Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (41 page)

             
“I left my bow with my horse,” Jorn whispered, shaking his head. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll all get atop. I’ll charge the ones on the left while you and Sal fire at the right, then both of you charge. By the time they can get swords drawn to deal with me, the numbers might be more even.”

             
Willock nodded.

“Let’s get up there first,” Jorn said. He placed his hands on the ledge above him. “Then be ready to strike. Ready? Let’s go.”

Jorn pulled himself over the top and scrambled behind a nearby rock. Willock gave Flatfoot a boost over and then came up behind him, taking position behind a tree and notching an arrow. He paused, waiting for Flatfoot to set up nearby. The gnome raised his crossbow and took careful aim.

Jorn looked back at Willock and nodded. The woodsman raised his bow and waited for Jorn’s signal. Jorn drew his sword.

“Three,” he whispered. “Two, one.”

Jorn burst forward, hitting the line of archers with lightning quickness as Willock let fly with one of his arrows. Willock and Flatfoot each felled a gruk with their shots just as Jorn reached the line of archers. He shoved a pair of gruks in the back who were standing right at the edge of the cliff. They fell off with hardly a cry. He whirled around, bringing his sword down on another gruk. It raised its bow in a desperate effort to parry Jorn’s attack, but to no avail. Jorn’s sword crashed through the bow and buried itself in the gruk’s neck, sending the creature falling back over the edge of the cliff.

Willock and Flatfoot now charged, the woodsman easily cutting one of them down. Only three now remained. One panicked, falling to its knees and shielding its head. Jorn brought his sword down upon its skull.

Flatfoot, meanwhile, had drawn his own sword and knocked aside the blow of one of the gruks, slashing quickly at the creature’s midsection. He felt more alive than he had in many years, his dwarf-blade whistling in the air as it slashed and parried. The gruk dodged Flatfoot’s initial blow, and the gnome attacked again. Flatfoot slashed at the gruk’s hip, but stopped his attack midway through. His opponent was suddenly gone. The gruk, trying to avoid Flatfoot’s blow, had leapt backwards and accidentally stepped right over the cliff. It was a ridiculous thing, the stuff of his often exaggerated stories, but it had nonetheless occurred in precisely that manner.

Flatfoot turned, watching Jorn and Willock finish off the last of the other two. He looked at his sword, the blade gleaming in the sunlight without so much as a drop of blood upon it.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered.

______

              Ailric swung his sword with abandon, looming over the gruks on his warhorse as he fought his way towards the nearest of the trolls. The creature was frighteningly immense up close, a great bulk of hair, muscle, and sinew. It had almost no neck, its huge shoulders merging with its strangely misshapen head and deformed face. The monster swung its club, advancing against the red-bearded dwarf still standing at the center of the fight. The hulking creature knocked a hapless dwarf aside and now loomed over the red-bearded dwarf, who swung his hammer at the beast’s knees. The troll dodged the blow and swung his club low. It hit the red-bearded dwarf hard in the side of his leg, knocking him off his feet. The dwarf looked up. He could see the troll’s gaping maw, drool dripping down between rows of jagged teeth as it raised its club for the killing blow. The dwarf groped for his hammer, but couldn’t find it. He winced, expecting death.

             
There was a sudden flash of metal as a sword blow struck the troll. It dropped its club, the massive thing falling to the ground next to the dwarf. Looking up, the dwarf saw Ailric swinging his sword. This time the knight’s blade landed heavily on the reeling troll’s neck, cleaving deeply into its flesh. Again Ailric hacked at the massive neck, this time cutting into bone as troll blood spurted upwards in a grim fountain.

The troll landed on the ground next to the dwarf with a terrific thud, black blood still gushing upwards from its neck in rhythm to the troll’s fading heartbeat. The dwarf pulled himself to his feet. He found his hammer, wading back into the fray.

              “Keep at them!” he shouted. “Send the damned sons of bitches right to hell!”

             
He stopped, dumbfounded at the sight of what occurred next.

             
A glowing orange fireball two feet across flew into the ranks of gruks and exploded, sending magical flame in all directions. A dozen gruks were set instantly afire, several utterly swallowed up by the flames. The remaining troll was also on fire, taking the brunt of the spell.  It dropped its club, screaming in panicked agony. It fell to its knees, desperately trying to shield his face from the flames. A trio of dwarf-axes began hacking away at the burning hulk and soon quieted his screams. The few surviving gruks took off running, unsure how certain victory had suddenly turned into total defeat.  A cheer went up among the dwarves, several of them running down the hill in pursuit of the fleeing gruks.

_____

More than a dozen dwarves lay strewn about the battlefield, many merely wounded but several dead. At least double that many gruks and trolls lay nearby, including the gruk archers sprawled on the road below the cliff. Most of them survived, badly injured. The dwarves put them out of their misery with grim efficiency.

Jorn came down from the cliff, surveying the scene. Ronias, out of breath from casting the difficult spell, sat off by himself on the side of the road as the dwarves looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Ailric had dismounted and was leaning against a rock, rubbing his shoulder.

             
The dwarves did what they could for their wounded comrades, and laid the dead ones out upon their shields in a single row upon the road. The red-bearded dwarf, meanwhile, talked to the strangers. He was young, but had an air of authority about him as he spoke in the tongue of the men of Llangellan.

             
“We owe you many thanks,” he said. He turned to face Ailric, looking up at the knight with awe. “You arrived at just the right moment back there. I owe you my life, I do.”

             
“I am Durm Ironhelm of Thunderforge, and these are my companions,” Ironhelm said, introducing the others in turn. “We were on our way to Glammonfore, laddie, when we happened upon you. Aye.”

             
“You are well met,” the young dwarf said. “I am Gram Hammeredshield. My father is Thórkell Hammeredshield, lord of these lands.”

             
“I knew Thórkell many years ago, I did,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, and I’m gladdened to hear he yet lives. He must be near two-hundred and eighty summers by now.”

             
“Two hundred and eighty-one,” Hammeredshield said. “You say you are called Ironhelm? Aye, my father has spoken of you. You will be doubly welcome in his hall this day!”

             
“What happened here?” Jorn said. “It looked like you were in a bad place when we came along.”

             
“We were on our way back to Dunvögen,” Hammeredshield said. “This road passes along the northern edge of our lands, it does. Beyond are nothing but wild hills all the way to the River Tam. The gruks have been making attacks on merchants along this stretch, so I’ve been personally leading extra patrols for weeks now. We’d ridden all day when we happened upon the gruks off the side of the road waiting for us down the slope. We thought we had them and attacked. Tha’s when another twenty gruks and the trolls came up out of the woods and the archers appeared on the cliffs above. Aye, tis true.”

             
“You walked right into a trap,” Jorn said.

             
“Aye, tha’ we did,” Hammeredshield said, shaking his head. He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat and grime off his forehead with his cloak. “They’ve never shown such strategy before, nor such daring. It’s a thing unheard of, for them to attack a patrol this large! We’ve killed so many of the damned gruk dogs over the past months, but they just keep coming. Every day there is another skirmish somewhere along the border and more dwarves are killed. Aye, I’ve lost a dozen today and three more may not survive the night.”

             
“You killed three times as many as that,” Flatfoot said.

             
“It hardly matters, master gnome,” Hammeredshield grumbled. “I lost half my force today, I did. I ask you, how many more victories like tha’ can we endure? Now you must tell me why you make for Glammonfore.”

             
“Tha’s our business, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

             
“Well, you won’t be taking the road through
our
lands to Glammonfore,” Hammeredshield said. “My father has suspended travel on the road south due to gangs of gruks who have taken control of long stretches of it. We plan an expedition to re-take the road, but until then it is closed to all.”

             
“Tha’s ill news,” Ironhelm said. “We’ll have to take the Widowing Gap after all, we will.”

             
“Why would you wish to cross over into the frontier?” Hammeredshield said.

             
“I’ll speak to your father about tha’, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

             
Hammeredshield nodded.

“So be it,” he said. “I’ll take you to him. He’ll wish to host you in his hall.”

              “Do we really have time to visit with your old friends, Ironhelm?” Ronias said.

             
“And where do you hail from, elf?” Hammeredshield demanded.

             
“I am of Shandorr,” Ronias said.

             
“Shandorr, eh? Not Sollistore?”

             
“Did I not just say so?” Ronias rolled his eyes. “The Sollistorean elves are the enemies of my people. Surely, even ignorant dwarves must know that much.”

             
“The Sollistoreans have made war on us, they have,” Hammeredshield said, still eying Ronias carefully. “We are no friends of theirs.”

             
“Those aren’t his people, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

             
“All the same,” Hammeredshield observed. “He ought to be watching his tongue. There’s no need to be rude.” He looked Ronias over again. “So you’re a wizard, are you?”

             
“I am.”

             
“Tha’ is one thing we sourly lack. My father has sent out word for battle wizards, offering much coin in exchange for their services, but too few have answered his call. He will not hire an elf, in any case, but I think he will tolerate your presence in our realm since you are not of Sollistore and you helped us in the battle.”

             
“I’d say I did quite a bit more than that,” Ronias said.

“I suppose so,” Hammeredshield said, nodding grudgingly. “Aye, thanks are in order. But now we must make haste to Dunvögen before it grows dark.”

              “How far is it, laddie?” Ironhelm asked. 

             
“Not more than ten miles,” Hammeredshield said. He looked around with disgust. “Think of tha’! They strike at us only ten miles from the gates of our city! These are dark days indeed.”

             
“Aye,” Ironhelm mumbled. “Tha’ they are, laddie.”

Seventeen

            
 
They reached Dunvögen two hours later, a somber procession of dwarves bearing the bodies of the slain. Hammeredshield rode at the head of the company, Ironhelm and Ailric with him. He chatted quietly with the knight despite his grief, speaking somberly of the problems of late. The gruk and troll raids were taking their toll, he explained, but at least most of the Hammeredshield Clan lived behind the strong walls of Dunvögen and, to the south, Brumhaag.

             
Jorn was impressed by his first look at Dunvögen. Built at the base of a steep mountainside, the city backed up to the nearly-sheer cliffs under which the dwarves carved tunnels extending many miles. The walls of the city were made of hewn granite, stout towers flanking an immense iron gate at the center of the semi-circle.

             
As they approached, they saw lines of warriors on either side of the road in front of the gate. The dwarves stood at attention, war hammers held out in front of them in salute. Hammeredshield had sent a rider ahead with word of the ambush and of the fallen dwarves. A dwarf standing next to the gate beat a massive drum as the company approached. The beat was slow and steady.

             
“Normally the plains before the gates are a bustling marketplace,” Hammeredshield said. “There should be a vast camp of tents and stalls all around us. Now there is naught but death.”

             
The walls came into clearer view now as they approached. The smooth lines of granite blocks sweeping away in a gentle curve in either direction were interrupted only by the thick guard towers jutting out at regular intervals. The tiny, distant figures of dwarves atop the walls also stood at attention as the company approached.

             
Hammeredshield rode out in front of them, bringing his pony to a stop when he reached the gates. The other riders stopped behind him as dwarves wearing black robes marched slowly out from the gate. They chanted a somber dirge to the rhythm of the still-beating drum. The warriors all dismounted and laid the shields of the fallen upon the ground. They then carefully lifted the bodies of the dead dwarves off the backs of their riderless ponies. As the priests continued their solemn chants, the warriors laid the bodies on the shields. A pair of priests lifted each of the shields and carried them into the city.

The drumbeat and the chanting ceased, a total silence falling over the mountains as the black-robed priests bore the slain heroes through the gate. As the last of the dead dwarves entered the city, a bell pealed from somewhere in the distance. Its solemn ringing echoed off the mountains all around, ringing once for each fallen dwarf.

Finally, the procession disappeared into the gates and the bells grew silent. For long minutes the company remained still and silent, until at last Hammeredshield spurred his pony forward into the city. The others followed.

             
They passed through the gates and into the city, Jorn’s head turning to and fro as he rode along. It was his first time inside a Dwarven city and he’d never seen anything like it.

It was nothing like the cities of man. This was no tangled web of muddy streets and crowded tenements. It did not stink of pig shit and rotting garbage, either. Animals did not graze freely in the streets and there were no cesspools. There were no urchins crowding about, either, nor any seedy-looking men standing in the doorways of dark taverns or filthy brothels. This was a city of air and orderliness like nothing Jorn had ever beheld.

              The streets were all straight, every one of them part of an ordered grid. Dwarves had an aversion to curves and a love of straight lines, Jorn knew, but they were also practical-minded. Thus, their city was not a square or rectangle at the base of the mountain. A semi-circle was easier to defend, so a semi-circle it had to be. The layout within that semi-circle, however, reflected dwarf tastes and was anything but curved. It was all kept straight, orderly, and simple.

             
Something else about the city struck Jorn, a fact which dawned on him gradually. Dunvögen was
clean
, not a patch of dirt or rubbish anywhere. This was unlike Falneth, with its muddy streets that became impassable when the spring rains came. It was not Glorbinden, either, with its stray dogs and piles of refuse. Nor was it Barter’s Crossing, with its endless maze of alleyways. This was a city in which one could breathe, its wide streets paved with perfectly-fitted cobblestones. Wagons glided smoothly along without the slightest bounce. The streets were even wide enough for traffic going in both directions to pass by with ease, sidewalks on either side of the road allowing the many dwarves of all ages to go about their affairs safe from the traffic of the street.

The dwarves within all seemed to take little notice of the strangers until they spotted Ronias, at which point they would look about uncomfortably and often point and stare. A few even shouted insults until Hammeredshield glared at them. Ronias put his hood up and held his face down, clutching his cloak.

              “Useless side trip,” he muttered, slouching down. “Why must we visit with this drooling bunch of bearded imbeciles?”

             
“Eh? We’ve little choice,” Willock said. “If we can’t take the road to Glammonfore, we’ll have to pass through the Widowing Gap instead. For that we need the permission of the Clan-chief.”

             
“No dwarf ever gave useful help,” Ronias said.

             
“It’s either this or we lose nearly a week taking another route to Glammonfore,” Willock said.

             
The travelers rode down the main avenue, Jorn still taking in the sights.

Dunvögen was a city of stone, he saw, dwarves considering wooden structures termite-infested firetraps. Every building, as well, had been assembled with blocks of granite of a shade of gray that was almost white. They were simple buildings, harshly functional at first glance, yet Jorn liked them. They possessed a certain grace in their clean simplicity. What struck him most, however, were the rows of small trees planted along the edge of each sidewalk. He shook his head in disbelief. Trees! In a city!

              In the center of the city was a broad square, with a large iron statue of a dwarf warrior in the middle. The statue held a hammer above his head, his long beard flowing down nearly to his knees.

             
“Vögen Hammeredshield,” Hammeredshield said. “Our Clan-founder.” 

             
“Your kin?” Ailric wondered.

             
“Aye, my great-grandfather. A mighty captain of Withenhaelr.”

             
Passing through the square, the main road continued through several intersections before ending abruptly in the steep cliffs of the mountain. Broad marble steps ascended several stories above the level of the street, leveling off into a broad granite platform that led straight into a massive archway cut into the cliff’s side.  A company of guards stood on either side of the arch, standing stiffly at attention. Beyond the arch Jorn could see an immense hall bored right into the side of the mountain.

             
“The great Clan-Hall of Dunvögen,” Ironhelm announced, almost smiling. “Aye, it’s been many a year since I’ve seen this sight.”

             
“Within awaits my father,” Hammeredshield said. “He has been in a dark mood of late, he has. The news of the ambush will not brighten it, I fear. But perhaps your arrival will give him some respite from his cares, Lord Ironhelm.”

             
A detachment of dwarves in full plate armor with long shields and full helmets appeared at the arch and hurried down the stairs. Jorn counted twenty in all. They saluted Hammeredshield, who returned their salute and dismounted. One of the dwarves said something quietly to him. He nodded and turned towards the others.

“Come,” Hammeredshield said. “My father will see you at once.”

“Where is he?” Jorn asked.

“Within the hall,” Hammeredshield said, gesturing towards the arch at the top of the stairs.

“Underground,” Jorn muttered, dismounting.

“Of course,” Hammeredshield said. “Where else would it be?”

They were led up the stairs and into the hall beyond the arch. Beyond was a long vault carved out. It was immense, a hundred yards deep. A pair of large passages on either side led off halfway along its length. Above were arched ceilings and immense candelabras adorned with dozens of wizard’s lamps. Along the sides of the mighty chamber, colonnades of tall arches lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Jorn looked up, imagining the countless tons of rock pressing downwards all around him. It was spacious in the cavern, at least, though he couldn’t shake a vague feeling of discomfort.

             
At the end of the hall was yet another arch flanked by a pair of statues of dwarves twenty feet tall. To the right stood a solemn-looking dwarf king holding a hammer clutched tightly against his chest and bearing a shield nearly his own height. His beard fell down to his belly as he stared blankly ahead. On the left, a dwarf queen with long braids was dressed in the same armor as the king. She carried a tall shield, as well, but bore a long spear instead of a hammer. Each wore a great helm upon their heads, the horns reaching up almost to the ceiling. Jorn stared at them as they approached. They reminded him of Eabea, especially their solemn expressions and colossal size.

The thought struck him. Could dwarves have carved Eabea, during some forgotten epoch in which they dwelt on Glenaevon? Jorn doubted Fearach ever considered that possibility. The more he stared up at the statues, however, the more he noticed the similarity between the solemn faces looking down upon him and that mysterious old king in far-away Glenaevon.

More guards stood on either side of the arch by the feet of the royal couple, a great metal door barring the way any further. At Hammeredshield’s approach they leaned over and, grabbing the large metal rungs at the center of each door, pulled them open. Through the doors was a great mountain hall, twice as tall and three times the length of the antechamber.

             
More chandeliers hung down from above, lighting the vast chamber with scores of huge wizard’s lamps. Several tall arches on both sides of the room led to wide tunnels off the main hall. At the far end stood a dais with a pair of large stone chairs in its center. A large mammoth skin lay on the floor in front of the chairs, a small touch of vibrancy amidst the cold stoniness all around. An old dwarf with a stark white beard sat in the center chair, listening to a pair of dwarves standing next to the throne. Several guards lurked around the perimeter of the room, watching the strangers warily. The old dwarf on the throne nodded emphatically towards one of the dwarves standing next to him, whispering some order or directive. The advisor bowed and hurried off.

The second advisor, a fat dwarf with a long blonde beard and eyes too small for his face turned toward the newcomers. He frowned, his gaze falling on the strangers. The old dwarf leaned forward on his throne and squinted.

              “Durm Ironhelm!” he exclaimed, standing. He was a stoutly-built dwarf, grown rotund in his old age. He spoke with a thick dwarven accent, so much that Jorn had trouble understanding him.

“Ach,” he said. “Too many a year have passed, they have!”

              The old dwarf stepped off the dais, striding forward and clasping Ironhelm’s hands warmly.

             
“It’s good to see you well, Lord Hammeredshield,” Ironhelm said.

             
“From wha’ I’m told, your coming was for’unate indeed,” Hammeredshield said. “I’ve los’ two sons, old friend, I have. Aye, aye. Gram is the only one I have lef’ to me. I already owed you much, Durm. Now I owe you the survival of my line. Aye.”

“We all did wha’ we could to help turn the tide of battle,” Ironhelm said.

              Hammeredshield nodded, looking over the others. He noticed the elf and his gaze grew cold.

             
“Tha’ is Ronias,” Ironhelm said. Hurriedly, he added, “of Shandorr.”

             
“Shandorr, you say?” Hammeredshield said. “Tha’ is good. Ach. Any elf of Sollistore elf wha’ dared step foo’ in my hall I’d see slain righ’ on the spo’, I would. Aye. Wha’ brings you here with such strange companions?”

             
“We are bound for the frontier on a scouting mission for the wizard Braemorgan,” Ironhelm said. “Wha’ we find may prove of use to your current struggle.”

             
Hammeredshield scowled.

“Wha’ a strange group of scou’s you be,” he said, looking then over carefully again. “Why an elf, a gnome, and a knigh’ would be any good scou’ing the wilderness is beyond me, it is. Bu’ if tha’ is wha’ you say, than I will no’ question you. There is no use understanding the ways of wizards, is there?”

              “No,” Ironhelm said, nodding sincerely. “There is not.”

             
“Ach! The hour grows late,” Hammeredshield continued. “You shall all si’ at my table tonigh’. Aye.” He turned to the fat dwarf still standing on his right. “Hald, make the hall ready for our gues’s. And see to their lodgings, as well. It has been too long since there has been any cheer in this hall. Ach. It has become far too somber a place of late, it has.”