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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘I’ve thought long and hard on the next part, and have decided to pick up our story again three years on. There is little of note that we will be bypassing, merely the slow progression of a boy to the fringe of manhood. We return to the Northlands at a small forest clearing, by a campfire on a cold, dark evening, and to a man with whom we have only been briefly acquainted…’

  CAPTAIN MORLYN LOOKED over the writing on the scrap of paper one final time before pressing the tip of his tobacco twist into it. It took light quickly, bathing his hands and face in a pleasant, albeit brief, warmth. Winter was closing its grasp on the Northlands, and he would be damned if he was going to be caught north of the border when the snows came in. A warm inn with a good kitchen and clean beds was the place to be when that happened, and he had more than enough coin to see out his days in that style. The village the Northlander wanted them to reave was a long trek north—farther than he would like at the best of times and more than he was willing to accept at that time of year.

  For three years his arrangement with the Northlander merchant had been more profitable than he would ever have believed. Reaving had once been a subsistence living for him, and a source of constant shame for his mother, who had once delighted in telling everyone her son was a banneret. She spoke only of his brothers now—one a money lender, the other a trader in slaves—but that would change. He was a wealthy man, and the hardships of life on the trail were neither attractive nor necessary. One more reaving, and then it was home to a life of idle luxury.

  He had come to know the Northlands well since beginning their enterprise. He knew where the biggest bands of warriors were, and he knew the routes they took on patrol. He also knew of a cherry ripe for the picking. He had been eyeing it up for a year, but had left it alone for fear of spoiling their deal. He had no need for the deal with the Northlander now, and no reason not to go his own way. It might be more of a challenge than the others, but they had gotten very good at what they did and he was confident they could pull it off. One big reaving to top them all and retire. The thought warmed him more than the small campfire.

  Rasbruck had one of the largest herds of cattle he had ever seen. So many that they couldn’t even begin to keep watch on all of them. It made him wonder why Donato hadn’t sent them there already. Perhaps he thought it was too much for them. If he did he was a fool, and it would cost him. He would get the cut he was expecting from the other village and no more. The rest would be all theirs. Morlyn expected he could drive off several hundred beasts at least and be halfway to the rendezvous before anyone noticed they were gone. Would it be greedy to try for more than that, he wondered? It was his last job; he wanted to go out with a bang.

  ‘A FINE JOB AS ALWAYS,’ Donato said as he watched the cattle being herded into their secret corral deep in the forest. ‘You must have stripped them clean.’

  ‘We got the lot,’ Morlyn said. There was no need to tell him the truth of it. He had no idea how many cattle were up at the village they were supposed to go to, so had estimated how many to hand over, only a small proportion of what they had actually taken. He was giddy at the thought of how much he would make when he got the rest of them south of the border.

  ‘It’s a pleasant surprise,’ Donato said.

  ‘That was our last run of the year.’ It was his last run ever, but there was no need to tell Donato that.

  ‘I understand. I’ll be in touch in spring. There are more than enough beasts here to tide me over until then.’

  Morlyn wondered what he needed them all for. He must have had one of the largest herds in the Northlands. The savages liked their beasts more than coin, so he should have been about ready to set himself up as a king. He was welcome to it. Morlyn had no intention of ever coming north of the border again.

  WOLFRAM THE STRONG ARM sat atop his horse staring down at the tracks on the ground below, trying to contain the excitement he felt at having found them. For three years, he had heard talk of a band of reavers taking cattle as they pleased and disappearing back into the forest, not to be heard of until they struck again. They seemed to have a better knowledge of the Northlands than the average reaver, and no one had so much as caught a glimpse of them. He had expected them to pay a visit to Leondorf one day, and it was a surprise that they never had. So long as they were at large they were a threat, and Wolfram had stayed on the lookout for them every time he went ranging. They were ghosts, however, and the longer they went unseen, the more Wolfram wanted them.

  He studied the tracks to be certain of what they told him, although they were so obvious he could hardly believe they’d been made by his ghost reavers. They had never been so sloppy before. The tracks were fresh; no more than a couple of hours old. They were close. He waved the other warriors on and spurred his horse forward. They would have blood by nightfall, and tales to tell on the morrow.

  WOLFRAM WAS ELATED as he rode back into Leondorf with two heads dangling from his saddle. Angest and Eldric had one each hanging from theirs, and the others were driving a herd of cattle as large as he had ever seen back to the village. The heads would be mounted on posts, a message to anyone thinking of stealing Leondorf’s herds. Such was the treatment for reavers. None of the cattle bore brands, so there was no question of returning them to their owners and taking only a portion as their bounty for recovering them. It meant his share would double his herd. There could be no question that they had discovered and killed the infamous reavers.

  He spotted the merchant, Donato, as he rode through the village proudly displaying the heads so all could learn of their victory. The merchant’s eyes were locked on the heads, his face a picture of horror. It made Wolfram smile. Merchants had such weak stomachs.

  RITSCHL WATCHED THIETMAR, the First Warrior’s chief herdsman, count the cattle as they passed, as he did every time the Leondorfer’s payment arrived. It could not have come at a more welcome time for Rasbruck. Their herds had been rustled to nothing only a few days previously, and spirits were low. Trade had softened their attitude toward Leondorf, something that frustrated Ritschl. It could mean that his time there was wasted, and he would have to come up with a new plan. The deal had made the village wealthy, but that had been wiped out in one reaving and the recent payment would not go far in softening the blow. He wondered how he might exploit the discontent it created.

  ‘Stop them!’ Thietmar shouted.

  Ritschl had been turning back into his kirk, but stopped, curious. The herdsmen halted the slowly moving herd of cattle, and Thietmar walked forward for a closer look.

  Two seasons before, not long after Ritschl arrived at Rasbruck, one of Thietmar’s calves was set upon by wolves. The herdsman was close enough to drive them off before they could kill it, but the calf’s ear was ripped off and it took a number of other injuries. Ritschl remembered it well as he had helped heal some of the more serious injuries, glad of the chance to practice part-forgotten skills on something that could not complain. That calf—now a full-grown cow—had been taken off by the reavers. It stood before him now, among the other cattle Donato the Leondorfer had delivered.

  Ritschl made his way down to the cattle, and watched as Thietmar checked the beast for a brand.

  ‘I could swear I recognise that one,’ Ritschl said, hoping upon hope, but not really believing the Leondorfer could be that stupid.

  ‘I too,’ Thietmar said. ‘But there’s no brand. The flesh where it should be is as untouched as the day the cow was born.’

  He ran his fingers over the area on its flank and looked closely as Ritschl joined him. The damage to the ear was the same, as were some of the scars on its body. Ritschl waved his hand over the spot where the beasts were branded, and Rasbruck’s mark appeared. He did so again, and it disappeared once more.

  ‘A simple trick,’ Ritschl said, ‘but the truth always outs. I suspect you have found your reavers.’ The brand was genuinely there, still deep within the flesh, hidden only by a superficial healing. He could barely believe his luck.

 
Thietmar frowned. ‘Take them to the pens and hold them there until I say otherwise,’ he said. ‘The First Warrior will need to see this.’

  ‘THE LEONDORFERS HAVE NEVER BEEN our friends,’ Thietmar said. ‘And now it seems they think us fools as well. Do they think a little magic to erase brands will deceive us?’

  Gandack, the First Warrior of Rasbruck, stroked his thick black beard thoughtfully. It was his way to let the others do the talking before making his decision.

  Not a single voice among the village council was raised in opposition. Ritschl was tempted to lend his in support, but he knew he needed to take care with his words. He was supposed to be a priest, after all. It wouldn’t do for him to be the one to incite Rasbruck to war; he had to let them come to that choice by themselves. It was too tantalising a chance to let pass, however. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. It felt like a gift from the gods. It amazed him that the Leondorfers could be foolish enough to steal cattle only to try and sell them straight back, but it seemed that was what they had done.

  With his guidance, Rasbruck could wipe Leondorf from the face of the world, leaving him free to peruse the ruins at his leisure and take the Stone from the ashes of Aethelman’s kirk. He sat back and allowed the villagers’ vitriol to boil over. If everything went to plan, all he would have to do was give them a gentle shove in the right direction every so often.

  He watched as the warriors discussed the theft, the herdsmen adding their testimony that they recognised many of the cattle. Their outrage at the perfidy dripped from every word spoken. It seemed that Ritschl’s task was all but done for him. A divide began to form between those who were thirsty for blood and those who wished a more moderate approach. It was time for one of those gentle shoves.

  ‘It’s not my place to influence this council, but since taking up my responsibilities here I have come to care for the people of Rasbruck. I do not want to see you be taken advantage of, or suffer as a result. Reputation counts for a great deal, and when word of this event gets out the other villages and tribes will wonder how Rasbruck reacted. They will watch to see how she protects what is hers.’

  ‘What if it was just this one merchant?’ a member of the village council said. ‘We all know what merchants are like.’ There was a chorus of approval. ‘War might be a mistake.’

  ‘Do you really think a single merchant could do something like this?’ a warrior said. ‘Steal our cattle? Clean them of our brands? It was chance that Thietmar was able to recognise one of his cattle, and good fortune that we are blessed with a priest who could confirm his suspicion. Now everyone else has found that some of their animals are included.’

  ‘What say you, Priest?’ Gandack said. ‘Yours is always the voice of moderation.’

  Ritschl smiled inwardly that his careful counsel over the years had managed to position him so well. His patience had paid off.

  ‘How much more proof do you need, First Warrior?’ Ritschl said. ‘If we allow them to get away with it this time, they’ll do it again. All of your neighbours will look on Rasbruck as an unattended market stall, taking what they choose, when they choose. In months we will be left with nothing.’ He was careful to use words like ‘we’ and ‘our’ and ‘us’ at every opportunity. ‘I cannot condone violence, but neither can I stand by and allow the people I have come to love be stripped of all that is theirs.’

  ‘He’s right,’ another warrior said. ‘They are scum, and we have allowed them to take liberties with us. It is too long since we last showed them their place.’

  ‘I agree,’ another said. ‘We cannot allow this to go unanswered. All our neighbours will think us weak and take ever greater liberties. The priest is right. We will be left with nothing. We need to prepare our response. Will the gods bless us, Priest?’

  ‘I cannot imagine them withholding their beneficence in the face of such injury.’ Ritschl stopped himself from smiling. It wouldn’t do for the priest to smile at such a time.

  THE HOUR or two before everyone else woke was Wulfric’s favourite time of the day. The precious minutes were his own, with no demands from anyone else. He spent them in a fashion more akin to his childhood, quietly watching, thinking, imagining. The only difference was that Adalhaid was not at his side. He realised that each morning, as he looked out across thatched roofs and through the misty air, that he prayed for her return, but it was yet to happen. Three long years. It felt like a lifetime.

  There was an arrival that morning, however. A grey-robed man walked through the village. The few people already outside and starting their day paid him no attention—they were still either half asleep or too engrossed in their tasks. Wulfric paid attention though, as he did many of the things that seemed to pass beyond the notice of others. Even after three years of training, growing, and maturing, old habits died hard. Only one type of man dressed like the new arrival, which meant change. It meant a change that Wulfric knew he did not want. The life of a grey priest was a transient one, and there were precious few like Aethelman who established themselves with any semblance of permanency in one place.

  A village’s priest played an important role in preparing young men for their pilgrimage to Jorundyr’s Rock, and Wulfric had taken comfort in the thought that Aethelman would be the one aiding him in that. Wulfric still had two more years training at least before he would be allowed to go, possibly three. Aethelman’s presence was always a comfort; he could mend any broken bone and heal any cut. What would the new priest be like? Change was not always for the worse—Wulfric of all people knew this—but he did not want Aethelman to leave.

  21

  Later that evening, there was a knock at the door. It was usually Wulfric’s job to answer, but his father gestured for him to stay where he was and answered it himself. Wulfric sat by the fire, trying to absorb some of its heat into his sore, tired muscles. He kneaded a muscle in his shoulder with discomfort and irritation. It was always the same one that hurt after a particularly hard day’s training, his sword arm being taxed more than any other part of his body.

  He stopped what he was doing and looked up in expectation. Every time there was a knock at the door, part of Wulfric hoped it would be Adalhaid. That part had grown smaller over the years, but it remained. She had gone off to school in the south, promising she would be back in only a few weeks when the term ended. In three years she had not returned. He spoke with her mother from time to time, so knew that she was well and thriving. Her absence felt like a hole in the centre of him. She had not written, and his skill with letters shamed him too much to try to initiate contact. He had thought of asking Aethelman to write something for him, but was too embarrassed to reveal his thoughts and feelings even to one he trusted as much as the priest. He didn’t resent her though. How could he blame her for chasing her dream? Had he not done exactly the same? In any event, he would soon be betrothed to Svana, like it or not. They had sat together at a number of feasts over the intervening years, but it had always felt stilted and formal, as though they were both fulfilling a role, rather than trying to get to know the person they were to marry. She was to be his future, however, a choice Adalhaid seemed to have made easy for him.

  Wulfric still felt a sense of disappointment when Aethelman stepped across the threshold, though. Wolfram led him in and gestured for him to sit.

  ‘I hear that you might not be with us for much longer,’ Wolfram said.

  ‘No, sadly not,’ Aethelman said, as he sat. He gave Wulfric a nod. ‘It’s beyond time I moved on. Other responsibilities have been pressing on my mind ever more heavily for several years. I cannot in good conscience put them off much longer. We priests are not supposed to become too attached to any one place. We serve all of the gods’ people, not just some of them.’

  ‘You’ll be missed. There’s no way you can stay?’

  ‘No,’ Aethelman said, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll be able to pass back this way.’

  Wulfric felt his heart sink.

  ‘We’ll give
you whatever you need for your journey,’ Wolfram said. ‘It’s the least we can do. Say what you need, and it’s yours. This village is as much your home as it is mine.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but it’s not the reason I came. There’s something I have to tell you. A warning.’

  Wolfram moved to the edge of his seat, and Wulfric could see he was tense.

  ‘The new priest passed through Rasbruck on his way here. They were gathering warriors and preparing for a battle.’

  ‘Against whom?’ Wolfram said.

  Aethelman said nothing.

  ‘They can try,’ Wolfram said, sinking back into his chair and sitting more easily. ‘We’ll send them home with a bloodied nose as we always do. It’s probably just posturing, like game birds in mating season.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that. Warriors from other villages are joining them. They’re talking about cattle rustling that’s been going on over the past few years. They’re saying Leondorf is behind it all. The other villages have all suffered from it, and are throwing their support behind Rasbruck.’

  Wolfram frowned. ‘I caught those reavers weeks ago. Their heads are still on posts along the road.’

  ‘The blame is being laid at Leondorf’s door.’

  ‘Anyone with an ounce of brains will realise we had nothing to do with the reaving. They should be thanking us for putting an end to it. We didn’t have to. Our herds were never touched…’ Wolfram’s eyes widened. ‘What good will attacking do them? They’ll take a patch of land that we’ll take back next year when their extra warriors are gone.’