by A. J. Smith
‘Because I stopped taunting him when he became worthy of his name. I am an old man. I have seen many thains, and I no longer feel the need to censor myself. Your family have given much to Fjorlan. Do you think you will give more if I am kind to you?’
He suddenly thought of his sister. He’d always promised to look after her. Promised her and his father. Crowe had never met Ingrid, but Alahan would welcome a grand confrontation. The Little Wolf would tear the old priest to pieces with grinning questions and naive wit. She’d ask him about his beard and make him feel bad if he was mean to her. Alahan was not blessed with his sister’s subtle sense of humour. He’d always been more intense, more serious, more troubled. He was the eldest and he was the heir. She’d have been a far greater exemplar.
‘I’m just a man,’ he replied. ‘My father should not have been killed. He should still be high thain. I should still be in Fredericksand, keeping Ingrid out of trouble. The dragon fleet should still be afloat – and Wulfrick should be standing by the door asking if I’m okay.’
‘Fantasy is easy,’ stated Crowe. ‘Reality is hard.’
‘So is life,’ replied Alahan. ‘Death seems the easiest of all.’
The old priest placed two brass cups on the table and poured liquid from an unadorned jug into each one. It was not mead. It had a pungent alcoholic odour that stung his nostrils.
‘Drink this,’ said Crowe. ‘I save it for certain moments of contemplation. You’re the first man to share it with me. But I think it appropriate.’
Alahan pressed a hand to his side and sat up, swinging his legs round to perch on the edge of the table. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Very rare stuff. I doubt there are more than a handful of bottles of it in all of Ranen.’
Alahan raised a cup to his nose and balked at the acrid smell. The liquid was clear, but a slight froth nestled at its edges.
‘Frost whisky,’ said Crowe. ‘Brewed by the artisans of Sovon Kor in Volkast. The little berserkers from the north have been refining their craft far longer than any Ranen brewer of grain or honey.’
The priest took a slow drink, draining the cup, but not removing his eyes from Alahan. His body then shivered from head to toe as the liquor flowed down his throat. Even a hardened drinker like Crowe evidently swayed in his chair after a drink of Volk frost whisky.
‘I feel I should keep my wits about me,’ said Alahan, looking down at the unassuming cup of liquid.
Crowe closed his eyes and emitted a grumbled laugh. ‘You have been unconscious for almost an entire day. I have kept you in and out of delirium and heard your heart stop twice.’ He paused, taking a deep breath. ‘It is the dead of night – you have no need of your wits until the sun rises.’
Alahan was speechless. He had imagined he’d been unconscious for an hour or two, kept alive by divine magic. He’d had no notion of how close to death he had been. Almost without thinking, he downed the liquid and felt it burn from his throat to his stomach.
‘Fuck me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you sure this is supposed to be drunk and not used to clean axes?’
‘You have to experience it, rather than drink it,’ said Crowe, his eyes still closed and a strangely blissful expression on his face.
‘A whole day,’ mused Alahan. ‘That means the betrayer is a day closer and we all have a day less to live.’
He felt a warmth across his entire body, ending as a pleasant crackle in each of his fingers and toes. His head lightened, but he did not feel drunk, just soft-limbed and peaceful, as if his arms weighed nothing and his body hovered above the table.
‘I feel like I’m floating, is this normal?’
Crowe didn’t open his eyes. He merely swayed gently from side to side. ‘Anything you experience is normal,’ he replied. ‘That is to say, the liquor affects men differently. Volk would say it was not meant for us, but I find that, if you add just enough dilution, it is rather drinkable.’
Alahan took several deep breaths. He’d been drunk many times and had never felt like this. The Volk liquor was probably poisonous and wreaking all sorts of mayhem in his body, but it caused his mind to quiet. It was the best he’d felt for months. Crowe had drifted away, presumably to seek his own answers in a gleeful state of stupor, while Alahan began to feel far away, as if his body was now an encumbrance to further thought.
He began to dream, his head drifting into a waking fantasy, as real as the table at which he sat or the stone room where Crowe had saved his life. He saw no tentacles and no dark woman, no Twisted Tree, not even the ever-present wisps of doubt. He saw his uncle and he saw an endless canvas of ice.
‘I have returned,’ said Magnus, taller and more solid than he had ever been. ‘And I have a gift from the old raven.’ His golden hair shone and his wide shoulders were made wider by a heavy bear-skin cloak.
Alahan looked into the vista of ice and saw what was waiting for him. A legion of men, shrouded in the same icy mist as Magnus, and ready to defend Rowanoco’s land. They looked at him from ages past, their fists taut round hundreds of war-hammers. They were Order of the Hammer priests.
‘We have been given the power to unlock the heart of Fjorlan,’ said Magnus. ‘And remind the world of Rowanoco’s might. Rulag will learn the same lesson as the Ro.’
He felt power surge through his body, as if his every muscle had tensed at the same time. The Volk frost whisky had warmed his limbs, but it was barely a tickle next to the power that Magnus now unlocked. For the first time since his father had died, Alahan Teardrop did not doubt.
‘The heart of Fjorlan,’ he said, sitting forward and jolting Crowe out of his stupor.
The old priest looked at him and scratched his flowing grey beard. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, sitting forward himself. ‘What of it?’ he asked.
Alahan breathed deeply, and gradually his face became a mask of calm. ‘I am the exemplar of Rowanoco,’ he stated, ‘and I need to know about the heart of Fjorlan.’
Crowe rubbed his eyes again. ‘Why did you not tell me this before we drank frost whisky?’
‘Because I doubted. I don’t any more.’
‘Well, the Volk are the oldest followers of Rowanoco. It makes sense that their liquor would inspire a revelation.’ He didn’t question Alahan’s statement or his request. He stood suddenly, shaking his head and leaning against the wall. ‘Follow me.’
Alahan, unencumbered by the liquor, sat up and retrieved a tunic. The scar in his side didn’t trouble him and he stood unaided, following Old Father Crowe out of the small room. The corridor was narrow and empty, with no other doors or windows. Small globes of firelight sat every few paces and a steep staircase emerged at the end of the corridor. Crowe stopped at the base of the stairs, holding his chest and groaning.
‘Do you need to lie down?’ asked Alahan.
The old priest glared at him. ‘The day I’ll take advice from you about drinking is the day I bury an axe in my own head.’
‘In your own time then.’
The priest composed himself and ascended the narrow staircase, using both hands to steady himself. At the top was another narrow corridor. Alahan didn’t know where in the High Hold they were, just that it was deep within the stone bowels of Tiergarten. They turned left, then right, passing no doors or windows, until they emerged on a stone precipice, looking over the Plains of Tiergarten. A chiselled staircase snaked its way round the side of Giant’s Gift, with Rowanoco’s Stone and the Hall of Summer Wolf visible below.
‘I thought we were under the city, not above it.’
Crowe took a moment to bathe in the cold night air. ‘The mountains and their vaults existed long before the city. Kalall Summer Wolf walked these halls, as has every high priest of Tiergarten. Though you are the first man not a priest to ask me about the oldest vault.’
‘The heart of Fjorlan?’ he queried. ‘What is it?’
‘Come, it is close now.’
The chiselled stairs were exposed to the wind and lancing gusts of frozen air
battered them against the cliff face. As they turned away from the wind, fissures in the rock revealed old vaults, hewn in forms of majesty, displaying ornate carvings and sealed stone doors. He imagined some were tombs, others ancient storerooms or perhaps forgotten mead halls. Crowe led him to one of these least ornate vaults, half-buried in the mountain. The entrance was tall, but no statues or carvings surrounded it. Strangely, given its obvious age, it showed signs of recent use and Alahan followed well-trodden footprints to the smooth stone doors. Crowe pulled the doors outwards and disappeared into darkness. There was no dust or smell of rot, just a sharp waft of clean air.
‘Come in,’ said Crowe, as a globe of light was sparked into life in the entrance.
Alahan stepped out of the wind and saw a long stone chamber in the flickering light. Either side of him, flanking a wide walkway, were weapon racks. The old priest closed the door and proceeded down the walkway, holding a globed candle in front of him. The light revealed hundreds of war-hammers, each one older and more ornate than the last. Under each was the name of a member of Rowanoco’s Order of the Hammer, chiselled in stone. Thoin Hearth Fire, Mors Hell Fist, Dorron Moon Eye.
‘The hammers all find their way back here,’ said Crowe. ‘Eventually. Your uncle’s still drifts in the world somewhere, but it’ll end up here. These last few will be of particular interest to you.’
Alahan stopped in the globe of light, facing a large statue of a helmeted head. The face was resolute, carved with intricacy and care, showing no weakness or doubt. It was a man of Ranen, locked forever in a stony mask of defiance. Beyond the statue, more war-hammers sat in discreet display cases.
Crowe, standing before the weapons, turned to face Alahan. ‘When the men of Ro occupied the Freelands, and Fjorlan marched to war, it was the Order of the Hammer who liberated the land of Rowanoco. These two hundred hammers belonged to the men who fought the last time Ranen was threatened. They united the Free Companies and assaulted Ro Hail. If it wasn’t for them, the Ro would still rule Tor Ranen. This is the heart of Fjorlan. A mausoleum for those who died to protect Rowanoco’s land.’
Alahan should have felt over-awed, but instead he felt happy. Before him he saw the means to defend Tiergarten and remind Rulag’s army that Rowanoco would not be felled so easily by a Twisted Tree. The war-hammers contained might and nobility beyond anything he had seen, and they wanted to be used. They wanted to once more defend the lands of Ranen.
‘Where will you find men to wield them?’ asked Crowe. ‘As exemplar you can unlock their power. They can impart great strength, but they still need to be held by worthy men. The spirits of the two hundred priests will not give their skill to just anyone.’
***
Standing before the vaults were two hundred men. Not one was below fifty years of age and all had been judged unfit for combat, though many had protested. Their eyes showed just as much anger as any of Halla’s defenders and their experience made each man valuable. Some had been warriors; others were skilled tradesmen or merchants. One or two had even been axe-masters or chain-masters in their youth. As the city prepared for war, they’d been spread across the higher levels, lending assistance with provisions and relaying words of comfort to the young. But the icy stare of Rowanoco had not left them, nor did they think twice when given a chance to fight for Fjorlan one last time.
The oldest, a former ship-master of Fredericksand named Arnulph Grief, was in his late seventies and needed a heavy crutch to stand upright on a crippled right leg. Even so, the old man had a stare to rival that of Brindon Crowe and his shoulders were huge from a lifetime of hefting dragon ships along wooden jetties.
‘I will fight for you, my lord Teardrop,’ said Arnulph in a raspy rumble of a voice. ‘I have a few tricks left in my old bones.’
The man was taller than Alahan, even with a significant bend in his back from the crutch, and he would have been a fearsome opponent in his day. With Rowanoco’s help he would be again.
‘Thank you,’ said the young thain. ‘The same goes for each of you. I can’t guarantee victory or single out Rulag for his treachery, but I can offer you a gift from the Ice Giant. I am Rowanoco’s exemplar, his general in this fight – and you will be my company. Though youth has left you and you number only two hundred, with the heart of Fjorlan you will be mighty indeed.’ He raised his head and smiled, feeling no doubt or fear. ‘Follow me and meet those you will wield in defence of Rowanoco’s land.’
He took a deep breath, continuing to smile as he turned and led the men into the vault. Crowe was already inside and had placed torches at the end, illuminating a silent company of stone figures, standing against the far wall. The statues were of the two hundred priests who had defeated the Ro and they stood guard over their war-hammers. Alahan approached the first figure, a towering man with a flowing beard rendered perfectly with hammer and chisel. Under the statue was inscribed the name Wilhelm Speaks in Silence.
‘Arnulph Grief,’ said Alahan, ‘this will be your hammer.’
The old ship-master hobbled to stand in front of the statue and looked up with awe at the face of the priest. Wilhelm appeared to look back at him, as if he was assessing the old man. When Arnulph opened the simple display case and looked down at the war-hammer, a white light began to flow from the statue. The hammer was edged in deep ice, with a thick leather strap wrapped round the long handle. It was a two-handed weapon that would take great strength to wield.
‘Arnulph,’ prompted Old Father Crowe. ‘You must touch the hammer. It may take a while for the weapon to accept you, and we have little time.’
The old man nodded at the priest, his eyes wide with anticipation as the white light caressed his hands. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, then grasped the handle firmly in both fists. The light flared and Alahan saw a spirit pass from the hammer to the man, as Wilhelm Speaks in Silence gave a portion of his power to Arnulph Grief.
‘Exemplar!’ boomed a voice, coming from Arnulph’s mouth.
‘I am here,’ replied Alahan. ‘We need your help. The lands of Rowanoco are once again threatened.’
‘This one is strong,’ stated Wilhelm, throwing away Arnulph’s crutch and tensing his muscles. ‘Why does he need my strength?’
‘He is old,’ replied Alahan. ‘I suspect his strength is the memory of a man he used to be. You can make him that man again.’
Wilhelm screwed up Arnulph’s face and flexed the old man’s body. ‘I will help this old man – and I will help you. But it will take time to repair his body.’
‘Take the time,’ said Crowe. ‘The exemplar and I have another hundred and ninety-nine hammers to bestow.’
***
Horns blew from the forward defences and were picked up by each adjacent wall, the sound carrying up Kalall’s Steps to be heard in the Hall of Summer Wolf. It was a single note, not the repeating warning of an approaching enemy.
Alahan had left the vault and allowed Crowe to help the old men bond with their new strength. It was a slow process and the young thain had needed to rest and think about his new role and the lack of doubt that it brought. After a few hours’ sleep, he’d found himself drinking mead in the great hall, trying to make Tricken Ice Fang understand how two hundred old men could be useful. Then they’d heard the horn and paused.
‘Someone approaches,’ he said.
‘Still morning,’ said Tricken. ‘I don’t like visitors during breakfast.’
Alahan pulled himself upright. ‘Let’s go and see, shall we?’ His words were now delivered with confidence.
‘Aye, lad,’ said Tricken, also standing.
From a side door, Halla and Falling Cloud joined them. They had slowly recovered from their battle with the trees, while Alahan and Tricken took charge in the city. He’d not yet been able to continue his conversation with Halla, nor tell her that he no longer doubted his power.
‘What does the horn mean?’ asked Falling Cloud, belting on a heavy, leather axe-belt, holding two razor-sharp hand-axes.
/> ‘Just going to find out, lad,’ replied Tricken, scratching at his dense red beard and moving to the huge wooden doors.
The wind blew in a mist of snow from the High Hold, followed sharply by a gust of freezing air. Alahan hunkered up under his cloak and shivered, wishing he could take the fire-pits with him when he left the Hall of Summer Wolf. Halla didn’t flinch at the cold breeze. On the contrary, she appeared to brighten under the freezing blanket, as if her city was saying hello.
Alahan and the axe-maiden were first after Tricken, exiting the hall side by side. She frowned at him as if she saw someone new in his eyes. He met her gaze, but didn’t try to explain. She’d already said what she needed from him and he planned to deliver it in defence of the city.
The High Hold of Tiergarten was ringed by axe-men, all around the stone balcony, facing outwards with circular shields and heavy battleaxes. They were a new addition, commanded to stand by Alahan after he left the vault. The threat posed by the Green Men was not something he was going to ignore. Halla and her captains were too valuable to lose to a blade in the dark.
‘Halla, they’re signalling from the gate,’ said Falling Cloud.
Tricken joined him. ‘Aye, looks like... well, not an attack certainly.’
The axe-maiden narrowed her eyes and, without issuing any commands, began to descend Kalall’s Steps. Alahan ordered men to follow her and increased his pace to keep up with the axe-maiden.
‘Right, lads,’ shouted Falling Cloud, ‘let’s go and have a look.’
The levels of Tiergarten revealed a city of people ready to die. Shops were closed, streets had been cleared and the city felt like a fort in enemy territory with the single goal of defending itself. The delay in Rulag’s attack had helped Halla’s men to secure the city, and allowed Alahan the time to unlock the heart of Fjorlan, but it had also increased the tension tenfold. These people were brave and would die for Fjorlan, but they were almost wishing for Rulag to just get it over with.
They quickly reached Ulric’s Yard, passing people roused by the horn, and asking each other if the attack had started.