Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (4 page)

             
“I didn’t think Einar had the brains to plan such a thing.” Ardabur growled.

             
“He’s doesn’t,” Braemorgan said. “Einar is too much of a doddering imbecile to have come up with such a thing himself. Whoever is advising him is indeed crafty.”

             
“Agnar was afraid to miss the opportunity he thought was before him,” Wulfgrim said. “I begged him to forgo the expedition, but he thought if he did not seize the chance you would chide him as overcautious when you arrived.”

             
“And what a wonderful job of dissuading him you did, Wulfgrim,” Ardabur grumbled, his voice thick with angry sarcasm. “You were supposed to keep him in check until Braemorgan and I got back. Instead, you let him ride off into a trap.”

             
“What would you have had me do, Ardabur?” Wulfgrim said, his voice growing loud. “Should I have knocked the lad on the head, or tied him up in the corner?”

             
“Enough,” Morag said, jumping in. She shot Ardabur an angry glance. “Einar must have good spies of his own to have known our situation so well. To let us think the garrison was to be reinforced so soon! It forced my brother’s hand, before either of you could arrive to provide the extra manpower. Wulfgrim tried to stop him.
I
tried to stop him. Grang knows he never took much stock in what I had to say, but I still tried. He would not listen.”

             
“It was a fool’s venture,” Ardabur said.

             
“But you aren’t thinking like our young thane,” Braemorgan said. “He was eager to prove himself. He would have liked nothing more than for you or I to arrive here to news of a bold victory won on his own. He wanted us to praise him, to declare within earshot of his men how he was surely as bold and as daring as his father and his grandfather before him.”

“Why else go himself?” the wizard continued. “Why not appoint a lieutenant to lead the excursion? Wulfgrim could have done the job easily enough. Strategically, Agnar would accomplish the same thing without risking his own neck. No, Einar knew what fish he was hooking.”

              “There must have been nearly a thousand mounted warriors in all waiting for us,” Wulfgrim said. “Plus five wizards in the first wave and as many in the next. We never stood a chance.”             

             
“And yet I notice you made it back alive,” Ardabur said.

             
“What are you trying to say, Thane Ardabur?” Wulfgrim said, anger growing in his voice again.

             
“Your duty was to defend him, not to run from the battlefield to save your own worthless ass!” Ardabur growled, leaning forward and pointing his finger directly at Wulfgrim.

             
Wulfgrim slammed his fist on the table and leapt to his feet in spite of his wounded leg. Ardabur rose and glared across the table at him. Both men gripped the hilts of their swords.

             
“Grang’s teeth!” Wulfgrim shouted. “You’d call me a coward! I’ll slay you right here, leg wound be damned!”

             
“Is that what you want, old man?” Ardabur shouted back, moving to draw his own sword.

             
“Enough of this,” Braemorgan said, himself rising. He banged his fist on the table. “Enough! Or you’ll both feel my wrath!”

             
“What would you have had me do?” Wulfgrim went on, still shouting. “I begged the boy not to go! Morag begged him not to go! But he would not listen to either of us, and so he walked right into a trap! I watched him fall on the battlefield. He was knocked out of the saddle and a hammer blow came down on his skull. I’ve slain enough men to know a dead man hitting the ground when I see one.”

Wulfgrim glanced at Morag. She had flinched visibly as he described her brother’s death, turning away.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet, sitting back down.

             
“Now is not the time for blame,” Braemorgan said, taking his seat again. “Wulfgrim did all he could. That’s the end of it.”

             
Ardabur sat down, silently glaring at Wulfgrim. 

             
“The greater issue is what to do
now
,” Braemorgan said. “Pointing fingers is a waste of time from which no good ever seems to come. Today is the Fourth of Terminor. Agnar rode out to his doom on the First and I arrived here early on the Second. That means I have waited here for the past two days, and so have had adequate time to assess the situation and decide upon a course of action. The situation, however tragic, is simple enough. We lack a suitable ruler for The Westmark. Our enemy Einar is Uilfric Ravenbane’s grandson through Uilfric’s daughter Brega. With Agnar gone, only another grandson of Uilfric’s could possibly challenge Einar’s claim.”

             
“What of the girl?” Ardabur said. “Shouldn’t rule of The Westmark fall to her?”

             
“
The girl’s
name is Morag,” Morag snapped.

             
“Very well.” Ardabur rolled his eyes. “
Morag
is granddaughter to Uilfric. If she were married to an established thane, he could mount a credible claim to The Westmark.”

             
“And who would that thane be, Ardabur?” Morag’s eyes flashed with anger. “Did you have anyone in mind? I’ll wager you did, and you’d best put it out of your mind. I’d chop your balls off the first time you passed out drunk in bed.”

             
“Ardabur is right that we need a credible counter-claimant to The Westmark to rally the men around,” Braemorgan interjected. “Otherwise, a chest of silver will be all it takes for the king to validate his title. Einar has the advantages of controlling most of The Westmark, of being a grandson of Uilfric Ravenbane, and he wields the ancestral sword of the House of Ravenbane.”

             
“Agnar lost the sword,” Ardabur said, his head sinking. “I had not considered that.”

“All is not lost, though,” Braemorgan said. “By spring we could have five thousand men assembled. We can cross the river and take back The Westmark. But we need a leader and, although I have no doubt Morag has it within her to be that leader, there are more than political considerations here which we must take into account. Need I remind anyone of the prophecies?”

Braemorgan rose. He began to pace the room.

“For generations, we, the members of the Order of Balorus, have guarded the secret prophecies and facilitated their fulfillment. The days so many of the prophecies have been alluding to all these centuries are now finally upon us.”

“We have only the prophecies and our sense of reason to guide us,” he went on. “What do the prophecies tell us of the one we have been waiting for, the Child of Storms? They tell us he will be born of the House of Ravenbane and he will be the ‘Son of the Red Axe’. The Red Axe, as we have long agreed, was Agnar and Morag’s father Loric. Throughout the north, that is the name he was known by. Although Loric never lived to rule The Westmark, the prophecies are clear the Child of Storms is his son. Now, the prophecies can be vague on certain points, but it is clear to me the Child of Storms must be a male. He is referred to as ‘he’ and the ‘son’ of the Red Axe. Therefore, Morag cannot be the one.”

“What of the meaning of the word ‘son’?” Ardabur said. “Hear me out. ‘Son’, in the original Luthanian in which the prophecies are written, also means any direct descendant of Loric’s. Why not a grandson? If Morag could produce a male heir, the infant could be the one.”

“Again he brings this up,” Morag muttered. “Imbecile. You will never have me, Thane Ardabur.”

“You might have a point, Thane Ardabur,” Braemorgan said. “Were it not for the fact that the hour grows late. How many years do we have? Ten, at the very most? Were Morag to give birth to a son tomorrow how old could the boy be before the final conflict begins? Eight or nine, perhaps. Moreover, she is not giving birth tomorrow.”

“Nor any day soon,” Morag added.

“Recall there is another son of Loric Ravenbane,” Braemorgan said.

Ardabur scowled and looked around at the others in disbelief.

“You can’t mean what I think you mean,” he said.

“I do,” Braemorgan said.

“The bastard?” Ardabur said. “Loric’s bastard? You mean to hand him The Westmark. That’s out of the question!”

“We have no choice,” Braemorgan said.

“Let Morag rule,” Ardabur said. “The girl may know nothing of battle, but that does not matter. We will run the war and she will be the symbol around which the men fight. All agree she is a rare beauty, which will inspire the men.”

“That is not an alternative,” Braemorgan said. “I’ve discussed it with Morag, and she concurs. All of us, we have sworn to uphold the prophecies, however painful that may sometimes be. This bastard, he is the natural-born son of Loric Ravenbane and his only remaining son. There is the line in the Prophecies about the Son of the Red Axe: ‘
And he shall be a stranger who knows not his father’s hall.’
That would tend to support the notion that the Child of Storms is a bastard.”

Ardabur continued to scowl and was silent for long moments.

“What do we even know of the bastard boy?” he asked.

“I have kept an eye on him all his life,” Braemorgan said. “Everyone in this room has always suspected that Loric’s other son, whom his mother gave the name Jorn, could be the Child of Storms. There are many in our order who have always maintained that he was. As it is, he turned eighteen only this past week, grown into a fine young warrior.”

“What did you say about this?” Ardabur said, turning towards Morag. “You want to call your father’s bastard your thane?”

“What I
want
is irrelevant,” Morag said. “What is, is.”

“Perhaps we should read from the prophecies,” Braemorgan said.

“We all know the Cantos by heart,” Ardabur growled,

rolling
his eyes.

“Nevertheless,” Braemorgan said. He opened a red book sitting on the table. He turned to the back of the book, thumbing through the pages until he found the passage
he sought. “I think it may be of some use to look over the exact words one more time. The final Cantos, translated from the ancient Luthanian, reads as follows

A Child of Storms shall be born of the line of Ravenbane

Son of the Red Axe,
grown strong in his father’s image

His father’s weapon shall sting deeply, a grievous wound

And he shall be a stranger who knows not his father’s hall

And the Son of the Red Axe shall do battle with the Son of Kaas

Their war shall rage unto the shadow of the Fallen Mountain

Bearing the Priest’s gift of Fire, the Child shall meet his enemies

Yet the Island of Tears will always be foremost in his mind

The Dark One shall plunge Pallinore into
mighty conflagration

As the Child wanders, an orphaned in the wilderness alone

The Child shall seek the ancient ones and call them to battle

As she of the gray eyes stands by his side throughout the tumult

T
he Dark One will fear him, sending slayers against the Child.

As the West
descends towards war, he holds the power in hand

The greatest
enemy of the Sons of Kaas, the stronger prevails

Traitors shall walk in the Child’s midst, always in the shadows

At the walls of the great city, the fire-bearer shall lead them.

The forces of Kaas shall there be cast down on the field of battle

The Child will bear the light, a
leader of a vast host of spears

But the maiden’s memor
y shall haunt him and grant no succor.

Twain in nature, both confronting the Sons of Kaas

One aspect shall surely fall into dar
kness

Only when t
he heir is present may the demon’s eye be laid low

Then the final traitor will be all that remains.

             
Braemorgan closed the book.

             
“The Prophecies, as they are written in the Cantos, have always had a certain maddening vagueness to them which renders easy analysis difficult,” he said. “Some of the prophecies are exactingly specific, and others maddeningly vague or metaphorical. The line which says the Child of Storms ‘
shall be a stranger who knows not his father’s hall’
has long vexed me, for example. I have speculated that, like so many of the Cantos, the line is but a metaphor. Perhaps it is. For a long time, however, many of us have suspected the line specifically means the Child of Storms would not grow up in his father’s house. That would fit Jorn.”