‘I’m here to see Ellie,’ Kengil said.
‘That’s me,’ one of the children said.
‘My name’s Doctor Kengil. I’m here to take a look at your leg. May I?’
The little girl nodded and lifted the hem of her skirt, to reveal a now-filthy bandage. Kengil began her examination.
‘We were terrible shocked by the accident,’ Ellie’s mother said. ‘The doctor said that can cause all sorts of strange reactions. We thought it was far worse, but mayhap that’s just a mother’s concern. After the doctor treated it, it didn’t seem that bad at all.’
Kengil nodded absently. The residual mark on the girl’s leg beneath the bandage suggested a minor injury. Shock could indeed produce an over-reaction, but that was unlikely in a trained physician. Rosamund was a good and diligent student, and would soon qualify to be an excellent young practitioner. Kengil thought her unlikely to make a mistake. Then there was the fact that she had spoken of Doctor Strellis’s preparation to amputate. He knew what he was doing. He wouldn’t have made those preparations were he not sure they were needed. Kengil wondered if Rosamund might have some reason to make it all up, or if the Northlander might indeed be a witch of some sort. Kengil was all too aware of the reaction Strellis caused among young women. It seemed almost too much to hope for in getting at the brazen young savage.
Kengil made her excuses and left the apartment. As she walked back toward the university, her mind drifted back to a day in the distant past, when the Northlanders had come across the border to her village, bringing death and destruction. Northlanders never brought anything but misery. At last it seemed she would be able to return the favour.
WULFRIC
‘Well, my lovelies,’ dal Rhenning shouted. ‘Time to earn your pay.’ With a wave of his hand, the column moved off.
Wulfric rode next to Enderlain, a sign of the unlikely friendship that had developed between the two. Dal Rhenning had ordered a scouting party in force the morning after they arrived at the border. Jagovere had said the Graf wanted to send a clear signal that he didn’t intend the Company to join in with the idlers filling the duke’s army.
Few of the Estranzan soldiers paid them any attention as they rode by, but those who did watched them with expressions of resentment. None of them had so much as set foot across the border, and few if any had even seen a Darvarosian soldier. Any soldier with a modicum of self-respect would have been shamed by their inactivity while the new arrivals rode toward the ford in the river, and enemy territory beyond.
Wulfric had been able to cobble together a better-fitting set of armour than he had initially been given when he agreed to join the Company, and he had overseen the smith as he reworked both the armour and Wulfric’s sabre until they were as close to tailored to him as he could hope for. Nonetheless, he pined for the weapons and armour he had left behind in Leondorf, and for Greyfell most of all.
They forded the river under the watchful eyes of distant Darvarosian scouts, but there was no sign of any enemy in numbers. It seemed no one knew exactly where the enemy army was. Riding into hostile territory, Wulfric thought he should feel more nervous. However, if anything, he felt relaxed. It took some time for Wulfric to realise what was different. The burden of leadership had rested on his shoulders for so long—the responsibility for the lives of the few other warriors of Leondorf had been his—but now he was simply a warrior and didn’t have to worry about anything other than fighting.
Riding out in their armour, it did not take long for the sun to heat the metal to the point where it moved from uncomfortable to painful. Wulfric took to removing a length of white bandage cloth from his pack, wrapping it around his helmet and draping it over his cuirass as he had seen some of the other more experienced members of the Company do. It improved the situation somewhat, but he was counting the moments until he could take the armour off.
The landscape was scorched brown, punctuated with verdant patches of vegetation and odd-looking trees with long slender trunks and a crown of long fronds at the top. Other than some birds overhead, he hadn’t seen any animals and wondered what the hunting there was like. It was exposed on the open plain, and Wulfric could see uninterrupted to the horizon.
Dal Rhenning had sent two groups of the light horsemen ahead of them to scout their route. Wulfric could see the dust cloud their movement kicked up in the distance, which meant any Darvarosians in the area could also. It was impossible for them to move about a landscape like that without being seen, however, and Wulfric didn’t like the idea that the enemy knew where they were while they had no idea of the Darvarosians’ positions.
They moved inland for most of the morning until the land grew hilly and Wulfric spotted a strange stone plateau in the distance that rose from the ground.
‘It’s called the Warrens,’ Jagovere said. ‘A limestone plateau that’s had hundreds of narrow passageways carved into it by centuries of flood waters running off it. They say that if you wander in, you’ll never find your way back out.’
Wulfric narrowed his eyes as he looked at Jagovere, wondering if he was being teased. ‘Best not wander in, then,’ Wulfric said.
Jagovere tossed his head back and laughed, before they all returned to the tedious silence of surveying the foreign and hostile land. Their scouts continued to report no sign of anyone and he was starting to grow bored. It appeared nobody there actually wanted a fight.
By midday the heat was growing oppressive, and Wulfric found himself not wanting a fight either—simply riding in it was draining enough. To fight in it would be miserable. No sooner had the thought entered his head than he realised the scouts were riding back at speed.
‘Forty horsemen, my lord,’ one of the scouts said to dal Rhenning. ‘Watering their mounts at a pool to the east near the rocky plateau.’
‘Well, lads,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘Looks like we’ll bloody our blades after all. At the canter now.’
They moved off at a quick pace. Wulfric could see the others loosen the fastenings on their weapons. He did the same and readied his lance, the excitement of impending battle making him forget how hot it was in armour.
They moved through a shallow valley between the hills until they could see their prey. The Darvarosians weren’t caught entirely unawares. They had reacted and were almost in battle order by the time the two bodies of men faced off against one another. There was a moment of hesitation while the men regarded their foes, each man staring at the potential bringer of his death.
Wulfric could feel his skin tingle, and realised his knuckles were white on his lance.
‘There’s at least twice as many of them as there are of us,’ dal Rhenning said, ‘so the advantage is with us!’
The Company men roared with laughter.
‘At them, lads!’ dal Rhenning shouted.
Wulfric needed no encouragement. He had spurred on his horse before dal Rhenning had finished shouting his order. He had already picked his target, a man with a thick black moustache and a helmet visor that shrouded his eyes. Wulfric would send him to whatever god he worshipped, and claim the Company’s first blood on Darvarosian soil. He wanted them all to know how fearsome he was, friend and foe alike.
Wulfric had closed half the distance between them before the man realised he was the target of Wulfric’s lance. He carried a small, round metal shield in addition to a long, curved sabre, and despite the fear that was now in his eyes, he raised his sword and urged his horse on toward Wulfric.
As they drew close, he extended his shield out toward Wulfric’s spear. Wulfric leaned forward in his saddle and braced the spear. The metal head smashed against the shield with a deafening clatter. With an explosion of splinters, the lance knocked the shield aside and smashed into the Darvarosian’s chest, launching him from his horse.
Wulfric flung the shattered stump to the ground and drew his sabre, just as the rest of the Company caught up. There was a deafening crash as steel, wood, and flesh collided. Wulfric’s hand shook as he pressed into the
Darvarosian line, slashing left and right at anything in reach. There were men everywhere around him, but their movement seemed to slow as his quickened.
Wulfric’s face hurt beneath his helmet from smiling. The joy of battle was almost overwhelming. He waded farther into the press of horsemen. He grabbed a man by the cloth draped over his armour, and pulled him close enough so that Wulfric could smash his helmet into the man’s face. He slashed back at another, a perfect cut that took a man’s head from his body. Again he pressed forward, seeking out another foe. He had no idea where his comrades were, but so long as he had enemies before him he was happy.
A Darvarosian warrior with a white horsehair plume extending from the top of his helmet came at Wulfric. The plates of his armour were filigreed with gold and he was clearly a man of status. The desire to kill him was overwhelming, urging Wulfric to throw caution to the wind. It was the first time he had encountered so grand a foe. Wulfric wanted to get to him before anyone else did. He wheeled his horse around and spurred it forward, issuing a roared challenge as he went. The man moved toward him, but as Wulfric raised his sword, he was hit from the side by a second man and knocked from the saddle. He fell to the hard-baked ground with a crunch of metal, but retained enough of his wits to know that while he was on the ground, he was in danger.
He rolled onto his front and jumped to his feet, frantically looking for his sword through the narrow eye-holes in his helmet. The man who had knocked him out of the saddle had not attacked, and Wulfric realised why—he was leaving Wulfric to the man in the plumed helmet. He looked around in time to see him goading his horse to trample Wulfric into the dirt. The beast snorted at him and came forward, lifting his hoofs high and stamping them down. Wulfric could only see the rider’s legs, but that was enough.
Rather than shying away from the approaching horse, Wulfric charged forward beneath it, drawing his dagger as he did. Once he passed the horse’s ribs, he plunged the blade into its belly and pulled it along as he went. He could feel blood and gore splatter all over him. The horse screamed and bucked, and Wulfric dived out of the way to avoid being crushed when it fell.
Realising his master was in trouble, the warrior who had knocked Wulfric from his horse drew his sword and rode forward. Wulfric parried the first blow with his dagger, but he could do little with the much shorter blade. Horses milled around them in a confused tangle of dust, flesh, and steel as the battle continued. With no good options, and running for safety a thought that turned his stomach, Wulfric hurled himself at his enemy with only his dagger to lead the way.
As he launched himself toward the Darvarosian still on horseback, he felt a tug at his ankle—the man in the plumed helmet. Wulfric’s pounce became a stumble. Wulfric grabbed the horseman’s leg and tried to pull him from his saddle as he fell. He felt a sabre blade clatter against his helmet and his ears rang with the clang. He gave one final pull and felt the Darvarosian give way and fall. They flailed around on the ground, both vying to gain control. Wulfric was larger and heavier, and used his greater bulk to best advantage.
Behind him, Wulfric could hear the man with the plumed helmet freeing himself from the tangle of his horse. As soon as he did, Wulfric knew he would have a sword in his back. He rolled on top of the Darvarosian, and brought his dagger to bear. Stinging sweat flowed into his eyes, and no amount of blinking would clear them. The Darvarosian dropped his sword and grabbed Wulfric by the wrists. Wulfric angled the tip of the dagger toward the eye slits in the Darvarosian’s helmet and drove down with all his weight.
The Darvarosian braced his arms against the ground, and Wulfric drove his forearms through the Darvarosian’s grip until he felt it begin to falter. With a roar, he threw every ounce of weight and strength behind the dagger, and the blade screeched against the sides of the helmet’s eye slit. The Darvarosian didn’t scream; he simply gasped as the blade cut through his eye and into his brain.
Wulfric grabbed the dead Darvarosian’s sword and got back to his feet just in time to see the man in the plumed helmet stand clear of his dead horse. He drew his decorated sabre and fixed his gaze on Wulfric. Whatever else happened that day, Wulfric knew that only one of them would live.
33
JAGOVERE
Jagovere fought the way he had been taught to, as part of a unit. It was why he was careful in choosing the men in his squadron, and why he had held misgivings about Wulfric. With Enderlain to his right and Sander to his left, they pushed through the Darvarosian light cavalrymen like a battering ram through a paper wall.
Wulfric had stayed with them for the charge, but as soon as the melee had begun, he had pressed ahead, fighting with all the brutal savagery the Northlanders were famed for. Jagovere had considered going through to support him, but it would have meant putting others at risk and breaking up their own formation. Live or die, Wulfric would have to make his own fate.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jagovere had seen Wulfric going for a man who was obviously the Darvarosian commander, in a plumed helmet and a magnificent suit of armour. As someone with an eye for a good story, it was impossible for Jagovere to put the confrontation out of his mind, even though the distraction might be enough to get him killed. He forced himself to concentrate on his own battle, and when he next looked, both Wulfric and the man in the plumed helmet had fallen from sight. He spent a moment wondering if either still lived, and regretted the possible loss of the potential Wulfric had shown, but that was the way of the fates. On a day like that, Jagovere was certain Wulfric’s old gods would welcome him to sup with them.
Hacking and slashing, Jagovere, Enderlain, and Sander pushed forward until they came to a clear spot by a fallen horse. Wulfric and the man in the plumed helmet stood beside it, their eyes fixed on one another, neither moving. Wulfric was a fearsome sight. He was so drenched in blood he looked as though he had rolled around on an abattoir’s floor, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He paused to draw breath and blinked the sweat from his eyes as he watched. Jagovere noticed that the din of battle had lessened, and realised everyone around them had also stopped to watch the fight that was about to start. They continued to regard one another in still contemplation, like there was some invisible force holding them back. Then, as though the spell was broken, they moved toward each other in the same instant.
Jagovere could tell the Darvarosian was a master from the first swing of his sabre. He moved like a dancer, light on his feet and with a grace that made it look like he was floating. Wulfric, on the other hand, moved heavily—as if every step was intended to crush whatever was beneath it. Jagovere couldn’t see a way Wulfric could win against a warrior of such skill. He was holding his breath at the first clash of blades and wondered if he should intervene. Their fight had become something of its own, a duel distant from everything rather than one component of the greater battle. It was entrancing to watch, and the thought of interfering felt wrong, for better or worse. Should it come to it, he was close enough to fend off a killing blow, but something told him that would not be needed, despite initial appearances.
The Darvarosian moved with glittering speed, his sabre and dagger weaving together in a mesmerising blur. Jagovere clenched his teeth in expectation of the inevitable. The only saving grace was that Wulfric was new to the Company—the blow to the Company’s morale that his death would cause would be minimal. By comparison Wulfric seemed to move slowly. The Northlanders might be lethal in the saddle, but unlike their Ruripathian cousins they seemed to neglect the practice of fighting on foot. Weight and aggression were great assets on horseback, but against a warrior like the plumed man they weren’t worth a damn.
Wulfric’s blade came up to meet the Darvarosian’s, and the ring of steel chimed out. Jagovere was surprised that Wulfric was able to parry the first strike, but he managed it again and again—and took the initiative, raining down blows, each one flowing from the one that preceded it. It was only then that Jagovere realised that despite the heavy and graceless appearance of Wulfric’s
movements, they matched the Darvarosian for speed. Faster, even, and getting faster still. While the Darvarosian might have moved like liquid, he didn’t have Wulfric’s strength or size. His attacks had bounced off Wulfric’s immoveable defence, while Wulfric’s attacks drove the plumed man back each time.
Wulfric closed the distance after each strike with a lack of grace that made Jagovere wince. Jagovere had been brought up to think of swordsmanship as an art form. Whether with rapier or sabre, each strike was an expression of self as much as it was an attack. There was none of that in what Wulfric did. As Jagovere stood watching in that surreal pool of calm amidst the maelstrom of battle, he realised that what he had initially dismissed as ignorant savagery was something else. There might not have been any art in the way Wulfric fought, but each attack was devastating and intended to do only one thing: Destroy.
The Darvarosian tried to regain the initiative. He rolled out of the way of Wulfric’s sabre into the space that had grown around their single combat. No one else even pretended at fighting now; they were all spectators. With his blood-stained armour, Wulfric looked the very personification of death, a gory demon sent from the bowels of hell to destroy the glittering Darvarosian hero.
The Darvarosian completed his roll, finishing perfectly balanced back on his feet. Without turning to face Wulfric, he cut back, quick and precise, in a movement he had obviously practised many times. Wulfric’s blade was too far away, and as much as Jagovere’s hopes had risen that the Northlander might actually win, it looked like a killing strike. Wulfric caught the blade with his leather-gauntleted left hand, twisted it, and yanked it toward him. The Darvarosian tried to pull it free, but Wulfric’s grip on the blade did not falter. Wulfric hauled the Darvarosian close, and punched him in the face twice. The combination of fist and sabre hilt pulped the Darvarosian’s unprotected face. He wobbled. Wulfric released the blade, put both hands on his sabre and drove it through the Darvarosian’s throat.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 23
