Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Read online

  He turned to the younger guard standing next to him.

  “Send word to Braemorgan that Thane Ardabur’s here,” he snapped. “Then find Lady Morag and let her know, right away.”

  _____

  Ardabur barely acknowledged the men camped along either side of the road. He rode past them quickly, returning their cheers and shouts with an absent-minded wave of his arm. He took note of their condition, though. They may have seemed in good spirits, but they looked tired, cold, and too few.

  Ardabur had ridden hard the entire day to make it to Loc Goren as quickly as he could, and was in no joyous mood. As he guided his horse up the path to the keep, he brooded on the circumstances of his visit. It’d probably take at least five thousand men to retake The Westmark, and it looked they were going to be at least a thousand short even when Ardabur’s own men arrived the next day. Armies could always be raised, Ardabur knew, given enough gold and a powerful thane to lead them. The gold could be raised, in time, but what was really needed was the right man to lead the coming fight. He had to be experienced and battle-hardened, the type of man whom warriors would gladly follow.

  He’d just the right candidate in mind.

  ______

  The wizard Braemorgan was an exceedingly strange-looking figure. He always left an indelible impression on whomever he happened to meet, and over the decades and centuries that was many persons. First off, he was exceptionally tall. He was also thin, which for some reason made him look even taller. He wore no beard nor any facial hair whatsoever, his chin as smooth as a young woman’s. His face was not a young person’s and yet not an old man’s, either. Rather, it had an ageless quality which was hard to define. He had long, stark white hair that fell down past his shoulders.

  What was oddest about Braemorgan appearance, however, was not his height or his hair or his strange ageless face with no beard. Rather, it was his eyes. They were large, expressive, and frequently filled with a penetrating clarity that looked like it could tear right through any veil of modesty or spot any deception.

  Each was the complete opposite of the other. His left eye was the palest gray imaginable, almost silvery white. His right eye, on the other hand, had a pupil of absolute black. The contrast between the two was disconcerting, enough to have more than once caused mighty kings to tremble under the wizard’s stern gaze.

  Braemorgan stared down from the window of the war council chamber with his strange eyes, watching Ardabur arrive. He turned to the blonde-bearded man in chain mail standing besides him.

  “Bring him right up,” the wizard said. His voice was deep but not booming. “And summon the others at once.”

  The guard nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Braemorgan turned back to the window. The sun hung low in the sky, the shadows of early evening lengthening as night came on. He sighed, turning from away.

  The council chamber was not large, nor grandly decorated. A small table stood at its center, a modest chandelier hanging above it providing some measure of light from a dozen magically-shining orbs. Braemorgan’s eyes fell upon the large fireplace warming the room and the huge, cruel looking axe hanging over it. The weapon was four feet long, not including the long axe head of gleaming steel, slender and razor-sharp as it tapered into a barbed sword point. The shaft was carved with all manner of runes.

  Braemorgan grinned sadly. Twenty years ago this coming spring Thane Uilfric had slain the troll chieftain Tanaluk and taken the axe as a trophy. Uilfric proudly hung it above the fireplace, a fitting reminder of past triumphs. Now Uilfric was three months rotting in the grave, his son Loric falling in battle eight years before. And then young Agnar followed his father and grandfather to the next world, slain in his very first battle.

  The door opened again and Thane Ardabur entered, scowling. Ardabur was not a large man, but his stern demeanor and air of authority made up for any deficit in size. In much the same way, his bald head, jet-black beard, and flashing eyes made him seem older than his thirty years. He moved and spoke with a wolfish tenacity and an energy which amazed Braemorgan with its constant intensity.

  “Welcome, Thane Ardabur,” Braemorgan said evenly.

  “What the hell happened here?” Ardabur snarled.

  “Young Thane Agnar went and got himself killed, as you no doubt read in my letter,” Braemorgan said.

  The wizard stepped forward towards the table. He picked up the large pitcher sitting there, pouring mead seasoned with nutmeg and pepper from far-away Shandorr into two of the mugs on the table.

  “Oh, I heard that much,” Ardabur said.

  “It is a tragedy,” Braemorgan said.

  “It’s a damned disaster, is what it is. Grang’s teeth!”

  The old wizard nodded. He put the pitcher back down and picked up both mugs.

  “Such a promising young thane,” Braemorgan sighed.

  Ardabur unhooked his thick fur cloak and threw it across the back of a nearby chair.

  “He was a fool,” he snapped.

  “He was hasty,” Braemorgan said, moving around the table and handing Ardabur one of the mugs. “Since he was a little boy, he was too quick to decide things. He never learned to stop and think before acting. That’s not surprising, really. His grandfather was the same way at that age, but survived that reckless stage of youth and learned prudence.”

  Ardabur said nothing, taking a long sip of his mead.

  “Wulfgrim,” Braemorgan said, looking past Ardabur. “Good. Take your seats, gentlemen, and we can begin the council.”

  Ardabur turned around, nodding at the old veteran who limped into the room leaning heavily on a walking stick.

  “I am glad to see you up and walking,” Braemorgan said, patting Wulfgrim on the back handily. Wulfgrim sat down at the table and Braemorgan poured him a mug of the mead.

  “The healers have done well,” Wulfgrim said. “They’ll have me back in fighting form before long.”

  “I am sure of it,” Braemorgan said.

  The wizard glanced over at the door, smiling warmly at the newest arrival.

  “Thane Ardabur,” he said. “I’m sure you will recall Lady Morag. Now that she is here we may begin.”

  A tall young woman dressed in a simple dark green dress with a dark purple cloak slung over her shoulders entered. She was flanked by a tall guard who bowed and backed out of the room as she stepped in, closing the door. Everyone stood at her entry, even hobbled Wulfgrim.

  Morag Ravenbane was young, but possessed a dignified bearing beyond her years. She had exceptionally bright red hair pulled back into a single braid which reached all the way down the length of her back. Her face was proud and strikingly beautiful, with clear white skin and large, bright green eyes. Her dress was modest, a simple green dress and dark purple cloak.

  She strode into the room with purpose, a haughty air about her.

  “Milady,” Ardabur said. “I am grieved to hear of your brother’s death. He was a fine lad.”

  “Thane Ardabur,” Morag snapped coldly. “You are late. Where is your army?”

  “Still a day away,” Ardabur said, sitting back down. “If it doesn’t snow again.”

  Braemorgan and Morag took seats at either head of the table, Wulfgrim and Ardabur taking the seats directly across from each other. Braemorgan poured Morag a mug of mead and sat down.

  “Where is the dwarf?” Ardabur said. “Did he fall in battle, too?”

  “Lord Ironhelm?” Braemorgan said. “No, he is otherwise occupied but very much alive. Let us get down to the matter of this council.”

  “Start with explaining what the fuck happened,” Ardabur snapped.

  “Very well,” Braemorgan said patiently. “Since you insist. I’ve been able to decipher most of what occurred. Very few survived the battle, including Wulfgrim, but that has helped in terms of putting together the facts of the matter. All report that Agnar fought with courage and skill in his first battle. Indeed, he led a charge and felled several of the enemy before succumbing.”


  “There is no doubt he fought well,” Wulfgrim said, nodding. “He fell fighting.”

  Braemorgan paused, sipping his drink.

  “Three days ago Agnar received a report from one of his spies, a man by the name of Furloch,” he said. “This Furloch told him that Einar had a small garrison camped in a tiny hamlet ten miles from here across the river, no more than fifty men but to be reinforced in a couple of days with two hundred. The village, Furloch explained, was being used by Einar as a staging area for an attack on Loc Goren planned for the spring. Our young thane thought he had a rare opportunity before him. An isolated garrison could easily be cut off and destroyed. It would be a small but stinging defeat for Einar. The problem for Agnar was he could only spare two hundred mounted warriors for the expedition. I was still a full day away with one thousand men and Ardabur was two more days behind me. Had the weather last week been better, I would have been here and been able to both advise and accompany Agnar.”

  “That thrice-damned blizzard!” Ardabur said.

  “The wheels of history often turn upon such trivialities as the weather,” Braemorgan said. “Because of that blizzard, both of us were stranded for three days with two thousand men between the two of us. We’d have been here. For, you see, the spy’s report was but a ruse, false intelligence meant to trap Agnar.”

  “I didn’t think Einar had the brains to plan such a thing.” Ardabur growled.

  “He’s doesn’t,” Braemorgan said. “Einar is too much of a doddering imbecile to have come up with such a thing himself. Whoever is advising him is indeed crafty.”

  “Agnar was afraid to miss the opportunity he thought was before him,” Wulfgrim said. “I begged him to forgo the expedition, but he thought if he did not seize the chance you would chide him as overcautious when you arrived.”

  “And what a wonderful job of dissuading him you did, Wulfgrim,” Ardabur grumbled, his voice thick with angry sarcasm. “You were supposed to keep him in check until Braemorgan and I got back. Instead, you let him ride off into a trap.”

  “What would you have had me do, Ardabur?” Wulfgrim said, his voice growing loud. “Should I have knocked the lad on the head, or tied him up in the corner?”

  “Enough,” Morag said, jumping in. She shot Ardabur an angry glance. “Einar must have good spies of his own to have known our situation so well. To let us think the garrison was to be reinforced so soon! It forced my brother’s hand, before either of you could arrive to provide the extra manpower. Wulfgrim tried to stop him. I tried to stop him. Grang knows he never took much stock in what I had to say, but I still tried. He would not listen.”

  “It was a fool’s venture,” Ardabur said.

  “But you aren’t thinking like our young thane,” Braemorgan said. “He was eager to prove himself. He would have liked nothing more than for you or I to arrive here to news of a bold victory won on his own. He wanted us to praise him, to declare within earshot of his men how he was surely as bold and as daring as his father and his grandfather before him.”

  “Why else go himself?” the wizard continued. “Why not appoint a lieutenant to lead the excursion? Wulfgrim could have done the job easily enough. Strategically, Agnar would accomplish the same thing without risking his own neck. No, Einar knew what fish he was hooking.”

  “There must have been nearly a thousand mounted warriors in all waiting for us,” Wulfgrim said. “Plus five wizards in the first wave and as many in the next. We never stood a chance.”

  “And yet I notice you made it back alive,” Ardabur said.

  “What are you trying to say, Thane Ardabur?” Wulfgrim said, anger growing in his voice again.

  “Your duty was to defend him, not to run from the battlefield to save your own worthless ass!” Ardabur growled, leaning forward and pointing his finger directly at Wulfgrim.

  Wulfgrim slammed his fist on the table and leapt to his feet in spite of his wounded leg. Ardabur rose and glared across the table at him. Both men gripped the hilts of their swords.

  “Grang’s teeth!” Wulfgrim shouted. “You’d call me a coward! I’ll slay you right here, leg wound be damned!”

  “Is that what you want, old man?” Ardabur shouted back, moving to draw his own sword.

  “Enough of this,” Braemorgan said, himself rising. He banged his fist on the table. “Enough! Or you’ll both feel my wrath!”

  “What would you have had me do?” Wulfgrim went on, still shouting. “I begged the boy not to go! Morag begged him not to go! But he would not listen to either of us, and so he walked right into a trap! I watched him fall on the battlefield. He was knocked out of the saddle and a hammer blow came down on his skull. I’ve slain enough men to know a dead man hitting the ground when I see one.”

  Wulfgrim glanced at Morag. She had flinched visibly as he described her brother’s death, turning away.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet, sitting back down.

  “Now is not the time for blame,” Braemorgan said, taking his seat again. “Wulfgrim did all he could. That’s the end of it.”

  Ardabur sat down, silently glaring at Wulfgrim.

  “The greater issue is what to do now,” Braemorgan said. “Pointing fingers is a waste of time from which no good ever seems to come. Today is the Fourth of Terminor. Agnar rode out to his doom on the First and I arrived here early on the Second. That means I have waited here for the past two days, and so have had adequate time to assess the situation and decide upon a course of action. The situation, however tragic, is simple enough. We lack a suitable ruler for The Westmark. Our enemy Einar is Uilfric Ravenbane’s grandson through Uilfric’s daughter Brega. With Agnar gone, only another grandson of Uilfric’s could possibly challenge Einar’s claim.”

  “What of the girl?” Ardabur said. “Shouldn’t rule of The Westmark fall to her?”

  “The girl’s name is Morag,” Morag snapped.

  “Very well.” Ardabur rolled his eyes. “Morag is granddaughter to Uilfric. If she were married to an established thane, he could mount a credible claim to The Westmark.”

  “And who would that thane be, Ardabur?” Morag’s eyes flashed with anger. “Did you have anyone in mind? I’ll wager you did, and you’d best put it out of your mind. I’d chop your balls off the first time you passed out drunk in bed.”

  “Ardabur is right that we need a credible counter-claimant to The Westmark to rally the men around,” Braemorgan interjected. “Otherwise, a chest of silver will be all it takes for the king to validate his title. Einar has the advantages of controlling most of The Westmark, of being a grandson of Uilfric Ravenbane, and he wields the ancestral sword of the House of Ravenbane.”

  “Agnar lost the sword,” Ardabur said, his head sinking. “I had not considered that.”

  “All is not lost, though,” Braemorgan said. “By spring we could have five thousand men assembled. We can cross the river and take back The Westmark. But we need a leader and, although I have no doubt Morag has it within her to be that leader, there are more than political considerations here which we must take into account. Need I remind anyone of the prophecies?”

  Braemorgan rose. He began to pace the room.

  “For generations, we, the members of the Order of Balorus, have guarded the secret prophecies and facilitated their fulfillment. The days so many of the prophecies have been alluding to all these centuries are now finally upon us.”

  “We have only the prophecies and our sense of reason to guide us,” he went on. “What do the prophecies tell us of the one we have been waiting for, the Child of Storms? They tell us he will be born of the House of Ravenbane and he will be the ‘Son of the Red Axe’. The Red Axe, as we have long agreed, was Agnar and Morag’s father Loric. Throughout the north, that is the name he was known by. Although Loric never lived to rule The Westmark, the prophecies are clear the Child of Storms is his son. Now, the prophecies can be vague on certain points, but it is clear to me the Child of Storms must be a male. He is re
ferred to as ‘he’ and the ‘son’ of the Red Axe. Therefore, Morag cannot be the one.”

  “What of the meaning of the word ‘son’?” Ardabur said. “Hear me out. ‘Son’, in the original Luthanian in which the prophecies are written, also means any direct descendant of Loric’s. Why not a grandson? If Morag could produce a male heir, the infant could be the one.”

  “Again he brings this up,” Morag muttered. “Imbecile. You will never have me, Thane Ardabur.”

  “You might have a point, Thane Ardabur,” Braemorgan said. “Were it not for the fact that the hour grows late. How many years do we have? Ten, at the very most? Were Morag to give birth to a son tomorrow how old could the boy be before the final conflict begins? Eight or nine, perhaps. Moreover, she is not giving birth tomorrow.”

  “Nor any day soon,” Morag added.

  “Recall there is another son of Loric Ravenbane,” Braemorgan said.

  Ardabur scowled and looked around at the others in disbelief.

  “You can’t mean what I think you mean,” he said.

  “I do,” Braemorgan said.

  “The bastard?” Ardabur said. “Loric’s bastard? You mean to hand him The Westmark. That’s out of the question!”

  “We have no choice,” Braemorgan said.

  “Let Morag rule,” Ardabur said. “The girl may know nothing of battle, but that does not matter. We will run the war and she will be the symbol around which the men fight. All agree she is a rare beauty, which will inspire the men.”

  “That is not an alternative,” Braemorgan said. “I’ve discussed it with Morag, and she concurs. All of us, we have sworn to uphold the prophecies, however painful that may sometimes be. This bastard, he is the natural-born son of Loric Ravenbane and his only remaining son. There is the line in the Prophecies about the Son of the Red Axe: ‘And he shall be a stranger who knows not his father’s hall.’ That would tend to support the notion that the Child of Storms is a bastard.”