‘No,’ Wulfric said. ‘It was meant to be a joke. It stuck.’
Wolundr chuckled. ‘You’ve killed two, haven’t you? An old male, and a juvenile, seeking her first taste of man-flesh. She would have killed many more had she defeated you. Many Children of Agnarr owe you their lives for that, whether they know it or not. It could be said that warrants a hero’s blade. But there’s more, isn’t there? Much more.’
Wulfric felt a shiver run down his spine. His skin had been tingling ever since entering the Forge—the magic there was powerful—but Wolundr was beginning to frighten him. That the ancient smith still lived raised many questions, but Wulfric was not sure he wanted to know the answers.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Wulfric said.
‘Oh, but I think you do, Son of Agnarr—or should I say, Chosen of Jorundyr? I can taste it on the air. It is a long time since a Son of Agnarr has been chosen in the old way. Many, many years, even before I began my sleep, but I suppose it makes sense, considering I can smell the filth of draugar on you. Are there many of them?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Wulfric said.
‘I have slept for a very long time,’ Wolundr said. ‘But I have been awake now for a day. At first I thought it was the avalanche that woke me, but then I realised it would take far more than that, and it was only the final shove. It seems I am not the only thing to have lain dormant, but is once again revived. The Gods’ Spring grows strong again, stronger than it was before I slept. Interesting times lie ahead, I suspect. Draugar rarely appear alone.’
‘There were four. I cut one’s head off and burned it, then burned the others and sealed the barrow they were in.’
‘The appropriate course of action,’ Wolundr said. ‘It is comforting to know that such knowledge survives. Do the emperors still rule in the south?’
Wulfric shook his head, and again had to remind himself that Wolundr might not be able to see him. ‘No. Not for centuries.’
‘It was to be expected, I suppose.’
‘Will you show yourself?’ Wulfric said, taking a step forward.
‘If you hope to leave this place alive, with a hero’s blade, you will remain where you are,’ Wolundr said. There was a harsh edge to his voice.
As curious as Wulfric was, he thought the advice was best taken to heart. He stopped.
‘Good,’ Wolundr said. ‘You will remain in that room while you are here. If you attempt to explore, any agreement we may come to will be at an end and you will do well to leave here with your life. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Wulfric said.
‘Good. So we will begin. Against the back wall of the room you are in, there is a large open forge. There should be enough wood and char lying about the place to fill it. Do so, and set it alight.’
Wulfric wasted no time in searching about the antechamber for wood. He found a large pile stacked in a corner and went about transferring it until the stone forge was full. He could see a gap in the wall allowing the hot embers to fall through into the room behind. He tried to look through as surreptitiously as he could while he loaded in the wood, but it was too dark on the other side to see anything. The only thing of note was a musty smell carried out by an occasional breeze.
With the trough full, and satisfied that there was enough wood at hand to keep the flames fuelled, Wulfric threw his torch in.
‘The fire’s lit,’ Wulfric said.
‘Good,’ Wolundr said. ‘Now we wait for it to get hot.’
Wulfric nodded, certain now that Wolundr was able to see him, however he did it. He sat cross-legged near the forge to await further instruction. It was exciting to think a hero’s blade was about to be made for him. He wondered what it would look like, and how his would differ from the others.
‘Did the Empire swallow the world whole?’ Wolundr asked.
‘I don’t know much about it. It came as far north as the Alner river, but no further. It’s been gone for hundreds of years, broken up into different countries.’
‘It was devouring every piece of land it could find before I slept,’ Wolundr said. ‘Their magisters drained the Gods’ Spring—the Fount, they called it—as though it was a limitless pool. They destroyed everything of the old ways that fell before them. Killed anything they disagreed with, or didn’t understand.’
Wulfric had no idea what to say in response. Wolundr spoke of things that were little more than hazy stories of the distant past to Wulfric.
‘Some things survived, however,’ Wolundr said. ‘Like this forge. And it seems the Spring has slowly refilled and ancient relics like me have awoken.’
‘Did you meet Jorundyr?’ Wulfric said. To think he might be sitting in the same spot, for the same reason, as Jorundyr had been centuries before made him giddy.
‘I met the man who became Jorundyr,’ Wolundr said. ‘Just as I have met the man who will become Ulfyr.’ He laughed. ‘Now, it is time for the hard work. There is a bellows on the right of the forge. Start pumping it. And make sure the fire is well-fuelled. If it dies down the steel will be ruined.’
Covered beneath a thick layer of dust, there was indeed a bellows. Wulfric started to pump it, hearing the surge of air fan the flames. In only a few pumps, the heat had increased noticeably. Wulfric thought he could hear movement on the other side of the wall, and did his best to see through the hole now that the fire was casting light into the other room, but the heat of the flames was too great and all he got for the effort was stinging, watering eyes.
‘This steel is old indeed,’ Wolundr said. ‘Short of finding a perfectly preserved ancient blade, you will encounter no better. Now to start.’
Wulfric heard the first chime of hammer upon steel. The sound was odd, not at all what he had expected. It was almost musical.
‘I haven’t decided what type of blade I want,’ Wulfric said, panicked that he had forgotten to broach the matter.
Wolundr laughed. ‘You don’t get to choose. You take what you are given. It was once said that the blade chooses you, but that is old nonsense. It all comes down to what I feel like making.’
It gave Wulfric cause for concern. What if Wolundr made him one of the ancient, heavy bone-breakers that were favoured in the old times, like the ceremonial sword that Aethelman had used for warrior selection in the glade by the village? If Wolundr had been asleep for as long as he had claimed, then he would have no idea what sword shapes were currently favoured.
‘A backsword,’ Wulfric said, hastily. ‘A gentle curve with one sharpened edge. That’s what I prefer.’
‘Do you think me a fool, Son of Agnarr?’ Wolundr said.
There was such force to his words, Wulfric almost thought the flames had been fanned by them.
‘No, of course not,’ Wulfric said.
‘I see the essence of the steel,’ he said, his words accented with sibilance. ‘I see what it wishes to become. It knows what will be expected of it, and it will choose the form best suited to that. I merely guide it to its final shape. You will take what I give you, Wulfric Wolframson.’
Wulfric felt the chill run down his spine again. How could Wolundr have known what his real name was? He wanted to ask, but feared he had antagonised the smith enough already. He turned his mind instead to the thought of not having any say in what type of sword was made for him. He wanted to have input into what he thought would be as much a part of him as his own arm, but now he feared he would be left with an interesting story and an object of curiosity that would be of no use to him.
He heard the hammer ring out again and again. Between each strike he thought he heard Wolundr whisper, but the words were drowned out by the rush of the flames. The beat of the hammer was rhythmic and mesmerising, accompanied by a bright musical chime, the note of which seemed to change subtly with each strike. Wulfric began to sweat as the antechamber grew hot, and took off his furs until he sat only in his britches and linen shirt. Just a few paces away, he would freeze to death in moments, but by the forge it was as hot as the plain
s of Darvaros. It was a startling contrast.
The hammering continued through the day, with Wolundr shouting to Wulfric to pump the bellows or add wood to the forge. The hammer rang out with an unfaltering rhythm, and Wulfric wondered how Wolundr had the strength and stamina to keep going.
His chanting grew in volume until Wulfric could hear each word clearly above the sound of the hammering and the raging fire in the forge. His exposed skin felt as though he had spent a full day out in the Darvarosian sun. Feeding the fire and working the bellows had taken its toll. His back and arms ached from the unfamiliar work, and he knew he was paying the price of an easy life at the palace.
As it began to grow darker outside, Wulfric could tell they were reaching the apex of their efforts. Wolundr’s chant had reached manic proportions, and it seemed to blend with the musical chime from the hammer on the steel like some strange duet. Wolundr’s voice had taken on a strange tone, unlike anything Wulfric had heard coming from a man before, but he was too busy loading wood into the fire and pumping the bellows to pay it much thought.
‘Now is the moment, Wulfric Wolframson,’ Wolundr shouted. ‘Now is the crux of it all! Pump the bellows for all you are worth!’
Wulfric dumped the load of wood he had been carrying unceremoniously into the trough, and grabbed the bellows, working it with as much force as he could muster. He listened to the great whoosh of air with satisfaction, while Wolundr’s chanting grew louder and higher in pitch with each passing word.
There was a bright blue flash in the antechamber, and the raging maelstrom of red, white, and yellow flames retreated below the lip of the trough as though it had been chastised into quiet obedience. It changed to a crystal blue, like a lake on a summer’s day, and glowed benignly over the charred wood within. So shocked was Wulfric that he momentarily forgot to work the bellows, but hastened to it again in a moment of panic. Now, however, the flames did not seem to react to the air. They had taken on an entirely new character, oblivious to all outside influences. It was no longer fire—it was pure magical energy. Wulfric realised the chanting had stopped, and the hammering was only intermittent.
‘Have we finished?’ Wulfric said.
‘No,’ Wolundr said, his voice sounding weary for the first time. ‘We are far from finished, but the hard part is done. You may rest if you need to. The fire will take care of itself until the process is ended.’
Wulfric walked to his bearskins and lay down, staring up at the ceiling. He had not realised how exhausted he was and drowsiness engulfed him. As he drifted off to sleep, he lazily watched the blue lights coruscating along the ceiling in little bursts like lightning. He thought how beautiful they looked, and his last thought before sleep took him was of Adalhaid.
CHAPTER 32
Rodulf grudgingly had to admit that his tracking skills were not what they had once been, but even if they were as sharp as a tack, he would have had difficulty following the trail on the firm road. It was well travelled, and he was thankful that he had come upon it as fresh as it was. Several times he had to backtrack to make sure he had not missed the wagons turning off the main road. Another day or two—had he waited long enough for the gallopers to find the bodies and return to him—and the silver would have vanished without a trace.
Happily for Rodulf, not all roads were as well maintained as the main one leading back to Elzburg, and the point at which the carts left it was so clear even a blind man could have found it. Had they not been travelling north at such speed, he would have seen it then, and likely have been tempted to try his luck. At least now, though, he was certain these tracks had been left by his silver wagons.
He paused and studied the trail. It led off into farmland—to the best of his knowledge there were no villages in that direction. So soon after his encounter with the assassin, it occurred to him that the whole thing could be a ruse to draw him out. The assassin may have been an opportunistic attempt, but mainly intended to distract him so that he was not expecting the true trap with the stolen silver. Was he being paranoid? He had done nothing to give anyone the impression he was a man of action, however. There was no reason for them to think he might have gone out after it himself. He shook his head. He was overthinking things, and second-guessing himself. That was the real distraction. He gestured for the Blood Blades to advance along the track, and followed.
To call the trail they followed a road was overstating things. It was nothing more than the shadow on the ground indicating an infrequently used path, with the recently pressed wagon tracks defining it more clearly than anything that had been there before. The countryside rolled on to the horizon, green fields occasionally punctuated by the brown of freshly ploughed ones.
Rodulf felt his anxiety build as they moved along the trail. What if the silver had already been broken up and moved on? He did not have the time or resources to chase it down if it was now in a dozen or so smaller shipments. How long would it take to get more sent down from the mines? He felt the all-too-familiar sensation of pressure on his chest, as though his heart was being squeezed. For a moment, he even wondered if it was all worthwhile. He would have reached for the Stone, but the pain it was causing him was almost unbearable. Abstinence relieved the matter, but as soon as his use became frequent, the speed with which the pain grew increased.
A farmhouse hove into view, grabbing his attention. It bore all the hallmarks of dereliction—dark, mossy thatch, faded window shutters, and grass covering the path leading to the door. To Rodulf’s delight, there was a small paddock set up beside it containing a dozen oxen. He halted the Blood Blades and surveyed the scene. He couldn’t see the wagons, but they could easily be concealed behind the house. It didn’t look like there was anyone around, but he knew they needed to be careful.
Rodulf chewed on his lip as he considered what to do. They were completely unprepared for assaulting the farmhouse, particularly if whoever was inside was expecting trouble. The easiest thing would be to wait in hiding until anyone inside came out, then fill them full of arrows. That was assuming there was anyone inside, and that they had not already departed with the silver.
They dismounted and tied their horses up out of sight before working their way around the farmhouse, moving from cover to cover to fully survey the challenge before them. To Rodulf’s great relief, the carts were there and appeared to still be heavily loaded. By the time they had circled the house, they had counted two doors and four windows that were covered by wooden shutters. A fast and aggressive entry by both doors simultaneously seemed like the best option, so Rodulf divided the Blood Blades into two groups, and they took their positions.
The excitement made Rodulf’s skin tingle. This was what it would have been like to be a warrior. More than a warrior—the leader of a war band. The thought that he would soon be so much more than that excited him even more. Soon, he would be a warrior king. Soon, he could be whatever he wanted to be. The thought made him smile. So close now.
He waved his hand to order the Blood Blades forward, no longer having a concern for what might await them inside. There were few men who would be able to fight off a surprise attack from four Blood Blades.
‘Try to keep one of them alive,’ Rodulf said.
They moved into action without hesitation. He positioned himself near one of the doorways, ready to follow them once they had cleared the house of threats.
There was a loud crash of splintering wood as the Blood Blades kicked in the doors, then roars as they entered the house. The air was filled with shouts, clashes of steel, and screams. A man ran from the house, not someone Rodulf had ever seen before. Rodulf drew his sword and ran him through. The thrill of battle coursed through Rodulf’s veins, and he ran into the farmhouse, struck immediately by the metallic tang of blood.
There were half a dozen corpses on the floor, but all of his Blood Blades were standing. Two were tending to small cuts, but they appeared otherwise unharmed. The other two were carefully cleaning their broad-bladed knives.
‘A goo
d fight,’ one of the Blood Blades said.
Another chuckled in agreement.
Rodulf felt the thrill of combat fade as quickly as it had hit him, to be replaced by disappointment. There was nothing in the room but dead bodies.
‘I thought I said to keep one alive,’ Rodulf said.
One of the Blood Blades shrugged, while the others ignored him completely.
‘Go outside,’ Rodulf said to one of the uninjured Blood Blades, trying not to sound too exasperated with them. With their blood up, he didn’t want them to decide they weren’t done with killing for the day. ‘Make sure it actually is silver under those tarpaulins.’
Rodulf stepped forward and started to give the bodies a closer look. At first glance there wasn’t much to differentiate them from ordinary bandits, but that was probably the intention. He poked and prodded to see if there was anything that would reveal who was behind it. None of them would be doing any talking now, so he had to rest his hopes on one of them having been careless enough to carry something that would give them away.
He searched the first body, but there was nothing to tell Rodulf who he was or where he was from. He moved on to the next, and it was the same thing. He continued until he had examined all of the men in the farm house, from their clothing to the contents of their pockets and purses, but there was nothing that gave him the information he was looking for.
He looked around in exasperation, wondering if there was anything else there that might point a finger in the right direction, but there was nothing. It was clear that the men had not expected to be waiting there for very long. They hadn’t even brought anything with them to eat.
‘Bring the body in from outside,’ Rodulf said. ‘And fetch the horses around to the back of the house. Be quick about it.’
In some things, the Blood Blades followed his orders to the letter. It was only a shame that they had not been able to control themselves and leave someone alive for him to question. He too had felt the lust of battle, however, so could not judge them too harshly.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 22
