The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  THE WOLF OF THE NORTH

  WOLF OF THE NORTH BOOK 1

  DUNCAN M. HAMILTON

  Contents

  Map of The Northlands and Ruripathia

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part 2

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Part 3

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Also by Duncan M. Hamilton

  PROLOGUE

  Thick-cut stone walls and a roaring fire kept the winter cold and the vicious bite of the Niepar wind at bay. The Maisterspaeker paused when he entered the inn’s taproom and breathed deeply the sour smell of ale interlaced with the tang of pine smoke. The room had a rough, earthy charm and a welcoming cosiness, two things the Maisterspaeker always looked for. He had no idea how long he would be there, so he had chosen it carefully. His friend would certainly make the meeting, but Northlanders were never the most careful keepers of time.

  He took a stool by the bar and scratched his beard, all grey but for a few stubborn hairs that refused to acknowledge that he was no longer young. He waved to the barkeeper, busy with other patrons, and savoured the prospect of his first mouthful of cool, bitter ale. It couldn’t push away the flutter of excitement that beat within his chest, however. It was a sensation that he had not felt in a long, long time: the anticipation of an impending fight.

  It had been many years since he had given up the sword for the story, and he had not once regretted the fact. It was only now that a chance encounter had dragged things from the distant past into the present that he noticed its absence. He would take up the sword once more and do battle with his best friend fighting at his side, before the gods called him to his rest. The thought made him feel like a man of twenty summers once again, grey beard or not. Vengeance had been a long time coming for his friend, but with the Maisterspaeker’s recent discovery, that wait was now almost at an end.

  He allowed his mind to drift on the sound of the crackling fire, the bustle of the taproom, and the voices of tired men enjoying a well-earned drink. Places like the inn were what made the Maisterspaeker love the Borderlands. Life was simple here, away from the machinations of court and the constant struggle to find favour with the powerful. There was no need to take care with his words, or force small talk. Men spoke their minds and would punch you in the face rather than stab you in the back, a refreshing change from the drama of noble courts. It was why he chose to stay in the village inn rather than the Graf’s great hall on the overlooking hill where he had told a tale the night before. No one knew him at the inn. No one would ask him for a story. It would be a welcome rest for his tired voice. That the ale was good only helped his affection for the place.

  ‘I know you,’ a voice said.

  The Maisterspaeker closed his eyes and prayed to the old gods that the voice was directed at someone else. So much for anonymity, he thought.

  ‘You’re the Maisterspaeker. I saw you in the Graf’s hall last night.’

  ‘You have the advantage of me,’ the Maisterspaeker said.

  ‘My name’s Conradin. Liegeman and sergeant-at-arms to Graf Sifrid.’

  ‘I hope you enjoyed my story,’ the Maisterspaeker said.

  ‘I had to leave just as you started,’ Conradin said, his face a picture of disappointment. ‘Had my duties to attend.’

  ‘A pity.’

  ‘It was, my Lord. I’d been looking forward to it ever since I heard you were coming to Graf Sifrid’s court. You told “Dal Rhenning’s Last Stand”, didn’t you? About Ulfyr the Bloody—Jorundyr’s chosen warrior—and his comrades fighting those southern devils in Darvaros.’

  ‘You’ve heard it before then?’ the Maisterspaeker said.

  ‘Of course,’ Conradin said. ‘I’ve heard all your stories, but never you telling them.’

  Conradin’s use of the old god’s name struck a chord with the Maisterspaeker. Jorundyr and the old gods had been all but forgotten in Ruripathia before the Maisterspaeker started telling his tales. Now everyone spoke the name with familiarity once more, for the first time in nigh on a millennium. It occurred to the Maisterspaeker that perhaps his friend Wulfric—Ulfyr as he was known to all but those closest to him—was indeed chosen by the old god, and for a very simple reason. Jorundyr’s fame was spread hand in hand with Wulfric’s, and what was once relegated to the shadows was now again in the light.

  ‘You’re right,’ the Maisterspaeker said. ‘I told “Dal Rhenning’s Last Stand”. It seems to be everyone’s favourite.’ He said it with reticence, knowing what was coming next, his hopes for a quiet repast fading.

  ‘I was wondering if you might be of a mind to tell a bit of it here?’ Conradin said. ‘I’ve always wanted to hear it told from the mouth of the man what wrote it.’

  The Maisterspaeker grimaced and started to shake his head. ‘Graf Sifrid paid me one hundred crowns to tell that story…’

  Conradin blushed with a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. He shrugged. ‘I’m only a sergeant-at-arms…’

  It was the Maisterspaeker’s greatest weakness, the desire to entertain and delight, but it was also his strength, and why he could command five hundred crowns for a single night’s recital, even after three decades of telling the same stories. He had nothing to do while waiting there, other than sit by the fire and drink and doze, and he didn’t feel old enough to relish such things just yet. His only reluctance was that there might not be time, and there was nothing so disappointing as a story half told.

  There was something he was working on, though, a tale that put all the others and more together into one great epic. It would be his defining work, and he thought it fitting that he tell it now, unfinished though it was, for it was about the man he awaited. Wulfric—Ulfyr the Bloody, Wolf of the North. When he arrived, the two of them would create its ending in blood and steel and flame.

  ‘I’ve been working on something new; it’s a long story, though,’ the Maisterspaeker said quickly, his decision made.

  ‘It’s winter; the night’s long too,’ Conradin said, his voice hopeful.

  ‘Fair point. So long as my throat stays wet, I doubt we’ll have a problem.’ He couldn’t give his tale away without some consideration, after all, and storytelling was thirsty work.

  Conradin smiled, turned and beckoned to the people in the ta
proom. Where there had been only a sergeant-at-arms, there was now half a village. The Maisterspaeker smiled, flattered by the draw the prospect of his story had.

  ‘If you’re all ready and of full mugs, I’ll begin. My new story is called “The Wolf of the North”; the full tale of the legendary warrior you all know as Ulfyr the Bloody, Scourge of Belek, Draugar, and Dragons, Jorundyr’s Chosen, from boyhood to his last great deed. You will hear of his famous band of warriors; Enderlain Greatblade, Varada of Darvaros, and Jagovere the Skald, as well as others just as brave, whose names have been scattered by the winds of time. Some parts you will have heard before, but not a living soul has heard it all, nor told like this.’

  No one stirred. All eyes were locked on him. The Maisterspaeker had to suppress a smile, not wanting to detract from the solemnity of his tale. His skin tingled. It was the moment that made it all worthwhile; the intoxicating anticipation, the impending joy of a great story well told.

  ‘This story, like so many others, exists because of a woman, and the love one man had for her…’

  PART I

  1

  Wulfric let out a strained grunt as he pulled the sword from the water. The metal was cold from having been in the icy river. Despite spring being well underway, the river came down from the High Places, where the snow and ice never melted. His fingers went numb at the touch of the cold steel, and he did his best not to drop it. The blade was covered with a thin coat of rough brown rust that felt gritty to the touch, but he knew the metal was still good underneath. The leather of the handle was intact—it had not been in the water long. He was barely able to lift it with both hands, so he scrambled backward up the riverbank hauling it with him. When clear of the slippery mud at the water’s edge, he stopped and allowed the tip to sink into the earth. Supporting the sword with one hand, he tentatively touched the edge with his finger. It was still sharp.

  He stared at the sword for a few moments longer, confirming in his mind that it really was what he thought it was; it was the first time he had ever held a real one. He was never allowed near his father’s. Swords were expensive and he wondered if this one could be returned to pristine condition and sold. His mother would find the coin useful, although his father scorned money. He was not interested in anything that could not be won with skill and force of arms. Money was for tradesmen and the sly merchants who passed through the village, coming from the cities in the South to sell their wares. It was beneath a warrior’s contempt, even if it was sometimes necessary. Even rusty, the sword held a captivating appeal for Wulfric. A warrior was rarely seen without one. The best ones had names, and tales of great deeds behind them. Wulfric wondered if it might be one of those. Perhaps his mother would let him keep it?

  He looked away from the sword and along the riverbank to see if there was anything else of value. The river was not wide; when he tried his hardest, he could throw a stone all the way over to the other side. The water was still too cold to wade through, but there was a shaky wooden footbridge downstream where he could cross if he spotted something worth a closer look.

  There must have been a battle farther up-river, Wulfric thought. He couldn’t believe anyone would be careless enough to lose such a fine weapon. His theory was confirmed when he saw a bloated corpse caught in a bush on the other side. It bobbed gently on the water that flowed past it. Wulfric felt his stomach churn as his mind filled in the details that his eyes could not make out. The sword was probably that man’s, whoever he was. A pang of panic struck Wulfric. What if the slain warrior turned into a draugr, and wanted his sword back? He stared at the body, but saw no sign of foxfire. Aethelman the Priest said draugar and foxfire always went together. Nonetheless, his desire to keep the sword was greatly diminished. Merely holding it gave him a sick feeling in his stomach.

  ‘What have you got there, fatty?’

  Wulfric jumped in fright. His first thought was that the voice had come from the body, but it came from behind him. The fact did not make him any less afraid, however, for he recognised it well, and knew what it meant. Rodulf and his three cronies, Rorik, Helfric, and Walmer stood a few paces away. They were all apprentice warriors—they thought they could do anything they liked. For the most part, they were right.

  ‘Well? What is it, fatty?’ Rodulf said, squaring up to him.

  ‘It’s a sword,’ Wulfric said, his eyes barely level with Rodulf’s chin.

  ‘What’s a fat little turd like you doing with a sword?’ Rodulf stared Wulfric down, his eyes like dark coals against his pale, angular face and sandy hair.

  ‘Found it,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Hand it over.’ Rodulf held out his hand, standing there with the confidence of knowing they were four, and Wulfric was one.

  Wulfric thought about defying them. His father might scorn money, but his mother did not, and his father was perfectly happy to enjoy the nice things she bought with it when she could. She would have been able to sell the sword for a good price, which would buy fine cloth and spices from the south. If he handed it over, Rodulf’s mother would be doing that, and his family would enjoy Wulfric’s good fortune. He knew he would be going home without the sword, one way or the other, but something stirred within him. It would not let him give it to Rodulf.

  ‘Hand over the sword. Now!’ Rodulf said.

  Wulfric knew what his defiance would bring, but he could not help himself. He flung the sword back into the river with as much strength as his flabby arms could muster. It was far heavier than a stone, but he put more into that throw than he ever had before; every ounce of anger, frustration, and impotence that he felt at that moment. It plopped into the water—the icy-cold water—almost exactly in the middle of the river.

  ‘What sword?’ Wulfric said, with a feeling of satisfaction so great, the experience of it almost made the beating he was about to get worth it.

  ‘WULFRIC! Wulfric! Look what I found,’ Adalhaid rushed up to where Wulfric was sitting by a tree in the glade next to the village, and she flopped down beside him. His face hurt, as did many parts of his body. He realised that his dark blond hair was matted with blood after the earlier encounter with Rodulf at the river, and he tried to free it up before she noticed. The effort only drew her attention. She frowned and touched his face gently with her fingertips. It was puffy and hot. His skin felt tight from the swelling, and he knew he must have looked a hideous sight, but her touch seemed to make it feel a little better.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Wulfric nodded. ‘It looks worse than it is.’ In truth he had no idea how it looked, and it was agony.

  ‘You’re sure?’ She gave him a pained smile.

  He nodded again.

  She held up a blue flower, which contrasted starkly with her copper hair. It meant nothing to Wulfric, but Adalhaid seemed to think it was something special, and he was glad of something to distract him from his wounds.

  ‘It’s the first of the year,’ she said. She studied it intently, her green eyes narrowing as she did. ‘It means spring is truly here.’

  He wasn’t really paying any attention to what she said—the pain was too great an imposition on his concentration—but he enjoyed listening to the sound of her voice when she was excited about something. He watched the way the sun glistened on her burnished copper hair, and her nose scrunched up as she studied the flower, and let his worries drift away. Being in her company made him forget about everything else; how his face hurt when he forgot not to smile, how the bruises that covered his body sent jolts of pain through him every time he bumped against one of them. She was his sanctuary, his happiness, and had been for as long as he could remember.

  There was no snow left now in the glades and pastures around the village. The brown grass was beginning to take on a green hue once again, after being covered in snow all winter, and the sun had dried the ground where they sat. Sitting there on that dry patch of grass with Adalhaid in the warm sunlight, he really could believe that none of his problems existed. He could almost forg
et the shame of returning home without the sword, of hoping that maybe his mother would not notice the cuts or bruises, that she would not tell his father that he had been beaten up by the other boys. Again.

  The only consolation he could take was that they did not get the sword either. They may have been brave when facing him down, four of them while he was alone, but none was brave enough to enter the freezing water to retrieve the sword. As Wulfric had lain on the riverbank nursing his newly acquired injuries, he watched as they squabbled amongst themselves over who would fetch it. Rodulf tried to get the others to do it, although they knew that he would take it, telling everyone that he had found it; that he’d pulled it from the icy water.