He knew that if he didn’t get warm quickly, he would likely fall asleep and not wake up again. He struggled up the bank, into the undergrowth and started to work his way back up river. He wasn’t sure how far he had gone, or how long he had been asleep on the riverbank, but he knew of a crossing point up river of where they had camped. With luck, he could be home by the next day.
As he walked, he thought about what had happened. He felt sorry for Endres. It seemed likely that it was his death that had woken Wulfric, so in a way he owed the Banneret-Captain his life. It was no way for a warrior to die, to be robbed of the opportunity to be killed in battle with a sword in your hand. He stopped—and cursed his naivety.
It was probably Endres who had fired the shots. It was why Donato had been so insistent Wulfric take him along. Was it his punishment for the fight in the inn? He must have left a trail for others to follow, then waited until he was asleep. He cursed again. It made sense, but it seemed too elaborate a scheme if it was simply the southerners getting their revenge for the fight. It could as easily have been bandits. With all the silver passing through the country, banditry was growing. It was one of the more unwelcome things that came north with the southerners. They had reavers aplenty too. Wulfric knew that could easily explain what had happened. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel that Donato had a hand in it.
48
Wulfric’s hopes of getting home the next day were misplaced. It was six days later when he stumbled back into Leondorf half starved. The wounds on his back moved between numbness and searing pain; he was not sure which he preferred. The time he spent in the river was something of a saving grace, though; it had cleaned out the wounds in his back meaning they had not turned bad. He was exhausted, hungry, and weak beyond belief when he walked into the village. All he could think of was collapsing into Adalhaid’s arms. If he could make it that far, everything would be fine.
The last time he’d walked into the village in dire straits, he had been recognised instantly. With so many newcomers to Leondorf, the first few people he encountered looked at him with the distaste they reserved for the wild men who lived in the wilderness and came to the village to trade furs and gems for things they needed.
He was caked in mud and his hair and beard were matted. They were so dirty his usual dark blond colouring was farther darkened to brown. Eventually someone managed to see through the dirt as he stumbled along the street toward his house and helped him the rest of the way. When he arrived, his mother stifled any reaction to his appearance and brought him straight to his bed, where sleep took him as soon as he put his head down.
DONATO FOUND himself spending an increasing amount of time standing atop the steps outside the Great Hall. He liked to look out over the village—his domain—and watch the villagers—his subjects—go about their business. He allowed his mind to wander to the changes he would make when he was unfettered by the Ambassador’s control. A filthy, scruffy wretch was limping across the village square. Donato sneered with disgust. There were a great many beggars in the cities he had visited in the south, but he wouldn’t have them in his village. He was about to get one of the soldiers to drag the vagabond from the village and beat him bloody as a lesson not to come back, when he realised there was something familiar about the man.
He stepped back inside the Great Hall before anyone could see his reaction. It was Wulfric. The realisation hit him like a bucket of icy water. He slammed the door behind him and pressed up against it. He was shaking. Fuck Endres, he thought. And fuck Urschel and his useless soldiers. How difficult could it be to kill a man in his sleep with a crossbow? Donato reckoned that even he could manage it, even though he had never fired one. They had played him for a fool, and left him with a stinking mess to clean up.
Donato was torn between fury and terror. How much did Wulfric know? If Wulfric thought he and Rodulf had arranged for his death, there was only one way things would go. A half dozen soldiers hadn’t been able to deal with him in an inn—they hadn’t even been able to kill him while he was asleep. Donato took a deep breath and thought. There was no way Wulfric could know that he had anything to do with it. He might not even know what had happened. He looked in terrible condition. Retribution for the bar fight was the most obvious reason for it all. He could put the blame for everything on that. Without proof, Wulfric would be nothing more than a murderer if he killed him. Urschel, Endres, and the other soldiers involved had already gone south so evidence would be hard to come by. So long as he played it cleverly, Wulfric would never be able to tie him to it. He could suspect all he wanted, but without proof he had nothing. It was simple. The soldiers wanted revenge for the fight at the inn, and no one could say any different.
That was only one problem solved, however. As soon as Wulfric found out that Adalhaid had gone back to Elzburg, he would chase after her, bring her back and kill anyone who stood in his way. The Markgraf would be angry, and Donato would lose his barony. Donato might have liked to think that was someone else’s problem now, but until his letters patent had been delivered, and he had sworn his oaths of fealty to the Markgraf, he couldn’t allow anything to interfere. He had no doubt the Ambassador would lay blame for this firmly on his head if the Markgraf was angered. Wulfric could not be allowed to go after her.
WULFRIC WAS LYING on his belly when he woke. Someone was poking and prodding at the wounds on his back. Wulfric strained his neck to see who it was.
‘Lie still now, lad,’ Aethelman said. There were a few more pokes and prods before he spoke again. ‘All clean,’ he said. ‘There was some cloth in the wounds, but they weren’t so deep. And this.’ He held out a small piece of metal so that Wulfric could see it. The tip of the crossbow bolt.
‘You’re putting together quite a collection of scars,’ Aethelman said. ‘Your father would be proud. You can turn over now.’
Wulfric smiled and rolled onto his back. ‘How long did I sleep?’
‘Two days,’ Aethelman said. ‘And you were gone a week before that. By the look of it, that belek cloak saved your life. There’re a few holes in it that will need mending, but I suppose you have a spare to replace it with. Do you know who attacked you?’
‘No,’ Wulfric said. ‘I didn’t even see them.’
‘That’s what the Ruripathian captain said too.’
‘Endres survived?’ Wulfric said, turning over to look Aethelman directly in the eye. It added weight to his suspicions.
‘Yes, he managed to get away. Said he ran when the belek attacked. First time I’ve heard of a belek attacking with a crossbow, but I have heard of stranger things.’
Wulfric laughed, but stifled it quickly. ‘It wasn’t a belek. I can’t help but think it was Captain Endres.’
‘When I saw the wounds on your back, I suspected as much myself. You didn’t earn yourself any friends that night in the inn.’
‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that he’s still in the village?’
Aethelman shook his head. ‘He left a couple of days after he got back. Stenn and Farlof went to see if they could find any trace of you, but there was so much blood and torn cloth at the campsite that they reckoned there was no way you could have survived.’
‘Can you get Adalhaid for me? I need to tell her I’m sorry for missing the wedding. I wasn’t trying to avoid it.’
‘Just rest. Don’t worry about that. The week in the wilderness did more harm to you than the bolts. You need rest and good food.
He was so very tired, it sounded like a good suggestion, one that his body was already acting on. His eyelids grew heavy.
ANOTHER NIGHT’S sleep made a huge difference. Wulfric woke the next morning feeling dramatically better. His mother brought him a bowl of broth as he sat in his father’s chair, looking out the small window that let him watch the comings and goings in the village. Once he had eaten he planned to go out and find Adalhaid. He needed to apologise for missing their wedding, but he was desperate to see her.
‘I need to tell you somethi
ng,’ his mother said.
Wulfric paused with his spoon in mid air. He could hear droplets of the broth splashing back into the bowl. Conversations that began like that were never good.
‘It’s about Adalhaid.’ She swallowed hard.
Wulfric began to feel light headed.
‘Adalhaid decided to go back to Elzburg to stay with her aunt and uncle after we got word that you had been killed. When Stenn and Farlof confirmed that there was no sign of you having survived, she said she needed to get away from the things that reminded her of you.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Wulfric said. He was disappointed, but also relieved. It explained why she hadn’t come to see him. He was still a few days from being ready for a long ride south, but he would be glad of the exercise. ‘Has anyone let her know that I’m all right?’
His mother let out a staccato sob, suggesting that she had been holding it back as long as she could.
‘I’m sorry, Wulfric. She’s dead.’
He dropped the bowl and the spoon, but barely noticed the hot broth spilling over his trousers. He felt as though he could not breathe, like the room was spinning around him.
‘How? What happened?’
‘The carriage she was travelling in was attacked. Brigands they think, but they can’t say for sure who it was. They said she killed herself rather than be taken by them alive.’ She sobbed hard. ‘I’m so sorry, Wulfric, but she’s gone.’
‘When?’
‘She left a couple of days after we heard that you had been killed. We got word of what happened to her last night.’
‘Her body,’ he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
‘They brought it to Elzburg. To her family…’
His mother was still speaking, but he couldn’t hear anything else she was saying.
49
Wulfric felt as though he was suffocating. He stumbled outside and started to walk. He was in a daze, completely unable to order his thoughts.
‘My condolences.’
Wulfric stopped and looked around to see who spoke. He had been oblivious to everything, and hadn’t noticed anyone around him. It was Rodulf. Wulfric had to add surprise to his confused thoughts. ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t know how else to respond.
‘She’ll be missed,’ Rodulf said. ‘By the garrison most of all. From what I’m told, she rushed to attend to their… needs, every time your back was turned.’
Fury cleared the fog of confusion from Wulfric’s head. Rodulf really did not seem to learn his lessons. He stepped forward and grabbed Rodulf by the scruff of the neck. He pressed forward, tipped Rodulf back on his heels and drew his fist back to begin his retribution. He looked into Rodulf’s face, and was surprised to see there was no fear there.
‘Sure this is a good idea?’ Rodulf said. ‘You don’t hold quite the sway you once did.’ He smiled.
Wulfric hit him hard. ‘Do you think it will be difficult to get about with no eyes?’ He hit Rodulf a second time. Wulfric felt his teeth chatter with rage. He pulled his dagger from his belt.
‘Hey! What’s going on there!’
Wulfric saw Stenn and Farlof running toward him. He had the edge of his dagger pressed against Rodulf’s cheek. A bead of blood appeared at its edge. Rodulf squirmed in his grip.
‘Wulfric, don’t be a fool!’ Stenn said. ‘Let him go!’
Stenn and Farlof crashed into him, knocking them all to the ground, and the dagger from Wulfric’s hand. Wulfric’s head felt muggy as he struggled to his feet. He looked up to Rodulf standing over him.
‘You need to learn your place. Times have changed. We don’t even need your kind anymore. You’d be more use yoked up to a plough. You’d do well to remember that.’
‘Let him go,’ Farlof said. ‘He’s more trouble than he’s worth.’
Wulfric knew he was right, but as he watched Rodulf walk away, he had a bitter taste in his mouth.
AETHELMAN WAS ALLOWING himself one final excuse. He would remain in Leondorf to tend to Belgar, and see him depart the world of men to begin his journey to Jorundyr’s Hall. It was the least he could do for his oldest friend. Then he would devote what remained of his life to ensuring no other young priest had to live with a burden like Aethelman had. He would seek out whatever knowledge of the Stones remained. He would learn how to destroy them. He would make sure this knowledge was made part of every priest’s training.
There might be no more of the Stones left in the world, but a nagging sickness in his gut told him that his was still out there somewhere, waiting to fall into hands that would misuse it. Perhaps it already had. He could not leave it to hope that it had been destroyed in the fire. If he had enough life left in him once he had learned how to destroy them and passed this knowledge on with the strict instruction that it never be forgotten again, he would search out his Stone and complete his duty.
‘JUST BECAUSE YOU’re the mayor’s son, doesn’t mean I have to bow and scrape to you,’ the tanner said. ‘You have to pay for your new boots, just like everyone else.’
Rodulf glowered at the defiance, and considered striking the tanner, but there were people watching and it would get back to his father. He had been expressly prohibited from doing anything to cause an upset after taunting Wulfric. ‘We’re so close,’ he had said. Him, perhaps. There was still a very long way to go before Rodulf could call himself baron.
He had to satisfy himself in the knowledge that Adalhaid lived, and that the ignorant savage would never find out. As he dwelled on it, he realised it was indeed a very satisfying thought. There was a poetry to it. Nevertheless, it did little to solve his boot problem.
‘I know you’re new here,’ Rodulf said, ‘and might not have realised how things work. You’d be making a mistake not to gift me these very fine boots.’
The tanner’s eyes blazed with indignation, but Rodulf held his stare. He realised his hand was on the strange stone he took from the priest. He couldn’t even remember putting it in his pocket. Odd, he thought. It felt so good to hold it, though. The boots were the finest calf leather, and the latest in southern fashion. He wanted them desperately, but the meagre allowance his father passed on to him, a poor reflection on the value of the work he did, had been spent on his last visit south. It occurred to him that it might be time for his father to step aside, to make room for fresh blood. His father was all about the money. He didn’t have the stomach to get his hands dirty enough to reap the greatest rewards. Not like Rodulf.
He returned his attention to the tanner, and the boots. He wanted the tanner to give in to him, as much as he wanted the boots. More, perhaps. The blaze left the tanner’s eyes and he swallowed hard. His face went pale. He held out the boots.
‘Take them,’ he said. ‘Take them and go.’
WULFRIC ANSWERED the door with one hand on the pommel of his sword. After his outburst in the square with Rodulf, and the Ruripathian soldiers trying to kill him, he had no idea who might be calling at his door, nor if they were friend or foe. The only thing he knew was that it was not Adalhaid. It was Belgar’s granddaughter.
‘Grandfather has woken up. He asked for you.’
Wulfric had been meaning to call on Belgar since feeling well enough to go outside, but events had determined otherwise. She remained on his doorstep, a hopeful look on her face. It took Wulfric a moment to gather her meaning, but he was nervous going outside. Leondorf was a dangerous place for him now.
‘Let me get my cloak,’ he said.
He followed her down to Belgar’s house. There were several people gathered in his front room, and an air of solemnity prevailed. Aethelman was there. It seemed that Belgar was not expected to last long.
‘I realise I’ve been saying it for days,’ Aethelman said, ‘but I’m certain of it now. He doesn’t have long left.’
Wulfric nodded and went into Belgar’s room. It hurt Wulfric to see how frail Belgar was. The past couple of years had taxed him greatly, draining what vigour he had left. In a way he was glad his fat
her had died in battle. He was glad that he would never have to see him like this, wizened and drained, a shadow of the hero he had been.
Belgar spotted Wulfric. His once-bright eyes were cloudy, but he fixed them on Wulfric with an intensity Wulfric would not have thought the old man capable of.
‘You’re alive, boy,’ he rasped.
It felt like such a ridiculous thing to say, Wulfric had to stop himself from laughing.
‘I am, First Warrior. Barely, but alive.’
Belgar smiled. ‘I thought I’d be too late. Donato and Rodulf. They’re going to try and kill you.’
Wulfric furrowed his brow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Donato’s made a deal with the Ambassador. They want to send Adalhaid south. I don’t know why, but it’s important to them. Donato said you’d have to be killed for that to happen, and the Ambassador agreed. They’re going to try to kill you, boy.’ Belgar leaned forward, grabbed Wulfric by the wrist and pulled him closer. ‘You have to be ready for when they try. Don’t let those bastards kill you.’
Wulfric felt his blood boil. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ready for him.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ Belgar said. He let out a gentle sigh and slumped back to the bed, his journey to Jorundyr’s Host finally started.
WULFRIC WALKED out of the old man’s house, past his mother who had just arrived to say her farewells, and Belgar’s granddaughter without saying a word. His hand was gripping the hilt of his sabre tightly. He headed straight for the Great Hall. Belgar’s words were all the confirmation that Wulfric needed.
Showing the building no respect, he shouldered the door open and walked in. Donato was there alone, sitting at the Great Table going through papers.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘You know you’re not allowed in here.’ He stood to emphasise his indignation.
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 33