Wulfric thought his words made sense, and it was obvious that Belgar had prepared the answer. He had known that the decision would not be popular.
‘As you all know, the harvest has been poor. Well, we won’t be the only ones to have a poor harvest. If ours was bad, chances are all the surrounding villages will have had bad ones too. If they’re short on food, what do you think they’ll do?’ He paused for a moment, but no one spoke. ‘They’ll go straight to the easiest place to get food. A village with no warriors to defend it. Us.
‘The truth of it is, we might not even have until spring before the reavers come. They might already be on their way. I know this isn’t a popular choice, and I’m not happy about it either, but we can’t hold on to what’s ours with cripples and old men. If we want to survive and prosper, we’ll have to work together, and we’ll have to make choices we won’t like.’
Wulfric had thought the other apprentices would greet the announcement with excited bravado, initially at least. However, the speech felt like a collective kick in the gut to everyone standing there. They all knew the harsh truth that Belgar had laid before them, but to hear it spoken aloud was devastating. Life was not an adventure anymore. It was a struggle for survival.
DONATO MADE REGULAR TRIPS SOUTH, often at short notice, so making another drew no attention. His visits to Elzburg usually followed a set formula: meetings with his trade contacts, a stop at one of the city’s finest brothels, and several excellent meals. This time was different. Donato had never been in the Markgraf’s palace before. It was quickly becoming a week of firsts for him.
He felt a flutter of nerves as he sat in an anteroom waiting for his meeting with one of the Markgraf’s officials. What he intended to propose would be called treason by some. Belgar would spit him on a spear if he got the slightest inkling of what Donato was up to. In the fullness of time, he knew that he would be considered a saviour. By then it wouldn’t particularly matter, however. His power would be absolute, and opinion would be of little concern.
His meeting might be premature, but he wanted to have the groundwork laid for when the apprentices went on their pilgrimages. There was little time to waste. The first snow had come early, meaning winter was not far off and would be a bad one when it arrived. In a matter of weeks, the roads would be all but impassable, and who knew what the state of affairs would be the following spring.
Southern soldiers would guarantee the village’s safety, but allowing the Ruripathians to extend their influence north of the marches was unacceptable to most Northlanders, fools that they were. If they had even a taste of what was on offer south of the border, he knew they would change their minds quickly enough. As it was, the hundreds of years the Northlander villages had resisted southern influence was seen as a source of pride. The Imperials had crossed the great river a number of times, but were always beaten back by the dense forests and Northland warriors. The epics were widely populated with tales of those old battles. Donato reckoned the people would come around to the idea, however, once they realised the alternative was death.
The Ruripathians greedily eyed the resources north of the river, but for the most part seemed content to trade for them. On the few times they had tried to cross the river, they had met the same fate as their Imperial forebears. Donato knew what he offered would tempt them—a foothold north of the river, and access to all of those untapped resources. He needed to be careful, though. The southerners were duplicitous and he needed to put his offer over in a way that ensured he got everything he wanted. Baron of Leondorf had a nice ring to it, or Lord of the Northern Marches. There were many titles, and Donato was not fussy, so long as it made him the master of Leondorf and its lands and would be inherited by his son and all of those who came after. He was happy to abide by the southern laws and bend his knee to whoever he had to. The villagers would have no choice but to do likewise. Not if they wished to survive.
WULFRIC LOOKED AROUND HIM, glad to see faces as nervous as he felt. The kirk was small, and with all of the apprentices gathered there, cramped. He was squeezed between Hane and Anshel and his discomfort added to his nerves. Aethelman preferred to conduct religious services out of doors, under the eyes of the gods when the weather allowed. However, the secrets of the pilgrimage were only for the ears of those who were preparing to embark on it. The dim room was as full of nervous energy as it was with bodies.
When Aethelman began to speak, Wulfric and the others fell silent.
‘In an ideal world,’ he said, ‘we would not be having this conversation for a few years yet. Tonight will be your vigil and tomorrow morning you will attempt to lift the sword. Those who succeed will leave immediately. Ordinarily we would spend more time discussing the vigil and how you should conduct yourselves, but after all that has happened I want you to go home, fill your bellies, and do your best to get some sleep. They are the most important things for you right now. Pure of mind, pure of heart, pure of spirit. Those are the sentiments with which you should conduct yourself until the morrow. I think they are self-explanatory. Jorundyr is watching.
‘Before you go home, there is a short blessing ceremony to go through, but it won’t take long. Everyone, please close your eyes.’
Aethelman continued to speak, but Wulfric could no longer understand what he was saying. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to do anything that might jeopardise the process. He listened to the words, as Aethelman enunciated each one slowly and deliberately. Wulfric started to feel light headed and nauseous, and he became worried that he might throw up, making himself look frightened of what lay ahead in front of the others. He was instantly reminded of the time he’d touched the odd-looking rock in Aethelman’s room at the back of the kirk. He felt as though the room was spinning around him. Aethelman stopped speaking, and it all disappeared as quickly as it had started as soon as he did, leaving Wulfric feeling perfectly normal.
‘You may open your eyes,’ Aethelman said. ‘I shall see you all in the morning.’
Wulfric looked around. It was impossible to tell if anyone else had experienced what he had, and he was too afraid of the potential consequences if he spoke up. He kept his mouth shut and filed out after everyone else, trying to push any worries from his head.
WULFRIC LOOKED out of the window and sighed with frustration that it was only starting to get dark. The pilgrimage was usually undertaken in autumn, but it was now well into winter. There would be no more fine days, only steadily worsening weather. He wondered how much more difficult the journey would be at that time of year. There was always snow in the High Places, and it was always cold, so perhaps it would not be all that different. He was grateful at least that there had been no recurrence of the nausea, and he had too many things to think about to give it much concern.
He wondered what waited for them in the High Places. There were things that he could predict, from the living—belek and wolves—to the inanimate—falls and the cold, but the High Places were remote and mystical, home to gods and spirits. What else might lurk there? Draugar? Dragons?
He reckoned he would go out of his mind with hours more like that. There was no chance of him getting any rest that night. He closed his eyes and tried to think of warrior-like things; bravery, courage, honour. The pilgrimage was intended to be a demonstration of these qualities. They undertook it alone. To ask for help or require it was to fail. Better to die in the High Places than seek succour and shame Jorundyr. It seemed silly to Wulfric. The strength of the group was greater than that of the individual—he suspected that together they could all survive the pilgrimage—but his father had told him that a chain was only as strong as its weakest link. The pilgrimage proved that each link was strong, that a warrior in battle could count on the man to each side of him without a shadow of doubt.
He wished Adalhaid were there with him. She was the only one who could bring him comfort at times like this, and it brought home how terribly he missed her. It was a foolish thought, however. Even had she been in the village, he
would not have been allowed to spend his vigil with her. The thought of trying to share his worries, or simply find comfort with Svana sent a shiver down his spine. He lay back on his bed and started to twiddle his thumbs. It seemed as good a way as any to spend a sleepless night.
WULFRIC WAS SITTING on the edge of his bed, ready to go, by the time it grew bright outside. He quickly checked through his things one last time before fastening his pack shut. He strapped his sabre to his waist and looked over his clothing. Everything had been checked, double checked, and rechecked at that point. It was time to go. His mother was still sleeping. He thought of waking her, but decided against it—he couldn’t face saying goodbye. With no further reason to delay, he headed for the glade.
Aethelman was alone by the stone at the glade’s centre when Wulfric arrived. It felt odd that Eldric and Angest were not there. Perhaps they watched from Jorundyr’s Hall. One by one, the others arrived, none of them carrying on with their usual banter. There were no warriors in the glade that morning, only frightened boys. Everyone watched Aethelman in silence, their breath misting on the cold air, as they waited for him to call them forward to attempt to lift the sword. Most years, one or two hopeful apprentices returned to the village after the attempt, a forlorn look on their faces and the prospect of another year of apprenticeship weighing on them. Wulfric wondered how many Jorundyr would turn away this year—or if Jorundyr had a hand in it at all. He remembered the smile on Aethelman’s face that handful of years previously when he and Hane had started their training, and Hane had stepped forward to try lifting it. The sword had not budged that day. Wulfric wondered what was going through Hane’s head; if he worried that the result might be the same?
Aethelman reverently placed the ancient sword down on the snow. Its steel was dark with a blue lustre—almost a glow. It was Godsteel, made from the ore found up in the High Places, its hilt decorated with the clear stones that were found with the ore. When the light hit them the right way, they too had a light blue tinge.
‘This sword was forged in the days when Jorundyr still walked this land, with his faithful wolf, Ulfyr, at his side. It has seen countless battles, and sent thousands of warriors to Jorundyr’s Hall, but has long since served as the gatekeeper for this right of passage. Only those with the strength of body and soul to lift it from the ground may go forward and measure themselves against Jorundyr’s challenge. Deep in the High Places there is a rock, not unlike the one beside me now. You will journey there, and place your hand on it. Once you have done this, and shown your devotion to the ideals Jorundyr set down for all men who bear arms, you will have proven yourselves to him. You will have earned the right to call yourself warrior—Disciple of Jorundyr—and will enjoy all the rights and privileges that brings with it.
‘I wish there was more time to prepare you all, but it is a time of great need, and we must count on Jorundyr’s beneficence in providing us with what we need. He favours the brave, and by setting forth on this journey you show him that you are that and more.’
‘How will we find the rock?’ Hane blurted out.
Wulfric had been wondering the same thing, but had been too afraid of speaking out.
‘If you can lift the sword, you will know the way. Have faith that you will. Is there anything else?’
‘How will we know that we’ve done it properly?’ Hane said.
Aethelman smiled. ‘You’ll know. And when you return, I will too. It is on your honour to complete this journey with fidelity. To lie about reaching the Rock is a grave sin, and one that I will be able to spot immediately. Now, Anshel, you are first among your peers, and have the honour of trying first.’
Anshel nodded and stepped forward. He looked at each apprentice as he walked to the sword. Everyone was silent; the crunch of his boots on the snow was the only sound. He reached down with his right hand and took a firm grip. Wulfric glanced at Aethelman, whose attention was entirely on Anshel and the sword.
Anshel pulled and stood straight. He wobbled, caught off balance, surprised by how easily it lifted. He hefted it in his hand and looked back at the others, a broad smile on his face.
‘It hardly weighs a thing,’ he said.
Urrich was next, the quiet, clean-shaven apprentice whose family lived in the woodlands outside the village. His unsurpassed skill with the bow gave him his precedence. Wulfric had seen him shoot a half-dozen game birds from the sky in a row without a miss. Even the warriors had acknowledged him as the finest shot in the village a few years earlier. His skill had only grown with time.
He too lifted the old sword with ease. He nodded before handing it back to Aethelman, who returned it to the snow before beckoning Wulfric forward. Wulfric walked to the sword. His skin crawled with the sensation that every eye was on him. What a fool he would look if he could not lift it. He could not decide what frightened him more, the idea of not being able to lift it or what would come after if he managed it.
He reached down and took it by the handle. It was freezing cold, and felt as though it tingled against his skin. He gripped the roughly shaped handle as best he could and lifted. It came away from the ground as easily as it had for the others. He held the ancient blade for a moment. It no longer felt cold, nor the handle misshapen, far from it. He wondered if he had been mistaken a moment before, simply nervous. Now it felt as though it had been made for him. He looked at Aethelman, who smiled and nodded. Wulfric handed it to him, and was struck with the realisation that in a few minutes he would be leaving on his pilgrimage.
EVERY APPRENTICE SUCCEEDED in lifting the sword. Things moved quickly from that point, and Wulfric felt as if he could barely keep up. His heart raced as he tried to look as though he knew what he was doing, and was fully prepared for what was to come. They took up their packs and filed out of the glade.
The entire population of the village had gathered on the square. Having that much attention focussed on him at a time when he would rather be left alone with his thoughts was difficult, but that day was as much for the other villagers as it was for the apprentices. All Leondorf’s hopes were pinned on having another half dozen warriors before spring, and the reavers, came. Wulfric wondered what difference they would really make. Perhaps as a source of common hope it was enough in itself. Wulfric worried that might be all they had to offer.
His mother was in the crowd, a proud but worried look on her face.
‘I’ll see you in a few days,’ Wulfric said, doing his best to smile.
‘You take care now,’ Frena said.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Just make sure you come home safely,’ she said.
He nodded. There was nothing left to say.
‘Pilgrims of Jorundyr, prepare to depart.’ Aethelman’s voice broke their moment of silence. Wulfric walked away to join the others, feeling his heart pull him back in the direction from which he had come.
‘On your divine journey, you may neither accept nor solicit help from man or beast. You will not interact with your fellow pilgrims, nor assist them in any way. Each man must make this journey alone. If you are made from the stuff Jorundyr requires, you will return safely. You may depart.’
25
Wulfric had been walking for nearly an hour before he realised that he had never made any decision about what direction he was going in. There didn’t appear to be much to it. The High Places were hard to miss—they loomed imposingly on the eastern horizon.
He had an overwhelming sense of knowing exactly where he was going but no explanation for the fact, which was strange. It felt as though he was walking from the kirk to his home, a journey he was so familiar with it required no thought at all.
He looked around at times to see if he could spot any of the others, but once he entered the forest he could see nothing but trees. It made little difference, as he could have no interaction with anyone else even if they were walking right next to him. They would be funnelled together again when they got to the passes in the High Places. He was curious to see who reach
ed them first, whether his footsteps would be into fresh snow, or following the trail left by others.
Wulfric’s mind drifted as he walked. Once the initial rush of excitement had subsided, there was little to it—one foot in front of the other, don’t fall over, don’t walk into a tree. Wulfric’s mind turned to the potential dangers of the journey, as it invariably did. Out there, alone, a broken ankle could be fatal—and covered in snow, the ground could be treacherous. That was not what concerned him the most, however.
Belek came down from the High Places at all times of the year, but winter was their season of choice. They were not beasts of instinct, but reasoning. They liked the cold. They were said to prowl the land alone, not enjoying the company of their brethren, but one of Angest’s most famous tales was a fight against two at the same time—reputedly making him the only man to have ever survived an encounter with two, let alone to have killed them both. He tried to remind himself that encountering one was rare, but the fact that it happened at all was enough to send a shiver down his spine. One could have been stalking him at that very moment.
His father had killed a belek; he had the cloak of luxurious steel-coloured fur to show for it. Wolfram had always said a belek enjoyed the hunt as much as the kill, much like a person. Stalking a belek was not so much a hunt as a competition; both parties were there for the kill, and as often as not the belek won. They were the stuff of nightmares, and even Aethelman, initiated in the magics of the gods, spoke of them with a mixture of fear and respect.
Some who had encountered them said that the belek too were initiated in the magics of the gods, that they had the same skin tingling other-worldliness that the priests exuded when healing, or invoking the gods for ceremonies. Whatever the truth of it was, it mattered little to Wulfric. If he encountered one it would be a fight to the death.
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 17
