Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  He was worried, but he was doing all he could; he rode across the plains to send their possible savior on his quest. Nialls was also riding to befriend a Giant and begin political relations with that race—to add their strength to the Kingdom’s own. Once returned, he would draft the last diplomatic dispatch to prevent war with the Marcher Lord and send it soaring toward La Zandia on pigeon’s wings and another copy by rider. Even though it was likely Laver Herid would reject the High King’s proposals, Nialls would continue to be an alchemist of politics; he would take what life had given him and turn it into what he needed to keep his Kingdom safe.

  Sorin rode ahead of him, the young man’s black hair shiny like raven feathers, uncut and shaggy like his father’s had been. He was built much like his father—broad shoulders and strong arms. It was hard to believe the child of Arvel Westfall had now returned after all of these years to the city of his birth, a symbol of the All Father’s hopes. Dendreth was fond of telling Nialls he should put more faith in providence. Nialls had always believed those who helped themselves created goodness in the world. The High King was now beginning to feel it was a combination of Dendreth’s ideals and Nialls’s own realist beliefs that pointed to the truth. Viewing Sorin gave him hope that, if he failed as a High King, perhaps providence would aid them.

  The edge of the Grifforn Forest drew closer, its canopied shade an oasis within the summer heat. Dendreth rode up next to Nialls, a grimace on his face from the steady canter his horse was forcing him to endure. The High King’s personal Wards dropped back to give the men privacy as Thomas and Sorin led the way.

  “How is your leg holding up, Dendreth?” Nialls asked.

  The Pontifex scowled as another jolt through his saddle threatened to unseat him. “I’m more worried about my back end, Your Majesty. I’m no longer suited for riding, I think.”

  “Just so long as you don’t mind traveling, Dendreth.”

  “I understand you sent Wards to Godwyn Keep this morning to look over your son.”

  “I did. After what I have heard the last few days, I thought it wise to protect the Crown Prince as best I could. I have faith in Godwyn’s forces, but there is still a spy in their midst who may kill Rayhir. I will have him moved back to Aris Shae soon. When this is finished, and all stones have been turned, the Kingdom may have need of him.”

  “We cannot go to Godwyn Keep with any of this,” Dendreth said, the severity of his meaning accentuated by his disgruntled ride. “To share the knowledge of Sorin and Thomas, the Hammer—all of it—would only tip off our spy, whoever it may be, giving them an advantage.”

  “Any idea who it might be?” Nialls questioned, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “Could be any number of people, including a few on the Council, although it sickens me to say that. Erol Tal, Valarie Reu, and Cyrus de Lille have always been close, ever since Erol arrived. Whoever told the Feyr my whereabouts and placed the mindwoorm in Garethe’s mind is adept at staying hidden. Erol is the one who worries me most.”

  “Why suspect one of the Council?” Nialls asked.

  “He is devout but he is fanatical, his mind focused continually on those who embrace faiths outside the realm of Godwyn. If he were persuaded, for power perhaps, who knows what could arise and with whom he may side?”

  “He is a Pontifex and holds power enough already. What kind of power do you speak?”

  Dendreth grimaced, but because of his question or the ride, Nialls could not tell. “The kind of power that would allow him to shape Keep doctrine for decades—the seat of Pontiff.”

  “I see,” Nialls answered. The heart of man was a quagmire to know sometimes. “Once I send the letter to the Marcher Lord, we will make our way to Godwyn Keep for Pontiff Garethe’s funeral and the election this evening.” Nialls paused and looked into the distance, the sweat springing to his forehead in beads. “I need the help of Westor in the days to come, Dendreth. I must find as many allies in this time as I can.”

  “I know that, Your Majesty,” the Pontifex replied flatly. “I’m not the best person for the role of Pontiff anyway.”

  “I don’t think that is true, Dendreth. But the Feyr would never trust the Kingdom with you as Pontiff, not after what you did on Westor, and I need all the assistance I can muster.”

  “The trick will be convincing Belinorn your need is his need, Your Majesty,” the Pontifex said.

  The Grifforn Forest loomed in front of them like a giant green wave poised to crash onto the riders the closer they rode. The smell of the grassy plains and the light, ocean breeze at his back brought no reprieve to Nialls’s worries.

  “Now that we are alone,” Dendreth said, “I must speak of something with you. Sorin Westfall visited Isere this morning.”

  “She came to him?” Nialls was not surprised.

  Dendreth nodded, the silver Illym brooch catching the sunlight and glimmering coolly at Nialls. “Due to my proximity to the Wyllspring Garden, I felt it the moment she rose.”

  “Do you know what transpired?” Nialls said lowly.

  “I do not know what was said. I can only feel the stirring of the prison, and I am not able to enter the Rosemere in any way. When the Witch was summoned, however, I could feel Sorin’s emotions while he was in her presence. He was fine, for the most part, until the end when he became very upset.”

  “I’m sure Thomas told Sorin to take what the Witch said with certain incredulity.”

  “That’s not what I am worried about, Your Majesty,” the Pontifex said.

  “Then what is it?”

  “There were darker emotions embedded in his soul, and they came from a place of depthless pain,” Dendreth said. “The grief and sorrow he had last night cut my awareness like shards of glass. They were seeds of darkness and evil.”

  “Everyone has the capacity for those emotions, Dendreth, especially after what he has been through.”

  “What could be worse, Sire, than having two evils instead of one?” Dendreth questioned, the lines of his frown furrowed deep. “We are sending Sorin and Thomas out into the world on the most important of quests, and I’m telling you he could end up the same way as Kieren—a tool of the Wrathful.”

  Nialls frowned. “As you are fond of saying, Dendreth, sometimes we must embrace providence.”

  “From what I felt, it would be wise to worry,” Dendreth said, rocking in his saddle. “Evil is devious and sets plans within plans, motions within motions. The doctrine suggests Sorin is to discover the Hammer of Aerom, but what then? The Codex is competing with the Wrathful and who is to say which will win out? What’s to say Sorin can’t turn to darkness as well? We must take precautions if they are available.”

  Nialls understood what Dendreth was advocating. The Pontifex was right about one thing; they could ill afford another monster like Kieren in the world. That meant looking at all possibilities and discovering their outcome; it meant making choices he would have to live with for his entire life.

  “I think I know how to accomplish that,” the High King said simply.

  Dendreth fell silent as the group rode up a small hill toward the forest, the wavy plains giving way to shorter, deadened grass and the leafy confines of the maple, fir, and hemlock trees of Grifforn Forest. Nialls knew the Pontifex trusted the All Father’s design, but for the old man to acknowledge the need to attempt control—the kind he was contemplating anyway—over events with their limited, finite information was testament to how worried Dendreth was after Sorin’s visit with Isere. Time would expose the consequences Nialls’s actions created.

  Thomas and Sorin were riding ahead of the group, leading the others into the Grifforn’s immediate, dim depths. The cooler air of the shaded canopy enveloped them, giving a reprieve from the early afternoon heat. The Wards spread outward and disappeared into the trees, their swords drawn, and polished armor bright even in the shadows. Insects buzzed around Nialls, and the scent of the free, natural world was intoxicating to be within.

  Before his eyesigh
t had a chance to adjust to the dappled forest, a figure larger than any Nialls had ever seen detached from the humid gloom to tower above the company. The Wards, previously made aware of the Giant, took on defensive positions anyway. Swift snorted and his eyes rolled in their sockets as if what he witnessed was too unbelievable to be real. The High King patted his horse, and the beast’s quivering muscles settled back to their glossy finish.

  “I was getting worried after observing your horse’s actions at the city gate yesterday, Sorin,” the large man said.

  Sorin nodded. “You are not the only one who was worried, Relnyn.”

  The Giant looked over his companions’ heads to Nialls and then bowed, holding tight to his staff. “And I see I have forgotten my manners. High King Nialls Chagne, it is an honor to meet you. I am Relnyn Ashbough, Giant of the great city of Lockwood, and I bring tidings from my governing leader, Oryn Lowwillow.”

  The Giant did not move, his gaze unfaltering. Nialls was reminded of one of the trees that surrounded him—firmly rooted in place and just as solid. The history lessons of the War of the Kingdoms were now a bit easier to understand; the Giants had destroyed much in subversion to the Wrathful’s Magna Kell, and their anger and prowess in battle had been unmatched. As Nialls stood before one of the Kingdom’s former enemies, the High King did not feel fear or worry in Relnyn’s presence—only awe and wonder. Whatever else could be said of the Giant, Relnyn lived up to his name and hopefully much more.

  Nialls inclined his head politely. “Relnyn Ashbough, it is my—and my colleagues’—honor to meet one of our esteemed neighbors.”

  “It has been far too long, High King, since my race has intermingled with those of the world,” the Giant said with a solemn smile on his face. “It is time to finally put our dark history in the past and begin building foundations for our future. The Ashnyll have recognized the world has need of our presence just as we need it. For too long have our races been separated by ignorance and fear; for too long have we not been whole. It is time to change that. The Ashnyll community of Lockwood desires to open a dialogue with the Kingdom for our mutual benefit.”

  Nialls dismounted from Swift as a robin sent a volley of inspired song into the early afternoon. The Wards relaxed their guard as Nialls calmed their worried glances with a curt look. “The free people of the Kingdom desire a communion with your race as well. As you said, it has been far too long. This step is the first of many to follow. How does Oryn wish to proceed with future meetings?”

  To Nialls’s right, Sorin dismounted and stroked the nose of his horse. Thomas looked deeper into the Grifforn, ignoring what was transpiring as though already seeing the road ahead.

  Relnyn reached into his tunic and withdrew a large unsealed envelope joined with pale green ribbon woven from thin river reeds. He handed it to Nialls, who accepted it with a polite nod. The envelope was almost the size of his forearm.

  “As you may well know, there is an evil in the land that defies description and whose devilry has plagued my people before; it appeared in our lands and almost killed Sorin, leaving many questions unanswered. What you hold in your hands is a brief statement of our people’s intentions, including how Oryn desires to see our newfound communication continue. He invites the Kingdom into our Ashnyll home, and even now prepares Lockwood’s people for the slow and subtle change that will be the joining of our peoples. He also bade me offer my services to you as a show of good faith.” The great Giant slowly dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  Nialls had not expected the Giant’s proclamation. At this moment, he had no inclination to bring the Giant race under the jurisdiction of the Kingdom; they were their own race with their own laws, customs, and culture, lying outside the boundaries of the High King’s rule. But if Nialls could save one life by bringing the Giants from their centuries-long, self-imposed exile into the world of Men once more, it would not be time ill spent. It would begin with Relnyn.

  “Very well, Relnyn.” Nialls nodded as the Giant rose. The High King then turned to Sorin. “Have you decided your course of action, young Sorin Westfall? Will you do that which I and Godwyn Keep ask of you?”

  Sorin returned his gaze, his face serious under the mottled shade of the forest. No evidence of the evil Dendreth was apprehensive about shone in the young man’s green eyes. Although he was merely several winters from his second decade celebration there was a level of maturity that had molded itself along his jaw, pinched at the corner of his eyes, and held his shoulders firmly in place, that spoke of wisdom and careful consideration far older than his winters. Nialls believed losing one’s family so early in life had left an indelible imprint.

  After a few moments of silence, Sorin also lowered to one knee. “I have nothing left in all the world, Your Majesty,” Sorin replied, shaking his head. “If I can prevent that from happening to anyone else, I have to try. I will seek the Hammer of Aerom and see to it what you fear does not come to pass.”

  “And will you then find Kieren and end his machinations?” Nialls requested. He noticed Thomas had turned from his forest vigil to look on Sorin. The former First Warden looked sad.

  Sorin appeared uncertain before answering. “I will do what I can.”

  “It is all I ask. So be it,” Nialls said, returning his attention to Relnyn. “From what I know of your services already to the Kingdom, you helped protect Thomas and Sorin at a time you had no need to. That shows character and a mindfulness for others I think runs through your veins naturally.” The Giant listened intently. “Relnyn Ashbough of Lockwood, one of the Ashnyll is a powerful protector, formidable against any creature, and you have proven wisdom against adversity. I ask this of you: will you protect our hope as he searches for the Hammer?”

  Although the Giant did not know the particulars of the situation, Nialls knew Relnyn would accept; he could not deny the High King or the need of his newfound friends.

  “I will, High King. It would be my honor to accompany and protect Sorin.”

  “I will respond to Oryn Lowwillow’s correspondence and immediately dispatch a rider to Lockwood. It is important to begin our deliberations and do so in private. Even now, the Marcher Lord seeks separation from the Kingdom and intends to swallow the south once more in their pagan tradition. The Giants of Lockwood will be strong allies in these times.”

  Looking a bit confused, Relnyn addressed Nialls. “Lockwood will not join the Kingdom in hostility, High King. It is no longer our way.”

  “And yet you killed on your journey with Sorin. Is that not true?” Nialls asked, knowing the answer.

  The Giant’s brow softened a bit, and what Nialls had said caused Relnyn great pain. “We may protect but not destroy. Life of any value, though it may be twisted and unaware of its true merit to the world, is still life that may be redeemed.”

  Nialls had been worried about this. The tales of Lockwood were true then; the Giants were now a pacifistic society and culture. Their might would not aid the Kingdom, not in a direct way at any rate. When he began his discussions with Lockwood in earnest after his return from Godwyn Keep, the High King would have to delve more into the Giant philosophy and find out exactly what they could and could not do for him. The race’s desire to reenter the world was laudable, but at present there were more pressing matters to consider.

  “Mayhap your mere presence will be enough to dissuade others from tyranny,” Nialls offered, dodging the problem for now. Relnyn nodded politely.

  Finally, the High King turned to his former friend. Thomas stared back at him, and Nialls was struck by the sorrow emanating from the old man’s icy blue eyes. “Thomas, I wish you the best. I know there is love and respect lost between us, but I thank you for taking on this burden. I can think of no other who is better suited as guide for Sorin.”

  In a ragged voice shadowed by underlying anger, Thomas responded, “I go to protect a promise to a better man, Nialls. Do not forget that.”

  Even though Nialls was shocked at the audacity of Thomas speakin
g that way in front his subjects, the rebuke could not anger him. He had too many other things to worry about.

  “Be sure to contact Godwyn Keep’s embedded spy in the Reach,” Dendreth said mostly to Thomas. “He is a good man and may help in this matter.”

  The High King nodded, and then addressed the entire company. “Speed and stealth will protect you better than swords. Blackrhein Reach is its own world, and not much is known about its current state. With the death of King Errich, solidarity of the Clans has been in question, but it appears as though Cwen Errich has firmly seated herself in her dead husband’s throne. The Blackrhein rookery, Rikkslar, in the cliffs above Keslich ’Ur, may also hold answers. Dendreth scoured the libraries in Aris Shae and has given what maps he could find of the region to Ward Nathan. He and Tem will accompany you as trailbreakers and extra swords if need be.”

  Nathan and Tem stepped nearer to Relnyn, Sorin, and Thomas. They were two of Nialls’s finest Wards, handpicked by Rowen before he left for La Zandia early that morning. The High King had absolute faith in them. Thomas looked away in disinterest, but Nialls was happy to see the old man not refuting the offered help.

  The High King remounted Swift. The horse whinnied lowly as Nialls settled once more into his saddle. “Trust those around you,” he said to Sorin. “They will see you through this.”

  The young man nodded, but he lacked the certainty Nialls hoped would be there.

  Nialls nodded back and then again to Dendreth, pulling Swift’s reins to ride back to Aris Shae, leaving the small company to their task. The Pontifex accompanied him. No more words could change the reality of what they faced; no more hope could be given the group as they struggled through the wilderness to Blackrhein Reach.

  Aris Shae loomed across the plains, dazzling in white relief against the azure sky. Nialls rode toward it, hoping he had made the right choice.