In addition to being more southerly, more cosmopolitan, and less isolated than Nithoggsfjoll or Franangford, Arakensbergheall seemed to have a good relationship with the keep and town. The local jarl joined them for dinner at the heall, greeting Skjaldwulf with barely concealed excitement and apprehension. The jarl, too, was young, and embarrassingly overawed by the march of history around him—“An AllThing! Can you credit it?”—and Skjaldwulf was glad enough to change the topic to telling Vethulf’s former threatbrothers whatever old news Skjaldwulf could muster about Vethulf’s deeds.
Somewhere in the process, he was slightly confounded to realize that he missed Vethulf and that he was speaking fondly of him to men who also seemed to regard him fondly, although it was obvious that all the Arakensberg werthreat (and some of the wolves) retained a sympathetic sense of humor about Vethulf’s temper.
Well, maybe Skjaldwulf did not miss Vethulf’s scathing tongue—but his forthrightness and indomitable spirit were a different matter. And the Arakensbergthreat were hungry enough for news that they kept Skjaldwulf—and Freyvithr, and Fargrimr, and Erik, and Otter, and the other godsmen and wolfcarls—talking long into the night.
* * *
Vethulf had been unshakably determined that Isolfr should not leave him behind, and he paid for it, mile after grueling mile from Franangford to Arakensberg. He started out walking, glaring down anyone who tried to argue, but by the end of the first day he was nearly reeling, his pulse throbbing in every half-healed inch of his shoulder.
Isolfr, mustering a fearful glare of his own, sat Vethulf down on his bedroll and made him strip off his shirt. He then cursed Vethulf roundly, using several phrases Vethulf hadn’t thought Isolfr knew. “This can still kill you, you know,” he said. “A wound gone bad is not something to take lightly.”
“I don’t,” Vethulf said through gritted teeth as Isolfr began cleaning the inflamed gashes. “Take it lightly, that is.”
“No, you just thought you’d walk to Arakensberg.”
“Couldn’t let you go alone,” Vethulf said, and immediately wished himself dead. No way to explain that he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that it wasn’t because he didn’t think Isolfr could take care of himself. It was just because he couldn’t, and there was no way to explain that at all.
But after a moment, Isolfr said, “And you call me a daft creature,” and he didn’t even sound annoyed.
* * *
In the morning, and each morning after, Skjaldwulf found, there was work to do. Pavilions to raise, latrines to dig, plans to contribute to. And already wolfcarls and wolves and wolfless men were filtering in. Some—many, blessedly—brought their own tents and provisions, which were after all necessary for travel for those who did not care to sleep rough and live off the land. The wolfcarls and wolfless men and some of the thanes arranged hunting parties and shared the meat out among the slowly swelling body of the AllThing.…
It would be a year or more before the local wildlife recovered.
Despite the serious business they had come here to do, a festival atmosphere prevailed. Kinsmen and friends long-parted reacquainted themselves; feasts and footraces and fights broke out across the landscape. Everywhere he went, Skjaldwulf heard snatches of his tune hummed or sung, and—ridiculously, for the war was not yet won—he felt the burdens that had weighed his shoulders lessening.
Perhaps, he thought, it was not so much that they were lightened as that there were more hands to bear them now. In any case, he spent a good deal of his time moving from fire to fire, listening to wolfcarls and wolfless men, taking a tenor of the times. There was skepticism, and there was a good deal of rancor—some, summoned from the harvest or sent as proxy for others who remained behind to do the work the world set before their hand, were skeptical. Some disbelieved in any Rhean threat at all and saw in the calling of the AllThing only wolfcarls greedy for political power. Some were young men, eager for war and the making of their names. Some were hardened vikings, who wished to take the war to the Rheans over a sea of Brythoni corpses.
Skjaldwulf thought that last a mistake near as bad as ignoring the threat of the Rheans, but he also saw that here, gathered around the keep of Arakensberg, was the nucleus of an army, if he could sway them. Some of the men present had fought in the trellwar, and so he knew them or knew of them. Some were men whose legend preceded them, borne by songs and tales.
Some were men who had come not to his summoning, but to that of Erik Godsman, and Skjaldwulf thought they, too, might be of use.
The question that remained before him—if he could bring them together now, here, in advance of the danger—was, if a konungur they must have, who best should it be?
Although it was early days and the AllThing not even convened yet to decide if a konungur should be chosen, some obvious contenders were being put forth. One was the jarl of Hergilsberg, despite his absence from the scene. One, to Skjaldwulf’s amusement, was one-eyed Erik Godheofodman. (“Can you be a godsman and a king?” Skjaldwulf had murmured to Erik behind his hand. “Not and be worth a damn as either,” Erik had replied.) One was Grettir Gang-arm, a southern jarl Skjaldwulf knew only by reputation until he made a point of cultivating the man’s acquaintance, which led him to believe that there couldn’t be a better choice for leading a party going viking or a worse one for konungur.
Because of the way the news of the AllThing had traveled—north, from Hergilsberg, a few days in front of Skjaldwulf and his party—the southern jarls began arriving first, even before the wolfcarls of the closest heallan to Arakensberg. It wasn’t until the very first heall—Bravoll—arrived that Skjaldwulf realized that some of his agitation was from the tension of holding his breath over whom the Franangfordthreat would send. And then Nithoggsfjoll arrived—both wolfjarl and wolfsprechend—and even his busyness could not stop Skjaldwulf from meeting Grimolfr and Ulfbjorn and the three wolves-and-men who had come with them, along with Gunnarr Sturluson and his wife, Halfrid, and their selected retainers and their mounts and pack animals, and two stout mastertradesmen—bondi—of the village, to make up the Nithoggsfjollthreat’s delegation to the AllThing. They dismounted as Skjaldwulf came up on them, and cries of greeting sounded all around.
“Well met,” Skjaldwulf said to Grimolfr, full of emotion as Grimolfr clasped his arm with a hard squeeze.
“Well met,” Grimolfr said in return while Mar and Skald and Vigdis and the other wolves sniffed about one another in a companionable sort of way.
The first thing from Ulfbjorn’s mouth, before even a greeting, was, “Have Isolfr and Sokkolfr come?”
Skjaldwulf hugged the big man warmly and clapped his back. To his credit, Gunnarr did not flinch from the question but only put a hand comfortingly on Halfrid’s back as she leaned forward, alight with all eagerness.
“Franangford is not yet arrived,” Skjaldwulf said, hastening to explain as Grimolfr’s brows began to rise. “I came from the south, with the godsmen from Hergilsberg. It’s a long story. But Frithulf is here, and I’m sure he won’t wish to wait to see you. And Randulfr is with me also.”
He would have said more, but Vigdis, Nithoggsfjoll’s great konigenwolf, yawned widely and sat down with a thump. She looked back along the trail, and deliberately forward, and sighed.
Skjaldwulf didn’t need an interpretation. “Come on,” he said. “Vigdis wants her dinner.”
* * *
Skjaldwulf brought his former threatmates back to camp and turned the jarl, his wife, their householders, and the rank-and-file wolves and wolfcarls over to the local housecarl for disposition to such housing as could be made to accommodate them. When he left, Halfrid was insisting that she could sleep on any hard ground under any tent leaf her husband could withstand, and Gunnarr was objecting that for his wife only the best could do.
That accomplished, Skjaldwulf himself led Ulfbjorn and Grimolfr farther into camp. It took only a few questions of bystanders to locate Randulfr and Fargrimr.
They stood in a sunny corner
, deep in conference, Fargrimr’s ink-worked arm draped across his brother’s shoulders. Ingrun, visibly pregnant now but not yet too far gone to travel, lolled at their feet, sunning her distended belly. Trellwolves were broad-backed enough to sleep stretched out like a man when it pleased them, though when they did so their forelegs lay against their chests like crossed sticks and their back legs extended ridiculously.
Ingrun didn’t seem to care that she looked a clown. When Vigdis and Skald came within sight, though, she rolled herself to her feet quickly for one so gravid, and came to them head held low and tail wagging like a pup greeting its parents. She bowed low, her belly brushing the ground and her haunches elevated, and stayed there while Vigdis sniffed her over. The sniffing must have yielded successful results, because Vigdis threw one massive foreleg over Ingrun’s shoulders and then danced back, inviting play.
Three wolves bolted toward the forest, Ingrun running heavily but running, Vigdis and Skald pacing themselves to go easy on her.
When they had gone, Fargrimr sighed, and Skjaldwulf realized that he and all the wolfcarls had turned to watch them run. Skjaldwulf took a breath in but glanced at Randulfr before he spoke; Randulfr nodded and interceded.
“Fargrimr,” Randulfr said, “you remember the wolfheofodmenn of my old threat.”
There were claspings all around, and then Fargrimr returned to whatever had so troubled him. “Our father, Fastarr,” he said, glancing again at Randulfr—the elder, Skjaldwulf recalled. “Has there been any word?”
Skjaldwulf shook his head. The housecarl would have mentioned if the jarl of Siglufjordhur had arrived.
“He should be here by now,” Fargrimr said. “He would not fail to come, or send word if he could not get away. And he should have been here in advance of us, or at the very least not more than a day or two behind.”
“You want to go find out?”
Fargrimr shook his head. “I thought of going home. But then I realized that if I gave my proxy to my brother, he would be counted by the jarls and thanes as belonging to the Wolfmaegth. And they will be hard enough to convince that a wolfcarl’s plan has any merit. You need me here, and it’s a boy’s fear that would send me home.”
Skjaldwulf was still considering whether he would rise to Fargrimr’s gentle bait when Grimolfr said, “And?”
“Two days ago, I dispatched a rider on a fast horse with gold for remounts,” Fargrimr said. “If the Rheans or the bandits do not get him, he could be at the coast in ten days more.”
“By the time he makes it back, the AllThing will be under way.”
“We need him,” Randulfr said. “We need his voice and his renown to speak against Dromundr. The Hergilsberg jarl will make trouble.”
“My word is one thing,” said Fargrimr, “for I have seen these Rheans firsthand. But I am only my father’s heir. There are those who will not hear me, for my beard is not white and to my beltlatch.” His smile invited them to share the irony.
“Thank you,” Skjaldwulf said, aware that Grimolfr and Ulfbjorn would need more explanations later.
Fargrimr shrugged. “It seems the least I can do. After all, the Franangfordthreat came to our defense when we sent for you, though you are not the closest wolfheall and we have never sent you a tithe of support.”
Randulfr choked lightly. Ulfbjorn thumped him—not hard, but a love tap from Ulfbjorn was enough to make any lesser man stagger.
“Only your brother,” Randulfr said.
Fargrimr shrugged, smiling tightly. “That seems to have worked out to the good for both of us.”
But it was Grimolfr who said, “Siglufjordhur came to the aid of the heallan when the trolls threatened. Though you were at great remove and might have stood by idly, denying that what threatened the North threatened you, you came with men and arms. Can we do less for you?”
It was a warm smile, warmly returned. “Actually,” Fargrimr said, “I’ve been thinking about that. You must be weary with travel—come sit and drink some wine, and I will tell you.”
* * *
It was very strange, Brokkolfr decided, to be even an acting wolfsprechend. It was not a role he had ever sought out; he wished to be useful in the world, but he had never wished to lead, and it was comforting to find both that leadership was not so bad—at least in this small way with nothing disastrous at stake—and that he would happily hand it back to Isolfr when wolfsprechend and wolfjarls returned.
“Most of a wolfsprechend’s job,” Isolfr had said, “is listening. And I know already that you do that very well.”
The praise was unexpected, almost as unsettling as reassuring, but he realized that Isolfr was trying to tell him that he would not be asked to learn arcane new skills, merely to do what he already did. It was harder for Sokkolfr, who had already had a heavy load of responsibilities as the housecarl of Franangford, and much of what Brokkolfr did was simply to try to take over as much of Sokkolfr’s work as he could. He was taken aback when Hreithulfr, Signy’s brother, and Motholfr, Geirve tagging patiently along behind, came to ask what they could do to help, but it was an easy question to answer. Hreithulfr, town-bred, was the natural person to speak to wolfless men—and while Signy was every inch a konigenwolf, she was also still puppy enough that even the most nervous weaver or dyer could smile at her.
And Motholfr turned out to be a blessing. Before the trellwar, he had been one of those wolfcarls who could turn his hand to anything; now, it slowly began to show that anything he had once been able to do, he could teach. And in place of the bitterness and grief that had shrouded him, he had found a surprising store of patience.
Much of it, Brokkolfr thought, was Geirve, who was solemnly interested in everything—much more so even than the ordinary run of trellwolves, who were all as curious as cats. Geirve watched and listened, and she remembered what she learned. The second time Motholfr dropped the awl he was attempting to demonstrate, left-handed and awkward, to the boy who had bonded Geirve’s brother Ottarr, Geirve picked it up for him. And from there she quickly became Motholfr’s extra hand, turning frustration into pride. And Motholfr became in an odd way like the other half of Sokkolfr, the one doing the work that needed doing, the other making sure that it was possible for that work to be done.
Most of Brokkolfr’s job, then, was to listen when wolfcarls approached him, as—to his bemusement—they did. None of their concerns was particularly earthshaking, but the werthreat was serious in entrusting them to his judgment, and Brokkolfr took them seriously in return.
Minding Alfgyfa turned out to be the least onerous of duties. Though she had her father’s solemnity, she was rarely fussy; the heall-women doted on her, and Amma was inclined to regard her as a fifth pup. Alfgyfa, for her part, seemed happy to be adopted. The wolfheall grew used to her imperious cry of, “Ammy-wuf!” and if ever the little girl went missing, she was sure to be found cuddled against Amma’s flank or playing some inscrutable baby-game with the wolf’s massive paws. Some of the werthreat began to drag out the old legends of Sigfrothr, the hero raised by wolves, and Brokkolfr, not knowing if Isolfr would be amused or irritated, decided not to say anything. If nothing else, they were good stories, and some of them he’d never heard before.
The other duty that Isolfr, apologetically, placed on Brokkolfr was that of going with the men who volunteered to be the svartalfar’s laborers. Brokkolfr said, “You need not sound so guilty. It was a harder penance staying away.” And he succeeded in making Isolfr laugh.
During Amma’s sojourn in the root cellar, the aettrynalfar had asked for men whose brothers could come with them and add their strength. Four wolfcarls had volunteered; the only one of them Brokkolfr knew well was Ulfmundr, and he walked beside him, Hlothor circling them both, as they went out to the cave entrance. This was a different entrance from the two that Brokkolfr had known, and he wondered how many there were. Remembering what Baryta had said, he wondered if that was even a reasonable question or if the aettrynalfar made and closed entrances as they needed. This
one, Ulfmundr told him, was not difficult for trellwolves, although the men had to walk nearly doubled over, and it was only a short distance to the cave where they were working.
They were met at the cave mouth by two alfar; one Brokkolfr recognized as Orpiment. The alfar bowed and led the way silently; the men and wolves followed single file, the men bracing themselves with their hands as they entered the tunnel. Brokkolfr, bringing up the rear, observed that the wolves showed no reluctance. Whatever the aettrynalfar were doing, clearly it didn’t make them smell like trolls.
It was a comforting thought. He didn’t know anything about shaping magic, either the kind that the svartalfar used or the kind the trolls used. He’d always assumed, without really thinking about it, that trellish magic was just that: part of what made trolls trolls. But if that assumption was true, it meant some very unpleasant things about the aettrynalfar—and Brokkolfr couldn’t reconcile that idea with Antimony’s care for his children or Baryta’s teasing or Bubble’s overflowing enthusiasm.
He’d mentioned the worry to Kari, who, bored and frustrated as his ankle slowly mended, had been happy to talk about it. He’d seen more of trollwork than Brokkolfr had, and he said, “It’s not the same. Perhaps the techniques are the same, but—well, it’s like Isolfr’s axe that Tin gave him. That’s svartalf work and you can’t mistake it. If one of our smiths made an axe, it’d be just as clearly an axe, but you wouldn’t think a svartalf had had anything to do with it. So the svartalf here—they may make their passages with the same technique the trolls did, but there’s no comparison.”
“So magic is like an axe,” Brokkolfr said thoughtfully. “In itself, it’s a tool. It depends on who you are when you pick it up whether you use it to chop wood or slay trolls or murder your kinsmen.”
“Maybe. What do I know from magic? But I don’t think these svartalfar are the murdering type. Tin’s people, I could see where the stories came from about svartalfar being dreadful and dangerous, but these svartalfar are craftsmen and scholars.”
The Tempering of Men Page 25
