Dragonhammer: Volume II

by Conner McCall

  Hralfar shakes his head.

  I grunt and open the drawer of the endtable, digging through the quills and empty parchment. “If he really loved her there’s got to be something that he kept around. Something that reminded him of her.”

  Finding nothing, I dart over the bed and to the other endtable, which proves equally as useless.

  The chest is full of worthless odds and ends like old clothes and a sword, with a few jewels.

  Frustrated, I grab the nearest object, which fortunately happens to be a pillow, and throw it across the room. As I reach for the next, however, I stop.

  “What is this?” I mutter, pulling on the corner of a piece of paper hardly visible beneath the next pillow.

  I hold an envelope. It is yellowing, but only just. Inside, I find a pile of letters folded neatly. “This is it,” I say. “That was much easier to find than I would have thought.”

  “Well that’s good,” says the Jarl, swatting a moth out of his face as he emerges from the wardrobe. “Give me a name.”

  I scan the tops of the letters and pick one of them addressed to Sythian. Sure enough, at the bottom is the signature that reads, Astrid.

  “Astrid,” I say.

  “No last name?” he asks.

  “We don’t need one,” I reply. “That should be enough.” I replace the letter and stick the entire bulging envelope into my pocket.

  The Jarl nods appreciatively but says, “You would think.”

  Gurbog looks at me darkly with an expectant glint in his eye. Do your worst, he is saying.

  I will, I reply silently.

  His tongue flicks from his lip and back into his mouth as I begin speaking.

  “How did she die?”

  “She died?” he questions with a grotesque smirk.

  “You know who I mean,” I reply coolly. “How did she go?”

  “Every way,” he sings highly.

  “Funny,” I remark. “I thought you had a little more respect for Astrid.”

  His expression flickers, but does not give way. “Astrid…” he says, shaking his head and looking at the floor. “No bell to ring there.”

  “Really,” says Hralfar, suddenly awoken by some memory that has stirred in his mind. “Astrid, the mother of your unborn son?”

  Sythian shifts his jaw uncomfortably. We’re getting close.

  “How did she die?” I ask again. “Stabbed in the back, perhaps?” My teeth clench and my grip tightens on the dagger sheathed on my right thigh. I catch myself and instead slip my hand into the pocket where I concealed the envelope.

  Sythian’s lips tighten and he stares at the floor.

  “Poisoned at dinner?”

  Sythian shakes his head. “Stop,” he says weakly.

  As I pace past him I draw the envelope out slowly. His eyes follow me, trying to pierce knives into me with their gaze.

  “Or, perhaps,” Hralfar suggests, “She was the victim of a seemingly random event, which in actuality was planned in its entirety, but for another person.” Hralfar looks at Sythian slyly. “But she got there first. Didn’t she, Gurbog?”

  “ENOUGH!” Sythian’s face is red and shaking. “Enough,” he chokes. He takes a deep breath. “Give me the letters.”

  “Why?” the Jarl asks sincerely. “So you can ruminate upon what might have been?”

  “Give them to me.”

  I flip through the letters in the open envelope. In the back I spot a small glint of gold that had not caught my eye before. With the slightest of smiles I reach in and pick up a small golden wedding band. Gurbog wears a matching one on his left hand.

  He sags and I know we have him.

  “Give it to me,” he says softly. “Please.”

  “Tell us the position and strength of your armies,” I say. “And then I’ll let you have it.”

  His face contorts. “You are cruel,” he growls.

  “And yet not as cruel as you,” I return.

  “I thought you were a man of honor!” Sythian shouts suddenly. “A man worthy of the praise you receive in-”

  I interrupt. “Do not speak to me of honor!” I roar angrily. “The last thing you will ever receive from anyone sane in the world is honor! You deserve nothing more than a long slow death in the fires of the underworld, and yet we keep you-”

  “CAPTAIN!” Hralfar bellows. My words die immediately and my breath releases slowly through my nose. “If you cannot contain yourself, I must ask you to leave!”

  I breathe in deeply and, glaring at Sythian, mutedly say, “I’m sorry, Jarl. I lost my temper.”

  “Apparently,” Genevieve says again.

  Carefully Hralfar walks to me and takes the envelope and ring from my hands. I let him, and my hands fall to my sides.

  “If you truly value her memory,” Hralfar says calmly, “You will tell us and we will allow you to take all that you have left of her.”

  Sythian says nothing.

  “If not…” Hralfar says, looking back at Sythian. He then moves towards one of the enormous stained-glass windows, and undoes a small latch on the right side. A square of the window pivots outward, allowing us to see the port and the ocean below. “I’m afraid no one will have anything to remember her by.”

  The Jarl’s fingers twirl the ring dangerously next to the window. Slowly his hand begins to move forward until the ring stands only in open air.

  “Amnigaddah!” Sythian suddenly expels loudly. Hralfar’s hand retracts, but he does not shut the window. “Amnigaddah,” the crippled man repeats, quieter.

  “And how strong?” the Jarl asks.

  “I don’t know,” Sythian says. His head droops to his chest. “They will attack Poalai.”

  Hralfar nods his approval. “Others,” he commands.

  “They are marching…” Gurbog begins. Then he looks up at the wall and shakes his head. “Why am I telling you this…?”

  Hralfar ignores the question. “Marching where?”

  “Big force. Center of Watervale, west of Corn Lake. Meaning to strike Widewater. Open the way to Venebor.”

  Hralfar nods again and shuts the window. Then he slips the ring into the envelope and says, “Let him out of the chair.”

  Guards untie his feet and lift him from the chair. His hands are still tied behind his back. Hralfar dutifully hands him the envelope, which he snatches away as savagely as he can, given the condition of his hands.

  Sythian glares at me from behind his matt of filthy black hair.

  “Come on,” I urge. “Let’s get this wretch back to his cell.”

  A guard takes him on each side and I follow them down the stairs. This time Gurbog says nothing the entire way down, or even when we shove him into his cell. The door locks. It’s not until I turn my back that he speaks.

  “I’m not done with you, Dragonhammer!” he shrieks. “I will have your head!”

  “Might want to come up with something else,” I reply. “You didn’t do that very well last time.”

  I can feel his glare on the back of my head until I turn around the corner and out of sight.

  Lessons with Ullrog

  Breakfast is unusually quiet the next morning. Having gotten tired of eating by myself in my room, I have decided to join the others out in the dining hall. Everyone seems to sense the tension in the air that originates from my solidified heart. That tension begins to release when I see Aela.

  Once again, I was trying to understand the knot of emotion that I have for her. Something evades me, like I lack a piece of the puzzle.

  She sits on my left side and I feel something flutter inside of me. That feeling still makes me uncomfortable, but I enjoy her presence.

  Conversation loosens as the air does likewise.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do with Sythian?” Aela asks casually.

  “We have to wait for word from Archeantus,” I reply darkly. “That’s ridiculous, I say. Best to not waste any time and rid ourselves of him. We’ve gotten the information.”

&n
bsp; “What else do they want?”

  “We don’t know. That’s the problem. He could be worth a lot to us, or nothing to us, but personally I think it’s the same alive or dead.”

  She nods and takes a bite of her ham.

  James picks at his food. This morning there are no jokes or wise cracks from him.

  Percival seems hardly to have changed, as he has a solemn personality in the first place, but he avoids eye contact. He mutters something about getting his laundry and James follows him up.

  Ullrog sits on my right side, saying nothing but eating enough to make up for it and then some. Aela pats my hand as she gets up to leave.

  Then it’s just me and the orc.

  “Gurnash, Khroll’verär,” he rumbles.

  I think for a moment. “Hello, Ullrog,” I reply softly.

  The corner of his lip turns up and he nods, but he says nothing else.

  “Ullrog,” I begin, drawing his attention. He looks at me with an eyebrow raised, as if wondering what the dingflies he could possibly do for me. He is even more surprised by the question that follows.

  “Could you teach me to speak your language?”

  He is astounded. His eyes widen and his bottom lip sticks out as he looks forward across the hall. He blinks deliberately. Then he grins broadly, his fangs protruding from his lips, and says, “Mkha Khroll’verär, thiem ur’khiar yehr thien shrakna.”

  I stare at him for a moment. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?”

  His chest bounces up and down as a low rumble emanates from his throat. He only laughs for a few seconds, and then translates his sentence. “Yes Dragonhammer. I teach you our tongue.”

  “Thank you, Ullrog,” I say.

  “You say, ‘Rheyoth’,” he commands.

  “Rheyoth,” I repeat.

  He nods as he says, “Freyash, Khroll'verär.” He continues, “My name orc tongue is Ullrog’bothoiëm.” He gestures for me to say it. I follow suit.

  “What does it mean?” I ask.

  He pauses. Then he says, “I teach later. Now you learn fork.” He proceeds to hold up a fork and give me the appropriate name.

  Most of the morning passes much in this way. Either he thinks of a word I should know or I think of something that would be nice to know. I am fascinated by the language and am eager to learn more, but finally Ullrog says. “Done today. More tomorrow.”

  I try not to let myself think of Gurbog sitting in the dungeon, sitting nice and safe in his little cell. If I do I may end up taking drastic action that may or may not end up badly for me and Jarl Hralfar.

  Aela is drawing again when I enter the barracks. She looks up as she watches me enter. Druam does the same, but looks down again quickly.

  “What are you drawing?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says, curving her charcoal in long strokes across the pad.

  I shake my head and leave her alone.

  For most of the afternoon I stand on the outside balcony. I stare over the forest and at the enormous mound on the delta where my brother lies. I’m sorry brother.

  My gaze drifts to the east, where the plains stretch to the horizon. Beyond the plains stand the Wolfpack Mountains, in the midst of which my father lies. Are you proud? I cannot feel his answer no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I push.

  I leave the balcony feeling emptier than I had when I got there.

  I pass Genevieve in the hall. “Captain,” she says.

  “Commander,” I reply.

  “Gurnash, thiem blaknie,” Ullrog greets as we sit at the table the next morning.

  ‘Gurnash’ I silently translate as ‘hello,’ and ‘thiem’ I recognize as the orcish word for ‘me’ or ‘I.’ “What is Blaknie?” I ask.

  He thinks for a moment. “Blaknie,” he says, “is… how do you say…” I wait patiently as he searches for the word. “Brother,” he decides. “But blood. Blood-brother.” He thinks again and corrects himself, “Blood-kin.”

  I nod and reply, “Gurnash, blaknie.”

  He begins laughing.

  I scrutinize him as if I can find what he’s laughing at. He notices my stare and says between chortles, “Your… how do you say…”

  “Accent?”

  He nods with a new flurry of laughter. When he calms down he says, “Thien ur’mollakh vor!” Then he takes a deep breath and translates, “We will work on that.”

  “What’s driving you to learn that language?” James asks later as we make our way to the barracks. Balgr’s Fall lacks training grounds, but each barracks has an appropriate area for indoor training. I shrug and he continues, “I don’t see a use for it. It’s not like you’re ever going to need it.”

  “Mostly it’s keeping my head off of Sythian,” I reply. “But you never know. It might come in handy to know the language sooner or later.”

  James shakes his head.

  I find myself wandering with all kinds of turmoil roiling between my ears. There is tension in every part of me, and not only physically. It’s as if my entire emotional structure has been stretched taut without a moment of rest, and the experience is mentally draining.

  I need a forge. I miss the fire beneath my blacksmith’s hammer, bending and shaping metal to my will. I miss the heat and the bellows, the sparks and the anvil. Working metal is a physical parallel to working out my own afflictions. And I have not had that opportunity in much too long.

  I cannot simply overtake one’s forge. They have lives as well. It would not be fair for me to suddenly take it, even if only for a few minutes.

  I snap out of my thoughts and find that I am stopped in the middle of the street, staring at an open forge. The man works next to a blazing fire encased in a tall ring of stone with a leather bellows sticking out of the side. A trough of water sits against the far wall. Red and orange lights dance from underneath his hammer, molding the glowing ingot into the desired shape. The forge sits in a pavilion that is open to the road, with only pillars on the corners of the roof. It is connected to a small building that I assume must be his home.

  I look away as I hear the hiss of the water when the hot metal is submerged. I glance back, and then continue on my way.

  Most of the next week passes in this way, and I wait in agony for Archeantus’s reply. I don’t know how the others can handle sitting still for so long.

  I sit at the desk in my room, pondering and alone, aside from the dinner plate that sits empty on the dark wood. A small journal lies open beneath my hand, which sits unmoving though a quill stands erect in it. The words that I have written are orcish, with their common translations next to them. I am writing a dictionary for my own benefit. It will speed my learning and allow me to look at past lessons.

  The quill is stopped halfway through the word ‘blaknie.’

  I look down, see the three and a half letters, shake the thoughts from my head, and force myself to finish the word. Ullrog has not yet taught me runes, but I will wait to learn those. I leave space on the side so I can add them in later.

  Without thinking, I look up at the Mohonri banner hanging lazily on the far wall. When I look back down, I find that the translation I have written is ‘Nathaniel.’

  Hot tears invade my eyes. I shake my head angrily and stalk to the window, where I glare at the setting sun. The sky and clouds around the glowing orb are shades of red, pink, and orange. A bright streak makes its way from the orb and down the gulf to the port, but it disappears, as do the colors, as the sun dips below the horizon.

  With a yell I kick the chair and it flies over the desk and across the room, landing with a crash on the far side.

  My door opens suddenly and a guard sticks his head in. He sees the crumpled wood of the chair on the far side, and then looks at me on the other side of the desk. “Everything alright, Captain?” he asks tentatively.

  “Fine,” I reply. “Everything’s fine.”

  He nods uncertainly and shuts the door. It clicks behind him.

  Without a chair to sit on, I stand an
d try to continue to write my dictionary. The sun has set, so I light a candle.

  I cannot concentrate. After every letter, my mind flicks to one road or another that eventually leads me back either to Sythian, Nathaniel, Father, or Aela. In frustration my hand covers my eyes and holds my temples. Then I hold the bridge of my nose. Unable to escape, I put out the candle and collapse into bed without bothering to change out of my tunic.

  Night of Shadows

  I wake when the bellow of a warhorn stabs my eardrums.

  “CAPTAIN!” a guard yells from outside. “CAPTAIN!”

  I’m already up and strapping on my armor, which I have kept in the wardrobe rather than the armory exactly for this reason. “Enter!” I command. Before the word is completely out of my mouth, the door slams the wall and several guards pour frantically into my room. “What’s the matter?” I ask coolly. “Where are they attacking from?”

  “Attack?” says one of them.

  “There is no attack,” the first specifies. “We have intruders. Enemies are here in the castle.”

  “Assassins?” I ask, striding out of the room and into the hall. The soldiers follow like ducklings.

  “We don’t know, sir. We just know that they are here.”

  My hammer swings dangerously at my side. “Well, let’s figure it out then,” I command. “Do we know where they are?” I stop and turn to face them.

  “They were sighted on the second level,” the soldier explains anxiously.

  “Any word from the Jarl?” I question.

  “None yet.”

  “Up we go,” I reply.

  The castle is awake. Men run up and down the halls, searching for those who are supposedly here with us.

  I lead my squad up a flight of stairs and straight through the hall. The Jarl’s chambers are just ahead.

  The doors suddenly bang open and a man dressed completely in black hits the wall of the hallway. Jarl Hralfar follows him out with his sword raised, wearing only a tunic and his pants.

  The man looks up as Jarl Hralfar picks him up by the throat and hits him against the wall. “Who are you?!” the Jarl barks.

  The man struggles for breath and scrabbles at the Jarl’s hand. Before Hralfar can get out another word, the man draws a needle-like dagger and stabs it through his own heart.