When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  “So?” Aethren snapped, but Natta put a hand on their arm. Surprised, Aethren’s mouth clacked shut.

  “You want me to step down?” Natta said, her tone flat.

  Ethy almost looked gleeful, but after a second, she schooled her expression into one of sadness. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

  “No, you’re not.” Natta shook her head. “But ta anyway.”

  Aethren didn’t go home. They were bristling with anger at everyone, their pa and themself most of all.

  Without thinking about what they were doing, Aethren crossed the mootplace to Rostfar’s home. The forge was in full heat, the sound of a hammer hitting metal audible from across the open space.

  Isha was sweating over a candlestick holder. He didn’t hear Aethren when they first called his name, completely absorbed. They waited as he turned the rod in his hand from side to side, giving it the beautiful furling ridges that made his work so distinguished. Sweat seeped into the cloth wrapped around his forehead, and his eyes were full of a fervour that Aethren had never seen in him before.

  A tap on Aethren’s shoulder made them jump. They turned around and saw Mati, who motioned for them to follow him inside. They hovered just inside the door, watching Mati pack the finished candlesticks into a wooden crate full of straw and spare wool trimmings.

  “I need to talk to Isha,” Aethren said, which felt obvious once it left their mouth. With the wind stolen from underneath them, they had no choice but to stop and think.

  Being angry was definitely easier.

  “You may as well wait ‘til he brings in that last stick.” Mati pointed at a chair, but Aethren remained where they were. Seeing their uncertainty, Mati managed a little smile and pushed a bowl of tea across the table to them. “You won’t be able to get his attention ‘til he’s done. Trust me, he could work through the end of the world.”

  “He’s already doing that,” Aethren muttered, and then flushed when they realised how it sounded. Worrying at the inside of their cheek, they sat down and wrapped clammy fingers around the steaming bowl.

  Mati hesitated with his hands still in the box. “You . . . can talk to me, if you like?”

  Aethren frowned into their tea. It stood to reason that Mati, like Natta, had been in on Rostfar’s secret. But worry still gnawed at the lining of their stomach.

  “It’s alright,” Isha said from behind. “Mati knows everything.” Walking around the table, Isha dried his hands on a towel and pulled off his apron. Black smudges marked his forehead and one cheek, but underneath that he looked wan.

  Aethren didn’t need any further invitation.

  “We need to leave.”

  Isha picked up Mati’s tea and took a sip, examining Aethren as if he didn’t believe them. “You’ve changed your mind?”

  “Ethy and Faren have forced Natta to step down.” Aethren stood up, unable to keep still. “They’ve turned the council inside out, and Ethy’s spitting all sorts of poison about Rostfar. If there’s even the slightest chance she’s still – well, we need her. I thought I’d be more helpful here, but I’m useless, Isha. I’ll do more good out there.”

  The blood drained from Isha’s face. He and Mati shared a moment of silent communication and Mati put his hand on Isha’s shoulder.

  “We’ll need supplies, time to tie up loose ends . . .” Isha rubbed the top of his head and took a deep breath. “Tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Aethren agreed.

  Chapter 31

  Estene woke Rostfar in the long evening hours, nuzzling her gently under the chin until she finally emerged from sleep.

  “It’s time to go,” she said.

  Rostfar blinked at her groggily. “Go?”

  “A small group will hunt. You’ll accompany them.”

  Fear spasmed in Rostfar’s stomach, waking her the rest of the way. Estene was already walking soundlessly away.

  “Wait—” Rostfar kicked her cloak and blanket away, almost tripping in her haste, and stumbled from the den’s mouth. “You’re not coming?”

  “I leave now for the pupping dens, and I’ll not return before Bloom,” Estene said. “It’s not our way to be among the pack for the birth.”

  She’s leaving me alone, Rostfar thought. Which was foolish and selfish, and far from the truth – but it didn’t matter. The prospect of Estene leaving Rostfar to the pack filled her with dread.

  “Rostfar . . .” Estene shook her head and stepped close, nuzzling her head into Rostfar’s side, “you will do well. Have faith in yourself.” With a tender lick to the back of Rostfar’s hand, Estene turned and left. Rostfar waited until Estene was out of sight, then slowly, reluctantly, began to gather her things.

  When she arrived at the Speaking Tree, she found Grae, Yrsa, Myr, and Bryn were already waiting for her. She eyed Grae warily, but he was making a point of ignoring her completely. There were small mercies to be granted here, Rostfar supposed.

  “What’s going to happen?” Rostfar frowned. Myr nuzzled the back of her hand in greeting.

  “I think it will be good to understand more about how your kind hunt.”

  “I’m not sure . . .” Rostfar frowned.

  “Trust us,” Myr said softly, pleadingly. Rostfar looked from one wolf to the next, twisting and untwisting her fingers in her cloak. Her eyes fell, finally, on Yrsa.

  “Fine,” Rostfar said. “Let’s try this.”

  The air was heavy with the taste of sleet and lightning. It lingered uncomfortably around every breath Rostfar took and reminded her that the sky would happily tear itself apart at any moment. Now that the sun was an almost-constant presence on the far horizon, the land was dry as bone. All that was needed was a little spark, and the inferno would tear along the tundra until it reached the coast.

  “Why are you worrying about fire?” Yrsa asked. Rostfar’s skin crawled in alarm. She had been among the wolves almost a month, but she still forgot that some of her more prominent thoughts would be there for all the pack to see in the wyrdness. Yrsa bumped against Rostfar’s side in a way that Rostfar had learned meant I’m sorry.

  “Don’t be.” Rostfar ran her fingers briefly over Yrsa’s head. Touching the wolves was still an odd experience, and one Rostfar wasn’t sure about yet. They didn’t mind, and she didn’t find it uncomfortable as she would a human – but it still felt wrong. Rostfar pushed her hands into her pockets instead. “It’s the storm, that’s all. I can’t imagine that you have the problem here, but over the Harra lightning is dangerous. It can cause fires on the dry grasses.”

  “Our mountains sometimes breathe fire.”

  “Mountains can’t breathe.”

  “These can.” Yrsa tugged Rostfar’s sleeve with her teeth and pointed her nose to the pooling black rocks that sprawled away to their left. “There’re memories in the pack’s mind, from the older ones who saw the ground throw out fire once. All that’s left now is that black rock. There’s danger wherever you go.”

  Rostfar smiled ruefully. “Very true.”

  Myr’s path led their group towards the Harra foothills, where the ground was thick and peaty, and the mists hung low. It was fertile here, so much so that Rostfar felt a surprising pang of jealousy. Her ancestors had given all this land up in fear of the wolves. If they hadn’t, who knew what they might have been able to achieve.

  Grasses grew thick and tall above the melting snow; the underbrush quivered with hidden life. Rostfar looked back at the shadow of Deothwicc in surprise. They had covered more ground than she thought.

  “I don’t see any herd,” Rostfar said. Myr glanced back at her.

  “You won’t, but we can smell them.”

  “Smell them?” Rostfar knew the wolves had stringer senses than humans, but the craggy landscape around them seemed devoid of large prey.

  Myr lowered his voice. “Follow me. Don’t make a sound.”

  The other wolves hung back as Rostfar followed Myr in a low crouch, unsure what to expect.

  Myr stopped j
ust before the ground fell away into a deep, steep-sided valley. The caribou herd were grazing in the shelter of the high rocks, snuffling among the blooming flowers, completely unaware of their audience.

  On her belly in the grass, Rostfar leaned over the edge as far as she dared and stared in dumbstruck wonder.

  Now that she knew the valley was there, her mind could piece together the landscape. From her vantage point, she could see dozens of similar valleys snaking between the high plateaus and rolling hills. The Harra Mountains rose out of the jagged earth as if sculpted by some great, invisible hand.

  Something clicked in the back of Rostfar’s mind.

  “You brought me here because you can trap them.” Despite her awe of the beautiful creatures, a small grin spread across her lips. “There’s less room for mistakes.”

  “I prefer to think of it as giving all of us more room to learn.” Myr gently nudged her shoulder with his nose.

  “So why don’t the pack just hunt them here?” Rostfar crawled away from the edge and sat up on her haunches.

  “Because we can’t,” Myr said. “You saw what it took for us to corner the old one – the whole pack had to be involved. Out here, there’s not enough space for us to drive the herd and single out the prey.”

  “But you don’t hunt like that, do you?” Bryn said. His voice was so close to Rostfar’s ear that she jerked away from him; she hadn’t heard him approach. He stretched himself out in the grass as if he hadn’t startled her and rolled onto his side. One eye watched her lazily. “I suggested that we see how you hunt, and you see how we hunt. Balance one another out.”

  Rostfar grinned. “I’d like that,” she said.

  “Good.” Myr scented the air cautiously. “Because the storm will return soon. Tell us everything you know.”

  So, Rostfar taught. She taught as she had taught Arketh, and the tightness in her chest came uncoiled just a little more while she explained to the wolves the strategies she liked to use. The whole time, Grae remained at the very edge of their group with his head down on folded paws. But Rostfar didn’t miss how his ear twitched now and then, betraying his interest. She wondered why he came, but then she looked at Yrsa lying by his side and realised she had the answer.

  Sylvrast had risen by the time they were ready, lit from beneath by the ghostly sun where it still lingered on the horizon despite the late hour. Rostfar balanced her spear in her hand, its point poised for a kill. She had only one shot at this. Down below, the herd was milling peacefully. An old bull stood near the valley’s exit, his head bobbing up between each mouthful to test out the air. A good idea, but he was only an animal; he would never expect an attack from above.

  Rostfar stood as silently as she could, balanced her spear, and aimed. It flew from her hand with hardly a sound and struck the caribou right in the flank. The animal screamed.

  For a heartbeat there was absolute silence, and then the herd exploded into motion.

  They moved as one in a stampede, up and out of the valley at top speed. Rostfar’s mark tried to follow them and stumbled. That was the opportunity the wolves were waiting for.

  Grae appeared on a ledge to the prey’s left and snarled. It turned to look at him with fear-whited eyes and lowered its antlers in a final threat. Its defiance was its undoing. Yrsa bounded from rock to rock and cleared the final stretch of slope in a single go. The caribou had been watching Grae and its lowered head left it defenceless against Yrsa’s teeth. She tore at its hamstring and darted away as the caribou wheeled around to face her. Grae took the chance to do as Yrsa had done, albeit more slowly, and snap at the beast’s unguarded rear.

  Rostfar couldn’t let herself watch any longer. Her work was done here, but there was more to do.

  The herd stampeded out of the valley and turned as one, heading for a narrow ravine. If their only predators had been wolves, the ravine would have saved them – any wolf attempting to follow the herd would have been trampled to death, unable to escape up the steep sides. But Rostfar was a human; she had her own ways of hunting.

  With Bryn’s help, Rostfar had created a hunter’s stagger at the mouth of the ravine. The stagger was one of Rostfar’s own inventions – a trap designed to weaken prey right before the kill, without causing prolonged suffering. Short, shallow trenches were dug into the earth at random points, all of varying lengths, close together with unevenly built-up sides. They then covered the trenches with grass.

  Rostfar took the slingshot from her belt and aimed at the heart of the herd. She was quick with the shot – not as good as Aethren, but experienced enough for this. One stone, and then another. The herd shattered into fragments as each missile found a mark. Rostfar’s shots didn’t bring any of them down, but they weren’t intended to. With the herd momentarily in disarray, Rostfar had enough time to skid down a scree slope and take her place in the ravine’s narrow maw.

  Some of the caribou were still hurtling towards the ravine; and why would they not? No animal on this side of the Harra had any reason to view humans as a threat.

  Rostfar’s heart was in her throat. This stagger was makeshift, as one would expect when her only help was a wolf with no idea what he was doing, no tools, and very limited time. If it didn’t work, she was about to become raven food. She gripped her second spear in clammy palms and found herself asking the Speaking Tree for courage.

  The first caribou went down. Rostfar almost cried in relief.

  Startled by the sudden fall of its fellow, a young doe veered course. Rostfar lifted her spear.

  And the doe was on her.

  It stumbled, slim legs bowed at an unnatural angle, and blood burst over Rostfar’s hands. Rostfar remembered to thrust back with her spear only at the last moment. Her grip was slippery with blood. The caribou’s legs kicked wildly – once, twice. And then nothing. The halt was so sudden that Rostfar collapsed under the weight of her prize.

  Myr and Bryn had to haul the carcass off her as Rostfar pushed from beneath. Once freed, she lay on her back, winded, acutely aware of a stabbing agony in her ribs, and laughed. She had done it. She had actually done it!

  “The pack will feast well tonight,” Myr said.

  “The . . . pack?” Her joy ebbed as suddenly as it had come. Myr inclined his head.

  A howl from the rocks to Rostfar’s right almost caused her to leap from her skin. Wolves were emerging, seemingly from the earth, heading towards her with their jaws cracked in anticipation. Rostfar swallowed. She couldn’t move.

  One of the older wolves – Atta, wasn’t it? – padded straight for Rostfar. The memory of the same wolf threatening to tear Rostfar’s throat out was still fresh, and cold sweat doused her from head to toe. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

  Atta bowed to her.

  “What?” Rostfar said. Atta’s tail gave an amused little shiver.

  “I owe you a thanks, and an apology. You have done well.” Still, Atta stood there, and Rostfar realised that none of the others had made any move towards the carcass. Atta must have sensed the stillness because he took pity on Rostfar. “The first bite is yours,” he said.

  Hands shaking with adrenaline, Rostfar took her knife from its sheath and cut a long strip from the soft underbelly. That was all the wolves were waiting for. Rostfar hauled herself out of their way and limped to where the first caribou had fallen.

  Yrsa was there waiting for her. She hadn’t touched the carcass, which still steamed softly in the chill air.

  “The first bite is mine?” Rostfar asked. Yrsa nodded. “You might want to eat with the others. I need to light a fire and prepare the meal first – it’ll take longer than a little squirrel.”

  Yrsa lay down. “I’ll wait,” she said. Rostfar couldn’t help but smile.

  The work was long and bloody, but Rostfar found comfort in it – she hadn’t been excited by a meal in a long time. Memories of her first hunt flooded her: the cheers and songs of the other hunters; Hrall, holding out an uncooked omasum in his bare hands. Rostfar
hadn’t wanted to eat the strange organ – its fine, fleshy folds had reminded her of some amorphous sea creature – but the others had insisted she try some. She’d ended up going back for seconds.

  “What’s that?” Yrsa asked, sniffing it as Rostfar set it aside on a flat rock.

  “It’s the best part! You boil it in salted water, or eat it with seal oil . . .” Rostfar trailed off, realising she couldn’t do any of that here. “Well, I would. If I could.”

  “You do strange things to your food.”

  “Delicious things,” Rostfar corrected. An odd mixture of wistfulness and comfort twisted inside her. “Isha could do wonders. I haven’t much patience for the preparation and seasoning part – eating is much more fun.”

  “I can agree with that,” Yrsa said. Rostfar laughed.

  As the meat roasted on a makeshift spit, Rostfar sucked marrow from one of the caribou’s hooves and let herself relax. Grae, Ysmir and Geren joined them after a while; the latter was limping and had clearly slowed his siblings down, but they seemed content to wait for him. His tail twitched happily when he saw Rostfar.

  “You have to wait,” Yrsa told them with an air of importance. “Rostfar is stealing the skin and doing her cooking.”

  “I’m done,” Rostfar said and smiled, pointing with her knife to the cooling carcass. “I have what I want. You can join me, if you’d like?”

  Grae snorted and wandered off to the other group. Rostfar’s heart went out to Yrsa as her tail drooped and she lowered her head. Ysmir licked Yrsa on the top of the head and settled at her side in a gesture of wordless comfort that made Rostfar’s eyes sting.

  Part of Rostfar wanted to feel guilty for being so comfortable among wolves, but she just . . . couldn’t. They were tender and caring, so like humans in some ways and yet entirely different in others. Yrsa and Ysmir rolled around together some way from the fire once they had eaten, sated and relaxed from the good meal. Geren watched them, his ears twitching, contentment rolling off him.