“I am Glotnak of the Order of the Healing Hand,” the scowling man said. “I am master of the House of Healing for Loc Goren. I would speak with you.”
“Why? The House of Healing still stands,” Einar said.
“Only because we are to the south of town,” the healer said.
“State your business,” Einar growled. “Or I will forget the custom which declares you and your kind permanent neutrals.”
“You are holding hundreds of prisoners,” Glotnak said. “Many are wounded, but you refuse my brethren access to them. Let us do our job, and tend to them.”
“Only when all my own men are treated for their wounds,” Einar said. “Then you may attend to my dear cousin’s rebel troops.”
“There are men among the prisoners on the verge of death!” Glotnak protested. “My healers must -”
“Every man among my ranks who has so much as a scratch shall be attended to before you will be granted access to any prisoners,” Einar said. “Now get out of my sight before I put your head on the end of a pike.”
Glotnak glared at Einar for a moment, then turned and stomped off in silence.
“What a jackass,” Einar muttered. “I’ve had enough talk. Let’s go give that bastard pretender an audience before I have him killed.”
_____
They’d stripped off Jorn’s clothing above his waist and bound his arms behind him. He was blindfolded and sat by the side of the road, his shoulder wound still bleeding. His face was bruised and bloodied.
They forced him to his feet and prodded him forward, ripping off his blindfold.
Jorn squinted against the bright morning light. He was standing alone, a wide circle of Einar’s soldiers around him. The soldiers stood silently, watching him and waiting. They didn’t look like berserkers or wildmen.
Jorn struggled to get his bearings. He looked around, searching for anything familiar. It looked like he was near the main road, probably just north of Loc Goren. In the distance, smoke rose. Jorn tried to judge how far away it was but there was no way to be sure. They were at the base of a steep hillside, thickly timbered with tall firs. It reminded him of the hillside overlooking the river where Llud had surrendered to him only two weeks ago.
Two men on horseback arrived, the soldiers parting to make way for them. The first was a starved-looking little man in dark red robes, barely larger than a child. He had long blonde hair which spilled out from under the hood of his cloak. Around his neck hung a large gold amulet in the shape of a dragon’s skull with a large ruby in the center of the skull fashioned to look like some kind of demonic eye.
Jorn knew exactly who he must be, this little man staring down at him wearing the symbol of a one-eyed dragon. It didn’t matter now, of course. Jorn had failed miserably, and would soon be dead. All that was left, he decided, was to die properly. In that, at least, there could be found some honor.
The other man was heavily armored, about the same height as Jorn and of similar build. He dismounted and strode toward Jorn.
The resemblance between the cousins was remarkable. Each had the same distinctive jaw line and long brown hair, not to mention the light blue eyes. Einar’s face was a few years older and he wore a sparse beard, but they were so similar in appearance they could’ve easily passed for brothers rather than cousins.
“So, this is my uncle’s bastard,” Einar said. “The would-be Thane of The Westmark. Such a pity. Had you approached me in friendship and offered to fight by my side, I would have welcomed you gladly and made you a great captain in my service.”
“Grang’s ass!” Jorn swore. “You disgrace to your house! I’d never serve with gruks, or demon-worshipping priests.”
“If only you could be civil, I might be persuaded to give you a quick death.”
“Fight me instead, coward!” Jorn shouted.
“You’re already beaten. There’s nothing to fight about.”
“Undo my arms. Fight me for The Westmark.”
Einar laughed.
“Are you mad? The Westmark is mine. It’s over!”
Jorn turned his head around. A hundred men, all Northmen by the look of them, were watching silently. Jorn knew their type of man well, what they loathed and what they respected.
“Your thane will not fight me!” he shouted. “A defeated boy with a wounded shoulder! I am a son of Grang who asks for battle and the fucking coward you follow will not give it to me!”
There was a murmur among the crowd, the assembled warriors absorbing Jorn’s words. Einar hit Jorn in the face with the back of his armored hand. Jorn staggered, almost falling.
“What is it you fear, Einar?” Jorn shouted.
“Einar! Don’t be a blundering idiot,” the wizard snapped, sounding like he was addressing a disobedient servant. “Just have the boy executed and be done with it.”
“You’d better listen to him, Einar,” Jorn said. “Everyone knows he’s the real commander of this army.”
“Be silent!” Einar barked. “You know…nothing.”
“That’s Faxon, isn’t it?” Jorn said, smirking. “The prisoners we’ve captured have told us all about him, and how you’re just his little puppet. Go on, ask for your master’s permission to fight.”
“Bastard! I need no one’s permission to fight!”
“Fool!” Faxon snapped again. “Put him to the sword already.”
Einar turned towards the wizard, glaring at him. He then looked carefully at the men all around them. They were whispering to one another, snickering. He looked over at a soldier standing nearby.
“You,” he growled. “Give me your sword.”
Einar took the sword from the soldier and stuck it in the ground in front of Jorn. Jorn smiled, eying the blade. He had no hope of survival, the way he saw it. Even if he managed to slay Einar, they’d kill him. There would be some redemption in taking Einar with him, however. That would be something for the bards to sing about.
“Very well, cousin,” Einar said, drawing his own sword and stepping back. The blade glowed an pale shade of silvery-white in the morning sun. Einar held it up for Jorn to see.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” he said. “Grundfaelr, the sword of Brame Ravenbane himself. It’s beautiful, is it not? It was taken from Agnar’s body and presented to me by my soldiers.” He cast an angry glance back at Faxon. “You should be honored to be slain by it.”
Einar nodded to a soldier standing behind Jorn.
“Undo his arms,” he said, stepping back. “So be it, cousin. I’ll give you the death you want. Let’s see what fight is still left in you.”
Jorn felt the ties on his hands being cut off and he stretched out his arms. He reached forward and grasped the sword stuck into the ground in front of him.
Einar was on him in a heartbeat. Jorn barely got the sword up in time to meet the attack, even as Einar brought down yet another blow. Einar rained attacks upon him in rapid succession, surprising Jorn with his ferocity and speed. Men burst out cheering wildly as Jorn was forced backwards, struggling to parry the blows. Einar’s sword seemed everywhere at once, and Jorn did not know if he could stop all the attacks. He leapt backwards out of the way of still another blow, trying to gain a moment to make an attack of his own, but Einar came at him yet again. It seemed like he had fended off a hundred attacks without attempting a single one himself.
Einar hadn’t fought in the previous night’s battle, watching comfortably from the rear. His arms and legs were not fatigued from constant fighting and he was not bleeding heavily from a shoulder wound. He had every advantage over Jorn.
“What’s wrong, cousin?” Einar mocked. “Too much for you?”
Jorn said nothing, concentrating on parrying the attacks. He slowly began to anticipate the blows, getting used to the fury of the onslaught.
Jorn noticed a pattern. Einar would strike high two, three, sometimes even four times before changing up with a low slash and then quickly coming at Jorn high again.
Jorn saw his c
hance and took it. He waited for Einar to change the direction of his attacks and then struck back at just the right moment. Jorn’s sword grazed Einar’s shoulder, glancing off his armor but breaking the rhythm of his blows. Jorn slashed again, and Einar parried. Now they exchanged blows back and forth, the audience screaming and waving their arms furiously.
The two cousins circled one another, each watching for the slightest opening or the smallest mistake to seize upon. On and on the battle went, blow after blow ringing out as the swords clashed together.
Jorn began to tire. Blood loss made him start to feel light-headed, and he tried to fight his way through it. His legs felt like they were stuck in mud and it became an effort to move them. Jorn winced every time the swords clanged together and increasing waves of pain passed through his wound.
“How’s the shoulder?” Einar taunted, attacking yet again.
Jorn staggered, losing his balance for a short moment. That was all the opening Einar needed. His blade pierced Jorn’s shoulder near the earlier wound, cutting deep through muscle and tendon. Jorn dropped his sword, falling to his knees as his legs gave out. He felt the world slipping away from him into darkness. He tried to summon the strength to grab his sword and rise yet again, but could do no more than inch his hand in the direction of the weapon.
Einar kicked the sword away, circling Jorn. His soldiers were shouting for more blood, but Jorn could barely hear. He fell onto his side.
“Finish him!” the men were yelling. “Do it, Einar!”
“Grang damn you!” Jorn rasped. “Get it over with.”
Einar raised his sword, poised to strike the killing blow. He reveled in the moment, for now no one would question his title to The Westmark. He would be the last male Ravenbane and it would all be his without dispute. To slay his cousin in such a manner in front of his men only increased his glory. This was his moment, his ultimate triumph.
An arrow struck his shoulder right where his sword arm met his shoulder. He dropped the sword, doubling over in pain. A hundred more arrows flew through the air into the midst of his men, striking his warriors down all around him. Einar fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder. He looked down at Jorn and then at his bleeding shoulder, trying to understand what was happening. A pair of his men were at his side a moment later. One of them picked up his sword as they shuffled him away from the attack.
The entire hillside was suddenly covered with figures in white cloaks who rained volley after volley of arrows upon Einar’s men. The Northmen scrambled about, most of them shocked and confused by the sudden ambush. Amidst the confusion, one gruff old sergeant shouted orders to the men to form their ranks and charge the hill. But the rain of arrows continued and the sergeant went mostly ignored, scores of men falling all around him. An arrow through his throat silenced him forever.
Einar was half-dragged, half-led back to his horse, only getting into the saddle with much help. The wound hurt, but he did not think it was fatal. He’d seen enough of battle to know that much. He was in no condition to keep fighting, though. He spurred his horse roughly, forgetting Jorn and meaning to ride away from the ambush as quickly as he could. Another arrow flew in, striking him in the hip. Einar cried out in pain, almost falling from the saddle.
Faxon grasped the reigns of the horse, leading Einar away from the fight. The wizard worried that the ambush was the beginning of some massive counterattack from behind their lines. Whatever was happening, he would soon have thousands of troops turned against the archers emerging along the hillside.
_____
The archers in white made their way down the hillside, firing arrows with incredible rapidity as they advanced. Einar’s soldiers soon recognized the white-cloaked archers as wood elves, causing more than a few to back away hurriedly. Some charged towards the elves through the rain of arrows, however, threatening to roll back the ambush.
Braemorgan emerged from the pines, charging right at Einar’s men atop his huge gray horse. He raised his arms high above his head, waving his staff and shouting the magical incantation that would bring forth a spell he hoped would be enough to swing the fight in his favor.
For a brief second he seemed to glow with a shimmering white light, followed by the descent of hell and fire down upon Einar’s troops. Dozens of small meteors fell from the clear sky all around them, slamming to the ground with tremendous force as they trailed plumes of flame behind them. Some meteors struck Einar’s men and killed them instantly. Others exploded in great balls of red-orange flame as they struck the ground, knocking men off their feet. The survivors of the onslaught were terrified by it all, any semblance of organization in their ranks destroyed by the meteor storm. Most broke and ran, the rest cut down by elven arrows.
Braemorgan rode into the remainder, swinging his staff as he went along and striking down several of the fleeing warriors in the process. He reached Jorn at last and leapt from his saddle.
The wizard felt Jorn’s neck and searched for a pulse. It was weak, but there. Reaching into his robes, he produced a tiny metal vial and uncorked it, pouring the bright-blue healing potion directly into the wound. It sizzled and steamed, seeping into the damaged flesh. The wizard sighed, rising.
The white-cloaked archers formed a ring around him and Jorn. The elf-lord Rhydderch stood among them.
“He lives,” Braemorgan announced. “But barely.”
Rhydderch nodded, turning towards two of his elves.
“See to him,” he said.
“We cannot lose him,” the wizard said as he looked down at Jorn with a sullen expression on his face.
“There is no time to waste,” Rhydderch said, glancing towards the road. “Einar’s rear guard will be re-grouping.”
“We’ve only scant minutes,” Braemorgan said.
The elf turned to the warriors all around him.
“Make haste,” he said. “Back to the trees!”
The elves rolled Jorn onto a thick wool cloth they had spread out on the ground. Wooden poles were woven into two edges of the cloth. Grasping the poles, four elves lifted Jorn off the ground. Another elf threw a thick wool blanket over Jorn and they carried him up the hillside into the trees, wary elf soldiers guarding the litter on either side.
As the litter disappeared into the woods, all was silent on the battlefield save for the groans of the wounded men strewn about in the snow.
_____
Braemorgan sat on a rock outside the small stone cottage smoking his pipe, a dark scowl on his face. None of the soldiers standing nearby would even look at him, let alone dare to approach. He sat for a long time, ignoring everyone and watching the clouds of smoke from his pipe floating up into the air. Ironhelm sat nearby, his armor covered in the blood of slain enemies.
The cottage was tiny, little more than a one room shack nestled along a hillside some miles within the Clegr Hills. A small barn and a chicken coup stood nearby next to a little garden plot, the whole homestead straddling a small path through the hills. It was the cottage of a poor woodsman’s widow, a dwelling both humble and meek but more than enough to suit their current needs.
Inside the cottage, elf healers tended to Jorn’s wounds. Rhydderch stood next to them, watching. Morag, too, watched the healers apply their balms and sew the wound shut. She listened to them discussing Jorn’s injury in Elven, following as best as she could. The language was always difficult for outsiders to comprehend, but the wood elves’ peculiar accents made it nearly impossible to grasp. Even so, she was able to understand enough to know Jorn had lost an alarming amount of blood and his survival was anything but certain.
“Remarkable,” the chief healer commented. “He shouldn’t be alive.”
“A lesser man wouldn’t be,” Rhydderch said. “He’s a fighter, this one.”
Morag didn’t know how she should feel. She watched them work on this brother she didn’t know or even want to know and felt numb.
Too much had happened too soon. First her grandfather and brother Agnar died within months o
f one another. Then she’d seen her lover slain before her very eyes as her family’s ancestral lands were overrun. She tried to put it all out of her mind, concentrating on this half-wild half-brother from over the mountains who lay clinging to life in some widow’s cottage.
The elf healers finished their work and covered Jorn up with a thick wool blanket. He stirred, almost waking up. A plump old woman, the woodsman’s widow who lived in the cottage, smiled and tucked in the corners of the blanket. She seemed a bit awed by all the elves and wizards who had taken over her humble little house, but not the least bit angry at the intrusion.
“Don’t you worry a bit,” she said to Morag, smiling and touching her arm. “He’s a strong lad, milady. He’ll be up and about afore long. Then he’ll come back and whip that black dog Einar. You’ll see, milady. It’ll be all right.”
Morag looked at the woman. Her face was round and ruddy and full of sweet gentleness. Morag was surprised to find such simple kindness still existing.
“I need some air,” she said to Rhydderch, turning away from the bed. She pulled her cloak close to her, drawing up the hood, and stepped outside. It was brighter outside, but cold.
About a hundred soldiers of The Westmark stood or sat along the trail, most of them huddled around a few small campfires. Every few minutes more soldiers staggered up, collapsing dejected by one of the campfires. Many were covered in blood and filth, beaten looks upon their faces.
Fifty wood elves stood apart from the men, silently eying the human soldiers with a mixture of fascination and disdain. All in all, Morag concluded, it was a pathetic residue of what had been a strong army only the night before. She approached Braemorgan. The wizard suddenly noticed Morag standing next to him and looked up at her, startled.
“How does he fare?” he asked.
“The elves think he will live, but it will be some time before he is up and about.”
Braemorgan nodded, but said nothing. He took another puff on his pipe.
“And what of you?” he said at last, glancing at Morag.
“Me? I am unwounded. There is nothing wrong with me.”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 18