Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

11 - The Dungeons of Hammar

Orl Ejjar hadn't been lying when he'd said the furs of Hammar would ease Bard's aches. They did more than that. They fooled him into thinking the world was a nice place, a warm place where a man could rest his head without fearing that he might not wake in the morning.

He had been given an impressive chamber in one of the towers. The black rock of the exterior made way for paler, smoother stone that reflected the candle light well. Bear heads adorned the walls, rugs protected bare feet from the coldness of the floor. A small window gave a view of the north of Hammar, though it wasn't high enough for Bard to see over the city's outer-walls. It was a simple enough space, and yet it gave Bard everything he would ever ask for and more.

Would that I could enjoy it for what it is. But he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. The sun would rise the next day to mark the fourth day of Orl Ejjar's tourney. The finals of the archery would take place, then the latter stages of the joust. On the fifth day would be the final tilt, then the Lover's Climb, and that would be that. The Gallowmen would die, or Erikk would die. No, I must judge him first.

And that was what concerned him the most. His body yearned for the chance to rest but his mind instructed it was a luxury he could not afford. To sleep was to waste a night when he had precious few moments that could be spared.

It was the presence of half a plan that gave him semblance of peace of mind. He needed to discern Erikk's guilt, or innocence, and he needed to set things in motion if the Mountainman did deserve to meet the Elders. He had the thread that connected everything before him, he just couldn't see all of its strands yet; couldn't work out how one flowed into another and culminated in Brother Sorrow wiping a name from their lists.

The vials felt light in his fingers. He uncorked the essence of rasproot and took caution to drip two drops only into his tankard of ale. Then he uncorked the extract of glumweed and did the same. Two drops; enough to take the edge from this hammering head of mine.

Bard no longer felt sick, but weakness sought to lull him into a state of vulnerability. He took a long pull of ale and found the concoction to be tasteless in spite of the two new ingredients. They will help, Oyvin said so.

Bard propped himself up in the bed and waited for the castle to go to sleep. He needed things that way, if any and all of the ideas were to work. He supped his ale and he prayed. He prayed to Mortus for the strength to stay awake long enough. He prayed to Willow to have mercy on his foolhardy soul.

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He didn't know how long he had waited. When the castle was quiet at last, when Orl Ejjar had drank enough to put him beyond pouring another horn, the moon was a dull thing, its prominence beginning to fade as the very first notion of dawn became apparent.

Bard waited by his door, crutch under his right arm and a certain numbness to him overall. Oyvin's vials had done whatever it was they were supposed to do, he was sure. He didn't quite like how they blunted his senses, but he no longer felt pain. His hand grasped ruefully to his back but found no axe there. Bard always felt more assured with his axe, even if he didn't have the strength to swing the thing.

Nothing stirred in the stairwell beyond, so the latch was hefted and he hobbled out of his chamber. His blundering descent through the tower made him realise just how defenseless he was, each step a battle against a mind reasoning that nothing good came of cripples creeping about castles.

He moved past the guardsmen at the foot of the tower without pause. They were sitting in a room of their own, a small enclave with two wooden chairs and nothing else. One of them was sleeping, the other more interested in sucking a splinter from his thumb than asking questions of the man he did not see.