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Authors: Elizabeth Bear

BOOK: A Companion to Wolves
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It happened three more times between the midpoint of the night and the dazzling glory of midday. The second of these, Grimolfr rocked back abruptly on his heels as the pup came into the world, and swore.
“What?” said Isolfr, busy with the tiny body in his hands.
“Your little girl's thrown us a bitch,” Grimolfr said.
Isolfr looked again, even as the pup squirmed and bleated and Viradechtis made a sharp gruff noise demanding her third-born child. Isolfr gave her her daughter and turned his head to look at Grimolfr. “I thought …”
“You thought correctly,” Grimolfr said. “Trellwolves are warriors. They do not throw bitch-pups very often … we were amazed that Vigdis threw two in ten years. Asny and Kolgrimna have never thrown bitches at all, and Ingrun has only once. We sent her daughter to the wolfheall at Vestfjorthr, where I believe she does very well.”
He was babbling, Isolfr realized incredulously, and Grimolfr realized it himself. He ran his hand down the side of his face and swore again. “Your sister is full of wonders.”
“Yes,” Isolfr said and looked at Viradechtis, who laughed back at him. Her daughter was already at a teat, working eagerly, and Viradechtis was unmistakably smug.
The fourth pup, a dog, was born near noon, and Viradechtis and the wolfthreat knew there were no more. She flopped down on her side with a great sigh, and the two men crouched beside her. Two brindled dog-pups, a gray dog-pup, and the red bitch-pup.
“You have done well, wolfthreatsister,” Grimolfr said, and she thumped her tail tiredly against the flagstones.
The wolfjarl stood up, stretched and grimaced, and said, “Come, Isolfr,” offering him a hand. “Let your sister and
her children rest. You need to eat and bathe, and I think to sleep yourself.”
Isolfr glanced at Viradechtis, who gave him a fond but exasperated look.
“You're right,” he said and accepted Grimolfr's hand. “My mother always said there was no place for men in a birthing-room.”
He looked at Grimolfr; Grimolfr looked back at him. For a moment they were both straight-faced, as befitted wolfjarl and brother to a konigenwolf. Then Grimolfr's lips twitched, and he and Isolfr fell against each other, laughing too hard to stand on their own.
Viradechtis thumped her tail against the floor and laughed with them.
 
 
V
iradechtis wouldn't allow Hroi into the narrow warmth of the storeroom, so he lay on the earthen floor beside the door and would not be moved, watching from under arched brows as Isolfr and the tithe-boys went in and out. Isolfr found, to his surprise, that it was his responsibility to give the pups their wer-names—although he wasn't sure where he'd thought they'd come from otherwise—and he chose Hannar, Olmoth, and Nyr for the dogs and Thraslaug for the bitch.
He felt a little pity for the tithe-boys. Two litters kept them busy, and they regarded both him and Randulfr with almost superstitious awe. It was hard to remember that only two years ago, that had been him.
What was harder was being chained to the camp in the rising spring, and he knew Viradechtis felt it too. They both breathed a sigh of relief when the pups legged out a little—Ingrun's and Viradechtis', both—and the whole mad pack of them could be left in the care of one bitch while the other enjoyed a hunting expedition or just a long ramble with her brother. Not long after
that
, the pups were old enough to be taught to hunt, and Isolfr sometimes had two
days in a row when it was like old times, himself and his sister, Frithulf and Sokkolfr and their wolves, rambling the forest when their duties didn't hold them to the camp. Sokkolfr continued to be Ulfgeirr's right hand, and Isolfr's duties were divided between weapons-mastering the tithe-boys and assisting Hrolleif, despite the uneasy awareness between them that Vigdis would come into season soon, and the rivalry between herself and her daughter would be pushed to a peak.
The one relief was that Thraslaug showed no signs of having the instinct of a top bitch. Even her brothers bullied her, to the point where the tithe-boy who seemed sure to bond her was obliged to feed her away from the others to ensure she got some supper. Randulfr took that boy under his wing, and Isolfr was grateful to be spared the embarrassment of giving advice when he himself was still so uncertain.
That summer, as last, the threat of the trolls continued long past the spring equinox. Grimolfr's wolfheall was fortunate to lose only two wolves and a man; east of them, Thorsbaer lost an entire long patrol. Isolfr and Viradechtis were among the wolves and men sent to assist in hunting down the trellthreat responsible. The Thorsbaer wolfsprechend did not join the patrol, as his bitch was on the edge of season, and Isolfr was less surprised than he might have been at how easily Viradechtis dominated the pack. The Thorsbaer werthreat eyed him and Viradechtis thoughtfully, and although no one had time or energy for courting, Isolfr noticed which men took particular pains to be pleasant. Everyone knew a new konigenwolf meant a new wolfheall, and Eyjolfr was not the only wolfcarl who could plan ahead.
Vigdis' season came while Isolfr and Viradechtis were on patrol. By the time frost fell, man and wolf were as blooded as any of the Wolfmaegth, and not even Grimolfr called him
cub
any more.
At the dark of the solstice, the village of Kallekot was overrun.
Grimolfr, haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot, both he and Skald worn near to nothing, left in the early darkness of the morning a few days later, heading in the direction of the keep. He was back by noon, livid, swearing foully, and it swept through the werthreat like a brush fire that he had gone to petition Lord Gunnarr to raise a militia among the steadholders and artisans.
And Lord Gunnarr had refused.
Isolfr tried to stay out of Grimolfr's way, especially as the wolfjarl had started drinking the moment he got back and by suppertime was drunk, the first time any of the werthreat could remember seeing such a thing except at wakes.
But the pack-sense meant you couldn't hide from anyone, even if you wanted to, and Isolfr felt no surprise, only apprehensive resignation, when Grimolfr cornered him.
“Your father,” the wolfjarl said, “thinks I'm bedding you. Thinks that's why I won't let you leave.” He snorted unmirthful laughter. “As if I could
make
you leave, eh, Isolfr? Says he's given … given enough to the wolfheall, so why can't we do our proper
work
?”
“Grimolfr, I—”
“Maybe I
should
be bedding you. Maybe I should lay you out on Gunnarr's damn table there in the great hall. Think your father'd like that?”
“No,” Isolfr said, crowded against the wall, watching Viradechtis and Skald watch each other, awash in the ale-stench of Grimolfr's breath and sweat.
“No,” Grimolfr agreed, and then his hand was in Isolfr's hair, knotting behind his ear, jerking his head back so that they were face to face. Isolfr held still, met Grimolfr's eyes steadily. The pack-sense was tight around them; he could feel Ulfgeirr and Hrolleif both heading their way and knew Vigdis wouldn't be far behind, and if Vigdis entered this already precarious situation, there was going to be a very bloody, very ugly, and very, very pointless fight.
So he did the only thing he could think of.
He yanked forward against the wolfjarl's grip and kissed Grimolfr. On the mouth, not subtly, and hard.
And Grimolfr released him, staggering back; Skald was there, supporting his brother, letting Grimolfr's fingers clutch at his ruff, giving Isolfr a dismissive look with his smoke-orange eyes, and Isolfr thankfully edged two steps sideways to where Viradechtis was waiting for him and threw his arms around her, burying his face in her familiar smell. She gave him pine-boughs-in-sunlight and licked his ear and neck, and her pups came and clambered anxiously on both of them.
He heard Hrolleif say gently, “Come to bed, wolfjarl.”
 
 
I
n the morning, Grimolfr was ashen-faced with hangover but grimly steady on his feet, grimly measured in his words. He did not apologize, and Isolfr did not expect him to. He was not sure there was anything to apologize for, and if there was, he rather thought it was his place to be apologizing for his father, and that he could not bring himself to do.
Isolfr sat and watched and listened as Grimolfr called eleven men of the werthreat before him, bid them go to the wolfjarls of the North and summon them to a Wolfmaegthing. “We cannot hide the truth any longer,” he said, “and the truth is that we are being overrun.”
Wolfmoots, Isolfr had gathered from Eyjolfr, were not uncommon among the other wolfheallan. Nithogsfjoll, the most northerly wolfheall, was also the most isolated and needed more than the excuse of a fine spring day to meet with another threat. Their closest neighbors were Gunnarr's keep and Gunnarr's steading, and—
And Isolfr hoped he was worth it to the Wolfmaegth.
He had never forgotten his mother's quiet comment about honor, and those twinned thoughts lent him a stern sense of purpose. Unfortunately, it was a purpose without direction as yet, and so he resigned himself to wait for the Wolfmaegthing with good grace, even when Ulfrikr Un-Wise mocked him that—if there
had
been any doubt that every wolf and
man who was not needed to patrol would come—that doubt was removed by giving them the opportunity to ogle Isolfr and Viradechtis.
Isolfr
did
manage to bloody Ulfrikr's pretty nose on the practice field, however, so he was not entirely without satisfaction.
Travel times were long, and with the trolls loose in the world far fewer wolves and men could come than otherwise; steadings could not be left undefended merely so the wolfheofodmenn could unify a course. It was a fortnight and a week until the Wolfmaegthing, and Isolfr fretted every instant. In the days before, Nithogsfjoll wolfheall assumed the aspect of a bazaar, and in the roundhall itself they slept packed together like pups in a den.
Isolfr was fascinated by the wolfjarls who arrived and by the wolfcarls they chose to bring with them. And especially by their wolves. He could see, more easily than he would have thought—if he had thought about it beforehand at all—the bloodlines of the various wolfthreats, and in fact recognized the wolfjarl of Kerlaugstrond by his brother, who was of the same dam as Vigdis though of an earlier litter.
Although the pack-sense of Nithogsfjoll remained cohesive, comfort like a heavy blanket in the back of Isolfr's mind, the trellwolves of other packs were quite willing to talk to him. Most of the wolfjarls had brought their young wolves, and Isolfr was appalled and embarrassed to realize that, no matter how crudely he had put it, Ulfrikr had been right. The wolfjarls could talk about trolls, but their threats were interested in the young konigenwolf and the promise of a new wolfheall. There were fights: young wolves, and young men, and for one heart-stopping moment Vigdis and Signy—the konigenwolf of Thorsbaer, who was half-term and snappish in her discomfort—almost lit into each other. They stood nose to nose, lips curled, amber eyes and green unflinching, a low rumble rolling from Signy's throat and Vigdis' head down, silent, hackles raised, showing teeth as long as two joints of a woman's finger.
Isolfr plunged both hands into Viradechtis' ruff and made fists hard enough to creak the bones in his hands. If she piled in, in defense of her mother—
Then Grimolfr, calm as if he did not risk maiming or death, stepped between the konigenwolves, and Signy's brother Leitholfr had his hands on Signy, and after a moment long enough that Isolfr's chest hurt with holding his breath, Signy turned her head aside and began washing her brother's face. And Grimolfr tilted his head and caught Isolfr's eye, pushed his gray-brindled braid behind his ear, and sighed relief—a gesture that was meant for no one but Isolfr and the Thorsbaer wolfsprechend.
It was a conspiracy of sorts—the conspiracy of wolfheofodmenn presenting a front to the pack—and Isolfr was startled to find himself on the inside of it.
In the first raw days of spring, the threat of the last wolfheall arrived. The men and trellwolves of Othinnsaesc were cold and exhausted; their road had brought them all the way from the rough cliffs and fjords of the wild north sea, and they had been fourteen days traveling. Less of their threat had journeyed even than those of the other wolfheallan. There was only the wolfjarl and wolfsprechend and a handful, six, of the strongest and canniest of the wolfthreat. Isolfr lined up with the rest of the wolfheofodmenn of Nithogsfjoll wolfheall to greet them, clasping arms as the wolves whined and licked and sorted out who would defer to whom.
He was halfway down the line when he found himself looking into Gunnarr Sturluson's gray-blue eyes. He blinked, and almost stepped back, but the other man's clasp on his arm and strong hand on his shoulder steadied him long enough to note that it was not his father's face, just one very much like it, under wheaten braids shot through with ash. And the other man was staring at him with a similarly startled expression. “By Othinn, you have the look of her,” the strange wolfcarl said, and squeezed his arm hard before releasing it. “Isolfr, is it not?”

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