‘That she is, my lord,’ the falconer said. ‘I only train the finest birds.’
‘A good hunter, my lord,’ Grenville said.
Grenville’s years of service to various noblemen had made him adept at all the skills Rodulf so desperately needed to acquire. It made him even more valuable. He was far more than a hired sword to watch his back, and Rodulf had decided to make Grenville his steward.
Rodulf watched the falcon glide through a wide circle as it descended toward them. The object clutched in her talons became clear, a still bundle of fur that had moments before been a marmot or rabbit. The rabbit would make for better eating, but that was of little importance. She swooped in and landed on the ground a few paces from their horses. The falconer jumped down from his horse and ran over to the bird, quickly prising her catch from her talons.
‘Leave her be,’ Rodulf said. He enjoyed watching her tear into the object of her exertions, but the falconer shook his head and took the small, furry carcass away from her.
‘It’ll ruin her, my lord,’ the falconer said. ‘If she learns she can fill her belly from somewhere else, she won’t come back to you.’
Rodulf nodded sullenly and raised his gauntleted hand. As always, he held a piece of chicken in it, and the falcon was quick to respond. With one great flap of her wings she was off the ground and onto his wrist. She greedily gobbled down the chicken, to Rodulf’s delight, and they continued on. She had another flight left in her that day, and Rodulf’s desire for the spectacle was not yet sated.
They came up a rise, and Rodulf reined his horse in. A small village of thatched buildings lay in the valley below. From his vantage point, Rodulf realised how his falcon must feel when she finally spotted her prey while soaring through the sky. Such was the village for Rodulf. Ripe for the taking, and unable to do a thing about it. Falconry alone would not win Rodulf the respect of his peers; it would only stop him from looking like an ignorant fool.
‘I’m going to need men, Grenville,’ Rodulf said, as he watched the distant villagers go about their day, oblivious to his predatory gaze, no different from the falcon’s rabbit. ‘You know the sort I mean.’
‘I do, my lord. How many?’
‘Enough for that place, and more like it.’
21
WULFRIC
It took the Company a full week on the road to reach Torona. Wulfric felt a degree of trepidation when its towers came into view. The walls were a yellowy-beige colour, and the buildings he could see within were white-washed with rust-coloured roofs.
Jagovere rode ahead to the city, while the rest of the Company waited for instructions about where to make camp. Any approaching army was viewed with suspicion verging on hostility, hired or not. Jagovere had told him that disagreements over contractual terms could turn an employed force into an enemy army in an instant. He said they would continue to be viewed with suspicion for as long as they were in Estranza. They wanted men to fight for them, but that didn’t mean they would ever trust foreign mercenaries.
Eventually, the order came and they rode to a rocky, arid field away from any of the city’s gates. Tents were assigned by squad, so he, Enderlain, and the others set about clearing a section of rocky ground to set up their tent.
‘Will we be here long?’ Wulfric said.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Walt said. ‘Days, weeks, who knows? Doesn’t matter much; we still get paid either way. Better sitting here bored than being used as the vanguard for the duke’s campaign south.’
‘Getting scared of a fight in your old age?’ Gotz said.
Wulfric gave Walt a good look. He didn’t look at all past his prime. His hair was starting to grey, something the others gave him a hard time over, which Wulfric found odd. For a warrior, age meant you possessed the skill to have survived countless battles, and to have slain many foes. In the Northlands, it was something deserving respect, not mockery.
‘Not scared,’ Walt said, ‘just experienced enough to know boredom is better than having some fucker tryin’ to kill you.’
‘If you don’t start clearing more stones, this fucker’s gonna try to kill you,’ Enderlain said.
There was a chuckle from the others, then silence as they applied themselves to getting the ground clear for their tent.
‘They could have at least given us some decent ground to camp on,’ Walt said.
Wulfric tapped it with the shovel he was using to clear the stones. It was baked hard with little vegetation. He could see more verdant land simply by looking around, and it appeared they had been given a rough piece of wasteland that served no purpose. Even though it was well past noon, Wulfric was feeling the effect of the heat. Cooling breezes blowing across the ship had made the transition as they sailed south less noticeable. It was the same on the coast, but as they marched inland it had grown hotter than Wulfric had ever experienced before. Sitting on horseback, it had been pleasant. The heat felt good on his skin, which was turning a golden brown—far darker than it had ever been in even the hottest summer at Leondorf.
However, now that he was trying to work in the heat it felt oppressive. Sweat dripped from his nose every time he bent over, and his shirt was soaked through. The others seemed better able to deal with it, although he could see it was taking its toll on them too. He wondered if he would ever get used to it, and what it would be like to fight, armoured, under that blazing sun.
AETHELMAN
Aethelman wasn’t sure who maintained the bridge, but there had to be someone doing it. Some planks looked newer than others, and there was no fraying on the rope that held it over the grey canyon and churning river below. He had expected it would have long since fallen into the chasm. The waters were just as violent as he remembered—the waters that had swallowed up his friend. It must have been an awful death; the fall, the cold, being smashed against the canyon’s sides, the terror of drowning. It would not have been quick, and Aethelman wished he could have done more—but he was not a strong man, never had been. Not in the body, at least. There had been only so long he was able to grasp his friend’s scruff before his grip had failed. The look in his eyes as he fell…
Aethelman squeezed his eyes tightly shut and wished that one memory from his head forever. He had spent many hours thinking about his young friend on the long walk to the canyon, but still could not remember his name. The years were not the only thing to blame. He had done his best to forget, and that much he had achieved.
His heart fluttered as he set his foot on the gently swaying rope bridge. It moved under his boot and he saw himself falling through the air like his long-dead friend. He forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, and continue on. He did not take a breath until he reached the other side.
RODULF
‘This is the best you could get?’ Rodulf said, looking at the motley group of men gathered before him.
‘Aye, on short notice it is,’ Grenville said. ‘It’s campaigning season. Any company worth having is already engaged.’
Rodulf looked at Grenville curiously. He had spent months trying to adopt the hard, clipped tone of the southerners. Grenville, on the other hand, seemed to quickly adopt the northern lilt. Rodulf turned his attention to the gathered assembly, only twenty men, and did his best to hide his distaste. Beggars, cutthroats, and ne’er-do-wells, the lot of them. Not a soldier in sight.
‘Grundorf has at least twenty warriors,’ Rodulf said. ‘They’ll cut through this lot like butter.’ He looked at the rotten clothing one of them was wearing, a man clearly only recently departed from prison. ‘Rancid butter.’
‘The warriors won’t be expecting it,’ Grenville said. ‘With my lads backing them up, they should be enough. If half of them get killed it’ll cost us less. You less.’
Rodulf smiled, happy to be reminded why he had come to value Grenville’s service.
‘They’ll need some training,’ Rodulf said. ‘I have to make sure they get the job done. After that, I don’t care.’
‘
I’ll make sure they’re up to it.’
‘Good,’ Rodulf said. ‘Take care of it.’
He turned and walked away. The motley group behind him might manage to overwhelm an unsuspecting hamlet, but they would be of no use in helping achieve his bigger aims. With a good enough offer, he was sure he could lure a large enough company of mercenaries to his service to carve a swathe through the Northlands. However, that might draw too much attention. He reckoned it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. The Markgraf wouldn’t complain when he realised how much more territory he was lord of, but he might try to stop Rodulf from embarking on a campaign of conquest.
His next stop was a large area of cleared land that had until recently been a small wooded area near the village. It was craggy with shallow soil, which would make for the perfect foundations for his manor.
As yet, little had been done. The trees were cut down and the soil cleared back to the bedrock, it was a humble beginning, but with the outline imprinted on the ground, it didn’t take a great leap of the imagination to envision high walls, towers, turrets, and flags flapping proudly from the battlements. He paced along the cleared soil, allowing his mind to fill in what would be there. Kennels for hunting hounds, a mews for his falcons, stables, kitchens, guardhouse, gardens. Then there would be his house. The preference, he was reliably informed, was for a statement of wealth and power rather than a purely defensive structure, although he thought it would be foolhardy to opt entirely for style over substance. It would be more of a fortified residence than a residential fortification, as his architect had put it. Most importantly, it would be at the cutting edge of southern fashion. Rodulf wanted something to show everyone he could do style, taste, and sophistication as well as anyone, that Leondorf was not a rural barony of knuckle-dragging savages.
He had chosen a white stone. It had to be brought from the south and would be expensive, but it would be worth it in the end. From the top of the turrets, he would be able to see for miles around. For now it would mean being able to see beyond Leondorf’s boundaries, but he would not rest until even the highest vantage point fell too short. Leondorf might have joined Ruripathia as a barony, but he would see it a county, perhaps even a markgrafate.
For now, the old Great Hall served for his audiences, and the former ambassador’s residence as his home. The southern architects and builders told him that the manor house would not be finished for five years at least, the defensive walls and outbuildings longer still, which struck Rodulf as ridiculous. More money would speed it up—for southerners, more money seemed to be the solution to every problem—but the manor and the house he had bought in Elzburg, not to mention the multitude of other costs coming out of the woodwork, left him with little to spare.
‘A word, my lord.’
Grenville’s voice gave Rodulf a start. He had been so absorbed in his dreams of grandeur that he hadn’t heard the mercenary approach. ‘What is it?’
‘Business to attend to in the hall. Urdo the carter reckons Fedra has cut him short on manure.’
‘Fedra? He’s a herdsman?’
Grenville nodded.
Herdsmen were allowed to keep the manure from the herds they watched over—a perk of the job, as it was easily sold as fertiliser. ‘Carters, herdsmen, and manure.’ Rodulf sighed. ‘Best be to it. Can’t allow legal uncertainty to prevail in my demesne.’ He started toward the Hall, and Grenville dropped in beside him.
‘I need to be back in Elzburg next week,’ Rodulf said.
‘I’ll be ready to go,’ Grenville said.
‘No. I want you to stay here. Keep an eye on things. “Seneschal”, I think they call it in the south.’
Grenville smiled. ‘Seneschal Grenville.’ He took a deep breath and looked out toward the High Places. ‘I like the sound of it.’
‘Good,’ Rodulf said. ‘Do right by me, and there’ll be more like that for you here.’
‘You know, in the south, a seneschal’s a man of influence, wealth. Land.’
Rodulf laughed out loud. ‘The new village, and five hundred acres around it. “Seigneur Grenville, Master of Grundorf, Seneschal of Leondorf”.’
‘Buying things with land you don’t own yet, my lord?’ Grenville said.
‘Think of it as having a vested interest in my new venture.’
‘And if it doesn’t work out?’
‘Then you don’t get your five hundred acres. Or your seigneury. I might still keep you as my seneschal, though.’
‘Best make sure it works out then,’ Grenville said.
WULFRIC
Jagovere appeared at the entrance to Wulfric’s tent.
‘Pack your necessaries,’ Jagovere said. ‘You’re coming with me.’
Wulfric started to throw some things into a sack. He was growing used to the concept of taking orders. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Into the city. We’re to stay at the palace.’
‘Why me?’ Wulfric asked.
‘Several reasons. The first, and most important, is because I said so. I’m to stay there as the liaison between the Company and the duke. For much of the time, that will mean doing nothing, which brings me to my second reason. I’m missing details on some of the epics, so it will be a good chance to go through them with you to make sure they’re right. Finally, you’re a big bastard, and it never hurts to have a big bastard with you when you’re going into the unknown. Bring a sword. Enderlain is coming too. Two big bastards. You can never have enough.’ He left Wulfric to finish packing his things.
When they arrived at the city walls the gates were open to them. The guards watched them warily, their hands gripping their halberds. Jagovere was a little taller than the guards, despite being the slightest of the three, while Wulfric and Enderlain were head and shoulders over them.
Wulfric’s height was not the only thing that made him stand out. His fair skin and sandy hair contrasted against the dark hair and tanned complexions of the locals. The women were undeniably beautiful—dark and mysterious-looking—and he found he was turning his head so frequently that Jagovere had to tell him to keep his eyes ahead. The men were consistently shorter than the Company’s average, rarely reaching much over Wulfric’s shoulder. He could see immediately why Northlanders and Ruripathians, tall and broad more often than not, were so sought after for fighting.
The streets felt less imposing than Elzburg’s, with the white-washed buildings giving them a friendlier, brighter character. They were a bustle of activity as people went about their daily business, and led them gently uphill to the castle, where their arrival was expected. Guards brought them in through cool, high-vaulted hallways, a welcome respite from the heat outside. Even in plain linen britches and shirt, Wulfric was too warm after the walk up to the castle.
The duke’s audience hall took Wulfric’s breath away. Higher than any of the halls they had passed through, its barrel-vaulted ceiling hung dizzyingly far overhead. Great leaded-glass windows lined either side, filling the hall with golden light—and at the far end, behind a man sitting on a dais, was an even greater window, its panels stained in a multitude of different colours. Wulfric had never seen anything like it, and took a moment to realise it depicted a scene—a man slaying a great serpent-like creature. A dragon. It was the first time Wulfric had seen one depicted, though he had heard them described in stories. It looked far more terrifying than he had imagined, more so even than a belek.
The hall was full of people and the murmur of quiet conversation. Dal Rhenning awaited them there, standing to the side of a group of courtiers, waiting for his turn in front of the duke. Wulfric couldn’t tear his gaze from the scarlet dragon on the window.
Jagovere followed Wulfric’s gaze and smiled. ‘The first Duke of Torona was reputed to have been a great dragon slayer. Something every duke since has been very proud of.’
Wulfric nodded, but did not say anything. His head was filled with snippets from Northland epics. Dragons were said to have once made their homes in the High Places, bu
t none had been seen for centuries. The beast in the window was magnificent. It almost seemed alive. His eyes were locked on it—the scales, the fangs, its great, devious eyes. There were some who believed dragons still lived in remote places—the far east, hidden valleys in the High Places, across the Great Sea—and a shiver of excitement ran over his skin as he wondered what it might be like to fight one.
‘How is it?’ Jagovere said.
‘A vipers’ nest,’ dal Rhenning said quietly. ‘More likely to get stabbed in the back in here than in a back alley on a moonless night.’
‘So no different to any other noble court, then,’ Jagovere said.
‘Not in the least. Almost feels like home. Two distinct factions as best I can tell so far—those who support the duke and those who favour his younger half-brother, the Count of Valeriano—but there are plenty who’ll jump between them as best serves their interests. You’ll have to tread carefully.’
‘I always do.’
A man approached them. ‘His Grace will see you now,’ he said, gesturing for them to come forward.
They did as they were bade, and Wulfric felt his skin crawl with every eye in the hall on the northern curiosities.
‘How long will it take before your men are ready to fight?’ the duke said as soon as they reached him.
‘We’re ready now, Your Grace,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘The men acclimated on the march here. A good night’s sleep and a hot meal will have them ready to go again.’
‘My army is camped on the border with Darvaros, but have as yet made no progress beyond that,’ the duke said. ‘If you live up to your reputation, I am hopeful you will inject some energy into the campaign and see it carried to success before the end of the season.’
The duke was younger than Wulfric would have thought. He was not accustomed to the idea of a man being born to leadership. In the Northlands, it was always the strongest, most cunning warrior, but not until he had many seasons of experience under his cloak.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 15