Dragonhammer: Volume I (8 page)

My father clutches my shoulder.  “I’ll be right there with you,” he says.

“And I,” says Percival.

“Me as well,” Bownan responds.

Nathaniel is about to saying something along the same lines, but Father interrupts him.  “Nathaniel,” he says.

“I need to fight,” my brother interrupts.

“Your brother and I will be fine,” says my father.  “Go help James’s father.  He may not be able to get James all the way down and out by himself.”  Nathaniel makes to object, but my father cuts him off, “Nathaniel, you have to do this.  For me.  Let me know at least one of my sons is safe.”

Nathaniel nods and steps back slightly.  He says nothing.

Jericho’s father and James’s father each say something about staying with their sons.  “Go,” says my father.  “Hopefully we will buy you enough time.”  They run off a little reluctantly, leaving only me, my father, and Percival. 

The gate makes a nasty cracking noise.

In seconds we see men still in their armor, running throughout the halls and down the farthest corridor, down into the depths of Nringnar’s Deep.  The only soldiers who stay are the trained guards of Mohonri and their leaders.  We gather in the circular hall and wait for the gate to come crashing in.

Soldiers come away from the gate and instead point spears up, rooting them into the ground.

Men still flood into the depths of the Keep as the gate breaks and collapses inward.

A troll crashes through and into the wall of spears, breaking off most of the heads.  It snarls in surprise as the remaining spears pierce its thick skin.  Men run in behind it, a few of whom are skewered, and another few are shot by the archers that stand in the back.  The troll thrashes with his club, throwing some of the spears to the side.  A few arrows pierce him, but he doesn’t notice.  In rage he forces his way forward.  Spears penetrate him as he charges, but snap as he thrashes through the line of men.  The only effect seems to be greater rage towards everything around him.

Just before he reaches the end of the main entrance hall, Jarl Hralfar appears on the balcony, swinging his greatsword, and jumps down onto the back of the ferocious beast.  Men dive to the side as the brute continues its charge into the circular hall, but it doesn’t get much farther.  The Jarl plants his blade into the back of the troll just below the neck and its limbs collapse underneath it.  He jumps as the troll slams to a halt in the middle of the room, landing right next to the troll’s head.  Unfazed he unsheathes his sword from the body of the beast and leads a charge towards the main gate.

Archers stand on the balcony, picking off warriors of the opposing army.  Much to my relief, and the relief of everyone around me, we don’t see another troll.

A few stragglers run down the farthest corridor of the circular room, down to escape certain death.

Slowly the battle travels up the main hall and into the circular room.  A couple of men use the troll’s corpse as cover.

Yelling sticks out from the rest of the battle and more of Tygnar’s men run from the passages leading to the towers.  Finally they have breached the towers from the wall.

Took them long enough
, I think.

We are pushed back until we occupy only the center and rear of the enormous circular room.  We still have a way out.

Then a large armored figure steps through the remnants of the gate.  He clomps forward boldly, his orange cape billowing out slightly behind him.  His face is hidden by a steel metal plate helm with an orange plume.  His armor is extravagant, with horns on the shoulders and a pointed breastplate.  The man stops under the arched entrance to the room.

Hralfar notices the new foe and straightens, lifting his sword like he’s readying to charge.  Then an arrow pierces his left shoulder.  He’s shocked and stops, simply staring at the arrow.  At the same time the arrow makes contact, an enormous voice roars:

“CEASEFIRE!”

Everything stops.  Swords halt in mid swing and all eyes turn to the orange ironclad figure.

The Jarl acknowledges his visitor by making eye contact.

The armored figure walks to the Jarl and says, “Hralfar.”

“That’s Lord Jarl Hralfar to you.”

He laughs.  “Is this it?  This is all that you planned to stop the mighty Tygnar armies?”

Hralfar responds with, “I see that you hired trolls.”

“I didn’t hire.  They joined me.  Their lust for blood and battle brought them to me, and I simply accepted.”

“You’re twisted,” is all Hralfar can say.

“I am offering you a chance.  If I were you, I would try to stay on my good side.”  The figure is strolling around the room as he talks with the Jarl.  “So surrender now, drop your weapons, and no more of you will die.  Continue to fight, and all of you will die.”

The Jarl snaps the arrow from his shoulder and hefts his sword.  “You know what my answer will be.”

“Yes.  I do.  I merely wish to hear you ask for your own death.”

There’s a clang as the armored figure stops Hralfar’s claymore with his own wicked blade.  “You know I will not say it,” says Hralfar.

The armored figure does not respond.  Then he says softly, “Very well.”

The battle recommences as his sword swings at Hralfar’s head.

The two leaders engage in a terrible battle, in the midst of all the chaos around them.  All of us, however, are sucked into skirmishes of our own with the soldiers of the Tygnar army.

Hralfar’s sword glances across the facemask of the Tygnar commander’s helm, but he spins with the blow and comes back around with an attack of his own. Hralfar blocks the blow and retaliates.

I and Percival manage to stay together.  We are tiring; there are too many of them.  I start to question my resolve to stay.  Somehow they have separated me and my father, who fights on the other side of the room.

Then suddenly the Tygnar commander twirls his sword about Hralfar’s and smites the weapon from his grasp.  The clang of the weapon on the ground sends a signal to all within the room to stop the battle.

Hralfar is shaking.  “What are you waiting for?” he seethes.  “Finish it!”

The commander laughs.

“Finish it!” Hralfar rages.

“No,” says the commander softly.  “Not yet.”  When the Jarl does not ask why, the commander continues, “I must wait until your entire precious city is watching.”  Still no response.  “Until every man, woman, and child in this city is gazing upon you.  Only then will I smite your head from your shoulders, and they will know who rules this pitiful city.”

“What of my men?” asks Hralfar boldly.

“Your men?  Your men will be forced to watch you die.  And once you are dead, those who cannot work will be slaughtered.”

Hralfar does not respond, but fingers the handle of the dagger on his belt.

“If you take your own life and deny me this privilege, they will all die where they stand.”

Hralfar replies, “As I die they will not see me frightened.  They will see courage from one who sees a better future.  Better to die a hero than a coward.”  His hand withdraws from the dagger.

“Brave words,” the enemy leader applauds sarcastically.  “But words will avail you nothing.  Chain them.”

I glance at my father who is forced to his knees and clasped with shackles.  He’s staring directly into my eyes.  He is clearly saying, “Run.”

I return a look that says, “And leave you behind?”

His response says merely, “Run.”

As soldiers place and lock shackles on Hralfar’s hands, I edge my way down the hall with Percival.

“Drop your weapons,” says the commander.  I hear the loud clangs of various weapons hitting the stone floor.  One of the soldiers sees me still holding my hammer and Percival behind me, still holding his sword and shield.

“Hey!  Drop your weapons!” he repeats.  Instead, we turn and run.

We know exactly where we are going.  Shouts sound behind me, footsteps of approaching guards.  At the end of the tunnel we sprint down two flights of stairs and continue down another hallway, going deeper into the mountain. We keep enough distance between ourselves and the soldiers to keep them out of sight.

Within another minute we find the metal grate with the iron bar door that had previously been padlocked shut.  The padlocks are missing from both the outer and inner doors.  Do we risk the noise the door will make if we open it?

We decide no.  Instead we hide in the darkness, pressed against the wall next to the bars.  One of them shuffles in the darkness, so close I could pound him into the ground in one hit.  “Forgot a torch,” he says.  “Somebody go get one!”  When nobody responds, he mutters something about stupid guards and runs back up the passage to retrieve one himself.

Once the footsteps are out of hearing, we try the doors.  The creak the door produces on the rusty hinges is horrifically loud.  I’m careful to shut both doors behind us.  The soldiers reappear moments later.  There are only three, sent to find a rogue idiot and his sidekick wandering about in the lower levels of the Keep.  They open the doors and enter the passage.  Percival and I, however, are waiting just around the corner.

The first and second go down before they even know we’re there.  The third, however, has a bow.

Percival yells and drops to the ground just before I pound in the breastplate of the guard.  “Percival!”

The bowman, in his frightened quickness, did get off a shot, but it was not a very good one.  The arrow sits in Percival’s calf, stopped before it breaches the other side of his leg.

“Are you okay?” I ask.  “Can you walk?”

He tries, but a small grunt of pain escapes his lips.  He shakes his head.

Quickly I tear off a part of my shirt.  “Should I pull it out?” I ask him warily.

He thinks for a moment, and then nods.  “Just do it quick.”

He yelps as the arrow exits his calf.  The head is sharp and not barbed, so the extraction was not as painful as it could have been.  Then I tie the piece of my shirt tightly around the wound, throwing the arrow to the side.

I drag the bodies down the cylindrical passage a little ways and into a deeper pipe, where they sink into the depths of the water.  It’s dark, and would be pitch black had the guard not brought down the torch that I was now using.  Quickly I go back and shut the metal grates, where I left Percival.

“Well, that was fun,” I mutter quietly, referring to the whole incident.  My words resonate eerily in the maze of waste passages.

“You have a twisted sort of fun,” replies Percival, leaning heavily on the wall.  “Which way do we go?”

“The only way we can,” I reply, trying hard to push thoughts of my father out of my mind.  “Onward.”

Averting the Storm

T
o choose which way to start, I simply see which way the water is flowing, and I follow the shallow downward slope with my arm around Percival.

It’s wet and dangerous.  There are some places where the water is rushing quickly underneath the rickety walkways.

We press on, following the flow of the water.  Then, when we round a particular bend, I see light.  It’s not sunlight, but it’s not moonlight either.  It’s the light of a fire.  A lit torch hangs at the far end of the passage, above and to the right of another grate.

The water pools in the general area of the grate, a few inches deep, but runs down and out of the passage like a tiny stream.  It’s a beautiful sight after walking in the passages for nigh over an hour.

A large door almost blends in with the wall, though it is made of wood.  Strips of metal run vertically and horizontally, holding the thing together.  A large metal ring serves as the knob.  One must simply pull, but there’s a problem:  The door is locked.  A small keyhole is barely visible in the dim light, just below the metal ring.

“What do we do?” asks Percival.

“What you do with most doors,” I answer.  “We knock.”

My knocks reverberate throughout the passages loudly.  Anybody on the other side definitely will have heard.  After no answer, I knock again.  To my surprise, a loud boom sounds from the other side and the door swings open.  Several men stand with swords drawn, pointing them at us.  One of them seems to recognize my face in the light.

“Who are you?” says one.

As the next speaks, I realize he is the captain to whom the Jarl gave the small ring of keys.  “You’re the kid who killed the troll!” he exclaims.  “Sheathe your weapons,” he says to the soldiers while sheathing his own sword.  “But you stayed behind!  What happened?”

“They broke through the gate and there was a short battle,” I respond as we walk in and shut the heavy door.  It clicks and locks itself behind us.  “I and Percival escaped after they took the Jarl prisoner.”  We’re inside a small room constructed of stone brick, with a simple arched door on the other side and another to the left.  Barrels sit in the corners.  I help Percival into a chair.

“He’s a prisoner then!  He was not killed?” pushes the captain.

“Few men of ours were.  All who survived were taken prisoner.  Where are we?”

“We’re in the ruins of Fort Greymane, in the middle of the Wolfpack Mountains.  There is a path leading out to a main road that we can take in the morning.  You said the Jarl was unharmed?”

“Well, he’s a prisoner.”

“There is hope, then.  What are your names?”

“Kadmus!” somebody else yells in excitement.  I wonder who for only a moment because he greets me with a giant hug.

“Gunther!” I respond, returning the favor.  “You’re alive!” we exclaim together.

Nathaniel joins the hug.  “I thought I’d never see you again,” he says.  “Where’s father?”

My face falls.  “He too is a prisoner.”

“What?” Nathaniel says.

“He is a prisoner,” I repeat.

“Kadmus, then?” the captain interrupts.

“Yes,” I respond, a little annoyed.  Nathaniel stares at me in disbelief.  Gunther is silent, with a solemn face.

“Do you know any of the plans of the enemy?  Did they track you here?” presses the captain.

“A few of them found the entrance but Percival and I took care of them.”

“Why did you leave father?”

“I had no choice-”

“So then we are safe?”

“I don’t know-”

“Was there anything you could do?” asks Gunther innocently.

“Not that I could-”

“Is the Jarl unharmed?”

“He’s going to be executed soon, probably tomorrow.”

Halfway through my comment Nathaniel is already saying, “But he’s your father!”

“Yes I know-”

“Executed!” pipes the other captain.

“Yes, killed.”

“What, well we have to-”

“QUIET!” I roar.  The room goes silent.  I wait for only a moment and then say, “I am going back for them.”

The room stays silent.  Then someone brave enough says, “That’s suicide.”  It takes me a second to realize that it was the captain.

“You yourself said that there was hope.”

“Yes, but I meant with reinforcements and a trained army.  Not with a group of armed businessmen.”

“I am going.  Think of it what you will, but I am going.  He is my father and I will not leave him in the hands of the enemy.  Neither will I let such a fate befall the Jarl.”

There’s another pause.  “Then you’ll need these,” says the captain.  He hands me the ring of keys.

“You will not join me?”

“The Jarl charged me with the responsibility of taking all survivors and travelling with them to Kera.  We start in the morning.  I must fulfill my orders, especially if those orders are the Jarl’s last.”

“They aren’t.”

The captain does not respond, but exits the room and walks up the stairs.

“How are Mother, Ethan, and Nicholas?” I ask Gunther.  “Did you see them before you left?”

“Yes,” he answers.  “They came to my house.  That’s where they’ll stay.  They’ll be safe.”

I give a sigh of relief.

“Rachel was with them when I left,” he adds.  “I hope she’s safe…”

Having had no time to grab anything, I have no bedroll or food.  Nathaniel and Gunther graciously share.

Frederick approaches me.  He appears older now, as though the war has already taken its toll on him.  He is smiling now, however.  “It’s good to see you alive and well,” he says, shaking my hand.

“You as well,” I respond with a small smile.  Even under the circumstances, I find myself contracting his positive attitude.

“Where are the others?” I ask Gunther.  “James and Jericho?”

“They’re upstairs,” Gunther answers.  “Probably sleeping.  I’d leave them alone.  Go say hello before they leave.”

“You’re planning on coming with me, then?”

He takes a deep breath.  “I was actually hoping I could talk you out of it.”

“What?”

“It’s uh…” he stutters.  “I won’t have you go to your death,” he says lamely.

“He’s our father.  There are many men that gave their lives so you could save your skin, and so I could save mine.  I’m merely returning the favor.”

“Yes, I realize he’s our father and that the Jarl is important and it’s possible for them to die, but Kadmus…”  He searches for something to say and finally says, “Live to fight another day.”

“You think I won’t survive?”  I phrase it like a question, but it’s really not.

He doesn’t answer.

“Nathaniel.”  I look to my younger brother for support.  “Will you come with me?”

He looks nervously between Gunther and me, caught between the two opinions of his nearly greatest role models.  “I don’t know…” he finally leaks.

“Am I alone then?” I ask.  The soldiers close by look away as I turn to stare them down.

Frederick says, “I fear for your life, Kadmus.  Your actions are your own, however.  You may choose to do as you will.”

Percival winces as he tries to stand.  His father grasps Percival’s shoulder and says something quietly.  Percival ceases his attempts to stand and says, “If I could, I would gladly stand behind you.”

“Thank you Percival,” I say quietly.

“When will you go?”

“What time is it?” I respond.

“An hour or two after dawn,” says a soldier.  “We’re probably going to get moving soon.  We’re not out of the fire yet.”

“Not ‘til night, then,” I say, answering Percival’s question.  “Their soldiers will most likely clean up most of the mess this morning and then sleep all afternoon and night.  We could use some rest ourselves.”

Percival and his father Darius are discussing something, though it’s pretty obvious what about.  Percival is upset and begins to speak louder.  Finally the conversation comes to an end and Percival says to me, “I cannot come with you.  But I will be here, waiting for you.”  He stands with the help of his father and rests his hand on my shoulder, though I am several inches taller than he.  “I have faith in you.  I will not leave until you return.”

Shortly after, the captains gather the horde of survivors and start off down the mountain path.

Jericho’s words bring me hope:  “I have to go, to stay with those who can help me recover.  I know you’ll do it.  Every step of the way, I’m behind you.”

“I’ll see you again,” James had said.  “You and your father.”

Frederick only said, “I have faith in you, Kadmus.”

Now I stand watching them from the crumbled gate of the old fort.  It will take them at least three or four days to travel the length of the path to even get out of the mountains, and then another four to get to Kera once they are on the main road.  I hope to catch them in a day or two.

Percival stands with me, as does his father.  Both are slightly irritable, but say nothing.  They go back down into the fort after only a few minutes, but I stay and watch until the lines of men disappear around the mountainous bend.

Tall pine trees decorate the small pass that leads to the front of the fort.  Fallen rocks, that on closer inspection appear to be ancient carved columns, lie about the bases of the trees.  The front archway is intact, as is the front wall, but the gate has long since rotted away.  The hinges still hang on the sides, rusted and orange.

The fort sits nestled in a horseshoe-shaped ring of rocky cliffs, the front gate pointing out of it.  Remnants of towers stand like they’re trying to prove they still have some strength.  The fort has a side door that leads through a small pass to the left, hidden from the front.  I don’t know where it leads, but guess that it probably eventually ends up at some city or another at the other edge of the mountains.

To pass the day, when I cannot sleep, I explore the fort.  It’s not very large, so it takes only a few minutes.  The entryway is wide, with five other arches leading into other parts of the fort:  two on each side, and one on the far wall.  At one time they must have been intricate, but now are worn and it is difficult to make out what the carvings are supposed to be.

The closest of the arches, on each side, each lead up a flight of stairs and onto the second landing, where most of the damage has been done.  Here the walls and ceiling are crumbling; there are gaping holes, some of them large enough for a troll to fit through.  An old spiral staircase leads to an open landing that I figure probably had a roof many years ago.  The same structure sits on the other side of the second floor, but half of the tower is in ruins on the ground below and the stairs are not navigable.

Plants have crept up the sides of the structure and moss grows on some of the stones, making some of the bricks slightly green.

I follow the second arch on the right of the main hall, which leads down into the room we came into from the waste passages of the Keep.  The ancient heavy door sits quietly on the wall, almost foreboding.  Through the other arch in the same room, I find a storage room full of barrels and crates of all kinds.  Almost all are empty, and those that aren’t smell of mold, so I leave them closed.

In this room I find myself on the other side of the metal grate that leads into the waste passages.  The water runs in a stone trench along the side of the room and through another grate on the wall, but this one lets outside, to the right of the fort if you’re looking at it from the front.  The bubbling sound is almost natural.  The whole scene creates a sort of artificial stream that flows out from under the fort and forges its way down the mountain.

There’s one room that I assume must have been an armory, from the racks that line the walls and the assortment of weapons on the ground.  Grass is starting to take over this part of the fort, as dirt has been eroding in through the open roof over the years.  Somehow a small pine has taken root and sticks up through the hole in the stone ceiling, into the daylight.

On the opposite side of the room sits an odd structure of stone:  a half-circle about waist-high jutting out from the wall.  The grass growing inside the structure is incredibly green.  An old wooden beam stands to the roof, supporting a small iron wheel.  What looks like a pile of small wooden planks lies behind the beam, next to the stone semicircle.

I crouch down to pick up a peculiar object.  As I lift, it uncurls and dirt falls from its form like water from a cliff.  I am holding a very old rope.

Another large rock catches my eye, but the reason I am drawn to it is that it is not a rock.  It’s an anvil.  This find proves my guess that this was once a forge.

I pick up a hammer that hangs on one of the racks.  It’s a small one, the kind I’m used to.  The kind I’d bend metal with instead of bones.

The way the hammer fits into my hand is comforting.  Nostalgia fills my breast, even though I was holding one almost identical only a week earlier.  It’s hard to believe that Nathaniel and I had gone hunting a few days ago, and now we are fighting and running for our lives in the midst of the Wolfpack Mountains.