Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  They continued down the mountainside. Ironhelm paused, axe in hand. He gazed back up the slope behind them.

  “What do you see?” Jorn asked.

  Ironhelm frowned.

  “Just trees, laddie,” he said, squinting at the darkness. “Wait! Aye, something’s out there.”

  All along the mountainside behind them, the distant light of torches began to appear. At first, there were only a few but in mere moments dozens more appeared until the whole mountainside behind them was one long line of torchlight.

  “Ach! They’re upon us, laddies!” Ironhelm gasped. “Ride, straight down to the marshes!”

  “Wait!” Jorn said. “What’s that noise?”

  Ironhelm noticed the sound a moment later. Something was moving towards them very quickly, a rapid rustling sound through the brush. Jorn caught sight of something with four-legs and a pair of glowing orange eyes emerging from the trees thirty feet above him.

  “There!” Jorn shouted.

  Willock fired an arrow into the furry mass, but it hardy seemed to slow it down at all. It charged at Jorn, leaping up at his horse. Jorn brought his sword down upon the skull of the uthin-nor and the creature fell to the ground with hardly a yelp. Even as Jorn slew the beast, more uthin-nor emerged from the trees. They charged, their glowing orange eyes shining in the darkness. Jorn heard Ronias behind him begin casting one of his spells.

  The night was suddenly lit up by five bright streams of purple-colored sparks shooting forth from Ronias’ fingertips as the spell burst forth. The streams leapt up into the air all the way to the tops of the trees, bathing the forest in a strange purple light before curling back downwards. Each of the streams struck a charging wolf right in the snout. The spell stopped them all in their tracks, the animals writhing on the ground in confused torment.

  “That will hold them for now!” Ronias shouted. “Make haste!”

  They turned and charged down the slope, doing their best in the darkness. Behind them, the line of torches grew closer and they could hear the guttural shouts of their pursuers. A battle-cry, shrill and savage, rang out. It was answered by what sounded like a hundred more such howls, filling the woods with primeval bloodscreams.

  “They’re gaining on us,” Willock shouted. “Ronias, light the way ahead!”

  Ronias muttered something, holding a small wand aloft. It burst suddenly into a brilliant white light, brighter than anything any of them had ever seen, which seemed to hover above them as they rode along. The woods were suddenly more fully lit than on even the brightest of days. Charging down the slope at a full gallop, they descended the mountainside as rapidly as would have been possible even during broad daylight.

  Jorn glanced back. The line of torches had inched closer, despite their best efforts. He kicked his horse even harder, spurring it on down the slope as fast as it could manage. The trees flashed by on both sides as he desperately maneuvered through them. Again and again, he ducked branches and dodged tree trunks as the horse galloped at full speed down the mountainside with reckless panic. Glancing back when he had the chance again, Jorn saw the line of torches slowly receding. Whatever they were – gruks, berserkers, something worse – they couldn’t keep up anymore. All that remained was a solitary figure on horseback riding not thirty feet behind them. Clad in flowing robes, the horseman rode with confident smoothness, ducking branches and guiding his horse around the trees with an easy grace. Jorn turned back to the trees in front of him. The horses were all running hard, trees and branches passing by in a blur. Sneaking another quick look behind him as they neared a broad field, Jorn saw pursuer raise one of his arms above him. Jorn heard chanting behind him, very strange words he didn’t recognize.

  “Wizard!” Jorn shouted. “Behind us!”

  Ronias heard Jorn’s cry and looked behind just in time to see the fireball emerging from the unknown wizard’s hand. It flew forward just under the tree tops, arching through the air towards Jorn. At the last moment, a boulder appeared in Jorn’s path and he guided his horse just to the left of it. The fireball struck the boulder, lighting up the night with orange flame. They kept on, mostly unscathed except for a corner of Flatfoot’s cloak which had caught fire. Yelling, Flatfoot frantically worked at unhooking it. Finally releasing the clasp, he rid himself of the burning burden and it fell harmlessly to the ground behind him.

  Ronias risked another glance backwards. Whoever this wizard was, he was no novice. He would still be a bit out of breath from the fireball spell, but possibly only for a very short time. A sly smile crossed the elf’s face as he thought of the perfect spell to use. Feeling the magical energy rise to its peak as he chanted the spell, Ronias turned and quickly cast it at the pursuing wizard.

  A burst of green light flashed in front of Ronias’s hand, a moment later repeating itself in front of the wizard’s face. Screaming, the wizard found himself suddenly completely blind as he was charging atop a raging horse through thick trees. Frantically, he pulled up on his horse’s reigns with all his strength. The horse was going too fast, however, and the slope too steep. The blind wizard did not see the overhanging branch which struck him hard in the forehead. He was unconscious before he hit the ground, perhaps even dead.

  The horses emerged onto a fairly well-defined game trail, speeding down it as swiftly as the horses could manage. The ground had become fairly level, as well, and was not nearly so rocky anymore. Spurring his horse on, Ronias’ animal ran as fast as it could. Even so, the elf could hear once again the barking of uthin-nor behind him. The barks grew louder as the evil creatures drew closer. Recovered from their magical befuddlement, they were back on their tracks more bloodthirsty than before.

  Emerging into a meadow, Willock took a quick look behind. A pair of wolves pursued them, the line of torches long gone. Veering off to the side, he slowed up just enough to draw the uthin-nor closer. Notching an arrow, he slew the first with a well-placed shot piercing right through its neck. Ronias, meanwhile, fired one of his balls of white-light into the other wolf. It struck the wolf in the head, slaying it.

  “Get rid of tha’ damned light!” Ironhelm shouted, pulling up on his pony’s reigns. “Now, laddie!”

  Ronias smacked his hands together once and the light disappeared. Suddenly, they were in the dim moonlight again. Behind them, the woods were silent. They slowed their horses to a brisk trot.

  “I think we’ve outrun them,” Jorn said.

  From somewhere in the dark woods behind them another distant cry went up and shattered the quiet. It was not the same bloodscream as before, but nearly as terrifying in its own right.

  Their pursuers were cheering.

  It was almost like a great battle lord or king had suddenly arrived in their midst. Jorn looked back at the dark trees. By the sound of it, the enemy was still closer than he had thought.

  “What are they celebrating?” he said, suddenly realizing the answer to his own question. A dark shape passed in front of Ithlon and blocked much of the tiny moon’s light, flying through the sky swiftly and silently in their direction.

  “Grang’s teeth!” Jorn bellowed. “The dragon!”

  Jorn turned his horse, spurring it recklessly down the trail He imagined the dragon’s neck stretching out ahead of its body as it flew through the air, its massive jaws opening as the terrible creature inhaled deeply before breathing forth a mighty stream of dragonflame towards its tiny prey. Jorn pictured the column of fire coming right at him. Kicking his horse again, he was determined to extract whatever remaining speed was left in the poor animal. He rode on, charging through the trees much faster than was safe, his companions alongside him.

  The dragon breathed, a stream of glowing orange flame issuing forth from above the trees. The pillar of fire hit the ground behind Jorn, lighting up the dark forest just in time for Jorn to duck underneath a thick branch. Jorn could feel the intense blast of heat on his back, one of the packhorses swallowed up whole by the fire.

  The dragon rose back up into the night s
ky, turning to the left in a wide arc as it made ready for another strike at them. It was well that the massive creature could not pause and hover in mid-air over its prey, Jorn understood, or he and his companions would be dead already.

  _____

  Ailric took the lead. Plunging into the thick trees, he guided them first left and then sharply right again before plowing straight ahead. He hoped the irregular path would shake the dragon from their trail, the thickening tree-tops concealing them from view. Behind them, burning trees at the edge of the meadow provided just enough light to find their way through.

  The terrain had changed. The ground flattened-out and was soft and spongy, great pools of water and tiny streamlets all around them. The trees were ancient, thick and gnarled and covered with tangles of thick vines. Above them, the foliage was so thick none of the moonlight even made it down to the ground. Plunging further into the dense wilderness, the water grew steadily deeper until their horses were sloshing around in it up to the top of their legs.

  Above the trees the dragon was still swooping, circling, and screeching. Once it passed right overhead, unable to see through the thick cover of trees.

  Screaming and sputtering with rage, its strikes became random in a desperate attempt to relocate its prey. Hundreds of yards from the party, trees in the distance would suddenly explode in blasts of dragonflame. The fetid stink of the marshes hid their scent, all the dragon’s hunting skills rendered impotent.

  As the minutes passed, the blasts of dragonfire grew farther away until they stopped altogether. As the fires disappeared, an absolute blackness as deep and dark as any moonless night at midnight enveloped them.

  “Grang’s Teeth! I can’t see a damned thing!” Jorn said.

  “Fear not, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “I can see just fine. Aye, tis true.”

  Ronias whispered something quickly. Suddenly a dim light shone forth, Ronias holding a small dagger which glowed a gentle blue. All was shadowy and dim, but they could at least make out the outlines of the trees around them.

  Ironhelm glanced nervously at the tree-tops.

  “Worry not,” Ronias said. “The light is too dim for the dragon to see from above.”

  “Have we lost them?” Flatfoot wondered.

  “Aye, I think we have,” Ironhelm said. “But we should keep moving.”

  “They’ll not be able to follow our scent through the water,” Willock said. “Besides, these are the Nor Marshes. They will not dare enter it.”

  “Ach. They know better!” Ironhelm said.

  “That could yet play to our advantage,” Willock mused.

  “Surely you do not wish to stay in this hideous place?” Flatfoot asked.

  “I do not wish it,” Ironhelm said. “But all other roads have been closed to us, laddie. We’ve no choice.”

  “I understood that we would merely skirt along the edge of the marshes as we wound our way south,” the gnome protested.

  “That damned dragon has chased us at least a mile into the marshes already,” Jorn said. “If we keep moving westward, we’ll cross the marshes entirely and be on the opposite side of the valley. We can approach the Teeth well out of the path of the enemy army.”

  “Do we even bother with any of that?” Ronias said.

  “What do you mean, elf?” Jorn said.

  “I mean that the Cult apparently knows we are here,” Ronias said. “The mission has failed.”

  “Grang’s ass it has!” Jorn shot back. “They know they just chased a scouting party of some kind into the marshes. That’s all they know.”

  They kept on for about a half hour further before stopping near one of the few dry spots, a tiny island not fifty feet wide. Dismounting, they collapsed exhausted on the soft, mossy ground. Beyond the dim light of Ronias’ knife, all was inky blackness.

  Twenty-Two

  The Nor Marshes.

  Flatfoot hated the very sound of it the first time he’d heard the name. Then he hated the look of it the first time he saw it from on high in the mountains. Now he hated its stench and its dankness, not to mention the swarms of insects.

  Flatfoot stood up, rubbing his aching shoulder and neck. He’d spent the last few hours of the night leaning against a tree, achieving only the most fitful and short-lived of sleeps. Even now, during the daylight hours, the light in the marshes was not unlike a sort of perpetual twilight. It was a horrible looking place, too, a locale about as far from the comfort and luxury of his study in Barter’s Crossing as he could imagine.

  The marshes were a nightmarish tangle of immense trees, stagnant pools, streams of black water, and overhanging vines. A pale yellow mist hung about the surface of the water in places, as well as an eerie silence interrupted by the intermittent shrieks and cries of unseen creatures. A large, leathery-winged reptile flew by fifty yards away as a massive snake slithered down a tree. The entire place seemed alive, all manner of fungi and moss covering every branch and tree trunk.

  “This is a cursed place,” Ronias said. “Terrible magics were worked here once, long ago.”

  “How do you know tha’, laddie?” Ironhelm said. The dwarf sat nearby, brooding and staring at the dark water next to the camp.

  “I can feel it,” Ronias shrugged. “These marshes, they are not…natural.”

  “That’s hardly reassuring,” Flatfoot said.

  “I’ve heard tales of the Nor Marshes, yes,” Ronias said, scanning the treetops lost in thought. “Rumors of a terrible cataclysm which turned a once-pleasant valley into this. I cannot say it is merely fable, but…yes, there is a dark energy here. I can feel it.”

  The others said nothing, peering warily into the wilderness all around them. They built a small fire next to their makeshift camp, Ronias casting a spell upon some damp branches causing them to burn. Then they roasted a large snake over the fire. Willock cut away a piece of the meat and tasted it. He pronounced it done and proceeded to carve it up for the others, a repulsed Flatfoot refusing to go anywhere near it. The others ate the snake, grimacing at the chewy meat in silence.

  They took inventory. They still had the spit, a small pot, and a few tin plates, but almost nothing else. Flatfoot’s spices and seasonings, the larger pots, his mixing spoon, and his ladle were all were gone. Their tents were gone, too, burned up with the packhorse along with most of their salt pork and the other provisions. They still had two long lengths of dried sausage and half a wedge of dried cheese along with a dozen potatoes and four onions. There was barely enough ale to enjoy a final gulp for everyone over breakfast.

  “No sense in saving it,” Jorn said, pouring out the ale into everyone’s cup and casting the jug aside. He sprinkled a little flannae into his own cup, swallowing down its bitter flavor silently. He tucked the little pouch back under his shirt where it hung from a thick string.

  “There’s hardly enough food for two or even three days,” Ailric said. The knight’s armor was filthy and he looked miserable.

  “We’ll stretch it,” Ironhelm grumbled. “Aye, we’ll make it work.”

  “There’s bound to be food aplenty in the marshes,” Willock said.

  “Not snake, I hope,” Flatfoot said. “I don’t know if I could ever get that hungry.”

  “We’re lucky to be alive, after last night,” Willock said. “And we’ll have to eat what we can if we want to stay that way.”

  “Then we’ll eat what we can find,” Jorn said, sipping his ale. “But first there is the question of what to do next. Do we cross the marshes?”

  “We cross,” Willock said. “We don’t stand a chance back near the road, not with that dragon.”

  “But once the army moves on, the way should be clear,” Flatfoot said.

  “Who knows how long that might take?” Willock said. “If all goes well, we can cross the marshes in two or maybe three days. That puts us within a day’s march of the Teeth.”

  “And then what?” Ailric said. “I’ve been thinking about it. If Amundágor’s armies are on the march, getting through
the pass undetected will be impossible.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we get there,” Willock said. “Right now, I don’t see how we’ve any choice.”

  “Ach. This was not the route I wanted to take,” Ironhelm said. He gazed up at the trees, taking another bite of the snake meat. He rather liked it, whatever the others thought about its culinary value. “We’d best keep our wits about us.”

  “Hellish place,” Flatfoot said. “Lord Hammeredshield said some of these vines will strangle you if you pass too close.”

  Jorn was the first to stand, swallowing the last of his piece of snake meat and drinking down his last gulp of ale.

  “Then don’t pass too close,” he said. “Let’s be off. The sooner we get started, the sooner we get out. How I miss the forests of Linlund! They’re getting ready for the first snowfall there, I’m sure.”

  “I wonder where Braemorgan is right now,” Flatfoot said, missing his morning tea. “He’s likely to have arrived to broker peace between the kings by now. I’d wager he’s got better food than we do, being in the company of monarchs and such. I seem to recall hearing somewhere that the king of Shalfur is a renowned gourmet. It’s said he’s rather fond of roasted wild boar. Oh, and it would no doubt all be washed down with gallons of the best Shalfurian brandy. Then there are all those wonderful cheeses they make in Shalfur.”

  “Grang’s teeth, Sal!” Jorn snapped. “Speak not of feasts.”

  _____

  Progress was brutal, even on horseback. The marshes were unrelenting, varying only between stinking flooded stretches that went on for miles followed by drier patches covered in thick undergrowth and knots of massive tree roots. Jorn and Ailric rode in front, hacking their way at the tangles of barbed vines blocking their path wherever they went. The party trudged forward all morning, seeming to make hardly any progress at all.

  “We’ve not traveled three miles in as many hours,” Flatfoot moaned, trying to wave off a cloud of mosquitoes pestering him.

  “Curse this place,” Ailric said, hacking through a clump of low-hanging vines. “We should’ve stood our ground and fought when we had the chance.”