When Rodulf reached the mercenary camp, Tenario was sitting at a small camp desk with a bookkeeper, paying out small purses of coin to his men, who queued with excitement at the prospect of having money to spend.
‘A word, Captain,’ Rodulf said.
‘I’m busy,’ Tenario said. ‘Can’t you see?’
‘We had an agreement,’ Rodulf said. ‘It will only take a moment.’
Tenario sighed and nodded his head. ‘Back in a minute, lads.’
There was a collective groan as the men absorbed the fact that they would have to wait in line a little longer before spending their wages on cards, booze, or the growing number of prostitutes who had set up shop around the fringes of the camp.
Tenario led Rodulf back into his command tent. He paused at the entrance. ‘The savages stay outside.’ He gestured to the Blood Blades, who remained unmoved. Rodulf nodded.
‘Who started the rumour?’ Rodulf said as soon as they were inside the spartan campaign quarters.
Tenario shrugged.
Rodulf could feel his blood boil. He was tempted to call in the Blood Blades. ‘We had an agreement.’
‘I don’t know who started it,’ Tenario said. ‘And that’s the truth. Heard it a couple of times in different places, and it spread through the camp like wildfire. You’re lucky you didn’t have a mutiny on your hands. You and me both.’
Rodulf rubbed his temples. ‘You could have told me that before. I really don’t have time for this.’
‘You had something I wanted before,’ Tenario said. ‘And I wanted to make sure I got it. My lads are loyal, and will fight to the death, but only so long as the coin is coming in.’
‘Have you heard of a man named “the Graf”?’
Tenario laughed. ‘A man? I’ve heard of her. Who d’you think runs the whores, the gambling, and supplies the camp with booze? I tried to chase her people off—too much vice is never a good thing for a bored army—and a couple of my lads ended up with cut throats. I’m turning a blind eye now. Cost of doing business.’
‘Do you know where I can find her?’
Tenario shrugged, and smiled.
Rodulf sucked through his teeth in frustration, then stormed off.
PART III
CHAPTER 37
Wulfric felt no enthusiasm as he rode back through Brixen’s gates. The city was a magnificent, beautiful monument to what men could achieve, but had been paid for by the toil of villagers like those he had left behind in Ulmdorf, who went all but forgotten by those who ruled them. They lived in opulent palaces, squabbling and intriguing over power, while the ordinary people suffered for their ambitions. The sooner he could be rid of the place, the better. The thought of riding as far into the Northlands as he could, until he reached a place where no one had even heard of Ruripathia—or Ostia, or Estranza, or any of the other rotten, corrupt lands—was as pleasing a one as he could come up with. Nonetheless, this was where he was, and where he had to be for the time being. He would have to do his best to ignore the attention his fame brought him, and remind himself that his service to a monarch and society for which he had no respect was a means to an end.
It saddened him that he took little pleasure in having completed a task that no man had done in centuries, had proved that a legend was indeed true, and had a hero’s blade to show for it. There could be no denying that he had reached the forge—all it would take was one look at the blade and everyone would know that he told the truth. That news of the deed would spread quickly and bring him even more fame was an uncomfortable consequence. He had always dreamed of being a famed warrior, but the reality of it was not at all what he had expected. What that meant in the South was very different to the Northlands. He supposed he should try to enjoy the benefits it brought, but it was not in his character, and the trappings that came with it were not things that interested him.
As he rode at a slow amble through the streets toward the palace, he went over the journey in his head. He knew there would be many questions about the forge—what it looked like, where it was located—and he wanted to have all the facts clear in his mind. He thought back over the journey, the information he had set off with and the path he had followed, but quickly grew confused. He could remember events along the way—the goat and the avalanche, the frozen body in the ice, the arrival at the forge, but the parts that went between were hazy. He couldn’t remember any of the decisions he’d made as he travelled, whether he turned left or right, when or how many times. He stopped, and tried to fight through the fog of his memory. Had Wolundr done something to him to make him forget? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember the route he had taken. Beyond Ulmdorf, he couldn’t recall anything specific about the journey. Were he to undertake it again, it would be as though he had never been there before. He shook his head, but could not help chuckling to himself. It explained the lack of information in the stories, and detail on the maps. He supposed it would hardly be a hero’s journey if it was clearly signposted. Wolundr, it seemed, liked being hard to find.
There was a great commotion when he arrived back at the palace—stable boys rushed out to take his horse, while servants came out to help him with his baggage, of which he had none, bar the sword which he was not going to let out of his sight—at least not until it had been presented to Princess Alys as proof that he had completed the task she had set for him.
With all the fuss, it was not long until Jagovere and the others appeared.
‘You’re still alive, then,’ Enderlain said. ‘Did you find it?’
Wulfric held up the bundle.
‘Well, let’s have a look,’ Enderlain said.
Wulfric pulled the heavily blood-stained cloth back, to reveal the perfect blade beneath.
Jagovere whistled through his teeth in admiration. ‘I’d never have believed it. You really found the forge?’
Wulfric nodded. He reckoned he would be thought a madman if he recounted the truth. He had enough inflated stories to deal with as it was.
‘There wasn’t much there,’ he said. ‘But after a bit of searching I found this.’ He held up the blade, which seemed to come alive in the light.
‘Let’s get it in front of Her Highness and prove that you’re all we say you are,’ Jagovere said.
He smiled, and Wulfric raised an eyebrow. He realised that in him, Jagovere had found the perfect model around which to build all of the stories floating around in his head. Having a real man to base them around made them all the more relevant, but Wulfric could only hope they didn’t grow any more outlandish than they already had. He nodded and they all headed inside.
The news of his return had moved through court quicker than wildfire through a field of dry grass, and many of the nobles present at court had gathered in the audience hall by the time Wulfric and the others got there. It took the princess longer to arrive, but that was to be expected. Wulfric immediately took note of Grenville, who lurked toward the rear of the gathered crowd, watching intently. Wulfric was under no illusion—their blades would cross, and sooner rather than later.
Eventually the princess arrived, surrounded by a small group of attendants. Once she was settled on her throne, she looked in Wulfric’s direction.
‘Captain Ulfyr,’ she said. ‘I understand you have met with success.’
The chamberlain beckoned for Wulfric to come forward, which he did, holding the sword out before him.
‘I did, Your Highness,’ Wulfric said. ‘I found this blade, and claim it as my own.’
‘Deservedly so,’ Princess Alys said. ‘I’m sure the journey was fraught with danger.’
‘It was, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘But worth it, I think.’
He held the blade out. She studied it from where she sat, but made no effort to get a closer look. It was as though the prize itself was irrelevant, and not the goal she had in mind when sending him.
‘Send for the court smith,’ she said.
He had clearly already been notified that his presence might
be required, as he arrived only moments after the order was given. He pushed his way through the crowd until he reached Wulfric. He looked nothing like any of the smiths Wulfric had encountered before. He lacked the broad shoulders and developed arms of a man who spends his days swinging a hammer, and looked more like an academic or an artist, complete with delicate-looking wire spectacles.
‘What is your opinion on this blade, Court Smith?’ the princess said.
‘May I?’ the smith said, holding out his hands.
Wulfric placed the blade on his open palms. He looked along the blade from tang to tip, turning it over slowly in his hands as he inspected the lines. That done, he started a closer inspection of the metal. He pulled a piece of shaped crystal from his pocket and held it to his eye as he worked his way along the blade.
Being closest to him, Wulfric could hear the smith’s whispered remarks. ‘My goodness’, ‘exceptional’, and ‘gracious me’ were repeated at regular intervals, until he stopped at the lettering that spelled out ‘Wolundr’.
He cleared his throat and placed the crystal back in his tunic pocket.
‘I’ve not seen the like before, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘I don’t know of a smith alive today who can produce such work. It is, in a word, perfection. There is not a single flaw or inclusion in the metal. The lines are true, and it is the most finely balanced sword I have ever encountered. The artistry of the metal work is without parallel. I don’t know how the smith did it, but it is as though the metal obeyed his every command. It is sublime. A privilege to see and hold it. I will forever be in its awe.’ He handed it back to Wulfric with a smile so broad it was as though he had made it himself.
‘Praise indeed,’ the princess said. ‘You can confirm it is a blade of Wolundr’s Forge then?’
‘I feel confident in so doing,’ the smith said. ‘I’ve not seen one in person before—sadly they have all been lost. There are descriptions of them however, which I am very familiar with. The signature is there, as I had expected to see if it were genuine. What amazes me is the method of its creation. Ordinarily the letters are welded into the steel as the blade is being forged, and then highlighted with the use of acids. In this instance, however, it seems as though the lettering came about as a natural product of the forging process. It’s quite remarkable. I would give all that I have to know how it was done.’
Wulfric had been watching the princess as the smith had given his report, but it was obvious that she had lost interest after he had confirmed the blade as one of Wolundr’s.
‘In recognition of this remarkable feat,’ the princess said, ‘I appoint Captain Ulfyr as Royal Champion. Step forward.’
It was an unexpected announcement, and Wulfric hesitated. He was certain there would be strings attached to this appointment, but knew that he could not turn it down. The last thing he wanted was more responsibility there, or more jealous eyes looking in his direction. There was no choice, however. He did as he was bade, and approached the dais and knelt down on one knee.
An attendant handed her a piece of steel-grey cloth embroidered with silver thread, and a parchment scroll.
‘The title of Royal Champion also carries with it appointment as Banneret of the Grey. As you are not currently a banneret, I had your honorary patents prepared by the academy in anticipation of your successful return.’ She handed Wulfric the scroll. ‘You will need to attend the Herald of Arms at the Bannerets’ Hall to have your banner designed and made, at your earliest convenience.’ She handed him the cloth, which Wulfric realised was similar to the sashes around the waists of many of the gentlemen at court. Finally she gave him a silver brooch, set with a deep blue gem at its centre.
‘With this badge of office, I appoint you Royal Champion, Banneret of the Grey Ulfyr.’
Applause began with only a few participants—Jagovere and the others, Wulfric suspected—but it quickly spread throughout the gathered assembly. Wulfric could not help but feel an abundance of pride, tinged though it was by concern about what new expectations and obligations this honour would place on him.
Just as Wulfric expected to be dismissed, the princess spoke again.
‘Does it have a name?’ she said, her usually icy countenance thawing for the first time in Wulfric’s experience.
‘Pardon me?’ Wulfric said.
‘The sword. Have you named it? I understand all heroes’ blades have names.’
‘I… no, not yet,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’ll be sure to come up with something.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t rush. For a blade this fine, the choice should not be rushed.’
‘I won’t, Your Highness.’
‘WELL, it seems we’re sinking deeper into this morass, rather than working our way back out of it,’ Jagovere said. ‘Officially Royal Champion—although we both know you’ve bloodied your blade in that regard in all but name already—and Banneret Captain of the Grey Ulfyr. Took me five years of bloody hard work to get my Grey. That’s not counting all the work that went before, to get into the Academy. Still, I suppose a perilous trek to a long-forgotten legendary site counts for something.’
Wulfric shrugged.
‘While you were gone, there were some discontented voices raised over the manner in which Lord Hochmark met his end. I expect they were too afraid of you to raise them while you were still here. Her Highness’s jurists were quick to point out that although it was a somewhat grey area of the law, all parties before and after the duel were agreed that it was legally fought.’
‘It was,’ Wulfric said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘The grey area, really. It could cause problems down the line if you keep going about killing noblemen who are less than committed in their support of Her Highness. Now that she’s made you a Banneret of the Grey, as well as Royal Champion, you can kill just about anyone you like, or she likes, without any issue, so long as it’s all legal, of course.’
‘Oh,’ Wulfric said, not sure how he felt about being made into an over-titled executioner.
‘Exactly. Your successful return gave her the reason she needed to elevate you further, and it sends a clear message to those of her noblemen who would rather see a man on the throne, or break away from her rule completely. “Toe the line, or I’ll have my tame Northlander poke you full of holes!”’
‘I’m nobody’s tame anything,’ Wulfric said.
‘Ah, but I’m afraid you are,’ Jagovere said. ‘Which means we’re all just going to have to get on with it. Anyway, on to what I really want to talk to you about. I had a very interesting conversation while you were away.’
They continued to walk from the audience hall toward their apartments, moving through groups of courtiers as they did. The palace had grown busier since Wulfric had first arrived, which he took to be a good sign, for the princess, at least. Jagovere lowered his voice.
‘I was talking with some old Academy friends,’ he said. ‘The type who make a living with their swords. They said they were approached by a Humberlander to see if they had any interest in a bit of work. Seems he had someone that needed killing. When I asked them to describe him? Well, you’ll never guess who is the absolute spitting image.’
‘Grenville,’ Wulfric said, long having suspected the Humberlander’s intentions were far from friendly.
‘Grenville,’ Jagovere said.
‘He was right in one thing,’ Wulfric said. ‘There is someone that needs killing. Why’d you reckon he wanted it done?’
‘While you were away, Banneret Grenville was appointed representative of the Markgraf of Elzmark,’ Jagovere said. ‘I expect he’s been in the Markgraf’s service all along, and killing or discrediting you would harm Her Highness. It seems Hochmark wasn’t the only powerful nobleman sowing seeds of discontent.’
‘How should I respond?’ Wulfric said.
‘How would you have at home?’
‘Go to his house, kick in his door, and cut his head off.’
‘Probably not the best approach here. No, we’ll have t
o come up with something a little more subtle. Killing him might not even be the best option. Now that you’re Royal Champion, you’ll need to give a bit more thought to these things—what’s in the best interest of Her Highness, for instance.’
‘The death of a snake like that is in everyone’s best interests,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’ll call him the son of a whore in the dining hall next chance I get, then kill him when he demands a duel. I think your southern rules are daft, but I’ll turn them to my advantage if I have to play by them.’
Jagovere raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure if that’s the best approach.’
Wulfric was set in his course. He had seen enough of how southern courts worked, and he was determined that a man who had tried to kill him twice wasn’t going to live any longer than necessary.
CHAPTER 38
Wulfric found himself looking forward to dinner that night. Usually he thought dining at court to be a stilted affair, which others saw as a tool for advancement that was heavily overused in Wulfric’s opinion. They flattered, they boasted, and they begged. Wulfric found it disgusting, and wondered how many of them were worth a damn when it came to something practical, like fighting a battle or running a farm. The city seemed to run on hot air, and the dining hall was a major source of it. He wondered how many of the men seated there, in the decorated uniforms that proclaimed them as bannerets, would have been able to deal with the barrow at Ulmdorf, or the men who took the villagers hostage. Too much talk. It was a rot.
Nonetheless, he intended to do some talking himself that night. Laced with vitriol, every word of it would be directed at Banneret Grenville. Wulfric got there early and took a seat in the area of the hall where he knew Grenville usually sat. He wondered if his seating arrangements might have changed with his increase in importance at court. Maybe he could sit wherever he chose?
Eventually he spotted Grenville come in, and did his best to act nonchalant, pretending to listen to the latest court gossip from the person sitting next to him. He had run a few of his intended barbs by Jagovere, who was still uncomfortable with the idea but had not offered a better suggestion.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 26