Ingvar rode closer. The wind gusted, whipping his hair in a flurry around his head. Even with the activity, Torin could see his cousin’s expression of concern. “Its throat was bitten by Fenrir in fury.”
Fury it may have been, but that didn’t make sense. If a wolf was behind the senseless death, why wouldn’t it have eaten its kill? If it truly had been Fenrir, would he, a god, kill a sheep for no reason but for pleasure?
Torin stared at the teeth marks and the amount of flesh that had been torn from the animal’s throat. It had not been the result of too many crows eating their fill. A creature with a large jaw was responsible for this.
Raindrops touched his face, and he brushed them away. He stood up and looked about the grassy field. “Do you see any tracks?”
The men spread out on their horses, scanning the area. Bárthur called back, “The grass is too short to show any trace. There is no mud or any dry blades to get bent. I see no sign.”
Torin turned to stare at the landscape for any other sign or clue, but found nothing. The rain began to pick up, soaking their head and shoulders with water. Fólki growled from his saddle. “I am wet, and I hunger for my morning meal. If Fenrir is out there, he can keep hiding!” He raised his voice to a shout. “No animal will keep me from my food, god or not! Come and get me—I will be waiting with my steel to take your head from your neck!”
“Father! You do not want to anger him,” Ingvar said warily.
“Psh!” Fólki answered and turned to Torin. “I may care later, but I am too hungry to be wise at present. You have done your duty, nephew. Let us go. If the beast shows himself, we will slit its throat.”
Torin leaned down to pick up the sheep. In a land that challenged men’s survival in every way, it would be wasteful not to use everything one could. He flung the animal over his horse’s back, then saddled up. He was the last one to leave the valley. His eyes combed the over the landscape, hating that he was leaving without discovering more about the strange wolf apparition that came and went as it pleased without a trace.
Ásta heard their voices before she saw them.
She’d just finished milking the last cow, and her hands were tired from the repetitive work, although it wasn’t different from any other day. She lifted the buckets of milk and carried them to the longhouse. They needed to be put in the food storage closet where it was cool and dark so it would keep.
The entire time she’d spent relieving the cattle of their milk, she’d replayed the events of last night in her head. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but for some reason a sense of calm came over her when she thought about it. That emotion was at odds with her sense of obligation and responsibility. She hadn’t fulfilled her role as a wife.
The time had come. She would have to face the consequences. Ridicule was on her heels.
“Look! The men are back.” Bergljot met her at the threshold of the longhouse. She shielded her eyes from the sun and said, “What does your husband have with him? Did they kill the beast?”
Ásta turned to look. Her arms grew weak as the suggestion broke all other train of thought and made her pulse race. If no other good came from the day, news like that would overshadow even last night’s regrets.
When Torin’s damp body came closer into view, she saw the stark white woolen tuft in his lap. That was no black wolf. It felt as though she’d swallowed an air-hardened flatbread whole and it was scraping a trail down to her stomach.
“Happy and healthy?” Bergljot called out to the men. “What news do you have?”
They let themselves through the gate and began to dismount their steeds. Dagný walked to his wife and answered, “Like we found last night, the wolf tracks are only on that bluff. So we decided to look into the highlands to see if it had fed on any livestock. We found this sheep with its throat bit out. The ravens were feasting on it.”
Torin rode up and dropped the lifeless animal to the ground. Ásta set her buckets down and checked the sheep’s rear haunch for their mark. “That is one of ours. Why was it not eaten by the animal that killed it?”
Torin jumped from his saddle and began to unfasten it from his horse. His hair was wet and hung about grim face. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. They shared the same unease.
“Ah, it is warmer here. Is that fresh milk?” Fólki said, looking down at the buckets that blocked his way to the door. “My stomach demands its meal, and I believe Torin has some business to tend to?”
Ásta couldn’t keep the shock from her face. She stared at the ground instead of looking at her husband. If she could have forced a smile, she would have. Instead, she went to pick up the buckets and lead the wet and hungry men inside.
When the women saw the men were back, things got busy in the longhouse. The same information was dispensed again, but this time with more animation. Ásta went directly to the storage room to avoid hearing it again and to collect herself. She set one of the buckets in a recessed space on the cool floor and picked up a bowl of butter. Once she was ready to reappear, she walked back into the hall.
“I look forward to eating that mutton tonight,” Fólki said to Hákon while he took a bite of jerky. He noticed Ásta and waved her over. “With the distraction of our hunt, something was forgotten in our haste. It is time to deal with you. Take a seat.”
She took a shaky breath and searched for a place to put the milk and butter. Elfa rushed up to her and helped free her hands. Ásta sat down on the bench, waiting for her judgment.
“No need to be so shy,” Guthrún said from near the hearth fire. “We all know why we are here.”
“There he is!” Fólki shouted, pointing to the entryway.
Ásta lifted her gaze and saw Torin walking inside with his arms full of something very large covered by a woolen blanket. It appeared to be awkward to carry. When he set it at her feet, his eyes met hers. She was puzzled by the gesture. When would she be admonished for not having relations with her husband?
“What a lot of gifts—she must have been worth the wait.” Hákon laughed beside his friend.
Fólki answered him loud enough for all to hear, “The boy was determined. Even though it was not part of the agreement, and it set him back quite a bit, he insisted on getting it.”
Torin pulled away the blanket to reveal the largest cauldron Ásta had ever seen. She knew that in other lands where metal was mined there were things such as this, but she had never laid eyes on one before. It must have been very expensive, indeed.
Ásta reached out to touch it. This would do well for brewing. It would not leak like the wooden troughs she struggled with. It was the best thing she could have ever wished for.
Torin stepped back. As soon as he was out of the way, Bergljot and Frida rushed up to peer inside the cauldron. Frida lifted out linens, a new serk and a yellow woolen smock. She handed them to Ásta while she continued to pull things out and said, “What a lot of treasure.”
A new serving ladle was placed on the pile, as well as a set of glass cups. Then the woman muttered, “Too bad, no beads for you to display your wealth.”
Ásta stared at the glass cups, marveling at their beauty. She couldn’t imagine anything better. “I do not need to show my wealth with beads.”
“With these impressive morning gifts, her honey must have been untouched and tasty, indeed.” Ingvar congratulated his cousin, slapping him on the shoulder.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she looked to Torin for his response. He returned her gaze and nodded. “Já, it was.”
She didn’t understand. Why was he lying?
The audience smirked and whispered behind their hands. For once, she knew they weren’t speaking of Fenrir.
Bergljot placed her hands on her pregnant belly and suggested, “Bring them their marriage mead so they may mark the beginning of their honeymoon.”
Elfa ran to the storage room and brought back a casket of untouched mead that had been reserved for the bride and groom. Ásta handed the linens and clothing back t
o Frida, but held onto the serving ladle and glasses. Torin approached her again. His hands brushed against hers as he took the cups.
“Maybe we could wait for this evening to partake, so that I might have a clear head today?” he asked, almost sheepishly and under his breath so no one could hear.
Puzzled by the turn of events, Ásta nodded and set her ladle onto the casket. The room stirred with excitement and conversations as the guests were distracted with eating their morning meal, but Torin and Ásta stood in the midst of it all, unmoving, staring at each other.
She didn’t want to ask what was really on her mind, but felt compelled to make conversation. “Would you like your morning meal?”
Torin winced and shook his head. “After the amount of drink last night, I am not ready to put food in my belly either.”
“I like starting the day with milk.” Ásta accepted a wooden cup from Elfa’s hands that was filled with the white drink. She took a sip, then held it out to him.
Torin hesitated before taking it from her. He lifted it to his lips and took a slow swig. His face wrinkled up and he muttered, “Never liked the taste of the stuff.” He wiped the residue from his mustache and asked, “Would you take me round the property today? I think it is time I see the damaged walls and the lay of the land.”
“Of course,” she answered. “We have been making repairs since the Althing. I was able to hire two more men, and I have been trying my hand at the turf shovel.”
He raised his eyebrow and cocked his head. “A woman doing hard labor?”
“I am strong,” she defended herself. “Nothing will stop me from keeping my farm running. I mean, our farm.”
Torin appraised her in silence. She didn’t know what he was thinking. As a matter of fact, she didn’t understand him at all. She didn’t understand why he’d wanted to marry her when there was a chance she could lose the farm, or when she was not as young as other maidens, or as pretty. Then he’d gone and lied about their wedding night.
Although she couldn’t make him out, there were some things she’d noticed about him that she appreciated. He’d turned down a drink of mead when it seemed to be his weakness, for one. He went out to search the property for traces of the wolf, the true sign of a protector. He seemed able-bodied and eager to work. That was enough for her to know for now. The concerns she’d had about him were not at the forefront of her mind.
“The skiff!” Torin’s uncle called out from the far end of the bench. Crumbs fell from his mouth and he leaned over to say to Hákon, “What say you we go in search of some shark?”
The men ate quickly and no fewer than six of them jumped up, ready for adventure. Bjorn offered to lead them down to the sea where the small fishing boat was kept, and the longhouse cleared out as people found things to do out of doors.
Rolf and the other two farmhands had already gone to continue their work in the fields, repairing the walls. Elfa and Frida began to butcher the sheep that had been brought back, careful to save its woolen coat to make thread. Ásta led Torin toward the gate, when he called to her, “Wait—I think Vindr would like some exercise.”
She watched him run to the animal shed where he’d stowed his cage. Time passed before he reappeared with the gyrfalcon perched on his gloved wrist. The bird no longer wore its hood, and a leather strap was fastened to its leg, which Torin held in his hand.
“I am ready,” Torin said and walked to her side.
Ásta opened the gate, and they left the confines of the farm. She began to lead him along the wall line to the outer range of the property and the barley crop. The green hayfield on the other side of the turf wall was getting tall. She pointed to it and said, “The crops are growing on schedule for harvest in the fall. We have problems with rabbits burrowing in the fields. Rolf finds a game of hunting them, but they are faster than his sword.”
“That sounds entertaining to watch,” he answered.
The corner of her lips rose as she thought about the older farmhand swinging his blade at the ground seconds after the rabbit had launched away to safety.
“Would you help me feed Vindr? She is still young and needs to trust in humans.”
Ásta was unsure. She’d never been so near a living raptor before. She only had experience plucking the feathers from the dead sea birds that had been caught for their night meal. Its beak and talons seemed quite sharp. Would it try to hurt her?
Torin lifted his arm and transferred the falcon to his other hand. “It is safe. She is more nervous of you than you are of her.”
Ásta took a deep breath and nodded. He slipped off the leather glove to put it on her hand. She observed him put his hand in a leather pouch that hung from his belt, and she thought she recognized the familiar pink tinge of flesh. He kept it from the bird’s view as he placed it in her gloved hand and wrapped her fingers around it. She asked, “What is it?”
“Rodent—that is what took me a minute in the shed. My blade is faster than rats.” He glanced at the gyrfalcon. “Do you know how to whistle?”
Ásta shook her head. “Neinn.”
“Very well, I can teach you,” he answered. “I whistle to let her know food is near. I will take her a distance away and release her. You will hold up your gloved hand. Make sure the flesh can be seen. She should fly to you and perch on your hand to eat her meal. While she is busy, grab the end of the jess, the leather strap on her leg, so that she does not fly off when she is done.”
He eyed her to see if she was paying attention, and all Ásta could do was nod her head. She hoped she’d paid attention to all of his instructions. He walked beside the wall, holding the bird on his knuckle, and stopped a good distance away. Torin nodded at her, and she grasped the rat meat in her gloved hand so that it was visible. She raised her hand and winced, waiting for the next step.
Torin let go of the strap on the gyrfalcon’s leg. She forgot her fear as she watched the snow-white creature flap its wings and take to the sky. It was beautiful, breathtaking, seeing it soar. Mouth agape, Ásta observed the gyrfalcon flap its wings and come straight for her hand. Its weight pressed against her, and her biceps flexed to keep her hand steady. Wind from its flapping wings swept against her face as the raptor dipped its beak to her fist and tore at its reward. A smile touched Ásta’s lips as she watched the falcon eat its meal from her hand.
Torin walked back to her, letting the bird finish eating before he coaxed it back to his wrist. “You did well. Soon enough Vindr will help end the burrowing problem.”
“She is fast like you said.” Ásta stared at the raptor’s big round eyes looking back at her.
They continued walking the length of the grassland. At the start of the barley crop, she opened a gate and walked to the inside of the field with Torin behind her. The hillside sloped at an angle and guided the way to the latest damage done to the walls. She pointed ahead where the farmhands were working. “Just there is some of the damage.”
When they got closer, Torin slowed, keeping his eye on his gyrfalcon. It was beginning to flap its wings and appeared nervous from the movement and sounds. His hand went to his side and he pulled free a fold of leather from his belt. He moved so fast she didn’t know what he’d done until she saw he’d covered the bird’s head with its hood. The animal quieted down almost immediately.
“Have you come to help us?” Rolf leaned on his turf shovel, panting.
Ásta watched her husband’s expression as he looked at the long opening in the wall. The claw marks weren’t visible anymore due to the rainfall and wind.
“Not today,” Torin answered. “But as soon as our guests leave, I will be with you every day until it is right again. This does not seem more than we can manage.”
“If this were the only damage.” Rolf pointed to the opposite side of the field. “There is more over there, so we will be busy. We have harvest coming before long, but I am glad you have joined with the lady—there is always more work to do on a farm.”
“That is true,” Torin answered.
For the remainder of the tour of the land and property damages, Torin was quiet, taking everything in. He certainly was a man of few words, which left Ásta wondering what he was thinking. They may have only just begun to get to know each other, but she questioned if he would ever again speak his mind like he had the night before. Was it the only glimpse she’d have into his mind? That momentary weakness appeared to have been fueled by too much drink, something she hoped wouldn’t become a regularity.
She knew their guests would leave any day. The thought made her sad, for she enjoyed having friends and family near. They were a distraction from her chores and from the looming worry that upon their departure she and her husband would have nothing to talk about. That instead of growing closer, the distance would increase between them and she would be even lonelier than she was before.
Chapter 8
Torin watched his uncle check the horses one last time with mixed emotions. He’d lived with his uncle’s kin from the age of ten. As eager as he was to be on his own, he would miss them.
Ásta asked Guthrún, who was standing beside their loaded wagon, “Did you pack enough food and drink for your journey home?”
“We have more than enough. Thank you for tending to us so well.” Guthrún hugged her and Torin quickly before climbing into the back of the cart with her grandchildren. She kept her face turned away, and he suspected it was to cover her emotion.
Frida and Ingvar walked up to them. His cousin clapped him on the shoulder before pulling him into a bear hug. “We can stay if you wish. Father has not told all of his stories to Ásta yet.”
Torin growled. “We best leave a few for next time. This is my land now—off with you.”
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 11