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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  AETHELMAN PLACED the stack of rough paper pages on his desk, writing exercises that he would have to correct before morning. Wulfric’s sat on top, easy to spot for it was little more than a series of smudges and blots. He looked at it with a mixture of sadness and disappointment. Wulfric was a bright boy with a good heart, but he had no interest in learning and that seemed unlikely to change. He spent most of his time daydreaming of being a warrior, of heroic deeds that he was central to, but the reality of that seemed equally unlikely. Aethelman hoped more than anything that Wulfric could find some of his father’s mettle, and begin his journey to being a warrior. There seemed to be little else for him. He would certainly never be a scholar, and a life could not be made sitting under a tree watching the clouds and dreaming.

  Aethelman muttered a short prayer under his breath that Wulfric would find his way and apply himself to it, as he sat on his cot and pulled off his boots. He stopped mid-pull and spotted the Stone sitting on his bedside table. Aethelman frowned. He had forgotten taking it out of its box. He was old, and had noticed for some time that faculties he had so long taken for granted were starting to let him down. It was careless to leave the Stone out like that; foolish to have even taken it from its box to begin with. His ageing mind was weakening; the temptation it presented would grow harder to resist. It was long past time to get rid of it.

  He covered the Stone with a cloth to avoid touching it, then returned it to the box which he shut and locked. The box sat under the table, a chastising reminder that Aethelman had ignored it for far too long.

  ‘WHAT WAS IT?’ a woman’s voice said.

  ‘Shut up!’ Conradin said with such vigour the people around him shied back.

  The Maisterspaeker gestured for Conradin to relax. ‘Would you like me to go directly to the end of the story?’ he said to the young woman.

  She shook her head vigorously.

  He was pleased the bluff worked. His story did not yet have an end. ‘You’ll learn everything I know about the Stone in due course, but you’ll have to be patient.’

  The young woman smiled.

  The Maisterspaeker took another mouthful of ale, and continued.

  5

  Wulfric was lost in his thoughts, walking toward the schoolhouse to meet Adalhaid when someone shoved him, knocking him to the muddy ground. He had enough time to roll onto his back before Rodulf pounced on him and punched him in the stomach.

  ‘Gonna fight back today, fatty?’ Rodulf said, as he delivered another blow.

  Wulfric didn’t have time to answer before Rodulf hit him again.

  ‘Didn’t think so, you fat fucker. My dad says you must really be the privy cleaner’s son. No way you’re the Strong Arm’s boy.’

  His cronies laughed, as they always did. The taunt hurt Wulfric as much as any of the blows, but he didn’t fight back. He reckoned if he just lay there, it would be over sooner and he could get on with his day. He was determined he wouldn’t cry this time, though.

  Adalhaid’s voice cried out and the barrage of blows ceased. Wulfric turned his head and squinted through swelling eyes to the direction of the voice. Rodulf’s knees still pinned his arms to the ground. She stood there, her face twisted with pain and anguish. Wulfric realised immediately that it was his beating that caused it. It shamed him, more than his inability to fight back ever could. It also made him feel something else, something he had never felt before. Anger.

  He heard Adalhaid’s voice calling out again.

  ‘Why don’t you piss off, you interfering bitch!’ Rodulf said. ‘Perhaps when I’m done with your little pal, I’ll come over and show you what a real man is like.’

  The others all laughed. They were now at the age where the older boys began to notice girls as something more. They all noticed Adalhaid, her long hair the colour of burnished copper and tall, slender figure. Her green eyes were clever and mischievous. Wulfric cared about her more than anything in the world. She was his friend, his only friend, but he realised that even he had started to look at her differently. When he dreamed of heroic deeds now, they were all done for her. He felt his heart quicken at what Rodulf said. When Rodulf looked back at him to finish the job he had started, Wulfric was staring directly at him, intently.

  ‘What are you looking at, fatty?’ Rodulf said.

  ‘You shouldn’t say that to her,’ Wulfric said. His voice was still weak.

  ‘What was that, fatty? What the fuck did you say?’ He punched Wulfric in the stomach.

  Wulfric gasped and was unable to reply.

  ‘What? Cat got your tongue?’ Rodulf said.

  The other boys standing behind him laughed again.

  ‘Not going to stop me from making a woman out of your little tart then?’

  The others laughed even harder and Wulfric could see a predatory, lustful sneer on Rodulf’s face.

  Wulfric punched him. He punched Rodulf squarely in the face and paused for a moment. He was almost as shocked as Rodulf at what he had done. He couldn’t remember deciding to do it. It had just happened. Everyone fell silent and Rodulf’s eyes widened with surprise. Wulfric wasn’t afraid anymore. He realised in that moment that he hadn’t been afraid at any time that day, merely accepting of what was to come. Too lazy to fight back, rather than too afraid. Now, all he could think about was what Rodulf had said. All he could feel was rage.

  He hit Rodulf again. Rodulf’s expression changed to one of anger. Still Wulfric could only think of that one thing; of what Rodulf said he would do to Adalhaid.

  He punched again, and again. Rodulf’s expression changed to one of shock, before finally to something else. Fear. Then Wulfric was kneeling over Rodulf who was on the ground, on his back, trying desperately to cover his face. It felt as though Wulfric was watching it all from a distance, as though his body was doing things all by itself. He kept punching and punching, until his anger abated and his arms burned and his lungs screamed for air. He looked down and was horrified by what he saw. Rodulf’s face no longer bore any expression; it was a pulped mess. The other boys were silent and had not moved from where they stood. Wulfric looked down at his hands which were coated in blood, confused by what he had done. He turned to Adalhaid, who stared wide-eyed and in silence just like the boys. She stared at him for a moment longer before turning and running away.

  Wulfric looked back at Rodulf, who groaned and moved. Adults arrived, and on seeing Rodulf’s moaning, bloodied body they demanded to know what had happened. Aethelman was sent for, while Wulfric was subjected to a barrage of questions. He felt so tired, and let their voices wash over his head. No one seemed to believe that he was the one who did it. They asked the same question over and over, and also of the other boys, but the answer was always the same. It was Wulfric. Wulfric did it.

  Aethelman arrived, followed shortly after by Donato, Rodulf’s father. He was a lean man with sandy hair like his son, and sharp, cunning eyes, like a rat. The priest declared that it was likely Rodulf would lose an eye. Donato was in a rage and made for Wulfric. One of the villagers had the presence of mind to stop him.

  Wolfram was one of the last to arrive. The arrival of the Strong Arm silenced the crowd. The villagers were terrified of him, as was Wulfric. The fear returned now. He was fearful of what would happen, of what his father would do when he found out the trouble he had caused. In the back of his mind though, he was more afraid of what Adalhaid thought. The look she had given him made his fear stronger than ever. He wanted to go after her, but knew he had to stay and discover the consequences of what he had done.

  ‘What happened here?’ Wolfram said.

  Wulfric said nothing, timidly waiting for his father’s famed rage.

  ‘There was a fight,’ someone said. ‘One of the lads is badly hurt.’

  Wolfram looked at Wulfric, a confused expression on his face. ‘He looks fine to me.’

  ‘Not Wulfric. The other one. Rodulf.’

  Aethelman turned from where he was kneeling next to Rodulf’s supine form and n
odded. Wolfram looked down at Rodulf’s bloodied face. Wulfric waited for his reaction, for the anger, and the punishment that would surely follow. His father’s face was impossible to read.

  Donato broke free from the man who had been holding him back. ‘Look what he did! Look what he did to my boy! What are you going to do about this?’

  ‘He’s a warrior apprentice, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Donato said, hesitantly.

  ‘If he can’t defend himself from a boy two years his junior, I don’t hold out much hope for him completing his training.’ Wolfram turned to Aethelman. ‘Will he live?’

  ‘Yes, but I expect he’ll lose an eye.’

  Wolfram nodded. ‘No chance of him becoming a warrior then. He’s learned an important lesson in not provoking his betters. It will serve him well in the future if he remembers it. As for him picking a fight with my son? Boys will be boys. I won’t hold a grudge against you for it.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant. You, you—’

  Wolfram back-handed Donato across the face with a loud crack that drew a gasp from the gathered villagers, and sent him sprawling to the ground beside his son.

  ‘Perhaps you need to learn the same lesson your boy just has, but I promise you won’t enjoy it.’ Wolfram’s voice had dropped to a growl and Wulfric could see the fury in his eyes.

  The crowd fell silent and the air was thick with tension as the crowd strained to hear what Donato would say in response. Already his disrespect had brought him perilously close to the point where Wolfram could kill him and not have to answer to the council in the Great Hall for it. Donato knew this, knew he had overstepped the mark, but was too enraged to back down as quickly as he should have. Everyone in the crowd could see this, and all waited with the expectation of being about to witness a killing.

  Donato gritted his teeth. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll see that the boy watches his manners in future.’

  ‘See that you do,’ Wolfram said. ‘Have a thought for your own while you’re at it.’

  He turned and smiled at Wulfric, before putting his hand on Wulfric’s shoulder and leading him home.

  ADALHAID SAT by the tree on her own, thinking over what she had just seen. It had seemed as though there was no trace of the caring, considerate boy who was her friend, only a savage animal. She had thought Wulfric would kill Rodulf, and had never believed him capable of such a thing. It was what separated him from all the others. Now she didn’t know. It was as though in that moment, the person she thought she knew the best had been taken from her, and replaced by someone entirely different.

  She stood and started walking home, with a pervading sense hanging over her like a dark cloud that the inevitable had finally happened.

  HE WAS SITTING by the tree where he and Adalhaid had so often sat, one evening a few days after the incident with Rodulf. She had not spoken to him since his fight with Rodulf, and the fact constantly played on his mind. He had barely seen her, and her absence left him with a constant hollow feeling inside that he could not explain. Usually he enjoyed the warmth of the sunshine, but that day it did nothing for him.

  She was beside him without making a sound, in the spot she had occupied so many times in the past. She broke a piece from a bread roll that she was eating and handed it to him. They ate in silence for several minutes before he spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’ There was an edge to her voice but the expression on her face made it clear that she had not intended it. ‘Sorry for what?’ she repeated, her voice softer now.

  ‘For what I did and for upsetting you,’ Wulfric said.

  She smiled. ‘That’s all right. I was just surprised. I didn’t expect to see you doing that. I shouldn’t have been. All boys are like that, I suppose. I just didn’t think that you were.’

  Wulfric felt disappointment drop in his stomach like a lead weight. ‘I’m not, it’s just, what he said, I mean…’

  She reached over and put her hand on his. ‘It’s all right, there’s nothing to be sorry about,’ she said. ‘I should be sorry for the way I behaved. Part of me is glad you did it. The others will leave you alone now. Things will be so much better for you. Even my parents were talking about it. We’re all growing up. Life changes.’ She looked down at her feet and seemed sad.

  Wulfric didn’t like it when she got sad. It filled him with the overwhelming desire to make her happy again. He had no idea of how to do it, though.

  She held out her hand with something in it. ‘I made this for you, to say sorry.’

  He took it carefully and wished he had something to give to her. It was a small silver coin that had been worn away to a smooth finish. She had engraved her initials onto one side, and his onto the other, in ornate lettering that must have taken hours of careful work. She had also punched a small hole close to the edge and threaded a leather lanyard through it. Putting aside his embarrassment at not having anything for her, he immediately tied it around his neck.

  ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry that I have nothing for you though.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said, smiling. ‘Seeing you wear it is enough.’

  6

  Wulfric stood quietly among the other boys, who joked and laughed nervously as they waited in the glade, basking in the autumn morning sun. Although they had all been preparing for, and anticipating this day for as long as they could remember, none of them knew exactly what to expect. For Wulfric it had long seemed like an impossible dream to stand there, to finally start his training. His presence was two years overdue and for him there would not be another chance, so he remained silent, not joining in the skittish banter.

  In the months since he beat Rodulf, Wulfric had thought about little other than putting himself forward for training. The few days surrounding that incident had sowed the seed in his mind that being selected was a possibility. His life had changed substantially. There were no more attacks, no more snide comments. Between the boar and Rodulf, he stopped thinking of himself as feeble, inept, incapable. Something had changed in his mind. The doubt had departed and was replaced with belief. Being left alone gave him the time to focus and train, and that was what he had filled his summer with. Running, lifting heavy weights, everything he had seen warriors and apprentices doing. He tried his best to keep it a secret. Part of him still feared failure, and if that happened he did not want anyone to know how hard he had worked.

  Jorundyr’s festival day was the day that marked this event for all young men. It was the day on which training to be a warrior began for some—and for others, the day on which their training ended and they were faced with their final test.

  Those who considered themselves ready to start their apprenticeship mustered in a glade near the village. At its centre there was a single standing stone, said to have been placed there by Jorundyr when he still walked the realm of men. He had waged a war against the draugar, and had needed brave men to join his ranks. He placed the stones near villages throughout the land, where warriors could gather and make their desire to fight by his side known.

  Draugar were little more than a legend now and Jorundyr had long since gone to his hall in the High Places, but the stones remained, as did those who sought to become Jorundyr’s disciples. The village’s warriors would deliberate, and decide which of the boys would be allowed to remain in the glade to start their training. What made up the selection process was a secret known only to those already chosen. It was this, as well as the fear of being rejected, that twisted the guts of every young man there. Failing to be accepted for training would be a shame that would follow him for the rest of his life.

  Another group were gathered there that morning; those who had finished their training and were about to depart on their pilgrimage to Jorundyr’s Rock, an isolated spot deep in the High Places. They were even more nervous than Wulfric and the other hopefuls. They looked lonely and lacked the cocky confidence that they had developed over their years of tra
ining. They all knew that for some of them, the reticent, backward glances they took as they walked away from the village would be the last look of home they ever had. The pilgrimage was a rite of passage that every warrior had to undertake. They all went willingly, even in the knowledge that some of them would die.

  Those who were still in the middle of their training, not yet ready for the journey, were also in the glade—returned after the short break for harvest—watching in a smirking, chuckling group while Wulfric and his fellow hopefuls waited to discover if they would be considered worthy to join them.

  Wulfric stared at the stone at the centre of the glade. The writing on it was so old not even Aethelman could decipher it with any certainty. Only warriors were supposed to go near the stone, and simply being that close to it brought home the reality of the step he was about to take. The glade was screened off from the village by trees and undergrowth, which gave it the feeling of being a secret place. A sacred one, even.

  One of the warriors, Eldric, a friend of Wulfric’s father and a man that had always been friendly on the many occasions he had eaten at their home, walked up to the assembled group. His neat black beard was punctuated by the scars that most of the village’s warriors bore. He held a great sword, different from the usual type of sabre favoured by warriors. Northlanders fought from horseback whenever the situation allowed, and they preferred a one-handed sabre with a single curved edge. This sword looked old—ancient—with long straight edges meeting at a rounded tip. The guard was short and thick, and engraved with what seemed to Wulfric to be the same type of symbols as were on the standing stone.

  Eldric placed the sword down on the ground in front of the gathered boys with reverence. He stood and looked at it for a moment before returning his gaze to the boys.

  ‘Who thinks he can lift the sword? The sword touched by the hand of Jorundyr himself?’

  Aethelman stood behind Eldric, just to the side of the standing stone. His face had been solemn all morning, but when Eldric asked his question Wulfric thought he saw Aethelman’s mouth curl ever so slightly in a knowing smile.