Wolfskin (30 page)

Thor's breath,
Eyvind thought.
Something's changing.
A chill went up his spine; he could not say if it was excitement, or fear, or something else altogether. And then the door slammed open, aided by the fierce wind, and Grim came striding in.

“The islanders are assembling up the valley,” he gasped, holding his side, “a body of them, well armed. They didn't see me.”

Already every man in the hall was on his feet. Belts were buckled, cloaks fastened, boots laced more tightly.

“Eyvind?” said Somerled. “Deal with this for me, will you?”

Eyvind had not, in fact, taken charge of such a venture before, but it was easy enough. “How many men?” he asked Grim, and was told at least fifteen, perhaps twenty. Very well, ten of their own must go in response. One Wolfskin was generally weighted against five of the opposition, perhaps three in the case of Danes; but the islanders were tricky, and they were on their own terrain, so one should err on the side of caution. Himself, Grim, and Holgar. And seven other men, including five who had crewed the knarr, not seasoned warriors, but known to be dogged fighters with a few of their own tricks up their sleeves. He bade them arm themselves quickly, and fetched his own things from the sleeping quarters. The axe, Biter, was already on his back. He strapped on his sword, and took the fine helm from where it lay in the chest. The rippling metal rings caught the sun from the narrow window, sending a dancing spray of light across the gray stone of the walls. This would be his first battle since leaving Rogaland, so far away now it was almost like another world. It seemed fitting to wear the Jarl's gift, and to remember those times, so that he might demonstrate true courage and lead his small party to a victory worthy of Thor's trust in them. Then the god would look kindly on him, and see him safe home at winter's end.

They moved quietly, keeping to folds of the hills, seeking what sparse cover there was on the open ground. The sun was low; each rugged stone, each tattered bush cast a long shadow as they passed. The wind scoured the face of the land, sending birds hurtling across the sky, ripping at cloaks and setting the fine chains that fringed Eyvind's helm rattling in a wild music of their own.

They came upon the islanders suddenly, in a narrow divide between two low hills, where a boggy stream flowed down. A man with a spear, two more behind him, bows drawn, more at the rear, red, green, blue tunics, fierce dark eyes, leather helms. Eyvind looked at Grim; Grim looked at Holgar. As one they opened their mouths and roared; as one they charged, and the others followed. Thor's voice rang clear and strong in Eyvind's head as he advanced,
Strike hard, my son! Burn bright for me!
Biter swung and fell, chopped and smote, true and final. Around Eyvind's whirling form men screamed, swords glinted in the light, shields splintered, arrows
whistled in air and landed with the dull thud of barb piercing flesh. At such times a Wolfskin knows only the red mist of the god's will. Yet somehow, today was different. Eyvind saw Grim take a man's legs off at the knees, and finish him with the handle of his war hammer. He saw Holgar split one fellow near in half. Every man played his part, even those who had been seamen once, and now fought the only way they knew, hard and dirty. But the islanders battled on. Though plainly outclassed, they showed no signs of retreating. And they had done some damage of their own. One of the men from the knarr lay moaning on his back, both hands pressed tight to his belly. Another had fallen face down into the muddy water underfoot; his neck seemed to be broken. Now there were fewer of the enemy on their feet, a mere handful.
They should cut their losses and run,
Eyvind thought.
Why don't they run?

The fighting moved away from him; Holgar was engaged with two fellows who alternated sword thrusts, trying to get under his guard. It was clear to Eyvind that the Wolfskin was only playing with them. Grim wrestled with two more, who had been foolish enough to think they might relieve him of his hammer. Farther up the stream, three islanders stood back to back, weapons at the ready, in a last desperate effort at resistance. Eyvind's other men had formed a circle and were closing in around them. The islanders were doomed.
Why hadn't they run away?

There was a tiny sound behind him. Eyvind spun around, axe in hand. A green-clad warrior stood ten paces away, bow drawn, arrow pointing straight at his heart.
Burn bright for me, son,
sang the voice of Thor in his ear. Eyvind's response was automatic: Biter flew from his hand in a spinning, glinting arc toward the islander's leather-capped head. And, as the axe danced through the air, Eyvind looked into his opponent's face. He saw the blanched cheeks and terrified eyes of a boy, perhaps twelve years old, no more, a lad who had danced at his sister's wedding in summer with a grin on his face and a spring in his step, a boy whose sister had died by fire, with her children in her arms and her man by her side, her man who had been a Wolfskin. He saw the trembling of the youth's hands where they gripped the bow, he saw the furious set of the young mouth, and then Biter found its mark, true as always, and its quarry fell lifeless to the ground. Eyvind had always prided himself on a clean kill.

He stood immobile. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. Thor had called him, and he had answered, he had answered in his bravery and skill, he had answered by his actions and thought he had done well. But Thor was silent now. The voice, which had roared in his ear,
which had guided him forward all these years as a father does his son, as a great leader his warriors, was gone as if it had never existed. Eyvind reached down and pulled Biter from the boy's skull. He wiped the blade on the grass. The broken bodies of the islanders lay all across that hidden glen, and now he could see that many of them were mere lads, and many more were old men, gray-bearded, white-haired. Such children, such ancients had no business making war. It was foolish. It was not right. Farther up the valley, his own men were yelling now, shouting and stabbing and kicking at what lay on the ground in their midst. This was not a battle, but a rout.

Eyvind's head swam. Images rushed before him, old ones, new ones: Ulf's dead eye, a child's fragile skull, a bull's horn piercing living flesh, his own axe rising and falling, rising and falling, only it wasn't the helm of an enemy warrior he split in two but the head of an infant with round, innocent eyes, the head of a fair-haired woman in a clinging nightrobe, and he held in his hand not an axe but a little knife, a knife that scored a set of runes in the white flesh of a boy's forearm, neat twig-runes that spelled out, for everyone to see, his own name, Eyvind. Eyvind made this. This was Eyvind's doing. “Thor,” he whispered as a kind of darkness fell on him, “Thor, where are you?” But there was only silence: a silence that was like the stillness after a great door closes, a silence that seemed to him as final as death. He was somewhere new, somewhere he did not want to be, and there was no going back. In their circle, the others still jeered and cursed, smiting their fallen prey. There wouldn't be much left when they were done. Eyvind eased off his fine helm with the fringe of metal rings, and put it under his arm. Without looking back, he began to walk away. Then he began to run, and his heart kept pace with his feet, faster, faster, away, away, farther and still farther. His spirit called, and called again,
Thor! Thor, help me! I have been true. Where are you?
But there was only the silence, and the distant roar of the sea. As he ran, unseeing, blundering up and down hillocks, stumbling over rabbit holes, as rocks bruised his flesh and needle-sharp grasses tore at his skin, something padded soft-footed beside him on the margin of sight: something as long and gray and quiet as a wolf.

The dog had been following her for a while now. It was a big, gray thing, shaggy and wild-looking. She'd walk across from the Whaleback to the shore, and as soon as she reached a certain point, she'd catch a glimpse of it up in the dunes, padding along quietly as if keeping watch on her. Its hair was matted; its ribs showed. The dog did not come within the boundaries of Rona's secret domain. It halted in the same spot every time, crouching very still under a group of low bushes, while she went forward to the sheltered hollow of the women's place. It would wait there while she performed the necessary tasks. When she was ready to head back home, the dog would get up and follow, as if to see her safe on her journey. Lately, Nessa had taken to bringing scraps of food, a little fish, a crust of bread, and leaving them where the dog could reach them while she worked. Sometimes, it would let her come quite close, almost close enough to stroke its rough pelt. For all its fierce looks, it was a shy thing.

She knew whose it was, of course. They'd all seen those two hunting dogs the Norse chieftain had with him; he'd even used them to help find their own lost sheep in the time of the sickness. But Ulf was dead now. Perhaps nobody wanted the hound anymore. Perhaps its mate had died, and it was lonely.

Nessa could understand that. Her heart still ached for the loss of her sisters. Her mother had drifted off into some strange world, where nobody could reach her; her eyes were blank, her words could no longer be understood. And Engus had changed since that fateful trip to High Island. Nessa could read on his face the realization that he had made a terrible mistake. The newcomers struck where and when it suited them; it was no longer safe for the Folk to travel across the island unarmed. What about the widow,
Ara, who had married one of the strangers, and died by fire with her bairns in her arms? That had been no accident. It was after that, Nessa thought, that her uncle had begun to recognize what he had unleashed on his people. Ara's kinsmen had gone out to seek vengeance for her killing. The Norsemen had slaughtered every one of them, hacked them to death without a shred of mercy. The little vale of Ramsbeck was a cursed place now, a place of deep sorrow. The Folk would not walk that way again. Nessa could only be glad Kinart had not joined that party as he had wished, or her cousin's body would be lying now under the earth with the broken remains of the others. A whole family of men had perished that day, brothers, father, grandfather, uncles, cousins. Kinart was burning with fury. He had sworn to take a Norseman's head for every one of those killed at Ramsbeck, for all he was not much more than a lad himself. Engus held him back. He held them all back. That heroic, futile attempt at revenge had been undertaken without his knowledge, without his sanction. Only a fool, Engus said, would underestimate the Norsemen's strength. The Folk had no chance against them in open combat. But there was still a possibility of a new treaty. They must not lose hope. All the same, Nessa knew he had summoned men to come from the other islands, and he had doubled his border guards. Engus had trusted Ulf, a good and wise chieftain. Somerled Horse-Master was quite a different matter.

Their own lands in the west were still safe. True, Engus had muttered something about her not going out without Kinart or one of the other young men, just in case, but Nessa had chosen not to hear him. She didn't want a guard trailing after her and getting in the way. She didn't want Kinart hanging about on the fringes of the forbidden place, calling her to hurry up. There was no need for that. The Norsemen knew not to venture over the borders, that had been made very clear to Lord Ulf, and his brother must surely understand it. Besides, she was a priestess, and if the dog did not protect her, the ancestors would.

It seemed more important than ever to make sure the rituals were performed correctly, the right songs sung, the stories remembered in every detail. There was no doubt the Folk were frightened. Those who had warned Engus that inviting the Norsemen to stay was asking for trouble now nodded their heads as if to say,
I told you so.
Some people with family on the outer islands talked about leaving; it would be safer to be well away from this new chieftain, whose men were inclined to use their weapons before they bothered to ask questions. But it was midwinter, and travel between the islands was well nigh impossible. Besides, Engus wanted the
men here, near the Whaleback, as many of them as were prepared to make a commitment to their king and to the future of the Folk. Without anything put into words, Nessa understood that her uncle was preparing himself for war.

It was cold today. She wore two cloaks over her tunic and skirt, and her thick woolen stockings and sheepskin boots, and a felt hat jammed down over her ears. The wind tore at her hair and numbed her face and hands as she made her way southward along the path through the dunes. She had been close to abandoning her walk altogether. Even at ebb tide, the wind had whipped ocean spray through the gap between Whaleback and mainland. She must not spend too long over the rituals, for the tide's inward surge across the causeway was powerful in all seasons, and today the narrow path was treacherous indeed. There were huts near the point, where fisherfolk dwelt, but Engus did not like her to stay there overnight. Were it not for the importance of the rituals, she thought he would have sent her away, as far away as he could, until the troubles were over.

As Nessa neared Rona's tiny cottage, the dog, which had been keeping pace with her at its usual cautious distance, began to edge closer. Its dark eyes were fixed on her as if expecting something. She had brought bread today, but it was fastened into the small pack she bore.

“You'll have to wait,” Nessa told the hound gravely. “Later. Good boy.”

The dog kept looking at her. They passed the bushes where it usually settled to wait. They walked on, down into the hollow where the stream flowed by, down into the women's place. The creature's tail was wagging furiously; it sniffed the ground and barked again, and now there was an answer, another dog barking in greeting, but the sound seemed to come from under the ground, from the tower in the earth.

“Here you are.” Rona, well shawled against the cold, was sitting by a small fire, which burned between rocks on a patch of level ground. The stream gurgled by, swollen from autumn rains. There was a pot on the fire, and steam rising, and a fragrant scent of herbs. Rona's hut was not far away, but she could usually be found here, for she liked to watch the many moods of the sky. “You've brought a visitor, I see. But we have a visitor already. And we have a problem.”

Nessa put her bag down. The other hound must have wandered in here somehow and sheltered in the ancient cairn. That did not present much of a difficulty as long as the Norsemen did not want them back. Now the first dog was running about and pawing the earth at the cairn's entrance. Nessa walked across. Since that time long ago, when she had first discovered the
tower in the earth, she had dug out its true door and its original passageway, always with due respect for the ancestors. It was now possible to walk in, though one had to stoop, and to stand upright in that first chamber. Light could be admitted by shifting the flagstone on the top, where a small Nessa had once made patterns of sun and moon, sea and quarters. There were little oil lamps inside and an old blanket or two. She used the tower for certain rituals, solitary ones. Some powers are best honored in underground places, secret, cradled places such as this.

“Careful,” Rona cautioned, but Nessa knew the dogs meant no harm; she had known that from the first moment she saw that creature moving along beside her like a graceful shadow. They might have come all the way from the snow lands, but they belonged here now. All the same, Rona did not utter warnings without good reason. Perhaps the other dog was injured, and might bite. If it was unharmed, why would it remain inside?

Nessa retreated, fetched a lamp from Rona's hut, bent to light the wick from the fire. Rona wasn't saying anything. There wouldn't have been much point, with the racket the two dogs were making. Nessa walked back to the cairn's low entry and made her way in through the stone-lined passageway that led to the first chamber. The dog pushed past her, knocking her sideways; she bumped her head and nearly dropped the little lamp. Ahead, there was an ecstatic chorus of canine greeting.

As soon as she emerged from the tunnel and straightened up, the two dogs jumped on her, planting large paws on her chest and arms, tongues licking enthusiastically. Standing thus, they were as tall as she was. The lamp wobbled dangerously.

“Down!” Nessa commanded sharply. They obeyed, tongues lolling, dark eyes gleaming expectantly in the shadowy chamber. The second creature was skin and bone, its ear torn, its coat filthy. It seemed friendly enough. She should be able to coax it out without much difficulty.

“Come on, then,” Nessa said encouragingly. “Good girl. Come on, then.” She backed toward the passageway, clicking her fingers. The dogs stood still as carven images, watching her. She'd have to go out and get the bread. “Come on. Good boy.”

She took another step back, trod on something, lost her balance and fell to one knee, putting out a hand to steady herself. Still grasping the flickering lamp, she looked down. There at her feet was a bundle of old cloth and fur and bits of metal, a large bundle that didn't belong here, for this was a secret place, where only she and Rona could come, a place where nothing was left without a purpose. The dogs padded closer, quite silent
now. Nessa looked again. There was an axe. It was a very fine axe with patterns like shimmering water on the blade and a handle of oak. She held the lamp nearer, and her heart lurched. There was a fist clutching the handle. The fist belonged to a man, a man who lay curled on himself in a ball, knees drawn up, one arm over his face, the other protective around this great weapon of death. He clung to it even in what seemed the deepest sleep, a sleep beyond dreams. He was not dead: those clutching fingers showed that. Perhaps he would wake suddenly and the arm would come up and the axe would strike her down where she knelt by him. Perhaps. But the dogs were quiet, sensing no danger. Nessa reached out her hand and, taking a corner of the woolen cloth that covered his face, peeled it gently back.

She had seen this man before. He was the big one, the silent one who watched the sky. His eyelids were heavily closed, his chin rough with a stubble of new-grown beard, his skin pallid and dry. He had dark shadows around his eyes, and a sunken look to his features. Still, she knew him. His hair gleamed dull gold in the lamplight. He was shivering, she could feel the trembling through the woolen cloak that lay over him. Under his head was the wolfskin he had once worn on his shoulders. Everything was damp; cloak, fur, tunic, hair, everything. He looked as if he'd been a long time without food and water. Rona had been right. They did indeed have a problem.

Nessa set her lamp on a shelf. She took off her thick outer cloak and laid it over the man, tucking it close around his neck and shoulders. She stepped back. The cloak, which came down to her ankles when she wore it, barely covered this man, even in his tightly curled position. His skin was cold to the touch, deathly cold. She fetched the old blankets, wondering that he had not found them himself, wondering that he had not sought out Rona's fire. Now she could cover him right up, so that all she could see was a wisp or two of his bright hair, and the pale skin of his brow.

She went to the passageway, motioning the dogs to follow. They stared at her. Then the second dog, the female, moved back to the fallen warrior and flopped down at his side, muzzle on paws. She might be starving and hurt, but it was clear she was not leaving him. Probably it was her warmth that had kept the young man alive thus far. The other dog followed Nessa outside and down to the fire.

Rona handed Nessa a cup of the steaming, aromatic brew. It was good to feel its warmth thawing the frozen bones of her hands. The wise woman swore by herbal teas for times of confusion, sadness, or just plain cold. She
had a brew for every occasion. The dog settled by Rona's feet. For a little, they sat in silence.

“How did he get here?” Nessa asked eventually. “When did he come?”

The old woman sucked her tea between her teeth. “I found him yesterday. He could have been there seven, eight days; it's at least that long since you or I had cause to go in there. Must have found his way in and made himself at home, very quietly indeed. Him and the bitch. Hard to say which is the sorrier specimen.”

“Did you give him food? Water? Did he tell you anything?”

Rona turned her pebble-gray eyes on Nessa. “Me? No, child. I bolted out of there the moment I saw him. What is he but a big man with a big axe? His kind knows nothing but killing. He doesn't belong here, no man does, and that sort least of all. As for food and water, he's beyond either. Hound's been out once or twice since I found them, but the fellow hasn't moved a muscle. Curled up like a frightened babe, eyes squeezed shut: past helping, that one. Didn't stop you giving up your cloak, though, did it?”

Nessa shivered. “What do you think we should do?”

“I don't think, I know. I was only waiting for you. This man's nothing but trouble. You must go straight back and tell your uncle. Engus must come in here and take the fellow away. The king won't like walking into this place, he understands what's right and what's not. But we've no choice, and better him than anyone else. Tell him to bring the lad, Kinart. It'll take two to shift the man. It's the only way. Once the fellow's gone from here, they can do what they like with him.”

Nessa could imagine. Her uncle might see the strategic advantage of a hostage, a bargaining tool for the new alliance. Kinart would be less magnanimous, with a captive Norseman lying helpless before him.

“They'll kill him,” she said, her fingers stroking the dog's rough coat.

“These folk are savages.” Rona spat on the earth. “Ignorant of the ways of the spirit, despoilers of land and people. They don't deserve your kindness, Nessa. You heard what happened at Ramsbeck.”