Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  He pushed the dark thoughts aside and realized the Captain had gone quiet. “What’s on your mind, Moris?”

  “Some of my men have heard rumors from the Wards about our part in this. I know my function within the hierarchy of Godwyn Keep, and it is not my place to question the directives of the Council or the High King. There is enough of my father’s military blood within me to appreciate knowing when to ask questions and when to follow orders.”

  “Go on,” Dendreth said.

  “But I am also Captain of the Sea Star and responsible for keeping those under my supervision safe. I guess I have come to that boundary and am about to cross over it.”

  “Then I will save you the worry of asking a question that is out of line,” Dendreth said, unperturbed by the Captain. “Yes, this is about dragons.”

  “So it is true. You believe there to be dragons on Falkind. If that is the case, why seek them out?” Moris grinned. “The last I heard, they are quite dangerous.”

  “That would require a long answer to a difficult question,” the Pontifex replied. His thigh ached all the more for it. “Suffice it to say, you and your crew will not be obligated to join Sion, the Wards, or myself on this endeavor.”

  “Which is?”

  “I am to discover what the dragons are doing on the island. It is not their natural time to be moving about the Kingdom, and it has concerned the High King.”

  Moris looked at Dendreth with a penetrating, serious look. “I know there is more, but it’s a start. I’ll reassure the crew it will not be their place to go ashore. Seamen are superstitious and they deem dragons a terrible omen even though none of them have actually seen one. Is there anything I can do then that you have yet to tell me?’”

  “Keep the arrows out of my hide, and I’ll be happy enough,” Dendreth grunted, followed with a quick grin to belie the worry he truly felt.

  Moris left, patting the shoulder of the Pontifex, ordering the ship to tack again.

  It would be dangerous on Falkind Island, of that Dendreth was certain. A dragon was not a beast to provoke, and hundreds—if not thousands—of the vile beasts awaited the group. Nialls had been wise to send only one ship, one crew, one search party; they were more likely able to infiltrate the island without the endangering notice a larger force would bring. The island was sizeable, inhabited by a simple, peaceful folk who would be defenseless against the onslaught and needs of the great beasts. He hoped the dragons had ventured further west and out into the ocean and the lands beyond, leaving the fishing villages, sheepherders, and farmers alone.

  But his instincts told him that would not be the case.

  As the sun made its slow arc to its rosy bed in the sea, Dendreth wondered anew what he had gotten himself into.

  * * * * *

  The next day began as the others had, with Dendreth rocking awake from drifting dreams he could not remember. The Pontifex had slept fitfully, but wisdom pushed him from the sheets of his bed; he knew he would get no more, and the longer he lounged, the deeper the ache in his thigh would penetrate. The sooner he stretched the nighttime stiffness from his limbs and back, the better. He rose, unsteadily at first, dressed, read a few passages from the Book of Seol for strength and guidance, and headed into the burgeoning, golden light of the early morning.

  Moris was already at the helm, sipping a steaming beverage from a wooden cup, his eyes intent and shining as they searched for any problems to have occurred amidst the pulleys, ropes, and canvas while he slept. Sion stood next to the Captain, his arms crossed as though he had stood that way all night, his pale skin aglow under the sunrise. Dendreth walked up several wooden stairs to join the men, aware the crew watched him.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, nodding his morning welcome.

  “It’s a good morning, Pontifex,” Moris said, vaguely lifting his cup in welcome while Sion pointed to the north with a long finger.

  Dendreth squinted. A speck on the horizon greeted the crew and those on board with the promise of landfall that day.

  “How long before we reach the island?” he asked.

  “Late morning,” Moris answered, taking a drink, the steam swirling around his eyes. “We will put in at Arklinn, unload the supplies and horses we need, and then we will go on this adventure of yours.”

  “We?” Dendreth asked.

  “I feel the need to stretch my legs.” The Captain shrugged. “And I’m not superstitious.”

  As the morning progressed, the speck grew larger until its coastline and hills were easily seen. Green rolling hills rippled up from craggy white cliffs. Gulls, kestrels, and jackdaws flew in the air around the imposing wall, fishing in diving splashes before the autumn came to beckon their migration to the warmer climes of the south. Caves dotted the wall, their depths a mystery. Waves crashed as a man on the bow of the Sea Star using a leaded line called out the depth of the water. The smell of brine mingling with land permeated the air. Captain Moris changed course and maneuvered his boat east along the coast, calling out orders every few moments to correct small disparities he saw the crew make. No dragons flew in the air, but the island was large and Dendreth knew they could be farther inland where hunting would be better.

  The Sea Star moved slowly through the water, half of her sails dropped, and rounded a bend in the coastline to a terrible sight.

  Arklinn, the fishing village and only large port of Falkind Island, was a charred, wrecked ruin. The town had been situated at the rear of a small, inland cove with numerous piers sticking out to offer purchase for the fisherman who made their life at the hands of the sea, but now most of the town and those piers were gone; only the blackened skeletons of timbered buildings were seen, their innards reduced to nothing. Gray ash covered the hills around Arklinn, and no smoke rose from the town’s remains; whatever had destroyed it had done so weeks before. The Sea Star encountered drifting, burnt boards and spars, the remnants of the town’s piers and ships. No movement of any kind indicated life; Arklinn was dead.

  “What in the Seven happened?” Moris whispered. They all knew the answer.

  “There are a few piers intact still,” said Dendreth, his eyes still scanning the town, the hills above it, and the sky. “We shall dock and go ashore here. Whatever destroyed Arklinn is long gone now.” He turned to a Ward nearby. “Prepare our horses and gather our things. We leave at once.”

  The Ward hesitated before heading below deck. Captain Moris called out orders and the Sea Star slowly entered the small bay like an uncertain animal prepared to bolt. The dead carcasses of the sunken fishing boats yawned up at the passing ship, their ghostly forms a reminder of the once lively people who worked here. The pier was relatively untouched by fire. The bay was quiet, the creaking and rigging of the ship and the lap of the sea against its side the only sounds, as if nature would no longer trespass into the graveyard of Arklinn. The crew tied off to the pier but looked ready to untie the knots and leave at a moment’s notice.

  Dendreth grew angry. Destruction like this was what could happen to the Kingdom and all he loved. Few people came to Falkind and would not be aware of what had happened. The High Kings for millennia had left it alone, its inhabitants having nothing to offer the Kingdom as far as trade or wealth. The sheepherders, farmers, and fishing villages were peaceful with one another, and when the rare uprisings occurred, survival was foremost on their minds in the harsh, gloomy climes that held sway most of the year. They were not advanced, but had no need to be. Missionaries from Godwyn Keep had traveled there several times over the centuries, but had discovered a people whose survival was more important than matters of faith or the heart. They cared little for the outside world, the island supporting their needs entirely.

  The Wards unloaded the horses, bridled them, and after packing supplies, mounted. After he had given last minute instructions to his first mate, Captain Moris joined Sion and Dendreth, his face devoid of the humor the Pontifex found so appealing about the man. The stink of dead coals and ash reminded them all that what they
were seeking could destroy them as easily as it had this town.

  They passed through the main fishing village, intent on reaching the hills beyond. The town was sheltered within its cove from the wind of the sea, and the smell of smoke lay over Arklinn’s ruin. The clop of their horses’ hooves fell on dead air. Most of the buildings—once small shops, homes, and stalls—were burnt to the ground; only the shells of a few remained standing. None of those who had lived in the town were present; it was as if the entire population had vanished. Blackened scorch marks crossed their path often as though balls of fire had been thrown across the land to leave wide paths of destruction for all to see.

  “No bodies,” Sion whispered to Dendreth, readjusting the bow about his back.

  The Pontifex nodded and continued onward.

  When they were out of the confines of Arklinn and into the hills surrounding the bay, Dendreth wheeled his horse round to the group. “Sion will take point. His Feyr senses are far superior to our own, and he will try to spot anything out of the ordinary. We are here to discover why dragons have taken up residence on Falkind Island and if they pose a threat to the Kingdom in any way. Once we accomplish this, we go home.”

  “After moving through Arklinn,” said Tiril, the leader of the Wards, “it is pretty safe to assume dragons attacked the town and destroyed it. We know they are here. Is that not enough?”

  “It is not,” Dendreth answered, patting his horse. “Although many of us have never seen the beasts, we are familiar with them from our days of study. History describes dragons as mindless, overgrown birds given great power, ruled by instincts of nature. If that were all the truth to be had, we would not be here today. No, we are here to learn if that happens now. If we discover what they do here and it is indeed what we fear, the High King may have the upper hand if he knows a strike is possible and imminent.”

  Tiril said nothing, but looked around at his men. Dendreth turned his horse and started inland. The lush hills enveloped the company as they rode along a wide path used for passage to the interior of the island. The grass, so vibrant here where rain fell plentifully year round, grew over the land like a soft green blanket. The only break in the verdant clover-filled pastureland appeared at the top of the small hills where the same white rock the Sea Star had sailed past pushed its way slowly free of the world into the sun’s warmth. Thin trails snaked their way over the island and into the valleys in the distance, the pathways shepherds used to move their flocks from valley to valley. In the distance, higher, rockier country could be seen, the darker green of forests smudging their top.

  “Something is not right here,” Dendreth said, looking about him as if in doing so he would discover it. “I can’t quite place it.”

  Sion replied immediately. “The birds on the cliff walls were acting normal but all else is silent. It is as if no wildlife is willing to show itself to the world.”

  Dendreth listened. His friend was right. No birds flew or sang in the ether, no animals grazed or burrowed nearby. Not even insects buzzed in the air. The wind, its cooling embrace drying the sweat from his brow, was lonely as it swirled through the air and rippled the grass and their clothing. The island was as silent as a graveyard, stripped of its natural rhythms.

  “The few times I have sailed to this island, sheep have dotted the hillsides by the hundreds,” Moris said, his hand stretching wide to encompass all that he saw. “They are gone, and their shepherds, apparently, have gone with them.”

  “If the people of Arklinn are gone, and the shepherds are also gone, where did they go?” Tiril questioned. “Surely the dragons couldn’t have killed and eaten them all?”

  No one had an answer; Dendreth was afraid of one.

  As the afternoon wore on, the company came to numerous small villages, towns, and lone homesteads in the wilderness as vacant as Arklinn. Some were destroyed, others still stood, all were empty. It was as if a giant hand had plucked the denizens of Falkind Island from their lives and secretly moved them elsewhere. Sion had nothing to report, saying every hill was much the same as the next. No sign of their query graced the skies.

  The hills eventually gave way to sheer outcroppings of rock that rose above the rest of the island in a large plateau—the Falkind Highlands. The Feyr led them up into the lands beyond, the horses stepping carefully over the rock-strewn trail they were on. Once cresting the summit, the Highlands spread to the northwest, a promontory of raised ground and mountainous rock where only the most hardy lived. The short peaks of stone to the west blocked the slowly setting sun and draped the valley in dark shadow.

  “The day wanes, Pontifex,” Tiril said, standing up in his saddle to stretch tired muscles. “We should begin finding shelter soon from the beasts in the night or return to the Sea Star.”

  Dendreth knew the Ward was right. The Pontifex did not want to spend the night out in the open and preferred finding an overhang of rock to set up camp rather than returning to the ship. He kicked his horse and sent him into a trot around the bowl of the valley, the soil dry and kicking up dust in the fading light.

  The rest of the Wards began following him when Sion suddenly wheeled his horse around and broke off from the company at a gallop. The Feyr rode his horse like a demon on the heels of its prey, his horse sending up turf with every thrust of its mighty legs. He was near the entrance to the Highlands when he leapt from the horse before it had stopped and in one fluid motion rebounded into the boulders they had just left behind.

  A few moments later, Sion reappeared, dragging a young, black-haired boy around eleven winters of age by the arm forcibly. The boy struggled, lashing out with blackened fingernails and balled fists. Sion ignored the assault. Grime stained the child’s cheeks, arms, and clothing as though he had not been able to bathe in weeks. He looked like any number of street children in Aris Shae who did not have a home and had not learned the skills to survive on their own. Dendreth dismounted to get a better look at the catch.

  “She’s been following us for quite some time, staying just out of sight,” Sion said, taking hold of his settled horse’s reins and bringing his catch to Dendreth. “But in all this silence she was easy to pick out and capture.”

  Dendreth looked closer then. It was a girl. She had been so exposed to the elements it was hard to distinguish her gender. Her shorn hair was unclean and stood out like porcupine quills. Scrapes, bruises, and cuts littered her skin as if she had been sleeping in a briar patch, and the odor of smoke, fish, and old sweat clung to her. She pulled away, trying to break the Feyr’s steel grip on her arm, but she did not make a sound in her struggle. It was as if she were mute.

  “Perhaps she knows where the others are,” Tiril offered.

  Then Dendreth noticed the girl was not manic about being captured; her dark, brown eyes never left the Highlands and terror was mirrored there by something out in the plain. The old Pontifex followed her gaze and squinted.

  Out in the valley, in the center of the shadows where it was barely discernible, a blur of dark activity caught his eyes. Sion knelt down to the ground and cupped his hands against the glare of the sun ricocheting off the mountains. Dendreth shielded his eyes as well. Dragons, like hundreds of large boulders, littered the valley’s floor and tore up the earth, sending showers of black soil into the air with massive heaves of their clawed limbs. The dirt rained down upon them but none seemed to care. They were so far away Dendreth could barely discern their colors let alone the details of their bodies. Regardless, their actions were an odd activity for the beasts and one the Pontifex had no explanation for.

  “What are they doing?” Dendreth whispered.

  “Digging, is what I would guess, Pontifex,” Sion said, his lavender eyes penetrating the gloom. “But for what, I do not know. If I were to guess, I’d say stone. What else is buried deep in the ground?”

  The dragons continued to dig and Dendreth was focused on those closest to them when a roar resounded throughout the valley. The Pontifex looked up. Three of the monolithic beasts ha
d launched into the air with massive thrusts of their hind legs and were flying toward the rim of the valley and the company’s position. Dendreth mounted his horse anew, still staring at the oncoming threat. Sion racing after the girl had been a flurry of movement the dragons had easily seen, drawing the savage carnivores like bees to honey. There was nothing they could do now to stop it. The approaching dragons were a threat more dire than any the Pontifex had ever faced and one the group of them could never hope to overcome by strength.

  “To the Sea Star or any cover we can find along the way!” Dendreth shouted, wheeling his horse toward the only exit they really had.

  Sion smoothly whisked the girl onto his saddle and after joining her, rode for the entrance to the island’s lower reaches, the rest of the company following. Sensing their masters’ distress, the horses navigated the rocky trail with quick slides and fleet purpose, leaving a cloud of dust in the cool air. Dendreth looked back over his shoulder as if expecting the dragons to drop on them at any moment, but only darkening blue sky was overhead. There was not much the Pontifex could do; the power of his soncrist was limited—although Dendreth was strong in its use and his faith, a dragon was a powerful beast and difficult to overcome. With three of them after the company, the Pontifex knew they would be lucky to escape with their lives. His heart raced, and he pushed his horse onward in response.

  The hilly green pastureland spread out before them again. The girl pointed east, and Sion followed her direction despite it being away from the ship. The rest of the group followed the Feyr close behind. From what Dendreth knew, dragons did not normally attack humanity unless hungry or provoked. They had done nothing to anger the beasts, but from the appearance of the land and lack of sheep, the former was possible. Despite that information, a pit of ice had formed in the bottom of his stomach. What were the dragons doing there? It was unnatural for them to fly the distances they had, but even more so to dig into the world in a concerted effort. Whatever they were doing, it was not of their own volition, and that meant a sinister presence was controlling them. The threat of doom entered Dendreth’s heart, but he pushed it down deep amidst the chaos of the company’s flight.