Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  The rogue ignored the cells and moved up the stairway. Erol followed, trying unsuccessfully to dispel the vision of what he had just witnessed. He had to remain focused and not become involved.

  At the top of the stairs, his guide touched a simple latch on the side of the wall. The door swung open silently. The two men stepped into an extravagant setting of colorful furniture, rugs of the finest weaving, and decorations set against white granite walls. Glass sculptures of lithe figures dancing were sprinkled about the room and vases filled with purple orchids and white lilies adorned a long table. There were no windows, but two closed doors faced one another. It was an immaculate and beautiful room, the expenditure of money it took to conceive it reserved for kings and wealthy entrepreneurs.

  As he shut the door and before he left the room, the guide said, “Take a seat.”

  Turning back, Erol realized the door he had walked through was no door; it was a portion of the wall hidden, holding a giant mirror that reflected the Pontifex’s shabby attire back to him. The room Erol had assumed was a cellar was a secret room, one only found by someone aware of its existence. Why a crossbow-wielding, overweight sentry guarded a secret room, Erol did not know, but he knew the crime lord of Dockside and Aris Shae would never leave himself vulnerable to enemies, not even from an avenue as unlikely as the tunnel. Caution, Erol knew, was sometimes worthy of extra resources.

  While he sat in the room alone, Erol scratched the stubble he had let grow. Waiting patiently was not one of his strong suits.

  Just as he was beginning to think he had been abandoned, a Feyr entered the far door and sat with fluid grace in the chair across from the Pontifex. He had white hair as all Feyr did, but it was cut very short—the length uncharacteristic of his fair race and revealing his exotic ears. His thin features, high cheekbones, arched eyebrows, and lavender eyes—the color was even more pronounced by the purple silk vest that shimmered against his clean white shirt—gave him a regal appearance. A faint scar on his chin marred an otherwise flawless face.

  Nothing about the man suggested crime. To the contrary, Erol knew most wealthy individuals just hid their criminal atrocities better than most. It was certainly the case here.

  The leader of Aris Shae’s criminal underworld had not taken his eyes off Erol, and the Pontifex met them boldly, courage the only thing that might save him today.

  “I know who you are,” Erol began, his voice even and strong.

  “Yes, it is truly dizzying intellect how you came to your conclusion. Thieves and cutthroats bringing you to me could only mean one thing—I am a criminal myself.”

  “No. You are the leader of the criminal underworld known as the Watchman, true, but you are more as well. You are a Watchman of the Order of the Kirzan Knights.”

  The Feyr was still, his face emotionless. “I should have you killed right now.”

  In response, Erol slid the coin-like medallion across the marble table.

  The Feyr examined it. “Where’d you get this?” he asked coldly.

  “There were three of them, medallions forged at the outset of the War of the Kingdoms. The death of Aerom—among other things—brought peace, and helped end that terrible war, but three positions were created within the Order of the Kirzan Knights to oversee and protect the new faith’s beginning.

  “History—even archaic history—can be learned,” the Feyr said.

  Erol was undeterred. “These men were given the medallions as signs of their office. Centuries later, when Godwyn Keep was secure and the faith was ensured survival, the ninth Pontiff of Godwyn Keep decided that a system of checks and balances was needed to ensure a War similar to the last would never happen again. It was decided that three men—each given the name Watchman—would disappear as to never be bribed, and their legacy would be to secretly ensure no one nation became so powerful as to overthrow the others.”

  The Feyr nodded. “A Pontiff can be killed, the High King can be twisted to evil.”

  “But these three offices would hide and stay in constant contact with one another. As time marched on, those three were lost and became myth, only a select few knowing the truth.” Erol paused. “You are one of the three,” Erol stated.

  The Feyr stood and walked around the table, his eyes burrowing into Erol’s. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “This medallion was stolen centuries ago from one of you. It eventually ended up at Godwyn Keep due to its historical relevance to the faith. I merely took it.”

  “Then you are either part of Godwyn Keep, or you are an accomplished thief.”

  “I am someone who desires exactly what you do,” Erol said. “I’m just willing to give back what is rightfully yours.”

  “My duty is to my own power, not to a man who bribed with baubles from the past.”

  “And that power includes those poor souls chained below and tortured for your own amusement?”

  The eyes of the Feyr seethed. “I can’t deny they serve a certain gratification. All of them have wounded the Kingdom in some way. They shouldn’t have crossed me.” He pointed at Erol with a slim finger. “You shouldn’t cross me.”

  Erol remained seated, even though his soul burned to confront his arrogant host. “Regardless of the bravado, you still maintain a finger on the Kingdom’s pulse. Unrest is bad for business and is a symptom of a larger issue.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “There’s a mark I’d like you to take care of—a death needed to maintain your forbearers’ doctrine.”

  “Business is good,” the Feyr said, standing straight. “Why complicate that for a murder? I’m not in the habit of multiplying my own work, nor sticking out unnecessary necks for the vanity of a single man.”

  “And what if the power was to shift too much in one direction?” Erol leaned forward. “Would you end the situation as your office is directed?”

  “I would, if there was such a shift to occur.”

  It was time for Erol to end this conversation. “Blackrhein Reach.”

  “The King of Blackrhein Reach is dead,” the Feyr laughed hollowly. “His kingdom is in tatters and is no threat. If that is what you want, Errich’s nasty pleasures already did him in.”

  “His Kingdom is more vital than you think. Even now the late King’s wife has claimed the throne as the Woman King. She means to consolidate her power by gathering the other pagan clans and launching an assault on the Kingdom.”

  “And how would you know this?” The Feyr’s eyebrows arched. “Who sent you?”

  “I know this because it is the truth,” Erol dodged. “I want her dead.”

  “Why do you want this?” the Feyr asked, fingering the medallion into thin air.

  Erol was quiet for only a moment. “Revenge,” he said simply.

  “At least I know I can trust that answer. Any other would have been a lie.”

  Erol rose to leave when the Feyr stopped him. “What did you think of my dungeons?”

  “I wasn’t given the tour,” Erol said indifferently. This was not a discussion he wanted to become involved in.

  “Well, those that have wronged me or my business end up there. It’s not a very nice place.” He looked down at his manicured nails. “I thrive not from their pain but from the giving of atonement—the rich, the wealthy, those who feel they are more than what they are. I say this to remind you because if you are setting me up, I will come after you.”

  Erol ignored him. “Queen Cwen is a threat, one larger than her husband ever would be.”

  The Feyr nodded, opening the main door to leave. “We’ll see. In the meantime, if you happen to find your way here again, I will see to it you won’t ever again find your way out.”

  Erol left to find his escort. If the Watchman did his job, Erol would not have to.

  Chapter 19

  After nearly a week of waiting for the old man to regain enough strength to travel, Sorin Westfall joined Relnyn and Thomas as they left Lockwood early one morning under the cover of
darkness. Sorin was overjoyed at the prospect of leaving. The Giant city was a haven of solitude and the weather had been beautiful—the summer sunshine warm and inviting—but he had rarely left his room, the community disquieted by the events the night of the Solstice Dance. Oryn had thought it best for Sorin to stay out of sight so as not to attract attention. Sorin had therefore passed his time with Relnyn and Berylyn, learning more about Lockwood and Giants behind closed doors.

  Oryn was the only Giant seeing them off. Words were not spoken; they were not needed. As the men packed their new supplies into their saddlebags and Thomas verified his belongings were in order, Sorin looked back at Lockwood. For all of his misgivings about being effectively imprisoned, the city had given him relief from his troubled life. Now he was leaving that security, venturing back into a dangerous world that had taken so much from him. Safety was a luxury he was sure to miss.

  Relnyn nodded to Oryn before turning to cross the dewy grass toward the tree bridge and the trail beyond. Sorin climbed into his saddle, and Creek whickered beneath his master, happy to be on the move after the week of dormancy. The Giants took good care of the horse, but Creek had nuzzled Sorin the moment they had met again. Creek was his oldest friend now, always sure and strong.

  Thomas said nothing and gave no final look back, wheeling his horse around to follow Relnyn. Thomas had barely spoken since he had awakened, choosing to keep his thoughts to himself while he healed. He had grown more distant than usual, and although Berylyn had saved him from the dragon poison, the old man had shown no gratitude. Oryn’s words about Thomas haunted Sorin; if the old man was indeed looking for an end to his life, how could he be trusted? A man that damaged would not only be a danger to himself but to those around him as well.

  They traveled out of the Sentinel valley by a different route than they had come, Relnyn leading them into the mountains southwest of Lockwood. The moon had dropped beneath the horizon earlier in the night, and the stars were their only light. The sun was still buried deep in the horizon, but soon its rising would light their way and resuscitate the land’s vibrant color once more.

  Sorin patted Creek’s shoulder and thought about Artiq. The horse had vanished, disappeared so completely into the night that it had left no discernible tracks out of the valley. The Giants had looked everywhere but found nothing, only adding to the mystique surrounding the reanimation of a stone horse steeped in legend. They expected Sorin to have answers. Even Oryn saw a correlation he believed was true. All Sorin knew was Artiq—a statue he truly believed had once been the ancient horse from the Codex—had saved him by coming to life and gruesomely destroying the jerich’s host body. All else was uncertain and questionable.

  When Sorin was growing up, his father had been looked upon as a strong member of the Thistledon community. But one winter, an illness had swept through the remote area, infecting many. Sorin’s mother had been one of them. She was delusional most of the time, and the sweat had run off her in rivulets. By that time, several people had already died and whispers of plague circulated, but his father remained resolute. Untiring, Arvel cared for her every moment—his spirit bolstered by the fight Catha put up—until after two weeks her fever finally dissipated.

  Pastor Hadlin said it was a miracle she survived; Sorin’s father had disagreed. Catha Westfall was the strongest person he knew, he had said to the Pastor, and it was her own strength of heart and her love for her family that saved her. When his son asked why it was not a miracle, Arvel argued a miracle cheapened the strength of his mother. Calling an event a miracle when there were other—albeit unverifiable—explanations was a simple man’s answer to the wonders of the world.

  The transforming of stone into living flesh was a miracle. It defied the rational. For Oryn to believe Sorin a messiah defied believability—Sorin was barely an adult and had not exhibited any power or authority. It would take a miracle larger and more wondrous than the one that brought Artiq to life to convince Sorin he was anything but a normal boy from Thistledon.

  The group remained silent for most of the morning, Relnyn choosing to push them hard through the mountain passes. The Giant moved forward with long strides, his staff a blur of movement as it caught the ground, and even when Thomas had been crippled and dying in his arms, Relnyn had not displayed the concentration or focus he did now.

  In the late afternoon, just as amassing clouds brought probable rain, Relnyn pulled up as he crested a forested hill and leaned on his staff while scanning the horizon.

  In the distance, across a wide, low-cut valley, the reason why the Giant had pulled up was obvious—a dust cloud swirled in the air at the west end of the plain, the brown dust rising high before finally settling. As he watched, the cloud appeared to be moving through the middle of the valley, a writhing, brown maelstrom heading southeast.

  “What is it?” Sorin asked, breaking the silence.

  “Riders,” Thomas said, squinting into the far distance. “A lot of them.”

  Then the angry sound of dozens of horses’ hooves breaking the dry land apart came to them, furious and unrelenting. Sorin was surprised to see so many riders grouped with such organization, moving at a fast trot. He had rarely seen more than four riders together. Here there were hundreds of them, the dust so thick it swallowed all but the front few who escaped the plain’s rebuttal at the riders’ trespass. The sound grew louder as the three travelers watched, the forest sounds drifting off into the background and suffocated by the great rumbling.

  “It is a large group,” Relnyn affirmed, a light sheen of sweat dampening his forehead. “Do you have any idea of how many, Thomas?”

  “Five columns at the very least, numbering anywhere between four and five hundred total. It’s difficult to tell from this distance, and the amount of dust they are kicking up only obscures their true number more.”

  “Well, who are they?” Sorin wondered out loud.

  Thomas swatted flies away from his horse’s head. “From their front standard, I’d say they are Kingdom warden. I can see the barest glimpse of red on white. But there is another standard next to it. It may be that of Godwyn Keep.”

  “Both together?” Sorin said, peering at the riders. “I always thought they were separate bodies with their own guard.”

  Thomas shrugged. “It is unusual, but not unheard of. For such a contingent of Kingdom and Godwyn Keep troops to exist, there must be a serious conflict in the east.”

  “The land is on the move,” Relnyn broke in. “Perhaps what we heard in A’lum has come true—La Zandia has rebelled and war is upon the Kingdom’s own provinces. The High King moves to end it.”

  “Maybe,” Thomas said huskily, and Sorin thought he detected a snicker. “We’ll know more when get to Aris Shae. News will be as thick as molasses there if a war is breaking.”

  Aris Shae. It held so much promise in Sorin’s mind. He might find the answers he sought. But Thomas conveyed such certainty about finding those answers that it unnerved Sorin. The old man was so sure, in fact, that Sorin suspected Thomas already knew what Sorin would uncover. Anger blossomed within. Only broaching the subject would get Sorin what he needed; only a discussion would reveal the truth.

  “Thomas,” Sorin said, trying to keep desperation from entering his voice, “you have to tell me what is going on.”

  “I told you already,” the old man growled lowly, his concentration still on the plain. “I don’t know. We’ll know more when we get to the capital.”

  “I’m not talking about the riders, Thomas.”

  “What do you mean then?” Thomas shot back.

  “You’ve been hiding the truth from me since the moment I awoke in your house. My father’s last words were to find you. Why? What could you know or say or do that would be so crucial? You know more than you are telling me.”

  “Are you done?” Thomas replied.

  “No, I’m not. Even though no one has heard of or seen the jerich in centuries, you seemed to know everything about it—odd since you live in th
e outskirts of the Kingdom where education is not the norm.”

  “And that makes you think I am more than I am?” Thomas shook his head.

  “Having the ability to discern and discuss the arrangement and configuration of those troops down there on the plain and recount the history of Godwyn Keep and the Kingdom is no typical feat. The sword you carry wrapped up is a mystery of your past. All of it shows secrecy. And it is all concerning me—otherwise it wouldn’t be an issue.”

  With Relnyn watching intently, Thomas glared at Sorin. “You know so little, and you’ve let the Giant leader’s words overcome your common sense. No matter how you perceive me, I am here, and I’ve saved your life. I don’t care to be out here on the road. Don’t imagine I am here out of honor or virtue or even friendship for you—I no longer care for those things. I made a promise—an important promise, one that if not held up will haunt me into my grave.”

  Sorin ignored his reply. “Tell me, Thomas.”

  “I can’t,” Thomas said stubbornly. “I won’t. I’m not the one to do so.”

  “Why not?!” Sorin was furious.

  “The time is not right,” Thomas said, his eyes as hard as granite.

  “Aris Shae,” Sorin sneered. “What if we don’t make it? If you want to die, do as you wish, just don’t take my chance to hear the truth of my parents’ deaths with you.”