Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  It had a song of its own, powerful and resonant, come alive the moment the blood of Aerom had splashed its surface. It recognized Sorin as it recognized Kieren—both the blood of the All Father—but Kieren had not heard it in his hatred. Sorin did so now, and he remembered it was the same alien melody he had heard when Arianna was kidnapped. There was power unimaginable there. Kieren meant to use it to destroy the Rune; Sorin would try to use it to save them all.

  Sorin let the melody flow over him. It responded to him, filling him with power.

  Kieren realized what was happening, aware of the song as well. Grasping it as Sorin had done, Kieren brought his will upon Sorin anew with vehemence born of desperation and anger at losing control. With his vast experience, Kieren neutralized Sorin’s assault. Sorin crumpled before the abilities Kieren possessed, no amount of will able to overcome the madman, and he was pushed from the evil man’s mind.

  For Sorin, the song vanished immediately.

  Dismayed, Sorin looked through his own open eyes again.

  As he did, it was only to find the head of the Hammer continue in its arc and meet the stone trunk of the tree in shocking fury. A flash of white light blinded Sorin briefly before shards of wood and stone alike flew through the air, unfettered. The force of the blast leveled Sorin to the grass. Arianna and Kieren disappeared. The aura of fire about the canopy vanished and the tree began to topple as though sawed in two at its base. The mountain shook at its very core, and the ground rumbled in protest. The sunshine vanished, and wind, snow, and frigid air engulfed the garden and the top of the mountain, the safety from the elements gone. The blizzard entered, swirling everywhere at once, howling in triumph as the world quaked.

  Sorin was alone, shivering and screaming into the snow as a darkness born of white consumed him.

  Chapter 40

  Pontiff Erol Tal exited his tent and greeted the darkness.

  The dying moon illuminated hundreds of sleeping men in its pale light, their plaintive snoring a constant rumble to the ear. Few warden were awake—the first tendrils of dawn were still far to the east and would not pinken the sky for a while yet—and the clang of steel upon steel echoed in the still air like discordant music. Behind them, in the distance, a different noise accompanied those Erol already heard—the low, constant moan of wounded men.

  The din of an army had kept him awake during the night, but they were not the only reason; as soon as Erol had closed his eyes, nightmares and visions of his once midnight visitor overcame his attempt at sleep, the black eyes terrorizing his dreams.

  The Pontiff had not seen the Marcher Lord’s spy since they had met in the Keep’s Courtyard and finalized their plans—plans taking place this very moment. The mysterious man had promised the Marcher Lord would fall and the pagans with him, as long as the Kingdom and Godwyn Keep moved to end the Herid rebellion. In the three days Erol had been in La Zandia, however, he had not seen evidence of his partner, and it unnerved him. If the spy and Kieren were the same person, he was not present to orchestrate the scene behind the Marcher Lord as promised. The three Witches and their acolytes had proven to be a thorn in their side. Once this war was done, Erol reflected, he would have to hunt and kill the spy.

  As a few more men stirred and his page prepared breakfast, Erol thought about the previous day. After the Witches and their pagan allies had thrown up the wall of stone between the two armies, the Kingdom forces had a difficult time regrouping. Thomas had killed the giant golem, but all organization blew to the wind. The First Warden was dead, and with him the cohesiveness of the High Captains and their warden. Erol had tried to muster some form of assault with his Pontifices, but it had been useless. The foe had fled into the hills, unhindered.

  Fault for the inability to chase and destroy their foe was firmly placed on High King Nialls’s shoulders. With the death of Rowen, the High King was as uncertain as the rest of the High Captains, and it was only after Laver Herid had long disappeared that Nialls reassembled the army back into a cohesive force. It just showed how weak Nialls was, and what was yet needed for the Kingdom to be strong once more.

  After he finished breakfast, Erol left his tent and stepped through the menagerie of men around him, his white robes iridescent in the light of the moon and stark against the darkness of night as he passed through it. The awakened crows were already adding their raucous noise to that of the rising men. Erol moved through the horde with purpose, his steps quiet and precise; he had to get the blood flowing to chase the cobwebs of nightmares from his mind, and he desired to look upon his enemy in private before the day’s battle began.

  He walked to the top of the last hill and looked down onto the small town below. Elmlin spread out in a rough circular pattern, the berg filled with several two-storied buildings and dozens of small businesses providing services for the people of the region. Torches flickered within the town and around its walled protective perimeter, casting shadows that danced and swayed like the town was alive with shades. It was one of the many towns devoted to wine production, where red grapes grew as large as the tip of a thumb and their juices were fermented in stout, oak casks to produce the finest vintages in the Kingdom. Elmlin was the epitome of the outlying province, and merchants—some honest, most corrupt—made a fortune from the area. Now, as Erol looked upon it, he only felt rage at the infestation to have infiltrated one of the All Father’s gifts. To the Pontiff, the pagan filth had sullied the countryside and the wine had turned to vinegar in his mouth.

  The Kingdom’s army had marched after their fleeing enemy until darkness fell, but the High King had chosen not to surround the town until morning. It was dangerous entering into foreign territory, and multiple traps could have been set prior to their arrival. Erol knew scouts and sentries patrolled their forward areas and surrounded Elmlin, prepared for any retaliation. The Marcher Lord buried himself deep into the town. From this vantage, Erol could not see the thousands of men and women Laver Herid had gathered, but he suspected they were around the circumference of the wall, waiting for the coming light just as the Kingdom’s men were.

  He was lost in the possibilities of the forthcoming day when a strong, feminine voice whispered behind him, “Today it will be over.”

  Erol did not turn. He did not need to. Pontifex Valerie Reu stepped next to him, her footsteps silent upon the pebbled hillside and her gray robes hiding the thinness of her figure.

  “I hope so, Valarie. We cannot afford another day like yesterday. Yesterday, we were out-willed and outsmarted.”

  She nodded. “The jerich is gone, at least for the moment, and hundreds of their troops have died. But the Witches have proven more difficult than I would have imagined.”

  “They have cunning,” he agreed. “But it is a cunning born of their animalistic nature. You and Pontifex Lonoth must stand firm. Godwyn Keep must be prepared and set the example if we are to win this war.”

  Erol looked again at the town as if searching for a weakness. Prior to the Kingdom’s arrival in La Zandia, the Marcher Lord had had Elmlin fortified; a wall built from the sandy-brown stone of the hills now protected the town, as tall as a man. It was not mortared and would break the moment a force rushed it, but it still gave adequate protection from the elements and archers. What the Marcher Lord hoped to gain from this, Erol still did not know, but it did not matter. He wanted this business done with and the uprising quelled.

  “They will continue to run like rats,” Valarie said, as if reading Erol’s mind.

  “Not if the High King does his job right this time,” Erol scoffed, hunkering within his robes from the chill autumn air. “Right now, the town is surrounded with eyes, and come sunrise, it will be surrounded by bodies. The Marcher Lord has nowhere to run and hide now.”

  “Why here?” she asked. “Why choose this pittance of a place as a defensive position?”

  Erol did not know. It made no sense to him either. It was one of the reasons he had come out to view Elmlin so early. Assured there were better areas to
assault the Kingdom in La Zandia, the Marcher Lord had chosen this town when others were better fortified. Something was not quite right about it, and it grated on Erol.

  “And what of those pagans not in Elmlin?” she asked.

  “They will be dealt with,” Erol said simply.

  Valarie nodded, then turned to leave Erol to his private musings.

  “And Valarie?” Erol said while staring at the town.

  She stopped, uncertain. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “We do not run today,” Erol said. “You will not fail. We stand until this is finished.”

  He felt her stare like a dagger at his back, and then she was gone.

  * * * * *

  When Erol returned to the rising army, pale orange and pink crept across the eastern horizon and the lines of the land grew distinct once more. The sound of thousands of men awakening and preparing rose into the air, and smoke from hundreds of fires wafted by and stung the eyes. The aroma of cooking food and human waste intermingled with one another—the polar ends of humanity. Erol experienced all of it, knowing the day’s end would see Laver Herid dead.

  On the heels of the day came also the threat of rain, and by mid-morning masses of black clouds—darker and angrier than any storm since spring—blotted out the morning sunshine. For all of the inadequacies leading up to his death, Rowen had been right about one thing: it was important to finish this war before the inclement weather of autumn and winter set in. To be caught in a series of unending battles so far from home could result in nothing positive. The land could not feed a host this large, and supplies were already minimal. It was best to end the threat soon and return to their warm hearths with a unified Kingdom at their backs.

  Erol walked to speak with High Captain Rook, aware of the thickening dampness on the air, when First Warden Thomas appeared, striding through the men and speaking to any and all who would listen. The night before, after coming to the outskirts of Elmlin, the High King had offered the role to Thomas with the High Captains, Pontiff, and two Pontifices looking on. A haunted look had crossed the old man’s demeanor before he had accepted. He was once again First Warden; he wore new armor burnished to a silvery sheen and his white hair was as wild as a storm. Durendal lay sheathed on his left hip. There was no evidence of the grief that had gripped him as he cradled his younger brother.

  Cold, calculating, and resolute, the men around Thomas responded to him, and it was clear he had gained their respect overnight. Golemslayer, they called Thomas, and he wore the mantle with indifference. The Kingdom’s army would follow him—that was all Erol cared for.

  Once he had accepted the role of First Warden, Thomas had requested two-dozen of the Kingdom’s best fighters and had taken control of the planning. He did not share his reasons why he needed the Wards, even when Nialls had prodded. The old knight had a plan, that much was apparent, but what it was Erol did not know.

  The Pontiff watched the First Warden disappear in the throng. Erol knew virtually nothing about him. Rowen had been easy to understand—as most warriors were—but this First Warden was different. He had a steel bar running through him, tempered by patience and years of training. Erol knew he would have to be far more careful around Thomas than he’s ever had to be with Rowen.

  Approaching the command tent, he saw his High Captain and those of the Kingdom break from their planning to begin marshalling their particular warden for the day’s battle. Erol approached, and the High Captain bowed low.

  “Will it go well today, High Captain?” Erol asked, the shadow of the tent sullying his white robes in dingy grey.

  “It’s a foregone conclusion. The First Warden is shrewd. With our thousands strong we will attack the walled town from different sides as the afternoon progresses. The Marcher Lord’s numbers will be stretched too thin, and if we can prevent any witchcraeft from interfering, the day will end in victory.”

  “And Laver Herid has made no effort to offer truce?”

  “Not at all,” Rook said. “He is a coward, hiding in a hole until the end.”

  “Today, Rook, we do not run,” Erol said. “The sooner we end this, the better.”

  Godwyn Keep’s High Captain nodded. “It will not be a day for retreat. I promise.”

  “The Pontifices will not tolerate the pagan insurrection, and they will be better adept at nullifying the witchcraeft.” Erol paused before asking, “Remember the last time I bested you on the field, Rook?”

  The High Captain looked up toward the hill, either envisioning the forthcoming battle or remembering that day months earlier in the Courtyard of Godwyn Keep. “Yes. You abruptly began speaking as I had bested you and, due to the distraction, won free. Misdirection can be a very valuable aspect of war.”

  “It is,” Erol agreed. “We must anticipate our opponents’ move before they even know it. You are a tactician without equal at Godwyn Keep. I want you to lead your men and foresee where they could be best utilized next to that of the First Warden.”

  “I am your man, Your Grace,” Rook said, his tanned face hard. “If the Pontifices keep the Witches and their like from using their power, predicting their end will be a simple thing.”

  Erol smiled. Victory was at hand, and the first challenge of his tenure would be over.

  The assault on Elmlin began at mid-morning. The Kingdom forces, led by First Warden Thomas, fanned out around the town, remaining a safe distance from the wall. In the dismal gloom, Erol saw the town was well kept, clean, and organized. Indolent tendrils of smoke gathered above Elmlin in a haze, their fires warding off the chill of the morning. It was hard to imagine their enemy existed among people who continued to do the things they had done for centuries, but more than a cursory glance answered that; several thousand people were set up in the area between the town and the wall, their fires and makeshift campsites plain for the Pontiff to see. None of them were outside of the wall.

  The Kingdom had not brought battering rams or engines of war with them. There had been no need. La Zandia had no castles or fortified structures. Even now, the newly constructed wall the army was confronted with was only the size of a man and easily scalable. It would prove a minor problem. If High Captain Rook assured victory through the First Warden’s planning, Erol was confident victory would not defy them another day.

  The First Warden sent his first foray against the city wall, the organized sect of warriors slicing through the wheat fields surrounding Elmlin like a scythe. Several battalions stormed the northern wall, shields raised in protection and weapons drawn. Erol held his breath, waiting for the barrage to begin.

  The army of Elmlin responded to the forthcoming assault with a flurry of arrows, the archers set up in groups amidst the buildings of the town. The shafts arced in the air, seeking the Kingdom’s men, but Erol’s Pontifices were both on the field—relegated to either side of the city as a vise—and their choirs were ready. As they had done the day earlier, they sang in unison and a gust of wind sent the arrows tumbling away. Even as they ran, a cheer went up amongst the Kingdom’s soldiers, and the forefront of their mass heaved forward to gain the wall and those who were behind it.

  The moment those hundred men touched the wall to scale it, they screamed out an agony. The wall—made of bleached, tan rock of the hillside—shimmered like oil across water, rainbow-hued and slick. Erol strained forward, shocked. The forces that had not yet reached the wall slid to a halt and watched their comrades shake in horrified paralysis and then disintegrate. Bones, once carrying the flesh of healthy men, fell to the ground in a blinding flash of light, their armor, clothing, and weaponry falling in disorganized heaps. Hardened men backed away from the wall and looked to their leaders and High Captains for answers, uncertain how to proceed.

  Erol calmed his desire to take over the situation. The Witches had placed some kind of hex into the wall able to repulse the Kingdom’s onslaught. Pontifex Reu was already in motion to discover what the pagans had done, her song probing the land and the wall for weakness. The ground rumbl
ed but the shimmer remained intact. Whatever the Witches had done, Godwyn could not counteract it until they discovered a way around it.

  Without hesitating, Thomas changed his tactics and, barking orders, moved the brunt of his attack from the section of wall toward the town’s entryway. There, the Marcher Lord had filled in the gateway with new stone and mortar. The shimmer of witchcraeft existed there as well, but it was a shorter wall and hundreds of men were there preparing for the Kingdom’s might. Thomas ordered a tree be cut down, a battering ram in the making. Sounds of shouting men filled the air. The High King sat his horse next to Thomas and not far from Erol, protected by dozens of Warden. Tension mounted. The Marcher Lord was safe behind his cocoon, at least for the moment.

  In the late afternoon, while the day was darkening gradually, the first wind began to blow. With the approach of the storm came the completion of the battering ram, and the armies of the Kingdom gave way to their hope of breaching the enchanted wall. As it came, the Witches launched their first assault of the day at the Kingdom. Together as a coven, they sent gouts of fire over their wall and into the ranks of men standing on flattened wheat fields. The Pontifices protected the Kingdom’s men, exstinguishing the fire and nullifying the Witches’ power. The battering ram came on, two-dozen men carrying it; it would be used to break apart the wall and end the effects of the pagan magic enshrouding it. If the Kingdom’s forces could infiltrate the town, it would be over. From his vantage on the hilltop, Erol waited.