Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  “Meelah be doing all she can. She ain’t got much to work with for medicines. I be doubting Hagen be having much better luck were he among us,” Glord maintained an even tone.

  “How long until we reach the Forgotten Forest and my old home?” Leisha asked.

  “Better than a week, maybe less than two.” The old general raised his eyebrows and added, “That be depending on how long we be taking to cross the Edge Mountains.”

  “Oh yes, the mountains,” Leisha nodded. “I almost forgot.”

  Before Perrin could add a comment about sending soldiers out to find more medicines for Meelah to use in her healing practices, Fielstag charged in, gave a quick salute and addressed Glord, “I be having troubling news from the road, general.”

  Glord waited for the rest of the news. When it didn’t come he asked, “And what be that news soldier? Come on ye, out with it now. Don’t be keeping your queen waiting.”

  Fielstag remained silent, pleading Glord with his eyes instead.

  Before Glord managed to understand the gesture, Perrin piped up, “Aye soldier, out with it now. What be this news from the road?”

  “Forgive me, highness,” Fielstag bowed. “This be news ladies need not be troubled with.”

  “These people that be in danger be me people. Be out with it now.”

  Fielstag bowed again, “As ye wish. About a mile or so from here, we be seeing the smoke of fires. Two gone off to be investigating and only one returned. That one be bringing a story of great, white, hairy beasts, that be looking like large men but with big claws and long fangs.”

  “Grizzly mongs,” Glord sighed.

  “Aye,” Fielstag agreed. “I ain’t never seen one meself, but I been hearing the stories since I been a wee lad. There be hundreds just north of the trail if ye be trusting the word of Borgan, and I ain’t never found no reason not to be trusting him.”

  “Grizzly mongs?” Leisha’s voice was far louder than she intended. She lowered it slightly as she continued. “What are grizzly mongs doing this far south and in those numbers?”

  “That be the real question now don’t it?” Glord replied quietly as his gaze travelled up toward the darkening sky.

  “What be a grizzly mong?” Perrin asked.

  “They are exactly what this fellow described them to be,” Leisha pointed at Fielstag. “They are bigger than men. They are not the size of giants, mind you, but large enough. And they are ferocious. They are like humungous amatilazo with thick fur and slightly larger brains.”

  They all remained silent for a few moments. Perrin tried to picture what exactly a grizzly mong might look like while Leisha’s mind fought against damning both of her children for the position she and her people were in. Meanwhile, Glord and Fielstag both puzzled over how they would combat this new foe with their limited numbers. A few hundred amatilazo would be far easier to deal with. Even a few hundred grongs would be no match for the couple of thousand swords the caravan boasted. Grizzly mongs were an entirely different story. They were nearly equal to grongs in intelligence, and they were far more savage than either grongs or amatilazo. One grizzly mong could take down twenty five well trained men in open battle. The horses would help but not significantly. If they encountered this troop of grizzly mongs on the trail, many soldiers would die and even more of the people they protected would follow them to the Lake.

  Leisha finally broke the silence, “How long would it take two serious riders to make Druindahl if they hit the trail hard and rested infrequently?”

  Glord scratched the back of his head as he peeled his gaze from the sky, “It might be the better part of two days, maybe three before they be seeing that forest.”

  “Do you have any willing to take that challenge?”

  “Aye, any of me men be taking on any challenge at any time.”

  “Good,” Leisha nodded. “Send your two swiftest riders. Tell them to let Druindahl know of our plight and ask them to send assistance.”

  Glord nodded.

  Then Leisha added, “Be sure they inform King Blancus that Druindahl’s former queen is among those in distress.”

  “I’ll be seeing it done, me lady,” Glord bowed just before he and Fielstag turned and left the small circle.

  The suffocating silence returned. If not for the soft crackle of a dying fire, it would completely smother the small circle Leisha and Perrin occupied. Both of them stared at the slowly expiring flame. Neither felt a great desire to refuel it, both preoccupied with their own similar but very personal demons. Leisha closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. Perrin kicked a pebble back and forth between her feet. As the two sunk into their own little pools of self-pity, the moon rose high enough over the eastern horizon that it could be easily viewed above the wagons. Perrin glanced up at it, earning a brief distraction from her lamentations. The blessed diversion proved far too brief as her mind quickly traveled to the last time the moon was full.

  “Look at that moon being all full and beautiful,” Perrin sighed.

  Leisha glanced up but had nothing to offer.

  “The last time it be full like that, me life had been perfect. I’d been having everything me heart could be desiring.” She sighed and added, “Now I ain’t be having nothing of what I be wanting.”

  Leisha reached over and intertwined the fingers of her right hand with the fingers of Perrin’s left. Neither of them said another word. Perrin leaned her head back on Leisha’s shoulder and Leisha laid her head down upon Perrin’s. Both women sat and watched that mystical, full moon slowly rise higher and higher into the sky as their minds searched faded memories for happier thoughts.

  chapter 38

  the battered hero

  The difference between closed eyelids and opened eyelids was minimal enough that Daritus had to blink several times and squint to get a rough estimation of his surroundings. A dull ache permeated his entire body. Sharp points of pain in his chest and along his left side—mostly near the shoulder—stood out among the aching and grabbed most of his attention. The rough fabric of a tent wall against his right arm prompted him to roll to the left. The lesson that followed was quick. It felt like someone jabbed a spear into his shoulder as soon as his elbow hit the downy mattress beneath him. Shocks ran out to the rest of his arm causing him to cry out.

  The briefest moment later, Hagen rushed into the small tent carrying a brightly burning lantern, “Daritus, consciousness has returned to you. Thank Coeptus.” He set the lantern down on a small table in the middle of the tent as he rushed over to Daritus’s side, reciting instructions the entire way. “Be still. Lie back. Do not try to move.” Order after order poured from his lips in rapid succession.

  The sigh saturated with equal parts defeat and frustration slipped from Daritus’s mouth a quick second before he said, “I cannot lead a battle from my back, Hagen.”

  “No you cannot,” Hagen agreed. Then he added, “We are lucky you have such able and faithful generals serving beneath you. They lead the battle in your stead.”

  Daritus blinked a few times at the bright light and rubbed his eyes with his right hand. “I ache, old friend,” he mumbled at the ceiling. Then he turned his head toward Hagen and—with a far stronger command of his voice—asked, “How long until I am fit to return to the battlefield?”

  “Your mind is your strongest weapon now, old friend,” Hagen shrugged.

  Daritus shook his head, “Please search your mind for a more satisfying answer. How long?”

  “Well then, why listen to old Hagen? He has merely been healing people since before you were born,” Hagen’s tone echoed his irritation. He scratched his head, shrugged again, and in the same irritated tone added, “You could probably swing a sword with your right arm in a week. Most of the ribs on your left side have at least slight fractures in them. That will make you vulnerable for an additional three weeks at best, longer if you refuse to give them proper rest. That left arm will need to remain set for at least six weeks. It, and that mutilated shoulder of your
s, will never be the same. They will give you problems and pain for the rest of your days.”

  “That answer is not much more satisfying than your first,” the old general lamented. Then he looked down at his left shoulder and added, “This damn thing will always give me pain?”

  “Perhaps not, given enough time to heal,” Hagen snapped. “I know you well enough to know you will not give it the time it needs. My elixirs can do much, but they cannot stop a stubborn, old bastard from breaking his worn body if he has a mind to do so.”

  “Fair enough,” his expression lightened, slowly melting into a shallow smile. “I am a stubborn, old bastard. Thank you for standing up to me and keeping me humble.” He grimaced slightly as he adjusted himself in the cot, “Do you have anything to take the edge off of this pain?”

  Hagen smiled, “That is something I can help with.”

  The old healer moved to a small chest at the back of the tent, opened the lid, and shuffled around inside with both hands for a few moments. After a quick nod and some unintelligible mumbling, he rose from the chest with three jars. One was filled with a purple liquid, one with an iridescent-green liquid, and the last with a white powder. He set the three jars on the table and then turned back to the chest to retrieve a few more items.

  “Here we are,” Hagen said as he set a wooden bowl on the table next to the jars and a rounded, wooden stick next to that.

  “That smells rather pleasant,” Daritus remarked as he watched Hagen open the jar with the white powder in it.

  “Indeed,” Hagen agreed, “like wildflowers almost, with a bit of the sea mixed in. It comes from a plant that grows in shallow, mountain ponds. It is rare and very difficult to find. This jar may represent all of the chloricylt on Ouloos.”

  Daritus raised his eyebrows, “And you are wasting it on a battered, old scrod like me?”

  Hagen looked up from his work as he poured a small dose of the chloricylt into the wooden bowl. “Ah, there is my humble friend,” he smiled. “He managed to find his way through the pain. You may be a battered, old scrod, but you are the last hope of Havenstahl. Once I am able to return your strength to you, we will have words about a general’s role in battle.”

  The old general smiled and shook his head, “Those words are already in my head, old friend, but when I saw the men’s faces…” he trailed off.

  Hagen nodded and produced a small, leather pouch from beneath his cloak, fished some dried leaves from it, and added them to the white powder in the bowl. Then he grabbed the stick and began grinding the leaves into the white powder.

  After a few moments of silence, Daritus continued, “They all looked so full of hope. I saw a transformation. As I approached them, I called out. The faces that turned to me were twisted and downtrodden. Once they saw me, they lit up. You have known me long enough to know I am not an expert with words, so that is the best description I can give you. I can tell you though; my presence on that battlefield meant something to those men. It lifted them up. They cheered. They pumped their fists in the air.” He paused again as his eyes moved up toward the ceiling of the tent. A wide smile spread across his face as he added, “I know this makes me sound like the greenest, young lad tasting only his first battle, but they made me feel invincible. Seeing how my mere presence affected them, how could I not lead them into battle?”

  Hagen shrugged and replied, “Knowing you as well as I do, you could not.” Then he pulled a cork out of the bottle containing the purple liquid.

  Immediately after the cork had left the bottle, Daritus’s face twisted into a grimace. “Oh, that is the foulest stench I have ever encountered. I hope you do not expect me to consume that,” he groaned.

  “It is foul, but you will grow accustomed to the smell,” Hagen replied nonchalantly. “This liquid is my most powerful healing tool. It has stolen many battered soldiers from the Lake, and it is the only reason you still grace the sweet face of Ouloos. The powder and the herbs will dull the pain, my special elixir here will heal your wounds, and this green liquid is nothing but a super-concentrated mixture of natural juices that will improve the flavor of this concoction and help return your strength. Your body needs all of these and rest if you hope to return to something that resembles Havenstahl’s greatest general.”

  As Hagen poured, Daritus’s face twisted further, “How can you just stand there like that? I could vomit all over the floor right now. That is horrible.”

  “Now you sound like a lad,” he replaced the cork on the bottle, but the rancid odor remained. Then he uncorked the jar with the green liquid and a fresh, fruity smell drifted through the tent, mingling with the foul scent that seemed to permeate everything. Somehow the contrast made it worse.

  “It is in my throat,” Daritus complained. “I will be dead before you are able to attempt making me drink that foul spirit.”

  Hagen sighed and rolled his eyes as he grabbed the stick and began stirring, “The great Daritus, leader of men, has been reduced to a whiny, whimpering lad by a bad smell.”

  Before Daritus could complain any more, the door to the tent flung open and an excited Doentaat stormed in, “There be the greatest warrior of men. Aye, let giants and trogmortem and grongs and all form of monster quake in fear and flee at the sight of him. Be there any that can stand and face this man, this giant slayer who be mightier than Bok?” Immediately after his rant, the dwarf king drew a deep breath in. His eyes squinted as a confused look spread across his face and he choked, “What in the sweet name of Coeptus be that foul smell?”

  Hagen rolled his eyes again, “Two of the greatest warriors on Ouloos defeated by an unpleasant odor. If only your men and dwarves could see you now.”

  “Aye, if only they could smell this they’d be understanding,” Doentaat grunted.

  The old healer ignored the last jab. Grabbing the bowl, he walked over to Daritus and handed it to him, “Drink this now. Drink it all and lie back.”

  Doentaat’s eyes grew wide, “Ye’ll be killing him if ye be making him drink that.”

  “The source of that foul smell is the reason this hero yet lives,” Hagen snapped.

  Doentaat didn’t respond. He merely shook his head and tied the door of the tent back to allow some fresh air into the room.

  Daritus closed his eyes and grimaced as he raised the bowl to his lips and began drinking. His eyes snapped open. The flavor didn’t match the foul smell. It certainly wasn’t something he would seek, but it really wasn’t that bad. The faint, fruity taste was slightly muted by a dim metallic flavor and the whole thing carried the essence of sea water. Even still, though it wasn’t delicious, he could at least stomach it.

  Hagen watched as the old general poured the mixture down his throat. “Chew those herbs,” he commanded.

  Doentaat gagged and stuck his head outside of the tent.

  After finishing the concoction, Daritus shook his head, and said, “That was not quite as awful as I expected it to be,” around a mouthful of herbs.

  “Chew those well and then have a drink of water,” Hagen handed him a water skin. “Then I want you to lie back and rest. The more you rest the quicker you will heal.”

  “Bah, he been laid up in this tent for two whole days. He be needing to come out of this tent and walk among the troops,” Doentaat stuck his head in, braving the awful stench. “Them soldiers be needing to see that the slayer of giants still be walking among the living.”

  “He needs his rest,” Hagen disagreed.

  Daritus swallowed the herbs, took a good, strong pull off of the water skin Hagen had given him, touched the old healer’s arm, and said, “You know more about healing than any man on Ouloos, probably more than the gods even, but you know nothing about leading men, old friend. Doentaat is quite right. The men need to see me alive. Even as broken as my body is, it will lift their spirits to see me walking about. I killed a giant in one on one combat, and though I am not certain I deserve it, the fact will raise me to legendary status in the eyes of the men who follow me.”
>
  “And the dwarves,” Doentaat piped in.

  “They need this, and I need this. Their expected enthusiasm will fill my sails as much as theirs,” Daritus’s expression pleaded as he maintained eye contact with Hagen.

  The healer frowned and stroked his chin. Then after some internal debate, he conceded, “Well, it is not as if I could stop you if I tried. You are a stubborn, old scrod. Your arguments do have merit. Go then, frolic with the other barbarians. Please keep that left arm as still as possible, and please be as brief as you are able.”

  Daritus flashed a wide smile as he rose and patted Hagen on his left shoulder, “Thank you, old friend. I am stubborn, and I appreciate your blessing.” Then he turned to Doentaat and asked, “Shall we rally the troops?”

  Doentaat failed at suppressing a yell, “Aye, let’s show them there ain’t no giant what can stop the greatest of all generals.”

  As the two stepped into the orange, flickering glow of a blazing fire, they caught the attention of the twenty or so soldiers lounging around it. A voice among the crowd shouted, “The giant slayer lives!” The rest of the small group erupted in a cheer that brought more soldiers from other fires burning around the camp. In a few moments, hundreds of men were crowding as closely as they could to the hero that led them into battle and killed a giant.

  “Don’t be crowding too close,” Doentaat hollered above the murmuring throng. “The giant slayer still be needing to heal.” Then the king of dwarves paused, collected himself, and shouted with every ounce of force his lungs could muster, “But Daritus, the killer of giants, lives!”

  This sent the crowd into a wild frenzy. A cheer louder than a crack of thunder erupted from the throng of wily soldiers.

  “Let them giants take note,” a voice rose above the rest.

  “General Daritus fears no man, no beast, and certainly no giants,” another answered.

  Still another shouted, “Long live the king.”