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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Cloud had gathered lower down the slope, blotting out the world beneath like a great woollen blanket. The air grew damp and felt colder still as he passed into it. One by one the stars disappeared from sight until only the moon remained. Then it too was gone, leaving him in a mire of misty darkness.

  Walking downhill through a mixture of ice, snow, and rock in the nearly blinding conditions was treacherous. With each little slip, Wulfric questioned his decision to continue. Could stopping be any more dangerous than what he was doing?

  Exhaustion weighed on him like a tonne of rock. He pushed himself hard, eager to reach the point where he could halt and sleep in comparative safety. With each hasty, careless, fatigued step, his feet slipped a little as the snow beneath gave way to his weight. All he could think about was getting to the shelter of a tree trunk, curling up in his furs and going to sleep.

  His foot shot forward. Before he knew it, the wind was knocked from his lungs and he was accelerating down the slope on his back. He clawed at the snow with his hands and kicked with his feet to try and slow himself, but it just turned his uncontrolled slide into a chaotic tumble.

  He bounced, flailing through the air before thumping back into the snow and continuing his downward slide. He managed to roll onto his front, his feet pointing down the hill. He dug his hands into the snow to arrest his descent. He was more gentle this time, not wanting to throw himself into another tumble by being too forceful.

  Wulfric increased the pressure gradually, and he seemed to slow. He passed out of the cloud and into the night below where he could make out the shadows of distant trees. They seemed to be getting closer at an alarming rate, but Wulfric had to resist the urge to dig in for all he was worth. He was still moving too quickly, and if he was thrown into another uncontrolled tumble he could end up impaled on a branch or broken against a tree trunk.

  He couldn’t help but think that at least he was completing this section of the journey far faster than he would have otherwise, in minutes instead of hours. Try as he might, he could not stop. The slope was too steep and the snow too slippery. He spotted some smaller bushes that looked a more attractive target than any of the tree trunks that flanked them. He aimed himself toward the them, feet first, with gentle pressure from his hands and heels. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and shielded his face with his arms.

  The next few seconds were a blur of rustling leaves and snapping branches. He was flipped over his feet and felt the branches and leaves clawing at his hands and the exposed parts of his face as he continued his flight through the undergrowth. His momentum slowed as his body crashed through the vegetation, and eventually he stopped, upside down and suspended from branches. He didn’t try to move, taking time to catch his breath. His thoughts were scrambled and it took him a moment to work out which way was up. Then he started to extricate himself from the bush.

  Once free, Wulfric started pulling all the branches and leaves from his clothes. He noticed his sabre was missing. He paused his tidying and looked back up the mountain to see if he could spot it since it was an expensive thing to lose. He was torn between the desire to get it back and the unlikeliness of finding it in the snow. It could have been torn from his body anywhere, and thrown some distance from his path. The gouge in the snow left by his passage was longer than he had realised. Even in the gloom, he could see it extended all the way up the mountainside until it was lost in the cloud. It would take hours to get back to the top, and he could spend days looking and still not find anything.

  He was almost out of food, and tired to the point of exhaustion, not to mention sore. He had banged his knee hard during the fall, and it was already beginning to stiffen. If he didn’t get moving on it soon, it could swell to the point where he wouldn’t be able to bend it. There was still the better part of two days of walking before he would be home. Being unable to bend his knee was as good as being dead. He gave the slope one last wistful look, and turned back to the forest.

  WULFRIC’S first few steps were tentative. He tested his knee, gradually increasing the amount of weight he put on it until he was satisfied it would hold him. The injury could be properly treated when he got home. He just had to get there. Dawn had made itself known, so he had the slight comfort of increasing light to guide his way.

  He felt oddly naked without his sabre. Ever since starting his apprenticeship, he had rarely been without one. His body was so accustomed to the weight of it that it felt as though he was missing a limb. Only the dagger at his belt remained, and that was too small to be of much use if he encountered trouble.

  It was a relief to be amongst the trees again. They provided shelter from the wind and concealment from anything that might seek to do him harm. It also meant the hardest part of his journey was behind him. He scanned the ground as he went, worried that tripping on a hidden root would end his pilgrimage so close to his end—he suspected he had already used up all of his luck—but it was difficult with all the snow on the ground.

  He heard a branch snap somewhere behind him. Wulfric stopped and looked around, but saw nothing. He listened carefully for a moment but heard nothing. He recalled his nervous reaction to every noise and shadow when passing through in the other direction. After so many hours beyond the tree line where every sound was dulled by the thick blanket of snow, he had become accustomed to the quiet.

  Wulfric had only gone a few paces when he heard another branch snap behind. It wasn’t within him to ignore it. He stopped again and turned slowly, scanning the forest as he went. Could it be one of the other pilgrims? It was unlikely that any of them could have caught up with him; certainly not after his slide back down the mountainside. Was it possible that someone had gone slowly enough to still be on their way up to the valley? No. Wulfric crouched and drew his dagger, wishing again that he had not lost his sabre in the fall.

  He saw nothing, but remained where he was until several moments had passed in silence. He only moved when he began to feel foolish for jumping at shadows. After only a few more paces, he heard a crunching sound—snow and branches being crushed underfoot against rocks. It was directly behind him, and whatever had caused it was heavy. He stopped and spun around. This wasn’t paranoia.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ Wulfric said. ‘Show yourself.’ Communicating with another pilgrim was against the rules, but the sick feeling in his stomach said that it wasn’t a pilgrim following him home.

  There was no reply, and no further sound. Wulfric gave each tree a close look to see if there was anything breaking the line of their trunks. There was nothing. He looked up. Could there be something in the trees? He couldn’t see anything there either. He turned slowly to the direction he was heading in, and where a moment before there had been nothing, the source of the sounds now stood. A chill ran over every inch of Wulfric’s skin and down his spine. A low, rumbling growl filled the air and reverberated in his chest.

  28

  A belek stood motionless, watching Wulfric. His first reaction was that it was a statue, but its great, dark eyes moved as it studied him. Wulfric swallowed hard, trying to contain the shock of being confronted by the object of nightmares. That it had been able to get around in front of him in complete silence was terrifying. If it could do that, then the noises it had made previously were intentional, all for its own amusement. All to toy with and terrify its prey. The expression on its silvery, feline face was one of interest and curiosity, things that seemed completely out of place on an animal. But then again, as his father had always said, belek weren’t ordinary animals.

  It was larger than he had expected. As big as a large bear, but sleeker, like a cat. A very large cat. Two long fangs curved down from the top of its mouth like sabre blades. Its steely grey fur shimmered in the pale light, its skin stretched over lean, taut muscles.

  Wulfric had no idea of what to do next. With his sword and a fresh, rested body, his chances of surviving the encounter would be slim. With a dagger, a knee that did not feel at all right, and a m
ultitude of cuts, scrapes and bruises, things didn’t look good. He wasn’t dead yet, though.

  As a newly anointed warrior, with no great battles, victories or tales of heroism to his name, even in the face of certain death he would need to make some effort to ensure his place in Jorundyr’s Host. The belek appeared to be in no hurry; they liked to toy with their prey, as Wulfric now knew first hand. It wanted to see how he reacted; whether he was afraid or undaunted by mysterious sounds in the forest. Whether he would be an easy kill or make for good sport.

  The belek gave off a low throaty rumble that resonated within Wulfric’s chest so strongly that at first he thought it was coming from inside him. It lifted its head slightly and gave the air a long sniff. That done, it opened its mouth wide, giving Wulfric a clear view of each of its teeth. A taunt. It was inviting Wulfric to make the first move. Without thinking, he took a step back.

  He felt ashamed and a fool all in the same moment. He was afraid, and now he had revealed that to the beast. The belek cocked its head and moved sideways, slowly circling to Wulfric’s right. It placed each of its four paws carefully, without making the slightest sound, giving its movement an otherworldly quality. The significance of it moving to Wulfric’s right was not lost on him. Did it know his knee was injured? If it had been watching him, it might. He wondered how long the belek had been stalking him. Since that first twig snap when he was making his way up the mountain? Had it patiently waited for his return?

  He turned on the spot to stay facing the belek. After his first step back, Wulfric was determined not to give the beast another inch. If he was going to die, he would at least do so bravely, holding his ground. Still it paced slowly to the right. What was it waiting for?

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled, beating on his chest to make his challenge clear. The belek’s expression changed. It understood what Wulfric meant, but it continued to circle.

  The belek seemed to enjoy its little game. He shouted again with an ostentatious gesture, hoping to distract the belek as he took a step forward. It didn’t react to his movement. He reckoned he was close enough to cover the distance between them with a lunge. If the belek didn’t take the initiative, Wulfric decided that he would.

  He pounced forward, leading with his dagger. He knew how futile a gesture it was, but he hoped Jorundyr was watching and would not doubt his bravery. Little else seemed to matter. He would sup with his father and those of his line all the way back to the very beginning, before the day was out. He thought of Adalhaid. He would like to have seen her one more time.

  It was a wild swipe, and Wulfric wasn’t surprised when it missed completely. The belek jumped back and crouched. Its expression of amused curiosity was replaced with something far fiercer, and it hissed at Wulfric baring its wicked teeth. Now it crouched low, its claws flexing and digging into the snow as it threatened to pounce.

  When it did, it was so fast that Wulfric was flying through the air before he knew what had happened. It had struck, but he was still alive. He scrambled to his feet, trying to suck some air into his lungs. The belek was slowly padding toward him, crouched, teeth still on display. It was telling him it had the means to cleave him in two, but had chosen not to. Yet. It might be able to kill him with ease, but Wulfric wouldn’t be sport for anyone or anything. If it was going to toy with him, he would cause it pain in the process.

  It pounced again, leading with its long, curved fangs. Wulfric threw himself backwards, and felt a sharp pain in his knee as he did. A searing pain across his chest joined it, as though two red-hot pokers had been laid on his flesh.

  He landed on his backside, still breathing, still alive. He scrabbled backward, away from the belek. It watched him, but didn’t approach, patiently surveying the result of its strike. Wulfric’s furs were rent open, as though neatly incised with a sharp knife. There were two deep cuts in his flesh. They were bleeding, but unlikely to kill him. Wulfric struggled to his feet.

  He crouched and held his dagger out in front of him. The beast crept ever closer, never giving any indication of when it would pounce. Even aware of how fast it was, when it came at him again Wulfric was barely able to react. He slashed wildly, and felt his blade connect with something before he was knocked through the air again.

  Wulfric had never been kicked by a horse, but had seen it happen to people. He reckoned he now knew how it felt. He got to his feet again, struggling to catch his breath. His hand was wet. He looked at it. Both his mitten and the blade were soaked in blood. It took a moment to realise it was not his. The belek was limping, its right front paw bleeding from a deep gash. Wulfric knew the wound was caused more by the momentum of the belek’s swipe than his own slash, that it was luck—but he would take it.

  The belek snarled at Wulfric, clearly angered by the wound. It started to circle again, watching Wulfric and the dagger in his hand more warily. Wulfric knew the games were over. When it struck again, it would be for the kill. He kept turning, keeping the belek in front of him. He glanced left and right, looking for anything that might help him. Even a tree that he could duck behind as the belek pounced might allow him to inflict another wound, perhaps even a fatal one.

  Wulfric was no longer thinking in terms of dying bravely, but trying to work out how he might kill the beast and survive. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, but it filled him with pride. Other men had killed belek in dire circumstances, might he not be able to do the same? His hands started to shake and he could hear the beat of his heart as blood pulsed through his ears. He wasn’t afraid—anger was the strongest emotion he felt—but for some reason his hands started to shake. It was odd, but something he could afford to pay little attention.

  He kicked a branch at the belek, but it fell short and the beast paid it no attention. The shadows cast by the trees grew darker and more defined. Wulfric realised that the sun was up and the clouds must have parted, allowing it through. Rays of light penetrated through the sparse forest canopy. He felt the warmth of it on the back of his head. His shadow stretched out before him, reaching forward until it was beneath the belek’s paws. The image of his own lifeless body there flashed into his mind.

  The belek moved into one of the beams of sunlight. It flinched and blinked its eyes, dazzled by the changing light. Wulfric acted without thought. In the blink of an eye he was draped across the belek’s back, one arm wrapped around its neck. He was almost as surprised by his action as the belek. He felt a wave of energy surge through him, driving away any feeling of fatigue.

  Wulfric gripped the belek’s neck tightly as it bucked and kicked, trying to throw him off. The belek’s thrashing made it difficult to do anything more than hold on, but Wulfric knew that he wouldn’t be able to do so forever. He struck down with his knife, but the side of his hand bounced off the belek’s neck without effect.

  The belek thrashed harder, enraged by Wulfric still being on its back. Wulfric wrapped both arms around its neck and held on for all he was worth. His face was pressed into the fur on the back of its head, prickling his skin. The belek’s musty, feral scent filled his nostrils. Time was running out.

  He released his right arm, drew back and stabbed down as quickly as he could. He would only have one chance. This time the blade struck true. It felt as though the belek leaped directly up into the air. Wulfric could see blood splatter out from the side of the creature’s neck. He twisted the dagger as much as he could. The movement caused him to lose grip with his other arm and he was thrown from the belek’s back. He tried to keep hold of the dagger, but it was slick with blood and slipped from his fingers as he flew through the air.

  Wulfric gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs for the third time in as many minutes. He looked at the belek. It had retreated to a nearby tree, where it was focussed on getting the dagger out of its neck. It was trying to knock it free with its paw, but couldn’t reach it. Eventually it caught the handle, but not firmly enough to pull it out. It roared in rage and agony.

  The belek rubbed along against the tree and m
anaged to dislodge the blade before turning back to Wulfric and snarling at him. Wulfric looked around for anything he could use as a weapon. The forest was still of pine trees at that altitude, and there was not a decent-sized branch in sight. He looked for a rock, but the ground was covered in snow splattered with red. The belek started toward him. Wulfric held his ground, confused that fury bubbled through his blood, rather than fear.

  The fur on the belek’s neck was coated in wet blood, which was now starting to dribble to the ground from matted tendrils. It snarled at Wulfric again as it paced closer. Wulfric dashed to his right. He expected to feel a stab of pain in his knee, but there was none. He looked everywhere for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. He prayed to Jorundyr for a branch or a rock. Surely the god wouldn’t let Wulfric complete his pilgrimage only to cut him down a few hours later?

  The creature roared again, a strained sound. Pain. Distress. It wobbled, its emotive face showing a mix of fear, then fury. It launched itself at Wulfric, too fast for him to get out of the way, but it fell short. Wulfric crouched and watched in confusion, ready to face his end. Nothing happened. The belek did not move. He kicked it in the face with the sole of his boot, but it didn’t react. He did it again, and again, but there was no reaction. It was dead.

  Wulfric laughed aloud. Then he vomited. The pain in his chest grew tenfold and his knee burned. All of the fatigue he had felt before encountering the belek returned with a vengeance. He pulled off his mitten and probed the wounds with his fingertips. The cuts were ugly and would leave a wicked scar. The thought filled him with an enormous sense of pride. He looked over at the beast’s corpse. Even in death it was magnificent; the silvery lustre of its coat seemed like the armour of a defeated warrior. He glanced at his knife. Not every young warrior won the right to wear a belek cloak, but now Wulfric had. Perhaps Jorundyr was not so cruel after all.