“They have magic,” Isolfr said. He stood up, rocking his foot under Viradechtis’ head to awaken her. She protested, but heaved herself to her feet. “Ask Tin about it. They can … make the stone crawl to their whim. They are shepherds of stone.”
Ulfgeirr looked at him, and then bundled his doctoring things into a scrap of leather and stuffed them under his furs. “Come on,” he said. “They’re waiting on us.”
The council proceeded more smoothly than Isolfr could have hoped. The svartalfar were inclined to listen to the wolfheofodmenn, and the wolfheofodmenn and wolfless men both were in awe of the svartalfar and their army. In awe, and—Isolfr thought—a little in fear. The svartalfar forces seemed vast, the forest of gaily decorated and bemedallioned hide tents they had erected on the snow-covered fields outside Bravoll housing twice over the remaining forces of assembled heall and keep. It made the men uneasy—even more uneasy, when they learned that half the warriors were women, as, in fact, was the leader of the expedition.
A few hours with Tin, however, and they seemed to forget she was anything but a brother warrior, no matter how strange her small hunched shape or what her clothes concealed. She drank ale and ate bread and cheese with as much gusto as any wolfcarl, and seemed to appreciate their raw humor—or, at the very least, could feign it.
Frithulf and Kari were not present. Apparently, the wolfheofodmenn had extracted their story while Ulfgeirr was fussing over Isolfr’s injuries, and sent them off to rest. As for the council meeting, Isolfr mostly contented himself to watch, and tried not to blush so hot that it couldn’t be mistaken for the red cast of the firelight on his skin every time Skjaldwulf or Vethulf cast a glance or a smile at him. He was, he found, tremendously tired, and the horns of ale were not helping. He barely managed not to glance at his father; they had not spoken since Gunnarr saved his life in Franangford, but he knew Gunnarr knew that Viradechtis was konigenwolf in her own right now. He didn’t want to see how his father would look at him, or his wolfjarls.
And really, he had nothing to say. He was not a tactician like Grimolfr and Ulfsvith Iron-Tongue and Gunnarr—and even Othwulf, who was not a wolfheofodman, but who was among the wolfcarls and soldiers summoned once it was determined that they would attack the trolls, and the discussion turned to how—and the trip north had proven that. He had not planned. He had not thought.
He’d done nothing but gamble his life, and the lives of three wolves and two friends. And it was only the grace of the goddess—and Tin’s unexpected friendship—that had brought them home alive and with an army at their backs. So he sat silently, blessing his good fortune, and bit his thumbnail to keep from scratching at his scars. He missed Hrolleif with a great numb weight he had almost forgotten. Vigdis slept by the firepit, Skald draped across her back, and the sight made his eyes burn like a woman’s, like a child’s. He closed his eyes and pretended to half-doze to hide it; the warm weight of Viradechtis compressed his feet.
He almost jumped off the bench when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up, expecting Vethulf or Grimolfr, and was startled to see his father’s beard and cheek. Gunnarr didn’t look down, but his fingers flexed tight, denting the leather of Isolfr’s jerkin.
“Wolfjarl!” Gunnarr ordered, as Isolfr stiffened against his grip. Vethulf was already coming to his feet, his hair catching gold and orange highlights off the fire, one hand dropping to rest on Kjaran’s withers as the gray wolf rose beside him like a shadow. Skjaldwulf was turning too, and Grimolfr—and every wolfjarl in the place, frankly—but Vethulf was closest, and it was he that Gunnarr stared at.
In the tension taut between the men, Isolfr heard the rattle of Tin’s beads as she reached for her spear.
“Yes, Lord Gunnarr?” Vethulf asked. He didn’t look at Isolfr either, but Isolfr put his foot lightly on Viradechtis’ shoulder to keep her down anyway. If there was going to be a fight, he didn’t want his pregnant wolf engaged.
“This man’s injured,” Gunnarr said. His hand fell off Isolfr’s shoulder. “He’s had a march and a fight and a march, and you’ve fed him nothing but cold ale and bread. Is this the way you see to your wolfsprechends at Franangford? Because at Nithogsfjoll, we’d call it shameful.”
Vethulf stepped back, fish-faced with astonishment, and Kjaran, beside him, dropped to a sit and flipped his tail around his toes. The silence lasted heartbeats, and then was shattered when Grimolfr began to laugh. “Would we?” the Nithogsfjoll wolfjarl asked, and shook his head. “Aye, I suppose we would, at that. Go on, Vethulf, Skjaldwulf,” he said, as Gunnarr stepped away, back into the circle of men. “Put your wolfsprechend to bed. We’re as good as done here anyway, if we’re all agreed that we march in two mornings.”
Skjaldwulf was grinning, too, as he came over to brace Isolfr to his feet. Vethulf, scowling, was close behind, and Viradechtis, Mar and Kjaran all crowded so close that Isolfr was nearly knocked down again. Around them, men and wolves rose, stretched, began to separate again toward their beds.
Isolfr met Skjaldwulf’s eyes for a moment, swallowed hard. “I am sorry.”
“For what, wolfsprechend?” Skjaldwulf said. “Mar, move your bones.”
“For …” He stumbled a little, and Vethulf was there on his other side, holding him up. “I swore an oath that I would not speak of the svartalfar. And I couldn’t …”
The words weren’t there.
“You behaved with honor, if not necessarily with wisdom,” Vethulf said tartly. “And you did bring an army. And gutted a queen troll, Kari says. You’re the hero of the day, Isolfr. They’ll sing you in Valhealla.”
“I’m no hero,” Isolfr said. The world was blurring and swimming, and he had to shut his eyes, letting wolves and wolfjarls guide him. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
“We’re not mad at you, you daft creature,” Vethulf said. Even in his leaden exhaustion, Isolfr couldn’t mistake the fondness in his voice. “Skjaldwulf, tell Isolfr we’re not mad at him.”
“’Course we’re not mad at you,” Skjaldwulf said. “Worried only.”
I’m sorry, Isolfr tried to say again, but they lowered him onto a bed, a straw tick and pillows and quilts and furs, and it was as if a knot unraveled. The last thing he knew was Viradechtis grumbling as she hoisted herself onto the bed with Skjaldwulf’s assistance.
Isolfr woke to sunlight pooling on the flagstones and for a moment was aware of nothing except the blissful sensation of finally being warm enough. He blinked around and found Viradechtis nested in the furs beside him, Mar and Kjaran draped across the foot of the bed in a companionable tangle of limbs, and when he turned his head the other way, Skjaldwulf propped up on one elbow, watching him. Beyond him, Vethulf was sitting up, braiding back the long red rivers of his hair.
“This must be the biggest bed in Bravoll,” Isolfr said, awed, and Skjaldwulf laughed.
Vethulf said, “Technically, it’s two beds. We lashed them together when it became clear that Viradechtis wouldn’t make do with less than both consorts and both wolfjarls when she slept. It’s worked out quite well, really.”
“Oh,” Isolfr said and looked away. He already missed his place against the wall, Sokkolfr and Ulfbjorn on one side and Frithulf on the other. His eyes stung again; he bit his lip, and the ropes creaked under the strawtick as he slammed the back of his hand against the head of the bedstead. And Sokkolfr had his widow-woman, and—
And Frithulf and Ulfbjorn would manage, if Ulfbjorn decided to come to Franangford with him. Maybe they’d take Kari as a shieldmate. He needed shieldbrothers, Kari did, and Hrafn needed a pack-within-the-pack.
Think like a wolfsprechend, Isolfr told himself, to dull the pain of loss. Viradechtis whined, pawing the bedcovers, and Skjaldwulf touched his face gently. “You did what you felt you must, and in truth I think you have saved us all.”
The consequences are what they are, Isolfr thought, but he turned away.
“Skjaldwulf has been a great comfort these past two months,” Vethulf said drily. “H
ow are you, Isolfr?”
“I am well,” Isolfr said, with a shrug. “My ribs will ache a while longer yet, but …” He glanced at them, looked away. “I am not as pretty as I was.”
“Do you think that matters?” Skjaldwulf said, and this time the gentle touch of his fingers was on the scarred side of Isolfr’s face.
“Does it not?”
“Not to me,” Skjaldwulf said.
Vethulf leaned across Skjaldwulf, said, “A man can find a pretty face anywhere, if he cares to look.” And to Isolfr’s abiding astonishment, Vethulf kissed him. Then rolled back, stood up, said, “There’s a deal of work to be done, Skjaldwulf.”
“Oh, aye,” Skjaldwulf said, winked at Isolfr, and began extracting himself from the bed. Mar and Kjaran hopped off the foot, stretched, shook, and looked at their brothers with the bright eyes of wolves who are quite sure it’s time for breakfast.
“You stay here,” Vethulf said to Isolfr. “Rest and mend. I’ll send someone with food. And you can figure out how you’re going to convince Viradechtis to let you go to Othinnsaesc without her.”
Isolfr looked at the wolf snoring amid the blankets and furs and said, “That will be a trick, won’t it?”
It was Ulfbjorn who brought Isolfr breakfast: porridge with honey and the best thing Isolfr had tasted in as long as he could remember. Ulfbjorn sat beside him, too, while he ate, and caught him up on the gossip and small doings of the Franangfordthreat in his absence. And when Isolfr had done, Ulfbjorn said, “Would you like to visit the bathhouse? I can help you, if you need.”
“Did Vethulf assign you as my keeper?” Isolfr said.
“He asked if I would mind helping you,” Ulfbjorn said. “I was pleased to have something worthwhile to do.”
Isolfr winced. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
“Broken ribs are enough to make anyone fretful,” Ulfbjorn said placidly. “And Frithulf tells me you took a bad knock to the head, as well.”
“Yes. And, yes, the bathhouse is a wonderful idea.”
“Come, then,” Ulfbjorn said, and gave him a hand to steady him as he stood.
Viradechtis, having licked Isolfr’s bowl clean, got off the bed as well, indicating plainly that Isolfr could go where he liked, so long as he didn’t think he was going to leave her.
Isolfr luxuriated in the bathhouse while Viradechtis lay outside by the door, out of the heat. Ulfbjorn combed his hair out for him and rebraided it, and Isolfr was astonished to realize he had a wolfcarl’s braids now, each as thick as two fingers and reaching nearly to his waist. Not a jarl’s son anymore, wolfsprechend. No, just a fool. He snorted to himself, but he felt better, and when Ulfbjorn asked what he cared to do, he said, “I want to visit Sokkolfr. If you’re busy, you needn’t …”
But Ulfbjorn grinned. “Ah, Sokkolfr and his widow-woman. No, it isn’t a long walk, and yes, he would be glad to see you.”
It was a brilliantly clear day, the sky blue and high and cold. Viradechtis waddled when they walked, and he said to Ulfbjorn, “Perhaps I’ve lost count of the days, but should she not have borne her pups already?”
Ulfbjorn shrugged. “She is a little late, but Grimolfr said to remind you when you worried that she has always had long pregnancies. And we think she’s been waiting for you.”
“Oh.” He felt himself blushing and said to Viradechtis, “Silly wolf.”
She snorted at him, a snort uncannily like her mother’s; Ulfbjorn and Isolfr caught each other’s eye and both burst out laughing.
As Ulfbjorn had said, Sokkolfr’s widow-woman lived not far from the wolfheall. She was stout and apple-cheeked, and Isolfr was at first taken aback by the throng of children who seemed everywhere underfoot. But when the youngest, a bright-eyed little creature, barely toddling, stretched out her arms toward Viradechtis and cried, “Doggie!” with unmistakable delight, Isolfr began to understand why Sokkolfr might be happy here.
Indeed, Sokkolfr, in a bed by the hearth, though pinched a little with pain, looked almost dream-dazed with happiness. And Hroi, tail waving sedately to and fro as his coat was combed by two little girls, seemed to agree.
Sokkolfr’s delight at seeing Isolfr was wholehearted, and got him scolded for trying to move his bad leg. The widow shooed her children out, and Isolfr and Ulfbjorn sat down on the hearthstone to talk to Sokkolfr while Viradechtis lay with her head pillowed companionably on Hroi’s flank.
Isolfr found that explaining about the svartalfar did not get easier with practice, although it was easier that it was Sokkolfr he was talking to, who never passed judgment. Sokkolfr in his turn described the circumstances of his broken leg, with particular emphasis on how Hroi had stood over him howling until two wolfcarls from Vestfjorthr came to fetch him on a travois.
Then Sokkolfr looked down, fiddling with a bit of loose binding on one of his blankets. “I sent to Hjordis as you asked. She is well, and your daughter is well.”
“But?” said Isolfr, for Sokkolfr’s reluctance was plain.
“She says she cannot come to Franangford, though she is glad you wished it of her.”
“Cannot?” Isolfr said. “Why?”
“Her duty is to her family,” Sokkolfr said, with a quick, unhappy, sympathetic glance at Isolfr. “To her mother and sister, and they need her. In Nithogsfjoll, not Franangford. And …”
“Say it,” Isolfr said wearily.
“She is being courted. She says she will say yes. But she says she will send Alfgyfa to be heall-bred if it is what you wish. And she says she is sorry.”
“She has nothing to be sorry for,” Isolfr said, and was pleased at the steadiness of his own voice. “She is not my wife. She swore no oaths.”
“Isolfr …”
“Thank you, Sokkolfr. I am glad to know they are well.” He stood up, looked to Ulfbjorn. “We should be getting back, do you think? I’m sure there is work for willing … damn.” He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, as if he could block the tears by main force.
Hroi whined. Viradechtis raised her head, then pulled herself to her feet and came to nudge demandingly at Isolfr’s midsection. Cub? she said anxiously, having picked that much out of the pack-sense.
“No, she’s fine,” Isolfr said, rubbing Viradechtis’ ears. “She is very well. It’s all right, sister.” And he did not look at Ulfbjorn or Sokkolfr, so that they would not see his eyes.
The first thing that greeted Isolfr’s ears as he stepped through the door of Bravoll wolfheall was the sound of his wolfjarls wrangling. He dropped into the pack-sense without thinking, found Kjaran’s dry canniness waiting for him, and even as he was striding across the hall toward them, Kjaran was showing him what the argument sprang from. Not the words, though Kjaran followed men’s speech as carefully as Viradechtis, but the fact that both wolfjarls were strained to the breaking point between the war and the displaced state of the Franangfordthreat and the long absence of their wolfsprechend. Isolfr could feel the damage done to the threat by his truancy, just as he had been able to feel the Nithogsfjollthreat slowly unraveling when Hrolleif was gone.
There is work to be done, he said to himself. And now that we have a chance not to lose this war, perhaps there will be time in which to do it.
He had chosen, he acknowledged, coming up beside Skjaldwulf and Vethulf. He could not unmake his choice or choose differently. And truly, he thought, no matter how badly he had handled it, he had not chosen wrongly.
The raised voices broke off abruptly; Vethulf and Skjaldwulf turned to look at him. “Wolfjarls,” Isolfr said.
“What are you doing up?” Vethulf said.
“Keeping you from each other’s throats, apparently,” Isolfr said. He smiled at them and did not let himself wince at the twinge in his cheek. “And you two are … brawling like fishwives in front of the Wolfmaegth?”
They looked at each other sidelong, like sheepish little boys. Then Skjaldwulf nodded. “I’m afraid so. We’ve fallen into bad habits without our wolfsprechend to tend to us.” The
re was a wicked glint of mischief in his eyes.
Isolfr sighed.
It was going to be a long winter.
THIRTEEN
In the end, Isolfr did not march with the armies to Othinnsaesc. Ulfgeirr thought it would be ill-advised, and more than that, when Viradechtis caught his intention, she sat down in the middle of Bravoll wolfheall and howled. Howled and howled, like a new-weaned pup, until Mar and Kjaran, and then Kothran and Hrafn and Hroi, and then the entire Franangfordthreat was howling with her.
So Vethulf looked at Isolfr, and Isolfr shrugged. It was settled; Isolfr and Viradechtis stayed in Bravoll along with Sokkolfr and the other wolfcarls and soldiers too injured to fight—and after a day and a night of chaos, the remaining complements of heall and keep marched on Franangford with the svartalfar army beside them.
By the end of it, Isolfr was so tired that he fell into bed—his old place by the wall in the coldest corner, and not the bed in the alcove that Vethulf and Skjaldwulf had built for Viradechtis—and slept the brief afternoon light away, and much of the night that followed. Viradechtis had taken to snoring as her time grew closer, but even that didn’t keep him awake, though she insisted on sleeping in his arms.
He didn’t mind. He felt small and alone. And it had occurred to him that with all the wolfheofodmenn and the jarls gone, Bravoll—heall, village and keep—was his responsibility, and he had perhaps a dozen wolfcarls to hold it with, counting Sokkolfr who wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.
He arose before dawn in the empty wolfheall, more worried than rested, and distracted himself from Viradechtis’ irritable pacing by organizing patrols. The wolfcarls took boys—and girls: Isolfr wasn’t above learning from the svartalfar, when it came down to it—from the village; any child who could ski was pressed into service, with strict instructions to flee home as fast as possible if he—or she—saw anything that could be remotely considered a troll.
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