Chronicles of Taranis / Thunorric Stormwulf
© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts
The burning of the church was a sunrise to everyone who saw it. But to Thunorric, it was the opportunity he needed.
In the confusion, he slipped the chains placed on him by the Sheriff of Tamworth. Then rode straight toward the shire of his birth. He was fully aware that he would now be hunted by the king’s riders. The Church, and any thief who wanted coin badly enough.
His only hope for shelter was Rægenwine’s inn though even family can not be trusted. He never thought he would rely again on the man who betrayed him to the Romans. Then the man also betrayed him to the sheriff.
He halted his horse on a green hilltop. Morning light poured through the trees, bathing the grass in gold.
“War,” he murmured to the black stallion he’d stolen from a lord near Tettenhall Wood. “It’s going to be a wonderful day.”
He urged the horse into Cannock Woods and vanished beneath the canopy.
The Hunter in the Trees
“Where there’s war, riot, and discord,” he muttered, “I’ll be front flank for all to see.”
He found a small nook between the trees and dismounted, letting the stallion graze. The soft tread of his boots calmed him. A thin stream whispered nearby.
He picked up a thick branch and began carving it into a weapon sharpening one end. Crossing another and moved quietly through the autumn leaves. When he spotted a deer drinking at the stream, a few swift blows brought the animal down. Soon a fire crackled beneath a great oak, and he began preparing the meat.
“Cooked venison for now,” he said to himself, “and dried meat for days.”
As he ate, he watched the woods for soldiers.
His mind drifted to his brothers Dægan, Leofric, Eadric, and Rægenwine and to the nobles of Mercia and Wessex. All of whom would now curse his name. Demon. Devil. Stormwulf. Escaped again.
He pictured the sheriff: a man of fifty, muscular and loud, barking orders with more anger than sense. Thunorric chuckled at the thought.
But when he thought of his thirteen sons, his smile faded.
The oldest five were old enough to serve. He’d given them his blessing.
But the younger ones… they would have questions. Questions his brothers might not answer.
The ache in his chest was sharper than any blade.
Yet he was a wanted man a demon to the Church, a criminal to the king. After years of taking from the rich to feed villages starved by unfair taxes. He had earned little but their fear.
The Black Shields his hidden movement would continue without him. They always had.
He breathed in the scent of sweet leaves, wet earth, fungi, and old wood. All of which was fresher than the damp stinking cell the monks had held him in.
He slept for a few hours. When he woke, dusk pressed against the trees.
The Crossroads
He mounted the stallion, wrapped a cloth over his face, and rode toward the crossroads. Where he had robbed the king’s carriages many times before.
He spotted one now four horses, armed guards, and a noble family inside.
Perfect.
Thunorric burst from the treeline like a wolf, blade ready.
The drivers panicked. One tried to lift a horn, but Thunorric struck first.
He stabbed the driver in the arm and seized the reins, forcing the horses to halt.
“Out. Yow get,” he barked.
A beautiful lady froze as he pressed his blade to her neck.
“Everything you’ve got. Hurry, or she dies.”
“You can’t do this!” the older man shouted. “Do you know who I am?!”
“Aye,” Thunorric said calmly. “But I don’t care. Give me what I want and live or I take it off your corpse.”
“It’s him,” whispered one of the sons. “The demon.”
In minutes, Thunorric had their clothes, weapons, and coin. He tied one of their horses to his saddle.
“I’ll be kind,” he said with a smirk. “I’m only taking one.”
As he rode away, the noble roared:
“The king and the sheriff will hear of this!”
Thunorric laughed.
“Tell ’em the devil said vilis.”
He galloped toward Moel-Bryn, changed into the stolen clothes, burned his old rags, cooked fresh meat. Then travelled through wind and rain toward Worcester.
The Boy on the Road
Just outside the city, a young man leapt from the shadows tall, muscular, dark-skinned, no more than sixteen winters old.
“No one else here,” Thunorric said. “Just the Wolf of Rome. Alaric. Good to see your face. Any news?”
“Plenty.” The boy’s Yorkshire accent was thick. “Your reward’s huge now. You’re declared outlaw.”
“So?” Thunorric shifted his stance. “You going to take me down?”
“Oh hell no.” Alaric snorted. “You’re the demon now. Staffordshire demon, some say Mercia demon. Others say death won’t let you rest. And besides I owe you my life. Figured if I warned you, debt’s paid?”
Thunorric nodded once. “Debt paid. Thank you.”
“May the gods be on your side,” Alaric called as Thunorric rode on.
He reached his old home, washed, rested briefly, then rode west toward the Welsh border. Enough coin in his pocket to reach Spain if needed.
Meanwhile at court, the half-naked noble boy from the robbed carriage arrived with his family. Guards tried not to chuckle.
“Well then,” the king said, approaching, “dare I ask what happened?”
“The demon,” the lord spat. “He stole everything and killed our driver.”
Tamworth’s great hall echoed with uproar long before sunrise. Smoke curled along the rafters. The sheriff knelt before King Coenwulf, mud on his boots, throat bandaged.
“The creature escaped your custody,” the king growled. “You let him burn an abbey and now he humiliates one of my lords.”
“My lord… the storm”
“The storm does not shatter bell towers,” Coenwulf snapped. “Men do.”
“What do they call him now?”
“Stormwulf, sire. Some say the Staffordshire demon. The Mercia demon.”
Whispers spread. Hard men crossed themselves.
Coenwulf did not.
“Then let him be hunted,” he said. “Anyone who shelters him dies beside him. Anyone who brings me his head receives land, silver, and title.”
He nodded to the scribe.
“Write.”
The vellum unfurled.
“Let it be known throughout Mercia and the borderlands that Thunorric, called Stormwulf. outlaw and murderer, stands beyond the law of crown and Church.
Taken dead or alive.
Reward: one purse of gold for his body, two for his head.”
A scarred hunter stepped forward.
“I’ll bring your demon in chains.”
Coenwulf nodded once.
The hunt began.
The Inn at the Border
Thunorric crossed the last ridge before the Welsh border as dusk bled into the trees. The air tasted of rain and smoke.
He approached the inn wedged between two standing stones. His brother Rægenwine’s inn the same man who had betrayed him twice.
But Thunorric couldn’t blame him. The man had believed he was protecting the children.
He tied the horse beneath the oak and stepped inside.
Every sound died instantly.
Tankards stopped in mid-air. Dice froze. The bard’s string snapped.
“I’m not here for trouble,” Thunorric said, walking to the bar.
Rægenwine looked up colour draining from his face.
Thunorric lifted his hood just enough for the firelight to catch his eyes.
“Rægenwine,” he said softly. “You’re forgiven.”
“I… I didn’t expect that,” Rægenwine whispered.
“Aye, well.” Thunorric stepped closer. “Don’t mistake forgiveness for trust.”
“You have every right to hate me,” Rægenwine murmured.
“I don’t hate you,” Thunorric said. “You did what you thought was right. Rome tricked you. They tricked many. But betrayal has a weight and you’ve paid more of it than you know.”
Rægenwine swallowed. “You came back. That must mean something.”
“It means the roads are crawling with hunters,” Thunorric said. “King’s men. Church men. Thieves hungry for silver. And I needed shelter only for an hour.”
“You’ll have it,” Rægenwine promised. “I’ll turn away anyone who asks.”
Thunorric’s smile was thin and dangerous.
“If I wanted you dead, brother… you wouldn’t hear the door open.”
Rægenwine bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to keep the children safe.”
Thunorric exhaled. “Good. Now pour me a drink. The storm’s on my heels.”
Rægenwine hurried, hands trembling.
Thunorric turned to the Black Shields behind him.
“Look after this inn,” he murmured. “And his family in my absence.”
Just as the ale touched his hand, the door opened.
Cold air.
Wet leaves.
Heavy, familiar footsteps.
The Brothers Arrive
Dægan and Leofric stepped inside.
The inn froze again.
Dægan tall, broad-shouldered, cloak the colour of storm-clouds, bearing the king’s mark.
Leofric leaner, ink-stained hands, eyes like old winter, a scribe and warlock whose words carried as much weight as steel.
Rægenwine bowed. “My lords… I didn’t know you were coming.”
“You didn’t need to,” Dægan said calmly. “Where is he?”
Leofric’s gaze drifted toward the back tables.
“No need,” he murmured. “He’s here.”
Dægan spotted him with the Black Shields.
Thunorric didn’t turn.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pause.
“…and if you reach the ford by nightfall,” he said to the Shields, “light no fire. The hunters have dogs.”
One Shield swallowed. “Wolf… your brothers”
“I know,” Thunorric said. “I heard them the moment they stepped in.”
He finally turned, smirking beneath his hood.
“Well then,” he drawled, “if it ain’t the golden sons of Mercia.”
Dægan stepped forward. “Brother, we need to talk.”
Thunorric’s eyes gleamed.
“About which part? The abbey burning? The king’s writ? Or the price on my head?”
Leofric’s jaw tightened. “All of it. You’ve started a storm bigger than you realise.”
Thunorric smiled slow and wolfish.
“I didn’t start the darkest of storms,” he said.
“I am the darkest of storms. Devourer of souls. Destruction at the end. Death and resurrection.”
And the inn went silent the silence that comes before something breaks.
©2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All Rights Reserved.This work, including all characters, settings, lore, concepts, and text, is the original creation of E. L. Hewitt. No portion of this material may be reproduced, shared, reposted, copied, adapted, or distributed in any form. without prior written permission from the author.Unauthorized use, including AI reproduction of this text, is strictly prohibited.
To read more on Taranis /Thunoric please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
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