Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  Lorien moved quietly, his thin form near insubstantial in the darkness. They passed hundreds of tables similar to the one Dendreth had been working at all week, their hunched outlines like an unmoving, organized herd filling the lowest level of the library. Three or four concentric levels rose above him, each one darker than the last. Much of Memoria was a mystery to him, but one he was happy to leave in ignorance if it meant returning to Aris Shae with the information he sought.

  The Historian neared a corner hidden from the rest of the library by tall shelving when he raised his hands and placed them against the stone wall, pressing his fingertips in as though through bread dough. Dendreth heard an audible click, and a narrow door swung open silently, revealing a dim staircase. Lorien entered, the light of the tunnel’s candles casting deep, shadowy furrows in his face as he turned to beckon the Pontifex forward. Dendreth followed and the door closed quietly behind them.

  “This is the Voute,” the Feyr said. “It houses and protects our most treasured writings. It has been built deeply into the earth. The candles are maintained daily and are specially made to evaporate any destructive humidity without leaving behind caustic fumes that could be harmful to the documents. If a fire were ever to claim Memoria, this chamber would survive.”

  After several dozen steps, the tunnel opened into a large square room with four expansive tables in the middle. Every corner of the room was lit by wall sconces set a few kingsyards apart, their flames licking the air hungrily. The air smelled clean and fresh, unlike the mustiness that pervaded the lower levels of Godwyn Keep, and there was no evidence of dust or decay here. The ceiling was high and a solemn respect for what the room represented filled Dendreth. Other than the wooden desks and chairs, the room glittered, all of the shelves and cases made from steel and etched glass.

  Lorien moved to the back of the room and stood directly before an elongated case containing rolled parchment, sheets of paper, and two books.

  “There has been much debate over whether or not the scrolls are the original source or if they were merely copies created for the desert regions in your southern provinces where leather does not fair well. With the exception of this fourth one, they all were written around the same time, directly after Aerom sacrificed himself. This one here,” he said, gesturing at a bound book, “is the edition you would identify with.”

  “How did the Feyr come by these?” Dendreth asked.

  “They were sent into our hands upon discovery, into our hands to be safely kept. Like the plans of Godwyn Keep sitting next to them,” Lorien said. “Despite that era’s destitution, the accumulation of knowledge did not cease altogether.”

  “It is my understanding they were given to us at the time of their creation, directly following the foundation of Godwyn Keep. The scrolls and the tome arrived nearly at the same time; this other edition arrived several years later. It was into our hands they were sent to be kept safe, along with the original plans of the Keep.”

  It made sense to Dendreth that these copies would be placed into the care of a race that was long-lived, protective of its heritage, and exceptional at record keeping. The beginning of Godwyn and the Kingdom had been an extremely volatile time. It also saddened him that he was just now finding this treasure, when entering the twilight of his life. There was so much more to learn and discover.

  Lorien delicately pulled the three bound scrolls and two books from their glass case and placed them on a sheet of wax paper covering half of a table. The Pontifex followed. “I’d like to see the one with the most differences,” Dendreth sat, eager to begin.

  “That would be this scroll. They are all made from a paper only produced in the northern parts of the Kingdom, so the deduction by Historian Trevier is they were copied there as well. The other book is a copy of the scroll you requested.”

  He removed one of the fragile scrolls from its compact tube and unrolled it. It was supple although the paper was severely yellowed with age. Lorien carefully flipped through it with a steady, practiced hand and turned to the last few pages to the Book of Iorek. The script was elegant and spidery, with long loops and swift strokes.

  “It’s in Feyrish?” Dendreth noted.

  Lorien nodded, the chance to share his passion lighting his exotic eyes. “It’s the only Book in any of the editions that is written in my language. Historians and academics have argued what that implies for centuries. Was Iorek a Feyr and a part of Aerom’s scholarly group, and this is the original copy of the Codex? Or was this particular Book copied this way for reasons that we cannot fathom? The paper it was printed on and the style of handwriting suggests there was a Feyr in the northern part of the Kingdom who wrote it. Could it have been Iorek? No Feyr would have written on Kingdom paper when Westor had its own style of paper. No one knows the truth, although there are dozens of books that theorize on the matter, starting when this copy was found three centuries after the War of the Kingdoms.”

  Dendreth glanced over one of the large, unrolled pages. “Where’s it from?”

  “It surfaced from one of Courth’s oldest families, an heirloom brought from the Alabron. They knew nothing of it.”

  Translating the Book of Iorek out of intellectual instinct, Dendreth noted its subtle differences in his personal leather journal. He was overwhelmed by the turn of events, barely able to consider its ramifications. For the Codex to suddenly have alternate editions lending to alternate meanings was unfathomable; he was in a dream with dark possibilities. The Godwyn faith was built around the words of the Scholars—they were as true as the sun that rose every morning.

  The Historian sat in silence as the Pontifex copied passages wholly new to him. The Book of Iorek was also known as the Book of Dreams; it was filled with four- and six-sentence poetic stanzas filled with the future visions of Iorek, the Fatherhead’s Scholar who was blessed with prophecy. In this new edition of the Codex, the amount of passages in Iorek’s Book almost doubled. It could contain exactly what the Pontifex needed. He continued on with translating. Time had frozen, but Dendreth’s heart pounded louder than it had ever before.

  Scribbling his translations, Dendreth finished a passage halfway through the page, and his quill stopped in mid-stroke. He read the entire page over again. The preceding and following passages skipped into different subjects, but the one passage lifted from the page, distinguished from the stanzas around it. Dendreth reread it, attempting to disseminate any conclusion other than the one that was before him. There was none. The passage’s meaning was clear, no matter how many ways he translated it, no matter how many emphases he added onto different words and sentences. Cold gripped him. This is what he had come to Westor to find.

  He must get back to the High King immediately.

  Dendreth was scribbling his copy of the passage when the sound of light footfalls on the tunnel steps reached them. The Historian and the Pontifex looked at one another, uncertainty mirrored in their eyes. Sion le Chey soon appeared, his features distraught.

  “What are you doing, Lorien?” hissed Sion with furrowed brows. “You should not have brought him here. The King comes with guards to arrest you both—maybe worse.”

  Dendreth rose, thrusting his notes into his pocket. He knew the consequences of breaking the King’s mandate. “How much time?”

  “Mere moments,” Sion said, clanking up the tunnel. “Two guards have been watching you most of the week. I put them on the detail myself at the behest of the King.”

  “I will accept my judgment as only one my age can,” the Historian said with sad eyes.

  “He is in a rage,” Sion countered.

  “Do you think I run any longer? I’ll wait for them here. Take the book copied from the scroll, Dendreth, and go. It will serve you better than your hasty notes.”

  Dendreth did not question the gift and picked up the book. He offered his hand to the seated Feyr. “Thank you, Lorien.”

  “One day I’ll know the story of it,” he said, looking wearier than Dendreth had ever seen him. “A
nd perhaps I’ll write a history of my own. Fare thee well, Pontifex Charl.”

  With one look back, Dendreth ran behind Sion back into Memoria. They fled along its numerous bookshelves, shadows flitting amidst a deeper darkness. It was all Dendreth could do to not run into a table, chair, bookshelf, or wall. He heard voices somewhere behind him before Sion opened a door and they were through.

  A blast of cool night air and freedom hit Dendreth. Freshly-bloomed lilac and dewy grass met them. The moon was pregnant, an almost flawless white circle, and the men flew under it, the night sounds of the palace dulled and sleepy. They were in some kind of garden, its pathways snaking through bushes, trees, and hedges, their foliage tinged with the icy light of night. Sion moved quickly through the garden, staying low. Dendreth did the same, discarding his white cloak in favor of his darker clothing beneath. The Spire of Memory rose above them, an incandescent sentinel to their progress, and eyes from the shadows pressed into him like daggers.

  Voices raised in alarm finally broke the silence, coming from behind. The sound drove them steadily onward, and the first tendrils of fear caressed the Pontifex’s soul. Westor had become a hunting ground and he was the prey. King Belinorn had stated his expectations of Dendreth, and the Pontifex had disregarded them in favor of his quest. He hoped Lorien would be cleared of the transgression; he prayed the Feyr’s life would be spared.

  The two slouching figures crossed from Courth’s palace grounds through another hidden door set within an ivy-coated wall. Dendreth did not need to ask how Sion knew of these passages; the Feyr was the Guardian and was privy to much, and that knowledge was now allowing the Pontifex to flee. The pair slipped through a final gate in the Circle and found themselves in the city.

  Sion hesitated when they were beyond the massive wall. Dendreth turned back to the Feyr and said, “If you stay, Belinorn will kill you.”

  Sion looked to the stars of the sky, as if accepting his fate. “He has already removed me from my position. I have nothing.”

  “Then come with me.”

  Sion contemplated the suggestion for only a few moments before nodding in agreement. He took the lead anew. The Pontifex would need the former Guardian’s help if he were to navigate his way through the city back to the Sea Star.

  Dendreth swiftly lost all sense of where he was as he shadowed Sion. Houses stood against the sky and ocean, barring him from the bay. It was a maze he had never traversed, but Sion was steady and quickening his pace. The sea air was heavy, pungent with salt and fish. They would soon reach the wharf.

  It was at that point the guards caught up with them. Arrows and crossbow bolts flew at them, giving Dendreth only a moment to decide his course of action. Stretching his stiff muscles to keep up with his lithe companion, the Pontifex pushed forward, the cobbled street offering firm purchase in the darkness. The pursuit trailed close behind—a large contingent from the sound of it. Nothing except escape would end it—from life or Westor.

  When they reached the bay, the water spread out around them, its water quietly lapping at the island in a black abyss. Dendreth looked across the wharf and piers jutting into the ocean, desperately searching for the Sea Star.

  The ship was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is your ship, Pontifex?” Sion hissed Dendreth’s own shock.

  Panic ran into Dendreth’s heart. Captain Moris had given his promise it would be there, waiting for Dendreth’s return. For him to be absent either meant he had been forced to leave or had been overcome and destroyed.

  “I don’t know,” Dendreth answered, uncertain how to proceed.

  Their pursuers appeared, several groups of guards merging from separate directions. Bows hummed and arrows whistled through the air. Dendreth could use a soncrist to hide them or push the arrows back for a time, but without a ship to get back to the mainland, he was lost.

  “Belinorn,” Dendreth growled, his anger rising as they backed onto the pier.

  Two dozen armed Feyr ran toward them. There were too many of them for Dendreth to battle without hurting them, and he knew Sion would not raise arms against those he once led. They were trapped.

  An arrow sprouted abruptly from the front of Dendreth’s thigh. He dropped to his knees, grimacing, the pain excruciating, ribbons of fire a fury through his being. More arrows fell. Soon they would be dead.

  Dendreth did the only thing he could do.

  He tumbled to the edge of the pier and dropped like a stone into the void as he cradled Memoria’s book beneath the folds of his clothing. Icy salt water met his plunge, instantly numbing his body, and the blackness of the sea sucked him into its cold maw.

  Chapter 14

  When a near full moon rose above the jagged horizon, Sorin Westfall got his first real look of the mountainous landscape that had come to envelop him. Whereas Sorin’s home was rolling, rounded hills leading to the Krykendaals, these ridges were jagged and crooked amidst the shadows, with batches of tall evergreen trees thrusting into the sky and vegetation of all kinds burrowing into any crevice it could find a hold on. The night sky was pleasant and clear, the stars dimmed by their larger, more luminous companion. He could have enjoyed it if not for the dire circumstances bringing him here.

  Only the infrequent wind offered any movement in the landscape; until it did, each flicker of movement sent panic racing through Sorin. Although Relnyn and Sorin had not stopped even once, they knew something still tracked them, but it remained hidden, undoubtedly waiting for the opportune time to strike.

  Thomas had remained unconscious throughout most of the night. Several times the Giant had slowed as Thomas moaned words into the darkness, but they were weak and jumbled, of a fevered mind. Relnyn carried the old man tirelessly, his stamina unyielding, his strides true upon the path as the hours waxed toward morning. Sorin marveled at the distance they had covered; Creek and their other horse had maintained a steady trot ever since Relnyn deviated from their original path and took one heading directly north. They were already many leagues deep in the mountains, and from the unflagging intensity of the Giant their destination was deeper still.

  As he and the Giant were rounding another cliff to push down to another trail, shadows unnaturally peeled away from the night and their pursuer appeared.

  It was a crag cat, large and furry, its ears and tail twitching in the half-light as it crouched on an outcropping of rock that hung out over the party. Creek snorted derisively, his body tensed beneath Sorin. The other horse jerked backward, its eyes rolling, but Sorin held fast onto its reins. Relnyn stopped briefly, shifting the near-lifeless form of Thomas into the crook of his left arm, away from the cat and the danger it posed.

  “Make no sudden moves,” the Giant whispered, his staff held before him like a talisman. “Try to keep the horses as still as possible. Don’t provoke it.”

  The crag cat hissed, revealing long white teeth that reflected in the moonlight, followed by a deep growl emanating from within its broad chest. The beast was huge, almost the size of a small bear, and it had obviously found a location worthy of its attack—it could easily pounce on its prey, while the narrow path would be difficult for Relnyn and Sorin to maneuver. There was nowhere else for them to go; they could either proceed or return the way they had come.

  Without provocation, it launched from its perch then in a flurry, long, razor-sharp claws fully extended. Relnyn flicked out his wrist, his staff poised as a stiff extension of the Giant. The crazed animal slammed into the shod butt of the staff mid-jump, its snarl choked off by the self-inflicted blow to the shoulder. The feline tumbled away, dazed, and slinked backward into the darkness of the foliage, its feral green-and-gold eyes glittering with crazed intent. It disappeared, halted, then reappeared, alternating between the two as it determined its next course of action.

  Sorin had never seen a crag cat act in this manner; it seemed manic, tormented, unnatural in its movements and motivations. A crag cat would not usually attack a man or his horses, preferring to prey on smaller wild be
asts. There was plenty of food available in the summertime; clearly the attack came not from hunger but from some unknown drive Sorin could not fathom.

  The cat struck again, this time at the Giant’s legs. Relnyn spun out of the way, the cat’s raking claws missing him by scant degrees. The Giant showed an agility that belied his size, but the beast resumed its assault standing on its hind legs and swiped at Relnyn while growling loudly. The Giant remained unscathed, and the animal became more furious as the fight wore on.

  The beast bunched then and launched past the Giant in a flash, claws extended and jaw wide. It was coming for Sorin and his charges, no protection from it whatsoever.

  At the last moment, Relnyn swiftly spun and kicked the beast in its side, sending it flailing once more. Bones snapped like kindling. It slammed against the solid stone outcropping. The cat tried to get up but could not. It mewed defenselessly, blood leaking from its nose, the spark of anger gone from its eyes. Only a broken animal remained.

  “Come. We are only a few valleys away from crossing into my homeland,” Relnyn said, his staff glimmering in the night even as the Giant’s eyes darkened.

  “You’ll just leave it to suffer?”

  “It is not our way,” the Giant said, a sad, dark shadow falling over his face as he turned. He turned away to move on.

  Sorin moved the horses around the collapsed feline, Creek still snorting and ready for a fight. They left the animal there in the middle of the pathway, bleeding but alive. Sorin realized he truly knew nothing about the Giant. Relnyn would not kill the crag cat—a terrible mountain predator in pain and assuredly dying anyway—but he did kill the dragon to save A’lum. What distinguished the two? How could the Giant justify killing the dragon but not putting the crag cat out of its misery? Sorin did not know, but the hypocrisy left him unnerved.

  The lump of fur gradually disappeared behind them.