A Companion to Wolves

  Isolfr thought his own grief for Hrolleif small and bittersweet beside that, and could not bring himself to speak of it either, even to Frithulf and Sokkolfr. Especially to Ulfbjorn, who moved like a man in a dream.

  There was one small joy in the midst of the horror. Hrolfmarr, who had been Kolli’s brother, and wolfless since, was chosen by one of the Bravoll konigenwolf’s cubs, who clambered over tithe-boys and anyone else who might come between them to get to him.

  Ironically, in the issue of Grimolfr’s sorrow—in this one small thing as in no other—Isolfr’s wishes were met. Skjaldwulf appeared at Bravoll three weeks later, at the head of a band of men and wolves that was larger than it should have been, to leave the remaining keeps and wolfheallan protected. Isolfr thought he understood the logic well enough. Mar’s shoulder had healed to proud flesh and scar tissue, and though Skjaldwulf’s arm was still splinted, he moved the shoulder freely. If he let Ulfgeirr and Isolfr keep his ribs wrapped tight, it caused him no pain that he would admit, and his presence—and his voice—brought a certain grim determination to sell themselves dearly to the wolfcarls and the wolfless men both.

  It was plainspoken Kari who said it, one night as they sat by the fire. Winter was coming. And there was nothing between Franangford and Bravoll to stop the trolls.

  Isolfr felt his oath to the svartalfar like a stone in his throat. He knew why; he knew why the trolls came. He knew what they were fleeing. If he had thought that information would help Grimolfr and Ulfsvith plan a defense, he could not be certain he would have held his tongue, all honor and his sworn word aside. Would he make himself an oathbreaker, lower than a kin-slaughterer, to save his brothers?

  Although he knew it was wrong, he also knew that he would. If it would have made a difference.

  But it wouldn’t, and so he held his honor and his tongue.

  Viradechtis came into season before the equinox. Too soon, Isolfr thought, although Hrolleif had warned him it might be so. And he could feel it himself, what Viradechtis felt, that with Aslaug dead, Signy nearly, and Vigdis without a wolfsprechend and showing no inclination to choose one, the Wolfmaegth had an emptiness at its heart, and it was an emptiness that Viradechtis could no more ignore than she could stop breathing.

  The mating was different this time, as Hrolleif had also said it would be. When it was clear, to wolves and men, that Viradechtis’ heat was coming, a meeting was called, a wolfmoot of every threat that had a presence in Bravoll. Isolfr sat beside Grimolfr, feeling as conspicuous as a spring garland on an ice giant, while threat by threat the wolfcarls were given the chance to announce their desire to enter contention, to stand up for Viradechtis and her brother.

  Othwulf did not stand, as he had promised. Eyjolfr did, and Skjaldwulf, and a number of the wolfcarls who had courted Isolfr at the Wolfmaegthing a year and a half ago, including Vethulf of Arakensberg and his odd-eyed brother. Isolfr was surprised when Kari stood up, but grateful besides. He thought he could deal very well with Kari as his wolfjarl.

  The mating, Grimolfr said, could not be held in Bravoll. Isolfr thought a moment, thought of the condition of the threat during and after a mating, thought of the wolfless men (thought, his belly going cold, of his father), and agreed wholeheartedly. “We must go, then.” And he managed a crooked smile. “As with her first heat, only …”

  “Just so,” Grimolfr said, and met Isolfr’s eyes for a moment before he looked away. “Bravoll has the same sort of arrangement we do, for their bitches’ first heat. Apparently, it’s the site of the old wolfheall—‘old’ in this case meaning your grandfather’s day—so there should be plenty of room. The yearlings’ brothers have agreed to lead the way and to take the part our tradition appoints.”

  “They are very kind,” Isolfr said.

  “Isolfr.” Grimolfr stopped. Skald nudged his broad muzzle under his brother’s hand, and Grimolfr began rubbing along the wolf’s jaw distractedly. “I know the first mating was hard for you—”

  “I will be fine, wolfjarl,” Isolfr said. “I will not run craven.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Grimolfr said dryly. “But I know that Hrolleif would have had advice for you, and I wish that I could give you his words. It is not the same, a mating of this kind, but I am not brother to a konigenwolf. I do not know what to warn you of.”

  “Thank you,” Isolfr said. “But I think … I think Viradechtis has her plan. And where she leads, I follow.”

  “’Tis ever the way of it,” Grimolfr agreed. “Tell one of Bravoll’s yearlings he’s to run back with news as soon as there’s news to tell.”

  “I will,” said Isolfr and went to find the things he would need.

  A bedroll, a change of linen, Jorveig’s invaluable salve: Sokkolfr found him in the storeroom packing those things and his roll of medical supplies into a bag, while Viradechtis sniffed interestedly at everything in reach of her nose.

  “Isolfr, I’m sorry.”

  Isolfr sat back on his heels. “For what?”

  “For not …” Sokkolfr’s lips tightened; then, in the manner of wolves, he said simply, “I would stand up for you, if I thought Hroi could win.”

  “Sokkolfr …” But Isolfr did not know what to say. Hroi sat in the doorway behind them, and Isolfr could feel the old wolf’s aches, his tiredness. And he felt, too, that if Sokkolfr had wished it, Hroi would have entered the fray for Viradechtis—and for Isolfr—though man and wolf both knew he would lose. I do not deserve this, he thought, as he had thought of Skjaldwulf’s devotion. He managed, after a moment, to smile up at his friend. “You know I want you as housecarl anyway.”

  Sokkolfr smiled back. “Ulfbjorn and Frithulf and I, we will wait for you.” And he extended his hand to bring Isolfr to his feet.

  Fortunately—or so Isolfr thought—the old Bravoll wolfheall was several miles east of the current wolfheall, rather than west toward Franangford. He walked beside Asvolfr, the leader of Bravoll’s young men, who had volunteered to guide the mating party, and with some patience—all that practice with Sokkolfr, he thought and hid a smile—he managed to coax the youth into talking to him; he learned that the wolfheall had been moved some fifty years ago, when the traditional distrust between heall and manor had been dissolved by the widow of the jarl taking the heall’s wolfsprechend as her lover. Their children were all heall-bred, one of them becoming a wolfcarl himself, and the young jarl of Bravoll had observed that it was foolish and inefficient for the wolfheall to lie so far from the manor and village it was meant to protect. The previous jarls—who, like Isolfr’s father, preferred not to admit that they relied on the wolfheallan for anything—had liked it that way. The young jarl had had the wolfheall moved and built the new stone one after the modern fashion, with rushed floors and chimneys and mortared walls warmed by tapestries.

  The site of the old heall was thus perfect for the purpose of isolating a bitch in her first heat—or, in this case, having an open mating without disrupting the wolfheall’s defenses. Everyone knew where it was; the path to it was easy and broad, and the old heall-site itself was level and spacious and had a number of walls remaining, at least in part. “Plenty of shelter,” the boy said, and following his glance at the high gray clouds, Isolfr understood why that was a consideration.

  They arrived enough before dusk that setting up camp was not a problem. Asvolfr said, awkwardly, “How long do you think it will be?”

  “I’ve no more idea than you do,” Isolfr said ruefully. “Have you witnessed a mating before?”

  Asvolfr nodded. “Not our konigenwolf’s, of course, but the second bitch went into heat right after she did, and we—” He jerked his head indicating the other yearlings. “We bore witness.”

  He said it with the same mixture of awe and horror that Isolfr remembered from the first mating he had seen. “This will be different,” he said to Asvolfr, as Hrolleif had said to him. “She chooses her consort now.” He had to swallow hard, but made himself say it: “It will not be as bad.”

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nbsp; Asvolfr nodded again, his eyes wide and grave.

  “You and the other yearlings stay out of the way, no matter what happens or how badly a wolf is hurt,” Isolfr said. That was something Leitholfr had told him, a quick word in the mad bustle of parting. “With the rut-madness, it will be hard for the wolves to tell friend from foe, and in a mating like this one, they will be eager for blood. You, and especially your pups, could be savaged. When it is over, then do your doctoring.” He smiled at the boy, and after a moment, Asvolfr smiled back.

  Isolfr made his camp in what must have been the corner of a storeroom, where there were still two stone half-walls to give shelter and as much privacy as he could hope. Viradechtis’ heat began to build in earnest as the sun went down; Isolfr found himself praying as he knelt awkwardly on his bedroll to make the first application of Jorveig’s salve, a blanket draped around his shoulders because he did not want the wolfcarls to see this process. Praying that this time it would break quickly. He wished it done with.

  Viradechtis laughed at him from where she sat, ears up, surveying her suitors. She was enjoying herself and was glad to have male-wolfness to think about instead of stenchof-trolls .

  In that, Isolfr admitted, she was not wrong.

  Asvolfr and his tithe-mates brought Isolfr supper; he ate what he could, which wasn’t much, wrapped in his blankets not against the chill of the night air but because his arousal was already pressing the front of his trews, and foolish though it was of him, he did not want the yearlings to see.

  A fight broke out, somewhere in the darkness. Viradechtis watched and listened. Isolfr fought the urge to back himself into the corner, to protect his flanks. It will be one man, he told himself. As with Sokkolfr and Hroi. One wolf. One man. Hrolleif’s voice in his head again: wolfjarls can be taught. But this first time, he was at the mercy of what his wolfjarl knew now. He remembered Eyjolfr’s brutal kiss, remembered his anger. And he wrapped himself more tightly, pretending that his shivering was due to the cold.

  The night passed somehow. Isolfr dozed and woke and dozed again. There were more fights, and Viradechtis made one or two sorties into the midst of the dog-wolves. Not merely teasing, but almost taunting them. “Sister, you are cruel,” Isolfr said at one point, mostly asleep, but he knew Viradechtis wasn’t listening to him.

  He came awake, abruptly and entirely, at dawn, when the world resolved from black and charcoal gray into visibility. His sex was like iron between his legs, painful with Viradechtis’ need, and he sat up to see that a semicircle of wolves had surrounded him while he slept.

  The last clear thought in his head was to hope that the yearlings were safely out of range.

  He freed himself from his bedding, and the shirt that was all he had worn to sleep in, and felt more than heard the moan of the assembled wolfcarls. They wanted him, as their brothers wanted Viradechtis; Viradechtis’ heat had come down upon them all.

  A snarl rose up from someone’s throat, deep and thready, and Isolfr could not help flinching at the sudden explosion of fur and claws and teeth that rolled into the open space in front of Viradechtis. And then he did back into the corner, as the entire gathering of wolves seemed to turn on each other, their brothers entering the fray behind them.

  Isolfr caught bits and pieces of what happened. He saw Mar standing off two smaller wolves from Vestfjorthr, saw Glaedir take Hrafn down. He saw two wolves he did not know locked together in a fury, the one with his teeth firmly in the other’s ear. Violence and blood, and he pressed himself into his corner, feeling more defenseless than he ever had in his life, knowing that the wolfcarl who made it past Viradechtis would take him, whoever it might be. He was the prize in this combat, where Viradechtis was both prize and prize-giver. Her choice, not his.

  The ranks of the contenders thinned out, though Isolfr did not know if it was slow or fast. He saw, very distinctly, the moment when Kjaran drove Glaedir out of the circle, as Vethulf lifted Eyjolfr entirely off the ground and threw him, sliding and skidding, across the grass and the old uneven flagstones; Skjaldwulf, his bad arm clutched close to his side, knocked the wind out of a beefy wolfcarl from Kerlaugstrond with a hard and well-placed kick. And then, with seeming suddenness, it was just the two of them: Mar and Kjaran. Behind them, Skjaldwulf and Vethulf. The two wolves started to circle. Skjaldwulf’s face was white with pain; Mar was bleeding from a set of claw-slashes across his muzzle. But they weren’t backing down. Isolfr could feel it, in the madness that was the pack-sense. Kjaran would have to kill Mar to get to Viradechtis. And he realized, woolly-headed, that the other was true as well: Mar would have to kill Kjaran. This was what made a wolfjarl and what made a konigenwolf’s consort—the will to die for the pack. And where Glaedir was lacking that will, perhaps, or was still too young, these wolves were not. Mar and Kjaran were both snarling, a weird duet, and the entire wolfmoot of suitors was watching.

  No, he thought, muddled, starting forward, not knowing what he meant to do, only knowing that he did not want Mar hurt, and he didn’t want Kjaran hurt, either. No more death. But his sight was blurred and dark, his body the wrong shape, too gangling and too tall, not enough legs and centered wrongly.

  Isolfr’s feet caught in his blankets and he fell, startled by the hardness of the ground into a cry.

  Both Skjaldwulf and Vethulf turned toward him, Mar and Kjaran raising their heads, and Viradechtis made a strange, deep chuffing noise, neither a bark nor a snort, bizarrely satisfied. She bounded forward, a leap as exuberant as a puppy’s but perfectly aimed and balanced for the sixteen-stone predator she was, and landed between Mar and Kjaran. And then, with a great and spurious air of gravity, she turned to touch noses, first with Kjaran, then with Mar.

  Isolfr lay awkwardly as he had fallen, unable to gather either his limbs or his wits; Skjaldwulf and Vethulf were giving each other the most bewildered look, as if they did not understand why they were not at each other’s throats. Then Viradechtis made her chuffing noise again, impatiently this time, and herded Mar and Kjaran toward Isolfr’s corner.

  And Isolfr knew, although he did not understand it and had not known it was possible. Viradechtis had chosen them both.

  The rut-madness, banked for a moment by Viradechtis’ choosing, roared over him again. He fumbled desperately for the salve, pushing the jar into Vethulf’s shaking hands as his first wolfjarl joined him on the blankets. Isolfr rolled over, presenting himself as shamelessly as did the konigenwolf. There was nothing left in him but the need, the burning, and he moaned in frustration when he was touched with slick fingers. But Viradechtis was still teasing Kjaran; there was still time, and Vethulf seemed determined to take it.

  Skjaldwulf’s hands, with their scars and knobbled wrists and knuckles, came down over Isolfr’s forearms. He could hear his second wolfjarl murmuring to him, although he could not make out the words. There were no words; there was only need. He pressed back, his breath coming in sobs, and Viradechtis swept her tail aside, giving Kjaran permission to mount.

  Isolfr felt Kjaran as clearly as he felt Vethulf, but he also felt, as Kjaran pushed and Vethulf entered him, Skjaldwulf drop a kiss, very gently, on the top of his head.

  Then there was only the madness, the glory, of Vethulf’s strength. He could feel Viradechtis’ joy in Kjaran, feel why she had chosen as she had. And Vethulf was powerful, but not brutal; his hands did not clamp on Isolfr’s hips but caressed his back, his shoulders. One slipped underneath him, found the thwarted agony of his sex, and within moments Vethulf had Isolfr screaming at every stroke, screaming with a ferocious passion that he had not known before, not even with Sokkolfr, not even with Hjordis. The pack-sense unfurled before him; this time he did not escape his body into it, he joined it, joined Viradechtis and Kjaran and Vethulf, and felt their desire and need and striving. His climax almost struck him senseless, and Vethulf and Viradechtis and Kjaran were there.

  He felt Vethulf’s hands stroking his hips and thighs, felt him—still gentle—move away. Skjaldwulf said, and now
Isolfr could follow the words, “My wolfsprechend, will you roll over?”

  Isolfr could not argue. He rolled onto his back, heard Skjaldwulf and Vethulf murmuring together, and then Vethulf’s hands were urging him to lift his head as Skjaldwulf knelt between his spread thighs and reached for the salve.

  Isolfr’s head was pillowed on a blanket on Vethulf’s lap, and Skjaldwulf bundled blankets beneath his hips, coaxing him to raise his legs, to let them rest on Skjaldwulf’s shoulders. Bemused, Isolfr did as he was told as Mar and Viradechtis washed each other’s faces, and then as the fire began to build again, he felt Skjaldwulf’s fingers, greasy with salve, stroke past his stones, push up inside him, and oh, oh yes, and he threw his head back, his hands knotting in the blankets, and he brought his hips up to meet Skjaldwulf’s first thrust. He heard Viradechtis bay her approval, almost felt Mar’s forelegs against his own ribs, Vethulf’s hand stroking his hair, Skjaldwulf’s lean, fierce strength, and Isolfr keened through his teeth and met Skjaldwulf, thrust for thrust, fearless at last.

  Mine, Isolfr thought, drowsily, and then, as he lifted his head, identified the sentiment as Viradechtis’. She sprawled lazily on sun-warmed flags in the late-summer light, her head pillowed on Kjaran’s gray rump, watching Isolfr with bright, alert eyes and a disconcertingly smug expression.

  Never let it be said that wolves don’t gloat or laugh.

  Someone warm was pressed against Isolfr’s back, a contrast to the coolness of the morning. He turned in the blankets, saw Vethulf regarding him with a pale, steady gaze. “Are you well?”