Dragonhammer: Volume I (10 page)

We cut our way through their line and into the hall that will lead us down to safety.

An arrow clacks into the ground just ahead of us.  I turn and slash a guard from his shoulder to his waist, putting him on the floor.  An archer stands in the back with another arrow nocked.

“Kadmus!” my father roars.  Then he jumps.

I don’t register what is happening until it already has.  My father lies on the ground, unmoving, with an arrow in his stomach.

Suddenly I see him as I did when I was only a small boy.  When he was younger, with less wrinkles and when his beard was less silver.  He is smiling, teaching me how to smelt metal.  The picture burns in my head, and in my heart the fire continues long after the image is consumed and turned to ash.

I feel only rage.  My knuckles turn white as I grip the broadsword of my father and lift it into the air.  As I slash aside two oncoming men with ease, I make eye contact with the archer and silently say very plainly to him,
You’re next
.

His head hits the ground before he does.  I’m not sure how I made it over to him in so little time, but spend no time thinking about it as another guard comes up against me.

Blood lines the edges of my sword.  Only when I smite down the last do I stop to look at the carnage I have caused.  A dozen men lie dead because of me.

There are yells from the main hall.  More of them.

“Kadmus, we have to go!” yells the Jarl.

“Yes we do,” I growl.  My father looks up at me.  He’s sitting, leaning on the body of a guard.  I notice that Landon has fallen in the fighting.

I take the broadsword in my left hand and help my father to his feet with my right.

“No, you can’t,” he gasps, the arrow still sticking from his gut.  “You have to leave me.”

“I will not,” I seethe.  Carrying most of his weight, I run forward and down the stairs.  Leif and Spencer run behind the Jarl, who leads the way down.

My legs burn.  We do not stop until we are inside the waste tunnels, and even then we continue, until the ancient door swings open and lets us inside Fort Greymane.

March to Kera

P
ercival welcomes us inside hurriedly.  He’s walking, but he limps and keeps his weight off of his injured foot as much as he can.  The rest of the escapees appear to have made it back safely, and Bownan greets us with a smile.  That smile goes away when he sees the arrow sticking out of my father.

“Move!” I command to everyone in general.  They don’t question and part, providing a way through for me.  I help my father lay down on one of the bedrolls and he grunts in pain.  “We have to get this out,” I mutter.  He nods.

“Want me to just pull it?  It might be barbed,” I warn.

He takes a deep breath and nods slowly.

I grasp the arrow and take a deep breath myself.  “This is going to hurt,” I say.  I take another moment, during which I feel him tense.  “Relax,” I tell him.  “It’ll do less damage.”  Right when I feel him go limp, I yank it out.

He grunts slightly, but I can see that it hurt him much more than he’s letting us know.  Then he breathes deeply for a few moments.  I note that the arrow was triangulated, but not barbed.

I help him remove the armor to examine the wound.  Blood soaks the area around the wound and it’s hard to study.  Quickly I help him tilt onto his side and rinse the area with water from my flask, using rags to absorb the water/blood solution.  They quickly turn crimson.

The arrow hit just above his right hip, almost on his side.  There appears not to be any serious damage; only the skin and muscles were injured.  Little can be done but to clean and bandage it.

“I’ll be fine,” says my father.  “I just need rest.”

“Will they have followed us through the tunnels?” a soldier asks.

“I don’t know,” I say under my breath.  “That depends if they even knew we used the tunnels.  It’s possible that they don’t know about the waste passages.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Bownan says.  “Even if they didn’t know about it before, they will find the tunnels sooner or later.  It’s only a matter of time, and I’m betting sooner.”

“We must leave then,” says another soldier.  “As soon as we are able.”

“There’s still some night left.  Let’s get some sleep and leave in the morning,” Percival suggests.  “The other group left early this morning.  If we hurry, we may be able to catch up with them before we reach Kera.”

“I agree,” says the Jarl, donning a shirt.  “We need to leave as soon as we can.”  He looks at me and says, “What do you think?”

“Why are you asking me?” I retaliate curiously.

“Well, you got us all out alive and safely,” he says coolly.

“And by yourself too,” adds a soldier.

“We owe you our lives,” he says, holding out his hand.  “And that includes me.”  I take his hand and shake it.  “That’s no small feat,” he continues.  “You’ve got some real stuff in you.  I am in your debt.”

I have no words.  After I do not respond, the Jarl repeats his question, “Do you say we leave in the morning?”

“Yes,” I respond.  “We need to get out.”

“It is decided then,” says the Jarl.  “We leave at first light.”

“I just don’t think we’ll be able to move fast enough to catch up to the others,” I add quietly.  “There are several wounded among us.  We will not be able to move very quickly.”

“As do they,” says the Jarl.  “We must do the best we can.”  Then he turns from me and says, “Get some sleep, men!  The night is waxing on!”  He makes his way up into a different part of the Fort.

“How do you feel?” I ask my father quietly.

He only says, “Where is Nathaniel?”

“He and Gunther are with the other group.  They are safe.”

He nods and says, “I will feel better.  I only need rest.”

Sleep hardly finds me that night.

When we wake, I help Father to his feet.  He is feeling much better, and is able to stand and walk, though every so often his wound acts up and he cringes, bending over slightly to help relieve the pain.  Percival’s condition is the same as it was yesterday, but he will be able to travel, especially with his father at his side.

As the men pack up the bedrolls and what little supplies we have, the Jarl approaches me.  “The men are weary,” he says.  “They live on only hours of sleep in three days.”

“And it’s not likely we’ll be getting much on the road,” I say.  “And we have nearly no food.  We had no time to steal any from the Keep’s stores.”

“Actually,” he says, “there’s a trapdoor in the other room that leads into another storeroom.  It must have been left when the Fort was abandoned.  There are several bags of flour and a few bags of dried meat that haven’t yet been soiled.  I have some soldiers unloading them now.  It will be enough to last us to Kera.”

“Convenient,” I say.  “Fortune favors us.”

There is a minute of silence, where we listen and watch the men finish packing up.  “I’ve been pondering,” he says.  “And I’ve decided I want to appoint you as a captain.”

My eyes widen.  “Me?”  I almost ask why, but the Jarl interrupts:

“If you ask why, I might have to club you over the head.”  I shut my mouth and instead give him an inquisitive look.  Without skipping a beat he says, “Because of the tremendous initiative and strength you have shown on the battlefield and off.  I watched you kill a troll and infiltrate the deepest dungeon of Nringnar’s Deep, and single-handedly at that.  The men like you.  They’d stand behind you at any time.  You’re the kind of man I need to help me lead an army.”

“I…”  I ponder my response before saying, “I don’t want to fight.”  It’s the Jarl’s turn to give me a look of confusion.  “I’m a blacksmith,” I explain.  “That’s what I want to do.  I want to stay with my family where we’ll be safe.  It’s been difficult for me to take any human life.  I hate it, and as soon as I have the opportunity I’m going to put the sword away forever.”

“That is why we need you,” the Jarl replies softly.  After another moment he says, “Where is safe anymore?”  When I don’t answer, he continues, “Was Virfith safe?”  I stay silent.  The Jarl only nods and says, “If you feel inclined, my offer stands.  You may accept at any time.”

I nod my approval.  “I can’t say I’ll take you up on that, but I’m grateful for the request.”

“Well,” he advances, “it’s time for us to get a move on.  We’re not getting any closer to Kera.”

I carry mine and my father’s food rations, as well as a bedroll that I will let him have.  He tried his best to object, but I had none of it.  My hammer is strapped to my back, and his broadsword lies sheathed on my belt.

The path leads down from the fort, through a narrow canyon-like pass.  The cliffs are rocky and steep, colored a drab gray.  Pine trees bring life to the area, and grasses and shrubs grow to the sides of the dirt path.  We march in a mob, with no organization.  Normally I would have expected an army to move in straight lines, but we don’t bother.

Percival has trouble keeping up.  He still limps, but partway down the trail he finds two long suitable sticks that he uses like crutches.  “They’re uncomfortable in the armpits,” he complains, “but they’ll do.”

Father does reasonably well, for having taken an arrow the day before.  He has taken a stick similar to Percival’s, but he uses it like a cane instead of a crutch.  He holds it in his right hand and leans heavily on it whenever he steps with his right foot.

By midday we emerge from the canyon and the dirt path continues down the mountain.  We eat small portions of dried meat throughout the day.

We make camp at evening, in a large clearing off to the side of the path, down in a valley.  We build fires and use pans to cook our flour, which we have mixed only with water to make bland little biscuits.  I make several of them to eat the next day for lunch.  We will not stop for meals.

The ground is hard and the night is cold.

The next day is much the same, but for the first half of the day we climb an incline, and the latter half of the day we descend the mountain.  The path is clear and there’s a thin pine forest that coats the mountain.

The third day we break free of the mountains and into the foothills.  A little after noon the small path converges with the main road; we turn right to head south towards Kera.  Here the ground is flatter and there are not many trees, but it’s far from barren.  There are boulders that lie strewn about like giants had been playing a game of marbles.  Bushes and grasses grow, some of them tall enough that I can’t see over them.  The river flows to our left, but we are walking upriver.

The river’s shore is rocky and speckled with tufts of tall green grasses.  The water is clear and deep, and in some places is violent.  Every so often a tree has somehow managed to take root on the steep rocky shore of the river.  Past the trees, the peaks of the Wolfpack Mountains rise to our right.

The fourth day, my father slows down.  He cringes as he gets up that morning.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” he responds.

“Is it your arrow wound?”

Warily he removes the bandage.  We find that the puncture in his skin is bleeding slightly, and has refused to close.  It has become inflamed and is oozing a yellowish substance.  The base of the inflammation appears slightly green.

“Infected,” he mutters.

I stare wide-eyed.  “We don’t have the medicine to treat it,” I say quietly.  “We won’t until we get to Kera.”

“I know,” he says softly.

“We need to move faster.”  I hurry towards the Jarl, anxious to find help.  “Is anyone here a healer?” I ask him.  “There’s got to be someone that knows herbs and can gather.”

“What for?” he questions.

“It’s my father.  He’s got an infection.  Please, there has got to be someone that at least can slow the infection down until we get to Kera.”

“I don’t know,” he replies.  “But you can ask around.  I’m sure there is.  But our best bet is to get to Kera as quickly as possible.”  I go to leave, but he quickly adds, “I’m sorry.  Best of luck to you.”

I only nod and thank him.

“Is anyone here a healer?” I shout.  “Anyone?”  Several soldiers look my way, but few respond.  One raises his hand and says, “I am, sir.  I’m not the best but I know a thing or two.”

“Good.  Do you know anything of infections?”

“What?  Who is infected?”

“My father.  Please, you’ve got to help.  I’ll help you gather plants, whatever you need.  Just help me.”

He looks at me solemnly and says, “I’ll do what I can.”

Despite our best efforts, our pace hardly increases that day.  Father is having difficulty, though he tries his best to keep moving at a steady rate.

That night I help the man, whose name is Gregory, to find a specific kind of plant he called, “Crownsail.”  I’m not sure exactly what it does, but he chews some of it and places it on my father’s open wound.  Father gasps as it makes contact and I hold his hand tightly.

“Come on,” I say.  “We’re going to make it.  We are.”

By the next morning his condition has worsened.  He’s running a fever and wakes up in a cold sweat, which continues throughout the day.  More than once he has to stop and rest.  We fall slightly behind, but catch up by nightfall, when they have stopped and set up camp.  Gregory does his best to slow the infection by draining out as much of the fluid as he can and washing it with boiled water from the river.

The next day he feels slightly better, though his wound still appears infected.  He doesn’t have to stop and rest as many times; only for lunch, which still consists of bland little wheat biscuits.  My hopes rise.

Just before midday, we come around a bend in the road and pass a large wall of cliff jutting from the nearest mountain.  Behind we see what many call The Vale of Life, or simply the Living Vale.  This is because the head of the Fravora River lies in the mountains just to the north of the Vale, and the Fravora provides the main water supply for most of the inhabitants of Greendale.  It’s also the only source of water in the Ha’avjah Desert.

The Vale cuts into the mountains by a league, but the falls at the back are still visible.

They’re magnificent.  Having never been this far south, this was my first time seeing them.  They live up to their reputation.

The falls commence from a cavern in the mountain as high as the sky.  They fall several hundred, if not thousand, feet down, curling into mist.  The water that doesn’t spray roils violently in a small lake with a crash that can be heard even from our position.  The Fravora River flows from the lake.

Boulders stick out from the cliffs like spikes.  Moss and grass line them, as well as almost anything else in the Vale.  Pine trees grow everywhere, though the middle of the Vale is almost completely clear.  Everything is vibrant green and full of life.

A dirt path branches from the main road and winds into the Vale, eventually making its way up the cliffs and all the way up into the cavern from which the water falls.  Our company, however, continues on the main road on our course to Kera.

My father’s condition the next day makes me even more hopeful. 
We’re going to make it
, I convince myself. 
We are
.