The Tempering of Men (24 page)

Vethulf said, “No sign of pups yet.”

“That was what went wrong, the … the first time,” Brokkolfr said.

“Breech-birth.” At Brokkolfr's startled look, Vethulf said, “I asked every wolfjarl I could for wisdom about birthing wolf pups, and your wolfjarl told me what he had to do.”

Brokkolfr blinked, hit with a sudden suspicion. “Is this the first time you've assisted at a birth, wolfjarl?”

“Well,” Vethulf said, and with a tight, teeth-baring grin added, “yes. I wasn't expecting Skjaldwulf to go haring off south.”

Brokkolfr knew he could have become angry—was even tempted, because it would be easier than the fear cramping his guts. But instead, he said, “It's my second one. And I was only watching the first time.”

Vethulf's snarl of a grin eased into something more like a smile. “So of the three of us, Amma's the only one who knows what she's doing.”

Brokkolfr was surprised by his own laughter. “I find that's usually the way of it,” he said, and surprised Vethulf into laughing, too.

*   *   *

They got lucky, and Brokkolfr was going to make an offering to Freya as soon as he could find something that would please her. This time, none of Amma's pups had turned the wrong way in her womb; although her labor was long and painful—longer and more painful than Isolfr described Viradechtis', Vethulf said, and Brokkolfr knew the other she-wolves of Othinnsaesc had never had as much trouble as Amma did—she bore four healthy dog pups over the course of that long day. Vethulf only left once, and that was to fetch water for Amma, and food and small beer for Brokkolfr and himself. Brokkolfr hadn't thought he could eat, but when Vethulf set down the platter of rye bread and cheese he discovered he was ravenous. Amma lapped the water thankfully, then laid her head back in Brokkolfr's lap. He fed her bits of cheese when she would take them, but mostly he rubbed her ears and talked to her in the bond while she labored to bring her sons into the world. Vethulf did the bloody part of the work, catching the pups to help Amma push them out, clearing their noses and mouths with his one good hand, then giving them to their mother. Brokkolfr offered once to trade, but Vethulf said, “No. All that's required at this end are steady hands and a strong stomach, and that any warrior can provide. But Amma needs her brother.”

And Brokkolfr felt the
winter apples
of Amma's agreement.

*   *   *

Once the four pups were born, and the afterbirths counted and given to Amma to eat, and once it was clear there was not a fifth, Vethulf dragged Brokkolfr back to the heall for a proper meal and another visit to the sauna. “I know you'll stay out there with her until you can persuade her to bring them in,” Vethulf said, “but in the meantime, eat and be clean, and I'll have a thrall gather up some extra bedding for you.”

“Thank you,” Brokkolfr said, then stopped, tongue-tied and uncertain of what he was trying to say. Finally, he said, “Thank you,” again, although it was inadequate.

Vethulf seemed to understand. “I've a vile temper and a viler tongue. Does not mean I am not your wolfjarl, Brokkolfr Ammasbrother.”

“Yes,” Brokkolfr said, meeting Vethulf's eyes. “You are my wolfjarl.”

Then Vethulf clouted him on the shoulder and said, “Don't fall asleep in there, or I'll have to send someone in to drag you out,” and strode off.

Brokkolfr felt as if the ugly lead-sealed knots in his gut had all been broken at once. He reached for Amma in the pack-sense, giving her his love for her and her pups, and got
winter apples
sleepily in return.

THIRTEEN

Skjaldwulf and his companions staggered into Siglufjordhur on the evening of the third day, in better order than Skjaldwulf thought they had any right to expect. There was no sign of Rhean pursuit. Determining that was what had caused the delay—the last thing Skjaldwulf wanted to do was lead an army down on a friendly settlement.

An army by his standards, anyway. Because when he had said to Otter, “But it's not that big, the Rhean army. Surely we can—” she had replied, infinitely tired, “Oh, wolfjarl. That is not the Rhean army. That is not even a legion of the Rhean army. That is a mere expeditionary force.”

“You mean…”

“I saw the Ninth Legion,” Otter said, “when they came to Brython, marching across our wheatfields with the sun dazzling off their helmets. Counting them would have been like trying to count the waves of the sea. Or”—her mouth twisted—“the ants of a hill. You can't imagine the Rhean
army
. Nor can I. I only know that I never want to see it.”

It was an idea at once dizzying and horrible, and Skjaldwulf tried neither to dwell on it nor to forget it.
Put out the fire burning your boots first,
he said to himself, and thus took care to be sure they came unencumbered to Siglufjordhur.

The lack of pursuit did not, in particular, reassure him. He understood it to mean that the tribune and his men had some more pressing business elsewhere, and whatever that business was, it boded not well for the Northmen.

But at least they had come to a place of defense.

Fargrimr came striding from the keep to meet them, his dirty-blond braids streaming behind him. The keep of Siglufjordhur was built on a rocky promontory, jutting out of the low hills like a tooth, and the wind scythed across its forecourt as if it had a personal grudge against the stones. Randulfr and Fargrimr met, embraced, and Randulfr made the introductions. Skjaldwulf remembered Fargrimr from the war, remembered seeing him at his father's shoulder on the battlefield, stone-faced and slim and wearing gauntlets of troll blood past his elbows. He nodded respectfully, wolfjarl to jarl's heir, and Fargrimr nodded back. The other wolfcarls at least knew what a functional son was, and Freyvithr greeted Fargrimr as a respected acquaintance, if not quite ally or friend. Otter's eyes were huge, but she held her tongue while Fargrimr led them in, handed the ponies over to a stableboy, and showed them the training arena where they would be housed.

“It rains in Siglufjordhur nine months of the year,” Randulfr said, grinning, “and while there are important lessons to be learned about mud, there are equally important lessons to be learned without it. My grandfather had this built when he expanded the stables.”

“But there is no need for practice when the real thing is encamped a league from our gates,” said Fargrimr, “and I thought the trellwolves might prefer this to the other options.”

“And you don't have to worry about your armsmen screaming that they're being eaten in the middle of the night,” Randulfr said.

Fargrimr punched him in the arm without even looking in his direction. “If you would prefer other arrangements, wolfjarl…?”

“No, thank you. This is excellent. But two of our party are not wolfcarls.”

“No,” Fargrimr said. “The godsman knows he will be welcome wherever he chooses to sleep.”

“Thank you,” Freyvithr said, bowing.

“And this is Otter,” Skjaldwulf said. Fargrimr's eyebrows went up as he got a good look at her brand. “She was the Rheans' translator.”

“It is no small feat to have taken her from them, then,” said Fargrimr.

“Boot's on the other leg,” Skjaldwulf said. “They captured me, and she helped me escape.”

“Ah,” said Fargrimr, and bowed to Otter. “Since my mother's death, we have few women about the keep, but I imagine we can—”

“I would rather stay here,” Otter said, and then looked anxiously at Skjaldwulf. “Is that all right?”

“Surely you'd be more comfortable—” Skjaldwulf started, but Otter laughed.

“This is more comfort than I've seen in a while, wolfjarl,” she said. “It isn't a tent.”

Skjaldwulf nodded in understanding. “She is my oath-daughter,” he said to Fargrimr, meeting his eyes steadily.

“Then her choice does honor to you both,” said Fargrimr. “You will find that the men of Siglufjordhur do not slander women, and if one of them does, I ask you to bring the matter to me. For he will not do so twice.” He nodded to the company, said more softly to Randulfr, “Father would speak with you, when you are settled, and yes, you may bring your sister.” Then Fargrimr turned and strode away, back to the entrance to the arena, where an armsman was waiting for him.

“Your people's ways are very strange, Iskryner,” Otter said to Skjaldwulf, and Skjaldwulf raised an eyebrow. Compared to the Rheans, what was so strange about any of this?

*   *   *

As if troubles indeed traveled in the flocks that proverb predicted, the next morning brought word to Franangford of a wyvern nest near the village of Othstathr. The boy who had spotted the molted skin at a cave entrance—also the boy sent with the message, and Vethulf appreciated the village headman's economy—had been smart enough not to go any closer, and he said he could lead the wolfcarls to it.

Vethulf wanted, rather badly, to tell somebody else to go. His shoulder had stiffened, swollen and hard, and he knew he was fevered—though Sokkolfr had cleaned the wound with stale urine and stitched it, so Vethulf did not think it would take poison. He was tired with the fight and tired with diplomacy—or what he passed off as diplomacy, in Skjaldwulf's absence—and furthermore, the village was far enough away that it would mean spending at least three nights away from the wolfheall. But he was aware of the thing Roghvatr had not quite said:
If there are no trolls, why should we support the wolfheallan?

From watching Skjaldwulf and Isolfr deal with the wolfless men of Franangfordtown, Vethulf had learned that while it was important that the problem be solved, it was also important that the wolfheall be clearly seen to care. That meant sending a wolfheofodman. With Skjaldwulf gone, Vethulf was also aware that, as far as the day-to-day concerns of the heall went, he was the one who could best be spared. You did not send your wolfsprechend to deal with a wyvern, and he did not like to think what would happen to the wolfheall without Sokkolfr paying careful, quiet attention to all the details everyone else missed.

The wolfjarl was a vital part of the heall, but that was because he was the leader when action was necessary, not because the heall's peaceful productivity relied on him.

Also, as wolfjarl, he was the one whose authority the wolfless men most readily recognized.

Vethulf chose three wolfcarls to go with him, being careful to select men whom he had not chosen for the bear-fight in Franangfordtown. He understood favoritism very keenly—more so perhaps than Isolfr, who had been a jarl's heir before he came to the heall and thus would never have seen what it was like
not
to be his father's most important child. Vethulf chose Ulfmundr and Hlothor from the old Franangfordthreat; Throttolfr and red Djurgeirr, threatbrothers of Vethulf's from Arakensberg; and Ulfvaldr and Reykr, the only pair who had come to Franangford from Bravoll.

Saying good-bye to Isolfr was awkward, but Vethulf did it anyway, determined to behave like a wolfjarl, not a child or a fool. Isolfr helped by making a face and saying, “My first night at Nithogsfjoll, I helped kill a wyvern. You may have this honor with my good wishes.”

“Thanks,” Vethulf said, grinning but also meaning it, and he left Franangford feeling—not lighthearted exactly, but as if he could handle whatever the world was about to throw at him. It helped that the distant pack-sense was no longer jangled and jagged with fear for Skjaldwulf. Even Isolfr couldn't tell exactly what had happened, but whatever it was, Skjaldwulf and Mar had come through safely.

They made good time to Othstathr. The boy, Haukr, led them confidently and at a pace swift enough to keep even Vethulf from fretting. Haukr was of an age for the tithe, and Vethulf, trying to think ahead as Skjaldwulf would want him to, made sure Haukr saw the wolves properly: not as monsters and not as dogs. When they camped the first night, Haukr asked Ulfmundr, diffidently, how Hlothor had been so badly injured; Vethulf was both pleased and startled to discover he had been successful.

“Ah,” said Ulfmundr, and although he was a formidable man with a thundercloud scowl, it was easy to see he was pleased to be asked. “That's the work of trolls, boy. The trolls of the Iskryne.” He nudged Hlothor, and the wolf flopped over obligingly, so that Ulfmundr could show Haukr (and the other wolfcarls, who were all watching) the track of the scars, from Hlothor's ragged ear, down neck and shoulder, across his ribs, and over the point of his hip.

“One swipe,” said Ulfmundr. “And how he escaped being gutted I still do not know. I slew the troll, and would have slain it twice in my rage, and when Hlothor came crawling to me out of the blood and muck, I carried him back to the surface and the wolfsprechends who stitched him together. I remember one of them told me it was all right to rip my shirts like that, but not my wolf.”

Everyone laughed, as Ulfmundr had intended, and Hlothor got up, indulged in a full-body shake, and ambled away to piss on a tree. But Vethulf had seen the look in Haukr's eyes, and he went to sleep satisfied that when they asked for a tithe from Othstathr, there was at least one boy who might volunteer.

*   *   *

The village was one Vethulf was not yet familiar with, for his duties as wolfjarl had so far kept him tied as if by apron strings to the heall. Really, he should be grateful to the wyvern for getting him out in the air, rather than sitting home playing nursemaid and construction boss. With the trolls gone, he thought, it might not be very long before the northern settlements grew more scattered, families moving out among their fields in isolated crofts. People lived farther apart in the South, he knew, an extended family in a longhouse wherever the soil would sustain them. In the North, folks had until now huddled in stockaded villages for survival.

Even before
this
village came in sight, Vethulf knew they were herders and woodcutters by trade. Its location up the rocky sweep of a fell precluded farming, and the wolves had been stopping to sniff piles of goat droppings for as long as it took the sun to move a palm's-width on the sky—ever since they broke out of the wood, in fact. In addition, Haukr had inquired—without undue anxiety—if he should run ahead and warn his father to lock the herds away before the trellwolves' arrival.