The White Wolf: The Hawks, #3

By Paula Baker and Aidan Davies

The Hawks thought the war was over. A mad sorcerer, a barbarian horde and the elven army think otherwise.

 

Book 3 in The Hawks Trilogy, The White Wolf is a page-turning, sword-fighting fantasy adventure for middle grade and up.

 

Thousands of barbarian warriors from the frozen land of Nairt'kun arrive in Abbarkon's north while an elven army prepares to attack from the south. Among the northern raiders is Venadis, a young slave girl. Her masters fear her beast-shifting magic and force her to wear an iron collar. Intent on freedom, she slips away from the blood-thirsty horde and with her healing powers, she earns a place with the Hawks.

 

When Flint, Fleta and the others head south on a mission to assassinate the elven emperor, she goes with them. The elves must be stopped. Will the Hawks get there in time to change the course of the war?

 

Mother and son authors, Paula Baker and Aidan Davies team up to tell the final chapter in the non-stop adventures of the Hawks. Perfect for fans of J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter, Darren Shan's Demonata, and John Flanagan's Ranger's Apprentice.

 

The excitement starts here!

 

330 pages in print or get it as an eBook. Scroll up and order today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MacFay Books
• Release date: May 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9780991790067

Book preview

By Paula Baker and Aidan Davies:

The Hawks Trilogy:

Rebels of Halklyen

The God Sword

The White Wolf

BOOK THREE

PAULA BAKER

&

AIDAN DAVIES

MacFayBooks

The White Wolf

Copyright © 2015 by Paula Baker and Aidan Davies

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored on a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, is an infringement on the copyright law. For information contact:

MacFay Books

103 Heron Dr.

Penticton, BC

V2A 8K6

bakerdavies.ca

Map Art by Anna-Jo Grandbois

Cover illustration by Daria ‘Frealyr’ Kovalenko

Cover design by Kusanagistudios

Typeset in Garamond

ISBN 978-0-9917900-6-7

For Doug.

CHAPTER ONE

Reinforcements

WAITING IN THE MIDST of the swirling blizzard, Wout watched the tiny speck of light grow larger. The wind on the open beach gusted hard, threatening to knock him off his feet. He clenched his jaw and pulled his black cloak more closely around himself. As a Follower of Martokallu, the cold did not bother him, but the flapping fabric was an irritation.

It looked as though King Norgrith ben Vordrith would keep his word. When they met that afternoon within the walls of the snowbound village, Wout had been uncertain whether he could trust the leader of the Nairt. Certainly, the man seemed greedy enough to accept the deal. But one never knew with humans.

As far as Wout was concerned, allying with humans—any humans—was a bad idea. The debacle in Kallcunarth when the Hawks had destroyed Thrall’s army of enslaved humans—and killed a great number of Wout’s own fighting force in the process—had proved that. But Martokallu had decided they needed a well-trained mercenary force.

King Norgrith’s warriors would do nicely in that regard. The barbaric people who lived on the frozen island north of Abbarkon were obsessed with fighting. The king had promised he could field as many as three thousand trained fighters in return for payment. Gold posed no difficulty for Martokallu. Entire rooms in his fortress overflowed with treasure for which he had no use.

Perhaps the Master was right. Perhaps trained warriors who fought for the pure joy of the fight were exactly what they needed to put an end to the Hawks and their King Sebastien. Wout would lead them and they would crush the rebellion. Martokallu would rule Abbarkon at last.

The beam of light finally arrived at the beach and turned to wander off in the wrong direction. Wout’s had twitched toward his heavy daggers, but he restrained the urge to kill the simpleton. I am here, he shouted.

Immediately, the glow changed direction. It moved toward him, bobbing about as it grew in size. Finally, the bearded face of King Norgrith came into view. That was something. Wout had wondered if the king might send an underling in his place because of the snow. Although, he should not be surprised. The King of the North was unlikely to notice the foul weather.

Pushing back his wolfskin hood and bellowing to be heard over the noise of the wind, King Norgrith asked, You brought the gold?

Nodding to himself at the predictably human behaviour, Wout lifted a booted foot to place it on the lid of a solidly constructed sea chest—the only thing he had bothered to save when he killed the sailor and sank the small boat that had brought him across the sea from Abbarkon.

Wout had not wanted the man to return home where he might mention his passenger to curious listeners. He did not intend to leave any trace of his voyage to Nairt’kun. Even when he entered the village to find passage, he had kept his cloak tightly wrapped around him. No one ever needed to know that a Follower of Martokallu had travelled north.

King Norgrith lowered himself into the snowdrift that had built up around the box and fumbled with the latch on the chest. It was a struggle with his bulky fur mittens, and he entirely lost any dignity Wout might have ascribed to him.

When the leader of the Nairt finally lifted the lid and sat back on his heels to examine the cache, he let out a long low whistle. There’s more like this? King Norgrith asked from his position at Wout’s feet.

Enjoying the idea of having a king kneel before him, Wout nodded regally. It did not matter that no one could see him. It had been a long time since he found humour in anything and he would play his part for his own entertainment. I will fill the hold of one of your ships for your trip home, he answered. He waited while the big man scrambled to his feet and added, After you win the war.

King Norgrith waved away the idea of failure. Of course, we will win, he said. We always win. When do you want us to leave?

Immediately, answered Wout.

The king’s eyes strayed from the crashing waves to the chest of gold and jewels. And so we shall, he answered. As soon as the storm abates.

CHAPTER TWO

Nairt’kun

VENADIS DUCKED TO AVOID the slap aimed at her head. A screech of outrage followed her as she fled across the room. Scurrying to gather up the dirty dishes from the banquet table, she stole a look at the corner where King Norgrith sat with the Chiefs.

Since he burst into the Long House, leaving the door flying open in the midst of the storm as he lugged a heavy sea chest over to the fire, everyone had been in an uproar. When a heavily cloaked man had followed the king into the Long House and seated himself near a fire, the normally loud talk of the warriors around Norgrith had faded to furtive whispers.

Abruptly, Ingdor threw back his head and roared with laughter. Her stomach clenched and Venadis quickly bowed her head over her work again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for his stein of ale before gazing around the room. She scrubbed harder at the table, trying to become invisible.

Venadis knew better than to draw herself to the attention of the King’s Companion. A favourite among the men, he enjoyed bullying the slaves. More than once, she had been on the receiving end of a blow from his heavily ringed hand.

Although she was curious about the sea chest and the whispering, Venadis did not dare risk getting close enough to hear the talk. Soon enough, she would find out what had happened to get them so excited. Everyone ignored busy slaves, tending to speak as if they were alone.

Finding a job that would get her close to the discussion posed no difficulty. Venadis had work to do everywhere in the Long House. Not only did she help clear up after meals, but she also chopped and carried firewood to the many hearths, maintained the fires, scrubbed the hearths, washed the floors, minded the smallest children when their mothers were busy and lately, she had begun training with the healer, Mundgerd.

It was only by chance that she had increased her duties to include healing. One day, Njord had staggered in through the front doors of the Long House. In his left hand, he carried his right hand while the stump of his arm dripped blood everywhere. One of his friends helped him to a bench before running to find Mundgerd.

At seventy, Mundgerd did not do anything quickly and seeing how much blood spurted with every pump of his heart, Venadis knew that something needed to be done immediately. Njord was a friend. Even though, by birth, he was a highborn and she a slave, they had grown up together and he had always been kind to her. By the time Mundgerd arrived, he would have bled to death.

Hurrying from the hearth where she had been scrubbing the sooty stones, she pulled a length of cord from her pocket. Njord sat, bracing his left arm on his knee and staring at the growing puddle of blood.

Heedless of the mess, Venadis knelt at his feet and wrapped the cord around the stump of his arm, pulling it tight. The blood slowed. Gently, she pried his right hand free from his left hand. Without thinking about why she did it, she stuck the hand in place.

It was a clean cut, which made it easy to see how everything should line up. After a moment of fiddly adjustments, Venadis wrapped both her hands around the forearm and hand, holding everything in place. All she could think of was keeping him alive until Mundgerd arrived.

The skin that had initially felt cold and clammy under her fingertips began to warm until it was almost too hot to hold. Just when she began to wonder what she should do next, Mundgerd arrived. Leaning heavily on her stick as she hobbled toward the injured man, she took in the scene, her eyebrows rising higher with every step.

Finally, with a sigh, Mundgerd had let herself down on the bench and took Njord’s arm from Venadis’ grip. Well, girl, let’s take a look at what he’s done to himself, she murmured.

Reluctantly, Venadis had released her hold. To her surprise, the hand did not fall off when Mundgerd pulled the arm over to her own lap.

The old healer loosened the tightly bound cord and used a cloth to wipe up some of the blood. Then, she peered closely at the arm. I see no injury, she said, her eyes narrowing. What’s happened here?

Shrinking back, Venadis raised her hands to the metal collar fastened around her neck. Mundgerd’s face softened as she met Venadis’s eyes. You’re the one who can transform into a beast, she said. I remember the day Torger caught you at it. You’re lucky he only put a collar around your neck and didn’t kill you outright.

Venadis recalled her fear on that stormy winter night. Torger had been beating her for spilling ale on his boots. The transformation had been sudden and unexpected. One moment, she was cowering on the ground, trying to protect her head while the slave master thrashed her with his belt. The next thing she knew, the fear was replaced by anger and she launched herself at his throat.

Later, Alfdis told her what she saw. In the middle of the beating, just when she thought Torger would kill her this time, Venadis had transformed into a small white wolf. Blue eyes, easily recognized as Venadis’s, blazed in the pointed face.

Despite Torger’s surprise, he had reacted quickly enough to avoid having his throat torn open. Grasping the animal by its muzzle and forcing her to the floor, he had called for assistance. Two other men rushed to his rescue and together they had bound her tightly. Venadis continued to fight furiously against her captors until they called for the blacksmith.

Only when the iron collar was fastened securely around her neck did she transform back into human form. Torger’s anger had been tempered with his satisfaction at having her under his control and he had chosen to allow her to live.

At first, no one could figure out how a slave girl could have gained the power of beast-shifting. Only the worthiest men were offered the honour of undergoing the initiation. Then, someone recalled the year when Venadis’s mother died. She had been the slave who aided the head priest at important ceremonies.

King Norgrith’s eldest son had earned his initiation by leading a successful raid on an inland community. When the time came for his ceremony, he had killed a fox and a wolf in preparation. The bodies were drained of blood, which he drank in the midst of a crowd who chanted the words of the powerful spell.

However, instead of turning into a beast-shifter, he had slowly sickened and died of a disease very similar to whatever had killed Venadis’ mother that same season.

When Venadis first heard those whispers about her mother, she had felt the stirrings of a memory. She had been so young at the time that she could barely recall the details, but she remembered a night when her mother pulled her from her bed of rags to drink a cup of blood. She had enjoyed the warm, slightly salty taste and then settled back in her mother’s arms to listen while the men danced and chanted.

At the memory of her mother, a small smile grew at the corner of Venadis’ mouth. A violent crash from the kitchen hearth brought her back to the present. Startled, she glanced around the room.

Torger was marching straight toward her. Without stopping to consider what she had done to make the slave master look so angry, Venadis snatched up her loaded tray and scuttled away.

Evidently, she had not been his target, because she made it safely to the kitchen, where she unloaded steins and trenchers beside the long washing trough.

Alfdis, two years younger and already far more capable in the kitchen than Venadis ever seemed to be, moved quietly to her elbow. What took you so long? she asked. Bodil is ready to boil over again. Why do you always make her so angry?

Venadis glanced anxiously at the cook. The woman glared at her over the mound of dough that she was pounding into submission. With every thump of the bread, the fat on her chins jiggled in sympathy.

There was nothing to be done except keep her head down and get the dishes washed and put away. Perhaps if Venadis could stay out of Bodil’s way until everything was finished tonight, she might make it through the day without a beating.

CHAPTER THREE

Plans

VENADIS WOKE TO THE sound of raised voices. The fire had burned low in the hearth beside her. The first thing she did as she rose, shivering, from the pile of ragged furs that served as her bed, was to place fresh kindling on the dying embers. When the flames blazed up, she added larger pieces and enjoyed the warmth for a minute.

Without waiting to be yelled at, she pulled herself away from her comfortable nest and folded up her bedding, storing it out of sight under a worktable in the kitchen. Then, returning to the fire, she shovelled a few hot embers into a bucket and set about checking the other hearths in the Long House.

The task took her past a table where King Norgrith sat with his Chiefs. It was their voices that had awakened her. Uncertain whether they were up early or had not yet gone to their beds, she kept her head down as she slipped past them.

Kneeling at the cold hearth nearby, she could hear their conversation clearly.

The storm will die today, Ingdor said. By tomorrow morning, the weather will be fine and clear. Call a grand meeting today and inform the families. We will sail at dawn.

Venadis’s ears pricked up at that. Mundgerd had spoken to her about taking over the role of healer on the next voyage. The old woman no longer felt up to the travel and effort required to take care of an entire band of warriors. Of course, every family had their own healer, but the King’s Family was an enormous responsibility.

Besides his four remaining sons, aged twenty, nineteen, eighteen and seventeen, twelve men counted themselves as his blood brothers. Each of their sons owed fealty to Norgrith as well—both as Chief and as King—making a total of forty-seven men who called him Chief.

Beyond the Family, one hundred and fourteen Chiefs and their Families called him King. Large enough to accommodate all the Chiefs and at least four men from each of them, the Long House would be crowded today. That meant extra work for her. The ships would also have to be loaded with enough supplies. That meant even more extra work for her.

As the fire blazed up under her careful ministrations, she sat back on her heels to listen while she gradually added larger pieces of wood.

It may take longer to organize all the ships, King Norgrith said. I want to move everyone at the same time. No point in having half of us arrive and then waiting around for the rest. Who knows what we’ll find over there.

Out of the corner of her eye, Venadis saw Ingdor nod. Long greasy black hair fell forward to conceal his hooked nose and thin chin. His beast-shifter shape was a falcon. Most men chose fighting animals, but when he was awarded his initiation, the King’s Champion selected a bird. Many men had laughed when he said it, thinking it was a joke. However, King Norgrith had nodded thoughtfully, a slow smile spreading across his face as he appreciated the wisdom of the choice.

As a falcon, Ingdor could sail above everything, watching and judging—not unlike the way he acted in a group of men. He pretended to join in with the revelry, but spent far more time studying the others around him. His flippant teasing regularly brought new truths to the fore better than any serious questioning might do.

On the other hand, Ingdor said. Arriving in waves would give us a chance to get the lay of the land. He was not afraid to contradict the king. Friends since childhood, King Norgrith trusted him. This is no quick raid where we’ll be home within a day. It’s a week’s sail across the water during good weather. How long will it take in the middle of winter? And, you have to remember, once we get there, we’ll need food and supplies for everyone. I suggest that as each ship is prepared, they head out—perhaps in groups of two or three in case of any troubles with the pirates.

King Norgrith nodded. He was inclined to think slowly and move quickly—a tendency illustrated by his choice at his initiation ceremony. He had killed the largest mammoth, the fiercest bear and the fastest wolf for the preparation of his blood potion. Venadis had seen him shift more than once. It was perhaps the most frightening thing she had ever witnessed.

Standing on mammoth legs, his body had the huge mass of a mammoth and the powerful agility of a bear. Incongruously, his shoulders began with the form of the bear he had killed before merging into sinewy wolf arms that ended with long-clawed fingers that could easily grasp his sword. His face had the ears of a bear, the snout of a wolf and the tusks of a mammoth.

When he shifted, the red of his hair and beard covered him entirely. Although he could achieve great speeds when he dropped down onto his four mismatched limbs, he preferred to stand upright with his towering height. Not everyone retained the power of human speech when he shifted, but King Norgrith’s voice was a low rumble easily heard across great distances.

The falcon and the mammoth-bear-wolf made a formidable team. Ingdor could soar above a battle, noting positions and numbers before bringing the invaluable information back to his king. Had this reputation brought the stranger across the sea to hire them?

Venadis had never met anyone from the mainland. She had never even heard of anyone coming to their shores before. The people of Nairt’kun were proud of their independence. Their ancestors may have been criminals sent to penal settlements from Abbarkon and Tsaralvia but they had survived in the frozen land. More than survived—they had thrived.

King Norgrith glanced at the hooded man who had accompanied him into the Long House the previous evening. He had said nothing throughout the long discussions. At Norgrith’s raised eyebrow, he gave a small nod of acceptance.

Sitting back in his chair, Norgrith studied the stranger for a long moment before lifting a finger to smooth his eyebrow. Will an army be waiting for us when we land on those shores? he asked.

No, answered the stranger. Although he answered with a single syllable, a shiver ran up Venadis’ back at the sound of his voice.

Realizing that she had stayed in one place for too long, she rose from the hearth to move further down the Long Hall to another fireplace. She had better hurry. It was going to be a long day if they needed to prepare food for five hundred people and pack for a voyage at the same time.

She could no longer hear the conversation between the king and his companions, yet she had plenty to think about. She would be going to Abbarkon. Mundgerd would put her forward for the healer’s position. Her success with the people she had already helped, served as her recommendation so King Norgrith would not argue. She would have to be careful to stay out of Torger’s way, though. He would see her rise as an insult to his power.

She wanted to sing. She wanted to dance. But she swallowed the impulse and kept her head down as she added another log to her newly kindled fire. Often enough, her mother had spoken of her dream to escape to the mainland. Venadis could hardly remember her mother, but she recalled the feeling of lying wrapped in her arms, listening to her whispered stories of a land where no one was enslaved. Of course, everyone had work to do in her mother’s tales, but the work was done in freedom.

Truth be told, Venadis could not imagine such a thing, yet her mother swore it was true. Women, she had said, did not have to cower in fright from the hands of men. She also spoke of women with power. In Nairt’kun, even the most powerful women were careful to offer the proper deference to men.

For example, Bodil the cook, for all her authority in the kitchen never showed anything other than perfect satisfaction with the work of the male slaves working in the Long House. The only person who could discipline the men was Torger or his underling, Brede.

Venadis decided she would be a perfect slave for the entire voyage. She would become invisible. When they reached Abbarkon, she would watch and wait for her chance. An opportunity would arise, and she would be ready.

CHAPTER FOUR

Trathgard

FLETA COULD NOT STOP thinking about Hulda. Ever since they left Kallcunarth to head north toward Trathgard, she had been trying to imagine what life as a Follower of Martokallu would be like. Hulda’s transformation had begun to clarify the reality of the situation for Fleta. Followers had once been real people. It was an idea that would not leave her alone.

Flint rode up beside Fleta as she daydreamed her way along at the front of the procession. He had been guarding the rear since they left camp at dawn. I just spoke with Kunnegarde, he said. He’s been reminiscing about the last time he made this trip. Apparently, not much has changed in the last two thousand years.

Bitterly opposed to his brother Martokallu’s power mongering, Kunnegarde had chosen to accompany the Hawks on their visit to the towns that had not responded to King Sebastien’s call for soldiers. Almost certainly, the leaders were Followers of Martokallu since no messenger had ever returned and not a single soldier made the trek to Kallcunarth.

Kunnegarde planned to break their enthralments. On an earlier tour of the country, Gulner and Gytha had found many towns where Martokallu had got his hooks into their leaders. Forcibly removing each duke from his post was the only solution they had come up with. In the end, they transported seventeen leaders back to Kallcunarth and imprisoned them in the dungeons there.

Before deciding to accompany the expedition, Kunnegarde had spent hours in the prison, attempting to disentangle his brother’s spells. In the end, he transformed every single leader. Thinking about Kunnegarde’s success, Fleta found she had come full circle to worrying about Hulda again. Kunnegarde hoped to be able to break her enthralment as well. But he had warned them that the connection of a Follower with Martokallu’s mind was far deeper than the enthralled leaders had experienced. He and Kjell, who had somehow rescued himself from Martokallu’s grip, had spent long hours talking about the bond.

Fleta gave Flint a distracted smile. Have you seen anything unusual? she asked. This is the quietest ride I’ve ever made. We haven’t run into anyone for the last two days.

It was not surprising. Citizens from all over Abbarkon had headed to Kallcunarth in anticipation of Martokallu’s attack. And when that battle ended so abruptly and the Followers had run away, King Sebastien had sent the army south to meet the elven army on their border. As a result, almost every person in the country had gone.

Gode says we should be able to see Trathgard within the next hour, said Flint. There’ll be plenty of people on the road then.

Screwing up her face, Fleta peered around. It doesn’t make sense, she said. People are always going somewhere. Where is everyone?

I agree. This is very odd, said Gode from behind them. We should prepare ourselves for something unusual when we get to the town. He glanced back at Kunnegarde and Kjell who had been inseparable since the ride back from Tsaralvia, and called, Hey, mages! Do you have any idea about what we might be getting ourselves into?

Kjell looked up with his usual happy grin, while Kunnegarde scowled and nudged his horse up beside Gode.

Thou art an ill-mannered lout, young man. Mayhap, I shall investigate methods to improve thy conduct, he said, a smile breaking through his theatrical frown. Then a shadow of concern crossed his lean elvish face, and he rubbed his jaw. At once, the concern changed to irritation when he felt the sparse growth on his chin. This is ridiculous, he mumbled. I hast not once shaved since I acquired this preposterous, discarded body. Abbarkov’s Blood, but I wish I might groweth a real beard.

Halvor said, I don’t suppose a beard would make you look any better. You’re still an elf. Or I guess that’s why you’re trying so hard. You want to cover up that face. Preening, he rubbed his own smoothly shaved chin. When you’re this good-looking, you don’t want to hide it from anyone.

Dell had given up wearing his mask most of the time, although it hung from his saddle within easy reach. He rubbed a finger across a face shiny with scar tissue. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t needed to shave for twelve years. It does rather simplify things.

Cwenhild interrupted the facial hair discussions. I thought we were talking about what we might find in Trathgard, she said. Should we do anything to get ready?

Fleta ran a hand along her braid and asked, Remember how we entered Derflanag in disguise? She had been part of a team that assassinated Duke Arjen. It was the first time she had killed anyone. If she had her way, she would never have to kill again. Do you think we should enter the town and get a feel for how things are going before we do anything official?

Of course, this suggestion led right back to Hulda. She was the expert who kept her pack filled with odds and ends that let her blend into any situation. Fleta had tried to borrow some of those ideas when she packed, but it was hard to guess what might be useful.

Grinning, Flint said, We could use the same tumbling act to get us through the gates. Maybe we could even work Kunnegarde into the show. He set one hand on the back of his saddle and twisted around to look at the mage. Have you done any tumbling?

A parade of expressions chased across Kunnegarde’s face as he considered how to answer such a question. He had been a soldier in Abbarkon’s army during his previous life and then spent two thousand years of half-life in a sarcophagus protecting a staff, a mask, a map and a ring. The suggestion that he should act as a street performer was an insult to the dignity of the man he had been. However, as he considered the idea, a small smile began to grow at the corner of his mouth.

Kjell said, I can juggle.

As they crested a hill, the town came into sight. Reining in her