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100. [Cortland] A Bigger Hammer
🕑 Added 2025-05-09 18:43:07 +0000 UTCCortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, surrounded by shades
Rivian Stonespirit, Sword Master of the 5th Renown, Soldier’s Rest, watching the master at work
Vitt Secondson-Salvado, Hunter of the 9th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, in positions he’d rather not be
Watts Stonework, Survivor of the 1st Renown, Soldier’s Rest, on death’s door
***
9 Blossum, 61 AW
The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent
51 days until the next Granting
Cortland had used [Forge] to attach bouncing blessings to each side of his hammer’s head. He waded into the warehouse wielding the glowing weapon, swinging and pitching, and watching the shades writhe and shrink before his light.
“It’ll help if you keep them off me,” he had instructed Rivian. “Retreat if you have to. You’ll do your people no good getting killed.”
Rivian nodded. “Understood.”
Cortland could hear the sword master maneuvering around behind him as he plodded on ahead. She smashed through bone constructs that took shape outside Cortland’s light, clumsily wielding the hammer that he’d made for her in one hand and swinging around her own orb like a shield. Cortland wasn’t sure how long the bouncing blessings would last them. He’d given two extras to Rivian and kept a couple for himself. They would need to light their way out.
Entering and exiting the warehouse should’ve been a straight forward thing but, now that he was inside, Cortland understood Rivian’s warning about letting the shades surround one. They were an oppressive darkness that hung in the air like smog, twisting at the edges of the room so that Cortland felt spun about. The warehouse was thick with them and their skeletal toys. The mingled scent of rock dust, old bones, and mulchy rot dried Cortland’s nostrils. The light from the champions flickered and flashed, creating a disorienting kaleidoscopic effect.
“Fuck!” Cortland’s foot snagged through the spokes of a wagon wheel, tripping him up. He kicked the debris aside with a snarl.
The warehouse was littered with wreckage. Broken crates and discarded tools. Chunks of shattered stone and wood. Loose oats that must’ve spilled out of some container in bulk.
Bodies.
Cortland couldn’t be sure if the corpses had been here when the breach occurred or had been dragged in off the streets afterward. Possibly both. Regardless, the shades had gone to work on them, flaying away the skin and muscle to get at the bones beneath. A body whose flesh had been peeled half-away and draped down around its waist like a woman shimmying out of a dress lunged toward Cortland, wrapping its skeletal arms around his knees and trying to tackle him. He punched his hammer through the body’s back so that, for a moment, his light shone through the corpse’s ribcage. The puppeteering shade screamed and disintegrated, leaving Cortland’s weapon momentarily trapped.
As Cortland wrenched his arm free, a spear of bone tore straight into his lower back. He arched and screamed, spinning around with his hammer. Whatever had stuck him retreated along with the rest of the shades—but only temporarily. They would regroup as soon as Cortland’s light was off them. He ignored the stab wound and pressed on.
At least it wasn’t difficult to find the pit in the back of the warehouse. The shades had paved the way with human ribs that clung to Cortland’s boots. It was as if the ghouls had made an assembly line for themselves, dragging the bones of long-interred Orvesians piece-by-piece to the surface. Cortland shook his head and felt a sharp pain at the top of his ear. He slapped the side of his head and crushed a delicate creature of bone shaped like a mosquito.
He needed to be done with this hell.
Cortland’s glowing hammer shone into a pit that must have continued hundreds of feet down. The hole was wide enough that he could’ve leapt across, but only barely. His knuckles popped as he squeezed the handle of his hammer. This was no gods damned accident. Nor was it the result of that industrious, walking gargoyle learning how to turn crawler shells into shovels. Someone who knew what they’d been doing had dug this. Even after the scrabbling of a horde of gargoyles, there were still intact support beams nailed into the pit’s sides. Looking around, Cortland found cables and ropes, pickaxes and shovels, and some drilling contraption that, much like the bouncing blessings, had probably been made by the Gadgeteers.
“The mother fuckers who did this…” Cortland growled, then shouted over his shoulder. “Rivian!”
The other champion was twenty yards behind him, smashing through a bramble of bones inching across the space between them. She closed the gap quickly. In the moment before they went back-to-back, Cortland noticed a fresh gash atop her head, spilling blood between the woman’s eyes.
“Keep us in your light,” he told her.
“Yes,” she said.
Grunting, Cortland brought his hammer low and then whipped it upwards. The shining weapon rose through shades gathered around the remnants of the roof, then burst into the dusk air above. Using [Hammer Toss] to control the weapon’s trajectory, Cortland willed his hammer higher and higher, forcing it to spin and hold for a long moment that strained his Ink.
Hopefully, the king has seen that.
For a moment, as his hammer hung above them, the inside of the warehouse seemed very quiet, almost as if the shades were waiting to see what would happen next. In that silence, Cortland heard jangling metal and clopping hooves, and above that a rhythmic chant. He cocked his head toward the pit.
“Do you hear that?” whispered Rivian.
Cortland was relieved that she heard it, too. There was something down in that darkness—far down in the Underneath but growing closer—and it made sounds like an army on the march. A chill wind flowed upward.
“What are they saying?” Cortland asked.
“Mudt,” replied Rivian. “Mudt, Mudt, Mudt.”
Cortland caught his hammer as it descended and spun it around, flashing the light across the encroaching shades. Walton Tendersword had been right in that they knew too little about the Underneath. There were things lurking down there that went beyond gargoyles and shades. Things that had been hiding for decades, biding their time for just this moment.
“Hell with that,” Cortland said.
Two minutes. That was how long the king had said he would wait before sending Cortland the rune that would create a seal for the breach. They had dozens of wards upon Infinzel’s entrance to the Underneath—redundancy after redundancy. Cortland assumed whatever the king sent would be enough to keep the undead from crossing, at least for tonight.
There was still the matter of physically sealing the pit.
Cortland hitched his hammer back. He could use [Crevasse] down the side of the pit and hope that created a proper enough cave-in. But Cortland wasn’t the delicate type. He couldn’t be sure that such an act wouldn’t widen the pit further, split the very ground of the outer district. A pit could become a chasm. The last thing Cortland wanted to do was make things worse.
Glancing around, Cortland spotted the piles of broken stone and debris that the bastards who’d done this had excavated. It would take hours to pile all of that back into the ground, even if they weren’t under near constant attack from the shades. Even so, Cortland’s gaze lingered on the pile. The solution was there.
He winced as the bitch assassin Laughing Monkey's words from Nortmost slithered into his mind. She had told Cortland that with his power, he should be using his hammer to shape the world.
“Dumb gods damned idea,” he muttered.
“Hammer master?” Rivian asked, not quite hearing him over the chattering and wailing of the shades. “What do we do now?”
“Watch my back,” Cortland told her.
He needed both of his hands free, so he slid his hammer into the loop at his hip. The bouncing blessings still cast their purifying light, but now there was a wedge for shadows caused by Cortland's stout body. Immediately, shades rushed to fill the space. A half-built sculpture of bone in the shape of a snake darted toward Cortland. Moving quickly, Rivian intercepted the attack, smashing through a snout made of pelvic bones and searing the controlling shade with her light.
Cortland reached down and grasped a ceiling beam. He judged the wooden plank long enough to bridge the pit. Dragging the beam, he maneuvered around the pit until he was directly across from the pile of rocks and dirt.
Grunting, Cortland bent his knees to dip low, wrapped his arms around the beam, and straightened with a popping of vertebrae. He had the beam hefted now, balanced against one of his thighs, his triceps howling as his [Stength+] began to drain.
“What are you doing?” hissed Rivian.
“Making a–”
Cortland's vision because fuzzy and his eyes filled with tears. He knew the sensation. Tilting his head down, he stared at the beam in his arms. Cizco's runes appeared in Ink across the wood. A complicated sketch—not something that Cortland was entirely sure he could reproduce in the gloom. Three interlocking circles, bisected by a series of slashes and flourishes, almost like a chain giving off sparks. Cortland had seen the symbol at the entrance to the Underneath in Infinzel, but like all the wards around Infinzel, he had never given any thought to drawing them himself.
His arms were beginning to shake. One problem at a time.
With a shout, Cortland thrust the rafter across the gap of the pit, jamming it like a bridge into the mound of dirt and rocks. With the beam wedged there, some of the weight came off his arms, though Cortland had to lever his body back to keep the wood straight. Rivian didn't repeat her question—perhaps she figured out his aim, or else could tell that his teeth were too gritted to explain.
In his early days as a champion, Cortland had gone through weapons quickly. That was one of the reasons he had selected [Forge]. But blacksmithing was in his name and therefore in his blood, too. His mother had spent her whole life working in Infinzel's forges. She had crafted weapons, armor, and all sorts of parts from the metals grown down in the mineral gardens. [Forge] was a way to honor her and her skills. Cortland hoped she was safe, locked away within sealed Infinzel, hopefully not too shocked at this new siege.
The Ink made it so Cortland did not need his mother's years of practice. He did not need knowledge or creativity. He merely thought of a weapon and gathered its parts in his hands, and the Ink did the rest. He pictured what he wanted now—held the image in his mind, absurd as it was—and he sensed that he could make it so. The doing would drain the last of his [Forge], but the gods would supply him with the power he needed. This calculation happened at the speed of instinct. Cortland knew he could do what he wanted and then what he wanted was so.
Like Laughing Monkey had said, he could shape the world.
Snapping and crunching, the pile of rubble melded together into a massive hammerhead, the surface like cobblestones veined with dirt. The ceiling beam Cortland had jammed into the mix now made a handle. [Forge] faded from his chest. Cortland tossed his arm over the beam, braced it against his hip, and leaned back.
He had made himself a hammer too heavy to swing. But Cortland could drag it.
Cortland wrenched backward with all his might. The pile-turned-hammer moved a few inches, grinding against the floor. Cortland took a deep breath and pulled harder. Behind him, the shades were riled anew. Something heavy crashed into one of the wagons and sent it toppling over, pebbles and wood chips spraying the backs of Cortland’s legs. There was fighting happening back there, but Cortland couldn’t turn to look. He kept pulling his massive hammer forward—grinding and rattling across the floor—and trusted in Rivian to mind his back.
A vein throbbed in Cortland's neck and, when the light changed, his first thought was that he'd burst a blood vessel. It took him a moment to realize that the bouncing blessing in Rivian's hand had winked out.
As Rivian reached for a replacement in her uniform pocket, a whip of jagged ribs lashed toward her. She pivoted to the side, out of harm’s way, but her heel skidded at the edge of the pit. Perhaps the hammer Cortland had made unbalanced her, because Rivian slipped backward, into the howling darkness.
Or, she would have—if Vitt Secondson-Salvado hadn’t grabbed her by the forearm and yanked her upright.
“Clumsy,” Vitt admonished. While Rivian flailed her arms for balance, Vitt reached into the woman’s pocket and took one of the orbs. “Turn this thing on, would you?”
Rivian breathed the activation word, bathing her and Vitt in new light. She scowled, but stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the hunter. They hadn’t seen Vitt coming—with his [Camouflage] hiding him from even the shades, of course they wouldn’t.
“Gods, Finiron, is there any problem you won’t try to solve with a bigger hammer?” Vitt asked.
Before Cortland could respond, he felt the weight in his arms lighten. Glancing back, Cortland found Watts Stonework anchoring the back of the beam. The man looked horrific—gray-skinned and dead—but he nodded once to Cortland.
“On three?” Watts rasped.
Cortland stared at the flapping skin on Watts’ throat. “You’re…”
“Running out of the time,” Watts replied. “On three?”
Cortland spun around and tightened his grip. He activated [Bolster], knowing that it would further increase Watts’ supernatural strength. Then, heaving in unison, Cortland and Watts dragged the pile toward them, the rock grinding up sparks from the floor. The hammer of rubble was vaguely pyramid-shaped and, as he strained, Cortland imagined them levering Infinzel-in-miniature. A new pyramidal city to stand above that which would threaten the good.
They had the pit nearly covered when a late-coming gargoyle thrust its beak upward into the remaining crescent of space. The two of them didn’t pause and the satisfying crunch of a decapitated gargoyle let them know the pit had been fully blocked.
“What now?” Watts asked.
“We get the fuck out of here?” Vitt suggested.
Rivian and Vitt had armed themselves with fresh bouncing blessings and managed to keep the shades at bay while Cortland and Watts labored. The lights on Cortland’s hammer had mostly winked out, though, and the interior of the warehouse was dimming.
“I need to paint a ward,” Cortland said.
Vitt groaned. “You’re no artist, hammerhead.”
Ignoring Vitt, Cortland maneuvered up the rafter to where the king’s rune had appeared. He squinted at the complex circles and slashes. Unfortunately, Vitt was right. He wasn’t sure that he could duplicate this with his thick, tired fingers. Even so, he pulled the vial of chanic from its place in his pack.
“Pour it,” Rivian said, relief in her voice. “It will know where to go.”
Cortland did not question how Rivian knew this or why. The woman had proved more than reliable, so she could keep her many mysteries. He uncorked the vial and tipped the crimson liquid toward the rune. The chanic spread almost eagerly, rivulets like blood-swollen maggots crossing the Ink that Cizco had sent.
The ward flared to life. A magnetic repulsion knocked Cortland back from the rafter, and he sensed the same force radiating off the giant hammer in every direction. At the same time, the ward gave off a sickly pinkish light—not as pure as what sizzled forth from the bouncing blessings—but somehow worse for that. The shades were caught in this new light like a morass, like bodies drowning in a tar pit, wavering and writhing. Sculptures of bone crumbled and collapsed, and the warehouse was still.
“Done,” Cortland said. “We are done.”
***
The four of them found their way to the courtyard of Guydemion’s tavern. Henry Blacksalve was there, and Hellie Opensky, and Watts’ son Otis, and dozens of other people of Soldier’s Rest who had fortified the alley’s narrow entry, strung barbed ropes and nets between the walls, and now stood guard against the gargoyles in shifts.
This time, Henry still had some [Healing Touch] left for Watts. The healer had been busy. It had been his [Force Shield] that the survivors of Soldier’s Rest had first gathered behind and his [Empowering Beacon] that kept them fighting. They had rolled casks of ale out from the battered tavern and Henry had used [Potion Maker] to bless one cask with curative properties and another with a charm that would make skin as tough as stone, thus letting the people battle back against the gargoyles. It was not as safe in this courtyard as inside the sealed pyramidal city, but Henry’s leadership had gotten them close. Cortland felt a swelling of pride for his old friend.
Unfortunately, the healer had been too late to save Bel Guydemion.
The people with the broken wall took turns sitting inside with their fallen leader. Watts went in and, as the night wore on, he did not come back out. Rivian paid her respects, returned with red-rimmed eyes, and insisted on taking a position atop the ring wall as a sentry. Cortland watched all this from the mouth of the alley, nursing his own injuries that didn’t seem bad enough to waste healing. Someone offered him some dried meat and bread, which Cortland accepted gratefully. No one offered anything to Vitt, even though he stood with Cortland.
There would be much mourning in the days ahead. The dead likely numbered in the hundreds. There were still gargoyles loose that would need to be hunted down.
“We’re going to have work to do,” Cortland said to Vitt.
Vitt sighed. “Great.”
“I want to know who did this.”
“Come on,” Vitt replied. “We both know the answer to that, don’t we?”
The two of them looked toward Infinzel, the pyramidal city still visible through the ropes and nets strung across the courtyard. The city looked mountainous and dark. Cortland had never seen it that way—the windows shut up, no light visible from within.
“Your father said it wasn’t him,” Cortland said. “I suppose I believe him.”
“Oh.” Vitt considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Are you staying here, hammerhead?”
“Until I catch my breath.”
“I don’t like the looks I’m getting,” Vitt replied. “Anyway, I have business to finish. A marriage to arrange.”
Cortland raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to know.”
Vitt started to slip away down the alley, then paused. “Henry did a good job here, the old drunk. I’m surprised they didn’t make him the Quill.”
Cortland glanced back across the courtyard where the people of Soldier’s Rest had organized themselves for the night under Henry and Hellie. He hadn’t yet had time to consider that, with Bel Guydemion dead, Soldier’s Rest would be without a Quill. The old man hadn’t even made it to his first Granting. A sad finish to the legend.
“The gods must have chosen someone,” Cortland said.
But Vitt had already gone, slipping away while Cortland pondered. The hammer master of Infinzel stood alone, on the fringe of this new faction now leaderless, the old power of the pyramidal city looming behind him, black and forbidding.
