Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (18 page)

Jorn looked the trio over quickly.

Wulfgrim was the oldest, his features dominated by a long black beard flecked with gray and a stern manner. He looked like he’d seen many a battle in his day and Jorn noticed him walking with a limp when he entered the room.

Lormund was taller and thinner than Wulfgrim, rather soft-spoken in his demeanor. He was the strategist of the trio, it was said.

Glorbad was different from either of them. He was young, almost too-young to be a captain of The Westmark. He was a big man, solidly built with a barrel chest and thick arms. He had vivid gray eyes and long blonde hair.

One other warrior
sat at the table, an ally who’d arrived only that morning. He was Rhydderch, Lord of the Wood Elves of Llywarch. Jorn showed visible surprise when he entered the room at Braemorgan’s elbow, staring wide-eyed at the strange, thin figure with the silvery-gray eyes, pale white skin, and sharply pointed ears. The elf was almost as tall as Jorn, clad in a white cloak under which he wore a gleaming shirt of blue-white elfin armor. A long, thin sword was strapped to his hip.

“Long have my people traded with the men of
The Westmark and maintained friendly relations,” the wood elf lord said. His voice was steady and formal. “Even so, I would not normally involve myself in the affairs of men were it not for Einar’s use of gruks. I will not have a gruk army on the borders of my realm. Not while I still draw breath.”

“Lord Rhyd
derch brings one thousand archers with him,” Braemorgan said.

Jorn nodded, st
ill trying to keep track of the new names and faces. He didn’t think he’d confuse Rhydderch with anyone else there, however.

“Your presence is most welcome, Lord Rhydderch,” Jorn said. “The skill of the archers of Llywarch is spoken of with awe in Falneth. Your people’s gallantry at the Battle of Roon’s Gulch is the stuff of legend among Orbadrin’s folk and is sung of frequently.”

Ryhdderch bowed solemnly.

“The new Thane of the Westmark is most gracious,” he said.

“Well!” Braemorgan announced, taking his seat at the far end of the table. “Now that the introductions are done and the
rightful
ruler of The Westmark is arrived we can take council together. With the arrival of Lord Ardabur’s men, we have over three thousand troops in and around Loc Goren plus the archers under Lord Rhydderch. Thane Grinbaden sends word from the far side of Bachwy Bay that he rides with nearly a thousand men to our aid. They shall be here within a week.”

             
“Grinbaden has long despised Einar,” Glorbad noted. “Einar’s lands border his own, and they’ve had many violent disputes in recent years.”

             
“His hatred for Einar is known to be intense,” Braemorgan concurred. “This is to our advantage. Grinbaden will stand with us, come what may.”

             
“I will have another thousand men here in a week as well,” Ardabur said.

“That’s over five thousand in all,” Jorn said. He winced inwardly. Hi
s stating of the obvious must’ve sounded foolish. He wished his first remarks could’ve been more insightful.

             
“More than enough to hold Loc Goren and the lands east side of the river,” Glorbad said.

             
“Nearly indefinitely,” Lormund added.

             
Ironhelm snorted.

“Enough to hold Loc Goren, laddie,” the dwarf said. “Aye, perhaps. But not nearly enough to t
ake back the rest of The Westmark.”

             
“That in good time,” the captain said. “First we must make certain our own position is secure.”

             
“We have sent out riders in all directions calling for aid,” Braemorgan said. “Einar’s bringing gruks into The Westmark has alarmed many, and may yet be his undoing. Many a thane sees The Westmark as an important buffer between themselves and the gruk menace. Where many up to now have seen this conflict as none of their concern, it suddenly assumes paramount importance to them. Thane Ravenbane and Lord Ironhelm arrived with a prisoner, one dispatched by Einar to stop Jorn from assuming his place at this table. He is being held here within the tower, where he shall remain until this conflict is over. He is most cooperative, though, and already he has told me much of use.”

Braemorgan paused, taking a breath.

“Einar appears to be but the puppet of the Cult of Amundágor, a high priest named Faxon dictating his every move. Through his alliance with the Cult, Einar has procured vast resources. They are the ones paying for the five thousand gruks.”

             
“What of the King?” Jorn asked when the murmur of surprise died down. “Surely, he’ll help us.”

             
“He has his own problems, boy,” Ardabur growled, snickering.

             
“I’m no boy, Thane Ardabur,” Jorn growled back. “You’d best remember that, or we can settle the question with arms. Right here, if you like, but I will not be insulted in my own keep.”

             
The table was silent. Ardabur glared at Jorn silently, unsure of how to respond. He looked like he might leap to his feet at any moment.  Jorn remained absolutely still, waiting for Ardabur to move.

             
“He’s got his father’s balls on him, this one!” Wulfgrim interjected, breaking the tension. An awkward laugh went through the room.

             
Braemorgan shook his head, wondering why he could never seem to get through a council without Ardabur almost getting into a combat with someone. He knew Ardabur was not just some mindless hothead, though. He was testing Jorn, trying to see if the lad could be bullied.

             
“The King’s armies are concentrated far to the east,” Braemorgan explained. “He is much too worried about the King of Frostheim to send us any aid.”

             
“Still, with some mercenaries and conscripting we could have seven thousand by spring,” Wulfgrim said.

             
“That’s enough to launch an offensive,” Morag said.

             
“More than enough,” Ardabur added.

             
Jorn absorbed the information.
Seven thousand troops.
To have such a host under his command!

             
The captains began discussing strategy for such a spring attack, consensus soon favoring an attack from two directions to keep Einar off balance. It was just as Jorn had outlined, and they concurred with his basic plan. Ironhelm alone disagreed, worried about splitting their forces in the face of a numerically-superior enemy. Jorn listened to his criticism in silence and then carefully countered the dwarf’s arguments one by one with cold logic he knew the dwarf would respect.

Braemorgan leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange carefully. Jorn looked over at the wizard, trying to gauge his opinion but unable to read the expression on his face. He glanced down again at the map. It still seemed obvious to him what had to be done, and he decided that there was nothing to be gained by avoiding discussion on the matter any further. 

“The real problem is that a spring invasion will be too late,” Jorn said.

Everyone stared at him.

              “What do you mean, Jorn?” Braemorgan asked, his brow creasing into a frown.

             
“I mean what I say,” Jorn responded. “Einar isn’t going to wait around doing nothing until spring. He’s not going to just wait for us to gather allies and prepare for our counterattack. Why should he? It’s better for him to attack us now, while we’re still weak. I came in yesterday along the river. It is frozen solid and essentially unguarded. Einar can walk across unopposed at night and take our entire army if he chooses. There is no reason for him to wait for the ice to thaw. Only a fool would delay attack when our forces stand to grow far stronger in the coming weeks.”

             
“What would you do about this?” Wulfgrim asked.

             
“Go on the attack. Now.”

             
Almost everyone in the room began shaking their heads, many mumbling or muttering various degrees of disagreement. Ardabur laughed and shook his head in disdain.

             
“But that’s exactly what Agnar did!” Wulfgrim protested.             

“Not with three thousand men,” Jorn said. 

              “An immediate attack will not do,” Glorbad said. “It is the snows, my thane. Forgive me, for I think you don’t understand. Perhaps we haven’t explained that part of the situation. The snows are too deep in this part of The Westmark right now. Three feet covers the ground on the far side of the river, with drifts twice that high. There is no way Einar could bring a sizable force to bear on us through that. There’ll be no fighting until the spring thaw.”

             
“Braemorgan told me how quickly Einar fell upon you and how you were all taken by surprise,” Jorn said. “I think you’ve grown too cautious, waiting to react to the moves of the enemy rather than forcing him to react to what we do. We’ll increase the guards up and down the river, and we’ll need advanced pickets on the far shores as well. We’ll also require every scout we can spare for daily incursions into enemy territory. I am going to set the men to building guard posts up and down the entire length of the river, with bonfires placed at regular intervals to give us warning of attack. If Einar is coming, I want to know it.”

             
“But how can troops march through such snow?” Morag asked.

             
“Snowshoes,” Jorn said. “The men of Orbadrin have worn them for generations and fought many campaigns in the midst of the most violent winters.”

             
“We’ve only a few hundred snowshoes at best,” Wulfgrim said.

             
“Then put every man you can spare to making more,” Jorn said. “The women and children of the villages can do so as well.”

             
“But -” Wulfgrim sputtered. “My thane, it might take weeks to make enough snowshoes. To make three thousand snowshoes, that’s a tall task.”

             
“Then we’d best get started,” Jorn said.

_____

             
“He’s no dithering weakling at least,” Glorbad said.

             
“No, but he’s a reckless fool,” Morag said. “That might be more dangerous.”

             
“I don’t know that is he any sort of fool, reckless or otherwise,” Glorbad said. “There’s sense in attacking Einar sooner rather than later. Jorn is right that it’s the last thing he’ll expect, and it’ll force him to alter whatever plans he’s made against us. For the first time in this war, our side would have the initiative and force the enemy to react to what
we
do.”

             
“It’s impulsive, and completely reckless.”

             
“No, it’s neither. You’re prejudiced against him.”

             
“It’ll bring us to ruin,” Morag said.

“At least he’s taking command and making decisions. That’ll increase morale among the ranks.”

“Morale does not win victories.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, beloved. I know how you feel about him, but I think he’s correct and his words are as music to my ears. Why should Einar sit
and wait to attack us when we’ll never be weaker than we are right now?”

             
They were alone in Morag’s small chamber tucked into a little corner of the keep. Morag sat down by the window and Glorbad poured some mead into a little wooden mug. Her hair was down, bright red locks spilling over her shoulders. He handed her the mug and sat down on the bench besides her. She liked her mead spiced with nutmeg and mace and took a hearty gulp.

             
“Braemorgan expects me to mold him into a proper ruler for The Westmark,” she said, handing over the mug for Glorbad to sip. “He wants the bastard educated and refined. It would be a simpler matter to turn him into a toad.”

             
“So turn him into a toad,” Glorbad suggested playfully, sipping the drink. “You’re always locking yourself up and studying those magic books of yours. Haven’t you learned that spell yet?”

             
“I’m not up to turning people into toads just yet,” she said. Her face broke into a bit of a smile. The effect was dazzling.

             
“It’s Ardabur who worries me most,” Glorbad said. “I don’t trust him. He wants you for his bride.”

             
“He wants The Westmark!”

             
“What better way to get it?”

             
“He’ll never have it. Or me. He’s nothing but a plotter and a politician. I don’t understand what Braemorgan sees in him.”

             
“He’s a good fighter,” Glorbad said. “And he has two thousand men under his banner.”