by Justin Wayne
***
Dradewen slapped his father on the shoulder and embraced him tightly. Dunawar’s eyes widened in shock and he leapt back, fearful it was a trick of the orcs. He inspected the tall, youth. The long dark hair was shorter in some places now from catching fire and he had several bruises and burns about him and his clothes. In his hand was his father’s sword, Dradewen’s grandfather, who had killed a saber cat alpha to craft. And those raven eyes that seemed to bore into his soul stared back at him. It was indeed his son.
“Ye’ve returned to me!” he cried and squeezed Dradewen in a tight hug, then pushed him away. “What in the nine hells happened? I saw you fall.”
The young warrior laughed and looked pointedly at the claymore in his hand. “The sword struck only my club, but the throw was enough to send me with it. I rolled from the flames but found my wind gone.” he shrugged. “What happened to it?”
Dunawar pointed to the boulder where the hammer holding the shattered remains stood fast. “Not sure if I’ll ever get that hammer back.” he roared and laughed, motioning for his son to follow him over to it.
Cracks like a spiderweb surrounded the hammer and its target, which resembled nothing like that of a body anymore, and only that of twisted metal holding some disfigured hunks of flesh and bone. The head of the hammer was completely out of sight and within the stone with several inches of the handle going into Cleave Rend’s chest.
“You sent it straight through the beast!” Dradewen exclaimed. “Your hammer needs a name now.”
Dunawar shook his head. “Naming a hammer? What’re you some kind of girl?”
The young Warrior shrugged and decided to give the imbedded weapon a pull. His great muscles strained until his face and arms were flushed red but it budged not an inch. He shivered in the night as the winter winds blew down on him and frosted over the sheen sweat upon his brow and neck.
He turned from the hammer and aided those packing up the wounded and dead for travel. They were to leave tonight back for the town as to catch any who had escaped along the way home. He relished the thought and slid the claymore into its sling along his back, imagining it was an orc attempting to sneak up on him.
