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prophecies have been alluding to all these centuries are now finally upon us.”
    “We have only the prophecies and our sense of reason to guide us,” he went on. “What do the prophecies tell us of the one we have been waiting for, the Child of Storms? They tell us he will be born of the House of Ravenbane and he will be the ‘Son of the Red Axe’. The Red Axe, as we have long agreed, was Agnar and Morag’s father Loric. Throughout the north, that is the name he was known by. Although Loric never lived to rule The Westmark, the prophecies are clear the Child of Storms is his son. Now, the prophecies can be vague on certain points, but it is clear to me the Child of Storms must be a male. He is referred to as ‘he’ and the ‘son’ of the Red Axe. Therefore, Morag cannot be the one.”
    “What of the meaning of the word ‘son’?” Ardabur said. “Hear me out. ‘Son’, in the original Luthanian in which the prophecies are written, also means any direct descendant of Loric’s. Why not a grandson? If Morag could produce a male heir, the infant could be the one.”
    “Again he brings this up,” Morag muttered. “Imbecile. You will never have me, Thane Ardabur.”
    “You might have a point, Thane Ardabur,” Braemorgan said. “Were it not for the fact that the hour grows late. How many years do we have? Ten, at the very most? Were Morag to give birth to a son tomorrow how old could the boy be before the final conflict begins? Eight or nine, perhaps. Moreover, she is not giving birth tomorrow.”
    “Nor any day soon,” Morag added.
    “Recall there is another son of Loric Ravenbane,” Braemorgan said.
    Ardabur scowled and looked around at the others in disbelief.
    “You can’t mean what I think you mean,” he said.
    “I do,” Braemorgan said.
    “The bastard?” Ardabur said. “Loric’s bastard? You mean to hand him The Westmark. That’s out of the question!”
    “We have no choice,” Braemorgan said.
    “Let Morag rule,” Ardabur said. “The girl may know nothing of battle, but that does not matter. We will run the war and she will be the symbol around which the men fight. All agree she is a rare beauty, which will inspire the men.”
    “That is not an alternative,” Braemorgan said. “I’ve discussed it with Morag, and she concurs. All of us, we have sworn to uphold the prophecies, however painful that may sometimes be. This bastard, he is the natural-born son of Loric Ravenbane and his only remaining son. There is the line in the Prophecies about the Son of the Red Axe: ‘ And he shall be a stranger who knows not his father’s hall.’ That would tend to support the notion that the Child of Storms is a bastard.”
    Ardabur continued to scowl and was silent for long moments.
    “What do we even know of the bastard boy?” he asked.
    “I have kept an eye on him all his life,” Braemorgan said. “Everyone in this room has always suspected that Loric’s other son, whom his mother gave the name Jorn, could be the Child of Storms. There are many in our order who have always maintained that he was. As it is, he turned eighteen only this past week, grown into a fine young warrior.”
    “What did you say about this?” Ardabur said, turning towards Morag. “You want to call your father’s bastard your thane?”
    “What I want is irrelevant,” Morag said. “What is, is.”
    “Perhaps we should read from the prophecies,” Braemorgan said.
    “We all know the Cantos by heart,” Ardabur growled,
    rolling his eyes.
    “Nevertheless,” Braemorgan said. He opened a red book sitting on the table. He turned to the back of the book, thumbing through the pages until he found the passage he sought. “I think it may be of some use to look over the exact words one more time. The final Cantos, translated from the ancient Luthanian, reads as follows
     
    A Child of Storms shall be born of the line of Ravenbane
    Son of the Red Axe, grown strong in his father’s image
    His father’s weapon shall