Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  She returned with the pastry and looked at him with affection in her eyes as she handed it over. She had probably fallen in love with him, the poor fool. It was every serving girl’s dream to fall in love with a lord and be made a lady. It was the stuff of romantic tales—but unfortunately for her, this tale would not have a happy ending. She had proved useful though, and not just for the pastries.

  ‘Will you call on me tonight?’ he said.

  ‘Of course, my lord,’ she said, mocking a curtsey.

  He laughed.

  ‘Now, I best get the broth to her ladyship before it gets cold,’ she said.

  He watched her go, and wondered if she would get the blame for the poisoning, but he really didn’t care.

  AETHELMAN

  Although the kitchen girl seemed to be Rodulf’s favourite, it appeared to Aethelman that he could not be entirely satisfied with only one bedmate. She was one of a number of women who returned to his apartments with him, courtesans and the more adventurous female courtiers who had identified his rapid rise and were willing to overlook his Northland heritage. He was politic enough not to bother with any of the other women of the palace staff, though. Having two rival interests among the household staff cause a scene would be the last thing a young nobleman trying to establish himself at court needed.

  The White Horse was patronised by a number of wealthy merchants, and aristocrats too minor to warrant a house in the city or an apartment at court. That drew with it those of an enterprising nature who saw the opportunity men with disposable income brought. There were often finely dressed women in the inn’s lounge, taking tea—usually alone, with no indication they were there to meet anyone specific. While they arrived alone, they rarely departed so. One in particular was so pretty that a plan sprang into Aethelman’s mind almost fully formed.

  He waited until she had been served tea by one of the waiters with whom she was on first-name terms, then made his move.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, as amiably as possible. He had seen the other guests approach these women as though they were items to be bought and sold, and did not want to appear in any way like them. ‘I was wondering if you’ve ever visited the Markgraf’s court,’ he said.

  She regarded him curiously for a moment. ‘Many times,’ she said, flashing a smile that set even Aethelman’s elderly heart racing. ‘But why don’t we start with a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, sitting in the chair she gestured to. He felt foolish in having allowed himself to be so easily disarmed by her.

  ‘My name’s Katya,’ she said.

  ‘Aeth— Gustav dal Aetheldorf,’ Aethelman said, struggling to compose himself. ‘I have a proposition for you.’ He frowned at his choice of words.

  ‘Right to business,’ she said. ‘That’s fine by me. What do you have in mind?’ She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

  ‘Oh. Nothing like that,’ he said, blushing. ‘I have a friend at court. The son of a friend, actually. I don’t want to go into too much detail, for my friend’s sake, you see, but suffice it to say his son has rather… liberal spending habits. When he was last at the family seat, he took something with him, a family heirloom, which my friend fears he intends to sell to cover some of his debts.’

  ‘I see,’ Katya said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, my friend is at his wit’s end, and wrote, asking me to help out of a fear that he won’t get here in time himself. My friend’s son has an eye for the ladies, and I expect a beautiful young lady such as yourself would provide the perfect distraction while I retrieve the heirloom.’

  ‘You flatter me, my lord.’ Her smile broadened. ‘But flattery doesn’t pay the bills.’

  ‘No, of course not. I was thinking twice your usual rate for whatever time it takes? There won’t be any danger, and you won’t have to do anything untoward. Simply keep all his attention on you.’

  ‘Three times my usual rate, which comes with my usual guarantee of absolute discretion.’ Her smile didn’t falter for even a moment. ‘I’m sure your friend will be so glad of recovering the heirloom that he won’t balk at reimbursing you.’

  Aethelman could not help but smile at her audacity. ‘Agreed,’ he said.

  51

  ADALHAID

  Adalhaid walked toward Aenlin’s room for another day of her vigil. Before she had left the night before, it had seemed Aenlin was starting to improve, and Adalhaid hoped that before too long she would be strong enough to get outside for fresh air. It probably had nothing to do with Jakob’s arrival, but it coinciding with her improvement certainly made him look good. Her recovery would be a boon to his career which brought Adalhaid additional pleasure.

  There were several men standing outside Aenlin’s room when it came into view at the far end of a broad, finely decorated corridor. Things being as they were, it was not unusual. Indeed, Adalhaid hoped it might mean they were getting ready to have Aenlin venture out of her room.

  Jakob was there, along with the two other doctors, Frantz and Oppenburg.

  ‘Has she gotten out of bed?’ Adalhaid said when she grew near.

  Jakob looked at her, his face ashen. ‘The Lady Aenlin passed during the night,’ he said, in a painfully formal way.

  ‘What?’ Adalhaid said, the news sending her head into a spin. ‘How? She was getting better!’

  ‘Her condition took a turn for the worse during the night,’ Oppenburg said, his face betraying his worry. ‘Then deteriorated rapidly. All three of us were present through the night. We did everything we could, but there was no saving her. I fear the little girl’s heart was broken, and she simply lost the will to live.’

  Adalhaid could not believe what she was hearing. Only the previous night she had eaten her first proper meal in days. How could it have happened?

  She stumbled back down the hall, distraught.

  ‘Adalhaid!’ Strellis jogged down the hall after her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘How did it happen, Jakob? She was getting better.’ She coughed out a sob.

  He shrugged and held his hands out. ‘Truthfully, I don’t know. I thought she was improving, but sometimes this happens. There’s just no explanation.’

  ‘I could have saved her,’ Adalhaid said, her face twisting with anger. ‘You know I could have. Why didn’t you come and get me?’

  ‘Magic is wrong,’ Jakob said. ‘It might seem like a good thing at first, but it’s too dangerous. It corrupts. It’s too easy to abuse. That’s why it’s against the law.’

  ‘I’ve been doing it for weeks,’ she said, spitting the words out. ‘Weeks and weeks. Every patient I treat. Every one of them has left the clinic better for it. Your opinions on magic are a millennium out of date. Just because it was a bad thing in the past doesn’t mean it has to be in the future. You complain about physicians who are unwilling to adopt new techniques? The hypocrisy astounds me.’

  Jakob blanched. ‘You’d have done magic under the view of two physicians? Two physicians who’d denounce you for witchcraft in a heartbeat?’ he said.

  ‘To save a little girl’s life? Of course I would. Without hesitation. Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘To save yours,’ he said calmly.

  Rage boiled within her. She wanted to claw his eyes out. No words would come to her. She hissed and stormed off.

  AETHELMAN

  Katya looked even more impressive when she arrived at the palace. Aethelman had not wanted the two of them to be seen together, so he had given her instructions to make her way there alone and take instructions by signal when she arrived. They did not have to wait long for Rodulf to make his appearance. Being seen was an important part of life at court, and it was something Rodulf had mastered. He had identified those beneath him in title, and those beneath him in favour, and greeted them with what would have seemed genuine interest and affection, were it not for the fact that Aethelman knew him too well.

  His behaviour came as something of a surprise. Aethelman had expected Rodulf would lord what
ever power he had over others, but this behaviour indicated he had quickly developed a political astuteness. It was the behaviour of men who rise to the top, and it was unsettling to see it in Rodulf. He was too avaricious to be allowed to rise far, but that was not Aethelman’s problem. It was only the Stone, which no doubt was easing Rodulf’s ascent, that he had to concern himself with. That and the beautiful woman he needed to put in Rodulf’s path.

  Katya was a consummate performer, and seemed to be enjoying the novelty of what Aethelman required of her. He had chosen a likely spot for his theft. It was a corridor used by those in residence in the palace, lined with pillars behind which Aethelman could easily conceal himself. It was not busy, and if Ghyda—goddess of good fortune, and bad—favoured him, he would get the Stone, and have it destroyed before Rodulf noticed it was gone. After that, he did not have a care for what happened to him. He could go to the gods with his head held high.

  He gave his signal, and Katya moved into action. She walked across Rodulf’s path with the grace and confidence of a woman born to wear a crown, dropping a fine lace handkerchief as she did. Feigning realisation, she stopped and turned with perfect timing to bring herself face to face with Rodulf. It was masterful, and Aethelman had no doubt she would have him eating out of her hand in no time.

  ‘Please, allow me,’ Rodulf said, bending to pick up the handkerchief.

  It was Aethelman’s turn. Surrounded by the thick stone walls of the palace, he could find so very little of the Fount to draw on. Not nearly enough to fade into the ether as he had the day Leondorf was attacked, and his old body no longer contained enough to give him the boost needed. It would have to suffice to give Rodulf the sensation that there was still something there after the Stone was gone, and Aethelman worried even that small piece of magic might be too much for him.

  Their flirtatious conversation faded into the background as Aethelman stepped from behind his pillar and focussed on Rodulf’s tunic pocket. The shape of the Stone forced the pocket open slightly. Aethelman did his best to magically dull Rodulf’s senses, and reached for the Stone.

  His heart raced so that he feared it would give up on him. He knew there was only so long Katya could keep Rodulf standing there. He had only one chance, and he had to be quick. He was so focussed on all the other problems, he had forgotten to wear a glove. He felt a burning tingle spread across his hand and engulf his entire body as he grasped the Stone. Coldness followed, and his breath faltered as he pulled it free, terrified that Rodulf would feel the theft.

  The Stone came away in his hand, and Aethelman focussed his thoughts on creating a false weight in Rodulf’s pocket. He cursed himself for not having thought to find a rock of similar size and weight, but it was too late now. He stepped back behind the pillar, and took a deep breath. Before he knew what he was doing, he realised the Stone was doing his bidding. He wanted to stop it, but his quest was too important. He allowed it to do its work, and took comfort in the knowledge that Rodulf could almost certainly feel the presence of a non-existent Stone in his pocket. Katya knew to bring her act toward its conclusion as soon as Aethelman retreated, but he couldn’t stop his heart from racing. The magic he had used to create the illusion in Rodulf’s pocket would only last a short time, even with the Stone’s help, but it would not deceive him if he put his hand in. Aethelman knew he might have minutes, or only a few seconds.

  ‘Perhaps you could show me to the audience hall, my lord,’ Katya said.

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ Rodulf said.

  Once they got there, she would give him an excuse and leave. In his best-case scenario, Aethelman reckoned that would be the moment Rodulf discovered the theft. He had brought the knife with him, and only needed a hard surface to rest the Stone on to cut through it. He waited until he heard their conversation and footsteps fade into the distance, and looked about for somewhere he could finish his business once and for all.

  WULFRIC

  They dismounted and moved quickly to the cover of the manor house’s wall.

  ‘How d’you want to do it?’ Enderlain said.

  ‘If I were dal Gascovar, I’d have all my men waiting behind that door with crossbows,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I suppose we should have thought it through before we got here,’ Jagovere said. ‘Still, too late for that now, and as Wulfric said: The front door is definitely out.’

  Wulfric walked to a window and punched the hilt of his sword through it. ‘I found another door,’ he said, not waiting for the others before clambering through.

  His feet sank into a thick rug when they touched the floor. The room was richly decorated with paintings covering the wall and expensive-looking furniture filling it. What was notably absent was any sign of the enemy. He gave the room one more careful look before moving forward to allow the others space to get in.

  They fanned out through the room, but there was no sign of dal Gascovar, his men, or his master.

  ‘Do you think they’re real?’ Enderlain said.

  Wulfric looked around. Enderlain’s eyes were fixed on one of the room’s larger paintings, one of a naked woman with enormous breasts.

  ‘What do you mean real?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I’ve heard of fellas in the city, sorcerers, who make them bigger. There was a girl at the Golden Rose in Brixen. She said—’

  ‘Enderlain, shut up,’ Jagovere said.

  Wulfric gave the painting another look, then involuntarily glanced over at Varada and then at her chest. If looks could have killed, Wulfric would have dropped dead on the spot. She was holding a long, slender sword with a delicate cup hilt, and he diverted his eyes for fear she might use it.

  ‘Where are they?’ Sander said.

  Wulfric looked at the two closed doors leading out of the room. ‘Waiting for us to walk by so they can stick a blade in our backs,’ he said. ‘I hate the way southerners fight.’

  ‘Me too,’ Enderlain said.

  ‘I think he was including us in that,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Wulfric chose the door that led toward the house’s front door. It brought them to a large open hallway with a marble floor. Six men stood waiting for them, swords in hand. There was a central staircase that branched into two at the turn. Dal Valeriano stood there, his face a picture of fear, but it was the man standing a few steps below him who interested Wulfric the most. He was tall and slender, with a few streaks of grey in his otherwise jet-black hair. His moustache and beard were waxed into neat points, and he wore a gilded, engraved breastplate that could only be described as magnificent.

  Wulfric felt a tingle across his skin as he looked from man to man. They regarded him silently, bearing all the hallmarks of experienced fighters. He fought to control the shake in his hands as anger welled up inside him. They stood between him and the man he had come so far to see dead, the man who had delayed his return home to avenge Adalhaid, the man who had left them all to die on the Darvarosian plain. His breath quickened and his heart raced as the rage threatened to overcome him. It made him afraid, to feel so close to the brink of losing control, and he fought against it, tried to keep it contained within, but then it occurred to him—why bother? He let go of his tenuous hold, and felt it wash over him.

  With a roar, Wulfric was in their midst. The first man fell before he had time to react, blood spraying from his throat. Two more were on him by the time he had brought his sword back from its first cut. He parried one and pulled the dagger from his belt to parry the second in one smooth movement. He kicked down on one of his attacker’s knees, and the man screamed as it buckled beneath him. Wulfric drove his dagger into the man’s eye and slashed at his second opponent.

  The sabre felt so much more natural in his hand than the rapier had, like an extension of his arm, and the brutality with which he wielded it caught dal Gascovar’s men off guard. Gentlemen, Jagovere had told him, don’t fight with kicks, punches, or head-butts. The thought made him smile. What the gentlemen didn’t seem to realis
e was that Wulfric wasn’t fighting, he was killing. As his rage built, it seemed as though everyone around him slowed. All he saw before him were foes to be vanquished, men who would tell Jorundyr of his prowess and warn him of Wulfric’s coming. Bared steel and breastplates were barely an inconvenience. He was faster, he was stronger. He heard steel scream against steel. He heard men scream when steel met with flesh. It was glorious and he could feel the eyes of his father, his grandfather, and all those who had gone before him watching from Jorundyr’s Hall. They would be proud, and that drove Wulfric to ever greater aggression.

  A third man fell, then a fourth. The remaining two hesitated, and glanced back at their captain, who gave a nod. Pride overcame fear, and they too rushed at Wulfric. They came at him in concert, forcing Wulfric to parry attacks in two directions, and out of the corner of his eye he saw dal Gascovar descend the stairs. With both his blades occupied, Wulfric knew that if dal Gascovar was as good as everyone said, he would be at his liberty to run Wulfric through.

  He turned his attention to one man, parrying high and allowing his comrade’s thrust through. The blade speared through Wulfric’s side, but there was no pain. He slashed his sabre deep into the other man’s skull, then turned before his attacker could pull his sword free. Wulfric’ plunged his dagger into the man’s arm, then ran him through with the sabre.

  Wulfric stepped back and pulled the rapier out. It had gone clean through the right edge of his abdomen, but the wound closed once the narrow blade was removed. A thin dribble of blood leaked from the wound, and he wondered momentarily if there was anything vital along the blade’s path. There would be time to think of that after, though.

  He threw the rapier to the side and looked up at dal Gascovar, who had stopped his approach and was at the foot of the stairs. The room that seconds before had been filled with the sound of death was silent. Wulfric was covered with blood, his hair matted with it. Dal Valeriano looked even more terrified than he had before, and was frozen to his spot at the turn of the stairs.