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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Aethelman grimaced. ‘Donato sold them some cattle. Sold them back some cattle, I should say. Ones that were stolen from them a few days before.’

  The veins in Wolfram’s temples pulsed. He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Was he behind the reaving?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to believe so,’ Aethelman said. ‘It’s as likely he bought some of the cattle from the reavers hoping to make a quick profit. You know what he’s like.’

  Wolfram nodded. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’ He stood and showed Aethelman out.

  Wulfric’s mother appeared at the doorway to the back room when Aethelman left. ‘Why not hand him over? No one will shed a tear for him.’

  ‘I doubt it would do any good,’ Wolfram said. ‘As Aethelman said, there’s no proof that he had anything to do with the reaving, only that he bought some of the stolen cattle. They’re just using this as an excuse. It’s our territory they really want and they must reckon they’re strong enough to take it. Even if that wasn’t the case, Donato is born and bred in Leondorf and my responsibility as First Warrior is to protect everyone in Leondorf, him included.’

  Wolfram walked out right away, leaving Wulfric with his mother. He felt frustrated that he was still considered too young and untrained to be involved in the defence of the village. The warriors had ridden out of Leondorf in full battle array a number of times since Wulfric began his training—Rasbruck was not their only enemy—and each time they did he found it a little harder to remain behind.

  Wulfric could hear his father call out the names of the other councilmen as he walked to the Great Hall. It was always his way, and everyone knew it meant that trouble was coming.

  HOMECOMINGS WERE ALWAYS SAID to be something to be relished, but Rodulf found it difficult to view his that way. Each trip away made it a little bit harder to return home. After the wonders of Ostenheim, Brixen, and Voorn on the far side of the Great Sea, or the Middle Sea as the southerners called it, going home seemed like a punishment. At first, being sent away from Leondorf had felt like a failure, as though he was scurrying away with his tail between his legs. The only thing that eased the pain was the fact that he already had a taste of what the south had to offer, and was curious to experience more.

  Home, however, was where all their wealth came from. They had no great vineyards or glass foundries or shipyards to earn their coin, but they had a stranglehold on the things that the Northlands was rich in and that the southerners craved. His father had sent him south to learn how business was done there, to learn their culture, their habits, and as often as not their vices.

  He had had little time to think of home while in the south. There was always work of some sort to be done, and the merchants he was apprenticed to worked him hard. In his few free moments, there were too many diversions and pleasures to spare the Northlands and its boorish inhabitants a thought. The south would always hold a special place in his heart, but Leondorf would be the stronghold of his wealth. When the village finally hove into view, he could see that little had changed. It was incredibly disappointing.

  WULFRIC WATCHED the scouts ride out the next morning. The council’s reaction was to increase their watch on the northern roads and trails, and get a better idea of what they were all facing. Wulfric hoped they might send some of the apprentices out as scouts, as occasionally happened, but the threat was deemed to be too great to put the young men at risk.

  Wulfric lounged in a chair on the porch of his house with Hane and several of the other apprentices. They sat in tense silence, each of them trying to appear more relaxed than the next, aping the calm, distant stares the warriors had in times of crisis, but none of them managed it quite so convincingly. With all the warriors preparing for battle, they were given the day off. At moments like this, when he was anxious and uncertain, he felt Adalhaid’s absence keenly. She was his source of comfort and always had been.

  Wulfric jumped to his feet when the first of the scouts returned to the village. The others stood too. They sighed in unison when they saw Wolfram shake his head after a brief discussion with the scout and return to the great hall, and resumed their vigil. The scene was repeated over the course of the day, as the scouts continued to return until well after dark, none with any reports of enemy warriors. After they had all returned, the senior figures of the village made their way to the Great Hall.

  Wulfric waited until everyone was in the Hall, then hurried to a spot behind it where the wall was thin. He pressed his ear against the wall when he got there, and was able to recognise his father’s voice.

  ‘If we can’t find them on any of the roads or trails, it stands to reason that they’re still in Rasbruck.’

  ‘The scouts only covered half the distance. Not spotting anyone doesn’t mean they’re not marching toward us.’

  Wulfric did not recognise that voice, it was most likely one of the older warriors on the council.

  ‘True,’ Wolfram said. ‘Making any decision now is a risk, but we have to do so. They’re preparing to attack us. Aethelman trusts the information he got, and I trust Aethelman. We all do. If we attack now and they’re still gathering in Rasbruck, we can catch them by surprise and scatter them. If they are on the way here, they’ll still be too far off to expect attack. If we move fast, we can surprise them. Either way, I think we should attack. Now.’

  There was some murmuring and more subdued discussion for a few moments. Wulfric strained to hear, but couldn’t make out anything to indicate what the council’s sentiment was.

  ‘A vote then.’

  Wulfric recognised the voice as Belgar’s.

  ‘All in agreement with the First Warrior?’ Belgar said.

  There was a resounding chorus of assent. Leondorf would ride to war.

  THE MEMBERS of the council filed out of the Great Hall and Belgar made the announcement. Peace with Rasbruck had lasted far longer than anyone could believe. While no one was surprised, it meant that the warriors would be riding out to battle and that some of them would not be returning. To have a loved one die honourably was far better than to have them come home a coward.

  Armour needed last-minute repairs, blades required a final sharpening, and arrows had to be re-fletched. Despite the late hour, the craftsmen all hurried back to their workshops to prepare for the impatient warriors who’d be knocking on their doors.

  While the craftsmen and their families prepared for the rush, the warrior families tended to become reticent, quietly returning to their homes to help the warriors prepare for their departure. Wulfric’s mother was no different. He watched Frena drop her head slightly when the news was announced, before turning and making her way back to their house. It was the same for her every time, and Wulfric knew there was no way to comfort her. She’d pack travelling rations for Wolfram while he was readying his horse and giving his equipment a final check. Wulfric would do his best to stay out of the way as he always did. With the added frustration that he was not going along.

  He watched his father prepare everything, curious about how he readied himself for war, until everything was packed and there was nothing to do but wait. During those hours, with everything done, Wolfram always preferred to be left alone, trying to doze in his chair beside the fire.

  Wulfric knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, and part of him feared that if he did he would miss their departure. He took a bearskin cloak to fend off the night-time chill and went back out to wander around the village in search of a distraction.

  Even at that late hour, the village’s activity continued unabated. The air was filled with the ringing sounds of the smith’s hammer. Wulfric had nowhere in particular to go, so he walked around, looking out for anyone that he knew in the hope of a moment or two of idle chatter, but anyone still out of doors was busy.

  While the village was always tense before the warriors left, this was the worst Wulfric had known. The fact that the Rasbruckers had many additional warriors from the surrounding villages bothered everyone. Usually, it was not diff
icult to estimate how many men they would bring to battle. Now it was a complete unknown. No one could even guess how many men they would have, or of what quality they would be. Anyone could put on some armour, strap a sword to their waist and say they were a warrior, but as Wulfric knew only too well, it took years of training to truly earn the title.

  Svana was walking with some friends on the other side of the square. When she saw him she smiled, but did not move toward him. Since Adalhaid left, the general assumption seemed to be that there was no doubt as to Wulfric and Svana’s future together. Their betrothal would happen at some point before his pilgrimage, their marriage not long after he returned from it. It seemed inevitable.

  The assumption carried with it certain requirements of propriety, for which Wulfric was grateful. It required that they not spend any time together without an appropriate chaperone, which suited Wulfric perfectly. There were some advantages to formal courting—he was able to avoid her for most of the time without causing offence. The drawback was that, if anything, it seemed to make her keener. At times he felt as though she looked at him the way a butcher looked at a pig being fattened for the slaughter.

  WOLFRAM PACED THROUGH THE VILLAGE, his temper as great as his sense of impatience. There was little time for anything other than dealing with the crisis. That didn’t mean that Wolfram intended to let Donato off the hook. One way or the other, he had brought about this threat. There was no way to prove he knew the cattle to be stolen, or had a hand in their theft, but he should have known better. Why would he have dealings with Rasbrucker scum?

  He stopped outside Donato’s house, and paused for a moment, wondering if it was the appropriate time to broach the issue. The prospect that he might not have another opportunity decided it for him. Donato opened the door and was unable to mask his surprise at seeing the First Warrior standing there.

  Wolfram grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him struggling and squawking out onto his porch. He leaned down to Donato’s face, snarling.

  ‘Don’t think that I do not know what you did,’ Wolfram said.

  ‘I… I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Donato said.

  ‘Of course you do, worm. When I get back, we’ll get to the bottom of it all, and you’ll answer for it. Mark my words.’

  ‘I, I—’ Donato spluttered, but he was cut off by a savage backhand from Wolfram, who dropped him to the wooden floor.

  Wolfram looked back to the doorway. Donato’s one-eyed son stood there, watching. Wolfram spat and stormed away.

  THE WARRIORS of Leondorf assembled in front of the Great Hall when the sky began to brighten, sitting atop their war horses. They always rode out in full battle array, magnificent in three-quarter plate armour that covered them from head to knee, with weapons at the ready, even though it could be two days or more before they actually did any fighting. With the forests so thick, one could never be certain of the enemy’s position, so caution was taken from the moment they left the safety of the village’s palisade. Wulfric felt his heart race as he watched, the thrill of the prospect of being one of them tinged with the disappointment of not yet being so.

  Their armour had always fascinated him. Hundreds of hours went into making each warrior’s suit; dozens of finely shaped plates tailored to the wearer’s body, that would move smoothly over one another so as not to restrict movement. They ranged from the elaborately decorated to the austere. His father’s armour was well worn, well used, and well maintained, but his was one of the plainest suits. His helmet was the only concession he made to embellishment. It was rounded and enclosed his head completely, with two oval slits for his eyes and some smaller holes around his mouth to allow him breath. The faceplate was engraved and shaped into a nose, mouth, and stylised beard. The mouth was snarling and fierce; the helmet had terrified Wulfric when he was a child.

  The more established warriors that had won fame in battle had similarly decorated helmets. Angest had a helmet modelled on a ravening belek, said to be a terrifyingly accurate likeness, although Wulfric had never yet seen a live one. Others had chosen creatures both real and legendary, and the village’s smiths had created stylised helms for them, intended to identify the wearer and declaim their prowess in battle.

  Final farewells were said, as riders reached down to hug their loved ones, and then they were off. The square was the only part of the village that was cobbled, and so many horses made a great clattering noise until they reached the edge and passed onto earthen road. Everyone stood in silence and watched them go, no one leaving until no trace of them could be seen. No one liked seeing members of their family ride away to battle, but knowing that there were brave men ready to fight to protect the village was a great source of pride. There was a great victory waiting to be won, and great tales of heroism soon to be told.

  22

  Wulfric woke to the sound of a wailing woman. Two days had passed since the warriors rode out, so it was possible they had returned, with casualties by the sound of it. He climbed out of bed, pulled on some clothes and went to the window, squinting into the sunlight after the darkness of his bedroom. A lone rider was trotting slowly through the village square as though he was not sure where he was. He was a terrifying sight. His hair was matted and caked with gore, his armour was filthy, and his skin was liberally streaked with wounds and dried blood. Wulfric couldn’t recognise him.

  He went outside for a closer look. The wail seemed to have woken the entire village; other people were emerging from their homes to see what was going on. Wulfric rubbed the sleep from his eyes and squinted at the bloodied mess of a person who had come back to the village.

  It was Gondomar, one of the young warriors who had set off on his pilgrimage to Jorundyr’s Rock on the same day Wulfric began his training. This was his first proper battle. He looked little like he had the day he rode out with the other warriors. From the injuries he had suffered, it wasn’t likely he would ever resemble the favourite with the village’s young women that he had been. He was hurried into the Great Hall by the few members of the council who were too old to go into battle, against Aethelman’s protestations.

  Wulfric was so shocked by Gondomar’s appearance, he momentarily forgot about his father. Wolfram had led nearly one hundred men out from the village and only Gondomar had returned. What had happened to his father? What had happened to the rest of them?

  Wulfric started toward the spot at the back of the Great Hall, but stopped. He did not want to hear what was being said inside. He waited until Belgar exited, delaying what he was afraid to hear for as long as he could.

  ‘There was a battle on the road to Rasbruck,’ Belgar said.

  There was complete silence, as more and more people arrived in the square to hear the news.

  ‘Our warriors were ambushed by a much larger force. Gondomar tells me that there are other survivors, and they will be returning slowly behind him. He could not say who, or how many. There have been heavy casualties, however, so you should all prepare yourselves. I will tell you anything more that I learn from him. There will be wounded among those that return, some badly. They will require help as soon as they arrive.’ The news relayed, Belgar returned inside.

  Sound returned to the square—a cacophony of murmurs; concerned, fearful, hopeful. Wulfric stood in a stupor. Belgar had not said defeat, but the tone of his voice had done that for him. How could men, indestructible men, like his father, Angest, Eldric and the others have been beaten?

  He saw his mother in the crowd, her face as white as fresh snow. Wulfric took her by the arm and led her back home, where they would have to wait for more news.

  THE SURVIVORS ARRIVED LATER that afternoon, so worn and beaten looking that Gondomar had looked fresh and rested by comparison. There were only a dozen of them, all wounded, most two to a horse. Wulfric ran down to the square when he heard of their arrival. He saw Angest and Eldric sharing a horse, both slumped on the saddle and looking as though they needed one another’s support to remain upright.
He scanned the other bloodied and swollen faces for his father’s. It was not among them.

  He felt dizzy as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. His father was such a powerful, indomitable man. How could he possibly have fallen in battle? It wasn’t possible. As he stood there, looking from one face to the next, unable to believe that Wolfram wasn’t there, he saw Belgar standing on the Great Hall’s steps and looking about in consternation. He spotted Wulfric and walked over.

  ‘I know it’s not the easiest time, lad, but we’ll need to go out and bring the others home. I’ll need your help. Round up some of the other apprentices. We should leave as soon as we can.’

  ‘There’re no more coming?’ Wulfric said. He already knew the answer, and he felt childish and ashamed for asking the question.

  Belgar shook his head. ‘No one else is coming. The Rasbruckers got it just as bad. The Beleks’ Bane said there were twice as many of them; lots of seasoned warriors that he’d never seen before. Not so many of them now though, not that it makes things any better.’

  ‘Will Angest live?’

  Belgar chewed his lip. ‘I don’t know. He’s a stubborn bastard, but that’s the only thing that’s kept him going this long. He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘I’ll go and get the others,’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I’ll be waiting in the square. Tell them to bring their own horses. That’s all they’ll need.’ He gave Wulfric a nod and headed back the way he had come.

  THERE WERE three large ox-wagons waiting in the square when Wulfric got back with the other apprentices. The oxen were heavy, squat animals with shaggy dark fur, more biddable than red-coated cattle. Wulfric felt like vomiting, but knew he had to maintain face in front of the others.

  All he could do to settle his stomach was to try not to think about the task ahead. Every time he allowed his mind to drift to it, he felt torn between vomiting and weeping. He stared into the distance as the wagons bounced along the road north but could find no distraction—numbness was the best he could hope for. The fat, frightened boy within him threatened to take control; he wanted to retreat from the harsh reality he faced, to pretend that it had not happened in the hope that it would all go away. The pillars upon which his life was built had been knocked down, and he felt as though he would fall with them.