The Tempering of Men

by Sarah Monette

  “It’s not that,” Otter said. “Witches can work magic by playing the air like the strings of a harp. Iron is supposed to stop them, but I think Sixtus is doubtful.”

  “I’m not a witch,” Skjaldwulf said wearily.

  “So you say,” Otter said. “But you talk to animals.”

  “I talk to Mar.”

  “Who is an animal.”

  “Who is my brother.”

  The guard—Sixtus—interrupted again, more angry nonsense.

  “I’m not to conspire with you,” Otter said with a shrug. “And I have other duties. If you need … well, ask for me. Remember, they call me Lutra.”

  “I remember,” Skjaldwulf said. She gave him the Rhean salute and walked away. Judging by the expressions on the faces of all three Rhean soldiers, she wasn’t supposed to do that, whether because she was Brython or because she was a woman or because he was a prisoner or perhaps some combination.

  The two soldiers who had escorted him saluted the man on guard and departed. Skjaldwulf leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, pleased that the darkness did not swoop in distressingly and that he knew even without the aid of his eyes where the ground was. Truly, he might survive this head wound, and the greatest honor to Othinn, he had been told once, was to put off your meeting with him so that you might bring the heads of more enemies to lay at his feet.

  Skjaldwulf had not been resting long when a confused, excited commotion caused him to open his eyes again. A Rhean, drenched with sweat and breathing like a bellows, was standing in a knot of soldiers. He held something that looked like a very smooth, fat stick in his hand—a roll of parchment, Skjaldwulf realized. A message. And an urgent one. He watched as the man was escorted off in the direction of Tribune Iunarius’ tent, and he listened to the ensuing, intensely orderly bustle until he watched a procession of soldiers walk past his tree, four abreast and all marching perfectly in step. Iunarius was with them, on the leggy horse Mar had remembered. Skjaldwulf realized he had no idea of how many men this camp held and therefore no idea what fraction of them this group represented. He noted that they all looked very grim, although that was perhaps an effect of their helmets.

  They marched out of sight, but Skjaldwulf did not close his eyes again. The atmosphere of the camp had changed; he wasn’t sure whether he sensed it himself or Mar shared it with him, but it was impossible either to miss or to ignore. His guard got up and walked over to the cook fire, speaking to the men on duty there. Skjaldwulf watched with growing uneasiness as one of those men left, only to be replaced by two more. And the crowd kept increasing. The shovel-faced man was soon speaking like a jarl to his armsmen before a battle, and from the way he kept pointing at Skjaldwulf and Mar, Skjaldwulf was very much afraid he knew who the enemy was.

  The broken-nosed soldier came and stood on the edge of the crowd for a while and then, frowning, walked across to Skjaldwulf. He said something with a rising inflection at the end—a question, but none of the tiny hoard of Rhean words Skjaldwulf had gathered applied.

  “Lutra?” Skjaldwulf said.

  The soldier looked doubtful and asked a question again. It might have been the same question, but Skjaldwulf could not be certain.

  “Lutra,” Skjaldwulf said as firmly as he could. He would have used his hands to show that he did not understand the soldier’s words, but he remembered what Otter had said about witches.

  The soldier nodded and strode away. Skjaldwulf could only sit and hope that it had been a nod of agreement, not a nod of, Yes, this man is clearly a witch.

  Time crawled by. Mar’s head was up. He was watching the growing crowd of soldiers intently, and every so often Skjaldwulf would feel an inaudible growl where Mar’s rib cage was pressing against his leg. Shovel-face was getting louder, more confident. Surely, Skjaldwulf thought, the tribune had left some competent man in charge of the camp—to keep the defenses orderly, if nothing else. So where was he? This could not be the sort of thing the Rheans approved of in their perfectly maintained camp with its perfectly straight lines.

  The broken-nosed soldier returned, Otter trotting at his side.

  “What’s going on?” Skjaldwulf said to her.

  She blew out a disgusted breath. “Sixtus is trying to convince them to burn you.”

  “Because I’m a witch.”

  “One of the men you killed was his shieldmate. They’d served together since they were boys, and—”

  The broken-nosed soldier interrupted her sharply. She listened, nodded, and said to Skjaldwulf, “Lucius says he does not think you are a witch. He thinks you are an honorable warrior. But he’s worried that he’s wrong.” Her glance at Mar, most likely inadvertent, showed why.

  “I swear on the life of my wolf I am not a witch,” Skjaldwulf said. “Non veneficium. Did I say that right?”

  “Not even close,” Otter said, and she gave him a funny quirk of a grin, as if her face wasn’t used to moving that way. But Lucius looked relieved, and he saluted Skjaldwulf with crisp, vigorous movements. He spoke at length to Otter and then left.

  Otter sat down beside Skjaldwulf, where—he realized—his body would shield her from the crowd by the fire. “Lucius is going to get the centurion—the leader since the tribune’s away.”

  “Why isn’t the centurion here already?” Skjaldwulf would have been if there’d been this kind of clamor in his wolfheall.

  “The centurion also served with Sixtus and his dead friend. They’re twenty-year men, so the centurion is…” She muttered to herself. “I don’t know how to say this in your language. The centurion is keeping himself very busy with something else so he won’t notice what Sixtus is doing.”

  “‘Turning a blind eye,’ we say.”

  “Thank you, yes. He is turning a blind eye. And he’s trusting Sixtus to get this over with before the tribune comes back.”

  “Won’t the tribune be very angry?”

  “Yes, but too many of the men are scared of witches. The centurion can say things got out of hand before he could stop them, and with you dead, Tribune Iunarius won’t have any reason to pursue it—and the Rheans are a very long way from home, Iskryner. The tribune knows he can’t push frightened men very far.”

  “What can I do?” Skjaldwulf asked.

  Otter touched the brand on her face. She glanced aside. Despite himself, Skjaldwulf found himself wondering if Isolfr would find her attractive. “Vanish, wolf-witch.”

  She shoved to her feet and walked away. Skjaldwulf almost raised his voice to call after her, but it would have drawn Rhean attention. And he suspected it would have been futile, anyway.

  ELEVEN

  Haste though they would, night was all but falling before the threat assembled to the rescue. Vethulf was not overly concerned: night nor day would matter in a cave, the wolves were at home in the dark, and wolfcarls were accustomed to fighting in darkness. Trolls, after all, did not venture out in daylight.

  Still, he did not expect to see the figure of a woman running flat out up the Franangfordtown road.

  Troubles come by tribes, Vethulf thought as Thorlot the blacksmith’s widow, who had come from Bravoll after her lover was killed at Othinnsaesc, hurtled toward them, her skirts kilted too high for decency, a puff of dust rising from the impact of each leather-shod foot. She breathed heavily, sweat soaking the collar of her shift and making half-moons in the underarms of her bodice, but she was still running strongly until the moment she drew up before Isolfr.

  Vethulf knew she was acquainted with his wolfsprechend. They had served the Bravoll siege together. Why would the town send a woman to run with an urgent message? Unless it was personal business—

  Whatever brought her, Kjaran shied from her scent. Iron-hot, he named her, and he did not think she should stink of sourness and terror.

  “My lord wolfsprechend!” she cried as Isolfr reached out a hand to steady her. “Franangfordtown begs the assistance of the heall. We are under attack!”

  Vethulf stepped close as Isolfr gl
anced to him.

  “Attack?” Isolfr said.

  “A great bear,” she said. “And in daylight. We have seen it scavenging the middens for some days, but now it has staved in the wall of the bakery and killed the baker’s son and a thrall. I ran—” She took a breath, bosom heaving over her bodice. “I ran, because the men are harrying it with torches and mastiff dogs. Hurry, I beg of you, my lord wolfsprechend.”

  “A great bear,” Vethulf said. “White or brown?”

  “Brown,” she said, and Vethulf made the sign of Mjollnir with his right hand, in silent gratitude. The brown cave bears were larger than the white bears of the sea ice and the far north, but they were also far less vicious. Where the white bears would kill and devour any beast on two legs or four—or swimming—that they met, the brown did not by preference prey upon men, or meat in general. Still, if this one was raiding houses in high summer, something was terribly wrong.

  If it had run mad—

  Vethulf hooked his thumbs in his belt to still the shaking of his hands as he thought of a mad trellwolf, poisoned by a sick bear’s bite. How would Skjaldwulf handle this?

  “Isolfr,” Vethulf said, “take half the threat.”

  Isolfr’s hand went to the haft of his storied battle-axe.

  Vethulf shook his head. “The smallest and most slender.”

  “Yes,” Isolfr said. “Of course.” He sighed, and Vethulf swallowed his irritation enough to hear the gratitude in it. Isolfr turned to Viradechtis and ran one hand between her ears and along her ruff.

  “Go with Vethulf, sister,” he said. “Your fight is there.”

  He looked up at Vethulf, ice-blue eyes unreadable, and let a smile’s phantom shape his face. “The wolves go with you,” he said.

  “And the god of wolves go with you,” Vethulf answered, then turned to call, “Spears! We will need spears!”

  * * *

  Vethulf jogged through the blue dusk with Thorlot back to Franangfordtown. Kjaran trotted on one side of him and Viradechtis on the other, where she sometimes brushed against Vethulf’s thigh and sometimes against Thorlot’s. Thorlot did not shy away from her, even resting her hand on Viradechtis’ head for a moment, and Vethulf told himself first that it was not his business, and second not to be a jealous fool.

  Doggedly he asked Thorlot questions about the bear instead of questions about Isolfr. But she could tell him little beyond what she had already said. There was a bear, a male she thought by the size, and it seemed entirely intent on raiding whatever food it could find.

  A hunter’s experience told Vethulf that the cave bears were largely eaters of plants, as their white brothers were eaters of flesh. It also told him that they would not scruple to dine on carrion and that they would hunt, in lean times or for the bones they crunched with gusto, which made their droppings white and crumbly. The peak of a big male’s shoulders stood as high as Skjaldwulf, who was taller than either Vethulf or Isolfr, could reach with an upraised hand. That same male’s paw would wear finger-long claws, and span as wide as a carthorse’s hoof.

  Vethulf had observed cave bears many times. He had once seen a female of moderate size—with cubs to feed—break a reindeer’s back at one blow. But he had never tried to kill one.

  Still, it couldn’t be worse than a troll. He devoutly hoped. And a trellspear should work on a bear as well.

  Familiar terrain and the scent of smoke from cooking fires told Vethulf they were approaching the township, but he heard the shouts and the barking carried on the wind long before the walls of outlying houses came in sight. The wolfcarls redoubled their pace—running to battle now rather than saving their wind—and the wolves spread out between houses in a hunting fan.

  Thorlot fell back as Vethulf sprinted forward, bending to put her hands to her knees, her service done.

  The wolves howled. The wolfcarls shouted—perhaps to spook the bear, if they could, and certainly to let the beleaguered townsmen and the jarl’s thanes know they were coming. Franangfordtown’s jarl, Roghvatr, had rallied his thanes and his war and hunting dogs. As Vethulf broke out into the square—Kjaran running on one side, Viradechtis as konigenwolf stretched out and leading the charge on the other, a cross-pieced trellspear jouncing before him—he heard the voices of women and children rise in a ragged cheer. The running thunder of a dozen wolfcarls’ feet and those of twice as many wolves rattled the walls. Some of the spearmen turned at the sound, and they cheered, too.

  Vethulf’s first thought was that Thorlot had undersold the size of the bear.

  The mastiffs were great heavy-jowled dogs, their faces droopy with an armor of hide and fur, some near as large as a small trellwolf. The thanes and their jarl were doughty warriors, broad-shouldered in their chain and furs.

  The bear dwarfed all.

  It was a great sloped boulder of a thing, and it was as shaggy as a boulder, too. It was bloody here and there from the boarspears of the jarl’s thanes and the jaws of his mastiffs, standing at bay in the ruins of the bakery, protected on three sides by the standing walls, the roof half-collapsed across it. The high, humped back was draped with thatch and timbers; the head that swung below and before its awesome shoulders snarled to reveal bone-crushing teeth in a mouth that could have consumed Vethulf’s head entire.

  A mastiff—a dog of fifteen stone if it was an ounce—lay crushed under the bear’s right paw, limp as a stomped rat. Behind the bear, Vethulf could see tumbled racks of loaves and the torn body of the baker’s son, unless those rent white limbs belonged to the dead thrall. Before it, the dogs and thanes darted in and back, harrying the beast—as Thorlot had said—with fire and spears.

  As Vethulf closed, the head of the trellspear bobbing with each stride, he saw the bear pin one of the boarspears to the ground and swipe at the thane who had held it. The thane danced back, swift and sure-footed, and for a moment Vethulf hoped the bear would be lured out of its shelter to follow. If they could get its flanks—

  But no. It lunged once and then retreated again, shifting from paw to paw and groaning. From this closer vantage, Vethulf could see the crumbs in its fur and the angry glare of its eyes. He checked his stride as the Franangford jarl, Roghvatr, pulled back from the fight and turned toward him.

  One benefit of the long campaign against the trolls was that wolfless men now showed less fear of the trellwolves and more respect. Roghvatr, a grizzled, black-bearded man at least as old as Skjaldwulf, did not flinch in the slightest as Viradechtis and Kjaran drew up beside him. They faced the bear, and the jarl faced Vethulf.

  “Well met, wolfjarl,” Roghvatr said. He gestured over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

  “Fire the roof,” Vethulf said, realizing the flaw in his plan even as he uttered it. “But then we’d be fighting the bear and the fire.” He hefted the spear in his hand. “I suppose you have tried arrows?”

  “We haven’t a bow that will do more than sting the beast,” the jarl said. “I fear it’s spears or nothing.”

  Vethulf humphed. “Spears it is, then. We’ll drive it out to you.”

  To be honest, he was relieved to find something in which direct action might work. He was tired to the teeth of subtlety and nuance and politics.

  Brother, he called in the pack-sense.

  Kjaran’s attention was clear and bright in him. Vethulf showed the wolf what he planned, and the wolf agreed.

  It will be dangerous, Vethulf said.

  Battle is dangerous, the wolf replied, or images to that effect. Vethulf turned over his shoulder. “I need a set of volunteers, wolf and man. The rest of you go with Viradechtis and join the thanes. We will drive the bear out to you.”

  Viradechtis gave him a look, her eyes cunning and bright. “You are the konigenwolf,” Vethulf said, “the pack’s life is in you.” He only realized when Roghvatr hid a smile that anyone might find it strange for a man to converse with a wolf. Vethulf swallowed a flare of irritation at being made sport of. At least I can be a distraction in trouble
d times.

  Viradechtis sighed and turned away, every line of her body saying, You never let me have any fun at all. When Vethulf looked away from her, Sokkolfr was there. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “Hroi is old,” Vethulf cautioned. In truth, he wanted Kothran for this. Frithulf’s ghost-colored brother was quick and small and sly; he would be at least risk in close quarters with the bear. But Frithulf and Kothran were off with Skjaldwulf and Mar—and Skjaldwulf and Mar, the pack-sense told him, were in terrible trouble.

  He could not think about that now. And in truth, why did it worry him so? If something happened to Skjaldwulf, that was one less rival in the threat.

  Was it not?

  Sokkolfr shook his head. “Herrolf went with the cave rescue team. I can work with Stigandr—”

  Stigandr was fast, perhaps even faster than Kothran, if not as small and sly. From where Vethulf stood, he could see the leggy tawny wolf behind Sokkolfr, regarding him with eyes the same color as his coat. Vethulf opened his mouth to agree when Eyjolfr said, from the other side, “We’ll do it.”

  Vethulf had to lift his chin to stare the bigger man in the eyes. Speaking of rivals, Eyjolfr and his big wolf Glaedir were first among them. It had been a surprise to everyone when Glaedir had chosen to follow Viradechtis, after all the bad blood caused by Eyjolfr’s pursuit of Isolfr. But since the reformation of the Franangfordthreat, Eyjolfr had been better-behaved than Vethulf had imagined possible.

  Perhaps he was a changed man. Perhaps he only needed to be valued to blossom into an ornament to the threat. Or perhaps he had merely been biding his time, awaiting just such a perfect opportunity for treachery. If something happened in the close confines of that tumbled bakery, who would ever know?

  Vethulf did not like Eyjolfr Eagle-faced. But he still had to lead him. And to lead him, he must not be afraid.

  “Better a wolf and man that know each other well,” Vethulf said. “I’m sorry, Sokkolfr. Eyjolfr, check the lashings on your spear.”