it is the hope that fits our hand
when there’s terror in the dark
—Little Rhymes for Little Monsters
In the dark of the mountain, the Kinghammer moves.
Slow, heavy strokes, his wrists turning the weight of the weapon.
The tiled floor of the sparring circle bright under his feet.
What the hammer meets, it breaks.
The air is thick with splinters.
His feet shift his hips through the stances.
The weight of the body, the weight of the weapon.
The depths resound with the sound of movement.
Cold sweat hanging on her brow, Icecaller stands beneath the curve of an arch and feels the blows in her breastbone.
She watches her father move in killing ways, the flat planes of his shoulders tectonic under muscle.
His spine is a map of shattered geometries, sundered glaciers, deep flows and high peaks.
The hammer pulls him. He is the centre of its orbit.
His breath moves his body like a bellows, drags the steel in thick arcs. A shield breaks. A hapless sparring partner is sent staggering into shadow.
Tattoos align in the half-light.
At the edges of the sparring circle, familiar faces watch.
The message is clear. War is coming and Thell is ready. Quickfish is getting what he wants – the decision has been made.
Icecaller can feel it ringing out with each hammer blow, resonating in the hearts of the onlookers. She wonders if they feel it as deeply as she does.
A warm glow of pride lights in her at the sight of her father, still strong, still unafraid. Someone for the mountain to rally around, someone for her to lean on.
Not all members of her family seem to feel that way. Atop her shoulders, Nigh shifts restlessly. The loops of the hammer can’t hold her interest. Icecaller looks around for a suitable distraction.
She spies some likely candidates in the corner, leaning wearily against one other. Her new favourite drips.
Quickfish’s dandelion-shock hair struggles with the air down here, and Roofkeeper’s neatly clipped beard is starting to run at the edges.
She threads her way through the crowd, pushed and pulled by the current of hammer blows, buffeted by the jostle of shoulders as Kinghammer’s most ardent fans vie for room. The pair see her coming and make space.
She slings a leg over a low bench, ‘Carpenter, spunkpocket.’ A lazy smile. ‘How you finding it down in the depths? Adjusting?’
Quickfish glances at the ring, the slow loops of the hammer. ‘Some things aren’t so different here, truth be told.’
She shoots him a look. ‘I suppose you’d know something about showy fathers.’
Fallon’s son grins at that, and Roofkeeper elbows him pointedly. Behind them the crowd cheers. Icecaller picks her teeth for a moment, then dumps Nigh onto the table. ‘You remember my sister. Somehow worse than me?’
Nigh beams beatifically at the young men, scratches intently at a scab on her knee.
