Hammers in the Wind by Christian Warren Freed Read Free Book Online Page B

littered with scars and hungry. He was the king’s champion. He also took the funeral the hardest of all. The prince had been a good pupil and close friend over the years. Ionascu missed him sorely already. Jarrik was forced to leave his closest companion, the mighty double-headed battle axe sung in song and lore. The weapon had cleaved more skulls and drank more blood than any other in the kingdom and had served the champion well over the decades. Ionascu knew the time was fast approaching when his axe would see use again.
    “None of these people gave a damn about the prince,” he growled in a deep baritone.
    Argis called back over his shoulder. “They come to pay respect to the heir of the land.”
    “They come for the protection of our steel,” Jarrik snapped back. “This is all a show.”
    “And what would the fearsome Jarrik do? Do we conscript the whole lot and send them off to the front lines?”
    “I am suggesting we send them back to their homes and end this charade now so we can go off to war ourselves.”
    Harnin whispered, “Both of you dishonor the king like this.”
    The champion fumed. “I honor his son’s memory by seeking rightful vengeance against his killers, whelp.”
    Badron listened to every word with disgust from the head of the procession. Any other day he might have been tempted to give them a good thrashing in the training pits, but not today. This day was reserved to the honor of his son. The kingdom and his plans could wait a day.
    Six men, the survivors of the house guard, marched in cadence behind the captains. Pallbearers, they bore the cleaned and prepared corpse of the prince. They’d all offered their lives in return for their failure to protect the heir to the throne, but Badron waved them off with mild praise. He insisted they carry the body. Tender breeze tousled the lad’s hair. The house surgeon had done his best. At least now he looked peaceful. The blood had completely drained, leaving him pale and cold. His hands were folded across his chest armor. They clutched his favorite sword and made him formidable should any foe beset him in the halls of the afterlife.
    Two full companies of soldiers marched behind. Their dress was both functional for combat and ceremony. This was the color guard of the vaunted Wolfsreik, the army of the Wolf. Ten thousand strong, they were the predominant military power in the northern kingdoms. Their uniforms were a combination of black and grey, befitting the beast of their naming. Most wore beards and were the epitome of fighting strength. They had all been chosen as children and forged into a ferocious weapon wielded by the line of Delranan kings. There were no conscripts, no draftees taken from a farmer’s fields. These were professional soldiers the world looked up to and feared.
    Through the winding streets they marched. Cries assailed them, perhaps Badron the hardest. He struggled to maintain composure even as the honor guard broke out into song. Gulls added their song. The sea was close. The sound of waves breaking echoed the cadence. Ahead loomed the ship that would bear his son to his fathers. A pair of priests stood at the bottom of the ramp, arms folded in black robes. The smell of incense choked the air.
    Badron halted. A bell rang three times. Both priests took a step forward to greet their king. Each bowed deeply.
    “Why have you come upon us this day?” asked the priest on the right. He raised his head enough for Badron to see that his eyes had been cut out.
    The king choked back his emotions lest they betray him now. “To commence my son into the halls of my worthy fathers.”
    “The way is prepared. The path is open. Are you prepared to offer his mortal host unto the flame?”
    Badron bowed in return. “I am.”
    The words were the heaviest he’d ever spoken. The admission was forced. There was no way to decay the love between father and son. My son , he wept inwardly. I have failed you . His nose crinkled at a whiff of