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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  38

  Wulfric had hoped that more people would return during the night, but there were no new faces the next morning and no one else arrived over the course of the day. Among the missing was Adalhaid’s mother. They hadn’t talked about it the previous night. After all the beatings and humiliations he had taken over the years, Wulfric knew better than most how healing a good night’s sleep could be. He had made sure she had everything she needed and encouraged her to go to sleep as quickly as possible.

  Work was already underway when he woke, but progress was slow. All the carpenters and their apprentices were dead, as were the smiths, the tanners, and the masons. Two of the woodsmen had survived, and had spent the morning felling trees which the remainder of the survivors were working to turn into planks. There was so much work to be done, and Wulfric had to wonder if there was any point starting over. There were so few of them now. Would they be better off going to one of the other smaller villages to see if they would take them in? It would make them vagrants and beggars. They would never be able to walk with their heads held high. They would end up in thrall to whoever took them in, if anyone did. As terrible as it was, he would prefer death. Their only saving grace was that what remained could be taken at will; there was no need to kill anyone for it.

  Donato and several other men, Rodulf included, surveyed the devastation, riding around slowly in a superior and detached fashion. Wulfric wondered how they had time to find horses with so much to do and when everyone else was so busy. They paid little heed to the people toiling in the ash to rebuild their homes. After completing a tour, they returned to the stone shell of the Great Hall, dismounted and went in. Rodulf walked in behind his father as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

  Belgar strode purposefully toward the Great Hall and joined them. Wulfric walked up to him.

  ‘Shall I come in now?’ Wulfric said.

  Belgar grimaced and shook his head. ‘That’s the thing I mentioned, lad. You’re First Warrior, but that’s it. The others felt the title was best limited to the battlefield.’

  Wulfric’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  ‘Now, don’t look at me like that,’ Belgar said. ‘I did my best. They were going to do away with the title altogether. It was all I could do to save it, and make sure you got it. I’d best get in there.’

  He left Wulfric wondering how to deal with the news. He had assumed that he was now part of the council, but his exclusion hammered home how much had changed, if the smouldering ruin of the village was not enough. He did not intend to be left in the dark however, so he made his way to the spot at the back of the hall, and sat against the scorched stones where he could not be seen.

  ‘I think it safe to say, we have no other option now,’ Donato said. ‘If we’re to have any hope of surviving, we need outside help.’

  Hearing it said out loud was like a kick in the stomach for Wulfric. He could not shake off the feeling that had he and the others been there, they might have been able to stop the attack, but he knew that was a fantasy. There would merely have been five more bodies in the pile. Donato was right, and the fact that he could not disagree made the reality sting even more. There was a murmuring sound from the others, but it was difficult to tell if it was in agreement with what Donato had said or not.

  ‘We have to plan for what’s to come. As things are, Rasbruck can treat us as they like. It will be years before we have enough warriors to defend the village properly. We have no shelter and hardly any food.’

  ‘I know what’s coming next,’ Belgar said, his voice flat.

  ‘You know what’s coming next because as much as age has addled your brains, you still have an ounce of sense left in that grey head of yours,’ Donato said, his voice pregnant with conceit.

  ‘There was a time when a mouth like that would have had you dead,’ Belgar said. ‘Mayhap that’ll be the case again one day. Sooner than you might like. Think on that.’

  It was an impotent retort, and Wulfric felt bad for Belgar. It was sad to have lived so long that a man not his equal could talk down to him and not fear the consequences.

  ‘I’ll be sure to,’ Donato said. ‘My proposal is as it was. We send a delegate to Ruripathia and ask for their protection.’

  ‘And why would they want to protect a burned husk of a village and a few hundred people who can’t even feed themselves?’ Belgar said.

  He was fighting every inch of the way, and Wulfric felt proud of the fact, but there was no denying it was a losing battle.

  ‘Leondorf was wealthy and powerful once. We still have a great deal of territory and untapped resources. We can offer them access to both, and give their people safe haven on this side of the river. If we move quickly we might even be able to keep some of our herds. We all know how much the southerners like our horses.’

  ‘I’m sure there’re plenty of Ruripathian lords who’d like to add our lands to their own holdings,’ Belgar said, his voice defiant rather than combative. The argument was already over, and all that was left was for him to state the obvious.

  ‘It’s not my intention to hand our lands over to a Ruripathian lord. Raiding south of the river has always been an irritation for the Ruripathians. Our land abuts theirs, and I am sure they will be glad of having our territory as a buffer. We can offer their merchants and prospectors a safe place to extend their trade networks into the Northlands. They might want more, and we will have little option but to give it.’

  There was not a single voice, other than Belgar’s, which opposed Donato. By keeping Wulfric out of the Great Hall, away from the High Table, he had ensured that when Belgar died the warrior class would be excluded from government forever.

  ‘I have made connections in the course of my trade with men of influence in the cities,’ Donato said. ‘I can send word to some of them to see what options there are to provide us with the support we need. As I have said, there will be a price. In order to appear as attractive to them as possible, we will need to know what we still have, and what we can get. Furs are popular in the South, easy to gather and transport. We should consider them a priority. Our horses too.’

  There was a murmur of agreement from those assembled. Wulfric wondered at the frustration that Belgar must have been feeling. As much as life had changed for Wulfric, for Belgar, Leondorf must have seemed like an alien place.

  Finally, Belgar added his voice to the sound. ‘Very well,’ he said, defeated. ‘Make contact with whoever it is you deal with. See what can be done.’

  HAVING HEARD ENOUGH, Wulfric went to look for Adalhaid. As he walked he considered what he had just learned. As suspicious as the Northlanders were of their southern neighbours, perhaps it would be for the best. There was trade and communication between Leondorf and southern cities. Wulfric was given to understand they were not that far removed from the peoples of the Northlands. His father had told him that once, long ago, they were much the same but that they had become part of a great empire which set them on a different path. That was all so far in the past, the stories had almost the same qualities as those told of when Jorundyr and his wolf, Ulfyr, still walked the land.

  As well as traders, warriors went south to fight, to gain fame in faraway lands. It was called following Jorundyr’s Path. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, one of experience and braving the unknown. It was something Wulfric had often dreamed of, to see exotic places, meet strange peoples, and fight in great battles. So much would change with the arrival of the southerners, Wulfric could not help but question his role there. His exclusion from the council made one thing clear: the time for warriors in Leondorf was past. Ruripathian soldiers would defend the village in the future, merchants and noblemen would govern it. What would there be for him? He had no trade, no learning. He had more to think of than just himself, however. What of Adalhaid? He couldn’t drag her with him.

  WULFRIC FOUND Adalhaid standing by the remains of her house with his mother, sobbing. Within the burnt-out remains of her home, she had gathered a sma
ll pile of charred bones. First her father, now her mother. Wulfric had no idea what to say to her.

  It was the tradition in the Northlands to burn the bodies of the dead, and only then to bury what remained. For Adalhaid’s mother, that was the only part of the ritual that remained. Wulfric felt a lump in his throat when he saw how distressed Adalhaid was. He thought of Rasbruck. Of flames. Of blood. Donato may have had a hand in causing the first battle, but the attack on the village was unprovoked and without justification. He would see them burn for it, if it was the last thing he did.

  Without saying anything, he went to the patch of scorched ground that had once been the small shed at the back of his house. He kicked around in the ash until he found a shovel with enough of the handle remaining to be of use.

  He returned to Adalhaid, his meaning obvious. His mother excused herself and went back to help the others. Adalhaid looked at the shovel and nodded. She placed the bones on a piece of cloth and then bundled them up.

  ‘Is there anywhere you want to put them?’ he asked. While there was a burial ground just outside the village, many people preferred to inter their loved ones in places that held significance for them.

  She nodded again. ‘Yes. With my father.’

  Adalhaid’s parents had a favourite spot by a tree, much like Wulfric and Adalhaid did, albeit on the other side of the village, looking out toward the distant sea to the west. They went there and Wulfric worked in silence as he dug into the bare patch of soil that had so recently been disturbed to bury her father’s remains. He was careful not to dig too forcefully, for fear of damaging the bones already there, before removing the loose soil.

  Eventually he glimpsed a piece of cloth and stopped. He stepped back, giving Adalhaid some space while she laid her mother to rest with her father. She let out one sob, but quickly regained her composure, the only sign of her distress the stream of tears that ran down her face. When she was done, Wulfric filled the soil back in with as much care as he could muster.

  DONATO SENT the delegation south the next morning. They needed to move swiftly if they were to hold onto what little remained, he said. In that, Wulfric thought him correct. Now that the decision was made, there was little point in delaying. The cynic in him refused to believe that Donato’s motivation was the village’s welfare, however. He wondered what Donato expected to get out of it all.

  Wulfric watched the delegation go, not a warrior among them. Rodulf rode at their head, as puffed up and full of his own importance as he had been when still an apprentice. Wulfric had expected Belgar to insist on going, but that did not seem to be the case. Wulfric realised he was expecting too much of the old man. He looked more frail every day, and Wulfric feared that the days he could rely on his counsel were numbered.

  Until the delegation returned with whatever help they could get, there was little for Wulfric to do other than throw himself into rebuilding as best he could. There was more frustration to be found in that. Despite being young, fit and strong, Wulfric had no skills. Labouring and crafts were all but unknown to him, and he was little more use than a beast of burden. Those with some skill in smithing and carpentry were the most important men in the village, few though they were, and Wulfric felt utterly useless.

  He was happy to do whatever was required of him, but the villagers were not accustomed to ordering a warrior around. Wulfric stood with Stenn, Roal, and Farlof to the side of the work gang that was busy chopping down trees and preparing them to be cut into planks. Each time one of the workmen passed by, he would give them a deferential nod, but say nothing. In the end they took it upon themselves to start cutting down trees and hauling them back into the village.

  39

  The delegates returned to the village a week after the attack with strangers in tow. They were upbeat, but looked tired and wouldn’t reveal anything to the villagers. They dismounted before the shell of the Great Hall with the pomp of men who believed they held the fate of all around them in their hands, which Wulfric had to admit was not far from the truth.

  A tarpaulin had been erected to keep those within sheltered from the elements but it was difficult to think of it as a building any longer. They went in, and the rest of the village had to wait to find out what news they brought.

  People stood idle for a while, but once it became apparent the wait would not be short, they gradually returned to work. Eventually the men emerged from the jury-rigged Great Hall. The new faces had discarded their travelling cloaks, and stood in contrast to the others, their fine, richly coloured clothes marking them out as foreigners. Wulfric felt hopeful. It was unlikely the southerners would have sent men north unless they intended to help. He hated that the prospect of foreign help filled him with hope.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Farlof was standing at Wulfric’s shoulder. Wulfric couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the teasing, mischievous tone in Farlof’s voice. He missed it, and wondered if it would ever return.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Wulfric said. ‘But it looks like we’re getting help of some sort. So long as we can pay for it.’

  ‘I wonder what it will cost?’

  ‘Everything,’ Wulfric said.

  DONATO PUSHED his way through the others and scanned the gathering crowd, his eyes stopping on Wulfric. ‘You!’ he shouted, pointing at Wulfric so there was no doubt as to who he was addressing.

  Wulfric raised an eyebrow and turned to look behind him, but didn’t respond. He had no intention of acknowledging the disrespectful way Donato spoke.

  ‘Wulfric. I need you over here,’ Donato said.

  There was impatience in his voice, so Wulfric made a point of walking across the square slowly, stopping to exchange a few words with people on the way.

  ‘What do you want, Donato?’ Wulfric said, when he eventually reached the bottom of the steps up to the Great Hall. He refused to address him as ‘Councilman’.

  ‘I need you to take this man, Sifrud is his name, south to look at the horses. He needs to see how many we have left and what condition they’re in.’

  Wulfric looked at the man and shrugged. ‘Why don’t you take him? Arse too good for a saddle now?’ The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider them.

  Anger flashed behind Donato’s eyes, and Wulfric smiled. He almost wanted Donato to strike at him, as Wulfric had seen him treating his serfs in the past. It would be a mistake Donato wouldn’t live to regret.

  The merchant swallowed hard. ‘It’s in the village’s best interest that you do as I ask. Take him south to view the horses. Please.’

  Wulfric turned and started walking toward the man. ‘Fine.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, hopeful that all the little marks of contempt would add up and eventually push Donato to doing something rash. As far as Wulfric was concerned, Donato deserved to die far more than those who had done so in Leondorf.

  IT WAS LATE that evening when he returned to the village after inspecting the horses with Sifrud. Those in the southernmost pastures had not been touched and Sifrud seemed satisfied with what he saw. Wulfric had not expected to find anything at all, but clearly the Rasbruckers were complacent about taking what remained whenever they chose. The horses would need to be sold quickly and driven across the border to their new owners before the Rasbruckers decided to collect what they doubtless considered theirs.

  The southerner hadn’t said much on the ride, but he seemed to know his horses. He would be taking all but a few left for breeding stock. Wulfric was surprised, thinking the southerner would want the lot, but he seemed to be of the opinion that the environment was as much a part of the horses’ quality as their bloodlines. Nonetheless, it would take years to bring their herds back up to the size they had once been. Wulfric took grim satisfaction in the fact that although they would be lost to Leondorf, at least they might buy them something useful and the Rasbruckers would never get their hands on a single one.

  FRENA, unhappy with the lack of privacy and space in the communal shelter,
had put up a tent on the remains of their home which was now supplemented by some solid-looking wooden framework that had been added since Wulfric took the southerner to view the horses. As appreciative of the work as he was, Wulfric didn’t want special treatment because he was First Warrior. There were those who didn’t even have a tent to call their own.

  Adalhaid was staying with her, but there wasn’t room for Wulfric; he and the other warriors had taken to camping just outside the village. He went to his mother’s tent first to check on them, and was surprised to find that Belgar was there, standing outside with one of the southerners.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Wulfric said. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Nothing to get het up about,’ Belgar said. ‘This is Aelric. You probably don’t remember him. He took Jorundyr’s Path when you were a boy.’

  ‘Still not much more than a boy,’ Aelric said. ‘Good to see you, lad. I was sorry to hear about your father.’

  ‘I don’t remember you.’

  ‘Not surprised. I’m Adalhaid’s uncle. You were no higher than your father’s knee when I left.’

  The memory returned to Wulfric. Aelric was a lanceman like Adalhaid’s father, who, with no property, had chosen Jorundyr’s Path. Adalhaid mentioned him from time to time; she had lived in his household while being educated in the south. He had thrived by all accounts, and was the captain of a nobleman’s guard. Now, it seemed, he was returning in their hour of need. Might there be others who would do the same? Enough to tell the Ruripathians to stuff their help in a midden heap?