Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  Back at camp, Braggon woke to find Ymitoth sitting on the other side of the fire he had rekindled and staring at him with those black, dead eyes. Those eyes were unsettling to the wanderer. He hadn’t mentioned them the night before. The eerie way they stared at him above and sometimes through flames that danced higher and higher proved to be too much for him. He sat up, scratched his head and asked, “Who stole the color from your eyes, or have they always been as they are?”

  Ymitoth’s gaze didn’t shift at all; those black, dead eyes piercing the orange glow of the fire and appearing to stare into Braggon’s skull. “Ain’t none stole nothing from me eyes,” he said. “I don’t be knowing a thing about what color they might be.”

  “Well I assure you they are quite unique,” Braggon replied. “Here,” he fished around under his cloak for a few moments and produced a small looking glass. As he handed it over the flames to Ymitoth he added, “Have a look for yourself.”

  Ymitoth took the thing and gazed into for a few moments. Then he shrugged, handed it back across the flames to Braggon, and said, “Aye, me eyes don’t be looking a thing like yours. They maybe always been that way.”

  “You are a curious man, Ymitoth,” Braggon decided as he leaned back against a log and laced his fingers together behind his head. “On the surface you seem straightforward enough, but I cannot help but believe there are many mysteries hiding behind those unique, colorless eyes of yours.”

  Ymitoth scoffed, “Ain’t no mystery to me. I been a warrior all me life, a soldier, a general. There don’t be no mystery to that. I be a master with this blade and that be that.” He patted the hilt of his sword as he finished.

  Braggon’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you are more than think you are,” he said, somewhat offhandedly. Then he slapped both of his thighs in unison, stood, and asked, “Have you anything I could prepare as a meal for us, or should I wander off and find what the forest has provided?”

  “Nah,” Ymitoth waved the idea off. “There be plenty of meat and bread to fill our bellies before we be off hunting Shellar.”

  By the time Maelich and Mountain returned from their morning run, juice was spitting and bubbling out of the big slab of meat roasting on a spit over the fire. Mountain curled up on the ground next to Braggon’s legs as Maelich sat down upon a log. He removed his shirt and used it to mop the sweat off of himself. Then he grabbed his water skin and took a long pull off of it. Once his thirst was satisfied, he grabbed a small bowl from his pack, filled it with water, and set it in front of the panting scrod.

  Ymitoth looked over at Maelich and said, “So I been replaced by a scrod then? Ye leave the master behind for the morning run?”

  Maelich laughed, “You were sawing logs so hard I was afraid for the trees. Forgive me father. You looked so peaceful and the time to rise was still far enough off. I decided to let you enjoy the rest.”

  Bah,” Ymitoth croaked, “I be resting when I be dead.”

  “That will never happen,” Maelich replied.

  Braggon looked over at Maelich, squinting with his left eye and asked, “What do you mean?”

  Maelich glanced back at Braggon and smiled. “What?” he asked.

  “What you just said,” Braggon began. “You said Ymitoth would never die. What did that mean?”

  Maelich shook his head, “I didn’t say that.”

  “Not in so many words,” Braggon shrugged, “but you alluded to it. When Ymitoth said he would rest when he was dead, you suggested it would never happen.”

  Maelich shifted and pulled his shirt back over his head. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Ymitoth of the house Havenstahl is the greatest warrior to ever grace the sweet face of Ouloos. His name is known and feared through all the land. It will remain on the people’s lips long after the Dragon has called him home to the sweet solace of the Lake. He will live on in glory evermore.”

  Braggon nodded slightly, then shrugged and said, “I suppose that might be so.”

  The three men ate in relative silence. There was a bit of small talk here and there, but the meat they eagerly shoved into their faces kept most of their attention. At one point, Mountain rose, walked over to Maelich, rested his head on the warriors lap, and sighed repeatedly until he began scratching him behind the ear. They remained that way until all had finished eating. Then they broke camp and made ready for the swamp.

  “Have ye any weapons in that pack there,” Ymitoth asked as he eyed up Braggon’s gear.

  “I do,” Braggon nodded. “I count a small hatchet and quite an impressive dagger among my arms. I had a good broadsword for a time. Unfortunately, it proved quite a bit quicker at hacking up the brambles than my hatchet did.”

  “Unfortunately?” Maelich asked.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Braggon replied. “You see, it also proved far less durable to the task. After a few, short hours I had managed to work quite an impressive bend into the blade. At that point it was no longer worth its weight.”

  Ymitoth chuckled and said, “Aye, always be knowing your tools.”

  “Indeed,” Braggon smiled. Then he pointed just a hair to the south of due west and said, “We shall find your prize there near midday. How long before or after depends on our pace.”

  “I am feeling mighty this morning,” Maelich said. “I could run the trail if the two of you are able.” Then he patted Mountain’s head and added, “I believe I speak for him as well. We are ready.”

  “You have yet to see the trail,” Braggon’s smile widened as he stepped into a thick bramble on the west end of their camp. “It is this way.”

  Their path could not be called a trail by any stretch of the imagination. They had left the proper trail that held them lost and walking in circles for so many days far behind. Through thick banks of wild bushes, over—and sometimes under—fallen trees, and through an increasingly large number of mucky puddles that seemed to grow deeper as they progressed; the small company scrambled and trudged. Thorns poked them while stiff branches scratched all the exposed parts of their skin. All the while burs grabbed hold of their clothes and matted up their hair. After what seemed a solid week of traveling, Braggon stopped.

  “That was the first mile. Are you completely sure the prize you seek is worth the journey?” Braggon asked.

  Ymitoth replied, “I’d be fine finding an easier way out of this swamp, but the lad here won’t be turned back. I can tell ye that.”

  “I have given my word,” Maelich replied.

  “As you wish,” Braggon’s grin was painfully forced. “The trees and brambles thin a bit from here, but the footing becomes far more treacherous. The swamp grows deeper as well. There are more than a few points that will swallow you up completely if you miss a step.”

  They continued on, and true to Braggon’s word, the brambles and trees thinned a bit. Though the foliage wasn’t as thick as it had been, the dense canopy still kept the travelers in something like twilight. It was near midday yet thick tree trunks, draping vines, and gnarled, twisted roots—that had become the only sure place to set a foot—appeared dim and gray. Browns and greens were lost in the slim breath of light filtering down to the swamp. Even wild berries that should have boasted vibrant, reds, blues, and purples were all but indistinguishable from the drab, colorless murk of the swamp.

  “Shh,” Ymitoth stopped and raised his right hand. His eyes narrowed as he cocked his head to the right.

  Maelich’s head snapped up and he whispered, “I just heard it too, a scream, close and to the northwest.”

  Mountain’s hair stood from the base of his head to the base of his tail as he maintained a low growl. The massive scrod bent on his haunches and then leapt in the direction of the sound. Far nimbler on the slick roots than his large form would suggest, Mountain was out of sight in three long strides announcing his approach with vicious, furious barking.

  “Amatilazo,” Braggon said as he looked back. “It must be. Nothing else could earn such fury from my scrod.”

  Without a
word, Maelich charged off behind the beast. The slippery footholds slowed him slightly but he made up for it by grabbing branches to help his balance as well as propel him through the murkiness more quickly. The screams gained volume as he charged forward following the fury of Mountain’s bark. Mere moments passed before he could make out shapes through the mess of branches and brambles before him. There were at least ten large shapes chasing a smaller one. In the dim light, he was still too far away to determine what any of those shapes might be. The screaming definitely sounded like a small girl.

  Ahead and to the left, there was a small clearing with a hut in the center of it. Hopefully that meant solid ground. Mountain made the clearing as soon as the first shape did, and it was a small girl. Maelich hit the clearing next and could only tell she was small—six to eight summers at best—and had light colored hair. Mountain made it across the clearing, leapt over the small girl’s head, and pounded an amatilazo in the chest as soon as it exited the forest. He had the thing’s bloody esophagus in his mouth before they hit the ground. The big scrod immediately lunged at the throat of another and earned more gore for his fangs. Three more that had been running with the newly deceased fled with Mountain biting at their heels.

  By the time Maelich reached the other edge of the clearing, five more amatilazo had burst forth from the trees. Three of them leapt high at Maelich while the other two continued to chase the girl toward the hut. Maelich pulled his sword out and slashed one across the belly. Once the point of his blade had reached the bottom of the arc of that slash, he thrust it up into the soft spot under the jaw of another. As soon as the third hit the ground, crouching deep to leap again, Maelich brought his blade down on the back of its neck like an executioner and relieved the beast of its head.

  A piercing scream sliced the murky air. Maelich glanced quickly into the woods to see Mountain furiously tossing body parts about in the trees. Confident the scrod had things well in hand; he turned and charged toward the hut. Ten long strides later he was kicking the door in. The screaming continued, but a quick scan of the room failed to locate the small girl making all of the noise. Both of the amatilazo were snapping and clawing at the fireplace.

  “Hey,” Maelich shouted at the two beasts.

  The one on the left stood, turned, and screamed a hellish, screechy howl at Maelich. One step toward the warrior was all the beast could manage before the handle of Maelich’s dagger was protruding from its forehead. Maelich stalked toward the fireplace as he watched the beast slip slowly to the ground. Saliva dripped off of its fangs onto black lips twisted up in an expression that made the yellow-eyed thing appear even more grotesque. The second beast barely had a chance to stand and turn before its head was flipping toward the wall.

  “Everything is going to be alright,” Maelich said toward the fireplace. “They are gone.”

  The screaming slowly subsided in place of a dull, exhausted whining.

  “Are you stuck in there?” Maelich asked.

  ###

  Ymitoth took a step to follow Maelich toward the screaming, but Braggon shot his foot out, kicking him the shins and depositing him in the swamp. The muddy slop slowed the old warrior down as he struggled to get free from the vines he had become tangled in. The struggle lasted several minutes until he finally managed to get his soaking self out of the sludge and onto a clump of roots. Braggon’s betrayal didn’t fully register with him until he turned back to see the traitor smiling and pointing his own blade at him. Instinctively, Ymitoth’s right hand shot for the hilt of his sword. The effort served to prove the obvious. Braggon had stolen it as he fell into the murky waters of the swamp.

  “Ye be a vile, traitorous bastard,” Ymitoth spat.

  “Not in the least,” Braggon shook his head. “I serve my queen well. In fact, I have obediently served her for at least two hundred years now.”

  “I should have thrown me dagger at your heart,” his teeth were clenched together so tightly it is amazing the words were able to make it out of his mouth.

  “You probably should have,” Braggon smiled. “You made my task quite easy. Maelich really is a hero.” A hearty laugh momentarily paused his gloating. “I could almost hear trumpets blaring every time the man spoke. And the way he charged off after that scream,” he lost himself in another fit of laughter, “well that was simply breathtaking. Oh, he just oozes heroism. I almost followed him into battle.”

  Ymitoth had no more words. His scowl was the only reply he had left for Braggon.

  The gloating peacock continued, undaunted by the lack of response, “You though, I still have not figured you out. I mean, what are you? Those black, dead eyes are not the eyes of a man or anything else I have ever seen,” he paused, “alive.”

  “And I ain’t be like nothing you’ll ever see again,” Ymitoth finally spoke as he fired his dagger at Braggon’s heart.

  Braggon nonchalantly flicked the blade away with Ymitoth’s sword. “Seriously?” he mocked. “You do realize I allowed you to capture me in the forest, do you not? I had to. The two of you had been wandering in circles so long Shellar was beginning to think you would never find her. I could have cut you down at any time. You will die here in this swamp with me while your precious hero is ground to dust by my queen.”

  Ymitoth shrugged, “The hard way then.”

  As the words left Ymitoth’s lips, he crouched deep and leapt across the swamp toward Braggon. The blade of his own sword wielded by the traitor was flying toward his face before he made it halfway to the thick mass of roots the man stood upon. Ymitoth raised his left forearm up in front of his face blocking the strike as his right fist crashed into Braggon’s nose and popped it in a flash of blood that appeared as gray as everything else in the dreary, swamp light. Braggon would have fallen into the muck had Ymitoth not followed up the heavy punch with a left that grabbed a hold of the treacherous bastard’s collar instead of delivering another blow. Before Braggon could swing Ymitoth’s sword again, the old warrior yanked on the traitor’s collar and pounded his forehead into Braggon’s nose. Then he did it once more for good measure.

  Ymitoth pulled Braggon close and growled, “Me lad ought to be slaying your queen right at this very moment.”

  Blood and spittle flew out of Braggon’s mouth as he laughed, “The queen of this swamp is eternal. No man will ever kill her.”

  Ymitoth wrestled his sword from Braggon’s grasp and held it against his throat as he said, “If she still be living by the time I find her, I’ll be killing her then.” He pulled the blade slowly across the ancient man’s throat as he spoke, and then watched the bastard’s eyes cloud over. He didn’t let the carcass fall into waters of the swamp until he was certain it had expired.

  Ymitoth growled at his forearm as he assessed the damage. The mail of his sleeve had saved his arm from being completely hacked off. He could see a bit of bone through the severed meat though. It was a good cut. There was no time for worrying over a little blood and meat though. Maelich needed help.

  ###

  As Maelich crouched in front of the hearth, the whining coming from behind the fieldstone of the chimney had morphed into a horrible growl. It sounded more like a chorus of massive beasts than an individual, small girl. There was something high pitched, almost squeaky sailing across the top of it while an inhuman shout danced about its middle. Layered at the bottom of those and other unspeakable sounds was this low, deep rumbling like the hooves of one thousand horses pounding solid stone while their riders clashed sword to shield without meter.

  Maelich shouted at the hearth, “Is there something in there with you? Are you trapped?”

  The chorus of horrifying sounds amplified in response. Then it spread like a net around him. He stood and spun slowly as the shrieking scream grew louder and louder, surrounding him. The walls of the hut began to quake, a slight tremble at first but in moments they rumbled and shook violently. Maelich gripped his sword.

  Suddenly the hut exploded around him. Chunks of wood and stone as well
as shards of glass flew away from him at an impossible rate for a split second and then paused. He circled again, marveling in confusion at the perfect dome of shattered debris surrounding him. It was completely still as if time had stopped. The fractured pieces of the hut slowly began melting together into a clear, jelly-like membrane rippling like water disturbed by a carelessly tossed pebble.

  “What is this enchantment?” Maelich whispered.

  The translucent membrane continued to solidify and then attain color. Brownish-green fluid, like swamp water, flowed inside the membrane. It was constantly moving, swirling, and gurgling. The screaming began again. Maelich had been so entranced by the rapid transformation of the hut he had failed to notice the complete silence that followed the explosion. A sound apart from the agonizing chorus pulled his attention back to the spot where the fireplace had been. The open hearth remained, yawning like a cavernous mouth waiting to swallow him whole. A few shuffled steps backward were all he managed before a thick, purple, vine—looking more like a muscle than any form of vegetation—shot out from it and wrapped around his leg.

  Maelich fell to the ground and dropped his sword as the thick vine squeezed tighter on his ankle while slowly dragging him toward the yawning mouth, that black abyss, that doorway to emptiness. He stretched for his sword but it was already far out of reach. Struggling to grab a hold of the earth beneath him, his efforts earned nothing but handfuls of slippery muck. As the slow drag toward doom continued, the hearth surrounding the black abyss faded in favor of a thick, rounded beak lined with rows of menacingly sharp teeth. Maelich finally realized his folly. This was the trick. There was no illusion of a banquet and no feast. Shellar knew her victim and set the perfect trap to ensnare him. The frightened little girl, the amatilazo, the hut, none of it had been real. It was all a grand illusion to lure him close enough for an attack.