Hammers in the Wind
Book One of the Northern Crusade
By CHRISTIAN WARREN FREED
Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2013
All rights reserved.
© 2013 by Christian Warren Freed.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Other Novels by Christian Warren Freed
The Northern Crusade Series
Hammers in the Wind
Tides of Blood and Steel
A Whisper After Midnight
Empire of Bones
The Madness of Gods and Kings
Even Gods Must Fall
A History of Malweir Series
Armies of the Silver Mage
The Dragon Hunters
Beyond the Edge of Dawn
Acknowledgments
Writing is a solitary endeavor but cannot be completed without the support, inspiration and contributions of our surroundings. Hammers in the Wind was born on a whim and evolved to become a grand adventure thanks in large part to the cadets of company F-3, United States Military Academy (2007-2009). Their encouragement and opinions proved invaluable at certain times.
I would be remiss if I didn’t take the time to thank my mother and father for all they have done for me over the last forty years. (Already? Man!) My wife, Annie, who has stood by and been forced to listen to my latest creations and my pestering for her opinions on everything I wrote. Thank you all.
ONE
High-pitched screams pierced the wood and stone halls of Chadra Keep. Badron, the liege lord of Delranan, sprang from his ancient throne at the sound, his band of favored captains and counselors doing the same. His pale blue eyes boiled from shock to feral rage as he quickly registered what was happening. Screams could only mean one thing: his very family was under attack in what was supposed to be the most secure place in his kingdom. More screams and blood-choked cries mixed with the sound of clashing steel. Badron snarled grimly. The house guard was locked in brutal struggle somewhere deep within the wooden halls of the Keep.
Badron drew his trusted sword and stormed off in search of the battle. The most senior lords and captains of Delranan followed him. Eight in all, they comprised a most lethal band of warriors. Their deeds had forged the kingdom from a pack of warring tribes and clans into a singular monarchy that quickly became the strongest of the northern kingdoms. They wordlessly chased at the wolf skin cloak of their king as he headed towards the royal sleeping chambers.
Fear drove Badron. Long red hair, now streaked through with gray, flowed angrily down broad shoulders. His normally pale blue eyes seethed red with rage. Wrath commanded him, wrath so strong it could threaten the foundations of his hard-fought kingdom and make the old gods of Malweir tremble in fear. Muscles bunched under his jerkin. His bulk nearly filled the doorway. Badron felt the old energy flow into him. His was a warrior’s life and this night but an extension of it. The sound of glass breaking drew his attention. Badron bellowed and charged, heedless of any lurking dangers.
Fleeting visions of battle appeared through the flickering torchlight. The flash of a sword. A spray of blood. The ruins of a body lay in the middle of the hall, a crumpled mass of flesh. Badron knelt beside the corpse. The smell of blood kissed the stagnant air. Deep cuts and gashes immolated the young house guard. Badron tried to close the eyes, if for no other reason than to avoid staring down into the pure agony, but rigor mortis had already begun to set in. A feathered spear broken at the hilt was embedded in the lad’s throat.
“Pell Darga,” growled Jarrik. He rubbed his bald head and spat.
The king brought his gaze up to his friend and captain. “Rouse whatever watch remains, Jarrik. I want these monsters run down and skinned alive. The rest of you with me.”
Badron led them further into the Keep. The inner doors to the royal chambers were smashed to ruins. One lay in splinters across the hall while what was left of the second hung in shreds by a single hinge. Smoke curled up from the chamber, running down the ceiling. Fresh blood stained the floor and walls in ragged patterns. More bodies. Badron grimaced. From the looks of it all of his private guard had been caught unaware and slain. Their furs and spiked helmets lay stained in growing pools of blood. Badron splashed his way past.
At last they came unto the king’s chambers. The doors were similarly smashed, leaving a gaping maw, dark and uninviting. Shadows leaked into the hall. Unknown fears danced around the men and threatened their resolve. Preparing his mind for the worst, Badron bunched his shoulders and surged forward. Nothing in this world meant so much to him as the memory of his late wife Rialla and the children he’d sired.
Rough hands snatched at his collar and jerked him back. “No my lord, we cannot afford to lose you,” Argis whispered harshly.
He gestured with his head and two of the largest guards crept forward to flank the doors. Satisfied the king wasn’t going to do anything rash, Argis released him and tossed his torch to the nearest man. Inion snatched it and gave his battle brother an awkward look. A hint of smile, no more than the slight curve of his lips, caressed his face. It had been too long since they’d last gone to war. Inion hefted his tulwar and threw the torch into the bedchamber. He charged in after, Argis immediately following with a litany of battle cries. Berserk strength churned inside them.
Badron impatiently waited. Sounds came back to him, making the hairs on his neck stand. The breaking of furniture. A crash in the dark. He forced himself to stand by and wait while others rushed to defend his honor. The idea pained him, but he must be king before warrior. That was the price for the gift he’d usurped from his brother long ago. Inion reappeared a heartbeat later. Disbelief stained his naturally dark eyes. He mouthed words that were incoherent babble.
Badron pushed forward, forgetting all restraint. “Speak man, what of my family?’
The stunned captain could only point back at the broken door.
“Is she?” he whispered.
Inion could not bear to look his king and friend in the eye. “I don’t know, sire. There are traces of blood but no bodies. It is clear that there was a struggle.”
Emotions collided in a mass of confusion. Badron was beyond enraged and on the verge of breaking down. He’d never truthfully cared much for his daughter. In fact he constantly blamed her for the death of his precious Rialla during childbirth. But Maleela was still his flesh and blood. He punched a massive fist into the nearest wall.
“Find my daughter or I’ll have your heads on pikes by dawn. No one sleeps until the Pell Darga are found and killed. And bring me my son.”
One by one they bowed and deployed throughout Chadra Keep. Only Harnin One Eye stood fast. Oldest and most loyal of the eight, Harnin watched his king with concern through his remaining eye.
“My lord, your daughter…” he whispered.
Ba
dron shot him a cross look. “Do not remind me of what I know all too well. We shall deal with this when the time comes.”
The bloodied halls of Chadra Keep felt surprisingly empty despite the flurry of activity. What remained of the decimated house guard began a room-by-room search for the royal family. Bodies were taken away and prepared for burial while servants scrubbed the blood from the walls and floor as best as they could. Many believed this night of terror was already finished. Badron knew it was only the beginning. Whatever evil the Pell had in mind would spark his final designs and begin a long anticipated war. Badron stormed through his Keep barking orders.
It was then that he came upon the corpse of his only son.
The young prince’s head sharply dropped to the side. Pell Darga spears riddled his body. Blood wept from dozens of wounds. His sword was sheathed in blood. Badron’s heart lurched. Clearly his boy had put up a good fight. Then he spied it. The gentle rise and fall of the chest. His son was not yet dead. Badron quickly dropped down and cradled his son to him.
“My son,” he choked.
“They…came in….through the…windo….” Blood spit through his broken lips as he talked. Soon he would journey to the halls of his ancestors, no longer a pawn to the vagaries of life. “Took… Maleela…”
A last gasp made his body shake gently. The heir to the throne of Delranan was dead, at peace. Badron shook uncontrollably. Humbled and belittled, Badron could only stop and stare. He wanted to drop down and cradle the lad one last time, to let his tears flow free. But he was king, and kings do not do such things.
“He died honorably, sire,” Harnin soothed. “We should all hope for such.”
Badron spun on his friend. “Honorably? He died at the hands of cowards and assassins! Do not speak to me of honor!”
“Lord Badron!”
Jarrik strode purposefully down the hallway. “Lookouts spied men on horseback riding east. They claim to have caught the wisp of a woman’s gown among the riders.”
Anger’s edge diminished, if only slightly. The desire for revenge grew.
“How many?” he asked.
“Between thirty and forty near as they could tell.”
A cold gleam twisted Badron’s eyes. “Reform the council. I want blood.”
Badron reentered the throne room, his unfocused eyes streaked with red. The throne seemed less. The hearth fire was cold. It was only late summer and already winter’s reach struggled to find purchase. The brightest of the summer sun had already faded. It wouldn’t be much longer before the snow blew in from the cruel Northern Ocean. None of that mattered of course. Badron could see only despair in the near future. The threat of winter held no danger for him. His dreams, his very life, had come crashing down this night. All of the hard work he and his kind had done in building a mighty kingdom might well have died with his son. Delranan had no heir. None that is, except his unwanted daughter Maleela. Badron snarled.
His captains entered in somber procession. Each was armed and geared for campaign. Whatever they were now, they had all been among the very best warriors in the north countries. Now was the time for sharpened steel. Words and posturing didn’t belong in the future Badron envisioned for his kingdom.
“The house of the king is ruined,” Badron drawled. “The Pell Darga have shamed us all this night. My son is murdered and my daughter taken. How can this have happened under our noses? Chadra Keep is supposed to be the most secure building in Delranan.”
His words dripped venom. All at once a chorus of rage echoed across the chamber. The call for war lifted their spirits. Frightened talk fell in hushed tones at the mention of the Pell though. Ancient hatred and superstitions cloaked the mountain dwellers. Some claimed they were nothing more than myth; one told to children to keep them in line during the long winter nights when mischief was prone to spark. No one living had ever seen one. Legend said they came from the Murdes Mountains far to the east, the Mountains of Death. No sane man volunteered to travel those dark paths.
“The Pell Darga do not exist. Surely we are missing some vital clue in all of this,” Jarrik cautioned. For all of his great strengths, strategy was not one.
Harnin rose and cast down a blood-stained short spear. “Truly? Then explain this! Taken from the body of the king’s own son as he lay dying. Mind your tongue, Jarrik. The Pell exist and it is time we confronted them.”
The old man glowered at his rival, but said nothing else.
“How is it they managed to sneak past our guard and slay half of the house with us unaware?” Skaning, a burly man with coal black hair man, asked.
Badron grunted. “How do giants shape the mountains or the gods make war? You ask questions only a sorcerer might answer. This I tell you all. We have but two choices. Either we ignore this night’s foul deeds.” Chaotic roars swept through those assembled. Badron held his hands up for quiet, “Or we raise the Wolfsreik and march to war. To the very heart of the Murdes Mountains if need be.”
“Sire, it will take a month or more to raise the full strength of the Wolfsreik,” Harnin cautioned.
Ten thousand fully armed men complete with supplies and kit was no easy feat.
Badron had a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Six weeks and we can march.”
“On who exactly? The Pell Darga are not a nation. By rights we would be invading Rogscroft,” Argis said.
Skaning stood. “Such an action would surely jeopardize your family more. If our goal is to retrieve the princess alive we need speed and secrecy, not the strength of arms.”
“What would suggest then?” Badron asked sharply.
Clearing his throat, Skaning continued. “Send men to scour the inns and taverns. Find a stalwart band of mercenaries and adventurers willing to become heroes for a small price.”
Harnin spat. “Not even a drunken fool would risk facing the Pell on their own territory. We must raise the army.”
“I agree with Skaning,” Jarrik seconded. “These are troubled times. Money can be a powerful motivator and the types of man we will attract are expendable at best.”
“Battle against Man is one thing, but these are demons from the Old Times. I for one will not waste my life so recklessly,” Harnin fell silent.
“Not even at the behest of your king?” Badron asked. “We are all led to a place of dark thought. Evil must be used to combat evil if we are to succeed.”
No one noticed the sudden guarded look in Harnin’s eye. “My apologies sire. I have forgotten my place. But the question remains. What fool would dare enter such a realm and risk certain death?”
“Every man has a price,” Argis chipped in. “All we need do is find the right ones.”
Badron thoughtfully rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “This might work. Stouds has more than enough men of lesser quality for what we need. One Eye, since you so willingly champion this idea I place you in charge. You have two days to collect the men you deem necessary. After that I sound the muster and the Wolfsreik marches.”
Harnin’s smile was sharp, wicked. “Yes, sire.”
The king pushed away from the table. He had heard enough. He paused in the doorway to look back over his shoulder and reiterate, “You have two days.”
Chadra Keep’s familiar shadows offered no comfort to the lone warrior marching through. Soft winds kissed the torch in his hand. Fractured darkness covered the windows. The first hint of dawn seeped through the cold grey night. Funeral pyres were already being erected in the main courtyard. Soon the bodies would be sent to their ancestors. Servants scurried about in an almost vain attempt to return the Keep to its former glory.
He ignored it all. Gaining the top of the stair, he quickly headed down to the cellars. He eased past the dungeons and food stores. His destination was perhaps the biggest secret in the Keep. Unknown to most, there was a secret tunnel leading out into the surrounding forest, but he knew. After all, he was the one who had left the exit unsecure and allowed the attackers inside in the first place. And it was the only wa
y he was going to be able to elude the guard without questions.
He slowly pushed the ancient door open. The sky continued to brighten. It was now a muted shade of grey; still dark but light enough for him to see where he was going. He knew that Delranan, and perhaps all of Malweir, was now locked in a season of change. It was a time for myths. Trolls and Goblins, dragons and wizards. It was a season for treachery and betrayal.
He took his first step towards freedom and was met by the touch of cold steel at his throat.
TWO
The night was no different from any other for the drunken masses in Stouds Town. The Dragon’s Bane had just returned to port after months at sea. Perhaps the most famous vessel in the northern kingdoms, her captain and crew often inspired new heights of drunken rowdiness. Tonight was no different. Fresh from the conquest of riches and women, her mildly depleted crew stood proud upon her decks while the harbor master finished guiding her in. Her captain was a great bear of a man with more experience at sea than many had on land. He watched with mild disinterest as flocks of gulls and pelicans trailed in the Bane’s wake.
“A good stein of ale and a wench will do me just fine,” his first mate said.
Bahr smiled. “Aye, though I doubt your wife is going to feel the same.”
Bahr had a reputation throughout the northern kingdoms. Both fair and cruel, he was a hard task master who demanded the very best from himself and subordinates. He was old now, of course. Grey streaked through his hair and beard. His waistline was stretched to accommodate his love of red meats and fine ales. Despite that, he was still the bane of the Northern Ocean. Legends sprang from his deeds and inspired the young.
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