Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  “You speak of history, princess,” Turin replied, adding emphasis to the last word and drawing it out in a mocking tone. “You will not have an audience with our king, but you will have justice. Indeed, both of you will find justice on this day.”

  Boringas made contact with as many eyes as he could in the torchlight as he spat his words through clenched teeth. “If there were crimes, they will be answered for and punished appropriately. Murdering women—one an unarmed bar maid and the other a guest of our fair city—is not how Druindahl administers justice.”

  “The Druindahl you ride for is dead, Boringas,” Turin replied. Then he stretched his hands out to his sides again and added, “We are Druindahl.” His statement was followed by a short but loud cheer from the riders surrounding them.

  Cialia’s mind was terribly unfocused as she skimmed the minds of the men surrounding them. Thoughts like ‘Kill the wenches,’ and ‘Vile whores,’ were repeated in several of them. In others, even darker thoughts prevailed. Focused on the minds of savage men, she heard the fwip of the arrow and felt the air change too late. By the time she realized how close the danger was, Keiryn was gasping for breath as blood pumped steadily around the arrow jutting from her throat.

  Boringas noticed it a moment later and shouted, “Damn you! Stand down! Are there none among you who remember the grandeur of our fair city and the true justice that made her great? Murdering a young girl for defending herself is not justice you foul brutes. It is loathsome and vile. What honor is there in cutting down an unarmed, defenseless creature?”

  Cialia had no words. She reached back and pulled Keiryn close to her, cradling the young, dying girl in her arms. She bathed in the blood of innocence as the body went limp in her arms. A tear formed on her eyelid but quickly evaporated before it could fall to her cheek. Rage formed in her belly and sent a rush of heat through her body. Not the flushed heat of embarrassment or anger that reddens the skin, but real, tangible heat. Sweat poured out of her so quickly it soaked her clothes immediately. Her eyes darted around at the sneering faces glowing in the torchlight surrounding her. Keiryn’s death—the death of an innocent—was far more than she could bear. A cry flew from her lips before she could contain it. More tears came but they evaporated as quickly as the first while the heat in and around her continued to rise. By the time she heard the whistling of another arrow splitting the still air of the forest, she—along with Keiryn and Purity—was surrounded by a swirling flame. The arrow turned to ash immediately. Then, in her rage, she lashed out at those who had so callously dragged her fair city down from the heights of enlightenment to the crude depths of savage brutality and stole innocent life for the sake of hubris and revenge.

  Terror in Cialia’s eyes burned red like hot embers in a roaring blaze as the riders surrounding her began erupting in brilliant flames and howling out in agony. The champion of Druindahl shook to the point of convulsion as her face twisted and contorted among expressions inhuman in the pain and fury they conveyed. All the while she squeezed the dead girl close to her body. The forest grew just a bit brighter with each exploding soldier who flopped to the ground and roasted in a ball of flame amid the chaos of hefty horses fleeing in fear of the heat the burning bodies produced.

  Time slowed for Boringas as Cialia convulsed beside him. He watched those he called brother in name alone fall victim to her flame. Shock kept him from fearing his own demise as he witnessed her awesome power; the woman who as a girl had been the focus of his affection. Stronger even than his shock was a deep sadness, a wailing in his soul, as he watched one he loved so deeply fall so far from the honorable heights at which she once soared. The champion of Druindahl, the free spirit refusing to be bridled and encumbered by the affections of a man, the protector of the weak, the one individual he admired above all others, crumbled before his eyes, sinking to the very depths of injustice she had battled so furiously against. A single tear ran down his cheek as he watched his hero fall from her horse exhausted and still clinging to the image of innocence that had sparked her flames.

  When the smoke cleared and all of the horses—now free from their riders—fled, Boringas looked upon his unconscious hero with eyes darkened by the sadness in his heart. The great mare, Purity shuffled herself between Cialia and Boringas, letting the warrior know he would have a fight on his hands if he attempted to molest her keeper. Shock maintained a hold on Boringas as unscathed riders began to emerge from the trees. By the time all that lived who could count themselves riders of Druindahl had emerged, they numbered only twenty, excluding Boringas. Surrounded by smoldering carcasses, they formed up behind him and looked on at the crumpled hero clinging to the young bar maid’s corpse.

  After a long silence, Alamond—one of the riders who remained—spoke, “Her rage was justified, Boringas.”

  Boringas looked back over his left shoulder, “Faithful Alamond, you have survived the fires of a god.”

  “Her rage was not directed at me or at the rest of us who did not taste her wrath. I could see fear and pain on the eyes of those around me before they burned in the flames. I felt nothing like what their eyes expressed,” Alamond replied. After a short pause he added, “Queen Cialia the Dragon is just and fair.”

  “Queen?” Boringas’s tone expressed his incredulity at the idea. “You would invite the rule of a tyrant into our home? Does this look like justice to you? Are these the actions of a fair ruler? These men were vile scrods, sure they were, but she killed indiscriminately. One man fired that arrow. For that, in her rage, she killed more than twice ten thousand.”

  Alamond’s reply began before Boringas had even finished speaking, “The foulest of the foul, sir. The men she destroyed cared nothing for the standard they bore. They cared nothing for the vows they spoke. Her highness was right in her swift punishment. They were all vile, disgusting creatures bent on destruction and motivated only by personal gain. They were all shabby depictions of what a rider of Druindahl is, and we are better to be rid of them.”

  “You speak the truth, Alamond,” Boringas sighed. Then he asked, “How far have we fallen?”

  chapter 25

  sadness

  Tears flowed freely from Helias’s eyes as deep melancholy wrapped itself around her heart. A thick, white mist flowed toward the Lake before her, massive like heavy fog rolling across an open field. Many souls mingled in that mist. The great Dragon’s tears fell not for those souls slowly creeping toward the Lake and their final journey home. The torrents pouring from the Great Mother’s eyes flowed for the anguish of her sister. Cialia had found her flame at the precise moment she lost control of herself.

  Delcinia spoke with her mind rather than her lips, “Oh sweet sister, mother to us all, what ails your heart and brings forth such strong currents from your precious eyes?”

  “Alas sweet Delcinia, sister and true friend, one of us has fallen to rage and released her fire in a destructive fury. The volume of my tears pales when compared to the volume of sorrow in my heart,” Helias replied also without the aid of her voice.

  Delcinia soothed, “What has she done, fair sister, but brought vile men to an end they had been seeking for all of their days? Once a man lifts his sword against another man in violence, he invites violence against him, even yearns for the time when the fury of battle may take his life. Our sweet sister gave these creatures the gift they had been seeking for most of their physical lives.”

  Helias only wept harder and replied, “Is it our lot to judge what makes one man vile and one man just? Is it Cialia’s place to pass judgment and execute, to interfere with the natural workings of this world, to relieve these spirits of their physical shell? We are guides, fair sister, nothing more. Our lot is to call the freed souls home to the Lake, to Coeptus, Mother and Father to us all.”

  Delcinia continued her delicate retort, “No sweet sister, it is not our lot to judge, and all of your thoughts bear truth well beyond their simple clarity, yet among them floats folly. Cialia is one with us, our sister; she is
a Dragon that is true. However, she is more. The blood of men also flows through her veins. She is one with us but apart from us at the same time, and her role differs from ours. We are guides to the Lake while our sweet sister is a protector of those we guide.”

  Helias considered Delcinia’s argument for a moment before replying, “As always sweet sister, you offer wise counsel. The unfortunate truth for me is my sadness is not lessened by it. Tears flow heartily forth from my eyes for the effect this event will have on our sweet sister. On one hand she may find regret and punish herself in response to the destruction she has authored. On the other hand, she may become drunk with the power she has learned to wield. I cannot decide or judge if her actions were just. I also cannot force my sadness to cease due to what it may mean for our beloved.”

  “Fear, Helias,” Delcinia’s reply was quick, almost curt. “You always counsel wisely against fear, yet here you are wallowing in fear of what may be. Sadness for our sister flows through all of us. Shed tears for sadness, but never shed tears for fear. What will be is meant to be. Fearing it will not change the outcome.”

  “You speak truth, my love,” Helias conceded. “Thank you again, sweet sister, for your wise counsel. I will not fear, and things will be what they will be. I will let my sadness pour forth without shame or regret, and I will hope our sweet sister finds her way.”

  chapter 26

  circles

  “We been at this a week now and ain’t had sign of no beast or witch or whatever this Shellar be,” Ymitoth grumbled as he stopped and lifted his right foot onto a ragged stump. Then he leaned down, resting his elbows on his bent knee, and added, “And this be the third time I leaned up against this very stump.”

  Maelich sighed as he surveyed their surroundings, “I am afraid you are correct, father. We have been going in circles. We camped at this very spot only two days ago.”

  “Based on where the sun be in the sky right now,” Ymitoth chuckled, “I think we be camping here again on this night.”

  “I suppose you are correct,” Maelich agreed. “This is a good spot to make camp, and we are quickly running out of light.”

  Pain suddenly tore through Maelich’s head. It began at a point in the center of his forehead and exploded throughout the rest of his cranium with enough intensity to drop him to the ground in a heap. Both of his hands shot up to either side of his forehead and squeezed against the pressure. At the same instant, intense heat moved down his spine and filled up his chest, forcing a loud groan past his lips. He rolled onto his back and blinked several times at the bit of sky he could see through the trees. It wasn’t blue and the leaves of the trees weren’t green. Everything had a reddish-orange hue that was cloudy and murky. His chest felt as if it may collapse as the heat intensified. Then it spread through the rest of his body like a consuming flame.

  Though the simple act of moving his lips increased the pain in his head exponentially, he cried out, “Am I burning?”

  Ymitoth rushed over to him, knelt beside him, and replied, “No, there don’t appear to be nothing wrong with ye, except for your skin being all clammy and pale.”

  “It feels like I am on fire,” he moaned.

  Ymitoth grabbed his water skin and splashed a bit on Maelich’s face. Steam rose from him as soon the droplets hit his face. “Ye be burning up son!” the confused, old warrior shouted.

  As quickly as the sensation had engulfed him, it left. He lay still for a moment as Ymitoth worried over him. Finally, he said, “It passed. I feel fine again.”

  By this point, Ymitoth had reached a state of frenzy. He quickly blurted out, “What in Dragon’s fire be going on with ye, lad?”

  “I am unsure,” Maelich’s words were quiet with barely a voice to carry them. “It felt like my body was burning. There was more than just heat though. There was pain, someone else’s pain. It was like a deep fury caused by the most pitiable angst. I can hardly explain the mix of things I felt while wrapped in the strange heat, and a deep sadness remains like blackness on my soul. My heart aches but for what I do not know.”

  “Strange,” Ymitoth decided. “Perhaps we be closer to Shellar than we be thinking. Perhaps…”

  Ymitoth’s voice trailed off as he reached into his cloak, pulled out his dagger, turned, and fired it into the trees. “That be a warning,” he shouted in the direction his dagger had flown. Then he added, “Ye don’t be creeping up on travelers in the forest.”

  Maelich quickly scrambled to his feet and drew his sword. “What is it?” he asked, as he scanned the trees surrounding them. Finally his eyes settled on a man struggling to free himself of Ymitoth’s dagger that had him pinned to a tree by his cuff.

  Maelich quickly fell into step behind Ymitoth who had begun stalking toward the man. ‘That was quite a shot,’ he marveled. The tree the man was pinned to stood at least twenty feet from where Ymitoth had been crouching over him. His mentor’s ability with edged weapons had always awed Maelich, and the wily, old warrior was constantly doing things to maintain that awe. Maelich would have been far less impressed if he had killed or injured the man. At twenty feet, that would be a good shot but not awe inspiring. To trap a man and spare him until you can determine his intention was truly impressive. Few could make a shot like that in the heat of the moment when life may be on the line.

  A loud growl followed by vicious barking tore Maelich’s attention away from his thoughts about Ymitoth’s great mastery with blades. A massive, shaggy, brown scrod—far larger than any Maelich had ever seen and at least twice the size Jom had been—lunged from the trees toward them. Both Ymitoth and Maelich stopped, raised their swords, and assumed defensive stances. Maelich had not desire to kill a scrod, but instincts often overrule cognizant thought.

  “Please, no!” the man pinned to the tree shouted. “He’s friendly! He won’t bite.”

  The scrod stopped short in front of the hapless man pinned to the tree. The animal’s shoulders hunched and his hackles shot up as a deep, menacing growl poured over his exposed fangs. The beast had eyes like blue ice, clear and shiny. Its thick, shaggy fur looked like it could be beautiful if not dirty and matted from too much time in the forest. “Mountain, heel!” the trapped man commanded the beast.

  Maelich lowered his sword but Ymitoth maintained his stance and asked, “What business have ye sneaking around our camp?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking,” the man replied as he continued to struggle with Ymitoth’s dagger. “I’m hungry. My scrod is hungry. We haven’t any food. I saw people and thought they might have a few scraps for a weary traveler.”

  “How well do you know these woods?” Maelich asked the man while he slowly approached the scrod with an outstretched hand. The scrod, in turn, approached just as slowly, the hair on his back smoothing out as he came.

  “I should think I know them pretty well,” the man replied. “I have lived among these trees for the better part of my life.”

  “The clothes ye wear be dirty but they seem far too fine for forest folk,” Ymitoth interjected, “and ye got that funny talk like one of fine breeding.”

  “The clothes are stolen,” the man replied. “As for my command of the common tongue, I was taught by a wise man to speak well. My family journeyed to this land en route to Havenstahl when I was a young lad. We were set upon by a small band of raiders. They killed all but me. Me they kept for a time; had me do odd jobs and taught me how to steal and survive in the forest. It went like that until I grew to a point I would call myself a man. Then I killed them all, slit their throats while they slept. Except Brandovan, I woke him a moment before I ran him through, gave him a chance to look around at his dead kinsmen before he expired. I have been on my own ever since.”

  “Ye killed Brandovan?” Ymitoth fell victim to a hearty fit of laughter. “That scoundrel be known far and wide, scourge of the great plains. Ha, to think, the mighty Brandovan, felled by a waif of a man such as ye.”

  The man frowned, “Please now, it is true my brain is far more reliab
le than my brawn, but I am no helpless babe. I am adequate with a sword and have faced down my fair share of nightmares in this dark wood.”

  “Ye failed to avoid me blade,” Ymitoth’s laughter had subsided to low chuckling.

  “You are quite correct sir, I did. However, I would suggest my current circumstances are more a testament to your might than my meekness. Judging from the way you throw your dagger and the swagger with which you brandish that sword, I must assume you are a seasoned—probably great—warrior. Your keen ear—keen enough to judge my location with the ever so slight sounds I gave you to work with—assures me you are also a master huntsman. True, I would be no match for the likes of you. But then, who in this land would be?” The man had ceased his struggling.

  “Ha!” Ymitoth laughed, “Ye do be having a silver tongue. What they be calling ye?”

  “I am Braggon of the house Galzine, far to the south of the Great Sea. My father was Bragg, heir to the throne. My mother was Corintha of the house Panxelia. Both of them were killed by Brandovan along with Darcon and ten guards who served as our protection. Darcon was my uncle, the younger brother of my father,” the man replied.

  By this time, Maelich had made friends with Mountain and the two were wrestling and playing among the trees. Maelich looked up at Braggon and said, “You have a claim to that throne. Why not return and take your rightful place?”

  “Aye,” Ymitoth agreed, “Why not return and take what be yours?”

  Braggon smiled and nodded his head, “Yes, yes indeed. That sounds so easy. Sadly, as you can see, I am a grown man. Honestly, I could not begin to guess my age, but I am far older than your companion, probably closer in age to you. That would mean I have been away from my home for near to forty summers. What could be happening there now? I have no idea. I was a young lad when I left that place, but not so young to be unaware of the intrigue. My grandfather’s crown sat atop a worried brow. His throne was ever contested, even within his own house. His younger brother and his youngest son both had designs against him and that was just in his own house. I hail from a long line of treacherous bastards. If I were to return, I would need an army. That playful scrod is the only army I have. No, my desire to return simply does not exist. This forest is my home. Mountain and I do just fine here.”