The Spine of the World Page 33

  “No,” he answered, and left it at that, wondering if he would ever again meet the gazes of his former friends.

  Morik nodded, though a bit dismayed for his own reasons. He didn’t want Wulfgar to return to Luskan with him. Disguising the huge man would be difficult enough, but it was more than that. Morik didn’t want Wulfgar to be caught by the dark elves.

  “She is playing you for a fool, and all of Auckney knows it, Fen!” Priscilla screamed at her brother

  “Don’t call me that!” he snapped, pushing past her, looking for distraction from the subject. “You know I hate it.”

  Priscilla would not let it go. “Can you deny the stage of her pregnancy?” she pressed. “She will give birth in a tenday.”

  “The barbarian was a large man,” Feringal growled. “The child will be large, and that is what is deceiving you.”

  “The child will be average,” Priscilla retorted, “as you shall learn within the month.” Her brother started to walk away. “I’ll wager he’ll be a pretty thing with the curly brown hair of his father.” That brought Feringal spinning around, glaring at her. “His dead father,” the woman finished, not backing down an inch.

  Lord Feringal crossed the few feet separating them in one stride and slapped his sister hard across the face. Horrified by his own actions, he fell back, holding his face in his hands.

  “My poor cuckolded brother,” Priscilla replied to that slap, glaring at him above the hand she had brought to her bruise. “You will learn.” With that, she stalked from the room.

  Lord Feringal stood there, motionless for a long, long time, trying hard to steady his breathing.

  Three days after their discussion, the weather had warmed enough to bring about a thaw, allowing Morik and Wulfgar to depart the village. The villagers were unhappy to see them go, especially because the thaw signaled the time of renewed monster attacks. The pair, particularly impatient Morik, would hear none of their pleas.

  “Perhaps I will return to you,” Wulfgar remarked, and he was thinking that he might indeed, once he and Morik had gone their own ways outside of Luskan. Where else might the barbarian go, after all?

  The road out of the foothills was slow and so muddy and treacherous that the pair often had to walk, leading their horses carefully. Once the mountains gave way to the flatter plain just north of Luskan they found the going relatively easy.

  “You still have the wagon and the supplies we left at the cave,” Morik remarked.

  Wulfgar realized the rogue was beginning to feel a pang of guilt about leaving him. “The cave did not remain empty throughout the winter I’m sure,” the barbarian remarked. “Not so many supplies left, I would guess.”

  “Then take the belongings of the present occupants,” Morik replied with a wink. “Giants, perhaps, nothing for Wulfgar to fear.” That brought a smile to both their faces, but they didn’t hold.

  “You should have stayed in the village,” Morik reasoned. “You can’t go back to Luskan with me, so the village seems as good a place as any while you decide your course.”

  They’d come to a fork in the road. One path headed south to Luskan, the other to the west. When Morik turned to regard Wulfgar, he found the man staring out that second course, back toward the small fiefdom where he had been imprisoned, where Morik—to hear Morik tell it—had rescued him from a torturous death.

  “Plotting revenge?” the rogue asked.

  Wulfgar looked at him curiously, then caught on. “Hardly,” he replied. “I am wondering the fate of the lady of the castle.”

  “The one who wrongly accused you of raping her?” Morik asked.

  Wulfgar shrugged, as if not wanting to concede that point. “She was with child,” he explained, “and very much afraid.”

  “You believe she cuckolded her husband?” Morik asked.

  Wulfgar wrinkled his lips and nodded.

  “So she offered your head to protect her reputation,” Morik said derisively. “Typical noble lady.”

  Wulfgar didn’t reply, but he wasn’t seeing things quite that way. The barbarian understood that she had never intended for him to be caught, but rather, that he should remain a distant and mysterious solution to her personal problems. It was understandable, if not honorable.

  “She must have had the babe by now,” he mumbled to himself. “I wonder how she faired when they saw it and realized the child couldn’t be mine.”

  Morik recognized Wulfgar’s tone, and it worried him. “I’ll not have to wonder your fate if you go back to determine hers,” Morik dryly remarked. “You couldn’t get into that town without being recognized.”

  Wulfgar nodded, not disagreeing, but he was smiling all the while, a look that was not lost on Morik. “But you could,” he said.

  Morik spent a long while studying his friend. “If my road was not Luskan,” he replied.

  “A road of your own making, and with no appointments needing prompt attention,” said Wulfgar.

  “Winter is not yet gone. We took a chance in coming down from the foothills. Another storm might descend at any time, burying us deep.” Morik continued to protest, but Wulfgar could tell by the rogue’s tone that he was considering it.

  “The storms are not so bad south of the mountains.”

  Morik scoffed.

  “This last favor?” Wulfgar asked.

  “Why do you care?” Morik argued. “The woman nearly had you killed, and in a manner horrible enough to have satisfied the crowd at Prisoner’s Carnival.”

  Wulfgar shrugged, not honestly sure of that answer himself, but he wasn’t about to back down. “A last act of friendship between us two,” he prodded, “that we might properly part in the hopes of seeing each other again.”

  Morik scoffed again. “One last fight with me at your side is all you’re after,” he said half humorously. “Admit it, you’re nothing as a fighter without me!” Even Wulfgar had to laugh at Morik’s irony, but he followed it up with a plaintive expression.

  “Oh, lead on,” Morik grumbled, conceding as Wulfgar knew he would. “I will play the part of Lord Brandeburg yet again. I only hope that Brandeburg was not connected with your escape and that our common departure times were seen by Feringal as pure coincidence.”

  “If captured, I will honestly tell Lord Feringal that you played no part in my escape,” Wulfgar said, a crooked smile showing under his thick winter beard.

  “You have no idea how the promise comforts me,” Morik said wryly as he pushed his friend ahead of him toward the west, toward trouble in Auckney.

  wo days later, Morik’s predicted snowstorm did come on, but its fury was somewhat tempered by the late season, leaving the road passable. The two riders plodded along, taking care to stay on the trail. They made good time, despite the foul weather, with Wulfgar driving them hard. Soon they came to a region of scattered farmhouses and stone cottages. Now the storm proved to be their ally, for few curious faces showed in the heavily curtained windows, and through the snow, wrapped in thick skins, the pair were hardly recognizable.

  Soon after, Wulfgar waited in a sheltered overhang along the foothills, while Morik, Lord Brandeburg of Waterdeep, rode down into the village. The day turned late, the storm continued, but Morik didn’t return. Wulfgar left his shelter to move to a vantage point that would afford him a view of Castle Auck. He wondered if Morik had been discovered. If so, should he rush down to find some way to aid his friend?

  Wulfgar gave a chuckle. It was more likely that Morik had stayed on at the castle for a fine meal and was warming himself before the hearth at that very moment. The barbarian retreated again to his shelter to brush down his horse, telling himself to be patient.

  Finally Morik did return, wearing a grim expression indeed. “I was not met with friendly hugs,” he explained.

  “Your disguise did not hold?”

  “It’s not that,” said the rogue. “They thought me Lord Brandeburg, but just as I feared they considered it a bit odd that I disappeared at the same time you did.”
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  Wulfgar nodded. They had discussed that very possibility. “Why did they let you leave if they were suspicious?”

  “I convinced them it was but a coincidence,” he reported, “else why would I return to Auckney? Of course, I had to share a large meal to persuade them.”

  “Of course,” Wulfgar agreed archly, his tone dry. “What of Lady Meralda and her child? Did you see her?” the barbarian prompted.

  Morik pulled the saddle from his horse and began brushing his own beast down, as if preparing again for the road. “It is time for us to be gone,” he replied flatly. “Far from here.”

  “What news?” Wulfgar pressed, now truly concerned.

  “We have no allies here, and no acquaintances even, in any mood to entertain visitors,” Morik replied. “Better for all that Wulfgar, Morik, and Lord Brandeburg, put this wretched little pretend fiefdom far behind their horses’ tails.”

  Wulfgar leaned over and grabbed the rogue’s shoulder, roughly turning him from his work on the horse. “The Lady Meralda?” he demanded.

  “She birthed a child late last night,” Morik admitted reluctantly. Wulfgar’s eyes grew wide with trepidation. “Both survived,” Morik quickly added, “for now.” Pulling away, the rogue went back to his work with renewed vigor.

  Feeling Wulfgar’s eyes on him expectantly, Morik sighed and turned back. “Look, she told them that you had ravished her,” he reminded his friend. “It seems likely that she was covering an affair,” Morik reasoned. “She lied, condemning you, to hide her own betrayal of the young lord.” Again, the knowing nod, for this was no news to Wulfgar.

  Morik looked at him hard, surprised that he was not shaken somewhat by the blunt expression of all that had occurred, surprised that he was showing no anger at all despite the fact that, because of the woman, he had been beaten and nearly brutally executed.

  “Well, now there is doubt concerning the heritage of the child,” Morik explained. “The birth was too soon, considering our encounter with the girl on the road, and there are those within the village and castle who do not believe her tale.”

  Wulfgar gave a profound sigh. “I suspected as much would happen.”

  “I heard some talk of a young man who fell to his death on the day of the wedding between Lord Feringal and Meralda, a man who died crying out for her.”

  “Lord Feringal believes he’s the one who cuckolded him?” Wulfgar asked.

  “Not specifically,” Morik replied. “Since the child was surely conceived before the wedding—even if it had been your child, that would have been so—but he knows, of course, that his wife once lay with another, and now he may be thinking that it was of her own volition and not something forced upon her on a wild road.”

  “A ravished woman is without blame,” Wulfgar put in, for it all made sense.

  “While a cheating woman….” Morik added ominously.

  Wulfgar gave another sigh and walked out of the shelter, staring again at the castle. “What will happen to her?” he called back to Morik.

  “The marriage will be declared invalid, surely,” Morik answered, having lived in human cities long enough to understand such things.

  “And the Lady Meralda will be sent from the castle,” the barbarian said hopefully.

  “If she’s fortunate, she’ll be banished from Feringal Auck’s domain with neither coin nor title,” Morik replied.

  “And if she’s unfortunate?” Wulfgar asked.

  Morik winced. “Noblemen’s wives have been put to death for such offenses,” the worldly rogue replied.

  “What of the child?” an increasingly agitated Wulfgar demanded. The images of his own horrible past experiences began edging in at the corners of his consciousness.

  “If fortunate, banished,” Morik replied, “though I fear such an action will take more good fortune than the banishment of the woman. It is very complicated. The child is a threat to Auck’s domain, but also to his pride.”

  “They would kill a child, a helpless babe?” Wulfgar asked, his teeth clenched tightly as those awful memories began to creep ever closer.

  “The rage of a betrayed lord cannot be underestimated,” Morik answered grimly. “Lord Feringal cannot show weakness, else risk the loss of the respect of his people and the loss of his lands. Complicated and unpleasant business, all. Now let us be gone from this place.”

  Wulfgar was indeed gone, storming out from under the overhang and stalking down the trails. Morik was quick to catch him.

  “What will you do?” the rogue demanded, recognizing Wulfgar’s resolve.

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got to do something,” Wulfgar said, increasing his pace with the level of his agitation while Morik struggled to keep up. As they entered the village, the storm again proved an ally, for no peasants were around. Wulfgar’s eyes were set on the bridge leading to Castle Auck.

  “Give the child away, as you planned,” Steward Temigast suggested to the pacing Lord Feringal.

  “It is different now,” the young man stammered, slapping his fists helplessly at his sides. He glanced over at Priscilla. His sister was sitting comfortably, her smug smile a reminder that she’d warned him against marrying a peasant in the first place.

  “We don’t know that anything has changed,” Temigast said, always the voice of reason.

  Priscilla snorted. “Can you not count?” she asked.

  “The child could be early,” Temigast protested.

  “As well-formed a babe as ever I’ve seen,” said Priscilla. “She was not early, Temigast, and you know it.” Priscilla looked straight at her brother, reiterating the talk that had been buzzing around Castle Auck all day. “The child was conceived mid-summer,” she said, “before the supposed attack on the road.”

  “How can I know for sure?” Lord Feringal wailed. His hands tore at the sides of his pants, an accurate reflection of the rending going on inside his mind.

  “How can you not know?” Priscilla shot back. “You’ve been made a fool to the mirth of all the village. Will you compound that now with weakness?”

  “You still love her,” Steward Temigast cut in.

  “Do I?” Lord Feringal said, so obviously torn and confused. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Send her away, then,” the steward offered. “Banish her with the child.”

  “That would make the villagers laugh all the harder,” Priscilla observed sourly. “Do you want the child to return in a score of years and take your kingdom from you? How many times have we heard of such tales?”

  Temigast glared at the woman. Such things had occurred, but they were far from common.

  “What am I to do, then?” Lord Feringal demanded of his sister.

  “A trial of treason for the whore,” Priscilla answered matter-of-factly, “and a swift and just removal of the result of her infidelity.”

  “Removal?” Feringal echoed skeptically.

  “She wants you to kill the child,” Temigast explained archly.

  “Throw it to the waves,” Priscilla supplied feverishly, coming right out of her chair. “If you show no weakness now, the folk will still respect you.”

  “They will hate you more if you murder an innocent child,” Temigast said angrily, more to Priscilla than Lord Feringal.

  “Innocent?” Priscilla balked as if the notion were preposterous.

  “Let them hate you,” she said to Lord Feringal, moving her face to within an inch of his. “Better that than to laugh at you. Would you suffer the bastard to live? A reminder, then, of he who lay with Meralda before you?”

  “Shut your mouth!” Lord Feringal demanded, pushing her back.

  Priscilla didn’t back down. “Oh, but how she purred in the arms of Jaka Sculi,” she said, and her brother was trembling so much that he couldn’t even speak through his grinding teeth. “I’ll wager she arched that pretty back of hers for him,” Priscilla finished lewdly.

  Feral, sputtering sounds escaped the young lord. He grabbed his sister by the shoulders with both hands
and flung her aside. She was smiling the whole time, satisfied, for the enraged lord shoved past Temigast and ran for the stairs. The stairs that led to Meralda and her bastard child.

  “It’s guarded, you know,” Morik reminded him, yelling though his voice sounded thin in the howling wind.

  Wulfgar wouldn’t have heeded the warning anyway. His eyes were set on Castle Auck, and his line to the bridge didn’t waver. He pictured the mounds of snow as the Spine of the World, as that barrier between the man he had been and the victim he had become. Now, his mind free at last of all influence of potent liquor, his strength of will granting him armor against those awful images of his imprisonment, Wulfgar saw the choices clearly before him. He could turn back to the life he had found or he could press on, could cross that emotional barrier, could fight and claw his way back to the man he once was.

  The barbarian growled and pressed on against the storm. He even picked up speed as he reached the bridge, a fast walk, a trot, then a full run as he picked his course, veering to the right, where the snow had drifted along the railing and the castle’s front wall. Up the drift Wulfgar went, crunching into snow past his knees, but growling and plowing on, maintaining his momentum. He leaped from the top of the drift, reaching with an outstretched arm to hook his hammer’s head atop the wall. Wulfgar heard a startled call from above as it caught loudly against the stone, but he hardly slowed, great muscles cording and tugging, propelling him upward, where he rolled around, slipping right over the crenellated barrier. He landed nimbly on his feet on the parapet within, right between two dumbfounded guards, neither of them holding a weapon as they tried to keep their hands warm.

  Morik rushed up the same path as Wulfgar, using agile moves to scale the wall nearly as fast as his friend had done with brute strength. Still, by the time he got to the parapet Wulfgar was already down in the courtyard, storming for the main keep. Both guards were down, too, lying on the ground and groaning, one holding his jaw, the other curled up and clutching his belly.