Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  The Darvarosian soldiers had to haul their dead comrades out of the way to maintain their attack, so choked with the fallen was the entrance to the grotto. Their ferocious defence had not come without cost, though. Wulfric saw faces he recognised being pulled from the path. His nose was filled with the metallic tang of blood. There could not be many of them left now, and he knew he could not win on his own. He prayed to Jorundyr to help him die bravely.

  Through the haze of his battle lust, Wulfric could see that the ordinary Darvarosian soldiers were giving way to a different calibre of man. Where he had been cutting one down with each stroke of his sabre, he was now being parried and having to defend himself. The men coming through wore fine armour, the mesh of their mail links between the armoured plates tight and perfectly formed. One of them stepped over the bodies of his lesser comrades and presented himself to Wulfric. His helmet had a mask styled in the fashion of a snarling face. Wulfric smiled. Finally, he had fought his way to men worth killing.

  Dal Rhenning’s flag fluttered past Wulfric’s face. He cast a glance to his right, and saw that dal Rhenning had stopped fighting. He leaned on the flag pole he held in his left hand, his sword limp in his right. He dropped to his knees, blood spilling from the gaps in his armour, then tumbled to the ground, the flag falling on top of him.

  Jagovere cried out and rushed over to his fallen father. He grabbed dal Rhenning beneath his armpits and hauled him back away from the fighting. Enderlain roared like a bear and hurled himself forward at the Darvarosians. He towered over the enemy, and they cowered from his ferocious attack. In a mighty slash, he cleaved the head from one Darvarosian and the blade continued toward the next man. Unable to do anything to stop it in time, the Darvarosian shrank back from the inevitable. As Enderlain’s thick-bladed battlefield rapier connected with the man’s helmet, the blade shattered. Enderlain and the Darvarosian stared at one another for a moment, dumbfounded, but the Darvarosian was still armed, while Enderlain now held only the elaborate hilt of his sword.

  Wulfric kicked the man with the snarling helmet in the stomach and slammed his sabre down hard on the man’s shoulder over and over until he fell to his knees. He pulled the helmet from the man’s head and stabbed him in the face, kicking the body clear of his blade when its job was done. Enderlain dropped back and Wulfric realised he was the only man left at the front. He retreated back to join Jagovere. Enderlain had salvaged another sword from one of the fallen, and together, the last half dozen men of dal Rhenning’s Company prepared to make their stand.

  The Darvarosians hesitated again, waiting to see what their remaining foes had planned. Everyone knew that an animal cornered was at its most dangerous.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Jagovere said. ‘The Graf’s gone.’

  ‘What do we do, Captain?’ Enderlain said.

  All the men were looking to Jagovere for orders. He remained silent, staring at dal Rhenning’s lifeless eyes.

  ‘Captain?’ Sander said, desperation creeping into his voice.

  The Graf was the beating heart and soul of the Company. The men had loved him and Wulfric could see defeat in their faces for the first time. Still Jagovere was silent.

  They would be cut down like lambs if they didn’t do something. Wulfric snatched up dal Rhenning’s banner and stood, facing the Darvarosians who had slowly made their way into the grotto. He was still holding the snarling helmet. It was fine work, he thought, allowing his mind to drift for one last moment. He had been a fish out of water in the battle, but now, with the enemy coming through the narrow defile in twos and threes, he was on familiar ground. He had been a useless spear-holder in the line. Now he could be death personified.

  ‘We kill as many of them as we can,’ Wulfric said, his voice rising, ‘and we will feast with Jorundyr before the sun sets.’

  Wulfric took a pace forward from the cluster around dal Rhenning’s fallen body. ‘I am Wulfric Wolframson,’ he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘I am First Warrior of Leondorf. I have slain two belek. I killed the man who owned this helmet, and many others. Dozens of your comrades have fallen to my sword today. I am Jorundyr’s Chosen, and every man who stands before me today will die!’ If Jorundyr did not hear that, Wulfric did not know what more to do.

  A Darvarosian stepped forward and pulled his helmet off. It was similar to the one Wulfric held, but he realised that it had a different face. The man’s skin was darkly tanned, and his short black beard was as neatly trimmed as Wulfric had ever seen. His armour was magnificent, even more so than the man whose helmet he had taken.

  ‘If you want my helmet,’ he said, his voice so heavily accented Wulfric could barely understand him, ‘come and take it.’

  Wulfric’s teeth chattered as he dived forward. There was no skill or thought behind his attack. It was all rage, rage at the way the Estranzans had betrayed them, rage at the way the old man who had saved him from arrest and execution in Ruripathia had been killed, rage that his friend’s father was dead. If he was going to die and be reunited with Adalhaid, he wanted to empty all that rage out before he got to Jorundyr’s Hall.

  The force of his attack drove the Darvarosian back toward his comrades, but he easily blocked Wulfric’s manic slash. He was a big man, almost as tall and broad as Wulfric, and he was able to shove Wulfric back a few paces. He launched an attack of his own. His sabre was far longer and broader than any the others had been using, and he held it with both hands. He swung it again, a wide, savage cut. Wulfric rolled out of the way rather than block it with his own blade, afraid it would shatter as Enderlain’s had.

  When he came to his feet, he launched himself at the Darvarosian. He struck him in the midsection with his shoulder, and drove him back again. As soon as Wulfric had regained his balance, he attacked with his sabre. The Darvarosian was able to parry every one of Wulfric’s strikes. He was strong and fast, but Wulfric had been chosen by a god, and would not allow himself to be beaten by an ordinary man. He saw a gap and hammered his sabre down. It hit the Darvarosian on the shoulder. He roared, and dropped to one knee as he shrank from the pain. Not wasting a moment, Wulfric smashed the hilt into the Darvarosian’s face again and again. They were both on the ground, Wulfric over his foe. He had lost his sword in the tumble and pulled his dagger from his belt, driving it into the Darvarosian’s eye.

  ‘Enough!’ someone shouted.

  Wulfric looked up, gasping. A man had stepped forward from the soldiers, even more splendidly armoured than his companions. His plate cuirass was of blackened steel with gold filigree. Wulfric wanted nothing more at that moment than to fight and kill him.

  ‘Brave men of Ruripathia,’ he said, ‘you have fought with courage and done all that can be expected by the requirements of honour. Your commander and his army have fled the field, and you alone continue to fight. There is no need for you to die today in the name of a man who has shown himself not worthy of your lives. Surrender now and you will be afforded all battle honours. Give me your parole and you will be my guests until this war ends. You may keep your armour, weapons, and banners.’

  ‘Fuck yourself,’ Wulfric said. He was about to leap for him, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘We don’t have to die today, Wulfric,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘It’s as good a day as any other,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘How will you avenge Adalhaid if you’re dead?’ Jagovere said. ‘How will I avenge my father, and all our comrades who died today because of that bastard Valeriano?’

  There was an edge to his voice that told Wulfric he wasn’t surrendering, merely thinking ahead. Wulfric felt a pang of regret that such clarity was lost to him at moments like that. He looked up at the man who had made them the offer and down at the man on the ground, a pool of blood forming around his head. He could feel a measure of control return. The desire to slaughter all before him was no longer so strong. He took a deep breath and stood, feeling utterly spent as he did. How had he felt so energised only a moment before? He nodded to Jagovere,
and turned to the Darvarosian.

  ‘There is no shame in accepting my offer,’ the Darvarosian said. ‘The only shame would be in wasting the lives of more brave men.’

  Wulfric thought of Adalhaid. Of her Blood Debt. He threw down his sword.

  PART III

  38

  THE MAISTERSPAEKER

  The Maisterspaeker watched Rodulf out of the corner of his eye as he allowed his audience a comfort break. Rodulf and his men moved away from the bar, and cleared people from a table by the fire. The villagers clearly knew who he was, even though the cluster of buildings were not on his land. He might have prospered, all things considered, but his manor was a far cry from the wealth and power he had been amassing when the Maisterspaeker had first met him all those years ago. The villagers got out of his way quickly, and regarded him warily. Clearly old habits died hard.

  His men lounged in their chairs, drinking ale and joking amongst themselves, paying only the barest of attention to the Maisterspaeker’s story. Only Rodulf—Lord Mendorf—listened, and he did so surreptitiously, pretending to be part of the conversation with his men. Every so often, the Maisterspaeker could see a stifled response to something he said, and likewise had to stifle a smile each time. It took considerable restraint not to walk across the taproom and plunge a dagger into Rodulf’s neck. It was no more than he deserved. Every breath he had taken in all those years was more than he deserved. The Maisterspaeker tried to quench his growing anger. Rodulf’s life was Wulfric’s, and there was not much longer to wait.

  The Maisterspaeker realised that in a way, he owed Rodulf a debt. It was difficult to find such a perfectly created villain, but a man like Rodulf made Jagovere’s job so much easier. With that in mind, the tension in his shoulders and chest eased. The taproom had filled once more, and anyone not yet finished in the privy had taken too long. He took a long swallow of ale, and brought the audience back to Darvaros.

  WULFRIC

  ‘Did you really kill two belek?’ Jagovere said.

  Wulfric looked over at him. They had spent several hours riding south with their Darvarosian captors, and the countryside had grown more verdant. It was a warm and pleasant land, but Wulfric could not forget that he was a captive, no matter what anyone called it. Parole sounded far too like prisoner for his liking.

  Wulfric nodded.

  ‘Like Ulfyr, Jorundyr’s wolf,’ Jagovere said, laughing.

  ‘They weren’t at the same time,’ Wulfric said, not in the mood to be made fun of. He had fought with every fibre of his being, yet they had still lost. So many men had died. He hadn’t known many of them, but their faces had become familiar in the time he was with the Company, and their absence felt jarring. Apart from him, only Jagovere and Enderlain, Sander, Conrat, and Walt had survived.

  ‘Cheer up, Ulfyr,’ Enderlain said. ‘We’re still alive. We live to fight another day.’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ Wulfric said, his humour not improving.

  ‘No problem,’ Enderlain said, ‘Ulfyr.’

  ‘The first rule of nicknames,’ Jagovere said, his voice full of forced cheer, ‘is to never let anyone know you don’t like it. There’s no better way to make it stick.’

  The joke lacked the energy of his usual wit. Dal Rhenning’s death weighed heavily on him, and reminded Wulfric of the day he had found his father’s body on the road to Rasbruck.

  ‘I killed many men today,’ Wulfric said, glowering at Enderlain. ‘A few more won’t make much of a difference.’

  ‘Lighten up,’ Enderlain said. ‘Be grateful you’re alive. We all have more to do in this world, and now we get the chance to do it. Every day is a gift from the gods.’

  ‘If they ever let us go,’ Wulfric said, nodding to their Darvarosian escort.

  ‘Feeding and housing prisoners costs money,’ Jagovere said. ‘They won’t want to keep us any longer than necessary.’

  ‘How long do you reckon that’ll be?’ Enderlain said, with childlike curiosity. ‘My mother’s elderly. I’d like to see her again before she passes.’

  Wulfric and Jagovere looked at him. It was hard to imagine a man like Enderlain having a mother.

  ‘Who knows?’ Jagovere said. ‘The way dal Valeriano fights, I can’t imagine there’s long to run in this war. It might already be over. They’ll let us go then. Maybe they’ll hire us, or anyone who wants to stay here.’

  Wulfric looked around at the other survivors, six including himself. They all wore sullen expressions. The thought of a life in that foreign land didn’t seem to be tempting any of them.

  ‘Do you?’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere sighed. ‘It might be a paradise: good wine, delicious food, beautiful women. Can we say the same awaits us in Ruripathia? Cold winters, stale ale. Admittedly there are plenty of beautiful women.’ He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. ‘The only thing I know for certain is that I’m going to kill that bastard dal Valeriano if it’s the last thing I do.’

  RODULF

  Rodulf looked about with disdain as he hopped down the steps of his carriage. The manor house before him bore all the hallmarks of benign neglect. In its youth, it would have been grand, the beating heart of a vibrant estate, but now it spoke of a lord and owner who no longer cared. Weeds grew from the seams between the courtyard cobbles, while moss and mildew assaulted the stone facade of the house. Just looking at it was depressing.

  He had travelled through the night, sleeping only fitfully along the way, and was hopeful he could be back in his own bed before nightfall. It was a grey, drizzly morning, and his clothes, the very latest southern fashions, were expensive. He had no intention of letting them get ruined. With luck, Lord Schwalstein wouldn’t take up too much of his time. The appearance of the manor house concerned him, however. Would a man who took so little pride in his house succumb to blackmail?

  The only relief in seeing things the way they were was knowing that a man who lived in a place like that was unlikely to maintain a retinue of bannerets. It made Rodulf’s job easier, and safer. Had Schwalstein possessed such an entourage, Rodulf would have needed to be far subtler in his approach.

  The lord’s steward hurried out as soon as word reached him that the Markgraf’s emissary had arrived. Rodulf was ushered through the house—which bore all the same signs of neglect as the exterior—to where Lord Schwalstein sat drinking tea.

  ‘These papers are for you, my lord,’ Rodulf said, holding them out. If he was going to do the job, he reckoned he might as well make an effort. It might stand him in good stead later. He stood in as impressive a pose as he could manage; he had seen the bravos at court adopt similar stances.

  Schwalstein regarded him a moment. Rodulf was dressed entirely in black silk, with silver thread embroidery. He was not ashamed to admit he had taken the Intelligenciers as an example, but added his own twist. Mysterious, menacing, but affluent was the picture he wanted to present. The Markgraf’s emissary, a nobleman in his own right, a man to be reckoned with. As much as he hated it, he realised his eyepatch made his appearance even more perfect.

  ‘Might I offer you some tea?’ Schwalstein said, putting the papers on the table without looking at them.

  ‘That would be very gracious of you, my lord. It would be very welcome.’

  Schwalstein, a corpulent man well beyond the age when most had died, grunted and filled a second cup with a shaky hand. Rodulf sat and took the cup when it was offered to him.

  ‘Do much of this sort of thing?’ the lord said as he reviewed the papers.

  ‘It’s something of a new enterprise for me.’ He took a sip and regarded his social superior with an excess of confidence. He enjoyed being oblique.

  ‘Dangerous business.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Rodulf said truthfully. You never knew how a man would react to blackmail.

  ‘For you and the Markgraf both,’ Schwalstein said. ‘So what is it then? The carrot or the stick?

  Rodulf smiled. ‘The stick.’

  ‘I’m old, and
have little to lose. Make your threats, then scurry back to your master.’

  ‘Liutpold,’ Rodulf said.

  Schwalstein’s face dropped. ‘What of him?’

  ‘He’s not in a very good way.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t. He’s dead.’

  Rodulf shook his head and smiled. ‘On the contrary. He lives.’ He gave Schwalstein a moment to digest the revelation. ‘After a fashion.’

  ‘Prove it,’ Schwalstein said, his face a conflicting mix of hope and disbelief.

  Rodulf gestured to the papers. ‘He’s written you a note. On a news sheet from last week, to prove it’s recent.’

  Schwalstein shuffled through the papers until he found the one Rodulf referred to. His face went grey as he read it.

  ‘The war was hard on him,’ Schwalstein said.

  ‘Wars are hard on everyone,’ Rodulf said. ‘The dream seed addiction after it has been far harder, though.’

  ‘I thought he’d smoked himself to death by now,’ Schwalstein said. ‘I haven’t heard from him in six years.’

  ‘He sells his arse to pay for seed. To say he’s a mess understates things in the extreme.’

  Schwalstein flushed with humiliation, and Rodulf worried he had overdone things.

  ‘What am I to do?’ Schwalstein said. ‘I tried to help him, but there’s no money left and problems like his need money to fix.’

  ‘The Markgraf has money,’ Rodulf said. ‘And he’s generous to his friends. Particularly friends he owes favours. He’d very much like to be your friend, and he’d very much like you to do him a favour.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘First, what he’ll do for you. Liutpold will be taken in to a shelter in Elzburg that cares for people with problems such as his. I’m told the Order of Mendicant Sisters have had great successes in treating their cases. The Markgraf will pay for the treatment to end his dependence on the seed, and see that he returns to you. You’ll have an heir again, and the Schwalstein name will not disappear into the mist of history.’