Dragonhammer: Volume I (11 page)

The falls stay in sight for the entire day.  I go to bed optimistic.

I wake mortified.  My father overnight has become tremendously ill, despite all of our efforts to save him.  He has difficulty walking and he leans on me heavily as we make our way to Kera.

We cross the Fravora River at Dragongate Bridge, a bridge just as ancient, if not more so, than the one at Virfith.  The construction is similar, with stone supports sticking up out of the deep rushing water.  The bridge is wider and longer, however, as it must be to span the forty-foot river.

Large pillars stand on both sides of the bridge in the exact middle, each with stone supports sloping down to the wall of the bridge.  Between them is an enormous arch.  Each end of the bridge possesses a square archway with a small crenellated walkway on top.  There are holes in the stone where there must have once been great nails to hold the hinges that have now rusted away.  Impenetrable gates stood here in a long forgotten age, making this bridge a formidable and essential outpost in some war long past.

The bridge is massive.  I do not realize the scale of the structure until I am inside it.  The gates on each end are easily twenty feet high, and the bridge must be wide enough to pass three carriages side by side.

Dragongate Bridge is a good sign, because it means tomorrow we will reach Kera.

That night, Gregory does his best once again.

Kera comes into view the next day.  The road makes its way directly to the front gate, but the road branches both to the left and right of the city.  To the right it makes its way along the rocky foothills at the base of the mountains, and further south to the city of Thrak.

A large mountain protrudes from the plain at the rear of the city.  The walls of Kera surround the city, eventually becoming one with the unclimbable cliffs of the mountain.  A fortress is built on the peak of the mountain, with one tall tower reaching to the sky.  Stone steps climb the mountain all the way up to the gate of the fortress, houses and buildings lining the streets and foothills the city is built upon.  Every few hundred yards along the wall, towers jut out from the main structure, further fortifying the city.  The mountain acts as the wall for the rear of the city.

The front gates are open, but they seem surprised to see us; the guards on top of the wall point and exchange words.  A few of them go off running into the city.

My father leans heavily on me for support.  His fever has gotten worse and his strength has all but left him.  “We’re here,” I say to him as we pass through the gate.  “We’re safe.  You’re going to be okay!”

Our company stops once we are inside the gate, in the main plaza.  I, however, force myself to continue forward to the front of the group where Jarl Hralfar stands.  An official of Kera has come and is speaking to him.

“Lord Jarl Hralfar!” he says.  “What- how-”

“You know from where we come,” the Jarl answers.  “We are not the first group to come here, I hope.”

“No, certainly not!  The others arrived here yesterday, late.  We were about to send a dispatch out to Terrace, but it seems that will not be necessary!”

“No, it won’t.  At least not yet.  We seek housing and safety here until we can reclaim our city.”

“Where are the others?” I interrupt.  “The others that came in?”

“Who is this?” asks the official with a slightly dismayed look on his face.

“This,” introduces the Jarl, “is the young man that single-handedly freed all of these men, and myself, from the clutches of Lord Swordbreaker.”

Swordbreaker?
I think.

The official’s eyes widen and he looks at me with new respect.  “The others are in the barracks at the foot of the fortress.  Go through the city and you will find the barracks to the right of the stairway at the base of the mountain.”  He turns to the Jarl and continues, “I will allow you to get settled there, but Jarl Kjunn will want an audience with you.  I must carry this message to him quickly; I must go.  Farewell, Lord Jarl Hralfar.”  He runs off down the street towards the fortress.

“Let’s go,” I say quietly.  “We need to get help as soon as possible.”

We make our way through the city.  It’s organized into a few different sections such as market, housing, and military, and each section is structured with a grid-like pattern, though each section is slightly offset from the others.

Some of the buildings are built into the rocky bluffs of the city, and some are built in little neighborhoods on top of the small plateaus.  Always the cobblestone street slopes slightly upward towards the fortress on the mountain.

Eventually the street becomes a wide stone staircase that climbs the mountain.  After the first flight, the road evens out again with branches that lead to towers where the wall and the cliffs intersect.  Large square structures, built into the mountain, sit on either side of the next enormous flight of stairs.  These are built of stone brick, and are two stories high.  The stairs wind up the mountain through a series of switchbacks, up to the front gate of the fortress.

Jarl Hralfar leads us inside the building on the right.  Those inside turn their heads in complete surprise toward the company that enters.  I notice that the room is full of bunk beds and end tables.

Immediately the room is full of babbling and hubbub of “How the dingflies are they here and alive?”

Men rush to their brothers.  There’s embracing, tears of joy and pain, the latter from those who find that their brothers or fathers are not among the survivors.  Gunther and Nathaniel find me and father in the mix.

“We thought we’d never see you again!” says my elder brother.  “I thought you had gone to your death!”

“As did I,” says Nathaniel quietly.

“Father!” Gunther says, embracing him.  Father’s weight falls upon him with a grunt, but Gunther still manages to stand.

“My son…” says our father. 

As Father pulls away and hugs Nathaniel, I say to Gunther, “You doubted me.”

“Yes,” he responds.  “And I was wrong to do so.  I should have stayed and waited for you, at the very least.  I am sorry.”

I stare him in the eye and rest my hand on his shoulder as father would.  “You are forgiven.”

Father falls away from Nathaniel, leaning heavily on his makeshift cane.

“What’s the matter?” Gunther asks.

“Do not worry,” Father answers.  “We are here.  It will be okay.”

“What will be okay?” Nathaniel questions.

Father grips his wound and grunts in pain.  I help him to a bed in the corner, where he lays down.  Carefully I remove the bandage and show my brothers the source of his pain.

“Infection,” mutters Gunther.

“Oh no,” is all Nathaniel can say.  He himself almost fell victim to infection when he hadn’t properly treated a scratch on a hunting trip.  It was a miracle he lived.

“Took an arrow,” grunts my father.  “Must’ve had something on it.”

“We need an expert,” I tell Gunther.  “There’s got to be someone here who can help us.  Someone was able to help us along the way to slow it down, but it hasn’t done enough.”

“You must hurry,” says my father.  The next three words he speaks send chills down my back.  “I am dying.”

Stormguard

“
N
o…” says Nathaniel.  “You’re… you can’t…”

The Jarl walks from the back room, which I assume must be an armory.  He has emerged wearing chainmail underneath a leather tunic with a steel hauberk.  He walks towards me and says, “I want you to accompany me to council with Jarl Kjunn.”

“What?  My father is dying!  I need to find a healer!”

“Perhaps we can find one in the fortress,” he says.  “Jarl Kjunn will want to speak with you.”

I glance at my father, who nods.  “Yes,” I say.

“Good,” replies Hralfar.  “We’re leaving now.  Jarl Kjunn will want to know our situation as quickly as is possible.”

I follow him from the barracks and up the stairs.  A few soldiers follow us, wearing steel breastplates and sporting swords sheathed at their waists.

The Lord Jarl leads me up the staircase switchbacks to a flat plaza almost at the peak of the mountain.  The plaza is a little wider than the road in the city, and on its sides sit small crenellated walls.  A large gate stands at the other end of the plaza, leading into the fortress.

“Stormguard,” says the Jarl as we walk across the plaza.  “It’s the name of the fortress.”  Windows taller than the gate sit on either side of the entrance, overlooking the city.  They are unreachable from the plaza or from below, as the cliffs are sheer and rocky.

We stop a few feet away from the gate and one of the guards bangs on the gate with a balled fist.  Only moments later it opens, and we stride in.

The entrance hall is enormous.  A long, wide table spans the floor with chairs on both sides and a particularly large one at the head.  The floor is made of stone so our footsteps clack slightly as we walk.  Large brown tapestries hang at intervals along the walls.  They bear the symbol of Gilgal:  the roaring head and neck of a bear, with a sword crossing it at the base of its head.  At the back of the entrance hall roars an orange fire with a stone hearth.  Wooden doors stand between the tapestries, leading into other parts of Stormguard.

I assume that Lord Jarl Hralfar must have been here at least once before, if not many times, as he finds his way around with no trouble.  We go through a door to the right and into a tower with a spiral staircase.  At the second floor we continue down another hallway and into a tall room on the right.

This room, though it is not very large widthwise or lengthwise, is very tall.  It must be about fifteen feet, with narrow windows on the far wall that span the entire length ceiling to floor.  They offer a magnificent view of the surrounding area just outside of Kera’s walls.  At this point on the mountain we have to be hundreds of feet up; looking down from the window makes me dizzy.

Another brown tapestry hangs on each side of the room, identical to the ones in the main entrance hall.  Each takes up almost the entire wall.

In the center of the room sits an ordinary wooden table, larger than my dinner table at home.  On it sits a map that covers most of the table, and the parts that aren’t covered by the map are covered by inkwells, scrolls of parchment, and stacks of letters.  An end table sits in the corner.

A chair sits on the other side of the table, but it is unoccupied.  Its would-be occupant is standing by the window, and turns when he hears us enter.

His hair is short and sticks up so his forehead is completely visible.  His beard is jet black, like his hair.  His sideburns and cheeks are only little more than stubbly, but his goatee is thick and several inches long.  He has a noble face; though age has not yet appeared in his hair, wrinkles and pockmarks span his forehead and cheekbones.  His nose is hooked slightly, though somewhat long.  His eyes are green and shine brightly.

He wears a cloak similar to the one Jarl Hralfar wore before the battle of Nringnar’s Deep.  Fur coats the shoulders of his armor and a large cape billows behind him.  A bronze-colored breastplate sits on his torso, more decorative than anything.  A longsword hangs sheathed on each side of his belt.

He smiles brilliantly as he sees Jarl Hralfar enter.  “Ah!” he cries, his brilliantly white teeth standing out against his black beard.  “Lord Jarl Hralfar!”

“Jarl Kjunn!” says Hralfar, taking the other Jarl’s outstretched hand.  Kjunn pulls him into an embrace, rather than a handshake.  Hralfar is shorter than Kjunn and not quite as broad.

“I am glad to see you still have your head!” says Kjunn, with the hint of joking in his voice.

“As am I,” says Hralfar.

“Who is this?” Kjunn asks, bringing his attention to me.

“This is Kadmus Armstrong, resident of Virfith and member of Gilgal.”

“May I ask why you brought him?”

“Because he is the reason I stand before you now.”

Kjunn’s eyes widen as he looks upon me.  He turns back to Hralfar as he says, “As I understood it, you were taken prisoner in Nringnar’s Deep.  We were going to try to assemble an army to retake the Keep, but then you waltzed into our city alive and well.”

“We were indeed prisoners in the Keep.  This young man, however, got us all out alive.  Well, most of us.”

“Am I to understand that this man single-handedly infiltrated Nringnar’s Deep, freed fifty men, and escaped with nearly all of them alive?”

“Yes, Jarl,” says the Jarl.  “That’s what you are to understand.”

Kjunn looks at me and offers me his hand.  “Well done, soldier,” he says.  “Well done.” 

I take his hand and say lamely, “Thanks.”

“You deserve some sort of reward,” he says.  “A promotion to captain, perhaps.”

“I already brought that up with him,” interrupts Hralfar.  “He decisively told me no.”

Kjunn nods.  “I will accept your decision then, for whatever reasons you have.  I do, however, thank you for the tremendous service you have done your clan and your people.  Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes,” I respond without hesitation.  “My father was injured during our escape from the Keep; he took an arrow above his right hip.  It did little damage and would have healed, but he’s got a horrible infection.  If we don’t do something fast, it will kill him.”

Kjunn nods again, saying, “Yes, I believe I can help you with that.  Page!” he calls.  Soon a young boy, not older than thirteen, enters the room.

“Yes, Jarl Kjunn?” he says with a small, confident voice.

“Can you fetch Willard for me?” says the black-bearded Jarl.  “Tell him it is urgent, and to bring his best medicines for infection.”

“Of course,” says the page.  Then he runs off into the fortress.

“When he returns,” Kjunn says to me, “Follow Willard out of the fortress and lead him to your father.”

I look to Hralfar, who is standing next to the table.  “I will stay here,” he says.  “We have matters of war to discuss.”

Only moments later, an aged man, surprisingly spry, shows up at the doorway into the room.  His hair is short and white, and he is tall and thin, carrying a leather bag.  “You called for me?” he says.

Kjunn, now sitting in the chair at the table, says, “Yes.  This young man’s father is sick and needs treatment for an infection.”

“I will do what I can, sir.”

“Good.  Thank you Willard.”  He turns to me.  “And thank you Kadmus.  Best of luck to you.”  Then he and Hralfar resume their conversation.

I follow Willard through the fortress and out the front gate.  “Where?” he says.

“Follow me,” I reply.  There are butterflies in my stomach and I find myself running.  My father’s life is at stake.

It takes us much longer than I would like to reach the barracks where my father lies.  In a rush I burst in, Willard close on my heels.  Then I run to the bedside of my father, who is still breathing, though his breaths are quick and shallow.  He is sweating again, and his eyes are slightly sunken.  His beard quivers as he breathes.

“Let me see,” says Willard.  Father allows him to undo the bandage and examine.  “I need light,” he says.  Gunther brings a candle.  “You may want to leave,” warns Willard.  “This will not be a pretty procedure.”

“I will not,” I say.  “I cannot.”  My siblings echo my answer.

“Very well,” says Willard.

He works for hours, draining the fluid and trying several assorted mixes that either my father drinks or Willard drops carefully onto the wound.  Every second is agonizing.  Every minute a nightmare.

Finally, a little after sundown, Willard packs up his things and tells me to come with him outside.  Gunther follows us, but Nathaniel stays inside with Father.

“It’s not working,” he says softly, once we are out the door.

“What?” I say.  “It has to work.  It has to.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “I’ve done all that my knowledge allows.  From what I can tell, the infection has had at least a few days to spread.  What happens from here will be only fate.”

“There has to be something,” Gunther mutters.  “There always is.”

“Sometimes there is nothing one can do but wait,” replies Willard.  “I am sorry.”

We trudge back inside to the bedside of our father.  His breathing has slowed an incredible amount, but he seems short of breath when he speaks.

“Nathaniel…” he says.

“Yes father?”

“You… are a good boy… a good hunter… a warrior… my son.”  Nathaniel has begun to cry.  Tears are welling in his eyes, but it’s not until my father continues that they start to fall.  “Keep hunting…  Keep fighting…  Do as your heart tells you.”  Nathaniel is shaking his head.  “I know you will make me proud…”

Nathaniel begins sobbing into Father’s shoulder.  As he begins to speak to Gunther, Father’s hand gently, lovingly, makes contact with Nathaniel’s head.

“Gunther…” he begins.  Gunther kneels on the ground next to the bed.  “My only regret… is that I was not able to meet your sweetheart… what is her name?”

Gunther chokes and says, “Rachel.  Her name is Rachel.”

Father smiles.  “Rachel,” he says.  “You will make it back to her…  I know you will…”  This is when Gunther’s eyes begin to well.  “You are a great man…  You will do great things… my son.”

As he turns to me, Gunther rises and I kneel to take his place.  I feel my eyes water as soon as he says my name.  “Kadmus…”  He grasps my hand firmly.  “Be strong, my son… be strong… through whatever trials and adversities will befall you… you must not, and will not fail…”  His eyes are watering, but he is not yet weeping.  “You carry my name upon you, Kadmus… do not do anything that you know would taint it…”  Tears begin to fall from my eyes.  “I know you will become… something much better… something much more than me…” 

I’m shaking my head, saying no over and over under my breath.  “You can’t die…” I whimper.

“I am,” he replies softly.  “It is the way of all the world.”  I merely continue my whimpering.  “I have only one request of you…” he says.

“What?” I whisper; if I talk any louder, I know my voice will crack and I will begin to sob.

He takes a deep breath and says, “Take care of your mother.”  Then he smiles.  His chest rises.  Then it sags and his eyes close serenely.  As his hand goes limp in mine, I hold on, as if holding will somehow tie him to me and prevent his passing.  A single tear runs down the side of his aged face and into his beard.

Thus was the life and death of Kadmus Armstrong Senior.