The svartalfar met the trellish legion with a sound like a thousand falling trees. They plunged among the trolls with a great wailing and the terrible clash of wood and metal. Vethulf reached out to Kjaran with his mind, listening to the evidence of the gray wolf’s senses, sharing what he himself observed from atop the moving tower of his height. Together they knew more than each alone. Vethulf could see across the press, down into the ruined town where battle was already joined, as the wolfless men formed their wall again and quickly advanced, shields locked and feet shuffling in unison while swords and spears poked through.
These trolls fought frantically, savagely, blocking the entrances to the warren with their bodies while miners tunneled behind them to close the gaps their warriors defended. The attacking archers loosed upon the miners, but when the trolls fell, their comrades only buried them in the bulwarks so black ichor stained the rough-shaped rock. Vethulf saw a man fall and his comrades close ranks around him, sealing the shield wall before the line could be broken. A second rank of men walked behind the first, some with spears, some merely leaning on their shieldbrothers’ backs, reinforcing one man’s strength with another against the superior weight and strength of the trolls. One of the second rank shoved the wounded warrior’s shield over him to protect him; the fallen man curled in on himself like a beetle.
A moment later, Vethulf heard a roar that drowned even the noise of battle and looked left to see a band of trellwarriors break cover, running for the human army’s flank—and the Franangfordthreat. Skjaldwulf’s powerful baritone carried over the creak of leather and the breathless yelps of running men: “To me! To me, Franangford! For Viradechtis!”
Skjaldwulf could not have found a better rallying cry. The throats of the Franangfordthreat were opened, and the battle-howl that rang from them rivaled the ululations of the oncoming horde of trolls. Vethulf shifted his grip upon his axe haft and leaped forward, meeting the enemy midcharge.
What followed was a slaughter. These were not warriors, he realized as he hewed one and another, boots slipping in ichor-black, ichor-slick snow. These were house-trolls, decked in scavenged armor, swinging weapons they barely knew how to hold. A distraction, he thought, as Grimolfr’s troop broke from the trees behind them and fell upon their flank.
It was not hard to disengage when all around him men and wolves were pulling trolls down like sheep. He drew back, scrambling upslope, finally locating a boulder with the hewn stump of a murdered forest giant still crouched beside it. He clawed up the vantage one-handed, awkward in buckler, leathers, and mail. Blood-clotted boots slipped before he jammed the toes in crevices and heaved himself up. Where are the warriors?
Kjaran floated effortlessly up the rock to crouch beside Vethulf, ears pinned as he scented a bloody wind. Down by the ruins, the last of the trellish defenders had fallen. A great cheer went up among the wolfless men as svartalfar smiths and sappers approached the sealed tunnels. Then men and alfar drew back from the tunnels, the last few sappers moving at a scuttling svartalfar run, and Vethulf was only prepared for what came next because he’d witnessed the purging of Franangford.
A rising ice-sharp wind off the ocean brought him an acrid scent of burning, followed some moments later by a dull, heavy sound that struck his ears like a cup-hand blow and lifted and dropped the boulder under his feet. He swayed but kept his balance. Kjaran looked at him and whined.
“I know,” Vethulf said. “I hate it, too. Wolf-brother, where are the trellwarriors?”
Even Kjaran’s nose could not find them. Perhaps the reek of rock tar, as the svartalfar hauled forward barrels of the stuff on sledges and tipped them down into the cracked holes of the trellwarren, drowned out the scent. Or perhaps there were no more warriors to be found.
In any case, for the moment the fighting was over. So Vethulf stood on his lonely promontory, his wolf pressed to his thigh, and watched as the torches were brought up to the tar-soaked trellwarren and the oily black smoke belched forth.
The stink scoured his head and made bile rise up his throat. He couldn’t name the thing that left him cold and shivering, but it wasn’t the ice of the arctic night.
* * *
All Skjaldwulf could smell was rock tar and blood.
When the fires burned themselves out, the wolfcarls, trellwolves, and svartalfar had entered the tunnels. This was no job for wolfless men, so Gunnarr Sturluson pulled his troops back to cordon the town and hunt for trellish stragglers.
In the tunnels, they found the trellwarriors whose absence had so concerned Vethulf, and Vethulf had been right to be concerned. The trolls had been too canny to waste their best fighters out in the open, holding them in reserve in the twists and traps of the trellwrought caverns. The trolls had learned from Franangford as well, and they had built channels and baffles and cisterns to keep the blazing rock tar from their dens. More had survived than not, and it was terrible fighting—so terrible that in the end the wolfless men had to be brought into it.
At least Skjaldwulf found that the trolls’ advantage over men was more than balanced by the svartalfar’s advantage over both other races. The trolls might twist stone, but if they left it wide enough for a troll to pass, they could never twist it so that alfar could not follow. And follow the alfar did, tenacious and terrible.
Skjaldwulf came to understand, in the days of butchery it took to clear the warren, that the trolls had always relied first on their superior size, and second on their ability to escape. Here, as they had no further bolt-hole to fall back to, but had to stand and fight, they were defeated time and again.
Men and wolves slept and fought in shifts, grabbing a few broken hours of exhausted rest before dragging themselves from their tents and blankets to kill again. Skjaldwulf was sure that svartalfar must sleep, but he never caught them at it.
Skjaldwulf and Mar were in on the kill in the queen’s chamber, though neither drew her blood; they had to content themselves with her body-servants. Skjaldwulf was old enough to find that sufficient glory in which to clothe himself. The honor of the queen’s death fell to Othwulf Vikingrsbrother and Gunnarr Sturluson, who were brothers in blood though one had gone to the heall and one remained a jarl, and Skjaldwulf was skald enough to find poetry in that, which was more satisfaction than glory would be.
After the trellqueen was disposed of, along with her kittens—and that was a grim piece of butchery, as the kittens screamed and cowered and the adult trolls threw themselves at their enemies’ weapons as desperately as drowning men—the remaining trolls fled along tunnels deep in the earth that would have to be painstakingly quartered, explored, and scoured over more days than Skjaldwulf cared to consider. But the svartalfar assured the men that the crucial thing was done. With queen and kittens dead, what was left was merely the tidying away of loose ends. And a blood-boltered tidying it would be.
Skjaldwulf, for his part, sought the comforts of the sauna and his supper. Vethulf was not to be found, and Mar vanished off to sleep while Skjaldwulf was steaming the filth from his skin and the ache from his bones. Vethulf’s absence was a sort of blessing. Skjaldwulf had the energy for neither stony silences nor outright warfare, and that was all there had been between them since the battle for Othinnsaesc had started. He continued to be wearily astonished at Mar and Kjaran, who were as inseparable as litter brothers even in the absence of their konigenwolf. The pack-sense was no help to him, as Kjaran’s sense of humor was unfortunately all too wolfish. It would be worse if they fought.
The first dawn in days was breaking when Skjaldwulf returned to their tent to find it occupied, not just by Mar but by Kjaran and Vethulf. Skjaldwulf ducked inside. The air within was not even cold enough to make his breath steam but still chilly after the bathhouse. He quickly stripped off his snowy boots and calf-bindings and coat and without speaking slipped into the furs. He could tell from Vethulf’s breathing that he was awake, but neither of them spoke as Skjaldwulf settled himself between Vethulf and Mar.
Mar stirred in his sleep
and pressed against Skjaldwulf’s chest, and Vethulf, uncharacteristically, draped himself against Skjaldwulf’s back, one arm around his waist. I thought he was awake, Skjaldwulf thought, and then, Oh, as Vethulf flattened his palm on Skjaldwulf’s belly, as if to hold him close. Skjaldwulf blinked, abruptly wide awake in the warmth of the brief morning light staining the tent walls golden.
“Vethulf,” he murmured, but it wasn’t a protest, and when Vethulf nuzzled past Skjaldwulf’s plaits and pressed warm, dry lips to the nape of his neck, Skjaldwulf moaned low in his throat. The scrape of teeth, the brush of tongue as Vethulf burrowed through clothing to nip the place where his neck ran into his shoulder was delicately erotic. Skjaldwulf shivered in pleasure.
And it was an answer. A crude sort of answer: a little bit desperate, a little bit sad. But neither one of them was lying to the other or would be expected to pretend. And that alone might make it all right.
And it was so much better than fighting.
Skjaldwulf turned in Vethulf’s arms and pressed a kiss to his open mouth. Vethulf kissed him back, tasting of charred meat, sour milky skyr, and the birch twigs he must have chewed to clean his teeth. His hands clenched on Skjaldwulf’s braids, dragging their mouths together until Skjaldwulf groaned and met tongue with tongue, force with force, mouths slipping and grating and sliding, hot and wet. Vethulf’s hands groped under his tunic, under the linen shirt he wore against his skin. Their clothes were filthy and stank with old sweat and the rancid bear grease with which they coated exposed skin to prevent chapping and frostbite, and it didn’t matter in the slightest.
Vethulf wormed out of shirt and tunic and sweater and jerkin with a writhing grace, breaking the kiss only long enough to drag the clothing over his head and shove it aside. Kjaran grunted, waking enough to complain, and Mar put a cold nose in the back of Skjaldwulf’s neck. Skjaldwulf pushed him away, laughing, and stripped off his own layers of clothing. It wasn’t warm enough in the furs to be naked, but he let Vethulf peel off his loincloth and leggings, too, and rubbed his hands over the bony, muscled architecture of Vethulf’s shoulders and back to create heat while Vethulf kicked his own underclothes aside.
They were both too thin, both exhausted and closer to heartbroken than not, and it didn’t matter. Heat grew between their bodies where they chafed and slid together, though Vethulf shivered as he pressed against Skjaldwulf. It might have been cold or sexual thrill or both, but Vethulf’s sex jutted against the soft inside of Skjaldwulf’s thigh. He groaned like an animal in a trap when Skjaldwulf lowered his head to bite along Vethulf’s throat under the short paired plaits of his beard. Skjaldwulf tasted sweat and bear grease and didn’t care, because Vethulf’s hand slipped between them, cradling Skjaldwulf’s stones, kneading gently.
Mar whined, twisting restlessly against Skjaldwulf’s back as Skjaldwulf arched against Vethulf, purring deep in his throat, encouraging the touch. Vethulf’s hand slid up Skjaldwulf’s shaft, moving rhythmically, creating just enough contact to tease. Skjaldwulf curled forward, the burn of cold air on his neck, and pressed his forehead to Vethulf’s shoulder.
It was stupid to undress, stupid to do this now, here, when there was always the half-chance that they would have to scramble from the tent at any moment, jamming feet into the wrong boots and struggling with axes. Stupid, and Skjaldwulf suddenly didn’t care about that, either, because Vethulf was pressing against him, drawing his legs up around Skjaldwulf’s hips, and rolling to pull Skjaldwulf atop him in a wordless, unmistakable invitation. It was quiet in the tent, except for Vethulf’s scattered breathing and the irritated moaning of a wolf as Kjaran scratched his ear with a hind foot, aroused and awakened by the wolfcarls’ groping.
If Skjaldwulf shut his eyes, the hard, clutching body in his arms could belong to anyone. He kept his eyes open. Solace was one thing; falsehood—no matter how tempting, no matter that he knew beyond need of asking that Vethulf would understand—was something else, and something Skjaldwulf wanted no part of. He had learned from the wolves that a lie was a weakness in the pack.
A coarse beard rasped Skjaldwulf’s chest before the mouth it surrounded latched onto his nipple, sucking hard, nipping. Skjaldwulf drew a breath deep enough to make the healed cracks in his ribs ache in protest. He braced himself up on one arm, grinning as Vethulf yelped and burrowed closer against the cold draft, and scrabbled through his coat pockets for the birch bark packet of bear grease. And there it was; he dropped onto his elbows, ignoring Vethulf’s oof of protest and Kjaran’s grumpy whine, and fumbled open the sinew ties, digging his nails into the cold grease until a glob clung to his fingertips. He knelt back while Vethulf gripped his shoulder with one hand, the other still wrapped around Skjaldwulf’s sex, moving smoothly but not at all gently now.
Mar lurched to his feet, still half-crouched in the close darkness of the tent, his claws scoring Skjaldwulf’s shoulder accidentally. Skjaldwulf hissed at the sting but shook his head as Vethulf opened his mouth to ask. If he was bleeding, it was not enough to matter. Mar dropped back to his elbows, whining, and there was a heave of furry body over Skjaldwulf as Kjaran went to join his threatbrother. Kjaran mounted Mar, though Mar snapped at him halfheartedly. The snow shook off the tent as Kjaran began masturbating against Mar’s hip and Mar, with a put-upon sigh, let him.
There were no secrets in the Wolfmaegth. No secrets and no lies.
It wasn’t like the wolf-rut—human intercourse was so transitory, so much less obsessive than the pack’s response to a bitch’s heat—but Kjaran whined as Skjaldwulf pressed his greased fingers against Vethulf, into Vethulf, and Vethulf gasped and clutched and almost convulsed with pleasure. He grunted and then keened softly between his teeth as Skjaldwulf slid deeper, seeking, pressing, easing his way. Vethulf was so hot inside, so much hotter than the chill air and even the relative warmth of the furs. Skjaldwulf wanted to crawl into that heat and never come out.
“Now,” Vethulf demanded.
Skjaldwulf hissed, “Don’t talk,” and kissed him silent, and then obeyed.
They came together harshly, Vethulf fisting his hands under his ass to raise himself, his sinewy legs like iron shackles on Skjaldwulf’s hips. Skjaldwulf pressed hard, roughly, so that Vethulf swore and Mar growled under his breath, a vibration in the blankets more than a sound. And then they were together, linked, locked. Vethulf’s low moan became a stuttered gasp as Skjaldwulf braced himself with one hand, found Vethulf’s sex with the weaker one, and began to move against him, hard, matching the rhythm with twisting strokes.
A creased blanket gouged Skjaldwulf’s knee; a mouth found his throat in the darkness and sucked hard enough to bruise. Vethulf bit his shoulder, clenching and writhing against him, around him, his nails carving runes in Skjaldwulf’s flesh to match Mar’s scratches, his sex pulsing in Skjaldwulf’s hand, splattering both of them with slippery heat. Kjaran whined and then Mar yipped softly, like a wolf in a running-dream.
Skjaldwulf let himself drop to his elbows, slumped against Vethulf, surrendered to the powerful legs clamped around his hips and the strong hands yanking his plaits, the softness of flesh and the strength of hard muscle as he spent himself deep in Vethulf’s receptive warmth.
The hands that stroked his hair grew gentle and the mouth that kissed his was soft, until they disentangled and dried and dressed themselves in silence and fell asleep curled together, warmed by the snoring bodies of their wolves.
THREE
When he was a boy, Brokkolfr was afraid of wolves.
Not that he’d ever seen a wolf, except for the brawling, bellowing sea-wolves who came to the limestone caves along the cliffs to rut and fight, but his grandmother told stories. And then when he was twelve and his village drew lots to decide whose boy had to go to the heall, it seemed like everyone he knew had a story about wolves. Terrible stories about wolves hunting men like rabbits, wolves devouring babies—
Cubs? Amma said hopefully, and Brokkolfr smiled. Amma loved cubs of all species: trellwolf, human, t
he cats who hunted mice in Franangford’s new storerooms, the geese on the nearby lake. It left Brokkolfr wondering what she would do if she were a wild wolf and there was nothing to eat but baby geese.
She loved visiting the heall-born babies and made no objections even to having her ear used as a teething rag. And any bitch who littered in Franangford was sure to have Amma hovering carefully out of range until such time as the mother deemed help acceptable. Viradechtis had a particularly long-suffering sigh with which she signaled permission.
Right now, Amma was thinking mostly of Viradechtis’ pups, and Brokkolfr said, “Maybe later, sister. Work first.”
Amma huffed but flopped down agreeably beside him. The seasons had passed from winter to spring since the liberation of Othinnsaesc, and Brokkolfr was taking advantage of the sunshine to sit in the courtyard—or what passed for a courtyard at Franangford, which was actually just the clear space, roughly rectangular, in the midst of the tents gifted by Bravoll. But it was much better than the close, reeking darkness of the tents, which was all they would have until the construction of the wolfheall and its outbuildings came further along. In the months since the founding of the new Franangford heall, Brokkolfr had taken charge of the saddlery, and leatherwork was best done outdoors in strong light.
Most of the Franangfordthreat were away from the heall this afternoon. Some were hunting, some were felling trees for the outbuildings, and one wolfjarl had gone to negotiate with the master of the Franangford quarry about stone and payment. Skjaldwulf, not Vethulf. No one sent Vethulf when negotiations were at hand. If Brokkolfr listened, he could hear Vethulf now, tearing strips off somebody for wasting the good weather by dawdling about. Brokkolfr winced in sympathy and bent his head to his own work. Amma, resigned, rolled belly-up to the sun and slipped into a dream.
The Tempering of Men Page 3