The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  He heard a loud crack behind him, and he turned his head expecting to see the goat. But there was another cracking sound, sharp and piercing, then a loud rumble. Wulfric strained his neck to look directly up, and saw a fracture in the ice leading upward from one of the goat’s hoof prints. The rumble reverberated in his chest, until it became deafening, and the dark sky above became filled with a swirling cloud of reflected moonlight. Killed by a goat, Wulfric thought, as his brain fought to make sense of what he was seeing above. Avalanche.

  WULFRIC SLIPPED his backpack from his shoulders and allowed it to fall without a second thought. It might mean going hungry later, but first he had to make sure there was a later. He grabbed onto the most secure-looking handholds on the rock face and pressed himself against it as the thunderous boom and maelstrom of snow, ice, and rock engulfed him. He willed himself into it, and held on for dear life.

  It roared past him with a sound louder than anything he’d ever heard. Tiny fragments of ice tore at his nose as they screamed past, and every time he tried to breathe, his lungs were filled with harsh, cold snow dust. He prayed that the rock face and ledge did not give way. His heart raced as he waited for a large boulder or block of ice to strike him, or for the weight of the snow to strip him from the ledge and send him plummeting to his death.

  He felt utterly powerless as he waited for it to end, with each second seeming like a lifetime. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of a happier time, but the noise and blast of ice was too intrusive to block out. His knuckles were skinned by the flow of debris past him, and every so often a larger piece of ice hit his hand and threatened to dislodge his grip, but despite the pain he managed to hold on. He roared at the top of his voice, a rage against how powerless to decide his future he felt, but the sound did not even manage to reach his ears.

  Then, as abruptly as it had started, it was over. The tumultuous roar was replaced with complete silence, only a lingering haze of ice crystals floating gently through the air giving any indication that anything had happened. Wulfric took a deep breath and shook himself, releasing some of the snow that covered him. He was buried in it up to his waist, and it was with some dismay that he realised the ledge was now buried. He would have to be extra careful, and it would mean a further delay.

  It was hard to believe what had just happened. He looked out to the horizon where the sky was already lightening. Day was not far off, bringing home to him how long he had been inching along that ledge. Wulfric looked up the mountain. What before had been a sheet of snow and ice with the occasional rocky outcrop was now bare rock with only a rare patch of snow and ice. He wondered what had happened to the little goat, and hoped it had survived, even if it had been the one to cause the whole thing.

  Where Wulfric had been, there was a large patch of snow still intact, as though the meagre pressure he had exerted on it had been enough to hold it in place. He moved on, not wanting to spend a moment longer on that narrow section of ledge. He had to clear snow out of his way with his foot as he looked for safe places to stand. The avalanche had moved the face back in places, making the ledge wider, for which Wulfric was grateful. Although he knew allowing himself to sleep would be far too dangerous, he needed to rest a while, so found a place that was wide enough to sit down. He set to work clearing off loose avalanched snow to make himself a space, and felt his stomach rumble. He regretted the loss of his pack and provisions, but knew it could have dragged him off the mountainside. He was so engrossed in clearing a patch with his foot that he was almost brow to brow with a face by the time he noticed it. It gave him a start and he stepped back, leaving him teetering on the very edge of the ledge, arms flailing as he fought to bring his balance back to the eerie form half-encased in ice before him.

  A forearm protruded from the ice, no longer having a hand attached. Wulfric grabbed it and pulled himself back from the edge. It took time to calm his heart—there had been far too many frights in the past few minutes to properly quell its racing, however. When he remembered what had caused his near fall in the first place, he instinctively reached for his sword. He relaxed when he saw the arm was still firmly held in place by the ice.

  He looked at his new companion on the lonely peak, far away from anywhere that could be called home, and realised it wasn’t a draugr as he had first feared. The front of the man’s face and his arm were the only things that were exposed from the ice, the whole having been completely covered before the avalanche.

  Wulfric studied the face. The flesh was dried and shrunken back, pinning the underlying bones, and the man’s brown beard and hair were frozen and brittle-looking. His eyes were closed, as though he had allowed himself to go to sleep and had never woken. The ice was clear enough to be able to make out some of his clothing—furs much as Wulfric was wearing—and the hilt of a sword, which was of a very old design, being merely an etched pommel and cross-guard. He wondered how long the man had been there, if he had known he was dying and that his body would remain there, perhaps for ever. Had there been anyone to mourn him? Might people still live who could call him an ancestor? It made Wulfric wonder if this was the face of a man who featured in any of the epics. Only heroes sought out a hero’s blade, so it stood to reason that tales of this man’s deeds may have been told. Might still be told, but there was no way to know. It saddened Wulfric, but there was little he could do for him now, and trying to find out who he was might mean Wulfric joining him. Perhaps he would remain there for all time, offering a helping hand—or arm—to those who lost their footing. Even in death, his outstretched arm had saved Wulfric, for which he was grateful. Perhaps they would meet in Jorundyr’s Hall, and Wulfric could thank him properly. However, he had no desire to join his new friend permanently on that ledge, so he continued on his way as the sun started to peek up over the mountaintops on the horizon.

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘Four robberies, six unpaid bar tabs, two unpaid whores, and one rape,’ Rodulf’s clerk said.

  Rodulf sighed as he looked over the charge sheet. The rapist he would have hanged, the robbers flogged. The mercenary captains could make good the outstanding debts from their pay. He didn’t particularly give a damn for the outraged parties but he needed to keep the peace in Elzburg, and her citizens content. Make them angry now and they might turn on him in the coming days. It felt as though yet another ball had been added to his juggling. Incidents like these were only likely to increase the longer the mercenaries remained there idle. The sooner he could send them off to their battle stations, the better.

  ‘Have the rapist hanged,’ Rodulf said. ‘Make sure it’s public. Find out what companies the rest of them were from, and notify them that they’ll have their pay docked for every bit of bad behaviour in the city. If it continues, their men will be barred from entering and will have to find their entertainment elsewhere.’

  ‘Very good, my lord,’ the clerk said as he left, without needing to be told. He learned fast, and Rodulf had come around to the idea that there might be use for him in the future.

  He would have found the little things tedious enough normally, but now there were far greater matters that needed attending to. Still, he thought, best to put out the fires before they became too big. The relief of having the adoption and legitimisation papers signed and sealed had been only momentary. As with all obstacles, as soon as it was surmounted another one made itself known. Dal Geerdorf now knew Rodulf’s plans with absolute certainty, and the time for a direct move was at hand. Whichever of them was ready fastest and moved first would likely take the spoils. The fact that any act against him would now be an act of treason was of little comfort. All it meant was that dal Geerdorf would not move until he was certain he could get rid of Rodulf in one fell swoop.

  He massaged his shoulder, which had the dull ache that always followed the return of feeling after the numbness caused by the Stone. He wondered what it was doing to him, and if he truly needed it at all. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he started to shiver the moment
the idea of discarding it entered his head. He couldn’t imagine a life without its comforting weight in his pocket. Nonetheless, he hadn’t felt at all well since the day of the signing, when he had used it more than ever before. What was it doing to him? When time permitted, he would spare no resource in finding out exactly what it was, how it worked, and what he might be able to do with it.

  Until then, he had a battle of his own to fight, then a war to continue preparing for.

  AT FIRST, Rodulf had thought cyphers to be an exciting and intriguing part of the secret plots, but as with all matters that had once been new and interesting, they now merely meant tasks took longer than he liked. Nonetheless, he needed to keep his communications with Grenville secret, so it was a necessary inconvenience. He opened up his code book, something he kept on his person at all times—just like the Stone—and started to work his way through Grenville’s dispatch.

  The urge was always to read the message as he decoded it, but he found it quicker in the long run to wait and concentrate on the decoding until it was completed. He double checked a couple of symbols, then, satisfied he had it correct, sat back to read.

  Word has reached the royal court that a large force of mercenaries is assembling at Elzburg. I was called in and questioned by the chancellor. He did not seem convinced by my assertions that they had been drafted in to help secure the northern border. You should expect the imminent arrival of clandestine agents to investigate.

  With regard to the other matter, my initial attempt failed. I have arranged for him to be sent on what is likely a suicide mission. If he survives it, I have hired men to wait for his return, and make sure he is not seen again. It is not as ideal a solution as disgracing him, but he is a dangerous character and I am doing all I can to remove him from the picture.

  GRENVILLE’S WORDS confirmed what Rodulf had expected. He had never really believed that anyone in Brixen would swallow their cover story—the Markgraf had been amassing too much power and wealth for too long. It would be interesting to see how they reacted. Might the princess’s spies have already arrived?

  He didn’t have long to ponder the matter. After a cursory knock, his clerk came into the office.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s cause for concern, my lord,’ he said, ‘but the latest silver convoy is overdue.’

  ‘How overdue?’

  ‘It should have been in yesterday.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’ Rodulf said. He had become so used to the steady stream of silver that he hadn’t paid any attention to the logistics. Every time he asked after one, the answer was the same—it had arrived on schedule and was taken to the treasury for unloading and minting.

  ‘They can be a little late,’ he said, ‘but this is the latest one so far. By quite some margin.’

  The Markgraf’s treasury was under severe strain. Only the constant arrival of fresh supplies of silver kept it from collapsing entirely. There was barely enough time to smelt the silver and mint fresh coin before it went out in payment—on more than one occasion, he had hefted bags of coin that were still warm just before they were handed over. The next payments to the mercenary companies were due the following day, and there was not enough in the coffers to cover the bill. The mint would have been working around the clock to make sure the coin was ready. It still amazed him how quickly one could spend through such a huge fortune.

  ‘Send out gallopers to see what the delay is,’ Rodulf said. ‘With a little luck it’s simply a case of a wagon having broken an axle, but I want the shipment here before nightfall.’

  ‘I’ll get right on it,’ the clerk said, before leaving.

  Rodulf scratched his chin and stared out the window at the grey citadel walls. As he thought, a lurking suspicion grew in his mind, until he became convinced of it. This was dal Geerdorf’s move. He was behind the delayed silver. Rodulf smiled to himself. The man was shrewd. It was the most powerful strike he could make without directly attacking Rodulf.

  He could step in and save the day with the silver he had himself stolen. That would make Rodulf look like he was not up to the job, and push some of the noblemen who remained on the fence—most of them, if he was being honest with himself—over onto dal Geerdorf’s side. On the list of things he had to attend to, this had propelled itself straight to the top. Sending gallopers to find out what happened to the money wasn’t enough. This was something he needed to oversee himself.

  ‘Have horses readied for me,’ Rodulf shouted. ‘And the Blood Blades.’ He could hear a commotion out at his clerk’s desk, so knew he’d been heard.

  He looked at the pile of letters on his desk, and spotted one with the address written in a familiar hand. A sixth letter. To distract him from the missing silver? He picked it up and tapped it on his desk, wrestling with the decision to read it. His mind was made up that dal Geerdorf was behind it, and he did not want to discover something that suggested otherwise—he had far too much to deal with already. He tossed it back onto the pile. If dal Geerdorf thought his silly little game was having any effect, if it was going to distract Rodulf from what he was up to, he was sorely mistaken. As soon as Rodulf recovered the silver, Henselman dal Geerdorf was going to learn a very painful lesson about which of them was the better man.

  CHAPTER 29

  Wulfric stepped off the ledge onto the gentle slope that led to the valley floor. It was the first time he had relaxed in hours, and he revelled in the space he had to move around in. As he massaged his strained neck muscles, he looked back and traced the ledge’s path along the side of the mountain, leading back up to the defile and higher plateau from which he had come. The scar left by the avalanche stood out—a black and brown streak surrounded by pristine white snow. He wondered if he would have to take the same route out, but was hopeful that he might be able to find another way.

  From where he stood, the Fork was clearly visible. It rose up on the far side of the small valley, its three slender peaks resembling three great prongs. The rolling white surface of the valley floor looked inviting and hinted that he would be able to make better time from there on, but he remembered Aethelman’s warnings before his pilgrimage, of a sea of ice rent with great cracks from which there was no escape if you fell in. Under that smooth snowy surface, there might not be any solid ground at all. It was a sobering thought at a moment where he hoped the most perilous part of the journey might be over.

  He had been so caught up in surviving his traverse along the ledge that he had not noticed that the gentle tug on his being had grown stronger, but it was noticeably so now. There was magic in that valley, and it was drawing him toward it. When he focussed on the sensation, he could feel his teeth start to chatter, a sign that replaced the fatigue that gripped him with the excitement that he might actually find the ancient forge.

  Slowly working his way along the ledge had taken all night and dawn was well past, so he looked around for a sheltered spot to make camp, where he would be safe from another avalanche. He had made enough ill-considered choices for one day, and he didn’t intend to blindly walk into a great crevasse and kill himself just because he was too tired to notice, having come so far.

  THE SUN WAS high in the sky when Wulfric woke. It had been a short sleep, but enough to take the edge off his tiredness. He had found a rocky alcove where he was out of the wind, but his tinder and food had all gone with his backpack in the avalanche, so he had to rely on fur for warmth. He had built a wall of snow around his nook to try and keep in some warmth while allowing the sun’s heat in, but the frozen ground had sucked the heat from his body even through his thick clothing. He was tired and stiff when he woke, and he wished for nothing more than the journey to be over. The view he was greeted with when he pushed his way through the snow wall took his breath away, and for a moment made it all feel worthwhile.

  The sky was a deep crystal blue, and the snow reflected the brilliance of the sun, with the countless ice crystals sparkling like stars. The peaks rose majestically, their sharp rocky edges contrasting against t
he soft curves of the snow. There was not a breath of wind, and the day was utterly silent. It was the most serene thing Wulfric had ever experienced, and he could not help but pause for a moment to take it in.

  Wulfric allowed himself to feel the pull, so strong now his destination felt familiar. With nothing to pack, he started to walk, allowing whatever it was that pulled on him to guide him to his destination. He turned his mind to how it all worked—magic and the way the gods still influenced the world of men, even though they had long since departed it. He wondered if they still kept watch on these southern parts, or if they had turned their backs on them now that different gods were worshipped there. Perhaps they were all one and the same, merely known by different names in different places. He wondered what Aethelman would have to say about it all, and regretted never having thought of the question when he had the opportunity to ask it.

  Step after step, he ploughed his way through the deep snow. He had seen no indication of great holes lurking under the surface waiting to swallow him up, so he quickened his pace, feeling ever more confident that he was headed in the right direction and that the gods would not have seen him come so far to allow him to stray into a crevasse.

  He covered the distance across the valley floor before the sun had dropped below the western peaks. The sky was still clear—a deep blue, like the gems found in Godsteel ore. With the fair weather, Wulfric had not needed magic to aid him in his journey for very long. A dark shape came into view at the foot of the Fork’s central prong by the time he was halfway across the valley, growing and becoming clearer as Wulfric got closer. It was a portico cut from the mountain’s rock—two great pillars with a lintel capping them. His skin tingled with excitement as he closed the distance. He could see the detail work on the stone, huge swirling patterns and stylised representations of great and fearsome beasts—wolves, belek, dragons, and creatures he could not identify. Before long, he was standing before the cavernous mouth to what could only be the ancient and legendary Forge of Wolundr. He could scarcely believe that it still existed, and that he had found it.