Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

  He could not see Tadhg, but he heard the blows. The halting prayer went on, in his own tongue now.

  “…though death overshadow me…yet you lead me forth in the darkness…you are…you are my strength and comfort…you…”

  Odin’s bones, they would kill the brother right here before him; he thought he could hear ribs cracking. He could not allow this. Thor must not allow it.

  Eyvind threw back his head and roared. He thundered the name of the god in a great outcry of fury and frustration, and under his grip the grilled door began to break from its hinges, half falling outward. He clung to it, struggling to gain steady footing in his shackles. Quick as the slice of a butcher’s cleaver, several pairs of hands gripped his arms, closing iron rings about his wrists, joined by a length of chain which fastened him, firmly and neatly, to the grille itself. The last hinge gave; the door fell to the ground with Eyvind sprawled upon it, neatly bound in place, arms held firm by the manacles, face pressed against cold metal. A trap, it had been, a lure to bring him within reach. Clever. Too clever by far for any of these oafs. He thought he knew who had devised it.

  “Are you all right?” Eyvind called out, and heard a gasping “Yes” before the first blow fell across his back. He fought as well as he might, twisting and writhing, wrenching at his bonds, flailing up and back with his bound feet. At least they had left the priest now, in order to concentrate on him. There was a kind of pattern in the way they went about it, as if they were under instructions to minimize visible damage while ensuring the result, eventually, would be as Somerled had requested. Somewhere not too far away the prayer went on.

  “Thy house is a place where all paths run straight, Lord. If I walk forward in truth and courage, then in the end, that will be my one sure shelter…”

  A stunning impact on the temple brought the headache back to throbbing life. There seemed to be blood in his eye. The opportunity to do as Brother Tadhg recommended and fight back was somewhat limited, with the wrist bonds holding him face down on the collapsed grille, and the shackles restricting the freedom of his legs. Fight for Nessa. Think of her. Think of life and a future. All paths run straight…truth and courage… Fight for her, and fight for truth. And when he could not fight anymore, make noise, a lot of noise, for they’d said someone was coming, someone whose arrival gave Somerled pause, and if he could just hold on long enough…

  “Thor!” Eyvind yelled. “Thor be my strength! Odin be my guard and shield! Freyr give me the power of your manhood! Beat me, would you, you cowards?” A club caught him a glancing blow on the left ear; his head buzzed as if a swarm of angry bees had lodged behind his eyes. “Somerled!” He shouted with all the power left in his lungs. “Somerled, come down and fight your own battles! Kill me in the darkness, would you? Coward! Call yourself a king? Come down and fight!”

  “Help!” Another voice was shouting now. “Help! Murder!” His prayer at an end, the little brother was making his own contribution to the general commotion, cracked ribs or no. “Help! They’re killing the Wolfskin!”

  “Silence that fellow!” hissed someone, and there was a thud, and the priest’s shouting halted abruptly.

  “Curse you!” Eyvind gasped, kicking up and back with his two feet together, and hearing a pained grunt as the random blow struck vulnerable flesh. “Curse the lot of you, you piss-weak vermin! Fight like men, damn you! Or do you save your blows solely for holy men and captives in chains? Free me of these shackles and I’ll gladly take on the lot of you, and by Thor’s hammer, when I’m done there’ll be just enough left of you to throw a dog a bone or two for his supper! Let me up, curse you! Somerled! Somerled, come down and face me, come down and face the truth of the oath you once swore! Come down, brother!”

  “Quick!” someone said sharply. “Give me that hammer! You, shut your big mouth! Nobody’s coming to save you, not Thor, not Somerled, not anyone. You’re a dirty traitor, and a liar too.”

  A boot connected with Eyvind’s jaw; he felt the blow vibrating through his skull, and a splintering of teeth. Blood filled his mouth; it became impossible to form words. Nonetheless, he went on making noises, since that seemed the only form of resistance left to him. Someone was sitting on his legs, holding them down however hard he strained to free himself.

  “Sounds like some crazy wild animal,” someone grunted. “Takes them like that, I’ve heard. Wolfskins, I mean.”

  “Shut him up, will you?” This one’s voice was shaking. “He’s giving me the creeps, howling like some mad dog. Where’s the cursed hammer? One good blow to the back of the skull should do the trick—ah, here it is—”

  There was an instant of silence, in which Eyvind drew a single long breath, and caught a single image in his pain-wracked head. My hand in yours…Now the blow would fall, and this agony would be over.

  There was a crash, and a sudden flood of light as the door at the end of the hallway was thrown abruptly open.

  “What in Odin’s name do you think you’re doing?” The voice was Somerled’s, needle-sharp and dangerous. “Get that fellow up at once, and bring him out to the hall. We have at least some modicum of fair play here, one hopes.”

  “But—” someone spluttered.

  “What has happened here?” This was another voice, Olaf Sveinsson’s, in which the shock was almost palpable. “Has this man been beaten?”

  There was a brief silence, during which Eyvind felt his hands released from the grille. The iron bracelets remained; the heavy chain between them, two handspans long, prevented much in the way of movement.

  “He was making trouble,” someone mumbled. “Shouting, rattling the bars, crazy Wolfskin stuff.”

  “But he’s tied up.” Olaf’s tone was cold with disapproval.

  “We were told—” the guard began, and Somerled’s voice cut in like a lethal blade.

  “Had you something to say?”

  “Er—no my lord. It’s just—what about the priest?”

  “You’re telling me you’ve managed to damage him as well? How very careless. Is he dead?”

  A groan from somewhere farther down the hallway indicated this was not so. Spitting out blood and shards of broken tooth, Eyvind found his voice. “Let him go. I will face whatever penalty you have decreed. I’m not afraid to die. But let the sentence be carried out in daylight, before the men of the settlement, not furtively here in darkness. And let the priest go free. He means you no harm.”

  There was another silence. The men hauled Eyvind to his feet. He could hear Brother Tadhg coughing behind him, a wrenching, rasping sound.

  “These men will pay the price for their misguided attempt to take the law into their own hands.” Somerled’s voice was calm and precise. “That was very foolish. Very foolish indeed. The tide of opinion is against you, Eyvind; this is simply a sign of that.”

  “Why have you come here?” Eyvind asked as the world spun around him, threatening to blur into the blankness of unconsciousness. The faces of his guards had turned pasty white. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a sudden passion for justice. Or did I finally shout loudly enough to awaken your conscience?”

  “Stop trying to be clever,” Somerled snapped. “It’s never suited you. We have unexpected visitors, and it’s become necessary to show them that you have come to no harm in my custody, thus far.” He glanced at the guards. “Bring them up!”

  The hall blazed with light. For all it was so late, perhaps close to the first predawn brightening of the sky, few had gone to their beds. Ale cups clinked, platters were strewn on the tables, and a litter of mutton bones and crusts of bread showed a repast had been taken with enthusiasm. There were forty or fifty men assembled there, most of the complement of Somerled’s household, and a few women as well. The arbiters had returned. They were not seated calmly at their table now, but stood behind it, their expressions ranging from mild surprise to complete disbelief as they stared at the small group of travelers who had entered through the great rear doors and now stood waiting quietly in the mid
dle of the hall. As Eyvind was dragged forward to the place immediately before Somerled’s chair, he looked back down the hall and straight into Margaret’s furious, dark eyes. Two burly guards flanked her, with hands poised on sword hilts; others stood behind. They were facing outward: her own protective force, then, not some warders set to confine her.

  “My lady,” Eyvind managed, not understanding at all what was happening, but seeing in her wan features a shadow of something deeply reassuring. It was, he thought, the quality that Ulf had possessed in abundance, and which Somerled had never been able to grasp: the understanding of what was right. He could hear Tadhg’s labored breathing; the little brother stood close by him, a guard at his elbow as if he, too, were on trial here.

  “These men have been beaten.” Margaret’s tone was crisp and challenging. “I thought you said Eyvind was being held, awaiting a verdict. He’s bleeding. The priest is covered in bruises. Has it come to this, that we set thugs on our prisoners now, instead of observing basic rules of fair play? I am ashamed to see this, ashamed for myself, and ashamed for Ulf, who always sought to carry out his responsibilities in a manner befitting a chieftain of Rogaland. What has come over you? Olaf? Harald? How could you condone such a blatant misuse of authority?”

  Feet shuffled; throats were cleared. Somerled had moved up close to Eyvind, in front of the table. He, it seemed, was not afraid to respond.

  “My dear, as I said, I did not expect you here, and I do not understand why you have come such a long way tonight, in darkness. It is a taxing ride for a woman; you should rest now, and leave this to the men of the household to settle. It is a sorry affair, scarcely fitting for a lady’s ears. I’m sure you are quite exhausted. A private corner, a warm fire…In the morning, I’ll explain all this. If my men have been a little overzealous, and left the Wolfskin with a bruise or two, it is only their distaste for the treachery he has demonstrated that drove them to it. Please allow me to escort you to your own quarters, my lady, as is appropriate.” He stepped forward, smiling.

  “Appropriate?” Margaret’s tone was icy calm, the very echo of Somerled’s own. “I’m not sure we agree on the definition of that word, brother-in-law. Is it appropriate to attack a priest, even one of the Christian persuasion? Do you hear the rasp of that man’s breathing? Can you see how hard it is for him to stand upright? Shame on all of you. You have indeed become blind to the ways of justice, which my husband demonstrated so ably, the ways that we all observed at home in Rogaland. What is the Wolfskin’s offense? Why is he bound and shackled, he who was ever your most loyal companion? Tell us.”

  Somerled frowned. “My lady, this is not at all—”

  “Appropriate, yes, you told me. I want answers, Somerled. If you will not give them, perhaps Eyvind can tell me himself, if his sojourn in your custody has not taken away his power of speech.”

  Somerled responded immediately. “Everyone knows what he did. He’s a liar and a traitor. Under my laws, a traitor pays with his life. There is no more to be said.”

  “I see,” said Margaret coolly. “And I suppose, in this formal hearing, Eyvind has been allotted his time to speak? What account did he give of himself?”

  “He confessed,” snapped Somerled. “He confessed to everything. The case is clear-cut. Alas, our old friend’s mind has been completely warped by the winter he spent in the custody of these island folk. He’s a danger to himself and to all of us. It saddens me to have to tell you this.”

  Margaret took a step forward, and now Eyvind could see that there was somebody else standing behind her, a slight, dark-cloaked figure bearing some sort of burden in her arms. His scalp prickled; his heart leaped.

  “What reason did you have for these actions, Eyvind?” Margaret asked quietly. “You were ever the bravest of warriors, and the truest. My husband held you in high esteem. Why did you try to stop the attack on the Whaleback?”

  “It’s not necessary that we hear all this rubbish again—” put in Harald Silvertongue angrily.

  “Be silent!” The whiplash of Olaf Sveinsson’s voice startled them all. “Is not this Lord Ulf’s widow? The lady Margaret must be given whatever details she wishes to know. The lady is right; we’ve been forgetting what is correct here. Speak up, Wolfskin. Perhaps this account will distress you, my lady,” he glanced at Margaret, brow furrowed in concern, “but you should hear it.”

  “Go on, Eyvind.” Margaret’s voice was calm.

  “The attack was wrong,” Eyvind said faintly. Step aside a little. Who is that who stands behind you? “It was against all the principles of right engagement. The folk of the Whaleback were in mourning. And there was a ring-sworn treaty; Engus intended to keep peace, as Ulf himself did. I only tried to stop an act of barbaric slaughter.”

  “And?” Margaret was looking at him with something of Somerled’s own ferocity in her gaze. It was as if she knew the truth already.

  “And…and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but it was Somerled who killed your husband. I know this is true, and I have tried to show it, but they say I have no real proof, no true witness. They say I might just as well have done it myself. I’m sorry, my lady, for I have failed here. I have tried to seek justice for Ulf—”

  “Nonsense, of course,” said Somerled crisply. “The rambling product of a confused mind. Our friend here was always susceptible to female influence. A sorceress caught him in her net. Very sad. He has no case, no witnesses, nothing at all. Ridiculous, the whole effort, and a sorry thing to see, for you are right on one point: this was once the foremost of our warriors, and the truest of friends. Such is the evil these island folk can set in a man’s spirit. Weak as they seem, they are still dangerous. We must not forget that. Now, it grows late. Shall we retire, and consider this in the morning?” For all the confidence of his tone, Somerled seemed edgy; Eyvind had learned to read him long ago, and he saw the little twitch in the cheek, the tapping of fingertips against the thigh, the signs of unease. Somerled was nervous. What had they said before in the darkness? Thirty men coming? Somerled had been warned of surprise visitors; it was clearly someone other than Margaret he expected.

  “It would be cruel indeed for a brother to kill his brother, so that he could take those things his brother possessed,” Margaret said. Her voice was less steady than before, and her face was sickly pale, but she held her head high. “Cruel and unnatural. Should such a crime be committed, it is hard for me to imagine what a just penalty might be for the perpetrator. Such an act is a horror far greater, I believe, than an attempt to stop a misguided attack on a settlement of sleeping folk, who have nothing in their hearts but grief for lost kin, and a will for peace. Do you not think so, you who sit in judgment here?” She turned, looking each of them in the eye: Olaf Sveinsson, Harald Silvertongue, the sea captain, the Wolfskin guards, the men of the court standing motionless around the hall, riveted by the unfolding drama. It was very quiet, so quiet that the rustle of small creatures could be heard in the roof thatch. Last of all, she looked at Somerled. “Do you not think so?” she asked, and her voice was as steady as a rock now, and as hard.

  “What I think is immaterial,” said Somerled smoothly, “since no such crime is under consideration here, and for all Eyvind’s wild accusations, there is not a single unbiased voice that can speak out in support of him.”

  Margaret smiled. It was a smile to chill the very marrow: the smile on the face of a player as she moves the last piece into place, in anticipation of certain victory. “I see,” she said sweetly. “I feel a little faint, brother-in-law. I haven’t been well lately. I think I might sit down. A cup of water, maybe. Thank you, Ash,” she added as one of her men hurried up with a high-backed chair. She moved aside and seated herself gracefully; it was only those very close, such as Eyvind, who could observe how her hands were shaking. “As you see,” Margaret went on, “I have not come alone. This is the lady Nessa, heir to King Engus of the Light Isles. She has traveled here in my safe keeping. Here is your witness, Wolfskin. Here is yo
ur voice of truth.” Margaret closed her eyes a moment, swaying where she sat. Olaf Sveinsson moved swiftly to fill a cup and set it in her hand.

  The cloaked figure moved forward until she stood alone in the center of the hall, facing Somerled. She slipped the dark, hooded cape from her shoulders. A gasp went up from the crowd, for it seemed an unearthly light clothed her slender person, a light made up of all the subtle colors of the islands: pearl gray, summer sky blue, deep wave green, the pale gold of sand under spring sun, the dark hue of a seal’s shining skin. Clad in a shimmering silken gown, her long, brown hair smooth as an otter’s pelt, Nessa stood straight and slight before them, her wide, clear gaze meeting Somerled’s with no sign of fear. The garland on her head was of finely woven weed, studded with little shells, wound with fern and bracken and the first blush-pink flowers of the season. Eyvind could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart, the joyous, terrified surge of his blood.

  “I am Nessa, priestess of the mysteries.” The voice was as clear as some sweet chime; the thrill of its power made every nerve quiver, every tongue fall silent. “I am the last of the royal line in the Light Isles. I speak for King Engus and for his kinsmen, cruelly slain as they mourned their dead. I speak for the women and children of our people, held captive in this settlement. I speak for the ancestors, for the ancient powers that dwell in the cairns and the standing stones, for the beings of deep earth and ocean surge; I speak for every creature that inhabits this fair place, and for those who lie slain upon its green fields, their heads sundered from their bodies, their spirits roaming unquiet. I speak for all. What I bear with me is the last, undeniable witness: the voice that must tell deepest truth.”

  Her slender fingers moved to pluck the dark cloth from the thing she bore in her arms. Before it was yet uncovered, it sounded, shivering. I am…Ulf…