Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (63 page)

             
“You cannot be serious,” Flatfoot said.

             
“I am,” the dwarf said.

             
“All part of the greater good, is it?” Flatfoot said.

             
“If all that happens is part of some greater plan of the gods,” Jorn said suddenly. “Then to hell with the whole lot of them. Damn all of them, the bunch of murdering monsters.”

             
“Laddie! Do not speak so of the gods!” Ironhelm growled, his countenance hardening in anger.

             
“I’ll speak how I please,” Jorn said. “If it insults the gods, what do I care? What have the gods ever done for me? Nothing but take away everything I…” He paused, taking a breath. “I don’t have the answer to your philosophical debate. I’ve no idea if there is anything called luck, but either way the gods are unjust.”

             
“The gods unjust?” Ailric said. “How can you utter such nonsense? Have you no sense of respect, or piety?”

             
“If life is all chance, then damn them for subjecting us to it!” Jorn growled. “If everything which happens is part of their greater plan, then it is they who killed those orphans and anyone else who was ever innocent and good and did not deserve to die. Whichever it is, you cannot count on them for anything. Of course, there’s always the chance the whole thing is a twisted game.”

             
“What?” Flatfoot asked, intrigued. “How so?”

             
“If Une is up there somewhere, he’s done a terrible job of fashioning the world,” Jorn said. “The amount of suffering going on every day is unimaginable. Why would a just creator fashion such a world? Yet you pious ones worship him anyway. And maybe that’s where the game arises.”

             
Jorn paused and smirked.

             
“Maybe, just maybe,” he continued. “Une was bored one day and so he created this suffering, terrible world on purpose. Maybe his game is to make us suffer as much as possible and see if we’ll still love him anyway.”

             
“I’ve never heard such blasphemy,” Ailric gasped.

             
Jorn rose.

“I’m going to pace the perimeter,” he said. He grabbed his sword and strode out into the darkness.

The others remained silent, staring at the glowing stone. Willock finally spoke up nearly a minute later.

             
“For my own part I cannot say very much about life that I would call certain,” he said. “And that goes for the existence of luck. Perhaps Sal is right, perhaps Durm. I hope Jorn is incorrect though, well, he makes an interesting point. I don’t know how we should ever know the answer. In that sense, it hardly seems worth talking about. If I had to guess, and it would be nothing more than that, I would say you make your own luck. Preparation, skill, and experience all shift the odds in your favor. I’ve had a hundred close calls in my time. Why’ve I survived them all until now, each and every time? I cannot say. Was I fated to survive, or was it blind luck? I cannot believe that preparation had nothing to do with it, though. Forgive my rambling. I fear I’ve not added anything to the discussion. If there is such a thing as luck, though, my guess is we’ll need a good deal more of it before our task is done.”

_____

             
Jorn walked out past earshot of the camp, soon finding himself at the base of the outcropping. He pulled himself up onto the great boulder, and sat on its edge, gazing at the moons right above and then down at the campfires on the valley floor below. He tried to forget the argument the others were having about luck. In truth, he could not say for certain whether or not the gods were just or if they simply did not care. If they were just, Inglefrid would still be alive. That much was clear.

He considered the Guardian Temple below. Within was the capacity for Jorn to strike at the very heart of the forces supporting Einar and gain some measure of justice for Inglefrid.

Already the Cult’s army was breaking up into factions and starting to fight amongst themselves. Berserkers were deserting in some instances and rebelling against gruk commanders in others. If Amundágor returned when promised, the dark lord would forge them all into a single, unified fighting force again. If not, Jorn believed they’d break apart either at once or within a year. The Cult might still manage an invasion, perhaps even a sizeable one in which too many innocent people would die, but as the years dragged on their power would fade. Gruk chieftains and troll kings would rebel against the High Priests and, without Amundágor to keep them in line, the dark alliance would collapse. Then there would be no more funds to prop up Einar and his grip on the Westmark would become tenuous.

Jorn gripped the hilt on his sword tightly, drawing it forth slowly. He held it up in the darkness, admiring the cast of the blade. It was not the legendary sword of the Ravenbanes which Einar now carried, but it was a fine sword nonetheless. Braemorgan had given it to him not long after he left Glaenavon. The wizard said it was dwarf-make and would not let him down.

Jorn ran his finger along the razor sharp edge. He kept the sword clean, oiled, and incredibly sharp, maintaining the blade with an almost religious devotion. After all, if he was going to find any justice for Inglefrid it wouldn’t come from the gods. It would come from the steel glimmering in the moonslight and the strength which would wield it.

____

             
Faxon knelt before the altar, his head bowed in prayer. His chief acolytes knelt on either side of him, silent and awestruck to be in the very presence of Amundágor’s essence. They could all feel the majesty and the power emanating from within the chest. Inside the box was the blood quartz vessel within which the being of a god abided.

Although Faxon was high priest of the Cult, even he had only seen the vessel twice. The last time was more than a year ago when it was deposited inside the chest for safe-keeping. He held it in his hands then, quivering with excitement as he felt the dark energy pulsing up his arms. It was the size of a man’s head, a flawless piece of the finest blood quartz carved into the shape of a dragon’s head with one large eye. His shaking hands placed it inside the chest and stepped back as other priests shut the lid with absolute solemnity. There it remained sealed.

              Faxon glanced at the acolytes wondering if they could ever grasp the magnitude of what lay within that chest. Faxon doubted it. They were young, and lacked subtlety. How little they grasped, even after careful tutoring.

             
“Amundágor is beyond mere descriptions of
power
,” he would explain again and again. “What he is, is something else entirely. It’s not just the level of power, but the purity of it; the
intensity
! Were you to experience what he is in his fullest state, it would tear apart your soul. There is no resisting Amundágor. There is only submission, or annihilation.”

Hinrik, the younger of the two priest-wizards with him now, would always nod and act as though he understood. He might’ve believed he understood, Faxon considered, but until one has
direct physical contact with their the Dark One, one could never understand.

Faxon heard the general’s approach behind him, Venzarian’s steady gait and heavy boots unmistakable against the granite floor of the former Guardian temple. Then there were the innumerable footsteps of the general’s retinue. It was all more than enough to shake Faxon out of his meditations.

Faxon punished the general for the intrusion by ignoring his presence for several minutes. The general and his staff stood there in silent, bearing it all. No doubt they were also taking-in the sight of the massive hall all around them. The altar stood at the exact center of the massive basilica, the great dome of the Guardian temple high above. In front of the altar, upon which the Guardians once tended their sacred flame, stairs went down into the Guardian catacombs below. Where Faxon knelt was upon the platform above the stairs, mere feet from the altar.

Faxon leaned forward, almost touching the ground with his face. His long blonde hair spilled out on the ground. He said a short prayer and then rose, turning to face the general. Venzarian stood waiting, head bowed. The half dozen aids and bodyguards with him did the same.

The wizard descended the platform down one of the staircases on either side of the altar and walked around the stairwell leading down to the catacombs. He stopped in front of the general.

“General,” Faxon said at last. “I take it you have news.”

Venzarian raised his head and met Faxon’s gaze. The general’s height dwarfed the little wizard, as did his broad shoulders and barrel chest. His imposing figure was made more so by his suit of black plate armor, a huge sword at his belt next to a ball and chain he was said to wield with utmost ferocity.
Skrygmas
, the berserkers called the weapon with no small admiration, “the skull smasher.”

General Venzarian wore a red cloak, much like Faxon’s, edged with gold as befitted his rank. He was a stern looking man with bushy eyebrows and an enormous forehead. His scalp was clean-shaven and crisscrossed with a long, thin scar.

“I have the daily report, Dark One,” the general said, his Vandorian accent thick.

“Walk with me,” Faxon said.

They strode along the basilica towards the main gate at the far end, which led into the antechambers beyond and then the great gate which looked outside over the sprawling camp they had built up around the formed Guardian temple. Their respective retinues fell in behind them.

“All watches and patrols report everything quiet,” Venzarian said.

“Oh? And what of the incident five day’s past?”

“I know nothing further,” Venzarian said.

“Tell me what you do know,” Faxon said in an even tone.

“Only that a routine wagonload of weapons was ambushed along the Old Guardian Road,” the general said. “Or they deserted. And -”

“It is a foolish business, moving supplies along one wagon at a time,” Faxon said. “They should be moving in larger wagon trains and well-guarded from ambush.”

“The trolls have their own way of doing things, Dark One. They felt that such a method was better for avoiding detection by the enemy.”

“They would,” Faxon muttered. “Go on, General. You were saying?”

“Yes, Dark One. We did spot a small group some miles south of where the trolls went missing, moving atop the easternmost ridge. The dragon drove them west, below the trees.”

“Who were they?”

“Wandering bandits, perhaps, or maybe a hunting party,” Venzarian said. “They might’ve been Llangellan scouts or, um, deserters from amongst our troops.”

Faxon nodded knowingly. The desertions had become a problem. It was good that Amundágor would soon return to the corporeal world. That would end the desertions.

“Our patrols located the group and drove them into the Nor Marshes,” Venzarian said. “I placed pickets watching the boundaries of that foul place and tripled patrols. If they were trapped in there, they’re either dead or reduced to a miserable condition.”

“What of the smoke seen rising from the depths of the marshes?”

They reached the gate at the entrance to the basilica, the guards opening it at their approach. They strode into the first antechamber, guards opening the next door before them.

“I know not, Holy One. We have little contact with the Saurians that control the western reaches of the marshes. It is said that they make war upon some power that dwells in the centermost region.”

“I see,” Faxon said.

They passed through the first antechamber and into the second. Guards at the far end opened tall doors. Natural light streamed in, a breeze of cool twilight air drifting inward.

They stood atop the steps leading to the ruined Guardian temple, before them stretching forth the massive camp of the mighty army Faxon had built. It was starting to take on the attributes of a city, with regular streets and districts. There were three mills on the banks of the small river a half mile away, grinding the grain into the flour to make the bread the army would feed upon in the months and years of campaigning ahead. There were butchers and brewers and countless taverns set up amid the camp, not to mention dozens of smithies churning out thousands of weapons. A constabulary and courts had to be established, and gruks assigned to crews digging cesspits to keep up with the growing population. Someone had even built a venue for the staging of cockfights. All part of the machine of destruction, Faxon supposed.

“Tell me, General,” the wizard said. “This mighty temple – the Great Temple of the West, they called it - was once at the center of a sprawling, prosperous city. I am sure you have taken note of the ruins. See the aqueduct over there. The great market of the Guardians now serves as our granary.”

The general nodded.

“The Guardians were once powerful in these lands,” he said.

“Then tell me this,” Faxon said. “Why did they fall?”

“The western kings turned against them. It was to our advantage that they grew jealous of such powerful allies. The servants of Amundágor would face a formidable enemy in the Guardian Order were it what it once were.”