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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Rasbruck was the only village for miles around to rival Leondorf in size, and thus production. He could spend months travelling around the small villages, doing deals to get what he needed, or do it all in one fell swoop. The risk was high—Rasbruck and Leondorf were traditional enemies, although a state of peace had existed between the two villages for some time. Nevertheless, the profit was always the largest where the risk was the greatest, and Donato did not want his southern contacts looking elsewhere for their supply.

  With Rodulf’s dream of becoming a warrior at an end he needed to learn the family business, and a trip to Rasbruck would be a perfect opportunity. Financial gain was the main motivator, however. There was no future for them in the Northlands now. Rodulf would not get Donato his access to the Great Hall, and Donato would not stay in Leondorf while he and his family had to bow and scrape to the warriors.

  He already had plenty of coin, but it was not enough to be a man of substance in the south. Being comfortable was not what he had worked so hard for so long to achieve. He wanted more. He wanted influence and power. Both could be had in the south if he was wealthy enough. Coin was the only thing that mattered, and the Northlands was the ideal place to earn it. When he had enough, he would uproot his family and move south, where they would be merchant princes, and the Northland warriors could roll around in the muck in their furs and rough-spun cloth until the gods returned, for all he cared.

  There was never any time to waste with new opportunities. If one rested on his cogitations, he would be beaten to the goal. He made his arrangements quickly, and planned to leave before dawn the following morning—before any of his rivals were taken by the same idea.

  RODULF WAS SULLEN and quiet the next morning. All Donato got from him was a few grunts of acquiescence as they saddled their horses and rode out of the village. The Northlands were now firmly in the grasp of winter, and Donato expected it would only be a matter of days before snow drifts made the roads all but impassable. They were wrapped up warmly, and their breaths filled the air around them with a lingering mist. It mattered little to him. His only concern was how much gold it could put in his pocket. There was a seemingly endless appetite in the south for furs, amber, precious metals and gems. There was only so much one village could produce. If Donato could get his hands on Rasbruck’s, he would be a very happy man indeed.

  As they rode from the village, the only sounds were hooves on the muddy road and the occasional snorts from the horses. Donato let his mind drift to thoughts of what this new opportunity might mean.

  Everything would be better in the south. The weather, the food, the culture. Everything. If only they had the same respect for money north of the border, how different things would be. Land and wealth were the things the rulers of the south coveted most, and the Northlands had plenty of both. Dense forests and ferocious warriors bred for fighting in it had always kept the southerners on their side of the border, however, letting so much opportunity go to waste. Donato would exploit them for everything they were worth. By the time anyone realised the true value, he would have made a fortune several times over and would be counted among the most powerful men of the south.

  ‘MY KNEES and hips are getting too old for all this walking,’ Belgar said. ‘You’ll be taking these walks on your own before too much longer.’

  ‘Your belek wrestling days are certainly long behind you,’ Aethelman said.

  ‘Ha! Belek wrestling. Have you even seen one of the beasts?’

  ‘I have,’ Aethelman said. ‘As well you know.’

  Belgar became reticent. ‘Of course. I’d forgotten.’ They walked in silence for a moment. ‘How could I have forgotten something like that?’

  ‘It happens to the best of us,’ Aethelman said, hoping to sound as dismissive of the mistake as he could.

  Aethelman and Belgar walked together in the morning from time to time. Aethelman always looked forward to it. They were the two oldest people in the village, him by quite a substantial margin. Considering Belgar had been a renowned warrior in his day, and the village’s First Warrior for two decades, his age was far more impressive than Aethelman’s, even if it was the lesser by decades. Despite his white hair and heavily lined face, Belgar’s blue eyes were still intense with the vigour of a man a fraction of his age. That he still lived was testimony to his great skill in arms.

  Aethelman knew his own longevity was largely down to his connection with the energy that came from the gods, the same power which allowed him to mend bones and keep the old sword pressed to the ground every Jorundyr’s Day, among other things. The energy had been called the Fount beyond the southern border in the old days, when the Empire reigned and its mages travelled the world trying to learn its secrets. With the Empire long gone and magic outlawed, it had been all but forgotten there, in the great cities like Brixen or Ostenheim. Where the old gods held sway, magic still lived. The energy had other, older names, but most were long forgotten, or written in that unusual, ancient script that none could read. That was the time the Stone locked up in his room came from, a time when magisters walked beside the gods and were limited only by their imaginations.

  Aethelman liked to think that his own skill as a priest and healer was in some small way responsible for Belgar’s continued vitality, but he knew it could not last for much longer and the thought of losing his friend of so many years pained him. It was the curse of priesthood, and one of the many reasons they were encouraged to move on before they ever grew too attached to one place or one people.

  Aethelman enjoyed the conversations on their walks, content to listen as Belgar recounted the tales of his youth; the battles, the women, the mischief. Aethelman had been present for some of those tales, but he was content to hear them again all the same, enjoying how an old man’s weakening memory coloured events that were still as clear as crystal to Aethelman. It almost made the priest wish he had been born to the sword rather than the grey.

  Belgar’s voice was the only sound to break the still of the morning air until they neared the end of the pastureland, and the edge of the forest. Aethelman held out his hand to stop Belgar, pointing in the direction of a new sound. They rounded a stand of trees and were presented with the sight of Wulfric beating the hell out of a tree trunk.

  ‘He seems quite intent on killing that tree,’ Aethelman said.

  ‘Anything that can hit back seems to be too much for him to manage,’ Belgar said.

  ‘Oh? The broken nose wasn’t just a one off?’

  Belgar shook his head. ‘He’s coming to it too late. The others his age are far ahead of him. If he’s still in training by next summer, I’d be amazed. It’ll be disappointing for Wolfram, but that’s the way of things sometimes. Not everyone’s made for this life.’

  ‘He seems eager enough,’ Aethelman said. ‘I don’t see any of the others out here putting in extra hours.’

  ‘Hacking lumps out of a tree will teach him how to cut lumber, not how to be a warrior. He’s wasting his effort.’

  ‘Perhaps a little guidance would help.’ Aethelman let the comment hang in the air.

  It took Belgar a moment to pick up on the not-so-subtle hint. He tugged on the braids in his long white hair as he thought.

  ‘You mean I should help him?’ His grizzled old face contorted in disbelief.

  ‘Don’t you think all the extra effort he’s putting in deserves some acknowledgement? Reward, even?’

  ‘Come now. We’re training warriors, not milksops. Rewards aren’t deserved, they’re won. They’re taken. It’s his father’s responsibility anyhow.’

  ‘His father is First Warrior,’ Aethelman said. ‘I don’t recall you having much time for anything when that was your responsibility.’

  ‘He’s not the only one who doesn’t have time,’ Belgar said. ‘I have little enough of it left to be wasting it on him.’

  ‘I see potential in the lad. It’s late in coming, I admit, but it’s there. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.’

 
; ‘You’re giving me a headache to join my knee and hip aches, Priest,’ Belgar said. ‘You’re supposed to take them away, not add to them. I’m going back. See you later.’

  Aethelman remained where he was and watched Belgar walk back toward the village. Belgar’s surliness amused him. Aethelman knew the seed had been sown, although it might take a day or two for the idea to gnaw away at Belgar to the point where he acted on it. With a wry smile he turned back to look at Wulfric, still hacking at the tree oblivious to his audience. Aethelman was confident that if the boy kept coming back each morning, in a few days at the most he would be getting some unexpected private instruction.

  11

  Wulfric trudged toward his secret training spot while it was still dark. He had struggled to drag himself from bed, his tired body aching with every movement. He forced himself on in the knowledge that he desperately needed the extra practice. He reached the tree that served as his sparring partner. He had worn away all the grass near its base, and his constant attacks had cleared off a patch of bark revealing the pale wood beneath. He winced as he let go of his training sword, intending to start the day with the quarterstaff. The blisters on his hands were open and weeping. In the time since picking up his things before leaving the house, the wood had become stuck to his hand. Another day or two and he would not even be able to hold a weapon, let alone use it. He would have to call at the kirk on his way to training to get a salve from Aethelman.

  He tried to convince himself that it was all character building; that one of the tests of a warrior was enduring hardship and demanding the best from yourself all the while. He made a tentative jab at the tree with his quarterstaff. His hands seared with pain, while his muscles felt slow and heavy. It was a half-hearted attempt at best, a feeble one if he was being hard on himself.

  ‘Train smarter, not harder, boy!’

  Wulfric jumped at the sound of the voice, and it took him a moment to recognise it. Belgar stepped out from the trees. Just seeing Belgar made Wulfric feel inadequate. He had killed a belek at only fifteen, fought and won over a hundred personal combats, and earned his byname ‘Belgar the Bold’ many times over. He had been First Warrior for most of his life, before he handed that mantle over to Wulfric’s father. Now, at an age that few lesser warriors could hope to reach, he spent most of his time guiding the village council. Wulfric had heard him referred to as Belgar the Old once or twice, but never when he was within earshot. He was a man everyone wanted to impress.

  ‘Let me see those hands, boy,’ Belgar said.

  Wulfric set the quarterstaff down and gently separated his palms from the now sticky wood. Belgar was not a man to refuse, so Wulfric held out his hands.

  ‘You bloody little idiot,’ Belgar said. ‘They look like chopped meat. What do you expect to achieve with hands like those?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be a smart one, boy. I’d wondered if any of that learning would stand to you, but it looks like the time would have been better spent banging your head against that tree.’

  ‘I have to at least try,’ Wulfric said. ‘If I’m thrown out of training, it won’t be because I didn’t try hard enough.’ There was anger in his voice.

  Belgar studied him for a moment, scratching his short, white beard. ‘Go see the priest to sort those out. Then go home.’

  Wulfric’s heart dropped.

  ‘Eat, sleep, get those hands better. Come back to training in three days. Meet me here that morning. I’ll show you that training smarter doesn’t mean training harder.’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to know I was doing the extra work,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘No. I didn’t imagine you would. I won’t tell if you don’t. I’ll have every apprentice in the village knocking on my door if I do. Now go and do as you’re told. Back here in three days. And tell Aethelman if he doesn’t have your hands fixed by then, I’ll want to know the reason.’

  WULFRIC HEADED straight toward the kirk as Belgar had instructed him. He didn’t like missing training, but when Belgar told you to do something, you did it. Wulfric only hoped that he would let Eldric know, as excuses and explanations were never well received on the training glade.

  By the time Wulfric got to the kirk, the first pupil was arriving—the most diligent pupil, Adalhaid, with Spot only a few paces behind.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Excited at the prospect of another day of bashing lumps out of each other?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Wulfric said. Spot circled them, then made for Wulfric’s hands, which he tried to sniff and lick. Wulfric pulled them back protectively.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, reaching out and taking one of his hands. ‘What have you been doing to them?’ she added when she saw the damage.

  Wulfric shrugged. ‘Training’s been hard.’

  ‘It’ll be a lot harder without any hands. Which is how you’ll be if you continue like this. You best see Aethelman right away.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Wulfric said.

  Adalhaid frowned. ‘You mean it wasn’t to see me?’ She let him stew for a moment before smiling and punching him playfully on the arm. ‘Come on. There’s time for him to look at them before classes start.’

  He went inside with her, where Aethelman was setting up for the day’s class.

  ‘Wulfric,’ he said. ‘Planning a return to scholarly ways?’

  ‘He’s hurt his hands,’ Adalhaid said, before Wulfric had a chance to answer.

  She was looking after him, as she always did, but he didn’t need looking after anymore. He wondered how he could make her realise it, then wondered why it felt so important that he did.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ Aethelman said. He winced when he saw Wulfric’s hands. ‘That’s quite a mess, but nothing we can’t fix.’

  Aethelman held out one of Wulfric’s palms and lifted his other hand to it, then paused.

  ‘No,’ Aethelman said. ‘Let’s try something a little different. Adalhaid, give me your hand.’

  She did so, but with a puzzled expression on her face which mirrored the one on Wulfric’s. Aethelman lifted it and held it over Wulfric’s wounded palm.

  ‘Now, why did you bring Wulfric in to see me?’

  ‘Because I wanted you to heal his hands.’

  ‘Heal his hands. Exactly. Think about that desire. Concentrate on it.’

  Wulfric could see her brow furrow, as it always did when she was applying her mind completely to something. He stared at his hand, but nothing appeared to be happening. The furrow on Adalhaid’s brow increased to a full frown, and then she let out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I don’t know how.’ She turned and walked away in frustration.

  Wulfric said nothing. He was dumbstruck by the fact that he had felt a chill on his hand in the moment when she had frowned, just like he did when Aethelman healed him. It was not as strong, but he had not imagined it. Aethelman looked at him with the knowing expression he often had, the one that said he understood far more about the world around them than anyone else. Before Wulfric could say anything the chill returned, but with far more strength as Aethelman applied his own powers of healing.

  RODULF WAS SURPRISED when they arrived at Rasbruck the day after setting off. It didn’t look all that different to Leondorf. Like Leondorf, most of the buildings were built of wood and thatch, and several of the larger were constructed of cut stone and tiled with slate. The village was clustered around a cobbled square that was reached by a number of dirt roads and it was all surrounded by an earth mound and a wooden palisade. Just like Leondorf. People worked, children played, dogs barked. It was far removed from the vicious den of savages he was expecting. He could be forgiven for thinking he was back home. Perhaps his father’s plan to trade with them wasn’t such an insane idea after all.

  They were approached by armed men within moments of drawing into view of the village. Rodulf and his f
ather carried no weapons, and wore none of the accoutrements that could cause them to be mistaken as warriors.

  ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ one of the men said.

  ‘We’re friends of Rasbruck,’ Donato said. ‘We’re here to discuss trade with your village.’

  ‘From Leondorf?’

  ‘Yes,’ Donato said.

  The man gave both Rodulf and Donato a close look. ‘There’s an inn by the market square. Wait there and I’ll have someone meet with you.’

  Donato nodded his head. ‘I’m obliged to you.’

  They continued into the village and then headed toward a building that was unmistakably the inn. They tied their horses to a post outside, and went in.

  Everything about Rasbruck was a disappointment to Rodulf. For so many years he had believed it to be a stain on the face of the world, yet nothing he had seen so far stood out in any way from what he would expect at home. Rasbruckers, it seemed, were little different to Leondorfers.

  It was early in the day and the inn was quiet. Rodulf was glad to be out of the cold, having barely slept at their campsite the previous night because of it. They sat at a table, and Donato looked around. Rodulf tried to let the warmth penetrate his cold limbs.

  ‘What do you make of the place?’ Donato said, in a hushed tone.

  ‘Seems little different to Leondorf. I hope it’s worth having made the trip in that cold.’

  ‘It’ll be far colder in a few weeks,’ Donato said. ‘We’ll have the thought of all the extra trade to keep us warm then.’

  ‘Assuming the Rasbruckers let us leave here alive.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll let us leave,’ Donato said. ‘Trade is good for everyone. The trick is to make sure it’s best for you though. Watch, listen, learn. That’s why I brought you with me.’

  There was an innkeeper eyeing them curiously from behind his bar, but he said nothing and gave no indication that he would come over to see if they wanted anything. A bowl of hot broth would have been very welcome, but Rodulf suspected not forthcoming. They might even try to poison them. As similar as everything in Rasbruck was, he could not forget that they had been enemies for generations and despite the current peace, they were in danger for as long as they remained. The sooner their business was concluded and they were on their way home, the better.