The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  The Blood Blades’ manners were honed in Shandahar, where anyone lacking noble blood was treated little differently to vermin. Rodulf could remember the huge slave markets there, hundreds in cages out in the heat and beneath the sun where prospective buyers looked them over like livestock. A trader had told him that they expected one percent to perish on any given day. “A cost of doing business,” he had said.

  Joffen likewise was too shrewd to cause a scene. He was all too well aware that he could run a very lucrative practice with Rodulf as his only client if it came to that. If he felt exasperation, he didn’t show it—instead he stood to welcome Rodulf into his office.

  ‘How are you progressing?’ Rodulf said, not bothering with a greeting.

  ‘Very well, as it happens,’ Joffen said. ‘I have all of the paperwork drawn up. All that remains is for it to be signed and sealed.’

  ‘It will hold up?’ Rodulf said. He had always known any papers adopting him to the Markgraf and legitimising him as the Markgraf’s heir would be subject to opposition, but now, with dal Geerdorf positioning himself to succeed the Markgraf, they had to be beyond contest. Even then, there was only so much a piece of paper could achieve after so much had been won with the threat of arms.

  Dal Geerdorf would dispute the papers—that was beyond doubt—and when he discovered they were watertight, he would ignore them completely. Rodulf would have to rely on the mercenaries then, however many of them were left, and dal Geerdorf would retire to his country estates to rally his supporters to his banner and raise an army of his own. Civil war would follow, and although Rodulf reckoned he could win, what use was there in ruling over the burnt-out husk of a country? What’s more, if confrontation with the princess was avoided during secession, she would have an intact army ready to swoop in and pick up the pieces of the failed fledgling kingdom. Why could things never be easy for him?

  ‘Absolutely,’ Joffen said, pulling Rodulf from his thoughts. ‘Papers of this nature are not that unusual, although the significance of these ones are slightly more than those legitimising a tanner’s bastard so he can inherit the business.’

  Rodulf didn’t smile at the attempted humour. The threat dal Geerdorf posed was too great. He had to remove dal Geerdorf from the equation before he took up arms in opposition, but that was easier said than done. However, without him, Rodulf’s opponents would have no credible figurehead and there would be nothing to stand in his way when the ailing Markgraf—king—joined his wife and children in the afterlife.

  A more pressing concern was that if Rodulf had worked out what dal Geerdorf was up to, it was very likely dal Geerdorf knew his own plans. He would be expecting a strike of some description. A shiver of panic ran across Rodulf’s skin, and he thanked the gods for his prescient act in hiring the Blood Blades. It occurred to him that without them, he might already be dead.

  He took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Joffen raised an eyebrow, but had the sense not to pry.

  ‘I’ll take the papers with me today,’ Rodulf said. ‘How many witnesses will we need?’

  ‘The more, the better,’ Joffen said. ‘Likewise, the higher their rank, the more weight their signatures will carry.’

  Rodulf nodded. ‘Fine, I’ll see what I can do. What then?’

  ‘Everything is in triplicate. One copy for you, one for the Markgraf, and one for safe keeping in the Royal Archives at Brixen.’

  Rodulf allowed himself a wry smile—there would be little point in that third copy soon enough.

  There were still plenty of nobles obedient to him under threat of having their debts called in. They would have to do. The only problem with that was dal Geerdorf would find out about it sooner than Rodulf would have liked. It made his position legal, however, and dal Geerdorf a traitor if he tried to move against him. It wouldn’t mean much once everything was unravelling, but for the time being it was better than nothing.

  He left Joffen’s office clutching the papers and casting frequent glances over his shoulder. He did not feel nearly as safe surrounded by his Blood Blades as he once had. He needed to work out a way to bring dal Geerdorf to his knees or erase him completely, and fast.

  RODULF STOOD at the head of the table in the palace’s grand council chamber waiting to see what the nobles’ reaction was.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this summons?’ Lord Kunnersbek said, looking to a half-dozen of his peers who stood around the table, equally confused. They had been called from their apartments and houses well before dawn, with an instruction to gather at the palace post haste.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this, Lord Lieutenant,’ Rodulf said. He would forgive a little early morning grumpiness, but only once.

  Kunnersbek let out an exasperated sigh and nodded. ‘Lord Lieutenant.’

  ‘I need your signatures and seals to attest witness to the signing of a very important document,’ Rodulf said.

  The Markgraf sat at the table, silently watching the scene unfold. Rodulf had been hammering him with the Stone all morning, to the point that he worried he might break the man’s mind altogether. It had taken its toll on Rodulf too, and his arm and hand were so numb he was concerned that he might not be able to sign the papers himself.

  ‘Let’s be about it then,’ Kunnersbek said. ‘A little more notice would be appreciated next time.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ Rodulf said. ‘Something of this importance only comes along once in a lifetime.’

  Kunnersbek came forward and started to read the document. His eyes widened.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ he said. He turned to the Markgraf. ‘My lord? Him?’

  The Markgraf nodded slowly. ‘He has been invaluable to me in recent days, and I’ve come to think of him like a son.’

  The Markgraf’s voice was monotone, a clear indication of the battering his mind had been taking. Rodulf wondered if Kunnersbek and the others would notice it, or react. He gripped the Stone and diverted his will from the Markgraf, spreading it out over the others. It was not much, but he hoped it would be enough to give them the nudge in his direction that he needed. His hand burned, but the overall feeling that holding the Stone gave him bordered on ecstasy. That his hand burned and his arm was numbed seemed a small price to pay. He was overcome with a wave of giddy light-headedness, as though he had drunk an entire pot of the cook’s strongest coffee, followed by a bottle of whiskey. He gripped the edge of the table with his other hand to keep himself steady.

  Kunnersbek gave him a sideways glance. ‘Are you all right, my lord?’ The tone of his voice said the question came entirely from curiosity rather than concern.

  ‘Yes,’ Rodulf said, not at all sure that he was. He released the Stone and took his hand from his pocket. He tried to grip the table with it to bolster his balance, but it wouldn’t respond. He let it dangle limply at his side. ‘I’ve just been working very long hours lately.’

  ‘You’re sure this is what you want?’ Kunnersbek said, returning his attention to the Markgraf.

  ‘It is,’ the Markgraf said. ‘I need to know that the kingdom will be in competent hands when I am gone.’

  Kunnersbek frowned and cast a glance at the others, before looking at Rodulf.

  ‘The March, my lord, you mean the March,’ Rodulf said. He tried to reach for the Stone again, torn between light-headedness and a panic that the Markgraf’s slip would give the whole game away, but his arm refused his command and remained where it was.

  ‘Yes, the March,’ the Markgraf said.

  ‘His Lordship has been working very long hours recently, also,’ Rodulf said. ‘As I’m sure you can understand.’ His mind swam. Had he finally pushed things too far? Why did it have to happen now, of all times? He was so close.

  ‘I’m not happy about this,’ Kunnersbek said. ‘I think this should be discussed in open council. All the peers of the realm should know about this before it’s signed into law.’

  There was a resounding agreement from the others.

  Rodulf
took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘If you do not sign these papers, and affix your seal, not one of you will have homes to return to. I will call in your debts. All of them. I will send my Blood Blades to drag your children to the nearest slaver, where they will be sold for all manners of perversion. I will have your wives brought to the mercenary camp to provide entertainment, and I will ensure that you watch every last moment of it.’ His voice was coming out as a rasp by now. ‘You, Kunnersbek. Do you think you will enjoy life on the streets? Do any of you? Because that is where you will all be by sunset if you do not sign these papers.’

  There was still hesitation. Rodulf gestured and the Blood Blades stepped from the shadows. He felt panicked that he could not draw on the Stone when his need was so great. ‘Should you choose it, I can have them acquaint you with how they earned their name.’

  Still there was no movement. Rodulf took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. Would fear be enough? ‘Use this one to show them,’ he said, jerking his head toward Kunnersbek.

  He heard the shimmering sound of steel sliding across silk, and knew one of the blades had been drawn. There was no chance for an apology now. The Blood Blade stepped forward and grabbed Kunnersbek by the wrist.

  Kunnersbek glared at him. ‘You can’t do this to me. You might own my debts, but they don’t extend to this. Have him release me.’

  The Markgraf sat, staring impassively into the distance, as though he was somewhere else entirely. Rodulf remained silent, taking the chance to gather himself.

  Another Blood Blade came forward and held Kunnersbek by the shoulders, while the other two circled around behind the nobles, preventing any escape. The Blood Blade with the drawn knife pressed Kunnersbek’s hand down on the table, and raised the blade.

  ‘No,’ Kunnersbek said. ‘I’ll sign your bloody papers.’ He reached for the pen with his free hand.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that,’ Rodulf said.

  ‘What do you mean too late?’ Kunnersbek said.

  ‘You can’t,’ one of the other noblemen said.

  Rodulf glared at him, and the man took a step back, his mouth now firmly closed.

  ‘Just a finger,’ Rodulf said. ‘He still has to pay me a lot of money. Maiming him would be pointless.’

  The Blood Blade’s knife whistled down as soon as the command was given, and Kunnersbek screamed before the blade had even met flesh. There was a thud as the blade connected with the table, and Kunnersbek’s finger shot across it, the gold signet ring on it rattling against the wood. He howled in pain, and clutched his injured hand, blood flowing prodigiously between his fingers.

  ‘Try to take it like a man,’ Rodulf said, feeling some of his strength return.

  Kunnersbek’s scream subsided to a whimper.

  Rodulf gestured to the finger, and the nobleman who was standing closest to it. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ he said. ‘We’ll be needing that ring in a moment.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Wulfric camped below the snow line, and the next morning his path took him into ever deeper snow as he travelled toward the Fork. There was nothing resembling a trail to follow, not even the tracks of a mountain goat or any other beast that might live that high up. He wondered how many men had passed along the route he was taking, how many of them had met their end in the ice and snow chasing after a fantasy. He pulled his furs tightly around him, determined not to join them.

  At some point in the morning, his hands had begun to shake. At first he thought it was nothing more than the cold, but no matter how much he warmed them in his thick bearskin fur, it did not stop. He realised there were other sensations in his body that seemed familiar—a slightly nauseated sensation in the pit of his stomach, and a tingling sensation running over his scalp and down the skin over his backbone. Each feeling was faint, but definitely there. It was the feeling he got in the presence of magic, or the level of danger that brought on Jorundyr’s Gift. The journey was taxing, of that there was no doubt, but he had not encountered the type of peril that had so far brought on the Gift. The only explanation that he could think of was that there was magic amongst those peaks, and that meant everything he had so far doubted might indeed be true.

  As he opened his mind to the possibility, he remembered how Jorundyr’s Rock had drawn the pilgrims toward it, how magic, the essence of the gods, had shown them their way. Their training and rituals had connected them to that essence, although it had been nothing more than a guide; it had not protected them from the dangers they faced. It stood to reason that a forge for heroes’ weapons would have some connection to magic. Now it seemed that magic was pulling on him as it had all those years before on his pilgrimage. With greater confidence that he was on the right path, he pushed on with renewed vigour.

  His route was taking him along a defile between two smaller peaks, with the Fork firmly in view straight ahead. He had yet to get a decent look at the valley beneath it, where the forge would most likely be, but he was content that he was heading in the correct direction, or as close to it as made no difference.

  The defile continued to narrow as it cut between the two peaks, the steep snowy banks gradually becoming replaced by sheer rock faces. As he turned around a rocky outcrop, he drew a sharp breath at the scene revealed before him. The whole valley came into view, a great expanse of untouched snow that undulated smoothly across its floor like a great bank of thick cloud. It was surrounded on all sides by mountains, and even from that clear vantage point, he could not see any other likely way in.

  Below him, the defile came to an abrupt end. Had he been travelling in darkness as he had been tempted to do, Wulfric knew he could have easily fallen to his death. To the right, a narrow ledge continued on and down. The drop before him was too great for the rope he had brought with him to be of any use, leaving the ledge as his only option.

  Wulfric eyed it warily, and wondered if there might be any other way. It seemed that the stories of the path to the mine being dangerous were starting to be proved correct. He tried to console himself with the thought that it seemed he was on the right track, but he could see the ledge narrow as it snaked along the side of the peak as it gradually dropped toward the valley floor. He was a large man, and the ledge was narrow. If it grew much narrower, he would not be able to move forward. If it gave way, it was a very long way to the bottom. He shrugged, and realised that at least he wouldn’t have to worry about climbing back up if he did fall. There was no way it would be survivable.

  Wulfric took off his haversack and slung it across his chest, then slowly made his way out onto the ledge with his back pressed against the rock face. He did his best not to look down as he inched along it, one careful step at a time. The thought of all that air beneath him made him feel dizzy. Occasionally the rock face became less severe, forming hollows where snow had gathered, allowing Wulfric a chance to sit back and rest his strained legs. The tension of moving so slowly and carefully was causing them to cramp. His progress was tediously slow, and the growing prospect of being caught out on that ledge at night filled him with terror. Getting any sleep on the ledge was out of the question. Continuing on was the only option.

  He looked up to the sky where he could already see the faint shape of the moon lifting above the mountain peaks. It was not far from being full, and if the night stayed clear with the snow reflecting its light, he knew there would be enough to see moderately well. He cursed for allowing himself to be put in that situation. He should have made camp next to the ledge and started off at dawn. He had allowed his decision to be dictated by fear—the memories of the pilgrimage would never leave him, and he had let them control him. If he did fall to his death in the darkness, he knew he would have no one to blame but himself.

  His foot slipped. He grabbed hold of the rock behind him and drew his foot back. His heart was racing. He shook his head, and realised fatigue was making him careless. He had allowed his anger with himself to distract him from the danger of his task, compounding the poor decision he had
already made. He took a moment to calm himself and collect his thoughts, staring down into the mind-spinning void beneath his toes. Once he had calmed his racing heart, he continued. The snow and still air muffled the sounds of his breath and feet as he shuffled along the ledge, his back always pressed against the rock face, although it gave him scant security. His discipline waned for a moment, and he allowed himself a look down. He shut his eyes and questioned his sanity. What could be worth making a journey like this? he wondered. The blade would need to be able to fight all by itself, he thought. Assuming he actually found anything.

  As he edged around an outcrop that reduced his limited foot space even further, Wulfric heard a scraping noise above him and to his right. He froze on the spot, and pressed himself even harder against the rock face. His heart raced as the thought that had lurked in the back of his mind, intentionally ignored, pushed its way to the fore. Belek. What else could be up there?

  There was no chance of him being able to draw his sword and turn to face it, let alone fight off the creature on that narrow ledge. He looked at the sound, and let out a sigh of relief to see a mountain goat staring at him curiously. It was lean and nimble, with a white-and-black striped face and an impressive pair of horns. From a distance it would have looked like a rock against the icy stone in the moonlight. Unlike Wulfric, it showed no anxiety at the precariousness of its position, on a small ledge above the larger one Wulfric was making his way along. Wulfric stared into its large, dark eyes, until it decided it had had enough of him, and leaped up to another ledge via a quick, bouncing hop off the sheer rock and ice between them. It repeated its confident leap twice more before disappearing from sight.

  Wulfric leaned back against the rock and ice and took a moment to settle himself once more. He was not built for great heights, and the experience was taking its toll on his nerve. He wished he had the goat’s nimbleness, but supposed that a life in the mountains meant the year-round threat of ending up in a belek’s stomach. The trade-off didn’t seem worth it, but at that moment Wulfric would have been grateful to be a little more foot-sure.