Wolfskin Read Free

change. Eyvind tried smiling politely, though in fact he found the constant scrutiny unsettling. The boy gave a little nod, no more than a tight jerk of the head. He did not smile.
    At length, the fire burned lower. The smell of roasted goat flesh lingered. Bellies were comfortably full of the rich meat, and of Ingi’s finest oatcakes. The temple was warm with good fellowship. Thor, it seemed, had overlooked the imperfect manner of the ritual, and chosen to smile on them.
    Hakon spoke. “I have a tale,” he said, “a tale both sorrowful and inspiring, and well suited for Thor’s ears, since it tells of a loyalty which transcended all. It concerns a man named Niall, who fell among cutthroats one night when traveling home from the drinking hall. Niall had on him a purse of silver, with which he planned to buy a fine horse, and ride away to present himself to the Jarl’s court. He was not eager to give up his small hoard and his chance to make something of himself, for Niall, like many another young farmer’s son, was not rich in lands or worldly possessions. He had worked hard for his silver. So he fought with hands and feet and the small knife that was the only weapon he bore; he fought with all his strength and all his will, and he called on Thor for help from the bottom of his lungs. It was a one-sided struggle, for there were six attackers armed with clubs and sharpened stakes. Niall felt his ribs crack under boot thrusts and his skull ring with blow on blow; his sight grew dim, he saw the night world through a red haze. It occurred to him, through a rising tide of unconsciousness, that this was not a good way to die, snuffed out by scum for a prize they would squabble over and waste and forget, as he himself would be forgotten soon enough. Still he struggled against them, for the will to live burned in him like a small, bright flame.
    â€œThen, abruptly, the kicking stopped. The hands that had gripped his throat, squeezing without mercy, slackened and dropped away. There was a sound of furious activity around him, grunts and oaths, scuffling and a sudden shriek of pain, then retreating footsteps, and silence.
    â€œAn arm lifted him up. Odin’s bones, every part of his body ached. But he was alive. After all, the gods had not forgotten him.
    â€œâ€˜Slowly, slowly, man,’ the voice of his rescuer said. ‘Here, lean on me.We’d best make our way back to the drinking hall; you’re in no fit state to go farther.’
    â€œThe man who had saved Niall’s life was young, broad, and big-fisted. Still, there was only one of him.
    â€œâ€˜How did you do that?’ Niall gasped. ‘How did you—’
    â€œThe stranger chuckled. ‘I’m a warrior, friend, and I keep a weapon or two about me. Thor calls; I answer. Just as well he called tonight, or your last breath would be gone from your body by now. My name’s Brynjolf. Who are you?’
    â€œNiall told him, and later, when his wounds were dressed and the two men were sharing a jug of good ale by the fire, he explained to Brynjolf his plans to present himself to the Jarl, and seek a place in his household.
    â€œâ€˜But my money is gone,’ Niall said ruefully. ‘My silver, all that I had saved—those ruffians took it. Now I have nothing.’
    â€œâ€˜You have a friend,’ Brynjolf grinned. ‘And—let me see—perhaps not all is lost.’ He made a play of hunting here and there, in his pockets, in his small knapsack, in the folds of his cloak, until at length, ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, and drew out the goatskin pouch that held Niall’s carefully hoarded silver. Brynjolf shook it, and it jingled. ‘This is yours, I think.’
    â€œNiall took the pouch wordlessly. He did not look inside, or count the money.
    â€œâ€˜You wonder why I did not simply keep this?’ Brynjolf queried. ‘When I said you had a friend, I spoke the truth. Let