WOLFSKIN
ALSO BY JULIET MARILLIER
THE SEVENWATERS TRILOGY
Daughter of the Forest
Son of the Shadows
Child of the Prophecy
WOLFSKIN
Juliet Marillier
To Elly and Simon,
who set me on the path to Orkney
Acknowledgments
My special thanks go to Sigurd Towrie, historical and folkloric guru and creator of a Web site that is a treasure trove of Orcadian knowledge (www.orkneyjar.com). Sigurd’s patience in reading my huge manuscript and his perceptive comments and suggestions were of immeasurable assistance. I also thank Haukur Thorgeirsson, Anna Hansen, and Tarrin Wills for their work on the translation of Somerled’s graffiti into Old Norse and then into runes. Bronya Marillier managed, as usual, to convert my inscrutable pencil sketches into wonderful maps. My two editors, Brianne Tunnicliffe in Sydney and Claire Eddy in New York, were a joy to work with. My daughters and sons provided constructive criticism and sustaining cups of tea during the book’s gestation. Last but not least, my heartfelt thanks go to Cate Paterson at Pan Macmillan for her continuing support.
WOLFSKIN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HISTORICAL NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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 shag
gy 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 sacrifice, 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 clo
se 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.