Last Son of Ironhorn [ch.3]

Balor was awoken by the beginnings of a dense downpour, the type common to the region in the late summer months. The dense canopy of the Jotunn Forest shielded them from much of the rainfall, but even so the needles of the pines could only hold back so much. Luckily enough, the foreboding hill giant bones that made up Gallows Grove were large enough to shelter under. Balor had everyone move under a massive ribcage jutting out of the ground like an overturned hull, the rib bones shielding them from the worst of the rain.

Balor and Tylar laid Will down next to them. Kenn slouched against the adjacent rib bone. He had fallen asleep again, softly snoring while wrapped in his worn, dark blue cloak. Balor noted that one of the older man’s hands held the hilt of his broadsword as if he were awake; their trust in each other was mutual. Cerrit sat isolated at the entrance of their shelter, just under the collar bone. His hood was blocking his face, but Balor knew the woodsman’s eyes were surveying the gaps in the trees and giant bones, spying for any distant movement. Khorus was nestled in his master’s cloak, as the initial downpour had caught the sleeping falcon by surprise while he was perched in the branches above their camp.

With no fire though, Willem had begun shivering, and the cold storm gusts that snaked through the cage only worsened it. Balor had wrapped his cloak around Will, keeping him on the door so the ground would not siphon his heat, but it did little to help him. He stayed by his side for most of the early hours while the rain fell, fiddling with the dagger to occupy his hands.

Each time Tylar examined Will’s bandage, Balor grew cold. The skin around the darkening cloth had gone paler than the bones that surrounded them. The herbs in the poultice and forest’s petrichor had not yet been overtaken by the odor of death – Will still had time. However, Tylar’s words hours earlier still rang in his head.

“A day or two, maybe.”

Balor found himself sacrilegiously cursing the Storm.

At times he paced around the bony chamber, with droplets of water occasionally seeking him as he passed under the gaps in the cage. Each drop brought him back to the stormy nights on the battlements of Ironhorn, when his brothers and sisters used to watch the tamer typhoons together. Each drop stung like an acid that slowly ate at his soul, as he wondered if little Alla had found some shelter before this storm hit, if it had indeed hit the eastern half of the forest. Balor hoped that it would not. He felt his own body fighting to drown him. Coming back to Will’s side, he looked upon his shivering brother, and drowned his mind’s tumult again.

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Hours passed before the rains died, but when they did no time was wasted. Dawn was near but the forest was still too dark to travel. With no dry wood or fuel, Cerrit had to lead on despite helping to carry Will’s door, his eyes sharpened after years of his bond with Khorus. Tylar carried the other end, doing his best to match Cerrit’s path and pace so as to not trip and drop their friend. Balor walked alongside them, keeping Kenn in front of him while watching over the still shivering Will.

After what seemed like an eternity after leaving Gallows Grove behind, a wave of relief washed over Balor as he heard the rushing water of the Maidenstream in the distance. Crossing the stream meant their journey was nearly over. All Will had to do was hold on for another night.

Just then Cerrit let out a sharp hiss, the signal they had developed to stop when there was danger nearby. Balor found himself instinctively frozen in his tracks as he looked to the woodsman. Tylar had stopped in unison with them, but it Kenn took a few more strides before realizing what they were doing. To his credit, the older man picked up on the caution, quieting his ragged breaths as best he could.

“Listen in the brush. Southwest.” whispered Cerrit as his eyes fixed to what his ears had heard.

Balor looked in the same direction, listening above the sound of the rushing Maidenstream. His heartbeat was a war drum when he did find the sound coming from the darkness. It was as distant as the stream at first, but with every second the rustling of ferns and the thudding of the ground grew louder. Hooves, Balor realized, and they were moving fast. Cerrit too heard, although even his vision strained at identifying the source.

“Can’t see what it is, the brush is hiding it. Not big, but it’s moving this way Balor.”

“Take Will onwards and start heading north, cross the stream at another point. I will slow this thing down.”

“We’re standing together.”

Balor turned to protest, but Cerrit had already begun setting Will down on the forest floor, prompting Tylar to do the same. Guarding their wounded friend, the woodsman unslung the hand-axes on his belt, and the amberhair unsheathed his sword. Kenn, probably unwilling to lose his strength in numbers so soon, sighed and ponderously unsheathed his broadsword with two hands, although the man did move behind the unconscious Will. Balor could only nod at them in acceptance, and faced the direction of the sound, freeing the dagger from his belt.

Spears of sunrise began piercing through the veil of the Jotunn Forest. Bands of light revealed the ground to the southwest, a layer of ferns and shrubbery, being tossed about by the unseen creature. Balor steeled himself, his internal war drum beating with rapid yet steadying determination. The hoof beats grew louder, careening towards them under the blanket of green and flying faster than a firebolt. Half a league turned into a few meters in moments. Then, it was on them. Balor muscled his fear through his throat, and just as the foliage in front of him parted, he let out a battle cry.

The pig stopped in its tracks, a dust cloud rising behind it as it skid to a halt just below Balor’s blade. Two black orbs met his eyes with a gaze that was a pig’s expression of confusion – it was even raising an eyebrow. Balor released the tension in his body with a sigh of relief, sheathing his weapon. Behind them, the older man was chuckling in amusement.

“Well, this is the first time I have seen such panic over a pig.” Kenn japed as he struggled to slide his bronze sword into its scabbard.

“The Jotunn is an ancient wood, old man. You kill whatever moves at you, or it kills you.” Cerrit replied while shooting a cool gaze at Kenn, his mistrust blatant on his face.

Balor turned back to the pig, who had begun walking past, glowering at them as it moved on. Examining the beast, he recognized its queer scarred snout. The sas the pig let out as it bared its tusks confirmed that it was the same one he had seen the Inn of the Hill Giant’s stables. Balor could not help but grin in amazement that it had survived.

As dawn light further poured into the forest however, Balor felt his smile invert upon catching a better look at the animal. Despite the shroud of mist that began to rise, just enough sun flickered onto the animal to see better detail. Balor’s eyes caught it before the pig disappeared behind the evaporating dew. Littered on its flank and rump were several deep, bleeding gashes, and the stem of an arrow that had only caught on its hide.

“So, we’re just going to let the walking larder go free?” asked Tylar.

Balor ignored the jest, instead looking back in the direction of the roaring stream, eyeing the trees ahead of them. Although the others had not seen the cause of his concern, Kenn rightly guessed it.

“Prey animals have no cause to come running like that. Something up ahead startled it.”

“Someone” Balor clarified, pausing as the situation dawned on him. “The pig was wounded. Whomever they are, they are armed with arrows and missiles.”

Silence overtook them, and Balor felt all of the eyes behind him begin to scout the forest ahead. The sunlight peeled back layer after layer of darkness, revealing the deep greens and browns of the Jotunn, despite the dawn mist. Nothing but the chittering of teeth was out of place just yet. Then Balor realized the chittering came from behind him – from Will. They had to cross, and soon, no matter what

“Cerrit, if there is anyone ahead, they will be at the ford. Can Khorus scout ahead?”

Wordlessly, Cerrit stretched out his gloved hand, and out from the eastern light came the blue gyrfalcon. Dew droplets caught on his wings, and each beat became a shimmering rainbow as he steadied on his master’s arm. The woodsman gave his avian companion a piece of jerky, which the bird pecked at a few timed before savagely ripping into it. Cerrit looked into the falcon’s eyes as it devoured the meal, and after a few moments of silence, the two communed with a mute understanding. Then, with a boost from Cerrit’s arm, Balor felt a gust of wind hit him as Khorus shot upward past the canopy, needles and wet pinecones raining on them as he went.

Cerrit spoke a few minutes later upon seeing through the gyrfalcon’s eyes.

“There’s five, all on this side of the stream. They’ve camped on the rocks above the ford. Two are in the ford itself, spearfishing. The rest are returning to camp. All of them are armed.”

“Four against five? A better circumstance than we had two nights ago.” Tylar said as he tied his sun-hued hair back.

“Two against five, Ty. We cannot leave Will here alone.” Balor reminded him, although in truth he knew it could very well be one against six if Kenn was somehow in league with the party ahead. He misliked the situation, but time was running out.

“I can stay here with young Willem if it please you all.” the older man broke his silence as if he could read his thoughts. “Together, you three may stand a better chance of prevailing. I can carry the boy when you’ve made the crossing safe.”

“And have you leave him for dead? Don’t think so.” Cerrit snapped at Kenn. The two men were close enough in height, but it was clearer to Balor now that he saw them together that Kenn was the greater in size and breadth. A problem for any man who made an enemy of him, yet Cerrit stood tall.

Balor interjected before Kenn responded.

“Tylar, you are the only one who can care for Will. Cerrit, Kenn, and I will clear the ford. Once the crossing is open, you carry him across. Do not stop until you reach Piers’s farm, no matter what may befall us.”

Tylar seemed taken aback, frozen in the mist. His friend’s eyes screamed of fatigue. Dark circles had begun to form under them, weighed down more by the realization of what Balor was asking of him. Yet, with a clenched jaw, Tylar hesitantly agreed with a nod.

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The Maidenstream was a torrent, heavy from the rain earlier that morning, flowing to the northwest. It carried the sacred waters of Heartflow Lake out to the Manhydros River, where it would then flow out to the sea. The irony was not lost on Balor, that after years of avoidance, the Sea might call him back if he were to fall here.

A fallen jotunn pine hid them from the camp above. The tree stretched out at least a quarter mile back into the forest; a giant being consumed by the nature around it. The fallen trunk provided enough cover for them to approach within a dozen feet of their objective. An odor of moss, wet foliage, and rotting wood ensnared Balor’s nostrils as they crept along the moistened ground. If they were spotted, it would not be because of the smell.

The rocks up to the camp appeared traversable, stacked like massive uneven steps slick with water. The camp itself was on the largest stone, which was flat and angled upward like a giant sandstone pedestal, kept dry by the sunlight now dominating the environment. Like a tower, it overlooked the ford, high enough that only the tops of the figures’ bodies could be seen moving about. The three Khorus had seen atop it were still there, meaning the other two still fished in the ford. They kept no watch, so the strangers startled like frightened children when Kenn called up to them from the base of the rocks. He had hunched over somewhat, mostly hidden under his cloak, approaching with outstretched hands. Balor noted the undisciplined scrambling of the men above, reaching for scattered and unattended weapons, but as expected, their defensiveness dropped once they saw the aged man below.

Cerrit was crouched behind Balor as they watched their companion speak to the party in muted conversation, both axes in hand. Tylar had remained deeper in the forest with Will. They had found a stray packhorse while approaching the stream, likely belonging to the camp. Seeing as it was neglected, Balor had convinced Kenn to negotiate for the horse. However, in the event that the strangers were unwilling to part with it, Tylar was to ride on to Piers’s after been signaled.

Two of the figures began to descend the stony steps from their camp to meet Kenn; both disheveled men with unkempt hair and tattered tunics, one had on mismatched boots. Yet they bore articulate steel maces, and one wore a full breastplate that glinted in the morning sun. Items of such quality that would not be found with the likes of these men. Balor steadied his heart as he clutched his dagger, shifting into a squat. The world stood still as Kenn spoke with the descending strangers, his words drowned in the rushing stream. The outlaws responded only with widening smiles and readied weapons.

Only until the third man re-emerged at the top with a drawn longbow did the brigands react. They lunged down at Kenn, both poised for his head. Only an unlikely quickness saved their companion, who backtracked fast enough to evade the mace blows.

As if disembarking off the deck of a beached longship, Balor hopped over the tree trunk and rushed the man to Kenn’s right, the one who wore the breastplate, who had landed off-balance due to the added weight. Balor’s free hand reached for the base of the weapon still in the brigand’s hand. He was not fast enough however, and the armored man had recovered just as he closed in, flailing the mace to strike down on him, eyes crazed with madness. Balor shielded his forehead with his left elbow, bracing for the bone to be shattered. Desperately, he lunged into the man’s torso, driving his dagger upward as the armor smashed into his face. He closed his eyes as they both hit the ground, landing with a squelch and a clanking thud on the wet earth. Although his head rang like a bell, Balor heard the greater pain of his opponent as he cried out from under him. Rolling off the man, he saw that the dagger had found the brigand’s unprotected lower midsection. His opponent cried as he writhed in grass, his blood and urine watering the earth.

Around him, Balor heard the sounds of combat. He looked back up to the camp, ready to roll away from the bowman’s arrows, only to see the man tumbling down the rocky steps. The clashing of steel on his left lasted only a moment, for as he turned to face it, he saw the second mace-wielding brigand twitching where he stood. The broadsword had carved him diagonally from the right shoulder to the naval. With one fluid motion, Kenn pulled his bronze blade from the man, his face cold as the sandstone pillar despite the fresh red spattering that showered his face and dyed his grey beard. Spouts of blood sprayed out from a hundred places along the cut. The brigand fell over before gravity split him in two, twitching more as he hit the ground, despite the lifelessness of his eyes.

The bowman hit the bottom of the steps at the same moment, and Balor saw why he had fallen as the man landed next to him. While he still lived, the beard of one of Cerrit’s hand-axes was embedded between his shoulder and neck. Balor crawled back, away from the brigand while reaching to get his dagger back. Yet, the armored man had had just enough life in him to crawl towards the river, so Balor instead took up his opponent’s mace that had landed some feet away. Regaining his footing, he looked for Cerrit, who was already climbing the steps up to the camp. Smiling, Balor turned and let out a loud whistle into the woods behind them.

Within seconds, with the sun at their backs, came Tylar riding the pale-colored packhorse at full gallop, a cloaked and hooded Will strapped to his back. They leapt over the fallen pine log and made for the ford with the speed of a landed pegasus.

And, for just a moment as they passed him, Balor caught a glance of Will under the hood of the cloak. Drained of all his color and leaning limp on Tylar’s shoulder, it was as if a corpse shared the horse. Time seemed to stop, and Balor felt a chill take hold of his spine. Every one of his muscles froze, as Will slowly opened his eyes.

It might have been the speed of the horse, or the fuzziness of his head from the impact with the breastplate, but instead of seeing the browns of his brother's eyes, Balor was met only the endless black gaze of Death.