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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  It grew dark, but Wulfric went on until it became too dangerous to continue. He found a sheltered place, and after careful consideration decided to light a fire. It might draw a belek, but it would keep away wolves, and he felt he could use the warmth and comfort it would give—the better condition he kept himself in, the quicker he could move. He wondered if anyone else had lit one, and looked around to see if he could spot any. In the thickness of the forest, there could have been someone only a few hundred paces away and they would have been invisible; likewise, their fire. He gathered some kindling and put a spark to them, trying to forget about all the unpleasant ways to die in the forest.

  WULFRIC WOKE EARLY the next morning, after a fitful night’s sleep. The fire had long since died to nothing but a warm pile of ash, and he shivered with the cold. He didn’t tarry long, eating only a little before setting off for the day. The morning walk was gently uphill for the most part, with two small rivers to cross. The forest was thick and bore no signs of having been touched by the hand of man, and there was no trace of the others.

  The going was far slower than he had expected and he hoped, selfishly, that it was as tough for everyone else. The last thing he wanted was to meet the others on their way home while he was still miles from Jorundyr’s Rock. Surviving the journey was all that was required of them, but a rivalry had grown up over the years of training, and Wulfric had no desire to be last.

  In the open pastures around the village, it was never difficult to see where he needed to go. The High Places were always visible, towering over the forests to the east, a constant landmark to get one’s bearings. Now that he was in the forest, beneath the tree canopy, the peaks were often obscured. He stopped and looked back in the direction he had come. Despite not knowing where he was, he felt a strange compulsion to keep going, as though some unknown force pulled him forward. For all he knew, he could be walking around in circles, that the force drawing him on was simply a figment of his imagination. In the absence of anything better, he gave in to it.

  It stood to reason that as long as he continued uphill, he was going in the correct direction and that was the way his strange compulsion was urging him. Nonetheless, he was eager to reach the tree line and get out into the open again.

  His path got steeper, the snow got deeper and the air got steadily colder. The vegetation changed; broadleaf trees gave way to needle-leafed pines. As it became dark on his second night of travel the cold grew to the point that he shivered uncontrollably, but he knew it was as much from tiredness as the temperature. It was time to stop for the night.

  WULFRIC WAS cold and stiff when he woke the next morning. He revived his fire and quickly heated some broth with shaking hands. He gulped it down as soon as it was hot enough to have an impact, and he could feel the warmth spread through his insides. As he sipped, he wondered how far away the tree line was, the next indicator of his progress. As soon as the broth was finished, he gathered his things and got underway.

  The incline grew steeper as he went. After a few hours his thighs burned as each step felt like climbing stairs. He stopped to catch his breath and looked around. He could not see anyone, nor hear anything other than the sound of his rapid, rasping gasps. The air felt thinner, as though his lungs couldn’t draw in enough to satisfy his need. It seemed like he was working far harder than he was. The tree line could not be far off, surely. From there it was nothing but rock and snow and ice until he reached Jorundyr’s Rock, assuming he made it that far.

  It was only now that the forest had thinned enough to see any distance that the enormity of what lay before him was revealed. He had known it was a long way, a hard climb, but presented with the High Places closer than he had ever been, he was overwhelmed. The mountain before him dominated the sky. He had to look almost directly up to follow it skyward, although the peak was hidden by cloud. He was thankful that Jorundyr’s Rock was in a valley, and not at the very top.

  The lonely sound of his breath was joined by a snapping branch behind him. Wulfric turned and looked around. He could see nothing, and wasn’t sure if the sound had come from the forest floor or a tree. There didn’t seem to be any birds moving around, but likewise there were no signs of movement on the ground. He continued to scan the forest in the direction he had come from, but everything was still. Once again, the sound of his own breath was the only thing he could hear. There were no marks in the snow other than his footprints. He realised that his grip was tight on the handle of his sword, and relaxed it. He needed to remain alert, but paranoia did nothing but distract him. If he was to survive what remained before him, he needed to focus, not jump at every unexpected sound.

  He pushed on. As soon as he broke out of the tree line, he was hit by an icy wind that sent a chill through him. It was the first milestone on his journey and reaching it without any problems felt like a blessing. There were few points for reference in the expanse of snow and rock before him, and at times it was difficult to determine the pitch of the climb ahead, causing Wulfric to stumble and fall into the snow. It sapped a little more of his energy each time.

  After what seemed like hours trudging through the snow, he saw a black shape farther up the mountain. At first he dismissed it as a rock, but it didn’t take long to realise that it was not getting any closer, which meant it had to be moving along at about the same speed as Wulfric. There was no way for him to tell which of the other apprentices it was, but it meant that one at least was farther into the journey than Wulfric.

  Wulfric stopped for a moment and watched the figure’s seemingly relentless advance. If only his own determination to keep moving were so strong. There was no prize for being first, but he knew that each and every one of them harboured that ambition. He wondered what route the other apprentice had taken that allowed him to eke out this advantage.

  One foot in front of the other, he told himself. That was all it took. The only benefit of it being so cold was that his feet weren’t getting wet from the snow melting. When he lifted his leg, snow fell from the leather of his trouser leg like fine powder. The thick fur lining kept his legs warm and free from the pains that cold could cause. Aethelman had given them all a talk on the dangers they would encounter from the cold and the things to look out for that would give them early warning of a problem. It was not just belek that killed in the mountains.

  Fingers and toes were the most at risk, Aethelman had said, as was the face if he didn’t keep it covered with the flap of his hat. Wrapped up in his thick winter furs, he looked more like a bear than a man. He checked his fingers and feet quickly. Satisfied that the feeling of warmth and comfort was not imagined, he pressed on once again.

  Breathing was becoming ever more difficult. No matter how hard he gasped, he could not satisfy his demand. He left the flap on his hat undone for as long as he could, until his nose, cheeks, and chin became itchy and sore from the cold. Only then did he refasten it.

  Aethelman had said that from where the trees ended, it was a day to the Rock, all things being well. He had reached the tree line not long after daybreak; with luck he could be there by dawn the next day. There would be no more stopping until he got back to the trees.

  26

  Wulfric’s head throbbed with each movement. A headache had started at some point, growing in intensity until he struggled to think about anything else. Despite slowing in pace, it seemed that he had started to close in on the person ahead of him—clearly he was suffering too. He pulled the flap away from his face and tried to suck as much air into his lungs as he could. No matter how hard he breathed, he couldn’t get enough. His face felt wet. At first he thought it was the cold, but when he put his hand up to put the flap back in place his mitten came away covered in blood.

  Wulfric pulled his mitten off and touched his fingers to his nose; there was a steady drip coming from it. He sniffed to try and staunch the flow, but all it did was fill his throat and mouth with the metallic tang of blood. It kept dribbling blood and Wulfric felt a twist of panic in his gut. Was this
the start of what Aethelman warned them about? Death from the inside? There didn’t seem to be anything that he could do about it, so he put the flap back in place, pulled his mitten on and continued on up the mountainside. If the mountain was going to kill him, it wouldn’t do so before he touched the Rock.

  His head was pounding and the flap was stuck to his face with dried blood when the figure ahead of him, getting closer all the time, disappeared. Wulfric felt his already over-pressed heart speed up. What had happened to him? The valley floor was made of ice deeper than the tallest tree was high. There were cracks in it, crevasses, which could be hidden by a layer of snow. Anyone, or anything, that fell in would never be seen again. Had he fallen?

  He continued on and eventually night came, but it was clear and the moon bathed the snowy landscape in ghostly pale light. Wulfric pushed his way through the drifts of snow, not sure if his mind was playing tricks on him or if his path was becoming less steep. After so long struggling uphill, it almost seemed too much to hope for. It only took another few paces to confirm his suspicion. When his foot met ground at the same level as the previous one, he almost laughed aloud. He had reached the valley. He spotted the other apprentice some way ahead, still little more than a dark blot on the landscape.

  The peaks stretched up on either side of the valley like great, ancient sword blades, rust replaced by snow and ice. The flat terrain made the going easier, but the snow became deeper, up to his waist in places, and wading through it drained the strength from his legs. The only sounds he could hear were the crunching of the snow beneath his boots, and the eerie sound of the wind, like a distant scream. He fought to suck down lungfuls of air. There was no stopping to rest in the valley; to tarry there was to invite death.

  Thin wisps of cloud swirled around the valley like wraiths hanging in the air. He could almost believe they were the souls of fallen warriors, coming out to see the next generation of their brethren approaching Jorundyr’s Hall. He found himself wondering if his father might be watching. In the twilight, the valley had an other-worldly feel about it. Might this truly be the place where the gods dwelt?

  Wulfric realised that he was rapidly catching up to the shape before him. As he drew closer he saw it was Hane, slumped to his knees. For some reason Wulfric had thought it more likely to be Anshel, but Hane was the fittest and strongest of them, so it stood to reason that he had made the best time to that point. He had a strained, exhausted look on his face. It was the look of defeat. His eyes met Wulfric’s, but he said nothing.

  Wulfric wanted to stop, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Carrying his own weight was burden enough. Adding Hane’s would see them both dead, and excluded from Jorundyr’s Hall for eternity. Neither give help, nor ask for it. It seemed like a cruel rule.

  Hane spluttered a mouthful of blood out onto the snow. It looked black in the moonlight. The sight of it frightened Wulfric, reminding him of how his own nose had started to bleed for no apparent reason. He checked it again, but it had stopped. The relief was fleeting, however. If the mountain could strike Hane down, the same could happen to any of them.

  Something about the mountain was killing them from the inside. Aethelman had warned them about it, and Wulfric wondered if it had him in its grasp, whatever it was. He gave Hane one last look. Hane did his best to force a smile, his lips and chin splattered with blood. He knew he was spent, but he would be welcomed by Jorundyr. He would not have a place at the main table but he would be there, recognised for the courage needed to trek up into the High Places knowing that there might be nothing awaiting him but death.

  He thought of the night Hane had stood next to him when Helfric and the others had planned another beating. There was nothing to be done, but that didn’t make what Wulfric had to do any easier. He looked away and pressed on along the valley. As he walked, he tried not to think of Hane’s family; his mother, and the younger brother who worshipped him.

  DAWN ANNOUNCED itself with a fringing of light outlining the eastern peaks. Wulfric had not seen anyone else during the night. He forged a fresh trail through the snow, and knew he was ahead of the pack. His eyes were dry, and stung. Every part of him cried out for sleep. He kept scanning the sides of the valley for anything that stood out. Finally they found something.

  At first he thought he was imagining it, but the more he stared, the more distinct it became. A pale blue glow against the dark rock face. Wulfric felt a tingle run across his skin as he stared at the flickering light. He hurried toward it. As he grew closer, he could see that the glow was surrounding an object; a rock. Jorundyr’s Rock.

  He felt a manic sense of joy rush through him as he stumbled toward it. In only a few moments he would touch Jorundyr’s Rock and his journey to be a warrior would be complete. Even if the bleeding took him to his death the instant after he had touched it, he would die a warrior, and join his father at Jorundyr’s table.

  The tingling on his skin grew stronger the closer to the Rock he got. There could be no mistaking it, just as he had been told. Whatever ancient magic that had guided him, it had proved true. This was Jorundyr’s Rock. The place where Jorundyr communed with man, where he chose those he thought worthy of being called a warrior. It was said that Jorundyr would strike down anyone with the temerity to touch the Rock who was not worthy of the honour. Wulfric wondered if he had done enough. Surely making it that far was enough?

  After dreaming for such a long time of what the Rock would look like, feel like, of reaching out and touching it, he found himself fearing it. So close to the completion of his goal, what had once been an impossible dream, he hesitated. Aethelman had said the death for those with avarice in their hearts was the most painful imaginable. Their fate after that horrific death was even worse. Jorundyr’s wolf, Ulfyr, would gnaw on their bones until the end of time.

  Wulfric felt his stomach twist as he stood before the Rock, and thought he was going to be sick. He fought off the sensation and tried to concentrate on it. Like the stone in the glade by the village, it was covered in strange markings. They were familiar to Wulfric, but unintelligible. The familiarity helped to still his nerves, but his hand shook uncontrollably as he reached out toward the Rock. The blue light coruscated on its surface, rippling over the carvings as though it was alive. As his hand got closer, the glow extended out toward him and enveloped his hand. His breathing quickened as it continued up his arm and covered his entire body. He felt the rough surface of the rock with his fingertips. His vision was tinged with blue and his entire body shook. There was a deafening boom and a bright flash.

  WHEN WULFRIC RECOVERED his senses he was sitting on the snow, the cold starting to permeate its way through his furs and into his backside. He was several paces away from the Rock. It sat there, the blue glow flickering along its surface benignly. Was that it? He wasn’t dead, which was something at least. Aethelman had said that touching the Rock was all that was needed, but Wulfric was confused. Was it supposed to respond that way? If this was where Jorundyr communed with mortal men, should there not have been something else? A conversation of some sort?

  Wulfric sat there, staring at the Rock, oblivious to the cold. It was not what he had expected. He had always thought that Jorundyr would say something, confirm that the journey was complete, that he was now a warrior. A great booming voice from the heavens to acknowledge his achievement. He decided to try again. He stood and reached forward until his fingertips touched the glow. It offered resistance. It felt as though it was material rather than just light. It was spongy to the touch and created an impenetrable barrier around the rock. One way or the other, it seemed the Rock was done with him.

  27

  Wulfric’s route back took him past the spot where he had last seen Hane. He was still on his knees in the same place. There was more blood splattered on the snow in front of him. He was dead. His eyes were still open, but glassy and lifeless. There was frozen blood around Hane’s mouth and his face was twisted with distress. Wulfric stared into the lifeless eyes and
wondered if he should bring Hane’s body home. He noticed a cold, wet sensation on his own upper lip, and realised his nose was bleeding again. His return was not as certain as he had begun to think. Wulfric continued on his way, wondering how many other old apprentices were in that valley, long buried beneath the snow.

  He saw another apprentice soon after, still on his feet and making his way up the valley. Wulfric altered his course to stay well clear, as did the other apprentice. He remembered what Aethelman had said. Jorundyr was always watching.

  Despite his heavy furs, Wulfric recognised him as Anshel. He wondered what Anshel would think when he encountered Hane’s body. They had all known that some of them would not return, but to see one of their number dead still came as a shock. How many more would there be?

  Simply disappearing was the worst thing Wulfric could imagine. At least Hane’s family would know what had happened to him. It was always harder on the families of those who walked up into the mountains never to be seen again. Was the journey worth it? Hane was a good fighter; strong and fast, but the mountain had killed him. Now his strength was lost to the village forever, at a time when every arm able to wield a sword was valuable beyond measure. Why had Jorundyr been so cruel? It seemed like a foolish waste.

  THE SKY STARTED to darken long before Wulfric got out of the valley, and the snow took on a ghostly glow once more. He thought of trying to dig himself into the snow to get out of the wind and wait for dawn. As tempting as the prospect of rest was, in the cold, people went to sleep and never woke up. The danger posed by starting his descent in the dark seemed to be the lesser. He was tired, but the thought of curling up in the snow for a sleep without end gave him enough energy to keep going.

  He spotted another apprentice slowly working his way up the mountain. Wulfric stifled the urge to wave, and counted himself lucky that he was on his way down. The other apprentice had a long journey ahead of him. Wulfric strained his eyes, but the apprentice was too heavily wrapped in his furs to make out who it was. Wulfric would not have swapped places with him for anything.