Child Of Storms (Volume 1)

The Ravenbane Saga, Volume One: Child of Storms

By Alexander DePalma

Text
Copyright © 2014 Alexander DePalma

Original and modified cover art by Ian Burt and CoverDesignStudio.com

All Rights Reserved

For Karen,

My biggest supporter

a
nd my number one fan

          
Part One

The Realms of Pallinore

The Westmark

Falneth to Brame’s Gap

One

Agnar Ravenbane was anxious.

He squirmed in his saddle, staring at the snow-covered field in front of him and then glancing back at the ranks of horsemen lined up to either side behind him. He’d placed his men inside the edge of the trees, out of sight from anyone who might be watching on the far side of the field. They were also out of the worst of the biting winter wind which blew down through the Fanholm Pass and into The Westmark with such merciless fury. It was a cruel wind.

Agnar could hear the men grumbling, probably questioning his decision to abandon the comforts of Loc Goren. It was the first time Agnar led men towards battle and he knew they doubted him. He could see it in their eyes and in their body language. He could feel it.

              “Where the hell is that damned scout?” he grumbled. “It’s been an hour since he left if it’s been a minute.”

             
“I’m sure he’ll be along any moment,” the weathered old warrior at his side said.

             
“He’d better be, Wulfgrim,” Agnar growled, glancing over his shoulder again.

             
Wulfgrim leaned in closer.

“My thane,” he said quietly. “Do you remember how you asked me to help you with the men, how to lead them the right way and such?”

              “Go on.”

             
“Never look behind you. It makes you look nervous.”

             
“I
am
nervous,” Agnar said.

             
“That doesn’t matter.”

             
Agnar gave a short grunt of understanding and then went back to studying the empty field before him again. It was blanketed under several inches of powdery snow which the wind gusts blew around in great white curtains obscuring his view. It was, all told, nothing more than an empty potato patch barren of anything save the small stone farmhouse at its edge to Agnar’s left. The house was abandoned, its humble occupants no doubt numbering among the refugees created by the war. The village a mile beyond the field, however, was anything but abandoned. Their best reports said it was crowded with enemy soldiers. If only the bloody scout would return and tell them how many men were in the village and how they were situated. With luck, Agnar could still mount an attack and score a worthy victory by nightfall. But only if the scout returned soon! The wait was slowly driving him mad, second by agonizing second.

Midway across the field ran a small stream, barely more than a frozen ditch. It was of little concern to Agnar, in any case, and he ignored it. He focused instead on the forest on the far side of the field. He glanced at the sky. It was clear overhead but gray clouds loomed ominously in the west.

              “Perhaps we should withdraw back across the river,” he said. “We could give Braemorgan one more day to arrive with reinforcements.”

             
Wulfgrim winced. He had spent much of the previous night trying to convince Agnar to wait an extra day, but to no avail. Despite all of Wulfgrim’s entreaties, the young thane insisted on riding out at first light. Here they were, miles-deep in enemy-held territory with evening rapidly approaching and no real idea where the enemy might be.

“That’
s always an option,” Wulfgrim said, biting his tongue.

“We’ll wait a few more minutes,” Agnar said, resisting the impulse to look over his shoulder again. “If he doesn’t show, we’ll ride back to Loc Goren and let him be damned.
”

Agnar’s hand wandered unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. Its grip felt reassuring.
Grundfaelr
, the dwarves called the sword,
Dragon’s Tooth.
For three centuries, the thanes of The Westmark wielded it in battle. Agnar remembered how, when he was a small child, the wizard Braemorgan would sit with him in his grandfather’s hall during great feasts. Braemorgan would point to the sword hanging on the wall above his grandfather’s chair. The wizard would tell him how the sword was endowed with ancient and powerful enchantments which made its possessor virtually invincible in combat. Braemorgan told the boy the history of the weapon, too.

Agnar’s greatest ancestor, Brame Ravenbane, had received the sword from the dwarf lords of Cloudhome way off on the far side of the Trackless Fens. They forged it for him in gratitude for his service in war and he pledged to use it always in the service of the forces of light and goodness.

              “The House of Ravenbane has produced many a great battle lord over the centuries,” Braemorgan would tell him, leaning back and puffing heavily on his long pipe. “But it is prophesized the greatest of the Ravenbanes is yet to come, and soon enough at that. Someday you will be thane and you will rule over all The Westmark just as your grandfather now reigns. Will you be the one the prophecies speak of?”

             
“I will,” Agnar would say excitedly, picturing the day when he would possess the sword. He would win great glory and honor for his house and, most of all, for himself.

Now the time had come. His grandfather was dead, most of his ancestral lands quickly overrun by his own cousin Einar, and he was in the midst of a desperate struggle to get it all back. It was his hour of greatest need, and yet Braemorgan was nowhere to be seen. The ancient wizard had left Agnar’s side a week ago, promising to return soon with additional troops and insisting Agnar stay put in the meantime.

Where the hell is that wizard?
Agnar wondered.
My whole life he has been around, always hovering at the edge of things watching me and guiding me. Now when I most need him, he is not here!

“The day grows late,” Agnar said. “Even if the damned idiot returns this instant, there will hardly be time to make it back across the river before nightfall. Forget about mounting an attack. We should have stayed in Loc Goren and kept warm. Perhaps in Midsummer we could make an excursion this far across the river and still have the time to make it back across the river by dark, but not this time of year. Let us be off.”

              The wind sped up again, blowing snow across the field and momentarily obscuring the far side from view. The cold pierced through Agnar’s thick fur cloak and blasted his face. He turned away from the icy gust.

             
“Enough of this,” he growled loud enough for all around him to hear. “We ride for Loc Goren. Curse this errand!”

The wind gust eased, the snow settling down again. A figure emerged from the trees all the way across the field, a man clad in a white cloak and hood. He bore a bow in his hands and was running frantically towards Agnar and his men.

              “Ah! There’s our scout,” Agnar said, shaking his head in annoyance. “Too late to matter.”

             
The scout stumbled, glancing back into the woods behind him and running on. He reached the center of the field, crossing over the ice of the stream. The scout saw Agnar and his men in the trees before him.

             
“My thane!” he shouted loudly, waving his arms frantically as he ran. “My thane! Withdraw! Flee!”

             
The scout fell face-down into the snow, several arrows protruding from his back. Behind him Agnar caught the briefest glimpse of men in dark cloaks bearing bows who quickly withdrew back into the forest.

             
Agnar’s eyes grew wide and he drew his sword. It gleamed a shade of bright blue in the waning winter sun. He could feel it humming with ancient, magical power as he gripped it. It seemed to twitch and vibrate, eager for battle.

             
“The enemy!” he shouted. “The enemy is upon us!”

             
Agnar stared at the far side of the field intently, looking for the slightest sign of movement. The wind sped up once again, blowing snow across the field and hiding everything. All around him, weapons were being raised as warriors sprang to alertness.

             
“Damn,” he muttered, turning his face away from the wind. He looked at Wulfgrim. “What now? Do we charge? Do we meet their attack?”

             
The wind gust eased and the snow settled down, revealing the far end of the field once more. A line of mounted warriors, clad in dark green cloaks and bearing long spears were lined-up opposite them across the field. Agnar tried to count their number. They did not look more than fifty to him.

             
“It’s a patrol,” he said. “They must have happened upon the scout and pursued him here. We outnumber them at least four to one, the damn fools.”

             
“Caution, my thane,” Wulfgrim said. “I smell a trap.”

             
Agnar’s mind was racing. This was a golden opportunity to destroy one of his cousin’s patrols, perhaps capturing a few men who might yield valuable information. His own men would not see this day’s incursion as a waste, either, if they could win so much as a skirmish with a wayward enemy patrol.

             
“This is a rare chance, men,” he said, turning back towards the men and waving his sword over his head. He shouted loudly. “Make ready to charge! Let’s have a go at the bastards, and try to take a few alive if you can. I want prisoners. To battle! Battle!”

             
The men responded with loud cheers, banging their weapons against their shields and making a great racket which echoed off the trees and shattered the wintry silence of the woods all around them.

             
“My thane, perhaps we should withdraw,” Wulfgrim said. “Look at them! They’re just sitting there out in the open waiting for us. Men so outnumbered don’t act that way. They flee.”

             
The enemy soldiers leapt into action, charging across the field through the blowing snow towards them. Agnar was too stunned to react for a moment. The question was settled, in any case. If the enemy wanted battle, then they would have battle. Agnar took a deep breath, his hands trembling. It felt like his entire life had been leading up to this moment. All eyes were upon him, and he knew how he was expected to react. He raised his sword above his head and spurred his horse forward out onto the field.

             
“At them!” he shouted, his voice carrying up and down the ranks of the fighters. “Meet the charge! To battle! To battle!”

             
Every man behind him responded, surging ahead in a mass of charging, clanking metal and horseflesh onto the field. Most of his men bore long spears which they lowered as the horses charged.

Agnar was exhilarated, much to his surprise. One day, he knew, bards would sing of Agnar Ravenbane and his first taste of battle. He pointed the sword of his fathers forward at the rapidly-approaching enemy, yelling loudly, forgetting he had not closed the visor on his helmet and no longer noticing the cold air ripping into his face.

Wulfgrim rode alongside Agnar, waving his axe and shouting to the men all around them.

             
“Hit the line hard!” the old warrior bellowed. “Hit the line hard! Send the scum to hell!”

They were a hundred feet into the field and closing rapidly on the enemy. It looked like the two lines of thundering horses would meet each other right at the stream. Agnar screamed fiercely and spurred his horse harder. The beast plowed through the powdery snow, the enemy line looming ever closer. The battle would be joined in scant seconds.

Just as the two lines of charging warriors were almost met, streaking balls of glowing orange flame flew forward from the enemy lines. Five of the fireballs streaked towards Agnar’s troops, streams of glowing black smoke trailing behind them as they flew through the air. The moment the fireballs appeared, Agnar noticed several figures in billowing dark cloaks and robes behind the front line of the charging enemy. The reports were true after all; his cousin Einar had ample battle wizards in his service, after all.

The fireballs tore into Agnar’s lines, exploding with a series of loud thunderclaps as each fireball engulfed a dozen men and horses in massive bursts of magical flame. Each of the explosions cut deep holes in Agnar’s ranks, dozens of his men perishing before the enemy had even been reached. It was too late to turn back, however. Agnar could see the faces of the
enemy in front of him as the two sides closed with a shocking rapidity.

The two lines of charging horsemen collided with a terrible impact and Agnar found himself in the center of a confused mass of killing. He raised his shield as the two sides made contact, deflecting a spear. He could feel its shaft break, giving him a sharp jolt.

              Recovering from the initial collision, Agnar held his ground. He was a large man, tall and powerfully-built like so many of his line, and his blows rang out loudly against the armor of his foes as he knocked a pair of the green-cloaked warriors off of their horses and into the snow.

The first shock of battle passed and he threw himself into the fight with new abandon.
Grundfaelr
glowed brightly, humming loudly as it struck down enemy after enemy.

Agnar blocked the swing of an enemy’s battle-axe with his shield, stabbing his attacker in the throat with
Grundfaelr
. Dark red blood spurted forth as the unknown warrior fell from his horse to the ground in a heap. Agnar was momentarily stunned. He had killed a man. Although he had been raised from the cradle to be a warrior, it was still a great shock. Lying in the bloodstained snow was a dead man, made dead by him. It was an altogether strange thing to consider, but Agnar shook it off. There was no time for pondering, unless he wanted to join the dead man in the hereafter. He scanned the enemy ranks, looking for the spell casters as he knocked another attacker aside. It would not be long before the wizards would be ready to lob another volley of fireballs at them. Agnar had to get to them, and quickly, or they were all doomed.