The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘I’m afraid so, Pro-Chancellor,’ Adalhaid said. Her eyes flicked to Professor Kengil, who was visibly stewing with anger. It appeared she was as surprised with the course the meeting was taking as Adalhaid was.

  ‘Very well then. I wish you the best of luck in the examinations, and with whatever comes afterward for you. I’m sorry to be losing you as a student, but leave this office knowing we will indeed be changing the regulations, and you will be the last student to sit their exams with less than four years of study.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Adalhaid said, no longer able to contain her smile. She stood and shook the Pro-Chancellor’s hand, then the Dean’s, and gave Professor Kengil the most endearing smile she could muster when the professor failed to hold out her hand.

  The thrill of her victory left her feeling as though she was walking on air when she went back outside. The sky was clear, and she held her face up to bathe it in the warmth of the sun. She knew she wouldn’t be seeing very much of it in the days to come.

  JOHANNA KENGIL HAD BEEN HORRIFIED when her own faculty colleagues had allowed Steinnsdottir to sit her exams. She had thought it such an impossibility that she had done little, and now cursed herself for her laziness. She regretted it, but realised there was little she could do about that. Nonetheless, she was determined that the Northern witch would not be unleashed on the world in the guise of a qualified physician.

  She knocked on the door, and realised she was holding her breath while she waited.

  ‘How can I help you, ma’am?’

  Kengil was taken aback by how polite he was for a sinister figure all dressed in black.

  ‘I reported a matter a number of weeks ago,’ she said. ‘I was wondering how it’s progressing?’

  ‘We don’t comment on our investigations, ma’am,’ the Intelligencier said. He occupied a small, mundane office in their equally small station in the city, and, as was the case with his impeccable manners, the place did little to conjure up the terror that was usually associated with the Intelligenciers.

  ‘It was quite a serious matter,’ Kengil said. ‘I know the individual in question and she is still at large. It’s quite worrying.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ he said, ‘we don’t comment.’

  Kengil chewed her lip. The little bitch had outsmarted her over her eligibility to sit the exams. She had taken solace in the thought the Intelligenciers would exact a far more severe punishment than being blocked from sitting her examinations.

  ‘Is the investigation ongoing?’ she said.

  ‘Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to leave,’ he said. ‘I’ll only ask you once.’

  The anger that had been welling in Kengil’s gut was replaced by fear. The Intelligencier was looking at her with a polite yet menacing stare.

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ Kengil said.

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  Kengil turned and walked away, until she was out of earshot. Then she screamed in frustration.

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘Did you get them?’ one said.

  Wulfric struggled to catch his breath. He had been living easily at the palace for too long.

  ‘Gather up the oil and firewood,’ he said. He looked about for a length of wood, and found a stout piece as long as he was tall. ‘Follow me, but stay behind if you want to live.’

  The men looked at each other hesitantly. There was not one who wanted to venture inside.

  ‘If you’ve got homes and families that you love,’ Wulfric said, ‘you’ll act like men and protect them. I won’t let you come to harm, but won’t be able to set the fire myself.’

  Neils picked up a flask of lamp oil and stepped forward. ‘I’m with you, Ulfyr.’

  ‘Who else?’ Wulfric said. ‘We can’t do it with just the two of us, and there’s no time to dally.’

  Two more men gathered up bundles of wood, while Gunther picked up as many flasks of oil as he could carry. The rest mooched about awkwardly, refusing to meet Wulfric’s eye. They would be the ones talking the loudest about their exploits that night in the tavern. Men without spines always were.

  ‘This way,’ Wulfric said to the brave few, plunging back into the dark passageway with his stave.

  The fire he had lit with the draugr before leaving still glowed at the end of the passage, and the sound of footsteps behind him reassured him that the Ulmdorfers had not lost their nerve. When he got back to the main chamber, there were three more figures standing on the far side of the burning cadaver. They appeared to be afraid of the flame, and had not tried to cross it, but now that Wulfric had appeared, they had reason to.

  Bathed in the alternating green light of foxfire and warm light of flame, they looked similar to the draugr he had killed, but with distinct differences. Like the emaciated corpse on the throne, they had pointed ears and fang-like teeth. They wore tattered pieces of armour, and mouldy shreds of clothing. Everything about them looked far older than the one Wulfric had killed. More worryingly, they looked far more alert.

  They lunged at him from across the flames, but shied back.

  ‘Gods alive,’ one of the Ulmdorfers said behind him, as they reached the main chamber.

  The temptation of half a dozen men was too great for the draugar to be dissuaded by flame. One tried to step across, then thought better of it. It edged its way along the wall, skirting the flames. The others followed.

  ‘Spread the wood and oil,’ Wulfric shouted. ‘Set light to it as soon as you do. I’ll hold them back.’

  Not wasting a second, Wulfric held the stave out in front of him and charged at the draugar as they skirted the flames. He slammed into them with all his weight, and pushed with his legs as hard as he could, pinning them to the wall. They were surprised by his action, and with arms and shoulders trapped against the wall they could bring little of their formidable strength to bear, while Wulfric, in as strong a position as he could adopt, was able to apply almost all of his.

  He could hear the men scattering pieces of wood around, and splashing oil on the ground. The draugar glared at him with hate and hunger in their eyes, betraying a cold and calculating intelligence that reminded Wulfric of a belek. They tried to struggle free, but Wulfric continued to drive against them with his legs. He could feel sweat on his brow, even though it was icy cold in the barrow. The stench of their decay and corruption made each breath feel like a poisonous gas, but he knew he could not falter until the others were finished with their task. They hissed at him, and tried to get their arms free. When that didn’t work they tried to grab at him, pinned though they were, then snap at him with their fangs. He could only pray to Jorundyr that there were no more draugar lurking in the darkness.

  He could feel his arms start to weaken, and his legs begin to tire. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed for all he was worth, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold the draugar against the wall for much longer. The idleness of his long journey back to Ruripathia and his time at the palace might be the undoing of him.

  ‘Are you nearly done?’ Wulfric shouted. The draugr nearest him hissed and bared its fangs.

  ‘We’re ready to light it,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Do it!’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me! Light it!’

  He could hear flints being struck against one another, and then saw the meagre light from the flames on the already burning draugr being supplemented. There was a whoosh as the lamp oil spread the flame, and Wulfric jumped back when he realised he was standing in a puddle of it. The draugar made to go after him once he dropped the stave, but the flames lapped at their legs, and took hold on their ancient, dried flesh. They howled in anger, and as Wulfric stepped back from the flames, he wondered if they felt any pain.

  He continued to back away with his eyes locked on them until he was certain they were not going to come after him. They were being devoured by flames so bright he could not look at them directly by the time he finally turned away. Gunther was standing there,
near to the entrance to the passageway, his eyes fixed on the pile of gold and the ancient corpse that were now illuminated by the flames.

  ‘Gods alive,’ he whispered, showing no sign of being about to move. ‘There’s a king’s ransom there.’ He realised that Wulfric was standing beside him. ‘We could take it. Take it and be rich men. Powerful men.’

  His eyes had glazed over, even though he seemed to be staring at the gold. They were locked on the black stone in the centre of Fanrac’s diadem. The flames were building with every instant, and even with the chimney hole cut into the ceiling, the chamber was filling with acrid smoke that stung Wulfric’s eyes. The heat was becoming unbearable as the flames took hold of anything that would burn.

  He grabbed Gunther and forced him from the chamber, pushing him through the clouds of smoke swirling and out the passageway. The both stumbled into the daylight, black smoke billowing out from the entrance behind them. The smoke stung Wulfric’s eyes and nose, but he was glad for the tang of it—it washed the foul smell of the draugar from his nostrils. He wiped the tears from his eyes, and drew his sword, turning to face the entrance.

  ‘Be ready,’ he said. ‘They might follow us out.’

  From having thought that their ordeal was over, the veil of tension descended once again as the Ulmdorfers realised that their fight might not be done just yet. Smoke continued to funnel out the hole in the side of the barrow, joined by the thin spiral rising from the hole in the roof.

  ‘Are they going to come out?’ one of the Ulmdorfers said, as he clutched a shovel with white-knuckled hands.

  Wulfric wondered if he should say something to put the man’s mind at ease, but he was a man, and lying would only do him a disservice no matter how frightened he might be. He merely shrugged and turned his attention back to the entrance. The minutes rolled by, but nothing came out. With luck, the fire had consumed them. At worst, he hoped at least the flames would have purged some of the evil from the place, and put back to rest what had awoken.

  ‘Time to close up that hole, I reckon,’ Wulfric said, when he was confident a horde of raging draugar were not going to rush out.

  The men eagerly took to the work, tossing in leftover wood, and whatever rocks and stones they could find, then shovelling dirt in to seal it up. The men who had braved the interior sat on the grass, passing around a water-skin that Wulfric suspected contained something more potent than water. Neils looked up at him, his face beaming with a toothy grin.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘When I go home tonight, I get to tell my son that I fought draugar with Ulfyr.’

  For the first time that day, Wulfric smiled too.

  THE NEXT MORNING, the entire village of Ulmdorf turned out to see Wulfric off. Neils stood to the fore, proudly holding his son in front of him. Wulfric didn’t know how to behave, so gave the lad a gentle pat on the head before continuing on. Gunther was there, still looking somewhat stunned by his experience the day before, having no doubt had dreams of gold and unimaginable wealth the previous night. Wulfric only hoped he had the sense not to go digging in the barrow, otherwise it might be his undead cadaver that Wulfric burned the next time he passed through Ulmdorf.

  They wished Wulfric good luck, and gave him a bag of provisions, which he was grateful for. They did not have much—and after the hard winter, likely less than normal—but they still handed it over with smiles on their faces. More importantly, they had shown him the distant peak that was called “the Fork”. For the first time, Wulfric saw a positive to being a famed warrior. They had been terrified when he arrived. His appearance had given them hope that their terror was coming to an end, and Wulfric felt privileged to know he had been able to bring that about. He could see why the warriors of Leondorf had walked about with their heads held high. They risked themselves to ensure the safety of others, and there was something deeply satisfying about that. Fighting in a mercenary company for coin, in a war that had no meaning for him, had been a soulless experience. There had been a joy in it, for he was a warrior born, and he had made great friends in the process, but it did not come close to the sense of self-worth he felt as he rode away from Ulmdorf, with the villagers watching him until he disappeared into the distance.

  THERE WERE paths for Wulfric to follow through the foothills, well-beaten by herdsmen who kept their cattle in higher pastures during the summer, making the early part of his ascent far easier than it had been on his pilgrimage. The forests had been cleared from this land long since to make way for farming, leaving it feeling exposed and windswept. It made him sad, but he supposed that was the way of things, and wondered if the forests around Leondorf were being pushed back with each passing month.

  The reminders made him melancholy, thinking of a time when everything had appeared like an adventure, when life seemed to be a bounty of possibility, rather than what it was. He thought of Hane, dead in the snow, of Roal, Urrich, Anshel, and the others. All dead now. They were men who should have lived into middle age and bred sons to take their place when they went to Jorundyr’s Hall with a sword in their hands, but they had all died little more than boys. Wulfric had lived, but it seemed that all he valued had been taken from him. He clung to the memory of Ulmdorf, the smiles on the people’s faces, and the feeling it gave him.

  He wondered why the gods chose to play with them so. Was it for their amusement? Did it amuse them now, to see him set off on a fool’s errand, to wander the mountains for a few weeks in search of something that likely never existed? He wondered what purpose Jorundyr had when choosing him, giving him the Gift that it seemed he would never be able to put to worthwhile use. It felt emasculating to be a monarch’s errand boy, but for the time being there was little he could do about it—that was the way things worked in the south. The whims and posturing of court, frustrating though they were, were unavoidable now that he had been drawn into their web.

  He supposed he could walk away from the princess’s service, but that would mean being declared an outlaw and make his task of killing Lord Elzmark all the harder. The same would happen after it was done, but by then he wouldn’t care. He would cross the river into the Northlands and disappear, until he surfaced to kill Rodulf.

  The cooling air as he worked his way higher made him think of belek, but he saw no signs of their presence, and took comfort in the knowledge that they did not like open, exposed places like the hills he was riding through. They could never be discounted, but it gave him hope that they would stay away from the region.

  He continued with his horse through the morning and into the early afternoon without pause. The going became more difficult, as the herdsmen’s paths faded and he was left to his own choices as to which direction he went in. At that point he dismounted, unsaddled his horse and let it go. It would find its way back to Ulmdorf, perhaps go the whole way to Brixen, or maybe encounter one of the wild herds on the plains and decide it had had enough of people. Whatever it chose was up to itself. He watched it amble off for a while without a single look back, and wondered what had become of Greyfell. Perhaps he would be able to reclaim him when he returned to Leondorf to kill Rodulf.

  The Fork was majestic and stood out among the other, lesser peaks, and now that he knew which one it was, his direction was clear. However, walking toward it did not mean he was going the right way. Mountain passes and trails might send him doubling back a half-dozen times before he eventually found a way to it. Even if he could find his way to the mountain, that didn’t guarantee finding the remains of a forge that no one had seen in hundreds of years, if it was ever there to begin with. If he did discover it, it seemed too much to hope that there would be any old, finished blades lying around. Already he felt exhausted by his journey, yet it had barely even begun.

  His best hope was for a block of finished Godsteel that could be reworked—Godsteel improved with age once it had been properly forged, so a billet or ingot would have benefited from its long wait to be finished into a blade. He didn’t know if he was
coming to believe that the forge might have existed, but his encounter with the draugar and what he felt certain were Fanrac’s remains put a different perspective on things. It having existed and him being able to find its ruins were two very different things, however.

  He stopped and looked around. He was getting high now, and he knew the going was only going to become more difficult. He was breathing hard, and when he looked back he could see Ulmdorf again, distant and far below. It seemed like a dream to think he had been there only that morning. The air was cold and growing thinner, and he hoped that his journey would not take him so high as to cause the same slow death that had killed Hane on his pilgrimage.

  The green tendrils of grassy pasture reached high up the valleys as spring pushed the snow and ice back in preparation for summer, but the snow-capped peaks would remain throughout the year, majestic and unmoved by the sun’s heat. It was a beautiful place, peaceful but with a grandeur that touched a man’s soul. He could see what drew men up into them, but knew only too well how harsh that beauty was. The weather was fine at that moment, but it could change in an instant, bringing winds so cold they could freeze a man to death if he did not find shelter. If he was to find the forge, he needed to make the most of good conditions while they lasted.

  CHAPTER 26

  Rodulf’s Blood Blades were as unceremonious as ever in announcing his arrival at the Honourable Joffen’s offices. They walked through doors unannounced, and helped a hapless client already there to depart by lifting him by his armpits and dropping him on the street outside. The client had the presence of mind not to struggle or complain. He dusted himself off, doffed his hat respectfully and made himself scarce. If he had caused a fuss, Rodulf didn’t like to think how much more unpleasant the experience would have been for him.