Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  Men and women passed by the captives and the soldiers, the denizens of Keslich ’Ur living their lives as best they could. They were poor and haggard, the hardship of living in a harsh land evident at the corners of their eyes and in their glances. The sounds of children giggling at play nearby broke the grim existence Sorin observed. These people did not look on the Kingdom captives with anger or disdain or judgment—only shock that changed to curiosity at the appearance of the Giant. Then Sorin understood; he saw it was the soldiers the populace of Keslich ’Ur was fearful of. These people—the hardworking classes—were not the enemy Sorin had imagined; they could have been taken straight from any number of towns in the Kingdom, and no one would have been the wiser.

  The buildings were the same as they were in Aris Shae—some well maintained and others fallen into disrepair long before. Businesses of all kinds, craftsmen of all manner of occupations, filled the streets and buildings with their ability and wares. But amidst the standard businesses were some Sorin did not know—ventures devoted to the organic needs of the pagan religion Blackrhein Reach practiced. It used the land as the source of its power, and the people of Keslich ’Ur were no different; they required supplies to enact their pagan rites. From what his mother had said, many beyond the Kingdom embraced witchcraeft but only those who desired power used it for ill. Just as there were zealots and fanatics in the Godwyn faith, so too were there pagans who took their religion to a dark place. Commerce, it seemed, did not care about such trivialities and would make money on any customer.

  Sorin treaded up the slope to meet the fortifications of Keslich ’Ur, the black stone pitted from centuries of exposure to ice, wind, and unforgiving winter. From a distance, it had looked as though the city’s populace had pushed right up against the wall, but that was not true. A wide ring of safety—a giant swath of trodden grass, cobbled stone pavilions, and mud—separated the castle’s wall from the buildings of the city. A series of barracks stood along the periphery of the buildings, flags of all colors acknowledging their house and who was in command. It was an overwhelming scene to view, and hearkened terrible things for the future of the Kingdom.

  Within the space were thousands of soldiers—cooking, training, fighting, gambling, or chatting as the day winded down to its darkened companion. Since the rain had finally abated altogether, most of the men were outside after being cramped in their barracks for the day. When the first of them saw the struggling Artiq, they all looked at the magnificent animal with curiosity. It quickly changed to angry stares and dark murmurs when they saw Relnyn.

  The sight of so many armed men overwhelmed Sorin. He turned to Thomas. “If the winter comes early, then the Kingdom is safe for a while.”

  Thomas trudged ahead. “Yes. At least for this winter alone, it is. When spring comes, that will be another matter entirely I am afraid. This is a large group of men—we cannot even see how many are out of sight around the circle of the wall. It will undoubtedly be used to mount an assault on the Kingdom the likes no one has ever seen. It is as Nialls and Dendreth feared.”

  “Is there any way to get this information to them?” Sorin whispered, feeling eyes swarm over him as he marched past.

  Thomas shook his head. “If there is, I do not know it. You should be worrying about protecting your own hide, I think, rather than that of the Kingdom.”

  The castle loomed over them, asserting its authority by sheer height and weight. And although the presence of so many soldiers denoted war, the doublewide gate to the castle was open, a gaping maw of shadow ready to swallow the Kingdom’s hope whole. The leader, still atop his wolf, rode confidently toward the portal and into the darkness behind the inner wall. Artiq whickered deep and resisted, but the will of the ropes held by dozens of men dragged him forward. Torches were being lit along the parameter of the wall, the flames brightening as the daylight waned.

  The courtyard area within the wall was filled with giant boulders placed on pedestals as art and thin-leafed ancient maples already red with autumn’s arrival. From a square fountain in front of Sorin, the stone sculpture of a giant snarling wolf met the newcomers, water trickling from its dagger-sharp jaws like saliva. Beyond the imposing and fearsome display rose a staircase to the official entrance of the castle. Above the door, a circular stained glass window had gone dark with the coming of dusk but one could still discern the artistic rendition of a shrike in flight. The castle was carved from the living rock of the mountainside, and several doorways cut into its natural base and disappeared. Despite the dismal scene, evening larks and sparrows twittered somewhere in the towers above them, their lively music an affront to the gathering hordes of men.

  Artiq was being pulled away from the group toward a series of tall cages. The pens were huge, built from thick iron bars capable of fully securing an animal as large as the great horse. Wolves, similar to the ones Sorin had seen ridden, paced within the cages at the sight of Artiq, their eyes gleaming with predatory hunger in the gloaming light of the sky.

  “That unnatural beast will never know rest in that pen. If it even sleeps,” the leader commented as he dismounted. With a grin that lacked humor, he turned to the multitude of stairs entering the castle.

  The remaining soldiers pushed the captives to follow.

  * * * * *

  When Sorin stepped into the main hall of the Woman King’s domain and drew its air into his nostrils, he sensed for the first time how ancient the monarchy that had ruled Blackrhein Reach was. Smokeless torches in finely-wrought sconces illuminated three richly-colored tapestries hanging from the ceiling and depicting various scenes from the realm’s history. Two suits of armor stood to either side of a staircase, silent sentinels ever-watchful of those who walked into their midst. In the center of the room was a round marble table with a vase holding many long-stemmed red roses that were fully bloomed. No furniture of any kind filled the room, as though passing through the entry hall to other endeavors was the reason for its creation.

  Amidst the dust-free world, a presence—one of patient permanence—pervaded the stone and gave life to the knowledge Sorin had entered a place with old bloodlines and older animosity toward the Kingdom. Here he was the embodiment of all the Reach despised.

  The leader took the captives through the hall and into a series of wide, stone corridors, weaving deeper into the castle, their footfalls echoing urgency. Guards were not the only residents Sorin noticed; well-dressed men and women wandered the halls on errands of their own, and servants moved quickly with their responsibilities at hand. The castle was a thriving, living thing, made that way by the various souls who inhabited it.

  They soon came to a large, open doorway. Stepping through, the doors closed behind them with a cavernous boom.

  The Woman King sat on a throne of black marble, awaiting them.

  Cwen Errich was strikingly beautiful, with pale alabaster skin over a sharp nose and prominent cheekbones, but behind her green eyes an unquenchable anger burned as she viewed the captives. She wore black pants and a black shirt with sleeves rolled up to her forearms, and chain mail hugged her chest for protection with a circular silver plate etched with the emblem of a wolf welded over her heart. The light of the candles and torches in the room glimmered off her throne, giving her the appearance of sitting on flame. Supple, calf-high boots unmarred by dirt matched her dark wardrobe. The manner of her appearance was simple, but the thin, ruby-studded circlet of silver sitting atop her red hair denoted her absolute authority. She was no longer a queen; with the death of her husband, she had become something more.

  To the Woman King’s right, a big man stood with arms crossed, watching the group as it approached the throne. Burn scars—still pink, waxy, and fresh—stood out on his face and neck, a misshapen countenance of ruined flesh covering half of his face. Besides the guards, the rest of the room was empty.

  Sorin’s red-haired captor bowed low and spoke to the woman in the guttural language Sorin did not understand. He spoke at great length, and when he was
finished her green eyes flashed at the captives. The rider then moved to stand to the left of the throne.

  “What are you doing here in my lands?” she asked, coldness emanating with each accented word she spoke.

  Relnyn towered inside the room, but his countenance remained fixed to the floor. The rest of them did the same. None of the company spoke; there was nothing for them to say.

  Cwen Errich was not impressed. “I’ll tell you what you are doing here then. You are here to kill me.”

  Thomas looked up, his cold blue eyes matching the fire of her fury. “That was not our intention, and anyone who advises you of that is mistaken. We are merely travelers looking for an item that has been stolen.”

  “You lie!” Rage filled her voice. “You are the third to have tried and failed.”

  “There has been no attempt by us,” Thomas stated.

  “Really, Kingdom man?” Cwen shot back, suddenly standing, her fury evident in every line of her body. “Rillian, bring him in.”

  The disfigured man left the room through a side door and returned with the sniveling, bloody form of Henrik Mattah.

  The spy had been beaten severely; both of his eyes were slits through swelling, and purple bruises covered his flesh. Dark blood crusted his head and matted his hair while cracks in his lips continued to bleed crimson. The spy’s hands were bound, and Henrik whimpered under his breath. The man had taken all the pain he could; he barely even breathed. Anger filled Sorin. They had gotten Henrik into this, and now it was him who suffered.

  Rillian dropped the cringing man at the Woman King’s feet.

  “This one has refused to speak,” Cwen said, gesturing at the man’s skull with her fist. “Rillian has informed me the man was once a chef in my very own kitchens, a spy sent to infiltrate my home. My home!” she screamed. “After the first attempt on my life two weeks ago, Rillian thought it wise to sweep the entire castle and remove those who were suspect while keeping watch on them. The man cowering at my feet right now was one of them. I find it ironic he is the one who led us to you. Now you all will know the ramifications of assassinating a king of the Reach, and what it means to fail an attempt on his widow.”

  “We are not responsible for the attempt on your life,” Thomas reasserted, his voice gaining an authoritative quality Sorin had not heard before. “There are other forces at work right now in the world—those that desire chaos. Your death would supply that.”

  The Woman King squinted at the old man. “You know more than you are telling me. This man will die by your decision to share with me or not what you know. Choose wisely.”

  Thomas strained against his bonds, clearly wanting to attack the woman, but they held true. He remained silent. Henrik Mattah seemed unaware of what was happening.

  “Very well,” she said, stepping back from Henrik. “Rillian.”

  The scarred man stepped forward and in one, fluid motion produced a knife from the air and placed it on the spy’s throat.

  “Wait,” Sorin screamed.

  “Boy,” Thomas growled, straining in his bonds.

  “You spoke of something that had been stolen,” Cwen Errich said as though nothing had happened. “What?”

  “It is a weapon,” Thomas answered, taking the woman’s attention away from Sorin.

  “So you come from Godwyn Keep then,” she said. “I should have known the Kingdom and that sniveling High King of yours would never be so bold as to send spies into my midst. If that is the case, Rillian here—my Low Hunter—has much to hate you for. It was a priest of your sad religion that wounded him and left him to burn. The religion you hold all faiths to is weaker than I thought. Was this item important for your plans to attack the Reach? Is it as powerful as my witches and warlocks tell me? It must be if you have risked everything to gain it back.”

  “I hold to no faith,” Thomas grated to her. “And I’ve no love for the High King. But the Hammer you possess is to be used as a weapon against us all, and it is not safe—”

  “I have spies too, old man,” she cut him off with her rage, cleaving the air with words. “I know there is more going on here than what appears on the surface. I did not believe at first, but one of my warlock advisors ferreted out the possibility of your little foray into the Reach. Spies, he said, would not stop and here you are, come to my doorstep. He even oracled the appearance of the devil horse and how to capture it. It wasn’t a matter of how or why but when. It seems you are speaking from a wholly weak position, and weakness should be driven before the whip of superiority.”

  She spoke of Artiq. Somehow she knew about the horse but did not realize the import of what the animal represented. The Reach and its pagan warlocks and witches would not be privy to the doctrine of Godwyn Keep, and even if they were, knowledge of the horse was not easy to come by. He hoped Artiq could escape his prison and free himself of Keslich ’Ur; there was no reason for the beast to suffer.

  “You would begin a war with the Kingdom out of spite?” Thomas asked.

  “Spite,” she laughed coldly. “I don’t take this lightly. Beginning a war from the seeds of discovered espionage is not enough, although I am furious at the attempts on my life. No, I do this for another cause, another reason. I do this out of protection. My husband is dead. I have become a prisoner in my own home to protect my only child and heir to the throne. To end the threat at its source is to end the threat to my son, my people, and myself. I do this because it is necessary. I do this for the honor of my deceased ancestors who fought and died as we were pushed from our Lowland homeland. With the Hammer leading the clans of my people, the Kingdom will finally know what it means to be on the losing side of a usurpation of power.”

  “It is not a reason as noble as honor you do this. You do this for revenge,” Thomas growled, unwilling to back down from his captor. “A revenge that is ill-kept, a revenge that will kill thousands and thousands of innocent people and drown the world in darkness.”

  She hit Thomas with her free hand with such force it whipped the old man’s head around. “It will be my darkness. Who are you, old man, to believe you know me?”

  Thomas ran his tongue over his bleeding lip and spit upon her floor but remained silent.

  The Woman King was about to strike him again when a smooth, deep voice behind Sorin said, “He is what is best in men turned sour, Your Majesty.”

  Cwen Errich looked up and beyond her captives to the back of the room, the knuckles of her fist still white with rage.

  A hooded figure strolled into their midst like an ink stain given sentient life, his confident footfalls silent as he moved past the guards to stand before the captives. Even in the presence of the Woman King, the man drew all the room’s attention to himself as though he were the most important person in the world. Power radiated from him, but it was subtle—held for readiness in the precision of each step, every swing of his arm, and every movement of his cloak’s cloth. It could be unleashed with the flick of the man’s thoughts. The guards leaned away from him as he passed, the light of the room failed to penetrate his cowl entirely, and the scent of summer breeze accompanied the flutter of his cloak as though the wind was his to control. His voice possessed the same accent as the Woman King and her wolf rider, but he was comfortable with it in a way the others were not.

  Rillian was impassive; the wolf rider stood still. The Woman King lost some of her charisma but did not back away from Thomas or the spy, as if holding her ground against a gathered storm. The man who entered commanded respect and displayed authority even over the royalty of Blackrhein Reach.

  Although Sorin had not been paying attention to the rear of the room, he had not heard the door to the throne room open or close again.

  “He believes he knows you because he once lost much and has become intimate with the sweet taste of his own desire for revenge,” the cloaked man continued, lowering his cowl to reveal a mess of shaggy, black hair that shimmered blue like raven’s feathers. “He will meet it again all too well in the dungeons below
when his torture begins.”

  “Do not presume to know what this man’s fate is,” the Woman King said. “You come when you are not called.”

  “I come when I am needed, Your Liege,” the man said as he bowed low, his pale, youthful face beardless and smooth, but carrying the weight of ages in its strong lines. “This is the group I spoke of. They match the description in the stars and the lay of the land. They have come to destroy you, of that I am certain, and they should be dealt with in the most cruel way imaginable, Your Highness.”

  The man turned to look at the Kingdom’s captives and immediately gazed upon Sorin. A dead quality shone from the pits of the figure’s black eyes. They were snake eyes—cold and calculating—and they held Sorin firmly in place as they probed him. He was trapped. His soul exposed and bare before the warlock’s penetrating stare, he was powerless to protect his secrets. Whereas the past that haunted Thomas floated around him and represented his frailty as a human being, the Woman King’s advisor had been stripped of his humanity and was left a shell—a void needing to spread to the entire world and consume it in darkness.

  When the man finally looked away, Sorin was once again free.

  “Death follows the Hammer, Cwen Errich,” Thomas continued, ignoring the warlock who had come into the room. “You know what it is and how it came to be—death surrounds it. You are being used as a pawn in a much larger game with direr consequences than you know.”

  She smiled without warmth. “I command here. As long as the Hammer is in my able possession then the only destruction to come of it will be by my own hand. It will push a force from my ancestor’s Lowlands and help me reclaim my son’s blood right. It will be yours and the Kingdom’s destruction that is met.”

  Thomas could not elaborate more on what the Hammer was capable of doing—to do so would be to endanger the Rune to the hand of Blackrhein Reach. If the Woman King knew all she needed to do was destroy the Rune to end the reign of Godwyn Keep in the Lowlands and shift the power to the pagans of the Reach, she would have conquered the Clennick Mountains, used all resources in her power to find the Rune, and then imbalanced the power structure of the two kingdoms to her favor with the Hammer. Thomas would have to convince the Woman King somehow that the Hammer was detrimental to both of their worlds.