Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  The Saurian wizard began chanting strange magical words Ironhelm could make no sense of. He braced himself, raising his shield, but the white ball of energy cast by the wizard was aimed elsewhere and flew well over the dwarf’s head. Ironhelm swung his axe in a wide arch to keep the two Saurians before him at a distance. One lunged ahead but Ironhelm countered and buried his axe deep into the reptile’s skull. The final Saurian stepped back, its crude sword raised warily before it.

  Behind the wizard, another six Saurians emerged from the woods, all brandishing swords and spears. They snarled at the lone dwarf standing in front of them.

  _____

  Ronias stood near the back of the battle, considering what spell to cast.

  He’d watched the dwarf charge into the woods ahead and slay a pair of the Saurians in the first moments of the battle. Ronias soon spotted the Saurian wizard and the ball of light flying directly towards him. He raised his hand in front of him and muttered a single magical word. The ball of light fizzled out, as though it never was. Ronias chuckled. Saurian shamans were crude, amateurish spellcasters. They were no match for the elf wizard, and never could be.

  Ronias stepped forward, watching the fight. Ironhelm fell first one Saurian, then another. Soon only one Saurian remained in between the raging dwarf and the shaman. Ronias sighed, looking towards the sides of the road to see where he could best cast his spell. Willock was decimating the Saurians surrounding the knight and Jorn looked to be holding his own. Glancing forward again, Ronias saw a half dozen Saurians emerging from the woods in front of the dwarf.

  The elf lifted his arms, chanting the strange magical words which would bring forth the powerful magical energy pulled from the air all around him. He felt it slowly rising from somewhere deep within his being. It grew into an overwhelming wave of power flowing outward from his chest, down his arms, out into the air through his hands. The energy left his body and he hurled it at the distant Saurians, its sheer immensity convulsing Ronias body like a whip. The feeling of pure magical power passing through his body was unspeakably intoxicating. It only lasted for the most fleeting of moments, however. Once the power passed out of him, the world grew suddenly hazy and Ronias struggled to stay conscious. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, nearly blacking out before his vision cleared once and he pushed himself back onto his feet.

  His spell had worked wonders. A flaming ball of orange fire two feet across flew over the dwarf’s head and exploded in the midst of the Saurians. Two were completely consumed by the flames, killed instantly. Two more set ablaze as yet another pair was knocked back by the sheer force of the fireball. The Saurian shaman, too, was knocked off his feet by the explosion, the brush and trees set aflame all around him.

  Ironhelm was knocked backwards by the blast, too, losing his footing but leaping right up apparently unharmed. Ronias had aimed the spell to spare the dwarf any of the spell’s most hurtful effects while reaping maximum destruction amidst the enemy. No novice wizard could aim a fire spell of such power with such finesse, which was a lucky thing for the dwarf.

  The shaman managed to stand, shaken up. Ironhelm wasted no time, jumping over a flaming log and hurling one of his hand axes at the shaman. The axe struck the shaman in the chest. It let out a brief cry and fell.

  Another Saurian came at Ironhelm from his backside. The dwarf didn’t see him at first, but one of Willock’s arrows stopped the attack. Ironhelm turned around just in time to see the Saurian fall.

  Ironhelm looked around. No more attackers came. Ailric stumbled into the road, still looking a bit dazed. Willock stood on the road next to him, notching another arrow and watching the woods carefully.

  No enemy stirred, the only sound the crackling flames from Ronias’s spell.

  ______

  Jorn finished off the last of the Saurians attacking him, turning back to the road in time to see Ronias’ fire spell that all but ended the fight. He turned his horse back towards the road, searching the trees for more enemies. Ailric stumbled out of the trees on the far side of the road, his sword covered in black blood. Willock stood next to him, an arrow still notched on his bowstring. The Knight stepped back onto the road, shaking his head. He looked dazed and unsteady. Ironhelm also stood nearby, brandishing his axe and watching the woods, as though waiting for another wave of Saurians.

  Jorn looked about again, suddenly panicked. He finally spotted Stormbearer lying face-down in the road near the horses. Jorn leapt off his horse, crouching down next to the Vandorian. Jorn turned him over onto his back, grimacing at the sight of a pair of arrows protruding from his chest. Lifeless eyes stared upwards at Jorn, Stormbearer’s face frozen in an expression of alarmed surprise.

  “Ach. He never had a chance,” Ironhelm said, standing over Jorn. “Wha’ about everyone else?”

  “Unwounded,” Ailric said, rubbing his shoulder as he leaned heavily against a tree. The spasms had settled down, but his shoulder and chest now throbbed with a dull pain that made it difficult to breath. “Just a blast from a magic spell. One escaped. A shaman.”

  Willock began to walk the perimeter of the road, stepping closer to the still-burning flames. He peered deep into the woods, watching for movement.

  “What the devil was this?” Ailric said

  “These were no mere highwaymen,” Ronias said. “That much is certain.”

  “The Cult?” Jorn said. “Do they know our plan?”

  “How could they?” Sir Ailric said.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Ironhelm said, shaking his head. “If they knew, they’d just move the skull. Aye, tis true. Why bother with all this?

  “This wizard is still alive,” Willock shouted. He was standing by the flames at the curve in the road.

  They walked over to the creature. The shaman was bleeding heavily, Ironhelm’s throwing axe still buried in its chest. It was breathing heavily, desperately trying to crawl away. Ailric lifted his sword, meaning to finish off the creature.

  “No,” Ronias said. “He may yet have much to tell us. I can make him talk.”

  Ailric scowled, lowering his sword.

  “It is a just act to end the sufferings of all fallen enemies,” he said.

  “He is Saurian swine,” Ronias said.

  “If you think you can find out anything, laddie, give it a try,” Ironhelm said, turning away and walking back towards the horses. Willock went with him.

  Ronias bent down next to the Saurian, whispering to him quietly. He pushed him onto his back.

  “Can you hear me?” Ronias whispered. “Do you understand what I am saying? Yes, of course you do. That was very quaint, thinking you were enough of a wizard to take me on. Now look at you. My guess is you would now like a quick death, would you not? Look at this wound. You might linger for hours and I can make the pain so much worse.”

  Ronias reached over and pressed his hand against the axe head, sending the creature into a fit of horrible screams as it writhed in torment. The elf removed his hand, leaning forward and whispering in the creature’s ear again. Ailric turned away, looking down the road.

  “Is this honorable?” Ailric said to Jorn.

  Jorn shrugged. The knight shook his head, turning and walking away. Jorn and Ronias were alone with the Saurian.

  “Pleasssse,” the Saurian begged.

  The creature had a strange, hissing voice. Jorn thought it odd hearing such emotion coming from a being with blank reptilian eyes. The eyes betrayed no agony or torment. though the voice certainly did.

  “I will…,” the Saurian rasped. “I will…tell you…all I know.”

  “Speak, then,” Ronias said.

  “The High Priest...,” the Saurian said, breathing quickly. “He ssssay the wizard, the one called Braemorgan…”

  “Go on,” Ronias said, pushing down slightly on the axe.

  “Braemorgan, he talk to human king,” the Saurian gasped, lurching in pain. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. “He tell human king, make ready for war with usss…planning
to kill…”

  “How did the High Priest learn of this?” Jorn barked.

  “Sssspy tell,” the Saurian said. “Let me die.”

  “This high priest,” Jorn said. “Is he called Faxon?”

  “Faxon. He issss… the little one…”

  “How many others are with you?” Jorn asked.

  “We watching road,” the Saurian managed to say. “Many more on river…”

  “How many?” Jorn repeated.

  “Fifty,” the Saurian groaned.

  “Why?” Jorn demanded. “Why did you attack us?”

  “Wanted…you to tell ussss what wizard ssssay…”

  “That’s good enough,” Jorn said, giving the elf a look. “End it.”

  “Give us some privacy,” Ronias said, drawing forth one of his long knives.

  Jorn turned away and went back to the road.

  All alone with the Saurian, Ronias stroked the top of its head with the tenderness of a mother comforting her infant.

  “Hush,” the elf whispered softly. “It’s almost over. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt more than a moment. I’ve taken Saurians before. It’s all very tidy.”

  Ronias took the knife and slid it into the side of the creature’s throat. The Saurian jerked once, making a gurgling noise as the knife slid into the flesh, warm blood flowing over the knife’s blade.

  Ronias watched the blood draining out of the neck as the Saurian slipped away.

  _____

  Jorn wrapped Stormbearer in one of the blankets, using rope to tie the ends tight. He lifted the body off the ground and draped it over the Vandorian’s horse.

  On the ground lay one of the rogue’s knives. Jorn bent over and picked it up. He drew it from the scabbard and held it up to the sunlight, studying its fine workmanship. Jorn knew Stormbearer barely a month, yet he’d come to like the little rogue a great deal in that short time. Jorn re-sheathed the knife and stuffed it into his belt.

  “It’s still nearly ten miles still to the River Feth,” Willock said.

  “The shaman said the river is being watched,” Jorn said.

  “There’s a small trail near here leading right up the Dragon’s Back. It may be unguarded,” Willock said.

  “The Dragon’s Back?” Jorn said.

  “A lone peak overlooking the Feth,” Willock said. “We can watch the entire river for miles in each direction from its summit.”

  “Then I say we make for it,” Jorn said. “We can hide out there till nightfall and cross the river under cover of darkness.”

  “Run from these Saurian swine?” Ailric said, approaching. “We should hunt them down and destroy each of the ambush parties, one by one.”

  “We don’t have the time,” Jorn said.

  “Braemorgan said you were a warrior of courage,” Ailric said, sneering. “I wonder if the wizard miscalculated on that score.”

  “Are you calling me a coward?” Jorn growled, stepping closer to the knight.

  “I wonder,” Ailric said.

  Willock stepped in between them, his face grim and unflinching.

  “Have you both gone mad?” he barked loudly. “We need to make at once for the Dragon’s Back. We’ve no time for quarrels.”

  “This isn’t over,” Jorn muttered and then turned away.

  _____

  Willock led them along the narrow forest path running west in winding fashion for some miles, passing over hills and across small streams along the way.

  Their path split in two. One trail kept running westward, the other turned up a steep incline. Willock turned and started up the hill.

  On they went, the trail growing somehow even steeper before finally leading into a long stretch of gently rising terrain that ran for hundreds of yards. Climbing yet another steep incline, they passed large gaps in the trees all around them through which they could see the vista now opening up before them. The trees grew thinner as they climbed and they crossed over wide, bare batches of granite.

  Jorn glanced to his right and took in a view of the thick woodlands of easternmost Llangellan. The coming of autumn had turned the woods into an immense canvas of red and orange flecked with brilliant bits of yellow. To the south he could see a column of smoke still rising from where Ronias’ spell had set fire to the woods. They had stamped out the flames as best as they could, but it smoldered still.

  The trail turned sharply, following along the bottom of a tall cliff and gradually climbing ever higher. Finally, Willock called a stop when they reached a flat area of bare granite surrounded by tall pines. In front of them, the trail continued up along a narrow ledge at a steep angle.

  “This is as far as horses go,” Willock said. “The peak is another hundred feet ahead. The trees will shield us from view below.”

  “I want to take a look at the approach below,” Ironhelm said, dismounting and walking back down the trail until he was still just within sight of the others. He stared down the path. To approach their camp, an enemy would have to come up the narrow path hugging a sheer cliff on the right.

  “How does it look? My guess is we could hold off a hundred Saurians coming up that path if we had to,” Ailric observed.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “But I think we could.”

  Ailric turned and walked back to the horses where Ronias sat quietly. Jorn and Willock were gone, headed for the peek.

  Ironhelm stayed by the trail, alone with his thoughts. The expedition had started poorly, that much was indisputable. Not three hours after parting ways with Braemorgan, they’d been ambushed and lost a man. At least Ironhelm knew exactly where a replacement trapbreaker could be found. It’d mean a detour to Barter’s Crossing, though, losing valuable time. Not that they had any choice, of course. With Stormbearer dead, he needed to be replaced.

  _____

  The view from the summit was spectacular, a clear view in all directions to the very limits of the horizon. Stretching off to the east, Jorn and Willock could see the gently rolling woodlands spreading out before them like a great blanket of trees reaching all the way to the barely-visible Bluestone Mountains in the distance. They were little more than a line of rocky hills at the eastern edge of Llangellan, all about the same height as the Dragon’s Back. Beyond them lay the South Marches and the sea.

  Turning west, Willock crept out to the edge of the rocks and peered over. Jorn stood at the woodsman’s elbow, looking down nearly one thousand feet to the River Feth below. It looked small and insignificant from this height, a ribbon of shining water in the late afternoon sunlight, running almost directly below the Dragon’s Back. Wide and deep, it flowed north towards Barter's Crossing ten miles further upstream at its conflux with the mighty River Tam. With a glance to their right, they could see the city in the distance. Jorn could just about make out the spires of the castle, a few roof tops, and even the masts of the many ships anchored at its wharves.

  A pair of barges even now floated slowly past along the river below. They looked like tiny things from so high above, probably carrying grain from the farms of the south to the markets of Barter’s Crossing. It all looked normal from that height, just like any other day, but Jorn knew better. Enemies were crawling all over the terrain down there, Saurian ambush parties watching and waiting up.

  “How could they have snuck Saurians so far into Llangellan?” Jorn wondered.

  “There are fens to the southwest,” Willock said. “Pockets of Saurians have dwelt there for years, but I’ve never heard of them venturing forth so far.”

  Willock knelt down, opening his old leather pack. He took out a strange contraption Jorn didn’t recognize. It was a small leather tube a foot long with a pair of glass lenses sewn into either end. Willock inserted a pair of thin steel rods into place, stretching out the tube stiff.

  “What is that thing?” Jorn asked.

  “An invention of elf-make,” Willock said. “They call it a ‘seeing lens’, but most of us who have served in the scouting corps call it a spys
cope. When you look through this end, you can see things which are far away as though they were close at hand.”

  “What?” Jorn said. “That must be wizardry.”

  “Not at all,” Willock said, shrugging. “I cannot explain how it works. All I know is that it does work, and not by magic. The lenses bend or stretch the light or some such thing, I’ve been told.”

  The woodsman lifted one end of the tube to his eye and pointed the other towards the river, slowly scanning up and down the banks. Jorn watched him curiously, wondering how pieces of glass could make far away things look as though they were up-close.

  “I can’t see any Saurians from this high, or they’re too well hidden,” Willock said. He handed the device to Jorn. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

  Jorn took the spyscope in his hands and looked it over warily.

  “Close one eye and look into it with the other,” Willock said.

  Jorn lifted it to his eye and pointing the other end down towards the river. He looked back up at Willock, lowering the spyscope.

  “It’s blurry,” Jorn said.

  “You have to pull the eyepiece back and forth until the view becomes clear,” Willock said. He took the spyscope and demonstrated, then handed it back to Jorn.

  Jorn lifted it back up to his eye, adjusting the eyepiece until he could make out the individual trees on the river bank below and even make out the tiny figures of men on the barges. He panned slowly up along the river, amazed by the experience. He saw a small cluster of buildings along the river three or four miles north of them.

  “There’s a village along the river,” he said excitedly, lowering the spyscope. “There’s a ferry there. Grang’s teeth!”

  “We’ll need to make for that ferry,” Willock said. “The river is too deep for the horses, so we’ll have to cross there or not at all.”

  “Then that,” Jorn said. “Is where the Saurians will be waiting.”

  _____

  They buried Stormbearer below the summit as best they could, covering his shrouded body with a pile of loose stones and rocks. Jorn felt terrible about it, wishing there was time to give the rogue a better burial. He sat silently, brooding over the makeshift grave. He’d dug graves before, and the ritual didn’t grow any easier with time.