Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2)

by E. Michael Mettille

  And yet another answered, “Yes, King Daritus.”

  The buzzing and shouting continued. Congratulatory remarks filling the air as the soldiers reveled in their general’s glory.

  Finally, Daritus raised his right arm and shouted, “I am no king.”

  “Quiet,” Doentaat yelled. “Let the general speak.”

  The murmuring slowly subsided as Daritus continued, “My friends, soldiers, comrades, I am no king. I am a man, a soldier just as all of you are. I am a man who stands tall against fear, as all of you do. I am a man who is willing to give my life for the good of Havenstahl and Alhouim and all of Ouloos.” He paused as the crowd finally grew completely silent, finally adding, “But I am only a man.”

  Daritus began to pace back and forth in front of his tent as he continued, looking around the crowd into as many eyes as he could, “I am not a god. I am not special. I believe the people I represent deserve to live in a world free from the fear of being trampled, ripped apart, or even eaten by the likes of the monsters challenging our shores. But…I am just a man.”

  “Just a man who kills giants,” a voice answered from the crowd that erupted again in response.

  Once the crowd calmed back down, Daritus stopped pacing and continued, “Yes, I killed a giant. And not just any giant, I killed their leader. It was a general against a general, and a leader of men prevailed. I have been battered, teetered on the brink of death, and yet here I stand very much alive. What does that tell us?” He paused, glanced around the crowd, and then answered his own question, “It tells us giants are not invincible. They bleed and die just as we do. Their hides are tough, but our swords are sharp and strong.” He paused again as a murmur swept through the crowd. Finally, he added, “When the sun rises on a new day, I cannot lead you into battle, but I will be with you in spirit. Every grong you cut down, every trogmortem you slay, and every giant that falls before the might of men and dwarves will strengthen my spirit.”

  A brief cheer blasted from the crowd.

  “All of you, men and dwarves, you all share my desire. All of you have the strength to see your will done on the battlefield. What stands in the way of your glory? Giants, trogmortem, and grongs are horrible, nightmare creatures that trample everything and leave a path of destruction in their wake. Yes, they are terrifying. They growl and snarl and snap. They fight for no cause though. All of you standing before me, all of you fight for a cause. Do not be swayed from it or intimidated by their posturing. Think about the innocent folk who sit huddled in their homes, terrified by the monsters threatening their peace. Think about those who have fled the coming storm and challenged the dangerous trail to Druindahl, ripped from their land by fear. Think about your fallen friends who have died by your side. They are your cause. They are whom you fight for. Let those images burn into your brain, and unleash that fury on the beasts that dare challenge your might. I am just a man, and I killed a giant. Who among you will be the next to make that boast?” The volume of Daritus’s voice had slowly been rising as the words poured from his mouth. By the time the last words fired from his lips, they were carried along by the strength of an all-out shout.

  The crowd erupted again, cheering and pumping their fists in the air. Daritus walked among them. As he did, hands reached out to touch him, patting him here and there on his back and shoulders. Some patted a bit too close to his wounds. He hid the pain well as he patted backs and shook hands in return. Such strong energy coursed through the crowd, he nearly forgot his injuries. If not for the cast and the brief moments of excruciating pain when an eager soldier pounded his back too briskly or bumped into his injured, left arm, they would have been completely removed from his awareness. He remained among the crowd possibly a bit longer than he should have. The reminders of his injuries became stronger and more frequent as the elation of his men continued to grow. Finally, a familiar voice piped up over all of the celebratory bantering.

  “That is enough for now,” Kantiim shouted over the crowd. “The giant slayer needs rest. If you wish to honor his great deeds, rest well and stand tall on the battlefield tomorrow. Let his unwavering bravery be an example to you, and show our enemies all the fury Havenstahl and Alhouim have to offer.”

  Kantiim and Doentaat pushed their way through the crowd, eventually carving a path to Daritus. After far less convincing than an uninjured Daritus would have required, they managed to pull him from the throng of admirers. The grimace that jumped onto the battered hero’s face was unmistakable as the energy of the moment began to wear off. He would pay for the brief rally with pain. The energy of the crowd and the looks on the soldier’s faces made the discomfort worthwhile.

  “Ye got a silver tongue there, old friend,” Doentaat shouted up toward Daritus’s ear as he pushed a path through the crowd, back toward the tent.

  “That is certain,” Kantiim agreed. “They are flying high. I should lead them to battle at this very moment.”

  Daritus sighed as they finally made it back to the door of his tent. The pained grimace remained on his face as he replied, “I wish I had more than words to offer them. I should like my sword to be on the battlefield with them rather than just fond thoughts of my deeds.”

  Just as the words finished leaving Daritus’s lips, Hagen poked his head out of the tent and scolded, “You have done more than you should have.” After examining the battered hero’s face he added, “Much more based on the twisted grimace you are wearing. Your sword will remain safe in your scabbard, and you will remain safe on your cot.”

  Daritus forced a smile to his face, “It will not be easy to remain behind. I had forgotten the taste of the battlefield. Now that I have been reminded, I yearn to be back upon it fighting beside my men.” He paused, looked over at Doentaat, and added, “And the stout dwarves we have always depended on in times of need.”

  A stern look crept onto Hagen’s face as he replied, “Take satisfaction in the fact I allow you to remain in this crude tent rather than the safety and comfort of the castle. I would prefer to see you resting and healing in your own quarters. Consider this a compromise, and set your mind away from the battlefield.”

  “That be sound advice,” Doentaat agreed. “We be leading this battle in your stead.”

  “Rest now, old friend,” Kantiim added.

  With that, Daritus entered the tent and finally let the pain take him. His form crumpled onto the bed as darts of fire shot through his body, radiating from his mangled shoulder. He had done too much. Hagen’s advice had been good and sound. Sadly, once Daritus set his mind to something, he had a difficult time following even the best advice. Especially when it ran contrary to his desires and the only penalty was his own suffering. Luckily, sleep ambushed him so abruptly once his head landed on his downy pillow he didn’t have to suffer his mistake for very long.

  chapter 39

  loss and fury

  Maomnosett Ott’s massive form slumped before a raging fire. The night had already grown rather old and did not have long before dying to make way for the sun of a new day. Ott had been sitting in front of that fire since two nights prior after washing his dead son’s body and placing it on the pyre. He had lit the blaze himself and watched the body blacken and eventually disintegrate. Even after Bok’s body had long turned to ash, Ott remained. After his youngest son—the only son he had left—and his grandson’s had all finished paying their respects and moved on, the mourning, old father remained staring into the dancing flames. Two days of battles had raged a mere few hundred yards from him, but he paid them no mind. His eyes remained completely absorbed by the consuming flames. His second son was dead, killed by a man. Bok was not only his second son, but he was the second son Ott had lost to the city of Havenstahl. Ahm had been his eldest, a glorious king. Bok was even mightier than his elder brother had been, and he was cut down before he could claim the throne left vacant upon his brother’s death and due to him by right.

  Ott never really cared about Havenstahl. When Maelich killed Ahm, the elder giant was
angrier at what it meant to the Maomnosett name that a mighty giant was killed by a mere man than the throne of a city of dwarves. When word of Maelich’s true nature spread, his anger and disappointment lessened. When Ahm’s sons, Aht and Ahn, failed to regain their father’s throne and perished in the process, he was far angrier with them for being unprepared. The men of Havenstahl helped thwart the efforts of his grandsons’ though. That was the second time Havenstahl interfered with his family and his name. Even all of that was not enough to raise his hackles to a point worthy of crossing a sea to wage war against a foreign land. Though he was not blind enough with rage to be pushed into an assault on Havenstahl, his ire had been ignited. Most of the rage he felt was still aimed at the empty throne one of his sons should occupy. When Brerto came to Bok, the time was right. He would join the assault on Havenstahl but his focus would be on the throne of Alhouim, the former Maomnosett. Bok would occupy that throne. That had been his plan. Havenstahl would serve as the catalyst, but Alhouim would be the goal.

  A wee man changed Ott’s plan for him. With Bok dead, Ohm would take the throne of Alhouim and return the city to the former glory of Maomnosett. That throne seemed far less important than it ever had though. His second son was dead, killed by a man. Havenstahl had interfered in his life for the last time. He would burn that city down with his own hands and trample or eat any man that dared stand in his way.

  The sound of cheering filtered through the trees that had yet to be cut down and reached the old giant’s ears as he mourned. ‘My son’s slayer must live,’ he thought, as his jaw set tight. The cheering continued to grow louder as Ott stewed. Sadness for the loss of his son quickly gave way to blinding rage. It began like fire in his belly, raced out to his limbs, and flushed his cheeks. His jaw clamped tighter. The skin of his face shook from the force. He stood, stretched his arms out wide, and roared back at the wild cheering. Pain and frustration laced itself around the furious sound that poured from the giant’s lips for a solid minute. Then he drew in a deep breath and released an even louder howl.

  Grongs, trogmortem, and other giants stopped what they were doing and began to wander over to the old giant as he roared. As they approached, one roar finished and another began. It was equal in volume and angst to the prior. Five times the giant sang that pitiable song, a chorus of pain, sadness, anger, and foul intent.

  Finally, after the last roar had spent all of the air in Ott’s lungs, he sucked in another deep breath and shouted, “My son is dead!” He looked around at the crowd gathering around him and continued in a more reasonable tone, “The mighty Bok was killed by a wee man. His pathetic body has burned to nothing, and he is a memory. I loved my son. I still carry a strong love in my heart for him. I always will. That love is marred by disappointment though. He was the mightiest of giants, a specimen to behold. His form embodied the perfection that is the giant, and he was killed by a mere man. I cannot forgive that weakness.”

  Bok’s eldest son, Oyg, took exception to his grandfather’s harsh words, “My father was many things: a brilliant leader, an unyielding warrior, a furious defender of his kin, and your son. However, weak is not among the words you could use to describe him.”

  The old giant laughed, “He was killed by a man. I might find less fault if he were killed by an army of men. Sadly, he met that man in one on one combat in an open battle field and fell on the worm’s blade.”

  “That man was named Daritus, and he is the mightiest warrior serving under the banner of Havenstahl,” the young giant challenged his grandfather.

  Ott fell into a mad fit of laughter at his grandson’s statement. It took him a few minutes to compose himself. Once he did, a menacing expression replaced his smile and he said, “The mightiest man on Ouloos is no match for even the weakest of giants. The man’s name means nothing to me, and your exultation of that name means even less. Your father was felled by a man. You should be embarrassed not defensive.”

  A growl louder than the cheering of the men and louder than Ott’s roaring had been filled the clearing and ended the conversation. All eyes—including Ott’s—turned to give form to the creature that could conjure such a terrifying sound. The great, white tiger sauntered toward the gathering of giants, trogmortem, and grongs. He was easily the size of six large men. The ground shook under his massive paws after each step he took. Even in the orange glow of the fire light, his white fur blazed like the sun interrupted by stripes of the deepest black. The great, white tiger continued until he was looking eye to eye with Ott, whose head sat fifteen feet above the ground.

  Every soul in that clearing fell to one knee with Ott. Then the old, giant said, “Brerto, great, white tiger that rules the skies, we are unworthy of your presence. Please grace us with the sweet boom of your voice. God among gods, what is your bidding?”

  Brerto’s voice was deep and powerful, primal, “Bok has failed me. Your son has failed me. I blessed him with the gift of service to my name and filled him with my glory. Yet he faltered and wasted his good fortune. He has left a black mark upon your name.”

  Ott remained bent on one knee with his head down as he replied, “None feels the sting of those words stronger than I. My son has marred my name and failed all of these faithful souls that followed him. Worst of all, he has failed his lord. He has failed you, my lord, god, and king. In his failure to faithfully honor you with the blood of men and dwarves, I have failed you. I raised him to be a great warrior and he proved deficient. Oh great Brerto, I know I do not deserve your mercy or your pity, but please, my lord, forgive my transgression. I seek only to serve you.”

  “Rise,” Brerto boomed.

  Though Brerto remained on all fours, Ott’s face was level with his when the giant rose. Rather than disrespect his god by returning his gaze, he averted his eyes toward the ground. “Your word is my command, lord,” Ott’s tone carried a note of awe.

  “Look me in the eye, faithful servant.”

  Ott raised his gaze to meet his lord’s. The great tiger’s eyes were without color. They weren’t black. They were at once nothing and everything, empty and full all at the same time. Those eyes grabbed Ott’s stare and held it. “Your gaze is both terrible and mesmerizing my lord,” he stammered.

  “You have not failed me,” Brerto boomed. “Your son has proven to be a disappointment, but you remain a faithful servant. You have the strength to repair the damage your son has brought to your name. Lead my army and destroy the men of Havenstahl. Trample them beneath your feet, and crush them into the dirt they fight so hard to protect. This is my will.”

  “You honor me, lord,” Ott replied graciously. “Your will be done.”

  Immediately after the last word had left Ott’s mouth, the great, white tiger vanished, but his voice remained, “Remember your promise, Ott. Kill them all.”

  The rest of the crowd behind Ott began to rise back to their feet as Ott fell back to his knees. His god had spoken to him. He had levied a direct command. An odd mixture of awe, fear, joy, and honor swelled in his chest. The queer combination sent his thoughts flittering this way and that. Closing his eyes, he drew a deep breath in and rose back to his feet. Where his son had failed, he would succeed and return honor and glory to his family’s name.

  Ott turned to face the crowd gathered around him. “Our god has come down to bless our mission. Bok failed us. Men do not kill giants. They are crushed beneath our feet, ripped apart by our hands, or ground up in our teeth. And dwarves,” he paused and looked around the crowd, “dwarves should not even exist. They are abominations, even lower than men. They exist merely to worship us.”

  The awed crowd before him was unable to do much more than mumble. God had spoken to them. Brerto, the great, white tiger, had shown himself to them and given them a mission. Drunk with excitement, they milled about absently congratulating each other. Ott was their leader now, their general, and their king. His reign commanded by Brerto himself. They would follow him into battle. They would stab and bite and tear and crush. They would r
ip men apart and trample them under foot. They would not be swayed from their righteous purpose.

  chapter 40

  peace

  Two days had passed since Maelich awoke after slaying Shellar, and the sun was setting on a third by the time he caught the first glimpse of Goechal’s hut through the trees. The road back from the swamp had been far less clumsy than the road in. Maelich shook his head as he glanced over at Ymitoth with a smirk. No words were necessary. The old warrior perfectly understood the sentiment behind Maelich’s grin. Two great trackers, hunters, and warriors had doubled their journey by wandering around lost in the woods. Had it not been for that treacherous bastard Braggon, they would probably still be wandering lost in the woods, just skirting the edge of the swamp.

  As the two hurried up toward the old hut, Maelich noticed there wasn’t any smoke coming from the chimney. Night was quickly approaching. Even if she wasn’t cooking anything for an evening meal, she should at least have a fire going for warmth. He gave Ymitoth a nudge and said, “No fire. Why do you suppose that is?”

  Ymitoth shrugged, “We been at the trail better than a week. Perhaps she ain’t about. Maybe she’d errands that needed running.”

  Shaking his head, Maelich replied, “That old woman was far too frail for any journey, and there is nothing close enough for an errand.”

  “Well there be the door,” Ymitoth pointed. “Knock and be having your answers.”

  Maelich gave the weathered, wooden door three solid knocks. After a few moments passed without a reply, he gave it three more that were just a wee bit harder. Still the hut remained silent. He pressed his ear against the door. No sounds were about on the other side of it. Ymitoth sauntering around the corner of the old place grabbed his attention. As he watched him disappear around the corner, he knocked again. The hut replied with nothing but more silence.