Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  Skagrog was quiet except for a tiny tavern called the Red Mariner that served dark ale in huge tankards and salty fish stew to the thirsty fishermen after their long days hauling in cod.

  The first day they went there Fearach introduced Jorn as his nephew Cahan “from the mainshore.” The fishermen barely looked up from tankards and Hnefatafl boards, taking little notice of the tall stranger staying with the lighthouse keeper.

  Those nights Jorn and Fearach dropped by the tavern, Fearach would sit at the bar and listen with rapt attention to the tavern-keeper gossiping loudly about everyone in the village. No one seemed to take the slightest offense at the talk, either, no matter how private the subject or wildly-speculative the conjecture. In the corner, an old fisherman sitting in the corners sometime played an old hammarharpa and sang heroic ballads in between long drinks from his ale. As the evening wore on, the singing usually grew worse and worse. When the old bard finally turned to bawdy songs, though, the patrons seemed to perk up and would invariably start to sing along. The songs were quick and lively, the men waving their mugs in the air as they bellowed out any of a number of tunes about a famed barmaid by the name of Mildegrew.

  Mildegrew me lass, me very own tart

  She fill up me mug, and she fill up me heart

  She curse and drink, she swear and screw

  Oh, I can’t get enough of Mildegrew!

  For Mildegrew’s she a mighty fine lass

  With a bountiful bosom and a big round ass

  I’m all worn out by lovely Mildegrew

  Ask her nice and she’ll do it with you!

  And on the singing would go, getting progressively filthier with each verse and attracting yet more voices joining in the song. Jorn would laugh at it all, drinking and listening to Fearach and the barkeep for hours. The Red Mariner reminded him of some of the taverns in Falneth, except here he was not the Thane’s son. He could blend in and just relax.

  Fearach introduced Jorn one evening to a pair of burly brothers named Grundin and Klore who sometimes worked for Fearach at the lighthouse. They did everything from repairing the barn to plowing Fearach’s little garden plot. They seemed like good-natured men to Jorn, if a bit dull. Then again, he decided, that was a pretty good description of most people he’d met on Glaenavon.

  ______

  A few weeks after their first hike to Eabea, Fearach announced they would walk the ten-mile distance to Glorbinden to visit his niece.

  “Let Einar scour the lands for me,” Jorn said as they set out in the steady early-morning drizzle. He’d cut his hair much shorter and begun to grow a beard, now just an anonymous young man named Cahan who didn’t even carry a sword.

  “I will draw no attention looking as I do even if he has a hundred spies in Glorbinden.”

  When they arrived it was apparent to Jorn that the town was not large enough to hold many spies, or much anything. Glorbinden was little more than a haphazard mass surrounding a busy little harbor with a dozen ships crammed within. Great mounds of salted cod were loaded on the ships while a bewildering variety of goods were hauled ashore. Countless barrels of ale from Linlund and pork shoulders from Shalfur were piled on the docks next to more exotic goods from Llangellan, Faerfachen, and Vandoria. There were even sacks of pepper and nutmeg from Shandorr being unloaded from a Vandorian ship as workmen hauled cod aboard. A few muddy streets wound through the shabby little place, most crowded with warehouses but with a few good taverns scattered throughout. Jorn could hear the sounds of song and cheer within as they passed one on the single main street.

  “No taverns today,” Fearach said.

  Jorn sighed, looking back at the tavern.

  They passed a butcher shop, a few dried hams hanging out in front next. There was a narrow staircase around back next to a stinking heap of discarded bones gnawed on by a pair of scrawny dogs. Up the stairs were the rooms where Inglefrid and her grandmother were staying.

  “Disgusting place,” Fearach said, stepping around the dogs. “You see why I took Inglefrid to be raised at the lighthouse. Could you imagine growing up amid such surroundings?”

  They plodded up the stairs and Fearach banged loudly with his walking stick on the door. The door opened at once, a young girl answering and giving the old man an enthusiastic hug.

  No one would ever carve a heroic statue of Inglefrid, but that didn’t make her any less beautiful. There was something about her, however, which Jorn felt powerfully drawn to. Inglefrid had soft features and light blonde hair, her fair skin complimented by the delightful scattering of freckles scattered across her face. Her eyes were what struck Jorn the most, however. They were bright blue, almost the color of the sky, yet imbued with a certain intangible sadness.

  Inglefrid had a fine figure, as well, enough to enchant any healthy young man in her company. The most fascinating thing about her, though, was the simple, unaffected way she carried herself. It was as if she were completely unaware of her substantial charms. She wore a simple brown-green dress with a small copper pendant around her neck in the shape of an oak leaf, and seemed very at ease in such plain garb with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  Jorn did not say much to her on that first meeting, but their eyes met a few times during the course of the afternoon. Jorn could have sworn some flash of excitement crossed between them, a spark of something more than simply goodwill. Fearach introduced Jorn as Cahan, his new helper as well as his student in all things mundane and magical. They sat down at the small kitchen table, glad to be off their feet after the long walk. Inglefrid brought out small cakes and mugs of dark ale and talked of the difficulties of caring for her grandmother. The old woman sat in the corner of the room the whole time, complaining of her many aches and her lack of money. She seemed distracted, sometimes humming to herself and staring out the window. Every few minutes she would voice some complaint about life in Glorbinden or about how her rooms were alternately too hot or too drafty.

  “How many times have I told you?” Fearach muttered. “You can stay at the lighthouse. You would want for nothing, and the air would do wonders for your fevers.”

  “That fucking lighthouse,” she said, grimacing and dismissing his offer with a contemptuous wave of her hand. “Blech.”

  “You are a hopeless old crone, you know that?” Fearach growled. “How does it feel, you withered harpy, to have given your life over to such unremitting bitterness?”

  The old woman started to cry, suddenly wailing at length about her late husband and how no one cared about his memory. She claimed the men of Glorbinden planned to dig up his grave and sell his bones to evil wizards. Fearach shook his head, cursing her. The argument finally ended when she called him several obscene names and went into the bedchamber to lay down.

  Fearach sighed, turning his attention back to Inglefrid.

  “Is that how she’s been?” he asked.

  “She still has some good days when she is tolerable,” Inglefrid said sadly. “Pleasant, even, now and then.”

  “Let us forget her for a little while,” Fearach said, smiling widely. “Let me tell you about my walk yesterday. I encountered the most interesting patch of herbs. I do hope that you can help me identify them for me. I brought them with me.”

  After an hour of nice conversation and a rather intense game of Hnefatafl in which Inglefrid cleverly defeated her uncle at the very end, Fearach sighed and finished his ale in one long gulp. He stared for a moment down at the game board, tracing the causes of his defeat and shaking his head. He rose, placing a small pouch of silver coins down on the table.

  “Don’t tell her where that came from,” he said.

  They left, Jorn bowing awkwardly and smiling at Inglefrid. She smiled back at him and then turned away shyly. She assured Fearach she would be back home by summer. Jorn said little on the long walk back to Cape Ardor, but he found himself suddenly eagerly looking forward to the summer.

  _____

  A few days later, Jorn was out in front of the lighthouse mend
ing a stone fence when he saw Grundin approaching. Jorn waited for him, waving greetings.

  Fearach strode over to them a moment later. In his hand he held a pair of swords. He handed one to Jorn and tossed the other to Grundin. Jorn looked the blade over. The edge was flat and the point dulled. It might hurt to get hit with, he supposed, but that was all.

  “Today we begin sword training,” the old man announced.

  Jorn laughed.

  “Grang’s teeth! I don’t need sword training,” he said.

  “Oh? And how did your last fight go?”

  “I was badly wounded before the fight even began,” Jorn protested.

  “Of course,” Fearach said. “Then you will easily defeat Grundin here. He is but a fisherman, not a seasoned warrior such as yourself.”

  “Fine,” Jorn said, stepping back and raising his sword. Grundin did the same. The fisherman was a large man, to be sure, and looked like he might even be quick on his feet.

  Grundin attacked first, coming in high. Jorn parried the attack, then quickly counterattacked to try and catch the fisherman by surprise. Grundin leapt back, just out of range of the blade. He struck back hard, but Jorn parried. Jorn attacked Grundin’s midsection but was blocked again. Jorn cursed, lunging forward yet again. On and on they went for more than a minute. Grundin was skilled - and quick - but finally Jorn caught him off-guard and hit him hard in the hip. Grundin grimaced in pain, stepping back and lowering his sword. Had the blade been sharp, it would have cut deep.

  “There you are,” Jorn said to Fearach. Then, turning to Grundin, “Sorry.”

  “Your feet are all wrong,” Fearach snapped.

  “What? What about my feet?” Jorn asked.

  “Conceive of two evenly-matched warriors,” Fearach said. “They are equal in strength, speed, and experience. Who wins? The one who knows how to place his feet, that’s who! You lack balance when you fight, and so you lack leverage.”

  “But I beat him,” Jorn protested.

  Fearach smiled, taking the sword from Grundin.

  “Come on, then,” Fearach said, facing Jorn. “Attack!”

  “You? No. I won’t.”

  “Cowardly little girl! Attack me!”

  Jorn started to turn away but Fearach lunged at him. The old man’s swiftness shocked Jorn, who jumped back and parried the blow just in time. Fearach slashed at him again but Jorn blocked the attack.

  Jorn had enough. If the old man wanted a fight, then he’d give him one. He came back at Fearach high, but the old man somehow lunged forward and slashed at Jorn’s head before Jorn was even finished with his swing. The flat of the blade struck the side of his head hard and sent him sprawling.

  Fearach smiled.

  “Feet,” he said.

  Jorn got up, shaking off the blow. The side of his head was bleeding.

  “You’ve got strength, and bravery, too,” Fearach said. “But you lack balance and thus you can’t take full advantage of your natural speed. The moment you shifted your weight I knew you were coming at me high and I struck. You must learn to anticipate your opponent’s next move, Jorn, even before he does. Now, tell me, do you want to defeat Einar the next time you meet?”

  “Grang’s teeth!” Jorn growled. “Of course I do!”

  “Are you ready to learn to fight the right way?” Fearach said.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s better,” Fearach said. “Let us get to it.”

  Fearach had Jorn and Grundin fetch a log fifteen feet long from the back of the barn. He then had them drive a pair of sturdy wooden posts into the frozen ground ten feet apart. Fearach took a small axe and cut deep notches atop each post. They then lifted the log, placing it atop the pair of posts about three feet off the ground, Fearach shaking it roughly to test its stability. Satisfied, he stepped back.

  “This is where you both shall spar, every day, until you both learn how to fight correctly,” he announced.

  “I can’t fight up on a log like that,” Jorn said.

  “You can,” Fearach said. “And you will.”

  Jorn mumbled something, examining the log closer. It had been flattened on top and was wide enough to walk on sideways, but only barely.

  “The log is to teach you balance,” the old man explained. He produced a gleaming long sword with a flat blade. He held it up for Jorn to see. “This will teach you speed. It is a special weapon, an elfin training sword. It is far lighter and more balanced than a regular blade, forged from special alloys and imbued with certain minor enchantments. It allows its bearer to fight far faster than they normally could.”

  “How will that help me improve my fighting?” Jorn asked.

  Fearach laughed.

  “Because Grundin is the one who is going to be using it.”

  _____

  It took Jorn and Grundin days of practice to get used to the log. At first, they could barely make it through a single lunge without losing their balance and tumbling off. They would protest to Fearach, claiming that what he wanted simply could not be done. The old man would then proceed to belittle them mercilessly, firing a barrage of profanity and scorn in their direction until they reluctantly climbed back on the log. As the days went by, however, they slowly found that they could stay on longer and longer. Soon, they could spar for minutes at a time, lunging, slashing and dodging without losing their balance. Most of the time, the bouts would end with Grundin sending Jorn off the log. Jorn would leap up, anger in his eyes, climbing quickly back for another chance. Grundin’s elf-blade was just too quick, and Jorn was unable to parry the rain of attacks from it. Once, Grundin caught Jorn with a hard blow to the shoulder which sent him crashing backwards onto the ground.

  “Grang’s teeth! You ask the impossible!” Jorn shouted at Fearach, leaping up. “That damned magical blade is too fast!”

  “Then be faster yourself,” Fearach responded calmly. “React to your opponent before they move. If you find that you are slower than your opponent, your only alternative is to anticipate his next move and respond to it before he makes it.”

  “You speak in riddles! To hell with you and your damned training!” Jorn screamed, hurling his sword to the ground in disgust and stomping off in anger. Fearach looked over at Grundin and shrugged.

  “I suppose that is all for today,” he said.

  The next day Jorn climbed onto the log again, saying nothing. Grundin knocked him off the log three times in a row, each time Jorn getting back on his feet and glaring silently at Fearach.

  Once more Jorn climbed atop the log. He advanced against Grundin cautiously, parrying several blows in rapid succession. He swung back at Grundin low, but the elf-blade was too fast and blocked his attack. Grundin shifted his weight, readying a new attack. Jorn suddenly saw, in a flash of insight, what Grundin was about to do. He lunged ahead just as Grundin was about to attack him high. The attack caught Grundin off-guard and vulnerable, the point of Jorn’s weapon striking him hard in the chest. Grundin fell back and off the log. He got to his feet, but quickly bent over in pain rubbing his chest where Jorn hit him.

  “Damn,” Grundin cursed, shaking off the pain. “That really hurt.”

  Fearach smiled.

  _____

  Jorn spent most of the next few weeks studying Elfish in the morning, a language which he quickly came to despise, and fighting on the log in the afternoon. As the days went by, Grundin’s elf-blade no longer seemed as fast as it once did. Before long, Jorn was knocking Grundin off the log more than Grundin was knocking Jorn off. As the winter cold gradually waned with each passing week, Jorn was almost never knocked off any more.

  One morning, not long after breakfast, a familiar figure came strolling up the path to the lighthouse.

  “Inglefrid!” Fearach shouted, running down the path to meet the girl.

  Jorn, practicing alone on the log, jumped off and watched her approach. He did his best to hide his excitement at her return, greeting Inglefrid feebly while still pretending to be busy with other matters.
Her grandmother was feeling much better, she explained, so much so that the old woman had practically kicked her out of the tiny rooms above the butcher shop.

  “I have so missed this view,” she said, gazing out at the sea. “I would never again set foot in Glorbinden if it were my choice.”

  “Well you shan’t have to go anywhere near there again anytime soon,” Fearach said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

  Inglefrid settled back into her room on the top floor of the lighthouse, directly above Jorn’s. She was horrified by how filthy the lighthouse had become in her absence and set both Jorn and Fearach to work helping her get it in proper order again. They obeyed her commands, and soon the rooms inside the lighthouse were spotless once more. The wonderful smells of baking, before long, wafted out of a neat and orderly kitchen.

  Cape Ardor became a more pleasant place to be by virtue of her presence. Jorn and Inglefrid soon became fast friends. They would sit up late under the stars atop the sea cliff, talking and joking like reunited childhood companions. Some days they would walk together to Skagrog to buy fish or ale. These short trips would invariably turn into half-day outings, with picnic lunches of bread, cheese, and herring under the shade of one of the clusters of trees overlooking the cliffs along the route. Inglefrid was younger than Jorn by almost two years, and as they grew closer he saw she was inexperienced in the ways of men and women. Jorn burned for her, with every ounce of his being. He didn’t pressure her, however. He had to be content, for now, to hold her close and kiss her.

  Fearach seemed completely oblivious to the feelings developing between his student and his niece. If he knew about them – and Jorn couldn’t understand how he could be so clueless - it didn’t seem to bother the old man. Jorn still followed his course of study in the morning, gradually mastering Dwarven and studying the great poetic epics of the dwarf kingdoms. In the afternoon, he would usually explore the island with Inglefrid or Fearach or practice swordplay on the log.