Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Wulfric nodded slowly, the idea becoming ever more attractive.

  ADALHAID

  Although the Markgraf had always been kind to Adalhaid, being summoned to his office made her uneasy—like when she had been naughty as a child and knew she was about to be punished. He didn’t keep her waiting long, and his private secretary brought her in with a genial smile on his face. She couldn’t think of any wrongdoing on her part, but had no idea what the summons could be for.

  ‘I understand you’ve applied to the university,’ the Markgraf said. He leaned back in his chair and arched his fingers in front of his face.

  The window behind him looked out over the palace gardens, which Adalhaid had always found distracting. Petr and Aenlin were playing out there with children of other noble families. To be the playmate of the future Markgraf or Markgrafin was a highly sought after accolade for any infant. The thought made her smile. The Markgraf had not yet revealed which of the twins was the older, making the speculation and attached gambling something of a sport at court. Some said he was waiting to see which of them he thought most fit for the task. She liked the idea that a woman could rule in the south. Indeed, Ruripathia was ruled by a princess. In the Northlands, it was ever the First Warrior who was in charge, and although he was elected and was forced to retire when he could no longer lead by example, the First Warrior was always a ‘he’. She returned her attention to the question at hand.

  ‘I have, my lord.’

  ‘You’re a free woman, and the choice is yours to make,’ the Markgraf said. ‘Indeed, it’s to be applauded, to seek to make more of oneself, and I’ve always been aware of how bright you are. I’m keen that some of that might rub off on Petr and Aenlin. I hope this doesn’t mean you’re planning on leaving us?’

  ‘No, my lord. I’ve looked at it carefully and I believe I’ll be able to continue with my duties here while I’m studying.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Petr and Aenlin would be distraught without you. After their mother’s death, I would hate them to lose another person for whom they care so deeply.’

  ‘I care very deeply for them too, my lord. They’re wonderful children.’

  He smiled wistfully. Adalhaid knew that his wife’s death had been equally hard on him.

  ‘As you’ll be staying, I’m only too happy to give you this letter of recommendation. I’d give it anyway, but with regret. I expect it will ease the application process significantly.’ He smiled at what could only be taken as an understatement and handed her the wax-sealed envelope addressed to the chancellor of the university. ‘I’ve instructed the nannies and other governesses to help in accommodating your new schedule. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there are any difficulties.’

  WULFRIC

  At first the gentle roll of the deck had been an obstacle to test his agility. He knew he would not best it until he regained some strength, so he found out where the galley was, then stumbled, tripped, and tumbled his way there. He ate his fill and more besides, it having been so many days since he had eaten a proper meal. It had sat in his stomach for only a few minutes. As he was returning to the deck, a wave of nausea overcame him.

  A sailor passed by and stopped when he caught a glimpse of Wulfric’s face. ‘If you’re gonna chuck, do it over the side. Havin’ to clean up your own puke makes it worse, and we ain’t doin’ it for you.’

  Wulfric was in no mood to argue. He made his best speed toward the bulwark surrounding the deck and looked out into the swirling, frothy mess of the confused sea. He felt his head spin. His stomach tightened, his tongue stiffened, and after several long, agonising retches, his stomach was empty again.

  Throwing up had the immediate effect of easing his nausea, but it was not long in returning. Quite why any man would choose a life at sea was beyond Wulfric. It was heartening to see that he was not the only one afflicted, as a half dozen other men of the company lined the bulwark, either pitching the contents of their bellies over the side or looking like they wished they would. The sailors, on the other hand, went about their duties as though they had not a care in the world. Surefooted and immune to the sickness, some deigned to laugh or make an encouraging remark as they passed the afflicted. It gave Wulfric hope that the misery would ease, but for the time being, prison and execution in Ruripathia seemed like the more attractive option.

  ‘Can’t be much left in there,’ said a voice from behind Wulfric.

  He had spent so long doubled over the bulwark that his ribs hurt, not to mention his stomach, from all the violent contractions. How it remained inside him after all it had been through was something of a mystery.

  ‘Doubt there is,’ Wulfric said, turning and leaning back against the bulwark. Jagovere was standing there, and for a moment Wulfric was struck by how much like a younger version of dal Rhenning he looked.

  Jagovere raised an eyebrow when Wulfric turned to face him, and Wulfric belatedly wiped his face. His beard had been a mess beforehand, tangled with dirt and blood, and he knew it made for a disgusting sight with vomit added to the mix. The thought of trying to shave and tidy it up while on board the constantly moving ship was equally unappealing, though. It could wait until he reached wherever they were going.

  ‘It gets easier. A day should have you over the worst of it.’

  ‘It hasn’t for them,’ Wulfric said, indicating the men lining the bulwark farther down.

  Jagovere shrugged. ‘Positive thinking,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, it’s time to start earning your keep. The Graf has asked me to speak with you about joining the Company properly. You’ll have to sign the treasurer’s roll first. You’ll get standard pay—ten florins a day—and we’ll billet you with my squadron, the heavies—the heavy cavalry. Northlanders have a reputation for being good at that, so I hope you can live up to it. You’ll need to see the quartermaster for clothes and mess kit. Armour and weapons can wait until we land. If you’re done saying goodbye to your lunch, we can see the treasurer now.’

  8

  RODULF

  Rodulf rolled gently from side to side with the movement of his horse, and scanned the forest for signs of his men. They were southern mercenaries. Not cheap, but his short-term expense would lead to long-term gain. That this was Ambassador dal Ruedin’s way of testing him went without saying. He intended to pass it with flying colours. He had split the men into two groups to work their way through the forest on either side of the road, creating a protective screen against ambushers. Attacks were usually no more than a few harassing arrows fired by unknown bowmen, but they had killed a half-dozen soldiers over the past few months, which the southerners did not like.

  Rodulf rode with several more men well behind the wagons, far away from any ambush but close enough to know if one was taking place and counter-attack. Attacking the southern soldiers seemed to be the new sport of choice for Northlanders. Leondorf inviting the southerners across the river had made them unpopular with their neighbours, and the silver convoys, skirting Leondorf’s northern border, were always an attractive and soft target.

  He could have stayed at home and organised the escorts from there, but he thought it important to show he could be a man of action when it was required. None of the other councilmen would last an hour in the saddle, and it was a useful way to separate himself from them. Rodulf was the only one who could lead both inside the Great Hall and out of it, and he wanted to make that fact obvious to dal Ruedin.

  As he rode in silence, he continued to scan the forest. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of one of his men, but for the most part he saw nothing. The progress was ponderously slow, limited as it was by the great ox wagons that would haul the silver ore back to Leondorf once they were loaded at the mine.

  He wondered how many times dal Ruedin would require him to do this before he was satisfied that, in choosing Rodulf, he would not be destroying his own reputation. Along that narrow forest road, all the advantages lay with the attacker. He could see why the soldiers all hated this duty. Every time they went o
ut with the wagons, they were rolling the dice, and now Rodulf was doing likewise.

  ADALHAID

  There were larger universities in Ruripathia, and better ones, but Adalhaid needed to earn a living if she hoped to continue her studies. There were few better jobs available to her than governess to the Markgraf’s children, so Elzburg University was where she would go.

  The university was not far from the palace and she made her way there while Petr and Aenlin were having their lunch. She had spent a very happy year there, studying for and earning a diploma in the Arts. A degree was a significant step up from that, and the prospect of it made her nervous.

  The foyer was a grand hall of marble and quiet. The only sounds were muted whispers and footfalls as students and academics passed through. Students for a lower qualification used more modest buildings at the rear of the campus, so she had only been in the foyer on a handful of occasions. It was imposing. Intimidating. So much stone reaching so high overhead. That such things could be built took her breath away.

  She looked around nervously as she tried to remember where to go. She spotted a clerk manning the ancient-looking wooden counter tucked into an alcove, and approached. The humourless attendant looked over her paperwork and directed her to the appropriate professor. They would consider her application and sign off on it or refuse. If the former, she would have to return to the admissions office to be registered. If the latter, she would have to reconsider her future.

  Away from the grand halls and lecture theatres, the university was a warren of corridors and passages leading to offices and study rooms where one could easily get lost. She eventually found the appropriate office halfway down a dim corridor, and took a deep breath before knocking.

  ‘Come.’

  She turned the handle, angry with herself for feeling so nervous. Having spent so long placing the university atop a pedestal, it was difficult not to question her ability to keep up with what would be expected of her. She clutched her bundle of transcripts and reference letters to her chest, and walked in.

  The office was small, but bright compared to the corridor from which she had just come. A tall, narrow sash window filled the room with light. A heavily jowled professor sat hunched over a desk, his threadbare academic gown stretched over shoulders that were now too corpulent for it.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said. The tone implied that he would rather do nothing at all.

  ‘I was told to speak to you regarding admission for the coming academic year.’

  He frowned when he heard her accent. She had been the only Northlander in her diploma course. For all she knew, she might be the only Northlander on the campus. The only one not mucking out the stables or carrying out night-soil buckets, at least.

  ‘For what course?’

  ‘The Arts,’ Adalhaid said. ‘I already hold a diploma in them from this university. I have my transcripts and letters of reference here.’ She proffered them across the desk, and he took them from her with such disregard that she wondered if he would even look at them.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Adalhaid Steinnsdottir.’

  ‘Adalhaid, daughter of Steinn,’ the professor murmured absently as he leafed through her paperwork. He chuckled to himself and shook his head as he looked at each page, before pausing. ‘A first class diploma?’ He looked at her with a bushy grey eyebrow raised.

  She nodded. He frowned, and continued to regard her for a moment before returning to the papers. He stopped again and moved his head closer to one of the pages so that his nose was almost touching it.

  ‘The Markgraf?’

  ‘Yes,’ Adalhaid said. ‘I have the privilege of being governess to his children.’

  ‘Governess?’

  ‘Yes. Governess,’ Adalhaid said, with an edge to her voice.

  The professor chewed his lip for a moment before handing the papers back to her. He drew a sheet of paper from a drawer, dipped his pen and began writing, the scratching sound of the copper nib on the coarse page providing a melody to his wheezing breaths. He surveyed what he had written before sprinkling the page with pounce with a flourish that did not befit a man of his size. He handed her the dusty sheet.

  ‘Your admission paper, accepted and signed,’ he said. ‘Take it to the department clerk in the admissions office. He will give you your lecture and tutorial timetables.’

  Adalhaid breathed a sigh of relief. She was under no illusion that anything other than the Markgraf’s letter of reference had secured her admission, but she would accept that. Once she was in the door, she would succeed or fail on merit alone. You couldn’t hear a Northland accent in a written exam paper.

  RODULF

  Rodulf didn’t feel much relief on arriving at the mine without incident—he was in the middle of the wilderness, miles from any comfort—but he was curious to see the place that was producing so much silver. It was in the foothills to the northeast of Leondorf, where the hills were starting to become mountains and the trees gave way to crags and rock faces.

  A tall palisade had been built in a semicircle, with one such rock face at its back. There were several soldiers visible at the top, all armed with crossbows. The mine was tucked away safely behind it.

  Rodulf fought to hide his agitation. They were at their most vulnerable as they waited to be allowed in, and the process was taking far longer than he liked. A challenge was issued, and the correct response given before the gate was opened, and finally the whole procession entered the enclosure.

  He looked around with the same expression of disdain the southern noblemen seemed so fond of before dismounting. He needed to practice it, since he would soon be joining their ranks. There were a number of wooden buildings within, and a large, gaping hole in the rock face. The sound of hammering echoed up from deep within and Rodulf felt a shiver run through him at the thought of being stuck down there in the dark for hours at a time.

  There was not a moment to be wasted as workmen immediately started to load sacks onto the wagons. Rodulf had thought they would at least be offered a hot meal, but that did not appear to be the case. He walked over to the pile of sacks and opened one. It was full of dull grey chunks of rock. He took one out and studied it. It sparkled in the light, and Rodulf realised that it contained a silver florin’s worth of precious metal at least. He looked back at the pile of sacks and was astounded by the wealth that lay there before him—even more so when he considered a similar sized load was brought south every month.

  AETHELMAN

  The walk to the Hermitage was longer and more difficult than Aethelman remembered—but he had been a young man the last time he’d done it, many years before. It was not intended to be difficult to get there, but it was remote and the paths were overgrown.

  He stopped to take the complex in when it finally came into view, nestled in a valley with the High Places stretching up behind it. There had been some alteration to the grey stone buildings, parts that he remembered gone, parts that he did not recall. It was a place of constant change.

  Aethelman felt a flash of nostalgia as he looked at the monastery. He had stopped in almost the same place all those years before when his father and his own village’s priest had accompanied him. Passing through the Hermitage’s gates was the last time he had seen either of them. He searched within for any feeling of regret. It was there, but small, and in a distant corner. He had missed his parents, but their sending him to the Hermitage on the priest’s recommendation—Aethelman could no longer remember his name—was the best choice for him, and for them. He was one of nine children, and his parents struggled to provide for them all. Aethelman’s talents had manifested themselves early on. The priesthood had given him a life of purpose he could never have hoped for had he remained at home, and his departure had taken some of the burden from his family. Was it selfish of him to rarely wonder what lives his siblings had led? The life of a priest was longer than that of a normal man—their connection to the Fount seemed to imbue them with greater vitality—and it
saddened him to realise that they would all be long dead. The thought had never occurred to him before.

  He continued on, remembering the nerves he had experienced that first time. They had built with each step, and he’d thought he was going to be ill by the time he reached the gate. Life in the Hermitage had been good, however, his fear a waste of energy. He had met Aesa within minutes of arriving, and fallen in love within hours. He had not thought of her for years—not because he had forgotten her, but pushing her from his thoughts made the hole her absence left within him seem smaller. Never gone, however.

  For Aethelman, she and the Hermitage were one and the same, and he could keep her from his thoughts no longer. Her laughter would ever echo in its corridors, her scent ever-present in its air. He thought of her smiling face, and felt a warmth and happiness he had not known in decades. He searched within himself for regret once again, and found it easily this time, for it dominated the place deep within his core. What would the monastery be like now without her to illuminate it?

  He reached the gates and knocked on the door without any of the hesitation he’d had when a child. A brown-robed acolyte opened the door and stepped back when he saw Aethelman’s grey robes. There was little of value at the Hermitage to make robbery or assault worth the stain it would leave on a man’s soul. Great tales were told of the Grey Priests’ martial prowess, that they did not carry weapons because they did not need them, but it was a misdirection. They did not need weapons because the legend of their prowess was so great. That it was a lie had never been called into question. No one wished to risk death and immediate damnation for attacking a priest. That threat was as great a weapon as any amount of combat skill.