Onyx Dragon (Book 1) (27 page)

Eamon’s armor had transformed during the charge. His helmet became the head of a dragon, and his shoulder pieces sprouted sharp spikes that gleamed in the sunlight. With a growl, he crashed into the Immortals, sending them flying with the impact. The Knights soon followed, plowing a long column through the enemy ranks.

The Jindala began to scatter, screaming in their own tongue, as the Knights and their allies shattered the front lines and hacked them apart. Eamon rode through swiftly, the Serpent’s tongue glowing red with its own fury as it sheathed itself in the flesh of the enemy.

Ulrich and his horsemen followed, brutally slaying everyone in their path. The Northmen sang their songs of glory as they rode, making them even more fearsome to the enemy.

Suddenly the Jindala began to part, leaving two cloaked figures in full view.

“Daryth!” Brynn called. “Defilers!”

The ranger Knight turned his bow toward the monsters as they rose to their full height. Brynn charged, his sword ready to slay the fearsome beasts. Daryth fired, sending his arrow streaking over the heads of his allies. The arrow struck its target square in the chest, sending the black creature back with a burst of energy.

Brynn rode past the other Defiler, swinging his sword in a backhand strike. He caught the beast’s claw, severing it. Both Defilers, enraged and in pain, screeched their unearthly cries. Azim aimed his bow and fired at the clawless Defiler, catching it in the chest, and sending it into a fit of rage.

The two creatures summoned their power with a menacing crouch, drawing life energy in streams from the gathering soldiers. Northman and Morduin soldiers alike were caught in the streams,
choking, and withering with the beasts’ magic.

Daryth fired at his target again, landing an arrow in the Defiler’s open mouth. With another screech of pain, the creature clawed at the arrow, desperately trying to pull it out. Daryth fired again, this time striking the Defiler’s skull. The monster fell to it
s knees, its magical stream dissipating as it crashed to the ground.

Brynn struck his target again and again, while Azim fired arrow after arrow. The Defiler flailed its claws, attacking blindly to defend itself. But Brynn made one final strike, riding in front of the creature and thrusting his sword into its heart.

The Jindala looked on in fear.

“Onward!” Eamon commanded, urging the cavalry on. Behind him, he saw Angen sever the Defiler’s head, finishing the job that Brynn and Azim had started. Wrothgaar rode around his wounded tribesmen, protecting them as the Jindala rushed forward.

“Kruum!” the Northman yelled. Ulrich rode to fight by his son, smashing his hammer into the heads of his enemies.

The entire army of Morduin was now melded in battle with the Jindala. The cries of glory resounded in the valley, and the clash of swords echoed in the mountains.

And the battle continued on.

Erenoth saw the battle raging below as he approached the Southern border. Six Druaga rode on his back, their bows drawn and ready to fire. He dove swiftly to attack, sending jets of flames into the Jindala ranks. The Druaga let loose their arrows, adding to the attack.

Jindala fell by the dozens, pierced by arrows or set aflame. Their archers returned fire, and Erenoth dodged or parried their arrows with his claws. The Druaga held on tight as he turned in midair, preparing for another sweep. He strafed the battlefield, immolating the enemy, while the Druaga continued their barrage.

When a space had been cleared, the Priest landed, immediately sending flames in all directions as the Druaga disembarked. They charged the surrounding enemies, spinning in the air, their blades flashing in deadly arcs. Erenoth leaped into the air to resume his strafing attacks.

Eamon saw the dragon land, let the Druaga off of his back, and return to his aerial attacks. The Druaga were a blur, leaping through the air and slicing the enemy to pieces. Eamon summoned his own power, bursting forth in a blinding attack. Twelve Jindala fell to his blade, sliced in half as he passed.

The Onyx Dragon was at full attack fury, spinning his blade and taking down his enemies with every strike. The Jindala began to back away from him, none of them having the courage to face him.

“Fight me, cowards!” he shouted, challenging all who surrounded him.

The Knights fought their way to his side, echoing his challenge. No Jindala would approach. They surrounded the Knights, who now had the entire army of Morduin behind them. They had made their stand, and now had the upper hand.

“Surrender now!” Eamon growled. “Or face the power of the Dragon.”

There was no response from the enemy. They stood motionless and silent, not sure whether to charge or run. Half of their army had been destroyed and now they stood in a stalemate.

Eamon watched as Erenoth flew over the Jindala, making a soft landing beside him. The Priest took human form, transforming before the Jindala’s eyes. They backed away, fearful of the beast of legend. Erenoth took a step forward, his blades ready. The enemy backed away again, not wanting to engage the Priest.

Then, the ranks of the Jindala began to part. They moved to the side, line by line, as something waded through their ranks to the front lines. The Knights could feel the dark presence approach, and prepared for its attack.

Suddenly, the Druaga appeared beside them, swords ready. One of them turned to Eamon, warning him of the danger.

The great void comes.

“What is this great void?” Eamon asked.

Death and darkness.

Eamon pursed his lips. The Druaga always spoke in riddles. Death and Darkness meant nothing.

“Come!” he called to the approaching figure. “Make your presence known and face me!”

When the figure reached the front line, Eamon gasped. Tyrus the Blackhearted stood at the head of the enemy army, this time in his true, dark form. He was dressed in a black cloak, with banded, grayish armor that made him appear similar to a skinless corpse of pure darkness. His face was a mask of evil, his eyes glowing, his beard forked and alive.

“Greetings again, my friend,” the Sultan spoke, his voice accompanied by the souls that possessed him. “I see by the look on your face that my appearance was completely unexpected.”

“What manner of beast are you?” Eamon called.

“I wield the power of the Lifegiver,” Tyrus replied. “You cannot kill me, for I do not really exist in this realm. Not anymore. You killed my Avatar. Nothing more.”

You must summon the heart of the Dragon. Tyrus can only be killed by the Dragon himself. Become him. Let him fight the Sultan through you.

Eamon looked at the Druaga, unsure how to proceed. Erenoth turned to him, enforcing the Druaga’s words.

“You have the power to become the Dragon,” he said. “Focus. Let him fight through you.”

Eamon looked to Tyrus, feeling his hatred of the man build. He used the hatred to call to the Dragon, feeling its strength permeate every cell of his body.

The Knights looked on as Eamon began to tremble, groaning in pain as the Dragon’s power coursed through him. They backed away, fearful of what was happening. Erenoth held his hand out to them, assuring them that they need not fear.

Eamon screamed with fury, his mouth opening wide, revealing sharp dragon fangs. Flame shot forth, erupting in a fireball before him. Tyrus backed away, drawing his sword and standing ready to charge.

Suddenly, Eamon exploded with the energy of the Dragon. He reared back, his fists clenching as the power burst forth. His eyes glowed like flame, and his furious cries became a cacophony of all the Kings before him. Poising the Serpent’s Tongue for attack, he leaped forth toward the Sultan, covering the entire distance between them. He slashed at the Sultan with a blinding attack that forced the enemy back.

The two clashed swords, battling each other furiously among the gathering. Erenoth took control over the allied forces, commanding them to charge. The allies crashed into the enemy and the battle raged on, leaving the two men to fight one on one.

The Serpent’s Tongue streaked through the air as if having a life of its own, matching the Sultan’s attacks perfectly. The two were a blur as they traded blows, each just as fierce and blinding as the other. Tyrus dodged and parried with expert skill, his own attacks just as powerful and deadly as Eamon’s.

The Sultan summoned his own power, rushing from side to side in a blur, successfully dodging the Onyx Dragon’s attack. Eamon blocked the Sultan’s parries with his gauntleted arm, the dragon armor absorbing the blows painlessly.

“I am the bearer of darkness!” the Sultan hissed. “Darkness that has existed since the beginning of the Universe. Your Dragon cannot defeat me.”

“The Dragon defeated your master once!” Eamon challenged, “And I will continue that legacy.”

The Sultan laughed, shifting forward in a slashing attack that caught the Prince across the chest. His breastplate shouldered the blow, sending Tyrus off balance and stumbling behind him. Eamon turned and slashed the Serpent’s Tongue downward, the blade now glowing hot with the Dragon’s power. Tyrus was struck in the collar and his skin and bone split with the impact.

The Sultan dropped to his knees, moaning with the unbearable, burning pain that coursed through his body. He looked up at the sky, dropping his blade.

“Why!?” he howled in his own tongue. “Why Father?”

He began to choke as his blood boiled up into his throat. Eamon stood over him, watching him slowly succumb to the mortal wound.

“This is the Dragon’s land,” he said, circling the Sultan as he kneeled helplessly. “You do not belong here. Nor on this world. You gave up that right when you swore allegiance to the Lifegiver.”

Tyrus sobbed, the hate and anger beginning to dissolve from his face. “What have I done?”

Dark wisps of negative energy began to emanate from his body, swirling around him and shooting off into the ground. The Sultan’s appearance began to change, transforming from the evil creature he had become to a more human appearance. Eamon felt sympathy for him, realizing that the man that had been trapped inside this evil shell was now returning.

Returning to die.

“Forgive me, Imbra,” he called to the true Firstborn. “Forgive me, my Father.”

He looked to Eamon, his face no longer a mask of evil, but one of fear. “I am at your mercy,” he said. “Send me to my creator.”

Eamon raised the Serpent’s Tongue, preparing to strike. “I forgive you,” he said.

He struck one final time, beheading the Sultan. As the man’s body fell forward, his life force poured out and gathered in a cloud around him. Slowly, it swirled toward Eamon, heading straight for and into his sword until it was gone. The sword of Dragons had absorbed Tyrus’ soul, it’s blade now glowing light blue. Eamon felt the energy flow from the blade into his own body. It healed and rejuvenated him, dissolving his anger, and returning him to his own form.

As he shook away the haze of the battle, he looked around him. His allies had slain vast numbers of the enemy and had driven them back. The battle was dying down, and the Prince rushed to rejoin his friends.

Erenoth had taken command, he saw, and was skillfully driving the whole army forward in Eamon’s absence. The Priest was a natural commander, and the Prince realized that he had done this many times for the Kings of the past. He proudly joined his friend’s side, fighting until the last of the Jindala had been slain.

When the chaos died down, Eamon stood atop the crest of the hill, raising the Serpent’s Tongue into the air in victory. The assembled army raised their weapons as well, shouting in triumph. He looked down at them, seeing the eclectic group of soldiers—men of Eirenoch, Northmen, and rebel Jindala alike—who gathered to defend their lands. He felt pride in their efforts and knew that from this day forth, they would all be brothers.

Even the Druaga, who remained mysterious and silent throughout previous encounters, seemed to fit in as well. The men who fought beside them would always see them as great allies, and part of the people.

As he proudly regarded his Knights, a Druaga appeared beside him, his cowl pulled back to reveal his true appearance. The Druaga were reptilian, with pale greenish white skin. Their eyes were large and glossy black, like orbs of unblinking onyx. They had hair, long and black, that was tied back like Erenoth’s hair. Patterns of green adorned their hairline and their eye sockets, fading into the dominant color of their skin. They were truly strange creatures, stoic and laconic, yet Eamon knew what great allies they would make in the battles ahead.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said. “You have been faithful allies, and I am forever in your debt.”

We are here to serve the Onyx Dragon. You are that. But we must now return to our homes. When we are needed again, we will come at once. You need but ask.

Eamon nodded, holding out his hand to the Druaga. The creature took Eamon’s hand in his own tiny claws, grasping it with surprising strength.

Goodbye, Dragon.

“Goodbye, Druaga.”

With that, the Druaga rejoined his people and the group fled, disappearing into the prairie grass. Eamon was left to contemplate the next move.

“What will we do?” he heard Wrothgaar ask behind him. The Northman and the other Knights came to gather around their Lord to await his orders.