She looked back to the correspondence. At first Kengil had thought the man’s illness would pass with a treatment of steaming lemon water. It hadn’t. His affliction came and went, but it bore all the hallmarks of the colds hundreds of people went to their doctors with every winter. It was only after a number of treatments that she realised he was also passing tiny amounts of blood in his urine, an amount only detectable under a microscope. It was a last resort test—the university only had one microscope and time with it was a limited resource. A detailed inspection showed that his disease had reached his kidneys, and they were all but destroyed. The poor man did not have long to live and, concerned that she had failed, she had consulted with a number of experienced colleagues. Their opinions were the same. They all felt, as she, that it was an isolated disease none of them had ever seen before. It was tragic, but there was no more that could be done.
If she sent this man to Adalhaid, and she chose to cure his obvious, lesser symptoms with magic, might they also repair the irreparable damage elsewhere? None of the prescribed approaches for the illness that would seem most obvious to an inexperienced physician would have the slightest effect on it. If he was cured, there would be only one possible explanation.
WULFRIC
When Wulfric returned to the bunkhouse, everyone was there. There was Jagovere, Enderlain—who had taken to training with a great sword since his rapier had broken in the grotto—Sander, Walt, and Conrat. That was it. They were all that remained of nearly four hundred fighting men, and it was still difficult to take in the fact that all the others were dead. They were discussing Jagovere’s plan for when they were released.
‘So we’re agreed then,’ Jagovere said.
‘You know we’re with you,’ Walt said. ‘Every man here owes everything he has to the Graf.’
They all nodded in agreement.
‘The woman,’ Wulfric said. ‘She knows.’
They all looked up at him.
‘What woman?’ Walt said.
‘The one who was in Torona,’ Jagovere said, his face going grey. ‘She’s a spy or an assassin, or both, and who knows what else? It’s not good news.’
‘Perhaps it is,’ Wulfric said. ‘She wants to help us.’
‘Help us?’ Jagovere said. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ Wulfric said.
‘Why not?’ Enderlain said, as he ran a whetstone along the edge of his newly adopted sword.
‘I didn’t think to.’
‘Didn’t think to?’ Jagovere said. ‘She could ruin everything.’
‘She had a knife to my balls,’ Wulfric said.
‘Again?’ Enderlain said.
Everyone remained silent for a moment, looked at each other, then roared with laughter.
‘Ulfyr the Nutless doesn’t have quite the right ring to it, does it,’ Sander said, adding fuel to the laughter.
Wulfric was about to say something about the nickname, but remembered Jagovere’s words and remained silent.
Jagovere stroked his beard for a moment and thought. ‘What do you think, Wulfric?’
‘She had a lot of anger in her,’ he said. ‘I believed her. She had been beaten the day we got here. I saw her face. Maybe dal Valeriano did it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Jagovere said.
‘She said she could either be our friend or our enemy,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’ve seen the way she can move. I’d rather she was our friend.’
‘That makes sense, but she’s not one of us. We can let her tag along, but we can’t trust her,’ Conrat said.
‘Do we have a choice?’ Jagovere said.
Wulfric shook his head.
‘And then we were seven,’ Jagovere said, knitting his fingers behind his head and lying back on his bunk.
42
WULFRIC
A Darvarosian captain came into the bunkhouse before the sun had risen.
‘Wake up,’ he shouted. ‘Wake up. You’re free to go. Get up and get out.’
They were ushered out of the bunk house, where the few possessions they had been captured with were dumped on the ground.
‘Take your things and go,’ the captain said.
‘Where?’ Conrat said.
The captain shrugged. ‘That’s your business, and no concern of mine.’
‘What he means is how?’ Jagovere said. ‘We’ll need horses and provisions to get north.’
‘No concern of mine either. If you’re not gone by dawn, you’ll all be put to the sword. Do us both a favour.’ The captain left.
‘That’s bloody perfect,’ Walt said. ‘How in hells are we going to get north without water and horses? We’ll be dead before we get halfway.’
Wulfric looked to the pile of weapons and damaged armour, then up to the walls of the compound, which were patrolled by twice as many bowmen as usual. If they tried to steal what they needed, they wouldn’t last long. He wondered if they might have been better off fighting to the end in the grotto.
They gathered up their things and wandered out of the barracks, looking around uncertainly. None of them had any money, so there was no question of them buying anything. Wulfric saw Varada standing across the street in the shade of an arcade. She beckoned for him to follow her, and walked down an alley between two squat white buildings where they would not be seen from the street.
‘When you leave the city, walk east for an hour. You’ll find a small watering hole there. I’ll be waiting for you with horses and supplies.’
Wulfric frowned. ‘Why not give them to us here?’
‘Because you’re supposed to die on the journey north,’ she said. ‘Dal Valeriano made it a condition of the peace that no Northern mercenaries would be allowed to live. The prince offered you terms that made you his guests when you surrendered, so he cannot kill you. If you were to die when no longer in his care? Well, that’s an entirely different matter.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Wulfric said.
She raised an eyebrow, and for a moment Wulfric thought she was going to smile. It didn’t happen, however, leaving him with an odd sense of disappointment.
‘Why are you doing this? Why are you helping us?’
‘Because I can’t get to dal Valeriano on my own, and I want him dead. Our goals align.’
Wulfric nodded. The implication was clear. So long as they wanted the same thing, they were friends, but for no longer. ‘Is the prince going to send men after us?’
‘Not that I know of,’ she said. ‘He expects you all to die of thirst on the plain. Without help, that’s exactly what I would expect for you. One hour east. I’ll be waiting.’
AETHELMAN
Dangerous though it was, the city was a fascinating place. For a man interested in learning, as Aethelman was, the city was a microcosm of all the strange wonders the world had to offer. Elzburg was small, but an important centre of trade between the Northlands and everywhere else. It was the gateway for furs, gems, amber, ores, and now, silver. Southerners wanted those things, but didn’t want to have to cross the river that marked the boundary between the Northlands and Ruripathia. People of all shapes and colours walked the streets, many of them even farther from home than Aethelman was.
He felt some of the thrill that he had when he had first arrived at that great city in the south, Ostenheim, the crossroads of the world. He had been young and in love, and anything had seemed possible. Everything had appeared so vibrant, so new, so fascinating, yet there was also a harsh brutality just beneath the surface. There were slaves beaten into submission, carrying burdens for their masters that would leave them bent and broken before their time. There were cutthroats who would kill you for a penny, and thieves who would steal everything and leave you destitute. There were people so wealthy that the plight of those poor souls beneath them went as unnoticed as the toil of ants. It had seemed so huge, and Aethelman knew that Elzburg was but a fraction of its size. Nonetheless, after so many years in Leondorf it was a daunting prospect.
A man shoved Aethelman to the
side of the street, for no reason other than their paths had come close to meeting. Aethelman stumbled and fell against a wall, his wits momentarily shaken from his head. Someone kicked him as they walked past. Another spat.
‘Filthy beggar,’ someone said.
‘Clear off before I call the watch,’ said another.
Aethelman struggled to his feet and gathered his wits as he did. He knew he looked scruffy, but if this was the way he was to be treated in the city, his search would be difficult indeed. He had thought his appearance would allow him to be anonymous, but it seemed to mark him out as a figure for hate. He would need to adopt a different approach.
ADALHAID
Adalhaid could hear the fluid in the man’s lungs as soon as she walked into the treatment room. He was middle-aged but looked sickly, as though he had been unwell for some time.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘What’s troubling you?’
‘I feel poorly, and I’m having trouble breathing, Doctor,’ he said.
He looked about himself uneasily. Adalhaid had quickly come to realise that few people relished a visit to the physician.
‘I’m only an apprentice physician,’ Adalhaid said. ‘Miss Steinsdottir is fine. How long have you been like this?’
‘A while. A cousin of mine said I should come and see you. Said you sorted him out in no time.’
‘That was kind of him. I’m going to examine you now,’ she said.
She pressed her ear to his chest, but it merely served to confirm the obvious. While his ailment may have started as a cold, it was more serious now. His skin was cold and clammy, and it was likely he was starting to have fevers. Left untreated, he could end up drowning in the fluid in his lungs. However, it still appeared to only be a cold and was within the realm of what she was permitted to treat. Were it much worse, she would have had to pass him over to Doctor Strellis.
She had little faith in the prescribed remedy. Inhaling steam from lemon-scented water seemed like a con to her, and she thought it likely anyone who did improve did so in spite of it, rather than because of it. Still, it was what the texts told her to do.
She took a beaker of boiling water from the crucible and poured in several drops from a vial. ‘This is essence of lemon, the standard treatment, and some extra medicinal herbs I’ve added to the mix myself. I find it to be far more effective.’
In truth, they were little more than the spiciest herbs she could find at the market. She wanted to add something that would make her essence smell markedly different from any other, but that was all it did. She draped a cloth over the man’s head and held the steaming beaker underneath, placing her hand on his back as she did.
‘Please breathe deeply and slowly,’ she said.
She had been practising her talent ever since the boy with the cut on his arm. She had found a sick cat hanging around outside the door to the palace kitchens, and had taken it back to her room to treat. The cat was now healthy and ruler of the kitchen courtyard, where its renewed vitality gave it the edge on its competitors. The experience of treating the small creature was different to the boy. The feelings and sensations it had placed on Adalhaid were far less pronounced, something she put down to the difference in size and amount of magical energy needed. Nonetheless, it had allowed her to separate out all the impacts it had on her, mind and body, and she felt better prepared to deal with them now. It was time to give it a second try.
She focussed on pushing a wave of healing energy through him. She still had little clue of what was actually happening, but this approach seemed to make it work. She counted to five, then forced herself to stop, although the desire to continue was so powerful it was almost overwhelming. She was expecting it, though, and had the strength of will to break off. She took a breath and waited for the dizziness and nausea. It came, but as little more than an echo, and at no time was it enough to overcome her. She smiled.
‘Hopefully your breathing will come a little easier now,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a bottle of it to take with you. Repeat what we’ve just done at least three times a day until you’re feeling better.’
The man nodded eagerly, an expression of surprise on his face. ‘It already feels better, miss.’
She could hear as much for herself, and ushered him to the door, beyond which her next half dozen patients would already be waiting.
AETHELMAN
As a Grey Priest, Aethelman had never needed to worry about personal requirements. He received food and shelter wherever he went, and there was little more that he needed. Being faced with a need for money was an entirely new experience for him. He had no idea where to begin.
He walked with care, moving from the shadows to the verges until he reached a market square, not wishing to be on the receiving end of a citizen’s hostility. His body was not as hardy as it had once been, and a bad fall could be enough to bring his quest to an end. It occurred to him that he could sell one of the blades. A Telastrian blade would fetch a hefty price, but he didn’t like the idea of having only one. It could be lost, it could be stolen, it might not work. He felt happier having a backup.
The square was filled with stalls, traders, customers, thieves, beggars, and watchmen. He saw other beggars receive the same treatment he had experienced, but took little solace in knowing it had not been reserved for him alone. There was a man running a game with three cups and a pea on a stall to the side of the square. Aethelman had seen the type before. The better ones could move their hands quickly enough not to need to cheat, but this one did. Aethelman watched him swindle three men in a row. He walked up to the stall.
The man looked up to Aethelman. ‘Piss off, scum,’ he said.
Aethelman laid a silver coin, the only one he possessed, down on the stall. The man looked at it, then up at Aethelman, and shrugged. He turned over the three cups and moved the dried pea to the centre of the stall.
‘Find the pea and double your money,’ the man said. He covered the pea with the cup and started to move them, slowly at first, but with ever increasing speed. He continued for long enough to remove the pea, but Aethelman didn’t bother trying to follow. He felt little guilt for cheating a cheat. When he stopped, Aethelman tapped one of the cups at random. He was well aware of the danger of using magic in the south, but it was such a small thing, he didn’t foresee a problem.
The man’s eyes widened when he lifted the cup to find a pea sitting there. He looked up at Aethelman, frowning, but there were people watching and it wouldn’t do to dispute what was clearly a winner.
‘Divine Fortune is with you, friend,’ the man said, as he laid a second silver coin on Aethelman’s initial stake. ‘What do you say, double or nothing?’
He had a glint in his eye that said he was not expecting to make the same mistake twice, and clearly didn’t realise he had not made a mistake the first time.
‘Why not?’ Aethelman said.
The process repeated, and again Aethelman won. The man licked his lips and looked around, but there were even more people watching now, leaving him with no choice but to pay up if he hoped to ever do business there again. He placed two coins on the previous two. Aethelman could see from the man’s expression that it was time to leave, so he picked up the coins and walked away. It was far from a fortune, but it was a start.
WULFRIC
The journey to the waterhole was very much as Wulfric remembered the ride south. The sun was hot, and the plain was dry. More conditioned to northern climes, Wulfric reckoned the first of them would have been struggling by the end of the day had they set out on their own, and that none of them would have made it back to Torona at all, let alone in a fit state to go after dal Valeriano.
After what they estimated to be the better part of an hour, a cluster of trees broke the tedium of the otherwise flat plain. The others had taken some convincing to head east, rather than striking out north, but ever since the fight in the grotto, the one Jagovere had christened ‘Dal Rhenning’s Last Stand’, they seemed to listen to what he said.
Any sense of rank and discipline seemed to have faded away, with everything being discussed before a decision was taken. Wulfric recalled the way Jagovere had reacted to dal Rhenning’s death—that moment when a decision could be the difference between life and death, and he had been unable to make one.
Wulfric could tell it played on his mind, that it had knocked what had seemed an unshakeable confidence into a state of constant uncertainty. It made Wulfric uncomfortable. Decisions should be made by one man. A captain. A First Warrior. Debates took time, and warriors rarely had time when the decisions were the important ones. Sooner or later, Jagovere would have to step up and replace his father, or somebody else would.
He spotted Varada sitting amongst the trees, waiting for them at the watering hole with horses for them all as well as several others that were laden with supplies and what looked like trade goods.
‘You made good time,’ she said. ‘I can’t be certain there won’t be men coming after you, so I suggest we cross open country for the next few hours, then re-join the road. I’ve already laid a false trail from the city. Once back on the road, we hide in plain sight.’ She gestured to the spare horses. ‘A merchant and her escort.’
Jagovere walked up to Varada. ‘Banneret of the Grey Jagovere dal Borlitz, at your service.’ He aped the gesture of doffing a non-existent hat, but it failed to raise the smile he seemed to be aiming for. ‘I understand you’ll be joining us.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I am. If any of you stinking bastards lays a hand on me, I’ll cut it off and kill you after you’ve suffered for a few days.’
Enderlain barked out a laugh, but she cast him such a filthy look he cut it short. The episode made Wulfric smile, but he was not so foolish as to allow it to draw attention to him. He had felt cold steel in his nether regions too many times by now.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 30