Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (26 page)

The boat reached the riverbank and Rhydderch boarded first, approaching the woman. She was stunningly beautiful with her long blonde hair, bright grey eyes, and eerily perfect features. Her skin was nearly as white as her cloak, and in the waning light of day she looked more like some sort of dream vision than a living being.

             
“That is Lohedra,” Falanos whispered to Jorn. “Lord Rhydderch’s lady.”

             
Rhydderch leaned over and kissed her tenderly. He took her hand and they turned together towards the party waiting on the riverbank.

             
“Please step aboard, Thane Ravenbane,” Lohedra said. Her voice was strangely musical. “May our land be your refuge.”

             
“Thank you, milady,” Jorn said, stepping aboard. He bowed awkwardly. “One day I shall repay the debt.”

             
“Grow healthy and battle the forces of darkness again,” Lohedra said. “That will be repayment enough, dear Thane Ravenbane.”

Morag and Ironhelm dismounted and began boarding the boat. Lohedra stared coldly at Morag, studying her carefully.

“That has to be the Thane’s sister,” Lohedra whispered to her husband in elven. “She is indeed beautiful, for a human.”

Ironhelm balked at abandoning Angala, but Rhydderch assured him a second boat was already approaching for the animals. The dwarf grunted acknowledgment, petting the pony’s nose and whispering assurances to her before stepping aboard.

A few moments later they were crossing the river, the elves rowing with dogged rhythm as the ship sliced through the water silently. Jorn stood on the rear deck, looking backwards at the north shore of the river. It receded rapidly from view.

Rhydderch approached Jorn.

“We have a small house some miles from here set aside for you,” the elf said. “My lady and I often use it when we wish peace and quiet above all else. It is warm and comfortable. I will place a hundred of my best troops around it, as well, so you may have peace of mind until Braemorgan returns and you go into exile.”

             
Exile
! The word was painful for Jorn to so much as hear. He could not quite believe the whole thing actually happened. The Westmark was lost, and now he was going into hiding. He and Braemorgan had discussed it the night before they left the cave. Sitting a short distance from the entrance by themselves, the wizard brought up the matter.

             
“Einar knows you are alive, or at least suspects it,” Braemorgan said, taking a long puff on his pipe. “He’ll learn, sooner or later, of your survival and he’ll never stop hunting you. He’ll have scores of assassins and spies scouring the countryside.”

             
“I can’t go back to Falneth,” Jorn said. A mug of steaming
Flannae
was in his hands. “I already brought assassins there once, and it almost killed Thulgin. I can’t ever go there again.”

             
“Not now, true, but you can certainly return someday when Einar is defeated. In the meantime you must go into hiding elsewhere, until a new coalition against Einar can be formed and you are properly made ready to lead it.”

“Hiding.” Jorn sighed. “Grang’s teeth! Just like some common brigand!”

              “Tell me, Jorn, did you ever hear the tale of Holmfast the Great?”

“No.”

“Let me enlighten you. Holmfast was the nephew of Halfig IV, a great King of Shalfur who died about, oh, three hundred years ago. Halfig had no children so he declared his sister’s son Holmfast his heir. Some nobles grumbled, you can be sure, saying that the line of kingship cannot be handed down through one’s mother according to the ancient laws. Nevertheless, the Halfig had spoken. He laid the matter before a council of learned elders and important personages and they concurred with his decision, affixing their seals to a proclamation stating their approval. Holmfast was to follow Halfig as king.”

“Holmfast was a great choice. He was strong, and brave in battle. But that was not all. He was also a scholarly young man, eager to learn all he could to help him to rule justly when his time came. He traveled about the countryside, visiting every town and village. He’d spend hours questioning craftsmen or shepherds about the minutia of their vocations. When the King’s death did come to pass after some years, Halfig’s own First Minister seized power for himself. He was a powerful wizard by the name of Authun; and he was Holmfast’s cousin, too, just like you and Einar! Authun even used a mercenary army to surprise and crush Holmfast’s forces before the young king even knew what had happened. Does that also sound familiar?

“But here is the thing: Holmfast was not beaten. He survived the battle and hid alone in the fens along the coast, living as an outlaw in his own land and hunted by Authun’s agents daily. As time passed, loyal men gathered around the true king and he began raiding Authun’s outposts. Soon, Holmfast had a powerful army around him as more and more men rallied to his banner. After eight long years of fighting, Authun was at last defeated and Holmfast gained his rightful throne. Holmfast reigned for fifty years, a wise and prudent king the whole time. You are as Holmfast was, I hardly need point out. You are alone in the wilderness, wrongfully exiled from your own realm. Except that you are not truly alone. Many are your allies. In that sense, you are far better off than Holmfast was.”

             
“Where do I go? South?”

             
“We shall leave for the coast after I meet you in Llywarch. We should be able to find a ship to take us to the far side of the Bachwy Bay. You shall leave your name and your title behind as you stay with my friend Fearach. He is a skilled wizard who dwells on Glenaevon Island just a few miles south of the far side of the bay. It’s just the type of nowhere we need, and Fearach is precisely the man to prepare you for the challenges ahead. I’ll send word to him.”

             
“I’ve never heard of Glenaevon Island.”

             
“No one has. That’s what makes it perfect.”

             
“What about Morag? And Ironhelm?”

             
“They have their own destinations, neither with you. The last thing we need is to have a one-eyed dwarf hanging around you growling and brandishing that battle axe of his at everyone. No, I imagine Einar would find you in about a week with such a companion. As for Morag, she will head south to the school of magic at Noviomagus, in Brithborea, to complete her training as a wizard. She will be safe there, hundreds of miles from Einar’s grasp and surrounded by powerful wizards who will see to her welfare. She will study and grow in power. You may need her talents before this is all done.”

             
“I’ll be all alone, then,” Jorn said quietly.

             
“Alone? Hardly! I’ll have one eye on you always, and I shall stop by whenever I am able. But you will have to bid farewell, at least for now, to the name Jorn Ravenbane. That name is too dangerous at the moment. You shall call yourself Cahan, which means ‘victorious’ in the old speech of Withowan.”

             
“Cahan,” Jorn said, repeating the name.

The wizard stared out into the quiet woods, puffing angrily on his pipe.

“For weeks we have suffered naught but defeat,” he said. “Though men may label me a madman, Jorn, I am not ready to slink off and concede that we are beaten. We will yet fight, unto the very end, be it however bitter.”

Part Two

                  Northern Llangellan

The Wilderness Valley

Eleven

Ironhelm breathed a sigh of relief.

It’d been a hard day's travel, both he and Angala soaked from the steady drizzle falling all day. He was too old for this, he told himself as he guided the stout Linlundic pony down the hill towards the village nestled along the roadside ahead.

The road went past a meadow and a humble little stone house. Smoke wafted out of the chimney, the aroma of roast meat in the air. It set Ironhelm to thinking of his own fireside far to the north in Thunderforge. He’d rather be there now amidst his kinfolk, instead of journeying hundreds of miles all alone. He’d endured bad weather and dozens of terrible inns over the last few weeks, with very little to lighten his mood the whole time. What he disliked most about this whole affair, however, was the secrecy.

Braemorgan’s letter sounded urgent, summoning him all the way to Llangellan. It aggravated him, the silly melodrama of the vaguely-worded missive. The letter bore Braemorgan’s wizard’s seal, though. The wizard’s summons was not to be ignored.

The weather in the Southlands were tolerable than in the north, at least. The autumn wind was gentle compared to the brutal gusts of the north. Up in Linlund, snow probably already covered the ground.

Despite that, Ironhelm never cared for the Southlands. His first visit, more than a century earlier, was his first taste of war. Crossing the River Tam and entering Llangellan, old memories of bloody battles and fallen comrades began to haunt his thoughts.

              The dwarf patted his pony on the neck. It’d been almost five years since Thane Orbadrin gave Angala to him as a gift, and Ironhelm was frequently surprised by how much he’d grown attached to the animal.

             
“There, there, lass,” Ironhelm told her. “Aye. It’ll be a warm stable for you soon, and plenty of oats.”

             
Past the meadow, the road went down a gentle slope before leading to an old stone bridge. The bridge spanned the creek at the edge of town, an ancient stone mill perched on its bank. Its waterwheel turned steadily.

Ironhelm reached the bridge, suddenly pulling up on Angala’s reigns. His hand gripped his axe as he scanned the woods to the left, tense with alertness.

Something had moved at his approach, darting through the trees in a hurry. It could have been a deer, but there was something about the sound it made rustling through the leaves that aroused the dwarf’s suspicion.

The barest hint of a familiar smell touched the dwarf’s nostrils. There was a sudden rush of noise from within the trees as something hurried off deeper into the woods. Ironhelm caught a glimpse of it in the twilight, a distant shadow at the edge of his excellent dwarf night-vision. He bolted up straight and raised his axe. He turned Angala toward the woods and waited, grabbing the large round shield strapped to his back and holding it close to him.

Ironhelm stared at the silent woods for a long time, finally turning back towards the road. He wondered if he was going senile as he crossed the old stone bridge and found himself in the village of Laekur still puzzling over the incident. He put his axe away and looked the village over as he rode into it. He dimly recalled passing through there once before, but it was many years ago and he’d not stopped for very long.

Looking around, he understood why he couldn’t remember it. It was small, just a few dozen insignificant buildings of wood or brick built along both sides of the road. It seemed even smaller than it was, surrounded by dark woods in all directions. It was a tiny little backwater, nothing more. It was along the road to Barter's Crossing, though. The great city was a day’s ride northwest, so the traffic through the village was more than enough to support a pair of inns. Ironhelm passed the first one, a fine-looking establishment called the Happy Wizard to his left past the mill. The second inn was across the street. It was a two-story brick building with a sign hanging over the front door painted with the white head of deer sporting enormous antlers.

“This Stag’s Head,” Ironhelm muttered, pulling back on Angala’s reigns.

             
Ironhelm tied her out front. He grabbed his axe and stuffed it into his belt. He went inside into the common room, looking it over. It was clean, at least, though not much different than a thousand other roadside inns he’d known in his travels. Tables were clustered around a large fireplace at the far end, over which hung the stuffed head of a massive old stag. Its antlers were immense, wider from end to end than Ironhelm stood high.

Patrons sat at almost every table under the blank gaze of the stag, drinking from large tankards. The steady murmur of
their conversation didn’t stop at Ironhelm’s entrance, no one so much as taking notice of him. Most of the patrons were locals by the looks of them, although a few appeared to be travelers. All were human except for two dwarves sitting close to the fireplace talking quietly over their drinks. They looked like merchants, probably traveling to Barter’s Crossing to buy or sell wares. Ironhelm completed his quick scan of the place, not spotting anything in the least bit unusual.

Nowhere, he noted with annoyance, was Braemorgan.

              A burly man of middle age emerged from a backroom bearing a pair platters of food. He placed them before two humans at a nearby table before noticing the one-eyed dwarf with the huge axe standing by the door. He had a happy face, round and fleshy, and red whiskers almost as long and thick as Ironhelm's own jet-black beard. He walked with a bit of a limp.

             
"Ah, good evening," the man said, smiling widely and wiping his hands on his apron. "You’d have to be Durm Ironhelm."

             
"Aye," the dwarf said. “Tha’s right.”

             
"I thought so," the man said. "I’m the proprietor. Everything is prepared for you. Do you have baggage?"

             
"With my pony outside," Ironhelm said.

             
"Thilldane!" the innkeeper shouted, motioning for a young boy sitting near the fireplace. "See to his pony and take his bags to his room."

              The boy jumped up, hurrying past Ironhelm and out the door.

             
“She’s a valued pony, I -” Ironhelm started to say.

             
“Don’t worry about her in the least, my good dwarf,” the innkeeper said. “Thilldane has a way with horses. He’s my youngest, you know. That boy is a born stable master. Your pony will be well cared-for.”

             
“Aye. Tha’s good to know.”

"Let me show you to the backroom,” he said. “Braemorgan insisted on our most private room for your business, and that’s what I’ve set aside. A few of the others arrived two days ago and are waiting."

             
Others?
That was unexpected, but Ironhelm said nothing. He followed the innkeeper down a side hallway on the far side of the fireplace towards a door all the way at the end.

             
The innkeeper opened a door at the end of the hall and Ironhelm followed him through. Beyond was a comfortably furnished private room with a large table surrounded by tall-backed chairs and a burning fireplace on the far end. The rain outside beat steadily against a pair of windows along one wall as wizard’s lamps in the center of the table and on either side of the fireplace provided plenty of light.

             
Two men were inside, turning towards Ironhelm at his entrance. The first was a dark-haired man with a neatly-trimmed goatee and a thin build. He wore light leather armor under a black cloak, a long sword and a pair of throwing knives at his belt. A pair of tall leather boots was on his feet, propped up on the table in front of him. He was leaning back in his chair, sipping from a small pewter mug. A jug of wine sat on the table in front of him.

             
Standing by the window watching the rain pounding the glass was a tall figure in a faded old elkskin cloak. He was slouched forward, leaning on the windowsill and staring out into the gathering darkness. A two-handed sword was slung across his back. He straightened up and turned towards Ironhelm when the door opened.

             
“Jorn!” Ironhelm exclaimed.

             
Behind Ironhelm, the innkeeper withdrew quietly and closed the door.

             
“Ironhelm,” Jorn said. “Braemorgan said you would be along.”

             
“He said nothing of
your
being here, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, not a word. You look well.”

Jorn was changed, Ironhelm could see. He’d grown by a few more inches, for one, looming even taller than before. He was also broader across the shoulders.

Much remained the same, though. Jorn’s long hair still fell past his shoulders without the least regard for any semblance of tidiness, and the same clear blue eyes looked out from a face still young but no longer that of a boy. A few days worth of beard growth and his motley attire gave him the look of a semi-savage rogue rather than the great lord of men he was supposed to be.

Underneath his old cloak Jorn wore a shabby old leather hauberk with metal rings sewn into it over an old wool shirt with long sleeves of plain gray. Dark grey trousers covered his legs and he wore a pair of worn fur boots. A hand axe and a dagger were tucked into his belt, and the gruk tooth necklace left little doubt he was a man who knew how to use the massive sword slung over his back

“So, laddie, wha’ are you doing here?” Ironhelm asked.

“I’d ask you the same thing,” Jorn said. He reached over and picked up a tankard of ale on the table. “Braemorgan bade me meet him here, but didn’t say why. I hoped you might know.”

“I know even less than you, laddie,” Ironhelm asked. “Aye, even less. When did you see the old rascal last?”

“We parted a week ago. He took the road south to Calaegskarr and bade us journey here to wait for his return. We’ve been slowly dying of boredom ever since. At least the ale is good.”

“And he said nothing of wha’ he wants?”

“No,” Jorn said, shrugging. “Only that an opportunity to take back The Westmark had come about.”

              “Aye, abou’ time for tha’! But where’ve you been these five years, laddie? I heard you’d left Glenaevon.”

             
“I’ve been all over,” he said grimly. “And then some.”

             
“Aye. And who’s this?” Ironhelm asked, looking over at the stranger seated at the table sipping wine.

             
“Maximinus Stormbearer, of Moonstar, at your service,” the man said with a noticeable Vandorian accent.

The Vandorian swung his feet off the table and rose from his seat in one graceful move. He bowed politely, as though greeting a king. He then sat right back down and swung his feet back up onto the table.

              “Durm Ironhelm,” the dwarf said, nodding gruffly.

             
“Max is one of Moonstar’s most experienced master thieves,” Jorn said, taking another gulp of ale. “Braemorgan said Max’s talents would be needed.”

             
“And the old fool said nothing else, did he?” Ironhelm asked. “Ach. Nothing abou’ this damned business of meeting all the way down in Llangellan?”

             
“Just what I’ve told you,” Jorn said, shrugging.

             
Ironhelm grunted, casting another glance at Stormbearer. What could Braemorgan have in mind that required a professional thief, anyhow?

             
“Ach. I need a drink,” he said. “Where is tha’ innkeeper?”

             
As if on cue, the door opened again. A full-figured young woman entered bearing a large platter of steaming hot turnips and onions smothered in dill with a large bowl of sour cream on the side. Stormbearer smiled at her suggestively, commenting on her pretty eyes as he stared shamelessly at her ample cleavage.

Ironhelm shook his head and asked for a bit of whiskey. The young woman nodded and left the room. 

Ironhelm put his axe down in the corner and took the shield from off his back. He sat down near the fire within easy reach of the weapon, draping his cloak over the back of his chair. The girl returned with his whiskey in a small pewter cup. He thanked her and took a long drink.

_____

             
When the door opened again a few minutes later the innkeeper ushered another pair of strangers into the room. Ironhelm studied the newcomers carefully. The first was a human man wearing a forest green cloak over a tunic of brown leather armor. In his hand he carried a long bow almost as tall as himself. A quiver full of arrows and a battered leather pack were on his back and at his side hung a broadsword in a plain leather scabbard. Ironhelm looked at his face. It was ruddy in complexion, freckled and weathered with a thick blonde moustache. He bore himself with a reserved seriousness, striding through the door with quiet confidence.

             
The figure entering the room behind the archer was his opposite in many respects. He was almost as tall, but slender in build. Where the archer strode into the room and met everyone's gaze unflinchingly, the other newcomer drew back in wary suspicion. He was clad in a dark gray cloak with a deep hood drawn up over his head. Under the cloak, Ironhelm saw a pair of long, thin knives at his hips. He also caught sight of a few flashes of pale silver chain armor, probably elf-make by the look of it, under his gray leather tunic.