The Tempering of Men

by Sarah Monette

  “Bring them back in one piece,” Sokkolfr said to Frithulf as they, too, broke an embrace. Hroi whined, and Skjaldwulf could sense his frustration, but Hroi knew as well as any of the men that he was too old to walk a thousand miles in any but the direst necessity. And he was needed here, where there were cubs to educate, just as Sokkolfr was needed where there was a hall to build.

  Skjaldwulf sighed. The stiffness in his own limbs told him that he, too, was too old for thousand-mile walks.

  Eyjolfr’s hug with Randulfr seemed stiff, awkward, but Skjaldwulf was too old and too much a scholar of men to be fooled into thinking it insincere. He didn’t pretend to understand that relationship. But whatever their bargain was, it seemed to have survived Eyjolfr’s now-abandoned pursuit of Isolfr intact. And Skjaldwulf, stealing a sideways glance at Vethulf, knew by the itch in his own breast that it was not his place to judge.

  Skjaldwulf caught Sokkolfr’s eye, half-smiled so the tall young man would know it for a vote of confidence, and said, “I’m counting on you to have a finished keep waiting for us on our return.”

  Sokkolfr snorted. “With sunken tubs to soak your feet in hot water, and thrall-women to beat their willow withies across your back?”

  “And honey-cakes and sugared apples,” Vethulf said.

  Wolves don’t linger, and it was Skjaldwulf’s opinion that that was a matter in which men benefited from their example. “It’s in the hands of the wolf-god now,” he said, and turned away.

  * * *

  For a long time, it didn’t really feel like leaving. They walked, and some of the wolfthreat walked out with them. Not Viradechtis, but two of the cubs, and Hrafn, the black wildling wolf chasing pale Kothran until Frithulf yelled after them to save some energy for the march. Franangford was visible behind them for a while, and after that they were still on familiar roads.

  And would be through Bravoll, and for some of them—including Skjaldwulf—as far south even as Arakensberg. There they would pick up the Hergilsberg road, which would take them within a hundred miles of Siglufjordhur and Randulfr’s errand.

  And then on to Hergilsberg and its archives and the answers he hoped they might contain. Skjaldwulf hadn’t spoken of it, not even to Vethulf and Isolfr. Something superstitious stopped his tongue—the idea that to speak of an ill fate was to summon it, perhaps, or that to speak of a solution to a sticky problem might frighten it away, push it aside like the wind of a hand could bat aside the very mayfly one had meant to catch. But he had had the inkling of an idea. The beginnings of a solution to the dilemma the wolfcarls faced, most of them still unknowing.

  Now, suddenly, when it was too late, he doubted the wisdom of keeping his own counsel. He was not a young man. And this would not be an easy journey.

  * * *

  When they made camp on the first night, the Franangford wolves stayed with them, sleeping in a great pile against the seasonable cold of a clear, starry night. When the men rose in the frosted morning and pissed out the embers of the fire, Hrafn and the cubs had already vanished, their paw prints visible in the silvered leaves beside the road—although “road” was a grand term for something that was little more than a track, wide enough for a wolf and a man abreast, or one man riding.

  Skjaldwulf gnawed a cold breakfast of hardtack, butter, and jerky, washing it down with water that tasted of the leathern bottle it had traveled in. There was a spring a few miles on at which to refill it, and so for now he drank freely. Hopefully, as they were headed south into gentler and more settled lands, water wouldn’t be a concern. But tonight, or the next day at the latest, they would have to hunt if they wanted to keep eating.

  On Skjaldwulf’s left, the wolfless man of Siglufjordhur rolled up his furs, breath steaming faintly. It wasn’t true cold, but he chafed his bare tattooed arms anyway, the skin prickled.

  When he straightened, Skjaldwulf tossed him the pouch of hardtack. “Eat.”

  “I overslept,” said Adalbrikt, as humbly as if he thought Skjaldwulf his jarl. A southerner, and raised not around wolfcarls but only among the stories of them. Skjaldwulf rather imagined the awe would wear off in a week or two—especially with Frithulf along. “Aren’t we in a hurry?”

  Skjaldwulf shrugged. “We are. But not so much of a hurry that we can leave before everybody else’s bedroll is packed up. Use all the time you have, young man. And use it for something other than pacing.”

  Adalbrikt plunked down on the ground beside the log Skjaldwulf sat on, rather than the log itself. More of that respect. “Yes, wolfheofodman.”

  Skjaldwulf hid a smile.

  Across the burned and overburned charcoal circle of the fire—apparently they were not the first to camp here—Frithulf, too, was chewing hardtack as if he found it onerous and using his own found moments to assure himself of the soundness of his wolf. Kothran, for his part, snored quite audibly. Mar, Skjaldwulf reached out into the pack-sense, seeking his wolf—

  Mar had gone on ahead and was waiting by the fork in the road, where their route led to Bravoll and an even less-traveled path led seaward, where a dozen nameless fishing villages crouched. Mar, too, was resting, lounging in the shade and concealment of a grove of red pines, aware of his pack behind him and waiting for them to make up some of the distance before moving forward.

  Farther than Mar, Skjaldwulf could feel Kjaran and Viradechtis, their awareness like a breath stirring the fine hairs of his skin. Behind them, both nearer and farther at once, the rest of the pack waited—Kothran and Ingrun and Afi and Dyrver, here by the fire; Hrafn and the cubs jogging tirelessly back north, making faster time now that they were unburdened by horses, packs, and wolfless men; Hroi ranging wide on a patrol-cum-hunting-expedition with two of the young wolves that remained of the old Franangfordthreat.

  Isolfr had taught Skjaldwulf how to do this. And it was Viradechtis, Skjaldwulf thought, who truly made it possible. Her intelligence and command of her pack—her unmistakable presence—were such that even its human brothers, with their dim sight and hearing and even dimmer second senses, could perceive what every trellwolf knew of its brothers and sisters.

  Skjaldwulf crunched the last of his brittle rye hardtack and chewed until it was soft enough to swallow. He stood and chafed the crumbs from his palms against his thighs. “How far do you suppose the pack-sense stretches?”

  “As far as wolves have gone,” Frithulf said, looking up from checking Kothran’s furry paws. Burrs and stones sometimes stuck in the crevices, and the small scrapes they caused could become infected and wear a crippling sore. “To the Iskryne and back, at least. I’ve been that far. Beyond that, I suppose we’ll have to find out.”

  SEVEN

  Vethulf was irritated by how much he missed Skjaldwulf.

  He had fully expected the Franangfordthreat to feel off-balance, men and wolves both. They were missing a wolfjarl, even if one still remained, and although he had no idea of how to put it into words, he understood what Viradechtis has done in choosing both Mar and Kjaran. So it was not surprising that there was a Mar-and-Skjaldwulf-shaped hole in the pack. Vethulf had also expected that he would suffer from Skjaldwulf’s absence, in the sense that all Skjaldwulf’s work and responsibilities now rested on top of his own.

  As the moon waxed and waned, Vethulf became aware: he did not do that work as well as Skjaldwulf did. Vethulf was at his worst with the tithe boys, but there were any number of things he did nearly as badly, and he found himself wondering how ordinary wolfjarls, wolfjarls who had to do all of this themselves as a matter of course, could even function.

  He had even expected—or at least wasn’t surprised by—the effect on Viradechtis and Kjaran, both of whom became even more insistent that they and Vethulf and Isolfr had to sleep together (along with varying numbers of Viradechtis’ pups); on one occasion, Vethulf saw Viradechtis actually herding Isolfr into the room. Isolfr looked up and caught his eye; after an impossible to read moment, he gave Vethulf a sheepish grin and said, “I’ve never pretended she wasn’
t the one in charge.” Vethulf grinned back and was saved from having to find something safe to say by Viradechtis coming around to bump him in the back of the legs, too.

  So that was all expected and reasonable. But why was he missing Skjaldwulf so much? Why did he keep turning his head and expecting to find the man there, as dark and silent as a shadow? Why did he lie awake at nights feeling as if he had to be in the wrong bed?

  There was an answer, but it was ridiculous.

  Vethulf threw himself into his work to avoid it, grimly determined to be so exhausted at the end of each day that he wouldn’t notice what bed he was in, much less care.

  Fortunately for him, there was no shortage of work.

  * * *

  Tithe boys were Sokkolfr’s business, and the rest of the threat were glad of it. But as the spring progressed, it became evident to Brokkolfr that this time the situation was peculiar. First of all, Sokkolfr had only four tithe boys for Viradechtis’ five pups; tithes would pick up again, the older wolfcarls said, but boys came with the harvest, not in planting season, and too many were dead of trolls.

  Although it could have been, it wasn’t a problem, and that was another reason the situation was peculiar. There were only four boys, but there were three times that many wolfless wolfcarls. So many wolves had died in the war, even more wolves than men, and this was Franangford’s share of what at Othinnsaescheall Brokkolfr had heard called wolf-widows. The Nithogsfjoll men didn’t like the term, but one of the wolf-widowed men had said when Sokkolfr objected, “Isn’t it true?” And Sokkolfr had had no answer.

  The final reason Franangford’s situation was unusual this spring was that two of the wolf pups who would be choosing their brothers before the summer solstice were bitches, and one a konigenwolf. Trellwolves threw bitches less often than dog pups, and everyone at Franangford agreed that two bitches in a litter was as great a rarity as a human mother throwing twins. One of the boys or the wolf-widows was about to become a wolfsprechend, and another was about to become a man like Brokkolfr, a bitch’s brother.

  Brokkolfr was glad enough not to claim the title of wolfsprechend. He couldn’t do what Isolfr did, and he didn’t think he would have been able to even if Amma were a konigenwolf. But he was, maybe, a wolfsprechend’s second, if what the wolfsprechend did was like a holmgang, which it wasn’t except on the occasions when it was.

  At Othinnsaesc, what that meant had been clear. The wolfsprechend had been Skjaldwulf’s age or thereabouts, an old man, for a wolfcarl. He had known his pack and his duties, and Brokkolfr’s task was mostly not to get in the way. But Isolfr was only a few seasons older than Brokkolfr, and while his knowledge of his pack was bone-deep, he was uncertain about his duties and uncomfortable about taking some of them up. And even more uncomfortable with the almost worshipful way both boys and men tended to look at him.

  And that was one of the reasons Brokkolfr liked him.

  When Randulfr had been there, he had taken over that part of the wolfsprechend’s duties easily and without fuss, but now that Randulfr was gone, Brokkolfr was the only one left to talk to those Signy and Geirve seemed to favor.

  His first instinct when Sokkolfr approached him had been to refuse. If Isolfr felt he was not fit to mentor, then Brokkolfr was surely unimaginably less fit. But Sokkolfr had dropped his gaze and shifted his weight uncomfortably and said, “I’m not sure Isolfr would be the right person in any event.”

  Almost inaudibly, Hroi whined.

  “What do you mean?” Brokkolfr said.

  Sokkolfr brought his chin up then, unhappy but resolute. “Viradechtis has had only one open mating, and it was … bad.”

  “Was he hurt?” It did happen, although everybody did their best to prevent it. Men had died; tithe boys and yearling wolfcarls made sick, uneasy jokes about it, and Brokkolfr’s wolfsprechend at Othinnsaesc had said, “The ones who die are the ones who fight. So don’t fight.” It had been good advice, and Brokkolfr had taken it.

  “No worse than Randulfr has been a half-dozen times,” Sokkolfr said. “No worse than you were, this last time.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t, either, really,” Sokkolfr said. “He doesn’t talk about it. But it was worse than war for him. Worse than … I don’t know what. But I don’t think he can teach other men how to accept it when he has so much trouble accepting it himself.”

  “All right,” Brokkolfr said, and so he’d taken care to be around when the tithe boys and wolf-widows were introduced to the pups, taken care to watch, as the pups grew older and bolder, which of their potential brothers Signy and Geirve seemed to favor. Signy was easy; after a few days of licking everyone’s hands indiscriminately, she began to focus her candlelight-yellow eyes more and more steadily on a tall fair boy named Eymundr. The wolf-widows backed off and made the other tithe boys back off, too.

  Geirve was more difficult. She had Kjaran’s odd eyes, one as deep yellow as Signy’s, the other the pale blue of moonlight on snow, and she had something of Kjaran’s temperament as well; even in her puppy exuberance, she was more watchful than her littermates, and Brokkolfr and Sokkolfr both thought she was early in developing the sardonic sense of humor common among wolves.

  “Konigenwolf, no,” Sokkolfr said, “but she will be a terror nonetheless.”

  And Geirve wagged her whole hind end with enthusiasm and tried to lick Sokkolfr’s ears off the sides of his head.

  She watched all the men and boys who came to be introduced to her and her brothers and sister; she was not unfriendly, but Brokkolfr could almost feel her holding herself back, waiting for something that only she would recognize when it came.

  And when it came, it was nothing that anyone but Geirve expected.

  One of the wolf-widows was a man from the old Franangford threat named Motholfr; like Isolfr’s shieldbrother Frithulf the Half-Burned, Motholfr had been badly injured in fighting the trellish smiths in the Iskryne, the same battle in which his wolf Raskvithr had been killed. But Frithulf’s injuries had been to his face and neck; Motholfr had lost two fingers and most of the use of his right hand. Even now, as healed as it would ever be, it was a crippled claw, the skin shiny and gnarled and with only the thumb still moving freely. He had suffered other injuries, but the hand was the worst; the hand was what would keep Motholfr dependent on the wolfheallan for the rest of his life.

  He knew it and hated it. Brokkolfr thought that Motholfr was presenting himself to Viradechtis’ cubs, which he did more than a fortnight after the others, not so much out of desire—he still mourned Raskvithr, to whom he had been bonded for almost ten years—but out of a bitter determination that he should not be useless.

  Neither Brokkolfr nor Sokkolfr thought Motholfr had any chance of attracting one of the pups; he was late, and his presence in the pack-sense was too dark, matching perfectly the wolves’ name for him, smoke-blood-burning-fur. He had had a different scent-name before the Iskryne, but it was lost now, along with Raskvithr and Motholfr’s right hand.

  It was a surprise, therefore, to them as much as to Motholfr when Geirve began to follow him purposefully about. She was not pushy about it—not like Signy, who took over Eymundr’s life as shamelessly (Sokkolfr said) as Viradechtis had Isolfr’s—simply, wherever Motholfr went, Geirve trotted after him. She did not come close unless invited but watched Motholfr with patient interest; when she was invited, she reverted to the puppy she was, wagging her tail wildly and crawling into his lap to lick his face and ears. If he ordered her away—and he was good enough with the pack-sense to tell her to go to her mother—she would go, but she went with ears and tail drooping. And it was never very long before she was back.

  Finally, wryly, Motholfr said to Brokkolfr, “I give in. I guess you’d better tell me about being a bitch’s brother.”

  “Right,” said Brokkolfr, feeling keenly ridiculous. Motholfr was nearly thirty, almost twelve years his senior. But he had never been bonded to a bitch before, and Brokkolfr had. And this was ex
actly the conversation Sokkolfr had recruited Brokkolfr in order to have.

  He had already had a version of it with Eymundr, and that had been uncomfortable in its own way, since Eymundr was not heallbred and had had to be told what he would be facing in another two years. He’d taken it well; in fact, he’d even been relieved. His older brothers and cousins had told him all the worst stories they knew about the unnatural practices and bestial habits of the wolfheallan. An open mating, scary though it could be, was not nearly as bad as the stories wolfless men told.

  Motholfr did not need to be told that part; he’d been part of several open matings in the old Franangford heall. But there was another set of things he had no idea of at all.

  “It won’t be the same bond,” Brokkolfr said. “Bitches are more forceful. They boss the dog wolves around, and they’ll boss you around just the same. Geirve’s not a konigenwolf, so it won’t be as bad, but even Amma is—”

  Amma grumbled at Brokkolfr, shoving her head against his stomach, and Motholfr was surprised into laughing.

  “Well, like that,” Brokkolfr said.

  “I had noticed already,” Motholfr said, glancing aside to where Geirve waited. “She’s there, in a way Raskvithr wasn’t.” He said his dead wolf’s name steadily, calmly, and looking into his eyes Brokkolfr saw that while the grief was still there, the devouring bitterness was eased.

  “Yes,” he said. “That will only get stronger.”

  “Come here, wolfling,” Motholfr said, and Geirve threw herself at him instantly. He said around her, “I’m more worried about her mating. I’ve been on the other side, and, well, it looks a little different now that I’m imagining myself underneath.”

  “Yes,” Brokkolfr said. “There are things you can do to make it easier.”

  “The salve,” Motholfr said.