Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (45 page)

              “The Teeth of Kaas,” Willock said. “Three or four days ride.”

             
“What now?” Flatfoot asked. “Do we cross the valley directly?”

             
“No,” Jorn said. “We take the Old Guardian Road north.”

             
“I worry about that,” Flatfoot said. “It seems by far the most direct way, which also means it is probably the most traveled way. That would seem to indicate that the enemy would likely use it as their main thoroughfare as well.”

             
“Aye,” Ironhelm said. “But tha’ valley floor is crawling with monsters of all sorts. Aye, tis true. I wouldn’t cross there if I could avoid it. Besides, Hammeredshield’s scouts have explored the road and found it safe. It should be clear at least as far as the Glammonfore Gap.”

             
“Then it’s settled,” Jorn said. “We take the road.”

______

             
They moved south the rest of the day, watching the road ahead carefully. Their hands rarely strayed very far from the hilts of their weapons but they encountered no one, only ibex grazing on the treacherous mountain slopes above them.

Every so often they’d catch glimpses of the valley through gaps in the trees. It reminded Jorn very much of The Westmark. Both were part of the same series of valleys running along the edge of the Great Barrier Mountains, after all. Sollistore, just to the north of where they were now, was yet another such valley.

              “Such a pity,” Ailric said. “What excellent country down there given up to the enemy.”

             
“It must be abundant with game,” Willock observed. “The streams and lakes are probably overfilling with fish and fowl, too.”

             
“What a grand crusade it would be to drive the evil forces from this valley and establish civilization here yet again,” Ailric said.

             
“Yet not with ten thousand men could such a thing be done,” Willock said. “There are more dangers down there than you know.”

             
A flock of birds flew overhead, a flying-v heading south.             

“A couple of those fat ducks would make for a good meal tonight,” Flatfoot said. “Better than the salt pork we’ve got.”

              “True enough, gnome. Leave it to me,” Ronias said.

A few minutes later another flock flew by. Ronias raised his arm above him and shouted one of his magical phrases.

A pair of bright balls of light each the size of a man’s fist fired upward from the end of Ronias’s hands. The balls struck a pair of ducks, sending the two birds crashing to the ground by the side of the path. Willock leapt from his saddle and walked over to the fallen birds, picking them up. He grinned and held them up for the others to see.

“Fine shooting, Ronias!” Flatfoot said. “Oh, I can’t wait to eat them for dinner! Bloody excellent shooting indeed!”

“It is nothing,” the elf explained. “The spell targets the life force of the creature I aim it at. It cannot miss. Of course, the energy of that particular blast was rather minimal, but more than sufficient to kill a mere duck.”

A few hours later they made camp near a trickling brook which crossed their path. Following it upstream away from the path for several hundred yards to get out-of-sight from the road, they found a flat clearing next to the stream and near a pair of massive boulders the size of small houses among the towering aspens and beech. They worked quickly, tending to the horses and then setting up camp as Ronias and Flatfoot set about preparing the dinner.

Gathering a pile of stones in the center of the campsite, Ronias cast his spell upon them and soon they were glowing white-hot and throwing off a tremendous amount of heat. Flatfoot next set up his portable spit above the glowing-hot rocks. Then, taking the plucked and cleaned ducks, he speared them carefully. He patted them with some dried herbs he kept in a little tin container and laid them over the fire. Bits of fat dripped off the birds as they cooked, sizzling on the stones below.

The others finished their tasks and, one by one, sat around the spits and began sipping wine or ale as Flatfoot sat and turned the birds as he felt was necessary. After an hour or so, Flatfoot pronounced the ducks done. Everyone savored the tender meat, along with some boiled turnips and a bit of ale. When dinner was over Flatfoot took the leftovers, including the remaining duck carcasses, and threw it all into one of the pots with some water from the spring, a few carrots, plenty of salt and herbs, and some potatoes he sliced into cubes. He hung the pot on the spit still hanging over the fire.

“We’ll leave that to stew overnight slowly,” he said. “It should make for a nice hot breakfast.”

“You know well the art of cooking,” Willock observed.

“What gnome doesn’t?” Flatfoot said. “I’ve spent too many years living on the trail and I love comfort too dearly not to learn how to make life a bit more bearable when sleeping outdoors.”

“Well, that settles it,” Jorn said. “You’re on permanent duty as camp cook.”

“Agreed,” Flatfoot said.

Ironhelm rose and began a thorough inspection of the camp perimeter. From fifty feet away the gently glowing hot stones were invisible through the thick trees and boulders of the mountainside.

Willock and Jorn were absent when Ironhelm returned, having climbed one of the large boulders nearby. Flatfoot, meanwhile, sat by the fire and enjoyed a smoke from his long pipe as he chatted with Ailric about the various means of preparing roast duck. Ronias sat silently staring at the fire.

Ironhelm shrugged and went to join Jorn and Willock atop the boulder. He found them standing staring off into the west. The top of the boulder peeked out above most of the trees and afforded an unobstructed view of the valley below. All was a great mass of darkness, except for one patch. Far off in the distance, somewhat to the southwest, was a patch of glowing light on the valley floor.

“Wha’ in damnation is tha’?” Ironhelm muttered.

Willock handed the dwarf the spyscope. Ironhelm raised it to his eye and pointed it towards the valley floor. What looked
like a strange, indeterminate glow from a distance was actually hundreds of flickering lights.

“Ach! Campfires!”

“
Hundreds
of campfires,” Jorn said. “An entire army’s worth.”

Nineteen

            
 
“So that’s the invasion army the dwarves are looking for,” Flatfoot sighed. “I suppose we go back and warn them?”

They were huddled close around Ronias’s magically-glowing stones.

              “No need,” Ironhelm mumbled. “They already know, laddie.”

             
“Is that so?” Flatfoot wondered.

“Did you pay no attention at all to Redhammer?” Ironhelm said.  “There’s a watchtower facing the valley a thousand feet above the Widowing Gap, there is. There is no way they could miss those lights. Aye, tis true.”

              “They’re meant not to miss it,” Jorn added.

             
“Wha’?” Ironhelm said.

Jorn took a sip of ale.

“The gruk raiders have been avoiding detection for months, and now all of a sudden they are camped within sight of the dwarf watchtower?” he said. “Grang’s teeth, that’s a blunder on their part.”

             
“Gruks have been known to blunder,” Ailric said.

             
“Use the spyscope and take a look for yourself, knight,” Jorn said. “Those aren’t regular campfires down there. They’ve got bonfires going. They’re trying to be seen. You saw that wall across the gap. What’s his name, um, Redhammer, he was right. The thing’s invincible. That army, it’s not massing for an attack.”

             
“Then what’re they doing?” Ailric said, shaking his head.

             
“It’s a diversion,” Jorn said. “It’s meant to suck ‘em in, make ‘em commit resources, meanwhile the whole time the killing blow strikes elsewhere. One thing this enemy understands, it’s exactly like what my uncle Orbadrin used to say: Half of warfare is deception.”

_____

The others were soon asleep. Jorn sat near the edge of the camp wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, his sword stuck in the ground next to him. He sipped a bit of ale sprinkled with plenty of
Flannae
and watched the darkness. Staring up at stars, his eyes fell upon a particular group to the west.

In Linlund, the constellation was called the
helskhuggi,
“The Lovers”. It was said to resemble a young couple entwined in an eternal embrace. Jorn never saw any such likeness, though Inglefrid did and he never argued.  On clear nights they’d sit atop the cliffs near the lighthouse, looking up at the stars and talking until late.

It was hard to look at the night sky and not think of Inglefrid. Jorn’s mind went drifting back to Glaenavon as he fingered her copper pendant.

The morning after Braemorgan told Jorn of Orbadrin’s death, the wizard hurried off again with hardly a word. Whatever seemed to be bothering him, he didn’t say. 

Summer passed into fall and a messenger arrived from Glorbinden one morning reporting Inglefrid’s grandmother had fallen ill. Inglefrid packed her things and Jorn walked her all the way to her grandmother’s rooms above the butcher shop. It was clear the old woman was fading fast, although no one said so. They parted reluctantly, Jorn walking back to the lighthouse in the dark with a heavy heart.

Back home, Jorn continued his studies. He focused again on the study of Elven, hating it as much as ever and aggravated by its arcane conventions and senseless grammar. Every verb had dozens of tenses, not to mention the innumerable modes and phases the elves seemed obsessed with. He wondered how elves ever communicated with one another, preferring the straightforward simplicity of Dwarven or the sparse economy of Old Luthanian.

History was Jorn’s solace during those weeks, as well as geometry. Both subjects came easily to him, and he saw important, universal truths in each.

Still, Jorn was distracted by Inglefrid’s absence. He’d try to study but his mind wandered back to thoughts of her. He even had a hard time focusing on his close study of Military History, usually an engrossing subject. He took to watching the path to the lighthouse, vainly hoping to see her running hurriedly back home.

Before long, he was inventing excuses to go to Glorbinden to see her. Sometimes he would have fresh-caught fish which needed to be delivered before it went bad, other times he’d wonder aloud if she needed help at some invented task.

Fearach would smile knowingly and usually give in. Jorn would then rush out the door and trot the entire distance to Glorbinden for a few precious hours with Inglefrid. He’d sit with her in the room above the butcher shop, her grandmother usually passed out in the next room from the powerful preparations the healer in Glorbinden had given her.

The old woman passed away the second week of Novenor.

Inglefrid returned home to the lighthouse, saddened for many days afterwards. She’d sit in her room, watching the surf hitting the beach far below, or wander up and down the cliffs by herself. It broke Jorn’s heart, but Fearach counseled him to give the girl time.

“Don’t rush trying to make her feel happy again,” he said. “Her old self will return, in due course.”

Fearach was correct. Before long, Inglefrid and Jorn were once more enjoying long walks up and down the length of the island.

             
“Tell me about that necklace you wear,” Jorn said one day as they returned from an afternoon walk to Eabea. It was overcast but hadn’t rained since morning.

             
“My father was a simple fisherman, but he also worked with the coppersmith,” she said, touching the necklace. It was a simple thing, just a little copper pendant cut into the shape of an oak leaf. “He made it for me when I was little. It is a very plain thing, I fear, but after the fever took my parents the townspeople burned their house and all that was within. This is all I have left of them. It must seem a trifle to a thane like you.”

             
Jorn looked down at his hand. The ring of Thorbadrin was on his finger, as always. He held his hand up for her to see.

             
“I understand exactly how you feel,” he said. “This ring is all I have of my family. Its enchantment probably saved my life at Loc Goren. The elf-healers were surprised that I survived my wounds. Braemorgan told me it was because I hadn’t yet fulfilled my destiny.”

             
“What if there is no destiny?” Inglefrid sighed. “What if what happens just happens and that’s all there is to it? Did the Gods plan for my grandmother to die when she did? Don’t they have better things to do?”

             
“Some think everyone’s fate has been decided from the beginning of time.”

             
“You sound like one of those dusty old books my uncle is always pouring over,” Inglefrid said. “Let me tell you a story. Once, when I was about seven, I was walking with Fearach on the beach. We came upon a whale who’d beached himself. It was a horrible thing to see, this gentle creature laying there dying. I ran up to him, crying. I begged my uncle to save him, to use his wizardry to put him back in the ocean, but of course there was nothing he could do. The whale died, and men with long scythes came and salvaged every last scrap of the carcass. I cried that night until I wore myself out. The next morning, I asked my uncle why the whale had beached itself. He said he didn’t know, that no one really knew. He said, ‘only Une really knows, if even He.’ I still think about that whale and I wonder. I wonder if perhaps the whale had just lived enough and decided it was time to go. Was that his destiny?”

             
“It sounds like you’re the one who has been pouring over Fearach’s dusty old tomes a little too much.”

             
She laughed, striking him in the arm playfully.

             
“Besides, what problems could a whale have?” Jorn added.

             
“Maybe he’d just decided it was his time. You think I am silly.”

             
“No, I don’t. It must be sad to see a creature go like that. It’s one thing if a hunter gets him. That’s life. The hunter has to eat, too. But there’s something terrible in just giving up like that. I don’t know.”

_____

              The next day Fearach and Jorn took the walk to the far side of the island, nearly twenty miles over rolling hills and rocky valleys. They walked for hours, finally emerging from a thick copse of pine onto the top of a tall cliff overlooking the sea. It was a windy day, but clear enough so Jorn could see several tiny islands just off shore. The sea was rough, whitecaps abounding. They sat down along the path on a flat grassy area overlooking the vista, taking out a pair of sweet, buttery cakes which Inglefrid made for them. Jorn ate his in silence, washing it down with a few swigs of ale. In the distance, a small fishing boat drifted by.

             
“What do the Gods want of man?” Jorn asked.

             
“What?” Fearach said, nearly choking on his bite of muffin. “Where did such a question come from so suddenly?”

             
“It was something Inglefrid said to me yesterday,” Jorn said. “The Gods and their wills seem so…they make no sense. Is there any purpose at all?”

             
Fearach laughed. “You do me too much credit if you expect me to know the answer to that!” he exclaimed. “About the only thing I am certain of when it comes the Gods, my lad, is my own ignorance. The truly wise man, when confronted with such questions, shouldn’t be afraid to admit to not having the answers. To speculate about such things just adds up to so much horseshit. Is there any divine purpose in all we see and experience? What do I know? What could I possibly know?”

             
“What of Une?” Jorn said. The books say so little of Him that -”

             
“The books say so little because He is so unknown,” Fearach said. “Haven’t you noticed in your studies that the elves have no word for Une? He is referred to as
Eliaastlayana,
‘the one that is’. The elves believe that the many Gods are but His servants, even your Grang. Between them and Him, the elf philosophers contend, is a distance infinitely greater than the distance between you or I and the Gods. They say Une is everything and everywhere, and they may be right. Or not. I, for one, wouldn’t dare to pretend to be able to proclaim anything about Une’s nature, intentions, or purpose. I don’t even know if he has a nature, intentions, or any sort of purpose. How could I know?”

             
“Yes, but…if Une is as great as the elves say, then why is this world so awful?”

             
Fearach laughed heartily.

“I do not think there is anyone who has not at some point in their life asked that question in some form or another,” he said. “Once more, I’ve no answer. Some say we cannot see the entire complexity of creation, and so cannot understand that everything which occurs is part of a larger plan. Even if we can’t grasp how what happens is for the greater good, the advocates of that perspective say we must nevertheless trust in Une that whatever occurs does so for a very good reason. Others argue that this world may be but a battlefield.”

              “Between good and evil,” Jorn said.

             
“The elves say Une forever battles the evil one, Kaas. Ultimate good versus pure evil, locked in eternal struggle. This, all around you, the world of men, dwarves, elves, and gnomes; and of gruks, trolls, and Saurians, too. This is their arena of combat. Each side sends agents to the world to fight for them. There are many agents for good in the world, but just as many for evil. That teaches us a very important lesson.”

             
“What lesson?”

             
Fearach smiled, getting up with a slight groan.

“You’ll figure it out on your own, in time,” he said. “Come now, it grows late and we’ve a long walk home. If we’re late for dinner, Inglefrid shall scold us.”

_____

“What god do you pray to?” Inglefrid asked Jorn one afternoon.

They were laying on the grass overlooking the sea about a mile from the lighthouse on an outcrop overlooking the straights. It was a beautiful day of rare sunshine.

“What?” he said, surprised by the suddenness of the question. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’ve just been thinking about that sort of thing a lot.”

“Me too.”

“So…who do you pray to?”

“You first.”

“I pray to Onara.”

“The goddess of wisdom and mercy.” Jorn said. “And fishermen.”

“Correct. She was the lover of the god Valus, until his twin brother Kaas grew jealous and slew him in a fit of anger. Une banished Kaas from the heavens as punishment for his crime, banning him forever from the celestial realm.”

“Another exile,” Jorn noted.

“But Onara could not be comforted,” Inglefrid continued. “For it is said her tears made the ocean. But because Onara is a goddess of life and love, even the product of her grief is a source of goodness. The fish come from the ocean, and the fishermen of the villages thank Onara for her kindness every morning. For, you see, she is the morning star, a light of hope in a world of darkness. Her appearance before dawn reminds us during even the darkest night, the sun will rise.”