AETHELMAN
Aethelman had received some odd looks as he left the Hermitage, all but ignoring any effort at conversation with him. He had not even stopped for a hot meal in the refectory, instead hastily bundling enough food for a few days into his satchel.
Decades had passed since Aethelman had been at the ruin where he and… He couldn’t recall the name of the young priest he had carried out his Search with. The years robbed the mind of the most curious things. He could remember so clearly the expression on his friend’s face as he fell from the narrow bridge that had led them to the ruin. The fear. The feeling of panic as he had rushed forward in an effort to help him, but to no avail. He had plunged to his death in the churning rapids below. Aethelman hadn’t thought about him in decades, yet at the time it had been devastating.
Despite the years, Aethelman’s feet seemed to know the way. His mind had kept secure the location for all that time, as though deep down he had always known he would need to return. Even by travelling straight to it, the journey would take him several days. He was not daunted, however—merely impatient.
RODULF
Rodulf’s mind raced as he rode back toward Leondorf. He had known the Markgraf’s court would be difficult to navigate, but he’d had no idea it would be such a nest of vipers. Like the tribes of the Northlands who vied with one another for supremacy and power, there were factions at the Markgraf’s court that did the same. That was only one level of it, though. The Markgraf himself was subordinate to the princess, who lived farther to the south—where the exact same situation existed.
Rodulf wondered if his court in Leondorf would follow the same model, or if it was too small and insignificant for it to matter. He supposed it was inevitable. His decisions could mean ruin or success, even life or death for his subjects, and there would always be those who would seek to curry his favour to ensure their own prosperity. It would be entertaining to watch the little factions spring up, and he began to speculate along which lines alliances would form.
As engaging a thought as it was, he had his own prosperity to think on, and he hoped he had taken the first steps toward ensuring that by aligning himself with dal Geerdorf. Their agreements were couched in the broadest terms and would need to be refined once he had a better handle on things, but he knew he would need to give a little at first. Until he had an administration keeping track of everything, and the barony running like an efficient business, he couldn’t waste time driving a hard bargain against a man who, as he had said, could smooth his entry into the social hierarchy.
The first thing he had to do was build a tightly controlled silver process. From ground to smelter, this was already in place, but from that point on the southerners had managed things. Now he would have to do it for himself, and the potential for theft and fraud was great. He wanted every ounce dug out of the ground to reach the Markgraf’s coffers. Once the Markgraf took his effectiveness for granted, his attention would fall elsewhere and Rodulf could do as he pleased. That would involve growing his own wealth and territory.
He was surrounded on all sides by land and peoples hostile to Ruripathia, so nobody would shed a tear if he helped himself to whatever he could take. He had hired bookkeepers and lawyers to administer his barony, but the mines would need to be worked as well. To do that he needed men, and he needed to work them long and hard. He could not expect to treat the townsfolk like that and live long.
The obvious answer was slavery. He had stopped by the slave market in Elzburg before departing, but the prices were high and he knew the attrition rate in the mines would be higher still when he upped production. The laws in the south regarding slavery were complicated and tiresome in any event. Far better to take what he needed from the neighbouring lands.
It meant war. Not war as the southerners understood the word, however. War in the Northlands was rarely more than skirmishing and raiding. Putting some warriors to the sword, burning their villages, and driving off their herds and people could hardly be considered war. “Conquest” seemed a more appropriate word. All that remained was to find some men to do the conquering for him and help his elevation from baron to Graf.
20
WULFRIC
Jagovere had been correct on one count, the telling of tales did make the journey pass more quickly. To Wulfric’s initial embarrassment, others had noticed him recounting the stories to Jagovere, and had ridden closer so they too could break the tedium. During the course of the ride south to Torona, he had told all the stories he knew, those related to him over and over by his father before their hearth in the evenings when he was a child. All the stories but one.
He had held one back until the end, taking the time to order it in his head. It was his favourite, and the one he wanted most to get right. The tale of Jorundyr and Ulfyr.
‘The war had lasted for a decade,’ Wulfric said, ‘and had brought the deaths of many brave men. The draugar had been all but wiped out, or driven into dark places far from men. One great foe remained, however, one who Jorundyr had to face alone: Fanrac, King of the Draugar. The legends of Fanrac and how he came to be are many. Some say he was brother to Agnarr, Father of the Gods, but that he chose a dark path which twisted him and his disciples into demons. Whatever the truth might be, he was a powerful and fearsome foe, one whom Jorundyr could not be certain of defeating.’
Wulfric cast a self-conscious glance to the side—most of the cavalrymen were listening. He had grown used to it, however, and could hear the scratching noise of Jagovere’s pen stop, so he continued.
‘After weeks of tracking him, Jorundyr finally met his nemesis in a glade by a waterfall. While many of the draugar were mindless beasts, Fanrac had the cunning of the smartest of men. More than that, for he was a fallen god. He sat on a stone by the waterfall’s pool, sharpening the head of an arrow with a small piece of flint.
‘“Won’t you join me?” Fanrac said. “Your journey has been long and tiring. Rest a moment, before we get to what we must. There is cool water, and fresh food.”
‘“I would rather sup on my own entrails than break bread with you,” Jorundyr said.
‘Fanrac smiled at him, his withered face a picture of horror. “Mayhap you will, before the day is out.”
‘“As you said, my journey has been long and I would rather be about my business, so to hasten my return home.”
‘“Such confidence,” Fanrac said. “Such arrogance. You address a god, and you are but a man.” He stood, and in the blink of an eye his bow was in his hand and he had loosed the arrow he had been sharpening.
‘It struck Jorundyr in the thigh. He bellowed from a pain like none he had known before. The arrowhead was made from the metal found only in the High Places and it caused a pain so savage Jorundyr feared he had lost the fight before it had started.
‘Fanrac stood watching him, a sword now in his hand. He wore an expression of amused curiosity. “I am many things,” Fanrac said. “Among them merciful. Join me, and you will live on forever and enjoy such power as you can only dream of.”
‘Jorundyr roared, and pulled Draugarsbane from its sheath. It too was made from the metal of the High Places, the only thing that can injure a god or a draugr. Despite his wounded leg, he charged Fanrac. Fanrac stepped to the side and parried Jorundyr’s first strike.
‘“I would have forgiven you the persecution of my children,” Fanrac said. “But to strike at a god—I will not let that pass. You will die here today, Jorundyr, in this pretty little glade, by this waterfall. You shall stain its waters red.”
‘Fanrac struck at Jorundyr with his sword, its tip slicing through Jorundyr’s armour as though it was paper. Fanrac continued to smile, enjoying the encounter, relishing the prospect of killing the man whom Agnarr had chosen to wipe his pestilence from the world of men.
‘Jorundyr stumbled. Never before had he faced a foe so strong or fast. In that moment, the task that had been laid before him seemed impossible. He was just a man, a farmer from a small village for whom the go
ds had chosen a greater destiny. He wanted nothing more than the embrace of his loving wife, Cecilia, the warmth of his hearth, the comfort of home. To die alone, so very far away, seemed a terrible thing. He swallowed hard, and refused to allow his courage to falter.
‘He struck again, but once more Fanrac swatted his blade away as though it was no more an irritation than a buzzing fly. He cut at Jorundyr again, through armour, and deep into flesh—a strike that Jorundyr knew was mortal.
‘“Agnarr should choose his heroes more carefully,” Fanrac said. “It will not take me long to undo all you have laboured for in his name.” He looked toward the High Places. “This land is mine. Do you hear me, brother? Mine!” He let out a laugh as he turned to finish his bloody task, but the laugh turned to a gasp as Jorundyr plunged his blade through the fallen god’s chest. The momentary distraction was all he had needed.
‘“He chose well,” Jorundyr said, as he twisted the blade and watched the expression on Fanrac’s face change to fear. There is no afterlife for the gods, only oblivion.
‘Jorundyr held the blade with the last of his strength until he felt Fanrac’s dead weight on it. Only then did he pull it free, stumble back, and collapse to the ground. He wanted so much to see his beloved Cecilia one last time, and the thought that he might not planted the seed of fear in his heart for the first time. The memory of her face motivated him to fight on. He tore some cloth from his cloak to staunch the flow of blood. If he could stop it, he had a chance of getting home.
‘He was startled from his task by a long, rumbling growl. He looked up to see two belek walk into the glade—Fanrac’s familiars, Renic and Ursal. They had been hunting, too far away to aid their master, but close enough to avenge him. Their eyes were like great sapphires fixed on him, their wicked fangs still coated with blood from their hunt, ready for use once more to finish what their master could not.
‘Jorundyr looked up to the High Places, his heart mourning for what he knew was to come. “Why must you test me so?” he whispered.
‘He forced himself to his feet, and lifted Draugarsbane one last time. He had lived without fear in his heart, and he would not die with it there. He would have to wait until he was with the gods to be reunited with Cecilia, but the knowledge that they would be together once again filled his heart with the courage to persevere.
‘Agnarr heard his hero’s plea, and felt sorrow that the bravest and greatest of men was to die alone and far from home. Even the gods cannot change what Fate demands, though, and her price for that day’s victory was clear. What comfort could he grant a man whose destiny was beyond the control of even a god?
‘A great white wolf walked into the glade, and stood by Jorundyr’s side. It was as fantastic a beast as Jorundyr had ever seen, so magnificent that he all but forgot about the two belek and the savage wounds that caused him so much pain. Resigned to his fate, Jorundyr chose to enjoy this wonder for one of his few remaining moments.
‘The belek moved closer, and the wolf watched each step. They circled, revelling in the anticipation of the kill, emboldened by the additional challenge posed by the new arrival. That was their folly. The wolf pounced, tearing Renic’s throat from her body with one snap of his great jaws. Ursal, realising this was no ordinary wolf, jumped back, hissing in outrage that a humble beast would dare kill his mate. Undeterred, the wolf pounced again, smashing into the belek with all his weight. Smaller by half, the wolf almost disappeared from Jorundyr’s sight as the two beasts fought in that small glade. Jorundyr watched in amazement, until the struggle finally ended, and the wolf stood victorious over Ursal’s dead body, his once-white fur drenched with red. He padded back to Jorundyr, who had once again collapsed to the ground, and sat by him.
‘“I thank you for your help, wolf, but I fear it is already too late,” Jorundyr said. “I call you Ulfyr—friend—and I am in your debt.”
‘Jorundyr felt the strength flow from his body, but noticed that his new friend had not escaped unscathed either. The beleks’ fangs had rent great wounds across his body, and his life’s blood coursed from them. Ulfyr sat and lay his head on Jorundyr’s lap as they both awaited what would come.
‘And so Jorundyr drew his final breath and departed this world, but he did not leave alone, for Ulfyr went with him. So great was Jorundyr’s courage that the gods granted him a place among them. Patron of warriors, god of all men and women who deny fear to their hearts.
‘From that day until this, Ulfyr is ever by Jorundyr’s side.’
ADALHAID
‘Ms. Steinnsdottir, if you would be so good as to demonstrate the treatment.’
Professor Kengil held up a piece of chalk and waited silently for Adalhaid to make her way down to the blackboard at the front of the lecture theatre. One of the professor’s favourite putdowns was the term ‘Northlander,’ with any one of a number of pejoratives before it. Adalhaid had done her best to keep her head down and remain anonymous, but eventually a question was directed at her, and the professor had instantly recognised her accent. Now, any time there was a difficult answer or demonstration required, the task was directed to Adalhaid. Thus far she had been unable to trip Adalhaid up.
She walked down the stairs to the front of the theatre, going through the treatment’s steps as she went. It was part of the required reading given to them at the start of the week, and Adalhaid knew for certain there would be hardly anyone in the class who had gotten that far with it. She had made sure to have it finished the day it was given. A sleepless night and the long day following were far preferable to humiliation by a bigoted professor.
Adalhaid kept her eyes on the blackboard as she took the chalk from Kengil’s hand. She walked to the board, and began.
‘The treatment begins with administering a mild dream seed sedative,’ Adalhaid said. She was about to continue when Kengil interrupted.
‘The concentration of the sedative?’
The reading materials hadn’t mentioned the concentration; such things were not set in stone, usually left to the preference and experience of the individual chemist mixing the tincture. However, Adalhaid had found the vagueness of the approach frustrating, and had looked it up.
‘I believe a mild tincture is usually made of ten to fifteen parts per hundred of crushed dream seed to distilled grain alcohol.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s five to ten,’ Kengil said, seemingly disappointed that Adalhaid had managed to put an answer together at all.
Adalhaid chewed on her lip for a moment, but she was speaking before she allowed herself time to consider if it was politic to do so. ‘I’m quite sure it’s ten to fifteen.’
Kengil’s face darkened. ‘Perhaps in the Northlands, but in the South we prefer not to turn our patients into seed addicts. Five to ten parts per hundred.’
‘Actually, she’s correct,’ a familiar voice said.
Jakob Strellis was leaning against the doorframe by the entrance to the lecture theatre. Adalhaid wondered how long he had been there.
‘Although it might seem like a large quantity for a mild sedative,’ he said, ‘the grain alcohol denatures the narcotic effect of the seed powder, meaning a little more is needed to get the required effect. If one were to use grape alcohol, however, it would indeed be five to ten, but that’s by the by. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need a word in private, Professor Kengil.’
Kengil’s face was ashen with anger, but she remained silent as she walked over to Strellis. He held the door open for her, and flashed Adalhaid a smile that sent her heart racing before closing it.
RODULF
Rodulf shielded his eye with his hand as he watched the bird soar high in the clear blue sky. She was little more than a black dot. Each time he launched his falcon—one of a dozen that had cost him a small fortune in Elzburg—he was convinced that she would not return. The falconer had laughed the first time Rodulf had expressed his misgivings, but had quickly learned Rodulf was not a man to laugh at if he wished to keep his new and lucrative position as
master falconer to Ruripathia’s newest baron.
Falconry was one of the noble pursuits Rodulf was trying hastily to master. If he was to blend into the Markgraf’s court, all the diversions with which his noblemen filled their time had to appear as second nature to Rodulf.
The falcon sat in the air, her great wings stretched to their limits as she seemed to float motionless in the sky. Rodulf’s heart raced and he grinned like a fool as he watched her, not daring to pull his eye from that tiny speck so far above.
She let out a piercing shriek before pulling in her wings and dropping like a stone—‘stooping,’ the falconer called it. Rodulf’s heart accelerated, although he had witnessed this spectacle a number of times before. Each and every time it looked like a death-plunge. The falcon fell so quickly that it defied belief she could arrest her descent before smashing into the ground. She disappeared from view and Rodulf held his breath.
A moment later she appeared again, soaring above the trees with a small object clutched in her talons. Rodulf let out a peal of laughter and clapped his hands, not caring that it was behaviour unbecoming of a baron. Such sights should be greeted with quiet indifference, but Rodulf doubted it would ever fail to excite him so.
‘She’s a magnificent hunter, ain’t she,’ Rodulf said, in the clipped style of Ruripathian nobles.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 14
