Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  The wizards performed a variety of impressive pyrotechnics for the feasters. Balls of multi-colored lights swirled around the room and up to the rafters, bursting forth in still more colors that cascaded gently down upon the audience, eliciting rigorous applause. Platters of food and tankards of ale rose from the table and flew around the room to cries of amazement before being returned gently to their original places. In the climax of the show, the old wizard conjured up a shadowy, translucent image of a heroic warrior with a streaming blonde beard, hulking muscles, and glowing armor who did battle with and slew a horrific dragon that descended upon them from above. All present watched in rapt excitement, the hall exploding with wild cheering when the illusory hero defeated the wyrm and ascended upwards through the roof in a golden ball of light.

  Jorn paid only half attention. Most of the tricks were commonplace, especially the levitations and the pyrotechnics. He watched Yrsa instead, trying to catch her eye. Mostly, she looked at her plate and still seemed sullen for some reason. This was odd. She loved such wizard’s shows and would usually be in the forefront of the cheering.

  A guard entered the and approached Jorn. He leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

  “A dwarf?” Jorn said, frowning. “Business with me? Tell him to come back tomorrow morning. Make that late tomorrow morning. No, midday.”

  “He is insistent he see you right now,” the guard explained with a shrug. “He says he bears an urgent message for you from the wizard Braemorgan.”

  “Braemorgan? Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  The guard nodded and hurried off.

  Jorn drank down the last of his ale. Orbadrin always took great stock in what the old wizard had to say, although Jorn always thought the rascal had something to hide and never did trust him. Nevertheless, Braemorgan had always proved to be useful in a fight and, whatever else the old wizard might be, he was always to be taken seriously. But why would he be sending a message addressed to Jorn, and not to Orbadrin?

  _____

  Ironhelm paced back and forth on the front porch, warmed by the great fires burning at either corner. He glared at the guards with his one eye, mumbling something about cold nights and inhospitable humans.

  The door opened and a tall young man with bright blue eyes stepped out into the cold night. The lad wore a ring mail shirt and an elk skin for a cloak, a two-handed sword strapped over his back and a pair of throwing axes stuffed in his belt. Ironhelm stepped back, surprised by Jorn’s uncanny resemblance to his father. Standing before Ironhelm was the ghost of Loric Ravenbane.

  “Ach,” he muttered, amazed.

  “Well?” Jorn said. “I am Jorn, Son of Orbadrin. What do you want?”

  “Aye, tha’ you are. I am Durm Ironhelm of Thunderforge. I bear a message from the wizard Braemorgan for you, laddie.”

  Ironhelm produced a scroll from inside his cloak and thrust it forward.

  Jorn waved the scroll aside.

  “I believe you,” he said. “What does that old scoundrel want with me?”

  “Your life’s in danger, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Assassins are on the way. Aye, tis true. They could be here even now, they could.”

  “Assassins?” Jorn laughed. “Who would want to kill me?”

  “Braemorgan explains it all in this letter,” Ironhelm said, offering the scroll again. “I think you should be reading it, laddie. It bears Braemorgan’s own wizard’s seal.”

  Jorn took the scroll, noting the seal. It was the Braemorgan’s wizard’s seal, to be sure, a magically-glowing green “B” surrounded by a unique pattern of interlocking lines. Jorn broke it, walking over to one of the bonfires burning at the end of the porch to read it. He smirked as he unrolled the scroll, recalling it was only because of Braemorgan that Jorn could even read. Orbadrin never put much stock in formal schooling, but the wizard had insisted Orbadrin bring in a tutor for his sons. Orbadrin relented, and Jorn grew up able to read and write at least tolerably well.

  He read the scroll in silence, recognizing the wizard’s strange, slanted handwriting. When he was done, he tossed it back to the dwarf.

  “Tell him ‘no’,” Jorn said.

  Ironhelm looked confused.

  “Wha’ do you mean, ‘no’?” Ironhelm asked.

  “I mean ‘no’,” Jorn said. “I’m not interested in The Westmark. This is my home and this is my family. The Ravenbanes are nothing to me.”

  “Ach! They’re your true family, laddie! Aye, your very own flesh and blood! Braemorgan calls you to your birthrigh’, he does!”

  “What family have they ever been to me? I am nothing but Loric Ravenbane’s bastard. He abandoned my mother and so she came here to the house of her brother to live without a husband. Orbadrin is my uncle, and also the only father I have ever known. Or ever will.”

  “Aye, I know tha’ he adopted you when your mother died,” Ironhelm said. “I’m sure he has been a good father to you, laddie, but -”

  “I am his son, and a son of the House of Thaalgrud.”

  “Aye, but on your mother’s side only. You’re also a son of the House of Ravenbane.”

  “Loric was a father I never knew from a family that means nothing to me.”

  “But your half-brother Agnar is slain! You’re heir to The Westmark! Does tha’ mean anything to you, laddie?”

  Jorn turned and walked back to the doors.

  “Ach! Where’re you off to, laddie?” Ironhelm sputtered.

  “Go home, dwarf,” Jorn said.

  _____

  Jorn returned to the hall, lost in thought. The noise of the victory feast shook him out of his stupor, and he made his way back to his seat. He lifted his tankard and a servant refilled it to the brim, tan foam running down the sides.

  Thulgin looked over at him, puzzled.

  “What was it?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Jorn said. “Just some fool dwarf at the doors.”

  “A dwarf? What did he want?”

  Jorn shrugged.

  Thulgin frowned.

  “What did he -,” he began.

  Orbadrin rose from his seat, and the clamor of the room lessened first to a murmur and then into complete silence as all eyes fell upon the thane.

  “Grang be praised, this is a rare and special feast indeed!” he said, holding his tankard out in front of him. “We celebrate tonight our victory over Thane Llud and the defeat of his treachery. But that is not the only reason we have to celebrate.”

  He paused, looking around the hall.

  “Tonight is a night to remember twice over,” he began again. “For I have not only gained lands from a vanquished enemy but I have also gained a daughter!”

  Halgaad rose, extending his hand to Yrsa. She took it and stood, glancing briefly at Jorn and then looking away.

  “This afternoon Thane Halgaad and I had a long talk,” Orbadrin continued. “We are of one mind that this alliance must be made permanent, especially in these troubled times, and there is only way to do that. And so, we have agreed that Halgaad’s daughter Yrsa shall be joined to my oldest son Thulgin.”

  The hall erupted in hearty cheers, warriors rising to their feet and shouting acclaim. Thulgin remained seated with a blank expression on his face, not fully believing his ears. Orbadrin bade him rise and he stood slowly, still looking like he was in a stupor.

  Jorn hid his own surprise well, turning away from the clamor. He wanted to get up and flee the room. He wanted to run, as if that could somehow make the reality of the announcement disappear. He remained frozen in his chair, however, watching as Halgaad led Yrsa around the table and placed her hand in Thulgin’s. She avoided Jorn’s gaze and Thulgin’s as well, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment. The hall, meanwhile, was filled with thunderous applause as men clapped their hands and banged their feet. Some slammed their fists loudly on the long wooden table.

  Jorn couldn’t take it anymore. He turned away from the scene and slipped out of the room, unnoticed by almost eve
ryone as he fled the cheering tumult.

  _____

  Thulgin felt like a man sentenced to the gallows.

  Yrsa was a striking beauty with a delightful and intelligent disposition. Thulgin had long been smitten with the daughter of one of Orbadrin’s captains, however. He’d assumed he would be granted her hand when she turned eighteen next month and was of marriageable age. Her father would be overjoyed to give his daughter to the future thane and Orbadrin would surely approve since she was the daughter of an honorable and loyal captain.

  It took Thulgin a few minutes to break away from the congratulations and toasting going on in the main hall. He noticed Jorn had left and looked around the house in vain for him. Finally, he asked one of the guards at the door and learned Jorn had gone outside.

  He exited the hall and crossed the compound, the snow crunching under his boots loudly in the silence of the winter night. The door to the stables was open, the light inside spilling into the courtyard. Thulgin went in and found Jorn saddling his horse. Jorn was wearing heavy furs and his shield, sword, and bow were on the ground by his feet.

  “Jorn,” Thulgin said.

  “Don’t say a word,” Jorn snapped. “Just get the hell out of here.”

  “Jorn…I’m just as stunned as you are. I had no idea they were planning on this. I don’t want this. You know that.”

  “Grang’s ass! You’re going through with it, aren’t you!”

  “I, uh, I don’t know. You know I prefer Balla, but…but, I can’t defy father. Then there’s the alliance to consider. We can’t offend Halgaad, not now. Damn it! How could father decide this without so much as asking me what I thought?”

  “So you’re going to marry Yrsa? You’re just going to accept all this? Me and Balla be damned!”

  Thulgin was silent. Jorn finished saddling his horse and strapped his shield to the saddle. He attached his bow to the other side and then slung his sword over his back.

  “Where are you going?” Thulgin asked.

  “I don’t know. Back to Fangun’s Mound, I guess. The men still need help putting up a suitable fort for the winter. I don’t trust Llud.”

  “We’ve three hundred of our best men there and they’ve already put up a stockade around their camp. Llud can’t threaten them with the rabble he has left.”

  “Then I can hunt in the woods,” Jorn said.

  “Jorn, I -”

  “Let me be, Thulgin,” Jorn shouted. “If you were any kind of brother you would have told them all to go to hell!”

  “What? You expected me to defy father in front of everyone?”

  “Why not? Would the heavens really be torn asunder?”

  “I cannot!” Thulgin said, his voice rising. “I am the oldest son, and the next thane. I have responsibilities you can’t even imagine. You can marry whatever girl you choose. You can ride about fighting and drinking or whoring whenever you care, but who I marry is dictated by more than just what I want. The alliance with Halgaad…”

  “Yes, I know, the fucking alliance! And you get to marry Yrsa!”

  “She’s a thane’s only daughter, Jorn,” Thulgin said. “Her husband will inherite her father’s lands. Who’d you expect Halgaad to marry her off to?”

  Instantly, he regretted his words.

  “Not a bastard cousin? Is that what you mean?” Jorn said.

  “I didn’t mean to say that. Jorn, I-”

  Jorn turned away. He mounted his horse and rode out of the stables.

  Thulgin stood there alone, his hands trembling. He felt like he was dreaming some horrible dream where events were spinning out of control. He wanted to do what Jorn had said, to tell them all to go to hell.

  Then he and Balla could be together. Oh, Balla! What must she be going through right now? Thulgin looked at her as soon as the announcement was made. She was seated at the far end of the hall, shock and pain on her face. It broke his heart to think of her now.

  Yet there remained the alliance to think of. Thulgin knew he had no choice but to keep his mouth shut. Jorn wouldn’t understand, of course. Thulgin loved Jorn as his cousin, brother, and dearest friend, but he knew Jorn was all about Jorn much of the time. He’d stew about this for a long time. Years, perhaps.

  Thulgin cursed aloud, kicking one of the wooden posts holding up the stable roof.

  A grizzled, one-eyed dwarf appeared at the open door to the stables. He looked like a vagabond robber, a huge axe at his belt. Thulgin started to draw his sword.

  “Easy, laddie,” the dwarf said. “I’m not here to fight you.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Your help.”

  Five

  Jorn rode through the quiet main street of Falneth. Sounds of reveling came from the alehouse as he passed it. Most of the soldiers Jorn and Thulgin had led back into town that afternoon were no doubt crowded within. He could hear their rowdy singing and could easily imagine the scene. Soldiers would be lining the long benches singing and drinking by the light of the two roaring fireplaces, the barmaids rushing to and fro to keep the tankards full. It all felt to Jorn like something far off in the distance, like the goings-on of some far-off foreign realm like Llangellan. He looked away, pulling his elkskin cloak tighter around him as he passed.

  Jorn approached the closed gate at the edge of town. The guards standing watch on the towers leaned over in the darkness, straining to see the man on horseback riding towards them.

  “Who approaches?” one of the guards shouted. “The gates stay closed till morning, by the law of Orbadrin.”

  “It’s Jorn, son of Orbadrin. Open the gates.”

  The guards recognized the voice.

  “Just a moment,” one of them said.

  A trio of guards came down from the towers to pull aside the great bolt that barred the doors. As they did so, Jorn heard the sound of hooves behind him. A pair of men rode into view, an older portly man with a bald head and white whiskers and a young man with a blonde beard. Jorn recognized them as the magicians who performed earlier that evening. They’d changed out of their bright blue-and-silver robes into plainer garb.

  “You are opening the gates?” the older man asked.

  “What is it to you?” Jorn asked.

  “Dalon is my name,” he said, bowing graciously. “My son and I would like to leave tonight, if we could. We saw you riding through town and hoped the gates were opening.”

  “Why? Where are you off to at such an hour?”

  Dalon laughed.

  “One might ask you the same question, young master,” he said. “We received word of work awaiting us in Vistinar. With but a few hours ride tonight we can reach the inn at Fessfurd. It would save us much time tomorrow.”

  “Then pass through,” Jorn said, shrugging.

  “Thank you, young master. This will be most helpful. It was a dandy of a show tonight, I thought. How did you like the dragon? That’s our trademark, you know. It drew raves last month down in Swordhaven.”

  The gates opened and Jorn spurred his horse forward, galloping through silently. The magicians rode through behind him.

  The road south of Falneth was muddy and narrow. It was more a twisting dirt path than a proper road, but in the far north of Linlund that was all there was.

  The great moon Arnos was full and hung low in the west, adding its bluish light to that of Ithlon directly overhead in all its silvery glory. Together, the moons lit up the snowy landscape in an eerie silver-blue glow. It was bright enough to read by, were one so inclined.

  “How far are you going?” Dalon was saying. “Might it be all the way to Vistinar? We could use the company and the presence of a good swordsman this time of year.”

  “I’ll be parting just to the right up ahead,” Jorn growled.

  They were a half mile from Falneth, Jorn’s own path soon coming into view. If Jorn rode the rest of the night, he would be at camp atop Whiterock before dawn. What he was going to do after he got there, he could not say.

  “It’s too b
ad we shall be parting ways,” Dalon said.

  If Jorn had been paying attention, he might have heard the thick sarcasm in the magician’s voice.

  “This is my road here,” Jorn said, turning his horse onto the path.

  Dalon said nothing, looking over at his younger companion and nodding briskly. Gone was the affable, jolly expression of before, replaced with a grim scowl. He raised his arm, pointing his palm at Jorn and uttering a series of strange magical words. Jorn turned, surprised to hear the wizard casting a spell. He knew whatever the wizard was casting, it was aimed at him. He drew his sword, but was already too late.

  A magical burst of energy materialized from Dalon’s hand, an explosion of focused light concentrated in a narrow beam of light that flew through the air at Jorn and struck him square in the chest.

  Jorn had never felt anything like it before. It knocked him to the ground into a snow bank at the side of the road. He dropped his sword as a wave of horrible, throbbing pain pulsated through his body. For long moments he was only dimly aware of himself, his limbs unable to move. He tried to call out, but could not.

  Dalon and his companion dismounted. The younger assassin drew a pair of long, curved knives from his belt.

  “Thank you for making it so easy, young Ravenbane,” Dalon said, out of breath from casting the powerful spell. “Riding off alone like that couldn’t have been more convenient.”

  Dalon glanced at the younger assassin and nodded.

  “Go ahead. Make it quick.”

  The young man stepped forward towards Jorn just as the sound of galloping horses was heard from down the road. Dalon looked back, shocked.

  “Quickly, finish him!” he snapped, stepping back onto the main road.

  Ten mounted warriors came charging up from the direction of Falneth. They were men of Orbadrin, their shields and spears visible in the moonslight.

  Dalon cursed, taking a deep breath and preparing to cast another spell.

  _____

  Thulgin hoped merely to catch up to Jorn and stop him from wandering off alone with assassins about. As he approached the crossroads, however, he could see the two magicians in the moonslight, the old man standing near a figure lying in the snow as the young man walked towards it with a long knife in hand. Thulgin drew his sword, urging his horse forward with a hard kick.