A Companion to Wolves (19 page)
Read A Companion to Wolves Online
Authors: Elizabeth Bear
Never follow a running troll.
Men who did, Grimolfr said, were never seen again, neither alive nor dead, and the wolfthreat could not find them.
Othinn, god of wolves, god of battles
âhe feinted and
slashed, and a troll went staggering back, its face gone in a torrent of black blood.
God of memory and thought, god of the old wisdom.
The tunnels were uncanny, twisting at angles that seemed wrong, shadows collecting in odd corners, and there was more decoration, here below, that Isolfr did not dare to look at for fear of being enthralled, as it was said the prey of dragons were enthralled by their eyes.
âhe feinted and
slashed, and a troll went staggering back, its face gone in a torrent of black blood.
God of memory and thought, god of the old wisdom.
The tunnels were uncanny, twisting at angles that seemed wrong, shadows collecting in odd corners, and there was more decoration, here below, that Isolfr did not dare to look at for fear of being enthralled, as it was said the prey of dragons were enthralled by their eyes.
Viradechtis lunged, sinking her teeth into the upraised arm of a troll before it could bring its hammer down. A sow, Isolfr noticed, her six teats heavy with milk, her tiny red eyes glaring with berserker madness as the arm Viradechtis wasn't rending came swiping forward, aiming for Isolfr's eyes. She wore bronze rings in her mane, and they chinked oddly against the blade of his axe as he took her head off.
When the massive body fell, he saw that she had been guarding a doorway; Viradechtis was staring through it, snarling in a low, terrible, incessant rumble, and Isolfr, having checked that there were no other trolls in this piece of tunnel, stepped forward to see what the trellsow had been guarding.
He nearly vomited: a nursery, thick with the mingled reek of carrion and troll, a litter of four shrieking spidery black troll kittens rushing at him, their red eyes as mad and hateful as the sow's. Viradechtis hunted them like rats, breaking their necks with vicious efficiency. Isolfr killed the last of them as it tried to sink its teeth into the leather of his boot. And although he tried not to look, he saw the gnawed sphere of a human skull among the offal of the kittens' nest.
And where would they find such meat in the mountains?
And where would they find such meat in the mountains?
Back into the tunnel, back into the red smoky light of torches and small fires already burning. Down a slope pitched too steeply and with a twist halfway down that was
wrong
, terribly wrong although he could not have explained how, and he found himself in a wider hall, filled with men and trolls and wolves. He realized, going to the aid of a wolfcarl who wore Franangford's device, that the
fighters here were all sows, and judging by the smell, and the weapons they carried, and the heavy slabs of muscle that made their blows as devastating as the kick of a draft-horse, they were the metalworkers. He remembered the trellsow they'd found in his second battle with the creatures; he'd never imagined so many in one place before. He'd thought the one they'd killed was a camp follower like the women in the wolfheall compound. But these were not whores or hedge-witches or even women like Jorveig, whom Isolfr had seen deck a drunken wolfcarl when there seemed no other way of getting him out of her kitchen; these were warriors and artisans, and he felt a sudden pain of empathy, realizing that they were defending their home.
wrong
, terribly wrong although he could not have explained how, and he found himself in a wider hall, filled with men and trolls and wolves. He realized, going to the aid of a wolfcarl who wore Franangford's device, that the
fighters here were all sows, and judging by the smell, and the weapons they carried, and the heavy slabs of muscle that made their blows as devastating as the kick of a draft-horse, they were the metalworkers. He remembered the trellsow they'd found in his second battle with the creatures; he'd never imagined so many in one place before. He'd thought the one they'd killed was a camp follower like the women in the wolfheall compound. But these were not whores or hedge-witches or even women like Jorveig, whom Isolfr had seen deck a drunken wolfcarl when there seemed no other way of getting him out of her kitchen; these were warriors and artisans, and he felt a sudden pain of empathy, realizing that they were defending their home.
Kallekot,
he said to himself, hacking his way forward grimly.
Ravndalr, Jorhus.
Others and others and
Othinn, god of death, god of war, god of carrion and blood. God of the screaming, god of the dying, god who weighs and listens.
He found himself fighting shoulder to shoulder with one of the wolfcarls from Kerlaugstrond who had been giving him so much trouble, and there was no hostility between them now, as they and their wolves worked together to wreak the ruin of this trellwarren.
he said to himself, hacking his way forward grimly.
Ravndalr, Jorhus.
Others and others and
Othinn, god of death, god of war, god of carrion and blood. God of the screaming, god of the dying, god who weighs and listens.
He found himself fighting shoulder to shoulder with one of the wolfcarls from Kerlaugstrond who had been giving him so much trouble, and there was no hostility between them now, as they and their wolves worked together to wreak the ruin of this trellwarren.
Othinn, watch for us.
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t took the better part of two days for the army, Wolfmaegth and wolfless men, to clear the warren, and it was butcheryâas Grimolfr had said. Their casualties were severe: a band of artisan-boys from Arakensberg's territory panicked and fled in the face of a concerted rush, and though all of them died for their stupidity, so too did seven wolves and ten wolfcarls. And that was merely the worst of the Wolfmaegth's losses.
t took the better part of two days for the army, Wolfmaegth and wolfless men, to clear the warren, and it was butcheryâas Grimolfr had said. Their casualties were severe: a band of artisan-boys from Arakensberg's territory panicked and fled in the face of a concerted rush, and though all of them died for their stupidity, so too did seven wolves and ten wolfcarls. And that was merely the worst of the Wolfmaegth's losses.
Frithulf had been badly burned in the fighting with the bronze-workers. “You always were prettier anyway,” he said to Isolfr, and they both knew he had been lucky not to lose an eyeâor both of them. But the wound would be slow
in healing even if it did not fester, and it would scar badly, a spill of shiny knotted flesh down cheek and jaw and neck. Kothran lay as near to Frithulf as he could get, his head in Frithulf's lap more often than not, and Isolfr knew, for he could feel it through the pack-sense, how much Kothran's presence helped with the pain and the sick aftereffects of being so burned. All the wolves with wounded brothers stayed close to them. The army's wolfsprechends were kept busy preventing dog-wolves from becoming as protective of their brothers as a bitch of her pups, allowing the wolfheofodmenn close enough for the rough doctoring at their command.
in healing even if it did not fester, and it would scar badly, a spill of shiny knotted flesh down cheek and jaw and neck. Kothran lay as near to Frithulf as he could get, his head in Frithulf's lap more often than not, and Isolfr knew, for he could feel it through the pack-sense, how much Kothran's presence helped with the pain and the sick aftereffects of being so burned. All the wolves with wounded brothers stayed close to them. The army's wolfsprechends were kept busy preventing dog-wolves from becoming as protective of their brothers as a bitch of her pups, allowing the wolfheofodmenn close enough for the rough doctoring at their command.
Vethulf Kjaransbrother did a great deal of that doctoring. Although his manner with the wounded men was brusque, his bandaging was meticulous, and he was kind and quiet with injured wolvesâsomething that startled Isolfr, for he would not have thought the red-headed wolfcarl was capable of gentleness. More typically, it was Vethulf who started calling Frithulf “the Half-Burned,” and that byname quickly replaced the old one, though Isolfr and Ulfbjorn were at some pains to make sure that Frithulf never heard it.
It was one more petty excoriation on top of dozens on top of fatigue and cold and endless responsibility, responsibility deep enough to drown in, and Isolfr surprised himself by retaliating one night, “accidentally” tripping Vethulf, quite spectacularly, while his hands were full of musk-ox dung cakes for the cooking fire. Wolfcarls did not duel; they were forbidden the hide and the holmgang for the sake of the wolves. But Isolfr would not have minded if Vethulf had taken a swipe at him. A fistfight would suit him fine, a couple of good swings and a scuffle to clear the air, nothing dangerous enough to involve the wolves. Just something raw and simpleâa chance to black one of those mocking eyes, a chance, however fleeting, to meet Vethulf simply as man to man instead of this endless prickly skirmishing between wolfsprechend-in-waiting and one who would be wolfjarl.
What he got was Vethulf picking himself up, dusting powdered dung from his hands, and shooting Isolfr a glare that should have started that fire right then. Vethulf-in-the-Fire, indeed. But then he squared his shoulders and turned away without a word, as offended as a splashed cat. Isolfr tried to feel that he'd won a victory, but all he felt was a nauseating kinship to Ulfrikr.
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solfr found himself returning to the trellwarren whenever he was not needed, not merely to escape the miasma of pain and unhappiness and muted fear that overhung the camp, but because it troubled him. He did not see beauty in trellish patterns, or in the way they worked metal, or in the terrible angles and proportions of their dwelling place, but he could not deny that he saw purpose. “They intended this,” he said to Viradechtis, running his fingers over a strange design, sinuous and jagged, wreathing an archway in the depths of the warren. “They work metal. They must have some language, mustn't they?”
solfr found himself returning to the trellwarren whenever he was not needed, not merely to escape the miasma of pain and unhappiness and muted fear that overhung the camp, but because it troubled him. He did not see beauty in trellish patterns, or in the way they worked metal, or in the terrible angles and proportions of their dwelling place, but he could not deny that he saw purpose. “They intended this,” he said to Viradechtis, running his fingers over a strange design, sinuous and jagged, wreathing an archway in the depths of the warren. “They work metal. They must have some language, mustn't they?”
Viradechtis cocked her head. She was uninterested in what trolls did when they were not dying under her claws and teeth, but she listened to Isolfr uncomplainingly as always.
“Could we talk to them, do you think?” he said, ducking through the archway. “Could we negotiate?”
That word, Viradechtis knew, having heard it a great deal in the recent tension with Kerlaugstrond. Her answer was emphatic: a vivid, brutal memory of the stench overlying Ravndalr, jumbled with images of the trellherig and other places where they had arrived too late and could only be witnesses to what the trolls had done.
“Point taken, sister,” Isolfr said, and then he frowned, forgetting his train of thought, peering into a corner well back from the doorway. Viradechtis stayed close as he advanced cautiously into the roomâa storeroom, it looked like, if trolls stored anything, but possibly a prison or a shrine or something he did not know enough about trolls to imagine.
“They didn't intend that,” he said, and only when he jumped at the echoes of his own voice did he realize he'd spoken out loud.
There was a hole in the corner, between floor and walls, the sort of hole a giant mouse might chewâbut not in solid rock. “Are there stone mice, do you think?” he said to Viradechtis, picturing them briefly, little granite beasts with bright quartz eyes.
The stench is making me light-headed.
He needed to leave soon, he knew, but he stepped just a little closer. Those were worked edges, and not worked by trellclaws or the crude tools the trolls had. He did notâquiteâreach out to touch the lip of the hole, but he did ask Viradechtis what she smelled.
He needed to leave soon, he knew, but he stepped just a little closer. Those were worked edges, and not worked by trellclaws or the crude tools the trolls had. He did notâquiteâreach out to touch the lip of the hole, but he did ask Viradechtis what she smelled.
Troll
, she reported dryly, and then, cautiously investigating the edges of the holeâwhich he was relieved, in an odd way, to find unnerved her as much as it did himâ
oldness, anger. Not-troll.
, she reported dryly, and then, cautiously investigating the edges of the holeâwhich he was relieved, in an odd way, to find unnerved her as much as it did himâ
oldness, anger. Not-troll.
But more specific than that, she could not be.
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t was the first warren, but it was not the only one. The second was much like the first, although Isolfr fought beside Sokkolfr and Ulfbjorn this time, because Frithulf Half-Burned had returned with the wounded to the camp among Iskryne's roots. This was a bigger warren, delved until no air moved at the bottom of its passages, older, and the strange ragged decorations were worked deeper in the rock of the gateways and walls. There were wyverns here, three of them, and it was siege and pitched battle to clear that warren. Despite a half-formed plan, Isolfr did not have the chance to search the deep caverns for stone mice. In fact, he barely made it out of the warren alive, for the trellsowsâand it now seemed plain that the females were the artisansâcollapsed the deep caverns rather than surrender them. It was Othwulf and Vikingr's sharp nose that led them out, and Isolfr pretended not to notice that
Gunnarr Sturluson was among the fifty men they brought to safety up from the deeps. It was just as well, because Gunnarr Sturluson pretended not to notice Othwulf, or Isolfr either.
t was the first warren, but it was not the only one. The second was much like the first, although Isolfr fought beside Sokkolfr and Ulfbjorn this time, because Frithulf Half-Burned had returned with the wounded to the camp among Iskryne's roots. This was a bigger warren, delved until no air moved at the bottom of its passages, older, and the strange ragged decorations were worked deeper in the rock of the gateways and walls. There were wyverns here, three of them, and it was siege and pitched battle to clear that warren. Despite a half-formed plan, Isolfr did not have the chance to search the deep caverns for stone mice. In fact, he barely made it out of the warren alive, for the trellsowsâand it now seemed plain that the females were the artisansâcollapsed the deep caverns rather than surrender them. It was Othwulf and Vikingr's sharp nose that led them out, and Isolfr pretended not to notice that
Gunnarr Sturluson was among the fifty men they brought to safety up from the deeps. It was just as well, because Gunnarr Sturluson pretended not to notice Othwulf, or Isolfr either.
Much could be said of Nithogsfjoll's jarl, but not that he was a coward. He acquitted himself brilliantly in combat, time and again. Even Grimolfr acknowledged it, his teeth set on edge as he suffered Isolfr to bind a wound that had laid his forearm open almost to the bone. It should have been Hrolleif's place, to tend the wolfjarl's injuries, but Hrolleif was not there. And Vethulf was avoiding the entire Nithogsfjollthreat.
The third warren was abandoned, and Isolfr found more of those mouse-holes gnawed in its deeps. Not big enough for a man, not quite. But big enough for the boy he had been.
And so the third trellwarren brought them to the fourth, and men and wolves that Isolfr had known and respectedâand men that Njall Gunnarson had known, as wellâlaid down their lives in the cold of the mountains, and the sun climbed high overhead until it made a second, unceasing crown beyond the crown of the Iskryne.
The solstice was upon them. Grimolfr did not say, but Isolfr knewâfrom the meetings of the jarls and the wolfheofodmenn, to which he was not invitedâthat if they did not wish to die in the snows of winter, they would have to turn back soon.
The gates of the fourth trellwarren were barred.
The remains of Grimolfr's armyâfor all that there was not so much rank among wolfjarls as negotiation, Grimolfr's generalship had arisen as naturally as a curl of smoke from a heap of ashâdrew up before the gates, and wolfcarls exchanged uneasy looks with wolfless men. Not only had there been no gates in the other warrens, but no sign that gates had ever been intended, and these were vast brazen things, worked with twisting designs. They could not have been improvised.
This was a new thing, and Isolfr did not like it.
Fortunately, the trolls were not so adept in the art of defense as the Northmen were; there were no arrow-slits to guard the portal, no holes for falling stones or boiling oil. And Gunnarr had the answer, damn him. Without consulting Grimolfr or anyone else, he sent a party to the second trellwarren, and there they pulled timbers from the rubble and brought them back, to be slung between chains to make a battering ram.
It was a good plan. Even Isolfr could admit it, although he wondered at the tenaciousness of trolls who would haul lumber all the way north from the taiga around Nithogsfjoll, which would be the closest source of trees.
The doors came down over what would have been a night, had it not been solstice at the top of the world, and the ringing was like hammer-struck bells. No one slept. Isolfr, missing Frithulf more terribly than he could have imagined, diced with Ulfbjorn and Randulfr while Sokkolfr played camp-master for Nithogsfjoll, buying Ulfgeirr and Nagli a precious few hours of sleep. He didn't care to remember that it had been four years since he left his father's house. He was a wolfcarl and a man of twenty summers, and that was enough.
He didn't care to be reminded of his father's house at all. When the sun had swung round her post again, lower to the north than the south but never quite dipping low enough to darken the sky, the gates of the trellwarren came down, and men and wolves alike massed before the entryway. It was greater than the other warrens, the main tunnel leading in and down on a long easy slope, to all appearances unguarded. The air that rose from the deeps was warm, and smelled of blood and fire. Isolfr breathed deep despite the stench, soothing his cold-aching lungs. Someone passed up torches; as they cast light into the depths, Isolfr caught the glint of hammered metal. Something squealed like a pig; the cry echoed.
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