Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (47 page)

Inglefrid appeared at the door of the lighthouse, screaming and turning back to slam it shut, but she stumbled and fell in her panic. She leapt up quickly, grabbing the door again, but her attackers were too quick. One of the Darwags jammed his foot into the door before she could get it fully closed. She struggled, pushing back against the intruders desperately, but they shoved her savagely backwards and forced their way inside.

              Jorn had sprinted the distance to the lighthouse with ferocious speed. He had no sword, for he’d given up carrying it on the peaceful island. He did have a knife at his belt, though, which he drew as he neared the lighthouse. The three warriors turned to see him sprinting towards them, an unarmored young lad wielding nothing but a common peasant’s knife. One of them laughed. The crossbowman who shot Fearach met Jorn first, hurrying to load his crossbow as Jorn approached. He dropped the crossbow, starting to draw forth his sword just as Jorn arrived.

Jorn lunged at the unprepared man, shoving the knife into the Darwag’s chest as far as it would go. As the man fell back, Jorn reached down and grabbed the hilt of the dying man’s sword.

The next Darwag, a hulking man with wild eyes and strange tattoos covering his arms, came at him with his broadsword. Jorn parried the attack with the dead Darwag’s sword. Jorn slashed back with lightning speed, striking the big Darwag in the neck and sending him to the ground as a fountain of blood gushed upward from his wound.

The last of the Darwags emerged from the door of the lighthouse, charging at Jorn with a long axe. Jorn could see Inglefrid lying on the floor beyond door. Screaming with inhuman rage, Jorn dodged the man’s axe blow and, with a balance learned from long months on the log which even now stood only yards away, lunged forward and slashed the man in the arm deeply. The axe-wielder shouted in pain, dropping his weapon. Jorn kicked him in the groin roughly, sending him lurching forward to the ground. Then he kicked him repeatedly about the head and neck until the man’s face was a bloody mess. Covered in blood, Jorn tossed the sword aside and ran over to the door.

              Inglefrid lay there on her back, her head turned to one side. It was split open, her forehead cleaved in two and an enormous pool of blood covering the floor around her. Jorn fell to his knees, a dreadful cry of torment escaping his lips. He bent over the dead girl, sobbing and shaking violently. He reached out, touching the side of her face. Her eyes stared out lifelessly at him.

             
“No, no, no!” he wailed repeatedly.

Jorn rose and stepped back out the door. Inglefrid’s killer lay groaning in the grass, still somehow alive. Jorn picked up the sword from the ground and, bending down, grabbing a handful of the Darwag’s long hair and pulled the man roughly up to a kneeling position.

Jorn yanked back the Darwag’s head, exposing the neck. He brought the sword down upon the man’s throat, taking three violent hacks of the dull blade to bring off the head completely. The body slumped to the grass, the head still in Jorn’s hand. Screaming, Jorn swung around and threw it as far and as high as he could.

The severed head flew over the sea cliff, landing on the beach with a dull thump. The Darwags on the beach stared at it
with dumbfounded silence. Then they looked up to see a tall young man in peasant garb standing at the edge of the sea cliff. Blood was splattered all over his chest, arms, and face. In one hand he held a sword, in the other an axe. The stranger stared down at them with a look of cold fury like none of them had ever seen. One of the warriors on the beach slowly began to back up as Jorn began walking down the path to the beach.

_____

             
The next morning, there was nothing left save the corpses lying in the grass and down below on the beach. Five headless bodies lay in the sand and smoke rose from the charred hulk of their ship. Jorn had burned it in his rage until all that now remained was a smoking wreckage, its mast lying fallen along the surf. Upon the cliff all was silent, the lighthouse empty. Its front door was left open.

Some distance away, atop the gentle rise overlooking the straits, Jorn finished his digging. In the thick of the morning fog all around him, the lighthouse was barely more than a ghostly spire rising from the mists.

Jorn buried them in silence, shoveling the dirt over the graves and patting it down with his bare hands. When he was done, he sat next to the graves, clutching Inglefrid’s copper pendant. Hours passed without him hardly moving. He merely sat and stared at the graves. He felt no hunger, nor any thirst. Time itself ceased to mean anything to him as morning passed into afternoon and the shadows grew long around him.

____

Braemorgan took in the scene as he approached, taking note of the bodies of the Darwags in front of the lighthouse. He stepped over to the still-open door of the lighthouse and saw the bloodstain on the floor within. Turning, he looked towards the sea cliff. He could see the burnt ship and the bodies in the sand. Finally, he turned and looked up the hill at the solitary figure slumped to his knees looking downward at the ground. Sighing, he turned and walked slowly up the hill towards Jorn. He soon stood next to Jorn. Jorn saw the wizard, but pretended not to.

              “I am sorry, Jorn,” Braemorgan said. “My spies did not tell me Einar’s assassins were on their way until it was too late for me to stop them.”

             
Jorn remained silent.

             
“Jorn?” Braemorgan said. “Did you hear me?”

             
“Einar’s assassins?” Jorn muttered after some moments. “I thought they were just raiders, Darwagian scum.”

             
“Yes, they were Darwags…in the employ of Einar,” Braemorgan said. He paused. “Fearach and the girl…”

             
              “Dead,” Jorn muttered, looking at the ground.

             
              Braemorgan’s head sank.

             
              “She was so beautiful, so sweet, so,” Jorn stammered. “And now…and Fearach, too…How can I go on without them?”

             
“Are you going to simply let this affront pass?” Braemorgan asked.

“Let it pass?” Jorn said. He glared at the graves, contemplating vengeance.

Vengeance
! The word flashed through his thoughts like a thunderbolt.
Yes,
Vengeance!
That, at least, was something to live for.

“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn snarled. “Grang’s feet! Grang’s balls! I’ll strangle Einar with his own guts! I’ll rip out his intestines and wring his neck with them!”

              The subtlest of smiles slowly crept over Braemorgan’s face. He stood just behind Jorn, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

             
“Gather your things. You’ll see no more of Glenaevon, Jorn.”

Twenty

            
 
Willock scanned the valley floor carefully with his spyscope. The morning was clear and crisp.

“I can’t see ‘em,” he told the others, returning to the camp at the base of the boulder. “They’re well-hidden. It’d be easy for a scouting party to miss them entirely during the daylight.”

              Jorn took a long spoonful of Flatfoot’s breakfast soup. It was surprisingly tasty.

             
“I told you,” Jorn said. “They’re not going to attack the gap.”

             
“Nonsense,” Ailric said, rolling his eyes. “They’ve thousands of troops massed not a day’s march from the Widowing Gap. Moreover, taking the pass gives them a key strategic advantage for an invasion of the Southlands. Of course they’ll go for it.”

             
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn said. “Must I explain this again? It’s like addressing a half-wit!”

Jorn put his breakfast aside for a moment. He knew the knight was trying to provoke him, but he still took the bait.

“Say there are ten thousand troops down there in the valley,” he continued. “Ten thousand gruks and trolls could not take that gap a hundred years ago, before the fortifications. The same number have no chance now. None. The dwarves would slaughter three times that many. That’s no invasion army down there.”

             
“Then what is?” Ailric asked.

             
“Are you deaf,” Jorn spat back. “Or just stupid?”

             
“Tread lightly, Ravenbane,” Ailric said coldly.

“I told you last night,” Jorn said. “They want to keep the Hammeredshields frozen at the Widowing Gap. They want the dwarves to call for aid, too. Their allies will send what troops they can, thinking the Gap is where the war will be decided once again. It’s the same old mistake down through the ages, fighting a new war just like the previous one and for some damned reason expecting things to be the same the second time around. Grang’s teeth! What idiocy! The real invasion is three hundred miles south and thousands of troops will be wasted watching the Widowing Gap. Amundágor will’ve taken Calaegskarr and be halfway to Barter’s Crossing before anyone realizes what happened.”

              “Don’t count out Lord Hammershield, laddie,” Ironhelm interjected. “He’s no fool, tha’s for sure. He’ll figure it out, and know wha’ to do.” He stood suddenly. “Ach! The sun shines and we sit about wasting time tall! Let’s be off, already!”

_____

“I wish we could have tarried longer in Dunvögen,” Sir Ailric said to Willock as they set out again along the rocky, overgrown old road.

              “I’m not one for cities.” Willock shrugged. “Don’t care for them.”

             
“Oh?” Sir Ailric said. “I spoke at length with a dwarf by the name of Steelfist at the feast. He’s Chief Builder for the entire Hammeredshield Clan. He seemed to know everything about the city’s design.”

             
“You’re interested in such matters?” Willock said.

             
“I’ve poured over many a tome on building and stonemasonry,” the knight said. “And there were Guardian ruins near my brother’s castle in Havenwood, from which I learned a great deal as a lad. You know, many great Knights of Havenwood were renowned builders as well as warriors. Sir Tracitan, slayer of the Saurian Chief Gulgala, he was also an accomplished architect. He designed the great castle of Skeagor Nol on the Havenwood River.”

“I have beheld Skeagor Nol,” Willock said. “It is imposing.”

              “Dwarven cities are much less prone to fire and pestilence than a human city,” Sir Ailric continued. “Our peoples can learn something from the dwarves when it comes to building cities, my friend.”

             
“All that may be true,” Willock said. “Me, I would rather be right here in the middle of the wilderness than in any of the many cities of the realm.”

             
“Cities mean civilization!”

             
“Then may Une prevent me from every becoming civilized!”

_____

A few miles further south a great dark mass came into view covering the valley floor ahead of them. It stretched from east to west across the width of the valley and right up to the edge of both ridges. 

“The Nor Marshes,” Willock announced.

“What an abysmal looking place,” Flatfoot remarked.

The marshes lay in the lowest part of the valley, Willock explained, rivers and streams in all directions flowing into it and flooding the landscape. The result was a tangled jungle half-submerged under stagnant and diseased water.

“Hammeredshield spoke of snakes a mile long dwelling within,” Flatfoot said. “And vines which strangle passers-by.”

“No one really knows,” Willock said. “The marshes remain unexplored. See on the far end there? Those are the White Moors. It is there the warm southern winds meet the cold blasts from the mountain peaks Thus the frequent fog. Their edge is not even a day’s march from Glammonfore Keep, yet they remain unexplored.”

             
“That close, you say?” Flatfoot said. “I would think your people would’ve thoroughly scouted them out by now.”

“They are frequented by dark forces,” Willock said. “Sometimes, solitary wizards are seen passing through the Glammonfore Gap headed toward them. Other times, wizards emerge from their foggy depths. It is said the moors are a meeting place for evil wizards, and foul rituals take place at night atop the hilltops. And the scouts of Llangellan have also reported what Hammeredshield spoke of - strange flashes of fire amidst the fog, and lightning appearing from out of a clear sky.

“Oh, my!” Flatfoot said. He turned around to face Ronias, who was riding all the way in the back of the column by himself. “Ronias, what can such a thing as that mean?”

             
“I wouldn’t know,” Ronias said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “After all, I’m not an evil wizard.”

             
“We won’t be going into either of those damned devil places, laddies,” Ironhelm said, scanning the bottom of the valley uneasily. “Aye, we’ll skirt their edges and then cut across along the far edge of the moors towards the Teeth.”

             
Flatfoot nodded, glancing back down at the marshes. There was something about them which filled him with a vague feeling of dread.

_____

             
By afternoon, the column of horses and ponies had traveled several more miles along the ancient road. The Nor Marshes grew ever closer until they overlooked them. A fetid mist hung over the place, but high above on the old Guardian road it was cool and the air was clear. The path wound along in wide curves as it hugged the sides of the steep mountainside, a twisting ribbon extending for mile after mile in front of them.

             
“Do you see that?” Flatfoot said suddenly.

             
“See wha’?” Ironhelm said, grabbing the handle of his axe.

             
“Up ahead,” Flatfoot said, pointing forward down the road. It curved gently to the left and then disappeared from view behind the great bulk of the mountainside. No more than a half mile further, however, the road swept back towards the right and back into view. In between them and the other end of the curve was a thickly-timbered valley floor several hundred feet deep

“Look!” the gnome said, pointing again. “There is something moving along the road across the valley, and I do believe it is headed this way.”

              The others all glanced at one another and shook their heads, unable to see anything amiss on the road ahead. Willock dismounted and hastily assembled his spyscope. Leaning his elbows on a rock along the side of the road to steady the lens, he scanned the path ahead. After a few seconds he started in surprise. He lowered the spyscope and looked back at the others.

             
“Never doubt the sharp eyes of a gnome!” he said. “There’s a party of trolls pulling a cart and headed this way.”

             
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn said.  “How many?”

             
“I counted four,” Willock said. “They don’t seem to have seen us, but we’d better get out of the way before they do.”

             
They backed off, moving their horses towards the edge of the road, hugging the mountainside. It blocked the distant bend in the road from view.             

             
“What now?” Ailric said. “Do we await their approach, then attack?”

             
“There is no need to attract any attention,” Willock said. “I say we head directly up the ridge a safe distance and wait for them to pass by.”

             
“We could take them readily enough,” Ailric said. “Four trolls are as nothing.”

             
“Aye, true enough,” Ironhelm said. “But Hugh is right, laddie. There’s no need to attract attention.”

             
“Hiding from trolls,” Ailric said, shaking his head. “I notice you weren’t so cautious when we happened upon dwarves being attacked. You were only too eager to risk us all in a fight which had nothing to do with the quest at hand.”

             
“Have you gone mad, laddie?” Ironhelm growled. “Or do you enjoy cutting down everyone else for the fun of it? There’s a difference between helping allies in distress right before our eyes and needlessly seeking danger, laddie!”

             
“Hiding from trolls,” Ailric repeated, shaking his head.

             
They found a passable route up the slope a few hundred feet back and made their way up it. It was slow-going as the horses managed the rough terrain until they were well out of sight of anyone passing below. 

They found a small level area surrounded by thick trees and dismounted. Willock found a cottage-sized boulder about a hundred feet away and climbed up one side of it. Laying flat on its surface, he pointed the spyscope towards the road a few hundred yards away and waited.

It reminded Willock of younger days. He had spent the better part of his youth as a scout in the service of the Royal Guard of Llangellan. It was tougher and more dangerous work than most men understood. Even within the army, he would often receive looks of disdain and whispered comments as he passed through the camp with his daily reports to whoever was in command. To the soldiers, Willock and his kind got paid to wander around the forest, hiding to avoid the enemy.

The hostile stares remained even as Willock entered the tent of some great battle lord, sometimes even admitted into the very presence of the king himself. There, his reports were listened to carefully.

Willock was no more than twenty years old on one occasion, reporting on gruk troop movements as the aged King Eurion listened intently. The army of Llangellan was camped near the village of Winnavaal on the southern frontier, a hilly region of tangled woods and rocky hills. Great lords of the realm, including a dwarven chief from the one of the freeholds with a long white beard that fell down to his fat belly, crowded the tent and watched as Willock pointed out on a large map precisely where the gruks were and in what direction they were moving. Braemorgan sat besides the king, smoking his pipe and listening to the young scout intently. Willock was remarkably precise and thorough, even at that young age.

             
“Twelve hours ago they were at this bend in the river, fifteen hundred of them,” Willock explained, his finger marking the exact spot on the map. “Based upon how fast I observed them advancing and the nature of the terrain ahead of them, by now they would be right here.”

             
He slid his finger several inches over, pointing out the enemy’s current position.

             
“Then they are much closer than we thought,” the king observed, frowning.  “Much closer indeed. We must make ready to march, and quickly.”

             
“Your majesty, gruk troops never move this quickly,” one of the lords in the tents protested. “They cannot be this close. Surely you wouldn’t move on the word of this mere
boy
.”

             
The king stared intently at Willock, looking into the young man’s eyes.

             
“Indeed I would,” Eurion declared. “He has a serious manner about him. If that is where he says the enemy is, then we still have time to steal a march and occupy the high ground in front of their path. This is a chance which is not to be missed!”

The king stood, his great height reaching nearly to the ceiling of the tent. Even in his later years, he was a formidable figure of a man.

“We march at once,” he roared. “Make all haste!”

             
The army crossed the River Quintael that night and was just in time to block the gruk advance. Any hesitation on the part of the king and the gruks would have been too far east to stop from swinging north towards inhabitated farmland. The raiding and pillaging could’ve gone on for weeks. As it was, Eurion took the gruks by surprise the next morning and crushed them. Willock was rewarded with a promotion to the rank of Scout Captain and the esteem of the aged king.