Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “And you would be so quick to doom the feyr’im to hostages then?”

  Tension filled the room. It was something the king had not thought of, a hole in his attack the Pontifex took advantage of. Dendreth’s chances slipped away.

  “I put very little stock in Godwyn Keep, Pontifex Charl, and in your faith,” the king began, anger rigid along his jaw. “Tradition is a means of control, nothing more. Godwyn Keep drains our resources by retaining the services of good, strong Feyr to serve as payment for a debt all but paid ages ago. I can question the history of our people’s interaction because I alone am king. I have taken a new path, different from Godwyn Keep and the Kingdom, and we will one day restore our kingdom to its former glory without aid from god or Man.”

  “The All Father saved your race through the death of His own son,” Dendreth said.

  “And yet He is not our god,” King Belinorn countered. “Your presence here disturbs all we are trying to accomplish. I am aware of the track your carriage took today, Pontifex. Don’t think me a fool.”

  “The Kingdom desires to aid—”

  “Aid?” King Belinorn roared. “The Kingdom’s influence is the rot within my people.”

  The conversation had entered a subject wholly different from the one Dendreth intended. Before he could speak to try and salvage his original request, an older female sitting to the king’s immediate left with golden hair finely spun into a thick bun held her hand up for silence. “The Feyr grieve for Pontiff Garethe. Does your request have anything to do with that unfortunate set of events?” she asked.

  Finding calm in the storm around him, Dendreth nodded. “Indirectly, yes, it does, Mistress Gwenllion.”

  “Surely you do not think Westor played a part in that,” the King said brusquely, his ire losing its focus from his advisor’s interruption.

  King Belinorn was a greater fool than the old Pontifex had originally surmised. “Not at all, Your Highness. The information I seek does revolve around the attack on the Pontiff, but as I said this is the last place I may find what I need.” Dendreth paused. “Breaking your Accord was not my intention. I am here under the secret behest of High King Nialls Chagne. That’s why I sailed without a Godwyn flag—to maintain anonymity.”

  Silence oppressed the room. Dendreth had nothing more to say. Some of the king’s advisors were favoring the Pontifex’s circumstance. The Feyr Assembly was still hesitant about King Belinorn in many ways—at least for the moment—and that may have given Dendreth the advantage he needed.

  Lorien Silas cleared his throat. He was ancient, older than the rest of his companions, but his emerald eyes were clear and sharp. “There are those here in this Assembly who want the best for all, Dendreth, and although there has been some division on the proper path to tread we are unified as a whole. I have lived a long time and woe engulfs the Feyr more every year. It is time for a change, and it’s a change we must begin and finish on our own. It may not happen during King Belinorn’s reign, but the attempt must occur regardless. Surely you appreciate this.”

  Dendreth nodded. “I admire your drive to improve your citizens’ lives, sir.”

  King Belinorn straightened in his seat, the thin gold circlet on his head reflecting the flickering flame of the candles. “Before you stepped into this room, my advisors and I spoke at length about your arrival. After hearing your request, I have decided to grant you clemency for nine days. During your stay you will be guarded, and you will keep to lesser-traveled sections of the palace and library, fully covered by cloak and cowl. The work will transpire in a windowless reading room; an assistant shall bring you the materials you request. Meals will be brought to you. And once you leave, you must respect our plight and what we plan—taking the Accord with you to your High King. Will you give your assent to that as a Pontifex of Godwyn Keep?”

  Dendreth stood and bowed to the Assembly members. “I do. Thank you, Your Highness. If at all possible, I will need the assistance of your Historian. He will greatly speed the process and relieve you of me that much quicker.”

  The king looked over at his eldest advisor. Lorien nodded.

  “Then it’s settled. Lorien Silas will assist you. And remember—if you try to deviate from the intentions you have spoken here tonight and the rules laid down before you, there will be dire consequences.”

  Dendreth bowed again and turned to leave the chamber with Sion. He did not look back.

  Chapter 10

  “Yield, Pontifex.”

  The wooden sword was a finger’s width from his ear, but Pontifex Erol Tal refused to believe himself defeated. Sweat trickled down his face and neck, but he barely noticed it. He never took his eye off of his opponent, measuring the space between them, their stances, even the rhythm of his foe’s breathing. He desired to swat the offending sword away and renew his attack on the High Captain of Godwyn Keep, his indecision melting as he regained his breath.

  The sword he gripped remained rigid along that of the Captain’s crossguard where it had fallen moments before. He was overmatched in this position, but the need to win blinded Erol to the reality that he was bested.

  “You nearly recovered after your last thrust, Pontifex,” the Captain drawled, breathing lightly, his guard rigid. “You overextended your initial attack, and that’s what has left you in this predicament.”

  The late-afternoon heat had beaten down on the pair as they worked on their swordplay at the fringes of the Courtyard’s western wall, but now the evening sun had dropped behind Godwyn Keep’s massive barrier. The area was entirely flat, used as the training ground for wards and feyr’im. The yard was in constant use—more than ever since the attack on the Keep—and Rook spent much of his waking time overseeing the exercises he and his commanders thought necessary to defend their home.

  Erol enjoyed partaking in the Courtyard drills; it was necessary to enter the world of those who protected Godwyn Keep. Every week since he had come to the Keep he had challenged the wards, the feyr’im, and even the High Captain if he was available. It had taken the men a while to grow accustomed to engage such a high-ranking member of the Keep, but their reservations had quickly changed when Erol had given them no quarter. The activity kept his middle-aged muscles loose and the pulse of youth in his veins, and he received training that might one day save his life.

  Of course, he did it for other, ulterior reasons as well.

  “I thought being quick would end the challenge faster than our last bout, Captain.” The pounding of blood in his ears from his exertions subsided gradually.

  High Captain Rook grinned, his face flushed red and glossy with a sheen of sweat. His sword point remained at Erol’s throat. “That’s the problem. You think too much. Do you yield?”

  “We’ve been doing this for a decade, Rook. Why would I ever give you the pleasure of…”

  With a ferocious snarl completing his comment, Erol lashed out like a viper at the sword near his face. At the same time, he ducked away from his foe’s sword as it swept the air anew, hoping his decision would leave him unscathed and able to continue the fight.

  The High Captain was caught unaware but pressed forward with his attack. The air of Rook’s passing blade fluttered Erol’s eyelashes before he was beyond danger, balanced again for another attack.

  None came as Rook stared hard at him, unmoving. “Of course, Pontifex, you never would have had the time to have a conversation with the man who had beaten you. Do not put yourself in that situation.”

  “You think I cheated?”

  “No, not at all, Pontifex. I think you took advantage of the situation. But recognize the scenario that just played out is not one you would ever encounter on the battlefield. One does not have conversations with one’s adversaries.”

  In all the practice melees they had been a part of, Erol had only bested Rook twice, a number the Pontifex was not proud of, yet higher than anyone else could boast. Returning to a battle crouch, Erol was prepared for another chance at revenge, welcoming the High Captain
with a ready sword and a stony grin. “Again, Captain. The day wears on.”

  High Captain Rook was about to engage his opponent anew when commotion near the Courtyard’s entrance interrupted them. A young page nearing his twelfth winter sprinted across the training area, dodging groups of men in varying semblances of individual war to finally stand before Erol and Rook. The boy wore clothes a bit too small, his arms and legs longer than the clothing, and a smattering of summer freckles littered his face under a mop of blonde hair.

  He was breathing hard from the run, but his hazel eyes settled fast on the Pontifex. “A Bishop from La Zandia has arrived and requests your presence, Your Grace.”

  Erol lowered his sword, the training lesson forgotten. “Has our guest been taken to my private chamber, Jimi?”

  The boy nodded. “He said he wanted to speak to you before any refreshment.”

  “Another time, Rook,” Erol said, handing the wooden sword hilt first back to his sparring partner. He strode toward the entrance to Godwyn Keep, Jimi a step behind.

  News from La Zandia had been infrequent and difficult to come by. The routes were constricting and no one was allowed to enter. Some of the province’s people patrolled the countryside in large groups, keeping the unwanted out. Such organized groups had organized quickly with word of a central figure raising rebellion. Godwyn had been removed forcibly. The spies who remained reported the oldest bloodline of La Zandia was at the heart of it, wanting the throne back. Others claimed dark magic from a pagan influence.

  Erol knew both to be true.

  The Pontifex and boy moved quickly up a staircase into the higher reaches of the Keep where Pontifex Tal kept his study and private chambers. Jim followed, and Erol looked down at him. “Are you still venturing out of doors at night to stargaze rather than attend to your studies, Jimi?”

  “Yes sir. Well, no sir. I keep up on my studies as Bishop Lillian bids me. But I do still look at the stars late at night when I am stuck on the Feyr language or can’t sleep.”

  “Rather than venture outside, you could climb the Isle Tower instead. Stargaze in safety.”

  “I prefer the night noises of the forest, Your Grace. It’s a type of music, you see. All sorts of animals and insects join into a chorus, and the night is almost as alive as the day.” The boy shrugged. “It’s just different.”

  “It may still be dangerous to go out,” Erol said.

  “I know, Your Grace.”

  “You be careful then,” Erol requested. “Although I don’t think an attack will happen again, caution is still the best protective measure we have here at the Keep.” The Pontifex quickened his pace. “Now run along. Give my best to Bishop Lillian.”

  Jimi sprinted off down another corridor and was lost from sight. The boy reminded Erol so much of himself when he was younger: carefree, orphaned, and adventurous. Like so many brought to the Godwyn faith, Erol had entered an orphanage after his parents died. Lost to the streets of Dockside, he was caught for thievery and transferred into Godwyn’s care. Thoughts of his youth rarely surfaced—the uncertainty of meals, the lack of security from the city’s nefarious underground populace, fear and sadness his only companions—but he did remember the warmth of his parents’ love and the promise of a life far different than the one he now led.

  Climbing the last few steps of the staircase, Erol arrived at his private chambers in the Isle Tower, the sweat from his afternoon travails cooling his skin. Foregoing any attempt to refresh himself, he walked directly to his study where a young man in muddied travel garb stood looking out the window.

  “Your Grace,” the man said, turning to bow. “It is well to see you.” Spots of damp earth soiled the beautiful, Pinuvian carpets at the Bishop’s feet.

  “You couldn’t clean your boots properly before entering my rooms, Bishop Arvus?”

  The bishop barely looked at the floor, his gaze focused on the Pontifex. “A summer storm while I traveled. Time to clean up is not a luxury I have.” A short reddish beard clung to the man’s face while urgency flashed in his blue eyes. “I thank you for returning promptly. We have pressing matters to discuss. La Zandia has fallen.”

  Pontifex Tal sat in the massive leather chair behind his oak desk as the first colors of the evening’s sunset entered through his window, watching the slow arc of the sun. What do you mean by ‘fallen’?”

  “Godwyn Keep no longer holds authority there,” Bishop Arvus said. “Soon the Kingdom will not either.”

  “Go on.”

  “For centuries the local magistrates have ensured the laws the High King are followed with a modicum of peace,” the Bishop continued. “Much of the populace in the last month has revolted, however, and the magistrates have either been killed or forced to flee their own homes. The same with Godwyn Keep’s missionaries—leave or be killed.”

  “Many uprisings in history are led by a single man or a very small group of like-minded individuals,” the Pontifex said as he delicately grasped a crystal decanter and poured its contents. The aroma of fermented red grapes filled the room as it splashed into the cup. “Who leads this one?”

  “He titles himself the Marcher Lord. He’s passionate, well-spoken, and preys on the civil unrest of the people. Every town he enters is altered and made his by the time he moves on to the next one.”

  “How does he do this, Bishop?” Erol inquired. “La Zandia’s Pontifex Reu will need to know when she returns from Skykomish in a few days.”

  “Much of the populace desires the old ways, the rituals of land and hearth and blood, and this Marcher Lord uses that to his advantage.”

  “Do you know who this figurehead is?”

  “Segnore Laver Herid,” the Bishop said sternly.

  The Pontifex sipped his wine, letting the juice flow over his tongue and down the back of his throat. He knew most of this already. Through economic distress, the pagan minority had once again become the majority. It would take great force from the High King to quell an all-out uprising. The Kingdom could not afford the disheartened pandemic to Vaarland and Midstark, and undoubtedly the High King would send his First Warden to set things right. But it would take Godwyn priests to suppress the pagan heretics and bring order to the spiritually maladjusted once the Kingdom reasserted itself.

  “Godwyn Keep and the Council must act fast if we are to ensure religious hold on the area, Pontifex Tal.”

  “Why must people be protected from themselves?” Erol feigned his most taxed and earnest demeanor. He took another sip of wine, the rays of the sun bronzing his face. The lines around his mouth deepened. “The High King requested Pontifex Charl’s presence a week ago, and he has gone to attend to the king’s wishes. As I said, Pontifex Reu is absent as well. Our Council is not wholly here to dispense resources.”

  “I tell you now, Pontifex. Godwyn Keep can ill afford slow action on this,” Arvus said.

  Erol thought of Dendreth. Instincts bred from years of well-orchestrated scheming knew the High King was using the old Pontifex for some secret purpose. Dendreth had complied even in this dark time. But why, and for what?

  “I do not command the Council, Bishop Arvus. Only the Pontiff may place an order on the magnitude you are suggesting.

  “Then again, there is a role we can play in this,” Erol said finally. “The pagan influence in La Zandia has always been a problem. We want the pagan threat effectively converted. And perhaps this is the time for it.”

  Bishop Arvus remained silent. The Pontifex turned back to his visitor and dropped the weariness from his voice. “Godwyn Keep must bolster its presence at the border of La Zandia. We shall not let the pagan disease spread beyond its origin.”

  Despite his passion for action, a shadow of worry crossed Bishop Arvus’s face. “But as you said, Pontiff Garethe is the only person who can order that.”

  “True,” the Pontifex said smoothly. Out the window, the sun continued its slow descent, the ocean now ablaze with yellows and oranges, the water dancing as though coming to a slow boil.
“But the world has not stopped though our beloved Pontiff lies comatose. Godwyn Keep maintains its daily activities. We must evolve to counter the threats that enter the world, Pontiff or no Pontiff. We are compelled to take whatever means necessary to protect the All Father’s work abroad.

  “How shall we go about that?” Arvus asked. “It is Pontifex Reu’s province.”

  “Do not worry about circumventing the proper procedures during this difficult time. The wards in the border monasteries will be doubled to counter any form of witchcraeft. The pagan influence cannot be allowed to invade the Kingdom through their magic.”

  “And what of the High King? He has assuredly sent his First Warden to secure the area. Is that not enough?”

  Erol grabbed his inkwell and scribbled on a single sheet of parchment. “It isn’t. Once the High King has the province back under Kingdom control, we shall use the wards to protect our priests and redouble our faith’s missionary work there. Until then, we must suppress and prevent the pagan spread.”

  “These are sad times in La Zandia,” Arvus said absently.

  Erol nodded. He signed the document, giving it legitimacy. After folding it neatly, he sealed it with a lone hummed word of security that bound the pages together until received by its intended reader. He handed it to Arvus.