When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  “We can’t smuggle . . . him and Mam out, not with everyone watching for us.”

  The one who smelled of magic, Aethren, fixed Grae with their dark eyes. “You’re capable of running, aren’t you? Fighting?”

  “I can run,” Grae agreed

  (too good at running)

  and shifted his weight tentatively from paw to paw. The inside of the human’s den seemed to be shrinking; the sounds of the crowd outside were getting louder.

  (at running away)

  “Right, that’s good.” Aethren stood up, clearly struggling to put weight on both legs. “You wanted a healer for Rost, didn’t you? Then here he is, one of the best.” They pointed to Kristan. “So, if you carry Natta on your back, you can escape with the rest.”

  Grae’s lips twitched unhappily. “I am not one of your ponies.”

  The door to the den shook. The large human signalled to Aethren, and the two of them moved a wooden construction in front of it. Grae could hear someone outside shouting about an ice-axe, whatever that was.

  “Doesn’t matter what you are,” Aethren said sharply, “You’ve got to get out of here, and Natta’s too sick to move anywhere.”

  “I,” said the one on the floor, her voice brittle but sharp around the edges, “have an idea, if anyone would care to listen?”

  Everyone turned to her, Grae included. She didn’t look well: her breathing was uneven, her face was pale as a hare’s coat, and there was a smudge of something dark staining her lips. Grae couldn’t help but notice how much she looked like Rostfar.

  “Mam, you’ve got to rest,” Kristan said. The woman – Mam? – let out a shaky laugh.

  “If we stay here, the only rest I’ll be getting is death.” She wiped her mouth, pulling a scrunched-up expression. “But if we escape through Hrenna’s Passage . . .”

  Kristan made a startled noise. “What?”

  Grae watched everyone’s reactions carefully. This clearly meant something important, but he didn’t know what.

  “The hearth – it comes away. Help me up.” Kristan and Aethren each took one of Mam’s arms and helped her over to something in the corner. Grae twitched nervously. There were ashes inside the structure, still smelling faintly like they’d been burning not long ago.

  He slunk back, watching from a safe distance as Mam instructed Kristan where to push. The hearth thing slid sideways, revealing a narrow hole in the ground.

  “Brilliant!” Kristan sounded far too excited, given the circumstances. Grae growled at him, then wished he hadn’t when everyone tensed. Not that he could blame them. Rostfar had been much the same when she first arrived in Deothwicc, hadn’t she?

  “Are we to . . . enter that?” Grae flicked his nose warily at the hole.

  “It goes to—” Mam swayed, and it took both Kristan and Aethren to stop her from falling. The colour had drained from her face and her skin shone with dampness. “Stables.”

  “I’m so bloody sick of tunnels,” Aethren grumbled, leaning over to peer into the darkness. Grae couldn’t understand what they meant, but he didn’t think anyone else did, either.

  “Go,” Aethren hissed. “I’ll go last and shut the entrance.”

  One by one, the humans sat on the edge of the hole and then dropped out of sight. The sharp claw-like thing was wedged in the door. According to the angry voice outside, it had gotten stuck.

  “Hurry up.” Aethren tapped the floor with their foot. Grae looked at the door, and then at the hole. He didn’t want to go down there, and not just because of the darkness.

  “I . . . don’t want to.”

  “Do you want to get ripped apart by an angry mob? Because I sure as Nys don’t.”

  Grae snarled at himself. Then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he snarled at Aethren. “There isn’t any reason for me to go with them. Let me fend off the humans outside.”

  “No!” Aethren reached out and grabbed the scruff around Grae’s neck. He was so surprised that he forgot how to move. “Look, you can go wherever you want once you’re out of here, but I didn’t reveal my magic to everyone just so you could die like fish bait.”

  The door shook. Aethren’s eyes flicked to it, and then back to Grae. They lifted a hand.

  “I’ll make you,” they said.

  Grae longed for the wyrdness; if he still had his wyrdsight, he’d know whether Aethren was lying or not. They looked uncertain but determined, their hand steady. Even if Aethren was lying, it seemed to come from a place of . . . compassion? Which made no sense, because Grae was a stranger to them. He was barely a wolf anymore; there was no kindness between the two of them. But Aethren wasn’t going to budge. He didn’t need the wyrdsight to know that.

  Grae met Aethren’s eyes and bowed his head in assent. He clambered down into darkness, and Aethren followed.

  This tunnel was not like Deyjaholm. The air was musty and old, and cold bled from the walls in a soul-numbing ooze. When they came to a slope and a mouldering wooden door, Grae was barely able to wait for the large man, Aethren and Kristan to shove it open before he bounded outside.

  Everyone else followed him into the open air, save for Aethren. They remained standing in the tunnel’s mouth, frowning.

  “What are you doing?” Kristan asked.

  “I have to go find Pa,” Aethren said, then looked at Grae. “Carry Natta on your back so you can all run if you have to. Krist, lead the way to where we usually meet when we go to Eahalr. I’ll find you there.”

  “But Marken might to even be back! Or he could see what’s happening and stay away. You can’t—”

  “I have to,” Aethren repeated firmly. “I can’t leave without putting things right with him. I need him to be safe.”

  “I’ll come with you,” the large human said.

  “No, Mati. You need to help with Natta. If I’m not back by midnight, leave without me.” They flashed their teeth in a not-quite smile, then turned and walked back into the cold darkness.

  Chapter 46

  By the time Aethren arrived back at the other end of the tunnel, everything was silent. They slid the passage door open a hair’s breadth, slowly, and found the house empty. Furniture had been upturned and smashed, and thrown blankets hung haphazardly off chairs or lay tangled on the floor. Dried herbs from Kristan’s store and splinters of wood crunched under their feet as they crept cautiously to the back door, fearing with every step that someone would crash back into the room.

  Aethren slid from the house and into the side-alley without incident. A dreadful silence held Erdansten in its grasp, throttling every last feeling of home out of the place. Although their heart pounded madly in their chest, Aethren didn’t feel afraid; they felt unreal, like this couldn’t be happening to them. Not here.

  A pile of crates at the side-alley’s mouth provided Aethren with cover as they considered their options. They had hoped to run across the mootplace, down the alley between their home and a storehouse, and get in through the back door. Even if Marken wasn’t there, they might be able to find some clue as to where he’d gone; or get some supplies, at the very least.

  Unfortunately, the mootplace was abuzz with activity. Ornhild and Denan, the boy Aethren had made wet himself before that fateful wolf-hunt, were standing guard outside the moothall. Hunters and wardens swarmed all over the place, carrying crates, sacks and weapons to where Hrall stood by six covered travelling carts. Aethren leaned around the crates as far as they dared. The carts were sturdy, capable of traversing the uneven tundra, and could be hauled by either pony or person. Never had Aethren seen all six being used, and certainly not for the transport of so many weapons and supplies.

  Ornhild and Denan were watching these preparations. Ornhild’s hand was on the younger’s arm, and she leaned in close in a comforting manner as she spoke. She won a smile from him, then straightened up and swept a casual glance around the rest of the mootplace.

  Sluggish ice crept through Aethren’s veins as they saw Ornhild’s eyes turn on them. Her mouth op
ened into a perfect oval of surprise, and the spear she held twitched as if she couldn’t decide whether to hurl it or prepare to defend herself. Aethren couldn’t move. It was too late to hide now. Could they run through the alleyways? Lose any pursuers in the clustered houses?

  “There!” Ornhild shouted so loudly that her voice echoed off the houses. Denan leapt and whirled around, holding his spear like a shovel instead of a weapon as he jabbed it in the direction Ornhild was pointing.

  A direction that led away from where Aethren was hiding.

  “It’s Aethren and that wolf!” Ornhild called out. Then, before any doubt could set it, she took off at a sprint towards the mootplace’s western exit. “Help me or they’ll get away!”

  Faren burst out of the Dannaskeld’s home, followed by Urdven and Laethen. The two dozen or so people still in the mootplace rushed after Ornhild like the sea with Faren at their head. Urdven pulled Laethen back indoors and Hrall followed the group at a slower pace. Within minutes, there was nobody left to bear witness as Aethren dashed across the mootplace and slipped into the alleyway beside their home.

  Still thrilling with gratitude and disbelief, Aethren walked across Marken’s herb garden. Their heart leapt at the sight of his staff leaning against the back door. Ignoring the throbbing in their already-tender leg, Aethren quickened their pace and burst inside.

  Ethy was on the floor, her hands around Marken’s throat. Aethren couldn’t see everything – the table was in the way – but Marken was twitching, a stifled noise coming from his open mouth.

  “Tell me where they’re hiding – Rostfar and Isha. Tell me how to find them.” Ethy released her grip slightly.

  Marken coughed, but he didn’t speak. With a snarl, Ethy stood and drove her booted foot into the side of Marken’s face.

  “Ethy—” Aethren said before they could stop their tongue. Ethy straightened up. Her face was grim, but cruel satisfaction burned in her eyes as she looked at Aethren.

  “Good,” she said softly. “Maybe you can tell me what I need to know.”

  Aethren swallowed and carefully, slowly, edged into the room. “I need to find them, Ethy – Isha and Rost both, so they can go get Arketh. That’s all I want to do here.”

  “It’s a tragedy what happened to that little girl, but she doesn’t matter anymore.” Ethy shrugged. The careworn tenderness was gone from her face; she looked every bit like a seabird ready for the kill. Her lips twitched into a sneer. “I’ve got Erdansten under my thumb now, finally, and I won’t have you and your wolves threatening that.”

  That gave Aethren pause. “My wolves?” they blinked at Ethy. “. . . Ethy, what’re you on about?”

  “You’re as twisted as your mam.”

  Her words leapt at Aethren like a slap to the face. They started forwards, but Ethy’s next words shoved them back.

  “Lovely Ýgren. Sweet Ýgren. She was too smart, knew things nobody should about how the body works, ‘specially not someone who apparently came from a small place in Ysaïn.” Ethy’s face twisted with cold disdain. “But I knew better. She was a monster – snared your poor papa in her net, and Natta, whispering how I wasn’t trustworthy. I bet she and Rostfar were together in it.”

  “She wasn’t – I’m not a—” The word “monster” stuck in Aethren’s throat. They clenched their fists and thought about Thrigg, calling plants to life beneath her patient hands; Flannað, floating cheese through the air towards them. “Magic isn’t monstrous.”

  “The sick children! The diseased crops! My son!” Ethy’s voice rose. “All these things were twisted by magic.”

  “Your son? But I thought wolves . . .”

  “No,” Ethy said, her voice suddenly flat. “He was only a babe, but he crawled inside my dreams and whispered to me. The ravens brought him things, and small animals came to his cradle. How could I let that grow inside my town?”

  Aethren opened their mouth, but there were no words for them to say. They had thought Ethy was just afraid, but there were bigger things at play – ambition, bitterness, hatred. The murder of her own child.

  My town.

  “I can only see one monster here. And it isn’t me or my magic.”

  “I warned you,” Ethy said softly. “When you were a small child, I said you were a danger.”

  Aethren nocked an arrow and raised their bow as Ethy took a step nearer, the arrow tip aimed at the hollow of Ethy’s throat. There were only a few strides between them; it would be a killing shot, and Ethy knew it.

  “I thought you were against murder,” Ethy said.

  Aethren fired.

  They changed the angle of the shot at the last moment and sent the arrow through the deerhide of Ethy’s leggings. She let out an inhuman howl of pain and crumpled, clutching the shaft where it protruded from her knee.

  Aethren ran past her and dropped at their pa’s side. There were bruises on his throat: perfect ovals from Ethy’s fingers, and garish crescent shapes where her fingernails had broken its skin.

  A board creaked.

  Aethren didn’t have time to turn around. Something struck the base of their skull and they hit the floorboards chin-first. White sparks exploded under their eyelids. Their jaw crunched. Before Aethren could get up again, Ethy kicked them in the back, just above their shoulder blade. A curious wet warmth spread down their back and they wondered fuzzily why Ethy was pouring water on them.

  “Ethy?” Aethren reached up tentative fingers to feel the area. They came away stained in blood.

  Blinding panic surged through them, carrying them up to their feet. They let their momentum spin them around, barely in time to catch Ethy’s quarterstaff with both hands. The pain of impact ran up their arms all the way to their chest. Ethy’s knife was discarded on the floor, stained with Aethren’s blood. Aethren stared into Ethy’s beetle-dark eyes as the world burst in and out of focus.

  “You have to die,” Ethy said; a hard, simple fact.

  Both of them moved.

  Ethy tried to put weight on her wounded leg and went down. Aethren, who had been lunging for Ethy with their full bodyweight, went down with her.

  There was no reason after that, just a scramble: nails in the wood, fingers in flesh. The two of them rolled like foxes in a fight for scraps. Aethren’s nails found purchase in the paper-dry skin of Ethy’s forehead and then down, hooking into bony sockets with all their remaining strength.

  Their other hand closed around the knife and metal flashed in the firelight. Aethren felt the moment the blade punctured Ethy’s lung as if it were happening to them. Ethy went still beneath Aethren, her eyes wide and mouth slack. A deceptively soft bubble of blood appeared from her parted lips.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Aethren whispered. “I didn’t – fuck, Pa . . . Pa? Wake up!” They crawled across the blood-slick floorboards. Ethy’s blood, yes – but not just hers.

  Aethren’s vision flickered. They tried to grab Marken’s shirt, but their fingers wouldn’t work. Hundreds of tiny needles prickled across their skin.

  “Aethren?” Someone else was there. Hands, mottled grey with too-slender fingers, closed around Aethren’s wrists. “Aethren, you need to stop.”

  Aethren drew back, shaking. Their head was pounding and their heart hurt and there was so much blood.

  Cool fingers touched their face. “Can you hear me?”

  The floorboards beneath Aethren’s back were warm and sticky, and the air felt thick. Power built in their gut, scraping the lining of their stomach raw as it demanded to be let free. They were furious and angry and afraid, and their ribcage was surely going to crack under the sheer weight of it all. And the scream in their chest would not be quiet; wouldn’t let them breathe or think.

  So Aethren opened their mouth, and—

  Marken, oblivious to the wyrdness, felt it and

  Grae, fallen as he was, felt it too.

  (the sound of a tree falling; the roots screaming)

  Isha was collecting water to wash Rostfar’s corpse. He fell
to his knees, and

  Yrsa was paralysed, unable to help him, her body hollowed by foreign agony.

  (a river bursting its banks, water cascading outwards in a white foam of power and wrath)

  Estene woke from her deep sleep, cloistered away in the depths of her pupping den. And she howled – howled like she hadn’t since she drew her first breath.

  (the screech of a raven, full of grief and defiance.)

  And the trees of Deothwicc shook.

  And the waters of the Wyccmarshes seethed.

  And the power that slumbered beneath the Speaking Tree’s roots began to stir.

  (a sound so ancient and powerful that even the mountains knew to fear it)

  And Rostfar heard it, although the dead do not have ears.

  Rostfar heard it, and she rebelled against the flesh that bound her.

  Part V

  Regrowth, Slow but Relentless

  Chapter 47

  Coming back to life was like being born again.

  Rostfar struggled with all her might against the living cocoon in which she lay, her system reeling from the force of Aethren’s cry for help. Arketh’s moth screamed in the hollow of Rostfar’s throat, battering against her bones and fighting for all it was worth until Rostfar’s rational thoughts were consumed.

  You’re not ready, said the Speaking Tree – Norðunn

  Rostfar didn’t know how long she had been drifting. Time hadn’t existed for her, but now that she was back in her body everything demanded attention. Hunger, pain, thirst, a desperate need to piss. Life was an extraordinarily painful thing, Rostfar realised, and she wasn’t ready to let go.

  You can’t leave me yet, said that haunting, ethereal voice in the wyrdness. It tasted like tree-sap in her mouth and sounded like the deep, gentle throb of the Tree’s green heart. Rostfar screwed her eyes shut.

  “Then come with me,” she hissed through her teeth.