A Companion to Wolves

by Sarah Monette

  Eyjolfr went, in a slither of mud and dead leaves.

  Silence. He could not lie there all night. Viradechtis would find him. Sokkolfr would worry. He picked himself up, pushing Mar gently aside. Swallowed hard against shame and said, “Thank you.”

  “Did he hurt you?” Skjaldwulf said.

  “Bruises,” Isolfr said and managed a shrug. Swallowed hard again. “I should have hit him back.”

  “Isolfr.” It was too dark now to see Skjaldwulf’s face, and Isolfr was glad. “It is not your fault.”

  “No? I did, you know. I let him … .” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t speak past the shame knotted in his chest.

  “Isolfr.” Skjaldwulf’s hand touched his shoulder—gently, but Isolfr couldn’t control his flinch, and Skjaldwulf drew away again. “Eyjolfr is wrong. A mating is not a wedding, and permission once is not permission twice. Please don’t—”

  Then Viradechtis was there, with impeccably awful timing, nearly knocking both of them over. Her thoughts were full of anxiety—though no real understanding of what had happened, and Isolfr breathed again—and she began nudging Isolfr back toward camp in a no-nonsense fashion. If he’d been small enough, she would have picked him up by his scruff and carried him like one of her pups.

  “Thank you,” he said to Skjaldwulf again, and let Viradechtis have her way.

  Skjaldwulf made no mention of it that night, nor any other. But when they were gathered around the fire, wolves and men stuffing themselves on venison so they would not have to carry it, it was Eyjolfr who asked Skjaldwulf to sing. And Skjaldwulf glanced at Isolfr before he agreed, waiting for Isolfr’s nod.

  An apology tendered and accepted, after the manner of wolves.

  The next night and the night after, they were harried by trolls, but small parties only. The wolfcarls had placed picket lines and patrols, of course—it would do no good to reclaim Othinnsaesc if a trellish army swept down on one of the lightly defended villages or wolfheallan in the absence of the guardians—but a small band could creep where an army could not. They could not keep the trolls out entirely.

  They lost no one. Isolfr didn’t even fight, but Frithulf was sentry during the second attack, and he and Kothran and Tindr pulled down two trolls by themselves before Ulfbjorn roused the camp. It was Isolfr’s deepest frustration, that he knew why the trolls were coming down from the north and that he could not tell.

  The journey was otherwise uneventful.

  Grimolfr was waiting for them when they reached Franangford, and even though Isolfr knew he must have posted a watch, he was still impressed by the wolfjarl’s attention to detail. The Franangford wolfheall was full to overflowing, and wolfless men, wolfcarls and wolves were billeted in keep and village alike. The village teemed with warriors and civilians, all the machinery of war that existed to support the fighters.

  Isolfr and Viradechtis, however, were billeted in the wolfheall proper, along with Hrolleif and Vigdis. Most of the konigenwolves and their brothers would travel with the army, but not the youngest—because she was precious—or the eldest, Aslaug—because she was frail—or the strongest, Vigdis and Signy, although having those two at close quarters would be less than a joy.

  No one said why, but Isolfr knew.

  Because one wolf would not make a difference in whether the pack failed, and if the pack failed, it was the strongest konigenwolves who must live.

  Spring was an awkward time for waging war: too muddy for wagons, too wet for sleds and skis. There was more than enough work for everyone. There would be supply lines, and organizing them would be one of the duties of the wolfcarls and wolfsprechends left behind at Franangford.

  The day after they arrived, between helping Ulfgeirr arrange provisions on muleback, manback, and wolfback for those who would be traveling to Othinnsaesc, Isolfr snuck glances at Skjaldwulf, who was nearby, sorting horse-harness by size and need for repair.

  Skjaldwulf had kept his distance since the evening in the forest when he’d come to Isolfr’s aid, and Eyjolfr had been positively conciliatory—more like his old, insightful self, his wit a little freer now that he wasn’t trying so very hard. But oddly, it was Skjaldwulf that Isolfr found himself thinking about. He wanted to be wolfjarl, of course; who wouldn’t? And if Viradechtis chose Mar again, then he would be, even if Mar was not the boldest or biggest wolf.

  Viradechtis raised her head from where she lay, barring the door with her long furry body, and followed his gaze. Isolfr found Mar looking back at him, and Skjaldwulf followed it with a glance and a smile.

  No secrets among wolves. But then Isolfr felt something, or Viradechtis gave it to him, with the smell of sunlight that was her love and regard, and the sharp sulfur of hot springs that was Mar’s name. And he almost choked on the scent, because what she gave him was Skjaldwulf, filtered through Mar, and it was unmistakable. Although Mar would be quite pleased to be consort, Skjaldwulf didn’t want to be wolfjarl.

  He wanted Isolfr, and he would take the damned job that went with it, if he could win it, if that was what it took.

  Stammering an excuse to Ulfgeirr, Isolfr rose, and stalked with his wolf out into a windy morning, clouds tattered and the air half-green with the scent of rising sap. A long walk: he needed to learn the village in case he had to defend it.

  He was halfway down the high street when Othwulf found him. “Greetings, Isolfr!” he cried against the leaping wind. Viradechtis bounded forward, tail wagging delightedly, to exchange wolfish greetings with Vikingr.

  “Greetings, Othwulf,” Isolfr returned, although he could not quite make himself meet his uncle’s eyes. He felt raw—had felt raw since Eyjolfr had accosted him, and it was worse now, knowing how Skjaldwulf felt, knowing that there was something in him that was … even mentally, he choked over the word “desirable.” And with Viradechtis’ regard for Vikingr so obvious that she might as well have hired a herald to proclaim it, he felt his face turning crimson and prayed Othwulf would assume it the effect of the wind.

  “I hear your sister’s second litter does well,” Othwulf said.

  “Yes,” Isolfr said, struggling to conduct himself like a wolfcarl, a wolfsprechend-in-waiting, and not some virgin bride. “Yes, they remain in Nithogsfjoll—as does my daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” He looked up then, a glance, to see Othwulf beaming at him, and received a terrific, but unmistakably delighted, clout on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Isolfr! It is splendid news!”

  “Her name is Alfgyfa,” Isolfr said.

  “Will she go to the heall?”

  “I know not. Her mother’s sister is childless, and my mother—” He grinned, remembering the invasion of Angrbotha’s cottage. “My mother seems prepared to cherish her grandchild.”

  “As well she ought. And your father?”

  Isolfr shrugged. “He is here, in Franangford. I do not know if he has been told.”

  “You have not told him yourself.” Not a question.

  “I have not seen him.”

  Othwulf sighed. “I would wish this could be buried. I told him, you know, in the Iskryne, that you were no insult to his honor. I told him that if I had a son half so worthy as you, I should be the proudest man in the North. But he would not hear me. Twisted my words so I nearly cried feud on him.”

  “Feud?”

  “I do not mind if he thinks me a lecher and a monster,” Othwulf said. “The bad blood between us is of long standing, and even did we wish to, I do not think we could wash it away. But that he should think you … No, I will not say it.”

  “You need not,” Isolfr said, and managed a rueful half-smile. “Father has never scrupled to speak his mind.”

  “Damn him,” Othwulf muttered. “But I am glad this head of conversation has arisen.”

  “Oh?”

  “I hear that your sister will be forming her pack soon.”

  “Yes,” Isolfr said.

  “Isolfr.” Othwulf’s hand on his shoulder forced him to look up. “Vikingr an
d I will not be standing up for her.”

  “No?” Isolfr said and hated the way his voice squeaked with mingled relief and doubt.

  “No.” Othwulf shrugged, smiling. “I have no particular wish to be wolfjarl of anywhere, and I would not force myself on you when you so clearly find the prospect distasteful.”

  “I—”

  “I can read the pack-sense, Wolfmaegthbrother,” Othwulf said. “And while your sister would clearly be pleased to have Vikingr put to her—” Viradechtis, who was attending carefully, her eyes bright, hit them both with male-wolfness in agreement. Othwulf startled, then burst out laughing.

  “Sister,” Isolfr said crossly, red-faced again.

  “She teases you, Isolfr. And I see why; you rise charmingly to her casting. I’m glad my own brother doesn’t have her sense of humor.” Othwulf glanced fondly at Vikingr, who laughed back, ears pricked. “In any case, I wished to reassure you.”

  Isolfr slapped his uncle’s shoulder with the back of hand. “You’re all a torment to me,” he said, trying to hide his relief. “Have you any clever advice on what I could say to mend fences with your brother?”

  “Your father?” Othwulf settled back on his heels and scratched desultorily at his beard. The lice were bad in crowded quarters, as Isolfr had already discovered, and the bathhouse insufficient to the needs of so many men.

  “He does not wish to be known as such,” Isolfr answered, with a shrug.

  “Someday he’ll feel differently.” Vikingr nudged Othwulf’s hand, demanding his ears scratched, and Othwulf obliged him. “When your fame outstrips his, he’ll no doubt proclaim the connection widely.”

  Isolfr snorted, watching Viradechtis snuffle around his boots so he wouldn’t have to meet Othwulf’s eyes. “And what do I do in the meantime? Present myself for excoriation?”

  Othwulf snickered. “Make the advance if you wish to, and be prepared that he may not accept it. Or turn now and walk away, and let it go.” Isolfr started to protest, and Othwulf forestalled him with a raised palm. “You can’t control him, Isolfr. But you can acquit yourself with honor.”

  Isolfr sighed, and stepped back. “Hel take him. I know.”

  Before the evening meal, however, the choice was made for him. Gunnarr Sturluson came to the gates of the wolfheall unattended, and asked to see him.

  Isolfr went out alone. He saw his father’s relief that the wolf was not with him and did not regret it, despite Viradechtis’ displeasure. He knew also that she shadowed them at a distance. Twice, he’d been harmed when she was not there to guard him. She wouldn’t allow it to happen a third time.

  They walked in silence until they were down the long lane out of the village, away from the girls spinning in doorways and the clatter of the smithy, the reek of old blood in the mud by the butcher’s door. They were under the arch of wide-spaced pines, springy needles and moist earth soft underfoot, before Gunnarr said, without turning, “Tell me how to regain my son.”

  “You never lost him.”

  He knew as he said it that it was the wrong answer, but he was unable to lie. A dark corner of his heart rejoiced in his father’s frown; there was something in him that did not wish to be forgiven because it did not wish to forgive. He mastered it, and tried again. “A man’s duty to his family is not lessened merely because he has another duty to follow—”

  “When you have children—” Gunnarr began, and Isolfr cut him off with a laugh.

  Mother has not sent to him. “If I treat my daughter as you have treated your son, Father, then may Othinn strike me, and no man recover my bones.”

  Gunnarr turned to look at him, a twig crunching under his boot—the damp dense sound of winter-rotten pine. The scent of resin sharpened the air, and branches creaked like fiddles bowed at random. The pause was long, and he still knew Gunnarr well enough to see him chewing the news with care and swallowing it bite by bite.

  And choosing to speak of something else.

  “He may yet,” Gunnarr said. “He may yet strike us all. The gods are angry, N—” He coughed. His lips were chapped, peeling in thick yellow shreds. He popped a louse against his thumbnail and flicked it away. “Isolfr. We’re losing the war.”

  Isolfr drew a deep, hopeful breath. It steadied him, so he took another. “Over all our dead bodies,” he said, calmly, to hear his father’s bitter laugh. The sound seemed stretched between them, a tenuous link, easily snapped.

  Gunnarr snorted, and spat on the springy loam. “You’re to stay behind, you and the wolf?”

  “I am,” Isolfr said, frowning.

  Gunnarr nodded. “You’ll see to your mother if it comes to it, then. And Kathlin and Jonak.”

  Isolfr sorted answers a moment, decided against reminding his father that Jonak was heir, and old enough to bear a man’s part. Decided also against saying that he considered it an offense to his mother to suggest that she would need “seeing to,” if worse came to worst. Halfrid knew as much about honor as any man, and she was no fool besides.

  He said, “I will die defending her if that is the only way.”

  Gunnarr answered with a grunt, and took another three steps in silence before he said, “You have a daughter.”

  “Barely a fortnight old,” Isolfr answered, but he didn’t volunteer her name.

  And Gunnarr did not ask.

  Five days later, in a cold spring rain, the Wolfmaegth marched on Othinnsaesc, and the wolfless men went with them. Isolfr and the wolfsprechends did not watch them go—bad luck, and they could all feel the luck running against them already. And in any event, they had more than enough to keep them busy.

  It was not comfortable, living in a wolfheall with four konigenwolves. Aslaug was white-muzzled, lame with arthritis, half-blind—but she was still konigenwolf, and she would tolerate no impertinence from the younger bitches. Vigdis and Signy liked each other no better than they had at the Wolfmaegthing, and all three of them recognized Viradechtis, young and without a pack of her own, as a threat. They listened to their brothers, as Viradechtis listened to Isolfr, when they urged them counter to their instincts, but the konigenwolves were not happy, and this meant that the wolves of Franangford’s defense were not happy either. Snarls and snapping were common, fights not infrequent. Isolfr learned more than he had ever wanted to know about doctoring trellwolves, but he could not help the warm glow of pleasure that kindled in his chest when Hrolleif remarked that he had a gift for it.

  “And you stitch more neatly than any of us,” Signy’s brother Leitholfr added, watching while Isolfr tended to a triangle-shaped tear in the skin over the shoulder of a Thorsbaer wolf. “The gods know, I’ve seen enough hamhanded wolfjarls and wolfsprechends to last me the rest of my life. And Ormarr and Stafnulf are grateful, aren’t you, Stafnulf?”

  “Yes, Leitholfr,” Stafnulf muttered, hastily dropping his gaze from Isolfr’s face.

  Isolfr did his best to get used to the way the younger wolfcarls stared at him when they thought he did not notice. He knew what they were thinking, and would have even without the pack-sense to tell him. Word had spread—for there were no secrets in the Wolfmaegth—that the youngest of the konigenwolves would be looking for her consort soon, and the young men were dreaming. Isolfr did not blame them, but it was uncomfortable being the center of so much attention, uncomfortable knowing that as much as they were thinking about their wolves’ chances with Viradechtis, they were also thinking about having him, Isolfr, lie down for them. He caught glimpses of himself in the pack-sense, filtered through wolves and wolves: pale and cold and unapproachable. If Grimolfr’s name to the wolves was black iron, then Isolfr’s own was ice, the cold, pure ice of the Iskryne.

  He was amazed, even when he was blushing hotly enough to disprove their comparison, at the sharpness of their observations, their ability to make judgments. For no wolf in the Wolfmaegth had seen the Iskryne before last summer’s campaign, yet that knowledge was in the pack-sense now, the cold sharp smell of the ice of the Iskryne. And when they thought of
that smell, the Wolfmaegth thought of Viradechtis’ brother.

  Spring wore slowly toward summer; the konigenwolves grumbled and snarled but maintained their truce. The wolfsprechends organized and planned, laid in stores, drilled their wolfcarls. Aslaug’s brother, who had been wolfsprechend of Ketillhill for almost forty years, said that, aside from trolls, the worst danger they faced was bored men, bored wolves. Patrols were a necessity, and the men and wolves were kept busy on messenger duty to the wolfheallan, crofts, and villages, and hunting and requisitioning provisions for the army. Isolfr had had no idea of the scale of the logistical operation required to support an army of this size; it was nothing like a raiding party or a Viking band.

  Summer was traditionally the time of harvest and relaxation. There was no such luxury this year. The trolls were dug in deep under Othinnsaesc; the news that returned with the waves of wounded was not encouraging, and left Isolfr half-frantic with frustration over not being there to fight beside Frithulf, Sokkolfr, and Ulfbjorn—yes, and Grimolfr, too. The men and wolves of the North had managed to reclaim what remained of heall and manor—wooden buildings had burned, but stone shells remained—but the trolls were into the sea-caves and had had the whole winter to warren the town. They burrowed silently, master sappers, and could emerge anywhere, any time, with only crumbling earth and collapsing walls to warn the men above.

  At midsummer, it was decided, the Northmen would make a push and try to purge the warrens once and for all. Nobody said it out loud, but everyone knew: the stalemate had to end by winter or the trolls had won.

  NINE

  On the third day after the solstice, more wounded began to arrive at Franangford. It was horribly like a spring flood; first a trickle, then a stream, then a torrent, then simply the grim struggle to keep from going under and never mind the force one struggled against: men cursing, wolves crying with pain, screaming—dreadful screaming—as those whose trollbites had festered had to have their injuries lanced, and sometimes an arm or leg removed entirely.