Wolfskin (10 page)

Eyvind's heart was drumming as he swung up onto the riderless horse Eirik led. He was not afraid; it was the thrill of anticipation that made his blood run swift in his veins. He had his axe and his broadsword and a knife or two, but no shield. Eirik looked him over swiftly, gave a nod, unsmiling,
and in an instant the horsemen wheeled around and set off northward with Eyvind in their midst. Not one of them looked back. The farm was gone, and the longhouse, and the days of childhood. The god summoned them; if Eyvind passed the test, he would not come home again before seeding time.

They rode a great distance that day, farther than Eyvind had traveled before. At dusk they halted deep in the woods, on a high flat stretch of ground circled by tall firs. A fire was made, a ring of torches placed well out toward the trees. With nightfall came a bone-chilling cold that crept into every corner of the body, numbing fingers and toes, freezing nose and ears and making each breath a burden. Eyvind was hungry, for they had not stopped to eat and there was now no sign of supper. He did not ask.

The men sat in a circle around the fire. One or two of them were humming under their breath, a strange, monotonous sort of tune that rose and fell, rose and fell. He could not understand the words. A third man had a little drum, cowhide stretched across a wooden frame, and his fingers tapped in time with the chant. Nobody spoke. Above and around them the forest was still, as if listening. The sound was like a tiny whisper in the vastness of the chill autumn night, no more significant than the chirp of a single cricket in a whole field of corn.

Eyvind sat cross-legged. He wanted to ask,
What must I do? When can I start?
Mindful of Thor's presence, he kept silent. In time, no doubt, the answers would become clear. Still, this was not at all what he had expected. Combat, challenges, hunting: all these things he excelled at. When would they allow him to show his strength?

“Here.” Hakon was passing a drinking horn; Eyvind took it and swallowed gratefully. The ale was very cold and very strong. He passed it to the man on his left.

“Eyvind?”

Eirik was giving him something now, a wad of some kind of gum or resin, sticky and pungent-smelling.

“What…?”

“You must chew this. And drink more ale. Pass the horn around again, men.”

Eyvind eyed the lump of gray matter dubiously. It seemed more the kind of substance one might use to plug a hole in a bucket, or mend a wall, than an item of foodstuff. He might be hungry, but he wasn't sure he was as hungry as that.

“Chew slowly,” Eirik said. “Don't swallow it. The ale should help.”

“What's in it?”

Hakon grinned. “It won't poison you. Look.” He reached out, pinched off a corner of the insalubrious-looking mess, and put it in his own mouth. “Herbs, mushrooms, pine gum. Harmless. Good for you. Drink some more ale; you're a man now.”

Eyvind put the lump in his mouth and chewed. It tasted worse than it smelled; still, they were right, the ale took the worst of the bitterness away, and soon he was feeling much better—quite warm in fact, and at ease in the warriors' company. The drum beat on, keeping time with his heart; the odd little chant ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed like his own breath, in and out, in and out. It was dark. Beyond the ring of torches was a profound deep blackness that even the moonlight could not penetrate. It was a darkness of
between:
the instant of nothingness before outward breath becomes inward, the point of balance between life and death. What was it Somerled had once said? The moment…the moment when it all turns to shadow.

“You must sleep now.” It was his brother's voice, and Eirik's hand easing him down to lie on a blanket near the fire.

“Sleep?” Eyvind was dismayed, though indeed he could not stop the convulsive yawning that suddenly overtook him. “But—”

“Sleep now,” said Eirik firmly, and as Eyvind's lids closed over his eyes he seemed to see his brother's image doubled and tripled, a fantastic beast with six, eight, ten blue eyes and a crown of wild golden fur, and beyond it a tumbling mass of jewel-bright stars.

The chant went on; the drum passed from hand to hand with never a beat astray. Eyvind slept in the circle of men, in the ring of fire. The dark firs, the star-filled sky, the earth on which he lay made another circle, encompassing all, and in his sleep he understood this. Then, abruptly, he was more awake than he had ever been before. It was still night, still dark, still cold enough to turn the marrow to ice. There was no song now, no drumming. The torches lit a pathway across the clearing toward the deep blackness of the forest's margin. Beyond the torches there were faces—strange, watchful faces that were neither human nor animal: empty eyes, painted brows, pelts that were not hair nor feathers nor fur, but something between. Beyond the fire there were bodies, shifting, moving, changing. What were they? Surely these were no warriors, but some forest spirits conjured from shadow and moonlight. Perhaps his companions were gone, swallowed up by some evil enchantment.

“It is time.”

Eyvind whirled around. Behind him a dark-robed figure stood, per
haps his brother, but maybe not, for the face was masked, the body quite concealed by the long garments.

“Undress. Naked the wolf comes to face you; naked you go in challenge. Fire is your only cloak: your weapons, only those he himself possesses. On equal terms you confront him, for to know him is to defeat him, to defeat him is to become him. I will guide you, but I will not stand by you at the end. This battle is yours alone.”

Perhaps the guide was Thor himself. The god wore many guises; even so did he delight in walking among mortals. Eyvind stripped off his clothes, wondering vaguely if he might die of cold before he got anywhere near any wolf. The axe: he would take that, surely Thor would approve—or maybe a spear, for at least that allowed the security of striking from a distance. But no.
Your weapons, only those that he himself possesses.
Teeth; claws. A sharpened stick. A little knife. No choice but to hold one in each hand, since he hadn't even a belt to decorate his nakedness.

By the very edge, beyond the glowing coals, the ashes had lost their heat.
Fire is your only cloak.
He smeared the fine powder on chest and arms, on brow and buttocks. It would mask his scent, if not quite smother it. Then, small weapons in hand and blood racing, he set off up the hill along the line of torches. The robed man followed, silent. And beyond the light, the others came, others that now seemed to move on scampering paw and prancing hoof and slithering belly, that seemed to merge and emerge, part substance, part shadow. Their eyes shone red in the firelight, and yet when he glanced across they seemed no more than holes of blackness in the blank masks of their faces. It was so quiet he could hear the cautious progress of his bare feet on the carpet of needles beneath the firs, beyond the farthest torch now, under the trees, into the darkness.

“Go forward,” his guide murmured. “Go onward, Eyvind. A blind man does not fear the setting of the sun. Hear with the creature's ears; scent your prey as he does. Be of the earth; be of the night. You have learned to hunt. Learn now to be hunted.”

The path led upward, narrow between great rocks, precipitous and quite without light.
The blind man…he does not fear the dark because he knows the dark
, thought Eyvind;
he finds his way not by sight but by hearing, and smell, and something else, the something else that sends a forest creature into hiding before ever the man's foot cracks a twig, or his alien scent is borne across the hillside by the wind
. Step by step Eyvind moved forward, balancing his body to keep safe footing yet maintain silence, counting his breath
ing to make it slow and quiet, listening in a way he already knew. He had been a hunter many seasons, for all he was but barely a man.

The forest creatures had been silent: not a chirrup, not a rustle. Now, sudden in the dark, an owl hooted and he heard the beat of its wings passing high overhead. And behind it, in the same instant, another cry: a howl, a summons, a challenge surely meant only for his ears. He had never hunted a wolf before. Rabbits and hares were easy prey, deer and boar stronger, yet readily taken if you knew what you were doing. But a wolf was clever. And if he understood right, this was not a hunt, but a kind of combat.

Gripping his simple weapons, Eyvind moved forward up the path. The cry had not come again, but he had fixed its direction and thought he knew its distance: three hundred paces maybe, beyond the tree line, on the rocks to the southeast. It would be lighter there, under the moon: advantage and disadvantage.

The track came to an abrupt end, and it was necessary to use his hands to climb. Very well, stick and knife must be held between clenched teeth, and a careful progress made up over the rock face. He could see the moon now beyond the ridge above, fir branches brushing its cold pale visage. His fingers were growing numb; he hauled himself atop the outcrop, wincing as the stones caught his body unprotected and left their mark. He sat, eyes shut. A blind man in the darkness. No sound: his quarry would not call him forth, not now. He must find him in silence. No sound: no sight. But…there it was, he thought he had it…no, gone again. He made his breath slower.
Forget the cold, forget the bruises; fill your senses with
him,
with the one you seek
. Yes, there it was, a scent, faint but sharp, the edgy, acrid smell that was not boar, nor deer, nor bear, that was not dog either, but something far more subtle, and far more dangerous. He was there, not far ahead, waiting. Perhaps a whole pack of them waited. And Eyvind was alone. No choice. It was like the moment on the longship's prow, when it locks with the enemy's fleet and you charge forward, be there ten or twenty men against you. You see only victory, you hear only Thor's voice, and in that moment nothing in the whole world can touch you.

The same, but different. A wolf did not think like a man. To defeat him, you must become him. Wolfskin. That was the trick of it. Circle up, softly still, bare feet curling and balancing on the uneven surface, body crouched low, ash-cloak blending gray with a landscape slowly illuminated, chill and bare, under the impassive moon. Slow, so slow. These cold-cramped fingers must be made to obey, to grip and control, or he could never succeed.
I am strong. I am a hunter. And I will see him before he knows I am here.
Under the trees, stooping yet watchful, using the last cover of shadows, Eyvind moved with stealthy purpose. It was the upper rim of the great forest; before him, a jagged mass of tumbled stones rose to high, bare crags, the eerie light turning their ledges and cracks and fissures into a place of mystery and wonder. It was a landscape of gray on gray, encompassing every hue from the pale sheen of a fine pearl to a profound shadow-darkness. Twenty paces before him, a ledge jutted out from the hillside like the prow of a great ocean-going vessel, and there stood the wolf. Eyvind gazed at him and felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and his skin grow clammy with sweat. The creature was huge, surely bigger than any earthly wolf, for he stood three times higher in the shoulder than the farm dog, Grip, and his long, silken pelt lent his form a grandeur that had something kingly in it. Such eyes: golden, shining. They were a savage chieftain's eyes, deep and knowing, yet wholly animal. Staring up at his adversary, Eyvind understood the message of that gaze.
You are come. I sense your presence in the darkness. Who is the hunter here, and who the prey? Come out. If you have the courage, come out and face me, for one of us will die tonight.
Then the great wolf raised his muzzle to the sky and howled again, a cry to freeze the blood and still the heart, a call that rang out over the forest and into the very depths of Eyvind's spirit.
It is time.

If he had had a spear, if he had had a bow, he knew just how he would have done it. But this was to be a combat on equal footing. Equal. Naked flesh against thick pelt, small knife against many-clawed feet, stick against dagger-teeth: the idea was laughable. Still, he must win. His courage must be enough to tip the balance, for that was all he had.

Eyvind rose to his feet, no longer careful to be silent. The wolf turned its head. Eyvind stepped forward and began to walk up across the rocks toward the vantage point where the creature now stood facing him. There was a deep, low growling, very quiet, a sound that said plainly,
Come no farther. This place is mine
. When he had reached a spot ten paces from the wolf, Eyvind halted. Naked, ash-smothered, he held his head high and his shoulders strong. With the sharpened stick in his right hand and the little knife in his left, he looked the great beast straight in the eye.

Now,
said a voice that was not a voice: perhaps his robed guide, though Eyvind had believed himself alone on that journey, perhaps another. Maybe it was his own voice he heard. He would not turn. It seemed to him that as long as he held that glowing, amber gaze with his own the wolf would not attack him. The creature stared back unblinking, and for an
instant he thought—no, it couldn't be—it seemed it was a man he saw there, stern-faced, strong-jawed, with eyes as yellow and feral as any forest predator's.
Ware behind you
, said the voice, and he heard a breath, sensed the furtive pad of a foot, and there was no choice now but to break that stare and spin around, arms raised. The creature behind him lunged, jaws snapping, breath rancid in his face; a wolf, a masked man, a demon, he did not know, but he slashed high with the knife and stabbed low with the stick and rolled out of the way as the long claws raked down across his shoulder. He smelled blood; he felt the blow, but no pain. Eyes were watching, a circle of eyes in the moonlight. They were all around him. A wolf does not hunt alone.

Eyvind rose to his feet. He could still hold the knife; that was good. Think like a hunter, not the hunted. This was a challenge, not an ambush. Take the strongest; forget the rest. Oh, for a burning brand, for the weapon of fire. That would buy precious time.
Fire,
muttered Eyvind.
Fire.
And the world spun and steadied and spun again, and he felt the fire within him, growing ever fiercer and hotter until his head burned with it, his breast near burst with its power and he opened his mouth and screamed, a cry that made of his whole being a mighty battle trumpet. Perhaps he called Thor's name, perhaps something far older and darker. He turned in place, once, twice, three times as if to ready himself for a great flight of the war hammer or throwing axe. Tonight, his deadliest weapon was the fire within. Roaring his challenge, Eyvind hurled himself across the open space toward the golden-eyed chieftain of the wolves.