Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

  “Don’t listen to him!” Eyvind snarled, fighting to keep his grip as Erlend began to thrash and twist, sensing his captor’s flagging strength. “I am in my right mind, and I tell you this attack must not go forward. I will kill this man if even one of you seeks to pass me.” Run, Nessa. Hide. Thor’s hammer, it seemed to be growing dark; if he lost consciousness now it was all over. He could not fail her, he must not…The world was going hazy; the rising sun dazzled his eyes. “Run!” he shouted. “Hide! Beware attackers!” but his shout seemed to be no more than a whisper inside his stricken heart.

  “Oh dear, Eyvind,” someone said. A moment later there was a ringing blow on his helm, Grim’s hammer used with just enough force to disable him without cracking his skull open. A darkness fell on him, a darkness that was not oblivion, for he could still hear the tramping of boots all around him as men surged across the causeway and picked a path on the slippery rocks beside it. Feet passed before him, behind him, on top of him, ever forward to the attack. There were no cries save the harsh warnings of gulls, and the Folk would scarcely heed those. Other sensations returned; there were rocks under his head, his legs were in water, his axe and helm were gone. He was still blind; Grim’s hammer had taken away the daylight. After a while, the footsteps ceased. He crawled forward, not knowing who was near, not knowing if he were alone or no. Perhaps they were all gone across, with their spears and swords and axes…run, hide, quick, quick…He couldn’t see and he didn’t seem to be able to speak either. Perhaps it was grief that set this choking lump in his throat. He must go on, he must get across and help her, perhaps even now it was not too late…In the distance, men were shouting, and there was an ominous crackling, and suddenly above the war cries came the sharp, terrified scream of a woman. I wonder if she screamed, Somerled had asked him once, long ago. He must move, he must go on, perhaps he could still find her in time, perhaps…He seemed to be back up on the causeway, he could feel the close-laid stones, but he could not get up, his legs didn’t seem able to carry him…right, he would crawl if he must, he would find her, blind as he was…he had given his word…he must make it good…

  “I don’t think so, Eyvind.” Somerled must be right beside him; must have watched each pathetic move. “What can be so important over there that you still strive for it, wreck of a man that you have become? It saddens me to see this. You simply cannot be allowed to torture yourself thus. Grim’s blow was meant to render you unconscious, not turn you into some pitiable excuse for a hero. Now give up, will you? Tie him!” he ordered. “Bind his wrists and ankles tightly. Then put him up there on the point. Let him watch, since he seems eager to be a part of this. And keep guard, vigilant guard, you understand? If he tries to get away, hit him hard.”

  Hands seized Eyvind and hauled him unceremoniously back across the rocks. Dimly, he was aware of pain. The screams grew louder and shriller, then abruptly stopped. Men were still yelling, metal rang on metal, and now there was a roaring sound as of a great consuming fire. They were dragging him across the shore, up the path; his head hit a stone, and he could see again.

  “Somerled!” he tried to shout, but the sound was hoarse and breathless, drowned by the voices of the gulls. “Somerled, please! You don’t know what you’re doing! Somerled!”

  But Somerled could not hear. Already he was striding across the causeway, slender and straight-backed, this time with no guards at all. There was no need of them, for it seemed the battle would be all but over by the time he set foot in his new domain.

  Eyvind’s captors did as Somerled bade them, adding a gag for good measure. They lashed their prisoner to a stone on the point, facing the causeway and Engus’s settlement. The bonds were indeed tight; at first, Eyvind fought against them with all his remaining strength, kicking, twisting, straining, but his efforts were futile. He tried to shout, but the wad of coarse cloth in his mouth made his words into harsh animal noises, which echoed the turmoil in his head. Smoke arose thick and dark from Engus’s hall; beneath it flames flared bright gold. Most of the fighting seemed to be over; bodies were strewn about the sward, all around the small cluster of dwellings, bodies with tunics of brave red and green and blue. He could see Somerled’s men strolling between them, and the sharp downward movement of axe and sword. Other men stood around the burning hall at a safe distance, ready to seize any who might seek to escape from door or window. There didn’t seem to be anyone coming out. There was a movement of folk toward the far end of the causeway, women among them; perhaps prisoners were being taken. Nessa. How long would it be before they came back? It could not be long, the tide would turn and trap them if they delayed. Maybe she was still alive, maybe he would see her there in bonds of captivity, her head held proudly high, her lovely eyes turned on him in sorrow and reproach. He had failed her; he had not kept his promise. He had sworn to aid her, to be her champion. He had thought he could do it. But in the end, he had not been strong enough.

  Eyvind wrenched at his bonds anew; Odin’s bones, he was as weak as a newborn infant. Perhaps it was indeed as Somerled said. War fetter. Everyone knew what that was, though fighting men never spoke of it openly. It was the ailment a warrior feared above all, for it rendered a man useless, stealing his will to go forward, turning him into a trembling, pathetic husk. He had seen such a one at home in Rogaland, a quivering, weeping wreck who sat in a corner of the drinking hall nursing his ale, shunned even by his own wife. War fetter robbed a man of his very purpose for living. That Somerled had named it was like a curse; it was like setting a darkness on him. He had seen the look of pity and horror on Grim’s amiable features. He had seen revulsion in Erlend’s eyes, confusion and shame in Holgar’s. It seemed as if Somerled was right.

  For now, Eyvind could do nothing but sit here and witness the destruction of what he had vowed to preserve. He watched as the hall burned down to stones and ash. He watched as Somerled’s men began to march back across the causeway with the heads of their enemies held up on spears, fresh blood painting the shafts a glowing crimson in the light of morning. Gulls circled, screaming a song of death. After the heads came captives, one or two old graybeards, a few women, no more than six or seven. A single glance told him Nessa was not among them; none had her height, her proud carriage, her glossy brown hair. A warrior with a sword herded a gaggle of terrified children. One girl clutched a tiny infant, another shepherded an ancient grandmother hobbling on a stick. Not Rona: this one had sparse white hair in wisps, and stooped shoulders. Nessa… He watched them come, so few, a pathetic few. There were no boys, no young men, no warriors of middle years. Those had come already, their furious dark eyes and blood-drained faces paraded high on their conquerors’ spears.

  Now there was nothing moving on the Whaleback, save the drifting smoke from smoldering buildings, and the white dots of sheep on the sloping pasture beyond the ruined settlement. The men of the Folk lay where they had died; there was nobody left to gather their headless bodies up. Somerled’s warriors streamed back across the causeway, not silent now but jubilant: it was a great victory. On the shore below Eyvind, the captives now stood in a tight group, ashen-faced; the infant squalled shrilly, the children sobbed in terror. The women were quite silent. He saw Somerled down on the beach, lifted high on the shoulders of his men, arm raised in gesture of triumph. They were setting the heads in line along the pathway, driving the spears hard into the unyielding earth. The curve of the shore was fringed with them, the eyes of these dead warriors fixed westward toward the place where the last king of the Folk had fought his last, brief battle. Someone thrust a spear into the earth by Eyvind’s side. Despite himself, he looked up. Atop the shaft, the severed head of Engus’s son, Kinart, was set, fierce-eyed, grim-jawed, so young, too young…

  “Well, Eyvind.” Somerled was standing on his other side, expression mildly amused. “A pity you missed that: a fine battle, if all too easily won. But I’m afraid I have some sad news for you.”

  The gag smothered the words of fury that Eyvind would have shouted;
the sound he made was the bellow of a beast in pain.

  “Now, my old friend, hold still and keep quiet, will you? You’re making my guards quite nervous, thrashing about and roaring like that. I think they’re still mindful of ghost warriors and witch-hounds, even though you’ve manifested in flesh and blood. Easy now; you’re not well, anyone can see that.”

  Tell me! Tell me! He tried to convey with his eyes what he could not say; not that there was any doubt Somerled understood. Somerled was simply playing again; there was a little smile on his lips.

  “Very unfortunate. We accounted for the son.” He glanced upward. “The young fool thought himself a warrior, but these folk have limited skills in the field; he didn’t last long. I’d hoped Engus would come out and face me, but he chose to stay in the hall, and I’m afraid the young woman I mentioned before was by his side, loyal to the end. It was impressive, the stuff of a fine tale. I’m told there wasn’t a sound from in there, not a scream, not a cry. They perished in silence. Quite dignified, I thought; the pain must have been considerable. It was the ones outside that made all the noise. So, she’s gone, Eyvind. I’ll be looking elsewhere for a bride. Perhaps it’s for the best. Cleaner this way, complete break, no question whatever of my authority here. Somerled, king of Hrossey. It has quite a ring to it, don’t you think? Oh, Eyvind. Are those tears I see in your eyes? They are! My dear fellow, I did not expect such a display of feeling. It is a great victory, I must acknowledge that.”

  Eyvind let his lids close over his eyes. This grief was bone-deep, earth-deep, beyond words, beyond thought. This rage could not be spoken; it smoldered in the head, making the thoughts a white-hot furnace of hate. This loss flowed in the very veins, scourging the wounded heart until it cried for mercy. But there was no mercy. She was gone. Nessa was gone, and Eyvind had failed.

  “Best if we take you somewhere safe, my friend,” Somerled said. “Somewhere really safe and really quiet. You need time to recover, time to ponder what’s happened and think about your future. Later, we’ll talk. Not now. I think this gag had better stay on until we have you securely locked up, just for your own protection. Wild accusations do make folk angry, and you don’t seem to be able to defend yourself anymore, poor Eyvind. A nice long rest in a nice secure room, that will be best. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have things to do. It’s not every day one becomes a king.”

  Not so long ago, when Thor had deserted him and he’d lost his will to go on, Eyvind thought he had plumbed the depths of despair. He had come close to giving up altogether in that dark time. Perhaps that had been the illness Somerled had named, yet Eyvind did not see it thus, not now. He thought it had been a kind of test, a trial set on him, and because of it he had begun to think clearly, and see truly. He had not known the real trial still lay ahead of him. Now hatred gnawed at his belly, grief played tricks in his head, something else which he could not name made it impossible to do as he had done before, simply curl up in the darkness and flee inside himself. Something kept his mind awake, telling him this was not over yet, even though he had failed, even though Nessa was gone, even though Somerled had got exactly what he wanted. This time there would be no running away.

  They had locked him in a cell-like room, whose only light came from chinks in the rock walls and up under the musty thatch; a storehouse, probably, for there was a sprinkling of grain on the earthen floor and shelves where sacks might be laid to keep dry. He had heard a heavy bolt being slid across the door. Now and then came men’s voices beyond; no more than two, he judged. Somerled must believe him much weakened to set so meager a watch on him. Everyone knew you could not hold a Wolfskin prisoner long. Eyvind shivered. He had not been much of a Wolfskin this morning. He hadn’t even wanted to fight, but in the end, his flagging strength had been all he had, for the truth had been a poor weapon; not one of them had believed him. How could men like Erlend and Holgar follow Somerled so blindly? Was the thirst for battle so fierce in them that it overwhelmed all sense of what was right and fair? But then, had not he himself charged forward in the forefront of Jarl Magnus’s fighting men, and never questioned his enemy’s claim to land or goods or whatever it was the Jarl sought to take from him?

  Eyvind sat on the earthen floor, arms around his knees, staring at the wall not two paces before him. It was different. The difference was Magnus himself, a man of good judgment, a man whom they had seen arbitrating at the Thing and balancing each matter with gravity and rightness, a man who would make his decision only after due and full consideration of all the relevant matters. Magnus could be hard; he had quashed that rebellion in the east with speed and blood. But he was always fair, and what he did was for the benefit of all his folk in the long term. Magnus was a true leader. Somerled was…he was dangerous, not just to his enemies but to friends and family and to all he touched. He was even a danger to himself.

  Eyvind had never forgotten the words of the seer’s foretelling. For him, it had been true: in this far place he had indeed found a treasure beyond price, found her and lost her in one season’s span. As for Somerled, the cat woman had seen two paths for him, one leading to kingship and glory, the other shadowed and lonely. It seemed to Eyvind it was by no means sure which one of them Somerled followed. But one thing was plain. Somerled must be stopped. He could not be allowed to go on as he had begun here, setting his stamp on land and people until Nessa’s folk were entirely destroyed and her fair islands shorn of their ancient mysteries and peaceful beauty. Better no chieftain at all than one who plunges his followers into blind wrongdoing and sets the sword to those who extend the hand of friendship.

  It grew dark outside. At one point the iron bolt was slid open, and the door widened a crack, and a cautious hand came around with a hunk of bread and a cup of water. Eyvind made no move, no sound. The door closed; the bolt slid home. He could endure a night or two in this stinking hole; he still had his wolfskin to shelter him, he still had Nessa’s gift lying small and warm against his heart. Rushing out blindly with nothing in his head but the desire to strangle Somerled was the sort of thing the old Eyvind would have done: the sort of thing a Wolfskin would do. He was not a Wolfskin now. He had a mission; he had given Nessa his word, and he would keep it as best he could. It was too late for her, but somewhere in the islands were the remnants of Engus’s people, in hiding here on the mainland, or captive in Somerled’s settlement, or eking out their living by land and sea on the remoter islands, not knowing yet that their good king was gone forever. Those folk he could warn; them he could protect, somehow. He could tell them what Nessa had wished and hoped for them, he could give them heart. And he could stop Somerled. That part was first.

  In the dark, Eyvind unwrapped the little bundle of cloth, fingers gentle on the narrow ribbon. This she had worn in her hair, her lovely long fall of hair like dark shining silk. He had been bold that day, he could not believe how bold, taking the comb from her hand, drawing it gently through, stroking her hair with his fingers, softly so she would not know what he did. So close, so close she had been to him, yet quite unaware of the longing in him to wrap his arms around her, to kiss the hollow of her neck, her pale cheek, the sweet curve of her lips…He would not think of how it had been for her at the end; of how she and her uncle had sat quietly in their hall as the fire came all around them, as the smoke filled their lungs and the heat seared their flesh. He would not think of it, and yet as his jaw tightened and the lump came to his throat and his tears began to flow again, he could not stop thinking of it, her pain and terror tore at him. Engus’s niece: no wonder Somerled had pursued her. Now she was gone, and if Somerled had spoken the truth, the royal line of the Folk was ended. He touched the small feather, the moon-white stones. The heartbeat of the islands was not so easily stilled. The ancient beings Nessa had spoken of dwelt yet in the deep places, though their clear-eyed priestess could no longer summon them forth. Beneath his grief, a chill purpose had begun to possess him. This was not finished yet.

  Sleep was not possible. He made himself
lie down on the cold ground, made his body still and quiet, a discipline well-practiced in long years of sea voyaging and hastily improvised shelter. His mind he could not set at peace; it showed the images of fire and terror over and over, until he could have howled his anguish aloud as a wild creature does. He recalled the tale of Niall and Brynjolf, and a blood oath that bound a man to a lifetime of guilt and sorrow. It seemed to Eyvind that Niall should never have made the vow at all, knowing Brynjolf far less well than he thought. But having pledged himself, and having done the deed, he should not then have let it go as he had, simply pouring his grief into his songs. He should have challenged Brynjolf, made plain the truth of what he had done. He should have made sure such an ill course of events could never happen again. That was what Eyvind would do. It would not make good his own loss, nothing could ever do that, but it was at least a path of purpose, a course of action that set folk’s feet in right ways.

  Somerled had robbed him of Ulf’s buckle. Very well, without material evidence one must produce some other kind of proof. What had Brother Tadhg said? That it was unusual for such a crime to have no witnesses at all? Somerled could not have killed his brother thus, with such elaborate attention to detail, without at least one accomplice. Find that man, persuade him to talk, and there would be a case. Present that before the men of the court, Olaf Sveinsson, Harald Silvertongue, the more reasonable of Ulf’s advisers, and he could sway the balance here. The men of Rogaland were not blind to what was right. A warrior might charge in to the attack without weighing the character of his enemy, but he would never pledge allegiance to a brother-killer. Prove his guilt, and Somerled would be finished.

  He’d need help. It would have to be Eirik: Eirik who now dwelt in the south, where it was just possible witnesses might be found and coerced to speak out against their chieftain. Big, wild-bearded Eirik was quite good at getting people to talk, with limited damage. A course of action began to emerge: get out of this hole, find his brother, hide while a witness was sought, return to Somerled’s court and present the case. If only Somerled conducted matters as Magnus did back at Freyrsfjord. The formal proceedings of a Thing would provide the measure of protection needed to put a case together, as well as a forum where all arguments must get a fair hearing. That was all he asked. But it seemed Somerled had dispensed with the Thing, making himself sole arbiter and judge. He alone would determine punishment. That, surely, was too much power even for the wisest of men. Odin’s bones, he hoped Eirik would not look on him with the shock and scorn he had seen in the eyes of Erlend and Holgar.