Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (9 page)

He smiled, resuming the chase. The elk seemed to have eluded him again, however. He soon lost the beast’s trail completely. Shaking his head, he took off the small pack on his shoulder and reached into it. He took out a chunk of smoked mutton wrapped in a cloth and a clay jar of whiskey, finding a comfortable spot to sit down underneath a tall pine. He ate the meat, taking a few gulps from the jug as he pondered the wasted morning. He almost never lost track of an elk once he’d begun to track it, and yet this damned stag had eluded him four days in a row.  What manner of beast was this?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hooves moving by in the woods behind him. Standing, he stuffed his things into his pack and headed off in the direction of the noise. He soon came upon a winding trail running past a pile of moss-covered boulders before climbing the side of a steep hill.

Jorn knew the place at once. He hadn’t realized how far north he’d gone, lost in the thrill of the hunt.

Men called the place Heiturjan, the place of the hot baths, and it was well-known for many miles around.

Curious about who might be there, he climbed the winding trail up the hill. Near the top he happened upon a beautiful stallion. The horse was a golden shade of chestnut with a finely-groomed blond mane and tail. It was a beautiful animal, a finely-crafted saddle still on its back but its rider nowhere to be seen. It was tied to a tree at the edge of a small meadow, happily munching on the tall grass. Jorn approached the animal, stroking its nose gently. One of Orbadrin’s Iron Rules which the old thane taught his sons was “always be kind to horses”.

“Where’s your rider, boy?” he whispered, admiring the horse. “I wish I had an apple or a carrot for you.”

Jorn turned away from the horse after a final pat, climbing over a series of small boulders until he reached the edge of a little pool near the top of the rocky hill. There were a dozen such pools at Heiturjan, hot springs of varying temperatures. Some were the temperature of briskly-heated baths, others nearly boiling. A few emitted strange smells like those of rotten eggs.

Such places were common throughout Linlund and Jorn knew of two others within a few days’ ride of Falneth. None were so close as those at Heiturjan, however, nor so large.

Steam rose from the surface of the water into the crisp morning air. It looked inviting and Jorn considered taking a swim.

Jorn looked to his right, glimpsing movement somewhere beyond the first pool. Skirting its edge, he crept closer to the next pool. It was surrounded by sheer cliffs on the far side of the water, forming a small bowl almost perfectly circular in shape and not more than a few feet deep. Jorn crouched down low, his eyes peering forward in rapt fascination.

The girl, whoever she was, had removed her cloak and her dress. Her garments lay by the shores of the pool. She was standing in the middle of the pool, slowly lowering herself into the hot water.

Her back was turned to Jorn and she was completely unaware of his presence. She had long, ash blonde hair which extended a good way down her back and covered up too much of her smooth white skin for Jorn’s liking. He studied her form carefully.  Her skin was completely unblemished, her legs and
rear end perfectly formed. Whoever she was, he could not begin to guess.

She slipped into the water all the way until her head was all that stuck out from the steaming surface. She began to swim around, enjoying the warmth of the water on her bare skin. She dipped her head back into the water and turned around towards Jorn, her eyes closed in enjoyment of the hot bath. Jorn saw she had a pretty face to go along with her form, finely-formed cheekbones and delicate features. He still didn’t recognize her, though. Creeping forward to get a still closer look at her, his foot stepped on a dry twig and snapped it in two. He winced, cursing under his breath.

The girl’s head darted towards Jorn, a wary look on her face.

“Who’s there?” she demanded angrily.

She sank down into the water to her chin, her arms reaching up to cover her breasts carefully though they were out of view underwater. Her eyes glanced towards her clothes piled along the water’s edge. A belt with a long knife lay atop the pile. She inched towards the pile.

“I can see you hiding there,” she said. “Run off, or my father will deal harshly with you for such insolence.”

“Your father?” Jorn answered, still hiding. There was a playful tone in his voice, the opportunity to tease the beautiful girl too much for him to resist.

“And who is he that I should fear his wrath?” he asked.

“You know very who he is, you villain,” she snapped. “He is Thane Halgaad, lord of these lands. Touch me and you die a brutal and bloody death.”

“Grang’s teeth! You cannot be the daughter of Halgaad!”

“But I am!”

“His only daughter is Yrsa, and she’s a scrawny little imp.”

“I am not! Show yourself.”

Jorn stood, stepping forward.

“You are one of the sons of Orbadrin,” she said after a moment.
“You are the younger one. Jorn.”

“Yes, and you
are
Yrsa after all,” he said, smiling widely. “Hard to believe.”

“Are you in the habit of spying on women bathing?” she asked.

“I was, um, hunting,” Jorn said. “I just happened by. Are you in the habit of bathing nude in the woods alone?”

“These waters are healthful.”

“So I‘ve heard.”

“You’re just going to stand there gawking at me?”

“I’ll leave you to your solitude, if you wish.”

“No need to hurry off,” she said, her tone softening. “Now that I know it is you, I would have you sit and speak with me. Only turn away. A girl needs to retain some shred of modesty, you know.”

_____

              Falneth, seat of the mighty Thane Orbadrin, was the largest town in the north of Linlund, boasting a bustling population of one thousand. They lived along a single muddy street running parallel to the frozen River Windlemere intersected by a few side streets here and there. Close to a hundred buildings were clustered inside the wooden walls and guard towers, most of them humble shanties or shops. The largest building in town was the great indoor market hall where the goods of the northern forests were traded for the products of the southern cities and farms. It was a long building made entirely of spruce and nearly three hundred feet in length, always abuzz with activity whatever the season. Scores of merchants from Vistinar and Swordhaven converged there and bought the furs, tin, smoked meats, and amber of the northern forests. The merchants, in return, sold everything from Vandorian wine to Brithborean whiskey. On occasion, an elf merchant from far-away Shandorr would appear trading cinnamon, pepper, and nutmeg for large piles of coin or sometimes for furs. At such times, the children of Falneth would crowd about, staring at the exotic stranger in rapt wonder.

On any given day whole piles of gold usually changed hands there. Thane Orbadrin was careful to take no more than a twentieth’s share from every sale. He took only enough to ensure the rule of law within his domain plus a small bit for himself. He lived frugally, by the standards of a powerful thane, even setting some monies aside every month for the support of the widows and orphans of Falneth. He knew well what was known to happen to thanes who grew too-covetous of their people’s wealth and he had no desire to be cast out naked into a Linlundic winter’s night.

The second-largest building in Falneth overlooked the whole town from atop a small hill behind its own wooden stockade. It was smaller than the market hall, but far more impressive. It was Hrókur, “Hall of the Oak”, and known throughout Linlund as the famed hall of Orbadrin and his forefathers. Its polished tin roof gleamed brightly in the midday sun and was visible for a great distance all around, a patch of gleaming metal amid the endless white of the Linlundic winter.

             
The sons of Orbadrin were greeted with a great cheer as they rode through the gates of the town at the head of a hundred armed men on horseback. Hundreds of townspeople braved the winter chill in good spirit, more than a few drinking down hard spirits to stave off the bitter cold as they stepped out into the muddy street to wave and clap. Men driving herds of sheep or swine hailed the triumphant warriors alongside shopkeepers, craftsmen, and street vendors. A pair of hairy, wild-looking men guiding a hulking wooly mammoth laden high with furs towards the market paused and watched the soldiers riding into the town. Normally the streets of Falneth would be filled with such fur traders. With all the attacks of late from out of the fens by gruks and trolls, though, the flow of the fur trade had slowed to but a trickle. War, the merchants and traders of the town reminded Orbadrin daily, was bad for business.

             
Jorn and Thulgin waved and rode on along the long, twisting main road. Falneth was a dirty, ramshackle little backwater, but as far as they were concerned it was the most marvelous place in all the Northlands. They had traveled to Vistinar and to Swordhaven, far larger places with certainly more impressive sights to see, but they considered Falneth superior in both spirit and beauty. It was home, after all.

             
One of the small side streets led up the little hill to Hrókur. The gates opened at their approach and they rode into the small compound, little more than a cluster of tiny buildings around Hrókur; there was a stable, a smokehouse, a smithy, and a few chicken coops all facing the hall. It was a fine hall, two stories high, and made mostly from pine and spruce with broad steps leading up to a wide porch of cut stone and a stout double door of oak leading inside. Above the door was the fierce head of a wild boar carved out of polished wood and painted bright red, its massive tusks protruding from its snout. It was the emblem of their family, the House of Thaalgrud. On either corner of the porch, blazing fires burned in large iron kettles. Stout men with long spears stood guard next to the fires.

The most striking thing about the hall, however, was the exceedingly strange sight looming over the roof. A massive oak tree protruded from the center of the building and reached another thirty feet into the sky above it. Strangers newly arrived and unfamiliar with the great tree were often dumbfounded by the sight of it. They wondered why one would grow an oak tree in the center of a hall or – as was the actual case – build a hall around an oak tree. Either way, it was impossible for any visitor not to notice it. Orbadrin called Hrókur “the wonder of the North” and relished whenever foreign dignitaries would arrive and stand staring dumbfounded at it. 

              Sitting on a broad wooden chair in the middle of the porch was Orbadrin himself, surrounded by a group of servants. He was wrapped in thick furs and leaned forward heavily. He was a tall man, powerfully-built but worn out from too many toils. His hair was touched with gray, as was his long beard. He had clear blue eyes and a happy round face, however, which smiled broadly as his sons arrived. The old man pushed himself up out of his seat. He was taller than anyone else on the porch and had a proud bearing that made most kings seem like mere footmen by comparison.

             
Thulgin and Jorn dismounted and dashed up the stairs. They reached the top and stood in front of the old man, bowing their heads humbly.

             
“My boys!” Orbadrin said, laughing heartily.

             
They hugged him roughly as he slapped them each on the back with his meaty hands and laughed again. It was a loud, vigorous laugh which carried all the way across the compound.

             
“Come, my sons, let us get inside,” he said, smiling widely. “It is too cold out here for an old man.”

The old thane turned back to the doors of his hall, which were immediately opened for him by attentive guards. The trio passed through a small vestibule and into the main hall, Orbadrin leaning heavily on Jorn for support as he walked. Once they were all past the threshold, the guards promptly shut the doors behind them.

It was warm in the main hall, the huge fireplace burning brightly to their left as they entered. The room itself was not huge, nor particularly grand by most standards. It was beautiful, though, in spite of its savageness or perhaps because of it. The walls were of plain wood but were decorated with a series of brightly-painted wooden shields hung between the wooden columns running the entire length of the hall on either side. The columns themselves were topped with elaborate capitals carved into the shape of the roaring heads of a plethora of animals; bears, boars, eagles, dragons, mammoths, and wolves peering down from above as though they were about to pounce down at any moment. Each carving was a perfect rendering of the creature in question, brightly painted and frighteningly real in the flickering firelight. One could not forget, even here in the hall of a mighty thane, that this was still the wild north in all its untamed ferocity.

On the far end of the hall was the massive trunk of the ancient oak tree, a full ten feet in width.
Skógad, the Sacred Tree of Falneth, emerged from the floor and rose the entire length of the hall up to, and then through, the ceiling. The boards of both floor and ceiling were cut to fit flush against the trunk of the tree. As the tree grew, Orbadrin’s carpenters re-shaped the planks to fit its mighty trunk. In front of the tree was set up a long table as though for a great feast. A large oak throne, ornately carved with complex patterns of oak leaves, sat at one head of the table and directly in front of the tree. This was Orbadrin’s seat, for only the master of Hrókur was permitted to sit with his back to the sacred tree.