He looked up, but did not fix his gaze on anyone in particular. Only the fire’s crackle and the chirping of nocturnal insects in the darkness broke the silence. Wulfric wondered how long it would take to draw his sword when it came to it. Varada was fast, and he was not certain he could best her.
‘What in hells are you talking about?’ Walt said.
Wulfric raised an eyebrow. He knew as well as Jagovere that the first one to speak was most likely the one who had betrayed them.
‘Dal Valeriano couldn’t have sent men to attack us unless someone told him days ago. The constables might have followed us from the city, but Diego and his men? No. It was too quick.’
‘It’s the woman, obviously,’ Walt said.
Wulfric leaned back into the shadows away from the firelight and drew his sword as quietly as he could. When it came to it, he wanted to be the first man with a weapon ready.
‘I thought that at first, admittedly,’ Jagovere said.
Varada cast him a filthy look.
Jagovere shrugged. ‘I could be forgiven for that, considering the short time she’s been with us, but I no longer think that the case. I had considered our Northlander friend also, but discounted him in a conversation earlier. Until this very moment, I did indeed think it was the good lady Varada, but now, Walt, I think it’s you.’
‘You’re out of your mind. I’ve been with the Company as long as you.’
‘Which is what makes your betrayal so much harder to take,’ Jagovere said.
Walt was on his feet in the blink of an eye, but Wulfric had been waiting for it, and was younger, and faster. Walt had a sabre tip at his throat by the time his hand reached the hilt of his rapier.
Walt let go of his sword and raised his hands. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ he said.
Jagovere stood and glared at him from across the fire. ‘What was he giving you?’
‘Ten crowns for every report on the Company’s movements and plans—’
Jagovere could not conceal the disgust on his face. ‘You were informing on us before we went into Darvaros?’
Walt nodded.
‘And now? How much for our lives?’
‘I… Three hundred crowns.’
‘You were selling us out for three hundred crowns? Surely we’re worth more than that. We’re your brothers. You, Enderlain, Sander, Conrat, and I. Wulfric too. You’d likely be dead if it weren’t for the way he’s fought for us.’
Walt shook his head.
Jagovere sighed with frustration. ‘And how did you do it? How did you get word to him?’
‘By pigeon. From the inn we stopped at on the border. There was someone waiting to meet me at the last tavern to direct us to Diego.’
An agonising silence took hold of the small camp, faces lit only by a meagre fire, Wulfric’s sword reflecting its flames.
‘What are you going to do with me?’ Walt repeated.
‘What do you think?’ Jagovere said, his voice dripping with anger. He nodded to Wulfric.
‘Draw your sword,’ Wulfric said to Walt. ‘A man should die with a sword in his hand.’
Walt looked to the left and right, but there was no escape. Both Sander and Enderlain stood, and from the looks on their faces it was clear they were ready to step in if Wulfric was not up to the job. Walt took a deep breath.
‘You wouldn’t let me go? For old times’ sake?’ he said.
‘You’d have led us to our deaths for a handful of coins,’ Jagovere said. ‘Dying with a sword in your hand’s too good for the likes of you.’
Walt gave a wry smile. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’ He looked back to Wulfric and nodded. He took the handle of his rapier and drew it. Wulfric ran him through as soon as the blade was bared.
‘Dump his body in the bushes,’ Jagovere said. ‘He doesn’t get a proper burial. Leave him for the wolves.’
WULFRIC
Valeriano was a small town much like any of the others they had passed through on their journey from Torona. The villagers in the previous settlement they had passed through were delighted to confirm that the Usurper, as dal Valeriano was now being called, had fled to his fortress. More surprisingly, they had heard of the band of ferocious Northlanders who were hunting the former duke down. As flattering as it had been, a melancholy mood had drowned the small group in silence since the confrontation with Walt. That word of their grim mission had preceded them was greeted with both pleasure and consternation. Killing Walt had not allowed them to disappear. Everyone knew who they were, where they were, and what they were planning to do.
They stopped in the town square and looked up to the walled castle sitting atop a hill overlooking the town.
‘One last drink before we ride to our deaths?’ Jagovere said.
‘Cheerful thought,’ Wulfric said.
‘Ever stormed a castle?’
‘What do you think?’ Wulfric said.
‘I only wish I were able to write the story about it,’ Jagovere said. ‘Perhaps I should. Then the ending can be however we want it.’
‘Won’t be the truth then,’ Wulfric said.
‘Ah, truth is ever the plaything of a writer,’ Jagovere said. ‘I like to think of it as—’
‘Let’s get that drink,’ Enderlain said. ‘I don’t plan on attacking a castle sober. The last time I tried, it didn’t go well.’
Jagovere shrugged, but didn’t try to finish his sentence.
They tethered their horses outside a small tavern and went in. A single drink turned the mood around, far more so than the meagre amount of alcohol warranted. Wulfric had seen it before, when his father and the others had ridden out to battle. The mood was always sombre the night before, but on the day of departure they were always jovial, as if at a feast rather than a farewell. His father had told him that men riding to battle no longer had to fear dying in their beds. If the worst were to happen, they knew they would sup with Jorundyr.
‘A second round of your ale, barkeep,’ Jagovere shouted, slamming a coin down on the table.
‘Best in the county,’ the tavern keeper said, as though that was not the claim made by every tavern keeper in every tavern in every county. He started to fill mugs from the tap. ‘You those Northern fellas?’
Wulfric looked to Jagovere, who raised his eyebrows.
‘What of it?’ Jagovere said.
‘Reckoned you were. Sure you want another round?’
‘Pretty sure,’ Enderlain said.
‘The Golden Shield arrived this morning,’ the barkeep said. ‘The du—count’s hired them.’
Wulfric could see the colour drain from Jagovere’s face.
‘Must have cost him a small fortune to lure them away from the king’s court at Estravil,’ the tavern keeper said. ‘Surprised they agreed to work for him, all things considered. Still, I reckon they’ll make what you’ve got planned a mite more difficult. S’not like they don’t know you’re coming.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jagovere said.
Wulfric waited until the fresh mugs of ale had arrived before speaking.
‘Who’re the Golden Shield?’
50
ADALHAID
There were few places a young woman and man could meet in Elzburg without generating rumours of impropriety. Coffee houses were one of them, but the trade-off was that privacy was limited. Coffee was an exotic novelty brought from the far south, and Elzburg had at least a dozen coffee shops dotted around the city, as enthusiasm for the drink was a constant. They were bustling places, packed so tightly with tables and chairs that there was barely enough room to move between them. The air inside was hot, humid, and rich with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, while you could barely hear the person sitting opposite you as your conversation competed with all those surrounding.
Adalhaid waited at a small table by a condensation-frosted window that she had wiped a small clear circle on to peer out of. She wasn’t sure if it was the strong coffee or nerves, but there was a slight tremor in her hand. She did
her best to still it when she saw Jakob arrive and scan the room for her. She waved and smiled. He walked over and sat.
It wasn’t in Adalhaid’s nature to make small talk, so she got straight to what she wanted to say. ‘There was someone before you,’ she said. ‘I loved him very much. I love him very much.’
She could see the reaction on Jakob’s face, so she hurried on.
‘I thought he was dead,’ she said. ‘But I recently found out that he might still live.’
Jakob was clearly nonplussed by the abrupt nature of the conversation. He nodded slowly. ‘I understand.’
‘No, it’s not like that,’ she said. ‘It came as a shock when I found out, but no one knows where he is. He might even be dead by now. I know it will sound strange, but he thinks I’m dead. He’s gone, and I accept that, hard though it is. He has no reason to come back even if he is still alive, and I have no way of ever finding him. I can’t waste my life in the hope that one day our paths will cross again. He wouldn’t want that, and I certainly don’t. What I’m saying is, I’m sorry for the way I behaved. I want to move on. I want to move on with you.’
She reached out and took his hand.
WULFRIC
‘The Golden Shield are Aristonda dal Gascovar’s Company. He’s the First Son of Estranza, Banneret of the Starry Field, Estranza’s most famed and beloved hero,’ Jagovere said. ‘Tell me, do you think the gods hate me? Hate all of us, perhaps?’
Wulfric frowned and looked to the others, but nobody said anything.
‘I saw him once, at the Battle of Borganz,’ Enderlain said. ‘He was with us that day though, leading a company of a thousand men. By the gods, he was magnificent, a suit of golden armour on a great white steed. Really something to see.’
‘A castle defended by Aristonda dal Gascovar,’ Jagovere said. ‘With dal Valeriano deposed, it would make life easier, I thought. With Diego out of the way as well, I reckoned it would be plain sailing.’
‘Maybe you should stop thinking,’ Enderlain said.
Sander chuckled. ‘It’s worked well enough for you, I suppose.’
Jagovere sighed. ‘The Graf wouldn’t want us to throw away our lives for revenge. We could always wait, come back in a year or two when he thinks he’s safe.’
‘If he’s still alive,’ Enderlain said.
They all ruminated on it, until Wulfric broke the silence.
‘How many men did dal Gascovar have with him?’ Wulfric said to the tavern keeper.
‘Five. Six, maybe.’
‘Small company,’ Wulfric said, surprised.
‘Dal Valeriano probably hired them as his personal bodyguard when he became duke,’ Jagovere said. ‘With dal Gascovar’s reputation he can get whatever work he wants, and bodyguarding is a damn sight safer than fighting battles.’
‘Not anymore,’ Wulfric said. ‘Why don’t we at least take a look? We’ve come a long way.’
‘Makes sense,’ Enderlain said.
Varada remained silent, but Wulfric could tell from the look on her face that she was angry with them. Whatever dal Valeriano had done to her, clearly only his blood would settle the debt. He could understand that, and was eager to finish their business in Estranza so he could settle his.
AETHELMAN
Aethelman had always held the idea of palaces being places of light, and sophistication and gaiety, where those with great wealth and few impositions on their time would gather in decadence. Elzburg Palace was far removed from that. It bore the trappings that tallied with his expectations, but the mood was as unlike them as could be. It was as though a dark cloud hung over the palace, one that sapped the joy from everything beneath it. It made perfect sense when he discovered the Markgraf’s son had recently died, and that his daughter, his only remaining child, was ill.
Many of the courtiers had returned to their estates, unwilling to endure the bleak mood in the palace. Those who remained were preoccupied with the young Lady Aenlin’s health, and how they might capitalise on the situation to their own advantage. It was a ruthless place, but so it ever was with centres of power. Aethelman could not help but have a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought.
Rodulf had remained there, and Aethelman saw him frequently, but always from a safe distance. He seemed to have inveigled himself into the Markgraf’s inner circle, much to the chagrin of those with a longer presence at court but far less favour. He considered seeking out people at court who might become his confederates, but he had neither the time nor the guile to make the effort worthwhile. Aethelman continued to watch Rodulf, waiting for his opportunity, but always aware that it would be all over if Rodulf recognised him.
He observed that often when dealing with people, Rodulf reached into a pocket in his doublet. It wasn’t the fashion, as Aethelman had discovered during his own encounter with a tailor, so it got him thinking. Rodulf had become the very vision of a southern dandy, and Aethelman could only come up with one reason for him to ruin the otherwise perfect lines of his expensively cut suits of clothing. It was so close to his person that Rodulf would certainly notice the Stone’s absence from it. While it might be a useful thing to know, unless Rodulf was very distracted, he would realise it had been pick-pocketed within moments, and Aethelman was no longer quick enough to get away in that time.
The writings Aethelman had discovered indicated it would soon start to exact its price, to sap the user’s own reservoir of the Fount. Rodulf didn’t appear to be showing any signs of that yet. The weakness would have eased Aethelman’s efforts, but the consolation was the fact that it meant Rodulf was not using the Stone to anywhere near its full potential.
WULFRIC
‘That’s a castle?’ Wulfric said.
‘No,’ Jagovere said. ‘Not quite a castle. Nice house, though.’
There were parts of dal Valeriano’s house that looked old, as though they had been built with defence in mind. Most of it, however, was a statement of wealth and grandeur. The facade was lined with windows, surrounded with ornate cut-stone decoration. There were countless places where an attacker could gain entry, and even a hundred men would struggle to defend it.
‘You’d think a fella with political aspirations like dal Valeriano would go for security rather than luxury,’ Enderlain said.
‘He’s a vain fool,’ Varada said. ‘He’ll pay for that.’
‘Finally a bit of luck,’ Jagovere said. ‘The tavern keeper said dal Gascovar only has the Golden Shield with him; the rest of his men have run off. That mansion won’t give them much in the way of an advantage.’
‘Why don’t we burn the place down around him?’ Sander said.
‘That’s not the way a Blood Debt is settled,’ Wulfric said. ‘We cut the life from him and send him to Jorundyr without a sword in his hand. Ulfyr will torment him and gnaw on his bones for eternity.’
There was a moment of silence while everyone digested the bleak prospect of a Northlander’s conception of the afterlife.
‘I thought you were Ulfyr?’ Sander said, breaking the silence.
Wulfric cast him a filthy look, while Enderlain barked out a laugh.
‘Are we just going to sit here looking at it?’ Wulfric said. He had hoped the nickname had been forgotten. That seemed not to be the case.
‘No,’ Jagovere said. ‘Time to cause some mischief. Seeing as you’re the most terrifying-looking of us, Ulf—’
Wulfric cast his second filthy look in as many minutes.
Jagovere smiled. ‘Wulfric, would you like to lead us in?’
Wulfric nodded, the honour he was being afforded placating him. He spurred his horse forward, the others falling in behind him.
They were a hundred paces from the house, having trampled through a fine ornamental garden on their horses to get there, when they were challenged.
‘Who goes there?’
Wulfric looked around to Jagovere. ‘You’re the one who’s good with words.’
Jagovere rode forward and joined him.
‘W
e’re here to kill Lord dal Valeriano,’ Jagovere said genially. ‘We have no issue with any other man here, and invite you to quit the property. I give my word that we will not harm any man who chooses to leave.’
A figure appeared at one of the windows and opened it.
‘We’ve been expecting you,’ he said. ‘I thank you for your kind offer, but I’m afraid I’m contractually obliged to decline. I would extend you the same courtesy, however. If you leave now, I give you my word that you will not be pursued.’
Jagovere continued to smile, but said nothing. The silence persisted a moment longer, until the figure at the window spoke again.
‘A shame,’ he said. ‘We await your arrival.’
RODULF
‘I couldn’t bear to be away from you any longer,’ Rodulf said as he walked into the kitchen, always the warmest part of the palace with its ovens and open stone fireplaces.
The kitchen girl smiled coquettishly. ‘I’m busy,’ she said. ‘I’m making her ladyship’s broth. You’ll have to wait.’ She stirred the broth one last time, then poured it into a bowl.
‘I can think of something that would make the wait more bearable,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘A pastry?’
‘A pastry.’
She turned and walked down the kitchen to where they were cooling. Rodulf took a packet of powder from his pocket and emptied it into the broth, stirring it in until it was invisible. The man he had bought the poison from had told him that only a few grains would kill a large wolf, the vermin Rodulf had claimed needed killing. A spoonful or two of the broth would be more than enough to kill a small girl. Her death would break the Markgraf’s spirit utterly. The Stone would yoke him to Rodulf’s desire, and then Rodulf would be limited only by his imagination and ambition. He wondered what his father would think, to see Rodulf on the brink of greatness that neither of them could even have dreamed of a few years previously.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 35
