Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  All of Maelich’s attempts to blame something other than himself for Ymitoth’s death completely failed. The closest he could get was also accepting the blame for his father’s happiness. What would Ymitoth say? “Sure lad, ye have brought me a bit of pain and sorrow. What would I be without ye, though? I’d have never known the lifetime of joy ye brought me. I tell ye, lad, I’d not be trading me life for any other.”

  Hagen watched Maelich wailing over Ymitoth’s corpse. The thought of intervening lived a short life. Instead, he let Maelich have his grief. Losing a father is a hard thing for any man. As the old healer left the room, he closed the door quietly behind him. Preparations were necessary. The final ceremony for the mightiest king Ouloos had ever known would have to be as great as the man it honored. There was much to do. Thankfully, there was much to do that would keep his mind off the loss of a friend so dear. His grieving could wait until all of his work was done. For the time being, Maelich would need him to be strong.

  chapter 4

  reminiscing

  Maelich woke to the first rays of morning sun pouring into the room. His eyes squinted as he slowly blinked the sleep from them. The stench of death hit him, earning a groan from deep in his gut. He sat up, scratched his belly, and then absently rubbed at his eyes. Muscles loosened as he stretched his arms high above his head, arching his back and grumbling the entire way about the rank odor. Reality settled in as he slowly returned to consciousness. His father was dead. That was the smell. Quit grumbling.

  Maelich looked down at Ymitoth’s lifeless body. He stared at it so long his mind began playing tricks on him. A couple of times, he was certain his father’s corpse moved. At any moment, Ymitoth’s eyes might pop open again and they could laugh about how silly they had acted the night before. The idea was ridiculous, but he kept staring anyway, waiting. He sat like that until the sun was fully above the horizon. Then Hagen’s harsh words from the night before swept into his head like rushing wind through a low valley. The old healer had scolded him for acting like a man. Maelich turned the idea around in his brain, flipped it over, and examined it from all angles. His mind began working much faster than it should, much faster than logic could possibly keep pace with.

  After several minutes, Maelich knew what he was going to do. The plan was simple and clear. He was a god. Why behave like a mere man? Why sob and wail and wish when filled with such great power? The answer was beautifully simple. He wouldn’t. In an instant as brief and powerful as the moment of clarity that hits a man just before the killing blow ends him, that moment when the world slows and all of one’s memories crash down the walls of the dam that has held them back for a lifetime, the same moment that is at once instant and eternity, his decision was made. He wrapped Ymitoth’s body tight with blankets. The corpse was stiff and awkward to lift. He struggled with it for a few moments before telling himself again he was more than a mere man. ‘Lift him like a god would,’ he thought. Once his mind was flexing more than his muscles, he hefted Ymitoth up onto his shoulder and strolled out of the room with him.

  Many an odd glance scrutinized him as he walked through the castle with the king’s corpse draped over his shoulder. Even more met him as he walked to the stables and ordered Validus be prepared to ride. No one had anything to say. They all just watched as he walked about carrying a corpse wrapped tightly in blankets. That is until Talhomme—one of the stable hands—arrived with Validus saddled and loaded.

  Talhomme was a round brute of a man. The skin on his face resembled wrinkled leather that had spent too much time drying in the sun. The top of his head was bare. The hair he did have was yellowish gray and hung in strings about his shoulders. As far as Maelich knew, the tightly squinting scowl Talhomme wore was the only expression his face was capable of making.

  The pitch of Talhomme’s voice was far higher than his gruff appearance would suggest, “Please forgive me prodding, your highness, but where ye be going with that body?”

  “My actions are my own concern. Do not hinder me. I have much to do,” Maelich snapped, uninterested in sharing his plans with anyone.

  Talhomme bowed as he handed over Validus’s reigns, “Forgive me, highness. Good day.”

  Maelich paid no further attention to the stable hand. He laid Ymitoth’s body across Validus, tied it down, and hopped up onto the horse. In moments he was galloping out of the stable and onto the stone roads of Havenstahl. It was early, but they were already crowded with people heading to market for trade or off to work. Validus required only minimal guidance as they moved through the crowd. The horse had grown quite adept at keeping a swift pace without injuring any who desired to touch the savior. The crowds tried to move closer as Maelich rode by, but Validus’s pace was much too quick. All they had time for were waves and well wishes. That was exactly what Maelich had hoped for.

  The guards at the gate of the city came to attention as Maelich shot by them. There really was no need. He barely noticed them as thoughts of the task at hand dominated his mind. His eyelids gently closed as he pictured the old hut he and Ymitoth had shared through the first twelve summers of his life. The place was the setting for many of his fondest memories. It was also his destination. Though Havenstahl had become his home, his heart still ached for that simpler time of his life. A longing for those days filled with training and learning—like the longing of a starving man for the fat, glistening fruit dangling just out of his reach—consumed him. Life was so much easier before he was a hero, before people began to recognize him as a god.

  Maelich’s mind focused on the old hut, wrapping around the history he so desperately missed. As images danced about his awareness—trading blades with Ymitoth, running the trail around Yester’s Pond, and even washing up bowls after the mid-day feast—he barely noticed the absence of Validus’s hoof beats. Though they tore ever faster over the trail, the mighty thunder normally accompanying the horse’s charge wasn’t reverberating back off the huts they raced past. In fact, there was no sound at all, not even wind whistling past his face. The shapes before him quickly began melting into oozing colors, mingling with and bleeding into each other like a fresh scene on canvas battered by heavy rain. A moment before all the colors before him merged into one blurry mass, he caught sight of a young woman hanging shirts out on a line. Her lips mouthed something at the center of her shocked expression, and then she was gone. Everything was gone, black, still…for a moment.

  Then hoof beats and horse sweat and the great, old oak crowning Keller’s Hill; they were home. Maelich halted Validus at the base of the hill and gazed at the mighty tree upon it. From the tall grass around the fat trunk all the way up to the massive crown, the giant oak had remained constant, unmovable against the wind, the rain, and time, like an ancient warrior standing guard and patiently waiting for a challenge to his post.

  Maelich dismounted, quickly surveying the rest of the area. Little had changed. The hut seemed mostly untouched. Aside from being a bit weathered, the planks hanging off the frame still appeared good and sturdy, and besides a few missing eaves, the roof looked structurally sound. Maelich allowed a smile to slip onto his face as he gently closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Then he threw Ymitoth back over his shoulder and hurried inside. The dead lump was stiff and difficult to bend. Before his mind had too much time to consider the condition of the corpse, he caught a whiff of it. He winced. It smelled like spoiled meat. Rot was setting in.

  Then nostalgia hit. Inside the hut appeared nearly exactly as they had left it. A few minor details had changed. The hole in the roof had been repaired, as well as the shattered door. Other than those two things, it seemed like a time warp, like Maelich had just stepped back eighteen summers. Someone must have spent some time occupying the old space, but they hadn’t changed much of anything. Judging from the thick coat of dust covering everything, even that had been quite a few summers past.

  Maelich paused his reminiscing long enough to lay Ymitoth on the same cot the dead king had claimed back when he wore th
e title of mentor and Maelich, pupil. The corpse’s stiff limbs bent in awkward angles and were stuck that way. It was too much for Maelich to look at, so he didn’t for very long. Besides, a chill filled the small space. A nice fire would do it some good. He glanced over at the fireplace, empty save a small pile of cold ash spilling out onto the hearth. Despite its blackened brick, it appeared as frigid as the rest of the hut, as barren too. Moments later, the pile of spent ash was replaced by a healthy fire. There was no wood—or any other fuel, for that matter—in the fireplace, yet a cozy flame burned steadily within it. As the small blaze woke the musty odor of the old place, Maelich’s smile finally returned. It was good to be home.

  Maelich prepared some roast tubberslat and a sweet cake. The occasion seemed worthy of a feast. There were no tubber for miles. Nor was there the wheat necessary to make a sweet cake, but Maelich was in a different place. Free from the rules that shackle men, anything was possible. He moved as if in a trance. Two tall pints materialized and poured themselves out of nothing. Cooked meat and prepared vegetables appeared on the simple square table marking the center of the single-roomed hut. Everything was as it had been the last time they broke bread within those walls. Then the real work began.

  The crackle of the fire was lost on Maelich as he focused his thoughts into Ymitoth. While his concentrated intent crawled around the dead brain squeezed inside of the crushed cranium, he unwrapped the blankets and bandages from the corpse. Not with his hands, but with his will. They dissolved into nothing. The wounds over Ymitoth’s body began disappearing, fresh healthy skin replacing the broken parts. Bruises faded, busted bones mended, and the stiffness fled. Maelich fixated on his father’s still chest. Suddenly, the heart within it beat strong. Blood filled the veins as the revived muscle pumped it through the body. Ymitoth’s revitalized skin grew flusher with every moment until it was the healthy peach tone it had been before his final hunt.

  Maelich spoke softly, “Rise father. Come to me.”

  Ymitoth’s eyes snapped open and he sat straight up. He didn’t look around or even seem to be awake. His head remained completely still, facing the direction his body faced. He spun his legs around to the side of the cot and stood with stiff, awkward movements. He walked like a normal man would—a man that hadn’t been dead—straight to Maelich and then stopped.

  Maelich threw his arms around Ymitoth and embraced him, but the former corpse remained motionless. “Hug me father,” Maelich’s voice dripped excitement. “I have pulled you from death’s grip and brought you home. And look at this magnificent feast; surely you must be pleased with me.”

  Ymitoth remained motionless.

  Maelich stepped back and beheld his father, mostly staring into his eyes. They were black and dead, two empty pits, void of color or life. They were just as the eyes of the dead-eyed men, blank and soulless. Maelich’s own eyes misted and his voice cracked a bit, “Father, speak to me. Say something.”

  Ymitoth’s reply was nothing more than a low, raspy moan.

  Reality struck hard. The vessel carrying Ymitoth’s essence around during his physical existence was nothing more than an empty shell. It was no more than Kallum’s dead-eyed priests. He was just as Kallum was. No. No, this was different. He hadn’t resurrected Ymitoth to carry out his bidding. It was a display of undying love and loyalty to his father. Surely there was a difference in that. Absently stroking his chin, he attempted to reckon the idea with himself.

  Maelich stood for a good hour attempting to justify his own actions. When he finally looked back up from the floor, he realized Ymitoth still stared at him with those empty, dead eyes. Obviously, the corpse wasn’t looking at anything. It had no will of its own. Maelich suddenly felt dirty and wrong, overcome with a sense of being watched, scrutinized, judged. Jittery nervousness toyed with his spine as he glanced around the empty hut. No one was watching, of course. It was just him judging himself.

  Maelich had come too far to stop. He gazed at the standing corpse through squinted eyes and focused his thoughts into its head. He could see himself. He moved the dead head around, taking everything in through foreign eyes. He blinked those eyes several times and then turned the corners of his father’s mouth up into a smile while raising the eyebrows up at the same time.

  Maelich made another attempt at conversation, “Father, I have prepared a great feast for you, roast tubberslat and a sweet cake. I know they are your favorites. Would you care to join me for a meal?” Then he quickly added, “I even poured us a couple of pints. I thought we might reminisce.”

  Then he caused Ymitoth’s corpse to respond in a way fitting of his father’s personality, “Aye laddy, I been standing here wondering when ye might invite me to your table. That tubberslat smells fantastic. It be making me mouth water for a taste.”

  A broad, childish smile spread across Maelich’s face. The fact Ymitoth’s soul had made its journey home didn’t matter one bit to him. His father was with him again, and that was enough. He made a welcoming gesture toward the table with his left hand and said, “Please, come. Enjoy.”

  Maelich controlled Ymitoth’s every move down to the slightest gesture. It was queer and unsettling to experience senses through another’s body. The scent of the fire was stronger from Ymitoth’s nose than his own. Of course it would be as Ymitoth sat closer to the fireplace. He experienced the senses of both of them simultaneously, yet they were quite distinct from each other. He could feel the air on Ymitoth’s skin as well as his own. He could hear himself talk through Ymitoth’s ears, learning how his voice had been heard while the king still lived. It was all wonderful and strange. Marveling at this new experience, he kept up the conversation he was having with himself.

  “Ah Maelich, what a fine cook ye’ve become. The tubber be so tender. Ye must have been roasting it all day. And this Ale be the perfect complement for it,” Ymitoth said as he chewed.

  Maelich blushed slightly and smiled, “Oh it was nothing, really. I just threw it together.”

  “Well ye did a fine job of just throwing it together,” Ymitoth raised his eyebrows and chuckled. Then he continued, “Hey, do ye remember the time I’d been showing ye sword techniques on horseback and me horse threw me?”

  After a hearty laugh, Maelich replied, “I do. I laughed my fool head off and then you scolded and punished me for disrespecting you. You made me run the pastures a full three more times and then clean the hut from top to bottom. You sent me to bed with no food that night as well.”

  “Hm. Do ye suppose ye learned your lesson?”

  “I sure did. Though I laughed plenty when your eyes were not upon me, I never laughed at you in your presence again,” he finished with a chuckle.

  Ymitoth laughed right back at him. “I tell ye, that lesson been no more than never be laughing at the master while he be mastering. Ye were just paying for me embarrassment. Ah, I’d been a proud man then.”

  Maelich’s expression became somber, “I miss those days, father. More than you could know.”

  chapter 5

  the missing kings

  Hagen gently knocked at the door to the king’s quarters. He’d given Maelich more time than he should have to say his good-byes. Ymitoth’s body should have been well on its way to rotting. The corpse would need to be prepared for the customary hero’s ceremony. One lost in battle received the most sacred and prestigious rite practiced in Havenstahl. For the great and mighty Ymitoth, there could be no less. He would forever be remembered in Havenstahl’s history as one of her greatest champions.

  Hagen knocked three more times at the door before gently pushing it open. His jaw dropped open as his left hand snapped up to cover it. The former king and the future king were gone. He groaned. Where could Maelich have taken his father’s corpse? What would possess him to do such a thing? Hagen paced nervously back and forth. His eyes jumped from the bed to the window to the ceiling and to the door. How could Maelich have gotten the king’s corpse out of the castle without being noticed? Someone had to have seen
him. He rushed out to the hall.

  “Guards!” he shouted. “Come quickly!”

  Within moments, two men stood before him clad in the decorative armor of Havenstahl’s Royal Guard, the elite. They wore red shirts with hoods covered by round, shiny helmets crafted of prang. Those buffed helmets sparkled brilliantly in the sun pouring through the windows. The better portion of both of the guards’ faces was covered by nose and chin plates hammered out of the same piece of prang. Their chest and leg plates matched the helmets perfectly. Their boots were black leather as were their trousers. They all looked the same to Hagen; big, brutish men with more brawn then brains. That was fine with him. The less a man thinks, the more apt he is to follow orders without question. Doubt could kill a man in battle.

  The guard to Hagen’s left was Artho. His tone was trained, “Aye sir. What be your bidding?”

  “Have you seen Prince Maelich this morning?” Hagen kept control of his tone. He didn’t want rumors to begin floating around the city about the king’s heir stealing corpses.

  “No sir. There ain’t been none about on this morn. Though I been at me post but a few hours,” Artho remained at attention as he spoke.

  “Very good,” Hagen folded his hands as he continued to work through his dilemma. “Begin a search. Question every soldier and castle worker that would have been about last evening or early this morning. I seek an audience with his highness.”

  “Aye sir,” the guards replied in unison, bowed, about faced, and carried on down the steps.