Onyx Dragon (Book 1) (8 page)

They talked and laughed along the way, each telling stories of their homeland, and their victories in battle. When the short rests came, they often sparred, keeping themselves sharp and prepared for any upcoming conflicts they might face. That readiness was a blessing as they reached an open area along the trail.

At the very edge of the forest, the two spied a small camp off in the distance. A single fire burned, and the two could make out several figures kneeling around it. Wrothgaar dismounted and crouched down at the edge of the trail near the underbrush, squinting to get a sharper view.

“Ten men,” he said. “Not natives. The same dress and armor as the bodies we found around the Banshee’s lair.”

“Jindala,” Eamon growled. “Why are they here?”

“They must have broken off from the group that destroyed the banshee. Are there any towns nearby?”

Eamon thought for a moment. “No towns,” he replied. “But there’s a lumber mill to the West, near the river. They must have killed the men that work the mill and left these men here as a garrison.”

“This would be a good time to demonstrate our skills in battle,” Wrothgaar said flatly, an expression of excitement spreading across his face.

“Let’s do it.”

The two tethered their horses to nearby trees and drew their weapons, making their way toward the camp. Though their skills at stealth were not as sharp as a ranger’s, the two managed to approach within a few dozen feet of the camp before they were spotted.

The lookout pulled out his bow as he saw the two men and shouted for his companions. His call barely escaped his lips before Wrothgaar’s axe spun at him through the air and split his face in two.

Eamon jumped up immediately, charging the remaining Jindala. Wrothgaar retrieved his axe and joined him, roaring like a beast as he swung wide. One Jindala warrior was beheaded with a single stroke. The others dodged, regrouping and spreading out to surround the two friends.

Wrothgaar and Eamon stood back-to-back in the center of the circle. The enemies attacked at random, striking viciously with their swords. Eamon easily parried their blows, and Wrothgaar simply brushed them aside with his gauntlets. The Northmen sang as he fought, prompting the Prince to smile as he parried.

A larger Jindala came at the Prince with dual swords, spinning them in a dance-like attack. Eamon blocked one strike, sending a foot into the attacker’s gut. The man doubled over in pain, and Eamon struck off his head. Continuing the stroke, Eamon’s sword spun and arced upward behind him, impaling a charging man through his ribcage.

Wrothgaar was equally deadly, splitting a man through the side, and backstroking into another attacker’s hip. Both went down in lifeless heaps. The blood of the battle splattered wildly, covering the two friends and the trees that surrounded them.

Four attackers remained circling them. They shifted nervously, waiting for either of the two friends to strike. Wrothgaar grinned, muttering something in his native tongue, and patting his free hand with his axe. Eamon kept his fighting stance, waiting for the attackers to resume. They did not.

Without warning, the four men turned and bounded off into the forest. Wrothgaar began to give chase, and Eamon, seeing him charge, followed. The Jindala bound aimlessly through the forest with the two men after them, desperately trying to get away.

Suddenly, a volley of arrows whizzed past the two friends, each striking a fleeing Jindala in the back. All four of the enemies fell to the ground. Eamon and Wrothgaar stopped, crouching, their eyes darting all around them to locate the unexpected attackers.

There was no one to be seen.

“Who goes there?” Eamon shouted. There was no response. “I am Eamon, Prince of The Northern Kingdom. Show yourselves.”

Still nothing.

Wrothgaar turned to Eamon, whispering. “I hear nothing.”

Eamon shook his head.

The two remained crouched for the moment, listening closely for any sign or sound of their unexpected allies. After a minute of silence, Eamon called again, “Show yourself.”

When there was, again, no response, Eamon turned to Wrothgaar. “Let’s go. Stay sharp. Whoever is out there may not be entirely friendly.”

Wrothgaar nodded and followed as the Prince bounded off to return to the horses. Though he was not comfortable knowing that something had been watching them, he felt a little safer knowing whoever or whatever their hidden watchers were, they were also enemies of the Jindala.

When the two humans had mounted their horses and left the area, the hunters spread out to gather their arrows. Their small, cloaked bodies made no sound as they passed through the underbrush. Each hunter plucked his arrow from the body of his target, and disappeared into the trees as quickly as they had come.

The lumber mill appeared deserted as Eamon and Wrothgaar approached a few minutes later. There were no sounds of wood being cut, no boiling pots of stew over the ovens, and no sign of the millers or their families.

The two men dismounted, readying their weapons. They would have to circle the mill silently, being careful not to alert any enemies that may be around. Eamon signaled for Wrothgaar to take the right and meet him on the other side. The Northman nodded, taking his route around the mill.

Eamon circled slowly, listening closely for any movement. He heard only the distant chirping of birds, and the occasional squirrel chatter. The mill seemed abandoned.

When Eamon rounded the last corner, he saw the bodies. The decapitated corpses of the millers and their families were lined up in a row, their heads tossed casually aside. They had been bound, with their hands tied behind their back, and they lie face down in the dirt. Thick pools of decaying blood coagulated on the ground, and the smell of death still hung in the air.

Wrothgaar appeared around the opposite corner, still crouched in a stalking position. He saw Eamon’s face and followed his gaze down to the bodies. The Northman froze, expressionless, as he saw the carnage. He briefly considered their last moments, and the terror they must have felt watching each other die in such a gruesome fashion.

“These poor people,” Eamon said, his face a mask of sorrow. “My people. My subjects. How could I allow this to happen?”

Wrothgaar straightened, regarding his friend with sympathy. “We have avenged them, my friend,” he said. “And we will avenge the deaths of all who have fallen to the blades of the Jindala”

Eamon sheathed his sword, stoically maintaining his anger. “I have to bury them,” Eamon whispered. “They deserve a proper burial. They milled wood from this forest without disturbing its balance. Even the rangers did not concern themselves with them. There was no need.”

Wrothgaar said nothing, but grabbed a pair of shovels that leaned against the side of the mill. He handed one to Eamon, who took it grudgingly. The two began digging.

The hunters had followed the men to the mill, where they were now burying the bodies of the
Peaceful Ones.
The two seemed sad, particularly the one dressed in all black. Black, like the Priest named Erenoth. Was this a friend of Erenoth? Who was he? Who was the large man with the strange horns and the axe that seemed to have a life of its own?

The hunters discussed these questions among themselves, all the while watching the men bury the dead. They all lamented not arriving in time to save the
Peaceful Ones,
but they took solace in the fact that the two men had avenged them. Clearly, these two men were friends of the forest, and must be kept safe.

The hunters would protect them.

Chapter Eight

Farouk led his men northward, toward Gallot, where he would meet up with another group of soldiers. The two groups would then join forces, with Farouk as their commander, and march to Morduin. There, the five groups, combined, would lay siege to the city, bringing the Northern kingdom to its knees.

Still, in his heart, Farouk felt that same sense of loss that overtook him upon stepping onto shore. Now, however, he did not feel alone. He noticed that half of his men, Azim included, seemed distant and occupied. It was as if a cloud of doubt and infidelity had surrounded them all. Nevertheless, he remained quiet.

Azim marched ahead of him, cheerfully prodding the tired men on, as was his method. The younger brother had always been easy going, much like their father, and never treated those below him with disrespect. He was a great soldier, a loving husband to his wife back home, and a wise and fair father to his children. He was an honorable man.

Both brothers were unlike the other leaders within the ranks of the Jindala; having never been cruel or violent to a defenseless enemy. Even when capturing cities and converting their citizens to the worship of the Lifegiver, they both did so by non-violent means; offering to let the people retain their freedom if they willingly submitted. Such were his ways, and Azim’s.

Now, however, since the god that they had worshipped their entire lives, Imbra, had come to the Earth in the flesh, both Azim and Farouk had noticed a vast difference in his ways. Their loving and merciful god was not as he was perceived or described in scripture. He was, in reality, a cruel and violent god; commanding his flock to spread his word by the sword. He had reversed, it seemed, the gift of free will that he had bestowed upon his people.

Such thoughts disheartened the Jindala Captain, adding to his inner turmoil, and slowly draining his faith. It was a prospect that terrified and repulsed him at the same time.

What was this land doing to him?

“Farouk!” Azim called to him. “The cliff ends ahead. Should we cross there?”

Farouk looked past his brother to the end of the shore, where the cliff gradually sloped downward to meet the level ground.

“Yes,” he replied. “And prepare the men for prayer. The time is approaching.”

Azim nodded, commanding the men forward. They would rest at the water’s edge and cross the river after prayer. It would be another grueling day of marching before reaching Gallot. Once there, the remaining soldiers that had garrisoned the city would provide the hospitality Farouk’s men needed. Perhaps the native women of the city would be hospitable, as well.

Wrothgaar admired the unique architecture of the ancient bridge that crossed over above them. Though crumbled and ruined, it still retained its elegance, craftsmanship, and beauty. Even from below, the Northman could appreciate all of these qualities.

“How old is it?” he asked Eamon, attempting to take the Prince’s mind off of the millers.

“I’m not sure,” Eamon replied. “Maedoc says it’s at least three to four thousand years old. I believe it was built by the Firbolga when the river was wider.”

Wrothgaar continued to admire it as they passed underneath and approached the river’s rapids. The river came from the mountains surrounding Dol Drakkar and, at this point, ran downhill to an area near Jodocus’ tower miles away. From here on, the journey would be uphill.

“We will stay alongside the river,” Eamon said. “It comes out of a spring near the temple, and if we follow it, we should be riding straight for Dol Drakkar.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Wrothgaar replied.

The rapids continued increasing in strength as Eamon and Wrothgaar made their way up the slope. From this distance, Dol Drakkar came into view, its tower visible over the peaks. Both men stared in awe at its strikingly dark stone, made even darker and more foreboding by the gray, overcast sky. The tower’s peak was missing, having broken off many hundreds of years ago. It was indeed an ancient tower, from a time when worship of the Dragon was more commonplace, and its brutal architecture served as a reminder to the Dragon’s power.

As they reached the peak, where the river became a low waterfall, the two men could make out the remains of an ancient set of stairs. Once elegant and skillfully carved, the steps were now cracked and crumbled with age. Stray weeds poked up from in between the various cracks, and vines had grown along its short, narrow walls. To their left, the spring that fed the river spewed from a large crack in the mountainside.

Eamon stopped short at the top, urging Wrothgaar to follow his gaze. “There it is.”

The two men looked down over the valley where the temple stood, finally in full view. Dol Drakkar lie in ruin, with the tower being the only remaining vertical structure. The temple itself was carved into the shape of a dragon’s skull, with the fanged, open mouth serving as the main entrance. Like the ancient staircase, the temple was overgrown with weeds, vines, and other wretched-looking foliage. It was a fearsome scene.

Surrounding the foreboding structure were the ruins of an ancient city, built in a series of concentric circles. Though once bustling with life, all that remained now were crumbled walls and rubble, spread out like a macabre maze around the tower. Fortunately, the road to the temple was clear, so navigating through the maze would be unnecessary. The prospect of strolling through such a desolate and seemingly inhospitable environment did not appeal to either of the two men.

“It’s frightening,” Wrothgaar exclaimed. “More frightening than I ever imagined.”

Eamon nodded, urging his horse forward. “Not a very pleasant place, I agree, but I do not imagine it’s very dangerous,” he said. “Other than any wildlife that may inhabit the old city, it’s probably empty.”