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Overview
All young Eyvind ever wanted was to become a great Viking warrior—-a Wolfskin—-and carry honor out in the name of his fathergod, Thor. He can think of no future more glorious. The chance to make it happen is his when his chieftain, Ulf, is brought the tale of a magical land across the sea, a place where men with courage can go to conquer a land and bring glory to themselves. They set out to find this fabled land and discover a windswept and barren place, but one filled with unexpected beauty and hidden treasures . . . and a people who are willing to share their bounty.
Ulf's new settlement begins in harmony with the natives of the isles led by the gentle king Engus. And Eyvind finds a treasure of his own in the young Nessa, niece of the king, seer and princess. His life will change forever as she claims his heart for her own.
But someone has come along to this new land who is not what he seems. Somerled, the strange and lonely boy that Eyvind befriended long ago, has a secret—-and his own plans for the future. The blood oath that they swore in childhood binds them in lifelong loyalty, and Somerled is calling in the debt of honor. What he asks of Eyvind might just doom him to kill the only thing that Evyind has ever truly loved.
Will the price of honor create the destruction of all that Eyvind holds dear?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780765306739 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 02/01/2004 |
| Series: | Saga of the Light Isles Series , #1 |
| Edition description: | First Edition |
| Pages: | 496 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.14(w) x 9.21(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
WOLFSKIN
By Juliet Marillier
Tor Books
ISBN: 0-7653-4590-0Chapter One
Winter bites hard in Rogaland. Sodden thatch shudders under its blanket of snow. Within the earthen barns sheep shiver and huddle, their breath small clouds. A man can lose himself in the drifts between byre and longhouse, and not be found again until the spring thaw. The pristine shroud that covers him is deep, but his long sleep is deeper still. In such a season the ice forms black and hard on lake and stream. For some, it is a good time: merchants whip their horses fast along the gleaming surface of the waterways, sledges piled high with pelts of squirrel and winter hare, with sealskins and oil and walrus tusks, with salt fish and fine embroidery. Boys dart across the river on their bone skates, quick as swallows, voices echoing away to lose themselves amongst the pale twigs of the winter birches.It was Yuletide, and today there was no skating. The wind screamed around the temple, demanding entry through any chink or cranny its piercing fingers might discover. The timbers creaked and groaned in response, but held firm. So far, the roof had not leaked. Just as well he'd climbed up and shifted some of the weight off the shingles, Eyvind thought. The place would be full to bursting for the midwinter sacrifice.
Folk were already streaming into the valley, coming by sledge and on foot, on skis or skates, old men carried on their sons' backs, old women pulled on hurdles by red-faced children or panting dogs. The wind died down, as if holding its breath in honour of the occasion, but a new storm was coming. Dark clouds built in the west.
Eyvind had been working hard. The temple was on his mother's land, though shared by all in the surrounding district, so the burden of preparation fell squarely on the household at Hammarsby. He'd spent the morning chopping wood, stacking the pungent-smelling logs by the central hearth, making and banking the fire. It was nearly time for the ceremony; he should stir the coals now and put on more fuel. The white goat could be heard outside, bleating plaintively. His sisters had swept the stone floor clean and stripped the cobwebs from the rooftrees, while his mother, Ingi, polished the bronze surfaces of ritual knives and bowls to a bright, sunny sheen. These now lay ready on the altar at the temple's northern end. Cold light pierced the shingled roof above the hearth. From the altar, Thor's image stared down at Eyvind. Bushy browed, full-bearded, the god's wooden features held an expression of ferocious challenge. In his iron-gloved right hand he gripped the war-hammer, Mjollnir; his left was held across his chest, to signify the making of some vow. Eyvind stared back, meeting Thor's gaze without blinking, and his own hand moved to his breast as if returning a pledge of allegiance. Till death, he thought Thor was saying, and he whispered his answer, 'Till death and beyond.'
The air was crisp and chill, the sacred space clean and quiet in the cold winter light. Later there would be a press of bodies in the temple, and it would be all too warm. As Eyvind used the iron poker to stir the embers to life, there was a sound from the entry behind him. He turned to see a tall, broad figure striding towards him, hair and beard touched to dark gold by the glow of the rekindled fire.
'Well, well, little brother! I swear you've doubled in size since the harvest!'
Eyvind felt a huge grin spreading across his face. 'Eirik! You're home! Tell me where you've been, and what you've been doing! I want to hear everything!'
His brother seized him in a brief, hard embrace, then stretched out his hands to warm them before the flames.
'Later, later,' he laughed. 'Time enough for all that after the sacrifice. We'll have many tales, for I do not come alone.'
'Hakon is here too?' Eyvind asked eagerly. He admired Hakon almost as much as he did Eirik himself, for his brother's friend had earned his wolfskin at not quite sixteen, which was generally thought to be some sort of record.
'Hakon, and others,' Eirik said, suddenly serious. 'The Jarl's kinsman, Ulf, is with us, a fine man, and a friend of ours. He's brought his young brother and several of his household. They're on their way to Jarl Magnus' court. Ulf has a wish for some delicate silverwork, I think to impress a lady. I made it known to him that our sister's husband is skilled in this craft. They will spend some nights here, in any event; the storm looks likely to prevent further travel for a little. The Jarl himself was urgent for home. He has a new son, bred when we came back from the spring viking; he is gone ahead, but we have time before we must join him. He will not set out again before spring's seeding is attended to.' He glanced at his brother, and his tone changed. 'Eyvind? I've a favour to ask you.'
'What?'
There were new sounds from outside now, the rapid approach of many folk, voices raised in greeting.
'Later,' Eirik said.
Eyvind asked him no further questions, though it was hard to wait. Eirik was his hero. Eirik was a Wolfskin. That was the most glorious calling in the whole world, for surely nothing could surpass the moment when you heard Thor's call to battle ringing in your ears, pulsing in your blood, filling every corner of your being with a red rage that shut out any thought of fear. To charge forward in pure courage, inspired by the god himself-that bold vision tugged at Eyvind's thoughts by day and filled his dreams by night. What matter if a Wolfskin's life were short? Such a warrior, once fallen, would be carried straight to Thor's right hand. One day he himself would pass the test, and become one of that band to which Eirik and Hakon belonged, as had many of Eyvind's kin in times past. The men of Hammarsby had a noble tradition in the Warfather's service. So Eyvind practised with the bow and with the axe. He ran and climbed, he skated and swam. He shovelled snow and hunted and grew strong, awaiting that day. Eirik's tales kept his dreams alive. Later, perhaps his brother would tell of the autumn viking, the riches plundered, the battles won.
The folk of the district crowded into the temple, along with the men of Jarl Magnus' household, warrior and swineherd side by side. The high seat, its wooden pillars carved with many small creatures, was allocated to Ulf, kinsman of the Jarl, and by him stood the two Wolfskins, gold-bearded Eirik and the taller, hawk-featured Hakon. Each wore his short cloak of shaggy fur, fastened on the shoulder with an ornate silver brooch. Both were well armed: Eirik had the lethal skeggox, or hewing-axe, on his back, and Hakon bore a fine sword, its hilt plated with copper. The nobleman, Ulf, was young: not so much older than Eirik himself, Eyvind thought. He had many folk with him, probably housecarls called into service for the autumn viking, with a few richly dressed men who might be part of Jarl Magnus' household elite, or Ulf's own retainers.
Eyvind's eldest brother, Karl, began the ceremony, his solemn features glowing warm in the fire's light. Eyvind was pleased with that fire; the smoke was rising cleanly through the roof-opening to disperse in the cold air outside. Karl was no warrior. His choice had been to stay at home and husband the land, his brothers' portions as well as his own. It was a decision that, in hindsight, had been both wise and prudent, for their father, Hallvard Karlsson, had died in his prime, falling nobly in the service of the old Jarl, and leaving Ingi a widow. A young man with a young family of his own, Karl had simply stepped into his father's shoes. Now he and his mother controlled a wide sweep from hilltop to fjord, and commanded great respect in the district. All the same, Eyvind had never understood how his brother could prefer that existence over a life as Thor's warrior. Yet Karl seemed content with what he was.
'Master of storm, tamer of waves, iron-fisted one!' Karl now addressed the god in ringing tones. 'Hewer of giants, serpent-slayer, worthiest of warriors! In blood, we honour you! In fire, we salute you! In the shadow time, we seek your protection. May your strong arm guard us on land path and sea path. Smite our enemies and smile on our endeavours.'
'Hewer of giants, serpent-slayer, worthiest of warriors!' the assembled folk chanted, and their voices rose with the fire's heat to ring out across the snow-blanketed hills and the dark fir trees, straight to the ears of the god himself. Eyvind joined in the response, his gaze on Thor's staring, formidable eyes. Now Ingi walked slowly around the temple, bearing the ritual arm-ring on a small embroidered cushion. Over many hours a fine smith had wrought there an image of the world tree with its attendant creatures: the serpent Nidhogg at its deepest roots, the noble eagle at its tip, the squirrel Ratatosk scampering between. The pattern went right around the ring; a man could never see the whole of it at one time. They held the sacrifice at first frost, at midwinter and in spring; at all other times, this treasure was well locked away from curious eyes. One hand after another reached out to brush reverently against the gleaming gold: girls' hands still soft and milk-pale, men's hands branded by axe shaft and bowstring, gnarled old hands that knew many winters on the land. All moved to pledge allegiance to the warrior, Thor, and to Odin, who had hung on that self-same tree in search of wisdom. Even the thralls, clustered like a body of shadows at the far end near the door, stretched out tentative fingers as Ingi passed.
Karl lifted one of the ritual knives from the altar. The goat was struggling, afraid of the crowd and the fire. It seemed to Eyvind that the boy who clutched its neck rope could not hold the creature much longer. If he let go of the rope, the goat would free itself and bolt across the crowded temple in a chaos of hooves and horns. One could not offend the god thus. Eyvind got up and moved forward, relieving the red-faced lad of his charge, soothing the animal with soft words and a careful hand.
'Go on, then,' he muttered. Karl raised the sacrificial knife; the firelight shone bright from its bronze blade. Eyvind tightened his grip, forcing the white goat's head back, exposing pink, naked skin where the hair on the throat grew more sparsely. Perhaps sensing the inevitable, the creature made one last desperate surge for freedom. But Eyvind's hands were strong. 'Hurry up!' he hissed.
The knife came down, swept across. It should have been easy. Karl was a farmer; slaughtering stock was a routine task for him. But at the vital moment, a bird shrieked harshly above the smoke-hole, and somehow the knife slipped sideways, so the blood did not spurt free and scarlet, but only seeped dark against the pure white hair. The goat screamed, and went on screaming. The god was displeased. Karl stood frozen, knowing the omen was bad for them. Thor's eyes were fierce and angry on his back.
'Here,' said Eyvind. He took the knife from his brother's fingers, holding the bleeding goat with one hand, fingers twisted in the rope. His legs were on either side of the creature, forcing its agonised form still. This must be done well, now, or there would be failed crops, and sick beasts, and death and defeat on the field of war.
'Iron glove guide my blade,' Eyvind said, fixing the god's wooden eyes with his own. 'In your name, great battle god!'
There was only one way to do such things: hard and swift, straight across, near severing the neck. Fast, accurate and merciful. How else could a clean kill be made? The screaming ceased. The white goat went limp. Eyvind's sisters held the bronze bowls to catch the blood. There was no telling what Thor thought of the manner of it, but at least Eyvind had done his best. He turned to face the folk, helping Karl to lift the slaughtered goat high so the blood could flow into the bowls. Drops spattered hands, faces, tunics. The altar bore a pattern of red spots; a bloody tear trickled down the face of the god.
I will kill cleanly for you, Eyvind told Thor, but not aloud. Let me be a Wolfskin, and I will be your bravest warrior. Braver than Hakon; braver even than Eirik. All that I am, I will give you. He looked down the temple towards the great assembly of folk, and straight into a pair of eyes so dark, so piercingly intense that his heart seemed to grow still a moment, then lurch painfully back into life. His mind had been on Thor, and blood, and sacrifice, and for a moment he had thought-but no, this was only a boy, a lad of his own age or maybe younger, who stood amongst the richly dressed entourage of the nobleman, Ulf. But how he stared. He looked at Eyvind as a starving wolf gazes at a man across the wayside fire, wary, fascinated, dangerous. The boy was pale and thin, his brown hair straggling unplaited, his mouth a line. His features were unremarkable save for those feral eyes. Eyvind blinked and looked away.
The girls bore the brimming bowls down the temple, white fingers dipping the blood-twigs in, splashing bright crimson on floor and wall, anointing pillar and hearth and doorframe, marking each man and woman with the sacrifice. When the bowls were empty, Karl laid them on the altar beside the knives, and the goat was dragged outside to be gutted and prepared for cooking.
'Warfather, we toast you this day of Yule!' Karl raised his great drinking horn. Ingi had passed between the men, pouring the ale with care: one would not wish to offend Thor by spilling any before the toasts were complete. 'All hail, great battle leader!' Karl called. They drank.
'All hail, mighty Thor, smiter of serpents!' Ulf cried, rising to his feet and lifting his own horn, a fine piece banded in silver. The men echoed his ringing tones and drank again.
'We salute you, crusher of giants!' Eirik's voice was as fierce as his weathered countenance. So the toasts continued, and as they did the patch of sky darkened above the roof aperture, and the inside of the temple glowed strangely in the fire's light. The boy was still staring; now the flames made twin points of brightness in his night-dark eyes. Thunder cracked in the sky above; sudden lightning speared the sky. The storm was on its way.
'Thor is well satisfied,' said Eirik. 'He calls his greeting to our small assembly; it is a hearty war-song. Come, let us move close to the fire, and pass the day with good drink and feasting and tales. A long season we spent on the whale's way, with the wind biting cold through our tunics and never a drop of ale nor a woman's soft form in our sight. We thank the god for guiding us home safely once more. We thank him for our glorious victories, and for the rich spoils we carry. In the growing season, we shall sail forth again to honour him in deeds of courage, but for now, it is good to be home. Let him look kindly on our celebration.'
There were many tales told that day, and the more the ale flowed, the more eloquent the telling. There were tales of Thor's valour and Odin's cunning, tales of dragons and heroes. Eyvind sat close to his brother, Eirik, savouring every moment. Of such stuff are dreams made. He wanted Eirik to tell them about the autumn viking: where they had been, what battles they had fought and what plunder they had brought home. But he did not ask. It was enough, for now, that Eirik was here.
That boy was still watching him. Perhaps he was simple in the head. Eyvind tried staring back; the boy met his gaze without blinking. His expression did not change. Eyvind tried smiling politely, though in fact he found the constant scrutiny unsettling. The boy gave a little nod, no more than a tight jerk of the head. He did not smile.
At length, the fire burned lower. The smell of roasted goat flesh lingered. Bellies were comfortably full of the rich meat, and of Ingi's finest oatcakes. The temple was warm with good fellowship. Thor, it seemed, had overlooked the imperfect manner of the ritual, and chosen to smile on them.
Hakon spoke. 'I have a tale,' he said, 'a tale both sorrowful and inspiring, and well suited for Thor's ears, since it tells of a loyalty which transcended all. It concerns a man named Niall, who fell amongst cut-throats one night when travelling home from the drinking hall. Niall had on him a purse of silver, with which he planned to buy a fine horse, and ride away to present himself to the Jarl's court. He was not eager to give up his small hoard and his chance to make something of himself, for Niall, like many another young farmer's son, was not rich in lands or worldly possessions. He had worked hard for his silver. So he fought with hands and feet and the small knife that was the only weapon he bore; he fought with all his strength and all his will, and he called on Thor for help from the bottom of his lungs. It was a one-sided struggle, for there were six attackers armed with clubs and sharpened stakes. Niall felt his ribs crack under boot-thrusts and his skull ring with blow on blow; his sight grew dim, he saw the night world through a red haze. It occurred to him, through a rising tide of unconsciousness, that this was not a good way to die, snuffed out by scum for a prize they would squabble over and waste and forget, as he himself would be forgotten soon enough. Still he struggled against them, for the will to live burned in him like a small bright flame.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from WOLFSKIN by Juliet Marillier Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Interviews
An Interview with Juliet Marillier
New Zealander Juliet Marillier (a talented young novelist whose use of strong female characters invites comparison to Marion Zimmer Bradley) presents Wolfskin, the first installment in her projected two-book Saga of the Light Isles. In an exclusive interview with B&N.com, Marillier answered a few questions about her award-winning Sevenwaters trilogy, her lifelong affinity with folklore, and her exciting new series.
Paul Goat Allen: In Frank Herbert's biography, Dreamer of Dune, Brian Herbert wrote about the demands on his father to write more Dune novels, although he had other projects he wanted to complete. I've read comments on a few fantasy web sites from fans of your Sevenwaters trilogy, basically pleading for you to continue the series. How much does fan opinion affect what you write? And have you been approached by your publishers to continue the Sevenwaters story line?
Juliet Marillier: I do pay attention to what my fans say, since without my readers I couldn't make a living doing what I love most. But in terms of deciding what direction to take with a new book or series, the idea is always mine. I can only take pride in my work if it comes from the heart; it must be a story that is bursting to get out, one I feel passionate about. If I did write more books about Sevenwaters at some time in the future, it would only be because I felt a personal and artistic need to do so and knew there was a part of that story that still had to be told.
I haven't been approached by the publishers to continue the Sevenwaters story. Generally, my publishers seem happy for me to pursue new projects. I have a further trilogy currently under way, which is unrelated to either Sevenwaters or the two-book Saga of the Light Isles.
PGA: Your Sevenwaters saga and Wolfskin are strongly built around historical folklore and mythology. How did growing up in Dunedin, New Zealand, influence you to become drawn to the subject of folklore?
JM: Dunedin was settled by Scottish and Irish immigrants, my own family among them, and it keeps its Celtic traditions very much alive. My childhood was full of Celtic music, stories, and culture; and this developed, for me, into a love of all kinds of folklore, fairy tales, myths, and legends -- as well as a passion for history. My parents told me stories, sang to me, and encouraged me to read and to love books. It's not surprising that I was a writer by the age of about seven. The very rich Maori culture of New Zealand and the evocative landscape were also major influences.
PGA: What was it specifically that motivated you to write a series about Vikings and Norse mythology?
JM: I read a book about Viking warfare and was intrigued by the description of berserk warriors, sometimes called berserkers. They were known to exhibit insane, trancelike courage in battle, fighting with immense savagery. I discovered that in between the Viking seasons these apparently crazy men went home to tend their crops, father children, and lead very ordinary lives. According to the Icelandic sagas, they were respected for their elite skills more than feared in their own time. As I read more about Viking culture, my central character, Eyvind, sprang to life -- a likable, rather reserved young man with a burning ambition to serve the god of war as a Wolfskin, or berserk warrior. I was also interested in the multilayered history of Orkney, so the story grew around the first Norse expedition to those parts. I enjoyed building both Norse mythology and a goddess-based Pictish religion into the story -- the Picts were in Orkney first, so Wolfskin contains a strand about the clash of those two cultures.
PGA: Although Wolfskin is filled with a plethora of powerful male characters -- Eyvind and his brother Eirik, Ulf Gunnarsson, Jarl Magnus, King Engus -- it's the women who ultimately are the real strength, especially when it comes to the Folk of the Light Isles. How much fun was it to write a story saturated with Viking berserker testosterone, where characters like Nessa, Rona, and Margaret have such an integral role?
JM: I enjoyed writing a story in third person this time (unlike the female, first-person narration of the Sevenwaters books), because it allowed me to show male and female perspectives more fully. This was paralleled by the contrast between the warlike, macho Norse gods and the earth-based religion I invented for the Pictish folk, with Rona and Nessa as the two wise women who struggle to protect their threatened culture. I hope I manage to convey a sense of women's strength in the book and their very different approach to solving problems. The young Norse wife, Margaret, was interesting to write -- she is torn between duty and conscience and the need to put her responsibility as a leader ahead of personal considerations. I was pleased that, in the end, these three very different women were instrumental in bringing about a conclusion to the blood-soaked sequence of events created by the feuding men. (I hasten to add that Wolfskin includes many examples of admirable male strength and goodness.)
PGA: On your web site, www.julietmarillier.com, you write about how your Saga of the Light Isles will encompass just one more book, Foxmask. Can you tell your fans a little bit about what this next novel will be about? And when can readers in the United States expect to see this on the shelves?
JM: Tor Books plans to release Foxmask in August 2004. It's hard to tell you much without including spoilers for Wolfskin. Foxmask takes up the tale 18 years later. The protagonists, two young men and one young woman, set out on a perilous journey and find themselves swept up in a struggle to retrieve a mysterious seer, the visionary child Foxmask, on whose return the survival of an entire tribe depends. The story is a lot more magical than Wolfskin, which is more a saga of historical adventure. Both are at heart coming-of-age tales. Readers will find that, despite the contrast between the very female-oriented Sevenwaters trilogy and the action-packed new series with its broader perspective, I am still writing books about human journeys and ordinary people finding their own extraordinary strengths.