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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘Ohhh,’ came the reply.

  Adalhaid sprang to her feet and strained to see from behind them. He was sparring with someone, Kolbein she thought from the mop of shaggy red hair. She had noticed how much Wulfric had trimmed down, but now that the girls pointed out the other changes, she noticed them too, and felt her heart beat a little quicker. His jaw was defined now, and bore the smudge of an early effort to grow a beard. His arms were corded with muscle and glistened with sweat in the winter sun. Ohhh was her reaction too.

  ‘BETTER MAKE IT LOOK GOOD,’ Kolbein said, nodding to the spot where the girls spied on them from.

  ‘What? Why?’ Wulfric said, taking the opportunity to grab his breath. He continued to circle Kolbein, wary that it was a ruse to put him off guard.

  ‘See anyone you recognise?’ Kolbein said.

  Wulfric cast a glance over his shoulder, looking up to the hill. He could see the cluster of girls gathered there, thinking themselves obscured by the undergrowth. In their midst was Adalhaid. Their eyes met, and even from that distance, he could see her face go bright red. Wulfric stood straight and sucked in what was left of his gut as best he could, and she dropped from sight as though she had dived for the ground. He smiled, and was rewarded with the hard crack of Kolbein’s training sword across his arm. It didn’t take the smile from his face, however.

  13

  Spring slowly loosened winter’s grasp on the village of Leondorf, and where for months there had been nothing but white, there were once again browns and greens. As soon as the winter snows thawed enough for safe travel, Donato began his search for cattle. The Rasbruckers would not wait long, and Donato needed every moment to secure what he required.

  He stood watching a herd of cattle that belonged to the warriors of a village called Belindorf, two days west of Leondorf. He was as interested in the herdsmen as the beast, and was quick to note that there were not enough to control a herd that size if someone was trying to steal them.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Donato did his best not to jump at the unexpected voice. ‘Fine looking beasts,’ he said.

  ‘They are fine beasts,’ the previously unnoticed herdsman said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Urrich dal Sonburg,’ Donato said, holding out his hand to shake.

  The herdsman did not reciprocate. ‘Southerner?’ he said.

  ‘Ruripathian,’ Donato said, his accent and clothing both tailored for that deception. ‘I’m interested in buying some cattle. These beasts are the best I’ve seen. Are they for sale?’

  ‘My lord’s not interested in selling,’ the herdsman said. ‘No right-minded man would be.’

  It was exactly as Donato had expected, not that he had any interest in paying. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

  ‘Not likely to have much luck,’ the herdsman said. ‘Best off heading south again. Those fancy clothes don’t look warm enough for hereabouts.’

  Donato didn’t need to be told twice. He had seen all he needed to see.

  PROGRESS WITH GREYFELL felt tediously slow, but Wulfric knew he was building a relationship for life. He had spent the winter months working on it, and did his best to be patient. After weeks of walking Greyfell around the paddock and sharing apples with him, Wulfric knew he had reached the point where he could not put off trying to ride him any longer. It was a daunting prospect, and as well as their relationship had progressed, Wulfric knew saddling and mounting him were steps up to a higher level—a level that Greyfell might not be at all happy about.

  Wulfric’s father had said Greyfell was saddle broken, but Northland stallions had to be broken again by each individual rider. The stallions seemed to have their own concept of social status, and were more discriminating in that than even the most snobbish person. Greyfell might like Wulfric—and might enjoy the apples Wulfric brought him—but that did not mean he would condescend to allowing Wulfric on his back.

  Wulfric started as he always did, by putting on Greyfell’s bridle and sitting on the paddock’s fence, eating and sharing an apple. He had brought out a saddle with him, and left it sitting beside him on the fence, where Greyfell could see it. He undoubtedly knew what it was, and Wulfric reckoned he knew what it meant. He shaved slice after slice from the apple with his knife, far thinner than usual, making it last longer, putting off for as long as possible what Wulfric was sure would involve many hard falls to the muddy ground.

  With the apple whittled down to the core—Greyfell’s favourite part—there was no more delaying. Wulfric swung his legs over the fence and dropped down into the paddock. Greyfell remained where he was; usually he would move into the centre of the paddock in anticipation of being walked, but today he knew there was something different.

  Wulfric did his best not to show any fear, and focussed on all the steps he needed to take to saddle Greyfell. He took the thick woollen blanket and placed it over Greyfell’s back. The horse watched him suspiciously, but made no effort to move or bolt away. Wulfric reached back for the saddle, not taking his eyes from Greyfell for a second. To turn his back on the horse would be to invite disaster. He hefted the saddle from the fence slowly. Greyfell twitched his head and stamped one of his feet, but remained still as Wulfric approached him with it.

  Wulfric held his breath as he stretched to lift the saddle up to Greyfell’s back. He expected Greyfell to bolt, and add in a kick for good measure. Wulfric had seen his response when another horse got too close to him in the paddock, and had no desire to be on the receiving end of that kind of treatment. He eased the saddle down onto Greyfell’s back, ensuring that it was square and centred. Still no response. Wulfric let his breath whistle out from between his teeth. So far so good, but the hardest part was yet to come.

  He loosened the cinch and set the stirrup before returning to the other side, Greyfell watching him closely all the while. He fastened the cinch and checked it twice before setting the second stirrup.

  Wulfric thought about trying to mount there and then, but the sudden shock might be enough to push Greyfell beyond the boundary of his patience. Wulfric went to his head and stroked his muzzle, wishing that he had brought a second apple with him. He tried to read something, anything, from Greyfell’s eyes, but whatever was going on in his mind was a mystery to Wulfric.

  There was no cause for further delay. Wulfric went to Greyfell’s side and took a firm hold on the saddle. He lifted his foot and slipped it into the stirrup, gradually increasing the weight he placed on it. He could feel his rear foot start to rise from the ground when Greyfell shifted. Wulfric’s rear foot was thrown from underneath him, and it was only the firm hold he had on the saddle that stopped him from falling backward.

  He pulled hard on the saddle’s pommel and swung his leg over. He slowly sat upright, and wondered how long he should wait to allow Greyfell to get used to the idea before urging him to walk forward. The decision was made for him.

  Greyfell bucked, kicked, and started around the paddock at a canter. It was only Wulfric’s caution that saved him. His knuckles had been white on the pommel from the moment he laid his hands on it. Clinging on desperately, he squeezed his thighs for all they were worth in an effort to keep his feet in the stirrups.

  The other horses scattered to stay out of Greyfell’s way, voicing their protests loudly. The commotion drew the attention of the stable hands, who came out of the stable building to see what was going on. A few shouted words of advice, but Wulfric was too occupied to pay them any heed. It felt as though his brain was being rattled out of his skull as Greyfell bucked and thrashed wildly. Still Wulfric clung on. With an audience, there was also his pride to think of. To be thrown would make him into a joke.

  He could feel his palms grow slick with sweat. Each jolt tugged at Wulfric’s grip, and with each one his hand slipped a little farther. Greyfell screamed in anger, showing no sign of tiring. The shouts were still coming from the stable hands, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that other passers-by had joined them.

  Greyf
ell twisted and kicked. Wulfric’s right foot slipped from the stirrup and he was tossed to the left. Somehow his other foot remained secure, and between it and his grip on the pommel, he was able to stay in contact with the saddle. He could hear the gathered audience’s reactions, but fought to keep his head clear of any distraction. His arms were starting to burn and his hands had gone numb. Would the horse ever tire?

  The idea of letting go and throwing himself clear was growing ever more appealing. If it looked intentional, it might even allow him to save some face.

  As abruptly as he had started, Greyfell stopped dead. There was no sign of him having tired himself out—it felt more like he had simply gotten bored with his behaviour and chosen to end it. Wulfric slipped his loose foot back into the stirrup and adjusted himself so he was secure in his saddle.

  He sat counting each breath as he waited for Greyfell to do something, anything, but he remained still, drawing in great lungfuls of air and glowering at the people gathered by the fence. Was he waiting for Wulfric to do something? Wulfric tentatively lifted his feet to spur Greyfell, but reminded himself what any hint of hesitation would bring. He urged the horse on as authoritatively as he could. On command, Greyfell broke into a trot.

  Wulfric turned him when they reached the fence, then spurred him on to a canter. Greyfell responded instantly and Wulfric smiled broadly as they accelerated. The onlookers were still there, still watching, and Wulfric suspected they were disappointed he had not been ejected from the saddle. He had to force himself not to laugh aloud when Greyfell snapped at anyone within reach as they passed by.

  14

  Adalhaid sat and placed a rectangular wooden box on the table before sitting down. Without saying a word, she opened it to reveal a collection of polished discs of ebony and bone and two dice.

  ‘What is it?’ Wulfric asked, as she began to space the discs out along the patterned interior of the box.

  ‘It’s a game,’ Adalhaid said. ‘Aethelman got it from a southern trader and gave it to me. He said it’s very popular there. I thought it’d be fun to play.’

  ‘All right,’ Wulfric said, eyeing the pieces suspiciously. He could feel Spot flop down on his feet under the table, and wondered why the dog always chose to sit on them. It was of little inconvenience when he was small, but he was growing fast and his weight pinned Wulfric’s feet to the floor. He returned his attention to the board and could think of many things that struck him as being more fun than moving polished pieces around a wooden board. ‘How do you play?’

  ‘It’s probably easiest if I show you as we go along. Basically, you have to move all of your pieces to the end of the board. You roll the dice, and each turn you can move them that many places. If you land on one of your opponent’s pieces, that piece goes all the way back to the start. Understand?’

  Wulfric nodded.

  They got started, and at first, Adalhaid’s pieces seemed to move toward their goal at a blistering pace. As the rules became clearer to him, his began to catch up, until it was obvious even to him that they were heading toward a stalemate, one that would be decided by whoever had the luckiest roll of the dice.

  He rolled a four, moved his final piece, and realised he was holding his breath as Adalhaid took her roll. A six. He hadn’t expected to win, but his competitive instinct had been well honed by all the training, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

  ‘Can we play again some time?’ he said.

  Adalhaid smiled. ‘Any time. I didn’t think you’d like it.’

  He gathered up some of the pieces, and Wulfric handed them to her. His hand brushed hers. He could feel her warmth, and how soft her skin was. He realised she was looking at him oddly, their hands still touching. He wanted to take hold of it properly, but as he tried to build up the courage to say something, do something, Spot let out a thunderous fart.

  ‘YOU’VE BEEN SPENDING a lot of time with her lately,’ Frena said.

  Wulfric looked up from his plate. The comment was entirely unexpected and out of context. However, there could be no doubt it was Adalhaid she was referring to. He suspected his mother had been looking for a way to bring the matter up for some time, but failing to see the opportunity, had decided to force the matter.

  ‘Yes. I see her most days,’ Wulfric said. His father was out, so there were only the two of them at the dinner table.

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  Wulfric frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘You’re not children any more,’ Frena said. ‘People will start to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know that one day you’ll be married to Svana. It’s been arranged ever since you were infants. How do you think it makes her feel to see you with Adalhaid all the time?’

  ‘I don’t really care. She’s haughty, and has never once in her life said a friendly word to me.’

  ‘Be that as it may, she will be your wife and it will make your life far easier if you start off on good terms with her. It won’t be long before you’re formally betrothed to her.’

  Wulfric said nothing. The uncomfortable silence was only disturbed by the crackling of the fire. Wulfric took a moment to swallow his growing anger. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t see Adalhaid any more?’

  ‘Of course not. You two have been inseparable since childhood. I just think that you should see less of one another. Spend more time with your new friends.’ Frena smiled in the way she always did when she thought she had won an argument with his father.

  The smile made it more difficult for Wulfric to quell his anger. That she would think it a good idea he disregard the one person who had been true to him his entire life and prioritise people who would not even have spat on him only a few months before was beyond his comprehension.

  ‘I’ll see who I like, whenever I like, for however long I like,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Be careful,’ Frena said. Her voice was harder now. ‘The mistakes you make now, you may have to live with for the rest of your life.’

  AT FIRST, Donato would not say why they were taking a sudden trip south to Elzburg. Rodulf assumed it was to watch him negotiate the sale of all the items they had stored in the new warehouse, but once they were well on their way his father revealed that he had found the solution to their cattle problem, and they were on their way to discuss the terms. He would not be any more specific than that, and most of the journey was carried out in silence. It frustrated Rodulf to be fed information piecemeal, but he was glad of the trip to the city. He had never been there, and was eager to see for himself all of the things he had heard about it. Everything a man could want was said to be there, a source for every pleasure and an outlet for every vice.

  It was not all idyllic, however. Rodulf realised that one needed money to enjoy life there; the more the better. He had heard tell of people begging on the streets, dressed in filthy rags. Coming from Leondorf, where nobody went without, it amazed him that a person could become so despised and overlooked. No one there ever went hungry, or without shelter. The fact that someone could fall so low terrified him. He wondered what they had done to end up there, whether it was misfortune or the just reward for some misdeed?

  The journey was not a comfortable one. Still only being spring, it was cold, but the roads had started to thaw and were a churned up mess in places. He would far rather have spent the time in front of a fireplace than in the saddle, but getting to the city was reward enough to make it worthwhile. His eyes widened with awe as the great redbrick walls with their copper green and slate grey roofed towers came into view. Even at a distance, he could see the steady stream of traffic in and out of the main gate; merchants and their goods going to and coming from all sorts of foreign, exotic places. It made the world seem so huge. Rodulf could still remember the first time he had ventured beyond Leondorf’s pasturelands. It had seemed like such a long way from home. He had no idea then just how much farther he could go. He still didn’t, but at least he was no longer steeped so deeply in i
gnorance.

  His father knew the city well, having visited it countless times over the years. Its merchants were his main contacts in the south, and the city was where he did most of his business. He led Rodulf up to the city gate, where they stabled their horses and continued on foot. Even outside the gate, there were hawkers, beggars, and boys offering to carry baggage. Donato shooed them all away and headed for the inn he always stayed at when there. When they realised he knew where he was going, and was not a naive bumpkin visiting Elzburg for the first time, they lost interest. Rodulf did his best to match his father’s indifference, not to stare at everything wide-eyed.

  The inn was a behemoth that made their new warehouse in Leondorf look like a small shack. Like all the other buildings on the street, it was coated with white plaster and capped with orange roof tiles. Inside it was spacious, bright, and busy. Men of all shapes and colours came and went, while others lounged on comfortable chairs in a communal area surrounding a great, crackling fireplace. His father chatted to a receptionist before a boy led them to a room three floors up. It was the highest Rodulf had ever been—higher even than the tallest tree he had climbed. He tried to peer out a window, but from that vantage point he could not make out the street below. It made his heart race to think of what would happen if he were to fall through it.

  The boy showed them to their room, and Donato gave him a penny. When the door was shut, and only the two of them remained, Donato spoke.

  ‘I’ve been put in contact with a band of reavers. They may be able to help us with our problem.’

  ‘We’ve come all this way to treat with thieving scum?’ The greater part of a warrior’s life involved chasing off or hunting down reavers. Northland cattle, oxen, and horses were in high demand in the south, and roving bands of thieves did their best to help themselves to the herds. His father’s face darkened at his comment, so Rodulf thought better of saying any more.