Dragonhammer: Volume I

Dragonhammer

Volume 1

Conner McCall

Copyright © 2015 Conner McCall

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1511886900
 

ISBN-13: 978-1511886901

DEDICATION

For my parents, who have always encouraged me to do what I love.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my dad Andrew for spending hours discussing plot elements and characters with me, and to all of those that have taken the time to read any draft of this book up to this point.  Because there have been a lot of them.  Special thanks to my mother Alison and my friend McKenna for their editorial work and comments.

The Forge

I
t’s early spring which, in our area of the province, means rising temperatures, buying livestock, and a small continuing of winter’s snow.  There’s a bitter chill in the morning air.  Green and yellow blades of grass are slowly overtaking the snow and returning life to the ground that winter made barren.  The river is cold and refreshing.  Fish laze behind rocks, shielded from the powerful current.  Dark green moss blankets the tops of rocks and provides a nice contrast to the white snow, the only thing anyone’s known for months.

The only reason I’m warm is because I’m next to a blazing fire, hitting hot pieces of metal with a heavy hammer.  The chill has penetrated the walls of my forge.  The burning coals quickly warm the structure, but not uncomfortably so.

I pull a rope to my left, which runs along a short pulley system and pumps the bellows next to the fire.  With every pump, the coals glow brighter orange, sections of wood turn black, fall apart, and slowly disintegrate into white ash.

The heat emanating from the bellows forces a sweat from my hardened brow, the crackle of the coals casting an odd flickering shadow of my rhythmically moving arm.  Many windows allow natural light to enter the large shop.  A stone chimney rests directly above the fire, great bellows sticking off to either side.  Large wooden beams cross the slanted ceiling.  Racks of tools hang on the wall across from the fire, and right in between, I stand swinging my hammer at a glowing orange piece of metal.

The door creaks open and bumps a rack on the wall, shaking all of the hanging tools.  My father walks in and shuts the door subtly.

“You beat me again,” he says, an accusing edge in his voice.  His six-and-a-half foot form stands up straight and he folds his broad arms like he does when he’s telling someone off.

I simply nod and look at him mischievously.  “I can’t let you get here first every time, can I?”

He grins and takes his hammer from the wall.  “I’m getting old, Kadmus.  I’m not as strong as I used to be.”  His black and silver beard moves slightly with every syllable.

“Of course you are!” I smile.  “You can still smith a much better… well, anything than I can.”

“You’re catching up, though,” he replies.  “There’s not much more I can teach you, and you have many years of experience ahead of you.”  He spots a note lying on the desk across the room and strolls across to pick it up.  “What’s this?”

“It’s a note from Leon.  He needs a new set of butcher knives.”

“About time.  Have you seen his set?  Deathly dull, some of them cracked.  It’s a wonder he’s still been able to get his cuts so smooth.”

“Yeah.  Right now I’m working on the plow for Neorm.  He needs it so he can start on his fields as soon as the snow stops.”

“I might make a pot for your mother.  She’s been complaining that ours isn’t big enough anymore.”

“That’s a great idea.  I think all of us would appreciate a little extra in our helping at dinner.”

“Especially Nathaniel.”

I echo him with a smile, “Especially Nathaniel.”  There’s a minute of silence where the only sounds are the small crackling of the coals and the banging of our hammers.  I break it and say, “His birthday is next week, isn’t it?  I have to get working on his present.”

“Making him something?”

“He needs a good new hunting knife.  Thought I’d do it myself.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.  Just don’t lose a finger on it,” he chuckles. He is, of course, referring to my two missing fingers on my left hand.  In an accident many years ago, I lost my fourth and fifth fingers just below the knuckle.  Only two stubs remain.

I just smile and shake my head.

Father waits a moment before suddenly saying, “All of my children are growing up.”

“How do you mean?  Of course we are!”

“You won’t understand, Kadmus, until you yourself are a father.  It seems that only yesterday I held your brother Gunther in my arms.  But look at him now.  He’s off by himself, running his own forge in Terrace.  And you.  I never thought you’d grow to be as big as you are.  Taller than me, but just as broad.”

“And Nathaniel is turning sixteen.”

“Don’t remind me.  That’s another year to add to my age.”  He sticks the long iron bar into the fire and pumps the bellows.

“Don’t worry; you’ll get to hold on to Ethan and Nicholas for another few years.  Ethan’s only twelve and Nicholas is half that.”  I study the contour of the plow and, finding it to my satisfaction, immerse the long piece of steel in a barrel of cold water.  The water boils almost immediately with a loud hiss, and steam puffs to the ceiling in a great cloud.  The steel stays there only a few moments, and then I pull it out and examine it to make sure it has not cracked.  The steel is flawless.

“Any news on the war?” I ask.

“None that’s new.”

I nod.

There are eight clans, or kingdoms, if you’d like to think of them that way, across the continent.  We are members of Gilgal.  Each clan specializes in certain industries, and Gilgal happens to be the least noticed.  It, or we, I should say, resides along the east and northern sides of the Wolfpack Mountains, and sits just west of the Redwood Forest in the province of Greendale.  We don’t bother anybody, and they don’t bother us.

Actually, we are in kind of an unspoken alliance with Mohonri and Herak, two of the most powerful clans.  They protect us and we give them food.  Fair enough.

Not that there are many threats next to us.  The Wolfpack Mountains are scary, but you’d have to be an idiot to go in very far without a good reason.  Tygnar is the closest hostile clan, with settlements as close as seven leagues away, but they tend to leave us alone.

I take the metal to the grindstone to polish and sharpen it.

Gilgal is a very industrious clan.  We grow food, make things, and even mine a little.  I would venture a guess that we are one of the most economically rich clans, but maybe the reason we don’t have much of a military is that everyone is away working.

“I’ll check today while I’m in town,” I say.  Even if this isn’t our war yet, I like to keep up with whatever happens.

My father nods and stops hammering for a moment.  He looks, eyebrows furrowed, at the ground, turning his head in my direction.  “I’m afraid,” he says, “that this war is about to become much more real for us all.”  He looks back at his anvil, starts hammering again and states, “But we’ll get through it.  No matter how it ends.”

The rest of the morning passes in silence, but for the clanging, grinding, and crackling of our work.  After lunch I begin my work on the knife for Nathaniel; it will be a glorious hunting knife worthy of his skill.

Father looks at me and says, “He wants you to go with him, you know.”

“What?”

“Nathaniel will want you to go hunting with him.  He looks up to you, Kadmus.  They all do.”

“Yeah…”

“You will go, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll go.  For him.”

“Good.  He’ll love it.  And he’ll love the opportunity to use the new hunting knife you’re making.”

“Not a word to him.”

“Of course not.”

I remove the steel from its stone mold and have a decent knife-shaped piece of metal on the end of a steel rod.  Then, as the afternoon progresses, the knife’s shape is refined between my hammer and anvil.

There’s a knock on the door, and Ethan pokes his head in.

“Kadmus!” he calls.  “When are we leaving for Terrace?”

“Tomorrow morning.”  My swings don’t stop; I answer without even looking up.

“Right,” he says.

“You have everything ready?” I ask.  “It’s only a day’s trip if we’re moving fast.”

“Yes.  Mom’s gone through my pack four times already.  I just came to make sure you didn’t forget to repair your pack before we left.”

“Oh…” I sigh.  “Right…” 

I look up at Father, who says, “You’d best go ahead and do that.  I’ll close up in a couple of hours.”

“Okay.”  I hang my hammer on the wall and place the knife project by the desk.  As I leave I thank my father.  When I turn back around, Ethan is already gone, probably gone home so he didn’t have to bother with whatever business I was doing.

I start down the little stone road that hugs the river to my right.  The water is clear, about fifteen yards across, and somewhat violent.  The current is strong and small hills of whitewater dot the surface, creating a nonstop rushing noise.  The air near the river is fresh, and I can begin to smell pine on the light breeze.  I’m walking downstream, towards town, so it isn’t long before I pass the ancient bridge that spans the river and the just-as-ancient tower that watches over it.  Both were built and used in a war ages past, but both still stand strong though scarred by the wind and rain.

Streets branch off to my left, leading to houses and shops and other things.  I take the fourth, and walk down only partway before turning left into Bownan’s shop appropriately named, “Life’s Commodities.”

It’s a small wooden building that somehow appears slightly larger on the inside.  Shelves line the walls and objects of all kinds fill every shelf of every aisle.  Bownan looks up from his wooden counter when he hears the door open.

“Kadmus!  How are you this evening?”  He stands and a grin comes to his face before he walks around the counter and greets me with a very enthusiastic handshake.  He’s got bright blue eyes and a lengthy reddish-brown beard that matches the curly hair on top of his head.  He wears a leather vest over his white tunic, the sleeves of which are rolled up like he’s been working hard.

“I’m doing very well!  Yourself?”  I find myself always being just as enthusiastic as he whenever I’m in his presence.

“Never better!” he replies.  He walks back behind the counter and asks, “What can I help you with?”

“I need a small square of leather and a little bit of thread.”

As he gets up again he says, “Whaddya rip this time, Kadmus?  Do I want to know?”  He walks down a couple of aisles, as if he’s forgotten where he keeps anything.

“My pack,” I answer.  “It got in a fight with a tree on the way back from a hunting trip a few weeks ago.”

“Ah.  I see.”  He brings me just what I asked for, but as I reach for my coin pouch he says, “Nah, don’t worry about it.  It’s just a small thing.”

“What?  No, come on.”

“Yes, just take it.  Keep your coins.  We could all use a few extra these days.”

“Which is why I’m paying you.”

“Kadmus.”  He thrusts the items into my hands and says, “Don’t worry about it.”  Then he smiles and sits back down.

“Well, take this as a tip then.”

His grin widens as he catches a coin and shakes his head.  “Safe travels!” he calls.

The door shuts with a small click, and I head back towards the river.  There, I turn left to go a little further into town.  It’s been a while since I’ve seen Frederick, and he loves company.

The temple in which he resides sits on the bank of the river, a short while after the bridge.  I see the statue in its courtyard before I see anything else.

It’s a tall statue of Khaoth, the king of the gods.  The god is portrayed with a noble clean-shaven face and hair raised like flame.  There’s a fire in his eyes, but it’s a friendly one.  He’s of a medium build.  He wears a breastplate, greaves, and sandals, and holds a long sword with both hands, the point resting on the top of his tall pedestal, like he’s standing guard over the temple.

It’s a humble building.  A small set of stairs rises on either side of the statue, both of which lead to the same small pavilion.  A single door stands behind the statue, raised on the pavilion.  The rest of the building is rather squarish, but for the slightly triangulated roof, made of grey brick tinted violet.

Without hesitation I hop up the stairs and enter.

The great hall, like a miniature cathedral, is lit mostly by the enormous window at the back.  Candles hang on chandeliers.  Stone pillars placed about ten feet apart, four on each side, hold up the arched ceiling.  In-between the pillars sit doors that lead to the priests’ quarters, holy rooms, and even the ancient crypt that the temple is said to have been built above.  Our town’s, Virfith’s, greatest heroes are said to have been buried there.

At the end of the hall, under the enormous window, the altar glows.  It’s a tiered table shaped like a semicircle.  Rows of candles flicker on the outermost tier.  Coins glitter underneath their light, generous donations from charitable townspeople.  Some books lie closed on the altar.

Statues of other gods stand up above each doorway on a pedestal.  Pheogg, god of the agriculture.  Na’az, goddess of the harvest.  Oklir, god of war.  Frejjl, goddess of fertility and womanhood.  Rilir, god of healing and life.  There are others, and many more whose statues are not included inside the temple.

One of the doors creaks open and a few priests step out.  Only one of them looks up at me, but he quickly runs over and shakes my hand.  “Kadmus!  How good to see you!”