WULFRIC HAD BROUGHT tinder and a lamp with him, expecting that his journey might well lead him into a place where artificial light would be needed. Sadly they, along with everything else in his pack, had been carried away with the avalanche. Wulfric stood at the threshold of the entrance looking at the clear line of shadow on the ground. He hesitated for a moment before stepping over it. He could feel the power that resided within the darkness, a match at least for that which he had experienced at Jorundyr’s Rock. It was unsettling, but alluring at the same time.
He swallowed hard and stepped forward, crossing into the darkness and expecting something to happen all the while, but nothing did. The darkness was complete—there was no question of his eyes adjusting to it once he ventured farther in. However, it was supposed to be a forge, so he expected there would be a great deal of flammable material lying around. The difficult part would be to light it.
He went outside again, and walked along the mountain’s foot, studying the rock as he went. He did not have to go far before finding a vein of quartz. He took his dagger from his belt and bashed at the quartz with the pommel until a fist-sized chunk broke off. He tore a section of cloth from the tail of his linen shirt reluctantly, and returned to the forge.
It took some shuffling around on his hands and knees, but eventually he found a few pieces of old, dry wood, and piled them up near the entrance where there was still light enough to see. He took to one of the pieces of wood with his dagger until it was a pile of kindling, then placed the piece of cloth on the ground, and the quartz on top of it.
He drew his dagger once more and hit the quartz, the ringing sound of the strike echoing through what was obviously a large chamber. Nothing happened, so he hit it harder, producing the sought-after spark. It didn’t catch, but it made Wulfric smile all the same. He hit it again and again, until finally one of the sparks found its way into the weave of the linen and began to smoulder. He placed some of the kindling on top, and blew on it gently, watching the faint red glow grow across the fabric, and then take to the kindling. Once it had jumped into a flame, he placed more tinder on, then some of the larger pieces of wood. In moments, the flame had taken the dry wood in its grasp, and the antechamber to the forge was bathed in warm light, giving Wulfric his first glimpse of Wolundr’s Forge.
CHAPTER 30
Rodulf hurried out of his office, having sent the Blood Blades on ahead of him to make sure they were ready to ride the moment he got there. He rued having to spend any time traipsing about the country, but the silver convoy was not something he could leave to someone else. He needed to see first-hand what was going on with the shipment—it was their lifeblood, and if it was cut off their plan, and Rodulf’s dream, would wither and die. If it turned out to be dal Geerdorf’s first strike against him, he had to know.
He took the proffered cloak from his clerk without missing a step, and headed for the stable courtyard. He had considered rallying more men from the palace garrison, but reckoned the Blood Blades would be more than enough of a match for whatever ne’er-do-wells and cutthroats dal Geerdorf had hired. Speed was of paramount importance. Rodulf didn’t like heading out of the city in the evening, but if the silver had indeed been stolen, the longer they delayed the harder the trail would be to follow. At worst he might be waylaid by bandits, of whom the Blood Blades would certainly have the measure. If he did not have all of that silver in the treasury by the next day, the mercenary companies might go rogue—or worse, ally with dal Geerdorf.
There was a movement in the shadows to his left, but Rodulf didn’t pay it any attention. The palace was a busy place, and there were always a lot of people around, not all of whom wanted to be seen. It might have been nobles in a scandalous tryst, but Rodulf had no interest in such things, unless there was a leveraging value to be had. That evening he had no time to dally to find out, so he walked on. A shape burst from the shadow, and some instinct—his old warrior training, perhaps—caused him to jump backwards, and out of the way of a blade that swished through the space he had just been standing in.
He was momentarily fixated on the figure standing before him. Clad all in black with his face covered by a mask, he looked every inch the professional killer. It had been a long time since anyone had tried to kill him. He had liked to think of himself as the wolf among the sheep, but the person standing before him clearly thought he was anything but. Rodulf wondered how he had gotten into the palace—who might have let him in?
Rodulf scrabbled at his belt to free his dagger—his sword was out in the stable yard with his horse—but his right hand and arm were so clumsy they almost felt like they didn’t belong to him.
The assassin came forward in a low crouch, his knife held out before him. Rodulf had his dagger free, but he could not remember the last time he had practised with a blade in hand. He dropped it and shoved his hand into his pocket, where the Stone waited for him.
‘Alarm!’ he shouted. ‘Alarm! Assassin!’
He could see the assassin smile beneath his mask, and he lunged. Rodulf took a step back, and realised that he wasn’t afraid—the Stone would protect him. He watched the assassin with a detached curiosity as he extended into his attack, wondering how the Stone would save him. The assassin stopped with a jerk. A trickle of blood ran down the bridge of his nose. Rodulf took another step back, wondering at how the Stone could have done this. Then he saw the Blood Blade.
One of his towering bodyguards stood behind the assassin, his broad knife firmly lodged in the assassin’s skull. He twisted it, and the assassin’s head split in two with a sickening pop.
‘I thought I sent you out to the horses?’ Rodulf said.
‘One of us is always watching,’ the Blood Blade said, his voice deep and earthy.
Rodulf realised that it was the closest thing to a conversation he had ever had with one of them, as guardsmen started to arrive on the scene. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves.
‘You,’ he said, to one of the guardsman. ‘I want every item on this man’s person to be preserved untouched until I return. Is that very clear?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ he said.
‘Every. Single. Item,’ Rodulf said. ‘I’ll be investigating this myself.’
He beckoned for the Blood Blade to follow him. War had started, and he didn’t like the fact that he was not the one who had fired the first volley.
THE FRESH AIR and the feel of a galloping horse came as a relief. After Rodulf’s brush with the assassin, being out in the open where he could see for miles around was exactly what he needed. It took him a few moments to clear his head and reorder his thoughts. It didn’t particularly matter who had tried to kill him. It was reasonable to assume dal Geerdorf was behind it, although he supposed that dal Kunnersbek was still smarting over the loss of a finger, and was equally likely to be behind it. Perhaps they had even collaborated. One thing was for certain, however—his status as the Markgraf’s heir was not providing the shield he had thought it would.
Dal Geerdorf had to go, and soon. He had been saying it to himself for days, yet he had done nothing about it. He was constantly on the back foot, which meant he had allowed dal Geerdorf to take the initiative. It was galling to think he had been outsmarted. It was past time to stop reacting to things. The moment he got back, dal Geerdorf would be his focus until the man was no longer a threat. If he could be linked to the attempt, Rodulf could have him executed for treason without too many formalities to observe. The same could be said for dal Kunnersbek and anyone else he could draw into the plot, and it might in fact prove to be a useful tool to remove some of whose support he was least confident.
The road to Leondorf had once been wild, and the journey punishing. Bandits from both sides of the border had preyed on travellers, with only the lure of pelts, gems, and silver tempting hardy and infrequent merchants from the south to make the journey. The Markgraf’s expansion and annexation had altered that, and the discovery of silver in vast quantities even more so. Rodulf couldn’
t remember the last time he had heard of an attack on the road, as it was so regularly policed by the Markgraf’s soldiers.
He noted that even the road surface had improved markedly since his last passage along it. Holes and ruts were few, showing the evidence of regular maintenance, something that would have been unthinkable before the silver started flowing south. It meant they could make good time as their horses beat out their northward path at a gallop. They would be passing through open farmland until they neared the border, when the great forests that the Northlands were famous for started to make an appearance. It was there, with the benefit of easy concealment, that Rodulf suspected any potential attack on the silver wagons would have occurred.
There were two wagons scheduled for that delivery—large, heavy contraptions drawn by teams of oxen. They were fully laden, carrying a value of nearly two hundred thousand crowns. It was a tempting target for anyone, which was why they were well guarded. In this instance, he feared the protection had not been enough. The only advantage he had was that the wagons moved slowly, and that much silver would be difficult to hide. With a little luck he and the Blood Blades would be able to pick up the trail quickly.
They continued at a backside-numbing pace through the night, before taking a short break at a way station to change to fresh horses and have a quick breakfast. By mid-morning, they had reached the fringe of the forest, and the river that had traditionally marked Ruripathia’s northern border by noon. Once there, they slowed their pace. It was most likely that whoever attacked the wagons would have come from the south. An attack from the Northlanders would have happened much farther north, closer to their own territories.
The Blood Blades rode in silence, large, sinister, but diligent, scanning the ground for tracks that might be relevant. It suited Rodulf—he despised small talk, and appreciated their silent, foreboding nature. He thought through how he would have gone about pulling off the heist. It would make sense for a southern assailant to attack it somewhere they would need to take it only the shortest distance to their hiding place, where it could be broken up and moved on to its intended destination piecemeal. At that point there was no chance of happening upon a delayed convoy, but he felt confident they would not have to go much farther to find out what had happened to it.
Before long, one of the Blood Blades spotted a pile of bodies a few paces into the tree line, crudely concealed beneath some branches and leaves. Rodulf dismounted and walked into the undergrowth for a closer look. He didn’t expect that any of the men still lived, but it was worth a try. Whoever had done it had clearly been in a hurry to get as far from the spot as they could—not much effort had been made to conceal them. He walked among the bodies, giving them an occasional nudge with his boot. None lived. The corpses all wore the Markgraf’s livery, and they were liberally peppered with arrows. It didn’t look as though they had managed to kill any of their attackers, or if they had, the bodies had been taken away.
‘Well, one mystery solved,’ Rodulf said, returning to his horse. ‘Now we just need to work out where the wagons went.’
Rodulf breathed deeply of the fresh pine air as the Blood Blades inspected the tracks on the road, and was amazed by how familiar it felt. He had become used to the smell of the city—so many things blended together you could rarely tell what anything was, and even more rarely would you care to. It was still there, amongst the trees. The city, even in the middle of the night, was a living, breathing thing. Whether it was bakers on the way to their shops to start their ovens in anticipation of the coming day, or cutpurses hoping to encounter a drunk on his way home from a tavern, there was always movement. It was so still in the forest that he was sure he could hear his heart beating, something he realised he should be grateful for after his encounter in the palace.
He watched the Blood Blades inspect the marks on the road, and was disappointed by how little he saw. The surface was hard and in good condition—there was little to go on. However, Rodulf had spent the better part of his youth chasing rabbits and boar through the forest, and even that fat little turd who had taken his eye and murdered his father, and that skill stood him in good stead. A wagon laden with silver and pulled by a team of oxen did not pass without leaving a trail to follow. He rode over to them, and looked down at one mark in particular, letting his eye lose focus and his mind fill in the details.
‘South,’ he said. ‘We must have already passed them.’
CHAPTER 31
Wulfric took one of the larger pieces of burning wood and stood, looking around the chamber. Parts of it seemed to be a natural cave, whereas other areas bore the marks of having been cut back and smoothed to make a regular shape out of an old cavern. In some places there was heavy engraving in the stone, symbols and shapes that he had seen before, but didn’t understand. They had graced the standing stone in the field beside Leondorf, and Jorundyr’s Rock in the High Places, but held no greater meaning for him now than they had then.
He traced a shape that had to be a symbol rather than a word. There was a serpent wrapped around a circle. It looked as though it was trying to swallow the shape. Wulfric wondered what it meant, and felt again the absence of Aethelman, who no doubt would have been able to explain it to him. He wondered if the old man was still in Leondorf, or if he had returned to the wandering ways of the Grey Priests. There were many more reliefs on the wall, all accompanied by the ancient text that he had seen before, filling Wulfric with a sense of wonderment at how such an important place could become an empty, dead shell.
Wulfric could work out the meaning of some of the symbols. There was one of a man defiantly standing, sword in hand, before what could only be a demon. Wulfric knew immediately it was an image of Jorundyr and his battle against the Draugr King. His thoughts jumped back to the barrow, and what he had seen there. It seemed impossible that it was Fanrac’s resting place, but at the time he had felt convinced.
‘See something that interests you?’
Wulfric jumped in fright, but reacted quickly and dropped into a crouch. He drew his sword and held the torch out in front of him as he searched for the source of the voice. It took him a moment to realise that it had seemed to come from everywhere.
‘Well?’ the voice said.
There was still nothing about it that indicated where it had come from. Wulfric turned in every direction, scanning the dark room for anything out of the ordinary.
‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘You’re the one who’s trespassing,’ the voice said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Is it the norm now to enter another’s dwelling and to make demands of them? Who are you?’ the voice said.
‘I am Wul— Ulfyr. I am Ulfyr of the Northlands,’ Wulfric said.
‘That’s odd,’ the voice said. ‘I see you stand on two legs, not four.’
‘It’s just a name,’ Wulfric said. ‘Nothing more.’
‘The name of a Son of Agnarr who has made the arduous journey to find this place. That is something more,’ the voice said. ‘Something no one has attempted in a very long time.’
‘Are you Wolundr?’ Wulfric said.
There was silence for a moment, then a chuckle. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
Wulfric could still not work out where the voice was coming from. ‘That’s not possible,’ he said. ‘You should have died centuries ago.’
‘There wouldn’t have been much point in coming all this way if all you expected to find was a pile of bones,’ Wolundr said.
‘I was hoping to find a finished blade,’ Wulfric said. ‘Or perhaps some forged Godsteel.’
‘Of course you were,’ Wolundr said. ‘That is why everyone came here.’
Wulfric could not be sure, but the voice seemed to be coming from the dark passageway leading farther into the mountain. He couldn’t be sure, though—at times it still seemed as though the voice was coming from everywhere, which was starting to give Wulfric a headache.
‘I have coin to pay,’ Wulfric said.
/> ‘You think coin is of any use here?’ Wolundr said.
‘What payment would you have?’ Wulfric said.
‘You suppose that I will give you a blade,’ Wolundr said. ‘Such expectation could get a Son of Agnarr killed.’
‘Why do you call me a “Son of Agnarr”?’ Wulfric said, tightening the grip on his sword.
‘You are a man, are you not?’ Wolundr said.
Wulfric nodded, but was not sure if Wolundr could see him. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then you are a Son of Agnarr.’
Wulfric frowned. Did that mean Wolundr was not? ‘Why don’t you show yourself?’
‘Because I choose not to,’ Wolundr said, his voice deepening to an intimidating rumble. ‘Tell me, Son of Agnarr, what have you done to deserve a hero’s blade?’
‘I…’ Wulfric said, but faltered. ‘I don’t know. Nothing perhaps. Yet.’
Wolundr laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. ‘An interesting answer, but not entirely accurate.’
Wulfric could hear a deep inhale.
‘You have the smell of a belek about you. The beast’s magic and essence lingers with those who have killed one. But it’s not just one, is it, Ulfyr?’ Wolundr laughed again. ‘Now I understand. Ulfyr. Did you give yourself that name?’
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 21
