Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  “I apologize for this, Bishop Arvus, but obtain the necessary supplies you need and leave immediately. Pontifex Reu would want this. The sooner we put these measures into effect, the quicker La Zandia will heal. The Marcher Lord must not only be stopped and made to answer for his crimes against the Kingdom, but he must be immobilized spiritually as well.”

  Bishop Arvus nodded, but the man was not entirely willing to carry out the directive. He tucked the folded envelope into his pocket, bowed, and left the chamber.

  Going against protocol bothered some. To the Pontifex, it was the only way to get certain things done correctly and immediately. Erol turned in his seat and again looked out his tower window. Splashes of color—lilac, burnt orange, and dusty blue—floated upon the length of the horizon, but the Pontifex was not focused on the last few moments of the sunset. He brought the goblet up once more, the aromatic flavor of the alcohol enticing the interplay of thoughts as the light of the day entered the ocean and was consumed by it.

  Sometimes the world made it easy for Erol to get ahead. Sometimes it yearned for it.

  * * * * *

  Erol strode through the Courtyard, cloaked in song and midnight. The icy stars above cast their feeble light to illuminate his way, and the walls of Godwyn Keep glowed softly about him from the ephemeral light. It was deathly still, and no sound drew the Pontifex’s attention as he walked unerringly to the north gate that led to the darkened lush land beyond.

  He kept the intricate, humming melody wrapped about him, the soncrist hiding him from curious eyes and alert guards. With the increased security, the wards and feyr’im would be doubly patrolling, and Erol did not want his stroll known. Once, long ago, even this attempt would have been impossible as the grotesque Ganite would have seen through the soncrist and notified the Pontiff. But when Pontiff Evelina had abdicated her post two decades hence, the stone behemoth's steadfast presence had disappeared after millennia of service. Without the Keep's Sentry, the ability to come and go invisibly was an advantage. Erol would be exhausted by the time he returned from his meeting, but it was essential for utmost secrecy.

  He walked up the main stone pathway and passed through the gate, leaving the guards to continue their vigil against those who warranted it. Soon, the safety of Godwyn Keep diminished behind him.

  Night noises, held at bay by the Keep’s walls, greeted the Pontifex, sounds as vibrant and varied as those of the day. Godwyn Keep sat on the pinnacle of a large peninsula that jutted into the ocean along the west coast of the Kingdom. The last meeting between the Fatherhead and his Scholars had taken place at the exact location the Keep now stood, symbolizing a brotherhood brought together by common principles and the All Father. Much of the land’s Tanglewood forest had been cleared to give the Keep’s defenses time to react to any threat while waving wheat had been planted as a food source. The peninsula had been tamed, but only barely.

  Erol needed his soncrist until he reached the tree line, where his course would deviate into the depths of the Tanglewood. With the moon absent, Erol let the song wither on his lips as the thick foliage of the trees embraced him. The darkness created by the tall thick-leafed canopy of alder and fir trees would conceal him nearly as well as his song.

  Departing from the road, the Pontifex made his way through the underbrush, wrapping his cloak tightly around him. The evening was still humid, the heat of the day cloying in the underbrush, but the figure Erol was meeting always left him coldly unnerved regardless. But the meetings were necessary and timing was everything in games of politics. A combination of planning, bribes, and sincerity of half-truths had accelerated Erol’s rise through Godwyn Keep. He had taken his first bite of rotten apple when he had answered the summons of the spy, but once placed upon the path to more power, one never got off until its end was reached, no matter the cost. To do so meant failure.

  But sometimes a calculated risk was necessary to get what one wanted.

  Having traversed several rolling hills, Erol came to a grassy clearing and hid on its outskirts. He waited, and time passed. An owl hooted in the distance, and crickets buzzed their contentment to one another. Occasionally a rush of movement along the ground under various bushes and scrub brush alerted Erol life was all around him, but he ignored it. There were more important things to watch for.

  After the stars had shifted in their heavens, a deep cough rumbled throughout the forest from somewhere nearby, so resonant it trembled Erol’s chest. The night went still, its breath held for whatever had entered Tanglewood. Erol had no idea what caused it, but he knew it had to be something large, something he had not seen before in the forest.

  From across the clearing a figure suddenly materialized, draped in black cloth, a cowl pulled up over its head to mostly conceal its appearance. Fear crept into Erol’s belly, unwanted. He was like the mouse primed to scurry in escape from the hawk’s striking talons.

  Stepping from his place of concealment, Erol crossed the meadow to stand scant kingsyards from the clearing’s other occupant.

  “It has begun,” the figure whispered. The voice was dark and laced with a confident power Erol could not fathom.

  Erol fought to keep his voice even. “The Marcher Lord is building an army large enough to oppose any threat. In time, with Herid’s passion swelling his ranks, it will grow to challenge the Kingdom itself.”

  The cowled man did not respond, oozing silence. He then shifted his face to the light of the stars, and for the first time the curious Pontifex was drawn to look. Within its depths, a finely chiseled face glowed pallid, human, with distinct cheekbones, a square-cut jaw, and eyes as dark as tar. It was regal, youthful, composed, and rigid. He was not more than thirty winters old, but exuded the weight of ages with a calculating viper’s coldness. It was a dangerous-looking face, one Erol assumed few got the chance to look upon.

  “And what of you?” the Pontifex asked.

  “I bide my time. Soon the Marcher Lord and his blasphemous cohorts will be gone—a murderous bloodline wiped clean of the land. My revenge will be had.”

  Erol grew bold. “What has prevented you from killing Laver Herid yourself?”

  Even in the cold night, heat gathered around the figure in a shimmer. Erol sensed power drastically exceeding his own, its origin a curiosity Erol had not been able to discover.

  “Pontifex, that type of thinking will end a young career," the cloaked figure growled. I have grown patience like some spiders spin their webs—constant and perfect. If I kill the Marcher Lord, it only ends one snake in a slithering hive of them. Another will come to fill his place in time. The Marcher Lord is worth more alive than dead right now.”

  The man certainly hated the sacrilegious pagans as much as Erol did. During their prior conversations, the Pontifex had gleaned little bits of information, and Erol presumed the man’s life had been destroyed at some point, probably in childhood. He wanted one thing—the end of those who had hurt him. What had wounded his dark visitor did not matter. The hatred and resentment the murder of Erol’s own parents had instilled in him gravitated toward this man’s own hostile pain—they were kindred spirits. It was this man's anguish Erol manipulated as needed.

  “I have moved additional resources into the area.” The Pontifex filled the silence. “Within a week, Godwyn soldiers will move to bolster the La Zandian border.”

  The white jaw clenched. “You jeopardize our hand too soon, Pontifex.”

  A pit of anger rose like bile into Erol’s throat. “I will not chance the poison spreading into nearby provinces.”

  “Caution is needed,” the hooded man said silkily. “You want the destruction of the southern pagans as much as I wish it, don’t you, Erol?”

  Pontifex Erol took a deep breath. “I do. But inheriting a problematic province to my rule will not happen. I don’t want the region pulling resources needed in other areas, the foremost being Blackrhein Reach.”

  “The Marcher Lord isn’t the most serious threat?”

  Erol stood straig
hter. “You made it clear he was a controlled threat.”

  The figure stood still—so still he began to blend into his midnight surroundings. “Even the best intentions go awry, Pontifex. Events can turn muddy. I make no promises to the contrary or affirmative. Don’t forget that.”

  The man’s words were soft but foul with venom. Erol might have placed too much faith in this strange man.

  “Dendreth has disappeared,” Erol said, changing where the conversation led. “Summoned by the High King. Do you know why?”

  The cloaked figure shook his head. “I know not the whereabouts of the aged Pontifex. It matters not. I bring flames of war to La Zandia, and soon the threat there will be no more. The High King will move his forces into the province and crush the spirit of the Marcher Lord and his followers. Godwyn Keep will do the rest.” Erol caught the slightest flash of a grin as the man spoke. “Time will see you a savior of the All Father’s children in La Zandia; time will see you Pontiff of Godwyn Keep.

  “Garethe is not dead.”

  “Garethe de Sierson,” the figure hissed. “He will be—in due time. What of the Council?”

  “Most of them believe action is necessary, even warranted. Valarie Reu and Cyrus de Lille voted with me. And the longer Dendreth is gone, the better.”

  “Soon, control of Godwyn Keep will be yours, and with that will be a reckoning the heretical world has never seen.” The man lowly laughed. “Patience is our ally.”

  Erol calmed at the man’s words, his discomfort mostly forgotten, until a snap in the brush to his side sent a shock through him. Fear swept through him like wildfire again. He spun, his lips peeling back in a snarl, to find the source of the noise at the edge of the forest.

  Erol’s breath caught. In the half-light of the stars stood Jimi.

  The boy was wrapped up in a heavy cloak, but trembled as if in the deepest winter wind. “I swear I won’t tell a soul, Your Grace. I promise…” The startled boy began, the spark of panic hidden between his words. “I was only stargazing.”

  Erol realized immediately Jimi had overheard the entire discussion between the Erol’s accomplice and himself.

  He started toward the boy, reaching out. Jimi backed away, the desire to run burning in his young eyes.

  “Take care of him,” the figure growled at Erol.

  The Pontifex hesitated. It was a hesitation born of conflicting desires—protect those of his fold or serve a greater good.

  “He can’t be left alive,” the cloaked man continued, his irritation evident.

  Erol turned back to Jimi, panic threatening to overcome him. What his cohort was forcing on him was murder of the lowest kind.

  Jimi must have seen something in Erol’s eyes that told him what was to come because he turned to flee into the woods—undoubtedly back to Godwyn Keep—the brush and roots of trees snagging him noisily.

  Darkness wrapped Erol’s heart with power and certainty, and he sang.

  The soncrist erupted from him with forceful desire, a song of nature, vegetation, and green life. It penetrated the night and the forest, weaving through the bushes, trees, and air, alive with a black, unnatural purpose. The world fell away, the boy his only concern. Erol added the wildness of nature to the lyrics, and the words of the song came alive, vibrant and angry, the source of their power pulsing deep within his chest, an extension of his soul. Being placed in this situation and the lack of choice in the matter only infuriated him more, driving the visceral song with passionate tenacity.

  The roots of the forest exploded from their natural entrapment of dirt only moments after Erol’s song passed through, ripping forcibly at the soncrist’s command to ensnare the boy. Dark loamy soil flung into the air and fell like rain, coating everything, and the pungent smell of rot invaded the night air. The tops of the trees swayed as if caught in a strong storm, most of their peripheral root systems flailing above the surface. The Pontifex dropped the timbre of the soncrist, his soul thrumming with its own vitality, and he gained control over those trees near the escaping boy.

  Jimi screamed out as the roots closed around his ankles and continued their way up his calves, knees, and thighs. They coiled around him like a mother’s arms, but there was nothing loving about their touch. Erol knew they were crushingly tight, a trap sprung without escape.

  Pulled down by the roots’ will, the boy fell hard, the air knocked from him. Dazed, he was steadily pulled across the disturbed ground toward the base of a giant fir tree where the roots withdrew back into the soil, taking their catch with them. Terror then filled his tearful eyes at what was happening to him, and one last scream punctuated the air before black forest soil filled his mouth, gagging him forever. A hand was soon the sole evidence of his demise, but then it too was dragged deep into the ground, the broken earth the only trace of any kind of scuffle.

  The song died on Erol’s lips; a part of him died with it. He was so exhausted by the expenditure of power he thought his knees would buckle if he stayed out much longer. Heart hammering in his chest, and he willed some kind of normalcy. He knew it would never come.

  “Move your pieces into position, but don’t execute them yet,” the figure said as if nothing had happened. “I am off to ensure the board is set in La Zandia. Continue to push the Godwyn Council. Soon enough your patience will ripen to fruition.” Then he turned and bled into the blackness of the forest behind him, gone as easily as he had arrived.

  Erol was left alone. He had crossed an imperceptible line. He had killed before, but never by his own hand. Death had always come from a hired man or well-planned political intrigue, but it was never this intimate, never this real. Politics were shady, whether for government or religion, but this was new to him—he did not like dirtying his own hands.

  But as he rested, he soon grew irate with himself. The boy had not heeded his advice and would barely be missed. Jimi’s death was necessary—surely he would have shared the Pontifex’s plans with others, intentionally or not, and that would have seen the end of Erol. His logical side knew silencing the boy was the only way to protect his plan—he knew it was necessary to save his own life and protect his faith, for the greater good.

  But the boy’s final, soil-choked scream would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  The Pontifex turned back toward the Keep, carrying the weighty emptiness of the clearing with him. He wondered where his nameless supporter had vanished to, but decided it was best he did not know. It was as Bishop Arvus had recounted. The Marcher Lord was moving, calling people to his rebellion, using the ancient bloodline of his forefathers as a banner to gather an army, and his companion had probably set out back to the province to stoke that fire. Erol hoped the scheme would work.

  The Pontifex returned to Godwyn Keep, avoiding the grave he had just created. His featherbed, soft pillows, and another glass of wine would help settle him and possibly stave off the nightmares while he slept. On the morrow, he would have to take the time to carefully plan his next moves with the Godwyn Council to strengthen his silent claim as their leader. They would need strong direction with the Marcher Lord still building his revolt and Garethe still unconscious, and time was on Erol’s side for now.

  Enough time to quell an imagined war and win the coveted seat of Pontiff.

  And yield an entire world into his hands.

  Chapter 11

  Sorin awoke from a disturbed night of fitful dreams and repeated awakenings. Pale morning sunlight sifted through the room’s only window, and tiny motes of dust danced in the air. All was quiet within A’lum, but even with the silence he had been unable to rest. The thin straw-packed mattress that served as his bed was devoid of pillows or soft cloth, and he was unable to find even one comfortable spot during the night. His eyes felt like cats’ claws had been raked across them. Grimacing from the bed’s effects on his body, he sat up and blinked away sleep.

  What had happened to him yesterday? It was a whirlwind of events in his mind, and sorting them out proved difficult. The appearance
of the dragon had thrown the entire monastery into chaos, and Sorin had missed his chance to confront the man who might know why his parents were dead. Instead, he had blacked out; in the interim, the scarred man had been murdered. The bishop was right—the series of coincidences that had brought the dragon, Brother Afram, and Sorin together only to have the priest turn up dead was disheartening and suspicious.

  And what was the Order of Blacksmiths, and how did his father know their smithy work?

  The thin blanket fell from him to the floor as he rose. Thomas was already gone from the small room they had shared. They had gone to bed late. After their discussion with Bishop Theron the two searched Brother Afram’s quarters. Nothing suspect had turned up, nothing that gave any clue as to why the priest may have hired several Thistledon thugs to attack Thomas and Sorin. Sorin still had no answers, and his questions still burned in him like a fever.

  He straightened the new clothing he had worn to bed. His belongings neatly tucked away near Thomas’s, he left to find the old man and the dining hall.