The council appointee walked out of the Great Hall, not looking at all happy with his assignment. His name was Fridric, and while Wulfric recognised him he couldn’t say for sure what he did in the village. He didn’t look like the type of man prepared for hardship of any sort and Wulfric wondered how much of a burden he would be. He would need to be coddled, but Wulfric hoped that Belgar, used to dealing with the intricacies of the Great Hall, would take care of that.
Those with family or sweethearts said their farewells. Wulfric did his best to look the emotionless, conquering hero atop his horse, but Anshel had him beaten in that. Greyfell reacted to Adalhaid’s presence at his side before Wulfric noticed her.
‘I wanted to get to you first this time,’ she said, holding up a piece of ribbon.
Wulfric smiled and took it, pushing it under his vambrace. ‘Thank you.’
‘I hope it will bring you luck,’ she said. ‘And woe and devastation to your foes, and all that.’
He laughed this time, but saw Svana out of the corner of his eye. Her face was, as always, emotionless, but he could see anger in her eyes. There would need to be a conversation when he got back; an awkward conversation, but he knew once she had adjusted to the idea she would likely be relieved.
There was a cheer as they rode out of the village, and Wulfric could not help but enjoy the experience. With their ill-equipped troop of fresh-faced warriors, part of him hoped that they wouldn’t encounter anyone hostile, but the desire made him feel ashamed. A true warrior would want confrontation, would seek it out. They had to make the best of what they had and get on with it. They had to show their neighbours that Leondorf could protect what was theirs, and would kill anyone who tried to take it.
THEY SPOTTED a herd of ruddy-coated Northland cattle mid-morning and headed for them. Their council-appointed comrade carried a banner with Leondorf’s sigil of a gold belek rampant on a field of green, so the herdsmen would be able to identify them as friends. He had been given the task for no other reason than it would make him feel involved, and was hard to make a mess of. Wulfric watched him out of the corner of his eye, however. It was bad luck for the banner to touch the ground, and he did not have faith in Fridric not to drop it.
Since leaving the village, Belgar had eased into the role of ranging leader. None of the young men were confident or arrogant enough to object, and Wulfric was glad to have the opportunity to learn from someone with so much experience.
They stopped when they reached the herdsmen, Fridric looking delighted at what he seemed to think was the completion of his first ranging.
‘Morning, Skegg,’ Belgar said.
The lead herdsman said nothing, but nodded in the surly way the herdsmen often did. They spent a lot of their time alone with their herds in the pastures—too much, some would say—and they didn’t tend to be the most sociable bunch. Wulfric had expected small talk of some sort before getting to the core of things, but different people needed to be handled in different ways, and he knew that was something he needed to learn.
Belgar, however, knew how to deal with the herdsman, and didn’t waste any time.
‘Seen anyone around?’ he said.
‘Nope,’ Skegg said.
‘Seen any sign of strangers around?’
‘Nope,’ Skegg said.
Wulfric could tell from his demeanour that Skegg wasn’t trying to be obstructive, he just wasn’t the chatty type.
Belgar looked around, and Wulfric could tell he was getting frustrated with the herdsman’s brusque manner. ‘Lost any cattle?’
‘Yup.’
Wulfric almost sighed with relief at the change in direction.
‘Six head,’ Skegg said. ‘Last night.’
‘But you didn’t see anything?’
‘Nope,’ Skegg said.
‘We’ll have a scout around. See if we can pick up the trail.’
Skegg nodded. ‘Appreciate it. Let ye know if I see anything.’
‘WE’LL RANGE to the southwest until late afternoon and then return to the village,’ Belgar said. ‘We’ll make noise, and we’ll leave a trail a blind man can follow.’ He looked around and saw a number of puzzled expressions. ‘We want everyone interested to know we were here and that we can come back. It’s the opportunists we want to frighten off. Anything more than that is a job for another day.’
Belgar had always seemed like a frail old man in the village, but putting on his armour and riding out on a ranging seemed to have rejuvenated him. He spoke with authority, such that it didn’t occur to anyone to question him. The waver in his voice was gone, and the set of his grizzled old jaw seemed firmer. The body might grow weak, but the warrior spirit never declined.
They moved more slowly, with Belgar signalling for them to halt often. He clambered down from his horse and checked the tracks in the snow, before shaking his head and hauling himself back into his saddle. They continued like this until well after midday; halt, check for tracks, continue. It wasn’t long before Wulfric was wondering what all the fuss about ranging was. He was bored beyond belief, but at least the winter air didn’t bother him as much as it would have before his pilgrimage. It felt balmy in the pastures by comparison. He found himself counting the minutes until they could turn for home. Fridric was the only member of the group who did not seem bored. Although he had grown increasingly uncomfortable looking as his hours in the saddle increased, his face still had the same wide-eyed excitement that it had started the day with. Wulfric had long since given up watching him for fear of the banner being dropped; Fridric’s knuckles were white on the banner pole, and Wulfric expected his seized fingers would have to be prised from it at the end of the day.
They stopped again on Belgar’s command, but he didn’t dismount. ‘That’s far enough,’ he said. ‘If we were going to find the cattle, we’d be on the trail by now. The tracks are too confused. Like as not there’s been more than one group of reavers in the area. At least in the old days, all you had to do was head toward Rasbruck.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll head for home.’
Wulfric wondered how the uneventful ranging would colour the councilman’s perspective on warriors. Whatever report he made to his colleagues would no doubt reflect badly on them. It had been far from the opportunity to prove themselves that he’d hoped for.
THERE WAS none of the excited energy on the return journey. Everyone felt the job was done and all that remained was the ride home—there was no adventure left in that day, no great deed to be done. Belgar, however, still appeared tense and alert. There was a little chatter now, which Fridric joined in on from time to time—usually to express his desire to be home by his hearth. Wulfric didn’t join in, and couldn’t ignore Belgar’s tension. He wondered if he was equally concerned about Fridric’s report. Wulfric didn’t like not knowing what was going on, he never had, but it felt as though recovering the cattle had only been of secondary importance.
Belgar raised his hand again, halting their little group. He held it up for a moment and stared across the pasture to the tree line beyond. He reached forward, hesitantly at first, before extending his arm and pointing with more confidence. For an old man, his eyes were impressively sharp. Wulfric looked to where the old warrior was pointing. There was movement among the trees.
‘Forward, everyone,’ Belgar said. ‘At the trot.’ He took his spear from the fastening on his saddle.
Everyone else did likewise, and Wulfric noticed that Fridric had dropped the smug expression from his face and was a shade paler. The banner he carried was no longer held quite so high.
‘Stop there!’ Belgar shouted.
The movement stopped, and Wulfric could see faces looking in their direction from between the trees. A moment later, three men rode out from the tree line and came forward to meet them.
‘What do you want?’ one of the men said.
‘You’re on Leondorf’s territory. I’ll ask you the same question,’ Belgar said.
‘Passing through. Hadn’t heard Leondorfers were bother
ing travellers.’
‘We’re not. We’re looking for cattle reavers.’
‘You’ll have to keep looking then.’
‘What’ve you got there in the trees?’
‘Just the rest of my party,’ the man said.
‘No cattle hidden away back there?’ Belgar said, his voice filled with irony.
‘Listen here, old man. Why don’t you take these lads and play warriors somewhere else? It’s getting late anyway; you’d probably best be off home to change their swaddling cloths.’ The man whistled. Ten more horsemen emerged from the trees.
Wulfric felt his gut twist. Belgar looked from the man to the new appearances. As though on cue, there was a loud bellow from the trees, the characteristic call of a Northland cow.
Belgar raised an eyebrow.
The man who had been speaking smiled. ‘Well? Getting close to bedtime for the lads, ain’t it?’
Wulfric felt a flash of anger stir within him. He had completed the pilgrimage; such insults could not be allowed to go unanswered, not if they were to earn any respect.
Belgar stared at the man for a moment before wheeling his horse around. ‘Back to the village,’ he said.
Wulfric couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but all of the others turned around without questioning the order, leaving Wulfric with no option but to do likewise. Fridric’s horse, sensing its rider’s eagerness, broke into a gallop and needed to be reined back in. The men behind them roared with laughter. Wulfric glanced back over his shoulder and cast the man as withering a look as he could muster. They were sending a message to all of their neighbours that they could pillage at will. What was Belgar thinking?
Wulfric felt as ashamed as he ever had. How could Belgar turn his back on those taunts? Did he have so little faith in them that he wouldn’t lead them into battle?
Belgar rode up beside Wulfric and looked over. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘Well what?’ Wulfric replied, unable to contain his anger.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I think we’re not going to have any cattle left by winter,’ Wulfric said.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ Belgar said.
‘You’re First Warrior,’ Wulfric said. ‘That’s your decision.’
‘No I’m not,’ Belgar said. ‘Haven’t been First Warrior for near on twenty years. If you were First Warrior, what would you do?’
‘What do you mean?’ Wulfric said.
‘I mean we’re about far enough away now to get a good charge at them.’
Wulfric smiled. ‘On my word, turn and charge them,’ he said, loud enough for the others to hear. A few of them cast Wulfric a surprised look, the rest nodded without question. Belgar smiled.
32
‘Now!’ Wulfric shouted. He wheeled his horse back around. The cattle raiders were still watching the Leondorfers ride away with their tails between their legs. He kicked at Greyfell’s side and the horse launched into a gallop, his spirits as high as Wulfric’s, his anger and desire for battle just as strong. All thoughts of second-rate armour and battered old weapons slipped from Wulfric’s mind as he focussed on the man who had insulted them. He would be the first to die.
Surprised by the sudden turn about, the raiders hesitated. By the time their leader had gathered his wits, Wulfric and the others had covered most of the distance between them.
‘Forward! Forward!’ the man shouted to his companion.
The interlopers outnumbered Wulfric and the Leondorfers nearly two to one, but this was their territory and if they did nothing they might as well not have bothered going to the High Places. The three men who had come forward to speak were separated from their comrades by a good distance. Faced with receiving the charge isolated from his men, the reaver’s true nature showed through. He broke for the tree line, closely followed by his two pals.
His reaction wasn’t fast enough, though. Wulfric was already at full gallop and Greyfell chewed through the distance between them in a heartbeat.
Wulfric levelled his lance and leaned forward in his saddle, as he had done a thousand times on the quintain in the glade. The impact, when it came, was far less than he expected—less than the quintain. After the initial punch, the resistance gave way quickly. The raider let out a cry and flew from his horse. The lance twisted in Wulfric’s hand and was pulled from his grip.
His two companions were speared by the riders closest to Wulfric; Belgar took his first kill on the battlefield in decades while Roal claimed the other. The rest charged past them toward the other raiders, who were now galloping toward them with their spears levelled. The only man not in motion was Fridric. Before going after the others, Wulfric cast Fridric a glance and felt pity. If one of the reavers got to him he would be dead before he had time to wet his britches. From the expression on his face, he knew that.
Outnumbered and inexperienced, the odds were not good for any of them. Wulfric followed behind the others. Without a spear he was useless at the front of the charge. Kolbein was ahead of him. Wulfric raised his sabre, ready to deal with whatever came through. The two lines collided with a thundering crunch. Kolbein was launched from his saddle and his spear flicked harmlessly up into the air. He was instantly replaced by a reaver coming toward Wulfric at full gallop, the broken stump of a spear in his hand.
Wulfric slashed at him. His sabre screeched against metal and slid away. The reaver grabbed for his own sabre having dropped the remains of his spear. Wulfric hacked down again, striking this time at the reaver’s arm in the hope of stopping him from drawing his sword. Wulfric’s sabre found the join in his armour at the elbow and sliced through flesh and bone. The man screamed as his arm fell away from his elbow. His hand still held the sword. Wulfric watched in morbid fascination as the grip went slack and the arm dropped to the ground. He stabbed the reaver through the throat to put him out of his misery.
Wulfric felt himself begin to shake uncontrollably, as though he was struck by an icy wind. It was so sudden and bizarre that it was a moment before he realised how it must look. The others would think he was afraid. His teeth started to chatter, and no matter what he did he couldn’t stop it.
The fight had degenerated into a confused mess. Wulfric waded in, but felt lightheaded and couldn’t control his shivering. He needed to do something to show everyone that he was not afraid. He looked around at the press of men and horses; it was difficult to tell friend from foe. A strange feeling came over him; it didn’t seem to matter, and that terrified him. All he wanted to do was kill. To destroy. He felt as though he was watching himself from a distance. His mind controlled his actions, but the sensations of pain and tiredness could not make their way back to him. He felt invincible.
A man appeared before Wulfric, a wide smile on his face. He must have seen the shaking. Wulfric roared in the hope of drowning out the shaking, and without thinking he slashed. He felt so strong. Unstoppable. He cleaved the man’s head and right arm from his body. Men surrounded him as he surveyed the devastation of his strike. Blows rained in on him from all sides. The clattering on his armour and helmet was constant, but it too seemed distant. He couldn’t feel a single one.
He hacked at another man, who raised his sword in time to parry. Wulfric’s sabre shattered on the impact. He looked at the jagged remains of his blade—it must have been damaged the last time his father used it. Wulfric dropped the hilt and reached across, grabbing the man by the edge of his breastplate. Wulfric head-butted him, smashing his helmet into the reaver’s face. The light leather skullcap was no match for Wulfric’s faceplate. He roared in pain as Wulfric followed up with his gauntleted fist. He continued to pull him closer, until he was lying across Greyfell’s back. Wulfric pounded his fist into the reaver’s face over and over, only pushing the limp body to the ground when someone struck him from behind.
Wulfric’s helmet rang like a bell. The world swam around before his eyes. He struggled to remember where he was, who he was. The past few minutes seemed like a dre
am, but as his wits returned, he realised that he had stopped shivering.
Greyfell kicked out behind, throwing Wulfric forward onto his neck. His survival instinct made him cling on with one arm, while he scrabbled with the other to get a grip on his dagger, his only remaining weapon. He was struck on the back before he could get his balance. His armour spread the impact, but it knocked the wind from his lungs. He slashed around blindly behind him with the dagger, but made contact only with air.
Wulfric spurred Greyfell forward, desperate to give himself a moment to gather his wits. His ears still rang from the blow and things were happening too quickly for him to keep up. There were several bodies on the ground now, and as many riderless horses. Wulfric spotted a reaver to the side of the pack. With only a dagger, Wulfric knew rushing back in was foolhardy, but they were outnumbered, and he could not afford to hang back.
Greyfell accelerated into the melee without hesitation. Wulfric swiped at a reaver, but it was a feeble attempt and only luck that he caught him on the side of the neck. Blood gushed from his throat when Wulfric pulled the dagger free. Another reaver approached, seeing his comrade in trouble. Wulfric pulled the dying man’s sword from his grasp and turned to face the new threat.
It seemed he had counted on Wulfric not having a sword and attacked rashly. He was overcommitted by the time he spotted Wulfric pulling it free. With what little energy he had left, Wulfric parried and countered. The sword was good and its edge was keen. It parted the reaver’s leather armour with ease and cut through to his vitals.
Wulfric found himself next to Belgar. The old warrior smashed his warhammer into a reaver’s face, who slumped in his saddle without a sound. Belgar looked at his bloody work with satisfaction, visibly pleased with his victory over a man at least half his age. He did not notice the next reaver until it was almost too late.
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 22