Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  My recent efforts have been limited to creating the tool for this task. Just as the reservoirs exist because of the runes of binding, I realised they can be destroyed by a rune of undoing. I have tried many ways to apply these new runes. Overwriting what is already there does not work. The power of the magic is enough to fend off any attack of this nature. They cannot be polished smooth to allow fresh inscribing. As greedily as they absorb power, they jealously defend it. How then to do it? The answer came to me as I slept—a blade bearing runes of undoing cleaved the reservoir in two, and destroyed it.

  It took time. At first I used ordinary blades of steel, and none worked the way they had in the dream. It took a blade of Godsteel to destroy it. With the runes of undoing inscribed on its length, the Godsteel knife cut through the reservoir like it was a warm pat of butter. It released its captive Lifespring back to the world like a welcome breeze on a hot day. It told me that the burden I had placed on the world could be lifted, and in that knowledge, I can go to my rest with some peace in my heart.

  There is one thing I seem to be unable to do. I can feel each of the reservoirs I created, sense them and where they are, but I am too infirm to leave this sanctuary to aid in seeking them out. I have left my charges with as much information as to their whereabouts as I can, but for whatever reason, they do not seem to be able to sense them. Might it be the physical contact I had with each of them has created a connection between us? I wish I could find a way to allow them to feel them as I do before the gods call me to join them, but try as I might, I cannot.

  That was all the ancient magister had to say, but he had drawn the runes of undoing below his words. Aethelman’s heart soared. As he opened his mind to the possibility, he realised he too could sense the Stone he had touched.

  He knew where it was.

  27

  RODULF

  Rodulf was tired when he arrived at his inn at Elzburg. He had been ruminating over what he needed to do for the entire journey south, and was too impatient to rest. He headed straight for the market square where the mercenary companies were to be found. Getting more men to Grenville was the priority. He needed fresh slaves to work his mine, and for that he needed mercenaries to capture them. The sooner he had them marching north, the sooner Grenville could act on their plan. With luck, Grenville would have taken another village by the time Rodulf got back.

  Different market squares provided different offerings, and the one where mercenaries were to be had was smaller than Rodulf had hoped—little more than a cloistered courtyard surrounded by tall, crooked buildings that all but blotted out the sky. A few rough-looking men moved about with no appearance of purpose, and the curious glances they gave him made Rodulf regret leaving Grenville behind. He wore a rapier at his side, the weapon of choice among southern gentlemen, but he had little practice using it. Northlanders usually fought from horseback, and the sabre was their preferred blade, the slash being the better strike from the saddle than the thrust. The sabre had its drawbacks on foot, but when everyone was penalised in the same fashion it made little difference. Against a rapier, however, a warrior with a sabre was at a disadvantage. Rodulf was well-trained with the sabre, but with a rapier he might as well have been wielding a mop—it was for appearance only. It was something he needed to address. The path he intended for himself made the fighting of at least one duel almost inevitable. He had no desire to lose everything he had worked for at the wrong end of a rapier because of an aristocrat’s injured honour.

  ‘I have a contract I need filled,’ Rodulf said as loudly as he could. He attracted little attention. Eventually a man ambled over.

  ‘What’s the job?’ he said.

  He was crippled, and not what Rodulf needed. Perhaps he would have to go to Brixen to find what he needed.

  ‘There’ll be fighting, but also plunder involved. That’s all I’m saying for now,’ Rodulf said. ‘Are there no companies here?’

  ‘Not this far north,’ the cripple said. ‘Things is too quiet up here these days. There’s war in the South, so that’s where most of them are.’

  Rodulf sighed in frustration.

  ‘I’m with the Adventurer Companies’ Guild,’ the cripple said. ‘If you tell me the nature of the work, and how many men you need, I can put the word out and see if we can find you what you need.’

  ‘No soldiering for you anymore?’ Rodulf asked, relieved that this was not the only calibre of man available to him.

  The cripple frowned. ‘What do you think? Took an Ostian pike in the thigh and a bolt in the shoulder. Work for the Guild now. Like I said.’

  ‘Two hundred men. Work for a full season. I pay standard rates, and there’ll be plunder for the taking.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Where can I call on you?’

  ‘The Brazen Belek Inn, for the time being. Grenville’s my name,’ Rodulf said. ‘How long will it take to find what I need?’

  The cripple shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string? Tomorrow if there’s someone around. Next month if they have to march from somewhere.’

  ‘Tomorrow would be better than next month. Do it fast and I’m sure we can find something more interesting and rewarding for you to do than sit around here all day.’

  The man nodded, and Rodulf walked away. Every day he was delayed was a frustration, and increased the chance that the opportunities which had fallen into his lap would be taken away. If the man didn’t have something for him in a day or two, it would be time for a trip to Brixen.

  WULFRIC

  ‘Thirty thousand crowns?’ dal Rhenning said.

  Jagovere raised his eyebrows and Wulfric nodded.

  ‘Well, he must really want to see the back of us,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘What could we do with thirty thousand, Jagovere?’

  Jagovere shrugged. ‘Retire. Happily.’

  ‘This is my retirement,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘And it’s a damn sight more fun than managing estates. We have enough coin to pay the men, and a reputation that would make Gandaman and the Hundred green with envy. Tell him to stuff his thirty thousand.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Wait.’ Dal Rhenning held up a hand. ‘No. A demonstration of fidelity would be better. Give the order to break camp. We march south to the border to join the duke’s army, with or without the marshall. Go and tell the duke that we’ll await his instructions there while we season the men.’

  AETHELMAN

  There were few smiths in the Northlands who could properly work Godsteel. The old smith in Leondorf had been among the best, but he was long dead. So too the smith in Rasbruck. Aethelman wondered if a southern smith might be a better option. The southerners also greatly prized what they called Telastrian Steel, and with the few lumps of it Aethelman had taken from the cavern, he would be able to have several knives forged with the runes of undoing inscribed on their blades. Were he to sell the pieces he had found, it would bring him enough southern coin to live in luxury for the rest of his life. Duty and comfort so rarely went hand in hand.

  He had finally found a smith of some repute at a small village in the north called Krendorf. Each step he took toward Krendorf drew him farther from the Stone. The sensation was ever-present now and he could feel the distance grow like a call getting ever quieter.

  Godsteel was hard to come by. It was only found in remote spots in the High Places, and the best quality could fetch a higher price than gold. He felt oddly self-conscious with a half dozen lumps of it in his satchel. Even in these troubled times it was unlikely anyone would bother a priest on the road, but it did give him cause to worry. The feeling of possessing great wealth was almost as uncomfortable as the feeling of possessing the Stone.

  He stopped on a hill overlooking Krendorf. It was a village much like any other—a clutch of thatched buildings huddled around a small village square. The smithy was easy to spot—there was a tendril of black smoke twisting up through the sky from its wide chimney.

  Small villages always viewed new arrivals
with a healthy dose of curiosity. Some were suspicious, while others were hungry for news from the rest of the world. His priestly robes meant his welcome would be warmer than most, and he would need to pay a courtesy call on the incumbent before he left.

  The air was cold and damp and filled with the acrid tang of woodsmoke mingled with manure. He stopped outside the smithy and watched the man at his work. His hammer fell with the rhythmic certainty of a movement that had been repeated many thousands of times. He was so focussed on his work that it took him a moment to realise he was being watched.

  ‘Greetings, priest,’ the smith said, looking over his shoulder as he continued to work. ‘The kirk’s at the end of the lane.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Aethelman said, ‘but it’s you I’m here to see. I have a commission for you.’

  The smith stopped and turned, giving Aethelman his full attention. ‘I don’t work silver,’ he said.

  Religious symbols were always crafted from silver. Aethelman had no idea why that was. Another piece of knowledge lost to the passage of time.

  ‘I have something different in mind,’ Aethelman said. ‘A blade.’ He reached into his satchel and took out one of the pieces of Godsteel.

  RODULF

  Rodulf surveyed the house from the street. It was huge, and it looked magnificent. The price was insane, but it seemed the agent would not take a penny less. He had decided he would have it the moment he saw it. The wealth he had cobbled together would be wiped out in one stroke, and he would be entirely reliant on his clandestine silver mines to restore it. That wasn’t taking into account the battalion of servants that would be needed to run it. At times, he felt despair that they would not be able to dig the silver out of the ground quickly enough—being an ambitious nobleman was a prohibitively expensive occupation.

  ‘My lord? Will you be taking it?’

  ‘Of course I’m taking it,’ Rodulf said. ‘Do you mean to say you think I can’t afford it?’

  The agent blanched. ‘No, of course not. I was merely wondering if it pleased you enough to want it.’

  Rodulf smiled. Southerner tradesmen would debase themselves in so many ways for coin. It almost made Rodulf agree with the dislike warriors in Leondorf had for merchants.

  ‘Send the paperwork to my lawyers,’ Rodulf said as he walked away. ‘I have other engagements.’

  ADALHAID

  Adalhaid pressed the bandage down over the wound, her heart racing as she did. She concentrated harder than she ever had before, both willing and praying that she did not use magic. She still found the idea almost too fantastic to believe, but Strellis had been right; the little girl’s leg had been completely destroyed. Then it wasn’t. How else could something like that be explained? She was the only one to intervene; she was the only possible cause.

  As she had grown to accept this new reality, shock and fear had given way to a growing feeling of anger. Why would something that could ease the suffering of so many be demonised? She realised she already knew the answer. She had studied enough southern history to know that hundreds of years in the past, sorcerers had become powerful tyrants. The war that pulled them from their pedestal had torn apart the Empire, and magic was swiftly outlawed. It seemed ridiculous to her that everyone still had to suffer for events in the distant past. Surely there was a better way than to impose a blanket ban? Even if there was, she knew she had no way of making it come to pass. That left her frustrated once again. And afraid.

  She lifted the bandage again before strapping it down. The wound was still open, and she felt guilty for breathing a sigh of relief. It meant she could restrain whatever power it was she had, though it was a small comfort. Just knowing she had it made her feel like a plague bearer.

  ‘How’s our patient doing?’ Strellis walked into the treatment room. She could tell he was forcing himself to behave as he had before. His casual confidence seemed strained.

  ‘May I see your patient notes?’ he asked.

  Adalhaid handed him her notes. The review was part of her training, the keeping of good notes being one of the required skills of a competent physician. Her hand brushed against Strellis’s and her skin tingled at the touch. She blushed, and it was obvious he noticed, but his touch lingered. In that moment Wulfric’s face popped into her mind, the touch of his stubble against her cheek.

  ‘I have to get back to the palace,’ she said.

  28

  WULFRIC

  Wulfric returned to the palace with Jagovere that night. When dal Rhenning had decided they would march south, Wulfric had thought they would break camp and be on the road that day. There was more to marching an army than giving the order, though. Road provisions had to be gathered, and guides had to be arranged. It would take a day or two, but setting the process in motion was enough to send the signal dal Rhenning desired. They would adhere fastidiously to the terms of their contract, and would not be bought by anyone else for its duration.

  They walked through the large, airy chambers of the palace toward the audience hall, where everyone of importance spent their day. While the duke was present, they all vied for his attention; when he was gone, they found quiet nooks and alcoves to bargain and plot. Wulfric couldn’t see the appeal in it. In the Northlands, a man owned what he could win and hold onto by force of arms. In Torona, power was ephemeral. It was an idea rather than a reality, and it only existed for so long as people believed in it. It occurred to Wulfric that dal Rhenning, with his company of battle-hardened men, could walk in and take everything from them. For all their fine clothes and fancy swords, there was nothing of substance in Torona. Everything was a facade. The men who had the most were worth the least. He had not been there long, but already Wulfric hated Torona.

  Being in the audience hall was tedious. The only thing that caught Wulfric’s imagination was wondering if the woman would be there. He thought it unlikely that a woman of sophistication and refinement would be anywhere else. Quite how she might have any interest in him punctured the fantasy, however. He had no land, no wealth. Those were the things southern women wanted.

  He spotted the slight man who had brought him to dal Valeriano. Wulfric had asked around and found out his name was Carraterro dal Suera, a powerful nobleman in his own right, who had aligned himself with the duke’s half-brother. Diego spotted Wulfric and smiled, doffing his hat in a gesture that was as much threat as salutation. Wulfric felt the tingle that preceded all conflict run across his skin. Would it impress the mysterious woman?

  ‘The exercises?’

  It took Wulfric a moment to realise that Jagovere was speaking to him.

  ‘The exercises? They weren’t too difficult?’

  ‘I told you I know how to make my letters,’ Wulfric said. ‘I’m not a complete idiot. I need to improve, not start from the beginning. Give me some of the stories you wrote down. I already know what they say. I can work the rest out.’ The woman had walked into the hall, and he suddenly felt the need to prove himself. She wore a dark purple gown that hugged her figure in all the right places.

  ‘Women like that are only ever trouble,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Wulfric asked.

  ‘No, but I’ve known plenty like her,’ he said. ‘She’ll have caught the eye of someone with more wealth and power than the likes of us, and he’ll do whatever it takes to have her all to himself.’

  Wulfric cast Jagovere a glance. The wistful sound in his voice raised questions, but Wulfric’s attention was too drawn to the woman in the purple dress to give it much thought. She moved through the crowd with grace that seemed almost ethereal, until she stood next to dal Valeriano. Wulfric saw Diego give her an appraising look, then glance across the hall to Wulfric. His smile widened when he saw where Wulfric was looking. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword. A woman like that would be worth fighting to the death for, Wulfric thought. It would be a story worth writing down.

  AETHELMAN

  Aethelman clutched the blades in his hand. They seemed like such in
significant things. They were bare metal, the long blade thinning into a slender tang that could have a handle mounted on it. The smith had wanted to know what the symbols meant, so Aethelman had told him they were prayers to Audun. Few even remembered the name of that god—no one was interested in wisdom or knowledge in the Northlands anymore. They were not necessary to survive the daily trials of life, so Audun was ignored. Aethelman wasn’t sure if the smith had believed him, but it didn’t matter. He had four long knives of Godsteel, with the runes perfectly inscribed along their lengths. The fifth piece of steel had been payment for the work—a hundred times more than it was worth, but it was the only currency Aethelman had.

  He weighed them in his hand as he walked down the path to the Hermitage’s gate, and decided to keep two for himself. He needed to be sure he could complete his task, and two would be more than enough for the Hermitage—they had the resources to make more if need be.

  He was quickly admitted to the ancient complex, and refused all offers of food and drink. The rector saw him immediately, showing the respect befitting Aethelman’s age and seniority.

  Aethelman laid the two blades down on the rector’s desk and pushed them forward.

  The rector picked one up and turned it over in his hands. ‘Beautiful craftsmanship,’ he said. ‘What are they for?’

  ‘Fount Stones,’ Aethelman said. ‘We’ve long forgotten what to do with them, but this is how they are destroyed. That is what we are supposed to do. The blade will cleave the Stones in two.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ the rector said. ‘Godsteel is always so beautiful when it’s worked. He traced his finger along the rippling pattern in the steel. ‘And the runes? What do they say?’