Nineteen
“So that’s the invasion army the dwarves are looking for,” Flatfoot sighed. “I suppose we go back and warn them?”
They were huddled close around Ronias’s magically-glowing stones.
“No need,” Ironhelm mumbled. “They already know, laddie.”
“Is that so?” Flatfoot wondered.
“Did you pay no attention at all to Redhammer?” Ironhelm said. “There’s a watchtower facing the valley a thousand feet above the Widowing Gap, there is. There is no way they could miss those lights. Aye, tis true.”
“They’re meant not to miss it,” Jorn added.
“Wha’?” Ironhelm said.
Jorn took a sip of ale.
“The gruk raiders have been avoiding detection for months, and now all of a sudden they are camped within sight of the dwarf watchtower?” he said. “Grang’s teeth, that’s a blunder on their part.”
“Gruks have been known to blunder,” Ailric said.
“Use the spyscope and take a look for yourself, knight,” Jorn said. “Those aren’t regular campfires down there. They’ve got bonfires going. They’re trying to be seen. You saw that wall across the gap. What’s his name, um, Redhammer, he was right. The thing’s invincible. That army, it’s not massing for an attack.”
“Then what’re they doing?” Ailric said, shaking his head.
“It’s a diversion,” Jorn said. “It’s meant to suck ‘em in, make ‘em commit resources, meanwhile the whole time the killing blow strikes elsewhere. One thing this enemy understands, it’s exactly like what my uncle Orbadrin used to say: Half of warfare is deception.”
_____
The others were soon asleep. Jorn sat near the edge of the camp wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, his sword stuck in the ground next to him. He sipped a bit of ale sprinkled with plenty of Flannae and watched the darkness. Staring up at stars, his eyes fell upon a particular group to the west.
In Linlund, the constellation was called the helskhuggi, “The Lovers”. It was said to resemble a young couple entwined in an eternal embrace. Jorn never saw any such likeness, though Inglefrid did and he never argued. On clear nights they’d sit atop the cliffs near the lighthouse, looking up at the stars and talking until late.
It was hard to look at the night sky and not think of Inglefrid. Jorn’s mind went drifting back to Glaenavon as he fingered her copper pendant.
The morning after Braemorgan told Jorn of Orbadrin’s death, the wizard hurried off again with hardly a word. Whatever seemed to be bothering him, he didn’t say.
Summer passed into fall and a messenger arrived from Glorbinden one morning reporting Inglefrid’s grandmother had fallen ill. Inglefrid packed her things and Jorn walked her all the way to her grandmother’s rooms above the butcher shop. It was clear the old woman was fading fast, although no one said so. They parted reluctantly, Jorn walking back to the lighthouse in the dark with a heavy heart.
Back home, Jorn continued his studies. He focused again on the study of Elven, hating it as much as ever and aggravated by its arcane conventions and senseless grammar. Every verb had dozens of tenses, not to mention the innumerable modes and phases the elves seemed obsessed with. He wondered how elves ever communicated with one another, preferring the straightforward simplicity of Dwarven or the sparse economy of Old Luthanian.
History was Jorn’s solace during those weeks, as well as geometry. Both subjects came easily to him, and he saw important, universal truths in each.
Still, Jorn was distracted by Inglefrid’s absence. He’d try to study but his mind wandered back to thoughts of her. He even had a hard time focusing on his close study of Military History, usually an engrossing subject. He took to watching the path to the lighthouse, vainly hoping to see her running hurriedly back home.
Before long, he was inventing excuses to go to Glorbinden to see her. Sometimes he would have fresh-caught fish which needed to be delivered before it went bad, other times he’d wonder aloud if she needed help at some invented task.
Fearach would smile knowingly and usually give in. Jorn would then rush out the door and trot the entire distance to Glorbinden for a few precious hours with Inglefrid. He’d sit with her in the room above the butcher shop, her grandmother usually passed out in the next room from the powerful preparations the healer in Glorbinden had given her.
The old woman passed away the second week of Novenor.
Inglefrid returned home to the lighthouse, saddened for many days afterwards. She’d sit in her room, watching the surf hitting the beach far below, or wander up and down the cliffs by herself. It broke Jorn’s heart, but Fearach counseled him to give the girl time.
“Don’t rush trying to make her feel happy again,” he said. “Her old self will return, in due course.”
Fearach was correct. Before long, Inglefrid and Jorn were once more enjoying long walks up and down the length of the island.
“Tell me about that necklace you wear,” Jorn said one day as they returned from an afternoon walk to Eabea. It was overcast but hadn’t rained since morning.
“My father was a simple fisherman, but he also worked with the coppersmith,” she said, touching the necklace. It was a simple thing, just a little copper pendant cut into the shape of an oak leaf. “He made it for me when I was little. It is a very plain thing, I fear, but after the fever took my parents the townspeople burned their house and all that was within. This is all I have left of them. It must seem a trifle to a thane like you.”
Jorn looked down at his hand. The ring of Thorbadrin was on his finger, as always. He held his hand up for her to see.
“I understand exactly how you feel,” he said. “This ring is all I have of my family. Its enchantment probably saved my life at Loc Goren. The elf-healers were surprised that I survived my wounds. Braemorgan told me it was because I hadn’t yet fulfilled my destiny.”
“What if there is no destiny?” Inglefrid sighed. “What if what happens just happens and that’s all there is to it? Did the Gods plan for my grandmother to die when she did? Don’t they have better things to do?”
“Some think everyone’s fate has been decided from the beginning of time.”
“You sound like one of those dusty old books my uncle is always pouring over,” Inglefrid said. “Let me tell you a story. Once, when I was about seven, I was walking with Fearach on the beach. We came upon a whale who’d beached himself. It was a horrible thing to see, this gentle creature laying there dying. I ran up to him, crying. I begged my uncle to save him, to use his wizardry to put him back in the ocean, but of course there was nothing he could do. The whale died, and men with long scythes came and salvaged every last scrap of the carcass. I cried that night until I wore myself out. The next morning, I asked my uncle why the whale had beached itself. He said he didn’t know, that no one really knew. He said, ‘only Une really knows, if even He.’ I still think about that whale and I wonder. I wonder if perhaps the whale had just lived enough and decided it was time to go. Was that his destiny?”
“It sounds like you’re the one who has been pouring over Fearach’s dusty old tomes a little too much.”
She laughed, striking him in the arm playfully.
“Besides, what problems could a whale have?” Jorn added.
“Maybe he’d just decided it was his time. You think I am silly.”
“No, I don’t. It must be sad to see a creature go like that. It’s one thing if a hunter gets him. That’s life. The hunter has to eat, too. But there’s something terrible in just giving up like that. I don’t know.”
_____
The next day Fearach and Jorn took the walk to the far side of the island, nearly twenty miles over rolling hills and rocky valleys. They walked for hours, finally emerging from a thick copse of pine onto the top of a tall cliff overlooking the sea. It was a windy day, but clear enough so Jorn could see several tiny islands just off shore. The sea was rough, whitecaps abounding. They sat down along the path on a flat grassy area ove
rlooking the vista, taking out a pair of sweet, buttery cakes which Inglefrid made for them. Jorn ate his in silence, washing it down with a few swigs of ale. In the distance, a small fishing boat drifted by.
“What do the Gods want of man?” Jorn asked.
“What?” Fearach said, nearly choking on his bite of muffin. “Where did such a question come from so suddenly?”
“It was something Inglefrid said to me yesterday,” Jorn said. “The Gods and their wills seem so…they make no sense. Is there any purpose at all?”
Fearach laughed. “You do me too much credit if you expect me to know the answer to that!” he exclaimed. “About the only thing I am certain of when it comes the Gods, my lad, is my own ignorance. The truly wise man, when confronted with such questions, shouldn’t be afraid to admit to not having the answers. To speculate about such things just adds up to so much horseshit. Is there any divine purpose in all we see and experience? What do I know? What could I possibly know?”
“What of Une?” Jorn said. The books say so little of Him that -”
“The books say so little because He is so unknown,” Fearach said. “Haven’t you noticed in your studies that the elves have no word for Une? He is referred to as Eliaastlayana, ‘the one that is’. The elves believe that the many Gods are but His servants, even your Grang. Between them and Him, the elf philosophers contend, is a distance infinitely greater than the distance between you or I and the Gods. They say Une is everything and everywhere, and they may be right. Or not. I, for one, wouldn’t dare to pretend to be able to proclaim anything about Une’s nature, intentions, or purpose. I don’t even know if he has a nature, intentions, or any sort of purpose. How could I know?”
“Yes, but…if Une is as great as the elves say, then why is this world so awful?”
Fearach laughed heartily.
“I do not think there is anyone who has not at some point in their life asked that question in some form or another,” he said. “Once more, I’ve no answer. Some say we cannot see the entire complexity of creation, and so cannot understand that everything which occurs is part of a larger plan. Even if we can’t grasp how what happens is for the greater good, the advocates of that perspective say we must nevertheless trust in Une that whatever occurs does so for a very good reason. Others argue that this world may be but a battlefield.”
“Between good and evil,” Jorn said.
“The elves say Une forever battles the evil one, Kaas. Ultimate good versus pure evil, locked in eternal struggle. This, all around you, the world of men, dwarves, elves, and gnomes; and of gruks, trolls, and Saurians, too. This is their arena of combat. Each side sends agents to the world to fight for them. There are many agents for good in the world, but just as many for evil. That teaches us a very important lesson.”
“What lesson?”
Fearach smiled, getting up with a slight groan.
“You’ll figure it out on your own, in time,” he said. “Come now, it grows late and we’ve a long walk home. If we’re late for dinner, Inglefrid shall scold us.”
_____
“What god do you pray to?” Inglefrid asked Jorn one afternoon.
They were laying on the grass overlooking the sea about a mile from the lighthouse on an outcrop overlooking the straights. It was a beautiful day of rare sunshine.
“What?” he said, surprised by the suddenness of the question. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’ve just been thinking about that sort of thing a lot.”
“Me too.”
“So…who do you pray to?”
“You first.”
“I pray to Onara.”
“The goddess of wisdom and mercy.” Jorn said. “And fishermen.”
“Correct. She was the lover of the god Valus, until his twin brother Kaas grew jealous and slew him in a fit of anger. Une banished Kaas from the heavens as punishment for his crime, banning him forever from the celestial realm.”
“Another exile,” Jorn noted.
“But Onara could not be comforted,” Inglefrid continued. “For it is said her tears made the ocean. But because Onara is a goddess of life and love, even the product of her grief is a source of goodness. The fish come from the ocean, and the fishermen of the villages thank Onara for her kindness every morning. For, you see, she is the morning star, a light of hope in a world of darkness. Her appearance before dawn reminds us during even the darkest night, the sun will rise.”
“That’s very poetic,” Jorn said. “I’ve heard she’s also the evening star.”
“She is, which reminds us that, even though the darkness is about to arrive, she will watch over us. But that doesn’t appeal to you, does it? She’s not a goddess suited for warriors.”
“No, she’s not,” Jorn said. “My god is Grang.”
“I might’ve figured. You’re always swearing by him.”
“But I don’t pray to him. He considers it a sign of weakness and will deliberately send you misfortune if you try it.”
“That sounds horrid!”
“He appears as a giant wolf with bright-red fur.”
“Oh, my!”
“He’s not so bad as gods go. He demands battle, but against evil. When I die, I will go before him. He will ask me if I defended and protected my family and my people. He will ask me if I defended the weak, if I fought to protect those not strong enough to protect themselves. He will ask if did my duty.”
“And what is your duty?”
“I don’t know anymore. To you, of course. Beyond that I can’t say.”
His voice trailed off.
They said nothing further, laying back and watching the clouds passing by far above them. It occurred to Jorn, whatever wars men or elves fought or whichever gods were prayed to, the clouds just kept drifting by.
_____
Jorn often accompanied Inglefrid gathering herbs that fall, particularly on the windswept slopes of Eabea. Sometimes within sight of the old mountain king she would fill her baskets with the pungent clippings that enlivened bland northern cooking and brought salted codfish to life with their lingering flavors.
Inglefrid knew every herb on the island, having an uncanny sense for them. She might pick a stalk of vogleef, and sniff it thoughtfully. Sometimes she would toss it aside, declaring that the vogleef on this side of the island wouldn’t be ready for another week. Other times she’d smile and place the bluish grass in the basket she kept at her arm. Each time it was a snap decision, but she was never wrong. The wider world counted the knowledge of herbs a simple thing. Yet it was more complex and difficult than Jorn had ever imagined.
“How do you know your herbs so well?” he asked her one day as she poked around about a mile from Eabea’s somber countenance.
“My mother taught me,” she said. “I always had a great knack for it.”
“I only know war. I can tell you of the campaigns of Mender and Anin. I can look over a map marked with the relative positions of two armies and I can see how the campaign will play out.”
“That’s some boast!
“It’s true,” Jorn protested. “When I was five, Orbadrin was at war with a thane name Gunderfrud. I snuck into the war council room and listened to Orbadrin’s captains debating strategy. I crept closer and peeked at the map. It occurred to me in an instant what should be done. I tugged on Orbadrin’s cloak, trying to get his attention. My mother swept in and scooped me up but I still recall the map and Gunderfrud’s position on it like I was staring at it right now. I wanted to tell Orbadrin to send a force across the swamps to cut off Gunderfrud’s supply lines. He’d be forced to attack before he was ready or he’d have to pull back. Either way, he couldn’t maintain his position. That’s basic strategy, of course, but how could a five year-old have known that? I couldn’t have even expressed it at the time, but I still knew exactly what to do. It reminds me of the wolf cub who knows how to flush a badger from his den, though no one has ever taught him.”
The weather turned sour ove
r the next few minutes, a storm blowing in from the sea with swift ferocity. It was an unusually strong storm, bringing driving rain and gusts of violent wind down upon the island. Jorn and Inglefrid ran for cover, laughing in spite of the looming torrent.
There was an abandoned cottage not far off, but by the time they managed to get there they were soaking wet. It was tiny, not much more than ten feet square. It had rough-hewn stone walls, a thatched roof, and a dirt floor. Someone must have been using the cottage for occasional shelter, fresh hay piled high atop the floor and a pile of kindling next to the fireplace. There was a single window, its glass long since removed. The roof was still in good shape, though, and kept the rain out tolerably well. The fireplace was intact, as well, and Jorn soon had a fire going that warmed the little cottage as the thunderstorm vented its fury outside.
Inglefrid clung close to Jorn as peels of thunder rumbled. He wrapped his arms around her and she felt tiny next to his tall frame. Inglefrid turned towards him, her eyes filled with wild longing. Their lips found each other a moment later. With joy and relief, they gave themselves over to their desires without restraint.
When it was over, they lay together silently. Jorn was on his back, Inglefrid’s head resting on his chest. His hand gently stroked her long hair. Outside, the thunder still rumbled and the rains pelted the roof.
“We’re going to have a wonderful life,” he whispered.
_____
Braemorgan appeared one morning a few weeks later, interrupting breakfast at the lighthouse. He and Jorn walked to the top of a nearby hill, peering through the morning fog at the sea in the distance.
“It goes badly,” the wizard said. “Einar has extended his control over the Clegr Hills and even now threatens Swordhaven. My fear is he will soon be lord of that city and his domain will extend all the way to the coast. There are just too few to resist him, and the king still refuses to do anything. Cowardly wretch.”
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn growled. “What about our allies? Where are they?”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 38
