A Companion to Wolves

by Elizabeth Bear

  The story did not comfort Isolfr. He found himself reaching surreptitiously to rub Viradechtis’ ears, trying not to imagine what it would be like to lose her.

  “I couldn’t do it,” Isolfr said to Sokkolfr, who sat tailor-fashion beside him, elbows on his knees and chin on his fist. “If Viradechtis—” he swallowed. “I couldn’t stay. And I really couldn’t take another wolf, not after—”

  “It was his duty,” Sokkolfr said, moving so his knee brushed Isolfr’s thigh.

  And then Frithulf leaned around Sokkolfr and said with all the worst of his arch disdain, “He loved Hrolljotr. What was he supposed to do, run away like a coward and leave the wolf alone?”

  Asny littered on a cold full moon night when the first frost lay over the loam under the pine trees. Isolfr was not there to see it; Hrolleif had taken him, with Vigdis and Viradechtis in eager companionship, on a long patrol east of Nithogsfjoll. Older wolfheofodmenn did mentor younger ones, as Ulfgeirr the housecarl mentored Sokkolfr—tacit acknowledgment that Sokkolfr would be a steward in his turn—but Isolfr thought there might be a reason Hrolleif chose to do some part of his teaching away from the wolfheall and the pack-sense.

  He remembered the kiss.

  His apprehension was not allayed when, after a cold camp and a colder supper, Hrolleif sent Vigdis and her daughter to hunt fresh meat for breakfast and then turned to regard Isolfr though the chill twilight. “Kolgrimna will come into season soon,” he said, and Isolfr nodded, his mouth dry as if he sucked pine-pitch.

  “You will need to know …” Hrolleif stopped, came to stand next to Isolfr, and Isolfr could feel the wolfsprechend’s heat like the fire they had not built. “Ingrun and Vigdis will go out. Asny has her pups, as Vigdis did when Asny’s season came on her.”

  “When you sent us all out,” Isolfr said.

  “Yes. We will be taking the tithe-boys out again, for it is not something they should see, not until they have the pack-sense to understand it. But, Isolfr, you need to witness.”

  Because it will be your turn soon enough.

  He swallowed hard, although it did not help, and managed to nod.

  “You and Frithulf, and the others who are bonded to pups still too young for the madness, you will have to hold household, because the werthreat cannot. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Barely a whisper.

  “Ah, lad, don’t be so frightened.” And Hrolleif hugged him roughly. “I promised you we would not throw you out of the nest with your wings still unfledged, did I not?”

  “Yes,” but there was no more strength in his voice. No strength in him anywhere, and when Hrolleif’s fingers caught him under the chin, he looked up obediently.

  “It is time for you to learn,” Hrolleif said gently, “what happens between werthreatbrothers when a bitch is in season.” His mouth quirked. “And at other times as well.” He leaned down, still gently, his blue eyes full of kindness as well as heat, and kissed Isolfr on the mouth.

  This time it was not a chaste kiss. Hrolleif’s mouth was strong, demanding, and Isolfr found himself parting his lips, welcoming Hrolleif’s tongue into his mouth, his hands coming up to steady himself against the wolfsprechend’s shoulders.

  He knew the heat in his lower belly as it started to kindle and spread, had felt it many times before in Alfleda’s bed at the keep, and sometimes in the dark of the roundhall as well. He and Sokkolfr, he and Frithulf, had helped each other, as boys do.

  But this was not what boys did.

  After a time, Hrolleif broke the kiss, leaned away a little. Brushed a loose strand of hair away from Isolfr’s face. “Will you lie down for me, Isolfr?” And his voice was still gentle, still kind, and burning in Isolfr’s mind was that single glimpse of Hrolleif and Grimolfr and the ecstatic look on Grimolfr’s face.

  He had been waiting for this, he realized, and from somewhere he found his voice and managed to say, “Yes,” and was thankful—beyond thankful—that his voice did not crack.

  Isolfr lay down for Hrolleif, and Hrolleif taught him carefully, patiently. Lying flat on his back, staring up at the stars, Isolfr said, “They won’t all be as kind as you, will they?”

  “No,” Hrolleif said, one hand stroking Isolfr’s sex, warm and callus-rough, while two fingers of the other, slick and burning, moved inside him, making him ready. “I will teach you how to prepare yourself before Viradechtis has an open mating. But, no, you may not be lucky in your wolfjarl at first.” Isolfr cried out, his hips bucking, as those fingers, relentless, found something inside him he had never imagined the existence of.

  “But I will tell you something else,” Hrolleif said, and Isolfr could hear the warm, self-satisfied smile in his voice. “Wolfjarls can be taught.”

  Later, on his knees, his face pressed into the thick wolf-smelling blankets of their bedrolls, his fingers digging desperately into the earth beneath him, Isolfr learned that which his father had feared, learned what it was to submit to a man—and learned, hearing the rough cadence of Hrolleif’s breath, hearing his low, sweet moans as Isolfr moved against him, that he could take as well as give, that like the politics of the wolfthreat, this heady darkness was richer, earthier, more complicated than it seemed when you had not tasted it for yourself.

  He came for Hrolleif, and Hrolleif came for him.

  Afterwards, wrapped together in the sleeping roll, they heard Vigdis and Viradechtis return with their kill, felt their triumph. And moments later there was a rush of massive furry bodies, and the men were flanked by their sisters.

  Viradechtis licked Isolfr’s face carefully, snuffled in his ear. “Go to sleep, little sister,” he said, and Hrolleif said, his concern bright through the pack-sense, “Are you all right?”

  Isolfr considered. He was sore, but that was not what Hrolleif was asking. “I am … grateful. That it was you.” And then a sudden, horrifying thought, “Grimolfr isn’t going to kill me, is he?”

  Hrolleif laughed, a purring, delighted chuckle. “No. Grimolfr knew before we left.”

  “Oh.”

  Hrolleif’s arm reached across, drawing Isolfr close, breath moving against his ear. “I know it is not easy, Isolfr. You need not fear that I will think you craven or … ‘womanish, ’ as you once said, if you are doubtful, or hurt. Or angry.”

  “I …” His throat was threatening to close; he swallowed hard. “I don’t want you to think you hurt me.”

  “I understand.”

  “But …” He couldn’t explain, couldn’t find words that even got near the tangled lump of fear and sated pleasure and shame and delight, power and weakness, the terrible feeling of having come adrift from what he had been and not knowing how he was going to become what he had to be—for the wolfthreat, for the werthreat, for his family, for Viradechtis. One made choices in going to war, and sacrifices. Because one had to. Because the alternative was not to stand between Halfrid and Kathlin—and even his father, and Alfleda, and those who wouldn’t forgive his choice—and the cold north and the trolls.

  “No one will force you to remain with the wolfheall, Isolfr,” Hrolleif said. “Though we will mourn you if you go, and none so more than Viradechtis. And I for one think she’s chosen well.”

  Hrolleif’s voice trailed off, embarrassed, and Isolfr realized that the wolfsprechend was babbling, trying to make things all right. Finally, Isolfr took pity on the man and answered, because there was nothing else he could say, “She’s worth it.”

  And Hrolleif said, “Yes,” and held him tight in the warm dark between wolves, until he slept.

  FOUR

  The strange part was coming back to the wolfheall—coming home—and realizing that no one could tell to look at him that anything had changed. That nothing had changed, that he was still Isolfr, wolfsprechend-in-waiting, and Hrolleif was still Hrolleif, as much elder brother as wolfheofodman, and that there was no private message in Grimolfr’s arm-clasp to either of them, no, nor in the one he offered Randulfr Ingrunsbrother or Hringolfr Left-Hand, either.
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  That nothing had changed, and that everything had changed instead.

  Kolgrimna, as if contrariness were mined so deep into her nature that even her body was intransigent, failed to go into heat in the autumn, or in the easy part of winter. Instead, she waited until Asny’s pups were eye-open and staggering, and eighteen inches of snow overlaid the ground.

  The whole of the wolfheall knew it was coming. Thralls and free servants alike took liberty in the village when the tithe-boys, Kolgrimna’s close kin, and the other bitches took their leave. Asny and her pups remained in the record-room; Viradechtis’ unbonded brothers went with the patrol. Before he left, Hrolleif took aside each bonded boy whose wolf was too young for the madness—the three of Ingrun’s litter, Frithulf, and Isolfr—and spoke some words to him.

  “This is the werthreat and the wolfthreat,” Hrolleif said to Isolfr. “This is the brotherhood of wolves, that I give my pack and my wolfjarl into your keeping, brother, and know you will hold it as I would, for your hands are mine, and my hands are yours.”

  And Isolfr looked into Hrolleif’s eyes and shivered, dry mouthed, and nodded although his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

  Isolfr did not think that Hrolleif kissed the other four farewell.

  The first day was quiet. The wolfthreat quarreled and the werthreat diced and combed winter lice from their beards, and the lot of them ate cold shoulder and pease porridge toasted over the embers of the fire.

  The pack-sense awakened Isolfr at moonset. Skald was not sleeping; the big wolf moved through the heall like a shade from the grave, the last embers reflecting in his eyes. Isolfr caught a breath as Skald’s eyes stroked over him, but Skald had no time for puppies now. Isolfr felt the fever in the pack as if it ran under his skin, felt it as he’d felt Hrolleif’s kiss in the pit of his belly and the join of his thighs.

  This is it.

  Isolfr reached out in the warmth under the furs as Viradechtis stirred against his leg, and took Frithulf’s hand on one side and Sokkolfr’s on the other before he remembered that Sokkolfr’s wolf was not a cub; Hroi was awake, watchful in the darkness as the pack’s leader paced his domain. Sokkolfr came alert with a start, gasping, and put his free hand to his throat as if he felt teeth prickle his skin. Frithulf, curled around Kothran’s warm, pale body, had to be shaken into wakefulness, but he too stirred and lifted his head, understanding what was happening with a glance.

  “This is it,” he whispered. “Nothing to do now but watch, and hope they don’t kill each other, then—”

  Everywhere, wolves were rising. Hroi, Arngrimr, and Kolli. Nagli, red as beaten copper. Glaedir, silver as steel. Hallathr, Valbrandr and Frothi. Isleifr, Guthleifr, Egill, Havarr, Surtr, Ingjaldr, and black Mar. Wolves upon wolves, the smallest of them thirteen stone and the greatest half again that size. Viradechtis lifted her head, crowded back against Isolfr, and whined low in her throat. The wolfthreat was on the move, and single in its mind.

  Someone who was not a wolf rose naked from his bedclothes; Isolfr recognized the sturdy shape as Hringolfr, and shivered. A dim red glow caught the shine of sweat on his skin, revealed the ridges of scars and the swell and fall of muscle. Kolgrimna stood out of the furs beside him, facing Skald, her haunches to Hringolfr, her lip curled in a silent snarl, her teeth gleaming with firelight as if with blood.

  Skald just looked at her, all the pack—allies and enemies, brothers all—arrayed behind him. Kolgrimna growled, low and thready, and Skald lifted his chin, pricked his ears, wagged his tail as if to show that really, it was not all so serious—

  —and pounced.

  She snapped at him, and Hringolfr grabbed for his scruff, but even Isolfr could see that the protest was a matter of form. He couldn’t have said where Grimolfr came from, but the wolfjarl had Hringolfr’s arm and was dragging him away from Skald as Skald mounted the bitch, powerful forelegs clutching her barrel. She growled and yelped, snapping over her shoulder at him as his hips began to thrust, seeking her vulva, but Isolfr could see that her tail was twisted to the side, and her hips were not tucked down.

  Grimolfr shouted something—not words, a snarl, a wolf’s voice twisted in a human throat—and wrenched Hringolfr’s arm behind his back. The bigger man went to his knees, flickering firelight turning them into a series of red-limned statues as the wolfjarl shoved him forward, leaned over his body, and buried both hands in his hair.

  And Sokkolfr shook himself free of Isolfr’s grip and started forward, following Hroi.

  Kolgrimna’s yelp when Skald found his mark sent Isolfr lurching backward into Frithulf’s arms even as Viradechtis shoved herself roughly into his. Hringolfr cried out once, falling to brace himself with his hands as Grimolfr moved savagely against him, and then Isolfr could not tell whose whimpers were whose, man’s or wolf’s. He shivered in Frithulf’s arms, waiting for the cutting comment, the crack at his cowardice. But Frithulf Quick-Tongue failed his name and just pulled Isolfr close, wrapped in their bedclothes in the shadow of the wolfheall’s massive timber wall, and dragged Isolfr and wolf-cubs all further into the darkness.

  Men stood among the wolves now, moving forward, pushing and shouldering like cattle at a trough. Someone snarled. Someone shoved. Someone’s bright teeth flashed, and Glaedir and Mar were on one another, snarling, rolling, the sound of snapping teeth and thudding bodies like a rockslide crashing down a hill, punctuated by Hringolfr’s short, bitten cries. Skjaldwulf, long-reached and fast as a wyvern, lunged for Glaedir’s brother, fingers grappling, wrestling, trying for a bear-hug that Eyjolfr sidestepped as Glaedir pinned Mar, enormous silver jaws tight on a black-furred throat. Eyjolfr hopped on one foot and kicked Skjaldwulf hard behind the ear with an unshod heel; Skjaldwulf went down on his elbows and gagged, and Eyjolfr kicked him once more for good measure before turning to survey the rest of the werthreat, as if to ask who would be the next to try him.

  Kolgrimna cried out again; Viradechtis whined, ears flat, crowding herself into Isolfr’s lap like a pup half her size. He wrapped his arms around her chest and hauled her close, aware of Frithulf behind him and Kothran backing them all, aware of Ingrun’s cubs and their boys huddled against the far wall, where they had slept, aware of Sokkolfr knotting both hands in Hroi’s ruff, as if to steady himself or hold the old wolf back. Hroi shook against the grip, irritated, but leaned against his boy’s legs and belly as if to say I am too old for this foolishness, but I will bear witness—

  “Bear witness,” Isolfr said, and gagged on it. “Oh lord, oh, Othinn, god of wolves, oh, god—” Frithulf, murmuring nonsense, squeezed him tight. Kolli moved toward Glaedir, and Glaedir held his ground, and Hringolfr cried out again, harshly, to a chorus of yelps from his bitch, and Isolfr knew, somehow, terribly, that he’d found release. The pack knew, and Isolfr knew what the pack knew. Grimolfr was still on Hringolfr, though, still moving, moving with Skald as Kolli and Glaedir fought, and Glaedir, dripping red from a gash across his face, again held the field. Kolli, limping heavily, welling blood, dragged himself into the darkness beneath the long tables. Isolfr tugged at Frithulf’s hands, wanting to crawl to the big gentle wolf who let his brother use him as a pillow and see if his leg was broken, but Frithulf held tight and yanked him back.

  Glaedir followed Skald, and Arngrimr—who had not fought Glaedir, canny thing, but who had fought and defeated the next three wolves after him—followed Glaedir, and Hallathr followed Arngrimr. Long past sunrise, Guthleifr’s brother Fostolfr mounted Hringolfr, who had moved past weeping and swearing and into a low, exhausted moaning that would not stop, while other wolves and their brothers—those who had fought and lost—scuffled or mounted one another in frustration about the heall.

  Isolfr turned away over Viradechtis’ shoulder and vomited on the pine-strewn floor, half a cup of frothy yellow bile that left him choking and sore as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  “I didn’t know,” Frithulf said, pulling Isolfr’s pale hair out of his face, holding Isolfr steady while he turned hims
elf inside out and Viradechtis whined and washed his neck and ear, her own fear forgotten in worry for her brother. “I didn’t know, Isolfr, by Othinn I would not have mocked you if I had known—”

  Isolfr gagged one more time and wiped the strings of snot and saliva from his face onto Viradechtis’ fur. Unmindful of the burn of acid, she turned and licked his mouth, licked his tears, wriggled worry and delight against him as Frithulf squeezed him until he almost couldn’t get air.

  “It’s all right,” Isolfr said, breathing like a failed runner, his head fallen back against his werthreatbrother’s shoulder, his hands knotted in Viradechtis’ fur. “I can do this.” And he said, as he had said to Hrolleif, because he did not have any better words, “She’s worth it.”

  Frithulf nodded and held him close as a brother, and with the politeness of wolves, neither of them mentioned the tears tracking the other’s face.

  Later, they discovered Hrolfmarr curled around the soft gray body of his wolf.

  Kolli had died of his wounds.

  They burned Kolli at dawn, on a warrior’s pyre. It had taken both Frithulf and Authun’s brother Skirnulf (who had been Fastvaldr) to drag Hrolfmarr away, and then it fell to Isolfr to hold Hrolfmarr’s broad hands, to try to keep those glazed eyes focused on him while Frithulf and Skirnulf and Sokkolfr prepared Kolli’s body for the fire.

  Hrolfmarr did not weep, did not speak. He allowed Isolfr’s touch, allowed Hroi and Viradechtis and Authun and Kothran to press around him. It was clear through the pack-sense that Hrolfmarr was still part of the pack. The wolves did not grieve Kolli exactly, not as men understood grieving, but his death was heavy over the wolf threat, and men and wolves alike were aware, terribly aware that Hrolfmarr had lost something precious.