Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

by Alexander DePalma

  Jorn laughed, chopping through a thick vine with his hand axe.

  “Sure we should’ve,” he said. “You’d be roasted in that metal bucket you stumble around in. That thing flying around last night breathing fire, in case you didn’t understand, that was a dragon.”

  “Dragons are mortal.”

  “Yes,” Jorn said. “And so are we.”

  “Do I detect a note of fear in your words, Jorn?”

  “Fear? Not of death, only of death before I get my revenge.”

  The knight was silent, chopping another vine aside and leading his horse through the opening he created.

  “For yourself above all, is it?” he said.

  “No different than you, Knight of Havenwood,” Jorn said. “Tell me what you fight for, why don’t you? For the glory of your Order, I’m sure, not to mention yourself. Tell me this quest won’t help you advance in rank and increase your standing among the other knights.”

  “Speak only for yourself,” Ailric said. “I believe in the righteousness of this endeavor.”

  “Then prove your selflessness,” Jorn said. “Tell no one of this quest when it is done. Take a vow of secrecy right now. Never speak of your involvement in this endeavor, and demand the rest of us keep your secret. You’re not about to do that, are you? No, you might believe in the cause but that doesn’t stop you from hoping for a piece of the glory if we succeed, does it?”

  _____

  They plodded ever forward, coming to a broad black stream across their path. Jorn pointed his horse towards it, the beast hesitating to step into the murkiness. He insisted, urging it forward. It waded in up to its belly, sloshing through the water nervously.

  “What is it, boy?” Jorn whispered, patting the horse’s neck. “Come on, keep going. That’s it.”

  Jorn reached the far side of the bank, followed by Ironhelm and Willock. Jorn kept moving along, chopping through yet another thick vine across his path. Behind him, the dwarf and the woodsman had just finished crossing the stream as Flatfoot and the knight were making their way through behind them. Ronias was still on the opposite shore, suddenly pulling up on his reigns just as his horse was about to step into the water. Ahead of him, he saw a surging mass rising in the water and caught a glimpse of something solid sliding towards the surface. Before the elf had a chance to shout a warning, a trio of black tentacles, each as thick as a man’s leg, sprung up from out of the water.

  The tentacles attacked the knight’s horse with furious speed, seizing its legs and neck. The horse whinnied in panicked fear, bucking and struggling against the slimy tendrils trying to drag it down into the black water. Ailric kept his balance, crying out and drawing his sword. He slashed at the tentacle wrapped around his horse’s neck, hacking at it desperately. The blows cut into the tentacle deeply, a pink-yellow goo oozing from the monster’s wound, but the other tentacles tightened their grip and pulled the struggling horse downward.

  More tentacles rose now from the water, eight in all, every one of them attached to the front of a long tubular body, black with streaks of bright red, which now emerged from the murkiness. From the center of the tentacles was a circular mouth lined with thousands of tiny teeth. The creature, twenty feet long including its tentacles, resembled some kind of giant half-squid, half-shark summoned up from the dark recesses of a fevered nightmare. One of the tentacles seized Ailric’s foot, pulling him towards the monster’s drooling mouth. Ailric hacked frantically at the tentacle, chopping right through it. A stream of the goo shot up from the severed appendage just like a fountain, spraying the knight. Ailric shifted his weight, about to slash again at the tentacle gripping his horse by the neck. Suddenly, the horse slid out from under him, dragged off its feet and pulled underwater. Ailric found himself underwater a moment later, slashing wildly with his sword as he found his feet and stood. Standing up to his chest in black water, he slashed the air around him wildly, a pair of tentacles still flailing about towards him even as the tentacles attacked Ailric, his poor horse was pulled forward towards the vile mouth. The creature’s powerful jaws clamped down on the horse’s neck and snapped it in two.

  Flatfoot, meanwhile, had been thrown from his own pony when a stray tentacle lunged at him. The pony reared up in fear, sending Flatfoot falling backwards into the water. He swam frantically back to the shore as his pony fought against a single tentacle which had wrapped itself around one of its back legs. Just as Flatfoot reached the shore, gripping a thick root to pull himself out of the water, another tentacle seized him by the waist. Screaming, Flatfoot clutched the root with all his might as the tentacle begin to try and pull the gnome back into the water.

  Jorn and Willock, turning at the first sound of the attack, grabbed their bows and fired arrows into the creature’s slimy backside. Very soon, a dozen arrows protruded from the monster’s back, trickles of chunky pink goo oozed down its sides from each wound. The woodsman took careful aim at the tentacle grasping the gnome and fired. The arrow buried itself right in the center of the tentacle. The wounded tentacle eased its hold just enough to allow the gnome to hang on against its pull. Ailric surged forward towards Flatfoot, coming to the gnome’s rescue with a slash from his sword which severed the tentacle. Another stream of goo poured forth, the gnome once again free as the half-severed tentacle let go of his waist. Flatfoot pulled himself onto the shore, Ailric still struggling to make his way back to dry ground.

  On the far side, Willock and Jorn continued firing arrows into the beast’s back. Ironhelm, his axe drawn, tried to charge through the water at the monster but Angala refused. Instead, she reared up and threw him. He came down hard, his back landing on a root. Grimacing in pain, the dwarf got up slowly. Angala bolted into the swamp, fleeing in abject terror from the hideous monster.

  “Angala,” he bellowed. “No!”

  Ronias also did battle with the monster, firing one of his balls of white-light energy it. It struck the creature square in the back, causing a massive twitching all down its entire length. Again Ronias fired, the monster lurching backwards and twitching frantically. It withdrew its tentacles and retreated back into the murkiness from which it had emerged, the water silent once again. Ailric pulled himself onto the bank and turned back towards the stream. He gripped his sword with both hands, his entire body trembling. Twenty feet downstream, the monster surged to the surface again as it dragged Flatfoot’s still-fleeing pony down under the water, the poor creature neighing in terror but unable to withstand the singular focus of the monster. Willock drew another arrow, hoping to aim it at the pony’s throat and spare it from torment, but the poor creature was dragged down before he ever had the chance.

  The sudden attack was over. Flatfoot lay by the bank of the stream next to the knight, quivering as the terror of it all sank in. He had known some close calls in his life, but the idea of almost being dragged down to a watery death by that living piece of blackest evil shook him.

  “All is well, Sal,” Ailric said, patting his shoulder.

  “I thought I was bloody done for,” Flatfoot said.

  “So did I,” Ailric said, pushing himself to his feet. His armor was filthy, covered in black slime and green goo. Blackish water trickled from every crease and joint in the once-gleaming suit as he stood up. It was a far cry from the splendid suit he wore when they first set out. He cursed, wondering if he would ever get the armor cleaned and polished again.

  “Angala!” Ironhelm bellowed again. “Angala!”

  “She may yet return, Durm,” Jorn said.

  “No,” Ironhelm said, shaking his head. It almost looked for a moment like he would burst into tears. “She’s gone, laddie.”

  _____

  Ailric did not bother to even try and clean his armor. He was forced now to trudge through the swamp on foot along with Ironhelm, who no longer had a pony either. Angala had run off so swiftly and out of sight that she could no longer be found. They both mourned the loss of their steeds, animals they’d ridden for years. Ailric’s horse, he expl
ained, was from a proud lineage of the finest warhorses.

  “He was bred from the very best stock,” he said. “It’s such a waste. Yours was a beautiful animal, as well. I hope she can survive and work her way out of the here.”

  “Aye, laddie,” Ironhelm grumbled, gripping his axe and sloshing through the knee-deep water. “Me too. But she’s a pureblood Linlundic pony, not bred for this sort of place. She was a gift from Jorn’s foster-father, his uncle Thane Orbadrin.”

  “Was she?” Ailric said. “That was a lordly gift.”

  “Aye,” Ironhelm sighed.

  Flatfoot rode behind them, sitting with Ronias atop the elf’s horse. The gnome was silent as they made their way along, clutching the reigns of the horse and staring out ahead of him. Most of his tobacco and his flask of whiskey had gone down with the pony. At least he still had his pack, however, perhaps the most important thing. His toolkit containing all the instruments he would need to disarm the traps beneath the Guardian Temple, remained with him. Had it gone down with that horrible monster, he didn’t know what he would do.

  Their first miserable morning in the Nor Marshes turned into afternoon as they trudged their way through the waist-deep water and the thick vines. Jorn and Ailric led the way, hacking their way ceaselessly through it all. Finally, they found a small spot that was at least semi-dry and stopped to share a meager lunch of a few mouthfuls of dried sausage.

  “We have to kill something edible if we want any kind of dinner,” Willock said, finishing his meal.

  “I should just as soon starve as be forced to consider snake meat,” Flatfoot said.

  “Cheer up, Sal,” Jorn smirked. “At least you were not the lunch today.”

  “Yes, very witty.” Flatfoot rolled his eyes. “You know, I was perfectly fine making great piles of money and living the good life before you particular persons showed up. What I would not give right now for the comforts of my study.”

  “You’ll see it again,” Jorn said.

  “I certainly hope so! If we ever get out of this wretched bloody place, that is. Might we reach the end of it tomorrow?”

  “I doubt it,” Willock said. “But, you know, it wouldn’t hurt to get some idea of how far in we are. One of these trees must be climbable. Look there. Yes, that might do.”

  Willock sloshed through the water towards a tall tree with a thick trunk and low branches. Hoisting himself out of the water, he stood upon the first level of branches and worked his way up from there.

  Before long Willock was high above the stinking bottom of the swamp and even managed to pull himself up above most of the top level of foliage. A cool breeze touched his face as the world grew bright once again. It was a beautiful day above the dankness of the marshes, bright and blue and breezy. There were a few wispy clouds in the distance overhead.

  He quickly determined their position. They had progressed a long distance into the marshes. By the looks of it, they were almost a third of the way inside already. Willock estimated that, at their current pace, they might be able to find their way out by the end of the day after tomorrow. That meant two more full days in the hellish place, and the gods only knew what other dangers they would have to face in that time.

  _____

  They kept heading west, doggedly progressing ever deeper into the marshes. After a few hours of tangled stickers and mostly-dry land, they next passed through a long stretch of waist-deep water as black as night. They kept their weapons drawn, watchful for another of the tentacled monsters. A few times they caught sight of giant bats with wingspans three feet across, flittering by in the distance. In the Nor Marshes, it seemed, the nocturnal creatures came out at any hour.

  As the hours wore on, the constant tension and fear began to wear on them. For hours they gripped their weapons and eyed the deep water, waiting for another tentacled nightmare to emerge from the murky depths. Still they slogged on, filthy and miserable.

  The only other creature bigger than a bug or lizard they saw were a pair of massive snapping turtles, each more than a yard long, resting on a thick log protruding from the water. They also encountered something large and long which slid away at their approached. It slipped away under the water and disappeared. They passed by warily, regarding the dark water with a mix of apprehension and revulsion.

  Slowly, the sun began to sink in the west and it grew pitch black again in the marshes. With a single magical word, Ronias lit the swamp up with a glowing white ball which floated in front of him. They decided to stop for the evening on a patch of tolerably dry ground under the branches of a massive cypress tree.

  They built a small fire and roasted a pair of large lizards over the fire, eating whatever meat they could scrape off the wiry things. No one’s hunger was satisfied.

  “We’ll need more food than this,” Willock said, getting up and shaking his head. “It will not do.”

  He looked through his pouch and produced a small fishhook. He took a piece of the lizard meat and hooked it through. Tying it to a long length of string he tossed it some distance from the edge of the camp, into the water. The other end he tied to a stick which he drove straight into the soft, mushy earth. A few minutes later, somewhat to his surprise, the string grew taut. Scrambling over to it, Willock grabbed hold of the stick and pulled on the line. After some struggle and fumbling he pulled out a large fish, an ugly-looking thing with sharp quills running down its back. Willock smiled, hauling the fish back over to their little campfire.

  “Do you think it is edible?” Flatfoot said excitedly.

  “We’ll sure as hell find out,” Willock said.

  The fish was promptly gutted, scaled, skewered, and placed over the fire. Flatfoot turned it slowly and watching it roasting, a pleasant aroma filling his nostrils. When the fish was ready, they sampled it. It was bland in the absence of herbs and seasonings, and a bit oily, but it was also meaty and it chased away some of their hunger.

  They did their best to achieve whatever sleep they could muster. Ronias had been thinking about the torment of night in the swamp all day, fixating on the problem as he turned it over in his mind. Finally, he decided that he knew a spell originally designed to seal-up drafty rooms in the winter time and help keep them warm. The low-level magical barrier might be just enough to keep out the swarms of insects.

  “It should last well-past morning,” the elf said, sitting down by the fire after casting it.

  “We might just get some rest tonight, after all,” Willock remarked, delighted by the absence of insects.

  First watch that night belonged to Flatfoot, and even Jorn did not argue him out of it. The Linlunder climbed atop a low-lying branch of the cypress, propping himself up with his pack and quickly falling off to sleep in the pleasant absence of the insect swarms. Outside Ronias’s shield the insects buzzed with rhythmic loudness, but not a single gnat so much as bothered Jorn as he drifted off to merciful sleep.

  Ailric stayed up for a few minutes, chatting quietly with the gnome before finding a tree trunk to lean against and try to get some sleep. The knight was exhausted beyond what he thought possible, but still found it difficult to sleep. There was nowhere amidst the mud and stench to get comfortable even without the constant torment of the insect swarms just beyond the magical barrier. He lay awake for at least an hour before finally drifting off into a disjointed, difficult sleep.

  Sometime after midnight, he was roused from his sleep. He bolted straight up, suddenly wide awake. Somewhere, far off in the swamps, a distant drum was beating in a steady rhythm.

  "BUMP, bump, bump," it beat. The pattern repeated itself, again and again. "BUMP, bump, bump. BUMP, bump, bump."

  "Ach," Ironhelm muttered, rising. They were all awake now and reaching for their weapons. “Tha’ is an ill-omened sound.”

  Willock looked around carefully, trying to get a sense of where the drumbeat was coming from.

  "It’s far off," he said. "And, I think it’s that way."

  He pointed towards the west.

 
"Some sort of large drum, I gather," Flatfoot said, stating the obvious.

  “We’re not alone,” Jorn said. “Somebody douse that fire.”

  Willock stomped out the flames with his boot, and they soon stood in the inky-black darkness. The drumbeat continued.

  “It’s not getting closer,” Willock whispered after several long moments.

  “What can it be?” Jorn said. “War drum? Do they mean to attack?”

  “I do not think whoever it is would announce themselves so if they meant to ambush us,” Willock said.

  “I don’t like this,” Jorn said. “Grang’s teeth! Whoever they are, I don’t see how we are going to pass through their territory unseen.”

  “I’ll wager they’re Saurians,” Ironhelm growled. “Aye, who else but those slimy reptiles would dwell in such a place?”

  “We should veer southwards at first light,” Willock said. “Towards the White Moors. If there is a tribe of Saurians ahead, we would do well to avoid them. We should try and rest in the meantime. I will take this watch. Go back to sleep.”

  The others laid back down and tried to sleep in the inky blackness as best they could. Jorn did not sleep well, struggling with disjointed dreams of faces and voices calling to him from the darkness. Some he knew, others he did not know. Many of the faces were persons he could not name or quite remember, but whom he felt he nevertheless knew. They spoke words to him in languages he did not know as a succession of them passed through his mind. There was an old man with a long white beard and a scar across his forehead, a young girl with large eyes and an expression of indescribable sadness upon her face, a small boy crying out in great pain, and an old woman who just smiled wordlessly and stared at him. He begged them to say what it was that they wanted and to tell him who they were, but they spoke in strange tongues he could not make sense of. The faces he could name – Orbadrin, Inglefrid, and Fearach - said nothing. Each time he would reach out, trying to touch one of them, but they would fade away again into the endless night. The whole time, an incessant drumbeat grew steadily louder and more maddening. A flaming ring appeared out of the darkness, spinning towards him.