The Tempering of Men (10 page)

Randulfr nodded and continued more mildly, “He asks me to bring Ingrun—apparently the southlanders have stories about the great demon wolves of the north, and Fargrimr thinks that if they see that Siglufjordhur has one, they will become less willing to attack. And he adds that any of my friends who wish to come will be welcome. There are—women widowed, he says.”

Well, of course they will be,
Vethulf thought, but this time he managed to keep a rein on his tongue and even swallowed a couple other sharp comments. Instead, he said, “You don't need permission to leave.”

“No,” Randulfr said. “But I thought, when Fargrimr asked for just Ingrun and me, that I could do better than that. And if I wish to form a threat to travel south, I would rather do so with the goodwill of my wolfjarls.”

“Huh,” said Vethulf. “Skjaldwulf has this crazy plan about traveling south with the godsman, you know.” He put the stack of hides aside and got up, heaving a grumbling Kjaran off his feet. “Come on. Let's go talk to Skjaldwulf.”

SIX

The Franangfordthreat traveled light and they traveled quick. Skjaldwulf had to hide his amusement at the apparent wonder with which the wolfless men—Freyvithr and Adalbrikt, the messenger from Randulfr's brother—greeted the speed at which preparations were completed once the decision was made to move.

Two days after Randulfr's mumbled and awkward conversation with Vethulf (for so Skjaldwulf's co-wolfjarl had recounted it) the gray of morning twilight, moist and loud of birds, rich with smells, found a small collection of wolves and men gathered among the tents and rubble of Franangford's ongoing construction. In one group, burdened chiefly with weapons of the hunt and of self-protection (and a few bundles of food and furs, in case the spring turned bitter), stood Adalbrikt and Freyvithr Godsman. Around them gathered black Mar and his brother Skjaldwulf; the gray-tawny bitch Ingrun and her brother Randulfr; Viradechtis' fleet, diminutive littermate Kothran and his brother, fire-scarred Frithulf; Afi and Geirulfr, a wolf and his brother who had followed Kjaran from Arakensberg; and Dyrver and Ulfhoss, a silver-brindle yearling from Thorsbaer and his young, wiry brother.

In the other group, representing the less than three dozen remaining wolves-and-men of Franangford's depleted threat, stood slope-shouldered Kjaran and Vethulf, his red braids whipping in a sharp wind; Viradechtis surrounded by her half-grown cubs, shedding her winter coat in streamers and rags; Isolfr ice-pale and ice-calm behind the troll-clawed scars that rendered his face so impassive; young Sokkolfr and old Hroi, the steady housecarls; massive Glaedir, who had been Mar's rival for Viradechtis, and his brother, Randulfr's lover, Eyjolfr; Dagmaer, the heallbred woman who was the yearling wolfcarl's lover and one of Franangford's better herbwives and spinners; and a few others, obviously attached to one wolfcarl or another, of whom Skjaldwulf still knew little other than their faces and their names.

Seven men, five wolves, and three ponies would head south to Siglufjordhur and thence to Hergilsberg and Freyvithr's monastery, a journey that might take two summers to complete, there and back again. So few, and yet really more than could be spared.

Unless they could all be spared. If the world did not need them anymore—if the great deeds of the previous winter would be the last great deeds sung of the wolfcarls and their brothers—then it didn't matter how many went and how many stayed.

But Skjaldwulf would not accept that just yet.

Skjaldwulf stepped forward, clasped Isolfr's upraised fist, and pressed their forearms together. Isolfr thumped Skjaldwulf's back with his free hand. Skjaldwulf could have leaned into it but instead moved aside for his own safety as Mar, Viradechtis, Kjaran, and their pups circled one another, sniffing and nipping. Wolves greeted one another, but they did not leave-take; the little pack within the pack was merely playing. Vethulf came forward next, and when Skjaldwulf would have clasped fists there as well, Vethulf surprised him with a hug and a sharp, fisted tug in his hair. A pale gaze burned into Skjaldwulf's eyes as he stepped back. He nodded. There was nothing here that needed words.

“Bring them back in one piece,” Sokkolfr said to Frithulf as they, too, broke an embrace. Hroi whined, and Skjaldwulf could sense his frustration, but Hroi knew as well as any of the men that he was too old to walk a thousand miles in any but the direst necessity. And he was needed here, where there were cubs to educate, just as Sokkolfr was needed where there was a hall to build.

Skjaldwulf sighed. The stiffness in his own limbs told him that he, too, was too old for thousand-mile walks.

Eyjolfr's hug with Randulfr seemed stiff, awkward, but Skjaldwulf was too old and too much a scholar of men to be fooled into thinking it insincere. He didn't pretend to understand that relationship. But whatever their bargain was, it seemed to have survived Eyjolfr's now-abandoned pursuit of Isolfr intact. And Skjaldwulf, stealing a sideways glance at Vethulf, knew by the itch in his own breast that it was not his place to judge.

Skjaldwulf caught Sokkolfr's eye, half-smiled so the tall young man would know it for a vote of confidence, and said, “I'm counting on you to have a finished keep waiting for us on our return.”

Sokkolfr snorted. “With sunken tubs to soak your feet in hot water, and thrall-women to beat their willow withies across your back?”

“And honey-cakes and sugared apples,” Vethulf said.

Wolves don't linger, and it was Skjaldwulf's opinion that that was a matter in which men benefited from their example. “It's in the hands of the wolf-god now,” he said, and turned away.

*   *   *

For a long time, it didn't really feel like leaving. They walked, and some of the wolfthreat walked out with them. Not Viradechtis, but two of the cubs, and Hrafn, the black wildling wolf chasing pale Kothran until Frithulf yelled after them to save some energy for the march. Franangford was visible behind them for a while, and after that they were still on familiar roads.

And would be through Bravoll, and for some of them—including Skjaldwulf—as far south even as Arakensberg. There they would pick up the Hergilsberg road, which would take them within a hundred miles of Siglufjordhur and Randulfr's errand.

And then on to Hergilsberg and its archives and the answers he hoped they might contain. Skjaldwulf hadn't spoken of it, not even to Vethulf and Isolfr. Something superstitious stopped his tongue—the idea that to speak of an ill fate was to summon it, perhaps, or that to speak of a solution to a sticky problem might frighten it away, push it aside like the wind of a hand could bat aside the very mayfly one had meant to catch. But he had had the inkling of an idea. The beginnings of a solution to the dilemma the wolfcarls faced, most of them still unknowing.

Now, suddenly, when it was too late, he doubted the wisdom of keeping his own counsel. He was not a young man. And this would not be an easy journey.

*   *   *

When they made camp on the first night, the Franangford wolves stayed with them, sleeping in a great pile against the seasonable cold of a clear, starry night. When the men rose in the frosted morning and pissed out the embers of the fire, Hrafn and the cubs had already vanished, their paw prints visible in the silvered leaves beside the road—although “road” was a grand term for something that was little more than a track, wide enough for a wolf and a man abreast, or one man riding.

Skjaldwulf gnawed a cold breakfast of hardtack, butter, and jerky, washing it down with water that tasted of the leathern bottle it had traveled in. There was a spring a few miles on at which to refill it, and so for now he drank freely. Hopefully, as they were headed south into gentler and more settled lands, water wouldn't be a concern. But tonight, or the next day at the latest, they would have to hunt if they wanted to keep eating.

On Skjaldwulf's left, the wolfless man of Siglufjordhur rolled up his furs, breath steaming faintly. It wasn't true cold, but he chafed his bare tattooed arms anyway, the skin prickled.

When he straightened, Skjaldwulf tossed him the pouch of hardtack. “Eat.”

“I overslept,” said Adalbrikt, as humbly as if he thought Skjaldwulf his jarl. A southerner, and raised not around wolfcarls but only among the stories of them. Skjaldwulf rather imagined the awe would wear off in a week or two—especially with Frithulf along. “Aren't we in a hurry?”

Skjaldwulf shrugged. “We are. But not so much of a hurry that we can leave before everybody else's bedroll is packed up. Use all the time you have, young man. And use it for something other than pacing.”

Adalbrikt plunked down on the ground beside the log Skjaldwulf sat on, rather than the log itself. More of that respect. “Yes, wolfheofodman.”

Skjaldwulf hid a smile.

Across the burned and overburned charcoal circle of the fire—apparently they were not the first to camp here—Frithulf, too, was chewing hardtack as if he found it onerous and using his own found moments to assure himself of the soundness of his wolf. Kothran, for his part, snored quite audibly. Mar, Skjaldwulf reached out into the pack-sense, seeking his wolf—

Mar had gone on ahead and was waiting by the fork in the road, where their route led to Bravoll and an even less-traveled path led seaward, where a dozen nameless fishing villages crouched. Mar, too, was resting, lounging in the shade and concealment of a grove of red pines, aware of his pack behind him and waiting for them to make up some of the distance before moving forward.

Farther than Mar, Skjaldwulf could feel Kjaran and Viradechtis, their awareness like a breath stirring the fine hairs of his skin. Behind them, both nearer and farther at once, the rest of the pack waited—Kothran and Ingrun and Afi and Dyrver, here by the fire; Hrafn and the cubs jogging tirelessly back north, making faster time now that they were unburdened by horses, packs, and wolfless men; Hroi ranging wide on a patrol-cum-hunting-expedition with two of the young wolves that remained of the old Franangfordthreat.

Isolfr had taught Skjaldwulf how to do this. And it was Viradechtis, Skjaldwulf thought, who truly made it possible. Her intelligence and command of her pack—her unmistakable presence—were such that even its human brothers, with their dim sight and hearing and even dimmer second senses, could perceive what every trellwolf knew of its brothers and sisters.

Skjaldwulf crunched the last of his brittle rye hardtack and chewed until it was soft enough to swallow. He stood and chafed the crumbs from his palms against his thighs. “How far do you suppose the pack-sense stretches?”

“As far as wolves have gone,” Frithulf said, looking up from checking Kothran's furry paws. Burrs and stones sometimes stuck in the crevices, and the small scrapes they caused could become infected and wear a crippling sore. “To the Iskryne and back, at least. I've been that far. Beyond that, I suppose we'll have to find out.”

SEVEN

Vethulf was irritated by how much he missed Skjaldwulf.

He had fully expected the Franangfordthreat to feel off-balance, men and wolves both. They were missing a wolfjarl, even if one still remained, and although he had no idea of how to put it into words, he understood what Viradechtis has done in choosing both Mar and Kjaran. So it was not surprising that there was a Mar-and-Skjaldwulf-shaped hole in the pack. Vethulf had also expected that he would suffer from Skjaldwulf's absence, in the sense that all Skjaldwulf's work and responsibilities now rested on top of his own.

As the moon waxed and waned, Vethulf became aware: he did not do that work as well as Skjaldwulf did. Vethulf was at his worst with the tithe boys, but there were any number of things he did nearly as badly, and he found himself wondering how ordinary wolfjarls, wolfjarls who had to do all of this themselves
as a matter of course,
could even function.

He had even expected—or at least wasn't surprised by—the effect on Viradechtis and Kjaran, both of whom became even more insistent that they and Vethulf and Isolfr had to sleep together (along with varying numbers of Viradechtis' pups); on one occasion, Vethulf saw Viradechtis actually
herding
Isolfr into the room. Isolfr looked up and caught his eye; after an impossible to read moment, he gave Vethulf a sheepish grin and said, “I've never pretended she wasn't the one in charge.” Vethulf grinned back and was saved from having to find something safe to say by Viradechtis coming around to bump him in the back of the legs, too.

So that was all expected and reasonable. But why was he missing Skjaldwulf so much? Why did he keep turning his head and expecting to find the man there, as dark and silent as a shadow? Why did he lie awake at nights feeling as if he had to be in the wrong bed?

There was an answer, but it was ridiculous.

Vethulf threw himself into his work to avoid it, grimly determined to be so exhausted at the end of each day that he wouldn't
notice
what bed he was in, much less care.

Fortunately for him, there was no shortage of work.

*   *   *

Tithe boys were Sokkolfr's business, and the rest of the threat were glad of it. But as the spring progressed, it became evident to Brokkolfr that this time the situation was peculiar. First of all, Sokkolfr had only four tithe boys for Viradechtis' five pups; tithes would pick up again, the older wolfcarls said, but boys came with the harvest, not in planting season, and too many were dead of trolls.

Although it could have been, it wasn't a problem, and that was another reason the situation was peculiar. There were only four boys, but there were three times that many wolfless wolfcarls. So many wolves had died in the war, even more wolves than men, and this was Franangford's share of what at Othinnsaescheall Brokkolfr had heard called wolf-widows. The Nithogsfjoll men didn't like the term, but one of the wolf-widowed men had said when Sokkolfr objected, “Isn't it true?” And Sokkolfr had had no answer.