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Authors: Elizabeth Bear

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BOOK: A Companion to Wolves
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Words seemed very far away. There was the scent of the forest, the scent of the big male who gave chase, the weight of his shoulder against her hip. There was the rasp of blankets and the ache in his loins and the hard, seductive warmth of Sokkolfr's lean body just inches away. He needed to touch that body, needed to feed the heat inside him. The fire would consume him if he didn't give it something else to burn.
He reached out, not gently, and grabbed Sokkolfr's fingers. Sokkolfr flinched, but didn't snatch his hand back,
and frantically, Isolfr clawed after the words. Now,
now
, because Hroi was about to catch him, and he thought he couldn't bear to evade the big wolf again, and if Hroi caught him before Sokkolfr did, he thought—he was
certain
—the pain of the need would kill him then and there.
Words. He had words. They were stupid, bootless things, but he had them, and he needed them—
“You know what to do?” Through gritted teeth, and almost not words at all, but somehow Sokkolfr understood them and nodded. And then Sokkolfr grabbed him, savagely, as if a cord had snapped and freed him. Isolfr moved into it, rolled onto his belly, arms crossed under his chest, legs spread and knees braced as Hrolleif had showed him, feeling Sokkolfr's hands, his fingers, hasty, striving to be gentle and failing as Hroi's legs clasped Viradechtis' barrel. She pushed back against him, clumsy, inexperienced, then panicked at the touch of his sex on her vulva and jerked forward, yelping, twisting to snap at his face as he ducked away.
Sokkolfr cried out his wolf's frustration, clutching Isolfr as if Isolfr would try to wriggle away as well, but Isolfr was braced, trembling, his hands knotted on his own braids, the pain an anchor. Viradechtis snarled, tail clamped between her legs, her haunches to a fallen pine as Hroi minced up to her, ears pricked, tail up, head tilted just a little to show the konigenwolf his throat. She displayed long teeth and he paused, and through the pack-sense Isolfr could feel his hurt as well, his need and Sokkolfr's too as Sokkolfr froze in place.
“Show her,” Isolfr managed, somehow, shaking.
“Show who?” Sokkolfr's voice sounded very far away, as far away as Isolfr's own. The snarls and whines of their bondmates were closer, vibrating their throats, caressing their tongues.
“Show my sister what to do,” Isolfr said, and hollowed his spine, offering himself, and braced himself with his hands.
He felt Sokkolfr's hands pressing his buttocks apart, tried to relax, to remember Hrolleif's advice—
—and yelped like a puppy when something warm and wet and soft ran along the cleft between his buttocks. He was pushing back into the touch, frantically, even before he realized it was Sokkolfr's tongue. And then Sokkolfr's hands were hard against his hips, and his tongue was … his tongue was …
… his tongue was against her, lapping a wide wet path, and her hips were up, her tail canted aside, and the desire was there, hard and hot and needful …
… and Sokkolfr's tongue was pushing inside, easing the muscles, making ready for his fingers, which were slicked and strong, and his tongue moved lower, letting the fingers work but not relinquishing a single shred of the pleasure he was creating, and Isolfr keened between his teeth, unable to keep his hips from rocking, unable to tell his need from Viradechtis', and when Hroi mounted her, she was ready, unafraid, and Isolfr was crying out—no words now, only desperate begging cries, and when Sokkolfr's mouth and hands moved away, he wailed, his raw need overwhelming Viradechtis as well, so that this time at the touch of Hroi's sex she did not pull away.
Sokkolfr's hands were on his hips, Hroi's legs around her barrel. “Oh,” said Sokkolfr, a breath, a whine, and Isolfr felt him, felt slickness and heat and heaviness, felt Sokkolfr move
into
him, slowly, felt Hroi's sex inside her, felt the knot swell, locking dog and bitch together, and something trapped in Isolfr's chest was suddenly released. He did not know what to call it, love or care or desire, but it was there between them and it rode the pack-sense from Isolfr to Hroi, from Sokkolfr to Viradechtis, and they moved together, and the scent of pine-boughs and earth was strong around them.
 
 
W
olves are not men. They do not mate like men; they do not love like men. Isolfr knew that, knew that Viradechtis' need and Hroi's stamina would outlast his and
Sokkolfr's. He knew as well that this would not be like the first time; the act of mating would bring Viradechtis' estrus to a close within a day or two, and he had, in fact, felt some relief at the knowledge that it would not drag on in endless prickling heat and frustration.
But knowing is not the same as understanding. The strength of night came down around them while he was still stretched, half-drowsing, under the leisurely, rocking weight of Sokkolfr's body as they shadowed Hroi's slow, languorous tie with Viradechtis. Isolfr had long since sprawled on his belly, face cradled on his crossed arms, relaxed and half-drowsing as Sokkolfr nibbled his shoulder and nape and moved against him without urgency, without sharpness.
They were past that,
those
needs long seen to; this was about the wolves, and the pack. This was the heartbeat of the world, creation, destruction, brothers of the wolfthreat and werthreat, until Sokkolfr drew breath hard and flexed taut against Isolfr, not for the first time, and finally fell against his shoulders, sighing out bliss.
One minute, two, and Isolfr moved against his werthreatbrother restlessly, seeking in Viradechtis' stead—a reflex, a low driving thread of desire. Sokkolfr laughed against his neck and kissed him behind the ear, and said softly, in almost-human tones, “You know, they'll be at it all night.”
“Mmmm,” Isolfr said, pushing into Sokkolfr's warmth. He couldn't help it; his body moved with his sister's, and the heat was still driving her, low, and sweet, and unfinished. He whimpered complaint as Sokkolfr moved back, stroking his shoulders, and Sokkolfr laughed again. “How would you like to be on top for a while, Isolfr?”
“
Me
?” Isolfr said. He rolled onto his back under the bridge of Sokkolfr's body and set his hands on Sokkolfr's waist.
“There's no reason you can't,” Sokkolfr said reasonably. “
They
won't mind.”
“But …”
Sokkolfr stroked his hair back from his face. “Please?”
“You want me to?” His voice was nothing more than a whisper, his eyes wide. He had never imagined such a thing being
offered
to him, not unless he was as lucky as Hrolleif in his wolfjarl. And he certainly hadn't imagined Sokkolfr would … would …
Would lie down for him.
He sat up, said, “I don't know what to do.”
“Well, Ulfgeirr explained it to me very carefully,” Sokkolfr said in his dry, straightfaced way. “So I imagine I can explain it to you.”
“Oh,” said Isolfr, and of course Ulfgeirr had explained, had shown, as well—“Sokkolfr, I don't want …” But he couldn't explain, couldn't find the words, and the heat was growing in his belly and thighs. “I don't want to hurt you.”
“You won't,” Sokkolfr said, and moved easily to hands and knees, arching his back down.
A silence, and then Isolfr said in a small voice, feeling himself blush, “Do you know where the salve's gotten to?”
Sokkolfr snorted laughter into the blanket. “It's around here somewhere.”
They both ended up looking for it in the uncertain firelight, and found it at last under the pine boughs that made up their bed. Sokkolfr said, “Ulfgeirr said, don't worry that you're using too much. Because you won't be.”
“All right,” Isolfr said. His breathing was faster, his own eagerness like a fire sweeping through his body with every beat of his heart.
Sokkolfr went to his knees, resting his forearms on the blanket. “And put it on yourself as well as on—in me.”
“Yes,” said Isolfr.
The salve was something Jorveig made, the smell medicinal but not unpleasant. Isolfr was lavish with it. Sokkolfr said, slightly muffled against the crook of his elbow, “Ulfgeirr said, go slow.”
“We didn't do very well with that part,” Isolfr said, teasing a little, and felt more than heard Sokkolfr's laughter.
“It's different, with a bitch. I mean, in heat. It's not like …”
“Had you done it before?” He was working slowly, the conversation helping to distract him from his own need, from the dense animal pleasure saturating the pack-sense.
“Not very often,” Sokkolfr said. “But yes. The wolfheofodmenn make sure of it, you know, that no one comes virgin to mating.”
“Wise of them,” Isolfr murmured. Sokkolfr was relaxed with the hours of their lovemaking; he opened easily, his long body willing and pliant, and Isolfr had to bite hard on his lower lip to keep from saying anything stupid.
“Yes,” Sokkolfr said. “Isolfr, I wish—”
“Hush,” Isolfr said gently, and just then he found within Sokkolfr what Hrolleif had once found within him and marveled at his own satisfaction as Sokkolfr cried out in pleasure. There was no talking after that, need simmering in both of them, partly theirs and partly their wolves', but Isolfr was slow, careful, and Sokkolfr's sigh when Isolfr at last pressed close against him was of satisfaction, not of pain.
They rocked together, their wolves with them, within them, and made something new in the world.
 
 
T
he winter was war. The trolls pressed southward, as relentless as the snow from the mountain heights, and Ulffred himself, who was older even than Hrolleif, was heard to comment that there had never been so many in living memory, no, nor in the memories of any wolfcarl he'd known in his long life. It was not a hard winter, no colder than most, and game was thick in the wood. The wolfheofodmenn were helpless to explain the reason behind the inundation of trolls. Fortunately, they were not helpless to
fight
it, and they were likewise fortunate that—as if they had suffered casualties enough in the spring—wolves and men alike emerged scatheless from battle, again and again.
It was a miracle, Othinn's gift that could not last.
Viradechtis, growing fat with cubs, chafed for the hunt but was spared it, and Isolfr chafed with her. He paced the hall, fretful in their confinement, and showered his sister with treats and attention when Hroi was not present to spoil her. Glaedir did also—not a tremendous surprise, but a meaningful one, that he paid court to Viradechtis even when she was great with another wolf's young.
As Eyjolfr paid
his
court to Isolfr, between battles. A
polite, understated sort of court, it was true, and one suited to a wolfcarl and not a woman—Isolfr chuckled to think of his mother or sister offered the beaten bronze rings from a troll's gnarled fingers as a curio—but it was court nonetheless. Viradechtis betrayed no interest beyond the companionate, and Isolfr understood. It was not the way of the wolfthreat to seek pleasure in their mating when there were no young to be made.
It
was
the way of the werthreat, and his time with Sokkolfr had reawakened something in Isolfr that he had almost forgotten, among the business of his new life as a wolfcarl. He had his admirers among the camp followers and the thrall-women of the wolfheall, and he took himself to them when desire was on him, in a sort of casual way, less finicky as a wolfcarl than he had been as a jarl's son. He remembered rejecting that option when Viradechtis was a puppy, but could not remember why. The women of the wolfheall were warm and willing, and they understood the ways of wolves as much as anyone not bonded could. But they could not help his loneliness, and so he also had a different, sharper awareness that Eyjolfr's courtship had as much to do with himself as with Glaedir and Viradechtis—and that Eyjolfr's lover Randulfr, whose Ingrun might be second bitch to Viradechtis when she was only fourth under Vigdis, was not opposed—and with that knowledge weighing him, he once or twice permitted Eyjolfr liberties he might otherwise have refused.
And at night, he slept between Sokkolfr and Frithulf, Viradechtis great-bellied and snoring beside him, and that gave him comfort.
 
 
O
ne of Hrolleif's particular ideas was that wolves and wolfcarls needed to accustom themselves to going among wolfless men—and that wolfless men needed to be accustomed to seeing trellwolves so that they would not think them monsters as terrifying as trolls.
In practice, this meant that when the wolfheall did business in Nithogsfjoll village, it did so with wolves in attendance, and the wolfcarls, especially those with young wolves, were encouraged to take their exercise in that direction. Ironically, now that Isolfr belonged to the wolfheall, he spent more time in the village than he ever had when he belonged to the keep.
Viradechtis enjoyed the village, and as her girth slowly expanded with her growing pups, she and Isolfr walked there more and more often. It was easier on her than the tangled thickets and steep ravines of the forest, and Isolfr noticed that even those villagers who were most uneasy with the wolfheall did not seem to be frightened by the gravid young konigenwolf. Several of the village matrons would rise from their spinning or sewing and come to their doors when they saw Isolfr's flaxen head, to ask about the progress of Viradechtis' pregnancy and share wisdom from their own, sometimes far more explicit than he was prepared for. The younger ones especially seemed to delight in making him blush.
But it was Hjordis Weaver who asked him boldly one afternoon, “Does she like to be petted, as dogs do?”
Hjordis was nearly twenty-five, a grown woman, unmarried only because Einarr Skeggason had died of a pleurisy three winters back. She was tall, big-boned, her hands strong and callused from spindle, wheel and loom. But her eyes were bright and merry as a girl's still, wickedly teasing, and Isolfr knew he was blushing when he said, “Yes.”
He didn't need to say anything at all, he thought, his embarrassment lessening when he saw that Viradechtis' ears had perked. She knew the word “petted.”
“Would she let me, do you think?”
“Give her your scent,” Isolfr said. “She will not bite you, that I promise.”
Hjordis smiled at him and extended her hand. Viradechtis snuffled it, her tail waving cheerfully, and then nudged—gently by her own standards, but hard enough to stagger anyone not braced for it. Hjordis laughed, mingled startlement
and delight, and then began to scruffle Viradechtis' ears in a way guaranteed to make a trellwolf melt like butter in the sun.
“Don't lean on her, sister,” Isolfr said and, shyly, to Hjordis, “She still knocks me down sometimes, when she forgets she's not a puppy.”
“How old is she?”
It took a moment for Isolfr to reckon. “It must be more than six seasons by now.”
“Not so far removed from a puppy, then. And yet already a mother. Do young creatures grow up so fast in your wolfheall, Isolfr?”
His gaze, startled, came up to her face. She smiled, blue eyes dancing, both hands now rubbing just behind the hinge of Viradechtis' jaw while the konigenwolf moaned and made silly faces of delight. He swallowed, and gave her a smile he might have given Alfleda, once. “Aye. Aye, they do.”
Her expression warmed, and she said, “Would you and your lady like to step inside out of the cold?”
His heart hammered. She was not beautiful—long-nosed, raw-boned—but she wanted him. She cared nothing for the politics of werthreat and wolfthreat, cared nothing that he was brother to a konigenwolf. Her smile was for him, and he said, “Yes, we would like that very much,” and was astonished at his own daring.
Hjordis Weaver smiled and welcomed him into her house. And not very much later, into her bed.
 
 
I
ngrun littered first, and Isolfr worried, but Hrolleif patted his shoulder and told him it was often so, with first litters, and that some bitches simply took longer than others.
Viradechtis' time came with the thaw. The restlessness was on Isolfr with the first spring rains; he and Viradechtis paced the roundhall together, scarcely noting the sidelong looks from the werthreat. The wolfthreat watched with
grave interest, and he was astonished by the fondness that permeated the pack-sense, not merely for Viradechtis, but for himself. They wished him well, wished her well, and even as it amazed him, it made the restlessness, the aches and twinges, easier to bear.
Viradechtis chose a corner in the kitchen storeroom behind the hearth for her den, inconveniently, but not surprisingly. Ingrun and her three pups—big males, all of them—were already ensconced in the record-room, and bitches would rarely share a den when their pups were new.
Isolfr wished that Hrolleif could have helped him, but it had been perfectly clear that Viradechtis would not tolerate Vigdis near her birthing den, and they both knew it would only get worse when the puppies were actually born. So Isolfr was left with Grimolfr as his guide, and all Isolfr could think of was Skjaldwulf's old stories and how many bitches in them died littering.
“I've helped with more litters than Hrolleif has,” Grimolfr pointed out, coming upon Isolfr and Viradechtis in the storeroom, she pacing in small, fretful circles, he sitting in the corner watching her, feeling such anxiety it was hard to breathe.
Isolfr knew it was true, that the wolfjarl sat with every littering wolf, whereas the wolfsprechend could sit only with his own. But it did not help. There was no ease in his relationship with Grimolfr. He wished he could have Sokkolfr beside him, but it was unwise to have too many men in the room, especially with a first litter.
“She is young, strong, and not so crowded with pups as Asny was. Do not fear until there is reason for it.”
Sound advice. Isolfr only wished he could follow it. He sat with Viradechtis that night as she lay down, panting, rose, paced, muttering again as she had at the onset of her first heat, talking in almost human tones. Grimolfr sat with him, speaking occasionally of trivia, small things. Then, quite abruptly: “I hear you are keeping company with Hjordis Weaver.”
Isolfr startled. “Aye. Is that …”
“Oh, 'tis no problem. Hjordis is her own woman, and all know it. But if you lie with her, then you may get her with child. Yes?”
“Yes,” Isolfr agreed, feeling himself go red.
“'Tis a thing that happens,” Grimolfr said, more gently. “And in sooth it is a good thing, for village and heall both. For wolfcarls are strong men, and their blood is vigorous. But what you must know is that the wolfheall owes duty to your children as much as it does to your wolfsister's.”
“Oh?”
“Sometimes the woman wishes to keep the child, and we are too wise to come between a mother and her cub.” A flash of a grin. “But if she does not or cannot, as also sometimes happens, then the child comes to us. It is not a bad thing to be heall-bred, as both Hrolleif and I can tell you.”
“What if the child is a girl?”
“Then we dower her. Many jarls are happy to wed the good will of the Wolfmaegth. And any wolfheall needs women like Jorveig, or Hilde who is mistress of the flocks. And boys can be apprenticed, if they do not wish to follow their father. It is not thralldom, Isolfr.”
“No, I see that. And thank you for—”
He had been watching Viradechtis, because it was easier than trying to meet Grimolfr's eyes, and he saw another contraction ripple across her belly. She turned her head, ears up, as if startled by it, and whined low in her throat. Isolfr's hands went to his mouth like a girl's at the rush of fluid that followed, soaking her tail and hocks, and he started forward, but Grimolfr's hand on his shoulder stayed him. “It's her water breaking. It won't be long.”
And of course Isolfr knew that, couldn't be a jarl's son in a keep full of cows and pigs and serving-wenches, and the eldest of three children, without knowing that. But it was different, now, because it was Viradechtis, and he could feel her contractions rippling her belly, feel her urgency and her nervousness and her desire to be
done
.
Isolfr sat back, and waited for her to come and shove her
great head roughly against his chest, her coarse, slick coat warm between his fingers. He held her tight, chin between her ears, and she leaned into him when she strained again. “It's not bad for her to be walking around?” Just to be saying something,
doing
something, although the only one there to hear it was Grimolfr.
“Trust the wolf,” Grimolfr said, his voice rough with some emotion Isolfr couldn't identify. “The pack knows how to birth pups.”
And they did, Isolfr realized, unfolding into the pack-sense, feeling dogs and bitches—present and absent—aware of Viradechtis in her labor, ears tuned, hearts laboring in time. Ingrun was there with her, calm and satisfied, knowing, experienced, and behind her were Vigdis and Asny and even Kolgrimna. Isolfr squeezed Viradechtis tight, awed and terrified at the thought that he could have gone his whole life without knowing this, a wolfless man—
And then she whined and pulled away from him, and lay heavily on the folded blankets piled under the bottom shelf, panting, her flanks rippling with effort, and Isolfr glimpsed bloody white membrane and dark fur before the pup slipped back inside. Grimolfr went to her side, gesturing Isolfr forward impatiently. “When he breaches again, hold him—gently—and help. It's less work for the bitch if she doesn't have to start over again with every push, and once she gets the shoulders out he'll come fast.”
Isolfr nodded, his hands spread, ready to catch. When the puppy appeared again, he grabbed the slick, tiny paws in trembling hands and held them, not so much pulling as resisting the pup's tendency to slip back in. Viradechtis whined and
pushed
, the will of the wolf-pack behind her, and Isolfr's hands were full of slimy puppy.
“Clear his mouth,” Grimolfr said, as the wolf curled curiously around to see what was happening. “And then give him to his mother so she can bite the cord.”
Isolfr did, although his hands were shaking. Viradechtis snuffled her first-born, bit through the cord, and then cleaned him with two swipes of her tongue. And Isolfr
watched, wide-eyed, as the pup struggled forward, pushing with his almost useless legs, and found his mother's teat. “Good boy,” Grimolfr said softly, and Isolfr did not ask if he meant the newborn pup or the shaky-handed wolfcarl. Grimolfr showed Isolfr how to deal with the afterbirth, and advised him not to watch while Viradechtis ate it.
BOOK: A Companion to Wolves
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