The Dragon Hammer (Wulf's Saga Book 1)

by Tony Daniel

  “But Saeunn,” Anya cried, “that was worse than to tell. He’s going to hurt Wulf.”

  “No.”

  “He killed Otto.”

  “Wulf figures things out. He is…more dangerous.”

  “I shouldn’t have told. Oh, Saeunn, I told!”

  “Evinthir, you are the bravest little girl I have ever met. Be brave a little longer. I will protect you. I will do whatever it takes.”

  I’ll eat the ater if I have to, Saeunn thought. I’ll do whatever it takes.

  She felt Anya relax and lean back against her. And then she knew what her star had meant. She knew what she was going to do. The way was clear.

  Chapter Fifty:

  The Square

  The stench of death filled Allfather Square. Wulf rode in from the east on his Bear Valley draft horse. Ravenelle was with him. So was Tolas. The gnome rode on the back of the centaur Ahorn.

  Tupakkalaatu of the buffalo people also rode beside Wulf. The fox-man archers had volunteered to come, but Wulf had forbidden it. He wanted to find out whether or not Smallwolf was a lone traitor or part of a conspiracy, and not by getting an arrow in his back. Instead, bear longbowmen fanned out in the buildings that overlooked the east side of the square. Centaurs found spots at ground level where they could provide cover fire if things went wrong.

  Ravenelle rode behind Wulf on her black horse. He’d told her to stay hidden behind the front line as much as possible. He didn’t want the Sandhaveners to see right away that there was a Roman in the ranks of the mark.

  Hooves clopped against cobblestone. Horse tack squeaked and clanked. Even though it had rained, the square smelled unclean.

  The day was still overcast, and there was a pall over the sun. A breeze left over from the storm rattled the branches of the—

  Wulf gasped. A new shudder of sadness went through him.

  The Olden Oak was lying on its side. It had been chopped down.

  It had fallen to the north along the front of Allfather Cathedral. Its fall had split the stone basin of Regen’s Fountain. Now the water trickled out of its spout and pooled on the ground until it ran down a nearby grated storm drain.

  Wulf got down from his horse, and a soldier took its reins. He went to the Olden Oak and ran a hand gently along the place where the ax had chopped it. It still smelled of fresh green wood.

  He shook his head in disbelief and disgust at the men who would do this. There, a few hands from the fatal cut, his old dagger was still plunged in. Its pommel seemed different—

  What the cold hell?

  It appeared that a clump of green leaves had grown out of the dagger’s hilt. Wulf ran his thumb across them. They were real.

  Tolas, riding Ahorn, moved forward to stand beside him, as well as Tupakkalaatu the buffalo chieftain and a bear-man guard of four armed with halberds, swords, and daggers, and looking very dangerous.

  “It isn’t surprising they felled the tree,” Tolas said quietly. “It stood for the mark and the von Dunstigs. But it is a terrible shame.”

  “Yes,” Wulf said.

  He had been mad enough to kill Sandhaveners before. Now he felt like marching on Krehennest itself and turning King Siggi’s city to rubble.

  It’s just a tree, Wulf thought. Just a tree.

  Wulf turned away and walked back to join the others on the eastern side of the square. They were waiting for nickerchen bell to ring.

  It didn’t ring. He could see from the shadows that it was past time for that.

  Had the Dragon Hammer been found? Did the draugar have it?

  Then from the southwest, which was the direction of the castle, the Sandhaveners came. They rode Sandhavener mounts. These were at least three hands shorter than the big Bear Valley draft horses. Wulf had never met Trigvi von Krehennest, but there was no mistaking his resemblance to Gunnar. Beside him, wearing black mail under a black cloak, was the source of the smell of death.

  It was the draugar he and Rainer had fought in this very square. He had a name now. Wuten.

  Trigvi dismounted from his horse first. Wuten raised a black-gloved hand and the men-at-arms behind him stopped. Some were mounted and some were on foot. The draugar got down from his horse. Instead of the russet gray, the guards wore blue and black stripes under the Sandhaven badge on their tabards. They were Nesties. They were the Hundred. They fanned out and lined the southern side of the square.

  The draugar made no visible signal, but there must have been a mental command. As one, the Nestie guard drew their swords and held them diagonally across their chests. Wulf noticed that a couple of the guards were left-handed. These held their swords straight up from the waist.

  They’ve practiced this, Wulf thought. A lot.

  The draugar motioned again with his hand. Several guards turned to the side to create an opening in the ranks.

  Three Nesties stepped through it. They carried a body wrapped in dirty white linen.

  Wulf sucked in a breath. This was going to be something bad. His heart began to race.

  “Show him,” said the draugar. There was the same harsh hiss to his words. They didn’t sound human. They must have formed in a dry, bare place inside him. It was like a bone flute was speaking.

  The guards placed the body on the ground and took hold of the gravecloth. They lifted upward together. The linen unrolled. Wulf’s stomach knotted. Finally, they yanked the linen away. There was a body. It lay on its side. The skin was ghostly pale. It was covered with a dark stain beneath the skin along the middle of the back where the blood had pooled.

  The face was split with what looked like black-rimmed cracks. But Wulf could not mistake who it was.

  Otto.

  Ravenelle’s information was correct. Otto was dead.

  There were several gasps and cries from those behind Wulf. People had recognized his brother.

  Prince Trigvi spoke for the first time. “He was shot in the back. I won’t say he was running away, but that is where we found the arrow that killed him.”

  Trigvi stepped forward. He looked directly at Wulf. “This was not an execution,” he continued. “Otto fell in battle. His death does not satisfy the blood price for Gunnar von Krehennest.” Trigvi put a hand to his chin as if he were considering and making some judgment. “The death of Adelbert von Dunstig does satisfy part of it, however.”

  “You killed my brother, you Sandhavener scum,” Wulf said.

  Trigvi looked appalled and embarrassed, as if Wulf had made some terrible breach in protocol.

  “I’m done with this stupidity, Trigvi,” Wulf said. “I’m here to accept your unconditional surrender.”

  Trigvi smiled. “Oh, I don’t think we’ll be doing that,” he said.

  “Your forces are beaten,” Wulf said. “We have nearly two thousand prisoners, including all of the Nesties who aren’t part of this group. You’re finished here, Trigvi. Lay down your sword or I’ll bring the rest of my warriors into the town and have them kill you all. That’s the blood price I demand, you filthy piece of crap, and it isn’t up for negotiation.”

  “Is it not?” said the draugar in his low, rasping voice. “Here are my terms. Thou hast this one to do with as you wish.” He pointed a gloved finger at Trigvi, who bristled but said nothing.

  “The terms are unconditional surrender, Wuten of the Draug. That includes you.”

  The draugar fixed his attention on Wulf. “They said thou wert a scholar,” he said. “Thou know’st my name.”

  “I know you. I will never deal with the likes of you.”

  Wuten stood still. He made no motion, but the line of guards parted farther. Through the larger opening stepped Captain Rask. Rask had a drawn dagger in one hand. The other mailed arm draped across the shoulders of a girl-child. He urged her forward.

  It was Anya.

  Chapter Fifty-One:

  The Standoff

  Anya wore her favorite blue-gray dress, and her blonde hair was drawn back with a ribbon. She was wearing the tense smile that Wulf
knew meant she was trying not to act afraid.

  Rask brought Anya to stand near Wuten.

  Another Nestie stepped through. He pushed a blonde woman ahead of him. She stumbled momentarily before gracefully catching herself.

  “Saeunn,” Wulf said.

  She looked up. He caught her gaze. For a moment Allfather Square and the past few days disappeared. He saw only her. Her face was smudged, her hair hadn’t been brushed, and her white dress was stained with dirt.

  She was as beautiful as ever.

  Yet instead of the playful half-smile she usually wore, her expression was sad and her eyes were wistful.

  Everything inside him screamed that he should run to her, but he held himself back.

  He wanted to kill the man who was touching her. He wanted to kill every Sandhavener who had set foot in the mark.

  Maybe he would order their deaths after all.

  “Time for revenge later, boy,” the draugar said. “Now we trade. The little one for the hammer. Thou know’st where it lies.”

  “If I did, I’d be pounding you to dust right now,” Wulf said. Without turning, he called out. “Archers! Take aim!”

  He knew from the rustle behind him that more than bear men and centaurs had obeyed his order.

  The draugar hissed. He waved a hand toward Anya, and Rask raised his dagger to the girl’s throat. He pushed the edge of the blade against the skin. Anya gasped. She started to struggle, but Rask held her tightly with his other hand.

  “Tell them to lower their weapons,” the draugar said. “Now.”

  Wulf shook his head. “Let the girls go.”

  “Not yet.”

  Wulf cocked his head over his shoulder. “Lower your bows!” he shouted.

  “Sensible boy,” said Wuten. “Give the hammer to me, and they”—He nodded toward the girls.—“shalt live.”

  “If you get the hammer, you’ll kill the dragon.” Wulf shook his head in defiance. “I can’t let that happen.”

  Wuten turned to Rask. “Kill her,” he ordered.

  Wulf saw Rask’s muscles tense as if to obey the command. There was the slightest tremor in the hand holding the dagger across Anya’s throat. But the hand and the dagger did not move.

  It took the draugar a moment to realize that his order was not being carried out. “Kill her!” Wuten shouted at Rask.

  Sweat beads rolled out from underneath the metal of Rask’s helmet and ran down his face. But still he did not move.

  Wuten scanned the square as if he were a dog sniffing for a scent. Then he found it and gazed at someone behind Wulf. Wulf didn’t have to turn to know it was Ravenelle.

  “Roman,” said the draugar. “What dost thou?”

  “Let her go!” Ravenelle shouted.

  “Wuten, do something,” another voice shouted. It was Trigvi. Several of the soldiers behind him had lowered their swords to point at the prince.

  Trigvi danced away from them. “Something has taken them over!”

  Wuten didn’t even glance at the prince.

  “Ater-cake? Where come’st thou by it?” the draugar asked Ravenelle, but then shrugged. “No matter. I will break thee.”

  For a moment, there was silence in the square. Wulf figured there was a terrible struggle going on between Wuten and Ravenelle. The men moving toward Trigvi ceased their advance, but kept their swords pointed toward him.

  Suddenly, Wuten’s legs seemed to give way. He fell to his knees on the stones of the square. He shouted with pain and clutched his head.

  Rask slowly took the blade away from Anya’s neck. He still kept his grip on the girl.

  Wuten rose back to his feet.

  “Thou hast skill, dark princess. But I have power. How long can’st thou hold?” He drew the Iberian falcata with the curved blade from a scabbard on his waist. “No matter. I will kill the girl myself.”

  Wuten waved a hand in Ravenelle’s direction, and she screamed in pain.

  The Nesties regained control of their swords and pointed them away from Trigvi. Yet Rask did not move to kill Anya.

  Ravenelle is still holding on to him, Wulf thought.

  Wuten turned toward Anya. His arms were open as if he meant to hug her, but the sword was in his hand. He took a step toward Anya.

  “Come, child.”

  There was no way for Wulf to get across the square in time. The draugar reached Anya and yanked her away from Rask.

  He raised his curved sword.

  “Wait!” Wulf shouted.

  Wuten paused.

  “The Dragon Hammer is in the cathedral,” Wulf said. “In the bell. Inside the Elder Bell.”

  “How came thee by this?” Wuten rasped.

  Tolas spoke for the first time. “My people hid it there,” he called out. “Two hundred years ago. It’s true. The hammer is in the Elder Bell! Now let the child go.”

  The draugar seemed to consider for a moment. Then he nodded. “Thou speak’th the truth, then boy,” he said.

  “Let me go,” Anya whimpered. “Please let me go.”

  Wuten turned up his beaked face toward the sky. He let out an unearthly screech. It was like a thousand fingernails being dragged across slate.

  He raised the curved sword. He brought it down.

  The arc would have put it deep into Anya’s chest, but a mailed arm swung in an intersecting arc. It knocked the falcata to the side. Then another hand grasped the draugar’s wrist.

  It was Rask.

  Rask, under Ravenelle’s control, tried to take the sword away from the draugar. The dark being let go of Anya in the struggle for possession of the falcata.

  “Run, Anya!”

  The little girl turned to go, but she seemed confused which direction to turn. She stumbled back a few steps. She seemed mesmerized in a state of terror as she watched the struggle between Rask and the draugar.

  Wulf ran toward her. But he had the whole square to cross.

  The draugar was fast, but so was Rask. The two grappled, each seeking a hold with one hand, each with one hand on the draugar’s hook-shaped sword hilt.

  Rask was the first to get a hand on the draugar’s neck. He squeezed. If it had been a normal man even one-handed the powerful Rask would have choked him to death. But Wuten did not breathe.

  Slowly Rask turned the draugar’s own sword toward the being’s chest.

  Almost there.

  Then the draugar jerked its head, and its curved beak found Rask’s face. It raked across Rask’s forehead until it caught in an eye socket.

  Rask screamed as his eyeball was shredded.

  In agony, Rask lost his grip on both throat and knife. The draugar jerked away. With a counterstrike, he swung the falcata across Rask’s face, laying open his cheek and slicing through the other eye. The captain cried out and stumbled back, his hands over the bleeding remains of his eyes.

  “Archers, stand ready!” Wulf shouted as he ran.

  The draugar stalked toward Anya.

  “Nesties!” screamed Trigvi. “Attack!”

  Chapter Fifty-Two:

  The Sacrifice

  Darkly fell Amberly Reizend.

  The line from the poem echoed through her mind.

  She had spent days barely speaking with her star. She had been terrified the draugar would somehow pick up on it and overhear.

  My star, my own! How I have missed you.

  And I have missed you, my child, my own, the star replied. It is time to act.

  But—

  You wish to save the girl?

  I do!

  You have seen the choice in your moon-vision.

  But not him! No, my star, my own! No! Never him!

  You must. He cannot be killed otherwise.

  No.

  This is why there are elves, my child, my own. The dragons must hatch. The draug must fall.

  My star—

  But her star was silent.

  The draugar would kill Anya. He would kill Wulf. He would kill everyone.

  He would kill
Anya.

  Evinthir.

  “Darkly fell Amberly Reizend.” It came out as a near-whisper. Her voice wavered, more breath than speech. But she said it. She meant it.

  A star, a soul, could be given away.

  Wuten was an elf with no star. Empty. A vacuum where his soul should be.

  She could fill that void.

  “Karltundelkan nalith Ebereth Serian!” she shouted.

  Wuten held up his sword strike.

  He turned toward Saeunn as if drawn by a lodestone.

  “Elf girl, what do’st thou?”

  Saeunn walked toward him.

  “Run, Evinthir!” she shouted. “Run to Wulf!”

  Anya turned and ran.

  The draugar let her go. He was transfixed, looking at Saeunn.

  “Karltundelkan nalith Ebereth Serian!”

  The draugar lowered his sword. “Stop!”

  “Then darkly fell Amberly Reizend.”

  “No!”

  He held the falcata up as if it could ward her away. Saeunn drew closer.

  “Karltundelkan nalith Ebereth Serian.” The words were Saelith, the elvish tongue. “Then darkly fell Amberly Reizend.”

  “Stop it,” he said. He sucked in a ragged, rasping breath, then breathed out noisily.

  “Karltundelkan nalith Ebereth Serian.”

  She felt it then. Separation from her star.

  My child, my own!

  My star, my own!

  Saeunn gasped at the pain.

  My star, my own, let go, let go!

  My child. Oh, my child. Good-bye.

  She looked at Wuten now and saw him as he was. Not the black vulture shell he lived in, but the elf he once had been. He was still there, trapped inside the draugar’s form.

  He was ancient. His face was a ruin of wrinkles. Dried up. His eyes were sticky with fluid. The maw of his open mouth was covered with a spider web of dried mucus, as if a terrible scream were frozen there.

  The one that I love is dying.

  Saeunn’s vision was darkening, closing into a tunnel.

  My child!

  Her world was fading. The light was failing. Her memory was drying and crumbling.

  I can’t remember why I’m doing this, but I have to.