Dragonhammer: Volume II (23 page)

Somehow he dodges the blow.  Enemy soldiers rise from the stairs, and I find myself being backed into a room with all of my friends.

“Good to see you’re alive,” I mutter to Percival as he bashes a soldier with his shield.

“You as well,” he replies.

“You’ve certainly got timing,” James grunts, stabbing his blade through the gut of a soldier.  Aela only gives me a nod.

I do not have time to study the room in which we have been cornered, but I note the things that I may find useful in the near future.  Almost the entire back wall is a massive stained-glass window.  Pillars, a few paces from the walls to our left and right, support the moderately high ceiling.  The room is mostly empty, but for some bookshelves that line the walls behind the pillars.

Sythian enters the room with several more of his soldiers, and my attention snaps to him instantly.  He leers and starts towards me with a look that says, “You will die, Dragonhammer.”

I reply with a powerful swing that he is forced to dodge rather than block.  I deflect his return easily and aim to swipe his feet out from under him, but he steps back to avoid my hammer.  When he stabs I knock his blade to the side.  As he re-centers his weapon, I knock it harder to the other side.  With my hammer low next to his sword, I step forward and kick him squarely in the chest with the flat of my foot.  The force of the blow throws him off balance and he takes a few steps back, but he cannot ready himself for the final blow.

My hammer connects with his right side and throws his hip to the wall with the rest of his body trailing after.

He hits the wall with a crack and doesn’t get up.

“Well done,” Percival says softly.  I only nod.  This is not over.

I smash in the shoulder of an oncoming enemy and throw him to the side.  Percival absorbs a blow on his shield as Aela saves him from a blow to the back.  Ullrog’s blade sticks into the armor of one of them, and instead of shaking the body loose, he begins using it like an enormous grisly mace.  James hides behind his shield for a series of blows before striking out suddenly and ending the life of his attacker.  One of my throwing knives juts from the throat of an assailant James wouldn’t have seen in time.

As my hammer splits another helm I suddenly think,
Where is Nathaniel?

“STOP!” roars a voice from the back of the room.

I look to the back as the fighting comes to a standstill.  There I see Jarl Sythian holding a knife to the neck of my brother.

Sythian is in bad shape.  It’s a wonder he was able to move that far, let alone stand and hold a dagger.  Blood trickles from his nose and a split on his lip, and he leans heavily to the left.  His hair is ragged and his forehead is beaded with sweat.  His brown bloodshot eyes pierce me with words before he says them.

“Drop your weapons.  Or he dies.”

I’m left standing in shock.  My grip loosens on my hammer, but immediately tightens. 
What are you doing?
I ask myself.

Everyone in the room stares at me.  I can hear the continued fighting downstairs, but I will not be able to stall sufficient time for them to reach us.  Sythian is desperate to win this and he is cunning.  He will not allow me to stall for that long.

He is too far away to engage.  By the time I get there he will have had plenty of time to end the life of one of the people I hold most dear.

Tentatively I reach for a throwing knife.

“NO!” bellows the fraught Jarl.  “Drop them!  Now!”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Nathaniel and I realize that Sythian has two daggers.  One is pressed to my brother’s throat, and the other is pointed at the small of his back.

“You will release him if I do?” I ask.  “You take me and let him live?”

Sythian nods slowly.  “Don’t do it,” Nathaniel whispers.

My nose twitches as I run over countless plans in my head.  In each of them Nathaniel dies.  I am left with one option.

With a clang my hammer hits the ground and lies close to my brother’s similar weapon.  Reluctantly my friends follow suit, including Ullrog.  The orc carefully sets his enormous blade down on the stone floor.

“The knives too,” Sythian growls.

With a face of iron I remove the remaining three knives from my belt and drop them.  Nathaniel’s hand creeps to his side where I see the hilt of the dagger I had made for him several months earlier.  It is splattered with droplets of blood.

“Don’t move!” Sythian barks, pressing the knife against my brother’s neck.  Nathaniel gasps and his arms go limp.

“It’s okay,” I say to him softly.

“Is it?” Sythian hisses.

“Let him go,” I dictate.  “You said you would.”

The Jarl points at me with his head.  “Take him,” he says.

A soldier emerges on either side of me and each of them grasps an arm.  Angrily I allow them to hold my arms behind my back and put me on my knees.

“Do you know my name, Dragonhammer?” asks the Jarl.

I nod once.

“Good.  I want you to know who finally defeated you.”

“Let him go,” I repeat.

“Or what?”

I look up at him in disgusted disbelief.  He leers and says, “Do not think that everyone is as honest as you, Dragonhammer.”

Rage begins to boil within me.  “Let him go,” I repeat.

“I have power over you now.  There is nothing you can do.  Tell me, how does that feel?”

I begin to shake with wrath.  “You have nowhere to go,” I snarl.  “Jarl Hralfar will be upon you within minutes.”

Sythian looks away from me and to one of his soldiers.  “We move now,” he says.  “If we’re fast we can get out through the dungeons and into the harbor.”

My mind races.  I can come up with nothing.  So I say weakly, “Let him go.”

Sythian’s mouth turns upwards into an enormous grin.  There’s blood on his teeth and I can’t imagine what his breath must possibly smell like.  “Let him go,” the Jarl repeats.  “That’s all the mighty Dragonhammer can muster?”

With every word my blood roils harder and faster.

Sythian looks me sternly in the face.  With contempt in his eye he shoves his shoulder forward and I hear the dagger enter Nathaniel’s back.

My brother gasps.  His eyes widen and he blinks deliberately.  Then he looks at me and I see only sorrow on his dying face.  The dagger scrapes as it exits his body and Nathaniel gasps again.  As I look into my brother’s eyes for the last time, the light in them dies and he begins to sag.  Sythian shoves him forward and Nathaniel’s empty body falls through the air in slow-motion.  He bounces when he hits the ground.  Then he lies still.

The anger in me is gone.  In its stead is despair.

I see Nathaniel.  He is younger.  He holds a bow and nocks an arrow carefully.  As I creep up on him to see what he is stalking, he suddenly raises the bow and takes the shot.  “I got it,” he says in disbelief.  “I got it!” he repeats, almost convincing himself that he actually made the shot.  Then he begins dancing, scaring off every other creature in the vicinity.

My mind becomes chaos of thought.  Memories of every kind flood my mind and play themselves without any regard to the others.

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

I was aiming at the buck!

Love ya, bro.

In every battle there is someone that does not return.  What if that someone is me next time?

My eyes snap to the dagger that lies on his belt.  His name is carved into the side and I read it carefully. 
Nathaniel.

My father enters my mind.  I see him on his deathbed and in his grave. 
My father and my brother.  How many more?

I love you brother.  And I won’t let anything happen to you.

“We have to move,” Sythian commands.  “Take him.”

The despair that filled me suddenly transforms.  The wrath I had felt redoubles and I feel a surge of pure fury like fire.  With explosive power I stand and roar at Sythian.

Sythian is startled by the noise emanating from me.  Without realizing what I am doing, I throw the soldiers from me and they each land on their backs further from me than I thought possible.

“Kill him!” Sythian screams.  “Kill him now!”

I duck to avoid a swipe and punch the soldier in the face, breaking his nose instantly.  With a kick in the chest he’s on the ground and out.

I spin and grab the ankle of another before he can swing, and he finds himself on his back with his sword in my hand.  I impale the next soldier with the blade and leave the sword in his body with the tip sticking from his back.

Then I pick up my hammer.  The next soldier I see is cracked in the side of the head and thrown.  In my left hand I raise my brother’s hammer.

I become a whirlwind of death.  Nobody stands against me for more than a second.  I needn’t worry about blocking, as every one of them dies beneath one of my hammers before he has a chance to bring his sword down.

Enemy soldiers fly to the sides, upward, downward, forward, and backward.  My rage burns within me and my hammers, I realize, are my tools of refinement, through which I use the fire that forges my power.

Breathing hard, I suddenly stop.  Tens of soldiers lie in every nook and cranny of the room.  Calming, I turn towards the window and see Jarl Sythian still standing in a mixture of amazement and terror.  Slowly I straighten and face him with a hammer in each hand.  Lamely he picks up his sword.  Then I charge.

He lacks the strength to block.  Normally I would take mercy on such a soldier and let him live.  Not this time.

Knowing that he won’t be able to withstand another hit, he throws himself towards the window as I whirl my hammers towards his damaged body.  The window shatters.

Angrily I pound my hammers into the spot where he had been standing, placing hairline cracks in the stone.  I look out the window and, despite the anger blurring my vision, see him clinging to the enormous red banner next to the window.  He is climbing down and begins to swing.  I reach for a knife but only grab open air.  In frenzy I run to grab one from the ground, but by the time I return to the window, he is gone.

Unable to contain it, I bellow at the gaping hole in the window and hurl my knife into the sky.  I feel a hand on my shoulder and bat it away, scowling at my comforter furiously.  Aela stands holding her hand, offended.

My face softens.  My anger ebbs.  I glance at the unmoving body of my brother, lying on the stone. 
Get up
, I beg silently. 
Please.
  He doesn’t respond.
My legs give and I collapse to my knees, dropping both of my weapons.  I look up at Aela as she steps forward and gently cradles my head against her midriff.  My shoulders shake.  Then I begin to sob.

The Barrows

T
ears 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 Hralfar 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.