Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “What of Dendreth?” Erol pressed. “He is aware of some part of this and has fled.”

  “The efforts of one old man will not change what is to happen,” the figure said, his silky voice calm and reassuring. “Dendreth Charl is a scholar and historian; he is not a man prone to action. He is aware on some level of the machinations we are putting the world through, but in the end, he will see it was for the best. Do not worry about Dendreth, Erol. He is but a fly to the buzzing vulture.”

  “So our plan resides ultimately in the election tomorrow.”

  “The outcome of the vote will go as planned. You will be Pontiff. And that being true, do I have your Godwyn oath you will bring justice to La Zandia personally, and see to it the pagan filth of the land is cleansed anew and never to return?”

  The hairs on the back of Erol’s neck rose. There was something not right about what the mysterious man was asking. It was the language he used. Erol was reminded of a sales pitch by a dishonest merchant on the wharf of Dockside, or the plaintive whine of a child trying to get their way with a resistant parent. Erol caught the subtle quality of what this man was asking, a sinuous twisting of words to accomplish his desires. Erol thought about it, weighed the possibilities, and then let his hesitancy go.

  “I will, as Pontiff,” Erol said with quiet conviction.

  “The High King is a fool,” the visitor said as though nothing odd had transpired. “It is important you facilitate the defense of the Kingdom armies and see to it they are protected. As time and the High King’s inaction grow, the pagan army’s power increases, and the Marcher Lord will use that to his advantage. If the Kingdom is to have any hope, it must come from you.”

  “How will I see that happen?” Erol asked.

  “I can see to it the pagan power fails, and in those moments are when Kingdom forces should push hard into the ranks of La Zandia and end the madness quickly with one swift stroke. As Pontiff, the High King will listen to you. Make sure he does. I will see to it Laver Herid is in the midst of it and an open target. We shall obliterate those who have joined the insurrection. Then you can instill whatever Godwyn presence you need in the province and move on to your other endeavors of interest.”

  “What will you do afterward?” Erol asked, searching for some evidence for his earlier disquiet. “Will you disappear, content, or go elsewhere?”

  “I’ll be satisfied,” the shadow’s tone was cold. “Laver Herid murdered my family. He and his Witches made the mistake of leaving me alive. It took me years to infiltrate his circle, and it will be mere moments to destroy him and his ilk. What will you do with time afterward is the larger question I think.”

  Erol’s visitor placed his fingers to his lips and blew hard. No sound was emitted, but Erol thought he heard the crashing roar of waves for a moment far overhead. It disappeared as quickly as Erol tried to focus on it, and he thought perhaps the lack of sleep was undoing him.

  “Remember, Erol. It is our union that will crush the Marcher Lord and bring justice to the Kingdom and those who have suffered.”

  The black figure backed away from Erol, and his shadow seemed to meld with the Illym once more from whence it had come. “Enjoy yourself tonight.”

  Erol walked around the tree, looking for evidence of his visitor, but there was no sign of the man. He was baffled but made his way back through the Courtyard garden to the Keep proper, lost in thought. Some of his apprehension slipped away, the outcome of the election on the morrow a sure thing. Erol’s devious companion was right: there was nothing Dendreth could do now that would stop the forthcoming events.

  Of the Godwyn Council members’ votes, he was sure of Cryus and Valarie; both of them were as hungry for seeing Erol Pontiff as they were for their own power and ambition. They recognized, as his midnight visitor had, that Erol was the proper choice from the beginning, and they had given of themselves in ways he had been happy to accept—Cyrus with his field connections and Valarie with her insatiable appetites. They all shared the desire to make the world a better place, but Erol knew they lacked the convictions it took to really make change happen. To do the dirty work—to do the work no one else wanted to do—that was what made Erol successful and ultimately destined to be much more than anyone had given him credit for.

  Once he led Godwyn Keep, they would help him establish Godwyn faith in the hearts and souls of pagan worshippers everywhere—with fist and might—and soon the world’s soul would be as clean as the All Father meant it to be.

  Of course, that also meant destroying his nighttime accomplice; he was too dangerous to be left alive. The cloaked figure had disappeared entirely from the Courtyard, which meant he had great power. He did not appear to use a soncrist, and Erol was certain he had never trained at Godwyn Keep. It was therefore logical to assume he used witchcraeft. No one with that much power shirked it for an ordinary life. After tomorrow’s events and those to come in La Zandia, Erol would destroy him, leaving no threads untied to reveal the truth of his rise to Pontiff.

  Erol walked back into Godwyn Keep and strode silently through its hallways, a predatory cat at home in its own warren. Nothing would stop him now. Even if he wanted to—which he did not—there was no turning back.

  After he had taken the numerous stairs of the Isle Tower and found himself finally growing weary enough to sleep, Erol opened the door to his private chambers and froze.

  The orbs he had left faintly illuminating his front rooms were dark.

  Erol closed the door quietly behind him, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, his lips moist and his throat ready for song. He peered through the gloom, the only light coming from the windows that lined the tower circumference, and the lyrics and notes needed sprang into his mind, ready for voice.

  Walking slowly through the rooms, he saw no evidence of tampering—his study was empty, the contents of his desktop were undisturbed, and no one was in his personal guest room. One of the last things his visitor had said nagged at Erol’s tired mind but he could not remember exactly what it was.

  He swept his chambers with a patient attention only the most sophisticated predators possess. No one entered his rooms uninvited; to do so would hold consequences.

  The other rooms clear, Erol entered his own bedchambers. The walls were clear, the corners empty, and the furniture undisturbed. Erol backed up against his own master bed as soft lips found the back of his neck.

  Erol flinched for a moment before recognizing his uninvited guest—Valarie Reu.

  She unrobed him with daring certainty and found the knife. “This is not the dagger you will be needing tonight, Pontiff.”

  She kissed him, a hint of lavender and sweetness on her tongue, and he kissed her back hard, the fear he had felt upon entering his room bolstering his own need. Whereas Cyrus wanted comfortable wealth and the ability to oversee his province with autonomy, Valarie only needed to be as close to the powerful as possible.

  As he breathed her in, he knew he would not sleep well until he slept in the chambers designated for the Pontiff of Godwyn Keep.

  Until then, other amusements would have to do.

  * * * * *

  The next day, men and women from the Kingdom’s provinces gathered to break their nighttime fast and remember the life of Pontiff Garethe. It was a rare instance, and many of the bishops used the time to reacquaint themselves with their common brethren as they mourned. The old Pontiff would join those Godwyn leaders who had died before him and be laid to rest in the crypts of the Sarcatum. There, beneath the cool stone, his body would remain interred inside a carved sarcophagus forever, a symbol of a life spent in the All Father’s service.

  In the evening, as the summer sun vanished into the west and the funeral finished with a song of farewell, the vote would begin before the Illym tree. But until that time, Godwyn Keep was astir with interest in what transpired in La Zandia and throughout the entire Kingdom. The rumors spread like wildfire, indistinguishable from one another, a din of noise like hundreds of geese se
t upon the same piece of land.

  Erol was sick of the whole thing before the sun rose above the east wall.

  Valarie had left when the dark sky dissolved into the pale pinks and oranges of morning’s sunrise. They had not slept much, but he still felt invigorated, the day of his future at hand. Once his companion left to prepare her bishops for the proper recourse for the evening, Erol rose and dressed in his finest apparel, leaving nothing to spare. Before exiting his chambers to confront the day, Erol checked his appearance in the long mirror that hung in his front room for that purpose, and a smile devoid of happiness had breached his face. He looked strong, competent, and intelligent; he looked every bit like the Pontiff of Godwyn Keep.

  Now, as the Pontifex left the rambling noise of the bishops behind him to witness the final preparations for the burial of Pontiff Garethe, a deep voice from behind stopped him. “Can’t stomach the banality either, eh?”

  Erol turned to see Pontifex Cyrus de Lille waddling toward him. He was a large man with larger appetites and a thick, wiry beard that got in the way of the man’s mouth. Cyrus’s paunch and lack of work ethic sickened Erol most of the time, but the overweight Pontifex had his people’s respect and therefore held a great deal of power during an event like this. Cyrus took his faith and his place at Godwyn Keep as seriously as Pontiff Garethe had, but Erol had witnessed a desire in the fat man for greater control than the Council allowed.

  “There is nothing more for me there, Cyrus,” Erol said. “The time has come. My destiny lies here, before the Illym, and the smoother I can make the day, the earlier I will know my fate.”

  Cyrus licked his lips as if bracing for another meal. “The High King is rumored to be preparing for a journey here to bear witness to the vote. If he does, he will be here before evening approaches. Perhaps then we can reap information from him concerning La Zandia and our place there.”

  Erol nodded, considering this. If the High King was intending to be here by nightfall for the funeral and election, that meant Dendreth would be coming back to Godwyn Keep as well. As Dendreth had already made clear days earlier, Nialls wanted the seat occupied for the difficult days ahead in La Zandia. The old Pontifex was still absent, his lack of presence creating a stronger case for Erol’s leadership in a time of hardship and uncertainty, but Erol was still uncomfortable. Even though the previous night’s dark visitor had assured him it meant nothing, Erol was still leery of the old man; Dendreth held power, he was highly intelligent, and he had the High King’s ear. Could he have discovered something that put Erol’s plans in jeopardy?

  “It will be important to do so,” Erol replied with emotionless ease. “We know Kingdom forces move into the area, with the First Warden moving battalions to meet the threat of the rebellion. But there has been little done to protect those warden from hostile witchcraeft or, for that matter, anything done to move our missionary efforts into the region once the Marcher Lord is defeated. The small warden detail I sent with Bishop Arvus will not be enough. It is in the best interest of the High King to make that happen.”

  “And you will do this with or without consent from the Council?” Cyrus questioned.

  “I will do what is required and what I must,” Erol said, already feeling the mantle of the Pontiff about his shoulders. “Our priests’ lives may be lost, but it is for a good cause.”

  The two men walked out through the giant double door and into the wide-open space of the Keep’s Courtyard. Sunshine topped the Keep’s walls, and the Illym tree shimmered as though on fire. Priests and students filled the area like ants, hastily preparing the Courtyard for the election following the funeral.

  An older woman with severely thin features approached them on the pathway, her hair pulled up in a bun that sat upon her head and pulled her face back tightly. Cyrus took the lead and stepped out to meet her.

  “Bishop Margarite Theron,” the large man said, bowing his girth the best he knew how, his robes stretching in all the wrong places. “We are fortunate to have your wisdom here from A’lum.”

  “The Keep looks much the same, and the Illym is as beautiful and healthy as ever.” She paused, looking at Erol before returning her gaze to Cyrus. “We must talk, in private, your Eminence,” she said, her eyes hard as stone.

  “Anything that can be said to me can be said before Pontifex Tal,” Cyrus replied as well as he could through his beard.

  Bishop Theron looked at Erol with brilliant green eyes as though he was anything but trustworthy. The Pontifex knew immediately this was one woman who would not be voting for him, and a wave of disdain rose out of his soul but stopped before finding expression on his face.

  “Very well then,” she said curtly. “My monastery was attacked by a dragon over a month ago. It is an unusual occurrence, one we are unable to find reason behind, although the dragons of the Krykendaal Mountains have been said to be migrating out of season.

  “During the conflict, one of the monastery’s brethren was murdered by strangulation in our sentuarie.”

  “How did that wickedness come to pass, Margarite?” Cyrus asked. “Who did it?”

  “We know not. The Brother who died was one you sent to A’lum half a winter past—Afram was his name. He was sent by you to strengthen ties with the outlying regions of the Kingdom.”

  “From your tone, I’d say you didn’t trust him,” Erol interrupted.

  “With respect, I have to say I didn’t,” the Bishop said. “For what real purpose did you send him to A’lum?”

  Afram. The man with the scar. Erol remembered him, had often wondered what happened to the hired thug. Afram was not a Brother of Godwyn Keep; he was not even devout unless money was the subject of what his soul was worth. Erol had been given instructions by his mysterious collaborator to send a scout to ascertain rumors a pagan threat grew in the outlying reaches of the Kingdom. Since Cyrus oversaw the Godwyn needs of Vaarland, Erol had had the rotund Pontifex send the man as a priest east. Erol could have paid the assassin from his own expenses and not used Godwyn Keep, but to use the cover of the Keep as the man’s reason for traveling aided his alibi for being there. Cyrus had not asked questions; it was perfectly fine for Erol to search for heretical people in another province, and everything was set in motion.

  Mention of the slain man surprised him, but Erol kept it from his demeanor. What could have happened that led Afram down that shadowy road?

  “Was there anything else suspicious about Brother Afram’s death?” Cyrus questioned.

  She shook her head, then thought about it. “There were two men—an old man and a boy near twenty winters or so—also present at the monastery during that time. But both of them were with me and the other warden fighting the dragon and couldn’t have murdered the priest.”

  She stared at Cyrus, challenging him. Cyrus did not cower before his Bishop, the bristles on his face hiding a great deal of his true emotions. “Brother Afram was to strengthen ties with the surrounding countryside, true, but he was also there to witness what our intelligence reported as a rise of witchcraeft in the outlying areas of your province.”

  Bishop Theron was unable to hide her shock. “Why was I not informed?”

  “The pagan religion is growing bold as of late,” Erol added, heading the argument off. “It required subtlety, and we did not want to stir your monastery. It was not a slight on your authority, I assure you, Bishop.”

  “The Kingdom is unsettled,” she agreed, as stern and solid as steel. “There are odd events occurring everywhere, not just in La Zandia. Does Godwyn Keep have an answer?”

  “We are working very hard with the High King on these matters to find a solution,” Erol continued. “Our people and our faith come first, Bishop Theron, of that there can be no doubt even in these trying times. Once Pontiff Garethe is laid to rest, we as a Council will discuss matters that are grave and will include all the Bishops of Godwyn Keep.”

  “We will speak again on this before you leave, Bishop Theron,” Cyrus added, taking his cue from Er
ol to end the conversation. He nodded. “Until tonight.”

  “Fare thee well,” Bishop Theron said, moving toward the Illym and the other Bishops.

  When she was beyond hearing, Cyrus whispered, “Do you think she knows anything?”

  “Not likely. There isn’t much to know in any case. Afram was sent to ferret out any pagan influence in Bervale and Thistledon.”

  “Do you think he learned something that ultimately caused his demise?”

  “Possibly, Cyrus. Someone clearly took a disliking to him. But why? Were they fellow brothers or was it an outside influence that followed him back to A’lum?”

  Both men grew silent as the Courtyard became very warm. It would be another hot day, and the cooling evening would not come quick enough as far as Erol was concerned.

  Bishop Theron was right. There was something else out there stirring the pot of malcontent.

  And Erol would not stop until he knew what it was.

  Chapter 27

  Sorin Westfall awoke to the raised sounds of argument.

  He desired to lie still and fall back under the thrall of sleep, but he pushed himself up off his bed with curiosity and peered blearily about the room. The linens were soft against his skin and smelled faintly of lilac, but they were the least of the room’s opulence. It was enormous, with tall windows above the bed that admitted the day’s infant, golden light. Dark, woven tapestries hung to either side of the doorway, highlighting different landscapes of Aris Shae and the surrounding countryside, and beautifully painted vases held flowers that appeared freshly picked. No dust lay anywhere, although Sorin doubted anyone had used the room for some time. It was a bedroom for wealthy merchants or diplomats, not one for an apprentice blacksmith; it was a bedchamber only a High King would ever be privy to own.