The Wolf Pelt

Kjellfrid received a vision of a name, a blood-spattered rune stone, and the howls of wolves. Her investigation led her to a farmstead in a remote glen more than a day’s travel from the home she shared with Ragnbjǫrg. She came upon the farmstead just after sundown, knowing she’d come to the right place when she found Thorgil Arnaldsson dead by the runestone that marked the edge of his land. His hatchet was still in his hand and he had collapsed atop the corpse of a wolf; the rune stone was covered by an uneven spray of both their bloods, congealing and freezing in the winter air.
 
Readying herself for battle, she advanced towards the house with her shield up and her spear out. Before she could sight the longhouse, she could hear the other wolves. It sounded like some were feeding while others were snuffling, whining, and pawing at wood. As the house came into view, she could also hear the family’s sheep panicking from somewhere within the building. She charged into the clearing with a fierce roar that scattered the pack and her keen eyes took in the scene: A young man was dead in the yard and a woman was sprawled in the open doorway. Several of the wolves in the yard were injured and they kept their distance.
 
Her war cry summoned three more wolves from within the house. The two yearlings didn’t concern her, but the big male, his face red with gore, demanded her full attention. She carefully shifted her position to put the family’s large woodpile at her back, giving one of the juveniles a long wound to its flank when it got careless. From this position they couldn’t swarm her. The big male came on and the familiar calm settled over Kjellfrid. Whoever she was, whatever she was, she was meant for this, for battle against axe and sword or tooth and claw. It was all the same and she was precisely where she was supposed to be. The end was almost a let-down.
 
Empowered by the will of the gods, her spear glowed with divine power. The big wolf snarled and leapt and Kjellfrid struck true. At the same time, she battered aside the jaws of one of the juveniles with her shield, the animal’s fangs drawing long grooves through the red- and white-painted wood. The alpha male wheezed its dying breath on the frozen mud of the farmyard. Another fierce cry sent the remaining wolves scattering into the moonlit woods, whining and snarling.
 
Kjellfrid scanned the farmstead cautiously, not wanting to be caught out by a particularly cunning and revenge-minded wolf. Convinced that the pack had fled, at least for now, she approached the long house. The door was intact, the woman dead. It looked like she’d tried to get inside and been overwhelmed. The family’s fire had burned down; it still shed some light, but barely enough to even throw shadows. Kjellfrid thanked the gods again for her dark vision as she looked around. It looked like every other small farmhouse she’d seen. The wolves had been pawing at the door at the far end, where the family penned their sheep at night. The animals had calmed down after the wolves’ departure and as she approached the door, she heard the sounds of whimpering children.
 
Stopping at the door, she called out in a clear, strong voice, “I am Kjellfrid Battleborn. The wolves are gone now, little ones. Please un-bar the door.” After a moment, she heard movement and scraping and then the door opened. A tow-headed boy of about eight glared fiercely from the gap, brandishing a knife. He squinted in the near-darkness and Kjellfrid said softly, “Lower your gaze a moment, I will make light.” The boy dutifully ducked his head and Kjellfrid cast Light on the boss of her shield. At that, the child looked up again and asked, “Where are my parents or my brother?” Kjellfrid mostly succeeded in keeping the pity from her voice when she replied, “I’m sorry, boy, they’re dead. We’re going to have to stay the night here, the wolves might set upon us again if we leave now.” She found a lamp, got it lit, and gave it to the boy, “Now stay here while I get firewood and see to their bodies.”
 
The boy dutifully retreated into the animal pen and closed the door again. Kjellfrid quickly moved the corpses of the mother and oldest son into the family’s shed, then gathered enough wood from the pile to make it through the night. She closed the longhouse door securely and then retrieved the corpse of Thorgil Arnaldsson, as well. Finally, she skinned the alpha wolf. Something told her that this was right and proper. Then, the night’s hard labor complete, she returned to the longhouse, barred the door, and summoned the boy. When he emerged from the pen, he was trailing a sister of about six years. Kjellfrid built up the fire, fed the children, and heard their story. After, the three of them bedded down for the night with the boy, Kori, and the girl, Asgerd, huddled tight to either side of her.
 
She set out from the farmstead late the next morning, having helped both children pack their essentials and the family’s meager valuables. Neither child complained about the journey or their hardship and they both thanked her formally, by name, when she delivered them safely to their jarl, Geirlaug Ragnhildsdottir.
 
After handing them off, Kjellfrid offered to see to the funeral rites for the victims. Despite not yet being a fully-initiated priestess or even an adult, Geirlaug accepted the offer and sent her back to the Arnaldsson homestead with a couple of warriors and a team of laborers. The laborers chopped wood and built the funeral pyres (burial was out of the question at this time of year) and Kjellfrid saw Thorgil Arnaldsson, his wife Osk Smaragd, and their oldest son Herlaug Thorgilsson into the next life.
 
After she returned to Ragnbjǫrg, she tanned the wolfhide herself, then brought it to a craftsman in Heiða-býr to have him add bindings and ties to it. Since then, she has worn the pelt across her shoulders, atop her armor and cloak.