(Page 1 of 2) (BLACK HAMMER) by Jack Carr and Randy RasmussnSUMMARY: After following the terms and conditions of sffworld.com, book 1 Black Hammer (Despair) has been canceled in this story section.
The publishing process has begun. I hope you enjoyed our story
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Sargon's face resembled that of a decomposing corpse, more bone than flesh, the pitted pale skin taught and hugging the contour of a pronounced jaw line. His bulging eyes appeared hungry in the sunken sockets of his skull, and what remained of his hair was like an unsightly patch of weeds that refused to die, its color ranging from black to stark white. His marred form clashed with the beauty of the surrounding forest landscape. The dark robes that adorned his frame rippled in the gentle breeze, the pale symbols embroidered on the garments vanishing and reappearing with his relaxed gait. The priest's thoughts drifted as he walked along the wooded path. Gazing skyward, he fixed upon the green canopy above him, the rays of the setting sun causing the leaves to glow brilliantly as the light penetrated the foliage.
Sargon's destination, home, was not far. He could see the end of the footpath as it exited onto a flat grassy plain that surrounded a small wooden house. This was not just his home, but the home of his friends, Grimmric and Aric, as well. Their dwelling was located on a small island southeast of the main continent. They had discovered the isle quite accidentally on an ocean passage to the Kingdom of Dalkoria. A storm had blown the ship off course, and the commander of the merchant vessel decided to stop at the nearest landmass to wait out the tempest. The three men had paid the captain to anchor the boat for several days after the storm had passed while they investigated. After discovering the catacombs where they now resided, they agreed to return and establish a refuge for themselves away from the intrigues of the squabbling empires. The three men had come back to explore the ancient galleries beneath the surface, and after having secured the labyrinth, they transformed the place into a suitable abode. Although they endeavored to keep the existence of their island a secret, its presence eventually became known in certain seafaring circles, and through selective hospitality, they had made important allies. Sargon and his two companions had worked hard to make the island comfortable, a haven where they could rest. It seemed it had all happened only yesterday, but it was five long winters ago that they first set foot here.
Although the three men had achieved some semblance of success, they had done so by persevering through personal tragedy. Sargon and Grimmric were unable to shake their dark pasts, and in fact, both the priest and Vordagian were wanted men, and their reputation generally preceded them. Their skills, both individually and combined, had enabled them to avoid capture and overcome danger, but not all of those who had accompanied them survived. Comrades had been lost in Grimstadt, Vordag, Gelmore — the places where they had fallen were many. In reality, Sargon and his two companions had been lucky, and they knew it, which had been their impetus for seizing upon the idea of this remote island as refuge.
It occurred to Sargon that a good deal of time had passed since they last set out from their isle to obtain information concerning the maneuverings of the land-locked kingdoms. Perhaps we should no longer make such journeys, the risk of being identified and pursued too great a price for the knowledge gained. In any case, it is best to avoid the politics of the mainland kingdoms, Sargon thought. To his mind, their island sanctuary had freed the trio from having to return for news and thereby endanger their lives unnecessarily. After all, what were the machinations of empires to them? The priest was ready to forget those kingdoms even existed, if that were possible, and spend the remainder of his days in peace on the island.
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