Read Online Time of the Wolf by James Wilde - Free Book Online

monk stumbled onto the rutted track leading to the gate.
    Hereward’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. “I carry my safety with me.”
    â€œAnd how long do you think you can keep killing before death catches up with you?”
    â€œI have learned my lessons well, monk. Life is hard. No one can be trusted, not even those joined to you by blood. The only truth in life is the edge of my blade. It cuts through all lies.”
    â€œThis winter chill has reached into your heart.”
    â€œYou are too soft, monk. You find comfort in your prayers, but traps lurk all around, and they will kill you eventually.” He clapped a friendly hand on Alric’s shoulder. “If you learn one thing from our time together, it should be that. I would not see you throw your life away.”
    The two men stepped cautiously onto the wooden bridge leading across the defenses. Wide enough for one cart, the timber gleamed with ice. The first ditch was empty. The second was filled with frozen stagnant water, smelling of rotting vegetation. Helmets gleamed in the dying sunlight along the fence, and Alric could feel hard eyes scrutinizing him.
    â€œSpeak your God-words at the gate,” Hereward whispered. “They will more easily admit us.”
    â€œWhy should I, when you are to abandon me the moment we step within?”
    â€œThen stay out here for the night.”
    Complaining under his breath, Alric strode forward to speak to the men at the gate. Cold and keen to close the barrier for the night so they could return to their fires, they nodded distractedly at his lies. The monk was to meet the archbishop at the church, and he had hired the warrior to protect him on the journey through the lawless countryside. With a grunt and the wave of a spearpoint, Alric and Hereward were admitted.
    Eoferwic still echoed with the sounds of the day’s business. The thatched, timber-framed wattle-and-daub houses were set gable end to the rutted street, each one upon a regular, narrow, tightly packed plot. Through the open doors, Alric saw that the floors were bare earth, scattered with discarded rubbish that had been trodden in by the inhabitants. At the backs of the rows were yards where stinking cesspits and piles of rotting rubbish stood beside the wells where the people drew up their water.
    Noisy workshops hummed with the activity of craftsmen, or rang with the hammers of metalworkers. Despite the chill, many worked in the open air in front of their places of business, out of the smoke and the reek. Alric had heard that ten thousand souls lived here now; and if that were true, it would be amazing, for could there be any more in all of England?
    When the wind changed direction, he inhaled the dank odors of the wharves along the Fosse, which were filled with the creak of wood and the slap of sailcloth from the great vessels moored along the frozen banks. At Jarrow, he had heard of the wonders that were brought to Eoferwic by the trade ships: silk from Byzantium and fine gold jewelry from the Low Countries, colorful seashells from the hot lands far to the south, soapstone from the Northlands, and wine and pottery from the Frankish kingdoms.
    After so long in the wilderness, Alric was happy to see the men and women bustling along the street, and the children running at play. The chatter and the shouts sounded like music to his ears. He breathed deeply of the comforting woodsmoke and wished he could live in a city all his days, where life was easier and learning and discourse thrived. Emerging from his reverie, he realized the warrior was striding off along the street.
    â€œWait,” he called, hurrying alongside. “Where do you go?”
    Hereward stopped and turned, his pale eyes catching the fiery gleam of the setting sun. “Our time together is done. I saved your life, but I do not own it.”
    â€œI paid you back in kind. Your journey here would have been harder without me.”
    â€œI give thanks for