Wolf in the North: The Wolf Who Would be King Vol 3

By Robert Poyton

Tired of the lies and intrigues of the south, Llorc  returns to his northern homeland. He finds a country ravaged by plague and beset by strife.
For a fearsome berserker known as the Reiver has seized the Iron Crown and the Eight Clans stand poised on the brink of civil war.
Llorc must guide a group of refugees through an increa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Innsmouth Gold
• Release date: Jun 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646064250

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WOLF IN THE NORTH

Robert  Poyton

THE WOLF WHO WOULD BE KING VOLUME THREE

THIS IS AN INNSMOUTH GOLD BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-64606-426-7  Paperback

ISBN: 978-1-64606-425-0    E-book     

Copyright@ 2019 R Poyton.

Originally published 2019

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

electronic or mechanical means including information storage and

retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts

in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Innsmouth Gold

Wolf chapter heading graphic courtesy of

https://lupas-deva.deviantart.com/

Published by Cutting Edge on behalf of Innsmouth Gold.

www.innsmouthgold.com

I'll ask of the berserks, you tasters of blood,

Those intrepid heroes, how are they treated,

Those who wade out into battle?

Wolf-skinned they are called. In battle

They bear bloody shields.

Red with blood are their spears when they come to fight.

They form a closed group.

The prince in his wisdom puts trust in such men

Who hack through enemy shields.

CHAPTER 1

One instant the glade was empty, the next the figure of a man glided silently into it. His movements were as soft and quiet as the __damp mist that rose waist-high from the ground. The early morning sun was obscured behind grey cloud, the branches dripped with moisture, the man’s breath hung on the still air. He was tall, wide of shoulder, narrow of hip, and had seen perhaps twenty or so summers. Straight black hair fell from under a bull-horned helm, spreading over the fur trim of his dark blue woollen cloak.

There was a glint of mail beneath the fur, a sword hung in a shagreen scabbard at his hip and he gripped a short spear tightly in his right fist. Cold grey eyes looked out from above high cheek bones, the tanned complexion incongruous in the sodden, drear surroundings.

The man’s brow creased in concentration as he moved around the edge of the clearing, his free hand carefully brushing aside a low-hanging branch. He drew a soft breath, pulled back his right arm, then exhaled as he flung the spear straight and true, catching the deer ahead full in the breast. The animal bucked, turned, and was dead before it hit the ground, disappearing into the layer of thick ground mist. The man gave a broad grin and moved to claim his prize. Llorc was home.

Since leaving his companions in the Legion, Llorc had taken ship west across the Tyrr Sea, passing through the Straits of Kuanos and into the Great Western Ocean. From there he had landed at the bustling port of Brive, next taking passage on a small trading vessel heading north. A couple of days later, he set foot on home soil once more, landing at a small fishing village on the west coast of Clannacht. A short trek bought him to the Clannan Machaire homestead, where he purchased a bay pack horse and winter gear. The horse was compact and shaggy, nothing like the majestic beasts he had ridden in the desert land of Sahkmet. But she was a sturdy mount, hardy and inured to the rugged hills and chill winds of Clannacht.

Llorc's homeland covered a large expanse of the northern lands, comprising a loose grouping of eight Clannan. Each clan had its own territory, centred around a main homestead surrounded by outlying farms and villages. Here to the west, the Machaire, the Seahawk clan, held domain. This was the only stretch of coastline in the whole country, some of it curving bays but much of it spectacular granite cliffs against which the wild sea boomed and raged. Atop the cliffs, fertile fields and moors ran eastwards to ranges of what, locally, were called mountains but which those who lived in the real mountains to the north and east referred to as molehills.

The countryside here was bleak and open and a soft drizzle seemed to permanently sweep across the windswept moors, always into Llorc’s eyes, whichever direction he turned. His own people - Clannan Faolchu, the Wolf Clan - dwelt in the far north-eastern corner of the country among the forest covered slopes at the foot of the Sliahnduh, the Dark Mountains. He faced a long trek to get there, but was in no hurry, for the moment just enjoying being back in a familiar climate and hearing the lilting tones of his own tongue again.

Drawing a knife, Llorc gutted and quartered the deer, gave brief thanks to Beagh, Goddess of the Hunt and left some of the remains for scavenging animals, that all may share in his bounty. He carried the meat back to the edge of the small woods, where he had tethered his mare on first spotting the deer, and checked his pack and saddlebags. He travelled light, most of the wealth earned from his time with the Legion held in the pouch at his belt. His winter clothing concealed the war gear that had seen him through the battles in Sahkmet and his eventual victory over the undead sorcerer in that vast, ancient pyramid that stood brooding over the sun-bleached sands. 

Llorc had little plan other than to visit his home; from there, who knew? Perhaps take part in raids on the Njordir, or maybe travel down to the south, where trouble often flared in the Borderlands The man who’d sold him the horse had spoken of strife across the country, though that was hardly news. The eight clans were ever at each other’s throats. Llorc’s countrymen enjoyed nothing more than cross-generational blood feuds and inter-clan warfare.

But the man had spoken of more. Of plague and of a new force of raiders. Not the usual Njordir, sweeping across the eastern border for plunder and slaves, but of a war band from the mountains. Some undisclosed group who spread chaos and ruin in their wake. Llorc had listened, half interested, to the stories. Everyone knew that the fishermen of Clannan Machaire were gossips and that their tales often grew in the telling. Besides, winter was not far off and few were active in those dark months. The forests were even more forbidding than usual during that season and the mountain passes closed, filled with deep snow. 

Bounty secured, Llorc jumped into the saddle, eager to find a village or other shelter before nightfall. He laughed to himself. His time spent in warm southern climes must have softened him. Spending a night outside next to a good fire, even at this time of year, should be meat and drink for an outdoorsman such as himself. With a click, he nudged the horse onward into the ever present curtain of grey drizzle. 

He found a settlement not long after. The narrow track he had been following widened out as he passed a group of squat barrows. Soon he was crossing an open area of small fields, ploughed and puddled but empty of activity. Ahead lay a small village, enclosed within a low stockade. There was little sign of life save a thin spiral of smoke rising into the cold air.

Llorc rode up to the simple log gate, reflecting on the difference between this and the huge, arched stone gateways of Adelphis. Still, if a warm fire, ale and perhaps a saucy lass awaited within, what matter the entrance? He called out a greeting and a grey-haired head popped above the palisade.

I seek shelter within, for a single night.

The old man looked down, wild eyed, and gave a dismissive wave. You can’t come in here! Be off with you! On your way!

Llorc scowled. This was most unusual. His people were war-like, true; they loved nothing more than a fight or argument, to be sure. But hospitality was a matter of pride and honour. None save an outlaw would be shut out and denied food and shelter. Even those engaged in blood-feud would put argument aside in such circumstances. Llorc shifted impatiently in the saddle and tried again.

I seek only shelter for the night. He lifted the bloody deer meat. I have my own meat, I seek only a fire and perhaps some ale.

Be away with you! Linger and I shall set the dogs on you! came the old man’s reply.

As if in response, a chorus of barking sounded from behind the log wall. Llorc cursed and turned his horse away. No sense in standing here arguing in the cold while dark was coming. Best to find a site and bed down for the night. He was thankful now that he'd had the foresight to gather firewood while in the forest. But why had he been denied entry? And another thought occurred; he had seen or heard no other person, simply the old man. Was he a crazed lunatic, perhaps? But then why put him in charge of the gate?

Not far out from the settlement, on the far edge of more empty fields, Llorc found a wattle byre. A simple single story animal pen with a low thatched roof, a shelter for flock and shepherd in cold weather. Yet it was unoccupied, with little trace of former inhabitants. Llorc dismounted and led the horse in, ducking under the low eaves. He unpacked his gear, saw to the mare, and in no time had a hunk of deer turning on a wooden spit, the aroma of cooking meat filling the small space.

As the wind picked up outside, Llorc took a bite of the succulent flesh, swigged the last of the brandy from his flask, wrapped his cloak tighter around him and reflected on the simple pleasures in life. 

CHAPTER 2

The huge man on the horse hawked and spat into the mud. He turned his craggy, scarred face to the valley below, at the centre of which sat a large, fortified settlement; the homestead of Clannan Fiach, the Raven Clan. His warriors swirled around the palisade gates, one riding back up the slope towards him. The tall, lean figure of Dermeth gave a yank on his reins and flashed a twisted grin at his bearskin-clad leader.

The gates have been opened, as promised. We’re in. The usual?

The Reiver nodded. We’ll take those warriors who wish to join us and those who honour the old ways.

And the rest, Lord?

The man shrugged. Let the boys have their fun, then kill any who will not submit. I’ll be down there in a while.

Dermeth nodded and turned his horse, galloping back to the stockade. The Reiver slid from his saddle, drawing a long dagger from his belt. He rolled back a sleeve and slashed the blade across the exposed flesh, crying out an oath. As he did so, a tall, gaunt figure in the white robes of a druacht moved out from the shadow of the nearby sacred grove. Blue eyes glittered fiercely from the depths of a cadaverous face. The newcomer nodded approvingly at the free-running blood dripping on the sward and ran a hand through his thin grey beard.

You do well to thank the gods, Lord, for it is their power that brings you this victory.

The Reiver snorted. Their power, Ussaglas, but my leadership and ambition. That’s what grows our war band. He motioned below. You were right about your Chief. He refused our terms.

Aye, as I knew he would, the druacht replied. He has grown soft and neglects the gods. I spoke to him of their wrath-driven plague and of how we should appease them with blood, but he would have no truck with the old ways.

Your warriors, though?

It was they who opened the gates. Or at least those who believe in our cause.

Good. We have over three hundred warriors now, and this victory will bring more.

Indeed, Lord. For already a band of Clannan Tahrg have ridden from the north to join us.

The Reiver bared his teeth. Good. We need warriors who seek to fight and conquer, not spend their days nursemaiding  traders. Soon we will be ready.

Ready for what, Lord?

To move on and strike the remaining homesteads. Once we have their fealty, we unite the clans and then… the man spun round to stare Ussaglas square in the face, his lips drawn back in a snarl. Then our work of conquest really begins!

The Reiver leapt back into the saddle and spurred his horse down the slope, leaving the elderly druacht alone. Ussaglas glanced nervously over his shoulder at the half-seen, shadowy figure in the grove behind him, as the screams of terror drifted up from the homestead below.

Llorc let his horse pause as they breasted the rise, breath steaming in the crisp air. The rain had eased off and the day, though cold, was uncommonly bright. The low autumn sun dazzled Llorc's eyes and he raised a hand to shade them. Two things caught his glance; the opaque smudge of smoke at the horizon and movement on the track ahead. A group of travellers were coming towards him, most on foot, some in covered wagons drawn by shaggy ponies.

Llorc nudged his horse down the slope, right hand moving to rest on sword hilt. Travel was usually safe in his country but these were strange days. Soon he approached the lead walker of the group, set a short distance ahead of the main body. Llorc halted his mount as the walker took up position in the centre of the track, spear planted and pointed towards him.

Halt! cried a young voice. Move no closer lest I gut you where you stand! The dark-haired boy could have been no older than eleven or twelve. A plain, round helm slipped down over his eyes, the spear was almost twice his height and the scale jerkin he wore hung down to his knees. The sight would have been comical were it not for the steel in the boy’s voice and, Llorc noted, the haunted expression in the boy’s blue eyes. His mind was cast back to those few of his comrades who’d survived the scorpion assault at the Gate in that hellish battle against the sorcerer, Ulam-khalar. He decided to proceed with caution.

Steady, little warrior. I mean no harm. He slipped from the saddle, palms upraised.

The boy looked uncertain. As he drew a little closer, Llorc could see the boy’s hands trembling where they gripped the spear tightly. By now, the rest of the group had caught up, Llorc noting with surprise that most of them were of the same age as the boy, some even younger. Alongside the children, greybeards rode in the wagons or walked, gazing in curiosity at the figure before them.  A tall woman strode from their midst to face him. Iron grey hair fell over a dark green cloak. A bright green gem flashed from the silver clasp at her breast. Under the cloak she wore an oat-coloured smock with leggings and high strapped sandals.

Gathering the cloak around herself, she nonetheless allowed Llorc a brief glimpse of the  steel blade held beneath it. The woman's face was thin and lined but her features were fair and her green eyes sparkled