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Authors: Elizabeth Bear

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BOOK: A Companion to Wolves
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It was hard to believe that that had been only four and a half seasons gone by.
He knew before they came to the top of the hill what they would see. Viradechtis scented no blood, no death, no fire—no fire at all, not even the fire of hearths—and over it all hung the appalling reek of troll, and, what was worse, the serpent-musk of a wyvern.
And wyverns could see in the daylight.
This time, Viradechtis listened when Isolfr asked her to stay. She dropped her elbows, not quite lying down, hovering a finger's width over the pine needles. Isolfr was not so dainty; he pressed his belly to the damp ground and crawled, moving away from the trellpath. When he reached the bluff, he rolled behind the tangled roots of an undercut tree, steeled himself, and looked out over Ravndalr.
Ravndalr was not there.
Isolfr saw the small clearing where it had been, the friendly, bowering pines. The cottages that had clustered around a central well were so much wreckage. Heaps and layers of strewn earth lay over the pine needles and the cattle paths, red clay annealed in lumps on the timbers of destroyed cottages.
Clean-picked bones lay piled in the center of the clearing, but Isolfr could see no sign of trolls. Just the smell of them, thick as if he lay in the center of the whole warren. And then, horribly, he understood where they were.
They had chosen Ravndalr because of its prized clay bluff, and when they were done dining on the inhabitants, they had simply burrowed trell-caves into the sticky earth
itself, and gone to ground there. A whole warren indeed—and only a long day's ride from the keep that held Isolfr's own mother, his father, his brother Jonak, rising twelve, and his ten-year-old sister Kathlin, who might by now have retired the rag doll she had still slept with when he left.
He thought it was Viradechtis who whined, but when he glanced over his shoulder to quiet her, he realized it was himself, his own breath hissing through his painfully tightened throat.
Grimolfr has been hiding from us how bad things are,
he thought, and let his forehead fall down on his hands. He drew a breath between fingers sticky and black with pine tar, the scent of clean loam and pine needles clearing his head of the fear-miasma of troll.
I need the pack.
I cannot do this alone.
But the pack was a day away—a day there, and a day back. And there were wolfless men within striking distance. He couldn't leave; if the trolls began to move, there might be something he could do.
Die like a babe
, he mocked himself, and bit his fingers, hard, for the focus of the pain.
Then Viradechtis was beside him, pack-warmth and the scent of pine needles that were not fallen and brown. She nudged his armpit with the point of her nose, and Isolfr blinked at her and bit his lip, and wondered.
Help
, he thought, experimentally, reaching out to the pack-sense, surprised to find it there, not just Viradechtis but the whole pack, all the knowledge of the wolves, their presence and awareness.
Feel me. Please.
Feel
me.
Not words, of course, but need,
needing
his brothers and willing them to find him—
And to his absolute surprise, the wolfthreat felt him, and took notice.
 
 
N
ight was on them before the pack arrived, and the troll warren stirring. Isolfr and Viradechtis lay together
still on the bluff, watching. He had identified two main entrances to the warren and knew that the lower, the one farther from the bluff and what remained of Ravndalr, was the wyvern's lair, for not even the largest troll would need a hole of that size. He felt the pack before he smelled them, and he didn't hear them at all; even in the midst of his fear for his family and his father's liegefolk, his grief for Ravndalr, and his choking, all-consuming hatred for the trolls, he felt a warm ember in his chest that this was
his
pack, these his brothers.
He felt Grimolfr belly-crawling beside him, and did not startle when the wolfjarl said in his ear, “The pack says trolls.”
“They've …” It was hard to say it, even though he'd been staring at it for hours. “They've destroyed Ravndalr and warrened the bluff. There's a wyvern, too, farther entrance.”
“Do you know how many?”
“Enough?” Isolfr said hopelessly. “There's been movement, but they haven't really come out yet. Ravndalr was not … was not very large.”
“No, I remember it.” Grimolfr hesitated, then laid one hard hand on Isolfr's shoulder and said, “You've done well. Come now. We must plan our attack.”
And Isolfr wriggled back to where the rest of the pack waited, and felt for a moment giddy-headed with relief that it was not
his
burden any longer, that he could now do what he was told and let older, wiser heads do the thinking.
He pushed away the little voice that said, uneasily,
But Grimolfr has not been telling us the truth.
That was a different matter; tonight was simple: a battle to fight, people to defend, the dead to avenge, brothers to stand beside.
Communicating mostly through the pack-sense, trusting the wolves to carry the meaning of his murmured words to their brothers, Grimolfr said, “As we don't know how many of them there are, we can't let them get out in the open. But we don't want to let them lure us into the warren, either. In those tunnels, the advantage will be theirs.” He divided the
threat quickly into two groups—the smaller, but with more seasoned warriors, to take the near entrance, the larger to take the wyvern's hole. The key to beating a wyvern was distracting it, and thus the more moving bodies, the better. Isolfr found Frithulf beside him and gave his friend a half-smile.
“I'm glad
you
found
them
, instead of the other way around,” Frithulf said, and clouted Isolfr companionably on the shoulder. And they moved with the pack down into what had been Ravndalr.
It was ugly, dirty, brutal work, and it took them all that night.
When daybreak came, there were three men dead, and five wolves, but the wyvern had been hacked horribly to pieces, and Yngvulf, Grimolfr, Ulfgeirr, and Skjaldwulf, their brothers with them, were searching the halls of the warren to be sure they left no surviving trolls. Sokkolfr had Frithulf and Skirnulf helping him examine the wounded, and Isolfr, troll blood under his fingernails and matting his hair, labored with Hrolleif and the rest of the werthreat to drag the dead trolls together so that a pyre could be lit. You couldn't leave troll corpses to rot; they poisoned the ground, and even ten years later plants would be stunted and sickly.
At noon, Sokkolfr and the younger members of the werthreat started for the wolfheall, travoising their injured and dead behind them; Hrolleif sent Isolfr and Viradechtis with them, because he and Grimolfr needed Hringolfr—and Randulfr, who still limped, but not as badly. It was already plain to both Hrolleif and Isolfr that Viradechtis was more than capable of keeping order among a dozen wolves, especially when those who weren't injured were exhausted. Unspoken was the further consideration that this would keep Vigdis and Viradechtis separated a little longer. Isolfr knew that they were merely putting off a conversation that was going to be painful to both of them, but he was bone-weary and selfishly glad that the conversation
could
be put off a little longer.
“We should be no more than a day behind you,” Hrolleif said to Sokkolfr and Isolfr, and they nodded and set out for home. The werthreat's shoulders sagged; the wolfthreat's tails were dragging. The brothers of injured men kept the pack-sense roiling with their anxiety, and the men whose wolves were hurt were little better. Isolfr found his nails digging into his palms, found himself wanting to turn and howl at them all to shut up. He felt flayed with exhaustion, raw and a-twitch.
Sokkolfr touched his shoulder gently. “Isolfr? Did Viradechtis' heat go badly?”
“How should I know? We'd never done it before.” He was appalled at the bitterness of his words even as they came out of his mouth. “Sokkolfr, I'm sorry. Truly. I didn't—”
“Hush,” Sokkolfr said. “You have as much right as anyone.”
“To snap your nose off? No, I don't think—”
“Isolfr.” Exasperated now. “No one expects you to behave like a wolfless man. What you have to say, say it.”
Isolfr ducked his head, so that Sokkolfr wouldn't see him blushing. “Sorry.”
“Forgiven,” Sokkolfr said fondly, and Isolfr found the fretting of the pack-sense easier to bear after that.
They reached the wolfheall staggering with weariness, well after dark, guided the last mile and a half entirely by the wolfthreat's land-sense. But the gates were open when they got there, and Asny's brother waiting in the gateway to welcome them. He kissed Isolfr on both cheeks, as werthreatbrother to werthreatbrother, and Isolfr was so astounded it took a sharp nudge from Frithulf to keep him from simply standing there like a man struck to stone.
Two hours' worth of mad bustle, and the injured were settled, the dead laid out to wait until dawn for burning, the hale—or relatively hale—fed and bathed and settling into sleep, and Isolfr could make his way to the bathhouse and finally,
finally
wash away soot and blood and mud and the clinging grime of the wyvern's foul death.
He was close to drowsing with the heat and the blissful
relief of cleanliness when a voice said, amused, “If you fall asleep in here, it'll just mean Viradechtis has to drag you out.”
He startled, catching his head a sharp knock against the wall.
Eyjolfr was standing in the aisle, looking at him with his head cocked to one side.
“Eyjolfr.” Isolfr floundered to his feet, excruciatingly aware of his own nakedness when Eyjolfr was wearing shirt and trews, his hair lank with steam and his face shining with sweat. “I … I didn't know you were there.”
“I could tell,” Eyjolfr said dryly. As Isolfr came level with him, he reached out and laid his hand along Isolfr's cheek, turning his head gently so that they were looking at each other.
Isolfr's heart was pounding; he could not read the expression in Eyjolfr's eyes.
Eyjolfr smiled and said, “You are very beautiful, you know. Now go to bed before you fall asleep standing up.” His hand lingered a moment longer, an unmistakable caress; then he let Isolfr go and stood aside.
Isolfr bolted like a spooked deer.
 
 
L
ying in his furs and blankets that night, with Frithulf's back fitted warmly against his own and Viradechtis sprawled out like a wanton, her ears twitching against his chin, he tried to think on it like a konigenwolf's brother, not like the virgin Hrolleif had called him. Would it be so bad, if it was Eyjolfr?
Viradechtis adored Glaedir, and the silver wolf was not so much older than she that he had lost his humor. If he ever would: there was an enduring sparkle to that one. Moreover, Isolfr had not forgotten the arrogant power with which he had fought for the right to sire Kolgrimna's pups. He was worthy of Viradechtis—more worthy than Arngrimr.
And in a moment of selfishness, Isolfr thought of
Eyjolfr's hand on his cheek, and remembered Hrolleif's words.
Wolfjarls can be taught
.
Yes.
He thought Eyjolfr could be taught. If Randulfr had not taught him enough, already.
But that thought led to other thoughts, a different wolfjarl and a different kind of teaching. As soon as he could, he resolved, he would speak to Grimolfr. He might not be wolfsprechend, but he was Viradechtis' brother. And she had found the trellwarren. They had acquitted themselves well in the battle. And Grimolfr had sworn that he would treat Isolfr as a wolfcarl rather than a cub—
Yes. When the wolfjarl returned to the wolfheall, he would speak with Grimolfr. And find out what else the wolfjarl had been keeping to himself.
 
 
I
t almost had the air of ritual about it now. Isolfr came upon Grimolfr as Grimolfr was crouched beside Tindr, showing giant, purposeful Leif some detail of the pup's design, and waited respectfully until the wolfjarl stood and met his eyes. “You wish to speak with me, Isolfr?”
“Yes,” Isolfr said, and forced hands that wanted to clasp behind his back to relax at his sides as Tindr—freed—bounced up and planted both feet on Leif's belly, wriggling. Meeting Grimolfr's eyes wasn't easier than it had been, but it was more practiced, and perhaps—perhaps—Grimolfr did not lean quite so hard as he once might have. Isolfr lowered his voice, trying for the fair tone his mother used when she disagreed with his father, and came a step closer. “Wolfjarl, why have you not spoken before of how far south the trolls have warrened?”
“Have you considered that I have spoken, perhaps, and simply not to you?”
Isolfr hid his startle, but he couldn't stop his eyes from widening. Viradechtis bumped his knee; he noticed that Skald was nowhere to be seen. “I—” Then he firmed his jaw,
and didn't care that his tone went sharp. “Haven't I proved myself?”
BOOK: A Companion to Wolves
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