The Tempering of Men (33 page)

He would have said more, but Vigdis, Nithoggsfjoll's great konigenwolf, yawned widely and sat down with a thump. She looked back along the trail, and deliberately forward, and sighed.

Skjaldwulf didn't need an interpretation. “Come on,” he said. “Vigdis wants her dinner.”

*   *   *

Skjaldwulf brought his former threatmates back to camp and turned the jarl, his wife, their householders, and the rank-and-file wolves and wolfcarls over to the local housecarl for disposition to such housing as could be made to accommodate them. When he left, Halfrid was insisting that she could sleep on any hard ground under any tent leaf her husband could withstand, and Gunnarr was objecting that for his wife only the best could do.

That accomplished, Skjaldwulf himself led Ulfbjorn and Grimolfr farther into camp. It took only a few questions of bystanders to locate Randulfr and Fargrimr.

They stood in a sunny corner, deep in conference, Fargrimr's ink-worked arm draped across his brother's shoulders. Ingrun, visibly pregnant now but not yet too far gone to travel, lolled at their feet, sunning her distended belly. Trellwolves were broad-backed enough to sleep stretched out like a man when it pleased them, though when they did so their forelegs lay against their chests like crossed sticks and their back legs extended ridiculously.

Ingrun didn't seem to care that she looked a clown. When Vigdis and Skald came within sight, though, she rolled herself to her feet quickly for one so gravid, and came to them head held low and tail wagging like a pup greeting its parents. She bowed low, her belly brushing the ground and her haunches elevated, and stayed there while Vigdis sniffed her over. The sniffing must have yielded successful results, because Vigdis threw one massive foreleg over Ingrun's shoulders and then danced back, inviting play.

Three wolves bolted toward the forest, Ingrun running heavily but running, Vigdis and Skald pacing themselves to go easy on her.

When they had gone, Fargrimr sighed, and Skjaldwulf realized that he and all the wolfcarls had turned to watch them run. Skjaldwulf took a breath in but glanced at Randulfr before he spoke; Randulfr nodded and interceded.

“Fargrimr,” Randulfr said, “you remember the wolfheofodmenn of my old threat.”

There were claspings all around, and then Fargrimr returned to whatever had so troubled him. “Our father, Fastarr,” he said, glancing again at Randulfr—the elder, Skjaldwulf recalled. “Has there been any word?”

Skjaldwulf shook his head. The housecarl would have mentioned if the jarl of Siglufjordhur had arrived.

“He should be here by now,” Fargrimr said. “He would not fail to come, or send word if he could not get away. And he should have been here in advance of us, or at the very least not more than a day or two behind.”

“You want to go find out?”

Fargrimr shook his head. “I thought of going home. But then I realized that if I gave my proxy to my brother, he would be counted by the jarls and thanes as belonging to the Wolfmaegth. And they will be hard enough to convince that a wolfcarl's plan has any merit. You need me here, and it's a boy's fear that would send me home.”

Skjaldwulf was still considering whether he would rise to Fargrimr's gentle bait when Grimolfr said, “And?”

“Two days ago, I dispatched a rider on a fast horse with gold for remounts,” Fargrimr said. “If the Rheans or the bandits do not get him, he could be at the coast in ten days more.”

“By the time he makes it back, the AllThing will be under way.”

“We need him,” Randulfr said. “We need his voice and his renown to speak against Dromundr. The Hergilsberg jarl will make trouble.”

“My word is one thing,” said Fargrimr, “for I have seen these Rheans firsthand. But I am only my father's heir. There are those who will not hear me, for my beard is not white and to my beltlatch.” His smile invited them to share the irony.

“Thank you,” Skjaldwulf said, aware that Grimolfr and Ulfbjorn would need more explanations later.

Fargrimr shrugged. “It seems the least I can do. After all, the Franangfordthreat came to our defense when we sent for you, though you are not the closest wolfheall and we have never sent you a tithe of support.”

Randulfr choked lightly. Ulfbjorn thumped him—not hard, but a love tap from Ulfbjorn was enough to make any lesser man stagger.

“Only your brother,” Randulfr said.

Fargrimr shrugged, smiling tightly. “That seems to have worked out to the good for both of us.”

But it was Grimolfr who said, “Siglufjordhur came to the aid of the heallan when the trolls threatened. Though you were at great remove and might have stood by idly, denying that what threatened the North threatened you, you came with men and arms. Can we do less for you?”

It was a warm smile, warmly returned. “Actually,” Fargrimr said, “I've been thinking about that. You must be weary with travel—come sit and drink some wine, and I will tell you.”

*   *   *

It was very strange, Brokkolfr decided, to be even an acting wolfsprechend. It was not a role he had ever sought out; he wished to be useful in the world, but he had never wished to lead, and it was comforting to find both that leadership was not so bad—at least in this small way with nothing disastrous at stake—and that he would happily hand it back to Isolfr when wolfsprechend and wolfjarls returned.

“Most of a wolfsprechend's job,” Isolfr had said, “is listening. And I know already that you do that very well.”

The praise was unexpected, almost as unsettling as reassuring, but he realized that Isolfr was trying to tell him that he would not be asked to learn arcane new skills, merely to do what he already did. It was harder for Sokkolfr, who had already had a heavy load of responsibilities as the housecarl of Franangford, and much of what Brokkolfr did was simply to try to take over as much of Sokkolfr's work as he could. He was taken aback when Hreithulfr, Signy's brother, and Motholfr, Geirve tagging patiently along behind, came to ask what they could do to help, but it was an easy question to answer. Hreithulfr, town-bred, was the natural person to speak to wolfless men—and while Signy was every inch a konigenwolf, she was also still puppy enough that even the most nervous weaver or dyer could smile at her.

And Motholfr turned out to be a blessing. Before the trellwar, he had been one of those wolfcarls who could turn his hand to anything; now, it slowly began to show that anything he had once been able to do, he could teach. And in place of the bitterness and grief that had shrouded him, he had found a surprising store of patience.

Much of it, Brokkolfr thought, was Geirve, who was solemnly interested in everything—much more so even than the ordinary run of trellwolves, who were all as curious as cats. Geirve watched and listened, and she remembered what she learned. The second time Motholfr dropped the awl he was attempting to demonstrate, left-handed and awkward, to the boy who had bonded Geirve's brother Ottarr, Geirve picked it up for him. And from there she quickly became Motholfr's extra hand, turning frustration into pride. And Motholfr became in an odd way like the other half of Sokkolfr, the one doing the work that needed doing, the other making sure that it was possible for that work to be done.

Most of Brokkolfr's job, then, was to listen when wolfcarls approached him, as—to his bemusement—they did. None of their concerns was particularly earthshaking, but the werthreat was serious in entrusting them to his judgment, and Brokkolfr took them seriously in return.

Minding Alfgyfa turned out to be the least onerous of duties. Though she had her father's solemnity, she was rarely fussy; the heall-women doted on her, and Amma was inclined to regard her as a fifth pup. Alfgyfa, for her part, seemed happy to be adopted. The wolfheall grew used to her imperious cry of, “Ammy-wuf!” and if ever the little girl went missing, she was sure to be found cuddled against Amma's flank or playing some inscrutable baby-game with the wolf's massive paws. Some of the werthreat began to drag out the old legends of Sigfrothr, the hero raised by wolves, and Brokkolfr, not knowing if Isolfr would be amused or irritated, decided not to say anything. If nothing else, they were good stories, and some of them he'd never heard before.

The other duty that Isolfr, apologetically, placed on Brokkolfr was that of going with the men who volunteered to be the svartalfar's laborers. Brokkolfr said, “You need not sound so guilty. It was a harder penance staying away.” And he succeeded in making Isolfr laugh.

During Amma's sojourn in the root cellar, the aettrynalfar had asked for men whose brothers could come with them and add their strength. Four wolfcarls had volunteered; the only one of them Brokkolfr knew well was Ulfmundr, and he walked beside him, Hlothor circling them both, as they went out to the cave entrance. This was a different entrance from the two that Brokkolfr had known, and he wondered how many there were. Remembering what Baryta had said, he wondered if that was even a reasonable question or if the aettrynalfar made and closed entrances as they needed. This one, Ulfmundr told him, was not difficult for trellwolves, although the men had to walk nearly doubled over, and it was only a short distance to the cave where they were working.

They were met at the cave mouth by two alfar; one Brokkolfr recognized as Orpiment. The alfar bowed and led the way silently; the men and wolves followed single file, the men bracing themselves with their hands as they entered the tunnel. Brokkolfr, bringing up the rear, observed that the wolves showed no reluctance. Whatever the aettrynalfar were doing, clearly it didn't make them smell like trolls.

It was a comforting thought. He didn't know anything about shaping magic, either the kind that the svartalfar used or the kind the trolls used. He'd always assumed, without really thinking about it, that trellish magic was just that: part of what made trolls trolls. But if that assumption was true, it meant some very unpleasant things about the aettrynalfar—and Brokkolfr couldn't reconcile that idea with Antimony's care for his children or Baryta's teasing or Bubble's overflowing enthusiasm.

He'd mentioned the worry to Kari, who, bored and frustrated as his ankle slowly mended, had been happy to talk about it. He'd seen more of trollwork than Brokkolfr had, and he said, “It's not the same. Perhaps the techniques are the same, but—well, it's like Isolfr's axe that Tin gave him. That's svartalf work and you can't mistake it. If one of our smiths made an axe, it'd be just as clearly an axe, but you wouldn't think a svartalf had had anything to do with it. So the svartalf here—they may make their passages with the same technique the trolls did, but there's no comparison.”

“So magic is like an axe,” Brokkolfr said thoughtfully. “In itself, it's a tool. It depends on who you are when you pick it up whether you use it to chop wood or slay trolls or murder your kinsmen.”

“Maybe. What do I know from magic? But I don't think these svartalfar are the murdering type. Tin's people, I could see where the stories came from about svartalfar being dreadful and dangerous, but these svartalfar are craftsmen and scholars.”

“And mothers.”

“Yes. Although all svartalfar are a little single-minded about that.”

It wasn't quite what Brokkolfr had meant, but he had stayed silent, not sure how to explain himself. He kept thinking of Antimony with his five children and two students, all of whom he loved and valued and encouraged. Perhaps, Brokkolfr thought, it was the encouragement that was so compelling—encouragement was something he had received very little of until he came first to Othinnsaesc and then to Franangford. There had been neither time nor strength for such things in the village of his childhood, nor anything great to need encouragement to accomplish. There had only been the endless round of the boats going out and returning, fish to clean, nets to mend, and for his mother, food to prepare, clothes to make, children to bear. Brokkolfr had been afraid when he was chosen for the tithe, but now he could hardly remember what he had feared that could possibly have been worse than being trapped in that village like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him. If it had not been for the tithe, he would never have seen a trellwolf, or an alf, or anyone who had not been born within five leagues of his own birthplace. Amma was the greatest of the gifts his wyrd had offered him, but she was not the only gift.

He came then into the cavern of the cave ice, and his breath caught in his throat. Without the tithe, he would never have seen this.

The svartalfar had set the men and wolves to hauling the broken cave ice out, so that where once there had been solid-seeming rock there was now a lake. A mastersmith pointed them onto the path of rock around the rim of the lake—the rock was smoothly finished, and if Brokkolfr had not known better from vivid firsthand experience, he would have said it had been there for decades easily, if not centuries. From several points on this path bridge spans were starting to arch over the lake, each with an alf standing at the end spinning rock like a spider spun her web. The men and wolves' job was to bring the rock for the spinning, and Brokkolfr could see that this was a truly useful job, even if backbreaking and strictly manual labor.

He didn't know how long he had been standing, staring in rapt amazement at the working aettrynalfar, before he realized an alf had come up next to him. He recognized Orpiment by the golden crystals woven through his braids.

Orpiment said, “I must apologize to you.”

“To me? Whatever for?”

“To you and your friend,” Orpiment said staunchly. “When the cave ice broke, Realgar and I should have helped you. Not doing so was,” and he used a svartalf word Brokkolfr did not recognize.

“I'm sorry, I don't—”

“Miserly?” Orpiment said. “Cautious? Closed, perhaps. The ways of our foremothers which we have rejected. We should have helped you, but we were afraid.”