The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  There was a small brass bell sitting on the table. Wulfric had but to ring for anything he needed, he had been told. He had almost forgotten about it, but now, seemingly at an impasse, a thought occurred to him. He picked up the bell and rang it three times, then sat back and waited to see what happened.

  A moment later, the door opened and a servant entered.

  ‘How may I help you, Captain?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to the court geographer, please,’ Wulfric said.

  The servant’s eyes widened for a moment before he regained his composure, reminding Wulfric that he had no idea what time it was other than that it had been dark outside for some time.

  ‘Of course, Captain. I’ll fetch him immediately.’

  With that the servant left, gently closing the door behind him. It left Wulfric feeling guilty. It was the first time he had given anyone a command on a whim, and he would feel bad if the geographer was dragged from his bed without good reason.

  Wulfric had a short wait before the servant returned with a very sleepy looking court geographer.

  ‘What can I help you with, Captain Ulfyr?’ the geographer said.

  Wulfric had expected him to be angry at having been woken, but that didn’t appear to be the case. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed by the small measure of power his status had brought, or disgusted. He could recall the way people in Leondorf had behaved around his father, respectful, and to a degree subservient, but it was far removed from the way some of the servants behaved at court—obsequious as though their lives depended on it.

  ‘Do you know of any peaks that have been referred to as the “Forked Mountain”?’ Wulfric said.

  The geographer scratched his chin and thought for a moment.

  ‘I’m aware of a peak called “the Fork”,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to remember where it is.’ He walked over to a map of the entire range of the Telastrian Mountains and traced his fingers along it.

  Since Wulfric would very likely end up walking to wherever the geographer’s finger stopped, he watched with great interest.

  ‘Here,’ he said, tapping a nondescript spot with his finger. ‘I think it’s here.’

  ‘Only think?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Well, I’m pretty sure,’ the geographer said. ‘There was an old mine not far off from which it could be seen, as I recall. However, you have to understand that there are hundreds of named peaks in the Telastrian Mountains. I’m sure there are hundreds more with names known only to locals. What brought your attention to a forked mountain?’

  ‘Something I read,’ Wulfric said. ‘It’s not much, and might not even be the right place, but it’s the best I can find.’

  ‘Well, if memory serves, the mine was in a remote area—all the more so now considering it’s been exhausted for centuries. Perhaps once you get closer to the region, you could confirm the name with the locals. It might be called the Forked Mountain by those living closer to it.’

  Wulfric nodded, staring at the spot on the map to which the geographer had pointed. It would take him deep into the mountains, and would be a dangerous journey to make on the shred of information he had. It mattered little, though. Any journey up into the High Places, or the Telastrian Mountains—whatever their name—was a difficult and dangerous one. The image of Hane coughing his life out onto the snow was one that would never leave him, and it was a fate that terrified him—to be felled by an enemy that you could not see, and could not fight. There was no way to avoid it, however.

  ‘That’s where I’ll go then,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’ll leave in the morning. Thank you for your help.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Rodulf stood on the citadel’s walls and watched another mercenary company march past the city to the camp in the fields to the west. His vantage point was the highest in Elzburg, and a secret passage from the palace allowed him to get there without drawing notice. It meant he could keep an eye on anything happening around the city without anyone knowing. He was quickly learning that information was the key to everything. The person who had the most, or the freshest, would always be in the strongest position, a spot he intended to keep for himself.

  He could hear the distant sound of marching men—drums, pipes, and boots striking the ground in unison. The new arrivals would join the several companies already there, bringing the completion of his army that bit closer. There were far too many now to sustain the myth that the mercenaries were there on a recruitment drive to add Northlanders to their ranks, so Rodulf had to rest his hopes on his second layer of subterfuge taking its place as the plausible reality, that of a planned invasion of the Northlands.

  He watched them gather, having delegated the task of liaising with them to another of the Markgraf’s officials. Delegation was difficult for him. In Leondorf, he had been able to oversee everything himself, never trusting anyone else with a matter that might impact on his future prosperity. Now there was no choice, and identifying men competent enough to do things right was not a skill he had developed. He wished he had a dozen Grenvilles, and realised how lucky he was to have stumbled upon the Humberlander mercenary. Already he had flogged and dismissed three court officials for failing to carry out his orders properly.

  As he thought on it, he could feel the invisible force of stress squeeze on his heart. Mistakes could not be made if they were to succeed. Every merchant who left the city that day, whether for Brixen or anywhere else, would spread news of the gathering army at Elzburg. He estimated that word would reach the royal court in no more than two or three days. The invasion plan might confuse the matter for a few days more, but direct questions would be asked of them not long after that. He could prevaricate a little longer, offer lies and words of comfort, but the day of reckoning was near. It was a thrilling prospect. The danger they were in was both terrifying and intoxicating, the potential reward mind-boggling. King Rodulf. He allowed himself a laugh at the thought. What would his father think? A barony had been the height of the old fool’s ambitions, and yet he had thought to talk down to Rodulf. His vision had been so small, his appetites so parochial. It was hard not to view him with contempt.

  Once the Markgraf seceded and declared himself king, Rodulf expected that other nobles would rebel against the princess. It was not because they didn’t like her, simply a chance to bring more power and wealth to themselves, and there was nothing a southern noble liked more than power and wealth. They would dilute her forces, but would represent a smaller threat. Fighting against Elzburg would mean losing everything. If she negotiated for peace with the new kingdom, she would be able to turn on the smaller rebellious lords, and at least hold onto something—enough to still call herself a princess. That was his best case scenario, but they had built a strong position, and with most of the mercenaries gathered, the worst case grew better by the day.

  It was most likely there would be a fight of some description, and Rodulf found himself relishing the prospect. A kingdom born of battle was far more enticing than one born of threats and negotiation. The prestige his future crown would have would be all the greater for it. He would have more than enough men to deal with whatever she threw at them. A bloody nose would send her forces home, as he knew she was smart enough to realise she would need them elsewhere, and not just to keep her other noblemen in line. A dead man in an army of conscripted levies had a minor economic impact—his fields would go unplanted, his crops unharvested. Put enough such men in a hole in the ground, and you had famine the next year. Then civil unrest and food riots. Then you had nothing. Perhaps not even your life.

  A dead mercenary might be mourned in some faraway place, but that was not Rodulf’s problem. His fields would be worked, his crops would be harvested, and his kingdom would not suffer for it. He smiled as he thought of it as his kingdom. He would have to turn his mind to how he could kill the Markgraf without implicating himself. He had been so melancholy since Aenlin had followed her brother to the grave, perhaps suicide was not so far-fetched an idea. How might a man of his st
ature go about such a thing? Poison? Hanging? A blade?

  He left the battlements with an overwhelming sense of optimism. The plan had been well thought out, and the time was right. There would be a Kingdom of Northlandia, and he would be its king. Until then, he had a meeting with the captain of the City Watch, and was eager to see what he had uncovered.

  ‘TWO LAWYERS, four notaries, eight accountants, six scribes, several hundred students, and the University of Elzburg itself?’

  ‘Every purchase on his ledger in the last month,’ the captain of the Watch said.

  Rodulf took a sharp inhale to say something, but thought better of it. He supposed the captain had been fast and thorough, so could not fault his work. What could he have hoped for from one small scrap of paper? Had he really expected it to lead him directly to the author of the letters?

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, Captain,’ Rodulf said. ‘You may go.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  The captain wasted no time in departing, leaving Rodulf to ruminate on where to turn next. He was due another letter in the next day or two, if the past pattern was anything to go by, and was hopeful that it would provide him with his next clue. The distraction was unwelcome in the extreme. He was trying to control the Markgraf, a man of strong will and independent thought, while organising a rebellion. He felt like a juggler pushed to his limits, and each blackmail letter felt like an extra ball being thrown into the mix. When he found who it was, death would seem like the sweetest of mercies for them.

  THERE HAD BEEN no letter from his blackmailer in that morning’s post, and Rodulf had let the problem recede to the back of his thoughts, where it would remain until the morning when the anticipation of the morning delivery would build. At that point he was less concerned about what the blackmailer intended to do, and more frustrated that there was someone who knew his secrets, and who thought they were clever enough to toy with him. The palace was quiet in the evening, with only a few servants moving about the place cleaning up and preparing for the following day. He was startled from reading a logistics report—it amazed him how much food ten thousand men got through every day—by a knock at the door.

  ‘My lord,’ his clerk said. ‘The evening delivery of mail.’ He walked in and deposited a small pile of envelopes on Rodulf’s desk, then took a step back and smiled.

  Rodulf waited for him to say something, but quickly realised he wasn’t going to, and felt his temper flare. ‘Get out, you slack wit.’

  His clerk nodded, and moved faster than Rodulf had thought him capable. As soon as the door closed behind him, Rodulf turned his attention to the pile of letters. He spotted the one he was most interested in straight away—a fold of thick, quality paper with no wax seal.

  Tired of chasing the paper trail yet? You will be held to account, sooner than you think.

  HIS HEART LEAPED into his throat. How could they have known about that? It was not as though he had advertised what he was about, and it seemed unlikely the captain would have said anything—he was obviously far too afraid of Rodulf to have done anything so foolish after having been told to be discreet. It unnerved him more than anything since getting the first letter. They must be close to him, whoever it was. Close enough to watch him, and know what he was doing. Someone at the palace? His heart quickened. If it was, they would have to be powerful. Influential enough to move about without drawing attention, or to have others feed them scraps of information. Of course, it could be a staff member, but they would have demanded money by now, he thought, and discounted the notion. What if they were planning on extracting justice themselves, and there was someone watching him, waiting to strike? What sense would it make for them to warn him, though?

  It took him a moment to still himself. He realised the letters were taking more of a toll on him than he wanted to admit. He was stretched so thin, stress of this type was the last thing he needed. He took a deep breath and pushed his worry aside. So what if they were watching? All they would see was him rushing around giving commands and trying to hold the Markgraf’s demesne together with his bare hands. If they had evidence of him poisoning Aenlin and they planned to do something with it, why had they not presented it yet? If they wanted money or advancement, why hadn’t they demanded it? The angry, confident voice in his head said that it was simply someone who did not like him—someone who was jealous of his rapid rise to power, playing mind games with him—and that it had nothing to do with Aenlin. The voice of uncertainty lurking there also said something very different. It said they were softening him up for whatever they had planned, that they would take from him until there was nothing left.

  He realised his hands were shaking. He was so close to achieving more than he could have imagined. He would not let it be taken from him. Not like before, when Wulfric took his eye and his dream of being a warrior ended. He reached for the Stone, ignoring the stinging sensation in favour of the comfort it brought his mind and soul. A little pain was worth that, he thought. No one was going to take this from him. He deserved to be king, and anyone who stood in his way would die painfully.

  He could feel the Stone slowly draw the tension from him and bring calm to his racing heart. He barely noticed the sting now, but realised it was because his arm was numb. He released the Stone and, favouring his left hand, rang the bell on his desk. His clerk appeared at the door a moment later.

  ‘My mail,’ Rodulf said.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘You collect it from the post office personally?’ Rodulf said.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the clerk said. ‘On my way into work each morning, and again in the afternoon.’

  ‘Might someone have the opportunity to slip something into the pile after you’ve collected it, but before it reaches my desk?’

  ‘I don’t think so, my lord.’

  ‘You may go,’ Rodulf said. He waited until the clerk had left the room before turning to look out the window, and at his limited view of the citadel’s wall. What in hells does this person want? he wondered. The only reason for them to delay was because they weren’t prepared, but that begged a sinister question. What were they preparing for?

  CHAPTER 20

  The entire court turned out the next morning to see Wulfric off. It came as a shock when he was greeted by a courtyard full of people when he went outside to get his horse, but he should have expected it. His official title was Captain of the Guard, but everyone saw him as the court champion. When the court champion prepared to depart on a quest there was always going to be a crowd to watch.

  He went about the mundane task of checking that his saddle was secure, and that all the things he would need for the journey were safely stowed in saddle bags. Every eye was on him as he did so, as though the famed Ulfyr went about it in some special way. It felt comical, and he wondered if they would take the same interest in the way he used the privy.

  Jagovere pushed his way through the crowd, with Enderlain and Varada following closely behind. ‘We’ll ride with you to the city walls. You’re happy doing the rest on your own?’

  ‘No, but there’s no choice in it,’ Wulfric said. ‘Best get going before the crowd gets impatient.’

  Wulfric mounted and waited for the stable hand to bring out horses for the others. From horseback Wulfric could see Grenville watching him with the inquiring eyes of a man with an agenda. Wulfric wondered if he might have had anything to do with his fight with Haldan outside the tavern. He would look into it further when he returned, if he returned. If he was successful in his quest his new blade would need to be blooded, and Grenville seemed as appropriate a candidate for that as anyone. The man was up to something, and if his actions were dictated by malice toward Wulfric, he would suffer for it.

  Princess Alys was sitting on a temporarily placed chair at the top of the steps leading to the palace doors. Wulfric doffed his hat in salute to her, then turned and rode from the palace, the clattering of his horse’s hooves being drowned out by cheers from the crowd.

  I
t didn’t take long to reach the city gates, where the streets were empty, and Wulfric breathed a sigh of relief to be away from the crowds. He stopped and turned to Jagovere.

  ‘I should go alone from here,’ he said.

  Jagovere nodded. ‘How long do you think it will take?’

  ‘A week, maybe,’ Wulfric said, thinking back to how long his pilgrimage to the High Places had taken. ‘If I find it quickly. If not, who knows. Should I come back at all if I don’t find anything?’

  ‘I don’t think anybody actually expects you to find it,’ Jagovere said. ‘Some sort of proof of a heroic journey through the mountains should be enough. A dead belek would be good.’

  Wulfric shivered involuntarily at the thought. He didn’t want to see even a belek’s paw print. ‘I’ll come up with something,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour while I’m gone.’

  ‘Anything,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Look into this Grenville fellow. He’s up to something, and I want to know what it is.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Wulfric doffed his hat once more, then galloped out toward whatever awaited him in the mountains.

  WULFRIC REACHED a small village in the foothills of the mountains the next evening. He had realised that morning that he was riding through the Hochmark, the lands that had belonged to the man he had killed in the duel. It was beautiful land—thick forests, dark-soiled fields and pastures, and a breath-taking view of the snow-capped mountains to the east. If they had been Wulfric’s lands, he would have been glad of them and not caused trouble for want of more. Any meagre sympathy he felt for Lord Hochmark vanished. For some men there would never be enough, and unless someone ended them, they would never stop taking.