Thomas grunted. “You think he’d do that for you? He rots where he lies.”
The hills flattened gradually again, the trees thinning as they gave way to rolling farmland. The trail then turned south along the shores of Silver Lake. It spread far to the south and east, the water calm and sparkling as though icy stars cast their light from the lake’s depths. Ahead, far in the distance and rising from a rocky cliff that bordered the lake, a stone structure with three short towers and other buildings jutted amongst the afternoon sky, smoke from its chimneys rising into the air.
Their attacker’s trail led directly to the stone buildings.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the Monastery of A’lum,” Thomas said. “Priests of Godwyn Keep. They spend their days encouraging scholarly education in the region. A’lum is the central point for Godwyn Keep’s expansive endeavors in Vaarland, and it contains a fairly large library and group of monks dedicated to bringing their missionary message to the populace. The church in Thistledon was laid down by this order. And judging by the tracks, it looks like our prey has taken sanctuary there.”
“Each province has a similar monastery?” Sorin wondered.
“Mostly,” Thomas said. “But in Vaarland, the spiritual center is separate from the capital of Bervale.”
“It’s huge,” Sorin said, awed at the towers.
Thomas chuckled. “There are greater cities to the west and south.”
The closer they got to the monastery, the more activity bustled. Priests tended the fields rolling nearby, the last rays of sun giving the world a copper hue as the men finished the day’s work. The trail broadened into a cobblestone pathway where three priests mended a fence. The priests nodded in greeting but continued their work without fear of the newcomers. Others gardened patches of vegetables or fished in the sparkling lake. It was a large community, activity and hard work everyday life.
An elderly man wearing a worn brown cassock patiently guided a retinue of sheep from grass pastures into their fenced pen before shuffling slowly along the path the men and their horses traversed.
“Old friend,” Thomas said, raising his voice. “How fares the end of the day?”
The man stopped and lowered his cowl; wispy white hair floated free.
“As it has for many winters, sir,” he replied with a shaky voice. “Slow and leading to a warm meal and a soft bed.”
“We seek the same as you tonight,” Thomas said. “The weather has been unusually wet, and we’d like to dry the water from our ears.”
“Aye, it rained right enough. Nothing like a summer rain to make the sheep happy. Grass grows, you understand.” The priest’s head bobbed on his skinny neck. “Come then, come. No reason to dally. We have room.”
The Monastery at A’lum loomed ahead as the riders and old priest approached it. Whereas Thistledon’s congregation worshipped in a singular antechamber with pews and a lone kneeling block, A’lum contained an entire living community. The keep was built of dark gray stone, and time had weathered it smooth and rounded its corners. A single rock wall, no higher than Sorin’s waist, surrounded the keep in a half circle and contained a courtyard that looked in upon the outer keep. The other side opened to a cliff that hovered above the lake. The towers were squat but tall enough to contain almost a dozen floors each. The monastery appealed to Sorin’s simple nature.
Sorin and Thomas stabled their horses within a small barn, and walked into a grassy courtyard containing several benches, patches of garden work growing a variety of plants.
“Do you have a High Captain I could speak to?” Thomas asked the frail older man.
Their guide cackled. “This isn’t Godwyn Keep, sir. No one bothers us out here. A’lum has half a dozen wards not much more than armed villagers. They are not very well trained.” The wrinkled man scratched the stubble on his cheeks in thought. “Still, I suppose you’d want to speak to Lien. He’s a good man.”
The sheepherder called to a man near the monastery entryway wearing a shirt of silver mail missing links, thickly padded arm guards, and a light helm. A sword was belted at his waist, but it had seen better days, the cloth wrapping the sword’s haft worn and faded of color, the scabbard scraped and dinged. He looked strong, even if his weaponry had seen better times.
“We have visitors, Lien. Help them as you can.” The ancient priest waved a gnarled hand in farewell and disappeared under the carved image of a tree emblazoned into the arch stone of the keep’s doorway, in search of—Sorin suspected—the end of his day.
“Evenin’,” Thomas nodded to the guard. “We have come for a meal and to find a friend. He was traveling this direction and perhaps stopped here for the night.”
Through the open entrance, a large hulking shadow disappeared up the inner staircase. Sorin thought he caught the glimmer of eyes looking his way before they vanished upward.
“A meal we can supply,” Lien was saying. “Your friend we cannot. As far as I know, we have no visitors outside our normal community. You two are the only strangers here. Perhaps the Bishop knows.”
“The Pontifex is not here currently?” Thomas asked.
“At Godwyn Keep, although Pontifex de Lille is rarely here anyway. Some evil event has transpired and his Grace is there to lend support.”
Thomas frowned. “Where can we get a bite to eat?”
Lien leaned forward with a whisper. “Obey the rules of the sanctuary here. Word has come from the south of a revolt against the Kingdom. It is difficult to know friend from foe these days.”
“What news have you?” Thomas asked earnestly.
“That a pagan god has returned, destroying all who do not follow him,” Lien looked around him as though his utterance would destroy him suddently. “These are dark times, and Bishop Theron is finding it difficult to allow safe harbor to those who may have wicked intent.” Lien paused, satisfied he had done his job. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Sorin and Thomas entered the cool confines of the monastery and rather than adhere to Lien’s behest, they subtly searched the floors.
“Could any of that be true?” Sorin asked Thomas as they walked.
“News rarely contains the wholeness of the truth, but some of it is probably,” Thomas said, looking around. “Means more refugees from La Zandia will pour into Vaarland.”
The building was sparsely decorated, the simple design outdoors reflected inside as well. Rooms opened into other wings of the building and several staircases fled into the shadows above. Priests passed by, most in pairs, quietly reflecting on their day or studies. Few gave curious glances to the newcomers—fewer still looks of distrust.
They came to an empty room on the eastern side of the monastary with a lofty ceiling supported by thick, arched rafters. The late afternoon sun shone through the lone circular window, casting colorful hues onto a man prostrate at a kneeling block on a dais near the far wall. Dust motes floated on the air, unsettled by the room’s occupant. No other doors gave leave in the dim glow of the orb sconces secured to the stone walls. The room was large but did not contain chairs or benches of any kind; Sorin thought it might be a sanctuary for private prayer.
At their entrance, the robed man who knelt under the stained glass window turned to face the men, his hands clasped before him. Surprise and then rage spread across his scarred face.
A gout of flame erupted within Sorin. It was the man they hunted. He was about to charge into the room when Thomas grabbed his tunic with the force of a bear.
“Sacrilege if any sinful intent is brought into a sanctuary of the All Father,” Thomas hissed in warning. “We must abide and wait. He isn’t going anywhere, Sorin.”
“That one—not to be trusted,” said a young passing monk. “Comes and goes as much as the wind. Keeps to himself.”
Thomas looked hard at the priest. “We’d like to speak to him when he is done.”
“He may be there a while,” the monk said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Sorin’s
eyes did not leave the murderer. The man prayed in peace, his eyes shut, and Sorin caught snatches of a throaty song on the air. Darkness fell over Sorin’s vision and his hand ventured to find the hilt of the knife Thomas had given him. A chill swept through him. At last, he would have the answers he wanted, the revenge he needed.
The priest suddenly stopped his prayer. He stood up and a grin split his face.
Just then a roar burst from outside the monastery—a tremor carried through the stone under Sorin’s feet. It was a sound a person never forgot and instantly recognized for the beast that made it. Even as A’lum came alive in a frenzied rush of shouts and panicked movement, one word blazed across Sorin’s mind.
Dragon.
Chapter 8
The stone around Sorin Westfall shook as the dragon roared again in challenge.
Thomas sprinted through the hallways, Sorin not too far behind, and out into the covered inner bailey that connected the keep to many other rooms. Priests scrambled everywhere, young and old alike, trying to find purpose in the pandemonium that engulfed them. Most had dropped their books and whatever business they were on; all were unsure of what to do. Two or three armored wards, their faces blanched of color, were as frantic as the rest. No one took command. It was as if the monastery was a beehive, and someone had suddenly given it a sharp shake, its occupants swarming aggressively to be free and desperate to discover what the commotion was about.
The priests knew better than to leave the stone safety of A'lum, however.
Through an opening in the walled colonnade that surrounded the monastery, the last rays of the sun highlighted the country westward in amber and gold. The dragon screamed from somewhere above, the rumble and scrape of claws gripping the monastery came to Sorin as it waited for prey. In the forest, fear had threatened to overwhelm him when the dragon had passed overhead, but he had known he could elude it; the trees of the forest had been tall and thick to blind the beast from its prey. But here they were trapped; the land around A’lum was rolling pastures, and the lake bordering its east side offered no escape.
Sorin gritted his teeth. He doubted the dragon would leave because he willed it.
Thomas was next to him, his sword drawn, looking around the bustling throng for a means to quit the madness. A middle-aged priest had grabbed Lien near one of the colonnade’s entrances and angrily motioned for the ward to fight and protect, the stress overcoming both men. The sun that illuminated them vanished suddenly as the silvery-blue dragon landed in the courtyard near them, shaking the ground with its weight. Its baleful black eyes fixed on the men nearest to it and it blasted fire from its large maw into the monastery halls.
Lien and the priest screamed in surprise and pain as the dragon's fire erupted around the pillars. It was a steady stream of flame—white hot and flickering like the sun around its edges. The men had no time to defend themselves; they were engulfed instantly. Withering under the intense heat and disintegrating before Sorin’s eyes, the bodies were flung several kingsyards down the hallway by the force of the dragon's fiery breath. All that was left was charred skin and bones, melted armor, blackened stone, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh.
Their grisly deaths only increased the chaos as priests darted for cover. Thomas searched the throng. “If we stay within the heart of this building, we’ll be fine. It would take the dragon days to pull the stone apart. Just don’t do anything foolish.” They backed deeper into the hallway, away from open air of the monastery’s courtyard.
As if sensing its prey’s desire for safety, the dragon pushed its weight into the wall, trying to cave the stone in to reach those inside. Thomas left Sorin’s side and marshaled the few wards that were still nearby.
A skinny old woman with a severely thin face and a long gray braid rushed down the stairs from the monastery’s upper levels and scurried through the halls, bolstering the priests into control. With a screeching commanding voice, she joined Thomas and gestured wildly with sticklike arms and lightning in her eyes.
“We must wait this out,” she said as they neared Sorin.
“This is the bulk of your guard?” Thomas grated. “Surely you need protection from thieves and the like, Bishop?”
The old woman wore a dull brown cassock that hid all feminine attributes, and a thin circlet of silver was woven through her hair. She raised her voice to be heard over the chaos. “There is never need, sir. We have ten wards, no feyr’im, and a flock of untrained priests.”
“Has this ever happened before?” Thomas said, avoiding falling debris.
“Never. I’ve been here twenty-four winters and have never even seen a dragon. If the creature doesn’t go away, we have no choice. We must fight it with the resources we have. It can’t be allowed to tear down our place of worship, our home.”
As if in answer, the dragon gripped a pillar of the colonnade with its large talons and pulled it from its casing. Several stones above in the ceiling ripped asunder to fall heavily to the monastery floor. Dust swirled in the air. If the dragon kept at it, it would break into the chambers of the monastery soon enough.
“Do you have prayersong ability, Bishop?” Thomas questioned.
She narrowed her eyes at the old man. “None that would help in this instance. I’m a scholar, not a warrior.”
“Long spears?” Thomas asked. “Something we can use to gouge its eyes out?”
“No, nothing that is long enough. We do have hunting bows though.”
Thomas frowned. “Bring what you have. It might be our only hope of driving the beast off.”
The giant head thrust its way into the building again, furious, its eyes searching. They locked onto the trio and a gout of flame burst forth. Thomas pushed the Bishop out of harm’s way through an open door while grabbing Sorin and propelling him into the opposite room. The flames rushed past them, singeing both clothing and hair, carrying the fetid stink of the creature.
“What do we do?” Sorin exclaimed, jumping back to his feet.
“A’lum’s only chance is to organize a group to battle the dragon, but I don’t think it has the training or weapons to do any good.”
Frustrated, Thomas screamed to the Bishop. “Go! Find what you can.”
The disheveled old woman peaked around the corner of her doorframe to ensure the way was clear and quickly moved into the interior passages.
Sorin was looking for the Bishop’s return when the winged animal made another ear-shattering screech, one of surprise rather than anger. Its head left the bailey as though yanked from it. Beyond the pillars, the dragon was infuriated, snapping and roaring at an unseen adversary attacking from above. Roars of another kind intermingled with those of the beast, and Sorin and Thomas edged from their hiding place to view the courtyard.
The dragon thrashed and the ground shook, its long tail slicing the air and its leathery wings extended and twitching in the failing light. It spun, throwing up large tufts of grass and soil with its giant claws, and Sorin caught a glimpse of the beast’s antagonist.
On the dragon’s back, wielding a glistening metal-shod staff with blind authority, clung the largest sandy-haired man Sorin had ever seen. He was three times the height of a regular man, with legs as thick as fir trees that straddled the infuriated beast like a horse. In one hand he swung his wooden weapon as a club, pummeling the beast’s neck and head; with the other he gripped the dragon’s wing where it met the beast’s body, keeping his seat. Sorin had never seen a dragon this close or their feral tenacity. Likewise, he had heard many tales of the dragon’s rider but had never laid eyes on one until today.
A Giant.
“By the All Father,” Thomas whispered to no one.
The Giant was ferocious, hammering at the dragon without reprieve. The monster fought back, snapping at its assailant with jaws laden with serrated teeth, infuriated beyond measure. But its teeth never found their mark. It was as if the two assailants were one, locked together, balanced as they opposed one another. It would be a fight to the death— st
renuous battle that would continue until only one remained. Yet no matter how much Sorin wanted the Giant to succeed, he knew the odds were against the dragon’s courageous foe.
With a great heave of its powerful legs, the dragon launched into the air. Still the Giant hung on, unwilling to give up the fight so easily. The beast struggled to remain airborne, its entire body straining from the added weight, its wings pumping with such power a cloud of courtyard dirt swirled into the early evening. Through the uncertain light, the Giant rained blows down on the dragon, unconcerned with having left the ground, the massive man’s energy relentless, increasing in severity with each stroke.
Before the dragon had gained much altitude, a loud snap shattered the relative quiet and the dragon’s roar that followed was one of absolute pain. Both rider and ridden fell the short distance back to the courtyard, the dragon’s right wing hanging limp and crooked as the other fluttered impotently. When the dragon crashed, the Giant lost his grip and was thrown from the wounded beast’s back. He rolled ungainly to his feet, dirty but maintaining his hold on the staff.
Free of its cumbersome rider, the dragon viewed its opponent clearly for the first time. It roared in anguish as it tried to tuck its broken wing back. Despite the wounding, the dragon moved toward the Giant again, dragging its injured wing on the ground beside it. There was nothing between it and its foe. A trail of fire exploded across the courtyard consuming all in its path. There was nowhere for the Giant to find cover, nowhere for him to dodge the scorching infliction.
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 10