Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

  “A little unwell.” This was Harald Silvertongue. “Retired to his own quarters. Holgar and Erlend are keeping an eye on him. Eyvind did half-slit his throat, after all.”

  “I see. And I see what stands before us, and believe I recognize its purpose, silent as it is now. We have indeed walked into strange times here. Poor Ulf. He set out with such hopes, such dreams. He learned, perhaps, that it is not enough simply to wish that folk might tread a path of amity. In these troubled times, a man without a sword in his hand has no hope of moving forward. Peace is a luxury we cannot afford.”

  “My lord,” Brother Tadhg wheezed, a hand to his ribs, “it is very late, and all have gone long without sleep. Eyvind here is badly hurt and needs the attention of a physician or herbalist, I think. There should be rest for all, before this goes on.”

  “And you are?”

  “My name is Tadhg, a man of Ulster in Erin; but I and several of my kind now dwell nearby on Holy Island, thanks to the kindness of King Engus who ruled in these islands before the coming of your own people. He allowed us freedom to tell our tales and teach of our Christian faith among his own folk. My lord, this lady is Nessa, the niece of that same Engus who was cruelly slain by Somerled’s forces. Nessa is the voice of the island people here. It was she who brought this harp to the hall and enabled Ulf’s testimony to be heard. And it is she to whom you must speak of the future. In view of what has occurred here, the sudden arrival of yet another complement of voyagers from the east can only give us cause for disquiet.”

  “Really? Did not Ulf come here in peace?”

  “Ulf died,” Tadhg said flatly. “It is a long tale, which you should hear before further deliberations occur.”

  “And does the young lady possess the same excellent grasp of our own tongue as you do, priest?”

  “Not as excellent, my lord, but good enough.” Nessa’s voice was small and clear, delicate and precise. It made everyone go quiet. “I would not expect you to understand so quickly what has happened here, the manner of it, and how much now lies in the balance. We’ve all gone a long time without sleep, and these men are injured. My lord, your Wolfskin has shown great courage in the most difficult of times. You should hear the tale from myself, and from Lady Margaret, and from Brother Tadhg here, if he is well enough. You should have the story first from us. These other men, they hear Ulf’s voice now and say they recognize the truth. But all of them lived in mortal fear of Somerled, and all of them followed him. Dark acts were carried out under his leadership, and what was lost can never be regained. Brother Tadhg is right. The last thing I wanted to see here was another ship full of wheat-fair warriors hung about with the instruments of war. What do you seek in these islands? Power, conquest, dominance, as Somerled did? He burned our king in his own hall, he cut down our young men and imprisoned our women. He took our farms and gave our ancient lands a new name of his own choosing. He sundered the heads of our warriors from their bodies and set them up for birds to peck at. What more is there to take from us, save our belief in ourselves?”

  Magnus made no reply. Perhaps he had none. Nessa’s words had been a fierce challenge. Into the silence, Margaret spoke.

  “A short time for rest, and we must fetch a healer for Eyvind, or—”

  “Rona will be here soon,” Nessa said, her tone gentler now. “She’ll tend to him. Meanwhile, his brother, maybe?”

  As she spoke, Eyvind felt the strong grip of Eirik’s hands, Eirik’s arms hauling him up from the ground, and there was a dog, not Guard, because Guard was surely dead, but another like him, which could only be his own Shadow, dancing about anxiously and jumping up to lick his bruised and bleeding face. Where was Nessa? He could not see her, he wanted to see her…

  “A short time,” Margaret said again. “Decisions must be made soon. My lord Jarl, I’m sure the kitchen can manage a bite to eat for you and your men, you must be weary indeed. It is a trying voyage.”

  People began to move, to talk among themselves.

  “Come on, old fellow,” Eirik muttered. “Let’s get you out of here. Odin’s bones, that so-called friend of yours has a lot to answer for. Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on him in a quiet corner…and what’s all this about throat-slitting?”

  Eyvind was incapable of speech. Leaning heavily on his brother’s shoulder, with a dizziness in his head that made sensible thought impossible, he managed to open his eyes again, just a crack, and look backward as Eirik led him away. There she was, kneeling on the wolfskin once more, quiet, pale, her graceful hands rewrapping the little harp in its covering of cloth. Its work was done. It would be kept concealed, now, until it could be returned whence it came. By Freyr’s manhood, it froze his blood to think where she had had to go, to imagine what she had had to do, to make this thing and bring it here. What courage she had shown, what endurance. How could she be so fragile and yet so strong?

  “No, I…,” he croaked, and Eirik, somehow understanding, came to a halt, still holding his brother’s dead weight propped against one massive shoulder.

  She couldn’t have heard him. Still, she rose to her feet and walked over, features gravely composed. Her odd, deep eyes, sea-gray shading to darker blue, were troubled, shadowed. For all her display of confidence, Eyvind could tell Nessa was frightened. And she was weary, so weary; he could see the marks of that in the droop of her mouth, the translucent pallor of her cheeks.

  “…will be…all right…” he managed. “Magnus…good man…”

  “I hope so, Eyvi,” she said soberly. “At such times it can be hard to hold on to a vision of the future. Your folk are so strong, strong and determined. And we have so little left to give.”

  Somehow that hurt him more than any wound, any bruise or battering. It was like a knife straight to the heart. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes once more, and he let Eirik lead him away.

  People moved about him purposefully, examining his wounds, applying salves, wrapping linen strips around his body. A cup was held to his lips; he drank thirstily. Here in the sleeping chamber shared by the Wolfskins, the light was less bright, a candle only, and the first rays of dawn seeping in down the hallway. Eirik muttered to himself. Grim was quieter, a certain air of satisfaction about him as he readied a pallet, then fetched blankets of best wadmal cloth, far finer than any of them was used to. The cup was offered again. Eyvind sniffed at the contents. Not water this time. They had every intention of rendering him insensible at least until midday, that much was clear. It would not do. It could not be so. His mind dwelt on Nessa’s face as he had left her; he saw those clear, courageous eyes which, despite her victory and his own, despite all they had done and all they had endured, had nonetheless held the shadow, not merely of exhaustion, but of defeat. That, he could in no way allow.

  He had never been a man of words. He understood there would have to be discussions. He realized Nessa’s people would want them gone from these shores, all of them. They could never be accepted here, not after what had been done under Somerled’s command. But he knew that Magnus, wise and just chieftain as he was, was also too astute to let slip the chance to secure the use of safe anchorage in such a strategic place, now that he had made the journey for himself and knew it could be done with relative speed. To influence the course of such delicate negotiations was beyond Eyvind’s own abilities. Had not Somerled reminded him, this very night, how lacking he was in the skills of weighted argument? It was not he who had won this battle, but Nessa, and the voice she had brought with her. It was Ulf who had defeated Somerled, not a Wolfskin with a talent for killing and no gift at all for words. Still, he was not quite helpless. There was something he could do to start putting it right, something to ease that dark weariness in Nessa’s eyes and lift just a little of the burden from her slender shoulders. Perhaps it was all he could do for her, now. She despised them, that was clear. She wanted them gone. Why would there be one rule for Eirik, for Grim and Thord, good men, all of them, and a different rule for himself?

 
“Odin’s bones, Eyvind, lie still, will you? We’ll never get this bleeding stopped if you keep bobbing up and down like that. This tooth’ll have to come out. Need that fellow with the tongs. Or one of us can do it. Thor’s hammer, man, settle down, can’t you? You’re as twitchy as a brooding hen. Drink that up, don’t just hold it.”

  “No,” said Eyvind, and got to his feet. The room reeled, his ears rang with sound, his eyes wanted to close, oh, so much, but he forced them open. “No, not yet. Who’s here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shut the door. Who’s here, who’s near at hand?”

  “Just us,” Grim said as Eirik drew the thick, coarse hanging across the doorway. “Just me and Eirik and Thord there. What is it, man? What’s eating you?”

  “Listen, little brother,” said Eirik, planting his bulk in front of the doorway. “I see a look in your eye I recognize, and I don’t like it. It suggests to me that rest and recuperation are not exactly foremost in your mind right now. If you think for a moment—”

  “I can’t stay here. There’s something I need to do—”

  “Nothing that can’t wait,” Grim put in firmly.

  “Besides,” Eirik said, “like it or not, you’re under orders to stay here until these legal proceedings are over. Think how it would look if you went rushing off now, guilty or not guilty. Now lie down, drink that up, and shut your big mouth. You’re not the only one here who needs sleep, little brother. Whatever it is, now’s not the time for it.”

  “You can’t go on, old fellow.” Thord’s tone was kindly. Thord didn’t understand. None of them understood. He had to go on. That was what a Wolfskin did. If it was not the Warfather who had called him to that sudden burst of crazy effort which had saved Nessa, then it was some other deity of equal power, a force which still compelled him forward, weary and damaged as he was. Whatever it was, it spurred him. It drove him. It came to Eyvind, as he lay down obediently on the pallet, that it was his own voice, and a truer one than any that had hitherto commanded his steps. With that knowledge came a clearing of the head, and caution. He made pretense of swallowing the sleeping draft; the woollen blankets soaked up most of it. Now he must wait. Not long: they were all tired. Then he would go and do it, and at least he could show her, before she sent him away, that his own kind was capable of changing if they got the chance. He knew he was not a clever man, but that much, surely, even he could manage.

  So it was that a little later, when Eirik and Thord and Grim were sleeping the slumber of deep exhaustion, and the Jarl and his companions were enjoying flatbread and cold mutton by the fire, Eyvind slipped out of the settlement past unattended sentry posts—for what guard need be kept when one’s enemy is reduced to a scattering of old women and infants?—and, on a stolen horse, made his way northwestward under the pale, bright sky of a spring morning. By his side ran Shadow. They passed across the borders of King Engus’s land, and turned the corner of the hill, that wondrous corner which reveals to the traveler’s eye the vast, rising mass of the Whaleback like a great, gray-green sea creature breaching majestically from the western ocean. No smoke rose from the ashes of the hall fire; no clash of battle rang out above the high screams of the gulls. Now he came down the hill and toward the point, and now he could see the line of spears with their strange cargo, stark evidence of the carnage that had defiled this shore so short a time ago. One dawn, one bloody battle, and a whole race of sons and fathers lost. The horse shied; a trembling coursed through its body, and Shadow hung back uneasily. Eyvind dismounted, staying on his feet only by clutching the horse’s mane. Gods, he was indeed weakened. He must get a grip on himself. This weariness, these aches and pains were nothing to what others here had endured.

  He tied his horse outside the fisherman’s hut where, not so long ago, he had confronted Somerled. Somerled. What would happen to him now? The Jarl would decide it according to the penalties of Rogaland, he supposed. There would be a fine paid in ells of wadmal cloth or bags of silver, or they might forbid him to return to the home shore of Freyrsfjord, or to his birthplace in Halogaland. It might all be settled before Eyvind was finished here, for there was much to be done, and only himself to do it.

  Eyvind set to with what strength he could summon, noting absently the bracelets of raw flesh around wrists and ankles, the finger that was probably broken, the continuing ache in the jaw. From time to time, blood still trickled in his mouth; he spat, and went on. The line of spears still stood in earth by the point, and on the tidal island the limp forms of Engus’s warriors still lay dotted on the grassy slope like some bright flowers of springtime, vivid in their brave tunics of red and blue and green. There were many birds there, circling above the fallen men, eager for whatever morsel they might scavenge in the hungry times of the nesting season. Eyvind shuddered, remembering Ulf. No time for thinking; it was close to low tide, and he must work quickly. He could not do all that must be done; the rites of farewell, the manner of laying to rest, that was for Nessa and the remnants of her own people to decide. But he could undo this act of sacrilege. He could set things out properly, so that the bodies of the fallen ones lay in some semblance of wholeness. He could cover them until the proper rituals might be enacted. There was enough time, he judged, before the incoming tide washed across the causeway once more, sealing the Whaleback safe from the shore.

  The wooden spears were long, and had been thrust in with considerable force. There had been a rage in his people that day. By the time he had wrenched out the first and lowered its pathetic burden to the ground his hands were shaking, and he realized this would be a slower job than he’d thought. A pick or lever of some kind would help, and a bag, for each of these poor, decaying things was part of a man, and must be carried across to the island with a modicum of respect. One could hardly grip them by the hair, as if transporting a carcass for the pot. Eyvind searched inside the darkened corners of the small hut, finding, to his surprise, a pile of fishy-smelling sacks, a shovel or two and a dangerous-looking bar of heavy iron, with a pointed end. Someone, it seemed, had been here with the same intention as himself. Indeed, the longer he stayed on the shore, the more he felt that prickling of the scalp, that shiver of the spine which suggests others are nearby, unseen, watching. Foolish. There was nobody there. The only eyes that observed his labors, his wrenching out of each cruel stake, his careful stowing of their trophies into the waiting sack, were the empty eyes of the slain: brave old man, sturdy warrior, fierce-hearted boy. Their faces held nothing now but the creeping shadow of decay. What they had been, four days since, was wiped away. Even so had Somerled erased these people’s future. So quick: as quick as the time it took a lad to swim across the Serpent’s Neck and back again, or sweep a winter roof clean of snow.

  He came to a spear that had scratches and gouges in the hard earth at its base. Someone had indeed been there before him, and had failed in this work. This one must wait, for now the bags held as much as they could: the remains of six men. Six long shafts of ash lay neatly on the shore. He had laid them close to the water. Perhaps the sea would take them; wood was as scarce as precious amber here, but these, he thought, would never be used for their purpose again, nor taken to form the frame for a cottage roof or warm a man’s hearth in the chill of night. They were cursed.

  Now came the walk across the narrow pathway between the lovely, many-hued pools of the tide’s ebb, fringed by dark fronded weed, strewn with thick, glistening rods of wrack, and dotted with myriad small, scurrying creatures. The sky looked up at him, blue and wide, from the small cups and channels of these ephemeral waterways. He saw Nessa’s eyes there, as deep and dazzling as this vision of sky in sea; he saw her little smile. He walked on over, and up to the place where King Engus’s hall had stood.

  The work was not easy. There were many men lying here, and women too, and none were familiar to him. Some were whole. He lifted the bones of the king from the ashes of his hall, and laid him down on the sward. The fire had burned hot; there was little left. What s
ong would that harp sing? A wail of grief, a story of loss and waste. A great shout of proud defiance. They had fought on to the last, knowing there was only death in it. The bodies lay in some semblance of peace, each with hands crossed on breast, as Nessa had placed them on that terrible morning when she had sheltered in a secret cove, listening as her folk died there above her. He moved them one by one until the sheltered sward beside the king’s hall bore row on row of folk, disposed as gently as his aching arms, his agonized back could manage.

  He had worked a long time, had traversed the causeway over and over until all but three of the heads were carried across, when it became apparent to him that he was no longer alone. First it was a lad, surely no more than six or seven, sidling out of a ruined shed to take up the dragging feet of a man Eyvind carried, and help to bear him to his place of rest. The job done, the boy scuttled back to safety; not long after, another child crept out, and another. They had been watching all the time, it seemed, waiting until they could be sure this fearsome-looking warrior with his bloodied face and reeking hands was indeed some kind of friend. And when he returned to the point to gather his final grim harvest, there were women there, those same chalk-faced women of Nessa’s household whom he had seen taken captive in this very place as he sat bound and screaming his wrath into Somerled’s deaf ears. They were the same women who had walked with bitter pride and bruised faces in Somerled’s hall last night, suffering the crude taunts and careless fondling of his own kind. Now, released no doubt on Nessa’s demand, their first act had been to return here. Perhaps they, too, had observed him for some time in silence. Now, as he lowered one spear, and two, and three, they moved forward to take up the bloodied contents. One girl hissed at Eyvind, her eyes fierce with hate; another chided her, and somewhere in her speech he heard Nessa’s name.