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Authors: Elizabeth Bear

BOOK: A Companion to Wolves
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The wolf at his side was a massive male, a charcoal-black
as tall as Skald and broader at the shoulder, with cool green eyes. He sat politely, his head at the level of the blond wolfcarl's ribs, and smiled at Viradechtis through grooved yellow teeth.
“Yes. Isolfr Viradechtisbrother. And you—”
“Othwulf,” he said, and bumped the big trellwolf's head with his elbow. “And this is Vikingr. You have the look of your mother Halfrid when she was young.”
Isolfr stepped out of the line, away, where they would not block the muddy gateway. Othwulf followed, his brother at his side. Vikingr's muzzle was roaned with gray, but he still moved with the grace of a cat—a cat the size of a child's pony. Isolfr put his age at perhaps eighteen or nineteen years: a wolf in the mature prime of his life. Isolfr stole a sideways glance at the tawny Othinnsaesc head-wolf, whom Vikingr dwarfed.
That wolf must have a will of cast iron. Or perhaps the konigenwolf prefers blonds.
He bit his lip on the grin. “You knew my mother.”
“I was betrothed to your mother,” Othwulf said, his thin lips twitching into a smile. “I'm your father's brother, Isolfr. I was Sturla Sturluson before I was a wolfcarl.”
“Oh,” Isolfr said. Viradechtis leaned heavily against his hip, making coy eyes at Vikingr. He was grateful for the warmth; he didn't think he was shivering because of the biting wind—despite the break of the stockade—or the crunch of mud freezing under his boots.
“Oh?” Mildly, an expression that Isolfr could never remember having seen on Gunnarr's face arching Othwulf's brows and pursing his lips.
Isolfr swallowed. “It—explains a great deal.” Othwulf didn't answer immediately, and Isolfr shook himself, trying to break the terrible quiet that had settled over him. The motion startled Othwulf into laughter. “Come inside,” Isolfr said, when he could think what to say next. “You've journeyed far, and you'll want hot ale and meat and the bathhouse.”
Othwulf grinned and clasped his shoulder, and gave him a squeeze. “In just that order, too.”
Twelve wolfjarls sat to the Wolfmaegthing, and ten wolfsprechends—the konigenwolf of Bravoll would litter at the equinox and did not travel, and the wolfheall of Franangford, hard-hit that winter and still reeling, could not spare both wolfjarl and wolfsprechend. But, as the wolfjarl of Bravoll said a shade ruefully, it was not as if they did not already know and agree with what the absent wolfsprechends would say. Meanwhile, the Wolfmaegth of the North sprawled across the Nithogsfjoll wolfheall's compound, a vast, noisy, squabbling family, and waited their wolfjarls' decision.
They were not idle while they waited. Ulfgeirr and wolfcarls of similar authority from the other wolfheallan were dickering like farmers' wives at market, using the opportunity of the Wolfmaegthing to shake up their threats, get new blood. Thraslaug went to Franangford with two of Kolgrimna's pups, Harekr to Bravoll, Olmoth and Eitri to Kerlaugstrond, two of Asny's pups to Ketillhill. In return, wolves from Vestfjorthr, Kerlaugstrond and Thorsbaer joined the Nithogsfjollthreat. They did not trade with Othinnsaesc, Ulfgeirr said when Isolfr asked, because both Vigdis and Skald came from Othinnsaesc lines.
“And Arakensberg?”
Ulfgeirr snorted. “Ulfsvith, the wolfjarl of Arakensberg, is cross-grained—although if you tell anyone I said so, you're a dead man. He and Grimolfr have been scuffling for power like Mar and Glaedir these five years past. And Ulfsvith Iron-Tongue does not like it that Grimolfr called the Wolfmaegthing rather than leaving it to the discretion of Arakensberg. We would get nothing but troublemakers and weak wolves from Arakensberg this season, were I fool enough to ask, which I am not.”
Isolfr nodded, and paid closer attention to the Arakensberg wolves courting Viradechtis. Two were older wolves, one Skald's age, one probably fifteen or so; the third was a pup younger than Viradechtis herself. “Puppy-love,” his brother said resignedly, and he and Isolfr laughed.
Viradechtis was indulgent toward the pup, as she was
indulgent toward her own children; she was polite but unenthused about the oldest wolf. Isolfr only wished she would show the same restraint with the third wolf, Kjaran—or the scent of snow carried on a bitter wind. He was an odd-eyed gray, not as heavy-built as Viradechtis or her sire, but agile and fast and very, very smart. He and his brother were the indomitable runners from Arakensburg who had brought the news of the destruction of Jorhus what seemed a lifetime ago.
The problem was not the wolf. The problem was Kjaran's brother Vethulf, a tall, arrogant blue-eyed redhead of about Eyjolfr's age. Vethulf-in-the-Fire his werthreatbrothers called him, apparently for his temper as much as his hair—and for his love, demonstrated many times over the days of the Wolfmaegthing, of a fight. Isolfr had vivid memories of the young man struggling across the frozen fields, of the sharp and concise manner in which he'd spoken of the devastation of Jorhus. He seemed far more like a wolfheofodman than Isolfr could ever hope to be.
He tried to stay away from Vethulf, but that merely put him in the thick of things with the wolfcarls of the other wolfheallan, and Viradechtis made trouble wherever she went.
“You're as bad a flirt as Kolgrimna,” he told her, and she ignored him. And he understood that where Kolgrimna merely flirted out of boredom or malice or whatever it was that went on in her thick little skull, Viradechtis was thinking like a konigenwolf, encouraging competition among the dog-wolves so that she could judge their skill and speed and craftiness, so that she could choose her consort.
But it was disruptive, annoying to other konigenwolves, and inappropriate to the business of the Wolfmaegthing—and Isolfr himself was unnerved at the way she seemed to favor Vikingr. He tried not to imagine himself lying down for his uncle, tried especially not to imagine what his father would say when he heard of it, but he could not help knowing that there was nothing to stop Othwulf putting
himself forward as a candidate for wolfjarl when the time came—it was not as if Vikingr and Viradechtis shared unhealthily close blood and not as if the bloodlines of wolfjarl and wolfsprechend mattered at all.
In desperation, he went to Ulfgeirr and begged to be put to work. And Ulfgeirr smiled, not unsympathetically, and set him to stirring glue for the tents that needed mending. Hot foul-smelling work, but Isolfr was comforted by the thought that no one was likely to try to court him over it.
He reckoned, however, without the persistence of a stubborn wolf. Or two wolves. For Viradechtis followed him, and Kjaran followed Viradechtis, and inevitably Vethulf-in-the-Fire followed Kjaran—and found Isolfr. Who—red-faced, his hair lank with sweat, his hands spotted with burns—had never felt less capable of dealing with someone like Vethulf in his life.
Vethulf took in the scene, his eyebrows going up. And then, instead of doing the charitable thing and going away again, he came and stood beside Isolfr while Kjaran tried to lure Viradechtis into a game of tug-o-war with a scrap of waterproofed bullhide.
“So, I hear you are Othwulf Vikingrsbrother's brotherson,” Vethulf said, with a sidelong glance. “It must have been very different, growing up in the keep of a jarl.”
His tone was amiable, but the blue eyes were coolly mocking. Isolfr wondered with a sudden, horrible pang, if Vethulf had been talking to Ulfrikr. “Different from?”
Vethulf's gesture took in the yard of the roundhall, the packed men and beasts, the fire Isolfr sweated over, shirtless and smoke-smudged. “It can't be what you expected your life would be like.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Isolfr said, wiping sweat off his face.
“Well, you're willing to turn your hand to any work.”
He
has
been talking to Ulfrikr.
“And why should I not be? Am I not a wolfcarl?”
A few feet away, near where Ulfgeirr crouched on a stool, draped in leather, Nagli raised his head and whined.
The wolf might show concern, but there was no law of pack or man that said Isolfr must stand and be insulted by a wolfcarl, even if Viradechtis favored his brother. He leaned his weight on the paddle, stirring the stinking mess in the cauldron harder.
Vethulf said, “I only meant—”
“I don't care what you meant,” Isolfr said untruthfully. “I have work to do, so if you'll—”
Vethulf made an exasperated noise and pulled the paddle from Isolfr's hands, leaving Isolfr staring at him, bewildered. “Aye,” Vethulf said, beginning to stir the glue savagely, “and I see they're right that say you've prickles like a porcupine. Go find a stream to dunk your head in, Isolfr, and perhaps you'll be better company.”
Dismissed like a child, and Isolfr did go to the forest for most of the afternoon, though he and Viradechtis came back with little enough to show for it. The game was picked thin, wolves hunting anything, down to deer mice. It kept him away from the wolfheall, though, and so he did it more often—even, cravenly, fleeing altogether and hunting for several nights out. The scarcity of local game was a good enough excuse. He had not realized before how strongly he needed time to himself.
So he hunted; it was useful work, and it allowed him to roam as far as he pleased. He returned with game and went out again. Frithulf came with him. Kothran and Viradechtis made a formidable team. Sokkolfr looked wistful, but he and Ulfgeirr had their hands more than full with the Wolfmaegthing; Frithulf teased him that that was what he got for making himself invaluable.
The fourteenth day of the Wolfmaegthing—and all of them hoping it would be the last, before Signy and Vigdis caused a riot—Isolfr and Frithulf were kneeling together, companionably butchering a deer while Viradechtis and Kothran fought grand mock-battles over the entrails, when Frithulf said, abruptly, “When you go to start a new wolfheall …”
“Yes?” said Isolfr.
He looked up when Frithulf did not answer immediately,
and was surprised to see his friend blushing hotly. “Will you take me and Kothran with you?”
Isolfr's jaw dropped. He said stupidly, “Kothran will never be top wolf with Viradechtis.”
Frithulf snorted and glanced fondly at his brother, currently playing keep-away with some unsavory portion of the deer's innards. “Kothran's never going to be top wolf, no matter what wolfheall we're in. And that suits me fine.” He grinned. “You may find this hard to believe, but I don't
want
to be a wolfjarl. You know Sokkolfr's planning to follow you, and Ulfbjorn, and several others?”
“I …”
“And I want to be where you and Sokkolfr are.” For once, the expression in Frithulf's bright blue eyes was perfectly serious. “You're my pack.”
Isolfr nodded, his heart too full for speaking, and bent his head again to his work.
When they returned to the wolfheall, lugging the deer and a brace of rabbits, they found the doors of the roundhall still barred and the werthreat looking tired and grim. No decision had been reached. No solution had been found. And Isolfr didn't need to see Hrolleif to know what the issue was.
The issue hadn't changed.
There simply were not enough wolves, and there were not enough men, and they did not know what—if it were more than some dim, trellish instinct to expansion awakened after hundreds of years of border wars—was pushing the trellmaegth southward into the lands of men.
Isolfr and Frithulf delivered the meat to the kitchens, where a delighted and harried Jorveig greeted them with warmed ale and coarse rye bread smeared with bear fat, and then Isolfr scratched his light beard, made his excuses to his werthreatbrother, and went in search of somebody whom he had been taking pains to avoid.
Othwulf was making himself useful by the byre, doctoring the fevered hoof of a spotted cow while another man held her head. Their wolves were not in evidence, for which
Isolfr was deeply grateful, and he sent Viradechtis away as well before he approached the unhappy animal. Wise to the ways of skittish cattle, Isolfr made sure she could see him plainly as he walked up. He did not think Othwulf would thank him for a kick in the ear if the cow spooked, and it was already agitated enough about what the wolfcarl was doing to it with a heated knife.
The cow lowed and jerked hard. Othwulf must have gotten the angle he wanted, because he was rewarded—if that was the proper term—by a spurt of bloody, putrid pus across his hands and the smack of a befouled cow-tail across his skull. He swore and set the cow's hoof down, grinning as she lowed again, irritably, and put her full weight on the hoof apparently without noticing that it didn't hurt. “Ungrateful woman,” Othwulf said, and, holding his knife's pommel as if it were the tail of a dead rat, looked around for something on which to wipe his stinking fingers. For an instant, Isolfr could see his father's face in Othwulf's satisfaction at another problem seen to.
Mutely, Isolfr led him to the wellhead in the courtyard, hauled up a bucket, and sluiced the rot off Othwulf's hands and knife.
“Thank you, Isolfr.”
“You can thank me with answers, uncle.”

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