Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (48 page)

             
Willock recalled it all with some pride more than twenty years later, and with good reason. Whether or not the royal scribes and chroniclers noted his name in the Annals of Llangellan for that year, Willock couldn’t say. It hardly mattered to him. He’d done what he knew how to do best, and it saved lives. The foot soldiers might’ve snickered at the young scout after he left the king’s tent, but they were not there the day before, deep in the wilderness, as Willock was dodging gruks patrols close on his heels. Neither were they with Willock as he was hiding high atop a tree all night after he found himself trapped inside the enemy picket with no choice but to wait them out.

What a life he’d chosen! There was little glory in being a scout, and much peril. To get close enough to see anything of any use you had to put yourself at risk of death or capture. Scouts all too often died miserable, painful deaths as dinner for gruks and trolls. In spite of the perils – or, now that he thought about it, perhaps in large measure
because
of them - Willock was a scout for fourteen years. He was never once captured, of course, but he came closer than he cared to recall on at least a dozen occasions. He’d been wounded three times, hunted more times than he could count, nearly drowned at least twice, and came within a hair of freezing to death.

Willock was sixteen when he first signed on as a scout, far too-young to know any better. He nevertheless quickly developed a reputation for accuracy and reliability which came from the foolhardiness of getting close enough to the enemy to get a real grasp of his strength, position, and speed.

By that morning four years later when he stood in the tent before Eurion and convinced him of the gruk army’s position, Willock was already a seasoned and reliable scout. Six years after that day by the banks of the Quintael, Willock was once more on a routine scouting mission along the southern fringes of Llangellan when he happened upon a small group of bandits camped at the bottom of a wooded valley. Willock knew at once who they were. They were ruthless men, heartless killers led by a madman named Glofus the One-Eared. The frontier troops had been hunting Glofus for months, and Willock had by sheer chance happened upon the camp of the villainous brigand.

Willock hid nearby, waiting until nightfall to creep out for a closer look. It began to pour heavily, such conditions a boon for scouting enemies up-close. The pickets couldn’t see or hear a thing amidst the driving rain, Willock learning their exact number. He was sneaking away at dawn, in a bit of an elated state. He knew how many men Glofus had and where the bandit chief’s guards were set up. He had also learned the various approaches to the camp, and would be able to diagram the whole thing out. The royal troops were but ten miles away and would now have all the knowledge they needed to crush Glofus’ band once and for all. But only if they moved quickly.

As he left to return to the royal camp, a pair of bandits spotted him. Perhaps they were an early morning patrol, or out hunting for a little breakfast. They fired a pair of arrows at Willock’s back which sailed harmlessly past into an oak tree to Willock’s left. The damage had been done, however, their shouts shattering the early morning quiet. For much of that day two dozen men on horseback pursued Willock through the dense wilderness. He finally lost them in a bog and limped back exhausted to his own garrison late that night. By the time he led troops back to the bandits all they found was an abandoned encampment. Willock stood in the middle of it, cursing his awful luck at having been spotted just as he was leaving the area.

             
The army finally trapped Glofus two months later. He was captured and beheaded, Willock present on both occasions. He was glad that the fiend had finally gotten what was coming to him, but he was all done with scouting. Something about that last close call disquieted him. He’d had enough. 

Willock stayed in the king’s service, but no longer a scout. He found contentment in the southwest of the kingdom, in the vast forests of Greenerwood as an archer and the deputy commander of a small garrison of men. The last few years he was captain of the garrison and one of the most experienced woodsmen in the entire army of Llangellan.

To be sure, he still trained young scouts and led patrols along the frontier. He’d also seen his fair share of battle in the past two decades, but he was nearing the point in his life where a good book and a warm fireplace were more welcome distractions than creeping through the wilderness spying on a vicious enemy. Even now, atop the boulder, his mind wandered towards thoughts of home. How he’d much rather be in front of his hearth with Milla and the children!

When the letter came from Braemorgan last month, Willock agonized over it for days. Every few years Braemorgan would wander through just when a wizard’s assistance was most needed, such as when strange beasts had been terrorizing the countryside. Sometimes, Braemorgan would implore his help in various endeavors. This last summons, however, was worded more strongly than normal and Willock felt he owed the wizard his presence at the requested time and place. And so he kissed Milla and the girls goodbye, setting off to meet with the wizard. He held his newborn son close to him in silence before setting out in the pre-dawn twilight, giving the boy his finger to squeeze with his tiny hand.

“You’ll be grasping a bow before very long,” he whispered.

_____

             
Willock had an excellent view of the trolls lumbering along the ancient road below. He could almost count the rows of sharp teeth in their oversized mouths or the bristle-like hairs on their massive heads and large pointed ears. Two of the brutes pulled the cart along the rocky track as another pair guarded them, grasping massive wooden clubs six feet long. Another pair of clubs lay atop the cart. They barked at each other in what passed for language among trolls, growling and grunting as they went about their task. Willock shifted his focus to the cart. Whatever was loaded upon the cart was covered by a coarse cloth and tied down tightly with rope. Willock could not guess from the shape of the cover what could be underneath.

The cart bumped and rolled on, eventually passing out of sight along with the trolls. Silence returned to the mountains as Willock slid down the back of the boulder and rejoined the others. He told them what he’d seen.

“I wonder what the bloody things might be hauling,” Flatfoot said. “I’d also like to know where they’re taking whatever it is.”

“Most likely supplies for the army on the valley floor,” Willock said. “They must use the old road to avoid the Nor Marshes.”

              “Ach. We should stay off the road, we should,” Ironhelm said

             
“We could ride parallel to it, but the going would be slow,” Willock said. “Or we can still take the road, but I can scout ahead a few hundred paces on foot. I would spot anyone traveling towards us.”

             
“We’ll need to do something. I don’t want to run right into another bunch of trolls.” Ironhelm shook his head. “Let’s try it your way, laddie.”

             
Willock led them back down to the road. They headed south once more, but did not get very far. Almost as soon as they stepped back onto the road they heard a guttural shout ahead of them that sounded halfway between a dog’s bark and an angry curse. A second group of trolls stood not fifty feet in front of them, pulling another cart around the bend in the road. Stunned by the party’s presence in the road in front of them, the trolls stopped in their tracks and seemed unsure of how to react for a few moments. They stared dumbly at the group of oddities in front of them before finally before springing into action. The largest of the trolls growled furiously at the others, shaking them out of their stupor. A cacophony of barking shouts filling the air.

             
Ironhelm counted four trolls in all, like the last group.

Their massive clubs in hand, the monsters charged. Willock fired an arrow at the closest, a hulking giant with a hideous scar running along its jaw. The arrow hit the troll in the shoulder but did little to slow it down. It grimaced as the shaft penetrated deep into muscle, yet still charged forward with growing rage. Meanwhile, Jorn, Ironhelm, and Ailric met the charge of the trolls, weapons in hand. Flatfoot slid off his horse
into the trees by the side of the trail, carrying his crossbow. If he moved quickly, he hoped, one so small as he might get around behind the trolls without being noticed. For someone not quite four feet tall, it was the only strategy which made any sense.

Willock drew another arrow as Ronias lifted his arms behind him and began whispering words of magic. Chanting steadily, the elf felt a certain tingling in his chest which defied easy description. The sensation grew quickly, suddenly exploding outward in a wave of magical energy flowing down his arms and into the air in front of him. It took a good deal of effort to control this powerful force pulsing through his body, to bend it to his will. It took the form of a glowing ball of bluish light which Ronias cast towards the largest troll. It struck the troll square in the chest, focused right on the very center of its life force, hitting with a terrible impact and knocking it backwards onto the ground. Ronias steadied himself on his horse’s neck as his vision grew suddenly blurry. It was a powerful spell, and the energy which passed through him worked havoc on both body and mind. He took several deep breaths, his vision clearing as he surveyed the scene before him.

              The lead troll lay on its back, smoke rising from the gaping hole in its chest carved out by Ronias’ blast of magic. A second troll, a pair of arrows already protruding from its shoulders, swung its mighty club in a wide arc at a charging Sir Ailric on the left. The club hit the knight in the shield, a loud clang ringing out as the knight was knocked right out of the saddle. It raised its club again, hoping to crush him. Jorn came at the troll from the right before it could react, his sword cutting deeply into the troll’s exposed flank as Ironhelm hurled one of his hand axes at it. The axe head buried itself deep into the troll’s chest and the mighty creature fell onto its back with a great thud.

             
Two trolls remained. The first came at the unhorsed Ailric, who sprung to his feet in time to duck the swing of the troll’s club. The knight swung back, cutting deep into the troll’s knee. It howled in pain, falling forward and grasping its wounded leg. Ailric finished the creature off with a well-placed blow to the neck.

The remaining troll suddenly understood its dire situation and began to back off, starting to turn and run when a crossbow bolt came in from somewhere off to the side. The bolt hit the troll in the neck just below the troll’s ear, a stream of jet black blood squirting into the air. The troll stumbled, somehow still alive. It managed to stagger several more steps, falling to its
knees half-dazed before Ironhelm caught up to the monster and ended its life with a single stroke from his axe. The battle over, Ironhelm turned towards the woods where the shot had come from. Flatfoot stepped out of the trees, his little crossbow in hand.

The gnome was grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Nice shot,” Ironhelm grunted.

“Had to rush it,” Flatfoot said, walking over and studying the dead troll. “Did the bloody trick, though.”

Jorn looked around, assessing the battle. Four trolls lay dead, and his companions all unharmed. All in all, it’d been an easy fight. Trolls were big creatures, but they were also stupid and clumsy.

Jorn sheathed his sword and looked over at Ailric. The knight was standing next to the troll he had slain.

              “Unhorsed again, I see,” he remarked, holding back a grin.

             
Ailric said nothing, turning away.

             
“Ach! Now we’ve gone and done it, laddies!” Ironhelm growled, shaking his head. He walked over to the edge of the road, staring down the steep slope. “We need to get rid of these bodies.”

_____

             
It took a good deal of effort to push the trolls over the edge of the cliff. To make matters worse, the bodies only rolled so far down and remained within clear view of the road. Jorn and Willock had to scramble down, struggling to push the trolls further down the mountainside until the bodies were all well out of sight from the road above. Climbing back, Jorn saw that the others had pulled aside the wool covering atop the troll’s cart. Underneath were stacks of spears and swords.

             
“Weapons,” he observed.

             
“And not very good ones,” Ironhelm added, picking up one of the swords and examining it for a moment before tossing it back on the pile. “Gruk-make, by the look of it. Aye, garbage.”

             
“We’d better throw the whole thing over the side and get off the road once and for all,” Jorn said. “Grang’s teeth! We’ve been idiots to travel along it at all.”

             
A hundred feet along the road was a particularly sharp and steep section of cliff. They pushed the cart as hard as they could and sent it flying off the edge. Jorn watched with fascination as it fell through open air, smashing against a rocky outcrop sticking out from the cliff-face which sent it spinning end-over-end, swords and spears spilling out all over the place before the whole thing crashed into the tops of the pine trees a hundred feet further down. They could hear branches cracking as the cart fell through the trees and finally came to rest safely out of sight from the road.