Onyx Dragon (Book 1) (19 page)

Eamon and his Knights pressed on, each of them engaging in coordinated offensive and defensive strategies. They fought well together, each complimenting the others’ fighting styles.

Wrothgaar sang happily as he chopped the Jindala to bits with his great axe. Brynn switched seamlessly between bow and sword, dropping his enemies with each arrow or slash of his blade. Erenoth fought in human form, his twin blades flashing and slashing as they spun in the air. Angen was an unstoppable automaton with his giant blade, shrugging off blows and chopping the Jindala down with his wide sweeps.

The Knights of the Dragon had been reborn, and the current lot was an incredibly deadly force.

The Dragon would be proud.

Siobhan had watched as Maedoc cast himself into the enemy army, sacrificing his own life to give strength to her son’s warriors. She wept as she watched him die, exploding into a chaotic, yet beautiful, vortex of energy. Deep in her heart, however, she knew that his sacrifice was yet to be fully realized.

Though he had cast a healing spell over the troops, and used the last of his power to destroy a large portion of the enemy forces, his primary purpose was unknown. He had taken three scrolls with him. Only two spells had been obvious, the third would be revealed when the time was right.

She knew her brother well.

“A shame, really,” a voice came from behind her. Siobhan drew her sword, turning to seek out who had spoken.

A tall man in a red and gold tunic and golden armor had somehow entered the study and was standing before her. She could only guess that he employed some sort of magic to obtain entry.

“Who are you?” she demanded, holding her sword out in front of her.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, massaging the stump where his left hand should be. “I am Tyrus, Sultan of Khem. I represent the Lifegiver. The one true God.”

“Then you represent nothing,” Siobhan spat. “There are no Gods. Only the Firstborn. And your Lifegiver is not one of them.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Tyrus said. “He is greater than the Firstborn. He is not of this world like they are. He comes from a higher plane of existence. Your Firstborn are merely life forms who crawled out of the muck as we did. Who are they to proclaim their dominance?”

“They give life to this world,” Siobhan reminded him. “They are its soul. Your God comes from the outside.”

“From another dimension,” Tyrus corrected, walking in slow circles around the Queen. “One of negative energy. The Lifegiver is a supreme being in that dimension, and his nature and intellect allowed him to open a gate into this world, into this...universe. It is through this bridge that he is able to gather this world’s energy and use it to strengthen himself.”

“And the Defilers?”

“Mere tools,” Tyrus answered. “Not important. They are here to steal energy from the life forms on this planet on a smaller scale. The Lifegiver feeds upon the Earth itself, upon these Firstborn and their Mother.”

“And what of you?” Siobhan demanded. “You are part of this world, are you not?”

“Of course,” Tyrus answered, smiling. “I was born of a woman, just as we all are. But I have gained power beyond the capabilities of a mere mortal through service to the Lifegiver. I have served him for thousands of years, and helped him gain entry into this Universe. For that, he has rewarded me greatly.”

Siobhan lowered her sword, not seeing the point in threatening Tyrus with it. “Then why are you here now?” she asked.

“I wanted to meet you,” he explained. “I wanted to lay eyes upon the mother of the Dragon.”

“Why? So you can kill me?”

“No,” Tyrus said, slowly approaching her. “I wish you no harm. I am here to persuade you to surrender. We can all live in peace. Your sister saw this, and did not resist. Why do you resist?”

“My sister is a weakling. She has no honor.”

Tyrus laughed. “Yes, you are correct. But you have honor, and are a great leader. Your people would follow you willingly. They would accept the Lifegiver’s rule if you did. Your sister’s people do not respect her, because she does not love them as a Queen should. She sees them as tools for her amusement and status. You are different.”

Siobhan held her sword out again, this time pointing it straight at Tyrus’ face. “I will rule my people under the care and love of the Dragon. Nothing more, nothing less. Now, leave from this place. Tell your master that I will never submit. We will fight to the death if need be, rather than condemn ourselves to an eternity of servitude.”

Tyrus smiled again, nodding approvingly. “You are a great Queen,” he said. “I have much respect for you. If you change your mind, I will look forward to spending time with you in the Lifegiver’s Paradise.”

“Not likely,” she replied. “I prefer my men to have both of their hands intact.”

Tyrus held up his stump. “Courtesy of your son,” he said. “Quite the swordsman. He is a worthy opponent, but, like you, will submit eventually. The Lifegiver will heal my wounds, as he will yours, if you wish. For now, I will leave. But remember me, Siobhan. You will see me again.”

“If I see you again, I will be the last thing you ever see.”

Tyrus laughed again, stroking his beard.

“You are a rare creature, Queen Siobhan. You have my respect.”

With that, Tyrus faded from sight. Siobhan sheathed her sword, unsure as to whether the conversation had even happened. She sighed, going back to the window to watch the battle continue.

The battle raged on into the early morning. The forces of Morduin had managed to drive the Jindala back out of the crag basin and into the open fields. The bulk of the enemy army was still there, but they had lost much ground to the Prince and his Knights.

The rangers had once again flanked the Jindala and were firing volleys at the rear ranks, where the leaders cowered among their men. Daryth, however, stayed close to the melee, not wanting to leave the Prince’s presence. With his bow, he was complimenting the deadly skill of Eamon’s forces.

“Push them back!” Eamon shouted above the cacophony of clashing swords. “Show them no mercy!”

Eamon dodged as a Jindala spear was thrust at his head. He grabbed the weapon with his right hand, pulling its owner toward him and into his outstretched sword. Pulling his weapon free, he struck off the man’s head and ran another through with the same attack.

He looked to Wrothgaar, who had lifted an enemy above his head and slammed him to the ground. The Northman picked up his axe and finished him off with a quick chop to the chest.

Brynn had his bow in one hand, and his sword in the other, using the missile weapon to fend off attacks, while slashing with his jeweled blade. His skill was formidable, and with the protection of the dragon armor, he seemed invincible.

Suddenly, a horn sounded in the distance, blasting above the chaotic sounds of battle. Wrothgaar heard the familiar sound, pulling his axe from the skull of a Jindala warrior as he looked to the Prince.

“I know that sound!” he called. “My people have come!”

Eamon looked to the North in the direction of the horn. Indeed, a large army of Northman approached on horseback and on foot. There were cavalry, spearmen, axmen, and what looked to be—

Maedoc!

The seer rode ahead of the Northmen, leading them alongside a larger man in full Northern armor. They charged furiously, the men behind them riding or running at full speed, blasting their horns and shouting in anticipation of the battle.

“My father!” Wrothgaar exclaimed. “Maedoc has found him!”

Eamon laughed at the sight of Maedoc. The old man looked out of place on the battlefield, yet he saw a fierce look on his face as he gained ground and approached the melee. With a burst of light, missiles of blue energy shot from his staff, exploding into the Jindala’s ranks, scattering them before the horsemen finally clashed into the enemy’s lines.

The soldiers of Morduin cheered as the Northmen plowed through the Jindala. Eamon urged his Knights forward, driving the surprised enemy into the attacking Northmen. They had made their entrance, taking out almost half of the enemy forces with their first charge.

Now Ulrich and his men rode through the battle, chopping at the heads of the enemy with their axes, impaling them with their spears, or simply tearing them limb from limb.

Eamon was impressed with the ferocity the Northmen showed, realizing that such savagery was commonplace among their warriors. He looked to his Northman friend, watching as he batted soldiers away with his axe, singing his tribe’s songs as he sent the enemy to Hell. The Prince was glad to have his friend’s people on his side.

Then the Defiler returned.

The creature reared up from the ranks of the Jindala, its robes swirling around it and flying apart as it howled its fury. The beast’s true form was hideous; twelve feet tall, skeletal, with tightly stretched grey skin and sinew that made it appear as an emaciated man. Its head was elongated, the wide mouth lined with long, transparent teeth. It had no eyes, only empty sockets that glowed red with the fury of its evil. Along its back, four tentacles swirled and struck the ground like scorpion tails.

The Northmen concentrated their attack on the creature, striking when they could, and dodging the tentacles and razor sharp claws. Several of them fell at the creature’s feet, slashed by the claws or drained of energy. It seemed that even when the Defiler wasn’t using its power, it still passively drew life from anything around it.

Brynn charged the beast, his unearthly sword gleaming in the morning sun. As the young Knight approached, the Defiler crouched into its attack position, conjuring its life drawing power. The air swirled around it, causing all of the surrounding men—even the Jindala—to flee. Brynn shouted at his allies to get out of the way, and kicked and slashed at any Jindala he could, trying to knock them into the Defiler’s path.

Daryth saw Brynn run for the Defiler, not knowing that the man was immune to its power. The ranger had seen the creature’s destructive ability, and wouldn’t wish such a death on anyone, much less a friend.

The ranger pulled back his bow, calling on its power. The bowstring shimmered as it was pulled, and Daryth could feel it heating up as it charged. He released, sending his arrow straight for the Defiler’s heart—or where its heart should be.

Brynn was reared to attack when he saw Daryth’s arrow streak above him and strike the Defiler square in the chest. The beast groaned, looking down at the arrow as it quivered from the impact. As the men of both sides looked on, the Defiler slowly fell to its knees. Another arrow streaked by, striking right next to the first. The Defiler let out an unearthly shriek, flailing its tentacles about as its armored flesh began to wither. Brynn struck the final blow, lopping off the vile beast’s head with his sword.

Eamon turned to find the source of the two arrows. He saw Daryth, poised to fire another shot as he watched the Defiler fall to the ground. The ranger had killed the Defiler with two arrows before it could release its life draining attack. He looked at Eamon, clenching his fist in triumph.

Eamon nodded in respect, turning back to the beast as it began to disintegrate. The Jindala, seeing their greatest weapon destroyed, began to flee.

As the enemy ran, the mounted Northmen gave chase, cutting some of them down before turning back to join the rest of the triumphant force. Eamon climbed the nearest rock, standing high to see the whole of his army. He looked toward the enemy, watching them sprint across the plains to flee from the battle. He would let them escape this time.

Eamon then turned back to his army, seeing the men clasp each other’s hands in victory. The Prince raised the Serpent’s Tongue into the air.

“Morduin!” he shouted.

The armies cheered, howling in glory. They had defeated the enemy and driven them off. Morduin was safe.

Wrothgaar searched the cheering men for his tribesmen. He saw his father upon his horse, bloodied but alive, and went to greet him, gently pushing past his allies to get close.

“Father,” he said. Ulrich dismounted, embracing his son.

“My boy,” Ulrich announced with pride, “I am glad to see you still walk among the living.”

“Likewise,” Wrothgaar grinned.

The older man looked at Wrothgaar’s armor curiously, giving his son a questioning glance.

“I am a Knight of the Dragon now, father,” Wrothgaar said. “I ride with Prince Eamon, The Onyx Dragon.”

Ulrich grunted. “A Knight, eh? Well, sir Knight, how about fetching me some mead? I’m damn thirsty.”

The other Northmen laughed, slapping Wrothgaar on the back in greeting.

“Take me to this Onyx Dragon,” Ulrich requested. “I want to meet him.”

“Yes,” Wrothgaar said. “Come, he is anxious to meet you.”

Eamon watched the huge Northman approach, accompanied by his equally huge son. The man clasped Eamon’s hand in friendship.

“I am Ulrich, Jarl of the Tribe of the Wolf.”

“Eamon,” the Prince replied. “Heir to the throne of Eirenoch. It is good to finally meet you.”

“And you as well,” Ulrich said. “I thank your Queen for sending her soldiers to my settlements. I look forward to meeting her.”