“And leave Othinnsaesc a trellwarren?” said Gunnarr, and Isolfr’s hands clenched painfully as he tried to decide if he should step between Gunnarr and Grimolfr before blood was spilled.
But Grimolfr looked at the jarl and smiled a bleak, uncompromising smile. “Only until summer.”
Whatever his father might believe of him, Isolfr was childishly grateful that the carnage at Othinnsaesc meant that Othwulf and his threatbrothers would be needed at Franangford, which was both closest to Othinnsaesc and most sorely depleted by the long, dragging war. And it was a war, and one that everyone knew without discussion would enact a hideous cost over the winter.
The remaining wolfheallan reinforced Franangford with every man and wolf they could spare, made plans for long patrols, and retired in haste to heall and steading while there was still a chance to lay in some of the harvest against the winter. Wolfcarls and wolfless men worked side by side at Nithogsfjoll; Isolfr, who had not scythed grain since he had gone to the wolfheall, found the work a welcome distraction, especially as Hjordis’ girth and discomfort increased each time he stole a visit. Her feet pained her, and her back, and her sister Angrbotha, a hale and childless married woman five years older, was as busy in the fields as any man.
“It isn’t so, with wolves,” he said, as he knelt by her feet to massage her swollen calves.
She laughed, kicks rippling her belly. “I wish I were a wolf, then,” she said, and he kissed her hands and said, “I don’t.”
He needed the distraction as well because Frithulf and Sokkolfr and their brothers were among those sent to guard besieged Franangford through the winter, and Ulfrikr was determined to make the unsettling wait for Viradechtis’ season as much of a horror as possible. At least Ulfbjorn and Tindr were still there to share blankets. The big wolfcarl’s steadying presence and agile, unexpected humor made the waiting nearly bearable, although Frithulf’s savage tongue or the Stone Sokkolfr’s unflappability would have been better. No, not better, exactly—but he remembered Frithulf saying You’re my pack, and knew that he felt the same.
Almost, Isolfr wished Viradechtis would just hurry up and get it over with.
When he wasn’t wishing she’d be magically converted overnight into a dog-wolf.
“The first time’s the worst,” Hrolleif told him, in one of the rare moments when Vigdis would let him near, and Isolfr gritted his teeth and reminded himself that anything Hringolfr Left-Hand could get through, he, Isolfr, could get through as well.
And at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Ulfrikr doing that to him. “To think I would ever be glad he bonded one of your brothers,” he said to Viradechtis, and she pushed her head against his stomach and demanded to be petted. She knew he was upset, and it worried her, although he could tell she did not understand what he was upset about. She, in fact, seemed almost gleeful at the prospect of mating with more than one dog, and he tried not to watch her flirting, assessing, tried not to wonder whom she would choose, whom he would have to …
He remembered Grimolfr shoving Hringolfr to his knees and could not quite keep from shuddering.
His mood was not helped when the gossip reached the wolfheall, circulating down as it did through the village, that Kathlin Gunnarsdottir had been betrothed to the jarl of Vigrithlund, a man nearer their father’s age than Kathlin’s own and one whom Isolfr remembered disliking. Kathlin had not even chosen her fate, as Isolfr had chosen his in agreeing to be tithed, in agreeing to stay—in falling in love with Viradechtis. At least, Isolfr thought, Viradechtis would not choose for reasons as cold as Gunnarr’s.
But it was no comfort; it only made him feel sorrow for his blood-sister as well as anxiety for himself.
The day that Ulfrikr suggested, slyly and so loudly that Isolfr knew he was meant to hear, that Isolfr ought to practice beforehand—and that Eyjolfr would no doubt be happy to help—Isolfr’s temper simply snapped. He was on Ulfrikr before either of them quite realized what he meant to do, and was making quite satisfying progress towards beating the wyvern-tongued malice right out of him when hands dragged him away; he struggled against them and swore, and Grimolfr’s voice said sharply in his ear, “Isolfr, look to your sister.”
He looked and saw that Viradechtis had Skefill down, that the big gray male wasn’t fighting her, and yet she was still snarling, her fearsome teeth a fraction from her litterbrother’s throat. Then he became aware of the circle of clear space, the silence surrounding him, Ulfrikr flat on his back on the floor, gasping for breath against a freshly-broken nose.
“Sister,” Isolfr said, his voice a croak. She turned her head, then moved away from Skefill with deliberate, breathtaking arrogance.
“Let us talk,” said Grimolfr, his iron grip not leaving Isolfr’s biceps.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Isolfr said.
“I’m your wolfjarl, pup, and I say there is. Come on.”
Face burning, split knuckles throbbing, Isolfr let the wolfjarl herd him into the records-room, let himself be shoved down on the three-legged stool. Sat and stared at his hands. Viradechtis came and leaned against him as she always did, and he blinked hard against the sting of tears.
“It’ll be soon,” Grimolfr said, and although he was as abrupt as ever, his tone was not unkind. “It’s playing hob with your temper, Isolfr, and if Ulfrikr were older, or had a lick of sense, he wouldn’t be teasing you now.” They sat a moment, and Grimolfr said, “I’m going to send the patrols out tonight.”
“Tonight?” Isolfr’s head came up at that. “You think …”
“I think the sooner Ulfrikr’s out of your hair, the happier we’ll all be,” Grimolfr said dryly, and Isolfr looked back at his hands. “But, yes. It’s harder to tell with a young bitch, and it’s harder to tell with a konigenwolf, flighty creatures that they are—” He felt Grimolfr’s fondness for Viradechtis in the pack-sense and felt Viradechtis laughing back. He himself had never felt so little like laughing in his life. “But I’d rather take no chances.”
“That means Hrolleif will be leaving.”
“Vigdis certainly isn’t staying.”
“And you? Are you … ?” His throat closed, and he swallowed hard.
“I’m not putting Skald to his own daughter.”
Of course not, he meant to say, but all that came out was, “Oh,” in barely a whisper, and then Viradechtis was nudging at him, nosing aside his braids so that she could lick his face.
“Isolfr.” Grimolfr stopped, and Isolfr patted Viradechtis, pushed her gently away, looked up at the wolfjarl. “No one wants to hurt you. I promise you that. None of your threat-brothers wants any harm to come to you or to Viradechtis.”
“I know,” Isolfr said. He did know, and it didn’t help. He knew as well that wolves died, and men died, and any wolfcarl a hair smarter than Ulfrikr knew he might someday find himself standing in Isolfr’s place. “Who are you leaving in charge?”
“Clorulf, I think. He’s a good lad—and heall-bred, so he’ll understand what he’s seeing.”
Isolfr nodded. Clorulf had bonded the most dominant of Vigdis’ latest litter; he was sensible, thoughtful, and kinder than many young men that age bothered to be.
Grimolfr looked at him. “It is a hard thing you do, and I honor you for it. Now go get Jorveig to put something on your knuckles.”
Gratefully, Isolfr fled.
The patrols left that night; although it wrenched at his heart, Isolfr stayed away from the gates. Hrolleif and Grimolfr both stopped to take leave of him, and so did Randulfr, a kindness which Isolfr had not expected.
“I know you’ve probably been given more advice than you can hope to remember,” Randulfr said, blue eyes twinkling, “but I wanted to add my handful.”
“I am grateful,” Isolfr said carefully.
Randulfr sobered. “It’s just this: whatever you do, don’t fight. Viradechtis is going to make the choices. You can’t change them, and all you will do if you try is hurt yourself. And her.”
Iso
lfr nodded, and thought gratefully of Othwulf and Vikingr, safely in distant Franangford.
“You will do well,” Randulfr said, clapped him on the shoulder, and turned away, striding to join Ingrun at the doors of the roundhall. It said something, Isolfr reflected, about the—was “friendship” the right word between wolves?—the fondness, certainly, between Viradechtis and Ingrun, that although Ingrun had not followed her brother to Isolfr’s corner of the hall, she had not protested his going, and Viradechtis had not protested her smell on Randulfr.
Don’t fight, he said to himself, and that night, alone in the records-room, he prepared himself the way Hrolleif had taught him. It was an unpleasant business, humiliating, and he had to do it twice more in the following days, as tempers frayed among the threat, and Isolfr himself felt something building, like a thunderstorm in his bones and blood, building and building and yet refusing to break.
He tried not to look at either wolves or men, tried not to speculate. Viradechtis sparked and encouraged several savage fights, and the boys bonded to Vigdis’ yearling pups were busy, aside from trying to keep everyone fed and comfortable, in treating the wounds of wolves and men.
And still Viradechtis’ heat rose and rose and did not crest. Isolfr slept only patchily and restlessly, and he was aware of the men watching him, horribly aware of what they were thinking about. He could not even meet Ulfbjorn’s eyes now, for although Tindr would certainly not top Viradechtis in the coming rut, he was no less male than the other wolves of the threat, and Isolfr could not encourage. Could not. Viradechtis is going to make the choices. The sexual tension was worse; for most of the second day he was half-hard, and yet unable, even when he surrendered to it and tried, to achieve any kind of release. The youngest wolfcarls were attentive, and Clorulf in particular was more patient than Isolfr thought he deserved; he seemed to find nothing shameful or unusual in Isolfr’s wit-shattered restlessness and uncharacteristically vicious tongue.
Then, finally, as dusk came down on that day, like a thunderstorm it broke. Isolfr, eyes shut, cursing under his breath, had prepared himself again only an hour before, hating the way his own fingers added to his unslakable arousal. The jar of salve was beside his blankets, where he had put it when he returned from that almost furtive trip to the records-room. He had been keeping it close, knowing that the older wolfcarls at least would make an effort to use it.
He was sitting, back against the wall, head down, trying either to think of something other than his wretched swollen sex or to think of nothing at all. There was a snarl, the unmistakable snap of teeth, the thunder of two trellwolf bodies rolling across the floor, and Isolfr, looking up to see Viradechtis standing in a circle of bright-eyed dog-wolves while one slunk away, realized that she had just spurned, emphatically and unmistakably, the advances of a suitor. And was waiting for the next contender.
And behind the wolves stood the men.
He didn’t know who the rejected wolf was. He couldn’t seem to see clearly, and the pack-sense was a maelstrom of anger and desire and blood-red madness. He knew what he had to do, because Frithulf would laugh at him if he actually had the clothes ripped from his body. He got up on his knees and struggled out of shirt and trews, unwilling to stand up lest he draw attention. When he got his clothes off, he looked down at himself: fully erect, and he couldn’t deny it.
Another spate of snarls; he looked up wide-eyed. Two males fighting now, Glaedir and Guthleifr, and Viradechtis flaunting herself, taunting them, urging them on. Eyjolfr and Fostolfr behind them, fighting as savagely as their brothers, while Mar and Frothi circled each other warily in the background.
And Isolfr could do nothing but watch and wait and see who would win him.
He could not follow all that happened; he felt as fevered as he had as a child with the winter-cough, and the wolves’ bodies seemed to merge and shift before his dazed eyes. But he knew who came to him first. It was Skjaldwulf, Mar’s brother, the rangy silent man with the black scowl, who sang for anyone. Viradechtis was still flirting Mar away, and Skjaldwulf reached for the pot of salve before he stepped onto Isolfr’s blankets.
He’d been told not to fight, and he didn’t want to fight; he rolled over, presenting himself to Skjaldwulf, begging mutely to be touched, to be taken, at least to know that there was someone trapped in this burning with him. Skjaldwulf went to his knees, and Viradechtis let Mar catch her; Isolfr felt her triumph, her joy. She knew; she made her choices, and she gloried in them. Mar’s forelegs on her barrel, Skjaldwulf’s hands, unexpectedly kind, and then Mar thrust and Skjaldwulf thrust and although Isolfr had sworn to himself he wouldn’t, he cried out, a howl wrenched from him by the perfection of the way Mar and Viradechtis pressed together. And the threat answered him.
There were no words, no awareness beyond the heat. He moved against Skjaldwulf as Viradechtis moved against Mar, his cries matching hers. And Skjaldwulf, though he drove hard against Isolfr, remained kind; one hand came around and found Isolfr’s sex, and the second time Isolfr howled, it was with the release of climax sweeping through him.
Mar did not take as long as Hroi had; there were other brothers waiting, and Viradechtis was eager for them. Skjaldwulf climaxed with his brother, and Isolfr felt bewilderedly the soft brush of lips against his backbone as Skjaldwulf pulled out.
And then Skjaldwulf was gone, Mar was gone, and Viradechtis presented herself to Glaedir. Dimly, Isolfr wondered why she had not accepted Glaedir first; there was a reason, though it was too deep in the wolfthreat for him to articulate or even fully understand. Glaedir mounted Viradechtis, and Eyjolfr’s hands were hard on Isolfr’s hips, his thrust forward almost punishing. Eyjolfr was … angry? It was hard to tell, hard to tell anger from lust from savage triumph. But he could not quite bite back a whimper as Eyjolfr slammed into him, a whimper that transmuted to a warning snarl from Viradechtis; Glaedir whined softly, contrite, and Eyjolfr moderated his force. But there was no kindness in him, not tonight, and Isolfr would have apologized, if he’d had any idea of what he’d done wrong, or how. As it was, he bit his lower lip and endured, letting Viradechtis’ pleasure saturate his own body’s responses, feeling her joy in Glaedir, and through that finding the wider pack-sense, where this was hard and savage, but also beautiful.
Glaedir was followed by Ingjaldr, Ingjaldr by Guthleifr, Guthleifr by Nagli. Isolfr was barely aware of the men mounting his own body, barely aware of the long rocking back and forth between pleasure and pain and pleasure again. But he could not bite back his sob as Egill succeeded Nagli, and Thurulfr took Ulfgeirr’s place. Please let this be over soon, the first coherent thought he’d had since Viradechtis’ heat started; maybe that meant the end was near, but it also meant that he could no longer simply escape into the pack-sense. His awareness was more and more trapped in his own body, in the bruises and cramped limbs, and the pain. He sobbed as Thurulfr used him, racking, tearless wrenches of stomach and lungs. And he realized how grateful he should be, to Mar or Viradechtis or whatever alchemy between them it was that ensured Skjaldwulf had had him first; Skjaldwulf was gentle, and had had the control to be kind. Each successive mating had been more savage; some of them had bitten him, others raked his back with their nails. And he did not resent them for it, any more than he resented Thurulfr, whose hands were layering more bruises on his hips even now. They did but follow where their brothers led, as Isolfr followed where Viradechtis led. She is worth it, he thought, and held the thought to him as a prayer, as Viradechtis and Egill began to strive together with urgency, as Thurulfr leaned forward, as Isolfr, helplessly, screamed, and screamed again as Thurulfr tensed against him and growled his own release.
The wolf was gone, the man was gone. The konigenwolf padded over to her brother, nuzzled gently at his ear. He was waiting, waiting for the next set of hands, the next hard, thrusting sex, the next … the next …
Someone was saying his name. “Isolfr? Isolfr? It’s … it’s all right now.” Someone’s voice was trembling. “Can you move? Isolfr
? I would help you, but I …” Someone’s voice caught on a sob. Isolfr reached dizzily for a name. Clorulf. That was right. Clorulf, Vith’s brother.
A hand was patting his shoulder, tentatively. “Isolfr, I think you’re frightening Viradechtis. You’re frightening me.” Clorulf’s voice broke, and Isolfr remembered he was barely a man.
He knew he should comfort Clorulf, should comfort Viradechtis, who was whining against his ear, washing his face with broad strokes of her tongue. He should say something, but language was a thing that had left him long before, and he didn’t want to be touched, not by Clorulf and not even by Viradechtis.
He shoved the wolf and the boy away and curled into the blankets, praying to the god of wolves for sleep, and nothing else.
He lay fevered for two days, and later deemed it a mercy, because when he awakened he was only stiff and sore and savagely marked with bruises, and Frithulf and Sokkolfr had returned. Later, they told him that Ulfbjorn had been the one to quiet him, pinning him down with main strength so that his injuries could be doctored when he had at first been unwilling to accept even Viradechtis’ touch. In any case, he awoke in his usual place, Hroi packed close on one side and Viradechtis on the other, and opened his eyes to find Sokkolfr sitting propped against the wall sewing saddle leathers. He lay and watched the needle move for a while, wondering—incongruously—what svartalfar needlework (or svartalfar needles for that matter) would look like. Finally, it occurred to him that he was thirsty, in his cocoon under the blankets, and he sought his voice to ask for ale.
What came out was a croak, and he felt his throat in surprise. The motion brought sickening pain, but either his croaking or his whimpering caught Sokkolfr’s attention, and Sokkolfr was beside him, cradling his head and tilting a leather cup to his mouth.
Isolfr managed a few slow sips before he choked, and Sokkolfr pulled the cup away. “Don’t move,” he said. “Be cautious.”
A Companion to Wolves Page 19
