Son of the Storm

by Michael DeAngelo

  Dorn lowered his head and headed home.

  * * * * *

  A cold wind blew into the cottage when the dwarf swung the way open. Candles upon the table wavered beside an ale glass that was filled to the brim. The flames struggled to stay lit upon their wicks. Rena rose from her seat and rushed to her husband.

  The beautiful clandaughter had already changed into a shortened silk nightgown. Neither of the children were anywhere to be seen. When Rena noticed her husband’s curious glances, she embraced him even tighter. “You took a long while to come home,” she said. “I had thought that maybe Varek had stopped ye on the way back.”

  Dorn shook his head. “Only taking in the sights as I went.” He pushed her to arm’s length and looked deep into her eyes. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  Those eyes seemed to dance with starlight as she reflected on those words. She stepped back and swung out, delivering her fist into her lover’s shoulder.

  “Yeowch! What was that for?”

  “Shh, ye’ll wake the children,” she spoke with a hushed voice. “I know if my uncle comes for you, ye won’t say nay. I want ye to remember that harpy claws’ll hurt worse than me little hands.”

  “That’s up for debate,” he protested, rubbing where she had struck. “You know how I feel. I’m as scared as all the rest of them, but when family is in trouble, I believe in being there. Varek gave me the greatest gift ever when he introduced me to you. I’d never be able to forgive myself if I didn’t repay that kindness.”

  “Ye do know this is the single most stupid thing ye’d ever consider doing?”

  “The list is beginning to stretch plenty high, yes.”

  She sighed and embraced him once more, pressing her lips against his cheek. “Drink yer ale to calm yer nerves. I’ll be sleeping by the time ye get in.”

  He nodded and slowly stepped around the table until he reached his seat. Watching his wife slip into the bedroom, his head sank. Dorn just barely saw his reflection in the glass. His emotions ran rampant on his face. The dwarf was so on edge he nearly leapt from the table when he heard the creak of a door. He looked up, spotting his adopted son emerging into the common area. Bolt held a finger to his mouth.

  Dorn’s brow furrowed, but he waited until his child sat beside him to speak. “What are you doing up, lad?” he asked.

  “I heard what you said to Mother,” Bolt whispered. “And I know how you feel about family.”

  “Aye. What are you getting at?”

  “I know I’m not a dwarf, but if you were to go, I’d expect you to let me come with you.”

  His father scoffed at the notion. “You’re out of your gourd, boy. You’re just a child.”

  “I’m only a year younger than Lund, and ye can be sure he’ll be called to go!” he protested. “Besides,” he said, struggling to reign in his emotions, “you know there’s no one that has the kind of advantage I do in a fight.”

  “Which is something I’ve been trying to keep you from doing for years,” Dorn whispered. He sighed, shaking his head. “Look, it’s endearing that you think you can or should come along, but my mind’s already been made. Your mother would string me up from Vaulen’s hammer.”

  “If we had it…” his son somberly contended.

  The room grew quiet, only the fluttering of the flames audible. Both of the seated individuals almost tipped over the table when the abrupt knock fell upon the door to the house. Dorn and Bolt looked at each other and quietly shuffled out of their chairs.

  When they opened the door, they were surprised to see Fali before them.

  “I told ye I’d come and get ye, and so I have.” He stepped back, allowing them to see Varek and Thurgan behind him.

  “This isn’t everyone,” Dorn said, his face beginning to go white as a sheet.

  “No, of course not,” Varek said. “I’ve sent the others ahead. But you are the last of us, my friend.” He stepped forward and solemnly nodded. “You must understand, I would never expect this of you, and I don’t fault you if you choose to stay behind.”

  The one dwarf stood in the doorway, looking at the trio before him. He swallowed hard and turned to look over his shoulder. Bolt was there, eager anticipation in his eyes.

  “Tell your mother I love her,” Dorn said. “Your brother too. You’re head of our house now, son. Keep things in place for me for my return.”

  With his mouth agape, the young man couldn’t shield his disappointment. He stepped forward, his brow furrowed, but his father’s face was even sterner. Dorn put a finger to his lips and stepped outside.

  “I love you, son,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”

  Bolt remained there, flabbergasted as his father shut the door. He could hear the small group of dwarves taking their leave and walked to the kitchen window to see their darkened outlines disappear from sight.

  The lad quietly sighed as he turned back toward the table. He leaned down and blew out the candles, leaving the cottage in darkness. Slowly, silently, he made his way back to his room. He opened the door slightly, reaching inside.

  A moment later, a leather knapsack was in his hand. He swung it over his shoulder and reached inside, pulling out a hastily scribbled note. As he stepped toward the doorway, he placed it on the table.

  With a subtle creak, the way was open before him. He wore a mischievous grin as he stepped outside and softly shut the door behind him.

  Chapter Six: A Sudden Squall

  The frigid cold winds constantly blew as they pressed farther north, and the once distant white caps of the Snowspear Mountains grew closer than they had ever been. The morning sun had just crested over the eastern hills and had not yet warmed the blanket of frost that sat upon the grass. The roaring fire tamed that cold grasp, releasing the icy tendrils just a bit. Two dwarves sat right beside the campfire, their fingers extended until each lick of flame nearly danced around their skin.

  “Eh, Corvo, ye didn’t think to bring your grandma’s shawl?” another dwarf said, slapping one of the cold members of the group on the back as he passed. A plate was stacked high with a pile of steaming meat in his other hand.

  With chattering teeth, Corvo scowled but never brought his focus from the blaze.

  “It’s all right,” the fellow beside him said, steadying his breaths and seeming much more adjusted to the weather. “Uolo’ll be done sewing together that hide afore we leave this morning.”

  “Ye say that now, Ingus,” Corvo said, “but yer fergetting one thing: Uolo’s third group. We’ll be gone long afore he has ta be done.” The chilly dwarf was surprised by the sudden weight upon his shoulder. He looked down to see the carefully stitched fur cloak draped over his body.

  “Glad to know you have such faith in me.”

  Another hide dropped beside Ingus then.

  Both of the dwarves huddled close to the fire turned to see the cleric walking away. Uolo’s robe almost blended in with the frost beneath his feet. Those boots he wore were as brown as the deer hide that had been gifted to them.

  They watched as he approached the large canvas tent on the south edge of the camp. It was obscured under the tree canopies, more than the fire, and more than any of their bedrolls. Neither of the first two groups of dwarves had even seen it put together, nor had they seen it vacated that morning.

  “There he goes to wake our fearless leader,” Corvo said. A little snarl escaped his lips as he focused on the fire once more. He was surprised to see through the flames as Varek and a small group of dwarves entered the camp from the northern clearing. “I’ll be damned,” he said, climbing to his feet.

  Beside him, three dwarves approached the fire as well. Two of them carried immense deer upon their backs, their face gone red from the burden. Fali and Thurgan wore smiles despite their labors, and Dorn and Varek bore grins to match.

  “Crack!” one dwarf called out from beside his bedroll.

  “Boom!” a quartet of others within the camp replied.

  “Crack!”

>   “Boom!” Even Corvo and Ingus joined the chorus that time.

  They watched as an oddly bearded, darkly tanned dwarf approached their king, two of his lads in tow behind him. “I see ye’ve got dinner squared away then,” he said.

  “Aye, Broor,” Varek said. “If Humber keeps to the rationing today.” All of the dwarves laughed at that comment, even Lund who stood beside his father. The only one among them who was not amused was the especially large dwarf who had been ribbed. “But if Jor and Noor get back with the same luck we did, mayhaps we’ll all eat like kings tonight.”

  Broor nodded eagerly, the five braids that hung from his jaw whipping back and forth. “So which of ye can we thank fer yer troubles? Bad manners ta not recognize a hunter’s aim.”

  “I’d say you could thank each of us a bit,” Varek offered. “Were it not for Thurgan’s keen nose—”

  “How could a beak that big not be sharp?” one of the lads behind the engineer said.

  “Hold yer tongue while the king be speakin, Soot,” Broor chastised. He held out his hand to allow Varek to continue his tale.

  Thurgan and Fali thumped their burdens to the ground, the beat echoing into the air. Somehow, the two bucks looked even bigger lying upon the frost.

  “As I was saying,” the dwarven king went on. “We’ve got Thurgan to thank for tracking, and Fali to thank for supplying his crossbow.”

  “Aye, but it were Dorn and ol’ Varek that made sure we’re to eat tonight,” Thurgan said.

  Broor’s thick eyebrows fell as he looked upon the smallest of the dwarves. “Is that so?” he said. “Even Dorn knows how to lay em low?”

  “Maybe all that time above ground did ‘im well,” Fali teased.

  “Could be yer really an elf,” the engineer jested, slapping Dorn on the shoulder. “Whatever the case, we eat well tonight!” Broor called out.

  “Crack!”

  “Boom!”

  Another dwarf approached the group, bowing his head when he stood before Varek. A large strip of his hair was missing, and he chose not to wear a helmet over it. A scar was stretched across his scalp and stopped just above his right eyebrow.

  “Well met, Groon,” Varek said.

  “Aye, milord,” the dwarf replied. “Jor and Noor are out looking for food to add to the table tonight.” His voice was deep and gravelly, and he stood taller than most of the folk that surrounded him. “I was hoping they’d be back by now, but—”

  “Ye have to take your group,” the king surmised. Groon nodded in agreement. “I’ll let Jor know you were keen on waiting. He won’t be at odds with your decision.”

  Again, the gruff dwarf nodded. He turned and faced the camp. A loud whistle pressed through a gap in his teeth, catching everyone’s attention. “Yarne, Warrek, Rand! Get yer gear and get ready. It’s time to pave the way. If Mordek is right, we’re getting close to those harpies now!”

  The camp bustled then, for even though it would be several hours before the second shift departed, there was much work to be done. Several of the dwarves, Corvo and Ingus among them, kicked dirt onto the fire, stifling the flame.

  Varek and his companions pressed forward, passing many of their kin.

  “So what do ye think, Dorn?” Thurgan asked. “When it comes down to it, are ye gonna be as good at huntin’ wee birdies as ye are these snow hind?”

  “If it means the difference between living or dying, I think I’ll be just fine,” he answered.

  Laughing, Thurgan slapped his friend on the back.

  That mirth they all shared soon diminished, for another of their clan quickly approached, concern apparent in his eyes. Uolo’s pace was hasty, but he remained quiet until he drew close to the king.

  “Lord Varek, there’s something you’re going to want to see,” the cleric insisted. He began to pivot around again, but he hesitated, stopping to face Dorn instead. “You’ll want to see this too.”

  With curious anticipation, the lot of them continued, passing Varek’s large tent and proceeding into the woods beyond. Another dwarf patiently waited there, a short beard upon his face. He nodded to the cleric when they drew near.

  “Noor,” Varek quietly addressed. “What’s this all about?”

  Swallowing hard, the young dwarf stepped aside and led their gazes farther south. There, blending with the trees, they saw another dwarf. Just beside him, they noticed the human youth.

  “Seven hells and seven more,” Dorn growled.

  He began forward, and his kin was quick to follow.

  Jor noticed their approach and stepped forward. He wore a circlet over his head, the silver band covering his dark blond hair. He was one of a very few amount of dwarves that possessed that lighter color. It made his dark eyebrows all the more striking. Still, as he made eye contact with his kin, sympathy was etched on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Dorn,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do.” He turned to the lad and looked up at him. “Can ye keep yer words quiet?”

  His father was there in a moment, his face already bright red. “Are ye daft, boy?” he growled, jumping up to pull the cloth from his son’s mouth.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Thurgan declared. “There’s a dwarf in him after all.”

  “I told you to stay home,” Dorn continued, reeling in his emotions.

  “But you’re always talking about how important family is!” Bolt protested. “I thought this is what you would have wanted from me!”

  “He’s been following us for days,” Jor explained. “Damned human hasn’t eaten anything but our cold scraps along the way.” His words were more incredulous than stern, and he looked to the lad, nodding, impressed.

  “Well, what do we do with you now?” Dorn asked. His voice was quiet as a whisper. He quickly turned to Varek, concern in his eyes. “My liege, I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t know anything about this. I’ll not use this as an excuse to be on my way back to the Goldenscales.”

  “Aye, but what else can we do?” Fali chimed in. “The runt’s a long way from home, and if he hasn’t been surviving on anything but our food since he’s been along, he may not make it back.”

  “Hell, lads,” Thurgan said. “I’m not ashamed to admit it. I doubt if I could find me way back on me own.”

  “So what do you expect? We let him fight aside us when we find the harpy roost?” Dorn contested.

  “Well, why not?” Fali said. “Lund is a young’n too. We’re stronger together than we are apart.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him!” Bolt said as Jor released his bindings.

  “Shut up, lad,” Fali snapped. “The grownups’re talking.”

  Dorn’s brow was furrowed so fiercely that he could barely see. He crossed his arms over his chest, briefly alternating glances between his son and his friend. Finally, his gaze settled upon the king who merely shrugged.

  Groaning, he turned, facing his son once more. “You listen up now, child. I won’t be taking you back, so you’ll come along with us. But this isn’t an adventure. This isn’t fun and games. If you don’t pull your weight and watch out for all our backs, you’re likely to get us killed. Do you understand?”

  Bolt swallowed hard but nodded.

  “Good,” Dorn said. He opened his arms wide then, prompting a nervous stare from his son. Gradually, the human adolescent inched forward, tenuously accepting the embrace. A few moments later, each were pressed to arms length. “You can start to earn your meals by cleaning up the camp.”

  He gave his son a firm push, and Bolt was not at odds with the decision. He moved north, only once looking over his shoulder. Fali grumbled and turned, briefly sprinting to catch up with his adopted nephew. As they faded out of sight, Dorn’s features finally softened.

  “He’ll be all right, you know,” Varek offered.

  “If ye want, I can give him the old blitz,” Jor said. “We’ll be out here for days—or weeks even—if Mordek is right about the distance. I can get your lad ready to fight before w
e even near the roost.”

  Dorn sighed, bringing his hand to his eyes. “Just make sure he can defend himself,” he replied with a tinge of melancholy in his voice. “When we meet those harpies, I want him as far away from them as possible.”

  With his head bowing, he began after his adopted child, leaving the rest of the dwarves behind.

  * * * * *

  Snowdrifts around dense brush were taller than the dwarves. A howling wind cried through the early evening, whipping past them like a winter banshee. The sun was gone from above, but atop the layers of white, a dreary, glowing gray seemed to blend the horizon together like a dirty canvas.

  The way forward had become treacherous. Gone were the flat, long stretches of land. Instead, the raiding party ascended the northern crags, where one false step meant terrible doom. Slowly, two of the groups collapsed on each other.

  Within a pair of gnarled hands, a weathered parchment fluttered. Mordek’s hands trembled, and he trailed behind at the end of the procession. Only one other walked by his side, a warm glow upon his hands.

  “You should let me hold the map for you,” Uolo said. “These hands won’t do much but warm me, but you can lay a trail of flames beside us. It’ll be like we’re back within the Goldenscales again!”

  That mirthful comment was lost to the dwarven mage who remained fixated on the parchment within his hands.

  “You still haven’t found them,” the cleric stated, calling out over the furious wind.

  “If he’d have just stuck to his pace,” Mordek muttered. “There’s no possible chance we can catch the durned fools while they’re off running to glory. Groon and his lads are going to get us all lost out here. You see!” He pointed to the paper in his hands. Two symbols remained close by in the center of the map. They were shaped like axes and seemed to slide upon the page slightly. A third axe was upon the paper’s edge, almost looking as though it would fall off. Still, another symbol entirely, a red feather, was high upon the adjacent side of the map. “They’re not even heading in the right direction.”