As tired as he was, he knew what to do. Dagger in hand, he went to claim his trophy.
WULFRIC STARED at the gory scene before him. He had skinned the belek, removed its fangs, and opened it up to reveal its heart, but he was not finished. He had been told of what needed to be done next, but had always hoped that it was an embellishment told to increase the mystique of killing a belek. With no one to ask, Wulfric didn’t want to find that he had not done something he was supposed to. He cut the heart free and lifted it from the corpse. It was heavier than he expected, and slippery with blood. He struggled to keep a firm grip on it and the thought of eating it made him want to throw up, but that was what he had to do. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes shut and bit into the belek’s heart.
His mouth was flooded with the taste of blood, and the flesh did not give way easily to his teeth. He tried to imagine it was an under-cooked piece of venison as he tore away a mouthful and started to chew. It was tough, and his teeth seemed to make little impact. As soon as he had softened it enough, he swallowed. That wasn’t so bad. There was no one he needed to convince but himself, and he was far from believing it. He had no idea how much of the heart he needed to eat, and didn’t want to prolong the experience any more than necessary. He bit in again and again, until there was nothing left but the blood on his fingers.
He wrapped the pelt into a bundle and put the fangs into his pack. He could still taste the heart’s metallic tang and had to fight down the urge to throw up. It was done though. The heart joined the belek’s spirit to his own for evermore and the rest served as proof that he had killed the beast. Part of him still could not believe he had actually done it. Already the experience seemed like a dream, save for the all-too-real weight of the pelt in his hands.
He wanted to make the best of the daylight, but the fight had taken what little was left in his exhausted limbs. He found it hard to concentrate and had not gone far before he knew he could not continue. He was satisfied he had put enough distance between himself and the body, and wouldn’t have to worry about drawing animals close. So he lit a fire and stretched out beside it, trying to get as much of the heat into his injured knee as he could.
There was something comforting about the flame. He felt a tension that he hadn’t even realised was gripping him ease as the fire’s warmth embraced him. He flexed his knee, which was also benefitting from the heat. The wound on his chest was a different matter though. The bleeding had stopped, but the edges were hot to the touch and angry looking. He knew it was going bad. Wulfric shuddered to think where the belek’s claws had been before raking his chest—probably in the guts of an unfortunate deer or boar.
For the time being, all he could do was allow the warmth of the fire to soothe his aching body, and rest. So much had happened, and he struggled to take it all in. So many lazy afternoons in his childhood had been wasted dreaming of the things he had done over the past couple of days. It was difficult to separate the imagined events from how it had actually happened. It felt as though his memory had been overloaded and he was in danger of forgetting. He closed his eyes and did not have to wait long for sleep to come.
29
Wulfric was shivering uncontrollably when he woke. His skin was cold, but he was covered in a sheen of sweat. He felt weaker than he ever had before. His head throbbed, worse even than when he’d been in the High Places on his way to Jorundyr’s Rock.
He fought against the feelings and stoked up the fire. There were still a few embers beneath the ash, which eagerly took to the kindling and wood Wulfric had set aside the previous day. The heat made him feel better, but he still shivered. He peeled back the rent edges of his furs and looked at the gashes caused by the belek’s fangs.
The scabs, which had been dark red and black the day before, had a tinge of yellow and green, a sure sign that the wound was bad, if the fever and headache had not already told him as much. He still had plenty of walking ahead of him. The fever was going to get worse before it got better. He was determined not to die there, not after all he had achieved.
He held his palms out in front of the fire for one last caress of its warmth before standing and kicking it out. He stood stiffly and pulled his pack onto his shoulders with a grimace. The skin across his chest was tight, and the movement pulled on it agonisingly. He could feel fluid run down his belly—blood or pus, he didn’t want to know which. He had a sickening feeling in his stomach.
WULFRIC CLUNG onto a tether of concentration and retreated into his mind as he forced his legs to keep walking. It was the same mechanism he had used all those years ago when Rodulf and his friends made his life a living hell. He had taught himself to detach his mind from what was happening to his body and send it elsewhere. While he might not be able to control what happened to his body, he could always control what happened to his mind. He could choose what he allowed in and what he kept out.
Now his body was deluging him with all sorts of bad signals; weakness, tiredness, nausea, pain. Even his mind threatened to betray him, the light-headedness and headache making it a struggle to build the mental wall behind which he could seek refuge. All he had to do was tell his legs to keep going. He repeated it to himself over and over. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. No matter how hard he tried, he could not block out the pain. The noise it made was too loud for him to hide from it in that faraway corner of his mind.
He had to try something different. He searched frantically through the recesses of his mind for any memory, any glimmer of happiness that he could grab and cling onto for dear life. He found one.
It was summer again, and he was a boy. He was sitting under the tree at the edge of the village, the spot with the view of the pastures and the High Places beyond. It was warm, and the air was fragrant with the pasture flowers. The leaves of the tree rustled in the gentle breeze, and Adalhaid was beside him. They watched the shadows change on the mountain peaks as the evening sun dropped away behind them, not needing to say a word. Being together was enough.
She could never stay silent for long—there was always something she saw that she wanted to make sure Wulfric did not miss—but this memory, his favourite memory, was a moment frozen in time. That brief moment of silence and happiness lasted for as long as he could hold it in his mind’s eye. He saved it for when he was at his lowest, since it always put a smile on his face, and contentment in his heart. Now he prayed it could save his life. He tried to imagine a conversation, what Adalhaid might say in that perfect moment. He tried to imagine her voice, but couldn’t remember what it sounded like.
From time to time, he needed to make decisions that pulled him from the flimsy haven he had built. Turn left at the stream, turn right at the rock, check for a glimpse of the sun through the forest canopy to ensure he was going the correct way. At times, it felt as though the simplest of decisions would overwhelm him. But then he could retreat back into his mind, though each time the journey back and forth grew a little harder.
Wulfric barely noticed when it became dark. There was no question of him stopping. If he sat down, he’d never get up again. Somewhere in front of him, in the darkness of the forest, he could hear Adalhaid laugh; happy, musical. He forced himself on toward the sound, knowing that when he reached her, he would be safe. Her voice drifted between the trees, urging him on, calling him to her. He could think of nothing better than her warm embrace, the smell of her hair. He staggered on, wanting to reach her more than anything.
COMFORT WAS Wulfric’s first thought when he opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was. The darkness did nothing to help matters. He stared into the gloom until his eyes began to adjust. He started to see shapes—a chair, a familiar chair, a table, also familiar. He was home. How had he got here?
He felt tired, but no longer sick. His body was stiff and sore—he felt as though he had taken a beating, but the fever seemed to be gone. It begged the question of how long he had been there. He looked at his chest, which was covered with a fresh dressing. He pressed on it gently but th
ere was little pain. It was well healed. He swung his legs down from the bed and stood. The soles of his feet hurt when he put pressure on them. He must have been bedridden for days. Longer? His knee was stiff, but not painful. The various scrapes and scratches on his face felt almost healed. Everything suggested at least a week had passed.
Wulfric tried to think of the last thing he could remember, and felt a twist of panic in his gut. What had he actually done? What had he imagined? The memory of sitting by the tree was as fresh and real as any of the other things. Adalhaid’s laughter. It had seemed so real, but now he realised it had only been in his mind. It was usual to touch the stone in the glade to demonstrate to everyone that the pilgrimage was completed. Wulfric had no recollection of doing that. He worried that he had not managed it. Would they consider him a failure?
The door to his room opened, a silhouette framed in the doorway.
‘He’s awake,’ the voice said. Adalhaid’s voice.
Still dreaming, then. But it was a good dream. Wulfric felt the panic and concern fade from his racing heart. He lay back, and sleep took him once again.
WULFRIC SAT IN HIS BED, trying to separate dream from reality. His head was clear now, and he felt well rested. His mother called in to check on him. Discovering him awake, she made him breakfast but insisted he stay in bed. He could get used to that, but it wasn’t in keeping with being a warrior. The thought brought a smile to his face.
There was a knock at the door, and Wulfric was disappointed to see that it was not Adalhaid. He would have sworn on Jorundyr that he had seen her standing in the doorway the night before.
‘I’m glad to see you awake and well,’ Aethelman said.
‘It’s good to be home,’ Wulfric said.
‘Your colour is better. You were deathly pale the last time I saw you. How do you feel?’
‘Much better, thank you,’ Wulfric said. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Nearly three weeks. That was quite a collection of injuries you came home with. You were by far the worst of those who made it back. The only one to encounter a belek as well. I’m not sure if that should be considered good or bad fortune, but seeing as you still live I’m inclined to the former.’
‘How many got home?’
‘Eight, including you. Walmer, Eckard, Berun, and Hane didn’t make it back.’
‘I saw Hane in the valley. He was coughing blood up onto the snow. He was dead by the time I passed him on the way back.’
‘The others mentioned seeing him. A sad loss, and not one I expected,’ Aethelman said.
Hane and Walmer were the only two Wulfric had much to do with. Considering their history, he found it difficult to muster much sympathy for Walmer.
‘Eight out of twelve is a good number, though,’ Aethelman said. ‘More than I would usually expect, and something of a miracle all things considered. Jorundyr has been kind to us. I would have been content if six had returned.’ Aethelman’s solemn expression changed to a broad smile.
‘I need to know,’ Wulfric said. ‘How did I get here?’
‘You walked through the village in a daze, ignoring everything around you. When you got to the stone in the glade, you touched it and collapsed. We brought you back here.’
‘I’m glad I made it that far,’ Wulfric said.
‘It was quite a thing to do,’ Aethelman said. ‘I’ve never dealt with a fever as bad as yours. The village is delighted to have eight new warriors to see it through the winter, though. All the more so when one of them can claim a belek to his name.’
Wulfric smiled. He had given only fleeting thought to the belek. Between the confusion and all of the other things to take in, it had seemed distant, something he might have imagined rather than done.
‘Killing one on your own is a very fine achievement. One to be proud of and something few men achieve. You should have seen your mother’s reaction when we unpacked your things. I only wish you could have seen your father’s. Adalhaid and your mother are working on your cloak as we speak. They wanted to have it ready by the time you woke, but I think it isn’t quite finished.’
‘Adalhaid?’ Wulfric said.
‘Yes, she got back to the village shortly after you left on the pilgrimage.’
Wulfric could hardly believe it. ‘She’s back.’ He let the thought sink in for a moment. ‘There’s something else,’ Wulfric said. ‘Something else I need to ask you.’
Aethelman raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on…’
‘I… I’m not sure if I touched the Rock.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure if I touched it or not. I reached out for it, but…’
‘You mean you can’t remember?’ Aethelman said.
‘Sort of. I reached out to it and there was a glow all over it, and then all over me. Then I was sitting on the snow. I think there was a bright flash and a bang, but I’m not sure. I can’t remember if I managed to touch the rock.’
Aethelman smiled. ‘A blue glow, you say?’
Wulfric nodded, more panicked now than before. No matter how hard he searched his memory, he couldn’t recall ever having touched the rough, carved surface of the Rock. ‘I tried a second time, but it was like it was covered with something invisible and soft. I could push against it, but I couldn’t press through it.’
‘You did enough,’ Aethelman said. ‘More than enough.’ He studied Wulfric for a moment before speaking again. ‘I’ve heard of what you describe, but never of it happening. I’m not sure if it has for a very long time. Certainly not in my lifetime.’
Wulfric furrowed his brow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You were chosen by Jorundyr. Every warrior who remains true to his code will join the Host when he leaves this world, but some Jorundyr chooses for more than that. That he sent a belek to make sure you’re worthy of his choice confirms it to my mind. It makes so much more sense now.’
‘What does it mean?’
Aethelman smiled. ‘You’ll have to find that out for yourself. Perhaps nothing, not in this life at least. His touch brings with it gifts, things he will expect you to master by the time he calls you to join his host.’
‘Gifts?’
Aethelman shrugged. ‘They are different for everyone. Jorundyr bestows the skills he has the greatest need for at the time. That is what you will have to discover for yourself.’
Wulfric smiled to mask his confusion. It was a great deal to take in, and part of him questioned if he was not really still out in the forest somewhere, huddled up by a tree and gripped by the delirious dreams of fever.
‘Don’t get too pleased with yourself,’ Aethelman said. ‘It is said that those blessed by Jorundyr’s touch tend to get called to his host earlier than most.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the greatest accolade a man could have. Every time you set foot on a battlefield, you’ll draw warriors like moths to a flame. They all want to make a name, prove themselves. Your head will be a very nice way of doing that.’
The windfall no longer felt quite so pleasing. ‘How will anyone know?’
‘Word will get out sooner or later. Things like this are hard to keep a secret. You’ll do something no ordinary man could do one day, without thinking about it. The rumours will start, and once you’ve done it a few more times you’ll confirm it. It’s not something to hide away from, Wulfric. It’s a two-edged sword, no doubt, but when a god singles you out you do not ignore him.’
30
Wulfric was allowed out of bed the next day. His mother was still against the idea, eager that he spend a few more days wrapped up in bed, but Aethelman was firm in his insistence that Wulfric go out for some fresh air and exercise. The command was music to Wulfric’s ears; he was eager to share stories with the others who had completed their pilgrimages. It was exciting to think that when he stepped out into the daylight, it was as a warrior, anointed and chosen by Jorundyr. He wondered if anyone else might have experienced what he had at the Rock. Above all, he wanted to see
Adalhaid.
He washed and dressed, and was about to go out when he heard a commotion in the front room. Leaving his room, he saw his mother and Adalhaid busily folding a heavy dark cloak into a linen wrapping. He took a moment to look at Adalhaid before speaking, to convince himself she was really there. She had grown and was taller than his mother now, her long red hair cascading down her back in waves.
‘What’s that?’ Wulfric said, knowing exactly what it was.
‘You’re not supposed to see it yet,’ Adalhaid said with a laugh.
She acted as though she had never been gone, although considering how long she had been back there’d been plenty of time for her to settle back in. It felt strange to Wulfric.
He shrugged. ‘Well, too late now.’
Adalhaid held up the fur cloak. The fangs had been polished and trimmed with silver to provide the fastening. Both she and his mother beamed with pride. Wulfric took the cloak, not knowing what to say. It was a far cry from the bloody pelt he had cut from the dead belek. The creature’s strong odour was gone, which was a huge relief. He had no desire to be reminded of the beast’s smell every time he put the cloak on, nor did he want to smell like it. Adalhaid and his mother had lined it with a fine, wine-coloured cloth, the stitching so fine that it was barely visible.
‘Thank you,’ he said, throwing the cloak over his shoulders. It was something he had seen his father do many times, and the significance of the moment was not lost on him. Nor was it lost on his mother, whose eyes had filled with tears.
Wulfric didn’t know what to say.
‘I’m going out for some fresh air,’ Wulfric said. ‘I won’t stay out long.’
The Wolf of the North: Wolf of the North Book 1 Page 20
