Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Strellis frowned as he examined the damage. Bone had pierced skin and Adalhaid had to constantly hand him cloths to staunch the flow of blood. They had already administered a tincture of dream seed, but the girl’s pain was such that it was taking time to affect her. He stood, moved to the door and gestured for Adalhaid to join him.

  ‘The bones have been pulverised,’ he said. ‘There’s no way to mend them and it won’t heal. It’ll turn bad and kill her. I’m going to have to take the leg off.’

  Adalhaid went pale at the thought of the girl losing the limb. Life for the poor was difficult enough, but with only one leg, she was destined for a short life of hardship. Adalhaid had seen cripples begging on the street, being kicked, spat at, starving slowly to an uncared-about death before their bodies were dumped in a paupers’ grave outside the city.

  ‘I want you to stay with her until the tincture takes effect and she falls asleep. Give her what comfort you can. I’ll get my saw and instruments ready.’ With that, he left.

  Adalhaid turned and looked at the girl, who was still sobbing gently. They had given her enough dream seed to put a man three times her size into a deep sleep, but her pain was so intense that she was merely in a stupor. The dressing on her leg had become soaked through, so Adalhaid removed it and placed a new one on the wound, gently pressing it down.

  It broke her heart to think of the girl going through life on only one leg. She wished there were more she could do for the little girl’s suffering. The city’s churches made meagre efforts to help the poor and unfortunate, but it was simply paying lip service to their credos. They viewed the decoration of their shrines, churches and cathedrals as being far more important than caring for the gods’ most unfortunate children. The Bishop of Elzburg’s house in the city was ample proof of that. Taking the girl’s leg off was not a kindness; it was a condemnation.

  As she looked down at the young girl, Adalhaid felt a wave of light-headedness sweep over her. It struck her as odd—she had never been squeamish before and had helped her mother clean animals for the cooking pot from as early in her life as she could remember. She gripped the treatment table to steady herself, and was almost overcome by a feeling of nausea. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she fought down the urge to vomit. It couldn’t be squeamishness. Perhaps she was coming down with something—she spent a great deal of time in contact with sick people.

  The door opened and Strellis came back in. She stood and stepped back from the treatment table. The dizziness and nausea subsided as soon as she did, leaving her feeling well, but confused by the suddenness of it all.

  ‘I can ask Rosamund to assist me, if you don’t feel ready for this yet,’ he said.

  Adalhaid took her hand away from the wound and stood. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Strellis placed his instruments on the table and stepped forward. He lifted the girl’s eyelids with his thumbs, and, satisfied that she was senseless, moved to the fresh dressing on her leg.

  ‘You may need to hold her still,’ he said. ‘Even with the dream seed, her body may react. I can do the rest myself. When I tell you, I want you to go out and get the heated metal paddle from Rosamund so I can seal the wound. It will be glowing hot, so be careful not to burn yourself on it. Use the heavy gloves. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He lifted the dressing and reached for his knife, but his hand stopped in mid-air. ‘What? What in hells?’

  Adalhaid strained to see over his shoulder.

  ‘Am I going mad?’ he said. ‘What in hells?’

  ‘What is it?’ Adalhaid said.

  ‘Her leg. It’s half-healed. I could probably leave it alone and it would be fine in a couple of months.’

  Adalhaid said nothing.

  ‘A moment ago it was destroyed. I’ve not seen much worse after a battle. What happened? What could have happened while I was gone?’ His eyes widened. ‘That day in the lecture theatre. That woman was as badly hurt as they said, wasn’t she? What did you do?’

  He went pale and took a step back.

  Adalhaid felt a flash of panic. She had no idea what had happened. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ she said. ‘I just changed the girl’s dressing. Nothing more.’

  ‘You had to have done something,’ Strellis said, his voice wavering. ‘Bones crushed to powder do not suddenly become whole again. I doubt even magic could do it.’ His mouth dropped open. ‘But it could. Northlander magic.’

  Adalhaid felt her insides clench at the mention of magic. The southerners hated it. It was illegal, actively hunted down, and execution was the only penalty. She had never had cause to think about it before, but now? Had she really performed magic on the young girl? She couldn’t understand how that might be possible—she had no training, no knowledge of it. Surely she would need both to be able to use it? The wound had been as bad as Strellis had said. She had seen that with her own eyes. Now it was all but healed. The same with the girl in the lecture theatre. At the time, she had dismissed it as the girl over-reacting. Southerners weren’t made of the same stuff as Northlanders, so it hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary. Now, however, the evidence was staring her in the face.

  She remembered the way Aethelman had chosen her from among all the others to help him when he was treating patients, even above those who said they wanted to become healers. She thought of her old dog, Spot, and the day he had started following her. He had been lame, but then he wasn’t. She had thought it an act to get sympathy, but now? What had she done? How?

  She looked back at Strellis, and felt true fear. He looked terrified of her, his dark, handsome eyes wide. She had seen a woman being dragged from a back street by dark-cloaked agents of the princess. The word ‘witch’ was whispered, everyone too afraid to utter it aloud. She had no desire to meet the same fate. Not when she didn’t even know what she had done, or how she had done it.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Adalhaid said, her voice filled with fear. ‘I just wanted to help her.’

  ‘It never occurred to me that as a Northlander you might…’ His voice was stronger now, his confidence returning. ‘You know magic’s illegal here? It’s very serious.’

  ‘I know,’ Adalhaid said, still trying to make sense of what had happened. ‘I didn’t do anything. I only changed her dressing. I’m not a witch.’

  ‘There are people here who claim to be magical healers, but most of them are fraudsters. I’ve heard stories about people in the east who can do unbelievable things, but I never really believed it. Can the priest healers in the Northlands use magic? I’d never have believed that, either. But now?’ He shook his head.

  Adalhaid had no idea what to say. The danger was real, and close. She knew Strellis’s reaction could mean life or death for her. She considered running from the room, from the city, but she still could not believe what had happened, and what that meant.

  ‘I wish I was mistaken, but I don’t make mistakes that big,’ Strellis said. ‘What else could it be?’

  Adalhaid opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. What else could it be?

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ she said a moment later.

  ‘Nothing,’ Strellis said, the waver gone from his voice. ‘But we can’t tell anyone about this, and you can’t do it again. Ever. Someone will find out, and the Intelligenciers will come for you. When the Intelligenciers come for you, you are never seen again. Do you understand?’

  She thought of the men in the black cloaks, and realised the people who had been watching weren’t just afraid of the witch. They were equally afraid of the Intelligenciers.

  ‘Take a week’s break from the clinic. You need to work out what you did, how you did it, and how to make sure you don’t do it again. I’ll tell the mother the injury wasn’t as bad as I first thought, and wrap it up in so much bandaging it will take them a week to get it all off. If I tell her the leg will drop off if they touch it before it’s ready to be removed, they’ll believe me, but if this type of thing happens again, s
omeone will get suspicious. We could both burn for this.’

  Adalhaid nodded, the feeling of nausea in her gut refusing to go away.

  25

  AETHELMAN

  The darkness that swallowed Aethelman up as he descended into the mountain immediately brought him back to the memory of the Hermitage, and the laughter he had heard. He felt himself hoping he would hear it again, and had not realised the loneliness that had lived for so long in his heart. To hear Aesa’s voice would always be a gift indeed.

  This descent into the bowels of the mountain proved to be shorter. He had not gone down more than a dozen shallow steps before he reached a plateau, the comfort of being able to see the bright doorway welcome. He waited for a moment in the hope of hearing the laughter, but it did not come. Despite the light coming through the door, it did little to light the main room. He wondered if he might be able to fashion a torch. As soon as he thought of it, the cavern lit, as though by a thousand candles—but these candles were no more than their flame, each one dancing ephemerally in the air above his head. At first, he felt afraid, but they seemed benign and everything suggested it was he who had caused them to be there. How was an entirely other question, one that would have to wait.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the altar. As the inscriptions on the exterior had indicated, it was dedicated to Audun. Audun was a god without a following. The warriors prayed to Jorundyr, the priests to Birgyssa, farmers to Ghyda, craftsmen to Herolt, merchants and those who sought good fortune to Vikta, and everyone to Agnarr, father of them all. Whoever had favoured Audun had died out long ago. It had struck him as odd that the Hermitage was built over a shrine to Audun, rather than Birgyssa. Might the Grey Priests, or their forebears, have once dedicated themselves to Audun? If so, he was curious as to what had motivated the change to Birgyssa. It made him wonder if the creation of the Stones might have had anything to do with it.

  There was something strange about the altar. It didn’t look like something intended for use in religious services. This one may have started as an altar, but it had been used for rough work for many years, as evidenced by the etches and scores all over it. In its centre, there was a small, circular hole framed by a disc of metal that was delicately inscribed. It looked like it was Godsteel.

  Aethelman leaned forward and squinted to read the small runes.

  The Fount of the Gods.

  The light from the ethereal flames flickering in the air only reached a few handspans down into the hole in the centre, but the hole seemed to go far deeper than that. He walked around the altar and started to explore the rest of the cavern. There was a shelf recessed into the wall with several objects on it. They were immediately familiar, and Aethelman felt his heart race. He went over and reached out, but stopped.

  Touching the Stone could, by itself, be enough to seduce a man to its powers. He had been a young man when he had carelessly picked up the Stone with his bare hands, and his will had been strong. He was so much older now, and not so arrogant as to think his resolve was as immutable. These stones were different, however. Even from the distance his hand maintained, he could sense it. There was no power in them.

  Satisfied that it was safe, he reached out and picked one up. Like the Stone, it was the size of a large potato and of an irregular shape. It was also made of Godsteel—Telastrian Steel, as they called it in the south. Unlike the Stone, there were no runes etched into its surface. This was the raw material from which the Stones were made. His eyes widened as he realised that this was where they had been made.

  Might it also be where they could be unmade?

  ADALHAID

  Adalhaid found herself constantly looking over her shoulder in the days following the incident at the clinic. She had no idea how the Intelligenciers tracked their quarries, but her imagination was offering up a great many possibilities. Every time she saw someone dressed in black, she held her breath for a moment. Even in the palace’s private apartments while looking after the Markgraf’s children, her heart jumped every time the door opened. Fear was a terrible thing, and there was barely a moment when she did not feel it.

  As bad as the fear was, her inability to understand what she had done was worse. Everything else found its root there. There was nowhere she could go to learn how to control it, no one to ask. She had no idea where to begin. She wondered if Aethelman was still in Leondorf. He was the only one she could think of who might be able to help, but she didn’t know if he was still alive, let alone in the village. He had talked for so long about leaving. Without him, her only option was to wait, observe, and experiment until she had mastery of whatever it was. The thought of rationalising it and applying the experimental processes she had learned in her medical studies gave her some comfort, but it was a terrifying prospect. It felt like walking around juggling knives, hoping you did not cut yourself, with the spectre of the Intelligenciers looming over you all the while.

  WULFRIC

  Wulfric’s father had played host to the warriors of Leondorf many times. All great war leaders were expected to offer their followers hospitality, so it came as no surprise to Wulfric that the duke did the same. However, nothing could have prepared him for the scale. The feasting hall in Leondorf had seated a hundred or so. The banqueting hall in Torona must have been able to accommodate five times that many. Wulfric wondered how much it must cost to feed so many on a daily basis.

  It was clear that there was more to it than merely eating. Only the most important at court were invited to the hall, while others had to take meals in their apartments or elsewhere. There was ceremony to it. Servants buzzed around like bees at a hive; women posed in dresses so elegant they more resembled statues than living people; men of every shape and size postured in their finery, many wearing waist sashes of navy with white dots. Despite wearing his best clothes, once again Wulfric felt like a beggar.

  ‘What are the sashes?’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere held up the steel-grey one he wore. ‘Ruripathia’s colour is grey. Estranza’s is the starry field.’

  ‘That’s not a colour,’ Wulfric said.

  Jagovere laughed. ‘It’s just a name. More like a flag. Certain bannerets, the very best, are awarded their nation’s colours. The Graf and I have the Grey. In Ostenheim it’s the Blue, in Mirabaya the White, and so on. In Estranza, it’s the Starry Field.’

  ‘Why a starry field?’

  ‘When the Empire conquered this land millennia ago, the emperor himself led his army. When he landed on the Estranzan shore, he looked back at his approaching fleet, hundreds of white sails on a deep blue sea, and said it looked like a starry field.’ He paused for effect. ‘Or so the story goes. The name stuck, and here we are. Far more romantic than grey, blue, or white, don’t you think?’

  Wulfric shrugged. It seemed pompous to him. He was more concerned with how not to make a fool of himself at dinner. His first encounter with a fork was still fresh in his mind. ‘What do we do?’ he said.

  ‘We mind our manners, we smile and nod to anyone who acknowledges us, and we keep our mouths shut until we have no alternative but to speak. And we eat,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘I hope the food’s good,’ Enderlain said.

  As they took their seats, Wulfric noticed a woman staring at them from across the audience hall. Like most Estranzans, she had jet-black hair and deeply tanned skin. It lent her a smouldering, mysterious air, and Wulfric felt himself puffing out his chest in response as he realised she was looking at him.

  ‘Mysterious, exotic, intoxicating,’ Jagovere said. ‘The young Northlander hero discovered the greatest danger lay not in facing his enemies, but in the gaze of a southern beauty…’

  Wulfric felt his face grow red. Being the subject of a joke was not something he dealt with well. ‘Was just looking, is all.’

  ‘Well, at least find out who she is before trying to bed her. The last thing we need is for you to be caught in the sack with one of the duke’s mistresses.’

  Wulfric tried to be di
screet, but continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye. The only other woman to have that much of an impact on him was Adalhaid, and the memory made him feel guilt—that he was thinking of another woman, and that he had not yet settled her Blood Debt.

  The slightly built man whom Wulfric had seen in dal Valeriano’s entourage joined the woman and whispered in her ear. Wulfric’s feelings were immediately replaced by jealousy. The man was well dressed, and had the look of easy wealth many of the courtiers displayed. It said he was a man who knew how to navigate the perils of court, a man who could talk with authority on matters of culture and politics, a man who had far more skills than merely being good at killing people. A man with enough money to turn his will into reality without ever having to get his hands dirty. To him, Wulfric reckoned he must appear an ignorant savage. To her, he must appear a pauper.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Wulfric said. ‘When we’re working on the epics, could you teach me to read and write?’

  Jagovere raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  Wulfric nodded.

  ‘How will it help with swinging a sword?’

  Wulfric felt his temper flare. ‘It won’t.’

  Jagovere held his hands up. ‘All right, no reason to get cranky. I’ll teach you. It would be my pleasure.’

  Wulfric looked back to where the Estranzan woman had been sitting, but she was gone. He wondered if he would see her again.

  WULFRIC

  ‘Northman.’

  Wulfric stopped in his tracks. He had left the banquet table to use the privy, and had spent several minutes wandering around darkened service corridors without any success in finding it. He had not expected to be engaged in conversation in the process. Without Jagovere there to do the talking, he felt a chill of fear worse than if he was preparing to face this man in a fight.