Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (37 page)

             
“Well,” Fearach said. “We are a very small island. Understand that more than twice as many folk live in your Falneth alone than on all of Glaenavon, and Falneth is not a very large place.”

They followed the cleft for several hundred yards, dwarf pines clinging to either side of the trail and the walls of the cleft rising higher and higher even as the space between grew narrower. Finally, it opened up again into a wide area surrounded by tall cliffs. In the side of the cliff was a sight which took Jorn by surprise and filled him with wonder.

              The colossal figure was carved out of the very side of the cliff and was at least fifty feet tall, a giant man with a long beard and an unusually somber face. The statue bore no shield but held a spear tight against his chest which extended another twenty feet above its head. Jorn gazed up at it. The figure was crudely-formed, strangely elongated and unnatural. Yet it retained an elegant sadness which struck Jorn at once.

             
“What is this?” Jorn asked.

             
“No one knows,” Fearach said. “I call him King Eabea, after his mountain. His appearance matches no other style of sculpture I have been able to find anywhere. I have spent years studying him, pouring over ancient tomes and treatises on the matter of colossal sculptures. I’ve sketched him from every conceivable angle and measured every part of him. As nearest as I can surmise, he is several thousand years old. There is but a single reference to him in the Annals of Luthania, written two thousand years ago. The Annals discuss a merchant’s report of the island, mentioning a massive stone figure whom the barbarous natives worshipped and told the merchant in question had been there since forever.”

             
“So no one knows who built it?”

             
“Not even Braemorgan.”

             
Jorn frowned. “Tell me about him. Braemorgan, I mean. I know almost nothing about him.”

             
“What is it you would want to know?”

             
“I’m not certain. I’ve always been told he is a wizard of immense power. I’ve also heard men whispering in the taverns that he is some kind of devil who brings war and death in his wake.”

             
“Men whisper many things in taverns,” Fearach said.

“That’s not all,” Jorn said. “When I was seven or eight, I overheard Orbadrin say that his grandfather and Braemorgan once slew some troll king together. One day a year or two later I
saw a stone marker in the forest marking the spot where the troll king was slain along with the date. It was over a century ago.”

             
“I think I know what you’re asking.” Fearach smiled. “Many have wondered the same thing. I wish I could tell you more than I am able to. He’s been around, it seems, as long as Eabea here. Perhaps he has always been around, like the wind. He wanders the lands, forever fighting evil wherever it appears. I do not know
why
he does it, but I am glad
that
he does it. Were it not for him, I don’t know where we would be.”

             
“He said you’re a powerful wizard,” Jorn said.

             
“Ha! Not on his level, you may be sure. I know enough spells to get by.”

             
“What is this magic you wizards employ, anyhow? Where does it come from?”

             
“You are ever more full of questions as you grow stronger! This is good, very good. Magic…well, where to begin? It’s a most difficult matter to explain. You have to understand that the physical world is but a shadow – no, it’s more like an echo – an echo of a deeper reality. The things you call matter, thought, and even energy are merely different states of the same substance. What we call magic is just the use of thought to effect matter and energy. You look confused, as well you should. Contemplating even the fundamentals of magic are enough to drive a man mad. Come, let us be off.”

             
They left Eabea, Jorn looking back at the solemn-looking king. Eabea’s gaze seemed to follow him as he moved away and Fearach continued to talk, explaining the basics of magic and wizardry. Jorn grew more bewildered as Fearach went on.

             
“Wait a moment,” Jorn said. “If it is all so simple, why do wizards collapse or pass out after casting too-many spells? My sister can barely cast two or three spells in a row.”

“A wizard is the vessel through which the magical energy of the spell passes through,” he said. “It is a stressful process, to say the least. As a wizard grows more powerful, it becomes easier to deal with, but all wizards have their limit. As Morag studies and grows more adept, her endurance will increase. At Noviomagus, she will receive the greatest magical training in existence. When you see her again, she may be a powerful wizard indeed.”

_____

             
As the weeks went by, Jorn and Fearach explored the hills and beaches of the island almost every afternoon as Jorn grew strong again. He even came to love the island, appreciating ever more the stark beauty of its rocky hills and isolated glens. Even the incessant fog and endless drizzle grew on him.

They often made the two-mile walk into Skagrog after dinner, the lighthouse running on magical power and needing little maintenance. The village was always a welcome distraction Jorn looked forward to. It sat atop cliffs overlooking the gray sea, a cluster of dreary stone buildings. The residents were mostly fisherman along with a few shepherds raising fat-looking sheep on the grassy hillsides outside the village.

Along the beach below were dozens of small fishing boats pulled up on land and tied fast down. On the rocky shore next to the boats lay thousands of codfish, split open and drying in the salty air. A tiny fraction of the catch was bound for local tables, but most would be loaded onto ships in Glorbinden Harbor.

“They say the fishermen of little Glaenavon feed half the world,” Fearach told Jorn once as they strolled towards Skagrog. “That’s a bit of a wild boast, but we do ship off countless tons of fish every year. Just to the east of the island the ocean becomes extremely deep, and the cod dwell in great numbers amidst the waters there.”

Skagrog was quiet except for a tiny tavern called the Red Mariner that served dark ale in huge tankards and salty fish stew to the thirsty fishermen after their long days hauling in cod.

The first day they went there Fearach introduced Jorn as his nephew Cahan “from the mainshore.” The fishermen barely looked up from tankards and
Hnefatafl
boards, taking little notice of the tall stranger staying with the lighthouse keeper.

Those nights Jorn and Fearach dropped by the tavern, Fearach would sit at the bar and listen with rapt attention to the tavern-keeper gossiping loudly about everyone in the village. No one seemed to take the slightest offense at the talk, either, no matter how private the subject or wildly-speculative the conjecture. In the corner, an old fisherman sitting in the corners sometime played an old
hammarharpa
and sang heroic ballads in between long drinks from his ale. As the evening wore on, the singing usually grew worse and worse. When the old bard finally turned to bawdy songs, though, the patrons seemed to perk up and would invariably start to sing along. The songs were quick and lively, the men waving their mugs in the air as they bellowed out any of a number of tunes about a famed barmaid by the name of Mildegrew.

Mildegrew me lass, me very own tart

She fill up me mug, and she fill up me heart

She curse and drink, she swear and screw

Oh, I can’t get enough of Mildegrew!

For Mildegrew’s she a mighty fine lass

With a bountiful bosom and a big round ass

I’m all worn out by lovely Mildegrew

Ask her nice and she’ll do it with you!

              And on the singing would go, getting progressively filthier with each verse and attracting yet more voices joining in the song. Jorn would laugh at it all, drinking and listening to Fearach and the barkeep for hours. The Red Mariner reminded him of some of the taverns in Falneth, except here he was not the Thane’s son. He could blend in and just relax.

Fearach introduced Jorn one evening to a pair of burly brothers named Grundin and Klore who sometimes worked for Fearach at the lighthouse. They did everything from repairing the barn to plowing Fearach’s little garden plot. They seemed like good-natured men to Jorn, if a bit dull. Then again, he decided, that was a pretty good description of most people he’d met on Glaenavon.

______

              A few weeks after their first hike to Eabea, Fearach announced they would walk the ten-mile distance to Glorbinden to visit his niece.

“Let Einar scour the lands for me,” Jorn said as they set out in the steady early-morning drizzle. He’d cut his hair much shorter and begun to grow a beard, now just an anonymous young man named Cahan who didn’t even carry a sword.

“I will draw no attention looking as I do even if he has a hundred spies in Glorbinden.”

             
When they arrived it was apparent to Jorn that the town was not large enough to hold many spies, or much anything. Glorbinden was little more than a haphazard mass surrounding a busy little harbor with a dozen ships crammed within. Great mounds of salted cod were loaded on the ships while a bewildering variety of goods were hauled ashore. Countless barrels of ale from Linlund and pork shoulders from Shalfur were piled on the docks next to more exotic goods from Llangellan, Faerfachen, and Vandoria. There were even sacks of pepper and nutmeg from Shandorr being unloaded from a Vandorian ship as workmen hauled cod aboard. A few muddy streets wound through the shabby little place, most crowded with warehouses but with a few good taverns scattered throughout. Jorn could hear the sounds of song and cheer within as they passed one on the single main street.

             
“No taverns today,” Fearach said.

             
Jorn sighed, looking back at the tavern.

They passed a butcher shop, a few dried hams hanging out in front next. There was a narrow staircase around back next to a stinking heap of discarded bones gnawed on by a pair of scrawny dogs. Up the stairs were the rooms where Inglefrid and her grandmother were staying.

“Disgusting place,” Fearach said, stepping around the dogs. “You see why I took Inglefrid to be raised at the lighthouse. Could you imagine growing up amid such surroundings?”

They plodded up the stairs and Fearach banged loudly with his walking stick on the door. The door opened at once, a young girl answering and giving the old man an enthusiastic hug.

No one would ever carve a heroic statue of Inglefrid, but that didn’t make her any less beautiful. There was something about her, however, which Jorn felt powerfully drawn to. Inglefrid had soft features and light blonde hair, her fair skin complimented by the delightful scattering of freckles scattered across her face. Her eyes were what struck Jorn the most, however. They were bright blue, almost the color of the sky, yet imbued with a certain intangible sadness.

Inglefrid had a fine figure, as well, enough to enchant any healthy young man in her company. The most fascinating thing about her, though, was the simple, unaffected way she carried herself. It was as if she were completely unaware of her substantial charms. She wore a simple brown-green dress with a small copper pendant around her neck in the shape of an oak leaf, and seemed very at ease in such plain garb with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Jorn did not say much to her on that first meeting, but their eyes met a few times during the course of the afternoon. Jorn could have sworn some flash of excitement crossed between them, a spark of something more than simply goodwill. Fearach introduced Jorn as Cahan, his new helper as well as his student in all things mundane and magical. They sat down at the small kitchen table, glad to be off their feet after the long walk. Inglefrid brought out small cakes and mugs of dark ale and talked of the difficulties of caring for her grandmother. The old woman sat in the corner of the room the whole time, complaining of her many aches and her lack of money. She seemed distracted, sometimes humming to herself and staring out the window. Every few minutes she would voice some complaint about life in Glorbinden or about how her rooms were alternately too hot or too drafty.

“How many times have I told you?” Fearach muttered. “You can stay at the lighthouse. You would want for nothing, and the air would do wonders for your fevers.”

“That fucking lighthouse,” she said, grimacing and dismissing his offer with a contemptuous wave of her hand. “Blech.”

“You are a hopeless old crone, you know that?”  Fearach growled. “How does it feel, you withered harpy, to have given your life over to such unremitting bitterness?”

The old woman started to cry, suddenly wailing at length about her late husband and how no one cared about his memory. She claimed the men of Glorbinden planned to dig up his grave and sell his bones to evil wizards. Fearach shook his head, cursing her. The argument finally ended when she called him several obscene names and went into the bedchamber to lay down.