Dragonhammer: Volume II

by Conner McCall

  The Barrows

  Tears line my eyes as I prepare to write what will be the most heart-wrenching letter in all of my life. Without knowing what I will say, I begin.

  Mother,

  The war is going well. We have taken the port city Balgr’s Fall, which will slow Diagrall’s trade and weaken them economically. We will now move to the west and give Diagrall battle in Watervale to drive them from our lands.

  No one wishes to be the bearer of bad news. Regrettably everyone at some time or another is forced to face the truth and tell another of their mistakes and the consequences thereof. I am sorry to say that only one of your sons is writing to you in this letter. I failed to protect him the way I promised him I would. Because of that mistake Nathaniel will not be returning home.

  My heart is heavy. I wish I could spare the time to tell you these things in person, but I cannot. My place is here, as was Nathaniel’s. Know that he died bravely in battle, and met his death with honor.

  He is to be buried here, in the Delta Barrows just south of Balgr’s Fall.

  I will continue to fight. Nathaniel’s killer escaped and it is my duty to avenge your son. I am Dragonhammer. I will not fail.

  Send my love to Rachel and Gunther, as well as Nicholas and Ethan. Gunther needs to know. It may be best to let Nicholas and Ethan stay in the dark.

  I love you mother.

  Kadmus Armstrong

  I read it through. Then I fold it and stone-faced place it into an envelope, on which I write my mother’s name. The messenger takes the envelope reverently, treating it as if it’s a holy relic from some age long past. “Captain,” he says respectfully. I only nod.

  Most, if not all of our dead, were to be placed in mass grave sites, known as barrows, to the south of the city, without proper coffins or embalming. I was able to gain special privileges for my brother. He will get a place of honor within one of the barrows with his own coffin of stone.

  Aela hasn’t so much as looked at me since last night, after my brother was killed. The others have left me alone, and wisely so.

  As the messenger leaves, I hear a thud and an immense figure stands at the door. Without waiting for my approval he enters.

  “Ullrog,” I greet. “What do you need?”

  “Not I need,” he rumbles. “What you need.”

  I give him a curious look and he sits down at the desk next to me. “You lose brother,” he says softly. I nod. He pulls the amulet from behind his shirt and cradles it in his enormous hand, studying it like he has so many times before. “I lose brother too,” he says.

  I nod again and stare at the amulet. “Did he give you that?”

  Slowly the orc’s head moves up and down. “Yes,” he growls. “He give me.”

  There’s a moment of silence. “How?” I ask.

  The orc’s expression contorts. “What?”

  “How did he die?” I clarify.

  Ullrog shakes his head. “Kill,” he finally says.

  Before he tucks the amulet behind his shirt, I am able to make out a large ‘S’ sort of shape on the rectangular object. Beside it are other symbols, so the whole object is filled with lines of every shape and size. Then it goes out of sight.

  “I am sorry,” the orc says. Behind his eyes I see something much more than the simple word, “kill.” There is an inferno raging behind his calm composure, but I cannot tell what started the fire or what it has used as fuel. Then he lifts himself from the chair and leaves.

  Who are you? I wonder.

  A familiar voice sounds from the hall outside. I dismiss it and think, No. There’s no way it’s him. Why would he be here?

  “…I was told he’d be down this way,” says the voice.

  “Just in there,” a soldier replies. “Best to let him be.”

  The person ignores the last part and knocks on the frame of my open door.

  “Frederick,” I whisper in disbelief.

  “May I come in?” says the old monk.

  “Of course,” I reply, standing to meet him. “Come in.”

  His usually jolly nature has become solemn, but his eyes emanate even more kindness than I can remember.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Let’s just say… that I know how to be in the right place at the right time.”

  I ignore his cryptic remark. “You know about…”

  “Yes, Kadmus. I do.”

  He pulls me into an embrace and I am powerless to avoid it. “Why?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know,” answers the monk. His hood is pulled back, revealing a frizzy white horseshoe of hair above his ears and the back of his head. “I don’t know.”

  I sit down again and he says, “I’m truly sorry, Kadmus.”

  “So am I,” I answer.

  Frederick takes a deep breath. “You know,” he begins. “If I’m having a tough time… there’s one thing I do that seems to help. I don’t know if it will help you, but you can give it a try.”

  “What?” My tone is monotonous and harsh.

  “Write a poem.” Immediately my gut turns over, but thankfully I am able to stop my nose from twitching. “Pour your feelings into words and write them as they come. Just an idea.”

  I nod. “Thanks, Frederick.”

  “I guess I’ll… let you alone. You seem to need it.”

  Without saying another word he leaves.

  Not writing a poem.

  Why not?

  Writing’s not me.

  How do you know? You never have before.

  Exactly.

  Frederick says it works.

  I look down at the desk and shake my head, eyeing the quill and inkwell next to the blank parchment.

  That’s Frederick. He’s a crazy old monk; anything probably works for him.

  My brother is dead!

  I stare at the floor and close my eyes. My brother is dead.

  I mull over the words again and feel a spike drive itself into my heart. A maw sits in the center, dug by the death of my father and now the death of my brother. A hollow void that cannot be filled.

  For him it is over, I realize. He no longer feels pain. He is finally safe.

  I feel a peculiar object in my pocket. Slowly I withdraw it and study the item lying in my palm.

  It’s a wooden statue.

  I am unable to examine the fine woodwork my brother had done. Without my consent my fist closes around it and my eyelids clamp shut, holding back the water that would flow freely. Then I stand the figure on the desk.

  I look behind me, as if to see if someone were watching. I get up and close the door. Then I pick up the quill.

  I am unsure how the words find themselves on the parchment. I do not recall thinking at all for the few minutes I am writing. I look down and find a poem.

  Reading it, I shake my head and rise. I exit the room with tears in my eyes, leaving the poem on the desk. Frederick seems to want to say something as I pass, but decides against it and proceeds into the room.

  “How long until the march?” Percival asks. He, of course, is referring to the time when all who wish to mourn for the deceased will march with the dead to the barrows.

  We stand on a porch high up on the castle, overlooking the port and the ocean. I watch birds dive for fish and waves beat back the sand.

  “Not long,” I reply. “We will not want to waste time that we can spend marching onward.”

  “It is not wasted time,” Percival says. “It is necessary. You must take time to grieve.”

  I listen to his words of wisdom and reply, “Perhaps.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “I’m sorry,” Percival says. “I’m sorry…”

  I nod.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I look out over the port. The urge to jump invades my mind, but I push it out without giving it a second thought. I am no coward.

  “You’ve done all you can,” I reply. “That’s more than I require.”

  Jarl Hra
lfar stands at the head of the march, as is customary. I walk behind him as one of the bearers of Nathaniel’s body. My brother lies on a wicker pallet created quickly and specifically for transport, with a white linen sheet covering his body. James, Percival, and Ullrog carry the pallet on the other three corners. Aela walks next to me. Frederick walks just behind the body.

  This march is different than my father’s. The level of grief is doubled, as I am reminded vividly of my father’s death as well as Nathaniel’s. This time, however, I do not feel the sadness threatening to pour from my eyes. Rather, my heart turns to steel and I simply walk.

  The dirt road leads us straight from the gate of Balgr’s Fall to the delta upon which the barrows have been built. Each island in the delta is home to a monstrous barrow, separated by small rivers that either run into each other or the ocean. Trees stand in the space between the delta and the port, making for a nice change of scenery, if a small one at that.

  We cross a short stone bridge and march around one barrow, and then continue onward across another river. Some of the men branch off into different barrows.

  We cross one more river and onto the largest island, home to the biggest barrow. It’s an enormous hill with stone pillars atop it, but we are not concerned with the top. We are concerned with the inside.

  We carry the casket down some stairs and into a hallway. Genevieve lights the torches. The ancient door at the end creaks as it opens, and we enter the dark tomb.

  As we begin to walk through the halls of the crypt, I notice graves on every wall in every hall. They are stacked sideways on shelves of stone from about waist-height to the ceiling, so there are three graves on top of each other.

  The air is clear, cool, and comfortable. I infer that there must be some sort of ventilation shaft that clears the air.

  Suddenly the men in the back begin to sing.

  I am startled and turn to see who. Then I realize that there are women with them. It seems as though the Jarl brought a choir.

  I struggle to understand the words, but it takes me a line or two to realize that they are not singing in the common language. They are singing in the ancient tongue.

  Frederick gives me a look. “Do you know this piece?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “It’s beautiful,” I remark.

  “This was a piece I wrote,” Frederick explains. “But I could not find lyrics until today.”

  “Where?”

  He gives me the look again. “The ancient tongue is more reverent than the common language. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  He seems startled. “Because you wrote it.”

  I am taken aback and listen to the piece with extra effort, mouthing the words of my poem as the choir sings in the ancient tongue.

  From the fire,

  From the swords,

  You are safe

  From Danger.

  Though from life,

  Brutally severed,

  Peace my brother,

  Sleep Ever.

  The Jarl leads us to the right and then the left, where we climb some stairs. When our company reaches the top, he continues down the tunnel and takes another left. Halfway down this hall, he stops.

  “This is the spot,” he says, gesturing to an empty slot in the wall.

  Carefully we set the pallet on the ground. I take a deep breath. Then I remove the sheet.

  Escape from fire,

  Escape from swords,

  None can touch

  or hurt thee.

  Death find thee

  Thought I never.

  Peace my brother,

  Sleep Ever.

  Nathaniel lies serenely on the wicker pallet. Together Percival and I lift the pallet and place him softly in the space designated by the Jarl. He holds his dagger. The one I had made for him.

  Frederick steps forward and offers a dedicatory prayer upon the grave. Let him rest. Let him be at peace. Let him have happiness. Let us see him in the afterlife.

  James places Nathaniel’s hammer at his side in the slot. It lies sadly next to its unmoving owner. I hesitate to replace the linen cloth. I study his face. He is peaceful, as if he is sleeping and could wake at any moment. Slowly I move forward and look into his closed eyes. “I’m sorry brother,” I whisper. Lightly I brush my lips on his forehead. “I love you.” I wait for him to answer me. He does not. Then I replace the sheet. His nose and brow prop the sheet up prominently and I am reminded of times when we would play hide-and-go-seek as children, and he would hide beneath our parents’ blanket.

  I say nothing as we lift the stone that will seal him away from us. It takes all four of us to lift the heavy block, though it is thin. I watch my brother’s body disappear behind the stone.

  The block fits perfectly into the slot and with a scrape it locks into place. On it are engraved the words:

  Nathaniel Armstrong

  Warrior, Brother, and Son

  I glare at the inscription and listen to the music. I am suddenly hit by a wave of remorse that threatens to drop me to the floor. The realization that I will never see him again is stronger than any warrior I have ever faced. Over and over again I read his name as if it will somehow bring his body from behind the stone and revive him. My eyes well.

  The others begin to leave, but the choir stays. Percival rests his hand on my shoulder as he follows the Jarl down the hall. Aela looks at me sadly and almost says something, but decides against it and stares at the floor.

  Peace my brother,

  Sleep Ever.

  A single tear falls from my right eye as the choir finishes. The tear hits my hand and I lift my hand up to my face to examine the small streak of water, as if I have never seen one before. The drop hangs from my first finger. My hand begins to shake. Quickly it becomes uncontrollable and I fling the tear from my hand as hard as I can. My knuckles turn white as my hands clench and the quivering moves to my arms. My jaw tenses and my chest rises. Without my permission, my hands draw my hammer from my back and I turn to exit the hall. One name blares at me in my head. He won’t just die. He will suffer.

  Sythian.

  A Talk with Aela

  I don’t bother to step foot into the city; I linger alone in the forest.

  My hammer hangs by my side, ready for use. Silently it begs me to wield it. Smash something, it says. Anything.

  I look up at the sky through the canopy of leaves. It’s overcast. Rain might come upon us soon. I don’t care.

  My eyes close and I tilt my head forward. I take a deep breath. Slowly my eyes open and I focus on the thick trunk of the tree in front of me. Then my hammer swings.

  My breathing quickens and my heart races. Branches break and my joints jar. Once again I find myself in the tower of Balgr’s Bastion the night before, surrounded by tens of men commanded to take my life.

  Energy in the form of wrath pumps through every section of my body. Bark flies. No soldier falls. The trees are too thick.

  My teeth are clenched and my breath hisses loudly through them.

  Why him? I scream inside. Why? WHY?!

  The spike sticks into a bough and I wrench it out, throwing the weight at another innocent tree.

  Because you weren’t good enough. You were stupid. You made the wrong decision.

  With a yell I slam another bough and a flock of birds flies away squawking.

  You need to be stronger. Faster. Smarter. If you were stronger this wouldn’t have happened. He would be alive.

  I am in the stone halls. I hear the chaos of fighting. The walls and floor are grey. A carpet the color of blood leads up the middle.

  If only you were stronger.

  Every tree becomes an effigy of Sythian. His face laughs at me from every direction, blood staining his teeth and dripping from his chin. One of them seems scared. As my hammer swings he draws his sword, but I hit it away and he is unable to hold on. Then I see Aela.

  I’m standing in the green forest. My hammer is raised beside me, r
eady to unleash a killing blow.

  Aela sits in front of me as if she fell there. Her hand is raised like it will protect her from my weapon. She squints at me timidly. Her sword gleams from across the clearing.

  In horror I drop my hammer. It thumps into the dirt softly. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, helping her up.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks quietly.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I reply, lifting my hammer.

  She nods and says nothing.

  Irritated, I move to another tree and prepare to throw my weapon in a mighty arc. Then she says, “It was horrible.”

  I’m surprised. “What are you talking about?” I ask harshly.

  She gives me a you-should-know-what-I’m-talking-about look. When I don’t respond, she stares at her feet and says softly, “The orphanage.”

  I nod and say, “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  She steps forward and answers, “Because I think there’s something you need to get off of your chest.”

  I hesitate. “Have something in mind?”

  “You loved him.”

  “Of course. He’s my brother.”

  She inches forward. Delicately with a voice soft as silk she says, “You feel responsible?”

  I don’t answer.

  “You’re not to blame, Kadmus,” she comforts. “You did everything you could.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes,” she replies. Stronger she continues, “You did everything you could to save your brother.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” I whisper. She struggles to find something to say. “I wasn’t good enough,” I continue. “I couldn’t do it.” My voice falters.

  “You are the strongest man I know, Kadmus,” she states. “If you couldn’t do it then no one could.”

  “I told him I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.” She is silent. “I never got to say goodbye.” As I say those words I feel the hole in my heart solidify as if a testament to my guilt. I am unable to soften it, as I was unable to save Nathaniel.