Night fell, but they did not stop. No one wanted to delay their task by a single moment. They travelled in silence, the solemnity robbing them all of their tongues. It was after daybreak when they finally came upon the scene of the battle. They were all armed, prepared for trouble, but there was no sign of the enemy.
Wulfric had never seen a battlefield before. He felt his stomach twist at the smell. The bodies hadn’t lain there long, but already the air was filled with the stench of rot and butchery. He saw Roal go pale and retch. Wulfric determined not to follow suit. He had hoped that they would find someone alive when they got there, perhaps even his father. Disappointment hit him like a kick to the stomach, as it was obvious no one remained alive there. The only sound and movement came from the crows that swarmed around the corpses. They scattered in angry, cawing flocks when Wulfric approached the bodies.
He jumped from his horse and wandered forward into the carnage, bodies heaped on the road and all around it. Horses too. One of the old warriors who had come with them shouted at him to be careful, something about belek being attracted to the scent of death, but Wulfric ignored him. He had to find his father.
The stink of it all was overpowering. It felt like passing by the midden heap after his nose had been bloodied when he was a child; not a recent memory, but one still strongly fixed in his memory. Blood and shit and vomit. No heroes, or glorious last stands, just men that he had seen laughing and joking a few days before who were now frozen in their death poses; maimed, gouged, slashed. Barely recognisable even to those that loved them. He heard someone else behind him throwing up.
It looked as though they had met the force of Rasbruckers on the road, but had then been attacked on both sides from the forest. There were a large number of Rasbrucker bodies strewn about the place, meaning they had not the strength or manpower after the battle to bring them home. There were a great many of them, far more than the Leondorfers. That was strangely satisfying. If whoever came out to collect them arrived while Wulfric and the others were there, things would be interesting. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than to kill a Rasbrucker. To kill a hundred Rasbruckers.
The first body he recognised was Adalhaid’s father. He knew the man well, and it was only the familiarity that allowed him to see past the blood and wounds. His body was twisted, skin waxy, bloodied, muddied. Lancemen usually didn’t fight, except as a last resort. That he was surrounded by the bodies of armoured Rasbruckers was a credit to him. Wulfric wondered who would break the news to Adalhaid. It pained him that he would not be there to comfort her when she found out.
He continued making his way among the bodies, feeling bad for ignoring those he recognised while he searched for his father. Eventually he found the face that he had made the long trip to find. There was a pile of bodies around him, and his sword was caked with dry blood. It was a good death for a warrior, one that his father would have been proud of. In that moment Wulfric could not help but think life as a coward was better than no life at all, and it shamed him. His father would not have wanted that.
He continued to look down at the body, unable to will himself to move. Wulfric’s mind raced with all the questions he wanted to ask his father, the things he always thought there would be more time for. His father’s eyes were wide open and glassy, staring up at the sky. Wulfric expected him to frown, or smile, or wink. Something, anything, but there was nothing. He had been so strong, so vibrant, so full of life, and now there was only this left of him, more statue than man. Wulfric felt as though his chest was being squeezed, and his eyes filled with water. It wasn’t manly or warrior-like, and he felt ashamed, but he could not stop himself. It was all that he could do to keep breathing, one heavy lungful at a time.
Belgar placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Every man’s eyes get wet when he sees something like this. There’s no shame in it. We’ll clean him up and bring him home.’
23
‘I reckon he brought the bad luck with him,’ Farlof said. His sense of humour seemed to have deserted him since the battle.
Hane grunted in agreement, but Wulfric remained silent. He watched Rodulf walk from his house toward their shop on the square. He had only been back a week, but in that time the village had experienced its worst ever disaster. Perhaps there was something to what Farlof said. Rodulf’s gaze fell on Wulfric for a moment, and Wulfric could tell that whatever there was between them was far from finished, even though it had been two years since they had seen one another. Wulfric doubted it would ever be finished. Hate burned longer and brighter than anything else.
‘Doesn’t look like the southerners were able to grow his eye back,’ Roal said. ‘What was he doing down south anyway? The tradesman’s version of Jorundyr’s Path?’
‘If he did, it must be called “Rodent’s Path”,’ Farlof said, but the attempt at humour was strained, his voice lacking its usual enthusiasm for mischief.
Taking Jorundyr’s Path, a warrior’s adventure to a distant land, was a tempting thought at that time. Part of Wulfric wanted to run away from it all in the hope that distance would make it untrue, but they were the ridiculous thoughts of a frightened child and he felt shamed by them.
There was a muted chuckle, but no one was in the mood to laugh and the joke wasn’t particularly funny. Grief blanketed Leondorf like the first snow that had fallen in the days after the battle. In one fell swoop, the entire warrior class had been all but wiped out. Of those who had managed to make it home, half had succumbed to their wounds. The rest would never be the same and none would wield a sword again. Gondomar had pushed his already injured body so hard to bring back word of what happened, the new priest, Belarman, said that it was unlikely he would ever walk again. Aethelman had stayed on in order to help treat the wounded, but the fact gave Wulfric little comfort.
While everyone else in the village came to terms with the disaster, it occurred to Wulfric that he was as close a thing to a warrior as there was in the village, even though he had not completed his pilgrimage. If there was to be an attack on the village, Wulfric and the other apprentices were all that stood against it.
With no warriors capable of taking up arms to defend the village, they were in a precarious position. Even if Rasbruck had broken themselves in the battle as Leondorf had, there were other villages that would be happy to take advantage and swallow up some of Leondorf’s territory. There was much to lose; prime hunting lands, pasture lands, cattle, all of which would hurt them over the winter. They needed men to defend what was theirs, and to Wulfric, that only meant one thing. The council would be sending some of the apprentices on their pilgrimages soon, and he might well be one of those going. The thought excited and terrified him at the same time. He was supposed to have another two years to train and prepare for it, but a village without warriors was a village with nothing.
AETHELMAN SAT down on his cot and stretched his aching back. He had not managed more than a couple of hours of sleep at a time since the wounded had returned to the village. Even with the presence of the new priest, Belarman, who was proving himself to be an excellent healer, the demands on him were greater than anything he had ever experienced. As if the lack of sleep was not enough, the act of healing placed great stresses on his body.
His gaze settled on the box containing the Stone. It called out to him every time he was near to it, accusing him of neglecting his duty, but once again the gods had intervened. He had been all set to go, to seek out a way to destroy it, but now he could not. He couldn’t leave the village when they were going through such dire straits. Even with Belarman there. It seemed there was always an excuse, though. Always a good reason to put off what he suspected would be the greatest test of his life. Why did the gods insist on confusing him so?
TRAINING WAS CANCELLED, leaving Wulfric to dwell on what had happened. He would rather have had the distraction of being ordered about and shouted at, but there was no one to do it. The remnants of the village council spent hour after hour locked inside the Great Hall,
with Belgar taking charge. Wulfric sat behind it, listening to the discussions within, waiting to hear something that would affect him.
Belgar and a few of the older, retired warriors were all that remained of the council. Considering the crisis the village faced, many others had demanded to have their voices heard. Everyone was afraid. Merchants and craftsmen were invited into the Hall, a first for the village. If they were to survive the winter ahead, everyone would have to pull together. Wulfric supposed it was only fair that they had their say, considering the extra work that would be required of them. It was likely that some of their families would be elevated to the warrior aristocracy, their children plucked from their trade apprentices and set on the path to becoming warriors. It was clear that much would have to change if they were to survive.
With all of the hours spent eavesdropping behind the Great Hall over the years, Wulfric had grown to recognise the voices of all the council members. Now, however, there were only one or two that he could identify. Belgar had generated a feeling of unity and solidarity in the village by allowing the others in, the only positive sentiment in Leondorf. He was doing everything he could to make everyone believe they could survive if they worked together, but Wulfric wondered if it was a futile effort. Seeing Donato going into the Great Hall before the meeting was difficult for Wulfric to accept. Would Rodulf be next?
Wulfric was most curious about what Donato had to say. He had long resented warriors, and would no doubt have been overjoyed by them being wiped out were it not for the threat that posed to his livelihood. He was certainly far from grateful for the sacrifice, and was probably unaware that anyone suspected it was his duplicity that gave the Rasbruckers reason to attack. Wulfric wondered if he should say something, but did not know enough to start making accusations.
The discussion was focussed on how to best defend the village, things Wulfric thought beyond the expertise of most of the men in the Hall. He shuffled forward and pressed his ear harder against the wall.
‘We can’t make young men warriors just by calling them that. We can’t send them into battle without them having made the pilgrimage.’ The voice was Belgar’s.
‘Why not?’ Donato’s voice? Wulfric wasn’t sure.
There was a loud sigh. ‘Only those who’ve made the journey will be able to find Jorundyr’s favour on the battlefield. Not having it means death and defeat, which means we might as well have no warriors at all.’ Belgar’s voice again, laden with frustration.
‘Rubbish. A few days’ ride south and hardly anyone has even heard of Jorundyr, or any of the other gods. Those who have heard of them call them the old gods. No one there has suffered from forgetting them for centuries.’
‘The gods might not hold sway for the southerners, but they do for us, one way or another. If a man believes he can win, often enough he will. And anyone facing down an army of boys who haven’t done the journey will be convinced that he will win. We might as well kill them ourselves.’
‘Fine then. Send them on the bloody journey. Send the whole lot of them.’ Definitely Donato.
‘None of them are ready. If we send them now, half will come back. Maybe. Probably less.’
‘Better half than none, don’t you think?’
‘Don’t you think we’ve lost enough?’ Belgar said.
‘We’ll lose everything if we don’t have men to defend the village.’
‘The journey is too difficult. Saying half will come back is optimistic.’ A third voice, one of the old council members.
‘There’s another option,’ Donato said. ‘I have friends in the South—’
‘That’s not an option,’ Belgar said, cutting off the voice.
‘We need armed men to defend this village, its lands, and its herds,’ Donato said. ‘If sending the apprentices early is the only option we have, then we must take it.’
There was silence for a long while.
‘Fine,’ Belgar said. ‘We’ll send them. They’re not ready, but we’ll send them. It’ll have to be soon though, before the weather gets any worse. And we’ll have to answer to the gods for each one that doesn’t come back.’
DONATO WAS ELATED as he walked out of the Great Hall. He had never been inside before that day, and now he had spoken there, and been listened to. The experience opened a world of possibility. He stopped and looked back at the Great Hall. Within a moment of stepping inside, the thought of retiring to a life of luxury in the south had lost most of its lustre. He had seen what it meant to have power over other men, and he wanted more of it. He would be a rich outsider in the south, accommodated but never allowed into the halls of power. He realised he would always be viewed with the hint of disdain reserved for northern savages. It was not a bad place to be, and money counted for a great deal, but here in the north, he realised he could be far more. Wealth he could earn, luxury he could bring to himself. Real power he would not find anywhere else.
A new generation of warriors would be looking to take their seats on the village council in a decade or so, and they would push him back out onto the fringes. To ensure long-lasting power, he had to make sure that the source of the village’s safety resided with him, not the warriors.
Donato did not like having blood on his hands. Having the apprentices sent on their pilgrimage early was as close as he’d get to it, but he could rest easy in the thought that they would be going anyway and if they were good enough they would survive. Those who didn’t were weak, and the failure was theirs. No responsibility lay with him.
When only a handful of them returned, even the most arrogant of the old farts on the council would have to agree that they did not have enough warriors to defend what was theirs. Then he could make himself the saviour by using his wealth and southern contacts. He would bring the southern soldiers to Leondorf. He would make sure he was the one to negotiate the deal, and that he could keep control. Then, he would set himself up as a great lord of the Northlands. He had thought all was lost when the reavers were caught and killed. It still chilled him when he thought of the expression on Captain Morlyn’s face as his disembodied head dangled from Wolfram’s saddle. He had been convinced that terrible consequences would land on his doorstep, all the more so after Wolfram had called at his door. However, it seemed that matters could not have worked out better for him if he had planned it.
WULFRIC RUSHED to tell the other apprentices. It was exciting and terrifying, but it was the goal they had all worked so hard for. He headed for Hane’s house first with a spring in his step. His excitement had blinded him to the reality, but as he reached up to knock on Hane’s door it hit him.
Nearly half of those who went on their pilgrimage died. Half of those who were properly prepared. He was supposed to have two more years of training before attempting it. What hope could he have when so many of them had failed? Particularly when it was usually undertaken in autumn when the weather was settled. It was winter, and the weather was likely to get worse as each day passed, making a difficult journey a deadly one.
As he brooded over the idea, he became less and less excited by it. Downright nauseous. He turned and went home without knocking, not uttering a word of what he heard to anyone. He felt the absence of his father more keenly than at any point in the days since his death. He wanted so desperately to talk to him about this. He tried to think of what his father’s advice would be, and realised that it would be the same as it always was. Ignore his fear. Do his best.
RITSCHL’S HEAD throbbed with frustration. The Leondorfers had been outnumbered two to one at least. He had made sure that every surrounding village knew of what had happened, and they had all contributed warriors. Yet the Leondorfers had managed to fight them to a standstill. The warriors who returned said Leondorf got the worst of it, that they had no more than a handful of men left alive by the end, but Rasbruck’s position was not much better. Once the others had returned home, Rasbruck had little strength left to wield. The council questioned if it was all worth it, if the loss had been too great, but Ri
tschl didn’t care about that. All he wanted was the Stone, and he feared that his best chance had been taken from him. He had thought he would be free to pick through the ruins of Leondorf at his leisure. Now he was back to where he started.
24
The evening of the council meeting, Belgar came out onto the steps of the Great Hall to inform the village of the decisions that had been made. He looked uncomfortable, but Wulfric could not help but feel conspiratorial glee in already knowing what was going to be said. It was also a comfort to have had the chance to absorb the upcoming news ahead of time. After the initial excitement, the worry of what lay ahead had hit him like a hammer, and it was not a reaction he wanted others to see.
‘We have decided to send those apprentices who feel ready on their pilgrimage,’ Belgar said.
His voice sounded strong, but Wulfric could tell by the way his eyes moved about the gathered crowd that he was concerned about the reaction. There was silence at first, then a murmur developed.
‘They’re boys,’ someone shouted. ‘You’re sending them to their deaths.’
A great number of voices sounded in agreement.
Belgar held up his hands. ‘Some of the apprentices are at an advanced stage of their training, and we’re not going to force those who are clearly unready. We need anointed warriors. Jorundyr will never favour warriors who haven’t completed their pilgrimage. If we don’t send them now, we’ll only be delaying the inevitable when they have to defend the village and our lands come spring.’
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 16
