Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  The ground leveled and an expansive orchard opened up to them, filled with apple, plum, and pear trees. The trees were old, their trunks gnarled and twisted as they rose out of the black earth. Insects buzzed throughout the orchard and wove around Brys and Sorin. The sunshine was warm and comforting, melting Sorin’s worry over what he was doing away.

  It was in the orchard where Sorin had formed his friendships with the other town’s children. During the summer it was the place they met, fought, and imagined other lands full of Giants, Feyr, Dwar’n, and evil kings. In the deep snows of winter, the children would build ice fortresses on either end of the orchard, and with snowballs as their weapons stage battles amidst the barren trees. Brys and other girls played as well, and mothers would sometimes oversee the white carnage, joining in themselves to take shots at their children.

  Now that time of childhood had passed, relegated to memory. He wondered what else he might lose as he grew older.

  Brys sat down at the edge of the orchard’s fence on its springy grass, her knees pulled up to her chest. Sorin joined her. At the edge of the horizon, Silver Lake—large even from such a distance—shimmered like hammered tin. Sorin breathed the world in, happy to comfort Brys in any way he could.

  “My father is not well,” she said finally. “Not at all. The last two nights he’s woken screaming, the sweat from a fever soaking his bedding. But he isn’t sick. No cough, no swelling. My mother has looked him over and can’t tell what’s wrong.” She shook her head, looking off into the distance. “Others in town have looked in on him, and I’ve heard them murmur when they don’t believe I am listening. Something wild and unnatural has gripped him, changed him.

  Sorin ran his hand over the grass, feeling the soft barbs tickle his palm. “My parents and I were also worried. My mother told me to pass along her well wishes, and if we can do anything, just ask. And if there’s anything I can do…”

  Brys reached out and squeezed his hand briefly, her eyes sad but grateful. “That’s sweet. Thank you.”

  Feeling the heat rise into his face again, Sorin looked away. “He was not himself. And the dream he spoke of… I’ve never heard him say anything negative like that.

  She seemed to look past the lake’s twinkling waters, to be somewhere else. “My father is not the kind of man who believes in the fantastic. He is grounded.”

  Thinking of the family from La Zandia, Sorin said, “I hope some of the people don’t take your father’s words literally.”

  “My father hates no one,” she said shaking her head. “You know that. Even those who worship the pagan gods of old along with the All Father are welcome in his church.”

  Sorin had an impulse to hold her hand again but did not reach out. Instead he said, “He’ll be fine, Brys.”

  They sat for a while, not speaking. A wind rustled the leaves of the trees behind them, a soft sigh through aged branches.

  Sorin broke their long silence. “Did you see the dragons yesterday?”

  Brys shook her head, interest in her eyes.

  “On the way home after the service, dragons were spread thick over the sky, traveling westward.” Sorin said, emphasizing its gravity. “They were screeching and trumpeting into the air as they left.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great to see what they’ve seen? To leave Thistledon behind and see all things new. To smell the sea air of the ocean and ride upon it, letting the wind take you wherever it chooses. Or to visit the ancient Sentinels of Lockwood or even see the Illym and touch its sacred trunk and velvety leaves.” She gestured to the west. “Don’t you want to visit parts of the world we have only listened to tales of?”

  Sorin nodded, although he did not share her enthusiasm. Thistledon was home. There was a small spark of curiosity at his center that wished to explore and know more of the world. There was no reason to deny it. But he was happy where he was, and he recognized it.

  “I don’t see myself leaving here,” he said softly. “At least not for a long time.”

  She frowned momentarily before a teasing smile replaced it. Her eyes sparkled. “I bet a girl could make you leave.”

  Sorin picked a blade of green grass and twisted it this way and that, intent only on the thin leaf and shying away from the look he knew was meant to antagonize him. He decided it was best to ignore her and pray nothing more came of it.

  Taking on the deeper voice of authority he had but gained in the last year, Sorin returned to his original point. “The dragons are leaving, Brys, and they oughtn’t. They always stay through summer, right? Yet they are departing. It’s far too early for them to migrate—it’s never happened like this before.” He paused, feeling the heat in his cheeks finally returning to normal. “You know how animals will scatter from the forest if lightning starts a forest fire late in summer?”

  She was serious again and nodded.

  “Maybe the dragons are leaving not because they want to, but because they have to. Maybe something terrible has come to the Krykendaals, forcing the dragons out? Something we haven’t seen?”

  Brys looked up to the sky, and Sorin almost looked to see if the dragons had returned. “Well, what could it be that would drive them away?” she asked.

  Sorin just shook his head. He did not know.

  A lean red-chest robin landed on a branch above Sorin’s head, singing with a warble that sweetened the air. Another bird deeper in the orchard answered its song and soon a cacophony of birds filled the afternoon. Sorin smiled but could not shake the darkness that had surrounded his heart with icy intent. The raving of Hadlin Oldten echoed inside Sorin’s head, and now the unsettling of the dragons—the beasts a part of the natural order of the wilds—added another dimension of worry.

  Despite having never seen one closely, he knew a dragon was formidable and dangerous, a creature better left alone than crossed. One had come into Thistledon decades ago, wounded and angry, bloodied from a recent battle with one of its own kind. Maddened, it had attacked those in the streets and destroyed buildings. It would not leave. Nearly every man in town helped weaken the dragon with thick-headed arrows and spears and killed it. The dragon’s skeleton was half buried outside of town, only giant bones left to mark its passing. Sorin had heard other stories from the wilds as well. Whatever forced the beasts out was something Thistledon and its people wanted no part of.

  Then Sorin noticed how low in the sky the sun had fallen and leapt to his feet. “I have to get home! I’ve stayed too long. Are you okay?”

  Brys smiled up at him. “Yes. Thank you. It was nice to escape for a while.” Sorin helped her to her feet, and she wiped the errant grass from her dress.

  They quickly made their way back down the trail, leaving the orchard behind. In moments, they were at her front door again.

  “I hope your father gets well soon, Brys,” Sorin said. “I meant it earlier—if you or your family needs anything, just ask.”

  She smiled and stole a quick kiss on his cheek. It was like the quickened wings of a butterfly touching him before flying away. Flame climbed back through his cheeks again and stayed there, the blush spreading to his body. He turned and fled as she vanished indoors.

  Forgotten were dragons and the pastor’s words. Forgotten was his father and the help he needed at home. Unclear feelings churned within him as he untied Creek and pulled himself up into the saddle.

  Sorin knew other boys his age were confused when it came to the girls they had grown up with. Not one of his male friends mentioned it explicitly, but he knew it was on all of their minds. He was curious but uncertain about Brys, interested but perplexed, a paradox of emotions flooding through him in a torrent whenever he was around her. What he felt was very different than those feelings he had known in their childhood.

  He was halfway home, still thinking of Brys and retracing their every word to gain some insight into their afternoon, when the forest sounds changed. It was not that the forest was quiet—it would be nearly impossible to silence every creature. The forest sounds were slig
htly off, not meshing together as they should. Some insects buzzed, but the crickets had gone silent. No birds sang in the trees, but crows cawed in the distance. The air was suddenly stale, belying the vibrant colors and warmth of the summer.

  Sorin knew the forest well. Something dangerous and foreign had entered it.

  That was when Sorin caught the first scent of smoke.

  It was not thick—not yet—just a hint on the edge of the other forest smells. Sorin peered into the sky and the surrounding countryside, looking for any evidence to point to its source. But he saw nothing—not even a haze. The smell settled in the back of his throat and nose, a constant reminder as he continued onward.

  He crested the top of a small hill, fear of the unseen growing within. A meadow filled with yellow and blue flowers spread out from the side of the road. Beyond it, a line of tall cedar and fir trees rose like a wall, their trunks wide and split with age. Sorin pulled Creek up and his worry increased.

  Smoke rose in the far distance above the trees, thick, ugly, and as black as thunderheads in a storm. It was a living thing, twisting in the air, pushing its way up to the white clouds that roamed the skies. The smoke was coming from a serious fire of some kind deeper in the forest, several ridges away.

  There was only one thing on a clear day that could have sparked a fire in that direction.

  Sorin’s heart lurched in his chest.

  The forge.

  Spurring Creek forward, he raced for home.

  Chapter 3

  The wind whipped past Sorin as Creek’s hooves pounded into the hard-packed earth, sending up clumps behind them with every stride. The road before Sorin was all that mattered, a winding, twisting route that led home. Creek was hot beneath him, his own driving force of nature.

  Images flashed in Sorin’s mind—his father’s gnarled fingers as they gripped a hammer, the stain of dragons against the sky, the last kiss he had given his mother that morning. They multiplied inside, as unwavering as though they were happening to him all over again. The worry inside became a living thing, eager to worm its way out and overcome him.

  Sorin knew it was the forge. Somehow the fire had gotten away from his father into the wood of their home. The smoke billowed into the sky, growing larger as they galloped, a dark promise staining the afternoon. The smell of burning wood and roof tar was thick now, infusing the surrounding countryside, and hope slipped from him with every fall of Creek’s hooves. It was his home that burned. It was the forge that started it. It was his parents who were in danger. He knew this in a manner that began at his core and would not let go, true instincts that were never wrong.

  The only question he cared about was whether or not his parents were all right. He sped to find his answer, the world a blur of green and brown as Creek tore forward.

  And all he could think about was his father’s last request of him.

  Creek topped the last valley ridge and did not stop, Sorin urging a final burst of speed from the animal. Forest fires had erupted in the past, but this was something different. The main plume rose in a tight, billowing cloud toward the sky. The fire itself was confined to a small area. He had seen entire hillsides engulfed in fire after a late summer lightning strike had sparked their ruin. If his parents were alive, they would be working hard at containing the fire as best they could while trying to save as much of their home as possible.

  Smoke washed the world of its colors. Ash fell on Sorin like snow the closer he got to his home, the cold embers dirtying whatever they landed upon. The polluted air stung his eyes.

  He turned the last corner of the pathway. Creek skidded to a halt in terror as a cry wedged in Sorin’s throat.

  The house and forge were engulfed in flames, the fire licking everything hungrily until it blackened. Ugly smoke lifted skyward. From the condition of his home, the fire had not been raging for very long—one end had collapsed but the rest of it still stood, the wall sharing both home and forge intact. The duel doorways to his home and the forge gaped at him like a skull’s sockets, smoke fleeing the inferno. Tall alders rose next to the house, their overhanging limbs and leaves meant to shade the home now curling and darkening from the rising heat. The air wavered around the house with a shimmering intensity, and Sorin could feel the heat emanating outward.

  The two other horses and most of the farm animals were absent, so terrified they had broken loose and fled.

  There was no sign of his parents.

  Sorin vaulted off of Creek with no regard for what the horse might do. He ran to his home, stumbling in his anxiousness to reach it, his time spent on Creek disorienting and stiffening his limbs. His parents could be inside, unable to help themselves. Caution finally overtook him as the intense heat infiltrated his clothing, its baleful slap constant on his face and hands.

  He had to be careful. He didn’t want to become wrapped in the flames and smoke or crushed by burning debris from the ceiling. He would be of no help to anyone then.

  A part of the house had already fallen in and boards creaked in protest as they disintegrated. Sorin placed his forearm over his nose and mouth as he ducked into the inferno, trying to breath through the cloth of his tunic. The inside was flickering chaos, barely recognizable. Heat pummeled him in waves. Through the rolling darkness, the flames leapt over the chairs, walls, ceiling, floor, and their belongings. Smoke rolled along the semi-collapsed ceiling, looking for freedom, but what he searched for eluded him—his parents were nowhere.

  Tears were blanketing his eyes, becoming thicker the longer he was exposed to the smoke, making the room more and more difficult to see. Sweat sprang from his body, damp and close. He coughed, becoming light headed; the smoke was overcoming him, despite his efforts to keep it at bay.

  Then he saw his mother.

  She lay on the floor in the back corner by the stove, covered in fallen debris and kitchen utensils. Sorin rushed to her and turned her over.

  Sorin choked on grief. Even in the uncertain light, he could see his mother was dead. One side of her throat was gone, the hole ripped and jagged, the blood in the wound congealed dark. Her eyes, so beautiful and shiny in life, were cold and lifeless, staring beyond anything physical. The lines of her face were chiseled hard; her last moments had been horror stricken. The tears that had gathered to protect his eyes from the smoke’s irritation now flowed freely. She swam in and out of his vision as bile rose in his throat. He fought the sobs that seized his chest but lost, shaking uncontrollably, unable to contain them; they spilled from him in racking coughs and streams of sadness.

  The far side of the room collapsed further, sending up a shower of live embers and sparks into the room. It brought Sorin back to the burning present. He coughed into his forearm, trying to stop from retching. Wiping his tears away, Sorin looked around desperately.

  His father was nowhere to be seen.

  Sorin pulled his mother out from the debris through the front door and into the relative calm of the outdoors. He would not let the fire take her, not in this manner.

  He was losing more of the house every moment. There would be no stopping the fire. Tear trails ran down his grimy face, streaked and pained. He felt suddenly old and weak.

  Smoke billowed out of the forge doorway, but Sorin pushed his way through its deadly bank and entered, his muscles taut and expectant, his head throbbing from the stress and conditions.

  He had to be careful; whatever had killed his mother might still be near his home.

  A quick, stinging look beyond the smoke’s doorway escape confirmed the fire had started there. The only thing holding up the entire building structure was the forge, its brick chimney supporting the thick beam that ran through it and into the home next door. Soon that sole beam would be gone as well and the place would tumble in upon itself.

  Sorin stepped through the opening and immediately saw his father’s booted feet sticking out near the furnace, unmoving. A coppery taste filled his mouth. Another wave of coldness crystallized within him, but it did not preven
t him from moving quickly to his father’s side.

  Arvel was on his back and lightly burned in spots all over his body, the hot coals falling on him from above, singeing through hair, beard, and cloth. He breathed, if only barely. But when Sorin looked down at his father’s chest, he knew the older man was dying. Arvel’s giant hands covered a horizontal gash from one side of his abdomen to the other where wet gleaming things tried to break free. Shock had dulled Arvel’s features, his breathing coming in erratic spurts, his green eyes glazed over and unaware. He was moments from dying.

  “Father,” Sorin whispered, touching the big man’s shoulder and forehead.

  Arvel’s eyes gained clarity, and strained urgency spread over him. “Sorin. Go!” The words were short and quick from behind clenched teeth. Horror replaced his pained expression. “Listen to me! Flee! It’s here.”

  “Be still, father…”

  The words were no sooner said when a shadow detached from the swirling smoke. Sorin had no chance to act before he was grabbed by the neck by something impossibly strong and pinned viciously against the only portion of wall still standing. A howl of anger and surprise leapt from Sorin, but the rough, coarse hand around his throat silenced it with a squeeze. It was so crushing he closed his eyes reflexively, unable to think about anything other than the pain.

  “Remember you, yes?” a sibilant voice whispered near his ear.

  The hand that held Sorin up was like a vise—hard and unyielding. Sorin forced his eyes open to behold his attacker.

  It was cloaked and mostly covered, with a face only partially in view. Patches of cracked pink areas oozed a clear fluid from what had been once a man’s face while tufts of coarse, thick hair sprouted porcupine quills. Dirt and grime covered its flat cheeks as though it had rooted in the forest earth; twigs and grass weaved in and out of its hair, also buried beneath its grayish as if absorbing it. Its breath reeked of dead things. The eyes, milky like a blind man’s, stared at Sorin in fascination, but a pale, white light glimmered in both—steady, cold, and terribly alive.