A Companion to Wolves

by Sarah Monette

  As Hrolleif had said, she knew what she wanted.

  Isolfr was awake on the instant, rolling out of his blankets. Frithulf made a small complaining noise and cuddled closer to Kothran without waking. Sokkolfr and Hroi were nowhere to be seen. Isolfr, not waiting to find his boots, crossed the roundhall to the records-room, where he found Hrolleif awake and placidly awaiting him.

  “How …”

  “Shut the door behind you,” Hrolleif said, and when Isolfr had done so, he said, “Vigdis has been konigenwolf for twenty years. And she is very aware of her competition.” He smiled as Viradechtis bumped his knee, demanding attention. “Yes, you, little girl.” He looked up at Isolfr, one hand gently stroking Viradechtis’ massive head. “I will be glad when she is grown, though saddened that it means you must leave us.”

  “Yes,” Isolfr said, to all of it.

  Viradechtis snorted, impatient, and that insistent male-wolfness hit Isolfr again—and, to judge by his startled blink, Hrolleif as well.

  “Don’t be pushy, sister,” Isolfr said, and Hrolleif laughed and rumpled Viradechtis’ ears.

  He said, “We want a litter from Hroi.”

  “Hroi?” An iron weight seemed to fall away, and only in its absence did Isolfr realize how frightened he had been. “You mean, Sokkolfr?”

  “Who is Hroi’s brother, yes,” Hrolleif said dryly. “We also thought you could use a respite from your eager suitors, and I must say Sokkolfr was very pleased to be asked.”

  Stop blushing, Isolfr said furiously to himself, though it did no good. “Sokkolfr”—a deep breath, to settle his gut, as Viradechtis whined—“does Sokkolfr know already?”

  “Sokkolfr’s gone on ahead.” Hrolleif reached out and gave Isolfr a rough hug before he quite realized he was gaping. “Go, get your boots and your bedroll, Isolfr. I think you know the way, and your sister won’t wait for sunrise. Besides, Ingrun’s season is due, and your sister isn’t yet konigenwolf enough for her scent to put a stop to it.”

  “Hrolleif?”

  “Don’t hurry back,” the wolfsprechend said with a grin, and pushed him toward the door.

  The frost lay heavy on the swell of the earth; man and wolf left footprints like dark pearls in silver as they ran across it side by side. He did know the way, and his wolf’s urgency drove him. He felt her heat, familiar now, a craving need that sparked along his spine and made his testicles ache. She whined, running ahead, pacing to and fro when he did not move fast enough to suit her, ranging out and back, and for the first time he wondered what his need felt like to her.

  She ran him through the tail-end of the night and into morning, her desire gnawing holes in him, so strong that even when he was staggering with weariness, he could barely force himself to stop long enough to suck cold water from the summer-dried streams they crossed. This was nothing like her first heat; there was no tentativeness in her this time, no fear of the unknown—only desire. And it worked in Isolfr, too, until he found himself strangely eager.

  He smelled smoke before they came up on the lean-to. They were met by Hroi, bounding to them, ears up and tail waving like a king’s banner in greeting, his scent-name, freshly turned forest loam, like a benediction in the pack-sense. Viradechtis took one look at the old wolf and fled, running flat-out with her long brindled body stretched low to the ground. Hroi laughed at Isolfr and took off after her, flashing through the trees in the dappled sunset light. Isolfr drew up, panting, limbs leaden, and watched them until they vanished over the breast of the rise. Then he turned down the long slope to the lean-to, and Sokkolfr.

  The apprehension had returned, but the need burned stronger than ever. He found himself hurrying, and he was grateful—insanely grateful—to find Sokkolfr waiting for him in the shelter of the lean-to, propped on his elbows on a bed of cut pine boughs, his bare shoulders pale and freckled against the blankets.

  There was no room for embarrassment. No time for embarrassment: Isolfr yanked off his boots and socks, stripped off his trews and tunic and jerkin, tossed his clothing and bedroll into the back corner of the lean-to, and slithered under the blankets beside Sokkolfr before the autumn chill could prickle his skin to gooseflesh. He was sweating anyway, lightly, as he turned to Sokkolfr and drew a breath full of the scents of damp wool and sex.

  Sokkolfr still hadn’t spoken, but his eyes were wide, pupils dilated, breathing light and fast and high in his throat. Somewhere, Viradechtis was running, moist soil denting under her nails, Hroi’s breath at her flank, making the old wolf work for what he wanted—what she wanted too. Hesitantly, Sokkolfr reached out, touched Isolfr’s cheek with the back of his hand. Isolfr shivered at the touch, almost moaned. Sokkolfr, startled, drew back.

  Words seemed very far away. There was the scent of the forest, the scent of the big male who gave chase, the weight of his shoulder against her hip. There was the rasp of blankets and the ache in his loins and the hard, seductive warmth of Sokkolfr’s lean body just inches away. He needed to touch that body, needed to feed the heat inside him. The fire would consume him if he didn’t give it something else to burn.

  He reached out, not gently, and grabbed Sokkolfr’s fingers. Sokkolfr flinched, but didn’t snatch his hand back, and frantically, Isolfr clawed after the words. Now, now, because Hroi was about to catch him, and he thought he couldn’t bear to evade the big wolf again, and if Hroi caught him before Sokkolfr did, he thought—he was certain—the pain of the need would kill him then and there.

  Words. He had words. They were stupid, bootless things, but he had them, and he needed them—

  “You know what to do?” Through gritted teeth, and almost not words at all, but somehow Sokkolfr understood them and nodded. And then Sokkolfr grabbed him, savagely, as if a cord had snapped and freed him. Isolfr moved into it, rolled onto his belly, arms crossed under his chest, legs spread and knees braced as Hrolleif had showed him, feeling Sokkolfr’s hands, his fingers, hasty, striving to be gentle and failing as Hroi’s legs clasped Viradechtis’ barrel. She pushed back against him, clumsy, inexperienced, then panicked at the touch of his sex on her vulva and jerked forward, yelping, twisting to snap at his face as he ducked away.

  Sokkolfr cried out his wolf’s frustration, clutching Isolfr as if Isolfr would try to wriggle away as well, but Isolfr was braced, trembling, his hands knotted on his own braids, the pain an anchor. Viradechtis snarled, tail clamped between her legs, her haunches to a fallen pine as Hroi minced up to her, ears pricked, tail up, head tilted just a little to show the konigenwolf his throat. She displayed long teeth and he paused, and through the pack-sense Isolfr could feel his hurt as well, his need and Sokkolfr’s too as Sokkolfr froze in place.

  “Show her,” Isolfr managed, somehow, shaking.

  “Show who?” Sokkolfr’s voice sounded very far away, as far away as Isolfr’s own. The snarls and whines of their bondmates were closer, vibrating their throats, caressing their tongues.

  “Show my sister what to do,” Isolfr said, and hollowed his spine, offering himself, and braced himself with his hands.

  He felt Sokkolfr’s hands pressing his buttocks apart, tried to relax, to remember Hrolleif’s advice—

  —and yelped like a puppy when something warm and wet and soft ran along the cleft between his buttocks. He was pushing back into the touch, frantically, even before he realized it was Sokkolfr’s tongue. And then Sokkolfr’s hands were hard against his hips, and his tongue was … his tongue was …

  … his tongue was against her, lapping a wide wet path, and her hips were up, her tail canted aside, and the desire was there, hard and hot and needful …

  … and Sokkolfr’s tongue was pushing inside, easing the muscles, making ready for his fingers, which were slicked and strong, and his tongue moved lower, letting the fingers work but not relinquishing a single shred of the pleasure he was creating, and Isolfr keened between his teeth, unable to keep his hips from rocking, unable to tell his need from Viradechtis’, and when Hroi mounted her, she was ready, unafrai
d, and Isolfr was crying out—no words now, only desperate begging cries, and when Sokkolfr’s mouth and hands moved away, he wailed, his raw need overwhelming Viradechtis as well, so that this time at the touch of Hroi’s sex she did not pull away.

  Sokkolfr’s hands were on his hips, Hroi’s legs around her barrel. “Oh,” said Sokkolfr, a breath, a whine, and Isolfr felt him, felt slickness and heat and heaviness, felt Sokkolfr move into him, slowly, felt Hroi’s sex inside her, felt the knot swell, locking dog and bitch together, and something trapped in Isolfr’s chest was suddenly released. He did not know what to call it, love or care or desire, but it was there between them and it rode the pack-sense from Isolfr to Hroi, from Sokkolfr to Viradechtis, and they moved together, and the scent of pine-boughs and earth was strong around them.

  Wolves are not men. They do not mate like men; they do not love like men. Isolfr knew that, knew that Viradechtis’ need and Hroi’s stamina would outlast his and Sokkolfr’s. He knew as well that this would not be like the first time; the act of mating would bring Viradechtis’ estrus to a close within a day or two, and he had, in fact, felt some relief at the knowledge that it would not drag on in endless prickling heat and frustration.

  But knowing is not the same as understanding. The strength of night came down around them while he was still stretched, half-drowsing, under the leisurely, rocking weight of Sokkolfr’s body as they shadowed Hroi’s slow, languorous tie with Viradechtis. Isolfr had long since sprawled on his belly, face cradled on his crossed arms, relaxed and half-drowsing as Sokkolfr nibbled his shoulder and nape and moved against him without urgency, without sharpness.

  They were past that, those needs long seen to; this was about the wolves, and the pack. This was the heartbeat of the world, creation, destruction, brothers of the wolfthreat and werthreat, until Sokkolfr drew breath hard and flexed taut against Isolfr, not for the first time, and finally fell against his shoulders, sighing out bliss.

  One minute, two, and Isolfr moved against his werthreatbrother restlessly, seeking in Viradechtis’ stead—a reflex, a low driving thread of desire. Sokkolfr laughed against his neck and kissed him behind the ear, and said softly, in almost-human tones, “You know, they’ll be at it all night.”

  “Mmmm,” Isolfr said, pushing into Sokkolfr’s warmth. He couldn’t help it; his body moved with his sister’s, and the heat was still driving her, low, and sweet, and unfinished. He whimpered complaint as Sokkolfr moved back, stroking his shoulders, and Sokkolfr laughed again. “How would you like to be on top for a while, Isolfr?”

  “Me?” Isolfr said. He rolled onto his back under the bridge of Sokkolfr’s body and set his hands on Sokkolfr’s waist.

  “There’s no reason you can’t,” Sokkolfr said reasonably. “They won’t mind.”

  “But …”

  Sokkolfr stroked his hair back from his face. “Please?”

  “You want me to?” His voice was nothing more than a whisper, his eyes wide. He had never imagined such a thing being offered to him, not unless he was as lucky as Hrolleif in his wolfjarl. And he certainly hadn’t imagined Sokkolfr would … would …

  Would lie down for him.

  He sat up, said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, Ulfgeirr explained it to me very carefully,” Sokkolfr said in his dry, straightfaced way. “So I imagine I can explain it to you.”

  “Oh,” said Isolfr, and of course Ulfgeirr had explained, had shown, as well—“Sokkolfr, I don’t want …” But he couldn’t explain, couldn’t find the words, and the heat was growing in his belly and thighs. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t,” Sokkolfr said, and moved easily to hands and knees, arching his back down.

  A silence, and then Isolfr said in a small voice, feeling himself blush, “Do you know where the salve’s gotten to?”

  Sokkolfr snorted laughter into the blanket. “It’s around here somewhere.”

  They both ended up looking for it in the uncertain firelight, and found it at last under the pine boughs that made up their bed. Sokkolfr said, “Ulfgeirr said, don’t worry that you’re using too much. Because you won’t be.”

  “All right,” Isolfr said. His breathing was faster, his own eagerness like a fire sweeping through his body with every beat of his heart.

  Sokkolfr went to his knees, resting his forearms on the blanket. “And put it on yourself as well as on—in me.”

  “Yes,” said Isolfr.

  The salve was something Jorveig made, the smell medicinal but not unpleasant. Isolfr was lavish with it. Sokkolfr said, slightly muffled against the crook of his elbow, “Ulfgeirr said, go slow.”

  “We didn’t do very well with that part,” Isolfr said, teasing a little, and felt more than heard Sokkolfr’s laughter.

  “It’s different, with a bitch. I mean, in heat. It’s not like …”

  “Had you done it before?” He was working slowly, the conversation helping to distract him from his own need, from the dense animal pleasure saturating the pack-sense.

  “Not very often,” Sokkolfr said. “But yes. The wolfheofodmenn make sure of it, you know, that no one comes virgin to mating.”

  “Wise of them,” Isolfr murmured. Sokkolfr was relaxed with the hours of their lovemaking; he opened easily, his long body willing and pliant, and Isolfr had to bite hard on his lower lip to keep from saying anything stupid.

  “Yes,” Sokkolfr said. “Isolfr, I wish—”

  “Hush,” Isolfr said gently, and just then he found within Sokkolfr what Hrolleif had once found within him and marveled at his own satisfaction as Sokkolfr cried out in pleasure. There was no talking after that, need simmering in both of them, partly theirs and partly their wolves’, but Isolfr was slow, careful, and Sokkolfr’s sigh when Isolfr at last pressed close against him was of satisfaction, not of pain.

  They rocked together, their wolves with them, within them, and made something new in the world.

  FIVE

  The winter was war. The trolls pressed southward, as relentless as the snow from the mountain heights, and Ulffred himself, who was older even than Hrolleif, was heard to comment that there had never been so many in living memory, no, nor in the memories of any wolfcarl he’d known in his long life. It was not a hard winter, no colder than most, and game was thick in the wood. The wolfheofodmenn were helpless to explain the reason behind the inundation of trolls. Fortunately, they were not helpless to fight it, and they were likewise fortunate that—as if they had suffered casualties enough in the spring—wolves and men alike emerged scatheless from battle, again and again.

  It was a miracle, Othinn’s gift that could not last.

  Viradechtis, growing fat with cubs, chafed for the hunt but was spared it, and Isolfr chafed with her. He paced the hall, fretful in their confinement, and showered his sister with treats and attention when Hroi was not present to spoil her. Glaedir did also—not a tremendous surprise, but a meaningful one, that he paid court to Viradechtis even when she was great with another wolf’s young.

  As Eyjolfr paid his court to Isolfr, between battles. A polite, understated sort of court, it was true, and one suited to a wolfcarl and not a woman—Isolfr chuckled to think of his mother or sister offered the beaten bronze rings from a troll’s gnarled fingers as a curio—but it was court nonetheless. Viradechtis betrayed no interest beyond the companionate, and Isolfr understood. It was not the way of the wolfthreat to seek pleasure in their mating when there were no young to be made.

  It was the way of the werthreat, and his time with Sokkolfr had reawakened something in Isolfr that he had almost forgotten, among the business of his new life as a wolfcarl. He had his admirers among the camp followers and the thrall-women of the wolfheall, and he took himself to them when desire was on him, in a sort of casual way, less finicky as a wolfcarl than he had been as a jarl’s son. He remembered rejecting that option when Viradechtis was a puppy, but could not remember why. The women of the wolfheall were warm and willing, and they understood the
ways of wolves as much as anyone not bonded could. But they could not help his loneliness, and so he also had a different, sharper awareness that Eyjolfr’s courtship had as much to do with himself as with Glaedir and Viradechtis—and that Eyjolfr’s lover Randulfr, whose Ingrun might be second bitch to Viradechtis when she was only fourth under Vigdis, was not opposed—and with that knowledge weighing him, he once or twice permitted Eyjolfr liberties he might otherwise have refused.

  And at night, he slept between Sokkolfr and Frithulf, Viradechtis great-bellied and snoring beside him, and that gave him comfort.

  One of Hrolleif’s particular ideas was that wolves and wolfcarls needed to accustom themselves to going among wolfless men—and that wolfless men needed to be accustomed to seeing trellwolves so that they would not think them monsters as terrifying as trolls.

  In practice, this meant that when the wolfheall did business in Nithogsfjoll village, it did so with wolves in attendance, and the wolfcarls, especially those with young wolves, were encouraged to take their exercise in that direction. Ironically, now that Isolfr belonged to the wolfheall, he spent more time in the village than he ever had when he belonged to the keep.

  Viradechtis enjoyed the village, and as her girth slowly expanded with her growing pups, she and Isolfr walked there more and more often. It was easier on her than the tangled thickets and steep ravines of the forest, and Isolfr noticed that even those villagers who were most uneasy with the wolfheall did not seem to be frightened by the gravid young konigenwolf. Several of the village matrons would rise from their spinning or sewing and come to their doors when they saw Isolfr’s flaxen head, to ask about the progress of Viradechtis’ pregnancy and share wisdom from their own, sometimes far more explicit than he was prepared for. The younger ones especially seemed to delight in making him blush.

  But it was Hjordis Weaver who asked him boldly one afternoon, “Does she like to be petted, as dogs do?”