Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  Prologue

  The Cadrac Bell continued to peal, its deep ring reverberating unceasingly throughout the white granite walls and hallways of Godwyn Keep. The sound was unrelenting as it rang into the midnight; the sound heralded the end of all things.

  Pontifex Dendreth Charl followed his Pontiff, their footfalls soft and quiet in the musty stillness between each startling ring of the warning bell, as they descended into the Keep’s lower corridors. Dendreth was old, the lines of his face furrowed and deep, but his smoky gray eyes scanned the hallways with the clarity and acuteness of a crag cat.

  “We could be walking into a dangerous trap, Your Grace. I suggest caution,” Dendreth said, his voice a firm whisper.

  Pontiff Garethe de Sierson continued to walk steadily ahead, seemingly unmindful of the threat that had entered their domain. “No doubt that is what our uninvited guests are hoping for—that our slow action will lend precious time to their flight. Have faith, Dendreth. I know what we do.”

  Dendreth quieted. Trust came easily between them, the two men friends long before Garethe’s appointment to Pontiff. He would not lead Dendreth astray, but the Pontifex disliked not being privy to the chaotic events swirling throughout the Keep.

  The Pontiff turned back to Dendreth. “You’re still angry about earlier today.”

  “Erol Tal is a brash fool,” he replied curtly. Dendreth could not hide the disdain he had for his peer on the Godwyn Council.

  “Since I sided with him, am I a fool as well?”

  Dendreth ignored the question, focused on the twisting passageways before them. “I was on my way to comply with your summons when the Cadrac began ringing.”

  The Pontiff increased his aged gait. Whether he was rushing to confront those who had entered Godwyn Keep or attempting to escape further discussion of the Council’s earlier argument, Dendreth could not tell. Wispy hair floated around Garethe’s spotted pate like a ghostly halo of gossamer, wild and unwilling to settle. For all of his obvious winters of life, he still moved fluidly, his padded boots making no sound. Many commoners in the Kingdom thought Pontiff Garethe, the spiritual leader of the Godwyn faith, was nearing his ninth decade celebration.

  He was in fact almost three decades over a century.

  Garethe turned his gaze back on Dendreth, the blue irises sparkling amidst a sea of yellowed, watery orbs. “We’ll talk later about today’s meeting. My decision had more import than you or the other Council members realize.”

  Dendreth nodded. He had been taking the Sun Sea Tower stairway to the Pontiff’s private chambers when the earth-trembling bell had begun its booming cadence from the Belfry Spire. Dendreth had listened to the sounds of Godwyn Keep coming alive in the middle of the night for only a moment before quickly moving to the Hall of Greeting where the others would organize.

  “The attack on the Keep is raging above. Why are we making our way downward, away from the Courtyard?” Dendreth finally questioned.

  “The shrikes will find the other Pontifices, armed Warden, and spear-laden feyr’im awaiting them,” the Pontiff said. “And High Captain Rook is one of the best ever in his position. Trust me, my old friend.”

  “But we are the leaders of this Keep, Your Grace,” Dendreth pointed out.

  Pontiff Garethe hurried on, his steps steady. “The Illym will be protected. You and I could not add a better defense than those already in place. We have other business.” The older man ignored Dendreth for a few moments before continuing tersely, “And we go down because we must.”

  Dendreth fell silent, but the Pontiff’s secrecy nagged at him.

  When they came to a high-vaulted intersection, Garethe started down a narrow staircase. Dendreth shivered as the air grew cooler. The long cloak cinched at his neck hung behind him limply, revealing a tall, thin man wearing a white doublet, mud-brown jerkin, and ash-colored pants. He was not a man given to the ostentatious dress of some of his peers; his clothing was always wholly functional. In Dendreth’s opinion, simplicity conveyed an honesty and sincerity to those he met with daily.

  The only thing extravagant about his appearance was the symbol of his office as Pontifex of Godwyn Keep—a silver representation of the Illym tree placed over a thin, circular band that clasped his cloak in place.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pounding of the Cadrac Bell ended and silence fell over the two men like a heavy, woolen shroud. They continued to wind through a series of bare hallways, but both men stopped as their urgent strides brought them around a corner. The Pontiff raised a warning hand.

  It was as though a strong gale force wind had torn through the Keep. The glowing orblights that hung intermittently had been blown out, their warm blue-white light extinguished.

  The men peered forward, the hallways silent. White stone faded and eventually bled into a lightless void that opened before them. The dark hallway awaited them with cloying purpose, more deathly still than the tombs in the lower Sarcatum.

  Even with decades of experience entering the treacherous places his duty led him, a shiver ran down Dendreth’s spine as sharp as a knife. It took power to extinguish the orbs, power his order would never turn on itself for any reason.

  An unspoken word passed between the men.

  Witchcraeft.

  “We are not alone,” Pontiff Garethe said. “One of the shrikes wore an empty saddle.”

  “That could mean Blackrhein Reach,” Dendreth whispered.

  “Possibly.” The Pontiff moved closer to Dendreth. “Whoever it is, their intent is obvious, and we must now be careful. The men who flew in on the shrike have made their way into the Vault. What they are here to steal matters not—they must not leave.” He paused. “They have used diversion, stealth, and knowledge of the Keep they should not possess. We must now be cautious.”

  “How do you know it is the Vault they seek?” Dendreth asked.

  Pontiff Garethe kept his rheumy eyes forward. “A quarter of a century ago, the night after I took my vow as Pontiff, I renewed and strengthened the invisible warding lines that wrap the Vault—to protect the room and prevent intrusion by anyone other than myself—as my new office dictated.” He squinted into the darkness. “I felt the warding lines that bar entry into the Vault torn down as I walked the stairs to the Hall of Greeting at the Cadrac’s first peals.”

  “That is why we have left the battle above for the shadows below,” Dendreth said.

  “The contents of the Vault must be protected, and those who have accomplished this invasion have power at their disposal to eliminate my protective measures. That is not easily done.”

  Dendreth frowned. “Why no accompaniment of Warden while we ferret out our uninvited guests?”

  “It is not us I am worried about,” Garethe answered. “We are capable. I did send two-dozen Warden—six sets of four men—to make their way downward through all possible escape routes. We will corner the intruders and take back what they have taken.”

  Dendreth nodded, his gray eyes sweeping ahead. The shrikes had taken initial precedence—kill the birds and destroy the intruder’s most obvious form of escape. But here, in the depths of the Keep, the two men were prevented passage to the Vault and their quarry below by darkness so deep it seemed impenetrable. They could not go on safely without light.

  Pontiff Garethe began to hum, rich and vibrant. It was a supplication, a prayer upon old lips, a soncrist sent outside of the Keep and into the world beyond to produce what was needed in the moment. Dendreth could feel it smoothly weave through the air and into the dark hallway, the air coming alive with vibration and will. The darkness quivered. Garethe added a higher pitch to the hum. A pinprick of white light blossomed into existence like a white flower opening in an outdoor gard
en at night. The point of light hung suspended at eye level, its color silvery and fluid, small yet for what was needed. It quickly coalesced and expanded into a ball the size of a fist, pulsing faintly until it was large enough to push the shadows back and reveal the hidden hallway.

  With the modest light emanating from the hovering orb, the narrow staircase that led even deeper into the bowels of the Keep was revealed.

  “In all the centuries the Godwyn faith has existed, the Keep has never been breached. The more the faith grows, the harder those who follow the pagan gods of old push back,” the Pontiff mused sadly.

  “There is another it could be,” Dendreth added as they walked.

  “It could be Kieren,” the Pontiff gruffly noted, entering the newly lit stairway. “He’s been gone from us for more than two decades now. He is the only one to know our secrets who has left Godwyn Keep with a snake’s will twisting inside him.”

  Dendreth frowned, fearing the possible. More was going on here than he knew. The orb flew smoothly through the air and dropped out of sight into the next corridor. When the Pontifex turned to look at Garethe, his face was dark with shadows.

  “If it is Kieren,” the Pontiff continued, “May the Fatherhead have mercy on us all.”

  The orb continued to sail through the darkness, lighting their way. Dendreth forcibly calmed himself. Pontiff Garethe had again taken the lead, the Pontifex following and prepared for anything. Dendreth’s strides matched those of his superior—fluid and unerring. The air grew stale, and mustiness invaded Dendreth’s nose like a priest’s incense. The men continued their descent, their warm breath upon the chilled air as transitory and fleeting as fog.

  After several twisting passageways, they came upon what was left of the first body.

  Dendreth fought the revulsion that swept into his stomach like volcanic fire. Disbelief mixed with horror tore at the guard’s bearded face, the only thing recognizable about him. The rest of him was strewn about the hallway in a crimson wash; it was like a kodiak had torn the man limb from body and flung the parts to the wind—but no such animal had done this. The body had been mutilated by something so sharp it had cleanly sliced through skin, flesh, and bone. Deep gashes in his blood-covered armor revealed the carnage done to the man’s chest; the guard’s sword lay in two halves, sliced through above the hilt as the bones had been. The man’s death had been grisly, and no evidence of who had done it remained.

  Pontiff Garethe shook his head. “What could do this? No weapon I know of slices through flesh so cleanly.”

  Dendreth was silent, a protective soncrist not far from his lips. Whatever it was would not take them unaware.

  Garethe rose, his bones creaking in protest, and they continued forward. Three more of the Pontiff’s Warden were not far away, their fate the same as the first man’s. The Pontiff paused briefly above each body’s trunk before leaving them behind, intent on the moment. There would be time to grieve later.

  Time slowed. The aged priests came to a large opening, the small globe floating into its middle to push back the darkness. The light rose above their heads, illuminating the six darkened doorways that spread outward. Gooseflesh arose on the back of Dendreth’s neck and arms, the stone chamber leeching his body’s heat with calculated cunning.

  Pontiff Garethe pointed toward one of the yawning doorways to their right.

  He began to enter the open corridor when a high-pitched whistle suddenly pierced the air. Dendreth clapped his hands over his ears and dropped uncontrollably to his knees, the painful noise like a red-hot poker driven deep into his skull. The floor rushed to meet him. Tears sprang into his eyes, and the Pontiff also dropped to the ground. The whistle permeated the round chamber, and the Keep embraced the sound to intensify it tenfold back into the void of the halls. Dendreth was paralyzed with agony.

  In the next moment, darkness engulfed the men as the orb winked out.

  The whistle then quit. Dendreth gulped for air and struggled to mold his thoughts back into cohesion.

  What in the Seven…?

  The quick silence and blackness was almost as shattering as the shrieking sound. Decades of experience and training conquering his momentary surprise, Dendreth brought the same humming song the Pontiff had used earlier into being. The soncrist again became a pinprick of blue-white light hovering near the cold chamber floor.

  Dendreth blinked the tears from his eyes. The stone under his hands and the new light anchored him to the chamber. He sensed movement at the edge of his vision.

  Pushing himself up off his knees—Pontiff Garethe struggling to do the same—Dendreth saw two shadows separate themselves from the blackness of the nearest doorway.

  The figures wore tight-fitting black cloaks, the meager light of the orb unable to chase away the darkness within the cowls. Glints of metal flashed, the outline of weapons in hand and attached to hips and shoulders. The first man equaled Dendreth in height, his chest broad and thick, a silver whistle hanging around his neck like an amulet. The other was smaller and stocky; he had a black pack slung across his back, and it hung from his shoulders like it contained a slab of stone. The Pontifex could see nothing that signified who their intruders were, but it appeared they were alone.

  And then swiftly and without a sound, they were on the old men like crazed wolverines startled from the underbrush.

  The intruders attacked the Pontiff first. The fragile man was still struggling to recover from the piercing noise. Garethe had only a moment to react before a large fist crashed into the side of his head. He went flying, his frail body smashing against the wall like a bundle of sticks. Dendreth heard bones splinter, sounding as dead as dry forest tinder under boot, before Pontiff Garethe fell to the floor. He did not move.

  The shorter man said something indecipherable in a thick accent and broke at a run for one of the empty doorways, vanishing upward with a short-handled axe drawn.

  The remaining man had pulled a knife, its blade long and curved and gleaming like a crescent moon in the darkness of night. He advanced on Dendreth and the prostrate Pontiff. In a thick accent, he spat, “Die, priest.”

  Before his attacker could traverse the few steps that separated them, Dendreth pulled his will together deep inside and sang—his soncrist immediate, full of passion and fire and need. He reached out across space, pleading for help, and warmth sprang to life in his chest and quickly spread to his palms. The lyrics of the song flickered yellow and deep, burning orange around the edges as it twisted inside, a shackled creature come alive and tortured, wrestling to be made free. Watching his adversary, Dendreth raised his hands upward, his fingers glowing red.

  His call answered, fire raged from his fingertips and struck his assailant.

  The man flinched, turning his head from the heat and fear, but it was too late. The flames struck him high on the chest and the left side of his face, igniting his clothing and driving him back. The knife he held clattered to the stone floor, forgotten. An anguished howl escaped him as the fire ravaged, and the charred smell of burning flesh punctuated the cold air. The Pontifex reigned in the fire, its power nestled and pulsating within his fingertips, suddenly feeling tired.

  Reduced to maddened animal instincts, the burned man attacked Dendreth with a new urgency, the flames still flickering on his chest.

  Fire again rose up between the men at Dendreth’s calling, but it did not stop his attacker this time. The intruder pummeled the Pontifex against the wall before the old man could bring any additional protection to bear. The air rushed from his lungs. The fire died in his hands. Iciness crept into his body. A fist like a Giant’s struck him on the side of his jaw. Inky spots sprinkled his vision, and his limbs lost substance. He sank toward the freezing stone floor, becoming one with it.

  After what could have been a moment or an eternity, the warm, iron taste of blood in his mouth brought Dendreth back. His hands ached as though blistered and burned, his fingers curled and raw. He struggled to his feet, his limbs responding with near powerle
ss jerks.

  The Pontiff was still. All was deathly quiet. Their attackers were gone and with them whatever they had taken from the Vault.

  Dendreth knelt next to his friend, a headache fully blossomed within his skull, and saw by the weak light the beaten, ancient man still breathed. Leaving Garethe behind, Dendreth stumbled after the assailants, his mind gray and fuzzy.

  He made his way up through the hallways, stairways, and corridors of the underground levels of the Keep. He was briefly aware of stumbling over bodies, but none of them were like the ones he had discovered earlier. Before long, he was on the stone steps leading into the Courtyard, the colorful gardens that were so beautiful by day now dark and muted as horror surrounded the Illym.

  The war shrikes were gone. Carnage had replaced them. Dozens of armor-encased Wards, bloodied and sweaty, littered the grounds, their cries and whimpers rising into the night air. Few ashen-faced feyr’im were among their Ward brethren, but those who were, were unmoving, their long limbs crooked and their angular features frozen in death. The Keep had mobilized against the threat—to protect the Illym at any cost—but the cost had been large.

  Those defenders still capable of battle were running back toward Dendreth, weapons at the ready, looking to the sky. Dendreth followed their gazes and his heart sank.

  Amidst the seven tall spires, a shrike clung to the Isle Tower, its talons digging into the stone of Godwyn Keep for purchase, its wings flapping against the starry sky for balance. The bird screeched into the night. Two shadows were grappling onto its back from one of the tower’s many windows. Hundreds of Warden and feyr’im scrambled to reach the top of the tower, but they would be too late.

  The Pontifex watched the great war bird separate itself with a mighty heave of its strong legs and begin winging away southward with its two riders, the creature’s silhouette stark against the shining crescent moon and the field of stars it was nestled within.

  Around him, the moans of the dying punctuated the air. Kieren crept into Dendreth’s thoughts, and the Pontiff’s earlier words returned to the Pontifex with chilling clarity.