Hammerhold Tales: Thrallborn (9 page)

He left the workshop, makeshift arsenal in tow, and came face to face with Housemother Ravensoul. She held a bundle in her hands. He could see a hint of sorrow in her eyes as she held out the bundle.

“What you are doing is more danger than you are prepared to handle, but it is something you must do. Anyone else would stop you, but I know you unlike anyone else. I know you have heard your true name. It is not your name yet though, child. You must go and claim it. May these help you along your way.”

Sawain was embarrassed as he was caught red handed in vandalizing and stealing from his master, and yet, the Housemother's lack of wrath reassured him that he was not in nearly as much trouble as he had thought. He quietly took the bundle and looked it over. It was a knapsack with two crystal vials with cork stoppers. A pale golden liquid churned inside them. The Housemother gestured at the vials.

“Those are powerful healing agents. Do not waste them, child. Only use them if it is absolutely necessary. Just drink them and their magic will take effect.”

He stared at the potions in awe. He had heard of these liquid healers, but had never actually seen one before. He placed them in the sack and cushioned them with the bread he had taken with him from the tavern.

“Thank you, Housemother, and please... apologize to Axel for me and let him know I will pay for the door.”

The Housemother grinned, revealing a set of silvery teeth, “ You tell him yourself when you come back a hero, child.”

Sawain returned an enthusiastic grin. His chest filled with something lighter than air as the kind words from the Housemother charged his bones with a new courage. He nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I will, Housemother, thank you.”

Without another word, he strode past her and through the manor until he was outside in the streets again. He wound his way through the alleys connecting his home turf to the main road. He strode boldly through the square, imagining the crowds cheering for him, calling his name, his real name. What was it again? The dream was still lingering in his mind, but the details had become diluted due to the morning's drama. He didn't let it bother him. He would remember it in due time.

He walked beneath the main gates for the first time since he had arrived into Anvilheim through them six months ago. He marveled again at the intricate stone reliefs carved into the gate's stone framework and stared long at the old runes carved above the gate on the outside. He could not read them, but he remembered well what they said:
Fear Has No Place Here
. He resolved then and there to live true to Anvilheim's creed. Nothing, especially fear, would stop him from becoming the hero he was destined to be.

He began his journey full of energy. The sun was high in the sky, there was not a cloud to be seen, only the pale blue of the northern sky. It was even fairly warm for early winter. Sawain could barely see his breath. He was confident that this was going to be an easy feat.

The hours wore on as he continued east along the Anvilheim road. He climbed hill after hill with no sign of any trouble. Several more hours passed and Sawain saw only hills and the occasional grazing herd of goats.

How do so many heroes stay in business in such a dull country? Maybe it's dull because there are too many heroes. What if they have all wiped every scourge from Anvilheim except the gnolls and and have already finished with them as well?

He imagined Axel and company being paraded around the city square with fireworks going off and flowers being strewn about them while the crowd sang their praises. They had slain all of the monsters in Anvilheim and now the people of Anvilheim were yelling their names, not Sawain's. All the while, Sawain was still fumbling around in the empty hills, followed by a flock of goats. The imagery sent a chill down his spine. He shook the thoughts from his mind.

There's no way that can be. Hilmr is still alive. I know he is. He has to be. I must be the one to kill him.

He kept moving eastward past the Jordborg, Alfhaven crossroads while he assured himself that there was a prize still to be had. By now, the sun was sinking into the horizon. The temperature was dropping steadily. Sawain was cold, tired and hungry. He had been walking down the same dirt road for six hours now and the first stars were twinkling into existence above his head.

As the daylight faded, the color in the world faded as well. Sawain may have only been half elven, but his eyes were completely elven, a gift from his mother. Sawain's eyes adjusted to the miniscule light of the night spheres. He could still see shapes and details sharply as if it was still daytime, but at a sacrifice of color recognition. Instead, he could see in shades of gray that were slightly darker than their daylight counterparts.

He trudged on, his stomach growling fiercely. He decided that he would stop and eat at the top of the next hill and find a place to rest. When he got to the top, he looked down into the next valley. It was a wide, shallow valley covered in a sparse woodland. The road cut through the woods. Some places were thicker than others. He could make out some clearings that had rock outcrops in the middle of them. He also noticed something dark on the road at the spot where it entered the woods.

His hunger was forgotten at the prospect of finding the raiders he heard about in the tavern. He picked up his pace and half ran down the hill into the valley. As he approached the object of interest, it began to take shape. The black wreckage of a wagon was turned on its side, the wheels smashed and the canvas covering gone. Dark black stains covered the ground and the smell of blood was still fresh. The horse reigns were severed and there was no sign of the beasts. The site was relatively barren. Whatever cargo the cart was carrying had been completely pilfered.

Sawain began to look around for more clues. He found two barely recognizable ruts in the dirt that looked as if two things had been dragged towards the woods. He did not have to follow them long before he came upon a grisly sight. The corpses of two men had been impaled on tree branches that had been carved into living pikes. One corpse was fashioned to a tree on the left of the road and the other was mirrored on the right. Blood dripped from the holes in their chests. Sawain had a feeling this had only recently happened. Memories of the chaos at Mistveil farm flooded his mind as he looked at the unfortunate victims. He remembered vividly the bodies of the guards that had been pinned to the walls of the farm.

It had to be the gnolls. No one else can be this cruel.

Sawain followed the dirt road into the woods, hoping to jump the raiders or be jumped himself. The canopy woven by the boughs of the many trees blocked out more of the moonlight, making it harder for Sawain to see, though he could still make out dark shapes. He searched the ground closely, hoping to find tracks, but he did not have the knack for it like Syd. He searched back and forth along the road for twenty minutes until his frustration was at its peak. He began grumbling under his breath about smelly hound faces when he happened to glance at the trees on the left side of the wood. He noticed that a wall of brambles that had stretched for a few hundred yards was broken in one spot. It was only a few inches wide, but it looked as if something had walked through it. He inspected it closer and discovered a clump of fur on one of the thorns. He could not tell what kind of fur it was, but it was his only lead, so he plunged into the brambles.

It was a much more difficult task than he imagined it would be. The thorns dug into his flesh as he moved through, slicing him like a thousand tiny daggers. Several times, he had to stop and back track when the walls of thorns encircled him, making any forward progress impossible. After a half an hour in the labyrinth of thorns, he was cut up and fed up. He was also hopelessly lost, with no idea where to go. He heard movement a few feet ahead of him, but could not see anything.

He stood still as a statue, peering hard into the thicket. There was a sudden commotion as something began crashing through the thorns. He heard a blowing call of a deer, then saw a great stag stumble through into his clearing. It stared at him pitifully, with its tongue lolling out, then collapsed on the ground, two arrows protruding from its body: one in the chest and one in its left side. The night air was filled suddenly with the laughing yelps that Sawain clearly recognized. He found a mass of thorns wrapped around a nearby tree and fell prone beneath them, hoping they would conceal him from the pack of predators.

Moments after Sawain dropped to his hiding spot, two gnolls carrying bows emerged from the trail the stag had made. They examined the stag's body and chattered excitedly over it in their native tongue. They were laughing and yelping hysterically for a moment, dancing around their prey, when one stopped and held up a hand. The other fell silent as his partner sniffed the air. He said something that sounded like a question to Sawain. The other sniffed the air and made a nonchalant retort before bending down to grab at the stag's fore legs. The first gnoll responded with a more insistent air. Sawain thought he heard him say “Human.” The one tugging at the deer snarled and retorted more violently. His partner snapped his maw at the one pulling on the deer, which was met by a similar snap and another minute of dialogue before the alert gnoll gave up his pursuit and took the hind legs. They then began dragging the deer off through the way they came in.

Sawain waited until he didn't hear them anymore and quietly crawled out from beneath the thorns. He finally found the game he was seeking, and though he was growing weary and hungry, he could not let the trail grow cold. He quickly and as silently as possible slipped through the cut in the briars. He listened hard as he moved through, following the faint chatter of the two hunters. After several minutes, he saw a faint glow in the distance. He moved slowly and deliberately until he was at the edge of a clearing. The light here made it much easier for Sawain to distinguish the scene before him.

What he thought to be a rock outcrop from the top of the hill turned out to be an ancient temple that had fallen into ruin. Broken walls lined the clearing, now nothing more than weathered rubble, completely gone in several places. A broken stone path led from the edge of the clearing to the right side of a small stone structure surrounded by more rubble. The structure looked like a sunken in building of some sort. Statues of defaced gods were strewn about, choked out by thorns A campfire was burning against the side of the building Sawain was facing. Three gnolls sat about it. He recognized the two who had dragged the deer from the thicket. They were lounging by the fire, bragging in their yipping language. The third one had his back to Sawain and was crouched over the fallen deer, busy with butchering it with a long, serrated dagger.

Sawain scanned the clearing twice, no sign of any more gnolls. This looked like it really would be an easy job. He almost felt disappointed, but at least this would prove that he could kill a hunting pack on his own. He felt the two hammers hanging from his right side with his hand as nerves began to grip his throat, making it hard to breath. He closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath before opening them again and drawing the two hammers.

Fear Has No Place Here.

Chapter Eight

Sawain was shaking. Was it fear or anticipation? His mind was too foggy to comprehend. He drew the two small hammers and took one in each hand. He took in a deep breath and held it in. Once he stepped into the clearing, there would be no turning back. No running away. Either he would kill these gnolls or they would kill him. No, he could not die. Not here, not before he could be recognized as something better than what he was now.

I have to do this. This is my destiny. I was given a new life so that I could become great. There will be no dying here on my part. Fear has no place here.

He let out his breath.

He strode out of the tree line, wielding a hammer in either hand. The gnolls' ears perked at the sound of footsteps and the three turned in his direction, snarling. They drew their weapons and began yelping loudly. One who had a longbow fell behind the campfire while the other two, armed with rusty swords, advanced quickly on him. He launched one of his hammers at the advancing gnolls. He was pleasantly surprised when he heard a sickening crack and the gnoll's feet flew out from under it, causing it to crash hard on its back. It did not move again.

The second gnoll was already face to face with Sawain, swinging its blade wildly. Its eyes glowed an intense white in Sawain's night vision. Flecks of foamy saliva spattered from its mouth as it executed a wild display of swats with its blade, which Sawain was barely able to avoid. Sawain felt fear building in his chest as he looked for an opening in this fearsome onslaught. The gnoll reared back to deliver a powerful downward chop and Sawain found what he was looking for. He swung quickly with his left handed hammer and caught the gnoll in its ribs. It let out a yelp and staggered back.

Sawain took the initiative and began his own series of swings at the gnoll. It parried the first two blows, but was growing tired. Sawain brought a swift slice to the left and the gnoll raised its arm to defend. There was another loud crack and excruciating scream from the gnoll. Its left arm hung limp at its side and it fell to its knees in front of Sawain. Sawain met its hateful glare and raised his hammer to deliver a killing blow when he heard a twang and heard a whistling sound. A jolt of pain shot from his left shoulder to his spine and into every nerve in his brain. He screamed and grabbed the arrow protruding from his shoulder with his right hand and lowered his left arm. As he stepped back, the gnoll on the ground lunged.

Sawain felt his breath forced from him. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt before, but it did not last long. He was cold. He looked down at the sneering gnoll. He moved from its ugly face to the rusty sword buried to the hilt in his stomach. He fell to his knees as his legs went too numb to use. He was now face to face with the chattering gnoll. It was saying something, but no sound came from its mouth. No sound came from anywhere. Darkness was falling over him.

No. Is this it? Did I waste my chance? Have I thrown it all away on some fool's errand? Am I to die here at the hands of my enemies?

Rage began to fill the cold recess of his stomach as he thought on the injustice. Then he heard a voice. It was a deep, familiar voice.

“Not yet, my son.”

The building fury in his stomach emanated out, warming his chest and limbs, bringing new life into them. His eyes filled with light, but instead of the usual shades of gray, all he could see was red. The anger burst out of him in a roar that shook the earth. He ripped the arrow out of his shoulder and planted it in the throat of the terrified gnoll in front of him. He rose to the ground, leaving it to choke on its own blood. He drew the larger hammer on his back as he began to walk towards the archer, who already had another arrow knocked, but was clearly shaken. It released the missile it had ready, but it sailed harmlessly past Sawain's right ear. The fiery blood that had revived him made its way deeper into his legs and he felt himself charging and screaming like a wild animal. He fell on the unfortunate creature before it could drop its bow and draw its own blade. Sawain swung his hammer in a leftward stroke. It made contact with the side of the gnoll's face. Its head turned too far to the left and its lower jaw flew threw the air in a bloody arch. The beast began to fall limp. Sawain ripped the sword out of his stomach and shoved it through the dead gnoll's sternum, pinning it to the wall behind it. He roared in what was left of its face for thirty seconds before the rage subsided. When it did, he fell to his knees again, remembering his mortal wounds.

He panted for breath, but it would not come. He was slipping again. The cold was quickly filling his body again. His legs were already numb. Then he remembered the potions the House mother gave him. He quickly took off his pack and fumbled through it until he found the bundle of potions. His fingers were so cold that he had difficulty handling them. He was shaking badly too. The darkness of death was filling his eyes, so it was hard to figure out which end was the stopper. He began to panic, but then just smiled.

Well, at least the gnolls will go with me into the next life. Who knows, maybe we will even be friends there. That won't be so bad I guess.

He felt the stopper.

At least I can have one more drink before I go.

He yanked the stopper clumsily, spilling half of the contents on his hand and the ground. He did not mind terribly. He raised the crystal vial to his lips.

Funny. I'm not thirsty anymore.

The darkness over took him and his hand drooped from his lips. He felt a soft smaller hand wrap gently around his. It was raised back to his mouth again.

“You must drink, Sawain. You want to grow up big and strong, don't you?”

The vial was tipped into the air and a sweet, electrifying sensation filled Sawain. The cold touch of death fled before the wave of warmth that washed over his body. His eyes filled with light again. Suddenly, he could see again. He could also feel again, and there was still a gaping hole in his stomach that hurt immensely. He grimaced as he looked around for something to use on it. Then he saw the other vial. He was glad the Housemother gave him two potions. He quickly unstopped the vial and poured it down his throat, the entire thing this time.

The electric warmth filled him again and his wound began to hurt more intensely. He lifted his tunic and watched in a mix of awe and horror as his flesh began re knitting itself together. The blood had cauterized and new skin was rapidly growing over it again. Soon, the healing slowed to a stop. There was still a nasty gash on Sawain's stomach, but it was not hurting, nor was it bleeding. His arrow wound was completely gone. He would definitely need to thank the Housemother next time he saw her.

He rose to his feet again and stared at the lifeless gnoll pinned to the wall in front of him.

Did I do this?

Brief flashes of red in his mind played back scenes of gore and murder at his own hands, mixed with the memories of the Mistveil guards pinned to the walls. Fear over took him. It was fear of not what he had done, but how he had done it. The brutality of his actions caused him to wretch. He doubled over just in time as what was left of the soup in his stomach splashed on the ground. Once he regained his composure and took a few deep breaths, he glanced to the right. He saw a gnoll head poking around the corner. When it realized it had been discovered, it yelped and disappeared behind the building.

Sawain hastily picked up his weapons and went after the spy. He turned the corner and discovered a doorway in the building, leading to a staircase that descended into a light deprived depth. He would not be able to see at all down there, so he returned to the fire and fashioned a torch out of one of the gnoll's shirts, a branch and some spirits he found in a flask on one of his victims.

He returned to the entrance with lit torch in hand and peered in. The staircase stretched as far as the torchlight would reach. Sawain quickly began his pursuit, with a torch in his left hand and a hammer in his right. Soon, the staircase ended and Sawain stood in a vestibule made of stone. The walls and ceiling were comprised of the same gray-white rocks that were common to the region. The entire room was uneven, as if it had been sinking more in some places than others. Cracked sections that jutted several inches apart from the rest of the room seemed to prove this theory. There was a carving on the far wall across from the stairs that was too worn to recognize anymore. It too was broken by a massive crack that divided it roughly in half. Two hallways ran to the left and the right of the vestibule.

Sawain listened for any noise, but could not make out a sound, so he decided to go left. As he walked, his attention was absorbed by the intricate carvings in the wall of men and elves in full battle regalia, all in the same pose. They stood up straight, facing Sawain. Their heads were bowed low to their chests and their hands rested on the hilt of their weapon of choice in front of them.

Sawain was so busy marveling at them that he did not see the tripwire that stretched before him. His foot caught the feeble, taught wire, snapping it effortlessly. It tripped him up enough to snap his focus back to where he was going. He did so in time to see the butt end of a massive log swing from the darkness, quickly approaching his face. He dropped to the ground just before the log reached him. He lay perfectly still until the heavy wooden pendulum slowed its swing enough to be harmless.

He picked himself up again and dusted off. That was a foolish mistake. He could hear Axel's voice in his head.

“Keep yer eyes straight ahead, laddie. These sorts of places are full of traps and perils. This isn't a sight-seeing trip!”

He smirked at his perfect mental impersonation and pressed on along the corridor. It began curving to the right. There were no other doors here, just carvings along the walls and the occasional stone pedestal that appeared to have held some sort of artifact at one point, long ago. He continued along the corridor. This time, he was paying attention and saw the thin wire stretched across the floor, a few inches above it. He looked closer and saw a pulley system that held a net of rubble in place not even a foot ahead of the trap.

He carefully stepped over the wire and kept going. Soon, he saw a light coming from a break in the wall to the right. He carefully put his torch down on the ground and drew his other hammer. He crept to the edge of the opening and discovered another short hall that opened up into a wide circular room. A stone dais rose up at the back of the room with what looked like a basin built onto it. The rest of the room had been cleared out and now housed several crates and barrels, as well as campfires and bedrolls. The room was also occupied by around a half dozen gnolls, armed to the teeth, weapons drawn, and ready to fight.

When Sawain peeked around the corner, their dark-piercing eyes saw him. The archers unleashed a barrage of arrows and three of the swordsmen rushed after them. Sawain ducked back into his cover as the arrows sailed by, clanking harmlessly against the far stone wall. He heard the warriors advancing on him and fell back, sheathing a hammer and bending down to scoop up his torch. The first gnoll skidded into the hallway and Sawain flung the torch, nearly point-blank, into his face.

There was an agonized scream and shower of sparks as the burning stick struck it on the muzzle, singing its whiskers and lighting its clothes ablaze. It dropped its sword and began beating furiously at the flames that were licking its flesh. The other two rounded the corner immediately and forced Sawain to turn and run. They followed hot on his heels as he sprinted down the hallway. He could hear the blades of the gnolls slicing the air at his back. Then his foot snapped the trip wire.

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.