Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2) Read online

  Kallum’s Fury

  Being the second part of

  Lake of Dragons

  E. Michael Mettille

  TMR Books

  PO Box 571978

  Tarzana, CA 91357-1978

  www.themikereynolds.com

  Copyright © 2016 Mike Reynolds. All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  All images provided by Adobe Stock

  Cover Artwork – © 2016 L.J. Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations

  Published by TMR Books 05/31/2016

  ISBN: 0-9975571-0-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9975571-0-7

  DEDICATION

  For Shelia…again and always.

  Table of Contents

  prologue

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  chapter 31

  chapter 32

  chapter 33

  chapter 34

  chapter 35

  chapter 36

  chapter 37

  chapter 38

  chapter 39

  chapter 40

  chapter 41

  chapter 42

  chapter 43

  chapter 44

  chapter 45

  chapter 46

  epilogue

  prologue

  A Good day for hunting

  It was far too late in the morning to begin a hunt. The sun already flirted with the very pinnacle of its ascent. Before Ymitoth reached the next clump of trees, the bright lord of the sky would be on its slow dive into the Great Sea to swim the dark waters until once again it was time to kiss Ouloos with the light of a new day. A late start didn’t matter much to Ymitoth. The hunt wasn’t really what drew him out of the throne room and into an unfamiliar saddle on an unfamiliar horse. It was the trail he yearned for—fresh air and freedom from the daily squabbles of those who called him king. The road forever beckoned, tugging his attention away from his duties and mundane questions of who did what to whom and why it wasn’t fair. Sadly, the weight of his crown kept him firmly planted within the walls of his great city. Each day the freedom of the trail seemed to slip further and further away, a fond memory slowly fading into the murky obscurity of forgotten loves.

  The horse shifted awkwardly, reminding Ymitoth of another lost love. Pride was a sturdy, black steed, built for miles on the trail and fast as the westerly wind ahead of a furious storm, but he was no Rumallah. More than merely an ample mode of transportation, Rumallah had been his only companion on many a journey. The king’s heart ached even more for the old horse than it did for the open trail. In sixty summers he hadn’t met a man he trusted more than that animal. If only he could have one more adventure racing over rolling meadows, stooping to drink from the cool waters of a forest brook, and battling fearsome, nightmare creatures from the darkest places where the feet of good folk don’t tread. Alas, even if he could find a bit of freedom to do any of those things, his old friend would remain absent. Nothing could ever fill the empty spot Rumallah left in his heart when he departed this world.

  “Ye think we’ll be seeing anything for the wall, highness?” a voice from behind tugged him away from his melancholy, another stark reminder he could never be alone on the trail as long as the damned crown of Havenstahl called his head its home.

  He turned the home for a crown enough to make eye contact with Egete as he replied, “Any life we be taking from the trail be filling our bellies not decorating our walls.”

  “Forgive me, highness,” Egete’s eyes dropped quickly away from the king’s stern gaze.

  Ymitoth ignored it. Egete was a solid soldier and a sturdy guard who still managed to wield a downright friendly personality. As far as guards go, he was probably the king’s favorite. He certainly didn’t earn Ymitoth’s sour look. In fact, his statement hadn’t really bothered the king at all. Any words leaving his mouth would have earned a negative response. His presence was what truly bothered the king of the greatest city of men. Not because of anything he had done, simply because the trail and Rumallah were the only company Ymitoth cared to keep just then. In Rumallah’s absence, Pride would have to do. Egete and Scrih—the other guard accompanying Ymitoth on his hunt—were about as wanted as a three-inch thorn in the arch of a tired foot. The taste of sweet solitude on the trail was the one thing Ymitoth hungered for and the one thing he couldn’t have as the king.

  A brief flash of brown in a dark and familiar clump of trees caught the king’s attention. “Whisht,” something like a whistle without a tongue blasted sharp and quick from his lips as he raised his left arm and nodded toward the trees.

  Egete and Scrih tugged the reins of their respective horses, halting them immediately behind the king. Ymitoth shot an intense, narrow-eyed scowl in their direction to stifle any words that may have been knocking against the backs of their teeth. The heavy look carried more meaning than anything the king had said since passing through the gates of Havenstahl. After a few moments of startling quiet, disturbed only by the sound of lightly rustling leaves blowing about in the random clumps of trees surrounding the three hunters and the slow rush of waters from the River Galgooth flowing behind them, Ymitoth pointed while nodding at the dark clump of trees.

  Scrih sat just a notch lower than Egete in Ymitoth’s eyes. They would stand equal if only Scrih had stronger control of his tongue. “I ain’t be seeing nothing there, highness,” he blurted.

  “Shh,” Ymitoth scolded before shaking his head and whispering, “These eyes have watched me friends toast me sixtieth summer and ye’re telling me they be seeing more than the keen eyes of one so fresh to the trail?”

  Scrih silently shrugged while Egete added, “I ain’t be seeing nothing either.”

  “Fine hunting partners the two of ye have turned out to be,” the king shook his head as he raised his bow and knocked an arrow.

  As he drew his bowstring back and exhaled, Ymitoth’s body relaxed. All the tension tightening up his muscles and hardening his face fled on a current of hot breath. His old eyes scanned the dark clump for the faint flicker that caught them in the first place. Finally, it came again, barely a shape and scarcely a color.

  He remained frozen in odd, relaxed tension, all but forgetting about the two behind him. His intense focus sharpened and pierced deeper into the darkness beneath the mingling crowns of the trees. To Egete and Scrih he must have appeared stiff and rigid, more like a stone statue or a painting than a real, flesh and blood man. If only he could show them what he was feeling inside. That would be a lesson. They could marvel at the stillness of his form, the absence of even the slightest wobble or twitch as he held his bowstring back. The missing piece of the lesson, what he couldn’t show them or even describe with words, was how completely at ease he felt. Adrenaline pumped no matter how many hunts a man boasted. Experience didn’t stop the heart from racing
. That was the thrill of the hunt, and it was always present. Controlling it was the trick. Learning to let your heart pound wild without allowing your body to fumble along behind it is what separates the hungry man from the fed man. He could have remained that way without flinching far into the darkness of night. However, the mighty hunter’s composure crumbled when his target stepped out into the light. Ymitoth shrunk in his saddle like fat melting on a hot stone as three cloaked figures slowly approached from the shadows. Nearly eighteen summers had passed since he faced down the dead-eyed men in the cathedral at Havenstahl, yet his paralyzing fear was as fresh as the day that memory was painted on his brain.

  “Run,” he could barely hear his own voice as terror squeezed his lungs, only allowing him enough air for a hoarse whisper.

  Egete and Scrih regarded their king with twisted, queer expressions.

  After a few moments of struggling with his lips, Ymitoth finally found his voice and shouted, “Run!”

  “From a mere three men?” Scrih’s expression matched the incredulous tone of his voice.

  “Damn it, that ain’t no request. It be a command from your king,” the volume of Ymitoth’s voice filled the clearing. “Have ye ever known me to be fearing any man or anything?”

  “Not in all me days, highness,” Egete shook his head slowly.

  “Not a chance, highness,” Scrih’s reply quickly followed.

  “Well I tell ye true lads, fear be tearing at me spine as I be sitting here trembling before ye. Now run, damn it,” Ymitoth’s cheeks shook with the force of his words.

  “Ye can be punishing me later, highness. But if there be a force in this land so awful as to be scaring the wits out of the bravest man I ever served, I’ll be cutting that terror down,” Scrih shouted as he drew his sword and slammed his heels into his horse’s flanks, driving the animal toward the three cloaked men.

  Egete fell in right behind Scrih shouting, “Make haste, highness,” over his shoulder.

  Ymitoth closed his eyes for the briefest moment, “Them boys damn hearts be far bigger than their damn brains.”

  Despite wrestling with the kind of mind-numbing fear that reduces most men to blubbering fools, duty prevailed. Ymitoth fired three quick arrows before charging after the stout, young soldiers who were so eager to prove their worth. Had they heeded his warning, all three of them would be on a hard gallop back to Havenstahl.

  The arrows sliced the air one after another, splitting the space between Egete and Scrih. All of them bounced harmlessly away from the dirty, brown cloak they connected with. Confusion knotted up the expression on Scrih’s face as he looked back over his left shoulder at his king. Then both he and Egete came to a halt. Ymitoth stopped directly behind his two soldiers before urging Pride in front of them.

  “Highness,” Egete complained.

  “No, lad,” Ymitoth kept his steely glare fixed on the dirty, brown cloak that led the group of three and stood a mere ten feet in front of him, “Ye ain’t be having no idea what ye be dealing with here. I do, and it ain’t nothing less than death.”

  A low, deep chuckle emanated from the cloak, as the shape beneath it raised both hands to draw the hood back. Ymitoth failed to suppress a gasp. Two black, dead eyes—lifeless orbs that had haunted his dreams ever since he faced the three in the cathedral at Havenstahl—glared at him. The last time he saw those eyes in the waking world had been shortly after celebrating Maelich’s twelfth year. Even after all the years that had drifted by since the terrifying night so long ago, the horrors were as fresh as the breeze upon his neck. As his focus remained locked on those two empty globes, he was only faintly aware of something resembling a smile slithering beneath the orange mange under the twisted nose immediately below them.

  Ymitoth drew a deep breath in through his nose. There was something foul about the aroma of the wet decay of leaves from the damp ground beneath the trees. Normally he found the scent rather appealing. Staring at the nightmares before him made the odor far less pleasant. Without averting his steely gaze, he growled through clenched teeth, “Race back to Havenstahl, lads. Tell them the king has fallen and a nightmare be coming to batter our gates. Find Maelich, and tell him dead-eyed men be walking about the woods of Havenstahl.”

  “No, highness,” Scrih’s voice carried a measure of authority.

  “Aye,” Egete agreed. “We ain’t be going nowhere without ye, highness.”

  Ymitoth sighed and shook his head, “Lads—”

  “Such fierce loyalty for their king,” the dead-eyed man goaded. “I am impressed. And king, no less. That is equally impressive. When last we met, you were but a crude swordsman training an insolent brat to swing sharpened metal around. Look how far you have come.”

  “Aye,” Ymitoth scowled, “a king I be. But I warn ye, this sword at me hip ain’t for show. I swing this lady hanging at me side with vicious intent.”

  The dead-eyed man’s stillness made the volume of his laugh seem impossible. The horrible sound filled the air around Ymitoth and his guards, startling the horses that stamped and whinnied in response.

  Much like a cornered animal puffs up its chest in the hopes of frightening off a threatening predator, Ymitoth pressed on, “Ain’t a jest left me lips, ye vile thing.”

  The horrible laughter ceased as quickly as it began, “Therein lies the brilliance of your humor. It is completely unintended.” The foul creature paused. “I am still not convinced whether you believe your boasts, or if you are merely feigning bravery for the sake of your men. I assume the latter. Even a gruff swordsman parading as king must be wise enough to realize the folly in standing against a herald of the one true ruler of Ouloos, god of creation, and master of all things.”

  “I fear nothing,” Ymitoth spat as he drew his sword and leapt off Pride’s back with the grace of a warrior half his age.

  Before the muddy bottoms of the king’s boots kissed even the tip of a blade of grass, Egete and Scrih charged. Hooves tore into the wet trail, tossing muddy clumps of grass up into the air behind them. Ymitoth barely took a step toward the monster before the heavy air beneath the trees thickened once again with the deep horror of the dead-eyed man’s laugh. Like a premonition, the next act danced out on the stage of a brief, waking dream flashing through his consciousness. Before he managed even a step toward the horror threatening his men, the nightmare manifested itself in two pairs of claws shooting out from beneath the sleeves of the other two dirty, brown robes. His feet froze as he helplessly watched his faithful guards dashed against the ground in heaps while their horses—life gushing from throats torn open by sharp talons—rose toward the treetops.

  “No,” a throaty shout grew from deep in Ymitoth’s gut, filling the air and challenging the might of the dead-eyed man’s laugh.

  The dead-eyed men paid him no heed. Their leader offered Ymitoth that same silent, snaky smile as his two companions yanked back their hoods and leapt onto the broken piles Ymitoth considered the finest of his guard. The king remained frozen as half of a hand landed near his foot, and the air before him filled with pieces of Egete and Scrih. Mere moments later, lifeless eyes glared up at him from heads no longer connected to the bodies that had carried them around. Their dead stares seemed to accuse him. It was more than he could stand. The warrior charged.

  chapter 1

  RETURN TO THE SOBBING FOREST

  “Helias, the great Dragon, was a magnificent giant with menacing teeth, piercing eyes, leathery wings, and glowing skin like fire!” Maelich boomed.

  The trees leaned in closer, almost oozing with anticipation. Nearly eighteen summers had passed since Maelich first walked among the cool, dampness of the Sobbing Forest. The same trees that had been so skeptical of his small group all those years ago, crowded closer, as if they wanted to hold him and keep him, absorb him into their oneness.

  Maelich’s tone became quieter, falling to barely a whisper before slowly mounting back to something just shy of a shout, “I trembled before her, terrified by the ferocity of
her glare and the searing fire promised by her wicked smile. As I cowered before the beast, my fear quickly turned to rage. Glowing with the fire of that rage, my blade begged to be plunged into her blackest of hearts.”

  The trees gasped. Tension thick enough to be a real, tangible thing radiated from their trunks. He smirked as he paused, silently teasing them, holding back the climax, the slow, mounting crescendo ready to explode at any moment. Of course, there was no surprise. Since that day five summers ago, Maelich had failed to find a city—or a town, or even a settlement for that matter—where the story of the lad of the Lake facing down the last Dragon had not spread. Every man he encountered during his travels seemed bent on sharing their own version of the story with him. Even the birds chirped about it incessantly, sharing things they heard from here and there among the treetops. Still, the storyteller boomed with fierce intensity in his voice that promised a different, horrible ending.

  Instead of continuing, erupting into a shocking climax that would shake the trees to their very roots, Maelich’s tone became matter of fact, “I could not do it. I found her to be without flaw. With my blade aimed at that heart I knew to be blacker than the deepest pit of the deepest cave on Ouloos, I was prepared to destroy her. But she, the greatest power on Ouloos, breathed not so much as a spark to defend herself. Even with the bloody promise of my fiery blade poised, ready to punch a hole into her dark heart and end her existence, she refused to attack me. Without a shred of hatred or fear in her body, she completely lacked the ability to destroy. She was perfection. No, she is perfection.”

  A murmur fluttered through the forest. The tension quickly fled as the trees seemed to deflate, slowly drifting back down from the heights to which Maelich’s words had taken them. Palpable joy oozed from them, surrounding him with feelings, meaning to all of their murmuring. The lad of the Lake had finally returned to them as he had promised so many summers prior, and with him he brought a firsthand account of the story that spawned a mountain of rumors. They slowly began to wave and shudder, fighting the desire to be close, to touch the boy who had grown into a legend of men. Trunks trembled and leaves shook, as the trees of the Sobbing Forest slowly inched closer and then stretched their limbs up and away from Maelich several times. Finally, the forest floor brightened, chasing away the darkness that normally suffocated it.