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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Belgar was able to get his armour-plated forearm up in time to meet the blow, but the force of the impact was enough to send him to the ground with a crunch of metal. Wulfric turned and urged his horse forward. The reaver was pressing on, looking as though he planned to trample Belgar to death. Greyfell shouldered into the reaver’s horse, knocking it sideways. Off balance, the reaver was slow in turning his attention to Wulfric. He wore a steel breastplate, so Wulfric stabbed into his armpit and on until the wound was mortal.

  Wulfric pulled his blade free. He could hear his blood pulse through his ears like the beat of a war drum, and had never felt so energised. He realised his teeth were chattering again. He looked around, hungry for another opponent, but there were none; those that survived were fleeing for the trees and were too far away for him to give chase.

  In the blink of an eye, the energy was gone once more. Fatigue, the like of which Wulfric had not known before, hit him like a hammer. He slumped in his saddle, too tired to even sit up straight. He couldn’t understand why he was so exhausted. Might he be ill? Still weakened by the pilgrimage? His mind felt as heavy as his body, and he struggled for any clarity in his thoughts. He remembered the strange shivering and detached feeling when he fought. The memory of cutting a man in half popped into his head, vivid and visceral. The memory of not caring who was friend and foe, only the desire to kill. What had come over him? Was this Jorundyr’s gift?

  It was the first real taste of battle for all of them but Belgar, and the reality of it was far removed from the image Wulfric had of it. The snow was churned through with mud, and splattered with gore. It was not glorious. He felt nearly as bad as he had after the pilgrimage. His throat hurt, his head throbbed, and he ached from a dozen bumps and scratches that he couldn’t remember receiving. He was so tired he thought he would fall from his saddle.

  Judging by the riderless horses and the bodies on the ground, only two or three of the reavers would be returning home, hopefully with no desire to come anywhere near Leondorf ever again. Wulfric made a quick count. Including Belgar, there were six still on horseback, with Fridric, a seventh, still struggling to control his horse a safe distance away. That meant three unaccounted for. He had seen Kolbein take a spear in the charge. He looked around and saw Anshel dead on the ground not far from him. The blow to his head had shocked Wulfric less. Anshel’s glassy eyes stared into the sky, a length of shattered spear shaft protruding from his chest. Wulfric stared, unable to accept it. First Hane, now Anshel. Jorundyr was taking the best of them first. The others sat on their horses, looking around but not moving, as though none of them had any idea of what to do next.

  Wulfric took his helmet off. His neck ached so badly it felt as though his head had increased in weight four-fold. There was a large dent on the back of the helmet, and he hoped there wasn’t a similar one on the back of his head.

  Belgar limped over.

  ‘You all right, lad?’

  Wulfric tried to nod, then thought better of it. ‘Fine, I think,’ he said, his throat painfully dry.

  Belgar nodded and turned in Fridric’s direction. He let out a piercing whistle that did Wulfric’s headache no favours, and gestured for Fridric to come over. He did so with obvious reluctance.

  ‘Go and see if the cattle are still over there. Don’t scatter them if they are,’ Belgar said.

  ‘What if there are still some raiders with them?’ Fridric said.

  ‘We’ve put enough of a fright on them even for you to scare them off. Pretend you’re a man, for once in your bloody life!’ Belgar screamed. The old man’s renewed vigour still showed in the withering stare he gave Fridric. The councilman finally moved off toward the treeline.

  Belgar turned back to Wulfric. ‘Looks like we lost three.’

  Wulfric hoped the third missing rider would stand up from the bodies on the ground, but that hadn’t happened.

  ‘I saw Kolbein go down,’ Wulfric said. ‘Anshel is there. I don’t know who the third is.’

  ‘Rorik, I think,’ Belgar said.

  Wulfric tried to give a solemn nod, but his neck was too sore.

  Belgar looked at him oddly, and spoke after a moment. ‘You fought like a man possessed. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen a man cut in two.’ He smiled and slapped Wulfric on the leg. ‘Those men were seasoned warriors. You all did very well today.’

  Wulfric forced a smile, but it was difficult to be pleased with victory when three of his friends lay dead. Another few raids like that, and none of them would be left. Wulfric thought back to what he had said before the fight started. They needed leadership. He turned to the others.

  ‘Farlof! Roal!’ They turned to look at him. ‘If you’re not injured, go and see if the councilman needs help gathering the cattle.’

  They both nodded and acted on his command. The remaining two looked to Wulfric, waiting for their instructions. Wulfric took a deep breath, his head hurting too much to fully appreciate what was happening. ‘Let’s see to the bodies,’ he said. ‘Get them back on their horses for the ride home. The cattle thieves can rot where they lie.’ Every decision made his head pound more. He wanted nothing more than sleep.

  He looked to Belgar for some indication of what he thought about Wulfric’s decisions, but it was impossible to tell. Where a moment before there had been steel in his eyes, and a firm set to his jaw, Belgar once again had the tired, weakened look of the elderly man that he was. The sight crushed Wulfric, but there was something stirring in what had happened that afternoon, something in how, just for a few moments, Belgar the Old had been Belgar the Bold once more.

  33

  The cattle were discovered, standing with disinterest between the trees. Fridric rode out of the forest behind them with a smile so broad one would be forgiven for thinking that he had chased off the reavers single handed. They drove the cattle back to the herdsman, whose taciturn demeanour showed the faintest hint of a crack when he saw his beasts being returned. That three men died in their retrieval bothered him not in the least.

  Fridric chattered the whole way home, his elation at having been part of a battle and taking back the cattle causing a personality transformation. Wulfric wondered how his report to the newly constituted council would sound now. His thoughts of the day were bittersweet. He had gone on his first ranging, fought his first battle, killed his first man. A few weeks before, he had been a boy. Now he was an anointed and blooded warrior. He had also lost comrades and that soured everything else. The image of Hane looking at him with that sad smile and blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth was joined by one of Anshel’s pale face and lifeless eyes, and Kolbein being flicked from his horse like a rag doll. They were images he knew he would never be able to erase. The village could ill afford the loss. If every ranging was the same, Wulfric reckoned he would be dead by spring.

  He looked over at Belgar. He had not given an order since they turned to charge the raiders. It was Wulfric’s commands that were followed and not once had anything he said been questioned. None of them had even hesitated to act on his word. It was a strange feeling, a heavy one. A burden.

  RORIK’S MOTHER was one of the first faces that Wulfric saw when they rode back into the village. Her eyes fixed on his briefly, before jumping to each of the other riders and only then to the three horses with bodies draped across their backs. It was not the way of Northlanders to display their emotion in public, and Wulfric could see her face screw up as she fought to contain the wail of anguish inside her. Everyone in Leondorf had suffered in the previous months; Rorik’s father died with Wulfric’s on the road to Rasbruck. Wulfric feared this was the woe that would break their resolve. The cattle felt worthless to him now. It was too high a price to pay for pride, and Wulfric couldn’t imagine six cattle being the difference between comfort and starvation.

  The council members, alerted to the commotion outside, appeared from the Great Hall and stood atop the steps leading up to it. Fridric pushed his way forward as though he was the most i
mportant man alive, and started talking excitedly once within earshot of them. Wulfric didn’t give a damn for what he had to say. All he wanted was to get home, put his head down and pull his blanket over his head. It still throbbed, and there was a whistling noise in his ears that had not waned since he’d been hit. He could not explain why he was so tired, nor the strange sensation that had overcome him. He thought of what Aethelman had said about Jorundyr’s Chosen. He would have to discuss it with him as soon as he got a chance.

  He watched Fridric get ushered into the Great Hall. He realised Belgar was beside him.

  ‘You should be proud,’ Belgar said.

  ‘I don’t feel that way. It isn’t worth six cows.’

  ‘Is it worth a dozen? Or a hundred? If we hadn’t done what we did today, that’s what we would have ended up losing. Maybe the lot, and our people would starve. Now they know we can fight to keep what’s ours, and if they come looking, we’ll send them home draped across their horses’ backs.’ He paused and looked at the Great Hall, his face darkening.

  ‘Are you going to join them?’ Wulfric said, nodding to the Great Hall.

  ‘Aye. Assuming I’m still welcome. Should never have let them in.’

  Wulfric spotted his mother, with Adalhaid standing beside her. The two most important people in his life. The sight of them together gave him hope that he might be able to keep both of them in it.

  Belgar saw the direction of his glance. ‘Go,’ he said, forcing a smile. Wulfric nodded, slipped from his saddle, and walked to their embrace.

  THE WARMTH and comfort of home did little to settle Wulfric. He sat at the table as his mother cooked, his thoughts miles away. He could not forget the way the councilmen gathered at the door to the Great Hall, the possessive, almost hostile way they had regarded the warriors when they had come back to the square. No thanks, no congratulations; nothing but a jealous glare.

  Belgar had given Wulfric the responsibility of First Warrior that morning. He wondered if it would be made permanent, but still dared not tell his mother. She put a plate of stew down on the table, and sat. Wulfric started immediately; he had not realised how hungry he was until he smelled the cooking food.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Frena said.

  Wulfric stopped mid-chew. That phrase usually preceded something that he would not like.

  ‘Adalhaid was here the whole time you were gone. The pilgrimage, when you were ill…’

  Wulfric lowered his spoon to the plate. He was too tired to have this argument. His mind was long made up, and there would be no changing it. As much as he loved his mother and respected her opinion, there was no one who could tell him what to do now.

  ‘She’s a fine young woman,’ Frena said. ‘None finer. I realise that now, and with everything that’s happened, everything that’s changed…’ She paused for breath. ‘Well, with your father gone, I’ve been thinking of the things that are important. The things that are really important. I was so afraid that I’d lose you when you went on the pilgrimage. Again when you went on the ranging. Life is short and hard, and you should spend it with the people you care the most about.’

  Wulfric opened his mouth to speak, but his mother continued before he had the chance.

  ‘I’ll speak with Svana’s mother in the morning. If you’re not to be betrothed to her, she should know as soon as possible.’

  ‘HELLO, Wulfric,’ Aethelman said. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so much better. What can I do for you?’

  He was tired, and had been hoping to go to bed when the young warrior turned up at the kirk. Politeness always seemed so artificial when forced.

  ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about,’ Wulfric said.

  Aethelman raised an eyebrow. ‘You best come in then.’

  Aethelman’s small magical light—called a mage lamp in the South—was all that illuminated the kirk. He sat on a bench, and waited for Wulfric to start.

  ‘We spoke before,’ Wulfric said. He chewed on his lip before continuing. ‘About being chosen by Jorundyr.’

  Aethelman raised both eyebrows this time. ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘When we were fighting the reavers. I felt… odd. I was wondering if that might be it?’

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘Shaking. My teeth chattering. Feeling like I’m watching myself from a distance, like I’m so strong I could do anything. A thirst; a desire to kill everything in front of me.’

  ‘How long did the feeling last?’

  ‘Until the danger had passed. Then I felt exhausted. Worse than exhausted.’

  ‘Some of those chosen by Jorundyr become devastating warriors. It’s a curse as well as a blessing, however, as they can be a danger to everyone around them, not only their enemies. The “berserk” it’s been called in the past, but I don’t think that a fair name, and was given by those who did not understand it.’

  ‘What use is that?’ Wulfric said, his voice laden with frustration.

  ‘Quite a lot, when your foe are draugar and you are surrounded by hundreds of them. In this world, surrounded by friends as well as foes, it can be… a problem.’

  ‘What will I do? What if I hurt one of my friends?’

  ‘That you didn’t on this occasion is a good sign. It means you maintained some control, and not all of the berserkir were capable of that.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Wulfric said. ‘And I don’t want it.’

  ‘But you’re stuck with it,’ Aethelman said.

  ‘What if I’m not able to make that choice again? What if the thirst takes hold of me and I can’t? How can I be First Warrior if I’m as much a danger to my friends as my enemies?’ His voice rose in panic as he spoke.

  Aethelman shrugged. ‘I’m sorry to say I have no answer for you. Only you can explore the gift, and perhaps learn to control it. Some did. Others adapted the way they fought to ensure they could never be a danger to their comrades. Perhaps you can learn to stave the experience off. Then again, one day it might save your life, and those of your friends. Great power can never be given unfettered; it destroys a man’s soul if granted without limitation. If Jorundyr thought you strong enough to be given this gift, then he believes you to be strong enough to control it. As do I, once you’ve learned to understand it. That will take time.’

  Wulfric nodded, ambivalent.

  ‘It will likely get stronger as you grow fully to manhood,’ Aethelman said. ‘It would be wise to begin exploring it now while it will be easier to master.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ Wulfric said, one of his competing concerns laid to rest for the time being. ‘It’s about Adalhaid. And me. Adalhaid and me.’

  Aethelman smiled.

  34

  ‘I want a seat on the council,’ Rodulf said.

  Donato pushed aside the papers he had been reviewing and gave Rodulf an inquiring look. He had not even bothered to knock before entering Donato’s office at the back of their warehouse on the village’s outskirts.

  ‘Two voices are stronger than one. You’d know you have one supporter there always.’

  ‘Would I?’ Donato said. There were many things about his son that gave him pride, but his avariciousness was such that even Donato was shocked at times.

  ‘You would,’ Rodulf said, clearly missing the implication. ‘But you need to include me in your plans. For instance, what advantage is there in bringing the southerners here? Surely you realise that once they’ve got a foothold over the border they won’t give it up.’

  Donato knew Rodulf was beginning to tire of being kept in the dark about his schemes.

  ‘They’re more than welcome to stay,’ Donato said, curious to see where Rodulf’s line of reasoning would take him.

  ‘They’ll take every little bit of power you’ve brought us. We’ll be back where we started, only with masters of another name. The only difference is their contempt of all Northlanders, not just the merchant classes.’

  Donato leaned back and smiled. His son’s ambition still outwe
ighed his skill in thinking ahead, but he was improving.

  ‘The southerners hate the Northlands, Rodulf. It’s wild, dangerous, uncivilised. They do like what they can get here, though. Plenty of wealth to be had, fortunes to be made. That’s all they’re interested in. They won’t want to live up here. To ensure they get what they want without dirtying their expensive leather boots, they’ll need someone to take care of things, ensure that the coin keeps flowing south. Someone effective. Someone who understands both the North and the South, and can keep both happy. Why do you think I sent you off on all of those apprenticeships? It certainly wasn’t to keep southern whores in business.’

  Rodulf blushed at the comment, but Donato paid a visit to one of Elzburg’s better brothels every time he was there so he didn’t push the issue.

  ‘Keep everyone happy, keep the money flowing south, and the southerners will let us do what we want here. Then, if we run into trouble, we can send south for thousands of warriors to deal with it, and ship them back when we’re done.’

  ‘And what if that person isn’t you?’ Rodulf said.

  ‘I’ll make damn sure it is.’ The audacity of the question infuriated him. Who else could fill that role? There were one or two other merchants in the village whose wealth approached his own, but they were still a distant second and he had pushed them into the background on the council. His voice was the most frequent, the most prominent, and the one sided with most often. He was the only man for the job, and he glared at Rodulf for suggesting otherwise.

  Rodulf scratched at his eye patch. Donato was tired of him trying to find fault with everything he did. Rodulf might be clever—but so was he, and he had years of experience behind him. The warriors’ arrogance had brought about their own destruction, whatever that bastard Wolfram might have implied, and Donato had manoeuvred everything perfectly since then. He was already de facto leader of the village—First Warrior, in a sense, even though he could never be called that. The idea made him smile to himself. He made a mental note that he would have to come up with an appropriate title for himself. He gave Rodulf a good look. Since ceasing his constant training, he had grown slender, shedding the unnecessary muscle. Donato knew he still practised with a sword in secret, but used a southern blade now, a rapier that he had bought on his travels. He kept his sandy blond hair shorter, another affectation of the South. Combined with his usual choice in clothes, it made him look far more the southern gentleman than Northlander. He would need to learn to maintain the balance between North and South if he was to fulfil the legacy he would be left. Everything Donato achieved would one day fall to his son, and Rodulf should be more appreciative of the fact.