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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Everything was packed, but for the box containing the Stone. He sat on his cot and stared at it. It would be the focus of the next few months of his life. The next few years, perhaps. He had protected it for many years, and was proud of the fact that he had never once tried to use it. He had been tempted on many occasions, but had not succumbed. He had remained true to his mission for all of those years, keeping it safe and out of sight. Now it was time to see it out of the world of men. His god, Birgyssa—the patron of priests and healers—would guide him. He would seek out a holy place and there she would instruct him on how to ensure the Stone remained safe after he passed from the world. He had done his duty to her, now it was her turn. He hoped he had the strength to see out this final task. He prayed that she would help him in it.

  He winced as he stood, his old knees creaking in protest. This was a journey he should have made many years before, but Leondorf had been a good home to him. The only true home he had ever known. It was difficult to leave, even now. He had only made things harder for himself by staying.

  There was a shout from outside, and Aethelman’s curiosity got the better of him. He walked through the dark nave and out into the bright daylight outside. He shielded his eyes and squinted to make out what was going on. There were a number of people around. They had all heard the shout, but looked puzzled. Aethelman walked down the steps and into the square.

  ‘I heard a shout,’ he said to the first person he came to. ‘What was it?’

  The woman shrugged. There was another shout. Then a scream. Aethelman could hear the sound of galloping horses. For a moment he hoped it was the hunters returning, but he knew it could not be. There was a group of children standing not far from where he was.

  ‘Run away home,’ Aethelman said. ‘Away now. Don’t dally.’

  The adults also heeded his words as they all hurried away in different directions. He spotted several horsemen coming toward the village square. Before he knew what he was doing, he turned and started to run.

  Aethelman had survived attacks like this before in other places. When they came, survival was the only aim. It wasn’t brave and it would never form the basis for an epic tale, but there was no way women and children, tanners, smiths, and tradesmen had a chance against mounted warriors. All they could do was die needlessly. As priest, it was Aethelman’s responsibility to ensure as many survived as possible.

  He saw a group of villagers standing huddled in a frightened, bewildered group.

  ‘Go to that tree and wait for me there,’ Aethelman said.

  One of the villagers nodded and ushered the others, too afraid to react on their own, toward the tree. Aethelman looked around frantically, but most people had already scattered to the pastures or gone home to hide. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Adalhaid and Wulfric’s mother, Frena. They were too far from home to have any chance of making it back there.

  ‘This way,’ Aethelman called. The air was filled with the sound of screams and chaos. Adalhaid saw him. He beckoned furiously and headed for the tree, keeping a careful watch. He cast a glance toward the kirk, and thought about the Stone. Raiders would not know what it was. In all likelihood the kirk would be burned, and he would recover it from the ashes. If he was very lucky it would be destroyed, but he didn’t hold much hope for that.

  ‘I want everyone to sit down by the tree as close to each other as you can,’ he said when he arrived. Adalhaid and Frena were only a few paces behind him. He gestured for them to join the others.

  ‘Are we to sit here and wait to be killed?’ someone said.

  ‘None of that,’ Aethelman said. ‘You have to trust me. Sit still all of you, and stay quiet like your life depends on it, because it does.’

  He turned his back to the cluster of people and sat before them, cross-legged. Wisps of black smoke were rising from several places in the village. He looked toward the kirk, but could not tell if it was yet alight. He felt a pang of unease, and wished he’d had the presence of mind to bring the Stone with him, but it was too late. No one knew where it was. Or what it was. It looked worthless. There was no reason for it to be touched.

  He took a deep breath and felt his skin tingle. It was years since he had attempted this. He cleared his mind as best he could, and reached deep into the place between the worlds where the hands of gods touched the lives of men. His body became energised and the air around him shimmered as it did on a hot summer’s day.

  Two horsemen came near, and Aethelman heard someone behind him let out a panicky gasp. One of the horsemen looked over, his brow furrowed. His gaze fell on Aethelman, but it was as though he looked straight through him. Aethelman prayed to Birgyssa and Jorundyr, and any other god who would listen, to keep the people behind him silent. A moment more was all he needed. The tension threatened to invade his mind and he fought to hold his concentration. The horseman stared at the tree intently, then scanned the ground. Aethelman could feel blood pulsing in his temples.

  WULFRIC WOKE to one of the hounds licking his face. He pushed the dog away and looked around. Stenn and Farlof were standing over him. He collected his thoughts quickly and sat up. Pain made itself known to him across his left arm and shoulder, from a series of claw marks raked deep into his flesh. The wounds would leave scars to match those on his chest, but they were not enough to explain why he had blacked out.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Farlof said.

  Wulfric stood, feeling more embarrassment than anything. ‘Yes. I’m fine. They’re only cuts. I’m not sure what happened. We should get back.’

  They both nodded, but regarded him with curious looks.

  They collected what they could find of Urrich’s body—not much, but enough to allow his mother a funeral. Urrich was always a quiet one. Wulfric was more familiar with the sound of his bowstring than his voice. Now he would never hear either again. One less warrior to protect Leondorf, one more argument in favour of Donato’s proposal to bring the southerners to the village.

  The dog that had given Wulfric the vital few seconds to get back to his feet was Spot. He stood over the hound’s broken body and wanted to weep. Spot was the only one of the dogs who had not fled and this was what his bravery had earned him. What would he tell Adalhaid? What would he tell Urrich’s mother? What had Leondorf done to so incur the gods’ wrath?

  RITSCHL WALKED into Leondorf’s kirk, his heart racing with anticipation. As he had instructed, it was the only building still standing in the village. Fires raged through the others, filling the air with acrid black smoke and the sickly stench of burning flesh. He took a look around the nave. It was more pleasant than the kirk in Rasbruck, larger too. He wondered where Aethelman might have hidden the Stone. He knew it was close. He could feel it. It called to him. The nave was a public place. Too many people passing in and out; it wouldn’t be there. A door led into the back. There was a bed with a full leather satchel sitting on it. Ritschl gave it a cursory look. It seemed to be nothing more than clothes and travelling provisions.

  The rest of the room was sparse in furniture. A small table sat beside the bed with a wooden box underneath it. He sat on the bed and pulled the box out from its nook. His breath quickened as he placed his hands on either side of it in preparation to lift the lid. He could already sense what was within. It creaked as he raised it. The poor light in the room glistened on the etched metallic surface. Ritschl laughed aloud when he saw it, and could feel tears form in his eyes. He took a felt bag from his cloak and opened it. He reached for the Stone, but hesitated. He could remember now that he had never touched it. Aethelman had kept it in his possession from the moment they had discovered it, since he was the senior.

  What would it feel like? Would it start working as soon as he touched it? The Stone gave the bearer a direct link to the power of the gods. The things he could do with that power were limited only by his imagination. Every piece of magic he had ever worked was feeble in comparison to what he could achieve with the Stone. He grabbed it and dropped it into the bag. His
heart fluttered. He looked at his palm and wondered if the skin felt any different. It looked the same. He took a deep breath. He had to be patient. He had waited so long, he couldn’t allow himself to lapse into haste now.

  He walked outside, clutching the felt bag. Two of Rasbruck’s warriors were in the village square on horseback.

  ‘We’ve got everything worth taking,’ one of them said.

  ‘Good. Time to go home,’ Ritschl said.

  The horseman nodded to the kirk.

  ‘Burn it,’ Ritschl said.

  The horseman raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Jorundyr requires a warrior to crush his enemies. We leave nothing standing.’

  The horseman nodded.

  37

  The snow became grey as they drew closer to Leondorf. At first Wulfric had not understood why, but he realised that it was covered in a coating of ash. It was only when the village hove into view that they could see a few tendrils of smoke rising to the heavens.

  Little remained of Leondorf. Wulfric wavered as dizziness swept over him, his brain unable to take in what his eyes were seeing. A few charred timbers still stood upright like grave markers, but that was all. The homes of people he knew were not much more than black smudges on the ground. Only those few built from stone remained. To the side of the village there was a pile of bodies that were partially burned. Roal vomited when he realised what they were. Wulfric wondered if it was the only one, or if there were more piles like it. It was too small for an entire village. He tried not to look at it, not wanting to know who was there, but one face caught his attention, the fine angular features and crystal blue eyes not so far removed in death from what they had been like in life. Wulfric prayed that Svana hadn’t suffered. He felt numb.

  They dismounted and stumbled slowly into the village, looking around them in shock at the devastation. It was several minutes before they saw a living person, who made to run at first, but stopped when he recognised them.

  ‘What happened?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Warriors came. Late in the morning. They took our food. They started burning down buildings and killing people. They took everything.’ The man wandered away into the smoke and ash before Wulfric could ask him anything else.

  Wulfric felt his stomach twist in the most horrible way. He was in no hurry as he wandered through the village in the direction of his home, and Adalhaid’s. Each step took him closer to the confirmation of something he didn’t want to know. However, until he saw it with his own eyes, he knew he would not be able to accept it.

  Like all the houses in the village, Wulfric’s had been made from timber. Now it was ash and charred wood. Adalhaid’s was much the same. He fought to repel the wave of despair that was surrounding and pressing down on him. He felt dizzy as he looked around. The stone parts of the Great Hall and the kirk still stood. The smithy likewise. They were all that remained of Leondorf.

  Wulfric walked back to the square in a daze. He wondered what the village must have been like in the moments before the attack arrived. Everyone had been talking about the betrothal celebration when they left. He stared at the well, now only a circle of stone. They had even burned the winding mechanism for the bucket, and the small roof that covered it. The thoroughness with which they destroyed the town spoke volumes for their hate, and how they had likely treated the villagers. It could only have been Rasbruck. Might others have gotten away?

  He walked toward the pile. As he drew closer, he could pick out other familiar faces. Not friends or family, but people known to him, their faces frozen in the horror of their last moment of life. They were just ordinary people, not warriors. It was hard to see what reason there could be for killing them.

  ‘Wulfric! Look! There!’ Stenn said.

  Wulfric felt his heart leap into his throat. He found himself praying to Jorundyr. There were people approaching the village. He squinted, but they were too far away to recognise. He collected Greyfell, mounted and galloped toward them. He had not gone far before he realised how they might react to the sight of a warrior charging toward them, so he slowed. They kept coming, however.

  Aethelman’s was the first face he saw that he recognised. There were a dozen or so people with him.

  ‘Adalhaid? My mother?’ Wulfric said.

  Aethelman looked back into the group. ‘Frena. Adalhaid.’

  Wulfric felt light headed with relief when he saw them both step from the group.

  He jumped from Greyfell and rushed over, gathering them up in his arms.

  ‘Wulfric? You’re covered in blood,’ his mother said. ‘Did you get back in time?’

  Wulfric shook his head. ‘No. They were gone. This was from… before.’ He felt a wave of guilt. Might they have been able to stop the attack if they hadn’t been away hunting?

  He turned to Aethelman. ‘Rasbruck?’

  Aethelman nodded. ‘They came this morning. Took whatever they could carry, killed anyone they saw and burned everything left to the ground.’

  ‘How did you get away?’

  ‘I gathered up as many as I could. I hid them.’

  ‘How?’ Wulfric said.

  Aethelman smiled in the way he always had when Wulfric was young and questioned him on the workings of his magic, but it was strained. Forced.

  ‘And them?’ Wulfric gestured to the pile of bodies.

  An expression of shame appeared on Aethelman’s face, and Wulfric felt bad for saying it.

  ‘As many as I could,’ he said, his voice catching on a lump in his throat.

  ‘You did me a great service today, Aethelman,’ he said, holding Adalhaid tightly. ‘Thank you.’ He knew it was small consolation, as tears streaked Aethelman’s soot-covered face.

  THE SURVIVORS SET to erecting a temporary shelter that very evening. It was cold, and enough had died already without losing more to the chills. There were elderly, young, and injured who would start to suffer sooner than the rest. They had to work quickly.

  Enough wood was scavenged from the remains of the village to construct a flat-roofed shack. It was dark and draughty, but it would at least get them all through the first few nights. The proper rebuild would have to wait until the following morning.

  There was no privacy there, but at least there was the meat they had brought in from the hunt. They set to cooking one of the carcasses right away. A few more people straggled in over the course of the evening, Belgar and his family, Donato and Rodulf among others, but one boar had been enough to feed them all. All who remained of Leondorf.

  In the darkness, Wulfric could hear sobs amidst the snores and whispers. He thought of the belek corpse outside, his glorious second, and how insignificant that achievement now felt. He thought of Urrich, of how the tragedy of his death had been all but forgotten. There was no family to mourn him now, only his brother warriors.

  Farlof sat down beside him, disturbing Wulfric from his thoughts.

  ‘Think any more will come back?’ Farlof said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wulfric said. ‘I hope so.’

  Farlof remained silent for a while. ‘When that belek attacked us. What were you thinking?’ His voice was quiet, serious, something unusual for Farlof. Usually he sounded as though everything he was saying was intended to tease or provoke a reaction. There was none of that now.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wulfric said. ‘I can’t really remember.’

  ‘I’m no coward,’ Farlof said. ‘But I was terrified when that thing walked into the clearing. Stenn and Roal too. We would have fought it, but we were afraid. You weren’t. How?’

  ‘I’ve fought one before,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘That wasn’t all, though. You called it to yourself. You weren’t just unafraid. You wanted it to come to you.’

  ‘I said I don’t remember.’ He wasn’t lying, but there was a memory swirling in the murk at the back of his mind that he knew would become clearer if he had time to focus on it.

  ‘I tried to lift up its body when you passed out,’ Farlof said. ‘I co
uldn’t budge it. You pushed it back a few steps when it was still alive. I know you’re strong, but that strong?’

  Wulfric shrugged.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone fight like that before. We would have joined in. Helped. But it didn’t look like you needed it.’

  Wulfric had no idea what to say. His own thoughts were so muddled all he was able to do was shrug again. ‘Has everyone got enough to eat?’

  Farlof’s lips tightened for a moment before he nodded. ‘Yes. That much at least is taken care of. This shack won’t do for long though.’

  ‘We start rebuilding tomorrow,’ Wulfric said. ‘No one else is going to die this winter.’

  WHEN AETHELMAN FINALLY AWOKE, midway through the day after the attack, his first thought was of the Stone. He went to the kirk and walked through the ash, charred wood, and debris. He went straight to the place where his bedside table once sat, and where the box was kept. Nothing remained but a pile of ash. He sifted through it with his fingers, but other than a few fragments of wood there was nothing solid. He stood and looked around, weighing the possibilities in his mind.

  Whale oil for his lamps, anointed oils for his ceremonies. There had been plenty of both in the kirk. More than enough to ensure the fire burned long and hot. Hot enough to destroy the Stone? He returned to the ash pile and cleared it away until he reached the hard-packed dirt floor. There was no trace of melted metal, but that meant nothing. The Stone was a holy object, and its destruction might mean it had returned to the gods. Was he being naive in thinking it might have completely disappeared from the realm of man? He didn’t know enough to say one way or the other.

  Who would have known to take it? The box was plain, the Stone nothing more than a misshapen piece of metal ore covered in runes. It looked no more valuable than many of the other religious artefacts in the kirk. There was nothing to single it out for attention. Aethelman moved to sit down on the edge of his bed before remembering it was no longer there. He looked up to the heavens, but had no idea what he was looking for. Any answers seemed to be escaping him completely. Of certainties, there was only one. He would remain and help rebuild. He had found Belarman’s body with the others in the pile. It was a shameful thing to kill a priest—as it was to burn a kirk. All those people killed for no reason. What madness had driven them to it? He had never felt hate before, but in that moment it was all he had within him.