by Harmon, Amy
It was the last thing he would eat for some time. The people did not welcome him or his claim. Dred had done all the talking, and Bayr had simply done as he was asked. He threw his blades and demonstrated his skill in whatever way was required. They wanted him to submit to a duel with Dakin but were unwilling to endanger one warrior to legitimize the claim of another. The elders stewed, the old women spit, and everyone circled, pinching him and pulling his braid. No one seemed to know what to do with him.
“He is not a wolf. He is not one of us,” declared an old man with tufts of snow-white hair escaping from his plait. Rings set with dozens of sharp teeth bristled from his fingers, and the people treated him with reverence and called him Dog. Bayr assumed he’d been a great warrior once. Everyone in Dolphys wore the pelts of wolves—gray, white, black and brown, big and small. Bayr wondered if he’d made a mistake riding into the village in only his tunic, hose, and boots. He had the coloring of a Dolphynian but not the attire.
“He is one of us,” Dred roared. “He is my blood.”
The people began shaking their heads, mumbling. Fearful.
“He must defeat Dolphys,” the old warrior said, his tone final.
Dred didn’t flinch, but the tremor that ran through the crowd circled and settled in the pit of Bayr’s belly.
“So be it,” Dred agreed.
Bayr wanted to ask what that meant but didn’t trust his tongue.
The people shouted, and the circle around Bayr became two long lines that stretched in front of the chieftain’s keep and down the thoroughfare. Grabbing clubs and rocks and whips, the people faced off as if to engage each other, yet they turned their eyes toward him.
“Take off your shirt, Bayr. And your shoes,” Dred demanded, grim.
Bayr did as he was told. A fire was growing in his belly but his hands were ice. The bruises and welts inflicted by the king still colored his skin in blue and violet, and the people hissed and pointed.
“He has taken a recent beating,” a few protested.
“He’ll take more,” Dred bellowed. “He’ll take it, and he’ll not fall.”
Bayr looked at his grandfather in disbelief.
“You must run it, Bayr. Run between the lines.”
Bayr gazed, flabbergasted, at the length of the parallel rows.
“They’ll do their best to take you down. But I’ve seen you run. Keep moving.”
Without giving himself a chance to think or the people a chance to prepare, Bayr leaped forward, dashing past the first third of the armed line without anyone realizing the gauntlet had begun.
A yapping and howling rose as though the people had morphed into wild dogs, and Bayr felt a lash dance at his heels and a blow glance off his right flank. He didn’t look right. He didn’t look left. He simply ran, flying for the space at the end of the rows, where torches beckoned and the pink horizon embraced a purple dusk.
He wasn’t sure who wielded the club that bounced off his brow, but he finished the challenge with blood pouring from a gash at his hairline and a thundering in his chest. He’d never run so fast.
No celebration greeted his triumphant finish. He swiped at his eyes and turned back to the gathering, seeking reassurance and finding none.
“To the forest!” someone shouted, and Dakin and Dystel were suddenly beside him, their hands on Bayr’s arms. They didn’t seek to detain him, but to steer him, as though they knew Bayr could shake them free if he wished.
“If the wolves let you live, you will be their chieftain,” Dakin said.
“Did I n-not d-defeat Dolphys?” Bayr asked, turning back toward the lines that had melded into a gathering mob.
“That was not Dolphys. That was a bloodletting designed to draw the wolves in. Dolphys is the wolf,” Dystel replied.
Bayr could only shake his head, the blood streaming down his face obscuring his vision.
“Dred can’t go with you. None of us can. You will be left alone in the woods. It is a trial few chieftains have endured, and only one has survived, but Dog has spoken, and now it is the only thing the people will accept.”
Bayr didn’t think being left alone sounded particularly daunting.
“No knife. No clothing. No weapons at all,” Dystel added.
Bayr nodded, wishing only for a cloth to bind his head.
“They will secure you to a tree,” Dakin said.
Bayr faltered, and Dakin’s hand tightened in response. Dystel grasped his other arm and Bayr continued forward, the trees closing around them.
“You lifted an altar from the late king. My brother was there among the king’s guard the day it happened,” Dystel encouraged him. “But this final task is not a show of strength. You must not kill the wolves to save yourself. If you break your bonds it will be of no use. The wolves must choose you.”
Bayr considered for a moment how it would feel to let the wolves have him. He was weary and bloody. He wished for Alba and her gift to woo the beasts. He wasn’t convinced even Alba could soothe a pack of wolves if they were intent on blood. She thought she could talk to dragons, but she’d never met a dragon or a wolf, and a beast was still a beast.
“If the wolves don’t come, you’ll live. And the people will decide what that means,” Dystel instructed.
“Pray that the wolves don’t come,” Dakin murmured.
“And if th-they do?” Bayr asked, his voice low.
“Do what you must to stay alive, Temple Boy. But if you kill the wolves, the people will take it as a sign.”
They chained him in a clearing a half mile from the village square, the heavy links wrapped around his chest, his waist, and his thighs, pinning him against the massive trunk. The chains were secured to bolts as long as his palms and nailed to the tree to prevent his escape. He didn’t resist them or beg for mercy. The throng that bore witness was a ragtag assortment of Dolphynian warriors, elders, and villagers, torches in hands, faces fearful and tones hushed. The mob had become a solemn assembly.
“Mayhaps your strength is great enough you can loosen the bands and climb the tree,” an old woman added.
“Wolves don’t climb trees,” Dakin warned.
“Bears climb trees,” Dystel added, the play on Bayr’s name said with pointed gravity. “Are you a bear or a wolf?”
Bayr understood. The test was not to escape. The test was to endure. To withstand.
“Mayhaps he can break the chains,” an elder said, hopeful. His hair was loose like a woman’s, his warrior days past if they had ever occurred at all.
“’Twould be a feat none of us have seen. But killing the wolves will not make him chieftain. If you want to live, by all means, break the chains, Temple Boy,” the old warrior, Dog, instructed. “We’ve heard of the things you can do. But if you want to lead, you have to tame the wolves.”
Dakin gave him several mouthfuls of mead to help his courage and to wet his parched throat. Bayr feared the spirits would only pickle his loins for the wolves, but he was grateful for the small kindness all the same.
They left him there, secured to the tree, bidding him farewell and safe passage to Valhalla or the morning, whichever came first. If someone stood watch, Bayr did not feel him. If Dred was near, he didn’t let it be known. Bayr suspected they kept his grandfather under guard. The night would be long for them both.
Bayr dozed briefly, exhaustion stealing his fear for a time. But as the moon rose and the stars deepened, he heard the rustling of unwelcome visitors and an expectant hush settle in the trees. A sudden howling raised his head and tested his bowels.
He wiped his brow against his shoulder, clearing his vision, and the action reopened the wound on his head. The scent would draw them in, and he cursed as one set of eyes and then another, and another, peered out at him from the undergrowth beyond the clearing.
He began to chant the prayers of his childhood, calling on Odin and his son, Saylok, the father of the clans. Calling on the Christ God, whom Dagmar had a special fondness for, calling on Thor, whose strength e
xceeded his own.
Mother of the earth be mine, father of the skies divine,
All that was and all that is, all I am and all I wish.
The blood rolled down his cheeks, dripped from his chin, and splashed on the pale skin of his bare feet. Planting his legs, he tested his bonds and felt an answering pop and rumble in the soil. The tree did not want to die either. The wolves crept closer and their snapping jaws echoed the sound of the protesting roots. His toes curled into the soil and his heartbeat filled his ears.
Did he have the strength to die when he could kill instead?
Could he wrench the tree from the ground or strip bolts from the bark? He could free himself and leave Dolphys behind. He could walk back to the temple, disgraced and demeaned. Shunned by the clan like King Banruud had predicted.
He could cower in the temple, hiding with Ghost, keeping his face averted and avoiding the king. Mayhaps, if he lived, the clan of Dolphys would let him stay, even if they rejected him as their chieftain.
Another droplet fell and then another, and he watched his blood trickle into the ground as the wolves crept closer.
Give me a home in hope, give me a place to go, give me a faith that will never grow cold.
It was the blood and the soil and his homelessness that triggered the thought. Bayr had not been schooled in the runes, though Dagmar believed him to have rune blood, but he’d been raised in the temple, and he knew the most common runes—the sun rune and the rune for pain, and the rune that kept the creeping things away. With his toe he made a clumsy figure in the soil, his lines not nearly as straight, his picture half as good as Alba’s had been. He extended the legs of the spider on either side, wrapping one spindly line as far as he could with the tip of his big toe, creating a perimeter around himself that butted into the base of the tree.
Then he bowed his head and let his blood weep into the body of the rune.
The wolves kept skulking, their bellies brushing the grass as they closed in around him. The growling became a whimpering, the snout of the largest wolf sniffing around the edges of the sloppy rune. The whimpering became a full-throated howl, and the pack began a mournful song full of desperate denial. They gathered around him, angry and anxious. But they did not cross the frail furrows of his rune.
All night they circled and shifted, snapping and sniffling against the simple shape in the soil, and Bayr stood silent, his head bobbing on his naked chest, making sure he fed the rune with his blood even as he waited for it to fail. He could have loosened the chains. He felt the weakness in the links, the warm thrumming of power in his arms and legs that promised salvation. He could have freed himself, but he didn’t.
It was not until the pale light of morning began seeping into the trees that the wolves tucked their weary heads beneath their paws and succumbed to disappointed slumber. Bayr wanted to slip his cold, aching feet beneath the heat of their bodies—they were close enough for him to do so—but he feared waking them and losing his legs. Bayr could not feel his fingers or his arms, but the agony in his shoulders was a pulsing prison, and his legs knocked together in fatigue. The blood was dry on his face, his hair damp with morning dew. But when he heard the warriors of Dolphys coming through the trees, he ground out the rune with the heel of one foot and waited for the wolves to wake.
They bounded away as soon as they did, frightened by the approaching men, and hovered at the edge of the clearing.
Dred’s eyes were rimmed in worry, and the lines of his face were deeper than the grooves worn into Bayr’s wrists.
“He’s alive,” he cried, running toward the tree. The warriors on his heels rubbed their eyes and searched the trees.
“We heard wolves. All night, we heard wolves,” an elder said in wonder.
Bayr simply waited for them to remove the chains.
“Look there,” Dystel hissed, jutting his chin toward the pack that was clearly visible hunched beneath the thready morning mist.
“The gods have spoken,” Dakin marveled.
“The wolves have spoken,” Dog grunted, nodding. “Let there be no doubt.”
“Take off the chains,” Dred roared, wrapping his arms around Bayr as the bindings were removed. “You’re alive,” he moaned. “I feared the worst.”
“At this moment I would rather be dead,” Bayr whispered, and let his grandfather shoulder his weight as he was released. Someone pulled a jerkin over his head and helped him step into his hose.
“You need to walk into the village. You need to walk, Bayr. With your shoulders back and your head high. And they will bow,” Dred urged.
“Goddamn you, Dred of Dolphys,” Bayr muttered. “I never wanted them to bow.”
“The gods have fixed your tongue,” Dred marveled.
Bayr was too tired to test the theory.
“Long live the Dolphys!” someone shouted, and a dozen voices took up the cry.
“We have a new chieftain,” Dred bellowed, and Bayr raised his head and straightened his back. With his arm slung around his grandfather’s shoulders and his feet as bloodied and bare as the day he was born, he walked through the trees into the village he would now call home.
PART THREE
THE TEMPLE KEEPERS
21
“Saylok was the son of the god Odin—” Dagmar said, launching into the age-old tale. He’d promised the daughters a story, and Alba, whose turn it was to choose, always asked for this one.
“Not many knew he was the son of a god,” Alba interrupted.
“That is true,” Dagmar agreed. “Saylok cared little for the opinions of men. He also knew that, since he was the son of a god, many would seek to test his power or garner his favor, and he kept his identity secret. But though others may not have known his origins, Odin knew, and Loki, Saylok’s brother, knew.”
“Loki was very fond of mischief and loved to make trouble,” Liis supplied, in case the other girls had forgotten, and Dagmar nodded, acknowledging that truth as he continued.
“Saylok loved to be out among the animals in the mountains and the fields, so Odin drew an island from the depths of the sea and named it for his son. He populated it with man and beast and gave it to Saylok, so he could live in peace and quiet, in a place where no one knew who he was.”
“But Loki had other ideas,” Dalys contributed.
“Indeed,” Dagmar said. “Loki was jealous of his brother Saylok, and he enjoyed seeing him suffer. Loki also knew that there was only one thing Saylok loved more than the animals.”
“Women. Saylok loved women.” Alba inserted herself into the story once more, whispering the word women with awe. She was the youngest of the girls, and the farthest away from being a woman herself.
“Saylok loved women, yes, but he also wanted children. He wanted to father many children like his father, Odin,” Dagmar said. “And in every village Saylok came to, he lay with a different woman hoping to beget a child. And before long, his wish came true. He begat many children.”
“But Loki turned Saylok’s children into creatures using the forbidden runes,” Elayne contributed, her voice hushed with horror.
“Yes. When Saylok’s six sons were born—one child in every village—they appeared perfectly normal. But days after their births, they began to sprout wings and claws and fur.”
“One became a bear. One became an eagle, one became a boar, one became a horse, one became a lion, and one became a wolf,” Alba murmured, her gaze thoughtful. She never tired of the tale.
“When Saylok realized what Loki had done, he built a temple and assigned keepers to guard the forbidden runes and petition the gods for each of his animal children, Adyar, Berne, Ebba, Dolphys, Joran, and Leok. Odin took pity on his son, and whenever the moon was full, he granted Saylok’s animal children human form. As men, they fathered children who bore the same animal qualities, but with each generation, the animal characteristics fell away, leaving only size, speed, stealth, and strength in their stead. And that is how the clans of Saylok were born.”
For several moments, the girls were silent, considering the tale as though they were hearing it for the first time instead of the hundredth. Their lessons were over, but Dagmar waited patiently, sensing turmoil beneath the quiet.
“Men cannot grow children,” Liis said, her voice reflecting the same awe as Alba’s had. “Even the sons of Odin. Even mighty Saylok. Even Bayr!” The mention of Bayr’s name made Alba wince. Dagmar did not miss the fleeting expression on her young face.
“Yes. You will all be women, fully grown, someday. You will be the salvation of Saylok,” Dagmar said, hoping fervently that it was true. Introspection among the girls continued for several more seconds, and then Bashti raised her eyes to the window, to the birdsong and sunlight, and asked if she might be excused.
Dagmar dismissed them, and the girls hurried out, anxious for the hour of leisure before evening chores. Alba remained behind.
“Do all men love women, Dagmar? Just like Saylok?” Alba asked when they were alone.
“Most men. Yes,” Dagmar answered honestly.
“Do you love women, Dagmar?” The girls were supposed to call him Keeper Dagmar, but Alba never did, and Dagmar never corrected her.
“Yes. But I didn’t . . . don’t . . . love them more than I love the temple . . . or the gods.”
“Is Bayr a god, Dagmar?”
Dagmar jerked, startled. Then he hesitated. It was not something he could easily answer.
“He has the strength of the gods,” he admitted.
Alba was silent again, contemplative.
“My father says someday I will be a queen,” she murmured, changing the subject.
“I have no doubt that is true.”
“When I am gray and my breasts sway?”
Dagmar stared at her, aghast. He leaned his forehead low against his clasped fists, something he did often when she was around, apologizing to the gods he worshipped for her questions. He never scolded her, but he said silent prayers in her behalf, just in case she caused offense. Alba was too honest—and outspoken—for her own good.
