Braemorgan raised an eyebrow.
“Is that truly so?” he said.
“I would just as soon not discuss it.”
“Remember, my child” he said. “He was a Captain of The Westmark, a soldier pledged to face death in battle if need be.”
Morag glared at him.
“What would you know of it?” she snapped. “Who’ve you ever loved, in all your years?”
Braemorgan said nothing, taking another deep puff from his pipe.
Ironhelm shifted uncomfortably in his armor. He wished he were out of earshot.
A pair of men on horseback approached along the trail, riding swiftly towards them. One of the riders was a common soldier, the other Wulfgrim. They stopped at the cottage and dismounted.
“Wha’ news?” Ironhelm said.
“Einar is still pushing south, not stopping yet,” Wulfgrim said. “He has seized the crossroads at Iynheath and his berserkers climb towards Brame’s Gap in the north.”
“Our defeat is complete,” Braemorgan muttered.
Wulfgrim was silent. His face was a mask of silent resignation.
“How is he?” he asked, looking in the direction of the cottage.
“He’ll live,” Braemorgan said.
“That’s something,” Wulfgrim said.
“It’s everything,” Braemorgan said.
“Wha’ do we do now?” Ironhelm said.
“He must be moved,” Braemorgan said. “Somewhere safe until the time is right. Einar will not give up trying to kill him.”
“He won’t be ready to travel for days,” Morag said.
“We’ll find a way.” Braemorgan took another puff on his pipe. “Jorn cannot stay here for long. We are far too close to Einar’s army for that. There are the outposts further inside the hills he can be brought to, though. Einar’s forces will not find him there.”
“Damn it all,” Wulfgrim muttered. He sat down on a rock near Braemorgan. “How could this happen?”
Braemorgan sighed. He was still trying to figure that out himself. There was no doubt anymore that powerful forces were backing Einar, the Cult grown strong beyond anything he had originally believed. The thousands of gruk and berserker troopers were one thing. The dozens of wizards and shamans were even more alarming. But it was the appearance of fire giants on the battlefield that was most worrisome. Such creatures had not been seen outside their high mountain homes in millennia. He wondered if more fire giants would soon be seen. Would an entire army of giants soon be descending from the mountains into the civilized lands? How could such a force possibly be stopped?
“There is much work to be done in the coming months,” he said. “I want to know the full story of what happened. I want to know how monstrous giants suddenly stepped out of some bard’s song and onto the battlefield. We must learn more about just how large the Cult has grown. I only hope they can still be contained.”
“You hope?” Wulfgrim said, frowning.
“Look around you, my friend. Hope is all we have left.”
Ten
Ironhelm did not mind woodlands. They had a certain beauty to them, he had to admit, though he still considered the austere beauty of the vast northern forests to be nothing but a pale echo of the silent grandeur of the underground mountain halls of his own people. Back in Thunderforge, the columns reached up past the limits of vision and disappeared into the inky blackness. It was not altogether unlike the towering pines above him now, he thought.
Those great halls of stone, however, were comforting. The forest, on the other hand, might hide danger and death just beyond the limits of his ever-scanning eye.
The wooded hillside was as quiet. As Ironhelm stood in the moonslight, staring down the rise at the quiet trees before him, he contemplated the profound beauty of such silence. Only during such times was the full beauty of tree or stone appreciated.
On either side of him at the top of the hillside, wood elves stood in white cloaks with their hoods pulled up over their heads. They remained stiffly straight, bows in hand and arrows at the ready.
Ironhelm heard a soft crunching behind him as someone approached. It was Braemorgan.
“Is it time?” the dwarf asked.
“Almost,” the wizard said. “I must put my trust in you once again, old friend. It is but three days to Llywarch, but you will have to cross lands perhaps already under Einar’s control.”
“Aye, if tha’ whoreson is still alive,” Ironhelm said.
“From what I saw, his wounds were not likely fatal,” Braemorgan said. “No, I suspect he is very much alive. I am quite sure of it, sad to say.”
They turned from the guard post and walked along the narrow trail back to the cave. Deep in the Clegr Hills, more than ten miles from the shepherd’s cottage, they’d brought Jorn to the cave long used as a hidden outpost of The Westmark. They’d debated hotly whether to move the lad so soon after his injury, but Braemorgan prevailed upon the others.
“He cannot be moved,” Rhydderch insisted. “My healers tell me he may die if moved. The lad has had barely a day to recover from his wounds.”
“You are correct,” Braemorgan said, puffing vigorously on his pipe. “He cannot be moved without grave danger. Nevertheless, I am quite certain that he must be moved.”
“It’s risky,” Rhydderch said.
“Unquestionably,” Braemorgan said. “But we’ve no choice in the matter. If we move him, he may die. If we do not move him, he will die when Einar’s troops come.”
The elves took Jorn and put him in their litter, all bundled up from the cold. Jorn was only barely awake, too weak to protest. Wrapped-up just like an infant in his swaddling clothes, he was gently lifted into the litter and carried out of the cottage.
“Where are we going?” Jorn murmured, looking up at Braemorgan.
“Somewhere safe,” the wizard said, smiling.
They left the cottage, the woodsman’s widow standing at the door silently as the long column of men and elves moved silently off into the woods. They disappeared from sight, climbing higher into the rocky hills, all the while carrying Jorn over the snow. Jorn stared upwards, at the tree tops and the gray sky passing by. Since that night Ironhelm had shown up at the door of Hrókur, Jorn felt carried along by events beyond his control. Now he lay helpless, barely awake and bundled-up like a newborn babe, on his way to someplace he did not know and without the least bit of say in the matter.
He closed his eyes, groggy from the elven medicine, and was soon asleep.
A few hours later they reached the cave. Elves and men already on guard up ahead hailed them, and they passed through the narrow mouth of the cave. From the outside, it looked like a cleft along a steep cliff. Inside, however, was a long tunnel descending deep into the rocky hillside. Wizard’s lamps hanging from the ceiling lit the way.
Jorn awoke as they entered it, lifting his head as best he could manage to take in his surroundings. He saw divergent passages on either side of the tunnel as they brought him further underground. Whatever this place was, it was large. It seemed like he was carried down a hundred feet before at last coming to a stop deep under the rocky hills.
Jorn felt constricted as they descended farther under the earth. He squirmed and struggled. It felt like the sides of the tunnel were pressing against him. He imagined the thousands of tons of rock above him and began to tremble at the thought of it.
They lay Jorn on a bed in a warm room with a small fire burning in the corner. The room was large, for a bedchamber. It also had a high ceiling and didn’t feel as confined as the initial tunnel. Still, it bothered him.
The elf healers took another look at his wound and gave him some more broth to drink. It was pungent and had a very strange taste to it. Jorn had never tasted anything so intensely bitter before in his life.
“This will relax you,” one of the healers said.
Jorn tried to speak but he suddenly felt exhausted and fell asleep.
He woke up – he did not know how much later
it was – to find Braemorgan sitting by his side, puffing away furiously on his pipe. Smoke pooled up at the ceiling.
“How long?” Jorn asked, managing to sit up. He felt much stronger.
“A full day since we brought you here,” Braemorgan said. “Ah, I see you are finally getting a bit stronger.”
An elf healer appeared at Jorn’s side and handed him a mug of the bitter concoction.
“Drink this,” the healer said.
“I don’t to fall asleep again,” Jorn said.
“This broth is much weaker,” the healer explained. “It will merely dull your pain.”
Jorn nodded and accepted the mug. He turned back to Braemorgan.
“How bad is it?” Jorn asked.
“Your shoulder?” the wizard said. “It will heal fully. You’ll be as strong as ever.”
“No, I mean, um, The Westmark.”
“It has fallen…but that does not mean it is lost forever. We will fight another day. As soon as you are ready we will get you to Llywarch.”
“Rhydderch’s realm?”
“We’ll be safe from attack there,” Braemorgan said. He began the furious puffing again. “At least for now.”
“Where…where are we?” Jorn asked, taking a sip of the bitter drink. It still tasted disgusting. “What is this place?”
“We are in the Clegr Hills, more than ten miles from Loc Goren across rough terrain. This is a hidden guard post established by your great-grandfather, a secret refuge to combat bandits and gruks in the hills throughout the winter. It is well-hidden. We are safe for now.”
Jorn lay back down, too fatigued to sit up any further. He put the cup aside and looked up at the ceiling. He could see the flickering reflection of the fire on it.
“I lost The Westmark,” he said.
“You lost it?” Braemorgan said. “No, that’s not true at all. If anything, you made us more prepared for Einar’s attack than we otherwise would have been. Were it not for you, many more would have been killed and fewer would have escaped the onslaught. We might have all been trapped in the keep, which at last report is still under siege. I’m just grateful we escaped with you still alive.”
“How did you do that?” Jorn asked. “The last thing I remember, let’s see, I was laying on the ground with Einar over me. Then I woke up in that cottage with elf healers looking over me. All Morag said was that you and the elves rescued me. Then I blacked out again. Then I was being carried here.”
“When we realized you had fallen prisoner, Lord Rhydderch and I led a rescue party. We were fortunate Einar didn’t just have you summarily beheaded, the arrogant twit. Instead he engaged in one-on-one combat with you.”
“I goaded him into it,” Jorn said.
“That saved your life, for otherwise we would have arrived too late to be of any help. When one of Rhydderch’s scouts reported you alive and being held near the edge of the woods, we attacked with everything we could muster as quickly as possible. Fortunately, we were able to scoop you up before Einar’s warriors counterattacked. Einar was wounded during the rescue attempt, as well.”
“Not badly enough, I’m sure,” Jorn said.
“An arrow to the shoulder and another to the hip,” the wizard said, smirking. “By all appearances, it seems he will live.” Braemorgan gestured toward the mug. “You should drink a little more of your medicine if you would make a quick recovery.”
“It’s disgusting,” Jorn said, crinkling his nose at the thought of the foul-testing brew. “What the hell is it?”
“It is called Flannae,” the wizard said. “Wormwood leaves soaked in wine, with some bark of the Acacia thrown in for good measure and the extract of certain mushrooms. The elves of Llywarch consume it regularly as a hot tea. The taste is bitter, yes, but so is much in life.”
_____
A large party of elves was assembled outside the cave, perhaps fifty of them in all. They wore white cloaks with deep hoods and matching boots.
The elves mounted dapple-gray horses and waited as Ironhelm and the wizard made their way down the steep path to them. The horses wore snowshoes to traverse the deep snow.
Rhydderch stood amidst his soldiers next to Morag. She was dressed as the elves in a white cloak and might easily have passed for one of them from a distance except for the bright orange locks which spilled out from underneath her hood. No elf had such a hair color.
Braemorgan went over to her and placed a long black wand in her hand, whispering something in her ear. She nodded and tucked the wand into her belt, turning back to attend to her saddle.
“Wha’ was all tha’ about, lass?” Ironhelm asked the wizard.
“A wand of fire,” Braemorgan said. “It is a most powerful magical item, and she may have need of it. A novice spellcaster needs as much help as possible.”
Jorn emerged from the cave, also clad in a white elf-cloak. He felt a little foolish in it, his large frame never likely to be mistaken for that of an elf’s. He slung a sword over his shoulder, though he was not sure how well he would be able to use it just yet. It had been nearly a week since his fight with Einar, and his shoulder still ached whenever he tried to use it.
“Ah, you’re looking much better!” Braemorgan said.
“I won’t miss that damned cave,” Jorn said, taking a deep breath. He’d walked outside as far as the outer guard pickets every day for the last few days, feeling stronger each time. The elf-healers shook their heads in amazement, endlessly commenting on his astounding recovery. Jorn, meanwhile, went out of his way to spend as much time as he could near the mouth of the cave, avoiding the deeper areas of the underground complex. He even slept in a small chamber near the entrance, complaining the air deeper down felt too stuffy.
Jorn pulled himself up onto his horse. He grimaced a bit from the pain in his shoulder, but he wasn’t about to be helped up into the saddle like some old woman. The flannae the elves made him drink dulled the pain enough for him to function, at least.
The others mounted their horses, including Ironhelm who got atop Angala. Jorn was glad to see Orbadrin’s gift pony survived the attack on Loc Goren, Ironhelm apparently riding her to safety during the retreat. It would have been a tragedy for such a fine animal to have been lost. It would have broken the old Thane’s heart to hear of such a thing.
“Fare well, Thane Ravenbane,” Braemorgan said, Wulfgrim standing next to him. “Today is Naklion, the annual feast of First Primenor. Yulhunth, it is called among you elves and Frafarneafr to the dwarves. It is Wynlithlian among the gnomes, a time of feasting and good cheer when all children of Une come together in fellowship and hope. For it is also the first day of the new year, an auspicious date indeed to commence with so important a journey.”
“It is the shortest day and the longest night of the entire year,” Morag grumbled. “How is that auspicious?”
Braemorgan smiled.
“Every day after today grows a bit longer than the day before,” he said. “Until spring blooms and the days are long and warm once more. The night, even on this day of its greatest triumph, begins its retreat. I would call that auspicious, dear child.”
_____
Ten elves rode out in front, followed by Rhydderch. Behind the elf-lord rode Morag, Ironhelm, Jorn, and the elf healer Falanos who tended to Jorn. Behind Jorn and the healer trailed a few horses bearing supplies and ten more elves bringing up the rear. The elves rode with bows in hand and arrows ready, eying the trees on either side of their path warily.
Ironhelm had a loaded crossbow within easy reach as well as his throwing axes. He was uneasy, in spite of their numbers. Einar’s warriors had to be moving into the hills by now, scouting parties probably crawling all over the place.
Braemorgan’s plan was simple enough. They would head south with Jorn along the highest part of the Clegr Hills, a few peaks rising to the size of small mountains at nearly one thousand feet tall each. It was rough, thickly-wooded terrain with a single track leading through. The track, however, was far eno
ugh east to avoid the enemy.
Once they reached the southern edge of the hills, it would be a quick dash through fifteen miles of woods and farmlands to the River Brugerwyn. Ardabur still had two thousand men in the area, having withdrawn to the tiny southeast corner of The Westmark.
On the southern side of the river was Llywarch, its entire northern border protected by the wide, deep waterway. Rhydderch had sent several parties of scouts ahead of them to secure both sides of the river and have transport waiting for them at several possible rendezvous points so they would be able to cross over without delay.
“As long as Ardabur’s army is intact, the way to the Brugerwyn will be secure.” Braemorgan had assured Jorn. “Cross the river, and you will be safe in Llywarch no matter what.”
The wizard, meanwhile, had his own matters to attend to. As Jorn headed south, Braemorgan and Wulfgrim would command what was left of the army of The Westmark. Six hundred men had reassembled amidst the hills and were willing to fight one last battle. They’d scouted the road north of Loc Goren and Wulfgrim was convinced he saw a weakness in Einar’s defenses. He approached Braemorgan and the others with his thoughts and they heard him out. A well-planned raid, Wulfgrim explained, could throw Einar’s plans to the south into chaos.
“They’ll be forced to deal with us,” Braemorgan said. “His men will have no food if his supply lines are cut, and both berserkers and gruks are infamous for mutinies when supplies run low. This proposal could very well disrupt enemy plans for the foreseeable future.”
“It won’t be enough to beat him,” Wulfgrim said. “But it would force him to put every spare fighter towards restoring his supply lines.”
“And thus help clear the way for Jorn’s escape,” Braemorgan said, puffing absentmindedly on his pipe.
“Not to mention taking the pressure off Ardabur,” Wulfgrim added. “The enemy will not launch a major attack in the south if we bloody his nose to the north. And if Ardabur can hold his ground south of these hills, Jorn can slip off to safety.”
“Ardabur can’t hold out long, laddie,” Ironhelm interjected. “Ach! Even if he wants to.”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 19
