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.”
Jorn looked the trio over quickly.
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 Rhydderch brings one thousand archers with him,” Braemorgan said.
Jorn nodded, still 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. His 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 take 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.”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 14