The Dragon Hammer (Wulf's Saga Book 1)

by Tony Daniel

  “I own your country’s path to the sea,” Gunnar said. “Duke Otto knows that.”

  With a quick thrust, Grer pushed Ulla behind him. “Then come on,” he said to Gunnar. He took a step toward the prince. “Let’s have this out.”

  Hlafnest drew his dagger and came between the two. He pointed the dagger at Grer. “You’ll speak when spoken to, smith. This matter is beyond you.” Hlafnest turned to Wulf. “This is the future of Shenandoah we’re talking about,” he said. “You’ll understand that one day, Lord Wulf.”

  Gunnar shrugged. “He speaks the truth,” said the prince. He looked around the room. His gaze fell on Ravenelle.

  “And you, little Roman princess—of all people, you should not be part of this craziness. You and I are alike. In a few years, we’ll both rule our lands. We could be powerful allies.”

  Ravenelle shook her head. Her thick black hair was held back in an ornate whalebone hair band tonight, and a few curls escaped and bounced furiously as she spoke. “We are nothing alike,” she said. “I will never be your ally.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Gunnar said. The prince slowly drew his sword. It shone red in the glow from the forge fire. “Even if Ulla is ruined, there’s my honor I have to defend, and the honor of Krehennest.” With the tip of his sword, he gently poked Hlafnest in the back. “Stand aside, boy,” he said.

  Hlafnest looked back over his shoulder, startled. “But Prince Gunnar, we agreed—”

  Gunnar poked him harder, hard enough to draw blood. “Get out of my way,” he said.

  Hlafnest slowly did so, sheathing his dagger,

  Gunnar moved forward, quick as a cat, and slashed low with his sword. Wulf watched, stunned. The sword dug into the muscle of Grer’s leg just below the knee.

  Grer roared and reached for Gunnar’s throat. But the sword had lodged in bone. Gunnar twisted it hard, mercilessly, and the big smith went down, collapsing to the side with a howl of agony. Gunnar withdrew the sword. Grer lay on the sand floor in front of him in a growing patch of blood. The smith clutched his leg, trying to stop the flow, and glared hatred up at the prince.

  Gunnar smiled and drew back his sword, preparing for the kill.

  Grer closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable blow.

  Wulf and Rainer struck at the same time, from two different sides. Wulf had no weapon, and Rainer hadn’t had time to draw his dagger. They rammed into Gunnar at the waist.

  He felt Gunnar’s tabard and belt against his shoulder. There was a hard, satisfying grunt of surprise and pain from the prince.

  And they were falling over and away from Grer.

  Wulf looked up—straight into the pommel of Gunnar’s sword, which came down to strike him between the eyes.

  After that, he didn’t remember anything for a while.

  Brown. No, red. Red light. The forge fire. A torch on the wall.

  Wulf sat up. A hand on his shoulders.

  Saeunn. Wulf looked at her. The side of her face was bloody and swollen. Yet she smiled serenely. “Wulfgang, be awake,” she said. She touched his face, and complete awareness flowed back into his mind. His head should have hurt, but it didn’t. He pulled himself to his feet.

  Ulla tended to Grer on the shop floor. Hlafnest was nowhere to be seen. Near the anvil and forge, Gunnar faced Rainer. Rainer was armed with an iron bar he’d probably picked up from one of the swages in the shop. He gripped it tight, prepared to use it on Gunnar.

  But something was holding Rainer back. Then Gunnar turned toward him, and Wulf saw that the prince had hold of Ravenelle by her thick black mass of curled hair. Gunnar’s sword was at her throat.

  “Drop it,” Gunnar said. “Drop it, boy.”

  “Don’t do it, Stope,” Ravenelle spat out. Gunnar dug the blade edge deeper into the flesh of her throat, and she gasped.

  Rainer dropped the crowbar. The iron fell with a whump onto the sandy floor.

  Hlafnest emerged from the shadows. He made eye contact with Gunnar, who nodded. Hlafnest swung a hickory ax handle into Rainer’s head. Rainer instantly crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  “Hold her,” Gunnar said, and pushed Ravenelle to Hlafnest. Hlafnest wasted no time. He spun Ravenelle around and put the hickory piece around her waist and pulled her tightly against his body. She struggled, but he was much too large for her.

  Gunnar turned back to Grer and Ulla. His sword gleamed with blood. “I’ll finish this now,” he said.

  Wulf stood beside the forge. “Stop,” he said.

  Gunnar looked at Wulf. He seemed to come to a decision. “Yes,” he said to himself. “That would be all right, wouldn’t it?” He walked toward Wulf, his sword extended in a bent and ready hand. “I mean, you’re the nuisance here.” Now he was speaking to Wulf. “Your parents would probably thank me in their secret heart of hearts. I mean, what are you for after all?”

  He’s going to kill me, Wulf thought.

  Gunnar raised his sword. Wulf took a step back. The heat of the forge fire was scorching at his back. There was nowhere to go, no way to retreat.

  Something cold touched Wulf’s fingers. Wulf risked a glance and saw that it was the metal handle of the charcoal shovel. This was the small scoop Grer used to feed fuel to his fire. Wulf’s left hand closed around the handle. But Gunnar’s sword was twice the length of the little shovel. The prince was too far away to reach, even if Wulf could manage a blow.

  “Everyone will thank me one day,” Gunnar said, and brought his sword down.

  Wulf dipped the shovel into the coals behind him and, spinning, trying to dodge, threw a shovel of hot embers at the prince. In the final instant, Gunnar flinched back.

  The sword missed Wulf by a hair’s breadth. Metal slammed into metal as the sword blade hit the edge of the forge table. Sparks flew.

  And there, revealed, as if Gunnar’s sword tip were pointing directly at it—

  The dagger.

  Wulf’s shoveling had separated it from the fire, and it lay on the metal table, a few stray coals around it.

  The dagger glowed red, from tang to tip.

  Gunnar raised his sword again. Wulf glanced over and saw him wiping at his face with his free hand. Some of the fire coals had found their mark in his skin. But not enough. Gunnar shook his head, blinked, then snarled at Wulf.

  So many times he’d faced a bigger boy in the practice yard. He had a few allies, but plenty of the first family boys and even his own cousins pummeled him whenever they could.

  Do it! Useless brat. Hit him harder. Who does he think he is? He doesn’t matter. Nobody will miss him. Nobody cares.

  He’s not even spare to the heir.

  The only answer was to use what advantage you had. Even if it was slight. Even if winning was really, really going to hurt.

  With his right hand, Wulf grabbed the red-hot dagger by its tang. He knew it was going to burn. He didn’t know how much until his fingers touched.

  A lot. Smoke rose. The flesh of his fingertips sizzled.

  He gripped the dagger tightly.

  Turned.

  Gunnar’s sword thrust was coming, straight on. Not aimed precisely, but well enough to skewer him if he didn’t get out of the way. Wulf ducked down, continued his turn. The sword passed over his shoulder. His motion never ceasing, Wulf thrust the dagger upward.

  Gunnar’s own forward momentum carried him into it.

  Through the fabric, through flesh, against the lowest of Gunnar’s ribs. Wulf held on. Glancing off. Continuing upward.

  Into the heart of the Prince of Krehennest.

  Gunnar grunted. His sword fell to the ground with a clang. He stumbled back.

  His backward movement pulled the blade of the dagger out of his body. Wulf could not let go of it. The tang was practically welded into his own right palm in a mass of burned flesh.

  For a moment, fire flickered along the blade. It was Gunnar’s blood evaporating and the residue burning to a crisp.

  Gunnar stared at Wulf for a moment, started to
speak, but couldn’t. Blood erupted from his chest. It seemed like every drop in the prince was pumping out.

  Gunnar collapsed to the floor, kicked once, and died.

  Wulf looked at the blade.

  It wasn’t glowing anymore. Now it was a dusty brown.

  It also wasn’t cracked. It looked like any other new-forged blade ready to take an edge and a polish.

  Even though he’d done it by accident, the quench had worked. It was going to be a good blade.

  He shook his hand. Nothing doing. The dagger wouldn’t come loose. The tang had burned its way in. Maybe Saeunn could help him work it out without hurting himself even more in the process.

  Saeunn! The others, were they all right? Were they—

  A cracking sound pulled Wulf abruptly from his muddle of thoughts. He turned to see Ravenelle, grasping the hickory handle, and Saeunn with the iron bar Rainer had been using. Both girls stood over Hlafnest von Blau. He was lying on the floor, moaning and clutching his chest.

  The cracking sound had been one of his ribs. Wulf knew this when Ravenelle brought the handle down again and broke another for good measure.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Seventeen:

  The Ridge

  The ride up the Dragonback Ridge had been hard on the horses, even though they were small and tough ponies. The trail was steep and had lots of switchbacks. It rose for nearly a league in distance from the valley floor. Kalters, the name for this kind of pony, were thick-boned and very strong. They had a special ambling pace that other horses couldn’t match.

  Wulf was riding his favorite kalter, Hemdi, a black and white stallion he had taken into the country on hunting trips since he was eight years old. He fed the pony carrots at every break along the way. Hemdi huffed and puffed, but never slacked.

  Wulf was gripping the reins with one hand only. On his other arm, which he held outward to make a perch, sat a screech owl. The owl was more white than brown, and her color was close to what a snow-covered branch in the winter forest might look like. She had on a small leather hood that covered her eyes. She was tied, “jessed” was the right word to use, with leather thongs to a small iron ring in the thick glove Wulf wore on his left hand. The glove was long, and stretched up to his elbow.

  Riding along behind Wulf were twenty or so nobles, along with their servants, who also carried birds. Most of the birds were redtail hawks or golden eagles. The men took their birds on their arms. The women carried theirs on iron perches built into the back of their horses’ saddles. The nobles were all part of the Raukenrose Castle court. They were the most powerful people in the mark.

  And then there was Ravenelle. She was along because the von Kleists had invited her. There were three von Kleist siblings in the castle cohort. Ravenelle and Giesela von Kleist hated each other. Both were pretty, at least to Wulf’s way of thinking, but Ravenelle was passionate, smart, and determined, while Giesela was ruthless, clever, and practical.

  Giesela’s older brothers Axel and Erik, the von Kleist twins, had a very different attitude toward Ravenelle. They were smitten with her, both of them. Baron Atli von Kleist, the richest of the Raukenrose aristocrats, must have seen some advantage in encouraging his sons’ crush on Ravenelle—maybe because she was going to be a queen some day, even if Vall l’Obac was the mark’s long-time enemy. He’d invited her to accompany his party on the hunt himself.

  Ravenelle had instantly accepted. She loved hunting falcons and jumped at every chance she got. She’d once told Wulf that she was planning to add a black hawk feather splashed with blood to the Archambeault coat of arms.

  There were even more servants than nobles, mostly Tier. Many of these were down on the valley floor whacking trees and branches with hickory beating sticks to flush out the game.

  Meanwhile, the hunting party was climbing the Dragonback Mountains. They were heading for Ruckengrat Ridge, a line of cliffs that overlooked the Shenandoah Valley. The view was amazing. As they made their way along the ridge, they passed an abandoned signal tower that had been used during the Little War. Below in the valley was the village of Buffalo Camp. Across the Shenandoah to the west was the looming line of Massanutten Mountain and Shwartzwald County. To the east were the rolling hills of the Piedmont Duchy.

  The duke and Wulf were at the head of this long train of horses, servants, and birds. Grim was with Wulf today as attendant and bird holder. Fauns could ride horses, but Grim would rather walk a few paces behind Wulf’s kalter. Beside the duke was Grim’s uncle Finn, a big faun with grizzled black and gray hair, who was the hunt master. Finn rode a horse using a faun saddle with special stirrup cups. It was said (by fauns) that fauns had invented stirrups so that they could ride horses, and then it had spread to the world of men.

  Another thing he wished he could ask Master Tolas about. But Tolas was gone. He’d left two months ago for Glockendorf. He’d left with only himself on a pony and leading a larger packhorse loaded with his personal collection of books and scrolls. The poor horse looked tired before it had even started on its journey.

  Two months had passed, and now there was a new castle tutor. Master Mohaut, a man, was adequate, but nothing like Tolas. Wulf had jumped at the chance to skip morning classes and go hunting with his father.

  Finn led along six ponies roped together, each with one or two perches mounted on the saddles. These horses carried no riders at all, only birds of prey. These were all of the raptors from the castle mews, the area where the birds were kept. There were hawks and falcons, eagles, owls, and even a vulture. Like an archer with different kinds of arrows in his quiver, Duke Otto liked to bring different kinds of birds on a hunt to handle any kind of animal, whether it was quail, rabbits, foxes, small deer—or the hardest prey of all to capture and kill, wolves.

  The birds came in many sizes, from Wulf’s screech owl, which might take a mouse or maybe a fat squirrel on a good day, to the huge eagles that were favorites of the duke. Wulf also loved the eagles but was a little afraid of them.

  Most of all, he loved to watch them fly. Birds of prey weren’t like dogs or cats. You couldn’t tame them. You could spend years with a raptor, and if you did something careless, it still might reach over and tear off a piece of your cheek.

  Redtail hawks could be particularly ornery that way. And an owl’s beak was nothing to laugh at. That was why he was careful to hold his arm out, keeping the owl away from his face, despite the jolts and bounces of the climb to the cliffs.

  The saddle perches were wound with rope so the birds could keep a grip. In the very rear of the train was a huge white horse, the biggest kalter Wulf had ever seen. On his back rode the largest of the birds of prey: a set of three bald eagles. There was one young male and two older females. They were all grown-up birds, with white heads and fierce yellow eyes.

  Wulf thought they were beautiful. That didn’t make them particularly good hunters, though. They were originally sea eagles, and hard to train. But when you got the right bald eagle with the right training, the bird could be devastating to prey.

  In the wild, bald eagles were fishers. They lived close to water at all times. But these eagles had been captured young and specially trained to do other kinds of hunting. Once they made their kills, whatever animal it might be, they were given fish for a reward. Giving them fish was also a way to get them off a kill so the hunter could get to it.

  The hunting party finally got to the top of the ridge they had been climbing and rode along the cliffs. The Shenandoah Valley stretched below them. It was a beautiful, chilly day in Samen, the third month after Yule. Nearby was a rushing mountain stream that plunged over the cliffs to create a pretty waterfall. Wulf found a pool formed by an eddy of the stream and let Hemdi drink. He set the little owl on the front of his saddle. On the rear of the saddle was a redtail hawk on a perch.

  While the horse was slurping, Wulf went upstream and filled a small bottle with water. He took this to the birds. The hawk clinging to the perch on the back of Wulf’s saddle was a
male named Tak. Though he was hooded, Tak felt the water trickle on his beak and opened up to drink. Wulf poured and Tak caught the water and swallowed so quickly that barely a drop spilled on the saddle leather below the perch. Then Wulf gave the little owl on his arm a drink. Her name was Nagel. She also drank with hardly a spill.

  Duke Otto stopped close by and watered his large stallion.

  “We’ll stay here today,” he said to Finn. Finn motioned to his assistant hunt masters—there were ten of them who worked for the faun—to have the other hunters spread out down Ruckengrat Ridge to the south.

  “As far as you can go, as far as you can go,” Duke Otto shouted to the nobles. “Wulfgang and I claim this spot for our slip.”

  There was some good-natured grumbling, but the others kept riding on a trail that led along the ridge. They and their horses and birds soon disappeared into the trees. Wulf waved at Ravenelle as she passed. She had her right arm extended, holding a hawk, and she looked excited.

  Grim and the duke’s manservant, Harihandel, took the horses to stake them out after they had drunk.

  Finn meanwhile unloaded a handful of stakes as long as spears from one of the horses. Near the cliff’s edge he pounded the stakes into the ground with a wooden mallet and fitted a crosspiece to them through a dovetail notch. Perches. He put the birds on them.

  All of the birds still had hoods over their heads. The hoods covered their eyes. Finn gave each a mouthful of dried rabbit to chew on, except for the eagles. He gave them fish bits.

  The patch of rock ran up to the edge of the cliffs. This part of the Ruckengrat was not just a straight cliff, but a slab of rock jutting out over a deep drop, a hanging overlook. Duke Otto motioned for Wulf to join him a few steps from the edge. They gazed west.

  In the south of the valley, tobacco and cotton grew. Here in the upper valley were the wheat and corn that fed the people.

  Duke Otto stretched out his arms and took a deep breath “What a good day for hunting,” he said. “It’s days like this that make all your problems go away.”