Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  “Trogmortem have come to our shores?” Hagen gasped. “I have studied the little bit of information available about them, but I have never seen one.”

  Daritus nodded, “As have I. Based on the description our poor friend brought me, I would say they are at least as terrible as described.”

  Hagen’s hand fell to Daritus’s shoulder, “I will not try to fool you, my friend. I dearly miss the presence of Ymitoth, Maelich, and Cialia. I have faith in you though, Daritus. You have proven yourself a great warrior and general. Havenstahl is in good hands. I trust you have accounted for far more potentialities than a lesser leader would.”

  Daritus finally pulled his eyes from the wall and looked at Hagen, “Thank you, my friend. Your faith gives me strength.” Then he stood and added, “I only hope I prove worthy.”

  chapter 17

  the red dragon strikes

  A heavy covering of clouds hung low in the sky blanketing Biggon’s Bay in darkness far more pitch than an average evening when the bright moon would admire her reflection in the water. That was perfect as far as Spang was concerned. His troops would have no trouble avoiding the torches on the beach. Ninety-nine of the finest warriors ever to grace the face of Ouloos fanned out among the trees growing thick along the bluff overlooking the beach of Biggon’s Bay. They needed no direction from him. When he moved, they would follow. Each knew exactly what their role was without words or instruction. Together with Spang they were one being, all in tune with one another.

  The Red Dragon spared no worry for his flames. They were considered by most to be the finest force in all of Ouloos, at least of the known world. Even though the mission Spang laid before them would be their first in more summers than he could remember, his flames were equal to the task. Only the best soldiers who excelled beyond their peers in training and proved themselves in battle were considered for the trial. And the trial was no dance with a handful of grongs or a pack of amatilazo. It was—to any logical, thinking person—an impossible feat. Yet, all who had earned the honor of calling themselves flame had, in fact, conquered this challenge. A candidate would be stripped of clothing, supplies, and weapons. Then he would be deposited at the top of Mount Destiny—the highest peak of the White Mountains—far to the north where it always snows and the beasts grow large and terrifying. Warriors making it home to the temple atop Mount Zmajvatra—surviving the icy cold, the grizzly mongs, and the horrible halbakurs—became flames in waiting, serving the one-hundred who had already taken the oath. Only when a sworn flame died could their crest be passed along to the next warrior on the list. Lucky for those flickering in wait, the list was never very long. Under the cover of darkness, each of the one-hundred was worth a battalion of ordinary soldiers. Spang was worried, but not for them.

  The hint of worry distracting Spang just then was spent on his old friend, Daritus. They had trained together and served together as riders of Druindahl. No man stood taller in Spang’s eyes. In fact, had Daritus not turned down his invitation to the trial in favor of the love of a young queen, he would be squatting on a branch in the woods west of Biggon’s Bay in Spang’s place. That man never asked for help. It wasn’t that he was too proud or unable to work among a team. He simply knew more about warfare than any man Spang had ever met. He always knew his opponent, and he always knew how to win. That fact troubled Spang more than anything else ever had. If Daritus felt he needed help, that meant he wasn’t completely confident he could win.

  Voices carrying from one of the ships on the water pulled Spang’s attention back to the massive force gathered in the bay. Biggon’s Bay was roughly five miles across at its widest point, and from the beach it was about a mile until a sailor would find the open sea. Thousands of ships carrying thousands upon thousands of nightmare creatures filled it. He would fight them all one by one if given the chance. That chance would never come though. It wasn’t the mission. The directive given by Daritus was clear. Level the first blow and cause as much destruction as possible without losing any flames.

  The Red Dragon pulled his gaze from the horror of massive warships to the equally horrifying tent city that had been erected on the beach. They were gigantic, capable of housing giants and the awful trogmortem. They would all burn. As Spang scanned the beach, it occurred to him that there wasn’t enough movement down there. Only a handful of guards strolled about. They had to expect some kind of retaliation after slaughtering a peaceful group of emissaries in such a grossly dishonorable fashion. They were either stupid, arrogant, or he and his flames were walking into a trap. Hopefully it wasn’t the latter.

  The silent warrior slipped through the trees, moving to a place directly above the path leading back to Havenstahl. Two heavily armed grongs stood on either side of it. They appeared to represent the extent of the night watch. Within the space of two seconds, both grongs sported arrows through their necks, gurgling and gasping for breath as they fell where they stood. Immediately after those twitching, scaly bodies hit the ground, black shapes—barely discernable in the darkness—flooded down the bluff and onto the beach. Mere moments later, tents began burning. As the hungry flames grew, they stretched and expanded to other tents, engulfing and consuming everything in their path. Shapes began pouring out of the burning mess, disoriented grongs mostly. Panic ruled the beach settling into the mobs scattering from the heat. Many that managed to escape their tents fell with arrows poking out of their throats or chests.

  Spang raced toward the opening of one of the tents. Fwip…fwip…two more grongs fell. One clutched an arrow jutting out of his chest while the other groaned, tugging helplessly at an arrow lodged in his eye socket. Just before reaching the door of the tent, Spang stowed his bow on his back and retrieved his sword. He was three steps from the door when another grong appeared and lost his head for the effort. The next to emerge earned an impaling through the heart. While still another lost a leg with one slash, an arm with another, and finally earned a boot to the chest that sent him careening into the wall of the tent he had just departed. Spang leapt high into the air flipping at the apex of his flight and landed softly on the sand behind the tent as it collapsed under the weight of the grong crashing into it. While the falling tent burned, several more grongs crawled, rolled, or stumbled out, desperate attempts to escape the flames. Spang paid them no further attention. Panic could have them.

  Rolling to the right of the tent he had landed in front of, Spang shot a quick glance toward the shore. The twenty-five flames he had sent to antagonize the ships had begun their task. The hull of one of the largest exploded, brightening the dark sky and spreading flame all across the deck. A smile climbed onto Spang’s face just before he ducked to avoid the club of a rather large grong. The Red Dragon spun low, slashing through both of the thing’s sturdy legs before rising, spinning again, and slashing its throat. Confusion spread across the face on the front of the oblong head as it sailed skyward. Meanwhile, the grong’s scaly body fell slowly to the sand on its stomach. Spang spit on one of the small, armor-like plates growing out of the thing’s back as it twitched. Grong’s were nasty creatures.

  A black shape raced up to Spang’s left. “Time to go,” it said as it sped by him.

  The voice belonged to Vaanx, one of the older flames. Spang quickly glanced around the encampment. Fires burned up and down the beach lighting up the sky above the bay and casting an orange glow all the way to the tress. Vaanx was correct. The first blow had been delivered, mission accomplished. It was time to pull back and wait for the next strike.

  Just as Spang began to turn with a mind to race back into the woods at the edge of the beach, he heard a horrible, deep growl. It didn’t sound like anything that should occur in the natural world, like the roar of a massive beast grinding boulders in its throat. His gaze drifted back toward the ships—the source of that horrible sound—and saw a gigantic shape leaping from one of the floating fires toward the shore. His eyes widened as he realized that—based on his trajectory—the giant would reach the beach with
that one leap. The distance seemed impossible. It was at least three hundred feet, maybe more. Spang recognized Bok as soon as the massive giant’s form pounded into the sand. Awe filled him as he sized the massive creature up. It was the closest he had ever been to a giant.

  Bok stood nearly twenty feet tall, which is impressive even by giant standards. His features were that of a man—an extremely massive one but a man nonetheless. The head on top of his shoulders was easily the size of a large man’s torso. Dagger-like teeth flashed behind an angry, wild sneer surrounded by a black bush of a beard. Long, black hair hung in dirty clumps all around his face. He raised his left hand toward Spang. It was curled around one of Spang’s men, squeezing and crushing. The giant roared, “I will eat you all!” Then he bit the head off the body, spit it upon the sand, and flung the carcass into the trees.

  The Red Dragon remained silent as he stowed his blade in favor of his bow and fired three quick arrows into Bok’s chest. None of them stuck. They all glanced off the giant’s immense torso. Spang stowed the bow as the furious animal charged toward him. He rolled between Bok’s legs, and popped up behind him with his blade back in his hand. As the giant spun, Spang charged. He leapt toward Bok, planting his left foot on the giant’s right knee. From there he sprung toward his left forearm, kicked himself off of it, and brought his foot across Bok’s face. Then he pulled his knees in and fired them into the giant’s chest before hitting the sand with his hands and rolling back to his feet. The entire beautifully executed move earned him barely a stumble from the massive beast who raised both fists high above his head and pounded them down into the sand. Luckily for Spang, he was spry enough to dive out of the way of those mountainous fists before being crushed by them.

  “You’re quick, wee man,” Bok growled.

  Spang remained silent. He leapt high up into the air causing Bok to stand straighter. The leap’s trajectory was deceiving though, and he dove low between the giant’s legs, slashing his right shin with a forehand before spinning and slashing his left shin with a backhand. Then he popped up behind Bok and stabbed him through his right knee. Bok howled and rolled forward. The giant’s agility was surprising considering his size. Spang stayed right on top of him, slashing several times throughout the roll and earning shallow cuts with each blow. Suddenly, Bok stopped short, stood, and swung his hand toward the sand. Spang’s momentum would have carried him between the giant’s legs. However, Bok’s timing was impeccable. Instead of rolling through and popping up behind the giant, Spang caught all four of the beast’s knuckles across the entire left side of his body. The giant’s hot breath blasted him as he careened back toward the trees. Spang fought to spin back toward the beast, but he was flailing out of control. He did manage to get his eyes around in time to see an arrow pound into Bok’s left eye socket just before the monster got a hold of him. The world slowed for Spang as he watched the giant fall to his knees howling and damning all of the Dragon’s Flame.

  A moment later, Spang was snatched from the air by a black shape. Two more shapes joined and he was quickly shuffled back up the bluff into the trees. As he was carried away, he looked back at Bok. The giant scowled as he knelt, staring at Spang with his right eye. He flinched only slightly as he yanked the arrow out of his left and screamed at the trees, “I will crush you all and feast on your flesh!”

  A few moments later, Spang and the black shapes carrying him were deep enough in the forest that the orange glow from the beach no longer reached them. Spang’s feet made it back to the ground and all four of the flames scurried up into the trees. Once in the canopy, Spang whispered, “How many are we? Count the Dragon’s Flame.”

  A moment later Vaanx answered quietly, “The Dragon’s Flame is ninety-four. Count one hundred, we do no more.”

  chapter 18

  thieves

  Perrin lay sleeping in her bed. Haleen sat in a chair next to the bed with her new grandchild lying on her lap and gazing up at her with bright, wide eyes that were still grey. Several months would pass before they found their color. She let her hair dangle about his face and shook it. His expression changed. “Oh look at there! Did ye see that? Might that be a smile from me young prince?” she asked, excited.

  Kendal leaned in closer, shrugged, and replied, “Ah, probably a bit of gas. It be far too early for him to be smiling.”

  Haleen’s voice jumped at least a full octave as she said, “Oh don’t be listening to that grumpy, old papa of yours. I be knowing a smile from me handsome prince when I be seeing one.” Then she shook her hair some more around the baby’s face and asked, “Right? Right?” Finally deciding she was very correct, she answered for him, “Of course.”

  “When can I be getting a hold of that lad?” Kendal asked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Haleen replied as she looked up at him, “it be hard to be letting him go, but I guess I be having to share.”

  Haleen handed the new prince up to Kendal who accepted him rather awkwardly, “Ye be minding his head now,” she said.

  “Ye be acting like I ain’t never held a babe, love,” Kendal replied as he worked his grandson into a comfortable position in the crook of his left arm, “it’s been a time or so, that be all.”

  Kendal slowly rocked back and forth as he hummed softly at the child, “He be beautiful me dear.”

  “Aye, he be that indeed,” Haleen replied.

  Then Kendal looked up at her and asked, “When will she be giving him a name? I can’t be calling him baby and young prince for all his days.”

  Haleen shrugged, “She be waiting for her love so they may be naming their child together.”

  Kendal humphed, “And where be the great prince?” Then he corrected himself, “I mean king. Where be the king to be minding his kingdom, not to mention his family? Our beautiful girl brung this precious blessing of love into this world, having no help from him I might be adding, and where be he to share the joy, or the burden?”

  Haleen rubbed his arm and quietly replied, “I know, I know. Hush that talk now, Perrin won’t be hearing that. She be in a fragile state what with his absence. Reminding her will only be serving to increase her sadness.”

  “Aye,” he replied as he shook rather than nodded his head.

  Suddenly, something in the periphery of Kendal’s vision dragged his attention away. “Shh,” he put is right finger up to Haleen.

  “What be the matter with ye now?” she asked.

  He shook his head, handed the baby to her, and whispered, “Gather Perrin and get her and the baby out of here.”

  “Why?” she asked again.

  Before Kendal could answer, Chimarra screamed from the sitting room adjoining Perrin’s bed chamber. Moments later, a shape flew past the archway between the rooms and crashed into the wall amid a shower of dark droplets. Kendal recognized the midwife immediately, but he couldn’t see where all of the blood was coming from. Finally, he found his voice, turned, and yelled, “Go,” at Haleen.

  Haleen stood next to the bed, holding the baby. The commotion had roused Perrin who stumbled out of the bed and huddled in the corner next to her mother. Neither woman made any effort to move as they stared back at Kendal. His eyes bugged as he motioned toward the door with his head. Still they refused to move, the bed between them and the doorway.

  Chimarra’s screaming melted into gurgling and choking. As her last breath left her lips, the room grew completely silent. Kendal turned slowly toward the darkness, drawing his sword as his eyes scanned the sitting room through the archway. “Who be hiding there?” his voice was big and commanding. The sheer volume of it caused him to jump a bit. He sounded like a man twice his size even though he felt half of that and half again. Kendal was no warrior. He was a father and an inn keeper. Sword play was something he had only picked up from Ymitoth within the past five years as the two had become close friends. Blood was something his blade had never tasted.

  The eerie quiet resumed after the boom of Kendal’s voice faded. His temple dripped as his muscles tensed; on
e small bead of sweat slithering down his cheek. Kendal had nearly convinced himself he was brave enough to follow his sword into the darkness through the stone archway, when the silent horror in the darkness came calling for him.

  Yellow lights glowing in a pale, blue apparition with smoke all around slowly floated into Kendal’s line of sight. His mind groped for some kind of logical answer to the signals his eyes were sending. Perhaps it was a ghost, maybe Chimarra’s spirit fighting the Dragon’s call to return to the Lake. Maybe it was some form of energy or evil magic. Suddenly, the yellow lights blinked, and Kendall realized they weren’t lights at all. They were eyes; long squinty eyes sparkling with a yellow glow when any bit of light hit them. Kendal felt only slightly better once he realized it was a face peeking around the corner at him. If it were a creature, he could probably kill it. If only he had even the slightest idea what type of creature owns a face so grotesque.

  The face peeking around the corner at Kendal hovered roughly three feet above the floor. That’s what had him so confused. The thing didn’t look to be standing upright, but laying sideways on the wall and peering over it rather than around it. As Kendal’s brain finally began slipping the pieces together, the yellow eyes blinked again. They seemed too wide and narrow. In fact, everything about the thing was too much. The bony forehead jutting above those eyes stretched too far compared to the rest of the features. The stringy, white hair dangling from the left side of it and falling over the top from the right was too long, too stringy, and too dirty. On the bottom half of the face, a wide, flat nose sat above a narrow mouth with tight, thin lips. The lips smiled as the body carrying that head around slipped out from behind the wall. The creature was about four feet tall with a very slight build. It wore odd, checkered trousers but no boots, and it had several decorations around its neck. The skin of its entire body was the same faint, bluish color of its face.