky above. Rain began to fall, and the clouds swirled and thickened, becoming darker in mere seconds. The enemy soldiers looked up, then back at her. She maintained her confidence, waiting for them to react.

  One by one, the soldiers fell to their knees, drawing a smile from the sisters. Haen joined her, cocking his head curiously.

  “How did you summon such a storm?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the rain.

  “I didn’t,” Igrid admitted. “I don’t think my power is that strong. It was just… good timing.”

  A few dozen yards away, unseen to the rest of them, Jodocus smiled and wrapped his cloak about himself, wandering off into the nearby forest.

  Dearg stumbled out into the afternoon sun, shielding his eyes from the brightness. He had rested long enough, he felt, and now was the time to meet his brothers, the Knights of the Dragon. Together, they would storm T’kar’s fortress and bring an end to his reign of terror.

  It was his destiny.

  He looked around at the area where the tower was built. There was rubble everywhere, much like there was at Dol Drakkar. But here at the south tower, the construction was not quite as complete on the outside. He knew the Druaga were near, however, watching him as he emerged. But they would offer him no help.

  He was on his own.

  Strapping his new blade to his belt, he set off toward what looked like a stairway carved into the cliff side. He saw no peaks above the surrounding cliffs, so he knew he must be somewhere near the shore. If he could make it to the top, he could get a better view, possibly even spotting his friends in the distance.

  They would come from the east, likely, having traveled to the far shore to avoid T’kar’s forces, and then turning south. Whether they had chosen to go by sea was unknown, but he had the feeling Ivar would suggest it. Dearg knew there were sailors and ports along the eastern shore, most of them freebooters and pirates who hated T’kar as much as he did.

  As he approached the stairway, he noticed its raw shape. It had been carved out of the rock, roughly hewn with primitive tools. It was still being built, but was at the moment passable.

  He climbed upward, taking each step carefully. It would be bad to step on a cracked stone and go tumbling to his death. Besides, there was no hurry. There was still plenty of daylight left. He only had to make it to the highest point. That point seemed to be the cliff he was climbing up.

  His guess was correct. As he reached the top and turned, he could see everything for miles around him. There was even a small village in the distance, burning to the ground before his very eyes. The sea was visible, calm and blue as always, but there was no sign of his friends.

  “Where are you, Ivar?” he asked out loud, shielding his eyes from the sun as he searched.

  “Who are you looking for?” a deep and rough voice asked.

  Dearg’s hand immediately went for his blade, but as he turned, he felt a tightness around his body. It was as if some giant fist had grasped him and was squeezing him. But he saw its source.

  There, a few yards away, was a tall and dark form. It wore black and maroon plate armor, bore a skeletal face, and was surrounded by at least a dozen men in similar plate. The figure’s eyes glowed, and in his outstretched hand was a bright red gem, pulsing with some unknown magic.

  As he stared at the gem, he realized it was this thing that had trapped him. Within its depths, as he heard the figure’s laughter, he saw the image of a horned demon. It was a terrifying sight, and one that could spell his doom.

  “Hello, Onyx Dragon,” the figure said. “I am Arbotach, king of the Firbolga. I am here to bring this island to its knees. You are unwanted, and I shall dispose of you. It is written.”

  Dearg struggled against the magic, trying desperately to will his armor into being. But there was something about the gem’s power that blocked his efforts. Try as he might, he could not feel any of the Dragon’s power within him.

  “Where… are my friends?” Dearg struggled to ask.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Arbotach said, grinning with his rotting mouth. “I will find them and dispose of them as well. But first, let us deal with you—Dragon.”

  There was a bright flash from the gem, and Dearg felt himself being blasted to the ground. The power slammed him against the rocks, knocking the wind out of him and cracking his ribs. He was slammed repeatedly as Arbotach laughed. His men laughed along with him, mocking Dearg’s pain. He could only close his eyes and pray to the Dragon.

  Help me, Father, he begged in his mind. Give me the strength to prevail.

  But there was no answer.

  “Now,” Arbotach said as he relented. “Crucify him. Let him rot in the sun until he draws his last breath.”

  Though he could not see, Dearg could hear the soldiers rush to him. They grasped his arms and legs, lifting him up just enough to drag him along the rocks. He could hear Arbotach’s laughter as well, filling him with dread.

  Who was this
creature? What was this creature? How was he able to counter the Dragon’s power?

  Dearg’s mind was filled with questions. But one question weighed heavily. Where were his friends? Even if they were to happen upon this scene, would they be able to save him? Would they survive?

  “That tree,” Arbotach said. “That is a good place. Let him gaze upon his tower until he dies. It will be the last thing he sees.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He was slammed against the hard trunk of a dead tree, and his arms and legs outstretched by impossibly strong hands. Then, just as the pain ended, another pain began. Spikes were driven through his hands and feet, roughly hammered into place to secure him to the tree.

  He cried out with the pain, though he tried to mask it. But it was no use. The pain shot through his entire body, coursing through his veins like fire. The dark magic had been used, he realized. And the pain would not subside. Ever. Not until he faded from memory.

  He would die in excruciating pain, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Now, Dragon,” Arbotach spoke again. “We will depart this place and leave you to your pain. We will now seek your friends, and crucify them as well.”

  Arbotach laughed again, this time with more enthusiasm.

  “Your little rebellion is over,” he continued. “T’kar will fall to my blade, not yours, and I will be crowned king at last. After thousands of years, I will return to my proper place. The Firbolga shall reign again.”

  Firbolga.

  “You once served the Great Mother,” Dearg whispered. “Now you pervert her memory. You deserve nothing but the fires of oblivion.”

  “Perhaps,” Arbotach replied. “But not for a long, long while. As you can plainly see, I am already somewhat dead. I would love to cut off your limbs and take them for myself, perhaps even that handsome mane of black hair, but alas, your pain is preferable. Goodbye, Daegoth. May you rest in peace.”

  The scent of flowers and herbs awoke Erenoth. As he opened his eyes, he realized he was within a lush garden. There were shrubs and small trees everywhere, interspersed with various colorful breeds of flowering plants. There was the faint smell of jasmine that he could detect over the rest of the scents, and he began walking to find its source.

  The path below his feet was paved with irregular brown stones. Moss grew in between them, giving the walkway a beautiful and rustic look. Even the tiny ants that marched in their single file lines were colorful and beautiful. It was the strangest place he had ever seen.

  “Dragon?” he called out as he walked. “Are you here?”

  There was no answer, but Erenoth began to feel a comforting warmth in his very soul. It brought back the memory of the last thing he saw before he blacked out. Along the shoreline there was a woman walking casually. She seemed to have been coming toward him, and he had tried to call out. But his pain had gotten the best of him and he had fallen to blackness.

  He suddenly wondered if he was dead.

  He stopped in his tracks and looked around. Surely this garden was some sort of heaven, he supposed. Why he would not descend into the pits of Hell was anyone’s guess. He was not worthy of paradise, he knew. He had done too many evil things in his life.

  “Where am I?” he called out.

  This time, there was a swirling sound in his head, followed by a soft and pleasant female voice.

  You are in my garden, Erenoth.

  He froze, looking around him for the source of the voice. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the voice was in his head.

  “Who are you? Did I see you on the shore? Was that you?”

  It was I. I am Gaia, your mother.

  Erenoth took a deep breath. He began to kneel, as it was the only thing he could think of to do.

  Do not kneel. You are my child, not my servant. You serve the Dragon.

  “Where is the Dragon?” Erenoth asked, standing straight again.

  He sleeps once more. There is a weakness among my children that I cannot explain. They need rest to regain their power, and I fear I will succumb to that strange weakness eventually.

  “What is this weakness?”

  I cannot explain as I do not know. Only the Keeper can answer that, and he chooses to keep me in the dark.

  “The Keeper?”

  He who keeps the fabric of time and space. He who is and always was. He who came to Earth in human form to experience my love.

  Erenoth shook his head. He did not understand Gaia’s words, nor did he know why a great being such as she was describing would keep such important information from another spirit.

  “I am confused,” he said. “But more importantly, why am I here?”

  You needed to heal. The warlord has crushed your power, the power you received from the Dragon. I will return you to the real world when you are healed, and you must find and help Dearg’s knights.

  “Why?” he asked. “Are they in danger?”

  The warlord carries a piece of Theia; a crystal that was once a part of her form. It contains a tiny piece of her spirit, one that can be used for ill means. Arbotach worships Theia’s Firstborn, Kingu, and he is T’kar’s biggest rival for His affection. Even now he proceeds toward the knights, ready to strip them of their power and enslave them to his will. You must rescue them.

  “What of Daegoth… Dearg?”

  Jodocus will ensure that he is safe. He has summoned a darkness that can be used to our benefit. The Dragon’s power will benefit from his presence, and he will benefit in his own way.

  “He? Who is this darkness?”

  A darkness that can be turned to the light. You needn’t worry. All will be well with the Dragon and his servants. But the time will come for you to show your loyalty to Dearg’s knights, and indeed his future role as king.

  “I will die to protect them… and him. I swear it.”

  Good. Then go from this place. You can now transform once more. Fly above the garden and you will be returned to the clouds of Earth. You simply need to fly higher than you’ve ever flown before.

  “I will do so.”

  Remember, my child, I love you and all of my children. You have my blessing, and my aid. Go now and find the Knights of the Dragon, for the last and final knight will arrive soon.

  Erenoth willed himself to transform and leaped into the sky. He flew upwards, higher and higher until he was surrounded by the clouds. He didn’t even look down, as his heart was completely consumed with his task.

  He would serve the Dragon or die.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  A volley of arrows soared over the wooden gates toward T’kar’s forces. Dozens of his men fell, and others scattered or hid underneath their shields. T’kar rode among them, smacking their shields with his kopesh, prompting them to prepare for the charge.

  “On your feet, cowards!” he shouted. “Grongor, send your giants!”

  The wizard directed his Fomorians to charge ahead into the gates. T’kar believed they would smash through them in no time, allowing his army to storm and destroy the fortress. He would have to find Randar though, otherwise the man might get killed. He cared not for Lorcan’s fate.

  “Now!” he shouted to his archers.

  Arrows sailed again, this time from his side. He watched them take out several rangers on the walkway who tried to fire at the giants. Their arrows bounced off harmlessly, some of them not even leaving their bows.

  “Ha!” T’kar laughed. “Shoot at me, will you?”

  He charged forward, banging his feet against his horse’s flanks. The beast snorted, carrying him forward like the valiant steed it was. T’kar held his blades out at his sides, ready to smash through the enemy lines should they be standing behind the gates.

  They were.

  It took little effort for the Fomorians to crash through the flimsy wooden gates. They were met by the allied forces, most of whom scattered at the site of the rocky beasts appearing through the splintered wooden doors. The giants charged them, sweeping their massi
ve claws through the air and throwing the hapless men into the air.

  T’kar rode in between them, laughing out loud and praising the day he met Grongor. The wizard had pulled through for him and had summoned the biggest giants he had ever seen, and they were the meanest as well.

  The king growled at the enemies as he rode them down, laughing as they scattered before his blades. He took out several, chopping their heads off as he passed, delighting in the feel of hot blood splashing on his face. He turned his horse around to face the gates again, watching as his soldiers climbed the stairs to attack the Northmen that were stationed there.

  He knew the kings would be there, those Jarls who stood against him like Jarl Borg had so long ago. Through his rage, he spotted the largest of them. He raised his blades, shouting to his enemy in challenge. The Northman turned in his direction just after chopping a soldier in half with his axe.

  Next to him was a woman; a golden haired beauty that would make a nice prize. She too turned in his direction, and as they both cried out to their gods, they leaped over the chaos on top of the gate and bound down the stairs.

  T’kar laughed, charging toward them atop his mighty horse. The woman’s bow was out, and she fired an arrow at him. It whizzed by T’kar’s head, and he leaped off of his horse in response, charging the two with his blades poised.

  “Death to you!” the Northman growled, swinging that massive axe in the air. T’kar ducked, spinning around to slash with both blades. The Northman was quick—much quicker than T’kar had expected—but the woman was not. Her bow was shattered with the impact and she was knocked back. But, to T’kar’s surprise, she sprang back up to rejoin her companion almost as quickly as she had fallen.

  The giant Northman charged again, swinging his axe from side to side. T’kar backed away, dodging an attack from the woman as well. She too was quick to attack. T’kar would have to take her out as soon as possible.

  He had enough slaves.

  Randar could hear the battle outside and was relieved to know that T’kar was coming to lay waste to the fortress. The loud crashes told him that Grongor’s giants had also arrived and had smashed the front gates. He could only hope that they had killed the bastard Jarls that had imprisoned him, and the Alvar who had captured him.