Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  If it is Kieren, may the Fatherhead have mercy on us all.

  Chapter 1

  Sparks flew into the burning morning air with every strike, the hammer falls echoing into the world, as Sorin Westfall shaped and molded beauty from iron. The forge was blistering hot, its fire pit a deep sea of angry orange and flaming yellow, but he ignored it. The concentration in his green eyes burned into the metal, the forge and all of its harsh conditions melting away save the needs of the iron and the fire. He wore no shirt, preferring to maintain sweaty closeness to the fire and its needs. With the smallest hammerhead in his arsenal of tools, Sorin delicately struck the red-hot piece of metal, humming a throaty song while he flattened and twisted the glowing mass against an anvil into art.

  For eleven winters, Sorin had worked a forge, his first memories assisting his blacksmith father. At first, the fire pit had hypnotized the boy, the hungry animal of flame groveling to be free and yet bent to his father’s will. Several burns later and repeated harsh words from his father had curtailed the boy’s fascination, and he began to give grudging respect to the fire and what its purpose merited. The fire was not an animal to be played with—it was just another tool in the forge to create a means to an end.

  He put the hammer down and reached up to the bellows handle, giving it several strong pulls. The fire flared brilliantly, the coals turning white like the summer sun, and a hot blast of air blew against his brow. Sorin drove the metal back into the coals; the tongs he grasped grew warm in his hand but did not burn. He pumped the bellows a few more times in smooth motions, and the emboldened flames chased the shadows of the shop back.

  Each new fold in the metal—every new twist, heating, and hammer stroke—produced something wholly unique. Every time he turned a project in his callused hands, something new emerged. It was in this way that with each new project, he learned more about the process. His father was a great resource, but true learning came only by the attempt. The forge gave him the chance to know himself better with every plunge of fire, every strike of hammer, every sweet chime that sprang from the anvil into the hot air.

  His father called him an artisan, a young man of extraordinary talent. Sorin thought himself someone who merely looked for the potential in the metal before coaxing it to its desired shape.

  He pulled from the furnace the thin, curled piece of iron, radiant from its short time in the hot coals, and began to weld it with another heated piece. The flattened metal glommed onto the curved piece, their mutual heat flowing into one another and joining like warm butter on newly baked bread. It was the final segment, and with the exception of an ornate engraving he would complete on the morrow, the piece was all but finished.

  Sorin carefully removed the piece from the grip of the vice with both tongs and dunked the newly formed object into a deep trough of water. As soon as the hot iron hit the water bath, steam rose in a plume, hissing like a snake. The air around Sorin grew humid and sticky. He pulled his work from its bath and admired its curves, shining as water fell from it in dark beads.

  The door of the shop opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man entered.

  “Son, get cleaned up. It’s almost time to leave.”

  Sorin stopped humming and flashed a brief smile at his father. Arvel was an imposing, serious man with flashing green eyes and a penchant for working harder than Sorin’s mother thought healthy. Arvel was the blacksmith for all of Thistledon, although he preferred to separate his in-town smithy from his home and family life. The town boys marveled at his father, calling him the biggest and strongest man around. Sorin thought they were probably right. He was an immovable giant—thick as an oak and just as stubborn. Some people were afraid of his appearance and steady, unflinching gaze, but the few people who knew him well thought of him as a boulder, the stone of the earth, a man whose own personal, quiet confidence instilled the same in others.

  Sorin looked back to his work. “I will, Father. Just finishing for today.”

  Arvel approached the workbench and bent lower to get a closer look at his son’s work, the older man’s long raven-black hair falling behind him in a loosely-braided tail.

  “This is for the Oldtens?” he asked.

  Sorin nodded. Arvel ran his tough, thick fingers over the lines of the piece. “I think they’re going to love it.”

  Sorin eyed his handiwork again with the discerning eyes he had inherited from his father. “Tomorrow will tell, I suppose, if I can truly bring it to life or not. It needs a lot of detail work.”

  “You know what Pastor Hadlin says—‘The All Father is in the details.’” Arvel smirked for a moment and winked at his son. He straightened and tousled Sorin’s unruly black hair. “Amazing work, Son. Truly. Now get cleaned up or your mother will have both our hides.”

  Sorin quickly returned the forge tools to their rightful places, covered the glowing fire pit with its hood, and ran out the door of the shop into the chill mid-morning air.

  Shallow mist spun from the cold mountain reaches above him, but their tendrils retreated in defeat as the summer morning sun exposed the land in color and brightness. The splintered peaks of the Krykendaals shadowed everything, piercing the depths of blue sky, the faintest trace of their icy, wintry mantle still evident.

  The beauty of Sorin’s wilderness home was unfamiliar to most in the Kingdom, but there were horrors in these environs they would also never know. The mountains were dangerous, full of predators, treacherous cliffs, and a clime most of the year even the hardiest men would not dare. But the lofty peaks were comforting in their familiarity; they assured Sorin permanence in his life—an unchanging solidity—he found appealing.

  The exception to this unchanging solitude was the Sercei River, a thin, clear ribbon of water beginning in the highest hills to the north near Bervale that winded its way westward toward Silver Lake. Sorin preferred using its chilling, clear water to wash; he plunged his sweaty, grime-covered arms into the brook and dunked his head in as well, the mountain runoff sending a shock through his body. It was invigorating, and it saved his mother the burden of hauling more water home for bathing.

  While he knelt on the shore and his forge-fevered skin cooled, a brown speckled brook trout swam within reach, sliding from the deeper water up to him. More than a dozen soon circled it, occasionally splashing water up at Sorin as if playing. He smiled. Fish always did this. Winters earlier when he went fishing for the first time, his father had cast the line out into the water only to discover the fish gathering at his son’s feet. The boy had looked up at his father and giggled. His father believed the fish were hungry; all Sorin knew it had not changed as he had grown older.

  As he watched a pair of dragonflies dart across the smoothly moving water in flashes of green and gold, a ray of sunshine caught the silvery sheen of the long, faint scars that grazed his left shoulder. He noted them absently, his mind adrift, thinking about the remaining work he had to finish the next day.

  “Sorin! We’re leaving!”

  Amidst the low gurgle of the brook, his father’s voice cut through his reverie.

  “You are safe from me today,” Sorin said. The fish continued to gape at him as he left to change into his town clothes.

  The trip to Thistledon was quick and peaceful, Jak Nelly pulling their cart with ease. After sixteen winters of life, Sorin knew the foliage-lined track to town like his father’s forge—in every detail. Towering firs, broad oaks, and aged cedars populated the rolling hills and valleys. All of the animals had awoken from their slumber or returned from the warmer regions south and west, and their chitter and chatter pervaded the day. Other than the occasional crag cat or mountain kodiak that wandered down from the highlands, the forest was safe, and if one of these more dangerous animals did cross his family’s path, his father was a match for the former and smarter than the latter.

  Sorin’s mother sat to his right on the cart’s bench, a slim presence in the afternoon sunshine. Catha Westfall was light and airy, thin like a willow, and lovely, possess
ing a smile that could lighten the heaviest heart. She sought happiness in all things. A cloud was only as dark as a person let it be, and Catha saw the cloud’s silvery lining more easily than most.

  Arvel turned the cart onto a wider dirt pathway. After several long stretches of road, smoke appeared, hanging just above the trees to either side of the path as though afraid of venturing into the far-reaching sky. More roads and pathways increasingly intersected the byway, and the thick forest thinned to reveal homes and other buildings tucked neatly in its depths. The sun was directly overhead, its midday warmth and sunshine preempting their arrival into Thistledon.

  * * * * *

  Thistledon was a growing ores and precious metals community in the far reaches of the Vaarland province. Originally it had been a tiny outpost, a place where the hardiest could make a good living trapping unique furs or panning for precious metals. More and more people had been drawn to the area—hoping wealth would become theirs—and the town grew out of need for an economic center. With growth came outlaws and bandits, always looking for easy prey and easier fortunes, as acerbic and damaging as the sharp red-tipped weed the town was named after.

  As Jak Nelly plodded onward, the homes of the forest were replaced with businesses, the outermost the newest built. Sorin enjoyed coming to town. He had never adventured far from home, most of his excursions occurring with his father while they hunted in the highlands above their house. Thistledon was different. His father had his business in the center of town, a blacksmith forge twice the size of the one back home, to serve the needs of the community. Often unique and colorful travelers drifted through—trappers, hunters, and miners—and Sorin would listen to their tales and news with a careful curiosity.

  “Looks as though we have new neighbors, Catha,” Arvel said, flicking the horse’s reins toward their left.

  A father, not more than thirty winters, tied his horse off at a post before the common store. Behind the horse, a cart filled with a woman, three young boys, and whatever possessions they could bring with them waited as the man went inside. They had darker skin than those who appraised them from the street, and their hair was coppery silver. The family looked tired and weary, and dust coated most of their belongings.

  “More and more people moving from the south,” Catha commented. “The drought in La Zandia must be as bad as we’ve heard.”

  “Or the pagans have driven them out,” Arvel spat onto the ground.

  There were not many folk from La Zandia in Thistledon; Sorin had seen only a few in all his winters, their hair coloring giving them away. More had come in recent weeks. But many in town whispered they brought with them the old pagan ways, a slight to Godwyn. What his father said was true—some kind of unrest in the south had spurred an exodus of sorts, and Vaarland was close to the province and still wild.

  “Once Pastor Hadlin introduces them to the community, all will be well,” Catha said, seeking out the face of her husband. “You’ll see.”

  Arvel did not reply and clicked at Jak Nelly to pull them through the middle of town. Lying in the midst of the weaver, mason, baker, and butcher businesses sat the Broken Leg Inn, the oldest structure in Thistledon, its wood still strong and straight but grayed by time’s passing. Sitting outside its doors on benches, four figures watched those who passed. They had the hardened look of outdoorsmen, unshaven, with dirty sinister intent flickering in their eyes.

  Two of them were town ruffians, hired thugs. Another figure was cloaked and hooded, the darkness of the cowl impenetrable even in daylight.

  The fourth man lounged near the cowled figure. He was near his fortieth winter with greasy hair, matching complexion, and a ragged, puckered scar weaving along his jaw and through his bristling beard. Sorin had never seen him before. The man locked eyes with Sorin, and he quickly turned away but looked back after a moment. The man just grinned at him, fingering his sheathed knife’s handle.

  “Still think the best of the newcomers, Catha,” Arvel said, and Sorin turned back to his father. Arvel leaned forward in his seat, keeping his voice low. “Those four have a look I don’t much care for.”

  Catha raised an eyebrow. “As if you’ve never been given a second chance.”

  Arvel grunted and kept his thoughts to himself. Eyes stared into Sorin’s back, crawling over his body like worms. He did not turn around.

  They soon came to the church, its simple steeple and entryway inviting and open. It had been built when Godwyn Keep had arrived to bring the All Father’s word to the burgeoning populace three decades earlier, but gentle care and upkeep had prevented it from falling into any disrepair. It was made from gray stones, built to withstand the harsh winters for permanence, and although it looked small from the outside, it was expansive while standing within its walls.

  Arvel tied the horse, and the family entered the open doublewide doors into the vestibule. They made their way through those milling around with nods and short greetings. Brys Oldten stood in the entryway of the main hall, and Sorin smiled at her as he walked by. She looked downward shyly but smiled in return, greeting him and his parents.

  They sat in the middle of the church, many rows of wooden benches in front of them as well as behind. The sanctuary filled up quickly, families and singles, couples and children, the congregation coming from all over the area. Sorin thought about his work for the forthcoming day while he waited for the sermon to begin.

  A hush soon filled the sanctuary. Pastor Hadlin approached his podium from a side door he favored, a black leather-bound book in his hand.

  “Grovelers!” he screamed as he reached his place of speech.

  People jumped at the pastor’s admonishment, and it was immediately apparent there was something wrong with the man. Sweat matted his lank sandy-gray hair against his brow, and a fever emanated from his shiny blue eyes, hot and electric like lightning. His brown cassock fell from him in folds, the sleeves pushed back toward his elbows with haphazardness. Arvel looked to Catha and she shook her head. People glanced to each other for an answer only their pastor could give, but they kept silent, waiting to see what transpired.

  Pastor Hadlin threw the black book on the podium and flung it open with a vehemence Sorin had never seen in the Pastor.

  “The Book of Jonick from the All Father’s Codex tells us much about ourselves.” He struggled for breath and was stooped as if an anvil weighed him down. His eyes were manic and fell on nothing. “We are a low people, dragged into a fiery pit by our own machinations and hidden secrets. Centuries ago, the Fatherhead gave his life for a people bereft of hope, to save them and prevent evil from destroying creation. The Fey’r were a people different from the rest, persecuted by Giants and pagans, nearly destroyed by false fears and lies. One man became more than he dreamed, assisting those who were hunted and murdered. His teachings of forgiveness changed the tide during the War of the Kingdoms, and it was his own death that gave life.

  Sweat formed a bright sheen on Pastor Hadlin’s flushed skin. “We have forgotten that lesson. All have!

  “Scholar Jonick writes the Wrathful wailed! Not at the moment of the hammer strike but a heartbeat before. For Evil finally knew the All Father’s intent for Aerom, and it cried out in anger at being cheated of its chance to free itself from its prison among us. Isere the Cunning, whose hand evil had guided, brought the hammer down with all her hatred, malice, and might, and the knight of our souls was pinioned, a stake driven through his hands to split wide the tree he was hung upon. Our savior’s blood flowed; our redemption was given!”

  He paused, panting for air.

  “Aerom’s death rattle began with that underhanded wickedness, but it was also his, the Feyr, and our salvation. It was divinity’s execution, part of the All Father’s plan all along! The winged beasts snarled and hissed! Men dropped to their knees, out of the ravings of the Wrathful or their new fealty, the Book does not recount. The Fatherhead gave his life so others could live—so that he could prevent the slithering darkness from escaping its priso
n. The forces of evil knew they were beaten, brought low by true humility and honest sacrifice.”

  Those people in front of Sorin squirmed in their seats. Most looked around, worried. Some of the people looked behind him, their eyes hard suddenly. Sorin turned, searching for their discomfort’s source.

  At the rear of the sanctuary, an old man stood, arms folded across his chest as though he were warding himself from something ill. Dark circles played under his eyes and his cheeks had sunk as if the weight of centuries pulled them down. Thick, disheveled white hair flew in all directions like twigs in a bird’s nest, and his beard matched—long and scraggly with a look of abandonment to it. He had been handsome once, but that had been long ago, life reducing him to sickness. The old man was tall, but he looked small as he hunkered within himself, a defeated man whose life had beaten him down with its vicissitudes and who had never had the courage to battle back.

  Rumors in the community ran rampant about the man. He lived in the wilds as Sorin did, away from those who might criticize him. Sorin had caught glimpses of him at church—an entire year might go by and then the old man would visit for several weeks before disappearing again. He never sat down, and was always gone before the end of the pastor’s speech. He was a mystery with no evident clues.