Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (23 page)

              The entire hillside was suddenly covered with figures in white cloaks who rained volley after volley of arrows upon Einar’s men. The Northmen scrambled about, most of them shocked and confused by the sudden ambush. Amidst the confusion, one gruff old sergeant shouted orders to the men to form their ranks and charge the hill. But the rain of arrows continued and the sergeant went mostly ignored, scores of men falling all around him.  An arrow through his throat silenced him forever.

             
Einar was half-dragged, half-led back to his horse, only getting into the saddle with much help. The wound hurt, but he did not think it was fatal. He’d seen enough of battle to know that much. He was in no condition to keep fighting, though. He spurred his horse roughly, forgetting Jorn and meaning to ride away from the ambush as quickly as he could. Another arrow flew in, striking him in the hip. Einar cried out in pain, almost falling from the saddle.

Faxon grasped the reigns of the horse, leading Einar away from the fight. The wizard worried that the ambush was the beginning of some massive counterattack from behind their lines. Whatever was happening, he would soon have thousands of troops turned against the archers emerging along the hillside.

_____

              The archers in white made their way down the hillside, firing arrows with incredible rapidity as they advanced. Einar’s soldiers soon recognized the white-cloaked archers as wood elves, causing more than a few to back away hurriedly. Some charged towards the elves through the rain of arrows, however, threatening to roll back the ambush.

Braemorgan emerged from the pines, charging right at Einar’s men atop his huge gray horse. He raised his arms high above his head, waving his staff and shouting the magical incantation that would bring forth a spell he hoped would be enough to swing the fight in his favor.

For a brief second he seemed to glow with a shimmering white light, followed by the descent of hell and fire down upon Einar’s troops. Dozens of small meteors fell from the clear sky all around them, slamming to the ground with tremendous force as they trailed plumes of flame behind them. Some meteors struck Einar’s men and killed them instantly. Others exploded in great balls of red-orange flame as they struck the ground, knocking men off their feet. The survivors of the onslaught were terrified by it all, any semblance of organization in their ranks destroyed by the meteor storm. Most broke and ran, the rest cut down by elven arrows.

             
Braemorgan rode into the remainder, swinging his staff as he went along and striking down several of the fleeing warriors in the process. He reached Jorn at last and leapt from his saddle.

The wizard felt Jorn’s neck and searched for a pulse. It was weak, but there. Reaching into his robes, he produced a tiny metal vial and uncorked it, pouring the bright-blue healing potion directly into the wound. It sizzled and steamed, seeping into the damaged flesh. The wizard sighed, rising.

              The white-cloaked archers formed a ring around him and Jorn. The elf-lord Rhydderch stood among them.

             
“He lives,” Braemorgan announced. “But barely.”

             
Rhydderch nodded, turning towards two of his elves.

“See to him,” he said.

              “We cannot lose him,” the wizard said as he looked down at Jorn with a sullen expression on his face.

             
“There is no time to waste,” Rhydderch said, glancing towards the road. “Einar’s rear guard will be re-grouping.”

             
“We’ve only scant minutes,” Braemorgan said.

The elf turned to the warriors all around him.

“Make haste,” he said. “Back to the trees!”

             
The elves rolled Jorn onto a thick wool cloth they had spread out on the ground. Wooden poles were woven into two edges of the cloth. Grasping the poles, four elves lifted Jorn off the ground. Another elf threw a thick wool blanket over Jorn and they carried him up the hillside into the trees, wary elf soldiers guarding the litter on either side.

As the litter disappeared into the woods, all was silent on the battlefield save for the groans of the wounded men strewn about in the snow.

_____

              Braemorgan sat on a rock outside the small stone cottage smoking his pipe, a dark scowl on his face. None of the soldiers standing nearby would even look at him, let alone dare to approach. He sat for a long time, ignoring everyone and watching the clouds of smoke from his pipe floating up into the air. Ironhelm sat nearby, his armor covered in the blood of slain enemies.

             
The cottage was tiny, little more than a one room shack nestled along a hillside some miles within the Clegr Hills. A small barn and a chicken coup stood nearby next to a little garden plot, the whole homestead straddling a small path through the hills. It was the cottage of a poor woodsman’s widow, a dwelling both humble and meek but more than enough to suit their current needs.

             
Inside the cottage, elf healers tended to Jorn’s wounds. Rhydderch stood next to them, watching. Morag, too, watched the healers apply their balms and sew the wound shut. She listened to them discussing Jorn’s injury in Elven, following as best as she could. The language was always difficult for outsiders to comprehend, but the wood elves’ peculiar accents made it nearly impossible to grasp. Even so, she was able to understand enough to know Jorn had lost an alarming amount of blood and his survival was anything but certain.

             
“Remarkable,” the chief healer commented. “He shouldn’t be alive.”

             
“A lesser man wouldn’t be,” Rhydderch said. “He’s a fighter, this one.”

             
Morag didn’t know how she should feel. She watched them work on this brother she didn’t know or even want to know and felt numb.

Too much had happened too soon. First her grandfather and brother Agnar died within months of one another. Then she’d seen her lover slain before her very eyes as her family’s ancestral lands were overrun. She tried to put it all out of her
mind, concentrating on this half-wild half-brother from over the mountains who lay clinging to life in some widow’s cottage. 

             
The elf healers finished their work and covered Jorn up with a thick wool blanket. He stirred, almost waking up. A plump old woman, the woodsman’s widow who lived in the cottage, smiled and tucked in the corners of the blanket. She seemed a bit awed by all the elves and wizards who had taken over her humble little house, but not the least bit angry at the intrusion.

             
“Don’t you worry a bit,” she said to Morag, smiling and touching her arm. “He’s a strong lad, milady. He’ll be up and about afore long. Then he’ll come back and whip that black dog Einar. You’ll see, milady. It’ll be all right.”

             
Morag looked at the woman. Her face was round and ruddy and full of sweet gentleness.  Morag was surprised to find such simple kindness still existing.

“I need some air,” she said to Rhydderch, turning away from the bed. She pulled her cloak close to her, drawing up the hood, and stepped outside. It was brighter outside, but cold.

              About a hundred soldiers of The Westmark stood or sat along the trail, most of them huddled around a few small campfires. Every few minutes more soldiers staggered up, collapsing dejected by one of the campfires. Many were covered in blood and filth, beaten looks upon their faces.

Fifty wood elves stood apart from the men, silently eying the human soldiers with a mixture of fascination and disdain. All in all, Morag concluded, it was a pathetic residue of what had been a strong army only the night before. She approached Braemorgan. The wizard suddenly noticed Morag standing next to him and looked up at her, startled.

              “How does he fare?” he asked.

             
“The elves think he will live, but it will be some time before he is up and about.”

             
Braemorgan nodded, but said nothing. He took another puff on his pipe.

             
“And what of you?” he said at last, glancing at Morag.

             
“Me? I am unwounded. There is nothing wrong with me.”

             
Braemorgan raised an eyebrow.

“Is that truly so?” he said.

“I would just as soon not discuss it.”

“Remember, my child” he said. “He was a Captain of The Westmark, a soldier pledged to face death in battle if need be.”

              Morag glared at him.

             
“What would you know of it?” she snapped. “Who’ve you ever loved, in all your years?”

             
Braemorgan said nothing, taking another deep puff from his pipe.

             
Ironhelm shifted uncomfortably in his armor. He wished he were out of earshot.

             
A pair of men on horseback approached along the trail, riding swiftly towards them. One of the riders was a common soldier, the other Wulfgrim. They stopped at the cottage and dismounted.

             
“Wha’ news?” Ironhelm said.

             
“Einar is still pushing south, not stopping yet,” Wulfgrim said. “He has seized the crossroads at Iynheath and his berserkers climb towards Brame’s Gap in the north.”

             
“Our defeat is complete,” Braemorgan muttered.

             
Wulfgrim was silent. His face was a mask of silent resignation.

             
“How is he?” he asked, looking in the direction of the cottage.

             
“He’ll live,” Braemorgan said.

             
“That’s something,” Wulfgrim said.

             
“It’s everything,” Braemorgan said.

             
“Wha’ do we do now?” Ironhelm said.

             
“He must be moved,” Braemorgan said. “Somewhere safe until the time is right. Einar will not give up trying to kill him.”

             
“He won’t be ready to travel for days,” Morag said.

             
“We’ll find a way.” Braemorgan took another puff on his pipe. “Jorn cannot stay here for long. We are far too close to Einar’s army for that. There are the outposts further inside the hills he can be brought to, though. Einar’s forces will not find him there.”

             
“Damn it all,” Wulfgrim muttered. He sat down on a rock near Braemorgan. “How could this happen?”

             
Braemorgan sighed. He was still trying to figure that out himself. There was no doubt anymore that powerful forces were backing Einar, the Cult grown strong beyond anything he had originally believed. The thousands of gruk and berserker troopers were one thing. The dozens of wizards and shamans were even more alarming. But it was the appearance of fire giants on the battlefield that was most worrisome. Such creatures had not been seen outside their high mountain homes in millennia. He wondered if more fire giants would soon be seen. Would an entire army of giants soon be descending from the mountains into the civilized lands? How could such a force possibly be stopped?

             
“There is much work to be done in the coming months,” he said. “I want to know the full story of what happened. I want to know how monstrous giants suddenly stepped out of some bard’s song and onto the battlefield. We must learn more about just how large the Cult has grown. I only hope they can still be contained.”

             
“You
hope
?” Wulfgrim said, frowning.

             
“Look around you, my friend.
Hope
is all we have left.”

Ten

Ironhelm did not mind woodlands. They had a certain beauty to them, he had to admit, though he still considered the austere beauty of the vast northern forests to be nothing but a pale echo of the silent grandeur of the underground mountain halls of his own people. Back in Thunderforge, the columns reached up past the limits of vision and disappeared into the inky blackness. It was not altogether unlike the towering pines above him now, he thought.

Those great halls of stone, however, were comforting. The forest, on the other hand, might hide danger and death just beyond the limits of his ever-scanning eye.  

The wooded hillside was as quiet. As Ironhelm stood in the moonslight, staring down the rise at the quiet trees before him, he contemplated the profound beauty of such silence. Only during such times was the full beauty of tree or stone appreciated.

On either side of him at the top of the hillside, wood elves stood in white cloaks with their hoods pulled up over their heads. They remained stiffly straight, bows in hand  and arrows at the ready.

Ironhelm heard a soft crunching behind him as someone approached. It was Braemorgan.

“Is it time?” the dwarf asked.

“Almost,” the wizard said. “I must put my trust in you once again, old friend. It is but three days to Llywarch, but you will have to cross lands perhaps already under Einar’s control.”

“Aye, if tha’ whoreson is still alive,” Ironhelm said.

“From what I saw, his wounds were not likely fatal,” Braemorgan said. “No, I suspect he is very much alive. I am quite sure of it, sad to say.”

They turned from the guard post and walked along the narrow trail back to the cave. Deep in the Clegr Hills, more than ten miles from the shepherd’s cottage, they’d brought Jorn to the cave long used as a hidden outpost of The Westmark. They’d debated hotly whether to move the lad so soon after his injury, but Braemorgan prevailed upon the others.

“He cannot be moved,” Rhydderch insisted. “My healers tell me he may die if moved. The lad has had barely a day to recover from his wounds.”

“You are correct,” Braemorgan said, puffing vigorously on his pipe. “He cannot be moved without grave danger. Nevertheless, I am quite certain that he
must
be moved.”

“It’s risky,” Rhydderch said.

“Unquestionably,” Braemorgan said. “But we’ve no choice in the matter. If we move him, he may die. If we do not move him, he
will
die when Einar’s troops come.”

The elves took Jorn and put him in their litter, all bundled up from the cold. Jorn was only barely awake, too weak to protest. Wrapped-up just like an infant in his swaddling clothes, he was gently lifted into the litter and carried out of the cottage.

“Where are we going?” Jorn murmured, looking up at Braemorgan.

“Somewhere safe,” the wizard said, smiling. 

They left the cottage, the woodsman’s widow standing at the door silently as the long column of men and elves moved silently off into the woods. They disappeared from sight, climbing higher into the rocky hills, all the while carrying Jorn over the snow. Jorn stared upwards, at the tree tops and the gray sky passing by. Since that night Ironhelm had shown up at the door of Hrókur, Jorn felt carried along by events beyond his control. Now he lay helpless, barely awake and bundled-up like a newborn babe, on his way to someplace he did not know and without the least bit of say in the matter.

He closed his eyes, groggy from the elven medicine, and was soon asleep.

A few hours later they reached the cave. Elves and men already on guard up ahead hailed them, and they passed through the narrow mouth of the cave. From the outside, it looked like a cleft along a steep cliff. Inside, however, was a long tunnel descending deep into the rocky hillside. Wizard’s lamps hanging from the ceiling lit the way.

Jorn awoke as they entered it, lifting his head as best he could manage to take in his surroundings. He saw divergent passages on either side of the tunnel as they brought him further underground. Whatever this place was, it was large. It seemed like he was carried down a hundred feet before at last coming to a stop deep under the rocky hills.

Jorn felt constricted as they descended farther under the earth. He squirmed and struggled. It felt like the sides of the tunnel were pressing against him. He imagined the thousands of tons of rock above him and began to tremble at the thought of it. 

They lay Jorn on a bed in a warm room with a small fire burning in the corner. The room was large, for a bedchamber. It also had a high ceiling and didn’t feel as confined as the initial tunnel. Still, it bothered him.

The elf healers took another look at his wound and gave him some more broth to drink. It was pungent and had a very strange taste to it.  Jorn had never tasted anything so intensely bitter before in his life.

“This will relax you,” one of the healers said.

Jorn tried to speak but he suddenly felt exhausted and fell asleep.

He woke up – he did not know how much later it was – to find Braemorgan sitting by his side, puffing away furiously on his pipe. Smoke pooled up at the ceiling.

“How long?” Jorn asked, managing to sit up. He felt much stronger.

“A full day since we brought you here,” Braemorgan said. “Ah, I see you are finally getting a bit stronger.”

An elf healer appeared at Jorn’s side and handed him a mug of the bitter concoction.

“Drink this,” the healer said.

“I don’t to fall asleep again,” Jorn said.

“This broth is much weaker,” the healer explained. “It will merely dull your pain.”

Jorn nodded and accepted the mug. He turned back to Braemorgan.

“How bad is it?” Jorn asked.

“Your shoulder?” the wizard said. “It will heal fully. You’ll be as strong as ever.”

“No, I mean, um, The Westmark.”

“It has fallen…but that does not mean it is lost forever. We
will
fight another day. As soon as you are ready we will get you to Llywarch.”

“Rhydderch’s realm?”

“We’ll be safe from attack there,” Braemorgan said. He began the furious puffing again. “At least for now.”

“Where…where are we?” Jorn asked, taking a sip of the bitter drink. It still tasted disgusting. “What is this place?”

“We are in the Clegr Hills, more than ten miles from Loc Goren across rough terrain. This is a hidden guard post established by your great-grandfather, a secret refuge to combat bandits and gruks in the hills throughout the winter. It is well-hidden. We are safe for now.”

Jorn lay back down, too fatigued to sit up any further. He put the cup aside and looked up at the ceiling. He could see the flickering reflection of the fire on it.

“I lost The Westmark,” he said.

“
You
lost it?” Braemorgan said. “No, that’s not true at all. If anything, you made us more prepared for Einar’s attack than we otherwise would have been. Were it not for you, many more would have been killed and fewer would have escaped the onslaught. We might have all been trapped in the keep, which at last report is still under siege. I’m just grateful we escaped with you still alive.”

“How did you do that?” Jorn asked. “The last thing I remember, let’s see, I was laying on the ground with Einar over me. Then I woke up in that cottage with elf healers looking over me. All Morag said was that you and the elves rescued me. Then I blacked out again. Then I was being carried here.”

“When we realized you had fallen prisoner, Lord Rhydderch and I led a rescue party. We were fortunate Einar didn’t just have you summarily beheaded, the arrogant twit. Instead he engaged in one-on-one combat with you.”

“I goaded him into it,” Jorn said.

“That saved your life, for otherwise we would have arrived too late to be of any help. When one of Rhydderch’s scouts reported you alive and being held near the edge of the woods, we attacked with everything we could muster as quickly as possible. Fortunately, we were able to scoop you up before Einar’s warriors counterattacked. Einar was wounded during the rescue attempt, as well.”

“Not badly enough, I’m sure,” Jorn said.

“An arrow to the shoulder and another to the hip,” the wizard said, smirking. “By all appearances, it seems he will live.”  Braemorgan gestured toward the mug. “You should drink a little more of your medicine if you would make a quick recovery.”

“It’s disgusting,” Jorn said, crinkling his nose at the thought of the foul-testing brew. “What the hell is it?”

“It is called
Flannae,
” the wizard said. “Wormwood leaves soaked in wine, with some bark of the Acacia thrown in for good measure and the extract of certain mushrooms. The elves of Llywarch consume it regularly as a hot tea. The taste is bitter, yes, but so is much in life.”

_____

A large party of elves was assembled outside the cave, perhaps fifty of them in all. They wore white cloaks with deep hoods and matching boots.

The elves mounted dapple-gray horses and waited as Ironhelm and the wizard made their way down the steep path to them. The horses wore snowshoes to traverse the deep snow.

Rhydderch stood amidst his soldiers next to Morag. She was dressed as the elves in a white cloak and might easily have passed for one of them from a distance except for the bright orange locks which spilled out from underneath her hood. No elf had such a hair color.

Braemorgan went over to her and placed a long black wand in her hand, whispering something in her ear. She nodded and tucked the wand into her belt, turning back to attend to her saddle. 

“Wha’ was all tha’ about, lass?” Ironhelm asked the wizard.

“A wand of fire,” Braemorgan said. “It is a most powerful magical item, and she may have need of it. A novice spellcaster needs as much help as possible.”

Jorn emerged from the cave, also clad in a white elf-cloak. He felt a little foolish in it, his large frame never likely to be mistaken for that of an elf’s. He slung a sword over his shoulder, though he was not sure how well he would be able to use it just yet. It had been nearly a week since his fight with Einar, and his shoulder still ached whenever he tried to use it.

“Ah, you’re looking much better!” Braemorgan said.

“I won’t miss that damned cave,” Jorn said, taking a deep breath. He’d walked outside as far as the outer guard pickets every day for the last few days, feeling stronger each time. The elf-healers shook their heads in amazement, endlessly commenting on his astounding recovery. Jorn, meanwhile, went out of his way to spend as much time as he could near the mouth of the cave, avoiding the deeper areas of the underground complex. He even slept in a small chamber near the entrance, complaining the air deeper down felt too stuffy.

Jorn pulled himself up onto his horse. He grimaced a bit from the pain in his shoulder, but he wasn’t about to be helped up into the saddle like some old woman. The
flannae
the elves made him drink dulled the pain enough for him to function, at least.

The others mounted their horses, including Ironhelm who got atop Angala. Jorn was glad to see Orbadrin’s gift pony
survived the attack on Loc Goren, Ironhelm apparently riding her to safety during the retreat. It would have been a tragedy for such a fine animal to have been lost. It would have broken the old Thane’s heart to hear of such a thing.

“Fare well, Thane Ravenbane,” Braemorgan said, Wulfgrim standing next to him. “Today is
Naklion
, the annual feast of First Primenor.
Yulhunth
, it is called among you elves and
Frafarneafr
to the dwarves. It is
Wynlithlian
among the gnomes, a time of feasting and good cheer when all children of Une come together in fellowship and hope. For it is also the first day of the new year, an auspicious date indeed to commence with so important a journey.”

“It is the shortest day and the longest night of the entire year,” Morag grumbled. “How is that auspicious?”

Braemorgan smiled.

“Every day after today grows a bit longer than the day before,” he said.  “Until spring blooms and the days are long and warm once more. The night, even on this day of its greatest triumph, begins its retreat. I would call that auspicious, dear child.”

_____

              Ten elves rode out in front, followed by Rhydderch. Behind the elf-lord rode Morag, Ironhelm, Jorn, and the elf healer Falanos who tended to Jorn. Behind Jorn and the healer trailed a few horses bearing supplies and ten more elves bringing up the rear. The elves rode with bows in hand and arrows ready, eying the trees on either side of their path warily.

Ironhelm had a loaded crossbow within easy reach as well as his throwing axes. He was uneasy, in spite of their numbers. Einar’s warriors had to be moving into the hills by now, scouting parties probably crawling all over the place.

              Braemorgan’s plan was simple enough. They would head south with Jorn along the highest part of the Clegr Hills, a few peaks rising to the size of small mountains at nearly one thousand feet tall each. It was rough, thickly-wooded terrain with a single track leading through. The track, however, was far enough east to avoid the enemy.