Wolfskin

“No?” Now he did look at her, gaze deep as the summer sea.

  “I am a priestess. Men do not address me thus. It’s not…appropriate.”

  “Have I offended you?” he asked quietly. “Are you telling me that you are sworn to your gods for life? That you will never lie with a man?”

  Suddenly this was becoming much too difficult. Nessa shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She chose the easiest question to answer.

  “You haven’t offended me, Eyvi. We are friends. Now listen to me, please. I must go soon, my cousin is waiting. Last night—last night I saw some terrible things. It seems to me we will walk close to a cliff edge, all of us, and that if we slip, the Folk are lost and the islands are lost and we are lost too, Eyvi: you and me and Rona. I want to ask you, will you help me? Will you help me to save the Folk?”

  He nodded without hesitation.

  “You must fight a battle. The Wolf, that was what I was told, the Wolf must go into battle against an opponent who has all the weapons. But I don’t think it is the sort of fight in which you have excelled in the past. And I must tell you, to do so is to act in peril for your life. I do not…I don’t want to bind you to a promise, Eyvi, only to see you die.”

  He gave a mirthless smile. “That’s all I’m good for, I think.”

  “Don’t say that!” She swept aside the blanket and rose to stand by the bed, swaying as the cottage walls and floor and roof beams whirled in a circle before her eyes. Eyvind sprang up to support her by the arms; his hands were warm and sure, the same hands that had held hers safe through the dark time of oblivion. “Don’t say it, Eyvi! There is a future here, I will believe it, I will believe we can make things good and bright again, I will not give in to despair! And there are so many things you can do, so much you can give, stop trying to hide behind your helm and your axe and your battle cry! The man inside is kind and sweet and strong. He is the one who will win this fight!” With a considerable effort of will, she stepped away from his touch, though everything in her urged her to move forward, to fling her arms around him and put her head against his breast, and…and there were so many reasons why she could not do that, reasons within reasons. She must indeed be sick and exhausted, to allow such a thought to enter her mind. She found her cloak, her bag. She thrust her feet into the pair of boots someone had set neatly by the bed.

  “You didn’t answer me, before.” His voice was so quiet she could hardly hear him: a thread, but strong. She could not bring herself to meet his eyes. “Are you sworn to a life of celibacy in the practice of your rituals? Is that what you were saying?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know the answer.” She fumbled with the boot straps.

  “Let me,” he said, and knelt down by her to tie them carefully. For a man with such big hands, he had a neat touch with knots.

  “Your hands aren’t shaking at all,” Nessa said.

  “No,” replied Eyvind, “but I am frightened. Frightened for you, frightened for the old woman, terrified of the task ahead of me. He could always cut me down with words. They are his weapon of choice, and he uses them like a master.”

  Outside there were footsteps on the path; Rona was returning. The old woman coughed loudly, a warning perhaps.

  “Can’t you tell me more of what you saw?” asked Eyvind urgently, rising to his feet. “What about you? I don’t want you in the path of an attack, you should go away to safety—”

  “Shh,” Nessa said. “There’s no time left. There’s no time left for anything but good-bye.” She stood on tiptoes and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. It was a touch as quick and light as the brush of a feather, the brief dance of a butterfly on an open flower. She heard his indrawn breath, and knew that if she lingered an instant longer his arms would come up and wrap themselves around her, a cloak of love and warmth and protection. That could not be allowed to happen. She stepped away and fled out into the fading light of late afternoon, down to the shore where her two guards waited, and they raced the tide back home.

  NINE

  Once he would have acted without hesitation. He would have strapped on his sword belt and put Biter on his back and marched away from the secret place, straight to Somerled’s court. Once he had been a Wolfskin.

  It was not only his own doubts that made him wait. Rona, too, urged caution. He understood her gestures well enough; he could even make out a word or two now. Not yet, she was telling him, not just yet. And because he had not forgotten, and never would forget what he had been, Eyvind spent the time preparing himself as best he could. He would not be fighting Somerled with sword or axe or fists. But neither did he wish to be murdered by the wayside before he even got there. He could imagine what Grim and Erlend and Holgar would say if he went back, and could not even lift a drinking cup without spilling half the contents. He could imagine what Somerled would think if his chief guard could scarcely walk from sleeping quarters to hall without stopping to rest his trembling legs. So he readied his body, and in the harsh tests he set himself, he tried to clear his mind of Nessa. He would do what she wanted, he was bound to that. Probably he would die. He had seen that in her eyes, though she had not put it into words. Perhaps it was better if he did die, for try as he might he could not banish her from his thoughts.

  That moment came to him over and over again, at dawn’s first waking, at night falling asleep, by day as he lifted Biter over his head and put himself through his paces. He could not forget the touch of her lips against his cheek, the sweet smell of her, like new violets, the brush of her slender body against his own, stirring him to an instant desire that shamed him deeply. Nessa was a priestess, forbidden, untouchable. Even had it not been so, she was so far beyond him, with her composure and wisdom, that it was ridiculous that such an idea should ever occur to him; outrageous that his body burned for her, even now when she was long gone. He had only to imagine…he had only to remember…he would not remember, Eyvind told himself savagely, hurling Biter at a lump of driftwood he had set against the bank as a target. The axe struck true; the massive log split neatly in half. He must not imagine her. He would think only of today, of this moment: the axe, his arms, the target. He was once more a weapon, not Thor’s now, but hers. His mission was to go to Somerled and tell the truth; to use what he knew, somehow, to influence his friend’s actions. He could not accuse Somerled in front of others, not without proof. To do that would be to seem a madman or a fool; it would change nothing. All he could do, he thought, was speak to his friend in private, and try to shame Somerled into making peace with Engus. He must trust in the strength of that childhood bond, and hope he could set Somerled on a new path. I know you killed your brother. From now on, I will be watching you, to ensure you walk straight. Every day, every step. Odin’s bones, the oath had indeed fettered him. The task would be hard; harder than anything he had done before. He must work to grow strong, so he would be ready.

  Eyvind gave the dog a name: Shadow. Perhaps she had once had another name, one Ulf had bestowed on her, but that was forgotten. Shadow stayed close; if she missed her mate, who had gone away with Nessa, she gave no sign of it. She lay by the entrance to the howe, nose on paws, watching gravely as Eyvind practiced with the sword, lifting it high, sweeping it low, turning, blocking, slashing, holding it steady. His weapons had been laid away carefully, but not hidden from him. That meant Nessa had trusted him from the first, when she had every reason not to. There were reminders of her everywhere: the cloak that she had left behind, in whose folds lingered a trace of the sweet scent that so beguiled him; the small pattern of stones she had made beside the place where Biter was stored. He took the axe out every morning and laid it back every night, without touching those secret symbols. He could imagine the solemn expression in her strange, light eyes, he could see how her silky brown hair might flow over her shoulders as she bent to move the little stones delicately into place. He could envisage the play of lamplight on the pale skin of her cheek, and the soft rosy curve of her mouth. He could see her as
if she were right there before him…Curse it, this was a slow torture, and he was a complete fool. There was a job to do, and he must do it, and that was where it ended. That Nessa had enough faith in him to seek his help must be enough for him. It was not her fault that his eyes saw only her image, that his body ached for her touch, that his mind was full of terror that she might be in danger, and himself not by her side to protect her. She did not know that she had stolen his heart the moment she folded her hands around his, and called him Eyvi. She had not asked him to love her. That part had been his own stupid fault, the weakness of a man who, in Somerled’s words, had never been very good at thinking. Now he would have to think, and think fast, because spring was nearly here, and he still didn’t know how he would say what must be said. What you’re doing is wrong. Your whole strategy for the islands is wrong. These are real men and women here, not toys. He could already hear Somerled’s reply. Oh dear, Eyvind. You’ve got it all muddled. Leave this to me, will you, and stick to what you’re good at?

  Every evening he asked the old woman, in signs and gestures, in words half understood, Is it time yet? And every evening she answered him in the same way, Not yet. Wait a little longer. But there came a time when there could be no more waiting.

  Maybe there was a trace of spring in the air that day. Rona spent a lot of time watching the sky, and even more time staring into her small fire and muttering to herself. As Eyvind sat polishing his helm and sword, he caught her gaze on him, sharp, shrewd, as if somehow measuring him.

  “I will do what I can,” he said, though she could not understand his words. “Everything that is in my power. I’ll try to protect her, to help her. It’s just that—”

  He fell suddenly silent. Rona froze; her old ears had heard it too, a footstep not far away, a man’s boot set down where it should not be, inside the border of the women’s place, on the western margin. Shadow began a low growling, deep in her throat; Eyvind silenced her with a quick gesture. He rose to his feet, listening as a hunter does. Rona sat motionless.

  Another tiny sound, to the east this time. He thought there were four of them. Either they were quite skilled, or he was losing his touch, to let them come in so close. Four. Very well, he had no choice but to confront them before the old woman was harmed. He rolled his eyes at her, then jerked his head toward the howe: Go in there, quick, hide. No need to worry about her making a noise, she moved as if she were a ghost, in complete silence and with remarkable swiftness. He tried to convey the same message to Shadow, Go, guard her, but Shadow would not obey. She stood by him, teeth bared, moving her whiskery muzzle from side to side as if to guess which enemy would dare strike first.

  The footsteps came closer, stealthy but unmistakable. At least four, maybe five. Eyvind put on his helm. He took Biter in his right hand and his sword in his left, and moved into a dark corner behind the water barrel. Something inside him was saying, Let it not be Holgar. Let it not be Grim. Let it not be Erlend or Thord. Let it not be my brother. His fingers tightened around the axe, and then something flew in a great arc through the air, a ball of fire, a torch, and flames were suddenly crackling from the heather thatch of Rona’s cottage, and armed figures ran into the women’s place from both sides at once.

  “Find the girl!” someone yelled. “Check the place before it burns down. Kick the door open!”

  “I’m not going in there!” another man shouted. “What about the witch? Smoke them out, that’s safer!”

  “You heard what Somerled said. Get the girl out alive. That’s who he wants. Go on, he won’t thank you if you bring him back a pretty little charred corpse.”

  “All right, all right.” One of the fellows was setting his boot to the cottage door; it gave little resistance, being almost as old as Rona herself. Clouds of dark smoke billowed out; the man blundered inside, coughing.

  “What about over there?” It was one of the knarr’s crew, Eyvind knew him. “A cave or something; she could be inside. Come on!” He knew them all; men who had been Ulf’s loyal companions and men who had simply been hired sailors. Now all bore cold iron; now they were Somerled’s men.

  “Nobody in there!” wheezed the fellow from the cottage doorway. Behind him the rafters were beginning to give; strange sparks fizzed and popped through the smoke, purple and green and scarlet. There would be little left of the wise woman’s possessions, meager as they were.

  Now all five men were making for the howe, and suddenly there was Shadow, her growl menacing, her mouth a drooling trap of long teeth fit for rending bear or deer or wild boar. Her eyes, so mild when she walked by Eyvind’s side or played with her mate, now seemed the reddened orbs of some crazed, feral creature. The men hesitated.

  “Odin’s bones!” their leader muttered. “What in the name of all the gods is that?”

  “It’s a witch-wolf!” someone whispered. “One bite and you drop dead in agony.”

  “Poison in the fangs,” agreed someone else in shaking tones. “Where I come from, they call them demon dogs. Better back off.”

  But one fellow had a spear ready, and it was aimed squarely at Shadow’s heart. His arm went back, the shaft flew through the air, and Eyvind stepped out neatly from his hiding place to deflect it with his sword. Shadow began a ferocious barking.

  Until that moment, Eyvind had not known what he would do: what he might say. Now he raised Biter high, and the flames of the burning cottage shimmered gold and orange across its blade. A voice came to his lips unbidden, a voice of wrath, powerful as the darkness in the moment before death. It rang across the hollow like a summons from another world. “Who dares challenge me?”

  “Eyvind!” someone gasped in tones of abject terror. The men’s faces grew pale as cheese, their eyes filled with panic, and they began to back away, stumbling in their haste. “It’s Eyvind! But–but he’s dead!”

  There was a stampede for safety, men scrambling past one another in their frenzy, with Shadow snapping and snarling at their heels. Within moments, the women’s place was empty again, save for Eyvind and the dog. He noticed a strange kind of green mist on the ground and around his knees, a sort of vapor that clung and coiled eerily up his body. And when Rona came slowly out from the tower in the earth, the same green veil seemed to linger around her hands and her skirts before dissipating in the cool air. It appeared she had added a few touches of her own.

  They stood side by side, watching the last remnants of the cottage burn. It was a hot fire; there was nothing to be saved. Eyvind put his arm around Rona’s shoulders; she was as fragile and bony as an ancient owl. It came to him that she was a being both wise and precious.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save it.”

  Rona muttered something and gestured with her hands. The house; her possessions. A sweep of the arms: all gone. She cupped her hands to her heart, tapped her fingers to her head, and gave her gapped and crooked smile. He thought he understood her. It’s all in the heart and the head, lad. That’s what matters.

  After the burning, it was clear neither of them could stay there. They sheltered in the howe as night fell. Shadow stayed outside, perhaps knowing that now a constant watch must be maintained. Eyvind tried to explain to Rona what he had heard. It seemed vitally important.

  “Nessa,” he said, knowing this name, at least, they had in common. He used his hands. “Men come—not for me, not for you—men come for Nessa. Somerled—find Nessa. Why? Why does he want her, Rona? Tell me.”

  But like many old folk, the wise woman chose her own times to be helpful and her times to stay silent. She shrugged and said nothing.

  “Please,” begged Eyvind, knowing he was talking to himself. Rona lay down on the ground with Nessa’s cloak over her for warmth. It was not a kind bed for an old woman. “Please tell me. I love her, I can’t let him hurt her. I understand what she is, and what I am. I know the best I can do is try to stand between her and danger, to help her as I promised. All I’m trying to do is put it together so I can understand: so I c
an know what to do next.”

  It was pointless. Rona’s eyes were closed; she snored peacefully. As soon as the sky began to brighten, he’d have to wake her, and they’d have to go…where? A fugitive, whose own folk thought him a ghost, an ancient crone and a very large hunting dog: the three of them could surely not travel far, unobserved. He did not like to think of Rona in Somerled’s hands. Somerled’s treatment of the cat woman all those years ago had shown what he thought of priestesses. Where could they go? Where could he take her? To the Folk, he was the enemy, a butcher who had slaughtered their sons. And what about Somerled? Every moment that passed seemed likely to put Nessa and her people in greater danger. If only she were here by his side; if only it were that first night again, when he had woken from his long nightmare to see her there in the shadows, with all the mystery and gravity and wonder of the islands written on her delicate features. No wonder he had thought her a goddess, a spirit. No wonder he had sat close by her, with her body warm against his own, as if there were nothing untoward about it. That night had not been part of ordinary time; it was its own time. Where was Nessa now? Did she think of him at all? Did she wonder if he had begun to fulfill the quest she had given him, or had she forgotten him the moment she’d turned and run from him, back to her own people? Eyvind put his fingers up to touch the place where she had kissed him, and, knowing himself foolish beyond belief, he whispered his good-night words to her. “Rest sweetly, my Bright Star. Walk safely. My hand in yours.” He closed his eyes and slept.

  It was quiet. It was so quiet he knew the moment he woke that the old woman was gone. A glance around the howe found no sign of her. Eyvind made his way outside, hoping Rona was merely dipping water from the spring, or perhaps rummaging through the pitiful remains of her home, hoping to salvage some small treasure. But the place was deserted. A gray film of fine ash coated the small bushes and dusted the banks of the stream. Rona was gone, and so was Shadow. A raid, an abduction, even murder—had he slept through that? Think, Eyvind. No sign of a struggle, no blood, nothing touched as far as he could see, though the boot prints Somerled’s men had left behind them still marked the soft soil. Where did Rona’s footsteps lead? Did she walk as subtly as she wove charms of green mist and ghostly voice, so cleverly she passed with never a trace?