Dragonhammer: Volume II

by Conner McCall

  “Well,” I begin, “As you can see, I am not dead. Better for me to risk death than for you to surely die.”

  Her eyes narrow for a moment, and then she turns back to her food, unsatisfied.

  After dinner, Percival and James go to the infirmary. Jericho accompanies them. Aela and Nathaniel follow Jarl Hralfar and me out of the fortress and through the city, to the drawbridge, and up the stairs that lead to the top of the wall.

  Dusk is falling. The Tygnar camp sits uncomfortably close, but they make no movement towards the city. Orange and red bands streak the undersides of the sky-borne clouds.

  “They have received your message,” the Jarl observes.

  I know full well what his response will be. I just had to give him my side of the story, and not while he was under my warhammer. I have full confidence in my ability.

  The guards atop the wall light torches at increments along the crenellations. The bridge remains dark and ominous.

  As a result, we see the torch of the messenger quite clearly.

  He rides a horse at a run, but not quite a full gallop. The torch races along the bridge towards our position.

  “Let down the drawbridge,” Hralfar commands.

  The guards obey and release the chains. The drawbridge booms downward and the messenger rides across.

  As he enters the city, he slows the horse and jumps off. “Message for Captain Armstrong,” he says to the nearest guard, who points upward at me and the Jarl. The messenger darts up the stairs and hands me an unenclosed piece of parchment. Titus has not bothered to seal it. I position it so the Jarl can read it as I do, and a dark smile begins to tug at my lips as I read.

  Dragonhammer,

  I care not for your respect or your condescending words. I am feeling especially generous tonight, so I will offer you a final chance. If you refuse, the same fate will befall you had you not replied at all. My father was killed in cold blood and you are to blame. You must die for him to be avenged.

  My request stands. Meet me at Balgr’s Monument south of here, and there we will duel on behalf of our armies. Send your reply. I do not think you will disappoint me.

  Titus Swordbreaker

  “Somebody have a quill and ink?” I ask. To my surprise, the messenger pulls out a black quill and a small inkwell.

  “Thank you,” I say. Then I write my response on the back of the letter, using a crenellation as a table, with the others looking over my shoulder.

  Jarl Swordbreaker,

  I have decided of my own accord to comply with your wishes. Know that I fight in the defense of my home and family, and not to satiate the bloodlust that you feel. Send me the day you would like me to meet you at Balgr’s Monument, and I will be there. Do not worry; I will not disappoint. There is a reason I am called Dragonhammer.

  Captain Armstrong

  The orc

  The messenger rides the next morning to deliver the letter.

  I meet the Jarl in the throne room to await the response. There I see Commander Magnus for the first time since my arrival.

  She has a pretty face with eyes that shine like her armor. Though the yearning in her eyes has mostly gone, they still divulge the smallest trace of longing. “Captain,” she greets formally, offering her hand. “Good to see you arrived safely and in good time.”

  “It is,” I reply, shaking her outstretched hand. “I hate to think what would have happened otherwise.”

  She nods and holds on for half a second longer than I would like. Then she turns to my companions Aela and Nathaniel.

  She tilts her head, acknowledging them. “Commander,” Nathaniel responds, bowing his head. Aela does nothing.

  “Who is this?” Genevieve asks, turning to me.

  “This is Aela,” I introduce. “A friend of mine.”

  “Ah,” the commander breathes, scrutinizing Aela’s faultless face. Her eyes dart from head to foot, inspecting and recording every detail they can find. Genevieve apparently finds nothing of malicious intent.

  “Good to meet you,” says the commander. Aela nods uncomfortably. “Where are you from?”

  “Kera,” Aela replies coldly. “And no I do not wish to return. He’s offered that to me many times.”

  Genevieve nods. “I see. What are your plans now that you are here?”

  “I want to fight.”

  Genevieve nods again and eyes Aela’s slim form. “You look like a fighter,” she says. “How do you wield a sword?”

  Aela does not answer.

  “Well?” Genevieve urges.

  “I’m a better shot with a bow,” Aela continues. “Swordplay is not my strength.”

  “Even our archers must know how to defend themselves in the middle of a melee. Can you do that?”

  Aela nods.

  “Can you promise me that?”

  “Every warrior will meet their match,” I interrupt. “It is not possible to promise one’s life.”

  “I can,” Aela says quietly.

  “What?” Nathaniel says.

  “I promise you I can defend myself,” Aela repeats. “I have skill enough.”

  Genevieve glances at me and I nod covertly. She shakes her head and calls, “Jarl Hralfar?”

  “Yes?” he says from the table by the wall, without looking up.

  “We have a soldier that has yet to take the oath.”

  Aela’s only response is to nod, as if she had known that this was the way it would turn out. The Jarl looks up and says, “Who?”

  Genevieve gestures to Aela.

  The Jarl nods doubtfully and he thinks about his next words carefully. Before he says them, he stands and walks deliberately to our position. Then he gazes stonily into Aela’s brilliant eyes.

  “You can fight?” he asks.

  She nods.

  “You are willing to offer yourself and your life to our cause?”

  “I am.”

  “Then repeat after me.”

  I listen sincerely, almost mouthing the words as Aela’s euphonious voice echoes Jarl Hralfar’s gruff tone. The oath goes as follows:

  I, Jarl Hralfar, do swear fealty to the clan of Gilgal and all of its authorized leaders,

  And offer myself as a protector of its values, to the death,

  And take upon myself all honors and responsibilities that calling holds.

  All Hail Gilgal.

  But, of course, Aela substitutes her name in for Jarl Hralfar’s. She speaks the last line almost at a whisper, and a small smile tugs at her lips as she says them.

  “Good,” says the Jarl. “You are a soldier.”

  “I have only one request,” she says.

  “Ask away,” he responds, striding back to the table.

  “That I be in the same company as he.” She jerks her head in my direction as she says the last word.

  Genevieve glowers at her but Aela does not notice, or even seem to care. The Jarl smiles and says, “I believe that was the understanding first of all,” he says. “That will not be a problem.”

  “Thank you,” she says softly. As the Jarl sits himself at his table, she walks to the middle of the room and studies the architecture.

  Nathaniel nudges me in the side with his elbow, but I remain stone-faced. Aela stares intently at the throne for a long while. I wonder what she is thinking.

  Suddenly the doors bang open and a messenger runs in, holding a folded piece of parchment. “Message for Captain Armstrong,” he says.

  I take it hastily and unfold it. On the parchment are written two words.

  One Week

  “One week,” I say softly with Jarl Hralfar reading over my shoulder. I repeat the words even softer.

  “Why all the time?” Hralfar mutters.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “How long is the trip to Balgr’s Monument?”

  “Three or four days,” he answers. “He’s given us time to prepare.”

  “He’s given himself time,” I decide. “Either way, I’m going to take it.”

  “As
you should,” he concurs. “You will fight him there?”

  “Of course, Jarl,” I reply, turning away from the parchment and looking towards him. “I am a man of my word.”

  “You are,” he agrees. “I have faith in your ability to succeed.”

  “Thank you, Jarl.”

  He nods and walks back to his table. I glance at Aela, but she avoids my gaze. Nathaniel looks at me with an expression caught somewhere between awe and concern.

  “What?” I ask.

  He looks away and shakes his head. “I see in you what I saw in our father,” he says.

  I nod. “I have no problem with that.”

  Aela follows us out of the room, and as soon as we enter the hallway I voice, “I’m going to visit Percival and James in the infirmary. They need to know.”

  Nathaniel agrees and Aela says nothing.

  Beds line the walls lit by large windows. The room is large and bright, with a few nurses walking about tending to those who occupy the beds.

  “Kadmus!” James’s voice calls. He sits on one of the beds further down to the left, but as he sees us he rises and walks to meet us. “Nathaniel, Aela!”

  “James,” I greet quietly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well,” he responds, gently caressing his injured arm with his free hand. “I’ll be able to fight in another day or two. My wound was minor.”

  “Where’s Percival?”

  He looks around as if he had forgotten. Then he points to the bed just past his own. “There.”

  Percival sits upright leaning on the headboard, reading something. His injured leg is stretched out on the bed, a bandage still tied around it. This bandage is pristine.

  Percival does not notice our approach, or even look up when I sit down next to his bed. Instead he intently reads the letter in his hands.

  “Who’s that from?” I ask.

  He starts and makes to hide the letter, but quickly realizes that his efforts are vain. “No one,” he asserts quickly. Aela stands coolly at the foot of his bed.

  I shake it off and ask, “You feeling any better?”

  “I feel much better,” he responds, grateful that I’ve changed the subject. “It was only a cut, though it was a bit of a nasty one. It’s healing quickly.”

  “Good,” says Jericho. “Apparently we’re moving out in a few days.”

  “I’m coming, then,” Percival responds. “You can count on it.”

  I nod. “I’m glad to hear it,” I say. “It’s good to have you fighting by my side.”

  James glances at the letter Percival is stealthily sliding under the covers. “So who is that from?” he asks.

  “No one,” Percival repeats coldly.

  I raise an eyebrow and James pries, “Why were you reading it then?”

  The corner of my mouth goes up as Percival struggles for words and I recall a scene from our last visit to Fragruss. I think for a few moments, attempting to remember the details, and then I whisper, “Is it Serena?”

  He goes silent and slightly pink.

  “That’s my boy,” says James, slapping Percival’s shoulder. “That’s my boy!” Percival’s face is gaining color and he’s avoiding eye contact. “What’d she say?” James urges.

  He grins broadly and rolls his head to stare straight up at the ceiling; anywhere but us. Then he stares intently down at his blankets.

  “Come on, what’d she say?” James presses.

  Aela still stands at the foot of the bed like she’s slightly confused, or trying to make sense of a particularly difficult puzzle.

  “Wants to meet me later,” he says.

  “How’d she know you were here?” I ask.

  He answers hesitantly, “…because I told her.”

  My other eyebrow goes up. “So how long have you been talking?”

  “Since… since we met…” he finally says.

  “That’s my boy!” James repeats. Apparently he was a little loud because one of the nurses shoots him a nasty look.

  “Stop it,” Percival contests feebly, red as a rose.

  “Well, you’re not going to leave her waiting, are you?” James asks.

  Percival shakes his head.

  “Of course not! When?”

  “She just said tonight.”

  “Well, let’s go then!” James persists. “Come on, we’ve only got a couple of days to get you two together!”

  Percival blubbers something inaudible as James grasps his arm and pulls him up out of bed. He leans heavily on his left leg, as his right thigh still bears the wound from the battle a few nights ago. Before James can pull him out the door, he manages to get out, “Can you at least let me go alone?”

  James stops like he’s been foiled in some plot. He tries to find an argument but I interrupt, “Just let him go.”

  Percival looks at me gratefully.

  “Just as long as you know we’re going to want to meet her sooner or later,” I finish. At first Percival seems a little annoyed, but quickly warms up to the idea and shrugs with a permissive nod of his head. “Good,” I say. “Do you need help walking?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m alright.” Then he grasps a crutch from the wall and limps away down the hall.

  Only a moment later, as we walk down the same hall, James says, “I fancy a drink.”

  “And I,” Jericho agrees.

  “Hoping to catch Percival in town?” I ask. Before either of them can answer, I continue, “Just leave him be.”

  They don’t agree, but they do not argue with me.

  Instead, I make them train with me on the grounds to the side of the fortress.

  Genevieve leads a training session there already, but she takes time to greet us less-than-cordially. She cannot seem to remember Aela’s name, or Jericho’s or Nathaniel’s, but she knows mine and James’s.

  “Afternoon,” she says. “Captain Armstrong.” She nods at me. “James.” James salutes respectfully as she goes back to her training.

  Jericho seems bothered that the commander did not remember his name. “It’s alright,” Nathaniel says. “She’s the commander. Lots of names to remember.”

  “But why James?” Jericho presses.

  “No idea,” he responds.

  I practice moves on a dummy made with iron poles, as I tend to break the wooden ones. Nathaniel and James spar while Jericho practices on a wooden dummy. Aela watches us.

  “You know, I never have seen you fight,” I say to Aela. “But you are now a soldier for Mohonri.”

  She stares.

  “Any chance of seeing that now?”

  “I have no weapons,” she says.

  “That’s not entirely true,” I respond. “You’ve got a bow and three daggers that I can count.”

  She looks down uncomfortably, presumably because she thought the daggers were well hidden. “But no sword,” she says, looking back up.

  “You’re a soldier,” I repeat. “We need to get you one.”

  She nods, but says nothing.

  Suddenly someone down the street shouts; not an uncommon noise for the city, but the angry voice carries well above anything else and draws almost everyone’s attention. I look towards the open door of the tavern and run towards it, carrying my hammer. The others follow me.

  “I can’t!” yells the barkeep. “Your kind aren’t allowed!”

  I cannot hear the response.

  “What’s not to understand?! If anything it’s your accent!”

  “What’s going on?” I interrupt, arriving by the door.

  A seven-foot form turns and stares down at me. For the first time in a very long time I find myself looking up at somebody taller and broader than me, but this is no normal somebody.

  He has large white fangs that curve upward from his lower lip. His brow is hardened, fixedly pointed into a ‘v.’ His eyebrows are dark and thick, and his eyes are black like the nighttime sky. His long hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the back of his head, and his chiseled torso is bare but for the belt s
upporting a sheath on his back. Fur trousers come just past his knees. Gauntlets protect his forearms and he wears an amulet around his neck, but I am not able to make out the insignia on it. The most remarkable thing, however, is that his skin color is a green so dark and murky it’s almost black.

  His gaze is intimidating and Nathaniel slows beside me, as does James. I do not falter, but the stories and legends of the orcs swarm my head. Of plundering and murder. Of fire and steel. Here one stands before me, just as large and dark as the legends say. However, within his eyes I see no evil.

  “What’s going on?” I repeat, forcing myself to look out of the orc’s keen eyes.

  When nobody else says anything, the barkeep says lamely, “He wants a drink.”

  “What’s the matter with that?” I respond.

  “He’s an orc!” The barkeep spits the last word.

  “And?” I question.

  “His kind ain’t allowed ‘ere!” the barkeep continues. People are stopping to watch. “Orcs are evil, malevolent creatures! We can’t trust ‘em!”

  The orc emits a menacing growl from his throat. The deep noise reverberates through the air and all of us fall silent until the sound ceases.

  “And what’s the problem with a drink?” I push. “Give up a bit of good business for some of your own pride?”

  The barkeep grimaces. “A bit of good business…” he sneers. “Double price.”

  “Done,” I bark, flipping a coin at him. The barkeep, stunned, stares at the coin, throws it on the ground and bangs inside muttering something about ‘good business.’

  I pick up my coin and pay regular price inside for me and the orc. Aela has followed me inside, and the others are close behind. Each of them gets a drink once we’re in.

  I sit with the orc at the back of the tavern. He sits across from me with his back to a window so grubby I can hardly see through it. Aela has placed herself on my left side. Nathaniel, James, and Jericho occupy the next table over and discuss their own worries. Before sitting down, I had given them each a look that said, ‘leave me and the orc.’ They appear to ignore us, but it’s hard to believe they aren’t eavesdropping.