The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  A gust of wind made the candles waver. This kind of spring storm would blow through quickly, and tomorrow would be clear. Solvi still knew the weather and tides like his own heartbeat. “We will leave on tomorrow’s noon tide,” he said. “Be ready.”

  * * *

  Solvi felt a careful joy, even during the sleepless nights of the long sea crossing to the Orkneys. He had missed sailing even more than he missed his ability to walk without pain—and even the pain in his legs seemed lessened with the give of the ship underneath them.

  Rolli asked him many questions about his time as a raider, and Solvi answered them, describing its hardships and delights honestly. He taught Rolli what he could of navigating by sun, stars, and currents, though time itself would be the best teacher. Rolli understood quickly and had a good feel for the steering oar.

  The weather too favored them so well Solvi felt suspicious. On a day of strong wind and blinding sun they covered so much distance that Solvi did not trust his reading of the stars the following night, and was only relieved of his worry when he saw the distinctive silhouettes of the Faroe Islands growing before him. They spent a day and a night replenishing their fresh water from one of the many waterfalls that cascaded down the cliffs and then continued to the Orkneys.

  He tested his fear, thinking about facing all of his old enemies, Svanhild’s anger, swords that he could not defend against, and felt the old tightness in his chest. But it lifted when he looked out at the waves, and felt the deck move under him. Svanhild had been right; he had been wrong to leave this behind. Even if he could not walk at all, he could still sail.

  When they reached the Orkney Islands, Solvi sailed cautiously, keeping well away from established settlements, and other ships. Rolli’s small ship would be easy prey for either side. Finally, he saw a tiny sailboat such as a fisherman might use, fighting a squall that was trying to push it against a cliff. Perhaps its owner would have helpful information.

  He drew Rolli’s ship very close to the sailboat, and saw a man slumped over the steering oar, though he shook himself when Rolli threw a rope down to him.

  “Falki!” said Rolli after they pulled him up and tied off the boat to Rolli’s ship.

  “It is good you are here,” he said, clasping arms with Rolli and then Solvi. He told them some of what had passed during the battle, that Svanhild, as well as Ragnvald’s sons Einar and Ivar, were captive of Thorstein, who was playing both sides against one another, and had sent him to bring a ransom request to Harald. “But I had not slept in a week after our crossing, and this is hard sailing. Now you can take me to Harald at Grimbister.”

  “I will do no such thing,” said Solvi. “Why should I put myself in Harald’s hands?”

  A shadow blocked out the sun, and Solvi looked up to see Rolli towering over him, with his hand on his sword. “You will,” said Rolli. “My father has asked me to come, and he is sure to forgive me if I help him rescue his favorite son.” He set his jaw.

  Solvi touched the dagger at his belt, little good though it would do him against Rolli. “He may, but I will not forgive you if you draw a sword on me,” he said. “You will only be carrying a message that Falki could have carried himself. How will that help you?”

  “We don’t have enough men to go up against Thorstein,” Rolli protested. “Uncle Solvi, you know this is true. You who were once a great sea king must know poor odds when you see them.”

  “If you put me in your father and Harald’s power, they will kill me,” said Solvi. “We must find another way.”

  * * *

  Ragnvald paced back and forth on the highest point above Grimbister, watching the sea below, straining for a glimpse of the ship that Einar and Ivar had taken out as a lure. Harald was happy with the outcome of the battle against Ketil’s forces, with Ketil taken prisoner and most of his men killed. His men grumbled that there were too few opponents, which meant too few spoils of weapons or armor from the corpses of fallen enemies, not enough to compensate them for the effort of having sailed so far. And they were hungry.

  Ragnvald had deployed other scouts to other lookout points to watch for his sons or other attackers. It had not been a decisive battle, but perhaps if no other attacks took place, they could call themselves the victors and leave. Halfdan could stay to rule Orkney and deal with any other raiders, and Ragnvald could return to Maer, and begin his old age in earnest.

  He walked back down to the hall, the damp grass soaking his boots through. His scouts would tell him if they saw anyone; their young vision was better than his.

  “Do not fear,” Harald was telling his captains when Ragnvald entered. “Melbrid Tooth, who is also my enemy, has fled for Scotland. Who knows how much more treasure we may find in his caches when we find him. And Ketil may yet have followers who will ransom him.”

  Rolli and Svanhild’s captain interrupted this celebration, both looking as though they had not slept in a week. Ragnvald rushed forward to greet Rolli, relieved from one worry, at least. Rolli was, if anything, even bigger than when Ragnvald had seen him last. He had surpassed Harald’s height, and grown as big as him in the shoulders. Someone must have been feeding him well.

  Aldi and a few of his men pressed forward with hands at their swords, but Harald stopped them by handing Rolli a cup of ale.

  “My king,” said Rolli. “I thank you for lifting my outlawry. I bring vital news.”

  “What is it?” Ragnvald asked.

  “When I came from Iceland, I found Svanhild’s captain, Falki, and he told me where Svanhild and my brothers Einar and Ivar are,” said Rolli. “They are in danger, unless we go to their aid.”

  “Tell me,” said Ragnvald.

  “Terms first,” said Rolli. “Solvi Hunthiofsson has come with me to make sure that Svanhild comes to no harm. Now I need you to promise no harm to him either. It is not he who sends raiders to Orkney or the Norse coast. He has sheltered me this past winter, and I have promised him my protection.”

  “Solvi Hunthiofsson has never needed protection,” Ragnvald scoffed.

  “He is old and lame now, and he does,” said Rolli. “Promise me.”

  “You would risk your brothers’ lives for Solvi’s?” Ragnvald asked angrily. “What kind of son are you?”

  “One who had been outlawed and had to learn who my true friends are,” said Rolli implacably, though worry made him look a boy again. “If you refuse, I will try to rescue my family myself, but it would go better with aid.”

  Ragnvald looked to Harald, who nodded. “As long as Solvi takes himself back to Iceland,” Harald said, “and it is true that he has had no hand in this rebellion, then I will do him no harm. Now where is my wife?”

  “I am Falki,” said Svanhild’s captain. “Thorstein the Red has taken Svanhild Sea Queen and Ragnvald’s sons Ivar and Einar captive. His ransom is no less than rulership of the Orkney Islands.”

  Many voices sounded at once, with Halfdan’s the loudest, and continued until Harald raised his hand for quiet. Ragnvald hardly heard them. His sons lived.

  “Thorstein is an oath breaker, then,” said Harald. “He should know how I deal with oath breakers.”

  “He did not swear an oath,” said Harald’s son Dagfinn, always the first to correct a mistake. “He refused to.”

  “No matter,” said Harald. “He said he would help defend the islands, and this is not that.”

  It was, though, Ragnvald thought—he defended them for himself. “Let Thorstein have them,” he suggested.

  “No,” Halfdan yelled. “They are mine. You are always taking what is mine.”

  “You traded away far more than some remote islands to redeem your sons,” said Ragnvald to Harald. “Make this trade and let me have mine.”

  Aldi had pushed toward the front and was eyeing Rolli, but now he turned his eyes on Ragnvald. “You did not want to trade Sogn for this murderous son of yours, but you will trade away another man’s land? You pretend to so much fairness and virtue, but it is all a sham.”


  Ragnvald put his hand on his sword. “Is it?” he asked. “When you are fighting with swords purchased by taxes from land that should be mine? I paid a fair price for your son, and then some.”

  “Silence, silence,” said Rolli, his voice booming out of his huge chest. Ragnvald felt old and irrelevant next to this huge young man. “Solvi Hunthiofsson has a plan to lure out Thorstein. He will save my brothers’ lives and the Orkney Islands for King Harald. He will not come ashore, though—he fears for his life in this company. He will speak with King Ragnvald, no one else.”

  “How will this be safe?” Harald asked, his voice cutting through all the chatter after Rolli's words.

  Much talk followed, and eventually Ragnvald agreed to the terms. He would negotiate with any man to win his sons’ lives. Sigurd volunteered to accompany Ragnvald as well.

  They were all allowed to keep their weapons, and they rowed against the wind in Falki’s little boat, until a small ship appeared as if from behind a curve in the coastline, and one of the crew threw a ladder down.

  Rolli and Falki climbed up first, followed by Ragnvald, who was glad for Rolli’s help over the gunwale. Solvi stood, watching him board, leaning on a cane, his hair gone all to silver. Ragnvald flexed his fingers. He had never felt the passing of the years as much as he did now, looking at Solvi, shrunk and gnarled into an old man. Then Solvi smiled, and Ragnvald’s knuckles seemed to ache all the deeper. He had won every time he and Solvi faced one another, but Solvi always left his mark.

  “Solvi Hunthiofsson,” said Ragnvald. “I am not pleased to put myself in your power again.”

  Solvi grinned more widely. “I will treat you better this time, I promise. Tell me, how goes battle against Harald’s enemies?”

  “We have captured Ketil Flatnose and—” Sigurd began, but Ragnvald cut him off.

  “Well enough that you would not be living had you landed,” he said. “Now what is your plan to save my sons?”

  “My wife as well,” said Solvi. “I will not let you forget her.”

  “As she has forgotten me?” Ragnvald asked.

  “And my daughter,” Solvi continued. “She was taken off by one of Ketil’s followers. She must be found. You will swear to it and to this: to let myself, my wife, and my daughter go where we will when battle is done.”

  “Let me hear your plan,” said Ragnvald, “and if I like it, I will swear. You already have me in your power.”

  34

  Freydis waited calmly through the day of battle, helping in the kitchen, tending to some minor ailments. When dinnertime came and went and the men had not returned, she comforted the women who feared for their men’s lives, and felt a light touch of regret. She had no doubt that Hallbjorn had perished, along with many of the warriors who had gone with him. They had been growing frustrated with sailing away every morning only to return having spilled no blood. They would be receptive to her advice, voiced by Hallbjorn, to take the fight onto solid ground.

  Late in the evening, a few ships straggled back, bringing news of defeat. Melbrid Tooth had escaped with ten of his men. Ogmund Gudbrandsson was calling one of the other men a coward, and Melbrid had to force an apology from him to avoid a duel. The remaining raiders collected their women, supplied their ships, and sailed off again the next morning, planning to return to their halls in Scotland.

  Freydis had little time to decide what she would do, for another band of warriors came at noon the next day, bearing one wounded man with a bandage on his face, and another dead with a shroud over his head. They laid them both on pallets near the kitchen.

  “These men need healing,” a warrior said to the kitchen women. Freydis looked around for the crone Runa, whom she had not seen since her first day on Hoy, and found she was still absent. Freydis stepped forward, and motioned for the men to drag the pallets into the light from the cook-fire.

  The wounded man was half insensible, keening and whimpering, and kept reaching out toward the dead man. He did not stop his fretting until he was able to link their hands together. Freydis spoke a prayer of peace over the dead man and then pulled the rough bandage from the wounded one. It was Hallbjorn, red-gold hair stained with blood, and his beard close cropped against his sharp jawline.

  Freydis drew back. She had done wrong to meddle with the threads of fate if it meant she must now care for an injured Hallbjorn. She should let him die of the fever that would surely come from such a wound.

  The man’s hand, crusted with blood and dirt, squeezed the gray fingers of his dead companion. Freydis frowned; she had not known that Hallbjorn loved any man enough to reach for him in extremity.

  She peeled back the shroud over the dead man’s head, and stumbled when she saw a face she recognized. Her cousin Ivar, still handsome, even in death. She could not quite believe it, even though his skin was bluish gray, so she bent close to him, hoping to feel his breath on her cheek. Of all the men she had ever known, Ivar seemed the most firmly tied to life.

  Hallbjorn would never cling to Ivar, but his half-brother Einar, wearing nearly the same face, would. Freydis looked again at Einar, the mess of his missing eye, the ragged slash laying open his cheek, and then at the other side, leaner than Hallbjorn’s heavier cheek. When she lived at Tafjord she had sighed over his handsome face, and imagined that she loved him. How cruel of the fates, to allow him to survive Ivar’s death. Was this the cost of her sending Hallbjorn to his doom?

  She could not restore what he had lost, but she could sew up his wound, keep the fever away, and bring him what healing was possible when his sworn brother lay dead next to him. She had brought a small satchel of healing supplies with her from Iceland, including a bone needle and silk thread. She washed Einar’s wound with wine and dabbed it gently with fresh cloths. His cheek was hot; she feared infection had already set in.

  She tried to give him some spirits to make him insensible to her needle, but he pushed the cup away. She sighed and began, speaking soothing, meaningless words as she brought together the flesh of his forehead and made the small stitches that Alfrith had taught her.

  She heard others come in, even heard someone say her name, but she did not turn away from her work. “I will greet you when I am done,” she said, and the voices went away again.

  Around his eye she could do little—his eyelid had been cut in half, the eye beneath it gone. She began her stitching again as close to his lower lashes as she could, wincing when he flinched with each stab of the needle. She remembered Alfrith telling her how King Ragnvald had hated her for a year after she reset his broken fingers, because he could not look at her without thinking of the pain. If Einar hated her after this, she would deserve it for her part in sending Hallbjorn against him.

  She sang a lullaby under her breath and, after a moment, heard Einar’s low, broken humming as he tried to match the song. When she finished sewing him up, she made a poultice of honey and cobwebs and applied it to the wound with pine pitch, thanking the goddess Freya that the warriors had not eaten all of it before they went off to die. Sweets would do them little good in Hel’s dim kingdom.

  Finally, she applied a new bandage over the poultice, and tied it on, cradling his head as she lifted it up to bring the bandage around the back. This time, when she touched Einar’s lips with a cup, he parted them and let her give him some spirits to make him sleep. Even when his breathing turned slow and deep, he still clung to Ivar’s hand.

  Freydis went into the kitchen to find some water to wash Einar’s blood off her hands, feeling the dislocation that always gripped her after a difficult task, and there she saw her mother sitting on a stool, eating a hunk of bread and cheese as though she had not been fed in a week. Her hands were bound before her.

  “Freydis, I am here,” she said. She stood and brushed the crumbs off her skirt as best she could with bound hands. “I bless Thorstein for bringing me here, even if he means me harm.”

  The tears Freydis had been keeping at bay since Hallbjorn had taken her from Iceland came spilling out in
deep sobs. She hastily untied her mother’s hands and then clung to her. Svanhild’s back shook as though she was crying too.

  “Freydis, Freydis, my beloved daughter,” she said, stroking Freydis’s hair. “I have come for you. I will always come for you.”

  * * *

  After hearing Solvi’s plan, Ragnvald returned to Harald, leaving Sigurd behind as a surety for his return. He outlined Solvi’s suggestion: a great charade of ships, performed to draw Thorstein out of Hoy. While Harald sent out his vessels, Falki went back to Thorstein to bait the trap by telling him that Harald’s forces were massing against him, but that Melbrid had returned to fight, and if Thorstein joined the battle now, he could defeat Harald and claim Orkney as his own. Harald’s ships acted their part, and some captured vessels, crewed by more of Harald’s men, pretended to be Melbrid’s. As soon as the fleet made it look like the battle was turning against Harald, Thorstein’s ship left Hoy, and Solvi guided Rolli’s onto the small landing. They all disembarked and began climbing the slope of wet and broken rocks. Scouts might see them, but Thorstein could not have left enough of a force behind to be a real threat.

  Ragnvald climbed quickly, and had to stop several times to wait for Solvi to catch up. “You move too slowly,” he said to Solvi. Rolli was far ahead, his young legs working faster than either of his elders’. “You should have stayed on the ship.”

  Ragnvald scrabbled up the slope using his hands, while Solvi had to lean on his cane with every step. He waited again for Solvi to pass him. From behind, Solvi was nothing more than a short, lame, old man. Could Svanhild still want him, rather than Harald? Ragnvald certainly could not fear him any longer, at least not when Solvi faced away from him.

  “I could carry you,” Rolli suggested to Solvi when he caught up to them again.

  Solvi chuckled, a strange sound in this place. “I suppose since I ride that foolish pony, I’ve no more need for dignity,” he said. “Very well, young Rolli, you may be my steed.”

  Ragnvald watched incredulously as Rolli helped Solvi up onto a rock, then knelt down so he could hoist Solvi onto his back. Sigurd laughed, and the small group of warriors with them joined in. Ragnvald wished he felt easy enough about their mission to enjoy the image his son and his old enemy made together, but instead something about the gentleness of Rolli’s movements as he lifted Solvi made Ragnvald’s throat tighten. So would Rolli carry his own children one day.