Ardabur continued to scowl and was silent for long moments.
“What do we even know of the bastard boy?” he asked.
“I have kept an eye on him all his life,” Braemorgan said. “Everyone in this room has always suspected that Loric’s other son, whom his mother gave the name Jorn, could be the Child of Storms. There are many in our order who have always maintained that he was. As it is, he turned eighteen only this past week, grown into a fine young warrior.”
“What did you say about this?” Ardabur said, turning towards Morag. “You want to call your father’s bastard your thane?”
“What I want is irrelevant,” Morag said. “What is, is.”
“Perhaps we should read from the prophecies,” Braemorgan said.
“We all know the Cantos by heart,” Ardabur growled,
rolling his eyes.
“Nevertheless,” Braemorgan said. He opened a red book sitting on the table. He turned to the back of the book, thumbing through the pages until he found the passage he sought. “I think it may be of some use to look over the exact words one more time. The final Cantos, translated from the ancient Luthanian, reads as follows
A Child of Storms shall be born of the line of Ravenbane
Son of the Red Axe, grown strong in his father’s image
His father’s weapon shall sting deeply, a grievous wound
And he shall be a stranger who knows not his father’s hall
And the Son of the Red Axe shall do battle with the Son of Kaas
Their war shall rage unto the shadow of the Fallen Mountain
Bearing the Priest’s gift of Fire, the Child shall meet his enemies
Yet the Island of Tears will always be foremost in his mind
The Dark One shall plunge Pallinore into mighty conflagration
As the Child wanders, an orphaned in the wilderness alone
The Child shall seek the ancient ones and call them to battle
As she of the gray eyes stands by his side throughout the tumult
The Dark One will fear him, sending slayers against the Child.
As the West descends towards war, he holds the power in hand
The greatest enemy of the Sons of Kaas, the stronger prevails
Traitors shall walk in the Child’s midst, always in the shadows
At the walls of the great city, the fire-bearer shall lead them.
The forces of Kaas shall there be cast down on the field of battle
The Child will bear the light, a leader of a vast host of spears
But the maiden’s memory shall haunt him and grant no succor.
Twain in nature, both confronting the Sons of Kaas
One aspect shall surely fall into darkness
Only when the heir is present may the demon’s eye be laid low
Then the final traitor will be all that remains.
Braemorgan closed the book.
“The Prophecies, as they are written in the Cantos, have always had a certain maddening vagueness to them which renders easy analysis difficult,” he said. “Some of the prophecies are exactingly specific, and others maddeningly vague or metaphorical. The line which says the Child of Storms ‘shall be a stranger who knows not his father’s hall’ has long vexed me, for example. I have speculated that, like so many of the Cantos, the line is but a metaphor. Perhaps it is. For a long time, however, many of us have suspected the line specifically means the Child of Storms would not grow up in his father’s house. That would fit Jorn.”
“So be it,” Ardabur said, his teeth clenched. “I don’t like it, but the prophecies…So we back the bastard. Where is he?”
“In the north of Linlund at a place called Falneth,” Braemorgan said. “He has been raised by his mother’s brother, a mighty thane there of excellent martial virtues by the name of Orbadrin. He has been brought up well.”
“We’d better get him here, and fast,” Ardabur said.
He paused, looking at the wizard.
“You’ve already sent for him, haven’t you?”
Braemorgan smiled.
“You know my ways well,” the wizard said. “I sent our Dwarven colleague, Lord Ironhelm, with some good men to fetch him and bring him here to Loc Goren. He departed yesterday morning. But that is not all.” He gestured towards a pair of parchment sheets lying on the table. “This morning I received a pair of dispatches from my spies in Einar’s army. The first is a report that Einar has secured the service of five thousand gruk troopers.”
“Gruks!” Ardabur shouted, pounding his fist on the table. “Those foul beasts! Einar would make alliance with them? That filthy dog! I wouldn’t have believed he could stoop so low as to do such a thing.”
“Read it,” Braemorgan said, handing the parchment to Ardabur. “Two of our best spies have confirmed it separately. Such a sizeable force is hard to hide.”
“Five thousand gruks!” Ardabur said, his eyes growing wide. “Grang! If that number is true -”
“It makes defeating Einar on the battlefield more of a challenge,” Wulfgrim said, understating the matter.
“Five thousand gruks,” Ardabur said again, shaking his head. “How the hell does he expect to pay them? Has he offered them land, or plunder?”
“I do not know,” Braemorgan said. “I also don’t know where he found so many wizards, either. Whoever is financing Einar in all of this has many resources to draw upon.”
“I think we know who – or what! - that is,” Wulfgrim said.
“We cannot be certain of that right now,” Braemorgan said.
“I can,” Ardabur said. “And I’ll tell you one more thing I’m certain of. We’re going to need more men. Thousands more come spring. For now, we need to keep Einar’s forces pinned down. If I move against The Westmark from the south, using every man I can haul into service, it might be enough to freeze Einar’s forces there for fear of my advancing any further. That might buy us the spring, maybe the summer, to raise more men. If the king lends us his support, we would have enough strength to beat back Einar’s gruks.”
“The king!” Wulfgrim snorted. “We’ve begged for his help. He has his own problems to the east, battling the King of Frostheim over some frozen swamp. The king!”
“We will deal with these strategic problems in due course,” Morag said. “Braemorgan, you said you received two dispatches.”
“Indeed I did,” the wizard said, picking up the second sheet of parchment. “The other message merely says the following: ‘Einar dispatched a pair of seasoned assassins to northern Linlund this morning. They left along the West Forest Road this morning. Their purpose is unknown.’ Well…I think we can all guess their purpose.”
“Einar has moved against the bastard,” Wulfgrim muttered. “Damn, he’s a clever bastard.”
“The good news, if there is any in all of this,” Braemorgan said. “Is that I sent Ironhelm along the Hill Path, due east over the Clegr Hills to the coast. We still hold the roads east and north out of The Westmark, so Einar’s hired killers will have to take a longer route to reach Jorn at Falneth than Ironhelm. Ironhelm will likely arrive in Swordhaven the day after tomorrow. From there it is a week north to Falneth, and he should be ahead of the assassins the entire way. With any luck he will be on his way back with Jorn by the time Einar’s assassins arrive at Falneth.”
“That dwarf had better not dawdle,” Ardabur said.
“Let us hope not,” Braemorgan said. “For if Ironhelm does not reach Falneth in advance of the assassins, I do not know what we should do.”
Three
Durm Ironhelm was in a rotten mood.
It was bad enough the weather had been so damned cold of late, but now a freezing sleet had begun. There were a few things to be happy about were he inclined to make the effort, however. There was hardly any snow at all so far into the Clegr Hills, for one, unlike to the west at Loc Goren. Here were only a few scattered patches of icy whiteness.
Another cause for happiness was that they were also almost o
ut of the wilderness. With any luck, they should be in Swordhaven before midday tomorrow. There they could buy horses and head up the Northern Road to Falneth.
Ironhelm sat on a log at the front of his little tent eating his dinner. The tent was little more than a large canvas sheet hung over the ground, but crouching under the front of it kept the rain off his head and the wind out of his face. The sausages he was eating were good, at least, nice and greasy like the dwarf liked them. The ale, however, was awful. But it was ale, after all, and that was what counted. He finished the last of the sausages and put the plate aside. He drank down the rest of his ale and belched loudly, wiping the foam off his beard.
They were camped along the Hill Path that ran over the rocky Clegr Hills from Loc Goren all the way to shores of the Bachwy Bay. For three days they’d been following it on foot, the rugged terrain too rough and too rocky for horses. They’d endured cold, wind, and the monotony of the ancient path. There were no inns or villages along the way to provide any respite, either, nor had they encountered a single traveler the entire time. Few enough traveled the Hill Path anymore, let alone in the dead of winter. Still, it was the quickest route to Swordhaven and the Northern Road.
Their camp was in a small clearing with a ring of small stones at the center that looked like it had been used for campfires many times before. The clearing was bordered on one side by the path and by a steep decline on the other. Ironhelm couldn’t see very far down the rocky hill through the dense pines and it made him anxious. The Clegr Hills had been safe enough for years, but one could never be sure about anything lately. Wandering trolls and gruk gangs were popping up in all sorts of places they hadn’t been seen since Ironhelm was a dwarfling with barely any stubble on his chin.
One of the human warriors with him managed to build a fire inside the ring of stones, in spite of the weather, and they set up their tents close around it. Ironhelm leaned over, picking up another piece of branch and tossing it into the flames.
The others sat huddled on their own log on the opposite side of the campfire at the front of another tent. Ironhelm eyed them disdainfully for a moment, then got up and refilled his cup from a jug sitting next to the tent. He sat back down and took a long gulp. It was still bad, watery and too weak, but the more he drank the better it became. The others, meanwhile, kept glancing his way but said nothing to him at all. From the outset, they barely spoke to him except when it was absolutely necessary. That was fine by Ironhelm. He was not a fan of idle chatter.
Although shorter than any of his companions by a more than a foot and a half, Ironhelm put forth an appearance that greatly surpassed the tallest of them in terms of fierceness. He had a long black beard getting greyer every year, broad shoulders, and a thick pair of arms covered with battle scars. His face was even more savage to behold, dominated by the hideous scar which ran along the left side of his face and right through his left eye. The eye was glassed-over and blind, the legacy of a long-ago battle and a gruk sword that almost slew him.
Ironhelm wore a thick leather hauberk over black chain armor and a bearskin cloak slung over his shoulders. A pair of throwing axes was stuck through his belt and a huge double-sided battle axe lay at his side right next to his battered old wooden roundshield, both within easy reach at a moment’s notice. Ironhelm’s old helmet, rusted and dented, sat upon his head.
Ironhelm considered the humans again. Their names were Fylfast, Thormund, and Hunwald, but that was all Ironhelm knew of them. Braemorgan had assured him they were reliable, loyal Westmarkers who would not shrink from battle. Not that Ironhelm was expecting anything of that sort. All they had to do was get to Falneth, retrieve the bastard, and escort him back to Loc Goren. To the dwarf, the humans were all dokmangrs, “newcomers”. Men had only lived in these parts for two or three thousand years, a short period in the reckoning of dwarves and even shorter in the memories of elves.
Hunwald, the youngest of the three dokmangrs, walked over and threw another piece of wood on the fire, even though Ironhelm had just done the same thing and the fire did not need it. The lad leaned forward and enjoyed the renewed warmth from the blaze before glancing over at Ironhelm.
“It sure is cold!” he said, sitting back down. He was a strapping young man, beardless, blond, and barrel-chested, just the type of fool always eager for a first taste of battle. “Drink up what’s left! We’ll sleep in proper beds tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“And I hear tell the wenches of Swordhaven are the best,” Fylfast said. He was older than Hunwald, bearded and stoutly built. “Eh, Master Ironhelm?”
Ironhelm looked up. They were starting to talk to him more as the days wore on. Why did humans always feel the need to talk, especially when there was nothing to say?
“Ach,” Ironhelm grunted. “I don’ know anything about tha’, laddies.”
His accent was thick, even after decades spent among the dokmangrs.
“Remember, we’ve a job to do,” he went on. “We buy horses in Swordhaven, get our supplies, and then it’s back to the road for us. Aye, tha’s all. No taverns and no wenches, laddies.”
“Who is this fellow we are going to fetch, anyhow?” Thormund, a tall gangly man with missing front teeth and beady little eyes, said. “The wizard did not say.”
“I know as much as you do, laddie,” Ironhelm lied. “Aye, tha’s all I know. He is of some importance, marked for death by the enemy, and Braemorgan wants him brough’ safely back to Swordhaven. Tha’s all we need to know. Aye, tis true.”
“I heard tell some years back that Thane Agnar had a bastard half-brother,” Thormund said. “That’s who he is we are going to get, our new thane. Isn’t it?”
“Ach. I don’t know anything about all tha’,” Ironhelm lied again. His tone grew harsh. “Make sure you all keep your mouths shu’ whenever we run into anyone. No, just keep your damned mouths shu’ all the time. Is tha’ clear, laddies? We find him, we guard him, and we bring him back to Braemorgan. We’ve no time for any nonsense. Aye, tis true.”
“Never time for nonsense, milord,” Thormund said, getting up from in front of his tent and walking off. “I need to piss.”
Ironhelm said nothing, taking a long sip of the watery ale.
Thormund left the camp, walking over near the edge of where the ground sloped steeply downward. Sleet still fell but he didn’t care. He had just the thing to warm his insides. Since just after lunch he’d been sneaking belts of Shalfurian brandy whenever the dwarf wasn’t looking. He was well past feeling much bothered by the rain or the cold.
He strolled down the slope a few more steps, looking back to make sure he was out of sight from the others. He walked around a man-sized boulder and leaned back against it, pulling out his steel flask from underneath his chain hauberk. He unscrewed it and drank deeply, enjoying the warmth of the liquor. It was good, but he did not yet feel quite as drunk as he wanted and raised the flask to his lips again.
Thormund took another gulp and glanced over his shoulder toward the camp. He thought about Swordhaven and the strong, clear liquor for sale there. He’d have a chance to buy plenty, he was sure, even if they were only going to be in the city for an hour or two.
There was no need to conserve the brandy any further.
_______
A hundred feet down the hill the gruks watched. They moved carefully through the underbrush, creeping behind boulders and gazing up the slope at the man in chain armor drinking and leaning against the large boulder.
“That’s one of them, for certain,” the lone human among them whispered.
He turned around and looked down the hill at the four gruks hiding behind a long, steep rock.
“Drood,” he said. “Take your fellows and go around to the far side of their camp. Block their retreat and stay put unless they come your way or I blow my horn.”
The tallest of the gruks nodded and bowed.
“Yes, milord Brundig,” the gruk rasped.
The gruks below scurried away, the others crouching down lo
wer and still watching the warrior atop the hill.
Brundig did not approve of Faxon’s alliance with the vile creatures. Neither he nor any other man in Einar’s service could stand being around gruks for any length of time, but he had little choice in the matter. The decision had been made, and he had to live with it.
Brundig hated the very look of the gruks, all of them, but could not help but stare at their ugliness. They were wiry, hideously deformed humanoids resembling mutilated, hairless apes more than anything else with their pointed ears and their leathery grey skin. All of them had random masses of tumors and strange growths all over their bodies. The worst, however, was the bleeding sores. All gruks had multiple open sores on their faces and necks which they constantly picked at until their skin became a cratered and bleeding mess. Trickles of blood and white-colored pus ran down all their necks constantly. Even now, one of the gruks with him absent-mindedly clawed at a bleeding sore on his cheek.
They were smaller than most men, standing barely as high as the typical Linlunder’s chest. And they never stood up straight, always slouching in a groveling manner which made them look smaller.
Brundig turned away. He hated their sheer ugliness and their hairy brutishness, not to mention their feeble brains and disgusting habits. They liked to eat whole rats raw, for one, their rotting teeth always bloody from their latest loathsome feast. The worst, however, was the smell.
“Damned shit-eaters,” he muttered under his breath as the nearest gruk dug at one of its facial sores, a trickle of dark blood trickling down its cheek and oozing over the puss from an infected sore. Protruding from its neck was one of those boney-looking growths all gruks had in abundance.
Still, Brundig supposed gruks had their uses. When they outnumbered their enemy, they were vicious fighters eager for battle. Of course, he also knew, the moment they thought themselves in real danger they turned into craven cowards and ran away without hesitation or embarrassment. They were inexpensive to hire, too, which made them cheap fodder. And if they helped him intercept those warriors camped above, then they were worth their price.
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 4