The Tempering of Men (28 page)

Skjaldwulf knew that among the wild wolves the fighting was no more a matter of choice than was the mating, but bonded trellwolves took some flavor of their brothers, just as wolfcarls tended to the wolfish in their humor and their politics. Conflict was inevitable, but the bitch did have some control over her followers; Skjaldwulf had seen what happened when she used that to incite them to frenzy, and that morning in Siglufjordhur's training arena, he saw the opposite. Ingrun did not want fighting, too aware that they were a small pack, far from home, surrounded by enemies. Deep in the pack-sense, he saw her image of
enemies:
great hulking shadows, mingled of troll and cave bear, that smelled not of death but of disease—of the foaming sickness that could destroy an entire pack in a matter of days.

Brothers,
Ingrun insisted, a word she'd learned from her brother and from all the men of the werthreat, and Skjaldwulf wondered, when he could ponder the matter clearheaded again, if she had learned to use men's words from Viradechtis. Isolfr had told him that Viradechtis could do that, and Skjaldwulf knew the wolves of a pack learned from each other—and packs learned from packs when they met at a Wolfmaegthing. And Ingrun, though by no means as intelligent as Viradechtis—or Viradechtis' mother, the Nithogsfjoll konigenwolf Vigdis—was
not
stupid. And all wolves were curious and eager to learn, as wolfcarls found out to their dismay with the regularity of the waxing and waning of the moon.

Brothers,
said Ingrun, and the dog wolves listened to her. There was some posturing and snarling, but Afi followed Mar, Dyrver followed Afi, and Kothran followed Dyrver without any blood being drawn. And they mated with no less vigor, Skjaldwulf noted; some wolfcarls claimed that the fighting heated the blood and made the dog wolves more potent, though Skjaldwulf had thought privately that if that were true, then every raped woman would bear twins.

In the aftermath, they slept, men and wolves in a happily indiscriminate pile, and when they woke, ravenous, and Ulfhoss and Geirulfr threw the doors open, they found the courtyard glowing gold and purple in the sunset.

A thrall or fosterling must have been set to watch for them, for Fargrimr was there with gratifying promptness, Otter close behind him. “We are well,” Skjaldwulf said to both of them.

“And hungry,” Frithulf said.

“Very hungry,” Ulfhoss added.

Fargrimr actually grinned and said, “That, we are prepared for. Come.” He led them into the hall, where a thrall was scurrying to and fro, setting out platters and trenchers and tankards. Fargrimr sat down with them, although he did not eat, and said, “I told Father that you were celebrating a mystery of the wolfheallan, in preparation for the work of driving the Rheans from our shore. I do not know how truthful I was, but he is not displeased.”

“Truthful enough,” Skjaldwulf said. It seemed better for all of them, wolfcarls and wolfless men alike, if the details were not discussed. What was not spoken could not be repeated.

Fargrimr nodded, as much in acceptance as in agreement, and gracefully turned the conversation to tactics likely to be successful in Rhean-hunting, a discussion that the wolfcarls entered into with enthusiasm, and sometimes with their mouths full. Randulfr was tentative at first, but it was soon apparent that whatever Fargrimr knew or guessed about the wolfheallan's mysteries, they did not change his feelings toward his brother, and Randulfr was soon arguing amiably with Frithulf about the best way to break the Rheans' four-square shield wall.

Skjaldwulf asked Otter, “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she said. “Fargrimr was very kind. I do not know what to make of you Iskryners.”

Skjaldwulf shrugged. “I like wolves better. They are simpler.”

Otter gave him half a smile, but he had reminded himself of a question he had been meaning to ask: “What do you know of the Rheans' beliefs about wolves? For surely we can use their fear of trellwolves to our advantage.”

“I know a little,” Otter said. “Their greatest city, for which they name themselves and their empire, is Rhea Lupina. That's the name of their principal goddess, too, and she's something to do with wolves, although I couldn't ever make sense of it, whether she was eaten by a wolf, or turned into a wolf—or maybe she was a wolf turned into a woman. I don't know. The god they follow is a war god—like your Othinn, I think, but I'm not sure about that, either—and they say their city was founded by the child born when the god raped Rhea Lupina.”

Skjaldwulf's mouth opened, surprise like a stone on his heart. “They have gods. Gods of their own, I mean? A war god who is neither Othinn nor Thor?”

“They call him Mars.”

Unwitting, Skjaldwulf looked at his wolf. Mar blinked like a cat, immune to the nuances of the conversation but evidently finding
something
the inexplicable men were doing funny. Skjaldwulf frowned, trying to remember if he had told anyone the wolf's name while he was in captivity.

Of course men of other lands would have other gods, he supposed. Men from a warm land would not need to worship winter, nor to appease him with sacrifice. Or perhaps they were the same gods, with different names. Othinn walked in disguise in the stories.

God of wolves, god of war.
“That's…”

Otter grimaced in agreement. “They hold wolves sacred, but I think there aren't very many of them—wolves, I mean—around Rhea Lupina itself. And I'm sure there aren't any as big as your wolves.”

“Is that why they decided Mar had to be some kind of ghost?”

“Not a ghost,” Otter said. “But yes. I know some of them were saying that maybe the enormous wolves were a sign of Rhea Lupina's displeasure. Now that I think of it, that may be why the centurion was willing to let Sixtus yelp on about you being a witch.”

“Yes,” Skjaldwulf said. “If I'm a witch, I can be burned. But if the goddess is displeased…”

“Probably they burn you anyway,” Otter said.

*   *   *

“One thing,” Vethulf said, against the exhaustion that dragged at every limb.

“You need to sleep,” said Isolfr, who had been white-faced and peremptory since Throttolfr and Ulfvaldr had half-carried Vethulf into Franangfordheall.

“'S important,” Vethulf insisted, because he knew it was, even if he couldn't quite remember why. He pushed himself up on his good elbow and would have reached for Isolfr except that the first hint of movement reminded him not to.

Isolfr looked at him and apparently decided that it
was
important. “All right. Tell me. But then you
rest
.”

“Yes,” Vethulf agreed. There was nothing he wanted more at that moment. But … “The wyvern. It had a collar.”

“A collar?”

Vethulf couldn't tell if the frown was perplexity or concern, so he explained, “Too small. Grown since. Trolls.”

“You think it was one of the wyverns the trolls kept,” Isolfr said cautiously.

“Yeah,” said Vethulf, slumping back against his pillows. “Run wild. Like pigs, when the farmer dies.”

“And those are the most dangerous,” Isolfr said softly. He understood.

“Yeah,” Vethulf said again, and fell hard asleep.

*   *   *

Skjaldwulf spent the next two days eating the fish and dulse that Siglufjordhur harvested from the sea, and going over Siglufjordhur's defenses with Randulfr, Fargrimr, and their sister's husband, Bjorr. The old jarl, though keen-eyed and keen-minded, was no longer able to walk farther than the length of the longhouse. The trellwar had been the last rally of a long life spent in warring.

A long life?
Skjaldwulf thought. Fastarr was older than Iunarius, but by how much? Five summers? Ten? How much longer could he have expected to live, had he been born Rhean?

Unprofitable thought, and Skjaldwulf shook it off.

Siglufjordhur, being less than half a mile inland, was built for defense as much as for monitoring the sea. “The jarl of Siglufjordhur is still known as the Watchman,” Randulfr told Skjaldwulf, and Siglufjordhur's rocky prominence made sense in another way. There had been less need for watch and defense in Fastarr's time, as the Northmen quit raiding each other and turned their attention to Brython and the southern lands, and although he was too good a steward to let anything fall into disrepair, it was clear that Siglufjordhur's wealth had been put to other uses.

In principle, Skjaldwulf approved. The crofts and cottages about the keep were in good repair, sheep and children alike were healthy, and there was a windmill, its wood still yellow with newness, that every man in Siglufjordhur—to Skjaldwulf's observation—looked on with pride.

Unless he had gone north to the trellwar, no one alive in Siglufjordhur today had ever seen a troll, and only the oldest of the grandfathers might remember their grandfathers telling stories of the troll attacks
their
grandfathers had survived.

Franangford and Nithogsfjoll could look like this,
Skjaldwulf thought, and it was an almost incomprehensibly strange idea.

But for now the question was how to make Siglufjordhur more like the northern keeps rather than the other way around. Fargrimr had begun the process, but he was hampered by the reluctance of the farmers to believe there was any real danger. The Rheans thus far had been behaving like bandits, attacking travelers and outlying crofts but leaving alone anything within sight of a keep. “It cannot last,” Fargrimr said, and Skjaldwulf, having seen the Rhean camp and the monumental self-confidence of the tribune, agreed.

“They are merely waiting until they are dug in,” Skjaldwulf said, “and until they have a satisfactory sense of what they are fighting. An invasion force is what I saw, not a raiding party.”

Bjorr looked doubtful still. He was his father-in-law's housecarl; from things said and unsaid, Skjaldwulf had gathered that he was also the son of the most stubborn of the farmers. Bjorr was not a warrior. He said, “But perhaps they will see that we are not easy prey like the Brythoni, and they will go away.”

Skjaldwulf reminded himself that this was not a wolfheall and he was not leader here. He had no authority save what Fastarr and Fargrimr chose to give him.

And Fargrimr answered in any event. “It is not a chance I like to take. If we prepare our defenses and it turns out that we guessed wrong, we are none the worse off. But if we do
not
prepare our defenses and are wrong, then we are dead or enslaved.”

“You will be singing a different tune come winter,” said Bjorr, “when we have not enough food laid in.”

“Enough,” Fastarr said sharply. “I agree with Fargrimr. We must defend ourselves, or our food stores will only serve to feed our enemies. But I know it is also true that if we abandon the farms now, we do not have enough food in the keep to feed all our liegemen and their families. We will have to try to balance one concern against the other.”

Fargrimr made a face, and Fastarr laughed. “I know, but we cannot solve one problem by pretending the other is not there. Which brings me to another sty which must be cleaned.”

“The bandits,” Fargrimr said disgustedly.

“Bandits?” Randulfr said, sitting up straighter. “Since when are there bandits in Siglufjordhur?”

“Since two winters ago,” Fargrimr said, choosing to take the question literally. “We played hide-and-go-seek with them for months—and then the call to the trellwar came and had to be answered. And now we have crippled warriors and half-trained boys, and a new danger to contend with.”

“And the bandits,” Fastarr added, “have the luck of the gods.” He and Fargrimr exchanged a dark look, and Skjaldwulf understood what was not being said:
luck—or help.

Banditry was a problem Skjaldwulf was more familiar with from tales than from experience; the far north was too hard a land, and men too dependent on each other's goodwill for survival. But it took only a very little imagination to see how matters would be different here along the coast. And very little more to see how a pack of bandits could go to a village heofodman with a bargain he would be hard-pressed to refuse. Or, Skjaldwulf supposed with a shiver, it would be easy enough for a whole village to turn bandit.

He said, “Though we do not usually do so, we can hunt men as well as trolls.”

Fargrimr gave him a look bright with interest. “That,” he said, “would be very useful indeed.”

*   *   *

They set out at moonrise, wolves and men, with Fargrimr along both to provide guidance and to mete out justice as might be necessary. Fargrimr knew roughly where the bandits were laired: a gnarled and knotty stretch of forest that was—Skjaldwulf saw at a glance—ideal for emerging to ambush travelers and equally ideal for eluding pursuit.

Unless your pursuers were trellwolves.

The wolves dispersed into the woods as silently as a scatter of raindrops into a pond; their brothers followed them. Skjaldwulf tended to lose track of time in the hunt, so he could not say whether it was quickly or slowly that the wolves picked up the scent of their prey.
Men,
said Kothran, who had the keenest nose.
Dirty, wolfless men. There.

The wolves turned, Afi swinging wide, Ingrun closing the circle. Mar and Dyrver followed Kothran.
Hunters,
Skjaldwulf thought, and though it was by no means a new thought, it chilled him.
Hunters of men.

The bandits had rigged a series of dugouts and lean-to shelters, well-camouflaged with tree branches and dead leaves, and all but impossible to see in the soft, cold moonlight. Although it was a rough camp, it had every appearance of permanence—this was no spur-of-the-moment enterprise, existing solely from one opportunity to the next. These men were bandits as other men were farmers or wolfcarls, and Skjaldwulf did not mind nearly so much being a hunter of men if his prey was men like these.