Wolfskin (11 page)

The fear: the shock of it. A man does not attack thus, as if he cares nothing for his own safety. A man does not challenge thus, without cold iron. These eyes are wrong; they seem to welcome death. Why is the man unafraid? Does he think to take my place? Mine? I am not old yet, I am still strong…. I will kill him, stinking in his nakedness, I will rend him…. And yet, the fear. This is not a man, but another like myself, and he comes to take what is mine….

Knife slashed, fingers gripped long hair, the stick, he had dropped the stick, quickly now, dodge beneath, roll, spring, grab the stick and lunge before those teeth close again, perhaps on the neck or the exposed groin. Quick now. Screaming defiance, Eyvind thrust upward with all his strength. The stake drove true, and hot blood gushed over his face. The wolf thrashed and twisted, its gut impaled on the shaft of wood. The claws scrabbled for purchase on the rock and there was an eldritch whine of agony. The others, silent in their circle, watched narrow-eyed, shivering. The owl called again, remote and sorrowful. The wolf twisted its head
back, snapping at Eyvind's arm, its eyes fierce with outrage. It was valiant; it fought to wrench the stake from his grasp, and finish him with its dying strength.

Brave…yes brave…but you will not have what is mine. Pierce me with your long tooth, would you? I fight on; I fight you until the moment…until the moment when all turns to shadow….

The wolf bucked and pulled; the stick slid from Eyvind's grasp, leaving a palm full of splinters. The creature turned, dragging the stake under its belly. Its mouth dripped blood, its bared teeth shone red in the moonlight. Out on the rocks, the others waited: wolves, or men, or something which was in between, some manifestation of moonlight and blood and darkness. Eyvind's hands were cold, so cold now he could hardly feel his fingers where they still clutched the little knife that had once carved a token for a girl. One chance. There was still enough strength in the beast to finish him. Those eyes did not speak surrender; but Eyvind would win. He must.

You are nothing. You have no tribe, no place, you have no weapon but those you borrow. Your body is as naked and weak as a cub new-whelped. You are nothing. Do not think to take my place, for you can never be what I am.

The wolf growled deep and flattened its ears. Even so had Grip the dog once looked as the boy, Somerled, walked by him.

Eyvind opened his hand and let the knife fall to the rocks. The little sound of it echoed away across the hillside into the night. It seemed all drew breath; and then there was silence. The wolf gathered its last strength to spring.

“Naked I come and naked I overcome,” whispered Eyvind, raising his hands before him. “Against you, I use no weapon that you cannot use; equal we do battle, equal under the gaze of Thor. And if I cannot defeat you thus, I am myself defeated.” Then he sprang forward, and the wolf leaped, and the two of them rolled together, this way and that, a frenzy of tooth and claw, of straining limb and screaming, growling, bloody combat. Eyvind could not tell where his own body ended and the creature's began, so close-locked were they. It was pain and blood and darkness; it was a pair of strong hands, holding and squeezing and never letting go as the enemy scratched and gouged and snapped, as the blood flowed and the desperate sounds rang in his ears, and the night became a chaotic jumble of moon and stars and shadow, of rock and treetop and sky, of silent, waiting forms that were not man and were not beast, but Other.

At the end, at the very end, they lay panting, spent, almost like lovers worn out by a night of passion, and Eyvind looked into the wolf's eyes one
last time. The creature was still now; the golden gaze grew dim as Eyvind's hands maintained their merciless grip about the neck. The wolf bled from mouth and belly; Eyvind knew his own blood flowed from countless wounds on his body, on his chest, his shoulder, his face, his hands, somewhere in another world. He stared into his adversary's eyes and the truth looked back at him. This was the moment: the moment of changing. There were no words, simply the recognition of place, of tribe, of kingship: the knowledge of being, wild, free, strong. Then the shadow, and the darkness. The wolf shuddered and grew limp. The shining eyes clouded and were blank. Time to draw a single breath, and to begin to sense a weariness bone-deep, a pain in every corner of the body, a cold sudden and fierce that numbed his heart and froze his very blood. An instant only; and then with a rustling and a stirring, the waiting circle of beings rose and moved and closed in around him. The world reeled; the stars began to shift in crazy patterns. Beyond them, he thought he saw a man, a great, tall man like a giant with the mask of a wolf and eyes of brightest gold, and the man said,
Son, well done
. Then for Eyvind, too, came the darkness.

 

He woke, and for an instant thought he was home in his bed. Then he remembered, and disappointment hit him like a hard fist. A dream; imagination, the whole thing, and all he had done was sleep here by the fire like some lad too young and weak to hold his ale. They had not even let him attempt the trial. He moved, rolling to sit up, and felt pain lance through every part of his body. He rubbed his eyes against the daylight, and when he lowered his hands he saw the crust of dried blood on them. He was naked under the blanket, and on his chest, scored deep in flesh still coated with powdery ash, were four angry red stripes. A drum pounded inside his head; his mouth was dry and foul-tasting.

“Here,” said Eirik, appearing at his side with a skin water bottle in his hand, and a big grin on his bearded face. The others were behind him: the toothless one, the earless one, the sharp-featured Hakon, the whole band of Wolfskins, and now they were laughing and congratulating him, and he winced in pain as someone thumped him on the back, and someone else was saying now there were twelve again, and Thor would be glad indeed.

“I–I passed, then?” Eyvind croaked, clutching the water bottle and wondering greatly about a number of things. “That was…real?”

Eirik's smile was fierce and proud. “For each of us, it is different,” he
said. “For each of us, it is real. You passed, yes, and more than passed, I think.”

“But I saw—” Eyvind broke off. How could he find the words to tell of such wonders, the strangeness of those figures in the darkness, the way the wolf seemed a part of himself, so he knew its thoughts, and yet how it seemed at the same time to be the embodiment of the god? How he had seen death, and for a moment had understood it? And if he had truly slain a wolf, where was it now?

“You'll be hungry,” Hakon said, “and thirsty. Get some clothes on, and fill your belly, for we've a long ride today.”

And when he was sitting, water bottle in one hand and strip of roast meat in the other, he looked across the fire and saw the skin. They had scraped it more or less clean; it hung over one of the extinguished torches, a great, shaggy pelt, the silver-gray hair faintly gleaming in the morning sun. The breeze stirred it; there was a movement in it, a ripple of life, as if the spirit of the forest chieftain still lingered in the mantle he had passed to his conqueror.

“There's a man at Magnus's court does a good job of curing and tanning,” said the warrior with the scarred face. “He'll make it into a fine cloak for you. A good size of skin, that one, big enough even for a little ox of a fellow like yourself. Fit for a king.”

Eyvind nodded, saying nothing. His heart and his mind were too full to allow words. No need to ask; no need to tell. Each of them had passed his own trial; each of them was bound to Thor. That made them a band, a team; yet, in the end, each moved forward alone, for the pacts the god made were as personal as they were unbreakable.

So, in his fifteenth year, Eyvind became a Wolfskin. As one of the twelve, he rode south to Jarl Magnus's court. He left the forest, and yet he did not truly leave, for he was one with the wolf now, and he carried the fire within him, burning bright and steady. While that flame lived, he would serve the god, strong in arm and will, eager for battle, stalwart against all enemies and true to his oath. His life henceforth would follow Thor's path, the viking seasons devoted to voyaging, raiding, battle and plunder, the times between spent at the Jarl's side, guarding his person, escorting him safely on his visits throughout his territories, entertaining him with feats of strength and skill. Visits home to the farm would be few, and at his patron's convenience, not his own. The familiar faces—his mother's, Karl's, those of the household in which he had grown up surrounded by love—would become
strange to him. That did not seem to matter. He was made new: a man. He would serve three years, five years, more if he was lucky; then, if the gods willed it, there would be a swift death and a place at Thor's right hand. It was a glorious future.

Eyvind counted them at first, with little notches on his shield: not around the rim, but inside, near the place where the boss was fastened with iron pins. The wood was crosshatched now, covered with small marks, hundreds of them. None was new; Eyvind had stopped counting long ago. Thor called; he answered. That was all that really mattered.

The voyages in spring and in autumn were the best part. Before he was eighteen, Eyvind had traveled far: north to the realms of ice and back through Hordaland, where there was a powerful ruler with an eye on Magnus's own territory—they bore him gifts to help maintain their uneasy truce—then south around the coast and across to Jutland, where one might expect savage resistance from the Danes. And farther south yet, skirting the land, slipping into the inland waterways that fringed the fair lands of the Frisians and the Franks. There had been rich booty there, some of which Eyvind got to keep for his own, having soon become one of Jarl Magnus's favorites.

Magnus had three longships, light, shallow-drafted vessels, well suited to the tricks of shore raiding. Two bore fifteen benches, the other twelve; all went swift and nimble under both oar and sail. The
Battlesnake,
on which Eyvind usually traveled, could go far upriver. She was easy to beach and easy to launch, and her crew could carry her some distance across a neck of land to reach a new waterway. The
Sea Princess
and the
Longtooth
were fine vessels too, making up a fleet that demonstrated Magnus's strength and built his reputation. Still, the long times at sea were hardly comfortable. One was usually wet, and the rations did not travel well. Camping on shore overnight had hazards of its own. They learned to sleep sword in hand and wake in an instant.

He'd fought his first sea battle at just fifteen; he remembered that one well. Out in the open waters west of the sheltered Limfjord, they were in risky territory. The longships approached the northwestern shores of Jutland where the major waterway threaded through toward the rich trading centers of the Svear. Mist had settled close about their vessels like a soft shroud. It was late afternoon; they had become aware of another ship nearby, just before this blinding curtain of gray had descended around them. Ulf had command of the
Battlesnake
; he bade the men still their oars, and they sat in silence. In such a mist, ears must become eyes. They waited.

Eyvind, the hunter, heard it first: a tiny creaking, as of the timbers of a longship eased through the water with painful slowness. He gestured to Ulf,
that way
, and Ulf gave the sign. The Wolfskins edged forward past the oarsmen, hands moving to grip weapons: the hewing axe, the short sword, the stabbing spear, the war hammer.

The crew held the
Battlesnake
still; once in position they would ship their oars, for all were warriors and each must be ready to play his part. They could be facing a single Danish longship, or two, or a whole fleet; there could be attack from all sides. Such sea combat was risky indeed, yet it could reap rich rewards, for an enemy ship, once boarded and its crew subdued, might be taken all the way home to form a fine addition to the Jarl's own fleet, or a significant gift to somebody one needed to impress, such as that dangerous fellow in Hordaland. Today, Magnus himself was in command of the
Sea Princess
, out there in the mist somewhere, and one of his nobles captained the
Longtooth
. But it was the
Battlesnake
that bore the Wolfskins, and so the
Battlesnake
must be first to attack.

They crouched on the small deck in the bow; the mist hung so close, even the gilded serpent's head that thrust up fierce and proud from the ship's prow was veiled in it, the faint gleam of gold on savage eye and forked tongue shadowed by soft, clinging tendrils of damp. Now the creaking could be heard by all, closer and closer still, and with it a little rippling of water, as of the movement of many oars plied subtly by skilled hands. Hakon reached into his pocket and brought out a lump of grayish, pungent matter, which he divided among the twelve of them; their jaws moved in unison. Today there was no singing, no drumming. Thor's voice was a whisper in the limp sail, a murmur in the moving water.
Burn bright for me, my sons…Smite hard, kill clean
…. The very timbers of the ship shivered with it, and Eyvind felt his heart quicken, its thumping a strong drumbeat, in time with the others, in tune with the voice of the god. They waited,
every sinew stretched taut, every breath screaming,
Now! Now!
Yet they held still.

A flash of red through the wispy shawl of moisture, and now more colors, yellow, blue, the figure of a fine woman painted bright, riding bare-breasted toward them, not five paces away and moving fast. He heard Ulf's voice behind him, “Now!,” and then the Danish vessel was upon them, the prow within reach, bold lady and savage serpent eye to eye, and Grim and Erlend reached out with iron hooks to grapple the enemy vessel tight to theirs; beyond that painted figurehead, bright metal flashed through the mist.

“Attack!” Ulf commanded, and in his voice was the thunderous voice of Thor, urging them on. The fire came again, hot and urgent in his vitals, in his thudding heart, in his bursting head, and Eyvind charged forward, a scream of challenge on his lips. He had waited for this moment all his life. Behind him, the Wolfskins roared as they sprang across to the bow of the enemy ship, their weapons hungry for human flesh.

There were no Wolfskins among the Danish warriors. Still, the enemy fought bravely, considering the odds. They lost perhaps half their number in that first onslaught. Eyvind knew that he had taken one fellow's head off his shoulders at a single blow. He recalled a stroke that had seemed to glance off another warrior's shield, and the surprise on the Dane's features as he looked down and saw that his arm had been neatly severed. Eyvind had never believed in causing pain when it was unnecessary. He made sure his second blow administered instant death. The deck grew slippery with blood, and one tended to step on things better avoided. The Wolfskins advanced like a dark tide down the ship, the first bench, the second, the third; he heard Hakon screaming behind him somewhere, as if in pain. He saw Eirik turning back, but Eyvind moved on, for his axe was sounding a song all its own, dauntless and unassailable, greeting and farewell.

As he hacked his way forward, the mist began to lift and the dark shape of another vessel loomed up alongside; there was, perhaps, a whole fleet of Danish ships out there, each with its complement of warriors.

“Hold hard!” yelled Ulf, now making his own progress along the slick boards of the deck his strike force had cleared for him. “Ware to the starboard flank!”

But there was no threat. The ship that emerged now between the rags of mist was one of their own, the
Sea Princess
, with Jarl Magnus himself in the bows watching with interest as his youngest and newest Wolfskin
whirled and thrust and hacked his way ever forward, leaving a trail of broken men behind him.

 

Later, they told Eyvind that he had killed nine in this, his first battle. The Jarl had his eye on him from that time on. One expected displays of courage from a Wolfskin, but to lead, to provide a rallying point, and to account for so many in one's first encounter, and that at barely fifteen years of age, was something exceptional. There were rewards when they returned to court. Fine weapons, rich cloaks, horses. For Eyvind that was a strange moment, standing before the Jarl, receiving his thanks.

“Well, my brave one,” Magnus said expansively, “you've seen the riches I bestow on your fellow warriors. Nobody could accuse me of being ungenerous. I know how to reward valor. And you are among the most courageous, for all you're still a boy. What gift do you want from me? Speak, and it's yours. What does such a fine fellow as yourself hanker after, I wonder?”

Eyvind found it difficult to know what to say. Glancing around the room for inspiration he caught the eye of Somerled, who sat among the nobles gathered in Magnus's hall for the feast of celebration. Somerled raised his eyebrows and twisted his lip, which was no help at all.

“My lord,” Eyvind said, “I want no reward, though I am honored that you should offer me one. I have all that I need: my trusty axe, my good sword, and a place among your lordship's Wolfskins. To answer the call of Thor is all that I ever desired in life. I am well content with what I have.”

Magnus stared at him blankly for a moment, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. Taking their lead from him, the assembled nobles of the household, the warriors and ladies, the visiting dignitaries, emissaries, and scholars joined in. Eyvind glanced at Somerled again. Somerled was not laughing.

“Well spoken, son,” said the Jarl. “Well said, indeed. You may change your mind as you grow older. So, you will not take silver or gold, or rich garments, or fine weaponry. A slave girl, perhaps? There are many here at court, some no older than yourself, and not lacking in charms, I assure you. A hot-blooded fellow must surely say yes to that.”

To his mortification, Eyvind felt himself blushing scarlet at these words. He was a man now, there was no denying that. But he had never forgotten what Somerled once told him, and he hesitated, silent. A ripple of whispers and chuckles passed around the assembled courtiers. Thor help
him, they'd think him some kind of a freak if he did not reply soon. What kind of man turns down such an offer?

“Well, boy?” Magnus raised his brows.

“My lord, I have an even better suggestion.” Heads turned as Somerled rose to his feet, his voice smoothly confident in the crowded hall. “Surely the very best reward for valor is one that lasts forever, a gift which fixes that moment of bravery in our hearts and minds eternally.”

Magnus frowned. “Go on,” he said.

“What you need is a poem,” said Somerled. “A fine, heroic verse that sets out the bravery of all who took part in this encounter: yourself as leader, my estimable brother and the other commanders, and the whole force of dauntless warriors who ventured forth against the men of Jutland. And if you would reward the newest of your Wolfskins especially, let us capture his youth and courage in this mode. It is a challenge for your skald, to render such a poem by tomorrow night perhaps, and thus ennoble both Eyvind's name and your own.”

“Mmm,” mused the Jarl, a little smile playing on his lips. It was immediately plain the idea had taken his fancy. “Well said, Somerled.” He glanced at Ulf, who sat by him. “Your young brother is a clever fellow, never short of new ideas. A cunning strategist on the game board, too, I understand, and no mean poet himself.”

Ulf muttered a response.

“What do you think of this idea, young Wolfskin? Does it please you?” Magnus asked expansively.

Eyvind breathed again. “Yes, my lord,” he managed, glancing across at Somerled and trying not to make his relief too obvious. Somerled's mouth quirked up at the corner.

“Very well, then,” said Magnus. “A poem it shall be, in heroic style; it will be well fashioned, and we will hear it after supper tomorrow. But I will not ask my own skald, Odd Knife-Tongue, to make such a set of verses. That honor shall fall to you, Somerled Gunnarsson. They call you something of a wordsmith. Make us the tale of your young friend's bold endeavor and of our victory over the Danes. Make it both strong and subtle, stirring and clever. We shall await the result with great anticipation. As for Eyvind here, we shall let him go for now; doubtless it will not be long before he again shines bright among our warriors.”

So, Somerled had rescued him. Somerled, once such a pathetic scrap of a boy, now moved among these men of power and influence with confi
dent assurance. He was indeed a consummate player of games. Somerled was no warrior; still, there was no doubt in Eyvind's mind that on this particular field of combat, his blood brother was already a champion. And the poem, once rendered, had been a masterpiece of wording, its allusions so clever even Odd himself was stretched to work them out. Somerled had recited it to tumultuous applause.

As for Eyvind, his own particular problem was soon solved, for on the night of Magnus's offer, Eirik found him in the drinking hall, and announced that he was taking Eyvind on a visit, and that he wouldn't accept no for an answer. That was how Eyvind first met Signe.

Signe's house was one of many that formed the sprawling fortified settlement surrounding Magnus's hall. Many folk lived and worked here, all kinds of crafts were plied, goods made and traded, travelers housed and fortunes told. There were blacksmiths and farriers, tanners and armorers, drunkards and priests. The brothers hurried through the darkened alleys; it was late, though here and there lights still burned, and sounds of revelry or dispute could be heard. Eyvind tried to ask where they were going, but Eirik hushed him. They stopped before a neat, small dwelling whose steps bore red flowers in a pot. Eirik knocked. The house was in darkness; would not the inhabitants, whoever they were, take such an ill-timed visit amiss?

A woman's voice spoke from within: a low, warm sort of voice. Perhaps its owner had been asleep.

“Who is it?”

“Open up, Signe! It's Eirik Hallvardsson, and I've my young brother with me.” Eirik was grinning. As the door opened, the grin widened and he stepped inside, enveloping the woman who stood there in his arms and planting a smacking kiss on her lips. Eyvind hovered on the doorstep. This, he thought, was only going to make things worse.

“Come in, sweetheart.” Now the woman was looking him up and down, and he stared back. Her form was outlined by the light shining from behind her, inside the dwelling house; her dress, perhaps a nightrobe, was of very fine linen, and the curves of a firm and generous figure were clearly visible: long thighs, rounded belly, full, rose-tipped breasts. Her flaxen hair fanned across her shoulders; her expression was friendly. Eyvind swallowed nervously and took a step backward.