Juliet Marillier - Wolfskin 1 - Wolfskin

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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: Juliet Marillier

Name: Wolfskin

Series: No series name given but the direct sequel will be publish 2004, called Foxmask.

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Wolfskin

By Juliet Marillier

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ONE

Winter bites hard in Rogaland. Sodden thatch shudders under its blanket of snow. Within the earthen

barns sheep shiver and huddle, their breath small clouds. A man can lose himself in the drifts between

byre and longhouse, and not be found again until the spring thaw. The pristine shroud that covers him is

deep, but his long sleep is deeper still. In such a season the ice forms black and hard on lake and stream.

For some, it is a good time: merchants whip their horses fast along the gleaming surface of the

waterways, sledges piled high with pelts of squirrel and winter hare, with sealskins and oil and walrus

tusks, with salt fish and fine embroidery. Boys dart across the river on their bone skates, quick as

swallows, voices echoing away to lose themselves among the pale twigs of the winter birches.

It was Yuletide, and today there was no skating. The wind screamed around the temple, demanding entry

through any chink or cranny its piercing fingers might discover. The timbers creaked and groaned in

response, but held firm. So far, the roof had not leaked. Just as well he'd climbed up and shifted some of

the weight off the shingles, Eyvind thought. The place would be full to bursting for the midwinter sacrifice.

Folk were already streaming into the valley, coming by sledge and on foot, on skis or skates, old men

carried on their sons' backs, old women pulled on hurdles by red-faced children or panting dogs. The

wind died down, as if holding its breath in honor of the occasion, but a new storm was coming. Dark

clouds built in the west.

Eyvind had been working hard. The temple was on his mother's land, though shared by all in the

surrounding district, so the burden of preparation fell squarely on the household at Hammarsby. He'd

spent the morning chopping wood, stacking the pungent-smelling logs by the central hearth, making and

banking the fire. It was nearly time for the ceremony; he should stir the coals now and put on more fuel.

The white goat could be heard outside, bleating plaintively. His sisters had swept the stone floor clean

and stripped the cobwebs from the rooftrees, while his mother, Ingi, polished the bronze surfaces of ritual

knives and bowls to a bright, sunny sheen. These now lay ready on the altar at the temple's northern end.

Cold light pierced the shingled roof above the hearth. From the altar, Thor's image stared down at

Eyvind. Bushy browed, full-bearded, the god's wooden features held an expression of ferocious

challenge. In his iron-gloved right hand he gripped the war hammer, Mjollnir; his left was held across his

chest, to signify the making of some vow. Eyvind stared back, meeting Thor's gaze without blinking, and

his own hand moved to his breast as if returning a pledge of allegiance. Till death, he thought Thor was

saying, and he whispered his answer, "Till death and beyond."

The air was crisp and chill, the sacred space clean and quiet in the cold winter light. Later there would be

a press of bodies in the temple, and it would be all too warm. As Eyvind used the iron poker to stir the

embers to life, there was a sound from the entry behind him. He turned to see a tall, broad figure striding

toward him, hair and beard touched to dark gold by the glow of the rekindled fire.

"Well, well, little brother! I swear you've doubled in size since the harvest!"

Eyvind felt a huge grin spreading across his face. "Eirik! You're home! Tell me where you've been, and

what you've been doing! I want to hear everything!"

His brother seized him in a brief, hard embrace, then stretched out his hands to warm them before the

flames.

"Later, later," he laughed. "Time enough for all that after the sacrifice. We'll have many tales, for I do not

come alone."

"Hakon is here too?" Eyvind asked eagerly. He admired Hakon almost as much as he did Eirik himself,

for his brother's friend had earned his wolfskin at not quite sixteen, which was generally thought to be

some sort of record.

"Hakon, and others," Eirik said, suddenly serious. "The Jarl's kinsman, Ulf, is with us; a fine man, and a

friend of ours. He's brought his young brother and several of his household. They're on their way to Jarl

Magnus's court. Ulf has a wish for some delicate silverwork, I think to impress a lady.

I made it known to him that our sister's husband is skilled in this craft. They will spend some nights here,

in any event; the storm looks likely to prevent further travel for a little. The Jarl himself was urgent for

home. He has a new son, bred when we came back from the spring viking; he is gone ahead, but we

have time before we must join him. He will not set out again before spring's seeding is attended to." He

glanced at his brother, and his tone changed. "Eyvind? I've a favor to ask you."

"What?"

There were new sounds from outside now, the rapid approach of many folk, voices raised in greeting.

"Later," Eirik said.

Eyvind asked him no further questions, though it was hard to wait. Eirik was his hero. Eirik was a

Wolfskin. That was the most glorious calling in the whole world, for surely nothing could surpass the

moment when you heard Thor's call to battle ringing in your ears, pulsing in your blood, filling every

corner of your being with a red rage that shut out any thought of fear. To charge forward in pure courage,

inspired by the god himself—that bold vision tugged at Eyvind's thoughts by day and filled his dreams by

night. What matter if a Wolfskin's life were short? Such a warrior, once fallen, would be carried straight

to Thor's right hand. One day he himself would pass the test, and become one of that band to which Eirik

and Hakon belonged, as had many of Eyvind's kin in times past. The men of Hammarsby had a noble

tradition in the Warfather's service. So Eyvind practiced with the bow and with the axe. He ran and

climbed, he skated and swam. He shoveled snow and hunted and grew strong, awaiting that day. Eirik's

tales kept his dreams alive. Later, perhaps his brother would tell of the autumn viking, the riches

plundered, the battles won.

The folk of the district crowded into the temple, along with the men of Jarl Magnus's household, warrior

and swineherd side by side. The high seat, its wooden pillars carved with many small creatures, was

allocated to Ulf, kinsman of the Jarl, and by him stood the two Wolfskins, gold-bearded Eirik and the

taller, hawk-featured Hakon. Each wore his short cloak of shaggy fur, fastened on the shoulder with an

ornate silver brooch. Both were well armed: Eirik had the lethal skeggox, or hewing axe, on his back,

and Hakon bore a fine sword, its hilt plated with copper. The nobleman, Ulf, was young: not so much

older than Eirik himself, Eyvind thought. He had many folk with him, probably housecarls called into

service for the autumn viking, with a few richly dressed men who might be part of Jarl Magnus's

household elite, or Ulf's own retainers.

Eyvind's eldest brother, Karl, began the ceremony, his solemn features glowing warm in the fire's light.

Eyvind was pleased with that fire; the smoke was rising cleanly through the roof opening to disperse in

the cold air outside. Karl was no warrior. His choice had been to stay at home and husband the land, his

brothers' portions as well as his own. It was a decision that, in hindsight, had been both wise and

prudent, for their father, Hallvard Karlsson, had died in his prime, falling nobly in the service of the old

Jarl, and leaving Ingi a widow. A young man with a young family of his own, Karl had simply stepped

into his father's shoes. Now he and his mother controlled a wide sweep from hilltop to fjord, and

commanded great respect in the district. All the same, Eyvind had never understood how his brother

could prefer that existence over a life as Thor's warrior. Yet Karl seemed content with what he was.

"Master of storm, tamer of waves, iron-fisted one!" Karl now addressed the god in ringing tones. "Hewer

of giants, serpent-slayer, worthiest of warriors! In blood, we honor you! In fire, we salute you! In the

shadow time, we seek your protection. May your strong arm guard us on land path and sea path. Smite

our enemies and smile on our endeavors."

"Hewer of giants, serpent-slayer, worthiest of warriors!" the assembled folk chanted, and their voices

rose with the fire's heat to ring out across the snow-blanketed hills and the dark fir trees, straight to the

ears of the god himself. Eyvind joined in the response, his gaze on Thor's staring, formidable eyes. Now

Ingi walked slowly around the temple, bearing the ritual arm-ring on a small embroidered cushion. Over

many hours a fine smith had wrought there an image of the world tree with its attendant creatures: the

serpent Nidhogg at its deepest roots, the noble eagle at its tip, the squirrel Ratatosk scampering between.

The pattern went right around the ring; a man could never see the whole of it at one time. They held the

sacrifice at first frost, at midwinter and in spring; at all other times, this treasure was well locked away

from curious eyes. One hand after another reached out to brush reverently against the gleaming gold: girls'

hands still soft and milk-pale, men's hands branded by axe shaft and bowstring, gnarled old hands that

knew many winters on the land. All moved to pledge allegiance to the warrior, Thor, and to Odin, who

had hung on that selfsame tree in search of wisdom. Even the thralls, clustered like a body of shadows at

the far end near the door, stretched out tentative fingers as Ingi passed.

Karl lifted one of the ritual knives from the altar. The goat was struggling, afraid of the crowd and the fire.

It seemed to Eyvind that the boy who clutched its neck rope could not hold the creature much longer. If

he let go of the rope, the goat would free itself and bolt across the crowded temple in a chaos of hooves

and horns. One could not offend the god thus. Eyvind got up and moved forward, relieving the red-faced

lad of his charge, soothing the animal with soft words and a careful hand.

"Go on, then," he muttered. Karl raised the sacrificial knife; the firelight shone bright from its bronze

blade. Eyvind tightened his grip, forcing the white goat's head back, exposing pink, naked skin where the

hair on the throat grew more sparsely. Perhaps sensing the inevitable, the creature made one last

desperate surge for freedom. But Eyvind's hands were strong. "Hurry up!" he hissed.

The knife came down, swept across. It should have been easy. Karl was a farmer; slaughtering stock

was a routine task for him. But at the vital moment, a bird shrieked harshly above the smoke hole, and

somehow the knife slipped sideways, so the blood did not spurt free and scarlet, but only seeped dark

against the pure white hair. The goat screamed, and went on screaming. The god was displeased. Karl

stood frozen, knowing the omen was bad for them. Thor's eyes were fierce and angry on his back.

"Here," said Eyvind. He took the knife from his brother's fingers, holding the bleeding goat with one hand,

fingers twisted in the rope. His legs were on either side of the creature, forcing its agonized form still. This

must be done well, now, or there would be failed crops, and sick beasts, and death and defeat on the

field of war.

"Iron glove guide my blade," Eyvind said, fixing the god's wooden eyes with his own. "In your name,

great battle god!"

There was only one way to do such things: hard and swift, straight across, near severing the neck. Fast,

accurate, and merciful. How else could a clean kill be made? The screaming ceased. The white goat went

limp. Eyvind's sisters held the bronze bowls to catch the blood. There was no telling what Thor thought of

the manner of it, but at least Eyvind had done his best. He turned to face the folk, helping Karl to lift the

slaughtered goat high so the blood could flow into the bowls. Drops spattered hands, faces, tunics. The

altar bore a pattern of red spots; a bloody tear trickled down the face of the god.

I will kill cleanly for you, Eyvind told Thor, but not aloud. Let me be a Wolfskin, and I will be your

bravest warrior. Braver than Hakon; braver even than Eirik. All that I am, I will give you. He

looked down the temple toward the great assembly of folk, and straight into a pair of eyes so dark, so

piercingly intense that his heart seemed to grow still a moment, then lurch painfully back into life. His mind

had been on Thor, and blood, and sacri-

Juliet Mar ill ier

fice, and for a moment he had thought—but no, this was only a boy, a lad of his own age or maybe

younger, who stood among the richly dressed entourage of the nobleman, Ulf. But how he stared. He

looked at Eyvind as a starving wolf gazes at a man across the wayside fire, wary, fascinated, dangerous.

The boy was pale and thin, his brown hair straggling unplaited, his mouth a line. His features were

unremarkable save for those feral eyes. Eyvind blinked and looked away.

The girls bore the brimming bowls down the temple, white fingers dipping the blood twigs in, splashing

bright crimson on floor and wall, anointing pillar and hearth and door frame, marking each man and

woman with the sacrifice. When the bowls were empty, Karl laid them on the altar beside the knives, and

the goat was dragged outside to be gutted and prepared for cooking.

"Warfather, we toast you this day of Yule!" Karl raised his great drinking horn. Ingi had passed between

the men, pouring the ale with care: one would not wish to offend Thor by spilling any before the toasts

were complete. "All hail, great battle leader!" Karl called. They drank.

"All hail mighty Thor, smiter of serpents!" Ulf cried, rising to his feet and lifting his own horn, a fine piece

banded in silver. The men echoed his ringing tones and drank again.

"We salute you, crusher of giants!" Eirik's voice was as fierce as his weathered countenance. So the

toasts continued, and as they did the patch of sky darkened above the roof aperture, and the inside of the

temple glowed strangely in the fire's light. The boy was still staring; now the flames made twin points of

brightness in his night-dark eyes. Thunder cracked in the sky above; sudden lightning speared the sky.

The storm was on its way.

"Thor is well satisfied," said Eirik. "He calls his greeting to our small assembly; it is a hearty war song.

Come, let us move close to the fire, and pass the day with good drink and feasting and tales. A long

season we spent on the whale's way, with the wind biting cold through our tunics and never a drop of ale

nor a woman's soft form in our sight. We thank the god for guiding us home safely once more. We thank

him for our glorious victories, and for the rich spoils we carry. In the growing season, we shall sail forth

again to honor him in deeds of courage, but for now, it is good to be home. Let him look kindly on our

celebration."

There were many tales told that day, and the more the ale flowed, the more eloquent the telling. There

were tales of Thor's valor and Odin's cunning, tales of dragons and heroes. Eyvind sat close to his

brother, Eirik, savoring every moment. Of such stuff are dreams made. He wanted Eirik to tell them

about the autumn viking: where they had been, what battles they had fought and what plunder they had

brought home. But he did not ask. It was enough, for now, that Eirik was here.

That boy was still watching him. Perhaps he was simple in the head. Eyvind tried staring back; the boy

met his gaze without blinking. His expression did not change. Eyvind tried smiling politely, though in fact

he found the constant scrutiny unsettling. The boy gave a little nod, no more than a tight jerk of the head.

He did not smile.

At length, the fire burned lower. The smell of roasted goat flesh lingered. Bellies were comfortably full of

the rich meat, and of Ingi's finest oatcakes. The temple was warm with good fellowship. Thor, it seemed,

had overlooked the imperfect manner of the ritual, and chosen to smile on them.

Hakon spoke. "I have a tale," he said, "a tale both sorrowful and inspiring, and well suited for Thor's

ears, since it tells of a loyalty which transcended all. It concerns a man named Niall, who fell among

cutthroats one night when traveling home from the drinking hall. Niall had on him a purse of silver, with

which he planned to buy a fine horse, and ride away to present himself to the Jarl's court. He was not

eager to give up his small hoard and his chance to make something of himself, for Niall, like many another

young farmer's son, was not rich in lands or worldly possessions. He had worked hard for his silver. So

he fought with hands and feet and the small knife that was the only weapon he bore; he fought with all his

strength and all his will, and he called on Thor for help from the bottom of his lungs. It was a one-sided

struggle, for there were six attackers armed with clubs and sharpened stakes. Niall felt his ribs crack

under boot thrusts and his skull ring with blow on blow; his sight grew dim, he saw the night world

through a red haze. It occurred to him, through a rising tide of unconsciousness, that this was not a good

way to die, snuffed out by scum for a prize they would squabble over and waste and forget, as he himself

would be forgotten soon enough. Still he struggled against them, for the will to live burned in him like a

small, bright flame.

"Then, abruptly, the kicking stopped. The hands that had gripped his throat, squeezing without mercy,

slackened and dropped away. There was a sound of furious activity around him, grunts and oaths,

scuffling and a sudden shriek of pain, then retreating footsteps, and silence.

"An arm lifted him up. Odin's bones, every part of his body ached. But he was alive. After all, the gods

had not forgotten him.

" 'Slowly, slowly, man,' the voice of his rescuer said. 'Here, lean on me.

We'd best make our way back to the drinking hall; you're in no fit state to go farther.'

"The man who had saved Niall's life was young, broad, and big-fisted. Still, there was only one of him.

" 'How did you do that?' Niall gasped. 'How did you—'

"The stranger chuckled. 'I'm a warrior, friend, and I keep a weapon or two about me. Thor calls; I

answer. Just as well he called tonight, or your last breath would be gone from your body by now. My

name's Brynjolf. Who are you?'

"Niall told him, and later, when his wounds were dressed and the two men were sharing a jug of good ale

by the fire, he explained to Brynjolf his plans to present himself to the Jarl, and seek a place in his

household.

" 'But my money is gone,' Niall said ruefully. 'My silver, all that I had saved—those ruffians took it. Now

I have nothing.'

" 'You have a friend,' Brynjolf grinned. 'And—let me see—perhaps not all is lost.' He made a play of

hunting here and there, in his pockets, in his small knapsack, in the folds of his cloak, until at length, 'Ah,'

he exclaimed, and drew out the goatskin pouch that held Niall's carefully hoarded silver. Brynjolf shook

it, and it jingled. 'This is yours, I think.'

"Niall took the pouch wordlessly. He did not look inside, or count the money.

" 'You wonder why I did not simply keep this?' Brynjolf queried. 'When I said you had a friend, I spoke

the truth. Let us travel on together. I will teach you a trick or two, for a man with such scant resources

will not get far beyond the safe boundaries of the home farm, unless he learns to defend himself.'

"So Niall and Brynjolf became the best of comrades, and on the way to the Jarl's court they shared many

adventures. And they swore an oath, an oath deep and solemn, for each scored his arm with a knife until

the blood ran forth, dripping on the earth, and they set their forearms together and swore on their mingled

blood that they would be as brothers from that day on. They vowed they would put this bond before all

other loyalties, to support one another, to stand against the other's enemies even until death. This oath

they swore in Thor's name, and the god smiled on them.

"The years passed. Brynjolf joined the Jarl's personal guard, and acquitted himself with great valor. Niall

learned to use the sword and the axe, but he was not cut out to be a warrior. In time, he discovered he

had a talent for making verses, and this pleased the Jarl mightily, for men of power love to hear the tales

of their own great deeds told in fine, clever words. So, remarkably, Niall became a skald, and told his

tales at gatherings of influential men, while his friend journeyed forth with the Jarl's fleet in spring and in

autumn, to raid along the coast of Friesland and Saxony. When Brynjolf returned, they would drink

together, and laugh, and tell their tales, and they would pledge their brotherhood anew, this time in strong

ale.

"One summer Brynjolf came home with shadowed eyes and gaunt features. Late one night he told Niall a

terrible story. While Brynjolf had been away, his family had perished in a hall-burning: father, mother,

sister, and young brothers. A dispute had festered over boundaries; this had grown to skirmishes, and

then to killing. Late one night, when all the household slept, the neighbor's men had surrounded the

longhouse of Brynjolf's father, and torched it. In the morning, walking among the blackened ruins of the

place, folk swore they could still hear screaming, though all were dead, even the babies. All this, while

Brynjolf himself was far away on the sea, not knowing. When he set foot on shore, they told him, and

saw his amiable face become a mask of hate.

"Niall could think of nothing to say.

" 'I will find the man who did this,' Brynjolf muttered, cold-eyed, 'and he will pay in kind. Such an evil

deed invites no less. He is far north in Frosta, and I am bound southward this summer, but he and his are

marked for death at my hand.'

"Niall nodded and said nothing, and before seven days had passed, his friend was off again on the Jarl's

business. Niall put the terrible tale in the back of his mind.

"It was a mild summer and the earth wore her loveliest gown. Flowers filled the meadows with soft color

and sweet perfume, crops grew thick and healthy, fruit ripened on the bushes. And Niall fell in love.

There were many visitors to the court: noblemen, dignitaries, emissaries from far countries, landowners

seeking favors. There was a man called Hrolf, who had come there to speak of trading matters, bringing

his daughter. Every evening, folk gathered in the hall, and in the firelight Niall told his tales and sang his

verses. The girl sat among the women of the household, and he thought her a shining pearl among plain

stones, a sweet dove among barnyard chickens. Her name was Thora, and Niall's heart was quite lost to

her snow-pale skin and flax-gold hair, her demure features and warm, blue eyes. As he sang, he knew

she watched him, and once or twice he caught a smile.

"Niall was in luck. He was shy, and Thora was shyer. But the Jarl favored his skald, and spoke to Hrolf

on Mall's behalf, and at length, her father agreed to consider the possibility of a marriage in a year or so

when the girl was sixteen. For now, it would not hurt the young man to wait. They might exchange gifts.

Next summer, Niall could visit them in the north. All things in good time.

"The lovers snatched moments together, for all the watchful care of Thora's keepers: kisses in shadowed

hallways, one lovely meeting at dusk in the garden, hidden by hedges of flowering thorn. They sang

together softly; they taught each other verses of love. Niall told Thora she had a voice like a lark; she

giggled and put her arms around him, and he thought he might die of joy and of anticipation. Then

summer drew to a close, and Hrolf took his daughter home.

"Brynjolf did not go on the autumn viking that year. He excused himself from court and traveled north,

and with him he took his blood brother, Niall the poet. To distant Frosta they journeyed, and by the

wayside, they acquired two large, silent companions, men with scarred faces, whose empty eyes filled

Niall with dread. There was no need for Brynjolf to tell him where they were going, or for what purpose.

It was a quest for vengeance, and Niall's oath bound him to it. He fixed his thoughts on the summer, and

on his sweet Thora. Life would be good: the comforts of the Jarl's court, the satisfaction of exercising his

craft, the joys of marriage. He must simply do what had to be done here, and put it behind him, for there

was a rosy future ahead.

"They moved through deep woodlands by night. At the forest fringe, Brynjolf halted them with a hand.

Not far below them lay a darkened long-house, a thread of smoke still rising from the chimney. The folk

were abed; a half moon touched the roof thatch with silver and glinted on a bucket set neatly by the well.

" 'Draw your swords,' whispered Brynjolf. 'Not one must escape: not man, woman nor child. Go in

quickly. There may be dogs.'

"Then they lit torches from the one Brynjolf had carried, and with naked sword in hand, each ran to a

different side of the building. Niall's was the north. He saw the flare of dry wattles catching to east and

west; so far, the dogs were silent. But it seemed not all there slept. From within the darkened house,

close to the place where he stood frozen, clutching his flaming brand, came the sound of a girl singing.

She sang very softly, in a voice like a lark's, a little song known only to a pair of lovers who had crafted it

one summer's eve in a sheltered garden."

As Hakon recounted his tale, there was a deathly silence in the temple.

Some of his audience had seen this coming, knowing the way of such tales, yet still the horror of it

gripped them.

"What could he do?" asked Hakon. "Thora was there, in the house, and already flames rose on three

sides of the building, hungry for wattles and timber and human flesh. She was the daughter of Brynjolf's

enemy, the man who had cruelly slaughtered his friend's entire family. Niall loved her. And he had sworn

a blood oath to the man who had saved his life. 'Let me die this day for what I do,' muttered Niall. 'Let

my eyes be blind and my ears deaf. Let my heart break now, and my body be consumed in this

conflagration.' And he reached out with his flaming torch, and set fire to the wattles on the northern side.

"It was a vengeance full and complete. The flames consumed all; there was no need for swords. When it

was over, Brynjolf paid off the hired men, and he and Niall went homeward. Brynjolf thought Niall a little

silent, a little withdrawn. Still, reasoned the warrior, the skald led a protected life. He was not

accustomed to acts of violence, to the daily witnessing of sudden death. Indeed, if it had not been for

Brynjolf's own intervention, Niall would not have survived to journey forth from the home farm and

become a man of wealth and status.

"They returned to the Jarl's court. For a long time, Niall made no more poems. He pleaded illness; the

Jarl allowed him time. Brynjolf was somewhat concerned. Once or twice he asked Niall what was

wrong, and Niall replied, nothing. Brynjolf concluded there was a girl in it somewhere. Folk had

suggested that Niall had a sweetheart, and had planned to marry, but now there was no talk of that.

Perhaps she had rejected him. That would explain his pallor, and his silence.

"Winter passed. Brynjolf went away on the spring viking, and Niall made verses again. Over the years,

and he had a very long life, he made many verses. He never married; they said he was wed to his craft.

But after that summer, his poems changed. There was a darkness in them, a deep sorrow that shadowed

even the boldest and most heroic tale of war, that lingered in the heartiest tale of good fellowship. Niall's

stories made folk shiver; they made folk weep.

"A young skald asked him once why he told always of sadness, of terrible choices, of errors and waste.

And Niall replied, A lifetime is not sufficient to sing a man's grief. You will learn that, before you are

old.'Yet, when Niall died as a bearded ancient, Thor had him carried straight to Valholl, as if he were a

dauntless warrior. The god honors the faithful. And who is more true than a man who keeps his oath,

though it breaks his heart?"

After Hakon had finished speaking, nobody said anything for a long while. Then one of the older warriors

spoke quietly.

"You tell this story well, Wolfskin. And it is indeed apt: a tale well suited for this ritual day. Which of us, I

wonder, would have the strength to act as this man did? And yet, undoubtedly, he did as Thor would

wish. There is no bond that can transcend an oath between men, sworn in blood, save a vow to the god

himself."

There was a general murmur of agreement. Glancing at his mother, Eyvind thought she was about to

speak, but she closed her mouth again without uttering a word.

"It is a fine and sobering tale," Karl said, "and reminds us that an oath must not be sworn lightly. Such a

tale sets a tear in the eye of a strong man. My friends, the light will be fading soon, and some have far to

travel."

"Indeed," said Eirik, rising to his feet. "It grows late and we must depart. I and my companions have

journeyed far this day; we return now to my mother's home, to rest there awhile. You'd best be on your

way while it is still light, for the storm is close at hand. There will be fresh snow by morning."

It was as well the longhouse at Hammarsby was spacious and comfortably appointed. A large party

made its way there, arriving just before the wind began to howl in earnest, and the first swirling eddies of

snow to descend. The nobleman Ulf and his richly dressed companions, the two Wolfskins and a number

of other folk of the Jarl's household gathered at Ingi's home. The wind chased Eyvind in the small back

doorway; he had arrived somewhat later than the others, after staying behind to make sure the fire was

safely quenched and the temple shuttered against the storm. The instant he came inside he saw the boy

standing in the shadows by the wall, arms folded around himself. There was nobody else in sight; they

would all be gathered close to the hearth's warmth. Eyvind spoke politely, since he could hardly pretend

the strange lad was not there.

"Thor's hammer, what a wind! My name's Eyvind. You're welcome here."

The boy gave a stiff nod.

Eyvind tried again. "Looks like you'll be staying with us a few days. There'll be heavy snow tonight; you'd

never get out, even on skis."

There was a short pause. Then the boy said, "Why did it scream?"

Now it was Eyvind's turn to stare. "What?" he asked after a moment.

"The goat. Why did it scream?"

What sort of question was that? "I—because the sacrifice wasn't done properly," Eyvind said. "It

screamed because the knife slipped. It was hurt and frightened."

The boy nodded gravely. "I see," he said.

Eyvind drew a deep breath. "Come on," he said, "it's warmer by the fire, and the others are there, my

brother and Hakon, and the guests. My brother is Eirik. He's a Wolfskin." There was a satisfaction in

telling people this.

"I know," said the boy. "Eirik Hallvardsson. And there's another brother, Karl, who is not a Wolfskin.

Your mother is Ingi, a widow. Your father died in battle."

Eyvind looked at him. "How do you know that?" he asked.

"If I'm to stay here until the summer, I must be well prepared," the boy said flatly. "It's foolish not to find

out all you can."

Eyvind was mute.

"Your brother didn't tell you," said the boy. "I see that. I have a brother too, one who has an inclination to

build ships and sail off to islands full of savages. He doesn't want me. I'm to stay here and learn what

other boys do with their time. You're supposed to teach me."

Eyvind gaped. If this was the favor his brother had spoken of, it was pretty one-sided. The boy was pale

and scrawny; he looked as if he'd never held a sword or a bow in his life, he spoke so strangely you

could hardly understand what he meant, and he stared all the time. What was Eirik thinking?

"I'm not going to say sorry." The boy was looking at the floor now, his voice a little uneven. "It wasn't my

idea."

There was a brief silence. "It's all right," Eyvind said with an effort. "It's rather a surprise, that's all. Do

you know how to fight?"

The boy shook his head. "Not the sort of fight you mean, with knives or fists."

"What other kind is there?" Eyvind asked, puzzled.

There was the faintest trace of a smile on the boy's thin lips. "Maybe that's what I'm supposed to teach

you," he said.

False courage, thought Eyvind. It must be very hard, frightening even, if you were a weakling and a bit

simple in the head, and had no sort of skills at all, to be dumped in a strange household with the kinsfolk

of a Wolfskin. No wonder the lad pretended to some sort of secret knowledge; no wonder he tried to

look superior.

"Don't worry," Eyvind said magnanimously. "I'll look after you. Don't worry about anything." He put out a

hand, and the boy clasped it for an instant and let go. He wasn't smiling, not exactly, but at least that

blank stare was gone. His hand was cold as a frozen fish.

"Come on," Eyvind urged. "I'm for a warm fire and a drink of ale." He led the way past the sleeping

quarters, which opened to left and right of the central passageway. Though it was growing dark, none of

the household was yet abed. The days were short, the time after sundown spent in tales by the hearth,

and in what crafts could be plied indoors by the light of seal-oil lamps. Ingi and her daughters were noted

for their embroidery; Karl carved goblets and candleholders and cunning small creatures from pale

soapstone. Solveig's husband Bjarni was scratching away on his pattern board, making designs which by

daylight he would transform into clasps and rings and brooches of intricate silverwork. Helga's husband

was away, for the hard winter meant a swift passage by ice roads to the great trading fairs in Kaupang

and far-off Birka. In summer, he would take ship for ports still more distant, traveling far east. At

Novgorod you could get spices and silks from the hot southern lands, fine honey, Arab silver, and slaves.

Ingi herself had a thrall-woman with jutting cheekbones and dark, slanting eyes, who shivered through the

winter, wrapped in heavy shawls. This exotic slave had two small children; curiously, neither resembled

Juliet Marillier - Wolfskin 1 - Wolfskin

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