‘I assure you my company’s reputation is well deserved, and we will not be found wanting.’
‘My half-brother, the Count of Valeriano, Marshall of Torona, commands the army. He will be returning to it at the end of the week. I would suggest you and your company travel with his party. Until then, I grant your men liberty in my city in groups of no more than—’ he paused and conferred with the man standing beside him ‘—of no more than five men. They will be treated no differently to my citizens if they are found to have breached the law.’
‘I can vouch for the good behaviour of my men,’ dal Rhenning said.
‘Very good. As arranged, I will require you to leave some of your men at my court to liaise with my officials until you depart.’
‘Of course. My captain and his… lieutenants here will be at your disposal,’ dal Rhenning said.
Wulfric raised an eyebrow.
‘Looks like we got a promotion,’ Enderlain whispered, a broad smile spreading across his face.
‘Excellent,’ the duke said. ‘Apartments will be made ready for them.’
22
AETHELMAN
Aethelman did not know what the ruined building had been in the past, but it seemed safe to assume it had been used by the men who established the Grey Priests. There was little of it left, other than the remnants of a few walls and pillars, scattered stones, and a flagstone floor. He tried to imagine what it had looked like when it was complete, but it was difficult. The fragments remaining spoke of a time when the people of the north had greater skill in working stone. He had seen similar remnants across the Northlands, the last vestiges of a civilisation that had been strangled into oblivion by an empire now also long dead.
Moss covered most of the surfaces, and tendrils of ivy grasped every upstanding piece of masonry. The air was filled with the sound of a waterfall, which fed the chasm Aethelman had just crossed. It was a serene place. The perfect place for reflection, or a kirk, or whatever they had called their temples in that long-forgotten time.
He sat on a mossy chunk of stone and surveyed the ruin, trying to pick out anything he remembered from his previous visit so many years before. Then, as now, it had been a picture of lush green and grey, with the mist thrown up by the waterfall drifting in thin clouds across the small plateau surrounded by sheer cliffs. It was easy to sit there and allow his mind to drift to a place of comfort, but Aethelman forced himself to stay focussed.
He and the other priest had been searching for a long time when they had come to that spot, long enough to have tired of their seemingly pointless task. This place had appeared to be a dead end—the termination of a trail they had been following for weeks. Aethelman realised that the Search had been a test of character, that it was supposed to be difficult, isolating, frustrating. It had certainly been all of that and more. He could remember constantly being cold, tired, and hungry. His friend’s voice echoed against the sheer mountain walls surrounding the ancient ruin so clearly that it took Aethelman a moment to realise it was merely a memory. His friend had been angry when they had come to the belief that the ruin was another dead end. The frustration had eaten away at his soul, while for Aethelman it had done the opposite: It had given him resolve and the knowledge that his faith was strong enough to see him through hardship and disappointment. That was when he had felt something tug at the fibres of his very being.
At first it was subtle, like the sensation of falling, even though he had been sitting down, not far from where he now sat. It grew more forceful until it felt so strong he thought the contents of his stomach would be pulled from his gut. That was when he had stood and followed the force urging him toward some unknown.
He stood now, and allowed the memory to guide him, across the cracked, centuries-old flags of the kirk’s floor to the shambled mass of cut stone, vine, and leaf litter that might once have been an altar. On that previous occasion, he had cleared away what vegetation had been there, but knew what he had found long before he ever laid eyes upon it. It was as though it had spoken to him, told him what it was and where it might be found. It had called him to come and take it. His friend had still been cursing the priesthood, the Search, and every person they had met along this path who had spoken of an ancient ruin overlooking a river gorge at the side of a mountain.
Aethelman had taken the Stone from its resting place in a dark nook, and brought it out into daylight for the first time in generations. The skin of his hands had tingled as he held it. He could remember the sensation of terror and excitement and triumph so clearly a tingle ran up his spine as he dwelled on the memory. The vegetation he had cleared those years previously had long since regrown, but the nook was empty. He almost felt disappointed as he gazed into the dark, empty space. A Stone was not what he was looking for, however. It was the ancient runes carved onto the lintel above.
The ravages of weather would have erased them centuries before were it not for the protective covering of moss and ivy. It only took a few moments to clear several runes well enough to make them legible. Where they had been indecipherable to him before, they were now as familiar as his own name.
‘Here lies the object of our salvation and our downfall. Abandoned to a place soon to be forgotten in the hope that it too might be forgotten.’
The words sent a chill down his spine. He had possessed it for so long. How could every detail of something so ominous been forgotten?
Aethelman traced his finger along the runes to double check the meaning, the incongruity making him question his newfound literacy. He read it the same way on the second pass. Salvation and downfall? How could that be? He cleared more moss and ivy, hoping there would be more to elaborate on the cryptic inscription, but there was nothing. Frustration weighed on him, which a deep breath did little to dispel. Why did the gods have to make everything so complicated?
RODULF
Thick black smoke drifted away from the village, much to Rodulf’s satisfaction. Death, destruction, conquest. There was something so compelling and intoxicating about it. He felt more alive than he ever had before. Since dangling it as a carrot before Grenville, his newly-appointed seneschal had gone to great pains to instruct their men to leave the village as intact as possible. He cared little for the villagers, as they could easily be replaced, but repairing a devastated village would cost money, money that would have to come from Grenville’s purse as seigneur of the territory. Men were men, however, and bloodlust made orders a distant memory. If anything, Rodulf was surprised that the scum they had hired had been so restrained. Nonetheless, a village was a necessity if Grenville hoped to have his demesne worked to a profit, and his temper at the destruction that had unfolded was as entertaining a spectacle as Rodulf had witnessed in some time.
He rode back and forth, beating at the men as he tried to turn them from continued rapine and pillage and put them to work in extinguishing the fires their lust for carnage had ignited. Rodulf made no effort to help. His revenues were undiminished by the small tragedy unfolding before him. All that mattered to him was that a swathe of land had been added to his barony, and a number of slaves to his mines. More wealth would flow to him, and that would bring him respect, but more importantly, greater power.
He laughed at Grenville’s frustration, but decided he would help pay for the repairs—Grenville was too useful not to keep happy. There was more territory for the taking, and Rodulf would not be satisfied until he had it. Not all the villages would fall as easily as Grundorf, however, and the vermin running amok in the village below him would not be up to it. Rodulf doubted Grenville would make any arguments in their favour after the mess they had made of his seigneury. Indeed, Rodulf reckoned the majority of their casualties would come from Grenville’s sword rather than those of the village’s warriors. Still, as Grenville had said, dead men don’t need to be paid.
ADALHAID
Adalhaid’s blood boiled as she walked away from the School of Medicine’s noticeboard. Attending clinics was a vital part of every studen
t’s training. After their basic indoctrination, each student was assigned to one of several free clinics in the city, to assist the qualified physicians and learn the practical application of their studies. Once again her name was absent from the list, and she knew exactly why.
Professor Kengil was in charge of assigning the duties. She was also head of the School of Medicine, so there was no one to whom she could complain.
‘That’s not a happy face,’ a voice said. Doctor Strellis.
‘Dr. Strellis,’ Adalhaid said. ‘Good morning. I wanted to thank you for backing me up the other day. It was… good timing.’
‘You’re very welcome, but it was the least I could do. Professor Kengil was incorrect, and I couldn’t allow all those young and inquiring minds to be led astray. I can’t help but ask: What’s ruined your day?’
‘Kengil—pardon me, Professor Kengil—has left me off the list for clinics. Again.’
Strellis frowned. ‘She shouldn’t do that. Every student is supposed to have a weekly clinic. Perhaps it’s just an oversight?’
Adalhaid raised an eyebrow.
‘No, perhaps not. Medicine has moved along a lot in the past few years. I probably shouldn’t be saying it, but Kengil is still stuck in the dark ages, and she refuses to consider new techniques coming from abroad. It’s made her angrier and angrier over the past few years. She’s not the easiest person to deal with.’ He scratched the stubble on his chin for a moment. ‘Look, I run a weekly clinic in the city. You can come along and get your hours there. I can sign off on them for you. If Kengil makes a fuss I’ll say I was correcting the oversight. She’ll know she’s in the wrong.’
‘Thank you,’ Adalhaid said. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘More than worth it to see that frown replaced by a smile,’ Strellis said.
WULFRIC
Wulfric’s apartment was amazing. There was an enormous bed with a feather mattress, covered in blankets that were so soft he didn’t want to take his hand from them. A knock on the door took him from his quandary. He opened it to be greeted by Jagovere, with Enderlain standing behind him.
‘Good, you’ve space for roommates,’ Jagovere said, as he walked in with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Enderlain nodded to Wulfric as he followed Jagovere in.
‘Didn’t they give you rooms?’ Wulfric said.
‘Oh, yes. Of course. We’ll be staying in here with you, though.’
‘Why?’ he said, not certain he wanted the answer, but reluctant to give up his newfound luxury and privacy.
‘Because everyone knows I’m the Graf’s captain, and all the servants saw me take the other room. No one saw me leave it and come here, however.’
Wulfric raised an eyebrow and looked at Enderlain, who shrugged.
‘At some point tonight, someone will break into my room and try to kill me,’ Jagovere said. ‘Not being there will go a long way to ensuring that doesn’t happen. If they decide to call here, the three of us will be more than able to handle whatever we’re faced with. If not, we deserve an assassin’s blade.’
Wulfric cast a glance to where he had left his sword. ‘I thought the duke invited us here,’ he said.
‘He did,’ Jagovere said as he dropped his duffel on the polished wooden floor and flopped onto a couch. Enderlain sat on the other and tested it, bouncing up and down with an expression on his face as though he was an expert on couch softness.
‘As it’s your room, you can take the bed,’ Jagovere said. Seeing the confusion on Wulfric’s face, he continued. ‘Just because the duke invited us here doesn’t mean everyone in his court is happy we’ve arrived.’
‘But why kill you?’
‘To send a message, which is often the reason for killing someone. Me not being there also sends a message. It tells them we know what their game is, and we can play it just as well as they can.’
23
AETHELMAN
Once they had discovered the Stone, everything else was forgotten. That there might have been anything else of value in the ruins had escaped them completely. Aethelman wondered what they might have missed. His friend had become ebullient with joy and excitement once they had realised what they had found. ‘We’ve succeeded where hundreds, thousands of priests before us have failed,’ he had said. ‘Our names will be carved into the Hermitage’s walls, never to be forgotten.’
Aethelman had remained quiet, sitting on a rock and staring at the strange object on his lap. The initial excitement he had felt at discovering such a rare object, and achieving the goal of the Search dissipated quickly. All that remained was concern. What was this strange thing? Why had the Grey Priests searched for them for so long? What danger might its discovery bring into the world? Above all, what was he supposed to do with it? No one, least of all Aethelman, had expected them to find anything. They had not been told what should follow this discovery. Should he destroy it? He had no idea how to attempt that. Should he return it to the Hermitage? Would they not have been told to do that before they left? Was he supposed to safeguard it, to dedicate his life to keeping it from anyone who might use it irresponsibly? Should he put it back under the altar, and forget all about it? He had no idea what it did, or how it might be made to work.
Ritschl had waxed lyrical about what they could do with it—Ritschl. His name was Ritschl. After scouring the recesses of his mind for so long, he had finally remembered it when he wasn’t even thinking of it. In the remembering, Ritschl became so much more than a shadowy memory. He took on colour and character.
Aethelman’s fear of the Stone had grown with each of Ritschl’s exhortations. Nothing he said was in the character of a Grey Priest. There was no humility, no self-sacrifice. Everything he wanted, he wanted for himself. Aethelman knew that Ritschl could not have the Stone. He realised he had seen the change in personality over the previous weeks of the Search. All the tests and discomforts placed on them pushed him farther from the tenets of their faith, while they pulled Aethelman closer. While Ritschl ranted about the futility and stupidity of their task, Aethelman had searched for and found comfort in their dogma. He could see Ritschl once more, pacing back and forward on the moss-covered flag stones, talking animatedly with wild gestures of his hands about the opportunities their discovery had offered. Aethelman had wondered at the significance of him being drawn to the Stone, rather than Ritschl, for they had both been as close to its hiding place.
The look on Ritschl’s face as their grips faltered and he fell from the bridge returned, banishing all else from Aethelman’s mind. He shut his eyes and turned his head in an effort to escape it. When he opened them, he saw a shadow on the mountain face that he had not noticed before. He stood, and walked toward it.
WULFRIC
‘Which one is your favourite?’
Wulfric wanted to go to sleep, but Jagovere seemed determined to chatter through the night. He thought for a moment.
‘I always enjoyed hearing the stories the warriors told when they came back from battle or hunting more than the old epics,’ he said.
‘I suppose all the epics started out like that,’ Jagovere said. ‘As tales of hunting or fighting or drinking.’
‘Or wenching,’ Enderlain said.
‘I suppose,’ Wulfric said, after a lengthy pause which he hoped would slow the conversation down to a halt.
‘Shhhh,’ Jagovere said.
Wulfric sat up on his elbows and looked across the gloomy room to where Jagovere lay on the couch. He had been the one prattling on, but Wulfric realised with disappointment that his hushing didn’t mean it was time for sleep. He saw the glint of steel in the moonlight as Jagovere drew his sword. Wulfric swung his legs from the bed and placed them on the floor as quietly as he could. He picked up his sword and waited for a signal from Jagovere. Enderlain snored, but Wulfric could see the shine of his open eyes in the moonlight.
Jagovere walked to the wall and pressed his ear to it, a finger held to his lips. Even from where Wulfric stood, he could hear noise in t
he next room. It was the sound of frustration, and he wondered if it would mean a visit to his room. His skin tingled in anticipation.
More sound, some voices, then silence once more. It seemed unlikely an assassin would come through the door, so he crouched and crept toward the window.
They waited in silence for several more minutes before Jagovere relaxed.
‘Hopefully that’s the end of that carry-on.’
‘Why won’t they just come here?’
‘Because they know we’re ready for them. Trying again would mean a fight they might not win. All the same, I think we should take turns keeping watch tonight.’
ADALHAID
Adalhaid felt a mix of excitement and terror when she arrived at Strellis’s clinic on her first day. She had heard other students talk of their experiences, but they seemed to be limited to boiling metal instruments and changing bedsheets. What greeted her when she went in came as a complete surprise.
A small, shabby waiting room was packed with people, ranging from the very young to the very old. Life in a busy city was hard, and broken limbs were rife, but there were other things that caught Adalhaid’s eye—the physical manifestations of subjects that had been discussed in her classes. She looked around with embryonic professional curiosity, until she was called by name.
‘Adalhaid?’
A blonde woman, not much older than Adalhaid, stood by a doorway with an inquiring look on her face.
‘Yes.’
‘Doctor dal Strellis said you’d be coming. I’m Rosamund.’ She offered her hand in the hasty fashion of someone with more tasks than time. ‘Follow me and I’ll get you oriented.’
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 16
