Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  The guide turned back to the others.

  “We are more than five miles south of the mine shaft,” he said.

  “I thank you,” Jorn said, handing the guide a single gold coin

  The guide nodded, turning his horse and heading back towards Skogfald. Jorn and his company rode south along the main road, still tense but feeling better to have their would-be ambushers behind them.

  “The men of Skogfald will be surrounding the mine shaft by now,” Edain said, sneering at Brundig. “Your friends will be in a bit of a surprise.”

  Brundig tried to say something under his gag but they could not understand his muffled noises. Ironhelm leaned over and pulled the gag out.

  “Wha’ is it?” he asked.

  “I gave you what you want,” Brundig said. “You promised not to harm me.”

  “And we won’t,” Jorn said. “But you’re still coming with us.”

  “You deceiver!” Brundig snapped.

  “Keep complaining and the gag goes back in,” Jorn said. “I said I’d spare your life, and I will. I said no harm will come to you, and it won’t. But I’m not letting you free until I think it’s safe for me to do so and that’s not yet.”

  Brundig mumbled something under his breath. Jorn ignored him, driving his horse harder along the road south. So much for a night spent in a warm bed.

  Seven

  Jorn was never as cold in his whole life as he was riding through Brame’s Notch.

  The road split at the town of Linnerrhyd. One fork continued south to Swordhaven, the other sharply west and up towards the Great Barrier Mountains. They took the later, climbing through increasingly rugged terrain. It wound its way through the rocky landscape, a few tiny villages and isolated homesteads along the way. Jorn and his company passed through a narrow canyon with steep cliffs looming hundreds of feet high, the wind blowing at them with an unceasing ferocity. On the far side of the canyon, though, the ground began to slope downward along a winding route. A wide valley underneath the snow-covered mountains was before them.

  Ironhelm turned to Jorn and almost smiled.

  “The Westmark, laddie.” he shouted over the howling wind. “Welcome home.”

  Jorn said nothing, looking all about him. Every rock and every tree he saw was now part of his domain, or could be if things went to plan. The very idea astounded him.

  On they rode through towering pines, dark forests stretching out along the steep slopes descending into the valley. It was not long before a patrol of soldiers from The Westmark approached them on horseback. Clad in heavy armor and thick furs, they bore round shields painted with the sign of a raven against a field of black and purple. Jorn knew the sign, for it was the symbol of The Westmark and the House of Ravenbane. It suddenly occurred to him that it was now his own emblem.

  The Westmarkers recognized Ironhelm as they drew nearer, lowering their spears. They all bowed respectfully when Jorn was introduced. They looked him over warily, as though wondering if this wild-looking lad with the two-handed sword slung across his back was really up to the task before him.

  “Braemorgan bade us watch for you and provide escort,” one of them said, turning towards Jorn and snapping to attention. “Welcome to The Westmark, Thane Ravenbane.”

  “There is a small hamlet ten miles south where we can lodge this evening,” another soldier explained. “We should make Loc Goren by nightfall tomorrow.”

  “Then let’s be off,” Jorn said.

  Jorn studied everything as the road turned south and began to run parallel to the Brugerwyn. He noted the frozen river and its far shores, territory currently controlled by Einar. Even now, Jorn pondered, spies on the far bank could be watching them. If they were, and that seemed likely, Einar would soon learn Jorn had arrived.

  They rode hard, passing through a small village filled with peasants peering out their windows at the band of warriors passing through.

  Jorn kept staring at the river and its frozen expanse. The ice looked thick, and that worried him.

  _____

  Jorn first reaction to Loc Goren was one of palpable relief. He’d made it there, despite assassins, lurking trolls, and planned ambushes. He was surprised to find it was not a large place, though. It was a small town between the river’s edge and the steep hillsides, a community of five hundred souls swelled to more than two thousand by the many soldiers camped on either side of the road. They passed a field outside of town now filled with row after row of square tents. Soldiers huddled around innumerable campfires, struggling to stay warm amid the bitter cold.

  More tents lined both sides of the road as they entered Loc Goren, soldiers standing on either side of them shouting greetings. They looked like sturdy men to Jorn, but his stomach suddenly felt a bit sick as the reality of what faced him grew at once so much heavier. These were his troops. This multitude looked to him for leadership.

  Jorn took in the rest of the town around him as they rode through. Although Loc Goren was not as large as Jorn had expected, he was still struck by how orderly and well-built a place it was. Solid stone buildings with pointed roofs, some buildings two or even three stories high, lined the main road and the several side streets leading down to the river’s edge. Jorn counted two inns and a tavern in the town, as well as a substantial number of small shops. There was a brewery, a large mill, and several warehouses facing the river, as well.

  Beyond the village Jorn’s gaze fell upon the keep located south of town atop a steep hill overlooking a gentle bend in the river. The fortress was constructed entirely of stone, a wide cylinder of granite with four turrets jutting out from the main tower. Even at a distance, Jorn could see men standing atop the battlements fifty feet above the keep’s gates and nearly two hundred feet above the river. Rising over the battlements was a long pole from which flew the purple and black Ravenbane banner. It fluttered in the breeze over a fortress far more imposing than anything Jorn had ever seen excepting only King Bangrim’s own stronghold at Vistinar.

  The keep far eclipsed Hrókur in both size and defensive strength, Orbadrin’s hall tiny and fragile by comparison. Hrókur was beautiful, though, whereas the keep was a cold and colorless construct of pure function.

  They left the main road and took the path up to the keep, twisting back and forth up the rocky hill until they reached the sturdy iron gates. A pair of grizzled old guards stood at attention as the doors were thrown open. Braemorgan stood just within. He seemed unbothered by the cold, stepping outside at their approach.

  “You are late!” he bellowed. “We’ve expected you for days! By Une, Ironhelm, what took you so long to fetch him?”

  The dwarf muttered something unintelligible.

  “Greetings, Braemorgan,” Jorn said.

  “Welcome, Thane Ravenbane,” the wizard said. “I present you the Keep of Loc Goren. It is one of your few remaining fortresses, I’m afraid. For the time being, of course.”

  Jorn dismounted, gazing awe-struck up at the walls of the keep. The gray stones were smoothly surfaced and perfectly joined all the way up the sides, no stone so much as an inch out of place. It looked a thousand feet tall as he stood at its base, looking straight up. Braemorgan watched him and saw the awe in his face.

  “Come.” The wizard smiled and clapped him on the back. “Let’s get you out of the cold, my boy.”

  They went inside and walked through a long narrow vault, the others dismounting behind them and shaking off the cold. The long vault led into a round chamber with a high ceiling from which hung a huge chandelier holding several wizard’s lamps glowing brightly. Two passageways branched off from the room to both the left and right, a large battered shield and crisscrossed spears hanging above an arch in front of them that led to what looked like a great hall. Soldiers and servants paused in their paths, staring wide-eyed. Jorn could feel a dozen eyes taking the measure of their new thane.

  A striking young woman in a dark purple cloak approached. Her large green eyes regarded Jorn with a cold ferocity that
took him aback. She was certainly beautiful, he decided, but in the distant way a statue of some unforgiving warrior goddess could be. Her bright red curls were pulled back into a single braid. She wore a golden pendant in the shape of a raven formed exactly like the one emblazoned upon the banner streaming high above the fortress.

  “Ah, here we are,” Braemorgan said, glancing at the girl. “Jorn, I would like to introduce you to your older sister Morag.”

  Jorn blinked. The idea of meeting members of the Ravenbane family was something he’d not considered until that moment.

  “So this is the bastard,” Morag said, glaring at him coldly for a moment before looking back at Braemorgan. “I’m glad we sent my mother south. She wouldn’t want to see this, uh, person take command of my father’s hall.”

  “Morag is to be your tutor, Jorn,” Braemorgan said cheerfully, nonplussed by Morag’s hostility. “She will help you learn what you need to know to rule over The Westmark.”

  “Can he read?” Morag asked the wizard.

  “I can,” Jorn interjected. “Linlundic and some Dwarven.”

  “Linlundic and some Dwarven,” Morag repeated, shaking her head. “Lovely.”

  “You’ll have to forgive Morag,” Braemorgan interjected. “It’s been difficult for her, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

  Morag took stock of Jorn. He resembled their brother Agnar in a superficial manner, but looked even more like her father. Taller than their father had ever been, Jorn inherited Loric’s solid frame and strong limbs. His clear blue eyes and square jaw were standard Ravenbane family traits, to be sure, along with the exceptional height.

  The boy looked wild, though. His long brown hair fell down past his shoulders, though his chin was shaven in the tradition of many young Linlundic thanes. His elkskin cloak was too-savage for a great lord, though, and the ring mail shirt he wore underneath it struck Morag as more befitting a vagabond highwayman than a leader of great armies. She noted the two-handed sword slung over his back and the pair of throwing axes stuck in his belt, as well. A battered and rusted steel helmet upon his head, a pair of wool trousers mismatched to the rest of his clothes, and his well-worn elkskin boots completed the picture of a half-barbarian battler.

  Morag was horrified, wondering how Braemorgan had convinced her to hand The Westmark, or what was left of it, to such a youth as the nearly-unlettered savage now standing before her. She turned away, saying nothing.

  _____

  Jorn was overjoyed to be alone. Not including outhouses, he hadn’t been in a room by himself since leaving Falneth six days earlier. Guards constantly hovered all around him the entire journey south, not giving him so much as a moment’s solitude. Now, at last, he had a bit of privacy. He took off his sword, dropping it on the table followed by his axes and other weapons. He was four stories up in the heart of a stone keep surrounded by an entire army. If he did not feel safe enough to put aside his weapons here, he never would.

  Jorn sat down at the table and ate his dinner in joyous solitude. Servants had brought in a roast duck along with a plate of the most excellent roast parsnips he’d ever tasted. Platters of bread and sharp-tasting yellow cheese also lay spread out before him, along with a full tankard of ale.

  Jorn was hungry, but too tired to enjoy the meal with as much relish as he normally would. He was glad there was to be no lavish feast welcoming him to his new domain, however, exhausted as he was.

  Now he had a huge bedchamber with a comfortable bed and a crackling fireplace in his new keep. He smirked, looking around the room. He studied the walls and the furniture, the floors and the ceiling. All were his! It was still dizzying to contemplate.

  He finished his meal and got up, throwing his cloak aside and removing his ring mail shirt. He left both draped across his chair. He sat on the bed and leaned over to take off his boots. He slid each of them off, his feet suddenly free and able to breathe. He pulled aside the great fur blanket on the bed, contemplating the full night’s sleep ahead. There would be trying ordeals in the coming days, he was sure, but for one night he could at least get some rest.

  A knock at the door interrupted his plans. Jorn sighed, hoping whoever it was would just go away. A moment later, the door opened and Braemorgan entered.

  “Ah, still awake,” the wizard said, his knotted old staff in hand. “Good.”

  Braemorgan shut the door behind him and sat down next to the fire.

  “I’d hoped to be able to talk with you alone this evening,” he said.

  Jorn sat down wearily across from the wizard. Braemorgan looked him over.

  “You’ve grown up well, young Thane Ravenbane,” he said. “But I wonder how prepared you are for all of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’ve plucked you from your home in Falneth and brought you here to command an army and to claim lordship over the greatest Thanedom in Linlund. That must be overwhelming.”

  “This last week,” Jorn began. “It’s been like some strange dream. I don’t even know the Ravenbanes. I didn’t even want to come here.”

  “So Lord Ironhelm told me. There are many more challenges ahead of you, Jorn.”

  “Like re-conquering The Westmark?”

  “That’s only the beginning. It will not be an easy task, you know.”

  “First tell me what happened. How did Einar seize The Westmark and kill Agnar? The dwarf says nothing whenever I ask him.”

  “Very well. Six months ago your grandfather Uilfrid died.”

  “I’d heard,” Jorn said.

  “I was five hundred miles south at the time, in Brithborea dealing with certain other matters. When I received word of his death, I came as quickly as I could manage to counsel your brother Agnar. All I learned about Uilfrid’s death when I finally arrived was that the old man had developed a high fever, very suddenly, and was dead soon after. What is most curious is that Einar visited him but a few days before the onset of the illness.”

  “You think Einar poisoned him?”

  “If he did, he must have used a rather sophisticated poison. The Order of the Healing Hand tended to Uilfrid when he fell ill. Healers of their skill would have spotted any common poison right away. Nevertheless, Einar’s presence now seems suspicious in light of recent events. Especially given the lightning speed in which he moved to lay claim to The Westmark.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Einar was a powerful thane in his own right, having inherited his father’s domains on the far side of the Bachwy Bay.”

  “His father was Thane Ruug.”

  “Who married Brega Ravenbane, your father’s sister. Ruug was a sneaky old scoundrel. It seems Einar has inherited his father’s nature. For, you see, he marched on The Westmark within scant days of Uilfrid’s death. He was ready to invade, ready to seize The Westmark. Too ready.”

  “Like he knew the old thane was going to die,” Jorn remarked.

  “Precisely,” Braemorgan said.

  “Something else puzzles me,” Jorn said. “What was Einar’s claim to lordship over The Westmark? Wasn’t Agnar the son of Loric, and wasn’t Loric the eldest son of Uilfric?”

  “Indeed, but Einar was the oldest grandson, followed by Agnar and yourself. His claim is ridiculous, frankly. As the eldest grandson, he says he is the rightful heir to The Westmark. But the law and tradition are clear, as you know. Inheritance passes through male lines first, so Agnar was the rightful heir. Agnar fell ill around the time of Uilfrid’s death and had to be confined to bed, but survived only to die on the battlefield later. I now believe his illness was an unsuccessful poisoning attempt by Einar. Had Agnar died of his illness, Einar would have ascended to dominion over The Westmark without conflict.”

  “But Agnar did die, in battle,” Jorn said. “That means Einar has clear title to The Westmark, since I’m a bastard. Why am I even here? With Agnar dead, Einar’s the only legitimate heir.”

  “Einar is a vile, murdering scum!” Braemorgan said.

  “B
ut he is the rightful heir,” Jorn said. “Grang’s teeth! I’m just some bastard.”

  “Not necessarily. You descend through a male line, Jorn, and that gives our claim some merit. Besides, Einar is a murderer, and a traitor. By murdering Uilfric, according to Linlundic law, he negated his claim. What it comes down to is that he cannot be allowed to ascend to rulership of The Westmark. Law favors the victor, Jorn, and it always has. The sword decides and the law justifies later. Einar is a loathsome evil snake, allied with gruks and dark wizards in the service of Kaas. Do you think these dark wizards support Einar for his legal claim? He’s but a puppet.”

  “So who is the puppetmaster?”

  “That prisoner you brought with you had a good deal to say about that. I’ve just finished speaking with him, as a matter of fact. He identified someone called Faxon who has been advising Einar. He said this Faxon is a powerful wizard as well as a high priest in the Cult of Amundágor.”

  “Grang’s teeth!” Jorn exclaimed. “The Amundágor Cult! I heard rumors in Falneth they’ve been recruiting from berserker tribes.”

  “Those are no idle rumors. I’ve never heard of a wizard by the name of Faxon, but from what your prisoner says he is the one behind everything. That confirms what I’ve long suspected. You see, many of Agnar’s allies were pinned down with widespread gruk raiding along the frontier of their own lands at the precise time Einar attacked. No one was able to come to Agnar’s aid until it was too late. A coincidence, or all part of a carefully orchestrated plan? I wonder.”

  “Whoever Faxon is,” the wizard continued. “He knew who to keep busy with gruk raids. He is a careful thinker; that much is clear. So, you must see, I am not going to allow Einar to be installed as a puppet ruler on behalf of the Cult and their vile demon god.” His voice grew angry. “Whatever Einar’s legal claims may or may not be, I do not give a damn about them! He is in league with the Cult. That is all that matters!”