‘Explain this,’ Ambassador dal Ruedin said.
‘Among the other injuries these men have done me, Andhun and Oswyn tried to have me killed last night. This settles the Blood Debt.’
The ambassador looked at the swinging bodies. ‘This is not how things are done.’
‘It is in the Northlands. We’re still in the Northlands, aren’t we?’
‘Bloody savages,’ the ambassador said under his breath. ‘Yes,’ he said in his normal voice, ‘I suppose we are.’
He turned and headed back toward his house. When he had gone a few paces, he stopped. ‘Well done with the silver wagons yesterday, by the by.’
Rodulf smiled, and returned his gaze to the swinging bodies. He would go home and sleep for an hour or two, and later in the day he would seize everything that had belonged to the two dead men hanging before him.
AETHELMAN
The damp seemed to seep into Aethelman’s tired joints, causing them to stiffen and ache. The air was cold and his breath clouded in the light of his small lamp. It had been an age since he had seen any source of natural light, and it was impossible to tell how long he had been walking. The only thing he felt certain of was that he was in the mountain behind the Hermitage. If the cavern existed, it could not be far.
Tired though he was, only hunger would force him to turn around. He had taken some light rations with him, balancing the burden of a heavy satchel against his estimated need. Having come so far, he was determined to continue until he could confirm or discount the cavern’s existence.
Another dozen paces, and the little bubble of light created by the reflections from the damp ceiling, floor, and walls disappeared. He stopped and looked around, but in every direction, there was only absolute darkness.
‘Hello,’ he called out, the ‘oh’ echoing into the abyss. He felt a flush of giddy excitement. This was it. He wondered how long it had been since the last person had stood here. It was humbling to be somewhere so ancient, where all that he had dedicated his life to had begun.
Aethelman backtracked to where the corridor opened out into the great black void. There was an architrave to mark the passing, and on closer inspection it looked as though doors had once been suspended from it. There were inscriptions too, but the runes were a complete mystery to Aethelman. He scanned them in frustration, hopeful that one at least might give him a clue as to what was being said. For all he knew, the message might have read, ‘Danger. Death to all who enter’.
He walked back into the void, his eyes fixed to the ground as he sought to keep his footing. A well-worn path showed him the way, pressed into the rock by the passage of countless feet over countless years. Aethelman followed it, moving ever farther into the darkness. With nothing but his small magelamp to guide him, his mind started to swim. There was nothing to focus on whenever he looked beyond its meagre glow, and his balance faltered. He grew dizzy and stumbled, falling to his hands and knees. He heard the tink, tink, tink, of his precious little lamp as it bounced away from his grasp.
He watched its receding light, hopeful that it would stop and be easily recovered. A loud ‘pop’ extinguished both that hope and the only light in that great, dark abyss.
Aethelman sat and clutched his knees to his chest. He was cold, so very cold. He had never been afraid of the dark before, but he had never before experienced a darkness like this. Despite the great space all around him, it felt like it was pressing in on him. For the first time he could remember, he felt fear.
RODULF
The bodies still hung from the roof beam outside the Great Hall when the council next sat. The corpses rotated slowly as the breeze twisted the ropes, presenting an obstacle to be avoided by all who entered.
Rodulf smiled as he watched the others make their way in, all at pains to dodge the rotting flesh of men with whom they had professed friendship. Rodulf wanted to be the last man to enter, with one exception, but feared he had overplayed his hand when the ambassador strode purposefully from his house toward the Great Hall, giving Rodulf no chance of getting there before him. It wouldn’t be prudent to be seen running, so he would have to wait.
The ambassador showed none of the squeamishness of the others, pushing one of the bodies aside and going into the Great Hall. As soon as he had done so, Rodulf hurried after him.
Andhun’s seat was conspicuously empty, its vacancy seeming to create an air of tension in the room. They all knew Rodulf would have no compunction in killing any one, or all of them. They also knew that with Andhun and Oswyn dead, there was no one in Leondorf to challenge him for the barony. All they could do was pray that Ambassador dal Ruedin would overlook Rodulf and appoint one of his countrymen. Rodulf had to suppress a smile at the thought.
‘Over the past few days, it’s become increasingly apparent to me that there is no point in my delaying the appointment of the new baron of Leondorf,’ Ambassador dal Ruedin said. ‘There is only one man realistically in the reckoning, and I am satisfied that he is capable of carrying out the tasks the Markgraf requires.’
Rodulf fixed his eye on the ambassador, willing the words from him. The engravings on the Stone pressed into his hand in his pocket.
The ambassador’s eye twitched twice. ‘Rodulf Donatoson, you are to travel to Elzburg forthwith to swear your oath of fealty to the Markgraf of Elzmark, and be invested as Baron of Leondorf.’
Rodulf felt a weight lift from him, and could see it visibly drop on the other men sitting around the table. He forced himself not to smile.
‘When you return, my assignment here will be complete, and I will leave,’ dal Ruedin said. ‘I would say it has been a pleasure, but that could not be further from the truth. That is all.’ He stood and left the Great Hall without another word.
Rodulf stretched back in his chair and allowed himself to smile. The others watched him furtively. ‘That was not all,’ he said. ‘That, my friends, was merely the beginning.’
17
AETHELMAN
Aethelman knew he was going to die where he was sitting. It was clear to him now that the gods did not want him to complete his quest, that they desired the knowledge he sought to remain forgotten. The darkness seemed to swirl before his eyes, but he knew it was simply his brain trying to make sense of the nothingness all around him. When he heard the laugh, he knew it was his ears trying to do the same. His imagination was trying to fill the void, and it would drive him mad before long.
He heard the laugh a second time, and wondered if it already had. He recognised the laugh. It resurrected memories and stirred dormant feelings. If madness was to bring his mind back to that place, he realised he had not the strength or the desire to fight it. He stood and turned to face where it had come from. He heard it again, and took his first hesitant step toward it.
WULFRIC
They gave Wulfric a horse, clothes, some old, ill-fitting armour, and a sword. The Ruripathians favoured two types, a sabre similar to those Northlanders used, and a long, straight-bladed rapier with an elaborate hilt. Even the rough munitions-grade swords were things of beauty to Wulfric’s eyes, but he had no experience of using one, so stuck to what he knew. He longed for Greyfell, his own armour, his own sword, but they were all lost to him. Probably forever. The horse he rode was a solid beast, but it paled in comparison to Greyfell. He wondered what had become of him.
He looked over to the others in his squadron, taking the central spot in the marching column. They all looked like good fighting men, with Enderlain riding at their head. Coloured banners fluttered in the air from lance tips. Some were in the Company’s colours, while others bore the sigil of their owners, and Wulfric finally understood the term ‘banneret’. Those who bore the title could carry their own banner into battle, and it struck Wulfric as a fine thing to be able to do. Perhaps the opportunity to become one would present itself, although he remembered mention of an academy and schooling, which wasn’t so appealing.
Jagovere rode alone to the side, a small writing desk set up on his saddl
e. Every so often he would scribble something down, seemingly lost in his own world. The Company had a scribe and a treasurer to look after paperwork, making Wulfric curious about what he was writing.
The land of Estranza was as different to home as he could imagine. The terrain was flat, stretching out as far as the eye could see, and arid, liberally scattered with squat, scrubby vegetation. The sea had long since receded into the background and Wulfric felt it disorienting not to have the mountains visible in the distance to help guide his journey.
Jagovere looked up and noticed that Wulfric was watching him.
‘It’s an account of our adventures,’ he said. ‘Recorded for posterity.’
‘Can’t you just remember them?’ Wulfric said.
‘To preserve a story as it really happened, it needs to be written down,’ Jagovere said. ‘With a little embellishment, of course. Then it can be retold in the way its author intended.’
‘The Company’s stories are worth retelling?’ Wulfric said, only realising after he had said it the offence it might cause.
‘Whether they are or are not makes little difference,’ Jagovere said, showing no sign of irritation. ‘The Graf was a very popular man with his people. When he decided to abdicate his county in favour of his son for a life of adventure, he promised them he would send back news of his exploits. The Graf asked me to take on that responsibility. It’s not a chore. I enjoy it.’
‘Everyone there can read?’ Wulfric said.
Jagovere laughed. ‘Not even close. Spaekers read to people, in taverns and inns. The most famous stories are also recounted at the courts of great lords. I’m told they’ve spread well beyond the borders of Rhenning. It seems people are starved for a little adventure.’ They continued in silence for a moment before Jagovere spoke again.
‘I’ve always been interested in the Northlander epics. I expect you know a great many?’
‘I’ve heard most of them told at one time or another,’ Wulfric said.
‘I should like to hear them,’ Jagovere said. ‘And write them down. The style is similar to what I’m trying to achieve in my own little epics.’
‘I suppose I can remember most of them,’ Wulfric said, not sure if it was something he had any interest in getting into.
‘It strikes me as an excellent way to pass the time on a long journey,’ Jagovere said. He fixed Wulfric with an expectant stare.
Wulfric could see no way out of it, and knew he had to make some effort to improve relations with the members of the Company if his next few weeks were not to be an utter misery.
He cleared his throat, and started with the first tale that came into his head.
RODULF
Rodulf spent the journey south thinking on all the things he was going to do when he got back to Leondorf. His own house would not do at all now that he was a nobleman. He briefly considered taking over the ambassador’s house when he left the village, but decided against it. He wanted to build his own place, something that put his mark on Leondorf.
It would need to be a manor house of some sort. Something that spoke to his authority and power. However, it couldn’t be entirely given over to luxury. Once Leondorf became a province of Ruripathia, it would be seen as fair game for every Northlander raider, and she was bordered by hostile territory on three sides. The house would need to be fortified. A castle might have been more appropriate, but they were old-fashioned, and he didn’t want his southern peers to think him an out-of-date country hick. Whoever designed the house would have to be clever about it, mixing the appearance of modernity and wealth with the reality of defence.
He wondered how much autonomy he would have when he was baron. He remembered how the Markgraf had to go to his own overlord, the Princess of Ruripathia, for permission to absorb Leondorf into the principality under his control. Would Rodulf have to go begging for permission every time he wanted to do something? It could make life difficult for him, especially with the ambitious plans that were forming in his head. With a remote location on the fringe of Ruripathia, so long as he kept the silver flowing south, he hoped he would be able to get away with quite a bit. The question was, how much? Now that he had achieved his barony, what else was there for the taking? There was nothing but opportunity ahead of him, and he intended to take full advantage.
It occurred to him that he had all but forgotten about Wulfric. There had been so much to occupy him in securing his future during the days following his father’s murder that he hadn’t been able to give him much more than a cursory thought. In a sense, Wulfric had done him a favour. Were it not for his actions, Rodulf knew he would still be nothing more than his father’s errand boy. He would never forgive the loss of his eye, but he would not allow that to blind him to what was important. Revenge would be satisfying, delicious even, but he had big dreams and there would be little time for diversions. Should the chance to even the score present itself, he would jump on it, but he would not waste his life chasing it. Notions such as Blood Debts were for backward savages like the old warrior classes, like Wulfric, not for modern, progressive men like him.
The thought that he might be a target for Wulfric’s misplaced thirst for revenge made his stomach twist. He quelled it with the knowledge that in a few days he would be a lord, and his power would grow with each passing moment. He would be untouchable, and if Wulfric chose to sacrifice himself in that endeavour Rodulf was quite happy to let him do so.
AETHELMAN
Aethelman heard the laughter so clearly it seemed as if Aesa was only a few steps in front of him. He knew it could not be her, but he had given up questioning his sanity and was satisfied that it was not a figment of his imagination. There was something else at work in that great dark cavern.
At first it had frightened him, but that feeling had passed quickly. If whatever was making the sounds had wanted him dead, it would have happened. He was being led somewhere, and his natural curiosity meant that he followed. What did he have to lose? He focussed on the sound and forced himself to ignore the oppressive weight of the darkness surrounding him.
After a time, he thought he could see a blue glow in the distance, but he dismissed it as a trick of his eyes. He blinked once, then again, but it remained. He had never been in such utter darkness for so long. He tried to ignore it, but realised it was directly on the path the laughter was leading him, and that the light was growing stronger.
RODULF
‘We’ll need to send someone to court to let them know I’m here,’ Rodulf said when he had walked through Elzburg’s gates, and horses and weapons had been deposited at their respective places. As soon as he was a lord, he would be able to ride through the city as he pleased, with a sword at his waist. It was not lost on him that Grenville, a banneret, was allowed to carry his.
Grenville nodded.
‘And I’ll need a tailor sent over to measure me for my investiture robes,’ Rodulf said. ‘Find someone good. I want to make the right impression.’
Grenville continued to walk alongside him, so Rodulf cleared his throat.
Grenville looked back at him. ‘Now?’
‘Now,’ Rodulf said.
Grenville nodded and broke away from Rodulf and the remainder of his bodyguards, who continued on to the inn he was staying at. A nauseated feeling formed in his gut. He was more nervous than he was willing to show. His father had spoken often of how poisonous the intrigues at southern courts could be, and Rodulf had seen first-hand how quickly people turned on one another when he’d been apprenticed to southern merchants. Those he encountered at the Markgraf’s court would seek to take advantage of him at every juncture, and the thought that he might not even be able to recognise when it was happening concerned him. Until he had established himself, he had to view everyone as an enemy. It excited him as much as terrified him, however. There would be a hierarchy of noblemen at the Markgraf’s court, and Rodulf intended to be at the top of it in as short an order as possible.
AETHELMAN
The light grew
ever stronger, until Aethelman had to accept that it was as real as anything else he had encountered. A final laugh told him this was his destination, and he could not help but feel disappointment. Instead of finding Aesa waiting for him at the end of the path, there was nothing but a large rock. It was a ridiculous notion that she might be there, but in that strange, dark place, anything seemed possible.
A blue glow rippled across the rock’s surface. It was faint and glimmered in and out of view, which went to explain why he had believed he was imagining it for so long. Aethelman instantly knew what it was, although he could not explain why. It was like Jorundyr’s Rock, though that was something he had never seen. It was a Gods’ Stone, made from the same material as the Fount Stone he had found; here was a place where the boundary between the world of man and the world of gods broke down, where the energy from that mystical place flowed into the world. How it had come to be forgotten was a mystery. They were few and far between, but the connection with the gods they had once provided had long since been broken. Even Jorundyr’s Stone was dead, or so he had thought until Wulfric had told him he had seen it glow blue, just like the one Aethelman was looking at.
The warrior apprentices had to touch Jorundyr’s Rock to become full warriors. It was said to strike down the unworthy, although Aethelman had never heard of that happening. If the rock in the High Places belonged to Jorundyr, he wondered who claimed this one. Birgyssa, perhaps? Audun? He was tempted to touch the rock before him; he had never been more tempted in his life. What would happen if he did? There were hundreds of questions flying through his mind, but they were all pushed into the background by his desire to touch the rock and see what happened.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 12