by Swan Road
Beneath the dark canopy formed by the overhanging branches of the trees, along rough paths dimly dappled with grey sunlight, the hunting party wound its way steadily upward through the wooded hills until at last, along a stream that elk, reindeer, roe deer, and other animals were known to frequent, the hounds caught the fresh scent where tree bark had been scraped away by the antlers of stags, and great patches of snow had earlier that day been trampled and pawed by herds feeding on the moss and lichen beneath. The rocks that strewed the stream banks and protruded from the icy water were slimed with moss; the earth all about was slick and muddy. The stream itself, half frozen, flowed sluggishly, and so was easy enough to ford when the dogs, barking and impatiently straining at their leashes, were freed by the hunters to plunge into the water and to wade across, their tails waving like gay banners behind them. After shaking themselves off vigorously on the far bank, the hounds again put their noses to the ground, then eagerly set to running and baying as they once more picked up the scent, their voices echoing through the woods, above the high-pitched wail of the chief hunter's horn.
At the sound, Ragnar and the other jarlar and thegns spurred their horses forward, splashing through the frigid water, with the hunters and freedmen racing swiftly behind. Once on the other side of the stream, Wulfgar fairly flew over the snowy earth, using the spears of his father and half brothers both to keep his balance and to pull himself along in the wake of the horses. After a time, despite his wet leather breeches and sealskin boots, he no longer felt the cold, but was as warm as though he sat before a too-hot fire. Beneath his fur cloak and leather garments, he could feel sweat trickling down his body, and his breath came fast and harsh, forming clouds in the air. Still, he, like the hunters and the other freedmen, was accustomed to running with the horses and so did not lag behind as the hunt wore on, but pressed on determinedly, keeping to the tracks that snaked through the forest until reaching higher ground, where the trees thinned and there was more room to maneuver as he drove the spears hard into the snow, sliding and swishing forward on his snowshoes, exhilarated by the chase.
The hounds, who had scrabbled over fallen logs and through snarls of brush, where the horses and men could not follow, had long been lost to sight. But an occasional blast on the chief hunter's horn brought distant, answering barks in response, drawing the hunting party on in the right direction; and sometime past noon, the men swung eastward, up a slope to a crest where the pine and spruce trees were sparse, and there, across the way, in the distance, they spied a herd of fleet roe deer, twenty to thirty head strong, Wulfgar estimated, bounding through the woods. At the sighting of their quarry, the chief hunter once more blew his horn, and the dogs, who had been silent for the better part of an hour, hard on the trail as they sniffed out the scent, now renewed their baying with vigor. Breaking from the trees to the north, they spotted their fleeing prey and scrambled down the acclivity to strike out across the wide, misty valley below and then up the opposite hillside, streaking after the roe deer.
"Björn Ironside! Hasting! Take half the men and circle around behind the herd!" Ragnar directed as he drew his snorting steed up short, lifting one hand to bring the hunting party to a halt behind him. "The rest of us will ride south and head them off before they reach the pass."
With exuberant shouts, the men were off and away, setting spurs to mounts to thunder in a cloud of churning snow from the crest, down the incline to the floor of the valley, where the trees were few and on the forest fringe, although boulders and smaller rocks swept down from the hills through the years by avalanches hove up from the ground, and the scrub was more prolific, the earth choked with the sodden tangle of brush and dead weeds that spread across the marshy ground. At the heart of the valley, where the mist hung low, a shallow mere stretched, and this slowed Wulfgar and the other men afoot, so that by the time they had slogged across the icy water, the men ahorse to the south had succeeded in turning back the herd of roe deer and driving them toward the hounds and the rest of the mounted men led by Björn Ironside and Hasting to the north. For a moment, it seemed the panicked herd would fly deep into the forest to the east, heedless that the going would be difficult at such a pace, with low-hanging boughs to hinder the lead stag's antlered head. But in the end, the dogs prevented this, snarling and snapping and streaming out in a wide half circle to cut off the herd's course of escape; and the magnificent lead stag swung hard about to the west, toward the only perceived route to freedom, which lay across the mere and the valley, on the hillside whence the hunting party had come.
Realizing this, Wulfgar and the other men afoot stealthily advanced, making little sound upon the snowy earth, using the stones and thickets and brambles for cover, their furs and hide garments providing additional camouflage from their prey. Silent and alert, they watched from their places of concealment, waiting to show themselves as the herd came, leaping agilely over rocks and scrub alike, afraid, upwind, into the snare laid by the men. From where he crouched behind a stout bush to avoid being trampled, Wulfgar could now see through its skein of bare branches the blur of laboring greyish sides and white underbellies as the roe deer pelted toward him, the whites of their terrified eyes and the frantic flaring of their black-velvet nostrils as the hounds came hard on the herd's heels and the jarlar and thegns closed in from the north and the south, yanking mounts up short and readying bows and arrows. At Ragnar's signal, the chief hunter sounded his horn long and loud; and at that, the hunters and freedmen rose up from their hiding places, clambering onto boulders and outcrops for safety, yelling fiercely and waving their arms wildly at the oncoming roe deer, throwing them into further panic and disarray. The violence that erupted was fatal to man as well as beast as, in the confusion, Wulfgar saw a hunter knocked down and crushed beneath stampeding hooves, and a freedman gored by lowered antlers in passing. But most of the startled herd instinctively shied away from the shouting men, crashing into other roe deer as bows were drawn tight and notched arrows loosed amid the chaos.
One of the roe deer stumbled and went down then, an arrow protruding from its heaving side, and then another roe deer and yet another fell as, too late, the lead stag realized the trap and raced on out of sheer instinct to survive, sailing over a hummock and then bounding into the mere, striving to gain the trees at the foot of the western hills, the majority of the herd coming hard and fast behind, nearly trampling one another in their haste to escape as some of their number ran crazily in the opposite direction, impeding the flow, and stragglers struggled to catch up. But the slender, fletched shafts of the jarlar and thegns drove true; like stinging bees, sharp iron barbs bit deep, bloodying greyish winter coats that would never again turn red-brown with the summer, and a second barrage of arrows followed the first as at least half a dozen more wounded roe deer, bleating with pain and fear, staggered and rolled in a tangle of thrashing limbs to be viciously fallen upon by the frenzied dogs.
Then the hunters were there, shouting, cursing, and jerking the hounds back by the collar and leashing them, while, with wild whoops of triumph and bloodlust, the men ahorse dismounted to surge forward, as well. Now, like the rest of the freedmen, Wulfgar rushed to catch the reins carelessly tossed to him by his father and half brothers, and to give them their spears, with which they brought low the few injured roe deer still endeavoring to lurch on. Then, scramasaxes in hand, the jarlar and thegns waded into the melee to deliver the death blows to those roe deer downed but still alive.
It was then that in the cacophony, a streak of grey fur burst with a ferocious snarl from a misty hollow beneath a rocky outcrop amid the scrub, where, wounded in a fierce fray with a much younger foe and driven from its pack, it had sought refuge. Across the wet, low-lying ground, the creature leaped, its brain clouded from its injuries, its belly sharp with pain and hunger. For a moment, caught up in the slaughter of the roe deer, the men were only dimly aware of the flash of grey fur that bolted into their midst. Then Ivar cried out hoarsely, a terrible sound, so the eyes of all who he
ard it were drawn to him; and coming to their senses, the men realized that the beast that had sprung from the hollow was a lone wolf, maddened with rage and and the smell of blood. It had knocked Ivar down where he had knelt over one of the fallen deer, and was now at his throat.
In that instant, it seemed that time stopped and that all in the hunting party were paralyzed, frozen with horror and disbelief. Never had Wulfgar seen a wolf so huge; and it came to him in that seemingly eternal moment that it was no ordinary wolf at all, but a were-wolf, Fenrir, progeny of the wicked Loki and brother to Jormungand, the monstrous Midgard serpent that girded the earth, and also to Hela, who was Death. The gods had created the strongest of fetters to chain Fenrir, but he had broken the bonds as though they were made of cobwebs. Angry and alarmed at seeing this, the gods had then dispatched a messenger to the mountain spirits, and they had forged for the gods a chain known as Gleipnir, fashioned of these six things: the sound made by a cat's footfall, the beards of women, the roots of stones, the breath of fish, the nerves of bears, and the spittle of birds. When complete, the fetter was as slender and soft and delicate as a silken riband. But the were-wolf, suspecting that it was enchanted, had refused to be bound by it unless he could hold in his mouth the hand of one of the gods as hostage for their good faith. Knowing how they planned to trick Fenrir, only Týr, the god of battles, had proved brave enough to place his hand inside the were-wolf s massive jaws with their sharp, carnivorous teeth; and when Fenrir had discovered he could not escape from the chain called Gleipnir, he had bitten Týr's hand off at the wrist as punishment for deceiving and imprisoning him.
But now, Wulfgar thought, the were-wolf had at last somehow broken free of his magical bonds and descended to Midgard, the earth. Wulfgar shuddered with fear at the notion, for if that were indeed so, it could mean only one thing: that Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, was at hand. Now, too, would Garm, the hound of Hel, howl; Jormungand, the terrible Midgard serpent, rise from the seas to spew venom upon the earth; the giant Hrym sail forth Naglfar, the Ship of the Dead; and the watchman, Heimdall, blow his horn, a call to battle. Wicked Loki would join the enemies of the gods— the followers of Hela, who was Death, and the Frost giants; and the sons of Muspell, with their leader, Surt, at their vanguard, would ride over the rainbow bridge, Bifröst, breaking it beneath their weight, on their way to the last battlefield, Vigrid. There, all the gods and their foes would be slain; then the universe would burn up and be no more— or so the skálds sang in the great mead halls of the jarlar, and so all his life, Wulfgar had believed. Nor was he the only one of the hunting party to think that their doom was come upon them. Stricken, the rest of the freedman had fallen to their knees as though awaiting retribution, and even the jarlar and thegns were stunned and uneasy, uncertain what to do.
Ivar was still locked in mortal combat with the giant wolf, twisting and turning to avoid its great, snapping jaws and terrible, bared fangs. Another man would have been dead by now, Wulfgar thought. But Ivar had the strength of two men and was gifted, besides, with the uncanny ability to contort his body in that unnatural fashion— as though he had no bones. He had his hands firmly about the wolf's throat to hold the creature at bay, and he and the wolf thrashed and tumbled across the ground as they grappled desperately for supremacy, a blur of grey fur and brown leather, stained with blood— although whether this was from wounds of their own or from the roe deer killed earlier, Wulfgar could not tell. The snow was red with the blood that had poured from the injuries and the opened throats of the roe deer, and the battle of Ivar and the wolf had brought them near to one of the slain does that lay silent and still upon the earth, large, liquid brown eyes glassed over now, limbs already stiffening in the cold.
It seemed forever before at last gathering their wits, Ubbi and Halfdan raised their bows and notched their arrows to take aim at the wolf, only to have their weapons abruptly and savagely struck from their hands by their father, who swore at them wrathfully.
"By the God of the Runes and Valhöll!" Ragnar roared as he cuffed his sons again roughly, nearly knocking them down; and Wulfgar thought he had never seen his father so angry— or so afraid. "You fools! 'Tis plain you did not drink from Ymir's well of wisdom and wit at Jötunheim ere you were birthed, else you'd have more of both, you stupid whelps of a mongrel bitch! Why, you cannot tell man from beast in that fracas! Do you want to slay Ivar by mistake?"
"Nay, but neither are we of a mind to stand idly by while a crazed wolf mauls him to death, Father!" Halfdan, younger and bolder than Ubbi, shot back, his breath coming harsh with ire at Ragnar for shaming him before the hunting party, and with fear for Ivar.
"So you say!" Ragnar growled, his clear blue eyes blazing like sunlight reflecting off ice. "But 'tis more like you cared not if your arrow pierced him, Halfdan, for then would his death set Ubbi on my throne— and you be one step closer to it, by Odinn!"
"Nay, Father!" Halfdan protested. "That was not the way of it—"
But Ragnar, in his upset, did not want to hear Halfdan's indignant words; and with his fist, he backhanded Halfdan across the mouth before roughly shoving him aside; then, breathing hard, he strode toward Ivar and the wolf, spear in hand, poised to strike. Now, of all Ragnar's sons, Ivar was not only his heir, but also his best beloved, and this must have been foremost in his mind, Wulfgar thought; for Ragnar's hand trembled ever so slightly as he watched for his chance to intervene in the deadly struggle, and when he finally did thrust his spear downward, he missed the wolf's side and instead drove it so savagely into the creature's haunch that the shaft broke in two. Still, the wound did not prove fatal. If anything, it only incited the wolf to further violence; for after making a spine-chilling sound that was neither snarl nor squeal, the creature appeared, incredibly, to gain strength and redoubled its assault with a vigor, its jaws suddenly clamping viciously about Ivar's sword hand and wrist. There was an audible snapping and grinding of bone, and a fearsome cry issued from Ivar's white lips as he tried but failed to wrench free. The hunting party gave a collective gasp, for a man so maimed he could not wield a weapon was better off dead, and it seemed to them all that the wolf would tear Ivar's hand clean off his wrist.
That was when Wulfgar decided his destiny, as Yelkei had warned he would that day; for surely, he thought afterward, it was not ill chance alone, but fate, the gods' decree that Ivar's battle with the wolf should have brought the two of them so close to him, and at a time when the creature was on top, so that for a moment, he had an unobstructed swing at it. If he had remembered Yelkei's words in time, Wulfgar might have hesitated and the opportunity been lost. But he did not think of Yelkei's warning; he had no clear thought in his mind at all, really, except that of saving Ivar's life. Shouting a mighty cry as he yanked his battle-ax from its leather scabbard at his back, Wulfgar whirled the weapon about his head, then brought it down hard and true. The song Blood-Drinker sang was a song of death as it bit deep into the wolf's neck, spraying blood, and killing the creature almost instantly. As though in anger and protest and certainly pain at its demise, the wolf growled low and fierce in its throat, an anguished snarl; its back spasmed grotesquely. Then, finally, as Wulfgar jerked his blade free, the creature toppled to one side and lay still, its jaws still locked about Ivar's wrist.
Only the hard rasp of Ivar's breath broke the silence then; even the dogs were quiet, as though sensing the import of the moment. All eyes were locked on Wulfgar and the battle-ax he held in his hands, its blade slowly dripping blood onto the soaked earth; and of a sudden, regaining his senses, he realized with dismay that in the space of his weapon's descent, he had brought upon himself what he had all his life sought to avoid: the attention of the jarlar and of Ragnar, their king.
"By the Norns!" Björn Ironside crowed in the hush. A powerful jarl, his fame and exploits rivaled those of Ragnar himself, so there was a certain wariness and enmity between the two men, with neither being loath to stick an oar into the other's water. "That was a brave blow for one who is
no warrior— and a true strike against what was surely no ordinary wolf, but a mighty were-wolf, Loki's get, loosed from the very gates of Hel! Well done, Wulfgar Bloodaxe!"
At the bestowing of this title, the rest of the jarlar and thegns roared their approval. But although Wulfgar's heart soared with pride and joy at the sound, his eyes were watchful; for neither Ragnar nor his sons joined in the cry, and Wulfgar knew that his deed had not won him their love, that they would rather have seen Ivar dead in his grave than alive and beholden to an upstart bastard with a claim, however slight and distant, to Ragnar's kingdom and throne.
"How came you by that battle-ax, Wulfgar?" Ragnar asked softly when the shouting had died down. The words were spoken pleasantly enough, but Wulfgar was not deceived by their tone. A flame of fury burned deep in Ragnar's eyes, and there was a flicker, too, of what, in another man, Wulfgar would have called fear. " 'Tis the weapon of a thegn and not that of a lowly bóndi. Yet you had it near to hand and were skilled in its use. 'Twould seem your free moments have been spent aping your betters rather than in studying how best to serve your masters."
"With all due respect, lord, my free moments are my own." Wulfgar's reply, while courteous, was not humble, for he had naught to lose now by any boldness, he thought. If they had not been before, his father and half brothers had this day become his bitterest foes, and caviling would not lessen their hate or soften their hearts toward him; indeed, it would earn only their amusement and contempt for his weakness. "The battle-ax I made with my own two hands, lord, and taught myself to wield. I named it Blood-Drinker, although it has tasted only that of animals and not that of the Northland's enemies, for which it thirsts."
"Spoken like a true Víkingr!" Hasting observed stoutly before Ragnar could answer. As close as brothers were Björn Ironside and Hasting, each quick to support and to defend the other. "Why, a jarl could do a lot worse than to call you his man, Wulfgar Bloodaxe, I am thinking. At the midspring blót, when we make offering to the goddess of spring, Eostre, you must count yourself among those who set their right hands to the sword hilt of a jarl, thus pledging him loyalty."
