Hammers in the Wind (5 page)

Death mocked the still air. Sulfuric fumes choked the stale air of the small chamber. Windowless, a single bed was the only decoration. Cobwebs clung to the shadows like secret lovers. Dust layered the cold, granite floor. Once a holy shrine to ancient gods now decayed without notice. Millennia of history slowly crumbled away for none living could remember the usefulness of the temple.

Artiss Gran strode heavily down the empty hall in deep thought. A fell dream had awakened him after nearly three thousand years of sleep. His weathered face bore no emotion, indeed little semblance to a human at all. Memories played havoc with his mind. Artiss was the last of his kind. Sworn protectors of all life on Malweir, he and his kind had stood watch against the perversions of the dark gods since time began. But now it was all gone; the gods, light and dark, his kin and friends. Artiss Gran lived a lonely life and prayed for the time when his services would no longer be required so that he might join all those who went before.

Yet such simple delights were not to be. The dark forces were rising again. It had been so long since Artiss was forced to defend the world he didn’t know if he was up to it anymore. He was old. Everything about him screamed it. The darkness swirled around him, threatened to creep in and consume his soul. It called to him, beckoned him to action. Fighting the urge wasn’t an option. His sole purpose was to stop the dark gods from returning to claim this world as their own. Three thousand years he had laid dormant, awaiting and dreading the day when he would be needed again. And now it was time.

He felt older, much older than his ten thousand years implied. His skin was stretched tightly over his thin frame, discolored and leathery. The marrow of his bones had long since dried to dust. His body was a shallow haunting of its former self. The dark grey cloak concealed what had become the ruin of his flesh. The gods didn’t care. They demanded service and he had no choice but to accept. Artiss failed to find fairness in it. Even the gods of light had abandoned Malweir and left the races to their own devices. They left Artiss with just enough to accomplish his purpose

“All these long years and now there is no time,” Artiss muttered to himself.

Ancient torches sprang to life as he passed, as if a whisper could command such. He was a man who only thought of others. In fact, the entire scope of his existence was dedicated to the preservation of life. A normal life had been denied him ever since he accepted the task of becoming a priest. His own life came to mean little. The moment he’d been selected for ascension to priesthood had been his happiest, his most complete. He eased his way into the plain marble chamber at the heart of the temple.

No one had stood here in his lifetime. The chamber of conveyance had one task, to show the keeper of secrets what evil threatened the world. Artiss already knew the answer. His awakening was no accident. The visions of mass despair rippling through his nightmares confirmed his darkest fears. The enemies of life had somehow found a way, a breach, back into the world and were quietly planning a new campaign.

Artiss moved to the center of the chamber. A series of tightening concentric circles crafted from the precious star silver metal had been inlaid when the world was young. They guided him to his proper place. The circles flared to life at his touch. Soon the chamber glowed bright silver, bathing him in its warmth. Artiss felt the raw power surging over him. His body shuddered as it accepted the newfound strength.

All of this had happened before. Malweir had almost been torn apart during the last war. Pain and suffering were visited on untold tens of thousands for hundreds of years. That’s when he became the last. The dark gods moved quickly and relentlessly against his kind. All of his brothers were killed in the efforts to send them back to the great abyss. Artiss finally won, but at a cost. He alone must remain to keep the dark gods in check. The dark gods nearly succeeded in escaping three thousand years ago and would have had it not been for a handful of Gaimosian Knights.

Artiss folded his arms across his chest as the circles of light and power opened paths into the ether. He stayed upon the chosen path, for the unknown is a terrifying thing.  One misstep and he was lost. Fleeting images of fell creatures lurked just beyond reach. An ethereal breeze carried his essence into regions of time and space unknown to mortals. He traveled on the breath of time itself, ever hungering for the answers. The powers propelling him jerked suddenly, forcing Artiss to his knees. A collection of violent colors coalesced before him. This was it!

He fell, hitting the ancient floor and quickly rolled up to his knees. It had begun. The enemy was moving at last. Artiss felt sheer terror course through him, battling with the healing properties of the star silver. He hobbled over to the far wall where a map of the world hung. His eyes thoroughly scanned the combination of ancient and modern images. He never learned how, for the old masters had been killed before telling him the secrets, but the map was able to change itself. As Malweir changed so too did the map. The images Artiss Gran now looked upon had not been there three thousand years ago.

His eyes flittered over the map, desperately seeking the source. Then he found it. A tiny flame flickering far to the north; well beyond the Jebel Desert. Delranan. The doom of Malweir had begun in Delranan. Artiss tried to remember anything about the small northern kingdom but was unsuccessful. Delranan hadn’t yet existed when last he awoke. Artiss hurried off to the temple library in hopes of finding the missing elements necessary to properly defend Malweir. The alarm must be raised. He only prayed the old lines were still available.

*****

The sky remained dark, overcast and brutal as King Badron waited. He welcomed the chilled darkness for it complimented his mood. Hatred and sorrow clashed within his heart. They consumed the goodness and left a rotting shell of man bent on vengeance. It was a difficult thing to outlive his children. Now Badron was forced to embrace the torments of that fact. He prided himself on being a hard man, a strong man. That pride was often enough his closest ally. He’d seen victory on numerous battlefields yet was now humbled by a single death.

He loved his son more than any member of his family. The boy showed much potential and was being groomed for a leadership position in the Wolfsreik. The kingdom’s army was a fine place to hone the skills of command. None of it mattered now. His son’s broken body lay lifeless on a cold stone slab. Badron stifled back the tears even as his mind wandered back to the various conspiracy theories already suggested. He knew he shouldn’t. This was a day for mourning, not plotting.

Daggers stabbed at him when he closed his eyes. Visions of torment mocked him. His son riddled with so many spears. The look of abject terror on his face. He reopened his eyes and stared down upon Delranan. Chadra Keep sprawled beneath. The old king’s shoulders slumped. Once he had enjoyed this view, now it suggested the decay of his rule. Color was gone, replaced by shades of winter grey. The world had grown cruel on him. A bell tolled deep from somewhere in the city below. He sighed and turned.

Harnin One Eye patiently awaited him.

“Well?” Badron asked.

“We’ve had trackers scour every avenue of approach to the Keep. They determined the enemy was able to move through the eastern forest. There were a large number of tracks just outside the walls.”

Badron nodded thoughtfully. That part made sense. The forest was the most vulnerable side of the Keep. He silently cursed himself for not cutting it down years ago. “So they used the cover of darkness to get close. How did they get inside though? There are no entrances on that part of the Keep.”

“We are still trying to figure that out, sire. More importantly, I have come to believe that the attackers were not Pell Darga.”

Badron’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Harnin cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the hatred in his king’s eyes. “The Pell are a mountain folk. As such, they have need of a sure-footed pony, not horses bred for the open steppe. No one has seen one in a lifetime, making most doubt their existence. Not even our patrols have come across any signs in the last few years. What then would be their reasoning for driving down from their distant mountain kingdom to kidnap your daughter? It doesn’t make sense.”

The senior captain and advisor chose his words carefully, partly because he wasn’t sure how Badron would react and partly because he recognized the frailty of this time. All of Delranan held its breath. War was nearing, but against whom? Harnin hid his smile as Badron asked just that.

“Who then has a vested interest in seeing my house in ruins?”

“My lord, Malweir is an ever-dangerous world. I’ve heard rumors of a civil war between the Dwarf clans to the east. Strange companies of Elves and Goblins have been seen wandering through the land. Some even whisper of the return of the fabled Gaimosian Knights.”

Badron shook his head. He’d heard the fairy tales as well and refused to mire his thoughts in such. “For all that you name I can find no true enemy.”

“That leaves Rogscroft.”

The word stung, hanging in the air like a miasma of doom.

Badron sneered. “They couldn’t possibly know what our plans are.”

Harnin shrugged. “Perhaps not, but Prince Aurec is your daughter’s lover whether you choose to accept it or not. There is a chance he might have succumbed to an act of grave stupidity.”

“Or at the insistence of his father,” the king finished. He smashed a fist into his palm. He regretted not invading his hated foe those many years ago. “Aurec is no fool, neither is his father. They are brash but not foolish enough to risk reprisal.”

“Rogscroft will deny everything, naturally. Not that it matters much, all tracks lead back to the east. This is our chance to finally blame them. It also gives us the perfect opportunity to go to war.”

The prospect of no more subversion enticed Badron. “The Wolfsreik is already marshalling, but it will take time, as you pointed out, for them to actually muster the strength to march. I do not want to tip our hand to our enemies. Continue to use the Pell as an excuse. Keep our people and his spies in the dark for as long as we can and the advantage is ours. Let us catch them unaware.”

The bell tolled again, deep and ominous.

“It is time, sire,” Harnin grimly announced.

“Then come, let us bury my son.”

Somber crowds lined the main avenue from the Keep down to the shore. Most of Delranan showed to pay their respects to their prince. Mothers wept openly, for him and for all of the sons who lost their lives that fell night. Fur-cloaked soldiers lined the way at specific intervals. They served as much for crowd control as for respect. Their steel helmets gleamed in the sporadic light. Spear and sword did the same. Each bore the same dour expression, as if a piece of them had been torn away. Brothers had been murdered. The guards remained perfectly still, only moving their eyes to follow the procession as it inched out from the massive gates of Chadra Keep.

King Badron led them. His robes were stately. The wolf skin cloak clasped about his shoulders shimmered in shades of black and grey. The kingdom’s crown, which he seldom found cause to wear, was bejeweled and heavy upon his head. A ruby the size of baby’s fist sat in the center. The king of Delranan presented the image of a hard man. His eyes, posture, the measure of his gait were all determined. Such was he always seen by his subjects for to do otherwise would invite insurrection. His face was a mask that concealed more emotion than any could have guessed.  Anguish clashed with dispassion and the building thirst for revenge.

His captains and battle lords marched in step behind him. They had become the life’s blood of Delranan now that his only male heir was slain. Harnin One Eye led them. Sorrow was evident on his visage, but there was more. Those who dared to look too close could see lust for power beneath all of the scars. Whether that lust was focused on the throne or something much greater remained hidden.

Last of the group of captains was the young warrior Jarrik. Rumor had it that he had been born to a bear and raised in the wild. His pale blue eyes kept a feral glint. His body was large and muscled, littered with scars and hungry. He was the king’s champion. He also took the funeral the hardest of all. The prince had been a good pupil and close friend over the years. Ionascu missed him sorely already. Jarrik was forced to leave his closest companion, the mighty double-headed battle axe sung in song and lore. The weapon had cleaved more skulls and drank more blood than any other in the kingdom and had served the champion well over the decades. Ionascu knew the time was fast approaching when his axe would see use again.

“None of these people gave a damn about the prince,” he growled in a deep baritone.

Argis called back over his shoulder. “They come to pay respect to the heir of the land.”

“They come for the protection of our steel,” Jarrik snapped back. “This is all a show.”

“And what would the fearsome Jarrik do? Do we conscript the whole lot and send them off to the front lines?”

“I am suggesting we send them back to their homes and end this charade now so we can go off to war ourselves.”

Harnin whispered, “Both of you dishonor the king like this.”

The champion fumed. “I honor his son’s memory by seeking rightful vengeance against his killers, whelp.”

Badron listened to every word with disgust from the head of the procession. Any other day he might have been tempted to give them a good thrashing in the training pits, but not today. This day was reserved to the honor of his son. The kingdom and his plans could wait a day.