Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “We know who yer with, boy,” the bony man wheezed, his stinking ale breath the only air Sorin could suck in. “If the Watchman deems him important, you are worth a price too. A pretty one, I bet.”

  A whistle of air as though something heavy sliced quickly through it was followed by an eruption of excruciating pain at the back of his head. Trying to scream, he abruptly spun away into a world of nothingness.

  Chapter 21

  With the gathered power of Godwyn Keep surrounding him with alert eyes and curious glances, Pontifex Dendreth Charl gingerly lowered himself into his chair, stretching his wounded leg out beneath the table in hopes it would not stiffen from the long stair climb. The arrow that had pierced his thigh on Westor was a memory, but the wound was still tender, a reminder of his last foray on the Sea Star. People in the Kingdom who suffered lesser injuries often lost their limbs, any advanced treatment unavailable to them. As a high-ranking member of Godwyn Keep, Dendreth was privy to treatment only kings were given.

  Around him at the ornate table, two women and three men waited for him to begin. He had been alive a long time and seen more than any of them could suspect. He had seen the best in men; he had seen the worst. The events of the last few weeks had left him shaken, and he knew as Nialls did that it would take a strong Godwyn Council to help lead the Kingdom in the months to come.

  Now in the circular Council Chamber, the other Pontifices would learn a small bit of what he knew. They lacked the decades of experience at Godwyn, but what they lacked would have to be bolstered by intellect and youth. What Dendreth was going to ask of them today would challenge every bit of their garnered wisdom and faith; what he proposed would shock even the arrogant Erol Tal.

  When it had become apparent to the High King there were dark forces aligning against the Kingdom, Nialls had acted quickly. While Dendreth poured over the Codex, Nialls had sent his First Warden to La Zandia to convince the Marcher Lord to dismantle his burgeoning army in favor of peace. He carried an invitation to Laver Herid to entreat with the High King; it was most likely a wasted effort but an effort nonetheless.

  In Dendreth’s mind, Nialls had charged the Pontifex with a far more difficult task, one he did not know if he was able to fulfill.

  The Pontifex had left Aris Shae under the cover of darkness and traveled to Godwyn Keep by horse with two Wards dressed as civilians. The ferries had long since shut down for the night, and the High King did not want to arouse spying eyes in Dockside. Nialls would not take a chance; although Westor’s Feyr delegation had left the mainland, loose lips at the Keep had initially sent Mikel to Aris Shae. It stood to reason the person who did so would also let them know the whereabouts of Dendreth now. Even as he had left the capital, the eyes of Westor crawled over him. The longer the Feyr did not know what Dendreth was up to, the better.

  Now, as the Pontifex sat at the head of the table and glanced at those he should consider his closest allies, he worried that one of them might be a spy.

  “Thank you for joining me today on such short notice,” he said after making eye contact with each Pontifex. “You all know me to be neither rash nor foolhardy. I do not lie. I am not prone to the wild inherencies of youth.

  “The All Father has blessed us with the burden of seeing to His flock, and even though we differ at times in how we see His design executed, at no time do I recall any of you disrespecting our function here at Godwyn Keep or the spiritual lives of the people with which we work. That said, I come to you now under the gravest of situations.”

  “You have the floor, Deendreth,” Meriam Aron encouraged. She was the only person in the room Dendreth knew unequivocally he could trust.

  “I mean no disrespect, but is the point forthcoming?” Cyrus de Lille grumbled.

  “There are dire forces moving throughout the Kingdom,” Dendreth continued, ignoring the portly, heavily-bearded Pontifex. “Those who would see it ruined and subjected to another way of life. The attack on Godwyn Keep and the heinous wounding of Pontiff Garethe was merely the beginning. We as a council argued what the intent of that crime could be and some of you passed it off as mere mischief. As you know, I stood on the other side of that argument. My caution led me on a search through our own archives for insight into why the Hammer might be worth stealing. After finding nothing and at the behest of the High King, I went to Aris Shae and searched further. Again, I found nothing. I then turned to the Feyr and their extensive library, Memoria.

  “A long voyage,” Valarie Reu acknowledged. Her eyes flicked toward Erol.

  “It was,” Dendreth replied. “Memoria has always been a safe haven for ancient texts and although many of them were copied and brought here, the Feyr still hold a wealth of knowledge we do not possess. With the aid of Historian Lorien Silas and with blessing of King Belinorn, I was given access to their grand library. And there I found something quite remarkable.”

  “What did you find?” Meriam Aron asked, her long, thin fingers interlocked on the table.

  “I found a book,” Dendreth replied, looking around the table at his peers. “It was a book none here have ever seen, a recounting of the last days of the Fatherhead. Upon reading select sections of it, I was given a new and diverse insight into the Book of Iorek and into that Scholar’s insight into humanity’s destiny and what is to come. That along with the midnight theft of the Hammer, the consolidation of strength in Blackrhein Reach, and the secession of La Zandia under Herid’s Marcher Lord banners, can only lead one to the conclusion about the unbalanced power in the Kingdom that cannot be ignored. It is for these reasons I have brought you here today.”

  Dendreth paused, gathering their attention more firmly into his net. “Due to the needs of the Kingdom, High King Nialls Chagne has ordered me to reestablish the leadership of Godwyn Keep—at whatever cost necessary.”

  After several moments of stunned silence, Pontifex Erol Tal shifted in his seat. “What does the High King mean exactly? Surely he doesn’t insist what I fear he is insinuating.”

  “And what of the book you speak of?” asked Cyrus de Lille, his fat cheeks still ruddy from the long climb. “Did you not bring it with you as evidence?”

  “It is imperative the faculties of the Kingdom be as strong and hearty as the Illym, my friends,” Dendreth answered, looking directly at Erol. “I sit now, not as a Pontifex of the Godwyn faith, but as a concerned citizen. If we stand by and do nothing, a shroud of darkness will fall as it did so long ago. La Zandia is only the start. Other forces are moving. In time, we may not have the means to repel it.”

  “Why is the High King not here himself?” Valarie Reu asked, her eyes sharp like blue-steel daggers. “I have the highest level of respect for you, Pontifex Charl, but I find it difficult to take your word on much of this. It sounds a child’s fairy tale or an epic story within a bard’s lie-ridden repertoire sung to the drunken.”

  Dendreth produced a letter from inside his tunic and slid it out into the middle of the table. It bore the antlered stag sigil of the Kingdom stamped into its hard wax. “High King Nialls regrets he could not speak to the Council in person. He is busy marshalling his forces even as I speak to you.”

  “Dendreth, La Zandia is a concern for everyone here,” Meriam Aron said, her tight bun of graying blonde hair shimmering in the orblight suspended in the corners of the room. “And it should definitely be a concern for the throne. A secession of that sort would be a stress on La Zandia’s people and their bordering cities, and would depress the rest of the Kingdom economically, politically, as well as spiritually. History has shown the pagan ethos is plagued by a continuous fall into war and brutality. That can no longer happen. But I believe what the others are trying to get at is what causes you and the High King to believe this is the right course of action at this very time, Dendreth?”

  “What you are suggesting is too dangerous an act, one nearly banned,” Cryus pointed out, in a constant state of settling his wide girth more comfortably in his chair. “To sign an order and send it through
you is a simple act of passing the sad burden of responsibility and consequence onto us.”

  “I do not deny the implications,” Dendreth said. “But it also exemplifies the severity of the events gripping the Kingdom and Godwyn Keep. It is not a matter the High King or I have taken lightly. Even now, as I sit here with you, I confess to still being of two minds about it.”

  “Tell us your evidence, Dendreth,” Erol demanded. “It is obvious what you found in Memoria angered the Feyr enough for them to come looking for you. Just by that, I am intrigued since the ramifications of your trip have probably already caused a rift with what once was a probable ally in any dark period that may come to pass.”

  “There is no need for innuendos here, Pontifex Tal,” Meriam Aron quickly interjected, deflecting an argument that would only waste time. “To speak of the political fallout of our fair neighbors is not the reason we have been summoned here today. One could, after all, point out your prompt usage of Godwyn Keep resources, signing orders on behalf of the Order, and moving important missionaries and supplies without Council consent.”

  Erol shook his head, raising his hands before him in supplication. “Indeed, I agree with this, my friends. I made a hasty decision else we lose our faithful brethren in La Zandia.” He turned his eyes on Dendreth. “We trust you. All of us have been on this Council for at least a decade, and no one has served it longer than the man bringing this to us. I apologize, Dendreth, for any disrespect on my part.”

  Dendreth looked hard at Erol. For the middle-aged Pontifex, life was a political game, centering on his own ambition and passions. Dendreth believed Erol to be sincere in his efforts with Godwyn Keep—the newest member to their Council had shown it repeatedly in his efforts devoted to improving life in the Kingdom—but lying below the surface of those efforts was always personal gain. He did not know what Erol was looking to gain here, but the question posed was an honest one on its surface with hungry intentions hidden within its shadows.

  “Get to it, Dendreth,” Valarie Reu prompted impatiently.

  “The book I looked at is in safekeeping at Aris Shae. It is rare and can be the subject of study once this is resolved and a modicum of stability has returned to the Kingdom. The book’s content runs parallel to that of the Scholar Iorek. Iorek spent the immediate weeks after Aerom’s death composing a Book as different from the others as the others are to literature. Iorek fills his writing with a series of revelations—prophecy, if you believe it—that document the events of the future and how the world will come to its end. Much of the Book present in the Codex is difficult to process, lacking linearity of story or thought. The new source I found in Memoria fills in the gaps.”

  “Are you saying it was written by Scholar Iorek?” Meriam prodded. The others around her looked on Dendreth with a mix of guarded wonder and suspicion in their eyes.

  “I do not know,” Dendreth admitted. “I’m not here to debate its place between our Keep’s walls. Not now, anyway. What I do know is the Book now reads smoothly and the dialect and cadence mirror Iorek’s excerpts in the Codex. From a historian’s point of view, the book could be legitimate based on its technical merit. Logic dictates that it must be given an honest appraisal, and that—coupled with the problems in the Kingdom and the theft of the Hammer—has given the High King pause and set him into action.

  “What we know of Aerom’s death comes to us from the Codex, and most of it seems to be miracles of magical wonder, the most awesome being the Fatherhead’s sacrifice to prevent the Wrathful from fulfilling its plans to escape this world and wage war on the All Father. Even though on a metaphysical level that seems to be embraced by everyone, the less wondrous events are not. According to the Codex, the Rosemere in Aris Shae’s palace sprang into being as the lifeless Aerom touched the ground after his sacrifice. The healing of Scholar Jorick’s rotting flesh and that of the sightless man are also unexplainable—but they are mentioned. And yet there is no mention of the Hammer gaining properties after it struck its blows against Aerom. Why? When the pagan witch Isere drove the iron nail through both of the Fatherhead’s hands, his blood assuredly splashed the tool. Is it not possible that the Hammer gained properties of its own, just as the land did and those who were healed? Is that so far-fetched?”

  He paused, looking at the Council. “If the Memoria book is indeed a completed version of the Book of Iorek—and I believe it is—it recounts the Fell Hammer of Aerom will be used to destroy the Rune of Aerilonoth.”

  “That’s blasphemy,” Cyrus exploded, his jowls shaking. “Nothing can break the All Father’s will in this world. This book is obviously a fraud and you waste our time, Dendreth.”

  “The Rune of Aerilonoth is a myth,” Valarie agreed with great skepticism. “There is nothing that has led even scholars to believe it exists.”

  “We all believe in the Codex and the teachings it contains,” Dendreth countered, ignoring his leg as he stood to be the focus of the room. “It is the word of the All Father made incarnate and our entire existence is set upon it. I am a skeptic, as well, Cyrus. And yet the Hammer has been stolen, out from under our very noses. There is an uprising in the east, and a darkness has taken the crown in the south. Those occurrences taken into account alongside the wounding of the High King’s only son—well, they just cannot be ignored. Even by us. If the book I brought with me from Westor has even a shred of truth in it, we would do well to worry.

  “You feel this is the crux of what transpires?” Meriam Aron asked.

  “Is there not another way to gain the benefits of leadership without having to endanger Pontiff Garethe? Or ourselves?” Geoffrey Lonoth asked.

  “Not that I am aware,” Dendreth said, his palms wide. “I know the hazard. To lose another of the pillars of Godwyn Keep would be doubly detrimental. I have thought through this and there is no other way. A Pontiff is needed during these darkening times, and no mere semblance of a Pontiff will do. Our Order must be as strong as the All Father intended.”

  Dendreth listened to his own voice as if someone else used it, and he realized he was willing to end Garethe’s life in order to restore leadership of Godwyn Keep. A part of him felt leaden from that awareness, as if a series of thick chains hung about his shoulders and threatened to lock him to the floor.

  “I guess the question remains then, who shall conduct the soncrist?” Erol asked.

  “It requires delicacy,” Dendreth said.

  Geoffrey Lonoth cleared his throat. “I believe these are dire times, and the action to be taken needs decision and care. Any of us could initiate the song and attempt to restore the Pontiff, but it should be someone here who earnestly believes in the action to be taken and is a close companion of our leader.”

  “I vote confidence in Dendreth,” Erol said, straightening the wrinkles from his shirt as if the decision was already made. “He has proven himself to be advocate of the situation, and I know no one who is as strong in faith as he is.”

  “And Dendreth has known Pontiff Garethe the longest,” Cyrus de Lille agreed, looking around at his fellow Pontifices and stopping at Dendreth. “The faith and skill you bring will give you the strength that is necessary, but your long-standing friendship with the Pontiff will aid you better than anything.”

  Meriam Aron just stared at Dendreth, and he knew she was worried. He looked around at the other members of the Council and knew they had made up their minds.

  Dendreth straightened his shoulders at their faith in him, but he just felt tired.

  * * * * *

  Pontiff Garethe’s chamber was cool in the late morning, the growing heat outside unable to penetrate the confines of Godwyn Keep’s inner sanctum. Dendreth stood at the foot of his old friend’s bed as an ocean breeze played with the drapes at the open window, the Pontifex looking on Garethe with a mixture of sadness and regret. The other members of the Council stood at the room’s perimeter—some in chairs, others standing—all of them quiet, giving Dendreth the time and space he needed to collect his thoughts. R
ather than wait for the inevitable, Dendreth made the decision to attempt the soncrist and pull his friend and leader back from the depths of living death.

  Dendreth thought back on the night the Hammer was stolen. Pontiff Garethe had been so sure they could prevent the theft from their Vault. The two men should have been able to overcome nearly any obstacle, but had instead fallen to their own inadequacy and arrogance. It was a lesson he had no desire to ever repeat. After having lived with the knowledge he could have done more, Dendreth knew that a predetermined plan had a better chance of succeeding. High King Nialls had set the Pontifex on this one; it would be executed to the best of his ability for the good of the Kingdom.

  The Pontifex came around the side of the bed and sat next to his friend’s crumpled form. When he closed his eyes and focused on the words that were necessary to evoke the soncrist into life, he knew he was prepared, with all of the ability, faith, and desire to save the Pontiff. It would not be easy—the soncrist in question was extremely difficult, its rhythms, melodies, and complex strings of music having to absolutely match Garethe’s own soul and body to be effective. Once he found the key to the old man’s mind, Dendreth would have to maintain the soncrist perfectly; only then could he enter Garethe and coax him back into the present. The smallest error could be disastrous. Many Godwyn-taught healers had tried this over the centuries, singing to heal those important enough to take the risk, but nearly half of the coma patients had died, taking most of the mind-connected healers with them. To fail would be the death of one or both of them; to succeed would restore their Pontiff to his station.

  Gripping his aged friend’s papery-smooth hand, Dendreth sang, the soncrist’s power rising up out of his soul at its summons. The familiar connection with something beyond himself rose in his heart, a power outside the world, lending him strength and assurance he was doing the right thing. He added more depth to the song, the sound interlaced with new notes until the room was alive with it. A net of sound fell over the inert form of the Pontiff like a fine linen sheet. Dendreth worked slowly, conserving his stamina for the long process, searching for the melody and pitch that represented his friend.