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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘Good. It’s large, and deep, so the animal that made it is big and heavy. See how the soil in the print is dark, and the edges are clear?’

  Wulfric nodded.

  ‘And how the disturbed leaves are damp?’

  Wulfric nodded again.

  ‘That means the tracks are fresh. The soil in the print hasn’t had time to dry. Nor have the undersides of the leaves that were overturned. Understand?’

  ‘I think so,’ Wulfric said, as the scene before him did indeed begin to make sense.

  ‘Now, get back on your horse and let’s see if we can find them.’

  Wulfric’s legs had grown stiff and they protested as he hauled his body back into the saddle. Once again, his father led the way, urging his horse on at a slower pace than they had been keeping up previously.

  There were weapons strapped to Wulfric’s saddle. His father had put them there, and Wulfric was not sure if they were brought along as spares or if his father intended him to use them. He had never handled either of them before: a long spear with two arms branching out from just behind the head, and a weapon that looked like an oddly shaped and unusually long sword.

  ‘Follow me closely,’ Wolfram said in a whisper. ‘But stay back when I charge the beasts. You must do exactly as I say, when I say. Understand?’

  Wulfric nodded, feeling a building nervousness take hold of him.

  They moved on slowly, their horses carefully placing each hoof as though they realised that the hunt was on. Even their breathing was quieter. They never ceased to amaze Wulfric. Traders with dark skin from the very far south came all the way to his village to buy them, so famed were they for their prowess. Each warrior in the village was given one of the finest from their communal stock when he returned from his warrior’s pilgrimage. Men like his father had many, some of which were prizes taken in battle.

  The foreign traders called them Northlander destriers. To Wulfric they were simply war horses. Big, aggressive, and spirited. He had always been terrified of them when he was younger; he still was. The one he sat on had treated him well enough so far, but he knew that he needed to impose his will on the beast or it would come to ignore him. It was a daunting prospect; the horse was so huge and he was so small.

  Wolfram glanced back over his shoulder with an expression that said more than any words could. His eyes were wide with excitement and Wulfric knew that he had found their prey. His father reached for his spear and spurred his horse to a gallop. Wulfric’s horse needed no such encouragement. By the time he had lifted his foot to spur it on, it had already started its pursuit. They plunged through undergrowth and dodged trees as they galloped on. He was thankful his horse needed no guidance, as he could barely react quickly enough to each approaching obstacle.

  Gone now was any semblance of stealth, as the horses crashed through the brush with a thundering of hooves, rustling of leaves, and snapping of branches. Wulfric’s thighs burned as he gripped onto the saddle with all his strength. With or without him, his horse would complete the chase.

  His father struck down with his spear. It looked as though he was stabbing a bush, but there was a loud squeal. Wulfric managed to stop his horse, and waited for his father to bid him forward. Wolfram urged his horse on as he stood in his stirrups, pressing forward on his spear with all his weight as well as the strength of the horse.

  ‘The long sword! Draw it!’ Wolfram shouted above the squeals and thrashing in the bush in front of him.

  Wulfric’s ears were flooded by the raging noise, and he could feel his heart pounding as he tried to do his father’s bidding. He drew the odd-looking weapon from its sheath, his hands shaking so much he feared he would drop it. It had the handle and cross-guarded hilt of a sabre, but the blade—if it could be called that—was long and straight. It was square in cross section, and unsharpened for most of its length. Only the final part, about the length of Wulfric’s forearm, splayed out into a double-edged blade with spear-point tip. It was an unwieldy thing, and Wulfric had to concentrate to keep it under control.

  ‘Come forward! Quickly!’ Wolfram shouted.

  Wulfric’s horse moved forward, eager to be part of the action. His father’s spear was embedded in the shoulder of the largest boar Wulfric had ever seen. He was struggling to keep it pinned to the spot with his spear. Despite this, it was far from beaten. Its eyes were red with rage and its mouth foamed. It squealed and snarled and Wulfric found it hard to tear his eyes away from the large jagged tusks that curved up out of its mouth.

  ‘Finish it! Quickly!’ his father said. ‘Stab it through the throat, and on as far as you can reach.’

  Wulfric took a deep breath. He had never killed anything before and knew that this was the moment that would make or break him in his father’s eyes. He struggled to hold the long sword steady and felt his heart race. He looked at the raging boar as it fought to remain standing under the weight of Wolfram’s spear. Wulfric lunged forward with the sword, while he clung onto the saddle with his legs so hard they burned.

  As he did, he heard a violent rustle in the bushes behind him, and a ferocious snarling screech. Wulfric’s horse turned in reaction to the new danger, throwing Wulfric off balance. A boar, almost as large as the one his father was struggling with, emerged from a bush. Wulfric’s horse kicked at it. Wulfric dropped the sword and grabbed onto the first thing he could for support; the hunting spear secured to his saddle. The horse kicked again, and Wulfric went flying through the air.

  He could see his father struggling to keep his horse under control, while also continuing to pin the first boar in place with his spear. The scene felt as though it was playing out in slow motion, all but for the ground, which rushed toward Wulfric far more quickly than he would have liked.

  His fall was not as heavy as it might have been; he landed in a bush that bore the brunt of his weight, but he was dazed and battered. As he shook the stars from his head, he realised that he was still clinging onto the spear, which had been ejected from the horse along with him. His father was twisting in his saddle, trying to get into position to kill the huge boar he had trapped. Until he did, he would not be able to help Wulfric. To let the first boar go now could mean a violent and painful death for them both. He supposed that his father could always have more sons. Wulfric knew that if he was to survive the next few moments, it would be up to him.

  His horse was stamping at the second boar, but not having any success. While it was huge for a boar, it was smaller than his mount and more agile. It ducked and dived out of the way, squealing and snorting in rage. It spotted Wulfric, and paused for a moment. Wulfric made a more attractive opponent than a raging warhorse.

  ‘Run, boy! Climb a tree!’

  There was panic in his father’s voice. Wulfric did not think he had ever heard him sound like that before. The boar stamped its hoof on the ground and with a loud snort, charged. Wulfric pushed himself backward into the bush with his feet and lowered the spear, his eyes fixed on the boar’s long tusks. They looked as though they could cut right through him.

  Still on his backside, he wedged the spear butt against his shoulder and leaned forward as the boar came within reach. The shock of the impact knocked the butt free with a tremendous, painful jolt, and the shaft struck him hard against the jaw as it was twisted from his hands. There was a blood-curdling squeal, and with his wits knocked from his head for the second time in as many minutes, Wulfric feared it might have come from him.

  He fought through the confusion in his head, and the maelstrom of noise and movement around him. He caught hold of the spear and threw his full body weight on top of it. Wulfric’s heart beat against his chest so hard he thought it would break through. He gasped for breath as he tried to hold the spear down. The boar thrashed about in fury. The tugs on the spear grew less forceful until they were no more than twitches. There was another loud squeal to Wulfric’s right. He looked up to see his father finishing off the first boar.

  A moment later his father was standing over him.<
br />
  ‘Are you all right, boy?’

  ‘I think so. My shoulder hurts.’

  ‘It’s never a good idea to brace a spear against yourself; always use the ground and press on it with your foot if you can. Anything else solid will do if you can’t. I doubt you’ll forget that lesson though.’ He chuckled and reached down to the boar impaled on Wulfric’s spear. He dabbed his fingers into the blood before he turned to Wulfric and smeared the blood across his face. Wulfric was taken by surprise and flinched.

  Wolfram smiled. ‘You’re a blooded hunter now. It’s a fine kill. Well done. Your mother will be pleased.’

  4

  Wulfric could feel the bulk of the boar he had killed slung over his saddle behind him, matching the one on his father’s horse. It was the most satisfying thing he had ever experienced.

  He was still amazed that he had managed to kill it. It was only a boar, and he realised that as a warrior he would be expected to kill a man without hesitation, but how much more difficult could it be? Could he perhaps have what it took to be a warrior after all? The thought kindled the faintest flicker of hope inside him, but it still seemed too much to believe.

  With a fine kill to each of their names, they could return home that evening rather than spending the night in the forest as originally planned. At a good pace, they would be back not long after nightfall, with him a newly blooded hunter. He couldn’t wait to tell Adalhaid.

  THEY WERE MOVING through a clearing when his father held out his hand and halted. He was staring at the tree line to their right so Wulfric followed his gaze. The light was failing and it was difficult to make anything out. He moved up beside his father.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘There’s no sound.’

  That was exactly what Wulfric thought, not seeing his father’s cause for concern.

  ‘The insects have gone quiet over there. That means something big moving about.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Perhaps. The scent of a freshly killed carcass can attract far worse than men, though. Stay as quiet as you can. Let’s get moving. Keep your eyes and ears open.’

  Wulfric could sense his father relax when they reached the tree line and returned to the cover of the woods. As soon as they were concealed within, he turned to the right and they made their way along the edge of the clearing, still hidden by the trees, heading toward the source of Wolfram’s concern. It occurred to Wulfric that they would be better off heading away from it, but that was not how warriors behaved.

  His father halted and again held out his hand for Wulfric to stop. It was almost completely dark, and Wulfric could make out the faint flickering of light against the trunks of some of the trees. Wolfram slipped down from his horse and gestured for Wulfric to do the same.

  They crept toward the source of the light, moving between bushes and trees in the hope of staying out of sight. Wulfric spotted the source a short distance away and crouched down behind a bush beside his father. There were four men gathered around a campfire, chatting quietly, their voices barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

  ‘Who are they?’ Wulfric whispered.

  ‘Not from Leondorf anyway.’

  ‘Rasbruckers?’

  Wolfram nodded. ‘Quiet now. Don’t let them hear us.’

  Wulfric was more interested in watching his father than the men sitting by the campfire. He had taken a step in the right direction that day by killing the boar, even if he had been terrified on the inside. Either he had done a good job of concealing it, or his father had chosen not to see it. He had no desire to undo all he had done by making a mistake or doing something foolish.

  Watch, listen, and be careful, he thought. He could learn a lot from this experience, and he did not intend to waste the opportunity. His father crouched on one knee and was completely still, watching the campfire between a gap in the leaves of the bush they were hiding behind. He barely blinked and Wulfric could see the firelight reflected in his eyes.

  Wulfric had never been so close to Rasbruckers before, and had certainly never seen one. The name of the neighbouring village was a byword for anything bad; any individual of questionable moral character was assumed to have Rasbruck ancestry, irrespective of where he came from, and to be called a Rasbrucker, or have your behaviour likened to that of a Rasbrucker, was one of the most potent insults available to someone from Leondorf.

  They did not look any different to people from Leondorf. He realised that it was silly to think that they would, but nonetheless it came as something of a surprise when they looked so ordinary. He half expected deformities, crazed, manic behaviour; something, anything, that would mark them out as being his natural enemy. He was disappointed. It was more difficult to hate someone who looked just like the man who lived in the next house.

  ‘I’ve seen enough, let’s go,’ Wolfram whispered.

  As Wulfric moved back, he brushed against a bush. Not so much as to cause noise, but enough to disturb what was sleeping within. A partridge burst from it in a racket of rustling, squawking, and flapping as Wulfric looked on in horror. There was an immediate reaction from around the campfire. Wulfric’s was to freeze on the spot. Would they dismiss the noise as nothing more than a bird spooked by a nocturnal animal?

  It didn’t seem that his father was willing to take the chance. ‘Run,’ he whispered, placing a guiding hand on Wulfric’s back as he started to do so himself.

  ‘Hey!’

  The call came from behind. They were spotted. No hope for getting away unseen now. Wulfric knew he was holding his father back, as the pressure of his hand urging Wulfric on was constant. He went as fast as he could, but as with all other things, in running he had always lagged behind the other boys of his age.

  He could hear the men from the campfire crashing through the undergrowth behind them as he and his father ran for their horses. The thought occurred to Wulfric that one of their pursuers might have a bow, and that at any second an arrow could skewer him in the back. The notion sent a shiver down his spine—but they reached the horses unperforated, where Wolfram grabbed Wulfric under the armpits and threw him onto his horse.

  ‘Ride for home. Don’t look back, and don’t stop for anything,’ Wolfram said, as he expertly swung up into his own saddle.

  Wulfric nodded as he wheeled his horse around. Then they were off, and the sounds of the Rasbruckers, still on foot, faded into the forest night.

  THEY RODE HARD ALL the way home. By the time the forest gave way to the outer-lying pastures of Leondorf, his backside and thighs hurt like he did not think possible. It was only then that his father slowed to a trot, and allowed the near-exhausted horses to catch their breath.

  He looked over at Wulfric with a smile on his face. ‘Nothing like a little excitement to give you an appetite, eh?’

  His face was animated. Wulfric’s barely concealed the terror he was feeling. He tried to mirror his father’s levity, but even feigning it required more energy than he had left.

  WULFRIC SAT in the classroom and shifted on his hard wooden seat, his backside still sore from the hours he spent in the saddle the day before. It had been too late to call on Adalhaid when he got home, and he was impatient for the class to end so that he could tell her all about his adventure.

  He realised that Aethelman the Priest was staring at him, distracted by his squirming. Aethelman ran the small school in the village’s kirk, teaching the basics of reading and numbers to the town’s girls and the children of tradesmen and merchants. No warrior’s child attended, aside from Wulfric. The skills learned there were not considered necessary for hunting, ranging, or defending the village. At first he had attended because Adalhaid spent every morning there, and then, as his peers all began their warrior training, because he had nothing else to do. He was not the most attentive of students, and usually spent the classes dreaming up great adventures. That day, he had a real one to pore over.

  ‘Wulfric. Wulfric!’

  The second call shook him fro
m his imagination and dreams of being a warrior, and he looked up to see Aethelman standing by his small desk.

  ‘Be so good as to go into the back room and fetch out a fresh bottle of ink.’

  Wulfric nodded and got up from his seat while Aethelman continued with the lesson. He always asked Wulfric to do the small errands, an acknowledgement of his lack of participation in the class. Wulfric was glad to be a help, however, so did it without hesitation.

  The back room was Aethelman’s private space. It was where he slept, kept his personal things, prepared his potions and poultices. Aethelman made the ink for their classes himself from powders and liquids that he stored in small glass bottles that fascinated Wulfric. He quickly spotted the freshly prepared bottle, took it up and turned to leave. As he did, his eyes lingered on a strange object that he had not seen before. It sat on a small table beside Aethelman’s modest cot-bed. He stepped closer for a better look; it was too fascinating to ignore. The room was dim, but the object—which looked not unlike a large potato—glistened as though made of metal. The surface was rough, and it was only as he neared it that he realised it was covered in finely etched symbols.

  It was an ugly thing, and Wulfric could not understand why it intrigued him so. He stared at it a moment longer before giving in to temptation. He reached out. His fingertips tingled in an uncomfortable way as they touched the cold metal. His heart quickened and he quickly withdrew his hand. For a moment the object seemed to emanate a pale blue glow, causing Wulfric to panic that he had started whatever it was it did. The glow faded as quickly as it had appeared. He took a deep breath of relief, but felt dizzy, and his stomach turned in the way it often did before he vomited. He took another deep breath to steady himself and walked out of the backroom, hoping he had not delayed too long to draw questions.

  He handed Aethelman the bottle of ink without a word and sat at his desk, trying to swallow the feeling of nausea and ignore the headache that had joined it.