Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  Sorin roamed the hallways. The walls were bare, built with rough dark gray rock. Orbs, the type he had seen Pastor Hadlin use, lit his path. Priests nodded in greeting as they passed him. The monastery was immense, larger than any building Sorin had ever been within, with dozens of hallways crossing each other and leading to rooms he could only guess at. He passed the open colonnade on the west side of the monastery where priests hacked the dragon’s carcass apart with large axes. Blood stained the ground, black and crusted. As he walked on, he caught the rising sun on the other side of the building, the day’s early light swathed in low cloud cover as it rose above the Krykendaal Mountains in the east. The placid surface of Silver Lake spread eastward, a dark gray stain in the morning peace.

  The dining hall was not far, and as Sorin grew closer the enticing smell of baking bread and other rich aromas assailed him. His stomach growled as he entered the long room acting as A’lum’s dining hall.

  Although the day promised to be another warm one, a fire raged brightly in the hall’s enormous hearth. A cauldron hung over the fire, its contents permeating the air with an odor unfamiliar and intoxicating, and Sorin’s mouth responded to it. Dark wood benches and tables littered the room in organized pairings and several of them were filled with priests as they broke their fast.

  In the back corner of the room near a smaller dead fireplace sat Thomas and the Giant.

  The huge man sat with his back to the room on a high bench serving as a seat for the Giant. He was enormous—even sitting he was taller than Sorin—and his knees rose above the tabletop. He sat across from Thomas, dwarfing the old man. His sandy-brown hair was cut close to his head, and his cheeks and jaw were free of beard, giving him a meticulous, clean look; no evidence of dragon blood soiled his clothes. His staff leaned up against the corner of the room, its wood shimmering in the firelight, no remnants from the battle visible on its smooth surface.

  When Sorin approached, the Giant brought his level gaze to the newcomer. His green-flecked brown eyes flashed intelligence, gauging Sorin before he even had the chance to speak.

  “Well, look who decided to join us,” the Giant said, in a deep voice possessing a musical, friendly cadence. The corners of his mouth quirked in an amusing grin. “Pleasant dreams keep you abed while the morning waxed and the world moved on without you, young Sorin?”

  Sorin grinned back despite the ache in his back. “I suppose.”

  “Relnyn and I were discussing what occurred yesterday,” Thomas said.

  Sorin barely heard him, his gaze fixated on the Giant as he sat down beside Thomas. Sorin wondered if the stories were accurate—a race that remained separated from the rest of the Kingdom for their transgressions against humanity in the War of the Kingdoms. A race few saw, who rarely ventured far from their isolated home of Lockwood. It was amazing to be in the presence of one, nevermind in a discussion with one. Sorin realized he was staring at the Giant and looked away. What he saw was some of the room’s other occupants furtively glancing at the trio, uncertainty and awe mingled together.

  Either used to the stares or unconcerned with their distrust, Relnyn grinned at Sorin. “Is something so interesting you have to stare, young master? Surely you are closer than these others around me and can see me for what I truly am.”

  “I’ve never seen a Giant before,” Sorin answered, embarrassed.

  Relnyn laughed then, mirth echoing around the hall. “And I’ve never seen the birds of the world swarm as though hornets disturbed, but I have now.”

  “I guess crows really don’t like dragons all that much,” Sorin replied.

  The Giant looked to the old man for a moment before Thomas replied nonchalantly, “Not many creatures do, boy.”

  Sorin was suddenly aware of Thomas. The old man’s skin was haggard, and the fire could not chase the darkened circles under his eyes. He appeared as if he had not slept for days, hunched within his cloak and unwilling to come out. A waxy sheen of sweat dampened his brow. Even his hair looked damp; the wildness that usually surrounded it subdued.

  “Thomas, are you all right?” Sorin said, unable to dispel his worry.

  “Mind your business, Sorin,” snapped Thomas, coming out of his shell only to lift his ale mug. “I’m just bruised and aching and tired.”

  It was more than that. Thomas’s voice was aged, a dank rot that left his words hollow and gray. The strong persona who had wielded his sword with no fear against a dragon was gone, replaced by a frail hollowness that pervaded his existence. Sorin was concerned but knew better than to push.

  “I am troubled by this, Master Thomas,” Relnyn said quietly. “From what you have told me, can all this be coincidence? The attack on the boy’s family. The dragon. The murder of the A’lum brother. Darkness has ever been a scheming murderess.”

  “That’s not all,” Thomas grunted. “I haven’t spoken of the worst of it. I think the jerich put all of this into motion, or at the very least, is carrying it out at the behest of others.”

  The Giant’s shoulders broadened as he straightened. “Grymshade. That old story is one we Ashnyll use to scare our little ones to sleep.”

  The hope of learning more about his parents’ murderer rekindled Sorin’s interest. “How does your story describe the jerich? Are there any details?”

  “Grymshade is a fable to children, a superstition for most of the adults.” Relnyn started, his arms taking up half the table as he leaned on it. “The poem is about Koryn and Syra, two children who have been sent to bed early for misbehaving. Rather than mind their parents and go to sleep, they heed a whispering on the wind outside their open window and flee into the depths of the forest to continue their fun away from home. When they discover they have become lost in the deepest shadows of the Sentinels, that’s when the voice’s form appears. It is Grymshade. The poem’s repeating chorus goes:

  The void’s winding tongue,

  Filled the shadow with torture,

  Agates as eyes swirled moonlight,

  To trap those in its path.

  The chorus is used five times, separating the choices the children make,” Relnyn finished.

  “The eyes in the creature who killed my parents were milky white, like agates,” Sorin noted. “But it was not blind. It could see.”

  “You were that close to it?”

  Thomas interrupted. “Sorin encountered it, and the jerich left its mark on him.”

  “And this all happened a week ago?” Relnyn asked. “Yet he is already fully recovered?”

  “I got to him quickly,” Thomas said. “I had skill to reverse it. In any event, luck favored him.”

  Sorin could not believe Thomas was sharing with the Giant their private struggles. He did not know this Giant—did not know he could be trusted. Thomas had proven to be Sorin’s friend—maybe the last one he had—but Thomas also hid more than he told. Sorin decided to trust the old man’s instincts and also trust Relnyn.

  “What do you make of this, young master?” Relnyn asked.

  “I only know what I saw, and what I saw scares me. It was a crazed and evil creature, and I would have died if it weren’t for my father.” Curious, Sorin asked, “How do the children in your story survive?”

  The Giant smiled. “They separate and run in opposite directions. Grymshade cannot catch both at the same time and therefore must choose. He goes after the boy and that choice undoes it. The girl lulls one of the Sentinels into helping her and when the creature comes near it the great tree’s limbs grab and crush it. At the story’s end, the shadow rejoins the forest, whispering in the wind once more. The story serves to remind children to listen to their parents. But it also points to the truth that each choice we make may lead to dire consequences unless thought through thoroughly.”

  “You Ashnyll love a good fairy tale,” Thomas grunted.

  “Ashnyll?” Sorin questioned.

  “The name of my people, Sorin,” Relnyn said, grinning. “Do you think we refer to ourselves as giants?”

 
“We are leaving this afternoon toward the west, to meet with someone who may have some answers,” Thomas said.

  “You are a stubborn but good man, my friend,” Relnyn said. “Make sure the former doesn’t destroy the latter.”

  The old man just nodded. Relnyn looked to Sorin. “Young sir, please ensure this old fool takes care of himself. It’d be a waste of a perfectly good arm if he had to lose it—worse if he had to lose everything it is attached to.”

  Thomas sunk deeper into his cloak. “I already did, my friend. I already did.”

  The Giant rose then, towering in the room. The lines around his eyes were soft and kind as he spoke. “Life stands still for no man, Master Thomas, and sitting like this is only stiffening the ache of my muscles. I leave to help the priests remove their uninvited guest. Noon then.”

  Thomas nodded. Relnyn strode to the entrance of the room, his large feet a whisper upon the stone, and ducked through the doorway, heading for his own endeavors.

  “You told him about the priest?” Sorin hissed. “You told him about my family? Our suspicions about the jerich? Everything? Why?”

  “In all the years I have been alive,” Thomas replied, looking somewhere beyond Sorin, “I have learned an untarnished truth: trust a Giant. Despite what history and society’s fears might lead you to believe, they truly are what is best in the world. A Giant friend is a friend never lost, and I needed his perspective.”

  “I don’t see how you can say that,” Sorin said, his frustration clear. “He was here visiting the Bishop. Do you know why? She may be a part of this. Afram was her priest after all.”

  “The Giant is friend to us now, and being a friend means sometimes keeping secrets,” Thomas darkened further. “Still, there is something very different about Relnyn, and I hope it does not return to harm us.”

  “What do you mean? Different how?” Sorin demanded.

  The lines of Thomas’s frown deepened. “Well, for one, Relnyn raised arms against the dragon.”

  “The dragon was going to destroy the monastery. It was the right thing to do.”

  “Giants are pacifists—have been for centuries, ever since their incriminating involvement in the War of the Kingdoms. They refuse to harm other creatures, their society devoted to sustaining life in all forms.”

  “And how could that harm us?” Sorin asked.

  “Relnyn attacked the dragon, leaving his heritage behind,” Thomas said. “The Ashnyll proclaimed they would depart the warrior lifestyle after the War; they would embrace all life and end no life, even if it meant their own might be in danger. After millennia, it is ingrained in them from birth.”

  “And Relnyn forwent that teaching.”

  Thomas nodded. “All large groups have aberrations in nature. For the Ashnyll, it is the Darkrell—Dark Giants.” Thomas paused. “While speaking to Relnyn, I saw his worry about what happened in his eyes. At any rate, Relnyn will be sharing the first part of our journey when we leave here.”

  “How far?” Sorin asked. It would be interesting to learn more about Relnyn’s race.

  “Not much farther than the Greensward, I am afraid. Lockwood likes north of there.”

  “He mentioned your arm. Is everything all right?” Sorin asked.

  Thomas either did not hear the question, or ignored it. He then said, “I don’t know yet, Sorin. I just don’t know.”

  “Are you going to be all right?” Sorin reiterated, rising to break his fast.

  The old man hunkered down further into his cloak as though to disappear, his eyes staring remotely into the flames of the fire across the room.

  “Sometimes,” Thomas said, almost to himself, “I wonder if anything in my life is right.”

  * * * * *

  They left the Monastery of A’lum early in the afternoon; the fog draping the early morning had burned away to reveal a beautiful day. Hot and sticky air pounced on the monastery and surrounding countryside, and no wind gave a reprieve. The smell of warm soil and plant growth accosted the air. Summer had infiltrated the weather and now it was firmly entrenched, its authority stretching over the land as Sorin, Thomas, and Relnyn made their way across the rolling, alder-spotted hills of the Greensward.

  Before leaving, Bishop Theron had guided them from the monastery to see the company off. In her hand she carried an aged book with faded brown leather, a thick spine, and a soft, supple cover she touched with reverence.

  “You will need this,” she said offering it up to Thomas. “It will help light your path when darkness shrouds you.”

  “I carry one with me, but thank you for the thought, Bishop Theron. You are most kind.”

  “Remember our discussion last night,” she responded, withdrawing the book. “Faith can take you on many paths. Faith in yourself will lead you down one truer than most. Don’t forget who you are, sir.”

  Thomas lowered his eyes in respect or shame. Thinking on the old man’s haphazard visits to the church, Sorin wondered if Thomas even knew what faith was anymore.

  The Bishop bowed low to the Giant. “Your presence here has brought us great joy, Relnyn Ashbough. Take my best wishes back to Oryn Lowillow, and visit soon.”

  “I thank you for your hospitality and time, Mistress Theron,” the Giant said, inclining his head politely. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” He touched his fingertips to his forehead and swept his arm in a gesture of thanks.

  She returned the gesture before turning her smile to Sorin. “Young sir, you are in great care. May you travel safe. Fare thee well.”

  Sorin had thanked her, took a long look at the thick spires of A’lum and the Silver Lake beyond, and rode Creek away to the west with his companions. Silence had followed them since. Each one of them was locked within his own thoughts as the travelers entered the expansive green rolling hills of the Greensward. Creek had kept a round eye on Relnyn until the stallion had decided the Giant was safe. Sorin looked to his enormous new friend and wondered what had brought him from Lockwood to begin with.

  As the afternoon waned toward sunset, the Giant caught Sorin’s interest again. “If you stare at me much longer, Sorin, I’m going to develop some kind of complex.”

  “Why were you at A’lum?” Sorin looked away, but his curiosity remained. “From what I have read and heard, Giants are rarely seen in the Kingdom.”

  Relnyn walked with an even stride next to the horses, and although he wasn’t mounted he still had to look down to Sorin. “We Ashnyll lead a solitary existence, truth be understood. Decades can go by and not one of us will leave our northern forest, preferring isolation from a world still untrusting of my kind. But oft times travelers bring us news of great importance, news that may concern us.”

  “And you must discover the truth of the news then?” Sorin questioned.

  Relnyn smiled, his face friendly. “No, not entirely. I volunteered for the chance to travel outside of Lockwood’s forested mountains. Either a volunteer or one of the Darkrell are asked to go. This is the first time I have left my home. Most Ashnyll prefer the peace of home.”

  “The Darkrell. Who are they?”

  “Those who follow the darker, more animalistic tendencies of my race. They are like the Ashnyll of old before the War of the Kingdoms—angry, passionate, and willing to destroy life if it suits their purposes.”

  “For you, leaving Lockwood then is like a test?” Sorin asked, thinking on it.

  “In a way,” Relnyn said. “It is important to test oneself to know oneself, yes?”

  “But you don’t seem like a normal Giant, Relnyn,” Sorin pointed out. “Thomas said your race is pacifistic and yet your actions yesterday were anything but.”

  A dark cloud passed over the Giant’s face, but he remained kindly. “Thomas is right. My involvement at the monastery was arguably very unlike the Ashnyll.”

  Thomas rode a step behind, uninterested. Relnyn fell silent, his long staff acting as a walking stick as it leapt out in front of the Giant. Relnyn’s actions the previous day were with them on
the journey; Sorin wondered if Thomas could be right about their new companion being Darkrell. And if so, what did that mean for them?

  “Then again,” Relnyn said with a wink, “Thomas may be wrong.”

  Sweat dried on Sorin’s brow as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The first few shadows gave some comfort to the group, their elongating blackness carrying coolness with their touch. The hills had given way to short mountains, their verdant underbrush littered in paper birch, alder, and fragrant cherry trees. To the west, the hot haze of plains waited. Thomas was wrapped in his cloak with a light sweat glossing his red cheeks, but his eyes shined with calm certainty. The land fully embraced the season, and Sorin was happy to be free of A’lum’s constricting stone and out in the open once more.

  They had just ridden around a small town named Blackwell that lay nestled deeply in one of the Greensward’s final meager valleys when Thomas turned in his saddle to look behind them. “Something is following us.”

  “Who do you think it is?” Sorin asked, the jerich on his mind. “Someone from Blackwell, or a rider from the monastery perhaps?”

  Thomas shook his head, “I’ve been a man of the woods long enough to know friend from foe. Listen.”

  He was right. The forest had gone completely still, as if holding its breath to let evil pass before daring to live again. Sorin turned to check their rear. He did not see anything.

  “It’s not near yet, but it comes. It could be the…” The old man trailed off as he slumped in his saddle and began to fall from his horse onto the slanted hillside. Relnyn caught him with his great hands and cradled Thomas’s limp body to the forest floor. Sorin leapt down off of Creek and vaulted to the man’s side.

  “He’s unconscious,” Relnyn said. “And cold, even as the sweat rolls off of him.”

  The Giant quickly peeled the cloak from the old man, exposing a torn and bloody arm sleeve. “What’s wrong with him?” Sorin questioned worriedly.

  “Old fool. His arm.”

  Relnyn pulled back the ripped threads of Thomas’s shirt to expose the problem. A wide wound, scabbed over with dried blood, covered his upper arm. Emanating from the scraped skin and traveling up the length of the arm were tiny black tendrils—like spreading tree roots—buried directly beneath the old man’s reddened, angry skin. It was as though ink had entered his body and was slowly taking it over, changing crimson blood to a black ichorous fluid as it spread into Thomas’s shoulder. When Relnyn grasped the flesh firmly, Thomas moaned but remained unconscious.