Song of the Fell Hammer

by Shawn C. Speakman

  The Feyr wiped his blade free of blood. “Irve, remove this sack of rotten meat. It’s cluttering up my dungeon.” He looked down on Sorin. “When I return, boy, you’d better cooperate.” As Irve appeared to carry out his master’s wishes, the Feyr pointed at the girl. “If not, she will be next.”

  The Watchman turned and walked out. Sorin stared at the old man’s lifeless body, wondering if he should have tried to kill the Feyr. With no conclusion at hand, he stared at the stone floor for a long time.

  * * * * *

  Sorin dozed for a time. The cut on the inside of his mouth had stopped bleeding, but the headache from the blow still thundered.

  The Watchman had killed and Sorin was responsible. A part of him knew the old prisoner truly died years before, his humanity stripped by aggravated, unflinching pain delivered by the Watchman, but that did not stop the tears from stinging Sorin’s eyes or the anger he felt at being part of the Feyr’s twisted lifestyle. If Sorin had intervened and fought the Watchman, perhaps it all would have turned out differently.

  He slept for a time, finding solace, but the Watchman returned after Sorin woke. The girl had remained silent after the murder, not displaying anger or resentment with Sorin for not trying to kill the Watchman. Sorin did not know how long his captor had been away, but it was long enough for him to exchange his black clothing for a pressed white shirt, a forest green silk tunic that shimmered in the torchlight, and navy pants he tucked into shiny leather boots. Lemmuel’s body had been taken away but his spilt blood had congealed into a solid black pool.

  The Watchman stood once more outside Sorin’s cell, mindful of the blood. “Has Lemmuel convinced you to fight, boy? Will you tell me what I want to know? Who was Thomas coming to see?”

  “I don’t know!” Sorin screamed with red-hot anger.

  “Maybe you’ll be more willing to tell me the truth if I show you what it means to lie to me.” The Watchman unlocked Sorin’s cell and pulled the young man out into the room. “Grab a weapon.”

  Sorin looked at the wall before focusing on the floor.

  “It’s as I thought,” the Watchman sneered. “You are a coward.”

  Sorin shook his head, thinking of Relnyn. “I won’t kill. Even in self-defense.”

  The Feyr opened the girl’s cell and pulled her free by the arm. The girl fought back with nails, fists, and teeth, but the Watchman’s fingers were wrapped around her like steel bands, a sick light in his eyes. He threw her across the room against the wall, where she quickly grabbed a long dirk and the short sword Sorin had been offered earlier.

  “Maybe through another’s misery you will take this seriously,” the Feyr hissed, pulling a long sword from the wall and preparing to engage and strike at the girl.

  The girl was prepared when the Watchman turned suddenly, forgetting his prey. A loud crash in the room beyond echoed amongst the stone. Several barely discernible grunts followed, and then intensified as if two men struggled against one another. A twang like the snapping of a bowstring filled the air along with louder growls of conflict. Just as quickly, it grew silent. Sorin had no idea what was happening, but from the look on the Feyr’s face, he assumed it was not something the Watchman had expected.

  Exotic eyes staring into the next room, he snarled, “As wily as ever, I see.”

  Sorin looked to the entryway but saw nothing. Then Thomas abruptly moved into the dungeon, his sword flickering wickedly in the false light of the torches. The woman Sorin had last seen with Thomas was behind him, daggers drawn and bloodied up to their hilts. She was wounded, blood flowing freely down her left arm from a jagged rent in her shoulder, but she moved gracefully on cat’s feet seemingly unaware of her wound, her entire being fixated on the Watchman. Fury flashed in Thomas’s eyes. In a matter of moments, the Watchman found himself caught between several foes.

  “I only want the boy, Merril,” Thomas said, his eyes never leaving the taut-muscled Feyr. “I want no part of your affairs—not any longer.”

  The Watchman held his sword at the ready, waiting for an attack. “And yet here you are, mixed in them.”

  “At your request,” Thomas replied, edging forward. “Your invitation was in taking him.”

  “I thought his introduction to my dungeon would capture your attention. Little did I know you’d arrive as quickly as you did.” The Feyr looked over Thomas’s shoulder at the woman. “Had a little help from the High King’s whore, I see.”

  “Let him go, I let you leave here unharmed. As I said, I no longer care for our rivalry.”

  “You may not,” the Watchman spat. “But Feyr have long memories.”

  “I know where you reside. My companion can bring all of the Kingdom’s force to bear if need be.”

  “All the more reason for killing you now.”

  The Watchman lashed out, but not at Thomas. He pirouetted over the dead body and disarmed the girl with a single slash that sent her sword clanking harmlessly against the wall and in the same motion kicked her chest. She went flying and crashed against the stone at the back of the room, dazed and unmoving. By the time she landed, the Watchman was already facing his other two foes, his sword weaving back and forth in the air as though alive all on its own.

  “What made you come back, Sir Thomas? Did you miss lording over those less fortunate than yourself?” He grinned wide, showing his long white teeth. “Or perhaps you’re here to visit the graves of those you failed to protect?”

  Thomas said nothing, squinting at his foe with clear disdain. The tension in the room grew. Sorin observed the Watchman, looking for a weakness they could exploit. So far he had not seen one. The Watchman was incredibly quick and his skill in combat was apparent. One did not oversee Aris Shae’s criminal world and lack proficiency in survival skills. The Feyr was cornered in his own domain and angry for it—a cornered beast always the worst kind. Thomas had dispatched two men at once that day in the forest, but Sorin wondered if he had recovered enough from the dragon poison to overcome the Watchman. Even in a fair fight, could the old man really best a Feyr?

  Sorin made an aggressive feint toward Merril, his heart beating rapidly.

  It was enough. As the Watchman moved to counter any kind of attack from Sorin, Thomas moved in with speed and skill, slashing at him. The Watchman rebounded from the ruse and parried Thomas’s strokes with precise movements, backing away to give himself room for his return strokes. The woman stayed behind, the quarters of the room too confined for her to join the fight. Thomas had forgotten her—had forgotten everything else in the room aside from Sorin’s jailer—and the old man snarled at his opponent, his face etched with focused rage. Sorin thought Thomas would push the Feyr straight into the room’s back wall with sheer force of will.

  There was no room for large swings or heavy combat to win by sheer strength; it was close quarter fighting, and it required speed, dexterity, and alacrity. After his initial barrage, Thomas began to give ground as Merril advanced his attack, the Feyr quicker than his foe, and his long sword flicking into Thomas’s defense as if testing for weakness. With a sheen of sweat on his brow, the old man parried each thrust by his opponent with more desperation; Thomas was not only losing ground, his defense coming a bit later with every attack by the Watchman.

  The Feyr saw this and redoubled his efforts, his sword a blur of shimmering steel. He sent a series of thrusts at Thomas’s abdomen. Thomas beat each attempt down, hacking the Feyr’s blade like he meant to cleave it in two.

  After one of Merril’s thrusts, Thomas rebounded, sending his blade toward the Watchman’s exposed side. Merril was quick to recover but Thomas’s sword flew in on an even line that would not be denied. It bit into his foe’s thigh, and his scream of agony echoed in the room. Merril fell, a black stain spreading over his pants. He held onto his sword, but failed to rise, his leg unwilling to cooperate with the commands its master was giving.

  With teeth clenched, the Feyr grated, “You can’t kill the Watchman.”

  With firm stead
iness, Thomas held his sword at the Feyr’s pointed right ear, breathing hard. “Perhaps I no longer play by the rules of your game, Merril.”

  For the first time, fear spread from the Watchman’s purple eyes into his face. He dropped his sword, and it clattered to the floor. “Then kill me in cold blood and have that on your soul along with everything else.”

  Thomas stared into his defeated foe’s eyes with frigid fury. He flicked his sword hand, a movement Sorin barely caught. Where Merril’s pointed ear once was, now only a semblance of a bloodied human ear remained. Thomas had cut the point off.

  The Watchman clutched at it and screamed in anger.

  “Now walk in high society and not be known,” the old man said. He glanced to the woman, and she came forward, her knives replaced by empty bloody hands. Sorin helped the woman unshackle the unconscious ward and, leaving the armor behind, carried him past the prostrate crumpled Watchman. The girl followed, having come awake during the scuffle.

  “We will meet again, Thomas,” Merril hissed as the group left the dungeon. “May your family rot in the Beyond.”

  The old man ignored the Feyr as he helped the woman with her load. They moved past the sightless lump once known as Irve, and into a tunnel below the dungeon.

  Sorin never looked back.

  Chapter 24

  When Sorin stumbled from the tunnel doorway into the warm evening sunshine, he took a breath of fresh, free air and felt the pressure from the blow to his head dissipate a bit. The woman—who Thomas called Arianna—had taken the lead the moment they entered the tunnels, and after a long time navigating their way through the twisted confines of the underground system, they came to a staircase she deemed correct. With Sorin and Thomas carrying the Ward between them, the beleaguered group escaped the Watchman and found themselves once more in the streets of Aris Shae.

  The girl from the dungeon vanished almost immediately. One moment, she was with them; the next, she had disappeared. It just went to show how ungrateful people could be even when given a great gift. He hoped the girl would appreciate hers and pick less dangerous pockets from now on.

  Sweating from the exertion of carrying the heavy Ward, Sorin looked up and saw the white spire of the palace almost directly overhead. Arianna had brought them out of the tunnels near to a soldier garrison sitting next to the palace where they could alleviate themselves of their charge. The Ward began to come out of his pain-induced stupor almost as soon as they had left the dungeon, grumbling unintelligible words. Sorin knew he could have ended up like the Ward—a prisoner of crippling pain. Once they were in the garrison, a healer was called and they left the injured man in the priest’s capable hands.

  Thomas then moved to Arianna’s side. “The bleeding’s stopped?”

  She looked at her shoulder as if seeing it for the first time and helped Thomas peel back the cloth rent to reveal the bloody mess. “It is deep, but it’s a clean cut. The oaf’s crossbow bolt flew wide and took a part of me with it.”

  “We should get that looked at now.”

  She shook her head. “I was sent to do a job. After it is done, I will help myself. He was as adamant about seeing you as I have ever seen him be about anything.”

  Thomas turned to Sorin. “And you are all right?”

  Sorin nodded. “Nothing worse than what I have already been through.”

  Thomas grunted. Sheathing one sword and readjusting the bundled sword across his back, he followed after her retreating form.

  Now that he had time to do so, Sorin really looked at Arianna. She had a wiry frame but had proven herself tough as aged leather. Even though she was wounded—and badly due to the amount of blood she had lost—she did not show it. She had proven herself to be intelligent, resourceful, and learned in the ways of the city around her, and it was she who had led Thomas to the Watchman’s dungeon. If she had not been with the old man at The Sleepy Drunk when Sorin was taken, he knew he would have never been found.

  And then there was Thomas. The Watchman knew Thomas, knew him for who he had been before leaving Aris Shae. The jibes the Feyr had thrown at Thomas were cold and long-standing. If they hated one another, it stood to reason Thomas had been a Ward of some kind in the Kingdom’s army—perhaps even a man of some authority. Whoever had asked Arianna to find Thomas knew of his past, and the old man’s life previous to his moving to Thistledon.

  Sorin followed the other two as the sun sank into the west, painting the entire city in a swath of crimson light. His convictions had been shaken. Although he had been raised to trust Godwyn doctrine, his faith had almost gotten him killed. Its teachings decried murder, but the rancor and confusion that crossed his cellmate’s face from his inability to fight the Watchman stunned him even now. He would never forget it. But he would never kill, not for any reason. Relnyn’s lesson—the fall of the Darkrell—scared him. Even if he could corner the jerich, Sorin would not poison his soul with revenge. With that understanding, he knew he would have chosen the same outcome in the dungeon all over again—to not do so would be like murdering himself.

  Arianna continued through Aris Shae, the deepening shadows of dusk now graying the world. The area of the city she had brought them into was opulent, the buildings maintained with pristine care and undeniable wealth. Hedges were trimmed and green from watering, and the air lacked the underlying odor of garbage Sorin had noted upon first entering the city. All of the structures were freshly painted and the roads were clear of clutter, the streets designed without the random chaos the outer portions of the city possessed. The three of them wove through dark, cool alleys, staying away from the bright lanterns of the streets and steering clear of as many people as possible. The streets and alleyways all began to look alike, as if Sorin had seen them before, and he noticed each twist and turn disoriented him more and more.

  “Why all of the secrecy?” Sorin whispered to Thomas. “Where are we going?”

  A smirk crossed Thomas’s face, a tightening of the eyes that warned of thin ice. “There was an attempt on the High King’s life several weeks ago, and it has stirred quite a hornet’s nest in the city. Everyone here is cautious, including our young guide. We are being taken purposefully through this gauntlet not to confuse you or me but to dissuade anyone who is following us.”

  Sorin looked behind them. He saw nothing. “The person we are going to see now, is it the same person we came here for?”

  “No,” Thomas answered. “In fact, I was hoping to avoid this person entirely. It just goes to show if something can go wrong, it will go wrong.”

  With every step, they were climbing up, coming closer to the palace that lorded over the rest of the city from the highest place on the hillside. Where they were going, Sorin was not sure, but a part of him wanted nothing more than a good, soft bed, a large meal, and time to rediscover himself. He missed his parents, and that was the hardest thing he had yet to come to grips with. Time to heal was needed, but time alone had been hard to come by recently.

  Arianna left the cobbled street and entered an alleyway that brought them to a large wall spanning out in a circular fashion and disappearing into other parts of the city. It was covered in ivy so thick no aspect of the wall’s stone could be seen, the plants growing from a ribbon of dirt at the wall’s base and weaving over the colossal structure like a suffocating green curtain. Along the wall in both directions the ivy quit, leaving bare white stone for several kingsyards before growing again. All of the buildings in this quarter had their back nearly butted up against the stone barrier, leaving a space as wide as a horse was long.

  Their guide counted as she took several distinct strides, and then she inserted her hands into the ivy with certainty. An audible click and release of a hidden mechanism met her satisfied grunt, and a section of the wall swung out to reveal a gaping hole as tall as Thomas and as dark as the bowels of the earth. She ushered the men into the tunnel, and cool air washed over them as the doorway slowly closed behind.

  After she rummaged around in the inky b
lackness, a tiny flame like that of a firefly blossomed in the darkness and grew into a lantern. The light pushed the shadows back, and instead of coming out the other side of the wall, they were in a small tunnel that traveled into the depths of stone blocks.

  Arianna looked to Sorin. “We are now within the palace.”

  Sorin glanced around the tunnel half-expecting to see some wondrous new sight. When one did not appear, he said, “Nice trick.”

  She nodded. “It has come in handy when eluding certain predators of the city.”

  “Get a move on. We don’t have all day, girl,” Thomas grumbled.

  Arianna moved off into the tunnel, the light from her lantern disappearing with her. Thomas and Sorin followed. The old man did not seem interested in any of what was happening. The Watchman had associated her with the High King. Was he the person they went to see? If so, that meant the ruler of the Kingdom knew of Thomas also, since he was attempting to elude the monarch’s notice. Sorin did not press the matter, knowing forthcoming events would fill in the gaps.