Suddenly, the old man noticed Sorin’s gaze, and their eyes met—pale sky-blue locking with forest green.
Arvel tapped his son firmly on his leg. Sorin turned back around, the stare broken, Sorin’s curiosity fading as the pastor’s booming voice reasserted itself.
“I awoke last night from a terrible dream, its portents too dire to ignore! I stood alone on a hillside overseeing destruction. The skies were a rolling crimson fire, the glow casting blood on the landscape, and leather hide stretched across the entire continent in a blanket of suffocating blackness. Creatures rose up from the mud of nightmare, roaming the world, and the land withered at their coming. A hot wind blew across my brow, its scent tainted with metal and decay. The ground shook beneath my feet. It was not unlike the Book of Samath’s account of Aerom’s dream and the direction he received the night before he defied death. The dream was vivid and real, sinister at its core. It dragged me from ignorance! Underlying it was a single moment of wickedness that spread like leprosy, and I knew from whence it stemmed—the seeds of our destruction have been sown by our own immoral desires and our lust for power!”
Thistledon’s spiritual leader swooned with wild eyes. Sorin was pinned in his seat, unable to look away.
“Defilers! We have destroyed our Fatherhead’s intent!” he snarled with naked hate contorting his features. “The pagan gods desire dominion!”
Pastor Hadlin panted heavily after the burst and then fell backward, tears streaming down his face. His copy of the Codex fell with him. Some of the people stood up, worry on their faces, while the pastor’s wife and daughter helped him up from behind the lectern. Those in the church were talking softly to themselves, some moving to give what aid they could, most staying where they were, caught as though in a spider’s web.
Sorin turned. The mysterious man at the back of the church was gone.
Arvel and Catha stood and ushered their son outside to Jak Nelly. The mid-afternoon sunshine hit Sorin’s face, but he did not feel it. A pit of cold had settled in his center. Pastor Hadlin, who was an optimistic speaker at the pulpit—who for years had led everyone with compassion, care, and conviction—had been upset and angry, flinging accusations at those he led. Sorin had known the pastor for a long time, had grown up with his daughter Brys, but he had never seen the man like this.
Once the family was seated in the cart, Sorin’s father flicked the reins, and their leather snap set Jak Nelly in motion for home.
Catha looked into her husband’s face. “I am really worried about Pastor Hadlin, Arvel.”
Arvel nodded. “He was not himself. He looked fevered, and the circles under his eyes were dark, as if his troubles have followed him out of sleep. He is likely ill.” He paused. “I’ve never seen a man look so gaunt with so much energy, not even those who chew the kintra tree bark. Something is wrong…” Arvel stared ahead, his brow furrowed.
“What is it?” Arvel’s wife asked.
“There was something familiar about his eyes I can’t bring myself to remember,” he said.
“What about the things he said?” Sorin asked. “The pagans rising up again?”
“He was ill, Sorin,” Catha said. “Those from La Zandia are now brothers and sisters in the All Father. It was the rambling of a sick man, I’m sure of it.”
As they rode past the inn, Sorin noticed the four outlaws were no longer there. He breathed easier at the knowledge.
His mother looked over at him. “You are seeing Brys tomorrow, aren’t you? To take the gift you made for her parents’ anniversary?”
Sorin nodded. “Probably in the late morning. The detail work will take me that long at least.”
“Be sure to tell Marionyl that if she needs anything, if her husband needs anything, all they have to do is ask us.”
Sorin squeezed her small, delicate hand and offered her a smile. “I will, Mother.”
She smiled like the sun, her honied hair golden in the afternoon, but worry etched its way into the few wrinkles she had around her hazel eyes. It was a worry that mirrored his own.
The family was nearly home, the sun beginning its inexorable dip into the western valley hills, when a roaring scream shattered the heavens. All three of them instinctually hunkered down and looked upward, and Sorin’s breath caught.
Spreading across the sky was a thick black line running from the Kyrkendaal mountain range to the western horizon. The stain was fluid, bits of sky appearing through it as it flowed above their heads. The sun was high enough to catch it, highlighting its darkness, yet with another look Sorin could see it was not all black but varying shades of dark earth tones—not one continuous entity but one made up of smaller individual parts with wings spread wide against the sky. The parts weaved in and out from one another as they moved. Sorin understood why he initially thought it was a single line—the forms were at different heights, overlapping like foliage in a tree. Dozens of the creatures continued on to the west, and with sudden certainty Sorin realized what they were.
Dragons.
He had seen them occasionally but always from a distance. They were predators, staying mostly in the lower peaks of the Krykendaals in the summer and migrating like other animals in the winter. They were beasts, without reasoning minds, roaming the land in packs like feral dogs. Some speculated they were more than that, possessing intellect. They had been part of the War of the Kingdoms ages past, used as pawns by evil to wipe clean the Feyr from the land. Sorin had always been intrigued by the animals but was smart enough to not dare seek one out.
Another series of screaming bursts broke the silence and then faded.
“They are moving out of season. Unnaturally.” Arvel paused as his eyes swept the sky. “They’ve only been up there several weeks. All my years living here, I have never seen this.”
“What does it mean,” Sorin asked. “After what Pastor Hadlin said…”
Arvel did not have an answer as he watched the dragons travel west. Through the overhanging branches covering the road, the creatures were tiny specks in the far distance. A slight wind rustled the trees, the branches moving lazily back and forth, and as quickly as they had come the dragons were gone.
Jak Nelly plodded homeward. No one spoke. In the pit of Sorin’s stomach, his father’s unease took root; it remained with him most of the night.
Sorin wondered where the dragons were flying.
He wondered if he would ever know.
Chapter 2
The forge was cold and the morning colder when Sorin uncovered the fire pit to bring the last few surviving coals back to life and begin his work. He had slept fitfully the night before, and at morning’s first light he had woken, vaguely remembering dreams of wings suffocating him as they flapped about his head and pale blue eyes staring into the center of his being. Now his day had started earlier than expected.
While he pumped the bellows and added fuel to the pit, he looked out the building’s window into the gray mountain mist of the morning. The world was washed of color. His parents were still sleeping next door, a shared wall adjoining the forge to the four-room house. They would stir soon, but there would be no noise coming from the forge; the heavy hammer work had already been done. Sorin placed the section needing attention into the revived pit; a few hours of meticulous detailing and the gift would be finished.
“When I was young, I used to work early too,” Arvel said from the doorway, a wide yawn opening in his mouth like a cave. “The morning always feels like the most creatively rewarding time of day. No one is around, the world is still for one’s own thoughts to travel, and the strength one wields is greater than any other hour.”
Sorin smiled wanly. “Actually, I awoke from a persistent nightmare. I decided, why fight it?”
The doorframe creaked in protest as Arvel leaned against it. “A young man like you shouldn’t be troubled so.”
Sorin continued to pump the bellows and turn his project in the coals, heating it evenly. His father was always there for him, a friendly, stron
g presence.
“No, it was just a dream. I don’t remember much of it. Just a rush of emotions and even those were fleeting.” He paused. “The old man who comes to the church services sometimes. Who is he?”
Arvel crossed his thick arms. “Just an old man. He’s lived in the wilderness, even beyond us, for so long he may not even know who he is anymore.” Arvel hesitated. “Some think him a crazy old loon; some rumor him to be the ghost of a knight. Me? One thing I do know he is no ghost—he is merely a man getting older, looking for something he has lost or perhaps never known.”
“Why do you think that?” Sorin asked, looking up.
Arvel shrugged. “As with many people, you can read it in his eyes.”
Sorin pulled the glowing piece from the coals, placing it between two vices, and with a small, sharp-edged tool began adding beautiful detail to malleable iron. Sorin had seen what his father talked about in that old man’s eyes as well. He had suffered prolonged torture seeded in the man’s very depths. It was something that pervaded his life; the old man almost choked by it. It scared Sorin to think there was something in the world that could reduce a man so completely; worse, that a man would let it happen to himself.
“Have you ever spoken to him?” he asked.
“A few times,” Arvel said. “He keeps to himself, mostly.”
“How can someone get along in life like that?”
Arvel looked to the floor. “The best they can, I suspect. Thistledon has accepted him.”
“Like the pagan family?” Sorin said. “I saw the looks from people who passed by them.”
“We as a family can only do what we can and help them acclimate the best they can,” Arvel said gruffly. “What transpires in La Zandia will send more of them seeking peace here.”
Sorin held no bias against anyone who did not warrant it through their actions. Some of Thistledon’s people grumbled about the newcomers without having even talked to them. It was something he would never understand.
“Besides, as your mother said, sometimes people need a new beginning.”
Sorin nodded, etching feathers into the soft metal.
“Eh, life moves on,” Arvel continued. “I’m going to need your help early this afternoon. Winter was hard on the house and it is time we re-shingle the roof.”
Still considering his father’s words and lost within the final, delicate moments of his work, Sorin said, “I won’t take long. I promise.”
Arvel grunted. “You get lost in your work as I do.”
Sorin hummed then, a low, intertwining melody as he carved into the softened, glowing iron.
When Sorin looked up, his father was gone.
* * * * *
With the work complete, Sorin saddled his horse Creek and prepared for Thistledon. The sun was breaking the morning mist apart, sending it back into hiding as the chocolate-colored stallion whickered impatiently. Creek was willful at times, young and strong, but he was Sorin’s favorite, a gift from his father. The horse was agile, unafraid of the more dangerous mountain animals; he had saved Sorin from certain harm several times since their friendship began.
Sorin drew in a cool breath, cinching the orb stanchion securely into place on the saddle. It had turned out better than he had expected, unique and perfect for the Oldten family. It was half as tall as he was, with four legs shaped like bird talons. The shaft was shiny until it splayed out at its other end. There, carved into iron relief as dark as midnight, sat perched a griffin, wings unfurled, poised to fly. The creature’s feathers were sculpted in fine detail, as were its eyes—staring pale agates Sorin had set within the metal. Where the eagle ended, the lion half began, sleek and strong, with a twisting tail held as high as the wings. Sorin was pleased with his work.
It would be placed in Pastor Hadlin’s home, to display a glowing ball of light between the griffin’s wings, tail, and head, as the Godwyn order was apt to do. It would bring illumination to the Oldten household even in the darkest winter days.
With the stanchion secured, Sorin pulled himself up onto the worn, creaking leather and looked to the sky as Creek started toward Thistledon. Following after him, his father’s hammer strokes rang into the forest but slowly faded with each step Creek took.
Creek took his rider deeper into the forest. The sky was a pale blue with brilliant white clouds lumbering to the east over the high mountain peaks, their shadows darkening Sorin’s path before moving on. Birds flew and twittered around him, and insects buzzed on their own errands. The forest smelled fresh and inviting. No dragons stirred the air. All seemed normal, as if the unusual events of yesterday were a mere dream’s memory.
But sometimes, Sorin reflected, dreams had a way of following a person back into waking life.
Creek was full of vigor—his long winter spent within the barn giving way to energetic freedom—and they came to Thistledon within a bell. Sorin guided his horse through the center of town, which was bustling with citizens and visitors of all kinds. Of the pagans, there was no sign. Sorin made his way to the far end of the town where the church and the Oldten’s homestead resided.
When Godwyn Keep had established its presence in Thistledon, it also had built a residence for the pastor and his family. It was nestled far behind the rear of the church, set in a copse of ancient cedar. The Oldtens had spent more than a decade there, a simple home for hardworking people. Sorin sidled up along the outside of the church, making his way past it on a narrow, bare track of dirt. The wood was silent, the air cool and scented of new growing grass and the sweetness of cedar wood. He slid easily off the saddle, tied Creek to a hitching post, took the wrapped stanchion from its leather straps, and knocked on the front door of the home.
It was only moments before a girl a winter his younger opened the door with a smile.
“Good morning, Brys,” Sorin said.
The young girl looked up at him with eyes the color of a storm, and he felt himself grow warm all over. “Hello, Sorin. How are you?”
Brys Oldten was the only child of the pastor. Sorin had known her for as long as he could remember. It was only in the last few seasons, however, that he had started looking at her differently. As she grew into a young woman, her body had elongated almost overnight. She now wore dresses rather than breeches, and her hair—which had once been messy and unkempt as a playing child—was now long and straight, a golden sheen rippling just under its surface. Her voice now possessed a lyrical quality that mystified Sorin, leaving him at unease around her.
Many things were different, and that included something inside of him too. Awkwardness stole over him and something in his throat cracked. “I’m doing well. Just… dropping this off to you as our gift for your parents’ anniversary.”
Wary of its substantial weight, Brys carefully took the gift and gently unwrapped it. The surprise on her face warmed him further. “Sorin, it’s beautiful. Perfect. They are going to love it.”
Heat rose higher into Sorin’s cheeks. He shoved his hands into his tunic pockets, giddy the orb stanchion met with her approval. “It turned out well.”
She turned and vanished into the house, lightness to her step, and returned immediately without the gift. “Let’s go,” she said.
Sorin grew dizzy. “Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Brys!” an agonized wail called from the home’s confines, one Sorin recognized and yet did not at the same time. It was Pastor Hadlin. “Where you goin’?”
Sorin was about to respond when Marionyl Oldten came to the door. Her hair was up but ill kept, strands falling around her worried face. Dark circles surrounded her eyes, lack of sleep embedded there. She made a glance backward before turning to Brys. “Go, Brys,” she said, as the voice slurred rage again behind her.
The smile suddenly gone, Brys grabbed Sorin by the hand and led him around the side of the house. After a few steps, Sorin stopped abruptly. Brys took another step before realizing her charge had separated from her. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Sorin looked away, shaking his head. “I can’t. I have to get back. My father asked me to help him as soon as possible.” He paused. “And your father…” he said, gesturing at the home.
Brys stared at him hard for only a moment, the earlier softness vanishing and a gray gloom overcoming her youthful features.
“Your father is still very ill?” he asked.
She looked at him, all playfulness absent. “I have to get out of there. I just need to be away now that my mother has returned.”
The burdening stress behind each of her words was an earnest plea. Yet Sorin needed to return home. Down deep, he knew his father would not be happy if he decided to stay. But his mother had also reaffirmed if the Oldtens needed anything, the Westfalls would answer. Treating Pastor Hadlin had obviously been draining on Brys. If Sorin were to stay and disregard his father’s needs, was he not doing what his mother thought right, what his father would ultimately think was right? Was it not the All Father’s way of offering help to a family that needed it?
“Okay, but not for long.”
She brightened, her eyes flashing with happiness.
Leaving her father’s recriminations behind, they walked out behind her home and up a gently rising slope until they reached the foothills above Thistledon. The day was bright, while the lazy tendrils of chimney smoke formed a ghostly gray canopy above the town’s trees. Brys was silent as she walked in front of him. Still unsure whether or not he was doing the right thing but knowing it was too late to change his decision, Sorin continued onward. He thought he knew where they were going but kept quiet, wondering what Brys had in mind.
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 3
