“Those are Ardabur’s fighters. Aye, tis true,” he said. He turned back to the elves. “Let Lord Rhydderch know.”
As one of the elves hurried off as told, Ironhelm and Jorn moved even closer to the road. Men and horses kept marching by in a seemingly unending stream and took no notice of them.
“He’s retreating,” Jorn said.
Jorn strode forward, Ironhelm behind him, stepping out of the trees onto the side of the road. A long line of horsemen and infantry were plodding along. They looked exhausted and half-frozen, their shoulders stooped and their faces blank and worn. A look of defeat weighed heavily on them and they took little notice of Jorn and Ironhelm. They merely staggered by, beaten men longing only for home.
Several mounted warriors came into view along the road riding amidst the retreating column. Jorn recognized the burly man with the black beard and the perpetual scowl on his face who rode at the center of them, a rider by his side bearing the familiar black-and-yellow banner fluttering in the winter breeze.
“Thane Ardabur!” Jorn shouted. “What news?”
Ardabur looked over, a sudden shocked look upon his face. He looked tired, and filthy. His armor was covered in mud and his tunic was stained with blood.
“Thane Ravenbane,” Ardabur said, bringing his horse to a halt. “What manner of wizardry brings you here?”
“We have traveled south through the hills,” Jorn said. “We are bound for Llywarch. Where I can recover from my wounds.”
“From what I’ve heard, you were near death not more than a week ago,” Ardabur said.
“Too near,” Jorn said. He gestured towards the lines of troops. “What is all this? From what I heard, you were holding the line north of here.”
“We cannot hold our position any longer,” Ardabur said matter-of-factly. “Einar simply has too many troops. He’s attacked us day and night, wave after wave of gruks and berserkers endlessly coming at us. He’s sent wizards and those damned giants against us. Then there are those demon birds! I ordered a pull-out back to my own lands. Perhaps Einar will leave us be there, for a time.”
“Aye,” Ironhelm said slowly. “You’d no choice, laddie.”
Ardabur scowled, glancing at the dwarf and started to say something.
“Braemorgan is leading an attack on Einar to the north to take the pressure off your lines,” Jorn said before Ardabur could speak. “It was set for this morning.”
“He’s too late,” Ardabur said.
“Then Braemorgan’s attack was all in vain, however he fared,” Jorn said. He felt sick to his stomach.
“Everything was in vain,” Ardabur said, shaking his head. “Farewell. The road to Llywarch is still safe, but that will not be the case in an hour.”
Ardabur kicked his spurs into the sides of his massive black horse and rode off.
______
It was nearing dusk when they reached the shores of the Brugerwyn. A hundred miles closer to the sea than at Loc Goren, the river was much wider here and was not icebound. Dozens of elf archers in white cloaks emerged from the reeds growing along the riverbank, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. Rhydderch saluted them, dismounting. One of the elves shot a single flaming arrow high into the darkening sky.
Not five minutes later, a long, thin ship with twenty elf oarsmen on either side of a narrow open deck approached from across the waters. Both the bow and the stern of the boat were turned upwards in graceful curves and there was a small enclosed area at the stern. A strikingly beautiful woman, the first elf woman Jorn had ever seen, stood in the center of the boat, flanked by two elves in gleaming silver armor bearing long spears. She wore a long cloak of the purest and brightest white fur imaginable. Underneath were gleaming robes of silvery-white.
The boat reached the riverbank and Rhydderch boarded first, approaching the woman. She was stunningly beautiful with her long blonde hair, bright grey eyes, and eerily perfect features. Her skin was nearly as white as her cloak, and in the waning light of day she looked more like some sort of dream vision than a living being.
“That is Lohedra,” Falanos whispered to Jorn. “Lord Rhydderch’s lady.”
Rhydderch leaned over and kissed her tenderly. He took her hand and they turned together towards the party waiting on the riverbank.
“Please step aboard, Thane Ravenbane,” Lohedra said. Her voice was strangely musical. “May our land be your refuge.”
“Thank you, milady,” Jorn said, stepping aboard. He bowed awkwardly. “One day I shall repay the debt.”
“Grow healthy and battle the forces of darkness again,” Lohedra said. “That will be repayment enough, dear Thane Ravenbane.”
Morag and Ironhelm dismounted and began boarding the boat. Lohedra stared coldly at Morag, studying her carefully.
“That has to be the Thane’s sister,” Lohedra whispered to her husband in elven. “She is indeed beautiful, for a human.”
Ironhelm balked at abandoning Angala, but Rhydderch assured him a second boat was already approaching for the animals. The dwarf grunted acknowledgment, petting the pony’s nose and whispering assurances to her before stepping aboard.
A few moments later they were crossing the river, the elves rowing with dogged rhythm as the ship sliced through the water silently. Jorn stood on the rear deck, looking backwards at the north shore of the river. It receded rapidly from view.
Rhydderch approached Jorn.
“We have a small house some miles from here set aside for you,” the elf said. “My lady and I often use it when we wish peace and quiet above all else. It is warm and comfortable. I will place a hundred of my best troops around it, as well, so you may have peace of mind until Braemorgan returns and you go into exile.”
Exile! The word was painful for Jorn to so much as hear. He could not quite believe the whole thing actually happened. The Westmark was lost, and now he was going into hiding. He and Braemorgan had discussed it the night before they left the cave. Sitting a short distance from the entrance by themselves, the wizard brought up the matter.
“Einar knows you are alive, or at least suspects it,” Braemorgan said, taking a long puff on his pipe. “He’ll learn, sooner or later, of your survival and he’ll never stop hunting you. He’ll have scores of assassins and spies scouring the countryside.”
“I can’t go back to Falneth,” Jorn said. A mug of steaming Flannae was in his hands. “I already brought assassins there once, and it almost killed Thulgin. I can’t ever go there again.”
“Not now, true, but you can certainly return someday when Einar is defeated. In the meantime you must go into hiding elsewhere, until a new coalition against Einar can be formed and you are properly made ready to lead it.”
“Hiding.” Jorn sighed. “Grang’s teeth! Just like some common brigand!”
“Tell me, Jorn, did you ever hear the tale of Holmfast the Great?”
“No.”
“Let me enlighten you. Holmfast was the nephew of Halfig IV, a great King of Shalfur who died about, oh, three hundred years ago. Halfig had no children so he declared his sister’s son Holmfast his heir. Some nobles grumbled, you can be sure, saying that the line of kingship cannot be handed down through one’s mother according to the ancient laws. Nevertheless, the Halfig had spoken. He laid the matter before a council of learned elders and important personages and they concurred with his decision, affixing their seals to a proclamation stating their approval. Holmfast was to follow Halfig as king.”
“Holmfast was a great choice. He was strong, and brave in battle. But that was not all. He was also a scholarly young man, eager to learn all he could to help him to rule justly when his time came. He traveled about the countryside, visiting every town and village. He’d spend hours questioning craftsmen or shepherds about the minutia of their vocations. When the King’s death did come to pass after some years, Halfig’s own First Minister seized power for himself. He was a powerful wizard by the name of Authun; and he was Holmfast’s cousin, too, just like you and Einar! A
uthun even used a mercenary army to surprise and crush Holmfast’s forces before the young king even knew what had happened. Does that also sound familiar?
“But here is the thing: Holmfast was not beaten. He survived the battle and hid alone in the fens along the coast, living as an outlaw in his own land and hunted by Authun’s agents daily. As time passed, loyal men gathered around the true king and he began raiding Authun’s outposts. Soon, Holmfast had a powerful army around him as more and more men rallied to his banner. After eight long years of fighting, Authun was at last defeated and Holmfast gained his rightful throne. Holmfast reigned for fifty years, a wise and prudent king the whole time. You are as Holmfast was, I hardly need point out. You are alone in the wilderness, wrongfully exiled from your own realm. Except that you are not truly alone. Many are your allies. In that sense, you are far better off than Holmfast was.”
“Where do I go? South?”
“We shall leave for the coast after I meet you in Llywarch. We should be able to find a ship to take us to the far side of the Bachwy Bay. You shall leave your name and your title behind as you stay with my friend Fearach. He is a skilled wizard who dwells on Glenaevon Island just a few miles south of the far side of the bay. It’s just the type of nowhere we need, and Fearach is precisely the man to prepare you for the challenges ahead. I’ll send word to him.”
“I’ve never heard of Glenaevon Island.”
“No one has. That’s what makes it perfect.”
“What about Morag? And Ironhelm?”
“They have their own destinations, neither with you. The last thing we need is to have a one-eyed dwarf hanging around you growling and brandishing that battle axe of his at everyone. No, I imagine Einar would find you in about a week with such a companion. As for Morag, she will head south to the school of magic at Noviomagus, in Brithborea, to complete her training as a wizard. She will be safe there, hundreds of miles from Einar’s grasp and surrounded by powerful wizards who will see to her welfare. She will study and grow in power. You may need her talents before this is all done.”
“I’ll be all alone, then,” Jorn said quietly.
“Alone? Hardly! I’ll have one eye on you always, and I shall stop by whenever I am able. But you will have to bid farewell, at least for now, to the name Jorn Ravenbane. That name is too dangerous at the moment. You shall call yourself Cahan, which means ‘victorious’ in the old speech of Withowan.”
“Cahan,” Jorn said, repeating the name.
The wizard stared out into the quiet woods, puffing angrily on his pipe.
“For weeks we have suffered naught but defeat,” he said. “Though men may label me a madman, Jorn, I am not ready to slink off and concede that we are beaten. We will yet fight, unto the very end, be it however bitter.”
Part Two
Northern Llangellan
The Wilderness Valley
Eleven
Ironhelm breathed a sigh of relief.
It’d been a hard day's travel, both he and Angala soaked from the steady drizzle falling all day. He was too old for this, he told himself as he guided the stout Linlundic pony down the hill towards the village nestled along the roadside ahead.
The road went past a meadow and a humble little stone house. Smoke wafted out of the chimney, the aroma of roast meat in the air. It set Ironhelm to thinking of his own fireside far to the north in Thunderforge. He’d rather be there now amidst his kinfolk, instead of journeying hundreds of miles all alone. He’d endured bad weather and dozens of terrible inns over the last few weeks, with very little to lighten his mood the whole time. What he disliked most about this whole affair, however, was the secrecy.
Braemorgan’s letter sounded urgent, summoning him all the way to Llangellan. It aggravated him, the silly melodrama of the vaguely-worded missive. The letter bore Braemorgan’s wizard’s seal, though. The wizard’s summons was not to be ignored.
The weather in the Southlands were tolerable than in the north, at least. The autumn wind was gentle compared to the brutal gusts of the north. Up in Linlund, snow probably already covered the ground.
Despite that, Ironhelm never cared for the Southlands. His first visit, more than a century earlier, was his first taste of war. Crossing the River Tam and entering Llangellan, old memories of bloody battles and fallen comrades began to haunt his thoughts.
The dwarf patted his pony on the neck. It’d been almost five years since Thane Orbadrin gave Angala to him as a gift, and Ironhelm was frequently surprised by how much he’d grown attached to the animal.
“There, there, lass,” Ironhelm told her. “Aye. It’ll be a warm stable for you soon, and plenty of oats.”
Past the meadow, the road went down a gentle slope before leading to an old stone bridge. The bridge spanned the creek at the edge of town, an ancient stone mill perched on its bank. Its waterwheel turned steadily.
Ironhelm reached the bridge, suddenly pulling up on Angala’s reigns. His hand gripped his axe as he scanned the woods to the left, tense with alertness.
Something had moved at his approach, darting through the trees in a hurry. It could have been a deer, but there was something about the sound it made rustling through the leaves that aroused the dwarf’s suspicion.
The barest hint of a familiar smell touched the dwarf’s nostrils. There was a sudden rush of noise from within the trees as something hurried off deeper into the woods. Ironhelm caught a glimpse of it in the twilight, a distant shadow at the edge of his excellent dwarf night-vision. He bolted up straight and raised his axe. He turned Angala toward the woods and waited, grabbing the large round shield strapped to his back and holding it close to him.
Ironhelm stared at the silent woods for a long time, finally turning back towards the road. He wondered if he was going senile as he crossed the old stone bridge and found himself in the village of Laekur still puzzling over the incident. He put his axe away and looked the village over as he rode into it. He dimly recalled passing through there once before, but it was many years ago and he’d not stopped for very long.
Looking around, he understood why he couldn’t remember it. It was small, just a few dozen insignificant buildings of wood or brick built along both sides of the road. It seemed even smaller than it was, surrounded by dark woods in all directions. It was a tiny little backwater, nothing more. It was along the road to Barter's Crossing, though. The great city was a day’s ride northwest, so the traffic through the village was more than enough to support a pair of inns. Ironhelm passed the first one, a fine-looking establishment called the Happy Wizard to his left past the mill. The second inn was across the street. It was a two-story brick building with a sign hanging over the front door painted with the white head of deer sporting enormous antlers.
“This Stag’s Head,” Ironhelm muttered, pulling back on Angala’s reigns.
Ironhelm tied her out front. He grabbed his axe and stuffed it into his belt. He went inside into the common room, looking it over. It was clean, at least, though not much different than a thousand other roadside inns he’d known in his travels. Tables were clustered around a large fireplace at the far end, over which hung the stuffed head of a massive old stag. Its antlers were immense, wider from end to end than Ironhelm stood high.
Patrons sat at almost every table under the blank gaze of the stag, drinking from large tankards. The steady murmur of their conversation didn’t stop at Ironhelm’s entrance, no one so much as taking notice of him. Most of the patrons were locals by the looks of them, although a few appeared to be travelers. All were human except for two dwarves sitting close to the fireplace talking quietly over their drinks. They looked like merchants, probably traveling to Barter’s Crossing to buy or sell wares. Ironhelm completed his quick scan of the place, not spotting anything in the least bit unusual.
Nowhere, he noted with annoyance, was Braemorgan.
A burly man of middle age emerged from a backroom bearing a pair platters of food. He placed them before two humans at a nearby table before noticin
g the one-eyed dwarf with the huge axe standing by the door. He had a happy face, round and fleshy, and red whiskers almost as long and thick as Ironhelm's own jet-black beard. He walked with a bit of a limp.
"Ah, good evening," the man said, smiling widely and wiping his hands on his apron. "You’d have to be Durm Ironhelm."
"Aye," the dwarf said. “Tha’s right.”
"I thought so," the man said. "I’m the proprietor. Everything is prepared for you. Do you have baggage?"
"With my pony outside," Ironhelm said.
"Thilldane!" the innkeeper shouted, motioning for a young boy sitting near the fireplace. "See to his pony and take his bags to his room."
The boy jumped up, hurrying past Ironhelm and out the door.
“She’s a valued pony, I -” Ironhelm started to say.
“Don’t worry about her in the least, my good dwarf,” the innkeeper said. “Thilldane has a way with horses. He’s my youngest, you know. That boy is a born stable master. Your pony will be well cared-for.”
“Aye. Tha’s good to know.”
"Let me show you to the backroom,” he said. “Braemorgan insisted on our most private room for your business, and that’s what I’ve set aside. A few of the others arrived two days ago and are waiting."
Others? That was unexpected, but Ironhelm said nothing. He followed the innkeeper down a side hallway on the far side of the fireplace towards a door all the way at the end.
The innkeeper opened a door at the end of the hall and Ironhelm followed him through. Beyond was a comfortably furnished private room with a large table surrounded by tall-backed chairs and a burning fireplace on the far end. The rain outside beat steadily against a pair of windows along one wall as wizard’s lamps in the center of the table and on either side of the fireplace provided plenty of light.
Two men were inside, turning towards Ironhelm at his entrance. The first was a dark-haired man with a neatly-trimmed goatee and a thin build. He wore light leather armor under a black cloak, a long sword and a pair of throwing knives at his belt. A pair of tall leather boots was on his feet, propped up on the table in front of him. He was leaning back in his chair, sipping from a small pewter mug. A jug of wine sat on the table in front of him.
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 21
