Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  Standing by the window watching the rain pounding the glass was a tall figure in a faded old elkskin cloak. He was slouched forward, leaning on the windowsill and staring out into the gathering darkness. A two-handed sword was slung across his back. He straightened up and turned towards Ironhelm when the door opened.

  “Jorn!” Ironhelm exclaimed.

  Behind Ironhelm, the innkeeper withdrew quietly and closed the door.

  “Ironhelm,” Jorn said. “Braemorgan said you would be along.”

  “He said nothing of your being here, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, not a word. You look well.”

  Jorn was changed, Ironhelm could see. He’d grown by a few more inches, for one, looming even taller than before. He was also broader across the shoulders.

  Much remained the same, though. Jorn’s long hair still fell past his shoulders without the least regard for any semblance of tidiness, and the same clear blue eyes looked out from a face still young but no longer that of a boy. A few days worth of beard growth and his motley attire gave him the look of a semi-savage rogue rather than the great lord of men he was supposed to be.

  Underneath his old cloak Jorn wore a shabby old leather hauberk with metal rings sewn into it over an old wool shirt with long sleeves of plain gray. Dark grey trousers covered his legs and he wore a pair of worn fur boots. A hand axe and a dagger were tucked into his belt, and the gruk tooth necklace left little doubt he was a man who knew how to use the massive sword slung over his back

  “So, laddie, wha’ are you doing here?” Ironhelm asked.

  “I’d ask you the same thing,” Jorn said. He reached over and picked up a tankard of ale on the table. “Braemorgan bade me meet him here, but didn’t say why. I hoped you might know.”

  “I know even less than you, laddie,” Ironhelm asked. “Aye, even less. When did you see the old rascal last?”

  “We parted a week ago. He took the road south to Calaegskarr and bade us journey here to wait for his return. We’ve been slowly dying of boredom ever since. At least the ale is good.”

  “And he said nothing of wha’ he wants?”

  “No,” Jorn said, shrugging. “Only that an opportunity to take back The Westmark had come about.”

  “Aye, abou’ time for tha’! But where’ve you been these five years, laddie? I heard you’d left Glenaevon.”

  “I’ve been all over,” he said grimly. “And then some.”

  “Aye. And who’s this?” Ironhelm asked, looking over at the stranger seated at the table sipping wine.

  “Maximinus Stormbearer, of Moonstar, at your service,” the man said with a noticeable Vandorian accent.

  The Vandorian swung his feet off the table and rose from his seat in one graceful move. He bowed politely, as though greeting a king. He then sat right back down and swung his feet back up onto the table.

  “Durm Ironhelm,” the dwarf said, nodding gruffly.

  “Max is one of Moonstar’s most experienced master thieves,” Jorn said, taking another gulp of ale. “Braemorgan said Max’s talents would be needed.”

  “And the old fool said nothing else, did he?” Ironhelm asked. “Ach. Nothing abou’ this damned business of meeting all the way down in Llangellan?”

  “Just what I’ve told you,” Jorn said, shrugging.

  Ironhelm grunted, casting another glance at Stormbearer. What could Braemorgan have in mind that required a professional thief, anyhow?

  “Ach. I need a drink,” he said. “Where is tha’ innkeeper?”

  As if on cue, the door opened again. A full-figured young woman entered bearing a large platter of steaming hot turnips and onions smothered in dill with a large bowl of sour cream on the side. Stormbearer smiled at her suggestively, commenting on her pretty eyes as he stared shamelessly at her ample cleavage.

  Ironhelm shook his head and asked for a bit of whiskey. The young woman nodded and left the room.

  Ironhelm put his axe down in the corner and took the shield from off his back. He sat down near the fire within easy reach of the weapon, draping his cloak over the back of his chair. The girl returned with his whiskey in a small pewter cup. He thanked her and took a long drink.

  _____

  When the door opened again a few minutes later the innkeeper ushered another pair of strangers into the room. Ironhelm studied the newcomers carefully. The first was a human man wearing a forest green cloak over a tunic of brown leather armor. In his hand he carried a long bow almost as tall as himself. A quiver full of arrows and a battered leather pack were on his back and at his side hung a broadsword in a plain leather scabbard. Ironhelm looked at his face. It was ruddy in complexion, freckled and weathered with a thick blonde moustache. He bore himself with a reserved seriousness, striding through the door with quiet confidence.

  The figure entering the room behind the archer was his opposite in many respects. He was almost as tall, but slender in build. Where the archer strode into the room and met everyone's gaze unflinchingly, the other newcomer drew back in wary suspicion. He was clad in a dark gray cloak with a deep hood drawn up over his head. Under the cloak, Ironhelm saw a pair of long, thin knives at his hips. He also caught sight of a few flashes of pale silver chain armor, probably elf-make by the look of it, under his gray leather tunic.

  The gray-cloaked figure pushed back his hood and revealed his face. Pale in complexion, he had arching eyebrows and eyes of the palest gray which reflected a silvery-white in the flickering light of the fireplace. Most striking of all, however, were the gently tapering ears and the long hair colored silvery white.

  Ironhelm hid his surprise. It was rare enough to see an elf in these parts, and this stranger didn’t look like an ordinary wood elf by any measure. He was taller, and paler, than any wood elf Ironhelm ever met, and on his right cheek was a strange scar. It looked like it’d been burned into his face, forming a backwards “f”. Ironhelm could not recall where he’d seen such a shape before, but it looked oddly familiar.

  “That looks like just about everyone,” the innkeeper announced, turning and leaving. “Except for Braemorgan, that is. Well, I suppose I’ll have Glunda bring in the rest of the food.”

  "You may as well take off your cloaks and sit,” Jorn said to the strangers.

  Ironhelm grimaced. There was something else changed about Jorn he hadn’t noticed before. The lad had a somber look to him he hadn’t five years ago. It was subtle, a sadness inside the bright blue eyes.

  “Who are you all?” the archer asked.

  “Durm Ironhelm,” the dwarf said, growing weary of the repeated introductions. “This is Jorn Ravenbane and this is, um…”

  “Maximinus Stormbearer, of that fair city of the Moon and the Stars across the sea,” Stormbearer added.

  “Moonstar,” Ironhelm clarified.

  "I am Hugh Willock,” the woodsman said. “Captain in the King’s Guard of Llangellan at Greenerwood and..."

  "And I," the elf said, interrupting. "Am Ronias, formerly of Shandorr and late of Nowhere."

  Ironhelm grunted a curse under his breath. Late of Nowhere? What exactly was that supposed to mean? Elves and their silly dramatic ways never got less annoying with time, he decided. Still, the elf’s statement was revealing. Shandorr was the great elf island kingdom far to the south.

  “You’ve been summoned here by the wizard Braemorgan?” Ironhelm said.

  “Yes, and he told me to expect others,” Willock said.

  "Did he, laddie?" Ironhelm shook his head. "Well, have a seat. Aye, Braemorgan’ll join us when he’s ready."

  The newcomers complied, casting off their cloaks and finding places at the table. The girl returned again with an older woman in tow carrying platters of steaming-hot meats. There was one of roast peacock and another of smoked ham, a third loaded high with salted codfish smothered in some kind of brown sauce. It all came with black bread and more roasted turnips and onions.

  “We might as well eat,” Jorn said, undoing his sword and draping it over the back of his chai
r before sitting down. “They’ve good ale here. Not so strong as a good Linlundic brew, but it’ll do.”

  “In Vandoria, we drink nothing but wine,” Stormbearer said, sipping from his mug. “I don’t know how you Northmen drink that swill.”

  “Like this,” Jorn said, taking a long gulp.

  They ate with gusto, save Ronias who barely nibbled on a piece of bread and sipped on apple brandy.

  It began raining harder outside, the wind kicking up and howling against the windows. Ironhelm noticed an old clock on the mantle above the fireplace and watched the time. It was just about seven when he’d arrived, and by eight o’clock the wind and rain had picked up considerably. The rain beat against the windows violently, the wind howling in explosive gusts. Ironhelm expected Braemorgan to drift in just about then, in the typical melodramatic fashion wizards preferred, but it was several minutes before the door opened again and it was only the serving girl bringing more drinks.

  Braemorgan appeared at the doorway a few minutes afterwards, however, soaked to the bone and dripping water all over the floor. He pulled back his hood, entering the room and propping his staff up in the corner.

  All conversation ceased, the wizard’s presence almost seeming to fill up the room. He looked them over carefully, his strange mismatched eyes scanning the room.

  “I see you are all here,” he said. “This is good.”

  Braemorgan was followed by a man clad in a suit of plate armor polished to a brilliant sheen. He wore a blue cloak over his shoulders and a matching tunic. In the center of the tunic was an oval emblem of a single oak tree with a white background edged with gold. He carried a large metal shield emblazoned with the same symbol and a long sword strapped to his belt. On his head was full helmet, its visor raised.

  Ironhelm knew a great deal about the Knights of Havenwood. They were the lords of their small coastal realm a hundred miles east. They were formidable warriors, too.

  The knight removed his helmet. He was young, about the same age as Jorn, and as strongly built. He wore his blonde hair close-cropped and was clean-shaven, as was custom among the Knights. He was a handsome lad, with eyes of dark blue under light eyebrows and rugged features. There was arrogance in his face, though, bordering almost on disdain.

  “It’s gotten so wet out there I thought I might drown getting here,” Braemorgan said.

  Braemorgan found a chair in the corner to throw his cloak upon, shaking the rain off his robes. He clapped his hands twice, muttering something under his breath. There was a brief flash of light between his hands on the second clap and suddenly both the wizard and his soaking clothes were completely dry.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. Much better.”

  The wizard sat down at the head of the table.

  “I take it you have all met and that the customary introductions have taken place,” he said. “There is only one more to introduce. I present to you Sir Ailric of Wrestoncliff, Knight Captain of Havenwood.”

  Braemorgan introduced the others to the knight, who nodded curtly to all of them and took a seat at the wizard’s right.

  “Well, I’m starved,” the wizard said, leaning forward and looking over the platters laid out on the table. “Oh, that smells delightful!”

  “Well? Wha’ did you call us all here abou’?” Ironhelm demanded.

  Braemorgan smiled, reaching for a piece of ham and placing it on his plate.

  “Your candor remains as strong as ever, old friend, and just as refreshing,” he said, the sarcasm lost on the dwarf. “I have called you all here for a very important purpose. Civility, however, demands that we finish our repast first. That, plus the fact that Sir Ailric and I are famished! Eat, drink, I beg you! We’ve all evening to discuss the business currently before us.”

  _____

  The rest of the dinner was a quiet one. Only Stormbearer and Braemorgan had very much to say, talking first about the weather and the roads and then rambling on about the inferior quality of the wine found in Llangellan. There were a few good vintages found over in the South Marches, the wizard claimed, but absolutely none anywhere in Llangellan.

  Braemorgan finished his wine, took out his pipe from the satchel, stuffed a bit of tobacco into the end, and lit it with a snap of his fingers. He inhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair and staring at the clock on the mantle over the fireplace as the pipe smoke drifted over the table and up to the ceiling.

  “You will forgive me for not getting right down to business,” he said at last. “A half hour’s good cheer discussing the trivialities of wine was a most welcome respite from my cares of late. Besides, serious matters should never be discussed on empty stomachs. The entire world seems to be tearing itself apart at the seams. Even now, the Kings of Brithborea and Shalfur are bent on marching off towards war with one another.”

  Braemorgan took a long puff on his pipe and went on.

  “I have assembled you here because I need your help. Our backs are, it would seem, up against the wall. The civilized world stands on the very brink of ruin. For a decade, at least, I’ve noticed an alarming increase in the forces of the enemy the world over. At first it was increased gruk and troll raiding in a few places, the type of activity which occurs with greater frequency now and again. Then there was the invasion of western Brithborea by Blue Saurians that was summarily beaten back soon after. Suddenly, gruks were appearing where they had not been seen for centuries and trolls were overrunning fens long cleared of their evil influence. Three villages on the coast of Vandoria were destroyed by Red Saurian raids in the span of a week. The town of Gomundell in Dorminia was laid under siege by trolls and wild men from the hills. It might’ve fallen had the siege not been broken by a hastily assembled royal force.”

  “At first I thought all of this naught but isolated incidents, mere coincidences. It is important to not be deceived into seeing patterns and conspiracies where there are none, of course, lest we spend our lives chasing shadows. But these occurrences didn’t stop. Instead, they grew more frequent with every passing month. In Frostheim, a dragon destroyed a pair of frontier villages right before an invasion of trolls struck the same area. Only lately have I come to believe the two events were connected.

  “Eh? You mean the dragon was working with the trolls?” Willock asked.

  “I do indeed, however unusual that may sound,” he said. “But there is more. All sorts of monsters both foul and fierce began appearing all over. A hideous giant spider killed three farmers not five miles from here before a pair of Knights of Havenwood finally destroyed the abomination. Packs of evil wolves, the dreaded uthin-nor, now freely roam the countryside of Linlund and are seen within sight of towns. Dark wizards have began making mischief all over, as well, sneaking into graveyards and turning the departed into mindless undead beings who now wander the night preying on the living.

  “I now believe this is all part of a plan to keep pressure upon the civilized realms. Perhaps the enemy means to wear us down, weakening us so that when the final blow comes we will not have the strength to fight back. For years I couldn’t see what was truly going on. Then, five years ago, The Westmark fell.”

  Jorn looked aside and took a sip of ale. Braemorgan paused, taking another puff of his pipe.

  “I will not recount what happened in any great detail,” he continued. “There are those among you who were present for it. Einar Ravenbane, backed by evil forces far vaster than anyone then suspected, murdered his grandfather and cousin, seizing control of The Westmark except for a tiny corner around Loc Goren. Rightful lordship of The Westmark passed to Jorn here, who took command of the loyal soldiers there. It was then that Einar showed the full extent of the resources behind him. He fell upon us with thousands of wild berserkers and gruk troopers, as well as mercenary forces drawn from across the Northlands.”

  “Gruks?” Ailric said.

  “Goblins, as you men of the South call them,” Braemorgan said. “But, as I was saying, the biggest shock of all was the surprise appearance of Fire
Giants on the battlefield, terrible beings unseen by civilized eyes for two millennia. Somehow, Einar had a small group of them at his service. They struck terror into the hearts of the Westmarkers, sending them fleeing in panic. Once such a rout begins, it is almost impossible to stop. By the time a month had passed, the entire Westmark was lost. Einar’s forces overran the Clegr Hills a few months later and fell upon the shores of the Bachwy Bay. The city of Swordhaven capitulated without resistance and became part of Einar’s domain.”

  “I rode to Vistinar, the capitol of Linlund, to speak with King Bangrim. He stared at me with a vacant look upon his face, a worn-out and pathetic little man. ‘But Einar has sworn his fealty to me and to Linlund,’ he sniveled. Hah! As though the sworn fealty of such a whoreson is worth a bucket of shit! And so Einar now reigns over a massive realm, practically a king in his own right. The time may soon come when he seeks to challenge Bangrim for all Linlund. Einar will certainly have the power to prevail should such a conflict ever arise. But I ramble. Einar was backed by none other than the Amundágor Cult. I knew they’d been on the rise, but was shocked it had grown quite so powerful.”

  “In those five years since The Westmark’s fall I have rarely slept in the same bed two nights in a row, traveling far and wide fighting the forces of Kaas and Amundágor in a dozen lands. The pressure of the constant attacks has grown worse with each passing year. Saurians and trolls plague Llangellan and the South Marches, gruks have even attacked the mighty Dwarven realm of Thunderforge.”

  “Aye, it wen’ badly for us for a spell,” Ironhelm said. “But we’ve won many battles of late and have rolled ‘em back. Aye. The gruk army is all but destroyed, it is.”