Dragonhammer: Volume I

by Conner McCall

  “To who?” she finally gets out.

  “A girl named Rachel. I don’t know her last name, but I met her and she’s really nice.”

  Mother nods. Then suddenly a tear runs down her cheek. “My Gunther… is getting married!” And then she hugs me and sobs into my shoulder. I’m assuming they’re tears of happiness, but I’m still second-guessing Gunther’s advice to get a girl.

  The she looks up at me and smiles like I’m the one getting married. “When?”

  “In a few weeks. I don’t know the exact date.”

  “So I can begin to expect grandchildren…” She starts to look a little faint, so I go to put my arm around her. That’s exactly what she does, however: faint. I put her in her bed and go to the kitchen to fill my stomach.

  When Father comes home, he greets me with a pat and asks me how the trip went. I decide to let Mother tell him about Gunther’s engagement, and just say it went well.

  Mother makes the announcement at dinner.

  Everybody is shocked. I can’t believe that they’re speechless because Gunther was bound to get married sometime, the strong young man that he is.

  I wake up and milk Ann, the brown cow in our little shed. It’s usually what Nathaniel’s supposed to do, but since it’s his birthday I decided to let him have the day off.

  We have breakfast as a family and decide to do Nathaniel’s celebration before Father and I have to go work in the forge. Nathaniel appreciates the blanket, saying “Thanks! My old one’s been through way too much. If it had any more holes, it would only be a wad of stitching!”

  Nathaniel just about falls over when he sees the knife I have made for him. “You made this?”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “I don’t think you’ve done any work before that’s this good!”

  “Thanks,” I say lamely.

  Just a few minutes later, Father and I head for the forge.

  We’re quiet. Leon’s knives are almost done, and the less talking we do, the more work we do. The sounds made in the forge are some of the best in my opinion.

  “When are you leaving tomorrow?” asks Father.

  It takes me a few seconds to realize that I’m going hunting with Nathaniel tomorrow. “Probably as soon as we get up. That way, we can get to the Redwood Forest by noon.”

  “That quickly?”

  “We’ve done it before.”

  “That’s a fast trip. Good luck hunting; I hear good hunting is hard to come across. Tygnar must be hunting the animals down.”

  “Tygnar doesn’t reach to the Redwood Forest.”

  “True…” A while later he says, “I appreciate you going with Nathaniel. He’s always loved hunting, but it’s not what I do. I can strike with a hammer but can’t hit the side of our house with a bow and arrow.” He smiles at me, his facial hair hiding it slightly from view. “But you are multitalented, Kadmus. You can work fine material in the forge. You can shoot with a bow. You’re a great knife thrower. You are compassionate and humble.” He nods at me. “I am blessed to have such a son.”

  I have no idea what to say, but he doesn’t expect me to say anything. He just goes back to his project. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  The next morning Nathaniel and I leave early. We’ve got enough food with us to last us a couple of days at least, but if we’re successful we can stay out for even longer. Nicholas and Ethan are supposed to cover our chores, but no guarantees.

  Nathaniel is excited to use the new knife I have given him. He talks ecstatically about how he is going to gut various animals with it, but I only listen half-heartedly. Despite how much I care for my brother, I’m not one for hunting and ripping the guts out of animals.

  The road stops long before it reaches the forest, but the river doesn’t. The Fravora guides us at a steady downward grade until we reach the edge of the forest, where it cuts a path through the trees into the heart of the woodland. We stop in this familiar spot to eat lunch, and I end up studying the area. Grasses are starting to gain color as the day and the season wax on, and they contrast sharply with the rocks that line the river sporadically. Some trees stand apart from the main body of forest in a feeble attempt to gradually introduce the forest to the landscape.

  I’m not much of a hunter, so once we enter the forest, I follow Nathaniel and try not to make any noise. He leads me for a little while without any luck, which isn’t really surprising because most of the good animals are towards the middle of the forest. I snap a branch accidentally and he gives me a little glare. I mouth, “Sorry,” to him, and we move on.

  We stay relatively close to the Fravora, but always keep in mind which direction we come from. If we ever get lost, which has happened before, then all we need to do is find the river. It’s our compass in this forest.

  Nathaniel, his bow strung, moves quieter and with more graceful, precise movements. This suggests that he has seen something, so I copy him.

  Suddenly, in one motion, he draws an arrow, nocks it, and shoots it through the eye of an animal twenty yards away.

  The rabbit doesn’t so much as squeak. It’s just a little one, but I’m a fan of rabbit stew and the fur usually sells alright.

  Nathaniel strings it to his backpack by the foot, and leads us deeper into the wood.

  The trees are getting taller, and soon they loom so high over me that I think they must be mountains. I try to wrap my arms around one, but only come around about a quarter of the way. The deciduous leaves block sunlight from the ground, so only pockets of the golden stuff make it to the dirt. Normal pine trees seem to be a little jealous of the height of the enormous redwoods.

  Fallen pine needles, pinecones, and some rocks litter the ground. Shrubs, ferns, and smaller trees provide cover for undersized animals, but Nathaniel can’t detect any. When he does, it usually ends up startling him or getting away.

  We walk over a tree that must have died and rotted until it fell over. Most of it remains intact, but parts of it are crumbling open to reveal the softening red insides of the gargantuan tree.

  Inside one of the rotting cracks in the tree, I hear buzzing.

  Both of us freeze. Nathaniel looks at me and I whisper, “Dingflies.”

  Dingflies are ugly little insects that nest in colonies, like bees. They have their own little society and act almost just like bees. But they can’t defend themselves.

  Dingflies can’t bite. They can’t sting. They can’t scratch. It’s pathetic really. The worst they can do is buzz around your face and get into places they shouldn’t, which includes… well, never mind.

  The little purple bugs are named because they look like flies, but also because of the sound their nest makes when you hit it. Some use it as an instrument and have figured out how to fluctuate the tone produced, but nobody can figure out why it makes such a sound.

  The only reason we want to steer clear of them is because once they lock on to our food, they won’t let it get away until it’s gone or they’re dead.

  A few dingflies surface from the rotting tree, but we pass quietly and they leave us alone.

  After another two hours pass, I know that the rabbit was a lucky shot. Nathaniel has missed two small mammals, one of them by a mile, and scared off another. At the moment he’s on the trail of a deer, which we’re following intently.

  It’s no surprise that the trail is headed towards the river. I’m glad because I want to take a break and splash my face a little, half hoping that we mysteriously lose the deer’s trail.

  Once we reach the river, Nathaniel has no idea where the deer has gone. The river is wide at this point, and a rock outcrop juts about a quarter of the distance outward. Rapids crash by just under the point, made all the more violent by more rocks and boulders sticking up out of the water. A large log sticks out at an odd angle. White water is everywhere. There’s no way the deer could have crossed, but where else could it have gone?

  I manage to persuade Nathaniel that we need to set up camp. Despite the quickly darkening
sky, he wants to keep going. I forbid it.

  Nathaniel is happy to use his new knife and skins the rabbit before it rots. Then we cook the meat and share it around the fire with some bread, finally going to bed afterward.

  We wake early. The fire still smolders weakly, but I dump some water on it anyway. Then I dig around in my pack and find some rope. I twist, tie, and lay it out until I have set a formidable trap. I repeat the process twice, and then we leave the campsite.

  This day goes much the same as the last. But today I get out my throwing knives and hold one ready, determined to get at least one thing with only a knife.

  My chance comes when a large pheasant-like bird perches on a branch next to us. It’s an ugly thing and is just about to scream us a lullaby when my knife cuts it short.

  I’m very satisfied with my bird and decide to keep some of the longer feathers to put on arrows.

  We try to stay in the cover of thicker thickets, but with the trees as large as they are, good cover is sometimes hard to come by. Aside from my bird, today we are unlucky.

  We camp at the same rock outcrop over the river, but don’t dare sleep over the angry Fravora. We sleep on the shore, safe and sound. My bird proves tasty, and my traps prove empty and unsprung.

  In the morning we consider crossing the river but quickly decide against it. It bothers me that we haven’t seen anything larger yet. Usually by now we will have at least spotted a deer or a bear, but I’m not at all eager to encounter the latter. I think that they might be on the other side; the height of the water suggests otherwise.

  Nathaniel shoots two birds the following day. To make it even better, I find that two of my traps have caught me a rabbit each. Our luck starts to pick up.

  We eat only one of the birds, but pluck the other and skin the rabbits. We fillet the meat and package it carefully with prepared bags, and then put it in our packs. It won’t last long, so we’ll either have to eat it quickly or head home. We decide to eat the other bird.

  When we wake the next morning, I feel something is a little different. It’s not the air. Not my clothes. Not my hair. Not my pack.

  I ask Nathaniel if he notices anything, but he asks me what I’m talking about and continues moving. I shrug off the feeling and it goes away.

  Finally, we see one. A deer. It’s a buck with a good-sized rack, and it stands tall. But there’s another: a doe. It’s rather small, and a good distance away from the buck. Nathaniel nocks an arrow and takes aim.

  I see a funny movement out of the corner of my eye. As soon as I turn to see, Nathaniel fires. The doe bounds across the clearing and the arrow enters her side; the buck takes off into the trees before I can blink.

  Nathaniel gives me a look. “What were you looking at?”

  “The doe,” I answer. “It was running at the buck.” I look at where the doe fell. “Why’d you shoot the doe?”

  “You distracted me! I was aiming for the buck!”

  “You’re that easily distracted?”

  “Apparently.”

  I stare at him. “Well,” I say, “at least you got something.”

  He nods and says, “Come help me get it.”

  It’s just a little doe, so both of us grab an end and carry it without too much trouble. But by the time we make it to the Fravora, we’re exhausted.

  After a minute or two of rest, we get to work. Using my trap ropes, we lash some smaller logs together and make some sort of crude makeshift sled. Then we work quickly on the deer, readying it for travel and getting rid of its insides. We have to start home quickly, before the doe spoils.

  We take turns pulling the sled like a handcart. It doesn’t take us too long, though the trip home is obviously longer than the trip there.

  Once we get home, Nathaniel takes the deer to the shed to skin it. He prefers to butcher his own meats instead of paying the butcher to do it. I help him with the whole process, and then set about the drying and salting. It takes multiple hours.

  It’s a good thing we got home when we did. If we had been a day later, our family would not have been there to greet us.

  THe War Comes to Us

  A loud crack starts me awake and I shoot out of bed. Outside of my window I hear yells but when I go to investigate, my father roars “WAKE! ATTACK!”

  I throw myself away from the window and dress in record time, then rocket down the ladder (because my room doubles as the attic) and into the den where my Father was yelling from. Mother is there with him, and my brothers quickly follow. I smell and hear fire, and outside there’s an eerie orange glow.

  “What’s going on?!” Nathaniel yells.

  “Bandits,” says Father. He’s holding his old sword, a great steel claymore he made for himself many years before. Normally it hangs above our fireplace, but now he holds it ready. “Kadmus, come with me. Everyone else stay here. Get into the cellar and lock the trapdoor. You will be safe there.”

  No one moves.

  “NOW!” Father commands. “Kadmus, get your throwing knives.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, get them!”

  I run back into my room and grab my five throwing knives, sticking them into little loops on my belt. When I come back down, Father is coming out of the cellar. He hands me a sword, saying, “You will need this.” Then he helps my three brothers and Mother into the cellar. He hands Nathaniel a sword similar to mine and commands, “Nathaniel, if anybody aside from me or Kadmus comes in this house you will use this. Do you understand me?” He is speechless. “Do you understand me?” Nathaniel nods slowly. “Good. Stay here until I return.” Then he shuts the trapdoor and locks it.

  “Kadmus,” he says, resting his hand on my shoulder. “These people will try to kill you and your friends. We cannot let that happen. You have to use this. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now follow me.” We exit the house and lock the door behind us.

  There’s fire. Screaming. Clanging, yells of men.

  I run down the hill, close behind my father, holding the sword in my right hand while my left hovers over my throwing knives. The stars are still out; it must be hours until dawn.

  It’s not until we get into town that we see people. Townspeople run screaming. My father cuts down a shadowy figure and we keep running. “Bownan!” he yells. “Leon!”

  Another few figures come down the street at us. Father puts them down with ease. Suddenly one jumps at me from a side alley, and I stumble back in fright. My father gets him from the back and says, “Come on Kadmus!”

  “Bownan!” he yells again. “Leon!” A reply comes from behind a nearby building, which I recognize as Leon’s butcher shop. We make our way there, where we see Leon and Bownan each with their own sword, cutting through the bandits. They are accompanied by two guards.

  “How many are there?” asks Father.

  “We don’t know!” answers Bownan, his beard shaking.

  “Too many!” replies Leon.

  One of the guards responds, “Enough to stretch all of our forces across the town.”

  “Where’s Captain Ruger?”

  The second guard says, “We don’t know. He gave orders and then ran to the bridge with some of our men.”

  Percival and his father, Darius, appear out of the smoke. Both are holding bows.

  Darius speaks to my Father, “They came from the south, over the bridge. They’ve taken the tower there and are shooting from it, killing anyone they can!”

  “Who are they?” he asks.

  “We don’t know; their armor is different from any I’ve seen before.”

  “We need to know their numbers,” says Bownan. “If there are only a few, we can stand our ground and fight. If there are many, we must fall back and fight elsewhere.”

  “Or retreat,” says Leon.

  Jericho, a tall skinny boy my age, appears with his father. His black hair is speckled with ash and his brown eyes dart perceptively over everything. I nod to him, and he nods back. Formal
hellos are for another time.

  “Darius,” says my father. “The old tower to the north. It has the war horn inside, at the peak. From there you can see their numbers. One blow for less than fifty. Two blows for one hundred. Three for anything more.”

  Darius obeys without question. “Come, Percival!” Percival nods to me and then follows his father back up the street.

  “What of us?” says Leon.

  “We go to the town square,” says my Father. “Get the women and children safe.”

  With that we take off at a sprint, the guards close behind.

  Bandits pop out of almost every alley. Too often we pass the unmoving body of an innocent, slaughtered in cold blood. With every one we pass, my blood boils a little hotter. Men join our band, each bearing their own sword.

  Once in the town square, we split into pairs; me and my father, Jericho and his father, and Leon and Bownan. “Find and gather as many people as you can! Return here!”

  My father turns and kills another bandit. As of yet, I have not even swung my sword.

  Together we make our way down the street, helping the men in their fights and making sure women and children are safe in their homes. In only minutes we return to the town square with a band almost thirty strong, and Leon and Bownan have done the same. About fifteen additional guards have joined us.

  “Where have they gone?” asks Father.

  Everyone looks about warily. “Have we won?” asks one of the men.

  “Where have they gone…?” Father growls.

  Some of them appear out of the darkness and into the street; at least twenty. Then more. Then we hear the horn blow.

  It’s a loud, baritone horn. The sound has a bit of a rattle in it, but a constant pure tone.

  The bandits are set back slightly. The first ends and a few long seconds pass. Then it blows again.

  My father’s face hardens. “One hundred strong…” he mutters. “Where did you come from?”

  The bandits are overcoming their fear of the horn, and they begin a charge down the street at our force in the village square. To our terror, the horn blows a third time.