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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Helfric wasn’t all that much bigger than Wulfric despite being two years his senior, but he was strong. His brown beard was starting to grow in, which made him seem even older to Wulfric, and he bore the confident demeanour of someone in no way threatened by his opponent. The years of torment he and Rodulf’s other cronies had inflicted on Wulfric caused his gut to twist. He was vicious, but had always been a follower. Perhaps without someone to tell him what to do, he would not be such a challenge.

  Helfric pushed his curly brown hair back from his face and smiled at Wulfric as they squared up to one another.

  ‘Well, fatty,’ Helfric said. ‘Looks like you’ve missed a few meals over the last couple of months.’

  Wulfric said nothing. If he kept talking when the order to begin was given, Wulfric might be able to get the jump on him.

  ‘I don’t know how you managed to get taken into training, but after I’ve beaten you about the place a few times, I’m sure you’ll be sent home to your mother.’

  ‘You looked bigger when you were standing behind Rodulf,’ Wulfric said.

  Helfric glanced over his shoulder to where Eldric and Angest stood. Wulfric followed his gaze. There was a bright flash behind his eyes and he stumbled backwards. The dull sound of Helfric’s quarterstaff striking him on the temple lingered in his ears. It was joined by the word ‘begin’ a moment later.

  He was barely in control of his wits when Helfric came at him again. He wondered if either Eldric or Angest had seen what Helfric had done, but he knew Helfric wouldn’t have been so foolish as to be spotted. There was no time to dwell on it, however. It was clear that Helfric intended for Wulfric’s humiliation to be swift.

  Wulfric did his best to keep up with the blows coming at him from both ends of the quarterstaff. Even had his head not still been spinning, he would have struggled; Helfric had far more practice with the quarterstaff than Wulfric. He caught Wulfric on the thigh with a low strike, then on the shoulder with a high one. It knocked Wulfric off balance, and left Helfric free to sweep his legs out from under him. He was sitting on his backside before he knew what had happened.

  He looked up to see Helfric standing over him. With care verging on the delicate, he tapped the butt of his quarterstaff into Wulfric’s face, squarely onto his nose with a painful crunch. Wulfric did his best to stifle a cry of pain, and when he had blinked the tears from his eyes, he could see a second figure standing over him; Angest.

  ‘It’s broken all right,’ the scarred warrior said. ‘You weren’t the prettiest to begin with, so it won’t matter much. Best go see the Grey Priest and get it set.’

  Wulfric could hear Helfric sniggering as he got to his feet. He felt his shame grow worse, his impotence overwhelming. Other than Rodulf’s absence, it was just like the old days. Things couldn’t continue like that. Not if he hoped to keep his apprenticeship.

  RODULF WATCHED the apprentices at their training, but took only mild satisfaction from the hiding Helfric had given Wulfric. He only wished he’d been able to do it himself. He felt sick watching them, knowing he should be there, proving as he had each day in two years of training that he deserved his place there. He was as good as any of them, even with one eye.

  The humiliation of being turned away on Jorundyr’s Day burned within him, but did not cloud his realisation that his dream of being a warrior was over. His father had been furious at first. It had been his great plan, to gain access to the Great Hall through his son, the warrior. Rodulf cared little for his disappointment, however, only what it meant for him.

  He wondered what Wulfric would look like with one eye. Hate simmered within him, but his father had expressly forbidden any retribution. Now that he was no longer an apprentice, their position was tenuous. Once again they were a mere merchant family, and any warrior would be within his rights to kill one of them for a perceived insult. If Rodulf got caught taking revenge it would mean death for him, and likely his father.

  His father had said they had too much to lose, but he hadn’t lost an eye and a lifelong dream. At times Rodulf’s hate for Wulfric made him feel dizzy, but that did not mean he was a fool. There was something to what his father said. There was no point in throwing his life away to ruin Wulfric’s. One day, the opportunity for revenge would present itself. When it did, he would be wealthy and powerful. Untouchable, and his revenge would be absolute. Until then, he had to be patient.

  THE FIRST DAYS of training had been so taxing, Wulfric had all but forgotten about Greyfell. He got up before first light, forced himself to eat, trained, ate some more, then collapsed into bed. It would only be a matter of time before their training moved to horseback and he needed to have as strong a relationship with Greyfell as he could by then. The last thing he needed was to battle against his mount, as well as his fellow apprentices. Tired though he was, he forced himself to head out the door rather than straight to bed and walked toward the stables.

  His father had left Greyfell in the paddock to make things easier for him. If the stallion was allowed out to the pastures, it might be weeks before he returned. Greyfell stood proudly, but alone. All of the other horses in the paddock were gathered at the opposite side.

  Greyfell watched Wulfric’s approach with interest. Ordinarily the other horses would come over when someone arrived at the fence, hopeful for an apple or a handful of oats. That day they all stayed away, as though they were too afraid of Greyfell to make the prospect of treats worth the bother. It made Wulfric second-guess his own carefree approach. He had been asking around how best to deal with an animal like Greyfell, from the stable hands to some of the best riders in the village. The advice was all the same: when dealing with a spirited beast, show no fear.

  Wulfric had already faltered in his step. Had Greyfell seen it? He put his doubts to one side and strode forward purposefully. His plan was to spend some time walking Greyfell around the paddock so they could get used to one another. To do that, Wulfric needed to get a bridle on him. In principle, this was a simple thing that he had done many times before. In reality, it felt far more daunting. Greyfell was an enormous horse, the largest Wulfric had ever had any dealing with. His coat was jet black, but when the sun fell on it, it had a rippling grey sheen. He was a magnificent, terrifying beast.

  Wulfric decided to try putting the bridle on from the other side of the fence, it providing enough protection to boost his confidence. He arranged the various strands of leather and pieces of metal so that all he would have to do was slip the assembly over Greyfell’s muzzle and then fasten it.

  ‘Greyfell, I’m Wulfric, and we are now brothers.’ It felt ridiculous to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Considering the future they would likely share, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.

  Greyfell showed no sign of reaction. Wulfric reached forward with the bridle, and Greyfell snapped at him viciously. Wulfric withdrew his hands in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding a nasty bite. So much for the horse’s sense of tradition and duty, Wulfric thought.

  ‘Show him the whip,’ a stable hand shouted. ‘He’s tried to kill me twice already today. Needs some manners put on him.’

  Wulfric knew no self-respecting warrior ever showed his horse the whip. The stable hand walked around the paddock with a long whip. He proffered it to Wulfric.

  ‘Does that usually work?’ Wulfric said, already having dismissed any possibility of using it.

  ‘Lets them know who’s boss.’

  The whip was an ugly, wicked looking thing; a long, slender strip of ox hide. The thought of using it on a living creature made Wulfric sick to his stomach. Wulfric reached forward again with the bridle, knowing the stable hand’s eyes were on him. He stared at Greyfell with all the authority he could muster. The horse’s lips twitched, as though he was readying a bite, but Wulfric kept his stare fixed and his hands moving forward. His heart was racing as he felt the bridle’s leather touch Greyfell’s muzzle. The great horse shifted slightly, but did not move away. Wulfric stretched to slip the bridle over
Greyfell’s ears. He held his breath as he fastened the buckle, but Greyfell allowed him. It seemed almost as though he had understood Wulfric’s conversation, and was behaving to spite the stable hand.

  With the bridle fastened, and the bit in Greyfell’s mouth, Wulfric stroked his muzzle. Wulfric’s heart still raced, and he expected Greyfell to snap at him at any moment, but the feared-for bite never came. They had taken the first step on their journey together, but there were many more to come. Wulfric doubted Greyfell would submit to any of them without opposition.

  WAITING and watching was driving Ritschl near to insanity. As sure as he was that Aethelman the Priest was the man in his memory, he could not be sure that he still had the Stone. The fact that he lived such a modest life gave Ritschl the worry that he had lost it, or that someone more worthy had already taken it from him. One way or the other, he had to know for sure.

  His ability to dissolve into the background was of limited use. As best he could tell it only worked front on. Anyone behind him or to the side would still be able to see him. In a crowded village, it would be almost impossible to go unseen. Even at night, there were warriors on watch, not to mention dogs, chicken, geese, and pigs, any of which could raise enough of a racket to alert the villagers to his presence. The risk was great, but he knew he had to take it. He had to know for sure.

  He waited until night and watched the palisade for an opportunity to present itself. When it did, he clambered up at a low point and swung himself over. He fell to the other side and knocked the wind from his old chest. He struggled to catch his breath as quietly as he could, hoping upon hope that he had not alerted the guards.

  Satisfied that he was undetected, he made his way farther into the village, moving from shadow to shadow. The kirk was almost at its dead centre, surrounded by open space. He could not imagine a worse location for it—for his purposes at least.

  He heard voices, and saw the glow of a lantern. He threw himself into a dark shadow and pressed himself as deeply into it as he could until the sound and light had passed. Then, on all fours, he crept forward.

  He had not gone far before he realised that his body was far too old for such a carry on. His joints screamed in protest, and if the need to run arose, he would be found wanting. Everything would fall apart, and the Stone would never be his. Still, he had to know. He had to have it. He continued, crouching as he followed the cover of a low wall until he reached the point where there was nothing but open space. There he stopped, not needing to go any farther.

  The presence of the Stone made itself known to him. The feeling was as solid as a warm, loving embrace. He could feel the way the energy of the gods swirled around it, surrounding the kirk like an invisible whirlpool. He closed his eyes and smiled at the joy it brought him. It wanted him as much as he wanted it. The Stone was there, only paces away. The priest still had it. The fool must not have been able to work out how to use it.

  Aethelman’s face popped into his mind, as clear as though he was standing right in front of him. Standing on a bridge, watching. Watching as Ritschl fell and fell and fell, then plunged into freezing water. It all made sense. Aethelman had wanted it for himself, and had tried to kill him. He must have pushed Ritschl from the bridge. Ritschl thought of returning the favour, but realised the joy in allowing Aethelman to live—knowing that the Stone had been taken from him, that he had not been worthy enough to tap its power—was far more satisfying.

  The fact that the Stone was so close made his skin tingle. He wanted to rush forward and take it, but even in the dead of night there was no way he could get to the kirk unseen. The risk of his old body betraying him was too great, and he could not fail, not now that he was so close. He saw movement to his right and looked over. A grey robe hung from a line, drying in the gentle breeze. He reached out and took hold of it, a new plan forming in his mind.

  9

  Rodulf saw Helfric walking across the square with a spring in his step. It must feel good to still be on the road to becoming a warrior, he thought. He hadn’t spoken to Helfric since the day he was dismissed from selection. Or any of his friends, now that he thought about it. He had been so caught up in what he was going to do with his life now that he wasn’t going to be a warrior, that he hadn’t noticed their absence. He jogged across the square toward Helfric.

  ‘Helfric!’ Rodulf smiled broadly as he caught up to his friend. ‘How’s training going?’

  ‘Good,’ Helfric said. ‘Not much time for anything else, even sleep.’

  ‘I wish I was there with you,’ Rodulf said. ‘Maybe next year they’ll change their minds. Let me back in.’

  Helfric nodded. ‘Maybe next year,’ he said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. ‘I knocked that little prick Wulfric on his arse the other day,’ Helfric said, laughing now. ‘I put his nose in with my quarterstaff for good measure, sent him squealing off to the kirk to get it put back together.’

  Rodulf smiled. ‘I can’t see him lasting long. Everyone knows he’s not up to it.’ Rodulf saw Helfric’s pale eyes flick to his eye patch. Did he really think that was anything more than luck? Could he think Wulfric would manage it a second time?

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Helfric said. ‘A few more beatings like the one I gave him, and Eldric’ll send him packing.’

  ‘We should take bets on how long he’ll last,’ Rodulf said, laughing. ‘I thought we could get Rorik and Walmer and go hunting one day next week.’

  Helfric winced. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You understand, don’t you? No hard feelings?’

  ‘No hard feelings,’ Rodulf said, as Helfric continued on his way. He understood perfectly. With no chance of ever being a warrior, they wouldn’t be seen with him now. His thoughts turned to Wulfric again, filling with rage.

  IDENTIFYING the joy that could be had in the simplest of things was something Aethelman prided himself on. The touch of the sun on a summer’s day, the beauty of a cloud as it passed across the sky, gently shaped by the wind that bore it. Even as winter showed its first signs of arrival, there was beauty to be seen. He often stood at the top of the steps to the kirk and searched out such things as he watched the village and its people.

  He saw Adalhaid stop by a small dog lying at the side of the square. He had seen it limping about the village for a day or two, stray or turned out by its owner because of its injury, Aethelman did not know. One way or the other, life would be short for it. The Northlands was a harsh place, particularly in winter, and cruel to anything that could not fend for itself.

  The girl had a kind heart, one that he worried was too kind for the North. She certainly had a mind that would be wasted there, and it saddened him to think that her life might come to nothing more than domesticity. He considered suggesting the priesthood to her. She had a passion for learning, and the Hermitage was the only place he knew of in the Northlands with a library. It was not the ideal life, however, and he feared not one she would enjoy. Would being the wife of a tanner or a smith be any better? He would have to give it further thought.

  She stood, and walked away from the dog. Aethelman stepped back into the kirk’s doorway, not wanting her to know that he had been watching her. The dog got up and ran after her with no hint of a limp, its tail wagging furiously. Aethelman raised his great, bushy eyebrows and his mouth opened wide, then curved into an equally wide smile.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’ Adalhaid said.

  Wulfric looked up from the pile of sawdust and woodchips. ‘I’m making myself some training weapons.’

  ‘Do they not give them to you?’

  ‘They do. It’s just I need to put in some extra time.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if you can find it,’ she said. ‘You seem to spend every spare minute training. I’ve not even seen you the past few days.’

  There was a hurt tone in her voice, and Wulfric realised that she was right. He’d been so busy it hadn’t even occurred to him. He looked up from the piece of wood that was beginning to resemble a swor
d to apologise, and noticed a small furry grey face peer out from her skirts.

  ‘You know you’ve got a dog hiding in your skirt,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Adalhaid said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Is there a reason for that?’

  ‘No. He’s been following me around all day. I’m going to ask Father if I can keep him.’

  ‘You know it’s going to get a lot bigger, don’t you. That’s a scent hound pup.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Adalhaid said. ‘I can’t get him to stop following me anyway.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said. She scrunched up her nose for a moment as she thought. ‘Spot.’

  ‘He’s plain coated…’ Wulfric said.

  ‘And you’ve got a black horse called Greyfell.’

  Wulfric shrugged.

  ‘It’s cute, and it suits him.’ She reached down and scratched Spot behind his ears, which he seemed to love. ‘I’m going to take him for a walk. I was wondering if you’d like to come?’

  Wulfric looked down at his half-finished weapons, and thought of the secluded spot behind a stand of trees where he could practice in secret. He knew what he should be doing, and he knew what he would far rather do.

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll get my cloak.’ His new regime could wait one more day.

  10

  For some time, demand for Northern goods in the south had outstripped Leondorf’s—and more importantly Donato’s—ability to supply. Few Northlander villages traded south, particularly not those to the north of Leondorf like Rasbruck. They would have little clue of what their wares were worth in the South. Donato knew all too well. All that remained was for him to get his hands on as much as he could.