Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  “What?” Ymitoth asked in return.

  “What you just said, it sounded kind of poetic.”

  Ymitoth shrugged, “That be no poem I been hearing of. I like them trees though, only seen them a time or two. This one ye’re looking at though, don’t she be looking like she be hiding some kind of secret?”

  Maelich turned his head slightly to the side and replied, “I suppose so, but I was just thinking this tree reminded me of a wise, old wizard. Perhaps he is wise with secrets.” He paused, thought for a moment, and then continued, “It is interesting to me you see this tree as being feminine, and I see this tree as being masculine.”

  “That be simple lad,” Ymitoth smiled. “Ye see wisdom and strength as masculine qualities. When ye think of something wise, ye think of an old man with many years behind him. Ye were raised without a mother. Ye only had the benefit of one perspective on things, mine. Even though ye stood face to face with the wisest, most powerful being in this world, the Great Mother, ideas formed in your head when ye’d been a wee lad remain to shape your perceptions.”

  Maelich raised his left eyebrow as he shifted his eyes toward Ymitoth, “That doesn’t sound like something the mighty Ymitoth would say.”

  “Aye,” Ymitoth agreed. Then he smiled and added, “I had been training a warrior, a champion of Havenstahl. I had to be concerned with teaching ye about strength, courage, and survival. There weren’t no room for sensitivity in your training.”

  Maelich looked back up at the tree, “So I see a wise, old wizard when I look at this tree because of my presuppositions about strength, wisdom, and masculinity. What do you see when you look at this tree?”

  Ymitoth smiled and turned toward the tree, “I be seeing a strong woman, confident and proud, proud enough she be hiding her physical beauty behind a wild, shade of hair. She be wise enough to be knowing that if she lets that shallow, physical beauty shine, the dense will be using it to define her, and she be beyond definition. She don’t be needing anyone to be flattering her or giving her assurances that she be acceptable. This be her world, and she be defining herself. And if ye be worthy, then, only then, will she be letting ye see her in all her glory. And when she does let ye in, she only be doing it because she be knowing that ye be knowing what she be showing ye ain’t being what her true beauty be all about. She be knowing that ye be knowing her true beauty be what she be made of. That be on the inside and only the wisest can be seeing that.”

  Maelich puzzled over Ymitoth’s words while he examined the tree and its long leaves waving in the breeze. “I can see that,” he finally decided, “but I can’t believe it came from your mouth.”

  “I be full of surprises,” Ymitoth chuckled. Then he sniffed at the air, “Do ye smell that?”

  Maelich sniffed, “It smells like roast tubberslat.”

  “Aye, it does,” Ymitoth agreed.

  “There must be a village, or at least a hut, nearby,” Maelich added.

  “Perhaps they be having a bit extra to share with a couple of weary travelers.”

  “Perhaps,” Maelich agreed. “We should definitely investigate.”

  The two men followed the succulent scent away from the river. The trees became thicker as they walked a meandering path running between the oaks and mostly around sporadic willows. Each of those willows stood alone in clearings, as if the oaks were too shy or too afraid to get close to them. This added to Maelich’s awe of this new discovery of his, these perfectly chaotic trees. A dopey grinned slipped onto his face as he looked up at an especially tall one that sat in a wide clearing with wildflowers and large rocks all around it. The branches dangling directly in front of him didn’t reach as far down as the rest and gave him a glimpse of the tree’s beauty unhindered by leaves.

  Maelich left Ymitoth’s side and strolled underneath the leaves. He stopped once he was safely in shadow and examined the specimen. Its trunk was a deep brown; similar to the oaks he was familiar with, but somehow richer. Thick branches started low and reached out in every direction, tangling around each other and overlapping as they stretched impossibly far from their source. Deep, green moss that almost seemed to shimmer—as if it were shining in defiance of the shade’s darkness—grew in random patches over the trunk and branches. Maelich stood motionless before the beauty, the dopey grin upon his face growing ever wider. Leaves shot up from the branches and cascaded all around him like a fountain of green swaying rather than splashing.

  “Why ye be lurking ‘round me forest,” a creaky, high-pitched, ancient voice asked.

  Maelich started a bit and looked around, finally resting his eyes on Ymitoth who was standing behind him in the clearing. Ymitoth looked around and shrugged. Maelich turned his attention back to the tree. The voice certainly didn’t fit his expectation of how a tree as beautiful as this one should sound. Moreover, he had never heard a tree form audible sounds. The Sobbing Forest moaned and hummed, but the only words it formed occurred to your mind rather than your ears.

  “What is your name?” Maelich asked.

  “If there be anybody to call me anything, they’d be calling me Goechal,” the voice replied. “There ain’t nobody ‘round to call me nothing though. Ye can call me that if ye like.”

  “Okay, Goechal,” Maelich replied. “They call me Maelich. My mentor, Ymitoth, and I are off to adventure, and our path led us through your magnificent forest. When I spied your beauty, I had to have a closer look. Please forgive my intrusion and the scrutiny.”

  Goechal made a sound like the scream of a fallon being taken by an ormacil and then said, “Ye must have something wrong with your eyes lad. This old hag ain’t been a beauty in at least fifty summers. The wrinkles keep coming and me back keeps bending and me fingers and toes keep gnarling and twisting so as I be thinking they might end up in knots before I be leaving this world.”

  “I see the bent and twisted chaos you describe, and I assure you what I see is beautiful to me.”

  Suddenly an old face peeked out from behind the tree. Wild, ratty, gray hair stood off of the head wearing that face and stretched out in a wildly chaotic fashion before hanging down around it in a mess bearing an uncanny resemblance to the old willow’s crown. “Did ye think ye’d been speaking to this tree?” Goechal asked.

  Maelich blushed and chuckled, “I did.”

  Goechal gave Maelich a wide, toothless smile and asked, “Do ye still be thinking me the same beauty ye just described?” Then she hobbled out from behind the tree while leaning on a gnarled piece of wood to help her weak legs maintain her balance.

  Maelich looked thoughtfully at her for a moment. A shapeless, black frock almost covered her round body entirely. The only parts of her exposed were the gnarled hands she described and tattered, old boots. Then Maelich noticed her eyes, deep set in the wrinkles carved about her face. They were a pale, creamy shade of green. Even with all of their cool creaminess and the dim light under the great willow, those eyes still sparkled like specs of silicone in sunbaked, desert sands. Wisdom of the years her bent form betrayed lounged about them, but it wasn’t alone. It seemed impossible, given the weight of all that time, but youthfulness danced about with that wisdom, a spark refusing to be subdued.

  “Your eyes,” Maelich finally said, “the beauty I just described shines through in those eyes. They are mesmerizing.”

  Goechal cackled again, “Ah, ye be a sweet lad to fill up a tired old woman’s sails with such compliments. I ain’t seen me own eyes in quite a time, threw away all me mirrors years ago.” Then she turned and motioned Maelich to follow, “Come ye two adventurers. I been cooking up some tubber for the midday. Ain’t nobody else to share with, maybe ye be sharing a bite with me.”

  By this time, Ymitoth had stepped under the canopy of the willow and was standing beside Maelich. He nudged him and said, “What do ye think?”

  Maelich turned to Ymitoth and said, “I think I am hungry.”

  “Aye,” Ymitoth agreed, “I be ready for a feast too.”

  “Wel
l come on then,” Goechal beckoned. “Ye don’t want your dinner to be getting cold before ye get to it. Me hut be just in the trees over yonder.”

  Maelich looked from the end of Goechal’s cane to the edge of the clearing in the direction it was pointing and spotted a small, wooden hut; timbers laid upon timbers, a simple, wooden door at the front, only one window he could see, a flat roof, and a simple square chimney made of clay with a weak bit of smoke drifting up from it. He looked back at Ymitoth, shrugged, and the two men fell in step behind the old woman as she hobbled along on her makeshift cane.

  The hut was cozy, a modest square room with a simple wooden table at its center, a wash basin against the back wall, and a fireplace on the wall to the right of the door. A small but strong fire burned in the fireplace, warming a large black kettle suspended above it on a hook. It also warmed a small cot covered with a pile of blankets sitting about a foot from the hearth.

  “It ain’t much,” Goechal said as she scooped a bit of stew out of the kettle into two bowls and set them at opposite ends of the table, “but take a seat, warm yourselves from the trail, and fill up them bellies.”

  Maelich’s stomach growled at the aroma of the stew filling the small hut. It was obviously tubber, but the scent was far more complex than the standard roast tubberslat he was accustomed to. “That smells wonderful,” he remarked.

  “Aye,” Ymitoth agreed. “What ye be putting in there to have it smelling so good?”

  “That be me secret,” she winked. “It be nothing much really. I throw in some potatoes, some carrots, a few mushrooms, the standard stuff. That ain’t the secret though. The secret be in the wild herbs what be growing in this forest. Oh they be smelling so wonderful, but just wait until ye taste them. Me Brakken loved me stew, said it be the reason he lived.” Her smile drooped a bit and she added, “It’s been ages since anyone else had a taste of me stew.”

  “Well if it be tasting a half as good as it be smelling, I think I’ll be loving it too,” Ymitoth smiled. “Who be Brakken?”

  Goechal gazed over at the fire, “Ah, Brakken, he had been me life. I loved him with me whole heart. He married me when I still be nothing but a young girl, just the beginning of a woman really. He won me papa’s heart and took me away. We had a grand life, for a time. Then Cardle, he being our eldest son, he reached that age when lads be aching for adventure. He heard about the myth of the witch of this forest, that vile wench what be calling men from their homes and be tricking them on the trail, Shellar.”

  Maelich’s eyes sparked with recognition, “You mean the She Liar!”

  “Aye, Shellar,” Goechal agreed. “That vile creature stole me sweet boy and then she stole me husband too. Cardle heard the story from some boys in the village and got it in his head that killing that witch would be making a man of him. I ain’t found that out until long after he’d gone, them same boys telling me a few days later. Well after I heard that I got into such a fret. I begged me sweet Brakken to go find me boy, me heart, me eldest son. I never seen a one of them again.”

  A puzzled look found its way to Ymitoth’s face, “Why ain’t I heard of this myth?”

  “Well she ain’t a myth now, is she?” Goechal replied. “She got me husband and me favorite son.”

  “I learned about her when I was a lad,” Maelich thought for a moment and then added, “I can’t remember from where. It doesn’t really matter anyway. The important thing is I know of this beast. The She Liar is a giant, formless blob. If you saw it with clear eyes, it would resemble an enormous, misshapen bubble filled with thick, swamp muck. It is wise though, one of the oldest creatures in this world, and it can introduce thoughts into a man’s head,” he explained.

  “Yes, yes,” Goechal agreed, “that be what them stories be saying about her.”

  “How does she be killing anybody?” Ymitoth asked.

  Maelich continued his story, “She takes advantage of men when they are weary from travel and their minds are dulled from the trail, lifting herself up off of the ground and showing them a grand feast. As the story goes, men are enticed under her shade and imagine themselves in a grand ballroom filled with long tables overflowing with the most succulent dishes. When they fully give in to the illusion and begin to gorge themselves, she collapses around them holding only her middle up like a giant mushroom cap to trap them beneath her. Then she takes the vision away and exposes her true form. On her underside at her center sits her mouth, or at least the thing she eats with. It looks like a giant beak, as long and wide as a large man. Her tongue is twelve feet long and whips out the center of that beak-like mouth, wrapping around her victim’s legs and pulling him in so that row after row of sharp, little teeth can grind his body to sauce. The She Liar feeds on men.”

  By the time Maelich finished his story, Goechal was weeping. Maelich draped his arm across her shoulders. Her frailty surprised him. “I am sorry for that description. I lost myself,” he said.

  “No,” she shook her head, “I ain’t thought of Brakken or me boys in quite some time. I been alone a long while and I ain’t thought of nobody. It be good to remember those ones what left ye, even if it be hurting.”

  “Boys?” Ymitoth asked. “Ye be having other sons?”

  “Aye, I did,” Goechal replied, “Bingot and Drychal. They’d been wanting to chase after their papa and their brother, but I heard none of it. Them lads were good, twins they were. They stayed with me here until well beyond the time they should have been leaving for the trail that calls to all lads as they grow into men before they finally settle down with a nice lass.” Goechal grew quiet, wiped her eyes, and looked at the floor.

  “Where they be now?” Ymitoth asked.

  Goechal sighed, “Amatilazo came one night, tearing up the village. A time ago this had been a village, small, but a village nonetheless. Well, me boys took up their swords and put a fighting to them evil things. The beasts bested Drychal with most of the rest of the village. In the end, it was Bingot what scared the last few away, or they be just fat enough from feeding on the rest that they ain’t been having no energy or want of more blood to be having another go at him. They got him good before they ran off though, and me middle boy died in me arms. I buried many bodies that day.”

  “I am so sorry for all of your loss,” Maelich pulled her closer. “How long ago was that?”

  “Oh, years upon years I be guessing,” Goechal replied as an aftershock of her sobbing caught her. She heaved a few times beneath Maelich’s arm before her breathing became steady enough for her to continue, “Too many to be counting. Me hair had still been dark and beautiful then, just a wee bit of gray. It was a time ago to be sure.”

  Ymitoth slurped a bit of stew off of his spoon and then said, “Misses, we can’t be bringing any of your boys back to ye. They must be long called home to the Lake. As sure as there be a mighty beard upon this grizzled, old face of mine though, we may be able to bring ye a bit of peace. Maelich here be looking for adventure. Might be a good cause to be ridding your beautiful forest of that thing what took your son and your husband away.” After he finished speaking, he quickly stuffed another spoonful of stew into his mouth and chomped away at it.

  Goechal’s eyes glistened as she replied, “I ain’t one for revenge mind you, but I’d be feeling a bit better knowing that wicked thing be dead and can’t be bringing no harm to no other mother’s sons.”

  Maelich gently rubbed her shoulders and said, “It is settled then. We will make camp out among the trees tonight and hunt down that nightmare in the morning.”

  Goechal wept again. “Oh ye be good men. I got nothing to offer ye but a hot meal and ye don’t owe me nothing. I be resting easy if ye can really be doing this for me,” her words came slow and choppy, laced among the heavy breaths accompanying her tears.

  All three remained silent except for Goechal’s sobbing and Ymitoth’s slurping. The old woman cuddled closer into Maelich’s chest, as he squeezed her just a little bit tighter. She would be his damsel, not quite
a fair maiden but definitely in distress. Even though her peril wasn’t imminent, Maelich knew she needed peace. He rested his head on Goechal’s until her sobbing ceased.

  Goechal’s composure slowly returned as her crying lessened and then finally ceased. Once she had a firm grasp of her voice again, she said, “There be one more thing I be hating to even ask with all ye be doing for me already.”

  Ymitoth finished draining the last of his bowl and set it on the table, “Ye just be giving it a name.”

  She pointed to an artfully crafted wood carving mounted on the wall above the mantel of the fireplace, “That be a carving of me husband’s crest. Maybe not as mighty as the great fallon the two of ye be wearing, but he hailed from a proud city just the same. His symbol be a great fish breaking the surf.”

  “Aye,” Ymitoth nodded, “that be a fine emblem indeed. Your husband hailed from Belscythia, did he? That be a solid port town. Belscythians be sturdy folk.”

  Goechal looked up at the wooden emblem above the mantel and said, “If I could only be getting that crest returned to me, it’d surely be giving me a bit of peace.”

  “Of course it would,” Maelich agreed. “As the summers have come and gone, you have been assuming your husband met his end succumbing to the wiles of that vile witch. Yet, you have never seen proof of this. Belief is all you have. I will do my best to help you justify the faith you have carried in your husband and your son. I will gut that beast and search her remains for that emblem. Did your son carry the same mark? Did Cardle bear the crest of Belscythia?”

  Goechal shook her head slowly, “No, Brakken and me we talked of letting him travel to Belscythia to be taking them trials there, but we be simple, forest folk by then. We feared for what that big town might be doing to our good lad.”

  “That be quite wise misses,” Ymitoth interjected. “Belscythia be a fine town, but she be having a dark side too. Some of them wharf folk don’t be the type ye be wanting to encounter after the sun has bed down for the night.”

  Goechal turned her head toward Ymitoth and nodded, “Aye, that be just what me Brakken told to me.” Then her eyes widened and the corners of her mouth drooped slightly as she turned her head toward Maelich and asked, “What if ye fail?”