He squeezed his cousin one last time, then said goodbye to Frida. Ásta hugged them both with a sad look in her eye. He wondered if she had grown that attached to his family, or if she was like him and didn’t like goodbyes.
Hróaldr walked up next with his hand outstretched. Torin eyed him before grasping his hand and pulling him in. “You will be a man next I see you.”
The boy grinned and pulled back his shoulders in pride. “I will see you at the Althing?”
“Já, I look forward to it.”
He watched his young cousin climb into the wagon with his family. Fólki sauntered up to them with his thumbs tucked behind his belt. Leveling a stare at Torin, he said, “I am as proud of you as my own sons. You will be missed around the farm, but knowing you walk in this place with a family of your own makes it right.”
His words drove through Torin. This was the man who had raised him, acted as his guardian and father. He had always looked out for him and protected him. This was the moment his uncle had waited for—to see him with his own family and land. That was what any freeman hoped to achieve.
Fólki saw he had no words, so he clapped him in a tight hug and said, “I will send some kinsmen to check on your walls before winter when Gothi Hákon comes, to ensure you are treated fairly. I will see you next summer.”
Then he gave Ásta a kiss on the cheek. “Now that you have each other, nothing will stop you.”
Fólki climbed to the front of the wagon and grabbed the reins. He coaxed the horses forward. While they moved across the farm and toward the gate, he called out, “I wish to hear stories of the great wolf you send back to Valhalla for Odin to slay again!”
Torin watched them roll over the hill and disappear out of sight. It would be some time before he saw them again, which was a mixed blessing. No one liked the sound of his own voice like his uncle did, and Torin preferred solitude. But his family was his connection to his memories, and this place would feel lonely without the familiar faces he’d been surrounded with for half his life.
Ásta shuffled beside him and he was brought back to the present. She was studying his face when she said, “You will see them again at the Althing—if we do not lose the farm before then.”
He continued to stare into the distance at the point where his kin had disappeared from view. “The Althing is where we will see them next. The farm will not be lost to us if I have any say, and Bárthur will be repaid.”
“Before Gothi Hákon left this morning, he said he would come at harvest to check on the walls. And Bárthur said he would join him to retrieve his payment. That is only six weeks away. We should have the walls repaired if the wolf does not come back and do more harm. But what of my debt to Bárthur?” A frown creased her forehead. Her distress was clear.
“That,” he said, “is not a concern. He has his eye on Vindr for our repayment, and I will not let the wolf come near enough.”
Ásta looked over her shoulder and observed Elfa working nearby. She lowered her voice. “How can you stop a wolf that disappears like smoke in the wind?”
That was a very good question, and one he didn’t have an answer to yet. He knew there was much to be done around the farm before the harvest, yet if he did not put all of his efforts into stopping this creature from doing more harm, her fears could come true. There was no way he could let that happen.
At the Althing, when he’d heard stories of the tragedies that had befallen her, he’d felt a closeness with her. She was someone whose family had crossed the Rainbow Bridge to Valhalla, like his kin had. They were both alone. When so many other men would have found another to marry instead of choosing to share in her bad luck, he almost considered it a challenge. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she herself didn’t understand why he’d married her. He might have been pressured into it, but the moment he saw her in the assembly with her farm slipping from her fingertips, he had been reminded of himself.
The last of their guests had left the farm. Ásta stood with her hands on her hips while she squinted at the silhouettes in the distance growing smaller and smaller. Elfa walked up to her and said, “Excuse me, lady. Did you want to brew another batch of ale with your new cauldron? The guests relieved us of our supply.”
“Of course.” Ásta looked up at him with her piercing blue eyes and followed Elfa into the house.
The last two nights Torin had sat out, keeping an eye on the land and waiting for the black wolf to return, but it hadn’t. If the animal visited as often as Ásta said, there would be a path. The best way to view this trail would be from the skies. With so many people around the farm, he didn’t want to chance letting anyone see him use his powers.
Torin turned his face into the breeze. It was midday, and he could smell rain on the wind. If he wanted to take to the skies, he needed to do it soon. Now that he wasn’t being sought after, he let himself from the grounds of the farm, closing the gate behind him not to let out the milk cows.
If he left his clothes near enough to home, it would be a quick return, so he hurried over the ridge that led to the bath. Once he was out of sight, he scanned the landscape for any sign of other people. When he found none, he unfastened his belt and set it and his sword on the ground. His shoes and clothes followed, making a heap of belongings. They were tucked beneath scrub brush growing around a charcoal-gray rock.
Excitement built up inside him. He hadn’t changed form in nearly two weeks. He hadn’t had the opportunity. Torin closed his eyes and thought of his fylgja, the snow-white gyrfalcon. His pores tingled and pulled as energy coursed through his body. His arms grew lighter and twisted back. Within moments, he knew the transition had completed.
He looked around him. Short grass brushed against his narrow legs and chest. A portion of his natural size, he stood a foot off the ground. This was the only place he felt small. His attention went to the cloudy skies.
Torin only had to open his wings and cup them against the breeze to lift into the air. Little effort raised him over the windswept terrain below. Soaring high above the coast, he was able to make out the true lay of the land. The green roof of their longhouse and the animal shed and other small buildings were tiny from this perspective. Nearby, he saw the hay and barley fields as well as the boundary wall that formed a perimeter around the crops to protect them from the livestock.
The damage from this view was more telling. His eyes could clearly see all the markings, missing turf and patterning from so high up. It was like seeing a picture drawn in the earth with a stick, but far more detailed. He circled in the sky, studying every section that had been targeted by the creature responsible for the destruction.
It was not only on one side or section, but on all four sides. There did not appear to be a reason behind the sections of wall that had been torn down. A predator hungry for food was capable of anything. He’d seen proof of burrowing rabbits in the fields. If there was truly a wolf walking the island, possibly brought over by raiders, a meal of hare would be a tasty treat. However, all accounts of the animal stated it was large—as large as a pony. Why wouldn’t it simply jump the wall if it wanted to get inside?
If its food was hiding in the walls, that would be reason enough. He scoured the contours of the walls, homing in on the ground around it. If there were holes around the damaged sections, that could be the answer. Try as he might, he could not see any trace of burrows close to those areas.
Animals were creatures of habit focused on their few necessities of life. There would be a reason behind the beast’s behavior. It was visiting a mate, trying to dig a burrow or hunting for food. Not many other options were possible if they were anything like the foxes that darted across the island.
Not having found any answers at the walls, he coasted toward the bath. It was a tiny blue spot against the coastal field. A very apparent pathway led from the farm to the heated basin, which wasn’t unexpected. His sharp eyesight was called to action while he combed the hills surrounding the property.
If what Ásta said was true,
if the wolf visited often, it would leave a trace. A trail led away from the home, northward. He even saw a dark moving smudge—Dagný and Bergljot traveling along it.
Torin flew inland, following the path. He combed his eyes from side to side, searching for any other crossings. He found one and followed it until he spotted his uncle guiding his wagon east. Larger gusts began to beat against him, lifting and shoving him down like a violent arm from the sky.
Time was running out. Storm clouds would soon let loose, and he didn’t want to get caught in the weather. So he turned back to survey the heavily traveled avenue. He recognized the land and realized it had been the way they’d taken to the highlands in search of the sheep the morning after his wedding.
Another path veered to the east and to a farm in a valley. He swooped low in the sky to get a closer look. A few men were out in their fields, and a woman stood outside cleaning clothing in a bucket. He recognized the woman as one of their neighbors who had attended the wedding.
Satisfied, he moved back to the point where the trail diverted. He flew toward high ground. Tufts of white and gray fur could be seen milling around on the meadow grass. Torin knew he was close to the knoll where they’d found the sheep carcass, so he searched for a path other than the one they’d left while riding there the other day.
It was faint, only visible from a bird’s-eye view. The sheep had grazed part of the meadow down to the quick, so it was hard to detect. Beyond them and over a high embankment, evidence of more tracks led northeast. The higher he flew, the rougher the winds became, forcing him to sail closer to the ground.
The line worn into the grass disappeared as the earth grew more gravelly. Rocks littered the area. Low-lying groundcover grew on everything like a contagious fungus. The plant matter was so spongy it didn’t reveal tracks. He was near giving up to go out another day when he decided to continue just a little farther.
Through the gray skies and low light, his precise vision was able to spot what looked like turf walls and the elongated rectangular grass roof of a longhouse. He pressed on while the winds threatened to throw him to the ground. Focused on the home, he flew with great effort to an outcropping of rocks stacked on a nearby hillock.
Although he was still a great distance away, from his perch he was able to see the farm in detail. There was a reason falcons were able to catch such small birds and rodents—yes, they were terribly fast when they needed to be, but that wouldn’t help if you couldn’t spot your prey from your hiding spot.
Numerous men were out digging in the earth, removing large rocks from a stretch of land. The stones were being placed on a cart. Clearly some sort of construction project. Back at the longhouse, smoke wafted out from the hole in the roof and some children were fighting with wooden swords just outside.
That was when he spotted an animal speed across the flat rocky terrain. He trained his eyes on the moving target. Its fur was dark, but its tail curled in a puff on its rear. From all descriptions he’d heard, wolves had straight tails, unlike the hounds that were imported from their homeland. This was no more than a working dog.
A loud whistle cut through the wind, and he scanned for its source. Near the group of people working, a man with broad shoulders stood with his back to Torin. Ebony furs covered his back, and dark hair whipped in the gale.
The animal ran up to its master and barked. The man turned to his pet. It was a profile Torin recognized. He’d known Bárthur was a near neighbor to Ásta, for he was the one who had brought his concerns about her walls to the Althing.
There was nothing Torin liked about the man. In his gut he did not believe he was the sort who lived by laws or honor. But dislike did not prove anything. He did not see any trace of a wolf, nor was there any time for him to linger. The rains would start any moment, and flying in the rain was something he tried to avoid.
He could come back again if he wished to search any farther. For now, he would have to return home and put his attention to their walls so come harvest there would be no fear of losing the farm. By night he could look to the north and wait for the creature to show itself again, but he was unsure whether he was prepared to stop a beast that was so hard to find.
She ate in silence beside Torin while the farmhands guessed at when the rain would end. Ásta chewed on her dried fish and took a sip of warmed milk to wash it down. It might have been funny observing Rolf sitting back with his feet up, wagering it would clear by the end of their argument, but she had other things on her mind.
Every night since her wedding, her husband had come to bed long after she’d fallen asleep and had risen before her in the morning. She was beginning to wonder if he was not attracted to her. Or maybe he didn’t want any children.
After all, they had not consummated their marriage the first night. Maybe it was a continuation of her bad luck and that she’d been cursed by Loki’s son, Fenrir, to not find satisfaction with her husband. Married people lay together. It was what they did. She had been told so. It was all she thought about while she did her chores around the farm after he’d left to survey the property.
She turned to him and asked, “Tell me about your trek around the land.”
He finished a bite of food and drank the last of his cup of honeymoon mead. “Nothing to say.”
She tried again. “What were you looking for?”
Torin looked at her and seemed to be deciding what to say. “I do not wish to upset you.”
She couldn’t help but get annoyed. She’d made a mistake crying in front of him. Now he thought she was weak and unable to deal with life’s problems. Ásta took a deep breath. “I am strong. Do not fear for me. If you have something to share, I will hear it.”
He set his wooden bowl down to wipe his hands off and adjusted in his seat. Elfa came to refill his cup with ale. He watched her go before answering in undertones, “I went to look for wolf tracks.”
She felt his eyes on her while she suppressed her anxiety. He was fearless, going out in search of the beast. But she hated the thought of him alone with the creature who’d scarred her flesh and land. Nothing gave her more pleasure than thinking of it lying in a pool of its own blood, but not at the cost of her husband’s life. “Did you find any?”
Torin lifted the ale to his lips and took two large swallows. “Only paths left by our kin and neighbors. I will not give up until it is found. But tomorrow, I will join the men at the walls.”
“I could join you if you go looking again.” She was familiar with the blade of a sword and didn’t mind going on long rides. If she could spend more time getting to know the man she’d brought into her life, she would.
He finished his glass of ale, then got to his feet and looked toward the entrance of the longhouse. “Neinn, I do not want to take you from your chores.”
It was clear. He was not the happy sort, and he didn’t like her very much. Wouldn’t he want to spend time with her if he did? Plus, she didn’t like how much he was drinking. He didn’t seem intoxicated yet, but at the rate he was throwing back the ale, he would be soon. She held onto her pride and got up. Ásta avoided looking at him. She tried keeping the hurt from her voice, but it twisted into sour irritation. “If you are drinking more, then am going to bed.”
She got up and smiled at Elfa as she passed by her. Ásta raised the latch to her bed closet and left the sounds of the men talking behind her. She began to remove her shoes and apron dress. While she sat on the edge of the bed, she released her hair from its braids and fastenings and tried to push away the hurt Torin had caused her. Did it really matter if they did not have a close and passionate marriage like she’d heard of in the sagas told around the firelight?
In all honesty, it didn’t. She’d hoped she wouldn’t see him nursing her ale as often as he had been before their wedding. He wouldn’t be able to keep up with the farm’s workload if he was ill the next day. The tension was more than she cared to deal with.
“Think she might lock the door on him?” Bjorn asked under his breath.
Rolf looked at Torin and rubbed his beard. His forehead wrinkled as he appeared to be deep in thought. The farmhand said in a loud voice, “I have not had the pleasure of living in the company of my wife since she died from sickness the winter following our marriage, but I know an angry woman when I see one. I say this because we all have to live under the same roof. Best make up with her.”
Torin stared at the door she’d disappeared behind, then down at his freshly filled cup of ale. He’d thought getting married would be the easy part. Or maybe he hadn’t put much thought into it while he’d fantasized about having more freedom and space to roam the land in search of gyrfalcons and having the privacy take the shape of his fylgja. The challenge he’d perceived was keeping his wife and land safe. Maybe that wasn’t his greatest trial after all.
He was not the sort to agitate when he knew advice was being offered kindly. Plus, he didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Torin muttered, “I do not understand why she acts that way.”
Torin had only thought of her safety. When she’d offered to go with him, he’d stared at the scars that traced her cheek, seeing the damage the wolf had done to her. He’d thought she was brave for wanting to go, but wouldn’t it be unforgiveable of him not to protect his wife? It would be safer for her to stay.
Bjorn and Leifur exchanged a look and Rolf said, “I do not claim to know what a woman thinks, but if you do not try to make things better with her, you might regret it.”
He glanced over to look at Elfa, who pretended to be looking at the rafters instead of listening to their conversation. Torin stepped closer to the farmhands and asked quietly, “How does a husband make things better?”
Bjorn stood up and leaned in close to say, “Little tokens, gifts. That is what makes them happy.”
From behind Elfa spoke up. “We like to hear admissions of foolishness, too.”
Torin turned around to glance at her. She was standing and collecting the dirty bowls from the benches and gave her husband a warning glare. Bjorn smiled back at her and answered, “So true, love.”
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 12
