The moment the two lines collided, a horn blew from somewhere in the trees on the northern edge of the clearing. Immediately after that horn blast, an answer blared from the trees at the southern edge of the clearing. Moments later, bodies poured out of both tree lines. Men and dwarves charged at the flanks of the invading force and smashed into both sides of it. Dwarf axes chopped down grongs and hacked through the legs of trogmortem, while the spears of men dropped beasts where they stood. Hountmytall Dik, of the first generation of giants, second in age only to Ott in the campaign, turned his attention to the force attacking from the north. Thousands of dwarves and men all mingled into one group pushed against the flank of his column. Dik forced his way past grongs and trogmortem, working toward the northern flank.
Bindaar roared, “Thar blow the beast we be wanting for our wall lads! Follow me now, and cut the bastard down!”
One hundred dwarves hacked their way through columns of monsters, fighting to reach the giant. In moments, mighty dwarf axes were chopping at Dik’s legs as if they were the trunks of great trees. Every time his mighty swat sent one sailing back into the trees or east toward the crumbled fort, another stepped in to take his place. Meanwhile, a group of dwarves had managed to work their way behind the mighty giant. Eight of them climbed up his back as if their prize were the peak of a mighty mountain, Mount Hountmytall. The glory didn’t lie in placing their flag on a great summit, however. Their glory lay in hacking away at the stone-fleshed monster, finding the soft spots to bury their daggers, searching for the veins and arteries that would spill the life’s blood out of the beast.
Dik’s sons, Mon and Mob, his eldest and youngest, each witnessed their father fall. The battlefield filled with the sound of their rage. Each face of each dwarf—hammering with their axes and stabbing with their daggers, climbing all over their mighty father, picking away at him until blood loss rendered him too weak to stand and far too weak to fight—was etched into their minds. Half of the dwarves responded to the cries with smiles for the wailing giants and more vigorous hacking and slashing for the falling mountain, Hountmytall Dik. The other half leapt off the dying giant to follow Bindaar as he charged toward the two sons with a mind to hack two more limbs off of the Hountmytall family tree.
Grongs got in the way of the dwarf general’s rage. He hacked at them with the fury of a dwarf who well knew the weight of the shackles accompanying the rule of giants. Maomnosett Ahm had ordered him strung up on the Sacred Pine when that giant’s fat ass sat on the throne of Alhouim—Maomnosett at the time. Never again would Bindaar submit to a rule as cruel as that. He would swing his axe and his fists. He would smash with his forehead and kick with his legs. He would fight them until they were all dead or fled or until all the life had left his body. Bindaar was a dwarf who had tasted sweet freedom and would never relinquish the delicious morsel from his mouth again. The waste he was when Doentaat hounded him daily to get off to the mines and do his work—when he would instead skip off to the mountainside to smoke fairy weed and admire magnificent, fluffy clouds playing out a drama at this moment and a comedy the next—had long fled in favor of a furious general. When Doentaat had taken the throne and named his old friend and housemate a leader in the newly freed army of Alhouim, the shifty rascal in Bindaar was snuffed out by a noble dwarf with a mind for protecting the dwarves he served. That was the dwarf hacking at the legs of Mon, eldest son of the fallen Hountmytall Dik. The blood of the giant saturated his beard and stained the grass of the field while Bindaar hacked and slashed and dodged and rolled, chopping the beast down as if he were felling a mighty oak.
Another giant fell and then another. The first and second generations of the house Hountmytall had all perished. The axes of dwarves and the swords of men proved mighty enough to cut them from the sweet face of Ouloos. Men fell. Dwarves fell. Many souls of both Havenstahl and Alhouim were called home to the Lake. But giants fell too, and their numbers were few. Within an hour of the first drop of blood staining a blade of grass, the terrible monsters from across the Great Sea gave ground, forced back by the shields and swords of men and the mighty axes of dwarves. Small groups of grongs even broke rank and fled back toward the sea, back toward the trail leading to Biggon’s Bay. Those cowards found their retreat to be painfully short, as the horsemen of Havenstahl circled them round and cut them down. The battle raged on.
A battered, old general watched in awe as his men and the dwarves of Alhouim stood tall against monsters, nightmares from across the Great Sea. The essence of a smile graced the lips of the old warrior, almost ready to feel the slightest hint of confidence. As Daritus watched his armies and those of Alhouim push the terrible beasts back toward the sea from which they came, pride filled his chest. ‘I am a man,’ he thought, ‘and I killed a giant.’ All of the warriors battling those beasts back on the blood-soaked battlefield knew of the deed, and every soul with a sword or an axe wanted to match it. For the first time during the campaign, he actually felt Havenstahl might prevail.
As the sun reached the apex of the arc it burned across the sky, the battered, old general’s confidence faltered. A great scream, one thousand times more terrible than the cry of a horny witch, ripped across the sky. Daritus held his ears as a grimace found its way onto his face. Even with his hands pressed firmly over them, the horrifying sound caused pain. That high pitched scream was only one aspect of the sound, merely a piece of it. Beneath that lay a growl as deep as the Great Sea and as terrible as the eyes of a god. The sound was like death and pain and sorrow and sadness and hopelessness all rolled into one petrifying emotion. Daritus turned to see what manner of creature boasted vocal chords so mighty as to produce a sound like the noise punishing his ear drums.
A gasp forced its way past his lips a moment before he shouted, “To the castle!” without turning his head.
Time slowed around him as he witnessed the horror. The eagle had returned. The dead god Maelich and Cialia scattered to the wind had somehow found a way to pull himself together. Giants were terrifying, but a god was something worse. The gods had power no man nor dwarf nor giant nor any other creature gracing the sweet face of Ouloos could hope to understand. Beholding a god was like stepping into a pit of murk that pins your limbs and fills all of your orifices, choking away your breath. Daritus could not bring himself to move as the mighty eagle cried again. His hair blew back behind him as the mighty flap of the eagle’s wings beat the air toward him.
Kallum, the great eagle, hovered above the castle at Havenstahl, waiting. Once the rest of the eyes on the battlefield had turned to behold him in all of his brilliance, he swooped down on the castle, tore into the great stone of the tallest tower, and ripped it from its foundation. Tons of rock broke upon the village and small settlements that dotted the hill leading down into the valley. The screams of those not crushed under the weight of ancient stone filled the sky, reaching all the way back to a battlefield that had paused in its bloodshed to witness the return of a god.
The great eagle swooped again and again at the mighty symbol of the strength and resolve of men, the castle crowning Mount Elzkahon, the castle of Havenstahl. The walls crumbled and the rocks flew. The terrible eagle tore rock from rock, flinging heaps of it at the surrounding countryside. In moments, all of the towers of that mighty castle, that testament to the ingenuity of men, were toppled and tossed about the grass and trees. All along the sloping hill leading south away from the castle gates, mighty, carved boulders once serving as the walls of a great castle littered the ground. Havenstahl was falling, a victim of the wrath of the vanquished god.
Every man, dwarf, giant, grong, and trogmortem on the bloody battlefield in front of Fort Maomnosett halted. Dumbstruck, as they watched the greatest city of men expire, ripped apart by the fierce talons of that vengeful horror. Kallum was not dead. He was not scattered. Wherever he had been was a prison too feeble to hold him. His rage poured onto the city that spawned the man who challenged his rule. Let there be no question. Kallum is the king of gods.
“To the castle!” Daritus shouted again, his voice finally returning. “Our people will be crushed under the weight of that stone.”
Men and dwarves began walking at first. Then slowly—as the awe that watching a god in all his fury inspired gave way to something more akin to rage than reverence—they all began to run. Few steps had been taken by any counting themselves as defenders of Havenstahl when another primal and horrible sound filled the clearing. This was not the screech of mighty bird, but the roar of a monstrous beast. Brerto, the mighty tiger leapt from behind the trees at the western edge of the clearing, sailing over the giants, trogmortem, and grongs that marched in his name. By the time his mighty paw felt ground beneath it, he was standing atop the ruins of Fort Maomnosett and the bodies of men and dwarves crushed beneath his might. Claws and fangs flashed in the sun as he swiped and chomped, slashing and biting. Neither man nor dwarf stopped to challenge the great beast, save one.
Men and dwarves scattered, all fleeing in the direction of Havenstahl. It would be hard for any on the battlefield that day to say for certain whether it were fear or duty leading them in the direction of Havenstahl. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. The monsters from across the Great Sea wasted no time in giving chase. Their god fought beside them, cutting down their foes. The claws of rampaging trogmortem tore into the flesh of fleeing men as the spears of grongs ripped through meat, organs, and bone. The handful of giants still living trampled, crushed, and tossed as they leapt through the mass of fleeing heroes. Havenstahl’s soldiers bled and died as her walls crumbled. The greatest city of men was dying.
One man stood alone. He was half lame and dazed as if drunk from ale, but he stood tall. Daritus ignored the pain ripping through his body from his neck down to his waist and drew his sword. It was like moving through a dream. The world slowed around him as he skirted the thick legs of giants and navigated a mob of grongs with his eyes remaining fixed on his prize. The blood of a god—the great tiger, the mighty Brerto—would stain his blade. It wasn’t pride driving him toward that destiny and filling him with the idea he could kill a god. He didn’t know what it was. Honor? Duty? Neither of those words quite described it. Whatever it was, it filled his heart and pushed him ever closer to that massive beast, that god in giant animal form.
Finally, Daritus stood before the great Brerto, the fierce, white tiger who rules the land with claws and fangs. The mighty god didn’t notice him at first, occupied with slashing, tossing, and biting dwarves and men. The great general wasn’t swayed. He raised his sword, the tip of the blade aimed at the god’s heart—if the monster had one. He remained there, frozen for several moments as the melee continued around him, until at last the mighty, white tiger looked down at him.
Laughter, like oily metal on stone, poured from the god’s mouth, “Well, well, and what do we have here? A hero stands before me, brave among the cowards who flee around him.” Brerto’s eyes narrowed, “I know you. You are the one they call Daritus. You have served the lion and the Dragon for your entire life. More importantly, you are the slayer of giants. One man, all alone, cut Bok down and sent him to the Lake. Mighty you must be.”
Daritus raised his head defiantly to the god, “I am no mightier than any other man. I have a duty to those who follow me, a duty to stand tall no matter what horror stands before me. You threaten those men and dwarves who look to me as their leader, and I will not fail them.”
“Of course,” Brerto laughed again, “the hero always points to duty as if there were nothing else of import. You will play the martyr, wagering a life spent in the service of others. Yes indeed, you are the picture of what a hero should be.”
Daritus managed only one step before the great tiger was gone, rolling into trees and crashing them down with Moshat, the mighty bear, snapping and swatting at him. The battered, old general had only a few moments to digest what had just happened before a dark shape raced out of the brawling mob, and carried him away. By the time the old general’s wits returned, he was deep in the trees to the north of the ruins of Fort Maomnosett being set back down upon his feet.
Again he raised his sword and leveled it at the man who had carried him from the battle, “What on Ouloos are you doing?”
Spang looked up at his general, pushed the hood back from his face, and said, “All of the men and dwarves who fight today see you as something more than merely a man, even more than a mighty slayer of giants. You are practically a myth among them already, and your name will endure long after your life has expired. We cannot have you dying today, however. The spirit of our forces has been flying so high. Watching the walls of Havenstahl fall brought them low enough. Your death would go far in sucking the rest of the wind from their sails. I refuse to allow that. Please forgive me, but I mean to keep you alive.”
Daritus scowled at the Red Dragon—leader of the Dragon’s Flame—for several moments until the adrenaline finally began to fade from his blood. Once he had reached a more reasonable state of mind, he said, “Today you prove far wiser than I, old friend. Where are the rest your flames?”
“Dead,” Spang replied somberly. “They are all dead. They fought bravely and all of them died well. They all died though. We count masses of grongs, hundreds of trogmortem, and two giants among our victims. Oyn, of the house Maomnosett, and Moh of the house Hountmytall, both fell to the Dragon’s Flame.”
“All of the flames have been extinguished?”
“All except me,” Spang affirmed.
Daritus’s eyes narrowed as he pushed further, “How did you manage to survive if all of your brethren proved less lucky?”
Spang shrugged, “Call me a coward if you will, but once all of my flame’s had been extinguished and there was nothing more I could do for them, I fled. I have executed many missions, and I have fought many battles. Each of them has taught me a lesson whose sum is, I cannot win a war on my own. I believe you realize this, and I am uncertain why you would risk so much. I refuse to let you forget it though. You cannot win a war on your own, and you cannot kill a god.”
“I know this,” Daritus shook his head. The brief chuckle that fell from lips immediately following those words belied the tension wound around his spine. “I am uncertain what possessed me to challenge the tiger, but my plan definitely was to kill him. I am certain I would have failed.”
“You would have,” Spang reassured him. “The great bear battles with him as we speak, and I promise that even if he defeats the god, he will fail to kill him.”
“Thank Coeptus Moshat has joined us on the battlefield,” Daritus sighed. “Perhaps we can still win the day, or at least survive. What of Kaldumahn, I wonder?”
“Can you climb?”
“Perhaps, but only if the climb you suggest is an easy one.”
“Come,” Spang leapt up onto a tree with low branches in ample numbers. “You should be able to manage this one.”
The going was slow for the old soldier, but eventually he earned a view of what was left of Havenstahl. Directly above those ruins, two gods battled each other in the sky. Kaldumahn, the great, silver lion, swatted at the mighty eagle, Kallum. That mighty paw missed its mark as Kallum flapped his broad wings, propelling himself even higher into the sky. The lion leapt up toward him, all jaws and fangs. Again his aim was off the mark. This time he earned the eagle’s talons. Kallum shoved them deep into Kaldumahn’s back, attaining a roar so robust only a god could muster it. The mighty eagle tossed the great, silver lion to heights no hawk could boast. The great lion’s trajectory, as he careened through the air like a meteor plummeting toward the sweet face of Ouloos, sent him crashing deep into the trees of the Sobbing Forest. The great and fierce eagle soared high, spreading his majestic wings at the apex of his flight so all might revel in his glory.
“Mighty Kaldumahn has been tossed aside like a bag of dead bones,” Daritus gasped. “Who can stand up against the might of a resurrected god?”
“Moshat fairs far better,” Spang replied as he tapped Daritus’s
shoulder and motioned his head toward that morning’s battlefield.
In the blood-soaked clearing, mighty Moshat, the fierce bear who lumbers the tree-lined hills of the north, blasted the white tiger, the great and terrible Brerto, across his jaw with a paw so mighty it could crumble mountains and crack Ouloos to its very core. The tiger fell to His side, rolling back to his feet only to be swatted again with equal force. The relentless bear stalked the failing god, offering no reprieve. Unrelenting, Moshat stood tall on his hind legs, measuring his opponent, and attacking with a speed that seemed impossible from his bulky form.
A brief and minute speck of hope glimmered dimly behind Daritus’s eye. Mighty Moshat, the great bear, battered the author of this war—the great force filling giants, trogmortem, and grongs with fury and horrible purpose—pushing him back to the sands of the beach at Biggon’s Bay. Perhaps there was cause for hope. But then, there was still a resurrected god, a god who appeared far mightier than any force existing in all of Ouloos. Even if Maelich were on the battlefield, would he prove strong enough to fell that primal power, and scatter the god into the atmosphere like dust again? Speculating on the outcome of a fantasy was fool’s work when men and dwarves were dying all around the tree Daritus occupied with Spang, hiding from the fight. Maelich was not on the battlefield. The lad of the Lake was nowhere to be found. Who else could match that might?
“I should be with my men, fighting by their sides,” Daritus groaned. “Instead I hide in the trees like a coward. Damn you, Spang. Damn you and your logic and sensibility.”
“I accept your damnation. It pains me just as much as it does you to sit idle and watch while the men I have served with for years fight and die. However, this battle will end. This war will end. Men will still live. They will need a leader to gather them up and prepare them for the next war; the war that sees the fighting men of Havenstahl march on the ruins of their lost city and take it back from the vile monsters who have stolen it away,” Spang’s tone carried none of the bravado his words might have inspired. Instead, it remained rather even and flat.
Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2) Page 32