Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  When Dendreth found Garethe’s soulsong, he probed his mind with a slow, methodical tenderness. There he discerned a barricade of some sort over the mind’s entrance, but using warm feelings of friendship and care, Dendreth gently pushed through. It disappeared, and the confines of Pontiff Garethe’s mind surrounded the Pontifex.

  He searched for the areas that would awaken the Pontiff. Garethe would not be aware of his friend; the higher faculties of thought and reason were comatose. Instead, Dendreth would try to massage areas back into awareness, where the Pontiff could bring himself out of his coma.

  The Pontifex tried everything he knew but nothing worked. Even though the Pontiff’s flame burned bright for life, there was a part of Garethe that just did not want to be awoken. The paradox staggered Dendreth a bit; he had always thought Godwyn’s leader to be a person who embraced life and thought every day was precious and a genuine gift. It made no sense. Dendreth explored Garethe’s mind, looking for clues or reasons in memories, but there was nothing that hinted at the man’s desire to die.

  Then unexpectedly he felt it. It was not an obvious place to find, so tucked away by the Pontiff that even he may not have been aware of it. A dark patch as sinister as a thundercloud filled an obscure and buried part of his mind, one Dendreth may never have found had the Pontiff been easier to awaken. The area was sour with self-loathing, and it repelled Dendreth simply by being in proximity to it. Bringing the song to bear, he pried into the stormy mass but could not penetrate the darkness. It was obviously an area of the mind Garethe had kept sealed away within himself for years until it had become a part of his identity and no longer independent from his soul.

  Dendreth decided to attempt something else. Feeling his stamina wane but unwilling to give up, he inserted a part of himself that housed the memories the old man shared with him during decades of service. Dendreth used the happy recollections—the memories that bind people in friendship and allow them to overcome anything. He used them as a mother uses her fingers to lightly brush away a fevered child’s hair in comfort. He kneaded the spot of wrongness with his friendship, hoping to get a response.

  At first, nothing happened. Dendreth tried again with even more tenderness, the sadness of losing his friend giving him a level of sincerity he did not know he possessed.

  The swirling dark mass grayed around the edges, and then dropped away entirely, revealing all of the secrets the Pontiff had kept tucked away. Dendreth slowly moved in, unsure of what he would find.

  The first memory he uncovered was one of Garethe standing on his balcony a few days prior to his injury, the cool, smooth metal of his looking glass in his hands as he viewed the stars. A black movement caught Garethe’s eye, clouding the heavens from view. Focusing the golden mechanism, the Pontiff saw twisted, writhing bodies filling the whole of his vision, hundreds strong. He did not see any other aspect of their obscure appearance, the height they were at so far above him the darkness filled their outlines against the stars with black ink, but he saw the strokes of broad wings taking the groups across the night sky to the northwest. With a sudden realization of fright and worry, he knew what they were and what their flight signified.

  The second vision was a conversation with the former Pontiff Evelina. After deciding to leave Godwyn Keep forever, she met the newly-appointed Pontiff in the forest of Tanglewood where no one would bear witness to their conversation. No one had questioned his ability to don the mantle of Pontiff, but Ganite had; for Ganite to leave his duty at her side, Evelina reasoned Garethe had a secret so dark it made him unworthy of the role. She tried to unearth what Garethe was hiding, but he did not relent. She stormed away, angry with the man who was willing to hide secrets from the Order. Ganite followed her into the Tanglewood on her way to discover what she knew to be true. Garethe worried about the loss of Ganite and what it would mean to the Keep, but he believed his worth would overcome his transgression.

  The final memory Dendreth observed was a series of flickering images at different times of a boy Garethe felt compelled to use before . The boy was small for his age, with dark hair and piercing black eyes that sparkled with inner knowledge. He was brought to Godwyn Keep for his strong abilities, and it was his mystery—his enigma—that drew Garethe to him like a moth to a flame. Garethe took the boy on as his protégé, tutoring the boy and training him to control his power. But emotions he had guiltily exercised before with others the boy’s age stirred within the Pontiff. Confusion became the Pontiff’s partner, as the desires to know the boy’s mysteries sent the Pontiff where he should not have gone. After a few winters of Garethe’s selfishness, the boy fled the Keep and vanished into the world, taking their secret with him. The shame of Garethe’s actions followed him his entire life, a secret he had buried deep—so deep.

  The man’s pain and shame squeezed Dendreth, the revelations nearly severing the connection the Pontifex had with his long-time friend. The need to live Garethe previously had was now gone, replaced by a tired, remorseful old man who desired to be let go. Now Dendreth understood why Garethe wanted to live and die at the same time—he had hidden and now shared information that was vital to Godwyn and the Kingdom, information that incriminated him but also set him free. Garethe had kept his worst moment of weakness as close to himself as he could, safe from eyes that may use it to gain a dark advantage. The Pontiff was a man who was strong in his faith but who succumbed to power’s intoxication, needing to be close to a boy as unique and promising as Aerom himself. And the boy, a great hope to Godwyn Keep’s future, had fled, confused and damaged.

  Finally, after nearly two decades, Dendreth knew why Ganite had disappeared. The last gift Garethe had given Godwyn Keep might be a legacy that would always be looked at as a double-edged sword.

  Dendreth said goodbye to his friend, letting Garethe know he would be missed and thanking him for his contribution to the faith, forgiving him for the momentary times of weakness. The Pontifex sent gladness and hope into the man who had been his close friend for decades, happy Garethe would be going Beyond with an absolved soul. Dendreth said farewell for all of them. Although Garethe was not mentally aware of Dendreth, a warm joy radiated from his friend like a long sigh that nearly moved Dendreth to tears. The Pontiff was ready; he wanted to be let go.

  Withdrawing the few remaining tendrils of his presence from the old man’s mind, Dendreth prepared to leave Garethe. But as he pulled back, he froze, nearly losing the focus to continue the soncrist.

  Placed at the exit of the Pontiff’s mind was a black creature that weaved back and forth as if ready to launch toward Dendreth at any moment. It had no arms or legs, but stood upright on the back of its tail with powerful undulations of its slender body. Jaws gaped at him with a montage of jagged teeth and it exuded a faint hissing noise like the release of steam from a kettle. Cursing himself for his carelessness, the Pontifex realized what it was.

  A mindwoorm.

  It was a mental trap, constructed by an outside mind and reinforced by the patient’s. Someone else had entered Garethe’s mind recently and purposefully planted it there. While it sat there and swayed, alert and ready, Dendreth remained unable to extricate himself from Garethe. It was not there to attack or injure him; it was there to prevent him from leaving. If Dendreth could not depart, his physical body would become too exhausted to maintain the soncrist. When that happened, he would die still trapped within his friend’s mind, as would Garethe.

  It had been difficult entering his friend’s mind, Dendreth remembered, and now he knew the barricade he had encountered was that of the mindwoorm. The trap had been laid and Dendreth stumbled right into it. His mind swirled. There were not many people who could accomplish such a complex and difficult snare. The Council members could do it as could a few bishops who had risen in their faith to the point of achieving the necessary knowledge and power to create it. Someone out there wanted to remove as many high-ranking Godwyn officials as possible—perhaps even hoped Dendreth would be the one to to try and bring t
he Pontiff back. A surge of anger at the acknowledgment gave him hope; Dendreth was a lot stronger than they thought.

  He tentatively poked at it to test its fortitude. The mindwoorm repulsed him, sending him backward into Garethe’s mind. It hissed as if in triumph or annoyance, its body blanketing the exit. Dendreth tried to overcome it with sheer mental force, but the woorm flicked him away without a challenge. It was as powerful as Dendreth.

  After an inordinate amount of time had passed, and he knew he was getting nowhere, Dendreth’s soul howled in frustration. Panic rebounded inside him. He was doomed unless he received help from an outside source, but the Pontifices observing had no chance of knowing what he needed.

  That’s when Garethe took over. Dendreth’s lurid shout had awoken a part of the Pontiff that could respond to his friend’s need. Garethe’s mind opened like a giant sea with decisive understanding of what was occurring, and it began to suffocate the mindwoorm. The thing hissed and spat, its jaws snapping and unyielding in its desire to fulfill its role. It would not relent. The force of the old man’s mind came down on the thing like a vise, steadfast in its determination to protect his friend. The depth of Garethe’s power was astonishing, and he knew where its fountain lay—the very core of Garethe’s life force, where the argent fire of his soul burned bright after his absolution. The Pontiff poured his entire life of love and faith into his assault, depleting his soul to the point of nothing being left. The mindwoorm shrunk and became inconsequential, screeching all the while. In the moment before Dendreth slipped from Garethe’s mind, his friend whispered the Pontifex a tender farewell.

  Dendreth returned to his body, the soncrist dying on his lips. Holding his friend’s hand in his own, he felt the life fade within Garethe’s body. The old Pontiff’s breathing slowed, the rise of his chest under the sheets declining with every draw of air. The flow of blood in his friend’s hand slowed, his heart losing the rhythm of vitality, and a part of Dendreth’s own soul reached out to comfort his friend’s and help see it on its way. The ancient man’s breathing stopped and his heart took one last, quiet beat, and then it too ceased.

  The room was absolutely still.

  “He is gone,” Dendreth whispered, his throat dry and his lips cracked.

  Meriam Aron placed her hand on his shoulder. “The All Father saw it fit, then.”

  Dendreth nodded, exhausted physically and emotionally.

  “Are you all right?” she asked with concern. Dendreth was suddenly aware of the pairs of eyes watching him. “You seemed to become so distressed at one point, your song nearly faded completely.”

  Tears flowed freely then as he looked down on his former friend. Garethe had carried so much pain with him, a torture that remained even after decades of inception. In the end, it was his capacity for good and love that had saved Dendreth. There was nothing he could do for Garethe now—he was in the Beyond—but Dendreth would strive to create a stronger legacy for his friend’s sacrifice other than the vice he knew once gripped his old mentor. He would have his opportunity.

  What he and High King Nialls had feared was true. There were events moving outside the realm of their knowledge, and that—coupled with the unseasonable migration of the dragons from Garethe’s memory—only solidified their need for action.

  Dendreth would also find out who had tried to kill him.

  “There is much to discuss.” Dendreth rose and turned to look out the window at the shiny gold tube that still pointed to the heavens. “And I must speak with the High King immediately.”

  Chapter 22

  The icy stars twinkled at High King Nialls Chagne from their black velvet bed of the night sky, and their cold light chilled his soul. The moon was near its new cycle, a sliver of incandescent silver hanging low in the eastern horizon. It illuminated the High King as he looked out at the jagged outline of the Chilbrook Mountains, the Grifforn Forest a black stain at their base. Without the moon’s meager light, Nialls might have felt lost to a world of darkness.

  In the bed behind him, Demarque murmured in his sleep. Even under the influence of thistlemilk, Demarque’s eyelids fluttered as he fought to waken from his drug-induced rest. He had been sleeping since they moved him into the High King’s private chambers, and there he had remained for several weeks while Dendreth and the others had come and gone. The Royal Healer spent exhaustive time with the water bearer for several days after the attack in the Bacilus, but it was up to the boy to decide if he lived or died. The burns from the assassination attempt covered his chest, back, arms, and thighs in thick patches, his skin looking like melted wax. His face and feet were all the fire left untouched. He would never be the same again.

  When the healer looked on the boy, Nialls knew all he saw was a ravaged cripple who may yet die; what Nialls saw was strength and persistence.

  The High King rubbed his forehead to relieve the headache there. The note in his hand sent by Dendreth exemplified another loyalty. The Pontifex had tried unsuccessfully to revive Pontiff Garethe, ending in the death of Godwyn Keep’s leader. Nialls had accepted how difficult and dangerous the attempt would be, but now that Garethe was dead, the High King was hollow inside. He was unused to gambling with people’s lives—even though he knew it was part of his role. The Council members, along with the bishops scattered throughout the Kingdom, would gather in a few days at Godwyn Keep to vote the next Pontiff into power. Once the procedures began for the ancient rite, Dendreth would return to Aris Shae to speak about items he could not risk addressing in the letter. Then both would return to Godwyn Keep for the funeral.

  The High King turned from the view and sat on a divan facing the sleeping boy. Nialls had not seen First Warden Rowen in two days, the knight working tirelessly to bring the Kingdom’s forces to their utmost potential. The consolidation of the military forces and preparing them for battle was only the first step. His First Minister, Chadom Houlis, had begun asking Aris Shae’s wealthy and most influential for aid as well, and the various Kingdom guilds were giving what they could—whether it was stored grain, steel, cloth, or manufactured goods. Economic sanctions were easy to place upon La Zandia; suppliers could be suppressed and trade routes blocked. Although he suspected there were events transpiring against his Kingdom he was not yet aware of, Nialls was thankful they were moving in a direction to end the hostilities in La Zandia before war tore his Kingdom apart.

  Nialls was prepared to confront all of his enemies as needed. He may not comprehend why they were rising against him now, but he did recognize the very human motives driving each. The theft of the Hammer of Aerom he did not, and the unknown drove the High King to retrieve the Hammer at any cost.

  He sighed, feeling the grit of numerous days without decent sleep irritating his eye. It was at times like this he missed his father’s guidance and wife’s assurance.

  “Your Majesty, are you all right?” a husky feminine voice said across the room.

  Nialls had been so lost within his own thoughts he had not noticed the tiny floating orb that washed the room in dull blue-white light, or the old woman who walked beneath it. She was short and stocky with a homely face that featured pinched lips as though she saw the worst in life every day and a poof of graying hair come straight from her pillow. She carried a jar of what the High King knew to be a burn healing salve and a pitcher of water she would use to clean the boy’s oozing wounds. She looked like a caring mother, prepared to tend to her sick child.

  Nialls smiled at his healer’s assistant, realizing how dark his mood had turned. “I’m fine, Sari. I just have a lot on my mind right now.”

  Following an incline of her head—her version of a bow—Sari moved passed the High King to the side of the sleeping boy to begin her ministrations.

  “How is he?” Nialls asked, standing to observe her work.

  “He sleeps, and he improves every day. Without your care, however, the boy would be dead. His body was put through so much shock, even with the All Father’s aid it has been difficult to stay ahead o
f the injury done him. It has been best to keep him comfortable and unaware of his injury. The bandages are gone now though, so tomorrow Healer Riock will wean the boy off of the thistlemilk. He will wake to discover what has happened to him.” She looked sad. “Then it will take time for him to rehabilitate himself. It will not be easy, but he is young enough to adapt.”

  “Will he be able to resume a normal life?”

  “Burn victims can have a difficult time of it. It’s the infections mostly. When he awakes in the next few days, Riock will immediately start him flexing his fingers so the scarring will be supple enough for him to move. It will be excruciating to the boy, I’m sure, but if he wishes to have a normal life with fingers, he’ll have to do it.”

  The High King nodded, gazing down on the boy. His face seemed so serene in slumber, unaware of the severity of injury Nialls’s assailant had caused him. The High King had done what he could for the water bearer, and if he survived, Nialls would make sure the boy was given whatever he wished for—his sacrifice demanded it.

  “If I may say so, Your Majesty,” Sari said. “It is late and you look very tired.”

  Nialls waved her concern off; sleep would not come even if he did retire for the night.

  “Is it true about Pontiff Garethe, Your Majesty?” Sari asked, peeling back the thin cotton sheet from the boy’s twisted, destroyed flesh. Nialls shuddered from the sight.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” he said sadly. “Yesterday from his wounds. The Godwyn healers did their best and the Council was there when he passed. I have sent news of this sad time to the far ends of the Kingdom. The Bishops gather even now to name the new Pontiff.”