Seeing the small village brought home a pang of loneliness. From a distance, it could have been mistaken for Leondorf. It was a cluster of buildings surrounded by a ditch and a wooden palisade. Tendrils of smoke twisted up through the air from stone chimneys surrounded by thatched roofs, and even at that hour, he could see people moving about as they finished their daily chores. Someone in Brixen had mentioned that the farther you got from the cities, the more like the Northlands Ruripathia became. Wulfric could see it here, and it tore at his soul. Why could the way of life survive here, in Ruripathia, when it was being choked out in Leondorf? He thought of his mother and of Greyfell, and all the other things he had left behind, and wondered if he would ever be able to go back. The small, timid boy who still hid in the back of his mind sought the comfort of a bowl of his mother’s stew, the warmth of the hearth, and the knowledge that his father, the Strong Arm, would be home before long. So much had changed in so short a time, and it made his heart sink.
He rode down to the gate and looked about the palisade for guards. Even in the evening gloom, he could see that the palisade had been recently reinforced, large sections of its wooden planking pale and leaking sap.
‘I seek shelter for the night, and a hot meal,’ he shouted.
An unseen speaker replied. ‘Gates close at dusk. We don’t open them till dawn. Find somewhere else.’
‘I am Ulfyr, Captain of the Royal Guard, Champion to Her Royal Highness, Princess Alys. You’ll open your gates for me. I mean you no trouble and will pay my way.’
He could hear a whispered discussion on the walkway above, then several torches were lit, casting a pool of light around the dusky gateway.
‘You’re alone?’ the voice said.
‘I am,’ Wulfric replied.
Wulfric heard the commotion of the wooden bar being removed, and the gate creaked open, revealing a half-dozen wary faces illuminated by torches. Their eyes flicked about nervously, but it was not Wulfric they were looking at. They scanned the fields and tree line behind him.
‘Come in, come in,’ one of the men said. ‘Be quick about it.’
Wulfric shrugged in puzzlement, and urged his horse forward, having to duck his head so as not to hit it on the top of the gate. He looked about at the small village, and tried not to allow himself to dwell too long on thoughts of Leondorf. Even the smell was familiar, the bitter tang of unseasoned timber smoke enriching the air. The wooden buildings surrounded a muddy central square with a few outlying buildings. It was cold, and growing colder by the minute now that the sun had set. Summer was still a way off, and this far to the east, the cold breezes continued to reach down from the mountains, chilling everything before them.
‘What is the name of this place?’ Wulfric said.
‘Ulmdorf, lord,’ the man who had spoken said.
‘Do you have an inn here?’
‘Gunther has a room at the back of his tavern,’ the man said, pointing to one of the buildings.
Wulfric doffed his hat and urged his horse forward, leaving the six men to watch him go. Rural folk could be an odd lot when it came to strangers. He remembered how Leondorfers would react when an unknown face arrived in the village. Suspicion, fear, curiosity. He had armour and weapons in clear view, and reckoned all three of those emotions were raging around in the men’s heads. They all had short swords or hatchets, and three of them had carried spears, but none of them had the look of fighting men. In the south, it was a lord’s duty to maintain order in his lands, and it gave Wulfric a sour taste in his mouth to think that this village was forced to take matters into its own hands. He doubted very much whoever they owed fealty to was foregoing their tax payments, yet they were left to fend for themselves. The sooner the princess could get a firm grip over her country, the better. While the wealthy and powerful squabbled amongst each other, it was always the ordinary men and women who suffered.
He reached the indicated building and dismounted. As he tied his horse to a post outside, he realised the men at the gate were in a heated discussion, and casting frequent glances at Wulfric. In a small place like that, he expected the suspicion, but there was something not right about the men at the gate—nor the village of Ulmdorf, when he paused to think about it—and the memory of his encounter with Haldan was still fresh in his mind. If these men meant to cause him trouble they would regret it. If someone had paid them to do so, they had a poor eye for fighting talent. He took his sheathed sabre from where it was strapped to his saddle and attached it to his belt before going inside.
Warm air hit him a welcome blow when he opened the tavern door and stepped inside. There was a crackling fire and a man leaning on the small bar staring into the flames. The tavern was empty otherwise.
‘Quiet night?’ Wulfric said as he walked in and closed the door behind him.
The man shrugged. ‘Where you from?’
‘You Gunther?’ Wulfric said, ignoring the question.
The man nodded.
‘I’ve come from Brixen. Travelling to the mountains. You have a room I can take for the night?’
Gunther looked him over. ‘A florin a night,’ he said. ‘Includes breakfast in the morning.’
Wulfric took a silver florin from his purse and tossed it to Gunther, who snatched it from the air and put it in his pocket.
‘I’ll take a plate of whatever hot food is going, and a mug of ale before turning in,’ Wulfric said.
Gunther nodded and started to fill a mug from the tap on a cask propped up on the end of the bar.
‘Ever heard of a mountain called “the Fork”, or “the Forked Mountain”?’ Wulfric said.
‘Aye. I know the Fork. You can see it from here on a clear day,’ Gunther said. ‘Not the shape of it, mind. Need to be farther north or south for that. Why d’you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Wulfric said, comforted by the discovery he might be on the right track.
Gunther smiled, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. ‘Prospector, eh? Afraid we’ll steal your riches if we know what you’re up to?’ He laughed, then his face grew serious. ‘There’s worse things that can happen to you out there these days, mind. Anyhow, the mountains round here were mined out when the emperors ruled. Nothing left up there but holes in the ground. Think I’d be pouring mugs of ale if there was a fortune in gems and ore on my doorstep? No, it’s long gone. Good luck to you, though. Maybe Divine Fortune will be kinder to you than those who’ve come before you.’
Wulfric shrugged, and was trying to come up with a response when the door opened, and three of the men from the gate walked in. Wulfric’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sabre, but he didn’t look over. His skin started to tingle, as it always did, in anticipation of a fight.
‘YOU SAID you’re a captain in the Royal Guard,’ one of the men said.
The three men walked farther into the tavern, edging closer to the fire, appearing glad to be out of the cold. If they meant to cause him trouble, the reception they got would be far icier than anything waiting for them outside, but they didn’t have the look of men about to start something. He looked at each of them. They still had their weapons, but they hung awkwardly in loose grips, like clothes that were too large and clearly made for someone else. There was nothing threatening about them, no madness in their eyes. The only thing there was fear. He relaxed and moved his hand away from his sword.
‘I did,’ Wulfric said, ‘and it’s the truth.’
‘You on Her Highness’s business?’
‘After a fashion,’ Wulfric said.
‘She’s sent him looking for silver and gems,’ Gunther said, his pleasure at knowing more than his fellows clear on his face.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Wulfric said. ‘Her business is none of yours.’
‘That may well be,’ the man said. ‘But our business is hers. Since Lord Hochmark met his end, his lands are hers and we are too.’
Wulfric nodded. It fitted with his basic understanding of how things worked in Ruripathia.
‘Wh
ich means our business is your business, the way I see it,’ the man said.
His fellows nodded. Gunther eyed Wulfric like a dog hoping for table scraps.
‘What is it you want of me?’ Wulfric said.
The man looked at his fellows awkwardly, as though he was embarrassed by what he was about to say.
‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said, as though it was Wulfric’s fault. ‘And with Lord Hochmark gone, there’s no one to help. We sent word to Her Highness, but were told that we had to look to ourselves, that there were no soldiers available to help. Now you’re here, and she owes us protection in return for our taxes.’
‘You’ll have to take that up with her,’ Wulfric said, with steel in his voice. He didn’t know what their problems were, and he didn’t care—they were nothing to do with him. The last thing he needed was to get side-tracked. He wanted to be done with his fool’s errand and be back in Brixen within two weeks.
The man’s face changed from indignation to fear. ‘Please, we need help. None of us are fighting men. Please, lord.’
There was a desperation to his voice that weakened Wulfric’s resolve. He could remember Belgar telling him that the true purpose of a warrior was to fight for those who could not fight for themselves, not to seek glory or riches or fame. They should be servants, not rulers. Although he had thought that Ulmdorf was not his problem, that they were not his people, he realised that they were. They were the princess’s subjects, and he was in her service. It was her duty to protect them, which meant it was his also, just as if they were the people of Leondorf. It went deeper than that, though. He was a warrior, and Jorundyr would expect him to help those in need of it, if it was within his power.
‘What’s your problem?’ Wulfric said.
‘Demons, lord. Draugar.’
CHAPTER 21
Rodulf knew that trying to identify the culprit via the post office would be like attempting to find a needle in a haystack. Thousands of letters and parcels passed through it each day, brought by the mail coaches from parts foreign, or left personally by the sender for delivery to almost anywhere in the known world. In a city like Elzburg, he expected several hundred people would pass through the building each day, perhaps more.
At that point in time, he couldn’t think of anything else to do, however. The person stalking him was clever—he wasn’t prepared to admit the possibility that they were cleverer than him—and had done well in covering their trail. In ordinary circumstances, that would only make the game more interesting, but it was not the time for such things. He needed the problem to be gone, so he could focus his mind on more important matters. He would have to look into each possible avenue of advancement before he could discount a single one. That left his two loose ends.
His first call was to the kitchen. He had not been back there since breaking with the girl. He had no further need for her, and struggled to even remember her name. The Markgraf’s Lord Lieutenant could have whatever he wanted to eat, whenever he wanted it, and have it brought to him—the same could be said for his women.
He walked into the main kitchen and looked around, breathing in the deluge of smells: bread baking, meat roasting, and cookfires smoking. He spotted the kitchen girl, her face smeared with flour, and cleared his throat. She looked over, then away, her face falling. It was the face of a woman scorned, not a woman exacting a tortuous revenge. He knew in that instant she was not the one sending the letters. It was not the reaction of a blackmailer.
He considered going over to speak with her, but there was nothing left to say. There was a tray of pies cooling on the worktop, and his eye fell on them. He smiled and took one—it would have been a waste not to, having gone all the way down to the kitchens. He munched on it as he walked back to his office. At first he had worried that he would put on weight with all the fine food at the palace, but it seemed he could eat what he wanted and not have to worry about his waistline. If anything, he reckoned he had grown thinner since coming to the palace. The stress of the work, he thought.
Nonetheless, he felt more settled than he had in days. Even though he was comfortable the girl was not someone he needed to worry about, he had not completely dismissed the thought of having her killed to be doubly certain. Another death at the palace could draw too much attention, and he would need a very good reason to do it, a reason his visit made him sure he did not have. The remaining loose end, the apothecary, he was less concerned about. The apothecary had not known who he was when he bought the poison. He had worn a disguise, and credited himself with enough skill that it would guard against future recognition. With the Stone doing whatever it did to other men’s minds, he was confident the apothecary didn’t even remember selling him the poison, let alone recall his face. He was not, however, connected to the palace, and that distance made him easier to remove. With so many mercenaries about, it was inevitable that crime rates would go up. Apothecaries were always a target for those looking for something stronger than willow bark or wormwood. It would be an easy enough thing to arrange with no tangible consequences. Plus, it would save him a trip out into the city in disguise.
THE ORDINARY BUSINESS of the Markgraf’s court was becoming an ever-increasing nuisance to Rodulf. Taxes, hearing legal complaints, dealing with over-entitled nobles—it sucked up the day at an alarming rate. Being visible when the Markgraf sat in audience was an important part of Rodulf’s agenda—the more familiar a sight he was, the easier it would be for them to accept him when the time came. Nonetheless, it took up hours that he did not have to spare, and he found that as he stood beside the Markgraf in the audience hall, staring out over the assembled nobles, his mind was completely occupied by which of them was sending the letters; he was certain it had to be one of them.
The hall was full that morning, the space between the drab stone walls filled with the powerful of the Elzmark in their fine clothes, a sea of bright colour and ingratiating faces. Rodulf scanned them as usual, trying to recall any details about the faces looking back up at the Markgraf, which ones were smart, ambitious, strategic, and which were dull, lazy and unlikely to be a threat. He paid particular attention to those men for whom his rapid rise was the greatest affront. Dal Geerdorf was the obvious culprit—he was powerful enough to influence the domestic staff to spy on him and keep quiet about it, despite Rodulf owning all of his debts. Perhaps he was too obvious a choice. Who else?
He overheard a murmur from a group gathered near the dais, and snapped his focus back to the task at hand. The group was discussing the gathering of soldiers outside the city walls, as Rodulf had fully expected. It was time to put to the test their Northland expedition story. He had been leaking it out for several days, but this would be the first official announcement, and Rodulf hoped it would be enough to quell any discontent among those not privy to the plot. The most powerful magnates in the hall knew the truth, but they were as culpable as anyone, so Rodulf didn’t expect them to cause any trouble. In any event, the Markgraf was the one who had to deal with it. Rodulf could step back if matters became heated.
He worried about the Markgraf, however, and that was as much his own fault as any. Between the deaths of his children and the constant barrage Rodulf had placed on his resolve, Rodulf was concerned that his will was too weak to control his nobles. Their onslaught might be too much for him to bear. As he had broken him down with the Stone, Rodulf knew he now needed to prop the Markgraf up with it. The risk was great. What if he gave the man too much strength—enough that he could cast Rodulf off? There was so much he didn’t know about the Stone; every use seemed like a leap into the unknown, all the more so now that he realised it was causing him physical harm. There was nothing for it, however. Soon he would have so much power, he would rarely—if ever—have to reach for it.
His noble rank placed him far down the pecking order, but at the Markgraf’s side he carried far more power and influence than men with ancient titles that marked them out as the highest peers of the land. The newness of his title placed him be
low every other baron in the Mark, but he soared over all of them and he knew they hated him for it. One of them was acting on that hate, and when he discovered who it was they would discover how much the Blood Blades deserved their reputation.
The Chancellor banged his gavel on his small desk and called for silence. When the assembly was brought to order, dal Geerdorf stepped forward to speak. As senior peer of the March, the right of first audience was his.
‘The Lords of the Mark would know why there is a large force of mercenaries gathering in the fields to the west of the city, my lord,’ dal Geerdorf said.
There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. Dal Geerdorf smiled, and his eyes flicked toward Rodulf briefly, but Rodulf showed no reaction. He knew well that dal Geerdorf showed him only the minimum amount of respect he could get away with. Dal Geerdorf, like many of the nobles of Ruripathia, had been forced to borrow heavily to re-establish himself after the war. It made him ripe for the picking, and with plenty of spare coin, Rodulf had snapped up whatever debts he could get his hands on. Rodulf wondered if he should sell one of dal Geerdorf’s houses out from under him just to show him how his disobedience could be converted into a material decline in his circumstances. He knew dal Geerdorf was working furiously to pay his debts off, but they were substantial and it would take time. He would be under Rodulf’s yoke for longer than he’d expected. Once Rodulf was king, he wouldn’t need the debts to control him. He was no fool, however. He might own dal Geerdorf, and a few dozen others, but that didn’t mean they would roll over.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 15