Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  In response, the Giant slammed the butt of his staff into the ground of the courtyard just as the fire reached him. He disappeared completely, engulfed in the white flickering flame. The dragon moved forward, unrelenting in its desire to kill its foe. It poured on more flame in one long, nearly inexhaustible, breath.

  But the Giant stood against the flaming torrent, unscathed, his face wreathed in sweat and concentration. A pale green nimbus surrounded him, the dragon fire parting at the Giant’s staff like the flow of a river around a stone. He was unharmed.

  A cheer from the monastery’s priests bolstered the hope in Sorin. “What’s happening?” Sorin asked Thomas.

  Thomas did not answer. With blue eyes enraptured by the scene in the courtyard, he looked as though he was about to charge into the fight himself.

  The dragon took another breath to unleash its fury. The dirty Giant gritted his teeth, sweating fiercely with white-knuckled fingers on his staff, the effort to wield and maintain whatever power he had clearly taxing him. Fire lanced toward him. With eyes closed and his shield parting the beast’s anger, the Giant dropped to one knee. The dragon advanced while he was pinned, unable to free himself. He was losing. Soon, staff or no staff, the fire would consume him entirely or the beast would be within striking distance.

  That was when Thomas charged into the battle. Silent and quick, he maneuvered behind the beast, his broadsword gleaming like a sliver of ice. The dragon was unaware of its much smaller threat, its sole focus on the Giant. The old man raised his sword high and brought it down. The blade bit deep into the dragon’s tail, blood splattering from the cut.

  The dragon howled, its fire gone, and swiped at Thomas with its spiky tail. The old man dodged the threat, looking for a way to the beast’s midsection to exact a deeper wound. But there was no opening for Sorin’s friend. Thomas was defenseless as the beast used its thrashing tail and massive girth to shove the sword-wielding man toward the courtyard’s corner—to crush him there against stone and scales.

  “Thomas!” Sorin screamed, seeing what was happening.

  It was too late. With nowhere to go, trapped by the monastery’s walls and the dragon, Thomas was crushed by the weight of the beast against A’lum. He collapsed in a dazed heap as the dragon renewed its fiery assault against struggling Giant.

  Something within Sorin broke. It came from somewhere deep, somewhere Sorin had not been aware of until that very instant, blinding in intensity and needing release. Warmth cocooned him and his vision darkened. The feeling swept over him, through him, urgent and rising from the depths of his being. Tingling in his chest spread to his extremities, and the palms of his hands itched furiously. Heat rose and fell with his heartbeat. He was exhilarated and scared at the same time. The fear he had for Thomas and the Giant bled away, leaving unfamiliar but welcome feelings—rage and power.

  What rose within Sorin and released into the world was born from not wanting to watch his friend or the courageous efforts of a single Giant die. Some part of him had responded out of that need. He was prepared to charge out into the courtyard with his newfound rage, to distract the dragon somehow, when he collapsed—his strength gone from him in a torrent—and the air went dark.

  After a few moments, his vision swam back into clarity as he panted from his knees. Before him, in the courtyard, the dragon once more battled the Giant with its flaming breath.

  “By the Scholars…” said a priest near Sorin. His vision clearing, Sorin followed where the man pointed.

  A lone crow dove out of the purple sky, gliding and swerving before diving at the dragon’s head like a black stone thrown from above. More came from the surrounding countryside, accosting the beast, swirling around it in a melee of flapping wings and raucous caws. The entire storm of crows swooped down with fury, and the beast’s silvery-blue head disappeared in a black swarm of gouging beaks and tearing talons.

  Panting and dizzy from his blackout, Sorin struggled to make sense of it. The Bishop had returned with a dozen men, most armed with small hunting bows. She bolstered them with her voice, keeping them steady, needing to end the threat in any way possible.

  “Aim true! Don’t hit Relnyn!” she shouted. The priests-become-archers volleyed a series of arrows into the dragon as it snapped and spit flame at the birds. A few of the arrows found their mark. Crazed with pain, the dragon fixated on Thomas as the old man struggled to his feet.

  Even with the chaos of the crows, the Giant pulled himself to his feet and with a burst of fury charged to intercept Thomas’s assured death. He maintained his target through the winged maelstrom and hit the dragon across its head with a double-fisted swing of the long staff, sending the beast reeling and dazed. It rebounded quickly and drew breath to kill its foes, but the Giant moved with speed borne of desperation and finality and drove his staff directly into the dragon’s opening maw, deep into its throat.

  Using the dragon’s own jaw for leverage, he violently leaned in on the end of his staff, the muscles of his body bunched. With a massive grunt, the staff whipped downward hard. The wet crack of jawbones breaking echoed around the courtyard and blood burst around the staff as the dragon’s neck arteries stretched and exploded. The dragon went limp; its gurgling body slumped dead to the torn turf, its muscles convulsing.

  The blood-splashed Giant pulled his staff free with a heave of his shoulders and went to the dazed Thomas. The old man grabbed onto the Giant’s offered forearm and hauled himself shakily to his feet, his sword still gripped with an iron fist. Thomas looked from the dragon back to where his charge stood. Sorin stared back.

  And the cawing of retreating crows was the only sound until even that faded in the distance.

  * * * * *

  “Who are you?” Bishop Margarite Theron asked simply.

  The sun had long since vanished into the horizon and the song of crickets entered the Bishop’s main audience chamber through a series of tall open windows that surrounded the periphery of the circular room. Sorin and Thomas sat in two softly padded chairs, the silence palpable. The old man had been quiet since the attack, ignoring requests by A’lum healers to be checked of injuries, lost within himself and unwilling to share what he was thinking even when Sorin prodded him.

  Six faintly glowing orbs were suspended around the room in even intervals high up in the concave of the ceiling, their light chasing away the darkness. The Bishop had sent the two men to her tower before inspecting the damage done to her beloved monastery. The room was warm with a multitude of colorful, historic tapestries, giving the space a welcoming appeal. Several full bookcases adorned the rounded wall behind the bishop’s desk, and two windows stood open to freshen the room’s stagnant summer air. It was a simple room, full of reminders of the past and open to the possibilities of the future.

  The Bishop sat behind a large desk, reeking of work, sweat, and death. She was a stoic and unflinching older woman with a sharp gaze and earnest tongue. The circlet of authority once upon her brow had been unwoven from her hair and removed.

  “My name is Geort from northern Bervale. The boy at my side is my charge.”

  Bishop Theron tapped a finger on her desk. “Your garb is of the forest. Yet you are very articulate for a woodlander.”

  The old man nodded. Nothing more was said.

  Bishop Theron turned her striking green eyes on the boy. “Is what he says true, young sir?”

  Following the caution Thomas had begun, Sorin nodded. “My name is Collin, and I am from Bervale as well.”

  The Bishop continued to tap out the sound of her displeasure, her gaze boring into Sorin. He looked back unflinchingly. Finally she leaned forward. “What was your interest in Brother Afram?”

  “Was?” Thomas asked, frowning. “Where is he?”

  “He is dead. Died in the battle today, but not by the dragon.”

  The bottom of Sorin’s stomach fell. The anger that had supplanted mercy turned to woe. A part of Sorin wailed at having lost his chance to find answers. The jerich was still
out there, lurking in the shadows, but Sorin did not care about it any more than he cared for a murderer. He wanted to know why his parents were dead and then enact retribution by any means necessary. Now his one link to that knowledge was gone.

  “I see Brother Afram was important to you, Collin,” Bishop Theron said.

  “Surely you don’t think we had anything to do with it?” Thomas asked.

  “I know neither of you committed this atrocity. You were with me at the time, helping with the dragon, and your involvement during our separation was corroborated by others after I sent you here.” She paused. “Brother Afram was strangled to death by something thick and rough, like a rope as thick as a forearm. A priest found him inside our private sentuarie.”

  “Who did this then?” Thomas asked rather brusquely.

  “I will answer your question with another. What was your interest in him?”

  “Our interest is our own, Bishop Theron,” Thomas replied. “It does not concern the church.”

  “And yet here you sit, in my monastery, asking after one of my priests.” She eased her raised voice. “Right before the beast attacked, one of my other priests caught you spying on Brother Afram. If you were so desirous of him, and yet did not kill him, why would someone else be interested in him as well?”

  Thomas evaded the truth by revealing enough to discredit a lie. “Your Brother Afram and other men who were with him attacked Collin and I in the forests outside of Thistledon—robbers out for our purses and possessions. We were fortunate to escape with our lives.”

  “Surely the All Father blessed you. But why chase after such danger?”

  “I don’t take too well to threats, so we came after them,” Thomas answered.

  “I am told Brother Afram returned last night from a missionary trip through the Greensward.”

  “He was not in the Greensward,” Thomas said. “He was east of here.”

  “No one else was with him,” she countered, leaning back in her chair.

  “We came upon the body of one of his friends, his throat slit. He wouldn’t have arrived with anyone.”

  “And the rest of this party that ambushed you?”

  A long pause filled the room. “I killed the other man when they ambushed us,” Thomas said flatly.

  Bishop Theron looked at him crossly, her glare like arrows. “You are more than what you seem, sir.”

  Sorin’s frustration rose. “Who is the man with the scar?” he said in a raised voice his lips were not accustomed to.

  The woman’s sharp gaze pinned Sorin still. “Such angst from one so young.”

  “It has been a harrowing experience for the boy in the last few days,” Thomas interrupted. “As you can imagine.”

  “I don’t pretend to know every detail of what happens here at the monastery but I do know I have never left a stone unturned when it comes to those I lead. If there is one thing I have learned in this life, it is that a majority of people don’t murder without just cause.”

  “How long had this priest been here at A’lum?” Sorin asked, emotions bridled.

  “Since the spring,” the Bishop said. She thought a bit and her lips pursed. “He was caught. That’s why he was murdered. I’ve spoken to him several times and he was quiet, if distant. As for who is responsible for this crime in my own house, no one seems to know. I spoke with several priests and not one saw Afram during the tumult in the courtyard.”

  The Bishop stood and went to the open window. “Madness in La Zandia. And now this affront in A’lum.” She stood tall, thin, and regal, and Sorin thought perhaps once she had been strikingly beautiful. “This is the window our Giant friend jumped from. An amazing feat. But at what cost, I wonder?” She turned from the window. “What do you know of the dragon? Don’t you find it convenient that a dragon arrived just as you and Brother Afram arrived?”

  “That has been on my mind also, Bishop,” Thomas grimaced as he crossed his arms. “I doubt we will ever know the answer.”

  “Come now, sir. Answers are like callers in the night, invisible until they are upon you. Have you no faith?”

  The circles under the old man’s eyes darkened. “Dragons are not that unusual in the high country east of Thistledon, Bishop Theron. But what is unusual is the vitality of the beast that now lies dead below—it was virile, in the prime of its adulthood. Dragons are communal, and only those sick, infirm, or wounded are seen alone and far from their brethren.”

  “But this one was none of those things, was it?”

  “No,” Thomas said. “It wasn’t.”

  The Bishop left the window and circled the edge of the room behind them. She padded softly to their left and studied a beautifully intricate sword that hung from the wall and glistened with polished care. “Where are you headed?” the old woman whispered.

  “Aris Shae. I have a friend there I have not seen in many years,” the old man said. “It is where the boy and I were headed before this mess found us.”

  The Bishop had turned to stone. “Who is Collin to you?”

  “His parents were murdered weeks ago. I took him on until he comes of age.”

  “That explains the anger in this one.” She looked at Sorin. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sure the All Father watches over them in the Beyond.”

  Sorin barely heard her. The sword on the wall drew him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was standing before it, lost to its curves and edges. There was resonating familiarity that tickled the back of his memory.

  It was a long rapier, with elegant lines and a gleaming steal blade. It had a swept guard made of silver, and the tang was carefully wrapped in fine gold filigree possessing an inner fire the sword’s maker had folded into it. The pommel was a solid silver ball engraved with the swirling artistry that highlighted the guard. The light weapon was not the typical choice of the modern day, lost to a different era. He lightly traced the workmanship out of admiration, respect, and curiosity.

  And then he knew. The rapier was fashioned in a style his father had taught him.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “No matter the woe in the world, this sword constantly reminds me there is beauty in it as well.

  “Who made this sword?” Sorin asked. His green eyes never left the weapon.

  The sword was fashioned by the Order of Blacksmiths at Aris Shae, in the style of my coastal home’s culture. When a Bishop takes the initial oaths and vows of service to Godwyn Keep, a sword is presented from the Order, legitimizing their new position as guardians of the faith. It was the only object I was allowed to bring with me on my journey from the Keep when I began my post here two decades ago.”

  “Do you know who was commissioned for its creation?”

  She frowned. “I’m sorry but no. I never met the man.” The Blacksmiths are difficult to separate from their art, I am afraid.” Bishop Theron returned to her desk, looking at Thomas. “There is no lie in your words. I can sense that. But there is more between the words that you hide. There is also more to you, Collin.”

  Thomas had withdrawn deeper into himself. “I would never endanger you or your fold, Bishop.”

  Sorin remained quiet, uncertain of what to say.

  “May the All Father lend speed to your journey then. I have no reason to keep you from your friend in Aris Shae. Stay tonight and rest. Leave and take what provisions you need on the morrow. For your bravery, you deserve at least that much. It has been a sad but remarkable day.”

  Thomas stood and opened the door to make his way down the stairs. Sorin followed, the woman’s stare hot on his back as he went through the entryway.

  But before the door closed, he heard her say quietly, “Quite a remarkable day indeed.”

  Chapter 9

  The world rocked and swayed and then became jarringly still again.

  Pontifex Dendreth Charl stepped onto the stone pier jutting into the Bay of Reverence and the solid world fastened about his boots after his one-day journey on the Sea Star. Traveling by sea always left him
unsteady, the constant rocking and rolling motion eliminating the balance he enjoyed on land. A part of him rejoiced at the ocean—the smell of salty life, the snap of canvas sails as they captured a breeze, and the cooling spray caught by warmed brows—but there was always the void of the black depths yearning to swallow him and of being at the mercy of strange men who possessed the skill and ability to leave him wherever or whenever they chose.

  The Pontifex shielded his eyes from the early afternoon sun and looked upon Westor’s capital city of Andeline as it rose before him. He was not an adventurous man, preferring a library’s seclusion or exercising diplomacy. However, the sight of the Feyr capital was breathtaking and made Dendreth pause in spite of his misgivings. The city center, the royal palace of Courth, was a shining jewel built on a high-sweeping hill at the apex of the aqua half-moon of the bay. The world had so much to offer and yet nothing his position at Godwyn Keep would ever allow him to fully explore.