‘Both would be good,’ Wulfric said.
Gunther started to pour a mug of ale. ‘Were your travels a success?’
Wulfric shook his head. ‘It’s a big area. Too much for one man to search on his own.’
‘So I can expect to see you pass this way again?’
‘Mayhap,’ Wulfric said. ‘Have you had any more problems with the…?’ He nodded his head in the direction of the barrow.
‘Nothing,’ Gunther said. ‘All the nightmares in the village have stopped too. Looks like you got them all.’
Wulfric nodded with satisfaction. ‘It’s somewhere no one can ever go again, whatever the temptation. You understand that, don’t you?’
Gunther nodded. ‘I know what I saw, and I know the temptation I felt when I saw it, but I’m away from it now, and have all I could want for here. There’s nothing there that’d make me any happier, and I’ll be sure to tell no one else of what I saw.’
‘That’s for the best,’ Wulfric said.
‘Your horse wandered into town the afternoon after you left,’ Gunther said. ‘We were worried for you.’
Wulfric shrugged.
‘Well, we reckoned if you can kill draugar and belek without breaking a sweat, there’s nothing in the mountains that could get the better of you.’
Wulfric let out a snort of laughter before he could stop it. Just mention of the words ‘belek’ and ‘draugar’ reminded him of the bowel-loosening fear he had felt at every encounter.
‘Anyhow, she’s in the paddock. I’ll see about that food.’
It was only once he was gone that Wulfric realised Gunther had not looked him in the eye once during their entire conversation. His first thought was that Gunther was lying about the treasure he had seen in the barrow, and that he had either already been back, or intended to go back. One way or the other, it was not much Wulfric’s concern—he had done all he felt could be expected of him.
The door opened, and four men Wulfric had never seen before walked in. It took only a glance to be certain that none of them were from Ulmdorf. They were dressed like mercenaries, their clothes tough and suitable for a life on the road. Their weapons were in full view, and had the look of regular use and good care. Three of them carried rapiers, while the fourth had a sabre, like Wulfric. At first he hoped they were not there for him, but even as the hope entered his mind, he knew it to be forlorn.
‘Captain Ulfyr, so glad to see you,’ one of the men said. ‘I was worried we’d be waiting here for weeks. We only arrived this morning, so the timing is perfect.’
They were all trim and fit-looking men, the type who were called ‘bravos’ in the city.
Wulfric turned on the barstool to face them properly, but did not stand. ‘You friends of Haldan?’
The man looked puzzled and scratched at his moustache. ‘Never heard of him.’
Wulfric shrugged. ‘I expect you share an employer. Don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who that is?’
The man smiled and shook his head.
‘No, didn’t think so,’ Wulfric said. ‘You’re right, though; the timing is perfect.’
The man looked even more puzzled. Wulfric slid his blade from the cloth covering he still had it in, and let it sit across his lap. He had thought the blade would go unbloodied a while, but perhaps that would not be the case.
‘You know who I am,’ Wulfric said. ‘So I give you credit for your bravery in coming here at all.’ If he was to have a reputation, he thought he might as well try to benefit from it. ‘I’ll give you one chance to leave this place, and never come back.’
There was a moment of silence where Wulfric genuinely believed the man was considering the offer, but when he drew his sword, Wulfric shook his head in disappointment. He stood as the man’s three colleagues moved around to Wulfric’s left. Wulfric watched them move, but knew that their leader was the man to start with.
Wulfric lashed out—the blade felt like an extension of his arm. He had never felt anything so good. It transmitted sensation and movement like no other weapon he had held, not even his father’s old sword, which was accepted to have been the best in Leondorf. The man jumped back out of the way, but that didn’t bother Wulfric. He was glad of the opportunity to test it first. He flicked the tip around a couple of times, but it already felt more natural to him than any weapon he had ever tried.
The man laughed at Wulfric’s shadow swordplay. ‘Reckon this fella’s a spoofer, lads.’
All four men converged on Wulfric at once. With the bar at his back, it was the only side he was not being attacked on. As much as he wanted to feel out his new sword, he had no more time to waste. Someone who had the money and power to make it happen wanted Wulfric dead, and these four men expected to be the ones to do it.
Wulfric feinted at the man who had done the talking, then changed direction and slashed across the throat of the man to his left. The blade parted flesh like warm butter and the man staggered backward in a spray of blood, moving the odds in Wulfric’s favour by one. Even he was surprised by how nimble and swift the blade was, as though it hungered for the blood of his foes.
Wulfric’s entire body tingled, his new sword a joy to hold. However, the thought that these men had lain in wait to murder him filled him with anger. He wondered what kind of threats they had made to the villagers not to warn him of their presence. His teeth chattered as his fury grew, while the men’s movements seemed to become sluggish. He parried a slash, then drew his dagger and thrust it into the throat of the man who had spoken in one smooth movement. He left it there and turned to face the remaining two.
He thrust, but was parried by the longer rapier the man used, so launched into a combination of powerful slashes and cuts, left and right, high and low. His opponent was skilled; he managed to fend off each attack but was driven back across the small taproom until he had no farther to go. Wulfric slapped his sword aside with the back of his hand and ran him through, allowing the blade to follow its curve as it gutted him. He pulled the sword free, then turned to find the final man, who appeared to be having second thoughts.
There was terror in his eyes when Wulfric turned his gaze on him. He started to shake his head and say something, but Wulfric could not hear him. All he could hear was the song of battle, and he felt the thrill of it tingling all over his skin. The man threw down his sword, and Wulfric struck. A flick of his wrist was all it took to slice the man’s throat open. Wulfric watched him stagger his last few steps as he fought to draw breath, then fall to the ground. Wulfric felt the hunger for battle subside, and took in the carnage he had caused. He felt a pang of regret for the work it would take Gunther to clean the blood from his floorboards, but supposed he would be able to regale his patrons with stories of how Ulfyr had slain four assassins there. And so the man who wished to kill Wulfric had sent a total of five men to their deaths, and was still no closer to his goal. Wulfric wondered what he might try next, and if it was indeed Grenville behind it all.
Wulfric sat back down on his barstool.
‘It’s over,’ he shouted.
Gunther appeared at the doorway, his eyes wide with fright. It took Wulfric a moment to realise that Gunther was afraid of him.
‘You have homes, businesses, and families to worry about. I don’t blame you. I brought these men here. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.’
Gunther nodded hesitantly. ‘There are more. Three, I think. They took some of the women and children as hostages to make sure we behaved. They’re holding them in the chapel.’
WULFRIC GRIMACED at what Gunther told him. He had only been trying to make him feel better by saying it was his fault that the men were there, but it was the truth of it. Were it not for him, they would never have had any cause to be there, and the children would not be in danger. He went over to the window and looked out. There was a small kirk built of cut stone on the other side of the muddy village square. Whoever was in there would be expecting to hear from their friends pretty soon, so he knew he didn’t
have much time.
‘There’s a back door here?’ Wulfric said.
Gunther nodded.
‘Any other doors to the kirk?’
Gunther frowned in confusion.
‘The chapel. Is the front door the only one?’
‘No,’ Gunther said. ‘There’s another door to the vestry at the back. It leads through into the chapel.’
‘You’ll need to show me,’ Wulfric said. ‘And a way to get there where we can’t be seen.’
‘I…’ The look of fear had returned to Gunther’s face.
‘We need to move fast,’ Wulfric said, ‘or those men will start killing people. Now!’
The shout shook Gunther, but it had the desired effect. He gestured to the door behind the bar, and led Wulfric through his small kitchen, a storage room that stank of old cabbage, and out into the village.
‘We’ll need to work our way along the palisade and go around the whole village, staying behind the houses,’ Gunther said.
‘Sounds like a good plan,’ Wulfric said, hoping to encourage him. ‘Lead the way.’
Gunther set off at an ambling pace that was probably as much as he could manage, but was well below what Wulfric was comfortable with. It was a good thing the village was small; even at that speed, it wouldn’t take long, and wouldn’t kill Gunther, who was already puffing hard. They passed one small thatched wooden house after another, reminding Wulfric of playing hide-and-seek with Adalhaid as a child in Leondorf. He felt his rage build again at the thought of armed men coming to a quiet village like that, willing to harm the innocent people to achieve their aims. His anger grew further at the thought that there was no one to protect them, that the person to whom they paid their taxes—Her Royal Highness, now—lived in luxury on their backs, without a care for their troubles.
Gunther stopped and pointed to the small stone chapel, then rested his elbows on his knees and gasped for breath.
‘I can take it from here,’ Wulfric said, seeing the vestry door. He wiggled his fingers—they had become stuck to the hilt of his sword with dry blood. The blade was getting use far sooner than he had expected. He had thought of keeping a score with it, but the way things were going it would quickly exceed his ability to count.
He crouched low and ran to the vestry door. There were only two small slit windows on the side of the chapel, and he hoped those inside would not be able to see much, but it was best to be cautious. He heard a latch rattle as he got close. He hurled himself to the chapel wall and pressed himself against it as the door creaked open.
A stream of urine jetted out, steam rising from it in the cold air until it splashed into the muddy grass, forming a puddle. The man releasing it let out a long sigh of relief, and Wulfric almost felt bad interrupting his moment of peace.
It proved an awkward thing, killing a man while avoiding being pissed on, and Wulfric had to admit he failed in the most spectacular fashion. His hair, his beard, his clothes—all received a liberal spray. The only positive was that the man died quickly and silently, and opened the way into the chapel for Wulfric.
Wulfric skipped up the steps to the doorway, but stopped on the threshold to gather his thoughts. Everything was against him going in. He had no idea of the internal layout, where the hostages were being held, or where the remaining two men were. The only advantage he had was that the men inside were expecting someone to walk in from the vestry door at any moment. He had to capitalise on it—the last thing he wanted was to be responsible for the deaths of any of the people being held inside.
He looked over the man he had just killed, and saw nothing remarkably different that would draw attention in a gloomy chapel—he had long hair, a beard which was admittedly far neater and more stylish than the outgrown one Wulfric had, and wore dark clothes, not altogether different from Wulfric’s. It would have to be enough. He hid his sword behind his back, and went inside.
THE WINDOWS in the chapel let in little light. There were a number of candelabras to help with that, but the hostage-takers hadn’t bothered to light them. There were only the cold shafts of light coming through the narrow windows. As Wulfric stepped into the chapel, no one paid him any attention. Two men sat on pews that they had turned around to face the main door. Their weapons were drawn, but they were relaxed. They believed they were completely in control of the situation.
Wulfric looked at the hostages, who were likewise yet to notice him. They were terrified; women and children put under threat of death by unscrupulous men determined to achieve their aims regardless of what it took. The attitude filled Wulfric with disgust. It went against everything he had been brought up to believe. These were the type of men who Jagovere would have said “needed killing”.
With so many innocent lives at risk, there was no margin for error—Wulfric knew he needed to be swift and deadly. He drew his dagger and walked toward the closest of the men. The man looked up with a smile on his face when Wulfric drew near, clearly expecting his friend back from his toilet break. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw it was not his comrade, but he didn’t have time to utter a warning to the other man. Wulfric cut out his throat with a quick slash of his dagger as he reached out with his sabre to mimic the cut to the second man.
He watched them with a discomfiting sense of detachment as they went through the motions that Wulfric was all too familiar with. They clutched at their throats with wide eyes, as if the effort would keep the blood from spilling out, or flooding down their windpipes to drown them. They made gurgling sounds, and kicked with their feet as they gasped for air, and one of them toppled off the pew he sat on. Wulfric would usually have put them out of their misery, but he took grim satisfaction in the thought that their suffering was payment for the terror they had caused.
He stood there until the last vestiges of life had left the men, and wondered if the southern gods were vengeful ones. The floorboards of the chapel were pooled with blood, and the stains would need a great deal of sanding to get out. Perhaps the gods would thank him for saving their followers, or smite him for the blasphemy of killing on their hallowed grounds. Wulfric knew that gods could be fickle in their reactions. It was a curious thought, but one he did not dwell on for long, as his attention was drawn to the stare of a young boy. Wulfric could not tell if the young eyes saw a hero or a monster, and thought for the first time that, in reality, there was not much between the two. Would the dead men’s families not curse him as a murderer? Might these rescued people not think him their saviour? He disliked those moments when life seemed more complicated than it needed to be. All that mattered was that people who deserved to be free were free, and men who had deserved to die were dead. There was a simple satisfaction to be had in that.
He switched his gaze to the young woman who embraced the boy.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘You’re free. You’re safe.’
CHAPTER 35
As Adalhaid waited outside the examination hall with the dozen other candidates, she resisted the urge to try and cram any more information into her head, and left her notes in her satchel. Everyone else was going through pages of notes furiously, as though they had not seen them before. She knew that was not the case—she had seen many of them in the library over the previous days.
Her self-control was not because of overconfidence. She was as nervous as she had ever been. It felt as though hundreds of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach, then decided they desperately needed to get out. She vacillated between thinking she would vomit or faint. She took a deep breath and focussed on all the work she had done. Over the past few weeks, she had barely set foot outside of the library. Her head was as full of medical knowledge as it could be. There was nothing more she could have done to prepare. The positive line of thinking did little to calm her nerves, however. She was eager to get on with it, if only to put an end to it.
She consoled herself with the fact that at least she would not have to wait long to find out how she had done—the results would be posted on the notice boa
rd the day after the final exam had been sat. One way or the other, life would change dramatically for her over the course of the next two weeks. Pass or fail, she knew she would be lucky to escape the city with her life, let alone a medical degree.
Adalhaid stood alone, leaning against the wall, trying to let her mind wander to anywhere but the topic of examinations. The other students gathered in the foyer were all coming to the end of four years of study—some of them longer—and she didn’t know any of them well enough to try striking up a conversation. In any event, she didn’t feel like it. What she did feel like was a fraud for being there at all, having taken every way she could to shortcut her studies. She had a momentary crisis of confidence—would the way she had rushed through her training and studies have a detrimental effect on her as a practitioner? She calmed herself with the thought that there would be plenty of time for further private study later, if she felt she needed it. Passing the exams was the key to her freedom only—qualified and independent, she would be able to do as she saw fit. There were too many bridges to cross before she needed to worry herself with such matters, however.
There was a loud clunk as the bolts to the examination hall doors were pulled clear and the doors opened. All conversation in the foyer stopped. It had been of the nervous variety, something to distract their minds from what was to come. Now that the moment had arrived, the tension in the room grew so thick it could have been cut with a knife. While the others grew visibly pale as they filed in, Adalhaid found her resolve return. This was the moment she had been working so hard for. There was no more she could have done, given the circumstances.
She took a deep breath and joined the press of bodies around the notice board that listed the desk assignments in the exam hall. Each student had been allotted an individual number weeks before so that they would remain anonymous for grading. She strained to see over the moving heads in front of her to find out where her desk was. She spotted her four-digit number on a desk near the front of the hall, so she hurried there to get herself set up in plenty of time before the examination papers were handed out.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 24
