Chapter Ten

Every step took him farther from sanity, farther into the darkness, farther from Willa. Was it easier to succumb to the chaos? Easier to fall into the abyss of the Madness? Leave behind the forgotten feelings of loyalty, dedication…love, and simply let the hate and vengeance fester and flame? Let the Solveig embrace the Berserker, avenge the life that was stolen from them until there was nothing left but cinder and ash?

One foot in front of the other, his feet grew heavier with every flash of Willa’s beautiful face in his mind. Long, dark, silken curls cascading over the gentle curve of her porcelain shoulders, the way her nose so cutely crinkled when she smiled and her laughter like the tinkle of fairy bells dancing on a spring breeze soothed the festering malignance inside of him.

She had a light in her deep brown eyes that called to the darkness of his soul. Just being near her awakened the hope he’d abandoned so very long ago, and made him wish for an eternity by her side. Willa was strong and independent, her mind sharp and her determination making him believe he might actually become more than a psychotic prisoner trapped within a nightmare thrust upon him by his own flesh and blood.

Taranis!

The bastard had been sure to visit Asher at least once a month, telling him how long he’d been a prisoner, that he would die within the confines of the Red Castle encampment, that he was a failure and in the end, would turn on his own kind also. Three-hundred-and-two years almost to the day that Asher had proven his brother wrong, killed all in his path and escaped the wretched hole in the ground.

Wounded, wearing the clothes of a man he’d just ripped apart with his bare hands, Asher spent days huddled in caves, abandoned burrows and makeshift huts hiding. Tracked by hundreds of soldiers, doped with a serum Taranis had created from the stem cells of a vast array of Shifters, each man had orders to bring Asher back…dead or alive. Separated from Solveig, he embraced the magic inherited from his mother, Brynhildr, Shieldmaiden and Valkyrie with the power of fire and sword.

Tired of running, unwilling to hide any longer, Asher took his stand atop the highest cliff within the Watkin’s Range of Greenland. Waiting for nearly ninety-six hours, the continuous daylight and the bitter cold, feeding the Madness as it cannibalized his sanity with slow, agonizing deliberation. There was no doubt that even if his body survived the coming fight, his mind would never be the same.

Continuing to reach for the Dragon King with whom he shared his soul, refusing to believe that Solveig had been banished, Asher burst through the thick, metaphysical containment Taranis had placed between man and beast. Searching for the great Ruler of the Ruby Dragons, lost in the smut and pollution of his brother’s tainted mysticism, the farther he traveled the more of his lucidity he forfeited.

Long hours later, his mind no more than a bottomless abyss of wrath and fury, Asher finally found the seething, raging Solveig. Held tight by black, scaly tentacles slithering from a colossal, onyx ovaloid that pulsed with a need to dominate and devour, the Guardsman conjured his mother’s shield and sword while looking for the best place to strike.

Flashing forward he struck the revolting appendages, dense, putrid caustic gore spurting from each slash, covering Asher from head-to-toe. Again and again he struck, pieces of serpentine flesh, greasy guts and grotesquely sanguine fluid eating away at his skin, scorching eyes, seeping into his pores as they reproduced faster than he could attack. Thrown from his own mind by a blast of Solveig’s magic, Asher flew through the air, landing on the jagged point of a protruding shard of ice.

Hanging like a pork chop on a fork, scored from front-to-back just under his right lung, Asher was forced to watch Taranis lead his troops through the mountain pass some hundred meters below him. Hours later, lost in the ether between life and death, the ice having frozen his wound like fire would’ve cauterized it, Asher heard the melodic voice of his mother as she cooed, “Oh my poor boy, what has become of you?”

“Have you come to take me to the Valhalla, Máthair, to release me to the Heavens, to spare me the plague of the Madness?”

“If only that I could, min sønn. I would gladly take your place, take your pain, avenge what has been done to you, but tis not my Destiny.”

The gentle touch of loving hands upon his face, the feel of his mother’s love filling his heart, Asher begged, “Please Máthair, even Hell would be better than this.”

“Do not even think it, Asher Baines. Do not pollute your being with vile doubt. You are a mighty warrior, son of King Niallan, of Brynhildr, blessed by Morrigan, imbued with the spirit of the great Berserkers. You will prevail. You will overcome. I will hear no more of this weakness. You are meant for greatness and greatness you shall achieve.”

Waking from the vision, his hand on the knotted scar where the icicle had pierced his skin all those years ago, with his mother’s words still ringing in his ears, Asher slowly turned back the way he’d just come, towards Willa, towards salvation. The need to find her, hold her, beg her for forgiveness fueled his every action as his eyes snapped to the front when a grumbled order rumbled through his body.

“Look sharp, Asher Baines. Tis no the time fur weakness.”

Staring, unable to comprehend the larger than life man before him, Asher marveled, “Father?”

“Aye. Tis good tae knoo ye recognize me after so long.”

“But…but you are…dead.” Asher grabbed his forehead with one hand, falling to the side, what was left of the flesh of his wrist scraping the rock-face as he fought to stay standing. Ignoring the shooting pain wracking his arm and shoulder, he shoved down the bile rising in his throat, stuttering, “H-How are y-you here? Has the Madness won?”

Striding forward, his long red hair flowing behind him, his swirling copper eyes hypnotic in their stare, King of Clan Baines exuded strength and power. Standing seven-foot-six-inch, the unparalleled ruler placed his hands upon Asher’s shoulder and commanded, “Too long ye have suffered, fought tae regain whit tis rightfully yurs. Fate and tae Universe have granted me this one visit.”

Pushing Asher to his knees, Niallan stood tall, pulled his broadsword from its scabbard, making a show out of placing the side of the blade on his son’s left forearm. Pins and needles, as if the muscles in his arm were waking from a long respite, churned and buzzed. Icy heat – a wondrously strong energy awash with the ferocity of the sun, the vigor of the air, and the potency of the earth – fed the tattered tendons and broken ligaments. Striated fibers of muscle and tissue knitted themselves together, mightier, sturdier, tougher than they’d ever been. 

Bright lights, whispering hisses, sizzling pops, and the intoxicatingly clean, fresh scent of burning oak filled Asher’s senses. Sooner than he’d liked every sight, sound and scent ceased, and Niallan took a step back.

“Rise, me son. Open yur eyes. Feel tae healing of tae Universe, tae Gods, and tae love of a father for his son.”

Raising his right arm, Asher could only stare at what had moments ago been a bloody stump but by the magic and will of his father was a hand, restored to his original form and strength. Gazing upward, words failing him, Asher bowed his head, letting everything he felt at the healing he’d received flow from his soul to Niallan’s.

“Up on yur feet, Asher. A King shood ne’er be seen on his knees.”

Narrowing his eyes, sure his ears were failing him, the Guardsman balked, “I am no King. I am barely a Dragon.”

No sooner had he uttered the words than a passionate roar shook his mind and body. Reaching for the rocks beside him, fighting to stay on his knees, Asher was jerked to his feet as Solveig bellowed, “You are Dragon as I am Dragon. You are King as I am King. Never again shall we part.”

“This cannot be. How have you returned Solveig to me?”

“The healing tis oonly temporary,” Niallan acknowledged. “Ye must claim tae One tae Universe made fur ye, make her ye own tae way Fate and tae Ancients command ‘fore tae sun rises on another day.” Stepping closer, again placing his hands upon Asher’s shoulders, Niallan added, “Yur Destiny t’was written in tae stars tae day yer mother and Ah pledged our undying love tae one another. Now, tis tae time ye must stand and fight. Only through yur Little Romani’s love t’will you find true healing and tae Blessing of tae Universe as promised to us all.”

Opening his mouth to speak, Asher could only stand in awe as his father’s image drifted to the Heavens shattering in hundreds of dragonflies chasing the sun. Turning his sight inward, he asked, “Are you whole? Are you strong, my old friend?”

“I am,” came Solveig’s adamant reply. “But will only stay this way if you heed your father’s instructions.”

“But…”

“But you made an ass out of yourself and fear our Willa will not take you back.” Not waiting for Asher’s answer, the Dragon King continued, “Just as she was made for you, you were made for her. That beautiful creature has an unlimited capacity for love and a heart of pure gold. You have only to ask and I have faith she will forgive.”

Taking a deep breath, feeling the Madness stalking the edges of his mind, waiting for the moment he failed, praying to its Demons to keep Asher from his mate, the Guardsman shook with a fire long absent from his veins. Fisting his hands, flinging his arms open and throwing back his head, he roared to the Heavens, “Today the King has returned.”

Running as fast as his feet would carry take him, Asher relinquished control to Solveig. Pure, white Dragon magic born of the first embers, as old as time itself, skated over his skin, traced his skeleton, the return of such power like a lover’s touching caressing him intimately in the most personal of ways. Scales, hard as ore and ruby like the finest gemstone shimmered to life as his jawbone stretched and pulled, elongating into a snout, its center ridge lined with deadly spikes.

Horns, thick and indestructible jutted from his brow, curling backward over the crown of his head, their sharp, serrated tips stretching nearly the length of his human torso. Twisting, turning, and tearing, his muscles mended in a more magnanimous form. His body, already huge in human form, grew broader, longer, taller. Arms grew into legs. Hands and feet turned into massive paws, fierce talons sprouting from their tips, promising retribution to all who’d dared to offend.

Wings burst from his shoulder blades, extending skyward, their push and pull against the airstream lifting him from the ground, propelling him towards the Heavens. Asher’s triumphant roar preceded brilliant red, orange and yellow flames announcing the arrival of one of the Universe’s chosen warriors as the transformation reached its glorious end.

Bursting through the clouds, streaking across the sky, both man and dragon rejoiced in their reunion. Three hundred years had been a heavy price to pay, but just the thought of Willa, their mate, the woman who restored their faith in the promise of a future, made everything Asher and Solveig had suffered more than worth the pain.