And then the fold of land was quiet again. Alfgyfa leaned on a tree and pushed blood-sticky hair out of her eyes. Viradechtis and Greensmoke—no longer able to maintain the polite pretense of each other’s nonexistence—circled slowly, tails low and hackles lifted—but only flashes of teeth showed, and the growls were halfhearted. Today was not a day for wolves to fight wolves.
“Hello, Father,” Alfgyfa said, when the heaving of her chest slowed. “Timely as always.”
He looked at her—a rope-muscled man with a gaunt, scarred face. And then, careful of his axe and hers, he swept her into an embrace that bruised ribs already smarting with the blows that had hammered her armor. She squeaked in protest; he squeezed her tighter.
When he was done, he set her back at arm’s length and said, “You’re late as a winter sunrise, sweeting, and as glad a sight in my eyes.”
She grinned at him—too much happiness to be held in a mere smile. “Father. The svartalfar are coming.”
His eyebrows went up.
“When Mar—” Her breath choked off for a moment, and his arm was around her again, gentler, like her memories of being a little girl (minus the blood and the armor and the reek of unwashed everything). “Mar saved Idocrase’s life. And Idocrase said that meant the svartalfar owed Mar a life-debt. And that meant they had to fight on our side. I don’t think I understood all of it.”
“I never understood the half of why they fought with us against the trolls,” Isolfr said.
“I don’t know how far behind me they are.”
“Somehow,” Isolfr said, cocking his head to listen to a long ululating howl from some other part of the forest, “I’m not sure that’s going to be as much of a problem as it seemed this morning.”
* * *
The Rheans broke like water against a rock. They fled, each man in a different direction. Later, Fargrimr found what was left of some of them, and if he had had any ability left to pity the men of Rhea Lupina, he would have pitied them.
But he also found Randulfr. He also found Ingrun.
Not one of the Rhean soldiers who marched into the Hergilswald ever came out again. It was not vengeance enough.
Randulfr had fallen over Ingrun, trying to protect her even in death, both of them viciously hacked about with the Rheans’ short-bladed swords—the wounds had become all too easy to recognize. Nothing could be vengeance enough.
Fargrimr stood at the edge of the forest, looking toward the Rheans’ campfires, his fingers flexing into the bark of the tree that hid him from their posted sentry. He did not merely want them gone, as he had wanted them gone for years; he wanted them dead. If it had been in him to go bear-sarker, he would be out there now, trying to find out just how many Rheans he could kill before they brought him down.
Out on the ice, they had found Erik Godheofodman, as well, his body all but unrecognizable, mauled with too many wounds to count. They could not even guess which blow had killed him. Tin said he had certainly kept fighting long after he had been struck.
Fargrimr wanted the deaths of those who had not died screaming in the Hergilswald to be ugly and long. Drawn and quartered. Slow strangulation. They had been going to burn Skjaldwulf as a witch. Let them be burned. Let them hurt the way Randulfr must have hurt, the way Ingrun must have hurt.
“Curse them,” he said through his teeth. “Curse them.”
“They are cursed,” a woman’s voice said solemnly.
He managed not to jump, although she’d startled him badly. It was Isolfr’s daughter, too like him not to be identifiable, even if she were not the only human female in the forest. Her face was scratched, her eyes red-rimmed; she looked almost as bad as the Army of the Iskryne.
She said, “I think I’ve persuaded the wild wolves that they can’t leave the shelter of the forest—because with all that open ground, the Rheans will mow them down like rye at the harvest. But they don’t think the danger to their cubs is gone.”
“Danger?” Fargrimr said.
Isolfr’s daughter—Alfgyfa, his exhausted brain supplied—smiled, baring her teeth in the manner of wolves. “I brought a Wolfmaegth. A wild Wolfmaegth. Or they brought me. Rheans killed Skjaldwulf’s brother, Mar, and one of the cubs from Athisla’s litter, and Greensm—never mind. A wild konigenwolf was close enough to witness it. So the wild trellwolves of the Iskryne now know that the Rheans kill trellwolves. They know the Rheans kill trellwolf cubs. They will not rest until every Rhean is gone from the Northlands.” Her eyes, as pale as Isolfr’s, and as arresting, held his. “They will not rest.”
“Oh,” Fargrimr said. He felt off balance, as if something heavy he’d been pushing against had suddenly given way.
“They approve of your blood-anger,” she said, mouth twisting wryly.
“I am glad,” Fargrimr said. And meant it with all his heart.
* * *
This time the messenger bearing the green boughs of parley stopped at the edge of the trees.
The Army of the Iskryne let him stand there for some time, wolves moving in and out of sight among the trees, before Fargrimr walked out to him.
It wasn’t Marcus Verenius. Fargrimr was almost disappointed. But this was an older man, very little darker than Otter, closed-faced—more likely to be in his patron’s confidence than a boy, kinsman or no. And, of course, he wore that damned crow on his shoulder.
“I am Fargrimr Fastarrson,” Fargrimr said. “Speak quickly, if you wish to parley, for I must tell you, Rhean, that I have no great wish to speak to you.”
The Rhean bowed his head and said, “My lord is Quintus Verenius Corvus.”
“I recognize his device,” Fargrimr said flatly and watched the Rhean try to decide what to make of that.
At last, he said, cautiously, “Caius Iunarius Aureus, legate of the Twelfth Legion of the Imperial Army of Rhea Lupina, would speak with the general of the Army of the Iskryne.”
“The general of the Army of the Iskryne is occupied elsewhere,” Fargrimr said. Out on the ice, trying to find the dead and sledge them back to land for a funeral pyre, as was the Northern way. “The legate may speak to me, or he may speak to the wolfjarl Skjaldwulf of Franangford.”
“I will have to take that message to the legate,” the Rhean said.
“Yes,” Fargrimr said, but as the man was turning away, Fargrimr reached and caught his wrist, hard. “But tell your master that if he sends another messenger with the crow’s device, that messenger will return to him in pieces.”
The Rhean’s eyes met his. Fargrimr saw understanding there, and it was possibly the first time he’d ever truly seen that from a Rhean.
“I will tell him,” the Rhean said. “And I will tell him it is truth.”
* * *
Caius Iunarius Aureus wished to speak to the wolfjarl Skjaldwulf, but Skjaldwulf said there was no reason Fargrimr could not come as his second.
There was no waiting this time, no pavilion. The legate came striding down the slope, accompanied by his standard, enough soldiers to make a respectable bodyguard, and a man of his own age, who wore clothes similar enough that Fargrimr guessed he was one of the other commanders.
When they were close enough that the light of Iskryner and Rhean torches overlapped, Iunarius halted, his companion halted, his standard bearer halted and grounded the standard, the soldiers spread out in neat symmetrical pairs and halted. Fargrimr watched them carefully, though he was not worried. The Hergilswald was at his back, and Isolfr’s ice-and-iron daughter had had all she could do to keep her wild companions within its bounds. And he knew the Freyasthreat stood watch. Any treachery here, and Iunarius would meet the same fate as his men.
The introductions were quick; it was in truth a relief to see that the Rheans understood some things were not a matter of ceremony. Skjaldwulf, wolfjarl of Franangford, and Fargrimr Fastarrson, jarl of Siglufjordhur. Caius Iunarius Aureus and his companion, who was Quintus Verenius Corvus. Fargrimr felt his battered, aching body tense, knew that the expression on his face ha
d turned ugly. He could only hope that Verenius could see it.
Iunarius said to Skjaldwulf, “You style yourself wolfjarl but no longer Marsbrother?”
“My brother was killed by a Rhean scouting party,” Skjaldwulf said, his voice even, but his eyes dark and cold.
Iunarius was visibly knocked off balance, something Fargrimr suspected did not happen very often. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, almost hesitantly, as if he recognized his own hypocrisy and regretted it.
Skjaldwulf made no sign he’d even heard it. Fargrimr commended Skjaldwulf for holding the advantage once gained. The wolfjarl continued: “We are not here to bargain with you, Rheans. Your wyrd is upon you, and it is not of our making, but only of yours. The North itself has turned against you. The wild trellwolves will hunt you, as they hunted the men who dared enter this forest yesterday. They will hunt you, and they will savage you, and they will feed their children on your entrails. The earth spirits are rising as well, the cunning ones who brood black and twisted in their cold caverns, cursing the sun and all those who love her. It takes much to rouse them, but they are on the march. And they will show no mercy. They will nail you to trees.”
Fargrimr had no idea where Skjaldwulf had gotten that detail from—it was certainly nothing that he could imagine Tin or the others of her kind he had met doing—but he saw the torches flicker as the soldiers leaned away just a little.
He had not agreed with the decision to warn the Rheans—had argued against it heatedly—but the konungur had agreed with Skjaldwulf and the other wolfheofodmenn that it was better to tell them what they had done, give them the chance to get away so that they could tell their empire to leave the North of the world alone.
“You have this one chance,” Skjaldwulf said. “You can leave. No one will harry you—you have the konungur’s word. But if you do not leave, we cannot stand between you and your wyrd, and we would not do so if we could.”
It was not, Fargrimr thought cynically, what the Rheans had been expecting. For all their soldiers’ superstitiousness (he knew a wolf was visible at the forest edge behind him, because the soldiers’ eyes kept flicking that way), they were lost in matters beyond the prosaic realities of crops and harvests, their utterly predictable patrols on their straight, level, cruel roads.
They had expected bargaining.
Skjaldwulf stepped back to stand beside Fargrimr and folded his arms across his chest.
“This is a very interesting tactic,” Verenius said. He was sallow skinned, with straight dark hair, and eyes as dark as Iunarius’. If you had come yourself, you son of carrion eaters, Fargrimr thought, I would have known you lied. “But surely you do not imagine it changes anything.”
“It is a wyrd,” Skjaldwulf said. “It changes nothing.”
“You cannot hope to stand against us more than another month, two perhaps at the outside, and now you threaten us with monsters and demand our surrender?”
“No,” Skjaldwulf said, still calm and cold. “We do not demand your surrender. We warn you to leave. And we do not threaten you, Verenius, for we are not the ones who will kill you.”
“Iunarius,” Fargrimr said, startling himself, “you did me a kindness.” And Freyvithr had survived the battle on the ice, was even now tending to the wounded in the Hergilswald.
“Yes,” Iunarius said slowly, more acknowledging that he remembered what Fargrimr was talking about than admitting agreement to anything Fargrimr might be proposing.
Fargrimr didn’t even know why he had said it. He wanted nothing more than for every last one of the Rhean bastards to be dragged down and torn to shreds by the wild trellwolves. He had not changed his mind.
But Viradechtis was Freya’s beast. Freyvithr was Freya’s man. Freyasheall was the wolfheall of Siglufjordhur, and Signy and Stothi and Hreithulfr were still alive, even though Blarwulf was not.
He said, almost snarling, “Let me do you a kindness in return. Heed my advice. Leave as quickly as you can, and if any of your kin serves with you, do not let him stay behind. I will not tell you twice.”
Something flickered in Iunarius’ eyes, belief or disbelief Fargrimr could not tell. “There is nothing more to be said, is there?” he said slowly.
“No,” Skjaldwulf said.
Fargrimr smiled unpleasantly at Verenius and thought, I hope you stay.
Iunarius nodded, collected his men with an economical gesture, and strode back up the hill. Skjaldwulf and Fargrimr stood together watching until they were sure the Rheans were gone.
EPILOGUE
The hall of Franangford was full again; Otter felt ridiculous for how happy that made her. But there were wolfcarls to run into and wolves to trip over, and in truth, she thought, she was happy because they made it feel real to her.
The Rheans were gone.
They left.
Every wolfcarl she asked gave her the same information. Skjaldwulf said, “They will not return. Not after they saw what remained of those who marched into Hergilswald.”
“Not after they witnessed the alfar armies marching out of the trees,” Frithulf said cheerfully. “Master Crow did not care for that at all.”
“They could defeat us,” Skjaldwulf said, “but I’m not sure they could do it without starting a revolt in their army.”
“They almost had one as it was,” Frithulf said, and Otter was called away to another disaster-in-the-making. But it was starting to sink in, like the warmth of the steam in a sauna.
The Rheans had been defeated.
There were still reasons to fear—life was hard here in the North of the world, and precarious—but there was no longer reason to despair.
Otter hugged that truth to her as she worked, and she was still hugging it late that night, as she was making the last careful sweep of the hall, looking for the things she and Mjoll and Thorlot would be sorry if they weren’t found until the morning.
The wolfheofodmenn were sitting at the hearth end of one table, their usual place when they sat up late, discussing matters either of great importance to the heall or of no importance to anyone at all. She heard bits of their conversation as she went back and forth.
“Isolfr,” Sokkolfr was saying, “I swear I—”
“It is none of your doing,” Isolfr said, and thumped Sokkolfr kindly on the shoulder. “No matter what Varghoss says, you could not have saved the pup any more than you could have saved Mar.”
“You could not have saved Mar,” said Skjaldwulf. “He knew that.”
She quickened her pace, because her eyes still burned at mention of Mar, and the kitchen made a perfectly reasonable bolt-hole, though she drove herself out again soon enough.
“You’re being overnice,” Isolfr was saying. “In any event, I won’t have a wolfcarl here who has sworn enmity with my housemaster. That’s my decision, not yours.”
“Backed up by both his wolfjarls,” Vethulf said dryly.
“His one wolfjarl,” Skjaldwulf commented. “I’m the historian to the Wolfmaegth now, remember?”
Otter smiled at that. He would find a way to remain a scop, even when he decided he was no longer young enough to bond with a fighting wolf.
Her last trip was to the far corner where there was always something overlooked, and as she came back with an abandoned and very sticky trencher, Sokkolfr reached out a long arm from where Tryggvi, tail thumping madly, had pinned him to the bench, and pulled her close, so that she heard the end of what Isolfr was saying: “… Freyasheall because they have actual rebuilding to do, and I think the work will do Varghoss good.”
“Or at least cause blisters,” said Vethulf.
“He is of no use here,” Otter said. “We”—meaning the women of the heall—“would be glad to see him gone.”
“I’m sending two of the other new wolfcarls as well,” Isolfr said, “and they’ll all be gone by Thors-day.”
“Freya’s blessing on your head, wolfsprechend,” Otter said, and meant it. She leaned into Sokkolfr and said, surprised at her own da
ring, “I think you might be ready for bed, Tryggvisbrother.”
“I might,” Sokkolfr agreed, one of his rare smiles lighting his face. “But it’s Tryggvi you’ll have to persuade. I’ve had no luck.”
Tryggvi had gotten up on the bench and draped himself over Sokkolfr, his hindquarters on one side and his shoulders and head on the other. His mismatched eyes were lambent with delight in his own cleverness.
“First successful lap wolf I’ve ever seen,” Vethulf said, grinning.
“All the way back, he wanted to run,” Skjaldwulf said, more softly. “He did not—he was faithful and did not once leave my side—but he wanted to.”
Otter rumpled Tryggvi’s ears the way he liked and said to Sokkolfr, “Tell him he can pin you even more thoroughly to the bed.”
“I have better things to do in the bed,” Sokkolfr grumbled and shoved at Tryggvi’s midsection until the wolf finally moved—though not without a reproachful look.
“Come along then, brother,” Sokkolfr said, twining his fingers through Otter’s. “Good night, shieldbrothers, wolf-brothers, wolf-sister”—and Viradechtis made a noise of acknowledgment, half grumble, half croon, from where she lurked beneath Isolfr’s feet—“my bed awaits me, and I am hopeful about what I may find there.”
He smiled down at Otter, and she realized, as she smiled back, that this strange light feeling in her chest, which she hadn’t felt in so long she couldn’t even count the years, this was hope.
* * *
Hreithulfr found him at the bleak cliff’s edge.
They didn’t speak for a long time, but finally Fargrimr said, “You must have come out here for a reason.”
“To tell you that we’re going to rebuild,” Hreithulfr said. “Isolfr says that this all just proves how important it is to have a wolfheall in the south.”
“I suppose it does,” Fargrimr said.
“I wanted to ask.”