Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  The elf quietly built a circle out of the stones, digging out a small bowl in the center as though he were going to build a fire.

  “Ach! No fire tonight, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “We’d be seen from miles away.”

  “There are other ways to keep warm, dwarf,” the elf said.

  When he was done building the ring, he placed several large stones in the middle. Holding his hands on them, he closed his eyes.

  “Aéth-bin a Dooatha, Aéth-bin a Dooatha,” he muttered. The others stood around the elf, staring at him. Only Ironhelm seemed to know what was going on, nodding briskly.

  After a few moments, Ronias felt a gentle heat growing gradually in his shoulders and pulsing down his arms. It felt almost like warm water pouring over his back, but on a much deeper level. He willed the warming energy down his arms and through his fingers. He opened his eyes and pulled his hands away. The rocks were glowing a very dim red but throwing off tremendous heat. It was at least as warm as a rather sizeable fire but with barely any light whatsoever. The others sat close around the rocks, smiling and holding their own hands over it.

  “It is but a simple spell, but very useful” Ronias explained. “The rocks will burn magical heat until well-past dawn. Find small stones and place them on tin plates. I will cast the same spell on them and your tent will be warm the night over.”

  “This’ll make traveling over the Barriers more comfortable,” Ailric observed.

  “Indeed it shall,” Ronias said. “I have no desire to freeze to death. These northern latitudes are so…uncivilized.”

  Jorn laughed. “You should visit my homeland.”

  They huddled around the stones, using them to heat up some slabs of salt pork which they ate with pieces of dried cheese and a bit of bread. The hot food cheered them as the night deepened. The great moon blue Arnos was not out that night, but the tiny white moon Ithlon appeared not long after sunset. Its tiny sliver was barely noticeable against the vastness of the night sky.

  “Arnos will not begin waxing again for a week,” Willock said. “When we see its sliver appearing just after dusk, we will have two weeks until the double full moons.”

  “Three weeks in all till we’d best be done,” Ironhelm muttered. “Ach.”

  _____

  Jorn was impressed by Barter’s Crossing. The city was a large one, at least three miles from end to end. Built where the River Feth flowed up from the south and joined the River Tam, the city was protected by water to the north and to the east. A mighty wall of stone thirty feet high protected the city from attack on the landward sides. The imposing towers of the city’s citadel rose atop a small outcropping of granite rising above the surrounding area precisely where the Feth met the Tam. It was the highest place in the city.

  "The fortress of the Lord Governor of Barter's Crossing," Ailric said, pointing it out. "That would be Lord Eurdwic, first cousin to King Geirwen.”

  “He’d have to be,” Willock snorted. “He’s in charge of collecting the customs fees in the city on behalf of the crown. Few men leave their tenure in that office impoverished."

  “He is said to be an honorable man!” Ailric protested.

  “Of course he is,” Willock said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Ailric said.

  “Let us just say Barter’s Crossing runs by different rules than men like you are accustomed to,” Willock said.

  ______

  Flatfoot sat down at his breakfast table next to a large window overlooking the courtyard around back of his house. It was small, barely fifty feet long and only half as wide, surrounded by tall brick walls on all sides. Its focal point was the small fountain in the center, bright autumn flowers all around it. It was hard to believe, looking out at the little garden, but he was in the center of a bustling and overcrowded city.

  Even a little garden like his was expensive in Barter’s Crossing where land was dear, but the gnome judged it well worth the cost. At least he had someplace quiet and green amid the tangled confusion of the chaotic city outside.

  His servant, a human woman in her middle years, brought out the pot of tea and poured his cup. The pot and cups were fashioned of finely-wrought silver ordered all the way from Moonstar. It was expensive, crafted personally by one of the premier whitesmiths of that city, but Flatfoot would tolerate nothing but the very best. The tea itself was from Shandorr, anything less completely unacceptable. Sipping it, he looked through his morning’s correspondence. It all dealt with business matters. There were two new orders he glanced at, very lucrative and high-priced commissions which he put aside to examine more carefully later. There was also a positive report from the manager of his vineyard regarding this year’s harvest.

  The servant returned and put a breakfast of muffins and eggs before him, Flatfoot nodding and smiling at her before turning back to his correspondence. He leafed through the letters again. There was no letter from his wife or children yet again. He sighed, reminding himself that they must be enjoying themselves at the country house far too much to have had any time to write these past few weeks.

  Flatfoot barely began eating when he heard someone at the front door whose loud and grumbling voice called to mind rougher, tougher days gone by. Flatfoot recognized the voice at once, rising.

  His doorman, a nearsighted old gnome with a bad disposition, was feverishly arguing with the intruder.

  “But Master Flatfoot cannot be disturbed,” the manservant protested.

  “Wha’?” the intruder growled. “Ach! You go tell ‘Master Flatfoot’ to get his ass down here right now.”

  A pair of Flatfoot’s bodyguards appeared. They grasped their weapons, not sure what to make of the heavily armored dwarf with the long black beard and fierce appearance demanding to see their employer. Flatfoot knew well the scowling forehead, the bulbous nose, and the hideous scar running through what was once the dwarf’s right eye.

  “Durm Ironhelm,” he said, smiling. “What a wonderful surprise to see you here. Gentlemen, please, allow my friend to enter. Thank you.”

  The bodyguards nodded, parting and allowing Ironhelm through. The manservant shut the door, clearly annoyed at allowing such a clearly uncouth and profane dwarf such as this into the house.

  “Welcome, Durm,” Flatfoot said, stepping forward and clasping the dwarf’s hands warmly. “I see your manners have not changed in all these years. Have you eaten? I was just sitting down to my morning meal.”

  “Ach!” Ironhelm said. “I need to speak with you, laddie. Right now, no breakfast.”

  Flatfoot studied the dwarf, reading the tone in his voice and the stern expression on his face. Ironhelm always looked either annoyed or angry, but Flatfoot knew when the dwarf was serious about something.

  “Of course,” he said. “Let us step into my study.” He glanced at his bodyguards. “You may leave us, gentlemen.”

  Ironhelm had rarely seen such luxury as the gnome’s study off the main hall. There were ornate bookshelves built into the walls on either side of a fireplace of polished marble which featured prancing unicorns carved with such fluid skill as to look almost alive. Hundreds of leather-bound volumes filled the shelves and an ornate clock hung on the wall above the fireplace, its long pendulum swinging back-and-forth steadily. On the opposite wall, a pair of tall windows flanked by thick drapes looked out onto the street. A pair of high-backed leather chairs, well-stuffed for maximum comfort, flanked a small table in the center of the room. A large picture of some august-looking gnome in full armor hung on the wall between the two large windows, gazing down on Ironhelm with a look of distinct contempt. The gnome in the portrait held a sword in his hand and had one foot planted atop the severed head of a dragon. Ironhelm recognized the dragonslayer as Flatfoot himself. He groaned and shook his head.

  “Please,” Flatfoot said, shutting the double doors behind him. “Do sit.”

  The dwarf sat down in one of the chairs, Flatfoot in the other.

  “It’s been many years, Durm,” the gnome s
aid. “What brings you to Barter’s Crossing? I hope you aren’t here at the bequest of Braemorgan. I’ll have nothing further to do with him until I have received full payment for services rendered, plus interest.”

  “Ach. Gruks will fly before you see a farthing of payment,” Ironhelm said. “You know, laddie, Braemorgan never forgave you for retiring. Aye, you were the best he’d ever seen, you were, and you gave it all up while still in your prime.”

  “And why should he blame me for that? I gave him decades of risking my bloody rump in all manner of Gods-forsaken places, hunting this artifact or that magical item for him. I owe him nothing! In fact, he owes me the not-insubstantial sum of -”

  “Tha’ may be so,” Ironhelm interrupted. “But you picked up your fair share of gold along the way. Aye, and you look to be doing well now.”

  “Indeed I am,” Flatfoot said. “And that’s part of the reason why I gave it all up. I was most fortunate throughout my career, Durm. At some point all that good luck would have run out. You might say that I ran out before my luck did. If that old fool Braemorgan wants to take that as betrayal, then let him. It’s no excuse for withholding payment due.”

  The door suddenly opened. Flatfoot’s manservant entered, bearing a tray with Flatfoot’s silver tea set on it as well as a small bowl of the breakfast muffins. The servant placed the tray on the table, pouring out steaming cups of tea before placing down the teapot, bowing, and leaving the room. He closed the door and they were alone again.

  Ironhelm ignored his tea. He never much cared for the stuff, anyhow. It always tasted too much like watered-down tree bark for his liking. Flatfoot picked up his cup and took a sip.

  “I need your help, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

  “On a job? I told you, I’m retired. I don’t crack traps any more, I build them. Unless you happen to have a chest with you, in which case I’d be happy to open it as a favor. It would be a good teaching tool for my apprentices.”

  “Listen to me first.”

  “I’m out of the game, Durm. Out of it.”

  “Ach! Just listen, damn you!”

  Flatfoot nodded, leaning back in his chair. Ironhelm eyed the gnome carefully. Slowly and carefully, he told Flatfoot everything. He detailed the coming invasion and Braemorgan’s plan to snatch the blood quartz vessel. It took the better part of half an hour to tell it all, right up until yesterday’s ambush.

  “We all thought it best if I came in and spoke with you alone,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, the others are waiting outside.”

  Flatfoot rose from his easy chair, walking over to one of the windows. He pushed the drapes aside very slightly and peeked out.

  “So, that’s the great hope for us all,” Flatfoot said, nodding thoughtfully. “Oh, dear! He looks just like his father, doesn’t he? You know, I always suspected Braemorgan never had much faith in Agnar. He was always keeping an eye on Jorn, like he was certain all along the bastard was the one after all. My, how he would go on and on about the boy’s potential. Remember? Well! The exiled Thane Ravenbane doesn’t seem so grand to me now that I see him for myself. What a shabby cloak! I suppose the old dog has kept the lad in the dark about the whole business?”

  “Aye. He thought it best,” Ironhelm said.

  “He’s likely right,” Flatfoot said. “What do you tell a lad in a situation like that? ‘Congratulations, you’re the chosen one in whom all the future hopes of light and goodness depend, your coming prophesized millennia ago! Oh, and do try not to fuck the whole thing up if you can possibly avoid it!’ The poor son of a bitch. Well, I need a drink, and I don’t mean bloody morning tea.”

  Flatfoot went over to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened it, producing a crystal decanter and a pair of silver cups. He placed the cups on the table next to the tea set, pouring some reddish-brown liquid from the decanter into the cups.

  “This is a bit of the local whiskey, illegal across the border in Brithborea but perfectly legitimate here in the fair Kingdom of Llangellan,” Flatfoot said. “It’s every bit as strong as anything you’ve ever had, only much smoother.”

  “I was afraid you’d grown soft in your old age, laddie.”

  They raised their cups, drinking the whiskey down in one quick movement. It was just as Flatfoot described it, smooth but strong with a smoky after-taste that lingered on the tongue long after the drink was swallowed. It tasted expensive.

  “What is it you dwarves say?” Flatfoot said, refilling both mugs. “Let’s me think: ‘A strong drink at breakfast is no bad thing.’ Yes, that’s it.”

  “Aye, tha’s it,” Ironhelm said, putting his cup back down. “So, will you be joining us or not?”

  “You remain as direct as ever,” the gnome said. He poured himself more whiskey and started to take a sip but put it down. He began pacing back and forth, his arms clasped behind his back.

  “I’ve listened to your tale with a great deal of alarm and it presents me with something of a dilemma,” he said. “On the one hand, I am retired. I haven’t disarmed a bloody trap in its natural setting in twelve years. Think of it! Twelve years out of the profession!”

  “No one’s a better trapbreaker than you, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Aye. And you’ve worked Guardian ruins many a time, you have.”

  “True enough, on both counts. No one outside the Guardian Order itself knows more about the bloody traps they build than I. But that’s not all there is to the matter. I have so much to consider, and even more to lose. I have a business, not to mention lands and other ventures. I have a family! Children! I have everything to lose if…”

  Flatfoot paused, lost in thought.

  “…I have everything to lose,” he said again. “If I do not go with you.”

  Ironhelm groaned. The gnome would be going along on the quest, but he first had to be as dramatic about announcing the decision as he could.

  “I am a most humble gnome, as you well know,” Flatfoot went on. “Yet I still pride myself on being a reasonable individual. You know, I’ve been reading the Luthanian philosopher Gromarius of late. Fascinating fellow, a logician of the highest order. He advocated a rigorously logical approach to all ethical questions. It is all very mathematical, actually. Gromarius asserts that if you break down a problem to its most elemental and mathematical level before converting it back to everyday language, the proper course of action will be readily apparent. We only fail to do the right thing, he argues, because our thinking is clouded and needlessly complicated.”

  “Ach. Get to wha’ you’d say, Sal,” Ironhelm said. He picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink.

  “Oh, rest assured I’m getting there. Gromarius’ method is instructive when applied to this particular moral dilemma. Given: you need an expert in the disarming of traps. You cannot possibly succeed without one. That would be the second given. The third given is that I am such an expert, certainly the only one of any ability you’re likely to find in time. The fourth given is that if I don’t go with you, your mission fails. That is the ultimate result of my refusing you. I must ponder, therefore, the consequences of that ultimate result. What are they? If the mission fails, the hordes of Amundágor shall sweep down into Llangellan. Most of my holdings are to the west of here, right in the likely path of the invasion. Moreover, Barter’s Crossing is the key strategic point in the area sitting as it does at the conflux of two major rivers. The enemy will push hard to capture it, you can be sure of that. I stand to lose virtually everything I have worked so long to build if Llangellan is overrun.”

  Ironhelm grunted agreement.

  “It all comes down to a question of probabilities,” the gnome continued, barely pausing to breathe. “If I do not go with you, it is a virtual certainty that everything I have worked for will be destroyed. If I do go with you, there is at least a chance of preventing all that. Maybe a one-in-five chance, but that’s much better than the alternative. I don’t see how I have any choice, when all is said and done. I’m not about to let those sons of bitc
hes destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build! No damned bloody way!”

  “Good,” Ironhelm said, rising. “We should make ready to –”

  “I tell you, Durm, I’ve felt unchallenged as of late,” Flatfoot interrupted. “This quest, it may be just the thing that I need. One last adventure, the greatest of them all! Do you suppose the king will reward us? A knighthood would be grand. Sir Sal, Knight of the Realm! You know, I rather like the sound of that.”

  “We’ll have to leave as soon as possible, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

  “I can be ready to leave tonight, I suppose, but certainly no sooner,” Flatfoot said, “No, not even then, now that I think about it. We should set forth tomorrow morning.”

  “No, we must leave at once,” the dwarf said, shaking his head.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Flatfoot said. “That’s the best I can do. You may all stay here tonight to rest up. In fact, I insist you spend the evening as my guests. Now, why not bring the others in? I’m anxious to finally get a chance to meet the Child of Storms after all these years.”

  “Remember he knows nothing of tha’ Sal,” Ironhelm cautioned.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Flatfoot said. “I’m not a bloody idiot, you know.”

  _____

  Jorn met gnomes before Sal Flatfoot. About once or twice a year since as far back as he could remember, a gnome trader or entertainer would visit Falneth. Jorn and Thulgin would watch with wonder as the odd little creatures with the curly hair and pointed ears hawked their strange and wondrous goods. Sometimes they sold the intricate locks which men were always eager to buy. Other times they brought jewelry and plates of silver. Jorn and Thulgin’s favorite, however, was when the gnomes would come in their wagons loaded up high with their amazing clocks. The clock-sellers would lay their contraptions out on tables in the marketplace and crowds of fur-clad Linlunders would come to gawk at them.