Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (12 page)

             
Jorn couldn’t take it anymore. He turned away from the scene and slipped out of the room, unnoticed by almost everyone as he fled the cheering tumult.

_____

Thulgin felt like a man sentenced to the gallows.

Yrsa was a striking beauty with a delightful and intelligent disposition. Thulgin had long been smitten with the daughter of one of Orbadrin’s captains, however. He’d assumed he would be granted her hand when she turned eighteen next month and was of marriageable age. Her father would be overjoyed to give his daughter to the future thane and Orbadrin would surely approve since she was the daughter of an honorable and loyal captain. 

It took Thulgin a few minutes to break away from the congratulations and toasting going on in the main hall. He noticed Jorn had left and looked around the house in vain for him. Finally, he asked one of the guards at the door and learned Jorn had gone outside.

              He exited the hall and crossed the compound, the snow crunching under his boots loudly in the silence of the winter night. The door to the stables was open, the light inside spilling into the courtyard. Thulgin went in and found Jorn saddling his horse. Jorn was wearing heavy furs and his shield, sword, and bow were on the ground by his feet.

             
“Jorn,” Thulgin said.

             
“Don’t say a word,” Jorn snapped. “Just get the hell out of here.”

             
“Jorn…I’m just as stunned as you are. I had no idea they were planning on this. I don’t want this. You
know
that.”

             
“Grang’s ass! You’re going through with it, aren’t you!”

             
“I, uh, I don’t know. You know I prefer Balla, but…but, I can’t defy father. Then there’s the alliance to consider. We can’t offend Halgaad, not now. Damn it! How could father decide this without so much as asking me what I thought?”

             
“So you’re going to marry Yrsa? You’re just going to accept all this? Me and Balla be damned!”

Thulgin was silent. Jorn finished saddling his horse and strapped his shield to the saddle. He attached his bow to the other side and then slung his sword over his back.

              “Where are you going?” Thulgin asked.

             
“I don’t know. Back to Fangun’s Mound, I guess. The men still need help putting up a suitable fort for the winter. I don’t trust Llud.”

             
“We’ve three hundred of our best men there and they’ve already put up a stockade around their camp. Llud can’t threaten them with the rabble he has left.”

             
“Then I can hunt in the woods,” Jorn said.

             
“Jorn, I -”

             
“Let me be, Thulgin,” Jorn shouted. “If you were any kind of brother you would have told them all to go to hell!”

             
“What? You expected me to defy father in front of everyone?”

             
“Why not? Would the heavens really be torn asunder?”

             
“I cannot!” Thulgin said, his voice rising.  “I am the oldest son, and the next thane. I have responsibilities you can’t even imagine. You can marry whatever girl you choose. You can ride about fighting and drinking or whoring whenever you care, but who I marry is dictated by more than just what
I
want. The alliance with Halgaad…”

             
“Yes, I know, the fucking alliance! And you get to marry Yrsa!”

             
“She’s a thane’s only daughter, Jorn,” Thulgin said. “Her husband will inherite her father’s lands. Who’d you expect Halgaad to marry her off to?”

Instantly, he regretted his words.

              “Not a bastard cousin? Is that what you mean?” Jorn said.

             
“I didn’t mean to say that. Jorn, I-”

             
Jorn turned away. He mounted his horse and rode out of the stables.

             
Thulgin stood there alone, his hands trembling. He felt like he was dreaming some horrible dream where events were spinning out of control. He wanted to do what Jorn had said, to tell them all to go to hell.

Then he and Balla could be together. Oh, Balla! What must she be going through right now? Thulgin looked at her as soon as the announcement was made. She was seated at the far end of the hall, shock and pain on her face. It broke his heart to think of her now.

Yet there remained the alliance to think of. Thulgin knew he had no choice but to keep his mouth shut. Jorn wouldn’t understand, of course. Thulgin loved Jorn as his cousin, brother, and dearest friend, but he knew Jorn was all about Jorn much of the time. He’d stew about this for a long time. Years, perhaps.

             
Thulgin cursed aloud, kicking one of the wooden posts holding up the stable roof.

             
A grizzled, one-eyed dwarf appeared at the open door to the stables. He looked like a vagabond robber, a huge axe at his belt. Thulgin started to draw his sword.

             
“Easy, laddie,” the dwarf said. “I’m not here to fight you.”

             
“Then what do you want?”

“Your
help.”

Five

              Jorn rode through the quiet main street of Falneth. Sounds of reveling came from the alehouse as he passed it. Most of the soldiers Jorn and Thulgin had led back into town that afternoon were no doubt crowded within. He could hear their rowdy singing and could easily imagine the scene. Soldiers would be lining the long benches singing and drinking by the light of the two roaring fireplaces, the barmaids rushing to and fro to keep the tankards full. It all felt to Jorn like something far off in the distance, like the goings-on of some far-off foreign realm like Llangellan. He looked away, pulling his elkskin cloak tighter around him as he passed.

Jorn approached the closed gate at the edge of town. The guards standing watch on the towers leaned over in the darkness, straining to see the man on horseback riding towards them.

              “Who approaches?” one of the guards shouted. “The gates stay closed till morning, by the law of Orbadrin.”

             
“It’s Jorn, son of Orbadrin. Open the gates.”

             
The guards recognized the voice.

“Just a moment,” one of them said.

              A trio of guards came down from the towers to pull aside the great bolt that barred the doors. As they did so, Jorn heard the sound of hooves behind him. A pair of men rode into view, an older portly man with a bald head and white whiskers and a young man with a blonde beard. Jorn recognized them as the magicians who performed earlier that evening. They’d changed out of their bright blue-and-silver robes into plainer garb.

             
“You are opening the gates?” the older man asked.

             
“What is it to you?” Jorn asked.

             
“Dalon is my name,” he said, bowing graciously. “My son and I would like to leave tonight, if we could. We saw you riding through town and hoped the gates were opening.”

             
“Why? Where are you off to at such an hour?”

             
Dalon laughed.

“One might ask you the same question, young master,” he said. “We received word of work awaiting us in Vistinar. With but a few hours ride tonight we can reach the inn at Fessfurd. It would save us much time tomorrow.”

“Then pass through,” Jorn said, shrugging.

             
“Thank you, young master. This will be most helpful. It was a dandy of a show tonight, I thought. How did you like the dragon? That’s our trademark, you know. It drew raves last month down in Swordhaven.”

             
The gates opened and Jorn spurred his horse forward, galloping through silently. The magicians rode through behind him.

             
The road south of Falneth was muddy and narrow. It was more a twisting dirt path than a proper road, but in the far north of Linlund that was all there was.

The great moon Arnos was full and hung low in the west, adding its bluish light to that of Ithlon directly overhead in all its silvery glory. Together, the moons lit up the snowy landscape in an eerie silver-blue glow. It was bright enough to read by, were one so inclined.

              “How far are you going?” Dalon was saying. “Might it be all the way to Vistinar? We could use the company and the presence of a good swordsman this time of year.”

             
“I’ll be parting just to the right up ahead,” Jorn growled.

They were a half mile from Falneth, Jorn’s own path soon coming into view. If Jorn rode the rest of the night, he would be at camp atop Whiterock before dawn. What he was going to do after he got there, he could not say.

              “It’s too bad we shall be parting ways,” Dalon said.

If Jorn had been paying attention, he might have heard the thick sarcasm in the magician’s voice.

“This is my road here,” Jorn said, turning his horse onto the path.

             
Dalon said nothing, looking over at his younger companion and nodding briskly. Gone was the affable, jolly expression of before, replaced with a grim scowl. He raised his arm, pointing his palm at Jorn and uttering a series of strange magical words. Jorn turned, surprised to hear the wizard casting a spell. He knew whatever the wizard was casting, it was aimed at him. He drew his sword, but was already too late.

             
A magical burst of energy materialized from Dalon’s hand, an explosion of focused light concentrated in a narrow beam of light that flew through the air at Jorn and struck him square in the chest.

             
Jorn had never felt anything like it before. It knocked him to the ground into a snow bank at the side of the road. He dropped his sword as a wave of horrible, throbbing pain pulsated through his body. For long moments he was only dimly aware of himself, his limbs unable to move. He tried to call out, but could not.

             
Dalon and his companion dismounted. The younger assassin drew a pair of long, curved knives from his belt.

             
“Thank you for making it so easy, young Ravenbane,” Dalon said, out of breath from casting the powerful spell. “Riding off alone like that couldn’t have been more convenient.”

Dalon glanced at the younger assassin and nodded.

“Go ahead. Make it quick.”

             
The young man stepped forward towards Jorn just as the sound of galloping horses was heard from down the road. Dalon looked back, shocked.

             
“Quickly, finish him!” he snapped, stepping back onto the main road.

Ten mounted warriors came charging up from the direction of Falneth. They were men of Orbadrin, their shields and spears visible in the moonslight.

Dalon cursed, taking a deep breath and preparing to cast another spell.

_____

             
Thulgin hoped merely to catch up to Jorn and stop him from wandering off alone with assassins about. As he approached the crossroads, however, he could see the two magicians in the moonslight, the old man standing near a figure lying in the snow as the young man walked towards it with a long knife in hand. Thulgin drew his sword, urging his horse forward with a hard kick.

             
“Assassins!” Ironhelm shouted, waving his battle axe in the air.

             
Thulgin reached the younger assassin, who turned and threw one of the knives through the air at him. The assassin hurled it expertly and struck Thulgin in the shoulder. In his haste to catch up to Jorn, Thulgin had not donned his armor and the knife penetrated deeply. He was sent reeling by the blow, but stayed in the saddle long enough to complete his own attack, bringing his sword down upon the young assassin. The blade cut into the assassin’s neck deeply, sending a torrent of blood streaming upwards into the air.

Thulgin lurched forward in the saddle, clutching his shoulder. It was wet with blood. He struggled to maintain consciousness, the world spinning all around him. He slipped off
his horse onto the snow and landed with a dull thud next to his brother and the slain assassin.

_____

             
Dalon raised his arms above his head, shouting magical words as several spears were lowered in his direction. Their points rapidly approached as the riders surged forward. Then there was a noise like the crack of a whip followed by an odd burning smell. One moment the wizard was there – and then he was not.

             
The horsemen pulled up on their reigns. They looked at one another helplessly.

             
“He’s gone!” they said. “He’s disappeared!”

             
“Quiet, laddies!” Ironhelm barked. “Silence! Ach. He’s gone invisible, tha’ coward! He’s still here somewhere, he is.”

             
Ironhelm scanned the snow-covered ground, made bright in the moonslight. He heard what sounded like a crunch and his head darted to where the noise came from. Footprints in the snow led away from the general direction where the wizard was last seen and then abruptly ended after ten feet. Ironhelm waited, watching. He turned his head, pretending to look away.

A moment later Ironhelm saw another track appear in the snow, then another. The wizard-assassin was moving slowly, trying to slip away from the warriors unseen. Ironhelm drew his throwing axe slowly, still pretending to be looking elsewhere. He whirled about in his saddle, turning towards the new tracks and hurling his axe in that direction.

              The axe stopped in mid air right above the end of the tracks. The wizard suddenly reappeared, the axe protruding from his back. He fell onto his knees. The horsemen gasped in amazement and several pulled back, nervous to approach a strange magical man who disappeared and reappeared out of thin air. Others looked at the dwarf in amazement.

             
Ironhelm leapt from his pony and ran over to the still-prone Jorn. Ironhelm leaned over and helped him sit up. Groggy, Jorn tried to figure out what was happening. He had heard hooves and shouting voices. Was one of them Thulgin? Now there was some dwarf with one eye looking down at him. Oh, yes, he recalled. The dwarf from the front door.

             
“Shake it off,” Ironhelm said. “You’re a lucky laddie, you are. Many a man would of been killed by a blas’ of magic like tha’. Aye, tis true.”

             
Jorn started to stand but then doubled-over in agony. Every joint in his body felt on fire with a searing, burning pain.

             
“You’ll feel fine before long,” Ironhelm said, clapping him on the back. “Give it time, laddie. Aye, give it time.”

             
The other horsemen had dismounted and huddled around Thulgin. He lay in the snow on his back, the knife sticking out of his shoulder and his cloak covered in blood.

             
“We’d better get him back home right quick,” the eldest of the warriors said. “You, ride back and find Orbadrin’s healer. Hurry back with a litter. Go!”

             
Ironhelm walked over to Thulgin and leaned over him, pulling the cloth of the cloak aside carefully and studying the wound. It was hard to tell how bad it was, but he could tell it was no minor injury. The dwarf took out a small vial from his satchel and uncorked it. He poured a bit of the bright blue liquid within over the wound. It steamed and boiled, Thulgin grimacing and writhing in pain. Then the sting subsided and Thulgin calmed.

             
“A magical healing elixir,” the dwarf explained, re-corking the vial and putting it back away.

             
“Will that save him?” one of the horsemen asked.

             
“It’ll help.”

             
“Dwarf,” Thulgin gasped, grasping Ironhelm’s arm. “Jorn…is he?”

             
“ We were just in time, laddie, but he’s fine. Aye, he’s fine.”

_____

             
Jorn and Orbadrin sat at Thulgin’s bedside. Thulgin lay under the covers, fast asleep. A pair of torches and a fireplace lit the bedchamber and made it uncomfortably warm, but Jorn didn’t notice. He leaned forward in the chair, waiting for Degbald to finish.

             
The healer looked over the wound again, nodding and carefully re-bandaging the shoulder. It had been a day since the fight by the crossroads. Thulgin had regained consciousness but Degbald gave him a steaming, pungent broth which knocked him out.

             
“The deep sleep will help him heal,” he explained. “His body needs all of its energy to mend the rupture.”

             
Degbald stepped away from the bed and smiled. Orbadrin breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the expression on the healer’s face.

             
“He will recover,” Degbald explained. “He will sleep for another day or so and after that he will regain his strength. He’s a strong lad, and the worst is passed. If it had not been for Lord Ironhelm’s healing potion it would not have gone well, I fear, but the elixir stabilized the wound. It put a halt to most of the bleeding and prevented infection.” He paused, noting the confused looks on their faces. “It, um, cleansed the wound.”

             
“Thank you, Degbald,” Orbadrin said, rising. “It seems you do nothing but render my family service. You shall be rewarded.”

             
The healer bowed deeply.

“It is my duty and my joy to help the sick and the injured,” he said. “Reward me by your continued support of the small hospital you have established in Falneth for the benefit of the poor.”

              Orbadrin nodded, grasping the healer warmly by the wrist. Degbald could see that the old man’s eyes were moist with sincere relief.

             
“I will be back in the morning,” he said, exiting quietly.

             
“I am relieved and thankful that Thulgin shall survive,” Orbadrin said after the healer had left. He sat back down. “With the crisis passed, we can now discuss your own problem.”