Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  One of the soldiers sniggered, and it seemed as though it might work.

  ‘Been in town long?’ the soldier said.

  Wulfric shrugged. ‘No.’

  ‘Pay a visit to Elzburg by any chance?’

  Wulfric’s skin crawled. ‘Where?’

  ‘We’re looking for a Northlander. You’re not far off the description. Come here and let me take a look at you.’

  Wulfric considered his options, which seemed few. There were five soldiers, and there could be more outside. They stood between him and the door, meaning his only way out was through them. That was far from ideal, but he wasn’t going to go quietly to a Ruripathian dungeon. He wondered if he could bluff his way out of it by appearing to cooperate.

  He walked toward the soldiers. The one who had spoken gave Wulfric a close looking over.

  ‘Hands,’ he said. ‘Let me see your hands.’

  Wulfric hesitated before holding them out. He hadn’t paid them any attention, and for all he knew there might still be blood on them.

  The soldier looked at Wulfric’s hands, then turned each one over to look at the palms. ‘Filthy bloody Northlander,’ he said under his breath.

  It was loud enough for Wulfric to hear, but he was too grateful for the fact that his hands bore all the hallmarks of a man who had been living rough to care about the insult.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the soldier said to his men, ‘but he’s a Northlander, so we should hold him until they arrive from the city. One less Northlander on the streets is never a bad thing.’ He turned back to Wulfric and grabbed him by the wrist. ‘You’re coming with us.’

  Wulfric pulled the soldier forward as hard as he could and sent him sprawling across the taproom’s floor, knocking chairs and tables out of the way as he went. The others rushed in quickly. Wulfric dropped the first with a punch so hard he could feel his knuckles crack. He grimaced with pain and took little satisfaction in the fact that the man he had hit dropped to the floor without so much as a grunt.

  His eyes widened and his heart raced as he was filled with the joy and lust of battle. Another soldier charged at him. Wulfric grabbed him and slammed him against the bar. He snatched a handful of the soldier’s hair and smashed his head on the counter. He threw the soldier’s limp body to one side as carelessly as if he were a piece of rubbish, then fixed his gaze on the remaining two, willing them on.

  The soldiers drew their weapons, any hope of taking Wulfric alive now gone, and advanced. Wulfric welcomed their approach and watched them grow closer, waiting for the right moment to attack. He felt a dull object strike the back of his head and had enough time to wonder who had hit him before darkness closed in.

  DAL RHENNING

  ‘What in hells do you think you’re doing?’ dal Rhenning said.

  Two of the soldiers paused in helping their comrade from the ground, and looked to the man addressing them.

  Dal Rhenning stood arms akimbo and fixed the soldiers with his most withering gaze. ‘Care to explain yourselves?’

  ‘And why would we care to do that?’ the lead soldier, a sergeant, said.

  ‘Because that’s my man you’ve assaulted,’ dal Rhenning said, ‘and unless you’ve got good reason, I’ll have the lot of you flogged.’

  The sergeant cast a glance at his men. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘Graf Otto dal Rhenning, Banneret of the Grey. That man’s paymaster.’ He pointed at Wulfric’s prone form.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but you say he’s one of yours? He told us he was looking for work on the boats.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t care to share his business with you,’ dal Rhenning said.

  ‘Even so, my lord, we’re looking for a Northlander who fits his description,’ the sergeant said, his voice lacking its previous confidence. ‘Killed a nobleman and a dozen soldiers in Elzburg.’

  ‘A dozen soldiers? And a nobleman?’

  The sergeant nodded.

  ‘And yet five ugly turds like you were able to drop him with only two men injured?’

  The sergeant nodded again, but more slowly.

  ‘I signed that man onto my roster a month ago. We haven’t been near Elzburg in that time.’

  ‘I suppose we could be mistaken, my lord. The description wasn’t—’

  ‘Piss off, the lot of you,’ dal Rhenning said, putting as much impatience into his voice as he could muster. ‘Best hope you haven’t cracked his skull. If you have, you’ll all be looking for new employment before the morrow.’

  ‘Apologies, my lord,’ the sergeant said, backing away toward the door. ‘And good luck on your next adventure. We all very much enjoy the tales of your exploits.’ He doffed his hat, then turned and left the inn as quickly as he could, followed by his men, carrying their unconscious colleagues.

  ‘Explain to me why you did that?’

  ‘Where were you, Jagovere?’ dal Rhenning said to the blond-haired man who had appeared at his shoulder. ‘I thought that might get rough. Could have used a hand.’

  ‘You’d have had it in time. Didn’t want to let my pie go cold. The explanation?’

  ‘This young man was prepared to fight by my side on the road to this poxy little town with nothing more than a rock in his hand. One good turn deserves another.’

  Jagovere scratched his goatee. ‘What are we going to do with him? Leave him there?’

  ‘No. Once those investigators get here I suspect they’ll realise they weren’t mistaken after all,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘It would be a wasted effort if we leave him now.’

  ‘A nobleman and a dozen soldiers?’ Jagovere said.

  Dal Rhenning shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Probably just got caught in the nobleman’s daughter’s bed. You know what those city girls are like for a bit of rough.’

  Jagovere’s face split with a grin. ‘Only too well, but after seeing him fight like that, I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  Dal Rhenning nodded as he continued to regard Wulfric’s prone form.

  ‘That still doesn’t answer my question, though,’ Jagovere said. ‘What will we do with him?’

  AETHELMAN

  When he looked at his haversack, Aethelman realised how little he truly needed to live. A warm hearth and a dry roof were the only luxuries he had ever allowed himself. A good pair of boots, a warm cloak, a blanket, some food, and the tools he would need to survive in the wilderness were the only things he was taking with him. He wondered if he would be able to remember his way to the Hermitage—he wondered if he was embarking on a fool’s errand. It didn’t feel like one, though. Something deep inside told him it was important. For the first time in decades, the weight of having possessed the Fount Stone for so long and not taking any action with it rested lighter on his shoulders. He hoped that this quest, likely the last thing he’d do with his life, would lift that burden completely.

  It would not be dawn for some hours yet, but there was no one to say goodbye to, and no reason to tarry any longer. He hefted the haversack onto his shoulder and set off, not sparing a glance for the place that had been his home for so many years but that he now barely recognised.

  ADALHAID

  Adalhaid stared at the university from the opposite side of the square. She had been constantly thinking over her revelation at the dinner, and working out her best way forward. She needed to go back to university and complete her education. A higher degree was the only way a woman could lead an independent and prosperous life, and she would be damned if she was ever going to have to rely on someone else for her survival. The city could be a very harsh place if you didn’t have any money, and Adalhaid had no intention of experiencing that herself.

  She already had her basic teaching diploma, but so did hundreds of others, and the competition for work was fierce. It had been nothing more than good fortune and her uncle’s contacts that got her a position at court. She couldn’t count on being so lucky a second time. Her Northland background would always stand against her.

  She knew it would be difficult, juggl
ing her duties at the palace with a course of study for a full degree, but she would have to rise to the challenge. She couldn’t rely on her uncle for support—he had his own family to take care of, and had already been more than generous. Any quality of life she had would be down to her own making. She wrinkled her nose for a moment, her decision made.

  7

  WULFRIC

  Wulfric opened his eyes slowly. It was dark, and he had no idea where he was. He was wrapped in heavy, stiff cloth and was rocking gently from side to side. The feeling of confinement made him panic, but he realised there was a split along the top that he could push open. He grabbed the edges and pulled himself up—he was in a hammock.

  It was too dark to make anything out, but the world around him seemed to be moving. Moving and groaning. He tried to remember what had happened, but his head was too fuzzy to make sense of anything.

  He heard approaching footsteps, and retreated into his cloth cocoon.

  ‘Reckon he’d have woken by now if he was going to.’

  ‘That’s your medical opinion, is it?’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of cracked heads over the years, and have cracked my fair share. The longer they’re out, the more likely they are to stay out.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow your logic.’ The voice was tinged with humour.

  The other voice grunted. ‘One way or the other, I reckon it’s time to stitch his hammock shut and heave him over the side.’

  ‘The Graf said he’s to be fed gruel and water every day, so fed he shall be.’

  A hand pulled back the hammock’s lip. Wulfric shut his eyes and pretended to be unconscious. A strong, calloused hand gripped him by the jaw and forced his mouth open. He could feel a cold steel spoon press against his lips, and warm gruel trickled into his mouth. It was bland, but it made Wulfric realise how hungry he was. He forced himself to remain still, not wanting to reveal the fact that he was awake to the men feeding him.

  The memory of the inn and the soldiers flashed into his mind. He struggled to contain the sense of panic that he’d been captured and was awaiting execution. Would they have bothered feeding him if that was what they were intending? More gruel was dribbled into his mouth, and the process continued for several minutes as Wulfric fought the desire to open his eyes. Eventually a rough cloth was wiped across his mouth.

  ‘That’s enough for now,’ one of the voices said.

  There was some shuffling, the creak and clatter of a wooden door closing and Wulfric was alone again. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, teased as it was by the meagre amount of food. He sat up and swung his legs out of the hammock, carefully reaching down with his foot until it touched the wooden floor.

  Satisfied that he had found firm ground, he slipped out of the hammock and stood. His legs wobbled as the firm ground gently pitched to one side. He reached out and touched the wall to steady himself.

  Fumbling around in the darkness, he found the door. It was unlocked—further proof, if the moving floor was not enough, that he was not in a prison. There were some lights farther down the narrow corridor on the other side, which gave him enough to see by. The corridor was empty, so he crept out, needing to constantly lean against the wall to keep his balance. Clad only in britches and a loose shirt, his bare feet made hardly a sound on the wooden floorboards beneath him.

  He could hear activity above, footfalls and voices, but could make no sense of the confused noise. He continued along the corridor until he reached some steps. He knew if he climbed them he would be spotted by whoever was up there, but his curiosity was too great.

  He had to hold onto the steps as he made his way up them—the movement seemed greater now. His legs felt weak, making him wonder how long he had been in the hammock. His head passed through the bright opening at the end, and he was greeted by a deluge of daylight and fresh air. A great expanse of wood ran in every direction, with men busily working all around. No one paid him the slightest notice.

  He continued up the final few steps and out onto the next level. He tried to stand, but in the absence of anything to hold onto, he lost his balance as the floor moved beneath him again, and fell to his knees.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you up and about.’ A man stood over Wulfric, silhouetted in the sunlight. The voice was the humorous one from the hammock room. ‘Here, let me help you.’

  A firm pair of hands grabbed him under the shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. The man placed a steadying hand on Wulfric’s arm as his legs wobbled.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the man said. ‘You’ll get used to it fast enough.’

  Wulfric barely heard him as he looked around, his mouth agape. Beyond an expanse of wood, deep blue water flecked with white stretched in every direction. The sea. He was on a ship in the middle of the sea.

  ‘Where am I?’ he said.

  ‘The better part of a week out of Wetlin,’ the man said. ‘Sailing sou’-sou’ west at a fair clip.’

  Wulfric continued to look out and around. A ship. It was enormous, the size of a small village, filled with as many people. Three thick masts stretched skyward, with long arms carrying great stretches of billowing canvas. The deck seemed to be moving in every direction at once. Wulfric found it impossible to keep his balance, and was humiliated at having to rely on the blond-haired man to remain upright.

  His eyes felt strained after so long in the dark as he tried to take in the man before him. Shorter than Wulfric, he had windblown, shoulder-length hair and a neat beard. Wulfric couldn’t recall ever seeing him before.

  ‘Who are you?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Banneret of the Grey Jagovere dal Borlitz, captain of heavy horse in Dal Rhenning’s Company, at your service.’ He gave a quick bow. ‘I understand you are Wulfric Wolframson of the Northlands. I would welcome you aboard, but you’ve already been here for some time.’

  ‘How did I get here?’ Wulfric said, trying to piece together what little he could remember.

  ‘You had an altercation with some soldiers in Wetlin. I assume you can recall that much?’

  Wulfric nodded.

  ‘They were about to haul you off to prison when the Graf’— Jagovere pointed to a man standing by the rail of a raised deck to the rear of the ship— ‘decided to intervene. And so you wake on board a ship at sea many miles from the coast.’

  ‘The Graf?’ Wulfric squinted at the shape on the higher deck, and recognised him for the man he had tried to help on the road to Wetlin.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Estranza.’

  Wulfric stared at him blankly.

  Jagovere smiled. ‘It’s a kingdom on the other side of the Middle Sea. The Company has a contract there.’

  Wulfric tried to assimilate everything. He had successfully gotten away from Ruripathia, but it was not on his own terms, and the loss of control made him anxious.

  ‘When can I go back?’ Wulfric said, a hint of urgency in his voice.

  ‘More noblemen and soldiers to slay?’ Jagovere said, raising an eyebrow.

  Wulfric blushed. He wondered why they had helped him if they knew what he had done. ‘I have to get back,’ he said. ‘For reasons that are my own.’

  ‘Well, you won’t be getting back any time soon,’ Jagovere said. ‘We’ve another week at sea at least. That’s not a bad thing for you.’ Jagovere paused and fixed Wulfric with an intense stare. ‘Whatever your reasons, I would bide my time if I were you. Before we set sail, the Intelligenciers arrived in Wetlin.’

  Wulfric furrowed his brow.

  ‘Very dangerous men who spend their lives hunting down and destroying very dangerous things. People included. They were looking for Wulfric Wolframson of the Northlands, for the killing of the Markgraf of Elzburg’s cousin, formerly ambassador to some Northland town the name of which escapes me.’

  ‘Leondorf,’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere nodded in thanks. ‘In any event, I suspect it will be quite some time before Ruripathia is a safe place for you to be.’

  �
��Why didn’t you hand me over?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘When the Intelligenciers grab someone, they aren’t seen again. There’s no such thing as a trial, and the Graf is funny about things like that. He reckoned one good turn deserves another, and that you must have had good reason to travel all that way to kill the Markgraf’s cousin. Thinks you deserve a chance.’

  Wulfric nodded, trying to work out what this meant for his plans. How long would the Intelligenciers look for him? Months? Years?

  Dal Rhenning appeared at Jagovere’s shoulder.

  ‘Glad to see you up and about,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘We were getting worried that knock to the head would be the end of you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Wulfric said. ‘Thank you. What happens now?’

  Dal Rhenning shrugged. ‘Enjoy the voyage. We drill the men twice a day and you’re welcome to join in. The sailors run the ship. We’re merely passengers.’

  ‘But after? When we get to Esta…’

  ‘Estranza,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Estranza. What happens when we get there?’

  ‘Well,’ dal Rhenning said, ‘we have a contract to fulfil with the Duke of Torona, and we’ll be marching south as soon as we make landfall. You’re welcome to join us or you can take a ship back to Ruripathia—or anywhere else of your choosing. You’ll need money for that, though, and judging by the way you’re standing I don’t have much hope of anyone making a sailor of you to pay your way. I presume Jagovere has filled you in on your… situation at home?’

  Wulfric nodded. Being taken ever farther from his goal was frustrating, and he could feel anger start to boil in his gut. If he could not go back straightaway with any hope of settling the Blood Debts, how else might he spend the time?

  ‘What’s your contract?’

  ‘My company of soldiers is serving in the Duke of Torona’s army for the campaigning season,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘A few months, a bit of fighting, and you’ll be able to go wherever you want—home by then, like as not—with a bit of coin in your purse. Looks to me like you’ve accidentally ended up on Jorundyr’s Path after all.’