Hammerhold Tales: Thrallborn (14 page)

“You'll have to hold this line on your own captain. I have a giant to kill.”

Jatharr did not have time to protest. Sawain had already bound off in pursuit of his prey. He roared ferociously at the tidal wave of refugees. It was enough, coupled with the sight of an enraged half elf wielding an enchanted hammer charging full tilt at them to cause the mob to split to the left or right. He was close to the roaring giant now. He could smell the decay of undeath on its cold breath.

Master Turin, pour your holy strength into me, that I might bring down this blighted beast. Even if my body is destroyed, help me destroy this abomination!

White hot fire shot through Sawain, igniting his soul and every muscle in his body. The pain should have been too much to bear. Then his fury broke forth. His scream of anguish quickly formed into a roar of pure rage. He had become the Wrath of Turin incarnate. He closed the gap between him and the giant. It lashed at him with a massive arm. Sawain jumped in time to avoid being grabbed. As soon as he landed, he bent his knees to their utmost limit, then used his overflowing energy to bound straight at the snapping maw of the giant.

His hammer slammed into the giant's chin with the explosive force of lightning. The giant staggered backwards, tripping on one of the rocks behind him. It sat on one of the hills outside the gate, grasping at its broken jaw with tears building in its eyes. One of its tusks fell out and it howled in anguish and rage at the sight of its own blood.

Sawain had rebuilt his momentum and burst out of the city gate as the giant was getting to its feet again. He leaped at its shin, swinging with all his might, roaring like a typhoon. The giant was faster than he thought. It lifted its leg high enough to avoid the crippling blow. Sawain struck a large rock, the same one the giant had tripped over. The rock cleaved in half when it absorbed the impact meant for the giant.

Sawain did not have time to recover from his blow before the giant's massive hand wrapped around his body. He did have time to raise his arms, though. As the giant lifted him high above the ground, he brought his war hammer down hard on the creature's wrist. He had enough torque to completely shatter the giant's wrist. The crushing grip relinquished and Sawain fell to the ground, fifteen feet below him.

The impact probably hurt a lot, but Sawain did not feel it. The giant grabbed at his broken wrist, howling and roaring in extreme pain and fury. He thrashed around, shaking the very earth with every stomp. Sawain used this opportunity to rush his wounded foe. He timed his attack as the giant brought his left foot down,generating a shock wave that Sawain used to propel himself upward. He raised his war hammer high above his head and bellowed like a frenzied bull.

He did not miss his mark this time. Blood and bone showered down as Sawain's hammer demolished the giant's knee cap. The thunderous cry of agony was drowned out by the great crash of the giant falling to the ground. Sawain walked over to its head as it lay curled up on the ground, grasping the wound where its knee once was.

Sawain looked into its tear filled red eyes and felt only hatred. He raised his hammer once more, taking it into both hands this time. He roared with righteous anger that overpowered the giant's cry of fear. He brought his hammer down on its neck with all the strength he could find left. The hammer and the giant's neck both exploded in a blinding white flash and a thunderous explosion that threw Sawain backwards.

When he opened his eyes, he was laying on a carpeted floor. As the light faded, he recognized the room he was in. He sat up and looked around. The room was white and gold. The carpet was a deep midnight blue The rumble of thunder was all around him. Then he realized he was in the presence of another.

Turin, the god of the Sturmforge stood before him, arms crossed and looking amused. He smiled at Sawain, who was shocked and abashed at his appearance in front of the Storm god. Turin chuckled a deep throaty laugh.

“Welcome back to the Sturmforge, child. Seems you have had an eventful day.”

“Master Turin? Am I dead again?”

Turin shook his head, “No, child, but you came close again. It is sheer willpower that tethers you to the mundane world. No, I brought you here for another reason.”

Sawain pulled himself back to his feet, trying to look more dignified, “ What reason is that, lord Turin?”

Turin held out a hand, palm upward. In his hand was an orb of blue crystal, “I think it is time you understood the extent of your powers as my champion. No doubt you have discovered some of them on your own. The healing, the raw power you can exert by tapping into my own power, to name a few. Do you notice how taxing they are on your body, though?”

Sawain nodded, “Yes, it nearly knocked me out cold after I, err, healed that militia guard.”

Turin grinned broadly, exposing his white teeth, “Indeed, it did. There is a reason for that. Two reasons really. The first is that your body is not made to wield divine energy naturally. When a mortal wields this power, it can destroy him or her after only a short time. The fact that you lasted as long as you did proves that you are champion material. However, even you cannot wield the raw power of the gods without nearly being killed by it.”

Sawain nodded, more slowly this time, “That explains why I'm here now.”

“Not exactly, but it has something to do with it. In order to wield the power of the gods, the chosen warriors must channel it through three focuses. The first is a spiritual focus that allows the wielder to access the energy in the first place. You already have this focus. It was given to you when you were chosen for the task I set before you. This orb is the very thing I speak of now. It connects me to you spiritually and allows me to transfer power to you when you call for it The other two important focuses are more physical. They are your Icon and your Holy Weapon.”

Sawain scowled, “Well, I had a pretty good holy weapon, but it was destroyed in the fight against the giant.”

Turin shook his head, lowering his arm again, “No, child, you did not. Each of the gods has his or her own chosen weapon. If you tried to use any other weapon as a focus, it would not do any good. The war hammer did not allow you to focus, it just poured out the raw divine power.”

Sawain was confused, “But you are the god of the Sturmforge, I thought you would prefer hammers?”

Turin laughed, a more coy laugh this time, “No, wrong again. I hurl great blades of pure electricity upon the earth. My chosen weapon is the great sword. It is a devastating weapon that combines the crushing force of a cudgel with the sheering might of a sword. That is to be your holy weapon. I have one in particular for you, but you must return to the mundane world to claim it. Seek the only living being who still remembers the old gods. You will find her in the darkness of Alfhaven. It will be a dangerous journey now, with the Grey King's forces spilling over Hammerhold.”

“Who is the Grey King?” Sawain interrupted.

“The Grey King is another one of the chosen of the gods. Unfortunately, he is the chosen of Volvre, goddess of the Undead. Volvre is the long-dead god I hoped would stay that way, but even now, her name is remembered by god and mortal alike. The Grey King is a giant who has managed to unite the other giant tribes under a banner of terror. He uses his necromancy to build an undying army of living and dead soldiers. He has cut across Hammerhold already and has conquered all of the north, as well as part of Anvilheim and all of Jordborg. He must be stopped. This is the task I set before you, as my champion. You cannot defeat him yet, not in your condition.”

Sawain was indignant, “What do you mean, my condition?”

Turin scowled at Sawain, “You are unfocused. Yes, you have tremendous raw power, but if that power was to be focused, it would not only be controllable, but it would intensify threefold. You must find your focuses. When you find the one you seek, she is instructed to give you your icon and will lead you to my final gift to you.”

The light began to intensify around Sawain again. He started to panic. This light meant that Turin was done speaking with him, but he still had more questions.

“Lord Turin, wait, what is the name of the one I am seeking?”

The light was growing unbearably bright, but Sawain thought he saw a look of discomfort on Turin's face, “You will know her when you find her. Go forth, my champion, do not let the Grey King's taint defile the beauty of Hammerhold.”

The light became overwhelming, blinding. It filled Sawain's vision and seared his eyes. Soon the light faded into pure darkness. Frigid air filled his lungs. The smell of blood and smoke filled his nostrils. He could not move his arms. He struggled to move his legs, but could barely twitch a toe. It took great effort to force his eyes open. Dim light flooded into his bleary vision. After a few moments, the room he was in came into focus. It was not a room at all, but a canvas tent. He tried to sit up. A small, but strong, hand pushed him back down. The force, though gentle, was enough to cause every bone and muscle in Sawain's body to exude blinding pain. It knocked the breath out of him. He heard a familiar voice beside him.

“Steady, hero, don't want to be hurtin' you more, do we? I can't believe yer awake so soon! You are a tough one!”

Sawain turned his head to the left and looked up to see captain Jatharr sitting cross-legged beside him. The captain was in a white cotton tunic and canvas trousers. It was strange to see him out of his armor.

“Captain? What happened?”

The captain's smile faded into a downcast demeanor, “Well, you saved us, that is what is most important. Some of us were able to escape as you were fighting the giant. Got some of the camp supplies out too, though not many. There were lots of wounded. When you killed the giant, there was an explosion. It caused the gate tunnel to collapse. Buried the zombie horde before they could breach the surface.”

Sawain was relieved that the undead were buried. He sensed an overwhelming sadness over Jatharr.

“How many made it out?”

Jatharr hesitated to answer, and when he did, he did so in a low, hushed tone,“Two of us makes just over a dozen. The rest didn't make it out. Most are civilians, used to the comforts of Underfell Town. They've never had to survive on the surface before. They aren't used to this harsh climate. If we don't find some proper shelter for them soon, they'll all die.”

Sawain stared straight ahead at the top of the tent. If he had not started this foolhardy quest for gnoll blood, he wondered if the Grey King's blight would have ever found these halflings. Jatharr must have sensed Sawain's distress.

“Don't blame yerself for this tragedy, Deathsbane. It would have found us at any rate. None are safe from a necromancer's rage. If it wasn't for you, none of us would have been alive today, and there would not be one less necromancer in this world. At least no one else has to fear that fiend's curse.”

“No, captain, you're wrong,” Sawain said in a despairing voice, “That giant was just a pawn. His master is unfathomably more powerful. We need to get your people to Alfhaven. It may be the last safe place in Hammerhold.”

Jatharr was taken aback by this revelation, “Alfhaven? You may be able to deceive those poor folk out there that it's a good idea, but I know as well as anyone that the elves are not accommodating of anyone outside of their own. They'd throw us to the wolves!”

Sawain shrugged, “I'm partially one of their own, maybe I have a shot at getting us in safely. Besides, I have to go to Alfhaven, with or without you. I have a greater destiny now that I have to find out about. Plus, my mother was from Alfhaven. I might actually have family there.”

Jatharr could not begin to understand the impact of this statement, but it hit Sawain harder than any giant ever could. He had not stopped to think about it before now, but he may actually be able to learn about his mother, and even better, find some real family in the trees of Alfhaven. Family that was not of a bloodline of slavers. The thought caused his stomach to turn.

Jatharr sighed and patted his shoulder, which hurt just at the light touch, “Alright, Deathsbane. You seem confident in this. Once you are well enough to travel, we will start making our way to Alfhaven. You should rest for now, though. Let's worry about the elves another day.”

Jatharr rose to his feet and exited the tent. Sawain was left alone with his thoughts. He could not stop thinking about his potential family in Alfhaven. He had been so focused on revenge against Hilmr that he never stopped to think about the thing that could truly make him happy. Soon, he could have something he never really had. Mistveil Farm was a prison. Dawn Star Manor was a training ground. Alfhaven could be called home.

Chapter Thirteen

Sawain did not remember falling asleep. He opened his eyes and the tent was dark. His sense of time had been skewed. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. He sat up and looked around. He was alone in the tent. The world outside was still and silent. He climbed out of the pile of blankets he was buried under and rose to his feet. The air was frigid with winter.

“Jatharr?”

He waited a moment, but there was no answer. Fear began to build in his throat. He walked to the tent's entrance and pushed the flap aside. When he stepped out, he beheld a scene of utter horror. A dozen stone pillars stood in a circle. Fresh fallen snow whirled about them. The snow at the base of each pillar was crimson with blood. Each of the monoliths had a single halfling pinned to it, facing Sawain. They were pinned in the fashion of the gnoll effigy: with an iron rod through their sternums.

Sorrow and fear crashed over Sawain as he walked amidst the grotesque display. A large fire was burning in the center of the stones. It gave off a green light and no heat. Sawain reached out to touch it, but drew his hand back when he noticed the slumped figure of Jatharr in the flames.

What will you do now, Deathsbane? How will you save Hammerhold if you cannot save yourself.

The voice in his head was not his own. It was deep, dark, and dripped with decay. Sawain tried to say something in his defense, but he could not get words to form. A massive shadow rose from behind the green flames. It towered above him. He could not make out its features, but he knew it. Two glowing red eyes appeared in the shadow, then a smile that was illuminated like the green fire.

You will die, little Thrallborn. You and all those you hold dear. Nothing can escape my shadow. NOTHING!”

The slump figure of Jatharr jumped to life and pounced from the flames, hissing as it went. It tackled Sawain and he fell backwards. His fall lasted an eternity. When he hit the ground, it forced his eyes open. A pent up scream escaped his chest and he sat up quickly. Sitting up triggered a flash of searing pain from every bone in his torso. He winced as he looked around in panic.

He was back in the tent, it was dark still, and he was drenched in sweat. The tent flap flew open and Jatharr poked his head in looking worried.

“Everything alright in here, Sawain?”

Jatharr's alright. It was just a dream.

A wave of relief washed over Sawain as he let out a quiet sigh to accompany it. He gave Jatharr a half grin.

“Just a bad dream. How long have I been out?”

Jatharr grinned, “Just a few days. I think you should refrain from fighting giants again.”

His stomach churned at Jatharr's words.

I wish I could.

Jatharr noticed Sawain's downcast countenance and spoke again, “Don't let it get ye down. Any one of us would have been worn out after fighting a giant too. If yer hungry and you feel like trying to move around, come get some breakfast. Sun's almost up, so it'll be ready soon.”

The mention of food attuned Sawain to his empty stomach that was gnawing voraciously on itself. He grinned and placed a hand on it to keep it at bay.

“That's a good idea. I'll be out soon.”

Jatharr nodded, “Great, yer clothes are in that small chest on the other end. Might want to get dressed before braving the elements.

With that, Jatharr's head disappeared and the tent flap closed again. Sawain got up, gritting his teeth as the aches in his body fought back. He crawled over to the chest. The tent was too short to stand in. He found a pair of trousers and the cotton tunic Tilly had given him. They appeared to be washed. There was also a leather belt in the chest. His boots sat beside the chest.

Once he was dressed, he clambered out of the tent. The sun was just rising over the hills in the shallow valley where the refugee camp was set up. Six of the refugees were sitting around a fire on rocks they had dragged to it. They were huddling close to the heat, talking to one another in low tones. The smell of cooking eggs rose from a black kettle that sat in the coals of the fire. Jatharr's voice caused Sawain to jump, since he did not notice him sitting by the tent.

“Morning, lazy bones. Glad to see you've finally decided to rejoin the living.”

Sawain regained his composure and nodded, “Me too. What's for breakfast?”

The others perked up and looked towards the two heroes and began chattering more lively. Jatharr gave them a soft half chuckle, then responded to Sawain's query.

“Eggs. Last of them, too. You woke up just in time. We are going to need to get a move on and try to find some game to feed our camp with soon.”

Sawain's heart sank as Jatharr looked at him hopefully. Sawain never was much of a hunter. He had only ever fired a bow a few times, but was terrible at it.

“I'm not much of a marksman, Jatharr. I couldn't promise that I would be much use in hunting wild game.”

Jatharr grinned, almost mischievously, “You must be new to the wilds of Hammerhold, lad. Most of the game out here hunts you as much as you hunt it. You don't need a bow. Any weapon will do.”

Sawain shrugged again, holding his empty palms upward, “The only weapon I had was destroyed in the fight against the giant.”

Jatharr grinned wider, “Worry not, friend, I managed to get out a few weapons before the tunnel collapsed. I was able to procure some axes. They aren't the most efficient weapons around, but they'll do in a pinch, I suspect.”

Sawain smiled at Jatharr, though on the inside, he was a writhing mass of nerves. Using the axes meant he could not rely on his divine powers without risking utter exhaustion again.

As long as we can steer clear of the Grey King's forces, we should be fine. If they do show up somewhere, we could be in great trouble.

“That should do fine until we get to Alfhaven. Thank you, captain.”

Jatharr nodded, “Don't thank me until we reach Alfhaven. Look sharp, yeh've got admirers.”

A young halfling girl and her younger brother were inching toward the two bashfully. They were mere feet away now. The little brother hid behind his sister, peeping around her arm. He could not be more than five years old. The girl was not much older than him, though she was taller. She stopped her advance when Sawain took notice of the two. The little brother bumped into her and withdrew his face from view.

Sawain gave them a friendly and warm smile, “Hello, there, little ones. What's that you have there?”

The young girl had a clay bowl in her hands. She held it straight out in front of her once Sawain asked about it. Sawain knelt down and stretched his hands out, taking the bowl from her. He looked inside and there was a tiny portion of scrambled egg and a brass fork. It was a pitiful sight that made Sawain's heart sink lower as he realized how dire their situation was. He smiled broadly at the two.

“For me? This looks delicious! Thank you so much!”

He picked up the fork and scooped the first of three bites worth of egg. He took an exaggerated bite and acted as if it was the best thing he had ever tasted, though it was really quite bland, since they had no seasonings available.

“Wow, this is really good! Did you make this?”

The young lad poked his head out with a wide grin on his pale face, “Nooo!”

Sawain acted surprised, “You didn't? Are you sure?”

The girl giggled and folded her hands behind her back. She twirled her pale blue dress back and forth as she became more animated. Her brown eyes glistened with excitement at Sawain's attention.

“My aunt made them.”

Sawain grinned, “Well, be sure to thank her for me!”

Her eyes lit up more and her smile broadened. She curtsied, then turned and ran back to the fire, nearly running over her brother in the process. He started to run after her, then, seemingly encouraged by Sawain's kindness, he turned back to Sawain. The color was rising quickly in his cheeks. He piped up as loud as he could to make sure Sawain heard him.

“Thank you for saving us, mister hero! When I grow up, I'm gonna be a hero too, just like you!”

Sawain was taken aback. Something in his chest caught ablaze. It was not the familiar rage of hatred he was accustomed to fighting with. It was something new. All his life, he had only known hatred and fear. No one ever showed gratitude to him like this before. During his time in the Dawn Star company, everyone was so much more advanced than him that he spent his days wishing he could be like them, but never even felt on par with any of them, even Kyra.

The young boy bowed low, then turned and ran back too, leaving Sawain standing there with a bowl of eggs in his hand and his mouth half open. The feeling welled up inside of him. It warmed his entire body and made him feel like crying.

Why does what that boy said make me sad? I just feel like crying, but crying is for sadness.

He thought back on the time he caught Axel wiping a tear away when he walked in on one of his strange songs. He asked him why it made him sad to sing it, and Axel told him he was not sad, but that the memories tied to the song made him very happy, and that tears could come when someone was truly happy.

That must be it. To have someone finally look up to me, to think that I am someone special. I am truly happy now.

He smiled as he watched the two children playing a childhood game near the campfire. He wiped away the rogue tear that sneaked down his cheek and thought of Axel again. He took a deep breath and reined in his emotions. Happy though he was, he still had a duty to perform as the hero of the camp. He pulled up a stone beside Jatharr and finished his bowl of eggs silently. After eating, he turned back to the captain.

“When do we break camp?”

Jatharr glanced over the scanty camp of two tents and a wheel barrow that was converted into a makeshift cart. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them, looking much older for a moment.

“Not much camp to break. I suppose our wounded are well enough to move now. Most are anyway. The one that's not, we can probably tote in the barrow. Most suffered bumps on the head that knocked them out for a day or two. Miss Lennoir wasn't so lucky, though. She narrowly made it out before the tunnel collapsed, but a piece of rubble tripped her up and broke her leg. It wasn't an awful break, but still, a broken leg is nothing to scoff at, especially when you're expected to trek across Hammerhold in the winter.”

Sawain nodded, “That is a bit too much to ask, but we have to get going soon. We have much working against us. As you said, it is winter, and I know full well how dangerous a snowstorm can be for the unprepared. We also have an army of undead to worry about, not to mention the gnoll clans that cause so much trouble here.”

Jatharr rose to his feet and dusted the frost from his tunic, “What are we waiting for? We should get moving, then. Help me break down this tent.”

After they broke down the tent Sawain had stayed in, Jatharr mobilized the rest of the camp into action. Within the next hour, everything was broken down, folded up, and distributed among the refugees to carry. Jatharr pushed the barrow, which had a dozing miss Lennoir and bundles of blankets in it. Sawain followed at his side, carrying one of the two tents that had been bundled up with tight efficiency.

They trekked eastward, over the rolling Fells. It was a grueling journey that wore on many, especially the young ones. The bitter cold was no help either. Sawain worried about the ones who shivered violently as the frozen wind cut through their thin Underfell Town garb. Some had made makeshift coats out of the sacks that once had supplies in them.

For all of their difficulties, Jatharr seemed in good spirit. The entire day, he talked with Sawain about his younger days. He really was much older than Sawain thought he was. He asked Sawain about his adventures and Sawain filled in all the details from the day he was taken from Mistveil Farm to when he arrived in Underfell Town, including becoming a champion of Turin and everything he knew about the Grey King. He did leave out the parts about being the illegitimate thrallborn son of a bloodthirsty tyrant. Jatharr spoke of old wars that Sawain had learned about during Syd's history lessons. He told of the days when he lived in the southern Fells, near Jordborg.

“Back then, there was a fearsome tribe of Centaur called the Harthaz. They were renowned far and wide for their brutality in war. My clan and the Harthaz skirmished from time to time, but only went to war once.”

Sawain was interested in this history, since it took place close to where he grew up, on Mistveil Farm, “Why did you go to war with Centaur?”

Jatharr looked up at the feathery clouds in the sky as his mind drifted back.

“We always fought over little things, such as game or territorial boundaries. Truth be told, we were not enemies, more like bloody rivals. Our chief and theirs were actually friends before the war. It started as most wars do: over a woman.”

Sawain was puzzled by this, “Wait, you mean to tell me a halfling and a centaur fought over a woman?”

Jatharr let out a sad chuckle, noticeably changing his countenance slowly, “Our chief was not a halfling. I belonged to a clan of mixed races that preferred living off the land and maintaining the old ways of the Lower Fells. Some called us raiders, or barbarians. Both unfair titles, truly. We only ever raided during the Anvilheim-Jordborg war twenty years ago. That's another story, though. This war came before even that one. Like I said, the war started over a woman and a prophecy. The woman was my wife, Marran. She was a druid. Communed with nature and all that. I never really understood it, but she said it was what allowed her a degree of control over nature itself. Anyway, one night, during one of our most important festivals, a spirit fell over her and she made a prophecy. Said something about how the seed of our chief would bring great honor to his name. Said he would have a son that would unite two worlds. Chief boasted that his bloodline was next to rule as Segrammir, and that he would use that power to bring all the Fell-clans under his subjection. Of course, he made this boast among his own people, and at a moment of weakness, at the peak of the Celebration, but...”