Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (11 page)

“I see,” Degbald said, glancing again at the spear.

The weapon had a long shaft of polished oak and a gleaming tip of razor-sharp steel which could surely pierce armor and flesh with terrible result. He winced, looking away from the weapon. His life’s work was consecrated to the mending of wounds and the battling of disease. He was strictly forbidden by the rules of his order to so much as touch a weapon.

The members of the Order of the Healing Hand worshipped the gentle goddess Onara, the personification of gentleness and non-violence. Degbald knew of the wolf-god Grang, though, whom so many of the barbarian warriors of the North paid homage to. Grang was a savage deity as far as Degbald was concerned, a demonic being satiated only by bloodshed and battle. He often appeared as a giant red-haired wolf ten feet high at the shoulder, or so Degbald heard men say. Always they referred to him in hushed tones, their voices edged with fear.

“Battle pleases him,” they would say. “He hungers for it. He is the ever-ravenous, always starving for the clash of arms.”

Degbald shuddered when he thought of it. Grang was a god for bloodthirsty killer, a mere shadow next to his precious goddess. It was hard for him to imagine the jovial, good-humored feasters all around him as the hardened warriors they were. And yet, underneath the happy exterior lurked a dark heart of violence. He glanced up at the carved images of wild beasts, claws and fangs on full display. He shook his head and took another sip from his drink.

_____

Huge tankards of dark ale continued to be filled and drained, only to be refilled and then drained again as music filled the hall.  All drank heartily, except for Yrsa who only sipped her drink gingerly. Jorn noticed, wondering what was bothering her. The women of Linlund drank their ale as heartily as the men, and Yrsa was no exception. Jorn would always bring two big jugs of ale to their rendezvous in the cabin, one for each of them, and Yrsa would never fail to drain ever last drop. Tonight, however, she barely drank at all, staring off into the distance and listening to the music of a pair of local bards.

The musicians were talented, sometimes playing rowdy drinking songs and other times performing solemn dirges. Their music mixed with the laughter and the boasting of the feasters, which grew louder with every round of ale.

             
Servants, meanwhile, brought out heaping portions of dishes the whole time; piles of wild boar, elk, smoked river salmon, and roast mutton were all laid out. Toasts were drunk over and over again and many words of sincere praise for the victors were spoken before each one. Every so often Orbadrin would clap his hands loudly and a new course of food would come out.

As the evening wore on, a series of special entertainments were performed. First, one of the local bards rose to sing an old battle song. Soon the entire hall had joined in.

With axe, sword, and spear

We Fight, fight, fight!

Without pause or fear

We Fight, fight, fight!

To battle we ride

We Fight, fight, fight!

By our thane’s side

We Fight, fight, fight!

Our enemies we slay

We Fight, fight, fight!

Their skin we will flay

We Fight, fight, fight!

The sounds of the bloodthirsty hymn echoed against the walls of the hall, all of the warriors banging their tankards loudly against the table with the singing of every “fight.” When the song was over, every one of the Linlunders, women included, let out a savage cry which shook the columns of the hall. Degbald watched with bemused interest. The song struck him as crude, at best, and the sentiment behind it abhorrent.

The warriors soon resumed their gentler natures, however, slapping one another on the back and laughing loudly as another round of toasts quickly followed.

Next up were the pair of traveling magicians. They began their show with a great explosion of billowing blue smoke which brought cheers and shouts from among the feasters. One of the magicians was a portly old man with a bald head clad in bright blue robes edged with silver along the sleeves. Standing with him was a much younger man, tall and thin with long blonde hair. The old man strode forward out of the smoke in his glittering garb, holding a staff topped with a silver dragon’s head. He bowed deeply towards Orbadrin and Halgaad and began the show.

The wizards performed a variety of impressive pyrotechnics for the feasters. Balls of multi-colored lights swirled around the room and up to the rafters, bursting forth in still more colors that cascaded gently down upon the audience, eliciting rigorous applause. Platters of food and tankards of ale rose from the table and flew around the room to cries of amazement before being returned gently to their original places. In the climax of the show, the old wizard conjured up a shadowy, translucent image of a heroic warrior with a streaming blonde beard, hulking muscles, and glowing armor who did battle with and slew a horrific dragon that descended upon them from above. All present watched in rapt excitement, the hall exploding with wild cheering when the illusory hero defeated the wyrm and ascended upwards through the roof in a golden ball of light. 

              Jorn paid only half attention. Most of the tricks were commonplace, especially the levitations and the pyrotechnics. He watched Yrsa instead, trying to catch her eye. Mostly, she looked at her plate and still seemed sullen for some reason. This was odd. She loved such wizard’s shows and would usually be in the forefront of the cheering.

             
A guard entered the and approached Jorn. He leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

             
“A dwarf?” Jorn said, frowning. “Business with me? Tell him to come back tomorrow morning.  Make that
late
tomorrow morning. No, midday.”

             
“He is insistent he see you right now,” the guard explained with a shrug. “He says he bears an urgent message for you from the wizard Braemorgan.”

             
“Braemorgan? Tell him I’ll be right there.”

             
The guard nodded and hurried off. 

Jorn drank down the last of his ale. Orbadrin always took great stock in what the old wizard had to say, although Jorn always thought the rascal had something to hide and never did trust him. Nevertheless, Braemorgan had always proved to be useful in a fight and, whatever else the old wizard might be, he was always to be taken seriously. But why would he be sending a message addressed to Jorn, and not to Orbadrin?

_____

              Ironhelm paced back and forth on the front porch, warmed by the great fires burning at either corner. He glared at the guards with his one eye, mumbling something about cold nights and inhospitable humans.

             
The door opened and a tall young man with bright blue eyes stepped out into the cold night. The lad wore a ring mail shirt and an elk skin for a cloak, a two-handed sword strapped over his back and a pair of throwing axes stuffed in his belt. Ironhelm stepped back, surprised by Jorn’s uncanny resemblance to his father. Standing before Ironhelm was the ghost of Loric Ravenbane.

             
“Ach,” he muttered, amazed.

             
“Well?” Jorn said. “I am Jorn, Son of Orbadrin. What do you want?”

             
“Aye, tha’ you are. I am Durm Ironhelm of Thunderforge. I bear a message from the wizard Braemorgan for you, laddie.”

Ironhelm produced a scroll from inside his cloak and thrust it forward.

              Jorn waved the scroll aside.

“I believe you,” he said.  “What does that old scoundrel want with me?”

              “Your life’s in danger, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Assassins are on the way.  Aye, tis true. They could be here even now, they could.”

             
“Assassins?” Jorn laughed. “Who would want to kill
me
?”

             
“Braemorgan explains it all in this letter,” Ironhelm said, offering the scroll again. “I think you should be reading it, laddie. It bears Braemorgan’s own wizard’s seal.”

             
Jorn took the scroll, noting the seal. It was the Braemorgan’s wizard’s seal, to be sure, a magically-glowing green “B” surrounded by a unique pattern of interlocking lines. Jorn broke it, walking over to one of the bonfires burning at the end of the porch to read it. He smirked as he unrolled the scroll, recalling it was only because of Braemorgan that Jorn could even read. Orbadrin never put much stock in formal schooling, but the wizard had insisted Orbadrin bring in a tutor for his sons. Orbadrin relented, and Jorn grew up able to read and write at least tolerably well.

             
He read the scroll in silence, recognizing the wizard’s strange, slanted handwriting. When he was done, he tossed it back to the dwarf.

             
“Tell him ‘no’,” Jorn said.

             
Ironhelm looked confused.

“Wha’ do you mean, ‘no’?” Ironhelm asked.

              “I mean ‘no’,” Jorn said. “I’m not interested in The Westmark. This is my home and this is my family. The Ravenbanes are nothing to me.”

             
“Ach! They’re your true family, laddie! Aye, your very own flesh and blood! Braemorgan calls you to your birthrigh’, he does!”

             
“What family have they ever been to me? I am nothing but Loric Ravenbane’s bastard. He abandoned my mother and so she came here to the house of her brother to live without a husband. Orbadrin is my uncle, and also the only father I have ever known. Or ever will.”

             
“Aye, I know tha’ he adopted you when your mother died,” Ironhelm said. “I’m sure he has been a good father to you, laddie, but -”

             
“I am his son, and a son of the House of Thaalgrud.”

             
“Aye, but on your mother’s side only. You’re also a son of the House of Ravenbane.”

             
“Loric was a father I never knew from a family that means nothing to me.”

             
“But your half-brother Agnar is slain! You’re heir to The Westmark! Does tha’ mean anything to you, laddie?”

             
Jorn turned and walked back to the doors.

             
“Ach! Where’re you off to, laddie?” Ironhelm sputtered.

             
“Go home, dwarf,” Jorn said.

_____

             
Jorn returned to the hall, lost in thought. The noise of the victory feast shook him out of his stupor, and he made his way back to his seat. He lifted his tankard and a servant refilled it to the brim, tan foam running down the sides.

Thulgin looked over at him, puzzled.

              “What was it?” he asked.

             
“Nothing,” Jorn said. “Just some fool dwarf at the doors.”

             
“A dwarf? What did he want?”

             
Jorn shrugged.

             
Thulgin frowned.

“What did he -,” he began. 

              Orbadrin rose from his seat, and the clamor of the room lessened first to a murmur and then into complete silence as all eyes fell upon the thane.

             
“Grang be praised, this is a rare and special feast indeed!” he said, holding his tankard out in front of him. “We celebrate tonight our victory over Thane Llud and the defeat of his treachery. But that is not the only reason we have to celebrate.”

He paused, looking around the hall.

“Tonight is a night to remember twice over,” he began again. “For I have not only gained lands from a vanquished enemy but I have also gained a daughter!”

             
Halgaad rose, extending his hand to Yrsa. She took it and stood, glancing briefly at Jorn and then looking away.

             
“This afternoon Thane Halgaad and I had a long talk,” Orbadrin continued. “We are of one mind that this alliance must be made permanent, especially in these troubled times, and there is only way to do that. And so, we have agreed that Halgaad’s daughter Yrsa shall be joined to my oldest son Thulgin.”

             
The hall erupted in hearty cheers, warriors rising to their feet and shouting acclaim. Thulgin remained seated with a blank expression on his face, not fully believing his ears. Orbadrin bade him rise and he stood slowly, still looking like he was in a stupor.

Jorn hid his own surprise well, turning away from the clamor. He wanted to get up and flee the room. He wanted to run, as if that could somehow make the reality of the announcement disappear. He remained frozen in his chair, however, watching as Halgaad led Yrsa around the table and placed her hand in Thulgin’s. She avoided Jorn’s gaze and Thulgin’s as well, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment. The hall, meanwhile, was filled with thunderous
applause as men clapped their hands and banged their feet. Some slammed their fists loudly on the long wooden table.