The Dragon Hammer (Wulf's Saga Book 1)

by Tony Daniel

  “The whole world is a clutch of dragons,” said Eifer. “It’s an egg filled with young dragons waiting to be born.”

  “Blood and bones, what did this thing do to me?”

  “I told you. The stone can help you see clearly,” the elf said. “We have to go.”

  Wulf sat clutching the star stone, trying to understand what he’d just experienced. He risked a glance down through the stone again, but the rock was just a rock now.

  “Weren’t you here to…commune with the dragon?”

  Eifer laughed. “Have you ever heard the saying ‘the souls of men are the souls of dragons’?”

  “It’s from a really old skald song.”

  Eifer nodded. “Your brother said you had the makings of a lore master.”

  “I guess,” Wulf answered. He fingered Eifer’s stone. “What is this?”

  “It’s someone,” Eifer said. “Someone I once loved.”

  “You were a star?”

  Eifer stood up. “I am a star,” he said. “She gave hers up, and it fell.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Brenunn Temeldar,” said the elf.

  Wulf looked hard at Eifer. “That’s the name of the Pillar of the South in the old cosmos tales.”

  “It is.”

  “This is Brenunn Temeldar?”

  “Yes,” said the elf. He offered a hand to Wulf. “Now I have to go. And you should get some sleep.”

  “I’m still waiting for the dragon,” Wulf said. But he gave the elf his hand and stood up beside him.

  Eifer laughed. “I have a prediction, Wulfgang,” he said. “I foretell that waiting for the dragon will be the story of your life.”

  The elf motioned, and the Gray Company rose like a ghostly mist from Raven Rock.

  “Go with God and the divine ones,” Eifer said.

  He turned and walked easily down down the Raven Rock slope. The Gray Company silently followed.

  Wulf stood a while longer. Nothing. Finally, he made his way back down the rock. He was careful of his steps in the darkness.

  When he got to the bottom, Grim was waiting with a cup of coffee and a blanket.

  PART SIX

  Chapter Forty:

  The Riverbank

  It was only a matter of time until someone searched the bakery. Rainer was armed with an old war ax. He’d found it in the back room of the bakery. It had probably belonged to the baker’s dead husband. It had a wide blade on one side, a hooked blade on the other, and a protruding pointed top that looked dangerous. The brand on the shaft said it was made in Raukenrose, but he didn’t recognize the smith mark.

  What was he going to do?

  Should he try to sneak into the castle? Should he try to free the garrison troops? Pretty much impossible. It was even more unlikely he would be able to rescue one of the girls or the duchess. They would be guarded.

  Should he try to escape the town and find Wulf and Ravenelle? That was something he was pretty sure he could pull off. But then he would picture Anya having to live in the castle with that thing, and he found he couldn’t go. So he decided to wait. It was his best quality as a fighter, he believed. He would wait for whoever he was fighting to make a mistake and jump on it.

  So he found a hiding place where he could watch the castle gate.

  The mistake came in the afternoon of the next day. A stable manure wagon came across the guarded castle drawbridge and over the dry moat. One man was pulling it. The other, in breastplate armor and helm, was walking along beside and not helping at all. His hand was on his sword hilt.

  The man pulling the wagon was Grer Smead.

  Taking the ax with him, Rainer moved from his hiding place and darted to another inset door across the street. Some people had returned to their streets and stalls. They were trying to get back to normal lives.

  Rainer walked behind Grer and the soldier. He was careful to keep someone between them at all times. The war ax was a problem. People turned and stared. But when they saw Rainer’s tabard with the buffalo argent, stained though it was, they nodded and made no sound to give Rainer away. Whatever he was up to, they approved of. The soldier walking with Grer noticed nothing. He was well ahead of Rainer and had his back to him.

  Rainer followed them down one street and onto another, wider dirty path. This was a road that led down to the Shenandoah River.

  Grer’s going to dump the horse manure in the river, Rainer thought.

  But why was Grer doing it? Why not one of the stable hands? That had to mean something. Rainer looked for a way to the help the smith—whatever Grer was up to.

  Grer Smead was glad he had switched from the first plan, which was to hide his tool bag under the horse manure in the cart. The bag was heavy. In the bag was a bolt-cutting saw, a hammer, chisel, pry bar and lever extension rod, tongs, and wrenches of several sizes. The two big Sandhavener gate guards were suspicious the moment he limped up to the castle entrance pushing the manure cart in front him and asked permission to dump it outside.

  “Where do you think you’re going, cripple?”

  “To dump this in the river,” Grer replied, trying to keep his voice low and unchallenging. “Same as always, sir.”

  He kept his eyes down far enough to appear submissive. He tried to stoop as much as he could, but Grer was a large man. He was bigger than both of the guards. With his smith’s muscles he could probably crush either one in a wrestling match. But their swords could kill or maim him much more quickly. He’d learned that from the sword cut to his leg.

  “Who said you could take that out?”

  “Stable master’s orders.”

  “Why’s it have to go now?”

  “We’ve got double the horses in the stables, Sergeant. Yours and ours. If we don’t muck it out, we’ll soon be swimming in the stuff. Your horses’ll start to sicken.”

  The sergeant nodded. “That’s true,” he said, “but let’s make sure that is what you’re up to, boy.” He turned to the guard beside him. “Poke around in there.”

  The other stepped back from the cart, considered its contents. “With what, Sergeant?”

  “What do you think? With your sword.”

  “Are you having me on, Sarge?”

  “Do as you’re told, Trottel.”

  “All right, Sarge,” he replied dejectedly. He reluctantly drew his sword and leaned over the low boards that held the manure in at the sides. After a moment, he began to poke around.

  “More,” said the sergeant, who was enjoying the performance. “Dig it in there, same as you were talking about doing with the scullery girl.”

  Trottel gave the sergeant an exasperated look, then walked around the cart and poked his sword around in the manure.

  If there had been somebody hiding, Grer thought, that would’ve gotten him out, or killed him. And the sword probably would’ve struck my mallet or something else, too.

  “All right, that’s enough,” the sergeant said.

  Trottel pulled his sword out. He looked around for somewhere to clean it. Seeing nothing else, he stepped over and wiped both sides of it on Grer’s back. This left two brown stripes on his fustian cloth shirt.

  The guard went back to stand by the sergeant, a grin on his face.

  “Very funny,” said the sergeant. “Now you go with him to…where are you going, boy?”

  “Down to the river, Sergeant. That’s where we always dump it.”

  “Go with him down to the river, then. Make sure he does what he says he’ll do.”

  That wiped the smile off Trottel’s face. “Yes, sir,” he answered dolefully.

  Grer got a good grip on the two wooden handles that protruded from the cart. He pushed. The cart slowly rolled forward.

  This has got to be a cursed hard task for a real stable boy, Grer thought. It’s making me strain.

  He pushed again.

  “Stop!” said the sergeant. He walked up to Grer and the guard. “I’ll just have a look under that wagon.”

  The
sergeant bent down to do this when a scream came from the bailey behind him. He stood up, spun around to look, and so did Grer.

  There was Saeunn, tussling with another of the Hundred. “Get your hands off me, get your dirty hands off!” she yelled.

  “Messer!” the sergeant called out.

  “I never, Sarge!” said the man. “I swear I never! Stupid elf!”

  Saeunn slapped him, then charged into him with her shoulder. He was so big, she merely bounced off, but then she crawled forward on the stones and tried to yank the man’s legs out from under him. He danced away.

  “Come on, boy,” the soldier named Trottel said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Grer followed Trottel under the gate and out of the castle.

  He trundled the cart on streets he knew led to the river, trying to figure out what to do. Once he had to stop and maneuver the cart around a dead dog lying in the middle of the cobblestone street. Its stomach was slit open, with its guts wound out.

  “If I caught the one who did that I’d let him have…I wouldn’t do that to a dog, not ever,” Trottel said, shaking his head. Then he smiled at Grer. “To a man? Now, that’s a different story.”

  He had to get away from the guard. But with his limp, there was no way he could run fast enough.

  I’ll just have to kill him, Grer thought. The pitchfork. That’s my best chance.

  He would not have bet on himself to succeed. Trottel, like all of the Hundred occupying the castle, was a trained man-at-arms.

  When they got to the water, Grer wasn’t sure where the dumping spot was, since he’d never actually done this before. He picked out what looked like a cow path to the riverbank. It was just wide enough to roll the cart down. A weaker man would have lost control, and the cart would have rolled into the river, but Grer kept it slow and steady until he was on a small stretch of sand next to the water. Trottel was right behind him.

  Grer reached for the pitchfork. When he did, he heard the guard’s sword slipping out of its scabbard. He turned to see Trottel point the blade at him.

  “Just to be sure,” Trottel said. “Those forks are mighty wicked looking.”

  Great. So much for his only plan.

  Grer shrugged and started pitching manure from the wagon, desperately trying to think of something else he might try.

  From the top of the bank above them there was a creaking sound. Both he and the guard looked up. A wagon’s wheels were poking over the edge. The wagon was too wide for the path, and the axle straddled the pathway. The wagon stayed there for a moment, then it moved forward again a hand’s breadth, then another. Grer and Trottel watched half mesmerized.

  The wagon trundled over the high bank. It rolled down, straddling the path for a moment. Then the wheels caught on scraggly river vegetation and it flipped, coming end-over-end right at them.

  Grer and the guard both dove out of the way. The wagon slammed into the manure cart. It splintered down the middle, and stinking manure flew in every direction.

  Grer looked up from where he was lying to see the guard stand up, his sword drawn, his eyes wide and wild, looking up the bank path.

  Which is why Trottel didn’t see the war ax swinging toward him from behind. When the ax chopped into the flesh of Trottel’s neck, it was a complete surprise. The blade sank until Trottel’s spine stopped it, then whoever was wielding it twisted it out, drew it back and punched its pointed top into the guard’s back for good measure.

  Trottel fell forward, the ax protruding from his back, his head lolling unnaturally to one side.

  “Koterbaum was right. I guess these things really do punch through plate armor,” Rainer Stope said. He looked at Grer. “You okay?”

  Grer nodded and reached for the pitchfork. “Help me look in the splinters yonder for my tools. I hid them under the stable cart.”

  “Tools for what?”

  “Taking a clapper off a bell,” Grer said.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  Using the pitchfork rammed downward for support, Greg pulled himself to his feet. He looked across the guard’s body at Rainer. “Because that particular clapper is the hammer everybody’s been looking for,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-One:

  The Charge

  Ursel came to find Wulf just after sunset the day before the attack on Raukenrose. She stopped him outside the buffalo hide he and Grim were using for a makeshift tent.

  “Lord Wulf.”

  “Mistress Ursel.”

  She was wearing a green velvet cape clasped below her throat. Underneath she had on a blouse and britches stuffed into boots. He’d never seen a woman dress so mannish. Yet this seemed natural for her. The red light of day’s end caught her red hair and made it luminous. Her green eyes sparkled in the fading light from the west.

  “You’ve spent a lot of time with my father.”

  “I’ve been learning,” Wulf replied. “Earl Keiler knows what he’s doing.”

  Ursel stepped closer.

  “I wanted to ask you for something, Lord Wulf…a favor.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  She reached up to her hair where she wore a pale red scarf. She untied it in the back and pulled it out. Her red curls cascaded about her face.

  “I’ve heard some men like to carry a token into battle. From a woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be an honor…I would like…would you take this from me…to remember that I wish you well, m’lord?”

  “Thank you, Ursel. This means a lot to me.”

  He reached out, and she put the scarf into his hand, brushing her own against his as she did so.

  “Ursel, please call me Wulf. Or even von Dunstig, like Ravenelle does. But I don’t feel much like a lord of the battle. I feel kind of lost, to tell the truth.”

  “Why is that m’lord…I mean, Wulf?”

  “Because I don’t have very much idea what I’m doing.”

  “You’re leading.”

  “What does that even mean? I’m out of my depth here. Your father is the one who is holding things together and giving us a chance.”

  She stepped closer and almost without thinking he reached out and took her hands in his.

  “Listen, Wulf,” she said. “When I look at you I see someone who doesn’t give up. You killed the man who hurt your father.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “You made your luck, just like you’re doing here.”

  Wulf shuddered. He’d just remembered what Ravenelle had told him about Otto. His oldest brother was dead. And Adelbert dead, too.

  He was heir.

  He didn’t like it one bit.

  “If I matter in the big picture, that means my brother doesn’t. I hate that. I don’t want it.”

  “You’ll always matter to me, Wulf,” Ursel said. She leaned her head slightly back. Her full lips were partly open, waiting.

  She wants to be kissed, he thought. A beautiful, fascinating girl wants me to kiss her and fall in love with her.

  “I can’t.” He stepped back from her, and let go of her hands. “Ursel, I’m being stupid, I know. You’re amazing. You’re a dream come true. If things were any other way, I’m sure I would fall hard for you. But you’ve got to be somebody else’s dream.”

  Ursel looked up, hurt written across her face.

  “I’m only good enough for a commoner, that’s what you mean,” she said defiantly. She shook her head, and her lovely red curls flounced.

  As quickly as her anger flared, it subsided. “No, no. I know you’re not like that. I’ve been watching you with the people.” Her voice was calm. And sad. “It’s just that I…Wulf, please. Why can’t it be?”

  “Because I’m in love with someone else,” Wulf said. “I don’t even know if she loves me or ever will. I hope she doesn’t because it can never work. But none of that matters. It’s her. It’s always been her.”

  “Lady Saeunn? I’ve seen your stick with the runes on it.”

 
“Yes. Saeunn.”

  “I understand. She’ll stay beautiful forever. I’ll get old. I’ll turn into an old crone wandering in the woods one day.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You don’t get to say what will happen to me.”

  “No,” Wulf said. “I don’t. But can I please keep your scarf? It’s…to know you care about me…even though I missed out on something great. It will mean a lot to me.”

  Ursel finally smiled. “Of course you can, m’lord.” She used the scarf, still in her hand, to pull him toward her again. He stumbled forward, and when he did, she kissed him on the lips. Full and deep. Her lips were soft and warm, and he let her. Finally, she pulled away.

  “Remember that,” she said.

  She turned and walked away from him, leaving her scarf dangling in his hands.

  X X X

  Regensday dawn. Twelve days had passed. Twelve days away from Raukenrose. From her.

  How could it be so few? How could he have waited so long?

  There were practical answers to both questions, whether he liked them or not.

  Wulf stood at the edge of Alerdalan Woods looking at a row of Sandhavener army tents. He smelled fire smoke and the stink of a nearby gully the Sandhaveners were using for a latrine.

  Please Sturmer, Tretz, dragon, God, whoever or whatever is listening, please don’t let me be a coward.

  They’d picked this spot because of the latrine. It was formed by a small creek that only flowed during rainy weather. It came out of the woods. It must have run more steadily in past times, because the wash of the creek flowing down toward the Shenandoah had made a notch in the forest the size of a large field. It was full of good bottomland soil. At the moment a cover crop of clover grew on it. Spring planting would begin in a few weeks.

  So it was flat, not wooded. It was clear of tents. Nobody wanted to camp too close to the latrines.

  They’d done almost exactly what Ursel had suggested before.

  Circle to the south, approach from the east.

  They’d come down from Massanutten Mountain in darkness. They’d crossed the Shenandoah at Fishbridge Ford at midnight. They’d taken Ford Road east until it intersected the Great Valley Road. Earl Keiler had sent out forward skirmishers, but they had not run across any Sandhavener pickets or guard stations. It was just as Washbear’s reports had said. The Sandhaveners were staying close to Raukenrose.