The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  They dragged the body inside, and brought the horses around back, then returned to await further orders.

  ‘I want two of you on either side of the lane that brought us here,’ Rodulf said. ‘Stay out of sight. I suspect we’re going to have company very soon. This time, let one live. I’ll signal you when to attack.’ He thought about adding a threat if they failed him again, but decided against it. Their loyalty only went so far, and he was a very long way from help.

  He had no idea how many men would be coming, but it was obvious that the men in the farmhouse were waiting for someone, and hadn’t expected to be waiting long. Likewise, whoever was coming wouldn’t be expecting a fight. He didn’t think for a moment that he would be lucky enough for dal Geerdorf to show, but with more men, there was more chance that he would learn who was behind the robbery. Then he would have the evidence he would need, and dal Geerdorf would swing for it. After spending some time with the Blood Blades, that was.

  There were a couple of old stools in the farmhouse, so with the Blood Blades in position he pulled one over to a window where he could see the laneway through a crack in the shutters, and waited.

  THERE WAS little for Rodulf to do to while away the time, and each minute felt like an hour. The sensation of having to wait for them to come to him and not knowing what to expect was discomfiting, and tempered the gleeful anticipation of springing a trap on those who had sought to cause him injury. However, he was correct in deducing that the wait would not be long, and the sun was still peeking over the horizon when he saw riders coming down the laneway toward the farmhouse.

  He peered between the shutters to see how many there were. It seemed to be only a few men, leading a number of pack horses. This was obviously how they planned to bring the silver out, piecemeal, and perhaps to a number of locations.

  ‘Henrik? Are you there?’ one of the approaching men shouted.

  ‘Inside,’ Rodulf shouted back, doing his best to muffle his voice.

  ‘Where’s the silver? The Graf said we need to get it out of here fast.’

  Rodulf smiled. There were only a handful of grafs in the Elzmark, and of them, only dal Geerdorf was of any consequence. For Rodulf, it was proof enough.

  ‘Behind the farmhouse,’ he shouted, then watched them come forward without any concern.

  ‘Now,’ Rodulf shouted, once they were between the two positions the Blood Blades had taken up.

  Having not seen how they handled the men in the farmhouse, Rodulf was impressed to watch how they dealt with their new foes. He could see four horsemen, now that they were closer. Two of them were dead as soon as the Blood Blades broke cover. One, with faster reactions than his comrades, tried to turn and ride for safety, but it seemed that the Blood Blade knife was as deadly when thrown as when slicing, and the force of it hitting the back of his head knocked him from his horse.

  The final man was in the process of being pulled out of the saddle when Rodulf walked outside.

  ‘Do not kill that man,’ he shouted.

  The Blood Blade holding him by the scruff of the neck stopped himself, his knife mid-swing.

  Rodulf walked up to him, a genuine smile on his face, feeling for the first time in days like the burden on his shoulders had lightened a little.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about the graf who wants you to get out of here fast.’

  ONE OF THE Blood Blades dragged the man by the hair back into the house. As if seeing his comrades being cut down in the blink of an eye wasn’t terrifying enough, the inside of the house still bore all the signs of the recent slaughter that had occurred there.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ Rodulf said.

  ‘I ain’t telling you nothing,’ the man said.

  ‘I would have thought that considering what has happened to all of your colleagues, gratitude at having your life would be your overarching sentiment, rather than indignation.’

  The man continued to glare at Rodulf. He sighed, having to overcome the temptation to resort immediately to violence. There would be an appropriate time for that, but at this point, the threat of it could be far more effective.

  ‘Do you know who these men are?’ Rodulf said.

  The man shook his head.

  ‘They’re called Blood Blades,’ Rodulf said. ‘They’re a cabal of elite warriors from Shandahar. Do you know where that is?’

  The man shook his head, which didn’t surprise Rodulf in the least. He probably didn’t even know where Brixen was. The thought that this very fellow probably considered all Northlanders ignorant savages made Rodulf want to laugh out loud.

  ‘It’s a country far to the south,’ Rodulf said. ‘It’s an interesting place, both beautiful and harsh. Down there, the Blood Blades are sought after as warriors. They are regarded as brutally efficient fighters, and completely merciless, as your friends just found out. There’s something else about them, though, that most people don’t know. They’re expert torturers.’

  Rodulf paused a moment to let the dread of what he had said settle in.

  ‘If you don’t tell me who you work for,’ Rodulf said, ‘I’m going to let them go to work on you. I might even have a try myself. Tell me, and I’ll let you go.’

  ‘You’ll let me go?’ the man said.

  Rodulf found his surprise amusing. ‘Yes. I wouldn’t kill a flea because its dog had just pissed on my rug. It’s the dog I want to punish. Not the flea.’

  The man’s eyes widened with hope. ‘The Graf,’ he said.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘What do you mean, which one?’ the man said. ‘The Graf.’

  ‘I need more than his title,’ Rodulf said, his exasperation rising. ‘There is more than one graf in the Elzmark. Which one gave you your orders?’

  ‘Oh,’ the man said, a hesitant smile spreading across his face. ‘Not a nobleman. The Graf. He runs Elzburg. The bits that the Markgraf doesn’t, leastways.’

  The name rang a bell. He could recall hearing of a powerful member of Elzburg’s underworld being referred to as that, but they had never crossed his path. He let out a long sigh of disappointment.

  ‘As fleas go, I doubt you could even cause an itch,’ Rodulf said, before driving his dagger through the soft spot under the man’s jaw and into his brain. He twitched, wide-eyed, for a moment before the life departed him.

  Rodulf swore. So dal Geerdorf wasn’t behind the robbery? Perhaps he was in league with the criminal known as the Graf. Then it occurred to him—one way or the other, it didn’t matter.

  ‘Bring a couple of these bodies back with us,’ Rodulf said. ‘I’ll rustle up some things that can tie them to dal Geerdorf. Involved or not, he’s getting the blame for this.’

  The Blood Blades didn’t say a thing, starting to gather up the bodies. Rodulf had another name on his list of men who had crossed him, and who would reap the reward of that foolishness when time permitted. As soon as he was king, this self-appointed “graf” would find out what it meant to take power and titles that didn’t belong to him.

  CHAPTER 33

  It was bright outside when Wulfric woke, but the antechamber was still very warm. He sat up and looked around. There was a glow of light coming from the forge, but it was red once again, with no trace of the strange blue light that he had seen the previous night.

  He stood and looked around, surprised to see a loaf of bread, a small wheel of cheese, and a mug of ale sitting on the ground nearby. He wondered where it had come from, but on the spectrum of questions he had after the previous day, it was a very low priority. He attacked the food with ravenous intent, not realising how hungry he was until the smell of the fresh bread hit his nostrils. It looked as though it was straight from the oven—crispy crust with a light, fluffy interior—and was as fine as any he had ever tasted. The cheese was rich and creamy, the ale cold and crisp. He finished the lot in a few moments, then felt like a glutton. He hoped Wolundr had not intended to share the breakfast with him.

  ‘Wolundr?’ Wulfri
c said. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I am.’

  The voice was near, and Wulfric could instantly tell where it came from, which surprised him. An old man stepped from the shadowy doorway holding a cloth bundle in his hands. He had a long grey beard the colour of steel, and equally long grey hair that was pulled back into a messy ponytail. His skin glistened with sweat, but he looked frail, not like a man who could spend a whole day swinging a hammer without missing a beat.

  ‘You’re a man,’ Wulfric said.

  Wolundr laughed. ‘What were you expecting?’

  Wulfric shrugged, embarrassed. Magic was capable of many things—prolonging life if it was powerful enough did not seem so far-fetched. He felt foolish for having let his imagination run wild.

  ‘This is what you came for, Ulfyr the Chosen.’ He walked to Wulfric and held out the bundle.

  Wulfric reached for it with as much reverence as he could muster. ‘Thank you, Wolundr.’ As he took the bundle, he looked at Wolundr’s hands. They were burned and scarred, so badly that his skin looked like red scales rather than the flesh of a man.

  ‘Your hands,’ Wulfric said. ‘Do they pain you?’

  Wolundr quickly covered them under his sleeves. ‘The price of working a forge,’ he said. ‘The blade. What do you think?’

  Wulfric looked at the cloth bundle in his hands and felt his heart begin to pound against his chest. He could already tell that the blade had a gentle curve, and the weight felt perfect in his hands. He took a breath and pulled the cloth free.

  He held a heavily oiled, long, curved blade in his hand. It was a sabre, similar in style and form to those he had used before, but so much more. The blade was a little thicker than usual—meaning it would be useful against an armoured opponent—and there was a little more weight toward the tip, so it would favour use from horseback. In the dim light it was difficult to see the pattern on the steel, but Wulfric knew from having seen other Telastrian blades that it would be a dark grey-blue, with swirling dark and light patterns running through the steel like oil on water. The hilt took the sword to another level entirely. The quillions ended in small, stylised wolf heads, with an additional guard for the hand formed from three strands of steel, brought together with another small wolf’s head.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Wulfric said. ‘Thank you. I’ll do my best to deserve it.’

  ‘The hilt may be beautiful,’ Wolundr said, ‘but the blade is all that matters, and it is as good as I have ever made. Better even than Jorundyr’s.’

  ‘He really did live?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘He did, once. When he came to me, looking for a sword, he was just a man, confused, afraid. Then he became far, far more. When he gave his name to the Gift and burden that you now bear.’

  There was so much more that Wulfric wanted to ask, but there was something about Wolundr that set him on edge, and he wanted to spend no more time there than he needed to. Even so, there were some questions that he could not walk away from.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the Gift?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Not very much,’ Wolundr said. ‘It unites you with the great energy of the world. In the older parts of the world, it was known as the Gods’ Spring; others, Imperials for the most part, called it the Fount. It matters little what you call it, only that it is the energy of all things. It is around us and in us, yet for many years it was as though there was a great drought. Some people can interact with it, be influenced by it, while others can actively manipulate it. Your Gift means you have an affinity to it, and it will affect you in ways that will be known only to yourself.’

  ‘Jorundyr was the first to have it?’

  ‘No, not the first, nor will you be the last. There were many, but in these parts he was the most famed, so lent it his name. In other parts there were other names, and the Imperials spent generations trying to imbue it on their soldiers, with some degree of success, as I recall.’

  Wulfric nodded, taking it in. ‘And the sword? What is it called?’

  ‘That is entirely up to you,’ Wolundr said. ‘Do try to come up with something good, though. Most warriors have far more skill with a blade than a word. If you’re of that persuasion, perhaps find someone with a more extended vocabulary to help you pick something.’

  Jagovere immediately sprang to Wulfric’s mind, but there was no way he was going to let someone else pick a name for his hero’s blade. There was no hurry, however. He could wait until something suitable came to him.

  ‘How can I repay you?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘For this? You can’t. There is no sum that could pay for a blade of such perfection. For my time? Perhaps there is something. You said you had coin—is any of it gold?’

  ‘I think so,’ Wulfric said. He opened his purse and took out three gold crowns, and held them out for Wolundr to see.

  Wolundr smiled broadly and picked them up, visibly shivering when the gold touched his burned and mottled hands.

  ‘Yes, these will do nicely. Very nicely indeed.’ He stared at the coins, glimmering gently whenever they caught the light. ‘It is time for you to leave.’

  ‘Of course,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’d ask one more thing of you before I go.’

  Wolundr tore his eyes from the gold, and looked to Wulfric, raising an eyebrow as he did.

  ‘Is there an easier way to get home?’

  Wolundr laughed. ‘Do you know, you are only the second person to ever ask me that.’

  Wulfric shrugged. ‘Who was the first?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? Close your eyes.’

  Wulfric did as he was bade, and for a moment thought he would vomit his breakfast all over the floor.

  THE MAISTERSPAEKER HESITATED FOR A MOMENT. He looked over his audience, who remained transfixed on the story. He had long since settled into his rhythm, and with Rodulf and his bullies departed, he was feeling relaxed and confident. He decided to throw caution to the wind. Mustering up a deep breath, he continued.

  ‘Wolundr stood alone in the antechamber and took a deep breath of the fresh, cold air blowing in from the portico. It had felt good to be at the forge again. He had slept for too long, though through no choice of his own, and his body and mind were more drained by the effort than they should have been. It was true what he had said—the blade was as fine as any he had made. Perhaps all that rest had done him some good.

  ‘He looked down at his hands and smiled. Burned indeed. It was a testament to how out of practice he was that they were still covered in deep red scales, rather than smooth pale skin. Not that it mattered—the boy appeared to have believed him.

  ‘He walked back into the rear chamber, the cavern that had been his home for millennia, and tossed the gold coins the boy had given him onto his nest while he still had the dexterity of his human arms. He had not seen the markings or faces on the coins before, and was pleased by the novelty of them. Something new, something shiny—the lustre of gold still made his heart race. He listened for the delicate ‘ching’ as they landed, and joined the thousands and thousands of others already there, each bearing the faces of men long dead.

  ‘He allowed his clothes to slip from his body, and revelled in the freedom. So unfamiliar was the human form to him now that they felt restricting. He released hold of the magic he was using, and his body grew, smoothly returning to his true form. His wings spread out majestically, and he stretched them, letting out a contented rumble before he folded them again and clambered up onto his nest.

  ‘As he curled up on his pile of gold, he wondered if any others had awoken. There had only been a few like him, though—the Enlightened, they called themselves. There were others, too, who were not possessed of the same awareness of self, and were prone to lives led according to their baser instincts, savage and greedy, but he hoped some had survived the Imperial hunters. It was a relief to know the Imperials were no more—glory-seeking fools who could not distinguish an Enlightened from one of their baser cousins. As he allowed himself to drift off to what he kne
w would be a short sleep, he thought of those he should like to see again. He could feel the Gods’ Spring enveloping him like a comforting blanket. He couldn’t recall having ever felt it so strongly. What things could be achieved now that it was abundant once more! He smiled, his thick lips curling back from sharp teeth and long fangs. It would, indeed, make for interesting times ahead.’

  CHAPTER 34

  Wulfric opened his eyes to throw up on the stone floor of the forge, but started in amazement when he realised he was standing in the centre of a grassy pasture. The brief nausea he had felt added to the disorientation of being a man displaced. He looked around, slowly trying to take in his surroundings. Behind him were the snowy peaks of the Telastrian Mountains, half a day’s walk away, at least. He could see the Fork a long way off. It amazed and terrified him that magic could send him so far so quickly, but he was glad not to have to retrace his route through the mountains.

  He continued his slow turn, and stopped when he spotted a small village in the distance. It was Ulmdorf. He was so surprised at what had just happened to him that it took him a moment to remember the sword. It was only then, standing there in clear daylight, that he could see the true beauty of the blade. Dark swirls worked their way down its edges, and along its spine he could faintly see the word ‘Wolundr’ impregnated in the very structure of the steel. It truly was a hero’s blade, and he couldn’t wait to try it out.

  He set off toward the village, looking forward to the warm bed at Gunther’s inn, and hoped they’d been sensible enough to stay away from the barrow.

  WULFRIC WENT straight to Gunther’s inn when he arrived at the village. When he walked in, Gunther was behind his bar, much as he had been the first time Wulfric was there.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon,’ Gunther said, when Wulfric walked in. ‘Ale? Food?’