The Chronicles of Crallick

by Brad C Baker

  Flames belched forward from the final vomit of her breath gland. This immolated a thirty-yard stretch of rainforest and set the last of Menshirre’s bolts alight. He had barely cleared the area of vomiting flames himself. His tongue was flicking out of his mouth so rapidly, it had the appearance of a permanent pink proboscis. He was desperately venting excess heat.

  Armon had dragged himself to the top of the ravine. His head crowned the lip that was facing the broken tail of the dragon. Black fecal matter was cascading out of the wrecked rectum. His pain-blurred mind thought there must be a joke there somewhere. This caused his face to tighten into a weak smile. That was the last smile his face would recognizably make. For the next breath witnessed a yellow jet spray forward. The pungent draconic urine smelt of rotten eggs. It burned with both heat and acidic potency. Armon screamed as the lips and side of his face burned away in a chemical nightmare.

  Again Crallick found himself on the surviving end of a dragon fight. ‘Just great,’ he mused. ‘Another adventure no one will believe in the pub.’ The grizzled veteran took a moment to go around and to secure the scene of the carnage. His first order of business was to approach the mighty beast while calling his sword to his hand. Then, seeing Izzy close to where he wanted to be, he said, “Move.”

  Confused and in severe pain, Izzy took a few long moments to figure out what Crallick wanted. Finally he saw the look in Crallick’s eye, and the way he was gripping the sword. Izzy nodded and scuttled away, abandoning his own cutlasses in the dragon’s skull.

  Crallick laid his head over the back of the dragon’s occipital notch, a groove that accommodated the dragon’s neck vertebrae while it flew. Before he slid his sword home into the hindbrain of the majestic creature, he spoke a short parting phrase in draconic speech.

  “Asha carry you home to the great furnace.”

  He sank the blade to the hilt with a very intense effort. He growled and huffed and roared as the ligaments, cartilage and tendons all resisted his efforts. Then with a pop and sluice, his blade penetrated the membrane that held the dragon’s brain. The last foot of his blade sank in as though he were slicing through an overripe peach.

  This chore completed, Crallick glanced over to Izzy. “You okay?”

  Izzy smiled a bloody-toothed grin. “Just lucky Crallick. I only think I hurt my left thumb. Might have bit my tongue too. It feels swollen.” There was an uncharacteristic lisp to his words that made what actually came out of his mouth sound like: “Wust ducky Cwallik. I onwy pink I hurt my weff tumb. Might of bit my tongue too. It fells swowwen.”

  Crallick half grinned. “Probably. Well, you did good Izzy. Help out will you? Check around for the rest of our crew. Try to get as many together as possible. We need to take stock before we press on.”

  “Aye, aye ser,” came Izzy’s sharp reply.

  Glip-Glip jumped from a tree to the crown of horns atop the fallen dragon. “KREE KREE!” he chirped as loudly as he could. Which was disproportionately loud.

  Crallick looked over to the small poisonous froggle. He did some mental math. “You okay Glip-Glip?”

  “Kree!” Glip-Glip’s very wide smile was almost contagious.

  “Were you using your poison?” Crallick was beginning to smile himself.

  “Kree-glip. Kree!” Glip-Glip nodded frenetically, then opened his mouth and pointed to its roof. “Kwee!” he said with his finger stuffed inside it.

  Nodding his understanding, Crallick said, “Great. Now get off our kill so we can butcher it safely. Savvy?”

  With a wet double blink from his nictating membrane covered eyes, Glip-Glip ‘kree-kree’ed’ his understanding and hopped down. Crallick noticed he seemed none the worse for wear.

  Kittalae leapt upon his back, hugging him with wild abandon. This was so unexpected and disorienting that Crallick almost called his blade back to his hand, even though it was still buried in the dragon’s brain.

  “Whoa! By the furnace! What’s all this about!” Crallick startled.

  “We killed a dragon! We killed a dragon! We killed a dragon! We’re alive! And we killed a dragon!” She was rambling. Her breasts were heaving against his back and he was beginning to feel… well, it had been so long, he wasn’t sure what he felt. And damn it, she was so young! She kissed the back of his neck. Her tail coiled around his inner thigh.

  “Kittalae! Enough!” Crallick barked. He was really beginning to feel uncomfortable. This was no time for romance or any other such foolishness.

  Kittalae fell away, stammering, with tears welling up to shimmer the surface of her smoldering yellow eyes. “S-s-s-sorry master, I was just so caught up with the joy of it all. I-I-I-I’m sorry.”

  More softly, Crallick said, “Look. It’s not your fault. No need to apologize. I just need to concentrate on the mission at hand and you can be quite the distraction when you put your mind to it. Okay?” He figured that was the best he could do to comfort her.

  “Oh. Okay then.” She wiped the back of her sleeve across her face. Then she looked back to him with a devious smile; the kind only one born of sin and lust could make. “So then, master, what can I do to help?” She dripped way too much honey on her words to let him know this wasn’t over by a long shot.

  “Find anyone who needs help and collect them in one place. Try to help them as best you can.” Crallick glanced over to Glip-Glip, “You hop back up a tree and keep a weather eye out for anything coming in to scavenge, other than us. Savvy?”

  “Sure, I’m on it,” said Kittalae as she ran off, her tail swishing lightly as she went.

  “Kree,” agreed Glip-Glip, who promptly hopped back up into the trees.

  “Crallick! Mate! Over here!” called Erik’s voice.

  Crallick leapt into action, scrambling over the corpse’s topography to the other side. Sliding down the side of the dead beast’s ribs, he landed beside Mr. Drake. “What’s wrong?” he huffed. “You okay?”

  Tears left pale clean streaks down the anguished ashen face of the Amarallan sailor. Erik choked out, “I’m fine. Bargress. It’s Bargress. H-h-he saved me.” As Erik’s voice fell to sobs, he simply pointed under the dragon, where Crallick could barely make out one Komodoman hand limply thrust out from under the weight of the dragon’s chest.

  Crallick took in a breath. “My goddess,” he swallowed. He had to play this right. He didn’t want Erik to lose his shite. Not here; not now. He had seen things like this before. He remembered back to the other dragon he had fought. Hollister had presumed they had won the day when the last arrow had struck the beast and it began to fall. He had given a triumphant cheer and had raised his hands in victory… only to be buried under the red drake’s carcass.

  “Look. Erik,” Crallick roughly grabbed the other man’s unkempt chin, twisting it to meet his gaze. “You know how you apply pressure to a wound?”

  “Wess.” Crallick’s grip on Erik’s mouth was causing the cheeks and lips to bunch up oddly.

  “Well, Bargress is wounded badly, I’d say. But right now he has all the pressure he needs. He’s either dead or being kept stable. Either way, he’s best off right where he is. This will be the location for all our injured. Go and let everyone else who is helping know this. Then help out yourself. Got it?”

  “Oi, oi saw.” Erik spat when Crallick released him, then he added, “Thanks Cral.”

  “Don’t sweat it, my man. After all, you’re the one helping me through this shite. Don’t forget that,” Crallick grimly reminded him.

  Crallick thought he heard his stomach rumble but then he dismissed it as the accompanying abdominal trembling didn’t occur. He waited a moment. There it was again. A low “rrrrrrr.”

  Shifting to the balls of his feet, Crallick padded into the forest, towards some of the burning trees. Nestled in the gloom of cypress roots, its golden eyes flickering in the firelight, was a frightened orange cat. It continued to rumble its discontent balefully at the flames.

  “Just great, Jyslin,” Crallick rumbled himself. “What
fresh buggery do you plan for me now?” Then a little louder, he growled at the trapped striped cat. “Well now, that was a pretty stupid place to hide. Some master assassin you turned out to be.” Based on the size of the head, Crallick deduced that the cat would be about two and a half feet long. About the size of a full-grown lynx; or a teenage cougar. Both made decent hunting cats if you had time to train them. As for this feral cat? He would probably just savagely attack him, or flee into the undergrowth. Either way, Crallick had a soft spot for animals… well, ones that weren’t either trying to kill him or his supper. “Hope you make the right choice, big guy,” Crallick said, as he unfurled his dragon cape and laid it on the ground to create a path for him. He leaned across and gathered up the black and orange ball of furry fangs and claws that furrowed and dug their way into the rings of armor. Crallick could tell this was a desperate need for purchase, and not anything aggressive. Just fear. Nevertheless, he was rewarded with dozens of tiny red jewels beading his skin under his clothes. Growling, Crallick admonished, “Hey now, take it easy. I’ve got you.” Crallick dragged the cat free of the tangle of cypress roots. Once he cleared the other end of his cloak, he tried and failed to detach the rumbling feline. Sighing, Crallick gathered up his cloak, wrapped the beast in it, and began staggering around the field with an extra hundred pound weight hanging off of his front. He idly mused if this was what his wife had experienced with Amalae during her pregnancy. With that, he thought maybe he could understand some of her griping.

  Lumbering around, Crallick watched the others gather by the fallen Bargress. Menshirre’s right arm was hanging in an unnatural way from his chest. Hullaboo had been dragged back by Erik and Izzy; his leg was loosely flopping along the ground.

  They had led Armon, recognizable only by his clothes, to rest against the side of the great beast. His face and hand had been rendered unrecognizable by nasty burns. One eye was milky-white in its lidless socket. The other eyelid was fused solidly over the other orb.

  Gregor was nowhere to be found. He was presumed under the dragon, like Bargress.

  Kittalae used her wood-speaking talents to great effect. She fashioned form-fitting sheaths for Hullaboo’s fractured femur.

  Erik and Izzy held down the violently hissing Menshirre and brutally relocated his shoulder with a gut-wrenching pop.

  Noticing the tumour-like bulge on Crallick’s front, Kittalae came over to ask him, “What’s with the weight gain? You didn’t eat the heart of the dragon did you?”

  “No,” Crallick said simply, then added, “Why, does it give strength, or powers in battle? I remember our mage was very interested to get some the last time I fought a dragon.”

  Kittalae laughed, “No, master, it’s a virility enhancer.”

  “A what?” Crallick was dumbfounded.

  Pointing at his crotch, she purred, “It makes this undefeatable.”

  “Oh,” Crallick said, then actually laughed. “That dirty old Vitani fuck! We all thought he was needing it to make potions of fire resistance, or flasks of fire, or the like.”

  “Nope. That’s the blood and the breath glands respectively. He just wanted to impress the ladies.” She winked, “I’m sure you wouldn’t have needed it anyway.”

  “Heroism? Strength?” Healing?” Crallick was desperate to give his old friend the benefit of the doubt.

  “Brain, muscle, and bone. Now what’s under your cloak?” Kittalae asked.

  Crallick pulled the cloak away to reveal the large orange and black ball of fur.

  “Mrowr,” it yawned and blinked golden eyes at her.

  “Oh my master, you are a good man,” she smiled at him. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”

  “A cat,” Crallick growled. “And I’m not that good.”

  “Of course not, master,” she demurred. Putting her hands behind her back, she swayed slightly, “I figured it’s a cat. What kind?”

  “Furnace take me if I know,” Crallick shrugged. “I’ve never seen one before. It’s about the same size as a young cougar. It’s a couple of feet long. Feels about a hundred pounds. I figure it’s pretty much done growing; maybe another six inches and twenty pounds. If it bonds well, I may have a decent hunter.”

  Kittalae had noticed one of the cub’s paws. She felt that her master was underestimating the cat’s growth. However, he was the hunter and it was not her place to challenge him. She simply smiled. “Well then, your good deed shall be well rewarded. Shall I take him off your hands? That will free you up so that you can try and help the others with Bargress.”

  “Great idea.” Crallick was beginning to wonder how pregnant women had the back strength to walk around with an extra hundred pounds on their stomachs.

  The idea was better in practice than in application. They ended up with the yowling and crying cat having to be pulled off complete with Crallick’s armor and cloak. Kittalae sat with the cub, stroked its head, and spoke comfortingly to it while the now topless form of her master set her imagination alight.

  Crallick joined the others at carving out the lung and bone around the area with Bargress buried under it. As they revealed parts, they bound and compressed him so as not to cause his injuries to be too disrupted.

  Night was falling by the time they had him free. That night would mark the time when the veil was most receptive to souls and offerings. This night in the Haunting held no moon. Chessintra would be hungry for certain. Crallick was becoming more and more restless. “Look, we’ll have to leave those who are too injured here. We’ll butcher the body when we return. We have to get going. Now. The girls don’t have much time. I can feel it.”

  Hullaboo spoke up. “I can protect our trophy and friends! Yes-yes. Garrum.”

  “That’s great. We’ll be back for you as soon as we have the girls,” Crallick tried to reassure him.

  “Good, good. I am eager to meet your daughter and Vlados’s too.” The bull froggle licked his head, “Garrum.”

  “Okay, see you soon,” Crallick concluded.

  “Bye-bye,” Hullaboo waved. Then he gingerly hopped with one leg to the top of the dead dragon’s back, carrying his spear with him.

  Crallick grimly led his now much-diminished band of six into the gathering gloom of the gloaming.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Crallick's bow spotted the drake's wing, taking its flight.

  The falling drake found Hyrophon's triumphant head.

  Crallick's men braved tooth and claw to end the vile fight.

  Greatsword to the neck, Crallick ensured the beast was dead.”

  Verse 16: Ballad of Ser Crallick Carnage-born

  Night had completely cloaked the party by the time they had reached the foot of the monolithic ziggurat. Torchlight glimmered in the cool jungle evening. A baritone chanting cascaded down from the pinnacle of the pyramid structure. The chanting was underscored by soft weeping and occasional shuddering sobs.

  Crallick knelt at the foot of the vine-covered stonework and watched silhouettes moving against the night sky. From his limited vantage point, he could barely make out how many there were. He could see six static forms; he presumed those were almost half of the prisoners. There were three bodies moving about. He stopped watching as he heard Erik come up behind him.

  “So Cral, how do you want to play this?” Erik asked in a hushed tone.

  Shaking his head, Crallick confessed, “I’m not sure. They have a superior tactical position for starters. Secondly, in our order, we never usually had to rescue so many victims. Also, casualties were always second priority. Our primary goal was to make sure the bad guys died and were never able to commit atrocities again. So I’m kind of open to suggestions right now. I’ve never had to make sure all thirteen hostages survived, while killing all the bad guys, and then also making sure my untrained team survives.”

  Erik scoffed. “Well hell, why not make it easy on yourself then? I don’t think you can raise the bloody bar any higher, do you?” Then he gently put a hand on Crallick’s forearm. This had t
he desired effect of pulling Crallick’s attention back from the top of the monument to the gods.

  “What?” Crallick hissed.

  In answer, Erik jerked his head to indicate that Crallick should follow him back. Then, staying crouched, Erik edged his way back into the undergrowth.

  A scant moment later, one that felt an eternity to Crallick, he forced all his will to pull away from his position to follow Erik back to the others.

  A short way back into the rainforest, the group were clustered about, readying their weapons and waiting on Crallick’s orders to finally confront the villains that they had chased halfway across creation to catch.

  Kittalae had cast some sort of enchantment upon herself. Her once scarlet and smooth complexion now was browner in hue, and was roughly ridged. The same roughening on the back of her good hand left the impression that this transformation was complete. Her spearpoint had been rubbed down with mud so there would be little reflection from it. The orange and black cat blended into the bladed ferns of the undergrowth really quite well. It was the slightly luminous golden eyes that betrayed its location at the feet of Kittalae.

  Glip-Glip’s blue and yellow markings seemed remarkably muted in the gloom of the night. His bar-like irises were dilated to almost circular dimensions. He rested only six feet above the ground in a low crest of cypress roots. His blowgun and satchel were still readily available at his side. His dagger had also been smeared with mud.

  Izzy had taken it upon himself to smear the loam that he had found all over his face, hands and arms. He grinned wickedly at Crallick, his teeth seeming all the brighter against his once tanned, now filthy face. Those teeth, as well as the whites of his eyes, gave a ghoulish tone to his countenance. His cutlasses remained sheathed. His shirt had been traded for the armor from Armon. The cuir bouilli was darker than his linen shirt and offered more protection.