Hammerhold Tales: Thrallborn (8 page)

Chapter Seven

I
t was the break of dawn and Sawain was in the training yard, alone. He had a longsword in his hands and was going through the motions Axel had taught him. All around him was silent. All he could hear was the sound of the sword cutting swiftly through the cold, bitter air. His muscles burned and his lungs ached as he went faster and faster with his movements. The steel blade of the sword blurred like a flashing bolt of lightning as he cut his way through imaginary hordes of gnolls.

A small noise rang in his ears. The faster he went, the louder it got.

It was a voice.

He pushed himself harder. He swung his blade with all his might.

It was a familiar voice. A man's voice.

He sliced through the air with unbridled ferocity. His hands bled from the force he exerted.

The voice was calling a name.

He could feel his lungs tearing as he forced air into them and out again. He himself had become a blur. He was a force of nature. Raw. Powerful. Unstoppable.

It was calling out his name.

He was barreling through a blood soaked battlefield. Everything he came close to shattered. He could not make out the forms, but they were dark. He was cutting through an entire army with the power of the gods.

The voice grew louder, clearer. The name began to fill him.

He was moving so fast, everything was red and gray. There was a figure ahead of him. It was dark. He hated it. He hated it with the purest rage. He roared fiercely, cutting his way to the figure as it grew larger.

The name was all he could hear. His name.

The figure was close now. It towered over him. He saw its face. It was a face of purest evil. Gray. Rotting. Unnatural. Its face was fear, but he had no room in his heart. His sword was no longer a sword. It had changed. He raised it high above his head as he leaped at his foe, screaming his name. His real name.

Swerdbrekker.

Sawain awoke screaming the name. He was sitting up, drenched in sweat, panting hard, as if he had just been fighting a real war. He blinked several times until he could come to term with the fact that he had only been dreaming.

It was a dream. Wasn't it? Was that real? How could it have been real. I'm awake, in my bed. I'm still in Dawnstar Manor. None of it was real, right?

He looked around the room. It was early morning. The sun was shining into his window. A shock wave of fear shot through him as he stumbled out of bed, trying to free his tangled legs from his blanket. The sun had risen and Axel did not wake him up. This happened once before, a month ago. Axel did not wake him up to see if he could get up on his own. He slept til noon. The punishment was nearly too much for Sawain to bear, since Axel made him do all of his chores and lessons before he could rest or eat. He went to bed that night well beyond midnight with nothing to eat. The next morning, he was exhausted, but he was up and ready before Axel came to knock on his door.

Sawain could already hear the thick dwarven accent reprimanding him as he burst out of his room, still fastening his belt. He made it to the top of the stairs and looked nervously down into the main hall. Housemother Ravensoul rocked contentedly in her rocking chair in the corner close to the mantle. A warm fire was crackling in the fireplace, casting its glow into the dim room. Reisim was sitting at the table, scribbling on a scroll of parchment.

Sawain was utterly confused. Never in his life as a slave or a shieldling had he actually been allowed to sleep in without dire consequences. He hesitantly made his way downstairs, scanning the corners for Axel, expecting him to pop out at any moment, swatting at him with a training sword, screaming, “Yer late! Yer late!” The surprise attack never came. Neither Reisim nor the Housemother even acknowledged Sawain as he shuffled into the great hall. Finally, he couldn't take this game anymore.

“Where's Axel? What's going on?”

Reisim stopped writing and sighed dramatically, without looking up from his work, “Not here. Nothing is going on that concerns you, shieldling. Go... clean the outhouse or something.”

Sawain scowled at Reisim. He was really beginning to hate the old miser. He chose to take the cleaning quip as an insult instead of a command. He turned with an imploring look toward the Housemother. She was still rocking gently, her eyes closed, humming an ancient song Sawain was unfamiliar with. He addressed her again, this time with the proper etiquette Syd taught him. He folded his hands and averted his eyes. He spoke in soft tones.

“Housemother, where is Axel Rimebeard?”

The Housemother opened her eyes and smiled, as if she had just noticed Sawain, “Ah, good morning, child. I see you are finally up. Your master is away. He may be for a few weeks. The Segrammir has called our heroes to war.”

Sawain's blood ran cold.

“War? Against who, Housemother?”

“Against the Blackmagnes, against the Goretusks, against all gnoll kind. Even now, they are locked in combat to the north. Your master has been sent to fight against those in the mountains to the northwest.”

Sawain felt left out, “What about Kyra? Did he send her too? And Syd and Rylie?”

The housemother gave him a look that answered his question long before she answered.

“Yes.”

Jealousy seized Sawain's heart. He felt betrayed, let down. His mouth hung open as he processed everything.

“But why? Why did they not take me with them?”

Reisim answered before the Housemother had a chance, “Because you're just a child. You would only get in the way. Or end up getting yourself killed or worse: Someone more important killed. Axel does not have time to baby sit you on the battlefield. No, he left that pleasure up to us.”

Sawain's jealousy quickly turned to rage as he pivoted around, a flare of anger in his eyes as he yelled at the elf, “I am no child! I have been trained, I have worked hard these last six months. I have excelled at every challenge thrown at me! I am ready! I can be a hero too!”

Reisim laughed snidely, glaring spitefully at Sawain, “You? A hero? You're nothing but a little fool, eager to go to the slaughter. Well, go on then, little lamb. If you're so brave, go and fight the gnolls. They could use the meat.”

The housemother spoke up loud and sharp, “That is enough.”

It was all the persuasion Reisim needed to fall silent. He gave Sawain a snide glare and challenging grin before returning to his parchment. It was enough to ignite an inferno of rage in Sawain's stomach. He was afraid to let it out in front of the housemother, so he turned and stormed out of the front door, slamming it hard behind him.

Tears streamed down Sawain's cheeks, chilling instantly in the cold winter air. It was all he could do to let the frustration out without screaming at the top of his lungs. Tears blinded him as he stumbled down the cobblestone streets, past hundreds of faceless people. When the tears finally subsided, he found himself standing on the great stone bridge that spanned the Anvil River. He stared down at the churning water below him. The river was too deep to see the bottom from where he stood, near the middle. He let his mind wander as he watched the swirling, rushing dance below his feet.

Reisim is wrong. I am a hero. I'm just as good as Axel. I beat him all the time. I can kill gnolls too. What does he know about being a hero? He sits in that dank dungeon he calls a counting room all day, looking over his coins. Coins that real heroes earn him. I'll show him I can be a hero, too.

Sawain was growing cold and stiff as he stood on the stone bridge. The smell of roasting lamb caught his nostrils and filled his mouth with saliva. He looked off to his right. A large log tavern stood a few hundred feet away from the south side of the bridge. It was a grand scale building with two stories of windows above the ground floor. It was adorned with a green slanted roof and two stone chimneys, one on either end of the building. White smoke rose from the chimneys. The smell was of burning pine mixed with fresh roasted meat. It was the famous Strongarm Inn, friend to hero and townsfolk alike.

Sawain reached into his left pocket and felt the three copper coins he had left over from his part of a horse shoe sale he worked on with Axel. He was cold and hungry, perhaps he could stop in and warm up a bit before returning to the manor. He made his way across the bridge to the old tavern. He pushed the worn green door open and was hit by a smoky wave of heat that instantly rejuvenated him. The inside of the tavern was well lit from the two fires, one on either end, burning in the mantles along with the candles on every table and lanterns along the walls. The main room was large, spanning the entire length and width of the great log house. A smoky haze from the patrons' pipe smoke gave the tavern a mystic appearance. The three barmaids on duty deftly wove their way between tables and patrons, all while balancing trays of food and drinks on their arms. The barman worked tirelessly to fulfill the desires of the bar hounds baying for more service.

Sawain worked his way into the lively bustle. He scanned the room, looking for an empty table. He found one in the near left corner, close to the fire. He blazed a trail through the crowd of jovial patrons towards his table. He stopped only briefly to greet some of the shop owners he knew, one was the blacksmith he recently finished the horseshoe job for. The old halfling stood on his chair when he noticed Sawain.

“Ah, good day, young master! Axel actually let you off the chain today? Marvelous!”

Sawain remembered the halfling's name was Mosrey Longchin. He deserved his surname. He had long white whiskers that covered his face and hung from his chin to his belly. He wore a pair of wire spectacles, an “invention” of Axel's, that sat perilously on his short nose. His blue eyes shone with glee and his pink cheeks gave the impression that he had spent most of his day in the tavern.

Sawain smiled and nodded at the old halfling, deciding he meant no harm with his words, even if they did sting Sawain.

“Yes sir, he's off being a hero today.”

Old Longchin scowled, turning and slumping back into his seat. He grabbed a mostly empty mug and started pointing roughly at his table mates with it.

“Bah, what good are our heroes if they're always off on some fool errand for that no-good Segrammir. The codger'll be the death of us all, sending our greatest defenders off to play war while the rest of us suffer.”

Sawain broke away from the ranting old one and seated himself at his long sought after table. Within a few seconds, one of the barmaids was at his side. A pretty elf with curly brown hair and hazel eyes. She smiled at him as she spoke.

“Welcome to the Strongarm Inn! What can I get for you today, young master?”

Sawain felt in his pocket for the coins. They were still there. He smiled back to the barmaid.

“I'll just take some soup and bread, please.”

She curtsied, still smiling, “very well, sir, I'll have it right out to you.”

She went to fetch the food and left Sawain alone with his thoughts. He could still hear old Longchin ranting.

“Wot with those raider camps set up along the Alfhaven road, it'll be a matter of days before we start feeling the pressure. Those blasted gnolls are moving in on each others' territory now. I heard from master Farven that he's been expecting a timber load from Alfhaven for a week now and it hasn't come. Sure, maybe they're late, or maybe it's true. Now that our heroes are away, other tribes are moving in to prey on us!”

The barmaid brought him his meal and he gave her his three coins.

“Keep the change.”

She curtsied again and said before departing, “Thank you for your patronage.”

He sat and sipped on the piping hot lamb broth as he went over what he had picked up from eavesdropping. If this was true, then Anvilheim could be virtually defenseless against these raiders. It was the heroes' first duty to keep the hold safe.

I'm a hero. It is my duty to be out there, breaking up the raider camps. I can do it by myself. It will prove to Reisim and Axel that I am worthy. This is my chance. After today, they will have to respect me. No more of this babysitting nonsense.

He stood up and left his soup half finished. He grabbed the small loaf of wheat bread and wrapped it in a cloth towel left for him on the table. He made haste to the Dawnstar manor. When he arrived, the great hall was empty. He was grateful for that. He quickly made his way to the forge. He cursed his luck that the door was locked. He scoured the training yard for something to use to break the lock. He did not have to look long. Someone left a training sword out, thrown to the side by the fence. He took it back to the forge and started hacking at the lock with all his might. He made a lot of noise in the process, but he was eventually successful in bludgeoning off the lock by snapping it from the wooden door.

He fumbled through the darkness inside until he found the switch. He flipped it and waited for his eyes to adjust. Once he could see well enough, he rummaged around the shop, taking two of the smaller metal working hammers and tucking them into his belt, both on his right hip. He also found one of Axel's leather overcoats he preferred to use over the aprons most of the time. It was a little too wide in the shoulders and a little short in the length, but it would keep him warm and afford him some protection. He found a long strap of leather and tied it into a belt that he draped tightly over his left shoulder and under his right arm. He used this as a makeshift holster as he was turning to leave, he saw the large striking hammer. It was a little bit larger than the wooden war hammer Axel made him practice with, and much heavier, but he was competent with it already as a tool. He was certain it would be manageable as a weapon and grabbed it, sliding it into his makeshift holster. The handle hung a little lower than he would have liked, but it would have to do.