A Companion to Wolves

by Sarah Monette

  He got lucky, finding a place at the long table beside Eyjolfr, an eagle-faced ash-blond who was not so very much older than Isolfr—a young man of twenty-one, rather than a grown boy of seventeen—and inclined to be friendly. Courting favor with the konigenwolf-in-waiting, indeed, Isolfr thought and then was ashamed of himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of expectation in the way Eyjolfr’s eyes sometimes lingered—as if Eyjolfr were measuring him, as well.

  He enjoyed the conversation with Eyjolfr more than he had expected; Eyjolfr was sharp-eyed, and he had some keen observations about the differences between this wolfheall and the one where he and Glaedir had first bonded. Having learned the politeness of wolves, Isolfr did not mention the wolfjarl and Eyjolfr didn’t either. But Viradechtis threw herself willingly into the pack-sense between herself and Glaedir, and Isolfr could feel the knot untangling as he and Eyjolfr spoke and Glaedir and Viradechtis, their hunger sated, wrestled behind their seats. Ambition was not the same as enmity, and Eyjolfr was quick to see that if he had ambitions toward becoming wolfjarl, his odds were better with the young konigenwolf than with the old. Glaedir—Isolfr felt it suddenly, strongly, and knew it was coming from Glaedir himself because Viradechtis could not understand it to relay it—Glaedir wanted to get laid, and if he couldn’t get that, then he wanted a fight. Isolfr thought of the long patrol, of fighting trolls and wyverns, and Glaedir seemed at least slightly mollified. If a fight started, he’d be in it, but Isolfr could feel that he’d rather fight trolls than other wolves.

  Glaedir was, indeed, very young.

  Isolfr made no attempt to find Hringolfr and Kolgrimna that afternoon. There were other chores that needed attending to, and Viradechtis still had a puppy’s span of attention. But after supper, Isolfr listened to the pack-sense and knew that he could not put it off any longer, no matter how much he wished to. There will be fights among the wolfthreat, Hrolleif had told him. You can’t prevent it. But you can prevent it becoming more than just a fight. He hadn’t fully understood that at the time, but he did now. If Arngrimr and Skald lit into each other, that was one thing, and Skald could handle it. It was that underlayer, the dark current running between Kolgrimna and Viradechtis and the absent Vigdis. That was what the wolfsprechend—or, in this case, the wolfsprechend’s inadequate stand-in—had to divert.

  If a trellwolf could be pretty, then Kolgrimna was a pretty wolf. She was smaller than average, fawn-brindled, her eyes pale yellow. Of the four adult bitches in the wolfheall, she was the most inclined to flirt with the males, and Isolfr wondered, now that he was considering her more carefully, how many of the fights among the wolfthreat could be traced back to her. Hringolfr, by contrast, was a bulky, dark man with arresting blue eyes. It was hard to imagine him lying down for anyone. Certainly he did not bow his head readily, and he watched Isolfr’s progress through the vaulted darkness of the smoke-scented roundhall with open amusement.

  It didn’t matter, Isolfr told himself. What was at stake here was not between himself and Hringolfr Left-Hand; he was in fact only approaching the wolfcarl because he wanted what was about to happen to be open, not a secret or a surprise. Viradechtis had had no doubts about how to deal with Kolgrimna, and although it was not what Isolfr would have chosen, he also knew that he would do no favors for either wolfthreat or werthreat by trying to force the wolves to behave like men.

  He murmured a polite greeting to Hringolfr and Yngvulf and the other men of their circle.

  “What can we do for you, boy?” Hringolfr said.

  Do not call me boy, Isolfr thought, but said, “For me? Nothing.”

  Yngvulf’s black brows were drawing down, Hringolfr was opening his mouth to ask what Isolfr thought he meant, when there was a sudden snarl, a rising shriek, and they all, Isolfr included, whipped around to see a wild, rolling, squalling ball of fur and claws and teeth: Viradechtis and the much bigger Kolgrimna. Isolfr turned back, caught Hringolfr’s eyes, and stared him down as he started to rise. It was easier than it had been with Grimolfr.

  The fight was over quickly, Kolgrimna showing Viradechtis her throat without any real injury being done. And Viradechtis stood over her opponent, her lips drawn back and a snarl rolling like thunder, and glared at Arngrimr and his two closest confederates, who had been considering entering the fray to defend the older bitch.

  Isolfr felt, distinctly, what it meant that Viradechtis was a konigenwolf. Because the three males, each of whom outweighed her by a considerable margin, backed away. She swung her head, looking to see if any other challengers wanted to announce themselves, and then simply stepped over Kolgrimna and sauntered off. Kolgrimna was under the bench behind Hringolfr’s legs almost the instant Viradechtis began to move.

  There was silence, uneasy, awkward. Isolfr looked at Hringolfr and knew he had not made a friend. And then Yngvulf the Black laughed and said delightedly, “Your girl’s got spirit, Isolfr!” and extended his hand.

  Isolfr clasped hands with him and listened to the pack-sense, felt the shift rippling outward.

  Kolgrimna was no longer top bitch in Vigdis’ absence. And when Isolfr turned away from Yngvulf and Hringolfr, he saw Eyjolfr watching from a bench along the wall by the rolled furs of the sleeping pallets, speculation warming his cool gray eyes.

  After that, even Grimolfr had to admit that Viradechtis could take care of herself. “A troll’s not a wolf,” he warned Isolfr. “Wolves mostly don’t fight wolves to kill.” But along with the warning came a promise; Viradechtis and Isolfr would be permitted to join the patrols.

  And a fortnight thence, they did.

  Eyjolfr had command of the patrol. Viradechtis was the only bitch. The rest of the pairs ranged in age from Mar and Skjaldwulf, experienced adults, to Frithulf Quick-Tongue and Viradechtis’ littermate, white Kothran.

  The nights were harsh, the travel exhausting despite skis, and as they journeyed north and toward the inland mountains the summer was no barrier to snow. They slept by day, adapting to the habits of the trolls they hunted. Isolfr managed not to complain chiefly because he had too much pride to be first to whine about cold food and cold weather. Viradechtis relished the snow and the exercise, but as Isolfr huddled in the warmth of his bedroll, his wolf curled sleeping by his side and Frithulf warming his back, he could not help dreaming of his father’s fireside and mulled wine served steaming hot.

  He wondered at Grimolfr’s choice to send black Mar and silver Glaedir on patrol together when they were rivals—and when their rivalry so clearly affected their brothers. Skjaldwulf, spare-framed, coarse-skinned and dark-haired, silent still to the point of being worrisome, might have been Eyjolfr’s shadow-twin, and there was no ease between them.

  The two men stayed well apart, taking far ends of the line as the patrol moved through the forest, ranging their wolves in opposite directions. Isolfr and Viradechtis kept to the middle of the line, protected from flanking attacks—and, Isolfr slowly came to realize, equidistant between the two most dominant wolves.

  Mar was interested in Viradechtis too, although the court he paid was very different from Glaedir’s. The older wolf did not flirt or tease or bring Viradechtis dainty tidbits. He hunted, when he hunted, without fanfare, and brought down animals of a size to feed a swift-traveling party without waste or the nuisance of butchering something big. He kept order among the young wolves, and at camp he sometimes came and lay beside Viradechtis, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, sharing warmth.

  Sometimes she let him stay there, and on those days Glaedir’s solicitations became more strenuous.

  “Your girl knows her power,” Frithulf commented, as he and Isolfr haggled strips of meat from the ribcage of a snow hare Kothran had presented them with. It was the fifth night of the patrol, and they had found neither trolls nor trellsign. Viradechtis was calmly gnawing on the hare’s skull, bone splintering under her teeth. Mar had curled around her, his big dark head draped over her haunches, and Skjaldwulf occasionally glanced up from toasting flat-bread on a rock at t
he fireside; he almost seemed amused, but never commented.

  “We’re quite the commodity,” Isolfr answered, wiping grease off his cheek and onto his hand. He thought of his blood-sister and frowned; Kathlin’s fate, he knew, wouldn’t be so different from his own. Bargained off to seal an alliance or placate an ally, like the girl he would have married if he’d stayed in the keep.

  He wouldn’t think of Kathlin now.

  Isolfr lowered his voice. “Can you really see Skjaldwulf as a wolfjarl?”

  Frithulf shrugged. “People surprise you.” Then he lifted his chin as Kothran’s ears pricked, and the pale wolf started to his feet. “He hears something,” he said, unnecessarily.

  A moment later, and Viradechtis started up as well, followed in quick succession by the rest of the wolves.

  The third time, even the men heard it: a long, eerie ululation, carried on and tattered by the wind. “Trellwolves,” Eyjolfr breathed, one hand out to restrain Glaedir.

  “Wild wolves,” Skjaldwulf agreed, rising to his feet as Mar whined at the back of his throat. The two men exchanged glances, and Skjaldwulf rubbed his beard.

  Isolfr could only stand the silence for so long. “Are they coming here?” Will there be a fight?

  “We’re off our heall’s range,” Eyjolfr said. He looked down and smoothed his wolf’s ruffled hackles, then used the same hand to gesture to Skjaldwulf. “We’ll sing to them for our passage.”

  Skjaldwulf nodded. He dropped back into a crouch to retrieve the scorching crispbread, and without looking up from his task he began to sing.

  Isolfr had never asked, but he thought the tall, thin man might have chosen his name because he had been a skald’s apprentice before he was given in tithe. In any case, as he relaxed his throat and let the music roll out, it rose clear and sweet into the brief winter dawn. Only moments later, the trellwolves joined him, their long, cool voices rising in harmony and counterpoint against the night.

  Isolfr couldn’t sing. He stayed where he was, and strained to hear if the other pack answered. He cupped his hands to his ears and opened his mouth to concentrate the sound, turning this way and that.

  There was no answer, but they were not visited by wolves while they slept, and as much as Isolfr was disappointed not to see them, he had to admit it was all to the good.

  Four days after that, they stumbled across trellsign.

  There were three of them, moon-prints of cloven hooves that dented the snow with every step. The tracks were ringed around with feathery traces like the marks of a fox’s brush; Eyjolfr said they were from the wolf or musk ox leggings that trolls bound about their calves.

  Ten wolves and ten men were more than a match for three trolls. The traces were less than eight hours old, and the patrol skied through the twilit summer night to catch up with the troll band.

  They reached them at sunrise.

  The trolls had bedded down in a copse of young pine, the trees drifted high enough with snow to serve as a natural windbreak. The men removed their skis, and they and the wolves, moving single file and silently except for the creak of snow under boots and paws, entered the snow-walled corridor the trolls had broken. White breath wreathed faces and froze on whiskers and in beards. Isolfr carried a troll-spear, his axe still bound across his back for the time being, and the leather was cold and slick under his hands when he poked them out of his mittens for a better grip.

  The battle was more of a slaughter. Secure in their snowy stronghold and the knowledge that they were far outside the range of any of the wolfheallan, the trolls had posted no guard. Two of them died before they could rise; Mar and two younger wolves savaged the third before any of the men got close enough for axe work, and when it staggered Isolfr transfixed it with his spear.

  The shock of the troll’s weight knocked him back three steps, even though he had braced the butt against the snow as well as he could manage. The troll bellowed, waving its wickedly curved bronze blade, and charged him up the length of the spear, slaver dripping from gilded tusks.

  The haft slipped in his hands, but he held his ground, sidestepping a wild swing of the monster’s weapon. The crosspiece would stop it—had to stop it—and if he let go of the spear, there was nothing to keep it from pursuing him.

  The crosspiece splintered under the troll’s weight. Isolfr ducked, levering the butt of the spear off the ground, trying to force the troll to its knees. It didn’t work; the thing’s piggy eyes glinted as it took one more step, and then another, driving broken wood into its own flesh.

  Viradechtis struck the troll high on the shoulder, a beautiful leap that fouled its weapon arm as she snapped and clung. Her teeth found meat, her back feet scrabbling, leaving long blood-dewed scratches on the troll’s flank. But she was too small, half-grown, her weight not enough to overbear it, and the troll twisted under her and passed its weapon to its right hand, hauling back for a looping underhand blow that would sever her spine behind the shoulders if it landed.

  Mar’s teeth met in the troll’s forearm. He dragged its arm back, away, his weight enough to bring the creature to its knees. It went down hard, a shudder that Isolfr felt all the way up the length of the spear, and Eyjolfr appeared behind it, his axe buried in its thick, knobbed skull.

  The troll toppled forward, the remains of the troll-spear shattering under its weight. Isolfr jumped backwards and fell, landing on his ass, the troll’s brains spilling over his boots. Eyjolfr’s eyes met his over the body.

  “Bravely done,” Eyjolfr said, and glanced down.

  Before Isolfr could answer, Frithulf and Skjaldwulf called them to look at one of the other corpses: a sow, her massive body strung about with amulets, a pectoral of bones and bronze weighing down her dugs and shoulders.

  “A witch,” Eyjolfr said, tugging one of her greasy braids up to display the silver and leather ornaments worked into it.

  The patterns made Isolfr queasy. He stepped back. “I’ve never seen a female before,” he said.

  “Not surprising,” Skjaldwulf answered, and then continued, startling Isolfr. It was a rare moment when he strung more than two words together. “I’m fifteen years in the heall, and I’ve never seen one out of a warren at all.”

  He fell silent, but the look that passed between him and Eyjolfr said more. This is a new thing.

  And not a good one.

  Isolfr was surprised when Skjaldwulf squeezed his shoulder lightly, in passing, before he went to see about fuel for a pyre on which to burn the troll bodies.

  Over the month that followed, Isolfr found himself more and more busy. Ulfgeirr had him drilling both the remaining boys of his own tithe—Svanrikr, Leif, Hlothvinr, and Johvatr—and the eight boys who came as tithe to Asny’s pups. As the white nights of summer gave way to early autumn, Isolfr found himself amazed that those boys, fifteen and sixteen—his own age, near enough—seemed to him no more than children. They deferred to him as the dog-pups and the other bitches deferred to Viradechtis, and it was Sokkolfr and Frithulf who sat down with him at meals—and once in a while Eyjolfr and one of his friends, but they were polite, almost courtly, and their wolves made a point of feting Viradechtis. I am being courted, Isolfr realized, and it sent a cold, hard shiver up his spine.

  Svanrikr Un-Wise was trouble. Viradectis’ remaining littermates, the gray brothers Skefill and Griss, were alike as twins and both growing into the image in bone and color of their gigantic sire. And they remained unbonded. That meant four boys to two wolves, and while Isolfr’s other three tithe-mates were content to hide their irritation at his luck and Frithulf’s, Svanrikr made no bones of the fact that he considered it a personal insult that a jarl’s son had been chosen before heall-born, and by a konigenwolf.

  Frithulf Quick-Tongue received less resentment. Kothran was the runt of the litter, the palest-coated wolf in the wolfheall, and fine-boned to boot. “He’ll never be top wolf,” Frithulf said with affected sourness, watching Hroi knock the impudent pup aside when Kothran tried to drag a bone from under
Hroi’s big paw.

  “No,” Isolfr said, without looking up from the trencher they still shared, as he was intent on eating fast enough that Frithulf would not get all of the duck in late summer gooseberries this time. “He’ll be a scout. He has the best nose and ears in the wolfthreat, barring Asny.”

  Frithulf blinked at him, a ragged hunk of bread forgotten in his hand. “How do you know?”

  How do you not know? Isolfr almost asked, but bit his lip and shrugged. “The wolves know.”

  That night, as the werthreat diced and lied on skins by the fire, Hrolleif made Skjaldwulf Marsbrother sing. Skjaldwulf, Isolfr thought, was not just a fair enough singer to have made a skald; he must know more songs and stories than any singer in the North. Because he knew the familiar chants—the first one he gave them, that night, was one of Kathlin’s favorites, a funny song about Sven Peddlar, who tried to trade between the svartalfar and the liosalfar, and wound up swindled of his gold, his feet, his stones, and his eyes. But he also knew other stories, ones the wolfcarls must hold to themselves, for Isolfr had heard none of them.

  Such was the second and melancholy saga Skjaldwulf shared, a fragment of the epic tale of Hrolljotr Hognisbrother and Freyulf Alfdisbrother, who had been wolfjarl and wolfsprechend at Franangford in the time of Isolfr’s great-great-grandfather, when the winters had been worse than any in memory, and the trolls had come down from the Iskryne in fell waves, starving and savage.

  This piece of the saga dealt with the death of Alfdis, Franangford’s then-konigenwolf, and Freyulf’s choice to stay in the heall as a wolfless man and Hrolljotr’s lover, even when he did not bond again. Hogni, a wolf still remembered for his strength and cleverness—and a distant ancestor of Grimolfr’s Skald—had been chosen consort by the next konigenwolf as well, and Franangford had found itself in the peculiar position of having, after a fashion, two wolfsprechends … one of them unwolfed. It proved wise, for by the time the winter ended, the new konigenwolf was dead birthing her first litter, and Freyulf was the only wolfheofodman left to that heall, for he had bonded Hogni when Hrolljotr fell to trolls.