Dragonhammer: Volume I (2 page)

“How are you, Frederick?”

“Same old, Kadmus.  He has a small smile on underneath his old, somewhat hooked nose.  His eyes are aged and tired, but very kind.  He’s bald, but at the moment his dark hood is up.  He’s a little hunched over, which makes him appear smaller than he already is.  His eyebrows are light and unaccented.  “Have you heard from Gunther lately?”

“No, not for the past week.  Last I heard though, he was quite successfully running his own forge in Terrace.  He’s built his own home and he’s happy.  Ethan and I are going to go see him tomorrow.”

“Good!” he nods vigorously.  “Good!  I look forward to your report!”  He punches me in the shoulder much harder than I would have thought possible for a man his age.  “Give that to your brother for me, would you?”  His smile has become slightly mischievous.  “For keeping your mother waiting for grandchildren!”  He chuckles as he turns away.  “Got to go!  Send my regards to your parents!”

His form shuffles quickly away and into another door, but he winks at me before he disappears.

The sun has already begun to disappear behind the mountains to the west.  The air starts to lose some of the little warmth it has, and the sky turns orange, spotted with clouds of dark grey and blue.  The mountains have become dark silhouettes, ominous shadows in the sky.

I hurry back up the road.  My home sits at the top of the hill, at the root of one of the closest mountains, so it will take a few minutes to walk.  I pass the forge and check the door.  It’s locked, which means my father has already left.

A guard passes by.  No words are exchanged; we simply nod to each other.  There are only a few of them here.  The recent events in the war have made us take precautions, and one of those precautions is the guard.  It’s a small company of trained men, headed by Captain Ruger, who take turns patrolling the roads that lead in and out of the small city.  I’ve only seen the Captain out and about on rare occasions; usually he wanes time away in the guardhouse drinking wine or doing who-knows-what.  One of them always stays in the top of the watch tower to the north, where there sits a large war horn built into the tower.  Most people, the guards included, think the whole ordeal unnecessary because we have been left out of the war for the few months it’s been going on.

I pass a small house, round a corner, and find my ears pleased to recognize the sound of rushing water:  the Fravora River.  Within minutes I am walking beside the river, staring into its churning depths.  Various rocks and boulders bar the water’s way, but it blasts over them in waves with power I haven’t seen matched.  As I walk farther upstream, I find small eddies and pools where the water is calmer and many small fish are taking shelter.  They wriggle away as my shadow crosses the rippling water.  Color waves across their small panicking bodies until they hide under a protruding rock, where they become dull.

Not far ahead of the pool, the large river crashes down a series of waterfalls.  Evanescent mists spray from the rocks and curl from the falls themselves, creating a fantastic feeling that I’m in some sort of magical forest.  My attention must turn to the road, however, as the path winds up a steep incline next to the waterfalls.

It looks even more amazing from the top of the climb.  There are four falls, but two of them are so close together that I can’t tell if they’re together or apart.  Each pours into a small, wildly roiling pool, only to have that pool empty over the next waterfall.  This continues until, of course, the water reaches the last pool and continues off beside the town, winding into the Redwood Forest a league or two away.  Though it seems long, my brother Nathaniel and I can make the trip to the forest in about half a day.

An enormous pile of green moss across the river catches my attention, and I notice it hangs over the falls.  Similar piles layer themselves all over the rocks in or around the water, drooping lazily over almost every drop.

The grass is green.  Not just any normal green; it’s a dark, deep green.  The sun’s last rays are shining just over the tops of the craggy peaks of the Wolfpack Mountains, turning the immediate sky orange.  The orange slowly fades to cavernous indigo full of millions of tiny, sharp points of light.

I remember that Mother is waiting for me and hurry along my way, thinking about all sorts of appetizing dinners that could be on the table tonight.  Since we’re going to Terrace tomorrow, my mother would want to fill us with something quite substantial.

As I leave the town, the road becomes dirt instead of stone.  The river, now to my left, becomes increasingly violent, but more beautiful.

The dirt path turns right, away from the river and further up the hill for another hundred yards to my home.  It’s right at the base of one of the mountains, so our backyard is bound by a rock cliff.  We have an excellent view of the town and the stone bridge at the base of the hill. Originally we lived in the upper floor of the forge, but Mother couldn’t stand the atmosphere and our family grew too large, so we moved to this house on the hill.  My grandfather lived here with our family for a few years, but then he passed away and we inherited the house.

The two-story house was built by my father’s father many years ago.  It’s made mostly of rock bricks quarried from the mountains, so it will still be here for a long while.  It’s not exactly a huge house, but it fits my parents and all of their four children still at home.  A friendly light, orange and yellow, shines from almost every window.  The path goes all the way up to our little wooden porch, and then branches off to some other farm houses further down.

Each of the three wooden stairs creaks, but supports my weight easily.  The porch only clunks slightly with every footstep.  The door hinges creak as it swings open, and a beautiful smell shoots up my nose.

I close the door and kick off my boots, enjoying the smell of the stew before sitting down at our dining table.

Father sits at the head, with Mother on his right. 

Signs of age are hardly coming to her.  Her hair is still nicely dark brown, face is still smooth.  She has a medium build but is stronger than she looks, which is one of the reasons I believe my father married her.  It’s in her eyes that I can see her age, but it’s in a nonphysical way.  In her eyes I can see her years of accumulated wisdom.

They’re talking right now and seem barely to have noticed that I’ve come in.  All three of my younger brothers are in a human knot on the floor, knocking each other about and yelling.  Mother smiles at me and motions for me to take a bowl, and I do so without hesitation, sitting on her right.

“We started without you, Kadmus,” smiles my mother.  “Sorry.  I would have waited, but…”  She gestures to the pile on the floor.

I take the ladle and pour myself a generous amount.  I notice that Mother has gotten hold of some green pepper; she probably traded some of the carrots from our family garden.

My mouth is full of potatoes and lamb before I make myself chew.  An odd texture makes me wonder for a moment, but then I realize that Mother has also added the delicacy of mushrooms to the stew.

It’s not until then that I realize that the stew’s still steaming.  I wash my burning tongue by drinking some fresh milk, milked this morning from our own cow, and then reach for a slice of bread before my brothers can eat it all.

It’s still warm.

“What took you?” asks my father.  “You’ve been gone longer than I expected.”

“I went to say hello to Frederick.”

Father chuckles.  “What did he have to say?”

“He punched me and told me to give it to Gunther.”

“What for?”  He’s still got an amused grin on his face.

“Well, uh… for not bringing you grandchildren.”

Father laughs loudly, but Mother turns slightly pink.  “Give him another one from me, won’t you?” he says.

“Kadmus…” Mother says sternly.  She’s not talking to me; she’s talking to my father, my namesake.

“Alright,” he says.  Then he takes another bite of his stew.  He gives me a look that says, “I was serious about that.”

I nod and eat.

“When are you planning on leaving tomorrow?” asks Mother.

“Early.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but only says, “Just get me up so I can see you off.”

I nod.  “Of course.”

After I finish, Nicholas and Ethan finally notice where I’m sitting and manage to get me off my chair and onto the floor.  Mother saves both from a headlock by saying simply, “Time for bed.”

Everyone obeys.  “Kadmus, stay,” she commands.  I stay.

“You’re going to Terrace tomorrow with Ethan?”

I nod.

“Okay.  I’ll give you a little something tomorrow morning.”  I give her a questioning look but understand almost immediately afterwards.  “Who else is going with you?”

“Percival and James.”

She smiles.  “That’ll be fun.  I’ll be sure to get some food ready for you to take.  Now go get some sleep.  You’ll need to be well rested for the road.”

Terrace

T
he following morning, I and Ethan wake Mother, who gives us each a pack of food to ration for the trip and hugs us each multiple times.  Finally she lets us out the door and Ethan and I start our journey.

We follow the dirt path to town, where we meet Percival and James at the stone bridge and tower.

“Ready?” says Percival with a small smile.  He’s tall and skinny, though muscular, with a careful nature that makes him indecisive and a little stubborn, but also makes him reasonable and sensible.  His bright blue eyes shine with intelligence and wisdom; he’s very down-to-earth and presents a deep understanding of life on a plane almost none else can reach.  He wears a humble brown tunic that slightly hugs his form.  He’s my age and a baker, and a good one at that.

“Took you long enough,” says James with a hint of sarcasm.  His blonde hair sticks up like the statue of Khaoth, but despite all the years I’ve known him I still have not figured out how he does it.  He’s not very tall:  a few inches less than six feet.  He’s got a medium build and is slightly stocky.  James is also the polar opposite of Percival:  reckless, and most of the time extremely stubborn and hot-headed.  He also considers himself a ladies’ man.

I ignore James and answer Percival, “Only if you are.”

He nods.  “Let’s be off then!”

The bridge spans just more than twenty yards of water, but is wide enough for two carriages to travel side-by side, even though Virfith hasn’t seen one of those in at least six years.  It’s made completely of stone with built-in crenellations, and I marvel at how the builders of the bridge could have constructed such a thing centuries ago.

On the other side of the bridge, we find ourselves outside of the village and on a dirt road that turns right, to run along the riverside.  There’s not much conversation along the road; we just enjoy the clear air and the severe verdant beauty of the world.

As the day progresses, the road climbs up a rocky mountainside and away from the river, which continues to flow violently over everything in its path.  The opposite side of the river is a titanic cliff face, with fallen trees and dark green growth along the bank.  Large boulders from somewhere far up the cliff have made their way into the river, whether over hundreds of years or in only a few moments.

Pine trees grow everywhere.  Either side of the path is overgrown.  Great boughs hang like arches over the road, welcoming us into their domain.  Enormous stumps, at least five or six feet in diameter, mourn silently for their lost luster, which lies either dead and crumbling next to the path or at the bottom of the ravine, lost in the swell of the roaring river.  The fallen trees are enormous, with boughs sticking out every which way like a monstrous barbaric mace.  One even had fallen on top of some other trees, cracking a few over until one was strong enough to hold the weight.

The road lets out of the forest momentarily, into a small valley covered with bushes and some flowers of varying reds, purples, whites, and yellows.  Pines grow only on the sides of the valley, but not inside it.  Then we are plunged back into the mountainous forest.

Always we can hear the roar of the river.

The road, rather than simply going straight, follows the contour of the mountains.  It goes up and down and left and right, but the river is always down in the gulf to the right.

At about midday, we come to Highrock Lookout.  The road takes a sharp left turn around the mountain, but at that point the trees to the right recede from the path and create a clearing to the right of the path.  A flat rock, about the size of my home, sticks straight out of the mountain side like an enormous shelf, with only cliffs below and to its sides.  In ancient days it was used exactly for what the name implies.  It’s the highest point the road reaches on the way to Terrace, so all can be seen for miles.

I can’t resist the urge to stop here and enjoy the view.  It’s almost a rule to me; I must stop here.

We must be at least a few hundred feet up from the bottom of the valley.  Mountains roll into the distance and out of sight, reaching to stroke the underside of the passing clouds.  Forests of pine cover them like a fur coat.  The sun shines brightly in the middle of the sky, almost directly above.  Sheer rock faces decorate the mountains.  At the very bottom runs the Fravora River, which is still both visible and audible.

Here we eat lunch.  James says something about how it’s hot, and Ethan tells a fascinating story about how he once convinced Nicholas that a goose had passed loud gas.  He and James continue to trade stories of such nature, but I sit next to Percival who doesn’t say much of anything until he’s finished.  Even then he’s silent, staring out across the mountains until I ask what he’s thinking about.

“I wonder what’s beyond them,” he says.  “I’ve never been on the other side.  What other people are there?  What’s their culture like?  One day I think I’ll get courageous enough to leave Gilgal and go on my own adventures.”

“Why?”

He pauses.  “I want to see the world.”

I nod.  “Me too, Percival.  But for now I guess the view from this rock is what we’re gonna have to deal with.”

He nods and gets up.  He walks to the edge and holds his hands clasped behind his back as he observes the world.

I look over at James and Ethan, who are both recovering from a joke of some kind or another.  “Come on,” I say.  “Let’s see if we can get there before dark.”

I walk next to Percival, with the other two close behind.  Birds consume most of the silence with their call-and-response tactics, calling with higher and responding with lower pitches.

The road slopes down the mountainside, cutting across the face.  It’s a gradual descent, but it means that we’re almost there.

Eventually the road evens out and the forest clears for the most part.  We’re still about a hundred feet up from the bottom of the gorge.  Both sides of the canyon below us seem impossible to navigate, as they are strewn with boulders, trees, and intense overgrowth.  Everything is very green.

We’re standing in a large clearing similar to Highrock Lookout, but an enormous bridge spans the gulf from the tip of the clearing to the other side, where sits a great stone wall with a wooden gate in the center.  The wall is short; it spans the small distance between the cliffs of two different mountains, with an arch placed over the gate.  The bridge and the wall are ancient and somewhat mossy.  Terrace lies in the vale behind.

It’s a beautiful scene.  Another branch of the road, instead of turning right to the bridge, curves left and around the mountain to head south.  Eventually it leads to Kera, but that’s another week’s worth of travel.  The mountain peaks to the sides of the wall are impenetrable, with cliffs leading into the gorge below.  Their tops are round and dull.  Fire pits sit on either side of the bridge and the gate, both on the ground and on top of the wall.  They’re dormant now, but when they’re lit, the whole canyon is lit up with orange light.  Only a couple of guards stand on top of the wall, rigid and unmoving.

The gates stand open; thick wood doors braced with steel, held by several large steel hinges.  Ever since I was small, I’ve assumed that they’re controlled with connected levers on the insides of the adjacent towers.

Short towers jut out of the cliff side, out of reach of any sword or spear, on each side of the wall.  They are accessible only from tunnels that lead from inside the city.  Most people simply call them the Clifftowers.

I notice a guard leaning against the inside of the left gate.  He only nods as we pass through, his helmet clinking slightly against his steel breastplate.

As we emerge on the other side, the mountains surrounding the city become visible.  The walls of the city are the cliffs of the mountains; the towers are built into the rock.

The inside of the city isn’t terribly exciting.  Travelling merchants have stopped their coming and going because of the war, so parts of the market usually abuzz are empty and silent.  Many men from this city are risking their lives elsewhere, and here their wives wait in agonizing uncertainty.  Some may have already received letters of condolences.  Though Gilgal is not taking a huge part in the war, it is still a part of it.

Despite the somewhat melancholy weight in the air, people go about their usual business, most at least with some form of smile.  There are people talking, laughing, playing music, dancing, and other things.

We pass straight through the market district and pass a few blocks of the housing portion of the city.  As we walk down the road deeper into the city, the surrounding mountains loom higher and higher.  The valley is becoming cloaked in shadow as the sun sets.  Red streaks the sky and stars start to appear.

An enormous structure comes into view at the back of the city.

The Keep, as it is called rather than its longer name, sits as one with the mountain.  It was built many ages ago but is kept sound by the multitude of hands that thrive in its shadow.  Its halls and rooms run under the mountain, proving it a nigh impenetrable fortress.  Nringnar’s Deep.  It is within this keep that Hralfar, Lord Jarl of Gilgal, resides.  At this time it is lit by enormous braziers, similar to the ones at the front gate to the city.  The light of soldiers’ torches glints in the shadow of evening.

Gunther lives east of the Keep, so that’s the direction we head.  It doesn’t take us too long; after only a few minutes we stand at his door.  It’s a small home, constructed of wood and stone.

He answers, almost with a concerned air about him.  As soon as he sees us, however, his expression brightens.  “Kadmus!  No one told me you were coming!”

“We would have gotten here before them anyway.”

He laughs and claps me on the back in a bear hug.  I’m taller than he, but he’s almost as broad.  That doesn’t make him any less of a blacksmith.

“The trip was good, yes?”  He pulls away.  “No trouble?”

“None.  Everything went great!”

“Good!  It’s been too long, brother!  Come in, come in!  Everyone!”

We file into the small house as he says something about getting more wood for the fire, which is still slightly burning in the stone hearth.  A table and some chairs sit in the middle of the room, and it is on these that we finally rest.

Gunther sits at the head of the table, next to the fire.  “I’m assuming you all brought something to sleep on, because I’m not cramming all of us on my bed!”

“Oh yes, don’t worry,” says James.  “That won’t be a problem.”

Percival chuckles slightly and nods.

“Good,” says Gunther.  “There’s not much space here, but we can make it work.”

As we move the chairs and unpack our bedrolls, I ask Gunther, “How’s the forge been treating you?”

He seems to mutter something under his breath, and then realizes that I’ve said something to him.  “Hm?” he says.

“How’s the forge been treating you?” I repeat.

“Well!” he nods.  “Haven’t lost any fingers!”  His smile soon disappears, however, and he stares into the fire, the reflection of which flickers in his eyes.  The orange light floods the house.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath and smiles again.  “I’m just so happy to see you again!  Tell me what I’ve missed!”

We then proceed to talk about Nicholas and his increasing height, Nathaniel and his love for hunting, and what I’ve been doing in the forge.

“I’m still doing the same old thing,” I say.  “But I love it.  Making farm tools and butcher knives is what I do.  How’s business here?”

“Let me just say that I’ve learned how to forge a good sword,” he says.  “The war is taking its toll here and I make more swords than just about anything else.”

“Makes for good business,” I observe.  “Any news on the war?”

“Not much,” Gunther replies.  “It’s sort of reached a stalemate in Watervale, just west of Corn Lake.  No one can gain any ground.”

I nod.

“I’ve heard Tygnar is trying to move on them from the south,” he continues, “But Jarl Kjunn of Kera has been able to hold them off.  Who knows for how much longer?”

“I hope all goes well,” I say quietly.  “It would be bad for us all if Fearclan were to win this war.”

Gunther agrees with a slow nod, looking into the fire contemplatively.  “That’s why we’ll win it,” he says.  There are a few moments of silence.  “Well…”  He stands up and claps my shoulder.  “I’m going to get to bed.  I have to get up to my forge tomorrow.”  He walks to a door on the wall and goes in to what I assume must be his bedroom.  “Good night!”

A few minutes later, after the fire has died down and all is dark, I ask Ethan, “Did you notice anything wrong with Gunther?”

“No.  Why?”

“Nothing…”

I put my restless thoughts to the back of my head and force myself to sleep.

The next morning, we wake after Gunther has already gone.  I find a note on the table that says, “Help yourself to breakfast.  What’s mine is yours!”

We take his word to heart.  After breakfast we head out of the house, towards the market district.

It’s early enough that the sky is blue and lit, but the sun is not yet over the mountain ridge.  Sunlight is making its way down the western mountain faces, and is barely groping the top of Nringnar’s Deep.  Trees bask in the sunlight, up and down the mountains.