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Wulfgrim.
                  Wulfgrim slammed his fist on the table and leapt to his feet in spite of his wounded leg. Ardabur rose and glared across the table at him. Both men gripped the hilts of their swords.
                  “Grang’s teeth!” Wulfgrim shouted. “You’d call me a coward! I’ll slay you right here, leg wound be damned!”
                  “Is that what you want, old man?” Ardabur shouted back, moving to draw his own sword.
                  “Enough of this,” Braemorgan said, himself rising. He banged his fist on the table. “Enough! Or you’ll both feel my wrath!”
                  “What would you have had me do?” Wulfgrim went on, still shouting. “I begged the boy not to go! Morag begged him not to go! But he would not listen to either of us, and so he walked right into a trap! I watched him fall on the battlefield. He was knocked out of the saddle and a hammer blow came down on his skull. I’ve slain enough men to know a dead man hitting the ground when I see one.”
    Wulfgrim glanced at Morag. She had flinched visibly as he described her brother’s death, turning away.
    “I’m sorry, lass,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet, sitting back down.
                  “Now is not the time for blame,” Braemorgan said, taking his seat again. “Wulfgrim did all he could. That’s the end of it.”
                  Ardabur sat down, silently glaring at Wulfgrim. 
                  “The greater issue is what to do now ,” Braemorgan said. “Pointing fingers is a waste of time from which no good ever seems to come. Today is the Fourth of Terminor. Agnar rode out to his doom on the First and I arrived here early on the Second. That means I have waited here for the past two days, and so have had adequate time to assess the situation and decide upon a course of action. The situation, however tragic, is simple enough. We lack a suitable ruler for The Westmark. Our enemy Einar is Uilfric Ravenbane’s grandson through Uilfric’s daughter Brega. With Agnar gone, only another grandson of Uilfric’s could possibly challenge Einar’s claim.”
                  “What of the girl?” Ardabur said. “Shouldn’t rule of The Westmark fall to her?”
                  “ The girl’s name is Morag,” Morag snapped.
                  “Very well.” Ardabur rolled his eyes. “ Morag is granddaughter to Uilfric. If she were married to an established thane, he could mount a credible claim to The Westmark.”
                  “And who would that thane be, Ardabur?” Morag’s eyes flashed with anger. “Did you have anyone in mind? I’ll wager you did, and you’d best put it out of your mind. I’d chop your balls off the first time you passed out drunk in bed.”
                  “Ardabur is right that we need a credible counter-claimant to The Westmark to rally the men around,” Braemorgan interjected. “Otherwise, a chest of silver will be all it takes for the king to validate his title. Einar has the advantages of controlling most of The Westmark, of being a grandson of Uilfric Ravenbane, and he wields the ancestral sword of the House of Ravenbane.”
                  “Agnar lost the sword,” Ardabur said, his head sinking. “I had not considered that.”
    “All is not lost, though,” Braemorgan said. “By spring we could have five thousand men assembled. We can cross the river and take back The Westmark. But we need a leader and, although I have no doubt Morag has it within her to be that leader, there are more than political considerations here which we must take into account. Need I remind anyone of the prophecies?”
    Braemorgan rose. He began to pace the room.
    “For generations, we, the members of the Order of Balorus, have guarded the secret prophecies and facilitated their fulfillment. The days so many of the