The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘There’s nothing to be done, Wulfric,’ Adalhaid said.

  ‘Of course there is. We’ll find you a doctor.’

  ‘I am a doctor,’ she said. ‘And I’m telling you there’s nothing to be done. Usually I can heal these things so easily, but it seems I can’t do it this time.’ She smiled again. ‘I don’t know why, but I think it’s the steel. It’s stopping me.’

  Wulfric shook his head in anguish and confusion. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘Rodulf. Before he left.’

  ‘He’s a dead man,’ Wulfric said. ‘Where did he go?’ He stood, feeling the rage build within him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Varada said. ‘Wherever he’s gone, it’ll take time to find him.’ She looked to Adalhaid. ‘You don’t have time.’

  He turned and glared at her as she peered out from behind Grenville, whose face was a picture of fear, but Wulfric knew she was right. He knelt back down beside Adalhaid, not knowing what to do. He reached for the sword.

  ‘If you try to take the sword out, I’ll bleed to death in no time at all.’

  ‘It’s mine,’ he said, his voice choked.

  ‘I know,’ Adalhaid said. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’d have used a different one if he didn’t think this one would hurt you more.’

  ‘If I’d known, I’d have come sooner. I’ve thought you were dead all this time. Until today.’

  ‘I thought you were, too. Then Aethelman told me you were alive, but I didn’t know where to look. I should have tried. I’m sorry.’ She lifted a blood-covered hand from her stomach and took Wulfric’s.

  ‘Don’t be. Isn’t there anything I can do?’ Wulfric said. ‘Anything you can do?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s too far along.’

  ‘The gods must hate me,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Don’t be silly. They’ve brought us together again.’

  ‘Not like this.’ He choked back a sob. Grief welled within him like a great wave rushing toward the shore.

  ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I always have, and I always will.’

  A little blood spluttered onto her chin, and Wulfric looked around for something to wipe it up with, but he could see nothing, so did his best with the tip of his dirty finger. His words seemed to be stuck in his throat, trapped there by grief and anger and frustration. Tears streamed down his face, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

  ‘Don’t be sad,’ she said. ‘We got to see one another again. I didn’t think that would happen.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be happening like this,’ he said. ‘Not like this.’

  She let out a sob. ‘I’m afraid, Wulfric.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he said. He closed his eyes and touched his head to hers. He squeezed her hand tighter. ‘I’m here with you. I’ll not leave you again. I love you.’

  He opened his eyes, and could see that she was gone. He let out a great sob. ‘No,’ he said. It sounded like the mewling of a kitten, and it shamed him. He pulled her close, and held her tightly to him, praying to whatever god that would listen to send her back to him. Had she heard him say he loved her? Why couldn’t he have said it earlier? He set her down as gently as he could, trying to control his shaking hands. Rage roared through him like a flame touched to a field of dry grass.

  He stood and roared a great challenge to the gods or anyone else who would listen. Grenville stared at him wide-eyed as Wulfric strode toward him. He didn’t budge for fear of Varada’s dagger, but even she took a step back when she saw the expression on Wulfric’s face. Wulfric grabbed Grenville by the hair and smashed his head against the doorframe. He did it again and again, barely noticing Grenville’s attempts to resist. The wave that he had thought was grief was not. It was fury, and he allowed it to wash over him. He revelled in it. He became death incarnate.

  THE MAISTERSPAEKER PAUSED, and felt his eyes grow watery. He turned his head to the bar and took a sip of ale to hide his tears. He had not told this part of the story ever before, and had not realised the effect it would have on him. Anguish gripped his heart like the cold hand of a draugr. Although he had known Adalhaid for only a few moments, he had known Wulfric for more than half a lifetime, and felt his friend’s pain as though it were his own. The thought that they would soon avenge her, or die in the trying, filled him with pride and strength. He wiped his eyes and turned back to the crowd.

  ‘When I was but a lad, not yet seventeen, I slew a belek,’ he said. ‘At the moment of striking the mortal blow, that magnificent, terrifying beast let out a wail of such pain and anguish that the sound of it has stayed with me all these years as though it were fresh from the hearing. The cry that Wulfric let out when Adalhaid left this world is the only more pained sound I have heard in all my years. I was several rooms away, returning from my failed effort to find a physician, and I could hear it as though he were standing next to me.’

  He paused again for a moment, as that sound rang fresh in his memory. He had not thought the telling of this part would be so difficult. He took a deep breath and forced himself to continue.

  ‘I have mentioned the gift that Wulfric believed the gods had bestowed upon him. Jorundyr’s Gift. For the better part of his life, he did his best to resist it, always fearful of the destruction it would wreak, and the worry that he might harm someone he cared for while in its embrace. In that moment, he had not the strength to stave it off. Nor the desire. It swallowed him whole, and he welcomed it. What followed that day earned him the sobriquet “the Bloody”.’

  ‘I hear he killed a thousand men,’ someone in the audience said.

  ‘An exaggeration,’ the Maisterspaeker said solemnly, ‘although the number easily ran into the hundreds.’

  ‘Women and children too,’ another said.

  ‘Untrue,’ the Maisterspaeker said with steel in his voice. ‘We were in Elzburg’s citadel. There were none present but soldiers loyal to the traitorous Markgraf. All else had fled. They were the only ones to suffer. But suffer they did. In their hundreds.’

  Jagovere had to clear his throat again. ‘I found him later that day, back in the room where Adalhaid had died. He was sitting cross-legged beside her body with his sword sitting on his lap. He was covered in a layer of gore so thick I barely recognised him.

  ‘“The citadel’s fallen to royal troops,” I said. ”They’re preparing to execute the Markgraf in the square outside. They’re calling you a hero. Not a man died in storming the citadel. There were none left to defend it.”

  ‘My eyes surveyed the room, flicking from Grenville’s bloody, destroyed corpse, to Adalhaid’s body, to Varada, who looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

  ‘“I’m so sorry, Wulfric,” I said.

  ‘Wulfric said nothing, and remained still a moment longer before standing. He stared down at Adalhaid’s body, all but her face draped with a blanket. He leaned down and pulled it the rest of the way, covering her completely, then picked up his bloodied sword.

  ‘“I know what I’m going to call it,” Wulfric said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘I frowned, and looked to Varada, who shrugged. “Call what?” I said.

  ‘“The sword,” Wulfric said. “I’m going to call it Sorrow Bringer.” He fell silent again, and stared down at the covered body. “Would you do me a favour, Jagovere?”

  ‘“Anything,” I said.

  ‘“See that her body is burned. Her feet should be pointed toward the High Places, and her face looking up to the sky. A good, hot fire. It should burn for a day and a night. That will give her plenty of time to get to Jorundyr’s Hall to wait for me. Bury what remains by a quiet tree in a pretty spot, and mark it out well for my return.” There were tears streaming down Wulfric’s face. He turned, and walked toward the door.

  ‘“Where are you going?” I said.

  ‘“To kill Rodulf. I don’t care how far he runs, or how long it takes to find him. I’m going to wash her blood from my sword with his.”’

  THE MAISTERSPAEKER LOOKED up from the faces c
losest to him, to one that stood tall above the others. It had been many years since he had seen it, but there was no mistaking it. The subject of his great story had finally arrived, and together, they would ride into battle one last time, and create its ending.

  ‘Is that it?’ someone said.

  The Maisterspeaker’s eyes and thoughts were locked on Wulfric, on the face he had not seen in many years, absorbing how it had aged from young man entering his prime to one at the end of it. He wondered how his own face must have changed. It took him a moment to register the comment.

  ‘For this evening, I’m afraid it is. All being well, I will return tomorrow evening, and finish the epic undertaking we have embarked upon together.’

  There was a collective groan.

  ‘It’s early yet,’ another person said. ‘Surely you can finish it this evening? When does Rodulf get what’s coming to him? We want to know.’

  The Maisterspaeker held up his hands. ‘I’m afraid needs must. All I can do is promise you an ending that befits the tale, and for that you will have to wait until tomorrow.’

  He cast another look at Wulfric, who stood impassively at the back of the tavern, unnoticed by all but the Maisterspaeker. Simply seeing his old friend made him feel like Jagovere once more, rather than the old teller of tales. He wondered how long Wulfric had been there, if he had waited to allow the Maisterspaeker to finish the story, to see if it had a made-up ending, and where it might lead. The Maisterspaeker felt a sudden flash of panic as he wondered what his old friend had thought of the story. Wulfric had always known of the Maisterspaeker’s little embellishments, and had never given them anything better than grudging acceptance. The Maisterspaeker had justified them by pointing out that he was a teller of tales, not a historian.

  He cleared his throat and thought for a moment, then nodded to Wulfric. There was no reason to delay. Wulfric returned his gesture, and slipped out of the inn.

  ‘Until tomorrow evening,’ the Maisterspaeker said, following after his old friend.

  CHAPTER 49

  The Maisterspaeker walked out into the fresh evening air, and looked around.

  ‘You’ve gotten fat, Jagovere,’ a voice said from the gloom.

  The Maisterspaeker heard hoof-falls come toward him. He laughed. ‘Every time I open my mouth somebody tries to fill it with ale. Perhaps they’ve tired of my stories?’ He paused as Wulfric came into view atop his horse. ‘You’ve gone bald,’ he said.

  Wulfric shrugged and chuckled. ‘You’re still able to use those?’ he said, nodding to the rapier and dagger strapped to Jagovere’s waist.

  ‘I suppose we’re going to find out, aren’t we?’ Jagovere said.

  ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘I am,’ Jagovere said. ‘I confirmed it with my own eyes. The years have been no kinder to him than they have to us, but it’s definitely him, eyepatch and all.’

  ‘No point in hanging around then,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘None at all,’ Jagovere said.

  THEY RODE in silence for a time, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Friendships such as theirs were not impacted by the passage of the years, and for a moment Jagovere felt as though they were young men again. In the darkness, they could have been anywhere, the back roads of Estranza, the plains of Darvaros. He felt a pang of nostalgia for those not present—for Enderlain, old, fat, and happily married, consort to the Princess of Ruripathia, and father to her four sons. For Varada, at home, happy, with hardly ever a complaint about his itinerant nature, the fact that she stewarded his small barony while he was away—and even when he was there—or his need to tell stories long into the night.

  At first she had said he was neglecting his estates, but she was a far better custodian of them than he ever was, and with their children grown and flown the roost, there was little left in the way of fathering he had to do.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘It has.’

  The clip-clop of their horses’ hooves filled the silence until Jagovere determined to take the privilege away from them. ‘I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get word to you.’

  ‘I’ve always let you know where I am,’ Wulfric said. ‘For this very reason.’

  ‘True. Still, you move about a fair bit.’

  ‘To think,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’ve travelled over half the world and back looking for this whoreson bastard, and all the time he was only a few miles from where I last saw him. So much time wasted. Every breath he has drawn is an insult.’

  ‘We’ll put it to rights soon enough,’ Jagovere said. ‘In any event, I gather he’s only been here a few years. Before that, no one can say. All they know is that he turned up a few years ago with plenty of money, and that he bought the manor from the local graf.’

  Wulfric humphed. ‘Wonder what brought him back?’

  ‘This was the Northlands, not so long ago,’ Jagovere said. ‘Maybe he got homesick in his old age.’

  ‘I suppose all that matters is that we’ve found him,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Thank you. You didn’t have to come.’

  ‘Of course I did,’ Jagovere said.

  Silence filled the following moment. They were both hard men, and talk such as that was difficult for them. Jagovere finally broke it.

  ‘What did you think of the story?’

  ‘I only heard the last part,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Yes,’ Jagovere said. ‘Not the best timing. I hope you’re content with the way I handled it.’

  Wulfric said nothing for a moment, and for the first time the silence felt awkward.

  ‘Are you still telling the part about the draugar?’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere cleared his throat. ‘I am.’

  ‘Even though there weren’t any?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, I need to be allowed some licence. The story of how you got Sorrow Bringer would be too dull if I didn’t add something to it.’

  Wulfric humphed again. ‘I nearly fell off the side of a mountain. Is that not danger enough? And the old hermit at the forge?’

  ‘Do you really believe an old hermit could survive up there on his own?’ Jagovere said.

  Wulfric masked a laugh with a sigh. ‘I don’t know. Do you really believe he was a dragon?’

  ‘I’ve heard stories from Mirabaya that dragons have been sighted in the west over the last few years.’

  ‘Probably some storyteller with an overactive imagination,’ Wulfric said, casting Jagovere a teasing glance. ‘I hear they are very common.’

  ‘I have it on good authority,’ Jagovere said, his pride ruffled. ‘I’m told they can do magic. It’s not beyond the bounds of belief that they could take on the form of a man.’

  ‘I’ve seen most of the world that men have seen, and plenty that they haven’t, and I’ve never seen a dragon.’

  ‘That you know of,’ Jagovere said.

  Wulfric laughed, washing some of the years from his voice. ‘It must be a fine thing indeed to have such wonder at the world at our age.’

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘I wonder if he’ll have any of those big Shandahari bastards with him still? I should like to fight one again.’

  ‘At your age?’

  Wulfric shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’d like to live another few years,’ Jagovere said. ‘Enjoy Enderlain’s hospitality a few more times. He’s become quite the wine connoisseur, you know.’

  ‘That is a tale too far-fetched.’

  ‘I’m not joking. He has them brought in from all over the world. Even visits vineyards in the south himself from time to time to choose his vintages.’

  Wulfric laughed. ‘To think he married a princess. I can remember knocking lumps out of him on that ship as if it were yesterday.’

  ‘I can remember you nearly getting us all thrown overboard,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Hmm, yes. That too.’

  ‘I’d have asked him to join
us,’ Jagovere said, ‘but he’s never been able to keep a secret from Alys. He’d have blurted out what we’re up to, and she’d have stopped us.’

  ‘Stopped us? Why?’

  ‘You’re the Hero of Ruripathia. The man who stopped the principality from falling apart. She can’t have you running off in your dotage and getting yourself killed on some decades-old vendetta.’

  Wulfric shrugged. ‘It would have been good to have him with us.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Jagovere said, ‘but it wasn’t possible. This is it.’

  They stopped at a pair of stone pillars that flanked a lane leading from the main road.

  ‘This is his manor?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘It is. The house is a few minutes’ ride up the lane.’

  ‘We’ll scout it first, and attack just before dawn,’ Wulfric said. ‘All being well, that bastard won’t live to see the sun again.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  Wulfric shrugged. ‘Set fire to the place. Kill everyone who comes out, maybe.’

  ‘Too many windows. We wouldn’t be able to cover all the exits.’

  ‘Good point. How many men does he have?’

  ‘He had four with him when he came to the tavern,’ Jagovere said. ‘I’ve seen more around the manor house, but they didn’t look like fighters.’

  ‘Don’t have to be a fighter to pick up a pitchfork and stab someone in the back.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Jagovere said. ‘It’s been a long time. He’s probably forgotten all about you.’

  ‘I’ll enjoy reminding him, then. Women? Children?’

  ‘None that I’ve seen.’

  ‘Good. We kill anyone who isn’t running away.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Leave Rodulf for me,’ Wulfric said. ‘I have to be the one to do it.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Jagovere looked around and chewed his lip. ‘So, we just ride up and knock on the door?’

  ‘Can you think of a better way? It’s not like we’re not expected.’