A Companion to Wolves

by Sarah Monette

  Hjordis was nearly twenty-five, a grown woman, unmarried only because Einarr Skeggason had died of a pleurisy three winters back. She was tall, big-boned, her hands strong and callused from spindle, wheel and loom. But her eyes were bright and merry as a girl’s still, wickedly teasing, and Isolfr knew he was blushing when he said, “Yes.”

  He didn’t need to say anything at all, he thought, his embarrassment lessening when he saw that Viradechtis’ ears had perked. She knew the word “petted.”

  “Would she let me, do you think?”

  “Give her your scent,” Isolfr said. “She will not bite you, that I promise.”

  Hjordis smiled at him and extended her hand. Viradechtis snuffled it, her tail waving cheerfully, and then nudged—gently by her own standards, but hard enough to stagger anyone not braced for it. Hjordis laughed, mingled startlement and delight, and then began to scruffle Viradechtis’ ears in a way guaranteed to make a trellwolf melt like butter in the sun.

  “Don’t lean on her, sister,” Isolfr said and, shyly, to Hjordis, “She still knocks me down sometimes, when she forgets she’s not a puppy.”

  “How old is she?”

  It took a moment for Isolfr to reckon. “It must be more than six seasons by now.”

  “Not so far removed from a puppy, then. And yet already a mother. Do young creatures grow up so fast in your wolfheall, Isolfr?”

  His gaze, startled, came up to her face. She smiled, blue eyes dancing, both hands now rubbing just behind the hinge of Viradechtis’ jaw while the konigenwolf moaned and made silly faces of delight. He swallowed, and gave her a smile he might have given Alfleda, once. “Aye. Aye, they do.”

  Her expression warmed, and she said, “Would you and your lady like to step inside out of the cold?”

  His heart hammered. She was not beautiful—long-nosed, raw-boned—but she wanted him. She cared nothing for the politics of werthreat and wolfthreat, cared nothing that he was brother to a konigenwolf. Her smile was for him, and he said, “Yes, we would like that very much,” and was astonished at his own daring.

  Hjordis Weaver smiled and welcomed him into her house. And not very much later, into her bed.

  Ingrun littered first, and Isolfr worried, but Hrolleif patted his shoulder and told him it was often so, with first litters, and that some bitches simply took longer than others.

  Viradechtis’ time came with the thaw. The restlessness was on Isolfr with the first spring rains; he and Viradechtis paced the roundhall together, scarcely noting the sidelong looks from the werthreat. The wolfthreat watched with grave interest, and he was astonished by the fondness that permeated the pack-sense, not merely for Viradechtis, but for himself. They wished him well, wished her well, and even as it amazed him, it made the restlessness, the aches and twinges, easier to bear.

  Viradechtis chose a corner in the kitchen storeroom behind the hearth for her den, inconveniently, but not surprisingly. Ingrun and her three pups—big males, all of them—were already ensconced in the record-room, and bitches would rarely share a den when their pups were new.

  Isolfr wished that Hrolleif could have helped him, but it had been perfectly clear that Viradechtis would not tolerate Vigdis near her birthing den, and they both knew it would only get worse when the puppies were actually born. So Isolfr was left with Grimolfr as his guide, and all Isolfr could think of was Skjaldwulf’s old stories and how many bitches in them died littering.

  “I’ve helped with more litters than Hrolleif has,” Grimolfr pointed out, coming upon Isolfr and Viradechtis in the storeroom, she pacing in small, fretful circles, he sitting in the corner watching her, feeling such anxiety it was hard to breathe.

  Isolfr knew it was true, that the wolfjarl sat with every littering wolf, whereas the wolfsprechend could sit only with his own. But it did not help. There was no ease in his relationship with Grimolfr. He wished he could have Sokkolfr beside him, but it was unwise to have too many men in the room, especially with a first litter.

  “She is young, strong, and not so crowded with pups as Asny was. Do not fear until there is reason for it.”

  Sound advice. Isolfr only wished he could follow it. He sat with Viradechtis that night as she lay down, panting, rose, paced, muttering again as she had at the onset of her first heat, talking in almost human tones. Grimolfr sat with him, speaking occasionally of trivia, small things. Then, quite abruptly: “I hear you are keeping company with Hjordis Weaver.”

  Isolfr startled. “Aye. Is that …”

  “Oh, ’tis no problem. Hjordis is her own woman, and all know it. But if you lie with her, then you may get her with child. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Isolfr agreed, feeling himself go red.

  “’Tis a thing that happens,” Grimolfr said, more gently. “And in sooth it is a good thing, for village and heall both. For wolfcarls are strong men, and their blood is vigorous. But what you must know is that the wolfheall owes duty to your children as much as it does to your wolfsister’s.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sometimes the woman wishes to keep the child, and we are too wise to come between a mother and her cub.” A flash of a grin. “But if she does not or cannot, as also sometimes happens, then the child comes to us. It is not a bad thing to be heall-bred, as both Hrolleif and I can tell you.”

  “What if the child is a girl?”

  “Then we dower her. Many jarls are happy to wed the good will of the Wolfmaegth. And any wolfheall needs women like Jorveig, or Hilde who is mistress of the flocks. And boys can be apprenticed, if they do not wish to follow their father. It is not thralldom, Isolfr.”

  “No, I see that. And thank you for—”

  He had been watching Viradechtis, because it was easier than trying to meet Grimolfr’s eyes, and he saw another contraction ripple across her belly. She turned her head, ears up, as if startled by it, and whined low in her throat. Isolfr’s hands went to his mouth like a girl’s at the rush of fluid that followed, soaking her tail and hocks, and he started forward, but Grimolfr’s hand on his shoulder stayed him. “It’s her water breaking. It won’t be long.”

  And of course Isolfr knew that, couldn’t be a jarl’s son in a keep full of cows and pigs and serving-wenches, and the eldest of three children, without knowing that. But it was different, now, because it was Viradechtis, and he could feel her contractions rippling her belly, feel her urgency and her nervousness and her desire to be done.

  Isolfr sat back, and waited for her to come and shove her great head roughly against his chest, her coarse, slick coat warm between his fingers. He held her tight, chin between her ears, and she leaned into him when she strained again. “It’s not bad for her to be walking around?” Just to be saying something, doing something, although the only one there to hear it was Grimolfr.

  “Trust the wolf,” Grimolfr said, his voice rough with some emotion Isolfr couldn’t identify. “The pack knows how to birth pups.”

  And they did, Isolfr realized, unfolding into the pack-sense, feeling dogs and bitches—present and absent—aware of Viradechtis in her labor, ears tuned, hearts laboring in time. Ingrun was there with her, calm and satisfied, knowing, experienced, and behind her were Vigdis and Asny and even Kolgrimna. Isolfr squeezed Viradechtis tight, awed and terrified at the thought that he could have gone his whole life without knowing this, a wolfless man—

  And then she whined and pulled away from him, and lay heavily on the folded blankets piled under the bottom shelf, panting, her flanks rippling with effort, and Isolfr glimpsed bloody white membrane and dark fur before the pup slipped back inside. Grimolfr went to her side, gesturing Isolfr forward impatiently. “When he breaches again, hold him—gently—and help. It’s less work for the bitch if she doesn’t have to start over again with every push, and once she gets the shoulders out he’ll come fast.”

  Isolfr nodded, his hands spread, ready to catch. When the puppy appeared again, he grabbed the slick, tiny paws in trembling hands and held them, not so much pulling as resisting the pup’s t
endency to slip back in. Viradechtis whined and pushed, the will of the wolf-pack behind her, and Isolfr’s hands were full of slimy puppy.

  “Clear his mouth,” Grimolfr said, as the wolf curled curiously around to see what was happening. “And then give him to his mother so she can bite the cord.”

  Isolfr did, although his hands were shaking. Viradechtis snuffled her first-born, bit through the cord, and then cleaned him with two swipes of her tongue. And Isolfr watched, wide-eyed, as the pup struggled forward, pushing with his almost useless legs, and found his mother’s teat. “Good boy,” Grimolfr said softly, and Isolfr did not ask if he meant the newborn pup or the shaky-handed wolfcarl. Grimolfr showed Isolfr how to deal with the afterbirth, and advised him not to watch while Viradechtis ate it.

  It happened three more times between the midpoint of the night and the dazzling glory of midday. The second of these, Grimolfr rocked back abruptly on his heels as the pup came into the world, and swore.

  “What?” said Isolfr, busy with the tiny body in his hands.

  “Your little girl’s thrown us a bitch,” Grimolfr said.

  Isolfr looked again, even as the pup squirmed and bleated and Viradechtis made a sharp gruff noise demanding her third-born child. Isolfr gave her her daughter and turned his head to look at Grimolfr. “I thought …”

  “You thought correctly,” Grimolfr said. “Trellwolves are warriors. They do not throw bitch-pups very often … we were amazed that Vigdis threw two in ten years. Asny and Kolgrimna have never thrown bitches at all, and Ingrun has only once. We sent her daughter to the wolfheall at Vestfjorthr, where I believe she does very well.”

  He was babbling, Isolfr realized incredulously, and Grimolfr realized it himself. He ran his hand down the side of his face and swore again. “Your sister is full of wonders.”

  “Yes,” Isolfr said and looked at Viradechtis, who laughed back at him. Her daughter was already at a teat, working eagerly, and Viradechtis was unmistakably smug.

  The fourth pup, a dog, was born near noon, and Viradechtis and the wolfthreat knew there were no more. She flopped down on her side with a great sigh, and the two men crouched beside her. Two brindled dog-pups, a gray dog-pup, and the red bitch-pup.

  “You have done well, wolfthreatsister,” Grimolfr said, and she thumped her tail tiredly against the flagstones.

  The wolfjarl stood up, stretched and grimaced, and said, “Come, Isolfr,” offering him a hand. “Let your sister and her children rest. You need to eat and bathe, and I think to sleep yourself.”

  Isolfr glanced at Viradechtis, who gave him a fond but exasperated look.

  “You’re right,” he said and accepted Grimolfr’s hand. “My mother always said there was no place for men in a birthing-room.”

  He looked at Grimolfr; Grimolfr looked back at him. For a moment they were both straight-faced, as befitted wolfjarl and brother to a konigenwolf. Then Grimolfr’s lips twitched, and he and Isolfr fell against each other, laughing too hard to stand on their own.

  Viradechtis thumped her tail against the floor and laughed with them.

  Viradechtis wouldn’t allow Hroi into the narrow warmth of the storeroom, so he lay on the earthen floor beside the door and would not be moved, watching from under arched brows as Isolfr and the tithe-boys went in and out. Isolfr found, to his surprise, that it was his responsibility to give the pups their wer-names—although he wasn’t sure where he’d thought they’d come from otherwise—and he chose Hannar, Olmoth, and Nyr for the dogs and Thraslaug for the bitch.

  He felt a little pity for the tithe-boys. Two litters kept them busy, and they regarded both him and Randulfr with almost superstitious awe. It was hard to remember that only two years ago, that had been him.

  What was harder was being chained to the camp in the rising spring, and he knew Viradechtis felt it too. They both breathed a sigh of relief when the pups legged out a little—Ingrun’s and Viradechtis’, both—and the whole mad pack of them could be left in the care of one bitch while the other enjoyed a hunting expedition or just a long ramble with her brother. Not long after that, the pups were old enough to be taught to hunt, and Isolfr sometimes had two days in a row when it was like old times, himself and his sister, Frithulf and Sokkolfr and their wolves, rambling the forest when their duties didn’t hold them to the camp. Sokkolfr continued to be Ulfgeirr’s right hand, and Isolfr’s duties were divided between weapons-mastering the tithe-boys and assisting Hrolleif, despite the uneasy awareness between them that Vigdis would come into season soon, and the rivalry between herself and her daughter would be pushed to a peak.

  The one relief was that Thraslaug showed no signs of having the instinct of a top bitch. Even her brothers bullied her, to the point where the tithe-boy who seemed sure to bond her was obliged to feed her away from the others to ensure she got some supper. Randulfr took that boy under his wing, and Isolfr was grateful to be spared the embarrassment of giving advice when he himself was still so uncertain.

  That summer, as last, the threat of the trolls continued long past the spring equinox. Grimolfr’s wolfheall was fortunate to lose only two wolves and a man; east of them, Thorsbaer lost an entire long patrol. Isolfr and Viradechtis were among the wolves and men sent to assist in hunting down the trellthreat responsible. The Thorsbaer wolfsprechend did not join the patrol, as his bitch was on the edge of season, and Isolfr was less surprised than he might have been at how easily Viradechtis dominated the pack. The Thorsbaer werthreat eyed him and Viradechtis thoughtfully, and although no one had time or energy for courting, Isolfr noticed which men took particular pains to be pleasant. Everyone knew a new konigenwolf meant a new wolfheall, and Eyjolfr was not the only wolfcarl who could plan ahead.

  Vigdis’ season came while Isolfr and Viradechtis were on patrol. By the time frost fell, man and wolf were as blooded as any of the Wolfmaegth, and not even Grimolfr called him cub any more.

  At the dark of the solstice, the village of Kallekot was overrun.

  Grimolfr, haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot, both he and Skald worn near to nothing, left in the early darkness of the morning a few days later, heading in the direction of the keep. He was back by noon, livid, swearing foully, and it swept through the werthreat like a brush fire that he had gone to petition Lord Gunnarr to raise a militia among the steadholders and artisans.

  And Lord Gunnarr had refused.

  Isolfr tried to stay out of Grimolfr’s way, especially as the wolfjarl had started drinking the moment he got back and by suppertime was drunk, the first time any of the werthreat could remember seeing such a thing except at wakes.

  But the pack-sense meant you couldn’t hide from anyone, even if you wanted to, and Isolfr felt no surprise, only apprehensive resignation, when Grimolfr cornered him.

  “Your father,” the wolfjarl said, “thinks I’m bedding you. Thinks that’s why I won’t let you leave.” He snorted unmirthful laughter. “As if I could make you leave, eh, Isolfr? Says he’s given … given enough to the wolfheall, so why can’t we do our proper work?”

  “Grimolfr, I—”

  “Maybe I should be bedding you. Maybe I should lay you out on Gunnarr’s damn table there in the great hall. Think your father’d like that?”

  “No,” Isolfr said, crowded against the wall, watching Viradechtis and Skald watch each other, awash in the ale-stench of Grimolfr’s breath and sweat.

  “No,” Grimolfr agreed, and then his hand was in Isolfr’s hair, knotting behind his ear, jerking his head back so that they were face to face. Isolfr held still, met Grimolfr’s eyes steadily. The pack-sense was tight around them; he could feel Ulfgeirr and Hrolleif both heading their way and knew Vigdis wouldn’t be far behind, and if Vigdis entered this already precarious situation, there was going to be a very bloody, very ugly, and very, very pointless fight.

  So he did the only thing he could think of.

  He yanked forward against the wolfjarl’s grip and kissed Grimolfr. On the mouth, not subtly, and hard.

&nb
sp; And Grimolfr released him, staggering back; Skald was there, supporting his brother, letting Grimolfr’s fingers clutch at his ruff, giving Isolfr a dismissive look with his smoke-orange eyes, and Isolfr thankfully edged two steps sideways to where Viradechtis was waiting for him and threw his arms around her, burying his face in her familiar smell. She gave him pine-boughs-in-sunlight and licked his ear and neck, and her pups came and clambered anxiously on both of them.

  He heard Hrolleif say gently, “Come to bed, wolfjarl.”

  In the morning, Grimolfr was ashen-faced with hangover but grimly steady on his feet, grimly measured in his words. He did not apologize, and Isolfr did not expect him to. He was not sure there was anything to apologize for, and if there was, he rather thought it was his place to be apologizing for his father, and that he could not bring himself to do.

  Isolfr sat and watched and listened as Grimolfr called eleven men of the werthreat before him, bid them go to the wolfjarls of the North and summon them to a Wolfmaegthing. “We cannot hide the truth any longer,” he said, “and the truth is that we are being overrun.”

  Wolfmoots, Isolfr had gathered from Eyjolfr, were not uncommon among the other wolfheallan. Nithogsfjoll, the most northerly wolfheall, was also the most isolated and needed more than the excuse of a fine spring day to meet with another threat. Their closest neighbors were Gunnarr’s keep and Gunnarr’s steading, and—

  And Isolfr hoped he was worth it to the Wolfmaegth.

  He had never forgotten his mother’s quiet comment about honor, and those twinned thoughts lent him a stern sense of purpose. Unfortunately, it was a purpose without direction as yet, and so he resigned himself to wait for the Wolfmaegthing with good grace, even when Ulfrikr Un-Wise mocked him that—if there had been any doubt that every wolf and man who was not needed to patrol would come—that doubt was removed by giving them the opportunity to ogle Isolfr and Viradechtis.

  Isolfr did manage to bloody Ulfrikr’s pretty nose on the practice field, however, so he was not entirely without satisfaction.