The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  When Gyda and her followers came within earshot of Ivar and Dagfinn, Einar called out, “Princess Gyda is troubled by rebels in the hills and she needs our help.” Belatedly, he remembered that Dagfinn and Ivar were supposed to be leading this endeavor. “If you agree, we can join forces with hers to root them out.”

  “Excellent,” said Dagfinn. “We will do this and then bring my father’s bride to him.” His gaze fixed on Gyda in a way that Einar did not like, following the motion of her arm as she pulled her hair over one shoulder.

  “Do not forget the feast that I will make for you in my hall,” said Gyda.

  “Of course not, my lady,” said Ivar, ever gallant. “I will fight the harder knowing you will be our hostess after we win.”

  Gyda led the warriors into the fort. Once they were inside, Ivar pulled Einar into an embrace. “I thought you would be a hostage!” he said. “It is a blessing that she has agreed so easily.”

  “She is a woman,” said Dagfinn scornfully. “You gave her far too much credit.”

  Einar smiled thinly. “That woman is perhaps the only person in Norway who has ever gotten the better of Harald.”

  “It’s true,” said Ivar. “Our father told us the story.”

  “He betrothed her!” Dagfinn protested.

  “To save face,” said Einar. Their father had told them how Gyda had said she would not marry Harald until he had conquered all of Norway, and thus spared her fort a battle, assured her place in the skalds’ songs until the end of time, and bought twenty years of rulership for herself. Ragnvald did not want his sons to underestimate her. Had she only lain with Einar on the thin hope that he could give her back her district even after her marriage? Would she have tried seducing Ivar, or even Dagfinn had they come instead? Yes, Einar decided. Especially Dagfinn. She would pit father against son—throw another contender into Halfdan’s rebellion to help herself. But she had wanted Einar too, she could not have counterfeited that so well.

  “We must disperse ourselves among Gyda’s troops to make sure they do not play us false,” said Einar. “If you do not believe her capable of betrayal, believe it of her captains.”

  * * *

  Gyda’s warriors and those who had traveled with Einar made ready for battle the next morning in the shade of the fort’s walls. Her captain, Omund, brought their captive out of the shed where he had been left with the bodies. His face was bloodied and puffy with swollen bruises even where it was whole.

  “Bitch queen,” he spat at Gyda. “False woman.”

  “Where is Frode?” Gyda asked, untroubled.

  “My king is in the mountains, and you will never get him out.” One of his eyes could hardly open and his lower lip was split.

  Omund backhanded the man across the face, driving him to his knees. He made a choked-off noise that turned into a sob. Einar cast his eyes down and glimpsed Bakur doing the same. He did not like to see humiliation; it bothered him far more than blood and wounds. He could too easily imagine himself, broken and cowed, driven half mad from a night spent with the corpses of his friends. Ivar did not look bothered, not because he was cruel, Einar thought, but because he could never imagine himself brought so low.

  “Where is the camp?” Omund asked. “How many men?”

  The captive hung his head down. “The one in the northern foothills. Fifty men.”

  Gyda nodded at Omund. “No trouble for our combined forces.”

  Ivar raised his chin. “You know the place, my lady?”

  “I do,” said Omund. Einar controlled his expression. Of course Omund knew where it was; until yesterday Frode had been an ally. “Be ready to leave before the sun climbs above the southern foothills.”

  Einar retrieved his leather armor from Gyda’s hall, and returned for help tying it on. Dagfinn had the finest armor, Ivar the newest, and Einar the oldest, bitten with strikes not just from his own skirmishes with raiders, but also his father’s, who had worn it as a young man, before Harald had replaced it for him with steel.

  “I am glad you are well,” said Ivar again as Einar did up one of his straps. “Don’t do that to me again! You should have at least told me what you had planned.”

  “I hardly knew myself,” said Einar, warmed by Ivar’s concern.

  “You always run ahead of me,” said Ivar fondly. “Let your slow brother catch up sometimes, and have some of the glory.”

  Einar heard an echo of his father’s criticism in Ivar’s words. Dagfinn smirked at Einar and Ivar helping one another. “Gold clad in dark, dark clad in bright,” he said.

  Einar pulled his helmet down over his hair’s brightness. “It is not a bad line,” he said. “You can make a song of this battle if it goes our way.”

  They marched toward the foothills, following Omund. He had told them the camp could be found in a flat grove halfway up the slope of one of the mountains, with enough trees to give cover, and room between their trunks to place tents. Paths led to the camp from three directions, which would make it difficult to pin any men there.

  Before the party began their ascent to the camp from the Hordaland plain, Omund stopped to give his commands to the band of warriors. “Split forces here,” he said. “Three kings’ sons, three forces.”

  “I stay with Ivar,” Einar countered. With so many of Gyda’s warriors among theirs, he wanted to be sure he could protect Ivar at all times.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Ivar.

  “After your scolding? No, I’ll stay by your side.” Then, to Omund he said, “You take one of the parties. I have sworn an oath that my brother will never do battle without me.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid,” Ivar protested. “I want to lead alone, as you did.”

  “I swore an oath.” Einar reached out and gripped Ivar’s arm. “You swore it too, I recall—neither of us will face battle without the other.”

  “Very well,” said Ivar. “We may face queens separately, but bandit kings together. It would anger the gods if we do not.”

  Dagfinn gave Einar an exasperated look. “You will not be far distant,” he said.

  Ivar began to say something, but Omund cut him off. “No matter. The day I need boys to lead me into battle I will rush upon a bandit’s sword. I will lead one party, Dagfinn Haraldsson the other, and the third to whichever of you is in charge, young princes.”

  “Ivar,” said Einar quickly, before another argument could come up. “He leads.”

  Omund nodded. “Watch for sentries,” he said. “They will have those too.”

  The slope was steeper than it looked. Ivar and Einar had the wind to climb it quickly, while some of Gyda’s warriors who did more feasting than fighting became short of breath. When the trees pressed them too close for walking two abreast, one of Gyda’s warriors went ahead to show the way. They followed a deer trail between pines, dry needles brushing off on each man who passed.

  A crashing noise sounded some paces distant from Einar, followed by a yell. Two men struggled in the brush ahead: one of Gyda’s warriors was killing one of Frode’s sentries. Or trying to—the wounded man stumbled past, before getting caught in the branches of a tree. Einar took stock of him quickly; the sentry held his fist into his stomach and his hand was slick and red—he was gut-stabbed and would not live—but his screaming would bring all of his fellows down upon them. Einar grabbed a hank of the man’s greasy hair, drew his dagger, pulled back the man’s head, and cut his throat, gagging at the sound the man made. He looked around to make sure no one had seen his disgust.

  One of Frode’s men ran out from among the trees, past Einar, his hair as oily and lank as the man that Einar killed, and into the waiting swords of Gyda’s warriors.

  Einar threw a dagger at one of the attackers. It caught him just below the ribs and he collapsed against a small pine whose branches slowed his fall. When Einar drew close to retrieve his dagger, the man lunged out with a club that caught Einar on the side of the head, making his ears ring.

  Einar scrambled back out of reach as
the man rushed forward, tripped, and landed on his face. He crawled a body length after Einar, while Einar scrabbled backward, tree branches pulling at him like enemy fingers, but the man ran out of life before he could reach Einar. With his ragged cloak stuck through with pine needles, he looked as though the forest floor had already started to reclaim him.

  Gyda’s captive had exaggerated the enemy’s numbers, though not their skill. All were hard men who fought fiercely. Einar rolled him over to retrieve his dagger, heard a yell, and ran toward it. He reached the camp a moment later, and saw that most of the fighting had stopped with Frode’s men defeated, but his brother still sparred with a man wearing rich enough clothing he must be Frode himself.

  “No, he is mine!” Ivar cried out as he saw Einar approaching.

  Ivar looked like a hero from a skald’s tale. He fought with pure strength and hardly any feints. He was hard to stand against, Einar knew, though he wished his brother had a little more cunning. Still, Ivar was younger and faster than his opponent, who took a cut whenever he tried to penetrate Ivar’s guard.

  Ivar fought Frode backward until he pinned Frode against one of his tents. Frode tripped over a tent stake and stumbled. Ivar held back, waiting for him to recover and regain his footing. In any other fight, Einar would have called it cruel, prolonging the man’s death, but Ivar probably thought he was being fair—on the practice ground he would never attack an opponent who had tripped, especially not when he was the better fighter.

  Frode stood, holding his sword lower than before, shaking with effort. Ivar would have him soon. Something caught Einar’s attention out of the corner of his eye. He did not know what it was, but he moved without thinking, running at Ivar. He did not reach his brother in time, or the item was flung imprecisely, for it passed over the shoulders of Ivar and Frode, surprising both of them. Einar drew himself up short before he crashed into his brother.

  “Get out of my way,” Ivar yelled.

  Einar retreated. He saw Dagfinn draw his sword again and go after whoever had thrown the missile. Frode had taken the moment of distraction to grab his dagger with his other hand, and he slashed at Ivar, drawing a thin line of red across his cheek. Ivar flinched.

  Frode lunged again, this time making a cut with his sword that raked along Ivar’s side, severing the leather straps that held his armor and touching the flesh beneath. Ivar grunted in pain.

  Einar took a step toward him; he could stop this. But Ivar did not want his help, and these wounds would be more of an annoyance than a hindrance. Now Ivar fought more desperately and Frode attacked with renewed spirit, riding the duel’s turning tide. Frode’s energy did not last, though, and in his next advance, he stumbled over a root and crashed into Ivar’s waiting sword. Not a killing wound, but Ivar’s next one was, half severing Frode’s neck. His blood sprayed Ivar, covering his face in a ruddy mask.

  “Why didn’t you help me?” Ivar cried as he wrenched his sword free. His voice and jerky movements showed his panic; Ivar had known mortal fear today, perhaps for the first time. “He was going to kill me.”

  Einar walked over to him, trying to see the wound in his side. “What did you think a battle was about?” he asked. He felt a strange brew of emotions: fear for Ivar’s life, annoyance that Ivar had not trusted him, anger at Ivar for almost getting himself killed, for not being as fierce a fighter as he might be. But he felt, too, a sense of satisfaction and possessiveness; it would be a while before Ivar doubted him again, or tried to find a way to escape his protection. “You told me to go away. I was doing as you asked. Obeying the order of my lord, even.”

  “You—” Ivar began, then took a swaying step and sank to his knees.

  Einar eased him down to sit on the ground. He could not read Ivar’s expression with his face so covered in blood, and that bothered him more than anything else. “Come,” he said. “Let us get you cleaned up, and see if you need a healer.”

  Ivar looked down at his armor, hanging off his flank. He pressed his hand to the cut and flinched when his fingers came away painted a brighter red than the drying blood on his face.

  “You’ll be fine,” Einar told him. “Some pain when you move, until it heals, nothing more, I promise. You’ll be fine.” He looked around. A steep, rocky stream provided running water for the camp. Einar went to wet a rag from the pouch he wore at his waist, and returned to clean the blood from Ivar’s face.

  “I was doing well until that—someone threw a rock.”

  “Yes,” said Einar. The blood was sticky and didn’t want to come off. “That happens sometimes.”

  “And then—he wounded me. He could have killed me.” Ivar twisted to touch the wound on his side again and hissed at the pain. Einar felt a ghost of Ivar’s pain in his own side, as though the oath they had sworn had made them share this as well. He would have taken it from Ivar if he could.

  “No,” said Einar, “because you fought fiercely, knowing you could die. You should fight every fight that way. Your opponents surely will.”

  Ivar nodded, still touching his wound. Einar helped him take off his armor and tunic, to better see the wound, stark crimson on pale flesh. Not too deep, but not shallow either; a flash of white that might be a rib showed when he moved. Einar wondered what their father would say. At least Einar had a defense for this—his father could not want Ivar weak. This should have been a good lesson for him today.

  “I need to find someone to sew it up,” said Einar.

  “Don’t leave me,” said Ivar.

  “I’ll be back soon,” Einar promised.

  Frode’s camp was a pitiful thing, with battle over. Gyda’s warriors pulled the dead to the side, so they could not foul the stream. A few of their own had fallen as well; Einar could tell who they were from their clean clothes and well-trimmed beards. The rest were Frode’s.

  Some of Frode’s servants and thralls had been corralled against a thicket of brambles. Einar averted his eyes when he saw Dagfinn having his way with one of the captives, who was almost entirely hidden by his bulk.

  An old hag was sitting by a fire on the outskirts of the camp, stirring a boiling pot. Einar approached her cautiously, with his sword drawn.

  “Grandmother, do you know how to sew up a wound neatly?” he asked.

  She turned and showed Einar the other side of her face, which was burned, seamed and rigid with scarring. Her hand too, the one that held the stick in the fire, was hardened with scarring into an immovable claw. She had no eye on that side, and no lips either, just a narrow slash of mouth, which stayed immobile while she chewed on a twig.

  “Never mind,” he muttered. This woman would be useless for anything but her current task.

  “You do it, young Einar,” he heard her say in a creaky voice. “You will not have many more chances to help him.”

  “What?” Einar asked. The woman could be a witch, to know his name. He should not be credulous, though, half scarred and half whole, she looked like the goddess Hel, queen of the dead.

  “You heard me, Jarl Einar,” she said, “and you know I speak the truth.”

  “I know nothing of the sort, hag,” Einar replied.

  “I speak the truth,” she insisted. “You know that you fear and crave this future.”

  “What future is that? I am no jarl.”

  She laughed, a dry cackle, and poked her stick into the fire once more. “There is only one escape from this fate,” she said, and turned toward him, faster than an old woman should, the stick raised up, its glowing tip coming toward his eye.

  Einar thrust his sword into her without thinking, driving up under her ribs, and into her heart. She fell back, her hands clutching at the blade, and then went still. Einar pulled his sword free and saw that the unscarred side of her face wore a smile.

  He stumbled and fell as a fierce wave of dizziness gripped him. Her burning stick lay smoldering on the leaves. Einar stomped it out.

  Dagfinn walked over, still doing up his trousers. “What did that woman do to you?” he as
ked.

  “She said things . . .” Nothing Einar could reveal.

  Dagfinn gripped the woman’s face to turn it toward Einar. Her open mouth showed within it broken teeth, and the stump of a tongue that had been cut off many years earlier. Dagfinn looked at Einar. “She couldn’t have said anything at all.”

  10

  Ragnvald timed his arrival in Vestfold for the early morning, when most of Harald’s warriors would still be abed. They often feasted into the night, fell asleep late, and woke even later with aching heads. The proverbs might say that too much drunkenness was a shame to a man, but it was not a shame that many feared.

  The sun was still hidden behind the hills around Oslo Fjord when Ragnvald sighted the Vestfold settlement from his ship. He woke Sigurd, who had been dozing on one of the rowing benches.

  The breeze grew stronger and Ragnvald drew his cloak around his shoulders. It was made of a soft black wool that Hilda had spun and woven herself. They had been married for nearly twenty years, though for long stretches he had been far away from her. Their marriage had long, slow tides to it, the absences and meetings both sweet and bitter.

  Among the small group that had gathered to watch the ship’s approach, Ragnvald saw Hilda’s solid figure. At times he had regretted his choice of wife, wishing for someone who could be a partner in keeping Norway’s peace, but now Svanhild did that work, while Hilda made his home and raised his children. And during his recovery from Solvi’s torture, when Alfrith had been the one to break and reset his fingers, he had sought Hilda’s comfort and care, coming to value her more after the difficult beginning of their marriage.