The sun was rising by the time Doentaat woke. The pain in his leg had diminished enough that he no longer wanted to kill every living soul in the forest. That was a start. He was deep into rubbing the sleep from his eyes when the most succulent scent he had smelled in ages drifted past his nose. His stomach grumbled in response. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. The past few days had been such a blur, and his damned leg had earned the lion’s share of his attention. Food would be a delight. Locating the source of that wonderful smell suddenly became the most pressing matter in his life. He glanced over toward the fire. There it was, the ass end of a fallon stuck on a spit with that beautiful leg stealer slowly spinning it over the fire.
“If I could get up off of this ground, I’d kiss you square on the mouth,” Doentaat boomed. “Where did you find such a beautiful hunk of meat?”
Banch chuckled and flashed a wide smile, “That is the best thing about this wood. It is teeming with fallon. If you have a bow and a bit of patience, there are feasts bounding all about among these trees.”
“Ain’t never been too fond of bows,” Doentaat shrugged. “Mostly the women folk be doing all the hunting.”
A sly grin slipped onto Banch’s face despite the slight. It was not the first time his gruffness had been questioned because of his prowess with a bow. “Things are different for folks who hail from small villages. One can only eat what he kills living deep in the woods. A sword ain’t much help for that. I learned to fire brands from a tightly strung bow long before I’d look anything but silly swinging a sword. I had never even held one before traveling to the great city to ride under the banner of Havenstahl during my sixteenth summer after my mother passed, Coeptus rest her soul. She’s the one who taught me. You can thank her for this grand feast. It might be my father would have taught me different skills had he been around. On the other hand, it might be she would have put him right back in his place and taught me what she did anyhow. We can’t know which would be true, but I can tell you what a mistake it would be to question her on it if she were here. Either way, it’s lucky for you she did,” he finished with a wink.
“Ain’t truer words ever been spoken,” Doentaat smiled. “She raised a good, solid man. Coeptus never saw fit to bless me with no sons. If ever they do, I pray they see fit to bring me one righteous and caring as you.”
Banch’s cheeks reddened a bit at the compliment. He slipped his dagger out of its scabbard, sliced a healthy slab off the dripping hunk of meat he had been slowly spinning over the fire, and handed it over to Doentaat.
The king of Alhouim attacked it like a ravenous beast. Juice saturated his beard as he made the kind of sounds typically heard from a bed chamber occupied by passionate lovers. The juicy morsel was more than just a necessary meal to keep his haggard carcass from the Lake. It was a little bit of light in the darkest chapter thus far in his life. If he could sit leaning up against that sturdy tree and gnawing on the delicious hunk of salvation in his hand for the rest of his days, he just might.
While Doentaat attacked his meat, Banch slipped around a tree. He returned wearing a wide smile and carrying a wooden contraption. The rectangular thing was roughly three feet by four, framed by four thick sticks tied together with twine. Two additional sticks ran diagonally from one corner to another, respectively. Two leather straps were attached at either end of the shorter side and ran the length of the longer dimension. Two more leather straps ran along the shorter dimension, one at the top and the other at the bottom.
When Doentaat finally noticed him over the dripping morsel he was taking down, he did not much like what he saw. “That best not be what I’m thinking it is, you grinning idiot,” the dwarf grumbled around a mouthful of meat.
“There ain’t no other way to get you out of this forest,” Banch replied, his smile not fading in the least. He slipped his arms through the straps running down the longer dimension, pulled them tight and turned around to show the thing off. “We can strap you onto the back of this, and I can haul you out of here.”
“Now listen here,” Doentaat began, swallowing a big hunk of half-chewed meat before he continued, “I appreciate all what you’ve done for me, but I am the king of Alhouim, and a proud king at that. You ain’t lugging me around like some kind of hairy baby.”
Banch’s smile faded a bit at the king’s reply. Still, he pressed on, “You can’t walk, highness. If I ain’t carrying you out of this wood, how do you suppose you’ll be getting back to your throne?”
Doentaat finished his hunk of meat, splashed a good long drink of water down behind it, and scratched his head. “Can’t you just prop me up on that horse and walk me out of this damnable place?”
“Don’t you think I thought about that?” Banch asked. “I did the best I could with that leg of yours, but I ain’t no healer. By my best estimate, we have about two weeks before we see anything but trees if we walk. If I strap you to my back, we might be looking at two days, long days, but days not weeks. I am greatly worried you haven’t much more than that before that leg starts causing you more than a bit of pain.”
Doentaat’s form deflated. As much as he despised the idea, Banch was right. His leg was good and red all the way from where the brute had taken it off up to his groin. Infection was moving through him. Before long, he would be mad with fever. Shortly after that he would be dead. It would take a proper healer to really fix him up. If only Hagen had happened upon them in the forest. Alas, fanciful dreams would do him no good.
“Think you can lift my fat rump up onto your back with that thing?” Doentaat asked, his voice barely more than a defeated whisper.
“You’re a stout, strong dwarf, highness, but my legs and my back are strong too. I’ll be hefting you up onto my back, and we’ll be riding out of here,” Banch’s smile had returned.
Doentaat did not respond. He just nodded and waved for Banch to get on with it.
Banch obliged. Laying the contraption down next to the king he said, “Do you think you can wriggle yourself over onto this thing?”
“I make this vow to you right here and right now,” Doentaat grumbled as he worked his way onto the contraption, “if you ever breathe a word to any soul about me doing any wriggling, or riding around on your back like a damned baby, I’ll be taking one of your long legs for my wall.”
“I’ll take that secret to the grave, highness,” Banch chuckled as he pulled the straps tight across Doentaat’s chest and waist, and then helped the dwarf king up to a seated position.
Aside from a bunch of grunting and groaning, the two remained silent as Banch struggled to get the pack on his back. The effort of strapping a full-grown dwarf to his back seemed easy until he attempted to get his feet. Though Doentaat may have felt like a baby helplessly strapped to someone, Banch’s legs would disagree. By the time the soldier was standing upright with the king of Alhouim on his back, his face was red and his breaths rapid and deep.
“Perhaps I should have handed you a smaller hunk of meat,” Banch groaned.
Doentaat remained silent. His face just grew redder as he thought of all the ways he would punish his savior if he ever breathed a word of his unfortunate mode of travel to anyone.
Chapter 8
Fear of a Loose Dragon
Moshat and Kaldumahn lounged upon thrones carved from stone and etched with elaborate designs. Of course, no chisel had ever touched the stone of those thrones. No man, nor dwarf, nor any other creature could manage the impossible shapes. Gods did not need the labor of men to craft their wares. The thrones sat at the center of an immense dome with impossibly smooth walls of the same stone and etched with designs equally impossible.
Both gods wore impeccable white robes, and both had hair and beards which matched them perfectly. All of it glowed like the brightest star in a black sky. Both gripped staffs—Kaldumahn on the right held his in his right hand, and Moshat opposite him held his in his left—which ended in images of dragons perching atop them like statues and glowing with the same p
erfect, white light. Both gods trembled and mumbled with their eyes shut tight as if they were deep in trances speaking incantations.
Kaldumahn’s eyes snapped open first. They were at once beautiful and horrible, the deepest black pits where no color could escape. But that black was an illusion. Somehow, in that absence of any light or color was an impossible negative glow where all colors existed at once swirling and mixing in a never-ending dance.
“The Dragon is on the hunt, hungry for the souls of gods,” Moshat proclaimed as his eyes snapped open exposing the same beautiful yet horrifying contradiction of colors.
Kaldumahn shook his head, “Gods do not have souls, brother. We have discussed this on more occasions than I would like to remember.”
“Yes, brother, on this point we disagree,” Moshat replied flatly. “However, now is not the time to debate this or that or attempt to sway one another to different ways of thinking about something of which we are both convinced.”
“Agreed,” Kaldumahn conceded. “Of which Dragon do you speak?”
“Cialia, of course,” Moshat shrugged. “The lad of the Lake has hidden himself, neither Helias nor any of her sisters harbor anything besides love for all living things. None of them are a concern at this point. Geillan could be a force, but Kallum has taken...”
“The eagle I battled above the castle at Havenstahl was not Kallum,” Kaldumahn interrupted.
“Indeed. That is what you said. However, you were outmatched and perhaps confused. Either way, the force you faced that day is a powerful adversary. Even still, I would contend that adversary is not our most pressing concern at this moment.”
Kaldumahn snapped his fingers, “Finally, you have stumbled upon something on which we can agree. Cialia has proven herself to be the most dangerous of Dragons. Drawing half her heritage from the race of Dragons and half from the race of men, she harbors the greatest power in all of Ouloos and the will to use it.”
“She wants to kill us and our brothers,” Moshat agreed. “Perhaps, we should seek her out and lobby her to our way of thinking.”
“I do not believe that to be possible,” Kaldumahn contended. “Her desires do not match our own. We should focus the entirety of our intent on hiding from her fury. Perhaps, we should seek a truce with our brother, Brerto. Though I do not agree, he believes the eagle I faced over Havenstahl to be Kallum. His rage at being betrayed may be enough to convince him into an alliance, especially with Cialia hunting us as she seems to be.”
“Coward,” Moshat spat, unable to hide his disgust. “You would help that vile thing to save yourself?”
“I would not,” Kaldumahn fired back. “However, I am not too proud to realize we are outmatched and will be destroyed if we face that supposed killer of gods.”
Moshat calmed slightly, “None of our options are desirable, brother. Though it may be cowardice, bending our will toward hiding from her might seems our only option. How long do you suppose we can hide from her fury?”
The incomprehensible colors seemed to swirl faster in Kaldumahn’s horrible gaze as he stared off at nothing, “It is impossible to know.”
“Yes,” Moshat nodded. “If the time comes when she fully realizes her power, nothing will be hidden from her sight.”
“A truth,” Kaldumahn agreed.
“A truth which raises the question, is it better to face her now while she wanders unaware of her full potential, or wait for her to find us once she has?” Moshat scratched his beard.
“A fool’s errand,” Kaldumahn scoffed. “Even now, as she remains blissfully unaware of her potential, we have no hope of defeating her. We wait. If she finds her true self, she destroys us. If she never does…”
“We hide in this hole until the end of time?” Moshat spat. “I cannot remain idle waiting for the inevitable end. If we wait, we must prepare, learn everything we can about her nature and intention. Then, when the time comes…”
“If the time comes,” Kaldumahn interrupted.
“If the time comes,” Moshat allowed, “we will be as prepared as we can be to face her fury.”
Chapter 9
The Dragon and the Tiger
The great waste sprawled in all directions. Bodies at various stages of decomposition littered the blood-stained ground where a mighty forest once stood. Scavengers picked at the bodies which had yet to be cleaned of meat. The smell of the place was even worse than the sight of it, weeks of rot oozing into the soft earth. It all seemed so senseless to Bom.
Lito-Bi walked beside Bom ahead of a long, tight column of trogmortem, grongs, and a handful of giants. Noticing the despair in the giant’s expression, he commented, “The aftermath is always worse than the fury of battle.”
“It is far too easy to forget the things we battle are living creatures when viewing them through eyes red with rage while adrenaline courses through our veins,” Bom agreed.
“Do you see that one?” the corners of Lito-Bi’s mouth dipped to a frown as he pointed to a pile of slick bones. “He was my oldest friend, Harim-Ka, born just one day before me. So many adventures we shared growing up,” he paused as the beginning of a tear formed at the corner of his eye. “Now he feeds the soil of a foreign land.”
Bom saw no difference between the decomposing pile and any of the thousands of others in the vast field. “Forgive me. I know how this must sound, but how can you tell?” he finally asked.
“The leather sash draped across that ribcage. I gave him that when he passed the trial of stone and fire,” Lito-Bi wiped his eyes.
No response was necessary from Bom. He simply nodded and draped his arm across the trogmortem’s shoulders, as they both bowed their heads toward the fallen warrior.
After a few moments of silent prayer, Lito-Bi raised his head and changed the subject. “It was a brave thing you did, standing up to your grandfather. I am not certain I would be as bold.”
Bom allowed a shallow smile to turn up the corners of his mouth, “If I recall correctly, all I did was get thrown through a wall. It was you who brought the bravery to the party.”
“I merely reacted,” Lito-Bi disagreed. “It is easy to appear brave when instincts are controlling your actions. Given a moment to reflect, I may have behaved differently.”
“You are a humble…” Bom’s reply was lost beneath the fury of a growl loud enough to rumble the ground beneath his feet.
Hountmytall Moh, son of Mon, cried out, “The great tiger has come to judge us for our betrayal.”
Brerto, the great, white tiger had indeed joined Bom’s group in the great waste that day. The ground trembled under his paws as he sauntered toward them. His head towered even over Moh’s brother Moy who at nearly twenty feet counted himself as the tallest living giant. All in the field fell to their knees and bowed their heads to the ground before the horrible tiger. The memory of watching the vengeful god indiscriminately kill every living thing he happened upon during the battle of Fort Maomnosett was fresh in all their minds.
“Maomnosett Bom, son of Bok, grandson of Ott, you taint the mighty name of your house with this ragged group of traitors,” the great tiger growled with a voice both magnificent and horrifying.
Lito-Bi touched Bom’s arm as the young giant rose to face his accuser. It was too late. Bom had already decided he would stand for what he believed in regardless of the peril. Lito-Bi’s somber recollection of his fallen friend had further strengthened his resolve. “Please forgive the hubris, mighty Brerto, great tiger, god of my fathers, but I disagree. I believe my actions will elevate the name of my house,” he replied with strength in his voice.
Brerto’s humorless laugh belied the fury boiling beneath his fur. He roared, “All of you kneeling before me, take note. You commit blasphemy against my name and will suffer for eternity lest you repent. Turn away from this folly of a mission. Return to your ships and fall in line behind my chosen. Fail to heed my command, and I will torment your souls until the end of time.”
The grongs in the group scattered. The
re was nothing shocking about that. It was surprising any of them joined the cause in the first place. If nothing else, grongs were opportunistic. Brokering a peace with Havenstahl provided little benefit to a nomadic group. The precious metals mined beneath Alhouim and promised them by Bom’s grandfather did. The only other member of the group who left was Moh. That was a surprise. Bom had counted Moh a dear friend since they were children. Apparently, he could count on that deep friendship no more.
Bolstered by the sheer number of his group who remained, Bom stood taller against his god and loudly proclaimed, “The mission you have lain before your chosen is not ours. Strike me down if you must, but I cannot kill and maim innocent men and dwarves in the name of stealing from them. They pose no threat. We are the invaders.”
“Petulant fool,” the great tiger boomed as he raised his paw to crush the young giant, “you will regret this decision. Your soul will suffer for eternity, long after Ouloos is but a memory.”
Brerto’s paw moved an inch before he froze in place. Bom only had a moment to consider the terrifying beast—from the sneer upon his face to his mighty claws poised to strike—before a great wind sent him tumbling back into his group. The stiff current was accompanied by a blinding flash. By the time sight returned to Bom’s eyes, they beheld something truly horrible. Cialia, bane of giants, stood before the great tiger where the defiant young giant had been.
“All living things on Ouloos fall under my protection,” Cialia said calmly, but loud enough so all could hear. “They have nothing to fear from petty gods.”
The tiger trembled, unable to move for what seemed eternity. Bom and his group raised up from their knees to witness the unthinkable, a god brought to heel. Cialia remained unmoved as the tiger’s trembling steadily increased to the point of convulsion. Still, the paw failed to move in the slightest. The Dragon had the tiger completely in her control. Then a growl—terror, anguish, and rage all boiled into one emotion—erupted from the tiger’s open mouth.
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