The Tempering of Men (16 page)

Antimony's hair was the same ivory color, looped in braids woven through with a tapestry of wire and jewels. Fingerstalls of some white metal clicked with each gesture, the alf's dark flesh visible through elaborate piercings and filigree.

This,
Brokkolfr thought,
is what a wealthy old alf looks like. This is an alf-jarl for sure. And I'm standing in the foyer of a grand alf-house.
And Kari's harsh breathing told him it was no dream.

Antimony raised its wizened-apple face and frowned, the edges of a long mouth drawn down sharply between a ragged nose and a precipitous chin. “Well,” it said in clear tones and perfectly understandable language. “What have we here?”

Whatever Brokkolfr might have answered was cut off by the patter of running feet—like half-grown kittens, he thought inanely—and the squeal of voices as a tumble of tiny svartalfar emerged from the chambers behind Antimony and sprawled across the foyer floor.

A moment, and he was able to distinguish: there were three of them, each no higher than his knee. Two were dressed in the same deep orangish-red; the third—slightly older?—wore dark blue. But a moment was all he had before Realgar and Orpiment flung themselves across the room, putting themselves bodily between the humans and the svartalf children. They had dropped the litter, and Brokkolfr's attempt to save Kari ended with them both on the floor in a tangle of elbows and knees and bruises.

“Ow,” Kari said in a teeth-clenched whisper. He'd gone an ugly color; that “ow” was just barely instead of a scream.

“We have no wish to harm your children,” Brokkolfr said with what dignity he could.

“No,” said Master Antimony, “and I see that one of you is hurt. Realgar, Orpiment—” He or she—
she,
surely, for those had to be her children now clinging to her robes—dropped into the svartalfar's language, but Brokkolfr didn't need to understand the words to recognize a lecture when he heard it. He stayed where he was, letting Kari grip his hand hard enough to leave bruises, and waited. They couldn't escape, and at least Antimony didn't seem to be angry at
them.

Then one of the little ones said defiantly and in speech Brokkolfr could understand, “But, Dama, you have guests.” Brokkolfr guessed Antimony's lecture must have widened in scope as it went. Lectures often did.

“Yes,” Antimony said, “and this unseemly behavior is preventing me from tending to them as I should. Thallium, please try to keep Cinnabar and Alumine better disciplined.”

“Yes, Master Antimony,” said the blue-clad svartalf. Not Antimony's child, then—a servant or a fosterling? Watching the assured way Thallium held her hands out to the younger children, Brokkolfr guessed she was a fosterling. The two orange-red svartalfar—twins?—went reluctantly, both of them looking back at Brokkolfr and Kari as Thallium led them away.

“Now,” said Antimony, “let us begin again.” She held up one long knobbly finger, cutting off whatever Orpiment had been about to say. “I wish the surface creatures to tell me first.”

Brokkolfr and Kari goggled at each other. Brokkolfr would have been much happier to let Kari do the talking, but Kari was still too pale and panting and in no shape to play leader. Brokkolfr thought about standing up, but if he did, he would be towering over the svartalfar—which first of all seemed rude, and second of all meant he wouldn't be able to see their faces. Thus he stayed where he was and said, “We were exploring.”

Antimony's eyebrows went up, but she nodded for him to continue.

“We didn't know … I'm sorry, we had no idea you were here. We didn't mean to trespass.”

Realgar said something explosively.

“Realgar says you broke the cave ice in—” A long phrase in the svartalfar language: the harmonics made Brokkolfr want to shake his head like a wolf coming out of the water.

“We didn't mean to do that, either,” he said.

“Clearly,” Antimony said. “If it had been your intent, you would have been more careful not to harm yourselves.”

“Realgar,” Kari croaked, stopped, cleared his throat. “Realgar said something about reparations.”

“Yes,” said Antimony. “Realgar, fetch—what do you surface creatures drink? I do not wish to poison you.”

“Ale?” Brokkolfr said, trying frantically to remember what he'd seen the svartalfar drink when they were at Franangford.

Antimony seemed pleased. “We have ale. Realgar, fetch ale, and then I think you should go see if Sceadhugenga Baryta will come.”

“But, Master Antimony—”

“It is foolish to discuss reparations until the extent of the debt is known,” Antimony said. “I will have to go look at the damage, and in the meantime, the creature is suffering.”

“Kari,” Kari said. “My name is Kari Hrafnsbrother. And this is Brokkolfr Ammasbrother. We are wolfcarls of Franangford.”

“Oh,” Brokkolfr said, sharply reminded. “Kari, they're going to be looking for us soon, aren't they?”

“Um,” said Kari. “I've lost track of time a little.”

“And all Amma and Hrafn can tell them is that we went underground. Vethulf is going to skin me alive.”

“No, he won't,” Kari said, and his chill fingers closed around Brokkolfr's wrist in what was meant to be comfort.

TEN

Shortly after first light, Amma burst among the chaos of Franangford's construction like a fox shattering a henhouse door. She jogged heavily, limping on one forepaw, her gravid belly swinging with the jounce of her trot. As she ran toward Viradechtis, Vethulf almost dropped the handles of the barrow he was pushing, remembering just in time that to do so would risk spilling a load of stone over Sokkolfr, who was pulling. Rather than breaking his werthreatbrother's feet, Vethulf set the lever end down carefully and then turned, ready to sprint to whatever assistance was needed.

Amma reached Viradechtis as Viradechtis was standing, still-drowsy, and threw herself at the konigenwolf's feet in supplication like a puppy. Kjaran was there, suddenly, hackles lifted but ears up, and through him Vethulf felt Amma's pleading.

A cool draught seemed to brush over Vethulf's skin, redolent of leaf mold and ancient water. It was Kjaran, relaying for Amma—Brokkolfr and Kari's scent fading, along with the scent of their torches, into that bottomless moistness and then the echoes of their footsteps fading, too. A long time passed. And then, through Hrafn and the pack-sense, Amma felt the echoes of Kari's pain.

“A cave?” Vethulf felt the blood rise through his face. “They went into a cave? Without telling anyone?”

Sokkolfr pushed the loose, sweat-drenched strands of hair off his forehead. “Hrafn waited at the cave.”

The pounding of footsteps as Isolfr—lanky, breathing hard—arrived on the scene, the laces of one boot flopping dangerously with each stride. He was running hard enough that he leaned back to slow, arms spread wide like a big bird landing. He rocked to a stop beside Viradechtis and dropped to one knee. One hand in her ruff, he reached the other out to Amma.

Amma, rising to her feet, whined.

“We'll find him,” Isolfr said. “Don't worry.” He looked up at Vethulf; Vethulf nodded.

“We'll need ropes,” he said. “Candles, torches.” His mouth dried. They'd need—what would they need? Wolfcarls were not miners.

“Shovels,” Sokkolfr said. “Picks. Water. Stretchers.”

Vethulf was just turning to begin collecting supplies when something else echoed through the pack-sense—Ingrun in a panic as white as Amma's, reaching out in need across miles of forest to her konigenwolf. The fear in it doubled Vethulf over, hands on his knees, gasping in referred nausea.

“Skjaldwulf,” Vethulf said, the name twisting like a tapeworm in his gut, as Isolfr's ice-pale face went as white as the scar that crossed it.

“Mar,” said Isolfr.

*   *   *

Skjaldwulf woke cold and stiff, with Mar's tongue in his ear. That wasn't one of Mar's usual tricks, and when Skjaldwulf tried to push him away, he found his hands were tied behind him. He turned his head and retched, the world spinning. There was nothing in him to vomit except bitter yellow threads of bile, and the effort nearly split his head.

He'd seen men with cracked skulls live and die, and you could never tell which would be the case until a hand of days had passed. It was good news that he had awakened clearheaded, though bad that he had vomited.

Awake?
Mar said anxiously, and Skjaldwulf could feel that his brother was hurt, pain in his ribs and skull, metal bars on his face, and something twisted choking-tight around his neck. That brought Skjaldwulf to grim alertness. It was full dark, though there was a dim red edge of light from a fire somewhere behind him.
I'm here, brother,
he said to Mar, and the heat of Mar's half-voiced whine washed over his face.
Where are we? What happened?

Mar was experienced and deep-minded enough to give Skjaldwulf a coherent string of images:
Skjaldwulf slipping and falling hard; the foreign soldiers barking and howling at each other; Mar bounding forward to stand over Skjaldwulf's body, snarling at anyone who approached; the threat hiding in the trees, watching for an opening; the arrival of more foreign soldiers and another jarl, this one riding a long-legged horse rather than driving a cart. The threat doing the right thing and getting out of range,
and Skjaldwulf heaved a sigh of his own, grateful that they had not let themselves be snared with him.
The new jarl barking at the soldiers, a blinding pain in Mar's head, then being dragged by something raw-sharp around his neck, left cold and frightened beside his brother, who would not wake and would not wake.

That was all Mar knew. Skjaldwulf was still bewildered; they had been taken prisoner, but why? Why capture them when killing them would have been easy and reasonable?

His eyes had adjusted to what little light there was; he could see the chain that bound his brother. It was obviously an improvised restraint, looped around Mar's neck and then around—Skjaldwulf squinted through darkness and blurry vision—a tree. If he'd had his hands free, he could have released Mar easily, but they were firmly tied, and he discovered when he tried to roll over that they were pegged to the ground, so that Mar could no more release him than he could release Mar. The foreign soldiers might not have encountered trellwolves and wolfcarls before, but they learned quickly and they were taking no chances. Skjaldwulf was surprised they'd left him and Mar together—surprised that, even if for some reason they did not want to kill their human prisoner, they'd left Mar alive.

Mar whined again, and a voice said from somewhere beyond Skjaldwulf's head, “Are you awake then, wolf-witch?”

It was a woman's voice. The words were heavily accented but understandable, except … “What did you call me?” Skjaldwulf twisted and craned and managed to get the speaker within his field of view, although as not much more than a blot of shadows. And the effort left his head throbbing blackly.

The blot shrugged. “The Rheans say you must be a witch to have command of such a monstrous wolf, and I do not argue with the Rheans.”

Skjaldwulf's reflexive response was to protest that he did not
command
Mar; the idea was abhorrent. But it was also not the most important matter facing him. “Rheans?”

“The men wearing skirts. They name themselves for their goddess, Rhea Lupina.”

“You aren't a Rhean?”

“Me?” A snort—almost a laugh.
Grief,
said Mar, naming the woman, as wolves did, by scent.
Grief and bitter herbs.
“I'm no Rhean, wolf-witch. I'm a Brython. At least, my mother was. My father was one of six Iskryners who raped her. When I was twelve, the Iskryners raided again and she killed herself rather than fall into their hands.”

Skjaldwulf had seen a few Brythoni and half-Brythoni thralls; they were a comely people, darker than Iskryne-men and finer-featured. He even knew a little of their mountainous homeland, learned when he was a skald's apprentice. Before Mar.

Your wits are wandering, old man.
“What do these Rheans want with me?”

“They want you to tell them how to defeat your witchcraft. And don't tell them you're not a witch, Iskryner, because if they don't need you, they'll have no reason not to kill you. And they have seven reasons to want you dead, for you killed seven of their soldiers before you were brought down.” She got up, a shadow against the firelight, and stood looking down at Skjaldwulf for a moment. “The Rheans burn witches,” she said softly, and walked away.

*   *   *

Skjaldwulf and Mar huddled together as best they could for the rest of the night. Skjaldwulf slept patchily. At dawn, the Brython returned with two Rhean soldiers. They freed Skjaldwulf's hands and hauled him to his feet. One said something, jabbing a finger forcefully at Mar, and the Brython said, “Your wolf companion stays here. If you try to escape, they will kill it.”

Skjaldwulf flexed his hands, wincing at the burn of returning feeling. “If I cooperate, will you loosen the chain? It hurts him.”

The Brython's eyebrows shot up, but she turned to the soldiers, and Skjaldwulf could only assume she relayed the request. Certainly, it touched off quite an argument, and Skjaldwulf took the opportunity to observe the Brython and the Rheans without being observed in return.

The Rheans were tall, strong men, with muscles corded in their bare forearms and calves. They had dark hair, cut very short, and sallow-toned, sun-weathered skin. Both of them had scars on their hands and arms; one of them had a scar slanting across his face and the other had a nose that had been broken too many times.

The Brython was younger than she sounded—Vethulf's age, or maybe even as young as Isolfr. She was fair-complexioned—not as pale as the men of the North, but she could pass for Freyvithr's kinswoman easily enough—with hair the color of an otter's pelt and hazel-green eyes. She was a full head shorter than either Skjaldwulf or the Rheans and as fine-boned as a bird. She was dressed in obvious Rhean castoffs, a piece of rope serving as a belt, her feet and lower legs wrapped in rags.