The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘Oh,’ Elsa said. ‘That really is quite blinkered. I was hoping you’d be able to fill me in with some juicy gossip from the palace.’

  Adalhaid grimaced and shook her head. ‘I haven’t heard a thing beyond the rumours on the street,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the talk of the town,’ Elsa said. ‘Nobody seems to have a clue what they’re doing here. Lots of rumour and speculation, but nothing I’d put any stock in.’

  ‘I’ve not been in the palace much over the past few weeks,’ Adalhaid said. ‘I’ve really only been sleeping there. Every waking minute was in the library.’

  ‘People are starting to get worried about it. Every day more of them arrive. At least they seem to be on our side. For the time being anyway. With mercenaries you can never be sure. Hopefully the Markgraf will send them off somewhere soon enough and things will get back to normal. But enough of this—we’re supposed to be celebrating.’ She handed Adalhaid the bottle. ‘Finish this off. I know a nice place around the corner where we can get another.’

  ADALHAID’S HEAD was pounding when she woke up. They had ended up in a small tavern that Elsa appeared to be very familiar with, and stayed there until the early hours with little break in the flow of drinks. In the haze of her memory of it, she could recall promising Elsa that she would continue helping at the clinic until she found something permanent. She couldn’t fathom what had brought her to making the promise, but it was done and she would have to show her face a couple of times at least. Perhaps with no more studying needed, it wouldn’t be so great an imposition on her time.

  She hauled herself out of bed. Hungover or not, she had things she needed to do, and she wasn’t going to let a headache and upset stomach stand in her way. She had tarried too long already to qualify, now she had to move quickly.

  The first person on her agenda was Gerhard, the palace butler. He had terrified Adalhaid when she had arrived at the palace. Her first encounter with him had been to see him giving a footman a dressing-down for reasons unknown to her. It had transpired that, aside from demanding high standards from everyone in his charge, he was a kindly man of later years who had proved to be a pillar of strength through all the misfortunes that had befallen the palace.

  There was a ruthlessness to her plan that made her feel uncomfortable, but Adalhaid knew that in order to beat Rodulf, she would need to be just as ruthless as he was. So long as none of the people she was using were hurt in the process, she was able to assuage her guilt at lying to those who deserved to be treated better.

  ‘I passed, Gerhard,’ she said as soon as he was within earshot.

  He broke into a wide smile. ‘Congratulations, Adalhaid. I’m proud of you. Everyone here will be delighted to hear the news. Have you told his lordship yet?’

  ‘I’m just on my way,’ Adalhaid said. ‘Is he busy?’

  Gerhard shook his head. ‘The Lord Lieutenant takes care of most of his responsibilities these days.’

  Adalhaid smiled sympathetically. His tone conveyed what he thought of Rodulf without him having to say anything. ‘Is Lord Elzmark ill?’

  ‘No, nothing out of the ordinary,’ Gerhardt said. ‘Only more of the same.’

  ‘Perhaps now that I’m qualified, I can be of more use to him,’ Adalhaid said. ‘It can’t hurt to have another physician here around the clock.’

  ‘You plan on staying then?’

  ‘For as long as Lord Elzmark will have me,’ Adalhaid said. ‘I’d feel bad to abandon him as soon as I’ve qualified.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps you’ll be able to restore his spirits. Congratulations again.’

  Adalhaid watched him walk away, hoping that the idea had been securely planted, and when anyone at the palace fell ill, hers would be the first door he would knock on. With that done, she headed for Gretta’s apartment. Telling the Markgraf her good news would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 41

  Renmar ducked below a sizzling cut that would have ended him had it connected. The onlooking crowd let out an ‘ahhhh’ but Renmar stayed focussed. Outside of the black strip of paint on the floor, nothing existed for the duration of three cuts. Like most potentially lethal attacks, it had left the man who made it open to a counter. Renmar riposted with a quick thrust into the man’s armpit as he tried to pull himself back into balance.

  He cried out with a mixture of pain and frustration and brought his blade back down quicker than Renmar had expected—most men took a moment to gather themselves after being cut. He felt the sting of the blade whip across his face, and the flesh of his cheek part. It hurt, but had missed his eye, and he knew that he had been lucky. He retreated from his opponent, the back of his other hand held across the wound. Seeing opportunity, his opponent advanced. Renmar thrust low as he took a step and skewered him through the thigh, a strike that Renmar favoured, and found won him a cut as often as not. It was his third of the bout, which meant they were done. There was a silent disappointment from the crowd—that was always the case when a bout ended with both competitors still living.

  One of the club owner’s flunkies appeared at the black carpet to escort Renmar to the owner’s table, where he would receive his prize purse. He was a regular fighter in that club, although there were several he frequented out of a desire not to be too familiar a feature in any. The owner smiled as he approached.

  ‘Hein, will you chance a second bout tonight?’

  Renmar shook his head and raised his gloved hand to the cut on his cheek.

  The owner raised an eyebrow. ‘With a face wound your odds will be good.’

  ‘I don’t need the money that badly.’

  The owner shrugged and held out a purse full of coins. ‘Does that mean you don’t want it?’

  Renmar took it from his hand and turned to walk away.

  ‘Until next time,’ the owner called after him.

  Renmar raised his hand in acknowledgement, then touched his fingers to the wound and realised that it would need attention. It was nearly dawn, and the clinics would open not long after. He could not go home to his boy Tobias with his face like that. He would have to find somewhere to wait until the city came awake. At least he knew where he was going. It seemed a happy coincidence that he had only recently become aware of a young physician with an excellent record of healing her patients.

  IT FELT odd being back in the clinic as a fully qualified physician. Although no longer officially rostered, she went in that morning as she usually would have, on the excuse that she wanted to help out until Elsa was assigned a new apprentice. The real reason was that she needed access to the medicine cabinet.

  She had thought long and hard about what drug was the best to use, and had decided upon a poison that caused aggressive stomach cramps and vomiting when administered in trace doses. The less she needed to use, the less chance of being caught, she thought. The symptoms would last up to twelve hours if they were not treated, but subsided quickly when they were, which would allow Adalhaid to give Rodulf a sleeping draught as part of her treatment, destroy the Stone, and be half a day’s ride away by the time he woke up.

  She went in early, before patients arrived, giving her time to go through the cabinet and take the emetic she wanted and the tincture of dream seed to put Rodulf to sleep. In order to cover up her theft, she decided to put in a morning there before returning to the palace to get her plan in motion. She looked over the patient roster to see which appointments she could deal with, then remembered that, now that she was qualified, she was entitled to treat all of them. It was a satisfying feeling, the culminating moment of so much hard work—even more so than the moment she learned she had passed her exams.

  The first patient on the list was a banneret named Renmar. So early in the day for a swordsman most likely meant he was there to be stitched up after a dawn duel, a regular feature on the treatment rosters.

  She looked about the waiting room which only contained one person.

  ‘Good morning,’ Adalhaid said. ‘What can I do for you to
day, Banneret Renmar?’

  The question answered itself as soon as she took a good look at him. Her patient looked every inch a swordsman, if the title on his registration form and the neat cut on his cheek were not enough of a giveaway.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘Someone spilled your drink?’

  Renmar smiled, but winced as soon as he did.

  ‘Something like that, Doctor,’ he said.

  She realised it was the first time that anyone had called her that in a professional capacity, and she could not help herself but smile. Everything else that was going on had distracted her from the achievement. Qualifying had become a means to an end, and she had all but forgotten all the reasons she had initially chosen that path. She had not taken a moment to reflect on her achievement, nor of how proud it would have made her parents.

  ‘Now, a cleaning and some stitches are in order,’ she said. ‘I can’t promise you’ll be as handsome as you were before, but I’ll do my best. If you’ll come with me to the treatment room?’

  ‘I’m sure your best will be more than good enough,’ Renmar said, following her.

  She took a bottle of alcohol from the cabinet, and a swab of cotton, and returned to Renmar to take a closer look at the cut. The wound wasn’t pretty. The blade must have been jagged, and judging by how red and angry the wound already looked, dirty as well. A little touch of her gift would speed things up, and improve the end result, although she had learned that men like Renmar tended to be quite happy to walk around with a face full of scars. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t take this risk again, but in the next few days she would either have left the city or be dead, so what harm would it do?

  ‘What do you do for a living, Banneret?’ Adalhaid said, purely to make conversation and put her patient at ease as she prepared a needle and thread.

  ‘This and that,’ he said. ‘The life of an itinerant swordsman sounded terribly romantic to me when I was a lad.’

  Adalhaid laughed.

  ‘This will sting a bit,’ she said, as she raised the alcohol-soaked swab to his face.

  He hissed as she pressed it against the wound. With his senses overwhelmed by the sting of the alcohol, she directed her thoughts to ensuring the wound would not go bad.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Adalhaid,’ Elsa said, opening the door to the treatment room.

  Adalhaid stood straight with a start, and Renmar flinched.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Elsa said.

  ‘Yes,’ Adalhaid said. ‘You startled me is all.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Elsa said. ‘I’ve run out of willow bark. I was hoping I could steal some from your cabinet.’

  ‘Of course,’ Adalhaid said, a chill of fear gripping her. Would Elsa notice the missing poison? ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I’ll grab it. Don’t let me disturb you any further.’

  Adalhaid forced herself to remain composed, but Elsa didn’t seem to notice the missing bottle. She grabbed what she needed and shut the cabinet without so much as a second glance. Adalhaid smiled to Elsa as she left, allowing the comforting wave of relief to wash over her, and returned her attention to Renmar. She bit her lip to stifle her surprise and concern. In the momentary shock, she had used too much effort, and Renmar’s cut had completely knitted, as though it were over a week old. Her mind raced as she tried to decide what to do. There was a good chance he wouldn’t realise there was anything unusual, and if he did she wouldn’t be around to face the consequences. If she stitched it as usual, covered it with a secure bandage, and told him not to remove it for at least ten days, he would probably never realise, and one way or the other she would be gone. Nonetheless, it was a sloppy, and dangerous, mistake to make, and told her she still had a long way to go before she had mastered it. When she left Elzburg, she would have a long journey to get to wherever she went. It would be the chance to work towards perfecting her control.

  She continued with her treatment, stitching the wound unnecessarily, and adding an extra helping of adhesive to the bandage to make sure that it did not come loose accidentally.

  ‘You’ll need to come back in two weeks to get the stitches out,’ she said. ‘Until then, don’t try to remove or change the bandage. You’ll have a nice clean duelling scar if you leave it alone. If not, it’ll look like you had an accident with a saw.’

  ‘Leave the bandage alone,’ Renmar said, nodding. ‘Two weeks. I understand.’

  ‘Good,’ Adalhaid said, hoping that what she had said would convince him to do as he was told. ‘I’ll see you in two weeks.’ She smiled as he got up and left, believing what she had said to be a lie.

  RENMAR STOPPED on the street after leaving the clinic and looked back at the building. He touched his fingers to the bandage, but couldn’t feel anything. He had been cut and stitched many times, but had never felt quite like that before. His face still tingled a little, and he could hardly feel the cut. Indeed, now that he thought of it, there was no pain at all. The thought that perhaps the professor was right popped into his mind. He grinned, grimaced, and pouted, to test the wound, drawing strange looks from passers-by. He cast one a menacing look, but out of his Intelligencier uniform, the glare didn’t carry its usual weight.

  None of the expressions, each stretching his face in a different direction, had caused pain. Less than an hour earlier he hadn’t been able to so much as smile without bringing a tear to his eye. His suspicion ignited, Renmar set off for a tailor’s shop he knew of nearby that was filled with mirrors. He walked quickly, ignoring anyone he shouldered out of the way as he went. The sword at his waist marked him as a banneret, which was enough to cause most people to ignore the bad manners. Not as effective as the black cloth of the Intelligenciers with its sinister silver motif of staff, skull, and sword, but good enough.

  He walked into the tailor’s, stopping all conversation as the staff and patrons watched him. He tore the bandage from his face and walked to the nearest mirror, presenting his wounded cheek. A fresh wound left a bright red line. His was now faded to pink. It looked as though it had happened a month before. He chewed his lip as he continued to study it. The stitches only shallowly pierced the skin. He had been stitched enough times to know they were not nearly deep enough to be of any use. Had the wound been open, they would have torn free under the slightest tension. She had known the wound was healed, and had put in the stitches merely to deceive him.

  His eyes widened, and his heart began to race with excitement. There was only one explanation. Magic. The professor who had denounced her was right. But it was not a sinister, destroy-the-world-with-fire-and-lightning magic. It was one that could heal wounds. Mend injuries. A smile spread across his face. What more might she be able to do than heal a deep cut? He thought about his boy, his crippled Tobias with the wasted leg as the legacy of an illness in infancy. He thought of the dreams he and Tobias’s mother had once had for him, and for a moment they seemed possible again. He turned to leave the shop, and realised that everyone there was still watching him.

  ‘Continue about your business,’ he said.

  There was no immediate reaction, reminding him that he needed to go home and change into his uniform before his day job started in earnest.

  CHAPTER 42

  Elzburg was much the same in appearance as it had been on Wulfric’s last visit, red-bricked and imposing. Even after all the cities he had visited, Elzburg retained a place in his memory as the first southern city he had ever seen. The sense of unease he felt was almost overwhelming, and it took a great deal of effort to maintain an impassive face.

  Although its appearance showed no change, there was a distinctly different atmosphere. The mood was obviously tense. The royal emissary announced himself at the city gates, and they waited for the Markgraf’s representatives to come out and escort them to the palace. Enderlain sat on his horse with his chest puffed out and Wulfric’s—Ulfyr’s—banner fluttering proudly above him at the tip of a lance. At first Wulfric had thought i
t ridiculous and was more than a little embarrassed by having Enderlain ride with it, but the belek and sword on a background of steel-grey cloth was starting to grow on him. It created a visible reaction in all who saw it and marked him as a man of distinction, much as the elaborate helms worn by his father and the other warriors of Leondorf had. It represented the achievement of the dream he had thought ridiculous when he was a young boy—to be a warrior worthy of standing with his father, with the Belek’s Bane, with Belgar, or any of the other men he had looked up to.

  As they waited, Emissary Tuller approached Wulfric and the others.

  ‘I want you to take a ride around the city walls before coming in,’ he said. ‘Have a good look around. I want to know everything I can before we start our talks with the Markgraf.’

  Wulfric was under the emissary’s command, so there was no refusing the order. With a nod, he wheeled his horse around and set off with the others following.

  ‘Might be best if you take that down,’ Wulfric said to Enderlain as they went. ‘No point in drawing unnecessary attention.’

  Jagovere nodded in agreement, and Enderlain reluctantly untied it from his lance and carefully folded it before putting it into a saddle bag.

  They rode slowly along the foot of the city wall, with nothing striking Wulfric as being out of the ordinary. Beyond the city there was nothing but farmland, and the only thing to see was people going about their daily work. He tried not to stare too closely at the gate from which he had escaped the city, thus starting a journey he would never have believed.

  He started to grow bored of their little tour of the city walls, until they came around a tower giving them a full view of the plain to the west of the city. It was covered with tents, and abuzz with men attending to the duties one would expect from an army at camp.