The Ascent (Book 2) (26 page)

Sobbing, he leaned his head forward, rowing stoically toward his fate. A fate that could very well end in his death. Perhaps if that occurred, he would see Imbra again.

He could only hope.

Below the surface of the sea at the southern shore, the Enkhatar slowly trudged along the silt, heading toward the land. They were oblivious of the fish that swam around them curiously, and the darkness did not cause them to falter. Their undead bodies walked ceaselessly and effortlessly through the water, never looking back, never losing their focus. They crossed massive ruts and valleys in the sea floor, never slowing their pace, and never turning to avoid obstacles. They were completely unaffected by anything that crossed their path.

At last, after several hours, their armored heads rose above the waves. They continued trudging up the shore until their feet reached the sandy beach. Hundreds of claw prints and drag marks marred the sand, indicating the passing of the horde of mindless undead that had landed here earlier.

Within mere seconds of making landfall, the Enkhatar sensed the presence of their target; the Sword of Sulemain. They could almost smell its blade, and the power it carried. It was in the vicinity of several other enchanted blades that they also sensed. One forged by the Dragon himself, another forged by Kronos. Still another was present, but its power was unknown to them. They would find them all, and destroy their owners.

That was their purpose.

The ten giant, black soulless warriors disappeared into the night, their purpose clear, and their presence a bad omen to the shaman that watched them trudge by like walking statues of obsidian. She felt their darkness as they passed, and it unsettled her greatly. She feared them, and their power. They would destroy everything in their path, and leave none alive, she knew. They had no hearts, no souls, and no morals. They would seek their target, and let nothing stand in their way. They would not stop, ever, until they got what they came for.

They had arrived, and darkness had come with them.

Wrothgaar leaned against the railing of the guard tower, staring out over the plains below. The night was calm, cool, and quiet, and he enjoyed the solitude he felt. He felt the need to come here alone to gather his thoughts and isolate himself from the others. In his heart, he was worried for Eamon, and he didn't want the others to see. His best friend had gone through a divine transformation, and given strength he had never dreamed of having. From his own myths, Wrothgaar knew that such a transformation was never easy on anyone. Even his own gods, who had ascended above humanity with the blessing of Kronos, felt the burden of their new responsibilities. Eamon would be no different.

Though he knew Eamon was a strong man, and an honorable warrior, he had seen how absolute power had the uncanny ability to corrupt even the most pious. It would typically either corrupt them, or destroy them. He wanted neither one for his friend. As a Knight of the Dragon, it was his duty to protect and follow the Onyx Dragon, and he would do so until the end of his days, but a small part of him worried that Eamon would stray from his path as many of the gods had. Toli, for example, was once a humble illusionist who had been given the power of a god, and it destroyed the man he once was. He became the god of mischief and trickery in the Northern lands. Asvelt, the god of the hunt, was once a wild game hunter and trader, and became malevolent with his ascent. Such were the ways of men.

Wrothgaar sighed. He would do what he was bound by oath; to follow Eamon in his quest, and serve the Dragon faithfully. It was his destiny, and his duty.

Despite the victory they had achieved here, the Northman knew that the battle was not yet over. The next step would be to take Faerbane, and allow Eamon to claim the throne and unite the kingdoms under one crown. Somehow, he sensed, there was something wrong. He could not guess what it was, but the feeling was inescapable.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Perhaps he simply needed rest. The knights had won today, and the Order was now complete. Brianna was the sixth and final knight, and there was no question that she was worthy of bearing the title. She fit in well. Her ferocity in battle was matched only by the women of his own country, especially against their own husbands.

He laughed to himself, remembering the story he had told Eamon about his uncle, the smith who had been killed in his sleep by his own wife. It wasn't the first time such a thing happened, and it wouldn't be the last. That was just the way things were, and that would never change.

Wrothgaar looked up into the heavens, hoping that his father had successfully defeated the army that had marched to Gaellos. In his heart, he knew that Ulrich had. His father was undefeated in battle. But, then again, all warriors are until the end.

"Rest well, Father," he said. "Rest well until the Valkyries carry you to Valhalla."

Epilogue

The sun shined down on the shore near the city of Faerbane. The river delta was peaceful, and the water, after going over several small falls, flowed out to sea with a pleasant trickling sound. Seagulls lined the beach, pecking at crabs and other small creatures, and flying about in circles in the sky above.

A beautiful woman walked the beach, casually strolling in the pleasant morning air. She wore a flowing white gown that trailed behind her, billowing gently in the wind. Upon her head she wore a crown of white lilies tied together in a primitive, yet, crude fashion. She laughed and smiled as she walked, enjoying the feel of the wet sand between her toes, and light surf that rolled over her feet.

As she passed the flocks of gulls, they watched her curiously. They were not afraid, as they knew she meant them no harm. They felt her innocence, and the pure love that she exuded.

As she neared the rocks that lined the mouth of the river, she glanced upstream. The falls were gentle and only mildly frothy. The few rocks that broke up the water were small, worn away by hundreds of years of the river's passing.

She spied a comfortable looking rock that was covered in soft moss. She bent down, brushing off the sand and dirt so as not to soil her gown, and sat. Her attention was focused upstream, and she remained motionless as the gulls walked past her, and the fish swam in front of her.

For hours she sat alone, never moving, never looking away from the river. She was waiting, and she would not leave until she saw what she was waiting for.

A smile spread across her face as she spied something tumble over the rocks in the distance. It rolled in the water, spreading out and bobbing about in the gentle rapids. She stood, walking to the river's edge where the brackish water churned as it collided with the surf.

The object floated downstream toward her as she bent down. It was a mass of black cloth, floating along the surface like a sack of small branches. She reached out as it neared, grasping a swatch of cloth in her slender fingers, and pulled it toward her. She hefted the object onto the bank, spreading out the cloth and unwrapping the twists that the river had made along its length.

Inside was a man.

She rolled the man's broken and lifeless body onto its back, looking down at his handsome face with its lifeless expression. She felt saddened at the man's demise, and a single tear fell from her eye.

She bent down closer, placing her hand on the man's cold cheek, stroking it lovingly and gently. She leaned in, kissing him on the lips, pouring her love into him like a magic spell. She then leaned back and watched.

The man's eyes began to flutter. His lips moved, and his tongue came out slightly to wet them. He took a shallow breath, struggling to take in the air with his damaged lungs. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He stared up at her, seeing her beautiful face and her long, flowing blond hair. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She smiled down at him, and placed her hand on his face again. It felt good, and her touch seemed to bring the life back into his body.

She leaned in closer, stroking his hair and face, comforting him as he lay there looking up. Then, she spoke.

"Wake up, Garret," the Great Mother said. "I need you."

THE DRAGON CHRONICLES

Wrothgaar’s Quest (prequel novella - 2014)

Onyx Dragon

The Ascent

King of the North

Into Oblivion (summer 2014)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shawn lives in the great state of Indiana, where he writes and builds websites full time.