Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (15 page)

“We should camp here,” the dwarf said.

              “There is still an hour or two of daylight left,” Jorn said.

             
“Tha’ forest is very large, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Its northern half is a dangerous place, aye, and we wouldn’t wan’ to be caught there after dark. No, tha’ would not do at all.”

             
“There’s not enough day to get through to the southern half of the forest,” Edain added. “If we camp here and ride hard tomorrow, we should make it all the way to Skogfald by dark.”

             
“Skogfald?” Jorn asked. “I recall a fine inn there. Yes, we’ll camp here.”

             
Ironhelm was relieved. The northern half of the forest was the known home of at least one gang of brigands, perhaps several. The southern half was somewhat safer, though, populated by the sturdy woodsmen who dwelled around the town of Skogfald just inside the forest’s southern edge.

To the west of Skogfald a group of dwarves had recently established a small colony in foothills near a large deposit of iron ore. They only numbered a few hundred, but they’d made their presence felt. These dwarves regularly patrolled the forest road and made unending war with the brigands. Year by year, in their patient dwarf way, they would roll back the brigands and make the forest ever safer. Someday, Ironhelm figured, the dwarves would hold sway over all Aethnen and it would be as safe to traverse there as anywhere in Pallinore. Not yet, however. 

              They set up camp along the road in a flat meadow, breaking out some of the provisions they brought with them from Falneth. A few of the warriors soon got a roaring bonfire going and heated their dinner of salted pork and dried cheese over it. A group of small tents soon ringed the fire, outside of which Ironhelm set a picket and had built several smaller fires to help those on guard duty. He cautioned the rest to keep their weapons and shields close by as they slept.

             
“Einar’s not going to just let us just walk into The Westmark without a fight,” the dwarf reminded them all. “They’ll be waiting for us yet, laddies, somewhere along the way.”

_____

             
Ironhelm paced the perimeter of the camp. The guards on duty looked alert enough at first glance. They stood tense and ready, no man wanting the dwarf to bark at them in his rough manner. Orbadrin bade them all follow the dwarf’s orders as though it were the thane himself speaking, and a command of Orbadrin was never to be taken lightly.

             
“Ach! Keep a clear eye!” Ironhelm snapped at a soldier he caught looking less than fully-alert.

             
As the night went on, the moons each rose in turn and slowly crossed the sky, silvery Ithlon followed by the great blue orb Arnos a few hours later. All was quiet, the guards standing in the cold staring out into the darkness. It was a long night, watching constantly for an enemy who might or might not be coming as the dwarf paced.

             
“Only a few hours left, laddies,” Ironhelm said as the sky slowly grew lighter in the east and a new shift took over. “Aye, we’re almost there.”

             
Jorn suddenly appeared at his side.

             
“Ach. What rouses you?” Ironhelm asked.

             
“Nothing,” Jorn said. “Just a bad dream.”

             
“Well, all’s quiet here,” the dwarf said. “Now you should get right back to your rest, laddie.”

             
“I thought I’d stand guard a bit,” Jorn said.

             
“Laddie, you’re Thane of The Westmark,” Ironhelm said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You don’t stand guard duty like a common soldier.”

             
“Fine,” Jorn said, returning to his tent with a shrug.

             
Ironhelm watched him leave, shaking his head. He turned back to the darkness, studying it for the slightest sign of danger.

_____

             
The rest of the night passed quietly. The next day was windy and even colder than usual, a biting wind blowing down from the north. They rode through the forest, every eye studying the towering ash trees and gigantic pines on either side. It was dimmer inside the forest, the immense pine canopy a hundred feet above their heads blocking out much of the sun. In the summer, it was a moist and shady place, covered in massive ferns and great clusters of mushrooms. Now, it was coated in a smooth white blanket of snow and eerily quiet. The only sound was the steady clip-clop of the horses along the trail.

Once, one of Jorn’s soldiers cried out that he saw a man slinking away far from the road but nothing came of it. They paused, studying the forest intently and looking for any other signs of movement. If it were a highwayman watching the road he would surely report the size and warlike appearance of the armed company to his fellows. No gang of brigands would be likely to risk an encounter with such a force, though.

The closest Jorn’s men came to any further danger in the forest were a pair of huge, hulking figures lumbering along far from the road at the very edge of Jorn’s vision. They were immense, at least ten feet tall each. The figures approached no closer, stopping and watching the party for a brief moment before turning away and heading deeper into the forest.

             
“Trolls,” Edain muttered. “In broad daylight, too! And within sight of the road!”

“Tis well tha’ I didn’t encounter them on my way north,” Ironhelm said.

By midday they passed through the dangerous part of the forest unharmed. Small farms began to line the road and they encountered a few woodsmen on their way back from mornings spent hunting in the vast woodlands of southern Aethnen. They were burly, weatherworn men with huge longbows in their hands and short broadswords at their hips who regarded the armed company with wary concern.

Jorn nodded knowingly. These were troubled times in Aethnen. Armed patrols scoured the southern half of the forest day and night, defending terrain their fathers and grandfathers once regarded as perfectly safe in their own day.

             
The column stopped by the side of the road for a hurried lunch of more salt pork and cheese before resuming their journey. The men ate hurriedly and jumped right back in their saddles, ready to move on. Not a mile further they passed by a strange-looking man by the side of the road. He was dressed in a filthy brown tunic and a tattered old cloak, worn old boots on his feet. His hair was long and matted, and his shaggy beard was unkempt. He was crouched down by the side of the road, scratching at the ground with a long stick and mumbling to himself. At the approach of the party, he suddenly stood and began to laugh uncontrollably.

             
“Give up your ways!” he shouted at them. His eyes were aflame with uncontrolled passion. “Put down your spears! Renounce your ways, before it is too late! I have seen what is to come! Repent whilst still you can!”

             
They rode past, the soldiers heckling and cursing the man. He stared at them as they rode by, still shouting warnings of impending doom at the company until they were finally out of earshot.

             
“Damned madmen,” Edain muttered with a sigh. “They’re all over the roads these days. That’s another thing not seen in days past.”

             
“Damned mystic hermits,” Ironhelm said. “Ach! Long have they lived far from all civilization, but now the trolls and gruks grow in number. Aye, they drive the fools from their wild places and onto the roads.”

An hour later they encountered a small patrol of a dozen well-armed dwarves mounted on stout ponies. The dwarves were clad in well-crafted armor, finely-fitted steel breastplates over long-sleeved hauberks. They bore heavy shields and had thick fur cloaks wrapped over their shoulders. They had little to say to the travelers, even to Ironhelm, letting them pass unmolested once they were satisfied the strangers were not brigands. 

“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn said. “They were unfriendly.”

“They’re hard-pressed on all sides, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

              They reached Skogfald right before sundown as a few snow flurries began to fall. It was much larger than Sklegenholm. Surrounded by a wooden stockade with a single gate next to a winding stream, there were dozens of buildings of various sizes and purposes making up the town. The inn, made of brick and two stories high, was the largest building in town. A sign hung over the door with the emblem of a sword crossed with a spear painted upon it.

             
“The Sword and Spear,” Jorn told Ironhelm as they led the company up to it. “I recall it from my trips to Vistinar. There is comfort here. Grang’s teeth, I need a drink!”

             
Ironhelm knew the place, too. He had stayed there on his way to Falneth and remembered it as warm, comfortable, and clean. He hadn’t stayed long, though, riding off before dawn to reach Jorn.

             
“We should not be too interested in comforts, laddie,” he said. “Aye, Einar’s agents could be anywhere.”

             
Edain agreed, nodding emphatically.

“We’ll keep guards outside in shifts,” he said. “Maybe a scouting party should take a look around, too.”

              “Why? There’s a wall around the village,” Jorn said.

             
“Barely a fence,” Edain cautioned. “It would stop no one. And the only guards posted upon it are villagers, not soldiers.”

             
“Aye, tis true,” Ironhelm agreed. “And an assassin might already be inside the town, laddie.”

             
“Fine,” Jorn said, dismounting. “Take a few men and check out the area, post a picket outside the inn and along the wall, and jump at every shadow. I’m going to have a drink.”

_____

             
The inn was crowded that night, the large common room filled not just with Jorn’s soldiers but also locals and a few stray travelers. A massive fireplace and several wizard’s lamps lit the room up as a man with long gray whiskers sat in one corner and played a
hammarharpa
with surprising skill.

Salted herring was served up in steaming piles along with decent ale and warm black bread. The company all sat together, huddled over their drinks on the far side of the room and facing the doors. A young woman with flowing red hair and a buxom form was among those serving the food and drink in the busy inn. She caught Jorn’s attention at once.

              “What’s your name, Red?” Jorn asked as she placed another overflowing tankard of ale in front of him.

             
The barmaid smiled.

“Why don’t you tell me yours first, your lordship,” she said playfully.

              “I’m Jorn,” he said. “I’m a thane. It’s true.”

“I’ve never heard of a Thane Jorn,” she said, smiling.

              “You will,” Jorn said. “I’m on way to claim my lands.”

             
“Are you?” she laughed.

             
“I am. But in the meantime, Red, I’ve no one to keep me warm at night. Maybe you could help me with that?” 

             
Ironhelm gritted his teeth. Jorn was treating the evening like some kind of feast, drinking hard and flirting with every barmaid that ventured within ear’s reach. Now Jorn laughed as a pair of locals rose from their seats, leaping atop one of the tables, and began dancing a stomping dance to the rhythm of the
hammarharpa
. The crowd banged their hands on the tables in rhythm to the music, creating a great racket.

Ironhelm watched the dancers for a few bored moments and then looked around the room. Two patrons in heavy cloaks sat in a far corner sipping their ale and being strangely quiet. One had his back to Ironhelm, and something about them didn’t have the look of farmers or townsmen. He studied them, all the while taking care to not be obvious. His eye fell upon the two-handed axe leaned against the table where the men sat but Ironhelm could not make out anything else through all the commotion.

              He kept his eye on them, even as the common room grew louder and rowdier. The crowd at the inn cheered for the dancers, but the strangers seemed mostly uninterested. One of them turned around for a moment, perhaps to see what was making such a ruckus, and Ironhelm got a good look at the man’s face. The stranger had a bright red beard, bushy eyebrows, and a long nose. It was a most memorable face, and the dwarf recognized it at once.

The red-bearded man turned back to his companion a second later, but Ironhelm had seen enough. He took another sip of ale, deliberately nonchalant. He leaned over and whispered into Jorn’s ear.

              “Are you certain?” Jorn whispered back.

             
“Aye, tha’ I am,” Ironhelm said. “Tha’s him for sure. They knew you’d be coming back this way if the assassins failed. I told you this was no time to relax, laddie. Aye, tis true.”

             
“What do we do?” Jorn said, pretending to take a sip of ale and watching the dancers. He laughed and slammed his hand on the table.