Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “It was, Rowen, thank you,” the Pontiff said, offering the other chair to the First Warden. “From what I understand, we will not have to wait long.”

  “The High King will join us when he is ready,” Rowen said. As he sat down in the chair beside the Pontiff, a glimmer of silver from Rowen’s hip caught the orb light. Erol looked closer.

  It was a long sword so exquisitely made, Erol could not help but stare. The pommel was circular and silver, leading smoothly into a grip laid in silver filigree over burnished metal. At the center of the silver crossguard was a diamond-shaped ruby, and around the jewel silver flames leapt out along the guard. The ruby glowed, bringing the flames alive with their own crimson light. Erol had never seen such a sword, but he knew what it was.

  It was Durendal, the First Warden’s sword, created by the Master Blacksmith Roland Solson long ago and given to the esteemed position to defend the Kingdom with its steel. No one had seen the sword for more than a decade; it had disappeared with Rowen’s brother, Thomas, when the older brother had left his position following the death of his family.

  But if Rowen had it that meant it had been returned. Thomas had been lost to the world for as long as the sword had been. There was more happening in Aris Shae than Erol had given the High King credit for, it seemed.

  “How are things progressing in La Zandia?” Erol asked, meeting the First Warden’s gaze.

  Rowen sat straight. “The Kingdom forces have been staged to take advantage of whatever transpires between the High King and this self-named Marcher Lord. The Kingdom is as safe as I can make it from the province itself, but every day more and more of La Zandia’s populace join with Laver Herid and his rebellion. I fear it will become bloody if we do not do something about it soon.”

  “Undoubtedly if it comes to that, the Kingdom forces under your command will require the aid of Godwyn Keep in maintaining the defense. What do you feel is the proper course of action to be taken? Is war imminent?”

  “That is not up to me to decide, Your Grace,” Rowen said, noncommittal. “I know the High King weighs many things before he makes a decision of this magnitude.”

  Erol paused. Rowen had become a better diplomat than the Pontiff realized. “I meant no disrespect to you, Rowen,” Erol said silkily. “I only yearn to assess the needs of our people and save them from unneeded suffering. By coming here today, I hoped to learn more than I know.”

  “My allegiance is to the High King and to the Kingdom,” Rowen replied, his gray eyes flashing. “You will have your questions answered when the High King joins us. We have much planning still to do. What Godwyn Keep does, I would imagine, will be determined by the needs of the High King and the All Father.”

  “I am the spiritual leader of those souls in La Zandia,” the Pontiff said, reminding Rowen of his new mantle. “The All Father’s children are dying at murderous pagan hands. That is the most important element to all of this. You have the ear of the High King. He listens to your counsel. You have been to La Zandia; you know what it is we face. What are your feelings on the military application of the Kingdom’s forces currently?”

  “What I feel has little consequence on the outcome, Pontiff Erol,” Rowen replied firmly. “I have given my advice to the High King, and it is his decision to escalate our containment of the province to war.”

  “Surely, you must want to end this as quickly as I do, Rowen. To delay costs us lives.”

  “What I want is irrelevant. I advise. No more, no less.” Rowen added with a sharp tone as an afterthought, “Your Grace.”

  Erol held his tongue, reading the First Warden. The animosity the First Warden had was the kind born of inaction. Rowen was as upset about the manner in which the High King was handling the affair as Erol was, and that would work to his advantage quite nicely when time came to move wards and priests into the province of La Zandia. Better yet, behind closed doors and alone with the High King, the First Warden would genuinely stress the need to act because his feelings on the matter had been mirrored by Erol. If all went well, this would be over soon.

  And with some help, Blackrhein Reach would be receiving a nasty surprise any day.

  High King Nialls Chagne entered the room then, a dark storm within his eyes. He looked tired, as though his sleep had been plagued with the same demons haunting Erol’s dreams, but strength still radiated from him. Regardless of how life had beaten the High King down, Nialls still had a glowing ember of vitality within.

  “Your Grace,” the High King said as he bowed slightly to the new Pontiff. “I hope your trip here today is not an inconvenience in these trying times for Godwyn Keep.”

  “It is not, Your Majesty,” Erol said, standing to bow only to sit just as quickly. “Your household has been gracious. I pray the royal prince is resting well?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Nialls replied, moving around the edge of the desk and sitting down. “Other than this Kingdom, he is all I have left now.”

  Erol nodded gravely. Rowen sat motionless in his seat.

  The High King straightened the maps on the desk as a precursor. “I have asked you both here to discuss—in private, away from your personal advisors—the necessary means by which we can reunify the province of La Zandia with that of the Kingdom.”

  The Pontiff folded his hands in his lap. “I suppose that question depends on where you are at in your diplomatic efforts with the Marcher Lord, Your Majesty.”

  “I have not heard back in regards to my last proposal sent to Laver Herid. If he truly desires war, every moment given him freely creates a foe that much stronger. I cannot allow that to happen, obviously, but I hesitate ordering a war that would kill thousands.”

  “Nothing is going to change what is happening there,” Rowen said, tapping his forefinger lightly on the desk in emphasis. “For now, the border is secure and the immediate Kingdom is safe. For how long, though? As you said, the longer we wait, the more time is given to our enemy consolidating his power.”

  “Other than war, what other course do we have?” Nialls asked.

  “From the beginning I have advocated action, Majesty,” Erol stated, thinking of Bishop Arvus. “I sent Godwyn resources there immediately to help contain the unrest. It wasn’t enough to make a substantial difference. If I may speak freely, how long are you willing to receive letters and communication before the Marcher Lord himself is knocking on the wall of Aris Shae with witchcraeft at his back?”

  The High King simply sighed. “That is why I asked you here today, Pontiff Erol. There are elements to this I doubt either of you know that sway my decisions and prevent me from doing the obvious. There is more going on here than what lies on the surface. I was hoping for other recourses the Kingdom may take.”

  “Does any of that have to do with the absence of Pontifex Charl?”

  Nialls sat unmoving. “I intend no disrespect, Your Grace, but there are events transpiring in the Kingdom I cannot yet discuss—at least, I haven’t made up my mind to do so here today. In time, depending on how this meeting goes, perhaps I will elaborate for you where the Pontifex has gone and what he does for the Kingdom and Godwyn Keep.”

  “With respect, Your Majesty, I am Pontiff of Godwyn Keep. Pontifex Charl is under my direction just as he is yours.”

  The High King stared at Erol, cold appraisal and scrutiny in his eyes. Tension developed in the air.

  The Kingdom’s liege stood and walked to one of the shelves as if to grab a book, his hands tightly wound behind his back. He reached for nothing, and instead turned to face Erol and Rowen. “I won’t go into details, but Pontifex Dendreth Charl has learned much while away from Godwyn Keep. First, he discovered on Westor in the library of Memoria the existence of an ancient Codex different from the one you and the Kingdom are familiar with.”

  “Different in what way?” Erol questioned, stunned by this revelation.

  “Different in that the edition Dendreth found seems to be complete.”

  “That’s blasphemy!” Erol c
ould hardly contain himself.

  The High King nodded nonplussed as if it he had heard it all before. “And correct you might be. But within the pages of the book, the Pontifex discerned an expanded Book of Iorek. The additional revelations within it complete the work as if it had never been written by, what we tend to think of, a madman. Dendreth analyzed the two editions. There is no doubt to their authenticity in my mind. Using the Book as his guide, the Pontifex guessed the stolen Hammer of Aerom is to be used against the Rune of Aerilonoth, effectively destroying Godwyn’s ability to use prayer to raise power from the All Father for the intention of Good in this world.”

  Erol’s mind swirled with what the High King was saying. Dendreth was the most scholarly of the Council members. He was old and an idealist, yes; but a fool, no. If he had truly discovered what Nialls suggested and had endorsed it, there was a good chance it was true. Now it seemed the Fell Hammer of Aerom had been stolen for darker purposes and was to be used against the very faith that had indirectly sprung from its initial use.

  “I have so many questions. It’s hard to believe. Where’s the book now?” Erol asked.

  “It is safe, and I will not show it to you. Not now, at least. You do not refute what Dendreth discovered, Your Grace, and in that you have wisdom,” the High King continued, sitting down once more behind his desk. “The Hammer changes everything. It is for that reason I do not run to battle the threat in La Zandia; perhaps the threat will come from Blackrhein Reach—where we believe the Hammer to be—where the Rune of Aerilonoth resides. I cannot authorize Kingdom force against La Zandia when a strike may be made from the Reach.”

  “Why was the Council not notified of this?” Erol surmised the answer already.

  The High King shrugged. “There was and still could be a rogue element within the Keep who wants to see their own deeds done. Someone notified the Feyr of Dendreth’s whereabouts; someone may have even attempted to kill the Pontiff after his injury. Rather than tell the Council everything, I chose to wait and learn. No, La Zandia is just another string being pulled, and until I know who the puppet master is, I won’t go blindly into any affair without wisdom directing me there.”

  “Dire times are truly upon us then,” Erol said noncommittally, thinking about his own role in all of this. The High King did not believe him to be a party to the attempt on Garethe’s life; otherwise Nialls would never have told Erol the truth. It gave the new Pontiff satisfaction, but that quickly changed to worry. If the High King suspected there was a sinister plot against the Kingdom, could Erol have been a part of that plot and not known? Was he a puppet master or a puppet?

  “Now you know why I have been hesitant to act,” Nialls said. “I have no idea if I am playing into a larger scheme against the Kingdom and our very lives.”

  “What of the Hammer and Blackrhein Reach, Your Majesty?” Erol asked.

  The High King looked at Rowen. “I have dispatched a company to retrieve it at all costs. They have been gone several weeks now and must have crossed into the Reach by this time. By not hearing anything, I take that as a good sign.”

  Nialls had been busy behind the scenes. Erol had to give him more respect.

  “Which brings us once more to you being here,” said the High King. “Word reached me early from Rowen that the Marcher Lord has powerful people around him—witches and warlocks who use their pagan way of life to stir the blood of the people in the province. We know of three Witches and a mostly unseen man. The Witches remain a constant presence but this unknown man appears with Laver Herid and then vanishes for days or weeks. All of those loyal to the Kingdom in La Zandia have since been removed, and it has been difficult gathering information.

  “It is the man who worries me,” Nialls continued with stern eyes. “He could be anyone. But whoever broke into Godwyn Keep knew its design, and Dendreth and I fear it may have been Kieren, the young man Pontiff Garethe once assumed could be the next messiah and yet seems to have left Godwyn Keep with evil in his heart.”

  Erol had heard of Kieren in the past, rumors and nothing more. By the time Erol had joined the Keep as Pontifex, most people refused to talk about the boy, and Erol had found it difficult to learn much of anything. Some said he was the son of the All Father, come to take Aerom’s place and usher in a new era; some thought him a pagan worshiper who was forced from the Keep into a homeless life of roaming the Kingdom. But if what Nialls suggested was true, could the man Erol had been plotting with be Kieren?

  Erol’s mind moved. The man did have access to the Marcher Lord, and he did leave his side often. If it was, Erol was in deeper than he imagined. He would not be able to acknowledge his involvement with Kieren as it would incriminate him by association. If he did, he would undoubtedly be stricken from his new position and lose all he had hoped to gain from his ascension. It could have serious ramifications.

  “It is important for the safety of the Kingdom’s Warden to remove this unknown man and the Witches at all costs,” Erol said, keeping his voice steady. “It is their power the Kingdom and its warden must fear. The people of La Zandia are grape farmers and wine producers; they are no match for the seasoned Kingdom soldiers and their First Warden. Remove the Witches, their brethren, and this unknown man—if it even is Kieren—and you end the war.”

  “His Grace is right, Your Majesty,” Rowen insisted.

  “I see,” Nialls said. “Now that I have both of your attentions, let us speak to reclaiming La Zandia. There is much to plan. The worst scenario is if it is Kieren; I need to know how we can suppress and eventually subdue his power, as well as that of the others. I still hold to the hope of diplomacy, but we must be prepared for the worst.”

  The worry Erol had was pushed aside. It was his time now.

  The three men talked through the afternoon, and long into the night.

  Chapter 33

  When Pontifex Dendreth Charl moved from below deck and into the warm, salty air of the mid-afternoon, he shielded his eyes from the sun in hopes of viewing something other than the expansive, rolling waves of the last few days. The Sea Star cut a foamy swath through the blue like a knife through butter, its bulk gently rocking beneath him as the ship sped northward. The ship’s three masts and their canvas caught the wind, the rigging jingled and groaned with strain, and the dozen crew members followed their captain’s orders to exactness.

  For Dendreth, it was now a familiar scene. The High King’s Wards tried to stay out of the crew’s way, the horses in the Sea Star’s hold were cared for and quieted, and the radiant sky spread to the rolling horizon with no indication of landfall in sight.

  But all the while, he knew they would soon be to Falkind Island. To search for dragons.

  The Pontifex moved to the railing, and the spray cooled his skin. Dendreth had not wanted to set foot on a boat again. His last experience had ended with Feyr guards chasing him and the shaft of an arrow sprouting from his thigh. The thigh still ached, even now, as though warning him an injury more dire could occur on this mission.

  He understood the dilemma the High King faced and accepted the role he had been given—there were few people Nialls could trust, after all—but a part of him wished it had been someone younger. Although his mind was as sharp as any man, Dendreth recognized his own limitations and knew them to be the slow failing of his body. He was still tough but it was unraveling quicker each day. Riding once more on the Sea Star only reminded him of the frailness of his human form and the mortality that awaited him.

  Although Dendreth did not want to be aboard a boat again, one part of him was happy for it; before the Sea Star had left Godwyn Keep’s naval docks, he could have sworn he had seen lithe, tall figures staring at him from the shadowed rocks of the peninsula’s coast, their cloaked forms watching as Captain Moris’s ship broke from port. Even now, after having time to mull it over, Dendreth knew with certainty who they had been and why they were following him. Feyr. It appeared as though Ambassador Mikel had not given up his search for the Pontifex, but travel
ing by the ocean put distance between him and his pursuers.

  Dendreth looked to the only Feyr he wholly trusted at the moment. Sion leaned against a railing near the bow of the ship, his back to Dendreth and his gray hair pulled tight as he faced the wind and their destination. The purple dye had bled itself out slowly over the course of the last few months, leaving his hair devoid of color. It signified the loss of his home and his family much like the feyr’im observed when they arrived at Godwyn Keep for service. But unlike his Godwyn Keep brethren, Sion was truly homeless. It weighed heavily on the Feyr. Sion had become increasingly more pensive since leaving Westor—having no direction in the palace of Aris Shae. Maybe once they landed on the island and Sion’s qualities as a leader were needed, he’d feel more comfortable.

  As Dendreth turned back to the sea, a voice next to him said, “I see the longer journey agrees with you, Pontifex Charl.”

  The old man turned to see Captain Moris at his side, his hands folded at the railing and roughened by salt, rope, and years of hard work.

  Dendreth grinned. “Remind my thigh of that fact, Captain.”

  Moris straightened a bit, and a flash of the youthful exuberance Dendreth found so charismatic about the man lit his features. “Still hurts, does it?”

  The Pontifex nodded. “Still, better than the alternative. I could have had five arrows in me and watched my life draining on that Westor dock.”

  “The sea gives, and the sea can take away. That night, the sea saved you.”

  “How much longer before we come within sight of Falkind?” Dendreth asked.

  Captain Moris squinted into the cloudless sky as if the answers were there rather than on the ocean. “Tomorrow, early, I believe. We have a strong wind to tack against, but ultimately it is pushing us where we want to go.”

  Dendreth nodded, the sun a white and sapphire blur on the ocean. Tomorrow would be the day then. He would know if the Kingdom had more to fear than unusual migration patterns; tomorrow he would ascertain for the High King whether or not the dragons were part of a larger scheme to be hatched against the Kingdom. If the dragons were, the Kingdom had more to worry about than La Zandia or Blackrhein Reach. And with the Hammer of Aerom loose, it was difficult to gauge where the Kingdom should turn first without leaving itself open for attack.