Ymitoth looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then agreed, “Aye lad. This be an adventure indeed.” Then he looked back toward hut and said, “Another good-bye, a fond farewell, I be thinking of ye always till the last chime of the bell.”
Maelich smiled, “What was that?”
Ymitoth shrugged, “That be a short farewell poem we used to say to our folk when the road called us from home.”
“I like it,” Maelich decided.
The miles peeled off quickly as loose groupings of trees became less frequent and gave way to a wide prairie with far less dramatic hills. Maelich picked up the pace and jogged for a time. He glanced over at Ymitoth and could tell the old warrior was just as full of the pure excitement of boots pounding against the wide open trail as him. Of course, there was no need to rush, but the feeling of his heart beating wildly in his chest—surged on by every flex of his legs—was reason enough to race along that road. Nothing moves a traveler’s spirit quite like the adventure of a journey. No matter how much joy his home and folk fill him with, his heart always longs for the trail.
As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Ymitoth nudged Maelich and said, “Midday lad, let’s be having a break and taking some nourishment. I be having a good share of salted tubber that will be just the thing to put a little fire back in our feet.”
“That sounds perfect,” Maelich smiled.
Maelich flopped down next to Ymitoth on a long, flat rock, slightly hidden by the tall grass. Ymitoth dipped into his sack and pulled out several strips of salted tubber. Maelich eagerly accepted half the booty and immediately began chomping on the biggest piece. The warm sun beat down on him as he absently chewed. Its warmth made the perfect complement to the cool air of the prairie.
“How be your legs, lad?” Ymitoth asked with a mouthful of tubber.
“Fine,” Maelich stretched them out and leaned back on his left arm, “I’ll be good until nightfall.”
“Aye,” Ymitoth agreed. Then he added, “We should be finding some horses though. We’d be making much better time if we be having a couple of steeds carrying us about.”
“True,” Maelich replied and then quickly added, “What’s that over there?”
Ymitoth turned his face a hair south of straight east toward the large plume of smoke Maelich pointed at, “That be looking to be quite a fire. What of it?”
Maelich shrugged, “All that smoke, there could be an entire village burning over there. Maybe we ought to help them out if we can.”
Ymitoth contorted his face like something awfully sour had gotten a hold of his tongue and replied, “That be like two days journey. If they ain’t got that fire out by then, anybody that was alive will be long dead or long fled.”
“Don’t you think it would be heroic?” Maelich asked soberly.
“Aye, it be heroic, a heroic waste of time,” Ymitoth replied. Then he picked up a blade of grass, spun it in his fingers a few times while he examined it, and added, “If we be having horses and riding into the night, maybe. On foot, it be taking us too long for there to be any heroic things left to do.”
Maelich shrugged and nodded, “Probably. Rebuilding a village is heroic.”
“Aye, that be a kind of hero what be helping build up a village what’s been destroyed by fire or battle, but that ain’t the kind of adventure ye be looking for on this quest,” Ymitoth swiped at the air as if swatting the idea down.
Maelich shook his head, “No, no it isn’t at all the kind of adventure I’m looking for.”
Ymitoth smiled, “Straight south with the falling sun on our right side then. How be your water skin?”
Maelich shook the leather pouch at his side, “About half full.”
“Good, we be crossing a small brook about halfway until nightfall. We’ll be filling up there,” Ymitoth nodded. “That brook she meanders a bit before growing into a small river, but she be emptying right into the Sea of Sadness. Maybe that be a good path to take.”
Maelich nodded, “That sounds like a great plan. We may find a village or two on the way, maybe get some horses.”
By the time both men had finished their dried tubber and taken good long pulls off of their water skins, the sun was just beginning its descent. They gathered themselves back up, stepped out onto the trail, and started along their afternoon of travel. Maelich glanced back over at the smoke toward the east, halfway between them and a small mountain range known as Branyon’s Hills for the man that founded several villages and towns on and around it hundreds of years prior. The myths said he sold his soul to the Dragon for prosperity but was double-crossed and devoured instead. Maelich had learned that story and stories like it were completely false. He had never learned the real story and didn’t care terribly much about it right at that moment. All he really wanted just then was to race into the fire causing all the smoke in the middle of the vast valley and save someone. He wanted to do something heroic. He wanted an adventure. Of course, Ymitoth had been completely correct in his assessment. By the time they could reach the fire, the need for heroes would be long gone. He silenced his mind and fell in step beside Ymitoth. Perhaps the river would provide adventure.
chapter 16
gird your loins
Daritus walked along a deep trench surrounding a wooden fort built on a small hill. As he looked up and beyond it, he could just make out Havenstahl crowning the peak of Mount Elzkahon in the distance. The fort was fairly small and simple but perfect for its intended purpose. Each wall was fifty feet in length and consisted of a series of fifteen-foot-tall, sharpened stakes fastened together on the backside with flat planks. At each corner flat, square platforms—ten feet long at each of their sides—stood an additional ten feet above the tops of the walls. They served as watchtowers. On the inside of the fort, narrow planks—just wide enough for a man to stand upon—ran the length of each wall, exactly four feet beneath the tops of them. The enclosure had no roof and one entrance at the back consisting of a ten-foot-tall, six-foot-wide door that doubled as a small drawbridge to span the trench dug around the other side of the fort. Sharpened sticks filled the trench, patiently waiting for victims to impale.
“You know all of the soldiers will not fit in that tiny fort, sir,” Kantiim interrupted Daritus’s examination of it.
Daritus turned toward his general, and replied, “Of course not. That was never the intention of this place. How much do you know about the history of Havenstahl, old friend?”
“I know much of it,” Kantiim smiled, his dark eyes partially obscured by equally dark—though graying—waves falling just past his eyebrows. “Why?”
Daritus smiled back, considering the man he had grown up with, served with, and fought battles alongside. As he watched his old friend brush the wild waves back from his face to cavort with the rest of the dark—though graying—mop cascading off his head and hanging about his shoulders, he remembered how valuable Kantiim was as friend and counsel even when he missed some of the details. Unencumbered by all of that hair, the eyes of the man appeared far sharper, carrying the wisdom of all the years the lines on his face betrayed him of, the lines not covered by his massive, black beard. Finally he replied, “You must have missed the battle with Ahm’s sons.”
Kantiim’s face reddened, “I suppose I did.”
“Details, Kantiim,” Daritus’s smile widened.
Kantiim chuckled, “That, my friend, is why I have always admired you. You value knowledge. By the time you meet a foe on the battlefield, you know them better than they know themselves. That is why I would follow you into any battle against any army, damn the odds.”
“I would follow you just the same, old friend. If you had a mind to lead, I would follow,” Daritus smirked.
“Of course you would,” Kantiim laughed, “but I have neither the mind nor the desire. No, the mind in that head of yours has no equal on the battlefield. Now, as much as I would love to stand here and discuss each other’s greatness, I fear there are far more pressing matters to at
tend to. Go ahead; lecture me on the history of this damnably small fort and why it is perfect for our mission.”
“You’re an old dog, Kantiim,” Daritus chuckled as the two men began walking along the trench again. “Fine then, let me educate you on this fort. Before Maelich could begin his journey to finish his training, he had to earn the crest of Havenstahl, the mark of a champion from our adopted city. In order to earn his crest he had to complete a trial. The man who wore the crown of Havenstahl at that time was a treacherous, double-crossing bastard named Yfregeof.”
“I have heard stories about him,” Kantiim interrupted. “He was the cousin of Ymitoth—may the Dragon rest his soul—who betrayed both of their fathers to a giant.”
“Precisely,” Daritus agreed. “The snake gave Maelich a trial he was certain the lad could not accomplish. He demanded the head of a giant. That giant was Ahm. Maelich proved his worth and won the giant’s head in battle, earning the crest of Havenstahl and Alhouim’s freedom with one clean slash of his blade. During his battle, Maelich learned of Yfregeof’s treachery, and the foul king died a traitor’s death.”
Kantiim cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes at Daritus, “That is a great story, old friend, but what on Ouloos does it have to do with this painfully small fort?”
“You know how much I like a good story, Kantiim,” Daritus grinned. “I haven’t gotten that far yet. Please allow me to finish.” After a short pause, Daritus continued, “Everything seemed perfect for the two cities. The dwarves had earned their freedom and fair trade resumed. However, Ahm had sons who became quite distraught when they learned of their father’s demise. Aht and Ahn, last in the line of Maomnosett, raised a small army and attacked. This fort,” Daritus paused and corrected himself. “Well, not this exact fort. In fact, back then it really wasn’t more than a trench and a bunch of stakes driven into the ground. No matter. It isn’t important to the story. What is important is some semblance of a fort was erected on this very spot to defend against that attack. Now here is the key, this fort was never intended to be the stronghold of Havenstahl’s army. It was merely meant to capture the enemy’s focus, draw their attention. They did not even finish it until after the attack had been thwarted. Then it was built up, properly reinforced, and named Fort Maomnosett in honor of the family it defended our fair city against. You see, it has always been somewhat of a decoy.”
“A decoy?” Kantiim asked. “Why are we working so hard to fortify a decoy?”
Daritus looked up at the sky, “Perhaps decoy is not quite the proper choice of words. It should be the focal point of the enemy’s attack, and I believe it will be supremely useful in defending our position. Not to mention, it will give us a spectacular advantage to damage and weaken their forces. However, while your men are busy fortifying this position, Ycantle and Balgom have their men building and fortifying offensive positions to the north and south of this clearing.” Daritus waved his arm toward the wide clearing sprawling out in front of Fort Maomnosett and then continued, “If Glord and Ygraml’s forces fail to end the war before it leaves the shore of the Great Sea, this broad clearing is where the final battle will occur. And when our enemies reach this stronghold, they will be fighting a battle on at least three fronts. If it comes to it, this is where we make our final stand.”
Kantiim smiled wide at his general, “You are always three steps ahead of your opponent. All the great feats I have watched you accomplish on a battlefield pale in comparison to the might of your mind.”
“Please, Kantiim, do not congratulate me yet. Everything has to go exactly as I have planned for this to work. Hopefully Glord and Ygraml prove mighty enough to end this before my plan is tested,” Daritus replied soberly.
“Ah, your humility is refreshing, my lord, but the compliment remains…” before Kantiim could finish, Daritus touched his arm and interrupted.
“It begins,” he said softly as he watched a horse bearing the colors of Havenstahl charge out of the forest at the other end of the clearing with a man slumped over its head.
It took a few moments for the horse to make it across the clearing to the two men. Once the steed arrived, he stopped abruptly. The groaning man perched on top of the horse slid slowly off his saddle and landed in a heap on the ground in front of Daritus.
“You,” Kantiim pointed at one of his men who was busy pounding stakes into the trench directly below him, “fetch Hagen and bring him as quickly as you can.”
Meanwhile, Daritus knelt down by the man and examined his state. A large chunk of his right cheek and lower eyelid were missing. It appeared the flesh had been ripped off rather than cut. Daritus squinted as he watched too much of the young emissary’s eye darting wildly around in its socket. The man’s shirt was covered with far too many holes and tears to determine how many wounds his battered body carried.
“That is Kigan, my lord,” Kantiim said quietly into Daritus’s ear. “He was one of the emissaries we sent to speak with the visitors at the shore.”
“My lord,” Kigan choked, “they spared me to bring you a message.”
“Shh,” Daritus consoled the man, rubbing the one spot on his shoulder free from any noticeable wounds. “Hagen is on his way,” he added quietly. Then he pointed to two men standing in the trench who had stopped pounding stakes to gawk at the scene, “You two get this man to my tent and fetch him some water.”
Then he turned to Kantiim, but before he could speak his old friend said, “I will send two riders to get an update from Spang of the Dragon’s Flame.”
Daritus nodded. He had dispatched Spang and the rest of his flames just prior to sending the emissaries to greet the visiting ships. The elite of Havenstahl’s army should be poised in the trees at the edge of the beach at Biggon’s Bay prepared to strike as soon as commanded. Based on Kigan’s condition, Daritus would be issuing that command before nightfall.
Daritus followed the two men carrying Kigan to his tent. Once inside, they laid the battered man down on Daritus’s cot amid constant groaning and an occasional shout of pain from the poor emissary. After ensuring his instructions had been precisely followed, he slipped out to grab water and rags. By the time he returned from retrieving a bucket of water and a handful of rags, the bloody clothing had been cut off Kigan’s mangled body. Daritus handed the water and rags to Shurm—the taller of the two soldiers—and said, “Here, clean his wounds as best you can. Careful though, try not to cause him too much more pain.”
Then he turned to Nuuram—the stouter of the two—and said, “You go check on the whereabouts of Hagen. See if he is on his way.”
“My lord,” Kigan groaned. “My lord, I feel very weak. I think the Great Dragon, the Great Mother, she’s calling me home.”
“Nonsense,” Daritus replied softly, “Hagen is on his way. I have seen him pull many a battered man back from the edge of death. Just relax. Save your strength.”
Kigan’s head shook so slightly it was nearly imperceptible, “I cannot, my lord. The house of Maomnosett yet lives. The brother of Ahm, Bok, leads this force. They killed the rest but left me alive to tell you he is coming.” Kigan’s body began to shake as his voice raised and his rate of speech increased, “He is coming to tear down the Fallon and tear down the Dragon and reclaim the city of dwarves that was stolen from his family. His force is mighty, my lord.”
Daritus closed his eyes and rested his hand on Kigan’s forehead, “His force may be mighty, but I command tens of thousands of men that will die before they see a giant comfortable in these lands.”
Kigan continued, his agitation had not ebbed at all, “Bok’s camp is immense, my lord. There are only twenty giants among them, but they are accompanied by thousands of trogmortem. I have always believed them to be myth, but I saw them with my own eyes. They are easily as big as the giants, but their arms are so long and powerful, and their hands immense. They have giant heads with pointy ears; big, swollen noses; and terrible, monstrous, green eyes, and not just any green, glowing green. But their
mouths are the most horrifying, my lord. They are humungous and filled with sharp, jagged fangs. Always they hang open with slithery, black tongues that dart about constantly. All of these cuts and gashes my lord; all of them are from two slashes of one of those beasts. Except my face, that was a bite from a grong. I have never seen so many grongs in all of my days, thousands of thousands and more. I am afraid, my lord.”
“Rest easy, son,” Daritus reassured him. “You have done well. I am ready to face Bok. If he wishes to challenge the might of Havenstahl, he will find my blade, and he will learn two things from me, humility and fear.”
Daritus looked down at Kigan and found the young man’s eyes staring blankly back at him like two marbles. He hadn’t even noticed that the boy had stopped shaking at the end of his rant. Daritus ran his hand down Kigan’s face and closed what was left of his eyelids over the chilling gaze. “Your journey is done, my friend,” he said quietly. “The Great Mother is calling you home.”
Hagen raced into the tent, “Where is the brave, young man requiring my attention?”
Daritus turned to Hagen and shook his head, “He has been called to the Lake.”
Hagen slumped, his chin dropping to his chest.
Daritus rose and patted him on the shoulder, “Steel your heart, my friend. War is upon us. Kigan is only the first of many we will mourn before the fighting is done.”
“A little bit of me dies with every one we lose,” Hagen sighed. “I think I am getting soft as I age, old friend. It ails me more and more each time.”
“Then I fear you may not survive this war,” Daritus replied as his gaze drifted far beyond the wall of his tent. “Our foe has no honor. He slaughtered our emissaries leaving brave Kigan here with just enough life in him to bring a threat to my ears.”
Hagen sighed again, “What is the nature of our enemy?”
Daritus replied without breaking his stare, “Giants, trogmortem, and thousands upon thousands of grongs, according to Kigan.”
Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2) Page 10