The Tempering of Men (7 page)

Vethulf leaned over to Skjaldwulf and whispered in his ear, “I think Viradechtis would nurse the bantling herself, if she still had milk in.”

“Raised on wolf's-milk!” Skjaldwulf whispered back. “What a start to a hero's saga. Pity it's a girl.”

Isolfr lifted his head, pale braids draped across the sleeping child's blankets. His rocking must have been the right sort—it looked like what Vethulf's mother and older sisters had done to quiet the youngers—because Alfgyfa made no more protest than might a poppet.

The wolfsprechend gazed benevolently upon the two wolfjarls, an expression that made Vethulf want to bite him for his damned condescension. Instead, Vethulf sat on his hands.
Temper.

The old wolfcarl beside Vethulf elbowed him, but when he glanced at Skjaldwulf, Skjaldwulf was smiling, and Vethulf had a sudden, vivid memory of the taste of his mouth.

Cursing his complexion, Vethulf looked down quickly.

“Yes?” Isolfr said. “You two are plotting. I can smell it from here.”

“The godsman,” Skjaldwulf said reluctantly. Isolfr recoiled and might have leaped to his feet except that it could have awakened the baby. That wouldn't have stopped Vethulf, but he read the wolfsprechend's guilty glance at his child and understood it.

Skjaldwulf, however, pressed on, though Vethulf could sense the tension in him. “He said to me that they have records almost a thousand years old. Written records, books. What if we could get access to those?”

Isolfr shook his head. “I don't understand.”

“What if they have books old enough that they talk about the last time the ice came south? What if they remember where it stopped?”

“The svartalfar might remember,” Isolfr said. His eyes went to his axe, the axe the svartalfar had given him.

“They might,” Skjaldwulf agreed while Vethulf drew his arms close around himself. “But not just anyone can go ask them. And have you thought about what will happen between men and the svartalfar when you are gone, Isolfr? They can push us out as easily as they pushed out the trolls. It is only your deed and their debt to you that stays them. What if there is something in the monks' archive that can help us plan ahead?”

Isolfr spread his unburdened hand. The babe made a thready awakening sound until he jiggled her quiet again. “I can't leave the wolfthreat now. Viradechtis has pups, and the dogs—too many dogs, from too many packs. Amma is too sweet-natured to keep them from killing each other, and Ingrun … And then there's
this.
” He pointed with his chin to Alfgyfa.

“Talk to the godsman,” Skjaldwulf said. “Buy us his goodwill. I will go south with him and see what his books of memories can tell us.”

Isolfr looked down. One thing Vethulf could never imagine him doing was shirking anything he saw as his duty. But he frowned deeply before he said, “Vethulf, I want you there when I do the telling.”

Why me?
Vethulf thought.
Why not Skjaldwulf?
Although Isolfr did not play favorites with his wolfjarls the way Vethulf's sisters had with their suitors, it was not a secret that he was more comfortable with Skjaldwulf than with Vethulf. They had known each other—been part of the same threat—for years, and Skjaldwulf, who (Frithulf said) had been known to go days at a time without saying a word, was far more restful company.

Perhaps he hopes I will yell at the godsman and save him from this duty he does not want.
The thought was grossly unfair—to Isolfr if not necessarily to Vethulf—and he did his best to push it away. But it would not, quite, go.

*   *   *

Cub,
Amma said with great firmness.

They had been busy all the day before, clearing a deadfall and three of the most massive tree stumps Brokkolfr had ever seen—a horrible job, exhausting and filthy, and he'd wished for Amma's pelt to protect him from the tangled briars—and then hunting in the long evening, with Kari and Hrafn and two other bond-pairs who had helped sire the pups Amma was carrying.

Ulfmundr had walked beside Brokkolfr for a while, as Amma and Hlothor ranged ahead, talking about temperament and bone, what they could expect from the pups Amma was carrying, and why Ulfmundr thought Hlothor would sire better wolves on her than he would have on Ingrun. Brokkolfr was very grateful, not only for Ulfmundr's teaching, but for the fact that the senior wolfcarl—as old as Skjaldwulf, nearly fifteen years older than Brokkolfr himself—was bothering to talk to him at all. Brokkolfr asked him if he thought the whelping would be as difficult as Amma's first, but at that Ulfmundr had laughed and disclaimed. “That's wolfsprechend's knowledge. If Isolfr isn't worried, you need not be, either.”

I don't know if Isolfr is worried or not,
Brokkolfr had thought, but he hadn't said it, afraid that it would sound as if he thought the wolfsprechend wasn't attending to his duties. He knew Isolfr was watching Amma carefully; he just didn't know what Isolfr thought about what he observed.

They had come back to the wolfheall late, tired; Brokkolfr found food for himself and his wolf and fell gratefully into his bedding with Amma, as always, an immovable weight across his feet. He had slept deeply, dreamlessly, and now, in the bright morning sunshine, Amma was not to be gainsaid.
Cub,
she said again, and Brokkolfr trailed helplessly after her as she tracked an unerring graceful arc across the courtyard to where the wolfsprechend was sitting with his daughter.

The child was clearly Isolfr's; she had his pale hair and eyes. If she was lucky, Brokkolfr thought—considering his own sisters—under her puppy-fat roundness her father's bones were lurking. She sat beside Isolfr on a rough bench, bright eyes taking in everything.

“Wuf!” she said clearly, pointing at Amma, and slid off the bench.

“Good morning, Brokkolfr,” Isolfr said with one of his rare, quirked smiles.

“Good morning, wolfsprechend,” Brokkolfr said and added sheepishly, “Amma insisted.”

“Of course she did,” Isolfr said, smile widening into a grin as he watched Amma and Alfgyfa meet each other. Amma's tail was waving wildly, and Alfgyfa's delighted giggles turned more than one head among the wolfcarls crossing the courtyard to and from the sauna and kitchen.

“All babies are Amma's babies,” Brokkolfr said, and Isolfr laughed.

Amma ignored them. She and Alfgyfa were playing a game that involved the wolf pushing the toddler down on her well-padded bottom with her nose, and then standing patiently while Alfgyfa used her ruff to haul herself back to her feet again.

“She's got enough mothering instinct for ten bitches,” Isolfr said. “I know her first whelping wasn't easy?”

It was an invitation to talk about it, exactly the invitation Brokkolfr had been hoping for. But he found himself saying, “She's fine. I'm fine.” And then, the truth breaking free like a chick from a shell: “I'm more worried about you.”

The confession lay between them for a moment, Isolfr's face contorting around the troll-scars as if he sought to ignore it. But he couldn't quite bring himself to say,
There's nothing to worry about.
Finally he said, although he clearly knew it was a weak effort, “It's my job to worry about you, not the other way around.”

“I know I'm not a wolfsprechend,” Brokkolfr said doggedly, “but if I were, I would not be here. And I know a little—surely it is not wrong for Randulfr and me to be your seconds?” He hadn't meant to sound quite so plaintive, hadn't meant to reveal his own desire for a place in the Franangfordthreat that was more than simply brother to the third bitch, and he knew from the sudden sharpness in Isolfr's gaze that his self-betrayal had not gone unnoticed.

But before Isolfr could speak—on that head or on any other—Freyvithr the godsman came into the courtyard, closely followed by Vethulf.

“Good morning, wolfsprechend,” Freyvithr said, smiling, and then his canny eyes seemed to size up the two of them. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Isolfr said, although he didn't sound sure, and Brokkolfr said hastily, “Nothing important, godsman.” He had fallen foul of Vethulf once and had sworn he would never do so again.

“Then—do we have business this morning, wolfsprechend?” Freyvithr said.

“My daughter,” Isolfr began, but Vethulf interrupted with a snort.

“I think Brokkolfr and Amma can be trusted to mind the child for an hour or two.”

“Yes, all right.” Isolfr stood, and then turned anxiously to Brokkolfr. “Do you mind? It shouldn't be too long.”

“Are you joking, wolfsprechend?” Brokkolfr said, finding a smile somewhere to reassure both Isolfr and himself. “Surely you see that getting Amma
not
to mind the child would be far harder?”

Isolfr smiled back, and Vethulf tugged him away. “Come on, Isolfr. Let's get this done.”

Brokkolfr watched them go, uneasy, but his attention was claimed by a sharp tug on one braid; the baby's hand might be tiny and plump, but her grip was relentless.

“Ammy-wuf!” said Alfgyfa, as if that settled everything.

“Amma-wolf, indeed,” Brokkolfr agreed, lifting the tiny child onto his hip as he stood. “Come on. Let's go see about some butter and porridge.”

FIVE

Try as he might, Vethulf could do nothing against the awareness of Isolfr's presence that filled him every moment they were in one another's company. It wasn't a sharp sensation, not painful, but nagging. Distracting. So that he thought he should wish Isolfr far away, except that never happened. Instead, he sought out excuses to spend time in the wolfsprechend's company.

Like now, when he was unwisely grateful to be following Isolfr and the godsman across the rutted yard, through humming clouds of biting flies and into the cool of the wood beyond. They left the wolves behind—Viradechtis instructing her pups on the finer points of murdering mice among the woodpiles and Kjaran dozing in the dappled shade of immature fruit trees planted outside the south-facing fortifications.

If the godsman meant to decoy two of Franangford's three wolfheofodmenn into ambush and assassination, he was making a good start of it. But once they were following a narrow track among the pines, the godsman dropped back unobtrusively and let Isolfr lead them. And Isolfr brought them toward Franangford proper, not deeper into the taiga, leading Vethulf to wonder if his mind was wearing similar paths of worry. Vethulf had a tendency to think of Isolfr as naïve, but of course he wasn't. Isolfr was only a little younger than Vethulf himself—Skjaldwulf had fifteen winters on Vethulf and a few more than that on Isolfr—and he was a jarl's son and an experienced wolfsprechend, with all that implied.

He was anything but naïve.

What he was, was idealistic. And that was a disease without a cure, save time. Still, watching Isolfr walk on ahead, pale gold braids plaited to stiffness bouncing against his shoulders, Vethulf could not help but wish the inevitable delayed.

The track was well-trodden by boots and pads, though Isolfr rapidly turned them off the sun-baked ruts of the road and into the shade of trees. Here the path rose and dipped over polished roots and the terraced earth trapped between them. Isolfr lengthened his stride so Vethulf broke into a comfortable lope, half-surprised and half-not that the godsman did, too, without apparent struggle to keep up. Well, of course; if he had walked from the southern peninsula, he could hardly avoid being fit. Though no one was as fit as a wolfcarl.

A quarter hour's easy trot brought them far enough from the path to ensure privacy of speech. It was cooler under the trees, the damp air collecting in stagnant pools. At last, they came to a tiny clearing, a space where a spruce—as great through as three trees fit for the roofbeam of a heall—had fallen and sun filtered through the spreading branches. Oxeye daisies grew here, thick white petals spreading flat around yellow cores, and ferns furled from every surface, even growing up the mossy trunks of the trees.

Isolfr leaned back against the trunk of the dead giant, folded his arms, and waited for Ragnarok, as near as Vethulf could tell. Vethulf had assumed that the godsman would ask Isolfr all sorts of leading questions, but Freyvithr seemed content to hop up on the dais made by the intersection of torn-free roots and earth and wait. Eventually, he spoke, but it wasn't to ask questions.

“She's made herself known to me as well, you know.”

“She?” Isolfr asked, almost unwillingly.

“Freya,” Freyvithr said. “It's how I came into her service, who was Othinn's man when I went viking and fought for a jarl.”

“You were a man-at-arms?”

“I killed for my meat and ale,” the godsman said. “Not so differently from you.”

Vehulf picked at soft moss on the nursery log he'd leaned his butt against, and waited. It was hard.

Isolfr raised his hands in a placating gesture, pressing his back against the trunk. “I meant no insult, godsman. I was a jarl's son, once. I was just … surprised, I guess.”

“That Freya would speak to a warrior?” Freyvithr's mouth twisted. He kicked one foot, dislodging a shower of moss fragments. “Half the war-dead are hers, when it comes down to it. She has an interest. And you cannot be more surprised than I was, I tell you truth.”

“Will you tell us?” Vethulf asked softly.

“There's little point in bringing it up if I won't,” Freyvithr said, smiling. “I thought at first—I was far from home, in a land where the trees were wrong and the deer were wrong and the water was wrong, and the women we captured would do nothing but weep and starve themselves to death, and I thought at first it was only that I missed my wife.”

“You were married?” Isolfr said, and then blushed scarlet. Vethulf glanced away, pretending distraction as a dull brown bird darted between summer-green boughs.