Onyx Dragon (Book 1) (10 page)

“That’s the way it looks,” Eamon sighed.

“Again, after you.”

The two men, led by only the faint red glow, made their way into the temple.

The hunters had watched the men enter the temple, and were happy to see that the Dragon had allowed it. That fact alone convinced the hunters that the two men were friendly and that the Dragon trusted them. And if the Dragon trusted them, the hunters would trust them as well. With the land in danger, as they knew it was, the two men, especially the strange one in black, would make excellent allies.

The hunters agreed that they would make contact soon. If these men were allies of the Dragon, then it was their duty to serve them. They had served the Dragon for thousands of years, and would extend that honor to his other allies.

The hunters left Dol Drakkar. Though they would not return to the temple any time soon, they would seek out the two men again when the time was right. The hunters hoped that, with the arrival of the men, the Onyx Dragon would return and lay waste to the enemy. They looked forward to fighting at his side again.

The layout of the temple was fairly straightforward. A long hallway led to a large round chamber, built from the same black stone, with censers arranged along the walls. Their shallow bowls were filled with a strange substance that glowed red, providing the ambient light that led their way. There was no smoke rising from them, only the faint glow that gave the chamber its eerie, warm atmosphere.

Along the walls, between each censer, were more dragon statues. Each of them was depicted in a relaxed pose, with its wings folded and its head lowered as if they were bowing. Eamon looked at each statue in turn, noting the names that were engraved on silver plates attached to the pedestals.

“Daegoth,” Eamon read, recognizing the name. “He was the first to wield the Serpent’s Tongue.”

“Your ancestor?” Wrothgaar asked.

Eamon nodded. “The first to be known as the Onyx Dragon. All of these statues must represent the past Kings who took that name. Sons of the Dragon himself. My brothers.”

“Why are they depicted as dragons?” Wrothgaar wondered out loud.

“To demonstrate their power or bloodline, I would assume,” Eamon answered

Wrothgaar went to the North end of the chamber, eyeing a door that was sealed with another hand lock mechanism.

“Here,” he said. “Another door.”

Eamon joined Wrothgaar and placed his hand in the depression. The door unlocked, this time opening outward on well balanced hinges that moved smoothly and without noise. The hallway beyond was well lit and lined with black and amber stones. The upper and lower corners were trimmed in black onyx slabs, carved with familiar designs.

“These are the same runes that were carved in Jodocus’ tower,” Eamon said, feeling their texture with his outstretched hand.

Wrothgaar studied the runes, still not sure of their meaning, but recognizing them as well.

The two continued down the hallway, eager to see what lie ahead. Their way was lit by torches that glowed with magical blue light, similar to Jodocus’ staff. The ceiling was vaulted, rising upward at an angle in the center, with cross beams of stone that were likewise carved with strange symbols. Both men realized that they were going downhill at a slight angle.

At its end, the hallway opened to another chamber, round like the chamber they had just left, with a wide staircase in the center. The walls were painted with scenes of battle, depicting former Kings leading their armies against the forces of darkness. Each King was dressed in fearsome-looking armor, wielding the same sword. And each was accompanied by six other men that bore similar armor.

“These must be the Knights of the Dragon,” Eamon exclaimed. “And that is the Serpent’s Tongue.”

“I’ve never seen a sword like it,” Wrothgaar remarked. “The blade is strange. Almost alive. But it doesn’t look the same in any of the paintings.”

“It’s magical,” Eamon explained. “Maybe it molds itself to the type of sword its wielder is accustomed to.”

Wrothgaar glanced at Eamon’s own sword, which was curved, with a long handle. Not the typical straight-bladed sword of Eamon’s own people, but more akin to the swords of the East.

“I wonder what it would look like as an axe,” Wrothgaar mused

After the men had studied the murals sufficiently, they investigated the staircase. Its banisters were carved with dragon scales, and the treads were smooth and black. The entire staircase appeared to be carved from a single piece of onyx.

The two began to descend, taking one step at a time into the blackness below. Wrothgaar counted twenty eight steps before the two reached the bottom, where a small square room suddenly lit up with the blue light of magical torches. This time, the torches were held by cloaked figures standing on either side of a door emblazoned with the insignia of the Knights of the Dragon.

They were tall, but slightly hunched over, and their faces could not be seen under their cowls. Their general shape underneath the cloaks seemed odd, as if they were not entirely human.

“Northman,” one of the figures spoke, its voice a harsh whisper that resonated like many voices speaking at once. “You may go no further.”

Wrothgaar didn’t protest, but instead backed away as the two figures opened the large door and beckoned Eamon inside.

The Prince turned to his friend, placing his hand on the Northman’s arm in assurance. “It will be alright,” he said. “Wait here. I will return.”

Wrothgaar nodded, watching his friend disappear into the doorway. The two figures remained, closing the door behind Eamon, and turning to face Wrothgaar.

“You may explore the tower if that is your wish,” one of them spoke. “You are welcome as a friend of the Dragon. You will not be harmed in any way.”

“Thank you,” Wrothgaar said, nervously. “I will remain here, though, and wait for my friend’s return.”

“If that is your wish, so be it.”

Wrothgaar turned to sit on the bottom step, opening his pack to retrieve some dried deer. He calmly and silently chewed his food, all the while keeping his eye on the two figures as they entered the door and closed it behind them.

Eamon reached a point where the hallway split off into three corridors. One sloped downward at a steep angle, where the familiar red glow was warm and bright. The other smaller corridors were level, and curved to the North. He hesitated before he started forward down the center corridor to descend into the temple. Along the other corridors, he heard the faint sound of footsteps.

He stopped and turned, seeing two more cloaked figures emerge from the corridors and take their place behind him. The two who had been guarding the door trailed them. He swallowed in fear, not knowing what to expect from these strangers, and continued down.

At the bottom of the stairs, two more figures were stationed on either side of the door. As he passed them, they joined the four that followed and fell in place behind him.

The chamber he had entered was larger than the previous two. It had a sloped ceiling, supported by columns of black stone. On the opposite side of the chamber was a large throne, also carved of black stone, and adorned with dagger-like spikes, dragon claw feet, and two giant horns supporting the back. It rested upon an ornate pedestal, with a single stair that was decorated in blue gems and silver plating.

Before the throne was another figure, this one appearing as a man. He was dressed in a black tunic, similar to Eamon’s own, with black pants, and black leather leggings. His clothes were trimmed in dark blue leather and the vest he wore over his tunic was scaled like dragon skin. The man’s hair was black, long and flowing, with the bangs swept back and tied up behind his head. He could see that the man’s eyes were light blue, and that his ears were slightly pointed. At each of his sides were curved short swords of gleaming steel, each with carved onyx handles.

“Greeting, Eamon,” the man spoke, his voice soft and pleasant. “I am Erenoth, High Priest of Drakkar, and servant of the Dragon. We have been waiting for you. Welcome, my brother.”

The Priests behind Eamon also spoke, in unison, “Welcome, Brother.”

Erenoth approached Eamon, circling him and inspecting his armor and sword. “You bear a striking resemblance to your ancestor, Daegoth,” Erenoth said. “The Dragon will be pleased. He awaits you.”

Erenoth returned to his place near the throne. He clapped his hands, signaling the other Priests to stand on either side.

“Sit upon the throne, my brother,” Erenoth said. “This is how you will communicate with our Father.”

Eamon reluctantly approached the throne, keeping his eye on Erenoth, who stood, patiently smiling.

“Do not fear,” the Priest assured him. “After your communion, you will be one with the Dragon, and you will wield his power.”

The Prince ascended the short riser to the throne, turning to Erenoth and locking eyes as he sat down.

Within seconds, Eamon could feel himself drifting off to sleep, his spirit lifting from his body as it was drawn into the Dragon’s realm.

Farouk stared at Gallot in confusion. There was no sign of the small army of Jindala that he was expecting to see. There were no flags signaling the capture of the town, and no Jindala guards posted anywhere outside. The citizens of the small town went on with their daily lives, as if nothing had happened.

From the south side of the town, Farouk could not see the bodies of the soldiers that had been killed by the Mordumarc, nor did he know that the Queen’s army rode to meet with the larger group headed toward Morduin.

Farouk was at a loss. Azim, sharing his brother’s confusion, came to his side. “Farouk,” he said. “How do we proceed?”

“I do not know,” Farouk answered, shaking his head. “I am not sure whether we should capture the town, or proceed to Morduin as planned. We were supposed to join with the army that was here, but they are nowhere to be found.”

“Perhaps they became lost,” Azim offered. “Or they met with enemies beyond their skill.”

“The latter is more likely,” Farouk surmised. “I’ve no doubt that these people are more skilled and united than those of the Southern Kingdom.”

“I would say that we pray for guidance, but I do not think that would help.”

Farouk regarded his brother’s statement, wondering if Azim was of like mind. Farouk did not feel the influence of the Lifegiver anymore, and his motivation to take over the island was lost. Did Azim feel the same way?

“We are far enough from the town to stay hidden,” Farouk said. “We will send scouts to the north edge. They may find some answers.”

“Agreed,” Azim said. “I will dispatch them immediately.”

Farouk nodded, still scanning the town for any sign of his comrades. They were gone, or had never made it. Either way, the town was still unoccupied. Farouk wondered it would make any difference.

Khalid would no doubt conquer Taryn with the help of the Defiler, and the other group, who split from the missing Gallot group, would easily cut off the Western escape routes of Morduin. With another Defiler in their ranks, Morduin would fall without resistance should the Queen decide to refuse submission. Gallot was of no consequence.

In any case, a small army of Jindala was missing, and Farouk was at a loss. Even more so than before.

Chapter Ten

Near the mountains North of Morduin, Kuros looked upon the bodies of Balidor’s company of rangers. Their corpses were few, scattered here and there, and small hints of ash coated the surrounding dead foliage. The remaining body parts were twisted and burned, and any bones that remained were dried and crumbled, as if they had lain in the ground for centuries.

Something terrible had come southward and had slipped behind Kuros’ company as they observed the caravan. Something that utterly wiped out this company of rangers, and was most likely somewhere nearby.

Daryth and the other men picked through the remains of the dead rangers and the slain Jindala, trying to discern what could have caused such destruction. There were only boot prints of enemy soldiers, and a set of larger prints with three toes and what appeared to be a claw at the heel.

“An odd print,” Daryth remarked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Neither have I,” Kuros replied. “Whoever or whatever the print belongs to is something that wields great power. Look at how the soil has been scorched. It is dry and barren.”

“And the plants around it have been withered and drained of life,” Daryth added. “What manner of creature could do this?”

“Nothing that I know of, Daryth,” Kuros admitted. “I’ve seen many strange beings in my life, but I know of none that can cause this kind of destruction. It is almost demonic.”

“What should we do?” Daryth asked.

“We must return to the forest around Morduin,” Kuros said. “The caravan will reach the city soon. I can only guess where the army that attacked these rangers went. To the coast perhaps? If they had went straight for Morduin, we would have seen them. Send another messenger through the caverns to inform the Queen and her soldiers. I only hope that Fergis will arrive soon with the Mordumarc. We will need them to protect the city.”