Nialls was about to say as much to his First Warden when the witchcraeft began. It was not obvious at first what was happening; the air shimmered in a wave toward the forces of the Kingdom as though the pinnacle of summer heat had been saved and emanated from across the valley. It was like a hot wind, and Nialls could feel the heat. The Godwyn priests under the direction of Pontifex Reu responded, sending a raw, unified soncrist into the afternoon. Power resonated in the air and coalesced into a cold fog. The wave disintegrated against the cool rush of air, but the foe kept walking toward their doom.
“Godwyn is holding its own, Your Majesty,” Pontiff Erol said next to him. “It is time to destroy the insurrection.”
Ignoring the Pontiff, the High King reached out to Rowen. “I want as few casualties as possible, Rowen. These people are not warriors. I want Laver Herid and the Witches, alive if possible. The last thing we are going to do is make him a martyr.”
The First Warden nodded and rode down the hill toward the rear of his warden. Pontiff Erol had a dissatisfied look on his face.
Both of the armies entered the bottom of the valley, the grass and rock-strewn area the only thing separating the two forces, and soon they would clash. Nialls could see Laver Herid plainly enough—his crimson armor and black hair were obvious—and his three Witches were directly below him, gathered together like a coven of gossipmongers. No one matching the description of the man Nialls believed to be Kieren was visible.
With the grey clouds muting the landscape, Rowen marched his force into the heart of the valley, directly at the opposition. Godwyn Keep withheld the Witches and their brethren from affecting the Kingdom’s soldiers; now the First Warden would attack under confidence witchcraeft would not harm his soldiers.
The clash of armies was a din of noise. Hundreds of La Zandian people lost their lives on the first charge alone. Rowen roared out orders, trying to keep the carnage to a minimum. It was useless. Screams of the wounded and dying filled the air in a chilling cacophony. He sent a wedge from the left flank in an attempt to circumvent the masses and get to the Marcher Lord. Laver Herid and his Witches remained on the hill above unmoved, watching the carnage as if waiting for something.
Then, from the craggy forest at the end of the valley, the thunder of something heavy shook the land, overwhelming the ringing of steel against steel. When it came into view, a flash of fear swept through Nialls. It was behemoth, man-like, standing nearly the height of a Giant. Thick, heavily muscled shoulders tapered down to a small waist, and bulging thighs and calves strained as it ran toward the battle. Parts of it seemed to be made from pink flesh while others were gray like riverbed clay, the intermingling colors giving it a leprous cast in the afternoon’s muted light. It was hairless, with massive fists and feet. Pale milky eyes peered out of a squashed, flat face lacking a nose. There was something dead about it Nialls could not put his finger on, and he was soon greeted with affirmation when the odor of decay accosted the battlefield.
“What is it?” Pontiff Erol inquired. “A golem of some kind?”
“Yes,” Thomas said from behind Nialls, drawing his sword free. “But it’s also the jerich.”
The thing roared with insanity, maddened beyond belief. It charged across the valley floor, the cudgel in its hand swinging with promised death. It would be there in moments.
“How do you know that?” Erol sneered. “The jerich was imprisoned long ago.”
“I know it is free, Pontiff. Look at its eyes, the amount of decay the thing has. The golem has been freed by the Witches and the jerich now inhabits it.”
The battle shifted the moment the golem charged into the Kingdom forces, its assault like a battering ram hitting a crumbling wall. The monstrosity hammered at anything that came into its path, killing even the Marcher Lord’s own forces if they wandered too near its reach. Soon the Kingdom forces were moving their attention from the enemy’s forces to the giant causing such havoc to their campaign.
Both Pontifex Reu and Pontifex Lonoth answered the threat, ordering their individual choirs to focus on the golem. A flame appeared above the creature, a fiery net of crisscrossing threads intent on suffocating, igniting, and destroying the devastating thing. The net dropped on the jerich, but it extinguished upon impact, the golem unhindered as it continued to swipe, maim, and kill the warden. Godwyn had no effect, and the jerich persisted in decimating the High King’s troops, flinging them into the air with accentuated, angry roars.
“It is the jerich,” Nialls said. Only the blasphemous creature could survive an assault by Godwyn Keep. It had been unavoidably born at the feet of Aerom in his death throes, and its unusual birth beneath the All Father’s son offered it immunity from Godwyn Keep.
“We need to bring it down. Now!” Pontiff Erol stressed in a raised voice.
As if answering his call, Rowen attacked, bearing down on his horse and leading a group of men like a wedge through the pandemonium. They charged into the field, a tight configuration of well-trained men, to save those who were flustered and retreating at the latest barrage. Durendal glinted dully in his hand as he rallied his men, the ruby sparkling in its hilt.
Sensing a new attack, the jerich turned to face the coming First Warden. It was quick and fast and now unerringly specific in its targets, lashing out at the wedge Rowen had formed. Raising shields in defense, the men in the forefront hunkered against the blur of the wood cudgel before they gave way with broken steel and shattered arms. Others rammed long, thick-headed spears into the golem, but the clay either repelled their efforts or the spears entered the diseased flesh and broke in the melee. It showed no pain. Nothing slowed it—nothing apparently could stop it—and the fear that had taken seed in Nialls grew.
With most of his wedge decimated and other warden trying to fill the holes, Rowen slashed at the jerich with Durendal. The creature shied away from the blade’s swipe and countered with a hefty swing. Rowen’s mount was incapable of adjusting quickly enough and the wood stave struck a glancing blow against the First Warden’s. He tumbled from his horse, landing in a roll and coming to his feet in one fluid motion. Warden pushed up against the golem in a steel tide, protecting their First Warden from the beast.
An opening appeared for Rowen when one of his men died, and he swung at the giant golem’s body. Durendal was a wicked blur of sweeping steel, the ruby in its hilt absorbing the failing light and emitting a brilliant crimson fire of its own. Rowen struck the creature halfway up its left arm, the sharp steel slicing through the clay and flesh like butter. The jerich howled, kicking out at the men who had harmed it, still wielding the cudgel in its remaining hand.
“Rowen!” Thomas roared into the melee.
The battle slowed for Nialls as he watched, unable to act.
Given new space, it swung at Rowen, but the First Warden failed to sidestep in time. The weapon slammed into Rowen’s chest, and the sickening sound of mangled steel and breaking bones could be heard.
Rowen flew through the air from the blow and landed hard. He regained his knees, gasping for breath that would not come. Blood leaked from his armor and mouth, and his eyes grew dazed. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. With a grimace of pain on his face, Rowen still held Durendal firmly in his hand until the sword’s tip slowly lowered and he fell over, crumpled and powerless. He did not move.
Before Nialls could stop him, Thomas kicked his horse into action, and Creek shot like a brown lightning bolt into the heart of the battle, paying no heed to his own safety. The jerich stood over Rowen, about to finish off the First Warden’s limp body, its white eyes swirling in mockery. It lifted the club, preparing for the death stroke.
Bolstered by Thomas’s resolve, Kingdom forces rushed in anew, giving no care to their personal risk. The golem roared, angry at its inability to finish its prey, swinging with its lone arm. Once again, the jerich renewed its attack on those around it, but the bodies in its way formed a wall it could not immediately overcome.
In moments, Thomas catapulted
off of Creek and was at Rowen’s side.
With a bloody hand, the First Warden gripped Thomas’s own. Rowen seemed to struggle for air, but his lips moved. Thomas knelt near to listen. Nialls was too far to hear what was said. The gasping slowed; the stressed movements stopped. Thomas held his brother’s hand with white knuckles. The hand so tight about Thomas’s grew lax and slipped free to the ground. Rowen did not move again.
The scream that tore from Thomas’s throat overwhelmed the din of the battle around him. Nialls watched Thomas grab Durendal from his brother’s fingers. The jerich had almost broken through again when Thomas met it, the lines of his face deep and furrowed in anger. The golem towered over the old man, but Thomas held his ground. Acknowledgment of who the old man was crossed the clay, recalcitrant face, and a grin split wide as the jerich’s eyes glowed white. While the fighting of the armies continued around him, and holding the First Warden’s sword in both hands, Thomas waited, his body taut and his icy eyes as cold as death.
When the jerich swung, Thomas ducked under the attack and with precision born of training and anger, sliced Durendal through the golem’s thick leg in one stroke.
It crumpled under its own weight, falling with a force that shook the ground. It struggled to rise, but Thomas moved in quick, avoiding its remaining thrashing limbs. Durendal flashed with determined certainty as the old man raised it high for the killing blow. Right before the sword fell in a blur of quicksilver, Nialls saw an angry, diaphanous black cloud separate itself from the creature and dissipate in the air. Durendal’s blade plunged into the golem’s chest nearly up to the sword’s hilt. The creature shuddered, the glowing, white eyes faded, and all that remained was a lump of rotting flesh and gray clay.
With the golem destroyed and the jerich gone, the Kingdom’s forces led by their High Captains renewed their push forward toward the Marcher Lord and his army. Havoc resumed. Laver Herid’s army broke with the loss of their advantage.
“Attack!” Erol screamed nearby. The two High Captains gave charge.
Just then, snapping as though the bones of the earth were breaking could be heard in the very depths of the valley. Shafts of splintered rock thrust out of the earth, sending men from both sides airborne. The resulting dust cloud obstructed Nialls’s view, but he could just make out a faint glow about the forms of the Witches as they worked. Godwyn Keep responded, singing to preserve the earth, but the damage had been done; an odd broken wall had formed between the La Zandian army and that of the Kingdom. The Marcher Lord and his retinue were fleeing the field to disappear deeper into the depths of the province.
Nialls was nearly oblivious to it. His eyes were on Thomas. The old man, his wild white hair stained with sweat, grime, and blood, walked slowly back to his dead brother and dropped again to his knees. Thomas placed his left hand on Rowen’s unmoving chest. His head bowed low and in the failing light of the afternoon, tears fell across Thomas’s weathered cheeks.
“Pontiff, see to the wounded,” Nialls ordered.
“But we must…” Erol argued.
“Do it!” Nialls thundered.
The High King did not see the Pontiff leave. He was fixed on Thomas. The former First Warden did not rise for a very long time.
Throughout, he gripped Durendal as though he would never let it go.
Chapter 39
As the snow flurries increased to a wild, frenzied blizzard reducing the visibility of the land around him, Sorin Westfall hunkered against Artiq for the stallion’s warmth and pushed onward. The southern mountains and hills of Blackrhein Reach had become a maelstrom of winter and all else had disappeared. The wind whipped the large snowflakes at him, unrelenting. No movement other than the snow caught Sorin’s eye. The world had become frozen, cold, and inhospitable, the wiles of the season’s first snowstorm remorseless and insistent, and Sorin knew if he rode another horse, he would be dead.
The wind gusted hard, angry at their intrusion into its elevated realm, but the pair continued on. In the white haze, Artiq’s path was unseen, but it did not matter. In Sorin’s mind, where the depths of his soul connected with the power of the great horse, the lay of the land was visible as though it were clear. Artiq had been born from the land, and in that birth had come absolute knowledge of the world; the horse knew intimately every hillock, every mountain peak, every path and contour they took. Sorin’s mount had shared all of this with its master, a multi-dimensional map inside Sorin’s head. At first, when Sorin had mounted, the newfound ability had overwhelmed him, the entire world sprawling with a dizzying rainbow array inside Sorin’s mind. But he had learned to focus on only what was needed, and his mount was taking him exactly where Sorin desired to go.
The Rune of Aerilonoth. Inside Sorin, it pulsed brighter than the sun.
When they had left the campsite, only a light dusting of snow covered the land. As they climbed and the day wore on, the storm thickened, and Artiq was immersed in snow up to his knees. Despite the crippling conditions that would paralyze any other animal, the horse was undeterred, nothing within the boundaries of nature able to withhold him from doing what he wanted. Artiq rode hard through the blinding snow, unerring and true, covering a distance in a day it would have taken Creek a week to accomplish. The rigid cold of the day melted against the two; the magic of the horse kept Sorin safe even in the harshest climate.
As Artiq made his way up the steep glacier pathways of the Clennick Mountains, the wind howling around the pair, Sorin reflected on those who had put him on this path. Thomas and Relnyn. High King Chagne and Pontifex Charl. Nathan and Tem. Oryn and Arianna. Evelina and Ganite. All of them had given of themselves in ways Sorin could only repay if he stopped Kieren from destroying the Rune.
And yet now, as Kieren had said he would be, Sorin was alone, bereft of all but Artiq.
Sorin tried to keep a sharp eye out, but the heavy snow obstructed his view like a wall. Evelina had warned of enormous shaggy beasts in these regions, but Sorin doubted he would have time to defend himself if such a beast decided to attack. Sorin would have to rely on Artiq to protect him.
About halfway into the reaches, beneath an outcrop of rock that shielded Sorin and Artiq from the buffeting, snowy wind, Sorin found the first evidence they were not alone.
At the top of the steep path, two grey pillars rose up—one near the edge of the precipice and another near the wall of the mountain. Artiq had not stopped, and as Sorin grew closer, he realized they were not pillars but the remnants of an arch. The gate was comprised of massive, square blocks of ice, towering over the two travelers. Symbols were carved in relief, but the swirling snow had obscured most of their meaning. The arch was absent. Sorin passed by the gate’s remains, the arch scattered on the pathway in front of him, torn free with great force and recently.
He looked around. No boulder had fallen that he could see; it was as though the arch had been rent asunder from beneath. He wondered who would build such a wondrous arch in these harsh environs.
He rounded the corner and had his answer. Artiq froze beneath him.
A small, level plateau of natural rock cut into the side of the mountain. Sorin could just make out monolithic structures built against the side of the mountain, their square forms rising above him. Through the ice and snow that clung to the buildings, skeletons of enormous timbers were visible, their size and placement unnatural in these climes. The buildings were long and squat as if hunkering down against the blast of winter. Ice coated everything; icicles clung to the roofs. It was a small village glazed over. Sorin thought of Relnyn. The Giant would be the only one Sorin knew large enough to live comfortably within these large buildings.
If it were a village, then where were its large inhabitants?
He looked around anew. The snow Artiq was wading through was now approaching Sorin’s feet, but he saw it was not entirely flat. More than a dozen giant drifts had formed across the area leading to the buildings, the mounds of snow rising and falling in an awkward array of randomness. Sorin squinte
d, seeing only the disturbed snow.
Artiq whickered into the cold air and shook his head. He did not like what he saw any more than Sorin did.
The horse moved forward near the buildings. What Sorin had not seen through the swirling flakes was now apparent—black scorch marks were like stains against some of the buildings near the cliff’s edge, with one of the buildings fallen inward after its wooden timbers had been ravaged and blackened by fire. The fury of the winter storm attempted to cover the structure’s ruin but it had not yet accomplished its task. Thin ribbons of smoke twined the air, but no movement of any kind offered an answer. The village was as dead as a cemetery.
That was when Sorin saw the body.
It was half buried near the charred building where the flames had melted some of the snow away before dying out. Only an enormous blackened arm with curled fingers and a portion of a head jutted from the snow as if the earth had not accepted the body, but nature had chosen to bury it.
He looked back. The mounds were not snowdrifts but bodies.
Artiq responded to Sorin’s horror, snorting and shying away from the surroundings. Whatever was buried beneath the winter’s fury was a creature as large as Relnyn. Sorin pushed down the revulsion twisting his gut as he scanned the rest of the area. Nothing else was visible.
Knowing he had to find Kieren at all costs, Sorin turned from the village and once more got on the path leading to the top of the mountain. The Rune of Aerilonoth was close. Delaying for any reason would be foolhardy.
Sorin looked back one last time. A giant shadow had separated from one of the nearer buildings and stood just beyond where Sorin could make it out in the gloom of the storm. It did not move but watched him leave, holding what appeared to be a staff in its hand. A shiver not born of the cold sliced through him. At least there were some survivors.
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 56