Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “I can’t do this,” he whispered half to himself.

  “You can, and will,” Nialls said in a soft, sincere tone. “There is hope in the world for you to be delivered to us now, at this critical time. You are the only one. Thomas will aid you.”

  “I won’t.” The room closed around him, suffocating.

  “You must,” Nialls said, coming forward as if to place his hands on Sorin’s shoulders.

  “No,” Sorin stated, feeling bile rise into his throat.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Sorin was vanishing through the doorway down the tower’s spiral staircase. He blocked out the mixed voices of surprise and worry that chased him. They did not matter. He took three steps at a time, his heart racing from emotions that threatened to smother him. His parents were dead because of who he was; his father had sacrificed himself for a lie. Had they known and not told him? Could he have saved them? Who or what had dispatched the jerich? Kieren? The Evil One himself? Would Sorin ever know? Would the guilt that pierced his heart stay with him forever? The questions swirled inside his head, threatening to overwhelm him.

  Soon the tower had swallowed him entirely, and he burst through the oak door at the spire’s bottom into cool air that slapped his fevered skin abruptly. Other than his own muffled breathing, no sound met him and none followed. He looked around, unsure of where he was and not caring, just wanting to run and be free of the pain and fear that gripped him. He was a puppet of a greater design being used, his only role in life reduced to end the life of another human being. If the All Father had put all of this into motion, why would He break His own doctrine? Sorin’s faith was asking him to disregard one of its sacred laws—do not murder. It was a burden he would not fulfill.

  Sorin moved toward the entrance to the palace, aware he had to find a place to think unhindered and ponder these new events, when a voice shackled him in place. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  He froze. It was a crisp, feminine voice, strong and sure of itself but soft around the edges as if it knew to do otherwise would push Sorin to bolt.

  Sorin turned as a shadow freed itself of the rhododendron’s gloom about the base of the tower. It was Arianna.

  “This is as far as the High King permits me to go,” she said, hunkered within a light cloak, her cowl lowered. “I have no idea what lies beyond the door. Some say the Tower of Illuminae is a sacred place, although many of those same people muse it is just the High King’s personal sunset view.”

  The wildness in Sorin’s heart lessened. He took a deep breath. “Sounds like you don’t believe in the Godwyn faith or what took place here.”

  Her liquid-brown eyes shimmered in the starlight. “I only believe in what I am capable of. Events of the past, they don’t change how I conduct my life in the present.”

  Either because of what she said or how she said it, Sorin calmed. “How is your arm?”

  She did not take her eyes off him. “It’s been attended to. In a few days only a nasty scar will remain. The High King’s healer is adept at his art.” She looked up at the tower. “Is everything all right up there? You seemed in quite a hurry to leave.”

  “It is. They are mulling over plans. I had to get some air.”

  Arianna nodded. If she suspected anything wrong, she did not show it. “Walk with me?” she asked.

  Sorin fell into step. It was long moments before either of them spoke.

  “What do you do for the High King?” Sorin asked.

  “I do what is required,” she said, pulling her hair back and revealing a strong jawline Sorin found himself tracing down to her slender neck. “I am what the High King needs and none of his other advisors can fulfill, I suppose. He calls me his Shadow. All I know is I’ve had worse men run my life in the past.”

  “You were on the streets?”

  She nodded. “Grew up in Dockside with the filth and rats. I don’t remember my parents—orphaned I guess. My first memories are thieving for food, being beaten for it, and thieving again. Eventually, I guess, I got pretty good at stealing things.”

  “And that’s how you found me in the Watchman’s dungeon? You were once part of that world?”

  “For what seemed an eternity,” she said, and a deep-seated sorrow hardened her soft features and disappeared as quickly as it had come. “The Watchman has always been a force here, but one that remained hidden. I was smart enough to lay low and learn the city from the ground up. After a while, I came to be in a street gang—for self-preservation more than anything else—and the leader was an old man named Hestel who treated us like property in return for safety. But we weren’t safe from him; he would hit me if I didn’t bring enough in.” She shrugged. “After a few winters, my skills improved but his treatment didn’t, and I grew tired of him. That’s when I came under the scrutiny of the First Warden and I began a new life here.”

  “You ever have to kill anyone?” Sorin asked, grimacing from what he knew.

  Either the question itself or the tone of his voice caught her off guard. She turned to face him, and the way the meager moonlight played amongst her smattering of freckles stirred something deep within his gut. Her eyes were chips of midnight that absorbed all light like a void. She looked at him—really looked him in the eye for the first time—and having him trapped she said, “I have.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  Arianna shook her head and unrequited age draped her face once more. “My only regret is not killing Hestel sooner and slower.”

  The hinted scent of clematis blooms reached him and the beaded dew brought by the cooling humidity shined on the trimmed grass of the garden like quicksilver jewels. Sorin tried to discern more of the young woman, but he failed, her dark hair now hiding her like the High King’s nickname suggested. Earlier he had seen she was young; now after talking to her, she was older—not in actual winters of age but in what she had done during that time. Arianna had lived an existence of hardship and pain. The responsibility of her position within the High King’s inner circle lent maturity to her soft voice, but her eyes told the real story. Is this what could have happened to him if he had accepted the Feyr’s offer to win freedom and won? Could it happen to him if he took upon himself what the High King desired?

  “How is that cut?” she eventually asked.

  For the first time, he was reminded of how grimy and unclean he was. So much had happened in the last two days, he had not paid much attention to himself or his appearance. The headache had gone away but the blood-matted hair remained, and the stink of his own sweat and fear clung to him still. He needed a long bath and new clothes and time away from the past few days to absorb it all. If he looked at himself as Arianna probably did, he would see a young, dirty wretch with haunted eyes and beggar’s clothing. Once he reasserted a semblance of control over his conflicted feelings tonight, he would try to convince Thomas to help him receive what he needed.

  Sorin fingered the back of his head; the bump was still there, but his fingers came away blood free. “It doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore but it’s still tender to the touch.” He grimaced a bit as he prodded. “One of those guys really hit me good.”

  “The First Warden already has guards looking for the Watchman,” she said, “but Rowen doesn’t have much hope he will still be at that location. He is like a coyote, that one, sly and cunning and able to withstand the noose we throw out to catch him.” She shrugged. “As for you, we never would have been able to follow your trail through the tunnel passages if you hadn’t been bleeding like a stuck boar. Some good did come from that crack to your skull.”

  When the two had walked around the entire Tower of Illuminae, Thomas disentangled himself from the shadows near the entrance to the palace. He did not approach; he only stood there, waiting. Sorin was a bit more settled. He wondered if time was the only thing he needed to overcome any pain or disquiet life threw at him. He did not think that was quite right, but it was a start, and maybe now that Thomas was alone, Sorin could get some honest an
swers from a man who had not shared any but had quite a few.

  Arianna and Sorin walked up the short staircase that separated the circular garden from the palace. He peered into the shadows; the High King and Pontifex were nowhere in sight, disappeared as if they had had enough of Sorin, Kieren, and prophecies for the night.

  “They have retired,” Thomas said, addressing Sorin’s unspoken question. “But I doubt Nialls will sleep. He has much on his mind and rightfully so.”

  Walking with Arianna had galvanized a part of Sorin’s soul; he realized she had taken control over her life at a young age. He must do the same.

  “We must talk,” Sorin said.

  “And we shall,” Thomas answered, his eyes wearier than Sorin had seen them yet. “But not tonight. You need your rest for tomorrow. When we do sit down and talk, it will be a long discussion. I will say this, however, as I’ve been wanting to say it for some time now—your father would have been proud of you, Sorin.”

  “How did you know him? You can answer that at least.”

  “Arvel Westfall,” Thomas sighed. “A strong man. A dependable man. A man some men spent their entire lives looking up to and never quite becoming. I knew him very well. But this is neither the time nor place. Now, we rest. Tomorrow, we will determine our fate together.”

  Arianna reached out and squeezed Sorin’s forearm. “Whatever happens, Sorin, you’ll be fine. I know it,” she said, leaving him with Thomas. “You have good friends. Goodnight.”

  As Thomas entered the doorway, Sorin stood fixed in his spot and watched her leave. Even as she disappeared into the shadows created by the overhanging branches of the rhododendron trees and vanished behind the tower, he found himself still staring at her and wondering if he would ever see her again.

  Chapter 26

  With thoughts careening inside his head in an unceasing menagerie of randomness, Pontifex Erol Tal realized for the fourth time that night he could not sleep. Clad only in a thin silk sheet pulled up past his waist, Erol lay with his eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. At the base of his neck where the pillow sat bunched like a boulder, a headache had begun. Nights like this had become predictable as of late, his inability to get a full night’s rest taking a toll on his ability to think clearly.

  He had tried nearly everything to remedy the problem; wine had worked for a while, but soon it had only inflamed his wild thoughts. Alcohol had led to sweet miotha—a sedative derived from valerian root used to dull the wits of the severely injured—but its potency had also diminished. He had been left one recourse—physical exhaustion—and it only seemed to take effect after the stars had spiraled through half of the night, and the brightening east sky only hours away.

  The thoughts that plagued his sleep were vastly numbered; his planning had taken on its own life, needing his attention more than a nighttime of sleep, but all of them revolved around one man—Pontifex Dendreth Charl.

  Dendreth had learned something of importance when he had been within Garethe’s mind. Erol did not believe it was the presence of the mindwoorm, evidence the old Pontiff had been murdered. Coming out of his soncrist, Dendreth had immediately gathered the Council together and made plans to assemble the Godwyn bishops to appoint a new Pontiff.

  Bringing the leaders of the Keep together was normal—leaving the Keep afterward was not. Dendreth had given the funeral planning to Meriam Aron and left for Aris Shae and the High King once more. Whispers and rumors entered Godwyn Keep that Dendreth had played a role in the ancient Pontiff’s death; Erol knew this because he facilitated them to slander possible competition for the Pontiff’s seat. Whatever had upset Dendreth, it went above and beyond the importance of the upcoming election. So Erol worked hard with what he knew, hoping to learn why the Pontifex left. Now Erol waited, and the waiting propagated his sleepless nights.

  He pushed himself up, glowering at the pillow. Most of the bishops had answered their summons and returned to Godwyn Keep, the demands placed on them by their office pushed aside until a new Pontiff took residence. They had been arriving for the last several days, and although a few were not present, the vast majority were and that’s all the doctrine called for. Each vote was weighted the same whether it be cast from a bishop or a Pontifex, the majority of the decision representing the will of the people rather than the power of the Godwyn Council. Historically, sometimes it took a day to come to a decision; sometimes it took weeks. It all depended on the pool of worthy candidates and the political intrigue that could secure the position.

  If all went as Erol had planned, he would be Pontiff before sunset the next day. Once Pontiff, Erol would see things changed.

  No news had reached him concerning Blackrhein Reach. The assurances the Watchman had given him were still strong, and Erol was not worried—his will would be carried out. He knew the dirtiest work took time to come to fruition, and waiting with bated breath only used resources his mind needed for other ventures. Erol learned a long time ago one could plan the future, but a wise man waited for that future to come to him.

  He rolled out of bed, wrapping a lightweight robe about his body and stretched his taut, exhausted muscles. The soft orb-light beckoned to him from the adjoining room, and after donning some worn sandals and a dirk for good measure, he decided to heed the impulse he suffered while tossing in bed and take a walk.

  The night was crisp and clear, the Courtyard of Godwyn Keep refreshing, when Erol descended the staircase into the beautiful garden. No one was about. There would be several students and scholars using the various libraries of the Keep—there were at all hours—but they would not bother him here. Too many people devoted their lives to what history had scribbled into ancient books and not enough time to the present they were held within. With any luck, centuries from now, those same types of people—people who let living history pass them by—would be in the Keep’s same libraries reading his deeds as Pontiff.

  Those exploits would begin with La Zandia. The spy and confidante of the Marcher Lord had not contacted him since the night since Jimi had interrupted Erol’s meeting. But from all the news that slowly crept to Godwyn Keep and over Erol’s desk, Laver Herid continued to build his force and push the Kingdom’s influence out of the province. In time, La Zandia would be under the complete control of its ancient pagan heritage. That was unacceptable. The High King was waiting, a fool believing diplomacy would win the day, and during that time the Marcher Lord grew stronger. No amount of negotiation or mediation would end the threat. Erol knew he must save the Kingdom from itself, but to do so meant he needed absolute authority of Godwyn’s forces, and that meant becoming Pontiff.

  As for those on the Council, he had done what he had to do to secure certain votes there from Cyrus de Lille and Valerie Reu. But, then again, it was the bishops’ votes that mattered most.

  The pathway Erol traveled weaved in and out of fragrant rose bushes, green hedges, and trellises before releasing him into the midst of the Illym. The tree rose from the middle of the Courtyard with grandiose, far-reaching branches, the only other presence of note in the sea of night. She was a marvelous creation, a symbol of everything Erol desired to uphold. Although he did not look on the tree with the reverence many of his peers held and he rarely came here to look upon her, he did acknowledge his wish to triumph over evil as those who had welcomed her did. The Illym had been planted and taken root in the soil of a new Kingdom that had beaten tyranny and oppression, but it was also something else. It showed what one man could do against a multitude of evils if his heart was willing to forego life’s pleasures and devote himself to a cause. It was that way for Erol: he would see the world converted to what the Illym stood for, or die trying.

  “Wondrous, isn’t she?” A cool whisper met Erol like the caress of a light wind.

  Overcoming his initial shock, Erol peered deeper into the shadows that wrapped the Illym’s trunk and saw part of the midnight separate itself from them. The emissary from the Marcher Lord stepped into view, clothed much in the same wa
y he had been the previous times.

  Erol walked beneath the canopy of thick, dark leaves. “I’m surprised you took the risk. How did you find your way here?”

  “I came as you did, and the risk was necessary. Events are transpiring and wheels within wheels are turning. It was time to meet one last time, to finalize our plans. As you are, I’m not one to suffer failure through poor planning.”

  The cloaked figured gently caressed the bark of the Illym as he spoke. Erol wondered what side this creature was really on. The hate for the pagans he had shown Erol the first few meetings was obvious, and yet the figure acted suspiciously like them. And the hate the figure radiated at times felt as though it were directed to anything and everyone, and for that reason, Erol did not fully embrace the plans they made together. The Pontifex’s visitor had somehow entered the Keep without the knowledge of the Wards or feyr’im and had proceeded to run his hands over the sacred tree of Erol’s order.

  “You should not touch the Illym,” Erol said.

  “It is but a tree, nothing other than what people believe it to be,” the dark figure said.

  Erol frowned. A part of him questioned whether this man would become detrimental to Erol’s plans in the future. As long as the Pontifex received his desirable seat and no unforeseen consequences came about, he was more than willing to trade services with this unknown character. But one did not create a monster for it to return an enemy, and a part of Erol was apprehensive that was what was going to be the outcome here.

  “What would you like to discuss?” Erol asked, feeling the pleasant weight of his dagger pulling his robe low on one side.

  “The First Warden has brought his soldiers into the lands bordering La Zandia and prepared a defensive shield surrounding the province with Kingdom wards and men from this Keep. The High King has offered the Marcher Lord one more opportunity for salvation, and it is one that will ultimately be rejected. The noose is tightening around La Zandia, and war will ensue. It is at that time—when Kingdom forces are strongest—I will cut the legs out from our hated Marcher Lord and send his rebellion and arrogant bloodline into the dust. Soon Godwyn Keep will bring swift and true reclamation to the pagan world, and you will be hailed a savior in your new role for your efforts in converting and protecting the Kingdom.”