Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘He can’t be made baron if he’s dead,’ Andhun said. ‘Killing Rodulf is still as much an option now as it was before. With him gone, even if I can’t get my hands on the title, we’ll be able to control whoever does between us.’

  Oswyn took a deep breath and sighed. ‘You’d better be right.’

  Andhun shrugged. ‘If you can think of an alternative, I’m all ears.’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Oswyn said. ‘I can’t because there isn’t one. I’ll send word to Ruripathia to bring my man up. He’s quick, so we should be done with it all in a few days.’

  ‘The barony might still be awarded to me, you know,’ Andhun said.

  ‘Might it?’

  Andhun smiled. ‘If not Rodulf, then who is there other than me?’

  ‘Me for starters. Even I have more favour with the ambassador than you do now.’

  Andhun narrowed his eyes and watched Oswyn as he paced around the room. It had been a careless comment, motivated of frustration, but Andhun knew only too well that truer words had rarely been spoken. Oswyn thought he had a chance of being made baron once more, and in allowing that to come to pass, Andhun knew he had made his most serious blunder. It occurred to him that Oswyn’s knife man might offer two-for-one discounts. If so, he needed to make very sure he wasn’t the bonus victim. From enemy to ally to enemy. How quickly politics moved. He sighed and felt himself pining for the old days, when such things were left to the men born to it and all he had to do was worry about his business.

  OSWYN

  Oswyn took a deep breath as soon as he stepped outside of Andhun’s house. Andhun’s clumsy attempt at a bribe had at first seemed like a disaster. Oswyn had planned to go straight home and load all his important belongings onto a wagon and head for anywhere but there. If he remained after Rodulf was made baron he was a dead man, and that was all there was to it.

  Now, however, he saw opportunity. The one great philosophy he had come to from his years of trade was that only fools whined about circumstance. Men of success always searched out the opportunity, even when all appeared to be going against them. Andhun had ruined his chances, but there was nothing to connect Oswyn with that. The southerner might be harsh, but he was no fool. When it came to it, he would not discriminate against the most competent choice for having a similar-sounding name to another man in the village. Oswyn knew that had all been about stamping his authority on Leondorf, and he had merely been the unfortunate victim.

  Andhun might not be in the running for the barony any longer, but he could make things difficult for Oswyn if he realised their brief and uneasy alliance was at an end. As he walked back to his house on the other side of the village, Oswyn wondered if he would get a discount on a second assassination.

  RODULF

  Rodulf stroked the young woman’s thigh, but his mind was elsewhere. Andhun and Oswyn had been living in each other’s pockets since Oswyn had been kicked off the council, and Rodulf knew that could only mean one thing. They were up to something, and past experience had taught him that whatever they did would be to his detriment. Andhun’s clumsy attempt to bribe his way to the top had failed spectacularly. There were few options left to him other than to strike directly at Rodulf.

  Both Andhun and Oswyn knew well that Rodulf’s first act as baron would be to string them up to a gibbet and watch them dance. Fleeing wouldn’t do them any good. He would hire the best sellswords to hunt them down and drag them back to him.

  The barony had to come first, however, and that was causing him a headache. The girl on his lap purred with content. They had both smoked some seeds he had bought from a southern trader—dream seed, it was called. He hadn’t much liked it, and after only one inhale had given the girl the pipe. She wasn’t much to look at—likely the only reason she was in Leondorf at all was because she couldn’t make a living in the south. Once he was baron, he wouldn’t have to lower his standards to the likes of her any longer. Women wouldn’t notice his eyepatch then, nor wonder at what grotesque sight lay behind it.

  The thought brought Wulfric to the fore. Word had arrived that he had murdered Ambassador Urschel then disappeared, despite Rodulf’s warning. Rodulf could only hope Wulfric was rotting in a ditch somewhere, but it did little to satisfy his desire to have watched the bastard die at his own hand. It was a distant problem and not worth bothering himself over. He looked at the pipe, long since finished and lying on the girl’s lap, and cursed it for clouding his thoughts. A budding headache added to his discomfort. Quite how the southerners had developed such a taste for the drug was beyond him.

  The most recent silver convoy had also returned unscathed, and as happy as Rodulf was that the flow of silver continued, it was clearly not enough for dal Ruedin. How could he show he was able to protect it if no one bothered to attack? Andhun’s blunder should have seen Rodulf’s promotion announced, but it had not. What more did he need to do? A plan began to form in his drug-addled mind. Dal Ruedin was a military man. What would he appreciate more than a military victory?

  A dozen reavers would be enough. He had twice that many sellswords with him when escorting the convoy, so they would be easily able to deal with the attack. There would be enough corpses on both sides to make it look like a proper fight. He would tell the reavers it was a scam, that they would split the stolen loot afterward. Their greed would blind them to the ploy, and Rodulf would have a victory to show dal Ruedin that he was the man to lead Leondorf.

  Rodulf smiled, but could feel his headache grow worse. He instinctively reached for the Stone, knowing it would bring him comfort. He idly wondered why it would not make dal Ruedin give him the barony as he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep. Even its powers had limits, it seemed.

  WULFRIC

  Word of the incident between Wulfric and the sailors spread through the ship like wildfire. An uneasy atmosphere developed, but there was no retaliation and Wulfric was beginning to relax, when he found himself alone and facing down a dozen sailors on the foredeck after using the head.

  ‘This is the one, lads,’ Frans said.

  The others stood behind him but didn’t seem as thirsty for retribution as Frans.

  ‘Are we gonna let one of these mud-kickers push us around?’ Frans said.

  There were some subdued responses.

  Frans looked around angrily. ‘Well?’ He pointed to a purple bruise that was fading to brown and yellow on the side of his face. ‘It’ll be you next.’

  There were some more murmurs of support, enough to embolden Frans. He stepped forward and prodded Wulfric in the chest.

  ‘That’d be a mistake,’ said a deep, rumbling voice that sounded more like a growl than speech.

  Wulfric looked around to see Enderlain standing at his shoulder, having just emerged from the other head. He looked more comical than menacing—his nose still swollen and his black eyes fading to yellow like Frans’s face—but both he and Wulfric were nearly twice the size of the largest sailor before them, and would make any sensible man think twice.

  ‘Maybe you had it coming, Frans,’ one of the sailors said. ‘I know what you’re like, and I’m not getting my head cracked for you. Not today, leastways.’ He turned and walked away, and was followed by more, until Frans stood with only three other men.

  Wulfric could see the confidence drain from Frans’s face. There was a flicker of anger in his eyes, but the rage was impotent. The impasse lasted a moment longer before Frans turned and left, followed by his few remaining supporters. Wulfric looked at Enderlain, who glowered at him. He smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Doesn’t mean we’re friends, arsehole,’ Enderlain said, before walking away.

  ADALHAID

  Lectures were held in a semi-circular amphitheatre, with rows of benches and desks rising up toward the back of the room. A single staircase ran down the centre leading to the doors at the side. At the end of class, it became a mash of students eager to get to their next class or into the fresh air, or anywhere but class. Adalhaid usually waited until th
e press of bodies had subsided before making her escape.

  There was a cry that cut above the din of the exiting students, and the ensuing silence was filled by a series of thuds that could only be the sound of someone falling down the stairs. Adalhaid winced in sympathy. She craned her neck to see what had happened. The crowd parted at the bottom of the stairs, revealing a young woman writhing on the ground, her face contorted in pain.

  Before she knew what she was doing, Adalhaid was pressing her way through the gawking students to get to the injured woman. Along with a number of visible bumps and scrapes, the young woman clutched her wrist. Blood flowed from between her fingers.

  ‘Fetch a physician,’ someone shouted.

  Adalhaid ignored the commotion and knelt beside the injured student. ‘Let me see,’ she said.

  She had to prise bloodied fingers from the young woman’s wrist, and swallowed hard at the sight of a jagged end of bone protruding from the torn flesh. A student to her left let out a gasp at the sight and crumpled to the ground. Adalhaid took a handkerchief from her satchel and wrapped it around the young woman’s wrist. It was not nearly enough for the amount of blood flowing, but it was all she had. She pressed hard on the makeshift bandage while holding the injured limb as high as she could, remembering the lessons Aethelman had taught her.

  The young woman was clearly in such pain that Adalhaid wished she could do something more to ease the suffering.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Adalhaid asked, hoping to distract herself as much as the young woman.

  ‘Wilhelmina,’ she said between gasps.

  Her face was growing ever paler, and Adalhaid’s concern over her blood loss increased.

  ‘That’s quite a mouthful,’ Adalhaid said. ‘Is that what everyone calls you?’

  ‘No. Mina,’ she said with a disproportionate amount of effort. ‘Apart from my father. He calls me Willy. Old git.’ She managed a strained laugh.

  ‘What else are you studying, Mina?’ Adalhaid said.

  ‘Whatever takes my fancy,’ she said. ‘The Arts, for now. Then, who knows?’

  It seemed to Adalhaid that the bleeding had lessened, and some of the colour had returned to Mina’s face.

  ‘Make way, make way,’ an authoritative voice called. The crowd parted and a tall, slender man of unusually dark complexion stepped forward. Almost every Ruripathian, and Northlander for that matter, had hair running from mid-brown to so blond it was almost white, with a fair proportion of red—like hers—mixed in. This man’s hair was jet black, and his jaw was covered with several days’ worth of stubble. To call him handsome was an understatement, and Adalhaid realised the eyes of every woman in the lecture theatre—hers included—were locked on him.

  He knelt by Adalhaid and placed his bag on the floor. ‘Who’s the patient?’ he said. ‘Him or her?’

  ‘Both,’ Adalhaid said, ‘although her need is far more pressing. He just fainted at the sight of blood.’

  He nodded, took Mina’s wrist from Adalhaid and carefully unwrapped the handkerchief. He gave it a close look and frowned.

  ‘There’s not much between them,’ he said. ‘A nasty cut, and I’d say a bad sprain, but nothing a little rest won’t fix. Not as serious as I was led to believe, although that is quite a lot of blood.’ He frowned for a moment, then turned his gaze to the other casualty. ‘I’d better take a look at our friend here with the cast-iron constitution.’

  He turned to treat the young man, leaving Adalhaid in a state of confusion. She took Mina’s wrist once again and gave it a second look. There was no sign of a break at all, let alone a jagged piece of bone sticking through her skin. Had she imagined it? The wound was little more than a deep cut, but it had stopped bleeding and looked nowhere near as serious as it had moments before. Adalhaid stared at it in confusion.

  ‘That’s odd,’ Mina said. ‘I’d have sworn it was far worse before. Must have been the shock of the fall. It’s barely anything. I feel like a bit of a ninny now.’

  There was a groan to the left as the physician revived the other student with pungent salts, while the crowd began to file away as they realised there was no more excitement to be had.

  ‘I’m going to take you both to the infirmary for a proper check, but I don’t foresee any further problems,’ the physician said on standing. He turned to Adalhaid and smiled. ‘Thank you for your help. I’m Doctor Jakob Strellis. You are?’

  ‘Adalhaid.’ She could feel her face grow hot.

  14

  RODULF

  Rodulf’s knuckles were white on his reins as they approached the ambush spot. The reavers were the best he could find on short notice, which did not say much for their skill. However, all they had to do was cause a fuss and die. They had been instructed to fire only on the wagons, not the party of men following, but that did not mean an errant arrow or two mightn’t find their way to Rodulf. He steeled himself with the thought that his goal was worth dying for.

  The first sign it was starting was the thud of an arrow into the side of one of the wagons. It took Rodulf a moment to realise. He bit his tongue and it took the impact of several more before anyone else realised what was happening. None of them had been expecting it.

  None of Rodulf’s men knew about his plan. The fewer who did, the smaller the mess to clean up. A wagon driver was hit by an arrow. He stood and toppled from his wagon as he cried out in pain. Rodulf nearly laughed at how theatrical it seemed. His bodyguard made to attack, but he held out a restraining hand.

  ‘Not until we can see them,’ Rodulf said. As soon as the reavers broke cover, he intended to charge them. They would not expect it and should be easy pickings. It would also give them no chance to reveal that they knew him.

  Another wagon driver cried out in pain, the second life paid for Rodulf’s barony.

  ‘We’re here to protect them,’ one of Rodulf’s bodyguards said.

  Rodulf cast him a filthy look. ‘We’re here to protect the silver. We can’t do that if we get ourselves killed by an unseen force. Wait until I say so.’

  The mercenary did as he was told, but a man with a conscience was of no use to Rodulf. If the mercenary survived the encounter, he would be seeking new employment when they got back to Leondorf.

  The reavers broke from the tree line, shouting and whooping, fully in expectation that the guards would break and run, as Rodulf had promised. They finished off the wagon drivers before Rodulf blew a small hunting horn to signal the other men he had concealed in the forest. They burst forward, roaring as they charged. Rodulf signalled for his bodyguard to join them.

  ‘No mercy,’ he shouted, then spurred his horse to follow.

  The reavers were taken completely by surprise, and cutting them down was like running a scythe through ripe wheat. The reavers were thieves peppered with a handful of mercenaries, whereas his sellswords were among the best that could be had. One or two were overpowered and cut down, but for the most part it was little more than a slaughter.

  The final few reavers tried to run, but they didn’t get far. His men circled around the wagons looking for any more threats, but the fighting was done. Rodulf made a show of riding up and down along the wagons to inspect them. Peppered with arrows and splattered with blood, they couldn’t have looked any better if Rodulf had contrived the entire scene. He had to stop himself from letting out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Take their heads, then get the wagons moving again,’ Rodulf ordered. ‘We’re vulnerable so long as we’re stopped.’

  The men set about their grisly task, and Rodulf smiled. If this didn’t impress the ambassador, nothing would.

  ADALHAID

  ‘Excuse me, miss!’

  It took a second shout before Adalhaid realised she was the one being called. The physician who had come to the lecture theatre was walking toward her.

  ‘You’re the girl who helped the student who fell? Adalhaid, wasn’t it?’ the physician said.

  ‘I am. Is she all right?’

  ‘She is. It w
as a nasty fright for her, and she’ll be a bit sore for a few days, but that’s it.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear that,’ Adalhaid said.

  ‘I was impressed with the way you handled things before I got there,’ he said. ‘Not everyone keeps their head in situations like that.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Adalhaid said, concentrating on not blushing. She noticed the looks passing female students were giving her.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘I didn’t fully introduce myself earlier. I’m a lecturer in the School of Medicine, and a physician, of course.’

  Adalhaid didn’t know what to say, so she smiled.

  ‘What you did for that girl, and the way you reacted, impressed me. I was wondering if you’d ever given thought to studying medicine?’

  Adalhaid felt her heart drop. She hadn’t known what she was expecting from the conversation, but it hadn’t been that.

  ‘I… Well, no, not really,’ she said.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but your professor told me your grades. They’re more than high enough to allow you to transfer to the School of Medicine, if that interests you. From what I’ve seen, I feel it would be a terrible waste not to put your natural talents to use. The transfer can be easily done.’

  Adalhaid thought back to the incident in the lecture theatre, and couldn’t deny the flush of excitement it had given her. She considered the time she had spent helping Aethelman tend to his patients, a time that was the happiest in her life. Finally, she remembered Wulfric, and was overcome with sadness.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, and she walked away.

  RODULF

  Rodulf was almost as nervous riding back into Leondorf as he had been heading out to the ambush site. He had to sell the attack to the ambassador or his plausibility would be ruined, perhaps irrevocably. People stopped what they were doing and watched when they spotted the arrows and the bloodstains. Rodulf tried to adopt as triumphant a pose as he could.