As he was starting to wonder if the shadows might not be deep enough to hide his movements, a Rhean bearing a torch came to stand just outside the limit of Mar’s chain. His face was stony, his eyes hard; even if Skjaldwulf had spoken the Rheans’ tongue, he would not have been able to reach this one. Mar whined.
Easy, brother. We aren’t defeated yet.
Skjaldwulf could feel Kothran most easily, of the other wolves, for reasons he doubted would ever make sense but had something to do with Viradechtis. Kothran’s thoughts were bright, clear, and fast-moving; the wolves’ name for him was the smell of a wet spring morning, the rich green liveliness of the world waking up. Through Mar, Kothran showed Skjaldwulf the wolves and their brothers approaching the Rhean camp from the south; they had made a wide, cautious circle during the day, while Skjaldwulf and Mar sat chained at the base of this tree.
Be careful! Skjaldwulf thought as forcefully as he could, and he felt Kothran laughing at him. They were not the ones who’d gotten themselves caught, were they?
Mar grumbled in his throat, and Skjaldwulf hid a smile, even as he cautioned Mar against making that sort of noise again. Their Rhean guard had edged away a step, his eyes showing white like a nervous horse.
He really does believe that I’m a witch and Mar is my creature. It was not that Skjaldwulf had not believed what Otter (and through her, Iunarius and Lucius) had told him, but the idea made so little sense to him that he had trouble understanding it. Familiaris, the tribune had said, and Otter had struggled to translate: a servant enslaved by magic, something that wore the shape of a giant wolf but was really a spirit. A ghost? Skjaldwulf had said, and the tribune had seemed almost insulted by the idea.
Mar was no magical spirit; he was a trellwolf, whelped by the konigenwolf Hafthora of Thorsbaer Wolfheall. He had his mother’s black fur and her unswerving focus. He was the truest brother of Skjaldwulf’s heart, closer than his blood-kin, closer even than his werthreatbrothers, some of whom were dear and close indeed. But Mar was more than any of them.
Mar pushed against Skjaldwulf’s thigh, and Skjaldwulf felt Mar’s love for him. It steadied him, and he looked thoughtfully at the Rhean, wondering if they could turn the man’s fear to their advantage.
But he did not have to find out, for the spider-thin shape skirting the growing pyre and coming toward them was Otter. As she stepped into the circle of torchlight, she gave Skjaldwulf a flick of a glance that he had no difficulty interpreting, and then she stepped close to the Rhean, murmuring words in that liquid, rippling language. Skjaldwulf watched gratefully as she used her body to make the Rhean move, so subtly he probably wasn’t aware of it at all: pushing in to make him fall back ever so slightly, then shifting sideways, the tiniest part of a circle, so that he turned. It was clear by his expression what her words meant—or what he wanted them to mean. The instant Otter had maneuvered the Rhean so that his own body cast a shadow on Skjaldwulf and Mar, Skjaldwulf leaned over, finding the hook where the chain connected to the harness. He’d had all afternoon to stare at it; he felt as if he could draw it in his sleep.
It was a cunning thing, and it took a moment’s teeth-clenched effort to release it with his manacled hands. As he did, Skjaldwulf pressed down on Mar’s shoulder. This was not the moment to run, not until they knew where their pack was and what they were doing.
Otter drifted back half a step, and the Rhean followed her. Skjaldwulf wondered if her job as translator made her forbidden to the soldiers or if she was the concubine of one soldier in particular, a high-ranking one perhaps, and thus an unexpected opportunity for this man. He was certainly eager enough; she’d gotten him talking now, and from the tone of voice, he was boasting. Perhaps of his bravery in standing guard over the witch?
Now, Skjaldwulf thought. Run. But trellwolves were not commanded. Mar snarled through the muzzle and leaped.
The muzzle saved the Rhean’s life; as it was, Mar’s weight bore him to the ground, and there were long gashes where his leather armor did not protect him. Skjaldwulf lurched to his feet and did the only thing he could. He grabbed Otter, iron cutting his wrists, and shoved her toward the edge of the camp. Over the Rhean’s scream, he shouted: “RUN!”
Otter ran, as fast and agile as if her namesake animal were a deer. Skjaldwulf ran after her, hands held awkwardly before him, throwing his mind open to the pack.
On the other side of the camp, Ingrun howled, a magnificent ululation that made the hairs on Skjaldwulf’s neck stand up, never mind that he’d known her since she was a gangly half-grown pup. He could feel Mar’s savage frustration with the metal bars that kept him from his enemies, but that frustration was enough that when Skjaldwulf said in the pack-sense, Run, brother, this time Mar conceded and ran—on a different trajectory from Skjaldwulf and Otter.
Afi and Kothran answered Ingrun’s howl, and without the pack-sense Skjaldwulf wouldn’t have been able to tell where they were. He twisted his head for a moment, just as he reached the edge of the trees, and saw that the Rheans were hopelessly disorganized; not one man had managed to start in pursuit, and most of them seemed to be on the verge of flight themselves. Satisfaction flared. If a man spent an afternoon inciting his threatbrothers with fear of witches and wolves, then he was well served when the presence of wolves sowed panic among those threatbrothers.
And then he was crashing through the trees—blessed trees, lovely trees, he thought, even as the branches lashed the face he could not protect with his chained hands—and Dyrver’s brother Ulfhoss was saying, “Skjaldwulf, what do you want done with this girl?”
“Keep moving,” Skjaldwulf said. He’d seen how quickly the Rheans could regroup if a strong enough leader willed it, and he did not want to be anywhere nearby when that happened. “And treat her kindly. She helped me when she did not have to.”
“Ma’am,” Ulfhoss said respectfully, and Skjaldwulf forced his aching legs and aching head to carry him forward to Otter’s side.
“You don’t have to stay with us,” he said. “Though I cannot advise returning to the Rheans.”
“No,” Otter agreed; he couldn’t tell in the dark, but he thought she might almost have been smiling. “I have no love for Iskryners, but I have not learned to love the Rheans, either.”
“The protection Iunarius spoke of?” For in truth, Skjaldwulf had been wondering.
He sensed her shrug, like a woman impatient with a heavy burden. “If you are a landholder, I am sure it is a good bargain, for I do not think your vikings will come raiding again anytime soon.”
“No,” Skjaldwulf agreed. “But they wouldn’t have anyway. Not after the trellwar.”
“No,” she said softly. “But my people could not know of that, and the Rheans are civilized. They do not burn, and when they pillage, they pay for what they take. And they only rape the women who have no one to protect them. The same women everyone else rapes.”
He heard her bitterness and knew he had no answer for it.
They ran south and east, as best Skjaldwulf could tell, picking up men and wolves as they went. When they were all together again, they veered more directly south. Skjaldwulf had no idea of where they were going, but there was some relief in reminding himself that he couldn’t know; he did not know this land, and having been unconscious, he had no way to determine where the Rhean camp was in relation to the place where they had first met the Rhean soldiers. He had to trust Randulfr and Frithulf to know what they were doing and where they were going.
He stumbled down a hill, and a strong hand caught his arm just above the elbow. “Mar says you’re hurt,” said Frithulf.
“I took a bad blow to the head,” Skjaldwulf said, “but it’s not so bad I fear dying from it.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But that means Mar’s right. You’re hurt.”
“We can’t stop, whether I’m hurt or not.”
“No, but I can stay near you and keep you from pitching top over tail. At least until we can strike off your chains. I did promise Isolfr I’d
return you in one piece.”
“Because he doesn’t want to be left with Vethulf as his only wolfjarl.”
“It’s a good reason,” Frithulf said. “Come on. It’s not too much farther to where we stashed Freyvithr and the ponies.” And his hand stayed, uncompromising and yet comforting, across a shallow creek and then into a narrow ravine.
There was the heat and scent of horses and Freyvithr’s voice saying, “Did as many come back as set out?”
“I think so,” Frithulf said. “Skjaldwulf did most of his own rescuing.”
“It was Mar,” Skjaldwulf said. “And I must see to him—get that damn muzzle off him.”
Mar was there, as he had been there the entire way, near without ever being close enough that Skjaldwulf might trip over him. It had taken several months of the first year they were bonded for Mar fully to understand that Skjaldwulf could not see in the dark and that his nose was not sensitive enough to tell him exactly where his brother was. But once Mar had grasped Skjaldwulf’s deficiencies, he had never once forgotten.
“Come, brother, come,” Skjaldwulf said, dropping wearily onto his knees. “Let us remove this hateful thing.”
“That will be easier with your hands free,” Frithulf observed dryly, but Skjaldwulf shook his head and kept working.
Mar held still, whining softly, as Skjaldwulf wrestled with the stiff leather buckle. The muzzle did not fit well; Skjaldwulf felt a dull fury at the raw-rubbed lines across Mar’s nose and under his ears. “Frithulf, I packed a salve.…”
“I’ll find it,” Frithulf said promptly, and Skjaldwulf was able to devote his attention to removing the harness.
Finally, the last of the Rheans’ cursed bonds was off Mar, and Frithulf had returned with the salve. He spread it carefully on Mar’s face and around his neck and across his shoulders, while Randulfr pulled Skjaldwulf aside and set a chisel against the manacle lock. Mar, for his part, was more interested in trying to lick Skjaldwulf’s hands, too glad at being free to have much care for his injuries. Frithulf had to restrain the wolf so that Randulfr could safely strike off the manacles.
Shaking stinging wrists, Skjaldwulf looked up and found his threat surrounding him: Randulfr, Frithulf, Geirulfr, Ulfhoss, with Freyvithr and Otter standing uncertainly behind them. And the wolves: Kothran pressed between Frithulf and Geirulfr, and Ingrun lying before Randulfr’s legs with her head on her paws. And Afi and Dyrver at the head of the ravine, watching for trouble.
“Tell me how things stand,” Skjaldwulf said, because he was wolfjarl and it was his duty.
“Adalbrikt is dead,” said Frithulf. “You probably knew that.”
“Yes,” Skjaldwulf said.
“Other than that, you and Mar are our only casualties. We didn’t even lose the ponies, mostly because none of those foreign soldiers wanted to get more than arm’s length away from his shieldbrothers.”
“They have some … unusual ideas,” Skjaldwulf said. “Where are we?”
“A day, day and a half, from Siglufjordhur,” said Randulfr. “No more than that. We thought perhaps one man should ride ahead and see how things stand there, but we felt we should rescue you first.”
“And I thank you for that. They were preparing to burn us.”
“To burn you?” Freyvithr said.
Skjaldwulf sighed and said, “They thought I was a witch.”
* * *
There was no sign of pursuit from the Rhean camp, even when Ingrun and Afi made a wider sweep, and Randulfr assured Skjaldwulf they would not find a better-concealed place to rest anywhere short of Siglufjordhur, so the party remained there the next day and night. Skjaldwulf slept a great deal of the time. “Head wounds are like that,” Frithulf said cheerfully one time Skjaldwulf was awake. “And if we’re going to cart you around the countryside, I’d rather you looked a little less like a corpse first.”
Skjaldwulf would have said something rude, but he was already three-quarters asleep again.
He had been careful, in his explanations, to identify Otter as both someone who had helped him and someone who was not to be bothered. In his bouts of waking, he found that she was generally somewhere near his bedroll, sitting quiet and watchful. When Frithulf insisted on waking him for dinner, he found that Mar was lying with most of his body pressed against Skjaldwulf’s leg but with his head in Otter’s lap.
“Is it all right?” she said anxiously. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s fine,” Skjaldwulf said. “I didn’t expect it, but you’ve done nothing wrong.”
Brother? he said.
Grief-and-bitter-herbs smells like fear and sadness, said Mar. And my ears itched.
Skjaldwulf was caught between a laugh and a cough; he managed a smile for Otter. “Usually, trellwolves pay little heed to anyone beside their brothers. But Mar says you scratch his ears the way he likes.”
“Does he really talk to you?” She sounded both curious and slightly wistful.
“Not in words,” Skjaldwulf said. “They don’t think in words, although most of them know a few. Like ‘dinner.’” Mar thumped his tail without looking around. “They think in scents mostly, and images. Feelings. If you’ve been bonded long enough, you learn to put words to what they say.”
“Oh.” When she looked down, her face in repose, he could see how young she was. Skjaldwulf remembered the tribune calling him a young man.
Comprehension rattled him. He blurted, “You have nowhere to go.”
“I know that.” She brought her head up to meet his gaze. But she couldn’t quite mask the distaste with which she said, “Is it your intent to take me as your leman, then?”
The word she used was unfamiliar—Brythoni, he thought—but the sense of it was plain enough. And it startled him into laughter.
She jerked back. “I know I am branded. And a slave. I did not presume—”
“No,” he said. “No.” He cast about for an explanation, something that would make sense to a woman who was not just not heallbred but alien in every way. “Women—women don’t—”
The furrow between her brows, the puckers around her brand, were only getting deeper. He wondered if her head hurt as much as his did.
He sighed and tried again. “I am a wolfcarl. But I am also a lover of men.”
For a moment, the squint grew deeper. And then she jerked as if beestung, her hands flying to her mouth. Mar, his head still in her lap, muttered a complaint.
“But you—” She looked from side to side. “You are a warrior.”
He spread his hands. “As wolfcarls must be.”
And then she laughed, and shook her head, and put her hands in Mar’s ruff again. “Where I am from,” she said, “no man would admit to such a thing, except if he were a minion.”
“Minion?”
“A perfumed lapdog living off the … largesse of his patron.” Her mouth worked as if she were sucking on something bitter. “I should not speak so harshly. I suppose that’s what there is for me, as well, if you will not have me.”
She did not sound, in particular, as if she wished him to have her. But rather as if it were the best of a range of bad options. Skjaldwulf stared at her, understanding. When she met his eyes, he remembered himself and glanced down.
“You speak Brythoni,” he said. “And Rhean. And Iskrynder. Have you other skills?”
She rubbed Mar’s ears until he moaned—Skjaldwulf thought to busy her hands. “Before the Rheans took me, I did what any woman without family would do. I can drudge and cook and earn a living on my back. I know which end of a horse to put the bucket before, and at which end to wield the shovel. I am not useless.”
She was little more than a child. Some tithe boys came to the heall older. Skjaldwulf had: barely a tithe boy at all.
“You saved my life,” he said. “And the life of my wolf. On my honor as a wolfcarl, as I am jarl of Franangford, you will not want for a livelihood. The heall will house and feed you as our own. You are of the Wolfmaegth, the brotherhood of the w
olfheall. As far as the pack is concerned, from this day you are my daughter.”
Her hands tightened in Mar’s fur, knuckles whitening. But Skjaldwulf could see that she clenched only, and did not yank. Her mouth opened. She closed it again.
More gently, tempering the passion with which he had spoken, he said, “Do you understand me?”
“You mean it.”
“I swear it. An we all live through this, you will have a home.”
Whatever she tried to say next choked her, but Skjaldwulf did not need to hear it. He could read enough truths in the way the tears tracked her cheeks, diverted by the weals and valleys of her brand.
* * *
Vethulf felt snappish and tense, as if he might bite anything that drew his attention. For him, it was an unusual reaction to the aftermath of battle, and he did not entirely know what to make of it.
So he bit his tongue instead and allowed Roghvatr to divvy up the remains of the bear in any manner that suited him. Mostly, Vethulf realized, he was eager to get away from the jarl’s house and see what could be done to help Isolfr, even though through the pack-sense he knew that Isolfr was fine.
When Sokkolfr came for him and led him into a bed-closet in which he could tend Vethulf’s wounds, Viradechtis and Kjaran followed. Upset, they lay pressed close to Vethulf’s knees on either side as might any man’s dogs. Vethulf could read their fear on behalf of Mar and Skjaldwulf. Surely it was the pack’s distress setting him on edge.
The smell of roasting meat already spread through Roghvatr’s hall, and a bustle outside the alcove where Sokkolfr worked on Vethulf told Vethulf that preparations were under way to celebrate the combined victory of keep and heall. Sokkolfr dressed and tended Vethulf’s wound without fuss, for which Vethulf was grateful.
The Tempering of Men Page 17
