The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  THE BLOOD DEBT

  WOLF OF THE NORTH BOOK 3

  DUNCAN M. HAMILTON

  CONTENTS

  Also by Duncan M. Hamilton

  A Map of the Northlands and Ruripathia

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part II

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part III

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  About the Author

  Join Duncan’s Mailing List

  ALSO BY DUNCAN M. HAMILTON

  The Wolf of the North Trilogy

  The Wolf of the North

  Jorundyr’s Path

  The Society of the Sword Trilogy

  The Tattered Banner

  The Huntsman’s Amulet

  The Telastrian Song

  The Society of the Sword Omnibus

  The First Blade of Ostia

  The Swordsman of Tanosa

  The Frontier Lord

  Copyright © Duncan M. Hamilton 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  The right of Duncan M. Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or downloaded in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Map art by Robert Altbauer

  Cover Design by Damonza

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  The Maisterspaeker sat on the end of his bed at the inn and studied the edge of his rapier. The blade was sharp and true, even though it had spent too long sheathed. He returned it to its scabbard and stood, his knees creaking in protest. He felt his first flicker of fear, his first thought of doubt. Was he still up to what would be asked of him when Wulfric arrived? He took a deep breath to still himself. There was only one way to find out, by which time it would be too late if he wasn’t.

  Until then, the best way to forget his worries awaited him in the taproom below. He thought over where he wanted to take up the story as he walked along the corridor and down the stairs. The taproom was packed with people and filled with excited voices, all of which fell silent as he walked in. The Maisterspaeker suppressed a smile, but could not help taking pleasure in their reaction.

  The crowd parted, guiding him to his barstool, next to a mug of ale on the countertop, fresh foam dripping over its edge. He sat, took a mouthful, and cleared his throat.

  ‘We take our tale back up after a great sea voyage, with our hero counting the minutes until he can settle the Blood Debt owed. His thoughts are filled with Adalhaid, Rodulf, and the man he believes to be behind it all, the Markgraf of Elzburg. As always, there is unrest in the corridors of power as plots and intrigues near fruition, but first we join our hero, freshly returned from his adventures on Jorundyr’s Path…’

  ‘WHO ARE THEY, DA?’

  ‘Dunno, lad.’

  The father and son stopped in their tracks to watch the approaching horsemen. They had to step to the side of the road to get out of their way. The father looked up at the riders as they went by.

  The horsemen were all darkly tanned and their equipment, though well-maintained, looked worn, as if they were returning from a long campaign. The father didn’t know of any recent wars, not since the one with Ostenheim nearly a decade before. The most striking thing about the riders was the variety of colour in their clothes. They were more colourful than the marketplace on fair day, with swaths of blue, crimson, yellow, and orange cloths wrapped around their helms and armour. The man had never seen warriors like them, although he had heard tell of someone who fit the bill. Every week, a spaeker visited the tavern in town, and the only stories he’d been telling for months were of Dal Rhenning’s Company, of Ulfyr, Wolf of the North, and their adventures in the west. He could hardly believe that was who he was seeing, but they were from Ruripathia so it stood to reason they’d come back one day.

  ‘I think it’s the Wolf, lad.’

  ‘The wolf?’ the boy said, in a whisper filled with awe.

  ‘Ulfyr. The Wolf of the North. Looks like he’s come home.’

  The riders reached them, and the lead horseman nodded in thanks for giving them the road as they passed. The man gave him a close look, wondering if that could be the warrior he had heard so much about. The stories hadn’t mentioned that he was returning to the North, but the father couldn’t think who else it could be but Ulfyr, the man named after the Northern god’s savage wolf.

  EVEN THOUGH RURIPATHIA was not Wulfric’s homeland, it was similar enough that there was a comforting familiarity about it, from the cool air to the half-timbered and thatched buildings. Were it not for his reason for leaving, and what he had to do now that he was back, he would have said he was glad to be there.

  Wanting to be rid of the salty tang of sea air, they had ridden inland for a time, before stopping at a village large enough to have an inviting tavern. With the familiarity came memories dusted clean, none of which he would have picked had he been able to choose. He was in Ruripathia to kill Rodulf, kill the Markgraf, kill anyone who stood in his way, and likely die in the process. It made him melancholy, and quiet.

  They dismounted and tethered their horses outside the tavern.

  ‘It’s bloody freezing,’ Conrat said, as they filed inside.

  ‘You’ll get used to it again quick enough,’ Jagovere said. ‘Summer isn’t all that far away.’

  ‘Can’t come soon enough,’ Conrat said, as he made straight for the taproom’s fireplace.

  ‘You were complaining about the heat a few weeks back,’ Enderlain said. ‘Getting soft in your old age? I hope they have feather beds here. Wouldn’t want you to get a crick in—’

  ‘We get the point, Enderlain,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘He’s right,’ Varada said. ‘This place is freezing.’

  Enderlain laughed. ‘Wait till you see it in winter. It could freeze the ti—’ He noticed Varada’s withering glare and shut his mouth.

  ‘You haven’t spent much time around women, have you, Enderlain?’ Conrat said.

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘Ones that you haven’t paid for?’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Point taken,’ Enderlain said.

  Wulfric smiled at the banter and took a moment to look around, but the
re was hardly anyone inside. He had felt uneasy ever since arriving back in Ruripathia, and could not help but recall the last time he had been in a tavern in that country. Another cracked head and escape was the last thing he needed. He looked for a rear exit, and for a table near a window where he could see everyone who was coming into the tavern. It was likely he was being paranoid, but Ambassador Urschel—the man he had killed before leaving—was important, and the authorities knew it had been done by a Northlander called Wulfric. Though it had been the better part of a year since that day, he worried that they might still be on the lookout for him, that Wulfric Wolframson was known to be outside of the law. A thought occurred to him, which he would have to discuss with the others if it was to work. He had no desire to be arrested once it became known he was Wulfric the Northlander. Perhaps it was time to embrace the idea of being Ulfyr the Wolf.

  There was a spaeker at the far end of the bar, entertaining a meagre audience of three men. Spaekers in the south were like skalds in the Northlands. They told stories, sang songs, and brought news from places distant. The thought of finding a comfortable chair by the warmth of the fire and listening to a spaeker tell a tale, while he worked his way through a cask of ale was an appealing thought, but he still had a long journey ahead, and too much to do to allow himself the luxury of idleness and leisure.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the voice to lull him to a half sleep. As his mind drifted, something about the story being told seemed familiar. He opened his eyes and sat up straight when he heard his name. He looked around in a panic, but no one seemed to have noticed. By the time he had stilled himself, he realised that the spaeker had not said ‘Wulfric’, but ‘Ulfyr’. So used had he grown to the name, that he reacted to it as if it were the one given to him by his parents.

  He turned and beckoned Jagovere. ‘Listen,’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere frowned for a moment, and his eyes widened as his face broke into a smile. ‘Well, I knew they’d be popular around Rhenning, but I didn’t think they’d make it this far from the Graf’s old lands. I have to admit I’m quite pleased.’

  ‘I can tell,’ Wulfric said, enjoying the sense of relief that the exploits of Wulfric Wolframson had not been getting broadcast around Ruripathia for the past year. For the first time he felt genuine affection for the nickname that had previously done nothing but irritate him. He took a breath and tried to relax, to set aside fears that there might still be authorities looking for him—even if it was only for the few moments it took to eat a hot meal and drink a cold ale.

  ‘Which tale is it?’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere listened to the spaeker for a moment. ‘I believe that’s "The Southern Plains of Darvaros".’

  ‘How’d you make a story out of time spent sitting around in captivity?’

  Jagovere blushed. ‘Ah. It’s one of my stories that might be described as being… embellished. People will want to know what we did while we were in the south, and no one wants to hear about card games, Conrat’s diarrhoea, Enderlain’s snoring, or your sunburn. I never said my stories were entirely true…’

  ‘What are we supposed to have done in this one?’ Wulfric said. ‘Seeing as I’m meant to have been there, it’d be nice to know.’

  ‘We?’ Jagovere looked at him a moment. ‘“You” would be more appropriate, and by “you”, I mean Ulfyr.’

  Wulfric groaned. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘There’s a beast in Darvaros, similar to the belek, but it has a yellow coat with a mix of black spots and stripes. Telkors, they’re called.’

  ‘Really?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jagovere said. ‘I made them up. Maybe there are. Maybe there aren’t. It doesn’t matter. No one from around Rhenning is ever likely to find out, one way or the other. Still, it makes for a good story.’

  ‘I killed it?’

  ‘You did, saving the Prince of Darvaros in the process, winning the favour of the Darvarosian princess, and securing us our freedom. I’m really quite proud of it.’

  ‘Why am I the hero of all these stories? Why not you?’

  ‘Well, that would be far too narcissistic,’ Jagovere said. ‘I’m merely a humble soldier of fortune and writer of tales.’

  ‘Narcis… what?’ Enderlain said.

  ‘Never mind,’ Jagovere said. ‘People want an exotic hero, someone who stands apart from them. No one wants to hear about the man from two fields over who becomes a great hero. That only makes them feel bad for not doing it themselves. It has to be someone aspirational, someone they would love to be like, but who they know they can’t emulate. They can appreciate it, without feeling less in themselves. Ideally I’d have used someone else, from somewhere a little more interesting, but there’s enough romance and mystery in the Northlands to make people interested in you.’

  ‘Thanks. I think,’ Wulfric said.

  The tavern door opened, and three men walked in, all wearing tunics embroidered with the same coat of arms. Men like that meant only one thing to Wulfric: trouble. He reached for his sabre, taking masochistic pleasure in the thought that his paranoia had not been misplaced. The sense of ease he had been enjoying was replaced with a lead ball in the pit of his stomach. The ambassador was an aristocrat, an important man with important friends. There was no way a year was long enough to erase the memory of his killing. Of course they were still looking for him. He didn’t want a fight so soon, but if men came looking, he wasn’t one to leave them wanting.

  ‘Are you the mercenary band known as the "Wolves of the North"?’ one of the men said.

  Wulfric looked to Jagovere. ‘Wolves of the North?’

  Jagovere shrugged. ‘We weren’t Dal Rhenning’s Company anymore. We needed a name, and it seemed as good a choice as any other.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we have had a say in it?’ Sander said.

  ‘What would you have chosen?’

  ‘Jorundyr’s Blades?’ Wulfric said. ‘Ulfyr’s Fangs?’

  ‘Exactly why I didn’t put the question out for discussion,’ Jagovere said.

  The soldier cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen?’

  ‘I do apologise,’ Jagovere said. ‘To whom do I have the pleasure?’

  ‘Banneret-Captain Willem Jennser of the Royal Guard, and Equerry to Her Royal Highness, Princess Alys of Ruripathia.’

  ‘I don’t believe we have any business with the princess, or the Royal Guard,’ Jagovere said, holding a smile that looked forced.

  Wulfric felt his heart quicken, but there was not yet any reason to believe they were there for him, or that they knew who he really was.

  ‘Her Highness, the Princess of Ruripathia, given to believe that the renowned warrior Ulfyr and his mercenary company have returned to Ruripathia, bade me deliver an invitation to them.’

  Jagovere cast Wulfric a sidewise glance. ‘Ulfyr and his company?’

  ‘Indeed. She requests that you attend upon her at court in Brixen at your earliest convenience. We are to escort you there and aid your journey in whatever ways required.’

  ‘I do believe that is the politest way of saying “we’ll use force if necessary” I’ve ever heard.’

  Captain Jennser shifted uneasily on his feet, but said nothing.

  ‘I warn you,’ Jagovere said, pausing for effect.

  Jennser’s hand drifted to rest on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘I may use that line in the future, and claim it as my own.’ Jagovere grinned.

  Jennser let out an audible breath.

  ‘We are indeed that company,’ Jagovere said, ‘and this is the renowned warrior Ulfyr. Our captain,’ he added with a smirk.

  Wulfric did his best not to blush.

  ‘If we refuse the invitation?’ Wulfric said. He had no desire to spend any time in the company of royal authorities. All he wanted to do was kill the Markgraf, return to the Northlands and deliver the same fate to Rodulf. After that, who knew?

  The banneret-captain smiled. ‘Nobody refuses an invitation from He
r Highness. Such a summons usually brings great opportunity for the recipient.’

  Wulfric looked to Jagovere, who shrugged.

  ‘Then I suppose we don’t, either,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I FIND it hard to believe that my stories have reached the princess’s ears,’ Jagovere said, as the Wolves and Captain Jennser’s men trotted along the road to Brixen. ‘When I started it all, it was only so that the people in Rhenning could hear about the Graf’s adventures. He had promised them as much when he abdicated the county to his son. It seems they’ve taken on a life of their own.’