Mighty Hammer Down by David J Guyton Page B

unlocking the irons,
handing the woman the sword and dragging her over to the door. "Go
on, get out of here."
    "Where do I go?"
    "Anywhere! Run!"
    The woman left without another word.
Alana locked the door and then threw the keys out through one of
the high windows. She laid face down in the corner the woman was
in, putting the shackles on and clasping them.
    This plan had to work.
     
     
     

Chapter 7
     
    Rommus stopped by a local fountain
when he finally arrived back in Brinn. The day was hot and the cool
water was much needed. The Medorans had mastered the art of
directing water from distant rivers into their cities and towns
through aqueducts, creating an elaborate water system for the
cities. Most of them were similar to this one, carved of white
marble and polished to a high luster. Adorning the fountains were
statues of gods or heroes, and sometimes even past Emperors. The
wealthy had fountains and baths in their homes, but most people
came to the public fountains to drink and get water. Since they
were such busy places, people stayed to socialize, and the cities
even built structures around some of them so that the citizens
could relax and mingle in the shade.
    Rommus didn’t spend much time there
however. He would stop for a drink or to splash cold water on his
face, but he knew that the people there did not welcome him.
Somehow it seemed that everyone had secretly turned against him,
avoiding him as if he were a Mage. Maybe he was just overreacting.
Perhaps they found him intimidating because of his size. He wasn’t
a giant man like his father, but he was well above average in
height and build, although to him it seemed that they weren’t
staring at his large arms and broad chest. To him it seemed that
they looked away as soon as they caught his eye, as if meeting his
glare might turn them to stone. Whatever the reason for it, he had
learned to accept it and pretty much ignore everyone around him. He
felt guilty sometimes when his presence seemed to kill laughter or
abruptly end a conversation, but he always reminded himself that he
had nothing to do with how people reacted to him. They were the
cause, not him. He went out of his way to avoid offending people
and he was polite when someone did decide to talk to him. Those
occasions, however, were rare.
    He finished at the fountain and made
his way deeper into the city. Across the street, through some
horse-drawn wagons, he saw the famous artist, Ehlom Nagelic. He was
talking to himself, quite loudly, while carrying what looked like
large scrolls. His frail body shook with rage at his invisible
companion as he spoke to the air. Rommus wondered how anyone could
be so angry at the world. He smiled as he thought of the man, as
quirky as anyone could be, totally lost in his own world and
talents. Ehlom attempted to shoulder someone out of his way, but
instead he was thrown into a wall. He cursed loudly, picked up a
dropped scroll, and turned the corner out of sight.
    Rommus couldn’t help but admire the
man. He had talent, no doubt, but that wasn’t it. The man had
something. It was a fire, a goal. It was something that he could
see in the distance, and he was always scurrying to reach it. At
least he was driven. At least he had a purpose. Rommus wished for
such a goal. He was always looking, and it never presented
itself.
    But like Ehlom, Rommus had talent.
Maybe he wasn’t a painter or sculptor (although he had never tried)
but he was a master metalsmith. He once had made armor and swords
for the army, but since then he had supported himself crafting
custom weapons and armor for the wealthy, teaching himself how to
do the delicate scrollwork and gold plating. Most of them were for
decoration or ceremonial use, since no one wanted to pay such a
large amount of money for a beautiful work of art just to have it
shattered in battle. Those people would never know it, but any of
his work would stand up to any abuse in any battle. Some of the
Medoran army refused to