‘I identified several small villages with few warriors. Their herds are ripe for the plucking. They reave the cattle, I provide the maps and information, and we split the take.’
‘Think they’ll agree to it?’
‘It’ll make them rich,’ Donato said. ‘Offer to satisfy a man’s greed, and he’ll dance like a puppet for you.’
‘It sounds like a big risk,’ Rodulf said.
‘Fortunes aren’t built by playing it safe.’ Donato paused, then fixed his gaze on Rodulf. ‘Whatever it takes. Understand?’
Rodulf nodded, but was not convinced. ‘What’s to stop them taking the lot and betraying us?’
‘Nothing, other than the promise of the names and locations of other villages that are similarly soft targets. I can just as easily set warriors on them, and I’ll make sure they know it. All the southerners know how treacherous the Northlands are. They’re terrified of the place, even if they won’t admit it, and that’s to our advantage.’
ONE OF DONATO’S business associates, a prosperous-looking man dressed in silks and furs called Henning, met them at the inn. He brought them through a warren of streets to a tavern in what Rodulf assumed was a less salubrious part of the city. Down one side alley, he saw a man being beaten by three others. Despite there being a number of people passing by, no one stopped to help the unfortunate. Rodulf certainly did not; another man’s misfortune was no concern of his.
Henning spoke when he stopped outside the tavern door. ‘I’ll make the introductions, then I’m leaving. I don’t want to know what you’ve got planned. The fewer who do, the better for you.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ Donato said. ‘I appreciate your help on this.’
‘Just you remember that when you bring all those furs down to the city.’
The tavern seemed to be a repository for the dregs of society. There were whores—a sad, bedraggled-looking lot caked with rouge and kohl—and men who looked like they had not changed their clothes in a decade, nor taken them off for ablutions. There were those with a predatory look in their eyes, whose gazes instantly locked onto Rodulf, his father, and their business associate. It seemed like the type of place where you went after you had fallen through the cracks, or where you would be given the final push. The people here were vermin; beneath his contempt. Rodulf could not wait to leave.
Henning brought them over to a booth at the back of the room where a motley group of men sat with nearly empty mugs. The word ‘reaver’ sounded dashing and dangerous to Rodulf—as a child, ‘watch out for reavers’ was often his mother’s last call before he went out with his friends. He always knew they were more interested in cattle rustling than kidnap, though. He had never actually laid eyes on one before, and he found the men in that booth to fall sadly short of the image he had in mind.
‘This is the man I was telling you about, Captain Morlyn,’ Henning said. ‘Burgess Donato, Captain Morlyn.’
Donato and Morlyn nodded to one another. Rodulf had never heard the term ‘burgess’ before and wondered what it meant. It wasn’t the time to ask. Morlyn sat casually at the centre of the group, his black hair pulled back into a pony tail and several days’ worth of dark stubble on his jaw. He looked like a man who stole and killed for a living, but there was nothing dashing about his appearance. The others were an equally motley bunch, and one of them, with long hair and beard that were not the fashion Rodulf had seen in the city thus far, he took to be a Northlander.
‘I’ll leave you to arrange your business, gentlemen,’ Henning said. He gave Rodulf a curt nod as he passed, seemingly as eager to get out of the tavern as Rodulf was.
‘Gentlemen, sit, please,’ Morlyn said. ‘I’m given to believe you might have some work to put our way.’
Rodulf and Donato sat. Rodulf cast an uncomfortable glance around the tavern’s taproom, but no one was paying them any attention. There was something exciting about the clandestine nature of what they were doing, and of consorting with dangerous men.
‘I need help acquiring some cattle,’ Donato said.
‘We’ve experience in that line of business,’ Morlyn said. ‘Bart there used to be a herdsman. Weren’t you, Bart?’
The largest of the reavers, the one Rodulf thought to be a Northlander, nodded. Rodulf wondered what misfortune brought him to that miserable place in the company of these miserable people.
‘How many cattle do you need?’ Morlyn said.
‘A dozen at first, but a regular stream of them after,’ Donato said.
‘Regular work, lads,’ Morlyn said. ‘Haven’t had a regular job since before I took up reaving the Borderlands. What will you pay?’
‘My payment is this,’ Donato said. ‘I know of a number of villages throughout the Northlands where the herds are lightly protected. I also know the best trails for you to drive the cattle south. My information will ensure your safe passage through the Northlands to cattle ripe for the picking. We divide the spoils between us, even split. When you’ve taken as much as you can from one region, I’ll give you the details for the next.’
Morlyn remained silent.
‘You know as well as I do how much a purebred Northland cow fetches in southern markets,’ Donato said. ‘At least, you would if you know this business as well as you claim. Bear in mind, you’re not the only sell-swords in the city.’
Rodulf saw Morlyn’s eyes flick over to the former herdsman, Bart, who nodded with conviction.
‘I’m interested,’ Morlyn said. ‘But we’ll have to take it on a job by job basis. If your information doesn’t prove to be as good as you say it is, we’ll be keeping whatever we take and heading south as fast as we can drive them. I don’t want to end up stuck on some bloody savage’s spear, no offence.’
‘None taken,’ Donato said. ‘The information’s good. We both stand to do very well out of this.’
‘The brands,’ Rodulf said.
Everyone turned to look at him.
‘How will you deal with the brands on the cattle?’ Rodulf said.
‘Don’t you worry about that, lad,’ Morlyn said. ‘We’ve got that covered.’
‘I do worry about that,’ Rodulf said, ‘and don’t call me lad.’
Morlyn smiled and raised a hand in apology. He nodded at one of the other reavers. ‘Arbo there was training to be one of your grey priests. Didn’t take to it though. Prefers the life of a wandering reaver to that of a wandering priest. Don’t you, Arbo?’
‘If I knew I’d have to put up with you, I’d have been more patient with the priests,’ Arbo said.
Morlyn laughed. ‘Arbo stayed long enough to learn some healing. Enough to heal the branding marks. The cattle’ll be clean as a whistle. As far as branding goes, leastways.’ He laughed again.
15
There was a pile of quarterstaffs in the glade when Wulfric arrived to training. It was his least favourite weapon—he far preferred the sword—but there was nothing to be gained in grumbling, so he picked one up, and looked around for a partner. He found himself staring at Helfric. Wulfric had avoided him all winter, but there was no way out of it now.
‘First to three hits wins,’ Eldric shouted. ‘Show me some spirit; I’m in the mood to send people home today. Who wants to be a carpenter or a tanner?’
No one answered. Wulfric wasn’t sure if anyone believed the threat, but he certainly wasn’t willing to take the chance. Neither was Helfric. Even before the command was given, he attacked. Having seen this tactic before, Wulfric was ready for it. Helfric swiped at him, holding his staff with both hands down near the base like a sword. Wulfric jumped out of the way and blocked the follow up. Helfric seemed to think he had the upper hand, and the confident smile was still firmly fixed on his face.
Wulfric continued to block. Helfric’s attacks were incessant, leaving him no time to put together a counter. As much as his confidence had grown, Helfric still represented a spectre in the back of his mind. Finally, Wulfric saw an opening and went for it. The months of hard work had strippe
d away the excess from Wulfric’s body, leaving him faster and more agile. Helfric was caught wrong footed. Wulfric knocked his quarterstaff aside, and followed in with a fast jab to the gut.
There was no pause between the scoring of hits, and Wulfric did not plan on giving Helfric the chance to recover. The jab had left Helfric even more open, allowing Wulfric to slam in a heavier hit that Helfric would feel for days to come. With a sense of righteous indignation, he rounded off his three hits with a jab to Helfric’s face, which connected with a crunch and a splatter of blood.
Helfric dropped his quarterstaff and fell onto his backside, both hands lifted to his nose. Wulfric stepped back to survey his handiwork. He was amazed and delighted in equal parts at how quickly and smoothly he had done it.
Eldric appeared, and gave Wulfric a curious look. He leaned forward and took Helfric’s chin in his hand, scrutinising Helfric’s face. ‘Want to go home? Want your mother?’
Helfric shook his head adamantly, but Wulfric could see his lower jaw trembling.
‘Go see the priest,’ Eldric said. ‘Think about the beating you took. Next time it might not end at three hits.’
Helfric did as he was told, got to his feet and started back toward the village in a limping jog.
Eldric stood and looked around. The glade was silent as everyone had stopped to watch. ‘Back to it, the rest of you,’ he shouted.
THE TAVERN KEEPER made a huge cauldron of stew which was ready for the apprentices every day after training, and they were welcome to refill their bowls as many times as they liked. Wulfric had yet to see the stew cauldron emptied, no matter how much they stuffed into their hungry bellies. Wulfric spent the first hour after training there every day, eating and joking with the others. He realised the time with them eating was as important as the hours they trained together. As Eldric had said, they would stand together in battle one day and camaraderie was as important as respect. The hour took him to the point of the day when Adalhaid’s classes ended, allowing him an excuse to walk home with her, something he looked forward to even more than the bowls of hot stew.
He wiped the residue of stew from the thickening stubble around his mouth of which he was increasingly proud. It was a long way from being a proper beard, but it was a satisfying development from the smooth, soft skin of boyhood.
‘Where’re you off to?’ Hane said, as Wulfric stood.
They were almost a match in height now, Wulfric having had a spurt over the winter, a situation as satisfying as his fledgling beard.
‘Things to do,’ Wulfric said.
‘He’s off to see his girlfriend,’ Farlof said, a mischievous grin firmly affixed to his face. Wulfric had quickly come to realise that little Farlof said was ever meant to be taken seriously. The short, stocky redhead more than made up for his comparative lack of size with that of his mouth, but Wulfric would have preferred it if his wit were directed elsewhere.
Roal backhanded him on the shoulder. ‘Shut up, Farlof.’
‘What?’ Farlof said, raising his hands and acting the injured party. ‘Just saying, he spends a lot of time with her… And she’s pretty easy on the eye…’ He raised his dark red eyebrows lasciviously.
‘He’s meant to be marrying Anshel’s sister Svana,’ Roal whispered, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
‘Really? When?’ Farlof said, the grin even wider on his face. ‘I love a good wedding.’
‘Shut up!’ The exhortation came from everyone else there, except for Anshel.
Wulfric glanced in his direction, but he did not meet Wulfric’s eyes. Anshel was the best of them: faster, stronger, more skilled. He shared his sister’s blonde hair, but where her features were fine and delicate, his were strong and angular. If he chose to view Wulfric’s friendship as disrespectful to his sister, he was more than capable of dishing out a beating that Wulfric would be unable to stop. Wulfric walked away, angry with Farlof, but knowing that he was only casting light on something that was true. It was an uncomfortable situation that Wulfric was very happy get away from as quickly as he could.
WULFRIC WAS quiet as he and Adalhaid walked along the tree line that divided the village from its pastures, Spot bounding along ahead of them. Adalhaid talked about her day, and the sound of her voice helped ease his worries, but did not dispel them completely. His future marriage to Svana had always lurked in the background, but it had remained there. Now it seemed to be coming up more and more often. He wondered what type of life they would have together. Would they ever go on walks in the evening talking and laughing as he did with Adalhaid, or would it be a life of silence masking frosty contempt?
Svana and her family lived on the other side of the village, so he rarely saw her at anything less than a healthy distance—one he was more than happy to maintain. The thought of why Adalhaid had never featured on his list of potential future partners popped into his head, but the answer was so simple it was barely worth considering. Her father was a lanceman, not a warrior. A lanceman aided a warrior in battle, helping him with his weapons and equipment, and when called upon would also fight. It was better than being a merchant or a craftsman, but it was unthinkable for the son of a First Warrior to marry the daughter of one. It seemed that other people’s expectations often made life more complicated than it needed to be.
‘You’re very quiet tonight,’ Adalhaid said, pulling him from his thoughts.
‘Tired,’ he said, his stock excuse. ‘Always so tired.’
‘We can go back if you like,’ she said, stopping.
He looked at her, and felt his heart quicken at the thought of not seeing her again until the next day. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can go a little farther.’
CAPTAIN MORLYN SQUEEZED the trigger on his small crossbow and smiled at the satisfying thrum of the string. It was the weapon of murderers and assassins, and south of the border they were illegal. In the Northlands, they were the ideal weapon and there was no law to tell him he couldn’t use them; one of the few things he liked about the Northlands. Light, convenient to carry about, and still powerful enough to accurately hit—and kill—a target at a hundred paces, the small crossbow was a gift from the gods to men who made their living in the shadows.
The target that evening was a herdsman. He had been standing near a tree, but now lay in a heap at its foot. If the bolt hadn’t killed him, the poison on its tip would. Morlyn turned and smiled at Bart, the dark shape lying in the undergrowth beside him. He had hit his last dozen targets, satisfying a long-standing bet between them. Bart’s share of that night’s proceeds would be going to Morlyn. Bart grunted an unhappy acknowledgement, making Morlyn’s smile even wider. Bart’s share would pay for a case of the best Ostian wine, a pouch of Darvarosian tobacco infused with dream seed, and at least a dozen of the finest whores; enough to keep that smile on his face for a month or more. Or perhaps just one exceptional night.
Their first job for the Northlander merchant was going perfectly. He was true to his word, which gave Morlyn hope for the future of their joint venture. Other than that one herdsman, there was no one looking over the herd, as best Morlyn could tell. It was an out-of-the-way village, a fair stretch from the border, and it seemed they didn’t think they had anything to fear from reavers. Northlanders did that type of thing differently. There was no honour in stealing your neighbour’s cattle. Apparently you had to kill him first. Only then was taking his cattle worthy of songs and epic tales. Savages, one and all, Morlyn thought.
Savage or not, if the Northlander could give them the locations of more such places, he was correct in saying they would all get very rich indeed. Morlyn nodded to Bart. He was the one who knew cattle. He would give the orders until they had the herd rounded up and well on their way south. Then it would be Arbo’s turn to clear the brands off them, before dividing the spoils with the Northlander at their arranged meeting place. All in all, it was a very satisfactory start to their business relationship.
RITSCHL’S MONTHS in Rasbruck saw him gradually become a part of the co
mmunity. It was an advantage of the tradition of priests moving from village to village over the course of their lives; it made people accept and trust a new face far more quickly. He was a long way from being able to exert the influence he required, but everything he did each day made him ever more indispensable. A time would come when his word would be acted on without question.
He stood on the steps of his small kirk as he did every morning, watching the village come to life, greeting all those who passed his door. Even so long after forsaking his vocation, he could see the appeal in the life he was masquerading behind. Given different circumstances, he thought he might even have enjoyed it. The feeling of being of value to another person was enticing, but it brought back memories that were painfully clear. Memories that made him feel sick. Family. The life he’d had. It had been a good life, one that had made him not care how much he had forgotten. His wife. His two girls. So much had been taken from him. The thought of their lifeless bodies lying next to one another made him want to collapse and weep.
The illness had taken them so quickly. Within a day of the first person in their village falling ill, his wife and children had been on their death beds. If the Stone had been in his possession, he would have been able to save them. He knew that. He would not let anything be taken from him again, nor would he allow Aethelman to keep something that was rightfully his. With the Stone, nothing could be taken from him ever again.
ADALHAID WAS SITTING ON A WALL, waiting in their usual meeting spot, but was not alone. Wulfric squinted to see who she was talking to. His name was Sigert, a slight, studious boy with mousy hair who went to Aethelman’s classes. His father was a leatherworker, and he had been second only to Adalhaid in their studies, which meant he and Wulfric had never had any contact beyond when Wulfric handed out pens and papers. They were chatting and laughing. Sigert playfully touched her on the shoulder, and Wulfric felt a flash of anger that he could not explain. He felt himself hoping that Spot would jump up and savage him. He quickened his pace, and delighted in interrupting them.
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 10