Eclipsing the Darkness (The Dragon Chronicles Book 5) (22 page)

Having returned from Southwatch, the automaton carried with him a special object constructed by the Drauga engineers. It was an object that had been inspired by the strange gate that had destroyed Traegus’ island. After over a year of studying the residual effect of the explosion that came from the giant, black ship, the Druaga had constructed something similar; only on a smaller scale.

But it was powerful enough to aid in the final battle against the Lifegiver.

From Titus’ own understanding, the object could be used to absorb much of energy created when the Lifegiver was forced into material form, and then released again through Traegus’ own magic to banish the dark entity forever.

Or so the Druaga hoped.

It would be useless unless Titus could deliver it, and seeing the unbelievably huge mass of warring men below gave the dragon pause. He scanned the battlefield, taking note of the positions of all of the combatants. As he dropped closer, the differences in the men came clearer. He could see the horde of Jindala that made up the bulk of the men, interspersed here and there with allied soldiers that fought with unrivaled ferocity.

Among them, Titus could see the kings glowing brightly. Their bodies were alight with the magic of the Firstborn; blessed with heightened powers given to them by their gods. He could see King Eamon and the odd djinn, Shemya, fighting side by side. The magical creature emanated a reddish magic that swirled around him like a fiery silk cloak. Others like him were scattered among the combatants; each one a whirlwind of death and rage.

He swooped down to get a closer look, shifting his vision to take in the natural light—what there was of it. Despite the noonday sun above, the cloud cover made it seem like night. Nevertheless, Titus could still see his friends; most of them.

Ulrich and his men followed Cannuck; tearing through the Jindala toward the mass of samurai warriors and their ogre-mage allies. The High Jarl had command of the Valkyries, and they swarmed through the battlefield almost effortlessly; killing everything in their path.

The Sun King led his warriors toward the other side of the battlefield, cutting the massive Jindala army in two. Though Titus could not discern the reason; he suspected there was a strategy in mind. Whatever the case, the allied men were effective, united, and deadly. Very few had fallen, yet they had cut down at least a fourth of the Jindala horde.

Still, the number that remained was overwhelming.

Passing over the gathered allies, he finally spotted Traegus. The wizard was engaged in combat with several spearmen; fighting them off with his sword while blasting them with his staff when he was able. Titus descended, hovering over him and belching fireballs at his attackers. When the wizard was free—for a moment—Titus dropped the object he held in his claws.

Traegus reached out to catch the falling orb, feeling its heavy weight smack onto his open palm. He held it up and studied it briefly before stuffing it in his robe, and retrieved his staff from the ground. Immediately, his attackers closed in, surrounding him once more. Titus raked them from overhead, scattering them with fireballs. Traegus blasted a circular wave of repulsive magic and backed away, letting his allies take his position.

Through the chaos, Eamon appeared, bursting forth in his lightning fast sweep attacks to get closer. As a Jindala swordsman charged Traegus, Eamon swept past behind him, cutting the man in two.

“What did Titus bring you?” Eamon shouted.

Traegus jabbed his sword at a nearby enemy, felling him with a deep, impaling thrust. “Something we will need at the Great Pyramid,” he replied, “once the Dragon has completed his task.”

Eamon acknowledged him, standing beside him to keep guard as he caught his breath. “I hope it’s soon,” he said. “My strength is running low.”

“I would imagine the others are growing weary as well. This might help.”

Traegus summoned a spell drawn from the energy of the Earth. He tapped the glowing end of his staff on Eamon’s head, releasing the power into his body. He saw Eamon stand straighter; his weariness seemingly dissolving.

“Thank you, friend,” the king said. “Do the best you can to help the others. I need to find Ulrich and the other Northmen.”

“Follow the Valkyries!”

Eamon grinned, pushing past him to disappear into the battle once more. Traegus reached down to touch the object in his robe. It was warm, vibrated slightly, and seemed to contain the familiar power of the singularity he had encountered on his island.

So, the Druaga had taken the initiative and constructed something similar; they had known he would need it.
Such forethought,
he said to himself.

No wonder he liked them.

Ulrich found himself face to face with the Sun King and a younger warrior in equally ornate armor. The eastern men acknowledged him with a respectful nod, and the three continued their attacks. Ceor was nearby, and the Jarl could hear his usual growls and howls as he buried his great axe into the surrounding enemies.

Ogres towered over the heads of men, sweeping their massive blades in wide arcs that threw the dismembered Jindala into the air. Ulrich was in awe of their strength, and was glad to have them as allies. From the corner of his eye, the Jarl saw Cannuck making his way toward them. The High Jarl swung his hammer, bashing it into a swordsman’s back and knocking him to the ground. Ceor rushed forward, stomping and bashing the hapless man into oblivion.

Ulrich spun, knocking a Jindala away with a fist to the face. Cannuck swung downward with his hammer, flattening the man to the ground. He then howled in laughter, passing by Ulrich and punching him in the shoulder.

“The gates of Helheim will be crowded this day, friend!” he shouted. Ulrich growled in return, chopping away at the line of enemies that appeared at his flank.

An ogre passed him by, kicking a Jindala into the air with its massive foot. The man sailed backward, crashing into his allies. The ogre grabbed Ulrich by the tunic, tossing him toward the fallen enemies. The Jarl landed swinging, chopping the fallen men to pieces. He turned, shaking his fist at the ogre, who howled with gruff laughter.

“Good idea!” Ulrich shouted.

The ogre howled as it departed the area, pushing its way through the battle like a charging bull. Ulrich fought his way to Ceor's side, avoiding the younger man’s wild swings. They were completely cut off from their kin, having been separated from them as they blended in with the warriors of the east, but they fought on together. Ulrich was impressed with the skill of the samurai, and the ornate and beautiful armor they wore. Despite being made of wood and boiled leather, it served them well, and he had yet to see any of them lying dead on the bloody ground.

“Ceor!” he shouted. “We need to clear this area and get our kinsmen back together.”

“Right!” Ceor replied, bashing a Jindala’s face with his fist. “Lead the way!”

Ulrich turned his attention to the area behind him. He could see his kinsmen fighting furiously, interspersed among the Jindala. Cerdic led the younger warriors valiantly, keeping them together and skillfully boosting their morale. Ulrich shouldered his way through with Ceor in tow. They both let loose sweeping attacks, taking down multiple enemies with their swinging axes. He locked eyes with Cerdic, and the younger man charged in his direction, assisting in clearing the way.

Soon, they were face to face, and Cerdic clapped his Jarl on the shoulder in greeting. “Jarl!” he said, laughing maniacally. “Glory is with us this day!”

“Indeed!” Ulrich replied. “You’ll make a good leader, boy!”

Ceor tossed a dead soldier over his head, smashing it into a charging group. The three of them howled with laughter, banding together to carve out a path to the other Northmen. Suddenly, a deafening screech pierced the air, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot.

From out of the dust that had settled in a gray-brown fog over the battle, a metallic dragon appeared; fangs and claws bared. It plunged into the crowd of enemies, tearing its way through in a chaotic display of fury. Ulrich laughed out loud as he continued chopping his axe around him. As the fleeing Jindala passed him, he cut them like dogs. One after another they fell; split through the side or slashed open to the spine by the Jarl’s deadly blade.

But then an explosion of pain erupted in his side. He gasped, turning to face a spearman that had jabbed his weapon in a perfectly aimed attack. The man paused when Ulrich growled, and held up his arms as the Jarl reared back his axe to retaliate.

“To Hell with you, devil!” Ulrich cried, splitting the man’s head with a devastating chop. He staggered back, dropping his axe and grasping the broken spear that jutted from his flank. The pain was unbearable, and he could already taste the blood that began to seep into his mouth.

“Ah!” he cursed. “Not yet.” He pulled at the spear, gritting his teeth as the jagged blade tore at his flesh. His vision began to blur, and a wave of nausea came over him. Around him, he could see his kinsmen gather around him, forming a circle of protection. Ceor glared at him, his eyes wide with horror.

Though safe for the moment, Ulrich felt the impending blanket of darkness settle over him. He was spent.

His minutes were numbered.

Eamon chopped his way through the Jindala, ignoring the splashing blood that filled the air like a crimson mist. He was covered in it; friend and foe’s blood alike. But it mattered not. His only goal was reaching his friend, Ulrich, who now knelt on the ground; defenseless, but guarded by his kinsmen.

Eamon ducked a swinging blade, countering with an upward slash that disemboweled his attacker. He spun and kicked the wounded man out of the way, thrusting the Serpent’s Tongue into another man’s back. He withdrew the blade, shouldering the man off balance, and stumbled forward toward his friend and ally.

As he came nearer, he saw the look of death in Ulrich’s eyes. That same look he had displayed in the nightmare.

“No!” Eamon cried. He felt himself slowing down, as if that same thick air had surrounded him. His phantasm was becoming reality, and he knew that his knights were in danger as well.

He stopped, frantically searching the battlefield for Wrothgaar. He could not see him, but he knew he was near. Whether or not he was in danger, Eamon could not guess. But, he had to get to him. It was too late for Ulrich.

His knights needed him.

The world swam around Ulrich as he swayed on his knees. The pain in his side throbbed heavily, gushing large amounts of blood. He removed his hand from the wound, holding it up before his eyes. It was covered in blood; his blood. Though he had seen his own blood before, somehow it seemed different. It would be his last wound, he knew.

But he would not go out this way. Not while Kronos was watching. Roaring into the air, he reached down to retrieve his axe, rising slowly and menacingly as the surrounding Jindala resumed their attack. He spun wildly, summoning the strength of Kronos. Though his senses were dulled, his attacks were accurate and deadly. The Northmen, seeing their king rise again, shouted into the air and broke their circle, raging into the battle like hungry wolves.

Ulrich’s axe met the flesh of his enemies with splattering impacts. He was blinded with rage and pain; determined to take as many Jindala down as he could. He swept his axe from side to side, feeling it chop through his enemies with every strike. His shouts echoed across the battlefield, telling his kinsmen that their Jarl was at his end. As his strength drained away, his attacks came slower and less frequent. His vision blurred and swirled. Even the sounds of battle around him became muffled. He briefly saw Ceor in his vision, fighting with the strength and honor he always had. His tribesmen surrounded him; rallying behind him as if they knew he would be their new leader.

Their new leader. Ceor, Jarl of the Tribe of the Wolf.

That was good.

Ulrich grinned as his strength finally gave out. He sank to his knees once more, and the battle around him seemed to fade away. He saw the bloodied sand at his knees; small puddles of crimson fluid mixed with the gritty, lumpy earth. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath that resonated in his ears. It was all he could hear. All was peaceful.

Slowly, he opened his eyes again, feeling the warmth of something nearby. He saw the gleaming, armored boots of a valiant warrior before him. His eyes went up the legs to the white linen sash that adorned round, feminine hips. He turned fully upward, looking straight into the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were blue like the sky; her hair was golden and flowing. Her face was perfect; flawless and smooth, yet stern and noble. In her hands, she held ornate blades that shone with the light of Valhalla.

As he gazed at her beauty, the Valkyrie sheathed her swords, and then extended her hand out toward him. As Ulrich reached up, he saw the light behind her brighten, and cast rays around her form. Her hair began to blow in a divine wind, and a smile spread across her lips.

Ulrich grasped her hand. It was soft yet firm. He stared at it in wonder as it softly surrounded his own hand. Then he noticed shadows moving behind her, breaking up the rays of light that shone around her like flame. There were men there; warriors. He saw his father among them; his grandfather; even his great grandfather. Their faces bore expressions of pride and glee. His heart sank, overburdened with the heavy emotions that swelled within him.

“It is time, Ulrich,” the Valkyrie spoke. “Your fathers have been waiting.”

He looked up into her eyes again as a smile spread across his face. His soul felt at peace; welcomed and filled with pride. Then, all went black.

Ulrich’s body fell, lifeless, to the ground among his kinsmen. Their cries of glory sounded as they honored his death.

Then, the gates of Valhalla were opened.

Ceor grieved for a moment as Ulrich departed this world. Though he would miss his best friend, he knew that the noble Jarl would be welcomed into Valhalla. That gave him strength, and fueled his morale. With a rumbling war cry, he burst forward. Jindala were splattered into oblivion with his powerful swings as he rampaged through them. He was an animal; a destroyer obliterating everything in his path.