Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (46 page)

“That’s very poetic,” Jorn said. “I’ve heard she’s also the evening star.”

“She is, which reminds us that, even though the darkness is about to arrive, she will watch over us. But that doesn’t appeal to you, does it? She’s not a goddess suited for warriors.”

“No, she’s not,” Jorn said. “My god is Grang.”

“I might’ve figured. You’re always swearing by him.”

“But I don’t pray to him. He considers it a sign of weakness and will deliberately send you misfortune if you try it.”

“That sounds horrid!”

“He appears as a giant wolf with bright-red fur.”

“Oh, my!”

“He’s not so bad as gods go. He demands battle, but against evil. When I die, I will go before him. He will ask me if I defended and protected my family and my people. He will ask me if I defended the weak, if I fought to protect those not strong enough to protect themselves. He will ask if did my duty.”

“And what is your duty?”

“I don’t know anymore. To you, of course. Beyond that I can’t say.”

His voice trailed off.

They said nothing further, laying back and watching the clouds passing by far above them. It occurred to Jorn, whatever wars men or elves fought or whichever gods were prayed to, the clouds just kept drifting by.

_____

              Jorn often accompanied Inglefrid gathering herbs that fall, particularly on the windswept slopes of Eabea. Sometimes within sight of the old mountain king she would fill her baskets with the pungent clippings that enlivened bland northern cooking and brought salted codfish to life with their lingering flavors.

Inglefrid knew every herb on the island, having an uncanny sense for them. She might pick a stalk of
vogleef
, and sniff it thoughtfully. Sometimes she would toss it aside, declaring that the
vogleef
on this side of the island wouldn’t be ready for another week. Other times she’d smile and place the bluish grass in the basket she kept at her arm. Each time it was a snap decision, but she was never wrong. The wider world counted the knowledge of herbs a simple thing. Yet it was more complex and difficult than Jorn had ever imagined.

             
“How do you know your herbs so well?” he asked her one day as she poked around about a mile from Eabea’s somber countenance.

             
“My mother taught me,” she said. “I always had a great knack for it.”

             
“I only know war. I can tell you of the campaigns of Mender and Anin. I can look over a map marked with the relative positions of two armies and I can see how the campaign will play out.”

“That’s some boast!

“It’s true,” Jorn protested. “When I was five, Orbadrin was at war with a thane name Gunderfrud. I snuck into the war council room and listened to Orbadrin’s captains debating strategy. I crept closer and peeked at the map. It occurred to me in an instant what should be done. I tugged on Orbadrin’s cloak, trying to get his attention. My mother swept in and scooped me up but I still recall the map and Gunderfrud’s position on it like I was staring at it right now. I wanted to tell Orbadrin to send a force across the swamps to cut off Gunderfrud’s supply lines. He’d be forced to attack before he was ready or he’d have to pull back. Either way, he couldn’t maintain his position. That’s basic strategy, of course, but how could a five year-old have known that? I couldn’t have even expressed it at the time, but I still knew exactly what to do. It reminds me of the wolf cub who knows how to flush a badger from his den, though no one has ever taught him.”

             
The weather turned sour over the next few minutes, a storm blowing in from the sea with swift ferocity. It was an unusually strong storm, bringing driving rain and gusts of violent wind down upon the island. Jorn and Inglefrid ran for cover, laughing in spite of the looming torrent.

There was an abandoned cottage not far off, but by the time they managed to get there they were soaking wet. It was tiny, not much more than ten feet square. It had rough-hewn stone walls, a thatched roof, and a dirt floor. Someone must have been using the cottage for occasional shelter, fresh hay piled high atop the floor and a pile of kindling next to the fireplace. There was a single window, its glass long since removed. The roof was still in good shape, though, and kept the rain out tolerably well. The fireplace was intact, as well, and Jorn soon had a fire going that warmed the little cottage as the thunderstorm vented its fury outside.

              Inglefrid clung close to Jorn as peels of thunder rumbled. He wrapped his arms around her and she felt tiny next to his tall frame. Inglefrid turned towards him, her eyes filled with wild longing. Their lips found each other a moment later. With joy and relief, they gave themselves over to their desires without restraint.

             
When it was over, they lay together silently. Jorn was on his back, Inglefrid’s head resting on his chest. His hand gently stroked her long hair. Outside, the thunder still rumbled and the rains pelted the roof.

             
“We’re going to have a wonderful life,” he whispered.

_____

Braemorgan appeared one morning a few weeks later, interrupting breakfast at the lighthouse. He and Jorn walked to the top of a nearby hill, peering through the morning fog at the sea in the distance.

“It goes badly,” the wizard said. “Einar has extended his control over the Clegr Hills and even now threatens Swordhaven. My fear is he will soon be lord of that city and his domain will extend all the way to the coast. There are just too few to resist him, and the king still refuses to do anything. Cowardly wretch.”

             
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn growled. “What about our allies? Where are they?”

             
“They are all too few of late.” Braemorgan shook his head. “Einar, to the contrary, has seemingly unlimited resources. My spies tell me much to interest you, however. Einar remains crippled from the arrow wounds incurred during your rescue. His right arm is practically useless and he can barely walk due to the hip wound. Reports are that he has grown half-mad as a result of his debilitation. He sees enemies all around him and has had most of his captains put to death for fear they are plotting to overthrow him. He sits within Hárfjall in the dark, his mind slowly rotting. He hasn’t been outdoors in months. They tell me he’s obsessed with killing you, convinced your death will restore him as a full man.”

“A large chest of gold is promised to whoever brings him your head,” Braemorgan went on. “His assassins have roamed far and wide across the lands, even into Vandoria and the back alleys of Moonstar, searching for you. Everywhere I am known, everywhere I have allies, they’ve looked. I had to come here in disguise, should I be recognized. It was wise to hide you here under a different name, but I fear it has now grown unsafe. You’d be better off among Ironhelm’s people, within their mountain fortress. The dwarves of Thunderforge are loyal, and no assassin would get near you deep within their mountain halls.”

              “Grang’s ass!” Jorn exclaimed. “I’ll not live in some damned mountain hall underground! Perhaps I’d be safest locked in some dungeon surrounded by armed guards. Yes, until one of them is bribed by Einar to slip some poison into my dinner. You would banish me under the soil, never to look upon the sun again!”

             
“Don’t be a fool,” Braemorgan snapped. “If Einar takes Swordhaven, his domain will extend to not one hundred miles from here! He might very well be strong enough to gain dominion over all of southern Linlund! His soldiers would occupy this island and find you. It is merely a question of time.”

             
“Before what? There is no Jorn here. I am Cahan, the lighthouse keeper’s helper.”

             
“You’re a newcomer. You weren’t born here. You’re a tall mainlander who arrived one day out of nowhere not long after Jorn Ravenbane’s disappearance.”

             
“I will not leave Glaenavon, perhaps ever.”

             
“What? Have you grown as mad as Einar? Why would you stay here in this backwater?”

Braemorgan’s voice rose, his tone angry.

              “This is a good place,” Jorn answered.

             
“It’s that girl, isn’t it?” Braemorgan shouted, looking towards the lighthouse. “By Kaas, you are your father’s son. Loric let his prick do his thinking for him, too! How do you think you came into being in the first place?”

“What would you know?”

“I know enough. The girl is attractive, yes, but I can provide you with plenty of her quality wherever you go.”

“This is not just about that. I love her, and mean to make her my wife.”

The wizard’s head sank. 

“I am sure she is a very nice girl, Jorn,” he said, his voice calmer. “It is only natural for a young man to become enchanted by such charms as she possesses, especially amidst such isolation. There’d be something wrong with you if you didn’t develop feelings for the girl, given the circumstances. But would you really turn your back on The Westmark to stay here? Would you really reject your destiny?”

              “What destiny? The one I choose, or the one you have chosen for me?”

             
“There are larger things at stake here, far larger than either of us…”

             
“I don’t care.”

             
Braemorgan leaned on his staff heavily, his face ashen. When he spoke again, his tone was still calm.

             
“You cannot refuse your destiny, Jorn.”

“Yet I do.”

“Then Einar has truly won.”

             
“I mean to make Inglefrid my bride. Why shouldn’t I?”

             
Braemorgan nodded slowly, choosing his words carefully now.

“I cannot compel you to do or not to do anything,” he said. “But know this one thing: If you deny your true destiny and choose this life here, do not count on my further protection. I’ve better things to do than fight for those who don’t want to fight for themselves. Consider those who died for you at Loc Goren, or bringing you to safety when you were wounded. Many good men met their end out of  loyalty to you, yet now you would turn your back on them. Consider Wulfgrim – consider Morag! - and what they have sacrificed.”

              “But I…I never asked for any of it. It is a lost cause, anyway.”

             
“A lost cause? For the first time, I think it may be. The strength that once flowed in your forebear’s veins is finally no more. The blood of Brame Ravenbane is all dissipated and all that is left of his line are degenerate cowards.”

             
“How dare you!” Jorn growled. “Were you not the wizard Braemorgan I would snap your neck. Never show your face to me again.”

             
“You needn’t worry.”

             
Braemorgan turned away, staring out at the ocean in silence. Jorn turned his back on the wizard and made his way back down the hill.

_____

A few weeks after Braemorgan left, Jorn was walking up the path on his way back from Skagrog. Inglefrid sent him there to buy some provisions for the week ahead. He was rushing back to give Inglefrid enough time to cook the fish he’d bought for dinner.

It was a cold but sunny afternoon, a strong wind coming off the water. Jorn walked along with a brisk stride, his worn old elk cloak billowing in the wind.

             
The path from Skagrog ran along the cliffs all the way home, finally crossing over a tall hill overlooking the lighthouse at the very end of the journey. Jorn reached the top and stopped in his tracks, surprised to see a small ship parked on the beach underneath the lighthouse. It was a single-masted vessel, long and thin just like the ships of Frostheim which Jorn sometimes saw passing through the straits. It was parked right on the edge of the beach, its bow facing the lighthouse and its scarlet sail emblazoned with a black “X”. Several men, tiny in the distance, stood nearby in the sand. Jorn scanned the scene quickly, at once noticing four more men clad in black chain armor and bearing weapons emerging atop the cliff and approaching the lighthouse. They were fierce in appearance, long reddish hair reaching far down their backs. Their chins were shaved but they had long, bushy moustaches and their arms were covered in brightly-colored tattoos.

             
Jorn knew them from their appearance. They were Darwags, sea-going raiders and murderers, the scourge of the North.  They worshipped Kaas and Amundágor, openly and proudly. To see them along the coast of Linlund was nearly unheard of, however.

The Darwags approached Fearach, whose back was to them as he was bent over the short stone wall around his garden mending the damage from recent winds. Jorn screamed a warning as loud he could manage, dropping his parcel and sprinting towards the lighthouse.

Fearach heard the shout and looked up. Too late, he saw the men coming at him. He rose, hastily muttering the first spell he could think of. He threw a ball of shining white energy at the nearest Darwag, sending the brigand flying back onto the wet grass. One of the three remaining men raised a crossbow, firing it at Fearach before he could react. The crossbow bolt struck him in the chest, knocking him backwards. He fell into the fence and slumped to the ground. One of the Darwags loomed over Fearach, striking the prone old man with his axe over and over again.