Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  As Maelich struggled against the vine-like tongue gripping his ankle and slowly dragging him across the moist ground, he could barely hear Mountain barking above all of Shellar’s horrible screaming. The scrod would be no help against the fangs dripping within that awful, black beak. A mere six inches separated Maelich’s foot from the point of the horrible thing. It slowly, almost mechanically worked up and down as if it couldn’t wait to grind him to dust. Despite all of his struggles and all of Mountain’s furious barking and scratching at the ground, the heroic meal slowly slid closer and closer to a gruesome death.

  Maelich quieted his mind, took a slow, deep breath in, and released it just as slowly. He pulled his dagger from under his cloak, leaned up at his waist and stabbed at Shellar’s tongue several times. The ear shattering screams grew even louder as she lost her grip on him. He rolled backward, retrieved his sword, and slashed at the monster’s shell as he stood. The swampy liquid filling the membrane serving as her body quickly oozed out of the cut Maelich’s blade left in it. The screaming continued to gain volume as her massive, purple tongue whipped around the dome the witch of the swamp created with her body. Maelich ducked and rolled and flipped and dodged avoiding the wild attacks. Finally, he collected himself, crouched deep, and leapt toward the beak, slashing the tongue near its base. It writhed and whipped about on the ground as if it were motivated by its own thought.

  Suddenly, Shellar collapsed on Maelich. The thick ooze covered him. The giant black beak was right next to him, still opening and closing in the same mechanical fashion. It grew ever closer as it continued to work open and shut. The weight of the beast crushed down on his chest. Breathing quickly became a labor. He could barely move and that damn beak was almost on top of him. He turned his wrist up. It was slow. All of the weight bearing down on him was impossible. A throaty groan forced its way past his clenched teeth as he pushed with all of his might. Finally, something popped. His entire arm felt free. Groping and pulling through the slop, he managed to slip his entire body through the hole his blade had punctured.

  Once he had risen back to his feet, he was able to fully take in the globular blob surrounding him. The murky brown liquid that had filled the membrane oozed all over his feet. Brave Mountain remained at the edge of the thing, barking but unwilling to step onto it. The thing began rising around him. He slashed and slashed at it with his sword, leaving long gashes in it and hacking pieces off. Despite all of his efforts, Shellar once again surrounded him under a dome of dripping muck. The oily ooze splashed him and pooled around his feet as he continued to hack at it furiously. Meanwhile, the black beak was moving toward him again, still screaming and working up and down. He hammered at the shiny, black thing with his sword, cracking it with every strike. The screaming grew louder still. The membrane began to quiver and then slowly collapse around him again, suffocating him with the smell of death. Maelich’s limbs kept working as he fell to his back, kicking, slashing, punching; all the while soaking in putrid, brownish-green, swamp water.

  Finally through the murk, Maelich saw a dark mass floating among the rancid fluid. It was connected to the beak by two cords. Struggling to his feet, he charged toward that mass and slashed it in two. The chorus of screaming increased momentarily in one final crescendo and then stopped. In complete silence, Shellar fell to the ground around Maelich. He quickly glanced about. Mountain had stopped barking and sat just at the edge of the mass. Ymitoth was charging out of the trees from the other direction. Dizziness flooded into his head, swaying him and buckling his knees. The repugnant smell and lack of oxygen slowly blackened his vision until the trees seemed to fly up around his head. Then the canopy stared back as his eyes blinked slowly, once, twice, then darkness.

  chapter 33

  gods on the beach

  Brerto hovered a few feet above the waves in the center of Biggon’s Bay. Arms outstretched, his open eyes posed various contradictions. They appeared a void, the absence of color, shallow and empty. At the same time, however, they appeared deep and unending; all perceivable colors melting together like white light broken by a swirling and twisting prism. Those eyes stared up at the sky as outstretched arms wore palms facing the same direction. The god appeared like stone, unmoving, frozen in time. It was an illusion though. Brerto’s will was hard at work filling the hearts of giants, trogmortem, and grongs with resolve and shouting at their minds to drive on, trample the men, and claim the prize. The greatest city of men lie waiting to be plucked from its pedestal so high above every other city, the favorite of Kallum brought low, seduced by the Dragon.

  Standing on the beach with bare feet in the sand, two gods watched the spectacle. They had remained in that spot invisible to all but themselves and Brerto. Existing among the carnage, they let the violence fill them up and strengthen their opposition to the wily force they called brother. The scattering of Kallum had done nothing to stifle Brerto’s ambition. He became even more brazen than he had ever been. The wet sand on their feet, saturated with the blood of the men who followed them, served to remind the two that the fight for peace had not ended over the Forgotten Forest with the scattering of the great Eagle.

  “He is tireless,” Moshat remarked.

  “Indeed,” Kaldumahn agreed.

  “If only he would challenge me I would batter him from one end of this bay to the other and then across this world and back again,” Moshat scowled.

  “That is precisely why he will not.”

  “Brother,” Moshat raised his voice out across the bay, “Brerto, defiler, enemy of peace, come test your mettle against me, coward. Pull back the monsters you would send to do your bidding in your stead.”

  A smile slipped onto Brerto’s face as he lowered his hands to his sides. “I am here,” he replied. “I have not left this bay since this war began. You call me coward. Yet there you sit idly watching me as I do my work.”

  “I wait for the moment when your monsters fail and fall before the resolve of the honorable men they fight. The moment when you realize you have lost and decide to enter the battle is the moment I wait for.”

  “Your men will falter and their great city will crumble to the ground beneath the feet of my giants. Havenstahl shall be no more. Bok will raise the flag of Maomnosett high above the ruins and leave it an empty shell. Then he will march on Alhouim and reclaim his brother’s throne,” Brerto goaded.

  “All of this for a city of dwarves and an imagined slight against the name of a pompous family of giants?” Kaldumahn asked. “There must be more at stake than the shame of Maomnosett. Does Bok kneel before you Brerto?”

  “Giants kneel before none,” Brerto boomed.

  “None to bow before the great and mighty Brerto,” Moshat mocked. “You are no god. You are nothing more than a marginalized nightmare. A bad dream the people of this land once had, just like our scattered brother.”

  “Oh, Moshat,” Brerto chuckled. “The two of you are both so simple. My goals soar far higher than the bent knees of men or giants could raise me. I will grind you beneath my feet in due time. Be patient my brothers. The days you remain to haunt this place are few.”

  “Enlighten us then, oh wise Brerto,” Kaldumahn bowed dramatically. “What lofty goal have you set? What grand scheme do you hope to achieve on the backs of terrifying giants, horrible trogmortem, and savage grongs?”

  “A wish from your lips to my ears that will remain unsatisfied,” Brerto’s expression became resolute. “A great power has been born into this world. Believe me when I tell you, mighty Kaldumahn, you will burn.”

  “Maelich’s son,” Moshat smiled. “Make a play for the son of the Lake and you will know what it is to burn.”

  Brerto’s laugh was like thunder rolling up from his belly, “The lad has already been taken. While the forces of Havenstahl battled my nightmares and the two of you held vigil on the beach, the great Eagle came to claim his prize. This war is already lost. It does not matter how many giants die. It does not matter how valiantly the men fight. The grea
test power on Ouloos is being trained to destroy all. This entire world will bow before me, and then you will know my goal.”

  “You lie,” Moshat shouted. “Kallum has been scattered. We would have felt him had he returned.”

  “Whatever you say,” Brerto shrugged. “Scurry off to that great city of men and test my words. This war is over.” With that, he raised his arms back out to his sides and leaned his head back toward the sky.

  Kaldumahn opened his mouth to speak, but Moshat touched his arm and said, “He is gone. Any further conversation will serve only to frustrate us and amuse him.”

  “He lies,” Kaldumahn gritted his teeth.

  “We should test the truth of his words,” Moshat nodded. “He is not above spilling a falsehood to frustrate us when he has lost position in a debate, but what he said is possible. What if the assault on this bay was all a ruse? Bok may have raised an army to defend the name of his clan, but why now? Why would he wait so long when his nephews had tried and failed several years prior?”

  “Why indeed?” Kaldumahn agreed as the two turned and walked toward the scarred field of stumps that used to be the forest. “Are we so narrow minded, so easily duped we could fall so fully into a simple trap?”

  Moshat stopped and closed his eyes. Moments later they opened again and he answered the question, “It appears we are. Half the city of Havenstahl now flees for Druindahl and the catalyst for their flight was a visit from Kallum’s priests. Those foul, dead-eyed creatures have stolen the heir to the throne of Havenstahl, heir to the throne of Ouloos.”

  A deep sigh poured from Kaldumahn’s lips. It seemed to deflate him. “How could we be so blind?” he asked.

  “How indeed?” Moshat shook his head. “The god will not be found until he comes to destroy us all.”

  Kaldumahn nodded, “We must force Brerto’s hand. Havenstahl must not fall. The great White Tiger must take the battlefield so we might cut him down and even the odds.”

  Moshat shrugged, “We should and we will. But once Kallum unleashes the power of Maelich’s son, none of us old gods will matter. That all-consuming fire will burn us to ash and scatter us on the wind.”

  “He will,” Kaldumahn agreed. “Until that time comes, we shall fight with all of our might.”

  chapter 34

  the old soldier

  Heels hammering the sides of his horse, Daritus charged down the trail. The men around him hollered war cries in celebration of their general charging into battle alongside them. All of the shouting mingled with the sound of thousands of horse hooves pounding the dirt of the trail and echoed off of the trees. Four sweaty horses across, the cavalry raced toward the monsters blocking their path. The old general raised his sword high above his head and let out a furious howl. The men behind him erupted in a cheer that peeled through the forest like an explosion.

  “This is our land,” Daritus’s voice boomed above the chaos of ten thousand screaming voices. “Spill the blood of these monsters to feed our trees.”

  A mere five hundred yards down the trail a hideous parade of nightmares trudged on toward battle. Grongs marched alongside horrible trogmortem, those monstrous beasts that shook the ground when they walked. Those vibrations remained unfelt as the earth shook beneath the hooves of the riders bearing down on them. More than one nightmare thought of fleeing the terror of wild-eyed men perched atop wild-eyed horses. Two trogmortem led the army of horrors toward the coming storm, Beegam-Kur and Kyram-Nik. Their pace was slow and their march quiet.

  Beegam-Kur turned toward the throng following him, “Crush these men. Grind them beneath your feet.” Barely audible over the approaching stampede, his shout lacked sincerity.

  Close enough to see the trepidation in Beegam-Kur’s eyes, the wily general seized on it and shouted to the rampaging horde behind him, “These monsters have fear in their eyes. We men are the nightmares of the battlefield on this day. Today we bathe in the blood of beasts.”

  As impossible as it seemed, the furious cry of Havenstahl’s cavalry grew even louder. The speeding cavalcade of riders cut through the column of trogmortem and grongs like a spear slicing into soft flesh. Blades flashed in the sunlight before hacking into skin, muscle, and bone splashing blood upon the trail and into the trees. Grong spears filled the air in response, but the quivering hand of one gripped with faith-shattering terror seldom finds its mark. Hooves of merciless horses urged on by riders consumed by their heroic objective trampled helpless grongs, battering the nightmares into the dirt of the trail, crushing bones and grinding muscles into goo.

  Beegam-Kur hung onto the trunk of a stout tree. Blood pulsed from the gash Daritus had left in his neck. The trees blurred before his eyes as a cloud of dust poured into the trees kicked up by the hooves of those terrifying horses. A chill settled in between his shoulder blades as it grew increasingly more difficult to remain erect. Darkness seeped into the edges of his vision. He could barely see the bodies of grongs and even mighty trogmortem crashing into the trees around him. The sun faded as his fingers slipped away from the bark of the tree, and he fell to the forest floor. The last image dancing before his closed eyes as he left the physical were the eyes of that wild general who cut him down; the furious, relentless man who refused to be denied victory.

  Men fell alongside the monsters they cut down, but their numbers were few. The real heat of the battle on the trail that day lasted only moments. Once the first one hundred rows of grongs and trogmortem had been trampled, slashed, or cast aside, fear wrapped itself around the hearts of stout grongs and mighty trogmortem. Quaking before the rage of the men bearing down on them, the balance of the force turned and fled. The horses of Havenstahl were far too fast to allow an easy escape, however, and many a fleeing nightmare was vanquished on the trail.

  “To the beach,” Daritus shouted. “Give them no rest and no peace. Cut them down like they would cut down your sister or your mother. Show them no mercy.”

  It wasn’t long before the expansive column of horsemen reached the tree eating machines of the giants and a fresh force of fighting grongs. Spears—thrown with far more accuracy than those encountered on the trail—filled the air. The column of charging horses spread out into a loose mob of stamping hooves and slashing blades. Daritus took a moment to absorb the vast open space that only a week prior had been a dense bank of stout, old trees. Those mighty, ancient sentinels were gone. Trunks sheared a mere breath above the forest floor and thick piles of dust and woodchips were the only reminders the massive trees had ever lived. Sadness held sway in Daritus’s heart and mind for the briefest of moments. An agonizing mixture of fear and pure, ferocious rage chased it away; rage for the gall of these monstrosities that would dare mar the perfection of the land he held so dear and fear at the sheer volume of nightmare creatures crowded into the wide clearing left behind. Column upon column and row after row of grongs and trogmortem had entered the fray.

  Five men flew from their horses as a giant swung a wild backhand across them. A moment later, one of those horses that had just lost its rider sailed past Daritus’s head, tossed by the same giant. The beast smashed men and stomped their mounts into the dirt. The riders of Havenstahl slashed and kicked and fought, but they failed to slow the giant at all. Daritus charged toward the beastly terror, recognizing him immediately. It was Bok. The missing left eye put out by Spang gave him away.

  Within moments, Daritus was close enough to attack. By this time, Bok had noticed the brazen general’s advance and stretched his arms out wide to invite the competition. Five feet from the giant, Daritus leapt up onto his horse’s saddle and launched himself toward the giant’s head. Meanwhile, Bok had already thrown both of his fists crashing down on the saddle that Daritus had occupied moments prior. The horse collapsed, crushed under the weight of the giant’s fury. While his horse’s bones were crushed and life fled from its body, Daritus sailed over the top of Bok, barely managing to tuck his head into his chest, hit the ground with his left shoulder, and roll back up to his fee
t. Sword drawn, he spun to face the giant just as his adversary did the same.

  Bok smiled and said, “You’re a spry little soldier, aren’t you?”

  “I am many things,” Daritus spat. “Most importantly, I am the last thing you will see in this life.” As the final word left his lips, he dove toward the giant’s legs and rolled between them, spinning and slashing at the monster’s calves as he regained his feet.

  The cut on Bok’s right calf was shallow, but Daritus’s blade managed to sink a bit deeper when it tasted the left. The giant howled and spun toward him, swinging a wild, left backhand. Daritus easily ducked beneath the assault, but failed to avoid the massive right fist following it. Four granite knuckles pounded him from his left shoulder down to his waist and sent him crashing to the ground a solid ten feet from where he had stood. He rolled twice after pounding the hard earth and immediately scrambled back to his feet. Pain radiated out from his elbow, shoulder, and wrist as he made a futile effort at moving his arm. He stared down at the limp thing, probably willing it to move on some level. The more he tried to move it the more it hurt. He gave up the attempt just in time to dive out of the way of the leaping giant. A short breath later, Bok’s right knee hammered into the stump Daritus had been standing on.

  Daritus, the wily general, was a seasoned warrior. His limbs and fists and feet and teeth were all tools as useful and effective as his sword and daggers. He pushed the pain ravaging his left arm to a place deep in the back of his mind. That weapon was lost for this fight. He lunged toward the crouching giant with his left foot and pounded his blade into the right side of Bok’s back, just above the waistline. The giant’s hide was at least as thick as the stories suggested. It was definitely not impenetrable though. Daritus’s sword sunk deep into that sturdy flesh, at least halfway up to the hilt. He lost his grip on it as Bok roared and spun toward him.