The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘I like the idea of him having the squits in front of all those important men as much as anyone,’ Gretta said. ‘But I’m so busy, and there’s no way I can be sure what food will be going to Rodulf. It could end up on anyone’s plate.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t do,’ Adalhaid said. ‘We’ll just have to wait for a better opportunity.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll have plenty of chances,’ Gretta said. ‘Anyhow, I best get back to the kitchens.’

  Adalhaid showed her out, ruing the reality that, for her, there might not be many opportunities left. She thought of trying to get some sleep, but realised she was too wound up. She took her cloak from the peg behind her door, and swept it around her before heading out to walk off some of her tension. Perhaps she might even catch a glimpse of the famed Wolf of the North. The realisation that even she was not immune to celebrity made her smile.

  The palace was as energised as she felt, and she pitied the poor servants who were unlikely to get much rest that night as accommodations were made for the unexpected delegation. She drifted through the bustle with the ease of one who had been born to a busy noble court, but breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the cool evening air outside. She paused on the palace steps as she decided on which direction to go. She thought of Princess Park, with its leafy paths lit by magelamps, but discounted it as, even at that hour, it would still be busy with promenading couples, the younger of which would be closely followed by chaperones. Walkensplatz, named after the Markgraf’s grandfather, was the best remaining option. Although a small oasis of grass and trees in the city, it was not a spot to see or be seen, so would be quiet and allow her time alone with her thoughts.

  She had taken her first step toward it when the spectre she had feared for so many weeks appeared before her. A man in the unmistakeable black robes of the Intelligenciers walked briskly through the palace courtyard, and was most certainly headed in her direction. She thought of turning and running, but what if he was not coming for her? Perhaps he was there for something to do with the delegation’s arrival. As she stood, her decision-making shackled by terror, he grew close enough to make out his face. It was the man she had treated—the swordsman, Renmar. The man she had made the mistake with. Of all the luck. She nearly vomited on the steps as the realisation hit her. The fear passed quickly however, the instinct for survival taking over. She made to turn and run back inside—perhaps the Markgraf would give her succour—but she had no more than lifted her foot when she heard the sound of quick footsteps and steel being drawn.

  ‘Stay where you are, Miss Steinnsdottir. If you run, I will catch you.’

  Adalhaid took a deep breath, and turned to face him. His sword was drawn, its tip hovering a hair’s breadth from her chest.

  ‘Your cut has healed well, Banneret Renmar,’ she said, unable to inject the irony into her voice that she had been intending.

  ‘Indeed it has,’ Renmar said.

  A young boy, no more than four or five years of age, hobbled out from behind Renmar’s voluminous black Intelligencier’s cloak. Adalhaid frowned in confusion.

  ‘My boy. Tobias,’ Renmar said.

  She flicked her eyes from Renmar’s mousy brown hair to the fair-haired boy.

  ‘Takes after his mother, gods rest her,’ he said, following her gaze. ‘He was left lame by the crippling sickness that took her.’

  Adalhaid looked to the boy’s withered leg, and absorbed the facts of her situation.

  ‘Is there somewhere more private we can talk?’ Renmar said. He glanced down at his son, who was staring at the sword blade, which still pointed at Adalhaid. As though he had forgotten it was there, Renmar hastily sheathed it.

  Adalhaid thought for a moment. What choice did she have? A moment before, all she could see in her future was a burning pyre. Now? Perhaps there was hope.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said. She led Renmar and his son, who kept up despite his disability, to a small room off the palace’s entrance hall used for storage. It was filled with chairs, folded tables, vases, and the various other things needed in the day-to-day functioning of the palace, but there was more than enough room for what Adalhaid expected was to follow.

  Once they were inside with the door closed, Renmar spoke again.

  ‘What you did for my face—can you do that for my boy’s leg? Can you fix it?’

  She nodded, hoping he didn’t detect her hesitation. She knew of the illness he had spoken of. It flared up as an epidemic with nursing mothers every twenty years or so, the last time being about five years previously. As an active illness, she had never had the cause to treat it. Few, if any, survived. Young Tobias had been lucky, she thought, if going through life maimed could be considered good luck.

  ‘Put him up on the table,’ she said.

  Renmar lifted his son onto the table with the eagerness of a desperate man. Adalhaid thought of the young girl whose leg she had unintentionally mended, and hoped this would prove as successful—her life could well depend on it. She rolled up Tobias’s trouser leg and placed her hands on the withered limb. He trembled at her touch.

  ‘Be still now, lad,’ Renmar said. ‘This lady will help you.’

  The boy nodded to his father, but Adalhaid could see he was terrified—of the unknown, or of disappointing his father, she could not tell. She gave him as comforting a smile as she could muster, and concentrated, doing her best to banish the fear that reigned supreme within her. She focussed on the desire to make him well, for his leg to be healthy and strong. She welcomed the sensation of light-headedness when it came. She let it take hold of her, free from the fear of overdoing things or being caught. She felt the heat drain from her arms and her knees wobbled as her mind drifted away from clarity. She clung on for as long as she dared, until she could no longer concentrate, or feel her fingers for the cold, which had reached as far as her shoulders and deep into her chest. When she felt as though she had no more to give, she lifted her hands from Tobias’s leg and squeezed her eyes shut as she fought to control the sensation of dizziness.

  She felt Renmar’s hand on her back, and welcomed the steadying touch. It took what seemed like an age for her mind to clear, and warmth to flow back into her arms.

  ‘Gods alive,’ Renmar said. ‘How does it feel, Tobias?’

  ‘Better?’ the boy said uncertainly.

  Adalhaid looked and sighed with relief, not caring about revealing her feelings to the man who might well be her executioner. Tobias’s withered leg now looked like his healthy one, plump with healthy muscle and puppy fat.

  ‘Can you lift it and bend it?’ she said.

  Tobias did as he was asked, and a smile spread across his face. ‘It’s better, Dad.’ There was joy in his voice. ‘It’s better.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Renmar said, the words catching in his throat. He turned to Adalhaid. She could see his eyes were wet.

  ‘There are only two things I can offer in payment,’ he said. ‘The first is a warning that is well meant. You must leave this city, and go as far away as you can. Far enough that you will never encounter anyone who knows you. You can never come back.’

  She nodded, seeing a beacon of hope, and urging herself toward it.

  ‘The second,’ he said, with a hardening edge to his voice, ‘is that I can make sure the accusation against you goes no farther. Beyond that, I can do no more for you.’

  Adalhaid nodded, transfixed by joy in knowing he would not drag her to her death.

  ‘Come, Tobias, we best be getting home.’ He lifted his son to the ground, who started to bounce on his toes and continued to do so with each step as his father led him to the door. Renmar stopped when he got there.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. With that, he and Tobias were gone.

  CHAPTER 44

  Wulfric waited until he was certain they were out of earshot of anyone before speaking.

  ‘When I do it, what will happen after?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tuller said.

  ‘I mean,
do I need to have a horse saddled and waiting so I can escape?’

  Tuller thought for a moment. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘Probably. It all depends how his courtiers react. It will be legally done, and I will immediately denounce him as a traitor as soon as the negotiations have failed, which will absolve you of wrongdoing, if any is alleged. The documents are already prepared. All that remains is for me to issue them. The fuss that causes will be an ideal opportunity to strike. That said, you can never tell how people are going to react, so it might be a good idea to get out of the way after you’ve done it, until the fuss has died down.’

  Tuller’s words did little to inspire confidence, and for the first time it occurred to Wulfric that no one at the palace cared what happened to him after he had done what they needed him to do. Once he had served his purpose, he was expendable.

  ‘I must confess this is the first time I’ve gone into a negotiation expecting to use a sword instead of a pen,’ Tuller said. ‘My instructions are to negotiate for two full days. If an amicable solution has not been achieved by then, the consensus at the Palace is that one will not be reached. I will do all that I can to draw an actionable insult from the Markgraf. The rest will be up to you.’

  ‘The close of negotiations on day two,’ Wulfric said.

  Tuller nodded. ‘Or at any time of your convenience thereafter.’

  Wulfric chewed on his lip as he thought it through. It would have to be at his convenience, if he hoped to survive.

  WULFRIC WASHED and dressed after a largely sleepless night. The quarters provided were fine, although he had to admit he was becoming used to luxury and was far more picky than once he had been. It was difficult to settle his racing thoughts when he was so close to completing the task he had set himself so long before. It was a mixture of impatience and worry—worry that he would fail. It was not something he had considered before, but now, so close to the goal, he was finding it difficult to think of anything else. His efforts to draw Grenville into a duel had failed. What if the Markgraf’s guards were able to stop him before he got close enough to land the killing blow? The Blood Debt did not end with him. For it to be fully satisfied, Rodulf too had to die.

  Bells chimed across the city, telling Wulfric it was time to meet Emissary Tuller at the audience hall. With an army sitting outside the city walls eating into the Markgraf’s treasury, he thought the talks to be nothing more than a waste of time. No amount of sword-waving on his part was going to make a man with over twelve thousand armed men at his disposal back down. The only way for conflict to be avoided was to allow him to have what he wanted, but that would likely only sate him until he decided he wanted more. It seemed like an elaborate way to get Wulfric close enough to kill the man, but perhaps it made sense. It was not like he had any worthwhile experience in assassination.

  His boot heels clattered along the polished stone floors of the palace as Wulfric made his way to join the delegation. He was gripping his sword more tightly than usual, knowing that when he had to run it was the only possession he would be taking away with him.

  The others were waiting for him when he got there, but likely only he, Tuller, and his secretaries would be at the actual negotiations.

  A liveried attendant came out.

  ‘Only the official negotiating party please. The Markgraf has only his closest advisors.’

  Tuller nodded, but gestured to Wulfric to follow.

  Wulfric shrugged his shoulders to Jagovere, then followed the emissary into the audience hall. A table had been set up, with the Markgraf and his entourage sitting beside him. One man stood by the Markgraf’s chair, resting his arm lazily on its back as though he occupied such a position of power that he could do as he liked.

  They walked in and took their seats at the other side of the table, Wulfric only now taking the time to give his opponents a closer look. The man standing was naturally the first to draw Wulfric’s gaze, and his eyes immediately tracked toward the man’s eyepatch. His jaw dropped as the unexpected recognition hit him like a punch in the stomach. Rodulf.

  Rodulf was whispering into the Markgraf’s ear, and hadn’t taken any notice of the new arrivals. It gave Wulfric a moment where it seemed he had options to walk out quickly and avoid being seen, or to kill both men in one swift strike, and settle his Blood Debt there and then. There wasn’t enough time to do anything, however, as Rodulf looked over, a sly, condescending smile on his face. The look of horror on it when he recognised Wulfric was only of mild satisfaction.

  His mouth opened and closed several times as he tried to decide what to do.

  ‘Arrest that man,’ Rodulf said, pointing at Wulfric.

  ‘What?’ the Markgraf said.

  ‘Him, Wulfric,’ Rodulf said. ‘He’s a murderer. He killed my father. Ambassador Urschel too.’

  ‘This is most improper,’ Tuller said, his voice calm and even. ‘This is Banneret of the Grey, Captain of the Royal Guard, and Royal Champion, Ulfyr. I dare say an apology is in order.’

  ‘Apology be damned,’ Rodulf said. ‘That is Wulfric Wolframson, a wanted murderer.’ He looked about the hallway for the guards. ‘Arrest him. Now!’

  Wulfric took an abrupt step forward, causing all the men on the other side of the table, Rodulf included, to flinch and slide their chairs back. He wondered if the moment to kill both men had passed him by, and his hesitation meant that it certainly had. He looked around to see he was surrounded by the Markgraf’s guards.

  ‘Well?’ Rodulf said. ‘What are you waiting for? Disarm him. Take him down to the dungeon.’

  Tuller spoke again. ‘I officially protest,’ he said, his voice deep, resonant, and authoritative in a way that belied his physical stature. ‘This man is part of an official embassy, and enjoys the rights and immunities that it conveys. Arresting him is an act of treason.’

  ‘He’s an imposter and a fraud,’ Rodulf said, the Markgraf still suspiciously quiet. ‘Any status that has been afforded to him under this alter ego is invalid. Arrest him.’

  Wulfric looked to Tuller, who shrugged, then made to draw his sword, but was pinned to the table by guards before he could get it halfway free. He could feel the shaft of a halberd pressing against the back of his neck as his face was mashed into the table top. Breathing was the most he could manage.

  ‘An act of aggression like this makes it impossible to continue the negotiations,’ Tuller said. ‘You will release that man if you have any hope for peaceful resolution.’

  ‘Shove your negotiations up your arse,’ Rodulf said. ‘If your little whore of a princess can meet our army in the field, perhaps we’ll talk. Until then, she holds no authority here. Not anymore.’

  Wulfric could hear some whispering, then the Markgraf spoke.

  ‘I hereby secede all territories under my rule from the Principality of Ruripathia, and proclaim myself King Walken of Elzland.’

  His voice was monotone, lacking even the meagre personality it had contained the previous night, but Wulfric had bigger problems to deal with. The pressure on the back of his head made it feel as though it was going to split in two. He could feel his sword and dagger being taken from his belt, but the way they had pinned his head to the table made it impossible to struggle.

  ‘You’ll take these declarations back to the princess,’ Rodulf said. ‘They make it all official. We have a sizeable army and she would be best advised to forget she ever possessed these territories.’

  Wulfric strained to see what was going on, but he couldn’t budge. He couldn’t help but notice how much Rodulf’s accent had changed. There wasn’t even a hint of the Northlands in it now, although his raspy, spiteful tone was still the same.

  ‘The rest of you will consider yourselves lucky to leave here with your lives,’ Rodulf said. ‘This one stays, though. Take him to the citadel’s dungeon. I’ll decide what to do with him later.’

  Wulfric felt the pressure on the back of his head ease, and he wasn’t one to turn down an invitation, intentional or not. He sprang ba
ck with every ounce of strength he had and grabbed the first man within reach. He heard the scatter of chairs as the officials scrambled for safety.

  The guard who Wulfric had hold of was not so fortunate. Wulfric smashed his head against the table with a loud crunch, and it was obvious the man wasn’t going to be any more of a threat. He turned to make a lunge for the next, but felt his brain slam against the front of his skull as a blinding flash filled his vision.

  He realised he was on the ground, but could make out Rodulf’s voice through the daze.

  ‘You morons,’ Rodulf said. ‘Did you not realise how dangerous he is? If he hasn’t regained his senses by the time I get to him in the dungeon, I’ll have the lot of you gelded.’

  The voice sounded distant. Wulfric could feel himself be lifted by the arms and carried along with his feet dragging behind him, before a curtain of darkness closed over his eyes.

  WULFRIC WOKE and his first thought was pain. He lay on cold stone in a dark room, the hard surface pressing on the throbbing tender spot on the back of his head. He rolled over to relieve the pressure, and realised that he had taken more of a beating than just the blow to the head. The guards must have delivered a number of kicks while he was unconscious.

  He sat and looked around. He was held within a cage of steel bars in the centre of a larger room that was lit with only one flickering lamp on the wall opposite, by the door. There were other cages, but all were empty.

  He tried to clear his muggy head and put what he could remember in order. They had come to do business with the Markgraf, but it had seemed as though Rodulf was the one to make all the decisions. Wulfric wondered how he had managed to scale the ladder of power so quickly, but all that was important was the fact that he had, and his being there meant both of the men Wulfric wanted to kill were in the same place. That he was locked in a steel cage was, however, a problem.

  NOW THAT THE ball was rolling, there was so much to do that Rodulf feared he would not be able to keep up. In the morning he would have the mercenaries march to where the new border was, at the River Rhenner, where any royal advance would be halted by the destruction of the bridges and the fouling of the fords. They could follow the royal army along the bank until they found somewhere to attempt a crossing, and massacre them. It was exciting to think how perfectly it was all falling into place, so much so that it balanced the fact that he knew he would not be getting much sleep in the coming days.