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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Hane stepped forward. He was tall and broad, with short brown curly hair that was in keeping with him being of farming stock, rather than of a warrior family. Wulfric wondered if he would let it grow longer should he be chosen to start his apprenticeship, an odd thought that made him realise he was searching for anything that would distract him from the anxiety he was feeling.

  Although the same age as Wulfric, Hane had not been chosen to start his training until now. He was larger than the others, and stronger, but his father had needed the help of his eldest son to work the farm. He had bought a slave that summer, which had given Hane the chance to be a warrior. Wulfric liked him. Even when the bullying had been at its worst, Hane was never involved. Wulfric wondered if his greater age made him feel as though he had something to prove. Wulfric knew that in his case, it certainly did. Should he have put himself forward to try?

  ‘Hane. A bold statement. Please,’ Eldric said, gesturing to the sword, ‘pick it up.’

  All the boys watched Hane intently, but none were brave enough to offer words of encouragement. After seeing Aethelman’s smile, Wulfric was more interested in watching him. As Hane approached the blade, Aethelman stared at it and Wulfric could see his jaw clench and his face tighten. Hane leaned over and put his hand on the hilt. He hesitated for a moment before pulling back. His body jerked, but the sword did not budge. He tried again, and again, the final time with so much effort he lost grip and fell backward.

  One of the other boys laughed, and Eldric snapped his gaze on him.

  ‘Would you like to try?’ he said.

  The boy looked about himself nervously, and at Hane who was still sitting on the frosty grass kneading his shoulder. The boy shook his head.

  ‘When you can lift the sword, you will be ready to make your journey to the High Places. Not before. Jorundyr invites those he wishes to test in the High Places by allowing them to lift his sword. Eight young warriors lifted the sword this morning and started their pilgrimages. Not all of them will come back.’ He paused, allowing his words to sink in.

  ‘The life you choose for yourself is one of danger,’ Eldric said. ‘To fail is to die. Being a warrior is not a privilege. It is a responsibility. You bring life to those you defend and death to those who would harm them. You must be willing to lay down your lives to satisfy that responsibility. The pilgrimage proves you have that commitment, but it is our responsibility to you to ensure that you are ready for that journey when your time comes.’

  He walked forward to where the boys had lined up. He continued along the line slowly, looking each of them up and down as he went. He stopped at one, the smith’s son. One or two boys who, like Hane, were not from warrior families put themselves forward every year; few were chosen.

  ‘Try again next year,’ Eldric said. ‘You’ll have a better chance when you’re taller and heavier. No shame in having to wait another year.’

  The smith’s boy had gone pale with disappointment, but he nodded and did as he was told, likely taking solace in the hope that the next year it might be different. Wulfric felt a flutter of nerves as he wondered what Eldric would do when he reached him. His heart started to race as Eldric got closer. Wulfric knew him well, thought of him as almost an uncle, but now he seemed like a complete stranger. He stopped at Wulfric and looked at him as though he had never before laid eyes on him. Wulfric held his breath, but did his best to hold Eldric’s stare. Eldric moved on without uttering a word or revealing anything with his expression.

  Wulfric took a deep breath and had to take care not to let it out with a loud sigh of relief. The release of tension was dizzying, and knowing he was past the first obstacle his curiosity turned to how the others would fare. In all of the anxiety and uncertainty, Wulfric had not paid much attention to who else was there to put themselves forward. When he spotted Rodulf standing farther down the line, it came as a surprise. He had already been in training for two years, although this was his first day back since he and Wulfric had fought. Surely they could not be making him put himself forward again?

  Rodulf’s injuries appeared to have healed well, all but for the eye which he had lost. He wore a finely crafted leather patch over whatever was left beneath it. Wulfric felt no remorse for the injuries he’d caused; quite the contrary. He felt anger kindle within him every time he saw Rodulf, which was rare enough since their fight. For whatever reason, Rodulf was rarely seen out of doors since losing his eye. No amount of injury would ever settle things between them as far as Wulfric was concerned.

  Wulfric watched Eldric reach Rodulf’s place in the line and stop. He didn’t bother with an appraising look; he merely shook his head as soon as he stopped.

  ‘You have no place here,’ Eldric said. ‘Not anymore. You have already been told that. You should not have come today. Losing an eye to another warrior is a badge of honour. For an apprentice to be beaten by an ordinary boy who has not yet even put himself forward for training? Go, and don’t come back.’

  Rodulf’s mouth dropped open as though he was surprised, but he must have expected to hear what he just had. Everyone had said that he would never become a warrior with only one eye. He shut his mouth without uttering a word, and it twisted with anger. He turned and looked directly at Wulfric before storming back to the village.

  Three more were sent home, two with hope of returning the next year, one with his dreams of becoming a warrior shattered. When each had been scrutinised, and all of those found lacking sent home, Aethelman spoke.

  ‘You are all now apprentices of Jorundyr. He expects you to bring your best every single day. Anyone who does not will be sent home. Congratulations.’

  For Wulfric, the relief of having been selected was short lived. The true test would begin the next day, when their training began.

  7

  Aethelman stretched out on the cot in his small private quarters at the back of the village kirk. The boy, Wulfric, had done well, and Aethelman had no reservations in saying he was ready to begin on the path to becoming a warrior; a Disciple of Jorundyr, as they were referred to by those of his order, the Grey Priests.

  Aethelman had arrived in Leondorf on the eve of Wolfram’s birth, watched him grow to manhood, and was now doing the same for Wulfric. To bring two generations of a family into the world made Aethelman feel privileged. He had convinced himself it was acceptable to remain to see Wulfric take his pilgrimage and become a man. Then, he had promised himself, he would move on and attend to the Stone, whatever that might involve.

  It was the longest he had ever spent in one place; longer than his childhood home, the Hermitage—the monastery where he trained—or any of the places his calling had led him over the years. It also meant it was far past time to consider leaving. Usually another priest would pass through the area, and if the incumbent at that time felt he had remained for long enough, they would exchange places. Priests were supposed to be loyal to the gods and all of the people they presided over; never to any one tribe or village. It made for a lonely life—but few ties, and there was appeal in that also.

  His eye fell on the old wooden box beneath the bedside table, and the sense of contentment that had filled him a moment before fled, replaced with unease, fear, guilt. He had always known what lay within that box would have to be dealt with eventually. It was called the Gods’ Stone by some, the Fount Stone by others. He had no clear idea of what to do with it, that oddly shaped lump inscribed with symbols that even he could not read.

  The rector at the Hermitage, the place where all Grey Priests trained, had sent them out to search for Stones many years before as part of their ordination. He had said they were a source of great power, and could only be safe when in the custody of responsible guardians—the priesthood to which Aethelman belonged.

  There was only one problem with the task the rector had set them. No one had seen a Fount Stone in generations, and no one knew what to do if one was found. Aethelman always thought it a good example of the folly of suspicion. Knowledge that was so important
—and guarded in such secrecy—that it was now forgotten altogether. It did little to ease his conscience, however. Not knowing was not an excuse for having left it sitting in a box under his bedside table for decades.

  The only saving grace was that neither he, nor anyone else, knew how to use the Stone. At times he still had trouble believing he had found it. The Grey Priests’ rite of passage was called ‘the Search’. To complete their ordination, each young priest spent a year and a day scouring the land for the Stones. Once, it was said, there were many of the Stones, relics of an ancient time, artefacts of the gods. No one really knew. None had been found for centuries, and there was not a young priest who did not grumble at the futility of their task. Aethelman had thought it nothing more than a tradition. A show of devotion to their creed and a way to prepare them for the itinerant lives they would lead. Then he had found one, he and another young priest.

  If they found a Stone the gods would give them guidance, the rector had said. Aethelman had prayed every night for years, but the gods never saw fit to tell him what to do. It was little consolation that he had never tried to learn its secrets, or bend its power to his will. He knew he should have done something, but the fact was he had no idea where to begin. He had waited patiently in the hope that the gods would tell him. And waited. Sometimes they tested a man to see his true worth. Perhaps the Stone was his test?

  Aethelman knew he was being harsh on himself. There could only be so much expected of any one man. That he had kept the Stone safe and secret for so long was something in itself. He knew what he had to do when he left Leondorf. He would discover how to destroy it and do so, for there was one thing of which he was certain: it had no place in the world of men. It would be his final quest, the thing that defined him. He found the idea strangely appealing.

  He continued to stare at it, its mere presence like a great weight on his chest. It seemed to occupy his mind ever more frequently. Were the gods finally telling him it was time to act?

  WULFRIC DIDN’T GET home until well past dark that Jorundyr’s Day. It had gone by in a blur of celebration, food, drink, and backslapping. To have warriors that had terrified him ever since he knew what it meant to be afraid walk up and shake him by the hand, all smiles, was disorienting—but Wulfric had never felt quite so elated. He had achieved something that not everyone did, and he had accomplished it all by himself. He knew that there would be plenty of opportunities to make a mess of things, but he had surmounted the first great obstacle and the view from the top was intoxicating.

  He was tired and his legs ached from standing all day as he clambered up the two wooden steps to his home’s porch. A sound in the darkness startled him.

  ‘Not yet, boy,’ his father’s voice said. ‘Come this way. I’ve something to show you.’

  Wulfric wanted his bed more than anything, but there was no refusing his father. Certainly not on Jorundyr’s Day. What if there was one more test that he did not know about? Wulfric followed him back toward the village. The feast-day celebrations were still going strong, with the usually quiet village evening filled with the sounds of revelry that only large amounts of alcohol could bring.

  They walked in silence, skirting around the festivities, until they arrived at the corral behind the village stables. Wolfram let out a shrill whistle through his teeth. There was a snort and then the sound of a large beast walking toward them. A great, black horse loomed out of the darkness. It made straight for Wolfram and nuzzled at his hand.

  ‘His name is Greyfell,’ Wolfram said.

  Wulfric frowned. ‘He’s not grey.’ He realised he sounded ungrateful, and regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth.

  Wolfram laughed. ‘No, he’s not. That’s not why he’s called Greyfell. One of Jorundyr’s horses, his best, was named Greyfell. This fellow here would be a worthy mount for a god if they ever chose to come back to the realm of men. I’ve bred many horses in my life, but he is the best.’

  Wulfric put up his hand to stroke Greyfell’s muzzle, but he snapped at Wulfric as soon as his hand was within reach. Wolfram laughed again.

  ‘He’s proud, arrogant, and vicious, and he won’t suffer you for an instant unless you can prove to him that you’re worthy.’

  Wulfric nodded.

  ‘I gave him his freedom when he was young; let him roam the pastures, but he always came back,’ Wolfram said. ‘Our lines are intertwined, and he knows it as well as I do. My grandfather rode his great-grand sire into battle, and the connection goes back farther still. Greyfell’s sire died beneath me, but only after carrying me from harm. Greyfell barely needed any breaking when the time came. It was as though he knew what he was meant for. I knew there was something special about him from the moment he was born, that his line’s blood runs true and is still strong. Just like you showed ours does today.

  ‘Look after him, earn his trust and respect, and he’ll see you right up to his last breath. He’s the finest horse I have ever laid eyes on. It has been my joy to rear and train him. Now he is yours.’

  ADALHAID SAT on the porch to Wulfric’s house long after the air became chilly enough to be uncomfortable. She clutched the small, cloth-wrapped parcel to her chest, but knew remaining any longer was pointless. It was a gift to congratulate Wulfric on becoming an apprentice. She realised that he might well not be home until after dawn, and felt foolish for sitting there as long as she had. There was no way she would wait that long for him.

  As she stood and started for home, she realised that there would be many callings on his time now that he was starting his training. She wondered how much would be left over for her.

  WATCHING the revelry of others was hard on Ritschl. For the most part, his self-imposed isolation in the forest was not difficult for him to bear, but watching them enjoying themselves and one another’s company ate away at his very being. It flooded his mind with images of the life that had been taken from him. Two little girls and a wife who had held him tenderly when he woke in the middle of the night with terrors that he could not explain. Taken off by the bloody flux, only a day between each of them. But that was not all. There was more to it than that. A time before his wife, that even now he could only remember fragments of.

  Before their deaths that time had been a complete blank, as though his life had begun when he had awoken on a riverbank full grown, one cold afternoon. He had stumbled through the forest for what seemed like weeks, before finding a village that took him in and gave him shelter. In time, a wife and daughters too.

  The trauma of their deaths had brought the terrors that haunted his sleep to him in greater detail. Memories of falling; of cold, furious water; of panic. Memories of a stone, a powerful and ancient thing. Memories of a man. The priest he now watched.

  It had taken years of travelling from village to village until he had found a face that matched that image in his mind’s eye, and now he was certain that he had. As he watched the priest in his grey robes, something seemed oddly familiar. Then it dawned on him. He had been a priest himself. Ritschl the Priest. The thought made him laugh. It was a strange thing, the way the mind worked and things long forgotten could return to the memory as fresh as the day they were made.

  Aethelman the Priest had taken the Stone from Ritschl, he was certain of that. Now it was time to take it back. It would give him everything he wanted and more. It would be his, and he would let nothing stand in his way.

  8

  Wulfric’s father had shown him his way around a sword since he put his mind to becoming a warrior; how to hold it properly, how to swing it through basic cuts and parries. He had a great deal of work to do if he was to catch up with his peers, however.

  There were already several others in the glade by the time Wulfric arrived for his first day of training, well before the appointed hour. Among them were Eldric and Angest, two of the village’s better-known warriors. Angest terrified Wulfric and had done ever since he first laid eyes on him as a young child. His presence only added to Wulfric’s nerv
es; it made him question if he really wanted to be there. His bed seemed a far better option.

  Angest was also called the Beleks’ Bane, for having killed at least a half dozen of the ferocious beasts over the years. The joke in the village was that he had killed so many of the large, fanged, catlike creatures that no one bothered to count them anymore. He had paid a heavy price for his heroic cognomen however, which was the source of Wulfric’s fear. He was hideously scarred, each belek scratching a keepsake of itself onto his face. Wulfric wasn’t alone in his fear; the younger children in the village would scatter and flee when they saw him coming. Now it seemed that the most terrifying man in Leondorf was to be his instructor.

  All of the apprentices were present by the appointed hour. It was early, and everyone looked tired. Wulfric certainly felt that way, not having gotten much sleep the previous night. It didn’t feel like the ideal way to be starting, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  Angest approached the beginners, his gaze settling on Wulfric and Hane.

  ‘Do either of you know how to use a sword?’ Angest said.

  His voice was harsh and raspy, no doubt a consequence of the scar across his neck. Wulfric tried not to stare, but it was difficult not to wonder how he had managed to survive the wound that had caused that scar.

  Both Wulfric and Hane nodded eagerly. Wulfric did not feel nearly as confident in his assertion as Hane appeared. Swords still felt like clumsy dead weights, not the nimble, graceful things they seemed in the hands of an experienced warrior.

  Angest looked to Eldric and smiled, an expression that made his face even more hideous than it was previously. ‘Well, that won’t be much use to you today. We start with quarterstaffs.’

  Wulfric groaned, but made sure to do so too quietly to be heard. He had never even held a quarterstaff before. The rest of them all rushed to pick up a weapon from the pile. At the back of the pack, Wulfric took whatever was left. When he looked around, Helfric was the only other apprentice that remained unpaired.