A Companion to Wolves

by Sarah Monette

  “I …” He was blushing again. Viradechtis was pushing love at him, and Vigdis got up and came over to put one heavy paw on his knee, even as she leaned into Hrolleif.

  “Vigdis says I am not to bully you.” And Isolfr caught a sharp picture of a red wolf shaking a white wolf puppy by its scruff. “Isolfr, there is nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what your father may have had to say on the subject.” When Isolfr looked up, Hrolleif smiled rather ruefully. “We’ve heard a great deal over the years about Lord Gunnarr’s opinion of what he calls the ‘goings-on’ in the wolfheall. Do you agree with him?”

  “N-no,” Isolfr said. “I mean, I don’t know. But …” He watched his own fingers stroking across Viradechtis’ broad head and down into her ruff. Then he looked up defiantly and said, “She’s worth it. Whatever it takes, I can do it.”

  “You’re frightened.”

  “If … you won’t think me womanish to say it.” Hrolleif’s eyebrow arched under his braids, and Isolfr regretted his choice of words immediately. “I mean—”

  “Hush, lad. It’s not so terrible as all that.” Hrolleif came to him, and threw an arm around his shoulders, and squeezed hard. “No one’s daft enough to throw a virgin boy—”

  “I’m not—!”

  “Oh I’m sure you’ve bedded your share of willing maids. But have you ever bedded a man?”

  Isolfr shook his head, and wished he could stop blushing.

  “Nor ever thought of it, I reckon. Then you are virgin in this, and no one is daft enough to throw a virgin boy into the middle of a mating frenzy, no, nor a virgin wolf neither. She won’t come to heat for another year”—a glance traded with Vigdis, and Isolfr looked down into Viradechtis’ eyes and breathed in warmth and wood-smoke, comfort, dried herbs by the hearth—“and we don’t breed a bitch her first season. It’s not good for them when they’re still growing; they need that strength for their own teeth and bones.”

  “What do you do with them, then?” Hrolleif’s arm was warm around his shoulders, but Isolfr couldn’t fight back the image of his body, straining so hard that every muscle, every vein stood out in sculpted relief, poised over Grimolfr’s while Grimolfr arched himself up into it like a man in a seizure. It shortened his breath in his throat with something that felt like fear but wasn’t, exactly, and Isolfr—not really meaning to—tugged away.

  “Isolate them,” Hrolleif said, and didn’t let him pull free. “At first. And when they are older and a little more experienced, and the bitch is ready for a litter, we send them away with another young pair, to learn.” He grinned, and turned Isolfr by the shoulders to face him. “You won’t be expected to contend with the pack until you’ve had some experience, Isolfr. And Viradechtis will take care of you. Even in heat, she’d not risk her brother.”

  Somehow, Viradechtis wasn’t between them, anymore. Instead, her mother had her backed into the corner by the fire, and was determinedly washing her ear. Isolfr’s breath came a little easier, but not quite smoothly. Hrolleif’s eyes were sun-faded blue; he squinted inside lines carved by the glare of sun on snow. “What you have to ask, ask it.”

  “How are we supposed to … gain experience?”

  Hrolleif smiled, and pressed a kiss to his mouth—chaste, whiskery, but it nevertheless left Isolfr’s lips tingling. “Time enough for that when you and the little girl are older, I think.”

  The next morning started badly, with a sudden, snarling, bloody fight between Vigdis and Egill. Pups and tithe-boys fled to the sides of the hall, while Hrolleif and Thurulfr, both tight-lipped and sweating, stood from their seats and stared, not at their wolves, but at each other. Isolfr felt them in the pack-sense, through the anger-fear-jealousy-greed miasma that Vigdis and Egill were throwing off. Egill and Thurulfr were newcomers, traded from another wolfheall; they had been scarcely longer in Nithogsfjoll than the boys of Sokkolfr’s tithe. And Egill was a dominant male—not as dominant as Skald, but clearly too dominant for Vigdis’ liking. Isolfr couldn’t follow all of it, but he got, very clearly, Hrolleif warning off Skald and Ingrun and Asny and the other wolves who were ready to join in to support Vigdis. And just as clearly, Thurulfr warning away the wolves who might have supported Egill. It was stark in Thurulfr’s mind that the konigenwolf could kill Egill, and she would if she felt she had to. He had seen it happen in Bravoll wolfheall. Isolfr shuddered away from the memory, vivid in the pack-sense, and saw that Vigdis and Egill had come to a halt, Vigdis with her teeth brushing Egill’s throat, Egill, bleeding from long gashes on his flanks, whining submissively, his head turned aside. It was a long, long moment before Hrolleif said, very gently, “Sister,” and Vigdis looked up at him for all the world like a man jerking alert after his mind has wandered. Her ears came forward, and she let Egill up, and the werthreat collectively began breathing again.

  Isolfr noticed that before Egill would let his brother catch him to doctor his wounds, he cuffed, subdued, and mounted Ingjaldr. And felt it in the pack-sense, that Egill accepted the konigenwolf’s authority, but that did not mean he would let other wolves dominate him.

  The day did not improve from there, with Svanrikr UnWise wondering loudly how long it would be, now that Viradechtis was bonded, before she came into her first heat. Although it helped a little that Brandr told him to shut up. Then, that afternoon, as Isolfr was helping Ulfgeirr with some of the most recalcitrant cattle either of them had ever seen, Johvatr came skidding around the corner of the outbuilding and said, “Nj—Isolfr. Lord Grimolfr wants you at the front gates.”

  Ulfgeirr’s red brows drew down, but he said, “Go along, lad. Don’t keep the wolfjarl waiting.”

  Isolfr went, Viradechtis at his heels, and he was not even within sight of the gates when he knew what the trouble was.

  His father.

  Gunnarr had a warleader’s voice, trained to carry, a great bass roar, and every word was as sharp and distinct as ice picks through Isolfr’s eardrums. “I won’t have it, Lord Grimolfr! I won’t have my boy made a bitch for men twice his age!”

  And Grimolfr’s answer, laudably calm, “He has bonded, Lord Gunnarr. The choice is no longer yours to make.”

  “Bonded to a bitch! And you knew it would happen! You let it happen!”

  “I could hardly stop it,” Grimolfr said, very dryly.

  “He’s my son, Grimolfr,” Gunnarr said, and Isolfr stopped dead in his tracks, horrified at the note of pleading in his father’s voice. “The heir of my house.”

  “He is not your only son.”

  A beat of hard silence. Gunnarr said, “He is my first-born. And no nithling fit for your perversions, wolfjarl. Let him go.”

  Isolfr swallowed hard, realizing simultaneously that nothing Grimolfr could say would appease his father, while it was amazing that Gunnarr had not already provoked the wolfjarl’s unamiable temper, and that the resolution of this nightmarish situation was squarely on his shoulders. He was the bone of contention.

  Viradechtis liked the thought of bones. Isolfr, waking up quite sharply to the awareness that Viradechtis’ presence would make an already horrible situation just that much worse, told her to find Sokkolfr and Hroi, and they would get her a bone. She hesitated, clearly torn, and Isolfr was touched at her desire, however unformulated it was, to protect him. But he said, again, Go, and assured that it was what he wanted, she went, carrying the thought of bone with her like a flag.

  Isolfr squared his shoulders and stepped forward, around the bulk of the hall, just as Grimolfr was saying with awful politeness, “I am afraid you misjudge the situation, werjarl. I do not hold your son prisoner, nor—” He broke off when he saw Isolfr and said, only the faintest lightness of relief smoothing his furrowed brow, “But here is Isolfr now.”

  “Njall,” Gunnarr said.

  “Isolfr,” Isolfr said, coming to stand beside his wolfjarl. “It is as Lord Grimolfr says, Father. He does not keep me here against my will.”

  His father stared at him, his face dark with anger. “It is true, then? You
wish to be a bitch for these men? You know what they will do to you?”

  Isolfr thought of Hrolleif’s kiss and felt himself blush. But he said, as steadily as he could, “Father, you do not speak fairly.”

  “I don’t speak fairly? Tell me, Njall, what fairness is there in this choice you have made? What honor? What manhood?”

  Halfrid had told him he would have to choose his honor, and Isolfr felt that choice now like the wrench of a dislocated joint. He thought, miserably, that his father’s idea of honor was too small, too confined. He could not hold honor as his father saw it without dishonoring himself, without dishonoring the wolfheall and the wolves. He said, “My name is Isolfr, Father. And I do not believe that any of my brothers in the werthreat is less of a man than you are.”

  “Well spoken, Isolfr,” Grimolfr said, with a clout on the shoulder that nearly knocked him over.

  Gunnarr’s glare was murder, and it took all Isolfr’s will not to flinch. He couldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for Grimolfr beside him, and Grimolfr’s obvious pride in him.

  “You refuse to honor your duty to your father?”

  “Our house owes duty to the wolfheall,” Isolfr said. “That does not change merely because it is …” He hesitated, searching for a word. “Distasteful.”

  It was the wrong word. Probably, there was no right word. Gunnarr said, his voice icy, the tone that Isolfr had learned to dread in babyhood, “You dare to lecture me on duty, boy?”

  “Father, I—”

  “No.” Gunnarr cut him off with a sharp gesture. “If you wish to bring shame upon me, upon your mother, I cannot prevent you. Isolfr. But understand. If you do not leave with me now, as you ought, you will not be welcome in the keep. I do not want you corrupting your brother and sister.”

  “Then I will abide by your wishes, Father,” Isolfr said. “But I will not leave the wolfheall.”

  “To think that such a creature could come from my loins,” Gunnarr said, turned his head, and spat in disgust. He said to Grimolfr, “Good day, wolfjarl,” and turned and strode away.

  Isolfr shut his eyes against the sting of tears, swallowed hard.

  “Lord Gunnarr does not mince words,” Grimolfr said, and Isolfr was grateful for the detachment in his voice, grateful that he was not offering sympathy or concern.

  “No,” he said, and they both ignored the wobble in his voice. “He never has.”

  THREE

  At the solstice, there was feasting. Two days later, after Jorveig the cook had dispensed heroic quantities of her herbal tisane to counteract the heroic quantities of ale the werthreat had consumed and the hangovers were mostly memory, a man and a wolf Isolfr did not know staggered weary and footsore to the heall, the man tall and red-haired, the wolf angle-shouldered, odd-eyed, and leaving red-splotched prints on the snow.

  By a trick of fate, Isolfr was the first to see them. He and Viradechtis had been departing on one of their restless rambles, and he had seen the dark shape against the drifts as he crossed the meadow, the man breaking trail for the limping wolf. Isolfr had bolted back into the wolfheall, uncertain if the strangers were friend or foe, and dragged Hrolleif and Ulfgeirr from table to attend it.

  Man and wolf—Vethulf and Kjaran were their names—had come without stopping from the wolfheall at Arakensburg, with news that would not wait. The village of Jorhus had been overrun by trolls.

  Grimolfr gathered the werthreat together in the roundhall to tell them; Isolfr sat next to the Stone Sokkolfr, the dense heat of trellwolf bodies pressing against them, and listened as Vethulf described, grimly, the complete annihilation of a village of two hundred souls.

  No survivors.

  It answered the question of why the long patrols during Asny’s heat had found so few trolls, and Grimolfr said frankly, bitterly, “We are stretched too thin. There are too few wolfheallan, and no way to remedy that except by the passing of time.” Isolfr gulped and told himself it was coincidence that Grimolfr’s eyes met his just then. But he couldn’t believe it.

  “Then what shall we do?” said Randulfr. “We must do something.”

  “Long patrols,” Grimolfr said, and nodded to the red-haired man sitting on the hearth with his odd-eyed wolf, cupping a horn of ale in his hands now that he had finished speaking. “Vethulf Kjaransbrother brings, along with news, the counsel of the Arakensbergthreat. The wolfjarl of Arakensberg says, and I agree with him, that we must cover more ground as best we can. You will all be going out, two weeks at a time. A week out and a week back.”

  There was uneasy muttering among the wolfcarls. A week was farther than most of them had ever been from the wolfheall, certainly since their bonding. Hrolfmarr, Kolli’s brother, asked, “How many to a patrol?”

  “Ten wolves and their brothers. Two patrols out at a time, two remaining here. We cannot leave the wolfheall unguarded, either.” The muttering darkened as the wolves thought vividly of Asny’s unborn pups; the hair on the back of Isolfr’s neck rose as Nagli and Arngrimr and the other possible fathers of those pups began to growl.

  “Peace, brothers,” Grimolfr said, and Skald seconded strongly. “We will draw up the rosters today; the first two patrols will leave tomorrow morning.”

  Dismay colored the pack-sense.

  “The jarls are frightened, and rightly so. We have sworn to protect them, we of the Wolfmaegth, and that is what we must do.”

  Grimolfr and Hrolleif were very careful about balancing the patrols between older wolves and younger. Isolfr noticed that Sokkolfr and Hroi counted as “older” for these purposes, and supposed with rather wry amusement that Hroi could be depended on to keep more boys than just his own out of trouble. He himself was not on the first two rosters, and although he knew he would feel foolish and childish for it, he could not keep from going to Grimolfr to ask why.

  “Viradechtis isn’t big enough,” Grimolfr said, as if that should be the end of it.

  “We’re bonded,” Isolfr argued. “I’m part of the werthreat.”

  “And that is why you will be taking on some of Hrolleif’s duties when he and Vigdis go out in two weeks’ time.”

  Isolfr felt his jaw sag.

  “Isolfr,” Grimolfr said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your little girl has more promise than I’ve seen in a pup any time these past ten years. Vigdis throws good wolves, and good bitches, but this time I think she’s thrown better than good. She’s thrown true. You and Viradechtis will have to patrol, of course, and show your strength, and learn the pack. But later, when we have a better idea of what awaits. We can’t risk her without intelligence.”

  “You think she’s …”

  “She’ll be konigenwolf of her own pack in another few years,” Grimolfr said. “I didn’t mean to tell you yet. But you aren’t the sort to get a swelled head, and Hrolleif says he’s been talking to you about what you’re going to face as her brother.”

  “A little, but he didn’t say anything about …”

  “Don’t worry about it now,” Grimolfr said, without his usual gruffness. “She’s young, you’re young. She won’t even come into her first heat for another year, most likely.” He turned away, for the wolfjarl was a man whose duties rarely allowed him to rest, adding over his shoulder, “And talk to Hrolleif.”

  Isolfr didn’t think he would be able to keep from worrying, but talk to Hrolleif he could and did.

  “Grimolfr said … her own pack?”

  “We need to establish new wolfheallan,” Hrolleif said. They were taking inventory in the armory. “And it’s not every bitch who can be a konigenwolf. Asny, for instance. She’s a fine wolf and bids to be a fine mother to her pups, but she’ll never be able to stand up to her mother. And Ingrun and Kolgrimna wouldn’t be here if they could be konigenwolves themselves.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” Hrolleif said dryly. “Isolfr, who rules the wolfheall?”

  “Grimolfr,” Isolfr said reflexively. “The wolfjarl.”

  “Meani
ng Skald is the leader of this pack?”

  “No,” Isolfr said, and then his mind caught up with his mouth. He said slowly, “Vigdis rules the pack.”

  “Yes. She is konigenwolf.”

  “But you …”

  “I am Vigdis’ brother,” Hrolleif said simply. “As Grimolfr stands to the men of the wolfheall, the wolfjarl, so I stand to the wolves, the wolfsprechend. Or, rather, so Vigdis stands, and I stand at her side as Skald stands at Grimolfr’s. It is a weaving, like a net, do you see?”

  “I … yes, I think so.”

  “It will become clearer to you as Viradechtis becomes older. She’s still a pup, and pups are granted a good deal of license. I’ve seen you watching the men in the roundhall, and someday you will tell me what you have observed. But for a while, try watching the wolves.”

  Try watching the wolves. A simple command, and one that Isolfr intended to follow, but time to do it was suddenly in very short supply. He spent his waking hours glued to Hrolleif’s side, soaking up the knowledge of everything the wolfsprechend did in a day’s span and trying to understand how he did it. It wasn’t the everyday tasks of household management—those fell to Ulfgeirr and Jorveig, the housecarl and the mistress of the kitchens—and it wasn’t the choice of where they would patrol and fight and when they would claim tithe, because Grimolfr—with the counsel of the werthreat and the consent of the wolfthreat—made those decisions.

  What Vigdis did was keep order among the wolfthreat, and what Hrolleif did was make sure that no detail of the wolfheall’s daily rhythm escaped Grimolfr’s attention. No matter what task was at hand, he was there, dirtying his hands at butchering pigs and at raising outbuildings, talking to everyone from the blacksmith to the milkmaids in the village—and it was to Hrolleif, and Vigdis, that man and wolf alike came with complaints.

  It was very like what Isolfr’s mother did in his father’s keep, but he put that thought aside, and comforted himself with the warm breadth of Viradechtis’ shoulder and the strength of her neck when she shoved her head against his hip. She was Vigdis’ daughter, and—now that Isolfr was looking for it he could see—Vigdis was a konigenwolf among konigenwolves, queen of queens. Even the top wolves of other wolfheallan deferred to her when their brothers came to meet with Grimolfr and plan the defense of the wolfless men, and that meant, Isolfr realized slowly, that the wolfjarls of those wolfheallan deferred to Grimolfr and Hrolleif. Strength grows from the pack, he understood, and concentrated harder.