Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (29 page)

              “We would still need the troops to dislodge him,” Jorn said. “He will not just step down because his Cult allies are gone.”

             
“Most correct,” Braemorgan said. “But he will be much weakened. His berserkers and gruks will go home and you will find allies much easier to obtain than before against such a weakened foe. You have my word that after the vessel is in our hands and the threat to the Southlands destroyed, I shall make certain you have your troops. It will be my sole priority.”

             
“Grang’s teeth! I’m in!” Jorn shouted, slamming his hand on the table for emphasis. He turned towards Stormbearer. “Max?”

             
“I’ve never been one for causes,” Stormbearer said. “The man who fights for the benefit of others is a fool, I always say, but I can see certain advantages for myself in all of this. Yes…count me in, as well.”

             
“Aye. And me,” Ironhelm said.

             
“And I as well,” announced an ashen-faced Willock. He looked like a man who had just been sentenced to death. “I will do whatever I must in defense of Llangellan.”

             
“What a glorious quest!” Sir Ailric said. He seemed oddly elated by the whole prospect. “The Knights of Havenwood shall not go unrepresented in this endeavor! I shall lead you all.”

             
“Grang’s ass you will!” Jorn growled.

             
“There is no need to elect any leader,” Braemorgan said. “I am sure you can complete your task without resort to hierarchies.”

             
Jorn said nothing, taking another drink of ale and glaring at Ailric. Braemorgan turned towards the elf.

             
“Ronias?”

             
“What is in it for me?” the elf rasped.

             
“You will be adequately compensated,” Braemorgan said. “I know what it is you seek, and you know that I can provide it for you. This is your only opportunity and you would be well advised to take it. My offer is good for exactly ten seconds.”

             
“Very well,” Ronias said. “I will go, but I shall hold you to your promise.”

“Then that settles it,” Braemorgan said. “Get to the temple, snatch the vessel, then bring it to me. It can probably only be destroyed by magic, if at all, so don’t attempt its destruction yourselves. You shall meet me at Glammonfore Keep five weeks from today. We shall decide at that point exactly what to do with it. Perhaps the vessel will have to go into safekeeping again until it can be figured out how to destroy it."

Braemorgan paused again, taking a long puff from his pipe.

"So there you have it,” he said. “I take your commitments as solemn oaths.”

“Oaths should be sealed in blood,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, or with drink.”

“Without a doubt,” Braemorgan said, nodding. He put aside his pipe and rose from the table. He picked up his mug of wine and held it out before him. The others picked up their own mugs and rose along with him.

“To the quest before you,” the wizard said.

They clanged the mugs together and drained them.

_____

              The inn was quiet, everyone gone to bed. The only sounds in the common room were the rain beating against the window panes and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. Jorn sat by the fire. A bottle, a mug, and a small leather pouch on the table beside him. Leaning forward, he poured some more of the amber fluid from the bottle into the mug. Picking up the pouch, he sprinkled a little of the ground mixture within into the whiskey.

He sipped the concoction as he stared at the small copper amulet in his hand. The amulet, no larger than a coin, was carved into the shape of a crudely-formed oak leaf and attached to a plain leather cord. Jorn held it up, the flickering firelight dancing upon its surface. He took another sip.

“Do you mind if I share a drink with you?” Braemorgan asked.
Jorn started in surprise. He hadn’t heard the wizard approach.

             
“Be my guest,” Jorn said. “Say what you want about these damned Southlanders, they make good whiskey.”

             
Braemorgan sat down next to Jorn. He picked up the bottle and poured himself a little of the drink. The bottle was light, almost empty.

The wizard noticed the pouch.

              “You still take
flannae
?” Braemorgan said.

             
“It dulls the shoulder pain,” Jorn said.

             
“I see,” Braemorgan observed. “You’re up late again.”

             
“So are you.”

             
“I thought I might have a puff of my pipe by the fire. There is much on my mind. Glenaevon still weighs heavily on your mind, I perceive.”

             
Jorn glared at the wizard, taking another gulp of the whiskey.

             
“How could it not?” he growled.

             
“You blame yourself.”

             
“Who else? And Einar. Grang’s teeth, I’ll see him dead!”

             
“You have been consumed with rage ever since you left Glenaevon,” Braemorgan said. “Your nights are spent staring into fires getting drunk enough to pass out, your days bleary-eyed, hung-over, and wallowing in anger.”

“What of it?”

“Consider this,” Braemorgan said. “If a man lives only for vengeance, then he will have nothing left to live for after it has been granted him.”

_____

             
The morning dawned overcast and cool, a light breeze coming from out of the east. It was no longer raining, but the road through town was wet and muddy. A sparse fog blanketed the quiet village and the silent woods all around.

The travelers were up early, saying little as they saddled horses and packed supplies.

              Some distance away from the others, on the far side of the old stone bridge by the mill, Braemorgan and Ironhelm strolled along the road and up the hill overlooking the village. They reached the hilltop. Turning, they looked back down upon the fog-shrouded rooftops of the village below.

             
"You won’t be disappointed," the wizard said.

             
"Ach. I hope not," Ironhelm snorted. “They’re both awfully young, they are. Aye, and as hot-tempered as pair of wounded boars."

             
"Jorn is a seasoned fighter,” Braemorgan said. “You know that. Besides, the prophecy insists he
must
come along. As for Sir Ailric, I can assure you that he is an exceptional knight who has seen much battle.”

             
“Aye, and wha’ about this Willock?” Ironhelm said.

             
“What of him?” Braemorgan said. “He’s as skilled a scout and tracker as I’ve known and is perhaps the best archer in all of Llangellan. He will not let you down.”

             
“Wha’ about Stormbearer?” Ironhelm said. “Is the laddie good enough to get us through tha’ Guardian tunnel?”

“You sound skeptical, Durm,” Braemorgan said.

“I wonder why you picked him,” Ironhelm said. “After all, the gnome is barely a day’s -”

             
“Stormbearer is among the very best at his trade,” the wizard snapped. “At least as good as the gnome. Perhaps even better.”

             
"I don’t believe tha’ one bit,” Ironhelm said. “The gnome may be a pompous little ass, tis true, but he’s the best damned trapbreaker there is.”

             
“I’m not about to go to that greedy little rat begging him to join this expedition,” Braemorgan said. “He still insists I owed him a certain unpaid sum, and would likely demand the imaginary debt be paid in full - with interest, I am sure! - before agreeing to go. I’m not so reduced in circumstances to humiliate myself in that manner. Stormbearer will do.”

“Aye, if you say so,” Ironhelm said.

Ironhelm’s gaze fell upon the meadow to his left. He stopped, staring at the fog-cloaked woods beyond.

             
"What is it?" Braemorgan asked.

             
"Something I keep thinking abou’," Ironhelm said. "Last night, as I passed by here, I could’ve sworn for just a moment something was in those trees there. Aye, it was watching me, it was, and then took off."

             
"Oh? What do you think it was?"

             
"I thought for a moment it was a gruk. It smelled like one, it did, but there’re no gruks in these parts. Aye, not for hundreds of miles."

             
"These days one can never be sure.”

             
"It was a deer. Aye, had to be."

             
The Wizard frowned.

“There are reports of increased gruk activity to the south,” he said. “I left King Geirwen only two days ago and heard tale of it. Troops are to be shifted there and messengers have been sent out calling the nobles to their duty. He is good a man, intelligent too, both being rarities among monarchs. I fear he’ll be too cautious when the attack comes, however, for he is given to tentativeness and self-deliberation. It’s not his fault, you know. He never thought he’d be king, not with two older brothers. Now he finds himself ruler over a vast realm on the brink of war.”

They started back towards the village, the dwarf scanning the sky for signs of improved weather. Braemorgan remained silent, lost in thought.

"It’ll be slow going today, aye, it will," Ironhelm observed. "The road is muddy as all hell."

              "I will go with you as far as the crossroads a half dozen miles east," Braemorgan said. "Then I turn north, and you will be on your own. One last thing…"

             
Braemorgan produced a small pouch and handed it to Ironhelm.

             
"That should provide adequate funds in case of any, um, unforeseen emergencies which might arise," he said.

Ironhelm nodded, tucking the pouch into the small satchel at his side.

“The laddie looks well enough,” Ironhelm said. “Seems he’s recovered from his wound. Aye, tis true.”

“Oh, yes,” Braemorgan said. “It took time, but he’s strong as ever. If the prophecies are as I have interpreted them, he will be decisive in defeating Amundágor with this quest. Guide him well, Durm.”

“Aye, I will. Was the laddie hiding on Glaenavon all this time?”

“It is a long story, old friend, and too long a tale for today.” Braemorgan scanned the sky. “Ah, look there! I believe that is a bit of blue sky over yonder.”

_____

              Jorn finished saddling his horse, glancing up the slope where the wizard and the dwarf stood talking. They were well out of earshot.

             
“How can you be sure?” Stormbearer was asking Willock. Jorn had no idea what they were talking about, distracted and constantly glancing up at the hill.

             
“Long experience,” Willock answered. “By midday, the sun will be out and all these clouds will be gone.”

             
“Are you woodsman or soothsayer?” Stormbearer said. “Who could know such a thing?”

             
“Do you feel that breeze? Yes?” Willock said. “It’s from the east, off the mountains. A southern wind in the morning always brings dry, cool air. By midday you will be enjoying sunny weather.”

             
“I should like that,” Stormbearer said. “These western lands are all too damp. You know, in Vandoria it is a much drier climate.”

             
Jorn checked the straps on his saddle one last time and looked back up the hill. Ironhelm and Braemorgan were now walking towards them.

             
“What the hell does Braemorgan have to say to the dwarf that we can’t hear?” he said. “Why must they take counsel in secret?”

             
“Oh, they’re probably just talking about that barmaid’s bosom last night,” Stormbearer quipped. “Was I the only one transfixed? I didn’t hear a word Braemorgan had to say the whole night I was so distracted. Wherever
are
we going, by the way?”

             
Ailric and Willock chuckled. Jorn smirked, turning away in silence. Ronias was sitting silently a few yards away on the front porch of the inn ignoring everyone and sipping from a metal flask.

             
“I hope Braemorgan doesn’t expect me to take orders from the dwarf,” Jorn announced. “Or from any of you.”

             
“Just don’t think
you’ll
be ordering
me
around, Ravenbane.” Sir Ailric said coldly. “I will not be commanded by some landless Linlundic barbarian.” He paused, eyeing Jorn. “Tell me something,
Thane
Ravenbane. The fall of The Westmark was a rather famous, or perhaps I should say infamous, event. We heard tale of it in Havenwood. I have an interest in history and want to make sure the accounts are accurate. Is it true that you were defeated in one-on-one combat with your cousin?”