Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

______

  The fight looked like it’d turned in Jorn’s favor. Braemorgan’s arrival had closed the largest hole in the lines and the wizard pressed his advantage, firing bolts of electric-blue lightning into the gruks and slaughtering dozens more of the creatures. The gruks began turning and fleeing back across the ice. As more Westmarkers arrived, the creatures withdrew in a panic.

  Braemorgan rode out onto the ice behind the fleeing gruks, pointing his staff downwards at the river. He began to speak strange, haunting words of magic. A jet of orange flame shot out from the tip of his staff and down to the ice. It burned for a number of seconds before breaking through into the water underneath and spreading out in all directions. All along the river, the ice began to glow a bright shade of orange. Suddenly, great fissures opened up in many places, jets of steam bursting forth up into the air. The fissures spread in all directions and the ice of the river began to break apart in large chunks. Dozens of gruks were plunged into the freezing water, splashing and screaming. When it was all over, Braemorgan and his horse stood on the only piece of solid ice left all along the bank for a hundred feet in each direction. For a full twenty feet extending out from the riverbank, the ice was melted. A watery barrier now stood between Loc Goren and the enemy. Men cheered heartily all along the riverbank, Jorn grinning from ear-to-ear. The charge had been repulsed. Too bad the village was destroyed by the catapult barrage, but at least Einar’s attack had been blunted. Loc Goren could be rebuilt, better than before.

  Several riders galloped up to Jorn. They saluted briskly.

  “Speak!” Jorn said, returning the salute impatiently.

  “Thane Ravenbane,” one of them said. “A second force advances towards Loc Goren from the north. Our troops there are hard-pressed and cannot hold out long.”

  “The second phase of the enemy plan,” Braemorgan said, riding up to them.

  Jorn nodded. While he’d been pinned down at the river, another force must have crossed over somewhere to the north and marched against Loc Goren.

  “Wulfgrim!” Jorn said, turning towards the veteran captain. “Every man you can spare, send onto the north road. Put a few men on the road south of town, too. Have them send Ardabur’s reinforcements straight on towards the north.”

  “We’d best hurry,” Morag said.

  Jorn turned and vaulted into the saddle of a riderless horse nearby. He didn’t pause to consider the fate of whoever had begun the battle on it. He spurred the horse forward, cutting through a pair of burning buildings. Braemorgan, Morag, Glorbad, Wulfgrim, and a host of mounted warriors rode with them.

  They turned onto the main street. It was a mess of mud, fire, and men running north even as others ran south in a fevered panic. The entire town seemed consumed in roaring flames even as more burning missiles from across the river plunged into their midst.

  Jorn rode quickly north along the street, passing more men shouting and running from the battle up ahead. Jorn did his best to rally a few of the fleeing troops forward, but his efforts seemed fruitless. One of the panicked men shouted something to Jorn about “birds” as he passed. Jorn rode on, finally nearing the north end of the town and the scene of battle.

  Jorn saw before him what so many men were running in such furious fear from, his heart filling with dread at the sight.

  Nine

  Bare-chested berserkers filled the road, screaming and charging towards the town accompanied by dozens of war mammoths. Each mammoth carried a bare-chested berserker with a shaved head and bright red tattoos emblazoned across their foreheads and cheeks.

  The tattooed men were shouting magical words, hurling down balls of flame at the Westmarkers. The fireballs were small, almost nothing compared to Braemorgan’s own version of the same battle spell, but they came from a dozen of the berserker shamans all at once and spread chaos amidst the ranks of the Westmarkers. Men shrieked and screamed, writhing in agony as the flames roasted them alive.

  Then there were the giant ravens, horrific creatures with seven-foot wingspans and razor-sharp claws plunging down upon the Westmarkers. The besieged warriors held their shields up above their heads, slashing upwards desperately with sword or spear. The birds would not be deterred, however, descending upon the Westmarkers without respite. Scores of them clawed at the men below with razor-sharp talons four inches long that pierced through armor and tore into flesh. The ravens would swoop in for an attack and then rise up again out of harm’s reach before swooping down yet again, clawing at men’s faces and seeking out eyes. It was too much for many of the men to bear and they ran screaming from the battle.

  Many Westmarkers somehow held their ground at the north edge of town in spite of the horror and pain all around them, standing astride the road by the mill even then being consumed in billowing flames. Despite their courage and skill, however, they were slowly losing ground to the attackers.

  _____

  Jorn did his best to size up the enemy. There looked to be at least five hundred of the berserkers facing nearly that many of his own men. There were also the shamans and the ravens, however, and together they were slowly pushing the Westmarkers back.

  “We have to hold this line long enough for reinforcements to arrive,” Braemorgan said. “Ardabur has two thousand men south of the keep.”

  “He should be here any moment,” Glorbad said, looking behind him down the road. “Grang’s feet! Where is he?”

  “We will have to hold this position for however long it takes him,” Braemorgan said. “Einar is throwing everything he’s got at us right here. We must hold, at all costs!”

  “Then we’ll hold,” Jorn added grimly.

  Jorn spurred his horse forward and plunged into the fray, slashing at the huge ravens overhead and forcing his way closer to the front of the battle. Braemorgan remained at the back of the battle, hurling mighty magic against the enemy. A shaman fell from his mammoth in flaming agony after one of Braemorgan’s blasts of glowing white energy, his screams cutting through the noise of battle.

  Morag cast a ball of energy at another shaman, knocking him off his mammoth. She slumped forward again in the saddle. Struggling to maintain consciousness, she clutched her horse’s neck tightly and tried to recover from the exertion of yet another strong spell. Glorbad reached over and held her arm, steadying her.

  “Get out of here,” Glorbad barked. “You’ve cast what spells you can. You’ve done your part, and more. Please, Morag!”

  She waved him off and straightened up in the saddle, regaining her strength.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve another spell in me, I’m certain.”

  _____

  Jorn advanced through the ranks of his men and reach the front lines of battle. He felt a raven clawing against the chain armor protecting his shoulder and slashed his sword upward, missing as the bird flew out of his reach.

  “Damn you!” he growled.

  The bird descended again for another attack before Jorn could react. This time, one of its talons pierced Jorn’s hauberk and bit deeply into his shoulder. The talon penetrated a full two inches, deep into muscle. Jorn grimaced, thrusting his sword upward into the raven’s breast. The bird squawked loudly and flapped its wings violently before falling to the ground.

  Jorn clutched his shoulder. It was wet with blood.

  _____

  The Westmarkers were forced to fall back, despite their best efforts. More mammoths arrived, breaking open new paths through the Westmarker lines. Braemorgan fired spell after spell at them but there were too many and even he could not stop them all.

  The ravens, too, kept up their attack. Two of the giant birds rose high up into the air and then descended towards Morag, their talons spread out in front of them. Glorbad leapt to her defense and put himself in their line of attack, cutting down the first bird as the second clawed at his face. He beat it away furiously, but the talon found his eye socket. Four inches of razor-sharp talon pushed through his eye and into his brain. He struggled wildly, beating the giant raven off
as a stream of blood poured down his face. Finally, he went limp and slipped from his horse. He landed with a thud on the cold ground below.

  Morag leapt from her horse, crouching besides Glorbad as a pair of warriors shielded her from attack. One old warrior bent down next to her and looked down at the captain. Glorbad’s face was covered in blood and he lay completely still. The veteran pressed his fingers against the wounded man’s throat and waited silently.

  “He’s gone, milady,” he said at last.

  She said nothing, silently stroking Glorbad’s face. She leaned in close to him, whispering in his ear.

  “Fight, Glorbad!” she whispered. “Fight the darkness. Come back to me. You’re all I have.”

  “Please, milady!” another of the warriors said, slashing at an attacking raven and holding his shield high to protect her.

  The old warrior grabbed Morag by her shoulders and pulled her to her feet, perhaps a bit more roughly than was normally proper.

  “Come on, lass,” he shouted. “You can’t do anything for him now. He’d want you to survive.”

  They took her by the arms and shuffled her away from the fight, a pair of stout fighters holding their shields above her as the ravens swooped down and tried to claw at her. It was almost as though the birds knew that this purple-cloaked female was an important target.

  The old warrior swung his sword, taking a bird’s head right off with one blow. Two other ravens plunged down from the sky towards Morag, but they were fought off. A sword pierced one of the birds’ wings, cutting into it deeply. The other bird swooped down again, only to meet a spear through the neck.

  Somehow, Morag found herself back on a horse sitting very near Braemorgan at the back of the battle. The wizard was shouting orders and casting spells, but Morag was only dimly aware of it. She was safe at the wizard’s side, however. Ravens who tried to swoop down on her stopped in midair as though hitting an invisible wall and flew away like startled sparrows.

  A shimmering globe of flickering blue light surrounded both wizards.

  “A shielding spell,” Braemorgan said to her, casting yet another mighty spell at the enemy. “Stay close to me, child. You shall be safe from all attack.”

  Morag was silent, staring at her trembling hands and sobbing. They were covered in Glorbad’s blood.

  _____

  Jorn cut down another berserker, no longer even feeling the pain from his shoulder wound as he swung his sword back and forth with abandon. His men were still falling back, but very slowly. If Ardabur ever showed up, they’d still win.

  Men suddenly began to shout in fear and shock all around Jorn and the fighting seemed almost to halt. Even the berserkers paused, stepping back. Jorn looked past them in stunned silence.

  Behind the berserkers emerged a figure straight out of the oldest myths and legends of all the peoples of the north.

  Jorn never believed such beings truly existed.

  It stood thirty feet high, double the height of the largest bull mammoth. It was a nightmarish creature unlike anything Jorn had ever seen. It had skin the color of charcoal, a black beard ten feet in length, and eyes a merciless and glowing shade of red. The giant had a muscular build, too, with arms the width of oak trees and bulging shoulders twelve feet across. It wore a black metal breastplate over an immense shirt of chain armor. The cold seemed to mean nothing to it, its arms and legs uncovered except for a pair of huge metal boots. Atop its head was a great iron helm topped with mammoth tusks ten feet high. In the giant’s hand was a massive war hammer as long as the height of three men, a mighty weapon weighing hundreds of pounds.

  Men fled at the sight of the giant, who opened his mouth wide and let out a terrible roar that could be heard for nearly a mile. Every tooth in the huge mouth was black as the night sky and filed to a razor-sharp point. It stepped forward towards the battle as three more giants emerged, throwing the ranks of Westmarkers into fevered panic.

  As men fled in terror, the berserkers paused to take in the scene, pulling back from the fight. It was as though the giants had the rights of slaughter, even berserkers not challenging them on that score.

  The lead giant swung his hammer in a terrible arc, cutting down ten fleeing men at once. A few of the hapless victims instinctively raised their shields, but it was of no avail against the three-hundred pound iron hammerhead. The giant swung it again, smashing through a dozen unfortunates. A gradual withdrawal awaiting reinforcements quickly turned into a rout as men watched their fellows fleeing and chose to join them and live rather than stand alone and die.

  Even Braemorgan was momentarily stunned by their arrival. He paused, speechless for a moment before regaining his bearings. He rode forward towards the lead giant even as the men all around ran in the other direction. He took a deep breath, then bellowed the magical words which would call forth one of his most powerful spells. He held his staff out in front of him as he cast the spell, pointing it towards the giant. A thick bolt of blue lightning flowed down the staff, leaping through the air and striking the giant in the chest. The giant staggered back, howling in pain. But he did not fall, nor did he drop his weapon.

  The lightning pushed him back like a strong hand, however, Braemorgan holding it in place between them. For several seconds the force of the lightning pushed the giant backwards ever so slightly, but then the monstrous thing regained its footing and actually pushed against the stream of energy. The lightning seemed to bend and twist, struggling against the giant’s great bulk. Braemorgan kept his staff pointed towards the giant, concentrating his power on the glowing stream and trying to push it through the giant’s chest. It finally grew too much for the wizard to sustain, though, and he released the spell. The lightning ceased, the giant roaring in triumph as Braemorgan recovered his breath, contemplating the seemingly impossible. He had cast enough magical power at the giant to stagger or even slay a dragon, but it had merely shrugged it off like a mere annoyance.

  “Reform ranks at the edge of town!” the wizard shouted at the fleeing men all around him. His voice had a hint of nervous anxiety in it, though he tried his best to conceal it.

  The giant lurched forward, a bit dazed by the spell but still on his feet. Everywhere men fled, virtually the entire army of The Westmark running away. Jorn and a very few others stood their ground, slashing and thrusting desperately at the enemy.

  Jorn did not realize the fullness of the rout, unable to see much of the battle from where he stood at the front line. He suddenly found himself at the center of a dozen berserkers who surged past him, a whirlwind of flesh and steel coming at him from seemingly all directions at once. He parried one blow, then several more in rapid succession. He loped off an arm, then swung around and cut through another man’s neck. The attackers were too many for him to defend for very long, however. He felt something from behind him strike him in the head and fell straight to the ground. He struggled to stay conscious, but slipped off into darkness.

  “Stop!” he heard a voice shouting before he finally passed out. “This one we take alive.”

  _____

  The sun had risen but the fires of the town still burned, smoke billowing against a blue winter sky. At the southern edge of what was once Loc Goren, troops of mercenary soldiers and gruks marched by, moving steadily south through the ruined town. The berserkers had come out of their battle fever, most of them sleeping in the field or sitting groggily by the side of the road. The fresh troops marched by for what seemed like an hour, thousands of soldiers and scores of mammoths.

  Along the river, mammoths were dragging the catapults across the ice on huge skis, wildmen in thick furs driving the beasts ahead. The catapults were hauled up on the far shore and dragged through the smoldering ruins of the town. A tall soldier with a long blonde beard pointed to where each catapult was to be placed. The siege engines were soon in position and the bombardment of the keep began. From all sides of the keep, dozens of catapults began to lob heavy stones against its walls. From down the road came an immense batt
ering ram pulled by a pair of bull mammoths.

  Einar watched the siege operations from his horse, satisfied with all he had accomplished. He was clad for war and dressed like a mighty thane, a steel breastplate and shoulder guards over his chain mail. A thick bear cloak was draped over his shoulders, and the sword of his forebears was at his hip. He turned to Faxon, seated next to him. The little wizard clutched his blood-red cloak tightly about him.

  “Too cold for you, wizard?” Einar said, smirking.

  “It is cold enough,” Faxon snapped.

  “Bah! It is a glorious day, by Grang, is it not?” Einar said. “I’ve won! The Westmark is mine!”

  “You won?” Faxon sneered. “Don’t forget yourself, boy, or who arranged all of this. This army is mine and it takes its orders from me. Take care to remember that, or we will find someone else to rule over The Westmark.”

  Einar turned towards the wizard and started to respond when a courier rode up to him.

  “My thane, the remaining enemy forces are dispersed and continue to flee south,” the courier reported. “Captain Furath requests your orders.”

  “Continue the pursuit,” Einar said. “Cut them all down. No quarter.”

  The courier saluted and rode off again. Einar turned back to the wizard.

  “The Westmark is mine!” he growled. “That was always the deal.”

  “You are Thane of The Westmark, ruler of all its lands,” the wizard said. “Merely take care to remember who put you there. Our Dark Lord -”

  “I’m no member of your demon cult, Faxon. You and the other high priests don’t own me.”

  “Don’t we, Einar?”

  Einar glared at the wizard.

  A tall man in black robes approached them, a pair of Einar’s men on either side of him. The man was past middle-aged, bald with a thick black beard now growing gray. He wore a scowl, glaring up at Einar and Faxon.

  “What is this?” Einar snapped.