Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  Erol caught his shadowy reflection in the windows leading onto the balcony. It had been a busy but sweetly fruitful morning. He had conducted a meeting with the remaining Pontifices about the Keep’s need to maintain control in the province of La Zandia. Cwen Errich had also come up, Godwyn Keep’s spy in Blackrhein Reach worried about troop escalation there. Erol had made sure each remaining Pontifex realized the threat against them. Although the Council had only been two men short, their absence had helped; it had been far easier convincing the others how important Godwyn Keep’s role was in the world. In the end, the Council had agreed with Erol’s firm stance, and the game board was ready for play.

  The other event that brightened his morning had fallen straight into his lap. A Feyr delegation from Westor had come requesting the whereabouts of the wayward Pontifex Dendreth Charl. The two parties questioned one another, but the Feyr were reticent to reveal their interest. Something had happened with Dendreth that stirred the anger of the Westor. Erol had been quick to capitalize on it. Now the Feyr bothered the one responsible for sending the Pontifex to Westor in the first place. If the High King could move a piece on the board, so could Erol.

  Dendreth would eventually return to Godwyn Keep. Erol was sure of that. There could be any number of reasons why the High King sent Dendreth to Westor, but Erol wanted none of them to infringe on his plans. Seeing the future’s possibilities allowed him to act quickly with almost supernatural ability. It was one of those moments that brought him here tonight.

  The Pontifex moved to sit in a chair beside Garethe’s bed. Since the Pontiff had not come out of his coma and there were events transpiring in the Kingdom that needed a Godwyn leader, the Council might eventually push the issue and try to bring him back from his oblivion. It was a dangerous prospect, one the healers would not agree with, the forcible entry into a coma mind just as perilous to the person attempting it. Someone with absolute control over their faith, song, and power—one who maintained a close, personal friendship with the patient—would be chosen. That meant Dendreth. Even Erol knew the oldest member on the Council was the obvious candidate to coax the comatose Pontiff back into life.

  He was also likely to succeed. It was for that reason Erol had come to Pontiff Garethe.

  Erol leaned forward over the shrunken old man and placed his palm on Garethe’s forehead. It was papery and warm. Erol pushed his revulsion aside at touching the man whose seat he coveted. Garethe did not move at Erol’s touch; he remained lost within, a semblance of breathing death. Erol meant him to stay that way for a while longer.

  The Pontifex hummed and then sing, weaving both into a melody born of the body, the mind, and the heart. It was an old song, known by healers but feared for its dangerous transgression, and it was only used in the direst circumstances. Erol changed the lyrics of the song into that of an old man’s, its sound deep, gravelly, and resonating with infirmity, ages lived, and Godwyn leadership. Tendrils of Erol’s own awareness crept into Garethe’s mind with the ease of a burglar, opening the treasure chest of his leader’s knowledge, the Pontifex’s song matching the unique soulsong of Pontiff Garethe. He was careful not to impose himself on Garethe so as to leave a faint residue of his offense; the Pontifex wanted no one to ever know he was the one responsible for what he was about to do.

  Trained to maintain his soncrist while a part of him was outside of his own mind, Erol moved throughout the old man’s consciousness and memories. There he found a will to live that burned bright and strong. The passion behind it surprised Erol a bit, considering the age of the Pontiff, and he realized he was dealing with a soul that was still strong and sure even if his conscious mind was not in evidence.

  The Pontifex then entered the place where Garethe’s soul met his mind. It was there Erol would leave his surprise; it was there he would plant another seed for the future.

  Once he had found that internal source, Erol moved about Garethe’s mind, discovering who the man thought himself to be. Finding nothing of import and preparing to set the trap that would end two lives, Erol encountered a dark corner of Garethe’s mind that was so tucked away into the confines of shadowed memory Erol had almost missed it. He went there, the tendrils of the song massaging the dark patch to yield its secrets. When it did not lighten despite his efforts, Erol tried to expose it more vigorously, but nausea threatened him the closer he came. Whatever the memory was, it was one Garethe kept locked away, buried beyond his recollection more than likely. It was not something Erol wanted to be caught within. He left it alone and withdrew smoothly, desiring to finish his own job.

  The trap Erol had left behind was intricate and could not be detected from the outside, a prison with one way in and no way out. If anyone else attempted to enter Garethe’s mind and then leave, he would die, taking the well-intentioned healer with him. Even if the healer entered the Pontiff’s mind and realized leaving would kill Garethe, the healer would be forever trapped until the end came with their exhaustion and mental death. When Dendreth came poking around, he would find a nasty surprise awaiting him.

  The soncrist dwindled to silence on Erol’s lips as he returned to his own mind, and he wearily rose from his chair to again look out the balcony window. Through the reflection he saw a long metal rod pointed to the sky. He now knew from venturing into Garethe’s mind it had been a gift from Feyr Historian Lorien Silas; it was a device used to look at the stars or see far into the distance.

  Erol opened the balcony and stepped into the cooling night, and he ran his hand along the smooth metal. Even with such a wondrous tool, the Pontiff had not seen any of this coming.

  When he inherited it, he would have it destroyed; he wanted no reminder of the stars—or the boy who had looked at them—plaguing his sleep in these new chambers.

  * * * * *

  With the gentle morning wind of the next day in his face, Erol rode the sturdy Kingston Ferry toward the capital city of Aris Shae, the smell of sea salt and brine invigorating his deadened senses after another poor night’s sleep. He rose early, the sun a faint arced line on the distant eastern horizon, and he had taken the wide path that snaked down the side of the peninsula from Godwyn Keep to the docks below. There he had boarded the first ferry to cross the Bay of Reverence, hoping to conceal his identity from anyone with enough interest to use it to their advantage.

  Once the wide, double-masted boat had tacked south to gain the other side of the bay and begin its northward journey to Aris Shae, Erol changed his clothing from the finery of his office to more conservative, simple attire. He wore a plain gray tunic, a brown travel-stained cloak with tattered edges, and tan pants that were tucked into scuffed boots, soiled from advanced wear. It would not do to have someone recognize him, and obvious wealth only drew interest of the worst kind in Dockside. Attention was something he could ill afford this time out, and he would have to be very careful not to attract it. Where he was going, wealth could get a person killed.

  In the far distance up on the side of a lush green hill, the capital city of Aris Shae gleamed as the first morning rays of sunlight caught the uppermost spires and began to work its way down into the rest of the city. Below, Dockside lay clumped at the city’s feet, a wharf town where trade and commerce were conducted all hours of the day. It was a place of cunning merchant princes and zealous businessmen; it was also a warren of thieves and criminals, the darker elements of society unable or unwilling to elevate themselves to the grandiose capital above them. As a young orphan, it was in Dockside Erol first encountered the sinister side of humanity; today, it was there he would make his own sort of fortune.

  When the ferry pulled into its dock and the Pontifex stepped onto the worn, wooden wharf, the town was already teeming with those who had destinies to make. The smell of rotten fish, tar, and salt assaulted him. Up and down along the piers, boats of varying sizes were in all stages of being loaded with exports from the Kingdom; some of the boats were unloading their wares, food, and exotic payloads that would enter Dockside and eventually
out into the rest of the Kingdom. It was a scene of constant movement.

  The rhythmic lap of the bay’s water and the scream of hungry gulls faded behind Erol as he made his way deeper from the wharf into the heart of Dockside. Visions of his childhood swept through him, catching him unaware until it was too late.

  Down that alley was the place he had pocketed his first wallet and gotten away with it, only to discover it was empty.

  Around the corner of the Bier House was the place he had lied to one of the street’s numerous assassins to get one of the bullies continually beating Erol murdered.

  There was the street he had witnessed the death of a thief at the hands of an angry mob of wharf men who had not had anything stolen from them but who had been spoiling for a fight.

  All around him amongst the dilapidated buildings and sewage-filled, cobbled streets were past visions of a life he remembered as belonging to someone else. It had been an existence full of guile and deceit, wicked intentions and no small amount of luck. These visions were the foundation of Erol’s life and coupled with burning ambition had given him the tools to rise above the filth that surrounded him now. It was a place that had educated him about the ways of the world. Even decades after leaving Dockside to become a part of Godwyn Keep, Erol could still feel his anger and revulsion at the place buried deep within, a prison he would never fully be free of.

  A child bumped him lightly, and Erol viciously reached out like a snake, grabbing the boy’s arm before the thief could flee with his prize—Erol’s dagger.

  “And where do you think you are going with that?” Erol asked, stern anger sweeping away his memories like dust in a strong wind.

  “Just wanted a look,” the dirty boy answered, squirming for his freedom.

  “You know, I should turn you in to the authorities. They are always willing to take young thieves like you and rehabilitate them in a Godwyn orphanage.”

  The failed thief struggled harder. “They can take their orphanage and piss on it for all I care.”

  The Pontifex had a hard time maintaining his dark mien. The boy had a rebellious spirit, one that would fly in the face of any authority if provoked. It would keep him safe on the streets even if smarts and luck might fail him. Erol had known boys like this when he was young—he had probably even been one.

  Looking around for the boy’s Keeper and not seeing anyone, Erol was about to launch into a quiet assault of questions when a deep voice behind him growled, “Leave the boy be.”

  When Erol turned, the voice’s owner stepped from the shadows of a thin alley. The man was short, with ragged brown clothing falling from a wiry, gnarled frame. A scraggly beard clung to his jaw, attempting to cover diseased pustules that threatened to break through his mottled skin. He had an ugly, dull-witted manner about him, but Erol knew that belied what was more than likely beneath the man’s exterior. This was the type of man he wanted to speak with.

  “And who will hold him responsible of his actions?”

  “I will decide that,” croaked the man, a weasel gleam in his dark eyes. “A firm lashing can go a long way in improving one’s skills.”

  Erol nodded, and then let the boy go. He scrambled away without a backward glance and disappeared within those who walked the street.

  “You are his Keeper?”

  “I will find him later,” the man said, unworried as he squinted at Erol. “For yer type to wander in here, I am surprised ye didn’t haul him to the First Warden yourself.”

  Erol ignored the rebuke. “How did he know I had anything?”

  “Yer walk,” the man said, his black eyes sizing up Erol more closely. “Tis a wealthy man’s walk despite the clothes ye wear. Now, what do ye want?”

  “Why must I want something?”

  The man grinned, revealing several broken, stained teeth Erol was sure would be accompanied by the sour smell of fermented grapes. “Oh, ye want something. No one with yer walk comes in ‘ere without desiring something you can’t have in yer rich, warm household.”

  “I wish to speak with the Watchman.” Erol played with his dagger, letting the sunlight reflect off the knife into the street man’s eyes.

  The man lost his smile. “Tis no Watchman.” He turned to leave the alley.

  Erol stepped forward, forcing the derelict-looking man back into the shadows, his dagger still free. “There is. There has always been a Watchman.”

  “How d’ye know, fancy man?” the Keeper snarled.

  “Because I have something only he would want.”

  “Ye lie.”

  With his free hand, Erol pulled a silver medallion from his clothing. “Does he exist now, my smelly friend?”

  Hunger suddenly grew behind the man’s eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, grabbing for the medallion. “Tis your funeral.”

  Erol pulled the medallion back out of reach and produced a gold coin with equally invisible dexterity. “What’s your name?”

  “Korik.” The Keeper took the coin.

  “Well, Korik,” Erol said, adding a darker layer to his threat. “If you cheat me, no one except the rats will find your corpse. I promise you that.”

  The man slid through the streets, snakes sharing a world. Korik did not travel far. Several streets gone, he entered the Roaming Pig, a tavern sitting very comfortably in the dingy, drab streets of Dockside. Once inside, and after his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, Erol saw it was a well-kept and clean pub with three people drinking alone. Korik moved over to a man with raven hair, black beard, and hazel eyes that glittered. The street thief whispered in the seated man’s ear, and then left the tavern. Erol remained, ignoring the departed Korik, knowing it was all part of the game to be played.

  “Why?” the man wearing all black asked simply.

  “Because I must,” Erol replied. “For the betterment of the Kingdom.”

  The man’s eyebrows arched at that. He stood and motioned Erol to follow him, leaving his beer behind.

  They left the Roaming Pig and traveled deeper into the seedy confines of Dockside. The buildings grew less organized as if a tornado had set them down in some haphazard, jumbled puzzle. Erol soon recognized his clothing was more out of place the deeper he went, the denizens of this part of the town with nothing more than rags to warm and hide their bodies. Eyes folloed the Pontifex. If he were to die today, these would be the last people to see him.

  After producing a key and unlocking the door, his companion moved into a squat, windowless house that looked weighed down by the poverty around it. He deftly lit a lantern, the flame revealing a simple room devoid of furniture. A rusty iron ring set into the stone floor waited, and the man pulled it open to reveal a set of stairs that faded beyond the light’s reach.

  “Once we go in, silence is the rule. Do you consent?”

  Erol nodded. It was too late to turn back now.

  Holding the lantern in front of him like a talisman against evil, the man in black moved into the hole. Cold air washed over them, the darkness behind Erol a silent predator unable to capture them while the lantern blazed. After a dozen stairs, the men came to solid ground and began walking forward, the lantern revealing they were surrounded on all sides by clay and rock bolstered by thick wooden beams. Dampness hung on the air like a wet blanket and water trickled its song into the distance. The walls were carved out of the living land, and moisture glistened on them as though sweating. The reek of poverty dissipated and was replaced by the metallic scent of iron and water. Erol hunkered deep into his thin cloak as if it would not only protect him from his environment but also from his decision to come here.

  The men crossed a series of intersecting passages that bled away into their dark destinations. The man in black turned down many of the new branches, twisting and turning Erol through a maze of tunnels that all appeared very similar. The path they were on was designed to disorient a person, a labyrinth of complexity an inexperienced person would never be able to navigate successfully. As a Pontifex of Godwyn Keep, every twist, how many st
eps he had taken, and the number of breaths between passages was Erol’s to know. He feigned confusion; for the ruffian to realize he knew where to travel would bring Erol unwanted attention.

  After almost an hour, they came to a set of stairs leading to a trap door as similar as their first and the hundred to come after it. Erol waited as the man pushed through. Torchlight flooded the stairway, and the two men ascended into it. Erol had come to his destination.

  They emerged into what appeared to be a dry cellar. Light from several burning torches revealed shelves of dusty wine bottles filling the area. Crates and other boxed goods were stacked against the right wall along with an old sleigh bed frame mostly covered by white sheets. The musty smell of confinement hung on the air, but the cellar was neat and tidy and warmer than the tunnels that ran beneath it. On Erol’s left, a wide opening in the wall led to a series of shadowy cells. Across the room, a wooden stairway disappeared into the upper floors of the building, inviting Erol to climb.

  The sound of shifting wood cracked like a whip behind them, and with quick reflex a soncrist of protection rose to Erol’s lips but did not venture forth.

  Sitting in a chair and leaning forward with a wide bearded face was a fat man with a crossbow pointed at them. He shot them a grin and raised the weapon out of harm’s way. Erol’s companion nodded to the sentry. For the owner of the house to guard the cellar entry to his home, he must be someone of import and wealth—someone whose personal security was of the utmost importance, one he was willing to pay for.

  The Pontifex heard the clank of chains and a low, sustained moan. As the two men moved from the tunnel opening and toward the stairs, the source of the whimper came into view—a young girl, dirtied from head to foot and covered with overly large clothing, was in one of the cells that ran back into the darkness. Two other inert forms lay separately within their own cells, no signs of life from them. On the wall facing them hung instruments with jagged edges, curved blades, leather straps, and sharpened knives. They were all clean and glimmered in the torchlight. The girl was not aware of her viewer, lost in her own haze of pain and anguish. Anger at the prisoners’ treatment rose inside Erol; revulsion gripped him, fueled by his disdain. The Watchman had fascinations of a very dark nature, one the Pontifex did not approve of.