The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘You’ve fought single combats before?’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Yes,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Good. Remember how we practised in Darvaros. It won’t be any different to that, apart from the fact that he’ll be trying to kill you. I doubt he’s up to much, but some idle aristocrats have nothing better to do all day than practice with private tutors, so keep your wits about you.’

  Wulfric felt rage bubbling in him like a pot of water about to boil over. Keeping any sense of focus was a struggle.

  ‘The important thing is to follow any instructions given by the seconds,’ Jagovere said. ‘This type of thing fringes on the edge of legality, so it’s important the formalities are followed. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘The princess doesn’t seem too bothered by it all,’ Enderlain said.

  ‘No, she doesn’t, does she?’ Jagovere said. ‘Probably looking forward to the entertainment of it. Everyone else seems to be.’

  Jagovere hefted Wulfric’s sabre in his hand and grimaced. ‘When we’re done with this, we’re going to have to get you a decent sword. This really doesn’t fit the bill.’

  ‘Is it sharp and true?’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere nodded.

  ‘Then it fits the bill,’ Wulfric said. He took the sword from Jagovere and adjusted his grip until it felt comfortable.

  ‘Fine. Are you ready?’ Jagovere said.

  Wulfric slashed the sabre through several cuts, to vent some of his building rage rather than to settle any nerves.

  Wulfric nodded. Jagovere walked over to Hochmark and Jennser. Wulfric took a breath and softened his grip on his sabre. He reminded himself that a duel was more like a dance than a prize fight. There could be no knees, elbows, or headbutts. He was afraid to let Jorundyr’s Gift take hold of him; in this situation he wasn’t sure if it would be more of a help or a hindrance. If he killed Hochmark in a fashion that was deemed to be outside their foolish rules, he had no doubt they would call him a murderer.

  Jagovere returned and Hochmark slowly approached.

  ‘The duel ends when one of the seconds calls it, or when one of the duellists surrenders,’ Jagovere said. ‘Lord Hochmark has declined the opportunity to end at first blood. Seems he fancies his chances of killing the famous Ulfyr.’

  ‘Good luck to him,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘You start when the command is given. Clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Good. Step up to the mark, and we’ll get things underway.’

  Wulfric walked forward to the mark, a boot scuff on the grass, and swished his sabre through the air, back and forward.

  Hochmark took his guard.

  ‘Begin,’ Jagovere and Jennser said in unison.

  Hochmark beckoned Wulfric forward with his free hand. It was meant as an insult, and Wulfric felt his temper flare to the point he could no longer contain it. If Hochmark was willing to give him the initiative, then Wulfric would gladly take it. Having been called a savage so many times in one day, Wulfric was determined to disprove any preconceptions.

  He advanced forward and slashed out two quick cuts to see how Hochmark reacted. With the effortless precision of one in regular practice, Hochmark parried each cut aside, and a superior smile spread across his face. Far more quickly than Wulfric would have expected, Hochmark countered. He was small and agile, and as Jagovere had warned, it appeared Hochmark knew what he was about. It was all Wulfric could do to parry each attack as Hochmark drove him back across the meadow.

  Wulfric could feel the eyes of everyone present boring into him. It was not what any of them would have expected from the now near-legendary Ulfyr. Embarrassment aside, it was clear that Hochmark intended at the very least to injure him severely. There was an art to fighting a duel, and it was one Wulfric was far from mastering. Hochmark had obviously spent a lifetime training for duels and was a class above. It was a gentleman’s pastime, and it had been arrogant of Wulfric to think he would easily be able to put manners on Hochmark. Were it simply a case of killing Hochmark with no rules to concern himself with, Wulfric knew that Hochmark would already be bleeding out on the grass. He cursed the southerners and their foolish rules, then launched himself at Hochmark, reversing each cut fluidly and retaking all the ground Hochmark had won.

  Hochmark may have started well, but the effort was starting to show. He was enjoying himself—there was still a smile spread across his face and he clearly thought he had Wulfric’s measure—but beads of sweat had started to form on a brow that was now furrowed with frustration. Wulfric suspected the duel had already lasted longer than Hochmark had expected. Despite having pushed Wulfric back across the field, he had not come even close to hitting him, and now Wulfric had pushed him all the way back to where they had started.

  ‘You whoreson bastard,’ Hochmark said. His face had grown red with the exertion. All the skill in the world counted for little if he didn’t have the physical condition to back it up. ‘I doubt even your mother knows who your father is.’

  Wulfric knew Hochmark was baiting him, but with his temper already up after his conversation with Lennersdorf, he didn’t care. It raged inside him, pent up, roaring to be released. He lashed out a vicious cut at Hochmark. He could feel his awareness slipping away from him, as though someone, or something, else was taking control of his body. He felt strong and fast, as even those sensations slipped away from him. He could hear Hochmark’s blade screech against his as he cut and slashed. It felt as though he was watching the duel unfold from a small window looking out from a dark room. He wanted to drop his sword and beat Hochmark’s head with his fists until it was nothing more than jelly.

  He continued to attack, disconnected from any sensation. The sound of the duel reached his ears as though from a great distance. As his arm continued to slash, he wondered if he would be able to stop it. Steel rasped against steel, but then there was a duller, wetter sound. That of steel against flesh. He heard a woman scream, but her voice sounded so very far away. He realised that his arm had stopped moving. The tiny window from which he watched the scene grew larger, and the darkened room his mind had been in filled with light. His senses returned. He could feel the heave of his chest as he drew in air, and hear blood pound through his ears. He realised Jagovere was standing beside him.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘No prizes for guessing what the talk of the town will be tonight.’

  Wulfric looked down to the ground before him. Hochmark lay there, with Banneret-Captain Jennser kneeling by his side. Hochmark’s hand still gripped his sabre, but it lay several feet from his body, along with the rest of his arm and part of his shoulder, all of which had been cleaved from him. A large pool of blood had formed on the ground around the wound, against which Jennser held a mass of cloth. Hochmark gasped and spluttered, his face alternating between expressions of fear and indignation. He tried to sit up, but flopped back without his arm to support him. Jennser pressed his hand on Hochmark’s chest to hold him still, and continued to do so a moment longer, then shook his head and stood. Hochmark’s eyes were glassy, staring toward the heavens.

  ‘I suppose we should have waited for a surgeon to arrive,’ Jennser said.

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ Jagovere said. ‘There isn’t a surgeon alive who could have saved him.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Jennser said. ‘Haven’t seen a wound like that since the war.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same,’ Jagovere said. ‘You agree that the duel was fought in accordance with the Duelling Code?’

  Jennser nodded. ‘I do.’

  ‘Good,’ Jagovere said.

  Wulfric stood staring at Hochmark’s body, unsure of what to feel. His body tingled with the rush of triumph that always followed a mortal combat. He looked up at the princess, who was watching from beside the refreshments cart. Her face was completely impassive, but her crystal-blue eyes sparkled with what Wulfric could only describe as satisfaction. Chamberlain Lennersdorf
stood next to her and nodded to Wulfric, a pleased smile on his face.

  ‘HER ROYAL HIGHNESS requires that you remain in the city until such time as she desires,’ Jagovere said, reading the note that had been delivered to each one of them.

  They had all gathered in Wulfric’s room to discuss the next step. Killing a peer of the realm in a duel could have disastrous consequences for all of them—although having seen Princess Alys’s expression, he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Did you have to kill him?’ Varada said.

  Wulfric shrugged.

  ‘It would mean a death sentence for a low-born to kill a nobleman in Darvaros,’ she said.

  ‘Good thing we’re not in Darvaros,’ Enderlain said, earning himself a foul look from Varada.

  ‘I’m not low born,’ Wulfric said. ‘I was First Warrior of Leondorf when I left. My father was First Warrior before me.’

  ‘And I was a Princess of Darvaros, but that counts for nothing now,’ she said.

  Jagovere raised his eyebrows at the revelation, but no one commented on it.

  ‘If you want to survive at a royal court, being good with a sword is not enough,’ she said. ‘A sword can’t stop poison, or an assassin’s blade while you sleep. Carry on like this and you’ll get us all killed.’ She held up the note. ‘We could be in the dungeons before the night’s out.’

  Wulfric was still trying to digest the fact that she was royalty. If so, he wondered what had brought her to the life she had been leading when he first met her, what had made her follow them to Ruripathia.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Jagovere said. ‘I can’t help but feel there was more to today’s little outing than meets the eye.’

  Conrat cleared his throat. ‘It’s been a long road, lads,’ he said. ‘But it’s come to its end for me, however this works out. We’ve all lived far longer than we deserve to, considering some of the binds we’ve been in, and I’m not going to push my luck any farther. We made more than I can spend in a lifetime in Estranza, and I want to enjoy it. I’m sorry to be breaking company with you, but my heart’s telling me it’s time.’

  ‘Same goes for me,’ Sander said. ‘I reckon I’ve had more than my share of good luck too. Time to put down some roots and find something to do that’s less likely to get me killed.’

  ‘We’ll be sorry to lose you,’ Jagovere said, ‘but I understand. I’ll write the necessary letters for you to draw your shares from the Company bank account.’

  ‘I’m obliged,’ Conrat said. ‘You’ll always be welcome at my hearth, when I’ve got one.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Sander said.

  Jagovere nodded. ‘Well, I’m going into the city for a while,’ he said. ‘There’s an old friend I want to see. I’ll be at the Brazen Belek if anyone’s looking for me. I’d appreciate it if you could let me know if Her Highness decides to declare us outlaws. I’d like to make a run for it if the opportunity presents. Otherwise, I’ll be back later this evening.’ He put his hat on with a flourish and left the apartment. The rest of them remained silent as they considered the possibility that, legally fought duel or not, Wulfric killing a senior peer of the realm could see them all in the dungeons before nightfall.

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘The first of the mercenaries will arrive in two weeks, my lord,’ Rodulf said.

  The Markgraf stood at the window in his office, looking out over the palace gardens, his back turned to Rodulf. Rodulf felt envious of the view, considering the ugly masonry of the citadel’s walls outside his own window.

  ‘How long until we have the full complement?’

  ‘Five weeks, my lord,’ Rodulf said. ‘Probably less.’

  ‘Eleven thousand men?’

  ‘There or thereabout,’ Rodulf said.

  The Markgraf sighed. ‘Good. It will be difficult to keep all of this a secret once the soldiers are here. You’ve leaked a rumour of a campaign in the North?’

  ‘In one or two appropriate places,’ Rodulf said. ‘It will take time to spread, but further hints would make it appear too obvious a ruse. If anyone asks questions, the northern campaign is what they’ll be told.’

  He watched the Markgraf closely. He appeared to have a little more vigour that morning, but that was only because Rodulf had not used the Stone to influence him for a couple of days. The Stone was taking a toll on Rodulf also—he had increasingly found that using the Stone left him exhausted, a condition unacceptable for a man with as many responsibilities as he had. Not taking into account the burns it left on his hand, or the ache he had noticed in his arm.

  He had started to allow the Markgraf off the leash, and it was something he needed to monitor closely. He had subjugated the Markgraf’s will, and he could not allow it to re-establish itself. For Rodulf to achieve his goals, he had to keep the Markgraf under his control. There were no more children to kill to cause a breakdown again if he managed to reassert himself, and all would be lost. The temptation to keep prodding him with the Stone was great, but the toll it was taking on Rodulf was growing ever more, and he had started limiting its use to the bare minimum needed to achieve his aims. As intoxicating a thing as it was, it was beginning to frighten him.

  When all of this was over and he was King of Northlandia, he would devote his attention and resources to learning more about the mysterious Stone, and how he might use it to its full potential without any side effects, but until he could do so he would have to take sensible precautions.

  ‘Your man in Brixen,’ the Markgraf said. ‘Does he have anything of interest to report?’

  ‘Nothing of significance,’ Rodulf said. ‘Which reminds me. It would be of benefit were Grenville to have greater status. I believe it would open doors that are presently closed to him.’ He waited a moment for the Markgraf’s reaction, but when he remained silent Rodulf succumbed to temptation and gripped the Stone in his pocket. He felt the tingle, which had once been a comfort but, he now knew, would result in a burn. The current emissary to the royal court was a childhood friend of the Markgraf’s, and the position was a great honour. It was a major request, but Rodulf needed Grenville in place.

  The Markgraf frowned and rubbed his temples.

  ‘Are you all right, my lord?’ Rodulf said through gritted teeth as he tightened his hold on the Stone.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Just these damned headaches again. Whatever you think is necessary, do it. I’ll leave the details up to you.’

  Rodulf released the Stone and breathed a sigh of relief.

  RODULF KNEW what he had in mind was premature, and that he had little enough time as it was without wandering off on flights of fancy, but he couldn’t resist the temptation. There would be a coronation in Elzburg in the near future, and it would be unacceptable if there was not an appropriate crown for the ceremony. He had thought about having it made then keeping it for himself, but there was something that made it all the more legitimate if a king other than himself had worn it first, and to that end he decided he would present it to the Markgraf on the day of his coronation. That he would be putting a plan into action to kill him the moment it graced his head was beside the point.

  There were finer jewellers in the world than those who worked in Elzburg—those in Ostenheim being almost peerless—but there were few places that would do what he wanted in the time he had available and keep it quiet. The jeweller he chose was regarded as the best in Elzburg, however—an Ostian by birth named Benvento, his nationality made him an unpopular figure in Ruripathia, but his skill was above anything local, and for that reason his continued presence was tolerated. To Rodulf’s eye, his work was more than good enough to grace his head.

  Rodulf spent a few minutes browsing examples of his work before the jeweller came out from his workshop.

  ‘What can I do for you today, my lord?’ Benvento said. He cast a glance at the four large, armed men standing inside his doorway, and for a moment his mask of geniality slipped, revealing a picture of worry.

  ‘They’re with me,’ Rodulf said. ‘Please
don’t give them another thought. I’ve a commission for you, and one that must be handled with the utmost discretion, the reasons for which will become obvious.’

  The jeweller nodded, and gestured for Rodulf to follow him to a back room where there was a couch and a felt-covered viewing table. ‘Of course, my lips are sealed. I often deal with clients who would rather their commissions remain secret. It’s rare that a wife appreciates knowing what her husband has bought for his mistress.’

  He smiled, but Rodulf wasn’t in the mood to react.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ Benvento said.

  ‘I would like you to make a crown.’

  Benvento frowned. ‘A coronet, surely.’

  ‘No,’ Rodulf said, ‘and I’ll explain why. Her Royal Highness’s birthday is coming up soon. The crown was destroyed or looted, along with much of the royal regalia, during the war. The Markgraf wishes to surprise her with a replacement.’

  ‘A capital idea,’ Benvento said. ‘It will be a crown fit for a princess.’

  ‘There’s the thing,’ Rodulf said. ‘He doesn’t want a crown for her. He wants a crown for the ages, one which future monarchs will wear with pride and dignity, both princes and princesses.’

  ‘Of course,’ Benvento said. ‘He’s absolutely right. In terms of material, gold is really the only choice.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Rodulf said.

  ‘Considering the country of her rule, I think diamonds and sapphires for the decoration, with a large telastar in pride of place.’

  Rodulf thought about it for a moment. Telastars could be found in the High Places, and were as appropriate to the Northlands as they were to Ruripathia, so he nodded his head.

  ‘That sounds ideal,’ he said. The cool blue colour would fit well with his complexion, also, he thought. ‘I’ll need to see some drawings of your designs.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Benvento said. ‘I’ll need to have some idea of…’ He smiled uncomfortably, so Rodulf knew it was time to talk about money, ‘…the budget the Markgraf had in mind.’