The young Northlander casually circled around Enderlain, then swept his legs out from under him with a kick. He paused to survey his handiwork for a moment, then reached down and grabbed Enderlain by the scruff, his fist ready to deal more punishment. He hesitated, however, and turned to cast a glance toward the upper deck. Even from the quarter deck, Jagovere could see the fire in Wulfric’s eyes, and the manic smile on his face. It sent a chill through him.
‘Enough,’ Jagovere shouted.
Wulfric held his pose for a moment, giving Jagovere time to think steel might be called for, but he dropped Enderlain to the deck and stood straight, a look of satisfaction on his face.
‘Gods alive,’ dal Rhenning said, ‘he’s quick. I’ve not seen Enderlain dealt with like that before.’
‘Neither have I,’ Jagovere said. ‘He won’t be pleased about it.’ Trouble in his squadron was the last thing Jagovere needed.
‘Enderlain’s a big boy. I’m sure he’s had his nose bloodied before, and if he hasn’t it’s not before time. He’ll know to be more careful in future.’
‘I hope so,’ Jagovere said. ‘Did you see the expression on the Northlander’s face?’
‘The joy of battle is strong in him, I won’t deny that,’ dal Rhenning said.
‘Joy of battle is a delicate way of putting it, don’t you think?’
Dal Rhenning grunted. ‘We have time to settle Wulfric down. I’ll have a talk with him.’
‘The perils of a charitable heart,’ Jagovere said.
Dal Rhenning laughed. ‘It wouldn’t be my first error of judgement.’
WULFRIC
Men stood when dal Rhenning stepped onto the mess deck. He waved at them to sit and made his way along the mess groups until he found the one he was looking for. Wulfric had watched the Graf’s progress through the mess as he ate and saw the deference the men showed him, even when he had ordered them to ignore him.
‘Wulfric,’ he said.
It came as a surprise that it was him the Graf wanted to speak with. Since Wulfric had woken, dal Rhenning had only spoken to him once, becoming a distant figure of authority.
Wulfric put down his spoon and stood. ‘Graf.’
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you. I thought we could take a turn on the main deck.’
He started for the companionway without waiting for an answer. Wulfric hastily shovelled the last two spoonsful of food into his mouth, and followed dal Rhenning up the companionway steps.
They walked in silence until they reached the bulwark, and dal Rhenning took a long look out at the horizon.
‘I’ve never taken to sea travel,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled countless miles over the ocean, but give me a good horse any day.’
‘Can’t say I’ve taken to it either,’ Wulfric said.
‘It’s not my habit to pry into affairs that aren’t my own, and I won’t ask you any questions that you won’t want to answer, but I can’t help noticing that there’s an anger in you, Wulfric. A rage. I’ve seen it twice now. When those soldiers tried to arrest you in Wetlin, and again when you broke Enderlain’s nose.’
Wulfric had no idea how to respond, so he remained silent.
‘Your willingness to help a stranger on the road spoke volumes about you also. Were it not for that, I may well have already written you off as too great a liability. You’re a young man, and I wonder if you’re at a balance point in your life—the point where your actions over the next few months or years will define the man you become. A kind-hearted, brave man who would help a stranger and risk great peril to do so, or a bloodthirsty savage who lives for killing.’
It occurred to Wulfric that dal Rhenning, and everyone else in the Company, made their living by the sword. He opened his mouth to speak, but dal Rhenning cut him off.
‘I know what you’re thinking. Criticism about violent behaviour from a man who’s spent his life soldiering.’ He laughed. ‘There’s a difference, though. Subtle perhaps, but being a professional soldier means setting boundaries. You may fight for a living, may even enjoy the adventure and excitement it brings, but you should never allow yourself to descend to savagery. It’s an easy slope to fall down, and many have. There are mercenary companies more famed for rapine and pillage than fighting. You can choose not to be like that. You’ll be a better man for it. You’ll sleep better at night too, that I can promise you.’
‘I’ll think on it,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’ll do my best to pick the right course.’
‘Good,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘You’ve a good heart, and a strong arm, Wulfric. Use them wisely. Become a good man.’ He patted Wulfric on the back and started to walk away, then stopped.
‘And try not to break any more of my soldiers. I’ll need them when we get to Estranza.’
He chuckled and continued on his way, leaving Wulfric to dwell on his words. He considered what dal Rhenning had said, and thought back to the day he and the others had attacked Rasbruck. The soldiers had butchered people, while he and the other warriors had stopped. The thought that he was in danger of becoming like the soldiers horrified and disgusted him. Would he act the same way now? He couldn’t deny the anger that had been his constant companion since Adalhaid’s death. At first he had welcomed it—Jorundyr’s Gift seemed to come to him so much more easily than it had before. But now, if dal Rhenning had noticed it, he feared he was destined to become one of those mindless berserkir who were as much a danger to friend as enemy, as Aethelman had warned him. It did not seem so simple as to merely make a choice. How could he direct himself down the better path?
12
AETHELMAN
Aethelman had always known the older parts of the Hermitage were a maze. He had gotten lost on more than one occasion when he was an acolyte, and smiled when he recalled that excuse had been used more than once when he had lost himself on purpose. He had rarely been alone when that had happened.
When he concentrated hard enough, he could hear her laugh, smell her, feel her breath on his skin. Aesa. Coming back to the Hermitage had stirred memories and feelings that had been dormant for decades. He had sacrificed much, and in moments like that, he wondered if it was all worthwhile.
He had ventured far beyond any part of the Hermitage he recognised, and was relieved the passages on the new route were clear. He left a faint trail of magic as he walked, an invisible trail he would be able to follow back out. The stone dampened magic, as it always did, and the deeper into the Hermitage he went, the more isolated he felt, his small tendril representing a tenuous connection to something he could usually feel rushing all around him.
He reached a flight of stairs and went down them, his knees and hips protesting with each one. The air grew colder and damper as he went, and he felt encouraged that he was going in the right direction. That presumed there was a right direction. After all the sacrifice and service he had given, the gods would surely not be so cruel as to see him spend his last days on a wild goose chase?
His faithful little globe of light continued to illuminate the way, its warm glow glistening against the damp stone surrounding him. The smooth sheen changed and the reflection became broken, but Aethelman had gone several paces before he realised.
He stopped and looked closely at the wall. It was etched with runes. Aethelman’s heart jumped. The Grey Priests favoured speech and memory over writing and paper, but it seemed it had not always been so. Reading and writing were of course studied, but written paper records faded and rotted to nothing. The chore of re-transcribing them was considered too great a drain of time for knowledge that should be in the head of every priest. There was sense in it, but the myth of the Fount Stones was an unfortunate consequence.
Runes were a very different thing, however. They were timeless, but an old practise that had long since fallen out of favour. Aethelman was one of the few priests who could read the more recent runes, which in themselves had developed to a form far removed from their ancestors. The older ones were as much a mystery as the Stones.
/> He held up his small lamp and traced his fingers along the chiselled runes. His eyes flitted to ones he recognised, seeking out a safe harbour in the unknown script. There were more he could read than not—the runes must have been relatively recent—but the relief led to quick disappointment. It was the story of a priest who had brought succour to a village scourged by a mysterious plague. While interesting, and possibly even of importance, it was not of any use to him.
He shook his head and moved on down the corridor. Were he rector, he would send teams of acolytes down into the bowels of the Hermitage to recover as much knowledge as they could. The priesthood’s itinerant ways had cost them as much as they had given, and he was coming to realise a better approach was needed to preserve the wealth of experience each priest gathered over his lifetime. Passing on their lessons by word of mouth was too prone to error. More than that, it was a step backwards from the time when their forebears had spent hours with hammer and chisel.
Every so often he stopped and took another look, but of the Fount Stones there was no mention. There were remedies, adventures, and dedications to various gods, but no legends and no reference to the Search. On Aethelman went, down dark corridors and ancient staircases.
ANDHUN
‘Be careful, you fool.’ Andhun squirmed in pain beneath the ministrations of the physician.
‘You’ll have to hold still, councilman,’ the physician said.
Andhun screeched in pain. His back was covered in angry red gashes left by the flogging. ‘It feels like you’re rubbing salt into them.’
‘There is some salt in the poultice. It helps to clean the wound.’
‘Isn’t there anything else you can do? The old priest here was able to take the pain away just by looking at it. Can’t you do anything like that?’
The physician took a step back. ‘If you’re referring to magic, I can assure you that I will do nothing of the sort. That kind of savagery may be allowed in these parts, but no civilised man would have anything to do with it. My poultices are the product of years of experience and testing, and I can assure you the making of several of them is taught in more than one university.’
Andhun let out a long sigh. ‘Get on with it then.’
The image of Rodulf’s face as he watched the flogging popped into Andhun’s mind. As painful as his day had been, it was nothing compared to the suffering he would experience if Rodulf was made baron. Leaving Leondorf would be the only option open to him, which he did not want to consider. Whatever else one could say about Leondorf, it was his home, and the only place he could ever hope to thrive. In the south he would fade into the crowd. Even if the barony was beyond his reach, he had to ensure that Rodulf did not get it. Oswyn’s friend with the blade seemed like the obvious course.
WULFRIC
Wulfric lay in his hammock. There was little else to do when not training, but it was a struggle to keep his thoughts away from things that distressed him. There was a tap on the cloth, startling him.
‘Captain dal Borlitz wants to see you.’
The messenger turned and left without another word. Wulfric was starting to feel like a naughty child, and he didn’t enjoy the experience. Even those who had been civil to him were giving him a wide berth since he’d broken the sergeant’s nose. Jagovere’s summons was no doubt to mete out some punishment.
He rolled out of his hammock and headed for Jagovere’s cabin. He knocked on the door and entered on command.
‘Sit.’
Wulfric was tired of being obstinate. He was tired of everything to do with his situation, so he sat without protest.
‘You’re going to be a problem for me, aren’t you?’
Wulfric shrugged.
‘If it were up to me I’d have you pitched over the side, do not doubt me. But I have my orders and I follow them.’ Dal Borlitz studied Wulfric for a moment. ‘You’ve impressed everyone with the way you dropped Enderlain, so if that was your intention, congratulations. Impressed doesn’t mean accepted, or liked. I don’t need men put in the infirmary in training. We are all comrades here, and may have to depend on one another for our lives when we get to the fighting. Together we make something far more than the individual sum of us. Remember that. Besides, we’re a commercial company and need every man fit for the field when we make landfall. Until we do, you can take on Enderlain’s duties.’
Wulfric opened his mouth to protest, but Jagovere cut him off.
‘You’ve already shown everyone that you can fight. The extra duties will show them you can work as well. If you can do both, they’ll respect you, and when they do it won’t matter a damn that you’re a Northlander.’
WULFRIC
Wulfric couldn’t recall having seen Enderlain scrubbing the deck, but it must have been how he had spent the majority of his day, as it was now what Wulfric spent most of his doing. Quite how two black eyes and a broken nose prevented Enderlain from rubbing a piece of stone back and forth over the deck planks was a mystery. Perhaps his pride had been too badly injured to cope with such a menial task. Perhaps the entire thing was a fiction to allow Jagovere to punish him without actually doling out a direct punishment. His hands were red-raw from the abrasive stone, and his knees and back ached so badly he nearly wished they had flogged him.
The ship’s crew largely kept apart from the mercenaries, but Wulfric’s task brought him into proximity with them. He watched them go about their business of running the ship, barefoot with hands covered in sticky rigging tar. A young man, a few years younger than Wulfric, was securing a rope to a cleat on the bulwark. His hands were slow and lacking the practised speed the older sailors showed, but he was humming a tune under his breath and had a relaxed smile on his face. Wulfric wondered what had led him to choose a life at sea.
Two other sailors walked over. One of them shoved the novice sailor to the side and inspected his knot. Both the humming and smile disappeared.
‘Made a right pig’s ear of this, you have,’ said one. He was of average height, but strong and sinewy-looking, like most of the crew. ‘Is there anything you can do right?’
Wulfric looked over. There were a half dozen identical cleats along the bulwark, each with a rope tied to it. He had seen them tied there by other crewmen over the course of the morning, and they looked no different to the one the young sailor had tied. The only difference was it had taken him longer.
‘Well, what you got to say for yourself, squeaker?’
‘It looks all right to me, Frans,’ the young sailor said.
‘“It looks all right to me, Frans”,’ the older sailor, Frans, said in a high-pitched voice.
Frans shoved the young sailor again, proving to Wulfric beyond a doubt that there was nothing wrong with the knot.
‘Piss off, Frans,’ the young sailor said. There was fear in his voice rather than indignation.
‘Tell me to piss off, squeaker?’ Frans said. He stepped forward and grabbed the young sailor in a headlock, then twisted him violently. The young sailor let out a cry.
Wulfric felt a pulse of blood in his forehead, and a momentary light-headedness. He saw Rodulf. He saw himself.
‘Let him go,’ Wulfric said. The words were out of his mouth before he realised he was speaking.
‘Mind your own business, mud-kicker,’ Frans said.
Wulfric closed the distance between them and grabbed Frans by the wrist, freeing the young sailor who fell to the ground clutching his throat.
Frans swiped at Wulfric with his free hand, but Wulfric was able to twist him out of the way. Wulfric punched him hard, a loud crack accompanying the impact. Frans dropped like a sack of stones. The other sailor jumped onto Wulfric’s back. The young sailor called out a warning, but it came too late.
Wulfric roared and grabbed at his attacker, pulling him from his back and throwing him to the ground. Wulfric grabbed him by the shoulders and head-butted him. He stumbled backwards as Wulfric moved forward to follow up.
‘Enough.’
Jagovere
’s voice, and a word Wulfric was becoming all too familiar with.
JAGOVERE
Jagovere kept his gaze locked on Wulfric until he was certain the violence was at an end. Having a man under his command causing trouble with the crew was the last thing he needed, and this incident had gone too far. Satisfied that it was over, he gave Wulfric a nod and turned back to dal Rhenning who stood next to him in their usual spot on the upper deck.
‘That’s why I want to give him a chance,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘He stepped in to help that lad without a second thought. His compass points toward the right thing every time, and his own safety comes second.’
‘It was the decent thing to do, I agree,’ Jagovere said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. ‘The decent thing isn’t always the best thing, though. Violence is his first choice, every time, even when he’s doing the right thing.’
Dal Rhenning grunted, as he always did when his opinion was straining under scrutiny.
‘Perhaps best get the lads ready for trouble,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘I suspect we may have issues with the crew.’
13
ANDHUN
‘We should have killed him,’ Oswyn said. ‘Left the southerner with no one to choose but you. Now you’ve destroyed your chances, and handed the barony to Rodulf. You’ve gone and fucked us both.’ He stood and paced around the room.
Andhun moved stiffly and carefully in his chair to avoid aggravating his wounded back. In hindsight, there was little with which to argue against Oswyn. However, he still believed resorting to killing was recognising that you had failed in business. It was the last resort, and he felt justified in having kept it as such, twelve lashes and defeat or not.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 9