Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

“I have never seen anything like this,” Sorin said.

  The circles under Thomas’s eyes darkened. “Before the All Father sent Aerom into the world, the people of this land looked to the pagan gods for guidance. The sentuarie is where they prayed. Most of them have been destroyed by Godwyn Keep; others have succumbed to nature.”

  “This one has been here a long time, from its look,” Sorin said.

  “It has. Godwyn adopted the kneeling block into its own religion. Hypocrisy abounds, it seems.” Thomas grimaced. “It is the best I can do for you.”

  “Isn’t this heretical?”

  Thomas grunted. “Heresy is defined by who is in power, Sorin. You can decide for yourself, I think.”

  Sorin nodded, not needing to say anything.

  “Your fever has broken,” Thomas said. “But you are still weak from blood loss. You’ll rest in my home, and tomorrow we will see what the day brings.” Thomas looked at Sorin with haunted eyes. “I’ll leave you be. There are still hours left before evening sets. You will be safe here, for the moment at least. Return when you are ready.”

  The old man turned to leave.

  “Thomas?”

  The old man stopped. “Yes?”

  “Thank you,” Sorin said simply.

  Thomas faded from view. Sorin turned back to the sentuarie. He carefully made his way along the thin path through the brambles to the spot where the kneeling stone glimmered. The place was unique. He had heard of the ancient tradition of woodland kneeling blocks but had never seen one. Godwyn had forbidden their use; the pagans had tried to keep their faith alive. Pagans used nature as the source for their faith, and Godwyn Keep deemed that heresy of the highest order. Although Sorin was of the Godwyn faith and knew he should not be here, his soul yearned to kneel, pray, and vent his frustrations to whatever deity would listen.

  Sorin knelt, his knees entrenched in the soft soil. So much was occurring, so much he did not understand. The jerich knew him, craved his death, and knowing it was still out there waiting scared Sorin. Only fortune had saved him, and fortune had exacted a sorrowful and high price. His parents were dead. In return, a man whom he could barely trust had aided him. Life was harsh when not deserved, and it had forced Sorin down a winding path with no destination in sight.

  Pieces of a song entered his mind then, a tender caress of vocal movement across his memories. He recognized it as one of his mother’s songs. The few notes settled into him, gave him a bit of light in a vast sea of darkness, and stillness entered his heart. As quickly as the song had come, it was gone again.

  He placed his hands on the gleaming kneeling block.

  Tears came unbidden, and Sorin shook in his core at their arrival.

  Chapter 6

  The next day dawned misty.

  Sorin awoke in gray gloom, his room washed of color. The previous day’s high cloud cover had given way to darker clouds from the northwest, and the inevitability of a storm was on the air. It would be raining before morning’s end.

  He pulled the blankets away and swung his legs out onto the ground. He was sore, but it was a dull pain. Thomas had changed his dressings the night before, and Sorin was amazed at how much he had healed; the puncture wounds in his side were tiny dimples and the wounds on his shoulder were scabbed, their outer edges pink newly-healed skin. For the ravages he had suffered, Sorin was lucky to be mending so fast.

  A set of clean clothes in the same earth tones Thomas wore were folded on the room’s chair: tan pants, a green shirt, and a mud-colored tunic. The old man had burned Sorin’s ripped and blood-stained clothing. How Thomas had come by the clean clothes, Sorin was not sure. He dressed gingerly and went into the front room.

  Thomas was nowhere to be seen. The door that led outside was open, a foggy drizzle dampening the world, and the sword, bow, and quiver were missing. Miniscule flames in the hearth leapt to existence and then just as quickly died, the red coals flickering as they faded from crimson to black.

  Thomas entered then, a sword strapped to his back. “We are leaving. The horses are saddled and ready.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  Thomas worked at putting some bundled food items into a large pack. “A summer rain is rare, and it could be the very thing that hides our trail from the jerich. It will come, boy. There is no doubt of that. The rain will dull our scent, erase our way. When the jerich does come for us, we want to be as far away as possible from where it caught you the first time.”

  His strength returned, at least for the moment, Sorin asked, “You think I am able to travel already?”

  Thomas shrugged, his eyes earnest as he continued the preparations. “It doesn’t matter. We won’t get another shot at this, and the farther we will be when you stop worrying.”

  “Why are you getting involved?” Sorin asked, anger leaping in response to the old man’s chiding. How is this your business?”

  “It is my business now,” Thomas shot back. “The jerich will not only go after you, it will go after anyone you have crossed paths with in order to find you. The rain may hide our trail for a time, but that trail will lead to you no matter how well I try to cover it. When it comes, I will not be here. I suggest you do the same.” Thomas handed Sorin a thick forest green cloak. “Are you coming or not?”

  Sorin thought about it as Thomas took the rest of the supplies out to the horses. What else did he have? Thistledon was his home. He had made friends. He had the forge in town and a life he could build amongst his sad memories.

  But the malevolent white eyes looked at him from inside. No matter what he wished, the creature loomed over him still.

  “Is this so hard, boy?”

  The muscles of Sorin’s jaw clenched. “Leaving my home is not easy.”

  Thomas turned from what he was doing and came to grip Sorin’s shoulders, his eyes penetrating Sorin’s.

  “Neither is dying, Sorin,” Thomas whispered.

  * * * * *

  Sorin stepped from the house, the cloak warding off the morning chill. The green maple leaves captured the light drizzle to produce giant droplets that splattered the forest floor. The two horses were tethered next to the house with two packs on each side. Creek neighed his greeting, a welcome friend Sorin was happy he still had.

  Thomas swung up into the saddle of his pale brown horse after securing his home. The horse—an animal the old man named as Aneri—was as loaded as Sorin’s was. The old man’s bow and the quiver of arrows were secured with straps to the mount’s side. As Sorin pulled himself up onto Creek, he saw a bundle behind Thomas wrapped in oiled cloth and twine shaped like a large broad sword.

  “Is that a another sword belted to Aneri?” Sorin asked.

  Thomas did not turn. “It’s my father’s sword. I will not leave it behind for potential pilfering by those who may come after us.” Thomas sat straight in his saddle, immune to the inclement weather. “The men you saw at the Broken Legg, who were they? Locals?”

  “Rissus Braun and Artur Mort were there,” Sorin answered. “The other man—the one with the scar—I have never seen before.”

  “Not the brightest men then,” Thomas grunted. “If they were with the jerich we should watch for them.

  “Why would they work for that creature?”

  “A few coins can hire a great many thugs, Sorin.”

  Sorin pulled his cloak tight like armor. The drizzle had changed to a steady light rain and the sound of nature being drummed by water surrounded him. The wind began to whip in bursts, scattering the drops in all directions. Thomas led on Aneri, plodding away from his home without looking back. Sorin spurred Creek on to follow in affront to the summer storm.

  After traversing several small valleys, the two companions entered a winding stream. The wet splash of their horses’ hooves met the rock of the stream bed, erasing their trail from eyes who would care.

  “Where are we going?” Sorin questioned during a brief respite from the severe rain and driving wind.

  Thomas allowed Sori
n to catch up with his horse. “We will remain in the direct path of the storm, riding right up its skirts.” Thomas sharply gestured northwestward “It is our one chance to erase the existence of our passage.”

  “Is that the only reason we ride in that direction?”

  “No,” Thomas replied.

  “Why else then?”

  “An acquaintance. Someone, I hope, with answers.”

  “Who is this friend?”

  “Someone I have known a long time,” Thomas said tersely. “And I did not say they were a friend.”

  “And where will this path take us?”

  “Will the questions never end?” Thomas ignored the question and sighed. “We need to put distance between us and home. It takes a lot of rain to eliminate a hoof print in mud. Rain will only be effective in masking our trail if it continues.”

  “Are we being followed?” Sorin looked behind him.

  “We will know when they find us, won’t we?” Thomas said gruffly.

  Sorin quieted. The weather steadily worsened as the day wore on, and by mid-morning they were soaked. Sorin was left alone with his thoughts as Creek trudged grudgingly through the growing quagmire. Melancholy drew closer to him than his cloak, soaking into him even more fully than the rain. Thoughts of his parents and their loss enveloped him, adding another misery to the weather. Pastor Hadlin preached those servants of the All Father who did well to their fellow man would receive the grandest of gifts in life and in the Beyond. The events of the last few days had hollowed Sorin out and given him pause—how could the All Father allow his parents to die? No answer was forthcoming, his faith shaken forever.

  “They say you’ve lost your faith.” It erupted from Sorin before he could stop it.

  Through the gloom, the corners of Thomas’s mouth fell. “They?”

  “Those in town. I’ve heard it whispered at church for winters. You come and go as you please, and worship when you wish. What could have happened for you to become so lost?”

  Expecting an angry retort, Thomas said, “What is faith but love? I lost that long ago.”

  Sorin suddenly sunk lower in his saddle. “Sorry,” he said.

  Thomas did not reply, turning away, the water running off his black cloak in rivulets.

  Creek shivered beneath Sorin as early afternoon brought no respite from the weather. They were traveling along the bottom of a valley through a copse of fir and cedar when Thomas pulled his mount up sharply and cocked his head against the wind.

  “Dismount. Now.” Thomas leapt from Aneri, grabbed Creek’s reins, and pulled both horses under a giant fir tree, the thick limbs shielding them from the rain.

  Sorin was about to ask what they were doing when he heard it—a low rumble that vibrated the tree and soon spread into the ground. Thin, sharp needles shaken from the tree dropped onto the two men and their horses. Something massive moved in the world. Sorin realized he was holding his breath and let it out. The mists that snaked at the top of the tree were suddenly darkened as a wide shadow passed and disappeared as quickly as it had come. Sorin reflexively cringed. Whatever it was, it was big.

  “What in the…?” Sorin began.

  “Dragon,” Thomas whispered. The old man was keeping the agitated horses firmly under his control. “Big one, too.”

  The dragon returned, and the wide wingspan, long neck, and sinuous tail became discernible as it flew through the gloom like a water snake. It roared then, the timbre of its voice loud and deep, and the sound shook Sorin’s chest. Fear seized his heart. The dragon was an adversary that could kill them as easily as the jerich could.

  The gigantic beast flew away again to the north. Thomas noticeably relaxed.

  “A few days ago, I saw many dragons taking flight and heading westward, leaving the Krykendaals,” Sorin said, his gaze on the forest canopy. “Why hasn’t this one left with its pack?”

  Thomas frowned. “Might be too old. If a dragon is old, sick, or injured, it can’t make the trip and is forced to live on its own. The question is—why are the dragons leaving now?”

  Sorin peered up into the gloom that wrapped the sky. He shook his head.

  “We’d best keep to the trees and move carefully,” Thomas said, dropping his hood, beads of water falling from his saturated beard. “We don’t want to be caught out in the open.”

  After Thomas was sure the dragon was not returning, they remounted and made their way warily, watching the sky for the predator. The storm continued unabated as they wove through sagging fir limbs, wet grasses, and cloying mist. Neither of them spoke; to do so might bring their downfall upon them. With trees looming all around them, they passed around the edges of a muddy bog as afternoon came, keeping near the forest and firmer ground.

  Sorin was wondering if the world had vanished entirely beneath the barrage of the weather when two whistles punctuated the air and the forest undergrowth to their right exploded in a flurry of movement and sound.

  Aneri reared and screamed, eyes rolling in pain. Taken unawares, Thomas fell from his seat as his horse twisted in the air. From the horse’s chest two arrows sprouted, their shafts buried deep. Creek backed away toward the swampy land while Sorin hunkered low in his saddle, searching the gloom for their assailant amidst the chaos of Thomas’s panicked horse.

  Thomas was back on his feet in a blur, coated in wet grime, his sword screeching out of its scabbard. Two men—one with pocked features, the other a pale-skinned redhead—launched from their hiding places at the travelers, swords drawn and wicked intent gleaming in their eyes. Creek jerked backward, snorting in defiance. Aneri lingered nearby, the horse’s chest bloody.

  “Flee, now!” Thomas roared at Sorin as he stepped between the charging men and Creek.

  “Get on!” Sorin screamed. He would not abandon the man who had saved him.

  Thomas had one chance to look at Sorin’s saddle before the brigands were on him. The ringing of steel filled the wet air as Thomas battled, engaging the men with precise, ferocious swings, his cloak flung wide like a shadowy wraith given substantial form. In a balanced dance of footwork, he kept both attackers on guard and unable to reach Sorin.

  Fear and anger mixed and spread like wildfire through Sorin. Rissus Braun and Artur Mort had been with the jerich at the Broken Leg Inn, but the creature was yet to be seen; at the forest’s fringe, the man with the scar nocked another arrow. Heat gripped Sorin. If given the opportunity, he would kill every last person responsible for his parents’ deaths.

  Thomas disengaged from the enemy. “Stay behind me, boy,” Thomas growled, his eyes never leaving his adversaries.

  Grinning maliciously, the scarred man fletched another arrow and let loose. It flew wide. “Hand the lad over,” he growled. “No reason for you to be involved here.”

  “Bold words from a group outnumbering an old man.” Thomas tightened his grip about his sword and held it at the ready. He remained between the men and Sorin.

  Rage twisted the scarred leader’s face. “Get the boy, Rissus!”

  Rissus circled to get the advantage on Creek, his stubbled jowls jiggling in waves with every step. The man focused his hate-filled eyes on Sorin and a snaggletooth grin spread wide as he came forward.

  “This is not your fight, Rissus,” Sorin argued. “Do what’s right here and leave.”

  “The money is the right thing. Sorry.” No apology was in his eyes.

  Uncertainty gripped Sorin. Battle was beyond him. He had never lifted a sword against anyone. Cursing his inability, he wondered if he should have followed Thomas’s order and fled.

  Thomas attacked, pushing his lone adversary backward with overhand cuts, growling like a caged animal unleashed. His red-haired opponent faltered, barely parrying the older man’s swings until their leader threw down his bow and drew his own sword to keep Thomas pinned down in battle. Together they hacked at Thomas, but the Thistledon’s recluse was stubborn, unwilling to give ground. The song of their battered steel rang throughout the rain-drenched forest.r />
  Rissus grinned as he separated from the others. The only semblance of protection Sorin had was Creek. The horse was manic, its emotions quickened to a fervor from the conflict and the crashing blades. It was all Sorin could do to keep him near Thomas, hoping for an opening to save the old man.

  Rissus darted in, his sword lowered, trying to grab hold of Creek’s reins. The horse reared, pummeling the pocked man backward to the ground, hooves flying downward at the thug.

  A sickening snap like rotting deadwood underfoot filled the world. Rissus howled in pain, his left forearm angled unnaturally away from his body. He crawled away before Creek could attack again and fled into the foggy woods, leaving the sword in the muddied grass.

  The leader feinted an attack at Thomas and stepped to the side, giving his other companion the chance to blindside the old man. “This doesn’t concern you,” the scarred man sneered. He feinted again, dropping into a crouch, and sprang at Thomas with his broadsword falling in a blurred arc. Thomas’s sword was there to meet it, unforgiving steel echoing. The swords separated. Again, he attacked but being the larger man Thomas pushed his foe back, keeping the two men in front of him. “Your presence here only delays the inevitable. Step aside or die.”

  “I will die, but not today,” Thomas snarled as he swung a strong overhand attack. The leader side-stepped smoothly, letting the blade hiss through the space he had been in, and moved in to knee the air from his opponent. Thomas twisted away to avoid the attempt and in one fluid motion pushed the scarred leader away while kicking out at Artur’s legs.

  The pale redhead lost his footing on the slick, muddy ground. It was all Thomas needed. His sword snaked out like lightning and its double-edged steel ran his foe through the neck. Sorin had never seen a man move so fluidly with deadly force. His assailant dropped like a sack of grain, his blue eyes surprised, blood erupting like a crimson fountain from the man’s mouth as he fell.

  “You are alone,” Thomas breathed hard, his sharp eyes focusing on the last man.

  The last attacker gritted his teeth as he swung broad strokes. Thomas was quiet in his efficiency, his breathing coming in evenly-controlled gulps. His scar a livid streak of purple, the man gave ground, outmatched in skill, snarling at the old man with hatred. The inevitable shone in his eyes, knowledge he could not overcome the old man alone.