Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  * * * * *

  Later the same day, after he, Dendreth, and a large company of warden had taken the Kingston Ferry to Godwyn Keep and gotten settled, High King Nialls witnessed the funeral procession and burial of Pontiff Garethe de Sierson.

  Dendreth had disappeared from his side, the old Pontifex ensuring the final rights of his fallen friend were being directed with the utmost care and responsibility that was deserved. A shroud of sadness had fallen over the entire Keep, but whereas Nialls could see the sorrow evident in all faces, no one was brought to tears or lost their composure. Pontiff Garethe had been loved, but the weeks he lay in a coma had given time for the inevitable to sink in, and Nialls suspected it had been time enough for Dendreth’s brethren to become acclimated to the reality that the Pontiff would not be coming back to them.

  The Godwyn Cathedral funeral had been beautiful. Rows and rows of oak pews polished to a rich shine were filled to capacity for the final resting song of Pontiff Garethe. The peace of solemnity and the stillness of respect permeated the giant hall while the large choir from their box in the back of the dais sang laments of loss, death, redemption, and finally ascension to the Beyond. The choir then lowered their song to a winding hum and readers, respected poets, and friends approached the dais and expressed heartfelt sadness the Pontiff had left his long duty behind, but also joy he was in the Beyond in the presence of the All Father. Pontifex Meriam Aron had given a particularly fine farewell acknowledgment, bringing many to tears.

  Nialls had been very young when he witnessed for the only time the funeral procession of a Pontiff, and even then he had been struck by the amount of respect garnered the leader of Godwyn Keep. He had come to realize at that young age, the Pontiff of Godwyn Keep held a great deal of power in the Kingdom. Nialls knew now he was not High King of the Kingdom while attending Pontiff Garethe’s funeral; here he was another soul giving respect to a man whose life had been spent aiding others.

  Once the gathered masses raised their lips to sing the Leavetaking Hymn, the Pontifices gathered about the Pontiff’s granite casket and—with the aid of several strong feyr’im—walked it from the Cathedral toward the Sarcatum where Pontiff Garethe’s body would lie for all eternity with his predecessors. Nialls had followed, as was his right, the cool depths of Godwyn Keep absorbing his warmth as if the dead desired it again. The Pontifices had then raised their voices and given life to a powerful soncrist of union that preserved the dignity and respect of the coffin; no one would be able to break the bonds that held it in place.

  After having been part of the processional to behold the burial of Pontiff Garethe in the depths of Godwyn Keep, Nialls stood outside in the warm evening air of the Courtyard. The night was filled with scents of the sea and growing things—a direct contrast to the cold, musty air of the Sarcatum catacombs—and Nialls was grateful to be once more beneath the sky. The High King shivered despite the humidity; to be buried within unforgiving stone was a prospect with which he was not comfortable.

  The final few Bishops were arriving in the meadow surrounding the Illym, and Nialls stood at a distance while the leaders of Godwyn Keep assembled before the magnificent tree. Dendreth moved from the group and walked toward Nialls, looking worn down. The amount of traveling the last few weeks was taking its toll on the old Pontifex.

  He would need to be strong for what Nialls had planned for him; he would need to be strong for everyone.

  “Well?” Nialls asked, watching the final ministrations as Dendreth reached him. Only two Wards were with the High King at the moment, the rest spread throughout the Courtyard and inner confines of the Keep watching for possible danger.

  “It’s true,” Dendreth said in a low, cautious voice. “The election is coming down to Erol Tal and Meriam Aron from what I can discern. Many believe Meriam to be the proper choice for her wisdom and experience, but the rumors circulating also suggest Erol, who has been steadfast and strong in his desire to deal with the pagan incursion. I cannot say who has the upper hand.”

  “I guess time will tell, won’t it?” Nialls was not in particularly good humor, especially after being below ground. Once he had left Sorin to his quest for the Hammer, Nialls wrote a long decree to the Marcher Lord detailing another peaceful truce using economic and cultural assurances to win the mind of Laver Herid. He knew it would not matter. With each stroke of the inked quill, Nialls was one step closer to war. He had wanted the new Pontiff to support a strong and unified Kingdom against any possible threat; if Pontifex Erol Tal became Pontiff, the High King knew his wishes could send the Kingdom that much closer to assured conflict. As Dendreth had said, there was a deeper seed of fanaticism within Pontifex Tal’s heart that could seed and bear fruit with unknown consequences.

  “There is nothing more we can do,” Dendreth said, as if reading Nialls’s mind. “Doctrine is quite clear on the induction of a new Pontiff. If Erol becomes Pontiff, it will take a grievance of great wrongdoing for him to be forced to relinquish his seat. I do not believe it has ever been done in all the centuries of Godwyn Keep’s existence.”

  “How soon before the new Pontiff is sworn into office?” Nialls asked.

  “Just as the previous Pontiff is bid farewell during sunset, the new Pontiff is given his or her authority the sunrise following the election.”

  The golden sun had cleared the western wall of Godwyn Keep on its descent into its ocean resting place as Pontiff Garethe had been carried down to his crypt. Snatches of song and the resulting orblights had blossomed around the Illym and its meadow. An oak box with ornate carvings of wyverns and ivy vines sat on a simple marble pedestal that had been erected beneath the outermost boughs of the Illym, the box’s importance highlighted from above by two orbs that shone brighter than the rest.

  No chairs were placed in the meadow; the Bishops and Pontifices stood. After a person voted, they would move from one side of the podium to the other until all votes had been cast. The Courtyard had been closed off to all others. Even now, Nialls was the lone spectator—the High King governed the Kingdom but could play no part in the political formation of Godwyn Keep. To do so would invalidate the tenets of balance the Kingdom needed to refrain from falling into tyranny under the wrong person as it had so long ago.

  “Dendreth, after this election is finished, I have a request,” Nialls urged.

  “That distinctly sounds like it is going to be an order, Your Majesty.”

  Nialls shook his head. “No, not an order. For this, sending you of your own volition may be the only thing that keeps you alive.”

  The Pontifex encouraged the High King, his eyes flinty in the light of the orbs. “Go on.”

  “You are knowledgeable in ways I need right now. You’ve seen much, and you have a unique outlook on the events that are transpiring. I need you to travel beyond the Kingdom; it is a long journey and requires your talents. Careful consideration and wisdom will keep you alive. There is still one element to all of this that remains a mystery, and I can no longer ignore it.”

  The lines of Dendreth’s face deepened to crevices. “The dragons.”

  “They are migrating to Falkind Island and we still don’t know why. The Kingdom is blind there, and although the beasts are not threatening at the moment, their pasts suggest I should worry. As you said, they are migrating unseasonably, and we must know why. I find it likely the dragons are being influenced. No one knows more about what is going on here than you, and I cannot afford sending someone else who may raise alarm in Aris Shae. You are one of the few I can trust.”

  “I will need Sion with me. His Feyr eyes and ears will be invaluable.”

  Nialls waved the request aside. “Do what you must. It is best he leave anyway while I try to win Westor back. There is nothing more you can do here at Godwyn Keep—that much is clear now that the election is taking place—and I must have eyes on those who can do the most harm. I can keep Erol close to me; I can’t, however, know what is occurring on Falkind.”

  “What do you want me
to look for?” Dendreth questioned.

  “Anything out of the ordinary. What are the dragons doing? How many of them are there? Are there other people around? The island is home to the Soor folk. What are they up to? Any information you can gather about the possible threat.”

  “I will sail on the morrow, Your Majesty.”

  Nialls looked back to the Illym. The vote had begun. Pontifex Geoffrey Lonoth stood near the box, an observer of each person’s ballot, as one by one the Bishops and Pontifices of Godwyn Keep stepped to use the ink, quill, and paper allotted to note their choice. As Dendreth moved forward to cast his vote for Meriam, Nialls waited at the edge of the light, a man standing in the uncertain shadows of his life.

  After all the leaders of Godwyn Keep had done their duty, three Pontifices tallied the votes as the others waited. Nialls ignored his surroundings, intent solely on the outcome of the election. Whoever won would be the new strength of Godwyn Keep; whoever won would have to be his partner in politics for the hard times to come.

  Finally, Pontifex Lonoth stepped in front of the pedestal before the gathered group.

  “Pontiff Erol Tal,” he said simply.

  Chapter 29

  When Sorin Westfall had seen the High King turn his mount and begin heading back to Aris Shae, an overwhelming sense of aloneness and foreboding crept over him that had lasted in his heart for a week.

  He would miss Aris Shae. There, he had known stone was his constant companion, a shield at all times. Now, once more, he was in the wild, and although the presence of Relnyn, Thomas, and the two Wards gave him some measure of comfort, he knew where they traveled would be riddled by people who desired their deaths.

  The Grifforn Forest had been their constant companion, its shady, humid depths a small reprieve from the unrelenting heat cauterizing the land outside the wood’s confines. The further south they traveled, the wilder the forest became, a living entity so large and sweeping Sorin did not know if he would ever be free of it. Relnyn found his size and height to be a hindrance, as the space so prevalent within the folds of the northern Grifforn vanished with every step he took. The forest was vast, and after looking at maps with Tem, Sorin knew it stretched deep into the south and beyond, a veritable natural defense for the city of Aris Shae.

  With Nathan scouting ahead of the company, Sorin contemplated his visit to the Rosemere. Isere had come to him, but her intent was an irritant he could not remove from his thoughts. He had told no one of the dire predictions she had made about him—not even Thomas. Until Sorin had time to filter the truth from the Witch’s motives, he would keep the content of the meeting secret. She had said Sorin would not kill Kieren but that he would kill two Pontiffs. If he told Thomas and the rest of the company her predictions, it would raise questions in the minds of his friends and make the journey all the more difficult. Thomas had warned him her words were riddled, and Sorin tried to let the words go, but they would not—the hungry beasts waited to consume his thoughts, hopes, and peace.

  Now, with a new burden on his shoulders, Sorin worried if he was strong enough to hold it in place or if it would crush him with its weight.

  When the pathway widened enough for two horses to ride side by side, Sorin pushed Creek ahead until he was next to his old friend. “Thomas, how did you even know the Witch would come to me? She said I had the stink of corruption on me and the mark of the dead on my flesh. Why would that interest her?”

  “What she meant was the jerich.”

  “You knew she would appear because of the creature?”

  “I suspected. The jerich and its master are the antithesis of everything the Witch stands for. She is pagan of the purest blood, and although the tenets of her heathen religion conflict with that of Godwyn Keep, she hates the Wrathful more. It poses a threat to all living things and as a pagan she upholds nature and its power. But you must be wary of her words; often they are laced with deceit and we are still her enemy.”

  “Why did she side then with the Wrathful in the War of the Kingdoms?”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas replied, his wild hair tinted green from the sunlit canopy. “The Wrathful is a deceiver and manipulator. Imprisoned here and its power stripped after his first war on the All Father, the Wrathful instead weasels its way into the hearts and minds of those it needs to do its bidding.”

  “It coerced Isere,” Sorin asked.

  Thomas nodded. “It used the means available to it and somehow won the servitude of the Witch. Whether Isere knew what she was doing or not I do not know, but when the Hammer fell she knew her mistake, and it was only through the All Father’s design that her misguidance didn’t doom the world.”

  “The All Father out-planned the Wrathful,” Sorin offered. The old man nodded.

  “It is said in our stories,” Relnyn added from behind them, “The Witch was just as influenced by evil as we Ashnyll were. Evil preyed on her selfish desires to protect her brethren, their way of life. It twisted her dreams to its needs. She was caught in the middle, believing Aerom Fatherhead to be a grave evil that would enact great harm on her way of life. Ultimately, she made her own decisions and has been held accountable for them. She chose a path and it was the wrong one. As did my people.”

  “But could she not be redeemed, as you have been, Relnyn?” Sorin questioned.

  “Make no mistake, Sorin,” Thomas answered. “Although the Giants have grown beyond their savage history and embraced a life of pacifistic care, Isere is evil. She would see the Kingdom and what it stands for destroyed. When the All Father sent Aerom, it heralded a radical change for the people of the world and what they believed to be the hereafter. To many in the populace, Aerom represented proof the All Father was a lone god who existed to cast out the pagan gods. Those who drew their faith from the land and not from the All Father immediately realized their way of life could possibly end. That is a frightening prospect, a culture having to worry about millennia of tradition being systematically destroyed. Isere knows it is happening and will stop at nothing to help her brethren’s cause.”

  “In all of this, I find it ironic Isere was imprisoned for her evil and yet I must slay Kieren for having done nothing,” Sorin said.

  Thomas swatted at a fly. “Done nothing—yet.”

  “You’ll decide what best to do about Kieren when the time comes,” Relnyn said.

  “It seems the disgruntlement that arises between cultures is a waste of time. Why can’t two cultures—two religions even—live peacefully among one another?” Sorin was genuinely concerned about the issue.

  “Cultures and religions are not the problem,” Thomas said darkly. “It is humanity and the choices it makes. There are differences in the cultures and it is those differences that mankind uses to enact its need to dominate others. I have seen the best in men, but I’ve also seen the worst in men, and the latter is dark, ugly, and hungry for power.

  “When my family died, I decided I wanted no part of the Godwyn faith, the pagan religion, or any other construct man uses to destroy others; I left the world. The Feyr discovered humanity’s affliction almost too late. Hatred of their differences and way of life nearly destroyed them. Now they seclude themselves on an island and rarely venture from it. They learned firsthand what humanity is capable of, and they want no part of it now. As I do not.”

  “Not to completely disagree,” Relnyn spoke up again with concern. “But the Giants are just as different from Man as the Feyr are from my race. We are trying to mend our relations after so long and enter your world peacefully and without prejudice. Are you suggesting Lockwood should remain apart? To me, the differences you speak of are only compounded by separation and mystery.”

  “Well, we’ll see how long the Giants remain uninvolved in the conflicts that are coming. Nialls has his own reasons for desiring the Giants’ friendship, Relnyn.” The old man looked at the Giant with dark eyes and then shrugged. “It just goes to show, Sorin, that oftentimes there is no explanation for the conflicts of the world. But the root
of their existence always has its base in the darker emotions of the soul, and it takes souls of conviction and wisdom to set the world to peace again. Unfortunately, they are few and far between.”

  “And now we travel to a place filled with people who hate us,” Sorin muttered.

  Thomas did not say anything. The old man did not need to.

  * * * * *

  After another week of traveling through the Grifforn Forest, glimpses of the Chilbrook Mountains broke through the foliage. The mountains had lost much of their severity as though tattered by age. The weather continued to be warm, but the humidity disappeared from the land the farther south the group traveled.

  A few days earlier, the forest had also started to transform as the terrain gradually gained altitude. It had lost its green wildness, opening up to birch, tall maple, and white oak that caught all the sunlight and killed vegetation on the forest floor. They had traveled far and their tired bodies and aching muscles were not in vain.

  Nathan came back from scouting, and after speaking with Tem and Thomas, the company turned to make their way east toward the worn peaks of the Chilbrooks. In the distance, a wide cleft as though a giant sword had fallen from above and cut the mountains in half was visible.

  Sorin turned to Thomas. “Are we passing through the mountains here?”

  “We are. If we do not, we will add several more weeks onto this journey, and that we cannot afford. It is now late summer, and autumn is nearing. The quicker we arrive at Blackrhein Reach, the more easily we can leave before winter sets in. It comes early in the Reach, and we do not want to be stuck there.” He pointed off in the distance. “By going through the Pass of Vose, we can slip into the Kingdom’s interior and shave off valuable time.”

  The next day dawned gray with cloud cover while a light wind brought the scent of rain from the sea. It was humid—the summer still in control of the temperature at least—but periodic raindrops fell on the company feeling as large as grapes. The company entered the Pass of Vose just as the grey clouds melted away.