Wolfskin Read Online Free Page A

slipped. It was hurt and frightened.”
    The boy nodded gravely. “I see,” he said.
    Eyvind drew a deep breath. “Come on,” he said, “it’s warmer by the fire, and the others are there, my brother and Hakon, and the guests. My brother is Eirik. He’s a Wolfskin.” There was a satisfaction in telling people this.
    â€œI know,” said the boy. “Eirik Hallvardsson. And there’s another brother, Karl, who is not a Wolfskin. Your mother is Ingi, a widow. Your father died in battle.”
    Eyvind looked at him. “How do you know that?” he asked.
    â€œIf I’m to stay here until the summer, I must be well prepared,” the boy said flatly. “It’s foolish not to find out all you can.”
    Eyvind was mute.
    â€œYour brother didn’t tell you,” said the boy. “I see that. I have a brother too, one who has an inclination to build ships and sail off to islands full of savages. He doesn’t want me. I’m to stay here and learn what other boys do with their time. You’re supposed to teach me.”
    Eyvind gaped. If this was the favor his brother had spoken of, it was pretty one-sided. The boy was pale and scrawny; he looked as if he’d never held a sword or a bow in his life, he spoke so strangely you could hardly understand what he meant, and he stared all the time. What was Eirik thinking?
    â€œI’m not going to say sorry.” The boy was looking at the floor now, his voice a little uneven. “It wasn’t my idea.”
    There was a brief silence. “It’s all right,” Eyvind said with an effort. “It’s rather a surprise, that’s all. Do you know how to fight?”
    The boy shook his head. “Not the sort of fight you mean, with knives or fists.”
    â€œWhat other kind is there?” Eyvind asked, puzzled.
    There was the faintest trace of a smile on the boy’s thin lips. “Maybe that’s what I’m supposed to teach you,” he said.
    False courage , thought Eyvind. It must be very hard, frightening even, if you were a weakling and a bit simple in the head, and had no sort of skills at all, to be dumped in a strange household with the kinsfolk of a Wolfskin. No wonder the lad pretended to some sort of secret knowledge; no wonder he tried to look superior.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Eyvind said magnanimously. “I’ll look after you. Don’t worry about anything.” He put out a hand, and the boy clasped it for an instant and let go. He wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but at least that blank stare was gone. His hand was cold as a frozen fish.
    â€œCome on,” Eyvind urged. “I’m for a warm fire and a drink of ale.” He led the way past the sleeping quarters, which opened to left and right of the central passageway. Though it was growing dark, none of the household was yet abed. The days were short, the time after sundown spent in tales by the hearth, and in what crafts could be plied indoors by the light of seal-oil lamps. Ingi and her daughters were noted for their embroidery; Karl carved goblets and candleholders and cunning small creatures from pale soapstone. Solveig’s husband Bjarni was scratching away on his pattern board, making designs which by daylight he would transform into clasps and rings and brooches of intricate silverwork. Helga’s husband was away, for the hard winter meant a swift passage by ice roads to the great trading fairs in Kaupang and far-off Birka. In summer, he would take ship for ports still more distant, traveling far east. At Novgorod you could get spices and silks from the hot southern lands, fine honey, Arab silver, and slaves. Ingi herself had a thrall-woman with jutting cheekbones and dark, slanting eyes, who shivered through the winter, wrapped in heavy shawls. This exotic slave had two small children; curiously, neither resembled Oksana herself. Indeed, with their wide blue eyes and