Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  “Fail?” Maelich smiled with left side of his mouth. “I had not thought about it.”

  “The lad typically don’t,” Ymitoth added as he helped himself to some of the stew Maelich hadn’t given any attention to.

  Maelich gave him a dismissive glance, “It is my duty as a warrior of Havenstahl to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves. You need me and that is enough to give me strength over any fear I may have.” He paused, looked up at the crest of Belscythia, and then continued, “I assure you though, Goechal, I know all of the stories of the She Liar and I know all of her wily ways. My opponent will not be a mystery to me when I face her. I truly have no fear. If she bests me and I fall before her might, it is of no fault of yours. You are not sending me to face this wicked thing. I am making a conscious choice to free you from the pain of not knowing for certain what happened to your husband and son.”

  Goechal raised her bent, gnarly, right hand and gently patted the side of his face. “I believe in ye, Maelich. Moshat his self must have sent ye to me.”

  Goechal wiped her eyes one more time, then stood and hobbled over to the fire. By the time she returned to the table with the kettle, Maelich had managed to wrestle his bowl away from Ymitoth. The old woman refilled all three of the bowls, giving Ymitoth a wink as she filled his bowl high enough to give his stomach all it could handle. Ymitoth smiled up at her and shamelessly began stuffing his face again.

  The three finished eating in silence. Goechal wouldn’t allow her two heroes to sleep out under the trees, so they slid the table against the back wall of the hut and gathered their blankets upon the floor near Goechal’s cot. The little fire kept the room surprisingly warm and sleep came easy. That was a blessing. The coming sun promised an adventure requiring the wits of men working off of a good night’s sleep.

  chapter 23

  remembering the hero

  Purity trotted alongside the wide, red, dirt path that used to be the Lost Forest. Cialia sat astride her, loose and carefree. They had been following the border of the old, invisible forest for five days and had only just begun encountering loose groupings of pines marking the edge of the Forgotten Forest bordering it on the east. The green of the trees and the grass, the blue of the sky, even the red dirt that used to house a thick, terrifying prison for lost souls, filled Cialia with memories she longed to relive. Her world had changed so much since she faced the Eagle with Maelich and pushed Ouloos into a new age. Prior to that day, she had been a warrior and a soldier, the protector of Druindahl. She excelled beyond all of her contemporaries with a sword, bow, or knives. Her skills could best any young man in service of the Dragon. After that moment, when she and Maelich, fused together as one being, one presence, one intention, plunged that blade, imbued with the incomparable power of Dragon’s fire into the heart of Kallum, she became something else. Now instead of being a warrior, she was a teacher, consoler, and spiritual guide. It was satisfying work, but it was like a prison for her free spirit that wished only to soar, free from the shackles of thought and worry.

  She inhaled the fresh air and giggled as a stiff breeze blasted her. The scent of the pines and bush flowers of the forest launched her back to her childhood; a place where she could ride the trails bareback on the first mare she found ready in the stable, unencumbered by the weight of responsibility. If only she could go back there and live for a week as that free child again, or even as the warrior that child would grow into, just a week in the world she occupied before that great explosion of a god changed everything for her. She would race to there in an instant. Sadly, her world was what it was now. She had learned quite a bit about manipulating space and time, but she had yet to learn how to turn it back. Perhaps someday she would solve that riddle. For the time being, she would enjoy the shadow of days gone by and the break from the worries Havenstahl, the trail, and Druindahl could offer her.

  A scream off in the distance where the forest began to grow thick around the trail snapped her attention away from her musings about the past. Urgency laced itself around the scream. Cialia focused her eyes toward the source of the sound and focused her intention toward that place. In an instant, she was hundreds of yards into the darkness of the Forgotten Forest. A young girl wearing a tattered and torn, white shirt, stained with dirt and maybe a bit of blood, sat against the trunk of a tree on the side of the path. Her bare feet pushed at the dirt in front of her as if she were trying to push herself into or through the great tree. Long, thin, dirty, light-brown hair hung carelessly all about the girl down to her chest. It mostly obscured her face, but Cialia could see enough of it to know the poor soul was terrified.

  Cialia glanced up and located the source of all that fear. Four horsemen bearing the crest of the Dragon, the crest of her fair city, Druindahl, bore down on the girl. “What is the meaning of this?” Cialia demanded.

  The man farthest left of the group, from Cialia’s perspective, casually looked over at her, shook his long, brown hair so it fell behind his broad shoulders and replied, “Mind your business, wench. Move along or you can join this little trollop.”

  Cialia’s eyes narrowed, “You are riders of Druindahl. What has this young girl done to deserve your wrath? Name yourselves to me!”

  The man, who had first addressed her, pulled up on his horse’s reigns and then gave the animal a couple of kicks to urge him toward Cialia. Once he was face to face with her, he leaned in a little closer and said, “They call me Antian.” Then he motioned back toward his group and continued, “Those are my brothers, Bantios, Varmillian, and Limbriam, and yes we are riders of Druindahl. Considering you recognize our mark, you should also recognize how much danger you are in right now. You should recognize that the blades we carry at our sides are some of the most lethal weapons in all of Ouloos.”

  Cialia’s face contorted uncontrollably at the foul odor of Antian’s breath. She quickly composed herself and replied, “Now I know who you are. Perhaps I should enlighten you as to my identity to help inform the next words that leave your rancid smelling mouth. I am Cialia, princess and protector of Druindahl. I will assume you are new to the ranks of Druindahl’s army as I do not recognize you and you, obviously, do not recognize me. Therefore, I am willing to forgive the transgression and disrespect you have shown me. However, I will not ride off without the satisfaction of an answer to my original query. What has this young girl done to deserve the wrath of Druindahl?”

  Varmillian gasped and piped in, “Stand down, Antian. The king will take our crests and banish us if he hears we have treated the former princess of Druindahl so clumsily.”

  Antian ignored his brother and continued to stare stern-faced into Cialia’s eyes. Through his scowl he said, “The man on the end over there, my brother, Limbriam, do you see his face?”

  Cialia looked over at Limbriam. He had four fresh looking gouges on each of his cheeks. A bit of blood oozed from here and there among them. Though they still appeared fresh, a red tint and slight crustiness of his beard gave the impression the cuts had been oozing for a time. Cialia turned back to Antian and replied, “Your brother was scratched fairly well. What of it?”

  “That lowly bar wench did that to him before she locked the four of us in a storage closet. She has some punishment coming her way,” Antian spoke quietly through his scowl.

  “Perhaps we should save it for another time,” Varmillian interjected with a slight quiver in his voice.

  “Get a hold of your balls man,” Antian raised his voice. “This is the celebrated champion of Druindahl, a wee wench. I have been waiting for a chance to test my blade against this one.” His expression softened into something that mocked a fun-loving smile as he laughed and added, “Imagine, the champion of a great city of warriors is a wee girl.”

  “I can see we are not going to be able to solve this matter with words,” Cialia said calmly. “I can also deduce by your tone and foul demeanor that your brother earned the scars those cuts will become. It appears the rest of you have earned some scar
s as well. I am happy to bless your flesh with my blades if that is your desire.”

  As the final word left Cialia’s mouth, she leapt up from her saddle so she was standing upon Purity’s back a moment before she flipped backward off the horse and landed softly upon the forest floor with a sword in each hand. The moment Cialia’s feet left Purity’s back, the horse reared up and kicked its front legs at Antian, backing him off before trotting over to the tree and placing herself between the battered young girl and the other three riders.

  Antian’s horse took several steps back in response to Purity’s action and almost spilled his rider out of his saddle. A moment later, the big horseman slipped off of the mount under his own accord, unsheathed his sword, and fetched his shield from the back of his saddle pack. The grime covering the shield and obscuring the shimmering prang it had been cast from bespoke Antian’s time on the trail. Cialia could tell the massive man was an active rider who spent more time off on adventures than he did protecting the city he rode for. Aside from his shield, everything about his appearance from his trousers, to the random bits of fur decorating his jacket, and on down to his blade, betrayed him as a nomad.

  Cialia examined the man as he raised his shield up with his left hand so the top edge of it sat just below his eyes and raised his sword up, bent-elbowed above his head with his right. He obviously had not learned his blade techniques from any of the master swordsmen of Druindahl. None employed an attack position or a defensive position resembling anything near what Antian displayed. The brute lacked the refinement of a well-trained soldier. Despite that, he carried himself with a confidence only gained through fighting and surviving. His huge frame and bulky build added to it. Standing a full two heads taller than Cialia and at least twice as wide, he was a giant by the standards of men.

  “This is your last chance, wench,” Antian growled, “get on your little mare and ride away, or die on the end of my blade.”

  Cialia wasted no additional words on the massive brute. Instead she lowered both of her blades to her sides, turned her wrists out, and charged him. After three long strides, she pounded both feet into the ground and leapt high above Antian’s head, flipping and twisting at the apex of her flight. The big man spun beneath her, slashing with a backhand. Cialia crouched deep to avoid Antian’s blade as she landed softly upon the dirt of the trail. Instantly, she spun to the left and fired her left leg out, sweeping Antian’s thick legs out from under him. She rose and planted a foot in his chest a moment before his big body crashed to the ground.

  “Bitch,” Antian grunted as the trail knocked the wind out of him.

  Cialia caught movement in the periphery of her left side. Bantios and Limbriam had dismounted, made ready for battle, and charged. She turned to face them just as Varmillian yanked on the reigns of his horse and fled back up the trail. A moment later, two blades were slashing at her in unison from different directions. She parried them both on her way into a dive and roll that left her behind her new opponents. Once back on her feet, she flipped toward them, turning her body so it was perpendicular to them, and smashing Limbriam with the handle of the blade in her right hand while her left heel hammered Bantios’s jaw. She landed in a crouched position in front of the two who stumbled in either direction.

  Cialia had only a moment to collect herself before Antian let out a wild howl and charged like a stampede of tubber from behind her. His feet pounding the trail betrayed his position to Cialia’s keen ears. She waited motionless until he was all but on top of her before she slipped to the left leaving her right leg extended to trip the charging brute just as he was slashing his blade down with both hands. His momentum sent him crashing into his brothers who were themselves just regaining their balance from Cialia’s attack. All three ended up on the ground in a pile of hairy, barbarous anger.

  Cialia spun, struck a defensive stance, and chided the big men, “It looks as if this wee wench is too much for you big, strong men to handle. Now, get on your horses and report back to your general. I will be having words with your king concerning how roughly you have treated this young woman and how you have conducted yourselves in my presence.”

  Antian struggled to his feet and spit in Cialia’s direction. “You won’t be reporting anything to anyone,” he roared. “You will have to do more than flip around and trip me wench. I am going to shatter your bones.”

  Cialia shook her head and replied, “So be it,” as she sheathed both of her swords and brought her fists up to a guard position.

  Limbriam chuckled, hit Bantios in the shoulder, and said, “Look at this arrogant, little runt now. She means to challenge us with her bare hands.”

  “Oh, let me flee in fear,” Bantios replied in a mocking tone a couple octaves higher than his normal voice.

  This sent both Bantios and Limbriam into fits of laughter. Antian didn’t laugh though. He merely squeezed his sword tighter and continued to scowl at Cialia. “Boys,” he began in a low, gravelly voice, “bring your minds back to the moment.” He paused until their laughter subsided, “This wench is wily. She reminds me a great deal of Abrilan, Hebrom’s son.”

  Limbriam smiled and said, “Ah yes, Abrilan, champion of the Angors. He was a wily one.”

  “Champion indeed,” Bantios humphed. “The Angors are nothing more than a pack of savages. You elevate his memory to levels it doesn’t merit, brother.”

  “Agreed,” Antian’s tone mellowed slightly, “the Angors are a savage people still. However, those savages pushed the mighty army of Balacyl to the brink. Remember how downtrodden King Prian was when he engaged us and the other swords for hire to assist him in the defense of his city? One name rolled about his lips like a bad taste. Over and over again he said it. What was that name?”

  “Abrilan,” Bantios replied quietly.

  “Yes, Abrilan,” Antian concurred. “King Prian was convinced that Abrilan was the champion those foul Angors rallied behind.”

  “He was quite correct too,” Limbriam added. “Once Abrilan fell, the Angor assault ended quickly.”

  “Yes, Chief Hebrom fell into a deep melancholy at news of his son’s death and his forces fell to chaos without any leadership.” A wide smile spread across Antian’s face, “Abrilan took us to the brink before I ran him through, and he fought much like this wee wench standing before us now. We’ll do this one just as we did Abrilan.”

  Cialia had remained silent during the conversation. She lowered herself to her knees, folded her hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and focused on her breathing. A deep breath in carrying the sweet, earthy scents of the forest filled her lungs and reminded her of younger days. A long, slow breath out expelled anger, anxiousness, and hatred for the three foreign riders bearing the crest of her home. Vagabonds and marauders, they held no love for any land or cause, just coins in their purse and a place to victimize those weaker than them. They were takers. They would only remain as long as it suited their needs and then they would move on to the next patron of their services, like parasites seeking their next host. Cialia drew in another deep breath releasing more negativity out with it as she exhaled.

  A few moments passed as Cialia knelt motionless on the forest floor, inhaling fresh, sweet memories and exhaling evil, violent thoughts. She was a protector, a champion of the people, all people, including the bad ones. Her motives could not be fueled by baser, human emotions. Duty was all that should drive her. As the breaths came in and the breaths went out, her mind grew quiet. Everything became quiet. The only perceptible sound to Cialia was the steady rhythm of her own breathing.

  Cialia’s steady breathing continued as she lay her head back on the forest floor barely avoiding Antian’s blade. Her eyes snapped open and she rolled backward to avoid Limbriam’s blade as it slashed down at her belly. She wound up on her feet between Antian and Bantios. Both slashed vertically at her. One step backward kept her safely out of the way of their hungry swords. A dive and roll forward carried her over the top of a horizontal slash at her midsection that Bantios
followed his assault up with. From the roll, she leapt—flipping and spinning over Limbriam’s head—and landed softly on her feet behind him. He spun, slashing with a backhand. This time, Cialia stepped into the assault, blocking Limbriam’s forearm with her own and tripping him up by placing her leg between his as he spun. The befuddled warrior lost his sword as he toppled to the ground.

  Limbriam had barely hit the forest floor when Antian leapt over the top of him, vertical to the ground with both of his feet aiming at Cialia’s chest. She took one long stride to the left and launched herself through the air, pounding both of her feet into his stomach, crouching deep as if he were a flat surface, and then flipping backward off of him. Her feet hit the ground as softly as a butterfly landing upon a flower petal. The forest floor was far less forgiving to Antian who pounded into it like a falling tree.

  Cialia had but a moment to collect herself while Limbriam and Antian struggled to regain their feet. That moment was cut even shorter by Bantios who charged at her, slashing his sword down as his heavy boots pounded the dirt. The momentum of his attack carried his right hand up to his left cheek. A backhanded slash brought his sword down again. This time the follow through carried his sword high above his head on the right side and he slashed down again with a forehand. As he came forward, he repeated these strikes with every stride, backhand, forehand, backhand. Cialia moved backward, matching his pace step for step and dodging left or right depending on which side the attack sprang from. Finally, after dodging right, she stepped in with her left foot and hammered his jaw with a left backhand that she followed immediately with a right hook. Bantios’s eyes rolled as his knees went slack. He stumbled for three steps to his right before falling in a heap on the forest floor.