Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  There was such silence that Jagovere could hear the gurgling sound the plumed Darvarosian made as he sank to his knees. Wulfric ripped the blade free and kicked his foe over, standing in the growing pool of blood with such comfort that it seemed to Jagovere to be his natural environment. Everyone else continued to stare at this vision of death personified.

  ‘Stop bloody gawking!’ Dal Rhenning’s voice shattered the silence. ‘Finish them!’

  The Darvarosians needed no further encouragement. As one, they fled.

  RODULF

  As Rodulf walked toward the palace, fresh from handing over another bag of silver to an indebted aristocrat, he was troubled by the unsettling feeling in his gut that he was extending himself far beyond his limits. Dal Geerdorf wasn’t the only aristocrat to have debts, and letting the power they offered pass him by was proving too difficult a thing to do. Grenville had reported that the secret silver mines were starting to produce ore, but until he had a bank in Leondorf in which he could hide it and then access it as spendable credit in the south, it was of little consolation. He had a solid line of credit with Kuyt and Valk’s, but Rodulf was spending through it at a prodigious rate and very soon he would be as exposed with debts as the noblemen he was buying.

  He would have wondered if he was throwing good money after bad, were it not for the reception he got as he walked into the palace. Mere weeks before, a sideways glance of disdain was the best he could expect. Now men stopped in their conversations and turned to greet him, delighted to receive a benevolent nod or wave in return. Either he owned them or they realised how much money could be made in the Northlands, for which they needed his favour. Southern aristocrats might have held similar attitudes to Northlander warriors when it came to money, deeming it a vulgarity beneath their attention, but when pressed they were all hungry for it. Coin was everything.

  Rodulf knew how much danger all this placed him in. He might own these men—they might smile at him and kowtow—but they hated him for it. Hated him more than anyone they had ever encountered. If they had so much as a hint of a chance to do him over, they would pounce. Rodulf had to keep a tight grip on them, but he also had to put himself in a position where they could not pull him down. There was only one man who could ensure that. Now that he had pushed himself to the fore of his peers, he could get access to the Markgraf. That was where the true power in the Mark lay, and if he was indispensable to the Markgraf he would be untouchable.

  WULFRIC

  The Company rode back into camp with two captured battle standards flying proudly at the head of their column, and Wulfric had taken the armour and weapons of his vanquished foe. Their casualties had been few and they were in high spirits, having fought off a larger force, and more importantly, learned what their enemy were made of.

  Wulfric had shown what he was made of. Everyone in the Company knew he was not a man to take lightly, if there had still been any doubt. He wondered about the man he had killed, the deeds he had done and the battles he had fought. It was unlikely he would ever find out, but his great skill at arms was enough for Wulfric to know he had vanquished a great man and the thought made him burst with pride. His journey along Jorundyr’s Path was well and truly begun.

  There was a new addition to the camp that drew Wulfric’s attention when they returned, a magnificent tent erected in the Estranzans’ camp. However, his rumbling belly soon diverted his thoughts elsewhere.

  An Estranzan rode into the Company’s camp as they started to dismount.

  ‘Count Valeriano, Marshall of Torona, commands Captain dal Rhenning to attend on him immediately,’ he said.

  ‘That’s Banneret of the Grey, Graf dal Rhenning, you maggot,’ Jagovere said, his blood still clearly up after the battle.

  The messenger ignored him. ‘Immediately,’ he said, then rode back toward the Estranzan camp.

  Dal Rhenning stood, arms akimbo, and watched the man ride away, not having said anything at all. It was a curious, complicated thing, politics, Wulfric thought. Had a man, any man, spoken to his father like that, he could expect to be beaten senseless and would be lucky to come away from the experience with his life. Wulfric could see the anger in dal Rhenning’s eyes, and the frustration of not being able to do anything about it etched on his brow.

  Dal Rhenning snapped his gaze from the departing messenger and fixed it on Wulfric and Jagovere, who were attending to their horses. ‘Seeing as you’re both here, you might as well come with me.’

  Wulfric opened his mouth to speak—he was covered in sweat, dust, and most extensively in dried blood, certainly not the way he thought he should look when called to attend on a nobleman.

  Dal Rhenning spotted his hesitation. ‘Don’t wash. I want our lord and master to know what war looks like.’

  They remounted and rode over, making no pretence at hurrying. There could be no doubting where Valeriano was. The new tent Wulfric had seen was garish, and in his opinion typical of a decadent southern aristocrat. When they reached it, they didn’t wait to be invited in—dal Rhenning brushed past a sentry and into the tent as though it were his. There were a number of men already there, some sitting around a camp table. Wulfric recognised a few of them from Torona, but others were new to him. They looked at him with nervous eyes, all but Diego, who watched Wulfric with his usual wry smile.

  Dal Valeriano sat at the head of the table, but the conversation seemed casual rather than anything relating to the war he was supposed to be prosecuting. Nonetheless, they ignored dal Rhenning. After a moment, dal Rhenning cleared his throat loudly enough to drown out the idle chit-chat at the campaign table.

  ‘My lord Valeriano, if you’re too busy, I need to debrief my officers on our engagement with the enemy this morning.’

  Wulfric smiled at the way the Graf rubbed their inactivity in the Estranzan count’s face.

  ‘Ah yes, Graf dal Rhenning. In future, you are forbidden from carrying out any forays south of the border without my express orders.’

  ‘I needed to gather intelligence. It was simply good fortune that we encountered the enemy in force. In your absence, the command structure was not clear, so I took the action that was in the best interest of the campaign.’

  ‘It is my prerogative alone to decide what is in the best interest of the campaign,’ dal Valeriano said.

  ‘Wars are rarely won by sitting on your arse,’ dal Rhenning said, his eyes flashing with the anger he had so expertly contained up to that point.

  ‘Get out. Stay in your camp until you get my orders. Defy me and I will consider you to be in breach of contract.’

  Dal Rhenning forced a smile and gave a curt bow. ‘I shall await orders at your earliest convenience.’ He left.

  Wulfric and Jagovere followed him, and they walked in silence until they reached the Company’s camp.

  ‘He seemed rather upset,’ Jagovere said.

  ‘Dal Valeriano’s been bone idle for months,’ dal Rhenning said, ‘and within a day of us arriving here, the duke has his first battle and his first victory. Valeriano looks bad. He knows he looks bad, and he knows he’s going to have to do something about that.’

  Wulfric felt a headache coming. He couldn’t fathom why they would seek to make war so complicated or so frustrating. A victory could never make a man look bad. Even with all the intrigues the southerners seemed to relish, how could destroying his enemy hurt the count’s ambitions?

  34

  RODULF

  There was an army of administrators working at the palace making sure that taxes were collected, justice was administered, and order was maintained. Other than looking important, Rodulf wasn’t entirely sure what the Markgraf himself actually did. When Rodulf got a summons to meet with him in private, it was concerning. Might his efforts to advance himself at court have ruffled too many feathers?

  ‘Lord Leondorf,’ the Markgraf said when Rodulf was shown into his private office, ‘thank you for coming.’

  He gestured to a seat and sat down opposite Rodulf, fix
ing him with his intelligent grey eyes. Rodulf did his best to sit at ease, but he felt like a boy awaiting chastisement for misbehaviour.

  ‘You’ve settled into life at court very well,’ the Markgraf said.

  His eyes said he knew everything, that he was toying with Rodulf. Rodulf slipped his hand into his pocket and felt for the Stone. Even if it didn’t work on the Markgraf, it would bring him comfort.

  ‘Your noblemen have been most welcoming, my lord,’ Rodulf said.

  ‘Ha,’ the Markgraf said. ‘I find that very hard to believe. In fact, were it not for your liberal application of silver, I daresay you’d have had every door in the city slammed in your face.’

  Rodulf did his best not to react to the mention of silver. Might the Markgraf know about the new mine? He didn’t see how it was possible. ‘I was never in any doubt that I would have to make concerted efforts to establish myself in Elzburg’s society, my lord.’

  ‘Buying the debts of half my noblemen is a concerted effort indeed,’ the Markgraf said.

  Rodulf could not help but go red at this. He had thought himself smarter than the privileged southerners, and hated to be proven wrong. Here was one, at least, who seemed to have the measure of him.

  ‘It begs the question of where you got all that silver,’ the Markgraf said. ‘Or it would if I didn’t already know the answer.’

  Rodulf looked to the door, expecting guards to come in and arrest him, but it remained shut. He gripped the Stone so tightly it hurt his hand, but it did him no good.

  ‘There’s no need to look so sheepish, my lord Leondorf. Remaining in power is nearly as hard as gaining it, or so I’m told. There’s little going on in the Mark of which I’m unaware. The new Barony of Leondorf included.’

  ‘I… my lord…’ Rodulf said.

  The Markgraf held up a hand to silence him. ‘Most of my noblemen are too spineless to steal from me. They’re comfortable. They were born comfortable. Comfort robs a man of ambition, don’t you think?’

  Rodulf had no idea what to say. ‘My lord, I was going to…’

  ‘Of course you weren’t,’ the Markgraf said, a hint of irritation entering his voice for the first time. ‘But that’s all right. The silver mines in Leondorf that you aren’t trying to keep hidden already provide me with more silver every year than all the taxes and customs duties from the rest of the Mark. Your little secret enterprise tells me you have something in you that few of my men possess. Ambition and hunger. I see the value in those things. I see how you might be of use to me.’

  ‘In any way I possibly can be,’ Rodulf said.

  ‘Don’t turn into a toady,’ the Markgraf said. ‘I want the avaricious little bastard who is sneaking a fortune in silver that doesn’t belong to him, and using it to buy the debts of my noblemen so they’ll do what he tells them. I’ve even heard that you’ve threatened to sell their children into slavery.’ He let out an incredulous chuckle. ‘That’s the man I have a use for, not a lickspittle. I have plenty of them already. The new mine is yours for the time being. I’ve no use for you if you’re bankrupted and thrown in debtor’s prison. Now get out. I’ll let you know when I have need of you.’

  Rodulf stood and made for the door, knowing that the grip of fear on his heart would not ease until he was on the other side.

  ‘Oh—cheat me again and it will be the headsman for you. Understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, my lord,’ Rodulf said.

  ‘Just as you own dal Geerdorf, I own you now.’

  Rodulf slipped out the door and closed it behind him. Instead of feeling relief, he felt anger. No one had ever gotten the better of him before. He had come down to Elzburg thinking himself smarter than men who owed everything to fortunate birth rather than ability. Now, it seemed he was proven wrong.

  Rodulf had wandered through the city for a time before returning home. He sat in the cold hallway in the chair reserved for uninvited guests. It was a southern trick he had learned; they would remain there in discomfort until he deigned to see them. It suited his purpose now. There were no distractions and the cold air focussed his thoughts. He mulled over what his meeting with the Markgraf meant for him; what it would mean for his plans.

  He noticed a red mark on the palm of his hand. Puzzled, he gave it a closer look. When he was a child, he had grabbed the handle of a kettle heating on the fire. The red welt it had left had been agonizing and had taken weeks to heal. The memory of it was burned on his mind, and the mark on his hand reminded him of it. He touched the flesh where it was red. It was sensitive. Not painful, but tender. He tried to remember if he had picked up anything hot, but could not. It occurred to him that the mark was about the same size and shape as the Stone, but the thought drifted as his eyelids grew heavy. His mind was tired, and the act of trying to recollect was draining. Everything was tired, now that he thought of it. It seemed city life could be as taxing as it was pleasurable.

  ‘My lord?’

  It was the butler Rodulf had hired only a few days previously.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A message arrived from the palace a short time before you returned, my lord. Your presence there is required immediately.’

  Rodulf groaned. It seemed that whatever the Markgraf had planned for him, he wouldn’t be long in finding out. As he levered himself from the heavy leather seat, he momentarily wondered why the Markgraf could not have filled him in before he had left the palace. He stared at the chair for a moment as the answer came to him. As the chair was Rodulf’s way of letting visitors know he controlled their time, this was the Markgraf’s. He was an owned man now, and the thought made Rodulf’s gut twist with anger.

  WULFRIC

  Dal Rhenning wasn’t invited to dal Valeriano’s council of war—but with Jagovere at his side, and Wulfric and Enderlain at his back, no one made any effort to stop them entering the tent. Wulfric looked around, and was again surprised by the casual nature of the assembly. The tent was filled with officers—the Estranzan noblemen dal Valeriano had favoured with command. Platters of food and bottles of wine were laid out across the campaign table, obscuring the maps beneath. Dal Valeriano looked at dal Rhenning and frowned, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s illegal, my lord,’ one of dal Valeriano’s senior officers said.

  Jagovere and the Graf exchanged a glance, and returned their attention to the debate at the campaign table. Dal Valeriano remained silent and brooding, allowing Carraterro dal Suera to do the talking for him. Dal Valeriano’s hired sword, Diego, was there too. He stood in the background, glowering menacingly at anyone who met his gaze for too long.

  ‘Sorcery is illegal in Estranza,’ dal Suera said, ‘as it is in all the nations formerly part of the Empire. However, Darvaros was never in the Empire. Magery, while usually limited to little more than parlour tricks, is legal and practised there.’

  ‘This is the path to ruin,’ another officer said, earning him a withering glare from Diego.

  ‘On the contrary,’ dal Suera said, ‘it is the path to victory. As soon as we cross the border, we are as entitled to employ magic as the Darvarosians, which they will undoubtedly do. We will ensure that our sorcerers are better than theirs.’

  This attracted a more positive murmur from the assembly. It had surprised Wulfric how suspicious and fearful the southerners were of magic. He had never seen it do anything more dangerous than heal cuts and mend broken bones, but he had heard tales of the old days when truly incredible feats had been done with it. Wulfric doubted it could be of much use, however. Not anymore. If it could, surely mages would rule the world.

  ‘A magister is necessary to ensure the safety of our troops,’ dal Suera said. ‘We sought out the best we could find to keep us safe from the Darvarosians, but he assures me he can do far more than that. Magister Toribio is as powerful a magister as any alive.’

  Since coming to the South, Wulfric had learned much, and he could not help but notice the way dal Suera was speaking. At no point had he mentioned dal Valeriano’s
involvement in the plan. Did that mean dal Suera was taking the risk of bearing his master’s culpability or that he was the brains behind the operation, the man pulling the strings? It made Wulfric’s head hurt, the way the southerners carried on.

  ‘As we speak,’ dal Suera said, ‘Magister Toribio is working on a spell that will ensure a complete victory when we encounter Prince Peruman’s forces.’

  ‘The Pretender,’ someone said.

  ‘Indeed,’ dal Suera said, with a reluctant tinge to his voice. ‘Pretender Peruman, as you say. I didn’t mean to imply his usurpation of the duke’s rightful title was legitimate. Our scouts indicate his army is less than a day’s march to the south. As soon as Magister Toribio is ready, we will move to meet them and claim our victory.’

  There was much cheering and the banging of fists on tables. It seemed folly to Wulfric to rely on magic in war rather than strength and skill at arms, but much of what went on in Estranza seemed folly to him. Nonetheless, he was curious to see what magic could really be capable of.

  PROFESSOR KENGIL

  There were times when Johanna Kengil would swear she could still smell the burning. She knew it was her imagination, but she was aware of an acrid tang that she would never forget. Northlanders were animals, and it amazed her how others could allow even one to live amongst them. Sheltered behind the city’s big walls all their lives, they had never known what it meant to live under threat of a Northlander raid, didn’t understand that the word Northlander was the most terrifying thing you could hear someone shout. As bad as her presence alone in Elzburg was, if Adalhaid was using magic, something had to be done.

  A top physician Kengil might be, but she knew she was no spy. She had no idea how to go about gathering enough evidence to ensure Adalhaid’s sorcery was stopped. She stared out her office window, looking down on the courtyard below, scratching an elegantly manicured fingernail along the slight cleft in her chin and wondering.