JORUNDYR’S PATH
WOLF OF THE NORTH BOOK 2
DUNCAN M. HAMILTON
CONTENTS
Map of the Middle Sea
Map of the Northlands
Map of Estranza
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part II
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part III
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
About the Author
Also by Duncan M. Hamilton
PART I
1
THE MAISTERSPAEKER
‘So our hero rides south,’ the Maisterspaeker said, ‘with nothing but the clothes on his back, the blood of an enemy on his hands, and revenge in his heart. Everything he cared for is lost to him: the love of his life, family, home, and the dreams he has carried since he was a child. What now for Wulfric? How does he overcome these obstacles to become the man you all know as Ulfyr? This evening, we shall find out…’
The Maisterspaeker paused for effect, and cast his gaze around the taproom. It was silent but for the crackling of the great fire. The crowd had grown from the previous night. He suspected that people from outlying farms and neighbouring villages had made the journey to hear him. It was flattering, but he tried not to let it go to his head. Every eye was on him. The story was all that was important. No matter how many he told, he was certain the feeling of satisfaction it gave him would never diminish. There was so much yet to reveal: the history of the mysterious Fount Stone, the adventure that lay ahead of Wulfric, Rodulf’s ravenous quest for power, and more. He took one last look around the audience, but Wulfric had not yet arrived. He saw no reason to delay further, so he cleared his throat, and began.
WULFRIC
Wulfric gripped the reins tightly as Leondorf receded into the distance and his horse thundered along beneath him. He kicked his heels hard into the horse’s flanks, regretting that it wasn’t Greyfell. As with all impetuous acts, the aftermath hadn’t occurred to him until after it had arrived. He was on a horse galloping away from everything he knew before he had time to consider what had happened. Rage had taken over the moment Belgar had confirmed that Donato and Rodulf were behind Adalhaid’s murder. After that, everything was a blur.
He struggled to remember, and glanced down at his hands—the blood covering them was a reminder of the violence. He cast a glance over his shoulder, but there was no sign of pursuit. It would take the soldiers time to realise what had happened and respond. By then, Wulfric would be far beyond their reach.
The temptation to turn back to kill Rodulf gripped him, but he couldn’t go home. Not yet. He was a marked man. An outlaw. To some, a murderer. He would be arrested as soon as he got back and, having killed soldiers, would most likely be executed on the spot. He knew his actions were justified, but who would believe him? Belgar was dead and could no longer confirm the story.
He felt a pang of guilt at having killed the soldiers—they were only doing their jobs. However, they would have killed him, given the chance, and stopped him from taking the Blood Debt Donato owed him. The Law of the North was clear on Blood Debts, but Wulfric knew only too well that the old laws would count for little in a town that was now part of Ruripathia in all but name.
Rodulf still drew breath, still owed his Blood Debt—and the thought made Wulfric’s insides twist with anger. It meant that Adalhaid was not avenged; her Blood Debt still went unpaid and he could not rest so long as that was the case. Jorundyr would rightly frown on him for failing in his duty to the one he loved and was sworn to protect. It was more than that, though. Rodulf had caused her pain and suffering, and that tore at Wulfric’s soul like nothing else.
As much as Donato and Rodulf had scurried to satisfy the ambassador’s every request, the Ruripathian was the one who had incited matters. Whatever his reasons, he was the cause for her being sent south. Her Blood Debt lay at his door also, and it was Wulfric’s duty to settle it. The ambassador first, then Rodulf. It did little to diminish his desire to cut the life from Rodulf, but that day would come too.
The air filled with the scent of pine as the forest closed in around the narrow road. He slowed his horse and made himself comfortable in the saddle. Elzburg was a long ride.
RODULF
There was blood splattered all over the Great Hall, along with the growing stink of dead men. Rodulf had encountered both before, and they did little to stir him. The southern soldiers chattered away behind him, but Rodulf blocked it out as he stared at his father’s bloated body. He had felt no great affection for the man in life, and no sadness now that he was dead. If anything, he felt excited by the opportunity it represented. He had never been under any illusion that his father had seen him as anything other than a tool for social advancement. First, his warrior’s apprenticeship, then representing him in the south to improve their business. In recent years, Rodulf had grown to reciprocate that feeling. There had been much to learn from his father, but it was always his desire to take charge himself.
Donato’s death was inconvenient, however. His father’s grand plan, so close to fruition—the elevation to nobility for him and his heirs—remained incomplete. His death made achieving that aim tenuous at best. There were others who would now seek it for themselves, and Rodulf knew he had to proceed carefully. He felt the first pang of loss with the responsibility of having to make that decision alone.
‘Where is he?’ Rodulf asked of the garrison sergeant.
‘One of the men said they saw him riding south like draugar were chasing him.’
‘Have you sent anyone after him?’
‘No.’ The sergeant shuffled awkwardly.
‘Why not?’ Rodulf could feel his anger rise. He didn’t care about avenging his father—that was warrior behaviour—but letting Wulfric get away unscathed was a slight to his reputation, and that was not something he could stand for if he was to achieve all he planned to. Above all, he had the perfect justification to extract from Wulfric the price of an eye.
‘No one ordered it. Until the new ambassador arrives—’
‘The captain couldn’t have ordered it?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘It’s getting dark. The roads are dangerous at night.’
‘Dangerous at night?’ Rodulf said. ‘You’re soldiers. Act like it. I’m ordering it now. Get after him.’ With his father dead, the order of things would be disrupted. He needed a fas
t display of authority and strength.
‘On what authority?’ the sergeant said. ‘There’s a way to do these things—’
‘On mine. As acting mayor. Until this mess can be resolved at the very least. If the new ambassador has a problem with it, he can take it up with me when he arrives. Until then, send your men out to hunt that bastard down and bring him back. I don’t care if he’s alive or dead.’
The sergeant hesitated for a moment, a look of fear in his eye. They were all terrified of Wulfric—they had been ever since the tavern brawl—and Rodulf thought them pathetic for it. All he could see when he looked at Wulfric was the fat little coward he had been for most of his life. He glared at the sergeant until he nodded and hurried away. Rodulf realised he was clutching the strange stone in his pocket, something he found himself doing increasingly, particularly when he was vexed. It seemed to fit so perfectly, as though its curves and contours had been shaped to his hand, with the angular etchings a comforting sensation on his skin.
WULFRIC
Wulfric drew a deep breath when the walls of Elzburg first came into view. They reminded him of the High Places, but were a barrier of red brick rather than grey rock. The city’s conical slate-capped towers were its peaks—they were taller than anything Wulfric had ever seen built by a man. They were imposing and terrifying. How did they remain standing? How could any man live encircled by such a behemoth? Simply looking at them made Wulfric feel as though he was being suffocated. After the long, uninterrupted ride from Leondorf, he wondered if he was simply imagining it.
As he grew closer, it became clear that his tired mind was not playing tricks on him. The road led him toward a gaping maw in the wall, a great gate flanked by two towers. People passed in and out while soldiers watched with lazy eyes. Wulfric wondered if word from Leondorf could have reached them faster than he did, but he thought it unlikely.
He watched the people and noticed the odd looks they gave him. He realised how scruffy he appeared by comparison. Even in his finest clothes he would have attracted attention, and what he was wearing was far from his best. He would stand out like a sore thumb if he tried to enter the city.
Wulfric checked himself over. He wasn’t particularly dirty, but his clothes were rough and his hands were still crusted with dried blood. It had felt like a mark of honour as he had ridden south, but now it could be his undoing. Even the most inattentive gatekeeper would stop anyone looking as he did.
There was water pooled in the ditch at the side of the road, so he dismounted and washed the blood away as best he could, ignoring the curious stares of passers-by. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. Once he was in the city, surrounded by so many people, he could disappear.
As clean as he was going to get, he rode forward to the gate. He was still several paces away when one of the soldiers stepped forward and held up his hand. Wulfric forced himself to remain calm and not reach for his sabre.
‘Can’t bring that horse into the city,’ the soldier said. ‘Sword neither. Not unless you’re a nobleman or a banneret.’
The other soldiers sniggered at the mention of the title; the title Captain Endres had, the one that meant you’d gone to a school for warriors. He wondered what it was about him that said he wasn’t one. Surely he looked as much a warrior as any man alive?
‘What am I supposed to do with them?’ Wulfric said.
‘Go to the east gate. Leave the horse at the stables, the sword at the Watch Post. You’ll be given a token and can get both back when you leave the city.’ He gave Wulfric an appraising look. ‘Northlander?’
Wulfric neither confirmed nor denied.
The soldier nodded. ‘Lots of Northlanders passing through these days. Suppose you’ll all be Ruripathians before much longer. Best move along now; you’re blocking the gate.’
Wulfric nodded. He headed east, skirting around the base of the enormous red walls. The exchange had been far more civil than he’d expected and Wulfric felt more relaxed when he arrived at the other gate.
There was even more activity at the east gate, and a cluster of buildings lined the road outside. One had a sign with a horseshoe on it. Wulfric called there first. He left his horse and got directions to the watch post, which was in one of the towers flanking this gate.
The watchman there gave Wulfric a curious look. He passed his sword across the counter, which took the watchman’s attention. It wasn’t anything special, but it was well crafted and inscribed with old runes—various warriors’ prayers calling for Jorundyr’s blessing. He knew it was likely that the watchman had never seen anything like it before.
The watchman regarded it greedily, and carefully looked it over as he carried it into a back room. He returned and handed Wulfric a token. Wulfric realised he might not see the sword again. Even if the watchman did not steal it and claim it had gone missing, Wulfric expected to be leaving the city in haste. He took the token and left the watch post. He stared at the dark, cavernous passage under the city wall, and imagined all that brick and stone collapsing down on top of him. It was a marvel that it all stayed up. He hurried through with his heart racing, and nothing more than a dagger on his belt to settle his Blood Debt.
WULFRIC
Wulfric’s first reaction to Elzburg was a mixture of confusion and panic. The street before him was lined with buildings that stretched up for as many as five storeys. Taller than any house he had seen before, they loomed over the street and with each step Wulfric was convinced that they would collapse on top of him. They were mismatched—some of brick, some of white plaster, some with gables—and each a different height, giving the skyline an appearance like a mouth full of broken teeth. The city was crowded with more people than Wulfric had ever seen in one place before.
Wulfric stared up at the buildings as he walked, his heart in his throat. As though they were not already big enough, a number of even taller towers reached skyward, capped by finely pointed green roofs, a curious contrast to the red or slate tiles on most of the buildings. He had seen few buildings with tiled roofs in his life. In Leondorf, only the Great Hall and the church had warranted the expense of tiles. Everything here spoke of a wealth that was almost unimaginable.
A thought struck him as he walked deeper into Elzburg. How was he ever going to find the ambassador? The city was massive. There were so many people. He had never thought it could be so big.
WULFRIC
Wulfric wandered the streets for a short while before finding what was unmistakably a tavern. Having completely given up on the idea of being able to find the ambassador by himself, he went inside. It was the middle of the day and the taproom was quiet, but there was a man standing behind the bar.
‘I need to deliver a message,’ Wulfric said. ‘Can you tell me where I’d find the Markgraf’s officials? An ambassador.’
‘Chancellery, most likely,’ the barman said. ‘It’s on the main square.’
Wulfric’s expression must have spoken volumes. The barman leaned forward and pointed. ‘Continue up the street until you reach the junction, turn right, and that will bring you to the square. You’ll know it when you see it.’
Wulfric nodded in thanks and went back outside. The directions proved easy to follow and the Chancellery was not hard to spot, a grand grey stone building that dominated the square.
If this was where those in the Markgraf’s administration came to work and receive their instructions, it stood to reason that Ambassador Urschel, or whatever his title now was, would have to pass by. It was a slim hope though, which could mean Wulfric having to hang around watching for a very long time—time he might not have. Once Urschel learned what had happened in Leondorf, Wulfric expected he would be nigh on impossible to get to. He thought about asking after Urschel specifically, but feared that might draw unwanted attention.
The task seemed so impossible that for a moment, Wulfric considered abandoning his plan. The thought shamed him. At least if he failed in the task, the gods might consider the Blood Debt paid, and per
mit Adalhaid to join him in their halls. To give up was unthinkable. One thought of how afraid she must have been, how much she had wanted to live, and how much he missed her drove the hesitation from his mind. Each second that Urschel continued to draw breath was an insult to Adalhaid, and to him.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 1