by Ed Greenwood
One was a tall, slender woman with surprisingly broad shoulders, startlingly dark eyebrows and snapping blue-black eyes to match, framed by a long fall of pale brown hair. She had been weeping, but some time ago, and her face was now a cold mask of strength. She wore half-armor to match Lord Hammerhand's, and had a frown on her face that was the exact echo of his, too. This must be Amteira Hammerhand, despite her leather breeches, swordbelt, and small arsenal of weapons.
So where were all Hammerhand's sons? Jarvel and Glaren had fallen years before, yes, in books Rod had written, but that should still leave the eldest, Dravvan-a taller, broader-shouldered version of his father-and… and… wait, hadn't Holdoncorp done something with the other three? Turned them into horrid monsters in some dungeon for game players to slaughter? Yes…
So who was this other guy standing before a throne? Someone Rod knew he'd never conceived of or written about before, someone entirely unfamiliar; a thin-faced man with hard eyes and flaring nostrils, who wore a green-black cloak and robes of brown so dark as to be almost black.
Who was glaring at Rod right now as if a lone, rather bewildered sf writer was his oldest, most fiercely hated foe in all Falconfar.
Marvelous. Rod let his sarcasm swirl through his mind and fade, as he tried to smile faintly at the man. Leather boots with a hint of mold on them, and on the man's belt, too. A priest, perhaps, of the Forestmother?
The Striding Thunderstaff halted abruptly, about six or seven paces away from the lowest step of the throne-dais, and slammed down the butt of his staff as if trying to shatter it or the black stone beneath it, or both.
"A stranger is come to Ironthorn. Alone, your loyal guards say. He demands audience with you, and has used magic. He calls himself Rod Everlar, Lord Archwizard of Falconfar."
The old man delivered his words in ringing tones, but kept his delivery neutral and terse, devoid of judgment.
All around the hall, a murmur of hasty exclamation and conversation arose from the excited folk. "The Last Doom" was one phrase that rose above the rest, though the thirty-some lips whispering it did so sadly out of step with each other.
In the midst of the hubbub, Lord Burrim gravely inclined his head to the elderly man, and the Striding Thunderstaff responded with a deep nod of his own and a smoothly-whirling departure, taking his staff with him. The ring of crossbowmen remained.
The Lord of Hammerhand took a step forward, to the very edge of his topmost dais, and the courtiers fell silent in an instant. In the tense silence that followed, the ruler regarded Rod wearily. His face was a curious mixture of sadness, hostility, curiosity, and uncaring, as if Rod was an unwelcome addition to a long, bad, crowded-with-weighty-matters day.
"So you are the missing wizard the tales speak of? Why come you here, to this hold in the backlands of Falconfar? In the Raurklor, where we are used to being left alone by the wider world, remembered only by a few bold traders?"
"Magic brought me here," Rod said cautiously. "Not my own, but of the gods. Magic that has marred my own spells. It snatched me here, to your woods, when I sought to follow and rescue an Aumrarr, a friend and guide who was taken from me by one of the Dooms, and remains his captive, in torment. I can only conclude that the gods sent me here for their own purposes. Aims they will soon reveal to me, just as they have told me their will before."
Careful, he reminded himself. Say little. That glaring guy over there is ready to pounce.
Said glaring guy chose that moment to snap, "The Forestmother tells me this man lies! Lord Hammerhand, have I your leave to question him?"
"Question?" Rod thought. Does this involve whips and chains? The rack?
Lord Hammerhand sighed. "You do. Bowmen, down your shafts."
The raging priest whirled around. "Lord, is that wise? I-"
The lord of Hammerhold was very much a master of cold stares. "You never tire of trying to convince me, Lord Leaf, that I should put all wizards to death, Dooms included. If I do, but other lords and kings do not, what then will protect House Hammerhand, and all we hold dear, from the spells of other wizards who've been left alive? Your spells, Jaklar. And if we must all trust in them, surely they are powerful enough to protect you against this one man, who stands in our midst, with our best bowmen still in attendance-yes?"
The Lord Leaf started to say something sharp in reply, then closed his mouth, nodded, and instead replied, "Yes, Lord," as he turned back to Rod.
To favor the writer with a glare that looked as if his eyes were two flaring flames.
This is my true foe here, Rod realized. If I don't fight him now, and fight hard, I'll soon be put to death. Painfully.
"Are you using any magic right now?" Jaklar snapped.
"No," Rod said truthfully.
"Why not?" the priest snarled, stalking forward at Rod as if readying himself to drive a sword through this unwelcome outlander.
Rod blinked. "One should never use magic if there's no need. It's like fire, or the sword. Too powerful-too dangerous-to use lightly."
"Oh? And who told you that?"
Rod shrugged. Time to push back. "Many wizards. The Aumrarr. The Forestmother herself."
"Whaaat? You LIE, man! Blasphemer! Foul spewer of untruth!"
Rod drew in a deep breath, concentrating on doing that to keep himself from flinching away from the raging, spitting priest.
Looking past the man-who was now dancing about waving his fists in incoherent fury, inside the ring of bowmen but carefully just out of Rod's reach-and asked Burrim Hammerhand politely, "Lord, are your Lord Leaf's wits… his own? Does he often do this?"
The priest shrieked and sprang at Rod, who sprinted aside, only to find the bowmen drawing together to bar his escape. They were trying to look stern, but he could see some of them struggling not to grin. The Lord Leaf, it seemed, was not well liked.
"Cauldreth Jaklar!" It was a new voice, young and female, and it cracked like a whip. "Another step toward the outlander, and prayers will be said for you before the Forestmother's altar this night!"
The priest whirled. "What d'you mean?" he asked, aghast. Truly astonished, Rod saw, his foaming rage gone in an instant. Meaning it had been an act.
"Meaning we'll plead to the Goddess we all revere to drive your madness from you," Amteira Hammerhand said crisply. "So that we need not take your life, to protect ourselves against your mad wrath."
The priest ducked his head like a growling dog. "You dare to raise hand against the anointed servant of the Forestmother?"
"I dare to pray to the Forestmother, Jaklar. Who is my goddess as well as yours. I said nothing at all about raising hands. Though perhaps it's time to remind you that I am a Hammerhand, and that Hammerhands rule here. We dare just about anything in the service of Ironthorn."
The Lord Leaf grimaced and shrank back as if her words had been an icy blast searing his face, then turned pointedly away from the lady heir of Hammerhand to look to her father.
Who gave the priest a steady gaze, and said firmly, "You were questioning the wizard Everlar, Holy Lord Leaf. Before you started screaming that his answers were lies. Remember?"
"I–I-" The priest sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, then said quietly, "Yes, Lord Hammerhand. The Goddess sent her fury into me, and I-it overwhelmed me."
He whirled around to glare at Rod again. "Wizard," he commanded flatly, "invoke the Forestmother no more. Your lies enrage Her."
"That's odd," Rod said, trying to keep his voice calm and confident, but raising it to make sure the courtiers at his end of the hall, at least, would hear. "That's exactly what she told me about you. Your lies enrage Her."
More than a few snickers and sputters of hastily-suppressed mirth rose from all around Rod, and a distinct-though mirthless-smile crossed Burrim Hammerhand's face. It was gone, however, by the time the priest whirled back to face him, and implore, "Leave, great lord, to have this foul outlander punished!"
Nor was the lord alone in his amusement. Amteira Hammerhand's eyes were dancing w
ith sour mirth, though her face was carefully expressionless.
"No, Lord Leaf," the lord said firmly. "I am not eager to make an enemy of any Doom of Falconfar, or risk facing any lurking spell that may protect the person of this one. What I need most are spellhurling allies, despite your oft-stated desire to destroy all wizards. What I value most after that are huge armies I needn't pay nor feed, and after that, information. This outlander may aid us with the latter-perhaps even with the others-and your rage, holy or otherwise, helps us little just now. So let us have an end to shouting and threats and talk of punishment. This man met with two of our guards in the forest, and neither Briszyk and Urlaun are harmed, or turned to toads. That proves this outlander can stay his spells long enough to talk and bargain and even walk peacefully. Let us try that first."
"You are wise, as always, Lord Hammerhand," the priest said quietly. "Would you prefer to question the outlander?"
"Yes," Burrim Hammerhand replied simply, and turned his gaze to Rod. "Lord Archwizard," he asked flatly, "what do you know about Ironthorn?"
"That it is a hold in the Raurklor, most famous elsewhere in Falconfar for its gemadars and the swords they produce. That it has three lords who all claim to be Lord of Ironthorn, but that you, Burrim Hammerhand, stand foremost. That Ironthorn seems to be all river-valleys." Rod shrugged. "That's all. Truly."
The Lord Leaf pounced again, his sharp words coming out in a rush before Lord Hammerhand could ask something else. "Yet you claim the Forestmother sent you here for some holy purpose?"
Rod shrugged. "No. As I said, magic that was not my own brought me here. I know not whose magic, or why. I am trusting that the gods did this, and now await their message to me, to tell me what I should do. I will be happy to talk with you-all of you here-honestly and openly, to learn all I can of Ironthorn. I am seeking a particular Aumrarr, wherever she may be. I intend no blasphemy, nor any attack on any Hammerhand or ally of the Hammerhands."
"Doesn't sound like a wizard to me," a courtier muttered, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"Liars never do," someone else grunted.
Lord Hammerhand cast a sharp look in the direction of that comment, and silence fell again in his throne chamber.
"Lord Archwizard," he asked Rod, "how well do you know your fellow Dooms, and what do you think of them?"
"Not much," Rod replied, "and… not much."
Someone chuckled, in the courtiers crowding the tiers of benches.
"Lord Hammerhand," Rod added, "all of the Dooms, I think, have tried to kill me. One imprisoned and tortured me. That was Arlaghaun-"
There was a collective intake of breath that almost rose into a shriek. Rod rushed on.
"— and he is dead now, I believe, though what Lorontar-"
Another gasp that was almost a shriek. There was open, quivering fear on the Lord Leaf's face, and he was drawing back from Rod as if from a snarling wild beast.
"— has done this last little while hints that dead Dooms can be as active as the living. The one called Malraun is openly my foe-"
This time, an almost-approving murmur arose from the benches.
"— and I only know Narmarkoun exists at all because he and Malraun fight each other so fiercely. All of the Dooms, so far as I can tell, are cruel and manipulative tyrants, and I like none of them. I am not like them."
"Oh? How so?"
"Power seems to be everything to them," Rod replied, casting a meaningful look at the priest. "Power, and destroying their foes. I come from… very far away, where we do things differently."
Lord Hammerhand merely lifted his eyebrows in query to that, and Rod explained, "All men and women have rights-are held to be equals, under the law-and those who wield power ruthlessly must do so with more subtlety. Where I come from, we see magic very, very rarely. If the Dooms behaved there as they do here, they would be regarded as dangerous madmen."
"Very much as they are here," the lord said gravely. "Do you think your spells can defeat them?"
Rod met Lord Hammerhand's gaze and said firmly, "No."
That caused another stir among the courtiers, and made the Lord Leaf's eyes flash.
"I… believe one or more of the Dooms has cast fell magic on me," Rod lied, choosing his words carefully as the priest strode forward again, triumph clear on his face. "Magic that prevents me from remembering all of my spells. Yet as your two guards who found me can attest, I can work magic. Powerful magic. Not wanting to blast down castles unintentionally, change something that should not be changed, or kill someone who may be a friend, I am trying to be very careful. Which is why those who threaten me, like the Holy Lord Leaf-"
Rod bowed gravely in Jaklar's direction.
"— endanger us all. I have no desire whatsoever to do any harm to Hammerhold or anyone in it, but I fear smoking ruin may be its future if someone wounds me or tries to do me harm."
Some of the bowmen had started to raise and aim their weapons, but lowered them again hastily, frowning and casting looks at their lord, to learn his will.
Lord Hammerhand was frowning. "Your spells-can you bring the dead back to life?"
Sudden, tense silence gripped the room.
"No, Lord," Rod said sadly. "Though more than once I have fervently wished I could."
Courtiers sighed, and the lord's shoulders slumped, as if he'd been clinging to a slender hope that had now been snatched away.
"You came out of the forest," he said quietly. "Tell me; aside from Briszyk and Urlaun, did you see or fight any armored men there?"
There was a sudden, tense silence in the throne chamber.
Rod shook his head, knowing his answer was very important yet not hesitating. The truth. All I dare give is the truth. "No, lord. I saw an Aumrarr-not the one I seek-killed and eaten by a lorn. I attacked and wounded it, but it flew away."
His words had caused another murmur of excited talk. The lord of Hammerhold raised his eyebrows as if he wanted to hear more, but instead asked, "So this Aumrarr you seek to rescue is the captive of the Doom called Malraun?"
Rod nodded.
"And magic brought you here to Ironthorn-that you know so little about-when you sought to reach her?"
Rod nodded again.
"Then, Lord Archwizard, be aware that we see little of the Dooms in Ironthorn, but all Ironthar know this much: that Malraun openly aids Lord Magrandar Lyrose, our hated rival. If this Aumrarr is in Ironthorn, she is in Lyrose hands, and can only be won free by your spells-or force of arms. We would welcome your doing battle with Lyrose knights, and so will aid you, if you dare go a-seeking her. Food we can give you, and guides; some few of our knights who face punishments, and can step aside from such fates if they do us this service, rendering you aid and the strength of their swords. Go with these bowmen now; they will take you to one of my most trusted warcaptains, Syregorn. Though grief hangs heavy on us just now, Hammerhold welcomes you, and will aid you in all you do against Lyrose."
"Grief, lord?" Rod asked gently. "I-"
"I do not wish to speak of it," Lord Hammerhand said curtly, and turned away. "May you prevail, Lord Archwizard, and destroy our foes in doing so." He strode across the throne dais, heading for the leftmost of the closed doors opening onto it.
"Amteira, Lord Leaf? Attend us in the Map Chamber," he ordered, laying his hand upon its handle.
Then he was gone, and courtiers were rising from their seats to stare curiously at Rod. The bowmen closed in around him, grim-faced, almost rushing him back out of the chamber again.
"What happened?" Rod asked. "Who died?"
The nearest bowman gave him a curious look, half disbelief and half disgust. "Thought you were a mighty wizard," he snapped. "Y'sound more like an idiot outland drover lost in Irontarl, to me."
Rod shrugged and looked away. I AM an idiot of an outlander lost here and just blundering his way along. I wonder when everyone will realize that, and pounce?
Chapter Nine
A large, painstakingly-detailed map of Ironthor
n sprawled across the circular table that filled the center of the room. More maps hung from the low rafters in cloth dust-gowns, each sewn to fit the map it guarded.
Among these dusty hangings, the warcaptains of Hammerhold stood silently waiting in the still air, their thoughts hidden behind guarded faces, just as they had stood in this map chamber many times before. Along one side of the table they stood: Syregorn, balding, scarred, and senior; swift, capable Darlok; and darkly handsome, stolid Tarlkond. Three patient statues.
A door opened and Lord Hammerhand shouldered in, his daughter and the priest of the Forestmother silent shadows in his wake.
Amteira Hammerhand stopped at the door, setting her shoulders against it, but her father and the Lord Leaf strode forward, trading brief, silent glances ere they stopped across the map table from the warcaptains.
Then Lord Hammerhand looked at Syregorn. "Take a few trusted knights, and get this Lord Archwizard into Lyraunt Castle. He seeks his Aumrarr and the fell wizard Malraun, who may well be lurking there. Once inside, concern yourself before all else with slaying those of the blood Lyrose. Killing wizards is work for other wizards."
The priest drew forth some small, slender metal vials from his belt and proffered them to Syregorn. "Leaf powders. Introduce them covertly into the Dark Lord's food-and only his food. They will keep him drowsy and biddable."
"When," Syregorn asked carefully, "will we have time for stopping and eating?"
The Lord Leaf looked for a moment as if he was going to fly into one of his rages, then relaxed and snapped, "Before heading to Lyraunt Castle, get well away from the Vale, back into the forest-say, to the old fire clearing-and there stop and feed this Archwizard. He looked hungry enough, but make sure he eats something. Tell him eating before battle is our tradition, and we need to keep the favor of the Forestmother."
He looked to Lord Hammerhand, who nodded again.
The priest smiled the briefest of tight smiles, went to the wall, and undid a loop of chain, lowering the five-candle lantern over the table.
Each of those candles burned in its own wax-filled bowl, all of the bowls thrusting forth on their own metal arms to flank a larger central bowl that served to reflect and magnify the light of their flames. Jaklar reached into the central bowl, supposedly empty of all but dust, and drew forth a small wooden coffer. Opening it, he lifted out a fistful of matching sheathed daggers, and handed three of them to Syregorn.
