by Marin Landis
“I see you’ve all had a chance to test the heft of your hammers. How do you feel about them?” His voice was low and calm, his accent close to neutral but still retaining a hint of his peasant background.
Nobody really wanted to be the first to speak, so Melvekior did. Taking his father’s advice on how to influence groups, he spoke first as though he were an expert and showed no hesitation. “They are heavy, master. How will I block a sword? Or feint? It seems an unwieldy instrument.”
“Good,” Hartlo smiled, “recognizing your limitations is an excellent way to begin.” Melvekior started to assure him that the only limitations present were those of the hammer itself, but the fat man cut him off. “These aren’t weapons for dueling, close combat or even pitched battles. These are for fear. With these beasts,” he reached behind him and swung his hammer from behind his back, around his head and thumped it into the hard earth at his feet, “we bring shock and terror to all those we face.” His hammer was even larger than the ones with which they had been issued, its black head the size of Aeldryn’s writing desk, its handle the circumference of his wrist. Hartlo’s hands were immense and he handled the hammer like it were a toy. That fat must be hiding some serious muscle, thought Melvekior with new-found admiration. “The Brotherhood of the Hammer is the righteous vengeance of Mithras, there will be little opportunity for pitched battle and facing off against men with swords, but when there is you will block thus…”
From somewhere beneath his robes he produced a wooden sword, not unlike those Melvekior possessed at home. Eager to prove himself with his weapon of choice, wooden though it be, the young nobleman reached out to be met by an amused scowl.
“You’re here to train with your hammer, not show your skill with the sword.” He leapt back, extremely nimbly for a man his size, holding the sword before him in a traditional fencing stance. He brandished the weapon a couple of times, moving it in a figure of eight, laughing as he did so. “Ready yourself, though my attacks will be slow enough for you to deal with them, they will cause pain unless countered.”
Melvekior briefly looked at his fellow students, Nuvian, with whom he had made fast friends, Trandr and Sweyn, all relatively new and yet to learn the hammer. They all looked amused at his discomfort, in such contrast to his normal confidence. He had no time to curse them, so turned to see the practice weapon describing an arc down towards his head. Ignoring all of his natural instincts, to dodge, strike beneath the line of the attack and all the other dozen defenses against such a move, he gripped the hammer’s handle with both hands and raised it above his head. The sword struck the handle with enormous force. Vibrations from the blow sent shock waves down his arms and he dropped the hammer, narrowly missing his own feet, needing to jump backwards in what looked almost a clumsy mockery of Hartlo’s earlier dexterous little hop. He swore loudly and shook his right hand as it went numb from wrist to elbow.
“Well done,” the weapon’s master said with a grin on his face, looking genuinely pleased, “most new boys seem to prefer being hit on the head. Now,” he turned to include the other three in the conversation, “who can tell me what Melvekior did wrong? Why he’s going to nurse those numb hands for a couple of hours and then face extreme pain when the blood starts flowing properly, with the only solace being that if he self-pleasures it will feel like someone else is doing it for him.”
Nuvian and Trandr couldn’t answer for laughing, Sweyn, meanwhile didn’t look as though he didn’t find any of it funny, but really just failed to understand the gist of the conversation, raised his hand. “Was it that he tried to block your heavy blow with a weak hold on the hammer.”
“I feel that is a light understatement, Sweyn, thank you!” said Melvekior, still smarting from the blow as well as from the ribbing by Hartlo.
“While that seems correct, and in a way it is, there is more to it than that. Blocking a blow from a much stronger opponent, like we have just seen, isn’t just a matter of placing something in the path of the oncoming strike but to gain some advantage. In this sort of scenario we can be sure that our opponent will be standing, legs akimbo using all of his strength to bring about his overhead blow. When we see this, we know we have won this fight and it will be over momentarily.”
He flung the sword to the ground and grasped again his hammer that lay upon the hard packed earth of the square. He held it similarly to Melvekior, both hands upon the handle, horizontal to the ground, but bent at the knees as to be almost in a squat, the weapon held above his head.
“In this fashion, I have the entire strength of my body to aid me, but be sure to yield some and bend to let the force flow through you into the ground. Once the force has dissipated, in that very second, you leap to your feet,“ and he did so, one leg flailing out wildly, “kicking your opponent in his balls with all of your might. Not often lethal, but there won’t be much fight left in him.”
And thus it went, for hours. Daily. Bawdy language and constant references to that which is best left between a man and his wife. When he eventually tired of jokes he only half understood and objected he received a hearty, overpoweringly strong, slap to the back.
“Don’t be such a woman, Melv.” People calling him ‘Melv’ was becoming a habit. “In fact, my advice would be to take yourself along to one of the big cities and meet a woman to see how you compare.” This got a general laugh in the mess hall and the worst part was that he would color up immediately, his face burning. Crude badinage was the order of the day, very unlike what he had expected from a monastery and he gave as good as he got when it was mere insults. When the talk turned to the opposite sex and experiences thereof, he was utterly out of his depth.
Where he won respect was with his fighting abilities. His years of training made him seem naturally gifted and he was strong, not as strong as Hartlo or Ushatr, but certainly more so than the average. He developed quickly with his Heilig or giant hammer, after which the warrior priests were named. He found it much to his liking. Not as much as the sword, or even the short-handled horseman’s mace, but they all had their uses. He itched to test them in live combat, but couldn’t see when that would happen. There was peace in the Three Kingdoms at this time and he started wondering whether, once his current quest was finished, he would need to venture north, to the Malann Empire and sign-on with their vast war machine. Such concerns were far in the future and he needed first of all to meet his obligations to Ushatr to move on to the next stage of his plan.
He was fortunate in that he didn’t have to wait long.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Passing Out
“Me an’ Hestallr come from the same place. We are kin to the mountains; Mithras Himself molded us from the stone.” - Ushatr.
He’d been with the Brothers of the Hammer for three months and was grateful that no new supplicants had presented themselves. While he’d hardened with life in a barracks, he had no appetite for this sort of life on a long term basis and no desire to have to fight some hapless youth desperate for entrance.
At this halfway point he was eager to see what came next. He could leave now without enmity and still maintain his place in the fraternity, no matter Hjabandr’s scare tactics, but had promised that he’d stay another three months for a reason he didn’t know. Ushatr wouldn’t have pushed the issue without a reason and Melvekior wanted to know what that was. The Silver Bear had been absent for weeks now and was expected back on the day of Melvekior’s passing out. His three fellow initiates were to become acolytes on this day too. He’d formed close bonds with these men. Nuvian, the former slave of a Malannite merchant, Sweyn the farmer who’d lost his wife-to-be to disease and Randr, the former soldier who had nothing better to do. Their closeness developed merely through proximity and a shared sense of wanting to belong to something more than themselves. Their backgrounds were immaterial, their wealth, or lack thereof, inconsequential. All that mattered to the others was a desire to keep spirits up and be a ready support when Hartlo’s constant drilling became too mu
ch. Melvekior, who grew up knowing no different than hours of combat training daily, didn’t find the regime too difficult, but the others struggled mightily, especially Sweyn whose initial cockiness wore off rapidly. “Workin’ all day an’ all night,” didn’t prepare him a jot for the rigors of being drilled by the irreverent and utterly uncaring Hartlo. He was jolly and friendly, but showed an absolute lack of mercy.
The four of them would form a group called a Cardinus and at any time, at least one of them would be on watch. Whether they be resting or in mid melee, someone would be on alert ready to mitigate any risk. There were ten such groups within the monastery, some comprised of five members, but mostly, like Melvekior’s group, just the four.
The passing out ceremony was minor, only half a dozen other monks came to watch them ceremoniously handed their Heilige and their Halnir, the necklace that marked them as Knights of Mithras. The were named Brothers of the Hammer and a blessing was said over them by Ushatr . There was a light round of applause and then people wandered away disinterestedly. Unsure of what to do, they waited until their leader was finished talking with Hartlo, even he was towered over and dwarfed by the gray old man, at which time they were summoned into his rooms.
“So ye’ve passed out of yer training and here ye stand. There’s a long way to go before ye impress anyone in the Church but mayhap that’s not yer purpose.” They stood before his desk; for all his bluster and simple speech, Ushatr was a studious, almost intellectual man, but of course most people missed this. The times Melvekior had been in here he had been invited to sit but there was but one chair on this side of the plain desk, so it wouldn’t do for one of them to be seated while the others stood. There was something else different today though, he could feel it somehow.
Ushatr looked at him pointedly, he was sure of it, before continuing. “There is a matter suitable for a novice Cardinus such as yerselves, although I would understand if ye declined.” Melvekior looked to his side to see Nuvian looking at him curiously and the others also with brows slightly furrowed. Ushatr wasn’t the sort of person one declined nor did he often offer a choice. This piqued everyone’s interest.
“I am sure that we will embrace whatever task put before us, Lord,” said Melvekior.
“Wait until you hear what it is before you congratulate yerself on mindless bravado,” he frowned and then waved his hand. “Never mind. I’ve been away, in Summershade,” Melvekior startled at this, but kept quiet, “which, as ye may or may not know, was put to the flame some years ago after being discovered a plague town. Melvekior’s father led the group that evacuated the healthy and purged the infected.” All eyes were on him. “Now them stories might not be quite right. I’ve had a look, based on some information I had recently,” Melvekior expected to have to meet his gaze but Ushatr didn’t pause or look his way, “and found no signs of a plague, but found signs of something else…”
Although he knew what Ushatr’s next word would be, he found himself almost faint with the implications. Ushatr had taken him seriously, and searched for the truth behind his troubled childhood. The truths that everyone else in his life had hidden from him. He still felt, even at that juncture, and quite possibly would feel the same way for a long while, that there were more secrets. It was enough now though to hear the Silver Bear utter the word “Draugr.”
There was an astonished hush. Sweyn giggled slightly, but stopped rapidly when realizing that others were not and that this was no jest. Ushatr looked over at Sweyn and obviously thought better of admonishing him as he continued in the same tone, “I’d bet ye all a gobbit to a pinch of shite that there was no plague in the first instance, but some sort of uprising of the dead that we see from time to time. Tracado, a librarian in Stonehaven has done some research and feels that there is no coincidence but that he can predict when ‘twill occur.” This was plainly directed at Melvekior and he recognized it for what it was. A quest, but for when he didn’t know.
“You want us to visit Summershade and investigate further, Lord?” Melvekior asked.
“Yes. You will without doubt meet with some of the Draugr. You are to put them to rest. Mithras’s holy light, bound to your Heilige, will send them to the Hells that is their due. Should you return, you will be awarded acolyte status and be free to go or serve here as Sjabandr directs.”
They nodded their assent, their thoughts each somewhere different.
The big man stood, Melvekior always impressed by the sheer area of space he occupied and with him came a roll of parchment which he spread across the table. “Look closely. I have made a map.” The parchment was covered with charcoal lines and letters, his eyes instantly drawn to a simplistic skull and crossbones drawn near the center of the map.
“Lord, what is that there?” he asked pointing directly at the symbol.
“That’s yer target, that’s where the bodies are buried.” He laughed. None of them knew why and they didn’t join in.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Village of the Damned
“He knew what I would find. He sent me there to take my first steps towards the truth.” - Melvekior
The journey to Summershade was uneventful. All enjoyed the chance to be away from the monastery and stretch their legs. They were all dressed the same and to an observer they would appear to be exactly what they were. A heavily armed group of warrior monks.
Melvekior was the only one of them comfortable on horseback, the others with mixed experience of horses. Nuvian had none and the feel of it didn’t improve his mood, the belligerence one would expect from a former slave simmering just below the surface.
“I can’t help but feel that this is some sort of mission for you, Melvekior.” The hard-faced Northerner voiced half way through the first day, when the novelty of being out and about had worn off.
The weather had turned poor, moving as the year was towards its end. A light drizzle endeavored to soak them thoroughly and make caring for the chainmail suits they wore a more difficult chore. Saddle sores were beginning to rear their heads and boredom with the unchanging landscape of fields and small copses of trees was making all of them a little testy. Their mounts were no better, large pack horses, poorly trained, barely tolerating heavily armored riders and who had only one speed. Slow.
“Why can’t you help feeling that?” Melvekior was in no mood for half-insults.
“Your father was the one who burned the village, isn’t that right? Isn’t that too much of a coincidence? Why would Ushatr go to Summershade within a few weeks of you joining the Order? Too many questions, not enough answers.”
“Hmm, that’s a good point,” agreed Randr.
“A good point, my arse, unless you think that somehow I have sway over Ushatr. My presence may have spurred him to look into the history of the place, but that’s as far as my connection goes. Besides, do you have something better to do? Either of you?” There was no leader to this Cardinus, but if there were to be one, Melvekior would be it, despite his tender years. Unused to being commanded or downtrodden, he had the natural assertiveness of a man raised in a privileged position.
“Hmmph, nope. Not’n unless there’s a cathouse on the way that gives free ale to Brethren.” Randr rarely took offense, no matter how harsh the words.
Nuvian said nothing, merely gritted his teeth and set his jaw.
The group was quiet for the rest of the day, each with their own thoughts and nighttime saw them swapping bawdy stories and teasing Melvekior who was as yet utterly inexperienced in the ways of woman. None slept well, in fact they were all awake by an hour before dawn, moaning and cussing about their armor. They skipped breakfast, knowing that it wouldn’t be too long before they had to face their destination.
“What exactly is a Draugr, Melv?” Sweyn was the least worldly-wise of them all and he’d been the most quiet so far on the two day journey. Maybe he’d been mulling this about in his head.
“A risen corpse, Sweyn. I’ve seen only one and it looked like an old man, but the smell…” he p
ulled a disgusted face.
“You’ve seen one? Why didn’t you say this before?” Nuvian blurted.
“I was young, it was a long time ago.” Melvekior said feeling a bit silly. He probably should have told them this beforehand. “It tried to choke me in my bed. I had nightmares about it for years.”
“Nefun’s tits!” swore Nuvian, “I’m not surprised you didn’t tell us. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about them. You’ve got some stones being willing to face more of them.”
“I want answers, Nuvian, revenge.” Melvekior said suddenly realizing that he had years of pent-up aggression and helplessness to take out on something, or someone. Revenge seemed like the perfect idea right now. “The one that attacked me came from Summershade, my father and tutor knew him in life.”
“Fuck!” Nuvian spat, “That gives me a bit of steel in my blood. We’ll smash those dead bastards, Melv, don’t ye worry.” Following the example of Hartlo and Ushatr, they’d all taken to shortening his name.
“Aye,” agreed Randr, “I’d rather face the dead than the living. They ain’t got no families to miss ‘em and they won’t beg for them lives.” There was something there Melvekior thought, some story that Randr had yet to tell, but now wasn’t the time.
“That’s a boon,” replied Nuvian. “Though I was a slave and treated like a dog for years, killing my owner still keeps me awake. He was rich and deserved to die, but I wish it could have been by another’s hand. The risen dead, they’ve already had their allotted span. Mithras will bless us in this. For the Sun! For Mithras!”
“For the Sun! For Mithras!” echoed the Brethren with varying degrees of fervor. They made the remainder of the journey in silence.
It was midday when they came upon the first burned building. It was the shell of an inn. The Waysider. Nothing stood to tell them of that fact, but Ushatr had briefed them surprisingly thoroughly and had noted that they would pass by a burned coachman’s stop that went by that name. They could barely make out the lines of the stables and the burned timbers of the main building itself had been overgrown now by grass and broad leafed ivy. Nothing moved and there was nothing to see. From this point on however, an increasingly gloomy presence made itself clear. Were they all aware of this? Looking back Melvekior would say that he was and assumed the rest were also, but nothing was said at the time.
