The Shield of Hannar (Runehammer Novels Book 2) Read online

  A Runehammer Book

  Copyright Runehammer Games

  2017

  For Rox

  Every story is made of a million more

  Tales within tales beyond our daring minds

  To know them all would be madness

  The last Anvil Knight to lose his life in the Saltfrost was called Hannar. For him, surviving the hellish battle that took place there was a black shame, and the marsh showed him cruel mercy.

  But that was only the end of his tale. There is so much more to the story of Hannar before his fall in the ‘frost, though most folk don’t know it. Let me tell you of the days of Golden Gar and shields of rotted pine; when dwarves dared to defy a darkness from beyond the stars.

  THE

  SHIELD

  OF HANNAR

  1

  It began as so many tales do: a severed hand was floating in a mountain river. It bobbed and tumbled ghoulishly in the cold water, and its pale grasp had finally loosed the shield it once held. Nearby, that wooden disc lay partially embedded in the cool, brown clay of the bank. To whom the hand and the shield once belonged none know, for wars were many and calamities in the wild all too frequent.

  What doom befell this poor soul? What shadow loomed unnoticed in the high woods? Hannar was only a dwarven boy playing in the meadows, and knew nothing of such portents. He only knew adventure, and laughter, and imagination. He jumped a narrow point in the brook, but the bluish fingers escaped his notice. He was engrossed in one of the greatest joys a young boy can know: A wooden sword.

  A wooden sword is a good thing.

  The cool water in Ell River bubbled along that sun-soaked day so long ago, and Hannar could not remember a better day.

  And off went he, through shoulder-tall grass, over moss-covered stepping stones, and through muddy puddles spinning and jumping, but serious as stone. His quest he had forgotten, but his glare was dire and his heroism legendary.

  His sword he called Spike. It was little more than a tapered branch with the bark shaved to make a grip. Quillon guards he fashioned by lashing a second stick in place with green twine, and the pommel was a smooth river rock wedged into a cracking split at the end of the hilt. Spike was as trusty as the sunrise, and smote many evil trees and weeds that day.

  As the hours waned, Hannar drank from the river and found strange, sour berries to gnaw on. He ran and rolled, and grass clung to his belt. His mutterings were lost in the breeze and it was almost supper time. That was the moment, his mother calling in the distance, that he first met Wall.

  Wall was lying at the river’s edge, washed from some unknown forest upstream, and by fate deposited here for him, and only him, to find. It was so battered and worn to rounded corners that it looked like an ancient wagon wheel or cheese table. But through the lens of his youth and heritage Hannar saw much, much more. It was a shield. A warrior’s shield.

  The iron bands were wobbly and rusted, the leather belts had all but decayed to mud, and its four parallel planks had wide gaps where sand and time had perforated its might. But Hannar saw only glory. As fine a thing any dwarf could possess: A shield. His own shield.

  With childish, solemn reverence he leaned forward and lifted it from the slime. It shifted and a small chunk of pine fell away, but he didn’t notice. He slung the gooey belts past his hand and up his right arm, switched Spike to his left, and a wide, devilish, fanatical grin crept across his face.

  No dragon could harm him now, no swamp ghouls could bite, and no Kathic scimitars would pierce his tunic. So, he whiled the evening away, soldiering and dreaming of glory and adventure in those warm summer woods.

  Hannar pulled radishes and hoed rows for a week after that night. He hadn’t returned home when called and missed his supper, but he slept with that soggy disc of flotsam for company. He was convinced his mother, Anna, had no idea he had found the mossy relic. It was his wondrous secret. She knew, of course, and smiled when he finally fell asleep.

  “Just like his father,” she whispered, both proud and sad. They were now alone at the farmhouse, for Hannar’s father Hunnin was off to Duros-Tem, a willing conscript in the Iron Army. War was brewing twixt elvenkind and the dwarves of the Black Mountains, and duty was as inescapable as old age in those days.

  So, they spent that summer alone together. Though they missed Hunnin and his stories, and fresh Gar from Ullgwerd and Englemoor, it was a happy time.

  It is important to take notice when times are good, for doom ever lurks in this world. The memory of this summer Hannar learned to guard with the greatest ferocity, for once Hunnin returned a black shadow of death fell on The Ell Woods, and all of Alfheim. At the center of this storm of evil and wrath Hannar would stand, shield in hand, but this was only the beginning.

  2

  The farm lay where many did back then; perilously balanced between distant smoldering battlefields and jagged mountains. This was before The War of the Wall, or the Day of Bones, or cruel Lydea, or even the high days of Ramthas. The world was quieter back then, most of the time.

  On this particular morning, though, a dim fog brooded on the hedgerows, and refused to retreat by the light of a late dawn. Hannar awoke, and wandering the house in his bare feet began foraging the pantry for goodies. His mother awoke as well but was uneasy, and tarried at the kitchen window like a worried hen.

  “Where is the bacon?” Hannar sang, kissing her with a jump, transferring crumbs and jam to her cheek.

  She took too long to answer. “The cupboard where it should be,” she said, but kept her eyes fixed on the grassy lawn outside. Three hens wandered aimlessly amid the stubborn mist hovering there.

  Hannar retrieved four strips, began eating, and hopped back to his bed. “Dragons and dark elves in the dirt! Captain Hannar is coming!”

  “Your writing,” Anna interrupted. He froze in his tracks. “Before any playing. Twenty lines, door shut, young man.” Hannar never questioned her, but grumbled nonetheless. A micro-protest more out of habit than actual complaint. She smiled at him, he let out a sigh.

  “Yes, mom,” he moaned, grinning just a bit. Writing wasn’t all bad; there were great stories of the Diamond Miners of Helm, and the ship builders of the Frozen Coast. Hannar shut his little door, jumped on his bed, and opened his scribner's book. The sooner it was done, the sooner he and Wall could bound into the dungeons of the back yard.

  Long quiet moments passed, as they did, and he could hear his mother making tea. But then, muffled through door’s planks, a thumping of boots and murmuring of voices came. Supply wagon traders from Englemoor. They came every few weeks.

  There was talking, and scuffling, more thumping, and a tea cup fell. His curiosity now too much to bear, Hannar threw his little door open just as the merchants took their leave, one of them fidgeting with the clasp of his belt. His mother looked distraught, disheveled, and she was cleaning up the broken cup.

  “I don’t like those men,” Hannar began. Anna did not chide him for interrupting his studies.

  “Rice and lamb shanks for a good price…” his mother trailed off, barely finishing her statement. She gathered the broken cup, placed it on the table to repair, and slumped down in a chair. Finally, she looked over at Hannar, who was standing perplexed in the little hall. He was worried for her, but children have no words for such feelings, so they stare.

  Anna giggled at last, smiled at him, and held her arms out. He ran to her and hugged her tight. She smelled like those rough road men, and he didn’t like it.

  “You’re a fine son,” she began, “the finest any mother could hope for.”

  “And you make good bacon!” he squirmed from her
embrace, did a sort of odd monkey-roll across the kitchen, and squatted like a raccoon in the corner, munching his last piece of bacon like an animal. It made her laugh. He loved it when she laughed like that, and the strain of the rough men left her face.

  She let him go to play early that day, and he picked up Spike and Wall, and went to his adventures. From bark made he greaves, and from a broad leaf a visored helm. He bumped his head, tore his tunic, and battered an evil log. From little hillocks he tumbled and into mucky tarns he fell.

  Dwarven children are born tough, and sturdy against cold and hunger, but Hannar had bones like a tiger at only eleven winters old. He had a black eye most of the time, or a sprained wrist, or cuts and scratches all down one side of him. He tumbled on solid rock, jumped from waterfalls into shallow pools, and broke clumsy brambles with his chest like a battle ram. The boy was gifted with the old blood of dwarves. That is what worried his mother.

  A week later, he was at it again. Wall he had repaired with twine and an old belt. It was sturdy now, and fit to his arm as if a smith had done the work. Spike he had discarded, its allure having faded in comparison. Wall was like a magic artifact on his arm. It was both weapon and guard, lever and anchor. He flipped over a broken boulder, slid through the fissure like an otter, and landed on the shield like a skiff. This way he rode down the slope to the garden, tumbling at last through a stick-pen for the goats in a heap.

  He retrieved Wall, repaired the fence, and crouched in the tomatoes like a panther. A strange wagon was parked on the road beyond the yard. Muffled voices came from the house. They were back.

  Hannar was suddenly no longer a soldier but a boy, and walked, arms hanging, to the front door. Dreadfully afraid and not sure why, he pushed it open and as he did, his childhood ended.

  Within, in the kitchen just away from the door, the two dark-eyed road men stood. One rummaged the cupboards roughly with a sheathed dagger. He knocked jars and baskets to and fro, spilling and clanking with intentional clumsiness.

  The other restrained Anna with brutal strength. He had her pinned against the counter, her tunic torn halfway off, and her skirt at her knees. She was red-faced, but no tears streaked those ruby cheeks. She saw Hannar and went pale. At that instant, the man holding her shoved her face into the wood counter, and slapped her bare thigh like a horse.

  “Back to your games, whelp. We’re not done ‘ere,” his accent was nasty and thick, cutting words up in a mess. The cupboard-rummager stopped, turned to the door, and took a step toward Hannar.

  The dwarf boy was frozen solid, and petrified with both fear and uncertainty. Both men wore studded leather doublets, with square-cut black hair and curled mustaches. They were grim and dirty. He slapped her again, shoving her, and what was left of her clothes began to tear away. The rummager took one more step closer.

  “Hann-“

  His mother’s warning was cut short by another brutal shove. Hannar’s eyes burned hot, he could feel his heart pounding, but his limbs were numb as tree stumps. Wall hung from its belts in his limp grasp.

  “Little bastard’s goin’ ta pop a vein,” the rough one laughed, pushing his hips up against his mother with a thud. The closer road man realized the situation needed handling, and stepped forward again to within arm’s reach of the boy, intent on subduing or even killing him.

  Then something happened that had never happened before. Hannar went berserk.

  3

  Hokum has a charming account of dwarven berserkers. They are heralded as great warriors, fighting men, and deadly weapons of high kingdoms. In truth, they are simply madmen. This Hannar now knew as he sprang into action, throwing himself headlong into a formless rage.

  His right foot he planted hard, and lurched to his left like a leopard. This placed Wall between him and the rummager. He raised the little shield, not as protection, but as a rotted wooden weapon. Reaching the window, he coiled and ricocheted toward the road man, screaming. Wall met the man’s chest square, but Hannar was only a boy and slid off his braced stance in a tangle. The dirty merchant pivoted, and reached down, securing the stumbling boy with one hand and jerking him upward.

  But Hannar’s anger had only begun to burn. He used the jerking motion to jam his thumb into the man’s crotch with horrible force, made a fist there and yanked with all his might. He was rewarded with a sickening pop as the man yelped and howled, toppling backward and grabbing his tender bits in horror. His companion saw this, threw Anna to the floor, and drew his mace from a belt loop.

  When he looked back to smite the boy, the insane little dwarf was already upon him. From the counter top Hannar sprung, raising wall like a sword. The wood caught edge on the road man’s cheek and tore it open, but only enough to enrage him. Hannar slid off to the side, smashing into the kitchen table in a clatter, and losing his grip on Wall.

  The groin-holder regained his wits and spun, raising a boot to crush the boy. His attack missed as Hannar rolled, and he stomped splinters. From this mess Hannar grabbed one broken table leg, spun it about, braced it on one forearm, then pushed with his legs like a frog. Forward he speared into the rummager, skewering him on the jagged weapon utterly. He spat black blood and stumbled back.

  Hannar was not done with him. Still flying forward, the boy wrenched the stake in its belly wound, ripped it out, and jabbed again. It stuck the rogue square in the throat, and a massive arterial spray painted the room with death. Then the second man was on Hannar’s back, and hit him with the crushing metal knob of the mace. This broke ribs, and sent the boy flying like a bobber cast over a pond. He slid to a stop in one corner, seemingly dead.

  “Otto? Otto, you rotter, is you dead?” the rapist prodded his ally with one boot, and holstered the mace. Anna crouched near the countertop, staring at Hannar’s motionless form, but saying nothing. There was no chance of grabbing a cleaver fast enough to-

  Even as she considered it, the road man slapped her hard. She spun and spit blood, and her vision went dark for a moment.

  “You stay right there, love. We’ll make this little visit quite worth it before I burn you and this mud hole to the-“

  Hannar had regained his wits, noticed no pain, and clambered across the floor before the man could turn his attention from Anna. In a sort of sliding scissor kick Hannar crumpled into his legs, and confused him. A knotted fist retorted, snapping the boy’s nose with a wet crack.

  From behind Anna sprung on him now, cleaver in hand. The iron met his shoulder and hacked into hide and belt armor. He flinched, but used his weight to leverage her up and over. She caromed into the bookcase near the hearth terribly, and fell unconscious. One of her thumbs was grisly and broken where she lay.

  Hannar was far from done. He jumped onto the countertop again like a feral monkey, avoiding another punch. There was a brief pause in the struggle as the road man eyed him and Hannar narrowed his mad gaze on the rogue’s throat.

  “Take your best shot, runt,” the filthy brigand spat, “I’ve no qualm on putting down chil-“

  Hannar didn’t let him finish. Hannar didn’t even hear him speak. The red hate was upon him.

  Forward the stout little boy leapt, but wildly, feet first like an ape out of nightmare. The rogue batted at him, but Hannar’s legs found a tangle at his doublet-belts and wrapped about his neck like a great constrictor. They both wheeled backward, and the man spun as he fell, landing on the boy with his weight. This robbed Hannar of his wind, and again the man was a fool to count the battle won. He leaned back and brushed away a mess of baskets and broken eggs.

  Hannar scrambled about, gasping, and again stared the man down. His little feet were braced against the stones of the hearth, and he realized his leverage was very, very good.

  “Had enough, tadpole?” The man was still mostly uninjured, and began to rise, reaching for his mace again. “I think we’ve ‘ad enough fun today. Nighty night little bug.” Hannar waited, tried to find a breath, waited. The man raised his mace for the death blow, over exaggerating as murderer
s often do, and Hannar shoved with all his strength against his stone footholds. Forward he flew like a lion, but his vision blurred from the pain in his chest and he missed his mark entirely, flying to one side.

  In the freakish dilation of time that only deadly combatants know, Hannar saw himself flying off target and reached his left arm out desperately, latching three fingers onto the rogue’s cheek bone and eye socket. His weight did the rest as he hurtled past, ripping eyeball and squirting fluid and stringy veins in a grisly mess. The man screamed, and fell, and was beaten.

  The rest of Hannar’s work was horrible, and fiendish, and feral. He tore the man to pieces, and pulped him with his own mace until only a mess remained. In this the boy sat down in a shocked calm, and stared into space. He slowly regained his wind, and as his tears slowed he inched over to his mother.

  On her he draped a blanket, then gathered up Wall to protect her and waited there. He was soaked in blood, broken ribs and face all twisted purple and bloodied. Only those bright white eyes pierced his slimy crimson mask in the dim of the house, and he waited.

  “Momma,” he finally heard himself say, “Momma, wake up.”

  She did, eventually, and had her own swollen eye and bloody lips. One tooth she spat out, and held him without talking.

  The bright summer was over, the sun-soaked grass waved no more. She held her shivering, bloodied son, and they were both in battle shock, staring blankly. Little did they know that this was but a prologue to the real doom that rolled toward them on wooden wheels.

  4

  South of the Black Mountains there is a wide green country called the Greenway. Beyond this, Kath and the far white shores of Aphos. On these rolling hills of lush loam fell the doom of that time, where elves and dwarves both sought to expand their lands. The Greenway was hemmed on the east by the Wall of Duros-Tem, a dwarven megalithic earthwork from times forgot. On the west side, Englemoor and the castle-states of men.