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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘No more than an hour,’ his mother said. ‘You’re not fully recovered yet.’

  Wulfric nodded.

  ‘You’re still weak,’ Adalhaid said. ‘You shouldn’t go out alone.’

  His mother frowned for a moment. ‘She’s right.’

  Wulfric’s heart jumped. What would he say to her? Adalhaid took his arm as they stepped outside. He realised she was making sure that he didn’t lose his balance, but it felt as awkward as anything he had ever experienced. They had not spoken in nearly three years, and here she was as though her presence was the most normal thing in the world.

  THEY WALKED in silence at first, Wulfric not knowing what to say. The memory of his journey through the forest, where he was sure he could hear her laugh and speak made him feel awkward.

  ‘How long have you been home?’ Wulfric said, unable to bear the silence any longer and unable to think of anything else to say.

  ‘I came back as soon as I got word about my father. I arrived the day you all left on your pilgrimages. I missed you by only a few hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your father. He died bravely.’

  ‘I’d rather he hadn’t died at all,’ she said.

  Her accent was a little different, as was the way she spoke. It was only a subtle change, but it was enough to make her seem like a stranger in a friend’s body.

  ‘Jorundyr will welcome him,’ Wulfric said, not sure if his words would give her any comfort.

  ‘He was only a lanceman. I thought Jorundyr’s Hall was reserved for warriors.’

  ‘He died with a sword in his hand, surrounded by his fallen foes. Jorundyr will recognise that.’

  She let out a snort but did not reply, and Wulfric felt foolish for saying it. He wondered how much the city had changed her, wondered if the village now seemed like a backward shanty town, and him an ignorant savage, as was the opinion of any southerners he had met.

  They walked on in silence. His cloak drew admiring glances from everyone they passed. The white and silver belek-fang clasp contrasted sharply against the dark, shimmering fur of the cloak. Wulfric found it was impossible not to puff out his chest as he and Adalhaid walked toward the town square. It occurred to him that he was the only able-bodied man in the village entitled to wear one. All the other belek slayers had been killed or maimed on the road to Rasbruck. When his mind dragged the memory from its dark recess, it felt like a kick in the stomach. Life in Leondorf would never be the same again, no matter how many times he allowed himself to push the fact from his thoughts. When danger loomed, people would look to him. He could no longer be the frightened child. He was the one frightened children would run to for safety.

  How had so much happened so quickly? People were looking at him with the same respect they had shown to the likes of the Beleks’ Bane, and his father. It felt strange. He felt like a fraud. He kept reminding himself of what he had done, and wondered if he would ever be able to accept it.

  He cast a sideways glance at Adalhaid as they walked. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and found himself more afraid of speaking than he had been of going on the pilgrimage. He couldn’t bear it if she had come to think of him as nothing more than a boorish Northlander.

  They arrived at the square, and although he wouldn’t admit it, the walk was as much as Wulfric thought he’d be able for. There was a group of men standing on the steps of the Great Hall. Wulfric recognised them all, but didn’t know any of them by name; a sign of the changes that had come to the village. Not one of them was a warrior. Not one of them a face he would have expected to see anywhere near the Great Hall only a few months before.

  Wulfric nodded to them respectfully. They weren’t of the warrior class, but they were all now members of the village council, a fact worthy of some deference. In consideration of how few able-bodied warriors there were, that he had completed his pilgrimage and now wore a belek cloak, Wulfric expected his invitation to join the council to be not far off. The men on the steps all looked at Wulfric, but none responded. He was a warrior and entitled to their respect, but the expressions on their faces said anything but that. He glared at them, but it was a problem for another day.

  ‘When will you be going back south?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I don’t know if I will,’ Adalhaid said. ‘With Mother here alone, I don’t want to leave her. I finished my schooling, so there’s no need to go back.’

  The prospect of her remaining filled Wulfric with a joy that was tempered with discomfort. Would things be the same again, or would her time in the city have changed her beyond recognition? He desperately wanted to ask her why she had not written, and why she had not come back between terms as she had promised she would, but he did not know how to broach it. He chewed his lip for a moment, trying to find the words, but failing. Svana’s face popped into his mind, doubling his discomfort. Why did life have to be so complicated?

  ‘I’m getting tired,’ he said. ‘We should probably go back.’

  ‘DEFINITELY REAVING?’ Belgar said.

  The herdsman nodded, and Belgar swore. A dozen cattle had been taken during the night. It seemed word had finally gotten out that they were left all but defenceless after the battle with Rasbruck, and even winter was not enough to put thieves off such easy pickings. It hadn’t been a good year for the farmers, and the crops had been meagre. They were being supplemented from the herds, but it was always a better option if you could feed your people with someone else’s cattle. From what passing merchants had told him, it was the same throughout the whole region. He knew the dozen head of cattle was only the start. It was bad luck. Nobody liked to reave in winter. Had the crops been enough, it was likely Leondorf would have been left alone till spring. As it was, their neighbours would nibble away until there was nothing left, unless they were stopped.

  Their own crops wouldn’t last the winter without the milk, cheese, and meat the cattle added, and Belgar had seen herds whittled to their bare bones by reavers on more than one occasion. He swore again as he stared out over the pastureland. He’d be damned before he allowed that to happen to Leondorf. It was time to send a clear message that Leondorf would protect what was hers, and kill anyone who tried to steal from them.

  WULFRIC SPENT the afternoon mulling over his brief conversation with Adalhaid, and knew it would not stop bothering him until he dealt with it head on. After supper, he slipped out of the house before his mother could stop him and went straight to Adalhaid’s home. Their childhood evening walks had been so well rehearsed that he didn’t need to say anything when he arrived. As soon as she saw him standing at the door, she took her cloak from the peg on the wall and stepped outside to join him.

  They walked in silence for a time, until Wulfric thought of something to say that allowed him to completely avoid the issues he had intended to broach. ‘What’s the city like?’ he said.

  Adalhaid took a deep breath. ‘Wonderful, beautiful, fascinating—’

  Wulfric’s heart started to sink.

  ‘—soul destroying, disgusting, superficial. It’s everything you could imagine, all rolled into one great mass of buildings and people.’

  ‘I’d like to see it one day,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I don’t think you’d like it.’ She saw Wulfric’s reaction. ‘I didn’t mean anything. I know how much you love the open spaces, the views, the mountains. The city can be claustrophobic; you’re hemmed in on all sides by buildings so tall you have to look straight up to see the sky.

  ‘I love those things too,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten how incredible this place is. The way the High Places reach into your soul when you look at them.’

  Wulfric smiled. ‘There’s nothing like them. Even up there, in the middle of them all, they can take your breath away.’

  ‘I’d love to have seen what you saw up there.’

  ‘It was a difficult journey,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I heard about Hane. I’m sorry. I know what good friends you had become.’

  Wulfric s
hrugged. It wouldn’t do for a warrior to show grief over losing a comrade.

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten what a big, tough warrior you are now,’ she said.

  They both laughed, and a little part of the distance that had grown between them bled away.

  ‘I’ll miss him,’ Wulfric said. ‘The whole village will miss him.’

  ‘You don’t have to be that way with me, you know. I’m proud of what you’ve achieved, and I know what hard work and strength it must have taken.’ She took his hand. ‘It doesn’t mean you need to change who you are.’

  ‘How can you come back to this and be happy, after all you’ve seen and experienced in the south?’

  ‘Getting to go to a proper school was amazing, and I’d love the chance to go to a university. But the south is what it is.’ She hesitated. ‘And you’re not there.’

  Wulfric’s eyes widened. ‘You never wrote to me,’ he said, his voice uncertain. ‘I thought that…’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what to do when I left. You’re the First Warrior’s son, and I’m only the daughter of a lanceman. I couldn’t see a happy ending, so I left—and once I did, cutting the connection seemed the easiest way for both of us. That’s why I didn’t write or come back.’

  ‘That was never what I wanted,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I expect you must be getting betrothed to Svana soon.’ She forced a smile. ‘Married even, now that you’ve completed the pilgrimage.’ She tried to take back her hand, but Wulfric held it tight.

  ‘Svana doesn’t matter to me, and I know I don’t matter to her. She’d be just as happy with Roal or Farlof or any other decent warrior, as she would me. It’s not the person she wants, only the status. And she’s not the person I want.’

  Adalhaid smiled. He kissed her.

  ‘THAT’S RUBBISH!’ a man said, his voice slurred.

  The Maisterspaeker raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘Ulfyr the Bloody used to bed a dozen northern wenches a night. Everyone knows that. He’d have bedded that blondie ice queen in a heartbeat. And a hundred more besides. Man like that can’t be pinned down by one woman.’ He looked around, but did not find the support he had expected. Only silence.

  ‘Any idiot can bed a dozen wenches a night, assuming he has a face like a statue or a purse the size of a cow,’ the Maisterspaeker said, to subdued laughter and silence from the man. ‘Only a very special type of man can love one woman to the exclusion of everyone else. To the exclusion of everything else. To carry her memory across half the world and back again because of it, knowing that death is likely all that awaits him.’ He paused, purely for effect. ‘A very special type of man indeed.’

  WULFRIC’S FACE still tingled from the kiss when Frena led Belgar into the house. Wulfric was sitting in his father’s chair, thinking on Adalhaid—and, worryingly, how his gut had grown softer than it had been in some time. Too much rest and too much food. The coddling he had received while recuperating had its drawbacks. It was easily set to rights, and there was nothing to be gained by putting it off. With the mood he was in, he believed he could achieve anything with ease, for he felt as though he had won the greatest prize there was.

  ‘You’re looking well, boy. How are you feeling?’ Belgar said, before sitting down opposite Wulfric.

  ‘Much better,’ he said.

  Belgar nodded. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You’re not going to get the chance for much more rest. We’ve lost some cattle.’

  ‘Many?’ Wulfric felt a flash of excitement and fear.

  ‘A few. We need to show that we have warriors. Make a display of force, small though it might be. Let everyone know we’ll take care of what’s ours. That they’ll bleed for it if they try again. The council has decided to send you out on a ranging.’

  It seemed the day would go from strength to strength. Wulfric regretted there was so little left in it. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘The plan is to head out tomorrow morning, ride as far as the winter pastures and circle back. Leave plenty of obvious tracks, let everyone know there’s warriors about. I’m to go with you, as is another member of the council.’ Belgar’s face twisted as though he smelled something foul. ‘Now that they have a say in how things are run, they want to have their own set of eyes on everything that happens, so we have to babysit one of them.’

  There could be no mistaking who ‘they’ were. Wulfric couldn’t help but feel that Belgar was partly the engineer of his own displeasure, but he agreed that there had been little alternative. They were still far from secure, and input was needed from every corner.

  ‘Ridiculous idea,’ Belgar said. ‘We should leave him out there, see if he can find his own way home. Might teach them not to interfere in things that are beyond them.’

  ‘Who’s going to be coming with us?’

  ‘They haven’t decided yet. Now that people actually listen to the prattling that comes out of their mouths, they can’t shut them and argue over bloody everything. I reckon they’ll have made their decision by tomorrow morning. One way or the other, be ready to ride out by dawn. We’ll be back by nightfall, so you won’t need to pack.’

  Belgar left Wulfric to consider things. That Belgar regretted inviting the new councilmen into the Great Hall was obvious, but it was equally clear that there was nothing that could be done about it now. To try and expel them would tear the village apart. It was the only thing that had held it together, no matter what the older warriors might say. It occurred to Wulfric that there had been no mention of him, or any of the other new warriors being brought onto the council. He wondered if there ever would be.

  31

  A ranging meant that the time for inactivity was over. While they might become routine, this was his first real one and everything about it was a new experience. He had to decide what he needed to bring and, more importantly, get himself a new sword.

  He owned a set of training armour; cheap, roughly produced metal that protected against the blows of blunt practice weapons, but against arrows and blades with sharp edges he didn’t fancy his chances. After that, there were weapons to consider. A sabre would do at a pinch—cattle raiders didn’t tend to wear full battle armour—but he thought a lance was a good idea too. Everyone knew he was inexperienced, and he didn’t want to emphasize the fact through avoidable mistakes.

  It didn’t take long to attract his mother’s ire with the racket he was kicking up in his search. She led him through the house to a large closet with the patience she had always maintained when he was being petulant as a child. Inside was a mannequin covered in a heavy, oiled cloth. She drew the cloth away to reveal his father’s spare set.

  ‘I had it resized when you were recovering. The smith said it will need some more adjustments, but it should serve until you have time to get it altered. I hope it will fit.’

  Its oily sheen glistened in the meagre light, and Wulfric could see the hilt of his father’s sabre, recovered from the road to Rasbruck, propped up against it. Wulfric took his mother’s hand. There was nothing he could think of to say. Without her forethought, he would be riding into danger in little better than tin plates held together with twine.

  THE NEWLY ANOINTED warriors gathered on the town square the next morning. The way the others were equipped put a damper on Wulfric’s enthusiasm. They looked a motley bunch, wearing armour that was cobbled together from their training suits, and better pieces that had been scavenged from elsewhere—the suits belonging to their recently killed fathers most likely. It would not be the glorious, shining promenade of plate-armoured heavy horsemen Wulfric had dreamed of as a child. His own suit, old, and hastily adjusted though it was, outshone the others. Dressed in their patchwork armour they looked like a bunch of boys playing warrior, rather than young men preparing to take their place as their village’s defenders—which Wulfric realised was painfully close to the truth. The sight of them wouldn’t do much to intimidate anyone. They would have to ensure their actions did that for them.

&nb
sp; The villagers stood in groups around the fringes of the square, but there was none of the excited chatter or shouts of bravado that usually accompanied the departure of a ranging. It was the first time warriors had ridden out since the battle on the road to Rasbruck, and the memory was still fresh.

  Wulfric could see how eager the others all were to get going, to be away from the melancholy hanging over the village if for nothing else. Like Wulfric, they had all spent their childhoods watching the warriors ride out, dreaming of doing the same, and now they were finally going to get to realise that ambition. Nothing could take that excitement from them. Wulfric thought of the faces that should have been there, but were not—Hane’s most of all. Wulfric hadn’t realised how much comfort having Hane at his shoulder had given him. He would be missed if they encountered trouble.

  A man rode out onto the square and put all the rest to shame. He was clad head to toe in magnificent battle armour, the plates polished to a high sheen, the edges filigreed in gold. The helmet’s mask was shaped and engraved to appear like a snarling wolf; it was unique and Wulfric was certain he had not seen it before. He could identify all of the village’s warriors by their helmets.

  The rider flipped the mask up, revealing Belgar’s lined face beneath. He was far too old to be gallivanting around in armour, but he looked the part with the mask closed, and added weight to the threat their little party posed. Wulfric wondered if it would have been worth recruiting some of the other old warriors to fill out their ranks, straw men in tin suits, but they were few enough and armour was too heavy for old limbs. That Belgar managed it was impressive, and Wulfric realised that to underestimate the old warrior was always a mistake. He only hoped it wasn’t all an act that would come crashing to a tragic halt at the wrong moment.

  The final member of their ranging was the council appointee. Wulfric was curious to see who they chose. Part of him expected that it would be Rodulf, placed there by his father who seemed to grow in influence every day. Before anyone knew it, Wulfric expected that Donato would ensure his son was enjoying all of the privileges of being a warrior. Perhaps he would even see to making Rodulf one, and pay someone to make his pilgrimage for him.