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

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Wulfric watched the Ambassador’s house for want of anything better to do. The others were in no mood for banter, so they sat there in silence. When the Ambassador eventually appeared outside, plump and prosperous looking in a cloak of expensive furs, Wulfric paid attention. He walked purposefully toward the Great Hall, accompanied by two soldiers, and went in without knocking or waiting to be admitted—as was usually required of those not on the council. As was required of Wulfric.

  His demeanour was what was of most interest to Wulfric. The Ambassador’s face was dark with anger, and Wulfric prayed that this was the insult that finally pushed him to action after three long years of waiting. The blood vengeance Leondorf owed them might not be so far off. Wulfric watched in silence from the porch, knowing that Belgar would come to tell him as soon as the discussions were finished and the orders were given.

  BELGAR STRODE from the Great Hall directly toward them. ‘Get up off your lazy arses!’

  Wulfric and the others all did as they were told. He might be old, and growing increasingly frail, but Belgar was the only member of the council they had any respect for. None of the other men had faced battle; none of them were worthy of it.

  ‘Ambassador Urschel is displeased with losing his silver and wants to teach the Rasbruckers to mind their own business. You’ll guide his soldiers north to the village in the morning.’

  Wulfric felt his heart race. His father. Adalhaid’s parents. The village. There were so many scores to settle, he felt he was being pulled in five different directions at once. He had waited three long years for this moment. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to roll over like a cowed dog whenever the Ambassador snapped his fingers.

  ‘Never been there,’ Wulfric said. ‘Not sure if I know the way.’

  Belgar cast him a filthy look. ‘Don’t play the ignorant Northlander with me. We want this as much as they do. Cutting off your nose to spite your face gets us nowhere. If you don’t lead them, I will, and you can stay here and sulk.’

  Stenn and Farlof sniggered, and Wulfric shot them as filthy a look as Belgar had given him.

  ‘I’ll take them,’ he said. ‘But because I want to, not because the fat Ambassador tells me to.’

  ‘Good enough for me,’ Belgar said. ‘Be ready to go at first light.’

  41

  One of the craftsmen who had come north from Ruripathia was a smith. Wulfric ensured his first engagement on arriving was to make him new armour and weapons. His helm bore the features of a snarling belek, reminiscent of the long dead Beleks Bane’s, but far more terrifying. When a Rasbrucker saw it, Wulfric wanted their bowels to turn to water. It would mean death for them, and he wanted them to recognise it. The helm was the finest he had ever seen, and he grudgingly acknowledged the southerners’ value in some things. Whenever he passed the forge wearing it, the smith paused to look at what he regarded as his best work.

  If the helm was the smith’s best work, the rest of Wulfric’s battle accoutrements were not far behind. His armour fitted perfectly, and his sabre—a long, single edged blade with a slightly curved edge—was tailored to his preference. It was perfectly balanced, and felt like an extension of his arm. Other than a hero’s blade made from the steel only found in the High Places, he was confident there was no finer weapon to be had. It had yet to shed the blood of his enemies, and he felt giddy at the thought that this would soon be remedied.

  Almost the entire garrison was being sent. Seeing them gathered on the square was an impressive sight. While they lacked the individual character of a Northlander horde, there was something about their uniformity that was intimidating. Stenn and Farlof had left before first light to scout ahead, while Wulfric would guide the main body of men to Rasbruck.

  They were preparing to depart when three more men arrived, dressed for a fight. Rodulf and two men Wulfric had not seen before. They had the hardened look of warriors about them, and made Wulfric think twice before giving Rodulf the greeting he usually would.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Wulfric said.

  ‘We’re coming along,’ Rodulf said. ‘The council want a representative present.’

  Wulfric didn’t like the idea, but knew that arguing against it would get him nowhere. ‘I hope your two friends will be able to look after you. The rest of us don’t have time to babysit.’ Rodulf smiled at him, and seemed in no way irritated, which was disappointing.

  ‘Captain? Are you and your men ready?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Let’s be at it then,’ Wulfric said, as he gave the order to set off with a wave of his hand.

  RITSCHL SAT on a bench in his kirk and stared at the Stone with an emotion akin to hatred. A lone candle flame spluttered in the draughty nave, but he was oblivious to the gloom and cold. His mind was a maelstrom of disappointment, fear, and longing.

  In three years of trying, he had not been able to bend the Stone to his will. He had wasted half his life desiring it, seeking it out. It had called to him, like music on the wind, but now it turned its back on him.

  ‘Why?’ he screamed. ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’

  His exhortations were a nightly occurrence, and he knew the villagers passing by the small kirk tittered to themselves, thinking that their old priest was going mad. He didn’t care. Perhaps he was.

  ‘WAIT,’ a young woman in the audience said.

  Conradin’s face darkened at the interruption, and the Maisterspaeker thought he might be moved to acts of violence if the interruption was allowed to continue for too long.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it work for him?’ the woman said.

  ‘I’ve given it much thought over the years,’ the Maisterspaeker said, ‘and I’ve come to believe that it did work for him. You see, the Stone was said to grant its possessor their greatest desires. For years, Ritschl had desired the Stone. So much had been taken from him in his life, and here was something that had been taken, but that he could take back. It granted him this desire, and once it was achieved Ritschl was spent. There was nothing else he wanted so desperately, and willing it to simply work was not enough.’

  ‘Didn’t Aethelman possess it, though?’ the young woman said.

  Conradin’s face darkened further.

  ‘I don’t think Aethelman every truly possessed it. In his heart and soul, he didn’t want it, and the Stone, in whatever mysterious way it worked, knew this.’ The Maisterspaeker cast a glance at Conradin, whose impatience was near breaking point. ‘Now, if you’re happy with my explanation, I shall continue, before the good sergeant-at-arms bursts a blood vessel.’

  THEY ARRIVED on the fringes of Rasbruck early the next day, having made good time. Wulfric had conspicuously avoided Rodulf, although it was not difficult as he stayed with his two companions and did not mix. Wulfric was curious why he had gone along. It was more than reporting back to the council. He wondered what advantage they hoped to get by being there.

  Rasbruck looked remarkably similar to how Leondorf had before the southerners arrived, something that surprised Wulfric. It was more like home than Leondorf now was. It was obvious that they weren’t expected; the gates were open and no challenge was made. At first, no one even paid attention to their arrival. Eventually someone stopped and stared at them, and was joined by others. Wulfric had never attacked a village before, and realised he had no idea what to do next. Should he charge in cutting down everyone he passed? He had thought there would be warriors waiting for them, but there were just ordinary people going about their days.

  ‘At them, lads!’ the captain shouted.

  The Ruripathian soldiers charged past Wulfric, who was still staring at the village and its people. A woman screamed, and the villagers scattered as the Ruripathian horsemen spread into the village. Wulfric tried to find the hate inside of him, but couldn’t. They were women, children, and elderly. No different to those at home. No different to the people the Rasbruckers had slaughtered, but Wulfric could not bring himself to do the same. Killing ordinary people was not a thing to pr
ide oneself in. It was not what a warrior did.

  Wulfric pressed farther into the village searching for a true foe to fight. He spotted a group of armed men who had finally reacted to the attack. Wulfric snapped down the belek-face visor on his helm and spurred Greyfell forward. The Ruripathians were cutting an indiscriminate swathe into the village, moving as a single unit. Wulfric charged past them and drew his sabre, roaring like a man possessed.

  Wulfric, Stenn, and Farlof, the last of the old warriors of Leondorf, crashed into the armed Rasbruckers, slashing left and right, impatient to settle the blood debt they were owed.

  Wulfric cleaved a man from shoulder to breastbone, then felt a tug on his leg. Before he could react, he was falling sideways, the world rushing past the eye holes in his visor. He hit the ground with a crunch of metal. His head swam as he rolled onto his belly and got up onto his hands and knees before a kick sent him sprawling across the ground.

  He had lost his grip on his sabre as he fell. He scrabbled around in the dirt for it, and spotted the man who kicked him. Wulfric stifled a laugh. Rage had gotten the better of sense—the man was wearing soft leather boots, and hadn’t taken time to consider the effects of kicking a man wearing plate armour. He was hobbling toward Wulfric, his face twisted with pain.

  Wulfric found his sabre and scrambled to his feet. The man took a wild, unbalanced swing at Wulfric which he easily dodged. He came back with a wild swing of his own, which the lame man was unable to avoid. Wulfric pulled his blade free of the man’s body and looked around to find Greyfell. He saw the horse kick a man and launch him twenty paces through the air.

  The soldiers had pressed everyone back toward Rasbruck’s village square, containing the villagers in one place. It was a fast and brutal encounter. Wulfric’s blood was up and he craved more battle, but Jorundyr’s gift had not yet taken him in its embrace. He looked around for more warriors. There were a score of bodies on the road into the village, but the resistance had ended. He had spent so long dreaming of burning Rasbruck to the ground, of putting her warriors to the sword by the dozen, that he felt deflated.

  He called Greyfell, mounted, and rode over to the Ruripathian captain.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ Wulfric said, nodding to the frightened villagers now surrounded on the square.

  ‘Nothing. No sense in putting a settlement to sword. Dead people can’t trade. They’ll know why we did this, and if they’ve sense they’ll know not to misbehave again.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘Have some of the men round up whoever else you can find and bring them here. I want as many of them as possible to hear this. Don’t take any risks.’

  The sergeant responded without a word. Stenn and Farlof joined Wulfric, waiting for their instructions, but Wulfric said nothing. Looting was the traditional next step, but all Wulfric was interested in was the blood of Rasbrucker warriors and it seemed there was no more of that to be had.

  Two kills did not feel like enough to settle the debt Leondorf was owed, but between him, Farlof and Stenn, they had killed a half dozen warriors. It would have to do. He found it hard to believe this was the place that had wrought so much hurt on his home. As much as he hated them, he couldn’t bring himself to harm the people gathered before him.

  The soldiers managed to find a few dozen more villagers and added them to the group on the square. They looked at Wulfric and the others with the same hate in their eyes that he had felt for them. Now he felt oddly guilty.

  ‘By order of his excellency Ambassador Urschel, representative of the Markgraf of Elzmark, I inform you all that this attack is in response to assaults made on the Markgraf’s property. In order to make good the losses incurred, and the expense of this expedition, I am instructed to take one person in every ten for sale in the slave markets in Elzburg. The Markgraf has chosen to be merciful on this occasion, but do not mistake that for weakness. Attack his property again, and this village will be razed to the ground, and all its inhabitants put to the sword.’

  It was not what Wulfric had expected.

  ‘Pull out the ones that look like they’ll fetch the highest price,’ the captain said to his sergeant. ‘Secure them and then have a look around for the silver. After that, the men can have their fun.’

  There was nothing left there that Wulfric wanted. ‘We’re returning to Leondorf,’ he said to the captain.

  ‘I’ll need your help with the—’

  ‘We’re returning to the village,’ Wulfric said again. He glared at the captain, making it abundantly clear that the matter was not open for discussion.

  The captain held his glare for a moment, then nodded his head. ‘Fine. Tell the Ambassador we won’t be far behind you.’

  Wulfric didn’t react. As with every other instruction he had been given by a Ruripathian since they arrived in Leondorf, he planned to ignore this one. He nodded to Stenn and Farlof before turning Greyfell toward Leondorf and urging him forward. As they fell in behind him, an old woman looked up at Wulfric and caught his eye.

  ‘What are we supposed to do now? You killed my son.’

  Wulfric looked at her and shrugged his shoulders.

  RODULF and his two men chased the herdsman down and encircled him.

  ‘Your herds? Where are they?’

  The man was shaking, but his mouth remained shut.

  ‘Tell me, and I’ll forget I ever saw you,’ Rodulf said. He lowered the point of his spear and pressed it against the man’s forehead. The man whimpered and Rodulf pressed a little harder. ‘Someone will tell me, and your death will be for nothing.’ He applied a little more pressure on the spear.

  ‘The east pastures.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rodulf said. He nodded to the others and they galloped away. It wasn’t an act of mercy, he simply couldn’t be bothered to kill the man. He needed to chase the herd toward Leondorf before the looters found them. His father had sent herdsmen to gather them up and drive them south where they could be sold without having to share the proceeds. He needed to be quick about it. The Ruripathians wouldn’t ask too many questions, but Wulfric and the others might try to cause trouble.

  RODULF KNEW his father would be delighted when he found out how many cattle would be heading south, assuming his herdsmen managed to gather them all. It put him in an especially good mood as he rode back to Rasbruck to see what type of destruction had been wrought on their traditional enemy. He had never burned a village to the ground before, and realised the opportunity might not come again.

  As he was riding back he spotted a man fleeing the village. At first he thought it was the herdsman who had revealed the location of the herds, and he considered riding over to kill him; it was his first battle and he had not killed anybody. Now that his task was completed he was at liberty to enjoy himself. He quickly realised it was not that man, however. Not that it mattered; a kill was a kill. Rodulf levelled his spear and urged his horse on to a gallop.

  The man was aware of Rodulf’s approach, and he made to quicken his pace, but it was futile. He moved slowly and awkwardly. He had no chance of outrunning a horseman. Rodulf had run him through before realising his grey robes were those of a priest. It was of little concern to him.

  Rodulf was about to ride on, but his curiosity got the better of him. He dismounted and walked over to the body while his two minders, expensive southern mercenaries called bannerets, waited a discreet distance away. It was unlikely the priest had anything of value, but he clutched a felt pouch as though his life had depended on it. Rodulf bent down and prised the dead fingers from the bag. He tipped its contents into his hand and felt a pang of disappointment when an oddly shaped lump of metal ore fell out.

  He drew back to throw it away but stopped. It seemed to tingle in his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that it was covered in engravings. He took a closer look. He couldn’t read what the engraved runes said, but he could recognise that considerable care had gone into inscribing them. They meant nothing to him. It was probably a religious object of some so
rt, something of little value. He made to throw it away again, but stopped once more. It felt so good in his hand, as though it had been shaped to fit his palm perfectly. He took another look, smiled, and dropped it into his purse.

  42

  Donato was waiting for Rodulf to return, impatient to find out how many head of cattle he had managed to drive south. He spotted Wulfric and his two cronies ride back into the village with a sense of disappointment. Part of him had hoped that Wulfric might be killed in the fight. It was difficult not to feel deflated seeing the arrogant whoreson trot into the village, rolling lazily with the horse’s movement. His efforts to marginalise Wulfric and the other warriors had gone well, but it did little to quell the hatred Donato felt for him.

  Looking at him, it was hard to believe that only a few years before he had been a fat little wimp. He was wrapped in that belek cloak he always wore, draped across wide shoulders that had shed every pinch of the childhood blubber. He obviously fancied himself as looking like one of the heroes of old, built like a prize bull, with braids in his long dirty blond hair and thick beard. They had probably been arrogant whoresons as well, but at least they were already dead and Donato didn’t have to look at them every day. Donato imagined gouging one of Wulfric’s eyes out, but it made him feel unwell. Destroying men with coin was his talent, not violence.

  VICTORY REQUIRED CELEBRATION, and as hollow as it felt to Wulfric, a victory was what they had. The new inn was the only place for that. It had replaced the ramshackle old tavern that was burned down in the attack. The tavern keeper had died with his tavern, and the new inn was run by one of the arrivals from the south. It did a brisk trade, hosting the merchants who came north in increasing numbers and the prospectors in from the hills in the east, eager to spend their silver.