Series: Lake of Dragons Series #4
By: E. Michael Mettille
Publication Date: December 1, 2022
Publisher: TMR Books
Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Creations
Genre: Epic Fantasy
Maelich has grown more and more detached from the Shaiwah as he leads them across the cracked land on a mission to take back the land stolen from their ancestors centuries prior. Under his tutelage, with the assistance of Ymitoth, the Shaiwah have developed into an unrelenting and decimating force who revel in conquest and bloodshed. Their tactics become more than Maelich can bear as he withdraws further into his own mind.
Havenstahl has been rebuilt and restored to its former glory with the aid of Moshat the mighty bear who lumbers about the north woods, and Daritus has turned his eyes toward retaking land stolen by the monsters from across the Great Sea. Those plans are interrupted by word of a massive pack of marauding snow beasts weaving a meandering path of destruction directly toward Havenstahl. He pulls his troops back to protect the city from the vicious beasts and prepare for the coming storm.
With Havenstahl buried in her own turmoil, and unable to repay the debt owed to Alhouim, a small band of dwarves plan a harrowing mission to sneak up the caves beneath Elbahor and free their brethren from the yoke of the cruelest of giants, Maomnosett Ott. The effort will take them to the brink and prove the last journey many of them will ever make.
The fresh, mountain air was cool on Elbahor that night. It smelled like rain, but Glaadrian new the shower was far enough off to not be a hindrance. The old dwarf’s knees weren’t acting up at all. They would be giving him fits if a storm were imminent. Despite the overcast sky above blocking all the light of a full moon no one on the mountain could see that night, the grizzled dwarf soldier was confident he and his group would remain dry during their mission.
That overcast sky was a blessing. The mountaintop was nearly pitch outside of a small dome of flickering, orange torchlight occupied by two battle-hardened trogmortem and the object of Glaadrian’s mission, a waif of a dwarf named Alenaat. Though his position offered no view of the tortured dwarf, he knew the latter was chained to the Sacred Pine, a custom that had ended when Maelich chopped the head off a giant and freed a city of dwarves from that monster’s rule. Maomnosett Ahm had been a hard ruler, not a creature Glaadrian looked on with anything close to fondness. However, by all accounts he’d heard sneaking through the caves beneath Alhouim—he refused to call the city he loved Maomnosett regardless whose rump warmed the throne—Ott was a million times worse. At least Ahm had been relatively fair when not pushed to his limits. Ott was just a cruel, malicious tyrant. In his first act as king of his stolen city he reinstituted that horrid punishment for the crime of a loud mouth and a loose tongue.
Had adrenaline not been coursing wildly through Glaadrian’s veins he may have taken a moment to reflect on how odd it was for him to be sitting in the dark and waiting to challenge a couple trogmortem for the life of a waste like Alenaat. It would be quite a trick to find any dwarf in the city with the slightest shred of love for the scruffy slacker. That was before the poor soul was chained to the most sacred spot on Mount Elbahor, the most sacred spot in all of Ouloos as far as the dwarves of Alhouim were concerned. Alenaat could have killed Glaadrian’s own mother, and he would still save the oaf. He might kill him afterward, but he’d pull the young dwarf off that tree first. The thought sent Glaadrian’s mind tumbling down another path he should have avoided while waiting in the dark in ambush, Bindaar.
Bindaar had been another waste. Most would suggest a more worthless dwarf had never existed. He was even worse than Alenaat. That was, until Ahm had strung him up to that tree. It changed him. They strung him up a useless waste of air, and he came down a dutiful dwarf ready to serve his city and friends. One tear managed to spill over Glaadrian’s squinting eyelids. It was all he’d allow himself. He silently hoped Alenaat’s time on the Sacred Pine would have a similar effect.
A chill breeze sent a shiver through Glaadrian as he sat there in darkness delving more deeply into bleak memories than he should have. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The thing smelled like stale blood and rot. It was a blessing he couldn’t see it in the darkness. Weeks of battle and days sneaking through the caverns beneath the city had it looking as bad as it smelled.
An out of place whistle that failed miserably at sounding like any sort of bird mercifully brought his mind back into the moment. Lentaak was in place. That whistle—which hadn’t earned the slightest attention from either of the guards watching over Alenaat—meant the quietest dwarf in Alhouim was hiding right behind the Sacred Pine waiting to strike. Everyone was in place. Though he couldn’t see any of them in the darkness, he knew Chialdaan the fair-haired monster who had earned the nickname grong’s bane for his efforts at the battle at Fort Maomnosett crouched in the fairy weed across the trail from him, and Muljaak, a dark-haired brute of a dwarf who stood nearly as tall as a man, hid in the shrubs further up the trail. It was time.
Glaadrian gripped his axe tight, stood up, and casually strolled toward the dim glow of torchlight with a whistle in his cheek. It was a happy tune his father had taught him when he was much younger and far friendlier. The song got the attention of one of the trogmortem standing guard in the warm glow at the base of the Sacred Pine. The head that popped out from behind the tree to examine the sound looked like any of the vile beasts from across the Great Sea he’d ever seen—pointy ears, a big, swollen nose, a humongous mouth filled with more jagged fangs than could comfortably fit, and green eyes which seemed to glow from within—but Glaadrian recognized this one from descriptions he’d heard whispered while scouting for the mission. The scar beneath the beast’s right eye gave him away. If the stories he’d heard were to be believed, the monster’s size was only matched by his merciless cruelty in battle. That beast would wrestle anyone at any time to prove his might.
“Pray the gods you have business in this place, or I will decorate this mountaintop with your scattered limbs,” Haram-Vi shouted while squinting and stretching his neck toward the darkness.
“Except your right leg,” the other guard added as he stepped out into the light. “I’ll be gnawing on that. I’ve got a thing for legs.”
Glaadrian recognized this one too. He was Malek-Ta, smaller than Haram-Vi but equally brutal and cruel. The dwarf stopped whistling and chuckled through his response, “Ain’t but two of you? Best be heading back to the city to get some friends. The bloody waste be littered with the battered bodies of your kin who fell to this axe in me hand.”
“Is that so?” Malek-Ta growled.
“Aye it is,” Glaadrian growled right back. “Come on out and test if me words ain’t the truest you ever heard. I’ll be painting this trail with your vile blood.”
“Step into the light then. Prove your boasts,” Haram-Vi challenged.
“Afraid of the dark are ye?” Glaadrian shouted up the trail. As much as he liked to think of trogmortem as mindless beasts, he knew it wasn’t true. They were wily, cunning, and smart, but they were also prideful and saw the likes of dwarves and men as being beneath them.
Haram-Vi took the bait first, jogging from the safety of the torchlight into the darkness. Malek-Ta followed closely behind, grunting, “Those are the last words that will ever leave your filthy, dwarf mouth.”
Glaadrian had slowly been backing away as soon as he’d grabbed the attention of the two guards. Once they entered the blackness of the trail, he quickened his pace. He could faintly see the glow of their eyes in the darkness, that dim and eerie green, but he knew they couldn’t see him at all. Their eyes were accustomed to the bright desert sun, useless on the dark trail.
“Coward,” Haram-Vi called out as his pace quickened.
Glaadrian ceased his retreat, gripped his axe tighter, and replied, “Come on and test that claim then.”
“It’s a trap,” Malek-Ta hollered a moment before Glaadrian heard the rock bounce off the trogmortem’s head. Muljaak had delivered the first blow.
Dim silhouettes were all that Glaadrian could make out in the darkness, but the glorious sounds he heard assured him the massive dwarf was cutting the giant trogmortem down. A dwarf axe makes very distinct sounds whether it be slicing through still air, chopping meat, or severing bone. He heard all three of those as the larger of the two shapes fell toward the trail. Muljaak must have cut the beast down like a tree. It would take a thick bone to make a sound like that. Glaadrian grinned in the darkness as he heard Muljaak’s axe connect over and over again. The dwarf must have moved on to the softer parts of the monster. The sounds of meat and guts slopping about and spilling onto the trail mingled with the trogmortem’s cries sounding a symphony to Glaadrian’s ears. If only he could see the macabre art his chum made on the trail that night. In the darkness, the sweet music of the dying trogmortem’s cries and pleas for mercy would have to suffice as they remained unanswered. There would be no mercy and no forgiveness for the monsters who had stolen his city and killed so many of his kin.
“Thank the gods I blessed ye with a quick death, vermin,” he heard Muljaak quietly sigh at the pile of slop he had made on the trail. “If I could, I’d be following your sorry soul to the Lake to be torturing ye until the end of time.”
He had but a moment to chuckle at his good friend’s proclamation before realizing he had allowed the excitement of battle and the adrenaline coursing through his veins to distract him from the plan. Muljaak had only felled one of the beasts on the trail with them, and Glaadrian had lost sight of the other. He saw the faint flicker of Haram-Vi’s eyes a moment before the monster plowed into him.
Glaadrian’s equilibrium fled the trail as he rolled end over end with the massive beast. By the time they settled, he was on top of the monster but had lost hold of his axe. Too much thought can be an enemy when locked in battle, so he gave the missing axe very little. He couldn’t see his target in the darkness, but the first thing his right fist connected with was soft. It seemed too large to be a nose being bigger than his fist, but the splatter of blood the blow earned suggested it was the giant, bulbous thing that took up a good chunk of Haram-Vi’s face. The sound the creature made in that instant gave Glaadrian the faintest glimmer of hope he might best the beast with fists alone. The first blow he delivered with his left hand chased that hope away.
He couldn’t know where on the big monster’s head he had connected, but it was like punching rock. He swung two more times earning a giggle from his opponent. The growl that followed invited fear in to mingle with the rage boiling in Glaadrian’s belly. He reached for his dagger, but it was too late. His head bounced hard off the trail as the big trogmortem got hold of his ankle and dragged them both out of the dirt.
Then the fire came. At least, that’s what it felt like when Haram-Vi’s claws slashed through the meat of his right thigh. The sound might have been worse than the cut itself. He heard bone crack. A racing mind chased along by fear can sometimes conjure images much faster than logic can run, but the idea his leg was off flittered away quickly once it occurred to him that he hadn’t dropped back to the trail. His leg couldn’t be off. Before he could even taste one morsel of relief, the big bastard tasted his flesh. It might have been his imagination, but he was certain he felt each individual fang as it punctured his skin. The burning agony continued as the jaws clamped down and began grinding back and forth on the bone beneath.
“Help,” he cried out in the darkness, “the big bastard’s gotten a hold of me leg.”
It seemed an eternity passed as he hung there screaming and flopping like a big, beached chooker while a smelly monster of a beast gnawed at his leg. All his limbs flailed helplessly until his left foot finally connected with something. It must have been Haram-Vi’s thick skull. It felt like kicking a mountain.
“Whose blood paints this trail, you little worm?” Haram-Vi growled before biting into Glaadrian’s other leg and grinding at the bone.
The world grew suddenly quiet for Glaadrian in that moment. He could tell he still screamed by the burning in his throat. He could still feel Haram-Vi’s horrible fangs grinding mercilessly at his leg. But all the sound was somehow gone. He wondered if this might be the end. It seemed a safe bet. Even safer when he felt his shoulder pop out of joint.
The sound returned. Ripping flesh hits a horrible note. It’s worse when you know it’s your own skin stretched beyond its limits. Though he felt the arm rip from his body, it still felt like it was attached to his shoulder, even after that bastard trogmortem clubbed him in the head with it.
“Help,” he cried out again.
“Be holding him steady,” Chialdaan finally answered, “and I’ll be chopping that beast down.
Glaadrian had no more words to share. His entire body burned like fire licked him from all directions. He hadn’t seen his good friend assault the monster who’d been chewing on him, but he heard the axe connect. The sound Haram-Vi made when that glorious dwarf axe connected with his thigh would have brought him the greatest joy if his mind weren’t absorbed by pain and the stark realization that his soul had precious few moments to remain in the broken sack he’d become. He barely even noticed how far the trogmortem had tossed him into the fairy weeds. He’d probably die there among the enchanted plants.
It was a sad thing when he realized the last bit of joy he would have in the waking world was listening to the glorious sounds of his chums cutting his killer down. He wished he could see the results of their vengeance, but Haram-Vi’s agonizing cries did a fine job of telling the story. The beast growled like a wild mountain scarra threatening an amatilazo off her pups. Both Chialdaan and Muljaak sounded just as monstrous growling, howling, and threatening right back at that monster. Oozing over the top of the grotesque symphony were other more horrible notes. The whistling of sharpened dwarf axes slicing through the mountain air before chopping through meat and cracking bone sounded a fine rhythm worthy of a foot-stomping dance. The drip and slop of blood and fluids and organs and entrails made a melody soaring over the top of it. If he’d had the voice left to spare, he may have sung out some words to finish the beautiful ballad. Ode to a Pile of Slop Who Used to be the Vilest of Vermin had quite the ring to it. If only that vermin hadn’t destroyed most of his limbs, it might be a song he’d get to sing someday.
Glaadrian’s mind drifted as the song played on. The fire raging in his body still burned, but it slowly lost its grip on his awareness. He felt weak. It was an odd thought, a thankful distraction. His heart was pumping as strong as ever and pulsing the blood right out of his mangled limbs. He’d be dead soon. As he lay there barely clinging to consciousness, dying wasn’t the thing filling him with sadness. He couldn’t stand up, grab his axe, and help his friends. What if they failed? What if that beast was chomping at their limbs like he’d done to Glaadrian? That was the saddest thought in his mind in that moment. He was a goner anyway. He didn’t want his friends to die too.
“Let’s go,” Chialdaan’s voice in his ear was an even sweeter song.
“Did ye vicious dwarves chop that monster into stew?” there wasn’t much force behind his words, but he managed to muster the slightest chuckle.
“Aye, we did,” Muljaak whispered in his other ear. “We chopped him up good. Ye’d be proud.”
“Good go ye then, lads,” a smile danced about his whispered reply.
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