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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘What if the warriors are able to protect the village?’ Rodulf said. ‘They managed it with the reavers. What if the people don’t think we need help from the south?’

  ‘One small skirmish, and three of them were killed,’ Donato said. ‘How long do you think they’ll be able to keep that up? This village has large herds, and the few warriors that are left can’t be everywhere at once. I’ll see to it that they are out ranging every minute. Captain Morlyn wasn’t the only man willing to drive off some cattle for a few coins. By midsummer, every warrior will sup with Jorundyr and the southerners will be our only hope for survival.’

  Rodulf nodded. ‘About the council?’

  Tenacious. It was difficult not to be proud of him at times, even if friction now seemed ever present. ‘We’ll see. And next time you come in here, knock.’

  WULFRIC WOULD HAVE BEEN the first to admit that things seemed to be happening quickly, but on the other hand it felt as though he had been moving toward this moment with Adalhaid all of his life. Now that his mother had given him her support, he did not want to give her time to change her mind. He had hoped to keep the matter quiet—a formal betrothal was only a private formality on the road to marriage—but in a small village, it was difficult.

  His brother warriors Stenn, Farlof, Roal, and Urrich, as well as Belgar, were waiting for him in the kirk when he walked in with his mother. They gave him a knowing smile, but no one said anything as they waited for Adalhaid and her mother to arrive. Despite it only being a promise ceremony, conducted under the eyes of the gods, Wulfric felt his heart race in anticipation. Might she have a change of heart? Decide that his being with Svana was for the best and leave for the South again without telling anyone? If he were that nervous at the betrothal, what would the actual wedding be like?

  He breathed a sigh of relief when she arrived, and then a second to steady himself at the sight of how beautiful she looked. She was wearing her best clothes, a bodice-jacket and long skirt cut from emerald-green southern cloth that contrasted against her dark red hair and fair skin like emeralds and rubies on the snow. Wulfric felt shabby by comparison in his bland rough-spun wool trews, jacket and belek cloak.

  He took her hand and they joined Aethelman at the altar in silence. Wulfric had no idea what to say to her, and didn’t want to spoil the moment with foolish words. The opportunity was taken away from him as Aethelman began.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he said. ‘More people are here than I’d usually expect for something like this. Adalhaid and Wulfric, do you both wish to enter into a promise of marriage?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wulfric said, relieved to hear the word mirrored by Adalhaid.

  ‘Under the eyes of Agnarr, Father of the Gods, you are now betrothed. You shall remain chaste and in this state of half-marriage until at least two new moons have passed. If the gods disapprove of your intentions, they will make themselves known in this time. If not, you will have their blessing to marry at any time after the second moon has waned, and you have come of age.’

  For Wulfric, it was a moment where it was difficult to tell reality from the imagined. It was almost like the sensation he’d had when fighting the reavers. It took a shout to bring him back to reality.

  ‘Kiss her, you clown!’

  Farlof.

  Wulfric blushed slightly and they kissed again. A slap on the back ended the moment.

  ‘Enough time for that later,’ Belgar said. ‘Now that you’re First Warrior, the village will be expecting a betrothal feast fitting to the occasion.’

  ‘First Warrior?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘I got the council to confirm it yesterday,’ he said. ‘It didn’t all go my way, but we can talk about that later. You and the others have some hunting to do if you want enough meat to go around.’

  ‘Now?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘Is there a better time?’ Belgar said. ‘The village could use a celebration, and the First Warrior’s betrothal is as good a reason as any.’

  Wulfric looked back at Adalhaid. ‘We’ve barely said a word to each other,’ he said.

  She shrugged and smiled. ‘What do we need to say?’

  ‘You look so beautiful,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘Well, I’ll let you say that much. Now go with your friends. Belgar’s right, the village could do with a celebration.’

  35

  ‘The merchant told me they had plenty of food,’ Ritschl said.

  Gandack stroked his beard, as he always did when trying to appear thoughtful, but Ritschl was confident that his course was already set. Rasbruck was on the verge of starvation. The merchant that Ritschl had spoken with had made no mention of food supplies in Leondorf, only that they had but a handful of warriors, none much more than boys. There would never be a better opportunity.

  Gandack looked to Emmeram.

  ‘Even if we rationed heavily, we won’t have enough to see us through the winter,’ Emmeram said.

  ‘And these paid men will agree to fight for a share of the spoils?’ Gandack said.

  ‘They will,’ Thietmar said. ‘It seems it’s common knowledge how weakened Leondorf is. If we don’t strike at them soon there’ll be nothing left to take. The scouts have seen signs that the smaller villages have already been raiding their cattle.’

  ‘Sending warriors to battle in winter… I don’t know,’ Gandack said.

  ‘It hasn’t snowed in over a week,’ Emmeram said. ‘The roads are as passable as we could hope for.’

  ‘Still, taking all of their food in winter…’ Gandack said. ‘It seems the type of thing Jorundyr would frown upon.’

  ‘Jorundyr favours those who look after their own,’ Ritschl said. ‘Better that they go hungry than those you are sworn to protect.’

  It was irritating that Gandack could no longer do so much as visit the privy ditch without reassurance that the gods favoured the act. The battle with Leondorf had gone hard on him; he had lost both of his sons, not to mention the majority of the town’s warriors. The prize would make it all worthwhile, though. For Ritschl, at least.

  ‘Fine,’ Gandack said, his voice carrying a rare tone of certainty. ‘We’ll attack them. It seems there is little time to waste.’

  RELUCTANT AT FIRST, Wulfric had come to love the hunt. From the skills of tracking the beasts to the mortal struggle against them, he revelled in the thrill of it all. He wanted his betrothal feast to be well provided for. It was another opportunity to show everyone what he and the others were capable of. They rode out of the village in high spirits, with the hunting hounds leading the way, padding through the snow with their long loping run. It was the first time in recent memory that it felt as though the cloud of misfortune above them all had parted.

  The dogs chased down a small sounder of boar late in the afternoon, as they were trained to do. Spot led them. When Adalhaid had left, Wulfric took him into his kennels. He had continued to grow and had quickly risen to lead the pack. He was now the size of a small pony and as fine a hunting dog as could be wanted. Spot and the other two ran the boars back to the hunters in a small glade deep in the forest with expert precision. It made Wulfric rue the poor dog’s unfortunate naming. He had always thought ‘Ulfyr’ would be more fitting for such a fine dog, rather than ‘Spot’.

  They each killed a boar, with the exception of Urrich, and Wulfric was satisfied that there would be enough meat to ensure everyone went home from the celebration with a full belly, and perhaps a little more confidence in their few young warriors.

  They left their horses tied up at the treeline and set about bundling up their kills. They were spread across the glade as they went to work, with Urrich standing idly in their midst.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Urrich,’ Farlof said. ‘Not everyone can get a kill. Remind me next time, and I’ll show you how!’

  ‘Shut up, Farlof,’ Urrich said, clearly annoyed that he was the only one going home without a boar tied to his horse.

  A branch snapped somewhere out to Wulfric�
�s left, the crack echoing between the trees. He glanced to the hounds, who had heard it also, and, with ears pricked up, were scanning the forest. He stared out between the trees in the direction of the sound, but could see nothing. It came from the far side of the glade, so could not have been the horses. He strained left and right to get a better look between the trees. The others paid the sound no attention, but he felt concern grow in the pit of his stomach.

  Roal, Farlof, and Stenn were spread out around the glade, Roal and Farlof tying the legs of their kills up, while Stenn, already finished, played with one of the hounds with boyish enthusiasm. Urrich walked around kicking at the snow, sulking at not having gotten a kill. It reminded Wulfric of how young they all really were. There was silence in the forest once more. It was always easy to let paranoia get the better of you in the wilderness, Wulfric thought. So many shadows, so many sounds, so many stories to play on the imagination. He turned his attention back to his boar when a grey blur flashed through the glade.

  Wulfric was on his feet with his sword drawn before he had the chance to consider what he had seen. Where Urrich had been standing, there was now only air. The dogs whimpered and the others all stopped, looking at the spot.

  ‘What happened? Where’d Urrich go?’ Stenn said.

  ‘Belek,’ Wulfric said. It was the only possibility. The word was out of his mouth before he had time to consider it, but the tracks on the snow confirmed it. He found it difficult to make his voice come out as anything more than a cloying whisper.

  All the others went pale the moment he said it. They jumped to their feet and scrabbled to draw their swords. The dogs paced around in circles, nervous, confused. The horses were straining against their tethers. Greyfell looked as though he might kick the tree down.

  Wulfric scanned the forest where he thought the grey shape had gone. He had thought never to encounter a belek again. One was as many as most men ever saw, unless they went looking for them. To have a chance encounter with two seemed dreadful luck. Wulfric thought back to Aethelman’s words at the betrothal. Was this the gods trying to put a stop to the marriage?

  He looked at the dogs, who circled around him like mewling puppies. The Northland scent-hound was a fearsome beast, and Wulfric had never seen them show even a hint of fear before. With shaggy grey coats and long snouts they were strong yet graceful, but above all brave. One could chase down and kill a man with ease. Packs of them were used in war. To see them behave so was terrifying.

  The others looked to Wulfric for reassurance and direction, when it was all he could do to hold his nerve. It felt so much worse this time. On the last occasion he had been so tired it had all felt like a dream. This time was all too real, and it had taken Urrich.

  Only a fool did not fear a belek—Angest had always openly admitted each and every one he killed had terrified him. It didn’t stop him from hunting them, however. Wulfric tried to calm himself with the thought that he had faced one before, alone, and survived. He wore the cloak to prove it. He had company this time, and a good sword.

  There had not been so much as a scream from Urrich. He was not a small man, and the speed and ease with which he’d been carried off was shocking. Wulfric continued to scan the trees, but saw nothing.

  ‘Maybe it won’t come back,’ Roal said.

  It was too much to hope for. When belek encountered men, they killed as much for the sport as for food. It was still out there, somewhere among the trees, watching them. It would not leave until it had killed them all.

  ‘It killed one of our own,’ Wulfric said. He could feel his hands start to shake, which added to his concern. Were the others far enough away from him? ‘Either it dies, or we do.’ There was steel in his voice, but it felt as though someone else was speaking.

  There was a low throaty growl and the belek stepped out from the treeline, unconcerned at losing the element of surprise. It walked along the edge of the glade, looking appraisingly at the four men, the three hounds, and the horses. Its eyes gleamed with predatory intelligence. It was bigger than any of the dogs by far, and seemed larger than the one Wulfric killed.

  The hounds retreated behind Wulfric. None of the other hunters moved, but they tracked the beast with the tips of their swords, doing their best to prepare for its strike. As afraid as he was, Wulfric felt a tingle of excitement running over his skin. It sent a shiver through him that he worried the others would see as a sign of fear. His teeth started to chatter.

  A foolish thought popped into his head—the fame that killing a second belek would bring him. Few enough managed to kill one. Those who killed two became legends. He could hear the name ‘Wulfric Beleks’ Bane’ in his head. He might never see another one for as long as he lived. He had no idea what madness was causing him to think like that, but he realised the fear was gone.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Wulfric was walking away from the hounds, sabre held out in front. He felt flooded with energy as his hands shook and teeth chattered uncontrollably. He felt as though he could run for hours, climb without rest, fight until he had laid waste to all before him, but would burst if he did not release all that building energy. Aethelman had said Jorundyr’s gift might one day save his life. Would it be that day? He roared a challenge.

  The belek snapped its head in his direction. The two large fangs that curved down out of its mouth glistened with blood. The fur all around its mouth was matted with it. Urrich’s blood. Wulfric felt a great rage well up inside of him. He wanted to pull it limb from limb. The belek took no further notice of the dogs or the other hunters. It wanted Wulfric first. It wanted Wulfric most of all. It turned to face him, its movements lithe and its muscles rippling beneath its pristine steely coat. It growled, the sound deep and rumbling as it echoed in its great chest. It seemed like distant thunder. Everything seemed distant.

  The belek charged at him, its hulking, muscular body moving with mesmerizing grace and speed. Its silver fur shimmered in the evening sun as it pounced. Wulfric watched it come at him as though he had all the time in the world. It felt as though he did, even as he threw himself backward onto the snow and rolled to the side. There was a loud growl as the belek passed by him. Wulfric looked to see one of the hounds hurl itself against the belek, snarling with all the fury it could muster. The belek was momentarily distracted, giving Wulfric time to roll over onto his belly and jump to his feet. There was a yelp, and Wulfric saw the broken body of one of his hounds lying by the belek. The belek took no more notice of the mortally injured dog and turned to face Wulfric.

  The belek prowled forward, its gaze fixed on Wulfric. He willed it on toward him. Out of the corner of his eye, Wulfric could see Stenn and Farlof frozen on their spots, watching with morbid fascination. Roal, who had been out on his own, was slowly moving toward them, seeking safety in numbers. Were they waiting for his command to attack?

  A distant voice in his head said he should give it, but madness flowed through his veins. He wanted the belek all for himself, and he was tiring of its little game. He let out a roar and charged.

  The belek’s eyes widened, but it was not to be frightened by a mere man. It roared in reply, bloody spittle spraying from its teeth. Wulfric moved fast, faster than the belek had expected—faster than Wulfric had expected himself. He brought his sword down at the belek’s head, but it leapt out of the way and hissed at him. Wulfric closed the distance and attacked again, driving the belek back. The sound of his heart beat out like a great war drum in his ears. Wulfric felt invincible. The belek seemed slow, like nothing more than an overgrown cat. The terror it had inspired in him seemed like a foolish little thing.

  The belek swiped at him with one of its enormous clawed paws. Wulfric jumped to dodge, but could not get clear in time. He felt it brush across him, but there was no pain. He leaped forward, bringing his sword down in a great arc. Joy exploded within him as he felt the blade connect with flesh and sinew and bone. He heard the belek screech, was aware of its fangs, its claws, but he ignored them and drove forward
with all his strength, seeking out the monster’s heart.

  It let out a loud hiss. Wulfric had driven his sword into it as far as the hilt. His shoulder pressed against the beast’s, and his face was next to its eye. He looked into it and saw the hate that dwelled within. His knuckles were white on the handle of his sabre, and he pressed against the belek with all of his weight and strength. It thrashed its head against him once and then again, trying to bring its great fangs into play, but the second effort was feebler than the first. Wulfric summoned up more strength and pressed with his legs as hard as he could. The belek gave ground. He twisted the sword and it collapsed.

  Wulfric pulled his sword free and stepped back. He looked over to the others. They stood in silence, aghast. His eyes were wild and he had a manic expression on his face. He had never felt so alive. He looked at his hands, his chest, and realised he was covered in blood. The belek’s, he thought with satisfaction. Then he collapsed.

  36

  Aethelman knew Leondorf’s troubles could only justify him remaining for so long, and that time had passed. Wulfric’s betrothal celebration would mark, he hoped, a return to happier times for the village. Belarman was settled now, and Aethelman was confident in the young priest’s ability. He would serve the people of Leondorf well. Slipping away quietly seemed like the best plan. It was well past time that he did so.