Every so often, a pike would pass close to Wulfric, and he gave thanks to Jorundyr that they did not hit. Each one caused his heart to race with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do about them. He kept stabbing forward with his spear in the hope of doing to the Darvarosians what they were trying to do to him, but he couldn’t see much beyond the men in front of him. It was exhausting but mindless, and Wulfric could feel his frustration and anxiety rise.
He heard the trumpet sound the withdrawal, the first indication he had of how the battle was going for them. He had thought they were holding their own, not having seen many casualties, but they were not an infantry company and were vulnerable to a better drilled enemy. Wulfric could feel himself being pushed backward by the front ranks as they moved back one step at a time. He stumbled and struggled to remain on his feet as he tried to stay with them.
‘What’s going on?’ Wulfric shouted. It was enraging to think his first full-scale battle might end after such an anti-climactic introduction. Where was the glory in fighting like that?
‘No idea,’ Jagovere shouted back, ‘but if the Graf wants us to move back, he must have good reason. So move your arse!’
He didn’t seem to be any happier than Wulfric about things, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. They had to place their faith in dal Rhenning having a clearer picture of what was happening than they did. He hated trusting his life to someone else, but there was no way around it if he wanted to survive his first encounter with a completely alien way of fighting.
There were over ten thousand men on the plain that day, but as far as Wulfric was concerned there might have been only a hundred—those closely packed around him. There was no sense of scale, only his small pocket of struggle. As they continued to move backward, confusion swallowed him.
‘Form square!’
Even above the crunching, grunting and screaming, Wulfric heard dal Rhenning’s voice. It was accompanied by the constant drone of the trumpet, but Wulfric hadn’t had time to learn all the signals so it was just another meaningless sound to add to the din of war.
‘That’s not good,’ Jagovere said, pausing in his relentless spear-jabbing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
‘Why not?’ Wulfric said, feeling the tip of his spear connect with flesh instead of steel.
‘It means they’ve gotten behind us.’
‘What do I do?’ Wulfric said. Nothing made sense to him.
‘Stay where you are,’ Jagovere said. ‘We’re engaged. The rear ranks will form the square behind us.’
‘Then what?’
‘Keep fighting and hope your gods are smiling on you.’
36
RODULF
Rodulf’s admission to the lofty ranks of the Markgraf’s council leap-frogged him over dozens of lower noblemen, and earned him an apartment in the palace. All the senior nobility were extended that courtesy, among others, and were required to stay there when attending court. Rodulf was under no illusion: The reason was so that the Markgraf could keep a close eye on everyone powerful enough to cause him trouble, and thus he had no choice but to accept the offer gracefully. It was a frustration, however, considering how much he had spent on a townhouse that he would not be living in. The fact that the other nobles also kept houses in the city was of little consolation. It was simply another indication of how much hold the Markgraf had over them all.
He walked into his new apartment and looked around. It was luxurious, and at least his stay there would be comfortable, but he couldn’t help but view the tapestry-covered walls and elegant furnishings as being a prison.
‘I hope it’s to your liking,’ a voice said.
Rodulf jumped, and looked around.
The Markgraf sat in an armchair by the door. ‘I apologise if I startled you, but I wanted to have a quick chat in private. There’s something I want you to do for me.’
Rodulf forced himself not to react to the thought of being the Markgraf’s errand boy. ‘It would be my pleasure, my lord.’
‘Now that you’re privy to my plans, you’re going to help me bring them about.’
It was what Rodulf had been afraid of. The best way to tie men to a conspiracy was to ensure they were so involved that their only hope for survival was to see it through.
‘I can’t keep throwing silver away buying myself support,’ the Markgraf said. ‘As I’m sure you found when buying up all those loans, money runs out far more quickly than you’d like. The money is needed for other things, so the more noblemen I can bring over to my way of thinking for free, the better.’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘I made you,’ the Markgraf said, with steel in his voice. ‘I own you and I can break you. With nothing more than a word. Your title, your wealth, and your lands would not exist without me saying they do.’
‘That’s a no, then,’ Rodulf said.
‘You see, Rodulf, that’s what I’m growing to like about you. You don’t suck up to me. With another overlord, that might be like committing suicide. I, on the other hand, appreciate the candour. My other nobles were born to their land, titles, and wealth, and in many cases their families have held them for as long as mine have held ours. If I were to step in and dispossess them without an extremely good reason—even with an extremely good reason—the other nobles would start to wonder if the same might happen to them. Then they would look to each other for mutual support, and before I knew it, I’d be looking at a rebellion. You, however? I could have you stripped naked and flogged through the streets, and no one would bat an eyelid. Remember that and we’ll get along famously.’
Rodulf nodded, doing his best to mask his true feelings and appear at least a little cowed.
‘There’s another reason,’ the Markgraf said. ‘Things will need to be done, and my nobles have neither the aptitude nor the stomach for it. A hired man can be rehired by someone else. For an endeavour such as this, I need men who owe everything to me and aren’t afraid of a little spilled blood—and right now, you’re the only one I have.’
‘The job?’ Rodulf said.
‘When I break with the princess, there will be fighting. I want to make sure the nobles in the Mark either remain loyal, or will not bring their men to Her Royal Highness. I have most of the important ones on my side, but a few remain whose loyalty I cannot be certain of. Bribed, blackmailed, or dead. Whatever it takes, although I would prefer the latter two as they are cheaper. Graf Schwalstein is the first such man. He’s a proud fellow and he’ll look on you as vermin, so there’s no point in negotiating. Killing him won’t do much good as his son is equally intractable. Blackmail’s the way to deal with him.’
‘What have you got on him?’ Rodulf said, realising that failure would mean the end of his dreams, most likely on the headsman’s block.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ the Markgraf said, smiling. ‘But everyone’s done something naughty, haven’t they?’
ADALHAID
As the days passed, Adalhaid felt the fear of the Intelligenciers knocking on her door at any moment recede. The passage of time told her that Jakob had not betrayed her, and the girl’s family had obviously not suspected anything out of the ordinary. She went to lectures, she studied, she worked in the clinic, she looked after the Markgraf’s children. Nothing had changed, and there were no black-robed men waiting for her around every corner. The fear that did not go away, though, was the one of it all happening again, and that she would not be so lucky a second time.
If this skill was in her, the danger of it surfacing was ever-present. To prevent that, she had to know how to control it. Ignoring it was not an option. What had started as a project to ensure she never did it again had grown into something more. The time she spent sitting in the library between classes, clinic, and looking after the children, was now spent wondering what she could do if she fully reined her talent in. A small touch of magic could stop a wound from turning bad, could stop blood loss that might otherwise cause death, could take pain from in
sufferable to bearable; there were so many moments in the practice of medicine where the smallest pressure on the scales of fate could create a different result. Small touches of magic that would go unnoticed, that could easily be dismissed as luck.
The thought was thrilling, but she knew her thoughts were leading her down a dangerous road. Where would she draw the line? When would she decide not to save someone, if she knew it was within her power? The thought made her ill. As a physician, you did your best for a patient. Sometimes that was not enough, but you always tried your hardest. Having the power—and burden—to decide was not something she could easily reconcile herself with. Someday the temptation might prove too great, and she might do something that would denounce her as a sorceress.
The only consolation was that she was getting ahead of herself. She might never learn to control her gift with the precision to use it without damning herself. She might have to accept that it was something that could never be allowed out into the light of day. It could just as easily be a case of it being on or off, as it being an instrument that could be wielded incrementally. First, she had to learn to keep it turned off. Once that was done she could worry about everything else.
AETHELMAN
At times, Aethelman felt like an old scent hound as he made his way south. The Stone was like a meal cooking on a distant stove. He could taste it on the air, and with each step in the right direction, the flavour grew stronger. It was strange, but he had given up trying to make sense of it. The ways of the gods and their magics was not for the understanding of mortal men, and he had to content himself with the knowledge that it was allowing him to achieve his quest.
The journey was taking longer than he would have liked, and a sense of urgency gripped him like a cold hand clenching his heart. He was an old man, however, and killing himself to get to wherever it was he was going quickly was of no use to anyone. He had to accept that there was a limited distance his tired old body could cover each day, and even less if he hoped to reach his destination in a condition to complete his task. It sickened him to think what the Stone might be used for in the time it took him to get to it, but there was nothing that could be done. It was impossible to live a life as long as his without regrets, and he had done his best to reconcile himself to that fact. He was doing all he could at that time, which was all he could ask of himself. What was in the past was in the past.
WULFRIC
Their predicament was entirely lost on Wulfric until he saw his first glimpse of daylight in front of him. It meant their line was starting to break apart, and their casualties were heavy. Even he knew that once the line was broken, they were lost. He hated how alien this type of warfare was to him.
‘Fill the holes!’ Jagovere shouted.
Before he knew it, Wulfric was being squeezed forward into one of the gaps left by a fallen comrade. He heard dal Rhenning call a halt to their movement and the trumpet change its note. There was a wall of spearmen before them, and one nearly skewered Wulfric as he slotted into place. All the advantage was with them as they advanced and the Company retreated. There were elbows and arms and spears and swords everywhere. He held his place and shuffled slowly backward, trying to stay in contact with the men to either side. He thrust his lance every so often, but it was half-hearted at best. He was more concerned with making sure he wasn’t left behind, or spitted on a Darvarosian spear. Terror pressed on him like a physical presence trying to force its way in. He did his best to keep it out, but the confusion was so overwhelming he couldn’t focus his thoughts. How could men make war like that? It was nothing but madness.
37
WULFRIC
On the verge of succumbing to a panic he had never experienced before, Wulfric reverted to what he knew. He dropped his spear and pulled his sabre free of its scabbard, the space beside him no longer occupied. He looked left and right, and felt fear well in him at the sight of how few of them there were left. He roared a battle cry and willed Jorundyr’s Gift to take him in its embrace. He left the dwindling line and rushed at the wall of Darvarosians opposite him. He hacked mindlessly at anything that moved in front of him. Men were tangled between the spear shafts, some pinned where they stood. They seemed completely unprepared for this change in tactic. There was no art or skill to it, and he would have been as well off with the axe he had used to chop wood when he was a boy.
The noise was deafening, but Wulfric did his best to block it out. The terrifying confusion felt less oppressive when he thought of nothing more than swinging his sword. A man fell before him, but he was replaced by another before he had hit the ground. This man tried to drop his spear and draw a short sword, but Wulfric cut him down before he had the chance. They were pressed so tightly the Darvarosians couldn’t even defend themselves, nor get out of the way. Finally, it felt like he was taking control back. Everywhere he struck, his blade connected with mortal flesh. He felt a chill, as though a cold wind blew over him, but his energy seemed boundless.
It continued like that for what seemed like hours, but he realised was only moments. He hacked and cut and hacked and cut. He had no idea how many men he had killed. Sweat and blood stung his eyes, but he felt like he could go on forever, as though the spirits of those he slew sustained him to continue his brutal work.
He felt a tug on his shoulder and was pulled back from the line. He turned in a rage, ready to strike down whoever had dared to interrupt him. Sanity returned with the subtlety of a hammer blow. The Company, once of several hundred men, now only had a few dozen survivors. Jagovere stood before him, urging him back. Wulfric stilled himself, and allowed the sound of Jagovere’s voice to reach him.
‘Come on, you madman, we’re retreating into the Warrens. The Estranzans have run. They didn’t even put up a fight.’
‘I’ve found a defile we can use. This way!’ dal Rhenning shouted.
The Darvarosians hesitated as their foe melted away before them. They were likely wondering if they were being led into a trap, or if they really had won the battle that easily. Their doubts wouldn’t last long, and Wulfric knew they needed to make the most of it if they hoped to survive.
There were no more than two dozen of them left now. Wulfric searched out familiar faces, seeing Walt’s, and the unmistakable shape of Enderlain ahead of him. The passageway was so narrow that Wulfric’s shoulders brushed against both sides in places. As they rushed along the narrow path, Wulfric wondered where it would lead. Its confines would negate the enemy’s greater numbers, but Wulfric could not forget what Jagovere had told him. Few who entered the Warrens made it out alive.
The trail was labyrinthine, turning left and right until he had no idea which direction they were going in. He raged at the cowardice and perfidy of the Estranzans. Had it been dal Valeriano’s plan all along to sacrifice the Company so he could get away?
The path widened. Wulfric wondered if it meant their way out, but without horses, the Darvarosians would chase them down and cut them to pieces. Their only real hope was to lose their pursuers in the Warrens—finding their way back out was a worry for another time. He felt a moment’s desperation at what they were doing. Did they flee one death to embrace another? Would he not prefer to die on a sword rather than of thirst wandering around the Warrens under the blazing Darvarosian sun? He wondered if Jorundyr was watching over this foreign land, if he would notice one of his own preparing to make the journey to his hall. He rounded the corner and saw dal Rhenning and those with him standing still. The defile opened into a large grotto, surrounded on all sides by sheer limestone cliffs. They were trapped.
Dal Rhenning was red-faced and gasping for breath. Between the heat and exertion, and perhaps what they now all knew awaited them, dal Rhenning was showing his age for the first time. All the vitality had left him.
‘This is where we face them, lads,’ he said, turning to look back the way they had come.
There were even fewer of them now, some men having been too tired to keep ahead of the Darvarosians on their desperate fligh
t through the defile. It made little difference. Wulfric knew this was where they would die.
Dal Rhenning joined Wulfric, Jagovere, Enderlain and the dozen others who remained. He placed a hand on Jagovere’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be,’ Jagovere said. ‘We’re soldiers. We all knew it might come to this someday.’
‘Not for this,’ dal Rhenning said. ‘For not being a better father.’
Jagovere remained silent for a moment. ‘You weren’t so bad, all things considered,’ he said, as the Darvarosians rounded the corner.
There was a moment’s pause while the Darvarosians regarded the remaining Company men. Did they expect them to surrender? Wulfric felt time around him slow. If he was about to die, he would take many men with him to serve him in Jorundyr’s Hall.
With a roar, the Darvarosians charged forward. They came through the entrance to the grotto in twos and threes, the most the narrow passage would permit. Dal Rhenning threw himself forward and matched their roar. The rest needed no further encouragement. They were warriors all, and not one of them wanted to wait for death to come to them.
The savagery of their counterattack shocked the Darvarosians. The first few men to enter the grotto were cut down in the blink of an eye, which caused the next group to hesitate. Wulfric and the others showed no such uncertainty. They pressed forward to the grotto’s mouth.
They continued their gory work. Wulfric’s hand was glued to the handle of his sword by sticky, drying blood. Each man who stood before him was cut down. He felt as though he were scything wheat. It was even easier than it had been at the spear line. Tiredness and pain seemed unknown to him, and for a moment he thought he could kill enough of the enemy to scare off the rest.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 26
