Hammerhold Tales: Thrallborn Read online

  A loud rumbling crash melded with a chorus of screams and yelps as the two pursuers were buried by the rubble. Sawain turned and smiled widely at his handiwork. The third gnoll pounced from the darkness behind the dusty rubble. It caught Sawain off guard and knocked him on his back. Its claws dug into his shoulders, piercing the leather coat he was wearing. The gnoll’s angry, hot breath fell on his face. It smelled of decaying meat. He could see its blackened maw and its white hot angry eyes flashing in the near-darkness.

  “I’m going to cook you alive, man-elf!”

  Sawain could feel the anger building in his chest again as the gnoll’s lisping insult filled his ears. He broke the pin the gnoll had on his right leg and brought his knee up with all the force he could muster into its groin. He saw its eyes narrow and its sneer drop into an agonized grimace. He felt the air leave its lungs and worked his leg farther up to its stomach and pushed out. He lifted the gnoll enough from the ground to roll to the left, throwing the beast off of him.

  He scrambled to his feet long before the winded gnoll could get off the ground. It groped around on its hands and knees as Sawain drew his striking hammer. He raised it above his head and it looked up at him pitifully, fearful. It caused him to stay his hand. This split second hesitation was all the gnoll needed to lunge again, biting hard on his lower leg. Sawain grunted as the pain shot through his body, then brought his hammer down on the gnoll’s back. The sound of splintering vertebrae echoed through the corridor and the gnoll let go of Sawain’s leg.

  Sawain limped back to the entrance of the round room, where the archers waited. He stood there for a moment, terrified of the bows. He had replaced his striking hammer with his throwing hammers, but they paled in comparison to the archers’ range and accuracy. If only he could call on the same rage that carried him through his battle outside, he would not have to be afraid.

  He tried to think of what the gnolls had done to him. He thought of the men and women pinned to the farm’s wall. He thought of the long march from Mistveil. He thought of Hilmr’s cruelty in not allowing him to stand during the march. He felt the anger rising. He thought of the stinging lashes from Hilmr’s whip. He thought of the taunting jeers from his captors. The rage was filling his chest. He stepped out into the corridor. Three arrows flew at him like angry hornets. One grazed his face, one bit into his thigh and the other passed harmlessly. The rage was struck down by pain and fear. Sawain’s resolve began crumbling.

  No, no. Focus. Focus your pain into rage. Hate them. Kill them.

  “KILL THEM!”

  Sawain’s roar bounced back into his ears several times, emboldening him each time. The gnolls, who were reloading their bows for another barrage were stunned momentarily. The rage overcame Sawain. His eyes filled with crimson and a reserve of hidden strength caused his legs to carry him farther and faster than ever. By the time the gnolls had taken aim again, he was halfway across the room.

  He flung both of his hammers with such force that the archer who received them misfired and crumpled to the ground. He drew his striking hammer mid bound. Two more arrows were released. Sawain did not feel their bites. He was upon the next gnoll. His hammer came down on its skull, splitting it clean in two. Gray matter and blood splattered Sawain’s face, fueling his rage further. He turned to face the last gnoll. He was already before Sawain, mace in hand.

  Sawain felt the blow of the heavy iron ball against his face. It nearly knocked him senseless. He was on his back. The red was fading. The gnoll stood over him, bow in hand again. It was sneering. its yellow eyes mocked him. It knocked an arrow and drew the bow back. its ugly voice rang in Sawain’s ears.

  “You should have stuck to playing hero with your friends, boy.”

  That voice.

  Sawain’s eyes focused and the rage flowed through him again, erupting like a great mountain of fire. It exploded in a furious roar. Hilmr loosed his arrow. It buried itself into Sawain’s chest, just below his sternum. The roar faded, so did the rage. His eyes filled with darkness. All he could see were those eyes. Those evil yellow eyes, glaring at him. Hilmr made a parting insult, spat on Sawain, and departed. The cold took over. His body went numb.

  “I’m not through with you, yet, my son.”

  Sawain opened his eyes. He was cold, stiff, but not dead. He sat up. It was a painful experience. He had arrows in his leg, arms, and chest. He had lost a lot of blood, but he was not dead yet.

  How is this possible?

  “Arise my son, and wash yourself.”

  Sawain did as he was told. He willed himself to rise to his feet. It was not easy. He had no strength left. He was barely able to walk. He staggered to the dais and climbed upon it with much effort. He looked into the basin. It was filled with dirty water. It was cloudy and muddy. Black slime floated on the surface.

  I can’t wash in this. I need to clean it first. But how?

  He looked around for a solution. He noticed a mural on the far wall of what looked like a glowing, radiant warlord. Other warriors bowed around him, offering him crimson stained swords. He saw the bodies of the dead gnolls laying on the ground and had an idea. He struggled over to one of the corpses. He drew the gnoll’s sword from its scabbard and plunged it into the fallen foe. When he drew it out again, it was covered in the gnoll’s blood. He dragged himself back to the pool. It was much harder this time. He was nearly ready to just give up.

  Somehow, he found enough strength to lift himself upon the dais again. He extended the bloody blade over the water. He didn’t know why he thought this would do anything, something just told him he should. He dropped the sword into the water.

  When it splashed into the basin, the water immediately began to boil violently. A moment of this passed and the water settled. The sword was gone and the water was clear and clean. Sawain smiled as everything began to grow dim again.

  “I accept the offering you have presented me, my son. Now, bathe in the water, made clean by the blood of your enemies.”

  Sawain could only smile and close his eyes as he fell face first into the purifying pool. The water enveloped him. He was free floating. He opened his eyes and all the could see was a light in the darkness. His chest tightened. He needed air. He was about to drown. He swam toward the light. It grew brighter and brighter, but he was running out of breath.

  He could not take any more. He let out his breath in a muffled scream and took in lungfuls of water. He was surprised when the rushing water turned to air in his chest. The light surrounded him and blinded him. He closed his eyes until it faded. When he opened them, he was standing in a glorious throne room.

  The walls were made of ivory and the rafters were made of living lightning. The walls were adorned with an array of marvelous arms and armor unlike anything Sawain had ever seen before. Their metal shone like the sun. Their workings were perfect. The hall was carpeted with a deep blue fabric. The hall rose at the far end. On the raised platform stood a gleaming golden throne with decorative reliefs of storm clouds and streaks of lightning. The lightning bolts were actually moving. To the left of the throne sat an anvil, as black as a storm cloud. To the right sat a forge that glowed with electric brilliance.

  On the throne itself sat a man of grandiose proportions. He was twice as large as any man. He was wearing armor that shone with a brilliance like pure light. Sawain could not make out its intricate details because it hurt his eyes to look straight at it. A helmet of like fashion adorned his brow. He gripped a large silvery great sword in his left hand, resting its tip on the floor of his pedestal. The man was incredibly muscle-bound, with not an ounce of fat visible. His shoulder length hair and long, curly beard shone like the morning sun. His eyes were a bright electric blue. Sawain’s knees grew weak in his presence and he had no choice but to kneel before him.

  The man smiled and lifted his right hand, motioning for Sawain to rise.

  “Stand, my son. Now is not the time for falling to your knees. A mighty battle awaits you. Do you know who I am?”

 
“You are Turin, god of tempests and master of the Sturmforge.”

  Sawain was surprised that he knew this. Axel had never told him anything about the gods. He had been told that no one knew the gods’ names anymore.

  Turin nodded, his eyes shining like stars, “Good, you are starting to remember. You remember my name, but do you remember yours?”

  Sawain opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

  What IS my name, again? I can’t remember.

  Turin’s demeanor sank again, “No, it seems as if you do not. Do not worry, my son, for you will remember it in time. For now, we will call you Sawain. Sawain, ill omens are brewing in the skies. None remain of mortal kin that can read them, but I can. The stars tell of a long-dead god’s stirrings. His name is forgotten even to me. If he was to awaken, all would remember his name. This must not be allowed to happen, but the gods are disconnected from Hammerhold now. He will destroy your world and plunge it into the shadow of undeath. My brethren would dissuade me from caring. They would tell me to let the mortals perish. That it would serve them right for their betrayal. I cannot do this, though. I know your kind can be redeemed. That is where you come in, my son.”

  “Me? How can I redeem mortal-kind? I’m just a thrallborn. I’m not a hero.”

  Turin shook his head slowly, “No, you are not a hero, not yet, but you have the qualities needed to become so much more.”

  Sawain did not understand, “But, Lord Turin, I was killed at the hands of my enemy. How does that make me a worthy hero?”

  Turin smiled again, “You died trying to save a people that did not even know your name. You died to save the lives of those who would hate and scorn you.”

  Sawain felt ashamed, “No, my Lord, I died for selfish reasons. I wanted to prove I was just as good a hero as my mentor. I am not worthy.”

  Turin grinned broadly, rising from his seat. “You speak honestly, but I see a deeper truth, my son. Now, go. You will become my champion. You will become a hero, but you will still have to earn the title. If you still want it, seek out my standing stones, my son. It is there that you will find the path to your destiny. You are a fated soul, you will do great things, but be warned, the path you take will cost you greatly.”

  Sawain’s eyes opened. He was lying int the basin of water in the chamber where he fought the gnolls. Half a dozen arrows were floating in the water around him. He checked his body for wounds. His clothes were tattered, but his body was whole.

  Was that a dream? Did I really just meet a god or did I make it all up? What about this water? How am I not dead? Hilmr!

  Sawain clambered out of the basin, sopping wet, legs still shaky. There was no sign of Hilmr. Sawain did not know if he was long gone or if he was lying in wait somewhere, ready to finish the job he started. Sawain began searching the room for his weapons. It did not take him long to find them. During his search, he noticed a piece of parchment on one of the bedrolls. He looked it over, out of curiosity. He was surprised to find it was written in common. The letters were tidy and well formed.

  Hilmr,

  I am pleased to hear that your ploy with the stones worked. While you are busy killing the Segrammir’s men, our forces will move from the south and tear the hold in half. The Grey King rewards his followers handsomely, old friend. You will always have a haven of rest in Jordborg.

  ~X

  Sawain read it two more times to be sure of what he was reading. Jordborg had drawn an alliance with the gnolls. Not just any gnolls, but with Hilmr’s clan. The anger that fueled Sawain churned in his belly again as he folded the paper and put it in his satchel.

  t was time to go meet the Segrammir.

  Chapter Nine

  Sawain rummaged through the cargo the gnolls had brought into the temple. Most of it was rancid meat and weapons, mostly rusty daggers and swords. He decided to pull the leather breastplate off of one of the fallen gnolls that looked roughly his size. It was damp, spattered with blood, and smelled awful, but it offered him more protection than the coat alone did, so he put it on. He wore the coat over the leather armor. He was disappointed in the gnollish haul. It looked more like they were setting up a war camp than a raider’s hideout.

  A campfire was smoldering on the stone floor in the center of the room. He realized he was wet and that going out into the cold like that could kill him again, so he used some of the crates to rekindle the fire and sat down by the blaze to rest a bit. He closed his eyes and fell asleep again. He awoke with a start. It felt as if he only closed his eyes and drifted off for a moment, but when he looked around, all that was left of his fire was ashes. He was dry, though.

  He left the main chamber and felt his way through the dark corridors of the sunken temple until he managed to find the entrance again. Sunlight poured into the antechamber from outside. Sawain stood in the room, squinting until his vision adapted to the sudden change in light. He climbed to the doorway, feeling the cold wind on his face. The frigid wave of air revived his spirit further and awoke in him his desire for adventure. He poked his head outside to make sure the coast was clear.

  There was no sign of the gnolls, no trace of Hilmr. The hills sounded peaceful enough, with the occasional bird song flitting through the open sky. The sun was well into its progress across its domain, sinking towards the west. Sawain would not be able to get far before the gnoll hunting packs would be active again. He could not stay in the temple either, since Hilmr was likely to return with a larger posse to finish whatever work Sawain had interrupted. He also noted the ominous black clouds moving in from the north. The temperatures were dropping since he delved into the temple, and it was beginning to freeze.

  Sawain broke from his shelter within the temple and plunged into the thorny wood he first emerged from, following his path backwards from the night before. Once he was back in the briar thicket, he tried to work out the path he took before encountering the gnolls, with little success. He wandered for hours in the wood, running into countless dead ends of briar thickets so large, he would be torn to shreds if he had tried to break through them. It grew darker and darker with each frustrating delay. Finally, just as darkness was setting in, whether by divine providence or sheer luck, Sawain found the Alfhaven Road.

  The stars began their nightly dance in the heavens as Sawain cut hard westward, back to Anvilheim. He had urgent news of betrayal to deliver to the Segrammir before it was too late. The cold winter night air was sharper than even the blades that had torn at his flesh the night before. It filled his lungs with air heavy as lead and scored them with a thousand icy stabs. His hands and feet were numb from the night frost. He could hear the already frozen ground crunching beneath his boots. He had to press on through the searing pain inside and outside of his body.

  The clouds he noted before stole over the starry sky within the hour, whipping up frigid bursts of wind that chilled Sawain to his core. He began to worry about the possibility of snow. If it snowed, he wondered if he could handle it, equipped as he was. Hammerhold winters, even in the Fells, could bring hard freezes that would turn all but the best prepared into icy corpses. His other concern came in the form of how easily he could be tracked, leaving footprints in the snow.

  The first flurries of the storm stung his face as he struggled up a large hill that lead into the valley of Vigils, where Fort Vigilant stood as a dedicated sentinel over the borderlands east of Anvilheim. When he made it to the top of the hill and looked down into the valley, a chill filled him from head to toe that had nothing to do with winter’s presence.

  The entire valley was full of campfires and tents. It looked as if the stars had fallen from the black sky and embedded themselves in the valley itself. This sight filled Sawain’s vision. He could not see a single spot westward of his vantage point that was not occupied by a fire or tent. Countless figures writhed among them, some small, some very large. The light thrown off from the fires scrambled Sawain’s night vision, making it hard for him to make out details, especially from this distance. The nex
t thing he noticed struck him with a deeper horror.

  A large black plume of smoke arose from Fort Vigilant. The gates were splintered, their remains burning in bonfires around the outer wall. A great fissure was visible in the fort. It split the eastern wall, leaving a jagged gap in the defenses and ran from there to the southwest corner, where the turret tower holding up that convergence of the walls lay in complete ruin. The fort was torn asunder.

  Sawain had only ever seen the fall of Mistveil Farm. He witnessed the burning and the pillaging the gnolls were capable of, but this was something altogether different. Fort Vigilant was the size of a small town. Axel once told him that it was home to a thousand loyal soldiers of Anvilheim. It had survived centuries of giant assaults from the north and gnoll raids from the south and, as its name implied, stayed ever vigilant, according to his history lessons from Syd. To see it in ruin, torn apart as if it was made of sticks and straw, scared Sawain greatly. He slowly realized that this army at his feet was responsible for the slaughter. He also realized that he was completely cut off from Anvilheim.

  He remembered what the note he found had said about cutting through Anvilheim. His assumptions led him astray. It was not the city itself that was the target of Jordborg’s ambition, but the entire hold. He also began to wonder if Jordborg really had anything to do with this at all, or if there was a greater evil at work. Syd and Axel never mentioned a Grey King. Either way, he could not make it to Anvilheim. He was cut off from his friends and from anyone he could trust. He did not know how far south this army stretched and did not want to risk being anywhere near them when it came time to rest. There was no way he could survive in the Frostwylde, either, so his only option was to go east and seek out aid from Alfhaven.