Rodulf accused them of cowardice, weakness, and a host of other names that would shame any warrior or anyone who wished to be one when they refused to do as he ordered. There was never any question of him being the one to venture in, however.
Wulfric pushed the memory and shame of it from his thoughts. The happiness in that moment with Adalhaid was marred by the knowledge that eventually they would have to go back to the village where the other boys were, but he could choose not to let them spoil it, so that was what he did.
‘WHO’S WULFRIC?’ someone in the gathering asked.
‘Is he a famous warrior?’ another said.
‘Shut up!’ Conradin said. ‘Don’t interrupt.’
‘It’s all right.’ The Maisterspaeker held up a hand to still Conradin. ‘Wulfric is the boy who grew into the man you all know as Ulfyr. It’s the first time most of you will have heard him called that, however.’
‘That can’t be true, then,’ someone said. ‘No one could beat Ulfyr in a fight.’
The Maisterspaeker smiled. ‘And he was born full grown with a sword in his hand and pissing fire,’ he said, his rich, sonorous voice rising to a boom.
Everyone laughed. The group had grown larger in the short time since the Maisterspaeker had started telling his story. From the look of it, he reckoned almost the entire village was now there, all but those tucked up in their beds.
‘Don’t forget, he wasn’t Ulfyr then; he was merely Wulfric, a young boy trying to find his way in the world. This story starts at the very start, and ends at the very end. Just because a story’s beginning is not audacious does not mean it will remain that way…’
2
The hour finally came when Wulfric and Adalhaid could stay in their little patch of sunlight no longer. The sun was low in the sky and the warmth it had provided earlier was gone. They were both shivering as they made their way back to their homes. Their village, Leondorf, was a cluster of wood and stone thatched buildings surrounded by an earthen bank and wooden palisade. The warriors guarding the gate all recognised Wulfric, and all noticed his bruises and cuts. It was humiliating to pass under their stares.
Wulfric dreaded going home, knowing that his mother would make a fuss over him, both out of concern for his injuries and from a wish to make him feel better. He appreciated it, but he disliked the attention.
His mother’s attention was one thing. The disappointment from his father was another entirely. Wolfram the Strong Arm. He was the bane of anything that ordinary men feared. He cast a shadow that eclipsed all around him. The expectation it placed on Wulfric was more than he could ever hope to live up to. It was crushing.
Wulfric walked up the wooden steps to his home and hesitated before pushing open the door. He cast a final glance over his shoulder and saw Adalhaid watching him from the doorway of her home, several houses up the muddy lane. He could see her smile at him and wave. He smiled back; he wished that he could have stayed with her by the tree forever. He stepped inside.
There was a cut on his arm from where Rodulf had hit him with a stick. It had grown itchy over the course of the day, and now it was hot to the touch and far more painful than when it had happened. There were a multitude of other bruises and sore spots, and he knew how swollen his face was. He rubbed at it as he walked through the house, hoping to get to his small room before his mother took a proper look at him.
‘Supper’s nearly ready. Where have you been?’ his mother said, without looking away from what she was doing.
‘I was down in the glade. Adalhaid told me to give you this.’ He held out the blue flower that Adalhaid had picked.
His mother looked over at him and took it, her eyes widening when she saw his face and the tear in his sleeve.
‘What happened?’ she said.
‘I fell.’
She grabbed him by the chin and turned his face into the light, looking it over with a mix of anger and concern. ‘How many times did you fall?’ she said. ‘It was those boys again, wasn’t it?’
He hated lying to his mother. He hated disappointing her even more. Once she knew, his father would find out and his shame would be complete. That hurt worse than any of the blows the boys landed. He nodded.
Done inspecting his face, she pushed up his sleeve and grimaced as she looked at the gash on his forearm. As she did, the door opened and his father came into the house.
‘Wolfram, go and fetch the priest,’ she said.
His father drew his sword from its scabbard and hung it by the crossguard from a pair of wooden hooks on the wall. Satisfied it was secure, he began to remove his sword belt. ‘Why?’ he said.
‘Wulfric’s got a cut. I think it’s going bad.’
Wolfram sighed. ‘What happened this time?’
His mother shook her head.
‘I’ll bring Wulfric over to see him in the morning, Frena.’ Wolfram made his way over to his chair by the fireplace, not bothering to inspect Wulfric’s injuries.
‘You’ll fetch the priest now. Wulfie could have a fever by the morning if it’s going bad. You’re the First Warrior of the village. The priest comes to us. We don’t go to him.’
Wulfric cringed. He hated it when his mother called him ‘Wulfie’.
‘You’re not going to give me peace until I fetch him, are you?’ Wolfram said.
‘No supper either,’ Frena said.
Wolfram groaned and got to his feet. He was a mountain of a man with long hair so blond it was almost white. Despite not having a beard, he was never clean shaven, the dark stubble a strong contrast to his hair. He towered over Wulfric and there was not a pinch of fat on his body, while there was not a pinch of muscle on Wulfric’s. He could not have been more different from his father, and he knew it was a continued source of disappointment. There were even some who whispered that Wulfric was not his son; that someone else had sneaked into his mother’s bed without his father’s knowledge.
Wulfric knew about these whispers because he had seen his father beating a man senseless outside the Great Hall in the centre of the village one day. When he had asked someone why, they had told him what the man had said and that nobody spoke ill of Wolfram without discovering for themselves why he was called ‘The Strong Arm’. It was why he was the village’s First Warrior; the bravest, the most skilled, the most feared. To insult him was the act of a man who no longer cared for life.
RITSCHL’S old bones ached as he sat in the crook of a branch on a great tree overlooking the village of Leondorf, wrapped in a damp, threadbare cloak for what little warmth it gave him. Everything he had was damp. It was impossible to keep anything dry in the forest. Even his grey hair was plastered to his skin. He didn’t need to worry much about his appearance, however, as he was invisible to the warriors who maintained watch—a trick he had discovered he knew when confronted with a pack of hungry wolves many years previously, at a time when he had no idea where or who he was.
His memory was a blur of disconnected images. It took great concentration or a sight, sound, or smell to bring him moments of clarity. As with the wolves, when he first saw the priest he had experienced one such moment. When he saw him for the first time in many years, that was.
He watched the priest as he walked across the square outside his kirk. He tried to match the old face to the picture of the young man called Aethelman that he had in his memory. Instinct told him they were one and the same, but a voice in his head urged caution. The prize was too great to make a mistake.
Ever since the memories had returned, his dreams had been haunted by one in particular. An image of a stone. The Stone. No bigger than his fist, covered in strange markings, it promised all things to the man who possessed it. Could that shabby, nondescript priest making his way through the village have it? How could he live in so humble a fashion if he did? It seemed almost too much to hope for, so Ritschl continued to watch, instinct telling him he was in the right place, reason demanding caution.
AETHELMAN THE PRIEST was an odd-looking man. He had a narr
ow, jowly face with ears that seemed too big for his bald head. The only hairs on it were the two dark, bushy eyebrows that moved animatedly each time he changed his expression.
‘Fell again?’ he said, as he rolled up Wulfric’s sleeve while Frena watched.
Wulfric nodded his head, all the while trying to think up some interesting questions for the priest. Aethelman knew everything and Wulfric loved to get the chance to pick his brains. There was one above all that he wanted to know the answer to, but no matter how many times he asked, Aethelman smiled and shook his head.
‘That boy, Rodulf,’ Aethelman said. ‘I presume tripping over him was the cause of your fall?’
Wulfric said nothing, ashamed that yet another person knew how easily Rodulf could beat him.
‘You’re right,’ Aethelman said to Frena. ‘It’s going bad. The boy would be in a fever by the morning. You have a good eye for these things.’
His mother’s face flushed with pride. The priest always had a way of making people feel at ease.
He held his hand over the cut on Wulfric’s arm and paused. ‘No questions for me today?’ he said.
‘Just one,’ Wulfric said.
‘Let me guess…’
Wulfric could feel his arm grow cold. The priest’s hand hovered over the wound, not touching him, but Wulfric could feel his skin tingle on the area beneath.
‘How do you do that?’ Wulfric said.
At first Aethelman did not answer. He stared at Wulfric’s arm, holding his hand still above the wound. It was as though his mind was entirely elsewhere. After a moment he drew a deep breath, and for an instant a look of extreme weariness appeared on his face, but it passed quickly.
‘That, my young friend, is for the gods to know and you to be thankful for.’
It was more of an answer than he usually gave. Wulfric looked down at the wound. Where it had been red and angry, it now appeared as though it was several days old; the redness had faded to a benign pink and the cut had closed completely.
‘It’s clean now,’ Aethelman said, turning to Wulfric’s mother once again. ‘And well on its way to healing.’ He turned back to Wulfric. ‘You need to be more careful.’
Wolfram grunted in disdain from his seat by the fire. ‘It’s not care that he needs.’
The words cut Wulfric more painfully than the stick had.
‘WHAT CAN I do about it, Frena?’ Wolfram said.
The walls in their house were thin, and although muffled, Wulfric could make out most of what his parents were saying from his bed. They thought he was asleep, but the remaining injuries hurt each time he moved and he knew from experience that he was unlikely to sleep much that night. Instead he would have to be tormented by his parents’ conversation as well as the injuries Rodulf and his friends had inflicted.
‘You can speak to the boy’s father,’ Frena said.
‘The boy’s father is a merchant. I’m not going to speak with him. He’s a peddler of useless trinkets, and his son can beat mine. Over and over. The shame would be too great. In any event, he’s a warrior apprentice and Wulfric is not. There’s little that can be done.’
‘His son is two years older,’ Frena said.
‘It shouldn’t matter. Their blood is weak. Ours is strong. Wulfric will have to learn to take care of himself. It’s bad enough that he still hasn’t started his training. He’s fourteen, for Jorundyr’s sake. He should have been in training for two years already. I’d have forced him to put himself forward for selection last year if I thought I could have coped with the shame of him being rejected. I’d rather he get beaten every day than suffer the indignity of having to beg that man to make his son stop beating mine. It shames you, me, and my entire line back to its very beginning when the gods still walked this land. And the boy too; better to be defeated in battle than beg your enemy to leave you be.’
‘They are saying that Rodulf will be First Warrior some day.’
‘My arse! The only person who says that is his father, and maybe one or two of his lickspittles. He can pay for Rodulf to train as a warrior, but he can’t pay for him to become one. The lad will have to pass the trials like everyone else. If he can, then he deserves it. I doubt it though; no one from that family has ever been a warrior. Even if he does, he will never lead this village; mark my words. A First Warrior leads by inspiration, not by bullying and intimidation.’
‘But he doesn’t stand up for his son? Some day, Wulfie will get beaten so badly he’ll be maimed for life. What will you do then?’
‘Enough. I’m going to sleep.’
Wulfric felt a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the beating, as he tried to do likewise.
3
The Maisterspaeker paused for a drink. He used the short break to take a close look at his audience. Their reaction was exactly what he was looking for. Wide eyes, open mouths. They were transfixed.
He took a deep breath and was about to continue when the silence was broken by a voice from the crowd.
‘How do you know what they said?’ asked a boy far too young to be out of his bed at that hour. ‘You weren’t there.’
The Maisterspaeker could see Conradin’s face screw up with irritation. It didn’t bother the Maisterspaeker. Sometimes it was good to let a story breathe, to take a pause to allow the listeners digest what they had heard, and consider what was to come.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t there, but I’ve made it my life’s work to find out every detail and fact about the stories I tell. What I can’t find out for sure can usually be inferred. Don’t forget that a story is just a story after all…’
‘WHY DON’T you take Wulfric with you?’ Frena said.
Wolfram shifted uncomfortably. ‘I prefer to hunt alone.’
‘All the other boys go hunting with their fathers. Maybe it’s what he needs.’
Wolfram grunted. ‘I don’t like anyone slowing me down. There’re few enough warriors in the village I’d consider bringing along.’
‘But none of them are your son.’
Wolfram looked at Frena, and realised that he had no choice in the matter. ‘Fine, but if he gets gored by a boar it’s on your head. There’s a reason I haven’t brought him before; it can be dangerous.’
‘So is getting beaten every other day.’
Wolfram knew that he wouldn’t peace until he agreed. ‘Put his things together. I’ll bring him.’
WOLFRAM LED them away from the thatched roofs and gently smoking chimneys of the village and toward the High Places. Their craggy, snow-covered peaks dominated the eastern skyline and loomed ever larger as they rode. Wulfric shifted uncomfortably in his seat with increasing regularity. He didn’t spend nearly as much time in the saddle as the other boys, and the insides of his thighs began to chafe after only a couple of hours. Men of the Northlands, particularly those with warrior blood, were born to the saddle and were expected to be as comfortable in it as out of it, but Wulfric did what was expected of him and no more.
That was not to say Wulfric was a poor rider, it was just that his body was not as hardened to long periods on horseback as it should be. Still, he could not complain. He had overheard his father’s discussion with his mother and knew how reluctant he was to take Wulfric along. It was only to be expected, but at least he would have the opportunity to prove his father wrong. How he would do that was an entirely different matter.
‘You see that peak there,’ Wolfram said, pointing to one that stood out from the others surrounding it.
Wulfric nodded.
‘To the right is the valley where Jorundyr’s Rock stands. That’s where you will go to become a warrior.’
Wulfric stared at the peak his father pointed out as they rode. It seemed so very far away. ‘You went there?’
‘Yes. Me and the other young men who were to become warriors. The snow never melts up there. I’ll never forget the cold.’ He chuckled at the reminiscence.
‘Is the journey difficult?’
‘Very,�
� his father said. ‘Twelve of us went up. Only eight came back. Jorundyr does not allow those too weak of mind or body to join the warriors’ ranks. Those not strong enough to complete the pilgrimage would fail their comrades on the battlefield. The Rock is where Jorundyr sits, with his wolf, Ulfyr, as they pass judgment on fallen warriors, and decide if they are worthy to join his host to hunt belek and battle draugar.’
‘He’s there?’ Wulfric said.
Wolfram smiled. ‘Yes, but not for the eyes of the living. Don’t be fooled though. He’s watching. He’s always watching. Making sure he knows who the brave and worthy are.’
They continued on in silence, Wulfric left to mull over what his father had said. He stared at the peak and felt a shiver run across his skin. It stood there, dominating the horizon; majestic but foreboding.
It was nearly noon when Wolfram told him to dismount. They had been making their way through forest game trails for some time, having left the cleared glades and pasturelands well behind them, and it seemed his father had spotted something of note.
Wolfram knelt by a disturbed patch of leaf litter and gently ran his hand over it. ‘See here,’ he said. ‘These are boar tracks. There was a sounder here. Five or six of them, I’d say. One big one. Not long ago.’
Wulfric looked over his father’s shoulder, but could not see what he was talking about. Yes, the ground was disturbed, but how anyone could distil any more information from it than that was beyond him. As if reading his thoughts, Wolfram continued.
‘You see this mark here?’
Wulfric nodded.
‘What is it?’ Wolfram said.
‘A hoof print,’ Wulfric said. It was a guess. It looked like a smudge in the dirt to him.
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 2