Not wanting to rush Magnus in his private moment, Ulfrik fidgeted as he waited. Grim would arrive soon, he was certain, and their tracks in the snow would be impossible to conceal. He wanted to have a good lead.
Eventually, Runa went to Magnus and stretched a thin arm around his shoulder. She stood with him a moment before guiding him back, and they struck out for the southwest.
Strong men in good condition could expect to make the journey in several days. But the tired, hungry group had expended their energy before starting. Ulfrik estimated it could take as long as a week to make the trip, but he shared his calculations with no one. With no forage and no time to hunt or fish properly, a week would be too long. He had to drive them and pray the weather held off.
They remained vigilant as they stumbled toward the far border with Frodi’s lands. By the middle of the first day, they were on the outskirts of Grenner, where Grim likely squatted around the hearth of his hall, with hot food in his bowl and his hand up a slave girl’s dress. Ulfrik resisted the desire to march straight back to the hall and demand justice. He and his pack moved on, like starved wolves, in search of food. If Grim had men out, no sign revealed them.
The following days were hard. The weather had remained gray and sulky, with the scents of pine and damp in the air. They all wore deerskin boots, rather than better-insulated sealskin, and the snow numbed their feet. Ulfrik reinforced their boots with the cloth he had scavenged from the dead. It helped, but soon became wet with melted snow. Runa and Magnus wore the only two furs: Runa because she was the frailest, Magnus because no one dared ask him for it. The men all wore mail hauberks, but they offered no insulation. Once safely away from Grenner, they dried their feet before pitiful fires lit with the remains of Magnus’s table.
Each night they made a rough camp with a lean-to of pine for shelter, and the men took shifts at watch. Ulfrik let Runa sleep; her constant tripping proved how exhausted she had become. On the third night, Ulfrik thought he heard movement in the woods and glimpsed a ragged gray shape skitter away on four legs. The next morning, he and the group found wolf tracks in the snow. No one spoke, but Ulfrik spat on the tracks as they continued.
As they day progressed, they saw the wolf tracking them, its scraggly form appearing and disappearing amid the gray and white of the woods. Ulfrik threw a stone at it, and the wolf darted away, but returned soon enough. Ulfrik was not worried until another wolf appeared on their opposite flank.
“Even a pack won’t take on the four of us,” Yngvar said, answering the unspoken question.
“Everyone stay close,” Ulfrik said. “And don’t let them separate us. If there are two, then there will be more. They’ll go after Runa if they can. So stay close to her.”
Runa’s eyes were wide, following the ghostly shapes that darted and trotted along beside them. Ulfrik offered her a smile.
The wolves followed all day, but by night they disappeared. Runa declared they went home bored, but Ulfrik and the others were less optimistic.
“You have no sense, girl,” Yngvar said. “They’ll be back with the pack tonight, to catch us while we sleep.”
Runa fell silent, and Ulfrik knew it was true. They would have to build a big fire and stay alert. It would waste the last of their kindling, and he was still not certain of the days ahead. He thought they were close to Frodi’s border, but the snow made an already unfamiliar landscape indecipherable. He watched the sun, and ushered them all southwest. It was all he could do.
Night came, painting the forest black. Their small supply of kindling made a decent fire and the few dry branches they gathered helped. The fire crackled and sparks hissed into the air. They sat close to it, enjoying a warmth they would not find again for the rest of the trek.
Ulfrik had never been attacked by a wolf. When he was a boy, a freeman’s son had been killed by wolves. The parents took the boy’s body to Orm’s hall, where his father had paid the freeman silver for his loss. Ulfrik could not recall the details, but he had not forgotten the boy’s corpse: the face had been chewed right off.
The first wolf howled. Nothing followed. Then another howl answered the first. Ulfrik and Magnus were sharpening spears out of the straightest branches they could find. The spears would not pierce mail but might injure a wolf enough for it to retreat. They were still sharpening when the first luminescent eyes appeared at the edge of the firelight.
The men stood with their spears in hand and Ulfrik ordered them to form a circle with Runa, holding a burning branch to defend herself, in the middle. All around, growls ringed them. When the first wolf appeared he was shaggy and grizzled, with a scarred snout and yellow fangs. The growls became throaty howls as others emerged from the ring of darkness. The whole pack had come, five in all, to pull down a meal.
“Insistent bunch,” Yngvar commented. “Must be poor hunting these days.”
“The deer herds have been getting smaller,” Ulfrik said. “These pups probably haven’t been getting their fill. But we could use their furs.” The chatter, Ulfrik knew, was to calm them all, to make light of the danger encircling them. Then maybe they would become as confident as they appeared.
The first wolf leaped, coming straight at Ulfrik. But it was a feint; the real attack came from behind him, at Magnus. He heard him bellow and then stagger. Runa screamed, flailing her smoky brand. Yngvar jumped forward and thrust with his makeshift spear, scoring a jab to a wolf’s snout, ripping its flesh and gums. It yelped in pain. Then confusion was upon them.
The wolves sprang up at them, seeking to unbalance and overwhelm. Runa screeched louder than the wolves howled, and Ulfrik and the men roared into the onslaught, matching the ferocity of the beasts. Ulfrik sidestepped one, and it landed in the fire, its fur exploding into sparks and spinning flames. The next took him down with it, and his spear fell from his grip.
He punched it in the eye as it pounced down on him, but somehow its teeth still grazed his hand, tearing the flesh. The beast snarled and slid off him. The world was a jumble of snow, mud, foul breath, and flame. Runa windmilled her flaming branch. Yngvar sprang at the creature, thrusting and screaming. Ulfrik could not see Magnus, but heard his bear-like bellowing.
Before he could stand, the wolf pinned him again and bit for his face. Ulfrik blocked it with his mailed arm. The force of its jaws crushed down on his forearm, but the fangs were warded off. The stench of the beast was like spoiled meat, and its slaver splashed across his face as it savaged his arm. Fire blossomed in his left calf as another wolf seized his exposed leg. Ulfrik kicked and thrashed, screaming and pounding the wolf on top of him. But his unprotected leg was like mutton to the second wolf. He felt wetness trickle down his calf and pain bore into his ankle. He screamed, his pain and anger combining in one brilliant blast as he kicked out.
Suddenly, the wolf atop him disengaged and fled. The pressure on his leg released, and as the second wolf fled, Ulfrik saw Yngvar leaning into a spear thrust through the side of the first wolf. With its death, the others fled. The attack was over.
It was darker and colder now. Their formerly blazing fire was scattered and dying. Runa stood, lank and disheveled, holding her torch as if it weighed as much as a mace. Magnus, sweating and breathing hard, was still standing. Underbrush swayed where the wolves had bolted. It took long moments to register what had happened, then Ulfrik looked at his leg. His deerskin pant leg was torn and brilliant red blood pooled in the muddy snow. A throbbing, burning pain flared in his calf and he fell back, sucking in his breath against the agony.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Yngvar said, kneeling by Ulfrik’s side.