Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  Daritus took several quick steps backward, fishing under his cloak for one of his daggers. Again Bok’s speed contradicted his size, and the back of his hand connected with Daritus’s torso and face. The blow sent him sailing through the air once again. Despite the tilting of the earth, the battered warrior struggled back up onto his unsteady legs in time to see his own sword flying toward his chest, flung like a small throwing knife by the giant. Even with fresh legs and a clear mind Daritus would have trouble avoiding the blade he had spent the prior evening sharpening for battle. A quick step to the right saved his heart but sacrificed his left shoulder. The impact of the blade slipping through his flesh and pounding into bone deposited him roughly back upon the ground. On his way back to the dirt and shredded bits of tree, he managed to retrieve one of his daggers from its scabbard. Though his left arm was completely useless, the aim of his right hand was true. A moment after he flicked his right wrist, Bok was blind in both eyes.

  “Bastard,” Bok roared as he stumbled and fell to the ground a few feet from where Daritus was again scrambling back to his feet.

  Daritus had no words for the giant. His attention became completely focused on maintaining his balance and consciousness. He was not silent however. A roar at least as terrifying as anything a giant or trogmortem could muster rushed out of his mouth sounding more like a war cry than the bleak description of pain it really was. The blade of his sword had lodged itself deep between his collar bone and ribcage. It shredded the meat of his shoulder even more on the way out than it had on the way in. Daritus steadied himself and then stumbled over to Bok’s massive, writhing form. Both of the giant’s hands covered his eyes as he moaned. Daritus leapt onto his chest. Bok’s roaring melting into loud, throaty gurgling as the sword sliced through his thick neck and ceased as the blade severed his spine. Daritus fell to the ground beside the giant’s quivering corpse.

  Men, grongs, trogmortem, and giants all paused to look over at the two when Daritus’s voice had filled up the clearing with his supposed war cry. All of them saw the general of Havenstahl steal Bok’s life with the might of his blade. The men cheered a chorus with such volume their revelry could be heard clearly at the palace like roaring thunder peeling across the sky. Giants, trogmortem, and grongs looked on in silent confusion. Bok the mighty, Bok the conqueror, Bok the irresistible power, was dead. The mightiest of all giants had been felled by the blade of a mere man.

  As the riders of Havenstahl began to reengage their enemies, a small group of grongs led by Chark charged toward Daritus and the dead giant. Chark was the fiercest warrior serving under Glung and considered by many to be the finest grong warrior to ever live. The razor sharp bicalchrin blades of the grongs he led yearned to taste Daritus’s flesh and spill his blood while murderous intent danced across their reptilian eyes. Those hungry blades would remain unsatisfied as Kantiim charged up to the barely conscious warrior and dismounted. Chark and the ten grongs with him quickened their pace, but were met by other riders who circled their fallen general. By the time the legendary grong and the two left with him made it to Bok’s body, Kantiim was already charging back up the trail toward Fort Maomnosett.

  Daritus lay draped across the base of Glory’s neck. Kantiim’s right hand pressed against the small of his back to keep him from slipping off the charging horse. The ground raced by beneath him in brief bits he glimpsed in between long blinks. There were monsters in the trees. Bok had sent several small groups of grongs and trogmortem into the forest ahead of their tree eating machines to break up the camps of Havenstahl’s forces. He would have to trust Kantiim’s sword and expertise as a rider to protect him if they met any of them. All of his fight remained in the clearing hovering around the corpse of a giant.

  “I killed a giant,” he groaned.

  “What?” Kantiim leaned closer his face.

  Daritus mustered as much volume as he could and almost boomed, “I killed a giant.”

  Kantiim chuckled at his old, battered friend’s enthusiasm and said, “You did. You killed the mightiest of giants. The great Bok is a terror no more. He has been felled by mighty Daritus, leader of men.”

  “Ott will seek retribution,” Daritus croaked, his voice beginning to fail as weariness overcame him.

  “He will,” Kantiim agreed. “Do not trouble yourself with such things now. The day is won, and the battlefield is ours. You have delivered a devastating blow to our enemy and now need to heal. Sleep my friend. I will deliver you to Hagen. He will see you back to form.”

  The battered warrior finally drifted off to sleep as Kantiim urged Glory on to greater speed. His light-hearted demeanor had been an act for the sake of an old friend. Daritus had lost far too much blood and time was the enemy. Bok had taken nearly as much from Daritus as the old soldier had taken from the mighty giant. If Kantiim failed to get Daritus to Hagen in time, the two armies will have traded a leader for a leader and no gain would have been made.

  chapter 35

  a new day in druindahl

  King Blancus rose from his throne after a long day of listening to the sorrowful lamentations of his people; how this one wronged that one and what so and so had stolen from so and so. The bulk of his time was spent passing judgment between neighbors. There seemed a never-ending supply of complaints, and they all found his ear. On this day, his mind was more detached from those complaints than normal. Cialia had returned to Druindahl in a literal blaze of glory. All but twenty riders burned to ash. Those twenty riders, along with one hundred swords that made up the royal guard, were the sum of what remained of Druindahl’s defenses. Adding to the distraction was the fact that Cialia had made clear her intention of taking the throne from him. This would be the last day his rump would warm it. Whether that was more a frustration or a relief remained a point for debate.

  The king had only managed three steps from the most important seat in Druindahl before Boringas stormed into the room and said, “Your Highness, may I present Cialia, former princess of the great city of Druindahl?”

  King Blancus’s form wilted slightly as he slowly closed his eyes and sighed, “Must you, Boringas? It has been a long, arduous day full of the complaints of the people who seem to find joy only in antagonizing each other.”

  Before Boringas could respond, Cialia stepped past him and took control of the conversation, “Thank you for the introduction, Boringas, but I am fully capable of stating my own business. Not to mention, the king knows full well who I am, and there is no need to remind him of my accolades.” After a brief pause she turned her attention to the king and continued, “I wish I could say it is a pleasure to see you, Blancus, but I am a champion of truth. My disappointment with how far my fair city has fallen while in your care has removed any pleasure returning home could bring me. When my family ruled this place there were not a day full of complaints to be heard. The people were happy and led fulfilling lives. What has happened to my majestic city in the trees while she has been in your care?”

  The king’s smile was less than genuine as he replied, “Your family left few swords to defend this place when you departed, and the crown has found very few friends. This great city needs a great army. We are still charged with protecting the Lake and the Dragons residing there. I had to make some difficult choices.”

  “I heard of none of your challenges,” Cialia retorted.

  “Hubris,” King Blancus shrugged. “Your mother trusted the rule of this great city I love to me. It was an honor I felt I deserved. How could I cry for help and admit I was not up to the task? I am not proud of how I ruled this place, and I am not happy about what it has become.” He removed his crown and turned it over in his hands, examining it. Then he continued, “Look at this crown. The detail is amazing. Druindahl’s entire history played out in images etched into fine prang. To me it is a beautiful and horrible thing, far too heavy for my head. You can have it, fair Cialia. I pray you wear it with more honor and better judgment than I did.”

  “You made some very poor choices,
” Cialia replied coolly. “However, I know you did what you believed to be right. I will relieve you your crown, but I would ask you to remain. Though your judgment has been questionable, I believe with guidance and the proper tools you could serve our city well as an advisor.”

  The former king dropped his left knee to the floor and bowed, “It would be my honor to serve the queen of Druindahl at her pleasure.”

  “Rise, Blancus,” the new queen politely scolded. “The people I protect have no need to bow. My people stand tall. Go and rest now. Let the weight of the past five summers fall from your shoulders. I have tasks for you. Tomorrow will be a new day.”

  Blancus nodded slightly and replied, “Thank you, highness. I eagerly await your command.” A relieved smile managed to work its way onto his face as he left the room.

  Cialia walked up to the two thrones sitting against the wall opposite the entrance to the grand room. Both chairs were equal in elegance and craftsmanship and were a perfect match to all of the other chairs in the room. Leisha had explained the importance of this to her when she was a young child, “In kingdoms where men rule, the king’s throne stands above the queen’s in all aspects and hers above all the rest. In our city all are equal. I am the queen of Druindahl but I elevate myself above no one. I seek to lead not rule.” Those words spoken so long ago were as clear as the day her mother spoke them. Despite her simple beginnings and the simple way she saw the world, Cialia admired her mother’s brilliance in lifting the people up. She had an uncanny ability to help the people she led see things in themselves they never knew or believed were there. As Cialia sat down upon the simple throne on the left, that matched every other chair in the throne room perfectly, she hoped as queen she could be half of the leader her mother was. Leisha did not possess great physical strength, nor did she possess great military prowess. Yet she was a superb leader. People wanted to serve her, and she made them better at what they did by allowing them to do it.

  “Was that your goal all along, Highness?” Boringas interrupted Cialia’s reminiscing.

  Cialia looked up at him and frowned, “If you believe that, old friend, then you never really knew me at all.”

  “I thought I knew you better than anyone,” he shrugged. “However, with everything I’ve learned since you returned I can safely say I do not know you anymore. You are not the free spirit that loves the trail and refuses to shorten the tether on her anchor, if she even acquiesces to drop it in the first place. If I ever did know you, that time has long passed.”

  “I have not changed, Boringas. Duty places me firmly upon this seat, not desire. I yearn for the freedom of the trail, and I wish I could leave the rule of this place to someone else,” Cialia countered. “Who would rule in my stead? Look at what it has become in only five short summers. I wish I could flee this place and hide away from everyone, especially after witnessing the horrors I wrought with my own hand. Alas, I shall have no time to process that. The few tears that wet your shoulder will serve as my only release. The rest will remain deep in my gut, eating at me while I attempt to return Druindahl to her former grandeur.”

  Boringas scratched his head, dropped his gaze, and began lightly scraping the front of his right boot against the edge of a tile sitting just a wee bit higher than the rest of the floor. An urge to be away from his old friend suddenly swept over him, “I have agreed to be your general, highness. What do you wish of me?”

  “How many swords fall under your command?” Cialia asked as her left eye squinted and both moved to the left, back corner of the room.

  “Twenty, my queen, only twenty men were spared the fury of your flame.”

  “One hundred and twenty,” Cialia corrected him as her eyes lowered to meet his. “I have no need for guards. The elite force protecting this throne room is yours to command.”

  “Thank you, highness,” Boringas bowed.

  Cialia rolled her eyes at the gesture and responded with a shallow nod.

  “One hundred and twenty swords are far better than twenty, my queen. However, it is far fewer than necessary to protect our city. Unless you plan to burn everyone who dares approach our lovely forest home to ash,” his lips thinned as he pressed them tightly together.

  “Boringas, please,” the new queen’s eyes closed tightly as she spoke. “You have already helped me see the error of my ways. I feel that pain, and you can believe my flame will remain locked deep within me. However, the people in this place need protection, as do the Lake and the Dragons. I simply cannot shut down and grieve.” Her eyes were moist when she opened them and looked into Boringas’s eyes, “Now please, I have given you a task, old friend. Protect the city you love and the people sharing it with you. If you cannot accomplish that task with the tools available to you, you will need to find more tools. The swords remaining in your command are all swung by loyal riders of Druindahl, men who have lived and loved this city throughout their entire lives. Most of them were trained by my father. Let them share what they have learned with others. There are men in this city—and boys ready to become men—yearning for a chance to serve. Find them, recruit them, train them, and see our army return to its former glory.”

  “As you command,” Boringas bowed, turned, and motioned to the guards lining each side of the throne room. “Men, on me,” he instructed them.

  “Stop bowing to me,” she called behind him as she watched the royal guard file out of the room behind him. “I serve the same purpose you do,” she added, mostly to herself.

  After a few moments of the rumble of two hundred and two boots repeatedly clicking tile in unison, the room was empty and Cialia was alone. Alone normally didn’t bother her much. In fact, solitude was typically something she welcomed, even sought. Somehow the echo of the heavy, wooden door as it finally finished its slow swing toward the jam and crashed shut behind the last of the guards amplified the emptiness of the place reminding her there were none left to distract her from her thoughts. Boringas’s self-righteous banter was almost obnoxious, but it was far more pleasant than the dark thoughts swirling around in her head. Tens of thousands of voices melted together in a grotesque chorus of pain. She heard each of them individually as their shouts echoed from the back of her mind and filled her consciousness. All of them found their way home, but all of them felt the most pitiable fear and pain that—though brief—tormented every cell of their bodies until their souls were finally relieved of their flesh.

  The room faded around Cialia as she listened to the accusations each of those unique voices called out against her. Walls vanished from her awareness as the ceiling evaporated and the floor disappeared until nothing remained but those voices. Her body floated among a black void as all of them roared loader and louder. Each presented their anguish to her. Her hands absently moved up to cover her ears, but she didn’t need their aid to hear the horrible song. The sadness and suffering of those voices moved her eyes to tears again. Of course there was only one at first, one tear saturated in the suffering of tens of thousands of souls. That one tear proved insufficient to carry the weight of all of that pain away from Cialia as it slid down her cheek. More tears were necessary. They came like the rains of early spring; fat droplets of salty remorse soaking her cheeks.

  “Stop it,” she whispered.

  The tears only came faster as if in defiance of her wishes.

  “Stop it,” her voice was far stronger this time, filling the vast chamber and echoing back at her from the walls. “The weak need a voice to speak to the strong in their stead. I am that voice.”

  As the tears slowly subsided, Cialia gathered the sad chorus of pained shouts sounding off in her mind together and released them from her mouth. Chairs tipped and the walls shook in response. The queen wiped the last of the sadness from her cheeks. The souls she sent to the Lake with her flame were vile and wicked. Those vermin had earned their fate and deserved the pain they endured before the Dragon guided them home to the Lake, hadn’t they? Hadn’t justice returned to Druindahl? It was becoming increas
ingly difficult to convince herself there was anything righteous about her actions against those wicked men. She could lie that justice had been her goal, but deep down she knew the truth. Anger, fury, and rage had driven her rather than a sense of justice. Though it was far too late to undo what had been done, she could promise herself never to release that horrible power at any man again. Sitting alone in the cold, quiet throne room, she decided just that. Never again would she release her flame to punish men, no matter what their crime.

  chapter 36

  the crests of ouloos

  The howling north wind ran its icy fingers through Maelich’s hair, peeling it back from his face and freezing his forehead. The world was a dingy gray in every direction save directly below him. The ground beneath his feet was the clean, perfect white of fresh snow. No thoughts troubled his mind. Only two notable things entered his awareness and both of them had to do with the wind vigorously tossing his hair about and ruffling his clothes. First, there was the bone chilling cold it carried with it. The shiver shaking its way out to his limbs made it impossible to ignore. The other notable thing was the wild howl accompanying that deep chill. It didn’t sound like wind. It sounded more like an animal in pain; a great mountain scarra with his leg caught in the jaws of a fur trader’s trap letting the world share the agony dripping from his pitiable cry.