Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (17 page)

             
“Very well. Six months ago your grandfather Uilfrid died.”

“I’d heard,” Jorn said.

“I was five hundred miles south at the time, in Brithborea dealing with certain other matters. When I received word of his death, I came as quickly as I could manage to counsel your brother Agnar. All I learned about Uilfrid’s death when I finally arrived was that the old man had developed a high fever, very suddenly, and was dead soon after. What is most curious is that Einar visited him but a few days before the onset of the illness.”

             
“You think Einar poisoned him?”

             
“If he did, he must have used a rather sophisticated poison. The Order of the Healing Hand tended to Uilfrid when he fell ill. Healers of their skill would have spotted any common poison right away. Nevertheless, Einar’s presence now seems suspicious in light of recent events. Especially given the lightning speed in which he moved to lay claim to The Westmark.”

“What do you mean?”

“Einar was a powerful thane in his own right, having inherited his father’s domains on the far side of the Bachwy Bay.”

“His father was Thane Ruug.”

“Who married Brega Ravenbane, your father’s sister. Ruug was a sneaky old scoundrel. It seems Einar has inherited his father’s nature. For, you see, he marched on The Westmark within scant days of Uilfrid’s death. He was
ready
to invade,
ready
to seize The Westmark. Too ready.”

             
“Like he knew the old thane was going to die,” Jorn remarked.

             
“Precisely,” Braemorgan said.

             
“Something else puzzles me,” Jorn said. “What was Einar’s claim to lordship over The Westmark? Wasn’t Agnar the son of Loric, and wasn’t Loric the eldest son of Uilfric?”

             
“Indeed, but Einar was the oldest grandson, followed by Agnar and yourself. His claim is ridiculous, frankly. As the eldest grandson, he says he is the rightful heir to The Westmark. But the law and tradition are clear, as you know.  Inheritance passes through male lines first, so Agnar was the rightful heir. Agnar fell ill around the time of Uilfrid’s death and had to be confined to bed, but survived only to die on the battlefield later. I now believe his illness was an unsuccessful poisoning attempt by Einar. Had Agnar died of his illness, Einar would have ascended to dominion over The Westmark without conflict.”

             
“But Agnar did die, in battle,” Jorn said. “That means Einar has clear title to The Westmark, since I’m a bastard.  Why am I even here? With Agnar dead, Einar’s the only legitimate heir.”

             
“Einar is a vile, murdering scum!” Braemorgan said.

             
“But he
is
the rightful heir,” Jorn said. “Grang’s teeth! I’m just some bastard.”

             
“Not necessarily. You descend through a male line, Jorn, and that gives our claim some merit. Besides, Einar is a murderer, and a traitor. By murdering Uilfric, according to Linlundic law, he negated his claim. What it comes down to is that he cannot be allowed to ascend to rulership of The Westmark. Law favors the victor, Jorn, and it always has. The sword decides and the law justifies later. Einar is a loathsome evil snake, allied with gruks and dark wizards in the service of Kaas. Do you think these dark wizards support Einar for his legal claim? He’s but a puppet.”

             
“So who is the puppetmaster?”

“That prisoner you brought with you had a good deal to say about that. I’ve just finished speaking with him, as a matter of fact. He identified someone called Faxon who has been
advising Einar. He said this Faxon is a powerful wizard as well as a high priest in the Cult of Amundágor.”

“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn exclaimed. “The Amundágor Cult! I heard rumors in Falneth they’ve been recruiting from berserker tribes.”

“Those are no idle rumors. I’ve never heard of a wizard by the name of Faxon, but from what your prisoner says he is the one behind everything. That confirms what I’ve long suspected. You see, many of Agnar’s allies were pinned down with widespread gruk raiding along the frontier of their own lands at the precise time Einar attacked. No one was able to come to Agnar’s aid until it was too late. A coincidence, or all part of a carefully orchestrated plan? I wonder.”

“Whoever Faxon is,” the wizard continued. “He knew who to keep busy with gruk raids. He is a careful thinker; that much is clear. So, you must see, I am not going to allow Einar to be installed as a puppet ruler on behalf of the Cult and their vile demon god.” His voice grew angry. “Whatever Einar’s legal claims may or may not be, I do not give a damn about them! He is in league with the Cult. That is all that matters!”

              Braemorgan took a deep breath. He took out a long pipe from his satchel, stuffing a bit of tobacco into the end. With a snap of his fingers, it lit up instantly. He put the pipe to his mouth and took a long drag, blowing the smoke leisurely into the air as he gazed into the fire.

             
“You’ve heard much of the Amundágor Cult, have you not?” he said,

             
“Of course,” Jorn said. “Men in Falneth would tell wild tales about his demon-worshipping priests, how they would murder innocent people to sacrifice in their dark rites.”

             
“Amundágor is the Son of Kaas, lord of all darkness.” Braemorgan said. He paused, glancing downward. “His spirit and his cult still endure. Indeed, they prosper. You are going to have to understand there are forces in the world beyond both of us. This world is but a battlefield, good and evil forever grappling upon it and fighting for supremacy. Good will win in the end, though.”

             
“How do you know that?” Jorn asked “I know it is written in the holy scrolls and all that, but I’d wager the enemy’s holy books say that they’ll win out.”

             
“You are quick, and have a questioning mind,” Braemorgan said, taking another puff on his pipe. “I like that. For me, victory is a matter of trust. Without it, I would not have the will to continue. But we digress into matters of philosophy beyond our scope this evening. I was telling you how Einar succeeded thus far. Suffice it to say that, by the time I arrived, Agnar had only just begun to recover from his illness and be up and about again. The Westmarkers did a good job against Einar’s forces, but there were just too many of the invaders to hold out against for very long. Nearly a thousand men were forced to withdraw to Hárfjall, the mightiest fortress in The Westmark. It is a virtually impregnable citadel, built upon high cliffs which protect it from attack on all sides.”

             
“I’ve heard of Hárfjall,” Jorn said. “I heard a travelling skald sing of how it was besieged for nearly a year by five thousand gruks, and yet did not fall.”

             
“Indeed it did not. Mountain dwarves from Cloudhome broke the siege and the gruks were routed. I remember it well.”

             
“How did such a fortress fall to Einar? I asked Ironhelm. All he said was ‘too easily.’”

             
Braemorgan chuckled, taking another puff from the pipe. 

“That was well-phrased by the old curmudgeon,” he said. “A traitor opened the gates in the middle of the night. What took place next was a merciless massacre. Men roused from their beds bleary-eyed and confused were butchered on the spot. No one in the fortress was left alive. It will be no easy task to recapture it. There are many things which must be accomplished first before we reach such a step, however. It will be Einar’s last stronghold, after all of his other refuges are overrun.”

              The wizard sighed, looking at the fire and puffing away on his pipe.

             
“It did not go any better after Hárfjall,” he said. “Einar had too many troops and Agnar too little experience. By the time I arrived, we could no more than withdraw our forces across the river. I believed we could re-group here in preparation for a counteroffensive this spring. So I rode south to gather reinforcements. I was but a day’s journey from Loc Goren when Agnar was lured by Einar across the river to his death.”

             
“Then the title passed to me,” Jorn said.

             
“Which is why you were marked for death. You must be most careful, Jorn. The Cult has many resources and they are all now directed towards your demise. Assassins may lurk in your own camp. Even I do not know for certain how far Einar’s spy network reaches. Einar knew Ironhelm was sent to fetch you, and knew by what route. Someone had to betray you, someone probably in this keep. Trust no one.”

Jorn said nothing, nodding.

“It is a lot to consider, is it not?” Braemorgan said.

“Yes.”

“You’ve a great challenge before you. But I have kept you up too late already. You’d best rest now, for tomorrow is a busy day. We have a great realm to win back!”

_____

             
The map was spread out on the table, five feet in length and large enough to include every village, hill, stream, road, and path in The Westmark. Jorn leaned over it, every eye in the room on him. 

Jorn followed the map’s contours with his eyes, noting the pair of high mountain passes along the western frontier. The Fanholm Pass was the larger. Any army passing through there could fall upon the northern half of The Westmark and control the western approaches to Hárfjall. The smaller pass, the Torgrum Pass, overlooked the southern half of The Westmark. Invaders coming through there could drive to the shore, cutting off the road to Swordhaven and putting themselves in a position to strike south against the Slave Coast and beyond to the kingdoms of Shalfur and Fordinia.

              There was something about the lines on the map that felt to Jorn like he’d been studying them all his life. He’d always had an instinctual feel for maps. Even from a very early age, Orbadrin would be amazed whenever he showed Jorn maps and asked him questions about what he saw, his answers always eerily correct.

It was no different this time. Jorn could see exactly how invading hordes of gruks or trolls would descend from the mountains and what their routes would be afterwards. He could also see how to move against Einar, depending on where his cousin’s forces were concentrated. There were only three possible scenarios, as Jorn saw it. He explained it to the others huddled around the map. They listened carefully, veteran captains slowly nodding in understanding as Jorn detailed the options for a spring offensive against Einar.

“If, on the other hand, the bulk of his forces are here,” Jorn finished, pointing to a point on the map. “Which seems equally possible, given his supply lines, then we would first move north and cut his access to the river. That’ll force him to move through this forest, and then he’ll be ours. Do you see why? It is just like you were saying before, Lormund. Yes, I think the situation is the same. Einar will have to spread out his forces, but he’ll be desperate to attack. Meanwhile, our men will be concentrated here on the high ground. What was it you said, Glafnir? We would have the advantage of superior forces
at the point of attack
.”

“And so win the day,” the seasoned captain said, nodding.

              “Speed,” Jorn said. “Is the key to the whole thing, however. If we -”

             
“Let us begin this council of war,” Braemorgan said loudly, entering the room.

             
Jorn straightened up, looked annoyed for a moment, and then sat down at the head of the table. The highest-ranking members present took seats, the others remained standing.

Braemorgan and Ironhelm took seats, as did Morag. Jorn was surprised to see her at a war council but decided not to say anything about it right then. Jorn and Thulgin’s sister Angfrid, married off more than a year ago, never attended such councils at Hrókur even though she was a year older than Thulgin. Orbadrin would always have Jorn and Thulgin watch every war council the whole time they were growing up. They were instructed to be quiet and to listen carefully to everything which was said, and they obeyed. Afterwards, Orbadrin would review with his boys what had been said and then explained in detail what had actually been going on. These were valuable lessons, but only for his sons. 

Perhaps the Ravenbanes did such things differently. Jorn decided against making a point of it just then.

The wizard introduced the rest of them, each in turn as they took their seats. First, there was Thane Ardabur, introduced by the wizard as “a great battle lord and your loyal ally to the south.” He looked like the type of man who forever looked angry about something. 

“So,
this
is the Child of Storms?” Ardabur sneered.

Braemorgan shot Ardabur a withering glance, but said nothing. Jorn noticed Morag and Ironhelm also glaring at Ardabur in angry surprise, but they remained silent.

“And these are your three senior captains, Jorn, the commanders of your armies,” the wizard said abruptly. “I present you Wulfgrim, Lormund, and Glorbad. You may rely upon each of them and trust in their absolute loyalty.”