The Shield of Hannar (Runehammer Novels Book 2)

by Brandish Gilhelm

  “Over here, men of Englemoor!” she cried out above the din. “I’m the one you really want!” There was an awkward pause. All eyes met hers in the hood’s eye slits, and she bellowed again, “Who will fell the Headsman?!”

  At this taunt the warriors of that city could restrain themselves no more. They shoved their lesser charges aside, drew blades, banged shields, and set their toes toward her.

  11

  There are many peculiar things about dwarves that few know and even fewer believe. Some say their kin were hewn from solid rock in the ancient storm of the Primordius. Others believe they are proto-men whose line remained underground when the world was young.

  In truth, they are human beings like all others, but stout and hearty as bears. Their famous traits were made through ages of hard lives in mines, high peaks, and snow-crusted plateaus north of Alfheim. There is no magic in their might, but for many they are easier to understand if it were so.

  One undeniable truth of their folk is that they are very stalwart, and resistant to many of the frailties that haunt other folk. Even in death they cling to every drop of blood, every shallow breath. From cold sleep they can slowly revive, and even lay dormant for weeks as each slow heartbeat gains the strength to thump again.

  It is this peculiar and noble quality that kept Mars from death’s embrace in the forest clearing. In three days, his breathing resumed, and Hunnin awoke as well in his nearby glade. Neither had the strength to speak, and they crept like garden slugs across the dew to help each other. A small fire’s warmth they shared, and another day spun overhead. No elf patrol came for them, no new doom appeared, but the gory ruin of the battle with Brann and the Red Captain were all too close. They had to rise, and regain their will, and move.

  With no home to go to, and enemies teeming, their options were few and their resources even less. A run down old wagon found they, and a few scraps of pemmican. This they munched with sun-warmed wild cucumbers, but their bellies growled for Gar and Pork roast.

  Hunnin, Hannar’s father, was worse off than Mars. He had been smitten terribly on the head by that eldritch obelisk, and he wove in and out of consciousness like a fever. Mars helped him. Hunnin he placed in the wagon’s wide bed, and took up the yoke himself. This sight few could dream would be: a captain of Fort Friendship bloodied and broken, pulling a wagon like a burro through the Greenway.

  It is no longer known how long it took the hardy pair to reach the farm of Anna and Hannar. Was it two days, or two weeks? Not even Mars could recall, for he was beyond exhaustion. He knew of Hunnin’s little house in the hills, and his strapping young son who dreamt of soldiering. Regardless, the farm was their only hope, for death was still very near for both dwarves.

  It was late day when they reached the homestead. Bugs flitted in the low rays of amber. From the wooden door Hannar appeared. He was ruddy and healthy, but in his young eyes some fury burned. He appeared suddenly, and rigid, carrying a ragged wooden shield in one hand and an iron frying pan in the other. Mars had not the wits to wonder, and on seeing the boy collapsed. The wagon thumped to the grass.

  Years later Mars would recall that Anna ran to them, and bound their wounds, and brought them in, but his memory of the weeks that passed since their arrival at the homestead consisted only of Hannar’s stern face, and the cool safety of kitchen conversation.

  “Up so early?” Anna asked Mars one morn. The wondrous smell of toasted oat Gar filled the front room.

  “Aye, lass, and with half a wit to boot,” Mars swung his legs from his nursing bed with a groan. He was finally awake again, and on the mend. His first thought went to Hunnin. “What of Hunnin?” he puzzled, rubbing his aching shoulder like a boxer.

  “Sleeping, and still worrisome,” Anna’s voice trembled. She drew up a cup of the warm brown stout and brought it to Mars. Nothing is better to a dwarf than a metal mug of warm Gar for breakfast. His belly rumbled terribly. Anna saw the hunger in his face and did not make him ask.

  “Don’t worry,” she added, turning back and toweling her hands, “bacon is crisping on the fire.”

  “You’re a fine woman,” Mars returned, “and Hunnin a lucky dwarf. Were we followed? Any sign of others?”

  “Not since you arrived.”

  “And the boy?”

  “Worried for his father, of course,” she said. The biscuits were ready, and she brought them from the clay oven on a walnut board.

  “Dark times are upon us, Anna my dear,” Mars grumbled. He quaffed the warm Gar like a thirsty horse. “We must make haste to Ramthas. The King must be made to know.”

  Anna smiled. It took decades of strength to smile that smile. She was the wife of a warrior, the mother of an adventurer, and her patience was like a great oak in the Ravenwood.

  “Time enough for wars and doom after breakfast,” she said.

  Mars laughed. It hurt his ribs like fire, but he laughed. With a nod, he finished his stout, then stood and walked to the window. It was a bright, hopeful morning. Songbirds made their cries, and the light was cool yellow floating through dandelion seeds and pine boughs.

  Out in the yard, Hannar worked on the fence line. A fallen post he mended. The boy was his father’s son, truly. For all his youth, he was built like a siege engine, with a neck as thick as his head and a nose as wide as the Greenway. His hands were soft, but broad as an axe and corded with knobby tendons and square knuckles. Mars was proud. He suddenly remembered poor Hunnin and broke his rest.

  Anna recognized his sudden concern and nodded her head toward the next room. There Mars strode on bare feet. His refilled mug to be sipped (if a dwarf can ever sip a thing), he sat next to Hunnin’s bed.

  “Time enough for the black,” he spoke in an oddly light tone, “time enough for snores, you old bear.”

  There was no response. Mars gulped the last of his Gar. It was foamed with beige perfection. The mug he set down, and reached out to Hunnin. On the shoulder he laid his hand, and that was when the horrors came.

  From sleep Hunnin jerked awake at the touch. His eyes were wild and bulging like boiled eggs. A mighty hand rose he to Mars and slapped him brutally across the mouth.

  “Away!” Hunnin cried. The yell broke the quiet of the farm terribly, and Hannar stopped to listen.

  “Away from me, demon! Back to the abyss! Back to… back to the…” he faltered, shed a terrible tear, and slumped back into his bed.

  Mars was wide-eyed and shocked. What had the Red Captain done to this hero? What nightmares still echoed in his battered brain?

  Hannar burst into the house. “Pop!” he yelled, uncertain and excited. But the scene that greeted him was not what he hoped, and a feverish sweat beaded on his fallen father’s brow. Mars looked up at Hannar with an apology, or comfort, he wasn’t sure, and their eyes met.

  “What happened?” Hannar asked, his tone entirely different. Blood oozed from Mars’ lip. The room was grim.

  “He’s still a fever on him, my boy,” Mars answered, wiping his split lip, “He’s not himself.”

  Anna was shaken. She didn’t know what to say, and walked over toward Hannar. She reached one hand out to him, but he pulled away. The sight of his pop laid low was beyond his young mind, and his view of the world and what would be was upended. Already fragile was the boy’s heart, for he still remembered that awful day when they buried the two men near the woods. Men he’d throttled with his own hands.

  Hunnin must have sensed the group in the room, for again he roused. His eyes cleared for a moment. Anna, Hannar and Mars all held their breath.

  “Hannar, my son,” Hunnin whispered. He smiled, and his mighty beard was bright.

  Hannar did not respond. He was frozen. Those who have seen their parents at death’s door know this terror.

  “You’ve grown up strong, and with a fierce look, my boy,” he went on, clearly straining, “On you falls the crest of our kin, Hannar lad. In you I place my trust.”

  This sounded like a goodbye. Hannar’s eyes welled, his throat c
losed. He fought it back. Never would Hunnin see his tears. “Come closer, lad, let me see your muscles.” He chuckled.

  This broke Hannar’s paralysis, and took one slow step. Slowly he reached up, and Hunnin took his forearm in the warrior’s grip. His wide, knobby hand was strong as an ape.

  “Hear me now, son. Burn these words in your courage.” Hunnin inhaled, focused, exhaled.

  “A true dwarf protects his kin, and abides no evil. A true dwarf stands as a great shield for the world. Like an anvil is he, and at times a storm cloud. So I was told, so were we all, back to the beginning.” Hunnin paused, running out of strength. His son’s eyes were locked on him, trembling.

  “A true dwarf always drains his mug, loves his women, and stands like a brother to his friends. Dark will be your destiny, my boy. Few will be your words, but mighty will be your deeds. Lo, the kind hand of the New King will grace your brow, this I see in you.”

  Hannar could not hold his tears. The blood drained from Hunnin’s great broad face. His grip weakened.

  “Go. Go in my stead and learn from Mars. Care for your mother as she’s cared for us, and let no shadow be cast on these good lands. I will see you at the great feast.”

  His voice faltered, his eyelids fluttered, and the wound on his brow from the eldritch stone flushed with dark red doom. There was a moment of perfect silence. The world seemed to fold in two. Then suddenly, Hunnin’s breath returned, but in jerky gulps. His legs flapped like a fish, and he closed his claw-like grip around Hannar’s arm with terrible fury. His neck went rigid, and his eyes rolled to their whites.

  Mars knew this terror, and stood slowly. His hands sought something to defend them: a vegetable knife, a cleaver, an iron pot… anything. Anna was confused and scared, and Hannar opened his mouth in abject fear.

  A violent gurgle escaped Hunnin’s throat.

  From his left shoulder there was a pop, then through the skin pierced a barbed whip of rubbery death. It was black and purple, ichorous with ooze. Hunnin, still aware in some remote way, grabbed the horror with his right hand, releasing Hannar.

  From his sick bed he tumbled, but caught his feet, and stood wide-legged like a horseman. The things were within him, tearing and twisting, but he held. No mortal could do what that great dwarf did then, for he fought back the curse with sheer willpower, and regained his eyes. One last glance gave he to Anna, who loved him still.

  He braced, compressing his chest and stomach into a rigid boulder of muscle. Another tentacle ripped out from a shin, splitting into four smaller squidlings. They sought Mars, and the boy Hannar, and even Hunnin’s fair wife. They wanted more blood. It was time to take the only path.

  Before Mars could raise his iron frying pot, Hunnin got one hand under his own jaw with effort. A foot slipped, and he caromed against the wall. Still he held. Still he held the snakes within him. That hand set, and prepared by raising his elbow. Then with one clean, mighty twist he snapped his neck like a pine bough.

  The whips twitched and died, and little blood flowed. In the rays of a window did Hunnin find his rest at last, and he had made safe his family with a final act of true courage. His blood had held true. The gods would be pleased, and he could walk among his noble kin with no shame in the halls of forever.

  For those left behind, the scene was grim, and impossible. But there that warm yellow ray fell through paned color, and Hunnin’s beard glowed like a star.

  So ended the great captain of Fort Friendship. So Mars became its final survivor. So the terrible wrath that would consume Hannar the Shieldmaster was forged.

  12

  A dwarven funeral is no small thing. Grief runs like a river through every heart, but its pain is compounded by a resonating joy. All those moments made rich by heroic hearts, all those deeds done by weathered hands, all those cries lifted up for the gods to hear… They make a wondrous din of things.

  At the base of a boulder was Hunnin laid to sleep, in a square cairn his ashes set. So was the way of the hill folk of that time north of the Greenway. The three of them composed a tiny and lonely funeral party.

  Anna was beautiful in the spring light. Her blonde braids cascaded past ribbon bow epaulets. Tied with green thread were her silken sleeves. Those great wide eyes of hers set on a face of softness and barely parted lips. Her strength never more evident in detail and posture, no queen was more noble as she filled three great wooden mugs with Hunnin’s favorite Golden Gar.

  As for Mars, he too held a sunlit demeanor. He leaned on the great boulder like a loitering bard, and told tales all afternoon. Hunnin’s great stand against the blue orcs of Thod, the time Hunnin navigated a fleet of warships through a soupy fog at Dagger Bay, or the time they went sledding on their shields after the battle of Ramthas. Two kings had they seen as friends, and more centuries. Mars banged his steel gauntlets on that mossy boulder, and spoke of the dwarven homes beyond the stars where great hewn blocks of the noblest granite housed the heroes of yore, where Hunnin would learn all the wonders of time itself, and look down on the mortal world with a beard of lightning.

  Great braided ropes were tied from every tree to the gable post at the front stoop. White butterflies filled the air, and Anna strummed her lute as best she could, playing “Forge of Ice, Forge of Fire,” “The Battle of Hammers” and “Fool’s Mug” all Hunnin’s favorites.

  One face remained dour. One face peered up from mug’s edge with fury: Hannar’s. Even though young, he was well of age to taste Gar, and not new to it. He quaffed from his towering mug, and rivulets ran down his chin. He was a foot shorter than Mars with youth, but his eyes seemed ancient and gloomy as a dragon’s. On that small pile of stones his gaze was fixed, and no song could stir him. He heard nothing, only a roaring hum of rage between his ears. Too soon had he learned of death.

  Night was closing in, and the mugs took their toll. Mars would not leave the cairn, but rested there beside it, chatting with his old friend casually. At length, he turned to brooding Hannar.

  “Brighten your face, my boy! We dwarves face not death with frowns and fear.”

  “I’m not afraid.” Hannar murmured, not looking up.

  “Then grief stricken, fair enough,” Mars replied, ready to test the boy’s choler. “You do your father proud by lifting that chin, and showing the bright heart of our folk. His was a life of heroism, not just a death in darkness.”

  “What heroism is there in sitting here like winter toads while those who did this walk unavenged?” Hannar took one last look at his mug, emptied it with a gulp, and threw it into the woods. His nostrils flared and he ground his teeth like a tiger.

  “Mind your wits, son,” Mars counseled gently. “We’ll do no revenging tonight. Our first task is to the New King, the heir called Akram who has taken up the throne in Ramthas. He must know of this treachery.”

  “A messenger’s errand,” Hunnin’s son spat back, clearly targeting Mars. This was an unwise tactic, but he was hot with youthful wrath, and beyond reason. His mind was already made up. He just needed the opportune moment.

  Mars stood with this comment. In any other moment, such insolence would have earned a dwarven boy a split lip. But Mars stayed his anger, for he knew the boy was baiting him.

  “I’ll forgive your tone for Hunnin’s honor, son. You’ll do as right demands and the three of us will make journey to Ramthas at dawn. Your mother is already-“

  “As RIGHT demands?”

  “Aye. We’ve duty to King and Crown before personal vendetta and you know it. You’ve much to learn besides how to bash with a shield.” There was a too-long pause.

  “Perhaps you are afraid,” Hannar muttered under his breath. Before the words escaped his lips he regretted saying them, but young folk often do such things. Mars took a long slow breath, gently set his mug at Hunnin’s grave-side, spilling not one drop, and took a step toward his friend’s son.

  “I’m not sure I heard you, Hannar,” he said to the youngster. Hunnin would approve of this lesson and he knew it. “Car
e to repeat that last bit?”

  Hannar could not look up at him. He was fuming, but even at that moment knew he was in the wrong. He thought long as Mars stared him down. “I said… Maybe you’re right.”

  In a way, Mars was more disappointed with this answer than the insult. He huffed through his nose and returned to his mug, rolling one shoulder to break the tension in his neck.

  At that boulder of grief Anna stayed the night, wrapped in a checkered blanket. Mars dozed off in the patio rocking chair, and the frost of evening crept up. When the sparrows started singing, Anna shook off the chill and rose first.

  Immediately she knew something was wrong. The house was quiet, Mars grumbling in his sleep like a bear. Hannar was nowhere to be seen. She went inside, and when she saw that his wooden shield was not in its usual spot by the kitchen bread bin, she knew for certain.

  Her son had gone.

  13

  At the head of the Black Mountains, east of the widest part of the Greenway, but far above the plains that slope to the great wall of Duros-Tem, there stands a knife of rock and piney crags that splits the mists like the mast of a warship. This rock is called Ramthas, named for the hillman king who cut its foundations into a fortress of solid basalt.

  That dynasty was lost when elves took the city five centuries ago. Under their kind and glowing rule Ramthas was expanded upward, and festooned with narrow pinnacles. When darkness crept into their immortal hearts, their rule faltered, and Ramthas was returned to the hands of men and dwarves.

  This is but one of many barbs that gave the wars their sting in those times.

  It is important to note the generations that rose and fell on that high seat of royalty, for when the young King Akram strode out to greet his old friend Mars, the tones of history were thick in the banners.