When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  “What are you doing?”

  Yrsa had come back.

  Rostfar frowned. “Was I meant to follow you?”

  “Yes,” Yrsa said impatiently. “You need to show me what a spear is. We don’t have very long.”

  Rostfar smiled before she even registered her amusement; Yrsa increasingly had that effect on her. She screwed up her courage and picked up her cloak. “I’ll show you then.”

  As they headed into the forest, Yrsa bumped her head against Rostfar’s hand. Rostfar looked down at her.

  “You don’t need to worry,” Yrsa said. “You know how to hunt, don’t you?”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” Rostfar admitted. She had barely seen any other wolves besides Yrsa, Grae, and Estene. Her last encounter with two unfamiliar wolves would probably have ended in bloodshed if Estene hadn’t interrupted.

  “I know. But nobody will touch you while I’m with you.” Yrsa sounded so convinced, so fearless. She had absolute faith in her pack. Rostfar’s smile was strained.

  I had faith in my pack once, she could have said. But that would hurt Yrsa, and it surprised Rostfar to realise she couldn’t think of anything worse.

  Rostfar lapsed into silence as she searched for a sturdy branch, and Yrsa followed suit.

  The two of them fell into a rhythm that gave Rostfar a new, deeper sense of comfort. When Rostfar sat on a rock and began to sharpen the branch she had found, Yrsa disappeared and then returned with similar branches. When Rostfar realised she would need a sharp stone, Yrsa went to find some. Eventually, Yrsa fell into a doze at Rostfar’s side as the light faded away.

  It was only when Yrsa startled awake some time later that Rostfar realised they were not alone.

  Eyes glistened in the shadows, the shapes that accompanied them vague and frightening. The wolves of Deothwicc had surrounded her without a sound or whisper of warning.

  Estene stepped forwards with Myr close at her side.

  “We leave now,” Estene said.

  Rostfar gulped and gripped her spear. Everywhere her gaze went, the eyes of the Deothwicc pack stared straight back at her. Waiting. Watching. She gathered the two spears, secured them in their new makeshift sheath, then slung them over her back.

  “I’m ready,” she said, and hoped that it was true.

  ⁂

  When the rumour that Rostfar would join the pack on a hunt had spread through Deothwicc, Grae had assumed that it was a misunderstanding. Then he wondered if it was a cruel joke – and finally, desperately, he hoped it was an underhand ploy to get her killed. He still wanted to believe that as the last lingering pack members spilled from the trees onto the open tundra.

  Rostfar walked between Estene and Yrsa near the head of the pack, near enough that Grae could hear the soft clinking of the long, sharp-ended sticks Rostfar carried in a holder on her back. Connected to the wyrdness or not, the thought of her long, slim figure amidst a stampeding herd filled him with trepidation.

  “She’s managing very well, isn’t she?” Myr appeared alongside Grae’s left flank with a fleeting sniff in greeting. Grae tore his gaze away from Rostfar.

  “She’s a disaster on two legs,” Grae muttered and winced at how pup-like that sounded. Myr trembled with barely contained amusement. Grae hastily added, “I don’t want to talk about her,” and realised that sounded no better.

  “She has those long wooden teeth, and don’t forget,” – Myr nipped Grae’s ear, softly – “Humans hunt too.”

  “This will end her,” Grae said, but it was only a vague hope and Myr knew it.

  Myr didn’t make any further attempt at conversation, but he remained close at Grae’s side as the pack advanced onto higher ground. They could see the herd now, snorting and stomping its way across the snow-patched rocky grassland. The pack had the advantage here in the flowing rock slopes beyond Deothwicc, but it would only remain so for a brief sliver of sunlight. Soon, the caribou would turn south towards the open tundra. They couldn’t afford to lose this chance at a big feed, not with pupping season approaching and the world rapidly thawing out.

  As soon as the slopes began to level out, the pack dispersed. Grae padded in and out of the shadows of straggling trees, splitting away from Myr and Geren. His kin moved like shadows themselves, soundless and deadly; made into a cohesive whole by the humming of the wyrdness.

  Grae loved this, and nothing would ruin the delight of the hunt.

  Nothing but the human wandering into his path. Grae stopped and stared. The wyrdness-currents around her were muddied with confusion, running faster than they should under the sway of her rapid emotions. Grae wished she would vanish or be knocked down by a conveniently rampaging adult caribou.

  The human opened her mouth. Grae bounded forwards and caught her sleeve between his teeth, tugging hard enough to make her stumble. He heard the click of her teeth snapping shut.

  “What—”

  Grae moved his bite to the meat of her arm instead, near to the place where he had wounded her before. Rostfar stopped. Finally, she seemed to have gotten the idea. Grae snarled at her for good measure, barely containing the urge to do more harm, and led the way in silence. Calmness was almost impossible. His mouth began to salivate. The scent of the herd was clearer than ever, and he was hot and cool and calm and tense and so, so ready for the kill.

  Estene burst from the shrubbery. Grae was after her in an instant. He moved on a memory that went far deeper than muscle or mind, connected to every single one of his fellow wolves through the wyrdness. Life swelled and burst inside of him.

  A bull lagged behind the herd as it thundered towards a shallow valley. Bryn and Myr coursed along at the bull’s side and drove it off at a slant from the main herd. Once their speed failed, two others surged up to take their places, nipping at the bull’s heels. Grae could taste its fear. It was lame in the back foot. Sick. But not safe, not yet. His antlers still had the power to break every bone in Grae’s body if given half a chance.

  Bryn and Myr took over again, bullying the animal towards a dry stream bed. Yrsa broke from her steady loping run and headed the bull off, quick as a flash. Its front hooves skittered on the bank, and Estene used its momentary confusion to catch up with Yrsa.

  Not important.

  He pushed her from his mind.

  The bull was trapped, hemmed in all sides by teeth and slavering jaws. Its eyes rolled and its breath steamed out in desperate clouds. Grae fell back to catch his second wind. Geren filled in his place, biting and taunting, drawing those antlers on him for a heartbeat before someone else stepped in. So close now. So—

  Rostfar chose that moment to stumble into their midst. Geren had to leap out of her path and was caught by a sweep of the caribou’s antlers. Grae felt Geren’s pain like his own; like a sudden, deep bruise that exploded across the inside of his head.

  The old bull had all the chance it needed. It cleared the bank and broke for the distant smudge of the herd, moving faster than Grae would have thought possible. A few faster wolves made to chase, but Estene called them back. Their advantage was lost.

  Grae wanted to turn on Rostfar then. The need was born from a confused, snarling hunger – she had deprived him of the kill, of that rush, but by the Speaking Tree and the stars, he would have it anyway.

  “You split-hoofed, white-bellied calf,” Grae spat as he turned towards her.

  He faltered. Yrsa stood in front of Rostfar, panting heavily through a low warning growl. Behind her, Rostfar’s flat face was screwed up with the mouth loosely open; an expression Grae didn’t recognise, but a scent he knew. Guilt.

  The rest of the pack fell into a circle around Rostfar, placing her where the caribou should have been. Only Yrsa was stopping them from attacking. Her eyes locked on Grae’s, ears low – help me – and tail quivering.

  Please.

  Grae couldn’t breathe. He looked at his siblings and packmates, at their winter-lean bodies and hungry eyes. He looked at Geren, cast aside and whimpering in
the snow, his mouth red with blood from a bitten tongue. Estene and Myr huddled around him, while Bryn nursed a wounded forepaw; they weren’t about to intervene.

  Atta, an older wolf, inched closer to Rostfar’s unguarded back. Yrsa couldn’t see him.

  Grae could do nothing, could let Atta knock Rostfar down and walk away without a care.

  But he knew he wouldn’t. Yrsa would never forgive him.

  Grae grit his teeth and slipped between Atta and Rostfar with a ferocious growl. Atta recoiled as if he had just stuck his muzzle in a nest of bees.

  Go. Grae said with his raised hackles and bared teeth. Nobody moved. They were all staring at Yrsa and Grae as if they had never seen the two before, and Grae hated it. He wanted to crawl inside his own throat and curl up into nothingness.

  He forced himself to take a bold step forwards.

  Something in the frigid tension snapped. Atta made a noise of disgust and backed away. The pack followed him.

  “Thank you,” Rostfar said. Grae felt her fingertips touch his back and he snapped at her hand, missing flesh by a hair’s breadth.

  “I didn’t do it for you, and I won’t do it again,” Grae snarled. “And don’t think this means you’re safe.”

  “Grae—” Yrsa began.

  “We’ll not get a chance like that until they come back for the summer melt,” Grae said without looking at Yrsa. He fixed his eyes on Rostfar’s pale face. “So, the human better hope we don’t starve before then, or she’ll be the first kill we make.”

  Chapter 27

  Aethren entered the moothall quietly. The table and chairs had been pushed to one side, leaving space for four makeshift beds – and in each bed, a sick child.

  The sickness began with a persistent weakness, exhaustion and loss of appetite. After a few days, the afflicted child sank into an open-eyed slumber. They would take a little broth if you held their heads up and poured it carefully down their throat, and they would soil themselves when the food passed through their systems, but they made no move of their own volition. Marken had decided after the fourth fell ill that he needed to keep them in one place, instead of travelling from house to house.

  Magna was nearest to the door. His eyes were open and unseeing, and his skin had an unhealthy, ashen cast. Marken sat by him, rubbing some sort of concoction into the pulse-point on one of his skinny wrists. Absorbed in his task, he didn’t seem aware that Aethren had entered.

  “Pa?” Aethren tapped the doorframe. He startled and turned, blinking as if he couldn’t get his eyes to focus.

  “Aethren. What’re you doing here?” Marken’s voice was stuck in a raspy whisper. He cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything else. His fingers still worked at Magna’s wrist.

  "You need a break, Pa," Aethren said.

  “I can’t.” Marken rubbed his eyes, leaving a smear of the paste on his cheek, and sat back. He nodded to the furthest bed from the door, where a child of eight winters lay. Her light blonde hair fanned out across the pillow, and her dark eyes were half-open. “Narven was still talking last night, Ren. Not much – nonsense, really – but she was responding. And then . . .”

  “You couldn’t’ve done anything.”

  “Yes,” Marken agreed coldly. “Which is rather the point.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aethren muttered. “But I’m worried about you. You’re exhausted. Here—” Aethren picked up a bowl from Marken’s workbench and filled it at the large water-urn Mati had carried inside. They handed it to Marken, who took a long drink.

  "You shouldn't be up and about yet,” Marken said when he had finished. His voice was still worn from lack of sleep, but it didn’t sound so dry.

  Aethren's face ached beneath the bandages, as if obligingly proving Marken's point. They scowled, which just made it hurt worse. The wolf's claws had struck at an angle, leaving two deep slashes from the bridge of their nose to their jaw and two shorter, shallower cuts on their cheek. Marken was worried about infection and how much blood they had lost, but Aethren was just glad it had missed their eye.

  "I'm fine. I’ve been in bed or sitting around doing nothing for a week and a half. It’s driving me wild."

  "Aethren," Marken said sternly, "You still look too pale." He washed his hands in a bowl of water and crossed the room. They remained still as he pressed the back of his hand to their forehead, beside the bandages that covered half of their face. "And you're clammy. How's your pain?"

  "Fine," Aethren lied and batted his hand away. "Look, you need another pair of hands here. Don't deny it."

  Marken sighed heavily, which was as good as an agreement. Laethen had decided with the council – now meeting in Natta's home – that they needed to lay the traps to gather herring eggs at the Merrow Coves. The Roe Trapping was one of the biggest events of the year. Kristan was there in case of injuries, watching over more than half the town’s population as they cut hemlock tree branches and carried them to the sea. Unable to distinguish between leaves or seaweed, hundreds of herring laid their eggs in the branches. By the Bloom’s height, the traps lay heavy in the water with a bounty of roe, ready for trading. Such a vital tradition could not wait – even when the world was crumbling around them.

  "Urdven said he'd come at midday and bring Anthen to lend a hand," Marken said. "I can manage on my own until then."

  "But—"

  "Go home, Ren," Marken said, sterner than before. "You need to rest."

  "I've been resting!" Aethren snapped, then winced as their voice rang out in the hush of the hall. None of the children so much as twitched. Aethren could barely hear their shallow breaths.

  Marken sank down onto the workbench’s stool. "If the wolf hurt you . . . you saw what it did to Astvald, what's happened to these children. If that happens to you—"

  "You've no reason to think that a wolf did anything to these children," Aethren said, softer this time. They put a hand on Marken's shoulder and felt his muscles tense.

  "No, it isn't the wolf I'm worried about." Marken shook his head. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, and Aethren had to lean in to hear, although he didn't seem to be talking to them. "It's the wraiths. I know what their work looks like, and this . . ." He shook himself and finally realised Aethren was standing over him. His eyes were dark and startled.

  "Wraiths?" Aethren prompted.

  "I've not said anything, because I fear the panic it might cause. There're old healer's stories, of children who’ve been wraith-struck. They become unresponsive and lie as if dead, with only a few functions to prove them alive." He surveyed the room with a grim expression, then rubbed his eyes as if he thought that might change what he saw there. "But if the wolves and wraiths are working together . . . well." He touched his fingers to the bandage for a heartbeat, then drew his hand back. "I worry, Ren. Worrying is all I seem to do these days."

  Aethren took his large hand in both of theirs and squeezed it. "We can deal with this. I can—" They broke off as the door swung open and Urdven came in.

  "Ethy said she could spare Siggren as well. He'll be along soon," Urdven said as he stepped in, apparently unaware that he was interrupting anything. Aethren swallowed down the rest of what they had been about to say and tried to smile at Urdven, which caused pain to flare in their cheek again.

  "Go home, Ren," Marken said again. "I'd be happier if I knew you were resting, getting your strength back."

  Aethren clenched their jaw and used the pain that caused to ground themself. The moment, tense and ready to burst, had passed in an eyeblink. There was no point in arguing.

  Not trusting themself to say anything more, Aethren trudged out of the moothall and crossed the short distance back home. They discarded their boots by the door and got a bowl of stew from the pot that Marken had left over the fire that morning, then slumped at the table. They needed to be useful, to be better.

  Useful, like the power that slumbered in the back of their head, waiting for the smallest opportunity to strike.

  Aethren set down thei
r spoon, no longer hungry. An image of the wolf flashed before their eyes, its body twisted and frozen at an unnatural angle. The pain in those eyes . . . that distant, glassy look had shattered for a moment, replaced by pure horror. Just thinking about it made Aethren feel ill, and yet. It was the edge they needed, wasn't it? For all Aethren had been angry at Kristan for suggesting fighting the wolves of Deothwicc, they had to admit he was right. They did have a power that could help people.

  A power that could also see them exiled or killed.

  No, marching on Deothwicc was foolish. The journey across the Harra was hard, and once they got there the people would be at a severe disadvantage on unfamiliar territory. But if what the wolf at Eahalr had said was true, they didn't need to go to Deothwicc – Aethren just needed to find these two beasts and end them.

  It was a good plan, save for one thing: Aethren barely understood what they could do.

  Tentatively, almost idly, Aethren lifted their hand and held it out to their stew. So far, they had only manipulated living things. Each time by accident. On instinct. That proved they could do it, but how?

  Strings, whispered a small voice in their head. It all comes down to strings.

  A memory rose to the front of their mind. Sitting on Mam's lap as she wove. She'd been singing something, but Aethren couldn't remember the words. Her voice was low and whispering, strained by illness, but her hands were nimble as she worked on the rug. It's all connected, my little raven. So many fibres and threads and strands to make a whole. Mam's hands drew back, but the loom continued to move on its own.

  Aethren gasped. Tears pricked their eyes. That – that had been a dream, hadn't it? A memory distorted by grief. They had never shared it with anyone for fear of being called insane, but now—