Sorin recoiled even as he fought it, his voice lost. But a recent memory stirred to life, alive even as the creature seemed to crush it from him.
Then he knew. The Broken Leg Inn. This creature had been in Thistledon, hidden behind the cloak and cowl. Even though Sorin had not gotten a glimpse of its appearance, he knew he was right. It and the three men with it had been watching his family as they had passed through town to church.
“Ye’ve just placed me. In yer eyz, tis.” The thing leaned closer, its mouth’s movements off from the voice it used. “Enjoy yer godstink faith, didja? It help ye now?” it cackled.
Sorin squirmed under the grip. “What do you want?” he croaked.
It pulled back, its face once again half covered by the shadow of its cowl. “To see what’z caught.”
Flashing skeletal fingers that ended in long talons, the creature stabbed its prey.
Sorin screamed, the sound erupting even through his tormentor’s choking hold. The long claws buried deep in his side, puncturing the skin and muscles just under his ribs. He grew faint, as though the world had grown thin. Then the sharp pain was suddenly gone, and a dull ache replaced it.
The creature tore open Sorin’s tunic at his left shoulder in a single motion, exposing the faint silver scarring there. Blood from the puncture wounds ran hotly over Sorin’s skin and down his leg. Darkness threatened his vision, and he wobbled at the edge of an abyss, ready to fall and be lost forever.
“Stay, boy. No leaving to the Beyon’ just yet.” It took one glance at Sorin’s shoulder and grinned, exposing decayed, yellowed teeth, the shadows and smoke darkening the thing’s eyes. “So tis ye,” it purred.
With a new burst of frenzy, Sorin tore and punched out recklessly at the thing, but it was like attacking a stone wall. Mocking laughter met each punch and kick; the blows did nothing. He was trapped in a way he had never experienced before. Sorin realized at once there was more going on here than he knew. Desperate fury welled up within, its taste rottenly sweet and sustaining, but he had nowhere to turn, no way exact revenge for what the thing had done.
That rage was suddenly crushed out of him as the scaly hand at his throat squeezed inward. He wheezed through his teeth, unable to breathe fully. “Why are you doing this to us?”
“Ye don’t know?” it said, its mockery palpable. Smoke briefly obscured the thing as it cocked its head slightly. “Ye don’t,” it growled in satisfaction. The creature’s pale eyes came closer, tiny white lights swirling in their depths. A deep-seeded malice fell into Sorin’s flesh in waves. He could not look away.
“Ye’ve eluded the Master fer winters, ev’r since ye were snatched from Aris Shae as a babe,” it hissed. “Yer safety has been failure, one to be remedied and reveled in soon.” It paused, its maw splitting wider. Jagged yellow teeth poked free, and its tongue flickered in ecstasy as if tasting a thrill on the air. “Yer parents were a bonus, the hated blacksmith and ‘is rag no more.” The twisted, thin tongue licked the creature’s gray lips. “Yeh, very nice indeed.”
The building shuddered, moaning, and the home next door crumbed in upon itself. The wall Sorin was pushed up against leaned diagonally toward his attacker and then stopped precariously. Sorin still dangled. He had grown hot and feverish.
“This building is about to come down,” the thing hoarsely croaked. It grinned again, twigs and hair moving in all directions. “Stay around a while and see it does. In the meantime…”
The words hung in the air as claws flashed out into the dirty air again, and burning ribbons flared to agonizing life along Sorin’s right shoulder. The gashes spilled his blood immediately, soaking the entire right side of his body in crimson. The creature grinned and pulled its claws away; they gleamed a darker shade of red in the light of the inferno.
Delight filled the monster’s face. “Matching scars by the same hand.”
Dizziness deftly moved in to numb the pain. He could not fight it, and he knew with uncaring certainty he was poisoned. The venom of the creature burned within him, and the room swirled. His family was gone, murdered by a creature he did not know. The life he lived was as destroyed as the house he had grown up in. He was reduced to the collapsing building around him, the gray and black smoke, and the short breaths he could still hold. Pain bore him down. The blood he had lost and the poison of the thing’s claws only increased the fall, dragging him downward, leeching him of purpose. Within his dulled mind, Sorin knew it would be over soon.
“Rending yer heart blood, so satisfied,” it said, licking its lips. The thing’s eyes glowed brighter as a shower of red sparks fell from the ceiling. “Finding ye after all these winters—the tastin’ will be exquisite.”
Then, through his watery eyes, Sorin saw a pair of giant crimson hands rise from behind the thing on either side of its cowl. It was unaware, its eyes still focused on Sorin. In a blur of mighty inertia and quick purpose, they fixed on the monster’s head. Shock and hatred filled the creature’s eyes for the briefest moment it was allowed before a violent jerk and an audible crack, like the sound of an oak being split asunder by lightening, exploded through the conflagration. A shadowy mist darkened the air before disappearing, and the impervious grip locked on Sorin’s neck slackened. The figure dropped to the floor, unmoving, its head at a crooked angle to the rest of its cloaked body.
Sorin slumped to the floor, gasping and bleeding, so pained he could only sit and struggle to breathe. The gashes in his chest were on fire, and his body felt like molten iron had been poured in his veins, hot and unyielding.
After a time, his vision swam back into focus, and Sorin looked beyond the dead creature at his rescuer.
He beheld his father.
The bearded man lay crumpled, chest barely rising and falling. Green eyes stared at Sorin, clearer and aware. His father’s hands, so powerful from years spent in the forge, were reduced to an inability to even keep his own insides from spilling out in a messy, tentacle-like blanket. They no longer tried. No pain troubled his brow. Arvel looked serene, as though sleep would be falling soon and all he required was one more slow breath to reach it.
Sorin moved around the creature’s corpse to his father. He collapsed, exhausted. Flames leapt around him, running up the doorframe and the walls in destructive anticipation. The end would come soon. Sorin looked upon the elder man’s ruin and with a hoarse voice said, “Father.”
“Son.” The word was but a mimic of a whisper.
Tears streamed down Sorin’s cheeks, their wetness the last vestige of hope that remained in him. The air was a living, hot thing, wild with smoke ash. He grabbed his father’s hand, the limp fingers caked in blood.
“Find Thomas,” his father croaked dryly. The light in his eyes was the only thing alive about him.
“Thomas?”
No response came. The older man’s eyes continued to look at Sorin but their lids relaxed. Sorin waited, fresh tears following paths laid down by those already shed.
“Knows us. From before…” Arvel’s whisper trailed to silence.
A shower of hot coals fell on Sorin. He did not feel it. “Don’t go, Father…”
“Find him,” Arvel exhaled. No breath came after it. The light faded from his father’s eyes.
Suddenly the back corner of the forge fell in upon itself, the timbers of the shop cracking and splitting. A gust of hot air and smoke shot toward Sorin, and he avoided its worst effects. The world swirled as he crawled from the doorway into the clean air of early evening, coughing, leaving the inferno behind. There was nothing more he could do for his father. He was gone and Sorin was now alone. His parents were gone in a cacophony of angry fire, murdered by a foul evil, never to return. He had nothing to hold onto.
He tried to stand and could not, a different fire racing through him and growing stronger with every breath he took. He was poisoned by the creature and was still bleeding. His chest continued to seep crimson through the shredded remains of his tunic. A fog spread over his mind, as he dragged himsel
f across the ground and away from the wreckage of his life.
The forge roof collapsed then. Sorin paid it no heed. The darkness around him became thicker. He thought he was still crawling toward his mother’s body when he realized he had fallen still, cheek pressed deeply into the ground, breathing in the scent of grass and dirt and life. Another loud crash made its way through his dulled mind, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He could feel his heart beating. He could feel his pulse racing. But his arms failed to move him further away.
The world became a colorless gulf, falling away to a midnight bereft of stars or moon where dark things hated. It was an unending nightmare, one in which he would never wake up. Glowing white eyes opened in front of him like two lanterns, and a broad mouth full of yellow teeth opened in an ever-expanding chasm as it chased him. The teeth sunk inexorably into his paralyzed flesh. He felt nothing. Everything bled into the ether—no light and no sound. He was alone. A scream tore across the void, echoing his loss, and he forgot that it was his own.
Then even that grew quiet.
Chapter 4
High King Nialls Chagne walked the Courtyard gardens of Godwyn Keep, the golden light of the sun falling on him in dappled patterns through the trees. The path he was on twisted through finely manicured hedges of roses, lilacs, and rhododendrons abloom in an array of vibrant, aromatic colors. The afternoon was warm, and he breathed deeply the salty tang of the sea air. To most visitors, the beauty of the gardens enraptured the soul. For Nialls, the calm was a rarity he savored while within its bounds, the antidote to the stressful weight the crown added to a burdened, saddened life.
But today his stroll could not dispel the grief, anger, and uncertainty threatening to overwhelm him.
The High King was unhurried, lost in thought. He had arrived at Godwyn Keep late the previous evening under the anonymity of night, traveling with a small protective retinue of his Warden. After a breakfast of salted ham, poached eggs, and light ale, the morning meeting had proved to be difficult. The six Pontifices of the Kingdom were unable to provide answers for who had attacked the Keep, their arguments passionate in the absence of their Pontiff. The Godwyn Council was splintered, half demanding action, half believing more information was needed. The High King had disbanded the meeting once realizing it was not providing what he needed; the chaotic events of two nights earlier had followed the Council members even behind closed doors.
Pontiff Garethe, the consummate ally to Nialls and the Kingdom for the last two decades, laid in a death-like coma. The High King had come to give order to the leaderless Keep but also to find answers. His Kingdom and subjects had been attacked, an important artifact had been stolen, and time was an enemy in retrieving what had been taken and enacting justice. Few clues had been left. The peace and tranquility of the Godwyn order had been shattered. Anxiety permeated the Keep and its thousands of clergy and students. The unease of his people disquieted his own heart, and answers were the only means to end both.
As he passed beneath a beautiful Feyr arch of rune-sculpted white granite, Nialls sighed. Where he would find those answers, he did not know.
“You’re sighing more than usual so early in the day, Your Majesty.”
Nialls turned at the sound of the deep, familiar voice. An old man wearing a forest green doublet and black pants stood within the shadows of an oak, the deep lines of his face pinched with concern and the dark circles of sleepless nights around his gray eyes contrasting sharply with his white hair and beard. Lost in his musings, the High King had not noticed the man.
Nialls inclined his head in respect. “A king has many reasons to sigh, Dendreth, although a High King should learn to hide his feelings better from those he governs.”
The Pontifex smiled and stepped out onto the stone pathway. “You are what the All Father intended, Sire. Do not question your ability to rule. Wisdom comes to those who are patient. In the meantime, do not question your abilities. I think we will need your action in the days to come.”
“And what of your lessons, my old teacher?” the High King said, frowning. “When a man fails to question his ability and the world around him, he fails to grow any longer. He fades into obscurity—or worse, becomes dangerous and reckless. The latter are attributes no man should possess, let alone a man responsible for the Kingdom.”
“Too true, Sire,” the older man answered. “You were an apt pupil.”
“You seem to be recovering well,” Nialls said.
“I sang and I healed. The soncrist for healing is one of the first ones taught here,” he said, flexing the new skin on his hands and fingers. “The damage was not too severe in any case. Walk with me, Sire.”
Nialls fell into step with Dendreth. The Pontifex was a scholar and historian, a diplomat of great capacity, but he was much more as well. The old man had spent his life in service to the Fatherhead, and decades of song and prayer study—coupled with his strong faith—had given him a power few ever attained. It was a skill he used to help others and lead people to service. Dendreth had seen and given much. There were few the High King could trust without reservation, but the Pontifex was one of them.
“We are safe from prying ears here in the Courtyard,” Dendreth began. “Even your Warden guarding you now, in this very garden, cannot hear us.”
“If you eluded my guards to await me, how are you sure they can prevent anyone else from doing the same?”
Dendreth walked with eyes forward. “Because I am as intertwined with this garden as you are in your own skin, Your Majesty.”
“And you believe we have reason to fear, even here?” Nialls questioned, scratching his short peppered beard. Suddenly, the Courtyard did not feel so serene.
“I discount nothing,” the Pontifex responded calmly. “It’s better to be cautious until we know who or what we are dealing with.”
“Then something new has come to your attention since I broke the meeting,” Nialls asked.
“No, something I did not want to bring up in front of the others.”
Nialls waited. For Dendreth to worry about trust amongst Godwyn Keep’s leadership only heightened Nialls’s anxiety.
“The attack on the Keep was bold,” the Pontifex said, his strides slow but with purpose. “I believe quite strongly there is a similar storm brewing in the Kingdom, threatening you and your reign. I do not know its source.”
“You made that clear this morning, Dendreth.”
The Pontifex nodded. “The Kingdom will need you to be strong, Your Majesty. That means putting your personal life aside for the present. Emotions cannot rule.”
“Am I that transparent?” Nialls questioned more harshly than he intended.
“After seven decades, one becomes well versed in reading the nuance of emotion. It haunts your eyes and slouches your bearing.” They passed rose hedges bursting with crimson blossoms and a group of botanical priests replanting ground torn by a war shrike’s talons with yellow clematises. “You’ve seen the prince since you arrived?”
The deep ache in Nialls’s heart sharpened. “I visited him before I slept. His condition is unchanged. He stares into the ceiling, the fever still glossing his vacant eyes.”
“He does not worsen. The venom has slowed and you have hope,” Dendreth said. “The Kingdom has a poison requiring your full attentions.”
“You came here out of concern, or to tell me how to be High King?” Nialls asked.
“Concern, yes, but that is not the entire reason.”
They walked in silence then, and Nialls was grateful for it. The injustice of his son’s ailment gave rise to older unhealed memories. His wife, Queen Elean, had died giving birth to their only child. Prince Rayhir was the pride of his life, and watching him grow to become a man had given the High King joy even at his darkest moments. But a snake had bitten Rayhir in the Stoneland Hills east of Aris Shae and had acted fast, sending the young man into a fevered collapse. Quickly brought to Godwyn Keep, no soncrist could cure him, a mystery that plagued the Keep’
s healers. Nialls was devastated.
The Kingdom’s needs had mostly kept Nialls from his son’s side but his sorrow followed him everywhere like a shadow. Dendreth was at least right about that.
The patience Dendreth had lauded on the High King was wearing thin. “Beyond your concern, what is the reason behind this discussion then?” Nialls asked.
Dendreth turned a last corner, and stopped. Nialls had been so imprisoned by his own thoughts he had failed to recognize where they were.
The Illym rose into the warm, summer sunshine, its dark green leaves shining vibrantly. The High King and the Pontifex made their way through a soft carpet of green grass kept short and vital toward the massive tree. The sun splashed warmth onto the two men beneath an azure sky. Six paths, similar to the one the men were on, split the meadow into equal parts, leading to other parts of the Courtyard. As Nialls grew closer to the tree, the Illym reached out to embrace him, its heavily-leafed, broad limbs stretching from its giant trunk to catch the sunlight. Moss grew along its base and crawled up the pale trunk in stripes. Much of the Illym was lost in shadows, the colors below muted and dark. But above, the leaves glowed with a crimson aura that entranced all who looked upon it.
They fell under the Illym’s shade and stopped, still measured footsteps from the tree’s trunk. The shade was cool and the scent of blooming lilac punctuated the air.
“The tree and the grounds look unblemished,” the High King noted.
“The Pontifices, Warden, and feyr’im minimized the war shrikes’ efforts,” Dendreth said, looking around appreciatively. The uprooted lawn, snapped branches, and destroyed hedges have already been tended to here. The botanical priests’ soncrists could be heard all morning. They are now in other areas needing attention in the Courtyard.”
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 5