Chapter 1 Njall could not stop looking at the wolf.
She lay on the flags before the fire in his fathers hall at Nithogsfjoll and panted, despite the chill. Njall was sixteen, almost a man, even if he was hoping for just one more spurt of growth, but her head was as broad as the span of his palm between her eyes. His arms couldnt have circled her barrel, and if she rose on her long racers legs, she wouldalmostbe able to look him in the eye, were her attention not reserved entirely for her master.
She was big even for a trellwolf, and more, she looked tired. Her winter coat was shedding in hanks and clumps, like handfuls of dirty rags gray with scrub-water, and he could see her ribs under the skin like sprung staves. Her midsection bulged with the promise of pups, and her heavy black nipples leaked watery fluid on the stones where she lay, infinitely patient, waiting for her master to finish his business with Njalls father.
Njall didnt know what the business was, exactly, but he did know his father wasnt pleased to be doing it. Njall had been exilednot to the boys dormitory but to his mothers empty solarand fed his noon meal in isolation and bid stay like a puppy. Which he was not, and it rankled. Perhaps it was the insult that sent him, once the ale and bread and cheese and wizened last-winter apple were gone, edging down the long ragged curve of the stair to peer around the corner into the hall, stone rough under his palms, and learn what business his father had that his heir was excluded from.
And perhaps it was curiosity, too, for the men of the wolfheall almost never came to the keep. They were not welcome here, and they knew it.
The wolf had noticed him, for her ears flicked toward him now and again, but she never moved her firelight-hazel eyes from her masters face.
Njall had seen her master beforehad even seen her at his sideamong the cottages that clustered around the roots of his fathers keep like goslings huddled at their mothers feet. The wolfcarl was a big man, almost as tall and stocky as a troll himself, wild-bearded, his graying red hair braided back from his temples; the edge of the axe he carried was bright with nicks and sharpening. He was Hrolleif, the Old Wolf, high-ranked in the werthreat, and Njall knew the villagersand the manorowed him obedience and fear.
Obedience, for he and the trellwolves and the werthreat were all that stood between the village and the trolls and wyverns of the North. And fear, for he was of the Wolfmaegth, the Wolf-brethren, and not quite human anymore. The more so because he had bonded a bitch, a Queen-wolf, with all that that implied.
Njall had heard stories about the werthreat and the trellwolves all his life; when he was a little boy, his nurse had threatened him that if he wasnt good, his father would tithe him to the wolfheall. Everyone knew the men of the wolfheall were half-wolf themselves, dark and violent in their passions, that they drank the blood of their fallen enemies and nursed from the teats of their she-wolves. No decent man, said Njalls father, wanted anything to do with them.
Njall didnt want anything to do with Hrolleif. He just wanted to look at the wolf.
His fathers voice rang across the hall: “And Im telling you there are no boys of an age to give to your tithe. You wont take them little but you dont want them once theyve come to be men, either. We do not have that many children, wolfheofodman, and I cannot conjure them out of the fire for your asking.”
“I thought your eldest son was of an age, Lord Gunnarr.”
“My son is not for the tithe!”
Njall flinched back at the vehemence in his fathers voice, and the wolfs head turned. For a dizzying moment her eyes caught him, pinned him like a spear through the gut, firelight and autumn leaves and a clarity hed never seen in a dogs eyes, and then she looked back to her master, and Hrolleif laughed.
“Come out, then, pup! Let us see this boy who is not for the tithe.”
Njall heard his father curse, and if it had just been Hrolleif he wouldnt have moved. Obedience was owed to his father, as jarl and as sire.
But the wolf had looked at him.
Njall came the rest of the way down the stairs, not looking at his father. Not looking at Hrolleif. He kept his eyes fixed on the trellwolf, and although she did not look at him again, her ears monitored his movements.
“So,” said Hrolleif, and Njall had to look at him now, tilting his head to meet the Old Wolfs eyes. “My sister says you might be fit to join our threat, youngling. What think you?”
Sister? Njall was bewildered; the only people in the arched and gloomy hall were his father, Hrolleif, and himself, and why would the wolfheofodman be taking a womans advice? But then the wolf turned her massive head to give him another look, this merely in passing, not the breath-stealing blow of before, and he knew that Hrolleif had meant her. His sister.
He gulped and said, “I do not know, Lord Hrolleif.”
“An honest answer, at least. I do like a boy who doesnt swagger.” Hrolleif stepped forward, swiftly and with such power that it took a conscious effort for Njall to hold his ground. He caught Njalls jaw in one broad hand, turning his face toward the firelight. Peeling calluses scratched Njalls face. “Handsome lad. He takes after your lady wife, I see.”
“Damn you, Hrolleif”
“Lord Gunnarr.” All the easy amusement was gone from Hrolleifs voice, although his fingers stayed gentle against Njalls face. “You know the laws. You owe the wolfheall tithe, and as you yourself have said, there are not many lads of the right age in manor or village. We cannot farm when we are fighting, and if we are not fighting, you are jarl of” His free hand rose in an expansive gesture “nothing.”
“Thorkell Blacksmiths son,” Njalls father said, and Njall was embarrassed at the note of pleading in his voice.
“Is simpleminded,” Hrolleif said flatly. “As this one is not. Whats your name, pup?”
“Njall, Lord Hrolleif.”
“Njall. You will fulfill your houses duty to the wolfheall, will you not?”
Fear blocked Njalls throat. Wolfheall. There were storieshe turned away, pulling against Hrolleifs grip, so he would not have to look into the wolfheofodmans eyes or at his fathers rage. He owed a duty to his father. To the village and the manor. He was the jarls son, raised to be heir. There was a girl, Alfleda, whom hed half-promised to take as a paramour once he was married, and there was a betrothal to a jarls daughter hed never met, and there was his fathers gaze, resting on him now with an iron weight.
And there were the stories of what the men of the wolfheall did with each other, with the boys who went in tithe.
But as he turned, the trellwolf lifted her head again and caught him with a gaze of such piercing, knowing sweetness that he swallowed the fear.
He couldnt stop looking at the wolf.
And he owed a duty to the wolfheall, too.
Because Hrolle