Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “How long will you be ashore, Your Grace?” a deep voice said behind him.

  Dendreth smoothed his white cloak, keeping the cowl drawn close over his head even though the weather was sticky warm, and turned back to the docked ship.

  A man near his thirtieth winter with sea-green eyes, curly dark brown hair, and a short beard came to the raised prow of the ship. His movements were strong and sure beneath his uniform of a crimson vest, billowing white shirt, and pants tucked into shiny black leather boots. Three gold diagonal bars were pinned to his vest, marking the man a Captain of the Godwyn Keep fleet. In recent years, if Dendreth had to travel he went upon the Sea Star, mostly due to the warm commanding officer at her helm.

  “I might be several days, Captain Moris. Stay moored here. If I need more time, you will be notified.” Dendreth paused, looking inland. “And look after your men—we mustn’t have any of them entering the island uninvited, breaking the cultural harmony the Accord provides for.”

  “Cultural harmony, huh?” The Captain smiled, white teeth blazing from a tanned, rugged face. “The weather looks like it will hold, so there should be no need to leave. And not one of my men will chase the Feyr women, sir. My word on it.” The man winked. “As for me…”

  A small grin tugged at the corners of Dendreth’s mouth. He watched as the sailors of the Sea Star tied off the sails on the three masts, a white flag of peaceful intentions still flapping in the breeze. “Your father would not approve, Moris.”

  “My father won’t disapprove of what he doesn’t know, will he?” The Captain grew sober. “I’ll exhaust them with ship and sail repairs. They won’t break the Accord. I’ll await your instructions, Your Grace.”

  Dendreth nodded in approval and turned up the pier. He enjoyed Moris’s infectious humor. Being the First Warden’s son and meeting all the difficult demands a hard father had was not an easy thing to do, but the Pontifex thought the Captain dealt with it well.

  The day was beautiful, the sky an azure dome sprinkled with lofty white clouds, but the Pontifex pushed his appreciation aside. He had more pressing matters to attend to. After meeting with the High King, the Pontifex knew learning the truth behind the events transpiring in La Zandia and Blackrhein Reach would be difficult. He had seen all manner of machinations emerge during his tenure, most of their seeds sown in secret. In this situation, there were several seeds the Pontifex would rather not see grow.

  Dendreth kept his cowl pulled close. He was tall enough to pass for Feyr, but he lacked the high cheekbones, narrow chin, arched eyebrows, and gimlet eyes of the race. Attention would be harmful to his quest; the Feyr nation was reclusive, having withdrawn from the Kingdom to the island of Westor millennia earlier after the genocidal devastation of their people. The populace as a whole was not eager to entertain strangers of any kind—not anymore with the Accord. Suspicion was a constant shadow in the Feyr mind that often whispered ill advice.

  Already mapping his route from the empty wharf, through the manicured city, and into Andeline Courth, Dendreth was entering the first street when a familiar figure stepped from the shadows to block the Pontifex’s path.

  Dendreth stopped. It was a Feyr, dressed finely in gray pants, white tunic, and a blue-dyed leather belt. A lock of his long white hair was dyed a deep purple at his temple, denoting his parentage of the House of Norraine. He was unadorned except for a long rapier belted at his waist that glinted in the afternoon sun.

  “You denied Godwyn Keep’s flag from gracing the breeze this time, Pontifex,” the Feyr said in a lilted accent. “Was that wise?”

  “I come not under the affiliation of Godwyn Keep.” Dendreth paused. “Anonymity is important for my visit, Sion le Chey, but it seems I have not escaped the notice of Westor’s Guardian. Nor that of the King?”

  “I was informed of your ship before your eyes fell on our shores,” Sion said, flashing lavender eyes above jagged cheekbones. “King Belinorn is also aware of your presence, Dendreth Charl. He is not pleased.”

  “I desired to keep my presence invisible from others in the Kingdom,” Dendreth said. “And yet it is for the King I have now come, but it is you who has welcomed me—you have the authority to allow or deny me.”

  “I thought it pertinent to show the proper respect to a man who has always presented the utmost care for our nation’s well-being.” The Guardian shrugged. “And I do have the authority to help or hinder you. I’m just not happy with being placed between a rocky reef and the pounding surf, Dendreth. If I had not recognized the ship as the Sea Star, you would have been met with my Guard rather than only their leader. By rights of the Accord, I should turn you away.”

  Dendreth frowned. “King Belinorn must acquiesce to the law that initially tied our peoples together—and continues to do so, Sion. To remove it now would only destabilize the world more. I have no wish to return to the High King to deliver news of inhospitality from our neighbors.” Dendreth softened. “I must speak with the King, in private. It is a matter of urgency with an import for both the Kingdom and the Island of Westor.”

  The Feyr’s eyebrows arched briefly, his skin as pallid as milk. “Very well. I can’t say I didn’t warn you. Welcome to the summer shores of Westor, Pontifex Charl.”

  * * * * *

  With the Guardian sitting across from him as stoic as stone, Dendreth stared through the concealment of his carriage as the horses pulled them through Andeline’s streets. The wharf had been essentially empty, all trade ceased with the passing of the Accord. With a new conservative leadership crowned with King Belinorn, all trade rights had been withdrawn from the Kingdom. The main ports had been closed, almost all ties with the world of man severed.

  The nation had been moving toward total seclusion for centuries and with the new government had finally done so. Originally the Feyr had moved to the island to remove their involvement from a world that had nearly destroyed them. But the need for seclusion had grown over time, and it had finally come to fruition under King Belinorn’s new rule.

  Dendreth interrupted the lulling cadence of the horse’s hooves on the stone street. “How has the populace taken to its new position in the world?”

  “The merchant princes have voiced their ire to the King but to no avail,” Sion replied. “Those who make their wealth through the outside world are negatively impacted. Aside from those few, the nation is relieved. Bad terms have usually followed interactions with the Feyr and the Kingdom.”

  “The last time I was here, I remember Belinorn being somewhat out of favor with his father, King Andaron.”

  “It matters not, really. King Andaron had a century-long reign, but he improved the island very little. He was lenient, keeping the wealthy happy, but he was unwilling to address the larger dilemmas facing Westor. Many felt it important a strong king replace him. Many in rural towns notice no difference.”

  “Isolationism has never been an answer, Sion,” Dendreth said. “We share the world and its hardships. Westor should reap that benefit of its neighbors.”

  “After all these centuries, Pontifex, Feyr do not trust Men—no more than Men trust Feyr in the Kingdom.”

  “The feyr’im serve their seven years with honor and distinction,” Dendreth replied. “They are shown respect by all.”

  “And what of those Feyr derelict and lost in the streets of your largest cities, pilfering others, most under the haze of some drug or other?” Sion answered. “Hated by even the kindest of your Kingdom’s people for merely being of a different race.”

  Sion had a point. The feyr’im had been revered since their oath to serve Godwyn Keep after its initial foundation. But when he visited any number of other cities in the west provinces, the Feyr were shunned and mistreated, often resorting to crime to survive. It perpetuated an unending circle of fear and distrust, one not easily ended.

  The carriage rolled over a bump and jostled the occupants inside. Dendreth looked out the window. The city looked ravaged by disease. The buildings were aged and crammed togeth
er, their stone masonry chipping and worn. No trees or flora of any kind graced the public. Children played in the streets, unaware of their dirty faces and dirtier rags of clothing. Feyr stared at the carriage as it rolled past, their faces etched with sadness so deep it could never be smoothed out. It was difficult to meet the gazes of those who looked in at Dendreth’s face, past the ornately covered carriage he rode in and his affluent appearance.

  “What has happened, Sion?” He stared aghast at the poor, the sick, and the helpless. “Plague? Famine? These people…”

  “Are who the centuries have made them, Dendreth Charl,” finished the Guardian.

  “The Accord has—”

  “No, this is what the Accord is trying to fix,” Sion said.

  A little boy ran alongside the carriage, giggling at the sight, his hair mussed and greasy about his pointed ears. He eventually faded, another face lost to Dendreth.

  “You brought me here with a purpose.”

  Sion pushed his corn-silk hair behind his pointed ears, his eyes unyielding in intensity. “It was important you see what you face today. It is not just King Belinorn. More than two-thirds of the city is as you see it now. We were a race decimated, Pontifex, and although we have slowly risen from the ashes those very same ashes dirty us still.”

  “But why harbor this secret from the Kingdom—from the Keep?” Dendreth was perplexed. “Aid is easy to offer to an ally.”

  “It is not for me to say,” Sion said. “I am no king. And if word reaches King Belinorn I have brought you here, it could mean the end of my career as Guardian—the end of my life, perhaps.”

  “How did this come to be?” Dendreth shook his head in shame. “And why are you telling me now?”

  “Our forefathers were destroyed by the hands of Man and Ashnyll, no matter who was guiding them. That remains in every Feyr’s consciousness almost like it has imbedded itself into our very seed. My people have been poor for so long that something had to be done. Suicide rates are high; crime is higher. The youth want to leave because there must be something better, beyond the sea. The King believes in the Accord, even if some of the wisest on the Assembly have argued against it. Time will tell.”

  “Desperation can be a powerful motivator, Sion. Of that there is no doubt. But it may imprison your people further before it releases you.”

  “I’m not going to dissuade you from going to Courth,” Sion said, closing the carriage’s window. “It is certainly not my place to tell Godwyn Keep its own business. But King Belinorn is not likely to entertain any words you have brought. He is stubborn, as strongly stubborn as his father was humble, and he now deems the outside world part of the problem.”

  The apprehension in Sion’s voice was clear. King Belinorn was a hard man, certain in his opinions. The Pontifex had met him only once, but that meeting had left an impression. The new king was arrogant without ability, intelligent but without wisdom. Although Belinorn was in a unique position to shape the future, he would never be the type of leader who assessed varied council before making a decision. Yet now the Pontifex had to make a request of a king he did not respect, one who might hold the key to answers the High King needed.

  The Pontifex sighed, thinking about what had put him in this position. The Godwyn Keep libraries had yielded nothing new about the Hammer of Aerom over a week of searching. There were hundreds of aged volumes encompassing the War of the Kingdom, the birth of the Godwyn faith, and the philosophical and religious debates of that era and thereafter, but the Pontifex had found nothing factual about the Hammer itself. Pontifex Tal might have been right—the only power the Hammer held could be symbolic. But wound an artifact blessed with Aerom’s blood possess some kind of metaphysical attributes? The Codex held many stories of the All Father’s wondrous emanations on the world. Why would anyone want to steal the Hammer, unless to gain a momentous advantage? Or perhaps its theft prevented the Kingdom from using it to some end. These were the questions Dendreth brought with him across the ocean, and he prayed Westor’s Memoria held their answers.

  The Circle, the outermost wall of Andeline Courth, grew large as the carriage approached it, the defensive curtain protecting the royal city beyond. It had been built immediately upon the Feyr arrival on the island, and its white granite was the same stone Godwyn Keep was built with. The city around it had grown out of necessity through the ages. The Feyr took great pride in their palace city, all the more poignant in their poverty.

  “The royal city appears well cared for,” Dendreth said.

  “As it always has been, Pontifex,” Sion said, a sad note in his voice. “It gives us hope for the future.”

  At Courth’s center, the Spire of Memory rose high into the air like an argent finger pointing to the heavens, above the smaller towers of gleaming white granite, inter-connecting walkways and arches, cascading fountains, and parks. It was the culmination of beauty on the island, its architectural qualities only overshadowed by its defiance to their past. Now it was a rebuff to those who would ever dare approach.

  Unbidden, images of the city’s disenfranchised came to Dendreth. He wondered if the poor looked upon the Spire of Memory with hope for a better future, or the opulence they would never achieve.

  The carriage moved smoothly onward, the poor lost, but not forgotten, behind it.

  * * * * *

  The Pontifex sat alone in a large waiting room unlike the palace outside—devoid of windows, decoration, or hospitality—a bit of gloomy darkness in an already poorly-illuminated setting. Behind one of two doors, the Assembly of Westor convened in their private audience chamber, contemplating whether to grant Dendreth their attention.

  With the last rays of the sun falling on Westor, Sion had chosen several rarely used passages to keep the Pontifex’s visit as secret as possible. Dendreth thought they had succeeded in not alarming the public a foreigner walked among them. The Guardian had then left to speak to the King and his advisors.

  Dendreth knew the game they were playing. The longer he had to wait in the dark closely quartered room, the more unsettled he would be. He did not feel constricted, merely unnerved—not from the room but from the inane mental games being played. He knew it for what it was—an attempt to soften his resolve, to place him in the position of being alone and vulnerable while they were many and powerful.

  What they did not realize was Dendreth brought the needs of an entire kingdom with him.

  The glossy oak door opened silently, the first signs of life in a long time, and Sion emerged to motion Dendreth to join them. He grabbed his white cloak from where it hung and walked through the door.

  The Assembly room was lit by a number of candles, their faint yellow glow giving the chiseled Feyr faces a falsely warm aura. The King and his advisors sat at a table in the shape of a half oval, leaving the Pontifex two softly padded chairs across from them free. Although the room was private, it still maintained the look of the palace. Scrollwork on the stone depicted climbing ivy and flowering vines, all carved in relief. Small trees with bright green leaves grew in pots, softening the corners of the room. More hanging plants cascaded from fixtures sculpted into the wall, splashing color against the white walls. No sharp corners existed. The gurgling song of running water played in the background, its source indiscernible. The Assembly’s room was beautiful, meant to awe its visitors as much as the waiting room was to degrade them.

  Five males and two females waited in high-backed, rune-covered chairs with rounded tops, their faces etched in varying degrees of curiosity and contempt. King Belinorn sat at the center, an immutable presence.

  “Please sit, Pontifex Charl,” the ancient Historian Lorien Silas said while offering a wrinkled, spotted hand. He sat to the far right of the king. “No need to keep you waiting any longer.”

  Dendreth inclined his head respectfully to the Historian and bowed to King Belinorn. “Greetings, Your Highness. You look to be in good health.”

  King Belinorn, a stocky Feyr with eyes as dark as obsidian, leaned
forward in his seat. “What do we owe this visit from Godwyn Keep, Pontifex Charl?”

  The King was courteous as etiquette required, but gravelly anger resonated between the words. Dendreth decided directness despite the risk of rejection. “I request access to your Histories for research purposes, your Highness.”

  “And do the Godwyn Keep libraries not contain that which you need, Pontifex?” the King questioned. “I understand the wealth of information at Godwyn Keep is the greatest gathering of knowledge in the history of the world, a rival for even the vaunted Athenaeum at Alabron before the War.”

  “The Feyr saved much of that archival library on their exodus to Westor, Your Highness. Memoria may hold the answers I need whereas the libraries at Godwyn Keep do not.”

  “What is it you seek?” King Belinorn inquired.

  “I’m not entirely sure.” The lie withered on Dendreth’s tongue, its potency lost.

  “The Guardian of Westor mentioned your coming here might have import for my people.”

  “I would rather not speculate until I have all the facts, your Highness.”

  King Belinorn folded his thick fingers before him, his eyes fiery. “You do know you have broken the Accord placed on the Island of Westor?” The Feyr’s emotions were as tangible as flame.

  “All due respect, Your Highness,” Dendreth said with steely resolve. “It was not an Accord signed by other nations in the Kingdom. Nor by Godwyn Keep.”

  “And that respect you throw around so callously did not factor into what the people of Westor may wish, is that right?” Anger radiated from the King. “What I may wish?”

  “I am not here to debate with the Feyr their political design or how they choose to orchestrate their nation.” Dendreth looked pointedly at King Belinorn. “I am here to—”

  “Sailing to my docks uninvited could have ended your trip quite quickly,” the King cut him off, his voice raised. “It might be viewed by some as an act of war.”