Fate's Needle Page 17

  Frodi shouted orders to his men, telling them where to stand and where to fall back. He had a fighting core of sixty men in good armor and weapons, along with a group of farmers with bows. Fortunately, all the men had all been present for the feast or gathering them would have been impossible at such short notice. Added to Frodi’s men were Thor Haklang’s twenty guards. Thor was apparently ready for a fight. Although it was not his land to defend, he had an alliance to consider. He and his men stood apart, shouting and growling like beasts. Thor wore heavy bear skins that would serve him as well as any mail. His men passed about a bowl, from which each drank. Thor took it last and drained it before throwing it down with a howl. He thrashed his head like an angry bull.

  “A berserker,” Yngvar noted. “He and his men are worth three of every one of Frodi’s. We’ll be lucky to get to Grim before he’s hacked to ribbons.”

  “He’s mine,” Ulfrik said, watching Thor striking out and screaming at unseen foes.

  “He’s mine.” Magnus echoed Ulfrik’s words.

  Ulfrik and Yngvar both swung their heads towards their own bear warrior. His eyes were bloodshot with drink, and his face taut with hate. He wore his furs around the shoulders and his plain shield on his back. “My family will be avenged in blood.”

  Ulfrik turned back to the tree line. The sun was climbing the eastern horizon, throwing the edge of the woods into shadow. Soon, men will emerge there, Ulfrik thought, and only the gods will know who will have vengeance.

  ***

  The attack did not come with dawn. Despite all the men arranged for battle, there was hardly a sound. Only Thor Haklang roared and cursed, and his men shielded him in their midst to prevent him from fighting Frodi’s men. They all stood loosely arrayed on the hill before Frodi’s hall. Ulfrik appreciated its strategic location. From this vantage point, every approach to the hall could be observed. Leather and metal creaked and clanked as they waited. When no invaders appeared, Frodi had sent scouts, and one was running back now.

  When he reached Frodi, there was a ripple of activity. Then Frodi’s yellow and black banner raised above the men. “The rats are wary,” Frodi called out to his line. “They saw us ready for them and thought about running back to their holes.” Laughter flowed from the men. “But they’re moving again.”

  Frodi drew his short blade and pointed it at the tree line. The dawn sun illuminated the trees, pointing to the shapes of men shambling from the forest and forming a block of warriors bristling with spears. Into the light came the banner of Ulfrik’s father—black elk antlers on a flag of green. Ulfrik winced at the sight of it being carried into battle against him, but this was Fate’s decree. Bobbing even higher than it was King Harald’s banner, white with a huge raven dominating the center. As it came into view, Thor Haklang screamed as though impaled.

  With the enemy in sight, all of the men began to jeer and call out. They banged their weapons on shields, stomped the earth, screamed curses. Ulfrik joined in as well, shouting for Grim to come and find his death. He could not see Grim, but he knew his brother must be close to the green banner.

  The invaders marched halfway up the road to where squat barracks huddled to the left, but otherwise Grim and his men would have to approach without cover. Archers were moving behind the building, apparently unnoticed by Grim’s men.

  Frodi’s forces raised such a clamor that Ulfrik’s ears were already ringing. Next to him, Magnus was screaming himself hoarse. Yngvar had lost his smile, but made no sound at all.

  Soon, Grim and two other men separated from the group and came forward for the customary parley before a battle. Frodi, Bard and another warrior stepped out to meet them. Thor was too delirious to be of any use. Ulfrik ran out as well, but Frodi rounded on him. “Get back in line. You’ve no business speaking for me on my land.”

  “Let me count the enemy for you,” Ulfrik suggested, though he only wanted a better look at Grim. Suddenly, the prospect of killing his brother felt repugnant. Grim had committed indefensible crimes, and Ulfrik was honor-bound to extract justice, but looking at his younger brother’s dark shape opposite, he felt weak. Will I be able to do this when my moment comes?

  “Get back in line,” Frodi commanded, moving forward again.

  Ulfrik obeyed, but pointed his sword at Grim before going. The black shape of his brother was inscrutable.

  The parley was brief. Grim appeared to yell immediately, only being restrained by another man Ulfrik guessed was Harald’s man, Vandrad. Frodi was shaking his head while Vandrad gesticulated. Grim pointed to Ulfrik, and for a moment Ulfrik thought Frodi might surrender him, but instead the parley ended with both sides stalking back to their lines.

  “Probably told Frodi they would go if he surrendered us,” Yngvar yelled above the roar of the men. “If it were just Grim, Frodi might’ve considered it. But Harald’s man would make a fine prisoner. Imagine the ransom.”

  Ulfrik knew it was true. Grim and Vandrad had probably anticipated a smaller force and the benefit of surprise. Now they faced a superior, sizable and better-equipped foe, and Frodi knew he stood a good chance of capturing a wealthy hostage. Grim had marched too close to turn back without the risk of being overrun. Besides, the loss of honor would be so staggering he would lose the support of his men.

  Now came the waiting game. Frodi would not leave the advantage the high ground afforded, and Grim would not want to attack uphill. Both sides called curses and insults across the fifty yards of open ground. Grim had no archers, but Frodi’s were moving around the back of the barracks house to reappear behind Grim’s line and drive the enemy forward. Slaughter awaited Grim.

  Maybe I won’t even have to fight him, Ulfrik thought. But Fate has not been so kind to me yet.

  He could see the sturdy, muscular form of his brother dressed in mail, black furs and a new helm with a metal visor like Frodi’s. Ulfrik imagined he could see whites of Grim’s eyes behind the visor, and he laughed at the fear he saw there. His peal of laughter started the battle.

  On Grim’s left flank, men began to detach from the line. Eight or ten men, some hirdmen by the looks of their armor, rushed forward with their arms held up. The largest one, at the front, called out, “Lord Ulfrik! We fight for Lord Ulfrik!”

  Ulfrik lowered both shield and blade as the men ran forward, calling his name. It was Snorri, and the men he had promised. Ulfrik felt his eyes grow hot at the sight of them.

  Realizing the betrayal, Grim screamed to the ranks behind him. “Kill them! Don’t let the traitors go!”

  Thor Haklang charged, his men unable to restrain him any longer. The rest of Frodi’s forces followed. Answering Thor’s berserk scream, Frodi’s archers emerged from the cover of the barracks house and fired into the enemy’s flanks. Grim’s men were launching spears toward the traitors, but they could not reach the bowmen. The time for combat was at hand. Grim and his men lurched forward.

  Ulfrik jumped back to his place in the line, with Yngvar to his left and Magnus on his right. Calls to lock shields ran along the line as each man protected the warrior to his left. The rear ranks raised spears to fight over the shield wall in front. Men on both sides howled battle cries. Snorri and the other deserters from Grim’s forces were squeezed out of the rapidly diminishing space between the two armies. Thor hit the left flank of Grim’s line like a boulder dropped from the sky. His massive ax shattered a shield, and the warrior behind him speared the exposed victim through the guts.

  Ulfrik stole one last look at Grim. His brother was a head shorter than the men around him, which made Ulfrik laugh again. Every man reacts differently to the pressure of combat; for Ulfrik, it created a sensation of carefree, heady joy.

  “Spears!” someone screamed, and Ulfrik saw the enemy skid to a halt. Men in the first and second ranks hauled back their spears and let fly. Ulfrik ducked behind his shield as he heard the swoosh and thud. Some fell short; others sailed overhead. Nothing landed on Ulfrik, but to his right Magnus stepped back as a spear impaled his shiel
d. The wooden shaft snapped, and the long spearhead bent. Spears—designed to break after one throw, denying the enemy a chance to reuse them—were not expected to kill, only to add weight and encumbrance to enemy shields.

  Ulfrik looked up again. For a moment, the world was without sound. Ulfrik could not even hear his heartbeat, although he felt it in his chest. The enemy line silently locked shields. Their faces contorted by battle cries as they charged uphill in a pantomime of war.

  Then came the explosive din as the lines clashed. Louder than thunder, wooden shields slammed together and the peal of battle cries washed over the combatants. The men behind Ulfrik shoved him forward, while the foe in front pressed into him. Ulfrik plunged his sword beneath his shield, knowing his enemy would do the same. But Ulfrik was faster, feeling his blade catch on his foe’s arm and seeing his antagonist’s eyes become pale and wide with pain.

  Spears punctured the front ranks, seeking flesh. Along the line, men shoved and stabbed, and mashed at each other with shield and ax. A spear blade grazed Ulfrik’s cheek before it was hastily pulled back for a second stab. Magnus raised his shield higher, preventing the spear’s next jab, and Ulfrik did the same to protect Yngvar. Short swords and long knives worked beneath and between the shields. Men screamed and blood flowed as the real work of battle began.

  The faces of Ulfrik’s enemies appeared only momentarily in the gap between the shields. But Ulfrik’s muscles were fired by battle lust, and he struck like a snake. Fate’s Needle slid into his foe’s exposed white face, sending a spray of blood up its length as it tore cheek and eye. The man screamed and reeled backward, and Ulfrik pushed forward to finish the man. As each enemy warrior crumpled, more pressed forward, impeded this time by the corpses of their comrades.

  Beside him, Yngvar and Magnus grunted out punishment to the men before them. The enemy now stood on the slope of the hill, their footing uncertain. Ulfrik’s part of the line bulged forward, he noticed, as did other sections. It resembled a serpent of glinting steel and thrusting spears. Banners from both sides waved above the tossing heads of the warriors, but the Raven and Elk banners were now lower down the hill.

  Exploiting Ulfrik’s inattention, his new opponent hooked his ax over Magnus’s shield, yanking it down. Ulfrik crouched, not having to see the spear to know it would come seeking the opening. The enemy spear cleared his head, and Ulfrik returned with his own sword beneath the shield. He gouged an enemy, but could not tell whom he had struck.

  The axman continued to hold the gap open. Magnus roared against it, but his shield was already weighed down by the broken spear. A renewed shove came from behind—Frodi’s men driving their own spears into the gap. Just as Ulfrik thought he would trip on the corpse before him and be forced to drop his own shield, the ax released with a howl and Magnus snapped his shield arm back into place.

  The crush of the enemy eased. Ulfrik found himself being shoved downhill by the men behind him. Then a horn blasted at the center of the line. The Elk banner toppled like a felled tree, eliciting cheers from Frodi’s men, who burst into the gap in the enemy shield wall. The line had been broken. The foe were in retreat. Before him, the retreating forces broke, and scattered. Yngvar plunged forward, calling for Ulfrik to follow.

  “Griiiiiiiim!” Magnus screamed, reminding Ulfrik that the true work was still ahead.

  ***

  The enemy stumbled down the hill with Frodi’s men in pursuit. They could flee to the sea, where they would die, or to the woods, from which they might escape. Frodi anticipated the woods and bellowed to the men around him to cut off that route. The archers were in position to send shaft after shaft into the retreating enemy, driving the fleeing warriors toward the sea, but there were too few of them. Frodi’s men were also more concerned with spoils than tactics, a lapse in discipline that allowed the enemy to escape annihilation.

  Through the mill of screaming men, Ulfrik hunted for Grim. The Elk banner had fallen, obscuring his brother’s position in the turmoil. But the Raven banner still flew, and Grim would be close by; Magnus realized that too, and ran toward it.

  Both men ran diagonally through the retreating force, like struggling up a fast-flowing river with a flood of warriors in pursuit, all with the same goal. Everyone wanted Harald’s man as a hostage. The chaos slowed Ulfrik down. Magnus, in his rage, struck out at anyone in his path and Ulfrik had to pull him back more than once.

  At the bottom of the hill, the Raven standard stopped and shook violently above the fray, probably being held aloft while the bearer fought on. It was at the center of a throng of men, all leaping into the melee. Ulfrik despaired. How to get to it?

  Magnus stopped too, heaving, and then screamed his frustration. Men were fleeing all around them, and pockets of combat erupted wherever retreat had failed. A brawny man in black furs, who was a good head shorter than the three others who ran beside him, hurtled away from Ulfrik.

  “Grim! Grim, I am coming for you!” Magnus was running before Ulfrik could even start. Grim was pulling far ahead, bolting faster than Ulfrik imagined he could. With death fast behind, Ulfrik supposed that he could run just as quickly. Grim glanced over his shoulder just once, and his fine helm clattered from his head, such was his velocity. Ulfrik and Magnus were closing the distance. Ulfrik felt his wolf-bitten leg burn with the strain, but he was gaining on his brother and a smile adorned his face.

  Still running, Grim waved toward the woods, and Ulfrik’s smile bent to a frown. He did not have long to wonder at the meaning. A handful of men in brown furs and green capes stepped from the trees, arrows already on their bowstrings—the archers that had not come to the fight. Without thought, Ulfrik dropped to his knees. A starburst of pain exploded in his leg as he crashed into the stony earth. He pulled his shield over him as the first arrows hissed down, one catching the leather edge of his shield.

  Grim, or more likely Vandrad, had expected the likelihood of retreat and left bowmen to cover their escape. With yards of open ground to cover, it would be death to press on. Ulfrik screamed curses beneath his shield until he was sure blood would spray from his hoarse throat. A lone arrow hit the ground an arm’s length away, and Ulfrik knew he had to back up or die. He and Magnus had rushed far ahead of other pursuers. They would be the archers’ only targets until reinforcements arrived.

  Magnus! The name flashed to his mind. The fool had not stopped running. Ulfrik peered around his shield. The big man was shambling the final distance to Grim. The archers, realizing they faced no opposition, calmly strode out and paused to fire off shafts as he came. Magnus already had three in him, at least that Ulfrik could see. Two more hung on his shield. Grim and his three companions watched in silence. The quality of one man’s mail and helm identified him as Vandrad. Over the distance, Magnus’s roar was dull and small, even if still laced with revenge.

  Ulfrik stood, thrust his shield before him, and began to run. He could see Magnus ahead, squaring off with Grim, but it was not going to be a fair fight. Three more combatants fanned out around them. Ulfrik redoubled his efforts to run, his injured leg throbbing. An arrow slammed into his shield with such force that he staggered backward, glancing down to see the arrow had completely penetrated the wood.

  When he looked back up, Vandrad had knocked away Magnus’s shield as easily as one would from a child. Magnus hurtled forward with a ridiculous swipe at Grim—so wild and ineffectual that Ulfrik wondered if Magnus had given up. Grim’s laughter carried as he struck forward with a flick of his muscled arm and sliced Magnus’s throat with his sword. A jet of blood arced over Magnus’s toppling body. The other men jabbed him with spears as he fell. As a final insult, Vandrad hammered down with his sword, cleaving Magnus’s skull with a wet crack.

  Ulfrik slowed, screaming Magnus’s name. Another arrow skipped across the ground before him, but where the bowmen had advanced before, now they retreated. The rest of the pursuers were arriving, Ulfrik realized. Their fattest game was escaping.

  Grim and Vandrad eyed each other
, both standing over Magnus’s ruined body like black-garbed devils. With his bloodied sword, Grim pointed to Ulfrik and held up a string of bones that hung about his neck. Ulfrik did not understand the significance, but he understood the challenge.

  He did not bother to pursue it, only howled impotently; there would be no justice today.

  Grim kicked away Magnus’s sword before turning to run. All around, fleeing men passed him, slipping into the safety of the woods. The pursuers slowed, fearing the arrows that came screaming at them from the shield of trees. It had been a glorious victory for Frodi, but to Ulfrik it was the most bitter loss imaginable.

  “Magnus,” Ulfrik whispered to himself. “Your revenge is mine, my friend. Your name will be sung in my hall for all my days. I swear it on my life.”

  Birds fled the commotion in the woods, their wings a rain of shadows over Ulfrik’s head. He might have considered it a good omen, had he not already decided the gods’ portents were unreliable. Only when Grim was dead at his feet would he place any more trust in omens.

  Twenty-two

  Ulfrik made a litter out of Magnus’s cloak and rolled his friend’s corpse into it. Yngvar, who arrived with the rest of the pursuers, still splattered with sweat and gore, said nothing as he helped Ulfrik prepare the body. Ill-aimed arrows sailed past the two while they worked in quiet dignity to place a sword on Magnus’s chest and fold his hands across the hilt. Together, they carried him through the stream of men who were either fleeing or pursuing in the opposite direction. Somewhere, a horn blew, presumably to call the men back to Frodi’s hall before they became overextended.

  The trip back was long, slow drudgery. When they came to the place where Grim’s abandoned helm glinted on the ground, Ulfrik grunted to Yngvar to stop while he retrieved it. He looked at it long moments before scooping it up and placing it on his head. It fit well enough. I will wear it as a reminder of this day, he decided.