Tears of the Wolf (Wrath and Weeping #1)

Chapter 22 Cenric

Cenric

“So, you think this will make your wife fall in love with you?” Hróarr sounded on the verge of laughter.

Cenric had explained the situation to his cousin before they left, but Hróarr still seemed deeply amused by the whole thing. “It can’t hurt,” Cenric answered.

“I only mean that she’s Hyldish. Hyldish don’t believe in vengeance the way we do. They think a bit of coin is enough to end a feud.”

Cenric frowned. “You mean blodgild?”

Blodgild was the payment of silver or in some cases gold owed by a murderer to the family of the victim. It was the Hyldish way of preventing the manner of violent retribution that could spring up on Valdar.

Hróarr grunted. “Exactly. They aren’t like us.”

Us. Valdari.

While most people were unsettled by Cenric’s Valdari half, Hróarr never acknowledged his Hyldish half. To most of the world, they seemed to be oil and water, unable to mix, but Cenric’s veins were proof it was possible. Cenric had never felt like a proper Valdari, but he never felt entirely Hyldish, either. He was both and neither.

It was dark, but Cenric glared at Hróarr all the same. “You can wait with the ship if you don’t like it.”

“And leave my cousin alone in the streets of Kyrna? My mother’s spirit would spit in my mead.” Hróarr grunted. “Besides, I never liked Ielda.”

Wet, Snapper complained, slinking along beside Cenric. Inside?

Soon, Cenric answered. They should be out of the rain in a few moments.

Kyrna was not a city when compared to Ungamot. But Kyrna was home to some thousand or so permanent residents, which made it a city by Valdari standards.

The streets were crooked, intersecting at odd angles with irregular widths. Unlike Ungamot, this was not a place used to horses and most of it had to be accessed on foot.

Cenric didn’t have his full armor with him, but he had his bracers reinforced with iron slats. He doubted he would need them, but one could never be too careful with Valdari.

They had rowed all day to reach Kyrna shortly after noon. The men were tired and Cenric was sore with fresh blisters on his hands. But after a few hours’ rest, he had dragged the others into the city.

Hopefully, Ielda would still be here.

Cenric and Hróarr led the way, their cloaks drawn over their heads against a misting rain. At their backs followed Kalen and a pair of Hróarr’s warriors.

Kyrna’s streets were dark, but light spilled out of doorways and through cracked windows. The city wasn’t large enough to have a proper red quarter the way Ungamot did, but it was generally understood that raiders wouldn’t have to go far from the docks to waste their newfound riches.

“This way,” said their guide, the surviving raider. He walked stiffly ahead, his shoulders hunched against the rain. The man was jumpy and anxious, probably aware of how tenuously his life hung in the balance.

The raider led them around the street corner to a large structure that looked like a barn or warehouse of some sort. The rain washed the air of any smells that might have provided clues.

“Here.” The raider pointed to the entrance. “In there.”

Snapper inspected the dark building. Meat. Fire.

The dyrehund could smell something cooking inside. This was probably the right spot.

Cenric tossed the raider a pair of silver coins. “Don’t let me see your face again.”

The raider snatched the coins out of the air before scampering off into the dark. If word got back after tonight that he had been the one to give Ielda away, the raider’s miserable life would likely be cut short in an even more miserable manner.

“Let the fun begin.” Hróarr rubbed his hands together before pushing the door open.

Cenric worked to contain his own excitement. There was nothing quite like the thrill of the chase, of outsmarting your prey. Valdari called themselves wolves and wolves were meant for the hunt.

Inside, someone had built a large fire at the center of the room. A hole had been cut in the roof with an elevated cover to let the smoke out, but not elements in. All the same, not all the smoke escaped properly, filling the large building with smog.

It was a wonder the building hadn’t gone up in flames yet. Cenric would need to be mindful of the exits.

Over the fire hung a large kettle, filled with some sort of stew based on the smell. Figures sat around on makeshift tables, using overturned buckets and stools as chairs. Some forms lay passed out on the ground. It was getting late, but not that late.

A pair of men beside the stew pot accepted coins in exchange for bowls of steaming food. Two more guarded what appeared to be several casks of ale, most likely stolen based on their mismatched sizes and the color of their wood.

Off to the back, Cenric espied a guard at the foot of a staircase leading up to the attic. That would be where the whores could be found.

Snapper stepped into the shelter of the barn, letting off a great shake of his whole body, flinging water in all directions. Good shake, Snapper thought appreciatively.

Hróarr cursed, shielding his face from the flinging droplets. Cenric didn’t understand the point since their cloaks were already damp.

Friends? Snapper cocked his head, lowering his snout to study the smells. He headed off, circling the barn like he did with most new spaces.

Cenric stepped over the legs of a comatose man as he entered. This was not the most derelict establishment he had visited, but it was not the best, either. Though perhaps establishment was the wrong word. This was probably a group of independent people who had gathered in this storehouse for the night with or without the owner’s permission.

“There’s Ielda,” Hróarr said under his breath. “The one losing his guts in the corner.”

Cenric spotted a figure doubled over, currently vomiting onto the dirt floor.

That would mean that many of these men were likely Ielda’s crew.

Hróarr threw back the hood of his cloak, swaggering into the smoky building. “Ielda, my friend!”

Cenric followed his cousin, discreetly. He had not been to this part of Valdar in some time. His cousin was well-known to these men as a brother-in-arms, or at least a colleague.

The man vomiting in the corner finished emptying his stomach long enough to straighten. He smeared a fist over his mouth, pretending he hadn’t just been losing his ale all over the floor.

“Hróarr,” Ielda hiccupped. “I thought you were headed south.” His words were slurred, the rolling tones of Valdari skidding awkwardly off his tongue.

“I was,” Hróarr grinned. “Tomorrow, as it happens. But tonight, I am here. Come, let me buy you another drink.”

Ielda shook his head. “Enough.”

Cenric stole a glance across the storehouse to where Hróarr’s warriors slunk into the shadows, waiting for if they were called. Kalen kept close at Cenric’s back, watching the room.

Hróarr wrangled Ielda to a table, making himself at home. In no time, Hróarr had cups of ale for himself, Cenric, and another for the protesting Ielda.

It was a testament to the men’s lack of loyalty that none of them stepped in to help their leader.

“How goes trade?” Hróarr asked, leaning on one elbow. “This is my cousin. Cenric of Ombra.”

“The Hyldish one?” Ielda hiccupped, face pinching with disdain.

“Half, but he’s a wolf where it counts,” Hróarr chuckled.

“I don’t care for the Hyldish,” Ielda muttered.

Cenric smiled at that, resting his elbows on the table. “It looks like you have encountered good fortune lately.” Cenric examined the cup he had been handed. It was worn with use, but he could make out the circles and crescents to honor Eponine, the goddess of sorceresses. Almost like it had been taken from the home of one. “Were you raiding this summer?”

“We raided this spring,” Ielda said, confirming Cenric’s suspicions. “A grand house. A few leagues inland, but well worth it.”

Cenric forced himself to show only mild interest.

“We were told it would be undefended and that was true. No real fights and I didn’t lose any of my men.”

Cenric grinned to hide his excitement. “No wonder you’re so rich these days.”

“The haul was good.” Ielda glanced around. “And the money we took for the raid.”

That sounded wrong. “Money?”

“Someone hired us to kill the alderman of Glasney.”

Cenric shot a glance to Hróarr to find his cousin looking back to him. Hiring Valdari to kill Hyldish explained a great deal—why the raid had come out of season, why it had been so far inland.

It also raised many, many more questions. Why go through all this trouble to kill Paega, to start? From what Cenric understood, the old man would approve of his own assassination.

“You were hired?” Cenric thought he did a good job of making his voice sound casual.

“We were.” Ielda pressed his fist over his mouth for just a moment. “Don’t know who paid us, though.”

Hróarr laughed. “You took a job from the sprites?”

“A real person,” Ielda snapped, too drunk to tell the other man had been joking. “Hyldish. Red hair, shifty eyes, always jumpy like he was about to crawl out his own skin. He paid us half, then never showed to give us the second half.” Ielda paused to give several choice curses.

Cenric tried to think of someone who might match that description, but it could be anyone.

Ielda continued. “Doesn’t matter too much. We took enough silver to live like kings until next spring.”

“I see that.” Cenric gestured to the smoky storehouse.

“It’s bad news for you, Hyldishman.” Ielda shook his head. “People paying Valdari to kill aldermen? Means your country is a pile of peat moss ready to burn.”

For all he appeared to be a drunken fool, Ielda was right. If someone had wanted Paega dead and had wanted raiders to take the blame for it, that meant there were larger webs being woven. Aelgar had barely stabilized his rule. For someone to be trying to kill off his aldermen, an alderman with kingly blood no less, was a bad sign.

And why Osbeorn? One child in three made it to adulthood. Brynn’s son had only just reached his first year. It seemed excessive.

“It’s good news for me!” Ielda cackled. “Lots of work for mercenaries.”

Cenric did his best to bury his impatience. How to find out which man had killed Brynn’s son?

They couldn’t drag Ielda’s entire crew back. Neither King Ovrek nor the jarl of Kyrna would stand for that and they didn’t have the manpower to do it. A life for a life, that was the way of Valdar.

“You sure you weren’t hired by an impatient son wanting his inheritance?” Cenric thought he did an excellent job of sounding bored.

“No.” Ielda shook his head, spittle flying as he did. “Old man lost his first batch of sons in the war. He had a new one by some wife a third of his age. Wasn’t hard for Svendi finished that one off.”

Svendi. How obliging of Ielda to give them a name. They didn’t even have to ask.

“Though, the brat looked barely a year old. You wouldn’t think a man that age could still get it up.” Ielda shook his head. “I think his thanes must have been topping her behind the old man’s back.”

Cenric chose to ignore the insult to his wife. His prey was close.

“Svendi?” Hróarr screwed his face up as if he was thinking. “With only one eye?”

“Svendi has his eyes,” Ielda coughed. “As many as you.”

Hróarr stroked his beard, contemplative. “I always get your men mixed up. Which one is missing his eye?”

“That’s Svein. My brother.”

Hróarr made a grunting sound of understanding. “Then which one is Svendi?”

Ielda pointed a drunken finger across the barn to a pair of men playing tafl. “That one,” Ielda slurred. “Both eyes.”

Hróarr squinted. “The left one or the right one?”

“Right one!” Ielda was getting frustrated.

Cenric marked the man on the right—carrying two swords, one longer than the other. His beard was braided in two forked strands bound by tiny silver rings. A lot of men had started doing that after Ovrek became king of Valdar.

Cenric made sure not to stare at Svendi for too long. He was going to enjoy what came next.

Loyalty was like a good palisade. It gave order to the world and protection from chaos, but it could also be used by your enemies to trap you if you weren’t careful.

In Svendi’s case, a little more loyalty might have served him well.

Hróarr and Cenric left Ielda groaning in the corner to slink over to the tafl table and their prey.

Arm of iron and tongue of silver —that was a line from an old song about Havnar, the First of Fathers. He was a great warrior, poet, and persuader. Hróarr must have been blessed by the First of Fathers tonight.

Cenric faded into the background, letting his younger cousin use his reputation as a successful mercenary to their full advantage.

It took a few drinks, a couple coarse jokes, a skillful balance of flattery and insults, and Svendi was ready to join Hróarr’s ship. Though in fairness, Svendi took very little persuading to leave.

Before the night’s stew was finished, Svendi trailed along, Hróarr’s massive arm around his shoulder like the oldest of friends. Svendi had collected his shield and the satchel that probably contained all his worldly goods. He was walking away into the dark with a band of strangers.

Truly, a little bit of loyalty might have helped Svendi live much longer.

Cenric followed close behind, watching his prey while Snapper, Kalen, and Hróarr’s two warriors followed up from behind. Cenric’s fingers itched with the anticipation of a fight.

They reached Hróarr’s ship, dragged ashore for the night. It had stopped raining and most the men had already bedded down for the evening, cook fires built along the shore.

“Ho!” Hróarr called to the men. “Time to be sailing back to Hylden.”

Svendi flinched, looking up at Hróarr. “In the middle of the night?”

“No sense in wasting time.” Hróarr turned back to the men who were already packing up their belongings.

Neither Hróarr nor Cenric had expected to find Svendi this easily. Surely Morgi must be on their side.

Hróarr’s men moved to obey. No one questioned their leader, but no one was rushing, either.

“What is this?” Svendi asked, suspicion lacing his tone as he wriggled away from Hróarr.

The time for trickery and deceit was over. Out here, in the darkness of the beach, there were no witnesses close enough for a good look.

The shield slung over Svendi’s back blocked his peripheral vision. Cenric swept in close and kicked the back of Svendi’s knee. Svendi stumbled and Cenric lunged after him, but the whoreson was fast.

Svendi backed away from Cenric, facing all of them, but he had the ocean at his back and Cenric and Hróarr in front of him. He was trapped. “What is this?” Svendi demanded. “What treachery?”

Cenric grinned, not sure the cookfires gave Svendi enough light to see it.

Svendi drew a large knife that was almost a short sword. He waved it threateningly, eyes on Cenric.

“Don’t play with him too long,” Hróarr muttered. “I want to get back to Hylden before another rainstorm rolls in.” As he spoke, Hróarr tossed a spear to Cenric.

Cenric caught the spear, testing the weight. It was a good weapon, balanced. Hróarr always had appreciated fine blades.

“What is this?” Svendi demanded again. “I’ve done nothing to any of you!”

“No,” Cenric agreed, stalking closer. “Not to us.”

Svendi’s gaze whipped between Hróarr and the others. To his credit, he didn’t call for help, but maybe because he knew that no one would come.

Cenric raised the spear, advancing on the other man. His weapon had the longer reach and both of them knew he had the upper hand.

But Svendi was not going down quietly. Cenric could respect that.

The Valdari raider lunged for Cenric. He feinted and spun to avoid the sweep of Cenric’s spear, rolling under the blade. He swept under the spearhead and grabbed the shaft. Rushing with his knife out, he slashed at Cenric’s head.

Cenric! Snapper cried, barking in fear.

Cenric ducked and dropped into a crouch. He smashed his fist into Svendi’s forward knee.

Cenric! Snapper lunged forward, but Hróarr caught him by his scruff, holding him back.

“Steady, son.” Hróarr crouched down beside the dog.

Good. Cenric didn’t want Snapper getting caught up in this.

Svendi’s leg shot out from under him, sending him sprawling into the sand. Cursing, Svendi scrambled away, struggling to get his bearings.

Cenric chased, stabbing down with his spear as Svendi rolled away.

The raider was good. Cenric could see why the man had been arrogant enough to think Hróarr wanted him for his crew—he had the skill to back it up. A pity he’d murdered Brynn’s son.

Svendi leapt back up to his feet, watching the other men on the beach, but none of them made to join in. Hróarr seemed to be content to let Cenric handle this one. Maybe he knew it had been a while since Cenric had gotten to fight—really fight a worthy opponent.

Cenric dropped his spear, beckoning for Svendi to come closer.

“Cenric…” Hróarr’s voice was low, a warning. “Now is not the time for antics.”

“Lord?” Kalen sounded genuinely worried.

Cenric faced the Valdari raider, motioning the man closer.

“You’re either mad or stupid,” Svendi grated, long blade held in front of him.

“We’ll see.” Cenric smiled, morbid excitement shivering down his spine.

Svendi swept in, aiming for Cenric’s gut. His knife was long, but it brought him in close, within grappling distance.

Cenric blocked the knife with his forearm. The blade screeched as it scraped along the iron in his bracer. He felt the blade catch, the impact would leave a bruise, but it didn’t meet skin.

Svendi couldn’t recover in time to avoid Cenric’s fist.

Cenric’s knuckles slammed into the side of Svendi’s face. The man’s whole head snapped to his right, and he sprawled into the sand.

Cenric slammed a boot down over the man’s knife hand. Dropping to the ground, he straddled Svendi, slamming his fist into the man’s jaw a second time.

Svendi grunted, bringing his left arm up to block. Something flashed and Cenric noticed in time to block a second smaller knife. He grabbed Svendi’s wrist, using gravity and his weight to pin that hand beside the first before slamming his knee down into the raider’s chest.

Svendi cursed, thrashing ineffectively.

“Are you done showing off?” Hróarr muttered, sounding impatient.

With the man pinned under him, Cenric considered his options. He could bring Svendi’s head as he’d told Brynn, but he had a better idea.

“Rope,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll take him alive.”

Svendi cursed and struggled, flailing uselessly on the ground. Kalen brought the rope, and they trussed up the Valdari raider like a pig for market.

Between Hróarr and Cenric, they hauled him up into the ship as the rest of the men finished loading.

Cenric shook the sting out of his knuckles as they set sail under cover of darkness, leaving before anyone had the chance to miss Svendi or notice they’d left.

They camped on a nearby island for the rest of the night to wait for daybreak. For the first time since marrying Brynn, Cenric had a foretelling.

He was alone on a beach, stumbling over black rocks worn smooth by the waves. The ocean stretched to his left and a wall of pine trees to his right.

It was a place near Olfirth’s lands, somewhere along the south portion of Ombra.

Desperation clawed at Cenric as he searched the driftwood, fish bones, and seaweed washed up by the tide. He spotted the pale shape of a body lying at the edge of the water, just washed in by the waves.

“No,” he heard himself say. “No, no.” Cenric reached the shape and crashed to his knees, reaching to roll the corpse over.

Brynn was white as death, eyes staring into space with seaweed matted in her hair—drowned.

Thick ropes bound her arms from wrists to elbows.