“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.”
Morag smirked, taking back the mug and sipping her drink.
“Besides, Ardabur is not the only one seeking your hand,” Glorbad said.
“Who else?”
“Einar, that’s who!” Glorbad said. “You know how he’s always looked at you, ever since he was a boy. He wants you, and not just for The Westmark. I almost think he only wants The Westmark so he can have you.”
“Glorbad, you think every man wants me,” she said. She put her hand on his. It was slender, white, and smooth.
“Every man who is not a madman does want you,” he said. “Braemorgan says it is your beauty which may save us all yet.”
“What?”
“Just something he said to me this morning. I was reviewing the defenses south of the keep. He came up to me, nodding and acting like he was interested in what I was doing. Then he looks me right in the eye and blurts out that you are the key to gaining more allies.”
“Did he?”
“He thinks if you are married to a mighty thane that would make your new husband into another ally.”
“So he wants to marry me off like some pawn? Grang’s teeth! He’s a plotting pile of rottenness! He’d trade me for additional troops, would he? I do not think so.” She stood, her voice growing louder. “The noble-born women of this country have always been treated like base whores, traded by their fathers or brothers like so much cattle. Not I! I’ll not be married off to some besotted old thane just because he commands a few thousand men. I won’t be auctioned-off like some harlot in Vistinar.”
He stood behind her, putting his hands upon her shoulders. They were tense with anger and he rubbed them gently. She began to relax, her tension melting away.
“Don’t be angry with me,” Glorbad whispered. “I’m just telling you what the wizard said.”
“I am not some prized mare to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“So tell Braemorgan to go to hell,” he said, brushing her hair aside and kissing the back of her neck softly. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. I thought you should know.”
“He doesn’t know when to keep that long nose of his out of matters which are none of his business.”
“It was strange the way he brought it up to me out of nowhere.”
“That’s it!” she exclaimed, turning back towards him. “He knows. I don’t know how he knows, but the old cur knows all about us.”
Morag threw her arms around his neck.
“What of it?” he said, gazing into her bright green eyes. “What concern is it of his?”
“It’s not.” She kissed his lips firmly. “And damn the scoundrel if he thinks otherwise.”
Eight
Once more, the aurora shone brightly across the infinite blackness. The dancing lights did nothing to mitigate the terrible wind, however. It cut through fur and wool like they were the lightest summer linen. Jorn ordered the bonfire atop the keep to remain lit throughout the night, but it did little to warm the guards who drew the loathsome duty of standing watch.
Jorn didn’t mind the intense cold, though. It was quiet, for one thing, a virtue he was learning daily to appreciate. Atop the keep, where no one but the guards on duty ventured this time of year, he had time to think. He could also watch the west, looking out across the river. The gentle rolling hills and thick timber stretched off in the distance as far as he could see. Beyond them, the imposing peaks of the Great Barrier Mountains were somewhere out there across the inky darkness. It all taunted him, land which was rightfully his yet out of reach.
Jorn had come around to concurring with Braemorgan. Einar only ascended to his position through treachery and probably murder. He had no more claim to the Westmark than some gruk. Jorn had never wanted the Westmark, it was true. Now that he was here, though, with five thousand men ready to fight for him, he found he couldn’t abide the thought of failure.
It was frustrating, however. With each passing day, Einar could be moving his own forces into place for attack. And yet here Jorn was with his newfound army, waiting and doing nothing.
It had been four days since the war council, and nothing seemed to have changed. They’d argued with him for nearly an hour, using every conceivable reason they could think of to forgo a winter offensive. Ardabur and the elf lord flatly refused to leave Loc Goren until spring. Even Jorn’s own captains seemed to be working against him. Except for Glorbad, they seemed determined to undermine him at every turn. Delay followed delay, and then it snowed for two whole days. Jorn began to see how impotent even a great ruler of men could be without the cooperation of his underlings. He pondered dismissing them and replacing them with others who would owe their rank and position to him. It was too early for such a move, however. The entire army might revolt and declare Morag ruler.
“Thanes do not stand guard duty, Jorn,” Braemorgan said from behind him.
Jorn was surprised, turning around.
“I come out here to think,” Jorn responded. “Not stand guard. Look across the river, would you? How close is Einar? He could be moving in behind that hill right now.”
“He very well might be,” the wizard said. “But you send out dozens of scouting parties each day. What more can you do?”
Jorn leaned on the battlement, still gazing out across the river.
“I’m failing,” he said.
“I wouldn’t be so harsh,” Braemorgan said.
“Ardabur and Rhydderch refuse to move until spring,” Jorn said. “My own captains delay me at every turn. Even if I could mount an attack, I don’t have any idea where Einar’s main force is. But…you know something? I think he’s close by. He’s pulled back his men just out of view, but he’s close.”
“How do you know?”
“I would be.”
“He may just be beckoning you out, like he did with your brother.”
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”
“A fool?” Braemorgan said, shaking his head. “No, not at all. What you are is young. You wanted to be bold and decisive at your first war council. That is understandable, and a virtue.”
“I’m certain Einar is coming, Braemorgan,” Jorn said, turning back to face the wizard. “Grang’s teeth, I’m certain! We’ll never be as weak again as we are ri
ght now, and he knows it.”
“Which is why this may not be the best time to attack,” Braemorgan said. “But let us say you are correct, and Einar is readying to attack us even now. What else would you do until your army is ready to march that you have not already done? You have set up pickets on the far side of the river and posted watches atop the hills to the north. It is your vigilance on this matter which may yet save us from a surprise attack. It may have even deterred Einar from attack, since he will no longer have the element of surprise. That in itself is a victory.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I am right. Now come in and stop this brooding out in the cold.”
“Tell me about Morag,” Jorn said.
Braemorgan frowned, sighing. “What about her? She is your older half-sister. You know that much already.”
“She has no love for me, does she?”
“No, she does not,” the wizard admitted. “She sees your very existence as an affront to her mother. Remember, your mother was Loric’s lover but Morag’s mother was his wife. Brunfrid was hardly pleased with the entire matter. Their marriage was one of convenience, nothing more. I suspect that is why Morag resists any such political match that might be arranged for her, recalling her mother’s misery.”
“When Loric met your mother, however, I never saw a man so aflame with passion. I think that is what galled Brunfrid. A powerful thane is expected to have a bastard or two running around. That is neither uncommon nor shameful. You can’t expect a man to give lifelong loyalty to a woman he never loved and who has never loved him. Nor should she remain loyal to him, for that matter. But your father refused to leave your mother’s side for more than a year. A mighty thane is allowed his mistresses and no one blinks an eye, including his wife, but he’s not supposed to shun his wife.”
“So Loric truly loved my mother?”
“Oh, yes. But his duty, and his responsibilities, lay elsewhere. In the end, he had to return to The Westmark and your mother couldn’t go with him. She didn’t like it one bit, but in the end duty comes before everything. It is the same with Morag. That is the curse of the high-born, I suppose. Do you think Morag enjoys seeing the legacy of her mother’s humiliation as thane? You are the child of the only woman Loric loved, and she is the child of the woman Loric could barely tolerate. But it is because of her duty as a daughter of the House of Ravenbane that she stands now by your side.”
“Am I just a figurehead?”
“What?” Braemorgan said, his face registering surprise. “No. Where did you get such an idea?”
“Either I’m ruler of The Westmark, or I’m not. Everyone here, they look to you for leadership. Not me, you.”
“You’re ruler, with all that implies. I will ride from your camp at once, if that is what you wish. These are your lands, after all.” He paused. “Your men are loyal to you, Jorn. They have sworn no oaths to serve the Wizard Braemorgan.”
“Then let me rule!” Jorn said. “Perhaps it is better that you leave. With every command I give men glance at you before obeying me. I cannot have it.”
“Do not be hasty, Jorn. Think this over carefully.”
“I have. I am grateful for all you have done. But -”
“But you would cast me aside as though I am a wandering bard who has overstayed his welcome!”
“Grang’s teeth! You leave me no choice. As long as you’re around, they’ll all look to you for leadership. That means I can’t lead.”
Braemorgan was silent.
“As you wish,” he said at last. His voice was heavy with disappointment as he turned away.
_____
Jorn walked along the river in the dark, several soldiers in tow. Whenever he left the keep, warriors stuck close behind him and guarded his person. It was an odd thing and he began to wonder if this was how his life would be from now on. He feared he’d never be left alone again to hunt or to climb lofty mountain peaks to enjoy the solitude and serenity. He feared bodyguards would forever shadow him, and he shuddered at the thought. Even if he defeated Einar and restored the Westmark to peace and security, would guards shadow his every step unto the end of his days?
It was late, many hours after midnight. Jorn had managed to sleep for a few hours, his talk with Braemorgan atop the keep weighing heavily on his mind. He awoke, unable to get back to sleep.
Many of the buildings in Loc Goren were built almost right along the river bank and so had to be employed as guard posts. Men stood atop roofs on guard duty, watching the silent field of ice. A few small fires were lit along both riverbanks and manned around the clock. At the slightest sign of danger, flaming arrows were to be shot high over the river.
They were as prepared as could be managed in so short a time. He remained worried, though. There were only three spellcasters among all his forces, though more had been sent for. That number would be down to two once Braemorgan left at dawn. By all accounts, Einar had a dozen or more wizards in his employ. In a pitched battle, so many wizards could turn the tide in Einar’s favor. And then there was this Faxon to consider. Brundig had hinted that he was a powerful wizard indeed who could be a significant threat.
Wulfgrim stood by the edge of the river next to a trio of soldiers all huddled around a fire. The men snapped to attention at Jorn’s approach.
“You’re up early, my thane,” Wulfgrim said.
“Clear night,” Jorn observed, scanning the sky. The northern lights had faded, leaving only the glorious panorama of the stars. Both moons were high overhead.
“I want the first scouting parties to go out right at dawn,” Jorn added.
“They’ll be ready,” Wulfgrim said.
“Good,” Jorn said. “I’m going with them.”
“That won’t do,” Wulfgrim said. Jorn could see him frowning in the dark. “Braemorgan thinks that –”
“Braemorgan is not thane,” Jorn said calmly. “I am.”
“Of course,” Wulfgrim said. “But, my thane, reconsider. It’s too risky.”
“I will join the scouting party,” Jorn said.
“After what happened to Agnar, I -”
“I promise you, I’ll take no undue risks. You can come along, if you wish.”
“I do wish,” Wulfgrim said.
A distant thud sounded from somewhere out on the river.
“Grathgrun, give us a light,” Wulfgrim barked.
One of the soldiers on watch nearby stuck an arrow in the fire. The oily rag wrapped around its tip burst into flame. The soldier notched it on his bow, pulling back on the string as he pointed the arrow high in the air and towards the general direction of the river. Up and over the river the arrow flew, lighting up the night with a bright orange streak. It flew upward through the darkness for long seconds, finally arching downward back towards the ice.
Long moments of tense silence followed.
“Why don’t they signal?” Jorn said. “They’re supposed to signal back!”
“Something’s wrong,” Wulfgrim said. “Raise the alarm!”
Jorn stared off into the darkness, drawing his sword. He gripped it with both hands and stared out in the wintry darkness.
“This is it,” he muttered.
_____
From out of the darkness a distant flame suddenly appeared on the far side of the river. It looked like a large torch or bonfire from where they stood. Another light appeared a few seconds later, just to the left of the first. Then yet another appeared, this time to the right. In scant seconds a line of fires had materialized along the entire length of the river. All around Jorn men were scrambling about, shouting warnings and readying weapons. The entire riverbank seemed suddenly alive with activity. Silently, the distant fires suddenly leapt up into the sky all at once.
“Catapults!” Wulfgrim shouted. “Take cover!”
The flames grew larger and brighter as they flew over the river towards them. A dozen of the fiery spheres crossed the span in a matter of heartbeats, burning across the dark sky as they
descended down upon the still sleeping village of Loc Goren.
Jorn understood exactly what had happened. The enemy had crept in close, somehow overwhelming the advance posts on the far side of the river. Perhaps they employed some type of wizardry, so complete was the ambush of the advance posts. Then they rolled-up dozens of massive catapults, capable of hurling flaming missiles the entire width of the frozen river. How Einar had managed to haul such heavy war machines over the deep snows across the river, Jorn couldn’t guess. More wizardry, he figured.
Ten catapult balls hit the town, several more falling short and crashing into the ice in mighty bursts of flame. Jorn had heard of such catapult shells, large balls of glass wrapped in oily rags and then filled with oil. The rags were lit and the missiles launched. As each missile hit, its glass shattered and the oil within caught fire.
The streaking fireballs landed all along the shore. One hit the roof of a small warehouse and exploded in a cascade of bright flame as it impacted. An archer standing watch there was set aflame and fell from the roof to the snow-covered ground. There he rolled back-and-forth, screaming in panic more than pain. He rose a few moments later, his clothes smoking and wet.
Another missile landed at the base of a nearby wall and exploded as it impacted. Flames crept up the side of wall with shocking speed. A few other missiles landed in alleys and muddy streets, exploding in great orange bursts which did little more than frighten. More men began to shout and run about now, roused from quiet sleep.
“The attack!” Jorn shouted loudly over the chaos. He was standing at the very edge of the river. “The attack is begun!”
“Withdraw from the river,” Wulfgrim said to him. “It’s too dangerous here. They’ll be another volley.”
“We need to charge across and take out their catapults!” Jorn insisted.
“We’ve not enough men yet,” Wulfgrim said. “We need to regroup further from the bank, then we mount the charge.”
“Grang’s balls!” Jorn muttered, surveying the scene.
Wulfgrim was right. They didn’t have enough men, at least not yet. He glanced back over the ice of the river and wondered what was going to soon charge across it, after the catapults had weakened up their defenses. How many troops were even now massing behind the line of catapults waiting to surge over the frozen river?
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 15
