Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  “Only a few hours left, laddies,” Ironhelm said as the sky slowly grew lighter in the east and a new shift took over. “Aye, we’re almost there.”

  Jorn suddenly appeared at his side.

  “Ach. What rouses you?” Ironhelm asked.

  “Nothing,” Jorn said. “Just a bad dream.”

  “Well, all’s quiet here,” the dwarf said. “Now you should get right back to your rest, laddie.”

  “I thought I’d stand guard a bit,” Jorn said.

  “Laddie, you’re Thane of The Westmark,” Ironhelm said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You don’t stand guard duty like a common soldier.”

  “Fine,” Jorn said, returning to his tent with a shrug.

  Ironhelm watched him leave, shaking his head. He turned back to the darkness, studying it for the slightest sign of danger.

  _____

  The rest of the night passed quietly. The next day was windy and even colder than usual, a biting wind blowing down from the north. They rode through the forest, every eye studying the towering ash trees and gigantic pines on either side. It was dimmer inside the forest, the immense pine canopy a hundred feet above their heads blocking out much of the sun. In the summer, it was a moist and shady place, covered in massive ferns and great clusters of mushrooms. Now, it was coated in a smooth white blanket of snow and eerily quiet. The only sound was the steady clip-clop of the horses along the trail.

  Once, one of Jorn’s soldiers cried out that he saw a man slinking away far from the road but nothing came of it. They paused, studying the forest intently and looking for any other signs of movement. If it were a highwayman watching the road he would surely report the size and warlike appearance of the armed company to his fellows. No gang of brigands would be likely to risk an encounter with such a force, though.

  The closest Jorn’s men came to any further danger in the forest were a pair of huge, hulking figures lumbering along far from the road at the very edge of Jorn’s vision. They were immense, at least ten feet tall each. The figures approached no closer, stopping and watching the party for a brief moment before turning away and heading deeper into the forest.

  “Trolls,” Edain muttered. “In broad daylight, too! And within sight of the road!”

  “Tis well tha’ I didn’t encounter them on my way north,” Ironhelm said.

  By midday they passed through the dangerous part of the forest unharmed. Small farms began to line the road and they encountered a few woodsmen on their way back from mornings spent hunting in the vast woodlands of southern Aethnen. They were burly, weatherworn men with huge longbows in their hands and short broadswords at their hips who regarded the armed company with wary concern.

  Jorn nodded knowingly. These were troubled times in Aethnen. Armed patrols scoured the southern half of the forest day and night, defending terrain their fathers and grandfathers once regarded as perfectly safe in their own day.

  The column stopped by the side of the road for a hurried lunch of more salt pork and cheese before resuming their journey. The men ate hurriedly and jumped right back in their saddles, ready to move on. Not a mile further they passed by a strange-looking man by the side of the road. He was dressed in a filthy brown tunic and a tattered old cloak, worn old boots on his feet. His hair was long and matted, and his shaggy beard was unkempt. He was crouched down by the side of the road, scratching at the ground with a long stick and mumbling to himself. At the approach of the party, he suddenly stood and began to laugh uncontrollably.

  “Give up your ways!” he shouted at them. His eyes were aflame with uncontrolled passion. “Put down your spears! Renounce your ways, before it is too late! I have seen what is to come! Repent whilst still you can!”

  They rode past, the soldiers heckling and cursing the man. He stared at them as they rode by, still shouting warnings of impending doom at the company until they were finally out of earshot.

  “Damned madmen,” Edain muttered with a sigh. “They’re all over the roads these days. That’s another thing not seen in days past.”

  “Damned mystic hermits,” Ironhelm said. “Ach! Long have they lived far from all civilization, but now the trolls and gruks grow in number. Aye, they drive the fools from their wild places and onto the roads.”

  An hour later they encountered a small patrol of a dozen well-armed dwarves mounted on stout ponies. The dwarves were clad in well-crafted armor, finely-fitted steel breastplates over long-sleeved hauberks. They bore heavy shields and had thick fur cloaks wrapped over their shoulders. They had little to say to the travelers, even to Ironhelm, letting them pass unmolested once they were satisfied the strangers were not brigands.

  “Grang’s teeth!” Jorn said. “They were unfriendly.”

  “They’re hard-pressed on all sides, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

  They reached Skogfald right before sundown as a few snow flurries began to fall. It was much larger than Sklegenholm. Surrounded by a wooden stockade with a single gate next to a winding stream, there were dozens of buildings of various sizes and purposes making up the town. The inn, made of brick and two stories high, was the largest building in town. A sign hung over the door with the emblem of a sword crossed with a spear painted upon it.

  “The Sword and Spear,” Jorn told Ironhelm as they led the company up to it. “I recall it from my trips to Vistinar. There is comfort here. Grang’s teeth, I need a drink!”

  Ironhelm knew the place, too. He had stayed there on his way to Falneth and remembered it as warm, comfortable, and clean. He hadn’t stayed long, though, riding off before dawn to reach Jorn.

  “We should not be too interested in comforts, laddie,” he said. “Aye, Einar’s agents could be anywhere.”

  Edain agreed, nodding emphatically.

  “We’ll keep guards outside in shifts,” he said. “Maybe a scouting party should take a look around, too.”

  “Why? There’s a wall around the village,” Jorn said.

  “Barely a fence,” Edain cautioned. “It would stop no one. And the only guards posted upon it are villagers, not soldiers.”

  “Aye, tis true,” Ironhelm agreed. “And an assassin might already be inside the town, laddie.”

  “Fine,” Jorn said, dismounting. “Take a few men and check out the area, post a picket outside the inn and along the wall, and jump at every shadow. I’m going to have a drink.”

  _____

  The inn was crowded that night, the large common room filled not just with Jorn’s soldiers but also locals and a few stray travelers. A massive fireplace and several wizard’s lamps lit the room up as a man with long gray whiskers sat in one corner and played a hammarharpa with surprising skill.

  Salted herring was served up in steaming piles along with decent ale and warm black bread. The company all sat together, huddled over their drinks on the far side of the room and facing the doors. A young woman with flowing red hair and a buxom form was among those serving the food and drink in the busy inn. She caught Jorn’s attention at once.

  “What’s your name, Red?” Jorn asked as she placed another overflowing tankard of ale in front of him.

  The barmaid smiled.

  “Why don’t you tell me yours first, your lordship,” she said playfully.

  “I’m Jorn,” he said. “I’m a thane. It’s true.”

  “I’ve never heard of a Thane Jorn,” she said, smiling.

  “You will,” Jorn said. “I’m on way to claim my lands.”

  “Are you?” she laughed.

  “I am. But in the meantime, Red, I’ve no one to keep me warm at night. Maybe you could help me with that?”

  Ironhelm gritted his teeth. Jorn was treating the evening like some kind of feast, drinking hard and flirting with every barmaid that ventured within ear’s reach. Now Jorn laughed as a pair of locals rose from their seats, leaping atop one of the tables, and began dancing a stomping dance to the rhythm of the hammarharpa. The crowd banged their hands on the tables in rhythm to the music, creating a great racket.
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br />   Ironhelm watched the dancers for a few bored moments and then looked around the room. Two patrons in heavy cloaks sat in a far corner sipping their ale and being strangely quiet. One had his back to Ironhelm, and something about them didn’t have the look of farmers or townsmen. He studied them, all the while taking care to not be obvious. His eye fell upon the two-handed axe leaned against the table where the men sat but Ironhelm could not make out anything else through all the commotion.

  He kept his eye on them, even as the common room grew louder and rowdier. The crowd at the inn cheered for the dancers, but the strangers seemed mostly uninterested. One of them turned around for a moment, perhaps to see what was making such a ruckus, and Ironhelm got a good look at the man’s face. The stranger had a bright red beard, bushy eyebrows, and a long nose. It was a most memorable face, and the dwarf recognized it at once.

  The red-bearded man turned back to his companion a second later, but Ironhelm had seen enough. He took another sip of ale, deliberately nonchalant. He leaned over and whispered into Jorn’s ear.

  “Are you certain?” Jorn whispered back.

  “Aye, tha’ I am,” Ironhelm said. “Tha’s him for sure. They knew you’d be coming back this way if the assassins failed. I told you this was no time to relax, laddie. Aye, tis true.”

  “What do we do?” Jorn said, pretending to take a sip of ale and watching the dancers. He laughed and slammed his hand on the table.

  “They may mean to move against you after we’re asleep, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, or they may hope to ambush us in the morning. They might even plan to poison your ale. No, keep drinking. Act as you were, laddie. They can’t be allowed to leave this room. Aye.”

  Jorn nodded, glancing down at his tankard and putting it down.

  “Grang’s teeth!” he whispered. “Let’s capture these scum alive. Who knows what they might know that they can tell us.”

  “Tha’s thinking with your head,” Ironhelm said.

  “What next?” Jorn asked, sipping his ale and pretending to laugh.

  “Just act natural, for now. Do nothing to alarm them, laddie. Think of something obscene to shout at tha’ barmaid.”

  “I’m sure I can manage that.”

  _____

  Brundig drained the last of his ale. He turned the situation around in his mind, weighing his options as a few more of Orbadrin’s soldiers left the common room and went outside bearing their spears and shields. It must be a change of shift for the guard outside.

  “Forget trying to murder him in his sleep,” Grimwald whispered over his ale. “With all these guards, if anyone raises an alarm we’ll never make it back out alive.”

  Brundig frowned. “That leaves us two options,” he said. “Ambush him tomorrow morning or attack the inn tonight.”

  Whichever option Brundig chose, he liked his odds. He had thirty men and nearly as many gruks hiding nearby, not to mention the element of surprise. Jorn and the dwarf had twenty men as near as he could figure.

  “We’ll attack tonight,” he whispered, smiling slyly. “After everyone has gone to sleep. Come on, let’s be off.”

  He took out a pair of silver coins from the pouch at his belt and tossed them on the table as they got up.

  As he turned from the table, he saw all his plans suddenly come crashing to an end. Half a dozen of Orbadrin’s warriors were all around them, their swords drawn, and as many more blocking the door. They’d all moved so naturally, Brundig didn’t even notice what they were really up to. There was no time to even draw his sword, not that it would have mattered anyway. He was captured, and knew it.

  Grimwald, however, chose to go down fighting, grabbing hold of his two-handed axe. He’d barely lifted it off the ground before one of Jorn’s soldiers plunged a sword into his chest. Grimwald dropped the weapon, falling to the floor of the inn. All around them farmers and shepherds fled the inn in a panicked hurry.

  _____

  Brundig sat at the table in one of the small private rooms off the common room. Jorn, Ironhelm, and a pair of Jorn’s soldiers stood around him. Edain and the Captain of the Skogfald town watch stood by the door.

  “If I tell you what I know, you must promise to spare my life,” Brundig pleaded. “I’m just a hired sword. I’ve no desire to die for Einar, but I know much that could help you.”

  “You have my word,” Jorn said. “Tell us all you know, and your life will be spared.”

  “No,” Brundig said. “Swear that no harm will come to me. I don’t want you to lop off my hands and feet and call that honoring your oath to spare my life.”

  “Grang’s teeth! Very well. I swear, by Grang, no harm will come to you if you cooperate.” Jorn stepped closer to him. “Now talk!”

  Brundig looked the young man over. He could not be sure if Jorn’s word was worth anything, but he did not see how he’d any other choice.

  “I’ve thirty men and as many gruks holed up about two miles south of here,” he said. “All are in the employ of Einar Ravenbane. They’re hiding inside an abandoned mine but are watching the road. We’ve been watching the road waiting for you for a week now.”

  “Gruks! Here?” the local captain exclaimed. “You miserable filth!”

  “Wha’ about the assassins Einar sent?” Ironhelm snapped. “They were supposed to murder Thane Ravenbane. Aye, so why’d he bother with sending you?”

  “Einar learned you were on your way to fetch his bastard cousin so that the wizard Braemorgan could put him up as a pretender to The Westmark,” Brundig explained. “He thought there was a chance the assassins might fail to reach Falneth in time. My task was to stop you from reaching the bastard and warning him.”

  “Are you only watching the main road?” Jorn asked. “What about other paths or trails?”

  “I only have enough men for the main road.”

  “What do you know about this mine?” Ironhelm asked the town guard captain.

  The captain was a solid-seeming man with broad shoulders and a full brown beard. Clad in a chain mail hauberk and plain steel helm, he looked every bit the capable, seasoned warrior. He was, in actuality, the local blacksmith and only just roused from his bed by his men. They had banged on his door shouting about the warriors who were camped at the inn and how they had slain a man and taken another prisoner. He hurriedly donned his armor and rushed to the inn with a troop of the local freemen guards, intent on seizing the troublemakers if need be. Ironhelm met him at the door of the inn and calmly explained what had happened. According to the dwarf, the man they held captive inside was an assassin in league with gruks. The captain insisted on speaking with the man and seeing for himself.

  “I know it well,” the captain said. “One could hide a great number of soldiers there. But the fools are doomed.”

  “Why?” Ironhelm asked.

  “There is only one way in or out of the mine,” the captain said. “It is but a narrow shaft with a single opening at the end of an abandoned old track. I can summon two hundred free warriors within the hour and trap them all inside. There’s an old battle wizard that lives in town, too. He hates gruks. He’ll hurl a few fire-spells down into the hole and roast ‘em all.”

  “Aye! Tha’ll do nicely, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

  “Why do they want you?” the captain said, his voice suddenly edged with wary suspicion. “What have you done, to draw the likes of gruks to our village?”

  “This is Jorn Ravenbane,” Ironhelm said. “We travel south to press his claim to The Westmark. There are many would see him stopped from doing so.”

  “That’s none of our concern here,” the captain said. “But…well, I know a huntsman who can lead you by hidden paths through the woods far from the abandoned mine.”

  “We can aid you,” Jorn suddenly offered. “My men are battle-tested.”

  “You’ve caused enough trouble for my people,” the captain said gruffly. “I wish you no ill fortune, but I want you out of this village within the hour. Leave those gruks to us.”
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br />   _____

  The riders moved through the woods along the deer path in single file, no one speaking or even whispering so much as a single word. In the front rode a local hunter who could find his way along the paths and trails through the woods in his sleep. There was plenty of light this evening, the moons joined by wispy curtains of green light which danced eerily across the night sky.

  Some Linlunders took the appearance of such aurora as ill omens, but among the men of Falneth they were said to be spirits of beautiful young maidens dancing for the amusement of the gods. Thus occupied, the gods could not send any additional troubles to the world of men to cure their divine boredom.

  Jorn glanced up at the shimmering lights with relief and awe. Whenever they appeared, the northern lights never failed to dazzle him with their beauty.

  Brundig sat on a horse between Jorn and Ironhelm, his arms bound behind him and his mouth gagged. The dwarf warned him that if they walked into any sort of ambush him would be killed immediately. Brundig did not believe this to be an idle threat.

  “If you are leading us into a trap, scum, you’re a dead man” the dwarf warned, lifting his battle axe and holding it in front of Brundig’s face. He nudged Brundig’s nose gently with the axe’s sharp blade. “I’ll be watching the trees of the forests and listening for the slightest sign of an ambush, laddie. Aye, and I’ll bury this axe in your head if I hear so much as a squirrel scurrying across the snow.”

  They crossed a small stream now, passing over the thick ice silently, and then skirted the edge of a small farm. They continued along in silence, every man’s weapon at the ready and every shield clutched tightly. They passed by a small hill and wound by some large boulders which made them wonder if any enemies crouched behind them. The ground flattened beyond the hill and then went along the edge of a bog and into a broad, flat stretch of thick pines. Miles went by in tense silence as they made their way further south. Their guide led them onto a small path running off to the left which climbed uphill before finally meeting the main road.