Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

an exceedingly strange-looking figure. He always left an indelible impression on whomever he happened to meet, and over the decades and centuries that was many persons. First off, he was exceptionally tall. He was also thin, which for some reason made him look even taller. He wore no beard nor any facial hair whatsoever, his chin as smooth as a young woman’s. His face was not a young person’s and yet not an old man’s, either. Rather, it had an ageless quality which was hard to define. He had long, stark white hair that fell down past his shoulders.
    What was oddest about Braemorgan appearance, however, was not his height or his hair or his strange ageless face with no beard. Rather, it was his eyes. They were large, expressive, and frequently filled with a penetrating clarity that looked like it could tear right through any veil of modesty or spot any deception.
    Each was the complete opposite of the other. His left eye was the palest gray imaginable, almost silvery white. His right eye, on the other hand, had a pupil of absolute black. The contrast between the two was disconcerting, enough to have more than once caused mighty kings to tremble under the wizard’s stern gaze.
    Braemorgan stared down from the window of the war council chamber with his strange eyes, watching Ardabur arrive. He turned to the blonde-bearded man in chain mail standing besides him.
                  “Bring him right up,” the wizard said. His voice was deep but not booming. “And summon the others at once.”
                  The guard nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Braemorgan turned back to the window. The sun hung low in the sky, the shadows of early evening lengthening as night came on. He sighed, turning from away.
    The council chamber was not large, nor grandly decorated. A small table stood at its center, a modest chandelier hanging above it providing some measure of light from a dozen magically-shining orbs. Braemorgan’s eyes fell upon the large fireplace warming the room and the huge, cruel looking axe hanging over it. The weapon was four feet long, not including the long axe head of gleaming steel, slender and razor-sharp as it tapered into a barbed sword point. The shaft was carved with all manner of runes.
    Braemorgan grinned sadly. Twenty years ago this coming spring Thane Uilfric had slain the troll chieftain Tanaluk and taken the axe as a trophy. Uilfric proudly hung it above the fireplace, a fitting reminder of past triumphs. Now Uilfric was three months rotting in the grave, his son Loric falling in battle eight years before. And then young Agnar followed his father and grandfather to the next world, slain in his very first battle.
                  The door opened again and Thane Ardabur entered, scowling. Ardabur was not a large man, but his stern demeanor and air of authority made up for any deficit in size. In much the same way, his bald head, jet-black beard, and flashing eyes made him seem older than his thirty years. He moved and spoke with a wolfish tenacity and an energy which amazed Braemorgan with its constant intensity.
                  “Welcome, Thane Ardabur,” Braemorgan said evenly.
                  “What the hell happened here?” Ardabur snarled.
    “Young Thane Agnar went and got himself killed, as you no doubt read in my letter,” Braemorgan said.
    The wizard stepped forward towards the table. He picked up the large pitcher sitting there, pouring mead seasoned with nutmeg and pepper from far-away Shandorr into two of the mugs on the table.
                  “Oh, I heard that much,” Ardabur said.
                  “It is a tragedy,” Braemorgan said.
                  “It’s a damned disaster, is what it is. Grang’s teeth!”
    The old wizard nodded. He put the pitcher back down and picked up both mugs.
    “Such a promising young thane,” Braemorgan