The Tempering of Men

by Sarah Monette

  There were worse things, and if he was light-headed when he came out, it would clear. The headaches were passing, and with them the sleepiness—he hoped with no long-term harm done. His clothes—fouled with blood and the dirt of the trail—were too filthy to put on again, so he bundled them up, intending to walk back to his things and find the clean shirt he had put aside for returning to civilization.

  He was not, however, expecting to all but trip over Otter as he emerged from the sauna.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I was looking for you.”

  She seemed unfazed by his nudity, which he supposed was only natural for a woman accustomed to army camps. She held up a cloth bundle of her own. “Fargrimr was kind enough to give me some of her—of his mother’s things. I was looking for a place to wash.”

  “The sauna is right through there,” Skjaldwulf said. “Scrapers and branches inside.”

  “Sauna?”

  “Steam bath?”

  She looked blank. He wondered if Rheans and Brythoni just scrubbed themselves in streams with handfuls of sand. Obviously, they scrubbed themselves somehow, because neither Otter nor the tribune had been particularly filthy even by Skjaldwulf’s heall-refined standards. He said, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Flick water on the stones to make steam; use the scrapers to get the dirt off. If you feel sick, drink water or step outside.”

  “Oh.”

  He smiled. “Leave your old clothes outside, and I’ll take them to the laundress with my own.”

  She blinked, then nodded. “All right then. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “You, too.”

  * * *

  Fargrimr and his father fed them well that night, though not elaborately. There was game, baked slowly over coals until it fell off the bone, and rounds of harsh rye cracker to soak up the juices with. Skjaldwulf shared a trencher with Otter. It being summer, there were also fruits and onions and handfuls of wild greens. Better than the food of the trail, anyway, and Skjaldwulf—with his first appetite in days—stuffed himself.

  The old jarl sat at the head of the table and made conversation, and though the jarl wore blue tattoos down both arms and up his throat to the jawline, it was the same comforting conversation one found in any hall. Boasts of prowess, complaints about the harvest, discussion of the merits of women and of hounds.

  Afterwards, the tables were cleared. When Fargrimr and Randulfr came to fetch him for that anticipated council, Skjaldwulf brought Otter along. “After all,” he pointed out, “she knows the Rheans better than any of us.”

  And what she knew, she did not hesitate to share.

  She told them of the vastness of the Rhean empire. Of its resources, its ambition, and how the Brythoni had fought it for their independence for a decade or more before coming under its wing, driven in part by the depredations of the Iskryners. She spoke eloquently and with passion, and her words left no doubt in Skjaldwulf’s mind that the Rheans had every intent of setting a governor over his scattered people and making of them vassals and tributaries.

  He thought of the Rhean tribune’s gold teeth and his confessions of age and wisdom, and frowned.

  “The man I met—,” he said. “Caius Iunarius—”

  “The southerner,” Otter said.

  “He said his land was a thousand leagues away, and still under the control of the Rhean emperor.”

  Otter nodded. “They have—they have a senate,” she said. “A council of learned and powerful men who advise their emperor, who come from all over his empire. They say that in the farthest reaches of the Rhean domains the sun is setting while it rises here. I don’t imagine—”

  “If there is to be a war,” Randulfr said, his hand automatically reaching toward his absent wolf for comfort, “there will have to be a Thing. And a konungur. We will need unity.”

  Freyvithr Godsman said, “The monks will fight.”

  Randulfr bit his lip and did not hide his smile. “That would be a godsend.”

  Otter threw her hands up and sighed. “You do not understand. How can you fight the Rheans?”

  Fargrimr clasped his left wrist in his right hand and laid both fists on the table before him. “How can we fail to?” He looked at his father; his father was looking steadily back at him.

  The old man nodded. “You will set out for Hergilsberg, then. On the morrow.”

  * * *

  But on the morrow they could not go. Ingrun was coming into heat.

  Skjaldwulf was woken in the coldest, darkest hours of the night by a combination of things: distress in the pack-sense, a burst of arousal from Mar and a throbbing in his own groin, and the mutter of Randulfr cursing under his breath.

  Skjaldwulf came up on his elbows in his bedroll. “Randulfr?” No need to ask what was happening; no need, either, to ask what was wrong: of all the dreadful times for Ingrun to choose—not that it was her choice, either—this was … Well, it wasn’t the worst, because Skjaldwulf could think of worse times, but it certainly wasn’t the best. But that still didn’t explain.

  But by the same token, he didn’t have to ask. “My father lies sleeping not fifty yards from here,” Randulfr said. “My father, Skjaldwulf. He has mellowed these last years, and he is appeased, I know, because Fargrimr is a better son and heir to him than I could ever have been, but he still has not forgiven me for finding my wyrd elsewhere than Siglufjordhur. And he…”

  Ingrun whined, and Randulfr murmured, “No, my heart, it is no blame of yours. I am not angered with you.”

  “I could send you and Ingrun from the keep—,” Skjaldwulf began, and Randulfr finished: “But the woods may be crawling with Rheans.”

  On Skjaldwulf’s other side, Frithulf said, “What can we do? Randulfr could find us a place to go, no doubt, but we cannot leave the keep safely as a group for this purpose any more than we can send Randulfr out alone.”

  You wanted to be wolfjarl, Skjaldwulf said to himself, and while that wasn’t strictly true, it was close enough. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, and oddly, it seemed to help. He said, “There are no other wolves here, nor bonded men to feel our mating. This arena is clean and warm and we have everything we would need.”

  “But—,” Ulfhoss said.

  “Otter,” Skjaldwulf said before Ulfhoss could voice his objection.

  “Yes?” said Otter. She did not pretend she had not been awake and listening, and Skjaldwulf was grateful.

  “I need you—we need you—to go to the keep and tell Fargrimr that everyone must be kept out of here until one of us emerges and says that it is safe.”

  “Sh—he will want a reason,” Otter said.

  “Randulfr?” Skjaldwulf said. He might be wolfjarl, but the old man in that keep was not his father.

  “Tell Fargrimr that Ingrun’s season has come upon her. Tell him he may decide what to tell our father, so long as he ensures that no man, woman, or child trespasses on us.”

  “How long will it be?” Otter said; she sounded frightened, for which Skjaldwulf couldn’t blame her.

  “Not long,” Randulfr said. “Ingrun has never stretched matters out. It should be over by sundown. But if it is not—Otter, please be sure Fargrimr understands—no one must come near. We will be fine. There is no danger.”

  “And tell him we’ll all be ravenous,” Frithulf said, sounding reassuringly cheerful. “Cold food is fine, as long as there’s lots of it.”

  “All right,” Otter said. “I will tell him.” Skjaldwulf heard her getting up, the rustle of cloth as she dragged on her kirtle over her shift, and then the pad of her feet across the arena floor. She was silhouetted for a moment, a black shape against the scarcely lighter oblong of the doorway, and then she was gone.

  “Frithulf, Geirulfr, make sure all the doors are barred and the windows shuttered. Ulfhoss, kindle lights. Randulfr, what do you need?”

  A shaky laugh from Randulfr. “Oh, wolfjarl, I could recite you a list. But truly, all I need is the salve and a little time.”

 
As Ulfhoss lit the torches, the wolves became visible: Mar, Dyrvyr, Afi, Kothran, couched in a neat semicircle around Randulfr’s bedroll, where Ingrun was standing, her head swinging as she tried to keep them all in view.

  “I would judge that you have a little time,” Skjaldwulf said. As the best bonesetter of their traveling threat, Skjaldwulf carried their few medical supplies. He dug quickly through his pack and found the small clay pot of salve. It was soothing for skin chapped or rubbed raw, but its slickness also made it a great boon to any she-wolf’s brother when her time was on him. He tossed it to Randulfr.

  “A little,” Randulfr said, “but probably not much.” He stood up, stripping his shirt and trews off, making no effort to hide the fact that his sex was engorged. He looked at the circle of dog wolves, looked at Ingrun’s half-raised lip and tightly tucked tail. He reached a torch down from the wall and said, “Sister, come.” They disappeared together into one of the small storage rooms around the arena. The dog wolves whined, but did not move.

  Skjaldwulf looked at his small pack. Frithulf, Geirulfr, Ulfhoss. Geirulfr was a veteran and could be relied on to keep his head. Though Kothran was too small and submissive ever to win the bitch in an open mating, Frithulf was Isolfr’s shieldbrother, and Skjaldwulf knew he would be mindful for Isolfr’s sake, despite his inexperience. Ulfhoss, though, he had witnessed Amma’s open mating, which was all to the good, but he was young and Dyrver was young. Dyrver, Skjaldwulf rather thought, might one day make his brother a wolfjarl—which was all the more reason to be sure they went carefully now.

  Skjaldwulf said, ostensibly to all of them, though he knew Geirulfr and Frithulf would know it was for Ulfhoss’ sake, “Remember that the man you couple with is your werthreatbrother. Remember that though he is strong, he has not his sister’s body, just as you have not your brother’s. Follow your wolf, as always, but follow him as a man, not as a wolf.”

  Frithulf said, “Do you think there will be fighting?” He was watching Kothran, and Skjaldwulf remembered that Frithulf had witnessed the mating in which a wolf of Nithogsfjoll had lost his life. And it was, moreover, a good question. They were in an unusual situation, more like Viradechtis’ mating with her two consorts than a proper open mating, and it was hard to say how matters might proceed.

  Skjaldwulf opened himself to Mar and the pack-sense and found the turmoil he expected. Mar was clearly head-wolf, and no one seemed inclined to argue about that, but Afi, Dyrver, and Kothran were eyeing each other sidelong. Kothran usually had no chance at mating and was eager to make the most of this opportunity, and Dyrver had been shouldered ignominiously aside as a mere youngster when Amma bred and was equally eager to prove himself now. Afi, perceiving challenge on both sides, was all too clearly willing to fight anyone who offered.

  “I hope not,” Skjaldwulf said to Frithulf, and had not time for anything more, as Ingrun emerged from the storage room before her brother, and Mar and Skjaldwulf stood up together.

  * * *

  Skjaldwulf had thought more than once that Franangford had been blessedly lucky in its bitches: Viradechtis was a marvel and had been from birth, and Ingrun and Amma were sensible and kind as she-wolves went. Ingrun did not have Amma’s indiscriminate love for the young of all creatures, being far more a warrior at heart, but she was a good mother to her cubs, and unlike some bitches, she never went out of her way to encourage fighting when she was in season.

  Skjaldwulf knew that among the wild wolves the fighting was no more a matter of choice than was the mating, but bonded trellwolves took some flavor of their brothers, just as wolfcarls tended to the wolfish in their humor and their politics. Conflict was inevitable, but the bitch did have some control over her followers; Skjaldwulf had seen what happened when she used that to incite them to frenzy, and that morning in Siglufjordhur’s training arena, he saw the opposite. Ingrun did not want fighting, too aware that they were a small pack, far from home, surrounded by enemies. Deep in the pack-sense, he saw her image of enemies: great hulking shadows, mingled of troll and cave bear, that smelled not of death but of disease—of the foaming sickness that could destroy an entire pack in a matter of days.

  Brothers, Ingrun insisted, a word she’d learned from her brother and from all the men of the werthreat, and Skjaldwulf wondered, when he could ponder the matter clearheaded again, if she had learned to use men’s words from Viradechtis. Isolfr had told him that Viradechtis could do that, and Skjaldwulf knew the wolves of a pack learned from each other—and packs learned from packs when they met at a Wolfmaegthing. And Ingrun, though by no means as intelligent as Viradechtis—or Viradechtis’ mother, the Nithogsfjoll konigenwolf Vigdis—was not stupid. And all wolves were curious and eager to learn, as wolfcarls found out to their dismay with the regularity of the waxing and waning of the moon.

  Brothers, said Ingrun, and the dog wolves listened to her. There was some posturing and snarling, but Afi followed Mar, Dyrver followed Afi, and Kothran followed Dyrver without any blood being drawn. And they mated with no less vigor, Skjaldwulf noted; some wolfcarls claimed that the fighting heated the blood and made the dog wolves more potent, though Skjaldwulf had thought privately that if that were true, then every raped woman would bear twins.

  In the aftermath, they slept, men and wolves in a happily indiscriminate pile, and when they woke, ravenous, and Ulfhoss and Geirulfr threw the doors open, they found the courtyard glowing gold and purple in the sunset.

  A thrall or fosterling must have been set to watch for them, for Fargrimr was there with gratifying promptness, Otter close behind him. “We are well,” Skjaldwulf said to both of them.

  “And hungry,” Frithulf said.

  “Very hungry,” Ulfhoss added.

  Fargrimr actually grinned and said, “That, we are prepared for. Come.” He led them into the hall, where a thrall was scurrying to and fro, setting out platters and trenchers and tankards. Fargrimr sat down with them, although he did not eat, and said, “I told Father that you were celebrating a mystery of the wolfheallan, in preparation for the work of driving the Rheans from our shore. I do not know how truthful I was, but he is not displeased.”

  “Truthful enough,” Skjaldwulf said. It seemed better for all of them, wolfcarls and wolfless men alike, if the details were not discussed. What was not spoken could not be repeated.

  Fargrimr nodded, as much in acceptance as in agreement, and gracefully turned the conversation to tactics likely to be successful in Rhean-hunting, a discussion that the wolfcarls entered into with enthusiasm, and sometimes with their mouths full. Randulfr was tentative at first, but it was soon apparent that whatever Fargrimr knew or guessed about the wolfheallan’s mysteries, they did not change his feelings toward his brother, and Randulfr was soon arguing amiably with Frithulf about the best way to break the Rheans’ four-square shield wall.

  Skjaldwulf asked Otter, “Are you well?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Fargrimr was very kind. I do not know what to make of you Iskryners.”

  Skjaldwulf shrugged. “I like wolves better. They are simpler.”

  Otter gave him half a smile, but he had reminded himself of a question he had been meaning to ask: “What do you know of the Rheans’ beliefs about wolves? For surely we can use their fear of trellwolves to our advantage.”

  “I know a little,” Otter said. “Their greatest city, for which they name themselves and their empire, is Rhea Lupina. That’s the name of their principal goddess, too, and she’s something to do with wolves, although I couldn’t ever make sense of it, whether she was eaten by a wolf, or turned into a wolf—or maybe she was a wolf turned into a woman. I don’t know. The god they follow is a war god—like your Othinn, I think, but I’m not sure about that, either—and they say their city was founded by the child born when the god raped Rhea Lupina.”

  Skjaldwulf’s mouth opened, surprise like a stone on his heart. “They have gods. Gods of their own, I mean? A war god who is neither Othinn nor Thor?”

  “They call him Mars.”
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  Unwitting, Skjaldwulf looked at his wolf. Mar blinked like a cat, immune to the nuances of the conversation but evidently finding something the inexplicable men were doing funny. Skjaldwulf frowned, trying to remember if he had told anyone the wolf’s name while he was in captivity.

  Of course men of other lands would have other gods, he supposed. Men from a warm land would not need to worship winter, nor to appease him with sacrifice. Or perhaps they were the same gods, with different names. Othinn walked in disguise in the stories.

  God of wolves, god of war. “That’s…”

  Otter grimaced in agreement. “They hold wolves sacred, but I think there aren’t very many of them—wolves, I mean—around Rhea Lupina itself. And I’m sure there aren’t any as big as your wolves.”

  “Is that why they decided Mar had to be some kind of ghost?”

  “Not a ghost,” Otter said. “But yes. I know some of them were saying that maybe the enormous wolves were a sign of Rhea Lupina’s displeasure. Now that I think of it, that may be why the centurion was willing to let Sixtus yelp on about you being a witch.”

  “Yes,” Skjaldwulf said. “If I’m a witch, I can be burned. But if the goddess is displeased…”

  “Probably they burn you anyway,” Otter said.

  * * *

  “One thing,” Vethulf said, against the exhaustion that dragged at every limb.

  “You need to sleep,” said Isolfr, who had been white-faced and peremptory since Throttolfr and Ulfvaldr had half-carried Vethulf into Franangfordheall.

  “’S important,” Vethulf insisted, because he knew it was, even if he couldn’t quite remember why. He pushed himself up on his good elbow and would have reached for Isolfr except that the first hint of movement reminded him not to.

  Isolfr looked at him and apparently decided that it was important. “All right. Tell me. But then you rest.”