“Yes,” Vethulf agreed. There was nothing he wanted more at that moment. But … “The wyvern. It had a collar.”
“A collar?”
Vethulf couldn’t tell if the frown was perplexity or concern, so he explained, “Too small. Grown since. Trolls.”
“You think it was one of the wyverns the trolls kept,” Isolfr said cautiously.
“Yeah,” said Vethulf, slumping back against his pillows. “Run wild. Like pigs, when the farmer dies.”
“And those are the most dangerous,” Isolfr said softly. He understood.
“Yeah,” Vethulf said again, and fell hard asleep.
* * *
Skjaldwulf spent the next two days eating the fish and dulse that Siglufjordhur harvested from the sea, and going over Siglufjordhur’s defenses with Randulfr, Fargrimr, and their sister’s husband, Bjorr. The old jarl, though keen-eyed and keen-minded, was no longer able to walk farther than the length of the longhouse. The trellwar had been the last rally of a long life spent in warring.
A long life? Skjaldwulf thought. Fastarr was older than Iunarius, but by how much? Five summers? Ten? How much longer could he have expected to live, had he been born Rhean?
Unprofitable thought, and Skjaldwulf shook it off.
Siglufjordhur, being less than half a mile inland, was built for defense as much as for monitoring the sea. “The jarl of Siglufjordhur is still known as the Watchman,” Randulfr told Skjaldwulf, and Siglufjordhur’s rocky prominence made sense in another way. There had been less need for watch and defense in Fastarr’s time, as the Northmen quit raiding each other and turned their attention to Brython and the southern lands, and although he was too good a steward to let anything fall into disrepair, it was clear that Siglufjordhur’s wealth had been put to other uses.
In principle, Skjaldwulf approved. The crofts and cottages about the keep were in good repair, sheep and children alike were healthy, and there was a windmill, its wood still yellow with newness, that every man in Siglufjordhur—to Skjaldwulf’s observation—looked on with pride.
Unless he had gone north to the trellwar, no one alive in Siglufjordhur today had ever seen a troll, and only the oldest of the grandfathers might remember their grandfathers telling stories of the troll attacks their grandfathers had survived.
Franangford and Nithogsfjoll could look like this, Skjaldwulf thought, and it was an almost incomprehensibly strange idea.
But for now the question was how to make Siglufjordhur more like the northern keeps rather than the other way around. Fargrimr had begun the process, but he was hampered by the reluctance of the farmers to believe there was any real danger. The Rheans thus far had been behaving like bandits, attacking travelers and outlying crofts but leaving alone anything within sight of a keep. “It cannot last,” Fargrimr said, and Skjaldwulf, having seen the Rhean camp and the monumental self-confidence of the tribune, agreed.
“They are merely waiting until they are dug in,” Skjaldwulf said, “and until they have a satisfactory sense of what they are fighting. An invasion force is what I saw, not a raiding party.”
Bjorr looked doubtful still. He was his father-in-law’s housecarl; from things said and unsaid, Skjaldwulf had gathered that he was also the son of the most stubborn of the farmers. Bjorr was not a warrior. He said, “But perhaps they will see that we are not easy prey like the Brythoni, and they will go away.”
Skjaldwulf reminded himself that this was not a wolfheall and he was not leader here. He had no authority save what Fastarr and Fargrimr chose to give him.
And Fargrimr answered in any event. “It is not a chance I like to take. If we prepare our defenses and it turns out that we guessed wrong, we are none the worse off. But if we do not prepare our defenses and are wrong, then we are dead or enslaved.”
“You will be singing a different tune come winter,” said Bjorr, “when we have not enough food laid in.”
“Enough,” Fastarr said sharply. “I agree with Fargrimr. We must defend ourselves, or our food stores will only serve to feed our enemies. But I know it is also true that if we abandon the farms now, we do not have enough food in the keep to feed all our liegemen and their families. We will have to try to balance one concern against the other.”
Fargrimr made a face, and Fastarr laughed. “I know, but we cannot solve one problem by pretending the other is not there. Which brings me to another sty which must be cleaned.”
“The bandits,” Fargrimr said disgustedly.
“Bandits?” Randulfr said, sitting up straighter. “Since when are there bandits in Siglufjordhur?”
“Since two winters ago,” Fargrimr said, choosing to take the question literally. “We played hide-and-go-seek with them for months—and then the call to the trellwar came and had to be answered. And now we have crippled warriors and half-trained boys, and a new danger to contend with.”
“And the bandits,” Fastarr added, “have the luck of the gods.” He and Fargrimr exchanged a dark look, and Skjaldwulf understood what was not being said: luck—or help.
Banditry was a problem Skjaldwulf was more familiar with from tales than from experience; the far north was too hard a land, and men too dependent on each other’s goodwill for survival. But it took only a very little imagination to see how matters would be different here along the coast. And very little more to see how a pack of bandits could go to a village heofodman with a bargain he would be hard-pressed to refuse. Or, Skjaldwulf supposed with a shiver, it would be easy enough for a whole village to turn bandit.
He said, “Though we do not usually do so, we can hunt men as well as trolls.”
Fargrimr gave him a look bright with interest. “That,” he said, “would be very useful indeed.”
* * *
They set out at moonrise, wolves and men, with Fargrimr along both to provide guidance and to mete out justice as might be necessary. Fargrimr knew roughly where the bandits were laired: a gnarled and knotty stretch of forest that was—Skjaldwulf saw at a glance—ideal for emerging to ambush travelers and equally ideal for eluding pursuit.
Unless your pursuers were trellwolves.
The wolves dispersed into the woods as silently as a scatter of raindrops into a pond; their brothers followed them. Skjaldwulf tended to lose track of time in the hunt, so he could not say whether it was quickly or slowly that the wolves picked up the scent of their prey. Men, said Kothran, who had the keenest nose. Dirty, wolfless men. There.
The wolves turned, Afi swinging wide, Ingrun closing the circle. Mar and Dyrver followed Kothran. Hunters, Skjaldwulf thought, and though it was by no means a new thought, it chilled him. Hunters of men.
The bandits had rigged a series of dugouts and lean-to shelters, well-camouflaged with tree branches and dead leaves, and all but impossible to see in the soft, cold moonlight. Although it was a rough camp, it had every appearance of permanence—this was no spur-of-the-moment enterprise, existing solely from one opportunity to the next. These men were bandits as other men were farmers or wolfcarls, and Skjaldwulf did not mind nearly so much being a hunter of men if his prey was men like these.
The rout was quick. The bandits, startled and sluggish with sleep, were not warriors, and even those who seemed to have some rudimentary skills were utterly unnerved by the trellwolves. The wolves herded their catch into the middle of the clearing: six men, ranging from a boy barely old enough to start a beard to a paunchy fellow older than Skjaldwulf—this last clearly being the leader and inclined to bluster until Fargrimr stepped out of the trees.
“I know you,” he said coolly, and named all six, ending with the leader, who was also the brother of the heofodman of Botarsmyrr. “And thus,” Fargrimer concluded, “many things are supplied with an explanation.”
He tucked his hands behind his belt and stood in a warrior’s wide-legged stance. “Justice demands your execution, but if I execute you here and now—”
The bandits broke out in a clamor, and Fargrimr silenced them with an upraised hand. “Do not thin
k justice will not be done. But if I run you through as you deserve, then I will never have truth from Botarsmyrr, only muttering and discontent and whispered lies. So we will go to Botarsmyrr now, and this will be finished before the sun reaches its height.” His eyes were cold, his voice level and uninterested, and the bandits were silenced.
Fargrimr turned to Skjaldwulf. “I must ask you, Lord Wolfjarl, do not let them escape. And convince those that need convincing that death in a trellwolf’s jaws is not preferable to a clean killing stroke.”
Looking at the bandits’ ashen faces, Skjaldwulf did not think they would need much convincing.
* * *
It was not a pleasant morning. The heofodman of Botarsmyrr died beside his brother. But Fargrimr walked with a lighter stride as they returned to the keep, and Fastarr showed his gratitude with gifts. And that night, Skjaldwulf lay beside Mar’s warm bulk and knew that if they did not leave for Hergilsberg soon, they would not leave at all.
* * *
“May I join you?”
Brokkolfr looked up, needing his eyes’ confirmation. It was Isolfr, standing awkwardly in the doorway of the sauna. Without his daughter, for once: Brokkolfr was used to seeing her chasing her father from place to place on plump toddling legs as a wolf pup chases its mother. But she must be with her nurse now or in the care of the women of the heall.
“Of course,” he said. “I mean, please do.”
Isolfr gave him a flash of a smile and let the hides swing down behind him.
He was not a large man, Isolfr Ice-mad, sighthound lean instead of mastiff broad. Brokkolfr could probably have bested him in a wrestling match, if he’d been daft enough to try. Isolfr sprinkled another dipper of water over the stones and sat down on the bench beside Brokkolfr.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Isolfr said after a few moments of silent and contented sweating.
“What I said?” Brokkolfr could think of any number of things he’d said, none of which he wanted Isolfr to be thinking about.
“About Hreithulfr.”
“Oh. Isolfr, you don’t—”
“No, you were right,” Isolfr said tranquilly. “It is my duty as wolfsprechend. I was…” There was a long pause, in which Isolfr reached for a scraper and began cleaning his arms. “When you were taught about mating, how did they go about it? At Othinnsaesc?”
“Um,” said Brokkolfr, uncertain where this was going. But if Isolfr finally wanted to talk, Brokkolff was willing to try almost any topic. “My wolfsprechend told me the way of things among wolfcarls, and he … Oh.”
“Yes,” Isolfr agreed, with a shy, wry smile. “Hrolleif was much older than I am, and he … he was Grimolfr’s lover. He understood love between men, and I—I honor it, but I don’t … only when Viradechtis…”
He was becoming hopelessly mired, and Brokkolfr said, “I understand.” Because he did. He gathered his courage and asked, “Were you a virgin?”
“No. I had had a lover in my father’s keep.”
Of course. A jarl’s son would be expected to. “I was a virgin.”
“Oh,” said Isolfr.
“It wasn’t bad,” Brokkolfr said hastily. “He taught me a lot of things I’d never have learned otherwise. And his lover was the heallbred woman who does all Othinnsaesc’s dyeing. I just meant, I understand what it was like. And why you’re…”
“Uncomfortable,” Isolfr supplied.
“Yes. Here. If I scrape your back, will you do mine?”
They traded, turn and turnabout, as friends did, or shieldbrothers, and Isolfr said, “It is my duty, though.”
“Yes,” Brokkolfr said. “I’m sorry.”
“No, why should you be? I wanted to thank you for making me see that before it was too late. You said you wanted to be my second, and I thought I should tell you I would be honored.”
He was smiling, and Brokkolfr, his heart lighter than it had been in months, perhaps even since the fall of Othinnsaesc, felt himself starting to smile back.
* * *
When they went—five wolfcarls, five wolves, a Brython girl, two ponies, and a godsman—Fargrimr went with them. “To assure the monks of our good faith,” he said, and Skjaldwulf wasn’t sure whether Fargrimr intended the pun or not. Judging by the spark in his eyes, probably. But the sworn-son was a dry wit, and it was hard to be sure.
Skjaldwulf thought he also wanted a chance to spend some time with his elder brother. It was a pleasure to see them together, their manners so unlike the stiffly polite meetings that were the best Skjaldwulf had managed with his own kin once he bonded Mar. Fargrimr also treated the wolves with respect, not blinking at the wolfcarl habit of including them in conversation. He was a good traveling companion, fast and tireless and with a knowledge of the land as deep as blood.
Once he was comfortable with them, he proved an excellent storyteller—not trained as Skjaldwulf was but with a knack for mimicry and an instinct for timing. And he was not too proud to tell stories with himself as the butt, which Skjaldwulf appreciated in any man, and especially one destined to be a jarl.
Freyvithr and Fargrimr agreed it would take three to five days to reach the coastal town of Hergilsbay, where they would hire a boat for the voyage to Hergilsberg itself. They proved right: the journey was four days, and in that time the small group of wolves and men dealt summarily with one group of bandits and dodged a large Rhean patrol. They also dispatched a smaller group of Rheans, and Skjaldwulf made sure to claim a sword and a helm to bring along as evidence.
The ponies would be left at the stable the monks maintained on the mainland. There was no point in shipping them to the island city of Hergilsberg, which had as many horses as it needed, and of the monastery itself Freyvithr said: “Our chapel is on a smaller island, and that island is rocky. The settlement is quite small. We got a trio of goats out there some years ago, and that was enough to convince us that larger animals belonged on the mainland.”
“What of the wolves?” Skjaldwulf asked. “Are you asking us to leave them behind?”
“I’m not such a fool as that.” Freyvithr looked at the wolves and wolfcarls assessingly. “We may have to hire more than one boat.”
Skjaldwulf was relieved by Freyvithr’s immediate understanding that men and wolves were not to be separated. It occurred to him that by traveling with Freyvithr, he had secured the wolfheallan a sympathetic ear among the godsmen, which seemed unpleasantly likely to be necessary.
Would have been a marvelously clever notion. Had I thought of it.
* * *
Skjaldwulf wasn’t seacoast bred, but he’d been in a good-sized town and on a boat before. As they wended through the bustle of Hergilsbay, Skjaldwulf was acutely aware of the eyes of the townsfolk on him, his men, and his wolves. And he was just as acutely aware that some of those men and wolves were made crowningly uncomfortable by the attention. Dyrver and Ulfhoss, in particular, were young and needed seasoning, and Skjaldwulf noticed that they kept to the center of the group.
Frithulf, predictably, enjoyed the bustle—and chattered about it ceaselessly. And Randulfr and Fargrimr were entirely at home—they had both obviously spent a good deal of time here.
Not so much time as Freyvithr, though, to whom Skjaldwulf had just cause to be grateful. Because Freyvithr strode through the crowds, his kilted coat swinging against his heavy calves, his staff swinging, too, in time to his stride. And the godsman greeted a face on every street with a wave and a name, which soon made the tired little group’s passage seem more like a stroll and less like a procession.
At the third street-crossing, Skjaldwulf leaned across to Randulfr and ducked to speak in the other wolfcarl’s ear. “How big is this town?”
“Some thousands,” Randulfr said, grinning at Skjaldwulf’s bogglement. “Wait until you see Hergilsberg.”
They found no trouble in boarding the horses, though the press of people all around made Skjaldwulf feel, more and more, that he was at the heart of a great army. That was the only
time he’d seen so many people in one place before, and this group was men and women, racing children and tottering grandmothers. Otter, though, did not seem distressed in the least by it and looked about herself with great delight.
From the stable they made their way to the ferry docks, and there Skjaldwulf was glad to let Freyvithr and Fargrimr handle the haggling once more. The party was in fact divided into two boats, and though Freyvithr assured them all it was perfectly safe, it took all of Skjaldwulf’s coaxing to lure Mar aboard.
The black wolf huddled in the bilges, miserable, and he was not the only one distrustful of this seemingly rickety device in the face of the great sea that stretched before them. Skjaldwulf thought Ulfhoss was going to have to actually pick Dyrver up by main strength and set him in the other boat where it floated, gently bobbing beside the dock. But Kothran leaped lightly over the gunnels and then poked his head back over, giving a short, sharp yip as if to say, Shake your tail, there, and so Dyrver was shamed into courage.
And so it is with all of us, Skjaldwulf thought. Freyvithr piled into that boat as well, and Afi and Geirulfr—leaving Skjaldwulf with Randulfr, Ingrun, Fargrimr, and Otter. As Skjaldwulf turned back to mind his own half of the threat, he caught Otter smiling.
Randulfr assured him that this was calm seas and no chop worthy of the name. But as the blue-armed ferryman and his two strong tattooed sons pulled away from the dock with oars until they were well in the wind, Skjaldwulf still found himself white-knuckled on the edge of his bench. He comforted himself that the ferryman was probably as scared of the wolves as the wolfcarls were of the sea.
“Look, wolfjarl!” Fargrimr gestured as they rounded a long point of land that defined the bay. “There is Hergilsberg the island. The city is farther along; we will pass right under it.”
As the big island came into sight, Skjaldwulf understood what Fargrimr had been trying to describe. Hergilsberg stood athwart the mouth of Hergilsbay like a stalwart defender (and hadn’t there been a song about Hergil? Skjaldwulf half-remembered it, from the days before his old songs had been buried under nigh on twenty years of wolfcarl lore). The stark cliffs rose up like escarpments, and a walled city with a great keep surmounted the highest point, commanding the strait in both directions.
The Tempering of Men Page 22
