Read By the Mountain Bound for Free Online Page B

myself useful in the world.
    The Warrior
    T he waelcyrge and thralls laid the woman on the bench in Strifbjorn’s cubby and tucked blankets about her, trickled brandy under her tongue, brought braziers of coals to warm the space.
    She shivered in her sleep, and when she woke, a long time later, she woke up screaming.
    Skeold, who sat by her, shouted. Ulfgar and Strifbjorn were closest. They came at a run before the crash, snapping wood and the thump of falling bodies. An instant later, two people plunged through the arras, and the blacksmith and the war-leader checked hard.
    The blond stranger knelt over Skeold, one fist in the waelcyrge’shair, the other pinning her wrists. She was nude, the bedclothes discarded. Her chest heaved, her eyes and mouth wide open. Skeold strained against the grip, and could not shift it.
    No mortal girl, this, then.
    Strifbjorn had no blade in his hand. He spread his arms wide, showing open palms. Ulfgar, with a sideways glance, did the same. “Peace,” Strifbjorn said.
    “You’re not giants,” the woman said. “You’re not Aesir.”
    “There are no Aesir anymore. No giants. You’re safe. All dead, and on another world.” She still stared, disbelieving. His hands fell to his sides. “You’ve come across the water to the next world. I’m Strifbjorn. Release my warrior, please.”
    She blinked, glanced down at her hand—white-knuckled in Skeold’s hair—and then at Strifbjorn. Meticulously, as if it pained her, she unclenched one finger at a time. She knelt back, stood, offered a hand to Skeold, quite as innocent in her nakedness as any babe. Ulfgar stared, and Strifbjorn did not blame him.
    Skeold, after a moment of shock, took the hand and allowed the stranger to pull her to her feet.
    “The giants pursue me,” the stranger said, and tossed her hair over her shoulder, her breast rising with the sweep of her arm. “By the all-Father, I pray I’ve come in time.”

 
Fenrir the Wolf-son of Loki, caged from a cub, grew so fierce that none would approach to feed him save Tyr, bravest of the gods; it was decided that the Wolf must be chained away from the realm of gods and the world of men.
The advice of dwarves, clever craftsman, was claimed. They wrought a binding-cord from the six improbable things: the footfalls of cats; the beards of women; the sinews of bears; the breath of fish; the spittle of birds; and the roots of a mountain. The cord was flat and smooth as a silken ribbon—barely wider than a thread—feather-soft to the touch.
Unbreakable by god or man. Or Wolf.
    The Wolf
    I expect the girl in the russet cloak. But it is Herfjotur who finds me a few sunrises later. She leans against an oak and waits for me within the pack’s range. I find her by her scent.
    The pack comes, yellow-green eyes unholy in the light of the dawn. I stalk toward her, drawing on my gloves. “Sister.”
    She smiles more calmly than most. “Wolf.” She crouches, slim and strong in her white leather, and extends the back of her hand to the boldest wolf, the ghost-gray adolescent. Onegold braid falls over her shoulder as she bends. She shoves it back. My gaze slides down the arch of her neck, the delicate ear. I feel . . . disloyal .
    She looks up. “Lovely.” And stands. “I bear a message, Master Wolf.”
    “Mingan.”
    She arches an eyebrow. “Indeed.” At least the smell of concern on her isn’t fear. “Strifbjorn requests your company. And counsel. This afternoon—he cannot get away now.”
    It is not love or even lust I feel. It’s melancholy for something I can never be. Yes, I am powerful, and yes, I could win a wife by strength of arm—but I can never be a part of their family.
    I should be grateful for what I do have. Strifbjorn, and the pack.
    She leaves me with a bow.
    I watch her glide down the trail. If Strifbjorn would not court Muire, perhaps I’d pursue her myself. Perhaps—
    Whatever she overheard on the mountainside, she has kept it to herself. Or I would