Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (40 page)

              The mountains, meanwhile, loomed ever closer as the terrain grew rockier and the road ahead became steeper with every passing mile. A few hours before dusk they passed through a tiny village which a stone marker identified as Fjallóttur. It was barely more than a tiny inn surrounded by a smithy, a trading post, and a few small stone cottages scattered about up and down the road.  A trio of wizened old men sat in front of the inn, smoking from long pipes and eyeing the company. The travelers paused their only briefly, buying fresh food and then setting off again. 

A few hours later they made camp, sitting down to a decent dinner of boiled cabbage with sliced potatoes and a pair of hares bought from the trading post.

Flatfoot prepared the meal, eager to take over cooking duties for the duration of the journey. He boiled water in a pot and threw in plenty of fresh herbs. Next were the potatoes, sliced thin, followed by the cabbage. A few sliced carrots went in afterwards and then he set to roasting the hares over an open fire. He patted them thoroughly with salt and just a bit of black pepper from Shandorr, then hung them on sharp metal skewers. The skewers were placed down upon steel spikes driven into the ground on either side of the fire. The spikes were forked at the top, upon which the skewers rested as the hares roasted. The portable spit was Flatfoot’s own design. He boasted about it as he turned the hares and watched them cooking. Flatfoot saw no reason to suffer unduly while on the road, especially where matters of the stomach were concerned.

_____

They passed through rugged terrain the next day, the great mountain peaks ever closer as they climbed higher and higher towards them. The road clung to the edge of the mountains as they made their way along the rim of steep valleys. Now and again, the tall pines and birches parted enough to afford them a broad view of the hilly country behind them and the rocky, bare landscape which soared upwards in front of them. For nearly the entire morning, they encountered not a single farmhouse or isolated cottage until they at last passed a few on the outskirts of a small mountain village of quiet people who nodded politely as the strangers passed. A mile further a small stone marker, no taller than Flatfoot, stood on the side of the road. A set of dwarf characters were carved into the side of the stone, the inscription written in the dwarven tongue.

              “Here marks the boundary of the Dwarven Freeholds and the domains of the Hammeredshields,” Jorn said, reading the marker. “Forever…um, free lands owing fealty to no one by…I think it says, um…by virtue of our right of conquest and as, um, proclaimed in the Great Charter of Calaegskarr of the Year 3499 Dwarf-Reckoning. Whatever that means.”

             
“Aye,” Ironhelm said. “Tha’s the gist of it, laddie.”

             
“All along the edge of the frontier, north and south for a hundred miles, the hill dwarf clans dwell in the shadow of the great uncharted wilderness,” Willock explained. “The Great Charter of Calaegskarr established the Kingdom of Llangellan, formalizing its independence from the rule of the Brithborean crown and setting forth its boundaries, with peace between our people and the Clans written into it by mutual oath and signature. The Hammeredshield Clan is one the larger clans, ancient and mighty. Their domains extend from here to the Widowing Gap ahead, through which lays the wilderness.”

             
“Ach. We’ll have no need to go the way of the Widowing Gap,” Ironhelm said, grimacing. “Aye, up ahead is Dunvögen, seat of the Hammeredshield Clan. I’ve powerful friends there. We’ll be treated well, but dare not linger. Tomorrow we’ll take the road south till we reach Glammonfore Keep in two days’ time.”

             
A few hundred feet past the marker stood a small stone building on the side of the road. It was a plain square two stories high constructed from granite blocks, large pieces of stone carefully fit together to form a squat and rather ugly edifice. It had a stout iron door, arrow slits for windows all around, and battlements atop. A large bundle of kindling sat within a large iron bowl on the flat roof, a burning lamp hanging next to it for quick lighting at the first sign of trouble. Two heavily-armored dwarven warriors in horned helms peered warily over the battlements as Jorn and the others approached. Three more dwarves, also heavily armored and armed, sat grimly in front of the little stone building atop stout war ponies. They wore cloaks of very dark blue edged with a silvery-gray and upon their round shields was the outline of a war hammer on a field of dark blue. Each of them was clad in a chain mail hauberk and a plain helm, weapons of steel at their sides. They said nothing, carefully observing the strangers as they came up the road.

             
“Is that a guardhouse?” Jorn joked. “It’s barely big enough to be an outhouse!”

             
“Very clever, laddie,” Ironhelm said, shaking his head. “Most of the guard post is underground. Aye. I’d wager fifty dwarves are within. And tha’ door is well-braced, be sure. You couldn’t take tha’ outhouse with two hundred men, laddie. Aye, tis true.”

              “And once such an attack begins, they’ll light that signal fire and you can be sure relief will be coming in great numbers,” Willock added.

             
“Aye. Just let me do the talking, laddies,” Ironhelm said.

             
The dwarfs were now directly in front of them, blocking the road and staring at them grim-faced. A brown-bearded dwarf with dark eyes raised his hand up before him.

             
“Hold!” he said in Dwarven. “State your purpose.”

             
“Greetings brothers,” Ironhelm answered, bowing his head in greeting. His words were carefully chosen, governed by strict protocol and long tradition. “You are well met, good sirs. I am Durm Ironhelm, a humble warrior of Thunderforge. My people have long been friends and allies of the Hammeredshield Clan, in times of both peace and war. We humbly beg to pass through your domain, bound for Glammonfore Keep. We beseech you, dear friends and brother dwarves.”

             
The lead dwarf looked over them all carefully.

             
“What of the elf?” he said at last, still in Dwarven. He eyed Ronias carefully. “Be he of Sollistore?”

             
“No. He is of Shandorr.”

             
“That is well. No elf of Sollistore is permitted in this domain.”

He paused again, studying them again. Finally, the guard nodded and gave a grunt. He stepped aside.

              “Be alert,” he warned. “These are dark days. Gruks and trolls attack travelers even in the daylight hours. And don’t expect a warm reception among any of our people with the likes of that elf among you.”

             
“What was that about?” Jorn said when they were all passed. He’d been able to follow most of the conversation.

             
“Elves and dwarves are not often friends,” Ironhelm said. “But you’re right. Tha’ was strange. They said no elf of Sollistore is permitted to pass through their domains. Aye, tis true.”

             
“A sensible policy indeed,” Ronias said, loud enough for the dwarves to hear. “Sollistoreans are all cockroaches, every last one of them. They are best stamped out.”

             
The guardhouse soon disappeared behind another bend in the road, Ironhelm’s hand unconsciously inching towards the handle of his axe as he rode along.

             
Here and there they would pass a small house, always constructed of perfectly-cut blocks of granite, with the low roof and small windows that gave every dwarf homestead a fortress-like appearance. There would sometimes be a hardscrabble little field next to these rare farmhouses. By and large, however, the lands of the Hammeredshields looked desolate and unsettled save for a few goatherds and their flocks. Jorn wondered aloud where all the dwarves were.

             
“Ach. Dwarves are city dwellers,” Ironhelm said. “When we pass near one of the towns, laddie, you’ll see dwarves aplenty.”

_____

             
A caravan of dwarf merchants headed the other way along the road passed them as they made their way deeper into the Hammeredshield lands. Nodding warily, the dwarves looked over the odd group of strangers and went on their way in grim silence. More than one flinched at the sight of Ronias.

             
Jorn and his companions plodded on, the road climbing even higher and hugging the side of a sharp cliff for more than a mile. The ground dropped off steeply below them and they heard the sound of rushing water ahead. The next bend revealed a great stone bridge fifty feet long spanning a rapidly-flowing stream a hundred feet below. Glancing over the side of the bridge as they crossed, they saw waterfalls and rapids crashing down over steep rocks in a frothy white mass of rushing water.

Ironhelm nodded, almost smiling. To him, the single stone arch supporting the road a hundred feet above jagged rocks and rushing water was a work of poetry in stone, a heroic ode to dwarven craftsmanship, skill, and clarity.

              They heard shouts on the road ahead as they reached the far side of the bridge. Pausing, they strained their ears to listen.

             
“Ach. Those are battle sounds!” Ironhelm said.              

             
“We should withdraw,” Ronias said. “Whatever it is, it is none of our affair.”

             
A pair of stout gray ponies came trotting up the road towards them, fully saddled but without riders.

“Those are dwarf ponies!” Ironhelm said, digging his spurs deeply into the side of his own pony, charging ahead.

Jorn shrugged. He charged after Ironhelm, not about to let the dwarf go into battle alone. The others followed him moments later, Ronias last of all.

Rounding a curve in the road, they beheld a violent scene. A score of dwarf warriors were desperately fighting foes on both sides of them. They were some yards down the slope below the road, battling about the same number of gruks. They
held the high ground, but amidst the gruks were a pair of hulking trolls who were making the fight difficult for the dwarves.

The trolls, nine feet tall with massive, sloping shoulders and long arms, were howling wildly as they swung their clubs in wide arcs at the dwarves. The dwarves held off the trolls and gruks as best as they could.

Standing atop a cliff thirty feet above the road, a line of gruks archers fired arrows down upon the hapless dwarves. A few of the gruks also hurled rocks, as well, laughing and jeering wildly.

The dwarves’ predicament looked hopeless, several already lay on the ground wounded or dead. A red-bearded dwarf in plate armor stood in the midst of the fight, wielding his war hammer and shouting orders above the din.

              Ironhelm scanned the scene. With attackers on both sides of the road, riding right into the midst of the battle would be tantamount to suicide. He spied, however, a small path leading up the side of the cliff. It looked like it wrapped around the back of where the archers were standing. Already Willock was off his horse and crouched behind a large rock a few feet in front of them.

             
“Someone needs to get up tha’ path and do something about those archers,” Ironhelm said.

“I’m on it,” Jorn said. He leapt from his saddle and bounded up the path, sword in hand and Willock right behind him. Flatfoot, shrugging, grabbed his crossbow and scrambled after them. 

“The rest of us will see what we can do against those trolls!” Ailric shouted. He charged down the slope into the fray, Ironhelm alongside him.

Soon only Ronias was left standing on the road. He moved cautiously towards the battle, sticking close to the cliff’s side out of sight of the archers above. He looked down at the main battle below him. The trolls, he decided, were the key to the entire struggle.

_____

Charging headlong down the steep slope, Ailric and his huge warhorse plunged into the enemy lines with powerful impact. The sheer mass of his horse knocked a pair of gruks down at once, his sword beheading a third before the creatures even knew what was happening. Somehow, Ailric managed to turn his horse parallel to the line of battle and proceeded to beat back the gruks around him, his sword descending again and again upon the leathery-faced brutes. Both sides were shocked by the knight’s sudden appearance, a cheer going up among the besieged dwarves.

             
“Take heart, good dwarves,” Ailric shouted above the noise of battle.

             
Ironhelm leapt from his pony and plunged into the battle, swinging his axe with  terrifying fury. He slew the nearest of the gruks with a viscous blow, then lunged at another. The gruks were falling back, but the pair of hulking trolls roared terribly and strode forward towards the newcomers. 

_____

             
Jorn crept up the narrow path high above the main battle, Willock and Flatfoot close behind him. The trail grew suddenly narrow, nearly too narrow to walk upon, hugging the cliff as it wrapped around behind the archers and then rose steeply. The path reached almost to the top of the cliff but then ended facing a vertical rise about seven feet tall. Jorn placed his foot into a tiny cleft and pushed himself up to take a peek. He saw a small, flat area with a few trees and a line of ten gruks mere yards away standing on the edge of the cliff shooting arrows down at the dwarves. He ducked his head back down, turning towards Willock and Flatfoot and pointing upwards towards where the gruks stood. Willock came closer, venturing his own peek.