‘Looking for work. Heard there might be some out this way.’
Dal Rhenning looked him up and down, a suspicious expression on his face. ‘Anywhere in particular?’
Wulfric shrugged.
‘You’re travelling light, I see. A little too light, don’t you think?’
Wulfric shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘I… wasn’t as careful in the city as I should have been. My things were stolen.’
Dal Rhenning nodded at the explanation. ‘Cities can be hostile to those not familiar with them. Always try to avoid ’em myself.’ He turned his back on Wulfric and went to inspect one of his horse’s hoofs. ‘Bastards must have thrown some caltrops on the road. Horse went lame and it’s too much of a coincid— ah yes, here we are.’
The horse whickered and shifted suddenly. Dal Rhenning turned back to Wulfric and held up a small piece of metal with four short spikes projecting out of it. He looked at it with distaste. ‘Should have seen that coming, really. Still, all’s well that ends well. Better walk the beast for a time though. I’m headed to Wetlin, on the coast. Small harbour there. Might be some work on the docks.’
Wulfric nodded, as though he knew of it and was headed there too.
‘We can walk together, then,’ dal Rhenning said as he started off. ‘There’s nothing between here and Wetlin, and I don’t fancy stopping here for the night. There are bears and wolves in the woods hereabouts.’
5
WULFRIC
‘I’ve heard many tales of Northland warriors heading off on adventures and getting themselves into scrapes in parts foreign,’ dal Rhenning said, as they set off. ‘Jorundyr’s Path, they call it, don’t they?’
Wulfric was amazed that a southerner had heard of it, but dal Rhenning was full of surprises. ‘They do.’
‘Looking for something like that yourself?’
It was a pleasant night, dry and not too cold. Wulfric had intended pressing on without pause, and the old man made for good company. There was something about him that reminded Wulfric of Belgar and Aethelman. Wulfric had not had a friendly conversation in even a longer time than he had eaten a hot meal, and welcomed it.
‘More adventure, fewer scrapes,’ Wulfric said. ‘Want to see a bit of the world before… before…’
‘Before you get too old like me?’ dal Rhenning said with a belly laugh. ‘I’ll have you know there’s plenty of adventure left in an old fart like me.’
Wulfric smiled, hoping he hadn’t caused offence, but the old man had a cavalier air about him and didn’t strike Wulfric as the type to be easily insulted.
‘I’ve always been fascinated by the old Northlander sagas,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘Many of them relate to places that are now part of Ruripathia, y’know.’
‘I’d heard that,’ Wulfric said. ‘Our village priest said Ruripathia was much like the Northlands in the old days.’
‘True,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘Not so different even now, though. Bigger cities to be sure, but the language is similar enough that we can talk with no difficulty. Our gods have different names, but they are largely the same. History may have separated our lands, but much remains in common.’
Wulfric raised his eyebrows. Most southerners he had met seemed to think all Northlanders were savages.
‘Tell me about Jorundyr’s Path,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘I’ve heard less than half who set off ever make it back.’
Wulfric smiled, happy to talk about something so important to him, and pleased by dal Rhenning’s interest. ‘It’s not that bad usually. But plenty die. Something in the High Places drains the life out of you. Tears your body apart from the inside. I watched my friend drown in his own blood. There was nothing I could do for him. Then there’re the belek. They’re common in the High Places. I killed my first on the way back from my pilgrimage.’
Dal Rhenning stopped and turned to face Wulfric. ‘Your first? You’ve killed more than one?’
Wulfric nodded. ‘I killed a second last season. You don’t have the option of running away when it comes to belek. You kill it, or it kills you.’ The memory of the ferocious and intelligent beasts sent a shiver down Wulfric’s spine.
‘I killed one myself, when I was a young man,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘Only one I’ve ever seen, and I’d not care to see another. There are many in the Northlands?’
‘Not as many as I think there once were. They didn’t come near my village during my lifetime, but there are plenty of stories about it happening before I was born. They attack the herds a few times a year, the cattle mainly. They usually stay away from the horses.’
‘And your village? Where are you from?’
Wulfric hesitated. ‘Rasbruck.’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it, although I know of few enough places north of the marches. I was little more than a lad when I killed my belek. Only nineteen. We have to go looking for them, deep into the forests and up into the Telastrian Mountains. The thought of it still gives me the chills.’
‘I heard you hunt them in the south for sport,’ Wulfric said.
‘Not exactly, but I suppose it’s not far off. It’s something of a rite of passage. A bit like your pilgrimage really, although few enough actually manage to kill one. Most who go out on a hunt never even see one. I was lucky, not just to encounter one but to be the first in for the kill.’
‘I’ve never thought of meeting a belek to be good luck,’ Wulfric said.
Dal Rhenning laughed. ‘No. Having had the pleasure, I don’t think I would anymore either. Still, it’s something of a coup to achieve, and a young man with a belek cloak gets all the attention from the ladies. Much of what came my way in life was because of those few minutes. Ridiculous when you think about it.’
‘It’s important where I’m from too,’ Wulfric said. Tired and cold as he was, he longed for the warmth and comfort of his belek cloak. He felt his stomach rumble. ‘How much farther to…’
‘To Wetlin? The road is in fair condition. If you’re content to continue through the night as I plan to do, we should be there by late morning.’
ADALHAID
‘What do you think of Leondorf being made part of the Elzmark? Part of Ruripathia?’ the Markgraf said.
‘I think it’s been inevitable for some time, my lord,’ Adalhaid said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. She found formal dining at the Markgraf’s table to be a stifling affair—she far preferred the casual family dinners when she was present to keep an eye on the children. However, being invited to a formal dinner was a mark of respect and one that was not given often, so she never refused. They were usually small affairs, as was the case that night, with only a dozen currently favoured members of his court invited.
She always felt drained by it, having to have a constant regard for southern dining etiquette, as well as making polite small talk on matters she rarely had any interest in. This, however, was a subject close to her heart.
‘But as someone who was born and bred there, are you in favour of it? The Northlanders have been hostile to any advance into the forests for centuries.’
‘Northlanders are fiercely independent,’ Adalhaid said. ‘But for Leondorf, independence was a luxury she could no longer afford.’
‘Very true,’ the Markgraf said. ‘A sad thing, I suppose. Like seeing a magnificent wild beast stripped of its freedom and caged in the menagerie.’
‘A fitting analogy, my lord,’ one of the dinner guests, a noble from somewhere near the coast, said. ‘Particularly when applied to Northlanders.’
The comment drew laughter from around the table, but the Markgraf only smiled in his wry way. There were many odious personalities at his court, but he was not one of them.
Adalhaid flushed with anger, and the guest seemed to notice it.
‘Of course, I’d barely have known you are a Northlander,’ he said. ‘You’ve adapted to life here so well.’
She forced a smile at what she knew was a clumsy effort at a compliment, even though it made the original insult all t
he worse. She watched the guests eat and toady up to the Markgraf as though their prosperity depended on it. It occurred to her that it did. The realisation that she was in exactly the same situation made her feel sick. Only a few months before, the world had seemed nothing but an opportunity. She was going to set up a school in Leondorf, and guide future generations to finding their place in the world. Now she was a child-minder, entirely reliant on someone else for her prosperity and future. The thought made her dizzy. How had she allowed herself to drift from her course so completely?
She knew the answer, but it was no excuse. She wondered if Wulfric watched her from Jorundyr’s Hall. What must he think, seeing her allow her dreams to fade away like that?
She looked around the table and felt nothing but contempt, for them and for herself. She had to take charge of her life again, to spend it working toward the dreams she had as a child. If she didn’t, what was the point in even having a life? A degree and a profession would make her equal to any of them at the table. More so, even. She would have earned every achievement she called her own, while they were merely born to theirs. More importantly, it would mean she had to rely on no one but herself. No one would be able to take her future from her. She stifled her anger, and smiled.
RODULF
Rodulf was always suspicious of knocks on his door late at night. His servant opened it but he watched carefully, ready to react if Andhun or Oswyn had finally plucked up the courage to try and have him killed. One of Ambassador dal Ruedin’s men stood outside. He handed the servant a note and left.
Rodulf took the note, wasting no time in breaking open the red wax seal. He scanned the contents and smiled. He had succeeded in the second prong of his plan. Being made temporary mayor gave him charge of the day-to-day administration of the town, but his father had long since put processes and staff in place to ensure it all but ran itself. Rodulf needed to prove himself as more than just a competent administrator. He had to show dal Ruedin he could add value to the role, that he could get his hands dirty and deal with the tougher tasks, something no one else on the council could do.
He had requested that the responsibility for the silver convoys be passed to him. The soldiers had taken full control since the last attack, but they did not like the dangerous duty. Casualties were frequent, and it was an unwelcome drain on the ambassador’s coffers. The note told Rodulf his request had been acceded to. He had one week to prepare for the next convoy—and the chance to show the ambassador that he was the obvious choice to be made Lord of Leondorf.
WULFRIC
They arrived in Wetlin late in the morning of the next day as dal Rhenning had estimated. Wulfric had smelled salt in the air long before they reached the town. It was unlike anything else, the tang of the great sea that he had heard spoken of many times. His excitement to see it for himself had grown with each step toward it—water as far as the eye could see.
Dal Rhenning had been a good travelling companion, curious about the ways of the Northlanders and a fount of stories about wars and battles, many of which he had fought in over a long and active life. Now in his later years, he had abdicated his county in favour of his son, to spend his final years seeing the world and adventuring with a band of likeminded warriors.
It was a notion in true keeping with the Northland epics, and Wulfric admired the fact that dal Rhenning still had the spirit to leave behind all the hard-earned comforts of a long life and venture out into the unknown. They parted company at the gates to Wetlin, dal Rhenning going on to meet his brothers in arms, while Wulfric had to work out what he was going to do next. As he was in a port, the idea of taking a ship struck him as a good idea. Seeing the sea for the first time, and realising just how big the world was, had lit a fire of curiosity within him. He wondered if it would be selfish to see a little of it before returning to finish his duty.
Wetlin was a miniature version of Elzburg, like a younger sibling copying the older in everything but size. It was not all that much larger than Leondorf and there was a bustling energy about the place, with steady traffic in and out.
He had no difficulty getting through the town gate, not even attracting an inquiring glance from the soldiers on duty there. Despite the ease, he was wary of being in another town. He didn’t like them. Surrounded by walls, he felt like there was a weight on his chest, and he was no sooner inside them than he was counting the moments until he could leave. There was also the concern of news from Elzburg catching up with him. He would take the first departing ship that would have him. It didn’t matter where it was going.
He walked through the town and straight down to the docks to see what was there. The sea caught his imagination every time he looked at it, and he was utterly fascinated by the ships tied to Wetlin’s quayside—great hulks of wood that pulled gently against their mooring lines. Each looked slightly different. Some were heavy and cumbersome, like a cart horse, while others were sleek and agile like a horse bred for speed. Their masts and rigging stretched skyward, like bare trees in winter.
As impressive as they were, they were put to shame by one great monstrosity of a ship that was at anchor in the bay. Even that distant, it dwarfed the other ships. Smaller boats were ferrying supplies and other goods out, including one filled with horses, which amazed Wulfric. He wondered how many men and trees were needed to build such an enormous vessel.
It had seemed like such a simple idea—find a ship, flee the land. Now that he was faced with it, he had no idea what to do. Standing around like a naive Northlander idiot wasn’t going to get him anywhere, so he walked to the nearest ship and called out.
A sailor put down a coil of rope and walked over.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for a ship away from here.’
‘You and everyone else with an ounce of sense.’ He gave Wulfric a look up and down. ‘We don’t take passengers. Sorry.’
Wulfric felt his heart sink. ‘I’ll work my way.’
‘Any experience on ships?’
Wulfric hesitated too long.
‘No. Sorry. Good luck,’ the sailor said.
Wulfric walked away wondering how he should change his approach for his next try. Perhaps he should cut his hair and trim his beard so as to fit better with southern fashion. It seemed worth a try, and a rumbling belly reminded him that he had yet to eat. He still had some of the money he’d taken from the ambassador and his men, so he decided to find an inn, some soap, hot water, and a large meal.
6
WULFRIC
Port towns seemed to have no shortage of inns. For Wulfric, the most difficult part was choosing which one to try. Novice though he was to city life, he could discount most of them at a glance—too fancy, too run down, too rough. The last thing he needed was trouble. A middle-of-the-road inn, possibly one where ship’s officers gathered, would be perfect. As well as having a chance to eat and clean up, it would allow him to listen in and get an idea of ship-speak, so he could avoid seeming so useless the next time he approached a ship.
He wandered about the small town for a time, coming upon an inn called The Giddy Goose. He would have continued past the nondescript facade were it not for the smell that hit him as soon as he was within range. The scent of cooking—bread and bacon, he thought—had him salivating and his stomach rumbling the second he breathed it in. The smell was as strong a recommendation for an inn as could be had, so he went in.
He hadn’t eaten anything other than the meagre rations dal Rhenning had shared with him as they walked. As much as he needed a wash and a fast ship, the smell made him feel faint. He had no idea how much things cost, but his coins were silver and he knew that had value. He reckoned there was enough for everything he needed, and a few minutes to fill his belly seemed little to ask for.
He was halfway through a plate of meat and vegetables when a group of soldiers came in. He felt his stomach twist, but did his best to quell any visible reaction. He was furious with himself for giving in to his hunger. He could have eaten
in comfort on a ship making best time toward a foreign land, and never need to have worried about southern soldiers again. He thought about getting up and leaving, but his plate was still loaded with food and it would look suspicious.
The soldiers gathered at the bar and started speaking with the innkeeper. Wulfric found that his appetite had deserted him completely but he continued to eat, mechanically shovelling food into his mouth and keeping an eye on the soldiers. Why couldn’t he have cleaned himself up first? He might as well have had a sign over his head saying ‘Northlander’.
They surveyed the taproom, but didn’t dwell on anyone in particular. He hoped they would be gone by the time he finished his food, but they were still there as he mopped the last of the gravy from his plate. It would appear odd continuing to sit there with no food or drink. Standing up and leaving would draw attention, but for all he knew they weren’t looking for him.
One of the soldiers cast a glance in Wulfric’s direction. Wulfric pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth. There was nothing to do but leave. He stood and made his way toward the door.
‘Where you headed, traveller?’ a soldier said. He seemed to be the one in charge.
Wulfric ignored the voice and kept going.
‘You, with the beard. I said where are you headed?’
Wulfric stopped. ‘To get work on a boat,’ he said.
‘You’ve the look of a Northlander about you. And the sound of one. Didn’t think you folk were a seafaring lot.’ The soldier stared at Wulfric, waiting for a response.
‘We aren’t usually. Just wanted to give it a try. See the world. I hear it’s a big place,’ Wulfric said, hoping that a mixture of humour and playing up to the dumb Northlander stereotype might get him off the hook.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 4