He turned and was presented with not one, but two men. The slightly built man he had seen whisper to the beautiful woman the night before, and the swordsman from the count’s entourage. Wulfric wondered what they wanted of him. His eyes instantly fell on the swordsman. He was the immediate threat. He had the look of a killer—dark, intelligent eyes and a cavalier posture that shouted absolute confidence in his environment. He was the type of man you wanted fighting at your side, not against you. Wulfric had seen few enough of his like since arriving in Torona, but Estranzans had a reputation for producing some of the finest swordsmen in the world. He regarded Wulfric with a wry smile, and Wulfric knew that he too was wondering what it would be like for them to fight.
‘His Lordship, the Count of Valeriano, wishes to speak with you,’ the slight man said.
‘I think you’ve got the wrong fellow,’ Wulfric said. ‘If you want to talk, my captain’s the man you need to talk to.’
‘You’d be well advised to do what you’re told, Northlander,’ the killer said.
‘Peace, Diego,’ the slight man said.
Diego, Wulfric thought, making note of the name. He wondered if they would cross paths again.
‘You’ll do,’ the slight man said. ‘For now.’ He gestured for Wulfric to follow.
Wulfric hesitated.
‘The count would like the conversation to remain private. We mean you no harm.’
Wulfric looked at Diego, ignoring the slight man. He was the only one who interested Wulfric. His clothes were cut for fighting and he had a complex-hilted rapier strapped to his waist. Unlike the others Wulfric had seen, Diego’s was undecorated. It seemed Diego knew the difference between a weapon and an ornament. They stared at each other for a moment, then Wulfric nodded.
‘Lead on.’
Diego smiled, but his eyes shouted disappointment. The slight man led the way, their bootfalls echoing along the stone-walled corridor. Two women—servants—appeared at the far end, walking toward Wulfric and his escorts.
‘And how do you find the weather, sir?’ the slight man said loudly, as though the question was part of an ongoing conversation.
Wulfric looked at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘Hot.’
‘I expect it must be very different from the cool northern climes,’ the slight man said. ‘I’ve yearned for many years to visit them. I hear there are seas of ice in the mountains that never melt, even in the height of summer.’
The servants passed by and continued on down the hall. The slight man glanced over his shoulder as he walked, watching them until they disappeared out of sight once again.
‘It’s true,’ Wulfric said. ‘There’s lots of them in the High Places. Your piss will freeze before it even hits the—’
The slight man was glaring at him with an expression that was a mixture of exasperation and boredom. Wulfric realised what the short exchange had been for, and felt foolish for continuing it beyond its need. He knew he was not a stupid man, but in the south he often felt as though he was. To survive there, you needed to have a mind as keen as the edge of his sword. He had allowed himself to drift into ignorance in the past. In the Northlands, reading, writing, and numbers were not important for a warrior, but in the south, they were everything, no matter who you were.
‘Where are we going?’ Wulfric said.
‘Would you even know where it was if I told you?’ the slight man said.
Wulfric shrugged.
‘Suffice it to say, it is somewhere the count may speak to you without unwanted ears or eyes nearby.’
Wulfric took another look at him out of the corner of his eye. He was balding, and had cropped what was left of his hair, but his beard and moustache were still dark. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes, almost unnoticeable, but they added years to him.
Eventually they arrived at their destination: a turn in a stairwell with a large bay window that overlooked one of the palace’s many gardens.
The count stood by the open window looking out, and cast only a furtive backward glance at their approach.
‘I’ll assume you have not the authority to make any decisions,’ the count said, still looking out the window, ‘so I’ll get to the point and you can take the message back to your master. Thirty thousand crowns, and you pack up and head back to your frozen northern homes and your frosty northern women.’
Wulfric thought it amusing that this far south, people treated the Ruripathians as ignorant savages from frozen northern wastes, just as the Ruripathians did the Northlanders. The slight man gestured for Wulfric to return in the direction he had just come. It seemed carrying a message was all that was required of him. For a piece of intrigue, the first Wulfric had been involved in, it came as something of an anti-climax. Diego put his hand on Wulfric’s arm to guide him, which Wulfric slapped away.
Diego instantly reached for his sword, and Wulfric had no intention of being left behind. In the blink of an eye, both men faced each other at sword point. Wulfric stood higher on the stairs, which gave him the advantage, but if Diego was aware of it, he showed no sign.
‘Diego!’ the count said.
Diego’s eyes flicked from Wulfric, and a look of resignation descended on his face.
‘Let him pass, Diego,’ the count said.
Diego delayed a moment, then sheathed his sword and stood to the side. He gestured that the way was clear with a sweep of his arm and a condescending smile. Wulfric walked down until he was standing on the same step as Diego, but towered above him.
‘Good boy, Diego,’ Wulfric said. ‘Do you roll over on command too?’
He held Diego’s gaze for a moment, and revelled in the anger burning in his eyes, then smiled and walked down the stairs, chuckling as he went.
26
RODULF
Rodulf felt anxious at the thought of travelling south the next morning, as if the Markgraf would take one look at him and know he was hiding something. It was ridiculous, but faced with a man with so much unchecked power, it was easy to become paranoid. Although he bowed to the princess in Ruripathia, it seemed to Rodulf that her hold on power was tenuous and she had to allow her powerful noblemen a great deal of freedom. Not only had Rodulf conquered a village and its territory, he had no intention of sharing any of the newly discovered silver. He knew he was treading dangerous ground and would have to be careful, but the rewards he sought demanded that risks be taken. Not even the Stone could bring him peace that evening.
He had decided that his new silver would need to be completely self-contained if he was to keep it a secret. Those who worked there would live, and die, there. Word would not leak from that source. Smelting would be done on site, with the silver packaged securely for transit so those carting the crates would have no idea of what was within. Transit to where, though? He sat before the crackling fire in his living room wondering where he could deposit his silver without the Markgraf finding out, growing more agitated with each moment. He would be damned if he would allow anyone else to take what was rightfully his. He needed a way to keep it safe, yet access it where and when he needed it. Where was almost always going to be in the south.
Silver was heavy, and needed large carts to carry it. They drew attention from ne’er-do-wells, and that meant they needed escorts, which drew attention from the type who would report unusual activity back to the Markgraf. He could send them by a longer route to avoid the Elzmark entirely, but that increased the danger, and whatever lord ruled that territory would no doubt find out and want his cut.
When the solution came to him, a smile spread across his face. He was still unused to having unfettered power in the new barony. There had always been someone to ask for permission, someone to convince, but now he could do as he pleased—within the confines laid down by the Markgraf. Leondorf required a bank. As well as the convenience it would bring him, it would send a clear message that Leondorf was a town on its way to being a city, with all that one would expect to find there. He added a trip to the bank to hi
s list of tasks in the south, and tried to push away the thought of the Markgraf chopping off his head for defrauding him.
AETHELMAN
Aethelman worked his way around the edges of the cavern, hoping to find something that had hitherto gone unnoticed. With the bridge maintained, he suspected the plateau and this cavern had probably been looted at some point, although he hoped they had missed something. He had the benefit of magical illumination, a constellation of tiny flames filling the cavern with as much light as if the ceiling were removed and the sun allowed in.
He spotted a section of the rock face that looked different. In more meagre light, it would have been invisible, but now the small, rectangular anomaly was obvious. He traced his finger around its edges. There was a seam, no wider than a hair, but it was there, and ran the whole way around the lighter patch of stone.
Aethelman sighed. He was not made to be an adventurer or a treasure hunter, and he had nothing with which to extract the block. He looked around the floor, hopeful that something useful might remain, but there was nothing. He rested his hand on the stone and wondered. Might whatever magic that had allowed him to create the light help him now? The mystery of everything was starting to grate on his nerves. How could his forebears have been so afraid of magic to have allowed so much knowledge disappear?
He thought deeply, and willed the block to pop out of the wall. Nothing happened. He leaned against it in frustration. There was a click that echoed through the cavern. His heart raced and he looked around, fearing he had set off a booby trap. He saw no danger and breathed a sigh of relief.
Looking back at the differently coloured block, he realised it was protruding from the cavern wall far enough for him to get a hold on it. He gripped it with his fingertips and pulled. It was stiff at first, but gave to his efforts and slid out of the wall. He peered into the hole and could see that it went back farther than the block had filled.
He made to put his hand in, then stopped. What if something unpleasant lay within? A hand-sized mousetrap? He forced his fear to one side and reached in. His arm was in all the way to his shoulder when his hand fell on something: a leather bundle. He took it out and brought it over to the workbench, his hands shaking with excitement. What long-forgotten knowledge was he about to discover? Might it be what he sought? He could certainly see the appeal in being a treasure hunter. The excitement coursing through him made him feel like a boy again.
The leather bundle was a roll covering numerous sheets of parchment, all of which were covered in writing. Writing which he could read. He took a deep breath to steady himself. He wanted to go about this in a systematic way, to make sure he missed nothing. He wondered how parchment could have survived in such good condition for so long—a thousand years at least—but there was magic in that place, and magic could do almost anything.
Having finally found a way to bind the Lifespring to an object, I have infused a quantity of it into several items. Most allow the energy to dissipate over the course of several hours to a day, but Godsteel seems to hold the energy indefinitely. Indeed, once the bindings have been created, and the steel given its initial charge, it self-perpetuates. It recharges itself, which is a wholly unexpected, but entirely welcome, result. I am now experimenting with the optimum size for the reservoir. If these objects cannot be kept to a size that is easily portable, they will be all but useless. However, for the first time in memory, I feel hope. If I can make these reservoirs work, we will have an advantage over the Imperial Mages that may well allow our survival.
Aethelman felt his heart race. Could this journal really have been penned by the man who created the Fount Stones? It seemed almost too much to hope for. It struck Aethelman that the author spoke in a positive way about what he was creating, with such hope. These were things Aethelman’s order had been created to seek out and destroy, they were such a blight to the world. He turned the page, and continued to read.
A piece of Godsteel the size of a large man’s fist appears to be the perfect compromise between capacity and portability. I continue my experiments now to discover the capabilities and limitations of my Lifespring Reservoirs—
Aethelman presumed that when the author said ‘the Lifespring,’ he was referring to the Fount.
—I cannot in good conscience send men and women forth in reliance on these reservoirs without knowing what they can and cannot do. To have someone killed because my invention let them down would be unforgivable. It is my wish to save the lives of my brethren, not put them in greater danger or create a false sense of security.
Aethelman’s heart raced as he read, not just from the thought that he was close to succeeding in his quest, but at the thrill of learning secrets long forgotten. He cast a glance around the cavern, and wondered what it had looked like when the author had inhabited it. His hand continued to shake as he turned the page.
There have been some interesting, and somewhat worrying, discoveries in my experiments. The first is that the reservoir does not return all the Lifespring that has been invested in it. I would speculate that the output is less than half of the input. I am putting my mind to ways of improving this. At this point I feel the answer most likely lies in the method of binding, but there is much to be done before I will have time to address this.
The second, and most worrying, fact is that the reservoir seems to be usable by those uninitiated in magical ability. My assistant, Urt, has had no training, and is possessed of a dull mind. He is strong, eager to be of help, and affable, but he bears none of the qualities required to become an initiate. On three occasions now, I have witnessed him carry out minor feats of magic, all related to the tasks I had set him, while carrying one of the reservoirs.
The dangers of this are obvious—the thought of those uninitiated in the use of the Lifespring being able to wield it is too terrifying to contemplate. Again, I feel confident that the solution lies in the method of binding. As soon as time permits, I will experiment with variations in the runes used to create the binding.
The passage made much clear to Aethelman. When this man and his brethren had ceased to exist, the danger of his creation remained. Perhaps one or two of them survived to found the Grey Priests to eradicate the danger they had created?
I have not updated this journal in some time due to my workload, and a pervasive feeling of being unwell. Work and clear thought has been difficult, but my task is an important one so I persevere. Urt ran away with one of the reservoirs several days ago. There is nothing I can do about it. The only consolation I can take is that it is most likely he will bring about his own demise in trying to use it. I have notified the Brethren to keep a watch out for him, but their time is limited. Word has come of an expedition of Imperial Mages and their servants crossing the river and venturing into the Northern Kingdoms for the first time. Until now, this has been our last sanctuary, chased as we have been from all the places that were our own by those who see the Lifespring as a thing that can be controlled, rather than channelled. A science, rather than the great mystery of our world. I would call them fools if they had not managed to best us on nearly every occasion the Brethren have encountered them in confrontation.
Aethelman found himself reading more quickly, eager to see where this ancient man’s writings ended.
I have already mentioned the poor input and output ratios of the reservoirs, and that once bound and charged, they can replenish themselves. They draw unrelentingly on their surroundings until their capacity is filled once again, as though the cold, dead metal is thirsty for the touch of life. I have seen one of my reservoirs brown and kill a patch of grass outside that I had absently left it sitting on. I had almost drained it in my tests, then placed it on the lawn. In only a few moments, the process had begun. I now wonder if my own feelings of lethargy are caused the same way, if the reservoirs are taking from my own minor store of Lifespring. Might the thing I created to save the lives of those who possess them, leach them also? The feeling is worse when I have spent a great deal of time working in
the cavern. When I am outside in the fresh air, rather than surrounded by rock, the ailment fades. It leads me to the conclusion that the reservoirs will draw on the ambient Lifespring by preference, and only on more difficult sources, such as my own, when there is no alternative—in much the same way an inexperienced initiate draws from their own at first rather than that surrounding them.
It is difficult now to think of the creation of my reservoirs without regret. Due to necessity, I distributed a number of them to my brethren, and they have proved of only limited value. We have won more battles, but the Imperial Magisters are too many. All the reservoirs have done is slow their advance, and in delaying the inevitable, prolong the destruction. They come north of the river in ever greater numbers, and I realise that our time in this world is limited.
There was only one entry left. How this tale ended seemed inevitable, and there was a sadness in reading the thoughts of a man whose time was coming to an end.
A good man seeks to leave the world better than he found it. I have always thought myself a good man. I am a good man, but I have created something that will affect the world for the worse. I cannot depart it without trying to undo what I have done. Although I have destroyed all references to the bindings required to create new reservoirs, many of my creations are out in the world.
I have spoken with two of my brethren, who, like me, are of the opinion that our days have passed and all our struggles do is prolong the inevitable. They have agreed to go far into the north to hide, to wait until the Imperial Magisters believe they have accomplished their task and erased us from this world. When that time arrives, they will dedicate themselves to tracking down and destroying each and every reservoir I have created.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 19
