Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (13 page)

             
Jorn stared straight ahead at Thulgin. His older brother looked so young, sleeping in the firelight. He seemed barely more than a boy.

             
“Jorn,” Orbadrin said firmly.

             
“It’s all my fault,” Jorn said.

“No,” Orbadrin said. “It is the fault of those assassins. Now look at me, son.”

Jorn held back a sob, turning and looking at his father.

             
“A warning letter from the wizard Braemorgan is not a thing to be ignored,” Orbadrin said. “Let me tell you something of him, son. I was a little boy myself when I first saw him. He would pass through Falneth now and again, a tall strange man with those bewildering eyes of his. He’d talk long into the night with my father and then be gone again in the morning before dawn.  When I was about your age, my father bade me to never ignore him and to always consider his words carefully. I wish I had impressed such advice on you before this all happened.”

             
“Braemorgan is no ordinary wizard, you must understand, no traveling mercenary spellcaster,” the old Thane continued. “Never forget that. He has been around for a long time, many generations of man. What he really is, I don’t know. I only thank Grang that he is on
our
side. And for some reason, he has always taken a particular interest in you. That surprises you? When your mother came here, you were but an infant. Even then, Braemorgan visited you. Not a year would go by but that he would visit. He did not say so, but it was obvious he wanted to check on you. He had less and less to say with each passing year to anyone on any subject but you. Always he wanted to know how you fared, fretting over your latest fever like he was your own father. Looking back, I had no idea why, but now I see that he always suspected – perhaps even foresaw – that the lordship of The Westmark would fall to you.”

             
“The Westmark!” Jorn muttered. “What is that to me?
This
is my home. Besides, there is no Westmark anymore. From what Ironhelm says it is all but lost, overrun by berserkers and gruks in the employ of this Einar.”

             
Orbadrin shook his head. “Not lost yet. You have allies. The Ravenbanes have many enemies, yes, but as many friends. You might very well find yourself at the head of five thousand men come spring, a far mightier host than ever I commanded. Claim your birthright, Jorn. Go, become a thane in your own right.”

             
“Are you casting from your home?” Jorn asked.

             
“No, and never would I. But what is there here for you, Jorn? Yrsa? She is pledged to your brother, and he to her. I gave my word to Halgaad, and have you ever known me to go back on my word? Oh, would that I had known about the two of you earlier.”

“But now, it is too late. You must move on, my son, and accept what has happened. You are the younger son, recall. It is Thulgin who will rule Hrókur in not too many years. What will you do then? Become some free-booting mercenary? Or become your brother’s captain, never your own man? Jorn, you are the only child of my cherished, departed sister.” The old man paused, his eyes misting up. “You will always have my love as though you were my own son, but you are also the son of Loric Ravenbane and the heir of The Westmark. That is where your destiny lies.”

              Jorn was silent for a long time.

“When Thulgin is recovered,” he said at last. “I will go to The Westmark with the dwarf.”

              “That will not do, Jorn. I have spoken to Ironhelm at great length. You have tarried too long as it is.”

             
“But I cannot leave before Thulgin awakens!” Jorn protested.

             
“You heard the healer. Thulgin will be fine. Every day you wait your enemies move to block the roads to Loc Goren. Einar may yet send troops here, before long! If he is a clever man, and it seems to me that he is, he will soon ally himself with Thane Llud.”

             
Jorn took a deep breath. Too much had happened too soon. Only two days ago he had his entire life in order. Then it all fell to pieces in one night.

             
“It is late,” Jorn said, sighing. “But I will leave at first light.”

“Good,” Orbadrin said. “I will not send you out alone, though. The road south is dangerous enough this time of year, and you are a wanted man. Twenty warriors will go with you and Ironhelm. That should be enough to get you to Loc Goren in one piece.”

              “Thank you, father,” Jorn said..

             
“There is one more thing,” Orbadrin said. He removed one of the several rings from his left hand. “This is the ring of Thaalgrud, your - let me think – he was your great, great, great grandfather. Yes, that’s it. The Dwarves of Weurtstall gave it to him in thanks for helping them defeat the dragon of Gliggenfar. It is ancient beyond the memories of men, and is infused with powerful dwarven magics. It will bring you luck when luck is all you have left.”

             
“This ring has been passed down from Thaalgrud, from father to son through the generations,” Orbadrin said. “And now it passes to you.”

             
Jorn shook his head.

“No, father,” he said. “It is meant to go to Thulgin.”

              “The dwarves told Thaalgrud that the power of this ring would bring its wearer good fortune and help protect him from harm,” Orbadrin said. “You will need all of the ring’s powers where you are heading.”

             
“But Thulgin –”

             
“He will understand.”

             
“But I’m…” he began, the words coming out with difficulty. “I don’t know if I can do it. I’m scared to death I’ll fail.”

             
“Grang’s teeth! Of course you’re scared!” the old man said, smiling. “What, do you think because you’ve fought a few battles you’re suddenly immune to fear? Fear, my son, is a foe no man ever truly vanquishes. It is nothing to be ashamed of. But it is how you deal with fear that determines what type of man you are.”

             
Orbadrin grasped Jorn’s hand and placed the ring in his palm. Jorn took it and placed it on one of the fingers of his left hand.

             
“You are leaving to become the thane of a great and mighty family,” Orbadrin went on. “You will be ruler of substantial towns and castles, almost a king in your own right. Many men you will rule over, and that is a grave responsibility.”

             
“How do I do it?”

             
“Remember the example I have tried to set for you. Make sure your enemies fear you, but always be as a father unto your people. Don’t be a tyrant, nor pander to the people in some foolish quest to win their adulation. You’ll have flatterers aplenty. Do what you believe is best, even if it is unpopular at the time. Be just, and never decree anything when your emotions are hot. Never let your captains be so afraid of you as to not tell you the truth when you need to hear it, either. Above all else, expect the unexpected, and be ready for it when it happens.”

             
Jorn started to speak, but Orbadrin shook his head kindly.

             
“No more talk,” Orbadrin said, rising. “It is time to sleep.”

             
“I think I will sit for a bit longer,” Jorn said.

Orbadrin rose.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he said. “Goodnight, son.” 

_____

             
Orbadrin led Ironhelm across the cold courtyard towards the stables. It was late, the land in the grip of a brutal cold that turned mud into stone and cut through the thickest of furs. The stables, at least, were warmed by the small fireplaces on both ends. Long rows of dozens of stalls lined either side of a wide center hallway as wizard’s lamps hung from the ceiling, lighting up the building like daylight. A stableman sat by one of the fireplaces, tending them.  On seeing Orbadrin enter, the man stood and bowed before.

             
“Good evening, my thane,” the man said.

             
“If you would give us a moment,” Orbadrin said.

             
The man bowed again, turning and leaving. 

             
“I’m sorry to drag you out here so late, Lord Ironhelm,” Orbadrin said once the stableman left. “There was something I wanted to show you.”

             
He led the dwarf to a stall at the far end of the stables. Inside was a stout pony the right size for a strapping young boy or perhaps a dwarf. Its coat was a brilliant shade of the palest grey-blue with white dappling all along its length. Its chest and legs were powerfully built and its mane was the color of virgin snow. Ironhelm nodded knowingly, recognizing the breed at once.

             
“A purebred Linlundic pony,” he said. “Aye, and a fine example of the species at tha’ she is. Wha’ a beautiful animal!”

             
“Her name is Angala,” Orbadrin said. “It means ‘Courage’ in the ancient tongue of my forebears. I give her to you as a gift and as a token of my gratitude for saving the lives of both my sons.”

             
“Ach! I don’t deserve such a noble gift as this!” he protested.

Ironhelm paused, looking up at Orbadrin and noting the expression on the old man’s face. Such a gift, Ironhelm knew, was not given lightly.

“I thank you, Thane Orbadrin,” Ironhelm said. “She’ll be cherished, I promise you. Aye, tis true.”

             
Ironhelm turned to the pony, stroking its mane gently. She
was
beautiful, as fine an example of that noble breed as the dwarf had ever seen. Linlundic ponies were rare and valuable animals, he knew, as renowned for their strength and speed as their indifference to cold.

             
“I could have presented you this gift in the morning,” Orbadrin said, “But I must admit I also wanted the chance to speak with you alone one final time.”

             
“Oh?” Ironhelm said.

             
“I am sending my youngest son off with you, Lord Ironhelm. Watch over him. Jorn is…well, he is a smart boy but he’s just like his mother in too many ways. He’s quick-tempered and sometimes doesn’t take the time to think before he speaks or before he acts…just like my sister!” He paused, smiling sadly. “It is said that he looks like his father, yes?”

             
“Aye, he is made in the very image of Loric Ravenbane,” Ironhelm said.

             
“His appearance may be that of his father,” Orbadrin said. “But his mind and his spirit are his mother’s. She was a wild child, ready to fight anyone anytime for any reason. See this scar here by my eye. She gave that to me when she was only six years old. She threw a plate at my face for teasing her and stealing her little doll. I often see her in the way he walks. I can hear her in his voice.” He sighed, pausing. “I miss her, Grang help me, and I always will. What a fierce soul she was!” He paused again, lost in thought. “I sense that you are a dwarf of much honor, Ironhelm. Watch over my boy. Guide him. Help him to keep his passions in check, if you can.”

             
“I will do wha’ I can,” Ironhelm said. “You have my word on tha’. Aye, tis true.”

             
“That is all I can ask,” Orbadrin said.

_____

             
Dawn came late during the depths of the Linlundic winter, the sun rising over the hills in the east ten hours past midnight. A dusting of snow had fallen overnight blanketing everything in white, but the sky was now a cloudless blue. Jorn stood in the courtyard, studying the weather. They would have fewer than eight hours of daylight this time of year to travel; they would have to make the most of them.

             
“Wha’ is it, laddie?” Ironhelm said, frowning and glancing up at the sky.

             
“Nothing,” Jorn said, shrugging. He had fallen into daydreaming, watching a bird soaring high above, drifting on the frigid wind. “It’s a clear day. Good.”

             
Ironhelm nodded briskly. “Aye, tis true. How are the pains, laddie?”

             
“Better,” Jorn said.

The shooting pains from Dalon’s spell had slowly subsided. That first night, he could not even walk without agony. They had to carry him back to Falneth like some pathetic invalid. Degbald told him it could be a week before he would fully recover.

              The dwarf went back to readying his new pony, the gift from Orbadrin. The pony Ironhelm had bought a week before in Swordhaven would serve as a pack animal on the trip back south.

All around men made ready for the journey. Jorn would be accompanied by hand-picked warriors, men he knew he could rely on. It was short notice indeed to tell men to embark on such a journey in the dead of winter, but they were bearing it all without audible complaint. The entire company would ride forth
fully-armed and in force, enough to discourage almost any trouble they would be likely to encounter.