Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (60 page)

             
Ronias stepped forward.

“I am Ronias, wizard of Shandorr,” he said. “Are you the Watcher for this tower?”
             

             
“That I am,” the old man said, straightening up somewhat. “I am Elbannar.”

             
“We only sought shelter,” Ronias said. “As the dwarf said, we‘ve not had the best luck in this wilderness. You’ll forgive a group of desperate travelers this small trespass, I hope.”

             
The old man looked them all over again. He studied each of them in turn, his eye finally falling upon Ailric and lingering. 

             
“I am an excellent judge of character and I say that you may be a peculiar and sorry-looking bunch, but you are no robbers,” he said at last.

He leaned over and pulled a leather bag out from one of his saddlebags and tossed it upon the ground. Flatfoot picked it up and looked inside.

              “Bacon!” he exclaimed. “Fresh bread! Cheese! Heavens bless you, good sir!”

             
The old man dismounted, shuffling towards the fire and sitting down besides it. Willock un-notched his arrow.

             
“Well don’t just stand there!” the old man said. “Won’t you share an old man’s breakfast with him? I’d like to hear more of your story.”

_____

             
They filled their stomachs with the additional food, Ironhelm telling Elbannar their story. The dwarf chose his words carefully, avoiding too much detail and sticking to the claim that they were on some sort of general scouting mission. Elbannar nodded, listening carefully but saying nothing.

             
“A bit of bad luck indeed!” he said after the dwarf finished. “Rarely do I venture very far from the tower, let alone so far as the marshes. But I saw the smoke rising from them the day before yesterday. I assume you will head back to Glammonfore Keep now.”

             
“No, we continue southwest to the Teeth of Kaas,” Ironhelm said.

             
“My, you are strangely dedicated to your task,” Elbannar said. “I should think you have learned plenty to report to your king.”

             
“How do you live out here all by yourself?” Jorn wondered. “It is two full day’s ride to Glammonfore, and you are surrounded by all manner of monsters.”

             
“You are a questioner, aren’t you?” Elbannar said. “That’s not such a bad thing in a lad, really. I survive well enough, my boy, let’s leave it at that. I venture to Glammonfore a few times a year for supplies, and the rest of the time I enjoy the quiet. Most of what I need I grow myself, anyhow. The monsters avoid these hills, as you know, as do the men from Glammonfore. Of late, however, things have been less than quiet. I think you may be able to help me with that, though.”

             
“Help you with what?” Jorn said.

             
“Just west of here,” Elbannar said. “A gang of berserkers have taken up residence. I think they’re deserters from that army that has been marching through the valley. They’ve none of the traditional taboos regarding these lands, unlike the gruks and trolls and what not, and so have moved right in without the slightest trepidation. They’ve even built themselves a small shack to live out of. My fear is that afore long they’ll have overrun the entire moors.”

             
“So wha’ is tha’ to us?” Ironhelm said. “You’re a wizard, or so you say. If you want to get rid of the bandits, go get rid of them.”

             
“I see the dwarven notion of courtesy has not changed since I moved out here some years ago,” Elbannar said. “I feed you, and in return you insult me for my trouble! Well, no matter. Let me state the matter as plainly as I can: You are headed for the Teeth of Kaas on your scouting mission, or so you say, and you have no supplies left. I can provide you with everything you need: food, drink, blankets, whatever you could possibly require short of fresh horses.”

             
“Aye, and wha’ would you be wanting in return?” Ironhelm said.

             
“Rid me of these wild tribesmen! I am but an old man and there are eight of them in all. Once, I was a battle wizard like the elf here and I would’ve simply fried them all from some distance. My body can’t take that sort of punishment any more. I managed to frighten them away from my lands with a display of pyrotechnics, but I fear that they’ll soon overcome their wariness. And so I’m reduced to needing help. Well, that’s my offer. All the supplies you need, in exchange for ridding me of the bandits.”

             
Ironhelm leaned forward.

“We could slay you now and just take the supplies,” he said grimly. “Aye, we could.”

              “Do it, then,” Elbannar said, smirking just a bit. “Whatever you are
really
doing out here, I do not think you are that sort of people. Like I said, I’m an excellent judge of character.”

             
Ironhelm sighed, looking at the others. Jorn and Willock nodded, eager to accept Elbannar’s offer. Ronias shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the whole matter. Flatfoot continued feeding his face. 

“It’s a deal, then,” Jorn said. “Well. Looks like we’re going hunting again.”

_____

              The bandits had erected a crude hut with stone walls and a thatched roof at the bottom of a broad cleft between two steep hillsides some miles north of the tower, just as Elbannar said. A stream ran along the floor of the cleft and through a small cluster of trees along the edge of their encampment. 

Watching them through the spyscope, Willock couldn’t help but be reminded of his own humble cottage back in Greenerwood. His house also overlooked a pleasant little brook. This scene now before him was like a crude caricature of all that, however, wildmen with long beards and savage appearances sprawling lazily in front of the crude shack and sitting around the blazing campfire arguing loudly.

“Let’s go,” Willock said, putting the spyscope away.

             
Willock and the others approached the berserkers from the east, moving carefully down the steep sides of the wooded hill with their weapons drawn. Willock and Jorn went first, arrows notched on their bows as they inched closer to the bandits. Ironhelm and Ailric came in close behind them, Flatfoot and Ronias bringing up the rear. Elbannar crouched down even further back, careful to avoid the actual battle altogether.

             
“I hope this isn’t some kind of trap,” Jorn whispered.

             
“If he works for the Conclave, he must be at least nominally on the side of good,” Willock said. “Perhaps we should have mentioned we were sent by Braemorgan and gauged his reaction.”

             
“Too late now,” Jorn said, dashing forward and taking cover behind a particularly thick tree. He poked his head out, studying the scene below.

             
A pair of the berserkers stood among the trees down slope and some distance from the camp. They held long axes in their hands and carried battered old round shields. All in all, they were grim-looking men with cruel eyes that peered out from underneath crudely-formed iron helms as they grumbled angrily to each other about something.

One of them turned and looked suddenly uphill, spotting Willock just as the woodsman was darting from tree to tree. The berserker cried out, but Willock acted quickly. He buried an arrow in the man’s chest just above his heart. The warrior fell back, screaming in pain. His companion just stood there for a moment, regarding his screaming friend with shock and surprise before raising his shield, crouching down, and shouting warnings to his fellows.

“Attack! Attack!” he screamed in the savage tongues of the untamed plains north of Linlund.

Ronias hit him in the shoulder with a blast of magical white light, sending him sprawling onto the ground.

              “There goes the element of surprise,” Jorn said.

He cast aside the bow, drawing his sword and dashing down the hill. Nearing the bottom of the hill, he ran right into a trio of berserkers twenty feet in front of him. Two bore bows and fired quick shots. They missed and Jorn dashed behind a tree for cover.

Jorn was now out in front of his companions, halfway down the slope with berserker archers below him. Glancing up, he could see Willock crouched behind trees higher up the hillside. Ironhelm was next to the woodsman, brandishing his axe. Ailric, Flatfoot, and Ronias were still further up, out of sight. They were all pinned down where they were by the archers below.

Jorn risked a quick peek down the hill. The tribesmen had built a crude stockade not more than waist height at the bottom of the hill, but it was high enough to crouch behind and fire at any attackers from a position of safety. From further up the hill, it was invisible. The whole time they had been sneaking closer, archers were waiting out-of-sight.

“They’ve got archers on you, Jorn,” Ironhelm shouted. “Don’t move, laddie.”

“They’re behind a low wall,” Jorn shouted back, a pair of arrows whizzing by the tree he was crouched behind. Another flew past towards Ironhelm, but flew harmlessly over the dwarf.

Jorn risked a longer peek before the archers had a chance to fire again. The stockade was made from piled stones, a straight line in front of the little hut they had built. It was hard to tell how many of them were behind the wall, but he counted at least five shapes now kneeling behind the barricade. Charging them would be too risky.

“Dogs! Show yourselves!” the archers below taunted in their Linlundic dialect.

“Ronias, can you lob one of your fireballs just over the wall?” Jorn shouted up the hill, ignoring the wildmen.

Another volley of arrows whizzed by on either side of Jorn, the archers below now aiming exclusively towards the sound of Jorn’s voice.

“I believe so,” Ronias answered, inching forward towards a tree for better cover. 

“We charge the moment it explodes,” Ironhelm yelled. “Aye, and don’t delay.”

Emerging from behind a tree, Ronias closed his eyes and focused. Chanting the arcane words he knew so well, he tapped into the energy infused within the very air all around him. He bent the energy to his will, forming a burning sphere of pure magical fire which he cast down through the air towards the stone wall below. It flew upwards through the air in a steep arch before falling sharply down and striking the ground just on the other side of the little stone wall. Ronias saw berserkers leaping up, encased in flame or running about in panic. Jorn and the others leapt out of hiding, charging down the slope.

From Ronias’ left a berserker came charging out of the brush, a lanky man with a long brown beard and a bulbous nose. The warrior was coming right towards Ronias, brandishing a long axe in one hand and a wooden shield in the other.

Ronias had no time to wonder where he came from or how he had managed to get so close to his flank. The others had gone charging down the hill and Ronias was left to face the charging berserker alone. Only Ironhelm even saw what was happening, the dwarf stopping hurriedly and rushing back up the hill. Ironhelm would not be able to intercept the berserker in time, however. Ronias had enough strength left after the fireball spell to still have his wits about him, though. Waving his arms, he began quickly chanting magic words. The man drew closer, not ten feet away now. The savage warrior was now five feet away, his axe raised to strike. Ironhelm shouted something.

Then Ronias disappeared. In the very same moment he re-appeared behind the rushing attacker and plunged a pair of long knives into the man’s back. The man dropped his axe and his shield, falling forward. Ronias stood over him, knives still in his hands and dripping blood. Ironhelm blinked in shock at the scene, then turned and resumed his charge back down the slope with the others.

_____

Jorn reached the bottom first, swinging his sword as he leapt up and over the wall. Four bodies lay twisted and burning on the ground, dead masses of charred flesh, another two wildmen rolling on the ground in agony as they burned. A few others had managed to survive more or less uninjured, dazed by the attack.

Jorn cut down one berserker and then a second in rapid succession. Ailric took on two others, Willock hanging back sending arrows whizzing through the fray.

A giant of a man, taller than Jorn by nearly a head, emerged from around the corner of the hut. He was immense, standing shirtless in the autumn chill and grasping a massive axe. His beard fell down past his stomach, his torso and arms covered in bright blue tattoos. He uttered an almost inhuman cry of rage as he charged Jorn and swung his axe in a wide arch. Jorn parried the blow and held the axe in place with his sword, kicking the huge man hard in the stomach.

The berserker lurched forward in pain, Jorn slashing downward at the man’s head. At the last moment, however, the towering warrior raised his axe and deflected the blow. Growling, the giant swung the axe savagely back at Jorn but missed widely. Jorn regained his balance, countering the larger man’s attacks easily now. The axe was a heavy, powerful weapon, but unwieldy. A dozen times the huge man rained blows upon Jorn, and a dozen times Jorn turned them aside. Finally, the man risked a blow aimed at Jorn’s head and swung his axe in a wide arch again. Jorn ducked the blow and lunged ahead before the hulking tribesman could recover. The tip of Jorn’s sword drove deeply into the man’s bare stomach, a great spray of red blood issuing forth as Jorn pulled the sword back out. The man fell to his knees with a shocked cry, the huge axe clanging on the ground. Jorn finished him with a blow to the neck.