Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

“Not yet?” Nessa queried, heart thumping. “Ah, I understand. Not until we reach Somerled’s hall. Only then do we release this voice.” She wrapped the little harp carefully in the bag, which not long ago had held only jumbled bones. “Now I must leave you. I thank you for your aid. Without you, this would not have been made.”

  They acknowledged her with a flurry of notes like the fluting of meadow birds, a dazzling, bright music of recognition. We are sisters. Go safely.

  There were scraps of bone left over, slivers and shards. Nessa gathered them with respect and laid them gently in a sheltered corner of the cave. She rolled the wolfskin up once more and fastened it tightly. Guard was waiting, his ears laid back, his tail between his legs. He seemed less than steady on his feet. It was a long way up the cliff path, and a longer one across the moonlit fields to Somerled’s hall.

  Now two of the sea women came forward, a small bundle or package held before them on outstretched hands. The tone of their song, the courteous bowing of their heads indicated this was a gift, and Nessa must take it with her. It was wrapped in what might have been cloth, or dried weed, or the hide of some creature only seen in deepest waters.

  “Th–thank you,” Nessa faltered. “I don’t know how I can carry—”

  Long hands reached to fasten the package on her back, a cord of twisted seaweed tying it in place. Nessa drew a deep breath. She bore the wolfskin under one arm, the harp cradled by the other. It was a steep path, and narrow. There was simply no room for any error. She had sworn she would do this, and she must.

  “Farewell,” she told them. “I won’t forget what you have done. I understand its importance. We are of one kind, my sisters, for all our differences.”

  They reached to touch her then, a whisper of fingertips against her cheek, brushing her hair, stroking her arm, clinging to her hand. Their skin was so cold, as cold as hoarfrost, and there was a faint, constant trembling in them, as if the ebb and flow of the sea were present in their flesh, even while they sojourned on land. Their voices sang greeting and farewell: Sister, our sister. So brave, so true. Go forth, go safe.

  Guard hung back, reluctant even to begin the journey. He stood at the foot of the path whining, a sound that increased in anxiety as Nessa, heart sinking, made her cautious way upward in the faint light from the moon, which hung low in the sky somewhere beyond the clifftop. There could be no delays. There was no mistaking the message: if this was not done tonight, it would be too late. Behind her, Guard whimpered again. It sounded as if he was a long way back. She waited, trying not to look down, making her voice reassuring.

  “Good boy, Guard. Come on, now. It’s not far.”

  There was a hissing from below, as if the sea women sought to harry the hound on his way; a sudden scrabbling followed, and then silence. She could not tell where he was. She turned her head, peering back in the dim light. Below her, far below, the moonlight gleamed on white water. Her stomach churned; a wave of dizziness swept over her. On, she must go on, that was the only thing that mattered.

  “Guard?” She had spotted him, crouched frozen on the path a short way up from the shore. She could not help him, burdened as she was. Perhaps she could reach the top, put down what she carried and then go back for him. He had been so faithful, so strong; she could not leave him behind. But suppose she fetched him safely up, what then? To reach the settlement in time she must ride, she must steal a horse from somewhere, and if she did that, Guard would not be able to keep up.

  Nessa crept on up the path. Behind her, there was now no sound but the sigh of the sea far below, the sleepy calls of gulls on the ledges. She was breathless and her body ached. It had been foolish to forget the importance of eating, for now she was faint and her strength was flagging fast. She could imagine what Rona would have said. Foolish girl! Even a priestess must eat and drink. The mind can’t help you if you don’t help the body. Here, get this broth into you.

  A cloud came over the moon, and the path in front of her vanished. She froze in place. Her burdened hands could not be used to feel the way; all she could do was stand completely still on the ledge, her back pressed against the rock wall. By day, the wide vista of western ocean would make a fine sight before her, crisscrossed by the flights of foraging birds, gull and puffin, tern and guillemot, circling and passing in their dance of survival. Now, in the darkness, she knew only the immensity of the drop before her, the narrow margin of safety, as small as the length of her foot, the yawning black emptiness ready for her fall, her own last flight. Nausea gripped her belly; she fought for control, her fingers curling into the long, soft pelt of the wolfskin. I want so much to live. More than I’ve ever wanted anything before. The moon emerged once more; cool, pale light frosted the cliffs with silver, and made a shining pathway on the dark water. Nessa walked forward, not knowing if the voice she had heard was her own or another’s, borne on some strange wind from the east. “I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’ll be there soon. Wait for me.”

  Guard’s whine came faintly from somewhere far below. He was surely no farther up the path than he had been that first time, and now she was near the top, and must go on. How could she fetch him? He was a big dog, and her own strength was ebbing even as his had. He whined again, and now there was an answer from above her, a strong, spirited barking ringing out from the clifftop. Nessa’s heart clenched tight with alarm. Somerled’s men, with dogs: they had somehow followed her, and now waited up there to seize her as they had Eyvind. The harp would be lost, the one chance gone, for the fragile instrument would fall in pieces if it were dropped or manhandled. Somerled’s people thought her a witch, working her spells to harm them. They would surely destroy what she bore before ever its voice might be heard.

  The barking continued, deep and vibrant, and now there was a scrabbling, sliding sound of claws on the slippery rocks of the path, and all of a sudden Guard was right behind her, the noise he made surely not a warning but a call of recognition, a joyous greeting. Against the odds, he had made the climb in a fraction of the time it had taken Nessa.

  “Good boy,” she breathed, and since there was no other choice possible, she took the last few steps up to the clifftop. The moment she set foot on level ground she was all but bowled over, for the hound that bounded up to greet her was healthy and strong, and it came close to sending her straight down to the ocean far below in its frenzied excitement. Now Guard reached the top, and the two of them, like as peas in a pod, ran and chased and sniffed in ecstasy, tails thrashing furiously in the delight of reunion. Shadow. Shadow had disappeared with Rona, that was what Eyvind had said. But it seemed Shadow had come here alone. There were no warriors, there was nobody at all, only the moonlight and the stones.

  “Good girl,” she murmured, setting the wolfskin down a moment to rest her arm. She stroked the bitch’s head, feeling the wet warmth of its tongue against her fingers. “Well done. Now we must move on. I need a horse, and I’ll have to catch it in the dark. And then…” She could not dwell on the difficulty of doing this, on the impossibility of riding thus burdened. What would Rona say? She imagined her old friend by the fire, stirring a pot of something fragrant—gods, she was hungry—and gazing at her wryly. You’re a priestess. Make things happen. Some help that was.

  Shadow had ceased to leap about and now headed off along a near-invisible path, turning her head as if to check whether Nessa followed. Guard stayed close by his mate’s side. It seemed he, at least, had found some untapped well of inner strength, and would keep going beyond the point of utter exhaustion. Perhaps what he had found was hope. Picking up the wolfskin, easing cramped fingers around the other precious item she bore, Nessa followed the two hounds across the dark fields to the east. There were farms not far away. At least, there had been farms not long ago, three snug cottages separated by walled fields, with well-tended beasts, including a horse or two. The men who looked after the stock there had perished at the Whaleback. There was no telling where the women might be. It was toward those dwellings that Shadow was l
eading them. They walked onward under the moon.

  Shadow kept a wide berth around the first house, where the shutters hung splintered and broken, and something made a rhythmic banging in the freshening breeze. There was no sign of life. The second house was burned to stones and rubble, and across its outer yard objects lay scattered: a woollen shawl rent almost in two, a child’s shoe, a basket whose cargo of shriveled turnips lay scattered on the ground. Was that blood, or merely some natural darkening of the soil here in the corner where a stile straddled the stone dyke? Shadow jumped up; Guard followed, clumsy in his weakness. Nessa scrambled after them and did not look back. Later, when this was finished, there would be time for sorrow, for grieving, for the rituals of farewell.

  They neared the third house. Nessa’s heart sank. Lights shone from inside, and the figures of armed men could be seen on watch in the yard. Their garb was that of the Norsemen: iron helms, short cloaks, dark, belted tunics. A great deal of weaponry hung about their bodies.

  “Shadow!” she hissed. “Shadow, come back!” For the bitch was sprinting forward now, her barking drawing instant attention to their presence. Guard loped trustingly after her. Nessa crouched by an outhouse, her heart pounding. It could be only moments before the men found her.

  One guard was reaching down to pat the bitch; he seemed quite unperturbed by her dramatic arrival. The other came over to stand by his side, hands on hips. They were staring at Guard now; Nessa could hear their tones of astonishment.

  “Well, well. What have we here?”

  “Thor’s hammer! Two of ’em! Didn’t they say one went off with…?”

  “With the Wolfskin. That’s what they said. Vicious brute with teeth like knives, nearly took one fellow’s hand off.”

  “Can’t be the same dog,” said the second man, reaching to scratch Guard behind the ears. “Skinny thing, but friendly enough. Looks like he’s been on the run a while.”

  The two of them exchanged a glance. Then, without a word, they drew their knives and moved forward, straight toward the most obvious hiding place, the solitary outhouse where Nessa huddled, trembling, by the wall. Shadow bounded ahead, showing the way. In despair, Nessa rose to her feet and moved into the open, speaking in the tongue of the Norsemen.

  “I am alone and unarmed. All I want is to travel north unhindered. Please, let me pass.”

  The two men halted in surprise; whatever they had expected to find, it was not a young woman out in the night alone. They looked at each other again.

  “Please,” Nessa repeated, keeping her tone soft and sweet though anger burned inside her for the wrongs these folk had done to her people, and fear still clutched at her vitals. “Please, just let me pass. I mean no harm.”

  The first man’s eyes narrowed; he was looking at the rolled-up skin under her arm. “What’s that you bear, girl?”

  Nessa held her head high. She would tell no lies. “You can see what it is: a badge of honor, the recognition of your Warfather, Thor. I am a friend of the warrior Eyvind; I journey to Somerled’s hall with a message of truth. I must be allowed to proceed unhindered. I must reach that place tonight.”

  They gazed at her. “Hmm,” said one. “Just let you go, is it? I don’t think so.”

  “What’s your name?” snapped the other. “Where do you come from? Answer quickly, now.” And he reached out to seize her arm in an iron-hard hand. In its wrapping, the harp trembled; Nessa struggled to keep hold of it.

  “My name is Nessa. Let me go. I won’t try to escape. I’m not so foolish as to believe I can outrun you. Only a weak man, or a very stupid one, uses force against a woman. These dogs will protect me. Look at them.”

  And indeed, the moment the fellow had laid his hand on Nessa, Shadow’s affectionate demeanor had changed. Now her ears were laid back, her head lowered, and a deep growling sounded in her throat. Guard had stationed himself close to the second man, forelegs planted wide, eyes intent as if he were ready to leap into attack the moment the fellow made a move.

  The first man cleared his throat. “You can’t pass,” he said bluntly, but he had relaxed his vise-like grip. “You must come with us.”

  The door of the cottage opened; a warm light streamed out as the two men made their way back with Nessa walking between them, still holding fast to her precious burdens. The dogs followed, watchful.

  “What’s going on? Why was the dog barking?”

  It was a woman’s voice that spoke, and a woman’s form silhouetted in the doorway, a slender woman clad in dark gown and pale overdress pinned near the shoulders with twin brooches of silver that glinted in the light.

  “What is it, Ash?” she asked.

  “An intruder, my lady. Found her out yonder by the grain store. Says she’s a friend of the Wolfskin, Eyvind that is, heading for court to see him. Sounds like nonsense, but she’s got the skin, and she’s got his dog, too.”

  “Up to no good if you ask me.” The other man’s voice was gruff. “Girl on her own, wandering around out here at night. Must be a trick. An ambush; pack of her kinsmen out there waiting to move in. We’d better rouse the other men quick.”

  “I told you,” Nessa said wearily, “I’ve come here alone, but for the dog. Please let me pass; there’s no time to waste. I must reach Somerled’s hall before dawn. Please,” she said again, looking up at the figure in the doorway.

  There was a moment’s silence, and then the woman turned slightly so the light from inside caught her features, and Nessa saw that it was Margaret.

  THIRTEEN

  Olaf stared at the buckle and its tangle of knotted cord, frowning deeply. “Wolfskin,” he said, “tell us how you believe this object implicates the king in his brother’s killing. There’s a mystery here; indeed, I confess myself taken aback that the king did not produce this item far earlier in the proceedings if it has such import.” He glanced nervously at Somerled, and quickly away.

  “Why bring it out at all if it’s got no bearing on the case?” growled the knarr’s captain. It was his first contribution to the hearing.

  “I will tell you what it means,” said Eyvind quietly. “When I was forced to cut this buckle away in order to free Ulf, I thought only to preserve it for my friend, for I knew it to be a family heirloom of some value. I thought it would please Somerled to keep this remembrance of his brother. I did forget it for a long time; my mind was taken up by other matters. Then I had cause to examine the buckle anew, to look at the cords, which you can still see tangled and twisted about it, cords knotted so tightly I could not free the dead man’s body without cutting the buckle itself away from his clothing. Look closely, my lord. Have you seen such a knot before, a decorative, neat construction resembling a close-furled flower? It is a difficult knot to make, one that tightens quickly at first, and then more slowly: a knot no living creature can escape. Ulf fought against it so fiercely that he came close to severing his own wrist; your chieftain bled to death from that self-inflicted wound. Whether the gulls came at him while he still clung to life, or later, there is no telling, but his body was still warm when I cut him free. No man deserves such a death, whether it is foretold or no. No man inflicts such torture on another, save one driven by the deepest of hatreds, the most carefully nurtured of resentments. My lords, this knot is a thing of beauty and horror, to be employed only in the cruellest trap, for a creature caught thus dies painfully, by slow degrees. I have never used it in a snare myself, for I have always believed in a clean kill, a sharp, merciful ending. But I do know how to make this knot; Somerled taught me long ago when we were children. It was his invention, his secret. There are only two I know of who can do it: your new king there, and myself.”

  Now the silence was profound. Harald Silvertongue had picked up the buckle; his fingers touched the little knots gingerly, his mouth was tight with distaste. Olaf had his chin in his hand, as if thinking deeply. Now, Eyvind thought, now they must believe me. Somerled was a fool to keep this, and think not to be damaged by it. Now they must at least feel some
doubt about his motives. But Somerled was smiling.

  “You heard the man,” the king said mildly. “Only two can make this knot. That may or may not be true, of course; who’s to say I did not teach others my invention? Eyvind has no monopoly on my friendship, for all we are blood brothers. Let us say I did not do so. Let us say this secret skill is shared only by the two of us. Now think of the manner of Ulf’s killing. A fit, able man, desperate to survive—did not Eyvind say Ulf fought against his bonds so hard that he caused his own mortal injury? What kind of killer could have brought about Ulf’s murder in such a manner, tying him, moving him some distance probably, stuffing his mouth with weed to silence him, suspending him from the clifftop in the most perilous of places? Didn’t someone mention that would take a man of exceptional strength? So, we narrow our field of suspects down to one who can make the knot, and who also possesses physical prowess somewhat beyond that of an ordinary warrior. While I wouldn’t mind claiming the latter for myself, my friends, all of you know my own skills in feats of strength are adequate rather than outstanding. Eyvind’s a different matter. If you had asked our people on the island, last summer, who among us was foremost in bodily strength and skill, every single one of them would have named this man you see before you. Eyvind, old friend, I’m afraid your stunning piece of evidence has done nothing but point the finger straight at yourself.”

  “But—” Eyvind began, appalled that such a cruelly twisted version of events could come from the lips of a man who, not long ago, had professed the deepest friendship for him. Curse it, man, I can’t do without you. All the arbiters were staring at him now; he saw in their eyes shock, disgust, stunned realization. Only on Olaf Sveinsson’s shrewd features did he recognize a shadow of doubt. It was to Olaf he spoke now in shaking tones.

  “My lord, this is nonsense. What reason could I possibly have had to kill Ulf? I respected the man, I thought him a fine leader.”