Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (16 page)

             
“They may mean to move against you after we’re asleep, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, or they may hope to ambush us in the morning. They might even plan to poison your ale. No, keep drinking. Act as you were, laddie. They can’t be allowed to leave this room. Aye.”

             
Jorn nodded, glancing down at his tankard and putting it down.

“Grang’s teeth!” he whispered. “Let’s capture these scum alive. Who knows what they might know that they can tell us.”

              “Tha’s thinking with your head,” Ironhelm said.

“What next?” Jorn asked, sipping his ale and pretending to laugh.

“Just act natural, for now. Do nothing to alarm them, laddie. Think of something obscene to shout at tha’ barmaid.”

“I’m sure I can manage that.”

_____

              Brundig drained the last of his ale. He turned the situation around in his mind, weighing his options as a few more of Orbadrin’s soldiers left the common room and went outside bearing their spears and shields. It must be a change of shift for the guard outside.

             
“Forget trying to murder him in his sleep,” Grimwald whispered over his ale. “With all these guards, if anyone raises an alarm we’ll never make it back out alive.”

             
Brundig frowned. “That leaves us two options,” he said. “Ambush him tomorrow morning or attack the inn tonight.”

             
Whichever option Brundig chose, he liked his odds. He had thirty men and nearly as many gruks hiding nearby, not to mention the element of surprise. Jorn and the dwarf had twenty men as near as he could figure.

             
“We’ll attack tonight,” he whispered, smiling slyly. “After everyone has gone to sleep. Come on, let’s be off.”

He took out a pair of silver coins from the pouch at his belt and tossed them on the table as they got up.

              As he turned from the table, he saw all his plans suddenly come crashing to an end. Half a dozen of Orbadrin’s warriors were all around them, their swords drawn, and as many more blocking the door. They’d all moved so naturally, Brundig didn’t even notice what they were really up to. There was no time to even draw his sword, not that it would have mattered anyway. He was captured, and knew it.

Grimwald, however, chose to go down fighting, grabbing hold of his two-handed axe. He’d barely lifted it off the ground before one of Jorn’s soldiers plunged a sword into his chest. Grimwald dropped the weapon, falling to the floor of the inn. All around them farmers and shepherds fled the inn in a panicked hurry.

_____

              Brundig sat at the table in one of the small private rooms off the common room. Jorn, Ironhelm, and a pair of Jorn’s soldiers stood around him. Edain and the Captain of the Skogfald town watch stood by the door.

             
“If I tell you what I know, you must promise to spare my life,” Brundig pleaded. “I’m just a hired sword. I’ve no desire to die for Einar, but I know much that could help you.”

             
“You have my word,” Jorn said. “Tell us all you know, and your life will be spared.”

             
“No,” Brundig said. “Swear that
no harm
will come to me. I don’t want you to lop off my hands and feet and call that honoring your oath to spare my life.”

“Grang’s teeth! Very well. I swear, by Grang,
no harm
will come to you if you cooperate.” Jorn stepped closer to him. “Now talk!”

             
Brundig looked the young man over. He could not be sure if Jorn’s word was worth anything, but he did not see how he’d any other choice.

             
“I’ve thirty men and as many gruks holed up about two miles south of here,” he said. “All are in the employ of Einar Ravenbane. They’re hiding inside an abandoned mine but are watching the road. We’ve been watching the road waiting for you for a week now.”

             
“Gruks! Here?” the local captain exclaimed. “You miserable filth!”

             
“Wha’ about the assassins Einar sent?” Ironhelm snapped. “They were supposed to murder Thane Ravenbane. Aye, so why’d he bother with sending you?”

             
“Einar learned you were on your way to fetch his bastard cousin so that the wizard Braemorgan could put him up as a pretender to The Westmark,” Brundig explained. “He thought there was a chance the assassins might fail to reach Falneth in time. My task was to stop you from reaching the bastard and warning him.”

             
“Are you only watching the main road?” Jorn asked. “What about other paths or trails?”

             
“I only have enough men for the main road.”

             
“What do you know about this mine?” Ironhelm asked the town guard captain.

The captain was a solid-seeming man with broad shoulders and a full brown beard. Clad in a chain mail hauberk and plain steel helm, he looked every bit the capable, seasoned warrior. He was, in actuality, the local blacksmith and only just roused from his bed by his men. They had banged on his door shouting about the warriors who were camped at the inn and how they had slain a man and taken another prisoner. He hurriedly donned his armor and rushed to the inn with a troop of the local freemen guards, intent on seizing the troublemakers if need be. Ironhelm met him at the door of the inn and calmly explained what had happened. According to the dwarf, the man they held captive inside was an assassin in league with gruks. The captain insisted on speaking with the man and seeing for himself.

              “I know it well,” the captain said. “One could hide a great number of soldiers there. But the fools are doomed.”

“Why?” Ironhelm asked.

“There is only one way in or out of the mine,” the captain said. “It is but a narrow shaft with a single opening at the end of an abandoned old track. I can summon two hundred free warriors within the hour and trap them all inside. There’s an old battle wizard that lives in town, too. He hates gruks. He’ll hurl a few fire-spells down into the hole and roast ‘em all.”

             
“Aye! Tha’ll do nicely, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

             
“Why do they want you?” the captain said, his voice suddenly edged with wary suspicion. “What have you done, to draw the likes of gruks to our village?”

             
“This is Jorn Ravenbane,” Ironhelm said. “We travel south to press his claim to The Westmark. There are many would see him stopped from doing so.”

             
“That’s none of our concern here,” the captain said. “But…well, I know a huntsman who can lead you by hidden paths through the woods far from the abandoned mine.”

             
“We can aid you,” Jorn suddenly offered. “My men are battle-tested.”

             
“You’ve caused enough trouble for my people,” the captain said gruffly. “I wish you no ill fortune, but I want you out of this village within the hour. Leave those gruks to us.”

_____

             
The riders moved through the woods along the deer path in single file, no one speaking or even whispering so much as a single word. In the front rode a local hunter who could find his way along the paths and trails through the woods in his sleep. There was plenty of light this evening, the moons joined by wispy curtains of green light which danced eerily across the night sky.

Some Linlunders took the appearance of such aurora as ill omens, but among the men of Falneth they were said to be spirits of beautiful young maidens dancing for the amusement of the gods. Thus occupied, the gods could not send any additional troubles to the world of men to cure their divine boredom.

Jorn glanced up at the shimmering lights with relief and awe. Whenever they appeared, the northern lights never failed to dazzle him with their beauty.

             
Brundig sat on a horse between Jorn and Ironhelm, his arms bound behind him and his mouth gagged. The dwarf warned him that if they walked into any sort of ambush him would be killed immediately. Brundig did not believe this to be an idle threat.

             
“If you are leading us into a trap, scum, you’re a dead man” the dwarf warned, lifting his battle axe and holding it in front of Brundig’s face. He nudged Brundig’s nose gently with the axe’s sharp blade. “I’ll be watching the trees of the forests and listening for the slightest sign of an ambush, laddie. Aye, and I’ll bury this axe in your head if I hear so much as a squirrel scurrying across the snow.”

             
They crossed a small stream now, passing over the thick ice silently, and then skirted the edge of a small farm. They continued along in silence, every man’s weapon at the ready and every shield clutched tightly. They passed by a small hill and wound by some large boulders which made them wonder if any enemies crouched behind them. The ground flattened beyond the hill and then went along the edge of a bog and into a broad, flat stretch of thick pines. Miles went by in tense silence as they made their way further south. Their guide led them onto a small path running off to the left which climbed uphill before finally meeting the main road.

             
The guide turned back to the others.

             
“We are more than five miles south of the mine shaft,” he said.

             
“I thank you,” Jorn said, handing the guide a single gold coin

             
The guide nodded, turning his horse and heading back towards Skogfald. Jorn and his company rode south along the main road, still tense but feeling better to have their would-be ambushers behind them.             

             
“The men of Skogfald will be surrounding the mine shaft by now,” Edain said, sneering at Brundig. “Your friends will be in a bit of a surprise.”

             
Brundig tried to say something under his gag but they could not understand his muffled noises. Ironhelm leaned over and pulled the gag out.

             
“Wha’ is it?” he asked.

             
“I gave you what you want,” Brundig said. “You promised not to harm me.”

             
“And we won’t,” Jorn said. “But you’re still coming with us.”

             
“You deceiver!” Brundig snapped.

             
“Keep complaining and the gag goes back in,” Jorn said. “I said I’d spare your life, and I will. I said no harm will come to you, and it won’t. But I’m not letting you free until I think it’s safe for me to do so and that’s not yet.”

             
Brundig mumbled something under his breath. Jorn ignored him, driving his horse harder along the road south. So much for a night spent in a warm bed.

Seven

             
Jorn was never as cold in his whole life as he was riding through Brame’s Notch.

The road split at the town of Linnerrhyd. One fork continued south to Swordhaven, the other sharply west and up towards the Great Barrier Mountains. They took the later, climbing through increasingly rugged terrain. It wound its way through the rocky landscape, a few tiny villages and isolated homesteads along the way. Jorn and his company passed through a narrow canyon with steep cliffs looming hundreds of feet high, the wind blowing at them with an unceasing ferocity.  On the far side of the canyon, though, the ground began to slope downward along a winding route. A wide valley underneath the snow-covered mountains was before them.

Ironhelm turned to Jorn and almost smiled.

             
“The Westmark, laddie.” he shouted over the howling wind. “Welcome home.”

             
Jorn said nothing, looking all about him. Every rock and every tree he saw was now part of
his
domain, or could be if things went to plan. The very idea astounded him.

On they rode through towering pines, dark forests stretching out along the steep slopes descending into the valley. It was not long before a patrol of soldiers from The Westmark approached them on horseback. Clad in heavy armor and thick furs, they bore round shields painted with the sign of a raven against a field of black and purple. Jorn knew the sign, for it was the symbol of The Westmark and the House of Ravenbane. It suddenly occurred to him that it was now his own emblem.

The Westmarkers recognized Ironhelm as they drew nearer, lowering their spears. They all bowed respectfully when Jorn was introduced. They looked him over warily, as though wondering if this wild-looking lad with the two-handed sword slung across his back was really up to the task before him.

             
“Braemorgan bade us watch for you and provide escort,” one of them said, turning towards Jorn and snapping to attention. “Welcome to The Westmark, Thane Ravenbane.”

             
“There is a small hamlet ten miles south where we can lodge this evening,” another soldier explained. “We should make Loc Goren by nightfall tomorrow.”

             
“Then let’s be off,” Jorn said.

             
Jorn studied everything as the road turned south and began to run parallel to the Brugerwyn. He noted the frozen river and its far shores, territory currently controlled by Einar. Even now, Jorn pondered, spies on the far bank could be watching them. If they were, and that seemed likely, Einar would soon learn Jorn had arrived.

They rode hard, passing through a small village filled with peasants peering out their windows at the band of warriors passing through.

Jorn kept staring at the river and its frozen expanse. The ice looked thick, and that worried him. 

_____

             
Jorn first reaction to Loc Goren was one of palpable relief. He’d made it there, despite assassins, lurking trolls, and planned ambushes. He was surprised to find it was not a large place, though. It was a small town between the river’s edge and the steep hillsides, a community of five hundred souls swelled to more than two thousand by the many soldiers camped on either side of the road. They passed a field outside of town now filled with row after row of square tents. Soldiers huddled around innumerable campfires, struggling to stay warm amid the bitter cold.

             
More tents lined both sides of the road as they entered Loc Goren, soldiers standing on either side of them shouting greetings. They looked like sturdy men to Jorn, but his stomach suddenly felt a bit sick as the reality of what faced him grew at once so much heavier. These were
his
troops. This multitude looked to
him
for leadership.

Jorn took in the rest of the town around him as they rode through. Although Loc Goren was not as large as Jorn had expected, he was still struck by how orderly and well-built a place it was. Solid stone buildings with pointed roofs, some buildings two or even three stories high, lined the main road and the several side streets leading down to the river’s edge. Jorn counted two inns and a tavern in the town, as well as a substantial number of small shops. There was a brewery, a large mill, and several warehouses facing the river, as well.

              Beyond the village Jorn’s gaze fell upon the keep located south of town atop a steep hill overlooking a gentle bend in the river. The fortress was constructed entirely of stone, a wide cylinder of granite with four turrets jutting out from the main tower. Even at a distance, Jorn could see men standing atop the battlements fifty feet above the keep’s gates and nearly two hundred feet above the river. Rising over the battlements was a long pole from which flew the purple and black Ravenbane banner. It fluttered in the breeze over a fortress far more imposing than anything Jorn had ever seen excepting only King Bangrim’s own stronghold at Vistinar.

The keep far eclipsed Hrókur in both size and defensive strength, Orbadrin’s hall tiny and fragile by comparison. Hrókur was beautiful, though, whereas the keep was a cold and colorless construct of pure function.

              They left the main road and took the path up to the keep, twisting back and forth up the rocky hill until they reached the sturdy iron gates. A pair of grizzled old guards stood at attention as the doors were thrown open. Braemorgan stood just within. He seemed unbothered by the cold, stepping outside at their approach.

“You are late!” he bellowed. “We’ve expected you for days! By Une, Ironhelm, what took you so long to fetch him?”

              The dwarf muttered something unintelligible.

             
“Greetings, Braemorgan,” Jorn said.

“Welcome, Thane Ravenbane,” the wizard said. “I present you the Keep of Loc Goren. It is one of your few remaining fortresses, I’m afraid. For the time being, of course.”

              Jorn dismounted, gazing awe-struck up at the walls of the keep. The gray stones were smoothly surfaced and perfectly joined all the way up the sides, no stone so much as an inch out of place. It looked a thousand feet tall as he stood at its base, looking straight up. Braemorgan watched him and saw the awe in his face.

             
“Come.” The wizard smiled and clapped him on the back. “Let’s get you out of the cold, my boy.”

             
They went inside and walked through a long narrow vault, the others dismounting behind them and shaking off the cold. The long vault led into a round chamber with a high ceiling from which hung a huge chandelier holding several wizard’s lamps glowing brightly. Two passageways branched off from the room to both the left and right, a large battered shield and crisscrossed spears hanging above an arch in front of them that led to what looked like a great hall. Soldiers and servants paused in their paths, staring wide-eyed. Jorn could feel a dozen eyes taking the measure of their new thane.

             
A striking young woman in a dark purple cloak approached. Her large green eyes regarded Jorn with a cold ferocity that took him aback. She was certainly beautiful, he decided, but in the distant way a statue of some unforgiving warrior goddess could be. Her bright red curls were pulled back into a single braid. She wore a golden pendant in the shape of a raven formed exactly like the one emblazoned upon the banner streaming high above the fortress.

             
“Ah, here we are,” Braemorgan said, glancing at the girl. “Jorn, I would like to introduce you to your older sister Morag.”

             
Jorn blinked. The idea of meeting members of the Ravenbane family was something he’d not considered until that moment.

             
“So this is the bastard,” Morag said, glaring at him coldly for a moment before looking back at Braemorgan. “I’m glad we sent my mother south. She wouldn’t want to see this, uh, person take command of my father’s hall.”

             
“Morag is to be your tutor, Jorn,” Braemorgan said cheerfully, nonplussed by Morag’s hostility. “She will help you learn what you need to know to rule over The Westmark.”

             
“Can he read?” Morag asked the wizard.

             
“I can,” Jorn interjected. “Linlundic and some Dwarven.”

             
“Linlundic and
some
Dwarven,” Morag repeated, shaking her head. “Lovely.”

             
“You’ll have to forgive Morag,” Braemorgan interjected. “It’s been difficult for her, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

             
Morag took stock of Jorn. He resembled their brother Agnar in a superficial manner, but looked even more like her father.  Taller than their father had ever been, Jorn inherited Loric’s solid frame and strong limbs. His clear blue eyes and square jaw were standard Ravenbane family traits, to be sure, along with the exceptional height.

The boy looked wild, though. His long brown hair fell down past his shoulders, though his chin was shaven in the tradition of many young Linlundic thanes. His elkskin cloak was too-savage for a great lord, though, and the ring mail shirt he wore underneath it struck Morag as more befitting a vagabond highwayman than a leader of great armies. She noted the two-handed sword slung over his back and the pair of throwing axes stuck in his belt, as well. A battered and rusted steel helmet upon his head, a pair of wool trousers mismatched to the rest of his clothes, and his well-worn elkskin boots completed the picture of a half-barbarian battler.

Morag was horrified, wondering how Braemorgan had convinced her to hand The Westmark, or what was left of it, to such a youth as the nearly-unlettered savage now standing before her. She turned away, saying nothing.

_____

             
Jorn was overjoyed to be alone. Not including outhouses, he hadn’t been in a room by himself since leaving Falneth six days earlier. Guards constantly hovered all around him the entire journey south, not giving him so much as a moment’s solitude. Now, at last, he had a bit of privacy. He took off his sword, dropping it on the table followed by his axes and other weapons. He was four stories up in the heart of a stone keep surrounded by an entire army. If he did not feel safe enough to put aside his weapons here, he never would.

             
Jorn sat down at the table and ate his dinner in joyous solitude. Servants had brought in a roast duck along with a plate of the most excellent roast parsnips he’d ever tasted. Platters of bread and sharp-tasting yellow cheese also lay spread out before him, along with a full tankard of ale.

Jorn was hungry, but too tired to enjoy the meal with as much relish as he normally would. He was glad there was to be no lavish feast welcoming him to his new domain, however, exhausted as he was.

Now he had a huge bedchamber with a comfortable bed and a crackling fireplace in his new keep. He smirked, looking around the room. He studied the walls and the furniture, the floors and the ceiling. All were his! It was still dizzying to contemplate.

             
He finished his meal and got up, throwing his cloak aside and removing his ring mail shirt. He left both draped across his chair. He sat on the bed and leaned over to take off his boots. He slid each of them off, his feet suddenly free and able to breathe. He pulled aside the great fur blanket on the bed, contemplating the full night’s sleep ahead. There would be trying ordeals in the coming days, he was sure, but for one night he could at least get some rest.

             
A knock at the door interrupted his plans. Jorn sighed, hoping whoever it was would just go away. A moment later, the door opened and Braemorgan entered.

             
“Ah, still awake,” the wizard said, his knotted old staff in hand. “Good.”

Braemorgan shut the door behind him and sat down next to the fire.

“I’d hoped to be able to talk with you alone this evening,” he said.

             
Jorn sat down wearily across from the wizard. Braemorgan looked him over.

             
“You’ve grown up well, young Thane Ravenbane,” he said. “But I wonder how prepared you are for all of this.”

             
“What do you mean?”

             
“Well, I’ve plucked you from your home in Falneth and brought you here to command an army and to claim lordship over the greatest Thanedom in Linlund. That must be overwhelming.”

             
“This last week,” Jorn began. “It’s been like some strange dream. I don’t even know the Ravenbanes. I didn’t even want to come here.”

             
“So Lord Ironhelm told me. There are many more challenges ahead of you, Jorn.”

             
“Like re-conquering The Westmark?”

             
“That’s only the beginning. It will not be an easy task, you know.”

             
“First tell me what happened. How did Einar seize The Westmark and kill Agnar? The dwarf says nothing whenever I ask him.”