Rising Thunder (Dynasty of Storms Book 1) Read online

  Chapter One

  New Flower Moon, Year 4368

  It wasn't every day that a king died.

  The great hall was filled with warriors, nobles, and priests, each dressed in their finest clothing or ceremonial armor. Brightly polished steel and studded leather glinted from under thick furs. Various family crests adorned breastplates, intricate knotwork tooling steel and leather alike, setting the nobleman apart from the warrior. Each man had his finest weapon at his side, swords and axes. Even the priests had their ceremonial war hammers hanging from their belts.

  Elias looked out over the crowd, his eyes fixed on the door that led to his friend's chamber. He was head and shoulders taller than almost everyone in the room, so it was easy to see, even in the dim torchlight of the hall. A guard stood on either side of the door, and the crowd kept a respectful distance.

  The stiff, embroidered cloth of his dress tunic was uncomfortable. He rolled his shoulders, trying to move the seams to a place they didn't rub against his skin, but the garment was too well fitted. It had been made for him specifically for this occasion, but that didn't make it any more comfortable. He tugged on the hem, settling the garment against his skin, and let out a long sigh.

  Despite the crowd, the hall was rather quiet. There was a feast laid out upon the long table that ran the length of the room, and mead filled every cup, but there was none of the banter and rowdy merry-making that normally filled the room. Brynjar had been a noble king, good and just, and his looming passage to the next world sat upon the feast hall like a wet blanket.

  The door to the king's chambers opened, and a white-robed priest stepped out. He beckoned to Brynjar's eldest son, Brandt, and disappeared back into the darkened room. Brandt, a tall, richly dressed man in his forties with white streaks in his black hair, stood and followed the priest, closing the door behind them. Brandt was a good man, a strong warrior, and due to be Brynjar's successor. Elias had known him for his entire life; he would make a good king, provided the nobles accepted him as such.

  Elias took a slice of roast pork and a roll from the table, and meandered around the room, conversing with some of the men gathered there. Those men that were from the castle spoke with him openly, while the men from the surrounding territories were curt or ignored him entirely. In this hall full of men, he was the lone elf; most of the Northerners were not used to the presence of other races in their midst. The north was a very harsh place, and the men that lived there were very harsh men.

  The captain of the king's personal guard, a heavyset, gray-haired man named Wilhelm, sat on a bench near the end of one of the tables. He nodded to Elias in greeting. “Good eve to you, Elias.”

  Elias nodded back. “Good eve to you.” He took a seat next to the old warrior. “Has there been any news from Brynjar?”

  Wilhelm shook his head. “Nothing you and I haven't heard already. The sickness in his lungs has gotten worse and spread to the rest of his body. He burns now with a fever... he's not likely to see the sun rise.” He took a swig from his drinking horn. “It's been a long time coming.“

  Elias nodded, feeling his stomach clench. “Yes... yes it has.” Brynjar wasn't the first king he had seen pass. The men of Brynjar's line remained mighty until either a sickness or wound took them in their old age.

  His mind turned to the past, remembering when he had been brought to the foot of the great mountain, where these Northmen had made their hold. He had been taken on as a ward of the chieftain of one of the southern kingdoms. As that man grew old, he was succeeded by his son, who has been a grown man when Elias had arrived, with a small child of his own. That child was Brynjar, who was now on his deathbed. Elias had watched Brynjar grow, had trained with him, attended his wedding, and held his son on the day of his birth.

  The second chieftain, Brynjar's father, was fond of hunting elk when he wasn't busy fighting with rival tribes, uniting the North into what passed for a kingdom. No matter the season, whether they were in rut or not, he could be found hunting elk with a spear, bow, or lance wherever they traveled along the rivers and valleys.

  His passion for hunting proved to be his undoing when he was gored by a particularly large buck. He lingered just long enough to pass on his legacy to Brynjar, now grown to a man, with a family of his own. Elias stayed as his friend and confidant, though he was in no way an advisor.

  Elias was pulled out of his memories when two warriors, their armor covered with bearskin cloaks, pushed their chairs away from the table, leaving half-eaten plates and half drank tankards of ale. He watched them go, his stomach clenching tighter. Every time a king died, his place in the north became uncertain for a time.

  Wilhelm's hand on his shoulder brought him back. “Don't worry, lad. You've been a part of the north longer than they have... we'll be sure to remind them of that if their protests become too... visceral.”

  Elias nodded, and ate his meal in silence, sitting near to the captain.

  It seemed like an eternity before the door opened again, and the white-robed priest called Elias's name. The quiet conversation in the hall stopped abruptly as he stood and walked towards the king's chambers. He could feel every eye in the room follow him as he ducked through the door, drawing it closed and shutting out their stifling gaze.

  There were a handful of people inside, standing around the great bed upon which the king lay. Eira, slender and lovely even in her old age, stood near Brynjar's hand, holding it in her own. Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight braid, woven through and through with white ribbons, just the way Brynjar liked it. Were it unbound, it would have nearly graced the floor.

  On his other side was Brandt, standing next to a scribe. A table was covered in parchments, spread out to let the ink dry; likely the last decrees of the dying king. A second priest, robed in white with a red belt, stood at the foot of the bed, quietly intoning the last rites of the men of the North.

  Brynjar slowly lifted his hand, waving the priest away. “There will be time for that when I'm actually dead, godsman. Trust that your time will come soon enough.” He dropped his hand, breathing heavily. “Is that Elias I see? Come here, my old friend. My eyes aren't as good as yours anymore.”

  Elias approached the bed, sitting on the chair that was vacated by the scribe. Even on his deathbed, Brynjar had always been a large man, nearly too tall for his own bed, and even now his barrel chest was like a mountain under the white sheets. Not even the sickness that was taking his life could wither him away entirely.

  Elias set his hand gently on top of Brynjar's and smiled slightly. “They never were, your Grace.”

  Brynjar, turned his head, looking at Elias. “Still as young as you've ever been. Every time I look at you, you make me jealous for the longevity of the elves.” He chuckled, which fell away into coughing. “Tell me, is there any elf magic that can bring me back to the vigor of our youth, or cure this ailment of my lungs?”

  Elias shook his head. “If there is, my lord, I do not know it.”

  Brynjar grunted, closing his eyes. “Just as well. Seventy years is a good long time to live in these mountains. I imagine my chair won't be getting any warmer while it waits for my ass to polish it in the afterlife.”

  Elias gently squeezed the old king's hand, tears suddenly biting at the corner of his eyes. “They will sing songs of your victories until the mountains are ground to dust, Brynjar.”

  Brynjar coughed again, harder, his large frame wracked by the spasms. Elias set a hand on his shoulder, holding him steady. As his coughing fit subsided, a priest wiped his lips, the cloth coming away stained with blood. Brynjar pushed the cloth away and sank back into the bed, his labored breathing slowing again
. He grimaced, shifting his shoulders slightly.

  Brandt leaned in, pushing his father's gray-streaked black hair out of his face. “Rest, father. Conserve your strength.”

  Brynjar scoffed. “Conserve it for what? I'll not make the dawn, you heard the priests. They don't call them last words for nothing.” He shook his head. “Kings, princes, warriors, farmers... in the end, we're all ash on the wind.”

  He pulled his hand away from Elias and gestured towards him. “I called you in here for a reason. You were on my mind as I was putting my affairs in order. The runes had words for you... I was going to tell you on Midsummer's Day, but...” His shallow breath became labored, and he waved a hand at the priest who had called Elias into the room. “Well, you tell him. I don't have the time; I am a very busy man, after all.“

  The priest stepped forward, towards the foot of the king's bed. “When the runes were cast at King Brynjar's behest concerning your future with us, they spoke to our priestess of a journey. The runes Raido, to the west, and Hagalaz, to the south, with Jera falling atop Othala in the center, and Perthro just beside them.”

  The priest tilted his head towards Elias. “Raido signifies journeys, and as it fell to the west, this means that you must travel west. To the south is Hagalaz. This rune signifies destruction; sometimes good, sometimes bad. Avoid the south, if you can. Perhaps it is not safe for you to return to the land of your birth at this time.”

  Brynjar grunted again, grimacing. “Get on with it. There's a point to this mumbo-jumbo.”

  The priest bowed slightly. “Yes, your Grace.” He looked back to Elias. “Jera represents the cycle of the year, and Othala represents our homeland, here at the foot of the great mountain. Midsummer is upon us in a fortnight; you should start your journey before our Midsummer festival. That is when fortune favors you the most, as shown by Perthro.”

  Brynjar reached out and gripped Elias's hand, surprising Elias with his lingering strength. “You've spoken to me many times that you wish to find your place in this world. It can't have been easy for you living among men... you've watched three kings grow old and die now, and you've still got the face of a boy.”

  Elias nodded. “You were but a boy when I came here. Everyone else has passed the veil.”

  Brynjar turned his head to glance at Elias, and for a moment, the old spark came back to his eye. “Seems an auspicious time then, eh? Get out before you can catch old from us.”

  Elias shook his head. “I'd never dream of abandoning you. You've been the best friend I could have asked for.”

  Brynjar laughed once, straining. “Hah! You would dream, and you have.” He patted Elias's hand, then pulled away. “The truth of it is, both you and I know that if it weren't for my word, you'd have been driven out of the north long ago. There are many lords and bannermen who see you as an outsider, an intruder. There will be arguing and vying for power when I am gone, but I have faith that Brandt will take my place.”

  He pointed at Elias, squinting his eyes. “It's you I'm worried about. Brandt will be busy, and most of my men will be busy with him, protecting my holdings from the vultures.”

  He dropped his hand onto the bed. “Go on then, make your plans. You have my blessing. After my funeral, and before midsummer, go west, Elias, and find your place, away from stupid, short-lived men who can't see past their own beards.” The old man grimaced, stiffening on his bed. “Leave me now. I want to spend the last hour of my life with my wife and children, and I'm going to say things that are for them only.“ He weakly waved a hand at the priests. “That goes for you too. I'll be talking to the gods sooner than you will, I reckon... save your breath for my pyre.“

  Elias stood, bowing slightly, his eyes stinging as tears threatened to take them from him. “It has been an honor to know you, Brynjar. Give your father and grandfather my greetings.”

  The priests ushered Elias out of the room and closed the door behind him. He passed through the hall, his surroundings a blur. He barely noticed the crowd as he pushed through it on his way to the large double doors of the great hall. He didn't look at anyone, though a few men tried to speak to him as he pushed both doors open and stepped out into the night. He could feel their eyes upon him, he could hear their low murmurs following him as he walked down the steps that led to the village center.

  A strong hand caught his arm, and he whirled to face whoever had stopped him.

  It was Brandt. He pulled Elias in closer, speaking quietly. “Latch your door tonight, Elias. There are lords who came from a hundred miles away, and they didn't get to see my father. That won't sit well with them. Do you still have your sword?”

  Elias nodded, his tears driven back by that wrenching in his stomach. He knew that many of the lords didn't approve of him, but would they really try to kill him?

  “Good. Keep it by your bed tonight. I'll have a guard posted by your door.” Brandt released Elias's arm and patted him on the shoulder. “We'll get through this.”

  With that, Brandt turned and walked back into the great hall, leaving Elias on the steps. He hurried to his small house, which was not far from the courtyard in front of the king's hall, and latched the door shut as soon as he was inside. He lit a candle, sat down on his bed, put his head in his hands, and cried. Brynjar had been the last person who had been living when he had come to the north, and now he was gone

  ~ ~ ~

  It had been three days since Brynjar had died. The sky was clouded over, and a summer storm threatened to overtake the valley where the city lay, at the foot of the great Stromgard mountain. The rain would be good for the rivers and streams, refilling them during a dry time of the year, but Elias hoped it would hold off until the next day. This was the day they held the king's funeral.

  He had helped cut the grass back from the bed of gravel that the pyre had been built upon. He had lifted the fir and cedar timbers high and packed the straw into the hollows between the dry logs. He had helped saw and build the steps that led to the top of the pyramid of lumber, straw, and pitch.

  And now he stood amongst the citizens of the kingdom, watching as his friend's body was carried up the steps by Brandt and several other men. It was decided that since he was not a true man of the North, it would be seen as an affront to the gods if he were to help carry Brynjar to his final resting place.

  At the north end of the pyre, a priest was intoning about this or that, but Elias paid him no attention. He was here to pay his respects to the man who had been his closest friend for the last sixty years, not listen to a priest blather on about rainbow bridges and halls of mead, ice giants, and battles in the afterlife.

  The priest paused in his ceremony as Eira, the queen, climbed the stairs and lay a silk-wrapped bundle next to her husband's body. Her black velvet cloak covered her from head to toe, but Elias knew what it was; she had cut off her braid, as per tradition, and was laying it to burn with the king.

  One by one, various lords and warriors from around the Northern Kingdom climbed the stairs and lay their offerings next to the king until his body was entirely obscured under them. Once the lords were done, the citizens of the realm, farmers, merchants and the like, put their offerings around the base of the pyre. Elias himself had brought his wooden sparring sword, the one that he had used to practice with Brynjar when they had both been boys. It seemed fitting to Elias as a gift, and he really had nothing else to give.

  Once all of those present had given their offerings, eight archers stood around the pyre with flaming arrows. A flash of lightning, followed by a distant peal of thunder, gave the whole thing a very surreal light, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Brandt next to him.

  “This is it, I suppose,” Brandt said, his eyes on the stack of logs that held his father. “Borne to the heavens on the smoke, his body sent back to the winds and the earth.”

  At a signal from the priest, the archers fired their missiles into the pyre. The flames flickered to life, devouring the straw
, igniting the pitch soaked logs hungrily. The heat surged forth, almost unreal in its intensity, causing most of the villagers to step back. The fire reached to top of the pyre swiftly, twisting into a slight vortex from the updraft caused by the flames.

  “Leave this very night if you can.”

  Elias looked at Brandt. “Is there trouble?”

  Brandt shook his head. “Not yet. Not for you. But there are whispers that some of the lords are planning a coup. Nothing we can't deal with, of course, but there might be fighting. There was when my father took the throne, and there may be now.”

  Elias set his jaw. “I can help you fight.”

  “I know, and there is no other sword I'd rather have by my side. But the gods say this is not your battle. I was there when the priestess read the stones... let me make things settle down here for a time. Go west and see what is in store for you there.”

  He reached out and embraced Elias, whispering to him. “My sources tell me that three lords, from north of the mountain, plan to vie for the crown and split the kingdom amongst them. They will make their move on Midsummer's Day; you need to be well gone by then. They say that your presence here is an affront to the gods, and you will be targeted.”

  He released Elias. “One year. Give me a year, then come back if you wish. I would not see my brother slain by rebels and bigots.”

  Elias's head swam with this news. He reached out and clasped Brandt's hand. “I wish you luck, brother,” he said, echoing Brandt's sentiment. “I will return.”

  Brandt nodded. “I will make offerings for your safety.”

  They both turned and watched the flames as they grew higher. The heat baked them both, but neither stepped back until the timbers began to sag into the middle, and the king's body was lost to the pyre.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was near dusk when Elias left the embers of Brynjar's fire. Warm, fat rain drops fell from the gathering clouds, and lightning echoed through the mountains around the village. A thin wisp of smoke rose behind one of the nearer peaks to the west; the lightning there must have started a small fire. With any luck, the rain would put it out before it got out of control.