A Companion to Wolves by Sarah & Bear Monette & Sarah & Bear Monette

Author:Sarah & Bear Monette & Sarah & Bear Monette [Monette, Sarah & Bear, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: TOR

It took the better part of two days for the army, Wolfmaegth and wolfless men, to clear the warren, and it was butchery—as Grimolfr had said. Their casualties were severe: a band of artisan-boys from Arakensberg's territory panicked and fled in the face of a concerted rush, and though all of them died for their stupidity, so too did seven wolves and ten wolfcarls. And that was merely the worst of the Wolfmaegth's losses.

Frithulf had been badly burned in the fighting with the bronze-workers. "You always were prettier anyway," he said to Isolfr, and they both knew he had been lucky not to lose an eye—or both of them. But the wound would be slow in healing even if it did not fester, and it would scar badly, a spill of shiny knotted flesh down cheek and jaw and neck. Kothran lay as near to Frithulf as he could get, his head in Frithulf's lap more often than not, and Isolfr knew, for he could feel it through the pack-sense, how much Kothran's presence helped with the pain and the sick aftereffects of being so burned. All the wolves with wounded brothers stayed close to them. The army's wolfsprechends were kept busy preventing dog-wolves from becoming as protective of their brothers as a bitch of her pups, allowing the wolfheofodmenn close enough for the rough doctoring at their command.

Vethulf Kjaransbrother did a great deal of that doctoring. Although his manner with the wounded men was brusque, his bandaging was meticulous, and he was kind and quiet with injured wolves—something that startled Isolfr, for he would not have thought the red-headed wolf-carl was capable of gentleness. More typically, it was Vethulf who started calling Frithulf "the Half-Burned," and that byname quickly replaced the old one, though Isolfr and Ulfbjorn were at some pains to make sure that Frithulf never heard it.

It was one more petty excoriation on top of dozens on top of fatigue and cold and endless responsibility, responsibility deep enough to drown in, and Isolfr surprised himself by retaliating one night, "accidentally" tripping Vethulf, quite spectacularly, while his hands were full of musk-ox dung cakes for the cooking fire. Wolfcarls did not duel; they were forbidden the hide and the holmgang for the sake of the wolves. But Isolfr would not have minded if Vethulf had taken a swipe at him. A fistfight would suit him fine, a couple of good swings and a scuffle to clear the air, nothing dangerous enough to involve the wolves. Just something raw and simple—a chance to black one of those mocking eyes, a chance, however fleeting, to meet Vethulf simply as man to man instead of this endless prickly skirmishing between wolfsprechend-in-waiting and one who would be wolfjarl.

What he got was Vethulf picking himself up, dusting powdered dung from his hands, and shooting Isolfr a glare that should have started that fire right then. Vethulf-in-the-Fire, indeed. But then he squared his shoulders and turned away without a word, as offended as a splashed cat.

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